Re-Inventing Alex Krycek
I lay awake at night weighing which is worse: dreaming of you or laying awake
thinking of you. I can't tell the difference anymore. Ever since the last time
I saw you (flash of a cold indifferent face, and the sensation of a bullet
ripping into me), I've realized that there really was no chance, no hope. I
don't have a hope in hell. I never did and I never will. So why do I torture
myself with thoughts of you?
You're like a scab I can't stop picking at. The wound is still too fresh, the
cut too deep and taking far too long to heal. And it's bone-deep, as sharp as
the blade that severed my arm from my body, as piercing as the knowledge that
once a life is taken, there can be no going back.
It isn't remorse or regret. I don't have time for either, and absolutely no
patience for self-pity. But I have nothing left to fill the space with and the
hole in my heart is a lot fucking bigger than the hole in my forehead was.
I tell myself it wasn't love. Love is for dreamers, for fools. As I am
neither, love is most certainly not for me. And it is definitely not what I
feel for him.
Felt. Once. Past tense. No longer, though.
Yeah, and if I keep telling myself that, maybe I'll believe it someday. I
should just take out my gun and fucking get it over with. I'm a dreamer and a
fool and it will get me killed again, eventually. I should go up to him, hand
him my gun and say, here—do it properly. Do it again. Get it out of your
system. God knows how many times they'll bring me back—might as well take
advantage of it. Go on, kill me and gain that precious closure you think you
crave so badly. I know you so well; you would be afraid at how well I know you.
You can't do it yourself. I'd have to put the gun to my head and pull the
trigger myself. Your guilt wouldn't let you.
I ought to just go and see you. Give you the shock of your life. Hi there,
remember me? Yeah, I'm still here. Thought you'd gotten rid of me, didn't you?
No, I'm not a ghost. Sorry to disappoint you.
God, why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so badly? It's like an
aching tooth that I've never bothered to have removed. Like a phantom limb. Or
like three bullet holes in my body that I thought would take the pain away for
good. A huge, black rose of pain, so much greater than anything I had ever
feared, that finally sucked out my soul.
Then, white pain, a blaze of consciousness, searing light and GOD PLEASE NO—
Fucking ALIENS... bring me back from the dead for their own convenience. Then
leave me here to live out the rest of my days in solitary confinement like a
wounded animal. How the fuck am I supposed to live a normal life? People like
me shouldn't live past a certain point, I think. My luck should have run out by
now. I'm so fucking good at surviving anything that the world throws at me—and not just the world but the galaxy now, too. Damned aliens, meddling in
human affairs just because they can. All the world's a chessboard and we are
all pawns, moved around by their dictates and agendas.
I don't dare scan myself for implants—no doubt they have me tagged like the
animal they treated me as, and I'm afraid to examine why, to even consider the
implications if I DO have one.
I awake this morning, breathing hard, wondering if I'm still dead and perhaps in
hell, torn between a daily shadow existence of an enforced retirement and having
to burn under the hatred in Mulder's dismissive eyes every night.
I tried to simply forgo sleep for a night and that had worked, until the next
time I fell asleep. I tried it again and found that it just screwed up my
sleeping pattern.
But this last dream is the final straw.
Bastard.
Talk about a nightmare. Forget physical trauma and night terrors: this latest
trial is leaching every remaining emotional substance from my body. It doesn't
seem fair, to have to endure Mulder's rage and snide, casually inflicted wounds
on top of everything else, all the way up to the end. To this moment. Mulder, a
psychic vampire, now? For fuck's sake.
Actually, I'm fairly certain that it really is Mulder—or at least part of
Mulder, his subconscious perhaps. The way that Mulder consistently takes every
opportunity to lash out at me in the dreams, particularly this last one, has me
convinced that it can be none other than the bane of my life. Okay, maybe bane
is the wrong description. Achilles heel? No, bane, definitely. And source of
pain, pain, pain. So what else is new?
Bastard.
I stumble finally into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to wash
away the sweat, the dried tear-tracks and the remnants of sleep. In the mirror,
I see a haggard face, red-eyed from poor sleep and fitful nights, haunted by the
one man I can't escape. What a pathetic way to end it; caught and unable to
hide, even in the privacy of my own mind...
I look down at the sink, away from my reflection.
There has to be some way to find out why this is happening. Mulder doesn't seem
any happier about it than I am myself. So far, he appears to be in denial,
which is a very good thing. Mulder believes I'm a figment of Mulder-dreams.
How very Mulder-centric. So what else is new? I dry my face with the towel.
And think how interesting it is that Mulder is trying to 'exorcise' me, like a
ghost. Mulder believes I'm dead. Thank god for small mercies.
Whatever shreds of a conscience I might still possess is safely locked behind a
very durable shell that has been years in the making. Yet, somehow, there is a
soft little center somewhere inside. Probably in the region of my heel.
Again, I consider just showing up at Mulder's door. Folly. Suicide. Very
stupid. I've stayed away, stayed underground for so long. I've been so good,
leaving my Fox alone. I can't afford to let myself be drawn out now.
Dreams. I've been so lucky not to remember my dreams so far. The memories are
bad enough without having to relive them at night. Actually, come to think of
it, I'd prefer the Mulder dreams to having nightmares of either my death or my
resurrection. Or the silo. Or the peasants with the hot knife. I find myself
wincing at the memory in spite of myself. Or my parents' deaths. Or the
memories of being possessed by the oilien. The sting of betrayals that remind
me how much I must have hurt Mulder. The loss of people I tried not to care
about. Killing people whose hearts had been even colder than my own, their own
morality so lost as to be unrecoverable. Thankless tasks. Attempting to save
an ignorant, selfish heaving mass of ungrateful people just so they could
continue to believe in their thirty-year mortgages and the happy college
education of their bright toddler and the uninterrupted flow of their favorite
television shows and beer and takeout and American superiority. Fuck. Add it
all up and I have to wonder what I'm hanging around for.
