Only The Ones We Love
Fandom: The X-Files
Category/Rated: M - Slash
Year/Length: ~10,250 words
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Character Death
Summary: Mulder reflects on the loss of Agent Alex Krycek
Author's Notes: Extra thanks to Jennie, who told me to post it when I was going to nuke it. To everyone else I apologise profusely. The song is by Tanita Tikaram, and wouldn't go away til I wrote the story. The incomparable Marcia Elena made me the cover for this story.
Beta: Speedo and Flutesong let me have it good. I know they made it better, but there are probably mistakes I've added since.
Oh, you can't say nothing to the pouring rain
And you can't say nothing till there's hope again -
Say, oh my baby, you must never change
For we're only the ones we love
It's raining again. Sometimes it feels to me as though it's always rained, and I only imagined better days when the sun shone on me and on him.
I remember him the way he was when first we met, suit drab and concealing, eager eyes and outstretched hand, while I sat and glared. He never did have the decency to back down and go away. I suppose that the word decent wasn't a part of his vocabulary. He stuck to me like a burr, entered my dreams, twined his callous fingers around my heart, until I had no choice but to love him.
I let him take me - let him steal from me all that I thought I was giving him, and when, finally, I realized what I should have known from the start, I learned how to hate him.
He's there now, standing in front of me like a challenge, fair, freckled skin and used green eyes that shine from within with faint malice. I can see him. Wherever I go, I can see him, but never more clearly than now.
"You're dead," I say.
"And whose fault is that?" he asks me, in his tired voice, the threads of it raw on my skin, raising bumps in passing.
I can only look at him, dumb and sorrowful, because whatever we had was over long ago, and the dried, withered ashes have been scattered to the four winds. I can regret with all my heart the way things turned out, but I can't ever go forward, because he's dead.
"He had a gun."
There was anguish in the voice; Mulder heard it, ragged and horrified, shaking the husky baritone as his rookie partner bent to look and look again in vain for the weapon he'd been certain was there. The freckles stood out stark on the livid pallor of Alex Krycek's shocked face, and he shook a little as he cast about, desperate to find something that wasn't a bible, as if to assuage his guilt.
"Oh, fuck!" He let his hands cover his face, and Mulder, unsure how to comfort him, stood and flapped his own hands, ineffectually.
In times to come, Mulder would always wonder if the display of shock and grief he saw that day was the last real exhibition of its kind ever seen from Krycek. There was no denying its authenticity. It was the genuine article and no mistake; Krycek's pain was so close to the surface that it had rocked him, rocked Mulder, too, as he felt the wash of it deaden his thoughts. When others had come to secure the scene, he'd watched Krycek answer their probing questions and barely hold himself together.
The faded day exhaled one last time, and the blue, liquid night rushed in. It had rained. Lights warmed the sidewalks, colored the sparkling asphalt and glittered red and gold off the stricken face of the young man at his side. Krycek had vomited, and his breath was sick-sweet, faintly redolent of the time, long gone, when Mulder himself had made his first kill. Mulder didn't bother to speak, didn't do anything that would upset his young partner's hard-won equilibrium. He turned his car homeward, remembering how he'd felt when he'd first killed a man, and searching within himself to find the wherewithal to support Krycek through his ordeal.
It was a very long drive.
Arriving back in DC at last and pulling in to park beside the building, Mulder turned off the ignition, then turned to survey his companion, who was sitting, stunned and silent. Mentally shrugging, Mulder climbed out, moved around to the passenger door and opened it. "Here we go, Krycek. Shake a leg."
Krycek needed prompting to get out of the car, but then followed Mulder into Hegal Place, standing mute by his side as the elevator embarked on its asthmatic upward crawl. Only when they arrived inside Mulders apartment did he suddenly look around himself, eyes wide and confused as he suddenly seemed to realize where he was.
Take a seat, Krycek, said Mulder, tossing his jacket onto a chair as he passed. Ill get you a drink.
No I mean, I have to go. Kryceks face was still pale, his lips tinged bluish with shock. Mulder paused, turned and approached the younger agent to lay a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort.
Krycek Alex I know what youre going through. Ive been there. Theres no easy answer; nothing I can say to make it go away, but if its any help, Im here for you.
Thanks, murmured Krycek, sinking down onto Mulders dubious couch and letting his head fall into his hands.
Heading to the kitchen, Mulder located a couple of mismatched glasses and a partly consumed bottle of scotch. Splashing a couple of generous portions into the glasses, he carried them back to where Krycek still sat as hed been left.
Here you go, Alex, he said, extending one of the glasses to his partner. Drink it; itll help.
Eyes glowing, expression lost in the pale, smooth face, he looked up at Mulder, took the glass and downed the contents in a single gulp, then choked a little as if the raw liquor had burned his sinuses.
Thanks, he said, once he could speak again. I guess I needed that. His plush lips compressed, his face set, his chin elevated in a motion that Mulder had rapidly come to realize was Kryceks body English for determination. When he finally spoke, it was as if hed forgotten Mulders presence. Bastard, to do that to me! Curse you to hell, you bastard! His hand had clenched around the empty glass he held, and with a feeling of sick surprise, Mulder watched him tighten his grip until the thing shattered, cutting the long fingers and embedding shards into the palm so that thick red blood welled up to drip onto his carpet.
Come on, Alex. It wasnt your fault; you did right. Mulder wasnt sure whether to shake Krycek or back away. After a second, he chose the latter course, running to the bathroom to find a towel and some antiseptic.
Returning, armed with the wherewithal to bandage Kryceks cuts, he found that his partner was in the kitchen. Krycek had dumped the broken glass, and was now standing by the sink, letting the cold water bathe the cuts. Somewhat savagely, he poured peroxide onto the wounds and then bound up Kryceks hand, growling all the while about people that cut themselves all over his apartment making it sound as though the place was thronged with his exsanguinated guests.
Throughout this diatribe, Krycek, who had listened to this with a slight smile and a quizzically raised eyebrow, remained silent. The pain of the cut seemed to have jerked him back to reality, and he no longer seemed to be in shock, but Mulder was still concerned. Are you okay now? he asked, hopefully.
