A Winters Night

by Sherry Sink

Rated: M (for mentioned violence, and some colorful language where it seemed appropriate)

Spoilers: None (sadly, the shows been off the air for years now) but this takes place in the months following the events of Paper Clip

Summary: A night on the run with Alex Krycek

Disclaimer: No money has been made (and no animals injured) during the creation of this story. The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX. The fascinating character of Alex Krycek is all due to the excellent work of actor Nicholas Lea.

Author's Notes: A Winters Night was started December 20, 2004, and completed February 7, 2005. Talk about a long winters night! This piece was written as a Secret Santa gift to dossier. Thank you for being so patient with me, when come Christmas Eve all I had was the first page and a quarter. Fortunately it seemed to sustain you until the rest could be finished. I hope this final product was worth the wait.

Beta: A special thanks to Sue, or as I like to call her, Super Beta.

Author's Notes II: The title is paraphrased from a Sarah McLachlan song called Song for a Winters Night. The opening quote is from William Shakespeares play As You Like It, and was turned into a beautiful song written by composer John Rutter, as part of a 6-part choral work entitled When Icicles Hang.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As mans ingratitude
As mans ingratitude.
-- William Shakespeare, As You Like It (Act 2, Scene VII);

Crunch.

He stopped, momentarily.

Crunch-crunch.

His own steps betrayed him. The grating, rubbery crush of ice and snow underfoot broke the quiet, echoing across the frozen field before him. It was too loud. He was too loud. Surely, if he were being followed… they would hear him. They would find him.

And kill him.

He held his breath, as his sharp eyes darted about, searching. He quickly calculated the final distance between him and the cover of woods beyond the blanketed meadow. If he could get out from the open, and make it to the trees, he might have a chance. Survive another night.

He listened, straining for telltale sounds of incoming helicopters or retrieval units. Nothing.

Just the ephemeral rustling of bare branches and the crackling of dried leaves as the air stirred. When the wind exhaled, so did Alex Krycek. Maybe they weren't coming tonight.

Which "they" would that be? Mulder and Scully? Skinner? The Consortium? Whatever, whoever… they all wanted his blood. There was no time to stand around pondering what would happen when ­ if ­ they found him, or who would be the most punishing. There was simply no time.

Keep going, jackass. Don't stop now.

Shouldering his pack, he moved. The compact snow shifted with each step, making molds of his boots, sometimes up to the ankle and higher. It hitched up his pant leg and tickled his skin, but he ignored it and kept going. He made his way carefully, his head snapping right and left, watchful eyes peering into the darkness for danger. Hurry, you fool.

Halfway across the field of stiff snowdrifts, he paused, took a large step forward, and sank. The snow sucked his leg down, submerging it to the hip. Shit. He struggled to pull free, but his leg was wedged too far down to lift. Shit, shit. Slight panic welled in his throat, and he swallowed, shooting a glance in every direction for signs of a trap. Nothing. Not even a squirrel scampering by. Okay, stay calm, find a way.

Taking a breath, Krycek found leverage by lying flat on his back in the crunchy terrain and inching out slowly. He could feel the muscles in his thigh pinch and tighten as the leg bent awkwardly, but he kept pulling. He scraped along on his butt, using his elbows to tow himself, and didn't breathe out again until his leg was clear of the cavernous hole. Brilliant plan, Alex.

Stretched out in the snow, he gazed up at the midnight sky for a brief moment. Blackness extended beyond his comprehension, an immeasurable expanse dotted with patronizingly winking stars. In the silence of the night he could feel it coming. He could smell it.

It was going to be one frigid night.

Sitting upright in the slush, he scanned for dips where the snow might be less hazardous. Maybe not such a brilliant plan. His ass was going numb. Hastily pulling himself to his feet, he brushed off the powder and again headed for the trees, this time testing the ground as he stepped. It was arduous and time-consuming. Just what he didn't need when he had so little of it to spare.

Relief came when he reached the boundary of tall pines, which guarded the woods like an army of lofty evergreen chess pieces, strategically planted to protect the creatures and vegetation within. Knight to E-5. He brushed one of the boughs with a gloved hand, watching as the delicate needles waved him welcome to enter. Bowing deeply, he ducked under the canopy of limbs and eased his way inside.

