Disclaimer: Alex Krycek does not belong to me, he is Chris Carter's and 1013's. No infringement intended.
Spoiler: "En Ami"
Keywords, Angst, Violence
Archive: Only with written consent of the author; TrekPhile47@hotmail.com
***
No matter what people say, there is no way to stop time. It marches on like a parade into the Universe.
You can't stop people from doing...things. People aren't sheep (despite popular simile); you can't herd them into the subconscious disbelief of the Truth. The Truth is out there and sheeple are bound to find it. Suppressing the quote, unquote Natural Selection of people into the hierarchy of knowledge is impossible. Some learn, some won't. You needn't worry about those who don't know: you worry about those who do, worry about those who are unhappy with their "comfortable" world.
Those who poke out of their cocoon into the unnatural world are a danger. They are a danger and a threat to themselves, to the others in the cocoons and to Nature, who protects the cocoons.
They must be stopped.
***
Here Demona Launce was again, like a sheep out towards the herder, looking at the ominous shears without any way to stop herself. She was about to get everything comfortable ripped from her body and sold at auction.
The airport in Moscow, Russia was like she had stepped into Foreign America. As if there was such a place.
If not, then this place was a freakshow of its hopeless own. The McDonalds, the Pizza Huts, the bookstores, the map shops, the car rental booths despite the Russian scrawl, was highly American. Things had changed a lot since she had left it. "Changed" not being used affectionately.
Her assignment was shady-again. She got a little bit of notes and a ticket. It had been...three months since Demona had come back from England. She had gotten paid, and patted on the back for a job well done, then patted on the head and told to run along.
Run along. There was nowhere to run to, unless Personal Hell counted.
There were so many plusses to being 007/Secret Agent/Rambo-in-a-female-body: gun toting was one of them, incredible sex life was another (though she hadn't had time for any action); but dressing-for-sabotage/success was not. If there were anything she would have changed, she would have just shot kneecaps to keep the cops from running after her instead of having to outsmart them. She needed more physical activities than stratagem that introverted her.
She could barely move in the stiletto heels to go with the blond wig and corseted business suit to make her look slim and Aryan. Damn curves. She appreciated having a busty figure, but having them smashed flat against her ribs was painful and made it difficult to breathe. She fought her way through the crowds viciously, wobbling on her heels and body feeling like it was being smothered by and anaconda.
Custom's Desk was the center for the most ignorant people who ever walked the earth and were allowed to have a job. Demona got stuck with a pimply teenager who kept staring at her chest despite the fact she was cut down two full cup sizes.
She held out her passport: Greta Klaus, German businesswoman. Business in Russia? Business, of course. She smiled broadly to the man working the desk and received a cheeky wink. She wasn't in Russia twenty minutes and she was already charming the natives.
"Do you have anything in your bag that might be illegal?" Maybe if you consider computers, makeup and clothing (though maybe the Sauer could be...nah). They did the whole Customs song-and-dance; each question received a clipped, Russian-with-German-accent response. That seemed to impress the teenager, he got one final look at her chest before he handed back her passport and papers.
The turntable was crowded and all the people fought like animals to get their luggage quicker than everyone else could. If Demona had some breath in her lungs and wasn't so knocked out with Dramamine, she would have wielded her sharp nails in someone's eye. Maybe she should switch to shooting kneecaps.
Her bags occupied a dolly that someone had left unattended mishappenly. She wouldn't have minded using the thing as a makeshift scooter to relieve the pain in her feet that was slowly spreading up to her lower back. What would that look like? She was sure to be apprehended by someone doing that. She thought better of it and moved to rent a car and the hotel she had reservations at.
No one who watches spy movies ever thinks of procuring hotels and rental cars. Usually they just magically appear and the hero gets in, gets the girl and drives into the cardboard sunset. If only that were true: if only Demona didn't have to deal with rentals people and hotel clerks. Really, all she needed to do was show up and give her name; The Syndicate had twisted arms and pushed buttons well enough to get what she needed. And still, she wished that site to site transport was possible.
Vitaly.
The thought hit her out of nowhere and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. She was drawn to the name; she had to know what had happened to him. She wanted to run to him, to fall into his arms, to love him again.
But she had promised.
She couldn't---wouldn't go see him. She had left her past behind her; it was no longer help, it was hindrance.
The hotel was on the edge of a small town on the outskirts of Moscow. It wasn't too dumpy, but it wasn't four-star either. She parked her car in the only remaining spot and took her luggage in with her to the lobby.
"Demona Launce checking in," she said to the woman working the desk. "I have a reservation?"
"Demona Launce...oh, yes, you do. Room 47," she handed Demona a key. "Have a nice stay."
Demona didn't comment back despite the fact that she really wanted to spew how miserable this trip could get. She got into the elevator and sagged against the wall to relive the stabbing pain in her back. Opening the door was also a treat; she nearly fell through it and into the room with the weight of her bags. If she had, she would have just lain there until someone found her and thought she was dead.
Demona's heart nearly stopped when she saw someone sitting on the sofa in the room. He looked at her with flickers of amusement playing across his face. He stood and addressed her, "My, my, Demona. Tell me; do blondes have more fun?"
"Watch your mouth Krycek, or you'll be pulling that glass out of a place you can't easily reach," she said. Demona had to admit that there was a reason why she had to bite her lip every time she saw him: his hair was cut shorter than she had last seen it, close to his head, revealing the scar along his forehead. In his left lobe, a diamond stud sparkled in the Russian sun. His clothes weren't too terribly shabby; he wore form-fitting jeans, black leather boots, a white t-shirt and a black knit sweater. Demona swallowed her emotions and hardened her voice into titanium, "What are you doing in here?"
"Don't worry, I'm house trained," Krycek shot back with snide.
"That's not what I meant," Demona snapped. "What are you doing in my room?"
