Category:  Humor, Story, Slash
Rating: R (profanity, adult situations)
Spoilers:  Very slight for all Krycek eps up to US Season Four.
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em, wish I did.  Bite me, Surfer-Boy.

Summary:  The amazing adventures of FBI Special Agents Alex Krycek and Brian
Pendrell as they endeavor to solve the mysterious case of extortionist
extraordinaire, Chuckles D. Clown.

GOOBER AND THE CZAR
a "Comeuppance" Prequel

by DB Kate
dbkate@yahoo.com
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

The day I left home to join the FBI, my beloved mother bestowed upon me the
traditional gift given to a child of the Krycek household upon their
inevitable flight from the tender nest of our loving and close-knit home.

A very large bottle of vodka.

A very large bottle of vodka that was hurled with such accuracy at my left
temple that I still have the lump, just a wee bit above my left eye, slightly
to the right of permanent blindness. Happily, it didn't break on contact, so,
luckily, I was the last one to say goodbye.

And I'll bet she's still scrubbing the booze off of that dining room wall.

Seven hours and three buses later, I entered Quantico, with a light heart and
enough ambition for at least five twenty-two-year-olds.  I ran through every
obstacle set before me like a jackal on fire, relishing every moment of
competition and relative freedom from the oppression of my parent's home.  It
wasn't easy by any means; there were tests of every kind and even a bit of
hazing from the second-term students, but I not only survived, I flourished
under the pressure.

Like all green-boys, I received a nickname within the first two weeks of
classes and it stuck.  What was my nickname, you ask? Well, what else could
it have been?

The Czar, of course.

Yes, I, Alexander V. Krycek, descendent of illustrious, or at least infamous,
Slavic ancestors, was lording over the other hapless agent-wanna-be's with a
fake smile for my superiors and as many sneaky kicks in the ass for my
classmates as I could manage.

All this paid off in spades, for soon I was a full-fledged agent-in-training
who was on his way up the Bureau ladder by any means necessary.  I knew it
was just a matter of time before I was ready for that comfortable SAC
position, working part-time on some tropical island, hopefully Honolulu, even
if it was at the expense of those more deserving than myself.

Now, why did I make all these low-down and rotten plans to lie, cheat and
steal my way up the ladder, you ask?  Well, you see, I *had* to do
it...because at the time I was desperately and absolutely in love.

With myself.

And what wasn't to love?  I was a sharp-looking guy in those days, even in
those cheap, badly-fitted suits and ugly ties my father would have thrown
away without a second look.  The terrible irony is that today I can afford
any suit in the world I desire...Armani, Versace, Brooks Brothers...ten of
them at once, each at five thousand dollars a pop, without it making the
slightest dent in my checkbook.

And I really can't be bothered.

But not back then.  No, at twenty-two-years-old, poverty-stricken and
completely convinced that the entire world and its measly occupants were my
own personal welcome mat, I simply wanted the items that I felt belonged to
me.  Otherwise known as...

Everything.

And whatever I had to do to get what was mine, was fair game.  Even if it
meant kissing the ass, among other things, of one Harold Blevins, a fat,
miserable slug of a unit leader, who called me into his office the day after
my formal classes had ended, looking just as bloated and bad complexioned as
he ever did.

And how I loved him.  He motioned for me to sit down and my million dollar smile,
my adoring, coyly blinking eyes and my "I want your baby" voice all magically
appeared within less time then it takes to say "Maui."

"Yes, sir?" I practically purred.

"I'm handing out the training cases today, Krycek. I've got yours here.  So
sit down and be quiet so we can get the hell through this."

"That's great, sir.  Wonderful.  You know, I'm really..."

"Shut up and listen," snarled Fat-Ass, tossing me a file.  "This is the man I
want you to bring in. His name is Clown, Chuckles D."

"Clown, sir?  That's an interesting name, sir.  You know, I was thinking
that.."

"Look here, Krycek. I have twelve other wet-behind-the-ears boys to deal with
today, so zip your lip and pay attention before I assign you to the goddamn
lunchroom."

I shut up.

Blevins tossed a large group of color photos at me. "As I was saying, this is
Melvin Fishenburgenheimer a.k.a. Chuckles D. Clown.  He legally changed his
name to Clown in 1974."

I picked up the photos and examined them carefully.  Well, he was a clown all
right, that much was clear.  Yes, Chuckles was an actual clown, one with
green hair, weird white-yellow chalky skin and a big red nose.  And while
that was all well and good in its own idiotic way, I wasn't quite sure if
that description would be very helpful for actual apprehension.

I looked up at Blevins apologetically.  "Um, sir? May I ask what he looks
like without his makeup?"

"He doesn't," muttered Blevins, flipping through the file with a beefy thumb.

"Pardon me, sir?"

"His makeup is permanent," snorted Blevins.  "Doesn't come off."

"You mean he -always- looks like this, sir?" I asked with honest
astonishment.

"Yep.  Hair dyed green, tattooed makeup, the nose surgically attached,"
replied Blevins, as though that were the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh," I said, getting the disconcerting feeling that there just *might* be
one or two things in this world that I hadn't figured out yet.  But I shook
it off.  Even if I didn't understand why someone would permanently turn
themselves into a jaundiced version of Bozo, that didn't mean that I didn't
know everything else there was to know.

"Well, he should stand out in a crowd," I said hopefully.

"Not in his crowd," groused Blevins, pulling out more photos.  Soon, an
entire troop of rainbow-haired, red-nosed nuts started flipping by.  "This is
the Shiny Happy People Society, an underground activist group of circus
performers, mostly clowns, who happen to be homosexuals."

"A club of gay clowns, sir?"I said, trying unsuccessfully to turn my laugh
into a cough.

Perhaps this is the point were I should explain to you that due to my own
preferences, I was in no position to mock the alternative sexuality of
others...but, hell.  A steam room loaded with gay clowns in full makeup, I
mean, I know you're laughing too.

Either that or you're calling your lawyer to see if you can sue me for mental
trauma.

"The group is legit. They do mostly political activism, marching in gay pride
parades and such, but because of people's unfounded homophobia regarding gays
who have proximity to children, they prefer to stay anonymous," said Blevins.
"However, it appears that this left the members open for blackmail by one of
their own."

Blevins leaned in toward, with a malevolent expression.  "And that man is the
one whose picture you are holding in your hand, Agent Krycek.  Chuckles D.
Clown.  Now, I want you to go to San Fran, find that damn clown and haul his
ass in.  And you're going to stay there until you do.  Do you understand me,
Agent Krycek?"

"Yes, sir," I whispered miserably, understanding not only what Blevins
wanted, but something else as well.

I understood that this was the worst, the stupidest, the most ridiculous case
any FBI agent was assigned to in the entire history of the Bureau.  What had
I done wrong, I thought desperately.  The notion that the more sophisticated
minds at the Bureau might have seen through my little egomaniacal charade in
Quantico and decided to take me down a peg or two didn't register at the
time, but now, makes a bit of sense.

But not back then.  "Sir," I stuttered.  "Do you think that I'm really worthy
of this case?  I mean, you know that I..."

"Shut up and save it for your partner, Krycek," muttered Blevins, without
looking back up.

My partner?  Yes, that's right, my partner, I remembered hopefully.  Of
course, all freshmen are assigned to partners for their first case and with
any luck, mine would be one who'd be either desperate enough or stupid enough
to earn his brownie points by doing all the work, while I took all the
credit.  Hot damn, I was saved.

Or so I thought.

A knock sounded at the door.  "Come in..." Blevins yelled out and it opened
to reveal my new partner.  That wonderful man who was going to help propel me
up that ladder of bureaucratic success and maybe, even do all the work while
I sat back and figured out ways to snag that Honolulu Bureau detail, in
lovely, sunny Hawaii.

