Fic: "Tunguska"
Dec. 17th, 2008 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Tunguska
Fandom: X-Files/Torchwood crossover
Characters: Alex Krycek, Jack Harkness
Setting: X-Files: 5x13-Patient X / Torchwood: Pre-Series
Rating: R
Length: 7200
Summary: 1998, Tunguska. Curiosity killed the cat.
Notes: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sanginmychains for the beta, rm for research assistance and malow for the Russian.
Cardiff, Wales
The phone rings. The main area of the Hub is drenched in darkness. Small lights burn above the work stations, and the hibernating computers blink steadily. The antiquated ring of the telephone spirals through the Hub. Harkness picks up after a look over his shoulder. He waits and listens.
"When? Where?"
He draws a circle around the 15 on a calendar on the desk in front of him, scratches 'Kazakhstan' into the margin then rips off the sheet for the month.
"You better pay well." He scratches out 'Kazakhstan'.
The laughter is a whisper outside the phone. He glances up. Hopkins looks down from the office. Harkness pushes the speaker button and the laughter fills the Hub's grounds.
"You know we do, Captain Harkness. We want the boy." Metallic voice, English accent, Northern.
The phone clicks, the monotone of a dead line follows, and Harkness leans back in the chair, watching Hopkins. "So do we."
Hopkins nods and disappears in his office, draws the blinds.
Harkness sits in the dark, waiting. Then he pulls up the maps.
near Tunguska village, Russia
five days later
It's been raining the last two days. The ground hasn't had time to absorb the water, leaving the leaves and dead tree remains soggy amidst the brushwork. Water runs down the inside of his hood, nestles in the small of his back and reminds him of the cold around him every time he inhales. One hand trailing along the high, spiked fence, he continues to wade along the small beaten path used by patrols. He has another two minutes before the next round.
He chances a careful look left and right, then drops to his knees and spares himself the dramatic sigh at the water seeping through his jacket and to his skin within moments. There's no-one to appreciate it. The jacket comes recommended for jobs like this, but even Cardiff can't compare to Siberia.
Fingers red and stiff from the cold draw away the makeshift platter of leaves he's left earlier and continue to dig in the wet soil. He tears at small roots and tiny stones. They rip at the skin of his fingers, leave shallow cuts. He shuffles the earth to the side, pushes his hand underneath the fence to pull more of the gravel through and away.
One minute and three, two, one. His wristband gives the first warning signal of time. The building structures peek out through the heavy curtain of rain behind the fence, cloaked in grey. There's activity on the site; a group of people, workers or prisoners, march from one building to another. Tall chimneys blow smoke into the clouds, a grey in grey in grey world.
Fourty-six, fourty-five.
Gun: cocks.
Harkness jerks for his own without taking the time to turn, but his fingers are crushed to the ground before they can close around the grip of his revolver. He grits his teeth, lifts the other hand in surrender. He breathes white clouds into the air. The water that has soaked through to his skin is freezing, the wind chilling it further.
"Ty kto?" It's spit out, dirty and cold against his ear, voice rough and the weight of the man rougher on his hand, bones ground together beneath the heavy boot. The press of a leg to his back, then the knee slides just off the spine and pushes between two ribs instead.
Harkness shakes his head, lifts his hand higher. "Angliski!" It comes out in a spray of water, before 'Don't Shoot' and 'Fuck' can force their way through. "Angliski!" He digs his fingers in deeper and pulls, the chances to get away never as good as now. His hand slips from under the boot as he shifts his weight, begins to roll around.
"Cut the shit."
The gun presses hard to his neck, fits itself just on top of his spine, finding a soft spot to burrow into. The barrel's rough edge scrapes along his skin, and the guy's breath, while warm, coils cold around his body. American accent. Water streams around the barrel, following the preceding rain rivulets under his clothes.
"You American?" Harkness tries to twist around, but the gun shifts to his temple. He yields to the pressure and molds into the fence, pressed to the grating. The split second doubt about an electric current comes and goes between the yield and the bite of the metal to his face.
Behind him, the other guy slips in the mud, and Harkness slips around in turn, trying for purchase on the wet ground. Hands grab for clothes, arms and the gun; his hand tries again for his revolver. Fingertips graze the revolver's butt, twist it out of the holster, but then the barrel of the gun pushes under his chin and forces his head back. The guy is leaning on him, a hard arm across his throat, unyielding. Harkness coughs, swallows rain, coughs more. There are no stars out tonight.
"Who the fuck are you?" The guy is in his face, voice low. His knees dig into all the wrong places. His breath stinks of vodka and cigarettes.
"Just coming by? Nice place here." Harkness laughs, and his gaze flickers along the left, then right of the fence as he twists under the guy's weight. He can't make out the guy's face, only the white of the eyes, thin lips curled in disgust, but the fence gleams long and lonely in front of him. Harkness strains against the guy's weight, but the arm is hard across his throat, pushing him deeper into the fence.
"Don't fuck with me, asshole."
The fence groans and gives way, crackling. Ironic that it might snap like this when he's spent the last day trying to dig underneath like a terrier.
The patrol, AKs slung over their shoulders, shuffle through the mud with heavy steps as they draw near. Two minutes, exactly. They slip the guns off their shoulders, talk, with him splayed out along the fence and the other guy kneeling astride. Harkness catches 'Angliski' but not much more.
He shifts, using the moment of distraction, the lessening of pressure across his throat, and begins to crawl out and away. The gun catches him about the jaw, unexpected once he has already shifted well away from body contact, and drops him face first to the wet ground. A low sound escapes his now-bloodied lips, and he spits out into the rain, head ringing, as he pushes up, glares, uses the fence to pull himself upright. The patrol smirk as they give a lazy salute and shared laughter before they continue on. It irks.
"Don't try anything stupid." The guy pats him down with the gun hand, like an amateur, finds the Webley with ease, finds the knife, and pockets both. "Anything else on you?" He turns Harkness's wrist over and unstraps the leather band with a frown and a curious turn to it before he pockets that also.
"Wouldn't tell you, would I?" Harkness spits at the ground. Some of the spray of blood catches the guy in the face. The guy just laughs, low in his chest. That, too, irks. Harkness kicks out, but the guy sidesteps easily. Something is off about his movements, but it's hard to pinpoint in the rain and with both of them moving.
The guy drags them both up, no handcuffs, pushes him to his feet and forward, the gun resting lower on his spine, digging into a spot not made for it. Harkness rubs his hand over his mouth, spits out more blood and is marched forward. The walk drags along mudslides and underneath trees, then they are in through the gate, and if he was enough of a fool, he'd claim it had been his plan from the start.
"Been my plan from the start, you know," Harkness comments, off-hand.
The snort behind Harkness comes unamused and without further elaboration. A barked order gets them into the building.
"Looking for ghosts, yeah, how about that. I thought I'd take a look around. There's no harm in that, is there? So there I was, just prowling. Ghostbuster. Been raining an awful lot lately, I have a feeling-"
"Shut the fuck up." The gun presses harder.
Harkness can't quite suppress the smirk. Their boots leave dirt along the hallway. A cleaning lady peeks around the corner, a mumbled greeting and half-bow before she disappears with her supplies again. The wheels of her little wagon screech along the linoleum hallway. Neon lights flicker in her wake. The rush of old pipes overhead and the hallway dark in front of them. A scream echoes along the walls. It gives Harkness pause, but the gun urges him forward. The metal is warming against his neck, now that they are out of the steady rain. He looks around for glimpses of what he's come for and sees only closed doors and shady hallways.
"In there." The guy kicks the door open. It crashes against the wall.
Nothing but a chair and a table. There's no recorder or glass-wall to give the illusion of protocol being followed. It's cold, Siberian summer, but the rain is sticking to his skin. The breeze in the room adds wind-chill, and his teeth chatter. He clenches his jaw and straightens his back.
Harkness's shoulders bunch up in tension as he ambles towards the chair, plunks down on it and forces calm into his voice and posture. "Nice place you have here."
Clad in black, the guy stands by the door: medium height, average face, looking a bit like a rat coming in from the rain. He holds the gun pointed loosely in front with one hand, Sig P225, standard model but not for Russian forces. He pulls up snot. It still leaks to his lips. He rubs his face on his shoulder, eyes trained on Harkness. A red streak of abrasion is rising below the nose, the lips chapped. His right shoulder is turned towards Harkness as if to cover for something, possibly an injury. Harkness narrows his eyes at that, calculating for an escape route. On the off-chance it's a weapon, he'll have to risk it. There are not enough chances in these games to waste one.
"Who are you." The guy lifts the gun higher, aiming. The non-question comes from behind clenched teeth and harsh exhalation.
Harkness shrugs, feigning disinterest as he leans back and watches the guy. "Any chance I can get a change of-"
"Who are you."
"Look it's really-"
"Who are you."
