"What makes you think I would know?" Krycek, who was scrunched
up on his left due to lack of shelf space, rolled his eyes at Mulder
with an equal amount of exasperation and then turned his head to
stare longingly at the door. He was thinner than usual, Mulder noted
in a detached sort of way as the other man's hipbone dug into his
side uncomfortably. The idea interested him and he swiveled around
to study his companion, wondering what had befallen him. He thought
the Russian cheekbones stood out a bit more prominently, and the
faded blue jeans that were normally so snugly provocative now hung
somewhat loosely, with a belt to keep them in place. Krycek's casual
attire still caused Mulder to feel absurdly overdressed whenever he
compared the ripped denim with his own dress pants and starched white
shirt, though at least he'd gotten rid of the suit-jacket. He
glanced over to where it lay, crumpled on the other side of the
warehouse as the thick ooze that carpeted the floor slowly ate
through the fabric.
He turned back to Krycek, realizing that it had been several
minutes since the other man had spoken and his reply hadn't been
forthcoming. Odd, he thought wonderingly, that he wasn't
particularly distressed. All he felt was the same nagging annoyance;
he must've gotten used to having Krycek around during the past few
days. "It was your idea, after all," he said, his voice
appropriately grating, "your research. One would think that you'd
check to ensure your safety when walking into a potentially dangerous
situation." But he was conscious of the slight flush that crept into
his cheeks; it really had been his fault. He hadn't done anything
this half-witted in years.
Another roll of the eyes was bestowed upon him as Krycek
responded, "If you hadn't insisted on coming with me, Mulder, none of
this would've happened. I could have gotten in and out of here
with a minimum of fuss. Why you felt the need to poke around and pry
into everything when we knew exactly where the specific evidence that
we needed was is beyond—"
Mulder put a hand up and waved it in mock surrender. "Okay, I
concede my mistake."
"And what was your mistake?" There was a mocking gleam in
Krycek's eye. So the other man was going to turn this into a
confessional—fine, Mulder could deal with that.
"At times, my desire to know the truth gets the better of my
common sense. In this case, there was no way I could have foreseen
the possibility that that assassin—" he gestured toward the
gruesome remains of a body that was once human, now being so rapidly
devoured that only the bones were left, "would suddenly appear,
scuffle with you, and knock the barrel over just as I'd finished
opening it. There were also no markers to indicate that the
substance contained in the barrels was.. highly caustic." A
perfectly sound explanation, but there was something lacking—he
felt the need to tack Krycek's name onto the end of his sentences, as
the man had done with him so breezily. He couldn't, though; he'd
refrained from using Krycek's last name for the past two days,
feeling that it was somehow wrong. In the past he'd spoken it with
rage, bitterness, when he was interrogating or, as was equally
likely, throwing punches.
This was different, however—Krycek was helping him, and
they'd formed a truce, however uneasy. When Krycek had come to him
with a plan to expose the Consortium, he'd been naturally skeptical,
but the files and the promising snippets of evidence had convinced
him to go along with the scheme, at least until the other man
revealed his true colors. Then it had ended up being Mulder who
caused it to backfire, thanks to his damned curiosity. It all came
down to the fact that he didn't feel the same enmity toward Krycek
that he once had, despite—and he reminded himself of this
constantly—compelling evidence that the double or perhaps even
triple agent had assassinated his own father and assisted in the
murder of Scully's sister. He felt too ambivalent to generate the
anger that flared up in him at the thought of the name Krycek, but
neither could he say Alex. Much too intimate—the last time he'd
even thought of Krycek on a first-name basis had been just before his
betrayal. And he definitely did not want to bring his thoughts back
to that again.
"Alright, but it's still your mess." Krycek's nose wrinkled up
when he looked down at the coating of slime on the floor. "You made
me sacrifice my leather jacket, Mulder. My favorite leather
jacket. I'm not gonna forget that anytime soon, so you'd better
figure out a way to get out of this place before I decide to take my
revenge. And don't you dare mention waiting for Scully to find us—
contrary to what you may think, I do NOT have a death wish,
especially when it involves irate survivors of a crime that I did not
commit." Mulder realized that he was staring not into the slime, but
at the exact spot where his jacket had been thrown after he'd used it
to wipe up a bit of slime that had spattered on the ledge to avoid
any danger of it touching them. The black leather had already been
enveloped and consumed.
"Sorry about that," Mulder hedged, all the while looking for a
way to shift the blame, "but I lost mine too, as well as anything
that may have protected my feet. YOU still have your socks."
