Learning to Love the Hawk

Part I:  Through The Red Doors

Disclaimer:  None of these X-files characters belong to me, my
intentions are entirely gormless.
Rating:  NC-17 for mature themes, sexual situations and violence.
Spoilers:  None
Summary:  The year is 1983; the place is Soviet Russia.
Author's notes: This is the first part of my origin story for Krycek.
It's also a kind of a prequel for "The End of Pain".  It's not necessary
to have read that story to get this one.
WARNING:  This is a WIP.  The sequel is in the works.  Please bear with
me, I'm dancing as fast as I can.
Archive:  Not yet.
Technical note:  [[Dialogue in double square brackets is being spoken in
Russian,]] and:  "Dialogue in double quotes is being spoken in English."

Translation note:  I've thrown a word or two of Russian in for flavor,
so here is a wee glossary:
pajalista = 'please'
goluboy='blue' (slang equivalent of english 'gay' or 'homosexual'
golubaya lenta='blue ribbon'  (a man who willingly takes a passive sexual role with other
men, specifically in the gulags)
petuh='whore' (or more specifically, the equivalent of a man who 'punks up' in prison or in the army.)
moi='my'
lublyushka='little loved one'.

Thanks & Acknowledgements:  To Ladonna for encouragement and fine first
beta and to Nonie for kindness, tolerance and beta thru delta well above
and beyond the call of duty.

Feedback:  uh-huh, public or private, to Spike

Okay, enough with the massive preamble.  Story ahoy...
_____________________________

"Learning to Love the Hawk I:  Through The Red Doors"
by Spike

Stockade,
16th Spetsnaz Brigade, Chuchkovo
Moscow Military District, U.S.S.R
October 12, 1983

The ratchet clang of a baton over steel bars woke him.  Dragged him up
through the cold, gray sludge of a toxic waste hangover and flung him
down on a familiar, comfortless cot.

[[Hey, Hollywood...]] a guard boomed.  Clang, clang.

Alex groaned, grabbed his head before the sound shattered it.  Fragmentes of the night before bubbled up like swamp gas.  Drinking?  Oh yes, definitely drinking.  Ural urine -- the moldy potato-skin  squeezings that passed for moonshine here.  Nothing like the smoky,
shimmering liquid dynamite he'd snuck back home.  Russian moonshine was
brain-cell Raid -- tastes like roach piss and it kills those pesky
neurons dead, dead, DEAD...

Clang.  [[Come on, Marilyn Monroe.  Beauty sleep's over.  Get your lazy
American ass out of bed...]]

[[Fuck off!]] Alex thought and then heard the echo of the words in
English in his head.  Almost meaningless these days.  And it hurt.  He
pulled the thin blanket up over his face.  It cut the razor shear of the
light but left his naked feet cold and exposed.

Fuck.  Naked.  He was naked.  A sharp rush of fear washed through him,
icing his nerve endings.  Bad news memory nuzzled at the edge of his
conscious grasp.

Last night.

Dark.  Cold.  Black sky and stars.  There'd been music and dancing -- a
piss-up, an end-of-mission wild night.  And the boys of Spetznas Unit
Spider were ready to party hearty.  Bare feet cold on the crisp grass.
Dusky poisonous tang of the homemade vodka in his mouth and, God, he'd
been drunk.  Falling against them, hard bodies under green fatigues.
Laughing.  The smell of men; of sweat and alcohol, dark tobacco and
testosterone...and something else.  Chemical tang.  That thing with the
tape -- those Chechen boys had brought it.  Fat rolls of gray industrial
adhesive tape.  They'd pulled it off in strips.

[[Come on, American pussy, try it.  This is how real Russians get off.
You want to be a real Russian soldier, neh?  Real hard core?]]

Yeah.  Real.  God he wanted to be *real*.  So, yes...yes...and Alex
remembered strong arms holding him, the acid sting of a sharp knife
sliding across his scalp, blood dribbling in his eyes and tape slapped
on the cut.  And...

