Work Text:
A Touch of... (Krycek)
by JiM
Rain again. It is always wet in D.C. Either it's hot and muggy, or it's cold and raining. Tonight, it's cold and rainy -- a nice atmospheric touch, I think. I would probably enjoy it more if I weren't standing here with a cold and freezing in soaked leather.
I wish I had my Bureau-approved overcoat again; actually, I wish I had a few more of the Bureau-approved accessories I used to enjoy. Like a car, a cell-phone, cash and a partner to guard my back. Trinkets long gone, lost in the hurricane made of a thousand decision-points, some known and some unnoticed. So, a hundred small betrayals later, I am shivering and coughing in the shadows of a doorway in old Alexandria, looking for one man, trying not to be noticed by all the others.
It's not so difficult, actually, although it is a skill -- the Art of Being Overlooked. One simply makes no eye contact, slouches to appear relaxed and fixes one's eyes on nothing in particular. It is even easier if one is maimed, I discovered. No one wants to see mutilation; even eyes trained to observe slide right past the truncated and the ugly, yet retain no other impression of me. If challenged, the twenty commuters who have passed me this evening would possibly remember that they had seen a maimed man, yet would not be able to describe me beyond that one fact. It's useful to me, this missing arm. Perhaps I should have had one cut off long ago.
But, no.
He comes. I track him from two blocks away, walking bareheaded in the rain. The uncertain orangish streetlights make him appear particularly grim and I wonder if he has come here to kill me tonight. No, I reassure myself, as he crosses the street, he promised me amnesty for the information. Amnesty and money, two things in short supply right now. I gaze along his backtrail but see no watchers, no tails.
How do I know I can trust him? He asked me that, on the phone earlier.
- How do I know? Simple, Mulder. You gave your word.
There was no sound from the receiver, but I could almost see that small smile on his face, the one that says another secret, another small vanity has been uncovered. Fox Mulder, Man of Honor.
- Honor -- it's a weakness, Mulder.
Lose it, I want to say. But not tonight, not while I still need you. Not while I can take some kind of parched comfort in the fact that you will not betray a betrayer.
- It's a simple deal I'm offering. The name of the assassin who shot the Morley man for $1,000 cash.
He was silent for a long time after that. I wondered if he were having the call traced. It wouldn't matter; I was in a phone booth right outside the Pentagon City subway station. I would be gone as soon as I hung up the phone.
- Why so little? he finally asked, surprising me.
- My needs are few, Mulder. I just need enough to give me some breathing room.
I just need to see you, I think, then curse myself. I do have more information that he'd like, information he'd pay dearly for. But I won't sell it, not yet, not unless I need to. Need.
I am coughing again as he comes up to me, in that doorway outside the closed bookstore.
- Krycek. Nasty cough you've got there. You ought to stop smoking.
I am finally able to stop, my lungs aching in the knife-cold night air.
- Oh, I have Mulder, I have. I don't even talk to Smokers any more.
He peers into my face, trapping my eyes, a searching look that I cannot escape even as it burns me. Don't bother, Mulder. Just beneath the surface of the mud, there's more mud here. Surprise.
Avidity -- greed, that's always been my problem. More, I always wanted more. More money, more power, more of all that makes life sweet. And more of Mulder. There were plenty of other people's secrets I could have turned into cash on a rainy night in D.C., but I needed to see him. To look into his shadowed eyes, as I am doing now, trying to see into him. It's greed, I know it. Because, beneath Mulder's surface, there is something that gleams. And I want it.
- Better for your health, he agrees gravely. I cough again, those deep barking coughs that kept me from sleeping last night in the bus station. There is almost concern in his voice as he says, - You really are sick, aren't you?
- Just a touch of flu, Mulder. Now -- do we have a deal?
- You're shivering.
- I'm standing in the rain and freezing, Mulder, what do you expect? Do we have a deal?
- Did you kill my father?
Oh god, not again. How many times must we play out this scene, Mulder? I decide on a sure-fire tactic and say, - Speaking of fathers... do you want to know who shot your smoking friend?
He grabs my shoulders and slams me into the brick wall under the bookstore's blank windows. I start to grin, but the coughing rips my attention away from anything but the fire in my lungs. His hands shift on me, the left one biting into my upper arm, the right one left gripping only air.
There is a noise that is twisted out of him when he realizes that there is nothing to grab there any more. I hear it in between my choking coughs; it is a soft, wounded noise, like an animal out here in the rain.
- Spare me, Mulder, I gasp, doubled up nearly against his chest. - I don't need your pity.
- What happened?
- You're a clever boy, Mulder, figure it out. Or should I show you my passport? They're mighty unfriendly in that part of the former Soviet Union.
He is still holding my arm and gripping my empty sleeve. I am still hunched over, trying to force enough air back into my lungs to help me think again. It won't work, I think dismally, as I straighten slowly. I am too sick, too tired, too cold and too greedy to think tactically any more. All I can think of is what I need.
My fingers scrabble in my coat pocket. I hold out the folded slip of paper.
- Here. That's what you came for.
- What did you come for, Krycek?
The words are soft but the eyes are not. Uh-oh. I am in real trouble here. As long as he was angry, as long as he was ready to hit me, I knew what he would do and could control it. But now....
- Money, Mulder. I came for money.
His lips curve in a not-smile and he hands me an envelope, thick with bills. I don't count it, just stuff it in my pocket.
- You're not going to count it?
- No reason, I shrug. He is standing directly in front of me, his presence pinning me to the bricks still, although he doesn't lay a hand on me.
- What will you do now?
- Find somewhere to hole up, get over the flu and then....
- Then? he prompts
- Do what I do best. Survive.
- You do seem unusually good at that, he acknowledges.
- Not wholly, I shrug, jerking my chin at my missing left arm.
He grimaces at the unintentional pun, then slowly stares into my eyes. I feel my fever sweep across me again, and with it, fear. I can see his mind working, tearing away at the questions of why I am here, why I came to him, what other information I might have for sale. His eyes are clear and cold in the rain-shadow of the bookstore and I want to be very far away when he begins to find his answers.
Need and Wanting are weaknesses, too, even more so than Honor. It is our weaknesses that have drawn us together tonight. I start to cough again and shiver. When I am done with this bout, I lean my head back against the bricks and take deep, slow breaths that slice through my lungs. When I open my eyes, he pins me to the wall with his gaze.
I see something dangerous flicker through his eyes and raise one arm to ward off a blow. Which does not come.
Steam rises from his rain-soaked hand as he gently touches my forehead with the backs of his fingers.
- You've got a fever.
I nod dumbly.
His fingers slip down and now his long, elegant hand is cupping my face. I can't help it, I lean into it, just a fraction. That seductive warmth, the only warmth, it seems, in this whole cold, rainy night.
- You should get out of the cold, Krycek.
His thumb traces across my lips, once. I shiver and he smiles. It is not a nice smile.
I close my eyes, unable to bear the cool speculation in his eyes, the glow of cold pleasure in a theory proved right, an answer found.
When I open my eyes, the street is empty; he is gone. And I am so cold.
end