"Your room. I thought we were sharing," Krycek mock-pouted.
"Did I just hear you correctly?"
Krycek rolled his eyes, disdain clearly soaked through his features, "Let me explain: we have to share because there aren't any other vacancies. I don't know anything other than that."
Demona shrugged any thoughts she had thought of voicing, and glared at him through her green mercury eyes. After receiving nothing in return to further provoke her, she sighed angrily and looked ultimately defeated; it hung her shoulders.
Krycek and Demona stood in silence as they each sized one another up. Krycek still rubbed at his left earlobe---it must have gotten infected---and Demona scratched her head where the wig itched her scalp. Neither of them said anything---neither knew what to say.
Demona looked almost beautiful in her outfit, though it was visible that she was uncomfortable beneath what could only be seen as corset. He thought her chest looked a little...flat; usually he enjoyed the eye candy, but his sweet tooth had been deprived. She met his ogling gaze with one of her own and both looked equally sheepish.
"I'm changing clothes," Demona remarked and picked up her suitcase. The door nearly rattled off its hinges.
Alex stood there like an idiot, watching the door slam shut in his face. He then stared down at his right hand as he absently turned the diamond stud in his ear. He liked the new attachment to his body.
He listened to the water running in the bathroom and could imagine what Demona was doing in there. Washing away the makeup that she had used to cover herself for days, pulling off the blond wig that made her look like some Germanic goddess. Shedding the clothes that hindered her flowing curves...he didn't let himself dwell on that any more than that, God only knew what his body was reflecting of his fantasies.
Demona had this wily way on his mind. It was almost like she was begging him to come and get her, but he always got the mental stiff arm in his chest when he dared approach her. It was too hard for him to deal with his feelings (or no feelings) when it came to Demona. It was easier to let the sleeping love lie.
After he'd returned from London, he just barely managed to make it to his Washington DC apartment after going out and getting himself piss-drunk. He stumbled through the door and passed out, and then woke up about a day later with the mother of all hangovers from his drinking binge (which really was a waste of money seeing as drinks were only good in moderation and completely wasted when he had fun with them). He spent the next week or so calling old haunts, spending the night on people's couches, not willing or wanting to stay in his rathole (no pun intended).
He came back to America and found a necking partner for a night to relieve his sexual frustrations. Acting out on repressed sexual energy was Freudian-but of course, most of America's mentality would have received Freud to be a god. Sometimes, the impersonal sex was so much better than sex with someone (he thought) he was in love with. That was three strikes against his thinking of going for Demona.
Next batter.
The call had come; and he knew it was only a matter of time. Along with his assignment, he'd also received a tongue lashing on how foolish his actions were. He blew them off, as usual. He nearly choked on his own tongue when he found out he was going to be working with Demona again. But after everything that The Syndicate had already done to screw his life up by using Demona, he shouldn't have been surprised.
Spender regarded Krycek still with the same regards as always: dispensable. It wasn't like the Spender thought; they didn't screw in England. But wouldn't Spender have liked that? God only knows how Spender would have used it against him, more of a reason to scorn him. Or perhaps, it was that Spender was jealous of him, which would have made true his first statement he ever uttered of Demona to Spender.
So he was here now, in a hotel room, with Demona in the bathroom, and he could have something to use in a fight against Spender. He had material that could enable him to win.
If only they lived through this.
***
Demona could finally breathe now that the corset lay in a heap in the corner of the bathroom. She had become giddy from near-asphyxiation now that she could take full breaths and she clung to the side of the sink, trying to keep her brain from furling around things she couldn't fathom. She washed the last bit of makeup off of her face, watching as mascara ran down the drain. She couldn't stop thinking about going back to Krycek. They may have reached some sort of agreement when it came to partnership, but there had been nothing abut living with him...even temporarily.
She pulled a shirt over her head and jeans over her hips. She pulled her brown hair back into an old rubber band. She packed up her disguise and opened the door of the bathroom and went into the main room.
It was cramped. There was one bed (king size), a table with three chairs, a TV, a bathroom, an armoire, and a nubby old couch. Krycek sat on the couch, staring out the window, his back to her. Demona chose her steps carefully as she moved to his side. Her small hand touched his shoulder to gain his attention. She gasped and snatched her hand back as he flinched. His eyes were prairies green and wavered in the breezes of his mind.
Uncomfortable silence filled the room, avoiding the only apparent question: who got the bed? They'd burn that bridge when they came to it.
"We leave tonight," Krycek noted. "There is a club that's popular, people like to hit it for the booze and the like. We're hoping that it will be the site for some Oilien transaction."
"I read The Syndicate's folder, but they don't describe Oil all that well."
"Purely a precaution; only the scientists have the hard evidence. You know that it is the conscious life-blood of the Grey Aliens, and has certain...mind-controlling abilities. Before, upon leaving the victim, it caused radiation burns and death. It has adapted to the environment and now it's just trying to get home. As of late, it has gotten out of Syndicate hands by a leak."
"Could that leak be you," Demona asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically. The look was inviting.
Krycek declined the invitation, remembering the feel of getting thrown for a complete loop. "An informant knows that it is in Russia, but declined to say where to save his own life. ...Someone thought it would be great fun to use it as a narcotic and its been laced with drugs; mainly heroin and acid. For them, I suppose it's a cheap high."
"And when it's not laced with drugs?"
"It's hell. If you ever know what it is like to burn alive and then to feel all of your limbs move without your consent and your mind is no longer your own: that it the 'high' of which I am speaking."
Demona looked at Krycek, staring at his darkening features. There was something beneath what Krycek was saying, that indicated absolute fear of the Black Cancer. Was it fear that came with respect and experience? Perhaps. It would take digging and some decent tools to work with, but Demona could understand where perhaps Krycek was coming from.
