I did, you know. I burned for you, longed for you. And whenever you laid
eyes on me, all I saw there was disgust. It was anger at first, then
exasperation, and after a while, your eyes were confused. And then I
betrayed you, and all your eyes held for me was hate. It's disgust that
lurks in them now, and I'm not sure if it's for me, or for you.
I know you, and it's just like you to feel disgusted with yourself for
letting your defenses down, for trusting me, even if only tentatively.
You shouldn't have, Mulder. Don't trust me, even now. I'm... all that's
bad in your world. I'm all that's bad in my own world, if it's any
consolation.
Cold comfort, I know, but it's all I have to offer.
I was in Russia about a year ago. Got in a fight I shouldn't have been
in at the first place, and crawled home to Mama and Papa to lick my
wounds. Oh, I can just see you now. "You have parents, Krycek?" Yes, I
do. And they... never mind, I'm jumping ahead of myself.
Mama's a nurse and knew much too much about Soviet hospitals to consider
sending me to one. So I went home, and Mama patched me up, and tucked me
into bed in my old room, and prepared all my favorites dishes; and Papa
read to me when I was too dizzy to focus on the letters. Dostoevsky,
Tolstoy, Gogol, Chechov, Pushkin. Not exactly uplifting cheerfulness,
but all I really needed was to hear Papa's steady voice lulling me to
sleep. And besides, I grew up on those stories. The idea that everything
happened close to home was such a novel idea when I was a kid...
It was so domestic, and I felt so secured. Should have known that the
other shoe was going to drop. I was just starting along the way to full
recovery after one particular bout of infection-induced fever, and
trying to decide if the nausea that I knew would come was worth risking
to see what was smelling so good in the kitchen, when Papa came in.
He was holding my favorite gun in one hand, and my knife in the other. I
don't know how he found them. "Alyosha," he said, looking at me
steadily, "what is this?" His tone was so fatherly, and he had always
believed in me, and supported me, and... he was my father. I suppose I
could chalk it up to the fever, but I'm not entirely sure I want to.
So I told him. Everything, keeping just enough information out to make
whatever he knew worthless, but just enough so he'd know all the horrors
I've done. I told him everything, and by the time I was done, I was an
orphan.
Even your more scorching looks had never made me feel more of
a... disappointment. My own father turned away from me, and when he
finally looked back, there was no comfort in his gaze for me.
"Alyosha," he said, "you're my son. I won't throw you out on the streets
when you're hurt. But when you're healed, I think it would be best if
you left." He got up to leave, and when he was almost out the door, he
turned back. "I won't tell your mother."
Cold comfort.
Things were different now. I stayed a month longer, mostly because my
mother wouldn't hear of letting me out of the house, and I was still too
weak to argue. Father wouldn't come near, went out of his way to avoid
me, even. I know Mama noticed- mothers always know- but she never said a
word.
The most awkward moments of the day were at supper. Father would sit as
furthest from me as possible, looking everywhere but at me. I would keep
my eyes on the plate, trying to finish my meal quickly and go back to
the relative shelter of my bed, while Mama hovered over me, clucking
worriedly at my lack of appetite.
It took me exactly three days to reach the end of my rope with it. I
told Mama that I wasn't feeling up to it after all, and that I'd eat in
my room. The first night, I was lying in my bed, listening to the voices
of my parents conversing over dinner, feeling like a little boy being
punished again. When Mama came in with my dinner, she looked me over
critically but didn't say anything. Instead, she waited until I was
finished and then tucked me in, singing an old lullaby my grandmother
used to sing. And I felt as if I was forgiven. The next two nights
passed uneventfully, but my father came in on the third.
"How do you feel, Alyosha?"
"Okay."
"Then come to dinner. You're not a little boy. A little discomfort is
not intolerable, and your mother isn't a servant."
He turned and left. I came to dinner that night, and every night until I
left. Papa didn't even acknowledge me.
Mama finally agreed I was well enough to leave, and I gathered up
whatever few things I brought with me. I was standing by the door late
that night, checking to see if I hadn't forgotten anything important. I
had said my good-byes to Mama earlier. Father insisted on driving me to
the airport.
"You're still my son, Alyosha. But I can't accept the things you've
done. Perhaps it's best that you didn't come home for a while," he told
me, as he brought the car to a stop at the airport. There wasn't
anything left to say, after that. I took my bag, and got out.
I haven't been home since. I write my mother every week, but never sent
any of them. The first one was returned to me, unopened. Since then, I
would address all of them to 'Annushka Krycek, St. Petersburg, Russia,'
seal off the envelope, and stash them away.
So you see, Mulder, you're not the only one whom I betrayed. And in a
way, it might be even crueler than what I did to your father.
Cold comfort, I guess.
If you only knew. This would be perfect fuel to keep you profiling on
end. But you'd be wrong. You don't understand me, Mulder, not at all.
And as long as you won't acknowledge one thing, Mulder, you never will.
I love you.
As simple as that. You're my knight in shinning armor. But for you, I'm
the evil dragon who kidnapped the fair maiden. Maybe I did. You'll never
know, because you'll never believe what I say, just on principle.
Sometimes, the thought of you is the one thing that gets me through
nights. I don't fool myself. I'll never be able to run into your arms
and have you will the world away, as much as I want to. But you're the
one constant in my life, the one thing that will always and forever
remain the same. You're my penance, Fox, and I'd lost the rest of my
religion in that goddamned silo.
You know, the hardest thing about this life besides being on the run and
all that...the hardest thing is being alone. Everyone's a liability. You
can't trust anyone. Not even yourself.
But I have you, and there are times when that all I need. I know I can
trust you. You never change, Fox, and I love you for it. So every once
in a while, I show up at your door step, spew some cryptic nonsense, and
let you do whatever you want with me. Your apartment is the one place in
the world where I don't have to make any decisions. I always did sleep
better at the lion's den.
So there it is, for what it's worth, and I'm sure it ain't much. I love
you, Fox Mulder. You'll never know it, and even if you did, I'll never
have it returned. But it's there, Mulder, one shining star in the sky
that won't bring any harm.
Cold comfort, I know, but it's all I've got.
The End.
Cold Comfort
by Ayelet
Tears were for Hekabe, friend, and for Ilion's women,
Spun into the dark Web from the day of their birth.
For you, our hopes were great, and great the triumph,
Canceled alike by the gods at the point of glory.
Now you lie in your own land, now all man honor you,
But I loved you, O Dion.
—Plato's Epitaph to Dion
Sep. 28th, 1999.
