TITLE: Bentropy Two
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mik_dok@yahoo.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 if they left them at my house, I'm going to keep them.
Author's notes: In case you hadn't figured it out, this is a sequel to Str8. It's also my rebuttal to Season Nine. And when the finale airs, I'll be upstairs with my hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight saying, 'I can't hear you. La la la la la la la la.'
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 Two
by Mik
"No."
Suddenly the music was too loud. I know because my lungs stopped pumping and my heart stopped beating and all I could hear was the music. "That's not possible," I said. He's dead. I know it. I watched him die.
Mich didn't seem to understand. She smiled and shrugged and shifted the tray against her hip. "Hey, this is LA. Anything's possible. So, how are you?" And the subject was closed, just like that.
My heart started to beat again, just like that. "I'm...fine." He's dead. I know it. I watched him die.
Mich was giving me a look that said, 'It might be good to see you, but then again, it might be not.' "It's been a long time."
"Eight years." He's dead, damn it. I know it. I watched him die.
It was then I remembered Peyton. He had started to back up, out of our conversation. I shot out a hand and caught his wrist without looking at him. "Stay."
Mich's all-seeing eyes flickered that direction and back to me. "How's business?" Now her look was, I don't think it's good to see you. You bring trouble.
"I retired." He's dead. He's fucking got to be dead. I watched him die. "He's dead."
Mich was quiet for a beat. "Well then, he looked pretty good for a dead man." He looked at our table, and at her tray. "What are you boys drinking?"
"Coke," Peyton offered too loudly.
"Right." She started to move away. "I'll send fresh ones."
Peyton turned to watch her leave. I stared at the place she had been. He's dead. I know it. I watched him die.
"Eight years?"
I looked over at Peyton at last, realizing I had a bone-breaking grip on his wrist. "Yeah." I released him and pulled out his chair. "Sit down."
He didn't look too certain. "Maybe I ought to -"
"Sit down." I smiled, trying to soften my tone. "It's okay, Peyton. Really. It's over. It was over eight years ago." I caught his shoulder lightly. "Come on, sit down. Have one more drink with me."
The boy with the glasses brought over two Cokes and two twenties. He didn't look happy about either. "Mich said to comp you." He spun on a heel and left.
Peyton looked at me, impressed. "She's nice."
I nodded and reached for my Coke. I don't like Coke. Never have, but I had a bitter taste in my mouth and needed something more bitter still to wash it away.
"You're retired," Peyton said, playing with his straw. "You seem kind of young to be retired. What did you do?"
Too many of the wrong things. "I was a cop."
His eyes narrowed. "Around here?"
"No." I had forgotten cops had a bad reputation in this town. "Back East."
"Oh, yeah. You sound as if you're from back there." He chewed on his straw. "Why did you retire?"
"It was time." He had that same annoying habit of flicking the straw with his tongue to make it swish back and forth just like ... damn it! I saw him die. Of course, people saw me die. Gave me a funeral. Put me in the ground. Then again ... I wasn't shot in a garage with a caliber of bullet or limit of range to leave a nice hole in my chest. He's dead. Mich is wrong.
"Because of him?"
"No, not -" I looked at him, sighed. "We were over a long time ago. Coming back to LA just reminded me, that's all." And that's a lie, that's all.
Peyton fidgeted for a moment, avoiding my eyes. "Do I remind you of him?"
"Yeah. Some." At least I could be honest about that.
For a moment - a very short one, Peyton seemed pleased. Then the pleasure faded. "I'm nothing like him, I'm sure. I'm just a computer geek for a research firm."
I smiled at him, feeling even more fondness for him. "Some of my best friends are computer geeks."
He swished the straw frantically, embarrassed. "You're just saying that."
"Oh, Peyton, you'd be surprised. Besides," I reached out and pulled the straw from his lips, "you asked me to dance, remember? Who do I remind you of?"
"No one." He seemed surprised that I asked. "You just seemed lonely and unhappy, like me, so I thought I'd take a chance."
Lonely and unhappy. Very perceptive, geek boy. "I'm glad you did."
I guess I said it too warmly because he blushed, fumbled for his drink and looked at his watch, all in one graceless move. "Oh, I'd better get going. I've got to be in the office at six tomorrow. Big project."
I watched him stand up, Coke in hand. "Well, it was nice meeting you." I hesitated a moment, and added, "Could I call you sometime?"
"I..." he put the Coke down. "Yeah...if you want. You don't have to or anything." He patted down his pockets and produced a business card, bent corners and all. "That's my cell and that's my email."