Clang.  Clang.  [[Whoo-hoo.  Give us a peep show, Marilyn...]]

Christ, whatever the hell it was, the rush had hit him like a swarm of
bees.  A buzzing, golden riptide that poured through his scalp,
prickling and stinging and lifting him off his feet...He remembered
turning, spinning, round and round, his eyes clicking open and shut like
camera lenses; burning  still frames of the night into his brain:
dancing, singing, tearing off his kit....  Grabbing Danylo.  [[Dance
with me, Dany...  Pajalista... please.]]  And Dany had.  Taken him up in
strong arms, whirled round and round the fire and he'd... Christ... he
had, hadn't he?  Forgotten where he was, who he was with, what he was
supposed to be... What he was supposed to *not* be.

Alex groaned helplessly, clutched himself, shivering under the thin
blanket, remembering -- he'd pressed his lips into the soft curve of
Dany's neck, tasted the salt of Dany's flesh.  Dany hard against his
hip.  But Dany had pushed him off...

No, it had to be a dream.  He *couldn't* have.  He couldn't...

Oh, but he had.  Memory relentless now, flowing into fill the etched,
corroded chamber of his skull:  Himself naked, hard, wanton [[Dany,
please...]]  he'd begged through teeth clenched in desperation.  And all
around him laughing, hooting, clapping.  A circle of naked cocks around
the fire and he'd... he'd...

Hangover sludge shifted in his gut -- a long, slow, gray wave of nausea
that heeled him over, dragged him down to the floor.  The blanket fell
away and naked, on his hands and knees, he vomited -- copiously and
violently --  to a flat and distant chorus of cheers and boos that could
have come from nearby cells or from the memories he couldn't shake.

It must have stopped.  He must have fallen back into sleep, because
banging woke him again.  This time he was curled up on the icy, stinking
floor, blanket clutched between his knotted fists.

Clang.  Clang.  Clank.  The scream of parched hinges as the cage door
swung open.

[[On your feet, soldier.]]  The voice was a hammer.  Sgt. Kolya's
hammer.  Jesus.  Kolya.  Alex had already made the acquaintance of the
Sergeant's fists and boots.

Get the fuck *up*! his inner coward shrieked.  He pulled the blanket up,
tried again to rise.  Made it to his knees again.  Two pairs of polished
black boots under his chin and the whole fucking universe still
spinning, spiraling, coring his braincase like a drill-bit through clay.

[[Unghh....]] he managed but nothing more and was grateful enough that
he wasn't spewing on the Sergeant's boots.

[[Dog,]] said the Sergeant.  The booted foot pulled back and Alex
cringed.

[[Leave him,]] said a calm and quiet voice.  Another officer's voice,
but this one was cultured, educated.  Smooth as real Stoli in a lead
crystal tumbler.  The booted foot hesitated in mid-arc; returned
reluctantly to the concrete floor.  Alex forced his thousand pound head
up, raised his lead-weighted eyes to see the man who had saved him.

He saw -- rank and power.  Crisply ironed khakis, heavy wool coat,
peaked cap.  The face under the cap was bland, pleasant -- the skin
smooth but not young; the hair light but not gray.  Everything bland and
calm.  Only the man's eyes held any intensity -- dark blue and
glittering, like sapphires in cream.  The eyes gazed down on him from a
hundred miles up.  The effort of returning the look was suddenly too
much.  A  sick shiver ran through Alex from heels to crown and he
dropped his head.

[[Disgusting piece of filth,]] spat Kolya.  [[If the army weren't so
much in need of chaff to toss at the mujahadin...]]

[[Yes, Sergeant,]] said the calm voice.  [[Every man can be made
useful.]]  A gloved hand came down, lifted Alex's chin.  Alex squeezed
his eyes shut, whimpered at the touch, but no blow came.  Then the hand
released him.

[[Let him sleep this off,]] the calm voice went on.  [[When he's sober,
get him cleaned up and ready for my order.]]  There was a moment's
hesitation, then:

[[Sir,]] said Kolya.  [[His punishment...]]

