TITLE: Bentropy Eleven
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K/? This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind, or perhaps lend one to Krycek.
SUMMARY: Entropy - chaos. Bent - not straight. 'nuff said.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is after everything, the season in the shower notwithstanding.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use ... unless you count cheap thrills. Other characters belong to me ... or someone else but they left them at my house so I'm playing with them.
Author's notes: I happen to think I have a great beta. I happen to think everyone knows who my great beta is. But I am dreadful about giving her credit for all her hard work. Shame on me. Thank you, Susan ... the greatest beta in all betadom.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Bentropy Eleven
by Mik
"No."
I shrugged Skinner's hand away when he tried to pull me up from the preformed plastic chair. Peyton's injuries weren't as bad as originally appeared, but they were bad enough that he hadn't yet regained consciousness, bad enough that they hadn't yet let us see him, bad enough my guilt wouldn't let me leave him there alone.
He wouldn't be entirely alone, of course, even if I did leave. One row of chairs over, Mich slumped, fading in and out of sleep, jerking awake each time gravity threatened to drag her to the floor.
We hadn't spoken much, except to take turns urging the other one to go home and get some sleep. I think Mich harbored a not so slight conviction that I knew more about Peyton's attack than I was letting on. And I wasn't very good at hiding the fact that I probably did. So we weren't, in the strictest sense, chums at that point.
"It's five am, Agent," Skinner said, as if that was a compelling reason to leave.
"I've been able to tell time for a couple of years now," I retorted, brushing him away again. "But I'm not leaving 'til I know he's going to be okay."
"No one ever gets to know that about anyone, Mulder," Skinner chided. "It's not in the human purview."
I glared at the floor at his feet. "I had no idea, among all your superpowers, you were mystic, as well." I glanced at my watch. He was mystic about the time at least. "I meant that I want to know he's going to wake up and remember his name."
Skinner put his hand on my shoulder again, but this time it was something of a pat. "It's not your fault, Mulder."
I couldn't even rise to that one. "He was coming to meet me," I reminded him glumly.
Skinner's tone seemed to say that, in itself, was not significant. "Yes, but you didn't tell anyone, did you?"
I lifted my head. "You."
He made a face of impatience. Some things never change. "Seriously."
"I am serious." I was trying to keep my voice down, knowing that Mich, just that one row of chairs over, was pretending she was asleep, and still straining to hear what we were saying. "No one knew except you."
His expression was no longer impatient. Now it was slightly beyond irritated. "Surely you don't believe that I arranged -"
"Arranged? No, that's not your style." I stood and paced away from him. "But you have connections who are a little more...stylish, don't you?"
Left kneeling by the chair where I had been sitting, he looked both indignant and wounded. "For God's sake, Mulder -"
I shook my head at him. "You didn't want me to find -" I cut myself off, sliding a glance at Mich. I dropped my voice a notch. "You didn't want me to accomplish what I came for. I have been trying to work out why the hell you, of all people, came out here. You wanted to prevent me -" I shut up because he was on his feet and advancing on me.
"You don't mean that," he said in a not quite scolding voice, but there was color in his face.
"Don't I?" I backstepped quickly. "Why are you here, Skinner? Why should you, an Assistant Director of the Ef Bee Eye fly across the country to track down a no longer employed agent? A Bureau nonentity." I pressed a fist to my chest. "Tell me why. And don't give me any more bullshit about being concerned about me. Just, for once, tell me the truth."
He reached for my shoulders, held me still. "You know..." he stopped, looking around, and lowered his voice as well. "You know why I'm here." He forced his gaze into mine, his teeth clenching. "You know why."
Manifestly he thought he was telling me something, or reminding me of something that I already knew, but I wasn't getting the message. I squirmed in his grasp. "No," I said, just as tightly. "I don't. Let me go."
He opened his mouth as if to correct me, noted a curious nurse passing us, brows raised, and drew an arm across my shoulder, moving me bodily to a corner of the waiting room. It took him a moment to decide exactly what he was going to say, and what his demeanor should be. He softened his voice, eased the tension in his face, his neck, his hands. But he did not release me. He did not move his eyes from mine. "I came here for you," he asserted quietly. "Right or wrong, I needed to know you were going to be ... that you still knew your name when you woke up in the morning." He smiled faintly. "Right or wrong, I wanted to make certain you didn't get hurt."
I twisted around to be face to face with him, although I was no longer trying to completely evade his hold. "You knew he was here," I accused, searching his face for the answer he wasn't giving me. "You know where he is."
"No." He gestured in denial. "I...surmised things. But, Mulder," he paused, waiting to make sure I was actually listening to him, "I do not know where he is. And I did not arrange for anything to happen to your ..." he paused again, "your friend."
"Someone did," I answered, although without quite as much conviction. "If it wasn't you, then whom?"
