The factory complex was too quiet. Mulder found himself hunching his
shoulders as if waiting for a shot from the nearest roof.
Oh, not literally quiet. There was the generator, the fans, some ungodly
racket from equipment in Buildings 2 and 3, even the pigeons that rose
suddenly from the pavement as he walked towards them, their wings catching
the last sunset light in a flicker of red. Their shadows moved across the
sign painted neatly on one concrete wall: Apex Medical Products of North
Carolina. It didn't say "Latest Front for Pinck Pharmaceuticals," but he
already knew that.
The place wasn't empty; he'd seen the evening shift go in half an hour ago.
But he knew from days of surveillance that there were usually more
management types around, even this late, more suits out enjoying a
cigarette or trading snide jokes. This evening, only a couple of the cars
in the lot were new and clean.
Something was wrong. Had he been spotted? He'd have sworn nobody noticed
his surveillance—ten years in the X-Files division, he ought to know what
he was doing. And these faked-up coveralls should make him look as if he
were just another worker late to his shift.
Damn, he missed his team. He'd gotten used to having experienced backup:
first Scully, and then the team. But without them, he had to do this alone;
he didn't dare drag a new, untested group into something this touchy.
Wait, something about the sound had changed. What was that engine buzz,
getting louder even through all the plant noise, almost roaring—
And a motorcycle swerved around him and stopped dead, still running. The
rider was yelling something—did he know that voice? He couldn't see the
rider's face through the visored helmet.
"Mulder, get on the bike!"
"—What?" He'd thought he was prepared for anything, but this didn't make
sense.
"MULDER, GET. ON. THE. BIKE!"
Confused, he swung one leg across the back. "What's going on?" He yelled at
the back of the featureless helmet.
"IT'S GOING TO BLOW. HOLD ON, DAMN IT!"
And the bike nearly took off from under him, and he automatically grabbed
the nearest handhold—the rider's waist, hard and masculine under his
hands—to keep from falling. It took him a moment longer to realize that he
could have stayed, could have tried to warn the workers, could have—
But then they were out of the compound and down to the road, and the rider
laid the bike down almost on its side and they were sliding into the ditch.
Grasshoppers exploded out of the way, rank winebrown water soaked into his
coveralls, and above them the concussion wave of the blast drove the air
like a battering ram before it and tore apart the sky.
The rider grabbed him across the shoulders and pinned him to the ground,
face into the long grass, as debris slammed into the far side of the ditch.
He seemed to be yelling something, but Mulder couldn't hear anything over
the white noise that screamed through his ears.
Finally, the lethal rain of shrapnel lightened, and he raised his head just
enough to see the column of smoke pouring up into the sky, blotting out the
last of the sunset. The body on top of him shifted, and the helmet turned
towards him. Was the rider trying to talk?
I can't hear anything, Mulder yelled, or mouthed—he couldn't hear his
own voice.
And the rider pushed back his faceplate visor, and it was Krycek. The late
Alex Krycek.
Let's get out of here, Krycek mouthed exaggeratedly, and flipped his
faceplate back down. Then his weight was off Mulder's back and he was
lifting the bike upright and grabbing Mulder's wrist to help him out of the
ditch.
With his gloved but very real left hand.
Shit, was this an alien shapeshifter? A hybrid clone? But if it meant him
any harm, it could have just left him to the bomb, or handcuffed and
drugged him while he lay stupefied by the explosion. None of this made any
fucking sense. Whoever this was, he had to go along and find out.
The muddy workboots of Mulder's disguise slipped on the grass, but that
impossible hand steadied him, and he managed to stagger astride the
motorcycle as Krycek kicked it awake.
This time, Mulder tried to find handholds under the seat, but those
black-gloved hands reached back for his own, pulling them forward around
Krycek's waist and drawing his face into the old navy pea-coat in front of
him. For a minute, Mulder resisted, and then he realized that Krycek was
trying to shield him against his body and keep his face hidden from any
observers.
What the hell?
And then the road shot out behind them and it was all he could do to hang
on. They passed the first firetruck eight minutes later, and a helicopter
overhead two minutes after that. Krycek didn't slow down. Was it an EMT
helicopter, news, or some Consortium quick response? He couldn't see it
well enough from between Krycek's shoulderblades to begin to guess.
It was a long ride, most of it on back roads only half-lit by the bike's
headlight in the growing dusk. Battered, confused, jolted, Mulder fell into
a sleeping daze against the solidity of the rider in front of him and
stopped even trying to remember their route.
The shift in balance as they slowed to a stop woke him again. For a
confused moment, he enjoyed the simple warmth of the body he held. Then
awareness shocked him and he sat back upright in revulsion.
Before the headlight cut out, he saw a small clearing under the trees;
ragged weeds; a half-fallen shack, and a battered old RV camper. What—?
When the engine stopped, he could hear barking, and then felt a large furry
body brush past him to greet the rider. A dog. And Krycek. Who was dead,
and one-armed anyway, and—
Mulder swung a leaden leg off the bike and nearly fell as it refused to
hold his weight. But that strong arm caught him and steadied him, and the
dog nosed curiously at his hand as Krycek set the kickstand and dismounted.
"This way, Mulder,"—he could hear now—and a small flashlight beam
pointed to the camper door.
