X-files fic: Kansas
Here's another slightly bigger fic (~8500 words) and it's X-files. I've had mixed responses with this one, so it's safe to say it's not everyone's cup of tea. Please read the warnings carefully.
Title: Kansas
Fandom: X-files
Author:
rospberry
Characters/Pairing: Krycek, Mulder, CSM, and various OC henchmen
Rating: NC-17 for violence and language.
Summary: Krycek is desperate and turns to Mulder for help. Mulder says no.
Timeline: Set somewhere between Apocrypha and Tunguska.
Warnings: This is a DARKer fic with a detailed and lengthy torture scene, and it deals with some issues that people may find disturbing. It is meant to be darkly comic, and so the scenes are written slightly tongue-in-cheek...but even so, they aren't for the faint-hearted. Features snarky Krycek.
Betad by the wonderful
mayalaen.
*
The damaged man staggered along the corridor towards Fox Mulder's apartment.
One pale, slender hand was clutched tightly against a bleeding ribcage, a gun hung limply from the fingers of the other.
Visibly struggling against exhaustion, the man approached the closed door and, hesitating only a little, he reached out and tapped softly with the muzzle of the gun.
And waited.
*
Mulder swung his long legs off the edge of his couch and stared at the door suspiciously. It was the middle of the night and he was damn sure he wasn't expecting company.
He left the TV playing, the porn movie grunting in the background as he padded across the room in his bare feet, only pausing to retrieve his gun from his holster slung on the back of the chair.
With practiced caution, he approached the front door, avoiding the usual and risky glance through the peephole that could only serve to alert the caller. He stepped to the side and spoke clearly. “Who's there?”
The answering voice was weak, but recognisable. “It's Krycek.”
What the fuck?
Mulder stared at the door in disbelief as he reached for the lock, bringing his gun up as he yanked the door open. “Krycek?” he spat. “What the hell do you…?”
His words faltered as he took in the appearance of his ex-partner and he had to fight the instinctive urge to reach out to him. Aside from the blood oozing through the fingers clamped to his side, he looked malnourished, the clothes hanging off a slender frame that seemed on the verge of collapsing. His face was deathly pale, whether that was from blood loss or a more long term state, Mulder couldn't be sure, but dark smudges under his unusually dull green eyes hinted at the latter.
Even the leather jacket had lost its shine.
“Take it,” Krycek said nodding between them and Mulder looked down in puzzlement to see Krycek was holding out his gun, butt first.
Suspiciously he took the weapon and tossed it carelessly behind him back into the apartment. He didn't lower his own. “What do you want?” he asked.
Krycek slowly lowered his hand and lifted his eyes to meet Mulder's, all his movements seeming dulled and sluggish. “I need your help.”
Incredulous laughter bubbled in Mulder's throat like bile and he coughed it back. “You've got to be kidding me?”
“I wish I was,” Krycek said tiredly. He cocked his head to the side and contemplated Mulder.
Probably wondering how much bullshit I'll believe.
Decision seemingly made, Krycek spoke again, “I've no place else to go.”
“Oh come on, Krycek, surely you can come up with something better than that.”
Krycek's lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mulder, but it's the truth. I need someplace safe to stay and you're it.”
Mulder frowned at the answer, the lack of intricate explanations or some elaborate intrigue designed to pique Mulder's interest and convince him to play along. Maybe he was trying some new approach. “So what makes you think you'll be safe here?”
“I don't really, I'm just hoping…” Krycek looked uneasy. “They might leave me alone if I'm with you. There are some… ah… guidelines they've been given about not pushing you too much. But if you don't help, well, I guess they find me.”
“They?” Mulder quirked an eyebrow. “You mean the Consortium.”
Krycek shrugged.
“And what happens if they find you? They kill you?” Mulder strived to maintain a tone of cold indifference and felt a small nugget of sadistic pleasure when he saw Krycek flinch at the question.
Another shrug. “Maybe. If I'm lucky.”
There was a disturbing blankness in Krycek's eyes and Mulder suddenly realised he didn't want to question what Krycek meant. Didn't want to know why death would ever be the positive outcome of any situation.
Finally lowering the gun, he looked long and hard at the beleaguered man before him.
This murderer. This liar. A practiced betrayer of trust and friendship. Should I trust you?
As his gaze lingered, he saw hope flaring in the green eyes that were watching him intently now.
Mulder sighed heavily and, when he spoke, his voice was cold. “Krycek, why the hell would you think I would give a shit if you were in trouble?”
This time he took no pleasure from the flash of shock - and was that fear? - that crossed Krycek's features, but refused to show any compassion. At least outwardly.
“I…” Krycek searched for words. “I thought… I thought you would...”
“What? Fall for your lies again? Be a good gullible little Mulder and just roll over so stab me in the back?” Mulder shook his head. “Not this time.”
Krycek was despairing. “I know I deserve that… I really do… but I swear I'm not lying to you.”
“You know what, Krycek? I really don't care.” He stepped back into the apartment and put a hand on the side of the door.
Krycek visibly sagged. “Mulder… please.”
*
Mulder shut the door firmly in his face.
An almost child-like panic clutched at Alex as he stared at the door and, for a tiny second, he had the urge to start pounding, screaming until Mulder had no choice but to let him in, to protect him, to…
To what, Alex?
He squashed the rising terror and stepped away, turning back down the corridor to walk as purposefully as he was able to the stairwell.
His resolve lasted until he was out of sight of Mulder's door and then he stopped, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor and stare helplessly at his empty, bloody hands.
Well that was clever wasn't it? On top of everything else you've gone and lost your fucking gun.
Alex thunked his head back against the hard wall.
Now what, Einstein?
Thunked his head again.
Now what?
*
Mulder stood on the other side of the door, his forehead resting on the warm wood.
What the hell do you want from me, Krycek? You can't expect me to trust you?
He could still see the incredulous look in Krycek's eyes, the realisation that, for once, Mulder wasn't going to play ball.
Hell, it was probably some sort of trick anyway. The bastard's probably laughing his socks off that he had me going for a second.
Mulder pushed away from the door and turned, catching sight of Krycek's gun lying on the floor. He picked it up slowly and weighted it in his hand, staring at it thoughtfully.
It made no sense that Krycek had left his gun unless he'd been certain Mulder would let him in, and given their history that was an outside chance at best. Hell, it wasn't inconceivable that Mulder's reaction would have been a lot more aggressive than it was. So to throw away a perfectly good weapon as a gesture of good faith was irrational unless, of course, he was determined to give his story credence, to put his life in Mulder's hands.
Or it could just be another ploy. Another way to get inside and gain trust like a good little Consortium spy.
But Consortium spies didn't look like they hadn't eaten in a month and have blood dripping from their ribs.
And you know this because? Are you sure you aren't just clutching at straws?
Mulder sighed and walked across the room, laying both guns down on the coffee table. He sank heavily on the couch and ran a hand wearily through his hair as he leaned back into the comforting leather.
Why did you have to come back, Krycek? Why?
*
Alex stumbled down the stairs, one hand clutched tightly to his side, the other periodically palming the wall to steady his descent leaving a macabre trail of bloody handprints.
He was done. He knew it. But he had to at least make an effort to escape. A futile effort to be sure. Nothing more than delaying the inevitable, but he had to at least try. Not give them the satisfaction of finding him defeated.
Who are you trying to kid?
He already was defeated. Even Mulder knew it. Sanctimonious prick was probably gloating on the phone to Scully right now. 'Hey, Scully… guess what… the rat bastard is gonna get his…'
If only you knew the half of it, Mulder.
*
Mulder tossed the remote angrily across the room and stood up, restlessly running a hand through his hair.
He kicked at one of his sneakers lying discarded beside the table and cursed as bare toe met hard plastic.
Damn him.
He stared hard at the door and back down at the offending footwear.
I am not doing this.
Door. Sneaker. Door. Sneaker. Krycek's gun.
He sat heavily on the couch and propped his feet up on the table, deliberately shoving the gun out of the way.
Not doing this.
The gun laid there, a coppery sheen on the black metal where Krycek had held the weapon in his bloody hand.
With an exasperated sigh, Mulder swung his legs off the table and reached for his shoes.
Damn him.
*
“Krycek.”
Alex heard his name spoken the instant he stepped out from the apartment block door. His hand automatically reached for his weapon and he faltered as he remembered it was gone, not needing the sharp, “Don't even think about it,” to make him drop his hands to his sides.
Well the running-for-it plan worked really well.
He waited silently as the owner of the voice stepped into the pool of the building light and wasn't that surprised to see an old acquaintance aiming a gun at his midsection. The Consortium was a fairly close-knit family after all.
“Long time no see, Carter,” he said to the balding man who stepped out from the shadows. “How are the wife and kids?”
John Carter, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to be home with the wife and kids, drinking beer and watching the Yankees game. He was getting too old for all this clandestine shit. Too old, too fat and too goddamn tired to be getting lip from some cocky little bastard who really wasn't worth half the trouble the old man was going to.
If it was up to him, he'd have just put one through the kid's head and left him to bleed on the sidewalk. Job done, let's all go home. But it wasn't up to him.
“Shut the fuck up and move against the wall,” Carter said sharply and Alex flashed his teeth.
“But you didn't say please.”
He heard the footstep from his other side too late to react and so took the full brunt of the kidney punch, dropping to his knees with a gasp.
A hand gripped the collar of his jacket and yanked him to his feet, and he looked up to see Carter's scowling face inches from his own. “Please,” Carter said and shoved Alex, sending him stumbling into the brick wall of Mulder's building, stepping back with the gun aimed to watch as Alex was searched.
Alex assumed the position and pressed his head against the cool brick and let rough hands pat him down. He snuck a look behind and saw his searcher was another familiar face amongst the Consortium ranks. The name momentarily escaped him though…Teak… Teal… Teague. That was it; Teague. More muscle than brains, if he remembered right. Built like a tank with the same mental capacity.
Teague's perfunctory search quickly found the knife tucked into the side of Alex's boot and tossed it to Carter, but the lack of any other weapon seemed to throw him completely. He must have looked to Carter for help because Alex heard him bark, “Search him again. And do it properly this time.”
The second more rigorous search made Alex shift uneasily, but it was quickly over and again Teague came up empty.
“Where's your gun?” Carter asked sharply in Alex's ear.
Alex tilted his head to look at Carter and shrugged. “Threw it away.”