He continued, unfettered by his obvious discomfort, "The Oilien rapes your mind, it takes you apart, ripping everything you had buried in closets out into the open. It shows you the things that you hated in yourself, and makes you hate yourself more. It cares nothing for your safety or sanity...it only wants to go home."
Demona stood there agape. "It infected you..."
Krycek nodded, "I know what it's like to have everything in your brain ripped completely to pieces; I know what it's like to get my body completely ripped away from me."
"I didn't mean..."
"No," Krycek held up a hand, "if anything, dragging you into this whole thing up here and now was a mistake."
Demona stared at him and shook her head slowly. "And when were you going to tell me? ...The risks don't outweigh getting the Oilien?"
"Of course not, we are sheep to the Syndicate. We are easily expendable. If we die...well, we die."
"Pleasant thought," Demona noted dourly.
Krycek only shrugged, "You obviously didn't read the contract when they signed you on."
Demona just looked at him, painfully silent as she knew the truth.
***
The night was long as Krycek lay awake listening to Demona breathing in her sleep. The last time he'd seen her sleep, she was seemingly healthy, but something must have happened since then. She lay curled up in a fetal ball in one corner of the bed (which she ended up getting because she won the coin toss), her knees hugged as close to her chest as naturally possible.
Krycek sat on the couch, resisting the urge to touch her milky marble face, but there was no reason to kill the serenity. He thought of how much it actually hurt for him to look her in the face. Somehow, it felt like failure to his manhood.
He knew the sour taste of failure, much like the taste of eating shit when he'd royally screwed up. He took a sighing breath and adjusted himself on the couch. The simple fact of it was was that he could not keep his mind off of her, and his heart wrenched in two different directions whenever he looked at her. That hurt---a lot.
Demona murmured something in her sleep that sounded like, "Sweet lopsided Yorkies" and rolled over to catch more Z's.
Failure is not an option.
Spender may have been wrong about that statement in their first assignment, but not now. It didn't take a genius to know how screwed the whole world would be if the Oilien was still being used as a drug and could wander freely. Hell, it was amazing that the damn stuff hadn't multiplied in all the hosts it had been welcomed into.
And he still wondered who'd passed the "fun" on.
He was pretty sure it wasn't him. He'd only had it in him for about two days or so, then it all went into the Grey's ship. He really couldn't tell the truth about it, anyway, he was conked out for the entire ride. It could have been him, or Mulder, or Spender, or.... Hell, it could have been anyone who came in contact with the damn stuff. Krycek didn't know all the answers (despite the fact he claimed to); he didn't know if Oil could choose to lay dormant or not. He didn't know how Oiliens behaved in their unearthly ways.
Damn space rock.
That was stretching places to put the blame on. Really stretching. Krycek wasn't there when the world was being bombarded by planetary fragments, humans were still probably a glimmer in Evolution's flinty little eye, so he couldn't have stood there with a baseball bat, whacking all the little space chunks back where they came from.
The only way things felt better about this whole Oilien mess was to lay the blame on Spender. He was always the proverbial target, never around to atone for himself (though never there to defend himself, either). Spender had left him to die in the missile silo, and hadn't actually handed him his new arm. If anyone, Spender was the scapegoat, too easy to put all the sins of the community on his head and send him out into the minefield.
Krycek shook his head sadly and then settled it on the upholstered wood of the couch, feeling something solidly real against what was his dreamy nightmare.
***
The evening was cool against Demona's bare arms as she walked down the long street at Krycek's side. She saw a prostitute on the corner on the street, working on a cigarette and balancing on her high heels. It was only about four years ago when Demona herself would have been one of the women standing on the corner with her lips too red and her skirt too short. Demona stopped entirely and stared at the child, receiving only a blank, haunting and painful stare back.
"You okay," Krycek asked as his hand cupped her bare arm, leading her away from the street wife.
"Just thought I lost a heel," she lied as she fell into step with him again.
The club was a new techno club that had been inspired by the likes of raves in America. Demona's newly dyed, vibrantly red hair had been unsettling at first, but Krycek liked the way it brought out the green of her eyes. Of course, he didn't say anything about it.
Getting in was easy enough, all Demona had to do was use her womanly wiles and Krycek just hung around like her arm decoration. It was easier than the Homecoming queen on prom night.
"We should split up," Krycek shouted above the din of the roaring techno music. Demona nodded although she wasn't too sure of what she had heard. "If you get information, contact me." She nodded again and moved through the club, and in the crowd, she lost Krycek.
People moved to loud music in a rain of colors from the lights, each trying to forget the problems that they had left at the door. The music blared above the din of the crowds, rattling the furniture at the bar and making the catwalks where people looked down sway and move precariously.
The smell was typical of all the nightclubs: it smelled like people's after-hours activities. She knew the acrid smell of acid and crack, all of which mingled with thick smoke from cigarettes. Pungent alcohol odors added on top of the smell of heavy sweat and cheap perfume. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air, creating a fine mist of mysticism and intrigue.
She moved slowly through the club, choosing her steps carefully. She didn't want to dance, she just wanted to sit at the bar and gain information. Through the corner of her eye, she saw Krycek working his way slowly through the dance crowd with women trailing him like goslings behind their mother. She followed the side of the dance floor to the bar, where a bartender smiled as he scooped a Jell-O shot for an expectant customer with problems written on his features.
There was a man sitting on a barstool next to her with dark eyes and brooding features. He looked like he'd seen his days of drugs, as that his eyes were red and bloodshot. Demona nodded cordially at him and sat on a stool, shifting herself in her tight leather pants. The man next to her stared at her intently.
"I absolutely love this club," she gushed with a throaty voice, "I love the night. This club has the right atmosphere for nighthawks like myself," she attempted. The bartender gave her a complimentary screwdriver, and she stirred it almost lazily with the tip of her finger.
