"Damn the snow." He hated it. The trouble with snow was that
going out and shooting it made no difference at all. He believed
he hated snow more than anything else. More than being pinned up
against bathroom walls by strange French women, even more than
being made to give back digital tapes by something that was
swimming around his nervous system. Why then was he living in a
country where snow kept happening to him with sickening
regularity? It made no sense. "Damn every bit of it to hell," he
said helplessly.
Boris laughed at him from under the bedclothes. Alex Krycek
sighed and carried on to the bathroom.
Incredible the things you could get to say in Russian. Take some
examples from The Dictionary of Russian Slang and Colloquial
Expressions: "So it was you who took my tools, you bastard", and
then a few pages further on: "If you're afraid of teeth, you'll
never get a blow job".
Mulder shook his head in amazement. The phrase book gave him two
translations— one using the indecipherable Russian alphabet, the
other with the Russian set out phonetically. He mouthed the
unfamiliar sounds to himself as he read them, trying to get his
tongue and teeth round them. They felt cumbersome and alien. He
noticed a woman sitting in the opposite aisle of the plane,
staring across at him anxiously as if he might be about to pop an
artery or throw a fit. Let me tell you, lady, if I ever really
had to learn to speak this stuff, I'd throw something a lot
worse.
How did Krycek manage to speak this language without the need to
vomit at the same time? And while on the subject of Krycek, was
there a Russian equivalent of "You fucking bastard"? Indeed there
was, he'd try memorising it as long as his jaw wasn't dislocated
in the process. Swearing in another language had a certain je ne
sais quoi to it. Mulder wondered if there was a Russian phrase
for je ne sais quoi but caught himself just in time. That way lay
madness. He could drive himself slowly out of his mind looking up
the Russian for every thought he had between New York and St
Petersburg. The average human brain is supposed to produce
several thousand different thoughts each day and on this flight
alone he could chalk up hundreds of them. Why was he even having
this thought about having thoughts? Why was he doing this to
himself? Was there a doctor on the plane? Could someone please
administer general anaesthetic for a few hours of mind numbing
peace?
It was strange travelling to St Petersburg alone. This was the
second time he'd made the flight in a month and he had to admit
that the first time had been a lot more interesting. Slender
thighs next to him in tight black jeans. The smell and creak of
leather. Mouth slightly open as he slept. Thick eyelashes
cascading over high cheekbones. Fucking bastard.
This time round, Mulder felt uncomfortably vulnerable, even
though he knew from the previous experience that he could manage
the basics like passage through customs and hiring a car. He'd
bought the book of Russian slang at JFK International as a kind
of gesture of defiance although he knew it was irrational to feel
angry with an entire country just because two members of the
population had produced a treacherous, lying, murdering piece of
filth.
The plane arrived at St Petersburg half an hour late due to bad
weather conditions. It was snowing heavily. Mulder passed through
customs without incident and took a taxi to Autotur car hire
situated on the Energetikov Prospekt. He felt grateful for the
time in the taxi to adjust to his surroundings. Through the
telescoped vision afforded by the taxi window, he saw enormous
and impressive buildings, some of them turning shabby, people
looking drab and depressed in the snow storm, street sellers
everywhere displaying vegetables, books, vodka, kittens.
Everything and anything seemed to be on sale on the streets.
He wondered whether Krycek liked living here or whether he just
had nowhere else to hide. The e-mail message Mulder had received
gave an address on Murinsky Prospekt. Alex Krycek was reported to
be using a friend's apartment there. Typical Krycek, never
putting down any roots, ready at any time to disappear into the
woodwork.
Mulder would have felt easier in his mind if he knew who had sent
the message. It was either someone who wanted Krycek killed—and
that must be a good 95% of America, Hong Kong, France and Russia,
almost half the globe when you came to think about it— or
someone who wanted Mulder killed. It wasn't nearly as much fun
working out the percentages of how many people were out to get
him so Mulder quickly thought about something else. He relaxed
back into the seat, putting finishing touches to the 'Why I Hate,
Loathe & Detest Alex Krycek' list that he kept carefully filed
away in his mind.
A sunny little kitchen. It's Mulder's. He's standing at the stove
singing "I'm Cooking Brekfist For The One I Love" from a Fanny
Brice musical. Sometimes I seriously worry about Mulder. I walk
in, scratching my nipples and yawning as I usually do first thing
in the morning and he says, "Hi baby, did you sleep well?" as if
he's interested in the answer. I say, "Fine. Give me a kiss," and
it's so good to have his arms fold round me...
"Alexei!"
Damn.
He hated that moment when a happy dream was shattered and reality
hit him over the head with a loaded sock. Gradually it became
horribly clear to him that he wasn't in Washington and neither
was he in Mulder's cosy little apartment. He was lying in a
dismal brown Russian bedroom, brown wallpaper, brown curtains.
There was the heavy smell of Boris' pipe. Brown tobacco.
What with the snow and the interior decoration, life was even
less fun than it usually was. Even Boris was getting boring.
"Alexei!"
Why did he dream so often about Mulder? What a waste of prime
time dream space. The man was unattainable, even if he ever got
within kissing distance of him again. It was as if a song had
started up between them during the time they'd worked together
and though by now the words no longer made any sense and most of
the orchestra had gone home, the melody was still there,
demanding to be played out to the end.
"Hello, little one." Boris loomed over him and at 6'7" he was
very good at looming. He was pulling back the sheet that Krycek
had thrown over himself in disgust. "Bet you can't wait to go out
and build a snowman!"
"Go and boil your head." This was Krycek's favourite Russian
phrase. It conjured up such a satisfying picture and Boris's head
would take some boiling. But he really should try to be more
charitable. Boris paid the rent after all. And he had brought him
tea.
Krycek pulled himself up into a sitting position, lolling
seductively against the bedhead. Boris was shaved and dressed,
ready for work, and so that he could send him off with an
erection that would bother him all day, Krycek said, "I could do
with a really hard fucking."
Boris tut-tutted good naturedly. He enjoyed practising his
English with Krycek, especially the colourful sort of English his
lover spoke. He said very carefully, "You are incapable."
"I think you mean insatiable so I won't hold it against you."
Krycek's friend, Boris Yutkevitch, lived on the fifth floor of
the apartment block. The lift had apparently suffered some sort
of major breakdown. It looked a little pathetic, hanging
disconsolately in the air between the first and second floors,
indulging in some quiet Russian introspection. Mulder walked
respectfully past it up the stairs.
The stairs were built of a dark wood, the walls were covered in
brown wallpaper and the stair carpet was brown. Going through a
severe Dostoyevsky phase in his teens, Mulder had always imagined
Russian rooms to be brown. Did this mean then that Russians still
boiled tea in samovars, drank cabbage soup, and had epileptic
fits all over the place? It would be nice to know that some
things never changed.