I stood and offered him a hand. "Good to meet you, Peyton." Impulsively, I pulled him close enough to press my lips to his cheek. It wasn't a kiss. It was just contact.
He blushed again and backed away.
I watched him go, thinking I ought to be disappointed by his departure, but knowing that I had something else on my mind and couldn't pursue him until I'd gotten this minor detail of a resurrected ex-partner/lover/enemy resolved. And I think Peyton knew it as well. I picked up one of the twenties from the table, wrapped it around Peyton's card, and tucking them into my pocket, wandered toward the back.
Mich was outside, a cigarette in her hand. She hadn't changed much in eight years. Her hair, maybe. It was closer to Scully's color now. Could have been intentional, could have been time. Other than that, she was suspended, just like this building, just like my heart.
She looked up as I pushed through the door, smirking slightly. "Cute kid you found there, Jon." She held out the pack of cigarettes.
"Was he?" I looked at her hand. "No, thanks. I finally gave them up."
"Yeah," she laughed. "So did I...about eight times." She took a long, satisfied drag. "Of course, I'll be a lady and not mention just how much he looks like Alex."
"Not really. His eyes are brown and he..." I stopped because she was not even trying to conceal her amusement. "I was a cop, remember?" I said peevishly. "Trained to observe. Besides, he asked me to dance."
That only made her laugh harder.
It sort of exploded out of me. "Mich, Alex died last year. Shot. I saw it happen. He is dead."
"Oh, Jon." She clutched at my wrist. "How did it happen? In the line of duty?"
"N - yes." Well, his duty.
She finished her cigarette in silence.
I stared out into the parking lot. Right over there, I thought, where that red Mustang was parked, that's where he kissed me.
"How did he lose his arm?"
Another bitter taste, another wash of memories. "In Tunguska. Russia." A dank cell, his scent. Need that we both felt, desire that we both denied.
"What was he doing in Russia?"
Losing his arm. I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I turned toward her. "How did you know?"
She gave me a painfully tolerant smile. "Jon - sorry, sorry. It's Fox, isn't it? No," she shook her head, "you'll always be Jon to me."
I barely managed not to grab her and shake her. "How...did...you...know?"
"Because I noticed it when he was here." Maddeningly matter of fact.
"But, he's -"
"It was him," she stated firmly, in that tone she has that brooks no argument. "He recognized me. Called me by name. Asked if I'd seen you." She finally dropped the butt of her cigarette on the ground, and dug at it with her toe. "He said he'd heard you were coming West. He wanted to get a message to you."
Bastard. How dare he know me so well? "How...how did he look?"
She lifted a curious glance to me. "Alive. Definitely alive."
*******************************************
I took a room near the beach. Paid too much just for the privilege of a glimpse of ocean, but I needed it. I didn't sleep that night. Having left the bar, I found the motel, checked in and tried, in vain, to make my systems shut down, stop thinking, stop wondering, stop wishing. I couldn't even stop pacing. Alive? Impossible. Looking for me? Why? It was a mistake. It was a joke. It was a trap. It wasn't Krycek. No way.
At dawn, I was up, dressed and out the door. I had no purpose anymore, and I'd rather gotten used to a routine of nothingness. My days these last months had been filled with introspection, comic books, doubt, caffeine and mindless ramblings through unfamiliar neighborhoods. This wasn't so unfamiliar. I'd been here before. Too many times in my memories. In my memories, I ran down this street and into Krycek, just like that first morning. We went across this street together, and thus began an eight-year addiction to four shots of espresso, steamed water and foamed milk. With a sigh, I wheeled in that direction. No point in wearing myself down fighting the inevitable.
I jogged up to the corner just as a kid appeared at the door, yawning broadly and trying to negotiate the key in the lock. "We're not open, yet, man," he told me. How do people talk with their mouths wide open like that?
"I'll wait," I told him. I was in no hurry.
"Whatever." He blinked, completed the yawn with a groan and twisted the key in the lock. "Might as well wait inside."
I followed him into the store, and was assaulted by the smell of coffee and teakwood unique to Starbucks. No other purveyor of coffee has that same Juan-Valdez-goes-to-Ikea smell. The kid, skinny, tall, with an unlikely mane of blond dreads, hopped over the counter, and I settled into a chair, belatedly thinking to check for cash. I hadn't bothered with a wallet, since I don't carry a badge anymore. Just my jogging pocket, with my keys, my ID and my license to carry concealed. And a twenty. I tugged it free and as I did a business card fluttered to the ground. I bent, flipped it over, and smiled to myself. No sense in fighting this, either. Standing, I glanced around the shop. "Got a pay phone around here?"
