*Twelve*
Just like she told me to, I went home. Musing on my own foolishness, driving in my stupid car in the stupid rain, back to my stupid apartment and standing in front of number 42 for a fucking stupid moment, wondering whether or not I would burst into tears as soon as I got inside.
Yes.
Fuck.
It's like she takes every chance she can get to doubt me for the sake of doubting me, ignoring the striking pattern of our career together which indicates that my far-out theories, however implausible, are always closer to the truth than her caution and cynic. How can she pride herself on those inconclusive tests which she holds up to the Bureau as a useless – oh, but utterly believable – shrug of the shoulders? I would rather have the water cooler people call me Spooky than be so adverse to a teensy leap of sci-fi faith that I make my partner cry.
I sat down on the couch and buried my face in my hands. I reached around to take off my gun and put it on the table, and then resumed choking quietly, filling with pain, feeling the tears begin to stream. This was one case, and she had turned it into a metaphor for my whole life. The way she stared at me ... I must have looked so stupid. She must have wanted nothing more than for me to leave her alone, let her have a moment of peace. God. Does she know how cruel that was?
I wiped the tears away and stared into the darkness, only now noticing that I had neglected to turn on a light. Then I remembered I didn't care, and closed my eyes. I hated the fact that I could tell the shadows of my apartment from the shadows of a motel room, or from the shadows of any other place that was not a symbol of permanency, of being forever stuck on this side of the impenetrable wall of truth.
I stopped crying and listened to the air. Something was different. Something was looming indiscernibly out of the ordinary, had I not grown so accustomed to my ordinary. I knew. And then ...
"Dobrui vyeh'cher." (And the subtitle reads, Good evening.)
I leapt to my feet and reached for my weapon, only to discover that it was no longer on the table, but rather in the hand of the intruder, who was pointing it at my chest. I grudgingly held my hands up and looked at him with disgust. I should've noticed him taking my gun, really. I don't know how he got it, but more important than that was whether or not he was going to kill me with it. Darkness usually make things happen faster, but for some reason the look exchanged between us was delayed. It's the craziest thing, but as we stood there for what seemed like minutes, with the contour of his face defined by the patch of streetlight seeping through my window, I knew he wouldn't. Kill me, I mean. After years of encountering this face that seemed to belong in the dark, I felt I could read it. He wasn't just here for a fight, he had something to say.
"Go ahead then," I told him. "What is it, Krycek?"
à la prochaine