DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property 
of Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions.  The 
situations into which I have placed them are of my 
own creation.

CATEGORY:  XRA 
RATING:  NC-17 
ARCHIVAL:  *MY SITE ONLY*  If you would like to link 
to the story on my site, please contact me first. 
SPOILERS:  Begins after "One Son".  Passing 
references to the rest of season 6, but if you've not 
seen those episodes, you probably won't recognize the 
references. 

SUMMARY:  Krycek presents a question to Scully and 
Mulder:  do they want to continue to watch from the 
sidelines, or do they want to make a difference?  
Burn in heaven, or reign in hell?  The choice isn't 
simple. The ramifications could be devastating for 
three people.

FEEDBACK:  alanna@alanna.net

NOTE: I have poured four months' work into this 
story, and would dearly appreciate any comments you 
could provide.  Constructive criticism is welcome; 
however, if you're against the idea of Scully/Krycek, 
telling me so and bemoaning my venture into the genre 
won't change my mind ;).

More author's notes at the conclusion.

+++++

TITANIUM By Alanna

Chapter One

+++++

The man is laid to rest.

One man amongst many.

Dead in a bizarre stroke of fate -- fate predestined 
from the moment they gathered and demanded to create 
the future.  Death at the hands of those they fought, 
not mourned by those with whom they were allied.  
Dead in a blazing, inhumane -- inhuman -- fire.

Two people sat in a pew of a silent chapel, listening 
to dirges mourning one whose death was welcomed by 
them.  For them, this was a beginning, not an end.  
Though the participants in the service gave haunting 
eulogies, the two interlopers watched with a morbid 
curiosity, grateful that the visual proof of this 
death was before them.

Grateful that the band of self-believed Icharii had 
fallen at last.

The man reached out to clasp the hand of the woman, a 
gesture of renewal and gratitude.  The woman did not 
take his hand in hers. They sat together, but were as 
distant as two ends of a magnetic pole.  And still, 
the dirges played.

+++++

You will come with me.
You will look at your life and leave it behind.
You will leave
     Truth
     Justice
     Honor

But what are they, really?
Constructs for your soul's
house of cards.

A Faberge egg is beautiful to see
but underneath the gilding and jewels
it is just metal.

You're metal too.
You fancy yourself iron.
He tells you that you are iron
but you let him cast you from
aluminum,
bending at his touch,
crumpling at his ill-chosen words,
disposable.

He fancies you are gold,
his shining precious metal
But gold bends at the weight of a
well-placed fingertip,
a well-placed word.

Have you ever seen titanium, Dana?
Touched it?
Examined it under your microscope?
It doesn't look beautiful at first
But it is strong, so strong.
When polished and treated well
it is more beautiful than any sparkle
in a covetous eye.

One afternoon I walked past a jewelry store
offering titanium wedding bands.
Their slogan:
Silver for Luck
Gold for Love
Titanium for Life

Silver has kept you alive.
Gold is what you imagine he sees in you.
Titanium is what you are.

Come into my jewelry store, Dana.
Let me sell you my metals.
You'll never want gold again.
 

+++++

They sat in the damask-upholstered chairs of a posh 
steak restaurant in Georgetown, the kind of place 
custom-built for  business lunches and expense 
accounts.  A man, a woman, sipping iced tea and 
anticipating after-dinner drinks of coffee and cream 
liqueur.  They had only ordered drinks thus far, 
waiting until their dinner companion made his 
entrance before perusing their menus.  Though neither 
said a word, Scully couldn’t help the thin vein of 
irony she felt at the idea of this meeting of ... 
minds? … taking place in luxury created for 
Washington power brokers.  She supposed that she and 
Mulder were power brokers too, but nobody would ever 
realize their power.  And they had the potential to 
lose so much more than prestige or money.

As Scully took another sip of her tea, he made his 
entrance.  Krycek.  When had she stopped hating the 
sight of him?  When had Mulder stopped wanting to 
bash in the man’s skull at any provocation?  She 
didn’t know, but these days it seemed so trivial.

Was this the first stage of depression?  The lack of 
caring?  Maybe.  Or maybe she was just too inured to 
hatred.  She’d hated many people in the past.  Now 
she didn’t have the energy to hate anymore.

The newcomer settled into his seat across from her at 
the square table. For a brief moment she wished she’d 
requested a booth – there, she would have the sense 
of she and Mulder against the world, the world being 
Alex Krycek.  Then again, that gave him too much 
power.

But then, he did have the power these days, didn’t 
he?

Unlike previous meetings, the moments fraught with 
anger and haste, they took their time tonight.  The 
three adults picked up their menus and scanned the 
contents, weighing options – steak or lobster?  Which 
side dishes looked the most appealing?  Would they 
want a dessert later?  Their mission was urgent but 
tonight they had all the time in the world.

A waiter came to take their orders and then 
disappeared back into the normal world.  Scully 
stared at Krycek.  She could see him scanning the 
room out of the corners of his eyes, checking for 
prying ears, eyes.  He leaned back in his chair, and 
she assumed this was his signal that they were safe 
to talk.

“Tell us what you know,” Mulder said in his voice of 
authority.

He began to recount some of the highlights of the 
past six years, but didn't tell them much that they 
didn't already know.  Then Krycek smiled, a bizarre 
quirk of his lips which seemed to want to show a 
blasé irony but instead made him look almost 
panicked.  “They’re not all dead, you know.”

The agents nodded their agreement.  This knowledge 
was nothing new.  The group could never all die; many 
more were probably scattered throughout the woodwork 
like apocalyptic rats.  "Where does this leave 
things?" Scully asked, letting their dinner companion 
interpret the ambiguity of that question.

"Leave things?"  Krycek quipped with that same 
unsettling smile.  "I won't bother to recap the whole 
damn history, because I can pretty much figure out 
what Hunt told you."

"Hunt?"  Mulder asked?

"Spender Senior, Cigarette Bastard, whatever the hell 
you want to call him.  Charles Hunt is one of his 
aliases.  At least, it's the one the people I know 
have always used."   At that moment, dinner arrived 
and Scully and Mulder were left hanging as the waiter 
set plates on their table.  Scully watched with 
fascination as Krycek began to cut his steak. Somehow 
fitting the fork to the plastic hand of his 
prosthesis, he used his right hand to grasp the knife 
and saw into the meat.  It was an elaborate balancing 
act, but he seemed not to notice the awkwardness of 
the situation.  Scully knew she was staring, but she 
couldn't help it.  It gave this man something close 
to... a weakness.  Seeing him suddenly reduced to 
something less than the all-powerful Svengali he 
fancied himself was, well, amusing.  And fascinating.

She felt Mulder's gaze on her, so she brought her 
mind back to the present and her dinner.  Grilled 
chicken and baked potato, it seemed so damned 
mundane.  Mundanity in the midst of chaos; it was 
practically a symbol of her life.  As the silence 
born of eating wrapped around them, Scully realized 
that they'd learned absolutely nothing so far, and 
her frustration grew.

Finally, Mulder spoke.  "So, Krycek, I want to hear 
these damn good reasons you say you have for me to 
work with you."

Scully gaped slightly, keeping her face composed.  
HIS working with Krycek?  She knew it was a slip of 
the tongue, but that didn't negate the fact that, 
once again, Mulder instinctively viewed this as his 
quest, with him at the center and Scully a satellite.  
No matter how often he assured her that wasn't the 
case, she knew it was just lip service.  She let it 
slide, though.  It wasn't intentional.  She might 
have said the same thing as a gut-reaction.

Krycek didn't speak for a moment, instead finishing 
the last few bites of his steak.  He then said, 
"Think about it, Scully,"  she was surprised that
he immediately chose to address her, "You've gotten 
nothing done by working within the system.  If you 
continue to do that, all you're going to get is left 
behind when the fucking aliens take over." He turned 
to face Mulder. As Krycek spoke his words, she 
realized that, with this, he needed to appeal to the 
other man's bullheadedness and pride.  "You work with 
us, you can DO something instead of just sitting on 
your ass, running after us whenever we do something."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper.  "Don't you want 
to act instead of react?"

She spoke up, her own voice a challenge.  "You want 
us to sleep with the enemy, then?"

Scully wasn't surprised to see something close to a 
leer spread over the man's face.  "Your call, Dana."

Even as his near-sexual words repulsed her, they 
spread a warmth through her body, a thrill she hadn't 
felt in far too long.  She knew exactly what he was 
doing, and it gave her a sense of power she 
desperately needed to feel.  These men – the 
Consortium – always made Mulder the center of their 
focus.  She was intelligent enough to realize that 
they saw her as an accessory, a sidekick.

But here was Alex fucking Krycek, propositioning her, 
and not simply in a sexual way.  He was trying to 
appeal to HER sense of justice, HER need for answers.  
She was the focus this time.  And as much as she 
hated Krycek, she was drawn to him in that moment, 
drawn to his cognizance of her as Dana Scully, not as 
Mulder's-partner-Dana-Scully. 

Again, Mulder refused to be sidelined.  "How the hell 
are we going to bring these men to justice if we're 
working with them?"

At that moment, Krycek laughed.  And the scene became 
even more surreal. "How long is it going to take you 
to get this through your thick fucking skull, Mulder?  
You will never get 'justice'," he growled, each word 
measured, with a staccato beat.  "It's all going to 
happen, whether you join us or keep pissing into the 
wind.  Wouldn't you rather prevent it instead of 
running into walls and filing your ridiculous little 
reports with the Bureau?"

"So you want us to leave the F.B.I.?" Scully asked, 
dryly.

"No."  Krycek took a sip of his tea, but kept his 
eyes firmly focused on her.  "Within the Bureau, you 
have access to things we don't.  Take Scully and 
Mulder out of the F.B.I., and you might as well cut 
off your arms," he said with a sardonic little grin.  
"But we have access to so much more." He paused.  "We 
have access to *answers*."

She looked over at Mulder and registered the twitch 
of a tendon in his jaw as they heard Krycek say, 
"Aren't you sick and tired of asking questions?"

The waiter returned to take their plates, asking if 
they'd like to see the dessert cart.  Scully absently 
declined the offer with a shake of her head, and 
noticed as she did that Krycek was making moves to 
leave.

"Think about it," he said with the hiss of a snake in 
his voice, then removed two hundred dollar bills from 
his wallet and placed them on the table. Then, as he 
stood, he shocked her by taking her left hand and 
bringing it up to her lips, pressing his lips to the 
back of her hand in a bizarre, uncharacteristic 
gesture.

Lest she assume the kiss was merely politesse, she 
felt him press a small piece of paper into her palm 
as he lowered her hand to her side.  She closed her 
fingers around the paper as he said, "You know how to 
reach me."

And then he was gone.

+++++

I am not one given to speechlessness.

My gift -- or my curse -- is in the fact that I 
simply Cannot. Stop. Talking.  I must have gotten 
myself out of a million situations in my life just by 
knowing exactly what to say and when to say it.  I'm 
not always successful.  Back at University, my stream 
of words landed me on the losing end of a massive 
bet, in which I had to spend a weekend playing 
Oxford's Favorite Rent Boy.  The game was up when one 
of my male tutors propositioned me outside of the 
market right off campus.  Couldn’t sit down for a 
week afterward, but at least I saved face.  But I 
digress.

I'm speechless now.

The only words my mouth will conjure are,  "That 
bastard."

My fingernails etch crescent moons on the flesh of my 
palms.  The lingering taste of the steak I just ate 
is still on my tongue.  This restaurant has ceased to 
exist except for my rage, which is taking form as a 
third party at this table.

I'm shaken out of my stupor by a soft sound.

Scully's sigh.

It's not even a sigh, per se, just a short exhalation 
marked by the frustration with which I've become 
well-acquainted over the past six years.  The 
meanings of her sighs have always eluded me.  They 
are the way her lungs say, "I'm fine."  Then again, 
"I'm fine" has always seemed akin to a declaration of 
"Don't ask, because I'm not going to tell you."

This sigh invites no response.

But I am a talker, after all. “Does he honestly think 
that he can just waltz the fuck in here and expect us 
to run after him?”  I take a deep breath, and feel 
the stirrings of dinner as it becomes nausea.  “That 
we’re going to forget everything he’s done – THEY’VE 
done – to us and go join the merry band of brothers?  
I can’t believe he’d be so goddamned stupid.”

I look at her but she's staring off into her own 
unknown.  I thought I was preaching to the converted, 
but now I'm not so sure.  And I'm not sure I want to 
know.

The waiter approaches and places the bill on the 
table, enclosed in a leather folder.  I notice it 
only as far as it would offer an outlet of escape.  
Yanking my wallet from his back pocket, I open the 
folder and slap a credit card into it, cursing myself 
for not carrying enough cash on hand so that I can be 
out of her already.  Using Krycek’s blood money as 
payment only adds to the nausea.  The waiter is going 
to get a hell of a tip.

The check is picked up quickly, and I can't control 
my fidgeting as I wait for the receipt to be 
returned.  The words once again began to flow from my 
lips, curses baked in the harshness which has become 
my life.  When did I stop being a dreamer?

“Where on earth does he get off with a proposition 
like that?  Does the bastard have no brains?”

Scully finally speaks up, her voice quiet in the way 
I recognize as her assertion of objectivity.  I 
wonder how the hell she can be objective right now, 
but of course her voice gives no indication and it's 
not like she ever lets me get further past it, into 
her head.

“You’re getting overwhelmed by the man, not the 
message, Mulder.  Think about what he said, not who 
he is.”

“Who he is?”  I can feel my entire body snap to 
attention like a rubber band. “Scully, are you 
forgetting that this man murdered my father?”

I watch her, and finally see the deathly seriousness 
in the depths of her eyes.  “And he murdered my 
sister, Mulder.”

I'm speechless again.

How could I be so self-centered?  She has suffered as 
much as I have, if not more.  The people she lost 
were not directly involved in this, like my father 
and sister.  And she was personally touched -- hell, 
violated. Sometimes I forget that in the midst of my 
myopic quest for answers.  It's easier to see one's 
own losses than those of others.

I stare at her.  Her face is blank, closed-off.  
Nothing new there.  I can see the conflict in her 
face, manifested by the drawn planes of her cheeks, 
the clench of her jaw.  I know she's trying hard to 
keep her emotions under check, but now I can see the 
darkness and hurt underneath.  Had I not been so 
goddamned frustrated by Krycek, I would be devastated 
by the pain I see in her.  But the schism between us 
keeps getting wider and wider, and all I can see is 
that I've said something wrong, something very wrong.

And I haven't a fucking clue what to say in response.

In the haze of confusion, I register her standing up 
and squaring her shoulders.  In a low voice, she 
says, “I’ll see you  tomorrow morning.”

She walks out of the restaurant.

I stare after her in silence, until the receipt is 
placed on the table and I'm free to go.

+++++

Daylight is long in coming when the night is spent 
driving aimlessly down city streets. In the course of 
one night, she had relived a six-year lifetime of 
horror.  The specifics were familiar - shooting and 
being shot at, running blindly into the unknown as 
she watched over her shoulder for those who would 
have her dead, lying in a hospital bed waiting for 
the cancer to claim her body and mind, the deaths of 
her sister and daughter - but the reaction this night 
was different.  As she drove, every action took on 
new significance and she became not a fighter, but a 
victim.

She loathed victimization, especially her own.

But yet, there she was, reacting instead of acting.  
Always being the recipient of the horror instead of 
the inflictor of it.  She was not a cruel person; she 
would never wish this terror upon another person.  
But in her need to be benevolent to humanity, she had 
allowed her life to be nearly destroyed.

Krycek's words rang in her ears as she navigated 
turns and neverending streets.

// Don't you want to act instead of react?//

Do you want to be the victim, Dana, or the one in 
control?

You don't have to let them do this to you.  Not 
anymore.

Such assertions were a comforting, corrosive salve - 
but she knew they betrayed every notion of justice 
ingrained in her since her conception. She had always 
acted on the side of what was "right".  She didn't 
even need to qualify that by saying that it was what 
she felt was right -- she simply knew that it *was*.

Scully finally forced herself to return to her 
apartment sometime after 3 a.m.  Her building was 
quiet at this time of night, an almost funereal gloom 
descending upon the environment.  The apartment was 
dark as she let herself in but even before her eyes 
adjusted to the lack of light, she could make out the 
silhouette of a person sitting on her sofa.  Scully's 
immediate assumption was that it was Mulder, paying 
her another of his strange late-night visits.  But as 
she looked more closely, she saw that the posture was 
all wrong.

It was Krycek.

He stared back at her, not even blinking as she threw 
the lightswitch and drew her weapon from where it had 
rested on her hip all evening.

"Get up," she ordered in a low voice which allowed no 
argument.

Krycek complied.  As he rose, she noticed a gun lying 
on the coffee table. He must have caught the shift in 
her gaze, and said, "I'm unarmed."

Like she would believe him.  She kept her gun aimed 
at his chest as she stalked toward him, commanding 
him to put his hands on his head.  He raised his 
right arm but the left one remained at his side.  She 
almost began her rebuke before remembering that the 
arm was artificial.  Reluctant to crouch down to 
check for ankle holsters, she instead used her foot 
to trace his lower legs, keeping her balance as she 
maintained eye contact with the man.  Finding nothing 
attached to his ankles, she felt each hip then 
wrapped her arm around his back to see if he had 
another gun, knife, whatever hidden underneath his 
coat.  She found nothing, but refused to acknowledge 
the way his body seemed to stiffen under the 
examination.

"I told you, I'm unarmed," he said in an almost-
petulant tone.

She didn't to bite back her bitterness as she 
replied, "Last time you were here, you used your gun 
to kill my sister."

He said nothing.  She was almost glad for the lack of 
a reaction -- any words of his on that subject would 
have made the memories even more painful than they 
were, despite having been buried so successfully for 
so long.

Gesturing with her gun, she told him to sit, his 
right hand under him lest he try anything else.  
Common sense would have told her that she should have 
arrested the wanted fugitive right then and there, 
but that scene at the restaurant had her desperate to 
know just what the hell this man was up to, even as 
self-reproach rose at her interest.  What had she 
become? Someone who harbored criminals for her own 
interests?

Before she could ask him why he was here, he said, 
"Mulder's got his head buried so far in the sand that 
he won't listen to a word I say."  He paused for a 
second.  "You'll listen, Scully.  Won't you?"

She glared at him.

"You may refuse to believe anything I tell you, but 
you'll listen."

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because what I have to say is too important for you 
NOT to listen."  He tilted his head slightly, looking 
at her gun.  "Put down your weapon, Agent."

She didn't obey his command, but did walk over to the 
chair opposite the sofa.  If she was going to keep 
her gun trained on him and be on guard, she  had to 
do so sitting down rather than standing as she had 
been, trembling slightly with fatigue.

"You have to come work with me, Scully."  His voice 
held no questions, merely the assurance of a man who 
believed she would comply.  "The whole world's future 
depends on it."

She wanted to laugh at his words, but swallowed the 
impulse.  "You have an inflated opinion of your own 
importance."

That same pained smirk she'd seen on his face earlier 
made another appearance.  "Not the first time I've 
been called narcissistic."

God, the man could get on her nerves as easily as 
Mulder.  "Why on earth would I want to work with you?  
You can't possibly be so stupid as to expect me to be 
persuaded by your telling me how the world's fate 
supposedly depends upon it."  Scully rested her elbow 
on the arm of the chair but kept the gun pointed at 
his chest.  "Why should I believe a word you say?"

"Why would I lie to you?" he shot back, but a strange 
look flashed over his face as soon as the words were 
out, as if he too realized how ridiculous they 
sounded.  "Well," his voice was lower, "I'm not lying 
to you *this* time."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Ah, your standard reaction, Agent Scully."  The 
smirk widened slightly and her irritation melted into 
anger.

"Who are you to expect me to just believe you at 
face-value?"  She watched him, trying to figure out 
the answer to her question.

His smile became a frown of impatience. "Just listen, 
okay?"

She didn't respond.

"Most of the people you know as being part of the 
Organization are dead.  I know you went to one of the 
funerals.  We now have the opportunity to make our 
move, to change the way they want things to turn 
out."

"'Our' move?"

"Yes, ours."  He shifted forward in his seat, and she 
tightened her grip on her gun.  "Not everyone is 
dead, of course.  Most of the European members are 
alive, as are the ones in Russia and Asia.  I think 
we have a few in Australia and South America too.  
Strughold -- he's the leader, or at least he thinks 
he is -- is still alive in Tunisia."

Tunisia.... She immediately remembered where she'd 
last heard that referenced.  Diana Fowley had made 
several trips to Tunisia when she was living in 
Europe.  Scully wasn't surprised in the least by the 
connection.

As if sensing that she'd made the connection, Krycek 
continued, "The only actual players -- not contract 
operatives -- I know of in the States are Hunt and 
Fowley, and they're in so deep with each other that 
they're not nearly as important as they think they 
are."

"What does this have to do with me and Mulder?"

Krycek smiled at her again.  She hated his smile -- 
all thin lips and hard edges.  "You two are the ones 
with the real power, because they see you as so 
inconsequential.  Tell me, Agent,"  he paused, his 
gaze boring into her in the dim light of the 
apartment, "have you ever asked yourself just why you 
two are alive, after all you've seen?"

"Because we keep ourselves alive!" she shot back at 
him.

His smile faded somewhat.  "I -- you wish that were 
true, but it's not. They could have killed you 
anytime they wanted to.  Hell, I came over here to 
kill you once."

Her voice was low, deadly as she could make it.  "But 
you killed my sister instead."

"Mistake," he retorted.  "I'm sorry she had to die, 
but I'm not going to apologize for who I am, any more 
than you're going to apologize for hating me for 
that."

And she did hate him.  She hated his steel-green 
eyes, the harsh planes of his face, the blackness of 
his clothes and hair, which seemed to stain her 
apartment with its morbidity.

"But you know what, Agent?"  His voice had dropped 
into a growl, as if the delusional man thought he 
could seduce her with it alone.

"Hating me isn't going to save the world.  It'll only 
make you feel better."

She had no reply to that.

"Anyway, they're not all dead, but the Organization 
is in enough chaos right now that it's the perfect 
time for us to make our move.  They think I'm one of 
them, and I let them think that.  But they're so damn 
proud of themselves and the supposed importance of 
their plans that they don't bother to look at the 
small things, like the people involved in them.  I've 
been working with the rebels for years now.  Do you 
know what the Organization has planned for us?  Not 
just you and me, I mean, but Earth itself?"

She raised an eyebrow in answer to his question.

He continued.  "The aliens are going to come down now 
and kill everyone. They were basically humoring the 
men of the Organization, telling them that when 
colonization began, those men would be ambassadors 
between the humans and the aliens.  Of course, they 
believed it.  Who wouldn't, when you're told such 
majestic lies?  But we were all going to die."  
Krycek stopped speaking for a moment, and a look of 
inquisitiveness -- almost wonder -- spread over his 
face.  "Think about it:  Earth is the perfect place 
to just destroy and make over.  Mild climate, natural 
resources -- all that shit. Why do you think they'd 
want humans around?"

What he was telling her was so ridiculous, so 
fantastic, but it also made sense.  Scully was 
alarmed that she was even listening, but couldn't 
help but follow his words.

"That's the beauty of the rebels.  They're not saints 
-- God, no."  He laughed.  "But they're also not 
planning on killing us all, so far as I know.  
They'll colonize, but at least we'll all be left 
standing at the end."

"And you believe them?" she asked in a skepticism-
soaked voice.

"I'd rather believe them than the alternative."

A clever story, but she still failed to understand 
why he was telling her. "What does this have to do 
with Mulder and me?"

"Mulder and you," he repeated.  "Always thinking of 
him, even when he doesn't think of you."  Before she 
could phrase a retort, he spoke again. "The 
Organization lets you two live because you have been 
an invaluable resource to them in picking out the 
flaws and exposures of their Project over the years.  
They've used you and other people in the Bureau for 
what information and actions suited them at that 
time.   They left Mulder alive out of some feeling 
for his father, and they've left you alive probably 
out of some sense of guilt as to what they've done to 
you.

"I'm not asking you to quit the Bureau and join the 
rebels, Scully, because that'd put you in too much 
danger and wouldn't achieve anything."  As he said 
the words, a strange look -- almost tender -- spread 
across his face. "I just want you to see what we see 
and then decide for yourself.  For you to know about 
everything that's going on."  He paused again, the 
silence infusing his coming words with greater 
weight.  "I'd have thought that by now, you'd have 
enough invested in this that you'd want to fight 
these bastards who did all this to you."

Breath she didn't realize she'd been holding coursed 
through her throat and out her mouth.  She discovered 
her grip on the weapon had slipped, and tightened her 
fingers in time to keep it from careening to the 
floor.

"Nice story, Krycek, but how do I know you're not 
working with them -- the people who did all this to 
me?  Hell, you DID do these things to me, or at least 
helped them to happen."

"You don't, do you?"  His voice was a purr.  "Work 
with me, Scully.  I can give you the means to *fight* 
it, not just watch it from the sidelines." He paused 
for a moment.  "Or even if you don't want to work 
with me, at least come with me so I can show you what 
I'm talking about.  You need to see it to believe it, 
don't you?"

Her stomach clenched and she could feel the fight 
rising in her veins, though she didn't know whether 
it was his fight or her own, against him.

Krycek stood up and began to approach her and, God 
help her, she let him. "Don't you want to know you've 
*done* something, instead of just watched it happen?"   
He was right next to her now, his voice a whisper in 
her ear which scratched at her spine.  "Don't you 
want to fight?"

"Go to hell," was her automatic response, but her 
voice didn't carry the anger the words intended.  
Good Lord, was she letting him seduce her with this?

He bent down and his lips brushed against her cheek.  
She flinched at the touch.  Echoing his words of the 
evening before, he murmured, "You know how to contact 
me."

And with that, he was gone.

She felt her body deflate with the silence, though 
his presence still permeated the room.  Blinking a 
few times to clear her head of the confusion, she 
looked to where he'd been sitting and noticed he'd 
left his gun on the coffee table.  Scully finally 
stood on shaky legs and walked over to pick it up.  
The cold steel played along her fingertips.

Cold and hard and deadly.

That's what this man was.

So why did she want to believe him?

Another question.  Another question to which she had 
no answer.  He was right -- she was always asking 
questions, never answering them.  She wanted a 
solution.

The trembling of her body subsided and she walked 
over to the door, locking the deadbolt and the 
keyless bolt behind him.  The latter gave her more of 
a sense of security -- that nobody could enter her 
apartment when she was there.  Nobody could surprise 
her again that night, with intriguing words spoken in 
a seductive voice.

Not tonight.

+++++

(from Dana Scully's personal notes)

March 8, 1999 5:57am

PROS AND CONS OF COMPLIANCE:

PROS: 
1.  Working with Krycek, we have more of an 
opportunity to actually DO something. 
2.  Can I honestly just sit there and chase after 
them?  Is living with myself having betrayed my 
ideals any better than living with the consequences 
of doing nothing? 
3.  This could provide ANSWERS, which I need at this 
point!  I want answers to what happened to ME, not 
just what happened to Mulder's convoluted family 
dynasty. 
4.  He's on the side of the rebels (or so he says), 
which could ultimately prove futile.  On the other 
hand, complicity with the Consortium could mean death 
for humanity, whereas the rebels at least offer the 
opportunity of saving civilization, albeit at a 
heretofore undetermined price. 
5.  Krycek didn't say I had to join the rebels.  He 
just asked me to go with him and see for myself.

CONS 
1.  This is KRYCEK, and heaven only knows how stable 
HE is. 
2.  Complicity with EITHER side of this conspiracy 
betrays everything I hold dear -- justice, truth, 
honor. 
3.  What might happen when I DO have this so-called 
knowledge?  And how do I even know it's really the 
truth?  They've lied to us before. 
4.  We've somehow been kept alive by this 
organization so far (though, damn it, I kept myself 
alive).  Whatever the case, if they find out we're 
working against them, what's to stop them from 
killing me and Mulder?

Ahab, if you're up there watching me right now, I 
need you.  I need you to tell me the right thing to 
do.  Reason is telling me that I should call Krycek 
and tell him yes, that I'm in.

But I don't know if I can do that.

Help me.  God, help me.

+++++  

Another day poised on the precipice.

