"Extreme Measures" XFBandit NOTE: This is one that got written a while ago, and as far as I can dell from Deja News and other search tools, never made it to atxfc. I think (but am not 100% sure,) that it made it XAPEN. So, if you've read this, sorry. And if not, hope ya like it. - - Ed. Disclaiamer: Yadda. Yadda. Blah. Yadda. Classification: Scully/Other, MSR. (Trust me, ya might like this one.) Rating: R - Violence, language. Keywords. Character Death. (Not Scully or Mulder.) Summary: As Scully lies in the hospital from a relapse of her cancer, two men come together to fight a third, and then a fourth, for the cure. Note #2: Warning...I NEVER liked the character that buys it in this story. Whining declarations of love for this particular character will be mocked and then ignored. ;) drambo@sonic.net Holy Cross Medical Center 2002 I'm sitting by her bed, watching the monitors, wondering if each audible beep is marking another second passing until her premature death. She asleep, thank God, not comatose. I tease her, sometimes, that when she sleeps, she _is_ in a coma, but this isn't the time to dredge up that old joke. Old. I grin at my reflection in the front panel of the IV pump six inches to my left. We've been married all of two years, and we already have "old" jokes. That's what makes this so hard for me. I've only begun to know her, and now she's slipping away. There's a shuffle-slide sound from the hall I've come to know as the sound of his arrival. I don't turn in my chair to greet him warmly. It's not that I don't like the guy, because for reasons that I can't begin to explain, I do. It's just that...we're past that stage of having to pretend for Dana's sake. We each know what position in her life we occupy, and when the crossover exists we handle it as best we can. As adults. "Craig," he says softly upon entering the room. "How is she?" "Sleeping," I reply. He nods and moves to the other side of the bed, taking the only other free chair. We study her. "Have you learned anything?" I ask. His eyes find mine across Dana's sheet-draped body and he nods, placing a finger to his lips, his gaze shifting to Scully for a second. I grin in understanding. It's not a friendly, warm, gosh-what-a- good-time-we're-having smile. "Coffee?" I say, standing. I watch a series of emotions flash across Mulder's features. Amazed that I would leave her side at a time like this so casually, and respect that I do know that is has to be done. We stride down the hall to the elevator, take it down four floors to the basement, and walk to the cafeteria. After coffee for me, and a coffee-bagel combo for him, we find a deserted table surrounded by six of its brothers and we sit. "Talk," I say. He takes a bite of the bagel. "Are all doctors as direct and to- the-point as you, Craig?" I shrug. "Most trauma surgeons are." "How much of what happened the last time has Dana told you?" I sit back, crossing my arms, letting my frustration show. "Mulder--, there's no way I'd be able to tell you that. She told me a lot of things, but you're the only person that knows if she told me everything she told _you_." His head bobs, accepting my logic. "Point taken. The last time ... this happened, I managed to gain access to a place I-" "The Pentagon. She told me about that. Through the ARPA access tunnels. Using the ID of a man you shot in the face." "Right," Mulder says. "I can't get in there again. I don't have the access anymore. But there are...things there, things that I think can help her." "What are you going to do?" He takes another bite of the bagel. "Go get them." "How?" He waves his hand in the air as he chews, dismissing my question. Not because he doesn't trust me. He does. Not because he doesn't think I'll understand. We crossed that bridge years ago. Because he doesn't know how he's going to get them, he just knows that he will. And this is why this man is so important to my wife. And, surprised, I discover this is why this man is so important to me. That he would do this without me asking, without me pleading and begging for his assistance. That Dana's well-being is as important to him as it is to me. My mother cannot understand Mulder. She keeps reminding me that a married woman that has a male friend as close, as...special as Mulder will one day stray from the marital bed and take up residence in his. I've given up trying to convince her that Mulder and Dana will never sleep together. I abandoned the argument long ago that they didn't want to, because nothing could be further from the truth. The physical desire they feel for each other is sometimes stronger than the force of gravity. Anyone that spends more than thirty seconds with them can