"If you want my phone number-" The smirk slides off his lips when the gun is under his chin a moment later, pressing his head back and the chair to a precarious balance. He grabs onto the guy's jacket, his shoulder, to keep the chair upright. The gun comes down on his hand, forcing his fingers open, and he crashes to the ground. The chair skitters halfway across the room.
"Who are you."
Harkness spits blood to the floor. It slides down his chin and hangs on to it, pale and red. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, the gash in his lip. "It's fucking freezing."
"It's Russia." Barked laughter echoes around the empty room.
Harkness peers up. Water drips into his eyes from his hair, a cough starts low in his chest. The cement is damp. The water from his clothes only adds to it.
"Who are you."
Harkness rests his face on his arms, eyes closed for a moment of cold darkness. He shakes his head.
"Who are you."
Relentless.
"Who are you." The guy crouches in front of Harkness. The gun tips his chin up and his head back, a painful stretch.
"None of your business."
"Who are you."
Harkness rolls his eyes despite the cough choking him. "You won't get anything out of me." He manages a smirk with chattering teeth.
The guy laughs, low and dirty, and the vodka fumes of his breath drift towards Harkness, making him gag. The guy weighs the gun in his hand, shrugs. "The thing is, you came here to find something. The thing is, you won't find anything like this." He smiles. The calculating edge in it isn't pretty. "The thing is, the only thing you can get is whatever I give you."
"You're offering a deal?" Harkness's voice skirts off, broken by the weather.
The guy says nothing.
"You-"
"Think about it." The guy straightens up and walks out, a cool smile on his face and a plastic gun in his hand. The door falls closed.
Harkness stretches and walks around the room, touching walls and ceiling and moving tired fingers along the doorframe and the small gaps that allow air to flow freely. Fingernails, dirty and broken from the mud outside, scratch around grey plaster for weak spots and edges, but while shoddily built and breaking apart, the place offers no easy way out. The neon light flickers. He coughs.
He straightens the chair, sits on it, then the draft gets too cold, and he turns the chair to its side, crouches behind it. Head on his knees, he counts seconds. Lids heavy, his eyes close and open again, fall closed and jerk open. Half a thought chases a number and never returns, and he finds his lips pressed to the seat of the chair, throat dry, face hot, when he thinks to count again.
Joints protest when he stretches and crosses to the wall again. He picks at a spot of mold in the corner.
The door opens. The guy steps in and settles against a wall by the door, watching.
Harkness looks up and watches in turn, lips tight. There aren't enough voices behind the walls to scheme on a grand scale; he'll have to contend with immediate action or none at all.
Harkness's hair is still damp, even after hours. "You have no legitimate reason to keep me here."
The guy's eyebrows rise, just a little, and the corner of his mouth turns up as he shifts his weight to the other foot. "Asking for a lawyer next? Who are you."
"I claim diplomatic immunity."
"No, you don't." He smirks. "You'd be the first diplomat to dig into a military installation instead of coming in through the front door." He smiles, generous and wide and insincere.
"Doesn't say military installation. Says Gulag. Says Mining." Harkness can't help the smugness and refuses to try.
The guy's smile slips. "Did your homework, didn't you? Who are you."
Harkness falls silent. His jaw pulses with pain.
"Who are you."
Harkness shifts his weight forward. The door is half open, beckoning, and the guy's weight is on the wrong foot. Harkness tenses and uncoils from the floor in one fluid movement, past exhaustion and cold and fever. Head lowered, he charges at the guy and hits him low on his weak side. His momentum propels them against the wall. Harkness goes for the left arm and yanks it down hard. The arm gives, then stops. Harkness squeezes, and there is no flesh underneath to give away.
Harkness draws his foot back to kick out, but the guy has his gun leveled at Harkness's head that one split-second faster.
The guy shakes his head. "Don't even think about it." He smirks.
Harkness stares at him, draws back his fist.
The guy shoves his gun against Harkness's forehead, then leans closer. "I can beat you with one hand, asshole." He pushes away and leaves, and the sound of the door falling closed takes the glimmers of escape plans with it.
Time passes.
Harkness stands and his muscles protest in stiffness. He walks around the room, watches his breath form clouds and the clouds disappear, weaving away with the draft. No windows. The odd sounds from outside filter in through the walls and door: voices, dogs, screams. Exhaustion skirts through his body. He leans against the wall, forehead and cheek pressed to the plaster. His face welcomes the cold to chase off the burning fever, but his body is protesting the notion.
How'd a guy lose an arm? Accident or someone giving him a piece of his own crap? The wall's cool to his forehead. It chases away any plans he could make. There is always one way out, but death is hardly permanent.
When the door opens again, he looks over his shoulder, squinting. "So you're saying you're offering a deal."
The guy shrugs, his stance a little more balanced.
Harkness can't keep the smirk to himself. There's more surprise than appreciation, and it increases when the guy scowls.
"You'll let me go in exchange for a name and no-one will be harmed. It's not a fucking movie." Harkness fixates on the guy. "You're a lousy liar."
The pause stretches. The guy just stares at him.
Harkness gestures with his hands as if to add something of importance, then lets them drop, raises them again. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
The guy looks up towards a corner of the room, shrugs. "It's Russia." The lips pull into a smirk as if it's explanation enough. "You came for whatever you were looking to find. I want to know what and why. Simple enough?"
"Hunting ghosts," Harkness offers with a defiant smile.
The guy turns on his heel and leaves the room and the cold empty space behind. The lock clicks into place behind him, and the sound echoes.
The breeze brushes over Harkness's face. Both keeping the wet clothes on his body and shrugging out of them are far from ideal. The compromise of shrugging out of the jacket leaves him warmer until the draft drags goose bumps over his limbs. He curls up against the wall, but the cold outside seeps through the stones while the wetness from the ground sifts up through the cement. The cold has lost its soothing touch and turned into sly torture.
The light stays on, unchanging.
Harkness falls into short naps and jerks awake moments later. The low glimmer of the fever pokes around his lobes. He coughs up slime and bile, drifts in and out between the coughing fits. The pulsing ache from the force of the gun to his jaw distracts from the cold for moments, before another draft of air breaks through the thin shirt shielding.
The door opens. The guy walks in and steps to the side, leans against the wall. A woman walks around him, eyes averted and almost afraid. She carries a tray, syringes and needles on it. She kneels next to Harkness, pulls off his jacket and shirt far enough to bare his arm, swabs a bit of skin with alcohol and jabs the needle in, drawing blood. He doesn't fight. She is so young.
"Help, please," Harkness whispers. Her hair smells clean and warm, and the guilt pokes in his guts. "Pomotsch." Rasped and uneasy. "Help me."
Her eyes are wide with non-comprehension and fear. So sweet. So innocent.
"Don't." The gun presses to just under his ear, digging in.
Harkness looks up, opens his mouth for a reply.
The guy smirks. "Don't." He releases the safety and shifts the gun to press to the girl's temple. His eyes never leave Harkness's, and Harkness's never leave the girl's.
The girl freezes in mid-movement. Only her hands are shaking, the needle and the syringe full with his blood in her fingers, the rest of her body is still, lips open, and Harkness can feel her breath on his face, full of life and warmth. He wants to hold her and tell her that it's okay, taste her lips and kiss her hair.
Harkness relaxes from coiled tension.
Hushed whispers are exchanged above him, the sharp sounds of Russian in deep and high voice, tinged with secrecy. Then she leaves, and the door closes behind her.
"Still willing to play the game?"
Harkness doesn't reply, just closes his eyes.
The door closes just as a scream starts outside. It is high-pitched and burning one moment, and muffled to a whisper penetrating the walls the next. Harkness keeps his eyes closed.
The door opens. Time has passed.
"Who are you."
Harkness squints up at the guy, gives a weak smile. "What's the deal?"
The guy laughs, leans against the door jamb. He hasn't bothered with the leather gloves. Hard plastic extends from the left sleeve. "What makes you think there's a deal?"
"You said." Harkness stares at the plastic, then up at the guy with a deliberate smile.
"I could have been fucking with your mind. There could have been a deal yesterday." He shrugs.
The gun lies easy in his hand. Harkness's eyes are drawn to the gun, to the hand, to the guy's face. He would kill for some vodka now, dry clothes. Either, or. "Could've. But you weren't." A scream sounds outside. He tries for a smirk from player to player. His lip breaks open on the cut that has barely healed. He tastes blood, and the smirk falters.
"I wasn't. Or maybe I am, but you wouldn't know until after."
"Who do you work for? Them? You're not military. They take your arm?"
The guy grins, teeth showing and something dark in the eyes. The guy gives a shrug. "You're not a ghost hunter." Outside a siren goes off, dogs bark. There are shouts.
"I am, sometimes." Harkness coughs, the thought broken, and leans his head back against the wall, cold sweat on his forehead.
"Really." Unimpressed. "Who are you."
"Ghosthunter. What's the deal?"
