Transit, by realitycek

Transit

by realitycek

Rated: T

Spoilers: "Patient X"

Author's Notes: Totally stream-of-consciousness and not what I'd planned, but hey -- it's a post! [g] Lyrics thanks to Elizabeth Marshall

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

There are tears in my eyes as I watch the Siberian coast fall away, a long, low black blur smudged between charcoal water and ashy, overcast sky. Satisfied, I turn my face out of the biting wind then and blink, looking down at the activity below. Jesus, it's cold. There's ice on the rails, and enough of a sea to demand careful footing on the wet decks. I don't think any of the crew is a plant -- planning on the fly can have its advantages -- but out here it'd be just as easy to run into someone who thinks cutting my throat and dumping me overboard for my coat or my boots is a bright idea, even if they think I'm Government. Accidents happen, and Moscow is *very* far away. Would be a shame, I don't want any of the crew to have to start disappearing. There's just too much at stake to allow something like that to fuck it up.

At least they'd all been engaged in getting the ship out of port while I hauled the duffle bag down from my cabin and emptied it in that forward equipment locker. From the look of it, I don't think it's seen use in several voyages. So far, so good. Just a few more days to wait, and then... So, put in an appearance, just a late passenger taking in the scenery. Nothing to be curious about. Still, I try not to feel edgy as my breath pinpoints my location when I exhale. Try not to think too much about what I've committed myself to doing.

Spray stings my face and I huddle up. My ears are getting numb and even gloved, balled in my pocket, my right hand's starting to feel as stiff as my left. Deep breath; it burns, and I love it. After months of the stifling reek of that camp, even the stink of this old tub can't taint the air out here. Clean, or as close as anything gets in this world anymore. No wonder it burns. Even after I get to shower for about six hours and get into some clothes that don't stand up by themselves, I'm never going to be clean. A major player, a free man, but never clean. I can live with that. It's the living that's the important part, these days more than ever.

Harder than ever, too. Over the last few years I've torched my shared of bridges, improvised and made a run for it more times than I can count. Just how it is. Pick up your money and pack up your tent, turn up again when they have to admit they need you, or you have something that'll buy off the heat. This time, though -- this time I *am* the heat, and they're going to have to buy. They're going to be pissing themselves, trying to play catch-up, and I'm the only one who knows. The one with the proof (aw, Mulder, what I'd give to see your face, if you ever find out -- you should have stuck with me when you could). But this proof isn't so easy to conceal; it's slowing me down. Trapping me out here with it. Nowhere to go, if it decides it wants its secret kept...

Can't dwell on that. Think about Rita, and getting back to New York. Yeah. She doesn't know enough. But she knows I do, and that's enough to trust her on until the deal goes through. I was sure of that when she showed up in the woods with that ancient, anonymous piece-of-crap Poboda and didn't give me so much as a sideways look as I hauled the bag out of the truck and loaded it in the trunk. When we'd put in enough distance to be able to pull over, knowing it was just on the other side of that back seat didn't bother us at all. And when I get back, it'll be even better. Not what I really want, but that'll come, when I'm the one with the answer. The weapon. Until then, I can make do. Any port in a shitstorm, right?

We went over it in the car, cross-country to the docks, and she's more than enough of a professional to pull off her end, especially for what she thinks she's going to get out of the set-up. Timing her own return to the States, so that when I get there, they'll know they've got to deal. Would get me hard just thinking about it, if it wasn't so fucking cold up here.

The fog's dispersing, and I can see the sun coming up over the earth's curve, thin but vivid light. I'd almost forgotten. Even with the aurora at night, the taiga beyond the stockade, the last few months have been an almost complete absence of colour. Except for the blood, and sometimes not even then.

Blood. Right. Got to check on the kid. Payday of a lifetime down there, got to stay on it. On It. Just one more clean breath, and then I'll go.

Won't be much longer now. But getting there isn't going to be half the fun.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

You Ain't Goin' Nowhere, Bob Dylan

Clouds so swift
Rain won't lift
Gate won't close
Railings froze
Get your mind off wintertime
You ain't goin' nowhere
Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow's the day
My bride's gonna come
Oh, oh, are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!

I don't care
How many letters they sent
Morning came
and morning went
Pick up your money
And pack up your tent
You ain't goin' nowhere
Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow's the day
My bride's gonna come
Oh, oh, are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!

Buy me a flute
And a gun that shoots
Tailgates and substitutes
Strap yourself
To the tree with roots
You ain't goin' nowhere
Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow's the day
My bride's gonna come
Oh, oh, are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!

Genghis Khan
He could not keep
All his kings
Supplied with sleep
We'll climb that
hill no matter how steep
When we get up to it
Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow's the day
My bride's gonna come
Oh, oh, are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!

-- End --

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★