From: Meg of the random number generation Date: Fri, 14 May 1999 23:54:56 GMT Subject: NEW: Restored To Life (1/1) by Megadee TITLE: Restored to Life (1/1) AUTHOR: Megadee (but the masses call me Meg ;) ARCHIVE: Gossamer is fine, if you want to put it anyplace else do me a favor and ask first. RATING: PG-13 for a bit of foul language CATEGORY: S/A; Post-Episode TIMELINE/SPOILERS: Post-"One Son." Spoilage for any and every mytharc before and during that. DISCLAIMER: If I owned them I wouldn't have to write fanfic. The kids in the story all belong to Fox, 1013, and Chris Carter. I just boil them in hot oil and feed them to the wild pandas. Er, I borrow them. SUMMARY: Krycek decieves, inveigles, and obfuscates after finding a less-than-alive Spender in the basement office. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Woo. After nearly a year-and-a-half hiatus from the fanfic world I'm back with- the hell? A S/A? Go figure. This is a variation on a tune whistled by many Krycek and Spender fans (and K/Sp fans) after "One Son." I wrote it directly after the episode and let it sit, but I'm guessing I should post it before "Biogenesis" screws everything up. The title is a reference to Charles Dickens' _A Tale of Two Cities_. Anyone who finds the other reference in the story gets a cookie. Mad, wacky props to Rachel for Beta reading, smacking me upside the head, teaching me how to ride the El, and encouraging me to write Hanson fanfic. Twin sex is wrong. With that, let's begin. There will be a few more notes at the end, so do try to stay awake. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I heard the shot from my position behind a filing cabinet. I can't say I wasn't expecting it. The old man has quite a history of killing those he has no use for. A person gets used to it after awhile...but Spender? Had the old man given up on him so soon? I suppose he was getting too old to take chances, too old to wait for improvement. Too old for car bombs and silos. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed before I stepped from the shadows. Spender's body was still, lying where it landed. He had been shot in the chest- quick, to be sure. Blowing out his brains was too messy. The gun had been carefully placed by the unmoving man. The bullet would be untraceable. The body would be found and the investigation would be smothered. If he sent one of his own to 'discover' the body, the old man might even be able to pass it off as a suicide. The body would disappear, a false autopsy on record. Nothing fancy. Simple enough for a man who thought he could save the world with a few well-placed bullets. Someone would be there soon- the old man's boy, or maybe Mulder- either way I couldn't stay. A wave of anger washed over me. Once again that smoking son of a bitch had managed to deflate my plans. Spender would have been useful. His fresh vulnerability made it easy for me to twist him. I had delighted in the game while I had it. A well-placed snatch of information accompanied by an innocent smile was more than enough to send daddy's boy parading down the warpath. I had come to offer cryptic advice, and here I was, standing in the kid's crypt. There would be other ways. Spender was too good to last. I glared down at the body bitterly. The corpse moved. It was slight, an almost undetectable rising of the chest. I crouched down and placed my ear next to his mouth. Ragged, shallow breathing. Amazing. The kid was still alive. Just like his father. Just like Mulder. Just like me. I called in a favor to a man who performs miracles. You're laughing. You want to know how Alex Krycek, wanted man, could sneak the wounded body of Agent Jeffrey Spender out of the FBI in plain day? It's not as hard as you might think. You would be surprised at what slips through the fingers of the fine men and women at the J. Edgar Hoover every day. Doors, hallways, and impossible exits are everywhere. The dark men that run things from behind smokescreens have ensured the holes in the net, and I'm well-versed in their placements. The work was short. We left nothing behind. Not a trace of blood remained, not a file was touched. Jeffrey Spender has disappeared and not even Papa knows where he's gotten to. His father - hah. If he knew what I had done, he'd fume. He'd rage. He'd sputter, he'd curse, he'd fire people and fire at people. But under all that he would know- it was bound to happen. He underestimated me, if only a centimeter, and I ran with it. The old man understands me better than any living member of that group. We took Spender to the doctor's operating room and for a little over a week I laid low, watching Spender's slow recovery from behind tinted glass. The bullet hadn't pierced anything vital. By cheating death, Spender had passed test number one on the road to hell, Consortium style. On the ninth night, he woke up feeling disoriented and weak. I did not go into see him. That needed to wait. I instructed the doctor to give Spender little to no information about his whereabouts and the events of the past week. To the boy's credit, he did not ask for much. His spirit was low, and at this point he was ready to accept anything. On the tenth night I returned to the apartment the Consortium boys had for me. It was bugged to all hell and I knew someone would be watching for me. The place had been torn apart- not that there was much to tear about. I lived there sparsely when I lived there at all. Staying there was part of the charade, an act of submission to show the boys that I was no longer playing for myself. I kept the room dark and settled on the torn couch in the corner, facing the door, my gun concealed but close to my good hand. The old man did not disappoint. Within a half-hour I heard a key in the lock and saw his grim silhouette in the doorway. He entered slowly, but did not reach for the light. He looked in my direction, and