"Actually, no it doesn't."
Uh oh. Getting a bad feeling here.
"We, uh, we drew straws."
A VERY bad feeling.
"I lost."
Shit.
Like the idiot I am, I stand silently as they walk past me—each studiously
NOT looking in my direction.
I am SO fucked.
//I lost//
That one really hurts, Danny.
"So," a husky voice penetrates my misery, "that's the famed SG1 team. My,
my... not quite what I'd been led to expect, Jack."
And it all falls together. Krycek. Maybourne. Secrecy.
I should have known HE had something to do with recent events. I'm not even
surprised to turn and see Alex Krycek lounging with that all-too-familiar
indolence against the wall.
I just stare for a moment. He looks good. But then, he always looks good.
I've known the man for years—don't know damn all about him. Except that,
in a tight situation he's the best to have covering your back—and that I'd
never want to be his target.
Because Krycek wants to win.
Krycek wants to win in every way.
And he usually does.
"Yeah—my team." After a moment's silence, I shrug and concentrate on him
through narrowed eyes. "What are you doing here, Krycek?"
He straightens and steps towards me. I've never been able to figure this out
about him—he makes a habit of invading my personal space, always speaks in
that intimately husky tone, yet never once have I felt that he's putting the
moves on me.
He's a strange guy. Turns up in the oddest places -I have no idea who or
what he works for—but with him at my side I've managed to survive some
pretty damned unsurvivable jobs. 'Course that was in the good old days—or
the bad old days, depending on my mood—BS: Before Stargate. BD: Before
Daniel.
"Just checking up on an old friend," he murmurs. "I suspected you'd get some
fallout from your team over this and ... well, like I said, just checking."
Uh huh.
Alex Krycek is many things, a comrade, an equal in the field, a devious
sonofabitch with a personal agenda that will probably never be understood by
yours truly, but no one would ever accuse him of having an altruistic bone
in his body. Then again... it occurs to me that the last time I saw him was
at Charlie's funeral. He didn't speak to me—no meaningless platitudes from
him—but, he was there.
He nods in the direction in which my "team" just disappeared. "Looks like I
was right."
I grimace. "You heard him?"
"Dr. Jackson?" He lifts a knowing brow. "Yep, heard every word."
He knows. I can see it in his face, hear it in his voice. He knows exactly
how much Daniel means to me. What those words—"I lost"—have done to me.
Damn him. Where the hell does he get off knowing me so well?
"I need a drink," I announce. I turn away, then glance back at him over my
shoulder. "Well? Come on, Krycek. You're buying."
He nods and we make our way up top. I'm not even surprised that no one looks
twice at the stranger walking with me. It's always been that way—he just
blends into any environment seamlessly.
I've always envied him that ability. Talent. Whatever.
We get into my Explorer and I drive away from the mountain. First bar I see,
I pull in and park. He doesn't say a word, just silently climbs out and
accompanies me into the place. It's dark. And quiet. No one even looks at us—except the bartender. He efficiently fills our drink order then walks
away.
Perfect.
Krycek seems to have some kind of psychic link with the guy behind the bar.
Never once, do I lift an empty glass—at least not as far as I can recall.
I have to admit that things get a little vague after my fourth or fifth
drink. But, I swear he never actually has to say anything—the drinks
just keep appearing as if by magic.
He's a silent shadow at my side. Knowing that he's got my back—so to speak—I just let go and keep on pounding 'em down.
At some point I start talking. About Daniel. God, do I talk. I'm sure Krycek
is heartily sick of the subject by the time he pours me back into my vehicle
and delivers me safely home. Vaguely I'm aware of his presence at my bedside
as I fall into fitful slumber.
And I'm grateful. I don't know why he's there—don't care, really. I am
simply thankful for his company.
He's gone in the morning. Not that I'm surprised by his absence or anything—no more than I was by his sudden appearance. I would've liked a chance to
say thanks, though.
Painfully, I stumble to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee—apparently he
hasn't been gone long. He even left aspirin next to the coffee maker. Funny,
I'd never thought of Alex Krycek as considerate before now.
As I head in to take a shower, I wonder where he's gone now and what he's up
to...