"Who said there was a deal?" The guy steps forward, the heavy tread of the boots, dogs behind the walls, sniffing, barking. He crouches in front of Harkness, gun loosely pointed at his head, finger on the trigger. The guy's breath smells of cheap, Russian fags, strong enough to break you apart.
"Got a smoke?"
The smirk, then a sharp caress of the gun to Harkness's jaw.
Harkness laughs. "You that desperate? Can't get any otherwise, can you?"
The smirk doesn't waver. The barrel of the gun passes across Harkness's lips and between them, clacking against the teeth. "Are you?"
Breath held and carefully exhaled through the nose. The metal is cold on his lips, biding its time as it's warming. The guy sits in his crouch, eyes level. Harkness pries his teeth apart, and the barrel slides deeper. Gulping rising bile, he gives one suck, tongue pressed to the underside of the barrel, a lover's caress to metal and gun oil.
Laughter rings out as the barrel slips from Harkness's lips, taking bloodied spit with it that stretches between lips and gun, then falls and clings to Harkness's chin. The guy rubs the spit off on Harkness's trousers. "Would you let me shove it up your ass, too, for a smoke?"
Harkness holds the gaze. A pack of cigarettes and a box of matches land at his feet. He grabs for them, makes a show of lighting a fag without a shake to the fingers, inhaling slowly. The guy is watching, smirking.
"And the deal?" Harkness smokes, words blowing out with grey clouds.
"Who says there is a deal?" The guy shrugs and the door closes behind him. The dogs are still barking behind the wall.
Harkness counts time in cigarettes, slow drags to make the pack last. But when the last cigarette's ember dies, there is no way to continue telling minutes from hours, and he exists in the floating nowhere, the occasional scream and bark and laughter breaking the silence.
"Killing yourself?" The guy kicks the empty pack back to Harkness's feet. It skitters, odd paper sound. Harkness hasn't heard the door opening.
"Am I succeeding?"
"No. Why are you here."
Harkness laughs. Stiff fingers flick a cigarette butt across the room. "You brought me here. Found anything in my blood?"
"No." The word comes too slow. The guy narrows his eyes. "Who are you."
Harkness laughs.
"What were you looking to find here?"
"Why don't you tell me?" Harkness pushes himself to his feet, back along the wall. Hard not to notice the cold even after so long, hard not to notice the dizziness and the pounding in his skull, even as he narrows his eyes at the guy.
"I'm not the one who's gambling with death."
Another laugh.
"Who are you."
Harkness keeps on laughing, a broken record catching on always the same edge, looping. The guy leaves. The door falls closed with a bang that vibrates along the wall. Harkness's laughter dies to a chuckle. It feels like a cheap victory. He coughs and slides down to crouch against the wall again.
Time passes in grey.
"Who are you."
It wakes him from sleep or fatigue. Eyes opened, he catches sight of the military trousers and has to crane his head back to look the guy in the eyes. The gun lies along the guy's thigh, a hand's width away. "Brought your toy again?"
"Who are you."
"What's the deal." He ignores the gun.
"Who said there'd be a deal."
"You did." Harkness resists the urge to kick at an ankle.
"I lied."
Harkness grins. "No, you didn't."
"Who do you work for."
"Freelancing." He whistles. He tries for one at least: it comes out broken and flimsy.
The guy continues to stare at him. After a pause and another breath, he smiles. "You have 15 hours."
"What?" He can't help the confusion, or the cold sweat.
The guy crouches. "We found something in your blood." The smirk is low, dangerous and catapults straight into the low regions of Harkness's gut like an iron fist. "We ran a few tests, tried a few things, free blood, endless supply." He shrugs and leans close to Harkness. "I know what you came for. How do you feel about knowing?"
Harkness swallows hard.
"It's an isolated infection, and yet it kept going back to uninfected every time without any interference. Merged into black one moment, completely consumed, and no trace of it the next. We never thought there could be a vaccine, yet-" The guy pulls back, eyebrows raise and he pushes himself to his feet. "Now I'm interested."
"What are you talking about?" The edge of despair is unwelcome, and he shoves the blind panic down. "What the fuck are you on about?"
"15 hours. Who are you. Think about it." The guy smirks and turns on his heel, walks out.
The door closes, the sound soft over the roar of pulsing blood in his ear. Harkness sits and stares at the chipped paint and the marks in the wall. He adds his own. His fingernail scratches at the chalky wall, thoughts fast, and he can't pin them down.
The next scream startles him. The door remains closed. He rests his head against the wall, allowing his eyes to fall shut.
"Who are you."
It doesn't wake him from slumber that time. He shrugs. "What's a name going to tell you."
"Who pays you."
"For this? Don't believe they ever gave their name."
"What do you know about this place?"
Harkness laughs, a little tired to his own ears, but still a laugh. "You tell me. You know everything, don't you? Guy with a gun, only one arm and a hard-on for killing people-"
"Who are you."
Harkness shakes his head. The guy releases the safety of the gun and levels it at Harkness. Harkness stares straight at him. "You're interested." The words are parroted, and he kicks at the unease they cause. "I'm useless dead."
The guy wavers, hesitant, then he pockets the gun.
Harkness shifts up, opens his mouth, but then the girl enters with a tray with syringes. She kneels next to Harkness, but Harkness never looks away from the guy. He watches him, the dip of his mouth, the curl of the fingers around the butt of the gun, anxious to shoot, anxious to have him disposed off, anxious for something.
The needle jabs into his arm, but it doesn't draw blood. Confused, he looks down. It presses fluid into the vein. The girl catches his gaze. She shakes her head. He reaches for the needle, fear, but her fingers, small and soft and fragile hold his hand to his chest and away. A word dies on his lips.
There is no death, there is only waking up with an indrawn gasp. Harkness looks up, orienting himself. The guy is leaning against the wall. It's still cold, the clothes are still damp. It's still the same room; it can't have been more than a few hours, at the most.
"No, I wouldn't call that useless." The guy strokes his thumb along the barrel of the gun before he looks up at Harkness again. "I'd call that very useful."
"What's the deal?" His voice is a little too hoarse.
"There is no deal."
"What's the deal?"
The guy walks closer, stops when his boots touch Harkness's thigh. "The deal is," he crouches, "that you'll make the kind of guinea pig they've been looking for. You'll never get out of here. That's the deal."
"They?"
The guy shrugs.
"Black Oil." Harkness tastes the words like they mean something more than ink on paper to him, something caught on an archived note. "Black Cancer."
The guy raises one eyebrow, appreciative glance, but he drops it a moment later. "Among other things, yeah."
"What do you want." The question mark is bitten off, swallowed in no pride.
"Who are you."
"You don't want my name."
The guy grins. "No." 'Not anymore' rings in the tone.
"You have a boy. In Kazakhstan. I want him." Harkness looks off to the side.
"You won't get him. Who pays you. Who are you."
Harkness shrugs. "Never gave his name. He's American." He repeats the shrug, then glances up at the guy.
The guy stares back at him, face blank. "So you're just random hired goods."
"As I said. Useless." Harkness gives him a smirk as he pushes himself up along the wall, watching for a crack in the façade. "Like you."
The guy smiles, low and dirty. "You have no idea."
Harkness shakes his head. "Who do you work for?"
The guy smiles. "None of your business." He pauses as he turns towards the door. "Nine hours." He walks out.
The door falls closed, and Harkness is left with hazy memories of confusion. He gags but swallows the bile as he walks to the wall opposite, left to stare at the plaster and tracing fingertips along rough edges. There are no memories. He's shivering.
When the door opens again, the guy has the gun drawn on Harkness before he moves. Harkness stares down the barrel of the gun, waits. The guy motions Harkness further into the room before he lowers his aim.
"Who hired you." The guy smiles.
"Don't know him."
"Who hired you."
"Don't know."
"Who hired you."
Harkness keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug and lets them drop again. Jaws clenched, he glances up at the guy, daring him to keep on asking questions without answers. "What are you going to do if I refuse to play the game?"
The guy steps forward, close to Harkness. "You try to dig your way in for a few thousand and you're in so far over your head it's already swallowed you. This stopped being about the boy you want when you started digging that fucking hole out there."
Harkness smiles. "It's about what I know."
The guy breathes hard through his teeth. "No. It's about what you are and who found you."
The guy shrugs and the door opens behind him. A burly man pushes a crotchety table on wheels into the room. The old metal moans with every motion. They exchange words in Russian. The syringes on the table are familiar, crusted with dust and dirt. Harkness misses the girl.
The guy looks evenly at Harkness.
"It was an American guy, I don't know anything else." Harkness backs to the wall when the burly one advances.
"Who hired you."
"An American!" Harkness looks at the guy.
The guy looks back at him, slowly shaking his head. "He wasn't American. And I don't make deals with fools."
