"Hey yo... where's the boss-man?"
I can't stop my automatic perk at the words, even when I know they aren't
referring to me. Hell, Rhodes isn't even talking to me. But I'm the
boss, dammit. Thinking of someone else as the 'boss' is still a reach.
Especially... him.
Getting easier though.
And boy, if that thought doesn't make me wince I don't know what would.
I go back to my stretches and listen halfheartedly to Seville's brief
answer. A full five minutes later I realize that the destination she named,
and the destination I happen to know Krycek is at, are two very different
places. I bring myself slowly to an upright position, wait for the moment
of dizziness to pass, then catch her eye. "Where did you say he is?"
She gives me the blank look I'm used to from her. Months of working with
her, and I could swear I've seen more expression on a cat. At first I
thought she didn't trust me, being former FBI. I mentioned it once though,
and Krycek just brushed it off with a "she's like that; most of them are."
Too true... most of the former Syndicate people, himself included, love to
play the inscrutable. Must have been in their training.
Makes me wonder again who fucked up and hired Luis Cardinale.
"Routine reconnaissance," she repeats. "Sector seven. It's on the roster."
So I didn't hear her wrong. I blink and open my mouth again, but something
in me shuts it without speaking. Her head tilts to one side and she stares
back at me steadily. I manage a quick nod and turn away. Sometimes her
demeanor just makes my skin crawl. Mulder keeps joking that she's checking
me out. I just pray nightly that he doesn't say it sometime in her hearing.
I always wonder if I'd live to the next morning. Or if he would.
Well, no, actually it's a foregone conclusion she wouldn't touch him.
Wouldn't dare harm a hair on his precious head. None of them would. They
all Know by now. My mouth twists in a smile that probably doesn't look any
too happy. Sometimes I think everyone Knows, except Mulder himself. Scully
certainly does. I'm beginning to think it's why she finally warmed up to
Krycek at all. The rebellion's Superman has extended his golden arc of
protection firmly around the rebellion's answer to Lois Lane, whether Lois
knows it or not. Whether Lois wants it or not. Which means Scully can stop
worrying about Lois quite so much.
That's got to be a relief. Rescuing Mulder can be a full time job even in
good circumstances. And Metropolis hasn't seen circumstances this bad in a
long time.
Rotating my shoulders, I ease back into my stretching routine. Too many
injuries in too short a time to an aging body. Still, I'm holding my own.
Could be worse. Would be worse, without a little help from Krycek.
Little help. Right. How about a little restraint with that understatement,
Walter?
Okay, so maybe I still have a tiny bit of trouble wrapping my mind around
Alex Krycek getting clear of a burning, collapsing, alien-infested Syndicate
lab, and then going back in. To get me out.
I mean the ultimate survive-at-all-costs posterboy putting his ass on the
line that blatantly for someone else? It strikes one as just a tad...
inconceivable. 'Noble' and 'self-sacrificing' simply aren't words you find
in the Krycek Operating Manual. In fact, if found in the current Krycek
model, there's undoubtedly a line in that manual recommending returning the
particular Krycek in question to the manufacturer for malfunction. Hell, I
was surprised enough he was apparently risking his neck for the Cause; I was
sure he was running another game on the side. But putting himself in direct
danger for a lowly person? One he doesn't even like?
Granted, now, given what I've seen since the world took a turn for the
surreal, I'd buy him risking his own ass for Mulder.
But for me?
Seriously injured and safely out of the building. Job done and lab set to
destruct. Mulder safe. And he turns around and walks back in. Almost
dies. Just to physically drag me out. Me. A guy he'd already killed.
Does risking your life to save someone cancel out killing him, I wonder.
I short out the entire line of thinking before I can get caught in the
endless feedback loop that takes up way too much of my headspace these days.
All I know for sure is it makes it damn hard to hate the bastard
unreservedly anymore. Which is no end of annoying. Of course, it opens up
other interesting possibilities...
I short out that line of thinking, too.
So yeah, my health could be worse. Much worse. Like I could be mostly
dead, without that little helping hand from the boy in charge.
The boy in charge who is most definitely not doing routine reconnaissance
in sector seven.
He's in sector one, danger zone central, chatting up an old Syndicate
playmate. And he made damn sure I knew. Reexamining my memory of the
conversation, I determine I was definitely the only person around. So...
either Seville screwed up, or the roster is wrong, or... or for some unknown
reason, I'm the only one who knows where Krycek really is.