"Really? I haven't seen you around here before: how long have you been here?" His voice was harsh and scratchy, which made him sound like he'd been yelling all night. The way it grated against her unnerved her.
"I actually just came in tonight," she noted with a shrug that covered up her recovery from the folly.
"I'm surprised I haven't seen you before, I never forget a beautiful face," he replied factually as if he was giving notes. She was amazed at how straightforward he was. It looked as though if he had any information, he'd tell it to her willingly.
"Thank you," she replied. She continued sipping at her drink, then decided to chance whatever would come her way: "I don't know about you, but I need a little high. I heard that these people are handing out a black drug. I can't think of what it's called, though."
"You might be talking about Oil. It's a great drug: you inject yourself with it, and a couple of days later, you wake up twenty...maybe fifty miles away from Nowhere."
She could feel her face drain of all its color, "Really?"
"Honest," he said, raising his hand to attest. "But, it is very expensive, the supply is reduced because of the tiny store that was found."
"Damn," she muttered in play and in truth, taking a sip of her drink.
The man looked at her for a moment and then spoke up, "You know, you do look a little familiar: what might your name be? You look like an Elka or a Nina."
Demona winced involuntarily at the name, some grudges were hard to drop, "My name is Yulianna."
"Then maybe I haven't seen you. ...By the way, I'm Ruslan," he replied as smoothly at the beer cupped in his palm looked.
Demona scrutinized him, and then seemed pleased with what she saw, although his demeanor betrayed something about him that he could have been hiding. He seemed too dark and brooding to be at a bar to look for women.
"Shall we dance?" Ruslan took her by the wrist with what was almost force and lead her out onto the dance floor. Demona was forced up against Ruslan's body because of the other people dancing in such a small space. For a song, Demona moved to the same movements that the rest of the crowd was, and she could feel the beads of sweat dripping down the back of her neck and one dripping down her chest. Ruslan seemed to have concentrated on that bead of sweat, and took it as an opportunity. Purposefully, he moved his hands to her waist, to her hips, then to her backside, where he rested his huge palms. Demona shifted uncomfortably, but she didn't vocalize anything.
It was involuntary, but she dipped her hips low to tease him and she could hear the small but definite groan as she did it. He dipped his head low into her neck, biting the flesh as she threw her head back and exposed the delicate flesh for more abuse. The blinding lights of the nightclub nearly added to her intoxication. She could feel Ruslan's hands tracing up her back and then around to her chest....
"Not yet," she noted gently in a moment of hindsight clarity, but led his hands back to her behind in which he seemed satisfied with. For the next to songs, Demona hovered her torso close to his to get him to place male trust in her, with her own discomfort growing inside her like a stormcloud.
As she rested her head on Ruslan's chest for a moment, the corner of her eye caught Krycek skulking around the edges of the crowd looking from her to the different women he toted around on his arm. For some reason, Demona flushed like with the embarrassment that she was acting out of the same reason why she hung out in clubs all those years ago when she had been a whore. Ruslan noticed she had stopped moving, "You know that guy?"
"He's uh...a business partner," Demona admitted.
"Oh? Were you two a thing at one time?"
Demona couldn't help laughing, it was too funny for her to have kept inside. Ruslan looked puzzled at her laughter, so she humored him: "Hell no. He's just...he...we don't get along very well."
"Good enough reason," Ruslan pointed. "Come on, you seem so tense, Yulianna. You should loosen up."
Loosen up? In one brief flash, she realized what she had really wanted from Ruslan: she wanted him to abuse her with his sex, not Oil. She stunned herself. "I..."
"Did I say something," Ruslan asked gently, touching her face tentatively.
"What? Oh, no, Ruslan, you didn't. I'm sorry, I've just been out of it lately," she said. "...So, Ruslan, where might I get Oil?"
"Lots of places. The back alley down here has one or two people who sell it, but that's risky black-market---too many cops are starting to wise up to it. But, you get two miles out of Moscow and people sell it like advice. The biggest guy who sells it works out of a back room here at this club," his fingers flicked at her lips, almost trying to memorize them.
"Who," she asked, ignoring the roughness of his persistent fingers.
Ruslan shrugged, neither indicating nor declining himself.
"I think maybe you should take me to see him," Demona requested.
Ruslan cocked his head and gave her a small, innocent smile. He leaned his head down towards her and she accepted him. His lips were as rough as they had betrayed. Demona couldn't stop him from flicking his tongue into her mouth. It was Isaac all over again; it was everything from her days of prostitution. She moaned and tried to break away from Ruslan, trying to break away from the memories and the possible future. "I can't..."
Ruslan's demeanor changed drastically and he grabbed her wrist and yanked her sharply towards the door of the club, "Come on, Yulianna. You and I are leaving."
"Let go," she insisted and tried to dig her heels into the wax-slicked floor, but her chunky sandals refused to give her any traction. She tried to shake herself out of Ruslan's grip, but it was like a vice, and she could feel her wrist bones being grated against one another harshly, each screaming in protest. "What are you doing," she shouted, but her voice was nothing more that muted tones as the music interfered with her throat and shouldn't hear it. She tried to scream but it caught in her throat.
In a sudden moment, Ruslan became enraged and impatient with her fruitless struggles, his arm wrapped around her midsection and he lifted her from the ground. She screamed out again, but his hand clamped over her face, smothering her nose and mouth. She couldn't breathe, and she felt sick as he squeezed the life out of her.
He dragged her to a small room in the back of the club that was an addition outside the building put up on wooden and concrete stilts. It reeked of dead things and defecation. The music still pounded through the thin walls, making Demona's brain shatter inside her skull. Ruslan closed the door behind them as he dropped her to the ground. When Demona regained her footing, she whirled on him to punch him in the jaw, but he caught her fist effortlessly.
"What are you doing?"