I shifted slightly, allowing the moonlight spilling between the blinds to illuminate part of my face. "You've been missed," he said cooly, walking toward the cracked leather chair directly across from me and seating himself. "Things got dangerous," I said. "I wanted to lie low until I knew the whole story." "Do you now?" he asked, an amused look passing over his face. "Apparently not," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I heard you were dead. I heard you were all dead." "Then why did you return here?" "My sources aren't as reliable as they'd like to think they are." He seemed to accept that, but I could never be certain. Dealing with the old man is an art, an art of poker faces and plain lies. "Why didn't you come to the base, Alex?" "I was unavoidably detained." "How so?" "Attacked and left for dead in an alley," I said shortly, gesturing to a fake gash expertly stitched by the doctor. "I think someone thought I knew more than I do. My reputation precedes me." He smiled at that, an awful smile that made me want to laugh at the whole fucking charade. I thought to myself. "Did they have just cause to think you might know something?" asked the old man, expertly flicking open his lighter. "No," I said. "My sources are jokes, good for vague surveillance and nothing more." "Good help," he breathed, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling "Is very difficult to find." We sat in silence for a few minutes. I was relieved my story had gone over so well, but not dumb enough to believe he had fallen for it completely. More than likely he was still suspect of my disappearance. The trick would be maintaining the lies and knowing when to keep my mouth shut. "Have any of your incompetent sources...told you about Jeffrey?" I looked up, quietly surprised he was mentioning his son at all. I kept my face expressionless and shook my head. "No. What?" "He has disappeared." I waited a beat, as Good Alex let the information sink in. "How? When?" "Directly after he met with his superior and asked that Mulder and Scully be returned to The X-Files." I looked directly at the old man, holding my cards close. "Is he dead?" The old man looked at me sharply. "What are you implying, Alex?" "That your son chose the wrong side," I said simply. The old man's face seemed to harden, a remarkable feat for a face that was already drawn up as tight as it was. "He has disappeared," he repeated. I silently delighted in the old man's answer. He didn't want me to know that he had no idea what had happened to his son. He didn't want me to know that he'd shot the boy and then lost him. He didn't want me to know that he was losing control of a project that had been doomed from the start. Ambiguity was his final weapon, the only tool he had to save face. Oh, how the mighty do fall. "What now?" I asked. "We continue." "Continue?" I said, feigning surprise. "After all this? You don't think it would be wiser to go underground for a few months while the game resets?" "It is NOT OVER! Have you learned NOTHING?" he growled, standing suddenly. I had hit the open wound. "This is not a game, Alex! It does not reset. The pieces do not go back to start. The players do not pack up and go home. It is NEVER over. We create the future!" "I was only suggesting..." "YOU DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO SUGGEST!" He turned suddenly and walked away, stopping just short of the door to look back at me. "You will be contacted." "What should I do in the meantime?" I asked, rising indignantly. Consortium Boy Alex may be dutiful, but he couldn't be completely passive. The old man stared at me coldly, all traces of rage erased from his taut visage. "Disappear." He did not slam the door. -=- Satisfied with my conversation with the old man, I returned to the doctor's workshop. Spender slept as I opened the door to his room for the first time since he'd arrived. I moved noiselessly past him and settled in a chair next to the bed. He slept fitfully, muttering to his dreams and occasionally sitting straight up. At one point he looked directly at me with a hollow stare before crumpling back onto the thin pillow that barely supported his head. I watched him with mixed horror and remoteness. Hard as I tried I could not suppress the voices that ordered me to see myself in the tortured form of Jeffrey Spender. Remember, Alex? Remember the silo, Alex? Remember Russia, Alex? Remember prison? Remember alleyways? Remember guns? Remember? Remember? Remember? Do you? Of course I remembered. I will always remember. A poetic man would say that all the pain I have seen was burnt into the very depths of my blackened soul. I wouldn't. I don't traffick in souls. I didn't save Spender because I felt bad for him. If he wasn't useful to me I could have walked out of that office without a second thought. The value of human life dropped several points for me the day I learned that survival really is meant for the fittest and the rest can screw. If that makes me a heartless killer, so be it. I'm used to being hated. I don't traffick in souls. "Where am I?" The gravel-voiced question surprised me and I wondered how long he'd watched me there, buried in my own thoughts. A wise man once told me that self-analyzation was a good way to lose the upper hand. "Where am I?" he repeated in the same strained tones. "Somewhere safe," I answered. Slowly and painfully, Spender pulled his thin figure into a sitting position and addressed me with as much venom as he could muster. "Don't bullshit me, Krycek. I've been to hell and back, and back isn't looking as cheerful as hell. I don't know where I am. I don't know when I am. I don't-" "Do you remember what happened to you?" I broke in suddenly. "You've been to hell and back, but where were you before that?" "I..." "Do you remember being shot, Jeff?" He turned away from me sharply and I stood up, circling my