I turned toward the door with happy expectations, only to have them shattered
at the sight of the agent who entered, with an armload of papers and a
ridiculously wide grin.  And it wasn't that I didn't know him,  because I
certainly knew him, and -his- nickname, quite well.

It was Goober.

The genius-boy from Forensics, who'd passed a six-hour aptitude test in sixty
minutes and his firearm test by the seat of his pants.  Who actually used the
phrase "okey-dokey."  Who was allergic to coffee.  And ink.  And dust.
Otherwise known as...

Agent Brian Pendrell, FBI.

Now here was a guy who was a dozen freckles short of his own kiddie TV show.
If his eyes were any bigger, bluer or more puppyish, you'd probably have to
fit him with a homing collar, just so you could get him back when he was
snatched up and taken home by troops of adoring little girls and their
grandmas who would be chanting "what a nice boy" all the way home.

Jesus Christ, I thought, with my mouth hanging wide open, I'm being partnered
with Agent Goober. This was the final insult.  He and I were about as
compatible as a stick of butter and a fired-up Hibachi.  As an ice cube and a
Zippo.

"How do you do?" he asked enthusiastically, sticking one arm out at me, while
dropping all his papers from underneath the other. "Brian Pendrell."

As a Goober and a Czar.

"Alex Krycek," I muttered back, wondering exactly who it was that I'd pissed
off so royally to get stuck with a case and a partner like this.  Next time,
*offer* the blowjob to Blevins, I chanted to myself.

Don't wait until he asks for it.

But Pendrell only pumped my hand and smiled, his entire face lit up with such
happiness and enthusiasm, you'd think that he'd waited his entire life for
that once-in-a-millennium opportunity to nab a two-bit, green-haired,
rubber-nosed extortionist, who had just enough sanity to legally change his
last name from "Fishenburgenheimer" to "Clown" but wasn't quite lucid enough
for anything else.

"Isn't this great?" he asked, his hand still shaking mine furiously.  "Great
case, huh?"

I rolled my eyes and disentangled my hand with a horrible grimace.  Guess
what, Krycek, I said to myself, he *has* been waiting his whole life for this
case.

Wonderful.

Oh, who gives a crap, I thought, pushing my way past Pendrell and out of
Blevins' office.  I'll take the run to San Fran, nab the clown, try to fuck
my way into a better case when I come back...

And ditch Agent Goober as soon as humanly possible.

*******

You know, I hate flying.

Everything about it is bad.  The tiny seats, the awful, sometimes
non-existent, food  and the fact that at any moment a kid might walk into the
cockpit and the last words on the little black box will be "Mr. Pilot, what
does *this* button do?"

On what other kind of transportation do you see people jockeying to take the
seat next to the nun?  Or crossing themselves when the engines are turned on?
Or start throwing up before the damn thing takes off?  Not on a Greyhound,
that's for sure.

My new partner, of course, disagreed. "Flying is incredibly safe," he said
reassuringly, as the engine started warming up and my mouth turned into
sandpaper.  "Cars are much more dangerous."

I clutched the armrests tighter as the scenery started rolling by.  "Uh,
huh."

He continued cheerfully. "Besides, if you *do* go down, it's over in seconds
anyway.  The change in air pressure usually knocks you unconscious before you
die."

I stared at him for a very long moment.  "Thank you so much for that," I
snarled, wishing I could ask him for his own personal test of that theory
once we were up in the air.

"Look, I'd say the best thing to do is concentrate on your destination,"
Pendrell continued with that same, bright smile.  "And you know where we're
going..."

To a strange surreal hell, filled with criminal clowns and Agent Nerdboys?

"On our first case as agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he
finished, every dimple glowing.  "You and me, partner."

Oh, joy.

Thanks Goober, I feel so much better now, I thought as I shut my eyes and the
ascending plane took me up but left my stomach somewhere behind on the cold
tarmac of Dulles Airport.

Thanks a lot.

********

"All right Clown, open up, it's the law."

I'd insisted on going straight to Chuckles' residence, right after we checked
into the hotel.  I figured that with any luck, I could nab the freak and hop
on a returning flight without even bothering to unpack.

"Federal Agents, Clarabell, open the damn door!" I yelled into the offending
wood that stood between me and the end of this ludicrous nightmare.

Pendrell listened for a moment and then turned to me with a slightly nervous
expression.  "Are you sure that's what you're supposed to say?"

I ignored him.  "Open up, Bozo!  I don't have all day!"

"Mention the search warrant," whispered Pendrell, ever helpful.

"I got a search warrant, Chucklehead, so you have until three to open this
door, or me and my partner are coming in!"

"We are?" Pendrell gulped.  "Oh, I should call for backup then."

I turned to him with an utterly disdainful expression.  "We don't need
backup.  We'll just break down the damn door.  Here, now step back, I'll do
it.  You'll probably snap your neck. "

Pendrell's eyes turned huge.  "Break down the door?  We're not supposed to do
that. We're supposed to call for a backup of local law enforcement and a
locksmith if no one appears to be in residence.  We're only supposed to make
a forced entry in a perceived emergency."

"I perceive this as an emergency, OK?" I muttered.  "So get your weapon
ready," I said, motioning for him to take out his gun, which he did with
obvious reluctance.

I backed up and carefully measured how much room I needed to get a good
running slam into the door.  I checked my footing, braced my shoulder and
remembered to prepare for a full-body follow through once I made contact.  I
remembered to take a deep breath and get a fast sprinting push-off.  I
remembered it all.  Except for one thing.

I forgot to make sure that the door was actually locked.

Which it wasn't.

What happened next, you ask?  Well, let's just say that I'd finally
discovered the glory of flight.  When I hit that door, at an excellent clip
close to ten miles per hour, I burst through its open lock like an emu tossed
from a cliff.  And there, for an entire two seconds, I was literally
airborne, carried on the wings of inertia right through the foyer, sailing
over the couch and landing, not very delicately I might add, onto a homemade
coffee table that was formerly the trunk of a petrified redwood tree.

Ouch, you ask?

Oh yeah...ouch, baby.

"Are you all right?" asked the hazy, red-haired figure above me when I
regained consciousness.

No, I was *not* all right, but I wasn't going to tell him that.  "I'm fine."

"That looked painful," he replied doubtfully.

"Piece of cake," I panted, trying to sit up and ignore the tiny flashes of
light popping behind my eyelids.

"Well, we're inside and no one seems to be home," he said, looking around.
He held out a hand to help me up, which I waved away and then realizing that
I couldn't get up, took it.  My head spun like a Battling Top, and my nerves
started to do that delicate dance on the very edge of sanity.

With tottering steps, I went to the liquor cabinet, opened the doors and
began to toss the contents on the floor.  Hey, I had a search warrant, which
to me was a perfect excuse to take out all my frustrations on the house of
the son-of-a-bitch who had dared to break the law at just the time when my
turn for my first case was due.

That green-haired bastard wasn't only going to jail, he was going to get an
interior decorating job he'd never forget.

Dizzily, I swung around and made sure I swept a couple of vases
*accidentally* to the floor.  Who knows?  They might have had evidence in
them.  Drawers went flying, papers filled the air, and my partner stared at
me in wide-eyed shock, but said nothing.  He knew I was perfectly within my
rights, because a federal search warrant is better than a demolition
contract.  He just quietly followed in my wake, trying to sort through my
destruction with some methodology and I continued to wreck with impunity
until I felt his hesitant tap on my shoulder.

"What?" I snarled at him, without turning around from the bookcase I was
trying to tear apart with my bare hands.

"Agent Krycek, I'm sorry for interrupting, but there's something very odd
here that I can't quite put my finger on," said Pendrell uneasily, looking
around. "Something that's not quite right."

Christ, what a boy scout.  "Look Pendrell," I snapped. "Just help me take
down this bookcase.  Oh great, it's bolted to the wall.  See if there's a
hacksaw around.  No...no, wait.  I got it.  I'll just rip the shelves off."

