by Brenda Antrim He stayed close by the shadows, trusting them, as he could no longer trust
anything else. Had he ever? Maybe, once. A very long time ago. He had
learned young not to trust, not to give, and not to care. In the thirty
years since those first hard lessons had begun, he had met only one person
he would have been willing to take a chance on. Willing to trust. But the
odds, or the fates, or just his typical rotten luck, had been against them.
The one man he could trust had been the man he had been sent to betray.
And he had done a thorough job of it.
Mulder stepped from the walk along the front of the J. Edgar Hoover building
into the fading evening sunlight beyond, walking, head down, no particular
destination apparent in his distracted stride. Krycek slipped from shadow to
shadow, blending in with the crowds when necessary, trailing behind his...
what could he be called? Not a target. He was out of the game, now. Not a
friend, certainly not that. Not an enemy, not any longer, and never by
choice. Not a lover, although that would have been his first choice, had he
ever had one to take. His... Mulder, then. Just his Mulder.
Trusting instincts honed by years of dwelling in invisibility, he allowed a
small part of his mind to drift as he followed. Mulder was in a wandering
mood tonight. He got that way, sometimes, when he was especially depressed
by the turns his path was taking him, or when he was especially frustrated
at having yet another solid piece of evidence turn to ash in his hand. It
had, it seemed, been one of those days.
Krycek fixed his eyes on the tall, slumped man rambling ahead of him,
setting his peripheral vision and the back of his neck to watch for danger,
and remembered. There had been so many times when he wanted to reach out. He
never did, because he never could.
After Scully's abduction, blood on his hands and a job on his mind, it
didn't seem that important. Mulder was an assignment, and one he would have
twepped with no hesitation. He'd even broached the subject with the
Cancerman, but had been turned aside. Thinking back on it now, he shuddered
at close he came to murder, the only murder he would sincerely have
regretted.
Or perhaps it was an instinct for self-preservation, because it was shortly
after that that things began to change. Perhaps he had known, in some small
part of himself, how much Mulder would come to mean to him, and had wanted
to avoid losing him. He'd begun to see the passion in the man, and the pain.
And against his own will he had been drawn into it.
He had gone into the game with his eyes open, he had thought. He knew what
he was doing, and why he was doing it, and it wasn't necessarily a bad
thing. Every cause from time immemorial had required its shadow warriors,
those men willing to kill and die, to hurt and be hurt, for their cause,
their country, their god, whatever it was that lit their purpose. His had
been country, first, then protection from a truth that should not see the
light of knowledge. Finally, when it began to unravel so astonishingly fast,
it had been for himself. Things became so very clear when life was pared
down to the basics... move or die. Kill or die. Run or die. A thread of
order, so thin as to be nearly nonexistent, bound him to a structure far
away, to men who held one end of a tangled skein and thought they knew the
pattern of the web. And so he followed, and moved, and killed, and ran. But
over time, the fire of his purpose had altered. By the time he understood
its new form, he was lost.
And so his own pattern had changed, transmutated unwillingly by something he
had not at first understood, much less accepted. Love was alien to him, as
were most of the more tender emotions, since they were not useful in a
warrior, and so had been trained out of him. Or so he thought, until the
iron control he had exerted since he was a child ruptured, and he was swept
out of control by the force of emotions too long pent up. And the stupid
risks began.
He'd left Mulder alive in Hong Kong. If he had shot him then, as he should
have were he the warrior he had once been, then there would have been no
alien waiting to take his insurance from him and turn it over to his
enemies, once allies. He would never have found himself vomiting blood and
oil in a metal tomb hundreds of feet below ground, never shrieked himself
hoarse to deaf ears and an uncaring mind smiling at him through soundproof
glass. Never lost days that he had not since regained, and half-hoped he
never would.
He'd had a taste of freedom, when he'd escaped from the silo, however the
hell he had escaped. That period was blurry in his memory, thankfully. The
fundies had found him, god knew where, wandering delirious. He'd looked
enough like a God-fearin' white boy for them to take him in, and his ability
to change like a chameleon to fit his surroundings had ensured that they
accepted him, at least for as long as he needed to use them. But instead of
using the out, letting his enemies think him dead, he had contacted the self
important men holding the end of the thread, and they had agreed with his
plan. A plan that fit into theirs, yes, but that was not the primary
purpose. Not for him. Yes, it got their infected rock samples back, but more
importantly, most importantly, it brought him back to Mulder.
Of course, Mulder then beat the crap out of him and then gave him to Skinner
to do the same, but still... it had been worth the gamble just to see him
again.
He was stupid. He knew it, and he couldn't find it in himself to care.
Because sometime between watching a tall, lanky man pull ear phones off his
head and stare wearily up at him, and being jostled along in the back end of
a runaway truck in a Siberian forest, he had discovered that a large part of
himself that he hadn't even known existed had been handed over, without
acknowledgment or regret, to his... his Mulder.