Carter's dark eyes narrowed and he leaned closer. “Just so you know, the old man said we could do anything we like as long as we leave you able to walk.” He twitched his head as though remembering something else. “Oh yeah, and we aren't meant to mark that pretty face of yours either. I always thought he had a thing for you, he does so like his boys pretty and bruised.”
Great, just fucking great. “Aw, come on, Carter, wouldn't you rather just go and get a beer? Reminisce over old times?” Alex tried to grin reassuringly. “We could go over to that club on the East side. Remember? The one with the blonde trans...”
A quick nod from Carter and a blast of pain shot through his side as Teague sent a couple of jabs into his ribs. His fingers dug painfully into the brick as his hands instinctively held him upright. “I'll take that as a no, then,” he gasped and looked back at Carter.
Carter sneered, “I always thought you were a pansy ass, Krycek. Never understood why you got the cushy jobs while the rest of us did donkeywork and sorted out your fuckups.”
“Just my natural charm, I guess,” Krycek muttered as he very subtly shifted, balancing his weight and balling his hands into fists, collecting a little brick dust into his palms. Time for Plan B. What was that again?
“Always figured you were doing a bit more for the old man than you were making out. Hey... making out... that's a good one, right, Teague?”
The Neanderthal laughed obediently and Alex bit back a retort. Instead he mentally placed the two men. Teague: Back, left and close enough to smell. Carter: Back, right and about ten feet away. Too far.
“What's wrong, pretty boy? Smart mouth run out of things to say?” Carter stepped closer.
Alex shrugged. “Too busy planning my amazing escape.”
Carter snorted. “You're a funny man, Krycek.”
“I try.”
“Yep,” Carter continued as though Alex hadn't spoken. “You'll need a sense of humour where you're going.” He paused, probably motioning to Teague. “Now just play nice and this'll be so much easier for everyone...“
Alex didn't play nice. In one circling movement he propelled from the wall, left hand releasing a splatter of dust into Teague's eyes, right fist swinging around to slam into his chin, sending the big man sprawling backwards in surprise.
Following the momentum of the movement, Alex kept turning, right fist opening to release more dust. Carter stumbled back coughing and Alex launched himself at the man, aiming to grab the gun and run.
The two men landed heavily on the ground and Carter kicked out as he fell, catching Alex a glancing blow on his already injured side. Alex grunted, but didn't slow. Driven by fear and adrenaline he drove a fist into Carter's balls and reached out to grab the gun in the man's fist.
Carter screeched in agony and instinctively rolled to protect his aching groin, the gun all but forgotten as Alex snatched it away.
Alex took a second to breathe, crouching on his hands and knees panting heavily, and it was only the crunch of gravel that made him realised his mistake. Of course they wouldn't have just sent two.
He looked up in time to see a solid black boot heading straight towards his face, and then a blast of pain as he blacked out.
*
Gravel dug sharply into his cheek and he squeezed his eyes tighter against the agonising throb along his jaw. Muscles he never even knew he had were aching and he figured someone had got a few shots in once he was down. Perfect.
Somewhere overhead someone was arguing and it didn't take Alex long to realise he must only have been out for a few minutes as he focused on the heated words.
“…not going to be happy.” Carter. And he didn't sound too happy either.
“But, sir, he was getting away,” a young male voice responded.
“Fuckin' hell, Stevens, what part of 'don't mark his face' did you not understand? I know you're new to this, but shit…”
“I'm sorry, sir.” Well, you're great at kissing ass aren't you kid?
“Bit late for that now.” A sound of clinking metal. “Just cuff 'im so we can get the hell out of here.”
Hands were grabbing his arms and Alex mentally tried to rouse his body to fight, but he was dazed and his exhausted body refused to respond.
All he could do was wince as his arms were pulled harshly behind his back and cold metal handcuffs were snapped on his wrists.
“He's awake, sir,” the voice belonging to Stevens said sharply.
“Really?” Carter sounded pleased and Alex heard footsteps coming closer. He tensed for a blow as the sound stopped just beside his head.
“Krycek?” Carter must have knelt down because his voice was near Krycek's ear. His tone was almost conversational, “Open your eyes and look at me or I'll rip your balls off.”
“What? No dinner first?” Alex rasped, as he reluctantly blinked his eyes open and looked up into Carter's unsmiling visage. Surprisingly he looked more irritated than angry.
“I'm gonna let that one pass,” Carter said, and for a second Alex thought he was talking about the quip, but Carter continued. “If I was you, I'd have tried it, too. But get this straight,” he snarled leaning close for Alex to smell his mouthwash. “Try anything like it again and, orders or no orders, I'll break every fucking bone in your body.”
Alex wisely decided not to say anything, just nodded as well as someone could with their cheek rubbing against a million sharp bits of stone.
“Get him into the van,” Carter snapped as he stood and Alex was pulled upright, balancing precariously on unsteady legs and having to use the tight unyielding grip as support.
The fresh-faced support was sneering at Alex, “What a loser.”
“Shut it, Stevens,” Carer backed, “Just get him into the van before you get yourself in even more trouble.”
The grip tightened and Alex was half dragged down the path from Mulder's apartment block towards a nondescript-looking black van waiting on the road.
The side doors slid open as they approached and Teague grinned nastily at Alex as he reached out to grab hold of his jacket and drag him inside, shoving him roughly into the corner behind the front seats. Stevens climbed in behind him and pulled the door closed, sitting on the floor of the van and aiming his gun at Alex with a shaking hand.
“Don't fucking move.”
Alex cast an appraising eye over the younger man and tried not to snort. Eyes bright with excitement and ambition, tiny beads of sweat were forming at the edge of his hairline where crisply cut blonde stubble met blemish free skin.
“First day?” Alex asked politely and hissed as the gun smacked sharply against his bruised jaw.
“Stevens…” Carter said warningly as he climbed into the driver's seat of the van. “Ignore him.”
Stevens glowered at Alex, but sat back and stayed silent.
Alex smiled angelically, amused to see the younger man's knuckles whitening as he gripped the quavering gun harder. He leaned back against the wall of the van and closed his eyes, trying to ignore his aches and pains and the reality of what was ahead of him.
*
After following Krycek's bloody hand trail down the stair well, Mulder hesitantly stepped out into the night with his gun raised and ready.
Nothing.
He followed the path down to the street and looked around. At one end of the road a set of tail lights flickered red as a vehicle paused at the stop sign, then the engine purred as it drove off again, turning towards the city
The other way was quieter still. No one around at all. No Krycek.
With a heavy sigh, Mulder turned around and headed back to his apartment.
*
They had pulled up into an industrial area. No streetlights or welcoming homely lamps lighting the way, only brooding warehouses as far as Alex could see.
Stone crunched under his boots and he reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled onwards towards the only building in the area showing any light at all. It was an almost derelict warehouse, a sign with the words 'Waste Storage Facility' painted in flaking red paint, barely readable in the dim light filtering through the filthy windows. Ah, a store for shit then. Isn't that poetic.
Stevens stepped forwards and pulled open the door, stepping to the side to allow the others through.
As soon as they entered the warehouse, Alex took one look and started fighting with all the energy he had left.
He kicked out, twisted, pulled, even tried to bite, but they were prepared for all of it.
A sharp blow across his face with a fist and he saw stars, stunning him enough for them to yank off his jacket and drag him to the centre of the room and attach his cuffs to the long chain hanging from the ceiling.
The chain yanked sharply up and his shoulders pulled harshly as the chain snapped taught.
Breaths heaving out of his aching lungs, he stood there, suddenly feeling horribly vulnerable as he watched a spiral of cigarette smoke curling into the air from the shadows.
“Enjoying the show?” he managed to gasp out.
The Smoker - Alex only thought of him as that, Spender seemed far too human a title for him - stepped into the light and inhaled deeply, raising an eyebrow in response to Alex's question. He blew out a long plume of cloudy air before speaking.
“You disappoint me, Alex.”
“Glad to know I'm doing something right.”
At a nod from the Smoker, Stevens stepped forwards and drove a fist gleefully into Alex's side, grinning as Alex jerked the chain to move away from the blow.
Stevens unclenched his fingers and frowned as he noticed a smear of blood across his knuckles.
The Smoker had noticed as well and gestured to Carter to get rid of Alex's t-shirt, watching closely as Carter used Alex's own knife to effortlessly slice through the material and toss it to the side.
Alex didn't need to look down to know the stab wound looked bad. Natural healing and constant abuse had made the wound inflamed and tender. In truth it had been little more than a glancing blow with no real depth but the length of the cut and the subsequent beating had made his body's attempt to form a clot almost futile. Blood dribbled down his prominent rib cage and soaked into the waistband of his jeans.
The Smoker stepped closer and peered thoughtfully for a second before speaking quietly to Carter, sending him off in the direction of the warehouse offices. He turned back to Alex with a smile.
Not good.
“Been getting yourself in trouble, Alex?”
“Cut myself shaving.”
The Smoker ignored him. “You really should try to be more careful about the people you associate with.”
“What can I say? I'm an appalling judge of character.” Alex watched as smoke swirled in the air around him. “Always manage to get stuck with the assholes.”
Anger was not an emotion the Smoker ever showed, but Alex heard it in his voice. “You would do well to remember the situation you've got yourself into, Alex. Insulting us isn't going to help you.”
“No. But it helps to pass the time,” Alex quipped, a cocky smile playing at his lips.
“If it's distraction you are looking for then I'm quite sure we could arrange something to keep you busy.”
“No, I'll just stick with the witty repartee, thanks.”
“But, Alex, what sort of host would I be if I didn't provide suitable diversions?” The Smoker looked away from Alex and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Carter, I see you've brought the medical supplies to treat Alex's wounds.”
Alex followed the Smoker's gaze and stared disbelievingly at the 'equipment' Carter was holding in his hand. He paled.
An iron for fuck's sake. Welcome to the homewares section of TorturersRUs.
“Alex, this may sting a little.”
Sting? Sting a little? What, like a hammer to the head might just nip a bit?
The Smoker watched him carefully. “Suddenly got nothing to say, Alex?”
“I've got plenty to say,” Alex said, tugging ineffectively at the chain as Carter walked slowly around him, extension cable trailing behind. “I just don't think any of it would be particularly beneficial right now.”
The Smoker laughed, a croaky, guttural sound that made Alex wince.
The heat of the iron wafted gently against his skin as Carter stepped nearer.
Alex instinctively flinched away from the nearing heat, muscles tightening as Carter danced the iron playfully around his body, never quite touching, just teasing and taunting with the threat of pain. He was putting on a floor show for the spectators.
Ah, fuck it.