Harkness jumps to the side, but the needle catches him in his thigh. It pulls him far under. Suspended in midair and floating, not dead or dying but teetering along the border, he swims; not quite awake, not quite sleeping.
When he wakes, grating is stretched over his face. It cuts into his skin. The room is dark. There is the noise of machinery. He tries to shift, move, but the grating is tight over his body. He has clothes, but they are soaked. He is cold. A door opens somewhere behind him. He attempts to turn his head but doesn't succeed. There is metal below him. It's slick with fluid.
The guy steps into his vision, gun out. "Endless supply," he murmurs.
"He was American." It's the last defiance. Something drops to his skin, cold and thicker than water.
"It's alive, you know." The guy stands next to him. The gun runs along his arm, dipping into the spaces between wires, another cold metal touch. "Black oil."
He knows the words. He can only guess at the meaning. Harkness closes his eyes, lips tight. More dribbling fluid, thick and slick at the same time, drops to his face. It runs from his cheek to his ear and he tries to turn his face.
"Who are you."
Harkness gives a laugh. It echoes like a signal in distress around the room. "It was an American, I don't know his name. He never gave it. You know, people aren't in the habit of giving out names-" A drab of fluid catches him on the lips, and he snaps his teeth shut, his lips close. He feels it, moving, wriggling.
"It's alive." The guy grins, then doesn't. He just looks at him, watching.
More of the thick fluid drips down and it moves, not one slick movement, but the movement of many along his skin, like snails but reaching deeper. The fluid winds and unwinds along his skin, squeezing between closed lips and moving into his nose, down his mouth, into his eyes and throat choking him. The guy is watching, still watching. Harkness fights the grating, twists, turns. The world goes black.
There is nothing. It's not even death.
Harkness wakes with a cough, choking still, but brings up bile and thick slime. It drips from the corner of his mouth, runs down his chin and cheeks. He heaves deep breaths, opens his eyes, but the room is the same, and the grating is still there.
"Who hired you." The guy is watching as Harkness chokes on the dead fluid.
Harkness calms his shaky breaths, the panic at the taste of the fluid in his mouth, the bits of it stuck to his lips. His stomach rolls. "American." It's a gasp.
Harkness recoils at the fresh fluid dripping down from above. "American! He was American!"
"Oh no, he wasn't, Captain Harkness." Harkness tries to turn his face, but the grating won't allow for it. The voice – English, Northern – comes from behind him. He can't make out the face, but he doesn't need to, to recognize the voice from the phone. "Didn't expect to see you quite this way."
Harkness tenses under the grating. "You-."
The Englishman gives a non-committal sound. There is a pause, a screech of machines above him. Fluid drips. Harkness tenses, and his eyes fall shut. Maybe he begs.
"Release him." That voice is new, American. Not the guy – this voice is deeper, coughing.
Harkness opens his eyes.
"What?" The guy turns, gun at the ready. "What the fuck?!" The guy's breath comes harsh between his teeth, the words spit out and sounding almost Russian in their rage. Harkness watches the outrage in the eyes, the surprise and incredulity that play across his face. The guy looks at Harkness, then past him. His left arm is hanging unmoving, a useless piece of plastic, while the fingers of his right hand grip the gun in chalk white. The guy pales, reddens, then pales again. His veins stand out on his neck.
"Do we really-" The voice from the phone sighs.
"Release him, Krycek."
"But we can fucking use him!" The guy, Krycek, gestures with his gun like a child who had his toys taken away. "We can-" he gestures at Harkness, breath going out of him in one motion.
"Release him. Now." The voice allows no argument or hesitation
Krycek bends over Harkness, teeth clenched tight and every movement edgy, as he releases the grating with sharp movements, lips tight with suppressed emotion. The grating scratches over Harkness, rips at his clothes and skin. It leaves small cuts in its wake. Harkness sits up and blinks into the circle of men, two of them deep in the shadows, only smoke uncoiling. He waits for something, some kind of explanation or identification. He waits for his body to stop shaking. He claws at his lips, getting rid of the dead fluid, black oil.
"His possessions," the American continues. His voices is flat, bored, and Krycek drops the Webley, the wristband, the knife on the table. The knife skitters across the metal and drops. Krycek glares at Harkness, daring him to say something.
Harkness stares at Krycek. "Beat me with one hand, eh?" he hisses.
Harkness snaps the wristband around his wrist. He fixates on the voice from the phone, can't really make him out in the dark. His revolver is in his hand, pointing at them, for the lack of other targets, pointing at something. "What the-"
"Another time." The American voice cuts in mid-sentence.
"You-"
"Another. Time. Captain Harkness."
Harkness peers at the shadows, trying to make out faces and expressions. He opens his mouth in retort, in question, then shuts it again. He can see the American, smoke around him. Harkness levels the gun at them, at Krycek. The American laughs, low and broken by lung cancer, and spreads his arms. Harkness's aim wavers; he gestures with the gun, then lowers it.
Krycek walks up to the men. Harkness can make out harsh whispers, Krycek in their faces, then the American and the Englishman leave: leaving him with Krycek, or Krycek with him.
"Who are you?" Harkness slides off the gurney, fingers the metal grating. He fights the unease in his body, the rolling stomach, the anger that pitches his voice deep.
"None of your business."
"Krycek, is it?" Harkness's eyes narrow as he advances on Krycek, pushing off the gurney.
Krycek smiles, his gun at his side, low and dirty. The rage tightens the lines in Krycek's face, the dropped corner of the mouth, the awkward stance, the tight lips of a defeat he doesn't want to admit. His posture betrays him, and it pulls Harkness deeper into his own anger.
"Who the fuck are you? What kind of fucked-up game are you playing here?"
Krycek says nothing and stands his ground, that off-smile on his lips.
Harkness shoves Krycek against the wall, arm across his throat. The gun lies between them, pressing between thigh and thigh, imprinting. "Black oil." The panic drips into his voice, scratching it raw. "What the fuck is that stuff?"
"You're fucked if you have to ask. Or not, apparently." Krycek laughs, pitched low and dangerous.
"What kind of fucked-up game-"
Krycek shoves back at him, brings up the gun under Harkness's chin as he pushes him back against the gurney. "Doubt it's your game. But if it is, you are playing a dangerous hand, Harkness."
The grating shifts under his fingers with the slick fluid coating palms and metal. The laugh he doesn't feel pushes his chin against the barrel of the gun. "And which one would that be? The one where you shoot me up with shit? The one where I'm laid out for you-" He kicks at Krycek's knee hard enough to find the distraction to pull his revolver out and point it at Krycek in turn.
Harkness can smell Krycek's breath, his sweat, watches Krycek's eyes flicker between his face and the gun. He pushes off the gurney to back away from that place and the unnatural slickness of the metal. Holding at gunpoint and held at gunpoint, their breathing is the only sound in the room.
Krycek's gun doesn't waver in his grip, even as he is balanced slightly backward.
"They gonna cut off the other one for this?"
Krycek's jaw clenches.
"Happen often? Someone waltzing in on your territory?" It's small revenge, and small satisfaction.
Krycek spits at him. "Kiss my ass, Harkness. It was never about you."
"Looks to me like they fucked you over." The laugh is forced but honest. Harkness puts his revolver to Krycek's forehead. "What side are you on?"
Krycek laughs.
Harkness draws the barrel down Krycek's cheek and across his lips. The metal catches on chapped skin.
"If you liked it so much- " Krycek smiles even as the metal slips between his lips. He doesn't suck. Condescension rolls off him as he lowers his own gun and pushes it into the back of his trousers, standing, waiting. Then he steps back, letting the gun slip from his mouth.
"What side are you on?" Harkness's finger is on the trigger, the gun still pointed at Krycek.
Krycek watches him, turns and walks towards the door. "There are no sides in a war, only actions."
"There are losers and winners." Harkness's shout rings steady.
"What- and you think you've won?"
Krycek walks out. The door falls shut with a low thump. It leaves Harkness in the darkness, the smell of bodies and decay around him, and something he can't quite place. There's no light. There's no-one but him, and he stands with his gun in his hand aiming at nothing, the ghost of an enemy.
Cardiff, Wales,
two days later
Hopkins sits behind his desk, arms crossed in front of his chest. Harkness leans against the closed door; the blinds are drawn and a small bulb is burning dim light across the desk. The noises of the others down on the Hub's main floor ring up muffled.
"You saw them?"
Harkness shrugs. "Not really, no."
"What's their game?" Hopkins leans back. "Where's the boy? The alien-"
"I don't know. With one of them? I don't know." Harkness stares at the floor, up at Hopkins. He brings his hand up, as if to gesture in explanation, then lowers it and shakes his head. "They-"
The phone rings, an old ring, a few decades removed.
Hopkins looks at Harkness, Harkness looks at the phone, then crosses towards the desk. He picks it up, turns the speaker on. "Yes?"