"You said you wanted Oil. I'm going to give you some," he said. He pulled a little vial out of his pocket.
"You're the dealer," Demona realized in another moment of clarity as she tried to pull away, "Let me go!"
"I can't let you get away," Ruslan pointed out demonically. "I need you."
"You're hurting me," she cried out.
"You won't feel a thing soon, Yulianna. Trust me."
"You're going to infect me," she intoned harshly. "Are you going to rape me senseless before or after?"
"It all depends."
"I swear to God: you touch me with that and I'll scream."
"You open your mouth and I swear that you wont have time to scream."
***
Krycek broke away from the woman he was dancing with and turned his head back to where he last saw Demona, but she had disappeared. Whomever she was with was gone, also.
Great, they were on assignment, and Demona had disappeared. He was a little worried that she hadn't alerted him like he had told her to. He began to edge through the people, looking as to where she might have gone.
The thundering music was interfering with his brain; he could barely think when he had to compete with the techno music. He growled angrily and moved to the edge of the crowd.
His eyes caught movement that wasn't customary of a dance crowd. The people moved together in waves, making themselves all looked the same. There were two people who didn't move with the crowd: they moved in a halting, jagged line. He couldn't be sure, but the flash of red hair looked familiar, and so did the man across from it.
He strained against the throngs of people, trying to get a better look. He heard the scream just barely noticeable above the din. Alex then saw the body attached to the scream.
He watched in horrible helpless nightmare as Demona was being dragged off in the arms of a man twice her size. She tried to fight him, but it wasn't working all that well. His hand was clamped over her mouth and he moved with incredible speed as she opened her mouth to scream again.
Alex wasn't large by any means, he didn't have any particular look that could part the masses; but somehow, he had passed through the group of dancing people as if time had stood still. He didn't look back to see if he had knocked anyone over, he didn't have the time. By the way things looked, neither did Demona.
Demona and her friend were gone by the time he got to the door, as he'd figured that they would be. He opened the door gingerly, afraid that the hulk was waiting for him on the other side. The hall was empty. "Demona," he called out in a voice that nearly broke on worry. He wasn't too sure if Demona could get out of the mess that she had gotten herself into, but it was very likely that she couldn't have heard him anyway. Even though the ground shook beneath him, ready to give way, but he pounded down it anyway at breakneck speed, his boots barely able to clink to the worn wood.
The long hallway took a twist that led to a door. The door was shut and locked.
It didn't take a genius to figure out this plot twist. Krycek reached for his gun, pulling "Old Betsy" out of the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket. The cold metal stuck to his hot and sweaty skin. Calming his heart gave him the seconds he needed to clear out his mind.
He was so dead if The Syndicate found out Demona was killed because he'd let it happen.
He pressed his ear to the door, listening to the words inside. The club music interfered, but her could get snippets. "...You won't have time to scream."
As Krycek went to kick in the door, he heard Demona make one last cry to perhaps make her presence known. It was strangled and shut of sharply.
The door gave way with only a single viscous kick. It flew away from Krycek where the doorknob lodged into the plaster wall.
The man who was with Demona looked ultimately shocked, but still kept a grip on Demona's neck, "You come near her, man, and I'll kill her. All I have to do is squeeze." Demona's eyes were starting to grow as cloudy as a corpse's, and her fingers worked diligently, trying to pry Ruslan's away from her throat.
"You want to compete with the gun," Krycek asked, leveling the barrel at Ruslan's chest. "Put her down and nothing bad is going to happen to you."
Ruslan seemed to understand the way Krycek was thinking-and second-guessed him, "I got it figured, man: I knew someone was going to be coming for my operation. I knew the way this one looked at you: you two worked for each other, the 'American sting'. I'm not going out this way, this is the best power I have ever known."
"I'm not here to step on your glory," Krycek replied with a pitying voice he had learned in the FBI (sometimes his past did come in handy), "just leave Demona out of it."
"Demona? That's this bitch's real name? Not a very good fake name, Yulianna."
Demona's eyes fluttered shut either in pain or in realization of stupidity. "Demona, stay awake," Krycek ordered.
"Krycek," she choked, "he's...got...the...Oil---" her voice was cut off as Ruslan jerked his fist closed and then open again. Demona went into a fit of coughing and her fingers were involuntarily persistent in trying to free herself.
Krycek nodded slowly and inched forward slowly on the balls of his feet, "I don't care about the Oil, man. Just give me back my partner."
"I can't do that," Ruslan said quietly, "I need a guinea pig: I can't get them all that easily anymore."
"What did you put in the Oil this time?"
"Nothing: this is pure," Ruslan said, holding the vial in between his thumb and forefinger. "In the beginning, I laced it with cocaine to take the 'edge' off. I won't test it pure; I'm not screwing myself over like that."
"If you don't put her down, I will shoot you," Krycek affirmed.
"Who are you? The goddamned cops?"
"You could say that," Krycek admitted. "Demona, you still with me?"
She choked back in reply.
"I'll kill her, I swear to God," Ruslan held the vial above her head and the knuckles of his other hand whitened in anticipation.
"You won't," Krycek assured him. As he moved closer surreptitiously, the floor creaked beneath him heavily.
Ruslan's eyes shot open in anger and as he went to break Demona's neck. Krycek didn't even think as he fired the gun into Ruslan. It packed a pretty powerful punch, and he could feel the kickback in his hand. Ruslan's chest puckered with blood and his fist released its hold on Demona's throat. She fell to the floor and tried to take deep breaths, but she slipped into unconsciousness.
Ruslan made a final attempt on Alex, lunging at him even through his blood and pain. Krycek didn't have time to think, much less pull the trigger again. Ruslan jumped on him, pulling into him into a deadly embrace. Alex could feel the gunshot as someone fired the gun. He couldn't have been sure as to whom: Ruslan hand wrapped his hand around Krycek's. He could only feel the pain as the gun kicked back into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. They both fell to the floor---
And through it.
