Chapter Text
Everyone was settling down when he finally emerged, and he padded to Rose's door unnoticed. A muffled "come in" answered his tentative knock,and he pushed the door open.
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She was perched in the chair before the computer, wearing plaid flannel boxers and a loose tank-top. One leg sprawled onto the desk beside the monitor, and the keyboard was balanced precariously across her knee. The crocheted cap was gone, revealing not the crewcut he had expected, but a smooth hairless skull which nonetheless looked right on her. Her eyes were bright from the reflection of the screen.
"Did you need something, Alex?" she asked, hiding a yawn behindone delicate hand.
He looked down, then met her eyes again. "I...was hoping we could just... talk for a while." God, what was he doing up here?
She smiled, and reached for the mouse. "Just a minute while I shutthis down."
He sat on the edge of the bed, and she came to him as if in a dream, settling herself against the headboard with the comforter pulled over her crossed legs and a glowing smile reserved for butterflies and small children. Her limbs were beyond slender; her elbows, knees and wrists were bony knobs, and her collar-bones jutted forward like an Auschwitz victim's. If it weren't for her pale, translucent skin, lined with laugh-wrinkles,he would guess that she was an anorexic 15 year-old.
He hesitated again. "I'm not good at this."
She did not quite smile, but she seemed to understand. "I'm not goingto push, Alex. But I'm here to listen." Then she patted the cushion beside her, and he sat against the headboard, and they talked.
And they talked. They discussed their childhoods. They compared their favorite foods. She explained how she had been drawn to psychotherapy in the first place, and he spoke about joining the FBI, wanting to save the world one bad guy at a time. She spoke about her fear of snakes, he talked about how tough Quantico had been. She shed a tear for her husband, andhe relived the guilt of betraying Diane. She related a funny story about growing up on a farm, and he told her jokes about living in D.C. She described her first pony. He voiced his regrets at never owning a dog. And they talked.
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2:52 a.m.
She sighed and lifted her arms out before her, locking her fingers together and raising them above her head in a bone-cracking stretch. "Alex,I really need to get some sleep."
He glanced at the clock with a start. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." How had his arm come to be draped around her shoulders?When had he slid under the covers with her?
Her smile was weary, but wide. "Of course not. It's OK, I don't sleepmuch anyway, but a farm morning begins around 6 a.m., and I'd like to get at least a few hours of shut-eye."
"Rose," he started, then stopped as she snuggled closer to him,snaking her arms around his sides and squeezing him with surprising strength.
She gazed up into his eyes, mere inches away. "Alex, if I were tenyears younger, you wouldn't have a chance in hell of making it out of this room before dawn. You're sweet, and funny, and kind, and really good-looking. The world needs more like you." She gripped his chin gently betweenthumb and forefinger, shaking it gently as she grinned sleepily at him, then placed a chaste kiss on his reddened cheek. "Good night, Alex. I'mglad we had the chance to talk."
She lowered her head to his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her ribs beneath his arms. He leaned forward and laid his cheek against the top of her head, feeling the odd smoothness of her skin. Sliding his hands along her back, he hugged her lightly. He opened his eyes to place a kiss on the nape of her neck. And froze.
At the base of her neck there was a small vertical scar, about one-eighth inch in length. He had seen pictures of such scars. He had reviewed lists of people who had such scars. He had the technical diagrams detailing the creation of such scars. He had labored to understand the intricate workings of the hardware involved, only to give up, frustrated at the hints and clues scattered in the DAT tape material that never added up to an answer.
He struggled to breathe calmly, to slow his heart rate, to not reveal the deep panic he felt. He had been so careful, he couldn't blow it now.
He held her for a long time, until his panic receded and her breathing slowed. She was so frail...lifting her gently, he slid out from beneathher and watched her nestle down into the cushioning warmth of the featherbed. He wanted to say something to her, to thank her for what she'd done, to apologize for what he was about to do. She rolled away from him, humming behind a secret smile as she curled around a pillow. The mark was white against her pale skin.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Alex sighed heavily, blowing all the airin his lungs out. Squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his fists, he pushed hard on the emotions he was feeling, his warmth, his gratitude, his sympathy, pushed them down and inside, allowing the darkness to reassert itself within his soul. Krycek opened his eyes to stare at the shotgun above the door, and drew a slow breath. Silently.