The kid was measuring coffee into a grinder. He jerked a thumb toward what I assume was the restroom, and I sidestepped a stack of cartons waiting to be unpacked, and wedged myself between a display stand and the bathroom door, in front of a black and silver unit on the wall. I dialed, got the cost, looked around helplessly, and held up the twenty for the kid, with a pleading expression.
"My till's not open, man," the kid said, and reached under the counter to pull up a phone. "Here."
I put the receiver down gratefully, came back to the counter, pulled the phone around to me. "Venti foamy Americano, when you're running, okay?" I punched numbers.
He answered on the third ring. "Hello?" He had a soft, sleepy voice.
"Peyton? Did I wake you?" Shit. "I'm sorry, I thought you had to get up early for a big project ..." I felt my face starting to burn and the juvenile barrista was watching me, amused.
There was a moment of silence. "Uh...who is this?"
"This is M - Jon. We met last night." Okay, I've hit rock bottom now, I realized dejectedly. I'm not even leaving an impression on geek boys.
"Jon?" I could hear shifting around. "I don't believe it." Something in his voice brightened. "You actually called."
"Didn't you think I would?" I shot a glare at the kid behind the counter.
"No," he confessed with a self-deprecating laugh. I could hear him stretching. It was kind of hot, actually. "What do you want? I mean ... you know ... what can ..." He sighed heavily in surrender.
Oh, did I understand that geekspeak. "I was just up for a coffee and thought I'd invite you before you went to work, but you've obviously overslept and I -"
"I don't have to be in early," he confessed. His voice softened. "I was just giving you an out."
"Peyton." I paused, pressing the receiver to my chest and pointed to the door of the back room. "Do you mind?" I asked the counter kid. "This is private."
Dumbfounded, the kid backed up and disappeared.
"Peyton," I repeated, "I didn't want an out."
There was a long silence on his end. "Yeah?"
I grinned at the phone. "I'm at a Starbucks," I told him. "Want to meet me?"
Another long silence. "The coffee's better at my place."
Hooooooooolleeeeeeeee shit. I've never been propositioned in my life. "Give me the address." I leaned over the counter, routed around and came up with a battered black and white Bic. Flipping the card over, I said, "Go."
He went.
*******************************************
He was a little breathless when he answered the door of his apartment. I recognized that breathlessness. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes rushing around trying to tidy the detritus of bachelorhood. He had neglected to tidy himself, though. He was in sweats that hadn't seen better days in this decade, and his dark hair was sticking up at all angles, though he did try to smooth it down as he moved from the door to let me in.
The room he let me into was dark, and sparse but with a familiarly cluttered look to it. I was starting to wonder if I had a brother no one had ever mentioned to me.
"Hi." I held up a little brown bag. "The pastries were being delivered while I was on the phone with you, so I brought Danish." I leaned in belatedly, thinking I might kiss him, but he maneuvered out of my reach, blushed, fumbled and snatched the bag from my hand. "Thanks. Um...coffee's almost done. Sit down, huh?"
I sat. I wasn't sure I understood what was going on. Didn't he invite me over? I lifted my voice to follow him into the kitchen. "Look, Peyton, if this is a bad time ..."
He came out a moment later, two coffee mugs in hand, and an uncomfortable expression on his face. "I don't know what I'm doing," he muttered, setting the cups down on the table in front of me. "I mean ... I don't have any experience in all this and I don't know..." he sighed, hard. "...I don't know what I want, yet. But you're a nice guy and you seemed interested in me and..."
I put up a hand. "Hey, Peyton, it's okay. Really. We'll get to know each other." I had to admire the kid's balls, though, for laying it all out like that. "I guess I pushed because I don't have a lot of experience either, and it's been a while and ..."
"And you're here and thinking about eight years ago and I remind you a little bit of him," Peyton concluded quietly.
I nodded. Pretty smart, geekboy. I reached for one of the cups. He was right. It smelled great. I looked up at him and tried an open, no strings attached smile. "So...can we be friends?"
"Maybe." He sat down next to me but not too close. There was a long uncomfortable pause while we both searched for safe 'friendly' things to say to one another. He drew a deep breath at last and plunged back in. "Sorry the place is a wreck, I do a lot of my work at home."