The whole floor collapsed beneath all three of them, not able to support their fracas. Krycek felt the stars as he and the heavy corpse hit the ground of the alley. The crates that splintered beneath him cushioned his fall (sort of), and he lay on the ground, temporarily stunned and bleeding from the nose Ruslan had got a good hit on before he died. The crates splintered edges dug sharply into his back, poking through the meat of his ribs, even through the new leather jacket. The beer cans in the crates supported his bleeding head.
Demona regained consciousness only to feel the floor collapse beneath her, and then the air that rushed up against her. She hit the floor face first and felt like her chest had collapsed. She couldn't breathe, and she wished desperately that she was unconscious, but she couldn't be so lucky. The liquid beneath her was warm, and she figured that she was bleeding. Weakly, she raised her head and looked at the puddles that were beneath her and covered her clothing. She brought some of the liquid close to her nose and sniffed it. It had no odor, so it couldn't have been blood, but it was too dark for her to discern exactly what it was.
Krycek shook his head as he regained consciousness slowly. His stomach hurt, although her felt around with his fingers and affirmed that he hadn't been shot like he'd supposed. He felt the oil that pooled gently on his face, kissing as his scratches: he flicked it away and sat up. He stared at Demona, who was looking extremely perplexed as she watched the puddle of oil swell and contrast on her fingertips, but she couldn't do anything. Oh shit, Krycek screamed in his head, he kept the Oil here!
"Get up! Get it off you! Get away from it!" he shouted and struggled to stand. His sprained ankle and wrenched hip prevented him from doing anything as he watched Demona from only a few feet away.
Demona watched with growing horror as the Oil moved up her arm and into a cut from the fall, disappearing slowly beneath her goosefleshed skin. She suddenly felt the searing pain as more of the Oil slid into her. She couldn't refrain as she let tears of white agony flow down her face.
She shook her arms to rid herself of the Oil without half of her brain functioning as her own, but it clung to her with vengeance. Worms of Oil slimed through her muscles, passing through her body freely and black clouded her vision. Trails of black tears flowed out of her eyes, but then back into her mouth. He mind slowly slid out of her grasp.
Krycek could only stare in trepidation as Demona's body limped to the floor and her head stared up at the ceiling, her jaw slacked and her eyes staring sightless above her. Krycek managed his pain and tripped over to Demona, pulling her weight and the massing Oil's. Angry liquid swirled over her eyes and stared at him with anger and hatred that he dared steal their victim away.
Demona's eyes began to flutter wildly and her breathing was hitching and sucking. All of her muscles spasmed and she twitched violently, her hand clamped around Krycek's nearly breaking the fingers. Her breathing then slowed and she let go of him, Krycek sighed with relief. Then, along with her breathing, her heart stopped.
It was an automated fear-response: he began chest compressions with sore arms and covered her lips with his and breathed life into her lungs, not even thinking of his own pain. He would have enjoyed himself thoroughly, but of course, his partner was dying. Oil slick laced her mouth and cowered away from his. She could have accidentally inhaled; maybe that was why she had stopped breathing, but more likely her heart attack did it.
Krycek's breath caught in Demona's throat and her chest heaved by itself for breath and Oil spewed into him. He paused and wiped the Oil that clung to his face with disgust, the strings of oil clinging to his face like saliva. He tilted Demona upwards as she began to vomit not only Oil, but also her previous stomach contents including what smelled like vodka and citrus.
Demona's chest continued to undulate as she took deep hitching, sucking breaths, trying to breathe on her own, and battle with the wills of the Oil to take over her body functions. Krycek forced his fingers down her swollen throat again to get the rest of it out of her. She'd be in serious pain later, but she'd live...he hoped. He wiped stings of saliva, blood and Oil from her mouth, the blood mostly likely from her stretched larynx.
Krycek cursed and fumbled in his pockets, searching for the antidote that he always carried as unnecessary insurance. He had no certains it would work for Demona---the Oilien could have had time to strengthen itself into immunity. Demona's skin already began blistering with an allergic reaction to the Black Cancer.
He found the vial of antidote, still fresh and pristine and twisted off the lid. His broken hands fumbled with the lid, and he cursed as they refused to obey. He forced open Demona's locked jaw and drained the liquid in her mouth. He couldn't believe that her constricted throat would allow her to swallow it, but he stroked her throat, encouraging her to swallow.
Nothing.
"Dammit!" he screamed at her near-lifeless body. They'll never forgive me. The Syndicate will never forgive me if she dies. I could never forgive myself. "Don't do this to me! Don't you dare!"
Krycek forced his fingers in her mouth again, but there was only saliva this time.
Demona's skin still blistered angry red blotches. She moaned out loud in pain at Oil trying to rip her from her own consciousness and into its own.
Krycek was about to administer a second dosing of antidote, but as if it had suddenly decided Demona was a poor host, the Oil began backtracking at lightning speed, coursing out of Demona's body. Her eyes shot open and she bolted upright, reaching out blindly.
"Oh my God, Demona," he said, catching her in his arms, "can you breathe?"
Demona took a breath that ended quickly in tears, "It hurts..."
"Come on, Demona, you can," Krycek encouraged. "Do it!"
Her fingers gripped his hand with incredible strength as she felt the pain sear in her body. She couldn't help but pull Krycek close to her, to feel someone else. She shook with fear as she began to cry, clinging to Krycek and sobbing into his shoulder. Her tears wet his cheek and he wanted only to hold her and to ease away her pain at that moment.
"It'll be okay," Krycek assured. "Breathe, Demona. I need you to calm down and breathe for me."
"It hurts so much," Demona rasped.
