TITLE: And All That Could Have Been

AUTHOR: Miss Monkeh

DISTRIBUTION: Archive freely

RATING: R

SPOILERS: Up to Terma

DISCLAIMER: Story is mine, characters and components are not.

'Thought he had it all before they called his bluff

found out that his skin just wasn't thick enough

wanted to go back to how it was before

thought he lost everything

then he lost a whole lot more

A fool's devotion swallowed up in empty space

the tears of regret frozen to the side of his face'

"I'm Looking Forward To Joining You, Finally"

Nine Inch Nails

It is 3am when Marita receives the call, and initially she doesn't give a shit about any of it. The caller speaks Russian, and at 3am with two hours' sleep under her belt, she doesn't feel much like translating. She rubs the grit from her eyes and politely punctuates the conversation with 'yes', 'no', 'I see'. The back of her neck bristles with the irritation of having to deal with this nonsense at such a ridiculous hour.

Through the flood of words, she picks at nouns – 'Achinsk', 'Hospital', 'Surgery' – and attempts to stitch them together to form a story. It seems to be about a person, badly injured, who has been taken to hospital in Achinsk. More to the point, she discovers as the conversation progresses, the person has asked quite specifically for a Miss Marita to fly immediately to Russia, before he is taken for emergency surgery. She is particularly annoyed about this because she doesn't know anyone in Achinsk, much less anyone in Achinsk who needs emergency surgery, but can't think of a valid excuse quickly enough. Marita assures him she will be there as quickly as she possibly can, and hangs up with a relieved sigh.

The clock flashes 3.23am in accusatory red digits. Marita gets out of bed, far too tired to be undertaking this mystery mercy mission. It would be remiss of her to refuse, though. She wonders as she makes the bed what her life would be like now if she had become a secretary or something equally a simple. Her sheets are freshly laundered and smell faintly of jasmine. She feels an absurd disappointment as she realises that, by the time she returns, they will be musty and stale.

She picks a large overnight bag out of her closet. She doesn't plan to be in Russia any longer than she has to be, but she has a company credit card at her disposal if things don't go quite to plan.

She sighs. Russia, she thinks, smoothing out a blouse. What a pain in the ass. A nine hour flight to Moscow, five hour internal flight and another hour spent in a cab with a deranged Ukrainian driver travelling in endless circles looking for the hospital.

She curses under her breath as she rolls a stocking up over her thigh. Achinsk is in the vicinity of Krasnoyarsk, her last connection with Russia in weeks. It is where Fox Mulder had been headed when he visited her in the small hours a week ago. She'd arranged travel documents for him while he dozed on her couch. Shit. Marita hitches her skirt over her hips and pulls on her blouse. She cranes her neck and peers through the curtains at the sliver of purple sky. The stars are sharp little ice chips in the sky, flashing brightly and without warmth. New York in November is unforgiving at best. For the first time this year, she thinks about taking a hat and scarf out with her.

As she finishes packing, her thoughts turn back to Russia, and to Mulder, who had been chasing a man with a diplomatic pouch containing sensitive information she hadn't even been privy to. If it is Mulder lying in that hospital in Achinsk, then she is in trouble. Instinctively, she grabs the phone; she knows someone will be there no matter the hour.

"Yes?" a voice at the end of the phone, clipped English accent. Marita inhales sharply. She had hoped it wouldn't be him.

"Sir," she replies.

"Covarrubias."

Marita swallows down her nerves. "Sir, I've been summoned urgently to Achinsk. I am not at liberty to disclose why, but I felt it necessary to forewarn you of my absence."

There is an uncomfortably long pause. Marita pulls nervously at the buttons on her blouse. Talk, damn you.

He does, finally, his voice severe. "Achinsk" he says, drawing out the final syllable for so long Marita thinks he is humming a tune. "Close to Krasnoyarsk, isn't it?"

Marita feels a lead weight drop into the pit of her stomach. "Yes, sir"

"Hm."

The silence goes on for what feels like an age. She realises, with some surprise, that she has already pulled one button from her blouse and is about to remove another. She pulls her arm back down to her side. She'll have to change before she leaves. If she ever does leave. "Sir, I trust there are no problems with this arrangement?"

"Why, not at all," he says, and he sounds almost friendly, as if she is an old friend, and not an employee absconding without reason to the ass end of Russia. "In fact, there's something you can do for me while you're out there."