Yeah, Im good. I should go.
The strain in the husky voice was barely audible, a mere thread of anguish behind his words, but Kryceks face was still pale, although he was smiling apologetically now and seemed to be getting himself under control visibly.
Mulder frowned. Where are you going? he asked, feeling somewhat inappropriate to be cross-questioning a grown man on something that was really no business of his.
To get laid, was the succinct response, and Kryceks eyes bored into his, suddenly seeming to see everything that was inside Mulders head.
Mulder didnt quite know how to answer. His sharp intake of breath was too abrupt to call back, and he winced as he saw a gleam of something feral on Kryceks face in response. In the midst of death we are in life? he managed to say. Its one form of therapy, I suppose. You got a girlfriend, Krycek?
A girlfriend? The snort of amusement was unmistakable this time. I think youve got the wrong idea about me, Mulder.
For a moment, despite his much vaunted intellect, Mulder didnt follow Krycek. He was about to ask the obvious, silly question, when comprehension finally dawned, unleashing a tide of red that stained his cheeks crimson and made his face burn from within. The sudden understanding of Kryceks sexuality brought with it a flood of arousal, that was all the more intense for being unexpected.
This man wanted sex, and was looking for a man to give him what he wanted. The images this conjured up for Mulder made his breathing suddenly difficult and the blood sing in his ears. He looked anew at the kid whod imposed himself on him as his partner. Krycek was tall and sturdy; his clothes hid strength, Mulder knew that. Hed spent much of the previous day or two in Kryceks company, and when the jacket had come off and the sleeves had been rolled up, hed seen the sinew and brawn that the baggy suits disguised. Now, his mind was eagerly supplying the rest in graphic images that rocked him, made him gasp again and brought an answering smirk to Kryceks face.
I you that is he stuttered.
Yeah, said Krycek, his face creased in amusement. That most definitely is. Always has been.
I dont think you should go just yet. Youre shocked.
Im going to get laid whether I go or stay. You choose, was the amused reply, as the thick, dark blood oozed from his hand, through the cloth in which Mulder had wrapped it, and began to drip once more, this time onto his suit pants.
I dont know I never Mulder was having difficulty speaking; his mouth felt full of cotton wool, and he knew he was babbling like a teenager faced with a beauty queen.
But you want to, dont you, Mulder? I can tell. Krycek spared an impatient glance at his hand and swore under his breath as the blood continued to well.
I dont know, murmured Mulder, but suddenly knew that he wanted it more than anything, ever.
Fuck this; Im bleeding like a stuck pig, grumbled the cause of his confusion. Released from his state of frozen lust, Mulder leapt to find something else with which to staunch the blood.
Some time later, having bound up Kryceks left hand with supplies rifled from the first aid kit he kept in the trunk of his car, Mulder turned his attention to the delicate art of getting bloodstains out of polyester. You might want to soak those pants in cold water, he said, indicating the rusty brown splotches on the lighter fabric.
Why Mulder, are you thinking of helping me out of them?
The question was asked guilelessly, but Mulder jumped, turned to gaze at him, wondering if he dared initiate the contact Krycek seemed to be inviting. Krycek, apparently content to play with his prey, stood grinning while Mulder gaped, uncertain and afraid to do anything to make himself look stupid. Finally, Krycek looked down at his hand, gave a little laugh, and used it to hook Mulder's head closer to him, leaning forward so that Mulder could feel his breath on his lips.
"You'd like to, wouldn't you?" he murmured once more, and Mulder swallowed, lowered his eyelids, unable to speak past the sick, pounding excitement that was shaking him.
When the kiss came, he made a small sound in the back of his throat that might have been a protest. Krycek paid it no mind, and Mulder felt his lips pressed apart as they were submitted to Kryceks will
Blankly content, scoured clean of all his nerves, Fox Mulder opened to accept the tuition that Alex Krycek was offering. The heat of the other body pressed so close to his was intoxicating. The scent of something spicy underlaid Kryceks own, honest fragrance, and his mouth tasted faintly of the whisky he had consumed. Mulder lost himself in the slide of tongue on tongue, the silken exchange of moisture, and the vivid pressure of hands, and mouth, and body. The kiss, as it ended, left him gasping, tongue fretting at his lips in an attempt to taste more, have more. Mute, he stared at Krycek, lips parted, waiting as his breathing steadied.
God, Mulder, I believe I have a new hobby.
And I've stood stolen by the pauper's heart Yes, I've stood stolen where the aching starts But the way you watched - it's a life apart
The betrayal that had followed was harsh. He'd been blinded, excoriated, left to mourn a man who might never have existed save in his own mind. Foolishly, hed believed in Krycek the Krycek that had given him fierce kisses in the night. Hed thought that the two of them would be together forever. With the dawning of realization came hatred, which rose to cloud Mulder's thoughts and paralyze his judgment. The memory of their brief love affair served to goad him, infuriate him at how gullible he'd been. He didn't see Krycek for a long time and learned to think of him with disdain, to loathe the desire he still felt for the man that had caused his pain.
When he found Krycek once more, the man was insouciant, sauntering and touched with a fine contempt; his gait careless, self possessed. It filled Mulder with a killing rage; and when he had Krycek spread beneath him across the hood of a neighbor's vehicle, his passion was fueled by the challenge of Krycek's green gaze. He punched at the goading, impertinent miscreant beneath him, had Kryceks own weapon out without even being aware of it, and Krycek was seconds from death when the blow from Scully's bullet knocked him back, enabling Krycek to make his escape from the retribution he'd been about to suffer.
Later, he'd realized that Scully had shot him, had allowed Krycek to escape the death he would have dealt him. Mulder was both relieved and angry that the man hadn't suffered, was out there still, and had yet to pay for the hurt he'd inflicted.
Alex Krycek had taught him to love, and then, when he was open, ripe as a fruit, ready and soft and perfect, his senses heady with love for this man who had wormed his way inside all his defenses, Krycek had twisted the knife, caused a wound that would never close, and which would forever weep.
