Though The Brightest Fell
I was so sure that we were going to be caught, was so certain that the end
of my life was mere seconds away, that I did it.
I kissed Fox Mulder.
And by some miracle, our pursuers overlooked us.
It was more an act of surrender than a gesture of passion. I'm not quite
twisted enough to be excited by my own imminent demise. I did it almost out
of reflex—a stubborn refusal to die without having kissed him at least
once.
I never imagined that he'd kiss me back.
I was certain, however, once my brain took over from my hormones, that he
would try to hit me.
Ironic, isn't it—or maybe just typical of my life—that I was far more
prepared for violence than for returned passion. In a way, I was grateful
when he swung at me—it returned my life to the expected track it's taken
for the past 32 years.
I'm beginning to feel the pain in my wounded leg as the adrenaline in my
body diminishes. But that's okay—my hiding place is just around the
corner.
I slip down the narrow stairway, and turn to make sure that Mulder is still
following me. He is, rather to my surprise.
Putting my gun away, I fumble in my pocket for my keyring. I hate being
defenseless, and with only one arm, it happens often—whenever I have
something in my hand except for a weapon, actually.
I stoop briefly to make certain that the little wires that I leave in place
to alert me to unauthorized entry are unbent. They are. It's safe here.
The keys finally come free, and after a brief struggle to find the right one
in the dim light, I have the door open, and am inside, turning on the
lights.
I turn again, and he's still standing there, rain pouring down on him, the
light from the doorway casting his features into strange shadows.
"Well?" I say.
He comes inside, moving almost mechanically, and his eyes are flat and
angry.
For an instant, I am afraid that he was shot back there in his apartment,
and I didn't notice in the rushed darkness. But the only blood on the floor
is mine—he is unmarked, merely tired and angry.
Once inside, the dull rage in his eyes changes to malignant curiosity.
"What's this, Krycek?" he almost hisses. "One of your rat-holes?"
"Bolt-holes," I shoot back. "And be glad for this one, Agent Mulder—it's
keeping your sorry ass alive for at least one more night."
Is there as much anger in my voice as I think I hear?
He doesn't answer. Instead, he looks around, his eyes taking in the slightly
dusty interior, the simple table and chairs, the couch, the TV—and the
illegal black box on top that I use to steal the best cable channels.
I've never been one to pay for what I can simply reach out and take.
Surprisingly, he doesn't comment on the black box, but continues his scan of
the premises, noting the doorway that leads back to bedroom and bathroom.
There are no windows, and the doors are made of steel—both the one behind
him, and the other one that he can't see, because it's in the back.
This is one of my most secure bolt-holes—I can hold it for as long as
necessary. Aside from the two doors, there are two crawl spaces—each big
enough for two people to hide in—and one tunnel hidden by a trapdoor in
the back. It leads to the building across the street, and to safety—just
in case I'm ever discovered.
"Come on in, Mulder," I say, and move behind him, kicking the door shut with
my good leg. The left one—the one that's been shot—buckles under me, and
I stagger a little bit before I catch my balance, pain shooting through me.
His eyebrows furrow in concerned surprise. "Are you hurt?"
"What clued you in, Mulder?" I ask sarcastically. "The blood on the floor or
my wincing with pain?"
Slipping my right arm out of my jacket, I shrug it off of my left shoulder,
letting it fall to the ground. I walk into the bathroom, flicking the
lightswitches as I go, trailing blood from my injured leg.
Once in the bathroom, I reach for the medical kit I always keep under the
sink in my bolt-holes and prop my leg up on the sink, so that the blood
drains into the sink, rather than the floor.
Opening bottles of hydrogen peroxide is difficult—if not impossible with
one hand, and I am still struggling with it when a long, slender hand takes
the bottle from me.
I didn't even notice him coming. Shows how good my survival instincts are,
right?
He opens the bottle, and is about to pour the peroxide on my leg when a
disgusted frown crosses his face.
"Krycek, take your pants off."
I look up at him, startled. I'm certain that I look like an idiot with my
mouth hanging open.
"Why?" My voice is shaking. Irritation still shows in his face, and for a
moment, I wonder if he's just going to throw the bottle of hydrogen peroxide
at me. It wouldn't suprise me.
His cell phone rings, and the irritation fades as he answers it. He's still
holding on to the bottle of peroxide and I feel a brief flare of jealousy.
He can still hold on to two things at the same time.
I force those thoughts down—the pathway of regret leads only to madness.