A cough, and then the American voice. "Captain Harkness, I understand the circumstances of our meeting were unfortunate but given mutual interests…"
Fandom: X-Files/Torchwood crossover
Characters: Alex Krycek, Jack Harkness
Setting: X-Files: 5x13-Patient X / Torchwood: Pre-Series
Rating: R
Length: 7200
Summary: 1998, Tunguska. Curiosity killed the cat.
Notes: Thank you to
sanginmychains for the beta, rm for research assistance and malow for the Russian.Cardiff, Wales
The phone rings. The main area of the Hub is drenched in darkness. Small lights burn above the work stations, and the hibernating computers blink steadily. The antiquated ring of the telephone spirals through the Hub. Harkness picks up after a look over his shoulder. He waits and listens.
"When? Where?"
He draws a circle around the 15 on a calendar on the desk in front of him, scratches 'Kazakhstan' into the margin then rips off the sheet for the month.
"You better pay well." He scratches out 'Kazakhstan'.
The laughter is a whisper outside the phone. He glances up. Hopkins looks down from the office. Harkness pushes the speaker button and the laughter fills the Hub's grounds.
"You know we do, Captain Harkness. We want the boy." Metallic voice, English accent, Northern.
The phone clicks, the monotone of a dead line follows, and Harkness leans back in the chair, watching Hopkins. "So do we."
Hopkins nods and disappears in his office, draws the blinds.
Harkness sits in the dark, waiting. Then he pulls up the maps.
near Tunguska village, Russia
five days later
It's been raining the last two days. The ground hasn't had time to absorb the water, leaving the leaves and dead tree remains soggy amidst the brushwork. Water runs down the inside of his hood, nestles in the small of his back and reminds him of the cold around him every time he inhales. One hand trailing along the high, spiked fence, he continues to wade along the small beaten path used by patrols. He has another two minutes before the next round.
He chances a careful look left and right, then drops to his knees and spares himself the dramatic sigh at the water seeping through his jacket and to his skin within moments. There's no-one to appreciate it. The jacket comes recommended for jobs like this, but even Cardiff can't compare to Siberia.
Fingers red and stiff from the cold draw away the makeshift platter of leaves he's left earlier and continue to dig in the wet soil. He tears at small roots and tiny stones. They rip at the skin of his fingers, leave shallow cuts. He shuffles the earth to the side, pushes his hand underneath the fence to pull more of the gravel through and away.
One minute and three, two, one. His wristband gives the first warning signal of time. The building structures peek out through the heavy curtain of rain behind the fence, cloaked in grey. There's activity on the site; a group of people, workers or prisoners, march from one building to another. Tall chimneys blow smoke into the clouds, a grey in grey in grey world.
Fourty-six, fourty-five.
Gun: cocks.
Harkness jerks for his own without taking the time to turn, but his fingers are crushed to the ground before they can close around the grip of his revolver. He grits his teeth, lifts the other hand in surrender. He breathes white clouds into the air. The water that has soaked through to his skin is freezing, the wind chilling it further.
"Ty kto?" It's spit out, dirty and cold against his ear, voice rough and the weight of the man rougher on his hand, bones ground together beneath the heavy boot. The press of a leg to his back, then the knee slides just off the spine and pushes between two ribs instead.
Harkness shakes his head, lifts his hand higher. "Angliski!" It comes out in a spray of water, before 'Don't Shoot' and 'Fuck' can force their way through. "Angliski!" He digs his fingers in deeper and pulls, the chances to get away never as good as now. His hand slips from under the boot as he shifts his weight, begins to roll around.
"Cut the shit."
The gun presses hard to his neck, fits itself just on top of his spine, finding a soft spot to burrow into. The barrel's rough edge scrapes along his skin, and the guy's breath, while warm, coils cold around his body. American accent. Water streams around the barrel, following the preceding rain rivulets under his clothes.
"You American?" Harkness tries to twist around, but the gun shifts to his temple. He yields to the pressure and molds into the fence, pressed to the grating. The split second doubt about an electric current comes and goes between the yield and the bite of the metal to his face.
Behind him, the other guy slips in the mud, and Harkness slips around in turn, trying for purchase on the wet ground. Hands grab for clothes, arms and the gun; his hand tries again for his revolver. Fingertips graze the revolver's butt, twist it out of the holster, but then the barrel of the gun pushes under his chin and forces his head back. The guy is leaning on him, a hard arm across his throat, unyielding. Harkness coughs, swallows rain, coughs more. There are no stars out tonight.
"Who the fuck are you?" The guy is in his face, voice low. His knees dig into all the wrong places. His breath stinks of vodka and cigarettes.
"Just coming by? Nice place here." Harkness laughs, and his gaze flickers along the left, then right of the fence as he twists under the guy's weight. He can't make out the guy's face, only the white of the eyes, thin lips curled in disgust, but the fence gleams long and lonely in front of him. Harkness strains against the guy's weight, but the arm is hard across his throat, pushing him deeper into the fence.
"Don't fuck with me, asshole."
The fence groans and gives way, crackling. Ironic that it might snap like this when he's spent the last day trying to dig underneath like a terrier.
The patrol, AKs slung over their shoulders, shuffle through the mud with heavy steps as they draw near. Two minutes, exactly. They slip the guns off their shoulders, talk, with him splayed out along the fence and the other guy kneeling astride. Harkness catches 'Angliski' but not much more.
He shifts, using the moment of distraction, the lessening of pressure across his throat, and begins to crawl out and away. The gun catches him about the jaw, unexpected once he has already shifted well away from body contact, and drops him face first to the wet ground. A low sound escapes his now-bloodied lips, and he spits out into the rain, head ringing, as he pushes up, glares, uses the fence to pull himself upright. The patrol smirk as they give a lazy salute and shared laughter before they continue on. It irks.
"Don't try anything stupid." The guy pats him down with the gun hand, like an amateur, finds the Webley with ease, finds the knife, and pockets both. "Anything else on you?" He turns Harkness's wrist over and unstraps the leather band with a frown and a curious turn to it before he pockets that also.
"Wouldn't tell you, would I?" Harkness spits at the ground. Some of the spray of blood catches the guy in the face. The guy just laughs, low in his chest. That, too, irks. Harkness kicks out, but the guy sidesteps easily. Something is off about his movements, but it's hard to pinpoint in the rain and with both of them moving.
The guy drags them both up, no handcuffs, pushes him to his feet and forward, the gun resting lower on his spine, digging into a spot not made for it. Harkness rubs his hand over his mouth, spits out more blood and is marched forward. The walk drags along mudslides and underneath trees, then they are in through the gate, and if he was enough of a fool, he'd claim it had been his plan from the start.
"Been my plan from the start, you know," Harkness comments, off-hand.
The snort behind Harkness comes unamused and without further elaboration. A barked order gets them into the building.
"Looking for ghosts, yeah, how about that. I thought I'd take a look around. There's no harm in that, is there? So there I was, just prowling. Ghostbuster. Been raining an awful lot lately, I have a feeling-"
"Shut the fuck up." The gun presses harder.
Harkness can't quite suppress the smirk. Their boots leave dirt along the hallway. A cleaning lady peeks around the corner, a mumbled greeting and half-bow before she disappears with her supplies again. The wheels of her little wagon screech along the linoleum hallway. Neon lights flicker in her wake. The rush of old pipes overhead and the hallway dark in front of them. A scream echoes along the walls. It gives Harkness pause, but the gun urges him forward. The metal is warming against his neck, now that they are out of the steady rain. He looks around for glimpses of what he's come for and sees only closed doors and shady hallways.
"In there." The guy kicks the door open. It crashes against the wall.
Nothing but a chair and a table. There's no recorder or glass-wall to give the illusion of protocol being followed. It's cold, Siberian summer, but the rain is sticking to his skin. The breeze in the room adds wind-chill, and his teeth chatter. He clenches his jaw and straightens his back.
Harkness's shoulders bunch up in tension as he ambles towards the chair, plunks down on it and forces calm into his voice and posture. "Nice place you have here."
Clad in black, the guy stands by the door: medium height, average face, looking a bit like a rat coming in from the rain. He holds the gun pointed loosely in front with one hand, Sig P225, standard model but not for Russian forces. He pulls up snot. It still leaks to his lips. He rubs his face on his shoulder, eyes trained on Harkness. A red streak of abrasion is rising below the nose, the lips chapped. His right shoulder is turned towards Harkness as if to cover for something, possibly an injury. Harkness narrows his eyes at that, calculating for an escape route. On the off-chance it's a weapon, he'll have to risk it. There are not enough chances in these games to waste one.
"Who are you." The guy lifts the gun higher, aiming. The non-question comes from behind clenched teeth and harsh exhalation.
Harkness shrugs, feigning disinterest as he leans back and watches the guy. "Any chance I can get a change of-"
"Who are you."
"Look it's really-"
"Who are you."