Wordlessly, but with a smug grin, Krycek shucked the offending black
socks and tossed them across the wide expanse of the warehouse. As
he moved to throw them, he bumped Mulder with his elbow. "Once you
make up for killing my father, we'll be almost even." This time he
couldn't resist lashing out. If only necessity didn't dictate that
Krycek sit so incredibly close to him, so near that he was almost
breathing down Mulder's neck. Usually it made Mulder want to kick
Krycek, but now he felt a twinge of something else. Something that
he didn't want to think about either, so he shoved it back into the
darkest recesses of his mind.
A peek at Krycek to gauge his reaction and Mulder found that
the other man had applied his mask again, features chiseled into
starkness, as if nothing in the world had ever bothered him. He bent
to rub at his now bare feet, craning his head down like an animal
trying to avoid detection. If you couldn't see them, they couldn't
see you. But Mulder had a perfect view of Krycek and soon he sat up
again, his lips twitching for a long moment with no sound resulting
from the movement. Finally he spoke, soft but harsh, "There is the
matter of my arm."
Fuck. Guilt flooded him each time he even looked at the
plastic prosthesis; thank God there wasn't just empty space there.
Thank God he was on Krycek's right side, where he didn't have to feel
the fakeness of it against his own flesh. He didn't even believe in
God, though, and he couldn't think of a suitable retort. Everything
sounded brittle. "You didn't have to jump out of the truck." There
was that damned crack in his voice again; he hoped Krycek wouldn't
notice.
But Krycek didn't exactly sound impassive himself. "You didn't
have to kidnap me." He paused and when he continued, his voice
sounded broken, as if he was as close to tears as a man with Krycek's
training in self control could get. "We just have to get out before
someone FINDS us." Eyes on the still simmering wreckage of Mulder's
cellphone, he said nothing more, and Mulder couldn't think of a word
to say in his defense; his own voice might shatter if he tried.
A long, lonely silence ensued, and Mulder took the opportunity
to stare at the slightly younger man again when he thought that
Krycek wasn't looking. He did look different. Dark, wavy locks fell
over his forehead, almost obscuring his eyes. "You lost the
stupid-ass haircut, at least," Mulder observed in hopes of easing the
tension that was palpable in the air.
"Yeah, well, not much time to visit the salon," Krycek
countered with a hint of sarcasm, and the balance was restored. But
he went on conducting his study of Krycek; there were dark smudges
under his eyes. True, they hadn't slept much during the past few
days, but hectic as they had been—it wasn't enough to warrant this.
It drew Mulder's attention back to Krycek's eyes themselves.
Feeling ridiculous, he heard himself asking, in a hushed tone,
"What color are your eyes?"
From the expression on Krycek's face as he blinked at Mulder,
the other man was as bewildered as he was. His brow crinkled
endearingly. "Green," he murmured, gazing searchingly at Mulder,
"they're green. You can't tell?"
Mulder was tempted to mention the darkness that was beginning
to pervade the warehouse through its scant windows and the impending
sunset, but then he'd have to explain why he hadn't noticed during
the daylight. "No," he admitted, "I'm colorblind. Didn't you
know that?"
Shrugging noncommittally, Krycek muttered, "I didn't have to
know everything about you, Mulder. Such a thing as too much
information. I doubt you'd realize that, though."
No, Mulder thought, because he wanted to know everything about
Krycek, and he wasn't entirely sure why. He told himself that it was
the simple curiosity of a psychologist who'd met an intriguing new
prospect, and then he asked himself why he had applied that
particular adjective to Krycek. Intriguing.. prospect? Fuck.
"What happened to you?" he queried, finally verbalizing the
question that had been on his mind ever since Krycek had shown up on
his doorstep, dirty and haggard.
A pause and Krycek's eyes closed, lashes fluttering against his
cheeks as he leaned back to rest his head against the wall. They
were long lashes, Mulder thought absurdly as he waited for the
younger man to elaborate on whatever it was that he'd been doing for
the past few months. And then almost cursed out loud when it
occurred to him that his thoughts were running along a vein that he'd
been steadfastly suppressing for years. It was the close quarters,
he decided, combined with the infuriatingly captivating charm that
Krycek always seemed to wear like a glove. Or maybe it was a coat—
maybe he was hiding something. It was always difficult to be certain
about anything when you dealt with Krycek.
Presently sound was echoing through the warehouse; Krycek's
voice, presumably, so Mulder listened and tuned his idle thoughts
out. "I haven't exactly been blessed with luck recently, Mulder.
And they don't consider me to be one of their favorites by any
stretch of the imagination." Krycek had been unusually articulate
during their cooperative efforts, and it left Mulder reevaluating his
initial assumption of Krycek's education. A crude manner of speech
didn't necessarily indicate a crudeness in all aspects of life.