It wasn't until the door clicked shut behind them that Krycek flipped on
the light. A shotgun beside the door, but God, it really was an RV camper
and not just a cover shell for a surveillance team or a war wagon. There
was a kitchen, a work table bolted to the floor, a rack of battered
paperbacks bungeed to the shelf over the neatly made bed. No spare room
anywhere, but room for everything there, and the only free corner had a
nest of moth-holed woolen blanket whose folds were worn into a dog-shaped
curve.
But he didn't see anything more then, because Krycek unstrapped the helmet
entirely and pulled it off.
My God. This had to be the real Krycek. No clone or shapeshifter could have
pared that face down to this clean perfection, age and use cutting away the
merely pretty and leaving the beautiful, weathered bones beneath. Mulder
was no expert on masculine beauty, but this was a pure aesthetic shape like
chiseled stone.
And his hair—his hair was down past his shoulders, tied back in a casual
ponytail, curling slightly now that it was long enough to hold its own
shape. Black next to the skin, sun-paled to brown on the top strands and
the ends, with the first few notes of silver catching the eye like the
flash of a drawn blade.
Stop staring, you idiot.
For a moment, he met that pine-green gaze, which darkened in challenge or
something else as it stared back. And then Krycek removed his gloves and
Mulder couldn't stop his eyes from shifting.
His left hand—the differences were minute, but Mulder could see them. The
fingers of the transplant were a fraction longer, bonier than those of
Krycek's own hand; the dust of hair at the wrist a lighter brown; the nails
flatter, the wristbones a little heavier, the knuckles more prominent—
Krycek was grinning, and those disconcerting eyes were camouflaged again
under his long lashes. "You done with the peepshow, Mulder?"
"How—"
"Tricodine-C, that new drug to prevent tissue rejection. Ironically, it
comes out of early Consortium research on human/alien hybrids. Works a lot
better with standard human transplants."
"But you—"
"I volunteered for the second round of trials. Not under my own name, of
course. They thought I was one of the victims of that Northern Air crash. A
lot of records-hacking for that one, I can tell you."
"But—they must have seen the scarring was too old—"
"Nope. Fresh new cut," Krycek said with finality, raising an amused eyebrow
at Mulder's horrified comprehension. "So, Mulder, you want coffee, whiskey,
vodka, or Mountain Dew? The soft drink, I mean. I don't know the local
moonshiners."
"Coffee. I want to stay awake long enough to get some explanations out of
you, Krycek."
"Well, I'm going to sleep, but please yourself. I'd rather not leave the
lights on in case we're spotted, and it's been a long day for both of us.
You can have the bed."
The dog, which looked like a shepherd/husky mix, settled in the corner with
a long contented whuff. Krycek vaulted neatly into what looked like a cargo
hammock and thumbed a switch to douse the light again. Mulder had to feel
his way blindly to the bed, and was sure he heard Krycek snicker when he
slammed his shin into some obstacle and swore.
And then despite himself, in the enemy camp and at the mercy of his
father's killer, Mulder fell utterly into sleep.
Part 2: Where Ignorant Armies Clash by Night
Oh, God. Mulder, never ever ever fall asleep in boots again, and above all
else, never fall asleep with your gun still holstered and then roll over on
it.
Why—? Oh. The camper. Krycek. Jesus, what was he doing here?
He finally made sense of the clashing sounds that had woken him. Krycek's
radio alarm clock must be set to a shrapnel station. NOT Mulder's taste in
music; he preferred things that at least still sounded like musical
instruments, even if they were mostly synthesized.
Krycek looked remarkably lively for someone who'd also fallen asleep fully
dressed, and curled up in a nylon spiderweb at that. The dog was nowhere in
sight; probably outside.
Krycek. He ought to be arresting the rat bastard at gunpoint, but it's
surprisingly awkward to draw on the man who just saved your life, let you
keep your weapon even when you were out cold, and is now frying something
that smells remarkably like ham.
"So, Krycek, how's the traitor business?"
The cocky grin that answered him was familiar, at least. "Stale," Krycek
said after due consideration. "Well past its shelf life."
Behind him, the radio switched from the so-called music to a news station.
Krycek must have programmed that in; did he listen to it every morning?
When the international news gave way to a piece about a wonder poodle in
Florida, Krycek gave Mulder his full attention again. "How do you like your
eggs?"
"I don't care. Whatever you're having. I didn't know you could cook."
Stupid remark, Mulder. Get your balance back and do your job.
"I can't," Krycek said with satisfaction. "So I just heat things up.
Usually on grease so I don't have to scrape the food off the bottom of the
pan. But if you want, you know, ingredients, it's up to you."
It was indeed ham he had smelled, with hard-fried eggs and toast. Amazing.
Mulder decided he couldn't manage coffee this morning, and went for
Mountain Dew instead—cold caffeine, for a change. "Thanks," he said
automatically, and then hated himself for being courteous to his father's
killer.
"So," said Krycek, setting the pan into the sink with an air of finality.
"Do you want to go through the usual pissing contest? Or should we get down
to business?"
"How about business, Krycek. How are you still alive?"
"Mulder, Mulder. Still focused on trivia. Sure, we can get to that if you
want, but I'm not headline news here. Let's stay with the bomb and the big
boys, shall we?" A chiding tone, and a derisive flick of those long black
lashes.
Take a deep breath, Mulder. It won't help if you hit him. "All right,
Krycek, then tell me about the bomb."
"Have you been paying attention these last few months, Mulder? It's all
going to hell. For the Consortium, that is. Shit, between your
investigations and those truly amazing leaks over the Net... Langly knew
his stuff."
"And paid for it," Mulder said. "They got to him. You know he's gone?"