Someone was walking down the stairs towards him. A man in an
enormous black coat that must have been incredibly expensive. He
was over 6'5" and he would probably have had it specially made.
He looked very slavonic, a great bear of a man, a poet perhaps,
writing about death and the endless Russian steppes. He gave
Mulder a cursory glance as he passed him. He was humming a tune
to himself and Mulder experienced a sudden shock of recognition.
Fanny Brice, 1936, "Cookin' Brekfist."
He moved on, unbuttoning his coat and jacket, loosening his
shoulder holster, getting his gun ready. His heart was beating
faster than the gentle slope of the stairs warranted. His body
appeared to be reacting more with excitement than anger or fear
at the prospect of seeing Alex Krycek again.
Where was that list? Well, he ought to be able to remember the
first item anyway: He killed my father.
Did he? Krycek had said that he hadn't and although Alex rarely
spoke the truth, he'd said he hadn't killed Melissa and that had
turned out to be true.
Where was the rest of that damn list? Strange because his mind
was usually so efficient at filing and retrieving information.
Okay, forget the list.
Say fucking bastard twenty times. In Russian.
A hot shower was one of the few things that made living in Russia
tolerable for Krycek, even though St Petersburg water normally
ran the colour of urine, on bad days running even darker as if
passing from the kidneys of a sick horse that should be put out
of its misery and shot. The thought of the steamy warmth of a
shower was a great comfort and Krycek liked to indulge himself
under it for as long as the hot water tank held out.
As usual, the dream about Mulder had manifested itself
physically. Stepping under the water— a pleasant light yellow
that morning—Krycek was busy working on a scenario that would
bring him off as exquisitely as possible.
He never consciously indulged in thoughts of Mulder whilst
fantasising. It was bad enough that his body reacted in such
Pavlovian fashion to a stray thought of the man, it seemed
gratuitous in the extreme to use him as a talisman for a good
orgasm. Why, he'd be sending him fan letters next, going back to
Washington and following him around, drooling like a puppy that
hadn't tasted water for days.
From the seduction of male virgins—Krycek liked to boldly come
where no man had gone before— to being gang raped by thugs,
Alex's fantasies spanned the whole gamut of sexual activity. That
morning his mood hung lazily around somewhere in between these
two extremes.
As he soaped his body, closing his eyes, giving himself up to the
moment, Krycek thought back to a handsome policeman he'd seen the
day before. The man had been thick set, the curves and lines of
his body showing through the uniform. He'd glanced briefly at
Krycek's crotch which had made Alex want him at once. Pity he'd
been standing in the middle of some crossroads, directing rush
hour traffic, with both hands occupied. But there was a simple
remedy for that. Krycek conjured up a scenario where the
policeman found out where he lived by some mysterious means and
he had invited the man in for a shower, as any sexually deviant
and moderately insane person would.
The policeman was raring to go. His hands explored Krycek's wet
soapy body, concentrating on his nipples and chest for a while.
Krycek was soon gasping.
"What's your name?" he asked breathlessly.
"That information is classified," said the policeman, running a
hand down Krycek's smooth flat stomach.
Oh trust me to conjure up a damn smartass policeman. Can't I even
make a fantasy easy for myself?
"Well, I'm going to call you Ivan," Krycek moaned. His cock was
surrounded by the policeman's large hand and he began thrusting
into the grip. "Ivan Awfulhardon."
"Shut up, punk," said the policeman and pushed him hard against
the tiles. Krycek's cheek and hip bones slammed against the
enamel as two thick fingers forced their way inside him.
"Oh God!" Krycek cried out in delight. "You're an animal!"
Mulder stood in the hallway of Boris Yutkevich's apartment,
pausing to get his bearings, his gun trained in front of him.
Breaking into the apartment had been easy. Embarrasingly easy,
really. To begin with he adopted standard procedure by ringing
the door bell and when nobody answered, he let standards go to
hell and started picking the lock. Then he realised that the door
had been unlocked all the time. They must be an honest crowd in
St Petersburg. Touching.
Sounds of enthusiastic and energetic lovemaking greeted him as he
made his way down the hall. Someone was having fun in the bath or
the shower. The smell of tobacco hovered in the air so there had
to be at least one other person besides Krycek in there —
sometimes his powers of deduction knocked him off his feet. When
he reached the bathroom door, an unaccountable element of good
sense took hold of him, grabbing him metaphysically by the
shoulder and holding him back. Matters were obviously attaining
climactic proportions in there and two limp post coital men would
be easier to handle than angry victims of coitus interruptus. He
waited for the storm to abate.
Enhanced by the echo of the bathroom, the cries and groans seemed
utterly uninhibited and compulsive. If one of the men hadn't been
Krycek maybe he would have rushed in and joined them. His body
was responding to the call anyway, though his mind was more
concerned about Krycek's lover and whether he was built on the
same proportions as the man with the coat. Krycek he could
handle, the juggernaut he wasn't so sure about. Mulder planned
his strategy, burst into the room, crouched at waist height and
aimed his gun somewhere in between the bath and the shower.
It was an enormous, old fashioned bathroom, almost the size of
his entire apartment, high ceilinged, the walls covered in cream
tiles. In one corner was an old fashioned, rusting claw footed
bath and the other corner was entirely devoted to the shower.
From the little he could see through the curtain, the occupants
seemed to be in an untidy heap on the tiled floor, recovering
their breath.
"FBI!" Mulder shouted, his voice unnaturally loud and resounding
off all four walls. "Put your hands in the air and come out of
there!"
There was a slight scuffle on the floor and Krycek poked his head
round the curtain. His face lit up like a child's at Christmas.
"Mulder!" he said breathlessly. "Hey, it's good to see you!"
It was the last reaction from him that Mulder had anticipated and
because of its spontaneity he was thrown into confusion. Why was
it that Krycek always did this to him? Like some particularly
perverse law of quantum physics, he was never the same, never did
anything that was expected of him. Damn him. Mulder straightened
up, taking a few paces forward.
"Get out from behind the curtain, Krycek! You and your friend."
Krycek suppressed a giggle. That wasn't expected either. In a
minute, he might do a somersault in mid air, anything was
possible. "My friend?"
"Yes, your friend, your lover, whatever, both of you out of
there!"
"Do you mean Ivan?" Krycek was still suppressing laughter.
"I don't care if it's Peter llyich Tchaikovsky! Out!" In a
gesture of delicacy, Mulder grabbed two towels and threw them
across the room. They slapped against the shower curtain.
"Mulder, how can I tell you this? Ivan is a figment of my
imagination, an autoerotic fantasy."
