Disclaimers: Not mine, no money made. Written for the X-Files Lyric Wheel #three, take one. Lyrics from Dr Ruthless and Jennie.

Slight of Hand

"Fuck off, Mulder."

The man on the bed didn't bother to open his eyes as he spoke. His voice was slow and even, unemotional despite the slight husk, and he gave no evidence of caring in the least whether or not Mulder would, in fact, fuck off.

Mulder frowned. This was not the picture of a trapped rat he'd been savouring ever since he'd gotten word of the arrest. Where were the outbursts, the desperation, the lies and pleas and tangled truth tripping so emotionally off his tongue? The protestations of innocence, of entrapment; the vocal and repetitive claims of danger and hints of mysteries just out of reach? Where was the cowering and pleading, the false bravado that had fallen so freely the last time he'd had this man in custody? The assertion he'd be dead inside a day, if left here inside this prison cell: the promises of knowledge, of access to a Truth that would proceed to disappear like mist seconds after he had it in hand. Promises that would melt into shadow before he'd had a fair chance to see them, never mind to comprehend their depths. Much like their maker, in fact.

The day he'd finally come across a crime he could nail to the bastard, along with enough evidence to make it not only hit hard but stick, had been a good one. It was the best in recent memory, in fact. He'd scarcely been able to believe this man had finally slipped up -- and not just slipped up, but screwed up big time. Not only was there a witness willing, able, coherent and utterly believable -- there was also video footage. If not of the murder itself, at least more than enough to show beyond a doubt Krycek's presence at the scene of the crime -- and the blood that had liberally splattered him on leaving it.

In light of all that, motive was almost an afterthought. But they even had an excellent one of those to feed the jury. It was too good to be true. He'd known it from the beginning -- since when was Krycek ever that careless? -- and now that he had the bastard trapped before him and still so evidently unworried, it was obvious that something had to be up.

But he'd investigated every little piece of evidence with a thoroughness that would do an obsessive-compulsive proud: the case was watertight. No doubts about it, no loose ends, no questions. Krycek had taken a knife and cut a man open again and again, watching unemotionally as his life oozed slowly out. It had taken a long time. Every so often Krycek had rendered a little medical aid, undone what he'd spent so long doing, and in the process drawn the victim into a false but oh-so-attractive hope. The witness had been especially explicit on that: Krycek hadn't merely assassinated the man -- he'd tortured and tormented him brutally, mentally and physically, along the way.

There was no way the sick bastard was slipping out of this one. Krycek was finally and irrefutably on his way to that fatal injection he'd first earnt so many years ago.

The bastard was going down. And he, Mulder, would be there watching all the way.

Icing on the cake was the identity of the victim. There was something so deliciously ironic about the prospect of finally seeing Alex Krycek fry for a murder even Mulder, in his weaker moments, couldn't hold against him. Except for the answers the man had held; and given the diminishing pool of his knowledge and for the pleasure of seeing not only Spender well and truly dead, but Alex Krycek on death row for the doing of it, Mulder was somehow finding those mattered less and less each passing second.

Still, he'd had his doubts about the long arms of the law ever actually finding the murdering bastard, never mind getting him into custody. Yet against all probability they had. And all Mulder's instincts, rather than sitting back and savouring the sight of a rat in a trap, were standing up and screaming. From the arrest reports, Krycek had barely even put up a token struggle. Never mind Mulder's belief that this was exactly where the bastard belonged -- it was unreasonable to expect Krycek would see things the same way. Something was wrong with this picture.

Very wrong.

"What part of 'Fuck off, Mulder' did you not understand?" Krycek still hadn't opened his eyes, and his tone was falling increasingly -- and familiarly -- monotonic. If his mind hadn't been so busy chewing on the puzzle that was Krycek's behaviour, Mulder thought distantly, he probably would have been annoyed by that. Instead, he merely filed it away with the rest of his data: Krycek's mocking wasn't usually quite so indirect. "Or, wait, I know," the man continued, "it was the part about fucking, wasn't it? I'm sorry; I should have used terms you're at least vaguely familiar with. Let me rephrase: Go away."

Juvenile sexual innuendo. Mulder grimaced, adding it to the rapidly mounting pile of data that was fast turning into nothing more than a huge question mark in his mind. That wasn't normally Krycek's style, either. And completely at odds with the languid body language he was displaying, to boot.

