Walking Away
by Sophie
Pairing: M/K Retrospection, angst, regret
Spoilers: Time: Takes place very soon after Existence
Rated: Rating: No particular rating, but some m/m reflections. Maybe M for language and imagery? Sort of mild. Written on a rainy day
Author's Notes: Heh, this seems a little unfinished to me, but here goes. If the grammar sucks, I have an excuse, I'm British... I'm not really a writer [g] When I am, I'm minimalist. My teacher used to say my essays were the art of understatement in extremis...
Beta: Thanks to Sue for the beta and kind words, or I might not have posted it!
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Mulder stood breathing deeply outside the apartment door. He had never been here before and he didnt know why he had come, what to expect, or what he would find. Just why had he come? And what for? Was it a laying-of-ghosts exercise, or a fit of masochism?
So this is where Krycek had lived. Mulder had got the address from Langley eventually, after much bullying and shouting at Skinner to get him the information. Skinner had asked him why, through clenched teeth. Why did he want this bastards address, couldn't he leave him dead? What was he going to do, trash his apartment, steal his things? Shit on his bed?
And Langley had said nothing at his request except, Hey dude, I can get you anything you want, and looked at him askance.
And so Mulder stood, breathing, outside the door and felt slightly sick as though the ghost of Krycek was waiting with a split head inside. Krycek was dead and disposed of, and somehow it was not quite right, was somehow unsettling to think that he had no grave, no epitaph, that he had walked through life leaving no footprints.
Was that it? Was it really that Mulder hoped to find those footprints in there? Or some evidence that the man had lived, loved and died at all? Had he loved? Yes, he had loved in a fashion, if it could be called that.
His hand on the door handle, the key in the lock, turning, His eyes pricked with surprising tears. He was afraid. Afraid to go in, afraid to see, afraid to touch.
But he was made of sterner stuff than this - when had he ever flinched or shown fear in the past? Eh? Answer that, conscience. Skinner and Scully both, had called him hotheaded and impetuous often enough in the past, so why was he afraid now? Maybe it was his conscience after all. There could be nothing in this empty apartment, nothing, to make him fear going in. There werent even memories in there for him. Perhaps that was it - the unknown. He had no memories of this place.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open without stepping inside. There was darkness in there - no, gloom was a better word. He thought wryly, wheres your X-Files torch when you need it, Mulder? Youve come unprepared, and thats not you. And so he went inside but didnt close the door. A quicker escape, should he meet that wraith and need to run. He almost laughed at the thought. When had he ever been afraid of Krycek in life, and why should he be afraid of him now in death? Afraid. That damn word again. Cmon Fox, gather your wits, man. Its only an apartment.
But still he left the door open behind him. Gloom was correct. God, it was musty in here. Mulder shrugged slightly and moved over to the window, disturbing the air, and pulled up the blind. A tree shaded part of the view, but he could see a lawn and a park across the way. There was a squirrel frozen for a second on the lawn, then it ran. Evening sun slanted dustily past him, settling in the corner of the room, and so he dared to look around. The room was furnished - somehow he had expected the place to have been emptied by now, but it wasnt. So Skinner really hadnt known where it was after all, because he hadnt got round to searching it yet. And maybe Kryceks superiors, if he had any, didnt know of his murder. Had he even had superiors recently, or had he really walked alone like a cat in the night, answering to no one? Alone and fighting his battle with the demons he'd tried to conquer and failed? Was that brave? He'd fought alone and died alone and for what? For him, Mulder? Oh no, not that. He had wanted to kill him, hadnt he, yet he couldnt? Had that been foolish, then? Was Krycek a fool for caring at all, and was he, Mulder a fool for letting himself care at all too? Kill me Krycek, kill me.
His head ached. Too many questions, too many questions and no answers. And he wouldnt find them in this room of dust motes and airlessness. He tried to open the window, but it was locked and he had no key. Maybe he should look for a key. There was a desk against the opposite wall, and he walked over to it, rummaging in drawers and cubby holes. It struck him that there might be information about Krycek in this desk, but it seemed so important to find a key to that bloody window...
