Alex Krycek is Dead - Long Live Alex Krycek

by Flutesong


Title: Alex Krycek is Dead - Long Live Alex Krycek

Author: Flutesong

E-mail: Flutesong@Hegalplace.com

Website: http://www.hegalplace.com/flutesong/

Keywords: Krycek Gen Fic

Spoilers: Everything - post/The Truth

Rating: PG-13/mild R - a bit adult language

Summary: Alex Krycek returns

Warning: None

Archive: Sure, let me know where

Notes: The beginning of this story was originally written, by me, for the May 2003 Dead/Alive Round-Robin Challenge at the CUBE. At that time others finished it in their own inventive ways. This way is mine.

I thank Sue Ashworth and Kashmir for the significant work on this story. All remaining mistakes and/or weirdness is mine.

Disclaimer: The X Files belongs to its legal entities. The love and fascination for the characters, as expressed, belongs to me.

Alex Krycek is Dead - Long Live Alex Krycek

'Alex Krycek is dead, dead as a doornail - dead, dead, dead. A man who lived and died, just like all men,' Mulder thinks, in a kind of stunned alliterative amazement, as he runs to the car and goes off to find Scully to make sure the baby is born in safety.

'Alex Krycek is dead. Another carcass of what was rotten to begin with. Now he can rot in hell,' Skinner thinks, without feeling, but with a growing anxiety about security cameras and witnesses. He searches Krycek's slack form, obtains the nano-device and decides to secure it first, before he takes care of the body.

'Alex Krycek is dead,' observes Doggett when he runs back into the garage after unsuccessfully managing to catch Rorer. 'Double crossing bastard.' And he goes off to find Skinner.

'Alex Krycek is dead,' Rorer thinks, and, since he thinks it, all the others of his kind hear the thought too. His brain configuration remains human in language, although it is now in no way attached to human emotions, worries or cares. It takes a certain satisfaction in the knowledge anyway. This human had been more complex and had more going on than almost any of the others involved. //Reyes and Scully observed at a truck stop on I-81 south - destination still unknown// came through Rorer's mental processors. //Mulder - arranging to get to the heliport in Manassas, Virginia//currently uploading

Rorer lifts the body of Alex Krycek and hefts it across his shoulder. He makes for the lower level of the garage, places the body in the trunk of a car he knows will be picked up by another of his kind later //Security personnel in parking lot surveillance office neutralized// He processes the incoming information as he withdraws the camera tapes, destroys all but the one he's been instructed to preserve, gets into his own vehicle and drives out of the garage.

Alex Krycek doesn't think, can't think, because the synapses in his brain stopped exchanging electrical impulses and the axons ceased transmitting a few seconds after his heart stopped. The cold storage preserves his body, so he doesn't decay, and the icy space is not habitable enough for even maggots to take up residence.

No one comes to do an autopsy. No one comes to burn or bury the body. No one comes at all.

Eventually, 'IT' rejoins. The atoms and iota and subatomic particles of 'IT' slither and swim through the frigid viscosity within Alex Krycek. The infinitesimal minority of 'IT' that has remained, long after the exit of the majority, sometime ago. 'IT' gathers together in the hypothalamus and in the cold, cold nether regions begins to generate heat and regenerate 'ITSELF'.

When Alex Krycek regains consciousness, he is shivering. He is on a hillside and something is very, very wrong. Wrong in a familiar way. Wrong just like when he had inexplicably found himself outside the silo sometime ago.

He tries to get up, but finds his prosthetic arm digging into his side and hindering him. He reaches round under his stiff and frozen shirt and finds it is rent and loose. His fingers bump into cool flesh as he reaches to reattach the arm.

He screams. Takes a lot of deep breaths and dares to feel what is there again. He feels his own fingers when they touch him; touch the part of him that is his left arm, the left arm that is there once more.

Shivering in reaction, fear, disbelief and the cold, he stumbles to his feet and starts moving. He lets his feet carry him. Downhill is easiest, therefore, he goes downhill. He leaves the prosthetic arm behind.

As he runs, he maneuvers his left arm into the torn shirtsleeve and the jacket. The shirt begins to dampen with his body heat as he runs, and the old, dried, frozen blood begins to mix with the sweat and stick to his body.

