Title: Out of the Past
Author/pseudonym: Mrs. Fish
Warnings: Language, violence, m/m, AU
Email address for feedback: firstname.lastname@example.org
Spoilers: All of Season 8
Summary: A figure from Doggett's past re-enters his life.
Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox, Chris Carter or others is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story.
Note 1: Special thanks to Ursula (Fan4Richie) and Alex (Ratboy) for beta assistance.
Note 2: The Krycek of this universe has two arms.
Note 3: A couple character names were taken from the movies. (Answers found after the story.)
Note 4: Timeline. Forget the 'official' timeline. Here's the one I'm using (the one where Scully isn't pregnant for a whole year):
Chapter 1: Renewing Old Acquaintances
September 19, 2000
It seems strange to find him in this place... in this office. It's almost sacrilegious. How many nights did Mulder spend here poring over evidence, trying to find that miniscule clue that would lead him to his precious truth?
Truth... I once told Mulder there was no truth. How wrong I was. Mulder is the truth, and the light, and the answer to humanity's salvation. And this man is trying like hell to find him despite his disbelief.
Right now he's looking through a stack of photographs, occasionally glancing up at the computer monitor -- cross-referencing perhaps -- then it's back to the photos. He does this a few times before he raises his head and looks in my direction.
"Can I help you with something, or do you just plan on staring at me from the hallway all night?"
I smile, despite being upset over my discovery, and step through the doorway. He has his weapon drawn and pointed at my chest as I approach, but lowers it as recognition sets in.
"Alex? Alex Krycek?"
I stop a few inches from the desk -- my grin widening at the look of shock on his face -- and toss a CD on top of the photographs.
"Let's talk, Agent Doggett."
Doggett quickly composes himself. He doesn't say anything, just gets up, closes and locks the office door.
"That really isn't necessary, you know." I'm leaning back against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles; trying for casual.
"Just being cautious. I don't feel like explaining why you're here or how you managed to get past security." He sits back down, gathers up the photos and tucks them back into their file. Ever so slowly he raises his eyebrows and asks, "How did you get past security, by the way?"
I pull my jacket aside and show him my ID. Yes, it's authentic. I'm still listed as an active agent in the FBI's database -- Spender's doing, of course. The only good thing the SOB ever did for me.
Doggett leans back in his chair and gives me a long look. I can almost see those wheels turning in his head.
You see, John doesn't like puzzles, and me standing here is a puzzle. He's read my file. Hell, he's read all the files -- spent an entire weekend doing it, but that's how he works. To find Mulder, he has to first understand him. And in order to understand him, he has to understand the X-Files.
He finally grins, shakes his head and picks up the CD I'd tossed on his desk; turns it over a few times before asking, "I'll bite. What is it?"
"Background information mostly -- on the Consortium, the colonists, the rebel faction. To be of any help to me, Agent Doggett, I need you up to speed. This is a beginning... a basic outline if you like."
His face hardens after my little spiel. Maybe I should have tried a different approach. But John's always been a straight-forward type of guy. Lay the info out for him to digest and forget the bullshit.
"Aliens..." It's whispered as if the word itself leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "What is it about Agent Mulder that allows seemingly intelligent people to buy into this hogwash?"
I smile and reach out a hand to him. "Come with me, Agent Doggett. I guarantee before this night is through that you, too, will be a believer."
"And if I'm not?"
I turn and head towards the door. I'm halfway to the elevator when I hear John's footsteps echoing behind me. And despite the seriousness of this task, I find myself breaking into laughter as I push the call button.
What in the hell am I doin?
Alex Krycek walks back into my life and I blindly follow him like some wet behind the ears rookie. A fat lotta good all this training has done me.
I have to admit that seein him again was a shock. Yes, I'd read the file on him that Agent Mulder put together. Alex was allegedly involved in Agent Scully's kidnapping. Allegedly involved in the deaths of Melissa Scully, Bill Mulder, and a tram operator at Skyland Mountain. The only real crime that can be attributed to him is the shooting of a suspect fleeing custody -- Mulder and Scully both witnessed that. But it was Alex's evidence that led the FBI to the militiamen and their leader, Terry Edward Mayhew, in the first place.