Now the boy was rambling. "Out, Krycek!" He made a no-nonsense
gesture with his gun.
Krycek gave a little shrug, got to his feet unsteadily and
wrapped a towel round his waist. He pushed the curtain completely
aside. There was no-one else there. It took a moment for the
significance of this to dawn on Mulder. It was impossible to
credit all that noise and enthusiasm to one person. Jesus, what
would he have been like if he'd had company in there? Me, for
instance . No, strike that last thought from the record.
"Mulder, your face is a picture." Krycek was laughing at him. Had
he no sense of shame? "Don't tell me you never indulge."
"Everyone indulges occasionally," Mulder replied with cool
dignity, "but they don't usually make such a big production
number out of it."
"That only indicates an abysmal and depressing lack of
imagination."
Mulder was once more surprised by Krycek, this time by the beauty
of his body. It was slender and well muscled, his arms and
shoulders looked very strong, and the thought of what was hidden
behind the towel put his temperature up several degrees. He
reminded himself of the fact that this was the man who had
deserted him and left him to die in the gulag. And that little
item was only number 9 on his list. Mulder gestured for Krycek to
move into the bedroom. "I haven't come all this way to discuss
your weird sex life."
Krycek suddenly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"This place is bugged, Mulder. You're okay in here while the
shower is running but not in there." He nodded towards the
bedroom.
"Shut it, Krycek!" Defiantly, he switched off the shower and gave
Alex's shoulder a push. Touching his wet naked skin sent a shock
wave of desire through Mulder. He took a step back as if he'd
touched a hot plate. "I've had enough of your damn stupid tricks.
I want you dressed and ready to leave in five minutes." Was that
too long? He didn't want to show the slightest hint of leniency.
He wanted Krycek to know that this time—this time— things
would be different. Fox Mulder was utterly and completely in
charge of the situation. Absolutely. "No, make that three
minutes."
"Then don't tell me I didn't warn you," Krycek whispered, so
close to his ear that Mulder could feel the heat of his breath on
his skin, the smell of sperm adding an additional frisson. Mulder
watched Krycek saunter into the bedroom as if he hadn't a care in
the world.
His tone had been so seductive that Krycek could have been making
an indecent proposal instead of giving a warning. For the tenth
time in as many minutes, Mulder wondered exactly what species
Krycek could belong to, how his particular state of consciousness
could possibly be defined. Any attempt to do so would probably
end in madness. He followed him into the room, noting with some
satisfaction that the colour scheme was brown.
Torn between a voyeuristic urge to see his ex-partner completely
naked and the desire to appear utterly uninterested in the
prospect, Mulder turned his face slightly to one side, while
Krycek dried himself, and vaguely addressed the wall to his
right.
"That scar on your left arm, Krycek, did someone try to cut it
off?" He wanted to get the tone right, so that Alex might think
he was disappointed that the attempt had failed.
"Yeah, they tried." From the corner of his eye, Mulder was aware
that Krycek was pulling on his jeans. He made a mental note —
with two heavy black asterisks—that Krycek had not bothered to
put on any underwear. "You bungled my escape plan, Mulder, I was
coming back for you later. You're so impatient."
Mulder gave one of his best sarcastic laughs, with a little
contempt thrown in for good effect.
Krycek put on a white t-shirt. "I got lost in the woods. I was
adopted by this weird little group who thought they could save
everyone by cutting off their arms."
It was incredible how Krycek made it all sound as if he was an
innocent in a fairy tale: I was walking through the woods,
Mulder, following a trail of breadcrumbs, and I met this huge
white rabbit...
"So how did you stop them?" This should be good. No, wait a
minute, I can't resist this. "Don't tell me. The oily alien came
back and grew you another arm. Peter the Great's ghost appeared
just in time to frighten them off. Using the latest psychokenetic
techniques, you not only thought yourself back an arm but it's a
superarm as well, capable of withstanding temperatures of over
300 degrees centigrade."
Krycek was giving him a look of exaggerated patience. When he
spoke, his voice had turned cold. "I had them all shot anyway."
Mulder felt his stomach lurch and twist. "What?"
"Well, what they did— it hurt," Krycek said as if that made it
all right. He put on a grey sweater and reached for his black
leather jacket.
"You cold blooded—"
"Only joking, Mulder." He paused, pulling on the jacket. "Or am
I? You never know with me, do you."
Mulder's mind toppled over and then regained its equilibrium,
leaving him with a feeling of nausea. Executioner, theatrical
masturbator extraordinaire, comedian: would the real Alex Krycek
stand up please?
"How was potty training for you, Krycek?"
Alex laughed delightedly. That wasn't supposed to happen either.
Mulder reserved that line for psychological emergencies only, an
unsophisticated ploy to reduce someone to a state of humiliation
and confusion. "I loved it! Especially learning to retain it all
until the very last possible moment."
"I always said you were full of crap." Mulder checked his watch.
"Your time's up. I hope you packed your toothbrush."
A pair of beautiful green eyes gazed wistfully at him across the
room. "You don't really think we're going anywhere, do you,
Mulder?"
His hair was still cropped but he'd let it grow a little longer,
a little softer. He was no longer scheming Krycek the Russian
spy, or eager Krycek the partner, or frightened Krycek of Hong
Kong, he was a bewildering amalgam of all three plus something
more, the sum total of experiences that he'd had in the past four
weeks. A fascinating, unexplored Krycek. Mulder's feelings seemed
to border dangerously on regret but that wasn't possible—only a
suicidal maniac would want to get to know Krycek better. "I'm
taking you back to Washington, Krycek. As they say in the movies,
they're going to throw the book at you."
Someone behind him barked an order in Russian. Mulder whirled
round to face another Russian juggernaut, only this one wore a
raincoat. It couldn't be cabbage soup that made these men so
big...
Krycek grabbed him from behind in what seemed half wrestle, half
embrace. Again the seductive voice breathed into his ear.
"They've been waiting for you, Mulder, they put a 24 hour watch
on this place. They thought you'd try and come back for me."
The juggernaut took Mulder's gun.
Mulder sat handcuffed in the back seat of the car with an armed
Krycek at his side. Krycek and the juggernaut driver talked away
to each other in Russian, maintaining eye contact in the car
mirror.
He had no idea where they were taking him. He had no idea what
they were saying, though he knew from his cursory Russian course
on the plane what they were not saying. They were not calling
each other bastards, talking about blow jobs or accusing one
another of stealing tools.
He was constantly troubled by the thought that Krycek had
actually warned him. Why would he do that? If Mulder had listened
to him, he may still have been a free man. But then Krycek would
know better than anyone that Mulder wouldn't believe a word he
said, so warning him had effectively been the same as not warning
him. All it had done was temporarily derange Mulder's mind and
make him sit in the back of the car wasting good thinking time
wondering why Krycek had done it. A mind game, that was all it
was. And if he wanted to survive, he shouldn't be playing along
with it.