prey. "Do you remember who shot you?" His stoic silence answered any question I might have had about his state of mind. "It was like a dream, wasn't it? The old man- your father- standing there. With a gun. You didn't expect him to pull the trigger, did you?" "Shut up," hissed Spender. "What was going through your mind, Jeff? You know what he's like. Did you honestly think that blood ties could keep him from killing?" "Shut UP!" Spender stared forward intently, ignoring me as best he could while I moved closer. It was almost too easy. "He shot you, Jeff. Your father shot you. That is the kind of man he is. He shot you because you realized that. You realized that, Jeff, yet you didn't expect him to kill you? Isn't that right?" My prey squirmed under my words. "Go away." "I'm the only friend you have, Jeffrey Spender," I said, my voice a low whisper. He looked at me, the slightest bit of panic buried behind his eyes. "Remember that." I did not slam the door. -=- I let a full day pass before visiting Spender again. Jeff's strength was returning and he was getting restless. He had started interrogating the doctor, who gave monosyllabic answers that only served to infuriate the young agent. I watched with twisted amusement as he paced the small room, noticing its filthy corners and cobwebs. The good doctor was not big on housekeeping. Spender was sitting on the edge of the bed when I entered. The grey, shapeless clothing that had replaced his bloodstained suit hung limply on his ravaged figure. He turned away to stare at a crack in the wall as I opened the door. "I don't want to talk to you." "Yes you do," I said. "You want answers, and I'm the only one who can give them to you." "I want to leave." I snorted. "Fine. Leave. I'd like to see you walk out of here and survive more than a day," I said. "I saved you, Jeff. Your father shot you and left you bleeding on the floor of your own office. I brought you here and had you restored to life-" "Yeah, you're a regular resurrection man," muttered Spender bitterly. "Do you think I'm stupid, Krycek?" "No." "Then why do you treat me like a child?" he demanded, looking at me for the first time since I had entered. I sighed, annoyed at his sudden belligerence. Still, it was to be expected. I checked my anger and offered a thin smile. "You are a child, Jeff." "You can't be that much older." "I've seen more than you have," I said simply. "Great, so you've got a fucking degree in aliens and the men who love them," he said mockingly. "I didn't know that scored you extra points." "I can help you." "The last time I saw you was in the decontamination facility. You left me there. You said it was all going to hell, and you left me there! What kind of help is that?" "What, so you have abandonment issues?" I said, allowing my temper to rise. "I'm not your babysitter. If you're not a child, you wouldn't need one, right?" "Oh, fuck you!" yelled Spender. "You've got a lot to learn, *kid,*" I sneered. We stared at each other, letting silence equalize the conversation. He lunged at me suddenly, but not suddenly enough. I sidestepped his charge, allowing him to clip my lifeless arm. The unexpected hardness of my false limb stopped the boy in his tracks. He grabbed at it and stared at me in horror. I could feel my eyes glitter as I wrenched the arm from his grasp and sent him toppling back toward the bed. "A *lot* to learn," I repeated dangerously. The gears in his head spun wildly and he tried desperately to collect himself. "Did my father..." "No," I said sharply. "Not directly." He opened his mouth to ask who, but caught himself and sat limply on the edge of the bed. I let my expression soften slightly. "Everyone thinks you're dead, Jeff." "Everyone?" "Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Kersh...your father..." "You've talked to my father?" "Two days ago." "Why?" "I have to maintain my ties with the group, Jeff," I said. "Your father doesn't know that I saved you. He shot you and walked out of that office. I'm not sure who he expected or wanted to find you, but I got there first." "How do I know you aren't working for him?" he asked. I looked at him wordlessly, and he changed tactics. "How do you know you're not doing what he thinks you'll do?" "Practice," I said darkly. "The day you killed that- thing," he began slowly. "You told me my father was a great man. You didn't...you were using me then, weren't you?" "Looks that way," I said calmly. I watched as Spender chewed the situation over, weighing his options and taking stock of his position. Behind door number one was a return to the life that had killed him. Behind door number two was a killer with manipulative instincts and an ulterior motive. Behind door number three was a goat. What's your pleasure, Jeffy? "What do we do now?" he asked, barely keeping a tone of helplessness out of his voice. I smiled, my battle won. "We disappear." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= What say you? Good, bad, overdone, underdone, alreadydoneandsickofit, don't care, like cheese, don't like cheese, when's the season finale, is Mulder dead? Tell me what you liked and what you hated. Have I sniffed too many Sharpies? Should I have CONTINUED that damn hiatus? I *do* have a sequel idea in mind. If "Biogenesis" screws it up I'll just go alternate universe. Nyah. Any and all feedback is taken in and loved at megadee@mindspring.com - even flames are fun. Just try me. (Longest feedback plea I've ever written, that...) Final nod goes to the lovely John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask, whose song stylings kept me entertained and in the proper angsty frame of mind while writing this. Oh, and for a bit of fun, re-read the story in a strict K/Sp slashy mindset. Find the UST. Woo, it's fun! I am not who I am- Meg -- "Hi, cutie..." http://pine-scented.com/snerk/ http://www.mindspring.com/~megadee/lair/