He knows, thinks Marita. Her stomach is seized with panic. Swallowing down bile, she wonders if she should go armed. "What would that be?"

She hears movement on the other end, a shuffling of papers. "Alex Krycek was sighted last week. JFK International Airport. New York. Your neck of the woods, I believe."

How the fuck is that relevant? she thinks. "Alex Krycek is missing, presumed dead. Even so, I'm not sure how I can help with that from Siberia."

"Apparently, Krycek is far less dead than we presumed" the old man replies. His voice is now terse and reedy, and she realises that Krycek's name alone, like a talisman, is enough to put him on edge. "Airport security footage confirms he left the country on a flight bound to Krasnoyarsk. He appeared to be in the company of Agent Mulder."

Shit. Marita scrabbles blindly in her bedside cabinet for the handgun she keeps among the lint and unpaired socks. She is about to formulate some half baked response to keep the old man sweet when he speaks again.

"I expect Agent Mulder was responsible for freeing Krycek from the missile silo. In any case, it's imperative that he is caught before he can cause any significant damage."

Marita catches herself before she can sigh in relief; she is in the clear for now. "I will gather intelligence on Krycek's whereabouts while I'm there. I'll report back to you by tomorrow evening with any news."

"Good girl. I'll have my secretary book you on the next flight. Attend to your business. Should you locate Krycek, we have men in St. Petersburg ready to dispatch at your command. I don't care if you bring him back cold."

She replaces the receiver without saying goodbye. Her eyes travel to her overnight bag, which suddenly seems inadequate, but she is comforted by the old man and his fear of Krycek, clouding his suspicions; it is hard to be a double agent. She laughs to herself, a slightly bitter laugh. Pity poor Krycek, who has spread himself so thinly it's a wonder he's not starting to tear at the seams.

As she transfers her belongings to a bigger suitcase – because she knows she will be there for much longer than she would like - she thinks about what the old man said. Krycek, spotted in Mulder's company. The last time Mulder and Krycek had worked together had been at the will of the Smoking Man, and that had ended badly. Since then, they had been dancing around each other, somehow avoiding major injury despite their mutual animosity. And after the silo, she'd told him to lay low, maybe get a real job like a normal civilian. Something was amiss here; perhaps the old man had been mistaken.

But no, she thinks, zipping up the suitcase. She doesn't doubt Krycek was there. She has heard whispered rumours of him in the boardroom, hidden in documents like a dirty secret. They know he has escaped from the silo, but he has kept largely to the shadows since then. They are all afraid to speak his name, as if it will bring them bad luck.

But what would he want with Mulder? There is little Mulder can offer him, and Marita knows Mulder is itching to hurt Krycek after that sorry business with his father. She pauses in her thoughts briefly to apply some mascara, pleased at the way her pale blue eyes are vivid against the black lashes. She wonders if Mulder dealt Krycek a little damage before he landed himself in hospital. Somewhere along the line they must have struck a truce. But Krycek is far from stupid, and of very little patience, and Marita supposes he must have at least one neat trick tucked up his sleeve.

She pulls a silk scarf around her throat and buttons her jacket. The stop-start dynamics of Mulder and Krycek's relationship fascinates her – the way their paths keep crossing as if the fates were conspiring to keep them together against all expectation. And the way that, despite constantly popping up in each other's crosshair, neither has killed the other yet. Maybe, by the time she reaches Achinsk, that will have changed.

Marita examines herself briefly in the full-length mirror by the bed. The lost button is barely visible. She looks presentable, if not to her usual standards, but it is 3.45am and she will have plenty of time on the flight to make herself pretty. She scoops up her belongings and makes her way downstairs to the foyer, where she knows a cab will already be waiting for her.

Marita reaches Achinsk Regional Hospital in the late afternoon. It is already dark. It has been snowing heavily in Achinsk and her toes ache with the chill. Despite her thick coat she is shivering.

The street is slick with an opalescent layer of well-trodden ice, glittering treacherously under the sickly yellow street lights. The hospital itself is a massacre of stone and concrete, a great mass of flat grey glistening with tiny crystals of ice. It is hideous.

It's no warmer inside, but nobody seems to mind. Doctors walk around seemingly immune to the chill in crisp white shirts. The woman sitting at the reception desk is plump, dark and shiny and reminds Marita of a grape.

"Dobriy den," Marita ventures.