[[Will be attended to,]] the calm voice said, with finality.  And then
with a clanking and clinking that rattled through his brittle bones,
they left him alone and Alex sank back into the dizzy misery of his
dreams.

***

He dreamed he was back in America.  His old house, his mother's
kitchen.  Sunny summer day outside and a breeze billowing the curtains.
In his dream he was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, for what he
didn't know.  Not impatient, not excited, not scared.  Just waiting, in
the warm, bright kitchen that smelled faintly of stale tobacco, knowing
there was nothing he could do.

***

Seven hours of sleep, a tin cup of cabbage soup and a cold shower later,
Alex found himself standing in front of a closed oak door, deep inside
officer country.  His fatigues were clean and he'd shaved.  A little
bruised; a little battered, still shaky as hell, but he was more or less
on his feet, which was better than he had any right to expect.

What he was doing here, he wasn't entirely sure.  Sergeant Kolya hadn't
said why he was to report to this man, Peskow.  Kolya hadn't said much
of anything besides who, where and when, but the strained formality with
which he'd said it put a leaden chill into Alex's bones.

Fucked.  Really fucked.  If Kolya didn't care enough to kick his ass, it
meant he was out of here.  Out of Spetznas altogether, probably, and on
his way to Afghanistan or to gulag duty in fucking Siberia.  Jesus.  He
pressed the heel of his hand into the ache just above the bridge of his
nose.  Let his fingers trace the hot swell of the knife cut through his
buzzed hair, unable to stave off the images that rose up in his memory.
Idiot.  Idiot.  Bloody fucking idiot.  Faggot whore to the bone and the
Colonel had been right...had been...

Tears welled, hot under his lids and, suddenly stone-cold furious with
himself, he blinked them back, scrubbed mercilessly at his traitorous
eyes and knocked, with more force than he really needed, on the
unprepossessing door.

It opened.  The man on the other side was... not a hundred feet tall.
Alex wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did.  He was expecting
to be met by a giant.  Instead he found himself facing a man maybe an
inch shorter than himself; a man of indeterminate middle age, with
reddish-blonde hair and dark blue eyes set in a bland and pleasant
face.  He looked fit and relaxed in khaki fatigues, standing with an
open book in one hand, eyebrows slightly raised as if in question.

[[Private Arntzen, reporting as ordered...Sir.]]  Alex stumbled a little
over the 'sir'.  Kolya had called the man Peskow, but had given no rank,
and there were no pips or insignia on his kit.  Still, Alex knew rank
when he saw it.  And he saw it here.

[[Comrade Arntzen,]] the man -- Peskow -- said, pleasantly.  [[Come in.
I've been expecting you.]]  The mildness took him aback -- he'd expected
a sterner welcome.

The room into which Alex stepped was the usual modestly appointed
barrack office.  It contained a desk, a couple of chairs, a file
cabinet, a well-stocked bookshelf.  Everything neat and tidy and
well-worn with use.  There was a yellow personnel folder on the desk and
next to it, a tray on which sat a steaming teapot and two china cups.

Peskow motioned Alex towards the visitor's chair, and then seated
himself behind the desk.

[[I trust you're feeling better?]] Peskow asked, not unkindly.  Alex
felt embarrassment flush his cheeks and his stomach roiled a little.

[[Yes, sir,]]  he lied.

[[Good,]] said Peskow.  [[Will you pour us tea?]]

[[Yes, sir.]]  Alex poured, shaky handed, but instead of taking the tea,
Peskow opened the personnel file in front of him and began to peruse
it.  The silence stretched.  Alex sipped at his own tea.  It was hot and
felt surprisingly good on his raw throat.  Still Peskow didn't look up
from his reading.  The file was thick and Alex's uneasiness grew.  His
eyes felt grainy and heavy; his mouth was sour.  His gut fluttered and
rolled.