But Pendrell still looked perturbed.  "It's this awful, nagging feeling I'm
getting.  Look, I'll be right back, I'm just going to double-check
something."

"Right.  And while you're goofing off, I'm gonna pull down these paintings.
Think I should crack the frames or just put my foot through the middle?
Hell, foot through the middle sounds like a plan to me," I said, stomping my
way through a vase of pastel flowers.

But when Pendrell finally came back inside, he was absolutely white. "Agent
Krycek?" he whispered to me, his eyes enormous.

"Pendrell, get the hell over here and help me yank this stove out of the
wall, will you?  And watch the glass.  The fridge was full of jars."

"Agent Krycek?"

"Wait a minute.  We should turn off the gas first, right?  I don't want to be
found asphyxiated in some goddamn puddle of pickle juice."

"Agent Krycek..."

"What?!" I turned and screamed at him, my last nerve ready to snap.  "What
the fuck is it?"

"We're in the wrong house."

*********

When the real owners of the house eventually returned, a nice young couple
and their two small children, they were less upset about their mangled front
door and destroyed home then you might have imagined.  Perhaps the sight of
an FBI agent banging his head against their kitchen table and bawling like a
two-year-old is what helped them through their own pain.

They even made lunch for us, with the kids taking turns feeding me tomato
soup and a grilled cheese sandwich cut into tiny little bites, as though I
were some pathetic, dying animal they'd found on their front stoop.  Any
minute I was I was expecting them to start yelling "Can we keep him, Mom?
Pullleezze?".

Pendrell called the cleaning services, while I slowly returned to life.

"Uh, yes...it's quite messy.  No, not a flood.  It was, uh...raccoons."

Three hours later, we finally arrived at Chuckles' pastel summer palace on
the other side of the bay.  With cautious steps, we crept up the driveway,
triple-checked the address and let ourselves in the easy way, by going around
to the backyard.  We peered around carefully and let out a sigh of relief.
It was an ordinary, everyday backyard, with wicker patio furniture, big
pastel umbrellas, a worn wooden deck...

And a huge, penis-shaped swimming pool.

Well, *that* was something I'd never seen before, and I still have to admit
it was pretty amazing.  The left testicle was a whirlpool, the right one a
sitz bath.  The span was three lanes wide and the length...well, the length
just made me smile.

Even Goober was impressed.  "He must have had that custom-built."

"No, he bought it at Sears," I replied, rolling my eyes. "You didn't see the
special sale they had on penis pools last week?"

"No, I didn't," he replied with honest surprise, seemingly oblivious to
sarcasm.  "You know, I always thought Sears was so staid."

With a groan, I took off to the house's interior and began the search.
Pendrell wandered in behind me and hit the front rooms, still babbling.

"Do you need a pair of gloves, Agent Krycek, or do you have your own?" I
heard him yell from some distant room.  "I have latex, non-latex, rubber,
cotton, wool..."

Gloves?  Who the hell needs gloves, I thought, once again aimlessly dumping
boxes onto the floor.  All I wanted was one damn clown and a return trip back
to Blevins' office were I would convince him that my talents were being
wasted on stupid things like cases and could be much better spent in
satisfying him in other, less labor-intensive, ways.

"I'm allergic to the latex ones myself.  Got one hell of a case of
anaphylactic shock just last year.  My entire head swelled like a
football..."

Oh, thanks so much for -that- mental picture, Goob.  I shook my head as I
exited from Chuckles' bedroom to the back deck.  He was still going on as I
slid the door shut behind me.

"...or maybe a beach ball? Oh, I don't know. Maybe that's a little too much,
but it was pretty big."

I wandered back to the patio area, trying to entice the California sunshine
to take away some of the deathly white pallor I'd developed during the stress
of the past eight hours.  After an aimless kick at a Bozo inflatable tube, I
noticed a large red box sitting peacefully on the patio table at the pool's
far end.  I took a casual stroll over and checked it out.

It was a gift box.  Just sitting there on the patio table.

That's odd, I thought.  Picking it up, I slowly flipped the top off with my
thumb, wondering at the smell of rotting meat that suddenly assailed my
nostrils.  I peered into its gilded depths and took in the delightful sight
of its contents.

Why, it was a human head.

A human head with green hair, white makeup and a surgically attached red,
rubber nose.  It was the head of one Melvin Fishenburgenheimer,
a.k.a...Chuckles D. Clown.

And there wasn't a body in sight.

Now, the FBI has very specific and strict procedures in regards to the
discovery of human remains during the course of a case.  Nearly three hundred
pages of them. And they all boil down to this single, easy-to-remember
sentence.

"Don't Fucking Touch It."

That's right.  You see it, you secure the area, you call for backup.  Don't
move it, don't touch it, don't even breathe near it.  In fact, don't even
look at it for too long, just in case the light reflecting off of your
eyeballs might somehow damage the invaluable evidence that a troop of
forensics will scrape, pry, poke and rip from it for the next two weeks.  If
you accidentally touch it or disturb it, simply move away...and polish up
your badge and gun so you can them hand over to your superior the minute he
comes in.

Because, as you should know, the Bureau doesn't like accidents.

So, with all this knowledge in mind, and being the good FBI agent I was, the
*smart* FBI agent I was, the *efficient* FBI agent I was, I did exactly what
could have been expected of me.

I tossed that goddamn box ten feet up into the air and screamed like a girl.

Pendrell came running out from the house, gun drawn, just in time to see the
amazing spectacle of the disembodied head of one Mr. Chuckles D. Clown, make
its graceful arc out of the box, through the air, and plummet to earth like a
gaily colored melon.  It hit the pool with a splash worthy of any cannonball,
and I still remember to this day, the gentle floating waves of green hair and
the bobbing red-rubber nose, as Chuckles' head slowly sank to its final
resting place underneath eight feet of stagnant pool water, coming to rest
right about where my career with the FBI was now lying.

I clapped my hands over my mouth and did a miserable little dance of horror,
as village idiots have done throughout the centuries.  I watched as Pendrell
slowly walked to the edge of the pool to look and when he turned back toward
me, his eyes were wide open, open way beyond the saucer category, far past
the "holy shit!" zone, and were rapidly moving into "Partner, You Are
-Screwed- Land."

There was no blowjob that could get me out of this one.

For a long time, both of us stood there side by side, at the edge of this
ridiculous penis-shaped swimming pool with me stamping and cursing like a
madman, wondering what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life,
with the now useless and putrefying head of a murder victim staring back at
me from its filthy depths.

After a few moments, Pendrell glanced at me, with a strange and hooded look.
"Well, Alex, I think you've done it this time."

"Of course, I've fucking done it," I nearly howled as Chuckles continued to
stare at me from the murky bottom of his own dick-shaped pool.  "Look at what
I've done!  I can't believe this..."

"Neither can I," said Pendrell, slowly.  "I was sort of hoping to find
something big.  Well, maybe I'll get lucky next time."

Wait a minute.

For a short moment, the entire world stopped.  What the hell was he talking
about?  He couldn't be...he couldn't...

"Guess I'll call for backup," he said with a small, conspiratorial nod.  "I
think they'll be pretty pleased that you were thorough enough to check the
pool."

No.  I blinked twice.  Was Agent Pendrell, The Boy Scout, Richie Cunningham's
nicer, more honest brother, the FBI's most trustworthy agent, going to *lie*
for ME?  Me, a crass, cynical, backstabbing, ladder-climbing goon, who'd been
nothing but nasty, heartless and cruel to him from the moment he shook my
hand?

"Good work," he said with a smile, patting me on the shoulder.

It seemed that way.  Pendrell was going to cover my ass, at the possible
expense of his own, for no other reason than he was a good guy and I was his
partner, and that's what good guys did for their partners, no matter how
stupid a thing it was for them to do.

