Title: Real Truth, The Author: Jeylan Feedback Email: jeylan@earthlink.net Category: Story, X-File or Casefile, UST, Unclassified Pairings: Mulder/Krycek Rating: R Summary: Mulder and Krycek have a little conversation about free will in the tavern at the end of the universe. SPOILERS: Nothing that hasn't been spoiled already. ARCHIVE: *NO ARCHIVE* except by request. (Requests welcome.) DISCLAIMERS: Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek belong to no one but themselves. Scully belongs to Chris Carter. Chris Carter, who exists in his own special universe anyway, is his own problem. And none of them has much of anything to do with me. I'm not profiting. DEDICATION: This story is for CC, who had it coming; DD, in hopes that he really was a helpless bystander; NL, who always gave us his best shot; and most especially for Anne, who made me think of it. BETA THANKS above and beyond to MWKidder. ================================================= THE REAL TRUTH ================================================= "There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. "There is another theory which states that this has already happened." --Douglas Adams ================================================= SUNDAY, MAY 19, 2002 10:08 p.m. SOMEWHERE AT NIGHT There were always casualties, of course. Collateral damage. Every time he thought he was hardened to it, thought he couldn't be surprised or hurt anymore, he found himself waking up to that inescapable Truth all over again. Casualties. Chance occurrences, losses, destructions. Acts of stupidity and malice. He'd watched the dead accumulate. Added a few to the roster himself. Listened to orders; followed some and not others. Tried, in his own way. Fought back, in his own way. Messed with their minds. But the Truth was that he'd been ambivalent about this game for a long time before he opted out. And even now, now that his part in the charade was supposed to be over, he still couldn't completely let go. Couldn't completely not care. And his ambivalence was going to get him killed for real next time, if he wasn't more careful. The red haired woman in the bar tonight had shaken him. All he'd wanted was to escape his own thoughts, tonight, and then there she was. Like a ghost or premonition. There had just been that one moment, that shadowy half-moment when she'd laughed, tossed her head, and from an angle in the odd light she'd looked almost like ... he'd almost thought ... well, it didn't matter what he thought. He hadn't needed to hear her words to pick up on the good humored "bite me" tone in her voice, so obviously it wasn't Scully. It was only a trick of light. It couldn't possibly be Scully, anyway. Scully had been one of the first to go. Fallen by the wayside long since, and replaced with one of their "experiments", their walking monstrosities, who looked Human but couldn't die. Wouldn't die, but didn't really live. Like clones with reset buttons. And it might have happened to him, too, if he hadn't taken drastic action. Krycek sighed heavily, and rubbed his eyes. The city seemed darker tonight. Colder, tonight. More alone, tonight. He never gave a shit about Scully one way or the other back when she'd actually been herself, and now that she wasn't herself, and hadn't been herself for a long time, he cared even less. Casualties. Collateral damage. So what. So why did that one flash of Scully-the-way-she-used-to-be, that trick of the eye, hurt so much? He was a fool, he thought, absently touching his shoulder right above the stump. A fool. He walked long anonymous night streets, and passed by shoulders of people with no eyes, people who didn't see him at all. Didn't look twice. The kind of people who wouldn't register your presence unless you happened to be a face from TV, one of those visible icons, larger than life, who made up the surrogate- village of famous faces, the ones who made a hit-man's work so much easier because compared to them everyone else blurred out, indistinguishable. Faceless. Thank god he'd always been able to hide in shadows, or things would have gone worse for him. But sometimes he passed all the unseeing eyes, and sometimes someone would glance his way -- a hazel-eyed man -- and his heart would beat faster, and he'd hope. Hope for what? Fuck it. Sentimental bullshit. Get you killed. Or worse than killed. That was one thing Krycek had learned: The closer you got to being seen, the more you were in danger. It was safer if they thought you were dead. He hunched his shoulders, and started to walk. All he did at night, these nights, was walk. Fuckin' cold night. He ducked into a dingy neighborhood hole-in- the-wall bar to get warm. The decrepit sign, partly unlit, said "illiway's" in bilious, dirty-green neon. The kind of place you hoped would have good pizza. Derelicts in the corners. Yep. Sure enough. And then, as he checked out the room, his breath caught in his throat and he snapped to attention. