Retribution Southfork style.
WHAM
Ewwww... Ace of Base.
Owwwww... my head.
Must stop the pounding. Must avoid the light. Where? Under the pillow? Yes!
Soft, cool, quiet under the pillow.
What the hell did I set the alarm for anyway? It's not like I have anything to
get up for. My case was declared a mistrial for inconclusive evidence, so no
more orange jumpsuits for me.
Friends? Mostly dead. Family? All dead. Career? Also dead.
The few friends I have left I don't particularly want to see right now.
Scully. Where do I begin? She gave away her kid. Just gave it away, after
jumping through all those hoops to have it in the first place. I should
probably be more upset about this, but since the kid is actually Skinner's and
not mine, I will just settle for miffed. I mean, buy a clue here: the
insemination fails, then she gets pregnant weeks later, and the kid is
supposedly mine? Don't think so. Of course, I wasn't there to enlighten anyone
either.
Oh well, once the adoptive parents discover the kid is genetically programmed to
never grow hair I'm sure they will give him right back.
It's probably for the best. I sure wasn't going to suddenly become "daddy" to
anyone. I would laugh at the thought of marrying Scully, but that would make
my head start pounding again.
I wonder if my water supply is being drugged again. It's the only thing I can
think of that would cause my brains to attempt escape through my ears.
I think something furry crawled into my mouth and died. Horribly.
As soon as I regain the ability to stand it's definitely time to go back to
hiding. Or as I have been referring to it, my well deserved vacation. Lying on
a beach in the Bahamas with nothing on but a smile has done wonders for my
mental health. Kind of lonely, though.
The ironic thing is that my vacation would have been restricted to the laundry
room if not for the inheritance set aside for me by the man I thought was my
father. He was such a cold fish to me all those years that I was stunned by the
generosity.
Which reminds me of the reason my father no longer needs the money.
If I could only go a few fucking minutes without thinking of him. If I could
just stop thinking of "what if". There are more if's where he is concerned. No
more anything. I need to accept that.
If I could just stop thinking that I could have done something, said something,
right from the start. Maybe he would have had a choice. Maybe we would've had a
future that held something besides aliens and amputations.
I always told myself that he got what he deserved. That he was nothing to me.
That I never really wanted him at all.
I lie to myself a lot.
Damn Skinner. If he would have just let him explain instead of shooting him
like a dog. He wasn't even making any sense. I guess Krycek had a limit after
all, a spot where crazy takes it from there. No wonder really. The stress he
must have been under for years.
I wish he'd felt he had a use for me as more than a pawn in his double-crossing
games. I wish he would have thought of me at all. Like I thought of, think of,
him. I wish....
What the...? What is that?
The pipes only rattle like that when the shower is running. Apparently the new
Consortium thugs are obsessed with cleanliness. Maybe, if I ask nicely, this one
will shoot me in the head and take care of this fucking headache.
Okay, coming out from under the pillow was definitely a mistake. There is no way
I am in my old apartment with all of my stuff in it, exactly where I had it
last. I know for a fact that all of my belongings in a storage unit on 3rd
Street, gathering even more dust than they did here.
Is this some new mind fuck? Why the hell am I even worth the trouble to them?
They aren't planning to ever leave me alone, apparently.
Fine. Time for some unlucky bastard to pay.
Good thing they were going for realistic when they redecorated: my backup .38 is
in the closet where I always kept it. Gives me the creeps when I think of how
much they have on me, that they can put everything back where it was before.
It is hard to be stealthy when your head feels like it's about to fall off and
roll away, but the guy doesn't seem particularly worried about waking me.
Sounds like he's humming something.
The theme to "I Dream of Jeannie"? Freak.
Okay, you've done this before, use the "don't even fuck with me" voice, reach
for the curtain.
1... 2... 3...
"FREEZE!"
Oh.
"Fox! Dammit! You scared the shit outta me!"
My.