Well, this is the point I suppose that I should be telling you how much I
appreciated it, how I suddenly saw him in a new light and kissed him right
then and there, with adoration and everlasting gratitude.

Oh, well, sorry.  No dice.  But I *was* confused, if that counts.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, nearly overcome with my usual
warmth.  "I dropped the head in the fucking pool, are you blind?"

But he was adamant, shaking his head and pulling out his cell phone.  "No, I
don't think you did, Alex."

Finally, I caught on.  Don't let anyone tell you that Alex Krycek was
anything but swift in those days. I watched quietly, sheepishly, maybe even
with a bit of annoyance as he dialed for back-up and spoke to the San Fran
office.

"Yeah," I heard him say into his phone, as Chuckles' cranium gently swayed
underneath the gray water.  "Yes, that's right. He found him.  Well, part of
him anyway.  Right. Oh, and bring a net, will you?"


**********

With Chuckles dead, we now had a homicide case on our hands.  This was a
big-time break for us as agents and even Goober knew it.

"You know, I'd call my mom and tell her the good news, but I don't think
she'd quite understand why it was good news," he said thoughtfully, as we
drove onward the next day after a night of paperwork, to one of Chuckles'
favorite watering holes for some fact-finding.

"I'd call my mom, but I don't think she'd be sober at this hour," I replied.

Pendrell raised an eyebrow at me.  "It's eleven a.m back home."

"I know," I said, ignoring his puzzled look.  "Now what's the name of this
place again?"

"It's called The Raffled Twig," said Pendrell, closely examining two guide
books and a city map simultaneously.  "I think it's right off of this block
here."

"Are you positive?" I asked, wanting no more mistakes in the geographical
department.

"Yes, in fact...there it is," he said, pointing to a dim-looking store front
to our left.  I pulled over and found a parking space as he attempted to
carefully re-fold the map back to its original shape.  After ten minutes and
six attempts he gave up, mainly because I'd ripped it from his hands and
threatened to burn it and him alive if he didn't stop.

"I hate maps like that," he grumbled as we walked up to the bar.  "They're so
frustrating."

"Not half as frustrating as watching you mess with it," I replied glumly as I
opened the bar door and entered.

Now, I'd been to a few dives in my time, but this place took the cake.  It
was a craphole that hadn't seen the light of day or the business end of a mop
in decades.  The air was stagnant, the walls were black with dirt and the
stench that surrounded us was certainly something that wasn't found in
nature.

"Jesus, what -is- that smell?" I choked, trying to be manly about it, but
failing miserably.

Pendrell sniffed the air tentatively.  "It appears to be a combination of
rotting meat, commercial ammonia and human waste."

"Oh, great," I said with a horrible grimace.  I walked up to the bar and
tried not to gag as another waft of Eau D' Shit smacked me in the nostrils.

"Excuse me," I said to the bartender, an anemic-looking man in his seventies.
I pulled my badge from my jacket and flipped it open.  "I'm Agent Krycek and
this is my partner Agent Pendrell.  We're from the FBI and we'd like to..."

But before I could finish, a wheezing voice to my left interrupted.

"Well, well, a couple of grass-eaters, I see.  Why the hell they still send
you schoolboys out on cases is beyond me."

"Pardon me?" I asked, whirling around and seeing a very bent, very red and
very annoyed looking drunkard to my left.  "May I ask what you mean by that,
sir?"

But he was going on as if I hadn't even spoken.  "As if I, Pride Williams
Jr., wasn't the SAC of the Helena office for 13 years without seeing enough
of you infants running around with your guns all polished up and your heads
in your asses."

Oh, Christ, that was no drunkard, it was an Old Boy.  An SAC, no less.  I
immediately plastered on my best, kiss-ass smile and world-famous,
eager-beaver twinkle eyes.  Hell, who knows who this guy knew?  Besides, old
FBI agents are what make young FBI agents' reputations.

Among other things.

"Sir," I said, my tone becoming amazingly respectful.

"Sir," repeated my partner, his tone also respectful, but probably a bit more
sincere.

"You can cut the ass-kissing, girls," growled Williams, slugging down half of
his beer with a single messy gulp. "Anyone I knew in Washington is either
dead or in jail.  So no promotions are coming in from this end.  What are you
two mewling newborns doing in the big, bad city?  Trolling for missing pets?"

Oh, a real charmer, this one.

"An extortion case, sir," I replied, my mouth starting to ache from smiling
so hard.  "With some extenuating circumstances."

Williams snorted, and I watched his limp cigarette dribble ashes from his lip
onto the bar.  "Extenuating circumstances.  What bullshit.  Who the hell took
your pacifier away, boy?  I should report the moron."

He took a another deep drag and glanced at Pendrell.  "And they're still
sending the Junior Science boys out for field trips, eh?  I thought they quit
doing that when we lost a busload of them in that booby-trapped Radio Shack."

He ignored Pendrell's befuddled look. "Don't worry kid, your chemistry set
will still be there when you get back...*if* you get back."

"Sir," nodded Pendrell, not really understanding, but, as usual, trying his
best.  "I think what Agent Krycek means by extenuating circumstances is
something that someone with your years of experience would have some very
valuable insights on.  Perhaps, sir, if we could buy you another beer and..."

"You want insights, huh?  Sure, I'll give you some insights.  And you both
can buy me another beer," he said, motioning with two fingers at the
bartender. "I'm sure you two geniuses can afford it, with what they probably
pay you whining little shysters nowadays.  Yeah you, Science Boy. You and
Agent Crabcake over here."

"Krycek, sir," I corrected through clenched teeth.

"Whatever.  And I want two bottles, not mugs.  These glasses are filthy,"
said Williams, the cigarette flopping between his lips.

"If you gave me a second to wash a couple of them, they might not be,"
replied the bartender grumpily, as he plunked down a bottle in front of
Williams.  "You drink faster than a whale shits kelp."

"It appears that our perp was blackmailing acquaintances of his who happened
to be homosexuals," began Pendrell nervously, watching Williams down half of
the first beer in one huge swallow.  "And what would really help us would be
a way to determine precisely whom he was targeting... to narrow down the
list, so to speak."

"You want to find out which of his friends were gay?" said Williams,
examining his second beer bottle with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

"Plainly put, yes sir."

The old man took another huge slurp, belched and stretched.  "Well, a good
FBI agent can tell a man's sexuality just from the contents of his cupboard."

I watched as Pendrell took out his notebook and clicked his pen thoughtfully,
no doubt in an earnest attempt to capture these forthcoming pearls of wisdom.
Oh, here we go, I groaned inwardly.  I turned appealingly to Williams, the
shit-eating smile still firmly in place.  "Really, sir? How so?"

"You can tell from a lot of things from anything in them, but mostly from the
coffee."

"Coffee, sir?"  I asked, wishing I could smack Pendrell very hard for roping
us into this conversation.

"Christ, kid, what are you, deaf?  Yeah, I said coffee.  Here, lemme give you
an example.  Let's say you've got a single guy that has a bag of Dean &
Deluca Kaloah in his freezer, whole beans, not ground.  What does that tell
you?"

All right, even I knew the answer to that one.  "Gay?"

Williams harumphed.  "Of course.  Now, try this one.  Canned espresso."

"Straight?"

"And a mobster.  OK, hot shot.  Maxwell House, the blue can."

"Straight again?"

Williams leaned back, a grin digging its way into his expansive jowls.
"Sorry, green-boy.  Maxwell House is closet-case city.  Here, let's try this
guy."

He turned to my partner with a wheezy smile.  "What's in your cupboard,
Opie?"

Pendrell looked up from his notepad, his eyes wide.  "Me?  Oh, I don't have
any coffee at home."

"Really?" Williams snorted.  "What do you have?"

Pendrell suddenly looked bashful.  "Um, well...lemon zinger tea and a jar of
honey."