Recovering from the hole in his shoulder, Mulder had time to dwell on his own lost innocence. He spent his convalescence alternately railing at the man, and begging the heavens to send him back, to have Krycek love him again, to be what he'd wanted instead of what he was.
Of Krycek, there was no sign, then or later. Mulder had almost managed to lay to rest the ghost of the young man who had haunted his dreams, when they met again.
Mulder shouldn't have been there at all. He'd gone to Hong Kong, chasing the rainbow of truth. He was about to discover whether there was any fact in the superstition about gold at the rainbow's end, when he came face to face with his ex-lover.
Krycek looked terrible. When Mulder saw him, he bared his teeth like a cornered rat, and Mulder could see the sweat standing out slick on his forehead. His beautiful eyes were red-rimmed, and he appeared to be desperate. Krycek had managed to escape, leaving Mulder tied to a dead woman, completely unable to follow him. Hed run like the rat to which he had likened himself, leaving Mulder - chained to Geraldine Kallenchuk - to watch as he clambered out into the sultry, neon-lit evening. Seeing him go, Mulder had felt all the half-forgotten longings return.
He'd spent the rest of that long night cursing Alex Krycek, pining for him, worrying that he would die, or would not die, and hating, hating, hating him for upsetting his hard-won distance. When daybreak dawned, and Mulder headed out for the airport and the security of home, he was tired, angry and miserable. The sight of Alex sauntering through the airport made him see red, and he struck out, hit, struck out again. His blood sang; Krycek, his body taut and panicked against his, was between him and the bank of phones, and he, for once, had the upper hand, with no Scully to come between him and his revenge.
"Do it to me," said Alex, his voice a song of desperation. The sound of it echoed in Mulder's ears. He'd do it to him all right. He'd set Alex right; he would indeed. His cock sprang to life at the thought, and the firm, strong body pressing against his own gave him shivers. This was what he needed; this was it -- the whole of his life on a platter.
He tensed his finger on the trigger and his senses swam with the scent of panic that Krycek oozed. Mulder could smell blood, a warm, battery-acid tang that stung his tongue. He could smell blood, sweat and desperation, and for once he felt in command of his emotions. Krycek was wild-eyed, gamey smelling and none too clean, and Mulder, dwelling fondly on the skinned knuckles hed obtained from his assault on him, felt a thrill. For the first time in their relationship, he was in control.
He didnt kill Krycek, but instead, like a cat that plays with a mouse, he gave him orders, sent him in to wash up, and waited for him to emerge and go quietly, prisoner to whatever fate Mulder declared he would have.
When Krycek emerged from the bathroom, he seemed somehow different. The panic that had marked him was gone, and he was back in charge of his emotions, seemingly dispassionate and wholly unconcerned about the fate that awaited him.
They had slept on the plane, or at least, Mulder had. Theyd landed at Dulles airport in time to grab a car rental, and then, shortly after, the world had gone haywire. Hed allowed Krycek to drive, and that in itself was a departure from the norm. He didnt understand anything about the journey, only that the man sitting beside him was suddenly somehow more than he had been, and that he, Mulder could no longer exert his will on what Krycek had become. Suddenly lights from the car behind overtook them and things happened so fast that he could do nothing but curse and sink into oblivion, drowned and helpless, caught fast as the reflection of stars in still water.
For we're only the ones we love Only Only You're the only one who could say I could love this way I could love this way
The next time they met, Mulder had grown a thicket around his anger, tending it, preserving it, breeding it obstinate and determined, having made of Alex Krycek a demon who would propagate hell for sheer amusement.
Krycek himself seemed to shimmer before his gaze, mouthing platitudes and oozing sincerity from untrustworthy green eyes. He was unrepentant, and it seemed as though nothing Mulder did could break him.
Of course, once he had thought that once he had felt the challenge in his bones - the need to break Krycek became paramount. It made him want to strike the naked lips that issued forth the lies I love this country and erase from them the ability to speak ever again.
With fist, gun and petty blows he tried to hurt, to erase the beauty and the casual insolence, but only succeeded in making himself ever more furious. Krycek was a little leaner than he had been, his face finely boned and translucent, the hair cropped so short that his cheekbones stood out, his brilliant eyes named him thoroughbred, and Mulder could have wept with frustration that he should still want Krycek after everything hed done.
In Russia, on a night so cold that there was no possible escape from it, they finally returned to each other, minds overturned by need. The prison cell that contained them was freezing, and chest to chest they clung, at first shaking with the cold and later shivering with desire. Conscience subjugated by the overwhelming need of their bodies one for the other, and for a brief moment, as mouth clung to mouth, arms tight around each other and senses singing with pleasure given and received, Mulder found peace.
It was not to last.
The words that Mulder heard whispered through the aperture in the wall disabused him of the idea that Alex was on his side, if ever he had really believed that. Hed broken out, taken Alex with him, and lost him again in the wild, headlong plunge through the forest that seemingly had no end.
Forced at last to leave, Mulder relinquished another piece of his heart and took only the memory of betrayal with him.
Oh, you can't get even with this kind of pain But to see you steady brings the calm, again Say, oh my baby, let them stay the same For we're only the ones we love
Older, expecting less, Mulder dragged himself through the search for clues about what had happened that long ago night when his sister had been taken, but there was now a difference. He no longer cared.
His beliefs were gone, and in their place was merely the sheer, dogged determination that had always driven him his personal kind of bloody-minded disregard for the sensible that exasperated even Scully.
His quest for truth had been suborned, but still he sought, although now he was only going through the form that was expected of him. When next he encountered Alex Krycek, he was in no way prepared.
Hed gone home, and was confused to see something lying within the room, just inside the doorway. A brief perusal of the paper gave him merely the legend, Things are looking up, and he was carrying it inside to examine it at leisure, when the attack came.
Winded, he found himself borne back onto the ground to lie looking into the barrel of a gun. There was a smell of danger, gun oil and sweat, and leather; there was the flash of brilliant eyes in semi darkness, and the enveloping warmth of the husky, bedroom voice as Krycek sneered.
You must be losing it, Mulder. I could beat you with one hand.
