by Jayde Things were moving too fast. Mulder had gotten word of the first
attack almost a month ago, managed to get his hands on the police
report and the description of the attacker. Research had uncovered
more sightings, so he made plans and arranged plane tickets as he
waited for the next full moon. It had come the day after Scully
tripped on the stairs and twisted her ankle. She'd sent him off with
her best wishes and a badly hidden sigh of relief.
All in all, probably a good thing. Too much was beginning to stack up;
he hadn't counted on having to rationalize lycanthropes, Nightmare on
Elm Street, and parasitic camera crews. They would have driven Scully
crazy, he was sure of that. He was being a little more fatalistic; if
they got proof on video, he'd be thrilled, but anything less obvious
than a personal appearance by Lon Chaney would probably be enough to
make the editing crew give up and scrap the tape. He hoped.
Anyway, it wasn't like he needed an FBI pathologist to establish the
cause of death for Ricky the sketch artist.
"Hey, agent!"
One of the cops was waving an arm and jogging over from the parked
cars. "Your partner just arrived," he explained. "Over by the squad
cars- the sergeant just wanted to check IDs again."
Now this was an X-File. Mulder stared blankly at the cop as he
processed the idea. The bubble baths in Scully's eyes had been on the
same level of importance as food and water. There was no way she was
going to come out and chase werewolves when she had a legitimate
excuse to stay home.
"Mulder." Husky voice, a male one. Not Scully.
Alex Krycek. Flashing that infuriating smirk as he tucked the FBI
badge back into the pocket of his jacket. Mulder choked down the urge
to start swinging as he reminded himself of the camera hovering over
his shoulder.
It was obvious that Krycek hadn't counted on it either, though. "You,
uh, mind if I talk to you off the record for a minute?" He nodded
significantly past Mulder as his smirk threatened to slip.
Let the bastard be uncomfortable. He could get what was coming to him
after they stopped filming. "The FBI has nothing to hide, Krycek. I'm
sure they can blur out your face for you."
Narrowed eyes quickly gave way to what Mulder privately called the
'Who, me?' look Krycek had used so well as an innocent, young agent.
It was completely transparent- of course, it wasn't directed at him.
"Any ideas on the case, then?" The smirk had been replaced by an
earnest grin that was far too chipper for anyone without a blond
ponytail and pom-poms. "The officer said your first theory got shot
down. Something about silver bullets?"
Mulder fumed. Krycek frowned at something on the ground. "Did somebody
break a nail?"
Watching Krycek trying to handle Steve and Edy was worth having a few
buttons pushed. It was about time that face got him into trouble
instead of out of it. Still, the identification of Chantara the
streetwalker came as a relief. Leaving the house meant Mulder didn't
have to deal with the inexplicable jealous streak that had surfaced
around the third time Steve had patted Krycek on the arm.
Conversation with the rat was to be avoided at all costs, so Mulder
found himself babbling to the camera until Krycek caught sight
Chantara in all her bubblegum pink glory. He proved unexpectedly
useful, calming her down enough to get a look at her hands and an
explanation of what she saw. Not a werewolf, not Freddy, but her
boyfriend. And, dammit, why was he getting jealous over Krycek being
helpful and soft-spoken with a hooker?
Things just kept getting better.
The crackhouse bust went by in a blur as Mulder tried to come up with
a theory to explain contradicting stories from every direction. He
only began paying attention when Krycek bent to check for a pulse on
the body of Chuco Monez- Chantara's boyfriend.
"Looks like an OD."
No shit. "Yeah, but how long ago?"
Krycek's glare slipped through the mask for a moment. "I'm not Scully,
Mulder. I usually deal with them when they're still fresh." He forged
on before Mulder had a chance to thank him for the reminder. "And this
one isn't. A couple days old, at least. He's not your killer."
Another witty yet snarky reply was cut off by the sound of gunshots.
Chantara was dead with the broken neck Chuco had promised her and
Officer Wetzel had emptied his sidearm at something no one else had
seen.
Farther questioning revealed exactly what Wetzel had seen: the
Waspman of his older brother's midnight horror stories. Somewhere
during the conversation everything slotted into place: Wetzel attacked
by his old nightmare, Chantara killed by the boyfriend who had
threatened her, and Ricky killed by the drawing that had panicked him
in the first place. Fear.