No-one knew where he was. No-one would be looking for him. It was
Saturday. What better way to spend a free weekend than chasing a
psychotic killer around St Petersburg? He'd figured he'd be back
by Sunday morning with Krycek in tow. If I come out of this
alive, he promised himself, I will take on only those assignments
which are given to me, I will spend my weekends feeding the fish
and doing my laundry. I will not stray from my sofa except to eat
and answer nature's call.
The car pulled to a halt. Krycek and the driver were laughing.
Loosely translated, the laughter seemed to mean, "We are going to
do something particularly nasty to Fox Mulder." He tensed as
Krycek got out of the car, walked round to his side and opened
the door.
"Walkies, Mulder!"
They were parked opposite a bleak looking alleyway, in a run down
and deserted area. It was the kind of place you took someone to
shoot them and leave the body to be found days, possibly weeks,
later. Something in him protested at an ending like this. He got
out of the car slowly, his mind racing.
Krycek leaned inside, said something in a very suggestive tone to
the driver. More inscrutable Russian laughter. And then he and
Krycek were walking away, down the alleyway, Krycek's hand on his
elbow.
It had stopped snowing and there was a thaw on. Their footsteps
sounded wet and slushy in the dying snow. When they reached
midway down the alley, Krycek stopped and looked back to the car.
They were out of sight of the driver, hidden by dumpsters and
rubbish.
Not taking his eyes from Mulder's, Krycek lifted his gun higher,
using it to push Mulder's coat and jacket open, then running the
gun slowly and suggestively from mid chest down to his navel.
Mulder could feel the chill of the steel through his shirt.
He tried to remember to keep breathing. "Guess you'll be going on
to DC next and shooting my mother? Then you'll have managed
singlehandedly to obliterate my entire family."
Krycek shook his head gently. "I told him I wanted to stop here
because I needed to fuck you. Before we take you to HQ. We have
15 minutes. After that he'll start to get suspicious and call for
back up." Unbelievably, Krycek holstered his gun and unlocked the
handcuffs. He patted Mulder on the cheek in a cheery friendly
manner. "Okay! Run!"
He could imagine the postcard:
Dear Scully,
I am having an interesting time here in St Petersburg.
It is snowing again. My original plan may have been to
bring Krycek back to Washington with me and put him in
jail, but I don't want you to think I've gone
completely out of my mind when I tell you I am now
hiding in a hotel room with him and we are both on the
run from the Agency for Federal Security. We are
planning to escape from Russia together. At least I
will have some interesting holiday photos. Please feed
the fish for me.
Love, Mulder.
He thought at first that an earthquake was gripping the city in
its jaws and shaking it about like a terrier with a rat. Then
Krycek explained to him that the metro trains ran beneath the
hotel.
When Mulder had expressed surprise at anyone actually opening a
hotel in such an unsuitable location, Krycek had given him a
pitying look and explained that of course it wasn't really a
hotel, that was just a cover and only people as desperate as they
were ever stayed there which cut down considerably on complaints
to the management. It was, apparently, some sort of underground
organisation, anti Agency for Federal Security, anti almost
anything you cared to name as long as you had the right kind of
money. And it seemed that he and Krycek had. It was Fox Mulder's
bank account.
Zeitsev, the 'manager' of the place, was straight out of a
Solzhenitzyn novel and claimed to know the writer personally.
He'd escaped from countless Siberian prison camps. A master of
disguise and a brilliant forger, he could arrange for anything
they needed. Even if they wanted to travel back to the States as
Daffy Duck and George III, he was the man to fix it —
photographs, passports, tickets and transport. You want a
diplomatic bag to go with the duck outfit? No problem.
Zeitsev looked rather like a mole, plump with squinting eyes and
small round spectacles. Mulder imagined him at night, restless,
unable to sleep, haunted by memories of Siberia, passing the time
digging a network of tunnels that started under his bed and ran
underneath the city: one to the food store, another to the
laundry, one to the local video outlet.
Lying on one of the twin beds in their room, Mulder watched
Krycek and Zeitsev making plans for their escape from St
Petersburg. This time the Russian spoken was gentle, almost cosy,
and Krycek would occasionally look over in his direction and
translate what had been said for him. Mulder of course, had no
guarantee of its accuracy but he appreciated the gesture anyway.
It was always nice to know where your money was going. And his
seemed to be going fast.
A stranger in a strange land, Mulder was finding himself
uncomfortably reliant on Krycek's native sense, although sense
was hardly a word commensurate with Alex Krycek and he wasn't so
sure about the native bit either since Krycek had left Russia as
a small child. Still, he had to admit that the fairy tale side of
Krycek really seemed to have come up trumps this time. After all,
he'd swept him up from the clutches of the Agency for Federal
Security and was now arranging passage for him back to
Washington. There was of course the possibility, well practically
the certainty, that Krycek was following a personal agenda of his
own but this would be revealed in time and Mulder was feeling so
bemused by the events of the past hour that he could only deal
with one thing at a time. He had his freedom, his gun and his
wits. Both he and Krycek knew he was physically the stronger of
the two. He could afford to play along for as long as things were
going his way.
Like a video stuck on the replay mechanism, Mulder's mind kept
reliving that extraordinary moment when he thought he was about
to die. His cock had gone into immediate full alert at the touch
of Krycek's gun running suggestively down his stomach and it
hadn't really settled down properly yet, maintaining a constant
interest in the sound of Krycek's husky voice. Mulder knew this
meant he had a serious problem and that he should book in for
psychiatric help as soon as his feet touched American soil but
for the meanwhile he was fascinated by the sheer perversity of
being so turned on by Krycek pointing a gun at him in a lewd and
provocative manner, with the apparent intention of killing him.
Interesting.
"That'll be another $500 for getting us across the border to
Finland." Krycek was translating again. "Mulder?"
Mulder and his erection snapped to attention. "What? Oh yeah,
okay." It was difficult to haggle over the cost of your own life.
And there was something almost reassuring about the fact that
keeping him alive was going to be so expensive.
Mulder decided that if only they could stop trying to kill one
another, he and Krycek would make a wonderful couple. Though
their relationship so far had consisted only of extremes, either
being brought into intimate proximity or separated by thousands
of miles, each time circumstances pushed them together they
seemed to fall into an effortless routine, an unspoken acceptance
of each other's rhythms.
That night, Mulder showered first, a routine adopted since the
days when he was the senior partner. Krycek lay sprawled on one
of the beds, reading a Solzhenitzyn novel (signed by the author)
that Zeitsev had lent him.