Isnt that how you like to beat yourself?
For the life of him, he couldnt have told why Alex had jumped, tensed, his attitude no longer one of amused tolerance, but suddenly one that radiated suppressed anger and the immediate need for retaliate, and Mulder had hastened to diffuse the situation.
In a few short words Alex had renewed Mulders faith.
Hed given him a gift - more truth than hed had from anyone, ever. Hed also given him a kiss, and returned his gun, before leaving him alone, too stupefied to call him back.
Of it all, it was the return of his gun that had stunned Mulder, unsettled him and made him wonder just what Alex Krycek was trying to do. He was used to the mindfuck, used to the beauty wielded as a weapon with which to cut him. He was almost used to the way that Alex Krycek seemed to know everything and give him nothing but scraps. What he wasnt used to was the way that Krycek had apparently known that Mulder would do nothing to harm him. It seemed that Krycek trusted him in some subtle way that implied a deep understanding of his character.
That worried him. Hed never been able to profile Alex. Alexs personality, on the face of it so obvious, had slipped through his fingers like silver sand when he had begun to set it in order and describe it. The thought that Alex had apparently succeeded in profiling him was disquieting.
He was still musing, unsettled and unhappy, when Scully found him later.
And they've seen something which I'll never see But - I dreamed something when you fell for me Yeah, I dreamed something which soars above
Time passed. Armed once more with a quest that rang true, Fox Mulder pursued his dream, tilting at the windmills that loomed on his horizon, always wanting, always reaching for the truth that never quite allowed him to grasp it.
He tried not to think about Krycek, knowing that what he wanted was a chimera, something that only existed within his mind, and that he was only tormenting himself. He buried himself in his work, driving himself, driving Scully, but no matter what he did, the truth he sought always remained just tantalizingly out of reach of his impatient fingers.
Once, he thought he saw Alex, captured on the closed circuit security tape in the Hoover Building entrance hall. It was hard to be sure, because the man, whoever it was, had long hair partially obscuring his features. He thought he saw him again, when he was visiting Skinner in the hospital, but when he gave chase the man vanished, and Mulder was still not sure if he'd really seen him, or if his imagination was merely working overtime.
He began to remember Alex.
He'd put the man out of his mind for so long that he'd managed to repress the memories of gesture, of mannerism, of the soft voice and the keen brain for which he had fallen. Now, as though a festering wound had been lanced, images of Alex Krycek flooded back, each one bringing with it a fair share of pain, each one making him aware that he had lost his way, and that he was alone.
It wasnt long after that the advent of the artifact from the African expedition proved to be a turning point.
The piece of metal lay on the table in front of Mulder. He had felt a queasy shock of something like recognition when hed first seen it. He could sense the thing vividly - as though it alone had color in a monochrome universe in spite of the fact that until this moment hed never seen anything like it. Hed looked at it, tried to understand from whence his feelings came, but the item remained alien to his eye as well as in fact. When it began to spin in place, he felt a tearing inside his head, and then the swelling sense that everything in the world was right there with him, speaking to him, filling him with ceaseless, unbearable sound.
Later, he learned to partially shut it off, but at the beginning it was hard even to stand upright. The whole of creation tore at his mind, screaming thoughts at him, growth and decay, birth and death all yammered and growled until he was blinded, deafened.
As he learned to hold it at bay, he found that he could hear the thoughts of the people around him. Scully was the first, her thoughts clear and analytical, full of friendly concern for him, masking almost completely the fear that was never far from the core of her. There were others, the occupants of the Hoover building, each with a flavor to their inner selves that made them unique. Skinner was a dark presence, the undertones of duplicity rising when he saw Mulder, and with mounting incredulity, Mulder sensed another, more worrying consciousness somewhere close by.
The mind was acerbic, filled with deep currents of fear and doubt that he didn't understand, overlaid with painful longing, and concern for him that pierced like knives, and a mocking scorn for itself that burned its own hiding places and laid itself bare and bitter. He recoiled from it, recognizing it for what it was.
Krycek was watching him. Krycek was there, and he knew what was happening to him. It made him ache to feel the ragged need that filled the watching mind. For the first time he knew beyond any doubt that Alex Krycek reciprocated his feelings.
The implications troubled him for the last few fragments of time where he could still think straight, and then it was too late. The massed voices of the countless thousands around him poured in through the open conduit he had not learned yet to control, and he was whirled away on a raging torrent of the bitter and the blissful, until he no longer knew who he was, and the truth was only a sea of screams.
In days that followed, he remembered lying somewhere in agony, and seeing, feeling Krycek approach him, survey him, and then leave him behind as he stepped over him and past. He felt the knife-edge of bitter regret from Krycek, and the promise that he would find help for Mulder by fair means or foul, and then he knew no more.
The dreams didn't contain Krycek.
Later, when they were over and Mulder had survived the attacks, he wondered why that had been. He could remember vividly the yearning, the despair and the fierce need to protect him that had emanated from Krycek, and within his own breast the longing for the triple agent that he had always desired, but for whom he now burned was so intense that he could no longer think straight.
He made up his mind to find Krycek, to challenge him and perhaps to love him.
Of course, when he'd settled on this course of action, Krycek was nowhere to be found. Heartsick, Mulder dragged on, full of regret, full of self-loathing. He couldn't shake his feelings for the man, even though he'd done both Scully and himself terrible, grievous harm.
He sought for Krycek, remembered the image of lashes thick enough to resemble black lace, the voice that brushed his skin like fur, and couldn't find him. He called numbers where once he might have been able to leave a message. He sent emails and left notes at drop-boxes. He had Byers run a routine that would turn him up if he was still out there in cyberspace. He'd tried all the usual channels. He'd sent out emails, studied meeting places, staked out Spender's office, and had no success.
Nothing.
He'd believed at one point that Krycek was stalking him - or if not him, then at least someone in the Hoover. Mulder had spotted an individual with long hair and an unmistakable walk, part strut and part lope. He'd failed to catch him. Shortly thereafter, he'd been forced to give up his search when news of an alien meeting with the consortium had come to him.