The thick forest scents of fresh pine and damp bark flooded his nostrils, and he inhaled their heady sharpness. Pausing, he scoped out the surrounding landscape. Fuzzy moss and dainty sprigs of vibrant green clover garnished the ground, dusted lightly with sugary flakes of crystalline snow. As hazy white-gold moonlight illuminated the foliage, it shimmered. The enchanted wonderland was breathtaking.

Krycek was almost sorry he had no time to savor it, but there was nothing he could do. The usual warning bells of foreboding were sounding in his skull, and nature insistently reminded him that his life was not nearly so pretty. Above his head, shadowy maple and oak trees intertwined in a tangled mess of twisted branches, their naked gnarled fingers beckoning him wickedly. Alex shuddered.

He had to keep moving.

Following a narrow dirt path, he pushed himself into the embrace of the overgrown thicket and its protective obscurity. Tightening the grip on his backpack, he picked up his pace again and prayed the moon would stick around to softly light his way, for the woods grew more sinister and murky the deeper he trudged.

He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid. He had been through far too much already. Fear was not an option he could take time to consider. And yet, there was something in his belly, muscles wound so taut he thought he might vomit. It was the stomach-dropping tension of a roller-coaster ride, but without the fun. His mind began to wander…

What would they do if they caught up to him? Would it be slow and calculated? Days of screaming torture and agonizing retribution for his misdeeds? Loss of limbs, loss of blood, finally leading to loss of consciousness? Or would they kill him immediately, one merciful gunshot right between the eyes, a flash explosion of pain followed by nothingness? Leave his body precisely where it fell, for the animals to feast upon? No, they would be cleaner than that. When they were through with him, there would be no trace. Not a single hair or --

"Shut up," Alex snapped. "Stop thinking like that. Keep focused, pay attention!" He shook his head vehemently, desperate to erase the images that had clouded his mind.

As if trying to assist, a spray of rough bark abruptly slapped his cheek, steering his thoughts back to the immediate present. "Thanks," he mumbled, rubbing the spot until the stinging subsided. Another branch attempted to smack him, but he caught it in time and shoved it aside. Damn it. The wind was picking up. Not a good sign.

He turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tucked his chin against the folds of the woolen burgundy scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. What he wouldn't give for a toasty roaring fire and some hot tea right about now, maybe even some soup, like his grandmother used to make it. Hearty and thick, bubbling with roasted potatoes, carrots and celery, a pinch of rosemary and garlic, topped with ­

Man… what was that horrible smell? Krycek's savory reverie was penetrated by the pungent scent of an unseen skunk. A dead one, he hoped, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Last thing he wanted was to have a run-in with such a foul animal. The stink hung aloft, before a subzero gust mercifully froze it in its tracks, purifying the cold night air, leaving not a hint of the stench that had been.

He sighed wearily, and pressed on.

Time continued its unassuming passage as the dirt trail petered out, and Alex forged a path through the jumble of wilderness, wildness and weeds. In the dark he could hardly make out what was in front of him anymore. The trees had dissolved into a mass of shadowed shapes and crooked angles, snapping, swaying, bending and leaning. They closed in on him, scratching his back, scrabbling against his arms and legs, thrashing at his shoulders, as if to say, turn around, Alex, and face what's right behind you.

Crack.

Krycek halted mid-step.

The splintering sound of a twig breaking. Where did that come from? Don't breathe. Listen. Dead silence. Whichwaywhichway? There was no question.

Behind you.

Stomach knotting, he whirled, gun hand ripping forth from his pocket, Sig Sauer at the ready. Aiming into the bright blinking eyes of a deer.

"Jesus!" he gasped.

Hand trembling, he slid the weapon back into his pocket as slowly and unobtrusively as possible. The creature blinked again, but did not make a move. Neither did Krycek. They stared at each other, wide-eyed and shaking. As if they both understood.

Perilous lives, unsafe out in the open. Trust no one.