I wonder if it's significant.
I hope he remembered his fancy blue suit and red cape. I have a feeling he'
s going to need them.
02:35 hours
I stare at the ceiling in the dark and tell myself I'm not consciously
waiting up for him. I'm just having trouble sleeping. It happens
sometimes.
Hell. I'm waiting up for him.
Nobody thinks twice that he was due in three hours ago. He's only out
checking sector seven; nobody is particularly concerned. Sector seven hasn'
t seen activity since we cleaned it out in the first set of raids. If he
really were only checking sector seven, I wouldn't be concerned either.
Well, maybe a little concerned. But not much. I wouldn't be sleepless, at
any rate.
Yeah right. Keep telling yourself that, Walter.
And nobody says anything to him if he doesn't call in. Oh no. He can
do whatever he wants.
Arrogant bastard.
I listen to Mulder snoring across the room, and am thankful that at least
he's asleep tonight. He and Scully must have had a hell of a shift. He
just
about collapsed when he rolled in, and he hasn't moved since, which is very
unusual for the king of insomnia. I've had more than enough experience with
his sleep disorders to make me regret agreeing to bunk with him. Except it
does come in handy at times. Like now for instance, when I hear the door
twist open softly, and see the dim glow of utility lights from the hallway
illuminate the battered shadow glancing into the room, staring at Mulder's
sleeping form, then backing out and closing the door silently after himself.
Rooming with Mulder is better than being on 24-hour front-door guard duty
for knowing when Alex Krycek gets in.
And people think I agreed to the rooming arrangements because Mulder and I
get along so well. Please. He's a great guy, but like I didn't get enough
of him when he worked for me...
I reach for my glasses and ease out of bed immediately. I slink to the
door, knowing that no matter how tired he is, Mulder is a light sleeper. I
could definitely do without him waking up. Slipping out into the hall, I
catch sight of my shadow-quarry turning the corner off to the right. I
ghost behind him through the warren of underground tunnels, and follow him
up Ladder Three.
He's had a hard night. I can see by the way he's walking. He didn't look
so great in that brief moment of light in the doorway, either. Of course,
it's a foregone conclusion he's had a hard night if he hasn't hidden around
a corner and pounced out at me like a demented ninja. He hates being
followed and doesn't mind letting you know it. Violently. He's off his
game if he hasn't even noticed me trailing behind him yet.
By the time I ascend Ladder Three he's disappeared, but from here I know
where he'll be. He hates being underground. One of the first things that
impressed me about him, actually, was when I found out how much he hates
being underground. Given how much time we all spend down here, he's got to
be working with that on a daily, if not hourly, basis. He'll be in the room
with the starry sky.
We thought it was a joke, originally, and a sick one at that. One room in
this barren underground complex that he painted with a black ceiling, little
dots of glow-in-the-dark paint tracing glimmering paths of stars. Then I
noticed how often he ended up in there.
And that's where I find him. Sitting on the floor, arms around his knees,
back to me, staring at his sky. I just stand in the door and watch him,
thinking I maybe should have grabbed my sweatshirt. The complex is cool.
The rasp of his voice breaks the silence.
"Gonna stand there all night, Skinner?"
I move into the dark room and drop down beside him. Close enough so I can
feel the heat of him, far enough away to not even accidentally brush against
him. I know how to do careful. We sit in silence for long moments.
"Wouldn't think it would actually help, would you."
"Whatever works, Alex." And when the hell did he become Alex? Around the
day he hauled you out of a burning building, my mind answers sarcastically.
"I mean it's dark," he murmurs. "Which definitely isn't friendly. And it's
not like the stars are that reassuring these days."
"No, it makes sense. The illusion of space is actually... quite effective.
The dark enhances the illusion where stark light would destroy it. It would
work even better in a domed room, of course."
"Of course. How'd you know I was in. I came through the back way. I
haven't even checked back in yet."
I shrug nonchalantly. "I was awake when you did nightly bed check on
Mulder. I can vouch that he's all tucked in safe and sound." I feel him
stiffen beside me and I wince. Whoops. Sorry, did that sound bitter? Bad
Walter. Change the subject. "You weren't in sector seven tonight."
"Didn't say I was."