Mulder had never realized just how much paperwork was 
involved in re-establishing one's place in a 
division.  He spent the morning burying himself in a 
stack of it, assuming that the busy work would keep 
him from having to think about, well, anything.  He 
didn't want to think at all, because thinking meant 
that he'd have to start analyzing the situation and 
how what should be a productive, invigorating time 
for him was instead approaching a state of hell.

Despite what opinions others seemed to have of him, 
he was not one consumed by self-loathing.  He would 
sometimes sit in his apartment, staring off into 
space and wondering just how he'd managed to fuck up 
whatever situation he was in.  But even though it was 
a definite, very real part of his life, it did not 
define his life.  Perhaps that was because he could 
often sit back and tell himself that despite all the 
personal and professional tragedies he had endured he 
was still out there, fighting for what he believed 
in.  He was truly *doing* something with his life, 
which gave him a sense of pride only a few hairs' 
breadth away from narcissism.

For that reason, Krycek's words of the night before 
hit him hard.

It was one thing for Mulder to experience self-doubt, 
so long as it was what he told himself.  Another 
person -- particularly a man he hated as much as he 
did Krycek -- telling him that was a different beast 
altogether.  Pride made him want to beat the man to a 
pulp, much as he'd done so many times in the past. 

Sitting on his sofa last night, staring off into 
space once again, he clenched and unclenched his 
fists so many times that untrimmed fingernails 
threatened to draw blood.  His emotions began to draw 
upon a spectrum, starting with abject rage but slowly 
simmering into that familiar self-loathing once he 
began to realize the god-awful truth of Krycek's 
words.

Admitting to himself that the bastard had a point was 
perhaps the most difficult thing he'd done in many 
moons, and it only made him feel worse. Mulder was an 
idealist.  Despite all he'd seen and done, he 
honestly believed that he was working on the side of 
Good.  That by uncovering the evil perpetuated by 
that group of men, he was saving humanity and 
creating a legacy for himself.

But Krycek had said, "You work with us, you can DO 
something instead of just sitting on your ass, 
running after us whenever we do something."  Is that 
what he and Scully were really doing?  Asking 
questions without ever receiving any answers?

If the past few weeks had taught him anything, it was 
that he was never accomplishing anything.  He could 
have some motherfucker like the Cigarette Man -- or, 
as Krycek had called him, Hunt -- tell him the sordid 
history of his group's actions (assuming it was even 
the truth), but knowing the truth didn't mean Mulder 
could actually do anything about it.  All he could do 
was chase after them, shooting the odd villain, 
exploring so-called "research" facilities operated by 
the government, and, assuming he ever had enough 
evidence, go to the press and blow the lid off their 
operation.  Not that anyone would ever believe him if 
he did.

And if what he'd been told was to be believed, the 
future was set and exposure would only hasten the 
apocalypse rather than bring it down.

Mulder shifted in his desk chair, fidgeting like an 
overactive child.  He turned on his computer and as 
he waited for it to boot up, he looked over at 
Scully.  She was hunched over her desk, looking at 
something but he knew not what.  She'd situated the 
desk in such a way that all he could see was her 
back.

Her back.  How appropriate.

Mulder looked away from her, not wanting to think 
about the way his partnership with Scully had 
degenerated parallel to his supposed "discovery" of 
the Masterplan.  The Bureau login screen appeared, so 
he entered his username and password, then opened his 
word processing program.  With no prospects of 
investigation in his immediate future, he decided to 
add to the personal files he kept on what he 
uncovered about the conspiracy.

And for the next two hours, he lost himself in the 
storytelling, realizing as he typed that he was only 
telling a story.

He wanted a resolution.  He wanted an ending.

After he'd finished his typing and reviewed the now-
enormous file, he saved the file and backed it up on 
the half-dozen password-protected floppy disks he 
kept for that purpose.   Setting it to print, he 
stood and stretched his legs, then headed toward the 
men's room on the first floor.  As he left, he 
noticed that Scully didn't even look up when he 
passed by her.

He knew everything about her, but these days they 
truly were strangers.

Mulder knew that she wanted an apology for his 
behavior of late, but his pride wouldn't let him do 
that.  He hadn't done anything wrong.  He was very 
adept at assigning blame where it was due, and even 
if he were to admit any culpability on his part, she 
was just as much to blame as was he for the 
degeneration of their relationship.  Scully was so 
suspicious these days.  It went beyond simple 
skepticism to a distrust of his motives and his 
feelings for her.  The Diana debacle was just the 
last straw.  He'd never seen Scully as the jealous 
lover type, but that was exactly how she'd acted.  
Did she have so little faith in him that his trust in 
an old friend was a betrayal of her?

But as much pride as he had, he valued Scully even 
more.  He'd walked into the office this morning and 
presented her with the nameplate he'd requisitioned a 
few days before.  The anticipation of her response 
had swelled around him all morning, from the moment 
he'd stopped by the Internal Requisitions department 
to pick it up.  And how had she reacted? A murmured, 
"Thank you", then turned back to her work.  The 
nameplate was his attempt at an apology of sorts, and 
her indifference hurt him.  He loved her.  He needed 
her.  And if he had to make more such concessions to 
his pride in order to win her back, he would.  But he 
could never wholly apologize for that argument, 
unless she took the same steps.

He had to act.

He walked back to the office but instead of sitting 
down at his desk, he walked over to hers.  Mulder was 
surprised to find her writing, her ballpoint pen 
jabbing at the paper before her.  She started 
slightly when she noticed his presence and hastily 
set the paper aside, enclosing it in a folder.  He 
wanted to ask her what it was about, but he already 
knew what her reaction would be.  Instead, he opened 
his mouth to speak, painting his voice in his best 
mild and friendly tones.

"It's nearly noon, Scully.  Want to go out for some 
lunch?"

She looked up at him, saying nothing for a long 
moment.  He began to assume she was thinking of an 
excuse.  But she surprised him by saying, "Okay, 
sure."

He couldn't help the relieved smile which spread 
across his face.  "Do you need a few minutes?"

"No," she replied, pushing away from the desk and 
standing up. "I'm ready if you are."

"Fine, then," he said, still smiling.  "Where do you 
want to go?"

She brushed back her hair with her small, delicate 
fingers, a gesture which never ceased to endear her 
to him.  "Your invite, your call."

He walked back over to his desk, logging off the 
network and putting five of the floppies in his lock 
box and the remaining one in his suit jacket pocket.  
"I noticed a review in today's paper for a new 
restaurant which opened in the Old Post Office 
building."

"What kind of food?"  Her voice sounded intrigued.  
That was a good sign, right?

"New American, or so the review said."

She was standing right in front of him now, her 
shoulders squared and chin high.  She looked a 
hundred feet tall.  "Oh, so this is a proper 
restaurant?  I'm impressed,"  she quipped with a 
raise of her brow and a slight smirk playing upon the 
corners of her mouth.

There she was, the Scully he'd fallen in love with so 
many years ago.

"We need to treat ourselves better, I figure," he 
told her, hoping she'd read between the lines.

She turned and began walking toward the door.  He 
wanted to place his hand on her back as he'd done so 
many times, but this stalemate was so refreshing that 
he didn't want to take any chances.

They headed out of the Hoover building, a truce 
declared in their personal battle.

+++++

In crowded places like these, she could seldom help 
but think, "If they only knew."

If the world only knew what she did, none of this 
would be happening. People would be fighting, not 
just having a leisurely luncheon at a restaurant in 
the Old Post Office.  But even as she stared at them, 
she began to imagine just what the world would be 
like if everyone *did* know. Widespread panic and a 
government unable to cope.  Anarchy.

She'd always believed the Organization's secrecy was 
born of their knowledge of just how heinous their 
crimes were, and that they didn't want to attract the 
consequences of such horrible deeds.  Now that she 
was beginning to understand just what was involved in 
this purported "alien invasion" and the shadow 
government's role in it, a new facet emerged in her 
beliefs.  They didn't want anyone to know because of 
the very real possibility of anarchy.

As she sat across from Mulder, waiting for her lunch 
to arrive, Scully imagined her brothers' reaction to 
such an event as the news of an impending takeover of 
the planet, were it to be proven true in the press. 
Bill would immediately doubt it, harassing her about 
the goddamned government despite himself being a 
federal employee of sorts.  Charlie would laugh and 
make jokes for a while, then enter the same panic 
mode she imagined the others in this restaurant would 
feel.  And they were just two people out of two 
hundred and fifty million Americans, not to mention 
the over five billion other humans.  The news itself 
would create nearly as harsh an Armageddon as would 
an invasion.

The process of her thoughts surprised her.  When had 
she started to believe?  Last night?  She couldn't 
pinpoint one exact moment, merely the preponderance 
of things she couldn't begin to explain, which 
certainly had no root in common science.  She had 
seen so much that even she realized her vehement 
denials made her look foolish rather than 
levelheaded.  The seeds of belief were there, but 
they needed more fertilizer to grow.  Krycek's visit 
had begun to act as that fertilizer.

Across the table, Mulder was still staring at her.  
He finally asked, "What are you thinking about?"

She smiled slightly, then returned his gaze for a 
long moment, debating whether to tell him.  She was 
still angry with him, but she was also getting 
goddamned sick of denials.  They'd not yet thoroughly 
discussed the night before, and they needed to do so.  
But she would keep Krycek's second visit to herself 
for the time being.

"I was thinking what the world would be like if 
everyone knew what we do."

He nodded, a pensive look on his face. "Utter chaos.  
Anarchy."

Funny how he was thinking the same thing as was she. 
That had been a rarity of late.  "That's what I was 
thinking."

A look of surprise passed over his face.  He must 
have also noticed the growing intensity of their 
diverging attitudes.  Finally, he directly addressed 
the question they'd both been consumed by over the 
past eighteen hours.

"What do you think we should do about last night?"

She took a sip from her water glass, composing her 
reply before speaking. The phrasing of his question 
surprised and pleased her, in a way.  He was asking 
*her* what to do, rather than forging ahead on his 
own path, her opinions be damned.  It wouldn't make 
everything right, but it was a start.

"How can we believe anything Krycek says?"

Mulder's chuff of answering laughter echoed across 
the table.  "We can't. Not at face-value, at least."  
She looked at him, remembering her having said the 
same thing to Krycek the night before.  He placed his 
palms on the table.  "He once told me he's acting on 
the side of the rebel aliens, the ones who are 
fighting against the planned colonization."

She didn't respond.

He continued, his voice taking on the tone of 
personal ruminations. "God, I don't know who to 
believe anymore.  All I know is that what the 
Cigarette Man -- Hunt -- told me makes sense, given 
what the two of us have seen." He held her gaze, as 
if it could convince her even if his words would not. 
"All those Consortium members died because the Rebels 
knew that their escaping to the colonization facility 
would make it all happen.  And if what I believe is 
true, that would have meant it would all be over now. 
Colonization would have begun."

"And who's to say it won't anyway?"  She couldn't 
help raising her eyebrows at his words.  "Their human 
allies are dead.  They have nobody to stand in their 
way.  Cassandra --" her voice caught on the name, "is 
probably still alive somewhere, and both she and Hunt 
told us that she was the key to the colonization 
plans."

"Yes, but," his voice rose in the excitement of 
debate, "if she's still alive, why isn't it 
happening?"

Her voice rose to match his.  "How do we even know 
it's not happening right now?"

Mulder sighed deeply.  "We don't."

She wondered how much it cost him to admit that 
uncertainty.

"Let's get back to Krycek's proposal, Mulder."   But 
she was interrupted by the arrival of their food.  
Once it was placed on the table and the waiter left, 
neither of them began to eat.  "Do you think we're 
doing nothing by working within the Bureau?"

He didn't respond for a long time.  Finally, he said, 
"What have we done? Yes, we've learned a great deal 
about the plans and the motives behind them, but what 
do we hope to accomplish?  Stop them?  Well, they're 
already dead and we have to assume the plans and 
resistance to them are going along as they have 
always been.  And what are we going to do with this 
knowledge?  The two of us aren't going to be able to 
stop the colonization on our own.  We can't go to the 
press.  That'd only make things worse."  He paused, 
as if weighing his words.  "Maybe Krycek has a point.  
Maybe the only way we can really DO anything is by 
working with him and the rebels."

A profound weariness spread through her body.  
"Sleeping with the enemy, just like he said."

But even thought the words sounded negative, a 
growing sense of interest filled her.  Just like 
Krycek had said, she'd spent six years asking 
questions.  Now she wanted answers.  Answers about 
what had happened to her during her abductions.  
Answers about her cancer.  Answers about Emily and 
Melissa and, heaven help him, Mulder's family.

She was sick of asking.  She wanted to know.  She 
wanted to do something, not just watch it unfold.

Scully finally took a bite of her lunch, hoping it 
would still the gnawing feeling in her stomach.  
Mulder seemed to take a cue from her, and he ate a 
few bites himself.  After his chicken was nearly 
consumed, he took a sip of water and looked at her 
again.  "If we work with the rebels, we could get 
killed in retaliation."

She couldn't help the humor she found in his words.  
"Mulder, they've kept us alive this long, for some 
reason.  They're not going to kill us now." But she 
couldn't help but think of all the ways they'd tried 
to kill the two of them, only to stop short.  She 
realized the train of thought she was on.

Compliance.

Compliance meant betraying everything she held dear:  
justice, truth, and honor.  But she also knew that 
sometimes those had to be sacrificed in the name of 
the greater good.  Did she have the strength to make 
the sacrifice?

She did.

"Let's do it, Mulder."

He looked up from his plate, startled.  "Work with 
them?  You want to do it?"

Her voice was a whisper.  "I want to DO something, 
Mulder.  If colonization means the death of humanity 
and the rebels offer some kind of salvation, I'd 
rather betray my ideals and save the world instead of 
standing firm and destroying it."

Even she realized how strange it was for her to be 
saying this.

Mulder apparently did too, and she couldn't help but 
see the hesitation on his face.

She continued.  "That piece of paper Krycek handed me 
listed what he said was his cellular phone number.  
I'm going to call him and tell him I'll join them."   
She paused before issuing her challenge.  "Will you 
join me?"

They were caught in a standoff.

"What would you do if I said 'no', Scully?"

She had no answer for him.  "I don't know."

Scully followed Mulder's eyes as he looked around the 
restaurant, at the people at other tables having a 
leisurely, enjoyable lunch.   By working with the 
rebels, she was protecting them.  She was protecting 
herself, her brothers, her nephews, her mother.  She 
was protecting people she'd never met, but might one 
day have the opportunity to know.  She wanted the 
promise of a future.

Finally, Mulder spoke.

"Call him, Scully.  Tell him we're in."

+++++

I've watched them a hundred times before.

I don't think they know that I do, though the fact 
that they're being surveilled shouldn't come as a 
surprise to Scully and Mulder.  It's been going on 
for about six years now, off-and-on.  None of that 
24/7, cameras-trained-on-their-every-move shit, just 
a listening device or a tiny camera hidden here or 
there, with someone occasionally keeping an eye out 
when those in charge think that those two need to be 
supervised.

Back when I first got involved in the surveillance 
aspect, it was all about Mulder.  It still is, I 
guess.  The ones in charge of this aspect seem to 
think he's the only one worthy of their focus.  I 
suppose they have a point -- he is, after all, the 
one who's usually running off half-cocked, stumbling 
onto parts of this mess without even realizing he's 
done so until it happens.  

I used to focus on him most of the time, too.  After 
Dana was abducted and he was fast-approaching apeshit 
mental status, I'd come into the monitoring facility 
late at night and cue up the audio bug planted in his 
apartment.  I wouldn't really listen intently, just 
let the hypnotic heartbeat of that damn basketball 
he'd bounce and the moans of his porn videos lull me.  
Perfect cure for insomnia.  Besides, we knew that no 
matter how hard he searched, he wouldn't find her 
again until we let him do so.

I used to watch him too.  As luck would have it, I 
was in Los Angeles when he was sent out there on that 
vampire case.  I saw him walk into that nightclub 
then emerge a few hours later, the dark-haired vamp 
wannabe in tow.  Though it'd only been a few weeks 
since we'd been so-called "partners", he looked 
different, like one of those supermodel waifs who 
were all the rage back then.  I knew he wasn't on 
anything recreational, but the man screamed "heroin 
chic".  It was amusing, and attractive in a bizarre 
sort of way.

He was attractive to me once upon a time.  I've been 
with my share of men and women, and he seemed to fit 
perfectly into that slot reserved for people who 
shouldn't be attractive in the least, but whom I 
couldn't help but be drawn to.  You know the type -- 
self-confident, narcissistic to a fault, the kind of 
mouth and smile destined for killer blow jobs.  Until 
recently I saw that in Jeffrey Spender, but then Hunt 
played a reverse-Oedipus act on his ass and that was 
that.  Regarding Mulder, though…. hell, I don't know 
how it happened, but suddenly he wasn't attractive 
anymore.  Mulder is nothing if not high-maintenance, 
and I just don't have the patience for that sort of 
thing, even one-sided.

But somewhere along the line, for me it became all 
about Dana Scully.

Like I said, the misogynistic bastards in charge -- 
correction, USED to be in charge -- had very little 
regard for her.  I'm not sure they even elevated her 
to "pawn" status.  Maybe that's why I find her so 
interesting.  She is fascinating because she has so 
much potential.  Left unchecked, humans can rise to 
dizzying heights, and Dana is more than capable of 
doing so.  But I think that she sees herself like the 
surveillance people see her, even though she'd never 
realize it.  She reacts.  She reacts to Mulder.  It's 
quite sad, really.

I haven't been into the surveillance facility in 
several months.  Just doesn't hold the same thrill, 
though it's amusing to see all those peons in there 
doing their jobs, completely oblivious to the fact 
that their bosses are all DEAD.  I know what Dana's 
up to, though.  I just know.  I've spent maybe a 
grand total of six hours with her in my life, but 
having watched her off-and-on over the years, I feel 
like I know her.  The distance helps.  I don't have 
to sit and listen to her excuses and diversions.  I 
can watch the way she acts and hear what she says, 
without her exterior shows of fortitude getting in 
the way.

The woman could be so much more than what she is, if 
she'd only let herself.  That's partly why I made the 
offer.  Okay, yeah, having Mulder and Scully on my 
side, working with the rebels would be a fucking trip 
and a half, but that's only part of it.  I don't 
fully expect him to ever really work with me -- well, 
without knocking me around while he does so -- but 
God, Dana would be FUN to have on my side.

She doesn't know just how much we have in common.  I 
was a scientist once. Did genetics at college before 
I got caught up in this hive.  I could out-
rationalize her any day of the week, though I'm out 
of practice, seeing as how rationalization doesn't 
have much of a place in what I've made of my life.  I 
could easily just sit and talk with her for ages, and 
I'd actually LISTEN to her, unlike Mulder and his 
gift for hearing only what he wants to hear.  Okay, 
so I wouldn't agree with her or change her mind, but 
at least I'd give her the credit she deserves.

(I know I’m giving Mulder short shrift, but I'm 
allowed my idiosyncracies and narrowmindedness.)

And yeah, I have a healthy amount of lust for her.  
Haven't felt that for a woman in ages.  But God, look 
at her.  The woman's a postmodern Helen of Troy.  The 
kind of woman who you'd give up a kingdom for just to 
get into her pretty little pants.  I've done more 
than my fair share of fantasizing about fucking Dana 
Katherine Scully, but the fantasies themselves are 
nothing worth retelling -- mostly just standard 
alpha-male sexual scenarios.  I wonder what it would 
take to get her into bed.  Well, I know what it'd 
take -- I'd have to pretty much get rid of Mulder and 
obliterate all traces of him from her mind.  Too much 
trouble.  Fantasies -- even ridiculous alpha-male 
ones -- are much easier.

Ah, right, I've neglected the setting for this 
particular random set of musings.  I'm in my car -- 
well, an automatic-transmission SUV on steroid abuse 
(alpha male, remember?) driving out to a warehouse I 
own in the Virginia suburbs.  Mid-afternoon, fucking 
freezing outside from a late-winter snowstorm.  
Windshield wipers battling the snow which refuses to 
stop falling.

The phone on the passenger seat trills.  I nearly 
sideswipe a pathetic little hatchback in my attempts 
to grab it as I steer with my knee. Picking it up, I 
glance at the display and the Caller ID presents the 
familiar number of Dana's cell phone.  I can't help 
the smirk on my face as I hit "send" to answer the 
phone.

"Got an answer for me, Agent?"

There's a short pause -- does the woman not think 
that I have Caller ID on this thing?  Then she says, 
her voice a steel rod, "We've agreed to your offer."

Shocks the hell out of me.

Okay, so I acted like I knew she'd come around, but 
you never really know with these two.  I bite back 
the urge to say, "Couldn't resist the dark side, 
huh?"  and instead say, "Meet me at 7 tomorrow 
night."  I rattle off the address of the place where 
I want them to be.

Silence while I assume she's writing it down, then 
the line disconnects.

Come on, Alex, did you honestly think she'd say 
anything else?

My smirk widens to a fucking full-fledged grin.

The snow keeps falling.

+++++

10 INT. JAZZ NIGHTCLUB

Tables are fairly empty, with the exception of a few 
hardy solo drinkers. Instead of live music, a compact 
disc plays on the stereo.  The atmosphere is one of 
anticipation -- people winding down from the day and 
waiting for the evening to begin.

PAN AROUND TO FOCUS ON

KRYCEK, sitting alone at a small table, a half-full 
martini glass before him.  From the condensation, we 
assume he's been nursing this particular drink for a 
long time.

CUT TO --

SCULLY.  She's standing at the entrance, appraising 
the room but trying to do so inconspicuously.

SCULLY'S POV:  She sees KRYCEK.  He has spotted her 
first and has been watching her scan the room.  
SCULLY walks over to his table and takes a seat.  As 
she adjusts

her coat we see KRYCEK raise his hand and motion 
toward the bartender.

NEW ANGLE WIDE

     SCULLY
      What do you want?

     KRYCEK
      Where's Mulder?

     SCULLY
           [impatient]
      He couldn't make it.

KRYCEK continues to watch her intently.  SCULLY 
fidgets slightly and begins to look around the room, 
as if concerned they're being watched.  A WAITRESS 
appears at their table and puts a glass of white wine 
in front of her and a second martini glass in front 
of Krycek.  She picks up the half-empty glass and 
walks away.

     KRYCEK
           [raising glass]
      Cheers.

She doesn't respond.

     KRYCEK
      Aren't you going to drink your wine?

     SCULLY
      How do I know you haven't drugged it?

     KRYCEK
      You don't, do you?
           [beat]
      No, it's not drugged.  Not my style.

     SCULLY
      I'm not here to play games, Krycek.  What do 
	you want?

     KRYCEK
      I told you last night that I can give you 
	access to files telling you just about 
	everything you could ever want to know.  
	One of the warehouses where they're being kept 
	is in Vienna -- the one in Virginia, not 
	Europe.  The other is in New York City.

     SCULLY
           [immediately off his words]
      Fine, tell me how to get to them.

     KRYCEK
           [a small grin on his face]
      Not so fast, Agent.  You think I'm going to 
	just give you access codes then let you run 
	wild?

She simply stares at him.

     KRYCEK
      Here's my plan:  I can arrange it so that
	Mulder can get into the warehouse here.  You 
	come with me to New York.  I'll take you to the 
	storage facility there.

SOFT FOCUS ON TABLE 
Both drink glasses are still full, forgotten in the 
midst of conversation.

     SCULLY
      I'm supposed to go with you to New York?  How 
	do I know you won't kidnap me?

     KRYCEK
           [his face gets darker and the smirk 		
		disappears]
      Agent Scully, when the hell are you going to 
	let go of the pathetic suspicion?  It doesn't 
	suit you.

     SCULLY
      Give me a reason not to suspect you, and I'll 
	consider it.

We can see the desire to lose his temper fighting 
with the exhilaration of conversation.  His eyes 
narrow and the fascination is evident on his face.

     KRYCEK
      Fine, have it however you want.  Handcuff me. 
	Won't do much good, but you're welcome to do it 
	if it makes you feel better.

[he pauses, takes a deep breath and sits back in his 
chair]

     What's past is past, Agent.  You really need to 
	get over all this suspicion if we're going to 
	get anywhere. You have every reason to hate me, 
	but hating me isn't going to suddenly make 
	things better.  I know you don't trust me, but 
	at least listen to me.

	SCULLY
	 And you can tell yourself that, but it isn't 
	going to make me throw caution to the wind.

	KRYCEK
		[condescending but impatient] 
	Whatever you say.  Look, this is all I can 
	offer you right now.  Take it or leave it.

 She is quiet, as if she's mulling over what he's 
said to her.

     SCULLY
	 What's in these files?

     KRYCEK
      The ones in Vienna have to do with the basic 
	history of the group. The ones in New York are 
	about the abductions.
           [beat]
      Something I think you have a personal interest 
	in, Agent.

SCULLY'S lips move slightly, as if she's cursing him 
under her breath.

     SCULLY
      When can you arrange this access?

     KRYCEK
     Saturday afternoon and evening.  I have the 
address and access codes for the Vienna 
facility in this envelope.

[gestures to a sealed envelope on the table]

You and I can fly up to New York on the 
shuttle.  I'll book us on the 2pm. Meet me at 
National at 1:30.

He pushes the envelope forward on the table with his 
good hand, then stands up.  Reaching behind him, he 
pulls out his wallet and places a twenty on the 
table.  SCULLY bristles slightly at the gesture, 
still believing he has a gun back there.  Just as 
he's taking a step away from the table...

     KRYCEK
By the way, Agent, you look beautiful 
tonight.

WIDE ANGLE KRYCEK strides out the club's front door.  
SCULLY stares after him, a perplexed look on her 
face, then picks up the envelope and leaves.

+++++

"and i wonder is he different? is he different? has 
he changed? what's he about? or is he just a liar 
with nothing to lie about?" 
--"fuel", by ani difranco

 Another night, another long drive home.  Leave it to 
Krycek to choose a club on the other side of town 
from where I live.

And good LORD, what on earth am I going to do with 
him?  I feel like one of those maidens in a 
ridiculous paperback romance novel -- the kind that I 
buy at airport newsstands but only start reading when 
Mulder's either asleep on the plane or I'm in my 
motel room for the night.  I can just see the words 
on the page:

"Dana couldn't stop thinking of the devilishly 
handsome Alex all night.  He invaded her thoughts 
until she could hardly think straight -- she was 
irrepressibly attracted to his dark eyes, his strong 
arms (whoops, ARM), the syrupy growl of his voice."

There isn't enough Pepto Bismol in the world to fight 
off the nausea. Obviously, the thought of the man in 
any context other than "complete bastard" is 
reprehensible -- so why do I keep thinking of him?  
I'm slowly losing all grip on reality.  Of course.  
That's it.

I'm still a good ten minutes from my apartment and 
the radio in my car is refusing to work. All I can do 
right now IS think.  And frankly, at this point I 
don't much want to be left alone with my thoughts.

I glance over at the envelope he gave me, which is on 
the passenger seat. I haven't opened it yet -- 
wouldn't put it past him to rig some kind of 
letterbomb in that thin envelope.  Mulder can do the 
honors.

The thing that keeps gnawing away at my insides is 
that I actually met him in a somewhat social 
situation and sat down and listened to him -- without 
blowing his head off.  Have I really become that 
jaded, that I can just betray my morality to reach a 
conclusion?  That I can conveniently forget 
everything that man has done to me because he tempts 
me with the proverbial apple?  Am I that weak?

Apparently so.

Frankly, at this point I'd rather not think about it 
because if I think about it, I'm going to end up 
hating myself, and there are far more important 
things at stake than wallowing in self-loathing.

I will say one thing for the man:  he listens to me, 
and he seems to respect me in his own way.  I can't 
help but compare him to Mulder in that vein.  Mulder 
listens to me as far as it serves his own ends.  This 
doesn't make him inherently bad -- that's just who he 
is.  He respects me, yes, but he has a really hard 
time showing it.  That scene in the restaurant 
yesterday made an impact on me, I'll admit.  I 
couldn't help but feel a slight thrill that he 
followed my lead on this whole Krycek thing, with the 
implication that he'd do what I thought was best.  
That's a first.  That and the nameplate won't 
suddenly make everything right again, but they're a 
start.

But first I need to figure out what the hell to do 
about Krycek.

Saturday, 2pm.