"Yeah. Actually, I got him away from them—"
"You! Why?"
"Hey, I needed him. But they'd done him too much damage. A couple of months
of coughing blood, and by the time he agreed to see a doctor, it was too
late."
"Damn," said Mulder, missing the lanky hacker all over again. Still, it was
a relief of sorts to know he'd died free and out of those bastards' hands,
instead of in one of the nightmare scenarios that haunted Mulder's dreams.
Assuming Krycek was telling the truth, of course.
"Anyway. He'd guessed right that the Consortium would overreact and try to
crush the Net backbone, but people were prepared for that and the bucket
brigade went on. And Christ, the bastards actually made the situation worse
with such an obvious cover-up, using such massive power and little
judgment.
"And Mulder, are you the one who decided to publish the vaccine process the
same way? 'The antidote to a secret US bioweapon whose primary symptom is
a mobile inky film over the patient's eyes.' Most people thought it was a
joke, but enough of them didn't. Especially after a few reputable witnesses
said they'd seen someone with eyes like that. Damned good idea...
"This whole thing destabilized the Consortium's power standoff—I hope
you've never thought they were united in anything, Mulder—and now half of
them are eating each other alive and the other half are running for cover."
"And which half do you work for, you son of a bitch? Or is it both?" To his
surprise, he saw Krycek's face tighten for a moment, as if he cared what
Mulder thought of him.
"The rebellion, Mulder. Human survival. Did you think I was lying about the
war? Or do you really think I'm too shortsighted to care whether this world
lives or dies? No, scratch that, Mulder, I don't want to know."
God, all the old sparks were there, the unexpected edges and the flares of
furious energy that were, must be, based on mutual hatred, but warmed like
fire. Admit it, Mulder, you missed this. Nobody spars like Krycek; nobody
else gives you that lethal workout that leaves you more alive. Scully used
to, but it's been a long time since you spoke as equals.
"And Mulder, I'm sorry. I heard about your team. But did you really think
that fire in Boston was an accident?"
"Actually, we only lost two of them." God, Mulder, are you starting to
see them as numbers now? "Thompson and Ramirez. But the rest are out of
Intensive Care, and should be back on duty soon." Two deaths, and it was
his fault for not seeing, not warning them. Just like he didn't see
yesterday's bomb, didn't warn the workers, didn't—
"It's a free-for-all right now, Mulder. Conspirators killing each other,
destroying projects, fighting every wave when the whole tide's coming in.
Someone tried to kill your team; someone tried to kill you. And that's why
you're gonna stay dead for a few weeks until things cool down."
"I can't." He was definite. "I've got to stay on the job, and if this is
true, I have to warn the others. Oh lord, Scully—"
"AD Scully? Don't worry; she's been warned. But you've still got some
weasels in the woodpile, so we can't risk telling her you're alive."
"Another leak? Are you sure?"
"Mulder, how the hell do you think I knew you were at that plant? I hacked
into someone's briefing notes, and I don't mean the boy scouts either."
"Damn it!" Shit, he hadn't known it went that deep.
"It's probably Nangi or Malkins. But I haven't wanted to tip them off by
looking too hard." Mulder winced; he had wondered about the recent recruit,
but hadn't even begun to suspect the security chief. Damn.
"So if we can send some message to Scully that nobody else can understand
or even recognize as a code, fine. Otherwise, she gets the wrong kind of
attention, and so do we."
"We?"
Krycek shrugged. "Neither of us wants them to succeed in covering it all
up. But if you really can't work with me, I could drop you at the nearest
firing range so you can practice being shot at.
"Anyway, think about it. I'm going to take a shower."
Actually, Mulder had already thought of a message. After the moth-men case,
he could address her "by mistake" as Dr. Jeremiah Singer (he'd better leave
the bullfrog out of it) and she'd understand. But to send that message now,
he'd have to trust Krycek. What if the traitor used that phrase to make her
believe some other message instead?
Krycek didn't push the issue. Turning away, he started to shuck off his
clothes as if Mulder wasn't there. The pea-coat, and the holstered
gun—God, Krycek was trusting him enough to disarm in his presence? Then
the tie from his hair, and the shirt, and Mulder would have turned away if
his eyes hadn't caught the still-dark welted band of scars near the
shoulder where the transplant joined Krycek's own flesh.
"—How does that feel, anyway?" He heard himself say.
Krycek looked back, his face slightly flushed. Then he raised an eyebrow
with a faint smile. "Like coming back from the dentist when the anesthesia
has half worn off. You know, tingling, numbness, some areas normal and
others completely dead. I can feel pressure pretty well, and heat and cold,
but not much else. The control's good, though; I got my left-handed firing
score back up."
"So it doesn't hurt?"
"Not usually. Except I still get the same phantom-limb pains."
His eyes suddenly shifted, and Mulder knew he regretted saying anything so
revealing. Krycek turned away and tossed the dirty shirt into a drawer.
Was he always this neat? Mulder would have expected him to ignore
housekeeping as trivial, but maybe it was the professional's need to keep
his tools in order, or just that the camper was too small to be able to
have mess in the way.
The minor puzzle distracted him enough that he forgot to look away until
those worn jeans dropped to the floor, and Krycek's naked body bent to add
them to the pile in the drawer.