"If you want my phone number-" The smirk slides off his lips when the gun is under his chin a moment later, pressing his head back and the chair to a precarious balance. He grabs onto the guy's jacket, his shoulder, to keep the chair upright. The gun comes down on his hand, forcing his fingers open, and he crashes to the ground. The chair skitters halfway across the room.
"Who are you."
Harkness spits blood to the floor. It slides down his chin and hangs on to it, pale and red. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, the gash in his lip. "It's fucking freezing."
"It's Russia." Barked laughter echoes around the empty room.
Harkness peers up. Water drips into his eyes from his hair, a cough starts low in his chest. The cement is damp. The water from his clothes only adds to it.
"Who are you."
Harkness rests his face on his arms, eyes closed for a moment of cold darkness. He shakes his head.
"Who are you."
Relentless.
"Who are you." The guy crouches in front of Harkness. The gun tips his chin up and his head back, a painful stretch.
"None of your business."
"Who are you."
Harkness rolls his eyes despite the cough choking him. "You won't get anything out of me." He manages a smirk with chattering teeth.
The guy laughs, low and dirty, and the vodka fumes of his breath drift towards Harkness, making him gag. The guy weighs the gun in his hand, shrugs. "The thing is, you came here to find something. The thing is, you won't find anything like this." He smiles. The calculating edge in it isn't pretty. "The thing is, the only thing you can get is whatever I give you."
"You're offering a deal?" Harkness's voice skirts off, broken by the weather.
The guy says nothing.
"You-"
"Think about it." The guy straightens up and walks out, a cool smile on his face and a plastic gun in his hand. The door falls closed.
Harkness stretches and walks around the room, touching walls and ceiling and moving tired fingers along the doorframe and the small gaps that allow air to flow freely. Fingernails, dirty and broken from the mud outside, scratch around grey plaster for weak spots and edges, but while shoddily built and breaking apart, the place offers no easy way out. The neon light flickers. He coughs.
He straightens the chair, sits on it, then the draft gets too cold, and he turns the chair to its side, crouches behind it. Head on his knees, he counts seconds. Lids heavy, his eyes close and open again, fall closed and jerk open. Half a thought chases a number and never returns, and he finds his lips pressed to the seat of the chair, throat dry, face hot, when he thinks to count again.
Joints protest when he stretches and crosses to the wall again. He picks at a spot of mold in the corner.
The door opens. The guy steps in and settles against a wall by the door, watching.
Harkness looks up and watches in turn, lips tight. There aren't enough voices behind the walls to scheme on a grand scale; he'll have to contend with immediate action or none at all.
Harkness's hair is still damp, even after hours. "You have no legitimate reason to keep me here."
The guy's eyebrows rise, just a little, and the corner of his mouth turns up as he shifts his weight to the other foot. "Asking for a lawyer next? Who are you."
"I claim diplomatic immunity."
"No, you don't." He smirks. "You'd be the first diplomat to dig into a military installation instead of coming in through the front door." He smiles, generous and wide and insincere.
"Doesn't say military installation. Says Gulag. Says Mining." Harkness can't help the smugness and refuses to try.
The guy's smile slips. "Did your homework, didn't you? Who are you."
Harkness falls silent. His jaw pulses with pain.
"Who are you."
Harkness shifts his weight forward. The door is half open, beckoning, and the guy's weight is on the wrong foot. Harkness tenses and uncoils from the floor in one fluid movement, past exhaustion and cold and fever. Head lowered, he charges at the guy and hits him low on his weak side. His momentum propels them against the wall. Harkness goes for the left arm and yanks it down hard. The arm gives, then stops. Harkness squeezes, and there is no flesh underneath to give away.
Harkness draws his foot back to kick out, but the guy has his gun leveled at Harkness's head that one split-second faster.
The guy shakes his head. "Don't even think about it." He smirks.
Harkness stares at him, draws back his fist.
The guy shoves his gun against Harkness's forehead, then leans closer. "I can beat you with one hand, asshole." He pushes away and leaves, and the sound of the door falling closed takes the glimmers of escape plans with it.
Time passes.
Harkness stands and his muscles protest in stiffness. He walks around the room, watches his breath form clouds and the clouds disappear, weaving away with the draft. No windows. The odd sounds from outside filter in through the walls and door: voices, dogs, screams. Exhaustion skirts through his body. He leans against the wall, forehead and cheek pressed to the plaster. His face welcomes the cold to chase off the burning fever, but his body is protesting the notion.
How'd a guy lose an arm? Accident or someone giving him a piece of his own crap? The wall's cool to his forehead. It chases away any plans he could make. There is always one way out, but death is hardly permanent.
When the door opens again, he looks over his shoulder, squinting. "So you're saying you're offering a deal."
The guy shrugs, his stance a little more balanced.
Harkness can't keep the smirk to himself. There's more surprise than appreciation, and it increases when the guy scowls.
"You'll let me go in exchange for a name and no-one will be harmed. It's not a fucking movie." Harkness fixates on the guy. "You're a lousy liar."
The pause stretches. The guy just stares at him.
Harkness gestures with his hands as if to add something of importance, then lets them drop, raises them again. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
The guy looks up towards a corner of the room, shrugs. "It's Russia." The lips pull into a smirk as if it's explanation enough. "You came for whatever you were looking to find. I want to know what and why. Simple enough?"
"Hunting ghosts," Harkness offers with a defiant smile.
The guy turns on his heel and leaves the room and the cold empty space behind. The lock clicks into place behind him, and the sound echoes.
The breeze brushes over Harkness's face. Both keeping the wet clothes on his body and shrugging out of them are far from ideal. The compromise of shrugging out of the jacket leaves him warmer until the draft drags goose bumps over his limbs. He curls up against the wall, but the cold outside seeps through the stones while the wetness from the ground sifts up through the cement. The cold has lost its soothing touch and turned into sly torture.
The light stays on, unchanging.
Harkness falls into short naps and jerks awake moments later. The low glimmer of the fever pokes around his lobes. He coughs up slime and bile, drifts in and out between the coughing fits. The pulsing ache from the force of the gun to his jaw distracts from the cold for moments, before another draft of air breaks through the thin shirt shielding.
The door opens. The guy walks in and steps to the side, leans against the wall. A woman walks around him, eyes averted and almost afraid. She carries a tray, syringes and needles on it. She kneels next to Harkness, pulls off his jacket and shirt far enough to bare his arm, swabs a bit of skin with alcohol and jabs the needle in, drawing blood. He doesn't fight. She is so young.
"Help, please," Harkness whispers. Her hair smells clean and warm, and the guilt pokes in his guts. "Pomotsch." Rasped and uneasy. "Help me."
Her eyes are wide with non-comprehension and fear. So sweet. So innocent.
"Don't." The gun presses to just under his ear, digging in.
Harkness looks up, opens his mouth for a reply.
The guy smirks. "Don't." He releases the safety and shifts the gun to press to the girl's temple. His eyes never leave Harkness's, and Harkness's never leave the girl's.
The girl freezes in mid-movement. Only her hands are shaking, the needle and the syringe full with his blood in her fingers, the rest of her body is still, lips open, and Harkness can feel her breath on his face, full of life and warmth. He wants to hold her and tell her that it's okay, taste her lips and kiss her hair.
Harkness relaxes from coiled tension.
Hushed whispers are exchanged above him, the sharp sounds of Russian in deep and high voice, tinged with secrecy. Then she leaves, and the door closes behind her.
"Still willing to play the game?"
Harkness doesn't reply, just closes his eyes.
The door closes just as a scream starts outside. It is high-pitched and burning one moment, and muffled to a whisper penetrating the walls the next. Harkness keeps his eyes closed.
The door opens. Time has passed.
"Who are you."
Harkness squints up at the guy, gives a weak smile. "What's the deal?"
The guy laughs, leans against the door jamb. He hasn't bothered with the leather gloves. Hard plastic extends from the left sleeve. "What makes you think there's a deal?"
"You said." Harkness stares at the plastic, then up at the guy with a deliberate smile.
"I could have been fucking with your mind. There could have been a deal yesterday." He shrugs.
The gun lies easy in his hand. Harkness's eyes are drawn to the gun, to the hand, to the guy's face. He would kill for some vodka now, dry clothes. Either, or. "Could've. But you weren't." A scream sounds outside. He tries for a smirk from player to player. His lip breaks open on the cut that has barely healed. He tastes blood, and the smirk falters.
"I wasn't. Or maybe I am, but you wouldn't know until after."
"Who do you work for? Them? You're not military. They take your arm?"
The guy grins, teeth showing and something dark in the eyes. The guy gives a shrug. "You're not a ghost hunter." Outside a siren goes off, dogs bark. There are shouts.
"I am, sometimes." Harkness coughs, the thought broken, and leans his head back against the wall, cold sweat on his forehead.
"Really." Unimpressed. "Who are you."
"Ghosthunter. What's the deal?"
