Work Text:
Don't Rock the Boat
by JiM
He stood on the dock as night fell and watched the man through the porthole for a long time. Mulder sat in an easy chair, in a pool of light from the one lamp, steadily reading his way through a pile of what looked to be term papers. His glasses were perched low on his nose and the light picked out threads of silver in his hair and lines on his face that hadn't been there five years ago.
He hadn't moved in over an hour, just sipped his beer and turned pages. Music trickled out into the spring air -- Vivaldi, he guessed, on continuous play. Somehow, it blended into the night, with the sounds of the frogs and distant traffic and his own irregular breathing, the slap of water against the dock, the ping of cables hitting masts as the boats rocked gently on the river.
Mulder. He hadn't seen Mulder in five years. Not since... his mind shied away from that last meeting. Best forgotten now, if he were to do what he had come to do. There hadn't been a day when he hadn't thought of Mulder, though. Talking to him, hitting him, accusing him, laughing with him, touching him, trusting him, hating him. Tonight, it had to end.
He stepped onto the houseboat. He was light enough that it barely dipped as he came aboard. Mulder's back was to him now. He barely made a sound as he opened the door and stepped inside. Careless, Mulder, sitting in front of an unlocked door. You never know who the night might bring you.
"Hi."
Mulder didn't start, but he did turn around quickly enough that his glasses slipped into his lap.
"Krycek! Where the hell did you come from?"
He smiled at all the possible comebacks he could have made, then said simply, "Out there," and gestured to the night.
Mulder slowly stood up, then just stared. Krycek could feel Mulder's eyes moving across him, cataloging,noting, storing details away in that damnably exact memory. He had dressed carefully for this reunion -- jeans, a black tee shirt, black leather jacket. He hadn't dressed this way in years, but for this one night... he stood, patiently waiting for the inspection to end, for Mulder to render judgment.
"You look good," Mulder said, surprising him, then smiled.
"So do you," he said through dry lips. "Of course, I always thought you looked better when you weren't waving a gun in my face."
Mulder grinned at that, surprising him again. When had Mulder regained his sense of humor? "Yeah, well, you look a lot better without the hardware flashing in my face too, sport."
A silence fell, not embarrassed, but assessing, waiting. They did not look directly at one another. Finally, Mulder said, "Why did you come here, Krycek?"
"Can I sit down?"
Mulder nodded him into the other easy chair in the small living area. The mission oak creaked comfortably as he settled into it. Mulder sat down again, eyes never leaving his unexpected guest.
"How's Scully?"
Mulder was unperturbed by the seeming non sequitur, eyes fixed on Alex's right hand rubbing repetitively over the thumb of his gloved left hand.
"She's fine. She's teaching at Quantico now. She got married last year, to an M.E. from Baltimore. He has two kids, so she gets to play Wicked Stepmother. She's having a ball." Mulder smiled fondly at the thought of his partner, happy after so long. Krycek smiled too, inexplicably relieved that she had found some measure of peace as the dust settled.
"And Skinner?"
"He's still with the Bureau. More divisions under his thumb, more hassles, less hair." Mulder's grin was touched with malice. "He got shot in the leg about three years ago, while directing a field op. Took out his knee-cap; they thought they might have to amputate for a while. He's OK, but he walks with a hell of a limp and doesn't go out into the field at all any more. I think that bugs him more than the leg."
"Yeah, it would. Skinner was always a man of action. Did he ever marry again?"
Mulder hesitated a moment, as if uncertain how much information to pass on to his former partner-enemy-comrade-in-arms. "No -- he's living with someone. Seems happy enough."
"That's... good." And Krycek was surprised to find that he was actually pleased for the man. So many had been battered and destroyed by the war, the cost so high that it comforted him to think that these people at least, had survived the maelstrom.
"Krycek -- why are you here?" Mulder asked again.
"Well, Mulder, it's not like I can exactly go to my Academy Reunion, is it? How else am I going to find out how the rest of... the Class of '99 turned out?"
Mulder smiled gently. "Are you still on the run, Alex?"
"No... and yes. No one actively has a contract out on me, but I made a lot of enemies, what with one thing and another. I'm still... very careful."
"Paranoia is a hard habit to break, isn't it?" Mulder looked rueful. "I left the FBI three years ago and I still sweep for bugs every week."
"I'm not paranoid, Mulder. I'm just health-conscious. And so far, no one's left any lead in me, despite some very concerted attempts."
Their eyes met, both remembering other times, other attempts.
"Why are you here, Alex?" Mulder asked again softly, gaze dropping toward Krycek's hands, one still rubbing against the other.