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and his hand went clammy. *Mulder.* Could that really be Mulder? *Goddamn.* And was Mulder still who he was? Was he still Mulder? Only one way to find out. Krycek made a wide circle to come up on him from behind. "Buy you a beer, hot-stuff?" he growled when he was right beside Mulder's ear. To his immense satisfaction Mulder jumped, sputtering alcohol. "Kryce-cek?" "Yeah, nice to see you, too. I'm doing just great, thank you for asking." He plopped down hard in the booth across from Mulder, his heart racing, scared to death Mulder was going to tell him to fuck off, or get out of his face, or start screaming again about that stupid, tiresome never-ending crap about his father. Shit. Or hit him. Well, that might not be so bad. There were worse things. There were definitely worse things. Studying the man across from him carefully, he held his breath and tried to look relaxed. Cocky. Like he maybe didn't have his heart on his sleeve this time, for once. Mulder just stared. "Anything good on tap?" Krycek asked, since he hadn't been bounced yet. "Mac and Jack's," Mulder said blankly, still gaping. "Jesus, man, get a grip." Trying his luck, Krycek snagged Mulder's beer, took a good pull, and made a face. "With a shot of tequila." "Ah-huh. Right. I'll have what he's drinking," Krycek said fliply, tipping his hand at a barmaid who was out of earshot anyway. "I thought you were dead!" "Me? Dead? Oh, please. Be serious. I just got tired of being jerked around, that's all. The way I see it, following orders is hazardous to your health." "Well, I guess that depends which side you're on," said Mulder. "Does it?" "Which side *are* you on, anyway?" Krycek shrugged. "My own side. I'm on the side of Alex Krycek, didn't you notice?" They met each other's eyes, long and steady. Almost companionable. Then Mulder blew it. "You tryin' to tell me you're not the old man's lap-dog anymore?" Good news: It was really Mulder. Bad news: He was still a prick. Instantly swelling with anger, Krycek was half-up from his seat before he knew he was moving. "I was never his lap-dog," he gritted through his teeth. But Mulder, weirdly, was making soothing motions in the air with his hands and his eyes were wide, so Krycek cautiously eased back down. Seemingly more curious than hostile, Mulder was watching him intensely as if trying to make up his mind. "Come on, admit it," he said quietly. "For a long time you were on whatever side of whatever game he asked you to be on, right?" He kept his voice polite and level, like he really wanted to know. Krycek winced, deflated, and slumped back into his seat. "You don't get it," he said. "He promised me-- He promised -- things." He felt sick when he said it, with an ache that was almost too much to bear -- in his gut, in his phantom arm, and in his heart. He looked across at Mulder -- handsome, unbeaten, whole, radiant with integrity, with pride and conviction shining in his eyes -- as across a gulf between alternate universes. Looking at Mulder, he felt sick. How could he have ever dared to hope, ever been so *stupid* as to believe that one day, maybe, if he played along... "You can't understand," he said again. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to come right in the end." Mulder nodded slowly. "That was what he told me, too," he said. "But you never believed him." "Never? I wish I could say never. Not for a long time, anyway. Not since..." Mulder shut up and grabbed for his drink. But it was easy to fill in the blank: 'Not since they got to Scully.' It was written all over his face. Not in any obvious, surface way, not anything fresh, but just an old residue sunk in deeply to the crevasses, and the shadows in his eyes. Something he'd learned to live with. "Not since you found out what they could do to you if you..." horrified to find himself thinking out loud, Krycek bit back his words mid-thought. "Not since you found out the Truth," he finished lamely. "'The Truth'?" Mulder's voice was acid. "There is no Truth, remember? They make it up as they go along. Cheers." He raised his glass to Krycek, and drank deep. Shit. "You don't really believe that," said Krycek softly. It wasn't a question. "No, I don't. You're quite right, I don't." "See, Mulder, where you always made your mistake was in thinking it mattered a rat's ass which side you were on. They were never going to let you win anyway." He took