///Christ, get *on* with it!// he thought fiercely at the man behind the
desk.  //Ream me.  Cut me loose.  Something...//  He didn't even know if
he cared what, anymore.  A half a dozen times he opened his mouth to say
so, but the words never managed to come.  There was something
intimidating about the quiet, pleasant calm.  Still, tension wound him
like a string and just at the point where he thought he would have to
speak or die, Peskow closed the file and looked up at him.

[[Do you know who I am?]]  Alex hesitated before answering.  He knew the
man's name, suspected his rank; even thought his face, with its neutral
expression and sharp eyes, was vaguely familiar.  But...

[[No, sir,]] he said, finally.  Peskow pursed his lips, nodded, but
didn't enlighten him.  Instead he said:

[[Well, I've learned a lot about you, Comrade Arntzen.  Or do you prefer
Krycek?]]

[[I--]] said Alex. [[No, Sir.]]

[['Krycek' is your father's name?]]

[[Yes, Sir.]]

[['No, Sir.' 'Yes, Sir',]] Peskow mocked, gently.  [[You sound like a
soldier.]]

[[I am a soldier, Sir,]] said Alex.  Peskow quirked an eyebrow at him.

[[Soldiers follow orders.]]  Alex stared down at his lap, then back up
to meet the cool, blue gaze.  Peskow nodded.

[[I've had a good, long look at your file,]] he went on.  [[Excellent
performance records.  Marksmanship.  Close combat skills.  Tactical
abilities all of the highest caliber.  You certainly have the makings of
a soldier.  But the rest of it...]]  He clucked, shook his head.
[[Drunkenness.  Illegal drug use.  Fighting.  Immoral behavior.  You're
a disgrace to the unit.  To the uniform.]]

[[Yes, sir.]]

[[How do you explain that?]]

[[I --- ]] he stopped.  [[I have no explanation, Sir.]]  Again that
considering nod.  Peskow tapped the edge of the file idly with his
thumb.

"You're an American," he said, in English.

"I --" Alex began automatically, then forced himself back into Russian.
[[No, Sir.  I'm a loyal Soviet citizen.]]

"Yes, yes.  Of course you are," said Peskow, impatiently.  "But you were
born in America.  You grew up there.  Speak English, Mr. Krycek."
Sudden iron in the pleasant voice and real fear coursed through Alex's
flesh.

"Sir...?" he asked.  Peskow continued to watch him, coolly.  His eyes
were very dark, Alex thought, for such a fair-skinned man.  They were
difficult eyes to look into, more difficult to look away from.  Alex
felt a shiver roll up the muscles of his back.

"I was born in America," Alex said.  "I grew up there."

"At a military base, yes?  In Albuquerque, New Mexico?"

"I -- yes."

"Your father was a ranking officer there.  A Colonel.  The Colonel."

"How do you kno--?"

"Ah ah ah..." said Peskow, warningly.  He opened the file again, frowned
into it, looked up.

"So your father was an American Air Force Colonel," Peskow went on.
"But his youngest son is a now a Soviet citizen and a private in the
Russian army.  Remarkable world we live in."  And, oh Christ, he wasn't
even going to ask, was he.  The silence stretched.

And Alex felt cold.  So cold.  If he unclenched his jaw, his teeth would
chatter because he knew now who Peskow was and why he wasn't asking how
Alex's life had taken such an impossible jag.  He wasn't asking because
he already *knew*.  Because he was one of them.  One of the shadow
people like his mother's nameless, smoking friend -- the one who took
care of 'problems' like Alex--  men who showed one face to the world and
saved their real faces for the real master in the darkness.  Or
masters.  How many shadows did it take to run a conspiracy that
encompassed the world's superpowers?  Christ, he didn't want to know.
Had never wanted to know.  It was only his own -- weakness, his own
stupidity that had led to his even knowing as much as he did.  And
now...

"Please," he said, softly.  Voice gone nearly voiceless with fear.

"Please *what*?" Peskow asked, mildly.

"Please give me another chance, sir," Alex said.  "I don't want...."  He
didn't dare put words to it, but he knew now exactly what was at stake.

