Clearly, an ongoing story. Storm Crow, XF/HL, adult language, will eventually be slash
It's *still* KickAir8P's fault.
Storm Crow
"Huh."
The sharp, sarcastic monosyllable froze his steps on the concrete floor of the entryway.
"What's wrong, grandmother?" Krycek asked, giving her the courtesy title because he needed the information. She was a round, withered apple of a woman that time had left to sit on her shelf of a stool by the front door, but she had the heart -- and the eyes and memory -- of a born informer. She watched everyone's comings and goings. Except for his. He'd let her see his gun one day. She no longer wanted to know what he was, or what he did, or when. She hadn't gotten old by being a fool.
"A man came. He let himself into your apartment. He has a gun." She eyed him suspiciously. "He is not Russian."
Krycek's eyes narrowed, and he said softly, "Not Russian. You're sure?"
She snorted again. "He smells foreign. Dark hair, in waves. Not properly shaven. A foreigner's face and a native's accent. Another imposter."
'Like you,' she left unsaid.
"I'll deal with him, grandmother."
"Don't bring anything down on us," she said grimly to his retreating back, and made the sign to avert the evil eye because the State forbade the sign of the cross.
Krycek ignored her and took the stairs three at a time, worried about who might have turned up in his flat, and what the stranger who’d opened his door so easily might have found. He'd lost an arm, not his wind, but as it turned out he needed a moment to catch his mental balance. He let it look like he was catching his breath instead, out of reflex, and the need to gain time.
His visitor looked up at him from his seat on Krycek's bed, deceptively guileless eyes in that deceptively bland face. His voice was as misleadingly gentle, the accent flawless, cultured St. Petersburg Russian. "I do believe, Mr. Arntzen," and Special Agent Matthew McCormick used the more insulting malchik, not tovarishch, "that we need to have a talk."
Krycek would have preferred a gun barrel or handcuffs to that steady gaze and the sound of that name on the lips of an FBI agent who'd seen him produce ID for 'Alex Krycek.'
"Fuck." Krycek hadn't meant to say that out loud. His first hint that he had was a slowly spreading smile that looked more dangerous than McCormick's gun would have.
"I'll let you know when I might be amenable to bribery, certainly. It's not yet."
With any luck, he'd be able to talk himself out of this by dawn. Maybe.
------
Alex Krycek, or Sasha Arntzen, or Alec Smythe ... I'd like to say that the name doesn't matter much, but I'm not sure I can. Which he is may be very important. Those sharp eyes are sharper than they were in the States and there's no way I could mistake him for Cory. He's not hiding those edges any more. He's mainlining caffeine rather than sleeping from the looks of him, and he's lost a good ten pounds since I saw him.
Interesting.
Wonder how that ties in with the file names in his laptop? Might be time to rattle his cage again, though. He's regrouping too quickly. Or perhaps I should let the man wonder if I'm careless and find out how much of a fool he is. His chest will give away any motion before those barricaded eyes in any case.
No. Let the man have the rope and we'll see what he does with it.
A small smile twists his lips, and if I were any more, or less, angry, I might be considering plans for that mouth. "Does the Bureau know you speak Russian this well?" Krycek asks it calmly, leaning against the doorframe. "It's nowhere in your background, McCormick. Of course, a lot of things don't seem to be."
Ah. We're going to play this game. He's not an amateur, certainly; wonder what he's buying time for? Let's see how he takes this warning, then. "I suspect you'd prefer this stayed professional, Mr. Smythe."
Krycek shrugs, that left arm just a tad behind as usual, but he's not moving as smoothly as before. "Well, if you want to keep it professional, I'm not the one who's out of his jurisdiction, Agent. Do they even know you're in Russia?" He smiles, and that smile I know from Cory's face. He's playing with knives now. He thinks. Or he thinks his back is against a wall. "I've got an email drafted for Agent Mulder about you, actually...."
I let one eyebrow climb, holding the rest of my face still. He does have a talent for finding weak spots. Worth keeping in mind. However, I'd have to say Mulder's one of his, for that matter.
"Can't say I'm surprised by that." He's gone still; perhaps he has figured out I'm angry. "Mind, his report on you made for some fascinating reading. Double agent, Mr. Krycek? Or triple? Mulder seemed to think it could go any of several ways. It does take work to befuddle the man, I've noticed."
I let my smile freeze him as I add too gently, "And if you mind my speaking this, perhaps we should change languages...?" Some of the color drains out of his face. Good. Two can play those games, after all.
"Then you're not--" He shuts up as abruptly as he'd spoken and catches his breath. "Look. Spook me and I'll end up shooting you. And I just don't have time for this, McCormick. I don't have time to answer your questions, or even to hide your fucking body. So back off. If you want to try and arrest me, try it. Otherwise, get out."