see the physical tension between them. But still, she will not go and if she did, Mulder would not welcome her. It is the nature of this odd relationship that I find myself in that is impossible to explain to my mother, so I've given up trying. She will, I hope, accept it in time. "There's a man-" Mulder says. "Scully may have referred to him as the cancer man, or the-" "Smoker," I say, my voice dangerous, edged with sharp metal. Mulder nods. "He knows how to get what we need, what Scully needs." Like a boxer with his fists, I corner Mulder with my eyes. "And you know how to get to him," I say. After a minute, Mulder nods. "Dana always said that he was somehow...connected. Official." Mulder shrugs. "I don't know how official he is, but he's definitely connected. To the highest levels. Above the highest levels, if my worst fears are true." "So you're going off the reservation on this one?" Without flinching, Mulder nods. I feel so grateful for the existence of this man that I almost want to reach out and hug him. Almost. He finishes the bagel and stands. "I'd better get moving. When she wakes up, would you tell her that I stopped by?" I nod. It's a lie. Not that I wouldn't tell her. It's just that when Dana wakes up, I'm not going to be there. <><> Trailing Mulder was easier than I thought. For someone that has been involved with the things he has, and who is supposedly the most paranoid man Dana ever met, Mulder has almost no idea of his surroundings. He went back to his apartment in Alexandria and changed out of his Bureau-issue suit and tie. He returned half an hour later in jeans a black turtleneck, a well-worn brown leather jacket thrown on over it. He drives to the Wall. He stands in front of one of the panels, staring at the names. I wonder if he knows anyone that was there. From a distance, I make his contact. A blonde woman, perhaps thirty-five, approaches him slowly. They talk. She shakes her head, apparently angry. He insists. She turns to leave. He grabs her arm, spinning her around, his nose an inch from hers. His voice is...angry, hard. She's afraid. She finally nods, and he turns to go. She stops him with a hand on his arm. He turns back, a question on his face. I can't hear her from my position, but it is obvious what she said. First, she asked if he was sure, and when he nodded, she told him to be careful. Through the 12x binoculars, I can clearly see her mouth the words "Eight O'clock. Watergate." Mulder nods and moves off. <><> Watergate Hotel Mulder waits in the darkness. I wait with him. He doesn't know I'm here, yet. At precisely eight, I smell him. Something inside my belly shifts and squirms, and I realize that I'm not afraid after all. I'm actually looking forward to this. It's been a while since I used these skills, and they're coming back to me quickly. The man steps into the light and I have to suppress a gasp. Him. I want to rush from my hiding place and take this man with my bare hands. Blood lust pounds in my hears, in my head, in my heart. If this is the man responsible for Dana's illness, I could cheerfully strangle him. After removing his eyes with a paperclip. I haven't seen him in almost fifteen years. I was but a child then, one of dozens in uniform, better than most, the green felt beret on my head attesting to _that_ fact. The mission, one of several designed and commanded by this man, turned my stomach to this day. A small package had been "lost," the man had claimed, almost sixty miles inside the line we were defending. Late November, before the air war had started, months before Stormin' Norman and his tanks would seal the fate of the megalomaniacal madman to the north. The call sign of the operation was GOLDILOCKS. I was GOLDILOCKS SIX. Once on target, inserted by a black helicopter that made no noise as it moved, the radio crackled to life. The order of the day was to liquidate the village. All sixty three of them. Back then, I knew how to take orders, even uncomfortable, horrific ones. We did as ordered, and an entire Iraqi village vanished in a hail of gunfire. The weapons were Swiss, the ammunition German. Our uniforms, oddly enough, were Japanese, boots Russian. Anyone trying to figure out what had happened here would realize in an instant that a Special Forces hit team had come and gone. But nothing that could link the massacre to the United States existed. Except me. And my men. That had been a lifetime ago. After being discharged, I went to college and then to medical school. Some things you learn in college. Some things you learn in the ugly back alleys of life. And I'd forgotten neither. Mulder approaches the man. "Agent Mulder," the man says. His voice is just as light, just