Chapter One
It's comfortable here—never hurried, never pushy. Everyone knows each
other; we all have history, although I've never been intrusive. If they know
what went on before my arrival here then fine, but they won't get it by
asking me. That's an unwritten law that comes about I guess from the type of
people we all are. Never give up your hand to the table. It's often better
without words.
Nascosto is my refuge now, my haven. It shelters me from the dark incessant
glare of the eyes that were everywhere I went. I wasn't to know when I
pushed the old man down the stairs that my act of defiance, of hatred
towards him, would elevate me in the eyes of those that remained. There were
a few left after the torching, only junior members who hadn't been invited
to the party. CSM remained at the helm, an antagonist to their new order,
such that it was. I would still have done it, even if they had asked me to— but they didn't. I was sweet for revenge, for retribution. Mulder was gone
and a part of me had twisted the knife, guided by the demonic hands of Satan
himself.
The tension, when Mulder last saw me enter his office, was rehearsed. That
much was obvious—to me at least. A lesser man would not have known. An ill
fated attempt to get into the arms of the surly AD? It could have been. If
he had really wanted vengeance then he would have fought a bit more to get
it. His weak struggle was no more than paying lip service to the others in
the room. The heat I felt as we stood side by side at the table told me all
I needed to know. The best moments between us were always in silence. In
tension. In looks.
The remaining consortium members owed me nothing for the old man. I had
taken an eye for an eye. CSM for Mulder. It was simple. When they offered me
work and a refuge for my sins it didn't take long to decide. I got weary of
running, of hiding, of being incarcerated. With no incentive to hang round
in DC their offer was quickly accepted.
I've been here a few months now. Chipping away at myself. Slowing down.
Facing up to what I have become. It is not a permanent state of mind,
because I never used to be like this. Maybe with some time here I can
recapture a part of my life, just enough of it so that I am no longer owned.
Call it semi-retirement if you will. Maybe its rehab. It feels good
whatever.
Today I am shuttling, driving at leisure to stock up. Someone has to do it
in a remote location like this and this week its me. It's the first time
I've been out of Nascosto since arriving -but it's been good. Open road and
sunshine—the best. I drive back the hundred or so miles at a leisurely
pace. There's no fire here, no deadlines. It feels good and I dream as I
drive. Lost in thought. I try not to think of Mulder too much these days,
but when you loose someone its hard not to muse. The last chance to say
goodbye. Unexpressed dialogue fills your mind. The words are repeated over
and over, tweaked, changed, replaced with others, its a vicious circle and
there is never conclusion because the words will never be heard. The passing
of time has little effect because we never get the chance to say those
words. I'm no different. I just wish we had rebuilt our bridges and not have
allowed something so trivial to come between us. Now that he's back amongst
the living those months spent procrastinating seem trivial. But at the time,
they were my life.
Some days I think about it more than others. Today is one of those days. In
some ways it makes me mellow. It makes me smile, because at least I have
memories. At least now he's free of The Bureau and the constraints imposed
upon him. And we may meet up. Another time, another place. I've practiced
what I'll say when I see him again a thousand times over but I know it will
never come to that. We will just look at each other and know. We always do.
When I approach town, the first thing I notice is the strange car, there are
no new residents scheduled. Everyone would know if there were. It's
difficult to find this place by accident. It is 2 miles to the nearest road,
100 miles away from the nearest populated territory in all directions and
it's never appeared on any map. It just exists.
We had a middle aged couple stumble across it 3 months ago in their RV but
like most of the others before them they just passed on through. No hotels
or restaurants are enough to make them leave quickly. They never suspect a
thing. To the untrained eye this is just a small remote community. Two shops
and a bar and a few sparsely scattered farms. The owner of the car is
probably in the convenience store browsing the shelves under Alfie's
watchful eye. Alfie will look for signs but there's rarely need to worry.
I head past and look into the shop on the way. I can't see anyone about so
they're probably in the bar taking a beer before leaving. There's no one on
the street either; most people will be at home after working during the day.
Those on the late shift will be wherever they're assigned.
After dropping the supplies in the storage barn, I head home. An outbuilding
attached to the third farm has been my abode since arriving here. From the
outside it is an old barn, the central doors are left open most of the time
to reveal a stack of hay that is turned occasionally. The door towards the
back hangs precariously on ancient hinges belying the technological
revolution that lies behind. If you saw it from the road you wouldn't bat an
eyelid.