"Who said there was a deal?" The guy steps forward, the heavy tread of the boots, dogs behind the walls, sniffing, barking. He crouches in front of Harkness, gun loosely pointed at his head, finger on the trigger. The guy's breath smells of cheap, Russian fags, strong enough to break you apart.
"Got a smoke?"
The smirk, then a sharp caress of the gun to Harkness's jaw.
Harkness laughs. "You that desperate? Can't get any otherwise, can you?"
The smirk doesn't waver. The barrel of the gun passes across Harkness's lips and between them, clacking against the teeth. "Are you?"
Breath held and carefully exhaled through the nose. The metal is cold on his lips, biding its time as it's warming. The guy sits in his crouch, eyes level. Harkness pries his teeth apart, and the barrel slides deeper. Gulping rising bile, he gives one suck, tongue pressed to the underside of the barrel, a lover's caress to metal and gun oil.
Laughter rings out as the barrel slips from Harkness's lips, taking bloodied spit with it that stretches between lips and gun, then falls and clings to Harkness's chin. The guy rubs the spit off on Harkness's trousers. "Would you let me shove it up your ass, too, for a smoke?"
Harkness holds the gaze. A pack of cigarettes and a box of matches land at his feet. He grabs for them, makes a show of lighting a fag without a shake to the fingers, inhaling slowly. The guy is watching, smirking.
"And the deal?" Harkness smokes, words blowing out with grey clouds.
"Who says there is a deal?" The guy shrugs and the door closes behind him. The dogs are still barking behind the wall.
Harkness counts time in cigarettes, slow drags to make the pack last. But when the last cigarette's ember dies, there is no way to continue telling minutes from hours, and he exists in the floating nowhere, the occasional scream and bark and laughter breaking the silence.
"Killing yourself?" The guy kicks the empty pack back to Harkness's feet. It skitters, odd paper sound. Harkness hasn't heard the door opening.
"Am I succeeding?"
"No. Why are you here."
Harkness laughs. Stiff fingers flick a cigarette butt across the room. "You brought me here. Found anything in my blood?"
"No." The word comes too slow. The guy narrows his eyes. "Who are you."
Harkness laughs.
"What were you looking to find here?"
"Why don't you tell me?" Harkness pushes himself to his feet, back along the wall. Hard not to notice the cold even after so long, hard not to notice the dizziness and the pounding in his skull, even as he narrows his eyes at the guy.
"I'm not the one who's gambling with death."
Another laugh.
"Who are you."
Harkness keeps on laughing, a broken record catching on always the same edge, looping. The guy leaves. The door falls closed with a bang that vibrates along the wall. Harkness's laughter dies to a chuckle. It feels like a cheap victory. He coughs and slides down to crouch against the wall again.
Time passes in grey.
"Who are you."
It wakes him from sleep or fatigue. Eyes opened, he catches sight of the military trousers and has to crane his head back to look the guy in the eyes. The gun lies along the guy's thigh, a hand's width away. "Brought your toy again?"
"Who are you."
"What's the deal." He ignores the gun.
"Who said there'd be a deal."
"You did." Harkness resists the urge to kick at an ankle.
"I lied."
Harkness grins. "No, you didn't."
"Who do you work for."
"Freelancing." He whistles. He tries for one at least: it comes out broken and flimsy.
The guy continues to stare at him. After a pause and another breath, he smiles. "You have 15 hours."
"What?" He can't help the confusion, or the cold sweat.
The guy crouches. "We found something in your blood." The smirk is low, dangerous and catapults straight into the low regions of Harkness's gut like an iron fist. "We ran a few tests, tried a few things, free blood, endless supply." He shrugs and leans close to Harkness. "I know what you came for. How do you feel about knowing?"
Harkness swallows hard.
"It's an isolated infection, and yet it kept going back to uninfected every time without any interference. Merged into black one moment, completely consumed, and no trace of it the next. We never thought there could be a vaccine, yet-" The guy pulls back, eyebrows raise and he pushes himself to his feet. "Now I'm interested."
"What are you talking about?" The edge of despair is unwelcome, and he shoves the blind panic down. "What the fuck are you on about?"
"15 hours. Who are you. Think about it." The guy smirks and turns on his heel, walks out.
The door closes, the sound soft over the roar of pulsing blood in his ear. Harkness sits and stares at the chipped paint and the marks in the wall. He adds his own. His fingernail scratches at the chalky wall, thoughts fast, and he can't pin them down.
The next scream startles him. The door remains closed. He rests his head against the wall, allowing his eyes to fall shut.
"Who are you."
It doesn't wake him from slumber that time. He shrugs. "What's a name going to tell you."
"Who pays you."
"For this? Don't believe they ever gave their name."
"What do you know about this place?"
Harkness laughs, a little tired to his own ears, but still a laugh. "You tell me. You know everything, don't you? Guy with a gun, only one arm and a hard-on for killing people-"
"Who are you."
Harkness shakes his head. The guy releases the safety of the gun and levels it at Harkness. Harkness stares straight at him. "You're interested." The words are parroted, and he kicks at the unease they cause. "I'm useless dead."
The guy wavers, hesitant, then he pockets the gun.
Harkness shifts up, opens his mouth, but then the girl enters with a tray with syringes. She kneels next to Harkness, but Harkness never looks away from the guy. He watches him, the dip of his mouth, the curl of the fingers around the butt of the gun, anxious to shoot, anxious to have him disposed off, anxious for something.
The needle jabs into his arm, but it doesn't draw blood. Confused, he looks down. It presses fluid into the vein. The girl catches his gaze. She shakes her head. He reaches for the needle, fear, but her fingers, small and soft and fragile hold his hand to his chest and away. A word dies on his lips.
There is no death, there is only waking up with an indrawn gasp. Harkness looks up, orienting himself. The guy is leaning against the wall. It's still cold, the clothes are still damp. It's still the same room; it can't have been more than a few hours, at the most.
"No, I wouldn't call that useless." The guy strokes his thumb along the barrel of the gun before he looks up at Harkness again. "I'd call that very useful."
"What's the deal?" His voice is a little too hoarse.
"There is no deal."
"What's the deal?"
The guy walks closer, stops when his boots touch Harkness's thigh. "The deal is," he crouches, "that you'll make the kind of guinea pig they've been looking for. You'll never get out of here. That's the deal."
"They?"
The guy shrugs.
"Black Oil." Harkness tastes the words like they mean something more than ink on paper to him, something caught on an archived note. "Black Cancer."
The guy raises one eyebrow, appreciative glance, but he drops it a moment later. "Among other things, yeah."
"What do you want." The question mark is bitten off, swallowed in no pride.
"Who are you."
"You don't want my name."
The guy grins. "No." 'Not anymore' rings in the tone.
"You have a boy. In Kazakhstan. I want him." Harkness looks off to the side.
"You won't get him. Who pays you. Who are you."
Harkness shrugs. "Never gave his name. He's American." He repeats the shrug, then glances up at the guy.
The guy stares back at him, face blank. "So you're just random hired goods."
"As I said. Useless." Harkness gives him a smirk as he pushes himself up along the wall, watching for a crack in the façade. "Like you."
The guy smiles, low and dirty. "You have no idea."
Harkness shakes his head. "Who do you work for?"
The guy smiles. "None of your business." He pauses as he turns towards the door. "Nine hours." He walks out.
The door falls closed, and Harkness is left with hazy memories of confusion. He gags but swallows the bile as he walks to the wall opposite, left to stare at the plaster and tracing fingertips along rough edges. There are no memories. He's shivering.
When the door opens again, the guy has the gun drawn on Harkness before he moves. Harkness stares down the barrel of the gun, waits. The guy motions Harkness further into the room before he lowers his aim.
"Who hired you." The guy smiles.
"Don't know him."
"Who hired you."
"Don't know."
"Who hired you."
Harkness keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug and lets them drop again. Jaws clenched, he glances up at the guy, daring him to keep on asking questions without answers. "What are you going to do if I refuse to play the game?"
The guy steps forward, close to Harkness. "You try to dig your way in for a few thousand and you're in so far over your head it's already swallowed you. This stopped being about the boy you want when you started digging that fucking hole out there."
Harkness smiles. "It's about what I know."
The guy breathes hard through his teeth. "No. It's about what you are and who found you."
The guy shrugs and the door opens behind him. A burly man pushes a crotchety table on wheels into the room. The old metal moans with every motion. They exchange words in Russian. The syringes on the table are familiar, crusted with dust and dirt. Harkness misses the girl.
The guy looks evenly at Harkness.
"It was an American guy, I don't know anything else." Harkness backs to the wall when the burly one advances.
"Who hired you."
"An American!" Harkness looks at the guy.
The guy looks back at him, slowly shaking his head. "He wasn't American. And I don't make deals with fools."
Harkness jumps to the side, but the needle catches him in his thigh. It pulls him far under. Suspended in midair and floating, not dead or dying but teetering along the border, he swims; not quite awake, not quite sleeping.