The bastard finally bestirred himself, shifting in a lazy glide to perch cross-legged on the cot he'd a moment ago been lying on. His eyes, finally open, betrayed no more of the uncertainty or despair Mulder had been expecting than did the rest of his demeanour. Whatever he'd been doing with himself lately, the man was in good shape -- well fed and glossy, none of the physical deprivations he'd occasionally shown in their previous encounters. It was always a matter for speculation as to what shape he'd be in when next their paths crossed: Krycek seemed to have more ups and downs of fortune than anybody else he'd ever heard of, let alone met. Perhaps, he thought, his wry humour as usual asserting itself at inappropriate times, it was an X-File. Whatever else one could say about the man, he'd survived on some pretty lean scraps at times.

"God, Mulder, haven't you got anything better to do than stand there and brood?" Finally, a hint of reaction in the bastard's tone, irritation layering the words. "Monsters to chase, ghosts to catch, Scullys to moon over? If you're going to insist on hanging around and disturbing my sleep, the least you can do is talk. Gloating is such a one-man activity."

Mulder suppressed the automatic irritation the man's words provoked and tilted his head, as though changing his angle of vision might shed some light on the picture as a whole. "Why did you do it, Krycek?" Alright, so that wasn't the question he'd thought he was going to ask. In fact, he hadn't planned on questions at all -- it wasn't as though he could actually believe anything he learnt, after all. He'd come here to do exactly what the man had just accused him of -- stand and gloat. Maybe indulge in a little well-deserved taunting. He'd been resolved not to indulge in the waste of energy he'd displayed in previous encounters, and focus his rage instead on other things. Somewhat to his surprise, he seemed so far to be succeeding.

Perhaps it was his own behaviour he should be examining, and not Krycek's, after all.

It wasn't what Krycek had been expecting, either. The large eyes widened slightly before the man caught himself, glinting in the light for all the world like a startled cat's. "You think maybe he didn't deserve to die?" Krycek countered, to all appearances lazily questioning the wall just past Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder waved a hand irritably. "Why let yourself be seen, Krycek?" he elaborated. "Why let yourself be caught on the security camera?"

Narrowed eyes flickered to Mulder before resuming their inspection of the stone. "Let, Mulder?" he enquired, tone vaguely ironic, face a mask of boredom. "What makes you think I let anything happen?"

The flash of irritation engendered by the throwaway line was surprisingly easily suppressed, given Mulder's usual out-of-control reactions around this man. "I never though you were stupid, Krycek," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Amoral, yes, and a lowlife opportunistic bastard -- but not stupid."

"Whatever." Krycek leant his back against the wall and closed his eyes again. "Do you mind? You're interrupting my sleep. I'll be out of here soon, and I'd prefer to be rested when I leave."

"Leav--" A wave of laughter rose up inside Mulder, and he didn't really see why he should suppress it. The poor bastard actually thought he'd be leaving. No wonder he was so relaxed. Oh, but the look on his face when Mulder informed him just how caught he was should be something to treasure....

When his laughter finally ran down, he discovered Krycek was watching him irritably through slitted eyes. Like a cat, came the thought from nowhere, preparing to pounce... "You're not leaving, Krycek," he informed him, struck by the urge to wipe that smirk off the man's face. The temptation to do it physically was strong, but with the cell bars between them that wasn't even an option. "Not soon. Not ever."

"Oh, sure," he waved his hand airily, indicating the confines of the cell, "the specific walls may change. But you'll be here for the rest of your life, Krycek, and that's guaranteed to be short. The last thing you'll ever see will be a prison, will be walls closing in on you. You're finally getting the fate you so richly deserve, for all the pain you've brought. All the people you've betrayed. Everyone you've murdered. Scully, Skinner, me. We're going to watch you pay, Krycek, and pay hard." It amazed him, sometimes, how his voice could remain so calm and contained when his emotions were rocketing behind it. Each name he uttered brought back more of his anger, his hatred of this bastard. Shovelled aside the odd calm that had encircled him, made room for more of the satisfaction he'd initially expected in seeing Krycek brought to justice at last. Masked more and more the niggling certainty that something was not right. He'd checked. He'd double and triple and quadruple checked. There was no way this case could fall apart. And yet...

"You know what the last thing you'll ever see will be, Krycek?" he continued, deliberately probing for the reaction the other man was stubbornly denying him, trying to drown his own increasing doubts in the litany of his words, the monotone of his own voice echoing from stone walls. "Walls. Walls just like these ones. Soon you can take your last look at the world, and then they'll close the door. And all you'll see for the rest of your short, miserable little life will be walls like these."

"Are you done yet?" The other man drawled, tone utterly uninterested, body indolent and eyes masked in neutrality, with just a touch of hostility. "Because, frankly, you're getting boring. A little repetitive in your old age, Mulder. Not to mention flat out wrong."