Alex stopped moving so abruptly that Carter was startled and skimmed a path of red along his back before he could pull the iron away.
Alex gritted his teeth against the not-unexpected pain and steadied himself, hands gripping onto the chain above his head.
His body was so tense, he thought he was going to snap, nerves wound like a spring ready to release. A furrow of tension appeared on his forehead as he watched Carter approach from the corner of his eye.
“Ready, Krycek?” Carter breathed in his ear and he managed to dredge up some words to hiss through gritted teeth.
“Just fucking do it.”
So Carter did.
*
Alex felt so tired. He couldn't even summon the energy to lift his head up, just kept staring down at his feet.
He felt like crying, or screaming, or dying, or fucking ripping that black lunged bastards head off.
Jesus, man, get a grip.
He hurt all over. Little twinges and throbs and the infuriating incessant burning along his ribs that threatened to drive him insane with the need to relieve it.
Warm sweat slid unpleasantly down his chest.
They were having some sort of conference now. A let's-decide-what-to-do-to-him-next chat. Standing in a little huddle around their leader, they all pretended to have a say when all they were really doing was waiting for their God to speak. Been there, done that, got the fucking kiss-ass t-shirt.
Maybe they would just decide to let him go. Decide he wasn't entertaining enough and dropkick him out the door. As if.
At least you didn't scream.
Alex gave a minute shake of the head at the thought.
Oh yeah, like that's important. It's not as if there won't be more opportunities for screaming. Speaking of which…
The tap of approaching footsteps made Alex reluctantly look up and he couldn't help, but let out a disbelieving snort.
“So who are you this time? The Marquis de Sade?” he asked Carter, who was carrying a black coiled piece of leather in his hand. A whip.
The Smoker strolled up beside Carter and eyed Alex with some amusement. “We thought the traditional methods of persuasion would be less effective with you, Alex. This has a bit more… character wouldn't you say?”
“Not quite the word I would go for,” Alex replied, warily watching the whip disappear out of his eye-line as Carter stepped around behind him. He fought the urge to twist around.
“One last chance, Alex. Tell us what we want to know and this doesn't have to happen.”
What the fuck? “But you haven't asked me anything. SHIT,” Alex gasped as the whip cracked loudly and pain lanced across his back. He lurched forward, the metal chain clattering overhead.
Regaining his footing, he glared defiantly at the Smoker, and from years of habitually not being able to keep his mouth shut, he said, “That tickled.” You stupid fucking idiot.
CRACK.
He stayed steady this time, but couldn't hold back a tiny groan.
The Smoker rolled his cigarette thoughtfully in his fingers before taking another lungful. Smoke filtered out with his words, “Forgive me, Alex. I assumed you knew what topic we were here to discuss.”
“Sorry,” Alex spoke through gritted teeth. “Must have missed the memo.” Just get on with it.
Another long inhalation and an almost whimsical tone of voice, “We were most impressed with your escape from the silo. It must have been quite a challenge.” Damn right it was you black-lunged bastard. You left me there to rot. “Care to tell us how you managed it?”
“Not really.”
CRACK.
Another white-hot streak of pain slashed across Alex's back and he tried to breathe.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Alex, you're not being very helpful. It seems silly to cause yourself so much pain over such a simple question. So I'll ask you again. How did you get out of the silo?”
“Fuck you...”
CRACK.
Alex tasted blood in his mouth. He wasn't aware of biting his - he probed a little - his lip, but it was a damned sight better than giving him the pleasure of hearing a scream. What is it with you and screams?
He spat the blood on the floor and waited.
“We'll try this again, Alex. How did you get out?”
Maybe if he just answered the question… but no, he knew the questions weren't the point of this at all, they were irrelevant. This was all about punishment and reminders.
Reminders that they owned him.
He took a deep breath. “You won't believe me.”
This piqued the Smoker's interest and he leaned forward. “You'd be surprised at what I'll believe.”
“OK,” Alex said slowly, running his tongue against his lip. “Well, I found these sparkly shoes near the silo. I put them on and closed my eyes. Then I clicked my heels three times and said 'there's no place like...”
CRACK.
This time Alex cried out.
He didn't mean to. In fact he was trying his damnedest not to even flinch when the whip hit, listening for the warning whistle of air and holding tightly onto the chain overhead. But this time the whip was aimed around his body and he felt a searing agony as it struck across his ribs, stripping a path across the fresh burn.
He sagged in his bonds and squeezed his eyes closed, willing the pain to ease off.
Laughter came from somewhere to his left. Stevens. He didn't even have to look. The green little fucker thinks this is funny.
“Stevens,” the Smoker barked. “I fail to see what's so amusing.”
The laugher died instantly. “Sorry, sir.”
Suck ass little prick. Bet you wouldn't think this was so fucking funny if it was you hanging here like some butchered cow. Bet you'd be bawling like a little kid, spilling your pathetic little life story so fast just to make the fucking pain stop, to not have to listen to some snivelling little shit laugh at you for trying not to break. All I have to do is tell him…
Nothing.
Alex stared at a scuffmark on the ground and concentrated. Breathe, just breathe.
“Still trying to be the comedian, Alex? Young Stevens here certainly finds you entertaining.”
Alex tried to speak, but it was surprisingly difficult. He coughed and spat out some more blood, opting instead to remain silent.
“Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions. Should I try something simpler?”
Alex said nothing.
“Why did you go to Mulder? Did you really think he would help you after all you've done to him?”
Fuck off.
“You really think anyone will help you apart from me? This is where you belong, Alex.”
Alex glared at him. “Maybe I'm a bit hazy on the definition of help.” Jesus it hurt to talk. “How was leaving me in the silo helping exactly?”
“That was an unfortunate mistake, Alex. We thought the alien would kill you.”
“And trying to blow me up? Was that another unfortunate mistake?”
A tendril of smoke curled in the air as the Smoker considered his reply. “An error of judgement,” he admitted. “I hadn't foreseen quite how resourceful you could be when you were pushed. I underestimated your abilities.”
Am I supposed to be falling for this crap? “I thought you said I had disappointed you?”
There was a considering pause. Got you this time.
“It's your lack of foresight that disappoints me… and your reluctance to accept the inevitable. You belong to me, Alex, yet you seem determined to pretend otherwise.
“You are so full of sh-”
CRACK.
Not so bad. You can do this. A little bit of banter now and then you'll be ready for-
CRACK.
Fuck. Did I yell something then? Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can do this, Alex, you can… just...
CRACK.
*
Alex hung limply, no energy left to even blink.
All he could feel was pain. Feel it, taste it, and even smell it.
They'd left him alone. It was a deliberate move to let him focus, to give him time to assess the damage they'd done, the damage they could still so as long as he kept resisting them.
Christ, I wish I didn't know so much about all of this. Maybe this is some sort of divine retribution. What goes around comes around eh, Alex?
In a way he wished they'd come back. As long as they were around he had something to concentrate on, a way to ignore his own weakness. But alone there was no reason to keep on pretending. No one around to witness an admittance of fear, or defeat.
But even so, Alex couldn't do it.
Call it Russian pride, or dumb fucking pigheadedness, but there was no way Alex Krycek was going to show anyone they'd beaten him.
Just breathe.
*
He didn't know how long they left him for. It could have been five minutes or five hours. He must have blacked out again, because he was yanked back into consciousness as someone released him from the chain and he hit the ground in a bone-jarring heap.
He struggled to stand but his limbs wouldn't obey and they dragged him easily over to a crate, throwing him face first onto it.
And then he knew.
Not this God. Please not this.
But God wasn't listening as they undid his jeans, tugging them down to his ankles. Rough hands pinned his shoulders, his cheek pressing into the splintered surface of the crate, the smell of wood and straw and cigarette smoke in his nostrils as he drew in ragged breaths. Exhaling a stream of multi-lingual curses, struggling uselessly against the hands, he still tried to fight them.
“It doesn't have to be like this, Alex,” the familiar voice rasped in his ear.
Alex froze. “Don't do this to me.” Fuck. I sound like I'm begging. How many times did I pity the pathetic fucks that begged?
“You're giving us no choice. You aren't helping yourself in any way. I only wanted the answer to some questions and then…”
“But they're stupid fucking questions,” Alex interjected. “You already know all the answers.”
“Do I, Alex? Well, how about you humour me and answer them anyway, and then all this will be over.”
A rough palm caressed the bottom of Alex's spine and he panicked, trying to twist away, but the others held him down. He trembled under the touch and he spat out words instinctively, “Fuck you, you black-lunged bastard!” Aw shit, Alex, what the hell did you say that for?
The hand abruptly lifted and a cool waft of air hit his skin as the Smoker stepped away, his voice cold as he spoke over Alex's head, “Agent Stevens. I think you know what you have to do.”
No. Please not him.
A trembling voice responded, “I can't.”
“I'm not giving you a choice.”
“But I can't… I've never…”
“Why did you join the FBI?”
“I'm sorry… what?” Stevens was thrown by the abrupt change of topic.
“It's not a difficult question. Why did you join the FBI?”
“To help people,” Stevens said nervously as though unsure it was appropriate.
“And? Is that all?”
Alex was listening to this exchange dispassionately; under other circumstances he would have found it amusing. It was almost the exact same conversation he'd had about five years ago in a situation not entirely dissimilar to his own, and he could almost predict the young agent's responses verbatim. Was I that naïve?
Stevens was answering the question hesitantly, “To... er… serve my country?”
“Right. And don't you want to fulfil that desire?”
“Of course. But I don't see how…”
Here it comes.
“We all have to play a role, Stevens, yours is not to question the purpose but to put faith in those who lead you. Those who lose their faith have to be reminded, this isn't pleasant but it's necessary.” A pause as smoke was sucked in and exhaled theatrically. “We live in a dangerous time and you have to be prepared to do many things you didn't think you would have to. It's time for you to redefine what is morally acceptable if you want to save humanity.”
“But I can't…”
“Stevens, you will be very surprised what you can do when you have to. Even Alex would tell you that. Consider this your first lesson on the realities of the world you live in.”
There was silence as Stevens digested the little speech. Alex felt a sudden urge to laugh at the whole thing. Did I believe all that crap once? He couldn't remember but he supposed he must have.
The next word he heard sent a chill down his spine. Stevens said quietly, “All right, sir. If it's what I have to do.”
Someone else snorted softly and the Smoker coughed a warning.
The ripping sound of a zipper lowering crackled in Alex's ear and he squeezed his eyes closed.
“Alex?” The Smoker was back beside him.