That's two days away.  Plenty of time to plot a 
course of action.

+++++

TRANSCRIPTIONS OF IMAGES FROM SECURITY CAMERAS 14-19 
GUARD ID# JLC093 03-09-99

Man enters facility at east doors with access code 
used by owner. Subject is approximately 35-45 years 
of age, 6'0", dark hair, medium build. Subject 
proceeds down first hallway, checking each door to 
see if it is locked. Upon reaching the end of the 
first hallway, subject looks left then turns right. 
Security Camera 17 follows him to double doors at the 
end of the hall.

CAMERA 14 SWITCH.  Subject enters storage room and 
draws weapon from waist holster.  Gun lowered as he 
steps inside.

CAMERA 15 SWITCH.  Subject proceeds into storage room 
and moves toward filing system. He approaches first 
row of files and appears to scan the labels. Subject 
opens cabinet A0518-4-1973 and removes approx. four 
folders. An undetermined amount of files are removed 
from cabinet A0519-8-1973. Subject shuffles files and 
places them inside coat jacket.

CAMERA 16 SWITCH.  Subject spends approx. 15 
additional min. moving around filing area. Writes 
undetermined words on small notepad. At 21:34 subject 
jerks backward, apparently in response to unk. noise. 
Subject drops files then retrieves them.  As response 
to aural stimulus, subject moves to leave storage 
room.

FINAL COMMENTS:  As per owner's instructions, no 
moves are made to apprehend subject, who is allowed 
to leave facility without interaction with guards. 
Subject leaves facility at 21:41. Outdoor watchperson 
reports that subject enters car without incident and 
drives off property at 21:43.

+++++

FLIGHT 238 
Washington-New York shuttle

"So, don't you want to know all about me?"

Scully turned to look at the man sitting next to her 
on the plane.  His brows were raised as if he fully 
expected her to be dying of curiosity. What is it 
about men that they expect women to believe 
everything they say is of the utmost importance?  And 
frankly, she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear 
Krycek's life story.  In fact, the mere idea of it 
was somewhat alarming.

She met his stare.  "Not particularly, no."

He took another sip of the soda on his tray table 
then pushed his bag of honey-roasted peanuts around, 
unable to open it with one hand.  He'd been doing 
that for awhile now and she couldn't help feeling 
bemused by it; she was waiting for him to finally 
give up and ask her to open it.  Instead, he picked 
it up and began shaking it, the nuts making a crinkly 
sound in the foil bag.  "Tough.  I’m going to tell 
you anyway."

He kept shaking the damn nuts, and she finally yanked 
the bag out of his hand and opened it herself with a 
quick flick of her fingers.  Shaking a few out into 
her palm, she quickly ate them then dropped the bag 
onto his tray table.  Krycek pretended not to notice, 
but Scully saw his fingers twitching as he kept 
himself from finishing off the peanuts.

"It all began," his voice in full storytelling mode, 
"in Pennsylvania. Wilkes-Barre, technically."

"Wait --" she bit her lip to keep from gaping.  "I 
thought you were Russian by birth?"

He gave her one of those damned smirks.  "Me?  Nope.  
My ex-wife is, though."

Okay, this was getting very, very odd.  "Ex-wife?"  
She didn't bother to hide her surprise this time.  
Somehow, she'd always just assumed he was… well, she 
didn't think he'd be the type to get married.  To a 
woman.

"Calm down, Agent.  Don’t get ahead of me."  Another 
smirk.  The bastard was enjoying this.  Scully sat 
back in her ridiculously cramped airplane seat and 
crossed her arms, nonverbally telling him that she'd 
let him speak.  But, her face told him, she'd be 
damned if she was going to completely buy what he was 
saying.

"Now, are you going to let me speak?"

"Don't play games with me, Krycek."  She regretted 
the words as soon as she said them.  He was getting 
far too much pleasure out of it.

"Anyway, nope, I'm not Russian.  'Alex Krycek' is my 
real name, though. The surname's actually Czech, but 
my father's family has been in the States since the 
turn of the century.  As red-blooded American as 
anyone else on this plane.  My mother's family is 
Irish, though.  See, Agent?  We already have 
something in common."

She snorted softly in a mixture of disgust and 
exasperation.  She didn't particularly want to have 
anything in common with him, but with her luck, next 
he'd tell her that his grandfather Paddy had shared 
pints in Dublin with her own grandfather.

"I'm serious.  My middle name is Seamus.  I'm sure 
you can understand why I don't tell many people about 
that.  Mom's family name is O'Banion.  Hell, we're 
probably more Irish than the Scullys."

Oh, heavens.  She fought back the urge to slap the 
grin off his face.  The hard-edged assassin had been 
replaced by a collegiate charmer without the added 
benefit of alcohol.  She wondered if he'd added rum 
to that Coke. "Cut to the chase," she said in a 
staccato voice.

"Anything you say, Agent.  Not much to tell about my 
proverbial childhood. Graduated summa cum laude from 
high school and got a full scholarship to Penn.  I 
did pre-med in college, with a focus on cellular 
biology and genetics.  See, another thing we have in 
common."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you this, *Seamus*," 
she couldn't believe she was egging him on, "but 
pathology and genetics are not the same thing."

"They're both biology, aren't they?"  Okay, he had a 
point, but she certainly wasn't going to let him 
know.

"I was the quintessential geek in college.  Stayed at 
Penn to do graduate work and figured I'd be winning 
my first Nobel by the age of thirty. You know what 
they say about geeks…."

She couldn't help it -- she smiled.  "No, what DO 
they say about geeks?"

"Second only to beauty queens in narcissism."

The smile turned into a laugh.  Damn it, she was 
playing right into his hands.  Beneath the laughter, 
she went back over his words, trying to figure out 
just which were lies and which were truth.  The 
problem was, she couldn't tell.

"So I published a monograph during my first year of 
grad school.  You're welcome to read it sometime if 
you're interested."

"No, thank you."

He pretended not to notice her reply.  "Well, who 
should happen to read it but certain members of an 
organization with which I'm sure you're familiar?  
Turned out what I'd been researching was identical to 
experiments they'd been doing for years.  Nothing 
like appealing to a geek's narcissism, huh?  You can 
probably guess the rest."

Krycek sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied 
expression on his face, then began eating the 
peanuts.

Finally, Scully said, "I don't buy it, Krycek."

Without looking at her, he replied, "Whether or not 
you buy it, it's the truth."

"What about the Russian?"

He picked up the bag of peanuts and poured the 
remaining contents into his mouth.  For a few 
seconds, the very loud sounds of his chewing echoed 
through their aisle.  "Got married to the niece of 
one of the Russian members of the group.  Her name is 
Irina.  She taught me the Russian -- I figured it 
would help me get a leg up in the organization, so to 
speak.  It worked.  Just look at me now."

She didn't look at him.

"Whatever the case, the marriage didn’t last long.  
We got divorced pretty quickly.  We're still friends, 
though.  We talk every few months or so."

A voice filtered over the loudspeaker, informing them 
that they were beginning preparations for landing.  
Scully turned to glance out the window at New York 
below them, even though she could feel Krycek staring 
at her. She didn't particularly want to look at him 
right then.  The man's story was complicated enough 
without her trying to figure out why he kept staring 
at her.

Krycek from an old Irish family?  A biologist?  
Divorced?

She still didn't buy any of it, but it sure made for 
a good story.

+++++

I remember the day I got married.  I was 25 and she 
must have been about the same age.  It was in a small 
Russian Orthodox church in New York.  She had wanted 
to go back to St. Petersburg for the ceremony, but I 
said no. Her uncle would have paid for the trip but I 
didn't want to have that kind of debt to him.  I'm 
not even sure why we got married in New York.  It's 
not like either of us had any close friends or family 
in the city.  She'd been living there for almost two 
years, working as a translator for the Times, and I 
was caught up in all the shit that came with my so-
called "job".

I waited until the last minute to tell my parents.  
Of course they wanted to come -- Wilkes-Barre isn't 
all that far away.  I thought long and hard about 
telling them no, but I couldn't think of a good 
enough excuse.  In later years I recognized the 
reason for what it was -- I couldn't let them see 
this new world I was in.  They would probably never 
really *know* it either;  all they would see was a 
group of exotic foreigners accepting Alexander Seamus 
Krycek into their fold, with a young woman's flesh 
and heart substituting for thirty gold coins.  No, I 
couldn't let my parents come.  I could break their 
hearts, but not destroy their illusions of their 
beloved firstborn son.

I think that's when much of what was good in my soul 
died.

Her name was -- is -- Irina.  Such an exotic, old 
name in an age where Christines and Tracys and 
Amandas reigned supreme.  She hated the name, of 
course.  It was out of fashion, it was un-American  -
- and God, she loved America.  I remember walking 
with her down Fifth Avenue a few weeks after the 
wedding, the autumn wind making the flags flutter 
like a painting by Childe Hassam.  "Are all Americans 
patriots?"  she asked.  I said I didn't know.  "Many 
Russians are, I think," she continued.  "When 
everything is gone, one of the only things we have 
left is our homeland."

Then I thought about what I'd just recently learned 
about the Master Plan, about how the world would end 
soon and only we chosen few and our families would be 
left.  I looked at Irina, the niece of one of the 
Organization's leaders and therefore one of the 
"chosen", and I suddenly felt extraordinarily 
selfish, choosing as my wife one who was already 
going to survive.  I should have brought one more 
woman into the fold from outside of it, saving her 
from the death which would happen to everyone else.

I dragged Irina into the foyer of the Ritz-Carlton 
and paid for a room a just-starting-out couple 
couldn't begin to afford, then made love to her for 
hours.  I didn't use a condom; I think that even 
though I knew I didn't want children, some part of me 
wanted us to conceive that night, to save one more 
life from the armageddon.

I was such an idealist then.

We only lasted a year after that.  I couldn't handle 
the duality of life as a husband and conspirator, and 
she wanted to go back home, knowing that marriage 
didn't suit her.  And now here I am, seven years 
later.  Irina and I talk often, but I haven't seen 
her in ages.  I still see a little bit of her in Dana 
Scully, who sits stoically by my side as we make our 
way through Manhattan in our rental car.

Yes, I'd been watching her the whole time we were on 
the plane and even now.  How could I *not* watch her?  
The afternoon is dark, with rain threatening.  The 
tall buildings block the sun, but inside the car her 
hair still shines with an auburn glow that seems 
almost alive.  We drive past the Ritz-Carlton, just 
the same as it had been seven years ago.  It 
represented permanence then, and though my mind is 
now less steeped in symbolism, it still seems secure.  
I wonder what would happen if I took Dana upstairs 
and made love to her all night?  Of course, she'd 
disembowel and castrate me the moment the invitation 
passed my lips, but it doesn't stop the imagining.

I could easily afford the room these days.  I'm rich.  
The DAT yielded me a fortune, and I've made the most 
of my opportunities.  And that fortune paid for the 
place I'm taking Dana.

I pull into the underground parking garage and begin 
the extremely awkward process of turning in the 
driver's seat so I can swipe the entry card with my 
right hand.  Scully is silent by my side as the 
access gate opens and I navigate the car into a 
space.  I can see her palming her weapon as we get on 
the elevator and I press the "14" button.

"What kind of building is this?"  Her voice embodies 
her suspicion.

"Apartment."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

That definitely gets her attention.  And, of course, 
it begs the question: why would I bring her here?  
Sure, I could easily have faxed or express mailed her 
the files I want to give her, but of course I have an 
ulterior motive:  I want her to see me as something 
approaching "normal".  It's a perfectly legitimate 
desire, even for a hardened assassin like me, right? 
Even if it's not, I guess that's been the whole point 
of this sojourn to New York, and that conversation on 
the plane.  I'll be the first to admit that the whole 
scene seemed very unlike me.  I'm not normally that 
self-revelatory, that, well, flirtatious.  But the 
words just kept coming. I felt almost desperate in my 
need to connect to her on that level, to show her I'm 
somewhat human after all.  Her derision doesn't 
sting.  It's what I expected.  It's what I needed 
from her.  Anything less would have done her an 
injustice.

The elevator doors open to my hall, and I lead her to 
#1412, fishing my keys out of my pocket.  As I'm 
unlocking the door, she speaks again.

"Why did you bring me here?"

I simply reply, "It's where the files are."  She 
doesn't say anything else, nor do I offer any more 
information.

We step into the apartment and I flick on the lights.  
I watch her taking in the rooms -- the simple 
furniture, a few framed paintings on the wall, the 
floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the city.  
None of it has any personal significance to me; I'd 
paid an interior designer and given her free reign in 
her choices.  But I do have a framed snapshot of 
Irina on the entry table.  It was taken just after we 
got married, right after the Times gave her a 
promotion and big raise.  Springtime in Central Park, 
and she wore a warm smile with her sundress, her dark 
blonde hair hanging around her shoulders.  She really 
is a beautiful woman.  I guess I keep it to remind 
myself that I was human once.

Scully stares at it intently.  Anticipating the 
question she'll refuse to ask, I say, "That's Irina."

"Oh," she replies, then walks further into the 
apartment.

Even with Dana poised for attack if the need arises, 
something about the normalcy of the scene makes an 
impact on me.  I remember many such times during the 
year I spent with Irina, except that by this point we 
would have practically been tearing one another's 
clothes off.  I can't begin to imagine such a scene 
with Dana... except perhaps in my most uninhibited 
late night fantasies.

I stand next to the door and let her wander around 
inside for a few moments, finding her own comfort 
level with the situation.  It is such a contrast from 
those times I spent with my former wife.  Dana and I 
are such a different pair.  We have an unhealthy 
amount of fear, pain, and distrust as our basis, 
instead of the love and companionship Irina and I 
shared.

Dana shrugs slightly and her voice is impatient.  
"Where are they?"

I walk over to the second bedroom, which I use as a 
makeshift office, and she follows.  Inside is more 
what she probably expected:  filing cabinets, a 
cluttered table, some surveillance equipment, a 
computer and a large steel safe.  I'm somewhat 
satisfied to have finally met her expectations.

I begin to describe the contents of the cabinets:  
"The information about the abductions is in there --"  
I point to a top drawer.  "I have a copier in the 
corner over there.  Make copies of whatever you want, 
but nothing leaves this room."

She sets herself on her grand search.  Her face is a 
study in nonchalant suspicion, but I can see a hint 
of the kid in the candy store in her eyes.   I wander 
around the room, going through papers to see if they 
are anything of interest to her.  I find some files 
on the abductee selection process and take them over 
to the portable copier.  As I collate the papers and 
set them to copying, I lean back and watch her.  She 
has worked her way down from the top drawer and is 
now sitting on the floor, heedless of wrinkling her 
slacks.

I have never seen her work before;  I wonder if she 
is like this with Mulder?  I wonder if he ever takes 
the time to stop and really look at her like I am 
doing.  Does he see the way her hair is tucked behind 
her ear, with one swath falling over her face?  The 
way her brows knit tightly in concentration and how 
she bites her lower lip, her breath catching for a 
moment?  The way her shoulderblades clench and relax 
as she pulls files out of the drawer?

The world seems to exist for her only.

After what must amount to nearly two hours, she sits 
back on her heels and runs a hand through her hair.  
I've been copying whatever she places next to her on 
the floor, and she has accumulated a stack we'll need 
a banker's box or two to get back to D.C.  I look 
down at her as she closes her eyes. The tension forms 
a grey cloud around her body.  I want to kneel behind 
her and start rubbing her shoulders until her head 
lolls.

I stay where I am.

She finally stands and begins gathering her things.  
A final two files are handed to me and I set them to 
auto-feed at the copier.

"Do you want anything?"  I ask.  "Coffee, water, 
whatever?"

She seems surprised by the offer.  "Water."

I walk toward the kitchen.  Too bad I'm not here all 
that often.  It's a big, classy apartment.  Co-op, 
actually.  I bought it a few years ago. It's more 
symbolic than anything -- I'd spent so long just a 
few steps above squalor that I wanted to use my money 
to have a nice place to live for a change.  This is 
the kind of place where people should *live*, though.  
Some young couple or something.  I kind of wish I'd 
been able to give it to Irina.

The sound of staccato footfalls tells me Dana has 
followed me.  I turn and hand her the glass of water.  
She stares at it for a long time, as if doing a 
chemical analysis to make sure it's safe.  Finally 
she takes a sip, and behind me the coffeemaker starts 
percolating.

"Why are you doing this?"  The suspicion in her voice 
is more subdued now.

Plop.  A loud drop falls into the small pot.

I start to speak, without thinking through my answer 
in detail.  "Nearly everyone involved in this mess is 
dead now.  Everything's in upheaval.  The aliens are 
going to come for us soon.  They'll let me live, and 
you and Mulder.  I just want you to know what you're 
getting into."

She looks at me for a long moment.  "That's it?"

I smile halfheartedly.  "Well, I did have an agenda.  
I know that if you and Mulder know all the details, 
you'll come work with us."

"Who is 'us'?"

"The rebels."  I hope my stare can convey to her the 
weight of what I'm saying.  "It's the only way we can 
fight what they're trying to do.  The only way we can 
fight the future."  I hate that phrase -- it sounds 
so silly and cliched -- but it's the truth.

The kitchen is silent for a long time, the weight of 
her wariness percolating with the coffee.  I turn 
away and glance out the floor-to-ceiling window, one 
of the "features" of this skyscraper.  It's dark now, 
and we're so high above the ground that it seems like 
we're looking down on the stars from above.

I almost don't notice the whisper of her voice.

"Thank you for the files."

I turn back and look at her.  The city lights have 
imprinted themselves on my retinas, and in the 
darkness she seems to sparkle like a thousand blood-
red stars.  The urge to touch her, to kiss her, 
rushes over me with G-force velocity.  I can barely 
breathe for the desire to feel her skin under my 
fingertips.

"You're welcome," I say.

The sound of the copier dies and I am suddenly called 
back to the here and now.  Turning off the 
coffeemaker, I follow her into the office, we gather 
the boxes, then lock the door on our way out.

+++++

The apartment was darker than he'd ever seen it.  
Sodium streetlight streamed through the blinded 
windows, but as it tried to fill the room, the inky 
blackness absorbed it.

Mulder set his keys on Scully's dining table, then 
walked around the collection of rooms, letting the 
darkness absorb him the way it had the light.  His 
watch told him the time was after 11pm.  Scully and 
Krycek should be back by now.  He sat down on her 
sofa and began to imagine the worst.

Their plane had crashed.
      Henchmen from the Organization had abducted 
her. 
         Krycek had killed her.

Why were such big risks never bad ideas when they 
were his?

Self-loathing at the thought that he was assigning 
blame to her took up residence in the lower depths of 
his stomach.  He closed his eyes and willed himself 
to kill the train of thought, to think of nothing but 
the physical sensation of being in this blackened 
room as the minutes ticked past.

The minute hand had moved only a few degrees when he 
heard her key turning in the lock.  The rotation 
completed, a thud reverberated around the room as the 
door continued to meet resistance;  Mulder realized 
he'd turned the keyless bolt by force of habit when 
he entered.   He quickly pulled himself off the sofa 
and went the door, letting them in.  Such a domestic 
bit of movement -- he'd suddenly begun playing Lord 
of the Manor.

As the two of them moved into the apartment, Mulder 
watched them carefully, looking for any signs of 
something gone terribly wrong.  But they looked 
normal, almost comfortable together.  Perish the 
thought.  Each of them carried a banker's box stuffed 
nearly past capacity, with Scully instructing Krycek 
to follow her lead in taking them over to the coffee 
table.

The outsider spoke:  "Did you have any trouble 
getting into the warehouse?"

"No," Mulder replied, his voice carrying the vein of 
hatred and distrust the other man always seemed to 
bring out in him.  "It was almost too easy to get in 
-- was that your doing?"

"I own the warehouse.  If I wanted you to get in, 
you'd get in."  He made it all sound childishly 
simple.

Mulder didn't like the way the man's words made him 
feel -- as if Mulder was someone to be indulged.  He 
turned his attention to the boxes of files,

but the focus was diverted as Scully sat down next to 
him.  He could feel the warmth of her body even 
before he turned his head to look at her.  She looked 
tired, her face drawn into a mask of studied 
reservation.

He asked her, "What did you find in New York, 
Scully?"

She sat up a little straighter, the mask of 
detachment slowly falling away from her face.  He 
could see the beginnings of fear and pain.  Mulder's 
heart tightened.  "I took a couple of files on the 
plane with me and read them there.  Krycek helped 
fill in the blanks.  I was able to piece together a 
fairly specific outline of the abduction process from 
the early 1970s to the present."

Mulder couldn't help but wince, not because of the 
possible connection to Samantha, but because as she 
had done that, Scully had been forced to confront the 
logistics and processes of what had happened to her.

"The files are thorough," she continued.  "They 
describe the selection process and specific ruses 
employed by those men to kidnap women from their
homes or out in public, then return them seemingly 
unharmed by the process, with nobody -- including the 
women -- the wiser."

He took the file she offered him, then glanced up at 
Krycek, who was sitting in Scully's armchair opposite 
them.  The man maintained his traditional look of 
ironic detachment.  Mulder narrowed his eyes slightly 
then turned his attention to the file in his lap.  It 
contained documents, but what immediately caught his 
eye were the xerox copies of 8x10 photographs.

Women, strapped to tables, their eyes glazed over in 
unconsciousness. Labcoated men standing over them, 
holding medical instruments over unsullied flesh.

The women were anonymous, but that didn’t stop the 
nausea which took up residence in the pit of Mulder's 
stomach.  Beside him, he could feel the taut cords of 
Scully's fury and fear.  Without giving thought to 
the distance which had been growing between them over 
the past few months, he lifted his right arm and 
placed it around her shoulders, then drew her close 
to him.  She stiffened at first, then leaned into 
him.

He could feel her each deep, shaking breath against 
his side.

Mulder thought about what had brought them to this 
point, the journey which Scully had undergone.  From 
the first time she confronted physical evidence of 
what happened to her during her abduction -- that 
computer chip she'd had removed when he was near-dead 
in New Mexico, then later discovering a group of 
women dying of cancer because of similar chips -- 
she'd been given information in bits and pieces.  And 
all the while, she had denied any true meaning other 
than what had a scientific explanation.  Even then, 
if the science didn't fit what she wanted to believe, 
she dismissed it.

But now, she seemed to be starting to accept them, to 
cast aside that rigid logic and tell herself that 
these are the facts and she could now begin to 
believe them.

He wondered when it had happened.  Recently, he 
assumed, but then it was all an assumption.  She kept 
so much to herself, telling him so very little.  
Mulder remembered the journal she'd kept in the 
hospital in Allentown, how he'd read it one dreadful 
night when he felt the darkness on a cellular level.  
Scully had hinted at memories unearthed, but then 
never spoke of them to him.  It was as if she 
believed that by keeping those fears and new 
understandings secret, they wouldn't become real.  
That if she told him, she would be forced to become 
the believer.  That new role, he knew, would destroy 
everything she'd held true to her soul all her life.  
He had a profound sympathy for the terror it bred in 
her, even as it handcuffed her to a state of denial 
which hurt their work.

She continued to shiver next to him, the movement 
almost imperceptible.

Everything else -- the boxes of files, the fatigue of 
the night, the man sitting opposite them -- was 
forgotten as they began the terrifying process of 
confrontation.

+++++

Day one
The distance is measured in miles.
Day two
The distance is measured in hours.
Day three
The distance is measured in shades of grey.
It is still there.
It just keeps changing shape,
unable to create one concrete unit of measurement
which can slowly become smaller and smaller
until the distance can be measured in
inches
seconds
white.
 

+++++

 I see clouds below the wing as our plane hits its 
cruising altitude. They're really just fuzzy images, 
as  Scully has the window seat and I can barely see 
past her.  She has been staring out the window since  
even before takeoff, which surprises me.  We've 
barely said a word to one another since we met at  
the airport and boarded this flight to Chicago.  
Scully isn't known for her effusive attempts at  
conversation, but this is extreme even for her.
               
I just don't have anything to say to Mulder.  I want 
to talk to him, I really do, but my attention remains                
caught by the clouds outside the window.  Sometimes 
they'll break and I'll get a glimpse of the ground                
below, all patchwork fields and the occasional 
pinprick of a house.  It all makes me feel so                
insignificant.  I wonder if that's the impression the 
aliens -- *they* get when they look down on us.  I've                
been thinking these thoughts more and more often 
since that night a week ago.

 We haven't talked at all since she returned from New 
York City with Krycek and showed me those  files.  
Oh, sure, we've talked, but it has all been about 
work, not about what happened as she sat with  me on 
her sofa and trembled at the sight of those women 
strapped onto metal tables.  I held her  tightly in 
my arms, but she scarcely seemed to notice.  After a 
long while, the trembling subsided, then  she stood 
and disappeared into the bathroom.  Just a few feet 
away, but she felt so far away from me.

I remember standing and watching myself in the mirror 
for a very long time.  Everything familiar about                
me seemed to evaporate away and after a few moments I 
didn't recognize the woman staring back at me.  She 
was myself, but irrevocably changed.  The old me had 
become an expert in rationalization and denial.  The 
new me scrubbed her hands with antibacterial soap and 
squared her shoulders before emerging from the 
bathroom.  She had become a believer of sorts, and 
hated herself for it.

I walked into the living room and just stood there, 
unwilling to take my place on the sofa next to                
Mulder, but without another place to sit.  I needed 
to stand, anyway.  It gave me more control.  Krycek                
then stood and walked toward me.  He placed his hand 
on my shoulder and I looked up at his face.  It                
wore a look of compassion I never would have expected 
to see the face of the snake in the Garden of Eden.  

He murmured, "I'm sorry, krasnaya," then left the 
apartment.  I chose to ignore his words until I could 
better process them and figure out what he'd called 
me.

The cushions of the chair were still warm from 
Krycek's body as I sat there and began to recite the                
facts.

 Scully spun her tale with alarming precision.  She 
told me about the experiments -- how women were  
systematically chosen according to specific 
demographic criteria, and what was done to them once  
they were in the scientists' hands.  About how this 
tied into the aliens' plans for the creation of a new  
human race tolerant of the extreme environmental 
conditions so it would survive the apocalypse.  About 
the abductors' plans to control their victims through 
the microchips, and how the rebels were  trying to 
destroy the abductees before the colonists' plans 
advanced any further and created even  more 
devastation.

 Then she pulled out her own file, the words and 
images on the pages blurry from the many  generations 
of photocopying.  They made the words and images seem 
dreamlike, but her voice was  solid and so dead as 
she described the medical procedures with the voice 
of a victim numbed to the  horror.  She didn't begin 
to speculate just why she was taken, whether it had 
to do with demographics  or something more personal -
- she just related the facts.

 My own files -- the ones about my family history and 
what had happened twenty-five years ago --  were 
forgotten as I wanted so desperately to hold her in 
my arms, to kiss her and absolve her of the  pain.

 I remained still.

+++++

When I was eight, I begged my father for horseback 
riding lessons.  I became convinced that if I could 
not ride a horse, I would simply die.  I plastered my 
half of the shared bedroom with drawings and 
photographs of horses, I memorized Black Beauty, I 
found a way to work horses into every conversation 
with my parents.  Finally, Ahab gave in and my 
birthday present was six weeks' worth of lessons, 
which must have cost my parents a fortune I couldn't 
comprehend at the time.

That first Saturday morning, I walked into the 
Wimberly Stables the happiest girl in the world.  The 
instructor led us students over to the training 
horses and helped me onto Snowflake.  I mounted him 
with the confidence of a girl to the stallion born.  
But as I waited patiently for the other girls and 
boys to mount their steeds, I realized something more 
terrifying than anything I'd ever experienced:

I didn't like horseback riding.

I wasn't comfortable.  The power of the horse scared 
me.  I couldn't wait for the lesson to end.  But I 
forced myself to endure it, feeling guilty for having 
begged so long.  I dreaded every Saturday morning, 
and trembled at the mere thought of horses.  But I'd 
taken a stand and forced myself to follow through 
with it.

When Mulder and I were first re-assigned to the X-
Files, a strange sense of something dark began to 
float over me.  I realized quickly through the 
clarity of self-awareness that as much as I'd wanted 
desperately to be back in that basement office, the 
prospect of returning to that life did not make me 
happy.

This knowledge was unwelcome, to say the least.