He finds a road halfway down the hill. He walks on the road until he comes to place of business at the outskirts of a town. He doesn't bother to read the signs. He finds an unlocked car on the outside row of the parking lot, hotwires the vehicle and drives away.

He abandons that car and steals another. He drives through the night, finds a city midmorning and abandons the current car. He walks until he locates a squalid motel. His wallet is still in his pocket so he rents a room.

He enters the room and, with atavistic repulsion, pulls off his clothing to step into the shower. He bathes in the warm, warm water, washing and rewashing for a long time.

He comes out of the bath, shudders, but puts back on the pants, shoes and jacket. He goes out and walks the city streets, until he finds an open store. He buys new clothes, everything, from the skin out. On his way back to his room, he buys coffee and food.

In the room, Alex Krycek takes another shower, dresses himself in the new clothes, sits at the small table, sips his coffee and, with a deep breath, allows himself to start thinking. 'I am alive, but what exactly did I survive this time?'

Alex pieces together the puzzle as he eats. Momentarily panics when he realizes he has no idea what the date is, then turns on the TV and CNN accommodates him immediately. July 2002. He has been 'gone' for over a year. For a moment, he wonders, nonsensically, if he has aged.

He is not surprised to see that, except for the fully functional left arm, he appears as he had been when Skinner shot him. "Asshole," he mutters aloud, but thinking of his 'last' moments brings a rush of memory. Had he bought enough time for Rorer and the others to be distracted by Doggett and the activity in the FBI for Mulder to escape and get to Scully? How the fuck had Skinner recovered enough to return to the building? Obviously both Mulder and Skinner had believed he would actually shoot Mulder, although Skinner hadn't needed much of an excuse to kill him anyway.

Alex feels no particular elation that he is 'alive'. He has learned to take his rather surprising luck at survival simply as another twist of fate in a long line of twists and turns. It seems, time and again, that he has no actual say in the matter, so he can hardly take credit for it.

Alex chews the last of his meal and listens to the news with half an ear. He cannot summon up any hint of memory about how he came to be on the hillside, but he does not disregard the similarity to his survival from the silo. He has a sudden sharp urge to have blood tests and medical exams to confirm he is fully human, but quells the desire. Who could he trust to do the tests anyway, let alone give him the real answers?

He thinks about the baby. Did it also survive? Was it 'fully' human or not? He cannot imagine Mulder and Scully living together in domestic bliss, Mulder changing diapers and babbling baby talk. He smiles wryly. To tell the truth, he can't really imagine Scully doing that either.

If things have gone the way he'd begun to discern, back then; the juiced-up hybrids would have had no reason to kill the kid or Mulder if born human. If not, well then, he'd tried to warn Mulder; the two of them would not be allowed to live. He hadn't been able find out all the ramifications, but the super-soldiers and their ilk feared Mulder's abilities would return, and he and the kid would be able to stop the invasion somehow.

Alex sighs and removes his new clothes, happy to find the sheets in the fleabag motel are actually clean as he slides into bed.

Well, what happened - happened. Tomorrow was soon enough to decide which land of the living he would return to.

He wakes once in the night to rub away the pain of a phantom limb. Alex finds, instead, the limb itself and begins to laugh. He laughs for a long time, until even he can hear what sounds suspiciously like sobs coming from his throat. He turns and lies on his belly, forcing the over-soft pillow into his mouth.

Eventually he becomes quiet and sleeps.

Alex Krycek is alive. He finds daylight warm and the sun golden. He leaves the motel at sunrise, personally throwing away his old clothing in a nearby dumpster. He walks for miles, stopping at this place for coffee and that place for a bagel. During rush hour, he goes into a busy parking garage and steals another car, before the attendant can move it to its rented commuter space.

He recognizes where he is and, once on the road, goes to Baltimore to see if a long hidden stash of money and identification is still available. It is. He is not surprised. The hybrids wouldn't have been interested, and everyone else would have been convinced he was dead.

This time he rents a car and settles in for a long drive. He goes to NYC and finds no trace of the old guard remaining, but does find several of his accounts are still active. Interest rates have gone to hell on his certificates, but his investments have prospered. He cashes in a considerable amount and deposits it at another bank, under a different name. He drives to Boston and does the same.