Then it was Krycek's turn to shower and Mulder climbed into bed,
taking up the novel where he'd left off, as if by some telepathic
exchange he was already familiar with what Krycek had just read.
"I'm taking a shower with Ivan," Krycek announced mischieviously
at the door of the bathroom. "Don't wait up." Mulder glared at
him over the top of his glasses like a disapproving schoolmaster.
"Well I hope you're both going to be a lot quieter than you were
last time."
"The man's such an animal, it's impossible to be quiet."
"Oh for God's sake, Krycek, can't you control these weird and
prurient fantasies of yours for a single night?"
Krycek smiled, the kind of evil smile that he gave people when
they told him he could clean himself up in airport bathrooms.
"What's the matter, Mulder? Jealous?"
"Jealous!" God, why am I getting so worked up about this? "Of
someone who doesn't really exist?"
"Hey, don't knock it. You've made it your life's work to
investigate similar phenomena."
Mulder put down the book. "Why, you little bastard..."
Krycek grinned and closed the door to the bathroom behind him.
One day , Mulder thought, I am going to shoot him and do society a
very great favour.
He heard the shower starting to run and moments later a gentle
moan. Oh no, don't do this to me. He tossed the book onto
Krycek's bed, buried himself under the covers and slammed a
pillow over his ear. He thought about having all his teeth
extracted, slowly, one by one. Without anaesthetic.
I'm so cold and it isn't even snowing in here. I have all my
clothes on and I'm still cold. Something makes me kneel down, I'm
on all fours and then it starts. That terrible feeling as if my
brain is forcing its way through my eye sockets. I'm vomiting
through my tear ducts and my nose. A spasm goes through my body
and the oil is being forced out of me, the sensation is horrific,
I try to scream but I'm scared it'll come up through my throat
and choke me. I'm blinded and crying black oil...
"Krycek?"
He was kneeling on all fours on his bed, giving out groans that
sounded as if he was in labour. In the dismal early morning
light, he appeared to be trying to vomit.
"Krycek!" Mulder climbed out of bed and moved towards him. "What
is it?"
As soon as he touched him, Krycek snapped awake with a whimper.
"Christ! Mulder, is that you?"
"Yes, I'm here, it's okay."
"Where am I?"
"St Petersburg. Comrade Zeitsev's charming residence."
Krycek was shaking uncontrollably. "I'm all right, I'm okay." He
shrugged Mulder's hand away and lay back down in his bed.
Mulder got back into his own bed, watching helplessly as Krycek
and the bedcovers continued to shake.
"You will read that damn Solzhenitzyn angst before going to
sleep."
"Nag, nag, nag."
"What the hell were you dreaming about so that I can make sure
never to do the same?"
"Nothing."
A metro train rumbled along underneath them and the whole room
shook as violently as Krycek, so that he seemed for a few blessed
moments to be still.
"There's something I need to know, Krycek. Did you plan all this
to happen like it is?"
Krycek was silent for some time. When he finally spoke, his teeth
were chattering so hard that he sounded as if he'd taken a dip in
ice cold water. "Strange as it may seem, Mulder, I haven't quite
mastered the art of omnipresence, though I am working hard on it.
I hate to break this to you but the galaxies and the planets and
the stars are all moving around in the cosmos independent of my
desires."
"Well that's the best news I've heard all week. Okay, let's put
it another way: why do you want to leave Russia?"
"You've been here for a few hours now. Wouldn't you?"
"Tired of pretending to be a Agency for Federal Security agent,
huh?"
"Yeah, the same way I got tired of pretending to be an FBI
agent."
"Who are you really working for, Krycek?" It was worth a try,
maybe he was in the mood to talk about it.
"Myself. I like the hours, the terms and conditions."
Maybe not.
Mulder watched him as he turned over and curled himself into a
tight little ball. His knees must have been under his chin. He
was still shaking, but less violently. "Hey, Krycek, is that damn
Ivan of yours really a figment of your imagination or did you
base him on someone you know?"
"Stop being a psychologist trying to take my mind off things."
"Godammit, I'm not being a psychologist, I'm being a
self-interested pervert. I'm very seriously considering taking up
this hobby of yours."
He was silent for so long that Mulder thought he was being shut
out again. Then finally, Krycek said with some reluctance, "I saw
this policeman. Directing traffic."
"What's he like?"
The silence was shorter this time. "Massive. Brutal. He calls me
Punk."
"What does he do to you?"
"He makes me tell him how much I want him. He's crazy about me
but he can't cope with those feelings so he gets angry."
Apparently the FBI agent in us never dies. He's even formed a
little profile for his fantasy lover. "Nothing too subtle about
your fantasy then."
"I suppose yours will have to be peppered with delicate Jungean
archetypes."
Krycek must have been feeling better. "Why do you get turned on
by a rape fantasy?"
"It's not rape." Krycek sighed and there was strength behind the
sigh. He'd stopped shaking. "It's hard and dirty and a little
sado-masochistic, but it's not rape."
Mulder supposed there had to be some distinction there that he
was missing. He'd give it more consideration in the morning.
"Yes," he said sleepily, "but why do you like it like that?" And
would you, he wanted to ask, be turned on if I used a gun to draw
a line from your chest to your navel?
There was no answer. Talking about Ivan had removed Krycek from
his nightmare world into a world of far sweeter dreams.
Krycek woke to the unfamiliar sounds of cosy domesticity. Mulder
was making them tea. God, he'd be a fantastic husband for
someone. Sleepily, Krycek watched the long slender fingers as
they poured the milk, hesitated over the sugar bowl, that
wonderful mind digging about in its memory to check whether
Krycek liked sugar or not, coming up with the correct answer and
dropping three lumps into the cup.
It was like admiring a beautiful painting. Study in Blue Boxer
Shorts. Those broad strong shoulders that Krycek longed to sink
his teeth into, the graceful line of the limbs, the amazing curve
of the buttocks. David Hockney, eat your heart out.
They were leaving for Helsinki that evening, as soon as darkness
fell. Krycek had less than seven hours to seduce him.
"What are you smiling at?" Mulder handed him a cup.
"Nothing." Thank God he wasn't psychic. "Thanks, Mulder."
They drank together in comfortable silence for a while. Then
Mulder asked, "Where are you planning to go when we get to
Helsinki airport?"
"I thought we had a truce."
"We do have a truce. You've stuck your neck out for me —though
it's probably for your own devious little ends—and if you get
me safely to the airport, I'm going on to JFK and then
Washington. You're free to go on to wherever you like. I was only
asking out of curiosity."
Krycek gave him a bitter-sweet smile, saccharine not sugar. "I'm
not telling you. You might try to trace me later."