No key. Shit. Agitated, he moved to a door which was ajar. He went through to a bedroom and stopped. He looked around again, his heart thumping. It was only a bedroom, the bed tidy, (had Krycek been house proud, or had he had a maid??) and the closet doors closed. The window was shut in here, too, and Mulder went across to open it and was more successful this time. It opened, and a smell of evening drifted in with a tiny stir of air. Mulder breathed. His claustrophobia lessened. No ghosts here either, he thought. It was just a room.
He closed his eyes and waited for a few seconds. Ok now, back to the desk. He returned to the living room and stared at the desk and the few papers scattered on it. There didnt seem to be much there at all really, for a lifes representation. He poked a finger around the papers and saw only a couple of paid bills in the name of (whaddya know) A A Krycek. Oh, so it had been his name after all. He had once asked him about his name and got only a withering stare in reply. There was a new check book, also in the name of A A Krycek. There was some plain stationery and a book of stamps. A ballpoint pen. Some pencils with chewed ends. A small laptop computer stood on a chair nearby. He would look at that in a minute - in fact he might take it away with him. Who would ever know?
He opened a drawer under the desk and saw that it contained some files. A quick glance showed some printouts which may or may not mean something, and a bunch of handwritten notes in Kryceks spidery scrawl. That these things were left here showed that Krycek hadnt expected to die just when he did. Mulders eyes pricked again, and his nose felt warm. Jesus, was he getting sentimental? Pain, like a little shaft of steel, pierced him.
He stood up and looked around the room more closely. There was nothing of personal taste in it. No family things or photographs, nor anything to indicate Kryceks preference in decor or furnishings. It all looked very much like a rented furnished place would look if little was added to it. But there had been something that caught the corner of his eye in the bedroom, on the wall facing the bed. A painting of sorts. He went back into the bedroom and looked, and almost laughed. Trust Krycek. Leda and the swan stared at him from the wall, all wings and legs. He recalled seeing two tarantulas mating on TV once, all 16 legs everywhere. It reminded him of them, somehow. You kinky devil, Krycek, he thought. Mulder had a swift vision of Krycek in his arms, and a feeling similar to the one hed had the first time that had happened, assailed him. A feeling of mild shock. It had always shocked him to touch Krycek, always shocked him to kiss him and want him. Krycek killed for a living, or he had done so at one time. Then he had killed because he had to. And now he was dead, all his killing stopped. And somehow it hadnt mattered that he, Mulder, slept with a killer on occasion, a killer he hated and needed sometimes.
He remembered a time when Scully had just left his apartment, after they had been going over a case together. No sooner had her car driven away when his door had been hammered on, and he had opened it, knowing who it would be. Krycek must have seen her leave, and whether he assumed they had been sharing intimate moments together, Mulder did not know, but Krycek had pushed him against the wall as soon as he was inside the room and kissed him bruisingly. No words had been exchanged. They had fallen into the bedroom and torn clothes off, and afterwards Krycek had rolled off him and lain staring at the ceiling. Mulder, in his usual dry way had commented breathlessly, You should drop by more often, Alex.
Sometimes he had hated his own need for Krycek. He couldnt call it love, because it wasnt, was it? It was attraction to another male strength. Hey? Wasnt it? Hurt me Krycek, hurt me.
And a memory did hurt him suddenly, making him put his fingers to his temple, a memory of seeing Krycek for the first time, young, naked and drenched with desire in his bed. It was the first year they had worked together before Kryceks vile betrayal of Scully. He remembered how Krycek lay on his side facing away from him as they fucked, and the line of his waist and hip, the most beautiful curve in the world, had made his heart shake. Then the time, years later, when Krycek had spent one of his rare nights with him, they had gone into Mulders bedroom and Krycek had caught his wrist as he went to switch on the lamp on the night stand. No light. he had said, and Mulder had remembered his arm. He had understood. Kiss me Krycek, kiss me.