The doe's biscuit-brown fur ruffled with the wind, accentuating firm hindquarters held rigid and ready to run. He knew the feeling. She cocked her tender head at Alex, skittish eyes anxiously reading him. Nodding slightly, he took one tentative half-step forward, but it was too much. The deer stiffened and scrambled back. As if to tell him off for his presumptuousness, she flipped up her white tail with grand flourish, and sprinted away through the underbrush.

"Where's the trust?" Alex muttered. "I could have blown your head off."

Indifferent to his protest, the doe disappeared from sight, and within seconds, a flood of arctic air swept through the woods, absorbing the sound of her hoof steps as well. He squinted after her into the void, trying to collect himself, but between the jumpy exchange and the persistent weather, unrelenting agitation prodded Alex back into motion. Every instinct shouted, "Go!" and he had learned never to ignore his gut.

At first his gait was hesitant, as his nerves gripped every muscle, but soon the need to protect himself overwhelmed and his step quickened. He struggled to focus and calm himself, to take control of his fear, but even Nature urged him to hurry. Icy blasts of air nudged him along, pushing and shoving until he promptly accelerated into an uneasy jog. Not good enough. Rushes of bitter cold assaulted him, forcefully knocking Krycek off balance, and he lost his footing. Unable to shake the skin-crawling paranoia that now infiltrated every pore, he began to run.

The dense network of branches crowded him, catching on his scarf, tugging, pulling, and yanking. He wrenched himself free, but a powerful gale propelled him right back into their arms. Wincing as coarse bark scraped his cheekbone and caught in his hair, Alex panicked. This section of forest was a claustrophobic cage and he wanted out.

A tortured holler churned from the depths of his gut, and he fought to keep it there. He could feel slick warm liquid dripping down his jaw, stinging with his sweat. Panting heavily, he channeled his heightened anguish into a roar of rage, using the surge of adrenaline to tear loose from the clutches of limbs that detained him. Liberated at last, he charged full speed ahead.

Faster and faster, he ran. He had no idea how far he had gone or how much time had passed. All he knew was that his innate sixth sense to survive at all costs had kicked into hyper-drive, and he couldn't stop until the pressure released.

When his lungs burned and his breathing turned too ragged to take in oxygen, his grueling sprint lagged. Wheezing painfully, he slowed his stride to a crawl. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, evaporating in the frosty air, and ice shredded his throat with each laborious breath. The temperature had dropped to levels so brutally cold, he could feel it aching in his bones. His butt and inner thighs were numb from prolonged exposure, anesthetized to a strange and eerily comforting sensation. As the windstorm swirled around him, he felt an intense pain in his forehead, a prickling, throbbing pressure so fierce and unbearable he thought he might cry.

"Fuck." The word escaped his cracked lips with an icy puff.

At this point, it was the only word his brain could muster. Synapses wouldn't fire, not in deep-freeze mode. It was an effort to speak that single curse. Alex pressed his fingertips against his forehead, rubbing rigorously to alleviate the terrible pinching. So cold it hurt.

Tell me, Mulder… from the recesses of your infuriatingly photographic memory, what are the exact statistics for frostbite and hypothermia?

Mulder. The mere thought of his former partner ­

Krycek coughed harshly in an almost-laugh. Partner. As if they had ever been equals. As if Mulder had ever given him the chance to prove himself worthy. He was doomed even before he began, and well before he realized exactly how messed up his position was. Deeper than the snowy hole that had sucked him down, more treacherous than the winds which nipped at him. He was caught on the proverbial fence between the just fight and the hidden agenda. Sure, the Project had snagged him first, and he had done some things, horrendous things, in the name of what he had thought was the right cause, with men who were sure to lead the world to victorious revolutionary glory.

Had he really been that naïve, once upon a time?

Acidic bile filled his mouth at the recollection. Yes.

Now what? Bow out of the group gracefully, promising to keep his mouth shut in exchange for his safety? He wasn't that naïve anymore. Besides, they had made their position perfectly clear.

In the contemptuous words of a cigarette-smoking old man. "You have no rights. Only orders to be carried out."

And in one horrific final gesture. Boom.

Motor functions diminishing, Krycek stumbled over his own feet. His reflexes were too sluggish to register the icy patch beneath him. Hissing in surprise, he slid across the slippery ground, arms flailing and spine twisting in a gymnastic effort to remain standing. Not a chance.

