From: RhymePhile@hotmail.com   
      
   Title: "It Conquers" (1 of 1)   
   Author: RhymePhile   
   E-mail: RhymePhile@hotmail.com   
   Distribution: Spread it asunder   
   Rating: PG-13 for adult themes and language   
   Category: V, A   
   Keyword: M/K romance; Krycek POV   
   Spoilers: All of Krycek's episodes up until "Essence" and "Existence"   
   Summary: Krycek recounts how his life changed when he and Mulder worked   
   their first case together.   
   Disclaimer: No profit is being made on the pretty, pretty Boys. Sigh.   
   Author's notes: Written for the final M/K Lyric Wheel, December, 2005.   
   Thanks to Ursula for the lyrics, which can be found at the end of this   
   piece.   
      
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
   "It Conquers"   
   by RhymePhile   
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
      
   It's funny the things you can remember from your childhood: favorite toys,   
   missing teeth, first bicycles...those awkward first kisses on a   
   sunset-drenched porch at the end of a summer day. But those memories aren't   
   mine. My memories are distant and hazy, a fog in which actual events are   
   mixed in with a boyhood spent dreaming I were somewhere else.   
      
   Somewhere, anywhere, but that dank, oppressive apartment on 16th Street,   
   with no favorite toys, first bicycles, or love.   
      
   I've always been a survivor -- and a dreamer -- because of those days. Mama   
   tried, of course, but she was defeated long before the move from Russia. She   
   trudged through her days, desperately clinging to the woman she always   
   imagined herself to be before she was burdened with children she could   
   barely feed, and a husband who treated her like she never mattered.   
      
   It begins as repression, and then becomes disassociation, until it's come to   
   the point that I can only recall the bad memories when I look back -- all   
   except those summer nights outside on the fire escape.   
      
   Mama used to tell me stories, old Russian folk tales that always had a moral   
   but never ended happily. They were meant to be lessons about human nature:   
   love conquers all, but the lovers had to suffer to appreciate what they had   
   been given. Love was a gift that was rare and never to be taken for granted.   
      
   I've identified a lot with those stories of romance over the years. Mama's   
   stories have stuck with me because she needed me to understand that I was   
   worthy of love, despite all the evidence to the contrary when I was growing   
   up. She did her best to protect me from most of it, but I was lost long   
   before then. I hung on her words of dashing princes, magical princesses, and   
   star-crossed lovers regardless.   
      
   As the years went on I began losing more and more of myself to the work, the   
   underhanded dealings, the shady double-crosses, and the death. But I stayed   
   alive, playing the game and moving my pieces to keep them on the board. The   
   survival instincts I honed in that roach- and rat-infested hellhole -- where   
   violence was commonplace -- never left me.   
      
   And neither did those stories Mama gave me. They were like a beacon light I   
   kept hidden in the darkness of my soul. I never allowed anyone to see that   
   deeply. Open yourself up and you only discover you're unprotected; you learn   
   to keep silent, stay vigilant, hide your emotions, don't let anyone get to   
   know you, fight attraction, and shoot first, ask questions later.   
      
   Rules to live by, right? I'm a tough son of a bitch. I've been through shit   
   that would make better men weep. I could pull a trigger with a smile. I've   
   welcomed the evil -- thrived on that cold, empty *nothingness* that washed   
   over me. I drank it in. It kept me alive.   
      
   So when did I become so broken?   
      
   When did Mama's stories start becoming relevant in my life again? I thought   
   I had them safely buried beneath the exterior of the man I claimed to be:   
   the unrepentant killer.   
      
   But when I met him I knew I had been lying to myself.   
      
   He saw through the illusion the minute those intense hazel eyes met mine,   
   and the persona I had carefully constructed for years crumbled at his feet.   
      
   And so my world began and ended with his kiss.   
      
   It was during our first case together, the Augustus Cole killings. I was   
   young and ambitious, and thought nothing of taking a relative   
   run-of-the-mill job as a man on the inside. Spender had taken me under his   
   wing, and I was anxious to prove myself. I find it bizarre now that I   
   thought this man actually cared about me like a father. Only later did I   
   discover it was all a smokescreen -- a sickening, bluish cloud of deception   
   that I honestly never recovered from. I was devoted not to a cause, but to   
   Spender, because I craved the attention and supposed respect.   
      
   Reading up on the man they foolishly referred to as "Spooky" Mulder, it   
   became clear to me that I was really going to have to impress him in order   
   to get him to trust me. He was an Oxford graduate, a golden boy within the   
   Bureau with a preternaturally brilliant mind.   
      
   He may not express it as frequently as some men, but Fox Mulder is an   
   extremely emotional individual. Of course, it took me some time to learn   
   that, because he's frustratingly guarded. I discovered that he was already   
   raw from the dissolution of the X-Files, as well as his separation from   
   Scully, and my sudden introduction did nothing to build a bridge between us.   
   I tried, though. He made getting to know him one of the hardest jobs I've   
   ever attempted.   
      
   Surprisingly, I found it easy to believe the outlandish theories he spouted.   
   I don't think I could ever explain *why* the weird UFO shit made sense to   
   me, but in hindsight I'm glad he was the one to open my eyes. And I never   
   lied to him. I did attend the FBI Academy with a number of assholes who used   
   to whisper his name in the hallways like he was some crackpot mad professor.   
      
   It makes me laugh to think that I would fall in love with a man more   
   comfortable believing in little green men than seeing what was happening   
   right in front of his face.   
      
   I never planned for it to happen, either. I didn't purposely use seduction   
   techniques to build his trust, although we had been trained in such   
   artistry. We just...clicked. I know, I know, it's a banal term for what   
   occurred, but there it is.   
      
   We spent days and nights working that damn case, and after engaging him in   
   discussions about everything from Bigfoot to our preferred flavor of Pixy   
   Stix (I'm a grape man, he's cherry, which he claims is because of our age   
   difference), I realized my assignment wasn't the thing that was motivating   
   me. I discovered a true connection with this man whose background couldn't   
   have been more contrary to mine.   
      
   I had been prepared to do my job, report back to Spender, and move on with   
   the rest of my career, dubious though it was. I thought I had lofty goals to   
   attain -- money to make, people to crush -- but suddenly that all became   
   like a distant buzzing in my ears when he was around me.   
      
   The night we finally cornered Augustus Cole in the Bronx Station train yard   
   I had made up my mind to support Mulder's battle to expose the truth. The   
   assignment didn't matter anymore, nor did the promises of advancement and   
   monetary gain. The only thing I cared about was spending more time with the   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)