"Of course." Mulder smiled back, such a rare treat, if only he
had a camera he could keep the picture for rainy days. And there
would be plenty of them.
"Actually I haven't decided yet anyway. It doesn't make much
difference, does it." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
Mulder looked incredulous. "Of course it makes a difference where
you live. We all need a place where we can shut the door on the
world and feel safe."
"That's funny coming from you, Mulder. The rate people break in
and out of your apartment, it's like feeling safe in Grand
Central Station."
Mulder gave a gentle laugh. "I like Grand Central Station.
Anyway, I feel safe in my own apartment, fragile though that
safety may be."
"I envy you." Krycek looked intently into Mulder's eyes. "I don't
feel safe anywhere. Wherever I live will just be another
address." He could see Mulder getting ready to analyse him again
— is that the start of some dissociative disorder or simply
incipient depression?—so he drank his tea quickly, pulled on
his jeans and headed for the bathroom to relieve himself.
He wasn't at all prepared for what he saw when he came out again.
Mulder, still in the boxer shorts he'd slept in, waiting for him,
pointing a gun at him. Oh God, what have I said this time?
"Okay, Mulder, if it means that much to you, of course it makes a
difference where you live. Get me a map and I'll work on it right
away."
Mulder's face was impassive, difficult to read. "Shut up," he
said. And on the heels of that, "Punk."
Krycek frowned. Surely he couldn't really have heard correctly.
"What did you say?"
"I said punk." Mulder was easing closer. "Where the hell have you
been?"
Good grief, obviously the St Petersburg water doesn't agree with
him. Well let's face it, it didn't do Tchaikovsky much good
either. Maybe I should ask Zeitsev to get a doctor?
"Mulder, are you okay?"
Mulder grabbed him by the arm and threw him down on the bed.
"Mulder? Who's Mulder? The guy you stood me up for last night?"
He knelt down on the bed, either side of Krycek's thighs, pinning
him down.
Christ, is he...?
"The name's Ivan, in case you forgot. Say it for me, punk."
He is! Krycek stared back at Mulder in complete astonishment.
Mulder slapped him across the face hard enough to cause a
stinging pain.
Jesus! This man gets my vote for the next Academy Award. Krycek's
body reacted to the blow as if Mulder had kissed him. He felt hot
pleasure travelling at the speed of light down his spine.
"Say it!"
"Ivan! I'm sorry. Ivan."
"Damn right, you'll be sorry. Suck my gun."
"What?" Holy shit, even I hadn't thought of that one.
"Suck it."
Mulder ran the end of the gun barrel along Krycek's lips, pushing
them apart. Krycek took it into his mouth, running his tongue
suggestively over the tip and then putting his lips round it,
taking it all in. Mulder moved the barrel in and out of his
mouth, mimicking sex. Krycek writhed helplessly underneath him,
wickedly excited.
"I'm capable of pulling the trigger, you know that, don't you,
punk?"
Krycek nodded. He stared up into Mulder's eyes. They were black
with desire, he seemed as excited as Krycek was. He'd never
looked more beautiful to Alex. If he was going to die now, this
would be the way he'd like to go, looking up into Mulder's
amazing eyes, being fucked in the mouth by his gun.
When it was pulled away, Krycek only had time to feel a short
stab of disappointment, for the gun was replaced quickly by
Mulder's lips. Krycek sucked on Mulder's tongue in the same way
he'd sucked on the barrel, greedily, feverishly, their saliva
blending in an interesting mixture of metal and tea.
When Mulder broke away, leaning back on his haunches again, he
was panting heavily. Using his gun, he traced a line down
Krycek's cheek.
"Tell me you want me to kiss you again," Mulder/Ivan said.
"Kiss me." The gun was moving down his neck now.
"Kiss me what, punk? Where are your manners?"
"Please. Kiss me, please."
"That's better." Mulder leaned forward to kiss him again. Their
tongues played and pushed against each other. Krycek ran his
hands over Mulder's back, digging his fingers into the muscles,
trying to pull him down to him. But Mulder broke away again.
"Not so fast. Tell me you want me to suck your nipples."
Christ. "Please. I want you to suck my nipples."
The gun travelled down his chest to both nipples, where it drew a
circle round the hard little buds and flicked them. Each time
Krycek drew in a sharp ragged breath and arched his back
sluttishly. Oh my God, when have I ever been so turned on by
anybody in my life? By the time Mulder's tongue was following the
trail blazed by the gun, Krycek was moaning uncontrollably,
twisting under his tormentor like a flame. When Mulder took each
nipple into his mouth and sucked at it hard, Krycek let out a
throaty groan. He couldn't take much more of this.
"Oh God, Ivan, please, I need you so bad, fuck me."
Mulder looked up at him. Sweat was showing on Mulder's forehead
and upper lip. Surely he couldn't take much more either. "Take
off your jeans."
Krycek willingly pulled them off. His erection was burning hot,
jumping in anticipation. Mulder stared down at it lasciviously.
No, surely he wouldn't. The gun travelled the length of his
stomach. Oh yes, he would. Krycek felt the steel against the base
of his cock, round his tight aching balls and then it was running
up and down his length. He cried out shamelessly, gripping at the
sheets. This was almost too much to bear.
"How much do you want me, punk?"
Oh please, don't expect me to be able to talk. "Badly," was all
Krycek could manage.
Then Mulder put down the gun and roughly turned him over and
suddenly he was all over him, kneading the muscles of his back
and arms til it hurt, biting the back of his neck and his
earlobes. It was hard to hang on to the fact that this was the
first time they'd made love. The fantasy had set them both off,
it seemed as much Mulder's as it was his. Alex hadn't realised
that underneath that trust no-one facade, the expensive terrible
ties, and the incessant monotone, there was a delightfully
imaginative and generous lover with a mind as sick as his own.
What a marvellous surprise. Krycek was wailing helplessly into
the pillow. He could feel Mulder's erection throbbing through the
boxers.
"You're a slut," Mulder was panting, "you're just a damn slut."
"Yes." I'll agree to anything you say, I'll sign the rest of my
life over to you. Show me the dotted line. Give me a pen.
Mulder pulled away a little and two fingers forced their way
inside him. "God!" Krycek cried out in delight. "You're an
animal! I love it!" Mulder knew what he was doing. In spite of
his obvious excitement, he'd been thoughtful enough to collect
some of his own pre-ejaculate as lubricant and soon his fingers
were slipping easily in and out, rubbing over Krycek's prostate,
pinning up his desire a few notches higher. Krycek hung there,
trembling on the edge. Something monumentous was about to happen.