My apartment is housed in the roof of the barn; a wondrous high tech
bachelor pad kitted out with every convenience I could want. Chrome fixtures
and fittings, a basic uncluttered existence that is more akin to an ICU. It
was like this when I got here and I've not found it wanting in any way. From
here I see all that goes on in the world. My office, like the others here,
is fitted with surveillance equipment the Russians would kill for. Feeds
into every satellite channel, hell—even the interior offices of the
Whitehouse are available. Most of my work here involves translating. It can
be dull but it's different from what I've done before. I get intercepted
email and diplomatic papers sometimes, other times it's just straight
surveillance and logging. It varies from day to day, which keeps me
interested, and I get to know what's going on everywhere.
I take a beer from the fridge and sit back to take a look at the stranger in
town, that's if they haven't shot through in the last five minutes. But no,
the car's still there and no sign of anyone in either shop so I switch
monitors to the bar. Sure enough there's movement but it isn't what I'd
expected.
Jack, the barman this week, stands with his back to the camera—a baseball
bat hanging from his right hand and in an instant I know there's been
trouble. The thing with Nascosto is that strangers who pass through are
lucky, their fate is in their own hands. Stop to ask questions and you live
to regret it. That's if you live.
A covert community can't afford inquisitors of any kind. We take no chances.
Depending on who visits, there are only two ways they are dealt with. Some
are killed straight away. A bullet to the skull is all it takes. It's quick
and effective. If there are reasons for them to be kept alive then they are
beaten and taken in their own car to within 30 miles of the nearest town
where an ambulance is called. They are left in the back seat whilst we
remove trace evidence and leave the scene.
It's only happened twice in five years though. They make the choice of life
or death with the question they ask or keep to themselves. Clearing up is
left to the individuals who carry out the deed. We've all done it before
elsewhere, we know the drill. There's never a fuss—it would interfere with
other work if we became needlessly involved.
But today is different. As I sip my beer and watch the screens in silence,
the intercom buzzes. It is Jack.
"Krycek, you there?"
I tell him I am.
"Then get down here," he snaps, apparently angered by something.
I make my way back out of the barn and drive the half mile to the bar. The
street is deserted and I know that most people will be watching the events
unfold on their screens. I walk into the bar. It is dark but doesn't smell
of smoke as most bars do. There's precious few people that smoke in this
place. Crazy to think that they'd worry about lung cancer with the lives
they've lead, but they do.
At the far end of the bar Jack stands with his back to me, the baseball bat
still hangs from his hand, and as I walk towards him, I see that there is
blood on it.
There are numerous ways to maim but the baseball bat is one of the more
venomous. Used in skilled hands you can drag someone to the brink of death
with well tuned prods and swings. Just one blow to the head will kill and
the evidence is easily burned. Couple that with the fact that it can be
legally owned and you'll see why it's a weapon of choice for so many
hardened criminals.
Jack's accomplice here is Alfie; work like this is always completed with a
partner. The store is next door, so it's no surprise. On the floor in front
of them a pair of boots point towards me. They look like Timberlands, but
its not until I get closer that I am sure. Jack turns to me and throws a
wallet over.
"Alfie said the old school and you have got history with this guy." His
voice is impassive, it feels slightly dismissive. No one gets emotional
about these things. We're all used to them. I catch the wallet and balance
it against my prosthetic hand, tugging at the drivers' licence inside. My
heart skips a beat.
I walk past Jack and stare down, my eyes taking in nothing of the
surroundings. The world around me blurs, and for what seems like an
eternity, the only thing in my life is the body spread out across the floor.
His legs are slightly splayed; it looks like he was curled up from the blood
on the back of his jeans. It is not drawn from his legs but embedded in the
denim, a pattern that tells of maybe two or three strikes with the wood.
Specks of blood adorn the back of his T Shirt. Again, not a great deal and I
suspect from the dirt mixed in with it, that the blood is off the floor
rather than from any wound on his back. It smears across the cotton in
patterns that suggest he has been on his back moving around. Trying to back
away from his assailants I would guess, before curling up like a baby to
protect himself once escape was beyond him.
To the right of his torso lies a mixture of flesh and bone, both visible,
each entwined with the other. Pulped flesh with remnants of bone at the
surface. The main break in the radius, or maybe it's the ulna—its
difficult to tell—has splintered the bone as it pushed its way through the
skin. The sharp razor edge of the break points towards his chest, the lower
half of the arm looks to be connected by flesh alone. Blood pools on the
floor beneath the wound but it is probably not life threatening. I've come
to learn these things. Breaks usually look worse than they really are. I
have seen monstrosities of injuries, and blood doesn't phase me. But breaks
do. You know that they don't kill, but just the sight of bones at unnatrual
angles throws me.