ALEX
I like Jack O'Neill. He's a good guy—and, trust me, I don't say that about
too many men. But, Jack really is a good guy. Knows what he has to do and
gets the job done with a minimum of fuss.
Well, okay, to be perfectly honest, Jack is a bitcher and a moaner. That
took a little getting used to. After we'd worked together a couple of times,
though, I saw through his bluster and figured out that it was just his way
of coping with tension. When push comes to shove, he's there.
Always.
Don't know that I can say that about anyone else I've ever known.
So, I always make sure I know where he is and how he is. Specially since
the death of his kid. In fact, I was on the verge of interfering when he got
"drafted" into the first Stargate mission. That seemed to get him past the
suicidal tendencies he'd exhibited after Charlie died. I got a little
worried when the wife left him—but he held steady.
Then, he came out of retirement—again—and Daniel Jackson reentered his
life. Definite signs of life from him from then on.
I know full well the dangers of the current situation. Losing Jackson's
regard could possibly cause Jack to regress to those awful days of not
wanting to live.
I'm not going to let that happen.
I don't have many friends in this life—don't intend to lose this one.
So, I get Jack drunk, listen to him ramble on—at great length—about
Jackson—or, 'The Little Shit', as I now not so fondly think of the good
doctor, put him to bed and sit there all night just watching over him. When
Jack starts to show signs of waking, I start a pot of coffee, leave the
aspirin in plain sight and 'borrow' his truck.
I'm going to have a little chat with one Daniel Jackson.
DANIEL
This morning is a real bitch, as mornings go. Admittedly, I don't do
mornings well. I never have and I probably never will. But this one—well, it really sucks so far. I have no coffee in the place. None.
Disgusted, I throw the empty bag from Starbucks away and head back to the
bedroom so I can get dressed and go get some caffeine. I walk into the
living room and stop dead in my tracks. There's a man sitting on my sofa.
A man I've never seen before in my life.
He smiles at my blank stare. "Morning, Dr. Jackson."
There's something in that smile... An almost feral quality that make the
hair on the back of my neck rise. I stare at him in silence, watching as
his smile slowly fades into a carefully blanked expression.
"Um, morning," I finally offer, wondering who the hell he is and why he's in
my home. I note that he's keeping very still, black-gloved hands resting in
plain sight, on his knees. Which is a good thing, I think. "Can I help
you?"
With a strangely uneven shrug, he raises one eyebrow at me. "I doubt it, to
tell you the truth. Others have tried with no success. I wouldn't waste my
time, if I were you."
Oookay. This is getting stranger by the minute. I have the distinct
impression that he knows me—knows far more than I am comfortable with,
anyway. So, let's try a different approach, shall we? "Who are you?" I ask
abruptly. Failing completely in my attempt to do an imitation of Jack
O'Neill being impatiently gruff.
"My name is Alex. Alex Krycek."
That tells me nothing at all. When at first you don't succeed... "Why are
you here?"
"I wanted to meet you."
Fine, fine—I'll play the game. "Why?"
"You're a very interesting man, Dr. Jackson. I've heard a lot about you
over the years and decided we should meet."
"You have?" My skepticism is plainly apparent in my voice, I can hear it
quite clearly and so, I'm sure, can he. He just doesn't look like the type
of man to be interested in either archaeology or linguistics. There is an
academic... I don't know, I guess you'd call it a type. He in no way fits
into any of the parameters of said type. I can't for the life of me imagine
what he's heard about me that would make him seek me out. Unless of course-
No, he couldn't know, could he? Surely I'd have seen him at some point if
he were involved somehow in the SGC. And, if he's not involved in the SGC,
he has no way of knowing about my rather unique abilities regarding alien
worlds and their relation to earth... Right?
Besides, just the fact that he's somehow managed to break into my place and
is settled quite comfortably—without invitation—on my couch, deftly
giving me answers that are in no way answers—as if he makes his living
doing just that—tells me that he's not here because he's interested in my
academic achievements.
He nods solemnly. And watches me.
A chill of recognition shivers down my spine. I've seen that look—that
concentrated attention and stillness before. Quite often, in fact. Jack
dons just such an expression when he's assessing something unknown and
potentially dangerous. Of course, to Jack, EVERYTHING is potentially
dangerous. Well, okay, maybe not everything—but, he's worn this
particular attitude often enough that I've learned to stay quiet and out of
the way until he's weighed the possible hazards of any given situation.