He hoped his nervous system could take it. After all this time,
after all that longing, Fox Mulder, his ex-partner and long term
enemy, was about to fuck him. Not only fuck him, but play out his
current favourite fantasy with him. Had the world gone completely
mad?
"I'm going to fuck you so hard, punk," Mulder was breathing in
his ear. There was a sudden shock of pain as he pushed inside,
too excited to take it gently, and besides Krycek could
appreciate that it would have been out of character to do it any
other way. "I'm going to fuck you raw."
Jesus Christ! Alex grabbed wildly at each side of the mattress,
hanging on for dear life as Mulder rammed into him, driving with
an intense animal rhythm. Each brutal thrust forced Krycek's
erection deep into the mattress, pounding against the springs,
bringing him closer to orgasm. Each time Mulder slammed into him
there was the resounding slap of flesh against flesh, and a wild
answering cry from Krycek.
"Tell me how much you want me, punk!" Mulder's voice was little
more than a groan.
"Need you..." Krycek wailed out. "Need you so bad. Needed..."
Just a moment, that was close, that was out of line. He felt
orgasm rising powerfully and relentlessly, it was going to be so
ferocious that he'd probably die anyway. What the hell, he wanted
to give all of himself for once. "Needed you —for so long!"
He felt Mulder take his hand and squeeze it. And then Krycek was
coming hard and wild, screaming into the pillow, and Mulder's
free arm was round his waist, supporting and embracing him
tightly while he climaxed.
Half mad with orgasm, Alex couldn't be sure, but he thought that
when Mulder came inside him the man was sobbing with pleasure.
Hours later, Mulder found himself coming out of yet another
glorious post-coital haze. He kept losing track of how many times
they'd made love, his location, the time, the day of the week.
Well, it wasn't that important anyway.
All that mattered was well within his grasp.
Sex with Krycek was a mind blowing experience, wild, hot and
dirty. It had been everything he had hoped it wouldn't be, and
now it was exactly as he had feared— sex with anyone else was
going to be a pedestrian affair at the very most. A depressing
thought, considering that the lover who so efficiently and
effectively set fire to his loins would soon be leaving him.
Before this, Mulder had always thought of sex as something he was
either having or not having. Mostly not having. But sex seemed to
be a state of being with Krycek, it was in his eyes, the way he
moved, in everything he did. With him, Mulder was in an almost
permanent state of voluptuous arousal.
Krycek's skin was deliciously soft and slick. He lay exhausted
over Mulder's prone body, his head resting on Mulder's chest,
droplets of sweat occasionally falling off him onto Mulder's
skin. Glorious. Mulder felt an exhilarating sense of achievement.
I did that, I fucked him senseless, I've temporarily reduced him
to this state, it was me.
Mulder ran his fingers lazily through Alex's short wet hair. He
smelt of Mulder and Mulder smelt of him. So intimately connected.
According to quantum law, even while they lay there, doing
nothing, Krycek was breathing out molecules of himself which
Mulder was inhaling into himself. And vice versa. Maybe if they
stayed like this for a year, they'd look like twins. Imagine the
confusion. It would be interesting, to say the least.
"I can feel you thinking," Krycek murmured. "Stop it."
"I know. It's a thoroughly disgusting habit of mine."
"Thankfully it's not your only one."
A metro train passed along underneath them. The room shook,
something in the bathroom fell off the edge of a shelf.
"Well the earth moved for me," Krycek said, "how about you?"
Mulder chuckled and held him tighter. He had been converted that
day to making love in a single bed. The idea had never
particularly appealed before but now it was charged with erotic
appeal. But then he had to bear in mind that Krycek could charge
anything with erotic appeal.
"Alex, were you and Boris lovers?"
Krycek sighed. "He paid the rent."
Mulder detected yet another erotic bouquet. "So you were
literally his rent boy, then?"
"Something like that."
"So do you have a lover? Somewhere?"
"Why do you keep asking all these questions?"
"When have you known me do anything else?"
"Christ, you even answer a question with another one. You're
impossible." With great effort, Krycek raised himself on one
elbow and looked down at Mulder, smiling affectionately. "No I do
not have a lover, anywhere. What about you?"
"No, I don't either."
"Right, well, that's established that then. Next question?"
"How do you know I have one?"
"With you it's as inevitable as breathing in and out."
"Will you come back to Washington with me, Alex?" He took a deep
breath. "I know this sounds crazy, but now that this has
happened, everything seems so different. I can find you a safe
house while we sort things out. I know you've got charges of
espionage to face but you also have valuable information to
bargain with. Tit for tat. Happens all the time. Who knows, maybe
the two of us could even get that black lunged bastard put behind
bars."
Lost in his impassioned little speech, Mulder had hardly noticed
Krycek climbing out of the bed. Now he was pulling on his
clothes. How quickly life seems to disintegrate about us.
"What's the matter, Alex?"
Krycek pulled the white t-shirt over his head. It was like a
re-run of an earlier scene, only now he knew the body in front of
him intimately. "I knew you believed in some incredible stuff,
Mulder, but I had no idea you'd completely lost touch with
reality." He was pulling on his jeans, not an easy job
considering how wet his body was. "Don't you have any idea how
dangerous it would be for me to come back to Washington?"
Mulder sat helplessly on the edge of the bed, wanting to take
Alex in his arms but afraid to touch him. "Seems to me it's
pretty dangerous for you to go back anywhere you've been. Surely
you're running out of places to make a new start, unless you're
considering a new career as an eskimo or a Benedictine monk."
"You always have some smartass answer, don't you."
"Well, Alex, that's rich, coming from you."
Krycek opened the bedroom door. "I'm going to see Zeitsev. Check
that all the arrangements are made. We'll be leaving in a couple
of hours."
Krycek sat huddled on the dark stairs leading to the hotel
basement, his arms wrapped round his knees. He stared ahead at
nothing, rocking gently backwards and forwards.
The moment he started hoping, he was finished. In fact, it was
strange how much it hurt when he had started to hope, even just
for a brief moment, back there with Mulder. He'd been running on
empty for so long, it just seemed like second nature now. It was
as if something rusted inside him had been cranked up and forced
briefly to start working —though it was so obviously beyond
repair. Resignation and acceptance, those were the important
lessons life had taught him over the past few years, and in some
curious way, they were what made it worth living.
Mulder's little joke about becoming a monk hadn't been so funny
after all. He was almost halfway there.
In spite of the fact that Krycek had had something to do with it,
the journey went smoothly enough and exactly as planned.
Right on time, Zeitsev had backed his lorry into the little
courtyard of the hotel and thus hidden from the road, he and
Krycek had climbed into the back and closed the doors.
There were a couple of mattresses on the floor of the lorry,
pillows and blankets. Thermos flasks, sandwiches, beer, little
cakes. Everything for their comfort. Mulder found himself
wondering who had thought of these nice domestic touches —
Zeitsev or Krycek?