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3:39 a.m.
He crept down the stairs, holding her shotgun upright at his side. The third step betrayed him with a loud creak and he froze, ears straining in the darkness for the sounds of alarm. None was forthcoming; he let his breath out slowly and continued down into the living room.
The windows glowed eerily with the star- and moon-light reflected off the snow outside. The snowfall had stopped, the sky was clear, and the windhad died. A good omen. Careful to avoid the coffee table, he stepped into the room towards the kitchen.
A light snapped on, and he pumped the shotgun and turned simultaneously, every hair standing on end. Phil was sitting up on the couch in a nest of rumpled blankets, Roswell curled beside him, tongue lolling. He raised his hands to his shoulders in a helpless gesture. "Easy, boy, it's justme." Krycek did not lower his aim. He didn't want to waste the old man, but he didn't want to wake the house. Could he still maintain his cover story?
He lowered the gun without betraying the effort it took. "Sorry, Iheard something outside, wanted to check it out." He leaned it against thewall by the couch and sat down next to Roswell, idly rubbing his ears. Roswell whimpered and twisted to lay his head on his knee. "Why are you stillup?" With a shock, he realized that his satchel was wedged between the couchand the wall. Right next to Phil. *damndamndamn* he had left it down here all that time?
"Heard you come down the stairs. You've been talking to Rose all this time?" His bright eyes belied his age as he peered at him with thequestion.
His suspicion welled up, and he looked at Phil through half-slit eyes. "Yeah, I have. Just talking, if it's any of your business. Why?"
Phil smiled down at Roswell. "My dog likes you, Alex. And I like youtoo. You've got a sharp edge on you, you don't let people in, but Roswell, he'sa good judge of character. Like Rose." He paused, looked over at him. "You're leaving, aren't you."
His nostrils flared slightly. Phil sighed. "Alex, I'm no danger toyou. I'm a nosy old man who loves his friends dearly. I'm going to grab us both a beer, and then we can chat."
In the time it took for him to get up and grab two cold ones, Krycek knew that his satchel had been opened, even though nothing was missing. He knew that the gun was untouched, that Phil was harmless, and he knew that no matter how hard he tried to deny it, Alex wanted to know about Rose.
"Phil...tell me what's happening to Rose. Is it..."
"No, it's not AIDS." The older man sighed, and shifted on thecouch. "A much more common ailment. Rose Langly Braedenhurst is dying of cancer, Alex."
He knew she was dying. He had known that. It still bothered him to hear it. But... "What kind of cancer? I mean, there's plenty of cancer patients now who can be cured, or at least achieve some kind of remission..."He stopped when he saw Phil's expression.
"This is her third bout with the disease. When she was 27, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After two years of aggressive treatment, she was declared cured. Then, at 33, it was ovarian cancer. She fought that too." He swigged his beer and gazed off into the dark corners of theroom. "That was when Sean left - he'd seen his wife almost dead, and thethought of losing her again was too much for him. After she beat the rap, he couldn't bring himself to return, to face her, knowing he had left her alone to face such a terrible crisis." He sighed. "Rose was convincedit was because she couldn't give him children. She still beats herself up overthat."
Alex wiped the condensation off his bottle, trying to deny the effect this story was having on him. "And now?"
"Now, it's metastasized. In her lungs, in her bones. We know it's justa matter of time. Actually, that's why we're having this party - she wanteda final get-together, just close friends and family, to remember her by."His eyes were liquid and dark as he looked at the ceiling, towards her room. "She doesn't like to talk about it much, we all get too emotional."He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then gulped at the beer bottle again. "With the storm over, there should be more people here tomorrow. You should stay, Alex, if you thought tonight was fun, you should see this house when there's twenty of us in it!" His smile was unconvincing.
Alex stroked his forehead with one scarred hand. "Why didn't she takethe medicine she had? Why all the unfilled prescriptions?"