Alex wearily opened his eyes and stared at the cigarette wielding hand, inches from his face. “What?”
“Are you sure you won't change your mind? All you have to do is answer the question.”
“What fucking question do you want answered?”
“Language, Alex.” The cigarette disappeared from view and then returned, the tip glowing a little brighter. “How did you get out of the silo?”
Because you sent someone back to let me out. Or how about I stick with the old ruby slipper story? Now there's an idea.
*
Mulder's eyes drifted closed as he sat sprawled on his couch, his restless night finally taking its toll.
The fish tank gurgled softly in the corner and the flickering lights from the muted television danced hypnotically against his eyelids as he hovered on the brink of sleep.
Thud. Thud.
Mulder jerked awake, startled by the sudden loud knocks, automatically lifting Krycek's gun from the table and aiming it at the door.
“Who's there?” he called.
Silence.
Mulder flicked a quick look at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o'clock. The grey light leaching around the blinds made a lot more sense.
So who would call at five in the morning?
“Hello?” he tried again, as he stepped over to the door. “Anyone out there?”
His heart was thudding now, and his grip tightened on the gun. One of these days, Mulder, you're gonna get yourself killed, he thought as he swiftly yanked the door open and aimed the gun at…
Nothing.
What the hell? He stuck his head out into the corridor and looked up and down expecting to see a disappearing figure or hear the sound of clattering footsteps. But there was nothing.
And then he looked down.
And took a step back in surprise.
Mulder stared in bewilderment at the slumped figure on his doorstep. There was something familiar…
“Krycek?” he asked incredulously.
The body didn't move and Mulder bent down to take a closer look.
It was Krycek all right. All six foot odds of the traitorous bastard huddled in an unconscious heap of tangled limbs and leather. And he was definitely breathing.
Mulder straightened and poked at Krycek's thigh with his toe. The leg twitched.
Encouraged, he leaned forwards and said, “Krycek!” loudly, quickly backing off with the gun aimed.
A groan presaged further movement. Krycek stirred, his body reassembling itself into a more ordered state as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
Every movement was slow and, judging by the lines of tension on Krycek's face, extremely painful.
Mulder frowned. He didn't look too bad, some bruising on his cheek, but nothing else. Maybe a bit paler than he had been before, more gaunt, but really not…
“Just take a fucking picture, Mulder, and quit staring at me.”
Mulder blinked sharply, Krycek was glaring at him. Glaring back he countered, “Just trying to figure out your angle this time. Do you think this'll give you a way in? That I'll fall for the unconscious on my doorstep so must be a good guy routine?”
Anger flashed across Krycek's face, just as quickly replaced by a smart-ass smile that Mulder itched to smack. “Jeez, Mulder, guess you got me. Hell, I'm just a dumb old double agent who's no match for you college-educated types with all your fancy learning and books.” As he spoke, Krycek started to clamber to his feet. “So I'll be getting out of your way and … shit…” the curse slipped out as he straightened, his face paling and he looked on the verge of toppling over.
Mulder instinctively reached out a steadying hand and Krycek flinched away from him sharply, yelping in pain as he banged back into the wall.
“Don't... touch… me…Mulder,” he gasped.
Mulder looked at him, startled. “Jesus, Krycek, what did they do to you?”
“Like you give a shit, Mulder,” Krycek threw his earlier words back at him. “Just go back inside and back to 'Scully Does Skinner' or whatever the hell you were jerking off to.”
Color flared in Mulder's cheeks and he stepped angrily towards Krycek, his hand automatically reaching out to grip the leather jacket to re-enact their usual pantomime of scuffling blows.
Krycek recoiled sharply and slammed back into the wall again. What color there was leached from his face and he slid down the wall, sitting with an undignified thump on the floor.
Mulder pulled his hand away, startled, and looked down. Krycek was clutching his knees tightly to his chest and almost imperceptibly rocking back and forwards. “Krycek?” he said hesitantly.
Alex didn't look up. “I can't do this, Mulder. Not now,” he rasped. “Just go back in and shut the door.”
Mulder didn't move, just looked at Alex properly and without prejudice, and admitted what he saw scared him. I can't just leave him here. Can't turn him away. Not again.
*
“Mulder,” Alex said hoarsely and looked up at the staring agent. “Please just go inside.” Please.
Even as he spoke, Alex could see the familiar Mulder determination slipping into place and he sighed inwardly.
He tried again. “Mulder…”
“No.” Mulder shook his head. “No. You need a doctor. Come inside and I'll call…”
“No way,” Alex said sharply. “No doctors. No hospital. I'll be fine.” He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, standing as straight as he was able so he could glare at Mulder. “See. All better. So why don't you just fuck off back inside.”
“You look like shit,” Mulder said impassively.
“I've looked worse.”
“Don't doubt it. But you need to lie down before you fall down,” Mulder replied, still not moving.
Alex could feel sweat beading on his face, cold clamminess enveloping his entire body and the harder he tried to concentrate, the more Mulder seemed to be speaking at him from a far distance. He deliberately folded his arms to put pressure on his sides, the sharp pain refocusing his brain with vicious intensity.
Nausea welled up and he only had time to unfold his arms and turn away before he threw up violently into the doorway of Mulder's apartment.
He gripped onto the doorframe tightly and lurched over to vomit again.
Feeling pitifully weak, he stood there, head lowered and panting heavily, thick bile in the back of his throat as he fought down the nausea.
Mulder's voice was quiet, but firm, “Come on, Alex, let's get you inside.”
Alex? He called me Alex?
Alex felt a tentative hand touch his arm and he allowed the contact, letting Mulder gently help him into the apartment.
They paused as Mulder looked distastefully at the floor and kicked the door shut, muttering a curse at the resultant smear.
“Sorry,” Alex said, staring at the floor.
Mulder looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
“For throwing up on your doorstep.”
The answering chuckle made Alex look up sharply. “What did I say?”
Mulder was shaking his head in amusement. “All the things you've done and you apologise for puking. That's priceless.”
Alex stared at him silently for a moment and then tried to pull his arm from Mulder's grip, intent on heading back out of the door.
Mulder only tightened his hold and his humour fell away instantly. “No, Alex, you're not leaving.”
“Why, Mulder?” Alex turned on him, his temper flaring. “Are you arresting me? Is that what this is? You've finally managed to get yourself a scapegoat for all your sordid little conspiracy theories?” Alex didn't have the energy for this, but he couldn't stop himself once he'd started, his voice rising, “Or does this give you a thrill seeing me like this? Finally you can get some revenge for all the shit you think I put you through. Is that it? Look at pathetic little Alex Krycek, fucked up and fucked over. Quick! Get the whole gang over to have a good fucking laugh.” Alex stopped talking abruptly and leaned heavily against the wall.
“You're a piece of work you know that, Krycek?” Mulder said.
“Yeah. So I've heard,” Alex said wearily and repeated his earlier question, “Why, Mulder? Why are you helping me?”
“You came to me. You asked for help.”
“And you shut the door in my face,” Alex said coldly. “I'm not asking you for help this time, I don't need it, don't want it, especially not from you.”
Mulder paled but retorted angrily, “Fine. If that's the way you want it.”
Alex blinked in surprise but covered it quickly, ignoring the lurch of what - disappointment? fear? - as he made to move to the door. But the hand on his arm didn't let go and he looked at Mulder in confusion.
Mulder smiled coldly and raised the gun. “You're under arrest.”
“Aw, come on, Mulder,” Alex spat, trying now to yank his arm out of the iron grip. “This isn't fucking funny.”
“I'm not trying to be funny,” Mulder snarled and stepped into Krycek's space, leaving him no room to back away. “You're under arrest and you can either get over there and sit on that fucking couch and shut the fuck up, or I'll slap cuffs on you and give Skinner a call. He'd love to visit with you.”
Alex visibly withered under Mulder's intense glare and he bobbed his head, eyes shifting fearfully away. “Okay, Mulder, you win. Just no cuffs. Please?” he said timidly. “I won't run.”
Mulder was stunned. What the hell is going on with you, Alex? “Fine. Sit,” he ordered and loosened his grip.
Alex seemed to skitter away from him, jamming himself into the far corner of the couch as though looking for something to hide in. His green eyes tracked Mulder as he headed towards his bedroom door.
Mulder paused mid stride and swung back to the main door, turning the key in the lock and pocketing it.
“I said I wouldn't run,” Alex said softly.
Mulder stopped and looked at the broken man sitting on his couch. “Excuse me if I don't trust you,” he said.
“I'm sorry.”
Mulder just shook his head and started moving again. “I'm going to get you some painkillers. Then I'll make you some soup, okay?”
Alex's stomach rumbled in appreciation and he gave Mulder a half-hearted grin. “That would be great. Thanks.”
Mulder nodded and turned away.
*
Alex watched Mulder disappear into the bedroom and he dropped his head back onto the couch, the fearful posture relaxing as he stretched out his legs.
You are such a conniving, heartless bastard.
He cast a professional eye over the ceiling and paused as he spotted at an innocuous looking crack in the plaster. He raised one hand and pointed a finger at the crack, aiming it and mimicking a childhood gesture of firing and recoil, blowing imaginary smoke from the tip of his fingernail.
With a small smile, he lowered his hand and carefully shrugged off his jacket, exposing bandaged wrists and a clean white t-shirt. White cotton window dressing.
He felt, rather than heard, Mulder returning, and resumed his position of a cowed man, drawing in his legs and tensing. Before the bedroom door was even partially open, any trace of the smile was gone from his face and he let the exhaustion he genuinely felt show though on his face. Genuine, Alex? That's a joke.
Mulder stepped into the room deep in thought, a frown darkening his features, and laid his small bundle of medical supplies on the coffee table. His eyes travelled over Alex, noticing his wrists and the tell-tale outline of more bandages under the tight t-shirt. But he didn't mention it, just methodically sorted through the various pills he's brought through.
Alex watched him carefully, waiting. Here it comes.
“Did they rape you?” Mulder asked so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Alex stared at the bowed head in silence and counted to ten in his head. Then he answered honestly, “No, Mulder, they didn't rape me.”
Mulder looked up and caught his eye, trying to see if he was telling the truth. Decision seemingly made he visibly relaxed, and smiled a little with relief. “Good,” he said, “I'll go and get you that soup.”
Alex smiled back. “Thanks, Mulder.”
Mulder turned away and Alex looked right up at the crack in the ceiling, mouthing a word very clearly but silently with his lips.
In a non-descript black van parked a street away, behind a bank of monitors and audio equipment, a spiral of noxious smoke rose into the air.