Now that reaction makes no sense with his earlier behavior. It fits too well with some of what I read earlier, however. But I'm not what? Then it clicks. "I'm not the spy placed at the Bureau?" I let my tone cut him instead of my sword. No blood here, if I can. "I'd thought that was you, Krycek. And I don't give a damn if you're 'busy.' So were the people in Malvern who turned up dead when you came through." My voice is getting lower and colder, and that'll do to make my point, I suppose. "Or the police officers in Richmond, or that bank in Olympia."
------
"Arrogant, stupid son of a--" Krycek got that much out in Irish, trusting that McCormick hadn't spent time with the IRA... only to freeze as he saw McCormick's eyes narrow in comprehension of the insults. "Where the fuck did you learn Gaelic?" he asked, dropping back into Russian.
"Not quite the places you did, I suspect," McCormick said, voice still a quiet threat. "I told you not to leave Malvern if you were involved in those deaths, 'Agent' Krycek. Kindly explain why I shouldn't kill you."
"Not here to arrest me?" Krycek mocked him, feeling adrenaline and caffeine mix in his blood. The price for this later was going to be ugly. Assuming he lived, of course.
"Mulder doesn't think you can be arrested and held," McCormick said, settling in more comfortably on the bed. His back was against the wall, hands in his pockets. Armed, almost certainly. "He's not a fool. Spectacularly wrong when he is wrong, but not a fool. And every place I can track you for the last few years, Mr. ... what do you prefer? Arntzen? Krycek? Smythe?" McCormick watched him carefully, apparently actually interested in the answer to that one.
"Krycek is fine," he said.
"Really." McCormick continued to study him with that same unnervingly calm expression that belied the banked rage under it. Even without the occasional barbed edge to his speech, Krycek would have suspected it was there from the tension along McCormick's throat and shoulders, and the set of his mouth and jaw. "In any case, 'Agent,' I'm not here for the Bureau. You're quite right. They'd want to know why I was here--"
"And where you learned perfect, idiomatic Russian." Krycek couldn't resist adding that, cold and mocking as McCormick had been.
"There's that," McCormick agreed quietly. "So explain to me why you should live when you seem to trail death around you."
Krycek paused then said quietly, "You don't have any proof I've killed anyone, do you?"
And, handed over to tarshaan. Only fair. She *did* promise me a sequel to Doppelganger ages back. More... later.;->
Storm Crow
"Huh."
The sharp, sarcastic monosyllable froze his steps on the concrete floor of the entryway.
"What's wrong, grandmother?" Krycek asked, giving her the courtesy title because he needed the information. She was a round, withered apple of a woman that time had left to sit on her shelf of a stool by the front door, but she had the heart -- and the eyes and memory -- of a born informer. She watched everyone's comings and goings. Except for his. He'd let her see his gun one day. She no longer wanted to know what he was, or what he did, or when. She hadn't gotten old by being a fool.
"A man came. He let himself into your apartment. He has a gun." She eyed him suspiciously. "He is not Russian."
Krycek's eyes narrowed, and he said softly, "Not Russian. You're sure?"
She snorted again. "He smells foreign. Dark hair, in waves. Not properly shaven. A foreigner's face and a native's accent. Another imposter."
'Like you,' she left unsaid.
"I'll deal with him, grandmother."
"Don't bring anything down on us," she said grimly to his retreating back, and made the sign to avert the evil eye because the State forbade the sign of the cross.
Krycek ignored her and took the stairs three at a time, worried about who might have turned up in his flat, and what the stranger who’d opened his door so easily might have found. He'd lost an arm, not his wind, but as it turned out he needed a moment to catch his mental balance. He let it look like he was catching his breath instead, out of reflex, and the need to gain time.
His visitor looked up at him from his seat on Krycek's bed, deceptively guileless eyes in that deceptively bland face. His voice was as misleadingly gentle, the accent flawless, cultured St. Petersburg Russian. "I do believe, Mr. Arntzen," and Special Agent Matthew McCormick used the more insulting malchik, not tovarishch, "that we need to have a talk."
Krycek would have preferred a gun barrel or handcuffs to that steady gaze and the sound of that name on the lips of an FBI agent who'd seen him produce ID for 'Alex Krycek.'
"Fuck." Krycek hadn't meant to say that out loud. His first hint that he had was a slowly spreading smile that looked more dangerous than McCormick's gun would have.
"I'll let you know when I might be amenable to bribery, certainly. It's not yet."
With any luck, he'd be able to talk himself out of this by dawn. Maybe.