"It's going to hurt for a while," Krycek said. Her knee was beginning to swell against her leather pants, and he knew there was no way that she was going to be able to walk on her own. He cut a lateral slice into her pants with his pocketknife, against her protests, to relieve the pressure somewhat. He bit back his own pain and lifted her from the ground, adjusting her gently in his arms.
"What are you doing," she asked weakly.
"There's no way I'm letting you walk anywhere," he insisted.
"You're hurt..."
"I'll live. You were the one who just suffered a heart attack," he replied.
Demona said nothing in reply; she was too weak to protest anymore. She was too weak to fight whatever she had been feeling for Krycek. She just needed to let someone else take all the burdens off of her shoulders. She sighed and rested her head against Krycek's chest, lulled into blessed unconsciousness against his warmth.
Krycek looked down at her and he could feel his feelings for her flicker more than just a little spark. He had to protect her; she needed him now.
He needed her.
***
The hotel room door swung open and Krycek carried the unconscious Demona through the threshold. His arms ached, but Demona was so light it was like he was carrying a sack of wet feathers. He placed her on the bed gently, for a few moments watching her as she slept through some of her pain. He had to wake her up to make sure she wasn't dying.
"Demona," he said, coaxing her with a gentle hand. Her eyebrows knitted together like she was fighting sleep, but she didn't wake up. Again, Krycek cupped her face in his hand and gently stroked her skin, "Demona, wake up."
"Mmm, Krycek?" She struggled to sit up, but her body had other ideas. "Where are we?" her voice was harsh and scratchy because of her strangulation.
"Back in the hotel room," he replied, moving his hand back to his side. "Can you remember anything?"
"Everything, unfortunately," she groaned, putting her hand to her forehead, where she touched the dried blood. "My throat hurts," she grogged.
Krycek leaned over her carefully and examined her neck. Ruslan's handprint was bruised into her neck; each blood vessel was clearly blackened against her skin. He got a look into her eyes and noticed some of the vessels were also broken there. God, she was going to look like hell for the next few days. He got some aspirin from his bag and ground it into a powder into a cup of water. He held it to Demona's lips as she swallowed it painfully and slowly, then wiped away the rivulet that trailed down her chin. Her emerald eyes stared at him with neither accusation nor acceptance.
"Thank you," she rasped at long last, "for saving my life."
"I just repaid a debt," he admitted, "from London."
"As if someone's life were a debt," she replied, cutting it off because of the pain.
"Shh," he replied, "it's better if you don't speak for a while."
She nodded slowly and lay back, looking as pale as a ghost on a deathbed. She looked down at her swollen knee and touched it gingerly. "You ripped my pants, Krycek: these things were expensive. ...I'm going to need some ice," she noted, ignoring his warning and her former statement.
"The ice from earlier still hasn't melted," he said as he wrapped the clump into a bath towel. He wrapped it around her swollen joint delicately as she winced horribly at the pain. "I think it's dislocated."
"Urk," she whispered.
"You know, I have to set it," he admitted.
She nodded to him through her pain; "Do what you have to."
Krycek moved to the edge of the bed and grasped her ankle with one hand, her tiny ankle fitting snugly in the wrap of his palm. As he adjusted his grip on it and looked at Demona's face; she stared at the ceiling; her teeth ground together into nearly molten steel. He leaned forward and addressed her, "Grab the headboard."
Demona's face paled as she realized he was going to go through with popping her knee back into the socket. She raised her arms above her head, grasping the headboard with her both hands. Her knuckles whitened as she waited for the pain.
"I'm going to do this on three. One...two...three," he yanked sharp and hard on her ankle and listened to her screaming as the pain ripped through her entire body. He bit his lip as he shifted and moved her knee back into the socket, listening to the joints screaming and seeing the tears lining her eyes while pressed her palm to her face.
"It's okay now, Demona," Krycek said. "It's set."
"I wish I had died," she moaned through her swollen larynx. "...I think I can place you on the 'Occupational Hazard' line on my life insurance quote."
"Can I ask you something," he asked gently as he inched back to sitting next to her.
"What," she replied.
"If that guy wasn't the Oilien dealer, and just horny, would you and he...?"
"No," she replied with a force that startled him. "Never. Never again." The pain of her past resurfaced anew and she wiped away the tears from her eyes.
"Again?" Krycek wondered.
Demona just shook her head, "Its such a long story, Krycek. I can't even begin to explain it, but I'm sure you can put two and to together."
Krycek nodded gently. "Go to sleep, Demona. It's been a long, long day. I'm sure we both want to forget it."
"Some things you can't forget, Krycek. Unfortunately, I have a long, long list of them. Please, Krycek, stay with me."
"I'm here now."
"No, Krycek, I need you here," she motioned to the space on the bed next to her.
Krycek leaned over and touched her face tenderly, unafraid, "I can't, Demona. I'm sorry."
Demona shook her head, "You can, and you must. ...For me."
"I won't let you let me take advantage of you when you are this weak," he insisted. "You're suffering, and I refuse to add to it."
"Krycek, I know what I am saying," Demona replied. "I need someone tonight: not to sleep with. I just need someone to touch again."
"Like that guy at the club?"
"Ruslan?"
"Yeah, Ruslan," he replied. "I gather you let him go far before he hijacked you."
Demona swallowed and turned her head away, "I don't think you would understand, Krycek."
"I'm not as dumb as you'd like to think. I have seen quite a lot," he said and yet he could not argue with her anymore. He moved up to the other side of the bed next to her. He stripped himself of his icy jacket and shed it onto the floor next to the bed. He sat nest to where she lay, and gathered her into his arms. She turned her head and looked at him demurely, almost frightened, not used to having him this close to her.
She turned her whole body and hugged herself to him, feeling his warmth. He rested his chin on the top of her head for a moment and then looked into her face. His hand gently touched her, allowing himself the brief feeling of her soft skin, enjoying the fact that he didn't feel like he was imposing on her. He took his hand from her face and trailed it down through her hair, stroking the silky softness. She took his hand and held it to her face longer, allowing a tear to slide down it and onto the tips of his fingers.