None of the above is meant to imply that I liked the 
life I'd lived for a few months of Bureau grunt work.  
I didn't even particularly prefer it to the X-Files.  
I really wish I could pin that feeling of dread down 
to one particular thing, then deal with it.  But it 
was just a combination of so many things which are 
complicated in themselves, much less combined into 
one big problem to confront.

I guess part of it was that insecurity of life with 
the X-Files.  I used to think I thrived on the 
danger, the sheer adrenaline rush of never knowing 
what would happen next.  As structured as my life 
appears on the outside, I adored the life-or-death 
self-determinism.  When it was all taken away and I 
became a denizen of a desk instead of a rental car, I 
wondered if I would suffocate from the structure.

But within the first week of sitting at that desk in 
the bullpen, I felt more comfortable than I had in 
ages.  I could actually make plans I knew I wouldn’t 
suddenly have to break.  I became addicted to 
something I never even knew I craved.

Regaining the files was a slap across my cheek.  I'd 
lost my taste for them.  I couldn't bear the thought 
of spending so much time in a world consisting of me, 
Mulder, and the case we were investigating.

Or maybe it's him.

We're on our third case since re-assignment.  He is -
- I assume -- asleep in his hotel room a few doors 
down from mine. We haven't spoken to one another for 
the space of several hours.  I'm lying awake on the 
still-made bed, staring at the generic paintings on 
the wall and wondering where it all went wrong for 
us.

I can't talk to him these days.  It's not a silence 
borne of animosity, simply from a lack of anything to 
say beyond the basics of the investigation.  I 
haven't really talked to him since that night a few 
weeks ago when Krycek and I got back from New York 
and my world began to crumble at my feet.  I remember 
shivering in Mulder's arms;  he leaned back on the 
sofa and drew me back on top of him.  I imagined that 
if I lay there long enough, I could just melt into 
him and the rest of this world would cease to exist.  
Through the haze I registered Krycek stand and leave, 
and I was grateful he was walking out of my near-
breakdown.  Those are the experiences which can 
cement or destroy a relationship.  For us, it did 
neither.  After a very long while, I sat up, went to 
the bathroom and took a long drink of water, then 
came back into the living room and began reading the 
files.  I think Mulder may have stared at me, 
baffled.  I chose not to notice.  Neither of us has 
said a word about that night -- those emotions -- 
since.

Mulder and Scully don't confront.  They retreat.

I turn over in the bed, trying to find a tolerably 
comfortable position.  I wish I could go to him and 
talk about this, but I can't.  Maybe I never will.  
Maybe it'll be easier that way.

Maybe I can live with the silence.

Maybe.

I crawl out of bed and stumble over to the bathroom 
on shaky feet.  The person in the mirror is a 
stranger -- someone who used to be me but is now 
divorced from my inner thoughts, feelings, whatever.  
She looks so old, so tired.  Over the past few months 
my face has gotten fuller, my body developed curves 
it hadn't seen since before the cancer.  I look 
different.  I used to be so at home in my body, but 
now I feel like I need to burst out of it, to become 
someone new.

Mulder used to find that woman in the mirror 
attractive.  I know that much -- I've known it for 
years.  He has always been such a gentleman, but I've 
noticed the looks he has given me for some time now.  
He wants me.  He loves me.  It's not just in the way 
he looks at me, but in the way he treats me.  Respect 
and gallantry are second-nature to Mulder.  It is who 
he is.  Yet I used to be able to see beyond those 
where his feelings for me were concerned.  I knew he 
loved me.  Maybe it was in the way he would touch me, 
a slight tremble showing reverence.  Or the way he'd 
look at me, as if he could already feel my flesh 
against his.

I used to like that.  Now, I'm not so sure.

When did my view of him change from future lover to 
distant partner?  Have they even changed?  Could 
Mulder love -- make love to -- that woman in the 
mirror?  Part of me still wants him to. An even 
greater part wonders if it would be a true 
manifestation of our feelings, or if it would just be 
our doing what we've always expected of ourselves.  
Maybe we've moved so far past that point that it 
doesn't even matter anymore.  Maybe we've erased that 
path in our careful hesitation all these years.

We waited so long to become lovers that we lost sight 
of just why we should have been in the first place.

I feel darker now, like Eve in those few moments 
after she ate the apple but before she was burdened 
with Knowledge. And a new serpent has entered the 
garden.

Krycek has seldom left my thoughts in these past few 
weeks.  Every time he does, I force myself to conjure 
the hatred I'd always felt for him, to lash out at 
him.  I want to do what is right by Melissa, by 
Mulder, where Krycek is concerned.  But I just can't.

Mulder told me once that he often has such a hard 
time with his impulsiveness because his intellect 
tells him one thing but his gut reactions tell him 
another.  I really feel that dichotomy now.

That woman in the mirror's mind hates Krycek.  Her 
emotions are held in his thrall.  She hates herself 
for it, but that doesn't eradicate the fascination.  
What is he?  A way out of this mess, or a new, 
disturbing dimension of it?  Just thinking about him 
makes her face flush, her skin tingle in a way she 
doesn't quite like but can't get rid of.

I can't stop thinking about that night in New York, 
that night when I became Eve and he gave me the fruit 
of knowledge.  I stood in his kitchen and watched him 
look at me.  He looked at me the way Mulder once did.  
He looked at me with the eyes of a lover.  And I 
couldn't hate him for it, no matter how much my mind 
wanted to.

I have two lovers now.  I *can't* want one of them.  
I'm not sure I want the other.  One day I suppose I 
will have to choose -- not to choose between them, 
but to choose whether to accept or reject.

Maybe if I wait long enough, I won't have to choose.

+++++

"We're going to have to start over, Mulder."

Her words ring in my ears.  My voice has no response.

I came to her room thinking maybe, just maybe, we 
could get past this stalemate and actually talk for a 
change -- not just about work or this search 
consuming us, but about ourselves.  It's sad that we 
suddenly need to talk about things which could have 
been communicated without words just months ago.  But 
these days, I think that actually sitting and forcing 
the words through my mouth and into her ears is the 
only way anything will ever be accomplished.

I just didn't expect those words from her.

Once she began talking, she got up from her 
comfortable perch on her bed -- legs crossed and body 
relaxed -- and began a strange figure-eight pacing 
around the room, trying not to look like she was 
avoiding direct eye contact but I knew it anyway.  
She was a stranger to me;  I didn't know this woman.  
I wonder if I ever have.

She moved to stand in front of the window, looking 
out onto the city.  Her shoulders were squared and 
her hair slightly curled from the shower she'd taken 
before my arrival.  The curtains were in a pattern of 
deep mauve and blue, and the copper of her hair 
clashed with the drapery.  Fabric hung in graceful 
folds but she was compact and her body was almost as 
bitter as the carefully-hidden undertones of her 
voice.  She was so colorful, but she appeared gray at 
that moment.

She didn't give me a laundry list of my 
transgressions -- at least, the ones she perceived -- 
nor did she make excuses for her own erratic 
behavior.  She simply said that things between us 
weren't what they once had been, and that maybe we 
needed to take a step back from all that closeness I 
thought I'd seen in our relationship, and give us 
time to figure out just what we mean to one another.

"We're going to have to start over, Mulder."

I thought I'd had her all sussed out, but she always 
has had the power to shock the hell out of me.

"Start over?"  My voice cracks and I must sound 
pathetic, but I really don't care at this point.

She still stands at the window, as if she's 
addressing the city beyond rather than me.  "Go back 
to the beginning.  This -- this *whatever* between us 
has become so fractured and strained lately that I 
think we need to figure out exactly what we want from 
one another, and if we can actually regain that 
closeness we once had."

I want to walk over to her.  I want to place my hands 
on her shoulders and squeeze them, to feel her flesh 
in my hands and see if the woman saying these words 
is the same one I've known and loved for the past six 
years.  I want to call her "Scully", but I can't.  
I'm not even sure this is Scully breathing the same 
stale hotel air with me.

We've spent six years living with and for one 
another, but now I don't know this woman.

My voice is hollow.

"If that's what you want."

She turns around then.  Her face is composed, but I 
can almost make out the humanity, the indecision and 
caring underneath the mask.  Almost.  This new woman 
attempts a smile.  "It's not what I want, but I think 
it's what we both need."

All I can do is whisper.

"Okay."

Her body rocks forward slightly on the balls of her 
feet, as if it wants to take a step she's not willing 
to follow through on.  A layer of the mask peels 
away, and I see compassion and something which 
resembles caring. It's an expression I've seen 
before, but in the context of this conversation I 
don't know if I wholly believe it.  Or maybe I'm too 
shocked to buy it right now.

"Mulder, don't think this is rejection, okay?"

"Did I make an offer?"  I won't say I can't believe 
how bitter I'm sounding, because I certainly feel 
that way.

The faint smile fades away.  "This isn't all about 
you, Mulder, or any of your personal failings.  It's 
about both of us, me especially.  We don't -- we're 
not who we once were.  I want that back, I promise 
you I do.  I'm just having a hard time right  now 
dealing with all the shit in my life, and I need to 
take a step back from us and give us  a chance to 
start over and regain that bond we once had, before 
all this darkness ends up irrevocably tainting our 
relationship and destroying it.  Does that make 
sense?"

No, it doesn't, Scully.  But I’m not about to press 
you for further explanation.  I don't think I can 
handle anything else she has to say to me right now.  
I don't want to know what you're doing out there with 
Krycek, without me.  What you're feeling when you 
make these new discoveries.  I want to be a part of 
this process, but you're slowly excluding me.

All I can say is, "If that's what you want."

I turn and walk out the door before I let her break 
my heart even more.  If I gave her words more precise 
thought, I'd be able to understand just what she 
means and see the hope in her words.  But right now 
those words sting too much for me to give them the 
benefit of understanding.

I need to be alone.

I need to grieve.

I want to.  I can't find that hope she speaks of 
right now.

"We're going to have to start over, Mulder."

Right.  Start over.

Or is that just your polite way of saying it's over, 
Scully?

+++++

 He has long fingers, she notices.

He sits opposite her at her kitchen table. His gun is 
in his hands and he is cleaning it, checking the 
various latches and hinges. The fingers of his right 
hand are dirty, as are the ones on the left. If she 
were his mother and he were a child, she would scrub 
the right hand with antibacterial soap and a nubbed 
washcloth then spread cocoa-butter lotion across the 
fingernails, the thin creases of his knuckles and the 
whorls of his fingerprints. She would take the same 
rag and douse it with cleanser then rub away at the 
shiny nylon covering of the molded left hand, feeling 
the metal and plastic structure underneath.

But she is not his mother and he is not a child. He 
is a grown man -- a murderer and a liar -- and she is 
a grown woman who should know better.

Yet he sits opposite her at this table, cleaning his 
gun as she watches him. He has to notice her 
attention but says nothing, staring in concentration 
as oil spreads over the steel warmed by his hands. 
The gun rests in his fake one as his real hand 
worries intently at the metal, as if by cleaning it 
he can make it even more perfect, more deadly. The 
oil spreads over his fingertips, giving the nails the 
sheen of a manicurist's dreams. There is something 
almost feminine about his hands at this moment, in 
the way they elongate and bend during the cleaning 
process. They seem made to display glittering bands 
of gold, not to prepare a gun for the possibility of 
murder.

And still she watches.

And still he prepares.

+++++

It was a dark and stormy night.

Hell, pulp fiction, yes, but appropriate given the 
ridiculous unreality into which my life has descended 
lately. And besides, it is storming outside and the 
lack of lights to reflect off the clouds makes it 
appear especially dark.

As had become standard of late, Krycek had more news 
for us Saturday morning. He showed up at my apartment 
a little before 7 AM, and I almost kicked him out 
solely for waking me up so early. I was more 
surprised than anything that he came to me instead of 
Scully. Yeah, I was pretty much the only one he 
talked to for years, but lately he and Scully and 
gotten so damn chummy. I wondered if they passed 
notes in science class. I couldn't let myself think 
any further than that.

I wondered if they remembered me at all.

"Mulder."

Krycek just stood in my door. As tired as I was, I 
dared him to take another step. He didn't. His eyes 
scanned the room and I pulled the sheets up to my 
neck, remembering I was wearing only my shorts.

"They're covering their tracks." He paused for 
effect. I rolled my eyes. "I just got word that the 
facilities in Allentown and West Virginia are set
to be demolished sometime after Monday, though I 
don't know exactly when. If you want to get in, you'd 
better go tonight."

I wanted to stalk over and hit him a few times, but 
the fact that I was half naked pretty much negated 
that possibility.

"So let me guess: your plan is for you and Scully to 
go to, what, Allentown, and leave me alone to hit 
West Virginia?"

I could have slapped the smile off his face. "I've 
already arranged for someone to meet you there."

"To kill me?" I said sarcastically.

"No, think of them as a tour guide."

I packed an extra gun anyway.

I can feel the car shudder as I kill the ignition, 
having parked under some trees near the abandoned 
mining company. The drive west was particularly 
uneventful, having nothing to recommend it except 
four hours alone with my thoughts -- something which, 
despite appearances to the contrary, is not 
necessarily a favorite pastime of mine.

But what I was thinking really isn't the point. Let's 
just say it was mostly about Scully, and leave it at 
that.

The path up to the mine isn't overgrown, as one would 
expect of a place supposedly "abandoned". Faint mud 
tire tracks are imprinted on the cement of the 
driveway, though the edges are blurred together from 
rain and the passage of what has probably been 
several weeks. I begin to doubt Krycek's information 
-- if what's left of the Consortium plans to destroy 
the facility soon, wouldn't they be spending much 
more time here? Whatever the case, they're certainly 
not here now. All I can hear is the archetypal sounds 
of the forest, such as birds calling and a springtime 
wind rustling leaves just beginning to bud. God, stop 
me before I start quoting poetry.

Of course, lest I imagine myself completely alone, my 
"tour guide" is waiting for me near the entrance to 
the mines.

Marita Covarrubias' appearance still shocks me, even 
though it has been several weeks since I saw her at 
that army base, looking like death needing about 5 
minutes on high power in the microwave. She has 
pulled herself together remarkably well, though, I 
have to admit. She's not the femme fatale she once 
tried to portray herself as, but she looks more like 
she used to. Yeah, her clothes are much more casual 
than I would have ever expected to see on her, and 
her hair is longer and actually blowing slightly in 
the wind, but she has shellacked cosmetics on her 
face and her posture is as steely as ever. But when I 
get closer, I can see the bluish shadows under her 
eyes and broken capillaries on her cheekbones. She 
keeps her lips pursed, but I remember the way her 
teeth had blackened from whatever they'd done to her 
at Fort Marlene.

Even though in the time I'd previously known her I'd 
seen her as source who had potential but who couldn’t 
really be trusted, I feel a sudden pang of sympathy 
for her. And as she squares her shoulders and greets 
me in a voice stripped of its old pretension, I 
admire her. I can't help but admire this woman who 
has rebuilt herself from nothing. Something in her 
eyes tells me she could actually be an ally.

But I'm not going to wholly trust her just yet. I 
still have holsters at my waist and ankle.

"Krycek said you were coming to retrieve as many 
files as you can. I have an SUV parked down the hill, 
and I've already assembled nearly a dozen boxes for 
us to carry the files." She says the words with 
pride. She feels herself useful once again. I'm 
actually glad that she feels that way, that she 
thinks she can help me here. I don't know that she 
really can, but I'm willing to work with her on this.

I follow her inside the large building, and I glance 
around as we make our way to the long staircase 
leading us to the landing where Scully and I had 
found those huge metal doors three long years ago. 
Marita -- for some reason I can't refer to her now as 
"Covarrubias" -- has turned on a series of lights 
along the staircase, which help to light the way up 
but which cast the outside into darkness. I remember 
climbing these stairs back then and looking over my 
shoulder, reveling in some strange way at the 
derelict grandeur of the place, the windows almost 
glowing like a European cathedral.

I'm already slightly winded by the third flight of 
stairs. When did I get so out-of-shape? I spare a 
second to make a mental note to get back on the 
treadmill if I ever have the downtime to do so. She 
continues to climb in front of me, with my bringing 
up the rear lest I turn my back on her. I can see the 
harsh rise and fall of her back as she takes loud, 
short breaths. I have no excuse for being winded, but 
I almost regret the exertion this is causing her. 
Almost.

Wait, why "almost"? She is helping me, isn't she? 
Whatever.

We reach that magical level, with the five steel 
doors jutting out like medieval battlements. We walk 
in tandem to the middle door and she punches in the 
entry code. I follow her inside and the door starts 
to shut behind us, but she stops quickly.

"Don't let it shut!" she exclaims, but the words are 
faint in her hoarse voice. With quick reflexes, I 
catch the door with my hand, and the impact jars 
along my rotator cuff. Slipping back out, I find a 
long metal pole and haul it over to the entrance, 
then go back inside and wedge the pole between the 
door and jamb. As I do so, Marita has already found 
the lightswitch and the immediate flood of light 
sears my retinas, forcing me to blink several times 
to let my pupils adjust.

She braces a hand on the wall and I give her a few 
seconds to catch her breath. With one shaking hand, 
she gestures down the corridor and I see the banker's 
boxes she had already assembled.

"You've been here before, correct?"

I nod, but she's not looking at me. "Yeah, several 
years ago," I reply for clarity.

We continue down the mine shaft. I could make a glib 
joke about descending into its bowels, but I'm not 
really in the mood.

Then as we round a bend in the tunnel, I hear a loud 
slam, and the corridor is plunged into darkness.

+++++

The night was dark, but not stormy.

Their car stopped on a gravel road nearly a mile from 
their destination. Krycek got out of the car with no 
hesitation, adjusting his leather jacket with the 
insouciance of a man to roguedom born. She pretended 
comfort as she left the car and checked her weapons, 
then grabbed a satchel for carrying files. Scully 
wore all black plus a cap which could pull down into 
a mask, should the need arise. She played the role of 
a bandit, even if it didn't quite fit her like a 
glove.

They stole along the forest floor, careful to avoid 
any telltale loose branches and using the far-off 
lights of the complex as a guide. Scully felt so... 
odd there next to him, planning an invasion of a 
place which had held such horror for her in the past. 
In her last association with the Lombard Research 
Facility, she had trembled with the fear of a dying 
victim. Now she approached with an avenger's anger. 
That need for payback didn't shake the sense of dread 
she felt as the trees thinned and the halogen 
floodlights loomed before her.

Krycek held out a hand of caution. She stopped short 
and fell back slightly, feeling the give of snow-
softened leaves under her feet. Expecting him to pull 
out a map, she waited for the telltale rustling of 
paper then realized that of course he'd memorized the 
designs. He was all strong, deadly assurance next to 
her, keeping his face turned toward the building as 
they slipped back under the canopy of trees and 
circled the clearing.

Just as Krycek began to move forward toward the 
building, a strange sense of absolute terror stilled 
her movements. A filter of carmine blood stained her 
vision and she just knew.

Something had happened to Mulder.

Against all logic, she could feel it even deeper than 
the marrow of her bones. Scully reached for her phone 
with practiced instinct, but the sudden surprise of 
Krycek's hand clamping on her arm caused her bones to 
jar in shocked stillness.

"Not now," his growl commanded.

"I have to," she blurted out, unable to control the 
neediness of her voice.

Surprisingly, his own softened. "It's Mulder, isn't 
it?" She didn't answer. "Just wait until we're done, 
okay?"

She wanted to hit him for dismissing her, but she 
didn't. It was just her sudden paranoia, right? She 
wasn't psychic and Mulder was okay.

Scully's hand dropped to her side and her steady 
stare challenged Krycek to say anything else to 
placate her. She shoved past him and began the 
building approach on her own, listening to him 
scramble to catch up.

The building was quiet inside, with only the merest 
hint of white noise from electricity. It appeared 
deserted, but Scully knew better than to assume this 
would be easy. She and Krycek walked side by side 
down long corridors, guns at the ready by their 
sides. They came to a door and she waited while he 
punched in a security code, then held up her weapon 
as they entered. The room was cavernous and very 
empty. Krycek took several steps inside while she 
glanced around, letting her eyes adjust to the 
darkness.

"The clones used to be here," he said. They certainly 
weren't anymore. "I heard they were moved, but I 
haven't been able to piece together that 
information."

There was absolutely nothing for them to see, so he 
moved back out into the hallway and she followed, 
taking one last long look around before doing so. 
They continued to move down the Kafkaesque corridor, 
each door locked and without label. She was tempted 
to stop and force her way through them, but Krycek 
knew the building inside-out and so she followed his 
lead. He would know where they were meant to be 
going, and though she didn't want to give that 
control to him, she knew what was most prudent for 
the situation.

The hallway ended at an open area, about 40' square, 
with a few desks and cubicles common to offices. 
Doorways ringed the perimeter, marked "laboratory", 
"conference", "file storage". A double-set of glass 
doors promised a large lobby beyond. A thin sliver of 
yellow light glowed underneath the laboratory door. 
The area was deserted.

She watched Krycek as he moved through the maze of 
cubicles, hastening toward the row of filing cabinets 
lining one wall. He pulled out a huge ring of keys 
and began trying them one by one, having little 
success. His body tensed with the effort and she 
could see the way his muscles contracted, making his 
body appear smaller as he investigated. But his 
strength was still evident in the curve of his back, 
the taut tendons of his neck.

Scully followed his path, but instead began to 
closely examine the cubicles themselves. She alighted 
on one, a plastic plate bearing the name "Susan 
Gustafson" tacked to the burlap covering the cubicle 
wall. Despite the files on the woman's desk, Scully's 
eyes were drawn to the peculiar decorations the woman 
had gathered to make her 7' square space seem more 
homelike: clippings of a few Dilbert cartoons, a 
child's abstract artwork signed by "Lindsey", a 
xeroxed paper proclaiming, "God put me on this earth 
to accomplish a certain number of things. Right now I 
am so far behind, I shall never die."

Did Susan Gustafson know the true implications of the 
things she was accomplishing?

Files on the desk made their way into Scully's hands. 
This woman was most likely an assistant to the office 
manager, judging by the retail invoices and sign-up 
sheet for the conference room. It all seemed very 
normal, until you realized that the Office Depot 
invoices were for manila folders to house the files 
on abductees and the conferences around that table 
probably involved the progress of the research. 
Scully slipped the files into her bag nevertheless.

Although she knew there was much information to be 
gleaned in this office environment, that light under 
the laboratory door beckoned. She moved over to where 
Krycek stood, still trying to find the magical 
skeleton key which would unlock the filing cabinet. 
With the flick of a wrist, she gestured toward the 
laboratory door, then drew her weapon and approached 
it before waiting for his agreement that it was a 
better place to go.

The doorknob turned easily in her hand.

Another corridor, but with fewer doors. Napier's 
Constant punched into the keypad of the first yielded 
a faint click then portal entry. Scully wondered at 
the lack of creativity on the part of the men who 
chose passwords. Napier's Constant -- was Mulder 
okay? Once more she fought back the need to call him.

The room was large, bearing the standard 
accoutrements of a biological laboratory. Krycek 
followed her inside and began examining the equipment 
with a scientist's familiarity. The machines were 
turned on; a bunsen burner bore a blue flame. The 
laboratory was empty, but not vacant.

A loud footfall then a woman emerged from a small 
office off the lab. Despite the twenty feet 
separating them, Scully saw the panic on her face, 
which was soon replaced by suspicion and a guarded 
voice.

"Who are you?"

Scully drew her gun. "Who are *you*?"

The woman fumbled with a black pager-like pendant 
around her neck, then looked up and them and said, 
"Get out of here."

Krycek approached the woman, body language taunting 
her as he called out, "The guards won't get here in 
time."

The woman's hand reached behind her, as if searching 
for a weapon she didn't possess. Scully knew the 
gesture well. In a louder voice, the woman 
threatened, "I said, get out of here!"

"NO!" Krycek was now only six feet away from her, his 
gun aimed squarely at the woman's chest.

Scully knew what would happen, as if it had been 
predestined.

"Who are you experimenting on now, Doctor?" he 
continued to taunt. "Innocent women? Sick children? 
People you've already killed because they wised up 
and took the chip out of their necks?"

His target's mouth gaped, her eyes widened. "I--"

"TELL US!"

Scully had never seen Krycek so enraged like this, 
though she knew from past experiences and from 
hearing Mulder's accounts that he was more than 
capable. She had been in such situations before, yet 
that didn't stop the rising terror she felt at his 
actions.

The woman took a step backward, her body shaking, and 
Krycek clicked the safety of his weapon. "I can tell 
you, show you everything. Just don't kill me."

Wanting desperately to protest but unable to find the 
words, Scully didn't speak.

A thin strand of glass tubing shattered with the loud 
sound of the first shot.

"KRYCEK!" Scully shouted.

He fired another shot as the woman fell to the floor, 
blood splattering on the sterile white tile. He stood 
over her body and unloaded another two bullets into 
her still form.

Scully couldn’t stop shaking.

With a fluid motion and a crazed, almost afraid look 
on his face, Krycek shoved his gun back in his 
holster and rushed toward the door through which they 
entered. His voice a growl, he said, "Get out of here 
before the guards come."

Instinct forced her feet to follow him. She wanted to 
go back and check on the woman, but she knew the 
woman was already dead. Adrenaline took over as they 
hurried back to the office area. Their cover already 
blown, Krycek pulled out his gun and shot at the 
filing cabinet locks, then started yanking out files 
and handing them to Scully, who shoved them in her 
knapsack. When he'd grabbed more than they could 
possibly carry, he ran over to another locked-down 
cabinet labeled "electronic data" and she joined him 
at it, piling digital tapes into her bag until her 
body became uncentered from the weight on her 
shoulder.

The guards didn't announce their presence; they 
merely started shooting.

In tandem, Scully dropped the knapsack then she and 
Krycek ducked behind separate cubicles, guns drawn to 
return the fire. She couldn’t see their attackers, so 
she instead used instinct and logistics to determine 
their location. The gunfire was so loud and frequent 
that she lost track of which bullets belonged to 
whom.

Then suddenly, the bullet sounds decreased in number.

Krycek's voice was sandpaper. "RUN! Get out of here 
before it gets us!"

She stood and ran over to her knapsack. A glance at 
the guards revealed green blood spilling over their 
black clothes, and she could feel the fumes 
scratching at her eyes.

One hand over her face and the other clutching her 
weapon for dear life, she ran and ran and ran.

+++++

These woods are lovely, dark, and deep But I have 
promises to keep...

run run run till her daddy takes the files away

My lungs are about to burst as Dana and I haul ass 
across the grounds of the Lombard Research Facility, 
and all I can think of is fucking snippets of poetry 
and Beach Boys songs.

Scully disappears into the black wall of the forest 
first, and I keep running running running after her. 
My foot hits the ground wrong and down will come alex 
cradle and all. I've long since given up all control 
and now I'm coasting on an adrenaline rush, the kind 
of rush that beats the hell out of any illicit drug 
I've ever consumed. Rush -- the blood flies through 
my brain. Rush -- the bass drum of my heartbeat. Rush 
-- my feet on undergrowth as I run after Dana.

We cover a mile faster than an Olympic champion, but 
we're still not far enough away. A loud boom and a 
glance over my shoulder as Lombard erupts into flame. 
We still keep running.

She is several strides ahead of me, the fury of her 
hair rivaling the inferno behind us. It's dark but 
honest to god, I can see the red of her hair.

She trips and crumples to the ground in a blink, and 
I jolt to a stop like the Roadrunner at the edge of a 
cliff. My feet instinctively takes a step backward 
toward her and of course I trip and collapse right 
next to her.

We're far, far away and the building is burning but 
they're still there. I know they are.

Her heaving breaths are too loud, too fucking loud.

This is what she must sound like when she's having 
sex.

I try to pull myself upright but my ankle refuses to 
obey. It must have gotten twisted when I fell. Her 
breathing hasn't slowed but she speaks, more anger 
than voice.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

"Do what?" I think I say.

"Kill that woman, you goddamned ..." her voice gives 
out.

I turn around and look at her, but all I can see is 
blackness and the red of her hair.

She won't shut the fuck up. "She could have TOLD us 
things, you bastard!" But the ire is in the first 
phrase, not the second.

I'm jolted into some quasi-reality. "Told us things? 
Are you fucking insane, Dana?"

She gapes at me and I know that if she weren't so out 
of breath, she'd haul off and slap me.

