Let's start with the basics: I'm alive. I can breathe. I can move, but I
really don't want to.
Alex Krycek is nestled against me, at rest as innocent and trusting as a
child. His slightly parted lips allow for a partial glimpse of even white
teeth. He has let his hair grow: while still short, it now reaches his shirt
collar, and a few stray mahogany locks fall carelessly over his forehead.
The hair and his dark, lush eyelashes nicely contrast with his soft, pale
skin. This sleeping young man is so many people: betrayer/patriot,
thief/informant, killer/lifesaver.
For the first time in far too long, my focus was on someone other than
myself. For seventy-two hours I concentrated on the words and emotions
pouring from my one-time enemy. Distanced myself from the agonizing shards
of pain racking my abused body, and focused on his pain. I listened and
watched and learned. My eidectic memory has cataloged every word and deed.
I never knew Alex Krycek before. Oh, when I first met him, I thought I
did. He was the rookie agent, awkward and eager, who would listen to even my
wackiest theories, not dismissing them outright. We were developing our
partnership, a balance and rhythm that grew more comfortable each day. I
missed working directly with Scully, but in a way my life was perfect: I had
them both. Scully would keep me grounded, her approach always meticulously
scientific and logical, tempered by her kindness and her generous nature.
Alex would work cases with an enthusiasm and spirit that was contagious. I
was finally working cases not only to aid my search for Samantha and the
truth, but also because I enjoyed the challenge. I was even beginning to
think I could have more than my work, let myself experience companionship
and trust in ways I'd learned to repress in my teens. Then Scully was taken,
Krycek disappeared, and my whole world fell apart once again.
The next time I saw Alex, I was going to kill him. I was strung out on LSD
at the time, but that didn't matter. I suspected he killed my father, and,
despite my avowals at the time, that didn't matter either. As I bashed him
against the wall, and smashed him against that car, all I could see was that
look of surprise and fear in his eyes. It made him seem young and harmless,
and my eidetic memory replayed over and again past moments of cocky grins
and adoring gazes. I was so angry and confused and hurt, and just moments
away from pulling the trigger, when it clicked.
He knew I was going to kill him, and accepted it. A small part of him
continued the pretense of struggle, but it was there, in his posture, in his
voice, in his tear-filled eyes:
//Go ahead.//
//I deserve it.//
//I want you to do it.//
Then Scully appeared, shot me to save me, and Krycek disappeared yet again.
I was no closer to the answers I needed.
In Hong Kong I met a different Alex Krycek. Gone forever were the cheap
suits and ugly ties. This Alex was all tight jeans, leather, stubble and
attitude. Every moment at the airport was electric and heat. We were going
to strip away every last pretension and lie, there and then. Fool that I
was, I left him alone, just a few minutes, while I tried to restore my own
composure. The Alex that emerged from the airport bathroom was silent and
cold.
For all my knowledge, training, and acute paranoia, I can be such an
idiot. How could I have not known something was wrong? Alex was a liar and
probably a murderer, but he always exuded an unchecked passion and
vibrancy. My companion on the long return trip to DC ignored my questions,
didn't try to excuse or explain his actions, and made no efforts to escape.
When we were driven off the road, my head pounding from the concussive
force, I wasn't thinking about the answers on the MJ tape. I was thinking
about the answers in Alex Krycek. When I awoke at the hospital, he was gone,
but I didn't give up. Scully and I tracked him to North Dakota, started
searching the endless silos, when we were dragged away by Cancer Man's
goons.
He was there. I felt him. I thought for sure Spender would kill him. I
would never resolve the anger and confusion I felt about Alex.
Months later, when I unexpectedly saw him with those militia men, complete
with stupid-ass haircut, I was stunned, yet estatic. I was so happy he was
alive, I couldn't stop hitting him. Scully couldn't understand my
behavior... how could I tell her I didn't, either?
I didn't understand Alex's behavior, too. He was sending me information,
handed me this bust, and raving about 'destroying the destroyers,' taking
down the powerful Consortium leaders. At least I knew this was Alex, and not
some alien host. The fire was back, though tempered by strength and cunning.
Life on the run was actually good for Alex, he was sharper and tougher and
smart; because of that, I had to hit him some more.
As always, whenever Alex Krycek is involved, things go completely out of
control. I go out of control. How else to explain incarceration in a
Siberian prison, black oil experiments, or the fact that I'm the one that
dragged us there? Once that truck crashed, and Alex and I were separated,
who would have picked me as the one to escape unscathed? Not that I knew
about his arm until much later. Oh, Alex...
I pause my reflections to look down at the exhausted man still curled around
me. He's laying on his right side, soft breaths warm and comfortable on my
left collarbone. He's wearing the prosthetic; only the hand and wrist are
visible as they emerge from the sleeve of his long-sleeved black shirt. The
hand rests between Alex and I, the coolness of the plastic a contrast to the
heat centered everywhere else we touch.
The last time we touched, he kissed me. On the cheek, the bastard.
He controlled every aspect of that meeting. The note, the attack, the
taunting.
//I could beat you with one hand.//
//Isn't that how you like to beat yourself?//
OK, he didn't control everything. I'm still amazed he let me live after
that crack. Instead, he gave me back my beliefs. Told me about the rebel
alien, gave me his location. Threw me that damned curve ball. Then left.
Again.
I'm still not sure if I really saw him or not as I lay, confused and lost,
months later in that stairwell. I do know I flew into a rage the moment he
and Marita walked into my office with the information about the alien ship.
My emotions were all over the map: I was worried about Scully, excited about
the ship, energized by Krycek's mere presence, yet he just stood there,
calm, serious, aloof.
This time he wasn't going to give me clues, then leave. No, I left him. He
had wanted to accompany Skinner and I to Oregon. Naturally, I ditched
him... wonder if that brought back any memories for him?
Of course, the joke was on me. I disappeared into that bright light, found
myself surrounded by other abductees... and the shapeshifting monsters that
would use me in their foul experiments and leave me for dead. No, not 'for
dead.' Dead.
The shudder that ran though me just now startled me. It's still a shock to
actually have my motor functions back, both the voluntary and involuntary
ones. Alex is instantly alert, sits up sharply and looks down at me with his
piercing gaze. His voice, overworked these last few days, is deeper and
huskier than ever before. Concern and hope color every concise word.
"How do you feel, Mulder?"
How do I feel?
"I feel like a new man, Krycek."
And that's the truth. I'm renewed. Re-invigorated. I have people to see,
conspiracies to unravel and a rat bastard to understand. No more hiding from
my needs, fears, and deepest desires.
With his gentle actions and soothing words, his unexpected care and
all-too-welcome comfort, Alex Krycek's thrown me another curve ball. Only
this one's in my sights, and I'm driving it out of the park. Home run. Score
one for Mulder.
"So, Alex, what do we do now?"
Resurrection and Redemption III
by Ann H
The truth is out there... and it's wonderful.