Mulder's head jerked away so quickly he almost hurt himself. He damned
himself for being embarrassed, but stared at the far wall until he heard
the snick of the bathroom door. The image took a while to fade: that taut
and elegant motion, those long muscled limbs—
A shower. God, what a good idea, especially when he still smelled like
ditchwater. He freed himself from the boots as if from a prison cell,
flexing his half-numbed feet as if it were the greatest pleasure in the
world. And the coveralls, mud-stained and flecked with grasshopper bits and
holed with tiny burns all across the back.... Lord, he never wanted to see
them again.
A half-resentful embarrassment kept him in his undershirt and boxers. With
a brief moment of guilt, he went over to the storage wall to look for clean
clothes. Here we go, a white tee. Well, what do you know, he's still got
a leather jacket even if he wasn't wearing it yesterday. The jeans
weren't quite the right proportions—Mulder's legs were longer and
leaner—but since Krycek apparently liked them too tight, they fit well
enough.
Scratching his stubbled chin, he settled down to clean his handgun while he
waited for the shower. The Browning bluenose was pretty reliable, but there
was no reason to tempt fate after yesterday's rain of debris. Meanwhile, he
listened idly to the radio. What was—
A moment later, he knocked on the bathroom door. "Krycek? Local news says
the police are looking for a motorcycle seen in the area of the explosion."
"Damn it!" a muffled voice responded, and the water was abruptly shut off.
"We'd better get it inside." The bathroom door banged open, and Krycek
streaked dripping for the camper door.
His urgency startled the dog, who barked excitedly but had the sense to
stay out of the way. Mulder watched Krycek muscle the bike over, and
finally asked: "Krycek, what IS your problem? It's just a fucking
motorcycle, and it can't be the only one around here."
"Mulder, if I wasn't paranoid, I wouldn't be here. Just give me a hand and
shut up."
He helped Krycek push the bike up a narrow ramp into the camper and tie it
down. Then he looked at them both—Krycek in nothing but soap bubbles,
himself undignified in boxers and a tee—and couldn't help laughing.
Krycek followed his gaze and snorted, but then turned serious again, though
his color was high.
"We'd better pull out, Mulder, in case some coonhunter happened to see us
here. Unless the radio mentioned a roadblock?"
"Nope. Just said: 'the motorcyclist might have witnessed,' and so on. And
the real risk isn't coonhunters; it's those damned moonshiners you said you
don't know. 'Wal, Jed, thar's somethin' you don't see ever' day; a guy
who ain't yore cousin. And he's got him a pretty ridin' machine, don't
he?'"
Krycek's teeth flashed in a brief grin. "Then let's get out of here. Grab
me a towel, would you?" He opened another door and vaulted up into the cab
of the camper, closely followed by the dog. A minute later, Mulder felt the
engine start.
Still chuckling, Mulder got him a towel, and shoes, and a faded tee-shirt
for good measure. God, how could this cold killer leave him laughing
helplessly as if they were old friends?
Krycek took the clothes without comment, and the camper veered dangerously
from side to side as he dressed himself while still accelerating.
Mulder made himself relax; after all, the man had survived this far, he
must not be a complete lunatic behind the wheel. "That shower still work
when we're on the road?"
Krycek tossed him an amused look over one shoulder. "It better. You're
filthier than the dog, and I'm already going to have to wash those sheets.
Just keep it under five minutes; the tank's getting low."
The tiny shower cubicle was barely wider than his shoulders, so it was easy
to brace when the camper swayed. For a moment, the remaining steam and
drops of water made him uncomfortably aware that a naked Krycek had
occupied this shower before him. But the water felt too good on his back to
let Mulder remain uneasy: the luxury of scalding heat and soap, and a hard
scrub with one of the washcloths from the nearest cabinet....
He made himself stop after a few minutes, remembering Krycek's warning, but
even a rough toweling-off was a pleasure, as though he could scrub himself
free of the explosion, the deaths—
A rechargeable electric razor. Odd, he'd have figured Krycek for the
sharp-edged type, but this probably made it easier to shave on the run.
He could hear the news station echoing from the cab, and the squawk of a
police scanner. Putting on his borrowed clothes, he grabbed a couple of
Mountain Dews and went to join Krycek up front.
"Dog."
"How creative."
Krycek gave him a sidelong grin. "You were expecting something Russian? I
try to keep a low profile. Hey, duck down while we drive through this town.
No need to advertise."
"Where the hell are we going, Krycek?"
"Later. Get your head down."
That put Mulder nearly face-first into the dog, who was curled up over his
feet in complete serenity. "Hello, Dog." The tail stirred, and Mulder swore
as his face was suddenly cleaned a second time. Better distract himself.
"So you're Russian. KGB?"
"Trivia again, Mulder. Does it matter? Yes, I'm really Russian, and really
American, and both sides and the Consortium took turns planting me on each
other. You really don't need the play-by-play, trust me."
"_Trust_ you?" God, how could he joke with this man? It's being rescued
from the explosion, Mulder, you're too susceptible. Especially when you
miss your team. This guy's a cold traitor and the enemy. Remember your
job.
"So, Krycek, why aren't you dead?"
"Not that again, Mulder. Stay on target." Good, Krycek was beginning to
sound a little curt. That was a positive sign.
"Humor me." The town was past, and he sat up and shook the kinks out of his
neck. Now if he could just unclench his jaw before he cracked a tooth.
"Why does it matter? I'm here; I survived; what else?" Shrugging, Krycek
swerved onto an interstate ramp and changed directions again.
"Krycek, I saw the goddamned security tapes. That shotgun blew half your
head off before the camera was broken."