What kind of existence is it, when one has lived on the cusp of success, and the
questionable glory of fighting for humanity's freedom against vast odds, to
dwell in a vacuum of anonymity and false personas after having been granted
another chance at life?
And at what cost! I remember dying.
I'd fallen to the concrete in the car park, still reeling with the realization
that it had to be an alien replacement, not Mulder, else why would the man be
standing there watching me fall so dispassionately, so coldly? As if he felt
nothing at all? Even while watching me die? Surely he would have shown a
flicker of triumph at least?
Bastard. Had to be a replacement. Had to be. Mulder had always burned
brightly, whether with pain, violence, hatred or ambitiously seeking his
dogmatic truths. Surely Mulder couldn't watch me die without blinking an eye?
The darkness had clutched at me suddenly, blackness spreading all too quickly on
the heels of the pain and shock and red miasma that was my world. That gigantic
black rose, unfolding like an octopus with long tentacles, death had opened
gripping jaws and pulled me down. There was a brief moment of terror mingled
with relief.
I awoke in a white, round room surrounded by little horrors. Indifferent,
curious gray bodies with large heads and implacable eyes. And the tall ones,
leaning over me to keep my consciousness pinned and unable to slide away.
Unable to even scream.
When I angrily and with much sorrow demanded that they tell me why they'd
brought me back, they had merely stared down at me and wordlessly talked of
debts and needs. I was needed. It was inconvenient for me to no longer be
alive. That was all. That was the only reason for me being brought back; I
represented a 'convenience' on the board, as a piece in the game being played
between various alien factions. I'd fought and struggled, suffered and resisted
and all for this?
And then the final blow: my left arm. They'd regenerated my left arm. Not even
out of any sense of mercy or compassion but merely as an afterthought, absently
fixing something broken. I'd heard rumors that they sometimes healed cancer and
illnesses and even blindness in those they abducted when they came across these
states in their human guests. The Russian woman who's misshapen leg they'd
grafted the replacement onto—not fixing it... Completely regenerating a new
one from her DNA. Same thing they did for me. I never imagined that they would
replace my missing limb. I was more grateful for the arm than for my life.
They treated me like a sulky child and ignored me and finally left me on the
streets of Denver, not far from the new airport where they apparently had some
kind of rendezvous to attend. At least they'd left my clothes and what I'd been
carrying when I died, including my wallet and various IDs. Which meant that for
the nine days I was aboard the ship, no one could have had a clue as to where my
body had disappeared to and I had left nothing of mine in the possession of the
FBI.
Holing up in Portland, Oregon, for a few weeks had seemed almost a cliché after
the whole Bellefleur incident and Mulder's abduction there. But now, here in
Arizona, I'm wondering if there really is anywhere left on the planet's surface
that isn't an alien free-for-all. Arizona is riddled with UFO hotspots and buzz
sites. In Phoenix, I finally settled for a while, renting an apartment and
laying low as the weeks turned to months.
I had almost grown complacent when the first Mulder dream occurred, crashing
into my world, threatening my desperate attempt to regain some clarity and
personal space, a little sanity carved out in the wilderness after a life-time
of living in other people's manipulative webs.
But I'm getting desperate now. The dreams are taking me apart, loosening my
tenuous hold on reality and forcing me into these heart-wrenching, jarring
confrontations with Mulder when all I want to do is lick my wounds and try to
heal. Every time I finally fall asleep, it is with the knowledge that
eventually I'll have to face Mulder again. And a secret excitement sits within
me, I can't hide from it—the hope that maybe, this time, tonight, finally,
Mulder will... What? He'll what? Forgive me? Tell me 'all's well, come on back
Alex and we'll live together in peace and love'?
I close my eyes against the anguish that wells up at this hopeless and
ridiculous thought. And try to prepare myself to spend yet another day like a
trapped animal attempting to chew off an astral leg—or arm—in an attempt to
escape.
Bastard.
In a way, I'm the perpetual moth to Mulder's flame, because I know I can no more
stop wanting Mulder, no matter how absurdly suicidal it is, than a moth can help
hurling itself at a naked candle burning in the dark.
Well, maybe at some point in the not too distant future I can go ahead and burn,
lit up at last by the heat of Mulder's righteous anger and pain that he always
and inevitably directs at me. My desire for Mulder is still the one illogical,
irrational element in my being, the one thing that precludes any possibility of
survival. My one weakness. My one despair. My one hope.
And still, I retain a sense of self-respect, of dignity and pride. I'll be
damned if I'll fall at Mulder's feet—not after all my unrecognized past
attempts to recompense for the damage I've caused him. Feeling better in the
daylight, I can recoup my sense of integrity and purpose and pick up all the
pieces of my psyche that lay shattered on the ground after last night's
encounter... And begin the painstaking process of gluing myself back together
yet again. Damn it, I'd gone to my knees again in the dream. Shit. And still
Mulder had doled out the pain. The verbal punches. The cruel slaps. The barbs
and nasty remarks that weren't so much clever as intentionally hurtful.
Bastard. Bastard!
I let the anger fill me, feeling it washing over me and rejuvenating my spirits.
I'm not going to lie down and take what Mulder dished out so easily. If a
psychic war was what Mulder wanted, so be it. At least I'll go down fighting.
Truth. I'll give Mulder his fill of it.
The bastard.
"Scully." There was an embarrassed pause as she realized she'd answered with
her surname out of habit. "Hello?"
Mulder chuckled. "Dana? I thought you wanted to be called Dana."
"It's a habit, Mulder," she replied, coolly. "One I'm trying to lose. What can
I do for you?"
Mulder could hear William squalling in the background. "Have I called at a bad
time?"
The cries abruptly stopped. "No, actually you haven't. I was just feeding
him."