Each breath I take is slow and measured. I feel each exhalation leave my
lungs and linger before the next is taken. My heart races as I allow my eyes
to drift towards his head. Even though only one side of his face is visible
I know he has suffered. Blood trickles from the nostrils, a slow scarlet
flow that passes over a fattened lip into droplets and onto the wooden floor
beneath. It has started to congeal between his lips, parted slightly, moving
with each rasping breath. His chest wheezes with each rise and fall of the
ribcage—a slow labored movement that I know is painful. I don't need his
eyes to be open to know.
I stand momentarily numbed by the sight, unable to move, to speak. Of all
the places in the world, of each segment of life in each remote community—why the fuck did you end up here Mulder?
I want to cradle him, to hold him and gather together his fragile broken
body and hold it close to me. Forever. I want to stroke his bruised face and
wipe the blood from that nose and from the lip that even whilst split eats
deep into my soul and pouts unknowingly for my benefit. But in this world I
can't move to do any of these things.
I am frozen where I stand and look down wondering how I ever allowed myself
to be a part of it.
"You know him?" Jack asks. The words snap me back from my reverie and I nod.
"Yeah." I know what's coming next.
"This has to be taken care of Krycek."
There is a long silence. I bend at the knees and feel his neck for a pulse.
It's not the strongest I've felt but its there and it has consistency. I run
a finger along his lips and part his mouth further so that he does not choke
on his own blood. As I do this, he coughs, spluttering a mix of blood and
saliva onto my hand from deep within his mouth. There is a throaty groan,
barely audible to the others but it vibrates through my body as he exhales
warm air onto my skin. It's been a long time.
Alfie and Jack stand watching the interaction, waiting patiently for a
response from me. This is their mess to clear up and they seem agitated by
the intrusion into their quiet lives. If our roles were reversed, I know I
would be.
"I'll take care of it Jack," I reply. It sounds like an offer but Jack and
Alfie both know it's not. Its direction. I'm taking over their mess and
they're probably grateful for the intervention. I want to know what he said
to them but it will have to wait. I need their help right now because Mulder
isn't going anywhere without them and I know that they are going to be irate
when I tell them how I plan to clear this up.
"Get me something to fix his arm with Alfie." It is matter of fact, and
spoken without looking up. I have to be remote; detachment is all that will
get me through. I'm still the new boy here and I can't afford to slip up.
"Don't be fucking stupid." Alfie moves towards me and I stand to meet him,
protective of the body behind me. His eyes are dark, questioning, but I give
nothing away. I meet his gaze head on and offer my darkest eyes to him.
"I'm taking him back to my place." My words are met with silence. "Alfie,
please would you get something to fix his arm with?"
Alfie walks through the front entrance to the bar, and I'm half expecting
other residents to push past him on the way, and attempt to stall me in my
madness. But they don't.
"Jack, you're going to have to put him in the truck and come back with us."
In my prime I would have scooped and cradled Mulder with tender care, but
those days are gone. Plastic adds a little normality, aesthetically, but it
has no value when it comes to lifting a body. I'm used to it now. You
readjust to these things.
Jack turns to the nearest camera and stares into it. He's hoping that
someone will put a stop to what is happening but there is no intervention.
"Jack, I can't lift him myself. Just put him in the truck, take him out at
the other end and you can drive back here. I'll come and fetch the truck
tomorrow." He turns back to me and eventually nods.
"Krycek, you're going to need to clear this."
"I will. Just as soon as he's out of here." And I will, because I've grown
used to this place and feel like the sanctity here can keep me in its grip
forever.
When Alfie returns, he clutches three lengths of wood from the hardware yard
and a reel of duct tape. He doesn't stop and offer them to me but gets on
his knees and starts making a course splint around Mulder's arm. Although
not fully conscious, Mulder's reaction is one of pure vociferous terror. His
face is turned away from the arm, his gut instincts working on touch alone.
It doesn't take a genius to work out how the pain is resonating through his
entire body, wrenching each muscle into spasm as his arm is lifted to make
way for the splint.
Between them, Jack and Alfie lift him into the back of the truck and lie him
on his back For the first time I see his face in the wake of their
brutality. His right eye is nearly closed, soft puffy flesh giving coverage
to the socket and jutting out from his cheek.
His chest has blood on it too, although I suspect that once more it is from
the baseball bat. I have no doubt that he suffered blows to the ribs, it is
the most common target and if I were a betting man I would put money on the
broken arm being caused in this way. From the angle of the break, he
probably raised his arm to protect himself against the swing of the bat. Its
no comfort to him, but if he'd taken such a severe blow to the ribs he would
be in a worse state now. I thank a God that I do not believe in for small
mercies.