//"Be very careful, Alex," the smoking man had said to him as he stood,
miserable, ticket in hand, to board the plane to Moscow.  "We will only
tolerate so many mistakes before we cut our losses."//

[[I could be a good soldier, sir,]] he said.

But Peskow was shaking his head.

[[Be that as it may,]] he said.  [[I cannot reassign you to this unit.
Or any other Spetznas unit  in the GRU for that matter.  The Soviet Army
will turn a blind eye to almost any naughty behavior among its special
forces -- including a little discreet cocksucking, I might add -- but
some things even they consider...]] he paused, then finished, in
English:  "...beyond the pale."

Alex felt the scarlet flush blossom and die in his face.  Embarrassment
turned to sudden fury at his own helplessness:

[[What, then?]] he asked.  [[Krasnoyarsk? Novokuznetsk?  Tajikistan?]]
Peskow chuckled, although the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes.

[[I admire your patriotism, Comrade Arntzen, but I'm afraid the regular
army is out of the question for a young man with your training.  As are
the Internal Ministries.  We don't share our toys with just anyone.]]

//Then why did you bring me here, you cold-eyed son of a bitch?  Why, if
it's so goddamned hopeless...//  He closed his eyes, then opened them
abruptly.  Peskow was watching him, eyes distant.  Cool, like the night
sky.  //...our toys...//  A cold thought snaked up Alex's spine to curl
around his brain like smoke.

[[Your...]] he began -- saw a flicker move across the blandness of
Peskow's face, and felt cold again.  Burning cold.  He was right, wasn't
he?  This was the marker being called; the shadow reaching out to claim
its own.  It slipped around him easily as fog.

"What...will I be doing for you?" he asked.  Peskow smiled approvingly.

"You are a bright boy," he said.  "And talented.  And the possibility of
alternative...employment does exist.  But the work -- our work --
requires also a certain temperament.  A certain ruthless
self-discipline.  The ability to follow orders.

"Not exactly your strong suit, Alex."  Anger flared at the jibe.  At
the  contempt Alex felt behind the words.  If he'd been drunk he might
have stood to defend his pride.

//Staying *alive* is my strong suit, you son of a bitch...//  But all he
said was:  "I'll do whatever it takes."

Peskow said nothing.  He sat back in his chair for a moment, and then,
abruptly got to his feet.  Walked around the desk so that he stood
behind Alex's chair.  He was close enough that Alex could feel his heat,
feel the weight of his presence exerting itself like gravity, rocking
him back in the chair.

"It might take a lot." Peskow's voice at his ear was soft, a mockery of
kindness:  "Hard work.  Courage."  Alex shifted uncomfortably at the
man's nearness, but did not dare turn his head.

"Sacrifice."  A strong, long-fingered hand wrapped around the back of
his neck, making him start.  Stroke of a thumb at the nape and Alex
shivered.

"Self control..."  He felt dizzy, breathless.  Was this a trick?  A
trap?  Did Peskow want him to resist?  Or respond?  He did neither, held
himself to stillness, until he felt Peskow watching him again.  He
looked up expecting to meet the cool, blue gaze.

It wasn't there.  Instead what he saw made him inhale sharply with
sudden, visceral fear.  Peskow's eyes were focused on him with the
coldly passionate intensity of a hawk stalking prey.  For a moment Alex
was paralyzed, utterly frozen -- unable to look away from the terrifying
stare.  A strange hot shiver moved through him, winding down around his
spine to settle heavily in his groin.  To Alex's horror, he heard
himself whimper softly.

Then Peskow blinked -- once, twice -- and the cold fire was gone.  With
a gentle shake, Peskow released his neck.

//What happened?// Alex's mind shrieked.  //What did he *do*?//  But
Peskow was already seating himself  behind the desk again, his face as
bland and pleasant as before, his tone so banal that, when he spoke, it
took a moment for Alex to pick the sense from the sound.