“Language, Alex. Mind your language.”
And someone coughed.
Title: Kansas
Fandom: X-files
Author:
rospberry
Characters/Pairing: Krycek, Mulder, CSM, and various OC henchmen
Rating: NC-17 for violence and language.
Summary: Krycek is desperate and turns to Mulder for help. Mulder says no.
Timeline: Set somewhere between Apocrypha and Tunguska.
Warnings: This is a DARKer fic with a detailed and lengthy torture scene, and it deals with some issues that people may find disturbing. It is meant to be darkly comic, and so the scenes are written slightly tongue-in-cheek...but even so, they aren't for the faint-hearted. Features snarky Krycek.
Betad by the wonderful
mayalaen.
*
The damaged man staggered along the corridor towards Fox Mulder's apartment.
One pale, slender hand was clutched tightly against a bleeding ribcage, a gun hung limply from the fingers of the other.
Visibly struggling against exhaustion, the man approached the closed door and, hesitating only a little, he reached out and tapped softly with the muzzle of the gun.
And waited.
*
Mulder swung his long legs off the edge of his couch and stared at the door suspiciously. It was the middle of the night and he was damn sure he wasn't expecting company.
He left the TV playing, the porn movie grunting in the background as he padded across the room in his bare feet, only pausing to retrieve his gun from his holster slung on the back of the chair.
With practiced caution, he approached the front door, avoiding the usual and risky glance through the peephole that could only serve to alert the caller. He stepped to the side and spoke clearly. “Who's there?”
The answering voice was weak, but recognisable. “It's Krycek.”
What the fuck?
Mulder stared at the door in disbelief as he reached for the lock, bringing his gun up as he yanked the door open. “Krycek?” he spat. “What the hell do you…?”
His words faltered as he took in the appearance of his ex-partner and he had to fight the instinctive urge to reach out to him. Aside from the blood oozing through the fingers clamped to his side, he looked malnourished, the clothes hanging off a slender frame that seemed on the verge of collapsing. His face was deathly pale, whether that was from blood loss or a more long term state, Mulder couldn't be sure, but dark smudges under his unusually dull green eyes hinted at the latter.
Even the leather jacket had lost its shine.
“Take it,” Krycek said nodding between them and Mulder looked down in puzzlement to see Krycek was holding out his gun, butt first.
Suspiciously he took the weapon and tossed it carelessly behind him back into the apartment. He didn't lower his own. “What do you want?” he asked.
Krycek slowly lowered his hand and lifted his eyes to meet Mulder's, all his movements seeming dulled and sluggish. “I need your help.”
Incredulous laughter bubbled in Mulder's throat like bile and he coughed it back. “You've got to be kidding me?”
“I wish I was,” Krycek said tiredly. He cocked his head to the side and contemplated Mulder.
Probably wondering how much bullshit I'll believe.
Decision seemingly made, Krycek spoke again, “I've no place else to go.”
“Oh come on, Krycek, surely you can come up with something better than that.”
Krycek's lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mulder, but it's the truth. I need someplace safe to stay and you're it.”
Mulder frowned at the answer, the lack of intricate explanations or some elaborate intrigue designed to pique Mulder's interest and convince him to play along. Maybe he was trying some new approach. “So what makes you think you'll be safe here?”
“I don't really, I'm just hoping…” Krycek looked uneasy. “They might leave me alone if I'm with you. There are some… ah… guidelines they've been given about not pushing you too much. But if you don't help, well, I guess they find me.”
“They?” Mulder quirked an eyebrow. “You mean the Consortium.”
Krycek shrugged.
“And what happens if they find you? They kill you?” Mulder strived to maintain a tone of cold indifference and felt a small nugget of sadistic pleasure when he saw Krycek flinch at the question.
Another shrug. “Maybe. If I'm lucky.”
There was a disturbing blankness in Krycek's eyes and Mulder suddenly realised he didn't want to question what Krycek meant. Didn't want to know why death would ever be the positive outcome of any situation.
Finally lowering the gun, he looked long and hard at the beleaguered man before him.
This murderer. This liar. A practiced betrayer of trust and friendship. Should I trust you?
As his gaze lingered, he saw hope flaring in the green eyes that were watching him intently now.
Mulder sighed heavily and, when he spoke, his voice was cold. “Krycek, why the hell would you think I would give a shit if you were in trouble?”
This time he took no pleasure from the flash of shock - and was that fear? - that crossed Krycek's features, but refused to show any compassion. At least outwardly.
“I…” Krycek searched for words. “I thought… I thought you would...”
“What? Fall for your lies again? Be a good gullible little Mulder and just roll over so stab me in the back?” Mulder shook his head. “Not this time.”
Krycek was despairing. “I know I deserve that… I really do… but I swear I'm not lying to you.”
“You know what, Krycek? I really don't care.” He stepped back into the apartment and put a hand on the side of the door.
Krycek visibly sagged. “Mulder… please.”
*
Mulder shut the door firmly in his face.
An almost child-like panic clutched at Alex as he stared at the door and, for a tiny second, he had the urge to start pounding, screaming until Mulder had no choice but to let him in, to protect him, to…
To what, Alex?
He squashed the rising terror and stepped away, turning back down the corridor to walk as purposefully as he was able to the stairwell.
His resolve lasted until he was out of sight of Mulder's door and then he stopped, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor and stare helplessly at his empty, bloody hands.
Well that was clever wasn't it? On top of everything else you've gone and lost your fucking gun.
Alex thunked his head back against the hard wall.
Now what, Einstein?
Thunked his head again.
Now what?
*
Mulder stood on the other side of the door, his forehead resting on the warm wood.
What the hell do you want from me, Krycek? You can't expect me to trust you?
He could still see the incredulous look in Krycek's eyes, the realisation that, for once, Mulder wasn't going to play ball.
Hell, it was probably some sort of trick anyway. The bastard's probably laughing his socks off that he had me going for a second.
Mulder pushed away from the door and turned, catching sight of Krycek's gun lying on the floor. He picked it up slowly and weighted it in his hand, staring at it thoughtfully.
It made no sense that Krycek had left his gun unless he'd been certain Mulder would let him in, and given their history that was an outside chance at best. Hell, it wasn't inconceivable that Mulder's reaction would have been a lot more aggressive than it was. So to throw away a perfectly good weapon as a gesture of good faith was irrational unless, of course, he was determined to give his story credence, to put his life in Mulder's hands.
Or it could just be another ploy. Another way to get inside and gain trust like a good little Consortium spy.
But Consortium spies didn't look like they hadn't eaten in a month and have blood dripping from their ribs.
And you know this because? Are you sure you aren't just clutching at straws?
Mulder sighed and walked across the room, laying both guns down on the coffee table. He sank heavily on the couch and ran a hand wearily through his hair as he leaned back into the comforting leather.
Why did you have to come back, Krycek? Why?
*
Alex stumbled down the stairs, one hand clutched tightly to his side, the other periodically palming the wall to steady his descent leaving a macabre trail of bloody handprints.
He was done. He knew it. But he had to at least make an effort to escape. A futile effort to be sure. Nothing more than delaying the inevitable, but he had to at least try. Not give them the satisfaction of finding him defeated.
Who are you trying to kid?
He already was defeated. Even Mulder knew it. Sanctimonious prick was probably gloating on the phone to Scully right now. 'Hey, Scully… guess what… the rat bastard is gonna get his…'
If only you knew the half of it, Mulder.
*
Mulder tossed the remote angrily across the room and stood up, restlessly running a hand through his hair.
He kicked at one of his sneakers lying discarded beside the table and cursed as bare toe met hard plastic.
Damn him.
He stared hard at the door and back down at the offending footwear.
I am not doing this.
Door. Sneaker. Door. Sneaker. Krycek's gun.
He sat heavily on the couch and propped his feet up on the table, deliberately shoving the gun out of the way.
Not doing this.
The gun laid there, a coppery sheen on the black metal where Krycek had held the weapon in his bloody hand.
With an exasperated sigh, Mulder swung his legs off the table and reached for his shoes.
Damn him.
*
“Krycek.”
Alex heard his name spoken the instant he stepped out from the apartment block door. His hand automatically reached for his weapon and he faltered as he remembered it was gone, not needing the sharp, “Don't even think about it,” to make him drop his hands to his sides.
Well the running-for-it plan worked really well.
He waited silently as the owner of the voice stepped into the pool of the building light and wasn't that surprised to see an old acquaintance aiming a gun at his midsection. The Consortium was a fairly close-knit family after all.
“Long time no see, Carter,” he said to the balding man who stepped out from the shadows. “How are the wife and kids?”
John Carter, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to be home with the wife and kids, drinking beer and watching the Yankees game. He was getting too old for all this clandestine shit. Too old, too fat and too goddamn tired to be getting lip from some cocky little bastard who really wasn't worth half the trouble the old man was going to.
If it was up to him, he'd have just put one through the kid's head and left him to bleed on the sidewalk. Job done, let's all go home. But it wasn't up to him.
“Shut the fuck up and move against the wall,” Carter said sharply and Alex flashed his teeth.
“But you didn't say please.”
He heard the footstep from his other side too late to react and so took the full brunt of the kidney punch, dropping to his knees with a gasp.
A hand gripped the collar of his jacket and yanked him to his feet, and he looked up to see Carter's scowling face inches from his own. “Please,” Carter said and shoved Alex, sending him stumbling into the brick wall of Mulder's building, stepping back with the gun aimed to watch as Alex was searched.
Alex assumed the position and pressed his head against the cool brick and let rough hands pat him down. He snuck a look behind and saw his searcher was another familiar face amongst the Consortium ranks. The name momentarily escaped him though…Teak… Teal… Teague. That was it; Teague. More muscle than brains, if he remembered right. Built like a tank with the same mental capacity.
Teague's perfunctory search quickly found the knife tucked into the side of Alex's boot and tossed it to Carter, but the lack of any other weapon seemed to throw him completely. He must have looked to Carter for help because Alex heard him bark, “Search him again. And do it properly this time.”
The second more rigorous search made Alex shift uneasily, but it was quickly over and again Teague came up empty.
“Where's your gun?” Carter asked sharply in Alex's ear.
Alex tilted his head to look at Carter and shrugged. “Threw it away.”
Carter's dark eyes narrowed and he leaned closer. “Just so you know, the old man said we could do anything we like as long as we leave you able to walk.” He twitched his head as though remembering something else. “Oh yeah, and we aren't meant to mark that pretty face of yours either. I always thought he had a thing for you, he does so like his boys pretty and bruised.”