as...melodious as I remember. "I need what you have," Mulder says. "I see. What I have?" "You know what I'm talking about, you son-of-a-bitch." The man nods and takes another drag of his ever-present smoke. "Yes, I do. Pity about Agent Scully." "Spare me your sympathy. Give me what I need." The man shrugs insolently. "It's not that easy, Agent Mulder. This time, it is I that needs you. You and your special skills." Mulder waits, as do I. "The tape," the Smoker finally says. "I don't have it," Mulder insists, and in an instant, I know what he's talking about. Dana told me about it. At first, I'd thought that she had fallen into the paranoia and fantastical dream world that was Mulder's obsession about his sister. But Dana...Dana was the most level- headed person I'd ever known. Besides myself. "The Thinker died for that tape," the Smoker says. "But he wasn't the only one that was aware of it." Mulder waits, knowing there is more. I'm proud of him. Dana taught him to wait, to be patient. "The Thinker," the Smoker says, "had a brother. He calls himself the Dreamer. The Dreamer managed to make a copy of the tape." "For who?" Mulder asks. "Krycek." Mulder starts and I almost gasp. "Where is he?" Mulder asks, his point clear. The Smoker shrugs. "I have no idea. I only know that the body of the Dreamer was found in New York City six days ago." I shudder in the darkness. Dana fell ill five days ago. The connection is clear, and several things become immediately obvious to me. First, that we must find the tape, Mulder and I. Next, we must find this man Krycek. Dana has not told me much about him, but what she has... Krycek is evil incarnate. And third... Third, the Smoker must die. "I have no idea how to find him," Mulder says to the Smoker. "You underestimate yourself, Mr. Mulder," the Smoker says. "You always did." This is true. Dana has told me of how Mulder's life is plagued by self-doubt. Part of her, part of her she has never discussed with me, is sure that is why Mulder has never told her how he feels about her. "You have three friends that are very...capable in matters of this nature. I suggest you utilize them." Mulder considers this. Dana has told me of them. Or one of them, at least. "Not to mention her husband." I tense. Too soon, I think. Mulder's not ready to hear this. I can feel Mulder's tension from across the room. "You know Scully's husband?" he asks. The Smoker nods. "Very well," he says softly. That is a lie. Time to end the charade. I step into the light. "That's not entirely true," I say softly. The Smoker turns his attention back to Mulder. "Maybe it is I who have underestimated you this time, Mr. Mulder." "I had no idea he was here," Mulder says. He turns his attention to me. Were I a lesser man, had I not seen and done the things I have, I might have been scared. I was uncomfortable, for there was Death in Mulder's eyes. I know the look. I've felt it on my own face. "Tell him the truth, or I will," I say. The Smoker studies the lit end of his cigarette a minute, and then decides. He needs the tape more than he needs to keep playing games with Mulder's mind. "Agent Scully's husband was not always a doctor. At one time he... did something for me." "The whole truth," I correct him. "It was war," the Smoker says. "Nothing to do with why you and I have crossed paths, Mr. Mulder. But he does have some uncommon talents that you might find useful in your coming quest." Mulder turns to me, Death still written in his eyes. "Does Scully know?" I shake my head. "When she described this...piece of slime, she never actually described him physically. The first time I heard about him, I thought it might have been the same man, but the coincidence was too great, I thought. I dismissed it. It's never come up again." Mulder accepts this with a short nod. "We'll do it," he says. "I knew you would," the Smoker replies and I want to crush his windpipe and then rip it from his throat, showing it to him as he chokes to death. "Let's go," Mulder says. He turns to leave. I move to follow him, the joy of knowing that when I see this man again I will kill him singing in my veins. "One more thing," the Smoker says, almost casually. Mulder stops. "Agent Scully's time is short. You have less than seventy-two hours to find the tape." "Or?" Mulder asks. "She dies," the Smoker says softly. Mulder and I exchange a glance. We both know the truth. If Scully dies, then the Smoker dies. Him and all his bastards, every last one of them. Nothing will stop us from tracking them to the ends of the Earth and exterminating them like vermin. "Fine," Mulder says. <><> New York City Six hours later, and we have a lead. Mulder used his FBI credentials