He'd watched the holocaust that followed. He was sickened by the smell of burning flesh that stung his nostrils from his position on the hillside. Scully had turned away and vomited, and he, for once, had forgotten his inner demons in his need to get her away, back to the city and within walls that would shut out to horror of the night. By the time he left to return home, he had temporarily forgotten about Alex Krycek.
Walking around the building to the front entrance of Hegal Place, he had been aware of nothing until the ungentle jab of the gun in his kidney had made him stop. The voice that cautioned him against moving was one that made the insides of him shiver, then melt.
"You know that it's too late, don't you?"
The voice drifted over him, as dry and sere as sifted ashes, and he stiffened. "What do you mean, Krycek?"
"We're doomed, Mulder. The party's over. They've got all the genetic material back, and we've got zip. I tried, and I failed." Krycek, apparently forgetting all the rules of keeping someone under cover, was close to him now. Mulder considered turning around and taking the gun from him, but his knees were shaking, overcome Krycek's proximity. He could feel the heat from Krycek's body radiating at his back, feel the puffs of his breath against the back of his neck. If he turned around now, he would see the widely spaced eyes, the plush mouth, and the stark cheekbones once more before Krycek shot him. He knew that it would almost be worth it. He spread his hands and stepped back a little, hoping to come into direct contact with the man, but he felt the movement as Krycek also retreated, and swore silently.
"And you're telling me this, because...?" he said, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.
"I'm telling you this," said the soft, blurred voice behind him. "Because I think you need to know. You're the only one in a position to fight them, now."
"That's why you're holding a gun on me? Okay. Got it. Now fuck off." Even as he said the words, he was praying that they were only the opening steps in the dance they always did, and that Krycek wouldn't take him at his word, vanish back into limbo and be gone again.
"For fuck's sake, Mulder, don't make this any harder than it has to be. I've had a bad day, in a bad week, in a fucking awful year, and I'm tired, okay? So if you're desperate to go through the full ritual, I'm not in the mood. You got that?"
"My heart bleeds, Krycek." He'd noted the exhaustion in the voice, and wondered why Krycek had really come to him. He sighed. "Put the gun away if you want to talk to me, or just get lost. I'm turning around now, and I'd be grateful if you refrained from blowing a hole in me out of nervous excitement."
As Mulder turned to face his assailant, Krycek lowered the gun, and Mulder saw that his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hands and face grimy with soot.
"Come on," he said, turning without further words to lead the way into the apartment block. Krycek followed, docile and obedient, a dark, brooding presence that Mulder could sense at his back.
The elevator was slow - too slow. The door shuddered open at length and disgorged them onto the fourth floor before making its creaky way onward. Mulder was feeling rattled, unsure what to make of this silent, compliant Krycek, so unlike any he'd encountered in the past. The hand that pressed the key into the lock was shaking, and for a moment, he believed that he was going to drop it and make a fool of himself.
Having finally succeeded in getting the door open, he stumbled in, tossing his coat at the hook by guess, and missing it completely. Krycek, following, made a clicking sound with his tongue, for all the world the way his mother used to do, and bent to retrieve it and hang it in his place."
"Come on in, Krycek. Take a load off. You want a drink?" Without awaiting a response he headed into the kitchen and returned with a pair of mismatched glasses containing scotch. Wordlessly he tendered one of the glasses to his visitor, and raised his own in a silent toast.
"Okay, Krycek, What's on your mind?"
Krycek gave a shudder and tossed back his drink in one swallow, slamming the glass down on the coffee table with a muffled curse.
"They took the DNA, and burned Cassandra. We're fucked, Fox. They're holding all the cards, and they'll play them without even noticing that they're eliminating a whole race." The huge green eyes sent a message of hopelessness, and Mulder, studying it, knew without even a moments pause that it was real. Krycek cared.
"When did you care about the human race?" he asked, but the hatred and hurt he'd always aimed at Krycek was missing from his tone. The question was just that, and his visitor seemed to take it in the spirit it was meant.
"I always did, Fox." There was no doubt in Mulder's mind as he gazed into the eyes that gleamed with such sincerity in the half-light of his tawdry room. "I've taken care of you for a long time."
"The hell you have." Mulder rose to his feet and towered over Krycek for a moment before realizing that he was propagating the kind of behavior that had never worked in the past. Slowly deflating, he murmured a swift, 'sorry', and sat back down. "Okay, you think you've looked after me. Perhaps you should tell me why you bothered?"
"What the fuck does it matter, now, Mulder?" Krycek was visibly uneasy now, and the thought that he was preparing to run crossed Mulder's mind. He went into the kitchen and found the balance of the scotch, bringing it back to splash into his visitor's glass.
"C'mon, Krycek. You show me yours, and I'll show you mine. You're here. You've said yourself that it doesn't matter, so why not just get it off your chest?" Mulder sat down, ignoring the uneasy creak of the springs on his ancient couch, and leaned back, attempting to look unthreatening. Again, Krycek tossed back the drink in one gulp and passed his hand over his eyes in a gesture of supreme weariness.
"You were always the one, Mulder," he said, softly.
"The one? What one would that be?"
"The genetic construct, which would be the answer to the invasion. You were built by the rebels, Fox. The invaders thought it was Samantha, and took her, but it was you." The smoky voice was urgent. Now Krycek had decided to share, the words tumbled past his lips, Mulder could hear them falling over each other to escape them. "They loaded you with alien DNA. We already know that you read minds, and your intuition is right against all logic. If it hadn't been for Spender's greed, you'd already be programmed to your fullest ability. Now we have to find a way to get you back on track, because you're all that's left." He caught his breath, glaring defiantly at Mulder, as though waiting to be called a liar.
"Oh, good, that's fine," said Mulder, sourly. "I'm a commodity. Use once and throw away. Lucky Mulder always gets the breaks."
"Oh, yeah," responded Krycek, displaying anger now as Mulder dismissed his confidences. "That's why you still have both arms, a home and a life. You do get the breaks, and I've made sure of that for years."
Scowling, Mulder considered Kryceks words, and almost missed the ones that followed.
