Opposite of Enemy

The first thing he always noticed when he walked into the building was the antiseptic smell.  It was good, he supposed, that they took such great pains to keep things clean, but there was something about the smell that reminded him of his days in the FBI, of the autopsy room, of his various trips to the hospital, of death.  How cruel, he thought, to constantly remind the aging of their next destination like that.

He walked, still silently after all these years, down the darkened corridors.  Unerringly finding his way to Mulder's room, and then continuing past it.  He didn't bother to look inside.  He knew from experience that Mulder would not be there.  When Mulder had first
come to this place the staff had tried valiantly to get the man to sleep in his bed.  Eventually they were forced to admit defeat.

He pushed the swinging door of the day room open a crack and surveyed the interior of the room for exits, hiding places...old habits were hard to break.

There was Mulder, laying in a recliner, apparently fast asleep, the flicker of some late night tv show playing over his gray hair and wrinkled skin.  He threaded a path through the card tables and sofas towards the tv, his own back aching with sympathy (and the strain of old age) for the position that Mulder chose to rest his body.

Mulder was roused from his sleep by a hand on his shoulder.  He opened his eyes and stared into the face of his enemy.  The face had changed, of course. Over the years the hair had turned to pure white and was receding just a bit. The face was lined by time and 
trouble, but it was a face Mulder would never fail to recognize...the face of Alex Krycek.

"Did you come to kill me this time, Krycek?" Mulder asked calmly.

Krycek smiled.  It was a cold smile.  "The Consortium doesn't care about you one way or another these days Mulder, you know that."

That hurt.  Mulder knew that at 86...88...<How old am I anyway?>...he was no threat to anyone, but it still hurt to hear it spoken out loud.

"That leather jacket you're wearing went out of style decades ago," Mulder replied.  It was a lame attempt at an insult, especially since under the worn jacket Krycek wore an expensive suit and looked damn dignified in it.  But the jacket was an antique and a major fashion faux paus and so Krycek acknowledged the truth of Mulder's comment with a wry smile.

"I brought you something," Krycek said in that husky tone of voice that he often used.  A bit gravely with age now, but to Mulder it still sounded like the essence of temptation.

"I'm retired," Mulder grumbled.  "Twenty years ago if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, I'm really impressed by the FBI's retirement plan. Whatever happened to all that family money Mulder?" Krycek commented, his eyes taking in the worn furniture and the 
peeling paint of the day room with distaste.  "And actually it was fifteen."

"Feels like twenty," Mulder mumbled to himself, then a little louder, "The search for the truth is expensive.  So when are you going to retire Krycek?  You look like you've got the
money for it."

Krycek shrugged, and Mulder noticed that one arm swayed in an unnatural fashion -- the miracles of modern medicine still couldn't help some things.  "The Consortium's retirement plan is a bit more...permanent than I prefer."

The two men were silent for a while.  Mulder seemed to doze in his recliner while Krycek watched over him, staring at the images flowing across the tv screen without really seeing them.

Comforting...it was comforting to them both to just be in the presence of another person who remembered the same things, lived through the same times, even if they had often been adversaries.

"So do you want what I've got or not?" Krycek asked into the silence, patting the pocket of his leather jacket where he held whatever little tidbit of information it was that he had
brought to tempt Mulder out of his ennui. With no children or grandchildren to visit him, and few friends, Mulder's life had become a dull matter of simple existence.  His search for the truth had always been his primary sustenance.

"Why do you keep bringing me this stuff, Krycek?" Mulder asked -- half afraid to hear the answer, half afraid that if he pushed too hard, Krycek wouldn't come back.

It was Krycek's turn to mumble something under his breath, not meant for Mulder's ears, although Mulder heard him anyway.  His joints and his memory may have betrayed him, but his hearing was as good as ever.

"'Cause you're my best friend."

Krycek pulled the envelope from his pocket, dropped it in Mulder's lap and turned to go without meeting the other man's eyes.

Mulder watched him retreat for just a second, then found he didn't want to let him leave like this.

"Alex," Mulder called.

Alex stopped but didn't turn around.  He was afraid to see the look on Mulder's face, afraid to turn around and see hatred or worse, pity, afraid that Mulder would tell him not to return.

"Will you come back next week?" Mulder asked.

Alex turned, a brilliant smile showing openly on his face, reminding Mulder of young Agent Krycek despite the white hair and lined face.

Alex took the few quick steps required to bring him back to Mulder's chair.  He leaned down quickly before Mulder could do anything to stop him, before he could change his mind and stop himself, placed his hands on Mulder's shoulders and gave the man a resounding smack on the cheek.

"See you next week, tovarisch," Alex said.  Then turned and strode quickly -- at least as quickly as age warring with emotion would let him -- out of the room.

"Next week," Mulder confirmed to himself, then he lifted the plain manila envelope that had been deposited on his lap.  It took a moment for his shaking hands with their swollen joints to work the clasp, but it was open soon enough, and Mulder peered inside to see what treasure Alex had brought him this week.