"What does that have to do with it?"
Krycek was staring at him with a puzzled look. Mulder rewound the last
several seconds and realized he'd said that last part out loud. Oh
well, he needed to run this past somebody. "Don't you get it? That's
what this thing feeds on: mortal fear."
"Uh huh." That desire to believe in extreme possibilities seemed to
have deserted Krycek. He grabbed his former partner by the arm and
dragged him a little farther away from the cluster of cops still
hovering outside the crackhouse. "Mulder, what the hell are you
talking about?"
"This creature, this entity that's attacking people." Mulder was on a
roll. "Hyman Escalara had a description and wounds that matched a
werewolf attack. Then Wetzel sees his Waspman and has a bitemark that
was made by insect stingers. Don't you see? These people are being
attacked by whatever it is that scares them the most."
Now Krycek was actually nodding thoughtfully. "Okay, I can see that.
But how the hell do you plan to stop it?"
"We catch it by following its prey. It spreads like a contagion:
there's a chain of victims. Tonight it went from Mrs. Guerrero to
Wetzel and the sketch artist and then from the sketch artist to
Chantara and then back to Wetzel. We just have- Alex? What's wrong?"
Krycek was ignoring Mulder, staring past him with a kind of fascinated
terror. The only thing in his line of sight when Mulder glanced back
was Wetzel, leaning against one of the patrol cars and visibly working
on his denial.
Then Krycek began screaming.
"Krycek! Snap out of it!" No response. He was also unresponsive to his
first name, being shaken, and being slapped.
The screams were changing in pitch though, raising to a keening sort
of wail that was blessedly quiet after that full-volume shriek. It
finally broke up into gasps and sobs as Krycek crumpled to the ground.
Not complete hysteria, not yet, but not for lack of effort.
"Oh God, oh God." He was whimpering like a child. "Get out of me, out
of my head out of my soul..." He curled in on himself and began shaking.
Oh. Some good all that profiling had been. Contagion, possession- the
oil alien that had taken control of Krycek's body, turned over his
only bargaining chip, and left him for dead fit nicely into the 'worst
nightmare' category. He'd practically gift-wrapped Krycek for whatever
it was.
"Krycek, can you hear me?" Still no response. "Alex. You're not in
Hong Kong, you're not in North Dakota. It isn't here. You're okay.
Come on Alex, you're okay."
It seemed to be getting through. Or maybe Krycek was just too
stubborn. Either way, sheer willpower seemed to be letting him calm
down and even out his breathing. When his eyes opened again they were
clear and sane.
Mulder helped him back to his feet and followed as Krycek moved
unsteadily over to lean against the nearest wall. He was allowed to
feel sorry for him under these conditions, right? There was nothing
wrong with putting a comforting hand on Krycek's shoulder and being
quietly supportive.
Except, of course, that it reminded Krycek of his presence. Laser-
green eyes snapped up onto his face and Mulder found himself just
dazed enough to lose track of things until his back slammed into the
brick wall and Krycek was sucking on his neck.
"Alex, you're probably still in shock—" He was cut off by a pair of
lips coming down on his own like God's judgment. This was bad. You
did not make out with Consortium assassins. Not when there were a
couple dozen cops around the corner. Not even when said assassins were
pretending to be FBI agents. Especially not when there was a camera
crew just out of arm's reach.
Mulder pulled away from the kiss to catch his breath and protest while
he still remembered that this would be a bad idea. "For Christ's sake,
Krycek. They're still filming."
He could have sworn there were other reasons not to be doing this, but
they'd somehow slipped his mind.
"I've been in your apartment," Krycek reminded him with swirling grind
of his hips. He seemed to have made a complete recovery. "Anyone with
that much porn has to be a closet exhibitionist."
The psychologist in Mulder's brain died a quick, silent death
under the lust evoked by that logic. The only other part capable of
rational thought noticed that the camera was still rolling. Apparently
he'd been wrong about when Krycek would get what was coming to him.
X-Cons
This is a special episode of The X-Files
Viewer discretion is advised
