Date: March 27, 2002
Pairing: None (A hint of M/K)
Category: Krycek vignette
Rating: PG
Archive: Sure.
Spoilers: All Krycek eps up to Red and The Black.
My website: http://themkshrine.angelfire.com
Disclaimers: The characters herein belong to Chris Carter and Fox.
Summary: It would have to have a plot to have a summary. It
doesn't.
It had hung in his closet every day that he had worked alongside Mulder in the FBI offices. He had fingered the soft, relatively pristine, recently-purchased dark black leather wistfully as he'd stepped into the poly/cotton-blend junior feeb suits and noosed himself with the red, white, and blue super-patriot power ties. But he hadn't been able to break his cover even long enough to shrug into its strong-smelling embrace in the evenings, never knowing when Mulder might show up at his apartment door, wanting to rehash the details of a case. He wore the suits at work and chinos and sweaters at home, and the jacket hung at the back of his closet, untouched except for the occasional rough finger tracing a sleeve as the cheap suit next to it was pulled from its hanger.
It still bore the scratches on the back and sleeves attesting to its rough treatment when it had offered a meager bit of protection for flesh as he was thrown against a brick wall, his wrist nearly broken as it was divested of its weapon. There were tears in the lining under the arm where it had been wrenched up suddenly. He could have had those repaired, and he could have had the scratches treated so that they were less noticeable. But he didn't. He did have the jacket cleaned from time to time, specifying that only the lining was to be treated, and not the leather. Just because he was a murderous, double- crossing black ops whore didn't mean he had to smell bad. In fact, the inside of the collar always smelled faintly of Old Spice, a testament to his more innocent days when he'd chosen to make that his signature cologne, thinking it was as American as you could get.
It had taken several cleanings later to rid the lining of the smell of panic sweat, smoke, and the pollution of a frighteningly overpopulated city, not to mention an underlying scent of motor oil, the hint of which could still make his heart clench in horror. The tiny blood stains on the cuff had been easier to get rid of, although truth be told, he would have left them there had they not been removed inadvertently with all the other repeated cleanings. The torn black shirt he'd quickly left behind, stuffing it into a garbage bag as soon as his rescuers had brought him clean clothes to change into. Like his jeans and jacket, it was tattered and stretched, covered with blood, sweat, oil, and tears, and unlike the jacket, reminded him only of a week spent in the bowels of hell.
The jacket's own ability to withstand the trials of his life gave him hope and a feeling of permanence, and most of the stains in its lining served as reminders of all that he had survived, giving him strength when he was sure he could not, yet again, wake to face another day.
Not so with the ones all down the inside of the left sleeve. He'd rid himself of those as quickly as possible, telling his cleaner not to return the thing until there was no trace of blood left. He was grateful the men had removed the sleeve before cutting. It had offered him substantial protection against the cold and the rough ground as he'd dragged himself, feverish and delerious, through the forest back to the camp. It might have even saved his life, providing him with a tough, tanned hide shield for the torn, infected skin under it. He'd made sure they'd kept it with him as they'd driven him to St. Petersburg. He hadn't allowed them to remove it from his presence until he was back in the 'States, recuperating in a private hospital, and he could contact his regular cleaner. He'd made sure the importance of the preservation of the garment was not lost on the man. There was little...if anything...in his life he cared to keep around, but he left no gray area in his orders to do everything necessary to get the garment back to him, the lining rid of blood and other body fluids, the leather untouched except for a quick wipe down.
Now he slid his prosthetic into the sleeve and put his other leather glove on his remaining hand. His body was tired and weak with starvation and dehydration, though his new Master had finally allowed him a meal before sending him on his mission. He had not, however, been allowed a change of clothes, so his were rank with sweat and dirt, and filthy, oily water, as well as blood, though this time not his own. His jacket, however, was clean and fresh-smelling, and as he felt its perfectly worn shape conform to his own, he felt the feeling nearest to coming home that he had ever had. The jacket was almost the only constant in his life. Masters and jobs and countries and assignments and finances and safety and priorities and even his body changed on someone else's whim, but the jacket was always there, tough and resilient, accompanying him through it all, protecting him and keeping him warm. There was only one other constant in his life, and encounters with that one never gave him that sense of security and predictability.
Nonetheless, he slammed the clip home in his gun, pulling up his collar against the cold in a gesture so unconscious as to be instinctive, and made his way through the dark night to Hegal Place, a cryptic note tucked into his pocket to engage once again with the only other thing in this life that he could always count on to be what it had always been.
END