She's so damn delusional. She thinks she knows but 
she doesn't. She could never know, what with all her 
fucking justice and honor. "She wouldn’t have told us 
anything we wanted to hear, you imbecile. Don't you 
get it? She's one of them."

"And she's a human being!"

Well, she WAS a human being, but this isn't the time 
for semantic concerns. "She was one of them, dammit. 
She would have hauled out data and you would have 
believed her because you're like that. These people 
have been playing you like a goddamned Stradivarius, 
Dana. You really need to get over that."

She sits up and her fist clenches. "Don't you DARE 
tell me what I need to get over, you bastard!"

It's dark, but God, she's beautiful. Too fucking 
beautiful for all this shit we're knee-deep in, like 
the Lady of the Lake rising from a fetid swamp.

And my realization of this is really appropriate, of 
course, because needs dictate that I do what I do 
next.

In the far-off distance, so faint as if to be 
imaginary, I hear a footfall.

The growl of her voice signals I'm in for yet another 
tongue-lashing, but they're coming after us and she 
needs to shut the fuck up. I hiss a "shhh!" but she 
doesn't notice the footfall, instead starting to yell 
at me once again.

My fingers dig into her shoulders and I shut her up.

Her mouth is fire-hot in the chill of the night air. 
No romance novel, this -- her eyes are wide open and 
panicked as I press my mouth against hers. We stare 
at each other in the inch separating our eyes but her 
mouth -- oh god, her mouth -- is all wet and warm and 
rigid against mine.

I clamp her to me as the footfalls continue, neither 
approaching nor retreating.

Time stretches and expands.

I think my heart has stopped beating.

And all I can think is that her mouth is so fucking 
soft and wet.

The footfalls stop, then retreat. The forest is 
silent.

Our loud breaths echo like a loudspeaker, but nobody 
seems to pay attention.

Her mouth is still against mine. Her eyes are still 
staring at me. But my grip on her shoulder has 
relaxed.

She keeps her mouth against mine. Oh god.

And now it's no longer a way to shut her up.

It's a kiss.

The snake of her tongue presses into my mouth and 
becomes lust slithering down my spine. The asp finds 
my control and makes it her own. We're not animals, 
we're serpents as my tongue writhes with hers while 
she kisses me, kisses me, kisses me.

This is not Scully. This is Dana and she is kissing 
me.

oh my god

oh yes

Time has ceased to stretch around us. It is a rubber 
band snapping furiously, stinging my skin. My 
fingertips on her shoulder tighten and dig into her 
flesh.

People do this sort of thing as an affirmation of 
life in stressful situations. But we are not people. 
We are snakes, slithering along the forest floor as 
her body pushes into mine, knocking me off balance 
and pressing me to the earth. She is long and lean 
but her breasts press into my chest. Good God I can 
feel her nipples through our clothing.

I can't breathe. I don't want to breathe. I want to 
kiss her until all body functions except this -- god, 
whatever this is -- cease to be important. I can feel 
her own breath against my skin, little harsh inhales 
and exhales through her nose.

My eyes had closed in ecstasy but now they open and I 
look at her. Her eyelids have slipped shut and are 
silvery in the darkness, like little patches of 
reptilian skin.

This is Dana and she is kissing me.

And then it stops.

The rubber band snaps back and she jolts away from 
me, my ineffectual hands no longer holding her still.

She is a wild thing in the darkness, shock on her 
face.

Her lips -- lips reddened from kissing -- mouth shock 
without words.

She scoots away like a crab walking backward, then 
her body coils within itself. Her long cobra neck 
expands and her hands flail at her sides. Feral has 
become panicked.

The body which had seemed so large against mine is 
suddenly small as it curls up and its face is pressed 
down toward the ground. The muted sounds of her 
retching echo in the space between us. Her spine is 
bowed. I find the muscular control to scoot over next 
to her and in some strange display of concern, I pull 
her hair away from her face as she vomits onto the 
forest floor.

I feel the same revulsion -- not at kissing her but 
at however this is making her feel.

I don't regret what we did, but I regret making her 
feel this way.

And as she hunches over, dry heaves wracking her 
body, our world expands to everything we've 
experienced in the past five years.

I lean over and begin to whisper in her ear.

"How does it make you feel, Dana? How does it feel to 
be kissed like that? Are you repulsed, or does it 
thrill you to have a man touch you, want you? Knowing 
you could have me right here, right now, if you want 
me. Knowing you could just let go and it would feel 
so good?

"How does it make you feel?"

+++++

"So, how did you get out?"

Krycek leaned back on the sofa and watched me take a 
seat opposite him.  He has a very unusual way of 
watching a person to the point of discomfort, until 
you find yourself squirming, no matter how much you 
try to resist. Fortunately, I've never been one to be 
easily manipulated by him.

"You don't know already, Alex?"  I replied with my 
own question, deliberately using his first name. Why?  
Because I can.

He simply sat there, still watching me.  I met his 
gaze and challenged it with the force of my own.  As 
ruined as my physical appearance might be, I do still 
have the strength of my voice and gaze.

I didn't want to reply until he spoke.  Anything less 
would be weak.  He finally capitulated and said, "No, 
I haven't heard, Marita," volleying my own name back 
to me.

In the time before, the tone of my voice would have 
carried the promise of seduction, a tone I had 
carefully cultivated for so many years.  But now, 
after the unspeakable horror of a year spent at Fort 
Marlene and other locations I've chosen to forget, I 
was unable to conjure it anymore.  Now I was back to 
my true voice, but is it a true voice when it has 
been sublimated for so long?  This was the voice I 
had at university.  I am not the same woman I was 
then, yet my voice has reverted to that state.  I 
only hope I can maintain the 'me' I have built in 
every other area.

I launched into a narrative from my singular point of 
view, choosing my words carefully so that by the end 
he would be left wondering about their veracity.  Of 
course, I did tell the truth, but I'd never let him 
know that.

"I met him at Strughold, just as you had suggested I 
do.  We went inside then straight up to the vaults.  
Once inside, we progressed toward the main sets of 
files.  At that point, the door slammed behind us, 
with the lights shutting off at the same moment, 
effectively locking us inside."  I paused.  "Was that 
your doing, Alex?"

Krycek stared at me.  I could see the muscles around 
his eyes twitch, as if he wanted to look away, not 
because he was uncomfortable but because he needed to 
break the eye contact. Of course he refused to do so.  
With a deep, mistrustful voice, he replied, "No, I 
was in Pennsylvania at the time."

"Visiting your parents?"

"You know what I was doing, Marita.  Don't play games 
with me."

"Don’t play games with me, Alex."  I can give as good 
as I get, when challenged by him.

He stood and took a step toward me, but I held my 
ground.  For a moment he rocked forward on his feet, 
as if to threaten me, but I maintained my stare.  
Alex then turned and walked around the sofa, so that 
he was standing behind it.  I have never been able to 
make heads or tails of that apartment of his.  I knew 
him back when he had nothing, back when I had little 
more than him.  I've chosen to live slightly more 
modestly, but I suspect this bachelor pad he has 
picked for himself is more male posturing than an 
actual home.  The notion fits his personality quite 
well.

Rather than stand my ground and wait for a reply 
which would most likely never come, I returned to my 
account.  "The corridor was dark for approximately 
twenty minutes, at which time the lights came back 
on.  We heard no noises outside, nor any other 
evidence that this was anything but a temporary 
system malfunction.  We assumed correctly, I assume."

He nodded slightly.  I wondered just how much he 
really did know.

I didn't tell him that in those twenty minutes, 
Mulder and I leaned against the door, our ears 
pressed to the steel for any sign that others were 
lurking outside.  After a few minutes, we began to 
talk.  I never would have expected to find a 
confessor in Mulder, but he simply said, "Tell me 
about Fort Marlene."  Suddenly I couldn't stop 
talking.  It was a strange world of darkness, and my 
Catholic upbringing had taught me the power of 
darkness for confession.

I told him about those first few months, of lost days 
and weeks when I would awaken screaming after having 
been unconscious, not knowing where I had been or 
what had been done to me, and who had done it.  About 
how I could still feel the oil slithering through my 
veins, even though the vaccine had supposedly purged 
it from my system.  About how I would bite the 
insides of my cheeks to keep from showing any 
weakness to those men, then once I was wheeled back 
to my room, I would cry myself to sleep only when I 
knew the lights were off and nobody could see me 
doing so.  How, though I had no mirror to see myself 
nor anyone to tell me how I looked, I could feel my 
body deteriorating as if acid flowed through my veins 
instead of blood.

How, when I finally saw a mirror after three months, 
I screamed until I could almost feel my vocal chords 
snap.

How, when Mulder finally found me almost a year 
later, I felt unfit to be seen by human eyes.

When the lights came back on, I glanced at Mulder and 
saw the blatant pity on his face.  I summoned every 
bit of strength left in my still-recuperating body 
and tried to become the woman he'd known once upon a 
time.

I would never tell Krycek any of this.

"Once the lights were on, we went back to our task of 
gathering as many files as we could and placing them 
in the boxes I'd brought with me.  At first we pulled 
files on people whose names we recognized, then we 
began to pull unfamiliar files which appeared to have 
special relevance to the conspiracy, even if we 
didn't know the people involved.  We spent 
approximately two hours doing so, until the boxes 
were completely full.  At that point, we returned to 
the entrance but the doors were still locked. Mulder 
pulled his service revolver and shot off the lock.  
We used an antiquated pulley system to move the boxes 
down to the first floor, then loaded them in his car 
and left separately.  I drove back to D.C. and took 
the next flight to New York.  Further investigation 
has shown that the Strughold Mining Company was 
destroyed the next day."

A slight smile played upon the corners of his mouth.  
"You did exactly what I wanted you to do, Marita."

"I'm not requesting your approval."

"I didn't think you were."

I had played his game.  Now it was time for one of my 
own.

"Tell me about your trip to Allentown with Agent 
Scully."

Alex Krycek is one of the most mercurial people I 
know.  His immediate reaction was very intriguing, 
indeed.  His face became almost soft for just one 
short moment, then quickly steeled into defiance.  "I 
really don't think that's any of your business, 
Marita."

Enough of his games, even though I was more 
interested than ever in just what might have happened 
between the two of them.  Something had most 
certainly happened with Agent Scully, and I could 
already begin to theorize as to what exactly that had 
been.

I stood and picked up my purse from the coffee table.  
"I told you what you wanted to know.  I played your 
game.  If you don't want to play mine, it's your 
loss, Alex."

With that I left his apartment, and I smiled.

It felt good to smile again.

+++++

An Agenda of an Uncertain Quality:

Monday, they returned to their office.  She sat down 
at her desk and began to work.  He sat down at his 
and began to watch her.

She looked different.  He looked the same.

Tuesday, they were sent out on a field assignment.  
They played their roles:  his of the believer, hers 
of the skeptic.  They hardly knew any other roles to 
play.

Neither talked to one another, beyond the basics of 
the case.

But they both wondered about the other, about what 
had happened that night.

Thursday, they returned to D.C. in the same car, but 
retreated to separate homes.  Neither slept that 
night.  His thoughts were of her.  Her thoughts were 
of another man.

They both fell asleep imagining what the other was 
thinking.

Friday and Saturday, they continued to work.  They 
smiled at one another. He began to think they were 
regaining what they had once had, that they had gone 
back to the beginning and were rebuilding.  She 
wanted to want him again.  That want began to flow 
through her veins.

But her thoughts were still of the other man.

Sunday, the other man came to see her.

+++++

The Lord decreed that the Seventh Day should be one 
of rest.

It was one of the first proverbs she had learned in 
Sunday School so many years ago.  When she was a 
child, her parents took the Biblical decree 
seriously, parking the family car in the garage after 
Mass and telling the children that they had to find 
their own amusement.  She would often find hers in 
curling up on the sofa next to Ahab, watching 
whichever professional sport was being shown on 
television that afternoon.  She never really liked 
watching sports in themselves, but she valued the 
ritual of popcorn and cheering on whichever home team 
their current city supported.

When she became an adult and Ahab was far away, she 
came home from Mass and refused to watch sports, 
instead finding other pastimes like taking long 
walks, bubble baths, or old movies on cable TV.  When 
she was assigned to the X-Files, Sundays frequently 
found her out of town or caught up in work in one way 
or another.  Quiet Sundays at home became a rarity to 
be treasured.

This Sunday found her at home, alone with her 
thoughts.  Given the past week, she wasn't sure she 
wanted to be alone with her thoughts, or alone at 
all.

At eight that evening, a man broke the solitude.

A sharp knock at her door startled her from the 
reverie she'd slipped into as she watched a generic 
movie on HBO.  Even before she opened the door, she 
knew who it would be.

Krycek stood in her doorway, his arms at his side and 
his face coolly composed.  "May I come in?" he asked, 
though it was more of a statement than a question.

She let into her apartment a man who, months before, 
she would have had to force herself not to shoot on 
sight.  He walked inside and began to quietly walk 
around the room, not quite pacing but certainly 
making his mark, as if he were becoming territorial.  
A flare of anger rushed through her; how dare this 
man try to stake a claim on her?  Yet this was the 
first time in far too long that a man had tried to 
claim her sexually.  Mulder already possessed her, 
though she had tried her damnedest to put barriers 
between them, lessen his hold on her for no real 
reason save her own nervousness. But this was 
something new and different, something thrilling, no 
matter how much it unnerved her.

The disconcertion was the crux of the matter, she 
realized.

Mulder's possession made her feel loved, even if she 
couldn't fully deal with that right now.  Krycek's 
possession made her feel alive.  Alive and aroused 
and thrilled in ways she hadn't felt in far too long.

She could still feel his lips against her, his tongue 
in her mouth, and the crushed, damp leaves under her 
body.

She wanted to feel that again.

Her conscience screamed, "NO!", telling her this was 
Krycek, and everything about him abhorrent.

The scream wasn't loud enough to drown out the 
heightened physical sensations his presence aroused 
in her.

She walked over to him, wringing her hands like 
silent movie ingenue.  "Do you want anything?  
Something to drink?" she asked, surprising herself 
with the polite offer.

He turned and looked at her.  Her breath caught at 
the look in his eyes: predatory and unmistakably 
sexual.

"I want you."

Oh, God.

He was close enough to touch her, and he did.

Even through the cotton jersey she wore, she felt his 
fingernails tracing her arm, the touch light but with 
the promise/threat of real power.  He was touching 
her, and the realization that she needed to be 
touched flooded through her.

His words from that night in the forest echoed in her 
ears.

//Does it thrill you to have a man touch you, want 
you?  Knowing you could have me right here, right 
now, if you want me.  Knowing you could just let go 
and it would feel so good.//

She could physically feel her self-control, her 
common sense snap, and God, it did feel good.

His fingertips pressed more firmly into the flesh of 
her upper arm, and her blood rose to greet it.  She 
held his gaze, even as her other arm moved to touch 
his shoulder, feeling the joining of prosthesis and 
muscles.  Scully had never touched him before, not 
like this, and that first contact was overwhelming.  
He was there, she was the one reaching for him, not 
the other way around.

She reached for him again.

Krycek's right arm was around her in a flash of 
movement, crushing her body to him with a power his 
fingertips had only hinted at.  And then his hand was 
everywhere, pulling at her shirt, fingers digging 
into her spine, like a massage but more... oh, God, 
she couldn't even think anymore.  They stood together 
for a long moment, locked in something like an 
embrace but without the tender emotion often present 
in such movements.  Instead of comfort, it was a 
strange cohesion that overwhelmed her.  Not cohesion 
of souls, but something else.  Something much darker 
and almost unbearably erotic.

The ambient noise of the room was amplified -- she 
could hear the faint ticking of the clock in her 
kitchen, the treads of cars outside, the way her 
pulse pounded in her ears.  The world became a 
vacuum, where nothing existed but this room, these 
two people.  Then he pushed her back slightly and she 
looked up at him.

How on earth had this man, this man she loathed, 
suddenly become so unbearably beautiful?

His eyes were green and blue and black, so much 
black, in the bright light of her living room.  She 
craned her head back to watch him, and his hand 
raised to cradle her neck, tender even through the 
darkness of his gaze. That darkness seemed to suck 
the light out of the room, creating umbrage and 
desire.

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him.

Bypassing the delicacies of her lips playing on his, 
the kiss immediately deepened into a profound hunger, 
a need to suck the darkness out of his body and hide 
it away in her own.  His life -- with all its mayhem 
and cruelties and vigor -- entered her and made her 
someone she'd never known she could be.

She felt good.  She felt alive in a way she'd not 
felt for so long, so very long.

Against her lips, he repeated, "I want you."  Instead 
of a growl, the words were almost plaintive.  She 
opened her eyes and looked at his own, and suddenly 
the darkness was gone.  But she could feel it in her 
bones.

In this reversal of fortune and spirit, her hand 
closed around his shoulder and without mercy she 
pulled him in the direction of her bedroom.  The 
bedroom she'd saved for Mulder all these years.  As 
soon as the thought passed through her mind, she 
banished it.  There was no room for Mulder in this 
experience.  He couldn't be there, or else she'd 
realize everything she couldn't begin to think about 
right then.  In the short space of that thought, she 
resolved to give her bed to Mulder someday, but to 
share it with Krycek tonight.  He would not be a 
resident, but a guest -- a guest who would make her 
feel everything she'd denied herself for so long.

Even though the bedroom was dark, she killed the 
living room lights as they passed out of the room.  
She needed the darkness then.  But in the flash of
brightness between light and extinction, she looked 
at Krycek.  He was someone different now.  At that 
moment when she'd taken his darkness into her body, 
he'd lost it.  Krycek was gone now, and in his place 
was Alex.

Alex, who was looking at her with wonder and desire 
and other, deeper emotions she didn't want to be 
seeing.  So she told him what she wanted to happen.

"Do it, Alex."

His body stiffened at the words.  She tried 
desperately to banish all analysis from her mind, but 
she couldn’t help but notice the way he'd staked his 
claim in the living room, only to have her be the 
claimant in her bedroom.  This reversal of spirit 
made all the difference.  It put her in this 
situation she could never have created otherwise.

Her skin was sensitive as the fabric of her clothing 
rubbed against it, flushed with sexual desire.  She 
knew she was wearing far too many clothes, but didn't 
give a damn.  This was her night, her escape.  Her 
palm on his chest pushed him back with a slight jolt, 
and she didn't have to consciously lower her voice as 
she said, "Take off your clothes."

Somewhere along the line she'd stopped thinking of 
herself as 'Scully'. The appellation belonged to 
Mulder, to the someday when she'd give him her bed.  
Now she was 'Dana', and Dana crossed her arms over 
her chest and clenched her fists as Alex stood 
opposite her in the darkened room and raised his 
hands to his waist, slowly pulling his shirt from 
where it was tucked into his pants.

He was undressing far too slowly.  The same look of 
wonder painted his face.  Oh, God, he couldn't be 
making this into more than it was, could he?  With 
little patience for his awed slowness, she stepped 
forward and pulled his hand from his waist, 
completing the action herself.  The shirt was pulled 
loose quickly, and her hands immediately insinuated 
themselves between cotton and flesh.

The whorls of hair on his chest brushed against her 
fingers like sandpaper.  She moved her hands upward, 
feeling the life under her hands...

until she felt the leather straps of his prosthesis.

He jerked backward.  "I--"

She'd never felt so seductive as she did, saying, 
"Let me."   Making quick work of the buttons of his 
shirt, she pushed the fabric off his good shoulder 
then watched in the dark light as it caught on his 
fake arm.  Her eyes quickly appraised the harness;  
removal wouldn't be difficult. Doctor's hands easily 
unlatched the buckles and catches, then the arm was 
loose in her hands.  The roughness of adrenaline made 
her want to toss it aside, but the small sense of 
prudence in the back of her mind made her think 
better of it, and she walked over to the dressing 
table and laid it down.  Her legs trembled with each 
step.  Not nerves, she told herself. Just arousal.  
Don't make this into anything more than sex.

The man for whom this was apparently so much more 
than sex stared at her across the room.  In the 
darkness, even without the arm he looked a little 
like -- no, don't think of him now.  Her resolve was 
greater than instinct.  It would have to be.

She looked at him carefully.  The sight of him with 
most of one arm missing was startling, to be honest.  
Dana stood before him, three feet separating them, 
and appraised his body.  His shoulders were squared 
and chin held high with pride, but even in the 
darkness she could see the hesitation and unease in 
his eyes.

But as she watched him, her surprise melted away and 
she really began to look at him.  Dana might have 
once said that he was attractive in spite of the 
disfigurement.  Now, as she looked at him in the 
flush of sexual discovery, the lack of his arm 
combined with the scars and other irregularities of 
his body to make him fascinating.  He looked lived-in 
and beautiful.

Closing the distance between them, she raised her 
hands to his shoulders and began to run them down his 
arms.  Her left hand went all the way to his wrist, 
while her right stopped where his bone stopped and 
flesh bunched around the amputation.  She could tell 
it hadn't been done cleanly; instead of cutting it 
off at the joint, the people who had done it had 
actually severed the bone.  She could only guess at 
the pain it had entailed. Mulder had told her what 
had happened to him, and part of her was curious 
about Alex's side of the story, but that would have 
to wait.  It would spoil the mood, and she couldn’t 
let their outside world be brought into this bedroom 
tonight.

So she didn't.  She brought her other hand up to meet 
her left and began to massage the half-arm, beginning 
with gentle pressure that made him shiver and groan.  
Small waves of pleasure rolled through her body at 
the eroticism of the situation as the pressure grew 
stronger and more harsh, with his eyes slipping 
closed and his breaths becoming labored.

Then he jerked out of her grasp and looked at her, 
eyes wide and almost feral.

"No.  You,"  he said.

His hand moved to her waist and began tugging at the 
hem of her shirt, but his lopsided moves were 
ineffectual and she couldn't help a small chuff of 
laughter.  Pushing his hands aside, she pulled off 
her shirt and stepped out of her jeans, then stood 
before him in only her underwear, now more naked than 
any man had seen her in far too long.

She felt free -- free to be whoever she was tonight.

His hips were straight and his legs were long once 
divested of his black pants.  She had no idea what he 
wore underneath, having pulled his underwear down 
with the motion.  Those details were trivial, anyway, 
compared with their results.  He was naked, ready for 
her, and looking at her with the same strange look in 
his eyes.

As he had whispered to her on the forest floor, she 
could have him right here, right now, if she wanted 
him.

She wanted him.

They were on her bed in a flurry of motion.  She 
didn't pull back the covers to invite him inside.  
The notion would have been unreal, untrue in this 
strange universe this moment had created.  Her bra 
and panties were forgotten scraps on the floor, 
flotsam of the world where she had been clothed and 
armored.  He lay back on her grey striped comforter 
and she raised herself on her knees and looked at 
him, prostrate and willing under her.  A gift for the 
taking, as if this could be reduced to niceties like 
"gift".  She was simply taking.

Her mouth moved over his body, tasting him, drinking 
in a male body for the first time in forever.  He 
didn't taste as she had imagined; but then, her 
imagining for so long had been of a dark, very 
different man, and she hadn't adapted her fantasies 
for a different reality such as his.  That made him 
new, unexpected, bizarre and very real.  The man whom 
she'd expected to be loving in this bed wasn't here, 
and Alex's strangeness of touch, appearance, taste 
helped her put aside those fantasies for another 
night in the same bed, when she would be alone with 
her imaginings.

His cock was dark, shades of purple and red like a 
bruise.  Quite fitting, given the pain which had led 
them to this point.  Although she couldn't taste it 
through the thin barrier of latex long since sheathed 
on, she imagined it would taste of bruises and blood 
rushing to the surface but not breaking through.  Her 
tongue teased it for a few moments, feeling it inside 
her mouth but not goading it to the point of no 
return.  This universe could only be ephemeral, not 
permanent, and letting him come twice would cross the 
line into permanence, which simply could not be 
allowed.

Alex's hand came to rest on her head, threading 
through her hair.  Had she built up expectations for 
this evening, she would have assumed he'd be pressing 
her closer, encouraging her toward his climax.  
Instead, his touch

was light, his fingernails tracing her scalp in that 
sensual motion she'd always loved at the 
hairdresser's.  The lightness of that touch surprised 
her.  It could have put her at ease, except that she 
wanted this to be darker, not light.

She looked up at him and even as her teeth bit into 
his cock, he stared at her.  Tender is the night, the 
poet said.  Tender was his gaze.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to see it.

His fingers closed around her hair and pulled her 
head away from his cock. His vodka voice murmured, "I 
want you, not your mouth, Agent."

The words were a jolt of electricity, a wormhole 
pulling her out of the universe.  Her mouth slackened 
around the head of his cock, and she instructed, "Not 
'Agent'.  'Dana.'"

Seemingly unperturbed (though his eyes gave lie to 
his voice), he repeated, "I want you, Dana."

She loaned, not gave, herself to him.

Straddling his hips, Dana prepared herself for the 
Moment.  But this strange man surprised her, using 
his one hand for leverage as he rolled them over 
until she lay beneath him.  His body scooted down and 
his face took up residence between her thighs.

Oh, God, she could love this.  She could really, 
truly get used to it.  He teased her, coaxed her in 
ways she'd been reluctant to do for him.

Dana came quickly, loudly, astonished by the 
suddenness and ease of her abandon.

Was he capable of making it so easy for her, or was 
she wound so tightly with anticipation and denial 
that anything that any man did would make her come?  
Was it him, or was it her body's natural response?

Coming down from the high, she found his arm around 
her, holding her close as his mouth traced patterns 
in the crook of her neck and whispered words she 
didn't want to hear him say.

//ohgodohfuckinggodyou'reincrediblelovegoddana//

She pretended not to hear him.  Men say such things 
mid-coitus, she reminded herself.  Of course they 
did.

His mouth continued to play over her skin, one hand 
cupping her left breast while his tongue licked her 
right.  She felt the tremors of afterglow take on the 
syncopation of arousal once again.  Imagine that -- 
she goes without sex for so long that this strange 
man can suddenly push her toward climax again in 
short time.

It's my body, not him, she told herself.  My body 
wants this, even if my heart is unsure.

And it's so good, so damn good, to feel something 
again.

Unlike Alex, she was blessed with two hands, and she 
hooked them around his chest as she pulled him 
closer, catching his mouth in a harsh kiss then 
opening her thighs for him once again.  He pushed 
inside her quickly.  Her inner muscles were still 
soft from her previous orgasm, and he met little 
resistance -- the only resistance in the room was the 
mental barriers she had erected.  But as open as her 
path was for him, he still felt huge within her.  
Dana realized how much she had missed this feeling of 
being filled by a man.  Any man, even a traitorous 
bastard like the one in her arms, would do for that 
feeling.  Filling her heart was an entirely different 
matter altogether, and she kept her eyes closed as he 
began to thrust inside her with a slow, deliberate 
motion.

Curiosity demanded that she look at him, but she 
already knew how his eyes would look, that he was 
still gazing at her even though she refused to return 
it.  She was already so confused, so weak from 
sexuality -- she didn't have the strength to deal 
with the emotions looking at him might conjure.

As he came inside her, she knew that even though his 
utterances made no real sense, they mirrored what he 
had said to her earlier -- platitudes of love and 
devotion not born of any real adoration but rather 
the hazy hyperbole of sexual gratification.

This was sexual gratification, and as she joined him 
in coming once again, she knew that any emotion 
approaching love was indeed hyperbole.

But the night was born of hyperbole and unreality, 
and as he withdrew from her and collapsed on the 
pillow next to hers, the used condom rolled off his 
limp penis and discarded in the wastebasket by her 
bed, Dana knew that any relationship created by this 
night would be false embellishment.

It couldn't be anything more.

+++++


TWO WEEKS LATER

 Our heart-to-heart meetings these days seem to come 
in restaurants.  This time it was Café Maren, not too 
far down the road from where I live.  I asked her to 
meet me after work for some dinner, and she agreed.  
Perhaps I should rephrase that -- sounds like a 
business meeting.  The actual conversation was, "Want 
to join me for some dinner?"  to which she replied 
that she'd love to, and gave me that smile she's been 
sporting far too rarely of late.