Mulder stopped, attempting to process the sudden knowledge that Dana Scully was
breastfeeding at that exact moment...
"Mulder? Stop it."
"Uh, I—"
"What do you want, Mulder?" Scully's voice took on that familiar slightly
pained note of long-sufferance.
"Are you still breastfeeding him? It's been months, now."
Dryly, she said, "Mulder, there are numbers you can call for this."
There was a heavy sigh. "I just—I really need to talk to someone."
There was an equally heavy silence. "That bad, huh? Is it the writing? Are you
still suffering from writer's block?"
"It's not so much writer's block as PTSD, but yeah. But that isn't why I
called."
"Well. That sounds serious. Okay. Hold on, let me switch him around."
Mulder's brain went on hold along with her, at the realization that she was
shifting the baby to the other nipple. He cleared his throat, a sudden blush
stealing over his face. There was something different and erotic about that.
Very different to the cheesy, all-too-easy vids he had access to. And surely
William was getting too old for that, in any case?!
"Right. What is it, Mulder?"
"I need to talk. With someone who will understand."
Scully was quiet. "What is it? Has something happened?"
"No. Well, not exactly. It—I got—See, the Lone Gunmen found some files for
me. Dug them up from some weird-ass Department of Defense archive."
"When? When did you get them?"
"This morning."
"So, you've been sitting around reading them for the last seven hours?"
"Basically. And digesting."
"Are you going to tell me what they're about, or are you going to make me
guess?" Her tone was cautious. "Are they about your father?"
"No, not really. Alex Krycek." Somehow, saying the name aloud, over the phone
to his ex-partner and best friend didn't help. If anything, he felt he was
almost invoking Krycek's ghost. Hm. Gonna have to be careful on that score, he
reminded himself. This was Scully—not Doggett or Reyes.
"Really? What do they say? I mean, what kind of information is it? Mulder?
Hello?"
"I'm here, Dana. It's his whole life. They're his father's files originally,
actually." He took a deep breath. "I don't know. I'm still thinking about it,
but I think I never really knew him. I never profiled him, and I never knew
what forces were driving him."
"Mulder, there are no excuses for what he did to you, to my sister... To
Skinner. Not to mention others we won't bother to list as it would take too
long."
"Of course not. I'm not saying there are. But I've found so many parallels
between his life and my own, that it's kind of... creepy."
"Creepy?"
"Weird. Spooky."
"Spooky," she repeated. "Like, frightening? What, like strange coincidences?
Is this anything to do with the Smoker, Mulder?"
"Not until later on in the files. But the point is that I now realize I shared
so many similar events with him, without even knowing it. I just wonder how
close I was, and how many times, to going down exactly the same road he did.
You know?"
"That's impossible, Mulder," Scully declared. "It's outrageous. How can you
possibly compare yourself to that—that immoral killer—"
"I'm not comparing myself to him, or the things he did. I'm saying that our
lives had frightening coincidental parallels. Similarities."
"I feel like I'm missing a really big piece of the story here, Mulder. Is there
something in particular that has upset you? Or are you simply wallowing in
self-inflicted guilt again? You tend to do that regularly. It's almost a
monthly thing," she added, with a certain level of cool humor.
But she wasn't making light of what he was going through, she was trying to draw
him out, he could tell.
Mulder replied, "I haven't been sleeping well."
That went down like a stone. Scully had repeatedly told him she didn't feel she
could mother both little William and him, and that if he couldn't take care of
himself, he'd have to arrange to find himself a female who'd be willing to. He
quickly continued, "It's this whole Krycek thing. It's just really starting to
get to me. I don't think I ever really had any closure on his death." It
helped to say it. To say it aloud and to Scully—Dana. Even if she didn't
really understand.
"Mulder?" Scully asked, suspiciously, "You're not telling me the whole story,
are you? You're editing."
"I am not."
"Cut the crap. I can tell when you're doing it. If you don't stop, I'll get my
mother and put you on to her instead."
"It's very simple," Mulder protested. "He saved my life. Several times. Then
the bastard went and died without telling me anything, without giving me
anything to go on. And now I have to go through this information, these files,
and I'm—... Okay, alright. I'll just say it, okay? I think he's haunting me."
"Haunting you. Krycek."
"Yeah."
"Krycek is haunting you. What, is he rattling chains in your apartment at
night?"
"Just about. Rattling a saber, anyway. Well, actually, I rattled mine at him,
last night. I'm kind of worried about the repercussions."
There was an ominous note in Scully's voice now. "Mulder, what the hell are you
doing? Did you hold a séance or something? Or have you been playing with the
ouidja board again?"
Mulder sighed through his nose and closed his eyes tightly. "No. Nothing like
that. Someone anonymously sent the original Ivory Coast artifact, from the
alien ship you investigated, to Reyes at the Bureau. She gave it to me and now
I'm being haunted by Krycek's ghost."
"The artifact?" Scully's voice raised two octaves. Then dropped again,
alarmingly. "Where is it now? Mulder, Krycek killed Dr Sandoz to cover up any
traces of that entire affair. He killed Kritschgau too, and stole all the
research, even the laptop."
"Exactly. And now he's haunting me, through the relic. I sent it away and it's
in a safe place. But I'm still seeing him. He doesn't seem very happy about
this himself, to tell the truth."
"And now you're digging around looking for keys on how to deal with him, in his
past?"
"Right. But Scully, I need to exorcise him and I don't think there are many
Christian priests who can help me to dispel a ghost raised up by an artifact of
alien origin. Sure, it has a very potent reaction to the Bible, but it's a
little promiscuous in its cultural influences and preferences."
"So bring in a rabbi and a medicine man. Maybe a Buddhist or two. Mulder, I
really can't advise you on this. You're going to have to dig deeper. God, what
in hell have you managed to get yourself into this time?" Scully seemed to
waver between laughter and concern.