"You're a hard man to love, Fox Mulder."
Time stopped; Mulder felt his breathing pause, as if the air had thickened and no longer flowed.
"What did you say?"
The carefully blank look that Krycek gave him was devoid of any expression, any vulnerability. "Nothing," he replied, voice husky and soft.
"Krycek... Alex, I..." Krycek had risen, was about to go, and Mulder knew he had to act, do something now, or forever lose his chance. "No! Oh, no you don't!"
He reached out, grabbed Krycek's shoulders and held on, despite the other man's growl of, "Get off!" and an attempt to dislodge him. Overbalancing in the resulting struggle, the pair of them fell and landed in a flailing of limbs on Mulder's abused couch.
Mulder, finding himself on top, pressing down on the firm warmth of Krycek's struggling body, felt himself growing hard. Instead of releasing his victim he pressed in closer, breathing the scent of well-worn leather, faint cologne, and Krycek himself, clean and delicious. "Alex," he murmured.
"I'll fucking kill you," was the tender response, and Mulder laughed.
"Not if I'm the only thing left between you and the aliens, you won't."
"Fucking let me go, Mulder. You don't need your full range of movement to act as a source of genetic information." Krycek's struggles threatened to topple them over, and Mulder could feel the balance shift as the slightly heavier man gained purchase.
He did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He bent his head and covered Krycek's snarling mouth with his own, moaning as the soft lips yielded to him.
For Fox Mulder, it was as if his dreams had become reality. He felt Krycek melt against him; the grimacing lips fastened to his and returned the kiss as he wrapped his arms around the other man's waist.
Tongues, slippery and inquisitive, slid against each other. Mouths clung, exchanging moisture for moisture as they lay plastered chest-to-chest, belly-to-belly and pelvis-to-pelvis, in a long, slow, sweet grind of the hips.
When he finally drew away a little, gasping for breath, he felt fingers thrust roughly into his hair and he was pulled back down, as Krycek dove into his mouth, lips pliant and moist, mapping out its interior. In a fog of lust, he learned the feel of Krycek's tongue, exalted in the discovery of the whole slippery motion of it as Krycek gave him back slick for slick in dazed delight.
By the time he could begin to wonder what he was doing, it was too late, way too late.
Alex Krycek's body was pale and strong, its spoiled beauty a work of art despite his missing limb. Mulder could not stop touching, craving the feel of skin beneath his fingers as he mapped the lines he'd remembered for years. Krycek himself seemed to have retreated to some hitherto unknown plateau, a place of soft sighs and tender smiles, caresses that were gentle and most unlike anything Mulder had known from him.
Naked at last, they arched and writhed, finally joining as Mulder opened his body to receive what he'd longed for, spilling over from need to completion beneath the rapt attention of Alex Krycek's lips and fingers and tongue, and the insistent probing of his cock.
Sated at last, the two of them lay naked in each other's arms, all enmity temporarily forgotten as they touched, kissed and murmured to each other.
"I didn't know, Alex. I didn't know." Mulder fingered Alex's cheek, his face rapt.
"Why would you?" responded the husky voice. "Why would anyone? I didn't want you to know."
"Will you stay?" He hardly dared voice the question, and knew before it came what the answer would be.
"I can't." No reasons, no excuses, merely a flat refusal that lay between them, a gulf neither man could cross.
"I love you, Alex." Spoken aloud at last, the words could never be taken back.
"I love you too, Fox."
After that, there was no more. Krycek left the way he had arrived, a deeper shadow in the darkness. All that was left for Mulder to recall his presence was a faint trace of smoke and leather, and a dull ache between his thighs.
For we're only the ones we love Only the ones we love
Days rolled into weeks, became months, and despite his best efforts, Mulder couldn't locate Krycek again. At first he was content to relive the interlude that they'd spent together, arms around each other as they'd finally lanced the poison, which had contaminated their relationship for so long. He tried to contact Krycek, refused to countenance the idea that his lover, so hardly won, had betrayed him yet again, but as the months ran one into the other there was no indication that their night of love had been anything but another mindfuck.
Mulder brooded, his anger at first hot, burning long and fierce, fueled by long felt wanting. Slowly it distilled and became cold, refined and deadly.
Acting ever more rashly, Mulder tilted at his windmills, ignoring all attempts to curb him. As willful as he had ever been, he chased the elusive truth with a single-mindedness that made even Scully, his slave, begin to doubt him. He believed he had found Samantha at last; laid her soul to rest, and with it, his own, troubled conscience.
He longed for Alex Krycek, but Alex Krycek never came. What came instead was an accountant.
The FBI sent in an auditor to examine the X-Files, and suddenly Fox Mulder found himself without a quest, without family, friends or purpose, and absented himself from the Hoover, choosing instead to shoot hoops and brood.
He took off to Bellefleur with Scully, against the express orders of the massed might of FBI administration. The visit - in search of yet another alien spacecraft - was, as ever, inconclusive. He had finally returned to DC when it had become obvious that his obsession with his search was apparently killing his partner.
Stricken with conscience, Mulder was afraid that he'd gone too far, caused her one too many hardships and ruined her health for ever. That was something even he didn't want to contemplate. He was sitting, brooding in his office, deciding whether to pack once and for all and run, quit the FBI, leave behind Scully and all his useless battles with the faceless evil, when AD Skinner tapped on his door.
"Agent Mulder." The deep voice made him look up and pause his restless tossing of the basketball with which he'd been toying.
"What's our punishment this time? Thumbscrews or 40 lashes?" he said, the irritation in his voice making his words somewhat less than humorous. "Come on in, Walter. Sit a spell. This could be the last time you take a trip down to these offices." He looked up at Skinner and set his ball down on the desk, where it lay, a symbol of the childish things he'd clung to without any consideration for how his path might affect others.
"You went to Oregon." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. Mulder had the grace to blush.
"Guilty as charged, and if they're coming down on you for that, then I'm sorry; I truly am."
Skinner gave a sour smile. "Fortunately, they think that I make a contribution to the Bureau."