[[...quarters, Comrade Arntzen,]] Peskow was saying.  [[Pack your
things.  I will call for you.]]

And then there was nothing left for Alex to do but mumble, awkwardly:

[[Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir...]] and back himself out the door, and out
into the night to scramble through the empty parade grounds with the
shadows between the light poles reaching out for him as he ran.

***

The quarter of the compound usually occupied by Unit Spider was deserted
when Alex finally got there.  The MP who let him in told him the whole
unit was off on a disciplinary mission and he didn't know when they'd be
back.  Alex was still cold, still aching from the night before.  He knew
he should pack up and make himself scarce, but it seemed a strange,
shivery exhaustion had descended upon him.

He decided he could risk a shower, ended up lingering long under the hot
water,  wishing the thunderous spray could wipe his mind of the cold
hunger in Peskow's eyes.  It didn't, and though he shaved in the hot
steam and toweled dry, by the time he returned to his billet he was
shivering again.

Back in his room, Alex nervously packed and repacked his kit, listening
for footsteps to come echoing in the hall.  He heard none, and so Dany's
distinctive Balkan drawl from the doorway caught him off guard.

[[They sending you back to the range, Cowboy?]]

Alex's breath snagged on something in his chest and he turned with the
shirt he was folding still in his arms.

Tall and rangy, Corporal Danylo Neverov lounged in the doorway --  loose
sprawl of limbs; long nose, full mouth turned up in a cynical half-smile
that showed too many crooked teeth.

The flat, smartass delivery still rang in Alex's ears.  He tried to
match the tone with a laugh, but it came out strained; short and sharp
like a bark and he gave up the pretense.

[[Shit, Dany, I --]] he began.  Stopped.  Tried to swallow around a lump
like a fisted hand that gripped his windpipe, nearly strangled him.
Shame pricked the corners of his eyes.  What he'd *done*....

And Dany said nothing, just watched him.  Even here, even in Russia
where men could hug and kiss each other on the cheek and call each other
pet names.  Even here, there were things men talked about and things
they didn't.

[[So what are you doing here?]] Alex said, finally.  [[I thought you
were out on a 'disciplinary'.]]

[[We are,]] Dany said.  [[But I couldn't let my Cowboy go without saying
good-bye.]]

[[Don't call me Cowboy,]] Alex said, suddenly irritated.  Dany just
smiled.

[[You like 'Rocketman' better?]] he said, dryly.  [[Or 'Rambo'?]]  And
when Alex didn't answer, he added softly:

[[Or maybe you want me to call you 'goluboy'? Maybe 'golubaya lenta'.]]

[[Why not just 'petuh'?]] Alex spat.  Dany looked at him a long minute
and Alex felt the heat rush to his cheeks again.

Knowing this was *nothing* to Dany.  Dany was a *man*, not anybody's
'blue ribbon' boy.  Whatever he did or didn't feel for Alex, this --
what they did alone together -- was no more than a camp fling, something
discreet and separate from his real life.  At most they were a couple of
buddies who did for one another when there were no women to be had.

Yeah, that was them:  just a couple of regular guys who jacked each
other off with their hands or their mouths -- well, Alex's mouth,
anyway.  Guys who rubbed against one another until sparks ignited the
world like magnesium flares and they came whispering each other's names,
but who never fucked, because fucking was something that fags did.  And
Dany was no *fag*.

But then Dany was pushing himself off the door frame, pulling the door
closed behind him.  Stepping up to Alex and wrapping long, strong arms
around him.  Alex struggled a little, not wanting to give into this.
Not wanting to let Dany know...

But Dany knew.  He held Alex against his chest, stroked the back of his
rigid neck in a strange echo of Peskow's earlier touch.

[[I'm sorry, Cowboy,]] he murmured against Alex's hair.  [[So, so
sorry...]]  So clear.  Sorry for what was, and for what wasn't.  Sorry
for what could never be.  And Dany didn't know *shit* about what it
meant to be sorry, Alex thought angrily.  But even so he found his own
arms rising automatically to wrap around Dany's waist, pull him closer.
To pull in Dany's heat; Dany's scent.  Dany's hardness against his own.