Great, just fucking great. “Aw, come on, Carter, wouldn't you rather just go and get a beer? Reminisce over old times?” Alex tried to grin reassuringly. “We could go over to that club on the East side. Remember? The one with the blonde trans...”
A quick nod from Carter and a blast of pain shot through his side as Teague sent a couple of jabs into his ribs. His fingers dug painfully into the brick as his hands instinctively held him upright. “I'll take that as a no, then,” he gasped and looked back at Carter.
Carter sneered, “I always thought you were a pansy ass, Krycek. Never understood why you got the cushy jobs while the rest of us did donkeywork and sorted out your fuckups.”
“Just my natural charm, I guess,” Krycek muttered as he very subtly shifted, balancing his weight and balling his hands into fists, collecting a little brick dust into his palms. Time for Plan B. What was that again?
“Always figured you were doing a bit more for the old man than you were making out. Hey... making out... that's a good one, right, Teague?”
The Neanderthal laughed obediently and Alex bit back a retort. Instead he mentally placed the two men. Teague: Back, left and close enough to smell. Carter: Back, right and about ten feet away. Too far.
“What's wrong, pretty boy? Smart mouth run out of things to say?” Carter stepped closer.
Alex shrugged. “Too busy planning my amazing escape.”
Carter snorted. “You're a funny man, Krycek.”
“I try.”
“Yep,” Carter continued as though Alex hadn't spoken. “You'll need a sense of humour where you're going.” He paused, probably motioning to Teague. “Now just play nice and this'll be so much easier for everyone...“
Alex didn't play nice. In one circling movement he propelled from the wall, left hand releasing a splatter of dust into Teague's eyes, right fist swinging around to slam into his chin, sending the big man sprawling backwards in surprise.
Following the momentum of the movement, Alex kept turning, right fist opening to release more dust. Carter stumbled back coughing and Alex launched himself at the man, aiming to grab the gun and run.
The two men landed heavily on the ground and Carter kicked out as he fell, catching Alex a glancing blow on his already injured side. Alex grunted, but didn't slow. Driven by fear and adrenaline he drove a fist into Carter's balls and reached out to grab the gun in the man's fist.
Carter screeched in agony and instinctively rolled to protect his aching groin, the gun all but forgotten as Alex snatched it away.
Alex took a second to breathe, crouching on his hands and knees panting heavily, and it was only the crunch of gravel that made him realised his mistake. Of course they wouldn't have just sent two.
He looked up in time to see a solid black boot heading straight towards his face, and then a blast of pain as he blacked out.
*
Gravel dug sharply into his cheek and he squeezed his eyes tighter against the agonising throb along his jaw. Muscles he never even knew he had were aching and he figured someone had got a few shots in once he was down. Perfect.
Somewhere overhead someone was arguing and it didn't take Alex long to realise he must only have been out for a few minutes as he focused on the heated words.
“…not going to be happy.” Carter. And he didn't sound too happy either.
“But, sir, he was getting away,” a young male voice responded.
“Fuckin' hell, Stevens, what part of 'don't mark his face' did you not understand? I know you're new to this, but shit…”
“I'm sorry, sir.” Well, you're great at kissing ass aren't you kid?
“Bit late for that now.” A sound of clinking metal. “Just cuff 'im so we can get the hell out of here.”
Hands were grabbing his arms and Alex mentally tried to rouse his body to fight, but he was dazed and his exhausted body refused to respond.
All he could do was wince as his arms were pulled harshly behind his back and cold metal handcuffs were snapped on his wrists.
“He's awake, sir,” the voice belonging to Stevens said sharply.
“Really?” Carter sounded pleased and Alex heard footsteps coming closer. He tensed for a blow as the sound stopped just beside his head.
“Krycek?” Carter must have knelt down because his voice was near Krycek's ear. His tone was almost conversational, “Open your eyes and look at me or I'll rip your balls off.”
“What? No dinner first?” Alex rasped, as he reluctantly blinked his eyes open and looked up into Carter's unsmiling visage. Surprisingly he looked more irritated than angry.
“I'm gonna let that one pass,” Carter said, and for a second Alex thought he was talking about the quip, but Carter continued. “If I was you, I'd have tried it, too. But get this straight,” he snarled leaning close for Alex to smell his mouthwash. “Try anything like it again and, orders or no orders, I'll break every fucking bone in your body.”
Alex wisely decided not to say anything, just nodded as well as someone could with their cheek rubbing against a million sharp bits of stone.
“Get him into the van,” Carter snapped as he stood and Alex was pulled upright, balancing precariously on unsteady legs and having to use the tight unyielding grip as support.
The fresh-faced support was sneering at Alex, “What a loser.”
“Shut it, Stevens,” Carer backed, “Just get him into the van before you get yourself in even more trouble.”
The grip tightened and Alex was half dragged down the path from Mulder's apartment block towards a nondescript-looking black van waiting on the road.
The side doors slid open as they approached and Teague grinned nastily at Alex as he reached out to grab hold of his jacket and drag him inside, shoving him roughly into the corner behind the front seats. Stevens climbed in behind him and pulled the door closed, sitting on the floor of the van and aiming his gun at Alex with a shaking hand.
“Don't fucking move.”
Alex cast an appraising eye over the younger man and tried not to snort. Eyes bright with excitement and ambition, tiny beads of sweat were forming at the edge of his hairline where crisply cut blonde stubble met blemish free skin.
“First day?” Alex asked politely and hissed as the gun smacked sharply against his bruised jaw.
“Stevens…” Carter said warningly as he climbed into the driver's seat of the van. “Ignore him.”
Stevens glowered at Alex, but sat back and stayed silent.
Alex smiled angelically, amused to see the younger man's knuckles whitening as he gripped the quavering gun harder. He leaned back against the wall of the van and closed his eyes, trying to ignore his aches and pains and the reality of what was ahead of him.
*
After following Krycek's bloody hand trail down the stair well, Mulder hesitantly stepped out into the night with his gun raised and ready.
Nothing.
He followed the path down to the street and looked around. At one end of the road a set of tail lights flickered red as a vehicle paused at the stop sign, then the engine purred as it drove off again, turning towards the city
The other way was quieter still. No one around at all. No Krycek.
With a heavy sigh, Mulder turned around and headed back to his apartment.
*
They had pulled up into an industrial area. No streetlights or welcoming homely lamps lighting the way, only brooding warehouses as far as Alex could see.
Stone crunched under his boots and he reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled onwards towards the only building in the area showing any light at all. It was an almost derelict warehouse, a sign with the words 'Waste Storage Facility' painted in flaking red paint, barely readable in the dim light filtering through the filthy windows. Ah, a store for shit then. Isn't that poetic.
Stevens stepped forwards and pulled open the door, stepping to the side to allow the others through.
As soon as they entered the warehouse, Alex took one look and started fighting with all the energy he had left.
He kicked out, twisted, pulled, even tried to bite, but they were prepared for all of it.
A sharp blow across his face with a fist and he saw stars, stunning him enough for them to yank off his jacket and drag him to the centre of the room and attach his cuffs to the long chain hanging from the ceiling.
The chain yanked sharply up and his shoulders pulled harshly as the chain snapped taught.
Breaths heaving out of his aching lungs, he stood there, suddenly feeling horribly vulnerable as he watched a spiral of cigarette smoke curling into the air from the shadows.
“Enjoying the show?” he managed to gasp out.
The Smoker - Alex only thought of him as that, Spender seemed far too human a title for him - stepped into the light and inhaled deeply, raising an eyebrow in response to Alex's question. He blew out a long plume of cloudy air before speaking.
“You disappoint me, Alex.”
“Glad to know I'm doing something right.”
At a nod from the Smoker, Stevens stepped forwards and drove a fist gleefully into Alex's side, grinning as Alex jerked the chain to move away from the blow.
Stevens unclenched his fingers and frowned as he noticed a smear of blood across his knuckles.
The Smoker had noticed as well and gestured to Carter to get rid of Alex's t-shirt, watching closely as Carter used Alex's own knife to effortlessly slice through the material and toss it to the side.
Alex didn't need to look down to know the stab wound looked bad. Natural healing and constant abuse had made the wound inflamed and tender. In truth it had been little more than a glancing blow with no real depth but the length of the cut and the subsequent beating had made his body's attempt to form a clot almost futile. Blood dribbled down his prominent rib cage and soaked into the waistband of his jeans.
The Smoker stepped closer and peered thoughtfully for a second before speaking quietly to Carter, sending him off in the direction of the warehouse offices. He turned back to Alex with a smile.
Not good.
“Been getting yourself in trouble, Alex?”
“Cut myself shaving.”
The Smoker ignored him. “You really should try to be more careful about the people you associate with.”
“What can I say? I'm an appalling judge of character.” Alex watched as smoke swirled in the air around him. “Always manage to get stuck with the assholes.”
Anger was not an emotion the Smoker ever showed, but Alex heard it in his voice. “You would do well to remember the situation you've got yourself into, Alex. Insulting us isn't going to help you.”
“No. But it helps to pass the time,” Alex quipped, a cocky smile playing at his lips.
“If it's distraction you are looking for then I'm quite sure we could arrange something to keep you busy.”
“No, I'll just stick with the witty repartee, thanks.”
“But, Alex, what sort of host would I be if I didn't provide suitable diversions?” The Smoker looked away from Alex and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Carter, I see you've brought the medical supplies to treat Alex's wounds.”
Alex followed the Smoker's gaze and stared disbelievingly at the 'equipment' Carter was holding in his hand. He paled.
An iron for fuck's sake. Welcome to the homewares section of TorturersRUs.
“Alex, this may sting a little.”
Sting? Sting a little? What, like a hammer to the head might just nip a bit?
The Smoker watched him carefully. “Suddenly got nothing to say, Alex?”
“I've got plenty to say,” Alex said, tugging ineffectively at the chain as Carter walked slowly around him, extension cable trailing behind. “I just don't think any of it would be particularly beneficial right now.”
The Smoker laughed, a croaky, guttural sound that made Alex wince.
The heat of the iron wafted gently against his skin as Carter stepped nearer.
Alex instinctively flinched away from the nearing heat, muscles tightening as Carter danced the iron playfully around his body, never quite touching, just teasing and taunting with the threat of pain. He was putting on a floor show for the spectators.
Ah, fuck it.
Alex stopped moving so abruptly that Carter was startled and skimmed a path of red along his back before he could pull the iron away.