When he wakes, grating is stretched over his face. It cuts into his skin. The room is dark. There is the noise of machinery. He tries to shift, move, but the grating is tight over his body. He has clothes, but they are soaked. He is cold. A door opens somewhere behind him. He attempts to turn his head but doesn't succeed. There is metal below him. It's slick with fluid.
The guy steps into his vision, gun out. "Endless supply," he murmurs.
"He was American." It's the last defiance. Something drops to his skin, cold and thicker than water.
"It's alive, you know." The guy stands next to him. The gun runs along his arm, dipping into the spaces between wires, another cold metal touch. "Black oil."
He knows the words. He can only guess at the meaning. Harkness closes his eyes, lips tight. More dribbling fluid, thick and slick at the same time, drops to his face. It runs from his cheek to his ear and he tries to turn his face.
"Who are you."
Harkness gives a laugh. It echoes like a signal in distress around the room. "It was an American, I don't know his name. He never gave it. You know, people aren't in the habit of giving out names-" A drab of fluid catches him on the lips, and he snaps his teeth shut, his lips close. He feels it, moving, wriggling.
"It's alive." The guy grins, then doesn't. He just looks at him, watching.
More of the thick fluid drips down and it moves, not one slick movement, but the movement of many along his skin, like snails but reaching deeper. The fluid winds and unwinds along his skin, squeezing between closed lips and moving into his nose, down his mouth, into his eyes and throat choking him. The guy is watching, still watching. Harkness fights the grating, twists, turns. The world goes black.
There is nothing. It's not even death.
Harkness wakes with a cough, choking still, but brings up bile and thick slime. It drips from the corner of his mouth, runs down his chin and cheeks. He heaves deep breaths, opens his eyes, but the room is the same, and the grating is still there.
"Who hired you." The guy is watching as Harkness chokes on the dead fluid.
Harkness calms his shaky breaths, the panic at the taste of the fluid in his mouth, the bits of it stuck to his lips. His stomach rolls. "American." It's a gasp.
Harkness recoils at the fresh fluid dripping down from above. "American! He was American!"
"Oh no, he wasn't, Captain Harkness." Harkness tries to turn his face, but the grating won't allow for it. The voice – English, Northern – comes from behind him. He can't make out the face, but he doesn't need to, to recognize the voice from the phone. "Didn't expect to see you quite this way."
Harkness tenses under the grating. "You-."
The Englishman gives a non-committal sound. There is a pause, a screech of machines above him. Fluid drips. Harkness tenses, and his eyes fall shut. Maybe he begs.
"Release him." That voice is new, American. Not the guy – this voice is deeper, coughing.
Harkness opens his eyes.
"What?" The guy turns, gun at the ready. "What the fuck?!" The guy's breath comes harsh between his teeth, the words spit out and sounding almost Russian in their rage. Harkness watches the outrage in the eyes, the surprise and incredulity that play across his face. The guy looks at Harkness, then past him. His left arm is hanging unmoving, a useless piece of plastic, while the fingers of his right hand grip the gun in chalk white. The guy pales, reddens, then pales again. His veins stand out on his neck.
"Do we really-" The voice from the phone sighs.
"Release him, Krycek."
"But we can fucking use him!" The guy, Krycek, gestures with his gun like a child who had his toys taken away. "We can-" he gestures at Harkness, breath going out of him in one motion.
"Release him. Now." The voice allows no argument or hesitation
Krycek bends over Harkness, teeth clenched tight and every movement edgy, as he releases the grating with sharp movements, lips tight with suppressed emotion. The grating scratches over Harkness, rips at his clothes and skin. It leaves small cuts in its wake. Harkness sits up and blinks into the circle of men, two of them deep in the shadows, only smoke uncoiling. He waits for something, some kind of explanation or identification. He waits for his body to stop shaking. He claws at his lips, getting rid of the dead fluid, black oil.
"His possessions," the American continues. His voices is flat, bored, and Krycek drops the Webley, the wristband, the knife on the table. The knife skitters across the metal and drops. Krycek glares at Harkness, daring him to say something.
Harkness stares at Krycek. "Beat me with one hand, eh?" he hisses.
Harkness snaps the wristband around his wrist. He fixates on the voice from the phone, can't really make him out in the dark. His revolver is in his hand, pointing at them, for the lack of other targets, pointing at something. "What the-"
"Another time." The American voice cuts in mid-sentence.
"You-"
"Another. Time. Captain Harkness."
Harkness peers at the shadows, trying to make out faces and expressions. He opens his mouth in retort, in question, then shuts it again. He can see the American, smoke around him. Harkness levels the gun at them, at Krycek. The American laughs, low and broken by lung cancer, and spreads his arms. Harkness's aim wavers; he gestures with the gun, then lowers it.
Krycek walks up to the men. Harkness can make out harsh whispers, Krycek in their faces, then the American and the Englishman leave: leaving him with Krycek, or Krycek with him.
"Who are you?" Harkness slides off the gurney, fingers the metal grating. He fights the unease in his body, the rolling stomach, the anger that pitches his voice deep.
"None of your business."
"Krycek, is it?" Harkness's eyes narrow as he advances on Krycek, pushing off the gurney.
Krycek smiles, his gun at his side, low and dirty. The rage tightens the lines in Krycek's face, the dropped corner of the mouth, the awkward stance, the tight lips of a defeat he doesn't want to admit. His posture betrays him, and it pulls Harkness deeper into his own anger.
"Who the fuck are you? What kind of fucked-up game are you playing here?"
Krycek says nothing and stands his ground, that off-smile on his lips.
Harkness shoves Krycek against the wall, arm across his throat. The gun lies between them, pressing between thigh and thigh, imprinting. "Black oil." The panic drips into his voice, scratching it raw. "What the fuck is that stuff?"
"You're fucked if you have to ask. Or not, apparently." Krycek laughs, pitched low and dangerous.
"What kind of fucked-up game-"
Krycek shoves back at him, brings up the gun under Harkness's chin as he pushes him back against the gurney. "Doubt it's your game. But if it is, you are playing a dangerous hand, Harkness."
The grating shifts under his fingers with the slick fluid coating palms and metal. The laugh he doesn't feel pushes his chin against the barrel of the gun. "And which one would that be? The one where you shoot me up with shit? The one where I'm laid out for you-" He kicks at Krycek's knee hard enough to find the distraction to pull his revolver out and point it at Krycek in turn.
Harkness can smell Krycek's breath, his sweat, watches Krycek's eyes flicker between his face and the gun. He pushes off the gurney to back away from that place and the unnatural slickness of the metal. Holding at gunpoint and held at gunpoint, their breathing is the only sound in the room.
Krycek's gun doesn't waver in his grip, even as he is balanced slightly backward.
"They gonna cut off the other one for this?"
Krycek's jaw clenches.
"Happen often? Someone waltzing in on your territory?" It's small revenge, and small satisfaction.
Krycek spits at him. "Kiss my ass, Harkness. It was never about you."
"Looks to me like they fucked you over." The laugh is forced but honest. Harkness puts his revolver to Krycek's forehead. "What side are you on?"
Krycek laughs.
Harkness draws the barrel down Krycek's cheek and across his lips. The metal catches on chapped skin.
"If you liked it so much- " Krycek smiles even as the metal slips between his lips. He doesn't suck. Condescension rolls off him as he lowers his own gun and pushes it into the back of his trousers, standing, waiting. Then he steps back, letting the gun slip from his mouth.
"What side are you on?" Harkness's finger is on the trigger, the gun still pointed at Krycek.
Krycek watches him, turns and walks towards the door. "There are no sides in a war, only actions."
"There are losers and winners." Harkness's shout rings steady.
"What- and you think you've won?"
Krycek walks out. The door falls shut with a low thump. It leaves Harkness in the darkness, the smell of bodies and decay around him, and something he can't quite place. There's no light. There's no-one but him, and he stands with his gun in his hand aiming at nothing, the ghost of an enemy.
Cardiff, Wales,
two days later
Hopkins sits behind his desk, arms crossed in front of his chest. Harkness leans against the closed door; the blinds are drawn and a small bulb is burning dim light across the desk. The noises of the others down on the Hub's main floor ring up muffled.
"You saw them?"
Harkness shrugs. "Not really, no."
"What's their game?" Hopkins leans back. "Where's the boy? The alien-"
"I don't know. With one of them? I don't know." Harkness stares at the floor, up at Hopkins. He brings his hand up, as if to gesture in explanation, then lowers it and shakes his head. "They-"
The phone rings, an old ring, a few decades removed.
Hopkins looks at Harkness, Harkness looks at the phone, then crosses towards the desk. He picks it up, turns the speaker on. "Yes?"
A cough, and then the American voice. "Captain Harkness, I understand the circumstances of our meeting were unfortunate but given mutual interests…"