"Jack," I say. "You... You know Jack. You've worked with Jack. Before... I
mean when he was with Special Forces... Black Ops. You have that... look."
Again, he nods.
"And?" I'm starting to get a little impatient now. He's playing with me
and I don't appreciate it. I don't like it when Jack does this kind of shit—I like it even less coming from a stranger.
He smiles again. This time I step back at the sight. "Leaving already, Dr.
Jackson? I'm no threat to you. At least, not today."
Somehow I'm not reassured. I retreat another step. In the time I've known
him, Jack has—well, not exactly softened, but he HAS eased up on that
hard-ass attitude he used to wear like a shield all of the time. Now he
only wears it maybe sixty percent of the time. This man has no ease about
him. I doubt he's ever spent an easy moment in his life. I study him and
find myself fascinated and repelled at the same time by his sleek good
looks, glittering green eyes and smooth, husky voice. Whatever he is,
whatever he does, the man is by no means non-threatening—on ANY level.
With a heavy sigh, he shifts to a more comfortable position on the couch.
"I've known Colonel O'Neill for a long time, Dr. Jackson. And, I do so like
to know the friends of my friends."
Uh huh. I'd be willing to bet the proverbial farm that this guy, this Alex
Krycek can count his friends on the fingers of one hand. And it hits me.
The awkwardness—so out of place in such a man—is due to the fact that
his left arm is prosthetic. Damn. I try to imagine Jack doing what he does
with only one arm and fail completely—never mind the fact that such an
injury would mean a desk job. No way could Jack do his job in that
condition. Yet, this Krycek has almost certainly continued to do whatever
it is he does. I can feel it. I can see it in his attitude, his posture.
"Um." I frown and fumble with my glasses, pushing them—unnecessarily—back up on my nose. I'm getting the distinct impression that there's a
warning hidden somewhere in his words—few though they've been so far.
"What do you want from me, Mr. Krycek?"
"What is Jack O'Neill to you?"
Well now, there's a question and a half. I thought I knew. I really did.
Now, I'm not so sure. "We work together," is the answer I finally give him.
"That's all?"
I don't know. Not any more. "Yes," I answer firmly.
"So, you really did draw the short straw?"
Whoa. How the hell does he know about THAT? "I... You... Did Jack...?"
"Tell me? Do you really that's a viable possibility, Dr. Jackson? You
should know the Colonel better than that—what with the SG1 team being so
close and all." His voice has lowered a bit, and this time I'm sure he's
giving me a warning of some kind. I've heard Jack use this same trick on
adversaries. It works well for him. Now I know why.
"Should I?" I don't feel like being warned. I'm still angry with Jack.
Very angry. And, therefore, by association alone, I'm not very happy with
this Krycek person. "How exactly should I know anything of the kind?"
His green eyes narrow and he stares at me assessingly for a beat, then gives
that oddly lop-sided shrug again. "My mistake," he says simply. "My
information was obviously in error."
With that he rises to his feet and moves towards the front door.
"Wait," I say abruptly. "Why... I mean, what..."
At the door, he pauses and turns back to look at me. "Don't worry. I'll be
around for a while. If and when you figure out what you want to know, you
can call me... At Jack's. I'll be staying there."
Oh, really?
"I just wanted to stop by. Introduce myself. I'm sure we'll be seeing more
of each other in the next little while." He offers me yet another smile—I've come to the decision that I really don't care for his smiles at all—and opens the door. "Oh." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out
a bag, tossing it in my direction. "I couldn't help but notice that you
were out of coffee. Enjoy."
And he was gone, closing the door gently behind him.
Well, that was certainly... disturbing. On any number of levels. Looking
down, I see that the coffee is Hawaiian Kona.
At least he knows his coffee.
Alex
That was most illuminating. Jack is damned lucky I'm here. If he plans on
waiting for Jackson to figure things out on his own, they won't ever get
anywhere.