"Smoking bastard wanted me to kill a child," Krycek hissed suddenly,
unexpectedly. "I almost.. I couldn't. That was the end of it for
me. They didn't even bother to kill me—it's not like I know
anything useful. Just made sure that I didn't have a real identity,
couldn't buy anything useful, couldn't find a job, a place to stay..
cash.." He stopped and grinned helplessly. "It allowed me plenty
of time to plot their exposure."
It dawned on Mulder that he couldn't quite quell the tide of
sympathy that had risen up inside him at Krycek's words. "It
wasn't," he offered, "a bad plan. The execution of it, however,
left much to be desired in terms of.."
"You?" Krycek was snickering.
They shared a smile. "Indeed."
The countenance of the other man waxed solemn. "If we ever get
out of here, Mulder, I want you to know—I have proof that I didn't
kill your father. Of who did."
Eyes narrowed, Mulder darted a furtive glance at Krycek. "Why
didn't you show it to me before?"
He snorted and said, simply, "Like you'd have even looked at
it, Mulder. Get real."
"True." And his gaze wandered over to the door.
"Oh, no," Krycek interjected, "no way on this earth am I
waiting for Scully. Not gonna happen."
Mulder's grin only widened. "Better think of something else
fast. She always manages to figure out where I've gone when I ditch
her, and once she finds the hotel room registered under my name,
well, it's only a matter of time.." He shut up as he realized that
the hotel room must have seemed like paradise to the man in the
faded jeans and torn jacket, regretting that he'd insisted Krycek
sleep on the floor. He could've gotten a double.
"I can't believe you wrote the address down. Fuck, Mulder,
you have an eidetic memory." Exasperated, but amused.
"I know, but just in case we died, someone would know where.."
"Scully." Krycek was bobbing his head, something like a nod,
and he gave Mulder a knowing look before his attention shifted
rapidly. "I still wanna leave before she knows I'm alive, so get
cracking."
Mulder's eyes rolled heavenward and then he discovered the
massive hook that extended from the ceiling. "Hey, you think—"
"Fat chance," Krycek told him after following the path his gaze
had taken. He scrutinized the slimy floor. "You think that stuff
will ever evaporate?"
"Doubt it," Mulder responded in a lazy tone, shifting to
inspect the floor himself. "What color's the ooze?"
"Emerald, I'd say." Mulder glared good-naturedly and they fell
into an easy silence this time. He felt a good deal more
comfortable, but it wasn't that his awareness of the other man had
faded; on the contrary, he could feel the warmth of Krycek's body
pressed against him, the roughness of a denim-clad leg against the
thin pinstripe of his pants. Their shoulders brushed every time he
moved. The intensity, the vibrancy of Krycek's being tugged at him.
There was no polish to the man now; he almost fancied that he'd been
stripped down until nothing but the truth was left. He was so real,
so gritty, so... so idiotic for Mulder to consider. He forced
himself to ponder, rather wistfully in fact, the samples that they'd
been so close to obtaining when that stupid motherfucker had
interrupted. Not very adept for a Consortium assassin, really—
Krycek had killed him in under ten seconds—but the damage had
already been done, the precious container that he'd been gingerly
retrieving on the ground in a flurry of movement, the slime swooshing
over it as he and Krycek dove for safety.
Out of boredom, Krycek was swinging his legs back and forth in
a peculiar rhythm. Running his eyes over the width of the room and
then turning back, Mulder found his gaze lingering on Krycek's bare
feet. They were pale, in contrast to the faint bronze that covered
the rest of him. Long and graceful, with surprisingly delicate toes,
and they were quite possibly the only part of him that wasn't riddled
with scars. Krycek noticed what Mulder was looking at and increased
the rhythm, wiggling his toes teasingly. "Feels like I'm on a
swing," Krycek said in a near whisper, and Mulder could feel the
other man's eyes on him as he leaned forward to rest his head in his
hands, still watching as he extended his own bare feet and swiveled
them to and fro.
It was almost a contest now, to see who could swing higher
without risking a tumble off of the shelf, and inevitably their feet
grazed each other. Once, he counted, following the line of his leg
up and then down again, and then twice, but he'd stopped moving and
Krycek was curling his toe around Mulder's, if such a thing was even
possible. He guessed not, as it evidently didn't work. But when
skin connected, bare skin—Krycek's bare skin, specifically—it
was an incredibly sensual thing. And it tickled, but he didn't much
care because he was too busy relishing the sensation of Krycek's
fingers as they crept along to encircle his shoulders. A slight dip
of the head and he was brushing noses with the younger man, leaning
in so that he could finally plunder that delectable mouth, perhaps
conquer the aggravatingly fuckable body...