"Yeah, I saw those tapes too. Maybe I should play them every year to
celebrate the occasion. Lucky for me, I was half a mile away"
"What? You—"
Krycek's mouth twitched in a sidelong grin. "The benefit of having too many
enemies, Mulder. I didn't even know they were onto me—a couple of the
collaborator factions—but they both picked the same day to try to kill
me."
"And?"
"And so the hit man pretending to be a crazy took a shot at the
shapeshifter." He turned his full attention back to the road ahead, as if
that was all there was to say.
"Bullshit! And anyway, you can't kill the damned things with a shotgun."
"I know. The camera got broken when the shapeshifter threw the hit man at
the wall. Incendiary clean-up, too. Lucky for me, the taping was remote.
And even luckier, the film color was so bad you couldn't even tell the
blood was green."
"But—" A semi roared past them on the left, and Mulder's protest was lost
in the noise. Krycek picked back up as if nothing had happened.
"And when it figured out where I was, I wasn't using a shotgun. Icepick
city, right in the sweet spot."
"Fuck it, Krycek, I never asked even Skinner to put up with a bullshit
story like that."
"Believe it or don't, Mulder. You're the one who asked." Krycek paused to
navigate through a construction zone, and when he spoke again, his tone had
changed. "Quite something about Skinner these days, isn't it."
Hell, let him change the subject; you're not going to get any further on
that one. "Yeah. Presidential Advisor. Not exactly what I expected."
"No. Of course, it doesn't exactly have job security."
"The next elections, you mean?"
"That too, Mulder. But there've got to be a lot of people worried about
what he may be telling the President." Krycek sounded surprisingly
concerned about the possibility.
"I know." God, he knew. He'd started having nightmares about some of the
ways Skinner could die. "His choice, though. I guess he thinks it's worth
it."
"Yeah. Well, Mulder, now it's your turn to answer some personal questions."
"Like hell."
"What, after all those so-polite questions you've been asking me? Here's
some payback: How do you feel about Scully's promotion?"
Lonely. Scared. Hurt. "Delighted. I'm the one who encouraged her to
take it."
"Shit, I knew that, Mulder. And I bet you're even the one who made her stop
fraternizing, too, just to keep your freaky reputation from getting in her
way." Another grin, and Krycek put his sunglasses on, masking his eyes.
Son of a bitch—
"Being noble hurts like hell, doesn't it, Mulder? That's why I never touch
the stuff."
"You wouldn't know noble if it bit you in the ass, Krycek. You fucking
traitor—"
Krycek tapped on the brake just enough to slam him into his seatbelt,
giving him that infuriating smirk he remembered from the old days. "That's
enough, Mulder. I don't give a flying fuck what you think of me, but stop
yelling. You'll upset the dog."
Mulder took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Mostly.
"And that's another thing. What the hell is with all this, anyway? The
camper, the dog, your goddamned ponytail—"
Krycek leered. "Like it?"
"Fuck you." Damn it, keep your temper, Mulder. Don't let him bait you.
"Great repartee, Mulder. You take debate classes for that?" Yet another
change of highway, and a slow sequence of cars held up by a lumbering
tractor.
"I'm not going to let you distract me, Krycek. Tell me where you've been."
"God, Mulder, anything to shut you up. Get me another soda and I'll talk."
"Just part of the insurance plan. Hell, after that little incident with the
hit man AND the shapeshifter, it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge. And
nobody looks for a dead man."
"So where'd you go, Disneyland?"
"Alaska. Only left there last week." Another sidelong smile, sunlight
reflecting off the dark glasses. "Back of beyond. Nobody up there asks
questions."
"What, you become a hit man for the Eskimos? 'You kill wife, I give much
seal fat?'"
"Good one, Mulder. Man of all work. Construction, oil rig, fishing crew,
you name it. Don't bother to take notes; I'm not going back."
"And the dog?"
"He's not going back either."
Odd flavor, but not too bad. "So Krycek, are you actually trying to tell me
you've retired?"
"Hell, no!"
"Then—"
"I've just gone digital."
Mulder stared at him.
"Hey, I was already pretty good with computers, or they wouldn't have
planted me on the FBI in the first place. And after my "death," I had
damned good motivation to learn more."
"Yeah, I bet. Survival always was your first priority, wasn't it, Krycek?"
For a moment, those green eyes tightened with something—hurt? anger? Then
the hesitation was over, and Krycek continued smoothly: "I keep close tabs
on...things, and drop a little data where it will do the most good. The fun
part is keeping it untraceable.
"Langly—once he knew what I was doing, he gave me some good tips and
contacts before... before he died."
"At gunpoint, right?"
"Damn it, Mulder! I did not hurt your fucking friend. I rescued him from
the big boys and took care of him the best I could."
Mulder pushed away his empty steak plate, with a mean feeling of
satisfaction at seeing Krycek lose some of his smugness. "Yeah, Krycek,
you're an altruist."
Krycek slammed his soda can down on the table hard enough to spill. But
when he came back with a dishtowel to clean it up, his face again looked
remote and calm.
He ignored the shrapnel music and stared out the window, tried to put the
pieces together, and sometimes scratched the dog behind the ears.
But his patience finally ran out at the next change of highway. "Damn it,
Krycek, where the hell are we going? I feel like I'm in a video game. We've
headed—let's see, all four directions now, plus some fascinating
diagonals. You CAN'T think someone's still following us!"
The dark sunglasses turned towards him, and the brow twitched. Krycek
actually sounded slightly surprised. "Oh. No, I'm just marking time. Did
you want to go somewhere?"
