From: "Kelly Keil" Date: Mon, 26 Jun 2000 22:59:55 -0700 Subject: xfc: New: Desperate Measures (1 of 1) by Kelly Keil Source: xfc TITLE: Desperate Measures AUTHOR: Kelly Keil EMAIL: klkeil@butter.toast.net WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/KellyLyn73 ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just keep my info attached. FEEDBACK: Please do. SPOILERS: Requiem RATING: R CLASSIFICATION: V, A DISCLAIMER: The characters don't belong to me, and if CC knew what I was doing with them, he'd probably have a fit. SUMMARY: Desperate times call for desperate measures. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Much thanks go to my betas: Epur, M. Sebasky, Sabine, and Magdeleine. You made this better. Thanks also to YV for planting the seed. WARNING: Do not read this story if you are faint of heart. It is angst with a capital A. If this sort of thing is not your bag, I suggest other, happier stories. This one is not for you. ___________________________________ Desperate Measures by Kelly Keil You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried. Gwendolyn Brooks "The Mother" She gets up from her chair by the window. (The Lord never gives you more than you can handle.) Do I have the strength to do this? she thinks. It is so very hard. She picks up the telephone. (What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.) Bullshit. She dials the number in front of her, scrawled hastily on the back of a credit card receipt. (Desperate times call for desperate measures.) I'm desperate now. "Yes," she says, "yes. I need to see you." (Thou shall not kill.) Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. She hangs up the phone and goes back to her chair by the window, to look up at the stars and wait. * * * "What's her name?" Krycek asks. Name? What a joke. As far as anyone will ever know, her name is baby Jane Doe, missing forever. She is a check mark in someone's book, not a real child. How can you give a nonexistent child a name? Sara, I called her Sara, she thinks. "She was never named," she manages to say staring into the furnace in front of her. * * * She remembers waking to screams. Her eyes had registered the blood stippled blanket and the blank staring eyes of the nurse crumpled on the floor only in passing. What she recalls most vividly is seeing the empty bassinette. Then she had run after them, chasing down hospital corridors until she had collapsed, doubled over in agony. She remembers how Skinner's hands shook when he told her the news. "She's the gateway," he had said, refusing to meet her eyes. "They will come through her, and her children. The end has already started." She remembers the faces of the gunmen, shining at her expectantly. "We'll do it," they'd said, their voices running together. "We'll get her back we can do it we know how we'll be fine we just want to help." She'd shaken her head. "No, it's too dangerous. Mulder would kill me if I got you..." Her voice had trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Besides, she hadn't been thinking of rescue, and this wasn't something you could ask of your friends. She remembers the feel of her child in her arms. The soft warm weight had made her cry, something even the pain of labor hadn't been able to do. She can still smell the sweetness of her skin and feel the silky dark whorl of hair on her head. She has her father's hair, but not his nose, thank God. And her mother's eyes. All baby's eyes are blue, she'd protested, but not too hard. She remembers being held in Mulder's arms, the look in his eyes as he'd made love to her, the pleasure rocketing through her body. Her happiness had nearly been a tangible thing. Now it is all gone. * * * "She was the first," he says, staring into the fire. "The first what?" she asks, not sure she wants to know the answer. "My first baby. That's something you can add to your list. Baby killer. Alex Krycek, mercenary, thief, assassin, baby killer. Quite the resume, huh?" His voice is hollow, the words barbed. She wants to strike him, to wipe the smirk off of his face. Only his eyes keep her hand stilled. This night has cost him. She wonders if she brought enough money. She thinks there might not be enough money in the world to erase that look. * * * In the end, the decision hadn't been a hard one. There was really only one candidate: Alex Krycek, mercenary, thief, assassin. The right tool for the right job. It was simple when you thought about it, and she had, for days and days. Calling him hadn't been difficult; seeing him in person was quite a different matter. I need him, she'd kept telling herself. I need him. It was the only thing that had stopped her from trying to rip his throat out. "While it's always charming to see you," he'd said, sitting down on her couch without being invited to do so, "I've got to wonder what's going on. What do you want from me?" She'd wanted him gone, not in her living room lounging like he owned the place. She'd wanted to see him in hell, and probably would one day. She'd taken a deep breath then had spilled the terrible, necessary words out in a rush. "I need you to kill my baby." He'd straightened then, the look of sardonic amusement leaving his features. His face had become a mask, all business. "It'll cost you," he'd said. More than you'll ever know, she'd thought, and had fought to keep her anguish from showing in her voice or face. "I'm willing to pay the price," she'd said. It was more money than she could easily afford, but she wasn't in any position to quibble. "Do you want me to contact you afterward?" It had been on the tip of her tongue to say no but she'd realized that was foolish and weak. "Bring me the body," she'd said, "then you'll get the money. And after that, I don't want to see you ever again." "I'm beginning to think you don't trust me," he'd said, the smirk returning