I've always liked this place, at least from the road.  
Never been inside until now.  It's an old, 1950's 
style gas station which has been renovated.  Order at 
a counter and find a place to sit, then the food is 
brought out to you.  We find a place to sit at the 
picnic tables outside, and I watch Scully shrug off 
her jacket and lay it on the bench next to her.  In 
the spring late-day light, she looks looser, more at-
ease with herself than she has looked in ages.

I'm trying to make this evening something close to 
perfect.  I'll settle for good.

"How have you been doing lately, Scully?"  I ask her.

She gives me an unusual look in reply.  "I've been 
doing fine, thanks."

"You're perfunctory tonight."

That earns me a half-smile.  "Sorry, I have a lot on 
my mind."

And are you going to tell me about it this time, 
Scully?  I see that openness in her face and I think 
perhaps I have a shot, but I've already tamped down 
my hopes.  "Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m 
here."

The strange look on her face becomes surprise.  "Are 
you?"

I stiffen.  "Am I what?"

She looks away from me.  "Nothing."

I know where this is going.  Am I really available 
for her to talk to? The month or so since that 
conversation we had in the Chicago hotel room has 
given me time to think about all this, to weigh her 
words and figure out just what she meant when she 
said we needed to start over.  Of course, I'm still 
confused.  She certainly hasn't given me many clues 
as to just what she wants from me.  Then again, has 
she ever?  Have I ever done the same for her?  
Perhaps that's what this 'starting over' means.

I reach across the table and take the hand that isn't 
holding her coffee cup.  She looks at me, startled.  
The whole scene feels false, uncharacteristic of who 
we are.  But it's what I want.  It's what I need from 
her.  For her.

"Look, I know I'm a horrible listener, at least where 
the two of us are concerned.  And that's not going to 
change overnight.  But I'm willing to try, Scully."

She smiles, almost hopefully.  "I could probably say 
the same."  I take a risk and nod my agreement, and 
she continues to smile.

I must sound like a refugee from group therapy as I 
say, "I just want to make everything right between 
us."

Her hand slackens in my grasp and I let go of it.  
"Mulder, if things are going to be right, then you 
have to realize that, no matter your good intentions, 
you can't always solve every problem.  My problems 
aren't entirely about you.  I mean, they are in 
part," her brows furrow in frustration, "but they're 
based on so many things, and I have to solve them on 
my own."

I try hard not to feel defeated as I repeat, "Well, 
I'm here if you need me, okay?"

Her hand clasps mine once again.  "Thank you."

We sit together for a few minutes, neither of us 
knowing how to continue the conversation.  I finally 
decide to talk shop.  "I realized this morning that 
we've hit a standstill with this business with 
Krycek.  Have you talked to him lately?"

She immediately stiffens.  I'm not sure how to react 
to that, but, remembering what she'd just said about 
her problems being her own, I decide not to pursue 
it, to let her talk to me in her own time about 
whatever's bothering her.

"Yes, I heard from him the other day."  She looks 
away.

Don't overanalyze this, I remind myself.  "Did he e-
mail you?  What did he have to say?"

"He just said that at this point, everything's at a 
standstill, like you just said.  The organization is 
regrouping, and they've been very quiet."

I take a sip of my ice water.  "You realize that we 
have all this information, and still haven't done 
much of anything with it."

"I know."  She pauses, and I continue to watch her.  
"Do you want to come over this weekend and start 
really going over all of it?"

"Why haven't we already done that?  It's really 
strange, you know, how we were so excited about this 
opportunity, but then we hit a brick wall."  I take a 
deep breath and look away, glancing at all the other 
restaurant guests, sipping their coffees and eating 
their dinners, smiling and chatting amiably.  I’m 
reminded of that lunch Scully and I shared weeks ago, 
where we agreed that if the people knew what we did, 
everything would descend into chaos.  I notice Scully 
following my gaze, and I imagine that she's thinking 
the same thing I am.  Our sympatico must be back -- 
but then, did it ever leave?

"But yeah, that'd be great.  How about Friday night?"

"Okay, sure."  She smiles.  "I'll even clean house 
for you."

I realize just how much I love her.  Okay, this isn't 
a new revelation, but it's an important one.  We need 
more moments like it.  We've had far too few lately.

I need to take one more chance.

"Scully, do you ever think we'll have back what we 
once had?  That we'll have something more than this, 
someday?"

The smile fades from her face, but isn't replaced by 
a frown, which is a good sign.  "I don't know, 
Mulder.  I think so, though.  I hope so."  She sighs, 
and I listen to the soft sound as it seems to fill 
the open space between us.  "I'm certainly not 
discounting the possibility, but I'm just not ready 
right now."

I guess that's as good a reaction as anything.  
Leaves hope for the future, right?  "Well, I'll be 
here with open arms when you are."

"I’m glad."

I stare at her for a long time, not speaking, just 
looking at the radiance which has slowly been 
creeping into her face.  Her beautiful face, all soft 
cheeks and delicate bones and imperfections like the 
mole on her lip, which she tries to cover up but 
which makes her all the more beautiful and sexy.

My next move is shameless, I'll be the first to 
admit, but I can't help myself.  Best seize the 
moment when it presents itself.  "Do you want another 
latte?"  I make a move to stand, but end up 
untangling myself from the picnic table bench.

"Some ice water would be great, Mulder.  Thanks."

I walk around the table to where she's sitting, then 
lean down and place a soft kiss on her cheek, 
lingering there for a few seconds longer than 
necessary.  And as I walk toward the door of the 
café, I can still feel the warmth of her skin against 
my lips.

I don't look back to see her reaction, but I like to 
think she's smiling.

+++++

And when the bottom drops out, it does so in a grand 
way.

A couple of days later, in the middle of the night 
the phone rings and wakes me up with a start and a 
grumble.  Since I've taken to sleeping in an actual 
bed, those middle-of-the-night phone calls leave me 
disoriented, expecting to find the phone on the table 
next to the sofa rather than next to the bed.

"Mulder," I think I bark into the receiver, but my 
mouth isn't forming words in a coherent pattern at 
present.

"Mulder, it's Skinner," the aforementioned man says 
in my ear.

That jolts me awake.  Such middle-of-the-night phone 
calls from him are, by rule, not good news.  "What is 
it?" I ask, expecting the worst.

I’m not disappointed.  "There's been another mass 
incineration."  Before I can react, he pushes on.  "I 
just got a phone call from the SAC down in Tampa, 
Florida.  He contacted me because I headed up the 
last inquiry. About four hours ago, there was an 
incident in St. Petersburg.  I don't know all the 
details, but local law enforcement says there looks 
to be at least sixty deaths."

Oh God.  Oh my God.  I'm already out of the bed and 
looking for my pants, but realize I'd put them away 
before going to sleep.  So I stand there, half-naked, 
clutching the phone for once I wish was cordless so I 
could be doing something instead of standing here, 
listening.

"Who do we get in contact with once we get there?"  
Plans and logistics race through my brain.  I glance 
at the clock.  It's 6:18 AM.  Not too early to find a 
flight down to Florida.  I have enough time for a 
shower and the drive to Scully's place.

Skinner continues forward, as if already having 
thought of all this. "Don't worry about the 302 -- 
I'll have Kimberly draw it up first thing when I get 
to the office.  Just follow emergency travel 
protocol.  Do you have a pen?"

"No, but I'll remember it."

"Okay, your contact down there is going to be Agent 
Robert Warner.  He's with the field office.  I don't 
know if he's already briefed the St. Petersburg PD 
that you and Scully will be coming down there, so 
make things easier for yourself and find him first."

"Gotcha."  My mind is racing and I can't do anything 
while talking to him. "Is there anything else I 
should know, because I have to get out of here?"

"No," he replies.  "Keep me updated.  I have some 
meetings this morning I can't cancel, but I’m going 
to meet you two down there as soon as I'm able.   
I'll also forward you any documentation or evidence 
Warner e-mails me."

"Fine," I say, but my words are cut off by the 
disconnection of the phone line.

I know I should call Scully first, but I need to get 
in touch with the airline to make sure we can get a 
flight.  These last-minute trips mean that I have to 
book the flight as soon as possible, and I want to 
give her specific information when I talk to her.  I 
race into the living room and grab the cell phone, 
then scroll through my saved numbers until I hit on 
the reservations number for the airline we often use.  
The phone is wedged next to my ear as I scramble 
around for clothing to throw in my garment bag, and I 
barely make it through the call direction system 
before actually speaking with an operator.  Sure 
enough, there's a flight to Tampa-St. Pete at 9:23 
that morning.  I give the billing codes and book two 
seats.

Next call:  Scully.

She answers the phone with that sleepy, "Mmm?"  that 
I love.  I'm all set to tell her everything, until I 
realize that I don't want to do so over the phone.  
These mass-incinerations are a very personal deal to 
her, and I'd rather tell her about it in person.  So 
I choose a different conversational path.

"It's me.  I just got a call from Skinner.  We have 
to get down to Florida as soon as possible.  
Something's happened."

Her voice gets stronger and more curious.  "What is 
it?"

I want to tell her, but I can't over the phone, I 
remind myself.  "I can't tell you right now, but I'll 
pick you up at your place at around 7:45, okay?"

"Okay."  She sounds wary and not very pleased by the 
phone call, but I stick to my guns.

"Can you be ready by then?"

"I'll be ready."

"I'll see you then."  I disconnect the phone and 
stare at it for a few seconds, then head into the 
bathroom for a quick shower.

This is going to be tough.  Very tough.

God, I thought all this was over.

+++++

She replaced the phone in its cradle, then collapsed 
back onto the pillow. Scully wanted to close her eyes 
again, to slip back into sleep and melt away the few 
minutes she had until she’d have to be ready to 
leave.  The hypnotic pattern of plaster on the 
ceiling above her tried its best to lull her, but she 
was already wide awake and not likely to fall back 
asleep anytime soon.  But just as she flexed her 
muscles and swung one leg over the edge of the bed to 
stand, the mattress shifted and a warm arm closed 
around her waist.

Alex was not yet awake, she noticed as she glanced in 
his direction.  His drawing her close in his sleep 
didn’t really surprise her.  Over the past few weeks 
she’d discovered that despite his dark and 
standoffish demeanor while awake, he had a bizarre 
capacity for, well, snuggling while asleep. She 
didn’t think he knew about it, nor did she especially 
want to tell him.  The man valued his pride above 
little else, and he’d probably be horrified by his 
somnolent neediness.

Glancing over at the alarm clock, she gauged she had 
a little over an hour before Mulder would make his 
appearance.  Just enough time for packing, a shower, 
and getting rid of Alex.  She pulled herself out of 
his loose embrace and got out of bed.  The carpet 
scratched at her tired feet as she walked over to her 
closet and pulled out her overnight bag, already 
mostly packed for such sudden trips.  She pulled a 
selection of undergarments out of the drawers and put 
them in the inside pocket, then poked through the 
bag, making sure she hadn’t left anything out.

Still naked, she shivered in the cool air of the 
early morning and set toward the bathroom, 
anticipating a very hot shower.  The water warmed 
quickly and she slipped inside, letting the pressure 
buffet her skin for a few moments before reaching 
down for shampoo.  Showers have never been 
intellectually stimulating in themselves, so she let 
her mind wander as she cleaned herself.

How on earth had she fallen for Alex?

Not “fallen in love”, mind you.  God, no.  But 
“fallen” was a perfect word for the feelings of 
disintegration he created in her.  She felt as if 
everything structured about her soul was slowly being 
corroded away by his presence, leaving her just a 
shell of a woman.  And that shell was slowly being 
filled with the feelings he engendered in her.  It 
didn’t even begin to approach love, but it was so 
much more than simple lust.

She'd loved Mulder for so many years that those 
feelings began to take over her body, almost 
suffocating her.  The most apt metaphor she could 
conjure was of tuberculosis -- that he was so much a 
part of her body that she couldn't breathe.  No 
amount of time in a health retreat could cleanse her 
body of that feeling.  Not that she even necessarily 
wanted to be cleansed of him.  She just wanted to 
breathe again, then come back to him when she was 
ready.

Alex let her breathe.

He expected nothing of her.  He did not insinuate 
himself into her soul, instead giving her nothing but 
what she chose to take.  It was such an amazing, 
freeing feeling.  The liberty to become herself 
again.  The freedom to feel lust and exhilaration and 
anything but the gasps borne of the breathing she'd 
done for so long.

She knew Mulder wanted her back.  She knew that soon 
she'd want him in her bed, in her heart.  She already 
did -- but not now.  Not until she could breathe 
again.

Not until she could breathe again, with Mulder.

Scully finished her shower quickly, but even as the 
last of the soap was rinsed away, she was reluctant 
to shut off the water and let the steam evaporate.  
Realizing that time was of the essence, she finally 
turned around and shut off the water and stepped out 
of the shower.

Through the haze of water molecules, Alex stood in 
the bathroom, naked. Staring at her.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.  Tall, lean, 
with autumn hair and winter skin.  Asymmetrical but 
stunning because of the imperfections, not in spite 
of them.

She was wet now, and not because of the water 
droplets running down her skin.

“What time is it?” she murmured in a voice she’d 
never realized could be so husky, so desire-soaked.

“Seven fifteen,” he replied.  Another thirty minutes 
before Mulder was scheduled to arrive.  Enough time 
for . . . well. . .

The keyless bolt on the front door *is* latched, she 
reminded herself.  No interruptions.

Alex didn't hold out his hand to her in that time-
honored gesture of invitation.  He was never one to 
invite.  And she didn’t want to be invited.  She 
wanted to take.

Towels and lotions seemed trivial in the face of a 
good fuck before breakfast.  Reaching up to place her 
hands on his shoulders, she pushed down, forcing him 
to his knees.  He hit the ground with a jolt, and 
murmured in his whisky-and-cuss voice, "You have so 
little regard for my joints."

"You'll live."  She grinned.  "You've lived through 
worse."

"I'm not the one who's going to have a hell of a 
backache, Dana," he growled as he dragged her down 
with him and rolled her onto her back.

She was Mulder's "Scully".  She was Alex's "Dana".  
Separating the two was really for the best.

He moved his head around, kissing her face then 
craning his head down toward her neck.  "Craning", 
now that was a suitable word.  He was like that bird, 
harsh in repose but beautiful and gorgeous in flight.  
He began to bite at the skin of her neck, but she 
pushed him away.  She did have appearances to 
maintain, and she couldn't very well sport bitemarks 
along the collar of her tailored navy suit.  And so 
he moved lower, biting at the paper-thin skin just 
below her neck.  She'd have to wear a blouse with a 
collar, her brain registered amongst the fuzziness of 
arousal.

Looking down at him, his mouth on her breasts and her 
hands grasping at his waist, she noticed that their 
skin was nearly the same color.  Birds of a feather. 
. . .  They were both cranes, pecking at the 
treasures of the beach but ready to fly away at the 
first hint of an invader.

And the shrill ring of her telephone filtered through 
the haze.  Spoke too soon, Dana.  She slid from 
underneath him, her leg brushing against his erection 
as she did so, eliciting something close to a growl 
from Alex. Shaky legs stumbled across the floor as 
she hurried to the bedroom phone, picking it up on 
the fourth ring.

"Scully, you there?"

She was Mulder's "Scully", after all.

Fumbling for suitable words, for breath, she said, 
"Yeah, sorry, just got out of the shower."

Continuing blindly on as if he'd not noticed her 
reply, he continued. "Listen, I'm already stuck in a 
goddamned traffic jam.  Might take me longer than I'd 
planned to make it there."

She ran one shaky hand through her hair, then over 
her collarbone, still feeling Alex's mouth there.  
"Should I just meet you at the airport?"

"No," Mulder hastily replied.  "At this point, it'd 
take me longer to turn around and head out there.  
I'll just pick you up."

"Okay," she assented, already moving to hang up the 
phone.

"Scully, I --"  Her ears immediately sensed that 
voice, the one which warned her that he was about to 
tell her something she wasn't going to like.  "I 
didn't want to tell you this over the phone, but 
since you're always getting mad at me for not telling 
you things. . ." his voice trailed

off, and she bit back a flash of frustration.  
Remember, Mulder, how we promised we'd really talk to 
one another from now on?  Then again, she hadn't told 
him about Alex, so she had no room to talk.

"Yes?" It was abrupt, a response to his unexpected 
words.

"I just got off the phone with Skinner again.  The 
reason we're going down to Florida is that there was 
another mass incineration, just like the one at, 
well,"  Just SAY it, Mulder, she wanted to yell.  
"That dam where you were last year."

Oh, God.

It was happening again.

Reserving her reply until she could figure out just 
what the hell to say about it, she cut short her 
extended reaction pause and quickly told him, "We'll 
talk about it when you pick me up, Mulder."

"I'll be there in about forty-five minutes," he said, 
then the dialtone sounded in her ears.

She collapsed onto the bed, her ass sinking into the 
mattress even as her spine remained ramrod-straight.  
Alex appeared in the doorway and she looked at him.  
His face was dark again, even as his arousal stood 
straight out from his hips.

"It's happening again," she murmured in something 
close to a resigned growl.

His eyebrows rose in a question.

"That was Mulder," she told him, not that he would 
have guessed otherwise. "There was another mass 
incineration by the rebels.  Florida, this time."

Again, he didn't reply.

"I thought the stagings were over, Alex."  She hated 
how plaintive her voice sounded, but she couldn't 
help the confusion and anger.

He walked over to stand before her.  "They're never 
going to be over, not until they get what they want."

She nodded.  He looked at her.  She met his gaze.  
She wanted to chase away the questions, to not think 
about anything until Mulder arrived and she was 
forced to think.

But all she could think about was the image of 
mannequin-men, torching everyone in sight and sending 
the world up into a macabre birthday-cake of flaming 
candle bodies.

She could feel her body burning.

She wanted the burning to be because of Alex, not the 
hauntings of a hundred burned people.

He was close enough for her to touch, so touch she 
did.  One strong arm wrapped around his waist, the 
other grasped his good arm, pulling him down on top 
of her once again.  This time they were on the 
mattress, not the bathroom floor, which promised no 
bruises, no kinks in their post-coital joints.  The 
only kinks were the two of them.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled his body, 
letting his cock push into her belly.  Draping 
herself over his body, she bit at him, then suckled 
at the flesh caught between her teeth.  His chest 
shuddered and pressed into her breasts.  She moved up 
to capture his mouth with hers, devouring his mouth 
as if he could suck away her fire.  She bit at his 
cheeks and nibbled at his eyelids, imagining she 
could turn him into a mannequin-man.

His cock was his firestarter as she raised on her 
knees then impaled herself on it.  The flushed skin 
of her arousal became fire-blisters as she

squinted her eyes and the world became hazy.  His one 
arm provided him no leverage to lift her up off him, 
and she saw in his eyes that he had no desire to do 
so.  Instead, he used that arm to pull her closer 
until her body was drawn along the length of his, 
skin against skin except at their crotches, where 
skin was inside of skin.  Hot bodies melted together 
like wax in the fire.

They had little time, not that they needed much.  She 
needed the fury, the meltdown borne of quickness.  
Her hips pressed against his balls, his hand pressed 
against her back, pulling her to him in a crushing 
embrace.  The rapid bursts of his breath were her 
signal that he was close, but she was still too far 
away.  She pulled her head back slightly and gave him 
the most piercing look her fuzzy brain could muster, 
so he moved his hand from her back and brought it 
down to where their bodies were joined, insinuating
it between them then pressing two fingers against her 
clit.  Rough fingernails grazed the sensitive flesh, 
jolting her into an alternate reality.  A reality 
where nothing else mattered but her climax.

No burning bodies.

No alien revolution.

No Mulder about to arrive at her door.

And she came with a shiver, cool air suddenly an 
avalanche over burning skin.

He came soon after, searing-hot wetness pooling in 
the only part of her body which still felt warm.  She 
wished she were someone different, someone who didn't 
have such a godawful life and who didn't have a 
partner who tried to assert his claim on her.  She 
wished he were someone different, someone who could 
hold and be held, letting someone be close to him 
while he was awake and who didn't think that sex was 
the only closeness he could ever achieve.

She wanted to be held.

As she extricated herself from the tangle of their 
limbs and stumbled over to her closet to get dressed, 
she realized that the only person who would hold her 
that way was Mulder.  But she didn't even want him to 
hold her, not until she could breathe again.

Apparel in tow, she ensconced herself in the 
bathroom, dressing herself quickly and applying 
makeup on her collarbone to cover the bitemarks.  
When she emerged with armor in place, she could 
already *feel* the lack of Alex's presence.  The 
apartment was cold again, though her rational mind 
told her it had been cold all along.  Just as well -- 
he couldn’t very well be there to greet Mulder.  She 
couldn’t put her arm around his waist and smile as 
Alex dropped a kiss on the top of her head and 
suggested luncheon plans amidst shy, sappy grins.  
That was not her life, and it sure as hell wasn't 
his.

She padded into the kitchen and put two frozen 
waffles in the toaster -- a barely palatable 
breakfast but her traditional standby when she had 
time for nothing else.

While she waited for the ping of the toaster, she 
went back into her bedroom and grabbed her garment 
bag.  With it hanging from her shoulder, she looked 
over at the bed, the comforter mussed and a wet stain 
already forming on the sheets where, as anyone could 
tell, a man's hips would have been.  She didn't 
bother arranging things to hide the scene -- Mulder 
would probably not go into her bedroom.  Her "secret" 
was safe.

Another glance at the clock-radio told her that he'd 
arrive any minute, so she set her garment bag by the 
front door then fetched the waffles and sat on her 
sofa to wait.

+++++

You know, I always thought that when my life ended, 
it would be the result of some grand gesture.  A 
life-or-death situation where I ended up martyred to 
a larger cause.  I would be a hero, even if my 
heroism weren't trumpeted across the land.

I never really thought much about my emotional death, 
or even really considered what that was.  I never 
expected to feel like dying, cell by cell.

And I sure as hell never expected to discover that 
Scully was sleeping with Krycek.

But there it was, written all over her face when I 
showed up at her place this morning.  It wasn't 
really all that obvious.  I just had a hunch.  It was 
that look on her face, the way it was faintly 
flushed.  Her body seemed looser as she picked up her 
bags and walked out the door.  As she fished her keys 
out of her pocket and locked the door, I saw a smudge 
of makeup on her collarbone, and the faint red 
impressions of teeth.

Who else would put them there but him?

They've been spending so much time together lately.  
She's been reluctant to talk to me about him, always 
changing the subject when I mention his name.  And if 
anyone is capable of seducing a woman, I'm sure it's 
that clever bastard, Krycek.  He could probably charm 
the pants off Skinner.

Of course my kneejerk reaction was anger.  Is that 
surprising?  Anger at him, at her.  Then betrayal -- 
how could she do this to me, to us?  But those were, 
like I said, kneejerk reactions.  This flight has 
given me more than ample time to think about it.  
Three hours of staring out a plastic plane window 
gives one little time to do anything but think.  
More's the pity.

Anger gave way to betrayal.  Betrayal gave way to 
careful consideration.  I keep replaying that 
conversation we had at the restaurant a few days ago. 
She probably went home and fucked him that night.  
God.  But I'm focusing on the conversation, not on 
the two of them.  I have to, to keep my sanity.

Did she actually negate the possibility of the two of 
us ever getting together?  No.  She seemed hopeful; I 
remember that.  I remember the way she looked at me 
when I came back with more coffee for her.  Her gaze 
was warm, thoughtful.  I saw it and thought -- right, 
this could work.  This could definitely happen.  
Maybe not now, but soon.  So why does this new 
revelation have to change that?

Because it changes everything, I tell myself.

How can I have her when someone else does?

So I force myself to replay the days after that.  
Nothing in her demeanor changed.  She was still 
friendly, affectionate, seeming to care about me. I'd 
touch her on her arm, on the small of her back, and 
she wouldn't flinch away.  I still believed that our 
"someday" was getting closer and closer.

Then this morning, the bottom fell out of those 
hopes.  Or did it?

God, why can't I think clearly?

 I need to be thinking clearly.  We have one hell of 
a situation facing us when the plane touches down.  
We're going to have to be consummate professionals, 
investigators pursuing the truth of a situation which 
has the power to destroy our souls, just as it did a 
year ago when I found her on a gurney, getting ready 
to be lifeflighted to a hospital away from the nearly 
one hundred dead people on a bridge across a river.

But all I can think about is her and him.

And how my soul still feels like it's dying, cell by 
cell.

She hasn't looked at me since the plane took off.  
Well, perhaps she has, but I've been staring out the 
window the entire time, only looking away when the 
flight attendant asked me what drink I'd like with my 
meal.  Maybe she doesn't know that I know.  Yeah, 
right.  She knows.  She doesn't want to discuss it, 
and I don't think I can.  Not right now.

So I sit here, looking out the window as the plane 
circles over the Gulf and the pilot tells us to 
prepare for landing.  And I try furiously to figure 
out what went wrong.

And how I can make it right again.

Because even if she's sleeping with Krycek, I want it 
to be right for us again.

+++++

TOURIST INFORMATION:

Fort DeSoto Park is a 900-acre preserve 10 miles from 
downtown St. Petersburg with 7 miles of pristine 
beach.  The best feature of Fort DeSoto Park is the 
absence of development. It has the same charm that it 
did decades ago.  Recent additions include a canoe 
trail and a 4 mile paved trail for cyclists and 
skaters.  There's an 1898-era fort on the preserve 
that is fun to explore. There's camping available - 
Call the number below for info.

(http://www.tampaguide.com/Todo/Detail.asp?KeyBus=903
292809)

+++++

It was a sunny day, for a change.  She half-expected 
to see ominous black clouds on the horizon, given the 
macabre situation.  But this was western Florida and 
the sun refused to hide behind clouds on a bright 
springtime day.

Mulder was the first out of the car, and she followed 
him after grabbing a notebook from the bag stowed in 
the trunk.  The mass of people -- police, support 
personnel, journalists jockeying for position -- 
seemed to overwhelm the area.  Though they were 
perhaps 200 yards from the shoreline, the sand felt 
crushed under the weight of so many vehicles and 
people.  Two helicopters circled overhead, unable to 
find a suitable place to land.  The sky was wide and 
technicolor-blue, but Fort DeSoto Park felt like a 
dark, oppressive cave.

Scully found her partner over near some barricades 
set up along the perimeter of the parking area, 
talking with a uniformed officer.  The barricades 
didn't appear to be standard police cordoning 
equipment; upon closer inspection, they were actually 
simple sawhorses, the kind used to section off an 
area under construction.  She glanced to the side and 
saw a sign informing that the area was closed 
temporarily for improvements.

She overheard their conversation before she was able 
to join in.

"... has been here since about an hour after we 
received the first calls. From what we can tell, the 
actual deaths occurred at approximately 10:30 P.M.  
We've been trying to contact the rangers on duty at 
the time, but one left for a family something-or-
another in Tallahassee right after his shift, and we 
don't have a phone number to contact him.  The other 
is currently being interrogated by two of our 
officers."

"Thanks for your information, Officer Koslowski," 
Mulder replied, "but we really need to speak directly 
with Agent Warner.  When will he be finished talking 
to the press?"

Koslowski rolled his eyes and looked over at Scully. 
"The man loves the press.  He's already been at it 
for almost half an hour.  He should be done soon.  
I'll go tell him you're here."

The man stalked off in the direction of a cluster of 
cameramen; Scully couldn't see the FBI agent in 
question in the mass of equipment.

"What have you found out so far?" she asked him.

"Nothing -- remember, we've only been here two 
minutes," he snapped at her, and she flinched at his 
harsh tone.  He seemed to realize the same, and his 
face softened slightly.  "Sorry."  She acknowledged 
him with a curt nod. "The police got a call at around 
two this morning and came out.  They didn't call the 
Bureau field office until they'd arrived on-site.  
Guess they didn't think to make the connection, or 
something.  Nobody even thought of it until one of 
the forensics officers remembered seeing the CNN 
reports about the burnings up at Ruskin Dam."

He stepped away from the barricades and she followed 
him over toward the press conference, stopping about 
ten feet away.  Mulder's voice raised for her to hear 
him.  "That's Warner over there.  He's a media hound, 
according to Koslowski.  Won't this be fun?"  The 
wryness in his voice wasn't quite amusement.

She wanted to be doing something, anything but 
standing here watching a press conference whose 
information she couldn't even hear clearly.  Scully 
looked over toward where people were walking back and 
forth to another, more distant site, carrying various 
forensics equipment.  She moved in that direction, 
but was stopped when she tried to breach the formal 
police barricade.