"The roster did."
"You know better than to believe the roster when it comes to me." He stares
fixedly at his sky.
"Yes, but this time I knew where you were. You told me."
"And?"
I clear my throat and bite back annoyance. My voice hardens despite my best
efforts. "You might have mentioned to me that you were clueing me into a
state secret there. I might have slipped up. If you went to the trouble to
fake the roster, you obviously weren't too keen on having people know you
were in sector one."
"No, I didn't want anyone knowing."
I turn and glare at him. "All the more reason to let me know when you're
telling me something that's for my ears only." And why are you telling me
things for my ears only? The question hangs in the air but I don't ask it
and of course he doesn't answer it.
"Did you slip up? Did you say anything to anyone when you found out where I
supposedly was?" he asks calmly, instead.
"No."
"And would you have brought up where I was with anyone, if you hadn't heard
where I was supposed to be?"
"No." It's automatic. I don't talk about any information he discusses with
me. Ever. With anyone. I realize it as I speak.
"Didn't need to worry about it then, did I." He smiles.
"Jesus, Krycek. I might have. If it was important that your whereabouts
remain—"
"Skinner." He cuts me off, his voice tired. "Relax. Why should I say it.
I don't need to. You always know what to do, and you hate it when I give
you 'orders'. I don't need to worry about you." He snorts suddenly.
"Except when you go get stuck in a burning building with multiple gunshot
wounds, surrounded by Syndicate scientists and budding colonists."
I blink. He doesn't usually bring that up. He must be tired. A funny
thought hits me and I chortle. He finally looks at me and quirks an
eyebrow. I can't resist. "You ever see White Christmas?"
And suddenly he's laughing. Practically choking, whether because he's
trying to keep quiet or because he's forgotten how laughter works. Giggling
and snorting he meets my eyes and we both reach for our left arms, cradle
them against our chests, and chorus "Well, if you'd rather just forget about
it, Captain Wallace..." All told, he does a better injured and
guilt-tripping Danny Kaye than I do.
He shakes silently beside me for another few minutes, then wipes his eyes
and sighs. Holding out his left arm in front of us he looks at it
critically. "At least I can't blame this on saving you."
"No, but you could rub that left knee and make cow eyes," I toss off. "That
one is definitely my fault. And then what... I'm supposed to give in to
whatever you say." Oh god. Don't go there, Walter.
"Yeah, but somehow I just don't see us taking Broadway by storm," he offers
seriously.
"Stranger things have happened."
"I suppose."
"Where were you."
"You know. Sector one."
"Yes, I know that much. I mean where were you for so long? You were due
back hours ago. How did it go? And why do you look like something the cat
dragged in." Why did you tell me where you were going.
"Oh thank you." He tosses me a wry smile.
"Come on, Krycek. You clued me in for a reason. Where were you."
He sighs, and looks up again. "I took a walk around the world to ease my
troubled mind," he murmurs softly.
Oh just great. He's in one of those moods. It takes everything in me not
to sigh. "Translation," I deadpan instead.
He smiles again, just a tiny twist of his lips, and cocks his head at me.
Christ, those lashes. I really could have used never having to notice them
again. "Mind if I shut the door?"
I shrug in response. He gets up, closes the door. I hear his footfalls as
he comes back, feel him lower himself to the floor again. Is he closer to
me? Without the light creeping in from the hall the room is totally dark
now, the weak glow of the stars nowhere near enough to actually illuminate
anything. Suddenly his sky looks even more real.
"Translation. I think I've found Samantha."
I stop breathing. I mean it. I literally stop breathing. When I start up
again my breath sounds horribly loud in the small closed room. "But...
she... I thought... how..." I force myself to shut up and think before I
try to engage tongue. "I thought she was dead," I finally manage, and
notice as an afterthought that my voice is hushed, as if I don't want to say
it out loud.
His snort isn't hushed at all. "Please. You bought that
twinkle-twinkle-little-Samantha story? 'Starlight' took her? What the fuck
was that? Honestly, when I heard about that I actually thought Mulder may
have finally knocked a screw loose."
Finally? What was your first clue, Alex. I bite my tongue. Not a
conversation I want to have. Hell, there are so many conversations we can't
have. Makes talking hard sometimes. "So she's definitely alive."
"I believe she is. This... contact I was seeing. He's a good one.