The grape-woman looks up at her with a smile. "Zdravstvujte," she replies. "You are Miss Covarrubias?"

She is taken aback by both the English and the correct identification, but says nothing. In her smart suit and impractical high heeled shoes, she realises she must look unusual. "Yes, I am." she confirms.

The woman seems pleased by this. "Excellent. Mr. Krycek will be ready for surgery in a few hours. He asked to see you when you arrived. Will that be all right?"

"Mr. Krycek...?" What the hell? There must be some mistake, she wants to say, where's Mr. Mulder? But no, she is sure she heard correctly. Marita feels her face contort into a frown and quickly forces herself back into neutrality.

The grape-woman seems to have noticed. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

"No, not at all."

Yes, actually, she thinks. There's a big fucking problem. A man I'm supposed to be hunting down for my boss has summoned me to play nurse for him. I have been travelling for more than half a day and still have no fucking idea why I'm here. I'm cold, damp and tired and if my boss finds out the real reason I'm here I will end up with a bullet in my head and an unmarked grave. So yes, you could say I have a problem.

Marita smiles sweetly. "Where will I find him?"

"Dr. Dauksza will show you." She gestures towards a grey-bearded doctor, who has apparently been standing there the whole time. He nods her a greeting, then asks her to wait while he checks on the patient. Marita smiles hesitantly; the man's expression is stern. There is no warmth in his eyes at all. She wonders how badly Krycek is hurt. She wonders, feeling trepidation growing like a weed in the pit of her stomach, whether he would be able to run if they came for him. She settles in one of the hard plastic seats; it is freezing cold and an unpleasant shiver runs the length of her spine.

Marita is sure Krycek knows he's being hunted, and can't help being pissed at him for calling her all this way. And why her? She doesn't even know him all that well. She can count on one hand the things she really knows about Alex Krycek. She knows that he is roughly six feet one inches tall and has long, elegant legs. She knows he is in his late twenties and can shoot with astonishing accuracy; he is intense in conversation and prefers to skip small talk. And she knows he has chosen her, a member of the organisation that wants him dead, to make sure he wakes up from his surgery, although the 'why' eludes her. Krycek plays his cards so close to his chest that she doubts there is anyone who really knows who he is and what makes him tick.

Dr. Dauksza returns, holding a clipboard in one hand. He gestures to the elevator. "Would you like to see him now?"

They travel in a run-down elevator, creaking as it lurches up to the next floor. Neither says a word. Disembarking, Marita is surprised at how low-key everything is. No armed guard, no police escort. Krycek has done an admirable job of blending in, it seems. Using his real name and all. Either he's feeling bold, or he's too sick to lie. Neither scenario is good.

Dr. Dauksza looks distinctly Arabic and when he speaks, his words are clouded in a thick Lithuanian accent. "Mr. Krycek is very badly injured," he warns, placing himself between Marita and the closed door of Krycek's room. "You may be shocked by his condition."

Marita smiles a wry little smile and thinks oh, if you knew what I've seen...

"I'm sure I can cope fine, thank you." Marita assures, and Dauksza looks almost disappointed, as if he were eagerly anticipating her concern. "Would it be all right if I speak to Mr. Krycek in private?"

"Well," Dauksza says, clutching his clipboard. His lips are pressed tightly together in disapproval, so tight they turn white and disappear into his face. "I will be in my office if you need to speak with me. And please remember that Mr Krycek's surgery is scheduled for this evening, so he must have no food or drink."

"I'm sure I can manage that," Marita says, smiling sweetly, and Dauksza, seemingly appeased, disappears down the dimly-lit hall, clipboard swinging limply at his side.

The hospital room is blindingly white, stuffed to the brim with machines beeping and clattering. His room seems to be the only clean one in the hospital. Ironic, somehow. A filmy blue curtain is drawn around the bed. She wonders if she should ask Krycek's permission, but then feels ridiculous. She gently pulls the curtain back.

Krycek is asleep, or unconscious. He looks awful, the worst she has ever seen him. He is deathly white except for two great blue semicircles beneath his eyes and a feverish flush of pink across his cheeks. Pale blue blankets are pooled around his bare chest, which is a patchwork of wires and splotchy yellow bruising. The sheets around his left arm are stained with old blood, his bandages almost soaked through with fresher, brighter blood. Despite the layers of blankets, he is shivering.

