Work Text:
A Sight of... (Krycek)
by JiM
I hate surveillance work. It's boring, exhausting and it's almost always too cold or too hot. Tonight, it's too cold as I sit on the fire-escape across from his apartment. The iron treads are burning cold stripes into my ass as I wait for the light to come on, waiting for him to get upstairs. I saw him come home alone. Tonight is the night.
But it's not the cold or the boredom that I hate most about surveillance. It's how good I am at it. I watch a man long enough, I know how he thinks, how he moves, what he likes to eat. I find myself sugaring my coffee just because my mark does.
If you watch a man long enough, you know his hopes, his dreams, his nightmares. You know which way he'll jump when you press a gun against his side. I hate losing myself in someone else's life.
It's happened again. And the punchline is that this isn't business, no one is paying me to watch this man. I'm doing it because I can't stop myself.
I have been in his apartment twice, just to check the lay of the land. Nice place, well-kept; the man is not obsessive, but orderly. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse but of good quality. There are no photos but there are books everywhere. No pets or plants. I know all the possible exits and doors and which direction to turn the locks now.
He is a man of regular habits. He rises early and follows the same morning routine; early to work, stays late, brings paperwork home, few calls, no visitors. Except one.
I have watched him for two weeks now and I know it all; how he moves, what he eats, when he works out, how he thinks, what he wants.
Sometimes, it's on his face when he looks at Mulder.
He wants to wake up in the morning with Mulder's head on his chest. To have Mulder call him from the side of some highway, for no other reason than to hear his voice. To burn his steaks and bitch about the phone bill. To feel him arch beneath my hands, slide into my body like a man coming home, to hold his head in my lap and soothe away the wounds of the world.
Walter Skinner wants the white picket fence, the barking dog, the scent of bread baking and someone he loves to smile at him when he comes home from chasing the bad guys.
It is a sick joke to discover that Walter Skinner and I want the same things.
It is laughably easy to get inside his apartment building, even for a one-armed man. It is less easy to get into his apartment; the locks are better and I am no longer as agile with the picks as I once was. Twice, I have to stop because the bunch of picks rattles against the door. But the surveillance has paid off; I know that he takes a shower every evening when he comes home. It is as if he is washing away the scent and touch of the FBI. He will not hear my fumbling over the sound of the water.
I ease the door open and am pleased to hear the shower running. Good old dependable, regular, faithful Walter Skinner. Consistency is a hobgoblin, Walter. In this case, it is death.
My gun is in my hand now. Few people appreciate how difficult it is to screw a silencer onto the barrel of a pistol with only one hand. It is a new skill, one I take pride in, just as I pride myself on my ability to research carefully and finish a job without fuss. I am moving quickly through the living room, down the hallway toward the bathroom, when I discover just how badly I have screwed up.
Fox Mulder comes striding out of the bedroom at the end of the hallway, whistling and pulling a sweatshirt over his head, carrying a towel.
My thoughts scatter like rabbits at the sight of him. When did he get here? Skinner arrived alone. Mulder must have come in earlier. Damn!
Mulder has stopped, all movement frozen, staring at me. I wonder why. Oh. I am pointing a silenced automatic at him.
- Hi.
- Krycek! What the hell are you doing?
Jesus, he looks like a runner-up for the varsity squad, collecting towels after the game for the bigger boys. His hair is rumpled and his eyes are large and dark and they burn straight through me.
The memory of his scent, the taste of him on my lips, the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice murmuring 'I know what you want,' are all swirling around me, a tornado of sensual images, shredding my thoughts.
This was not what I had planned on.
- Krycek....
- Shut up.
He shuts up. What the hell do I do now? The shower shuts off. The silence is very loud now. I can almost see it rising like poisoned smoke between us.
- Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?
- Daddy's calling, Mulder. Give him his towel. Slowly.
Without taking his eyes from me, Mulder opens the door and tosses the towel in.
- Call him out here.
- No.
Mulder's eyes never leave mine. He knows why I am here.
- 'No' what? Who are you talking to, Mulder?
The bathroom door opens and Walter Skinner steps out, towel wrapped around his waist, fumbling with his steamed glasses.
I checked out his prescription on one of my reconnaissance visits; he's nearsighted. He can only see things that are close to him. Like his lover, who has left his weapon in its holster on the hook by the door. Or an assassin standing in his hallway, weapon trained on his bare chest.
Gotta give Skinner credit. He sees me and freezes; in that long instant, he is watching, assessing, judging distances, angles and caliber. Then his face goes very still and he is stepping directly in front of me.
No, that's wrong. He is stepping in front of Fox Mulder.
- Krycek.
- Skinner.
There is water beaded on his broad chest and a bite mark over Skinner's left nipple. The cold fog that has been trailing me, ever since that night by the river nearly a month ago, rises to choke me now. Since the night when I fled from Fox Mulder's touch, pushing him away, leaving him to this man.
Mulder is trying to push Skinner out of the way. The ex-Marine merely braces his forearms against the walls on either side of the hall, becoming the immovable object. In a towel. I almost laugh at the sight. Almost.
- Mulder. Get out of here.
Which one of us said that?
- No.
Skinner and I exchange a glance, almost-humor sparking between us. We should have expected that response from the man we love. Then Skinner's gaze becomes something harder, colder. Even though he is unarmed and nearly naked, he is a cornered predator, therefore at his most dangerous now, in this moment.
I nod once and he returns it. Then I am caught by Mulder's eyes, staring desperately at me over Skinner's hard shoulder.
- Alex. Don't do this. Please.
- It was always going to come to this, Mulder.
- It doesn't have to be this way.
- No. You could come with me. Step around him and come here. Leave with me.
- No, Alex.
- Then here we are, I point out pleasantly and make a mock-courtly gesture with my gun hand. I catch sight of minute muscles beginning to ripple in Skinner's chest and arms.
- Don't.
He subsides and I say, - These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. .45 Hardballs. They can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you don't seem to be wearing that much.
He is watching me, motionless. His eyes are cold and flat, ready.
Once, I shot a buck in the dead of winter. I looked up to find a wolf staring at me, assessing its chances of getting me away from that kill. I know that he will fight me to the death with his bare hands and teeth.
There is an almost imperceptible movement, a nearly trivial adjustment in our tableau. Skinner gasps, then his eyes close and his stony features are suddenly etched with despair.
I watch Mulder's arms close around his lover's chest and his chin comes to rest on the man's right shoulder. He is pressed in close behind Skinner. We all know what he has done.
If I shoot Skinner now, the bullets will rip right through both of them.
- Please. Go.
Skinner's whisper scrapes the walls of this too-narrow hallway. He is not talking to me.
Mulder doesn't answer. He just keeps staring at me, his face beside the other man's. Skinner's hands slowly clench into fists against the wall, the knuckles bloodless and white. His eyes are still closed and I know that he is not afraid to look at his own death. He just doesn't want to see Mulder's.
I don't know how long I stand there, looking at them. Locked together. Each one trying to protect the other. Each knowing that he has failed and that there is nothing more to do but die together.
That sight is burned behind my eyes forever.
It is the last thing I see at night, lying in another nameless hotel and lapping at the memory like sweet poison. It touches my mornings, before I have even opened my eyes, the sounds of their harsh, frightened breathing rushing in my ears. It is the last thing I see as I leave, my gun cool in its holster, my eyes burning.
A sight of....
I don't know. Something had to give in that hallway and, for once in my life, it was me.
end