Phil's craggy brows transformed into a sour smile. "Why should she?She can't be cured. All she can do is choose to live out her days the way she would most enjoy. Have you ever seen someone on chemotherapy?"
He swallowed. "No....my grandfather died of cancer, but I didn't...Ionly saw him once, when....at the very end."
"It's not a pretty sight, Alex. It's painful, and disfiguring, and desperate. She's been through it twice, and it won't help her this time. And Rose has more courage than that. She knows what's happening to her,and why."
Alex sat back, staring out into nothing. "She knows why." He thoughtof the scar on Rose's neck, the translated files in Dylan's office, and felt harsh laughter bubbling up within him. "Why *does* she think she'sdying, Phil?"
He gazed keenly at the younger man. "You know why. You've encounteredyour own demons. You've seen things no one was meant to see. I'll bet you even knew to look for her mark."
In shock, Krycek mentally noted the distance between himself and the shotgun. "What are you talking about?"
"The mark. On the back of her neck. Where they put the implant. I looked in your briefcase. I read what you have there. I know you are aware of the abductions that take place in this country." Phil leaned closer. "Idon't know who you are, or where you came from, but I know you're important. I know you know things."
He glanced at the shotgun again, and Phil smiled. "Killing me wouldonly wake the others. I'm no threat to you, boy."
"Don't call me that." Reminded of the others, he lowered his voice."You said you didn't believe in aliens, that you didn't.....you don't believe,do you." It was not a question.
"Of course not. ET's? Preposterous. But I do know how little concernthe government has for its citizens. As a body, yes, we vote, we pay taxes,we maintain the economy, but as individual units, we are no more importantthan a single cell within the larger organism. Why should they have qualms about taking the occasional *biopsy*?" He spat the word out like the bitterpill it was, harsh and unpalatable and ultimately unswallowable. He patted Roswell, sleeping beside him, then slowly rose, hands spread out to his sides. "I need another beer."
Krycek followed him into the kitchen. He handed his empty bottle to Phil, then stepped back against the counter, feeling the edge press against his thighs. Phil rinsed them out in the sink, and the pipes groaned their unsettling song in the otherwise-quiet kitchen. He didn't hear the drawer opening. "I know you need to leave. I wish you could stay; Rose certainly took a shine to you. And Roswell, like I said, he's a good judge of character." He half-turned, smiling at the younger man standing close behind him.
The screwdriver was heavy in his hands. The floor was cool beneath his feet. Time had become a molasses-crawl of images. Krycek felt the dead metal and inert plastic against his flesh, and saw the danger, and knewwhat had to be done. Alex felt Roswell's soft ears under his hand, and Rose's blue-veined hands warm on his scarred fingers, and heard a pennywhistleplay sweet and wild in the warmth of fresh bread and woodsmoke. The chocolate aftertaste of Harv's beer mingled with the sharp illicit tang of Phil's pipe, and Connie's contralto voice dripped sweet balm over Langly's puppy-dog smile. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, didn't want to move, knew he had to move, could only stare at the old man. The old man who smiled, and knew, and didn't move either.
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4:14 a.m.
Krycek walked carefully down the snowy steps, feeling the wind ruffle his hair and slide into his open collar. The air was frigid, biting into his nose and throat as he slid the untwisted hanger wire between the windowand the door of the blue sedan, grateful that the VW bus did not block the driveway. Opening the door easily, he threw the satchel onto the seat beside him. Sliding onto the stiff, frigid vinyl seat, he levered the gleaming tip of the screwdriver into the steering column and jimmied the ignition lock off. He loved old cars, they hot-wired so easily. Now if it would only keep from breaking down until he made it to the next major city and he could catch a plane for sunnier climes.
He pulled out slowly onto the highway. The moon shone down onto blue snow, blue fields, blue sky. Flipping the heater to the max and cranking the fan to Full, he drove away from Braedenhurst Farm and toward the starry horizon. Bermuda maybe. Or Jamaica. He had eight days before he had to contact Dylan again, and he needed warmth.