Dammit! Why did he have to show up tonight? I close my eyes, lean back against the car seat and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can feel the pressure building behind my eyes, signaling one doozy of a headache comin on.
"John... You alright?"
The feel of Alex's hand on my shoulder makes me jump, and I end up smacking my head against the window in response.
I can't look at him. I have to turn away and close my eyes again.
The huskiness of Alex's voice makes my stomach do a little flip. I'm gonna have to convince him that I'm okay, or we'll sit here all night. But when I turn back around, all my resolve flies right out the window.
Alex is bathed in the streetlight comin through the windshield -- half in, half out of shadow. He's got that look on his face -- it's one of intense concentration, concern, love -- hell, it's so many emotions rolled into one, I can't even separate them all. But I'd know it anywhere; woke up to it enough times....
He leans forward a bit, the crease between his eyes deepening.
"We don't have to do this now."
And before I'm consciously aware of what I'm doin, I've got the lapels of his coat in my hands and I'm pulling him close and his mouth is so damn warm and willing....
I'm so helplessly lost in the feeling of his body pressed against mine, that it takes me a minute to realize that Alex is pushing me away; trying to tell me something.
"John, stop... please stop."
The words are choked out. There's so much desperation behind them that I reluctantly pull away, but don't completely let go. Instead, my hands move to cup his face, and I have to ask. The question that's haunted me for eight long, lonely years.
"Why, Alex? Why'd you leave me? Why, why, why...."
My voice trails off into a whisper as the first tears stream down my cheeks. His forehead is pressed against mine; arms wrapped tightly around each other.
For the first time in so very long I'm content... complete. And I vow that no matter what happens, I'm not gonna lose Alex Krycek again.
Chapter 2: The Way They Were
October 12, 1992
The bullpen was its usual hive of activity as Detective John Doggett ambled in. His first stop, after hanging up his coat, was the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup of the strong brew, then slowly took his first sip of the day. With a contented smile, he maneuvered his way to his desk, the other members of the squad acknowledging him with a wave or a nod or even a 'morning' mumbled around their own coffee.
As the senior detective of the group, Doggett had to keep a certain professional distance from the other squad members, while still maintaining the feeling of solidarity the unit possessed. Not always easy when every assignment could be your last.
Doggett settled himself comfortably, glanced through his messages (decided they could all wait a bit longer), then picked up his copy of the assignment log and duty roster in order to plan his day.
He was reviewing his second case file when the unmistakable aroma of warmed cinnamon hit him. Moments later a white paper bag emblazoned with a green Z dropped onto the middle of his desk.
Doggett looked up into the smiling face of his partner, Alex Krycek. Four years his junior, Krycek had transferred from Homicide three years earlier, and Doggett had taken him under his wing. They'd clicked almost immediately; and the two men quickly discovered that they shared a number of common interests.
Music was the one that had surprised Doggett the most. He'd assumed Krycek was a rock-n-roll fan because of his age. That notion was tossed out the window when Alex popped in a Muddy Waters tape the first time they'd ridden together.
When questioned about it, Krycek responded, "Music needs melody... chords... lyrics. If it wasn't written by an old black guy in Mississippi... it ain't music."
And their friendship was pretty much guaranteed after that.
Doggett glanced from Krycek to the paper bag and back again.
"Is this what I think it is?" He asked hopefully.
Krycek's smile broadened. "You know damn well it is."
"And why are you bringing me a fresh cinnamon roll from Zi's bakery?"
Krycek placed both hands on the desk and leaned closer to his partner.
"Because," he said, lowering his voice. "You're the one who decided to screw me through the mattress this morning, and then griped because you were running late and missed breakfast. I'd feel guilty if you collapsed from hunger while on duty."
Doggett shook his head and chuckled. "You are so full of it, Alex. But I appreciate the gesture anyway."
He drank the last of his coffee, then handed Krycek the empty cup. "Would you mind refilling this on your way to the coffee pot?"
