Author: Skinner Box
Title: Glycerin
Feedback: BurrhusFrederic@worldnet.att.net
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: through Amor Fati
Summary: Missing scenes fron the Biogenesis-Sixth Extinction-Amor Fati story arc.
Notes: The slash here is subtextual- not a relationship story. Thank you to Pollyanna and Ratadder.
Disclaimer: The X-Files and these characters belong to Chris Carter and Fox Broadcasting. I play with them out of love and for no profit.


Glycerin
By Skinner Box

Glycerin. C3 H8 O3. A colorless, odorless, sweet-tasting viscous liquid used as medicine, ointment, as a humectant in foodstuffs and in explosives. See also glycerol.

Glycerin. The faint candy odor of the otherwise unscented lotion comes from it. From glycerin. It gives the tiny, steam-fogged john a somehow hospital smell. That's fine. Hospitals are fine. Easy to disappear in, if you know how to blend. Sasha works the lotion into his winter-dry skin, into the glossy keloid slickness of his stump. Kneading, he can feel it soak in. Disappear.

Glycerin. Treated with heavily concentrated sulfuric and nitric acids it becomes a highly shock-sensitive and powerful explosive. And one heck of a vasodilator.

Assassin, courier, seducer, spy. Demolition any way you slice it. Your partner, your plans, your heart. Alex Krycek can make a secret go boom. He brushes his hair straight back from his forehead in the slowly clearing mirror. Musses the front just a bit with careful fingertips so a few stray locks just graze his forehead. Adjusts his open collar just so. Tielessness as statement, not simple one-armed necessity. Let's all pretend there's not a leash there.

Nitro-glycerin. C3 H5 (NO3)3. It can keep you alive. It can make you dead. It can get you hard. "This aqueous-based cream derived from the existing treatment for angina is effective within minutes of application in achieving an erection of up to 45 minutes duration." Or so claims the tube of 1 percent nitro-glycerin cream in Agent Fowley's purse. Just what, or who, it's for he doesn't really want to know. And had better find out.

Glycerin. The stars of the silent screen never got to study with Lee Strassburg. No 'memories of grandma's funeral' method to dredge up those tears-on-demand. Glycerin rolls down a powdered cheek with the slow slither of Hollywood drama. And no snuffly nose to ruin the effect.

Mrs. Bauer lived upstairs and across the hall, in a railroad apartment the exact mirror image of the one Sashele called home. She wasn't kosher but he drank her tea and ate her cookies anyway. It filled up the empty evening hours when homework was done and Mama still out cleaning houses. He ate her cookies and drank her tea and listened to stories that had nothing to do with a frum little Russian boy in the slums in Baltimore.

Mrs. Bauer was a figure of high romance. She had boyfriends. One of them had been in the movies, even. The little rich boy on crutches in the Little Rascals. Child actor. Now there was a gig for false romanticism. Especially in the Depression. When they needed him to cry on camera they'd rubbed cut lemons on the little boy's eyes. No sweet slide of glycerin for little rascals. Sasha licks raspberry jam, from toast not a linzer cookie, off his thumb, swigs the last of his tea, and heads out the door.

...

Alex lounges easily in the bedroom doorway. He's got this down, now. Experience and Mulder, his first, best teacher. You fuck up that badly and it either kills you or learns ya something. Sasha learned. It's the little things that betray. He tried too hard with Mulder- his awe-filled stammer a little too rushed, gaze of compassion just a little too right.

"You're making us late, Fowley," he drawls. No skin off his nose-it's her meet. He's just along to advise. She thinks she's his protege. Both pissed off and pleased at his interest, his casual superiority. She's been with the group longer, thinks she's smarter. But you've never gone underground, sweetie. Never laid a honeytrap for all your panting after Agent Mulder. Never killed. She thinks she needs him. Truth is- Alex needs her. But not for too much longer.

...

FBI interoffice mail. Takes one back, it does. The goods fit just right in the second largest size of envelope. He winds the cord that keeps the flap shut, double checks the address he knows is correct. Just one more lab coated white guy in a sea of them, Alex adds his contribution to the mail cart as it passes through the evidence lab corridors. Time to wait, now. Blend and wait. Sasha strolls off to the vending machines for coffee and sticky, preservative filled pastry.

...

"Agent Scully, I asked you not to involve me in this."

Vasoconstriction is very effective from the inside out. The A.D. folds forward over his wide wooden desk so easily. A slip of the thumb, a squeeze of the clever plastic hand on the little silver box is all it takes.

"Our little secret," Alex whispers to the crumpled man, and whisks himself out one door as his unwitting silent partner storms in the other.

...

Fowley's hand goes to his arm, pleading, when she feels the muzzle of the Sig mouthing at the nape of her neck. "Alex, why?" Her voice husky-plaintive. She tries to kiss him. Then, like a switch has flipped, she's all business.

"Krycek. You owe me an explanation."

He could almost find it cute. This is the part in all the Bond movies where you lay out your evil plan in all its glory, taking just enough time for the rescue team to arrive and the more astute members of the audience to go buy refills of popcorn. He owes her nothing. And there's fucking little time to spare. But he does love an exit line.

"I like Mulder better than you." He says it, then pulls the trigger. The key card is right where it should be, in the zippered pocket in the wallet in her briefcase.

...

Fire is inefficient, really. But the crowds and sirens will work to Alex's advantage. And he's really glad to see the last of than damn Charles Manson wig. He slips the laptop into a carry bag and prepares to be a funky dotcom worker bee on his way to the metro.

...

Shower. It's hot enough for pain, really, but nothing less will get the stench of smoke and cordite and Fowley's subtle perfume from the deep down place in his pores. Contaminants want to snuggle into his very flesh these days, and the slick orange bar of soap is a glossy pebble in his palm by the time he's through. Beach glass. It's glycerin that gives it that clarity, makes it lather up rich against him. But that's another day's meditation and Sasha doesn't want to go back there. Alex shuts the taps and shakes his head to clear more than water from his ears.

Bed is all his body wants, but Alex makes strong tea and sweetens it with jam. This little drama's not quite played out. Gotta stick around for the curtain call. Eyes aching, he settles in the swivel chair, slips on his headset, and runs a quick check. All systems are go in his hidey-hole listening post. No visual feed, not these days. Ear cocked to the sounds of Mulder alive and puttering, Sasha cracks his book.

He kind of misses the visuals, but they're hardly necessary when Agent Scully finally makes her appearance. Alex can hear fabric on fabric and skin on skin from the directional mic in the hallway. Doesn't need electronic eyes to pick up the tears mixed into the words.

"Diana Fowley was found murdered this morning." The tough little agent's voice breaks at the stop. "I never trusted her..." a breath not quite a sob, "but she helped save your life just as much as I did. She gave me that book. It was her key that lead me to you. I'm sorry..." a gasp, "I'm so sorry. I know she was your friend."

The itch in his idiot eyes has gone to burn, and even a scowl won't stop them spilling over. Sashele's tongue snakes out to bank the flow. Sweet.

The End·