His sigh sounded genuinely regretful. "I wish I knew." He glanced around, almost as if he thought the answer was in sight, if he could only focus on it. Something caught his attention. "Come on," he said impulsively, tugging my arm and moving toward the door that said LOUNGE. "I'll buy you a really lousy cup of coffee."
"Just what I need," I agreed, surrendering.
The waiting room lounge was an aesthetically sterile room of grey walls, grey tiles, grey chairs and ugly grey machines in a row, offering coffee, stale chips and ancient candy bars. It smelled of disinfectant and burnt coffee. All it lacked was bars on the windows to make a perfectly charming prison. Skinner went to the coffee machine as if it was an old friend, fumbled through a fist full of change and pushed buttons. "How do you want it?" he asked over his shoulder.
"With a shot of whiskey," I answered, flopping too hard into one of those grey plastic chairs. I waved the remark away. "Black will be fine." I rubbed my eyes with my upraised hand. "Damn it, we're missing something. Something obvious."
He shook his head as he handed me the cup. "We're missing something?" He dropped more coins into the slot. "What?"
I laughed grimly. "Well, if we knew, we wouldn't be missing it, would we?" I looked down at the steaming muck in my hands. "As far as we know, we were the only ones who knew Peyton was going to be there."
"What about..." He paused as another paper cup settled into the chute and the machine started up the horrible racket it made to make us believe it was actually grinding and brewing fresh coffee for us. "What about the woman from the bar?"
"Mich?" I gave it a moment of reflection. "Maybe she believed he might show up. I don't think they had any sort of rendezvous." Or had they? "Even if they did, she's not the sort to broadcast her business to anyone. I doubt the saints know her business."
He ignored my embellishment. "Where was she when all of this was going down?"
I gestured upward toward an imaginary second floor. "In her ... oh, no ... you don't believe she ..."
He lifted the chute door and gingerly eased his cup out. "I believe everything is possible right now."
I cocked a brow. "Since when? You never believed anything when I was reporting to you."
His smile was tight. "Let's just say my perspective has been changed." He moved to the table and drew out a chair for himself.
"Now there's a statement fraught with implications," I chuckled, hoping that my tone might invite a more full and complete explanation.
If he had any further enlightenment to offer at that point, he declined to present it. "We should question that woman."
"Sure," I agreed somewhat testily. "Go dig up a warrant and we'll haul her in as a material witness."
"I've got a better idea," he said, emptying a packet of pink stuff into the cup. "Why don't we buy her a cup of coffee?"
"Oh, sure, let's do it the easy way." I took a sip and made a face. "Of course, with this coffee, she might claim police brutality."
He shifted in his chair to dig up more change from his pocket. "Go invite her. Do you know how she likes it?"
I looked into my cup. "Preferably without the gasoline."
"Coffee snob."
"Ooh, that hurt." I got up. He was right. We should at least attempt to find out what the lady knew.
I went back to the waiting room and found her right where I'd left her, trying to remain uncomfortable enough not to fall asleep.
She did look up as I approached her. "Any word?"
"Yes." I looked down at her gravely. "Exhaustive investigation has uncovered a machine in the next room that blends vegetable matter and petroleum products through hot water. Can I buy you a cup?"
She laughed, probably more than the comment deserved, but I will make allowances for stress and lack of sleep. "Sure," she said, and levered herself from the chair. "I'm always open to new experiences."
"Oh, you'll live to regret that remark." I followed her into the lounge.
Skinner was on his best manners when she arrived. He stood and offered her a hand. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. "I'm Walter Skinner. I'm -"
"My boss," I broke in quickly.
He shot me a painful look. "Former."
"Former," I amended.
Mich missed no detail of that exchange. Her eyes darted back and forth between us as if she was at a tennis tournament. Then she accepted his hand. "Michele. Bantam," she added when it was obvious he was waiting for a last name. At his slightly incredulous expression, she pulled her hand free and made a faint gesture that really could mean anything. "What can I say? I'm Canadian." She finished with a smile that just dared him to make something of that.
I pulled a chair away from the table for her. "How do you like your alleged coffee?"
"With plenty of unsubstantiated sugar and just an innuendo of cream." She sat and laced her fingers together. "So ... what is it you want to know?"
We exchanged guilty glances. Skinner turned to the coffee machine and dropped coins into the slot with a jangle.
I sat down opposite her, tried to look as if we were all friends here. "Were you expecting Pey –uh...Mr. Didelphis at the club tonight?"
"No." She looked at Skinner's back and then eyed me knowingly. "But I hear you were expecting him."
"Yes," I admitted. "We had arranged to meet at eight thirty."
"That's interesting."
Skinner brought her coffee to the table. "Why do you say it like that?"