"Yeah, I love you too. Look, I'll see what I can do. Think about it though,
will you? Let me know if anything comes to you."
"Seriously, Mulder, an African witch doctor might be your best bet on this one."
Mulder recalled Scully's experiences as she'd related them to him upon her
return from Africa. "You might be right. Let's just hope he doesn't turn me
into a yam if I manage to offend him somehow."
"If anyone can, you will, Mulder. Please be careful. And stop focusing on
Krycek. If it really is—" she stopped, and Mulder could hear the tinkle of the
chain around her neck—he realized she must be briefly touching the small
crucifix she wore around her neck, "his spirit... The best thing you can do is
try to ignore him. Don't focus on him and he'll end up leaving of his own
accord."
Mulder whistled. "Dana. This is—I'm going to remember this day. You
actually agreed with me, that it might be his ghost."
"And I have our years of experience in the field to thank for that, Mulder.
Good luck."
"Thanks. Thanks for hearing me out."
"Let me know how it goes, okay?"
"Okay. I'll be in touch. Bye."
Mulder dreams...
He's dreaming of Alex: Alex smiling, Alex smirking at him, Alex in tight black
jeans and a white t-shirt. Alex is standing next to him, leaning down to kiss
him on the cheek. Mulder reaches up to keep him there, holding onto him with
both hands. "Do it properly this time," Mulder suggests.
And Alex smiles before kissing him on the mouth, sweetly, tenderly. Mulder is
losing himself mind in that kiss, it's so good, so beautiful, so right. Too
right and perfect. God, how long has he been waiting for just this? "Alex," he
says, horrified to find his voice is nearly a bleat. But it's only a dream.
And now he's in the Hoover Building, wandering the halls. He's walking up to
the elevator and the elevator door slides open, revealing Alex standing there
with that same smile on his face, the one that has no guile or deception. The
one that proves to Mulder that Alex is sincere, that he is glad to see him.
Mulder joins him in the elevator. "Are we going up or down?"
Alex just grins at him.
So Mulder reaches out, to take Alex in his arms and this time kiss him back.
But the elevator disappears and they are in his apartment. At least, he thinks
it's his apartment. It's odd, like a combination of both his father's house in
Martha's Vineyard and No. 42...
And Alex says, "The fish are dead. The bones of the fish won't bring you back."
Mulder frowns. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense. But he
doesn't care. He just wants to see Alex without all the clothes; wants to be
near him, to touch that skin. Abruptly, the dream shifts without warning and
they are sitting on the couch together, Mulder's black leather couch and Alex is
naked finally, at last and Mulder touches him, leans down to lay against him
and the desire is too much and he's coming, coming, coming...
Mulder awoke with a jerk, a wordless cry still stuck in his throat. Fuck. He
hadn't had a wet dream like that in years. Years! It wasn't the same dream as
before though. He knew it. Instinctively. It hadn't been Alex's ghost this
time. It had been a proper dream. The surreality of it was apparent now, in
comparison to the previous dreams on the beach.
Mulder frowned. Christ. What time was it? His bedside clock claimed it was
only 4:25 AM. Ah, well. Too much. Far too much. Sighing, he sat up and
decided to get out of bed and go for a run. He lifted the covers with distaste.
Laundry day, he thought to himself. And closed his eyes as he realized how
sick this had become.
There he was, creaming himself over dreams of Alex's ghost. He couldn't even
begin to imagine what this said about his sanity, the state of his subconscious.
He'd always known that he was on the edge but maybe everyone's doubts about him
were well founded. Maybe he was crazy after all. Maybe he was losing it for
real this time. Hell, he could never tell the difference anyway.
It's Saturday night in Chicago. The apartment I've rented seems more
comfortable than the ones I've been in recently. I don't know; maybe it's
psychological. I feel safer here. Maybe because I'm so close to O'Hare
International... From there I can easily depart for any number of worldwide
destinations. I was starting to feel so trapped in Arizona.
I haven't had a Mulder dream for several days now. Of course, I've been
cheating. Been catching naps throughout the day and staying up all night in an
attempt to avoid getting stuck on that godforsaken beach with him again. I feel
vaguely triumphant about managing to evade it so far.
I feel like a sitting duck because no matter how many times I change my
geographical location, Mulder is thinking about me. I can feel it. I know it's
him. I can't ignore it, can't pretend that it isn't.
And it's Saturday night. Loneliest night of the week. Or so they say. I'm
tempted to go to sleep in the hopes of meeting him there after all. I feel torn
inside though, raw. The last time we dreamed together, he managed to get to me,
hurt me badly—despite the fact I was expecting it.
I really shouldn't be drinking, not right now, not this late at night. I'm too
tired and the vodka will send me slipping sliding sideways down into sleep if
I'm not careful. I muzzily wonder if I'll dream of him again. See him. Be
with him. Doesn't matter—whichever way I look at it, he's haunting ME, no
matter what he claims.
It seemed to Mulder that he had barely closed his eyes when he found himself on
that beach again.
Somehow it was almost a letdown to see Krycek leaning against that rock. Mulder
had built up so much anxiety and anticipation in his mind over this next dream,
this meeting, that to see Krycek now was almost an anticlimax.
Krycek glowered at him darkly.
Well, that was to be expected, considering what he'd said to the man in their
previous dream. Mulder stood his ground and folded his arms before him. "I'm
sorry about what I said, last time. I was taking it out on you. I don't like
being stuck here anymore than you do. But I will admit I was out of line."
But once bitten, twice shy. Immured against Mulder's possibly treacherous and
devious attempts to get him to lower his guard, Krycek merely met him with a
stony silence in return.
With a sigh, Mulder turned away to regard the peaceful surf, the distant
horizon. "This isn't easy, for either of us. For me, this is actually an
opportunity to heal the past. Wouldn't you agree? I mean, surely it means
something for you, as well?"