"No press allowed, ma'am," an overeager woman in 
uniform informed her.

Scully pulled out her badge, flashing it with 
practiced ease.  "Officer..." she glanced at the 
woman's name plate, "Martinez, I just arrived from 
D.C. My partner and I have experience with scenarios 
such as these, and I'd like to see the site for 
myself."

The woman's olive skin blushed.  "Oh, sorry.  So much 
press around here, I just assumed you were one of 
them.  Here, go on inside." She lifted a section of 
the yellow crime scene tape.

Glancing over in Mulder's direction, she caught his 
eye and silently asked if he wanted to follow her.  
He nodded toward Agent Warner, indicating he'd wait 
and talk to their contact.  Scully nodded in reply 
and slipped under the yellow tape, then began to 
follow the well-trodden path toward an outcropping of 
short trees.

She couldn't immediately see anything; the site of 
the burnings themselves appeared to be quite a ways 
down the path, behind the trees.  On the car ride to 
Fort DeSoto Park, she'd taken off her pumps and put 
on some work boots.  She was now thankful for having 
done so, as the sand gave under her feet.  The trees 
to her right were sparse, affording views of sea 
grasses and sea oats.  The sliver of ocean in the 
near distance was only a few shades of blue darker 
than the sky above.

Even from a distance, she could smell the stench of 
burned bodies.  Dark familiarity washed over her.

This wasn't supposed to be happening again.

The trees parted and the sounds of investigation 
filled her senses -- a cacophony of noise and voices.  
Flashes of yellow body bags dotted the beach like so 
many conch shells.

Nobody seemed to notice her arrival until she was 
bearing down on them, all determination and reason.  
A man turned to look at her and she flashed the badge 
still in her hand.  "Scully, FBI," she informed them 
like she'd done a thousand times before.

"Are you one of Warner's agents?"  the older man 
asked her.

"No," she replied, looking beyond him at the scene.  
"My partner and I came down from D.C.  We only 
arrived about ten minutes ago."

He stared at her, obviously surprised.  "D.C.?  I 
didn't know word had reached all the way up there 
yet.  Well, aside from fucking CNN, of course -- 
pardon my language."

"I -- " she was uncomfortable giving more 
information, but if it helped her credibility, it was 
necessary.  "I was at the scene of both of the 
previous mass immolations, in Virginia and Maryland."  
She chose not to tell him that she'd been a 
participant in the latter.

His face brightened as much as one could under such 
macabre circumstances. "Oh?  Then maybe you can help 
explain to us just what the hell happened here."

The man was plainclothes; she had no way to call him 
by name. "I'm sorry, you are....?"

"Detective Juan Degollado, St. Petersburg P.D.  I was  
one of the first ones on the scene, and I still have 
no idea just what is going on.  Someone said that 
this sounded like those other incidents you 
mentioned, but I haven't had any opportunity yet to 
get more information on them.  But," he hastened to 
add, "we have some of our officers working on it  
now."

She shifted on her feet and continued to look past 
him at the various officers and forensics personnel 
cataloguing the scene.  "I'm Special Agent Dana 
Scully.  Nice to meet you.  Could you tell me just 
what you know about what happened?"

He launched into his narrative.  "Approximately 
seventy people came to the park at around 7 last 
night.  They indicated they'd be camping out 
overnight.  The rangers on duty have instructions not 
to let more than ninety people be on the grounds at a 
time, and had to stop letting in visitors when the 
limit was reached.  Their shifts were over at nine, 
when the park closed for the night, and the night 
rangers remained at the guardhouse for the remainder 
of the evening.  They generally don't patrol after 
dark, so as to allow visitors their privacy.  
However, if campers encounter problems, they're told 
to immediately contact the rangers at the guard 
house."

"Where were they when this happened?"

"Well, that's the problem," Degollado replied, his 
voice growing somber. "From what we can tell, they 
were burned too.  Identification of the bodies has 
proven very difficult so far, as they were burned 
nearly beyond recognition."  Scully shivered in 
remembrance.  "But two of the bodies were found with 
the rangers' name badges, so we assume they went to 
investigate and were then killed."

Scully took a deep breath, but her chest felt 
suffocated from the pressure of this situation.  "You 
said that the capacity is ninety, but that only 
seventy people entered the park for the purpose of 
this gathering.  Have the other twenty people come 
forward as witnesses?"

The other man sighed deeply, and glanced out at the 
sea behind his back. "They... uh... they're all dead, 
their burned bodies scattered around the park.  We 
think that whoever did this didn’t want to leave any 
witnesses."

And, she thought, they were killed by the faceless 
men so they wouldn't serve as testimonial to what 
really happened.  The rebels were ruthless, not 
comprehending -- or not caring to -- that deaths can 
never be "expedient".

Scully sighed deeply.  She had to get away from him, 
to see all this for herself.  "Thank you for the 
information, Det. Degollado.  If you don't mind, I'd 
like to survey the scene."

He nodded and was immediately off to speak to some 
other officers.  Scully took a step toward the place 
where the yellow body bags lay lined up like 
dominoes, but her foot stilled on the sand.  More 
body bags.  More death. Although inured to it by her 
profession, this was not the time for clinical 
examination with an investigator or pathologist's 
eye.

The sea beckoned.

The softness of unpacked sand gave way to the 
hardness of the place where the tidal waters met the 
small particles of glass.  As the depth of the water 
approached, it began to run over the tops of her 
boots, grazing the hem of her slacks.  She stopped 
when it lapped at her ankles, then stopped noticing 
anything.  Not the feel of the water seeping through 
her shoe leather, not the noise of the investigation 
behind her.  Just the sea before her, an expanse of 
cornflower blue dotted with sandbars and boats in 
the distance.

The place where nothing else mattered but who she was 
and what she was feeling.  Even in the midst of all 
this chaos, it was simple.  She needed simplicity 
right then.

Scully didn't hear the footfalls behind her until a 
hand rested on her shoulder.

"You okay?"  a familiar voice spoke in her ear.

She nodded but didn't speak.

This was not the place for a comforting embrace, so 
Mulder merely placed his other hand on her other 
shoulder and gave them a gentle squeeze before 
removing his hands.  She took a long last look at the 
sea and then turned her back on it.

They had an investigation to conduct.

+++++

My credentials aren't valid, but they're convincing 
enough to those who are meant to be swayed.

I stand in the trees along the perimeter of the 
investigation site, making myself look busy whenever 
someone takes notice of my presence.  I cannot 
scribble on this notepad with one hand, but they 
don't need to know that.

Dana stands at the shoreline, her feet wet and her 
hair blowing in the slight wind.  She looks so 
forlorn, so empty.  I feel as much sadness for her as 
my corrosive heart will allow.

I watch Mulder walk up to her, placing his hands on 
her shoulders and embracing her as surely as if she 
were folded into his arms.  They walk back to the 
crime scene and I can see her donning the mantle of 
her position, as surely as she had shed it when she 
walked to the shore.

I've already made plans to approach her this evening, 
but for now I stand and watch.

+++++

"To have known love, how bitter a thing it is."   
-- Swinburne, "Atalanta in Calydon"

 I'm in love with a woman who has blue eyes and red  
hair, who is a full foot shorter than me but seems to 
rise higher than me when I stand next to her.  Who is 
dark and intelligent and beautiful.

I'm in love with a woman I'll never have, except in 
the darkness of a bedroom which is less a refuge than 
a temporary way-station.

This doesn't make me happy in the least.

Love isn't a beautiful thing like the poets would 
have you believe.  It's hopeless and depressing as 
hell.  I look at her and my heart constricts in the 
hollow shell of my ribcage.  I used to think it 
ridiculous how poets invest so much emotion in the 
heart, when our emotions are really contained within 
our heads.  But I look at her and a dull pain begins 
to throb in my heart, mimicking its beat.  Would that 
I could just take an antacid and it would go away.  
Dana would roll her eyes and lift an eyebrow.  I 
think that she thinks such pains can just be cured by 
medicine.  Maybe she's never experienced that heart-
pain that comes with love.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding?  She knows it all too 
well.  I watched her today with Mulder, just as I 
have so many times from a distance.  Sometimes I 
think they're the only people who don't know they're 
in love.  But I think he knows.  He's patiently 
waiting for her.  I have her, but I'm still waiting 
for her love.  I'll probably end up waiting for the 
rest of my life.  He won't have to wait for long.

I wish I were 17 again, so I could sit around my 
bedroom, get stoned, and listen to Bauhaus rail about 
how love sucks.  Then I could wake up in the morning 
with a fuzzy mouth and forget about whatever her name 
was who put me in the mood.  The teen years are meant 
for emotional hyperbole, not adulthood -- especially 
for adults like me who have seen it all and then 
some, who have no room in their lives for emotional 
attachments because the person to whom you're 
attached could easily end up dead in the morning, or 
just betray you for good measure.

So what do I do?  Just sit around, waiting for her to 
feel the urge to fuck me again?  Wait for her to 
decide that she's had enough and it's Mulder she 
really wants?

The sad part about it -- and yes, I'm capable of 
feeling sadness -- is that I want so much for us.  
Even during those wide-eyed months of first love with 
Irina, I knew what I wanted in my future.  Someplace 
I could call home, even if it wasn't a cottage in the 
suburbs, which isn't my style anyway.  Maybe a kid or 
two, although I told myself I didn't want children.  
Just some sort of surety of a future.  It didn't 
happen for me and Irina, and I'm glad now that it 
didn't.  I never really mourned the loss of those 
dreams, since they were spun from pipes.

But when I lie in Dana's arms, pretending to be 
asleep because I can't let myself hold her when we're 
both awake, I let myself have those dreams again.  
Not of kids or a home together somewhere, but just 
the idea of this never ending.  I never think of 
myself as growing old, given that I could very well 
die at any time, either because of my own mistakes or 
because someone decides I'm expendable.  But I dream 
of being able to lie with her and know that it 
doesn't have to end.

And of course it does have to end someday.  That's 
the problem.

There's a certain bizarre poignance to our situation, 
a give-and-take where little is taken and even less 
is given.  Funny, I never thought I'd use the word 
"poignance" to describe something in which I was 
involved.  She doesn't consciously give me anything; 
she merely takes what she wants, which is my body.  
I’m good for a lay, for making her feel good when the 
man she wants can't do that for her.  I give her 
that.  I take pleasure in it.  But it's a dark 
pleasure which I'm not sure I like.

Scully is like a hard metal.  Like titanium, she's 
very strong, light, and soft on my skin.  On the 
outside, I seem to be steel, but as much as I loathe 
to admit it, I'm far softer than I want to be.  She 
didn't make me soft, but she brings that out in me.

Will I harden again when she decides to walk away 
from me?

+++++

"Your best whiskey," he requested of the bartender.

The man looked at him as Krycek ordered, staring at 
the ridiculous fake hand.  Krycek was tempted to draw 
it off the bar and down to his side, but he had never 
been self-conscious and this was certainly not the 
time for it.  He watched the man turn away then move 
around the bar, reaching for a bottle on the top 
shelf.  Looked at the label and the "best" really 
wasn't all that great, but then Krycek didn't expect 
much from this generic hotel bar.  The actions of the 
bartender bored him, so he swiveled around on his 
stool and surveyed the scene.

The places didn't change much from St. Petersburg, 
Russia, to St. Petersburg, Florida.  Just another 
hotel bar, half-full of people moving from one place 
to another.  He'd look for subtext, but the time for 
that had passed long ago.

The whiskey tumbler was half-empty -- or half-full to 
a more optimistic man -- when Dana walked into the 
room.  He appraised her head to toe as she made her 
way around small lounge tables and approached him at 
the bar.  She looked extremely tired, her clothes 
uncharacteristically wrinkled and auburn hair flat 
and slightly ringed from the stress of the long day.  
But of course, to him she looked beautiful.

"Do you want anything?"  he asked by way of greeting.  
She shook her head and he made a quick decision to 
leave the bar.  Fishing a bill out of his wallet, he 
slapped enough down on the bar to cover his drink and 
then nodded in the direction from whence she'd come.

She followed him without protest or question, the 
lack thereof showing him just how tired she was.  
Then again, he remembered their morning together -- 
God, had it only been sixteen hours ago?  Of course 
she was tired, and the alpha male in him boasted at 
having helped to create that fatigue.  It was 
ridiculous -- she'd definitely had a hard day -- but 
he still allowed himself the flush of pride.

He led her out to the darkened pool area, through a 
door stating that the pool had closed an hour 
earlier.  Regulations had no interest to him.  He 
noticed her having come to him alone.

"Mulder didn't want to join you?"

Dana looked at him curiously, then replied, "No.  I 
didn't ask him."

She walked away from him, circling the dark pool, 
head tilted up to look at the palm trees along the 
perimeter.  Some were short and stubby, others 
reached toward the sky.  He'd create some analogy 
there, but it seemed a ridiculous thing to do.

Her steps slowed while his continued to be long, and 
in short measure he was standing next to her.  She 
spoke again.

"He knows, though."

"Knows?"

"About us."

Krycek couldn’t determine anything from the flat tone 
of her voice, but the monotone didn't give him any 
hopes that she was particularly pleased with the 
development.  A quick rush of frustration hit him: he 
wanted her to be okay with this "whatever" between 
them.  Part of it was an ego thing, but he also just 
wanted her to be happy with him, proud of what had 
happened. But he knew she couldn't be happy with it.  
Another thing they could never have.

She looked at him for a very long time.  They stood 
together so that he was facing the hotel, and in his 
peripheral vision he saw lights through the windows 
of the rooms flicking on or turning off for the 
night.  But she remained the same, simply staring at 
him.

Finally, she broke away and walked over to a table, 
sitting in one of the vinyl-and-resin patio chairs 
under a canvas canopy that would have been bright 
blue in the sunlight but now simply blended into the 
black sky above.  He took a seat opposite her.

"How did you get down here?"   She didn't look at him 
as she asked, instead staring off into the middle 
distance.

"After you got up out of bed, just leaving me there -
-"  she flinched, and he immediately realized that 
she'd taken the words as a jab, not as a simple 
recollection of fact.  "Well, you did, Dana, not that 
it wasn't what you had to do under the 
circumstances," he quickly added, struck by a sudden, 
strange need to justify himself and apologize for 
hurting her, however slightly.

"Anyway, after you did that, I got dressed and left.  
I got the phone call when I got into my car and 
started driving back to my apartment."  She knew 
about the place he kept in the District.  "It was one 
of Hunt's minions," he said, using the name by which 
he'd always called the Smoking Man, "telling me about 
it.  He seemed almost pleased about it, like 'ha! 
Showed you!'  Where this asshole gets off thinking 
the rebels' games are funny is beyond even me."

"So you think Hunt planned this?"  Dana asked.

"Planned it?"  Krycek gave a chuff of ironic 
laughter.  "These days, the man couldn't plan his way 
out of a paper bag.  No, he probably had no clue at 
all.  The other times, he would get the news from 
some of his spies on the rebels' side.  I know the 
spies are still out there, probably gleeful that they 
have the upper hand, now that the opposition on earth 
is pretty much all dead."

"That much chaos?"  But her voice wasn't questioning.

"That much chaos," he replied.

That much chaos.  His life, her life.  The whole 
goddamned fucking world around them, even with the 
calm breeze filtering through the palm trees and the 
hotel lights blinking on and off.

"So he told me what had happened, and I put that 
together with what you said Mulder told you on the 
phone, and I got the first available flight down 
here, after getting some stuff from my apartment."  
He paused for a moment, then said, "I saw you at the 
beach."

She turned and looked at him then, a strong gaze 
without any chaos.  "You were there?"

"Of course I was," Krycek replied, surprised that she 
would think he wasn't watching everything from a 
distance.  "Saw you and Mulder doing your 
investigation.  You won't find anything, though."

"And is that supposed to be a surprise?"

He shrugged.  Of course it wasn't.  There was nothing 
to find.  The rebels were beyond investigation, and a 
half-assed local police department couldn't begin to 
comprehend what happened deeply enough to go beyond 
the fact that 92 people were dead and the cause made 
no sense whatsoever.

He didn't say this to her, but he knew that she knew.

They sat there opposite one another for a long time, 
until the hotel lights were more off than on.  
Ordinary people were going to bed, while they were 
simply sitting there, the weight of the world on the 
table between them.

Only a half-dozen rooms were lit.  The curtains were 
drawn, but he saw a bright light shining in the room 
he knew to be Mulder's.  Was the man standing there, 
staring between the slight part of the drapes, 
watching them?

"So, Mulder knows, then.  About us."

"Yes."   He could see her forcing herself to maintain 
eye contact in the darkness.

"Did you tell him?"

"No."

"Are you glad he knows?"  Krycek had to know.

He watched her hands clench into fists.  "Do you 
think I'm glad?"

It was his turn to flinch.  He expected her answer, 
but even though his heart was hardened and hollow, he 
still had the ability to feel pained by her words.  
Damn this woman for making him love her.  It was all 
her fault, of course.  All her fault.

"Leave, then.  Just walk away from here and I'll 
never come to you again." He didn't bother to 
disguise the bitterness in his voice.

She didn’t leave.

"If you stay right now," his voice darker still, "you 
can't just absolve yourself of responsibility later.  
Pretend nothing ever happened, and all that."

Her gaze was stronger than steel -- closer to 
titanium.  "I accepted responsibility a long time 
ago, Alex."

Somehow, her saying his name changed everything.  It 
sent a shiver down his spine that he'd long since 
thought was dormant.  "You're free to leave 
whenever."  The words were false indifference.

"I know that."

Her voice lowered.

"I haven't left yet."

"But you will someday."  He looked away from her, 
furious with her for making him feel so damned 
powerless, emasculated.

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't.  That's for me to 
decide."

"Or for Mulder to decide."  The bitterness returned 
to his voice.

She raised one eyebrow in wry response.

"Look," he said, wanting to lash out even as her 
words were telling him she

wanted to remain with him, "if I'm just a good fuck 
while you wait for Mulder, then say it.  Don't 
pretend it's something else."

He watched her body language soften, her shoulders 
slumping and body seeming to curl up within itself.  
Krycek might have thought he'd hurt her, except he 
couldn't even get past the surface.  In a small but 
strong voice, she said, "I've never pretended it was 
anything but what it is."

"Then what is it, Dana?"

"Whatever it is, it's not just a 'good fuck' while I 
wait for him.  I've never acted like I wished you 
were him.  I know who you are and what I'm doing."

But you think it, don't you? he thought to himself.  
You close your eyes and see his face between your 
legs, feel his hands on your body.

Krycek felt the stirrings of nausea in the pit of his 
stomach.  Damn her.

She kept on talking.  "I'm still here, and right now 
I'm not going anywhere."

"But you will someday,"  the voice inside his head 
was a little boy's, but the one she heard was a 
strong, embittered man's.

"Dammit, don't try and second-guess my motivations, 
Alex!"  Her voice was stronger now, emblazoned.  "If 
you're that insecure, you're also welcome to walk 
away and not come back."

He couldn’t reply to that, not until he could figure 
out what the hell to do about it.  As he rose, he 
felt his legs tremble slightly but he raised himself 
to his full height and towered over her with forced 
strength. "I'll be around in the morning if you have 
any more questions."

She stood too, and walked around the table until her 
body was flush against his.  Krycek forgot to breathe 
as her hand snaked around his neck and pulled his 
face down against hers.

He pulled away from her kiss at first, but her hand 
was strong against his neck and god, he needed to 
taste the salt air on her mouth.  Another light in 
the hotel went off as she kissed him, his eyes opened 
as if afraid she'd disappear at any moment.  Perhaps 
only twenty minutes had passed since he first met her 
in that bar, but the world seemed darker now than it 
had been.

She kissed him for all she was worth for a very long 
time, then pulled her mouth from his and said in a 
voice slightly stronger than a murmur, "If I plan on 
going anywhere, I'll let you know.  But for the time 
being, I'm here."

Her grasp on the back of his neck slackened, and she 
turned and walked back to the hotel.

He watched until she disappeared inside, then exhaled 
a long breath.

She'd told him she was staying, but she'd just walked 
away.

+++++

She comes to my hotel room door quietly, without 
unnecessary motion.  I start with surprise when I 
open the door and see her there; her presence is 
unexpected, given the way we've related to one 
another of late.  I motion for her to enter, and 
watch as she makes her way inside, immediately 
marking the territory as her own.

Instead of taking her place on the cheap fake-wood 
chair, she sinks down on the edge of the bed.  I move 
over to sit next to her, but something stops me, so I 
stand opposite her, just watching as her chin tilts 
up and she meets my gaze.

"I'm sorry," she says, and I catch my breath.  This 
isn't what I'd expected her to say.

I shift on my feet and ask, "Sorry for what?"

She continues to look at me, the expression on her 
face softening, becoming penitent.  "Sorry for how 
distant I've been lately.  I've ..."  her gaze leaves 
my face and scans the room.  "I haven't treated you 
well, or even myself.  I want to put that past us, 
though, and get back what we once had."

A huge sense of relief floods through me, but it's 
stopped by the knowledge of all the problems we've 
had.  "But it's not that easy, Scully.  You can't 
just tell me that and expect me to forget everything 
that has happened."

"Isn't it, though?  Doesn't it all just boil down to 
you and me, together?"

She reduces it to simple, decidedly tempting terms, 
but it isn't that easy at all.  "What about Krycek?"

She stands and her hand comes up to rest on my chest.  
"He doesn't matter, Mulder.  It's over between us.  
It was never anything to begin with.  Just sex."  Her 
fingers begin to play with the buttons of my shirt.  
She undoes the first couple of buttons, and I can't 
help but shiver.  "Not like this."

One palm is placed on my chest and I can feel it 
pressing against me with each of my deep breaths.  
Her other hand comes up to curl around the back of my 
neck, bringing me down to rest against her forehead.  
I drop one kiss there, then she tilts her face up to 
meet my lips.

Oh, God, it's like nothing I've ever imagined.  It's 
just... stunning. Like everything that my life has 
become is distilled down to this one moment of 
softness and warmth.  My lips simply play along hers, 
touching then retreating, the feel of her tongue 
sweeping out to lick her lips, then the wetness 
against my own.

I could drown right now and not even notice, so 
consumed am I by this kiss.  Touch, then retreat, 
always with the promise of more to come.

Then I open my eyes and find my fingertips playing 
along my lips, and the darkness of the night sky 
beyond the window.

I glance down at the pool below.  Scully is standing 
there, talking to Krycek.  His back is to me and I 
can't see her face clearly from the distance.  She 
reaches up and curls her hand around his neck, 
bringing his lips to hers in a long kiss.

Even though I'd known they were involved, so to 
speak, the visual confirmation of such is a shock, to 
put it mildly.  I let the drapes close and I turn my 
back on the window, then begin to pace the room.  I 
can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears.  Believing 
without proof is one thing. Seeing it for yourself is 
an entirely different matter.

I wear a path on the cheap hotel carpet as I pace, 
back and forth.  Back and forth.

A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door.  I 
don't have to look through the peephole to know that 
it's Scully.

+++++

She counted to ten twice before the door opened.  One 
look at his face told her he'd been standing at the 
window, watching her with Krycek.  He knew, though, 
didn't he?  Why would seeing them together make him 
show such shock on his face?

She knew, though.  He could know about them, but 
seeing them together would be an entirely different 
matter.  Mulder had always been able to believe 
without proof, yet visual confirmation has a way of 
changing how we perceive reality.

He stood on the threshold of the door, saying 
nothing.  She didn't want to prompt him to ask her 
inside, instead deciding to wait for him to make the 
overture.  After a long while of looking at her, he 
finally stepped aside in a silent invitation.

Scully glanced around the room, trying to choose a 
suitable place to sit. The cheap chairs and table 
seemed too remote, and the edge of the bed seemed too 
intimate.  But the latter presented the best 
opportunity for the honest conversation she needed to 
have with him.  The hard hotel mattress barely budged 
as she sank upon it, and she watched him decide what 
to do. He finally moved to stand before her, four 
feet separating them.

"I wanted to talk to you about what's going on, 
Mulder," she began.

He took a deep breath, then replied, "Go ahead, 
talk."

She could immediately tell that he was more hurt than 
he let on, his face drawn tightly in reticence.  
Scully felt the burden of responsibility for his 
feelings.  "I know I've been really distant lately.  
I'm sorry for that.  You have to know, though, that 
it isn't your fault."

He took a deep breath before responding.  "You 
haven't really shown me otherwise."  His voice was 
cool and composed.  "I thought things were good 
between us.  A little strained, but still good.  Was 
I wrong?"

He took a deep breath, as if spent.  She narrowed her 
eyes, thinking quickly, trying to come up with some 
way to make it clear to him, clear to herself.  
"Things have been good."

When he gave an immediate moue of disbelief, she 
continued, "What has happened between... " she 
paused, "between me and Krycek doesn't change the 
fact that I do love you, and I do think we could be 
something more to one another someday."  Those words 
-- I do love you -- slipped out before she realized 
she'd said them.  Good God.  It was something she'd 
never given voice to, but it felt more honest than 
anything she had told him in ages.

Yet Mulder seemed not to hear them.  He said nothing, 
but his face was a non-verbal dismissal of her words.  
"Mulder, I'm not sure why I decided to start sleeping 
with Krycek.  I wish -- and for my own sake, not 
yours -- that I could just distill it down to one 
easy reason.  But it's not that easy.  He came to me 
and gave me every opportunity to walk away.  But I 
didn't.  That night, I made a conscious decision to 
sleep with him, and I don't regret that decision.  I 
do regret the way it is making you feel, but I made a 
choice for myself and stand by that."

Mulder looked away from her and she watched his chest 
rise and fall, his brow furrowed as if choosing his 
words carefully.   Finally, he said, "I can't tell 
you that I agree with your decision about him, but I 
accept it and your right to make that decision."

Even though his words seemed meant to placate her, 
they only made her sad, so sad.  She didn't know how 
to respond, and all she could think of to say was, 
"Thank you, Mulder."

"Are you going to keep sleeping with him?"  His voice 
was still dead.

She wanted to tell him what he wanted to hear, but 
she couldn't.  "I don’t know, Mulder.  I can't make 
that kind of promise to you."

His knees shook slightly, but he didn't sit down.  
She wanted to go over and pull him up a chair, but 
knew that he wouldn't like the gesture.  Most of all, 
she needed him to see the grander scope of the 
situation.

"But he's not the problem here."  Mulder looked away 
from her and gave a humorless laugh.  "He's *not* the 
problem, Mulder.  A symptom of it, yes, but the 
problems you and I are having began before he entered 
the picture. Do you remember the last time you and I 
stood in a hotel room like this, discussing our 
relationship?"

"Yes, and I remember your telling me that we needed 
some time apart."

"No, that's not what I said."  She searched her brain 
to recall the exact words, but, as they wouldn’t 
come, she paraphrased.  "I said we were going to have 
to start over, that what we have has gotten so 
confused that I don't even know what it is anymore.  
It's like...."  Scully tried to find the words to 
express what she meant, but the best analogy she 
could come up with was one he wouldn't like.  "It's 
like we went straight from first date to divorce 
proceedings without all the good stuff in between."

He looked at her with a different expression than 
before, with confusion and tamped-down anger.  "You 
don’t think all that was good stuff?  That the last 
six years haven't been good?"

"No, that's not what I meant."  She kept her voice as 
calm as possible. "We used to have this wide-eyed 
wonder about each other, then somewhere along the 
line the wonder went away and became too familiar, 
like we were a couple who had been married for twenty 
years.  We never gave ourselves the chance to 
experience all the good things, like kisses or making 
love or finding that simple joy in each other's arms.  
It's probably more my fault than yours.  Heaven knows 
I knew that you loved me, that you were in love with 
me.  But I was so damned afraid of that and of how it 
would change things that I just pushed it aside."

She stopped to take a deep breath and watched his 
expectant face, waiting for her to continue.  "I let 
myself sleep with Alex because I could have that 
passion.  I wanted it with you, but it had gotten 
lost along the way."

"You're not making much sense, you know."  His face 
wasn't angry, just sad.  The sight of it made her 
even more disheartened than she imagined he was 
feeling.  He looked like he wanted to speak, and she 
let him.

"It makes me really sad to hear that you think we're 
headed for divorce."