"Very kinky, but we don't have time to play "cops and robbers" this morning. We
have that 9 o'clock meeting I've been reminding you of all weekend."
God.
"Fox? Hello? Either get in or close the curtain. You're getting water all
over the place."
Alex Krycek. Alive and in my shower. Alive. Alex Krycek. In my shower.
Alive. And naked. And in my shower. My shower. Wet, naked, soapy Alex
Krycek.
He seems to think he belongs there—he levels a scowl at me that says I am a
very bad boy, then snaps the shower curtain closed.
Huh.
Apparently, I have gone completely insane.
Good.
"I'm surprised you're in such a playful mood. I would have bet money you were
gonna have the mother of all hangovers this morning. I know you were
celebrating, but tequila and champagne don't mix. Ever. Are you still out
there?"
Oh, yeah, that would be my cue. What the hell did I want to know? Oh, okay, got
it.
"What the fuck are you doing in my shower, Krycek?"
And, while I'm at it, what are you doing out of the ground, breathing, on this
planet?
"Ummm... let me think.... It probably has something to do with the fact that I
live here. Stupid."
I see. So that's how we're going to play it. Not so thinly-veiled sarcasm in
exchange for valid questions. And no, he does not live here. Why, just look
around.
A bottle of cologne that isn't my brand. Towels in colors I would have never
chosen neatly hung on the towel rack. Two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.
An elaborate hoax to drive me to the crazy house. That's what it is.
A heavy sigh arises from behind the steam and the frosted shower curtain.
Krycek peels back the curtain once more, seeming unsurprised to see me still
leveling the gun at his head.
"You're not still pissed about Walter's cousin at the reception, are you? He
tripped. That's how his head got in my lap. There was nothing else to it. Of
course there was no telling you that at the time, you had drank enough for ten.
And it looks like you are feeling it this morning."
"Thank God for Dana, although I don't think it was fair for her to pull you off
one of her own guests. She could have wrinkled her dress."
I am going to knock that smart-ass grin off his mug. Really, I am. Just as soon
as my motor skills return. Any minute now.
"Get your butt in here and I will wash your hair. Give you a nice scalp
massage. That'll fix you right up, baby."
Krycek disappears back behind the curtain and steam again. I take a moment to
ponder my choices.
1. Run around the apartment screaming like a little girl. 2. Shoot Krycek, then
run around the apartment screaming like a little girl. 3. Get into the shower
and let Alex Krycek wash my hair.
Hmmmm. I have to say for as much as I like 2, I am also curious about 3.
Helping with my decision is the fact that my headache— hangover—is so bad now
even my hair hurts.
And there is the fact that I have been secretly dreaming of this very thing
happening almost from the very moment I met Alex, I mean Krycek.
No, I mean Alex.
And if, under this delusion schemed up by some Consortium goon, we are into
taking showers together, then I am going to use the fact to my full advantage.
Until his eyes go murky and black or he bleeds green, he's mine.
I take as deep a fortifying breath as I can muster in my condition, pull back
the curtain, and step in.
Oh, wow. That ass is pure poetry. Firm, yet it looks extremely squeezable.
You could bounce quarters off of that ass. Oh, the things you, the things I,
could do to that ass....
"Um, Fox, that's real cute and all, but you should probably take your boxers
off, and your gun is going to get all rusty. You really aren't feeling well,
are you? Poor thing. That leftover Moo-Shu Pork you scarfed down last night
can't be doing you any favors either."
I have a new rule. From now on, no one says the word "pork". Ever.
"Thanks for bringing that up. I just hope I can keep it down."
He laughs at that. Such a nice laugh. I don't think I have ever heard it
before. It follows me as I step out to do as he asks, and all of a sudden it
hits me. Two arms. He has two arms. How the hell did he get his arm back?
I duck back into the spray, grab his left arm, and give it a thorough
examination.
"This is different. Are we doing seduction by new body parts? It's not really
doing much for me, to tell you the truth."