Williams stared at him for a very long moment and then turned back to me.

"Congratulations, boy, your partner is a lesbian."

"Yeah," I replied, rolling my eyes, and motioning for Pendrell to rise...now.
"Well, this has all been very informative, sir, and we appreciate your unique
insights on sexuality and breakfast beverages, but we really have to be
moving along now."

"It's the only useful thing I learned after twenty-five years with that
damned Bureau, that's for damned sure.  You're lucky I even bothered to tell
you," he said, flinging his empty beer bottle down the bar and motioning for
another.  "But you'll learn the hard way."

"Thank you, sir," I repeated, yanking on Pendrell's sleeve.  "I think we
should be going now, Agent Pendrell," I growled, with a distinct edge of
urgency in my tone.

Pendrell slowly rose and then looked back at Williams with a curious
expression. "Sir? May I ask what instant coffee means?"

Williams took another giant swig of beer before answering.  "Means he's too
damn old to have sex.  Like me."

"Ah." Pendrell nodded and carefully put away his notebook.  "Well, thank you,
sir."

"No problem. Oh, and one more thing, ladies," yelled Williams after us,
flinging his last empty mug down the soaked wooden bar top, much to the
bartender's annoyance.  "If it's information on the gay community you want, I
suggest you go to the Wharf."

I turned around with surprise.  "The Wharf?"

"Yeah, you heard me Helen Keller, the Wharf.  And turn on your little-boy
smile when you get there.  You're too badly dressed to be taken seriously
anyway."

"Thank you, sir," I muttered, pulling Pendrell out behind me.  "Thank you."

*************
*************

The Wharf was an interesting place

Now I'd seen some fine men in my life, but none were like these.  Even my
intrepid partner appeared somewhat awed at the astonishing array of tanned
and flawless male bodies parading past us underneath the warm Pacific
sunshine.

"He wasn't born to look like that," he scoffed at one particularly perfect
specimen.

"No, but something happened along the way," I replied, as I tripped along the
sidewalks, feeling giddy and inadequate all at once in the midst of this
testosterone wonderland. Boy, it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid,
I thought unhappily, as another incredible male body attached to an ordinary
head passed by me.

Maybe I could...nah.  Agent Straight-Lace over there would not only pass out
cold if I tried to get some action, he'd probably call in two shrinks, three
lawyers, Blevins *and* an exorcist.

Not only that, but the Helena SAC was right.  Me and Goober stuck out like a
pair of chicken weenies at a filet mignon convention.  Not only were we
dressed badly and had no muscular structure to speak of, but we also stunk of
government bureaucracy, which isn't exactly the most attractive odor on
earth.

I'd be lucky if anyone talked to me, forget about letting me ride the hobby
horse with them.

With a sigh, I wandered along with Goober at my side, wondering where to
start, when we came to the first bar in the district called, appropriately
enough, Long John's.  It was as good as any place, so I simply dragged
Pendrell in behind me and tried to squeeze my way past the burliest group of
queens you could imagine.

I've always enjoyed people's automatic perception of homosexuals as dainty,
lisping ballerinas always on the edge of some hysterical breakdown.  I just
wished they could see these guys, looking not only like they could lift a
truck, but chew their way through the chassis, swallow the engine whole and
wash it down a few gallons of premium gasoline.  They could kick the ass of
any straight guy I knew, that was for sure.

And they could certainly punt my skinny butt right out over the bay.

I grew slightly uncomfortable when the entire bar, as one giant, living lump
of muscle, turned to stare at me and the Goob upon entrance, as if we were a
pair of game hens ready to be turned into a mid-afternoon snack.

We stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do, when the biggest,
beefiest one lumbered over and stood right in front of us, not unlike a
Panzer tank about to run over a couple of squirrels.

But my partner seemed completely unfazed.  "Hello," smiled Pendrell sweetly
at the huge brute who glared down at him from at least six inches over his
head.

Still smiling, he leaned forward and peered closely at Big Boy's giant,
rock solid bicep.  "My, that's a wonderful tattoo you have there.  Is *Meaty*
a person or a nickname?"

Big Boy's expression slowly changed from glowering to puzzled.  "That's my
nickname."

Pendrell grinned back at him with a wink.  "Oh, I see.  Lucky you.  Too bad
for me my nickname is *Veggie*."

After another moment of silence, Big Boy actually began to chuckle and then
barked at the bartender.  "Gimme two beers, Raul.  One for me and one for my
pal Veggie here," he said, as he clapped an immense paw onto Pendrell's
shoulder and steered him to a quiet corner.

"Why, thank you," beamed Pendrell, as they strolled away and as I
looked on with my mouth hanging wide open.  "That's very thoughtful of you."

I could *not* believe it.  That dimwitted tank had actually latched onto my
partner and that skinny, little copper-headed louse went right along with
him. To make things worse, Big Boy didn't even throw a glance in my
direction! Me...the cute one!

Christ almighty, what was the world coming to?

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at them, still unwilling to
believe my eyes.

But there it was. That creep was draping himself all over my partner like a
cheap sheet set.  And my partner wasn't only letting him do it, he was
*encouraging* him to do it.  Smiling like a Cheshire cat, sipping his drink
with little lip-licks, practically batting his eyes and waving an imaginary
fan at the goon.  And Big Boy was eating it up, laughing and leering,
basically drooling all over Goober's boring tie.  And, for some unknown,
ungodly reason...

I was furious.

Enraged.  Incensed.  Absolutely deranged with anger.

And, for the life of me, I didn't know why.

Sure, maybe I should have figured it out then, but as I told you before, at
twenty-two years old and as selfish, self-centered and arrogant as all hell,
I wasn't exactly the brightest puppy in the pound. All I knew was
that...that...that...giant whatever he was, was standing there drooling all
over MY partner and MY partner, that cheap, little Nerdboy trollop was
letting him do it right there in front of me.

And I didn't like it one damn bit.

So, after a few long minutes of stewing, I swaggered over with just enough
self-righteous anger to make me look especially ridiculous.  "Excuse me," I
huffed, poking Big Boy in one massive, twenty-two inch, granite-like bicep.
"But what do you think you're doing?"

"Who the hell is this?" snarled Big Boy, his beer breath drifting out about
six inches over my head.

"Him? Uh, well.  That's, uh...that's, uh, Alex," said Pendrell nervously,
trying as ever to repair my damage.

"But he's just a friend," he smiled sweetly at Big Boy, who was beginning to
glower dangerously at me.  "Alex, how about you get me and *Chuck's friend*
here another round of drinks," he turned and said to me, with an emphasis on
"Chuck's friend" that I brilliantly chose to ignore.

"No, I'm not going to get you and Neanderthal Man two more drinks," I spat,
as Pendrell's face fell in disbelief and Big Boy began to snort like a bull
provoked by a red flag that was glued somewhere on my forehead.

But I was unstoppable. Remember, I was armed.  Legally.

"Yeah, that's right, Big, Tall and Hideous," I strutted, casually opening my
coat and showing him not only my regulation Smith and Wesson, but also the
World's Cheapest Belt.  "Get your own goddamn drink and find yourself a guy
who reaches up high enough to see exactly how ugly you are."

He looked at my gun, looked at me, snorted again and shrugged.  "No problem,
asshole," he said, lumbering back toward the bar.  He turned back toward
Pendrell.  "If you wanna come back around and talk some more, leave Angie
Dickenson here at home."

"Yeah," replied Pendrell weakly, staring after Big Boy with a defeated
expression.  "I'll do that."

"Not in this lifetime, pal," I yelled out after Big Boy. " We're a package,
buddy.  Yeah, you get two for the price of one here, so you can forget about
him ditching me in this eternity, you freak-of-nature."

I turned toward Pendrell with a scowl.  "Isn't that right, *partner*?"

Pendrell turned to me with a face that was filled utter disbelief and
answered in a voice I didn't even know he owned.  "Agent Krycek, what the
HELL did you do that for?!"