Mulder blinked, thrown off course, out of his rant. Didn't the bastard understand? He was trapped. "You're going down, Krycek," he stated. "We have you. We have a witness, we have video, we have all the evidence we need. You even admitted it a few minutes ago. You murdered Spender, and no matter what kind of bastard he was, it's still against the law. You murdered him, and you are going down for it."

Krycek didn't bother moving his bored gaze back to Mulder. "Replay that famous memory of yours, Mulder. I admitted nothing. And I never will. You'll never break me, Mulder, not til the day I die. Spender couldn't, and your petty attempts sure as hell won't be able to."

White-hot anger lanced through Mulder, burning bitter bile through his stomach and chest, lodging in his throat, tangling his thoughts and tripping loose his tongue. "Regardless," he glared at the man on the bed, "It doesn't matter. We have you anyway, you sorry sonofabitch. You killed a man, Krycek, you tortured him to death, and you were careless enough to leave a witness alive behind you." He paused, fought to control his accelerating breathing. "You don't have to confess: we already have you." Heavy satisfaction drowned out the anger for a moment, weighted his next words with all the solemnity of a portent; "There is no way you are wiggling out of this one."

"Tell me something, Mulder," Krycek replied, scattering the satisfied silence floating in the wake of Mulder's pronouncement. Mulder blinked, startled out of his train of thought.

"What?" he asked before he could stop himself, immediately cursing himself inwardly for his lack of control.

"Are you always this imaginative?"

"You--"

Somehow, he'd forgotten about the bars between them. The lunge he made for Krycek, sitting so calmly out of reach, was brought painfully short as he slammed into them. All the adrenaline-driven anger in the world couldn't quite drown out the humiliation as he noted the humour glinting in Krycek's eyes. Swearing, he pulled back and began to pace restlessly across the room. How the hell had this happened? He'd come to see Krycek in a panic, desperate and trapped: and yet somehow he had been the one to end up agitated, while the bastard rat smirked in calm assurance behind the bars. He needed to provoke a reaction from the other man. Needed to see him as discomforted as he himself was. In desperation, he fell back on a litany of the man's past crimes. It had always worked to annoy the man in previous encounters, after all. If he couldn't use fists, and words weren't working, then...

Scully's abduction, her sister's murder, the black oil experiment he'd himself undergone in Russia, Skinner's nanocytes... the familiar list rolled off his tongue with the ease of long repetition. And did, as predicted, finally, finally provoke a response. Krycek pulled himself up, visibly annoyed, and stalked toward where Mulder roved ranting by the bars. Dark anger crackled between them, and for a brief instant Mulder wondered if it were exactly wise to provoke the man this way, despite the iron bars between them... but then his own accusations caught him in their inexorable flow, and he let himself revel in the anger building so seductive in his veins, and in the fierce spiral of exultation that came with having at last procured a glimpse of the man he knew was there behind the masks Krycek had been so firmly wearing.

The hand that reached between the bars and grabbed him by the throat took him by surprise: this, too, was out of character. Almost unthinkably so, in fact: Krycek had never so much as attempted to return any of the batterings he'd received at Mulder's hands. Apart from the lone, bizarre incident in his apartment when Krycek had knocked him down and gifted the return of his belief in a puzzling kiss, he'd never given the least sign of physical aggression at all. Mulder had never really allowed himself to wonder why -- yet now, with strong fingers tightening inexorably about his throat and his momentum lost with the silencing of his self-mesmerising diatribe, the reasons suddenly achieved paramount importance. Why hadn't Krycek ever lifted a hand to him? Had it been the orders of the old men whose hands played all their puppet-strings? Or something else entirely...?

He'd been looking forward to seeing Krycek fry for murder. But he'd never considered that murder might be his own. That with conviction certain and no hope of leniency, Krycek might decide he had nothing to lose... scrabbling at the steel fingers about his throat was as much use as digging at the stone walls would be to Krycek, in days to come. He couldn't breathe... damn, the man was strong... he'd always known the man was capable of cold-blooded murder. Had hated him for years because he'd exercised that capacity -- and yet it came as such a shock to see it in his eyes....

"Some people struggle daily, Mulder," Krycek hissed, hand tightening further around his throat, sealing off his windpipe. "They struggle with their conscience 'til the end. Others," and the tone of his voice made Mulder glad that his vision was at last beginning to black out and he needn't see the facial expression that accompanied it, "don't." With a surprisingly strong shove, Krycek released him, sending Mulder reeling across the room, to sprawl gasping against the wall. 'Just like him', he thought wildly, feeling the chill of the outer wall seeping through his suit, 'stone cold. Cold stone. He's made of cold stone. No wonder he survived alien possession intact.... '

"Give up, Mulder." The voice broke his thoughts, danced agonisingly across nerves stretched taut. "I have no guilt to haunt me. Unlike you, I feel no wrong intent, and never have. I sleep soundly, too," and Mulder couldn't understand why the whisper of voice echoed in the room in a way all his own raging hadn't, why it set his heart to racing, his pulse hammering through his veins. Rage, he told himself, and disbelief. There was no admiration for the sheer gall of the man. No admiration for his strength, of mind, of body. No admiration for this man at all. Not in him.