Now was the time of truth-telling and, as in those too-few times in the past when he had been brought to this point, he didn't know where to begin. A cruiser passed by on the river, drawing his eyes, engine throbbing and red and green lights glowing in the darkness. The wake from its passage rocked the houseboat as he sifted through the many truths that had brought him here, that he had brought with him.
"Krycek?" The incredulous rumble from the doorway startled them both. Walter Skinner stood in the doorway. He looked much the same as he always had -- still tall, still imposing, impeccably dressed and very menacing. The fact that he leaned heavily on a cane did not detract from his presence at all.
For the first time, Krycek wondered if coming here had been all that good an idea. Yes, he wanted very badly to resolve things with Mulder, but not at the cost of being beaten to death and dumped in the river. Krycek could see that he was still in the 'Accounts Payable' column in Walter Skinner's head. "You've got a hell of a nerve, coming here."
"He's here to make peace, Walter. Hear him out, OK?"
Skinner quirked an eyebrow, frowned, then shrugged, eyes on Mulder. There was some kind of wordless conversation going on here and it made Krycek nervous.
"Uh, can I have some guarantees here?"
"Such as?"
"Such as I won't find myself handcuffed to the deck in the early morning light? Such as you won't pound the shit out of me for auld lang syne?"
To Krycek's infinite surprise, Skinner laughed. Actually laughed. Like a human being.
"Been there, done that," he said easily, taking a couple of awkward steps inside, closing the door on the cool night air. "I think I even made a donation to Amnesty International this month, Krycek. You're safe."
He shrugged out of his coat and loosened his tie, before settling heavily onto the padded bench that ran the length of the wall. His left leg jutted out stiffly before him. Catching Krycek inadvertently staring at it, Skinner grimaced and shrugged. Krycek gave a rueful half-smile and raised his own crippled limb in salute. The two men locked gazes for a moment and something too deep, too knowing for words, passed between them.
Mulder had gotten up and gone out. He returned, carrying three beers. He opened one and handed it to Krycek. While Alex was still blinking at the unthinking courtesy of the man, he watched as Mulder walked over to hand one to Skinner. The A.D. looked up and accepted the beer with a smile. Mulder smiled back, then went to sit down again.
Krycek took a thoughtful sip of his beer. He knew he ought to be surprised but he wasn't, not really. Those two had always been searching. Was it really so strange that they had finally found what they needed in one another? He felt that he ought to be hurt or angry or wounded, but he could summon none of those emotions. There was an undefinable rightness to the two men who sat near him, companionably drinking beer. There was a peacefulness between them that he had never hoped to have, that he simply wasn't made for. He put his beer down.
"Mulder."
His ex-partner looked at him.
"I'm sorry."
It was interesting to watch the emotions cross Mulder's face, like watching cloud shadows blown across a hillside. Incomprehension slid into consternation, then growing awareness and remembered anger, bitterness boiling up to dissipate in memories and pain, sadness washing through, leaving behind it... a peaceful sense of understanding, an unlooked-for acceptance of all that Krycek had needed to say and could not, crammed into two unadorned words.
Then Mulder made his own sacrifice to peace and to the past and said, "I know."
The three of them sat for a while, drinking their beers, saying nothing. The music continued to play, a constant presence, like the top note of an exotic perfume, never before scented. Somewhere very deeply hidden away from himself, Alex could feel something, torn long ago, beginning to knit itself together again. Three wounded men, allowing each other to heal from the mortal wounds of the past. He finished his beer and got up slowly.
The other two looked at him in patient enquiry.
"Mulder. Is he good to you?"
For a moment, there was no one in the room, in the world, except for them. They were someplace where all things are possible, all desires merely alternate realities waiting to be called into being with one word, one touch. Then Mulder smiled very gently and said, "Yes, Alex."
"Good." Crossing to him, Krycek bent quickly and kissed Mulder's cheek, just as he had, many years ago. Then he straightened, smiled and murmured something in Russian. Mulder only caught the last word, tovarisch, but he knew what Krycek had said. It was written clearly in the sea-mist eyes.
The man in black leather stopped at the door for a moment. He looked at both of them gravely, then said only, "Goodbye."
The boat rocked a little as he left. When he looked back from the dock, he could once again see Mulder bathed in that pool of golden light. But now, Skinner stood beside him, one hand lightly caressing the silvering hair, one hand gripping his cane. He stood and watched a little longer, storing up the tableau in his memory, to be taken out and smiled over in times to come, like snapshots in his family album. Then he turned and melted into the night
end