His hair is longer too. Definitely pre stupid-ass haircut. In fact, he looks
much younger, less lines around his eyes. Put on a few pounds, not that he
looks worse for it. Gotta be a clone, doesn't he? Better ask.
"Are you a clone?"
He favors me with another laugh and a dazzling grin. "What did I just say about
sex games? Tonight, I'll be your little sex-bot or whatever you want." Alex
gives me the once over with a naughty gleam in his eyes. "Now turn around and
assume the position."
I spin around and put my hands on the tiles. Okay, could have done that slower
and with less enthusiasm. Oh well, too late now. He chuckles.
"On second thought, you should be my little sex-bot. I've already trained you
so nicely."
Smug bastard. It's a good thing he's doing that incredibly fantastic thing to
my scalp. Those long, strong fingers are pure heaven. All ten of them. How
the hell is this even possible?
I don't care, not at all. If this is the way it's going to be, that's fine with
me. This is the way it was meant to be, just being with him. This is right.
"That's better, isn't it," he croons from somewhere near my left ear, "you have
been so stressed since that whole Duane Barry debacle. That was months ago
baby, you need to let it go. That guy isn't getting out of the psychiatric
hospital for a long, long time."
Wait, what? Months ago? Months? I summon the will to dislodge his fingers and
turn around. I have to see his face.
"Months ago? Don't you mean years? What the hell are you trying to pull here,
Krycek?"
His face reveals nothing but concern, with just a tinge of exasperation. "Well,
technically, last year, but since it's only February, and he was arrested in
November... did you hit your head trying to crawl into bed last night or
something?"
He carefully prods my scalp again, this time looking for bumps or dents. He
really needs to stop doing that or I may stop caring what the date is. One way
to be sure. I duck out from under his hands, back out of the shower, and grab a
towel. What the hell color is this anyway? Puce?
Exiting the bathroom, not heeding the dismayed calls to come back and get the
shampoo out of my hair before it gets in my eyes and I go blind, I start digging
through the disaster that is my desk. Calendar, calendar... here it is—February
5th, 1995. Okay, easy to fake. Date on the computer—February 5th, 1995. Also
easily faked. But why bother? Why do I even want to fight this?
It's 1995. Scully was never abducted and is now happily married to Skinner.
I'm not alone anymore. Alex is my partner, friend, and lover. And if he was
going to defect to the consortium he would have done it by now. Could it all
have been one big bad dream fueled by alcohol and leftover Chinese food? Seems
implausible, but let's face it, at this point I'm not going to be a hard sell.
Feeling hands on my shoulders, two warm soft hands, I turn to meet Alex's
concerned gaze.
"Find what you were looking for in here?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." He is still giving me a look like he is
trying to assess brain damage.
"Sorry about ditching you in the shower there. Let me make it up to you." I
reach for the towel around his hips, only to be stopped by his hand around my
wrist.
"Later, loverboy. Meeting, remember? And you still have shampoo in your hair."
The attempt to get under his towel seems to have reassured him that I am still
all there. "What was that whole scene in the shower about anyway?"
"I had a really, really bad dream. But it's over now. And everything is fine."
He strokes my face with his fingertips. "Want to tell me about it?"
"Sometime, maybe. Gotta go get this shampoo out of my hair. We have a meeting,
remember?"
"Yes, I vaguely recall something about that." He takes me by the hand, leading
me back to the shower. We stop. He yanks the towel from around my waist,
tossing it on the counter. As he takes me in his arms I feel his lips softly
brush my ear as he whispers
"Good morning."
The Dallas Variant
by Kashmir
Va"ri ant, a. [L. varians, p. pr. of variare to change: cf. F. variant. See
Vary.]
1. Varying in from, character, or the like; variable; different; diverse.
2. Changeable; changing; fickle. [Obs.]
"It's time to WAKE UP WASHINGTON! Get up! Get outta bed! Get up and get your
stinky self into that shower! Here's a little somethin' from the Ace of Base to
motivate your bad self..."