Alex gritted his teeth against the not-unexpected pain and steadied himself, hands gripping onto the chain above his head.
His body was so tense, he thought he was going to snap, nerves wound like a spring ready to release. A furrow of tension appeared on his forehead as he watched Carter approach from the corner of his eye.
“Ready, Krycek?” Carter breathed in his ear and he managed to dredge up some words to hiss through gritted teeth.
“Just fucking do it.”
So Carter did.
*
Alex felt so tired. He couldn't even summon the energy to lift his head up, just kept staring down at his feet.
He felt like crying, or screaming, or dying, or fucking ripping that black lunged bastards head off.
Jesus, man, get a grip.
He hurt all over. Little twinges and throbs and the infuriating incessant burning along his ribs that threatened to drive him insane with the need to relieve it.
Warm sweat slid unpleasantly down his chest.
They were having some sort of conference now. A let's-decide-what-to-do-to-him-next chat. Standing in a little huddle around their leader, they all pretended to have a say when all they were really doing was waiting for their God to speak. Been there, done that, got the fucking kiss-ass t-shirt.
Maybe they would just decide to let him go. Decide he wasn't entertaining enough and dropkick him out the door. As if.
At least you didn't scream.
Alex gave a minute shake of the head at the thought.
Oh yeah, like that's important. It's not as if there won't be more opportunities for screaming. Speaking of which…
The tap of approaching footsteps made Alex reluctantly look up and he couldn't help, but let out a disbelieving snort.
“So who are you this time? The Marquis de Sade?” he asked Carter, who was carrying a black coiled piece of leather in his hand. A whip.
The Smoker strolled up beside Carter and eyed Alex with some amusement. “We thought the traditional methods of persuasion would be less effective with you, Alex. This has a bit more… character wouldn't you say?”
“Not quite the word I would go for,” Alex replied, warily watching the whip disappear out of his eye-line as Carter stepped around behind him. He fought the urge to twist around.
“One last chance, Alex. Tell us what we want to know and this doesn't have to happen.”
What the fuck? “But you haven't asked me anything. SHIT,” Alex gasped as the whip cracked loudly and pain lanced across his back. He lurched forward, the metal chain clattering overhead.
Regaining his footing, he glared defiantly at the Smoker, and from years of habitually not being able to keep his mouth shut, he said, “That tickled.” You stupid fucking idiot.
CRACK.
He stayed steady this time, but couldn't hold back a tiny groan.
The Smoker rolled his cigarette thoughtfully in his fingers before taking another lungful. Smoke filtered out with his words, “Forgive me, Alex. I assumed you knew what topic we were here to discuss.”
“Sorry,” Alex spoke through gritted teeth. “Must have missed the memo.” Just get on with it.
Another long inhalation and an almost whimsical tone of voice, “We were most impressed with your escape from the silo. It must have been quite a challenge.” Damn right it was you black-lunged bastard. You left me there to rot. “Care to tell us how you managed it?”
“Not really.”
CRACK.
Another white-hot streak of pain slashed across Alex's back and he tried to breathe.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Alex, you're not being very helpful. It seems silly to cause yourself so much pain over such a simple question. So I'll ask you again. How did you get out of the silo?”
“Fuck you...”
CRACK.
Alex tasted blood in his mouth. He wasn't aware of biting his - he probed a little - his lip, but it was a damned sight better than giving him the pleasure of hearing a scream. What is it with you and screams?
He spat the blood on the floor and waited.
“We'll try this again, Alex. How did you get out?”
Maybe if he just answered the question… but no, he knew the questions weren't the point of this at all, they were irrelevant. This was all about punishment and reminders.
Reminders that they owned him.
He took a deep breath. “You won't believe me.”
This piqued the Smoker's interest and he leaned forward. “You'd be surprised at what I'll believe.”
“OK,” Alex said slowly, running his tongue against his lip. “Well, I found these sparkly shoes near the silo. I put them on and closed my eyes. Then I clicked my heels three times and said 'there's no place like...”
CRACK.
This time Alex cried out.
He didn't mean to. In fact he was trying his damnedest not to even flinch when the whip hit, listening for the warning whistle of air and holding tightly onto the chain overhead. But this time the whip was aimed around his body and he felt a searing agony as it struck across his ribs, stripping a path across the fresh burn.
He sagged in his bonds and squeezed his eyes closed, willing the pain to ease off.
Laughter came from somewhere to his left. Stevens. He didn't even have to look. The green little fucker thinks this is funny.
“Stevens,” the Smoker barked. “I fail to see what's so amusing.”
The laugher died instantly. “Sorry, sir.”
Suck ass little prick. Bet you wouldn't think this was so fucking funny if it was you hanging here like some butchered cow. Bet you'd be bawling like a little kid, spilling your pathetic little life story so fast just to make the fucking pain stop, to not have to listen to some snivelling little shit laugh at you for trying not to break. All I have to do is tell him…
Nothing.
Alex stared at a scuffmark on the ground and concentrated. Breathe, just breathe.
“Still trying to be the comedian, Alex? Young Stevens here certainly finds you entertaining.”
Alex tried to speak, but it was surprisingly difficult. He coughed and spat out some more blood, opting instead to remain silent.
“Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions. Should I try something simpler?”
Alex said nothing.
“Why did you go to Mulder? Did you really think he would help you after all you've done to him?”
Fuck off.
“You really think anyone will help you apart from me? This is where you belong, Alex.”
Alex glared at him. “Maybe I'm a bit hazy on the definition of help.” Jesus it hurt to talk. “How was leaving me in the silo helping exactly?”
“That was an unfortunate mistake, Alex. We thought the alien would kill you.”
“And trying to blow me up? Was that another unfortunate mistake?”
A tendril of smoke curled in the air as the Smoker considered his reply. “An error of judgement,” he admitted. “I hadn't foreseen quite how resourceful you could be when you were pushed. I underestimated your abilities.”
Am I supposed to be falling for this crap? “I thought you said I had disappointed you?”
There was a considering pause. Got you this time.
“It's your lack of foresight that disappoints me… and your reluctance to accept the inevitable. You belong to me, Alex, yet you seem determined to pretend otherwise.
“You are so full of sh-”
CRACK.
Not so bad. You can do this. A little bit of banter now and then you'll be ready for-
CRACK.
Fuck. Did I yell something then? Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can do this, Alex, you can… just...
CRACK.
*
Alex hung limply, no energy left to even blink.
All he could feel was pain. Feel it, taste it, and even smell it.
They'd left him alone. It was a deliberate move to let him focus, to give him time to assess the damage they'd done, the damage they could still so as long as he kept resisting them.
Christ, I wish I didn't know so much about all of this. Maybe this is some sort of divine retribution. What goes around comes around eh, Alex?
In a way he wished they'd come back. As long as they were around he had something to concentrate on, a way to ignore his own weakness. But alone there was no reason to keep on pretending. No one around to witness an admittance of fear, or defeat.
But even so, Alex couldn't do it.
Call it Russian pride, or dumb fucking pigheadedness, but there was no way Alex Krycek was going to show anyone they'd beaten him.
Just breathe.
*
He didn't know how long they left him for. It could have been five minutes or five hours. He must have blacked out again, because he was yanked back into consciousness as someone released him from the chain and he hit the ground in a bone-jarring heap.
He struggled to stand but his limbs wouldn't obey and they dragged him easily over to a crate, throwing him face first onto it.
And then he knew.
Not this God. Please not this.
But God wasn't listening as they undid his jeans, tugging them down to his ankles. Rough hands pinned his shoulders, his cheek pressing into the splintered surface of the crate, the smell of wood and straw and cigarette smoke in his nostrils as he drew in ragged breaths. Exhaling a stream of multi-lingual curses, struggling uselessly against the hands, he still tried to fight them.
“It doesn't have to be like this, Alex,” the familiar voice rasped in his ear.
Alex froze. “Don't do this to me.” Fuck. I sound like I'm begging. How many times did I pity the pathetic fucks that begged?
“You're giving us no choice. You aren't helping yourself in any way. I only wanted the answer to some questions and then…”
“But they're stupid fucking questions,” Alex interjected. “You already know all the answers.”
“Do I, Alex? Well, how about you humour me and answer them anyway, and then all this will be over.”
A rough palm caressed the bottom of Alex's spine and he panicked, trying to twist away, but the others held him down. He trembled under the touch and he spat out words instinctively, “Fuck you, you black-lunged bastard!” Aw shit, Alex, what the hell did you say that for?
The hand abruptly lifted and a cool waft of air hit his skin as the Smoker stepped away, his voice cold as he spoke over Alex's head, “Agent Stevens. I think you know what you have to do.”
No. Please not him.
A trembling voice responded, “I can't.”
“I'm not giving you a choice.”
“But I can't… I've never…”
“Why did you join the FBI?”
“I'm sorry… what?” Stevens was thrown by the abrupt change of topic.
“It's not a difficult question. Why did you join the FBI?”
“To help people,” Stevens said nervously as though unsure it was appropriate.
“And? Is that all?”
Alex was listening to this exchange dispassionately; under other circumstances he would have found it amusing. It was almost the exact same conversation he'd had about five years ago in a situation not entirely dissimilar to his own, and he could almost predict the young agent's responses verbatim. Was I that naïve?
Stevens was answering the question hesitantly, “To... er… serve my country?”
“Right. And don't you want to fulfil that desire?”
“Of course. But I don't see how…”
Here it comes.
“We all have to play a role, Stevens, yours is not to question the purpose but to put faith in those who lead you. Those who lose their faith have to be reminded, this isn't pleasant but it's necessary.” A pause as smoke was sucked in and exhaled theatrically. “We live in a dangerous time and you have to be prepared to do many things you didn't think you would have to. It's time for you to redefine what is morally acceptable if you want to save humanity.”
“But I can't…”
“Stevens, you will be very surprised what you can do when you have to. Even Alex would tell you that. Consider this your first lesson on the realities of the world you live in.”
There was silence as Stevens digested the little speech. Alex felt a sudden urge to laugh at the whole thing. Did I believe all that crap once? He couldn't remember but he supposed he must have.
The next word he heard sent a chill down his spine. Stevens said quietly, “All right, sir. If it's what I have to do.”
Someone else snorted softly and the Smoker coughed a warning.
The ripping sound of a zipper lowering crackled in Alex's ear and he squeezed his eyes closed.
“Alex?” The Smoker was back beside him.
Alex wearily opened his eyes and stared at the cigarette wielding hand, inches from his face. “What?”