his turn at a swig of Mulder's beer and tequila. "Is that the point? To 'win'? Gee, and here I always thought it was about finding the Truth, and speaking the Truth out loud whether *they* liked hearing it or not!" "You're a dreamer." "I'm a realist. The Truth is *still* out there, goddamn it. And this game was never about 'winning.' If that's all you think it is, Krycek, then--" "Hey, hey, easy. You're getting me wrong, here. *Believe* me I know it's not about winning. It's more than that." Mulder relaxed marginally. "Yeah, well, you opted out." "And you didn't. And I respect that, Mulder. I really do. Course, I don't suppose you were laying awake nights worrying about being set up as a *quadruple* agent, and losing your *other* arm, but then--" "I had other things to worry about." "I suppose you did." Mulder gestured for the attention of the server, a scrawny dishwater blond who happened to be nearby. Krycek noted with some amusement that her T-shirt was printed with a cartoon of Samantha Stevens winking pertly from atop her broomstick as she flew across the 'Bewitched' skyline under the starry slogan, 'It takes one to know one.' He snickered, trying to make it sound like he was clearing his throat. "Another one, please," Mulder told the waitress politely. "And, uh, one for my ... friend." "You buying me a drink, Mulder?" "I, uh, yeah, I'm buying you a drink. You wanna make something of it?" "May-be." He smiled a slow smile. "Never mind. Stupid question." And then incredibly, unbelievably, Mulder smiled back. "So," Krycek said. "So." "Who would've thought it'd end like this? Just you and me and beer at the end of the day." "And tequila," said Mulder. "And tequila. Always a good choice for apocalypse, don't you think?" He stole another sip. "Apocalypse?" Mulder said. "Is that what you think this is?" "Isn't it? It's Sunday night, the one we've been waiting for. You know, wreckage and revelations? Signs and visions?" "I thought 'god' rested on Sundays." Mulder rubbed his temple, tiredly. "In any case, I don't know about you, but tomorrow's another work day for me." "Mulder, get real. Unmarked helicopters? Big boom-boom? No more puppet-master pulling our strings? Aren't you going to at least take a couple days off and celebrate?" "I've still got work to do, Krycek." Mulder looked at him from the corner of his eye. "I'm not sure what worries me more, the idea of you with your strings pulled, or you on the loose." "Aww, baby! Talk dirty to me!" Mulder grimaced. "Be worried, Mulder. It was damned inconvenient being dead." "You got that right." "I've got some lost time to make up for." "That makes two of us," Mulder agreed. "OK, so that's how *I* survived it. I played dead. What did you do, make a deal with the devil?" "The devil? He wasn't the devil. The devil is a man with a plan. He was only delusional." "Half-cocked," Krycek agreed. "I wouldn't know." "Lucky you." "Oh?" "I don't want to talk about it." And he didn't. He really, really didn't. But Mulder was looking at him with those deep soulful, irresistible eyes. Eyes full of sympathy for the world, eyes that used to make him shake with resentment, ache with jealousy, hunger for just one glance... He sighed. "When you're negotiating over things like self-determination, free will and body parts, sometimes you have to ... do things ... you know?" Mulder shrugged, pursed his lips, shook his head. "I guess you wouldn't." Bitterness edged back into his voice. "You always keep your hands clean." Mulder just snorted. For a while no one said anything. The barmaid put fresh drinks in front of them, and they drank. From two separate glasses. "How'd you pull it off, Krycek? I mean, I was *there* remember?" Dismissively he shrugged. "Skinner still has his good days. How'd *you* pull it off? You suck at playing dead, by the way, anyone ever tell you that? I couldn't believe anyone actually bought that lame-ass 'I'm dead, woe is me' crap you pulled. The whole underworld was laughing its collective head off for months. You didn't even stop the rent on your apartment. Jesus!" "The devil is in the details." Mulder lifted his beer and settled deeper into his seat. "Why stop the rent? I've got fish, you know. Anyway, our self-proclaimed 'Command Control' was getting so sloppy, towards the end -- guy didn't have a clue anymore, and wasn't in the market -- but he still kept trying to get me in line." Disgustedly, Mulder shook his head. "He just didn't know when to quit." "IQ of a toaster." "Yeah, well. Let's just say we didn't see eye to eye. Eventually the need to mess with his head outweighed the millstone of humiliation." Krycek grinned. "I like the way your mind works." (Continued in part 2)