Never for him.

The door opening behind him snapped the pull of the sneaking realisations beginning to undermine the edges of his thoughts, and sent them scuttling back into the darkness they'd come from, safe behind the re-erected barriers Krycek somehow seemed to bring down every time. He whirled, startled, to find himself facing a cop, approaching the cell with a bunch of keys in hand and muttering under his breath, ignoring Mulder completely.

"What are you doing?" Mulder sputtered indignantly, reaching as though to physically halt the uniformed cop in his tracks. The contemptuous look the cop shot him barely registered as he moved intently forward, but the coldly amused snort of laughter from the man in the cell was enough to halt him in his tracks, even as he cursed his involuntary reaction.

"What the hell does it look like he's doing, Mulder?" Krycek sneered. "I seem to recall telling you I'd be leaving here soon."

"You can't let him go!" Mulder protested, anger and the urge to violence twisting incestuously through his chest. And with them the edges of a black despair as the realisation hit him that the protest was futile, token at best; that Krycek was somehow slipping through his fingers even as he spoke.

"We can't keep him," the cop said flatly, standing back from the now-open door and making no effort to keep the contempt from the insolent gaze he directed at Mulder.

"The witness--" Mulder started, moving forward to physically bar Krycek's way himself as he began his automatic protests.

"The witness, Agent Mulder," the policeman interrupted, the emphasis on his title very much sarcastic, "gave a very good description of the man who killed her employer." He paused, sourly enjoying Mulder's obvious incomprehension. "The one-armed man who killed her employer." He led Krycek through into the main station, letting the door bang shut on Mulder's confused "But--". The description had matched perfectly: he'd seen it, spoken to her himself. And if that wasn't enough, they had Krycek on videotape. None of this made any sense. Krycek was one-armed, for--

"Oh, God," he whispered, feeling sick as it finally clicked in him as to what had felt so odd about the way the man had grabbed him. Impatiently he pushed through the door, looking wildly around the busy station for the figure that, one way or another, had haunted his nights for years.

Krycek was standing by the exit, listening attentively to the profuse apologies of a non-uniformed detective. Mulder felt the familiar anger rise and smothered it, acknowledging for once that this was neither the time nor the place to attack the man. "Krycek!" he yelled, as the other turned to the lobby, preparing to vanish into whatever hellhole he inhabited when he wasn't out tormenting Mulder. "What happened to your hand?"

The bastard was laughing at him. He wasn't making even a token effort to try and hide the amusement gleaming from his eyes. "Not a thing," he smirked, raising his left arm and wiggling his fingers in a complicated pattern of a wave. "Works like a charm."

By the time Mulder made it into the street after him, he'd vanished.

=/=/=/=/=/=/=

Alex Krycek stood in the shadows, watching Mulder standing in the street, uncharacteristically indecisive. He still wasn't sure why he'd done it. Why he'd killed the old bastard -- well, that one was obvious enough even Mulder could see it. But he'd been carefully avoiding the question of why he'd laid the trail for Mulder to follow so very carefully. He strongly suspected the reason behind it was one he wouldn't enjoy admitting, even to himself. And since the aliens had run back to the stars, tails between their legs, self-deception was now an art he could afford to indulge in, every now and again. He'd wanted Mulder to know the man was dead, is all, he reassured himself. Dead, and not easily, and at his hand. He'd wanted Mulder to know all that, and the simplest way had been what he'd done. Besides, with the Consortium splintered and Spender dead -- and he found himself a little miffed that Mulder hadn't accuse him of murdering his father, when finally he could say in all honesty that he had -- there was no one looking to kill him anymore. At least, no one with the resources to back the desire. And he'd needed a place to rest up for a day or so. The bed, at least, had been comparatively comfortable, and the roof didn't leak.

'Ah, well,' he thought, gently rubbing his aching hand as Mulder finally climbed into his car and drove off, hunched angry and frustrated over the steering wheel. 'It was worth it, for the look on Mulder's face as he realised precisely how much his precious evidence was worth.' After all, no matter who the witness or how many security tapes were paraded in front of them, no jury in the land would believe a one-armed man had regrown a limb....

Lyrics courtesy of Dr. Ruthless and Jennie.

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