“Are you sure you won't change your mind? All you have to do is answer the question.”
“What fucking question do you want answered?”
“Language, Alex.” The cigarette disappeared from view and then returned, the tip glowing a little brighter. “How did you get out of the silo?”
Because you sent someone back to let me out. Or how about I stick with the old ruby slipper story? Now there's an idea.
*
Mulder's eyes drifted closed as he sat sprawled on his couch, his restless night finally taking its toll.
The fish tank gurgled softly in the corner and the flickering lights from the muted television danced hypnotically against his eyelids as he hovered on the brink of sleep.
Thud. Thud.
Mulder jerked awake, startled by the sudden loud knocks, automatically lifting Krycek's gun from the table and aiming it at the door.
“Who's there?” he called.
Silence.
Mulder flicked a quick look at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o'clock. The grey light leaching around the blinds made a lot more sense.
So who would call at five in the morning?
“Hello?” he tried again, as he stepped over to the door. “Anyone out there?”
His heart was thudding now, and his grip tightened on the gun. One of these days, Mulder, you're gonna get yourself killed, he thought as he swiftly yanked the door open and aimed the gun at…
Nothing.
What the hell? He stuck his head out into the corridor and looked up and down expecting to see a disappearing figure or hear the sound of clattering footsteps. But there was nothing.
And then he looked down.
And took a step back in surprise.
Mulder stared in bewilderment at the slumped figure on his doorstep. There was something familiar…
“Krycek?” he asked incredulously.
The body didn't move and Mulder bent down to take a closer look.
It was Krycek all right. All six foot odds of the traitorous bastard huddled in an unconscious heap of tangled limbs and leather. And he was definitely breathing.
Mulder straightened and poked at Krycek's thigh with his toe. The leg twitched.
Encouraged, he leaned forwards and said, “Krycek!” loudly, quickly backing off with the gun aimed.
A groan presaged further movement. Krycek stirred, his body reassembling itself into a more ordered state as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
Every movement was slow and, judging by the lines of tension on Krycek's face, extremely painful.
Mulder frowned. He didn't look too bad, some bruising on his cheek, but nothing else. Maybe a bit paler than he had been before, more gaunt, but really not…
“Just take a fucking picture, Mulder, and quit staring at me.”
Mulder blinked sharply, Krycek was glaring at him. Glaring back he countered, “Just trying to figure out your angle this time. Do you think this'll give you a way in? That I'll fall for the unconscious on my doorstep so must be a good guy routine?”
Anger flashed across Krycek's face, just as quickly replaced by a smart-ass smile that Mulder itched to smack. “Jeez, Mulder, guess you got me. Hell, I'm just a dumb old double agent who's no match for you college-educated types with all your fancy learning and books.” As he spoke, Krycek started to clamber to his feet. “So I'll be getting out of your way and … shit…” the curse slipped out as he straightened, his face paling and he looked on the verge of toppling over.
Mulder instinctively reached out a steadying hand and Krycek flinched away from him sharply, yelping in pain as he banged back into the wall.
“Don't... touch… me…Mulder,” he gasped.
Mulder looked at him, startled. “Jesus, Krycek, what did they do to you?”
“Like you give a shit, Mulder,” Krycek threw his earlier words back at him. “Just go back inside and back to 'Scully Does Skinner' or whatever the hell you were jerking off to.”
Color flared in Mulder's cheeks and he stepped angrily towards Krycek, his hand automatically reaching out to grip the leather jacket to re-enact their usual pantomime of scuffling blows.
Krycek recoiled sharply and slammed back into the wall again. What color there was leached from his face and he slid down the wall, sitting with an undignified thump on the floor.
Mulder pulled his hand away, startled, and looked down. Krycek was clutching his knees tightly to his chest and almost imperceptibly rocking back and forwards. “Krycek?” he said hesitantly.
Alex didn't look up. “I can't do this, Mulder. Not now,” he rasped. “Just go back in and shut the door.”
Mulder didn't move, just looked at Alex properly and without prejudice, and admitted what he saw scared him. I can't just leave him here. Can't turn him away. Not again.
*
“Mulder,” Alex said hoarsely and looked up at the staring agent. “Please just go inside.” Please.
Even as he spoke, Alex could see the familiar Mulder determination slipping into place and he sighed inwardly.
He tried again. “Mulder…”
“No.” Mulder shook his head. “No. You need a doctor. Come inside and I'll call…”
“No way,” Alex said sharply. “No doctors. No hospital. I'll be fine.” He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, standing as straight as he was able so he could glare at Mulder. “See. All better. So why don't you just fuck off back inside.”
“You look like shit,” Mulder said impassively.
“I've looked worse.”
“Don't doubt it. But you need to lie down before you fall down,” Mulder replied, still not moving.
Alex could feel sweat beading on his face, cold clamminess enveloping his entire body and the harder he tried to concentrate, the more Mulder seemed to be speaking at him from a far distance. He deliberately folded his arms to put pressure on his sides, the sharp pain refocusing his brain with vicious intensity.
Nausea welled up and he only had time to unfold his arms and turn away before he threw up violently into the doorway of Mulder's apartment.
He gripped onto the doorframe tightly and lurched over to vomit again.
Feeling pitifully weak, he stood there, head lowered and panting heavily, thick bile in the back of his throat as he fought down the nausea.
Mulder's voice was quiet, but firm, “Come on, Alex, let's get you inside.”
Alex? He called me Alex?
Alex felt a tentative hand touch his arm and he allowed the contact, letting Mulder gently help him into the apartment.
They paused as Mulder looked distastefully at the floor and kicked the door shut, muttering a curse at the resultant smear.
“Sorry,” Alex said, staring at the floor.
Mulder looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
“For throwing up on your doorstep.”
The answering chuckle made Alex look up sharply. “What did I say?”
Mulder was shaking his head in amusement. “All the things you've done and you apologise for puking. That's priceless.”
Alex stared at him silently for a moment and then tried to pull his arm from Mulder's grip, intent on heading back out of the door.
Mulder only tightened his hold and his humour fell away instantly. “No, Alex, you're not leaving.”
“Why, Mulder?” Alex turned on him, his temper flaring. “Are you arresting me? Is that what this is? You've finally managed to get yourself a scapegoat for all your sordid little conspiracy theories?” Alex didn't have the energy for this, but he couldn't stop himself once he'd started, his voice rising, “Or does this give you a thrill seeing me like this? Finally you can get some revenge for all the shit you think I put you through. Is that it? Look at pathetic little Alex Krycek, fucked up and fucked over. Quick! Get the whole gang over to have a good fucking laugh.” Alex stopped talking abruptly and leaned heavily against the wall.
“You're a piece of work you know that, Krycek?” Mulder said.
“Yeah. So I've heard,” Alex said wearily and repeated his earlier question, “Why, Mulder? Why are you helping me?”
“You came to me. You asked for help.”
“And you shut the door in my face,” Alex said coldly. “I'm not asking you for help this time, I don't need it, don't want it, especially not from you.”
Mulder paled but retorted angrily, “Fine. If that's the way you want it.”
Alex blinked in surprise but covered it quickly, ignoring the lurch of what - disappointment? fear? - as he made to move to the door. But the hand on his arm didn't let go and he looked at Mulder in confusion.
Mulder smiled coldly and raised the gun. “You're under arrest.”
“Aw, come on, Mulder,” Alex spat, trying now to yank his arm out of the iron grip. “This isn't fucking funny.”
“I'm not trying to be funny,” Mulder snarled and stepped into Krycek's space, leaving him no room to back away. “You're under arrest and you can either get over there and sit on that fucking couch and shut the fuck up, or I'll slap cuffs on you and give Skinner a call. He'd love to visit with you.”
Alex visibly withered under Mulder's intense glare and he bobbed his head, eyes shifting fearfully away. “Okay, Mulder, you win. Just no cuffs. Please?” he said timidly. “I won't run.”
Mulder was stunned. What the hell is going on with you, Alex? “Fine. Sit,” he ordered and loosened his grip.
Alex seemed to skitter away from him, jamming himself into the far corner of the couch as though looking for something to hide in. His green eyes tracked Mulder as he headed towards his bedroom door.
Mulder paused mid stride and swung back to the main door, turning the key in the lock and pocketing it.
“I said I wouldn't run,” Alex said softly.
Mulder stopped and looked at the broken man sitting on his couch. “Excuse me if I don't trust you,” he said.
“I'm sorry.”
Mulder just shook his head and started moving again. “I'm going to get you some painkillers. Then I'll make you some soup, okay?”
Alex's stomach rumbled in appreciation and he gave Mulder a half-hearted grin. “That would be great. Thanks.”
Mulder nodded and turned away.
*
Alex watched Mulder disappear into the bedroom and he dropped his head back onto the couch, the fearful posture relaxing as he stretched out his legs.
You are such a conniving, heartless bastard.
He cast a professional eye over the ceiling and paused as he spotted at an innocuous looking crack in the plaster. He raised one hand and pointed a finger at the crack, aiming it and mimicking a childhood gesture of firing and recoil, blowing imaginary smoke from the tip of his fingernail.
With a small smile, he lowered his hand and carefully shrugged off his jacket, exposing bandaged wrists and a clean white t-shirt. White cotton window dressing.
He felt, rather than heard, Mulder returning, and resumed his position of a cowed man, drawing in his legs and tensing. Before the bedroom door was even partially open, any trace of the smile was gone from his face and he let the exhaustion he genuinely felt show though on his face. Genuine, Alex? That's a joke.
Mulder stepped into the room deep in thought, a frown darkening his features, and laid his small bundle of medical supplies on the coffee table. His eyes travelled over Alex, noticing his wrists and the tell-tale outline of more bandages under the tight t-shirt. But he didn't mention it, just methodically sorted through the various pills he's brought through.
Alex watched him carefully, waiting. Here it comes.
“Did they rape you?” Mulder asked so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Alex stared at the bowed head in silence and counted to ten in his head. Then he answered honestly, “No, Mulder, they didn't rape me.”
Mulder looked up and caught his eye, trying to see if he was telling the truth. Decision seemingly made he visibly relaxed, and smiled a little with relief. “Good,” he said, “I'll go and get you that soup.”
Alex smiled back. “Thanks, Mulder.”
Mulder turned away and Alex looked right up at the crack in the ceiling, mouthing a word very clearly but silently with his lips.
In a non-descript black van parked a street away, behind a bank of monitors and audio equipment, a spiral of noxious smoke rose into the air.
“Language, Alex. Mind your language.”
And someone coughed.