Someone told me that once, a long time ago, when the blood of my first kill
was still gleaming wetly on the floor in front of me, and I've lived by that
maxim ever since.
It keeps me sane.
Belatedly, I tune in to Mulder's conversation. I definitely don't want him
to reveal our location—if he even knows it. That would compromise this
bolt-hole and I'd have to move.
Besides, I like this place.
"-no, honestly, Scully," he says, "I'm not hurt." There is a brief silence,
and then, "You wouldn't believe it." He glances at me out of the corner of
his eye. "Krycek."
He has to hold the phone several inches from his ear at that, and even I can
hear her exclamation of anger, undiluted over god only knows how many miles
of airspace.
He returns the phone to his ear. Apparently, she's still talking, because
for the next few minutes he merely nods his head, murmuring his assent into
the phone on occasion.
When she finally lets him speak, he flicks a slightly malevolent glance at
me.
"Actually, I don't know. No, he hasn't told me." He listens again, then,
"That's a good idea." Putting his hand over the mouth of the phone, he turns
to me. "Krycek, where is this place?"
Abstractedly, I notice that I am beginning to feel faint from loss of blood.
The actual bleeding has slowed, but I've already lost a lot of blood. I
don't answer Mulder. I really don't want Scully around if I'm not in top
condition.
To be totally honest, I don't want her around then, either. She's never had
the same ambiguity towards me as Mulder does. Her hatred is uncorrupted,
plain detestation—to be honest, I don't like her either.
"He's not answering," I hear Mulder say. It's only then that I realize that
I have closed my eyes. "Shit, Scully," he says, "I think he's passed out."
He sounds disgusted.
I want to open my eyes, to tell him that I'm still awake, but I'm too tired
and can't be bothered. I do manage to shake my head a little, though.
"No, he's awake... What happened? He got shot and he's lost a lot of blood."
A pause. "No, not yet."
I can actually understand Scully's words this time. Something about his
irresponsiblity in letting me bleed to death.
I smile faintly. There is no doubt in my mind that she'd be happy if I died,
but the doctor in her refuses to allow Mulder to kill me through
irresponsibility and/or negligence.
"432 Desert Circle," I mutter.
"What?" Apparently, he didn't hear me.
"Give me the phone."
"No." His tone is stubborn. "Scully? Yeah, I'm still here. The rat-bastard
wants to talk to you." Again, a pause. "You're sure? Okay." He hands the
phone to me, glaring.
"Hi," I say.
"Krycek?" she says. Her voice is angry, but not uncontrollably so.
I've always admired Scully's self-control.
"What do you want from him?" I sigh. Of course she doesn't trust me. She's
not stupid. But it would be nice if someone trusted me, at least once in a
while. It would make my life so much easier.
"I don't want anything from him, Scully. In case you didn't know, I'm
sitting here bleeding into my sink from a bullet I took while saving his
life."
"You?" I can almost hear her eyebrows raise.
"Yes, me. And I'll even tell you where to find us—on three conditions."
Mulder is glaring at me again. He obviously doesn't like me talking to
Scully. Too bad.
"What conditions?" she asks, giving the word a distasteful spin.
"First, that you don't reveal this location—to anyone. Second, that you
come alone. And third, bring medical supplies."
"And you trust me?"
"Not really."
"Then why are you telling me this?" She's being sarcastic, but I ignore her.
"432 Desert Circle, Scully. And—just to make sure that you don't violate
the conditions, I'm holding him at gunpoint. One wrong move, and I'll put a
bullet through his head."
"After all the pains you took to save him?"
"Yes," I say, and hang up the phone.
When I look back at Mulder, he's glaring at me again, as if hoping that
sheer willpower might make me drop dead on the spot.
The anger in his glare scorches my soul, and I want nothing more than to
apologize, to wrap my arm around him and kiss that look off his face.
Instead, I close his cell phone and throw it back at him. It takes him by
surprise, but he still manages to catch it.
Of course he does—he still has two hands.
He bends to place the peroxide on the floor and when he straightens up, the
anger on his face has not faded at all.
"Why don't you point your gun at me, Krycek?" he says. The bitterness in his
voice is a scourge. "I thought that was how we were doing things now."
"Why not?" I sigh. I hadn't wanted to hold a weapon on him until just before
Scully came. I don't like threatening him—it destroys that confused aspect
of our relationship and makes it clear that we are on opposing sides.
He's still looking at me, so I pull my gun and point it in his general
direction.
I'm not terribly concerned about it—Scully's on her way and he's not going
anywhere.