to get us access to the body. He notices something, something that the medical examiner missed. A mark on the body, what looks like a birthmark but which in reality is a tattoo. He tells me about it as we climb back into the rental car. "A secret society, of sorts. Anarchists. People dedicated to overthrowing the government by any means possible. Not your usual domestic terrorists, bent on blowing up office buildings. They believe in the power of information, of letting the people know what the government really does with tax dollars." This is interesting, but useless. "Not so," Mulder corrects me. "Knowing Krycek...he's infiltrated the group, posing as one of them, using the channels they provide to accomplish his work." He makes a call and gets an address. <><> Amazing how people will talk with a gun shoved in their face. The "headquarters" of this "secret society" of Mulder's is the basement boarding room of an out-of-work computer programmer with delusions of grandeur. Mulder describes Krycek for the man, finishing with "...a stupid- ass haircut and a moral dipstick one quart low." The "anarchist" comes through with a time and a place for a meeting. Mulder releases him with a vague threat to return if he tips Krychek off. <><> In the suburbs of New York City, north, near some place called Scarsdale. A train station. It's like a dance. Mulder knows that Krycek knows his face, and so I've been tapped to make the meet. Krycek is expecting payment for some of the secrets he's released from this tape. The plan is simple. Krycek doesn't know my face. Mulder will point him out. I'll take him. We will find a place to...interrogate Mr. Krycek, and then we'll get the tape and then we'll save Dana. After that, I think, all bets are off. <><> But the unthinkable happens. The train pulls into the station and I wait for Mulder's signal, my eyes watching the commuters as they get off the train. I catch his signal and look. And feel my past reach out to grip me around the throat. Cavanaugh. <><> "I didn't expect to see you here," Cavanaugh/Krycek says. I say nothing. "Do you have my money?" he demands. I hold a buff-colored envelope out. It's filled with newspaper. That's Mulder's signal. Cavanaugh reaches for it. "Name your price," I say softly. He hesitates, giving Mulder more time. "For what?" Cavanaugh asks. "The tape." His eyes narrow. He knows. He turns, his hand digging at his waistband for the pistol I know is there. It's too late. Mulder is upon him. Cavanaugh feels the press of Mulder's pistol in his kidney. "Long time, no see, ratboy," Mulder whispers. Cavanaugh grunts. "What happened, Mulder? Scully finally ditch you." I glance at my temporary partner. Mulder's lips are drawn back over his teeth and I imagine that I can hear the hammer of his pistol inching back as the desire to waste this maggot right here, right now washes over him in a wave of fear and anger and rage. We hustle him off the train platform, into the rental car. I drive. <><> "So," Cavanaugh says. "When did you hook up with Lurch over here?" Mulder glances at me in the rearview. "You know Krycek?" he asks, his voice lilting with that dangerous edge again. "No," I say honestly. "Back then I knew him as Randall Cavanaugh, State Department." Mulder absorbs this. "You know, Craig, the coincidences in your life are starting to worry me." I say nothing. Mulder will have to decide for himself. If he makes the wrong decision, I'll be divorced and Scully will mourn her dead partner. "But that's not his real name," I add. Cavanaugh shifts in his seat. "Watch him," I warn Mulder. "He's a slippery one." "So who is this...asshole?" Mulder asks. Cavanaugh smiles. Until I speak. "Viktor Adams, the son of a Soviet woman and an American diplomat. Born in the Soviet Union. Ex-KGB. First Chief Directorate. Wet work." Mulder digests this. "Viktor there wanted to bring down the West like the rest of the KGB. It was, for a long time, his deepest wish. And he was very good at it. He understands things that the rest of the KGB were...uncomfortable with. Like the positive effect of terrorism for his cause. He was one of the KGB's chief representatives to the international terrorist community. He funneled money to them, set up training camps in the middle east, bought arms and explosives. He was a busy little bee until he double crossed some pretty nasty folks." I glance in the mirror at Viktor. "Japanese Red Army, wasn't it?" He says nothing, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. His secret revealed, he has nowhere to run now, nowhere to hide. "He can pass as American, British, French, German. He speaks a dozen languages and...let's just say he's a nasty little