Alex fell, his knees slamming against the uneven earth with crushing severity. He cried out, unable to suppress the agony of sensitive nerve endings striking a hard and frozen surface. His dulling senses awoke, and his mind raced, suddenly inundated with memories. To him this fall was ironic, paralleling another day when he was forced to his knees. When a violent explosion rocked his foundation and knocked him to the ground…

Sitting in the passenger seat of that car, he had wavered back and forth between feelings of anger and regret. His knuckles bore the evidence of his treachery, still stinging from the vicious punches he had wielded against his former boss, Assistant Director Skinner. Afterwards, he had been distracted, absent-mindedly massaging the bruised skin, until his pathetic excuse for a new partner, Luis Cardinal, interrupted his thoughts. By exiting the car in an overly casual manner.

Call it well-honed awareness. Call it suspicion. Call it paranoia. The name wasn't important. The one thing Alex Krycek could count on at all times was his intuition. He couldn't explain it, but he had come to rely on it without question. Got your X-File right here, Mulder. Fact or fiction? A "sixth sense" can be generated during periods of extreme stress and heightened anxiety.

Krycek believed it. Therefore, when his radar sounded, he stopped his self-pitying contemplation and paid attention. In the moments that followed, time seemed to stall. He remembered turning his head to watch Cardinal saunter arrogantly towards the truck stop. Krycek's cloudy green eyes narrowed at the man, who paused in the doorway and glanced back at Alex before entering the store. Strange. Alex distinctly remembered the feeling of lifting his eyebrows in realization. Of what exactly, he wasn't sure, but when his abdominal muscles constricted and his heart began to pound, his mind zipped through the possibilities at lightning speed. His head jerked back to the front seat, and his eyes blurred for a millisecond before focusing on the glowing neon of the car's clock. It was flashing.

It hadn't been doing that earlier.

As 12:00 winked innocently, time froze and so did he. Or so it had seemed. It took him a split second to process what was happening, and another to engage his muscles into reaction. He clearly recalled the terror that seized him, before his blessed instincts took over and propelled him from the vehicle.

Then he was running, faster than he had ever in his entire life, until the detonation ignited and a sudden surge of heat engulfed him. A shock wave from the powerful blast yanked him right off his feet and threw his body a good few yards across the parking lot. He could still close his eyes and remember every sense, every sound, every smell, he had experienced in that brief fragment in time. Forever imprinted. The pulse of blood pounding in his head. The thundering of his heart against his ribcage. The stifling smell of smoldering metal and fabric. The sound of deafening silence before the ringing in his ears began. The sensation of skinning his palms raw as he tried in vain to catch himself in his dive. The startling connection as his knees struck the peppery black asphalt. For a fleeting second, he had wondered if both his legs had shattered, the impact was that jarring and severe.

He could have laid there on the hard pavement, grunting and whimpering, waiting for his imminent demise as his enemy came out to check his work, and if necessary, finish the job. But Krycek was no quitter. The choice was run, or die. Get up! The survival voice in his head demanded action, and he had never argued with it.

He staggered to his feet, and stupidly looked back at the blazing wreckage. The sight of billowing black smoke and fiery debris left him wobbling and unsteady, until he regained enough equilibrium to limp away, as quickly as his injuries would allow. No time for that, Alex. He shelved the pain, mentally promising to deal with it later, and instead pushed his body to feed off the rush of hyperactivity fueled by the initial blast.

On high alert, Alex chose a complex route at a relentless and demanding clip, bolting through the industrial lots and neighborhood streets, weaving and doubling back until he physically could not run any farther. Exhausted legs shaking, he sought the refuge of twilight and the uncommon security of a dark alley, where he collapsed to his bruised and battered knees, sucking in as much air as his screaming lungs would accept. His senses were swimming and he squeezed his watery eyes shut to block out the images…

Krycek came back to himself, eyes opening to discover he was still on his knees, shivering from the haunting remembrance of his most recent past, and the bleak winter of his present. His whole body vibrated with bone-chilled tremors, just as it had once trembled and shaken from the sheer effort of literally running for his life.