[[Moi Cowboy...]] Dany whispered into his hair and after a while the
stroking became insistent and the hand on his neck pressed gently,
firmly down.  Down, down, down and Alex folded slowly, sank to his
knees.  Unbuttoned and pulled to release Dany's uncut cock, rosy head
already peeking out from under the foreskin.

Dany's scent was salty, sharp -- the taste of him acrid on Alex's
tongue.  But the heat of the living thing in his mouth warmed him
through in a way the shower hadn't managed.  And Dany's fingers stroking
and plucking at his hair felt like love.  And when Dany came he called
Alex "lublyushka" and his come tasted like something Alex had lost a
long time ago, in a grassy place under the stars.

[[Do you want me to...]] Dany asked.  And:

[[Please...please...]] Alex murmured, pulling Dany over to lie on the
bed.  And he hoped this one time Dany would use something besides his
hand, or at least touch his mouth to Alex's mouth but he didn't, and
Alex came anyway, howling his desolation into the empty air.

***

Trans-Siberian Express
somewhere between Chuchkovo and Ilyatsosk
U.S.S.R.
October 13, 1983, 2:14 a.m.

Alex tried not to think of Dany as the train rocked him down into the
darkness.  He tried not to think of anything at all but it was difficult
with no distractions; no company, no view. All darkness outside,
reflecting back only the ghost of the train car; ghosts of its
passengers.  Corpses riding the night train to hell.  Stupid thought but
he couldn't shake it.  His own reflection, eyeless and hollow-cheeked,
gave him the creeps:  it felt like a vision from his future.

Vodka helped.  He sipped slow and often from the bottle he'd bought from
the shadow market next car over.  A couple of crooked steps above
moonshine, the vodka was warm, thick as syrup; strong enough to peel
paint, but he wasn't drunk.  Not yet, anyway.  He didn't even want to be
drunk.  Just numb.  Just...empty.

Emptier.

Fuck.  He just wanted....  Just wanted -- what?  He didn't even know.
He looked around the train car as if he could catch the elusive object
of his desire in the act of sneaking out of range.  He saw mammas asleep
with babies on their chests.  Kids playing; kids curled up around
bundled sacks.  Old men smoking, nodding, playing chess.

Nope.  Nothing he wanted here.  Nothing back at Chuchkovo, either.  Not
really.  Well, maybe.  If Dany could just have....

And there it was again.  That vast gap at the end of the thought.  Great
yawning hole that dragged him to the edge, screaming: I want... I
want... I want... and only the barest hint that there was anything
besides the void beyond.

Maybe it -- the mysterious *thing* he wanted -- was somewhere back in
America.  Maybe it was just homesickness after all these years.  A
longing for familiar places; a desire to go back to a more innocent time
and a more innocent version of himself.  It might be that -- except he'd
felt exactly the same way back there and back then.

And besides, he seriously doubted there'd be much familiar left after
eight, nine years away.

And, besides besides, the innocence had been a lie.

Christ.  Alex let his head fall into his hands, pressed the heels of his
palms into his eyes until they filled with buzzing light.  And what the
fuck was he thinking about what he *wanted* anyway?

Like what he wanted was going to make a fuck of a difference to the
ice-eyed son of a bitch waiting for him in Moscow.  And Alex shuddered
suddenly at the memory of that terrifying, paralyzing hunger he'd
glimpsed in Peskow's eyes.  At the sense-memory of how his body had
responded to being so hungered for.  It made him cold again and he
wrapped his arms around himself, pressed himself back in his seat as
though he could somehow stop his forward motion.  As though he could
stop the train from hurtling toward a future where that gaze was waiting
to consume him.

But the night train took no notice, just sped along the unbroken stretch
of rails that ran through Russia and forever, and never met, not even at
the journey's end.

***
 
 (Part II: Gone One Knows Not Where)