He spends the night at a better motel than that of the previous night and, in the morning, purchases a top of the line laptop computer, suitcase, clothing, and several guns. He drives back to Baltimore, buys a decent used car and returns the rental.

It is early evening when Krycek reaches Washington D.C. He uses a pay phone to call Mulder's and then Scully's phone numbers. Both have been disconnected. He tries Doggett's number and a machine answers, he hangs up and dials Skinner. Skinner answers and Krycek hangs up. He leaves the phone booth quickly.

Later, in the room he has rented, he goes online and attempts to find listings for either Mulder or Scully. None are available. He uses a memorized code to access the FBI Personnel database and finds both agents have been put on indefinite leave without pay, pending formal dismissal protocols. He sighs, believing this information tells him that they remain among the living, if not the actively employed. Skinner, Doggett and Reyes are still on active duty, all of them assigned to Kersh in the Violent Crimes Unit. The X Files have been suspended since May 2002.

Krycek finds an addendum in Kersh's file. It briefly mentions a criminal trial, Agent Fox Mulder defendant. Specific information noted as unavailable due to National Security protection. AD Skinner, Agents Scully, Doggett, Reyes and witnesses J. Spender and M. Covarrubias gave testimony. A verdict in the case was not annotated.

Alex Krycek feels an icy draught down the back of his neck and he shivers. Catching sight of his left hand on the keyboard, he shivers again, for a moment he could've sworn he saw Mulder's shoulder beneath that hand. He shuts down the laptop and stretches. He's had Mulder 'vibes' before and always chooses to disregard them. Too many years have passed; he believes, for them ever really to understand the other or to come to agreement over their mutual, if irreconcilable past.

As he gets up, puts a sandwich together and boils water for tea, he tries, once again, to convince himself it isn't important, that the Mulder vibes, like what was once his conscience, are mere figments of old and seldom remembered longings and dreams. Feelings and hopes long since beaten out of him and buried, unlike his arm, unlike Mulder, never to be resurrected or reanimated.

He watches part of an old movie, the news and ten minutes of MTV, before he decides to give into the exhaustion of the day. He showers and reminds himself to be satisfied with commonplace luxuries as he heads to bed. He sleeps soundly for several hours and wakes from a dream that is not a nightmare, and that he cannot remember, but which leaves him aching for human contact, and a deep desire to find someone who knows him, so they can tell them he's alive.

He quells these desires and suppresses his loneliness. There is no one to trust, no one to care, and no one hold in the night. This, he thinks to himself without pity, is how it's always been no matter how many times he finds himself alive.

He falls asleep knowing he has to make a decision about what he's going to do with this future, however unexpected and unasked for, he now has in his grasp. He doesn't wake again until morning.

Alex stays in Washington D.C. until September. He builds a new identity from the ground up and does as much research as he can, as discreetly as possible, on the whereabouts of Mulder, Scully, and the baby they named William. He finds that the number of loose ends, dead ends and deaths he encounters along the way often disheartens him. He wonders if Mrs. Mulder ever told Mulder what she knew about The Project, and he finds himself unexpectedly shaken by the loss of all three of Mulder's long time friends. He arranges to meet the young man and woman who were involved at the end of the Gunmen's lives, but they are surprisingly ignorant about Mulder and are of no help at all. He remains invisible to those from the FBI who would recognize him. He watches Skinner carefully, under no illusion that the man wouldn't shoot him again 'before' he asked any questions. Skinner, too, is a dead end. If he is communicating with Mulder, Alex cannot trace the means.

He almost goes to Marita's. He almost goes several times before deciding that it would be suicide for both of them. Whether or not she would betray him again isn't the issue so much as he can't be sure who is keeping tabs on her and would find his reanimation of interest.

When his dreams become too much to bear alone in his bed, he goes out into the night and finds the bars and clubs noisy and full of young urbanites who do not question his story about being temporarily assigned to D.C. as a Defense Communications Contractor, in any way surprising. Many of them are in the city for the similar reasons.