"Don't cry," he ordered in a whisper.
"If you could only know," Demona sniffed.
"I loved him," was a drowsy statement against his collarbone. "I should have went to have seen him."
"Seen who?"
"My father."
"Your father?"
"No, my lover, my mentor, my bother," she murmured. For a minute, Krycek though she had passed out, but she sighed against him and blinked. Her soft lashes tickled his skin.
"You don't have to hate me anymore," Krycek confided. He leaned forward gently to whisper into her ear, but the touch of her lips on his was like silk on steel. He was surprised at himself, and moved back from her.
Demona's hand came to the back of his head and held his mouth against hers, taking him into her. Krycek took that moment to reciprocate, allowing himself the forbidden passion that he had wanted for so long.
"Please, Demona" he asked again, "don't hate me anymore."
"I don't hate you, Krycek; I haven't for such a long time," she replied against him, her voice muffled in his chest. "I just...don't feel like we could trust each other."
"Perhaps," he admitted. It looked like the batter was getting a free swing.
***
The next morning, Demona woke with the first rays of light hitting her face. She swallowed what tasted like blood and felt the heavy weight in the bed next to her as it rolled closer to her. "Shit."
"Thanks," Krycek replied as he sat up. "I thought you wanted me to stay with you."
"I did," she rasped, her throat still hurting. "That's not it."
"It's not?" There was relief in his throat as thick as syrup, he nearly choked on it.
"We didn't get the Oil."
"I know," he replied.
"We failed."
"I know." More deadpan.
"Thank you for the vote of confidence," she said as she tested her weight on her knee. The pain was present, though not as bad. The pain in her throat was almost worse. She had definitely seen better days. She hobbled to and fro as she went through everything that had happened. "We failed The Syndicate, Krycek. Do you know what that means?"
"You must have been the brown-noser when you were at school, weren't you," Krycek asked with a casual smile from the bed where he still laid. He had worn his clothes through the entire night, and he looked like he wanted to sleep without being semi-crushed by her weight.
She refused to reply to his comment about school: if only he knew what school had been: being completely ignored and note cared about; busywork finished with a perfunctory mentality. Hardly brown-nose-able material.
"Don't look so hurt," he dodged his folly.
"How can you be so unconcerned about this," she asked, pulling a t-shirt over her head. Krycek's eyes leveled themselves to her face as his cheeks reddened.
"How can you think I'm not?"
"I don't know, it may have been the fact that you are joking with me about it," she snapped angrily. She wished she hadn't, her head reeled angrily with the pain in her throat, which constricted with more blood.
"Listen, I told you about Oil, Demona," Krycek's voice was deadly serious, "if the Oiliens wander freely, chances are, it will gain the upper hand. Now, whereas we can't let that happen, we can't do any more good in our condition."
"What about our condition?"
"The fact that you are barely walking should have been the first clue, the second should have been the fact that you look like the Living Dead."
"And you? What prevents you from not completing our job?" She was gasping for breath, at the exhaustion but she couldn't have been sure if he heard her.
"Emotional detachment," he replied with flip nonchalance.
"That sounds like a Union excuse."
"Let's just say that Spender and I haven't been seeing eye-to-eye for the past five years," Krycek responded and his eyes lowered.
"And leaving will kill you," she nodded.
"Correct. I figure the only reason why Spender keeps me around is because I won't die," he smiled wanly. "He's tried my life so many times, it's nearly impossible to count; and he makes sure that I am so far down the food chain that even the scavengers won't pick at my bones."
"And you put up with it?"
"As you said yourself, if I leave I die. ...I figure the only way I do get out of this mess is by getting killed."
"Catch-22," she agreed. "So what do we do?"
"I figure the only thing that we can do is know when to quit," he said. "I'm sure Spender has others. He employs methods in increments. Usually the expendable and blind go first, and then he uses methods that actually work."
"Nice strategy," she replied. "Sick population control."
"Not even that, Demona: its homicide, pure and simple."
"And me? I was infected with the Oil? What happened?"
"I can't figure that one out, really," he admitted, scratching at the stubble carpeting his face. "Nearest I can tell is an allergic reaction: anaphylactic shock, leading into a heart attack. It's happened before."
"Does this mean that every time that I am infected, I will get a heart attack?"
"Wait a minute: you are jumping ahead of yourself. First, I don't think we'll run into the Oilien any time soon: I killed Ruslan and he was the biggest dealer in Moscow. Second, The Syndicate created a antidote to the Oiliens, which counter-acted the Oiliens by forcing the body to create alien antibodies faster than anything your body could normally produce."
"So I am immune," she wasn't convinced. She didn't seem to show any reaction to Krycek killing Ruslan.
"As near as I can tell, if you ever run into it again, you should be fine," he lied. He wasn't a scientist, he couldn't be sure of anything. But even a scientist couldn't be sure about it: alien science was on a whole different ball field than human science. It was a wonder that humans were even worth the Grey's while: why they would come back and use the human race for even slaves was beyond his comprehension.
It was a low opinion of his species, but Alex Krycek was never one to call himself an optimist.
"You killed Ruslan?"
"He would have killed you."
She sighed and blinked slowly. "What about his body?"
"Chances are, if it is ever found, no one will be able to pin it on us."
"You promise," she smiled innocently.
"I swear."
"...I understand what you meant when you were talking about a hell, Krycek. You're right, though when you noted that I had no idea what I was signing into when I entered The Syndicate."
"If you want to know the truth, Demona, I didn't either. I suppose this is the universal proof of why someone should do research."
There is nothing left for us here," Demona said softly. "We have to go."
Alex couldn't have agreed more.
-End-