------
Alex Krycek, or Sasha Arntzen, or Alec Smythe ... I'd like to say that the name doesn't matter much, but I'm not sure I can. Which he is may be very important. Those sharp eyes are sharper than they were in the States and there's no way I could mistake him for Cory. He's not hiding those edges any more. He's mainlining caffeine rather than sleeping from the looks of him, and he's lost a good ten pounds since I saw him.
Interesting.
Wonder how that ties in with the file names in his laptop? Might be time to rattle his cage again, though. He's regrouping too quickly. Or perhaps I should let the man wonder if I'm careless and find out how much of a fool he is. His chest will give away any motion before those barricaded eyes in any case.
No. Let the man have the rope and we'll see what he does with it.
A small smile twists his lips, and if I were any more, or less, angry, I might be considering plans for that mouth. "Does the Bureau know you speak Russian this well?" Krycek asks it calmly, leaning against the doorframe. "It's nowhere in your background, McCormick. Of course, a lot of things don't seem to be."
Ah. We're going to play this game. He's not an amateur, certainly; wonder what he's buying time for? Let's see how he takes this warning, then. "I suspect you'd prefer this stayed professional, Mr. Smythe."
Krycek shrugs, that left arm just a tad behind as usual, but he's not moving as smoothly as before. "Well, if you want to keep it professional, I'm not the one who's out of his jurisdiction, Agent. Do they even know you're in Russia?" He smiles, and that smile I know from Cory's face. He's playing with knives now. He thinks. Or he thinks his back is against a wall. "I've got an email drafted for Agent Mulder about you, actually...."
I let one eyebrow climb, holding the rest of my face still. He does have a talent for finding weak spots. Worth keeping in mind. However, I'd have to say Mulder's one of his, for that matter.
"Can't say I'm surprised by that." He's gone still; perhaps he has figured out I'm angry. "Mind, his report on you made for some fascinating reading. Double agent, Mr. Krycek? Or triple? Mulder seemed to think it could go any of several ways. It does take work to befuddle the man, I've noticed."
I let my smile freeze him as I add too gently, "And if you mind my speaking this, perhaps we should change languages...?" Some of the color drains out of his face. Good. Two can play those games, after all.
"Then you're not--" He shuts up as abruptly as he'd spoken and catches his breath. "Look. Spook me and I'll end up shooting you. And I just don't have time for this, McCormick. I don't have time to answer your questions, or even to hide your fucking body. So back off. If you want to try and arrest me, try it. Otherwise, get out."
Now that reaction makes no sense with his earlier behavior. It fits too well with some of what I read earlier, however. But I'm not what? Then it clicks. "I'm not the spy placed at the Bureau?" I let my tone cut him instead of my sword. No blood here, if I can. "I'd thought that was you, Krycek. And I don't give a damn if you're 'busy.' So were the people in Malvern who turned up dead when you came through." My voice is getting lower and colder, and that'll do to make my point, I suppose. "Or the police officers in Richmond, or that bank in Olympia."
------
"Arrogant, stupid son of a--" Krycek got that much out in Irish, trusting that McCormick hadn't spent time with the IRA... only to freeze as he saw McCormick's eyes narrow in comprehension of the insults. "Where the fuck did you learn Gaelic?" he asked, dropping back into Russian.
"Not quite the places you did, I suspect," McCormick said, voice still a quiet threat. "I told you not to leave Malvern if you were involved in those deaths, 'Agent' Krycek. Kindly explain why I shouldn't kill you."
"Not here to arrest me?" Krycek mocked him, feeling adrenaline and caffeine mix in his blood. The price for this later was going to be ugly. Assuming he lived, of course.
"Mulder doesn't think you can be arrested and held," McCormick said, settling in more comfortably on the bed. His back was against the wall, hands in his pockets. Armed, almost certainly. "He's not a fool. Spectacularly wrong when he is wrong, but not a fool. And every place I can track you for the last few years, Mr. ... what do you prefer? Arntzen? Krycek? Smythe?" McCormick watched him carefully, apparently actually interested in the answer to that one.
"Krycek is fine," he said.
"Really." McCormick continued to study him with that same unnervingly calm expression that belied the banked rage under it. Even without the occasional barbed edge to his speech, Krycek would have suspected it was there from the tension along McCormick's throat and shoulders, and the set of his mouth and jaw. "In any case, 'Agent,' I'm not here for the Bureau. You're quite right. They'd want to know why I was here--"
"And where you learned perfect, idiomatic Russian." Krycek couldn't resist adding that, cold and mocking as McCormick had been.
"There's that," McCormick agreed quietly. "So explain to me why you should live when you seem to trail death around you."
Krycek paused then said quietly, "You don't have any proof I've killed anyone, do you?"
And, handed over to tarshaan. Only fair. She *did* promise me a sequel to Doppelganger ages back. More... later.;->