Mich was looking at the battered tabletop, with an expression that was slightly smug and slightly irritated. "Because last night he told me he was in meetings at work all day today." She lifted her eyes and fixed them on me. "He didn't think he'd get away from his office until well after eight, maybe even nine."
Skinner looked at me.
I looked back, frowning.
Skinner shifted the look back to Mich. "I thought you said you weren't expecting him in the club tonight," he probed.
"I wasn't," she answered easily.
"Then how did you come to know about -"
"He mentioned it last night." She stirred the grey muck in the paper cup before her. "He said he had all of these meetings today and he was dreading them because he didn't think he'd even leave his office before eight or eight thirty." She sniffed at the cup and looked at me. "You weren't kidding about the petroleum products."
Skinner looked at me balefully, as if to say, 'I thought you said he told you he was meeting you at eight thirty?'
I shrugged, as if to say, 'He did.'
Skinner turned back to Mich, affecting patience, which at that point was quite an effect. "Was there anyone else looking for him?"
Mich shook her head. "Only you two."
"Was there anyone new loitering around?" I prompted. "Anyone who appeared out of place, maybe?"
She lifted the cup to her lips. "Just you two."
I made a face at her.
A young man in rumpled green scrubs appeared at the door. "Are any of you family of Peyton Didelphis?" He barely stumbled on the name.
We all said, "Yes." Then we all looked at each other.
The young man looked at all of us as if we needed evaluations ourselves. "He's awake," he announced. "But," he added, holding up his hands as we all converged on him, "only one of you can see him right now."
We looked at one another again. Mich was looking as if she'd give her entire stash of Glenfiddich and two fresh packs of smokes to be the one. Skinner had his 'I'm in charge' face on. I looked at the guy in scrubs. "I'll go."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"We should have let Mich go in, for all I got out of him," I lamented, as I pushed the motel room door open.
"You tried," Skinner said in a tone that clearly implied that not only did I not try, but that he would have gotten names, dates, motive and fingerprints without trying at all.
"And so did he." I dropped heavily onto the side of the far bed. "The problem is there wasn't much that he could tell us." I scratched my chest and my shoulder. "He drove straight to the club from the meeting. He told no one where he was going. He parked in the back. He was walking toward the back entrance when he saw a figure in the shadows of the alley, about my height, my coloring, beckoning him. The person called him by name. He is sure of that. Thinking it was me, he approached."
I kicked off my shoes and rubbed my weary feet together. "He got close enough to realize it wasn't me, and that's the last thing he remembered."
Skinner gave the drapes a firm tug together to make sure none of the early morning sunlight could invade our room. "Someone was waiting for him."
"You think?" I asked through a yawn.
"Which puts us right back where we were," Skinner concluded, emptying his pockets. "Someone knew he was coming."
"Not necessarily." I opened my eyes wide to keep from letting them close completely. "I asked for him several times at the bar. Someone could have heard me." I made a face. "Maybe the bartender got tired of me asking about him."
Skinner looked over at me contemplatively. "Did you ever actually ask for him by name?"
I thought back. "No. I guess I didn't. But several people had seen us together previously. Someone could assume -"
He wasn't agreeing with me. "But doesn't that suggest a crime of passion? Someone seizing a moment?"
I nodded, perversely relieved. It wasn't my big mouth causing the trouble for a change. "The initial medical reports indicate the injuries were inflicted by something heavy, smooth but with a right angle edge. There was no weapon recovered at the scene and I can't imagine anything that could be found randomly in that alley to match these injuries." I stood and shimmied out of my jeans. "Which suggests that the weapon was brought to the scene. Again, ruling out crime of passion." I pulled the bedclothes down. It was all a performance. There was no way I was going to sleep now.
Skinner was sitting on the opposite bed, scratching the stubble on his chin. "Tire iron," he said suddenly.
I turned to look at him. "What?"
He had his glasses off and was squinting at everything. "A tire iron could have made those injuries."
I nodded again. "That makes sense. Easily obtained, easily concealed, easily disposed of after." I sat and slid my legs up and under the bedclothes. "But that still doesn't tell who knew he was coming."
Skinner sighed and stood, unzipping his jeans. "Let's go at this backward for a minute ... who knew you were coming?" He carefully put the jeans over the back of the chair, came to the side of my bed and looked down at me.
"You."
"And?"
I scooted over, making room for him. "Clayton. And whomever Clayton contacted to meet me there."
"Then we should talk to Clayton again." He settled beside me and held open his arms.
I rolled into his embrace. "But why go after Peyton? Why not me?"
He locked his arms around me. "We won't know that until we talk to him. Now go to sleep. Consider it an order."
I shifted around on him to make a comfortable pillow of his shoulder. "Well, if you're going to put it like that..."
"I am."
So, I slept.
- END Eleven -