Krycek's answer was quiet, low. "Band-Aids on bullet holes."
THAT was cryptic, and somehow Mulder had the feeling it was an implicit remark,
aimed at letting But once bitten, twice shy. Immured against Mulder's possibly
treacherous and devious attempts to get him to lower his guard, Krycek merely
met his words with a stony silence.
With a sigh, Mulder turned away to regard the peaceful surf, the distant
horizon. "This isn't easy, for either of us. For me, this is actually an
opportunity to heal the past. Wouldn't you agree? I mean, surely it means
something for you, as well?"
Krycek's answer was quiet, low. "Band-Aids on bullet holes."
THAT was cryptic, and somehow Mulder had the feeling it was an implicit remark,
aimed at letting him know just how much pain and suffering Krycek was actually
going through. Even now. No rest, even in death.
'Requiescat in pace'.
Mulder couldn't help the dart of guilt from settling in his stomach at this.
He'd wanted Krycek to suffer but now that he was dead and was actually paying
for his crimes, Mulder really wished he didn't have to see it.
He murmured, "Funny. I would've thought that'd be salt in those wounds,
instead." Mulder turned back to see his reaction.
Anger flickered in Krycek's eyes but he said nothing.
"For what it's worth, I'm not glad that you're in pain. It isn't like this is
some kind of twisted victory for me."
"Could've fooled me," Krycek bit out, a wealth of non-stated anger and anguish
broiling beneath the surface of his retort.
"I'm not the one keeping you here," Mulder said.
Krycek replied scathingly, "You can practice all the self-deception you want.
Just don't expect me to swallow it, too."
Mulder watched him for a few moments. "All right, I'll prove it to you. I'll
find a way to release you from this place. Both of us."
Krycek snorted, obviously disbelieving him. But there was a wary hope in his
reply. "How? "
"I don't know. I'll find a way." It sounded like a wild promise but Mulder was
sincere.
Krycek looked as though he caught it too, almost believed Mulder believed it
himself. But he said, "How the hell am I supposed to believe that, when YOU are
the one responsible for my being here in the first place?"
"I'm not," Mulder protested. Then stopped himself as Krycek shot him an
accusatory glance. He heaved a sigh. "Look, Alex, I'm sorry. You have my
word. I'll find out how to get you out of here. Believe me, I don't want to be
here anymore than you do." But something occurred to him at this point. If he
did manage to find a way to exorcise Krycek's ghost, to release his spirit from
this dream environ that the relic had trapped them in, he would never see Krycek
again.
Unfortunately, before he had a chance to think about it further, to say
anything, to explain, he found himself waking.
In the darkness of the booth at the back of the bar, Mulder caught sight of the
slim, blonde woman, her hair pinned up severely and her recognizable, ice-queen
delicacy of expression belied only by her rather pouty lips.
"Marita? Hello. How have you been?" Mulder sat down opposite her. She was
inscrutable, sitting there before him. Mulder wondered if living in the
aftermath of the Cold War had been as trying for her as it had been for the rest
of them. He could relate. Here he was, ex-Federal Agent and self-appointed
investigator of bizarre phenomena, having survived his parents' involvement with
the Grays, the Government, the Rebels and the Black Oil, instigating a probably
ill-advised meeting with the only living operative of the now-disbanded
Consortium—a shady character who wanted nothing more than to recover from
years of intrigue, suffering and survival. It hadn't been easy for anyone. He
wondered how she was doing. Really. Beyond the niceties and pleasantries.
Still, she had agreed to see him and he didn't want to pry. He had a feeling
this would be difficult enough, with his intended line of questioning. "Can I
get you a drink?"
She shook her head slightly with a frown. "No, thank you. You wanted to see
me? What is this about, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not with the Bureau anymore. Actually, I
just wanted to ask you about something, someone from our past. I was wondering
if you would be willing to talk with me about him. I think you are probably the
only person who knew him; as well as anyone could, anyway. He's long-dead now,
but... I would appreciate it if you would help me out here, because I'm kind of
haunted, in a way."
Marita frowned again. "Who?"
"Alex Krycek."
Now there was a trace of fire in the cold, perceptive eyes. Also a measure of
hurt. Damn. Mulder wished he had been a little more prepared to deal with the
emotional fall-out. He knew they must have had a relationship... The files had
mentioned that Ms. Covarrubias had found Krycek attractive and it had been for
that reason alone that she had convinced the British Elder to spare Krycek's
life and allow him to prove his potential worth to the Syndicate, before he'd
been assigned as Mulder's partner in the FBI.
Gently, Mulder added, "I never really knew him."
She snorted, quietly, her pale blue eyes wandering past him to watch the dim bar
behind them, the front door and the occasional patron entering or leaving. "I
doubt anyone ever did. He's dead, Mr. Mulder. Leave him alone. Let him rest."
Mulder said uncomfortably, "I would, but he won't leave me alone. I never had
closure on him, was never able to forget. Even now, I'm plagued with dreams and
unresolved thoughts about his involvement with me, the Consortium, the—"
"Mr. Mulder," Marita interrupted him in a low voice. "I can't help you. If
you've read the file, then you are already familiar with everything that I wrote
in those initial reports on his progress. He could have had it all, could have
run everything. He threw it away on some altruistic notion. Much like
yourself."
Mulder was taken aback. Surprised, he asked, "What do you mean?"
She fixed him with a penetrating gaze, her icy-blue eyes inscrutable.
"Idealistic fantasies of making the world a better place, of finding the truth
and exposing it for the rest of the world to see. No one WANTS to see it. I
would've thought you'd understand that at least, by now. People only accept
what they wish to accept. You can lead a horse to water, but..." She shrugged,
and elegantly sipped from her glass as though they were at an embassy dinner and
not this dingy, dark little bar.
Mulder was silent, digesting her words. "What did you mean, like me?"
