5/3/99
Do What We Can
(Playing in the Attic II)
Author- Araxdelan (krycekluvsmulder@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer- Chris Carter owns them, but I'll always think of them as my boys.
Rating- R
Series/Sequel- This is the sequel to "Playing in the Attic". You won't 
understand this one unless you read that one.
Summary- The past comes knocking on Mulder's door. Well... picking at his 
locks...
Notes- This is for Lissa, because she asked :o)


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	The search for Krycek isn't going well. The days grow colder, and
my questions pile up, unanswered. Scully has noticed the change in me. Ever
since the day in the attic, ever since the photos, I've been very
melancholy, very snappish. 

	I've added another search to my journey. I want to find Alex Krycek,
and I want to find out what happened to Skippy. But, it seems that just as I
find need to see Krycek the most, he disappears. It's as though he can only
pop up at the most inconvenient of times.

	He wasn't like that as a child. Back then, he'd always seem to know
just when I needed him the most. When my parents we're fighting, when my
dad was drinking, he'd be at the front door, knocking, or be at my window,
throwing stones. He'd always come, soothing the pain, helping me forget
with a joke or kind words. Or, at the worst of times, when words became
inappropriate, just a kind smile.

	The only time I can recall that he didn't show up would be right
after Samantha's abduction. With what I know now, I suspect that his father
kept him away. Another question is raised by that; how much was he told? Did
he know who was responsible for her abduction? He never liked my father,
even before that, but I can almost swear that his hostility became even more
thinly veiled after her abduction. But that could be just because my father
started treating me even worse.

	I've been thinking about this all evening. I made a call to The Lone
Gunmen, who are helping me search for him. They came up with nothing, once
again. Told me that maybe it was time for me to give up.

	And now it's two-thirty in the morning, and I don't think I'll be
sleeping anytime soon. My thoughts have been tossing and turning in my
head, as I did on my couch, and about half an hour ago, I gave up on the
whole concept of sleep. Now I'm sitting here, in the dark, eating a cherry ice
and watching PBS. I let the information pierce the veil of Krycek thoughts,
let my brain absorb facts about the sea creatures of Europe. I'm fucking
pathetic. Sunk to a new low.

	There isn't even anything good on TV. I *could* watch one of my
videos, but I just don't feel like it tonight. I turned to PBS for
something soothing... "Mystery!" or "Masterpiece Theater"; something with
lot's of soft-voiced British people in it. I don't know if it has anything
to do with the fact that all my professors were British, but hearing
someone with an English accent speak always puts me to sleep.

	I sigh. Instead of something entertaining or interesting, this is
on. Fish. Not even brightly colored, tropical fish. Boring fish. At least
my ice cream is good. But I feel ridiculous eating ice cream in the middle
of winter. 

	I finish it up, and throw the spoon and the container onto the
coffee table. As I make the unexpected movement, I hear a sound. A small,
shifting creak.

	Could it be him? 

	Maybe, but it's unlikely. Probably a burglar or...

	He steps out, into my field of vision, just managing to avoid being
in the pool of light that's emanating from the lamp.

	I look him up and down. Black leather, dark shirt, black jeans; his
uniform. Short hair, but not ridiculously short. His face shaven, for once.
No new scars. No visible ones, anyway.

	And me? Ratty T-shirt, boxer shorts, messy, unwashed bed hair, and
red lips and teeth from the cherry ice. 

	Definitely not as put together as him. Suddenly, I feel a bit
embarrassed. Which is ridiculous, because I know that he's seen me at my
worst. Dirty, foul smelling, and half-dead in a Tunguskan prison, for gosh
sakes! But now, he's not just Alex Krycek; traitor. He's also Skippy; my
dear old friend. And suddenly I feel as if I should have fixed myself up
for this meeting.

	But I suppose I didn't get a lot of notice on it, did I?

	I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Should have kept alert, waiting
for him to show up like this.

	He's just standing there, and we're staring at one another.

	"So," I ask, "What brings you here, breaking in?"

	When in doubt, confused about a person's identify, and irrationally
nervous, start sarcastic verbal sparring.

	 But he's not falling for it this time. His voice is serious as he
says, "I heard that you were looking for me, Mulder. I thought I'd make
things easier for you. The real question is, *why* are you looking for me?"

	Should I tell him the truth? That *is* why I was looking for him.
But, now that he's here, I'm losing my nerve.

	"I don't know, Skippy. Why do you think I'm looking for you?"

	He's silent for a moment, but I can't see his face, can't gauge his
reaction. 

	"So, you've finally remembered."

	His voice is even, cool. No clue as to his feelings. Still in the
shadows, I can't read his eyes, search for any remnants of the boy I once
knew. Once loved. I fucking *hate* the way he skulks around in the
shadows!

	I jump up from the couch, and pull him forward, into the light. The
skin of his arm is hidden under the omni-present leather jacket, but I feel
the heat radiating up from it. I drop it, and look into his eyes. I see
surprise, but I think that has more to do with my pulling him towards the
lamp.

