Paradidomi, by realitycek

Paradidomi

by realitycek

Pairing: M/K, K/WMM

Rated: T

Spoilers: Krycek eps, S5 on

Disclaimer: All things X-Files property of Fox and Ten Thirteen Productions. Or so they'd like to think.

Summary: Musings on a holiday morning

Author's Notes: Originally and hastily written 4/29/00, resurrected (no pun intended) solely to grovel before Shadowfox's "Deconstructing Judas". Not one of my usual Alexes, but here we are.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Warm, for a Washington morning this early in Spring. After where I've just spent the Last...well, that hasn't any direct bearing on why I'm here. But I'm soaking in the sun like a lizard on a rock, a target at a sidewalk table, listening against my better judgment to the sounds carrying across Massachusetts Avenue.

The rise and fall of chanting, the periodic breaking-glass shiver of dozens of vigourously-shaken little bells all at once...the members of St Nicholas Orthodox, observing Paskha. I haven't been in a church since I was about five and my Babchi brought me, over the objections of my parents. That was an Easter, too, and for a little kid with no clue what it was about, it was a hell of a show. The clouds of incense made my eyes tear and my nose run, and I got in trouble for asking too loudly if I could have a big shiny hat like that old man with the long beard and the dress, but outside of that...

Now, still without a clue, here I am. Drawn to it, when I have business to take care of, calls to make, an afternoon plane to catch. Easter is the perfect Russian holiday, really -- you get to party big and be melancholy simultaneously, out of sync with the rest of the world, who have already sent their Saviour on his way a week before. Death and food, ya gotta love it. And the Russian Easter eggs, intricate and beautiful and empty...

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Almost two years ago, I returned from the dead. I didn't know it at the time, but that's how it worked out. I had run like an animal to save myself, and from one disaster and ruined plan to another, the failure of one attempt to protect Mulder from himself to the next, I'd thought that because I was still breathing, I was winning. That I was still alive. Wrong. Finally, kneeling on a cold, wet metal deck, with a gun to the back of my skull and the sure knowledge that it was all over, I was given a way to survive. Damn right I jumped at it, but virtually from that first moment I began to realise that I wasn't merely still breathing, as before. I'd been handed a new life, and was shown things that made the whole fucking mess I'd been in make sense for the first time. Made *me* make sense, in the scheme of it all.

And Mulder was the key, the inescapable centre around which my existence orbited, more than ever. I know he didn't believe everything I was trying to tell him in those few minutes in the dark, that brief time I was allowed...didn't want to believe the change I could see he felt in me, and little I could do about it then. All I could do was help him in the part he had to play.

We both served our purposes, and I learned soon after that he'd begun to understand just what I'd given him that night, along with a gun, and a kiss...

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A year ago, I was standing in the deep shade at one arboured end of a garden terrace, watching three laughing children and several dogs tearing around between the tables set out on the lawn where their family sat chatting over brunch, enjoying (some even genuinely) their trip down to the country to see Grandfather for the holiday. I did my job, remaining discreetly out of sight so as not to distress the visitors with the idea that a bodyguard was considered necessary even at a time and place like this -- or to remind them needlessly of my presence in their patriarch's home. I'm more than okay with Invisible; it's one of the things I do best, and it sure as hell beats Dead. But there was something...

I scared the shit out of one of the servants -- one of the *other* servants, let's be clear -- half-drawing my sidearm when she brought me out some coffee and a sandwich, just enough of a distraction that I momentarily lost sight of my employer. Not a good thing. But then I saw him, walking slowly up the slope of the lawn in conversation with one of the daughters -- the older one, who really hated me. Both dressed to the nines, but apparently not in a holiday mood. They came up onto the terrace, far enough away that I couldn't make out more than the sound of their voices, and while my lapse still stung, I couldn't help smiling to myself at the way he casually cornered her against the broad stone railing of the terrace. He knew I'd be watching, knew I'd enjoy thinking about what she'd do if she had any idea what had taken place at just that spot the night before...

She stormed into the house, and after a few minutes he came over to me. "A problem, sir?"

He glanced after her, shook his head with a trace of a wry smile. "A question of a foolish investment. Nothing untoward." He took in the dim concealment of the arbour, the carafe and plate on the small table, me standing there. "Are you all right here?"

No one had ever asked me things like that before; it had never occurred to me that anyone might. "Yes sir." I answered too quickly, could hear the surprise in my own voice, and when he turned away I felt uneasy.

He sighed softly, watching his grandchildren through the lattice just as I had done. "It is regrettable."

"Sir?"

"Unfortunately, Alex, not only the blessed rise from the dead... We'll be leaving for New York in the morning, and there will be some work for you to do in Canada, after you've been briefed."

I nodded. He looked at me then -- *looked* at me, into me, unreadable. And kissed me...

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The bells have begun ringing, and from habit I scan the emerging crowd of parishioners as I offer a bland smile towards the vicinity of the young woman who brings my change. Sipping the last of my now-lukewarm coffee, I refold my newspaper and glance again at the seasonally-inspired page one feature. According to the article, it seems some scholars have reevaluated the story of Judas in terms of its propaganda value to the early Church. In their opinion, a closer reading and a more careful translation tend to show that he was performing a task he'd been given, that it had been planned between them in advance -- not merely a matter of divine intervention. Hinging on the Greek of the original gospel, they believed that one word -- 'paradidomi' -- has been deliberately misinterpreted as 'betrayal', when it's actually 'giving over'. A fine distinction, but I appreciate those. Their belief, then, is that they were in on it together -- that Judas was in fact the truest friend, whose designated purpose was the dirty job of dealing with the enemy. Who took their money and kissed his lord in a garden one dark night, letting his very name become a curse, in order to guarantee that his friend could do what needed to be done to save the world...

Interesting stuff, if you're into that sort of thing. Me, I'll take my own chances, and die for my own sins. Again. Eventually. After I make sure certain others die for theirs.

But right now, I have just enough time for a few hours in Alexandria before my flight, and a sleepy voice on my cell is telling me to hurry...

End

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★