Title: Five Continents On Which Five Things Didn’t Happen To Alex Krycek

Author: Misha
Rating: R for explicit m/f sex
Fandom: X-Files/Forever Knight

Spoilers: X-Files the Movie: Fight the Future, Tunguska/Terma

Pairing: Krycek/Janette

Summary: Krycek will go to great lengths to get back what’s his, even if it means bargaining with vampires
Length: 2600 words
Disclaimers: I don’t own the X-Files and the Forever Knight characters. Just the other stuff.

Author’s Note: Acknowledgments: To Basingstoke, whose Smallville story "Five Things That Aren't True" started this whole thing; to Kita, who issued the challenge; and to all the great writers who answered this challenge.

Feedback: Relished at mishamcm@livejournal.com

Copyright (c) August 2003 Misha

1 – Africa: Nigeria, 2002

“Wake up, Alex.”

Oh, I wake up. Eyes and gun trained on a familiar face. I must be getting careless in my old age, to let him get this close. Well, you know what they say: keep your friends close, and your friends who used to be enemies and could revert at any moment closer.

It would be pointless to say, “I thought you were dead.” In this business, death isn’t what it used to be. Equally pointless to ask how he got in; he did, and wasn’t likely to tell me how unless he wanted to.

“What do you want?”

“Alex,” the Well-Manicured Man sings, “you know I’m not your enemy. I know why you’re here, and I came to offer some advice: don’t trust your fate to a demon.”

“Demon, eh? So you’re not going to tell me it’s an extraterrestrial?”

“Oh, no, Alex. This one is a genuine demon. They’re not known for keeping their promises.”

“Who is?”

The Well-Manicured Man chuckles. “Point taken, my boy. After what our late colleague has done to us, I’m sure a demon would seem a model of reliability. Still, it’s a pity you killed him. I told you he would be useful to you. He would be useful to me.”

“He was no use to anyone any longer. Just a nuisance with enough information to be annoyingly unhelpful. His only value to me was the pleasure of watching him die.”

“Ah well. No use crying over spilled milk. There are other pieces still on the board.”

“And what pieces would those be, precisely?”

“Another who sought out this demon and got more trouble than he bargained for. I need you to transport him for me.”

“Transport him where? The States? No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“Oh, not your old stomping grounds, Alex. West coast. Sunny California. You’ll like it there.”

“And what are you offering me in exchange?”

“Exactly what you came here for. When my plan prevails, this demon will be my pawn. I can make it restore your arm. One of the least privileges of joining my new world order.”

“Very tempting, old man. Too bad you aren’t him. He never considered it a game.”

The Well-Manicured Man snarls, his mouth expanding into a demonic apparition.

“You’ll regret not joining me.”

The apparition swallows itself and vanishes.

2 – Europe: Euskadi, 1997

I've grown to loathe twilight.

It's been several months since my shoulder was a continuous source of pain, but it still hurts at twilight. The temperature drops rapidly, the remnants of the blood vessels in my shoulder attempt to increase the flow of blood, to keep the missing arm warm, and everything seems to pulsate. Sometimes I think I can hear each capillary rupturing, a rising din that drowns out everything else.

No, not everything. My eyes are always open. If pain made me close my eyes I would never have lived this long.

But the pain is why I'm here. In the months since Tunguska I've been all over Europe, tracking down rumors. Nothing has panned out so far. I've been combing the Pyrenees, but they know how to hide in these mountains -- the smugglers and thieves; the Basque; the Catholics and the Protestants, depending on who was persecuting whom; the witches.

So if I want to find them, it's got to be from the inside.

It took me months to gain the trust of a Basque farmer named Joseba and his friends. I've finally been invited to a _probateko_, a cider-tasting. That's where they'll vote on whether to let me join their gourmet club. If that pans out, I'll be able to talk to Olentzero, an old man who allegedly burnt his hand off and grew it back.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the _faroleros_ lighting the signal lamps.

It's time. I see Joseba approaching.

"_Arratsalde on,_ Alexei."

"And a good evening to you, Joseba."

He leads me into the _sidreria,_ the cider-house. The main room is like a huge barn, with rows of tables, but no chairs. They hand me a glass tumbler and we move into the next room, where they keep the vats. The man in charge is ancient, ninety if he's a day, but his hands are steady as he lights his pipe. His wrinkled face is permanently stained with soot from years of burning charcoal. The skin on his hands is translucent and creased like wax paper. He looks over the crowd, takes his pipe from his mouth, and speaks, his voice soft, but it silences the hubbub.

