Uppercut

Uppercut
Written for the When Cubes Collide Challenge
August 2003
Assignment: fix a XF scene that makes no sense!
Spoiler/corrections - episode Terma
By - Flutesong


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UPPERCUT
by Flutesong


Loaded and tranked to the gills, Krycek awaits the return of the old man to his St. Petersburg apartment. He has to do this, send this message to the Syndicate, even though it's only been less than two weeks since the 'injury' to his arm. //injury, injury, fuck//

He's paid big money to the hospital worker to get him an arm ASAP, all the asshole could do was sort of match him up with this old one from off a corpse of a dead amputee. It'll be enough to get him through this. //pain, pain, deep breath, make this happen and go to ground//

Krycek makes tea. He's always thirsty now, between the drugs and the pain and the horror. Hot tea because he doesn't dare to add vodka to the narcotics in his system. It's good; he adds another cup of boiling water and gets another tea bag. //fuck him if I use up his precious supply - he won't be needing it where's he's going//

The old man walks in and greets him, calls him Comrade. //sure you old bastard, sure, I'm the last 'Comrade' you're ever gonna see// The old man joins Krycek at the table and watches, with malicious delight, as Krycek forces the tea bag to dunk, once, twice and once more into the boiling water.

"Just who ordered you to 'clean up' things in the USA?" Krycek asks, as the old man gets up to make tea for himself.

The man laughs, but doesn't reply. Krycek aims the gun he's holding in his right hand, under the table, "That's okay," he says, "I know who and he's next, 'Comrade'" The old man looks up in time to see the muzzle of the silencer puff. It's the last thing he sees.

Krycek finishes his tea. //go to ground and heal//

Nine weeks later, Krycek takes a deep breath of clear frigid air. He's sitting, wrapped in blankets and quilts, on the porch of a private resort that had once been available only to the rich, getting the Tuberculosis Cure, less than a century ago. The surgery to his arm is healing and a properly calibrated arm is being made. He's let his beard grow in and his hair grow long. There are flecks of silver in both.

Everyone here thinks he is Ilya Ivan Ichari. Krycek likes the name Ilya, likes the old memories of Man From UNCLE reruns that come to mind. For the moment, he is out of reach from the Syndicate. He wonders if Spender is really dead or if he's in some hide-a-way recovering too. The Brit is making moves for a major takeover. That's fine with Krycek; the Brit is slightly saner than the rest of them.

Krycek regrets that he had to contact Marita; for all that she is a hot slut beneath her proper clothes and pearl earrings. He needed to know what was happening back in the States, and he needed to know if Mulder made it out. Marita will make him pay for his curiosity, but that's later and he needed to know now. She brought him up-to-date, cheerfully told him how Scully had 'miraculously' recovered, and how Scully and Mulder seemed closer than ever. //bitches, both of them//

Krycek flings the blankets off his lap. //Mulder, Mulder// He wonders if he'll ever let Mulder know about the arm. He's impatient with his own vanity, Mulder hadn't fucked him because he was pretty and he hadn't fucked Mulder because Mulder was beautiful. They'd fucked because they could not get through the day without the taste of each other, without the ache when they sat, without the semen and sweat and spit of each other in their mouths and nostrils and ass.

Even when Mulder hated him, even then; most especially then. //Mulder//

Krycek gets up and stretches. It's time for physical therapy and afterwards, lunch.


The End