He realizes this is really the first time since he was so briefly Agent Krycek, that he is living what appears to be a 'normal' life. Almost a decade older, he is no more adept than he was back then at playing the freewheeling bachelor in a middle class world. He is taken aback to find that women view him as potential relationship material and do not in any way see him as a man with a dark past.

He finds he cannot enjoy the apparent freedom and well being amongst the crowds, so he searches out haunts where the criminals, cops, conmen, and women who have had more than their share of relationships commingle. He fucks a few of the women, and they do not mistake him as harmless or expect to see him again. He never stays the night through.

The dog days of late August and early September stifle him. The days last too long and the nights retain the sticky humidity of a city that was once considered the malaria capitol, long before it became the Nation's.

He sits on a bench by the new FDR monument and watches the lights reflect off the surface of the oily water, stagnant at two A.M., in the Tidal Basin. He sees the homeless camp out in their clumps of rags and debris. He closes his eyes and remembers bright eyes glaring at him in rage, strong fists beating out a tattoo of assault in a battle of words and wills and testosterone that made him dizzy and feel... feel alive.

Uneven clop-slides of footsteps bring him back to the present, and he sees a small man with a limp come to halt ten feet from the bench he is occupying. The man waits patiently for what Alex will do next; give him the bench or break his neck. Alex knows this man, in this moment, as well as he knows himself. The small man doesn't care. A night's rest on his favorite bench or sleep forever at the hands of an unknown stranger; it's all the same to him.

Alex gets up, tosses a couple of twenties on the bench and walks off. He knows the man will wait until he is out of sight, before he claims the money and the bench.

In the morning, Alex Krycek packs his bag, throws out the trash and leaves the key to his rented room on the bed that hasn't been slept in. He gets into his car and drives out of the city. He wonders why it took him so long to realize that he does have a contact that can tell him where Mulder might be.

He drives west. It takes him three days to reach Gibson Praise, but when he pulls up to the dusty roundabout in front of the building, Gibson is already waiting. They do not speak, but the clop-slide of Gibson's heavy shoes echoes on the wooden porch as they go into the house.

Alex doesn't try to monitor or disguise his thoughts. Gibson hands him a bottle of Gatorade, and he drinks it. It is very quiet in the room. Alex gets up, and the boy nods his head, indicating the direction of the bathroom. Alex smiles, and Gibson smiles back, the immediacy of this particular need has no double meaning or hidden agenda.

Alex returns to the room, and Gibson takes his hand, leading him out onto the back porch and a view of the mountains shimmering in the distance. Slowly Alex begins to 'know'. He 'sees' Skinner, Doggett, Reyes, Scully and Rorer in the aftermath of his demise. He sees Mulder, frantic with worry, attempting to reach Scully in Georgia. He feels their horror, followed by profound gratitude when the hybrids leave the area, and them, unmolested.

Alex knows he must be 'seeing' all this at a tremendously accelerated rate, the shimmering, distant mountains remain bathed in daylight and only begin to fade into sunset by the time he experiences the months Mulder spent with Gibson, right here, on this porch.

It is dusk when he 'lives' though the trial, Mulder and Scully's final discovery of Spender, and the aftermath. Finally, he sees their journey on the run, and his own return to life. He understands that it was Gibson who took the truth from his, and X's and the Gunmen's thoughts, that he had discerned from 'knowing' them in the past, and combined them with Mulder's own unresolved hopes and dreams to make Mulder 'believe' they had helped him during this terrible time.

He finds himself sitting on the railing of the porch as dusk becomes full dark, and Gibson lets go of his hand. Alex is crying quietly. Gibson pats his shoulder and goes into the house. The pain Alex feels now is both a kind of ecstasy and a benediction. The gift of Mulder's belief, at long last, even unto death and beyond, of help and comfort has been taken. Taken and believed and appreciated and even perhaps, hoped for again.

Alex doesn't bother to wipe the tears from his face or stifle the small sounds that grow louder and mutate from sobs to laughter. He stands and walks into the desert, he sees the absolute darkness of the night turn bright as the billions of stars flicker on and shine in the far, far distance of time and space.

The cool freshening breeze of evening dries his face. Alex knows now, however many times he has cheated fate, survived, returned from the dead; never before has he been reborn.

The End
 

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