"Fuck you!" But Mulder's gun was only halfway from its holster when the
casual backfist stung his knuckles, numbing them and making him drop the
gun. Krycek didn't even swerve.
"Mulder, would you put a leash on it and try taking the long view?"
Mulder scowled at him and rubbed his hand.
Krycek sighed in exasperation. "Mulder, it does not matter one fucking bit
whether you like me, or whether I'm driving in circles, or whether your
boxers get too tight every time someone laughs at you. Get some fucking
perspective, would you? We're both trying to stop the same thing."
"Krycek, you—"
"Do you really want to tell your boss, 'Sorry I've been missing, but
Krycek kidnapped me, and he would have told me something useful if I hadn't
stomped off.' Or shot him. Or whatever the hell you want.
"So Mulder, leave the trivia out of it or shut the fuck up."
Mulder took a deep breath. Krycek was right; he was letting himself get
distracted. He swallowed down the hot rage and felt the cold of the true
anger below.
"Krycek." God, was that his voice? "My father's death was not trivia."
Krycek turned and gave him a long stare, and Mulder could see him register
the real threat behind his words. Between them, the dog growled uneasily
and got to its feet.
"No, Mulder," he said at last. "It wasn't. But do you know why your father
died? Why I killed him? Not because I was paid; I could have fucked up that
mission and blamed it on Luis Cardinal without breaking a sweat, and not
have needed to deal with you afterwards.
"But your father was going to blow it all. He was losing it; we barely
intercepted some mail packets that could have destroyed everything. The
problem with you, Mulder, is that you've always seen the Consortium as the
enemy.
"After all these years, can't you get your head around the fact that they
are the only people trying to stop the fucking aliens? Sure, they're real
sons-of-bitches, and a lot of them turned collaborator when they didn't see
any other chance. But they're the ones who CREATED the vaccine that may
save us."
"And tested it on innocent people," Mulder's voice was dry.
"Yes. And tested it on innocent people. But does that really compare to the
thousands, the millions of innocent people who will die if we lose?"
"Krycek, the real people have to matter too, or why bother to save the
world?"
"They do matter, Mulder. Why the hell do you think I tried to get you out
of that gulag, before you fucked everything up and cost me an arm? I risked
my fucking life to get that vaccine out of Russia, and in exchange I got
blows and mistreatment and a barrel of laughs from you. And I don't care.
You get that, Mulder? I don't care about all the little shit, because the
vaccine got spread.
"And without that, Mulder, your Scully would have died in Antarctica. Died
after hatching out a thing that would kill more innocent people than those
tests did. Yeah, I know about that; who the hell do you think helped my
patron set up his car bomb the way he wanted? I've been there; I've seen
those bodies and what they hosted, and I know what they mean.
"We did what we had to. And so will you, or you're a useless piece of shit
who should never have left your mama."
And Mulder ground his anger down to the cold core and said nothing, even
when Krycek took a U-turn at the next exit ramp and doubled back the way
they had just come, with a tilt of chin that make it clear it was a
challenge.
The dog settled back down on Mulder's feet, but its ears flicked warily at
every sound.
Part 6: Nor Help for Pain
But Krycek did not change directions again. West now, and west, and west,
as if he finally had a destination in mind.
Mulder did not comment.
They drove through the afternoon. As traffic began to thicken, Krycek again
switched the radio to a news station. His finger withdrew from the
selection button, and Mulder noticed him lightly miming a sequence half an
inch out from the row of buttons.
"What's that?" He asked, hearing his voice creak from disuse and the long
tension.
"Mmm?" Krycek's head cocked towards him, but didn't turn.
"What you just did. With the radio."
Krycek was silent for a minute, as if he was trying to remember. Then a
sharp laugh. "The self-destruct sequence."
"What!"
"The camper. You don't think I'd leave evidence and fingerprints all over a
vehicle I might have to leave behind, do you?"
Despite all his experience, Mulder felt his spine tighten and his testicles
try to climb inside him and hide. "Uh," he said. Suddenly, the camper
seemed to loom in around him, a weapon more dangerous than even Krycek's
gun.
"That would have been, let's see, the delay sequence." Krycek was smiling
again. Could the rat bastard tell he'd unnerved him? "There's three
options: remote, three-minute delay, and immediate."
Say something. With a level voice, damn it. "Nice of the manufacturer to
provide that option with the floor mats and the AC."
"Standard package on the family model, Mulder." This time his voice sounded
genuinely amused.
"How do they set up the key sequence if you get the CD player instead?"
Krycek laughed outright.
Mulder was satisfied with his deflection. "So," he said, "Where are we
going?"
Krycek considered the question for a moment. "Little place called Shit
Creek. Please note that we do not have a paddle."
Dried fish. Uck. But it was a challenge, and Mulder refused to beg off.
"Dried salmon it is. Is this the solid bacony type, leather filets, or
tough shredded wheat?"
"Tough shredded wheat."
It was greasy and hard to chew, with the rich rank taste of fish long out
of the water, but Mulder was damned if he would let it defeat him. "Nice,"
he lied, and then wondered from Krycek's wry smile whether he had caught
and smoked it himself.
There were fried onions and potatoes to go with it, and just a little
vodka. "Can't eat salmon without vodka," Krycek commented. "Wouldn't be
right."
Around them, they could hear the faint roar of semi-trucks pulling in to
rest, or steaming out again into the night. After the long hours of the
road, it seemed quiet and almost peaceful.