Marita tiptoes forward. Instinctively, Krycek opens his eyes, turns his head slowly to face her. Even lying helpless in a hospital bed far from home, he won't allow himself to switch off for a moment. But his eyes are glazed and uncomprehending, and she feels a pang of what must be pity. It just isn't Krycek's style, pissing in a bedpan and lolling like a newborn. It doesn't suit him.

"Alex," she says in a low voice, and he struggles to match the voice to the blur he sees standing tall at the foot of his bed. His eyes stare blindly at her, searching desperately for something to focus on.

Marita notices that as well as his left arm, his right shoulder is strapped tightly, wrapped in gauze and fastened to his side. He's practically immobile. There is a pitcher of water next to his bed, within reaching distance if he'd been able to use his arms. She wonders if anyone's bothered to check in on him recently. There's a thin film of dust on the pitcher and she realises, with some anger, that he probably hasn't drunk anything since this morning.

"Alex," she says again, and he lurches forward, as if he's trying to sit up. He looks shocked when he realises he can barely move. She takes the seat to his left. The plastic is hard and uncomfortable beneath her. No expenses spared, she thinks, and wants to laugh with the irony of it.

Krycek shies away from her gaze. He looks ashamed, she realises, and doesn't know if she feels sorry for him or thinks he deserves it just a little bit.

"Marita." His voice is sandpaper-rough, barely a rumble in his chest. She feels a sickly heat radiating from his skin and realises he must be running a fever. He smells of sweat and antiseptic fluid and the sharp vinegar tang of fresh blood. He still won't look at her.

"You shouldn't talk." Marita says. He is thinner than she remembers, his cheekbones sharp beneath his eyes. His skin looks taut, paper-thin and ready to tear as it stretches over the contours and angles of his body.

"Thirsty," he rasps. His face is beaded with tiny droplets of sweat, running in cold rivulets down his face and neck. It is minus 25 degrees outside, but he is throwing off so much heat Marita imagines she can see the ice melting off the windows.

Marita shakes her head. "They told me you couldn't drink anything,"

He turns his face to her, imploring. She marvels at the way that a man like Krycek, who can kill a man without flinching, can look at her with such wide-eyed desperation for a sip of water. And she marvels at the way she falls for the act. "Pozhaluysta." he says.

She sighs, and begins to pour him a glass. "When did they last visit you on rounds?"

"Lost track of time. Feels like days." She holds the cup up to his mouth. He drinks greedily, as if he has never tasted water before. It dribbles down his chin, dripping onto the bed. She can feel the heat of him on the back of her hands.

"Okay, enough." She takes the glass away. He raises his right hand, agonisingly slowly, and wipes his mouth. He looks ashamed at his own inability.

"I didn't think you'd show" Krycek says in a low voice, and there's a hint of relief in his tone when he speaks. He hesitates before meeting her gaze. His eyes are sharp and beautiful despite the raw red veins webbing the whites. She wonders why he is being so evasive.

"I didn't know it was you," she tells him, and he nods silently. And then, because she can't bear to sit here dumbly any more, playing nurse while Krycek lies half-dead in a decaying hospital bed "What happened to you, Alex?"

He laughs, his lips curl into a bitter little smile. Marita has never liked that smile. She associates it with moments of violence, dark little moments when Krycek would lose control, just for a minute, and slam his fist into a wall, or launch a furious bilingual tirade upon the object of his wrath. She associates it with North Dakota, when she had found him exhausted and terrified, alone in the darkness. She associates it with the Smoking Man, who can elicit that smile with just a few words.

"Let's call it an unfortunate accident," Krycek responds quietly. The smile evaporates.

"What happened?" Marita presses, but he's not looking at her any more and she knows she won't get an answer, despite all the miles she's travelled and everything she's dropped to be here. She expects this from him. They are hardly close enough to confide in one another, although she's sure that of all his 'colleagues', she is the only one Krycek trusts enough to see him in this state without attempting to kill him.

Krycek struggles to sit up. He rocks back and forth, missing the leverage of his arms. He mutters something to himself in Russian, closing his eyes against Marita's pitying gaze; I don't need you to feel sorry for me, he thinks, and hot, irrational anger pools in the pit of his stomach. All I need from you is to make sure they don't fuck up my surgery, then get me out of here. And then you can go back to New York and I'll be fine. But Marita is still looking at him expectantly, and he feels like he owes her this at least.