I glanced around ... the blue grey light of the room seemed to be coming from five different monitors running on a table against the far wall. It reminded me of the Lone Gunmen and I had an almost gut-wrenching pang of homesickness. "Yeah, what is it you do, exactly?"
"I watch you," he answered, reaching for his own cup. "Oh, no! Not you personally," he added, when I jerked up in unconcealed alarm. "People in general. Internet users. I watch their surfing habits."
"I thought that was illegal," I commented, trying not to sound like a cop, and failing.
He shook his head. "Not in this sense, no. Pretty much wherever you go on the Internet, you leave a calling card, and that's public domain."
"I don't follow you." I put my cup down and rummaged in the brown paper bag with two cheese Danish inside. "You mean, you can tell wherever I go, even if I'm not logging into a site, just looking?"
He nodded. "I can't necessarily identify it as you, per se. But I know when the identification you have out on the 'net goes into a particular site."
I held one out to him. "How?"
Peyton waved it away. "You've heard of cookies, haven't you?" He pulled his laptop toward us. "You know ... the little profiles left in your computer whenever you visit a site, so that next time, you don't have to sign in, and you're greeted by name."
"Yeah, I'm familiar with them. My laptop's set not to accept them," I added smugly.
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter, there's all kinds of spyware out there that drops in when you visit places; online shopping, banking, sports news, porn." His fingers flew over the keyboard and pulled up a page that seemed to be nothing but cookie@somethingsomethingdotcom. "You might say I'm emptying cookie jars into this computer right now. Every time your computer logs on, your internet provider identifies you for us with the isp address. Everywhere you go, we follow the cookie crumbs. Banks know if you're shopping for better rates, bookstores know what your interests are to send you book titles it thinks you'll like, your own isp knows which banners you're paying attention to. Right now my research firm is looking at airline tickets and online video rentals."
I settled back with a grimace. "So Big Brother is watching us."
He shrugged again. "Big Brother, Big Sister, Big Great Aunt, Big Neighbor's Cat." He had a nice face whenever he relaxed.
I licked stickiness from my lips. "How do I stop it?"
"Ah, the question of the hour." He waggled a finger at me. "There are some spyblocker softwares out there, but not all of them work to the same degree. And anyway," he tossed me an almost angelic smile, "why would you want to?"
"Oh, I don't know." I pulled a face. "Privacy, maybe?"
"If you want privacy, stay in your house and don't talk to anyone," Peyton said, matter-of-factly. "People have been exposing themselves throughout history, in one way or another. Don't blame the internet for that."
I stared at the screen for a moment. Who was I to complain about lack of privacy? How many phones had I tapped, how many people had I followed, how many garbage cans, real and metaphoric, had I prowled through in my career? "You're right." Of course, now that I was no longer a looker, but just another of a billion lookees, I didn't like it. At all.
He was looking at me, a little twitch of amusement playing around a mouth that looked so much like Krycek's that it seemed to be begging for my kiss. "What?" I demanded, desperate to shake that association. "Have I got stuff on my face?" I scrubbed at my mouth with the back of my hand. "Did I get it?"
His smile spread a fraction, and he leaned toward me, a finger outstretched like E.T., and he brushed a flaky bit of pastry from the corner of my mouth.
Suddenly we were inches from a kiss. His eyes were deeply brown, and wide in wonder and wariness. These were not the eyes of my long lost lover. These were the eyes of someone new and innocent and just as bewildered as me. I closed my eyes and moved the inch or two to touch my mouth to his.
He stiffened. But he didn't pull away. My God, he was trembling.
I moved my hand to his cheek. Held him there. Parted my lips. I felt him sigh. He let me in.
For a moment, we clung to one another, our kiss tentative and desperate at the same time. I think we were both making sounds, but I don't know what they were. I do know that the kiss was saying something to other parts of me. And I wanted to tell him that. I let my hand slide down his side, to rest at his hip.
His phone rang. We broke apart clumsily. He looked at the phone.
Heart pounding, I swallowed. "I...I should go." Damn it. No.
"No, it's okay." But his voice was thready, practically begging me to get out.
I gave his thigh a jerky pat and stood. "I'll...I'll...um...see you tonight?" My erection was straining against my jeans and I hoped he didn't notice. "I'll be at...you know...there."
The phone was still ringing. "Yeah." He nodded, glancing toward the kitchen. "I should probably ..." His hand was resting strategically in his lap.
"Yeah. I'll let myself out." I backed toward the door. "Hey, thanks for the coffee. It was great." Suddenly, I was on the other side of the door, alone, with an erection, and very, very confused.
- End Two -