But the dog still flicked wary ears whenever they spoke, and its tail was
still. Finally, Krycek let it out to sleep under the camper, and they
finished the meal in silence.
"Well," Mulder said at last.
"Mmm?"
"Why all of this?"
"What?" Krycek's face tightened somehow, becoming a remote mask without
having moved.
"This trip. You. Me."
"I thought we covered that already, Mulder."
Mulder set the empty vodka glass down with a sharp click.
"No. You told me how you knew about the bomb, Krycek, but you never said
why you cared if it killed me, much less why you rescued me in person and
took me on this luxury cruise instead of just dropping an anonymous e-mail
to the FBI."
"Well." Krycek seemed to be having trouble finding words. "Wanted to find
out what you were doing these days. I've been out of the loop too long."
"Bullshit," said Mulder, feeling his mood sharpen to a weapon in his hand.
"I think you're just going soft. Langly, the dog—it's nothing but a dog,
isn't it. Not a carrier for some antivirus, not a hybrid clone or a
shapechanger, just a dog you've picked up along the way. You've lost your
edge."
Krycek's jaw tightened like the snick of a safety going off. "Mulder—"
"And that's why you brought me along. You're going soft, you can't do your
job right any longer, you couldn't keep a friend if you held him at
gunpoint, and you're probably just fucking lonely."
Krycek stood up sharply. "Lonely! You pathetic motherfucker, who's lonely?
I bet you haven't been with a woman since that bitch Scully, if then. Hell,
I bet you haven't even been kissed since I gave you that peck on the cheek,
back when I tried to tell you about all this and you were too busy being a
fucking asshole to listen!"
Don't react to that crack about Scully, or he'll never drop it. "I bet
you haven't been with a fucking woman in your whole fucking life unless you
paid her, Krycek. All this jerking people around, and kissing men who can't
stand you—"
"Got to you, didn't it, Mulder? Did you treasure that moment for years, or
run off and clean your face with a belt sander? Can't even handle a fucking
kiss!"
"I'll show you—" and he was on his feet and slamming Krycek into the wall,
driving the air out of him in one hard grunt, and then howthehell did it
happen Krycek's mouth was breaking under his and there was blood on his
tongue even before he tore that lying lip with his bared teeth.
"Motherfucker!" And Krycek couldn't have lost too much of his edge, because
he shoved Mulder back into the table so hard it knocked the shotglass off
the table to smash into the wall. The shards were still falling when
Mulder's knee glanced off Krycek's crotch. Then they were on the floor,
Krycek's hand closing on his throat and his fist driving into Mulder's gut
as Mulder tried to break him in half.
A vicious roll slammed Krycek's spine into a table leg, and Mulder pried
that hand off his neck by almost breaking one of Krycek's new fingers. He
sank his other elbow into Krycek's side below the ribs, but Krycek's head
smashed his chin up and banged his head on the floor, and for a moment
Mulder couldn't see. A rush, another roll, and he felt his arm burst into
sudden fire as the broken glass sliced through shirt and flesh. Krycek was
clawing desperately at Mulder's wrist as he bent that unnatural hand back
and back—
He felt Krycek's nose give under the driving palm of his other hand, and
the torn lip flattened further over the bloody teeth. But Krycek had pulled
free of his grip and was pinning him against the wall, and those lethal
hands were at his throat—
And he caught the traitor's wrists and they fought to force each other
back, fought grip to grip as their feet drove against the floor for
purchase and they slammed at each other, body against body, hardness
against hardness, with the only weapons they had left.
His rage was hot and hard, yes, he could feel Krycek drive his
denim-wrapped, swollen cock against his own but Mulder sank his teeth into
that bloody lip again and he was winning, he had the traitor writhing and
crying out but Mulder was shaking too, raging at himself for feeling this
heat as he drove him towards the end—
Mulder wanted so badly to pound his triumph up Krycek's ass and fill him
with his spilling rage, but the rat bastard was still grappling at his
throat and Mulder couldn't let go as he drove seam against hard seam in a
race to break, to kill.
And this too must be hate, this fire, this unbearable moment of victory and
loss as Mulder hurt him and slammed him over the edge and Krycek came, the
hot proof of his surrender spilling against Mulder like blood as Krycek
cried out his name. But it was too much, Mulder couldn't stop now, and he
exploded too in mortar fire, still battering him with all the force he had,
and Mulder too was crying out until he had no voice left, nothing but the
fire of body against body, moving—
Breath forced out in harsh bursts, and a long moment, a truce at knifepoint
and then an unspoken stand-down as they both drew back, still snarling even
as they fought for breath.
"You fucking son-of-a-bitch—"
"Asshole!—"
And then there were no words as they stared at each other, face toward
bloodied face, hate against hate, and the fire below it. One breath, and
then another, not yielding against each other's stare—
And they knew it was over at the same time and sagged, still raging but out
of strength to continue, out of strength for anything but this fire of hate
and more than hate. This victory and loss, this triumph in surrender. This
double-edged truth.
Part 7: Pebbles Which the Waves Draw Back and Fling
Next morning, Krycek was already up working on his laptop when a stiff and
aching Mulder stumbled out of bed to reach for the steaming coffee.
Krycek's hair was loose, falling half across his face but unable to
disguise that swollen, wounded mouth, the bruised cheek and broken nose and
lacerated jaw. Without comment, Krycek slid a small bottle across the table
at him. Aspirin with codeine.
"If you're as stiff as I am, Mulder—"
"Thought we'd proved that last night."