She considered him. "Your original contact, Deep Throat, could see the
potential that you represented. He was deliberately grooming you to take over.
He saw, as did Cancerman, that if you were to inherit your father's work and
take his place in the Syndicate, there was a chance for the redemption of the
Project. You are a good, well-intentioned man and they knew that it would
validate their own involvement to have someone like you on board. Surely you
suspected?"
Mulder felt his face stiffen, mentally kicking himself for not figuring this out
before. "Sure, but what you're saying is that Krycek was the same? He didn't
take his place in the Consortium, for the same ideology that I hold?"
"Mr. Mulder, I won't bandy words with you. Alex looked up to you; he admired
you and followed your example in whichever ways he could. Certainly he didn't
have your access to people and resources within the federal government. He had
to work behind the scenes. But he successfully brought about their downfall.
Up to the last, he worked ceaselessly to ensure that humanity's position in this
situation might be saved."
"You admired him."
Her eyes dropped away from his. "I did. I recognized in him a spirit much like
yours." She looked back up at him almost accusingly and added dryly, "I'm
surprised that you did not."
Mulder found himself squirming slightly in his seat. "I—I did. I just never
agreed with his methods."
She raised a slim, elegant brow at him. Thoughtfully, she murmured, "He was
willing to do what needed to be done. In many ways, I suppose he accepted the
consequences and risks of actions that others like you and I were unwilling to
face. I can't agree with all that he did. For example, his interest in you.
By following your lead, he ended up in a situation that led to his death. I'm
sure that if—."
Mulder was stunned at her accusation, inherent in her statement. "Hold on, I'm
just a little—Can we backtrack here, for a second? How can you possibly hold
me responsible for that?"
Marita regarded him distantly, twisting the tall glass with her dainty fingers.
"Trust works both ways, Mr. Mulder. He betrayed you in the beginning, true, but
he was loyal to the wrong men in that situation—Cancerman intended to have him
killed as the fall-guy, the scapegoat, for the snafu over the DAT tape and your
partner's sister. Alex was in no way responsible for any of that. He—"
"He killed my father!" Mulder spat out.
"Yes. Because he would have had to kill you after your father told you the
truth about the Project and his involvement in it. And because of your
resentment and enmity towards him for that one action, fuelled by your own grief
and frustrations, you betrayed him, in the end. I saw a copy of the last few
minutes before his death, salvaged from the FBI surveillance tape before they
doctored the cameras' evidence."
Mulder sat fuming, angry with himself and with Krycek. Angry with his father.
His mother. And with the entire Consortium for having fucked over just about
everyone and everything he knew in the course of his life. He sighed and closed
his eyes. There were times, like right now, that he wished he could make it all
just disappear and live a normal life somewhere divorced from all these
considerations and past events that seemed to linger hauntingly upon him.
Marita flicked her lighter and lit up a cigarette.
Finally, opening his eyes once more, Mulder said, "Where is his body?"
She frowned. "It disappeared from the morgue soon after he was recovered from
the scene of the shooting."
He took a deep breath. "Very well. One last question, if you'll allow me. Uh,
the relics, artifacts from the alien ship? I believe that in the reports, in
that file on Krycek and his foster father Arntzen and the KGB gulag, it
mentioned a meeting in St Petersburg not long after the artifacts disappeared.
You wrote that Krycek had them. The artifacts."
She frowned again. "Yes, but what he did with them, no one knows. I certainly
have heard nothing."
Mulder pinched his nose, up between his brows and exhaled. "Okay. I'm still
kind of at square one with those."
"I do know that they were powerful, and that Krycek considered them the key to
shifting the reins of power from the Grays and the Black Oil back to human
hands," Marita offered. "Although how they worked, I have no idea. He never
mentioned or explained."
Mulder nodded. "Okay. It looks like my best bet is to try to track them down.
Thanks for seeing me, Marita. I appreciate it. I know it isn't easy or
pleasant for you to discuss this with me."
Her eyes narrowed. Then, she nodded too. "I was in the area. A few weeks from
now, I'll be overseas. You caught me just in time. I can't say if I'll be
available again though."
He smiled wryly. "Understood. Don't worry, I won't be trying to cash in on any
favors or anything. Or yelling for help. I'm just glad you saw me at all.
Thanks."
She stood and gathered up her handbag, her coat and left the table, pausing to
stand beside him momentarily. She put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I
couldn't have been of more help. Take care, Mr. Mulder."
"I will. You, too."
Sitting glumly without really any more leads on the damned relics or how to
reacquire them, Mulder realized that Marita had probably been jealous of him...
For having secured Krycek's admiration. Jesus. Everyone tried to use everyone,
and in the end it led only to old acquaintances remembering the ones who'd
passed on.
How terrifically fucking depressing.
Mulder remembered the way Krycek had always looked at him, his eyes somehow hot
and dark, open and inviting hurt, expecting rejection. He had the same look
about him in the dreams.
Mulder had a horrible suspicion that he knew now why he'd always projected all
his guilt and violent frustration onto Alex Krycek—it wasn't just that he
hated him—he wanted him. And hated himself for wanting Krycek, so of course
hated Krycek for that too. It was a horrible vicious circle and it continued
even after Krycek's death. How fucked up was THAT?
In a way, the artifact was showing him in vivid, gruesomely inescapable
Technicolor with each dream, that he was grieving over the rat-bastard and he
WAS responsible for Krycek's presence on that beach. He was punishing himself
for being blind to this truth previously, to his own feelings for Krycek and
Alex's admiration of him, which was now so fucking obvious and of course
completely hopeless. All he could ever hope to have in terms of any kind of
resolution with Alex now was to let his ghost rest.
Talking was ALL they would ever have. Did he want more than that? His cheek
burned where the memory of Alex kissing him that night so long ago in his
apartment flared brightly.