"Oh well yeah," sneered Mulder. "Stick to a budget, they say you're making a contribution." His face grew mutinous, his voice distant as he spoke. "But push the limits of your profession, and they say you're out of control."
"You could bring home a flying saucer and have an alien shake hands with the President," said Skinner, dryly. "What it comes down to, Agent Mulder, is they don't like you."
Mulder sighed. "Well, we didn't bring home a flying saucer or an alien," he said, bitterly.
"Yeah so I've been told." The reply did nothing to make Mulder feel better. He nodded, somewhat dejectedly and at first didn't see Skinner wave his companions into the office.
"Agent Mulder!" Skinner spoke sharply as Mulder came out of his chair and went for Krycek, the first of the two newcomers to enter the room. "I think you should listen to him." He grabbed hold of Mulder, who seemed to be set on squaring up to Krycek, despite the presence of Skinner and of Marita Covarrubias, who had followed Krycek. He felt as if he were bleeding, his soul hung out in shreds for them all to see. He wanted to howl and claw the finely grained skin from Krycek's face, to hurt him the way he'd been hurt, and to cry like a little child, 'why did you leave me? You promised you wouldn't leave me. You told me you loved me."
He did none of these things, but in his head he saw Krycek lying, bleeding, beaten, cowed at last and in pain for him.
"You've got every reason to want to see me dead." The voice hadn't changed; it was still the same blend of silk and persuasion that prickled along his nerve endings, promising things he wanted so badly even now. The face was the same beautiful, lying mask that it had always been. Mulder wanted to smash it so badly that he almost missed the sense of what Krycek was saying. "But you've got to listen to me now. You have a singular opportunity."
"Here or you want to step outside," said Mulder, and saw a flicker of something in Alex's eyes that might - he hoped - have been pain.
Because of that single moment, he'd managed to make it through the discussion that followed, and even allowed that Krycek had a point. Before he knew it, they'd convened a meeting of anyone that might have any knowledge they could use, and it had been decided that Mulder would return to Bellefleur with Krycek and Skinner, there to seek out the alien ship, once and for all.
It seemed like hours since his lover - ex-lover, Mulder reminded himself - had walked back into his life. They'd eaten a positive feast of Chinese food, and argued until the solution - always apparent to him - had finally appeared to be acceptable to all of them. Slowly, the others departed, Covarrubias no doubt to inform her infernal master, the Gunmen to perform the tasks they'd agreed upon. Skinner had gone to pack, and Scully, who was still looking ill, to lie down.
Alex had stayed behind, apparently waiting for a chance to get him alone, and now the moment had come.
"I couldn't come, Fox," he whispered, earnestly. "The bastard had me shanghaied and thrown into jail in Tunisia. Covarrubias only just got me out."
The blonde. Mulder remembered her from his headlong dash to Russia with Krycek. She was easy; she'd do anyone for money. "You fucking her?" he asked, bluntly.
"Does it matter?" asked Krycek, pressing in, walking forward until Mulder's thighs were against the table where they'd stood to discuss the alien ship. "Of course it doesn't. How could it between us?"
Mulder tried. He pushed half-heartedly at the strong shoulders, fought to turn his head away from the lips that sought his, but the truth was, he didn't want to escape, and his efforts were doomed.
Honeyed, sweet caresses followed. Words were spoken and pledges were made, and once again, Mulder bought into the fantasy of Alex Krycek coming home to him, loving him.
Their coupling was urgent. Krycek's body against his, his pulse beating in time with Mulder's heartbeat as the Chines food cartons went flying and the table advanced across the floor under the weight of their frenzied thrusts.
When they were done and recovering, sweat soaked and tingling from the heady heights of their climax, Mulder turned to touch Alex's face. "Come home with me?" he whispered.
"Can't. There's something I need to do. I'll see you at the airport."
"I love you, Alex," said Mulder, believing that to be the charm that would bind his dark angel to him once and for all.
"Me too, Fox," said Krycek, his face as remote as that of an Indonesian idol once more.
When Krycek had gone, Mulder felt cold and used. The coming journey and the thought of how they would work together once more filled him with a sick anticipation. He and Alex Krycek would be together at last, and he would see that it happened, because the alternative was to hate himself for being a weak, stupid fool.
Bellefleur was no different than it had been when he and Scully had abandoned it. They flew into Seattle and stayed there overnight. Mulder finally had his way, and lay in Krycek's arms overnight, despite Skinner's presence in the room next door. He'd awakened with a smile on his lips, and turned to the warm body lying beside him.
Krycek, propped up on his elbow, was watching him, his face impassive, as though he were considering some plan regarding him.
"What?" he said, through a smile that he couldn't seem to remove from his face.
"Just thinking about tomorrow," responded Krycek, the smile on his own face chasing away any fears Mulder might have felt. "You hungry?"
"Got anything I can suck on to tide me over?"
There were no more words, but Mulder was at peace.
Later, when they met Skinner downstairs for breakfast, Alex made his excuses and disappeared. Mulder thought that perhaps it was the fact that he didn't care for Skinner, or that he might be ashamed of letting the Assistant Director know that he'd been in bed with Mulder. His heart remained buoyed with hope, and he consumed a hearty breakfast as they planned their search for the ship that they knew was there.
Krycek hadn't returned as the two of them set off to reconnoiter the area and find the ship once and for all. In vain, Mulder looked for him, scanning passers-by even as they drove away. Skinner said nothing, but his manner spoke volumes about his disapproval.
There was still no sign of Krycek as they parked and walked through the woods. Mulder half expected his mysterious lover to be waiting for them, but all was quiet. He headed with Skinner towards the place where he and Scully had been when she'd fainted.
There were only muted sounds. Mulder forgot Scully, forgot Skinner, forgot the world as he moved through the clearing, heading for the place where Scully had collapsed.
The tingle as he found the force field was a thrill that eclipsed everything else that had gone before it. He pushed his arm through, and then followed it inside, the pulse low in his belly almost sexual as he entered the inner space and saw the ship. There were people milling around within the strangely lit space inside the force field. He knew them. He recognized them all and felt strangely content to be among their number. He was unsurprised when the tall, looming figure of the alien he'd seen so many times before approached him, pushing through the force field to face him, the heavy, sour face appraising him.