The Jackson kid is clueless. Completely and utterly clueless. Cute as all
get out, yes. But, what an idiot! And Jack... Well, I like Jack, but let's
be honest here, relationships are NOT his area of expertise. He's good in a
fight, thinks on his feet and reacts calmly and coolly to danger, but ask
him to deal with an emotional issue and, presto chango, O'Neill becomes
O'Idiot.
That's why I never made any moves on him, you know. He's a damn
good-looking guy. Very attractive. But, the kind of work we did together
was... Well, when you're doing what we were doing, you just can't afford for
that kind of thing to get in the way. I did the right thing by ignoring the
attraction between us. I know I did. We both got out alive. He saved me,
I saved him, and that's what counts. Most days, anyway.
You know, in a strange way Jackson reminds me of a certain FBI agent who
shall remain nameless—his initials are Fox Mulder, in case you wanted a
hint. They're both honest men. Good men. Men who've known loss and pain
yet keep on struggling. Looking for answers. For truth.
Truth. It's odd, the way Mulder and truth have become so indelibly
connected in my mind.
Mulder. The fucking bane of my fucking life. Talk about idiots! With
anyone else in the world, he looks for reasons, hidden motives behind
actions. Me? Shit, when it comes to me, he only sees what he wants to see.
Some profiler, huh? I'm tired of it. Tired of being the bad guy. Tired
of being the only one willing and able to do what HAS to be done. Most of
all, I'm tired of being alone. At least here I can hide out in comfort for
a while. Jack's is as good a place to run to ground as any I can think of.
Mulder has no reason to look here. Neither does anyone else. I hope.
So, I distract them with each other while I use the SGC database to try and
figure out just what Kritschgau had. What the hell that artifact does.
What, if anything, it means in the larger picture.
I think I'll go back to Jack's house. He's probably noticed his truck is
gone by now. Luckily, he's so hung over he won't kill me when I walk in the
door.
But, just to be on the safe side, I'd removed the bullets from his weapons
before leaving. My momma didn't raise any fools.
JACK
Krycek's back. He just walks in and grins at me. Waves the backpack he
carries and asks where the guestroom is.
If I didn't feel so awful, I think I might shoot the sonofabitch. I tell
him so. He comes over to the kitchen table and gently sets a small bag in
front of me. Curious, I peer in and groan when my eyes finally focus enough
to see what lies within said bag. Bastard had my bullets with him. ALL of
my bullets. Even the extras I keep hidden around and about—for emergency
purposes.
"Jesus, Krycek, how the hell is it that someone hasn't killed you by now?"
He smiles that annoyingly knowing smile of his and heads for the extra
bedroom. I hear him bustling around for several minutes, then I hear him go
into my room. Whatever he's up to, I decide I just don't want to know. I
manage to climb to my feet and stumble over to pour myself another cup of
coffee.
When he comes back into the kitchen, I'm ready. "Where were you? You
didn't use my truck for anything nefarious, did you?" I ask suspiciously.
The bastard has the nerve to look injured. "Of course not, Jack."
Yeah, right. "So?"
He opens the cupboard and gets down a cup. Fills it with water and heats it
in the microwave. Opens another cupboard and pulls down a box of teabags.
Once he finally has the stuff doctored to suit his delicate palate—a
ritual I recall clearly from the past—he sits across from me at the table.
"I went to see your Dr. Jackson," he tells me calmly.
After I spend several minutes choking on the mouthful of coffee I'm
unfortunate enough to be in the process of swallowing when he drops this
little bombshell, I stare at him balefully. "There are easier ways to kill
me, Krycek."
"Alex."
"Huh?"
"My name," he gravely informs me. "Don't you think, after all these years,
you can bring yourself to call me by my first name? You wound me, Jack."
I stare at him in amazement for a second. It occurs to me that he really
should be on the stage—or in movies or some such. This kind of acting
talent really is wasted here in my kitchen. Jeez, to listen to him, you'd
think it was just about the most hurtful thing in his life—to be called
Krycek by Colonel Jack O'Neill.
"Look, Krycek—"
His face actually crumples with pain. And I thought I was good. I'm a
stumbling amateur compared to this guy.
"What the FUCK are you up to, Krycek?"
"Alex."
I'M gonna kill HIM. No doubt about that one—I only have to decide where
and when and how. It's a question of self-preservation. If I don't do it,
he'll get me first. Can't have that—matter of professional pride, y'know.