Reinhold knows what he's talking about, or he doesn't talk."
"Why'd he come to you with this."
"Because I've had feelers out on Samantha for years."
Why doesn't that surprise me. "Jesus. Really are bound and determined to
be Superman, aren't you."
"I'm sorry?"
I almost laugh at the perplexed note in his voice. "Nothing. I'm just
waiting for you to fly around the world so fast you'll turn back time."
"Either I'm more tired than I think I am, or you are making no sense,
Skinner."
"I stopped making sense when I left the FBI," I mutter.
"No, actually you started making sense when you left the FBI."
I smile into the dark. He doesn't know how right he is. Oh, who am I
kidding. He knows exactly how right he is. I stare up at the painted
ceiling that, no matter what I say to him, is always only a painted ceiling
for me. "Samantha. Alive. Why'd you tell me?"
"I want you in on this. Only you. He can't know. Anything. Not until I
have her in my hands. You know it's getting more and more dangerous for him
out there. And he'd be all over this. He wouldn't let anybody keep him out
if he knew."
"Why me."
"Because you understand. And I trust you."
My breath stops again, but only for a bare moment this time. I wait for the
'as much as I trust anyone' to be tacked onto the end of that sentence, but
the room is too quiet.
"I need someone to know," he suddenly begins speaking again. "I have to
talk this over with someone. I'm going to need a back up, someone to be in
on this with me, help me get her. And it's got to be you. I don't trust
Scully not to tell him. She'd think he'd have a right to know, even if—"
The silence lasts longer this time. Finally I finish the sentence for him.
"Even if she's better off not found."
"Yeah."
"You're assuming I'll let you kill her if that's what's best."
"He already thinks she's dead. Supposedly. If need be, we can bring him
final proof. Proof that will be a lot more substantial than his...
starlight encounter. Scully would never understand that."
"And I do?"
"I think you do. Besides, it would only be under extreme extenuating
circumstances that a termination would become necessary. Keeping her alive
is top priority. But we just have to acknowledge the possibility. Really
though, I just don't want him to get his hopes up if there's a chance in
hell I won't get her out. I mean, I still don't know. I'm not sure." His
voice gets strained. "There may be nothing I can do. And I definitely do
not want him involved in any way, shape or form. Not only would it be a
total disaster and reduce our chances, but he'd also drive me completely
berserk in the process. And if he knows, and then we can't get her out..."
"Then there goes Superman's reputation."
"What is it with that?" His voice is edgy.
"With what?" I ask innocently.
"What's this Superman shit? And why do I get the feeling that isn't exactly
a compliment coming from you."
I smile wider. Perceptive boy. "You've just got this whole Man of Steel
thing going lately."
There's that snort again. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "More like
Man of Electronics," he mutters caustically. I hear a muffled thunk and
realize he's knocking on his prosthetic.
"I'm just saying you're doing the super-human thing really well these days,"
I offer dryly. "But you might want to remember you're still mostly human.
Unless there's something you're not telling us about all your one-on-one
meets with the rebels."
"I don't get where you're going with this."
He sounds honestly quizzical, and I find the nuances of his voice easier to
read when I'm not trying to decipher his expressions. I should talk to him
in the dark more often. I think for a moment and try again. I don't
exactly know how to say what I mean. "Alex, you once told me you didn't
have any intention of wallowing in guilt and regret. That you couldn't
change who you used to be, you could only be someone different. Well, all
I'm saying is remember that the someone different that you are, is still
you.
And still just a human. Sainthood isn't anymore balanced than sinner."
He's laughing again, and when I realize what I've said, I start laughing
too. Laughing with him is... oddly nice.
"Oh... oh fuck. Sainthood?"
"Okay, so maybe it was a bad example. Poor choice of words..."
"I'll say. You're about to be struck by lightening even as we speak. I'm
moving across the room to get out of the line of divine fire."
"Cute." I'm still snickering. Canonizing Alex Krycek does have an absurd
ring to it. "The Church of Sinner Krycek the Betrayer?"
"Hey, you know, you take for granted all the times I didn't let you down.
You just don't know it," he retorts through that rusty laugh.
That makes me feel good—the occasional inference that even in the dark
days there was more going on with him. One of these days I'm going to sit
him down and force him to actually elaborate on those comments. I have my
own ideas, but I want to hear what he has to say for himself.