Besides, I'd really prefer to save all physical exertion for protecting
myself when she shows up.
He's studying me with an intent, inscrutable look on his face, and I have to
resist the sudden urge to cross my eyes and stick my tongue out at him. It
would be amusing, but it would only make him angry, and as entertaining as
that would be, it's not quite worth it.
"What happened to your arm?" he asks suddenly, as if he's trying to startle
me into a coronary.
Possible answers fly through my head—everything from the smartass approach
—'Arm? What arm?'—to absolute silence.
I open my mouth, intending to speak only some clever lie, but all that comes
out is; "Remember Tunguska?" I don't say anything else. From the look on his
face, I don't have to.
To be honest, I'm surprised he didn't realize it already. But then, he
wasn't expecting it.
Funny—neither was I.
His gaze drops to my empty sleeve, and the sudden expression of pity and
sympathy on that glorious face is almost too much to bear.
"Don't," I choke.
At the sound of my voice, he looks up, looks straight at me. I don't want to
know what he can see in my face. All that I can think is that I have to
break away from that haunting, sorrowful gaze.
I close my eyes, and lean my head back against the wall.
My life is, from necessity, lived entirely in the present, and his eyes are
pulling me back into a past I cannot bear to think about. If I even glance
at it, I know that I will drown in 'might have beens,' in guilt, and in what
I have irretrievably lost.
And I don't just mean my arm. Yes, it hurts to think that a part of my body
is rotting somewhere in the Tunguskan forest—it hurts like hell. But it's
the loss of my innocence that hurts the most—the knowledge that I can
never again believe in the goodness of human nature, that I will never again
sleep without nightmares or fears, that I will never—never—feel safe
without a gun in my hand.
That is what threatens to submerge me, to send me spiraling downwards to
destruction.
It's hardly surprising that I choose not to look back.
The first indication that I have that he has moved is his touch on my good
shoulder. I open my eyes, and am startled by his nearness—he is less than
two inches away from me, his face so intense that it burns, lips slightly
parted.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, so softly that I can barely hear him. I feel the
warmth of his breath on my face and I inhale slightly, pulling his air into
my lungs.
For almost a full minute we stand like this, as close to an embrace as we
can come without actually kissing. His hand on my shoulder burns like a lead
ingot, and the space between us practically hums with electricity. He runs
his tongue across his lower lip. I think I'm going to faint from pure
pleasure.
When he tilts his head towards mine, it is so imperceptible that I can
barely tell at first—merely a minute shifting of muscles, a small slope of
chest and shoulders downwards towards my face. And then—he closes the last
few inches between us so swiftly that I barely have time to realize what's
happening.
Suddenly, his lips are on mine, his hand is curling around the back of my
neck, and his tongue is caressing mine. The taste of him, like spices and
heat, is so wonderful that I know I am going to die from ecstasy.
He pulls back slightly, and gently kisses my lips. I flick my tongue across
his lower lip.
It is just as exquisite as I had dreamed it would be, tasting of rose petals
and spice—like his mouth, only subtly different, far more delicate.
I lean into him, burning with something. All I know is that I have never
felt this way before. I'm not even sure if I want to. It is as though I am
melting, warped by the fire of his kiss. I need it to end—I never want it
to end. He pulls away first, a heart-wrenching combination of confusion and
want in his eyes.
I move forwards again, putting my lips on his, losing myself in his mouth,
in his scent, in the feeling of my tongue on his. Again he returns my kiss,
and the wonder of his response almost overwhelms me. I am about to take it a
degree further, to move it into my bedroom, when I notice a red glow through
my closed eyelids.
Breaking away from him, I open my eyes. As I feared, the red light above my
door is alight, meaning that someone has entered the alleyway. It's probably
Scully, and I want to swear or hit my hand against the wall—hard.
Mulder opened his eyes when I broke away from him and is eyeing the red
light with alarmed curiosity.
"Someone's coming," I say, pushing him out to arm's length and bringing my
gun to bear on his chest.
The hurt in his eyes makes me want to turn it against my temple and shoot
myself in the head.
I walk him to the door and, holding him at gunpoint, look through the
peephole at the street. It's Scully, and she's alone. I guess she took me
seriously.
With a sigh, I turn the locks and open the door.
Part II
"And I will never leave you, until we can say this world was just a dream—
we were sleeping—now we are awake..."
"Oh, no—not me—we never lost control. You're face to face with the man
who sold the world."
I suppose that she considers herself a doctor first and foremost, and hatred
comes secondary to her Hippocratic Oath.