He was truly upset and for a long moment, I was honestly surprised.  "Do
*what* for?"

"Agent Krycek, I was getting information from that man!" cried Pendrell
holding his temples between his palms, his mouth moving up and down like a
dying fish's.  With a furious stride he went for the exit, still holding his
head.

"No, you weren't," I replied weakly, running after him, as the dim dawn of
reality slowly ascended over the horizon of my stupidity.

"Excuse me?" he gasped, when we were both outside. " What exactly did you
think I was doing?"

"You...you...were letting him flirt with you," I replied with all the
indignation I could muster.

He threw me a strange look.  "Yes, and?"

"You were letting him flirt with you," I repeated like a nagging parrot.
"And I'm....frankly, I'm shocked.  Yeah, that's it.  I'm very shocked."

Boy, you don't get much weaker than that and even Pendrell knew it.

"Yes, I was letting him flirt with me," he replied slowly, with measured,
mature tones. "And if you hadn't interrupted, he might have actually finished
telling me where we could find the last guy that Chuckles blackmailed.  Which
he was *just* about to do until you made that scene."

Oh.  I see now, said the blind man.

"Agent Krycek, that man was giving me valuable information. And an agent is
supposed to get his intelligence where he can.  If his sexual orientation and
actions didn't bother me, why the hell should it have bothered you?  Are you
*that* homophobic?"

Oh, Christ.  "Uh...well..um," said the gay FBI agent, namely me.

For the first time I saw a spark of real anger from him.  "Well, if that's
the case, then I'm very sorry to say that I find your prejudices
inappropriate."

"My prejudices?" I gulped.  "Look, Pendrell..."

"Yes, your prejudices against homosexuals," he interrupted indignantly.
"Forgive me for saying this, but stubbornly clinging to certain personal
beliefs during the course of a criminal investigation is unprofessional."

I swallowed the golf ball sized lump in my throat.  "Look, I'm *not*
homophobic, not in the slightest, OK?"

"Then what was the problem?" he asked with utter exasperation.

Yeah, Alex, what was the problem?

"I was jealous.  I wanted him for myself, OK?" I said, wishing that a
sinkhole would miraculously appear and swallow me and my idiotically empty
head right down to the opposite end of the planet.

Brian gave a small snort and turned away.  "You know, sometimes I honestly
just don't understand you, Agent Krycek.  I really don't."

Well, don't hit yourself too hard, I thought.

Neither do I.


********

The dream I had that night started out great.

It began with a warm golden glow, that vague feeling that something wonderful
was just about to happen.  Suddenly, without warning or words, there was a
body underneath mine, sexless at first and then taking on the familiar shapes
and planes of another man's form.

Soon, it turned into the most spectacular of mindless fuck dreams, a beauty
without guilt, or fear, or hairs on the tongue.  I was sucking him off, he
was sucking me off, and the room's colors were shifting with our bodies, from
hot and golden to cool and grey.

Without words, I entered my unknown lover, and it was absolute heaven, just
heat and warm sweat rolling down my chest, and my hips moving smoothly and
reflexively toward orgasm.  I came so hard, I screamed that I'd marry this
guy if I could figure out some way to permanently induce unconsciousness.
For what seemed like forever, I floated on a wonderful, warm sea of relief
and pleasure, wondering what I'd done to deserve such happiness.

And finally through the haze, I saw the face of the man underneath me, my
beautiful, fantastic, fantasy lover...literally the man of my dreams.

It was Brian Pendrell.


********

"You look beat this morning, Krycek."

I'd stumbled down to the hotel restaurant still slightly shaky from a mostly
sleepless night and when I saw him sitting at the table,  I felt myself color
a furious shade of red as though I'd actually spent the night fucking him
brainless and now had to face the music.

"Did you sleep last night?" he asked, politely offering me some of his toast.

"Not really. I had a nightmare," I replied, declining the toast and trying to
look anywhere but at him.

"That's odd.  So did I," he replied.  "What was yours about?"

"Too terrifying to talk about," I mumbled, blindly reaching for the coffee.

"Hmmm," he said, passing me the sugar.  "Well, mine had to do with animal
crackers."

All right, I had to look up at this.  "Animal crackers?  What kind of
nightmare can you have about animal crackers?" I asked, incredulously.

"Well, I dreamt that I bought a box, opened it and all that was inside were
hippos.  No zebras, no gorillas, nothing but hippos."

"And this frightened you?"

"No, I just couldn't figure out how the heck that could have happened," he
said, chewing his toast thoughtfully.  "That was the scary part. It was so
frustrating."

I looked at him for a long time, enormous and sincere blue eyes staring back
at me over that piece of toast and thought to myself...

//You need help, pal. Serious help.//

Of course, then I remembered my own dream, and realized that he wasn't alone.

************

Anyone who tells you that being an FBI agent is a glamorous job doesn't know a thing about it.

All this fabulous career consists of is hours of boredom, minutes of enjoyment and seconds of sheer terror. For every clue you find, there's a closet full you miss.  For
every criminal you catch, there are fifty that get away.  And every time you fire your gun, there's an excellent chance that someone is firing back at you.

And there's certainly nothing quite as glamorous as a bullet in the head.

But the best, the most thrilling part, of being a federal agent is the literal Mt. Everest of paperwork that each and every day generates.  This wonderful, inspiring part of crime-fighting might be preferable to that bullet in the head, but only by the slightest margin, or so I believed.

Oh, but not my partner.

As we sat there, the evening after our pointless trip to the wrong side of investigative know-how, there he was. Writing...typing...whistling, he was a regular bureaucratic dog and pony show.  He was like a happy machine: *tap* went the keyboard, *rip* went the reports, *click* went the staple; on and on and on, in an endless display of delighted efficiency.

And I'd barely finished making my first paper airplane.

I was seriously re-thinking my career choice at this moment, almost wishing for an earthquake, a brushfire, or even a World Series win by the Mets to somehow alleviate the boredom, but nothing appeared to be coming down the pike.

Until the phone rang.

"Krycek," I said into the receiver, practicing my best FBI agent "sotto voce".

"I know who did it," replied a deep, unrecognizable voice on the other end.

Now -there- was something to catch even my stunted attention.  Sort of.

"What?" I yawned into the phone.

"The clown.  I know who killed the clown," the voice insisted.

"Oh," I replied, suddenly feeling that moment of excitement that I'd heard rumored about.  "Right...uh..."

"Meet me on the roof of the Old South Shore Dry Cleaners in half an hour and I'll talk," said the voice, cutting to the chase, not waiting for a wittier retort from yours truly.  "And I'll tell you all I know."

A pure wave of electricity, a shivering burst of energy, shocked me straight through to my toes.  "Right," I replied, trembling with excitement. "I'll be there."

When I hung the receiver up, I tried to put on a casual a face on, when I realized that this was the break I'd been waiting for.  It appeared that I was going to get an informer all to myself, and -then- I, Alex Krycek, was going to haul in my first murder suspect.

It was glorious feeling.  All my beliefs about myself were about to be confirmed.

That I was a genius...and a hot-looking one at that.

So, as I rose and prepared to meet my glorious destiny, I found that I had only one, slight, teeny, tiny, itty-bitty problem.  A problem I'd nicknamed The Staple Machine, otherwise known as...

Agent Goober.

"I think I'm going to go out and take a walk," I said nonchalantly, rising with a nice pantomime of a stretch.

"A walk?  It's two in the morning," he replied incredulously, probably noting my shaking hands and my beady, greedy-looking eyes the second he looked up.

His expression turned suspicious. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Who was -that-?" I replied, with the most innocent face I could muster.  "Uh, that was the...the...local public television station.  They want another donation.  They're giving away a whole slew of those tote bags and ..."

