Summary: Short stream of consciousness from Krycek.
In my universe Krycek has BOTH arms and if you can't deal with that then too bad.
Thanks again to Aries (torture queen extraordinare) for inspiration and beta. You ROCK babe! All other mistakes are my own. I quit smoking 2 years ago but crave one daily.
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Alex Krycek was sitting on his bed smoking a cigarette. The blue smoke swirled up to the ceiling caressing the single light bulb fixture which was turned off. Exhaling, he blew the smoke around mixing with the dust in the air dancing in the flickering light from the television. The television let out a tinny sound from the small speaker on the front. A Barenaked Ladies video was on.
The table beside the bed held an empty bottle serving as an ashtray.
He took another drag from his cigarette letting the smoke fill his lungs, burning all the way down.
"Oh yeah, that feels great."
He exhaled, feeling the smoky breath stinging his throat. Oh that did feel good. Too good.
What made him buy that pack of cigarettes anyway? He hadn't had one since he left Russia months ago. He was there, at the counter of the 7-11 with his two iced teas, bottle of water and 1 lb bag of M&M's. The clerk asked if there was anything else and *pack of smokes* came out of his mouth before he knew it. Shit. It was that easy to start again. So much for those little patches he wore for those two months dispensing a slightly lower dosage of nicotine every week. The only reason he quit was because you couldn't smoke anywhere in this damn country. It's funny how people's priorities change when you get back over here. In Russia, if you had food you ate it, if you had drink, you drank it, if you had smokes, you smoked it. Here everyone passed judgment on you. Made you feel guilty for having fun.
Whatever.
He took a sip of his iced tea. Iced tea. Mulder's influence. He promised himself he'd cut down on his vodka consumption. For Mulder. Mulder didn't understand the need to drink. Then again, maybe he understood too well.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the side of the empty bottle and let it drop to the bottom. He leaned back on his small bed.
This room. His home. A bedroom. A bathroom. A closet. Television. A bed. A chair. That was it. What more could a double agent/spy need? Able to pack up and move in 60 seconds. He'd done it last week, he knew that's all it took.
He lit another cigarette. The television still pushing it's tinny sound into the room. Now it was a video about a guy who worked as a janitor in a building, goofing around with the security guard, making faces at him through the surveillance cameras. *Geez, who wrote these videos anyway. All these people in an office building playing solitaire. Oh now this hooker chick shoots the big executive guy. Yeah, a hooker walks into my boss's office and I don't notice. Uh huh.*
It was better, living here among the junkies and the whores. Easier to handle skid row than Crystal City. Here no one does a check on you when you wanted to rent a room. As long as you had cash you could do what you wanted to. He could live there, Crystal City, like Skinner, if he wanted to. He had the cash. His services did not come cheap. Setting up the Trust Fund was simple. He could live like this off the interest for years. Live like this. In this room. What more could he want?
He wanted alot more. Fox. He wanted Fox. He needed Fox. He missed him when they were apart. Missed him terribly. He would still break into his apartment and sit there for hours in the dark in the chair in the corner. Anything to be close to him.
Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night when they were together and watch him sleep. The light coming in through the blinds throwing the familiar broken pattern across his face. His eyes in REM, moving back and forth under the lids. What was he dreaming? Did he dream about Alex? Scully?
Awful nightmares still plagued Mulder once in awhile. The first time it happened Alex grabbed his gun and almost shot him he scared him so much. Those night terrors have been with him since he was 12 and weren't going to go away any time soon.. Alex would hold him in his arms and kiss his tears away. Mulder would shiver and whisper to him, "don't let them get me Alex."
"I would never let them get you Fox."
He would hold him in his arms, stroking his hair until he fell asleep again.
He felt as if he now had a set place in Mulder's life. They had their routine, their sleeping positions dictated by Mulder the first time he spent the night. Mulder on the right, Alex on the left, his head on Mulder's chest. Mulder's strong arms wrapped around him, head bent, kissing his hair. Alex would lay with his ear against that muscular chest and listen to the heart beating within. Mulder's scent enveloping him like a warm blanket.
He almost stopped that heart beating. He shivered as he thought about the times he had been told to kill Mulder. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Now they were looking for him again. What did they want? He knew *exactly* what they wanted. Fuck 'em. They could find someone else to do their dirty work.
He dropped the cigarette into the bottle on his table, it let out a hiss as it hit the moisture at the bottom.
*7:47 p.m. Fox would be home. I shouldn't call. I shouldn't even go over there anymore. I should just walk away and let him get on with his life. I'm dangerous for him. He could get killed.*
He lit yet another cigarette. He was growing used to the smoke filling his lungs again. Knowing that one would inevitably lead to another and another dragging him down to addiction again. Just like Mulder. This want, this need to have Mulder was incurable.
*I would rather die than have him taken away from me. I love him too much.*
Still smoking, he went out into the hallway, put the quarter into the pay phone and dialed. A cockroach trundled up the wall beside the phone. He took his cigarette and burnt the insect before flicking it away with his finger. He then dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the heel of his boot.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Chinese?"
"Sounds good."
"Leaving now."
"Okay."
He hung up the phone and went back to his room. He looked out the window of his second floor room. Close enough to jump to the ground, far enough away from the junkies shooting up to reach in and steal his clock-radio.
*Not gonna rain tonight.*
He put on his leather jacket, grabbed his knapsack and went out to his motorcycle. He left the cigarettes behind.
END