Mulder realized, too, that since Alex was dead, his ghost was all he could ever
have. The battle really WAS over him keeping Alex there. The worse trial was
yet to come—could he let him go?
The beach was unchanged, as ever. And this time, waiting for him as expected,
Krycek sat leaning against one of the large rocks. He straightened, with his
arms still folded before him, almost defiantly. "What kept you?"
"Ha, ha." Mulder didn't rise to the comment however, but plunged straight on.
"Look, Alex, I think you should know that I made some headway today."
Krycek's brows lifted. "Oh? Should I be worried?"
"Only if I have to get the African witch doctor, as Scully recommended. I don't
think you'd fancy spending the rest of eternity as a yam. I know you don't want
to be here, but I think you may be stuck here until we can work out exactly why
it is that the relic is keeping you here."
Krycek's eyes widened slightly. "What relic?"
"The one you liberated from our possession. Along with several men's lives and
all of the research on it? The alien artifact from the ship that re-submerged
off the Ivory Coast. The same artifact that Reyes was sent and gave to me a
while ago. The one that gave me that telepathic mental breakdown and nearly
lost my brain to the Smoking Man's surgeons? The one that is responsible for me
having these dreams in the first place. This beach—this entire dream—is a
recreation of when I first came into contact with it. It's a way for it to
interface with my subconscious mind, and when I was operated on, they removed
the part of my brain that responds immediately, which is why I'm not currently
residing in a mental institution."
Krycek interrupted him with a steady stream of curses. They sounded Russian.
"Where is it now? How did Reyes get it?"
"That's academic at this point. What we need to do is find out how to stop it
from exerting its influence. It's too far away for it to be working on me, yet
it still is. And you are still here. We need to find a way to break its hold."
When Krycek didn't reply, Mulder stood resolutely and stared straight into his
face. "Come on, share. I've told you what's going on, now you have to give me
something in return. Otherwise we're not going to get anywhere, here."
Swallowing, Krycek said lowly, "The artifact is what is known as a magic square.
Very few people recognize the significance of what these objects are or what
they can do. There are two others I'd collected. I thought they were all in
the same place. Obviously someone has discovered them and is now randomly
distributing them."
"Unless they are somehow revealing their presence to unwitting people and using
them as carrier pigeons, to find their way here," Mulder said, with a flash of
insight. "That would explain why Reyes was pushed to give it to me. She was
just another link in the chain."
Krycek flinched. "Damn."
Licking his lips, Mulder said, slowly, "That isn't all. Alex, we found your
father's file, and Arntzen's, as well as all of the original UN reports that
Marita Covarrubias made on you to the Syndicate Elders in New York City. We
purged them from the DOD archives but I have a copy. I read it all. There was
a picture of your mother."
Krycek froze, stunned into paralyzed silence. When he did speak it was a breathy
whisper stained throughout with tenderness and pain. "Moi mata..." He cleared
his throat and stood up, pushing away from the rock. "So why are we here? And
why did the magic square want you to find it?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, at this point. I still don't know if you're
real or not, or if you're just a projection taken from my subconscious, or if
you are somehow an extension of the artifact's attempts to communicate with me."
Krycek gave him a sardonic look; one that clearly let Mulder know that Krycek
considered what he had just said was completely nuts. He did nothing to
enlighten Mulder however. "I've thought about your offer. I've decided to take
you up on it."
"My offer?" Mulder was nonplussed.
Krycek smiled. "Yeah. Remember, that dream we had, when you told me to kiss
your ass? And to kiss you properly?" He stepped close to Mulder and, taking
Mulder's face between both his hands, he pressed a kiss on either cheek and with
that same smile, leaned in to kiss Mulder full on the lips.
Mulder was rooted to the spot with surprise. Krycek just stood there, letting
his mouth linger on Mulder's, undemanding and somehow strangely warm and right.
He was almost upset when Krycek pulled back a little. Then the words began to
filter through.
"I think you remember what comes next, don't you?"
Fuck, no. "Alex, you are NOT kissing my ass. Stay away from my ass. Far away."
Fear shot through Mulder at the thought of Alex realizing just how much he
wanted this, wanted him. After all they'd been through, after all the times
he'd railed against him. And now that he could never have him. Except... maybe
this was their only chance to resolve this tension that existed between them,
this desire...
Krycek leaned forward again, to place a slow, smoldering kiss on Mulder's mouth,
this time letting his teeth gently catch that full lower lip lightly before
breathing, "Nice flavor, Mulder."
"What?" Mulder couldn't think past the fact that this was truly, supremely
bizarre. That it felt good. That it was a fucking tragedy that it could be
this good and the man was fucking DEAD. He wanted to cry again and pulled back,
out of Krycek's grasp. "Flavor?"
"Yeah. Vanilla Fox." The smile became a carnivorous grin. "Stop me. I dare
you."
"From what? Stop you from what?" Mulder asked, doubtfully. He wasn't sure he
liked where this was going.
Krycek casually stuck out one foot and before Mulder realized what was
happening, Krycek had pushed him down so that he fell on his butt in the sand.
Krycek was on top of him and had turned him over before he could react, although
he began struggling as he felt his jeans suddenly pulled down, baring his ass to
the exceptionally bright sky for the whole empty beach and Krycek to gaze their
fill.
"No—" Mulder choked out, scrabbling for leverage, before going still with shock
at the unmistakable feeling of Krycek's hot mouth pressing into his right
buttock. This HAD to be happening—it felt so real.
"Mm. Lovely." The grin was still in Krycek's voice and then a wet tongue
suddenly swiped upwards over the skin where he'd kissed him.
Mulder jumped, startled. He didn't struggle, but instead tried to rally
himself. Coldly, he said, "Even when you're dead you can't keep your hands to
yourself, Alex, you pervert."