As his rapidly pounding pulse stilled, his head fell back and his face lifted to the heavens. The sky had opened, releasing a swirling whitewash of flurries. Feathery wisps of snow caressed his cheeks with wet kisses, and the wind encircled his body, swaying with him in a bizarrely seductive yet comforting hug. He was dead tired. If he could close his eyes for a minute, one minute was all he needed. His drowsy lids fluttered, and his chin bobbed until it grazed his chest. Vacillating between actual and dream worlds, his attention drifted, all awareness shrouded in a listless fog.

She danced in a sunny field of buttery daffodils, her full skirt rippling and twirling in hypnotic circles. She was laughing. And she was beautiful.

"Come, dance with me," she called, arms outstretched, graceful fingers inviting.

Alex desperately wanted to join her. In fact, he could feel the magnetic pull pulsing from his navel, but suddenly she seemed far away. His vision blurred. Exhaustion was overtaking him, embedded in his bones. After all his running, after all the miles, he wasn't sure he had enough energy remaining to make it across the meadow. But he needed to go. Would she wait for him? She had to wait for him. In the disorientation of his brain, one thought was stuck on repeat.

He needed to go. He needed to go.

The gentle flapping of her skirt in the breeze caught his attention. She stood, patient and serene. Waiting. With dark features vaguely familiar, striking contrast in the light of a sun-drenched morning, rich chocolate brown hair shining, radiant jade irises glittering. Like his.

Only he didn't have her softness.

He needed to go.

Crossing the field with lightning speed, it took no time to reach her side. This close to her, he was breathless. She was lovely, and he knew her.

"You need to go," she said knowingly, and extended her hands. Alex grasped them, uncertain, and let her take the lead. She held on securely, and spun them both around and around, to the joyous tempo of a melody unexpressed. Her intensely reflective eyes sparkled at him, and he smiled. Her soothing warmth enveloped him, and he was filled with an emotion so brilliant, he did not want to let go. But the frenzied revolutions were making him dizzy.

"Mama…"

"Do you want to fly, Alex?"

"Mama, I need to stop."

Her strong hands slipped an inch, her grip loosening. "It's all right. Are you ready?"

He shook his head, but she was already letting go. As he felt his body tumbling, he heard her shout, "Go, Alex!"

His eyes snapped open.

He needed to go. The thought hammered his brain, and he finally understood. He needed to get out of the night air, out from the bitter cold. Now. He could not stay, certainly could not sleep outside as he had recently, or he would freeze to death. Through his fatigue, he wondered whether or not that was necessarily a deal-breaker at this point. He laughed, and as it echoed back to him it sounded alien and high-pitched. No time for hysteria, Alex. Shake it off, and keep going. And quit talking to yourself. You're losing your damn mind. He closed his eyes onelast time, took in a long controlled breath, ignoring the biting chill running down his windpipe, and slowly exhaled.

Opening his eyes, he squared his shoulders and hauled himself to his feet. Picking up his backpack once again, he examined the area where he had fallen. It was difficult to make out in the darkness, especially with the now absent moon, but the trees ahead seemed to be thinning out. Perhaps a road was nearby, one he could follow to a more civilized climate. Go, Alex. He shoved the fading voice of his mother into the pockets of his mind reserved for someday, and directed his focus to finding shelter.

To his relief, it wasn't long before he reached the dwindling tree line. Hiding behind the trunk of a grand pine, Krycek could see an old highway before him. He tried to estimate how close the next town would be, but he honestly had no idea. Plus, the late hour might make it tricky to get a motel room. He had to try. His infernal survivor instincts prodded him once again to keep going. As he marched over to the roadside, he realized something truly bizarre. Walking out into the open air, he felt more naked there than he had ever felt in the arms of a woman. Adjusting the collar of his coat, he folded his arms across his body protectively and walked faster.

After about ten minutes and no signs of civilization, Krycek's hope was waning. He fought to keep his head clear of the wretched wishes for a warm bed and some decent food. Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he sensed it. A faint rumbling. He turned in time to witness a massive semi coming around the bend, its giant tires shaking the very ground underneath him. This was a good sign. Granted, the minute he saw it, he scrambled back to the sanctuary of the trees like a frightened rabbit, but it was still a good sign. At least the road wasn't deserted. People were using it to go somewhere. Even if he had to walk another five miles, surely he would find something.