"_Mojon._"

We line up and he removes the peg from the first vat. Cider gushes out, and the first man in line catches it in his glass without spilling a drop or splashing his hands. The line moves like a corps de ballet, each man holding his glass under the stream the instant his predecessor pulls his away. It's no easy feat when you've never done it before, but I manage to pull it off. I swallow the cider in one gulp, while it's still sparkling.

Back in the main room, Joseba nudges my shoulder. "Well done, Alexei. The old man winked. First-timers usually spill some and receive frowns."

We settle into the meal, periodically going back for a glass from the next vat. It is almost midnight when Olentzero speaks to me.

"_Nola daukazu izena?_"

"_Nire izena Alexei da._"

Olentzero laughs. "Your accent is good, Alexei. This is your first _probateko_?"

"_Bai,_ Olentzero."

He laughs again. "And you have a good appetite. They say the love of good food is imbibed with a mother's milk. So you wish to join _Sociedad Gastronomica Donostian_?"

"If the _txuri-ta-beltza_ falls my way."

"We shall see." He is carrying the voting box with him. He upends it on the table. All the marbles that roll out are white. "_Ez beltza._ No blacks. Congratulations." He snaps his fingers. "_Quina._"

In the blink of an eye there are glasses of wine on the table. Olentzero tosses one down.

"_Osagarria!_ Good life!"

I drink mine down in one gulp. I can taste the quinine -- these men are used to a hefty dose. By the time my glass touches the table it is full again. The second glass becomes a third, then a fourth. There's something more than quinine in the wine. My ears are ringing, my vision distorted. Olentzero's eyes are glowing red embers; his voice is resonating all around me.

"_Etorriko zara._" You will come.

"Where?"

Everything turns black as I hear his last words.

"_Beste aldean._" On the other side.

When I wake up it is cold and dark. I'm lying on cold hard stone. I realize I'm in a cave. In case I'm being watched, I move as little as possible. Just enough to be sure I still have my knife.

"_Eltzea a la espalda._" A fool on his back.

Well not for long. As soon as I hear his voice I'm on my feet, knife in hand. And again he laughs.

"Put away the _marruza,_ Alexei. _Barkatu._"

"And why should I forgive you, Olentzero?"

"What happens down there, beyond the mountains, this does not concern us. But we have need of secrets, just as you do. We have _fueros,_ privileges. If you want to know our secrets, you go by our rules. _Gu gara gizonak hilda._"

I must be ignorant of some idiom. It sounded like he said, "We are dead men."

"Where are we? We've gone deeper into the mountains, haven't we?"

"Yes, Alexei. The town below us is Zagarramurdi. They call these caves the Devil's Cathedral. In the seventeenth century they said witches held their Sabbaths here."

“And why have you brought me here?”

He holds up his hands. “This is why you came, no?” I’m not sure if he’s indicating the cavern or his hands. “The year was 1610. They hounded my people, followed us here.”

“Your people? Do you mean the Basque?”

“I mean the ones accused of witchcraft. They seized forty of us here. They burned twelve. I was one.”

“Then the rumors are true.”

“_Bai,_ Alexei. My hands were burnt off, and now they are back.”

“And how do I do the same?”

“You ask difficult questions, Alexei. I was one of the _gizonak hilda_ before they tried to kill me. To make you one of us now … I am not so powerful that your arm would return.”

“You say _you_ are not. But someone is.”

“Perhaps.”

“And I imagine you require a favor from me in exchange?”

Olentzero smiled.

3 – Antarctica: Ross Ice Shelf, 1998

I hate you, Mulder.

Why do you insist on trying to get yourself killed at every opportunity?

And why the hell did I accept the job of saving your ass?

I’m cold, I’m tired, I’m jetlagged. I’ve been all these things before, but when you’re involved it’s always worse.

You’re lying unconscious in the snow with Scully. In Antarctica. Freezing to death. Your stolen transportation is out of gas. Who the hell were you expecting to rescue you?

Fuck.

4 – North America: Ten Sleep, Wyoming, 1997

Janette watched Alex walk into the grocery store, admiring the curve of his butt under tight faded jeans. He soon emerged with the necessary supplies, tucked into the crook of his left arm. _It looks almost real._

She glanced up at the sky. _Nearly dawn. Quelle dommage._ [What a shame.] He was looking pale; she would have preferred to make him wait until evening to eat, but decided it would be wiser to let him feed first.