Krycek gave him an elaborate bow, complete with arm gestures. "Your wish is my command, oh great one."
Doggett flipped him the bird, took a bite of his cinnamon roll and went back to reading his case file.
"So partner, what's on the agenda for today?"
Doggett handed Krycek the stack of files he'd reviewed. "Pretty usual stuff -- transfer of two prisoners to Jersey, one pick up from same. Follow up some leads on two other wanteds. The only thing out of the ordinary is this one." He showed Alex another file. "Dr. Stanislav... An-drush-ka-vich."
Doggett gave him a dirty look. "You laughing at my pronunciation, Detective?"
"No, no... it wasn't that bad. Guess my Russian lessons helped."
"Alex, the only thing your lessons did was teach me how to cuss in another language. Now... ahem... Doctor Andrushkevich?" Doggett waved the file at his partner.
"Yea, go on. I'm listening."
"Good, cause I'm gonna need your expertise on this one. Let's see... background. The doctor, his wife Anna, and their two sons Anatoly and Piotr -- aged four and two respectively -- emigrated from St. Petersburg, Russia in 1986. He was offered a position at a private lab in Pennsylvania as a biochemist. No trouble with the law; neighbors said the family pretty much kept to themselves."
"Sounds like they were living the American dream," Krycek interrupted. "So what happened?"
"Two months ago the wife was found murdered -- one round to the back of the head, execution style. No sign of forced entry, nobody heard or saw a thing... and the husband and kids... poof." Doggett emphasized the word with a snap of his fingers.
Krycek paled visibly. He swallowed several times, trying hard not to vomit, then shifted his chair closer so he could read the file on his partner's desk. He quietly asked, "Any motive?"
Doggett shook his head and continued reading. Apparently he hadn't noticed the change in his partner. "None that the investigating detective could determine. They certainly weren't having any financial problems." He flipped ahead several pages in the file, then showed Krycek a copy of the couple's bank statement.
Alex whistled appreciatively at the six-figure balance. "You can say that again. Do we have anything out of the ordinary?"
"The only anomalous item was the eldest son's absence from school for the week prior to the mother's death. However... the school's records indicate that someone called in every morning stating the boy was ill, and there's a signed letter from the kid's pediatrician confirming it."
"So why are we involved?" Krycek asked.
"Because the doctor's ATM card was used at a grocery story in Little Odessa three days ago. And that's where we're heading as soon as the warrant arrives from downstairs."
"Are we sure it's Doctor Andrushkevich?"
"Yea, we got a clear shot of him from the ATM's camera. But while we're waiting..." Doggett slid the file over to Krycek. "Why don't you look through this and see if you can come up with anything I mighta missed. I'll get us some more coffee."
Krycek nodded his assent as Doggett walked away.
They were on the road 53 minutes later. Doggett had acquired a car from the motor pool and, as the self-appointed designated driver, was currently maneuvering his way along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Krycek was staring out the passenger window, which was a bit out of the ordinary for him. He generally had the radio on or a tape playing before they made it out of the precinct garage.
Doggett broke the unnatural silence. "Hey... something on your mind?"
Krycek turned and asked, "What?"
"I asked if there was something on your mind. You're a bit quiet, brat. What's goin on?"
Alex smiled at the moniker. "Sorry... just thinking about the case. You know... Doctor Andrushkevich's story isn't all that different from my own family's."
Krycek lowered his eyes and went silent again.
"Dammit...." John swore softly. He reached over and squeezed Alex's shoulder gently, then rested his hand on the seat between them. "I'm sorry. I should have made the connection. You know, we can go back...."
"No! It's okay, John. I can handle this. Besides, how many other detectives speak Russian fluently?"
"None that I know of. That's what makes you so indispensable."
Krycek snorted. "Keep shoveling, JD. You're doing a great job."
"You know what I mean."
Alex took John's hand in his. "Yea, partner, I do."
A few seconds later the radio clicked on and the familiar strains of "Stormy Weather" filled the car.
Doggett grinned and hummed along.
The brownstone had seen better days, but was typical of the deterioration associated with older neighborhoods. Graffiti decorated the walls, trash lined the hallways, and everywhere you turned, the pervading stench of urine hung heavy in the air.