Five miles. He groaned inwardly. Even that seemed like an eternity. But his resolve was sustained by the appearance of the truck, and he pushed forward, ignoring the weakening leg muscles and increasing his speed to a trot. Occasional traffic zoomed by, and he lurked within the outskirts of the forest, avoiding direct headlights and visibility. When he finally saw the enormous green sign that told him the next exit was one mile away, his apprehension lessened. And when he saw the second sign that told him there were motels and gas stations at that exit, he almost fell to the ground and wept.

Nine agonizing minutes later, the dim lights of a motel penetrated the gloom, illuminating a faded sign and a series of unremarkable, interconnected buildings. Taking a breath, Krycek forced himself to exit the safety of his woods and stagger up to the cement path. As he reached the double-door entryway, he caught sight of himself in the glass. Shit. His jeans were caked with clumps of snow, and his boots were dusty and worn. His hair was plastered with sweat from underneath a knit cap, and his face was a sweaty, dirty, bruised and unshaven mess. His run-in with the tree branches left a trail of scratches across his gaunt cheekbone, and dried blood down his jaw. His skin was ruddy and raw from the unforgiving weather, and dark discolored circles stood out noticeably under his red-rimmed eyes. All in all, he was filthy, and he couldn't imagine anyone finding him a trustworthy customer. He pulled off his gloves, and tried to scrape away the blood and wipe some of the sweat from his face, but there wasn't much of an improvement. Nothing to be done about it. He'd come this far.

Pulling his gloves back on and pushing the glass door open, he attempted to straighten his tense body into the appearance of decency. More wayward innocenttraveler caught in the blizzard, and less an imposing, dodgy threat. He pulled out his old FBI skills of observation and sized up his challenge.

The clerk was probably around fifty-five, six feet tall, maybe 300 pounds, with graying hair and a well-lined face. Shiny brass tag announced his name was Frank. Nice and nondescript for a small town fellow. He was sitting with his feet propped up on the edge of the desk, eating a sub and watching a black-and-white movie on a small television. Clearly not expecting anyone to show up at such a late hour of the night. He glanced over in surprise, looked Alex up and down with obvious scrutiny, and then stood cautiously, setting his sandwich down and folding his arms across his chest. "Good evening." Not much of a talker.

Krycek's mouth was drier than the Sahara. He cleared his throat, twice, before he was able to generate any saliva, and said finally, "Good evening." It seemed neither of them were talkers. And his voice grated like sandpaper, he was so dehydrated.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Frank's gravelly bass voice gave nothing away yet, but Krycek did notice that he casually lowered his arms to rest both hands on the desk. Good sign. Maybe.

He decided to take the less-is-more approach and get right to the point, avoiding unnecessary details unless asked. "I need a room for tonight."

Frank's impassive eyes met Krycek's, and he said nothing for what seemed like a full minute. Alex knew it hadn't been that long, but it felt like forever and it was all he could do not to give up, whip out his gun and demand whatever he wanted. At long last, Frank spoke. "It's forty dollars a night, any outgoing phone calls are extra, and check-out's at noon."

Alex nodded solemnly, and pulled a beat-up black leather wallet out of his back pocket. Fishing for the exact amount, he held out the crisp bills, mortified to see his hands were shaking. It's the cold. I'm still freezing, that's all.

Frank showed no signs that he had even noticed, until he said nonchalantly, "Did your car break down?"

Think fast, nothing traceable. Alex gestured to his backpack and tried to sound sheepish as he forced a laugh. "I was on a cross-country hike, and lost track of the time. Didn't think I'd need a place to stay for the night, but the storm caught me off guard." He didn't allow his eyes to waver, as the clerk subjected him to yet another visual exam.

Apparently satisfied, Frank turned to the register, tucking the money into the proper slots. "Pretty damn cold outside."

This time Krycek laughed sincerely. "No kidding." He waited as the older man pulled a key from the wall. The diamond-shaped indigo key chain was etched with the silver numbers 825. Frank noted the number in his ledger, and handed the key to Alex, who was now shivering uncontrollably. Fucking weather.