An hour or so into the journey, when the cold began to bite, he
realised the touches had nothing to do with domesticity but
everything to do with survival. He felt grateful for the thick
pullover that Zeitsev had given him. He wondered how cold Krycek
was feeling. He was huddled up inside one of the blankets and
Mulder longed to get inside there with him and keep him warm. But
something held him back, things were no longer the same.
Krycek had come back to him in the hotel room, subdued and
cautious, but he'd come back. They lay on the bed together for
comfort, not making love, holding one another like two prisoners
awaiting sentence.
Mulder blamed himself furiously. What the hell had he been
thinking, making that ridiculous little speech? Well that was the
problem, wasn't it, he hadn't been thinking, ever since he'd had
his cock up Krycek's ass. Asking Krycek to come back to
Washington with him was tantamount to asking him to commit
suicide. And the idea of him and Krycek and a happy ending was as
ludicrous as "Brief Encounter" with a happy ending. Scene: Celia
Johnson sits in the waiting room, gently weeping into her British
Rail tea. Enter Trevor Howard. "I've decided not to take that job
abroad after all, old girl. Let's run away together!" Cut!
Stupid, stupid.
They crossed over the border into Finland with no problems.
Apparently Zeitsev knew one of the guards, well enough to bribe
him with Mulder's $500 and to remind him of the fact that Zeitsev
knew he had made his own sister pregnant the year before. It
seemed a sordid kind of transaction but Mulder was in no position
to quibble.
They spent the first part of the journey dozing, eating, and
drinking, hardly saying a word to each other. In a way it was as
well that they weren't in the mood for a long philosophical
discussion because the noise in the back of the lorry was
mind-numbingly awful. It sounded as if they were travelling in
the company of thousands of separate nuts and bolts. Mulder hoped
rather selfishly that the lorry would stay in one piece until
they reached Helsinki.
Hours later, waking out of a fitful dose, Mulder checked his
watch and felt definite symptoms of an anxiety attack starting.
He moved over to where Krycek was dozing under his blanket.
"Alex?"
"Mmmmm?" He looked delightfully sleepy.
"We're going to be in Helsinki in about four hours' time."
"What?" He was suddenly awake. Was that a look of panic in those
fawn-eyes? At any rate, they were wide open and unblinking,
staring into his own with an unnerving intensity.
"I have a confession to make, Alex. I have this fantasy about
doing the wild thing in the back of a lorry."
As they lay in yet another post-coital stupor in the back of the
rattling lorry, Mulder considered how successful his attempt had
been to get them back to intimacy once again. Krycek appeared to
need Mulder as badly as Mulder needed him, with as little
resistance to Mulder's suggestions as Mulder had to his.
Sexually, at least, they were perfect for each other.
Maybe the future wasn't so bleak after all. He could spend his
free time conjuring up the most depraved and lurid fantasies and
then phone Alex in Spain or Greenland or wherever the hell he
was, giving him the scenario across thousands of miles. Then he
would wait for the whole thing to take effect like some sort of
potent chemical mixture. They could be together in under twelve
hours, maybe even six.
Dream on, Mulder. Try another re-write. How about 'Tale of Two
Cities'? Sydney Carton keeps his head and gets the girl.
Krycek squeezed his hand reassuringly as if he understood his
thoughts. He opened one of the flasks and gave Mulder some
coffee. After a few sips, Mulder found he couldn't keep his eyes
open and fell comfortably asleep on Krycek's chest.
Then someone was shaking him awake. It was Zeitsev.
"Mr Mulder. Helsinki."
He was lying on one of mattresses. Krycek was gone. Mulder sat up
quickly and wished he hadn't. When he had everything back in
focus again, he asked, "Where's Krycek?"
Zeitsev shrugged wistfully. He wished he knew, he seemed to be
saying. Well, Mulder could take an educated guess. The little
bastard had drugged him and jumped off the truck soon afterwards.
Mulder scrambled to his feet, shoved open the lorry door and
yelled "Alex!". They were in the car park of the airport. It was
broad daylight and Mulder blinked frantically into the sunlight.
A woman and child passed by, looking at him as if he might be
very dangerous. He didn't care. "Alex!" He felt Zeitsev taking
his arm, talking to him soothingly in Russian as if it was about
time he had another sedative.
Blindly, Mulder collected his things, shook Zeitsev's hand and
tried to convey his thanks. Then he walked into the airport. He
must somehow have managed to buy himself a ticket, to have waited
at the correct gate for the next plane to New York.
Two and a half hours later, he was strapping himself into his
seat. It would be an enormous relief when the plane took off and
he could relinquish this constant absurd idea to stay behind and
stage some kind of one man search for Krycek.
Part of him was aware that Alex had probably acted wisely,
avoiding a painful scene and the possibility of Mulder following
him, while the other part of him wanted to shoot Alex for leaving
him like that. Someone sat down next to him. Mulder was vaguely
aware of a black leather jacket. Oh no, he thought, this is too
much, I'm going to have to move, I'm not sitting in this plane
inhaling the smell and hearing the sound of leather, I'm in no
mood for torture.
A familiar husky voice breathed into his ear. "I stole this from
your pocket." It was Krycek. He gave Mulder back his
handkerchief. Mulder sat staring at him wordlessly. "I don't
suppose you had time to visit Dostoyevsky's house on Kuznechniy
Pereulok while you were in St Petersburg?" Krycek was strapping
himself into the seat. "It's now a museum. Every day the curator
puts a glass of strong tea on Dostoyevsky's desk in memory of
him. I've always found that idea rather touching. That's why I
took your handkerchief. I wanted something to remember you by
that I could look at and touch each day. Then I thought to
myself, Alex, what the hell are you doing? Dostoyevsky's dead,
Mulder's still alive, let's make the most of him while we can."
Mulder found his voice. "You make it sound as if I haven't got
much longer to go."
"Well you've probably got longer than I have anyway," Krycek said
cheerfully. "Maybe I got it the wrong way round. Maybe you should
make the most of me while you can. Anyway, you can relax now
you've got your handkerchief back."
"Getting my handkerchief back means more to me than words can
say, Alex." Mulder put it in his coat pocket and held it for a
moment. Maybe Trevor Howard shouldn't have taken that job abroad
after all.
end...
FEEDBACK: janesymons@hotmail.com
Dostoyevski's Tea
by Jane Symons
He staggered out of bed in the twilight to go to the bathroom. On
the way, he peered out through the curtains, looking across the
road to Lesotekhnicheskoy Park. It was snowing again, plump
flakes that danced in the wind for a while before falling
silently to the ground.