Doggett and Krycek climbed the stairs to the second floor and took up positions on opposite sides of the door to apartment 2C. Both had their weapons drawn.
Krycek nodded his readiness. Doggett pounded on the apartment door and announced, "NYPD.... Open the door and come out with your hands in the air."
There was no response.
Krycek repeated the phrase in Russian.
Again there no response.
"Dr. Andrushkevich, this is your final warning. Open the door or we will enter the apartment by force." Doggett glanced over at Alex. "Surely you don't wanna risk any harm coming to your children."
The warning was again translated into Russian by Krycek, but with altogether different results -- both men clearly heard the squeak and click of the lock as it was turned. A moment later the door opened a crack.
Krycek crouched low; Doggett went high and kicked the door open fully. Both men entered the apartment and froze.
Dr. Andrushkevich was backed against the kitchen wall to their right. He was holding one of his sons -- Piotr by the look of him -- with his left arm across the boy's chest and shoulders. But it was the right hand that most concerned the two detectives -- the one holding the knife against the boy's throat.
["Stay back! Tell that devil that he won't get his hands on my Piotr. I'd rather see him dead than part of their hellish experiments."]
Krycek gasped audibly.
"What!? What the hell did he say?" John asked.
["Doctor Andrushkevich, please put down the knife. We're not here to hurt you or your son. My name is Alexei Krycek, and this...."] Alex pointed at John. ["This is my partner, John Doggett. We work for the police department. We're investigating your wife's death."]
The doctor glanced nervously between Doggett and Krycek. ["I can tell you who killed her. The same man who took Anatoly because we would not cooperate with him. Because we would not test the vaccine we created on innocent women and children. It was that smoking bastard Spender. He took my son. He took my son for the tests!"]
Doggett looked over at Alex to ask what the doctor was saying, but the words never made it out of his mouth. Krycek was as pale as his white shirt. His weapon was lowered at his side.
"Alex! Jesus, Alex, what's wrong?"
Krycek holstered his gun, then moved to stand in front of Doggett.
"Put your gun away, John."
"What!" Doggett exclaimed. "Alex, for Christ's sake.... What the hell is goin on here? What did he tell you?"
"John...." Alex grabbed Doggett's shoulders and shook him gently. "Listen to me. We have to let them go. He'll kill them if we don't. He'll kill them the same way he killed my...."
Krycek placed his hand over Doggett's gun and slowly pushed it towards the floor. "Please.... trust me on this one. He didn't kill his wife, John. Just let them go. They've been through enough."
Doggett stared into his partner's face. He wanted so very badly to believe him, despite the incongruity of the situation. John finally went with his instincts and holstered his weapon. "I must be absofuckinlutely crazy! And you better have a damned good explanation for this, Alex, otherwise both our asses are on the line."
Alex visibly relaxed. "Thank you. I promise I'll explain everything later. Just go and wait for me in the car. I won't be long."
"Are you sure? I mean...."
"It's okay, John. Just wait downstairs."
Doggett took a final glance at the doctor and his son, then walked out the door.
Alex turned and faced Doctor Andrushkevich. ["You can let Piotr go now. You're both safe.] Krycek took out his wallet, pulled all the cash from it, and handed it to the doctor. ["Take this and get as far away from here as you can.]
The doctor released Piotr, who immediately ran from the room. "You're letting us go? Why?"
Krycek stared at the floor. "I had a brother once… And Spender killed my parents, too. Not that I can prove it. But if I can stop it from happening again…" When Krycek looked up, there were unshed tears in his eyes.
Doctor Andrushkevich stepped forward and gathered Alex in his arms. "Thank you. Does your partner know about Spender? About what he did to your family?"
"No, not the truth. Only that they were killed in a car accident."
"Tell him. I think he deserves that, don't you?"
"Yea, I think he does."
Krycek shook the doctor's hand, then left the apartment. He took his time walking down the stairs, wondering how in the hell he was going to explain all this to John. And wondering if their lives would ever be the same.
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