Anxious to find his room, he turned to leave, but Frank stopped him. "Hang on a second, kid. I've got something else for you." Krycek was desperate to run from the lobby, but he restrained himself, and waited with guarded nervousness. Swallowing, he watched as Frank's balding head ducked under the desk. What's under there, your shotgun? Please don't fight me; I'm too damn tired for this tonight.

Instead, the man brought out an armful of items, dumping them onto the counter in a haphazard pile. "I've got these leftover packets, kind of old, but I think they'll still be decent. Just needs hot water." Alex blinked, but said nothing, so Frank continued. "There's a four-cup coffee maker in your room. Use it to heat the water, and you'll have soup and hot cocoa in no time." As he stuffed the packets into a plastic bag for Krycek, he added, "If you want it, of course."

Truthfully, at this point anything sounded wonderful to him, but he didn't want to seem overeager. His traitorous stomach gave him up with a loud and hungry growl. Cringing, he reached for his wallet again. "What do I owe you?"

Frank shook his head and waved him away. "Don't worry about it. You'll be taking these things off my hands."

"Thank you."

He shrugged. "You looked like you needed to warm up a little."

Understatement of the week. Alex nodded, and gratefully took the bag.

Frank sat back down, picked up his sandwich, and took a bite. Mouth full, he talked anyway. "825's out the door and to your left, last room on the end. Need anything, I'll be here till ten AM. Just dial one-oh-one, and I should answer. 'Less I'm in the bathroom. You know how it is."

Krycek nodded again, and headed for the door.

"Oh, hey… Merry Christmas."

His hand stopped on the handle, and he turned around. "What?"

Laughing, Frank took a swig from his soda. "It's Christmas Eve, genius." He lifted the sandwich to his mouth again, and said thoughtfully, "You must have really lost track of time if you didn't even know it was Christmas." They exchanged a long look, and Alex knew in that moment, this guy was no dummy. And yet, he had given Krycek a room. Either he was nuts, or nicer than his gruff exterior showed. Or, he figured Alex needed a break. Whatever his reasons, Krycek wasn't going to question them. He was no dummy either.

Allowing a slight smile, he found he actually meant it. "Merry Christmas."

Frank turned back to his TV, and Alex gladly proceeded to his motel room. The midnight run and the callous weather conditions had finally taken their toll. As he shuffled up the sidewalk to 825 and its odd turquoise door, he felt like an old man. His hip joints ached from being pushed beyond their limits, his knees throbbed from the fall, and his entire body felt on the urge of buckling from the insufferable cold shudders. Deal with it. Keep going. Getinside. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he fumbled with the key, his stiff fingers struggling to fit it into the slot. Damn it. Come on, Alex.

Unlocking the door at last, he entered and instantly noticed the space was adorned with Christmas tree lights. When he flicked them on, the room lit up in a soft blend of primary colors. Locking the door and sliding the chain firmly into place, he turned around to scope out his quarters. To his amusement, Frank had decorated the dresser with a miniature tree gilded with tinsel and tiny ornamental balls. He smiled slightly, until he remembered.

Alex genuinely couldn't believe he had been on the run so long, he'd lost track of the date. Christmas. It had almost passed him by, like the flicker of a candle. Not that it really mattered. He hadn't celebrated the holiday in a very long time. He thought wistfully of old childhood traditions, late nights waiting by the window, and stockings filled with candy. His mother, ruffling his hair fondly and humming sweet carols as she ushered him back to bed…

No, not going to go there. Not tonight.

He directed his attention back to present. The rest of the room was predictable and ordinary ­ tacky curtains, double bed with hideous floral comforter, boxy nightstand with telephone, low dresser with six drawers, cheap television, and a metal desk with padded chair. Krycek brought the chair over to the door, and lodged it under the knob carefully. Sure, a swift kick would knock the door open and the chair out of the way, but that extra barrier would give him a moment to grab his gun, if necessary.