He wasn't falling for it.  "I don't believe you're going just for a walk.  Where are you going?" he asked, this time with serious annoyance.

"I have to meet someone in regards to this case, all right?" I said placatingly, quickly backing out of the office and into the hall.  "No one important.  I won't be gone long, less than an hour.  You can finish up here and then head to the hotel. I'll meet you there."

But Pendrell wasn't buying it, not for one minute.  "Why do you have to go alone?" he asked angrily, rising and following me into the hallway.

"Look, I really don't need a partner for this, all right? So just go back to your stapler and no one will get hur..."

"It's too dangerous for a junior agent to go investigating by themselves," he interrupted loudly.  "That's why we're assigned partners."

"I can handle it," I said waving him off, striding down the hallway, trying to ignore him as he trotted along beside me.

"You can't ditch me like a bad date, Krycek" he said angrily, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me to screeching halt.

I shook myself free from his grasp, and turned back toward him, with a malevolent expression.  "Yes. I. Can," I replied, and to punctuate my point, I poked him in the shoulder as I said it, one poke for each word.

[Poke.  Poke.  Poke.]

Suddenly, his eyes widened, and his face turned very pale.  "Don't poke me, Agent Krycek," he whispered in a shaking voice, much to my astonishment. "Please don't do that."

Now, as you may already know, there are different, and irrational, triggers that set off people's worst tempers.  Sometimes it's someone cutting in front of you on a line, sometimes it's a compulsive bout of knuckle cracking, sometimes it's seeing someone wear white shoes after Labor Day.

And sometimes it's a single, pointy poke in the shoulder.  And, judging from his barely concealed self-restraint, it appeared I'd found his trigger...his unfailing anger button.

But, just to make absolutely sure, I pushed it again.

Hard.

[Poke]

Oh, it was a wonderful sight to see his face change colors so quickly, from red to white to blue, in a truly patriotic display of rage.  I was enthralled.

And amused beyond belief.

"I asked you not to do that," he gasped, trying desperately to control his fury, as I tried desperately to control my laughter.  "Please."

I swear, the sight of the self-controlled, by the book, Agent Pendrell begging...no, pleading with me not to drive him over the edge of control into The Land Of Enraged Insanity was too much.  It was hilarious, but also heartbreaking in a strange sort of way, and I suppose I should have felt bad about being such an annoying bastard,  and I suppose I should have stopped, but...

[Poke]

With an unearthly howl, he leapt on me and let me tell you, that skinny labrat was a lot stronger than he looked.  In seconds, he had me down, and we rolled together like two bratty school kids on a tear toward detention, gasping for air and making sounds not unlike a pair of hogs fighting in their pen.

He soon had me pinned down and I was left trying like hell to push him off of me. To my great surprise, he was impossible to budge, locking me within skinny arms, straddling me with stick-like legs, his cheek against mine, his warm breath in my ear, his lips right next to mine and suddenly, I found myself praying to every god and devil I'd ever heard of to get him the hell off of me, because for one, brief, terrible, horrifying second...

I actually thought I was going to kiss him.

But before I could mortify myself, he had either the foresight, or the good sense to let go, pull himself up from the dusty floor and convince himself that I wasn't worth the trouble.

"Fine," he spat, brushing off his pants with short, angry movements.  "Go ahead, Krycek.  Go kill yourself.  See if I care."

"Fine," I gasped in reply, hauling myself up from the cheap linoleum.  "I will."

"Fine," he snarled back.

"Fine.  And one more thing Lab Boy..."

But he was gone, long gone, even before I could even finish my sentence.

***********

An hour later, as I stood on that dark roof, in the very damp, very chilly San Francisco early morning air, I told myself in plain, convincing language, that I did not need him.

I was the hotshot, wasn't I?  I'd outdone them all in Quantico, bested even the brightest agents.  Every training exercise I'd excelled at, and even if I -had- bribed the score takers and the smarter, but shyer, students to make sure I'd score the highest, that really didn't matter now, did it?  All that mattered, I told myself vehemently, was that I was the best then, and I was the best now, and I had no need for anyone else.

Especially someone who was nicknamed "Goober" for God's sake.

But it slowly dawned on me as I stood shivering on that very cold, very lonely, roof that this was no training exercise.  This was the real thing.

And I was all alone.

Sure, I should have felt confident, sharp, ready like a knife, but honestly?  I felt nauseous...just sick.  My track record up to this point had been unspectacular to say the least, and I was about to come face to face with a guy I knew only one thing about.  That he hung out with murderers and knew them well enough to squeal on them.

Not exactly the blind date of my dreams, I'll say that much.

Miserably, I paced the roof, just about ready to pack it in, when the ancient iron door that led to the roof opened and a huge, vaguely familiar head poked its way out from the opening.  Instantly, I realized that I knew this guy, but it took me a good moment to place him.  But yeah, I definitely knew him.

It was "Meaty"... Pendrell's burly friend from the bar.

All three hundred muscular pounds of him.

"Um," I called out, somewhat squeakily.  It was cold and I was scared, but after swallowing hard, I made a serious effort to force some authority into my voice.  "Hello.  I'm Agent Krycek, Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Are you the person I'm supposed to meet?"

There, I thought with a relieved sigh.  That was pretty professional.

Of course, having forgotten to take the snap off my gun holster, as my instructors had told me time and time again to make sure I did before meeting with *anyone* related to a case, was -not- very professional.

Meaty stared at me, then looked around carefully, and then glanced back at me with a grin I did -not- like.  "You came here all alone?" he asked, in a disbelieving voice.

//Uh, oh.//

"Yes, but I wouldn't let that concern you," I replied, forcing a devil-may-care, make-my-day, don't-be-a-sucker tone into my speech.  Hell, it worked for Clint Eastwood.  And why not?  I thought it was impressive, and besides, I was the FBI agent here, wasn't I?  And I deserved respect, didn't I?

Right?

But Meaty merely laughed.  Loudly.  And took one giant step toward me.

"So," I asked, trying desperately not to croak out my words in a terrified stutter, but failing miserably.  "What information do you have?"

Silently, he advanced another step, and I reached for my gun, but my hand was shaking so badly that I was having a slight problem with a certain snap that I'd forgotten to undo.  Yes, my instructors knew what they were talking about, I thought dismally, as my cold fingers desperately worked at the stiff leather and metal.  I tried to conceal my efforts, but I soon realized it didn't matter what he saw, because unless I got my hands on that gun, something bad was going to happen to me.

Something very, -very- bad.

"I told you I know who killed the clown," he said, taking another step toward me.

"Right," I replied, now really fumbling for my gun, and making no pretense about it.  "Do you have a name?"

"Yeah, I do," he whispered, his huge and burly body now nearly on top of me.

I took a quick step back and my ass hit the roof's ledge.  I'd finally gotten the strap loose, but the gun was sticking in the holster itself and I tugged uselessly on its handle as Meaty's blue and yellowish eyes turned murderous.

"Who did it?" I whispered, looking up with terror, yanking with all my might at a firearm that refused to budge from its holster.

"Me," he replied.  And without another word...

He shoved me right off of that roof.

******

You know, when people who've survived a particularly interesting brush with death tell you that they were "thinking about a lot of things" during what appeared to be their last moments, I know for a fact that they're lying.

Unless pissing in your pants counts as thinking.

I guarantee you the only thing running through my mind, as I found myself dangling five stories above a rough date with a cement sidewalk, was the word "up".

Up.  Get up, climb up, fly up, get up.

It wasn't even a matter of "hold on" because my hands were clenched so tightly, so instinctively, around a TV cable that I'd gotten a hold of by some strange act of God, I couldn't have let go if I wanted to. My legs began to do a strange, swinging ballet underneath me, trying to hoist themselves over onto the other side of nothingness, where perhaps some invisible solid footing lay.

No such luck.