Who was just now slumping onto a bench by the Reflecting Pool, watching the
moonlight paint whispery stripes on the water. He slid deeper into the
shadows behind the quiet figure, drinking in the profile outlined faintly by
that same light. Skin nearly translucent in the half light, head tipped
forward, fatigue and disillusion imprinted in the curve of his spine, hands
stuffed in his pockets against the slight chill of the night air, Mulder
made his eyes ache with want. Not necessarily to love him, although he did.
But to ease him. To touch him, and offer comfort. Whatever meager comfort he
had to offer.
He didn't have the right.
He'd had the opportunity. Once. In that bouncing, shuddering flatbed truck
on the way to Tunguska, Mulder had started to fall asleep, tired from the
long flight and the even longer days before it. The handcuff chain
stretching between them had ensured that he, Krycek, could make no move that
Mulder did not feel, but even chained together, Mulder could not quite relax
enough to sleep. So he'd made it easier on the agent. He'd feigned sleep,
slumped sideways just a little, just enough to press himself lightly along
Mulder's side. For twenty blissful minutes he had relaxed into that warmth,
indulging in something he never realized he could do, daydreaming for too
brief a time that he was where he belonged. Then those hands had reached out
to him, not to draw him closer, but to uncuff their wrists, and prod him in
front as they jumped from the back of the truck.
It had been a small gamble, but it had at least had some small return.
The camp had been a nightmare. He'd had to talk hard, long, and fast just to
keep them alive, and even that hadn't been enough to keep Mulder off the
tables. A little more clout, a little more vodka, another telephone call to
another general who had been pissed off until he'd used a particular code
word... then the general had still been pissed, but had known better than
to take it out on Krycek. Once again, for all the favors he pulled in,
Mulder screwed it up with his own impulsive actions. He'd held on to the
truck with all his strength, dove for cover when he'd had the opportunity,
determined to find Mulder when he rested up, and get them both the hell out
of there. He hadn't factored in the peasants' gruesome determination to save
him from the camp.
That gamble had been a total failure. He had the stump and the prosthesis to
prove it. But it hadn't doused the flame. He was beginning to realize that
nothing ever would.
One final assassination at the behest of his superiors and he was out of the
game for good. Of course, the Cancerman and his associates never knew that
they had been manipulated by a master, for masters further up the line. They
probably never would. But that didn't matter, because they weren't
important. Since that first night when he re-evaluated the man he had been
ordered not to kill, no one else had mattered. Once the fissure in his
barriers opened, it was impossible to mend the breach, and equally
impossible to stem the flow of emotions too long tamped down.
Mulder mattered. Nobody else did. So he was here on a fool's errand, knowing
with the cold part of his mind that never stopped calculating odds, that his
were not even negligible. Knowing, as well, it didn't matter a damned whit.
Once he had, painfully, discovered that he could feel, and who he could feel
for, he had known that his path would be impossible. While he would remain
walking in the shadows, he would be walking a road paved with broken glass.
And he would have no choice but to go forward, because Mulder walked ahead
of him, and he had no place anywhere that was not in Mulder's shadow.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach and the rational corner of his mind
screaming at him to stop, he stepped forward. There would be no better, no
other, time than this. For a moment he would have to step from the shadows,
and it was fitting that it be in the darkness of night.
He settled lightly on the bench at the far end from Mulder, feeling the
man's warmth like a fire along the entire right side of his body. Three feet
away and he could swear he could tell the difference in temperature along
his skin between the side next to Mulder and the side away from him. He took
a chance, a small gamble, and glanced sideways.
Mulder was staring at the water.
He cleared his throat, softly. There was no response. Shifting slightly
aslant of Mulder, moving slowly so as not to startle him into movement, he
spoke, the first time, it felt like, in days.
"Hi," he nearly whispered. Not the most brilliant conversational gambit he
could have chosen, but then, he hadn't expected to step from the shadows,
either, so once again he had to trust in his instincts. At least Mulder
hadn't gone for his gun. Yet.
He shifted further, almost facing Mulder now. In the silence, his heartbeat
sounded like thunder in his ears, and he wondered if the other man would
answer, or leave, or shoot him, or swing his fist at him. Anything but the
slow steady rise of silent breathing would be an improvement.
"If you're here to kill me you might as well get it over with."
The words sounded shockingly loud in the stillness of the night. To his own
surprise, he felt as if Mulder had indeed punched him, he lost his breath
that quickly. The thought hurt. Not that Mulder would expect such a move,
but that such a move might be made. He didn't want to lose him. He didn't
truly have him, but he didn't want to see him dead. Some small part of a
soul he hadn't before recognized howled, anguished at the thought. "No," he
managed to rasp. No, most certainly not. I would sooner kill myself. More
easily. Much more easily.