Mulder is still glaring at me, and I want to tell him that if he keeps
making that face it's going to stick that way.
But I think he'd probably hit me.
I settle for raising an eyebrow at him instead—he hates that—and for
following the eyebrow with a particularly annoying grin.
His frown deepens, and for a second, I think that he's going to get up and
hit me after all, but he remains seated on the bathroom floor.
I can't deny that I'm glad about that—I'm really in no mood to be hit—
not even by Mulder, whose violence I tolerate because it's the only way to
be near him, to tell him what he needs to hear, and to drink in the
intoxication his presence provides.
My damned leg is still hurting. It turns out that the bullet grazed my
calf, leaving a half-inch furrow in my leg—one more scar that I will wear
until the end of my days.
Scully finishes bandaging my leg, and looks at me. Her bright blue eyes are
cool, but I think there might be just a hint of concern lurking in their
depths. Probably just traces of gratitude left over from my rescue of
Mulder.
"Are you all right Krycek?" she asks. Her words surprise me.
Before I get a chance to answer her, Mulder interrupts.
"He's fine, Scully. I don't think the wound was that deep."
Ignoring him, I answer Scully.
"I'm fine." I shrug. "I've been worse."
Those sapphirine eyes flicker towards what used to be my left arm. She has
more tact than Mulder, though, and doesn't mention my glaring disability.
"So, why did you show up tonight, Krycek? Don't tell me you knew about the
hit and wanted to save my life—I won't believe you."
"You won't believe anything I say, Mulder, so I'll stick to what I can
prove. I came to give you information. I didn't know about the hit—my
appearance was a coincidence—I just happened to have some free time on my
hands tonight, and some information I needed to give you as soon as
possible."
"Then give me the information so that we can get the hell out of here."
He won't be safe if he leaves, with or without my information, and neither
will she. I don't have much of a conscience left, but the shards of human
decency his presence forces into me refuse to let me endanger them further.
The only thing I can do is to keep them here until we—the three of us—
can act on what I know. I hadn't wanted to involve either Scully or myself,
but circumstances have dictated otherwise—damn them.
"If I tell you now, you'll take off, and you aren't going anywhere tonight—
it's not safe."
To emphasize my words, I gesture slightly with my gun.
Neither of them are happy with the situation, but they really haven't got
much of a choice.
Even though I let Mulder throw me around whenever he feels like it, I am a
trained killer, every synapse in my body programmed to react as efficiently
and as fatally as possible.
I set Scully up in the bedroom. The surprise in her face when she sees the
shower and full-length tub is almost worth the irritation of having her
here, in what I consider my sanctum.
I give Mulder the couch—he's used to it, after all—and ignore the look
he shoots my way. I guess he's going to pretend that we never touched.
He can pretend all he wants—I'm going to remember it for the rest of my
life.
While the two of them settle down for the night, I grab a spare blanket and
pillow. With a final warning not to try anything in the middle of the
night, I wrap myself in the blanket and rest my head on the pillow.
Memories flood my thoughts, memories of the soft tone of his voice as he
spoke, of the feel of his mouth when he leaned in, so gently, so-—no,
Aleksandr. That way lies madness.
Closing my eyes, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, and the metallic
tang in my mouth is almost strong enough to banish the taste of him.
I should never have been so stupid as to let him get so close to me—to get
under my skin, like a virus, a rash that will never heal.
"Never let anyone get close enough to steal your wallet," although cliched,
is still one of the best pieces of advice I've heard.
Of course I was too stupid to pay attention.
It's the eyes—those terribly intense hazel eyes that broke through the
defenses that my childhood carefully beat into me, the eyes that pick out,
unfailingly, the lingering humanities of a soul steeped in blood.
The temptation of swallowing a bullet right now is viciously tempting.
I don't know what's happening to me. It used to be a simple matter to shake
off the loneliness—I used to take pride in being able to rely only on
myself.
But the desire to trust someone is weighing me down, pulling at my soul with
the combined weight of all my sins.
But trust is a dream of innocents—and I am no longer innocent.
I don't think I ever was.
~~The fire burns a dull red, and I can see its reflection in their eyes as
they silently close in around me, moving infinitely slowly, but with a
singleness of purpose that terrifies me.
I try to get up, to escape, but something has frozen my limbs in place, and
I can not move.
I can barely breathe.
One of them is bringing his hand up, and I can see the white-hot heat of the
blade, can feel it as it moves slowly, closer and closer to my flesh. My
skin begins to blister, and I can smell myself burning as the knife hisses
against my arm.