bugger." Mulder nods. He turns to Viktor. "The tape. Now." Viktor shrugs. "Kill me if you want, Mulder. You'll never get the tape from me." He glances at Mulder's gun. "I don't think you have the stomach for it." I smile in the mirror at Mulder. "I do," I say. <><> Mulder is outside, standing watch. Viktor is right; Mulder has no stomach for this. In his own way, he's too good of a person to deal with what's coming. Viktor is tied to a chair in this abandoned warehouse in New Rochelle. There's no one to hear his screams. And he will scream. But, the part of me that is civilized now, the part of me that values life above all other things, wants to give this man one last chance to redeem himself. I draw up another chair. One leg is shorter than the other three, and it wobbles as I settle into it. "I'm a trauma surgeon now," I inform Viktor. "I quit the Army and all that nonsense and went to medical school. I work at Holy Cross in DC. I met and married Dana Scully. She is my wife." Viktor pales at this; good. He wasn't expecting it. "You know me," I hiss. "You know how I've been trained. My medical training has...complimented my Army courses. I know more about pain then you can possibly imagine, Viktor. This is your last chance. Tell me what I need to know." "Why is it so important to you?" Viktor asks. "Because Dana is dying. The man that wants the tape has the cure. It's as simple as that. You have something he wants, and he has something I want. If you give me what he wants, he'll give me what I need, and Dana will live to see a ripe old age. We have two days, Viktor. Forty-eight hours. If you think you can...resist the desires of a man who taught at the School of the Americas, then you're welcome to try." If it is even possible, Viktor pales more. The School of the Americas, Fort Benning, Georgia. A school for democratic terrorism. Where we teach the scum of the Earth a few lessons they didn't already know. To attend their courses in Enemy Interrogation would make you one of the most feared men on the planet. To teach, a God. The God of pain and wrath and thunder and war. I feel it creeping over me and I wait for it to consume my soul. I stand, my fingers reaching, finding the soft skin of his throat. I squeeze. "Mulder loves her more than I do," I say softly, listening to his breath wheezing through my fingers. "He always did. But he's weak. He's seen too much pain and hurt. He can't do what's necessary to achieve victory. He is like Martin Luther King Junior. He thinks that the truth will keep him free. The truth won't make him free, because no one will believe the truth that he so badly wants to expose." I squeeze harder. Viktor's eyes are rolling back into his head. I release my hand, and he gasps. "You and I know what that tape is. It's currency, nothing more, nothing less. With it, you've been able to buy the freedom you need to further your agenda of destruction. That's fine, Viktor. That's what you were assigned to do. It was a mission, a job. "Now, you can spend that currency to save your life. Save my Dana's life. And save Mulder's life. Because, if you do not tell me where that tape is, I will kill you so slowly and so painfully that you will rue the day your great-grandparents...ever....met." My thumb flashes. His left eye implodes. He screams. I stand, flinging my wrist to remove the gore. I wipe my hand on his shirt. "Decide, Viktor. There is no more KGB. You work for yourself now, getting back at a father that abandoned you to political expediency. It wasn't "right," having an American diplomat admit to an affair with a Soviet national. It would look bad." "You know nothing!" Viktor screams in Russian. "I know _everything_," I answer in his native tongue. "What must it be like, for you," Viktor asks, his mother language rich and smooth in his mouth, "to know that your wife harbors lust for another man?" The flat ridge of my hand connects with the cartilage in his nose. I wait a minute for the pain to reach him and then I grasp the ridge between the knuckles of my hand, twisting. He screams again. "She does not lust for him the way you lust for your whores!" I correct him. "She lusts for the gentle soul she senses in him, the soul that I lack." He spits a mouthful of blood into his lap. "Then what do you offer her, killer?" "Stability," I answer. "As solid as mountain rock." I switch to English. "I love her and she loves me and she loves Mulder. That is our life. That will always be our life." I step forward again, reaching for him and he winces, trying to vanish into the wood of the chair itself. "Ah, weakness at last. Viktor, I have always known men like you were weak, that you could only find power in the