"Funny." Krycek's eyes met his fully, and Mulder was damned if he was going
to fail the challenge by looking away, even though he could barely force
his right eye open. What the hell was that spark in those deep green eyes,
anger or curiosity or something else?
"Mulder, go take a shower. You're bleeding on my floor."
"Wouldn't want to tax your housekeeping," Mulder said, and slowly,
deliberately, emptied two aspirins into his hand and swallowed them with a
gulp of scalding coffee. Then he felt he could safely turn away.
The bathroom mirror was small, but not too small to show him the ruin of
his own face. A black eye, his own collection of scrapes and bruises, his
neck so swollen and dark he was amazed he had been able to swallow the
coffee without screaming. He didn't actually seem to be bleeding on the
floor, despite Krycek's words, but as he painfully lifted the shirt off his
aching shoulders, he could see that his arms and torso looked as battered
as his face.
Jeans now, peeling the stained and sticky denim away from his skin. Damned
if he was going to blush, even when he was alone.
The first shock of the water was pure hell, every cut and scrape raw and
screaming, but then the pounding heat of the water began to loosen the
rigid knots of his shoulders. Yes, heat on his back, and his side, and down
across his face, washing him clean only of the outer stains, but leaving
the others somewhat eased as well.
Cautiously, he flexed his back to loosen the joints, then his arms and
legs. Still the painful warmth soaked into his bones, and he stood at last
unmoving under the flood until the water began to cool.
Shit! No clothes; he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with him. And he
was damned if he was going to amuse Krycek by being shy with a towel. At
the thought, his balls tightened in challenge, and his cock stirred.
Stripped and clean, he marched back into the main room and headed for the
cabinets. "Sorry, Krycek, I used up all the hot water," he said smugly,
ignoring the eyes that must be on him.
"Typical," said Krycek, but made no other comment.
Once dressed, Mulder lounged against the wall to look over Krycek's
shoulder at the monitor. Damn. He couldn't read Japanese.
Krycek closed the laptop with a look of annoyance.
Mulder smirked. "Go get clean, Krycek. Don't want to scare the dog."
"So."
"So," Krycek echoed his tone, pulling on his shoes for the day's upcoming
drive.
"Now tell me where the hell we're really going." Yes, you lying fuck,
tell me the truth or I'll know you're not tough enough. And I'll win.
Krycek met him stare for stare. This was still war. "I'm taking you to see
some people."
"Your side? If you've still got a side, you son of a bitch?"
But the dog lay contentedly at their feet as if there was no anger in the
air.
"Yeah, you could call them my side."
"They know we're coming?" Another challenge.
Krycek drove that long sweep of hair back with one hand and sighed with
exaggerated patience. "No, Mulder. I've been dead for five years,
remember?"
"How charming. I wonder what Miss Manners would suggest for such a
reunion."
"A grenade. No, you need to meet these people; you put a similar value on
truth and human life, though your methods are different."
Mulder smiled narrowly. "And once they find out you're alive after all?"
"My life becomes a lot more interesting."
"Mmm."
"So, Mulder, you better not fuck up."
"Nice. So I'm a self-destruct device like this camper. If I go, I can take
you with me."
"Like fuck you can, Mulder." But that was a smile fighting its way through
the cold killer face, and Mulder knew he'd won another round.
"All right, Krycek, let's do it."
Krycek clapped a hand on his shoulder, daring him to wince or protest, and
he met the challenge by catching the back of Krycek's neck in one hand and
shaking him gently. The clean hair moved like wet silk against his palm.
This time, Krycek's smile was his own. "Let's hit the road, then."
Mulder headed for the cab, snagging the last slice of bacon. But there was
one thing more to say.
"Krycek?"
"Yeah, Mulder?
"I just want to make one thing clear. Whatever happens with these people,
or even between you and me, this isn't over. You're right that I have to
stop focusing on the trivia, and I will. You can trust me to do what I need
to do.
"But Krycek, the day it's over—the day we win, or lose, or you stop being
useful against the colonists—I'm going to kill you. For my father; for
Scully. And for myself."
Those green eyes met his. "Okay, Mulder, I can live with that. But I don't
promise not to shoot first."
"Fair enough," said Mulder, knowing his eyes said: No, you fucker, you
won't have a chance.
The eyes locked to his said: We'll see.
And Mulder swung the cab door open and followed Krycek inside.
Dover Beach
by Nonie Rider
Part 1: The Sea Is Calm Tonight
God, where was he, and what was that awful noise? Hadn't been this stiff
since sliding down a thousand feet of bumpy ice shaft, and that was years
ago. And what was weighing down his feet and eating through his side like
lava?
Part 3: Confused Alarms
"So what's the dog's name?"
Part 4: And Then Again Begin
Part 5: This Distant Northern Sea
The cold liquid felt good on Mulder's throat, still raw from yesterday's
smoke and ash. The tractor must have turned off; traffic was picking up
speed again. "The camper, Krycek."
The truck stop that afternoon had a restaurant, but Krycek insisted on
frying up a steak he said was caribou. "All that fatty beef'll slow you
down, Mulder."
Silence, for hours. If he'd been with someone he trusted, someone he liked,
he'd have talked about baseball or the man-eating Wendigo. But somehow, the
thought of chatting at Krycek had no appeal.
It was around 9:00 that night when Krycek finally pulled into a rest area
and turned off the engine. "I'm thinking about some dried salmon. Or do you
want caribou again?"
Breakfast was sharp-edged. Mulder didn't speak until it was over.