	He silently questions me, and I decide to answer. "I couldn't see
you." I tell him.

	He smiles, and shakes his head. The look is so familiar, it makes
me want to cry, or grab him into a hug or...

	And he must see this look on my face, because he says, "Fox..." 
softly, and reaches out towards me.

	Blank. I'm blank. No fear or enthusiasm or anticipation of any kind,
and I know that I'm more confused about this than I originally thought.

	When his arms encircle me, his warmth, I remember. I remember
everything he was to me. And how I felt about him...

	My arms come up, and I hold him. I loved him once... I did. And
that love... maybe enough of it still exists that I can accept the fact
that he chose the wrong path, or maybe enough exists that I can just listen
to him explain *why*...

	And maybe I'd just like to hear why anyway, just out of curiosity.

	I draw back, willing to listen. And I look into his eyes.

	And I see the warmth and kindness I once knew. The boy I knew still
exists. 

	I just have to find a way to draw him out. If I can, we could join
together and make a team that no one could beat. Those aliens wouldn't even
stand a chance, and The Consortium would be on their knees.

	I bury my face into his neck, and let one word escape me. "Why?"

	He makes a shuddering motion, maybe a sob. "For the same reason as
you."

	"Huh?" I draw back, and look at him, confused. He just sighs, and
takes a seat on the couch. I sit down as well.

	"Mulder, would you say your life has been shaped by the events of
your past?"

	"Definately."

	"And not just because of what happened to Sam. There were a lot of
other factors you didn't know about, right?"

	Sam. He called her Sam. It's so odd to hear it coming out of him.
The adult him. "Yeah. Yeah there was a whole lot of stuff I wasn't aware of."

	"Our lives were shaped by who our fathers were, Mulder. I know that
it doesn't absolve me of guilt, but you can understand how little choice I
had in the whole matter, can't you?"

	And, suddenly, I'm enraged. Not at him, he's right about the
inevitability in our lives. No, I'm mad at *them*. For playing God, for
fucking with our lives. For making me hate this man, and then sending him
back to me tonight, looking as lost and forlorn as he did all those years
ago.

	"They've ruined us both, haven't they?" I ask slowly, looking up
from my reprieve.

	"Yeah. All the could-have-been's..." and I instantly know which
could-have-been he's talking about.

	"We have to get them back. Not just for us, but for all the other
lives their trying to destroy with their little 'plan'."

	"We?"

	I reach over, touch his hand softly. "Yes. We. If we come to an
understanding first."

	"What kind of understanding?"

	I exhale slowly, gathering my thoughts. "In the past few years,
there's been a lot of bad blood between us, a lot of things we both probably
wish never happened..."

	"And I'm sorry..."

	"That doesn't change things. You must have known it was me. How
could you?"

	He turns his face from me, and speaks softly. "I didn't want to, but
they kept telling me it was for your own good. 'Don't let him up on Skyland
Mountain, or we'll take him too' or 'Mr. Mulder will kill his son if he's
not taken care of'. What was I supposed to do when they kept insisting that
everything I was doing was keeping you from some greater harm? I have no
doubt in my mind that if you ever did get too close, that they'd eliminate
you."

	Ahhh... what a horrible mess. If I'm to believe him (and really I
have no reason not to) then it was all for me. I'm sure there were other
tasks that he performed for them, but the ones that matter the most, he says
they were for me.

	"I... I think I can accept that."

	He turns back towards me, his face lightened a bit. "Are you sure?"

	"Yes." And I mean it too.

	He smiles at me, a smile so suddenly familiar, it aches.

	But, in a moment, the smile is gone, replaced by a frown. He checks
his watch, and the frown deepens, creasing his brow. I have the sudden urge
to lean over and smooth the ridge above his nose. Before I can, he says, "I
have to go. It's not safe for me to be here, and I only meant to stay for a
few minutes."

	He rises, and I follow him up, and walk him to the door. We reach
it, and stand awkwardly, trying to formulate proper good-byes after all that
has changed since our hellos. The light from the hall streams in, above our
head, dimly lighting the area around us. It just increases the feeling of
repeated history. That summer night, on the porch, not quite knowing how to
part...

	He looks straight at me, and opens his mouth to speak. Before he
can, I lean in, and kiss his right cheek. There's stubble and the taste of
his skin upon my lips before I move to the side, taking his lips in the
kiss he never had the courage to give. Not that long ago summer, not that
night when he threw me on the floor and told me the tale of the rebel.

	When our lips touch, he gasps, and I let my tongue roam into his
open mouth. Within a moment, his shock wears off, and I feel his arm come
up around me, feel him actively joining in the kiss.

	We kiss for some time, and then break away, gasping for breath. When
he is able to speak again, he looks at me warmly, and says, "I still have to
leave, you know."

	I smile, and kiss him gently. "I know. Goodbye."

	"Goodbye Mulder."

	And, with that, he slips from my embrace, and exits through the
door. Out into a dangerous world. Out, away from me. 

	And suddenly I'm very lonely, and rather cold.



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   The
   End
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