When we arrive back at my place, they carry him up the stairs and lay him on
my bed. His spreadeagled form on my sheets is a vision that haunts me. It
fuels me with a need to protect him from this world, from all that is evil
in my life. But I know that it can't happen. As I hear Jack and Alfie drive
off, I stand at the foot of the bed and drink in the smell. Mulders smell. I
have missed it, missed him, for too long now, and right now I don't want to
know about how he ended up here. He needs medical attention quickly.
Nascosto might be out of the way, but those that live here are consumate
professionals in all that they do. To a stranger the man in the barn fifty
yards away might seem like a farmer who doubles as his own vet. The
implementation of genetic experiments & research of cloning technology
requires a field expert. Seymour also doubles as the doctor and emergency
dentist to all 75 people that live here. His training is extensive and
broad, if it's anything medical or biological in origin or need, then he's
your man. I buzz Seymour and he's here within minutes. Maybe less.
As he gives a cursory visual examination of Mulder, I go into the office and
conference online with my superiors. You wouldn't recognise any of them now.
I'm not sure that I would really. Not knowing has its advantages.
They are sympathetic to my cause. I have to plead my case to them on the
grounds of Mulder being too important, even in his defrocked state, to
waste. They know from his past that if he were dealt with in the normal
manner, he would return here once more. That is a risk that they are not
willing to take, and I convince them that I will be able to pacify his
intrigue.
For me it is a personal state of humiliation that I now face, having armed
them with the truth about my history with Mulder. For me it is irrelevant
whether they approve. I've hardly been the one to have such sensitivities— it is more about the fact that they know a little more about me. I prefer to
keep some things distant and this just happened to be one of those
intimacies that I cherished. But given the options, I had little choice in
justifying my reasons for wanting to keep him here. It was a hard truth to
tell, but it was my only chance of keeping him.
When I return to the bedroom Seymour glances up. "His arm's a mess Alex,
it's going to need pinning back together."
I nod. Mulder's going to be mad. That's his wanking hand. A brief smile
crosses my face at the thought of what my nursing duties will involve.
"The face is all superficial, you can clean that up yourself. He has a
couple of broken ribs but they haven't gone into the organs, they'll heal
with rest. Other than that, it's just bruising—but there's a lot of that."
Seymour pulls the sheet back and for the first time I see the extent of the
damage on his ribs. Individual patches of tender skin punctuated by purple
and black work their way around his middle. In places, the bruises merge
into obscure formations that resemble wispy clouds. I lift my hand and
stroke his skin but he doesn't move.
"I've knocked him out. He was in a lot of pain, and shock. It's just better
this way. He'll be out cold until the morning. I'll come back and give him
something else then. In the meantime, can you give me some space? I need to
set his arm or at least get it back to how it should look."
"I thought you said it needs pinning?" I ask. I'm conscious that my enquiry
gives the impression that Seymour is not doing his job properly.
"It does, Alex, but that'll have to wait a few days. He'll be fine with it
in a cast until then. I'll need to get supplies in to do that. I figure if
you've got clearance to keep him here—you don't have permission to take
him to a hospital?"
I shake my head. It was a condition attached to their agreement. If he goes
to a hospital, questions will be asked. It's not ideal but I can live with
it. Although I'm not sure he's going to see it that way when he comes round
tomorrow. But then waking to the sight of me could just preoccupy his
thoughts.
When Seymour leaves, I perch on the side of the bed and stroke my hand
through Mulder's dark locks. He looks so insecure, yet peaceful. A frail
body blending with the strength of beauty and voluptuous smell that is
Mulder. Sweet and needing, powerful yet conceding to my attentions all at
once. No one else will do.
I use damp cotton wool to clean his face, leaning over him—a guardian
angel or a fallen angel, I'm not sure which. The blood has dried in places
but I keep my touch as light as possible, dabbing at it repeatedly until
each remnant has gone.
A tear dries on his face, a remnant from the pain of movement. I lean
forward and allow my tongue to caress his cheek, to trace the contour of his
jaw with a slow succulent touch that stirs my cock with its simplicity. The
tear is gone, but not before I realise that it was mine.
Maybe I have changed since coming here. Maybe it's Mulder's absence that has
voided me of my impetuous streak. Maybe I just can't believe that he's here
before me and in my bed again. Not quite the vision of my dreams, but the
flesh is real and that's what counts. The rest will come in time.
Nascosto
by Lush Virtues
It's quiet here. I like quiet. You wouldn't normally think that even the
darkest rooms could have a speck of natural light. A crack, maybe just a
glint. It always finds its way through. It's a world away from the life I
knew, the one I had come to depend on, the one I had become accustomed to.