But not tonight. Tonight, I wait for the laughter to fade and try again.
"Look, all I'm really saying is... be careful. For a guy who claims not to
be ashamed of who and what he was, you're throwing yourself into this
'saving the world' with a little too much force and abandon for comfort
sometimes. You've got your steel walls up 24-7, and nothing can touch you.
We've all started thinking of you that way."
When nothing but the sound of his breathing reaches my ears for long
moments, I continue, pushing the envelope just that much further. What the
hell... it's dark. If he wants to kill me, hopefully not being able to see
me will slow him up a little. "I know you want to give your Lois Lane the
world on a big, beautiful alien-free platter. Maybe with CGB Spender's head
on top for garnish, and Samantha as the chaser to end all chasers. But
Alex... just remember that you're not untouchable." I leave it vague.
Let him interpret that last statement however he wants. I can think of at
least three variations, and in a way I mean all three of them.
All the layers of everything I want to say thrum through my head. But hey,
he is a perceptive boy. He'll either get it or he won't.
I noisily get to my feet, cueing him that I'm getting ready to leave. "Time
for me to get some sleep. I'm assuming you and I are going to be having
some long meetings tomorrow. I'm in, of course. And I won't mention
anything to anyone; that goes without saying. Operation Twinkle, in effect
as of now."
A soft, breathy laugh reaches my ears, very different from the choked
hilarity I've been hearing tonight. I'm at the door with it already partway
open when I hear his voice.
"Skinner."
Pausing, I turn back. He still sits exactly as I first found him, staring
up at his fading stars. "Hmm?" I wander back in a few steps until I'm
behind him, leaving the door open in back of me and just watching him in the
low light from the hall.
"Does... ah... 'Lois'... know?"
I hear what the question costs him, in the low, rough husk of his voice.
See it in the tight set of his shoulders and neck. Feel it in the tension
resonating from him. "Lois is rather self-involved, and therefore rather
clueless," I finally say wryly. "Rather like his namesake ace reporter if I
remember correctly."
"Hey, Lois was a sharp girl," he responds, tone just a bit brittle, working
hard to cover it with the light banter.
"Please!" I scoff. "She was fooled by a pair of glasses. Let's hear it for
the dumbest disguise in history."
"Yeah, well, my disguise is a lot thicker than a pair of glasses," he
murmurs.
"Sorry to say, Alex my boy, but you don't have a Clark Kent side."
"Hey!"
"Or if you did, he died with an ashtray full of cigarette butts in a
Bureau-issue car." I hear his sigh, and almost wish I hadn't said it, but
he has to face facts. "You've got your Lex Luthor side, and you've got your
Man of Steel attempt," I offer, trying to strike a lighter tone again. "An
even more nicely psychotic split-personality than the usual
superhero/mild-mannered alter-ego."
"Thanks for these encouraging little conversations, Skinner," he says dryly.
"Anytime." I let him hear the grin in my voice.
He clears his throat. "Well, anyway. Lois was a sharp girl. She wasn't
so much fooled by a pair of glasses, in my opinion. She just... didn't want
to see what was right in front of her."
"And the same could be said for your Lois," I murmur softly.
"He's got reason," Alex replies immediately.
"That he does."
"You really are a font of unwanted wisdom, aren't you."
"Sorry," I offer unapologetically. There's only so much I can be expected
to resist. Pointing out the speed bumps and detour signs on his road to
Mulder is a benign enough diversion. Keeps me from breaking down and
somehow actively sabotaging his nonexistent chances with Mulder. "Good
night, Alex." This time I don't even get fully turned around before his
voice catches me.
"Walter?"
"Yes?"
This time I can hear the smile in his voice. "If I go crazy one of these
days will you still call me Superman..."
My hand lifts, reaches, almost settles in the soft black hair, spiky and
mussed. Almost. "You won't go crazy, Alex." My fingers curl and my hand
drops back to my side, aching with the almost-sensation.
"You sound so sure."
"I am. Hang in there. Besides, all the best superheroes are a little
crazy. My favorite was always Batman. A true psychotic if there ever was
one." On that note, I head for the door.
His voice follows me out into the hall. "You got good taste, Skinner."
You don't know the half of it, boy. Nothing but the best.
Don't Call Me Lois...
by Ratadder
Rebel Headquarters
18:45 hours