to his face. "What reason do I have to trust you?" "Touche, Scully." "Don't *ever* call me that," she'd hissed at him. "I'll call you Dana, then." "Don't call me anything at all." He'd thrown his arms up in the air with mock frustration. "Have it your way. It's your show." She'd hated the reminder. It had crumbled the wall she'd been building to distance herself from the act she was paying Krycek to perform. "Just go," she'd said. "Do what I'm paying you to do." He'd left and she'd wrapped her memories of Mulder around her like a blanket. She'd tried to picture each smile, remember each time he'd professed his love for her. She'd thought of his eyes and found she couldn't remember if they were hazel or green. I'm forgetting him, she'd thought, and had been frightened. I've started to think of him in the past tense. Come back to me. I don't care that you left me alone, yet again. I've forgiven you for abandoning me when I needed you most. Just come back. Then a stray thought had invaded her mind like a draft finding its way past a tear in her blanket and she'd shivered. What if he doesn't forgive you? What if he doesn't understand how necessary this was? She'd drawn her memories tighter around her as if they would shield her from all harm. Baby killer, a voice in her mind had whispered. Baby killer. That night she hadn't been able to sleep. * * * He's not a man, she thinks, trying to convince herself. He's a weapon, a machine. A monster. Only that isn't the truth. If he is a weapon, then she was the one who wielded him. She is the one to blame; she is the monster. What have I done? I have killed to save lives, she reminds herself. She prays that it will be worth it. "Have I made a mistake?" she says, more to the flames in front of her than to her companion. He takes her question literally, however, and shrugs. "I'm not a good one to ask." * * * When her doorbell had rung in the middle of the night she'd run to the door. It wouldn't be him. It was never him. Nevertheless her heart had raced as she'd looked through the peephole. Hope she wouldn't acknowledge had lumped in her throat before she'd realized that it wasn't Mulder. She'd instead seen a man with his head bowed and for a minute she'd wondered who it was, then had recognized him as Krycek. The killer. The baby killer. Thoughts of her huge stomach, the pain of delivery, the greater pain of discovering what her child was, the emptiness in her arms--had all come crashing down on her. She'd forced the images away and opened the door. He'd pushed past her, thrusting a bundle wrapped in his jacket into her arms. "Here. It's done." He'd turned from her, perhaps to give her privacy, perhaps because he couldn't bear to look at her. She'd unwrapped the bundle and was stunned by what she saw. "She's so beautiful. So perfect." When she'd last seen the baby she'd been wizened and red, her head misshapen and her skin blotchy. The baby in her arms had been a changeling. She'd examined the tiny fingers and toes as she had after the doctor had placed the baby in her arms moments after she'd been born. The birthmark on her stomach was still there. My baby, she'd thought. Mine. I killed my child. She was my one chance, my last chance, and I've killed her. It had been no comfort knowing that she had prevented, or at least postponed, colonization. My baby is dead had repeated over and over in her head. Krycek had turned toward her then and she'd been startled by his haggard appearance. He'd been so unlike the man who had sat in her living room the day before. He'd seemed years older. "Was it quick?" she'd asked, needing to know. "She didn't feel any pain." She hadn't known whether to believe him or not. She'd never know the truth, however, and it was easier to believe that her daughter hadn't suffered, even it was a lie. She'd held the baby close, the emptiness of her arms temporarily filled. She'd refused to cry over the loss. Not then. There still had been work to do. "Will you help me take care of the body?" she'd asked. There'd been no one else to ask, and it had seemed fitting that both of the people responsible for her death tend to the child. "Yes," he'd said after a long pause. "I know where it can be done. No one will know." "I imagine you've done this before." He'd given her a look and she'd been ashamed. She had no room to be petty. "I'm sorry," she'd murmured. He'd said nothing, had just walked out the door, expecting her to follow. She'd done so, holding the bundle tightly and grabbing her purse on the way out. All she could think, as she'd followed Krycek, was that she was damned. * * * She doesn't like cremation, and feels it is somehow wrong to burn her daughter. On the other hand, she doesn't believe in murder, either. "Do you think there's a hell, Krycek?" He barks out a short, ugly laugh. "I've been there. More times than I can count." "No. I meant...after death." He shrugs. "Does it matter?" She thinks of what she has done and shakes her head. "I don't think anything could be worse than this." "Things can always get worse." This is something she knows but doesn't wish to acknowledge. The only way she can remain sane is to think that this sacrifice is the worst thing she will ever live through. She can't bear to think of what would be worse. Suddenly, she needs to be away from this place. She needs the comfort of her home and the privacy to be able to grieve. "I want to leave. Take me home." As an after thought, she adds, "Please." He closes the furnace door with a bang. Good bye, she thinks. Sleep well. I did the best I could. I saved you, I saved us all. But there is a bitter taste in her mouth like ashes. Is there a hell? she'd wondered. I've been there, he'd said. Me too, she thinks. Her cheeks are still red from the heat of the flames. End Send me a note to tell me what you thought at klkeil@butter.toast.net.