This is truly pathetic. My life has reached an all time low. I am sitting on my couch in a minuscule apartment, staring into a fish bowl instead of a computer screen or watching a bad sci-fi movie on television, and attempting to profile the most enigmatic bastard I've ever met. Patterson always told me that to understand an artist you have to look at his artwork. He never taught me what to do when the artwork is inconsistent.
My favorite puzzle, dark hair, green eyes, little boy pout. He seemed so damned young when I first met him. Wet behind the ears, Krycek, Alex Krycek. My own personal whipping boy it seems. How the hell does a confirmed killer make me feel so damn guilty for hitting him? It doesn't happen right off. It's never enough to keep me from going after him the next time. But the guilt is there. It wormed into my gut somehow and now I can't shake it.
It must be his eyes. Whenever I hit him, his eyes lose their cold edge. He looks so damned young. And he never hits back. Never.
I know he killed my father, even though he denied it in Hong Kong. I know he was there when Scully's sister died, even if he didn't pull the trigger. I know he's killed. I know he's a thief. I know he's on no one's side but his own, but I trust him. I don't know why. There's not one thing in his behavior that should make me trust him.
Okay, maybe one thing. He has never hurt me.
Not even Scully can claim that.
So, what have I got? I've got the wet-behind-the-ears agent, who suddenly disappeared after my partner was kidnapped. I've got the leather wearing, swaggering bad-boy who sneaks into my apartment and curses in Russian. I've got the silent receiver of my abuse. I've got nothing consistent.
He claims to be working for "the Resistance." He's tried to make me understand. He took care of me in a miserable hell-hole prison, when it was my fault that we ended up there in the first place. That leaves me with an assassin who's either been told to protect me or has chosen me on his own. Neither of those are really comfortable thoughts. I have to move.
I pace around the apartment. I need to have something to stare at. My file on Alex is thin. A real four-pipe problem as Phoebe might have teased me. Funny, my gut says that if Alex, he is always Alex in my head, ever found out what Phoebe did to me all those years ago he'd kill her. Just as surely as I've seen Scully getting jealous of her and every other female from my past, I can see Alex getting nasty. Shit, did that just come out the way I think it did. Sometimes I hate my brain. I hate being Spooky.
Alex admired me. He likes me. He has never tried to change me. He killed to protect me. At least he thought he did. The boy who killed Church and seemed frantic afterwards doesn’t look a lot like the killer that kissed me last night. His eyes were all wrong.
Oh, God, why did I have to start thinking about his eyes? That's not exactly going to be helpful here. Alex's eyes are as changeable and confusing as his actions. When I first met him all I saw was an overly faithful agent who followed orders, but had the balls to stand up to a senior agent. Last night I saw a bone deep anger. I saw hate.
I hope I saw hate.
I start putting up all the scraps of information I have on Alex Krycek from the FBI's personnel files and the barest traces that the Gunmen have found using his fingerprints. They found several robberies and no suspects. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to any of it. Why would Alex break in to a Thai consulate? What does an assassin want with information on a television star?
What do I know?
Not a damned thing. I don't know anything that he doesn't want me to know. And even when I think I know something, I can't be sure. He says he didn't kill my father. But he didn't deny it that first night, when Scully shot me. I need to know what she said to him. What he said that made her let him go. She hasn't ever told me, and at the time I was too far gone to question her. Did he put the drugs in my water? Did he know that he would be fighting a drugged man?
If he did, why did he come? He had to have known that I could kill him.
Why did he come to me last night? Why did he give me the gun? Why did he call me friend? Why did he kiss me?
Thinking about last night isn't the best idea in the world. Thinking about what he said is not good for my mental health. "A war between heaven and earth." Well, shit. Alex fucking Krycek is telling me to choose a side. To be a good American and fight for independence or to roll over and be a slave to creatures that are beyond my understanding. What does he think he is to me?
It would be easier if I knew what he was to me.
The source of all evil? No, that's not fair. He's never lied to me. Except lies of omission, but I've done the same to him. I "dumped him like a bad date" whenever I felt like it. There's something there, not in that comment, in that picture. His righteous indignation. It was the same, but he was holding himself so strangely. That wasn't my Alex. He was trying to hide something from me.
Something to do with his hand. "I can beat you one handed."
Broken arm?
Carpal tunnel syndrome
No, he kept himself turned away.
What the Hell is bothering me?
I need a beer. It's too bad that the fridge is empty. I'd call out, but it's too late at night. Damn you, Alex!
When he kissed me, he was going for my lips.
Then he changed. In his eyes I could see him make the choice. He was sad.
It wasn't hate I saw.
Fuck.
This changes nothing.
It changes everything.
Like the final piece of the puzzle that lets you see the picture.
It makes sense if he's in love with me.
He's never gone after Scully. He's never hit me back, though even I think he should have. He's protected me. He's always protected me. He's never given me bad information or manipulated me. Even Deep Throat manipulated me.
There's still something out of focus.
Maybe I can find that vodka. Where is it? Under my desk I think. Where Scully won't find it. Ah, that burns. It feels so good.
Alex seems to like vodka. Well, if he's really Russian, he would. Somehow I don't think he is. His parents are Russian. That's what he says. But there's something out of kilter whenever he talks about his past. I used to think he just had family secrets. Just like me. Fuck, just like Scully. Though Scully's family is definitely not as fucked up as mine. And somehow I think Alex and I have that in common if nothing else.
When did I decide to convince myself he wasn't the bad guy?
Will I even care next time I see him? Or will I go to hit him again.
Ouch. Sometimes honesty is overrated. What is missing? The picture is still out of focus. He moved so stiffly. Stiffly for the overgrown panther that he is. His arm. There's something about his arm. He wasn't talking about being able to take me down with one hand occupied with the gun. He's hurt.
The question now is, what's wrong.
No, what's gone.
I'm going to have a headache in the morning. Maybe Scully will let me have one of the cigarettes she keeps hidden in her desk.
Alex is missing his arm.
The villagers must have taken it.
Why didn't he blame me?
Why didn't he tell me?
Why wouldn't a trained killer give his enemy an insight into his greatest weakness? Sometimes my own stupidity amazes me. He did tell me.
Rather bluntly too.
I am such an idiot.
And I let him walk away.
I didn't even question him.
I believe again.
Because a killer told me too.
Spooky Mulder strikes again. Scully would laugh her ass off over this. Cancerman probably is. I think the best thing would be just to forget it all. I'm not going to tell her that Alex came to see me. I'm not going to pass along his threat. I'm just going to make up the most outrageous theory I can think of.
Why do I feel like I just got a blessing from a priest?
Why do I feel reborn?
Why did he kiss me?
Why does he love me?
Why do I have to play Juliet?
Damn you, Alex.
Damn me, Alex.
Have a drink.
FINIS