At the door to their room his hand shook, so she grabbed the key and unlocked it herself. He began emptying the bags -- eight burgers, a gallon of Gatorade -- as she closed the blinds. She walked up behind him, resting her left hand on the smooth worn leather over his left shoulder, tracing the juncture between scarred flesh and plastic with her middle finger. She pressed her pelvis against the admirable butt and squeezed her right hand into his front right jeans pocket, lingering just a bit longer than necessary to extract the two bottles.

She placed them on the table. "Don't forget these."

He twisted them open and swallowed the vitamins and iron supplements, washing them down with gulps of Gatorade. He swallowed three burgers without a pause except to drink more liquid, but slowed down enough to begin unfolding a map with his right hand as he bit into the fourth.

She placed her own right hand over his. "Time for that later."

He swallowed a mouthful of meat. "I'm here to advise you on how not to get caught, remember? _I_ tracked you down, after all. What could be a better recommendation?"

"We've planned out the next three days."

"First rule: plan ahead three days, but revise daily."

She lifted his hand and twisted the arm toward his chest, forcing him to face her. His words were cut off as she gazed into his eyes, his mouth closing and his eyelids opening, the green of his eyes reflecting the red in hers.

Her voice was no longer human. "The maps can wait. Finish your meal."

She released his arm and he turned back to the table, finishing the burger and washing it down. Janette stood behind him, pulling his leather jacket off his shoulders as soon as his hands were free, then peeling his T-shirt up over his head. She ran her fingers up and down the soft skin of his torso as she whispered in his ear, her voice once more human, a breathy whisper.

"Get undressed, Alex."

She removed her own clothes while watching him slip out of the clinging jeans, then wrapped her arms around him, tangling her fingers in his hair as she kissed him deeply, as if drawing all his breath out of his body. She tugged his head back.

"Lie down."

She sat beside him and watched the movements of his torso as he breathed, then stroked the thin fur on his chest. His trim form was deceptive; while invisible to the casual observer, the muscles were firm underneath. She ran the edge of a fingernail down his throat while wrapping her left hand around his cock and tracing the circle of hair around his left nipple with her tongue, relishing his moaning, his squirming in her grasp.

"Take it off."

That request brought him back to his senses. He was hesitant at first, as always, just for a moment. As he reached across his chest for the release, he muttered, "remind me why I should believe in this ridiculous scheme."

"You are the one who found me, as you are so fond of reminding me."

"Yes, and I've seen some of what you can do. I have no doubt that you could protect yourself … single-handed, if you will. I've seen you heal. It's still a far cry from growing back a limb. And it doesn't prove you can give me your powers."

She straddled him. "I have told you what I know, Alex. I made no secret of my ignorance of the true extent of regeneration. But I have seen old vampires heal from much greater wounds. An ancient one will know what is possible."

"One like _Raton._"

"I know of none who are older. Mouse may be the oldest on this continent, if what you learned in Guernika is true. We will know when we get there."

As he put the artificial arm aside, she ran her fingertips over the bruised skin. At the same moment she slid his cock inside her. Krycek gasped and shut his eyes; he refused to admit how much was pain and how much pleasure.

Janette closed her eyes, relishing the blood, warm beneath the abused skin of his shoulder. Nowhere was its presence stronger than here; the capillaries were suffused with it, attempting to heal the irreparable damage. His pulse was strong here. She squeezed at the cock inside here, likewise warm and flush and pounding with his heartbeat. His head was thrown back, his lips parted, incoherent sounds issuing from his dry throat as her contractions passed the threshold of human strength. Janette threw her head back as his pulse pounded in her ears, her entire body shuddering with the vibrations. When she tossed her head forward her eyes blazed red, her lips parted to reveal teeth grown into fangs. She made him climax as she sunk them into the scarred flesh, drawing hot blood from the remnants of his arm as she squeezed his cock dry.

She forced herself to concentrate. _Not too much, just enough to keep us both fit to travel._ She dragged herself away, reluctantly; suddenly gentle, she stroked his hair.

"Sleep, Alex."

5 – Asia: Shennongjia Nature Reserve, Central China, 2001

What does a _yeren_ have to do to get noticed?

It’s not like I enjoy rambling around wearing all this fur. I’ve left fur. I’ve left tons of _urine,_ for heaven’s sake. The best fakes what’s left of the Consortium could create.

They had a month of _guided tours_ for tourists. There was even that reporter.

A goddamned _Radio_ reporter.

I even abducted two farmers and made bird sounds for them.

You’d think Mulder would have recognized the wig. But no, he’s still in hiding.

Couldn’t I at least be an American Bigfoot? The food here sucks.