The pain sweeps through my arm in waves, intense and ragged, and I can feel
the nerve endings in my hand begin to sever, can feel the sharp, stinging
agony as my synapses communicate the last sensations that my left hand will
ever know, the touch of dirt and pine needles in the frost-cold ground as my
fingers cling to the Russian earth in their death agonies.
I feel the knife slicing through tendons and muscles, each layer of my
anatomy a different type of pain, twisting into a hard knot in my stomach as
I thrash against the dozens of un-matched hands holding me down.
I can hear the harsh, grating sound of the blade sliding along and through
the bone of my arm. The noise of superheated steel on bone is worse than
anything one can imagine, and the smell of burning flesh—my flesh—
clings to the inside of my nostrils and to the back of my throat and I'm
gagging on the smell of my own incinerating skin.
A scream rips itself from the depths of my soul, tearing its way past years
of self-restraint.
And they are gone, vanished like so many wraiths into the night, leaving me
there alone and bleeding, dying like I never have before, far worse than
the smooth, cool, sanitary death of the silo, all darkness and emptiness, my
voice echoing around and around the walls, reverberating itself into madness
while the thing within me pours out of my nose and eyeballs and my pores,
twisting my conciousness while the darkness and the thirst and the violent,
aching hunger burn through me, and I scream, and scream, and scream...~~
I jerk upright, the hoarse noise from my throat that I barely recognize as
human still ringing in my eardrums. My gun is in my hand—how did it get
there?—and my breath is coming in ragged gasps, tearing at my throat. I
can taste oil in my mouth, smell the blistering of my skin, and the remnants
of my arm burn with renewed pain, throbbing with the remembered heat of a
fiery blade on a frozen Russian night.
Nausea wells up within me, bile rushing to the back of my throat, and I am
up and moving before I can think, towards the bathroom, towards solace, and
the pure white oval of porcelain that will wash away the acidic traces of
nightmare.
I haven't eaten anything in the last 24 hours, so it is pure acid that I
choke on, fiery traces of sins etching their burning path along my throat,
while behind me, my body wracks itself in convulsive heaves, muscles tensed
and spasming, my hand clasping the sink the only thing holding me up, a
white-knuckled link to reality, preventing my soul from following the acid
burn of bile down into swirling oblivion.
He comes up behind me, unusually silent, and he is the very last person I
want to see me like this, weakened and shaking, doubled ingloriously over
the toilet while everything I haven't eaten comes back up in
nightmare-induced sickness.
I straighten and turn, determined to meet him standing. And he's doing it
again—looking at me with that dreadful gentleness in his eyes. I don't
understand him. Less than two hours ago, he was sniping at me, making
cruelly stinging comments—and now, there's such a strange mixture of
concern and bewilderment in his face that makes my vision go blurry.
"I don't know why I feel like this," he says, so softly as to be barely
audible, "I don't understand it. You killed my father—you helped them
take Scully—but I don't hate you for it anymore. Maybe it's because I
trusted you, once, a long time ago, maybe it's because you saved my life
tonight, but I can't hate you anymore—not after what they took from you.
Maybe it makes up for it somehow, maybe it's a type of atonement—I don't
know."
I'm left reeling under the quiet assault of his words, dizzy from the tacit
forgiveness I have craved for so long, and I open my mouth to speak, but he
continues to talk, rationalizing the death of his hatred for me, and all I
can do is listen.
"It's six in the morning, and I haven't slept at all. I've been trying to
convince myself to hate you again, that you're traitorous scum, but it
doesn't seem to matter anymore. I don't know your motives, and I can't
judge them until I do. But for now, you seem to be helping me, and I don't
know why I should accept your help—after all, your last plan didn't work
so well—but I know I will, and I know I can convince Scully as well. Why
I'm going to do it, I don't know—but I will."
He falls silent, and is about to turn and walk off, when some impulse makes
him turn around again. He reaches one hand out, and traces one finger along
the thin white scar on my cheekbone. It is a gesture that I don't quite
understand—but it seems to fufill something within him, and he retreats to
the shadows beyond the antiseptic light of the bathroom, leaving me alone
and burning with the memory of his touch.
Lost II
by Broken Angel
I can't believe I did that.
—Live, "Run to the Water"
—David Bowie, "Man Who Sold the World"
It's surprising how gentle Scully can be, particularly when I'm the one
she's being gentle to. After all, I did help Cardinale kill her sister—
even if I didn't mean to—and I was partially responsible for her
abduction.