shadows. When it comes time to...step up to the plate as we say, you would shrink back to that same darkness like a...what was it Mulder called you? Like a rat." "We have only been at this for minutes, Viktor. Tell me where the tape is or these short minutes will seem like days to you, for the hours to come will seem like years." "Do you know what is on the tape?" he chokes through a mouthful of blood. "No, and I do not care." "You have no desire to know what is coming?" I move to the side and come down with my elbow, breaking his collarbone and separating his shoulder. "I do not care," I say softly. "Give me the tape." He says nothing. I withdraw a knife from my left boot. I kneel next to him. "I will cut your Achilles tendon. You will never walk again, never run again, because after I cut, I'll remove it." He says nothing, his eyes daring me. <><> I join Mulder outside half an hour later. "He's still alive," I report. "But barely." Mulder waits. "Grand Central Station. In one of the lockers." I hand him the key. "How long?" "Give me an hour," he says, and vanishes into the night. I return inside. <><> One hour, six minutes later My cellphone trills. I crack it. "Go." "I found it. I also found a computer store open in Times Square. The tape is genuine." I say nothing, waiting to see what Mulder will say. "Is he alive?" I glance at Viktor. "Yes." "What do we do with him?" I say nothing. "I'll be there in forty minutes," Mulder reports. After a minute, he adds, "I won't ask any questions." He hangs up. "We have the tape," I tell Viktor. "Go fuck yourself!" he gasps. I stand and walk to where he is still tied to the chair. "You have a choice," I say. "I can shoot you in the head and this will all be over..." "Or?" he asks. "I can punish you. I can punish you for the pain you put my wife through, the pain you put our best friend through. If you live through the punishment, I will let you go." He considers this. "Do what you must," he whispers. <><> The chair disintegrated minutes ago from the force. Viktor is flat on the ground. I have literally broken every single bone in his body at least once. His legs and arm...several times each. His kneecaps rattle as I kick him in the ribs. But he is still alive. I stop, winded from the effort. I draw the pistol I took from him on the train platform. "You promised," Viktor wheezes through the bloody maw of what was once a handsome face. "Sue me," I say. The shot is loud in the warehouse. <><> Watergate Hotel Mulder hands the tape over. I can see this through the telescopic sight of the Remington 700. My finger itches to take out the slack and drop the Smoker where he stands. "The cure," Mulder demands. "Not yet," the Smoker says, and then holds up a hand as I watch Mulder draw his pistol and shove it in the man's face. "Perhaps you didn't hear me," Mulder says. "Do you think I'm that stupid?" the Smoker asks reasonably. "I know that somewhere inside this garage Agent Scully's husband is waiting to take me out. I have the tape, but you don't have the cure." I fire. There is no sound. The eighteen-inch supressor screwed to the end of the barrel operates as advertised. The first round takes him in the left knee. He goes down to one foot, screaming. "Next shot is the other knee," Mulder says softly. "The cure. Now." The Smoker shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest. His other knee disintegrates. His hands are flat on the pavement. He screams the location of the cure. I pack my rifle quickly. <><> Holy Cross Medical Center Two Days Later She is awake, resting comfortably, upstairs. Mulder and I are in the cafeteria again, getting lunch this time. Lunch for me, anyway. Mulder's having another bagel. "Thank you," I say softly. He nods, dismissing me. "I...heard you," I say. "In the warehouse. In the shadows." "Crying," I add after a minute. "I wasn't crying for him," Mulder points out. I know, and I let my eyes tell him I know why. "It is better this way," I say. "I can protect her. Now that I know the true extent of the...problem, I can protect her." He nods, knowing I'm right, hating it. "She knows, too." "What?" "That you...are in love with her. She is in love with you, too." "Doesn't' that...cause problems?" I shake my head. Not for me, and not for Dana. "No. Because she is in love with me as well. In a different sense, but not any less significant. You are her best friend. I am her husband. Together, we complete her. You have something she needs that I lack, just as I have something you lack." "So," Mulder says, "together, we make one perfect man?" "Something like that," I nod. "Two imperfect men make one perfect man..." "For the perfect woman," Mulder says. <><> FINI