"My arm..." he offers, but the words catch in his throat and he can't bring himself to verbalise what exactly has happened to him, as if speaking it aloud will make it real. She raises an eyebrow, the haughty bitch, and he can see in her eyes that she feels entitled to the explanation. I didn't even want you here, he wants to tell her, but you're the only one I think I can trust, so quit acting so inconvenienced.

Marita's eyes travel to his left arm. It's heavily swaddled in stained bandages, tightly bound at the shoulder with an impenetrable-looking knot. She's about to ask him again when she realises, with an awful wave of nausea, that the bandages stop above his elbow, and below them there is blanket and bed but no more limb. Oh Christ, she thinks, and swallows down bile. His arm is gone. Where an elbow would be is instead a bloody mass of white crepe, tightly bound around the stump. She tries to remain composed, but Krycek can see the panic in her eyes, the anxious twitching in her jaw. He exhales, long and hard, and looks down at the empty space where his forearm should be.

"Wasn't a clean cut." he says, barely audible. "It's too late to save it."

She opens her mouth to speak, but everything seems trite in response. 'I'm sorry you lost your arm?' 'Everything's going to be okay?' Christ, she thinks, this is Alex Krycek, not a hysterical woman at a crime scene. Krycek, whose response to a bullet wound is to get back up and keep running until he passes out from shock, or blood loss, or sheer pain. Krycek, for his part, is staring at her as if awaiting her response. The pained look in his eyes is enough for her to realise that anything she says will be inadequate.

"The other arm?" she manages to say.

"Broken shoulder. I rolled off a moving truck. Wish I hadn't bothered." The bitter smile again, except this time it's tempered by a sadness lingering at the corner of his lips. Marita wonders if he ever cries. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Suddenly, it feels too warm, her legs are restless and she wants to get up and pace the room, maybe go outside and feel the ice form on her cheeks and crystallise in her hair. She forces herself to stay put.

"They'll be taking me down soon," he says, and she realises he's understood every little movement, every little twitch, and he's offering her a way out. They won't be taking him down for at least a couple of hours. She wishes she could interpret him a little better, but he's still largely a mystery to her.

"Would you prefer it if I left?" she asks, and he is frustratingly nonchalant.

"Don't feel obliged to stay," he offers. That's not a real answer, she thinks, irritated at his obliqueness. But he is staring at her intently, waiting for a definitive answer. He doesn't look tired any more. He looks weary, and sick, and a little bit lost. But she knows that he won't sleep again until the anaesthetic hits him.

"Alex, you called me out here" she reasons, and he scowls at her logic. "You need to tell me what it is you want from me, because otherwise we'll be dancing around each other all night."

"Fine. I..." he lowers himself back into a reclining position, slowly and steadily. The pain in his broken shoulder is intense, but he forces himself to remain impassive. Pain is weakness. "Listen. After they stitch me up or whatever, I've arranged a safe house in St Petersburg. Friend of a friend. I need you to drive me there."

She raises an eyebrow. "Can't you get a cab?"

He laughs, incredulous. "Can't I get a cab? Seriously? You think I've got little money trees growing in my back yard? I'm too sick, Marita. They won't let me out unless someone with a lot of influence convinces them."

"And you thought my UN credentials would be enough?" she sounds pissed off now. Krycek expects she's feeling used.

"I thought I could trust you to get me to St Petersburg alive," Krycek replies curtly. "Can I?"

Her eyes widen. "I'm not a thug for hire, Alex. Not like you."

There's a long, awkward pause. He keeps his eyes locked on her, watching as her jaw twitches in anger. She won't return his gaze. He sighs. He doesn't have the energy for this shit. He is tired to the bone. Every movement he makes uses so much energy he feels like he might pass out.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, and he does sound sorry. "Look. You know I would do this alone if I could. But I've just lost my fucking arm." he lets the gravity of this sentence hang between them like Damocles' sword, and he feels it weigh heavy on his back, like a millstone. He tries to forget about his arm, tries to pretend it wasn't there to begin with. "Marita. I need your help."

Marita softens at this. "Seems like saving your ass is becoming a habit," she says wryly.

"Yeah, well..." he settles back against the pillow. His bones ache – a deep, constant ache, radiating from the very core, and for the first time in his life he wishes he could sleep for the next three days. "I'll owe you a favour."