Before he could fall into bed, he forced himself to complete "the routine," a precise pattern he had come to follow whenever he was staying somewhere foreign. First, he secured the room, closing the drapes, checking the strength of the locks, ensuring the sturdiness of the windows, and sweeping every crevice for potential cameras or taps. Satisfied, he then mapped the square footage of the room, plotting escape routes and emergency defense maneuvers. Once he felt confident of his plans, he set his backpack onto the bed and opened it, carefully extracting only what he needed for the night. A clean change of clothes, which he meticulously laid out on the bed, and a shaving kit with toiletries, which he brought into the bathroom. The promised coffee pot was in the bathroom on the counter, and he immediately filled it with water and turned it on high, daydreaming of hot soup and the taste of chocolate on his tongue.

He removed his hat, gloves, boots, coat and scarf, setting them in perfect grabbing range, just in case he needed to make a hasty exit. Only then did he allow himself to relax a little and strip himself of his grimy clothes, heading back to the bedroom to stuff them into his knapsack. Pausing in the doorway of the bathroom, he changed his mind. His clothes were a mess, and the last of his clean laundry was waiting for him on the bed. He had to face facts ­ he could behave inconspicuously to avoid detection, but if he wasn't careful, his calling card would be his smell, and not in a good way. He didn't like it one bit, but he was going to have to tempt fate. Consequently he filled the bathroom sink with warm water and liquid soap, and let his dirty clothes soak in the suds while he climbed into the shower, the luxury he'd been craving most.

Steam soon filled the room, and he dunked his head under the glorious warmth. One final full-body shudder, from the chill that seemed to permeate every inch of him. Come on, baby… Warm me up and melt all the ice away. There were nights when his body seemed marinated in sweat and dust and dirt, and he thought he'd never be clean again. But this night, he allowed himself to savor the water and the heat and the magnificent feeling of washing the layers of filth away. Massaging fragrant shampoo into his hair, he closed his eyes and rubbed until his scalp tingled, washing and rinsing himself free of at least a few hours of stress. Pure bliss. Groaning, he ignored the darkening bruises on his knees and shins, and stood under the cascade of hot liquid, relishing every drop until his legs became jelly and the water turned cold.

Sighing with resignation, he dragged himself from the tub, dried off his body until his skin hummed, and draped his wet clothes over the shower rod to dry. He shaved, wincing a little as the razor lightly skimmed the fresh scrapes, and when he was finished, he returned everything to its designated place in his backpack. He brought his outerwear back into the bedroom, and laid it where he could snatch it quickly, along with his bag. Removing his gun from the pocket of his coat, he checked it carefully and placed it within arm's reach of the bed, perfectly positioned on the nightstand. Behavior that was a little compulsive perhaps, but he had lived long enough to know it was necessary. To know his surroundings, to be aware of the potential dangers, to survive another night. Better safe than sorry, and he was sorry about enough.

His rumbling stomach interrupted his thoughts, and he knew he wouldn't sleep well ­ or survive ­ without nourishment. The soup sure wasn't his grandmother's, but it was hot and it satisfied the need. The hot cocoa was powdery, but it was sweet and it filled his belly with contented goodness.

Though overtired and ready to collapse, he completed his ritual by triple-checking the locks, making certain all was sealed up right, and reorganizing his belongings for instant getaway. Only then did he feel safe enough to crawl into bed, and tuck the quilt around himself tightly. His body buzzed from the hot shower and the comforting food, but his mind refused to shut down, instead ticking off "the list." How much he would allow himself to sleep, what he would do when he got up, where he would go, and most importantly, how he would wipe every trace of printsfrom the room when he was done with it.

Curled up in his cocoon, he felt a strange feeling, one he did not want to trust. Tomorrow would be another day of caution, not comfort. He couldn't allow himself to enjoy a false sense of security, no matter where he was. Nevertheless, exhaustion had him beat, so he lay there, breathing deeply and studying the glowing lights, which were lulling him into a stupor. His thoughts returned lazily to the enchanted forest, its fleeting beauty, and pacifying visions of misty moonlight and sparkling snow. And the kind feminine voice that always protected him. Merry Christmas, Alex. His eyes finally closing, he drifted to the restful edges of consciousness, and for one night, this winter's night, he welcomed peaceful sleep.

The End

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