"Krycek told me you would come," it said.
Mulder felt the anguish engendered by those words as the light from above became blinding; then he felt no more.
Existence was a place where there was pain and nothing more. Agony bloomed, bright red against the blackness behind his eyes. He screamed. He begged for mercy, and not once could he be sure that anyone heard.
After a while, he ceased to beg.
Time passed. Pain became the reason he knew that he still lived. He'd been probed, gutted, excoriated and remade so many times, he wasn't sure if he were still Mulder in truth, or some new phoenix, risen from fire to become more than he had been.
He never knew when they had finished with them. He lay, inert, discarded like an old newspaper, finished, sucked dry of all that he had been, and when he was discovered, pronounced dead, and buried, he had no knowledge of that, either.
Discovered at last, he was returned to those who had known him, but lay somewhere at the bridge between life and death, unknowing, uncaring, stripped clean of all his once cherished dreams. The crisp sheets on the bed in which he lay didn't delight him. He lay between the gates of heaven and hell, and did not pass through either.
Time passed. He remained, inert, unable to bring himself out of the trance into which he'd fallen. He became aware of a voice, one that called him from a distance, and it seemed to Mulder that he had once known that voice, the quality of it, and cared.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't know. I thought you were getting the answers; they lied to me, but I had enough of the vaccine to save you."
He frowned. He knew the speaker. He wanted the speaker to leave him alone, let him return to his vacuum. The voice continued to rub, to chafe, to abrade his senses, and slowly, Fox Mulder awoke.
He expected, somehow, that Krycek would be the one to greet him when he opened his eyes, but it was only Scully. He smiled, tried to muddle through his return to life, regretting all the while that he had come back, and wondering why it had happened, where Krycek had gone. He never for a minute doubted that Krycek had been the one who'd brought him back.
There was no sign of Krycek, although he heard John Doggett recounting a confrontation with him down in the parking area. The story, as told by Doggett, didn't surprise him in the least, and when Skinner added what he knew, he wondered why he'd ever fallen for the man. He was merely astonished that Krycek, rat bastard that he was, hadn't caused more damage.
Scully was pregnant. That was the first shock he'd had upon reawakening, and the world had moved on a long way since he had last walked upon it.
He slowly picked up the threads of his old life and found himself loathing Krycek once more. The man had betrayed him, sent him into captivity, and had him tortured. He was through with Krycek. Now, all he wanted was to see him suffer.
Krycek, of course, was nowhere to be found. ~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~
The end came quite unexpectedly, as these things often do. Scully was heavy with child now, so close to term that she waddled as she walked, and spent a lot of time sleeping. The significance of the child had occupied his mind almost to the exclusion of all else, and he resigned himself to the life of Scully's almost-husband, tending her tired feet, rubbing her back, and generally feeling useless and stupid in the face of so much feminine fecundity.
He rarely thought of Krycek now, and when he did, it was a bitter, vengeful thought. One day, he'd see the man suffer. One day.
When he finally saw him, his wildest dreams could not have prepared him for happened.
At the end, Krycek, as always, confronted him in a dark, secluded place; this time it was the parking garage at the Hoover building. Mulder knew what would happen, because it had happened before. He would try to fend Krycek off, Krycek would overpower him, and they would make love, rekindling the same old pattern of love and loss and pain.
This time, that isn't what happened.
This time, AD Skinner, a man with his own axe to grind against Alex Krycek, appeared out of left field. As Mulder stood by and hugged his bitterness to him, Skinner shot Krycek, once, twice, and three times was the charm as Krycek died there on the floor of the garage.
Mulder walked away and left him.
Oh, I get tired - and I get old But to see you steady brings a flood of gold Say, oh, my baby, I've been taught and sold We're only the ones we love Only the ones we love
Dazed, Mulder rode out the rest of the day's events. Scully's baby was born, and he didn't care. One life gone, another begun, and his? What of his own life.
Feeling like an anachronism, he kissed Scully, held the new baby for a moment, and then walked away.
Much later, he began to see Krycek everywhere he went. The man would come to him and counsel him. Once, he saved his life by showing him a safe place to hide. It seemed as if he was haunted by the ghost of a Krycek who might have been.
He took to asking the apparition why. Why had he done the things he'd done. He got no answer
On the last day, he sat in his apartment. He'd long since stopped turning on the television, preferring to sit alone with his thoughts until the sun would rise. Krycek appeared to stand before him, smiling gently. The ghost said nothing at first, merely gazing up at the other man.
"Give it up, Mulder. It's finished for now. It isn't your fight any more." The apparition was dressed in black, an understanding smile on his face. "You and I are redundant now. Time to rest." As ever, the softly spoken words dragged at something primal in Mulder, making him feel jittery and somehow incomplete. All the feelings he'd ever had for Krycek were there, on the surface now, no longer buried.
"You're dead, Krycek," he said, shivering under the lambent gaze the ghost was bending on him. "You died and left me. Why did you hate me?"
"I didn't hate you, Fox." The words were stark and sorrowful, as bare a truth as ever Mulder had sought in his life.
"You left me." The words were those that he had never said to Samantha, or to his mother, or to anyone that had ever mattered. Even as he spoke them, he knew that they weren't sensible, but Krycek laughed.
"You could come to me now. I wouldn't leave you again." The husky voice insinuated itself into his consciousness, undermining his willpower as he yearned to feel Krycek warm and vital against his skin once more.
"How?" he asked, his voice sounding very young and scared.
"You know how, Fox." He felt the dip of the sofa as Krycek sat down. "Come on. Do it for me. You know you want to."
It seemed he'd wanted this all his life. Alex handed him his gun; it felt right in his hand, more real, somehow, than the old black couch beneath his thighs. "You promise?" he said, although he wasn't sure what he was asking Krycek to promise.
"Forever, Fox," was the whispered reply.
The kiss of the gun was his final answer, and then there was nothing.
End
| Back to My Stories –|– Email Dr. Ruthless |
