Neutral Ground By Janus (janus@unbounded.com) 5/99 RATING: R for language and some m/m interaction. DISCLAIMERS: Chris Carter, et al. own Fox Mulder. They may think they own Alex Krycek, but I suspect they're in for a nasty surprise. No infringement intended. SPOILERS: Most Krycek episodes to Season Six. ARCHIVE: A.S.S. only SUMMARY: Alex dreams about what could have been. . . . AUTHOR'S NOTE: Originally posted for a "What would Krycek dream? challenge on one of the lists. This can be considered an interlude after "Belyore More," but stands alone. * * * "A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." --Oscar Wilde In the dream, I'm always walking along the River Aare on my way to the Nelson Pub. I can see the Matterhorn's white peak glistening in the distance. My chest expands in Bern's clean air, and I almost forget the ridiculous amount of money stashed in my Swiss bank account. Of course, every triple agent worth his stuff has a Swiss bank account, and one on Isle of Man or Ireland or Andorra, just to be safe. Except that I fell in love with the Switzerland and bought a flat in Bern, registered in a suitably diplomatic name by Marita, when we were still . . . talking to each other. A chic cul-de-sac in the Old Town, off the Rathausgasse. I had a sense of humour back then. I also thought it would be a good place to hide out when it all went to hell. That was before I found myself hosting a galactic oil slick on the lam. E.T. phone home, my ass. They want this planet, and they want it bad. There'll be no neutral ground when it all goes down, and if someone doesn't stop them, even those Alpine glaciers will ooze black. So now I only return to Bern in my dreams. But last night the dream was different. I was walking along the River Aare as usual, admiring the medieval buildings stacked along its banks. The old clock tower started chiming, signalling four minutes before the hour. I turned toward the Spitalgasse, heading for some decent beer. Fuck, how I hated the swill I had to guzzle in the States. Special Agent Alex Krycek only drank Miller Light. Four minutes to noon and nowhere to go. The old shops are now designer cafes. I wander toward the pub, enjoying the sound of French and German, the smell of fresh-baked bread, the tolling of the clock tower. The offbeat chimes form a pattern and I count the hour with them. One, two, three . . . twelve noon, plus one. Thirteen o'clock? Then I realise that I'm dreaming. I turn slowly on the cobblestone street to face him, for I know he will be there. I've always dreamed of bringing him here, and I've always been able to direct my dreams. I control the vertical, I control the horizontal. Just like I control the Consortium, even if they don't know it yet. "Mulder," I say softly. "Have a beer with me?" "Hey, Krycek, what're doing here?" he asks. "I live here sometimes, you know . . . neutral ground." He nods. "Yeah, that's why I came here, too." We spend the afternoon sampling the local microbrews and discussing cases like old buddies. He's dressed like a university student in faded jeans and a faded blue Oxford sweatshirt. And we're both young, so very young, like none of it ever happened. "Hey, I've got a place near here," I tell him. "Want to come over? I'll give you a tour of the Old Town on the way." I slap several Swiss francs on the bar . . . with my left hand. I still vaguely recall that I'm dreaming, but this is so good I decide to forget. We wander through the narrow streets. I take a detour and show Mulder the Munster tower. We study the relief of the Last Judgement above its entrance before climbing to the top. We're winded by the time get there, but the view is fucking unbelievable. The pink rooftops of Bern roll endlessly into the misty Alpine peaks. "This is what we're fighting for, Mulder," I say breathlessly. "What the hell are you talking about, Krycek?" Why would I fight for a country that calls itself neutral, yet harboured Nazi money?" I close my eyes and rub my forehead. Then I remember. Mulder's the only one I can't control. I can't believe he's completely missed the point. He'll never understand my motivations, yet I'm closer to his fucking truth than he'll ever be. I want us back at my place... And suddenly we're there. I'm turning the key and letting him inside. He's staring at the wood-beamed ceiling, the leather-bound books, and the green velvet drapes pulled back to expose a view of the ancient alley. I walk up close behind him. "We could have this together," I whisper to him. "We almost had it when we were partners." He leans into me. "We almost had something," he agrees. I lead him toward the canopied bed. The setting sun leaves a patch of gold on the dark wood floor. It moves slowly towards us. I place Mulder in the center of its warmth and pull off his sweatshirt. The patch of gold rests upon his chest and I lean forward to trace its outlines with my tongue. His breath catches. The hairs of his chest gleam bronze and I tug lightly at them with my lips, then move on to his nipples. I feel him fumbling with his jeans, but I wrap my arms around his hips and kiss the side of his neck. "I'm in control here," I tell him. "If you're so in control, why didn't you fucking do this years ago?" "What does it matter? I plan to fucking do it now." I kiss him deeply while unzipping his jeans. I shove them lower, trailing my tongue along the way, and he steps out of them. The patch of sunlight touches the bed, and Mulder lies back on it. It illuminates him like a figure from a Flemish tapestry, all burnished gold and sable. I kneel between his thighs and take his cock in my mouth. Fuck the foreplay. I've waited too long for this. "Alex," he gasps. "I want you inside me. Do you have any condoms?" I look up in surprise. I want to explain that we don't really need them, that this is all just a dream, but I'm not sure anymore. I get up and go to the bathroom. Then I notice the red trail seeping from beneath the door. Oh, Christ. I open the door . . . and stare at the dead body of Bill Mulder. "Alex, what's wrong?" Mulder calls from the bed. "Nothing," I reply. "Just stay there." But I feel him come up behind me. "Dad, oh my god, dad! " "It wasn't me . . ." I hear myself say, in the distance. He shoves me aside and kneels by his father. "You fucking bastard! Why the fuck did I think I could trust you?" "I didn't do it." I scream back. "Don't lie to me. You're holding the fucking gun." I drop the weapon in my hand. It clatters to the floor beside Bill Mulder's head. I stare at my palm in shock. It's splattered with blood, which begins to form a perfect red cross. I think I'm going to vomit. Then I know that I'm no longer dreaming, that I'm reliving something. A stolen memory, or a false memory, one of the many things They've stolen from me, from Mulder, from Scully. Or something They've implanted. Our real world is exactly like our dreams. There is no neutral ground. Mulder ignores me while he sobs over his father's body, because I'm no . . . longer . . . there. The curtain flaps wildly across the window I've just crawled out of. I wake up in a hospital bed shaking. And I still don't remember.