Later, after sex, he had woken to go to the bathroom, and in the light from the bathroom door, had moved the bedclothes a little and seen the stump as Krycek slept. His eyes had filled with tears, and something broke inside him. He had noticed earlier that night when hed been lying with Krycek in the dark, that the other man had raised that stump as if to put the arm round him, only it wasnt there, and he had almost wept then. He had been tender with him that night.
He gave a small shrug again and went over to the closet. Inside were hung shirts, two business suits, two leather jackets, some pairs of jeans, a dark overcoat. Drawers at the side held tees, socks, sweaters and shorts. Shoes stood on the floor. He turned and left the room. The bathroom and kitchen were tidy with the essentials like toiletries and cooking things, coffee and such. The fridge was almost bare except for some cola, grapefruit juice and cheese, and the freezer was bare. He had lived frugally. Back in the living room, Mulder looked at a bookshelf and read the titles of a few books there. Surprisingly, there was one on forensic pathology, quite a few crime novels, a history of the United States, and some random volumes of poetry by people like Baudelaire, and Guillevic. Were these things put there by Krycek, or were they left by a previous resident? He had no way of telling. But there was no music in the place, neither a CD player, nor discs. Nor was there a radio, only a TV. He had the impression that Krycek hadnt spent a lot of time at home.
Mulder had that tight feeling in his head again. He rubbed his eyes. He was staring too hard at everything, willing something to appear that had some sort of meaning or message for him. Or why else had he come here? For a moment he ached. Krycek.
But there was nothing. What had he expected from such a man? His diary? He had probably never kept one in his life. The files in the drawer might yield something, but they looked like some old study work from a course he had taken in the past. So this meant that Kryceks real thoughts and feeling, his hopes, aspirations, despairs, were to remain untold and unwritten, that they had almost certainly died with him. For a moment Mulder felt the loss of never having known him enough, of always having tried to push him away, of avoiding having to think about loving him. But he hadnt loved him. He had nothing of worth left from Krycek. And the bastard had left nothing behind.
Sometimes when Krycek visited him he brought papers with him that he thought might interest Mulder, but Mulder had wondered if it was just an excuse. Then there was the day he had left his office and gone to the parking garage for his car and found Krycek waiting. Krycek had said, Can I see you?
Mulder, the breath knocked from his lungs with surprise, had nodded speechlessly, and they had got into their separate cars and driven to Mulders apartment again, and Mulder had remembered nothing of the journey home.
Once inside apartment 42, Krycek had said hopelessly, Ive brought no papers for you this time, only myself, and it was then that Mulder had known, had seen the need and pain, had seen Krycek vulnerable for once.
He had embraced him, and Krycek had pushed his face blindly against his neck. And remembering that hurt him too. Krycek had never said he loved him, it wasnt his way, but he had wondered uncomfortably about it at times. So he had said, Fuck me Krycek, fuck me.
Two years ago Krycek had given him a small package, and inside it had been Bill Mulders pocket watch - a silver half hunter that had belonged to his father, Mulders grandfather, with an inscription on the back. The watch had somehow been misplaced a long time ago and Bill had looked for it. All Krycek had said was, It should be yours. Spender had it, and had gone, leaving Fox to goggle.
He had wanted to find that watch after his father was killed and keep it as a memento of him, and now Krycek had returned it years later.
Mulder closed his eyes. This was doing him no good, thinking about what had been. The things that had happened, the things done and felt. And never said. Those thousand unsaid words. Maybe he should have said them. Maybe Krycek should have said them. Or maybe these were only idle thoughts after all.
He left the apartment after closing the bedroom window again and collecting the computer. And behind him as he went, he felt the silence surge softly back into the room full of motes and soft sun. Hed take the laptop to Langley if it was encrypted. Or maybe he wouldnt. But he didnt want anyone else to find it and what it might contain. Outside on the sidewalk, he breathed the early evening again and walked away from Krycek for the last time.
The End
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