"Mulder!" Concern was apparent in the shout of that familiar
voice, and it made him want to scream. Un-fucking-believable.
Couldn't she at least have waited another hour or so? Krycek was
already drawing back, his arm resting at his side, hands clasped
together with a calm equanimity only belied by the short string of
curses that escaped his lips. Scully was shoving the door open and
then hopping away with a high-pitched shriek as she was confronted by
the "emerald" ooze. "What the hell are you doing, Mul—" She
stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him. He could have sworn that
her mouth actually dropped open.
Scully looked just as she should, suit and trenchcoat, scarlet
tresses in slight disarray after an obviously harried search to
discover his whereabouts that had probably taken the whole two days,
gun firmly in hand. He wondered why she was so shocked; not because
of Krycek, surely. He'd left that little tidbit in the note on the
dresser, along with the address of the warehouse. A bit confused,
he glanced down at himself and then at Krycek and realization struck
him. They were barefoot, his jacket was missing—now disintegrated,
he noted—and Krycek was almost sitting on his lap, even closer
than they'd been when they first vaulted onto the ledge to escape the
ooze. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, cheeks flushed from the heat,
and reaching up to run a hand through his hair, he found that it was
indeed disheveled.
Krycek looked just as bad—no, suspicious, since he looked
anything but bad—with his smoldering eyes, the tattered remains of
his shirt—ripped during the brief battle with the assassin—and
the sweat that was dripping off of him liberally. Funny, he hadn't
even thought to complain about the temperature during his initial
litany of horror. Even funnier that Scully could see all of these
things from twenty feet away, things that could be easily explained
by their current circumstances, and come to the conclusion that
there was something between them. But she had; Mulder could see it
in the way her lips pursed, the manner in which her hand tightened
marginally on the gun it held. From the tone of her voice, her
eyebrows had shot up to the ceiling. She certainly seemed to have a
sixth sense when it came to Mulder, and Mulder had never been the one
to discount the existence of sixth senses.
She had already recovered herself admirably when Mulder
shrugged and remarked, innocently, "We're stuck. It's caustic."
Talk about stating the obvious.
"I know," she said drily, and he definitely wasn't imagining
the edge of coldness to her voice. He'd have to reassure her later,
no doubt. "I'll get you out of there as soon as possible. It'll
just be a few.." She disappeared around the door and Mulder could
hear her barking instructions to whatever army of agents she'd
brought with her. From the number of responses, it was only two.
Thank God. He loved his partner to death, but sometimes she went
quite a ways overboard with her rescues, if only to give herself
more reason to guilt-trip him afterwards.
Realizing that they only had a minute or two left, Mulder
leaned back and deliberately caressed the length of Krycek's
cheekbone. The other man shuddered. "Execution by way of Scully,"
he whispered, rueful.
"No," Mulder disagreed quietly, "a diversion and a gleefully
escaping Krycek, if you can run with bare feet. You know where we
parked the car." He smiled beatifically.
"Oh," came the hesitant reply, and then, "Is this—"
Mulder cut in, "If you want to pursue this collaboration, you
do know—" moving closer, "when I'm home," breath puffing against
Krycek's face, "and we can always repeat this." His lips met
Krycek's, feathery light, the heady rush of desire overtaking his
sense of propriety for a moment before he pulled away. Just in time,
he took it, as the massive door swung all the way open and Scully
started yelling again. She must have decided how to extricate them.
"I've got a bed," he added bluntly.
"Don't expect me," murmured Krycek, but he was grinning. "I
want to surprise you, Mulder." His eyes flashed with something soft
and bright and delighted, and Mulder imagined for a fleeting moment
that he knew how green looked. It was all there in the depths of
his eyes.
"Don't bother trying," he answered, beaming quickly before he
plastered his oh-how-I-wish-I-was-somewhere-else look back on for
Scully's benefit, "you always do anyway."
The end.
Barefoot
by Meri Lomelindi
"What IS this stuff?" Perched atop the narrow ledge of a
cement shelf that clung halfway up the wall, legs dangling, Mulder
surveyed his predicament with mild disbelief and tried to categorize
recent events. The attempt to inject hostility into his voice had
failed; he just sounded whiny, disgruntled. Even the stubble on his
chin irritated him; before leaving the hotel today he'd made the
decision that there wasn't enough time to shave, which he now viewed
with regret as he scratched at the itchiness of his jaw. It was just
like him to forget his razor while packing for a plane trip and then,
once they were actually in Virginia, not try to shave until he was
settled in the hotel room at four in the morning. At least he could
take comfort in his companion's similar lack of grooming.