In the meantime, though... "What's going on, Kry—"
"Ah ah," he chides me. "Alex. Remember?"
"Fine," I throw up my hands, surrendering for the moment. "What are you up
to, ALEX?"
"It's quite simple, really," he informs me with a gentle smile. I decide
that whatever he's got going on here, I am in really big trouble. "I'm
going to help you."
"I don't need any help from you."
He smirks. "Of course you do."
"I do NOT."
Declining to fall into that kind of argument, Kry—hell, ALEX sits back in
his chair and studies me for a moment. "Jack," he says quietly, serious for
a change. "I know—I SAW the reaction of your team to what just happened.
I was the one that insisted you not be allowed to tell them what was going
on."
I shrug uncomfortably. "So?"
"So?" He repeats in a disbelieving tone. "Jack, we've known each other a
long time, so let's be honest here. I doubt that you've got so many friends
that you can afford to lose even one." He studies his tea for a moment and
I begin to wonder if he's taken up reading tea leaves or some such shit.
I concentrate on the subject that seems to fill my every waking hour. "So,
why Daniel? Why did you go to see HIM? Why not Carter?"
"Carter's a lifer, Jack. We both know she'll understand... eventually. As
will Teal'c. Jackson is a different kettle of fish altogether. He's gonna
have trouble with this." He fiddles with his mug of tea, sliding it around
on the table in an intricate pattern. I'm staring at him, I know, but this
odd behavior has caught my attention. Krycek's not the nervous type. In
fact I don't think I've ever seen the man fidget. He notices my intent
stare when he finally looks up and actually blushes. "I... I've worked with
someone lately; a man not unlike your Dr. Jackson in many ways. An
idealist. A dreamer. A genius. And, I know how hard that type can be to
convince of the necessity of certain, ah, actions. Pragmatism just doesn't
exist in their realities, Jack. So, I'm going to give you a hand with this
one."
He lowers his head and gazes at me limpedly from beneath obscenely long
eyelashes.
Oh God. I am in more trouble here than I'd ever imagined. With a pained
groan, I bury my face in my hands and shake my head hopelessly. "Go away,
Krycek. Just go away."
"Sorry, Jack," he answers with an air of finality. "No can do."
ALEX
After several moments of silence, I sigh and rise to my feet. "'M gonna hop
in the shower."
No answer. Unless one can consider that little grunt a response. Choosing
not to do so, I pick up my tea and leave the kitchen. I can't help but be
amused by seeing Mr.-Hard-Ass-Black-Ops-operative hiding his face. Biting
down on the inside of my cheek to stay the laughter that threatens, I head
upstairs. In his bedroom, I search the dresser drawers and am quite happy
with the track shorts and abbreviated t-shirt I find. I'm expecting the Doc
to 'drop by' any minute now, and finding me dressed in Jack's clothes should
get things off to a good start.
I'm so damned pleased with myself, I smile all the way through my shower.
I'm happy to report that the good Doctor is very punctual, not to mention
predictable. Just as I step out of the shower, the doorbell rings. I hear
Jack curse off in the distance. Assuming that he's still planted firmly at
the table, I head to the front door.
Wearing a towel.
Just as I'm reaching out for the doorknob, I hear a shocked gasp from behind
me. I turn and find that Jack has actually managed to pry himself from the
table and is standing in the kitchen doorway.
"Christ, Krycek!" He stares, appalled, at my left side. "What happened to
your arm?"
Ah, shit. I'd forgotten—haven't seen him since it happened. "Russian
peasants cut it off." Actually, I'm proud of my casual response.
He doesn't seem to appreciate my effort though. Swallowing heavily, he
crosses to stand in front of me. He's actually in the process of reaching
out to touch the stump, when the doorbell rings again.
I shrug uncomfortably and step back. "Why don't you let him in, Jack...
I'll just go and get dressed."
"Him?" Jack glares at me suspiciously. "You expecting someone?"
"That'll be your Dr. Jackson." I make a show of looking at my watchless
wrist. "And, he's right on time."
As I exit the room, I hear a distinctly warning growl issue from Jack's
chest.
Excellent. Things are going along very, very well.
TBC
Catalyst
by Jennie
JACK