The sudden use of teeth made him yelp slightly. Krycek'd had the temerity to
bite him. Enough was enough. He tried to renew his struggles. Krycek was
mouthing his way upwards now; still holding Mulder down but sliding his way up
the t-shirt Mulder wore. "You can tell me, Foxy. Did you like it? I've
thought a long time about it—kissing you, properly, you said. But I'm sorry
I'm going to have to disappoint you on that last request. Try as I might, I
can't kiss my own ass. Maybe you could do it for me." The grin was gone and in
its place, a rising heat in Krycek's voice that was all at once telltale and
completely inflaming.
This felt far too real to be a dream. He was hard, so hard that his erection
almost hurt as it was pressed into the sand. He found himself suddenly free as
Krycek stood up, letting him go and the disappointment made him bite his tongue
in the effort not to complain.
He couldn't believe a word of what Krycek might have told him in life, but dead
men tell no tales. He wondered if Krycek would lie to him now. He pulled up
his jeans and turned to him. "Alex? Is it true? That our agendas have been
all too similar throughout the years?"
Krycek shook his head. "Sorry, Foxy. No freebies. Besides, you didn't kiss my
ass."
He flushed, and got to his feet. "No, and I won't. Go haunt someone else. Get
them to do it."
Krycek laughed bitterly. "You're the one who's haunting me." He said it like
it was an accusation.
He stopped, stock-still. Slowly, the realization dawned. "We're sharing the
same dream."
Krycek looked at him, quizzically. "Yeah. You're a quick one. Fast on the
uptake. Jesus, Mulder, how long did THAT take?"
Mulder began to smile though. "You're alive."
Krycek blinked, a look of surprise creeping over him although Mulder could see
how quickly it was gone in the next moment. "You're crazy."
"No, I'm not." Mulder slowly shook his head. "This artifact, this magic
square, it's enhanced my intuitive ability. I can feel it. And you're not
dead." It was with a burst of happiness that he realized what this could mean.
Krycek took a step backwards and folded his arms in front of him. He lifted his
chin. "You saw me go down, and we both know that Skinner executed me."
He refused to back down on this though, now that he had got hold of it. "Alex.
Tell me the truth."
Krycek looked mad at this, however. "You're always demanding the truth. I've
told you over and over there IS no ultimate truth, Mulder."
The relief that flooded over him at the knowledge was a balm, for Alex WAS
alive, he was certain of it now. Thank god. He had a second chance. He could
wait forever and a day. Reconciliation was the name of the game. He wouldn't
fuck this up now, not when it meant so much. It was no longer about
forgiveness... No, it was so much more.
"No, YOUR truth, Alex. You're alive, aren't you?" He was nodding as he stepped
forward, inching his way towards Krycek, feeling his way with his toes in the
sand, knowing that they'd been following this particular path since the
beginning of their relationship. Mulder smiled. He stopped, a foot away from
Krycek who had backed up against the rock and couldn't go any further. "I can
wait. I've waited this long."
Krycek's eyes narrowed. "For what?"
"For you." Mulder turned away and regarded the horizon where the sea met the
sky in an indistinct blurry line. He looked upwards, bothered and distracted by
something. "Where's the sun?" he asked, suddenly. The fact that there was no
sun should have tipped him off to something in this dream of his—no, THEIRS—that was the key to understanding how to navigate from this point to others in
their shared mental framework. He was about to look back down to Alex when he
woke up.
Damn!
Damn it. He should have concentrated on getting more out of Alex. He needed to
know Alex's whereabouts! Not to mention letting him know that he actually did
appreciate those kisses. All of them. Even the more interesting ones, below
the belt.
But he knew now that the relic, that magic square as Alex called it, wasn't
letting either of them go until they'd resolved their differences AND solved the
mystery of how to transport themselves outside the dream environs. That was
probably the whole point, solving both their inner psychological problems and
teaching them to learn how to astrally navigate at the same time.
And this of course meant that until they had done both, Alex was just as stuck
with him as he was with Alex. He laughed quietly to himself, feeling the
waterbed quiver beneath him.
Meanwhile, he was sporting a painfully stone-hard erection. Closing his eyes
and replaying how it had felt to have Alex holding him down in the sand, those
warm lips moving over his asscheeks, that tongue trailing on his skin—and even
that bite—oh god—He quickly brought himself to completion.
He felt a huge degree of relief and satisfaction at having finally solved the
question of the pain in Alex's eyes. Those large, wounded, expressive eyes that
somehow had always been begging him to understand...
Yeah, he understood now. All he had to do now was lay the trap and wait. He'd
use himself as the bait. Meanwhile, the dreams would help him to find Alex. He
grinned, his hand resting on his now-quiescent cock, remembering the wide smile
on Alex's face when it had finally become apparent that it was the only option
left to play. Mulder vaguely wondered who was seducing whom.
The relief at knowing also that he had been given a second chance, that they
both had, was delightful. He felt lightheaded and rather giddy. Alex Krycek
wasn't dead after all. By some miracle, and Mulder still had no proof or any
idea how it was possible, Alex had survived. There was the matter of that left
arm, of course. And that brought a slight doubt to his mind. There was no
telling in what form Alex might have survived that final head wound that brought
him down. But to be that lucid and able, in the shared dream state, Alex had to
be in pretty good shape.
He closed his eyes, finally able to feel at rest for the first time in long
while.
Fuck. FUCK! I'm hurriedly packing, cramming things into the backpack and the
smaller bag, deliberating which destination to try first. I have a sinking
feeling that no matter where I run to, he's going to end up finding me.
Okay. Deep breath, stop panicking. Gotta think clearly, here. Keep a clear
head.
He's onto me. He KNOWS. It's only a matter of time. He's bound to catch up
with me sooner or later. Stupid, STUPID to give in to the impulse to kiss him.
O'Hare International beckons.
Color me outa here...
Magic Square II
by Jami Wilsen
The pain of you.