So, I dangled there, my hands feeling as though they were on fire, but were still clenched like a pair of steel vises around a wire that was about as thick as a phone cord, maybe thinner.  I don't remember thinking about anything in particular at the time, except maybe the fact that the people who make movies are morons.

In the movies, when a guy dangles from a roof or a bridge or a wire, all he needs to get himself rescued is to have someone show up.  It can be anyone. A ninety-five year old grandma, a blind paraplegic, a two-year-old kid; it doesn't matter.  Once the person shows up, down comes a little arthritic hand or five chubby infant fingers, and *ziiiippp* up he goes, straight to safety.

Now, I want you to try a little experiment. Take one hundred and sixty-five pounds of absolutely dead, gravity-challenged weight like, oh, I don't know, fifty drowned cats or your deceased Uncle Fred, or maybe your aunt's Christmas fruit cake.  Take anything even close to that weight, dangle it a few feet down off of your roof and then try to pull it up.

Good luck.

The only thing that was going to save my sorry ass was a fire truck, three portly cops, two ladders and a cherry picker.  And taking a breathless look below, I didn't see any of those things.  I tried to scream for help, but the only thing I could manage were two feeble wheezing gasps and one tiny asthmatic squeak of terror.  It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to die, unless a miracle somehow appeared.

And, surprisingly enough, it did.

A miracle with red hair, blue eyes and wearing a suit that was just as cheap as my own.

Without a single word, Brian Pendrell swung himself over the side of that roof, held onto the top of a maintenance ladder with his left hand, hooked a leg through its bottom rung and held his right hand down to me.  He quietly told me to let go of the wire and take his hand.

He had to be kidding.

"Alex, take my hand and let go," Brian said, still holding his right hand out, within inches of mine.  "I promise, I won't let you fall."

I think I replied something in the vein of "no way", but it's most likely that the actual quote was a bit saltier than that.

"Alex, I promise that I won't let you fall.  Please trust me," he said in the quietest tone imaginable.  "I'll pull you up."

My hands, now drenched with sweat, were starting to slip and my options were rapidly decreasing to a grand total of one. "You can't, " I gasped.  "You can't, not with one hand...you know that you can't."

"I'm telling you I can and I will," he said, his face the picture of serenity.  "Now, take my hand and let go."

Both of my hands were really slipping now, and I no longer had a choice.  I took his hand and prepared to kiss the ground, knowing full well that there was no way he could pull me up from that wire, up five feet onto that roof, using just one arm.  No way in hell.

But, somehow...some way, he managed to do it.

And he pulled his arm straight of its socket in the process.

Suddenly, I found myself scrambling onto bricks, hauling myself over hard cement, my shaking legs digging into blessed solid ground and the rest of my body collapsing onto Brian's, as we tumbled onto that roof.

And *that's* when my entire life flashed before my eyes, and I thought all those interesting thoughts that everyone always talks about after their thwarted date with death. Those thoughts about "lots and lots of things", with each and every one of them boiling down to one simple conclusion.

That I was a goddamn asshole.

Some revelation, huh?

For a long moment, I lay there trembling with shock against the scratching tar, but when I finally got the courage to take in my surroundings, I realized that Pendrell was gasping and trembling in pain, and when I finally opened my eyes, I saw his right arm laying strangely dead at his side, the tips of his fingers grey and still.

"I swear I'm reporting you this time, Krycek... this is it, you son-of-a-bitch." he wheezed furiously, his eyes shut tightly in agony.  "How dare you, you dumb, stupid asshole. If you have no respect for your own life, that's fine, but you leave me out of it, you hear?  I hope you finally have something to say for yourself, you jackass. "

I did, but I couldn't, because for the first time in many years, I was crying.  Sobbing against Brian's shoulder, holding onto him tightly, weeping not for my miraculously extended life, but for all the precious, irreplaceable time that I'd already wasted.

"You're a moron, Krycek.  Do you hear me?" he panted. "Oh, Christ, my arm..."

"I'm sorry," I clearly remember crying, two repetitive, trembling words into his suit jacket. "I'm sorry.  Please forgive me, I'm sorry."

Surprisingly, I felt his lips warm against my hair, speaking harsh words still, but his tone had changed.

"Idiot," he whispered, and I nodded in agreement, sobbing loudly still.

For what seemed like eternity, together we lay on that rooftop and for a long time, the only sounds that could be heard were of a grown man weeping, pigeons flying, and the clarion call of sirens in the distance.

*******

We spent that night in the hospital emergency room where Brian was admitted for X-rays and various tests on his dislocated arm.  He was pale with pain for most of it, but didn't make a sound, not even when they popped it back into place.

It appeared that he'd swallowed his pride and followed me up to Old South Shore, and arrived just in time to apprehend the fleeing Meaty -and- save me from becoming an open-faced cement sandwich.

For a long time, I sat by his hospital bed, stared at his brand-new, bright blue sling, and then looked down at the floor without saying a word.  When you finally find your humility, well, what can you say?

It's a humbling experience.

It's the same feeling you get when you've graduated from kindergarten to first grade and are shown pencils and books, instead of toys.  It's a confusing, fearful moment, because you think you have to start learning all over again, when really all you've really done was grow up, just a little bit.

We didn't say anything to one another for the first few hours.  He mindlessly watched TV, I simply watched him and not once did our eyes meet.  I was very glad they didn't because the only thing worse then me seeing the contempt and the anger in his eyes...

Would be him seeing what I knew must have been obvious in mine.

"You know, Alex," he said, finally...and sadly, without anger.  "I don't think I'm cut out for this life.  I should go back to Johnson and Johnson and leave this special agent business for somebody else."

The floor had suddenly become very interesting, and I stared at the marble tiles as I spoke.  "You're more than cut out for this.  It's me who should be hanging it up."

I heard him shift toward me, but still, I didn't dare raise my eyes.  "Alex, you have the potential to be a *great* agent.  All you have to do is look beyond yourself, if only for a minute.  You can be the best the Bureau's ever had.  I see it.  It's there."

"No, I don't think so," I started, but was interrupted by the angry sound of his voice.

"There you go again!  Goddamn it, Alex, when will you listen to someone, something outside of yourself?  You have to focus on what's out there, what surrounds you, or you'll not only waste your life, but you'll throw it away, forever."

"Like you almost did today," he said softly and I felt my heart leap into my throat, cutting off any arguments I might have tried to make.

I hung my head lower, and didn't reply.  There was no sound anywhere around us except for the occasional ringing phone and the quiet beeps of hospital equipment.

"Alex?" he finally asked, after what seemed like days.

"Yes?" I replied, looking up at him, at his pale face and very blue eyes.

"Can we get the hell out of here?  This place is giving me a rash," he said miserably and I nodded with a small smile.

"Me too," I said and helped him up.  He steadied out quickly and we walked out without a question from the too-busy-to-care hospital staff.

When we got to the parking lot, I helped him into the car and then leaned in through the passenger window.  "So where do you want to go, partner?  Back to the hotel?"

He shook his head.  "No, I want to look at something else besides rose-colored polyester for a little while."

"You got it," I replied, and without wasting another moment, I drove him straight to the promenade overlooking the Golden Gate bridge.

And there, together, we sat, with the foghorns sounding in the distance, and that incredible bridge before us, lit like Christmas in the summertime.  The sea air surrounded us and I finally got the courage to turn and look closely at him, trying to gain some sort of forgiveness I didn't deserve, to give some sort of rational explanation for myself and my actions, but as it turned out, I didn't need to.

When our eyes met, he simply shook his head, motioning me not say another word, and the smile he bestowed on me was so gentle, so kind, I thought my heart would burst at the sight.

It was then that I realized that I knew that face.

It was the face from my dream.  Innocence without ignorance, intelligence without cynicism, openness and trust, without foolishness. It was everything I'd ever wanted up to that point in my life, and it was astonishing, a true and complete revelation.

Like none I'd ever had before.

*********