"Then why are you here?" From the tone of his voice, he didn't sound as if
he particularly cared.
Mulder was not known for apathy, and this unexpected lethargy frightened
Krycek. He shivered, not used to such an emotion as fright, in his own
limited range. Fear for himself, he had known that in plenty, but not for
another. He stared at Mulder in the quiet light, licked his lips, and found
himself speaking before he could censor his words.
"I want to help." He swallowed, and found the words coming faster, out of
his control. "I know things, things that can help you. I want you to use
them. Use me. I don't know the answers to the questions you ask, but I know
where to start looking, I know who to start asking. I can help you. If
you'll let me."
Mulder was finally looking at him. Staring at him, really. Shock, and
mistrust, and disbelief warred in his expressive face. Krycek sat completely
still as he was thoroughly visually examined. Those darkened hazel eyes
burned into him, widening the breach in his barriers, ripping them open,
leaving him unprepared for what escaped. He found himself offering
everything, not with his words, but with his eyes, his body leaning forward,
knocking the elbow bend of the prosthetic arm against the side of the bench,
jarring his stump, uncaring of the pain that lanced into his shoulder.
"What's in it for you?" Rampant distrust. Couldn't he see what he was being
offered? Wasn't it shining from him? He was turned completely inside out for
this man, couldn't he see it? He was gambling everything, didn't he see
it?
Find something he will believe, even if it is a lie. He was used to telling
Mulder lies and being believed. It was second nature to him, but this time
it was anything but easy. The words hung behind his teeth, not wanting to be
forced into the space between them.
"Revenge." Mulder would understand that. "You." Oh my god. He could not have
just said what he heard. He scrambled for a palliative. "As a partner." No.
No, shit, no. The disbelief in those wide eyes opposite his own was
changing, rapidly. Disgust was joining it, gradually overwhelming it. "To
bring them down." It was too late. All that he had wanted Mulder to see, the
other man was finally recognizing. He had offered his soul, and had it seen
as a demand in return for information, a prize required as fulfillment of a
bargain. He had offered, and it had been seen as taking, not giving. Cursing
to himself, knowing there was no chance, damning his own inability to speak
clearly and explain, he tried once more.
"You need what I know. And so does Scully," playing his sole trump card.
"Her time is running out. You know that. I can help you track down the ones
who can help her." And then, when she is well, and you have your answers,
will you look at me then? Will you see that what I have to offer is just
that, an offering, not a demand, not a requirement, but a gift? That I offer
to you freely, in the hope that you will know what should be done with it?
You have felt and used and controlled and followed emotion your entire life.
Will you please take mine, and show me how to share that fire that you have
become to me?
"Bullshit, Krycek. You don't have a single fucking thing that can help
either one of us. You never did. This is just another sick, twisted game."
Mulder's voice was ice. Krycek was stunned into immobility by the abrupt
slice through his faint hope that he might actually have had a chance. His
mind was frozen by Mulder's voice, and he didn't react to either the Sig
Sauer being pointed at his heart or the faint snick as the safety was
flicked off. He simply sat, staring, as Mulder slowly rose from the bench,
the muzzle of the gun unwavering in its aim.
"Stay the hell away from me, Krycek. I don't know who you're working for
now, or what you expected to accomplish by this, but it's not going to work.
I'm not giving up. So you can go back to whoever is pulling your strings and
tell them to go to hell. And you can go to hell with them." Mulder backed
away from the bench and disappeared into the shadows, the gun still aimed at
Krycek throughout the retreat.
He sat there, staring blankly at the empty spot at the end of the bench. He
had known it was a gamble when he'd come here, when he'd followed, when he'd
stepped forward. A gamble that he knew he couldn't win. But he hadn't
realized, until that moment, just how much he had had to lose.
Settling back into the corner of the bench, staring at the moonlight
shifting over the surface of the water, he considered the wall of ice he
could feel growing within him and wondered, vaguely, how long the numbness
would last. He stretched to his feet, off balance, with none of his usual
grace, and lurched sideways slightly as he turned back into the shadows.
Following, unconsciously, the man he would always follow. The numbness
spread, and the darkness with it.
Somewhere, deep inside, a fire drew back, banked, but not extinguished. Once
released it could not be completely destroyed, but it could wait in the
embers, for however long it took until there could come a thaw.
A short note of explanation : Music has long been a refuge from pain for me.
One particular song, Holding Back the Tears, on the album "Nobody Else" by
Take That, was (and still remains) especially cathartic. Listening to it
tonight, I realized how well it fit my favorite fan fiction pair. One line
in that song describes what their relationship feels like to me : "Walking a
road of broken glass"—considering what has been done to Krycek and the
ramifications within my imaginative universe, the song as a whole seems
achingly appropriate.
Gamble
(that he knew he couldn't win)
He'd been a fool to follow him. But then again, where Mulder was concerned,
he had always been a fool.