"Mulder, that's not--"

"No, I know that's not what you meant."  He took a 
step closer.  "I know you're not just going to walk 
away from it all, but the way you're talking, you 
seem to think we don't have a future together at all, 
at least not in any romantic sense.  Tell me, 
Scully," he paused.  "Do you think we can't have 
passion anymore?"

Her response was immediate.  "I think we can.  But 
first I just need to figure out what I need in my 
life."

"Do you need passion, Scully?"  His voice was 
persistent, and he moved forward until his legs were 
mere inches from her knees.  Her breath caught in her 
chest.  "Do you think I can give you passion?"

Breathing was a luxury as his hand came up to rest 
against her cheek, one finger tracing the flesh near 
her lips.  "Can you be passionate about me?" His 
voice lowered an octave, his eyes darkened and his 
body moved closer to hers, knees bent and face near 
her own.

"I think--"

He didn't give her a chance to finish the sentence, 
as his hands clasped her upper arms and he pulled her 
to her feet, his lips against hers before she even 
realized it was happening.  Then he was kissing her 
and

Oh

Oh God

It was fire and ice and other elements not yet 
discovered.  Like her body was dying and rebuilding 
itself from within.  It was everything she never 
would have imagined, and then some.

The kiss lasted forever for only a few seconds.  Then 
he pulled away from her and pulled her close to him, 
her body ensconced in his tight embrace.

His voice was molasses in her ear.  "If you don't 
want that, it's fine.  I accept that.  But Scully," 
she caught her breath as he paused for effect, 
"Whatever that made you feel isn't going to go away.  
It will always be there."

She wanted to look up at him, but instead she buried 
her face more deeply into his shoulder, staying 
there, breathing him in until his arms loosened 
around her and he pushed her away to look at him.

"I want you to leave," he said in a calm, even voice, 
"and just think about this.  You don't have to give 
me an answer now, or ever.  It's not a question.  I 
just want you to know what I have to offer.  If he," 
Mulder didn’t say who he meant, but she knew the name 
on his tongue, "is there waiting for you, sleep with 
him.  It won't change the way I feel.  But like I 
said, you have made a decision and I accept that.  I 
just want you to know the other side of the coin."

All Scully could think of to say was "Thank you."  
She found a steady footing and took a step toward the 
door.  When the knob was in her hand and the door 
opened before her, she looked back over her shoulder 
at him and gave him a slight, soft smile.

+++++

Time ticks by 
slowly 
slowly 
slowly 
and the world can change 
in the space of a minute.

+++++

The other "he" was waiting in her room when she 
opened the door and slipped inside.  Alex watched her 
step out of her shoes and roll her head on her neck, 
as if her body were deflating from the day's 
stresses.  It had been one hell of a day, he 
remembered.  Making love for breakfast, a sudden 
flight a thousand miles away, another mass burning 
when he thought they were already over, then that -- 
whatever that was out by the pool.  He was hit by the 
sudden need to pull her into his embrace and never 
let her go.

Except she didn't know he was there, and after their 
talk earlier, he wasn't sure she even wanted him 
there.

She finally crossed over to the freestanding lamp in 
the corner and stepped on the foot switch to turn it 
on.  Light bathed the room and she saw him sitting in 
a chair opposite her, near the window stretching 
across the length of the room.  She had just left one 
lover in a state of indecision, only to find another 
whom she had left a half-hour earlier in a similar 
state.

What on earth was he doing here?  She just wanted to 
be alone, to figure out what the hell her life was 
even about these days.

But Alex was here, and she slipped into "Dana" mode, 
trying to wrap her emotional state around who she was 
when he was there.

He watched her staring at him, her small feet encased 
in hose against the dull carpet and her suit jacket 
hanging unbuttoned from her shoulders.  She looked 
tired, drained of energy, and confused as hell.  All 
he could think to say was, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asked in a voice that held less 
inquisitiveness than fatigue.

He rose from his chair but made no move to walk 
closer to her, afraid that approaching her would only 
make her pull away.  "Sorry for forcing you into the 
position I did."

Dana slipped her jacket off and placed it on the edge 
of the bed.  "No, that's okay.  Don't worry about 
it."

Something was wrong.  Taking a risk, he asked, "Is 
everything okay?"

She ran one shaking hand through her hair and tried 
to figure out just how to answer the question.  He 
knew about her relationship with Mulder and all that 
it entailed.  And she had, after all, told him that 
she could very well decide to walk away at any 
moment.

"I just had a conversation with Mulder."

His body tensed but he made no response.  This was 
it, he thought.  This is the proverbial moment of 
reckoning.  She's going to leave me now.

"He told me it was my choice to make -- you or him -- 
and that he would accept whatever I decided."  She 
paused, unsure how he would react to what she said 
next, then took a deep breath and told him, "He said 
he loved me. Then he kissed me."

And it all made sense to him -- her fatigue, her 
confusion.  The flush of her cheeks.  The swell of 
her lips.  The jealousy would have overwhelmed him, 
had he not known all along this would happen, that he 
would lose her someday.

But then, he'd never really had her, had he?

She appraised his silence, more worried by it than 
any show of anger or jealousy he might have shown.  
I'm not his, she told herself, doesn't he know that? 
I've never been his.  But that doesn't make my saying 
this any easier.

"What did you tell him?"  he finally asked, and his 
voice was hoarse, threatened by emotions he would 
never overtly express.

She stood in stocking feet in a generic hotel room, 
staring past him at the city beyond. Dana wanted to 
turn around and walk out of the room, to keep walking 
until her head was clear and the decision was laid 
out on the pavement of the sidewalk.  But there comes 
a point in life where you finally have to face up to 
your choices.  This might not be the time to make a 
decision, but it wasn't the time to walk away.

He watched her feet shuffle slightly on the carpet, 
small toes flexing and curling with the itch to move.  
He waited for her to turn away and flee, but she 
stayed where she was.

"I didn't tell him anything.  I don't know what to 
tell him."

"Tell him what?"  Alex knew he'd already asked the 
question, but the need to know was pressing.

"Fine."  She threw her hands up in a gesture of 
resignation.  "I don't know whether to tell him I'm 
his forever or that I'm going to keep things just 
like they are, to sleep with you and work with him."

Oh.

He'd heard the adage before, "If you love something, 
set it free.  If it comes back to you, it's yours."  
He loved her enough to set her free, but he knew that 
if he did set her free, she would never come back to 
him.

He also knew what was best for her, and it wasn't 
him.

She drew her hands back to her sides and stayed 
there, watching him.  He was extraordinarily calm 
about the situation.  She had laid her cards on the 
table earlier, hadn't she?  She'd never made any 
promises to him.  And he'd never promised her 
anything -- unlike Mulder, who told her he'd wait for 
her until the day he died.

Until the day he died.

She didn't have to do anything about it now.  Just 
because his kiss overwhelmed her didn't mean that she 
had to immediately fall into his arms and live 
happily ever after.  She couldn’t do that until this 
situation with Alex was resolved, and he was an all-
or-nothing prospect.  Resolution would mean his 
walking out of her room and never coming back.

She realized she didn't want that, not yet.  In the 
simplest of terms, she'd grown attached to him.  Not 
in the way she loved Mulder, but enough to realize 
she couldn't just let go of him that easily.  As 
wonderful as it would be to just make love to Mulder 
until the world ended, that would mean she could 
never see Alex again.  And she still wanted him in 
her life, this beautiful, infuriating, terrible man 
who had the power to make her feel things she'd never 
imagined herself capable of feeling.

She had told herself just before she first slept with 
Alex that his possession made her feel alive, and 
Mulder's made her feel loved.  That was such a hard 
thing to give up.  Mulder would still love her if she 
kept Alex in her life for a little while longer.  
Wouldn't he?  Hadn't he said as much?

Mulder's "Scully" and Alex's "Dana" walked over to 
the bed and sank down on the edge.  Her body seemed 
to close within itself at the motion.

Alex watched her sit down, seeming smaller than she 
had ever been.  The sight made him feel a rush of 
tenderness for her, an emotion he'd though he'd long 
since abandoned.  She looked up at him with old eyes 
and said, "I told you I could just walk away at any 
time.  I suppose that I can't."

"Dana, you are--"

"No," she stopped him.  "Don't say anything, please." 
Her voice wasn't a stern admonishment, but instead an 
apologetic warning.  "Please.  Not now."

"Okay."  His voice sounded so small.

He remembered that morning in her bed.  How he'd held 
her tight while she slept, his body curling around 
hers and his one arm around her waist. Keeping her 
close to him in the way he could never do so while 
she was awake.  He had always told himself that to do 
so would be to show weakness, to tell her that he was 
capable of deep emotions he'd always prided himself 
on never feeling.

But maybe she needed to be held.

Maybe she wanted him to show those emotions.  It 
wouldn't change her mind and make her run away with 
him, but maybe just having someone -- him -- hold her 
close would make her feel better.  And even if it 
only made her want to go to Mulder, he wanted her to 
feel better, even at his expense.

He walked over to the bed, then sat down on her left 
side, so that his whole arm brushed against her own.  
Then, with an eased motion, he wrapped that arm 
around her shoulders and pulled her close to him.  
They had little leverage on the bed, and before he 
realized it, they were falling back on the mattress.  
But instead of ripping one another's clothes off like 
they might have once upon a time, he simply lay back 
and pulled her shoulders around until her chest 
pressed into his own and her face was buried in the 
crook of his neck.  And he listened to the soft 
cadence of her breathing.

His body was warm under hers, his embrace firm but 
not tight.  She relaxed into it, letting the 
simplicity of it calm her.  Isn't this what she'd 
always used to keep him at an emotional arm's length?  
That because he wouldn't hold her like this, he could 
never be more to her than a sexual partner?

As exhaustion melted into sleep, Alice in Wonderland 
filtered into her mind.

Life gets curiouser and curiouser.

+++++

"Utrom, tsyelui menya, i budu bashom chyelovyekom za 
dnyom."

That's what she used to say to me when we'd wake up 
together.  Kiss me in the morning and I'm yours for 
the day.  I'd laugh when she said it, but I knew full 
well what she meant.  So I'd comply with Irina's 
wishes and send her off to work at the Times with a 
smile on her face.

Back then it was so easy.  I was 26 and still someone 
to be respected -- or at least had the potential to 
be in the future.  Respected not just by the men who 
had become my employers and fate-controllers, but by 
the world at large.  Back then, I hadn't entered the 
so-called "underworld".  I was still living in 
public, not hiding from the outside world.  That was 
what the Organization wanted me to do.  I had to be 
an upstanding young man, so that I could convey 
trustworthiness and suitability to those from whom I 
was meant to get information.  Such is the life of a 
secret agent.  Not James Bond, but it does the trick.

Of course, life at 26 was much different from life at 
33.  I live so far underground these days I can feel 
the dirt on my skin even after I've showered.  I've 
done things I'm not proud of, but I did them because 
I had to.  No choice, and all that.  The ends justify 
the means, and if the means include killing people, 
well, that's too bad.  I had more important things to 
worry about than the morality of my actions.

At least, I used to.

Now, I have to worry about the fact that the means to 
my ends meant that I was now without an arm, without 
anyone who particularly wanted me alive, and, were my 
crimes ones that law enforcement would know about, I 
would be rotting away in some prison.  The electric 
chair's too good for the likes of me, one man told me 
just before I put a bullet through his skull.  Of 
course, he was the one who was dead, so did it really 
matter what he said? The good -- if you could call it 
"good" -- thing about living underground and having 
the connections and backup to cover your crimes is 
that there is no day of reckoning.  You lose an arm, 
you lose the world's respect, but when you're a 
murderer, those things don't matter as much as the 
simple fact that you're alive.

But like I said, now I have to worry about all those 
things.  Might not seem like it, but they do worry 
me.  I'm not worried about the fact that I'm a 
generally wretched human being, but I'm worried that 
the list of things I've done is the reason why I'm 
pretty much forbidden from ever finding even a remote 
possibility of happiness.  Sure, I could find some 
conspiracy moll who would take me as I am and 
conveniently overlook everything that I've done.  
It'd be easy to do.  Good sex, a pair of warm arms to 
hold me and touch me in all the right ways.  Marita?  
She's good for the physical aspect, but I sure as 
hell wasn't going to fall in love with her anytime 
soon.  I doubt she's capable of reciprocating, even 
if either of us had that desire for the other.

The real problem is that I have fallen in love.  
Wouldn't be a bad thing if it were someone from my 
world, but instead I have to fall in love with a 
woman who could easily be my undoing.  All she'd have 
to do is raise an eyebrow, handcuff me to the bed 
under the pretense of kinky play, then call in the 
authorities and whoosh, I'm done for.  I'd be begging 
her to kill me before facing a night in prison.  She 
hasn't done so yet, and I doubt she will now.  The 
possibility is there, though.

The real problem is that I have fallen in love with a 
woman who can never love me back because of what I've 
done, who I am.  She can fuck me senseless, and I can 
hold her and comfort her when her partner tells her 
he loves her, but she'll never fall in love with me.

Because I'm such a reprehensible human being.

She hasn't said so yet -- and she doesn't act like I 
am when we're in bed -- but the fact remains.  
Sometimes I wonder why she said, "I want you" that 
night in her apartment.  Was it the thrill of the 
situation?  Of acting out some fantasy where she 
fucked the perp before hauling him away, but she 
decided to keep me around because I touched her in 
all the right ways?  Or maybe it was the thrill of 
getting back at Mulder in her own bizarre way.  I 
doubt any of those is the reason.  She's not that 
kind of person.

Maybe she just needed to be touched in a way that was 
all about physical sensation.  I was there, I'd come 
on to her, and when the opportunity presented itself, 
she figured what the hell, she'd do it.

I wish like hell I could figure Dana Scully out.

If I could do that, I could rationalize this away.  
But instead, she has become my "Krasnaya", my Red.  
She fucks me and I make love to her.  I fell for her 
with a strength I never expected I'd be able to feel, 
and now I can't let her go even though I have to.

She wants Mulder.  She loves him.  She is IN love 
with him.  It's obvious. I'm the obstacle standing in 
their way.  If I hadn't gotten so caught up in my 
misguided seduction of her, they'd be together now.  
They'd be happy. Now there's a wedge between them so 
deep a backhoe couldn't extract it.

All my fault.  I suppose what I'm feeling is regret.  
I wish it had never happened, but that doesn't mean I 
haven't enjoyed what did happen.  But it does mean 
that I wish I hadn't fallen in love with her, or at 
least that I hadn't slept with her on that first 
night which changed everything.

All my fault.

I should give her up.  I know I should.  I should 
just walk away and go back to being Alex Krycek, 
murderous bastard and all-around reprehensible human 
being.

But that doesn't mean I don't love her.

My Krasnaya is awake.   I can tell as much, even 
though she's perfectly still next to me.  I woke up 
this morning with her body curled into mine, our 
clothes never having been taken off.  I doubt it's 
what she intended; more likely, I'd pulled her so 
close that she couldn’t get away.  Last night was an 
aberration; she wanted comfort and I was there.  
Convenient. I held her close and she fell asleep.  
The end.  But she hasn't run away yet.

Yet.

Her just-awake voice is scratchy, worn.  "You realize 
this isn't normal. The two of us -- it isn't normal."

"Normal?" I know full well what she means, but hey.

"Normal.  We're not going to get up, get dressed for 
work, maybe meet each other for lunch, then come home 
to our nice little house and dog and mortgage."

Of course we're not.  What future do we have 
together?  None.  But that doesn't mean that I don't 
want that.  I want it so damned bad I can taste it.  
The only place I can have it, though, is in my 
fantasies.  Maybe today I can push those fantasies 
along a little bit.  Make them into some weird 
reality.

I can sense the undercurrent of futility in her calm 
voice.  Is this her way of telling me that "not 
normal" means "it's over"?  Oh, hell, if that's what 
she means, I'll at least have a little fun with it 
first.

"I'm rich.  We don't need a mortgage."

"You know what I mean."  Sure I do.  I know full 
well.  I know so well that it hurts.  But like I 
said, I'm just going to play along with her.  Enjoy 
this while it lasts.  Make it real, if only in this 
bed.

"Okay, then we'll get up.  I'll put on my best suit 
and you can practice your Windsor knot on my tie. 
I'll head off to my good old job as an accountant and 
you can go cut people up all day."

"Accountant?"  Is that laughter in her voice?  Sure, 
why not.

"Well, okay, accountant, architect, whatever.  
Something nice and ordinary.  An office job."

She raises her eyebrow in the way I've seen her do 
many times with Mulder. It's part of their shorthand.  
But he's not here, so I'll let her talk to me in 
their language for a little while.

"You don't think I could have an office job?  Wear a 
white collar and so on?"

"Not in the least."

"Try me," I dare her.

She sits up and looks at me.  Her clothes are still 
on, but I watch her fumble with the buttons on her 
blouse.  I get the feeling that if this is a goodbye 
fuck, it'll be a memorable one.

"Okay, Mr. Krycek -- can I call you 'Seamus'?"

"Not if you want to live."  Let's just forget my 
personal history as I say that.

"Seamus," she stresses the word, "I'll just have to 
give you a job interview, then, to see if you're 
suitable for such a position.  So please, tell me a 
little bit about yourself."

This is quickly becoming absurd, given who I am.  But 
what amazes me about Dana is that I can be someone 
else with her.  She can make herself forget who I am 
and I can do the same, or at least let me become 
someone better in these stolen moments.

"A little about me," I say as I sit up and unbutton 
my pants.  Taking off my arm would just spoil the 
mood, so I'll have to do without her hands on my 
chest.  "Let's see, I graduated at the top of my 
class from Penn and did a couple of years of grad 
school."  That much is true.  If I'm going to be 
someone else, I'll just forget about everything after 
college.

She's naked now, and looking at me with faint 
bemusement.  "And what was your major?"

"Art history," I deadpan.  Well, biology, but I'm 
someone else now.

She's trying real hard not to laugh.  "Ah.  And how 
did that prepare you for the wonderful world of 
accounting?"

"It didn't."  I reach out with my right -- my only -- 
hand and touch her shoulder, running my fingertips 
over the cotton of her bra.  "But I know all about 
money, which is more than enough preparation, don't 
you think?"

"I'll take that under consideration.  What have you 
done since graduation?"  She shivers at my touch but 
her voice remains steady.  I can't gauge her mood.  
She's acting carefree, playful, but there's something 
dark in her eyes.  I don't think she realizes it -- 
or else she's burying it deeply within herself.

I'm determined to keep her on that playful plane -- 
no darkness.  God, not that.  It would remind me of 
who I am, not who I want to be right now.  So I 
reply, "I wandered around South America for a while.  
Raised llamas. Then I came up to New York and was in 
the theatre for several years.  Did you notice the 
Tony Award for 'Featured Actor in a Musical' on my 
resume?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," she says around a kiss.  
"Quite impressive. Not something ordinarily found in 
architects or accountants."

"What can I say?" My hand fumbles with the back-clasp 
of her bra before she takes matters into her own 
hands, both of them.  "I'm a renaissance man."

She's lying down on me now, her chin pressing through 
my clothing, against the leather straps of my 
prosthesis.  "What would you say are your greatest 
personal strengths?"

"I can bench-press 100 lbs one-handed." Well, that 
much is true.  "Oh, you didn't mean that kind of 
strength.  Well, I'm very trustworthy, hard-working, 
and one of the most honorable people you'll ever 
meet."  This seals the illusion.  I'm none of those 
things, except perhaps the hard-working aspect.  She 
knows that too, but lies anyway.  If we were 
discussing who I really am, this situation wouldn't 
be happening.  None of this would.  If the true 
Alexander Seamus Krycek had been present from that 
first moment in her bed, I would be long gone by now.  
I'd be dead, for she would have killed me with a 
glance or a bullet.  But we became different people 
that night, and this is those people's last hurrah.

"Of course you are."  Her voice barely carries 
through her shortness of breath.  "Obviously, then, 
you're the perfect candidate for the head accountant 
position.  Welcome to the," her hand pulls my cock 
through my boxers, "firm."

I forget to laugh as she lowers herself onto me.  
Here I am, buried inside her, for what will probably 
be the last time.  I remember every detail as it 
happens -- as I make love to her and she fucks me.  
My mind is working on two planes.  One of them is 
consumed by the incredible sensation, and the other 
is recording every detail so that I can replay them 
when this is all over and she's far away from me.

As I come, I say "I love you" in Russian, moaning 
around the words.  She has already come, and she 
looks at me curiously but says nothing.  I don't know 
if she understands, and I wonder if I even want her 
to.  If she knew I loved her, how would she react?  
Maybe it's better this way.  I can be her plaything, 
her diversion from the real world, where she can let 
go of her inhibitions and take the proverbial walk on 
the wild side that darkness within her wants.

I pull myself away from her and stumble out of bed, 
saving her the trouble of fleeing first.  When I get 
out of the shower, I see her sitting cross-legged on 
the bed, still naked, with papers spread out before 
her. She appears to be carefully reviewing them, but 
the distraction on her face is obvious.

I do have things to do.  They haven't contacted me 
yet -- of course, my cell phone has been turned off -
- but I know that either the Organization's henchmen 
will be in town to "clean up" the mess out at Fort 
DeSoto, or the rebels will be swarming around in 
human disguise.

I have work to do, but it doesn't involve accounting, 
and I won't be coming home to my wife Dana, our dogs, 
or our mortgage at the end of the day.

I kissed her in the morning, but I won't have her for 
the day.

My Krasnaya looks up at me as I open the door, but I 
can't let myself catch her eye as I slip out into the 
hallway.  My past is what has made me into the 
reprehensible human being that I am.  When I'm with 
Dana I can pretend that I'm someone different, 
someone good -- but walking away from her only 
reminds me that I can never be someone good, someone 
deserving of her.

After all, I'm Alexander Seamus Krycek, murderer.

Even after my shower, I can still feel the dirt of 
the underworld on my skin.

+++++

Flight 518 
Tampa-Washington, D.C.

The flight attendant moved down the middle aisle, 
stopping at each row and asking the passengers what 
they'd like.  "Coffee, soda, or a cocktail? Steak or 
chicken?"  It wasn't really steak, but such little 
lies are ones travelers accept as givens.  Lies like, 
"We'll arrive on-time" and "Just a little turbulence, 
nothing to worry about."

Rebecca had to ask twice before getting the attention 
of the couple in 14 A and B.  Nobody in the aisle 
seat, so she immediately knew they were a couple, 
what with the man sitting right next to the woman.  
At first she thought the woman was simply looking out 
the window, but the way she didn't even flinch when 
Rebecca asked her preference showed that she was 
asleep. The man in the aisle seat looked up at her 
and smiled.  "I'd like some decaf coffee, and could 
you please get her," he nodded his head toward the 
woman, "some ice water?  We don't need the meals.  
Thanks."   He repeated his thanks when she poured 
both the drinks and placed them on the tray table in 
front of him.  "Oh, and one more thing," he blurted 
out, and she turned from where she'd been taking 
orders for 14 D-F.  "Could we please have one of the 
blankets?  I turned off the overhead vent but it's 
still cool in here."  His voice sounded apologetic.  
Thank heavens for one person who didn't treat her 
like she was their maidservant.

"If you can hang on a few minutes while I finish 
serving, I'll be happy to get it for you."  He nodded 
and smiled, and she turned back to let Suzanne, her 
partner, know that she was unlatching the footbrake 
and pushing the tray forward.

The trip down the aisle took less time than usual, 
with most people quite simple in their orders for a 
change.  As she and Suzanne were parking the cart, 
she remembered 14B's request and went back to fetch 
the blanket.  She reached up into the overhead bin 
with the ease of two years' practice, and heard him 
whisper, "You want your water, Scully? Because if you 
don't, I can drink it."  She couldn’t hear the 
woman's reply, but she glanced down and saw the man 
smile and down the cup of water in one long draught.

Rebecca almost felt guilty interrupting them.  The 
woman was obviously trying to sleep, and the man was 
just looking at her as she settled herself in along 
his shoulder, curling into his body.  She grabbed the 
fleece blanket and noticed the man stacking the cups, 
both of them empty.  Rebecca took the cups in one 
hand so he could put the tray table back up.  He took 
the blanket from her with a smile and turned back to 
the woman, unfolding the blanket and arranging it on 
her lap.

She couldn't see a wedding ring on his left hand, but 
then, some men didn't wear them.  Too bad.  Good 
looking man, but hey, all the good ones are taken 
these days, aren't they?

+++++

From Dana Scully's computer journal:

Just what have I accomplished?

1.  Formed an alliance with an organization I detest. 
2.  Chased after evidence, then ignored it when I 
couldn't deal with its ramifications. 
3.  Lost sight of just what I'm working toward. 
4.  Taken as a lover a man who I once found 
abhorrent. 
5.  Messed up my relationship with Mulder, possibly 
beyond repair.

 We make so many decisions in our lives.  We always 
like to think they're the best ones, when in reality 
the way they turn out is often completely different 
from what we expect.

I could catalogue my decisions ad infinitum.  I chose 
to join the F.B.I.  I was offered a chance to go out 
into the field, leaving behind the promise of my 
position as an instructor at Quantico.  I could have 
said no, but I was so ambitious then.  It was a great 
opportunity, even I'd be working with a man my 
friends and I had laughed at back at the Academy.

I don't regret that choice I made.  I never have.

And that's just for starters.  Every day, throughout 
our lives, we make decisions.  Bagels or cereal?  
Accelerate and make the light, or play it safe and 
brake?  Fudge the truth and save your ass, or be 
honest and suffer the consequences?

I knew from the start that my decision to work with 
Krycek had an enormous potential to backfire on me.  
Sleep with the enemy and die like the rest. Well, I 
haven't died, and I have slept with the enemy, in 
both literal and figurative ways.  I don't regret 
that decision I made a month and a half ago, when I 
told Mulder I wanted to accept Krycek's offer and 
made the call to seal the deal.

It was a strange deal, to say the least.  We -- 
Mulder and I -- never really did betray our ideals, 
like I worried we would.  From the beginning six 
years ago, back when we first made that unspoken pact 
as partners, we decided our mission was to find the 
truth.  Not just simple truths like who or what had 
committed a crime, but the truth about what was 
happening with the shadow government, and what we 
could do to stop the horrors they had caused.

What we have done since I made that deal with Krycek 
has been part of that.  He gave us the opportunity to 
learn what has been happening.  That was all.  
Discovery.  What we chose to do with that information 
was up to us.

My problem is that I never followed through.

I have an alarming tendency to run when I can't face 
the truth.  It is something I've always done, even 
back in high school when I found out my best friend 
was carrying on with the boy I'd called my boyfriend.  
Back then, I wasn't the self-confident woman I am 
today.  I was just an impressionable, insecure kid.  
I didn't confront them with what I knew.  I just 
turned the other cheek and pretended like I had no 
idea.  Instead of lashing out at them for betraying 
me, I was convinced it was my fault, that I hadn't 
done all the right things, that I wasn't good enough 
to be his, or anyone's, girlfriend.  When I did break 
up with him, it was under the pretext that I'd 
decided I didn't like him all that much.  Of course 
that was wrong, as I adored him with the crazed 
infatuation only sixteen year olds possess.  But I 
didn't have the guts then to stand up to the two of 
them.  I just walked away.

A month ago, I sat in my apartment, two boxes of 
files promising answers to everything I'd been 
searching for for so long.  Answers to what had 
happened to me, and why this organization of men had 
been cruelly manipulating the public for over fifty 
years.  What did I do about it?  I curled up on the 
sofa and pretended the files weren't there.  I have 
proof, but it has stayed in a box in my living room, 
gathering dust while I tell myself I don't want to 
know.  I can't face it, because facing it would mean 
that I would have to deal with the ramifications.  I 
would have to deal with the truth about myself, and 
that scares me more than any monster I could ever 
confront.

I have had a man in my life for six years.  A man who 
worships me like a marble statue and loves me like an 
angel at his side.  He knows all my faults and wants 
me despite them, perhaps even because of them.  I've 
known this about Mulder for several years now, but 
maintained a distance between us because living with 
that stasis was easier than plunging headfirst into a 
love affair which frightened me because of the 
intensity of emotion involved.  Living with a man I 
know loves me but doing nothing about it is easier 
than showing him the love I feel and losing the 
control that distance provides.  As long as our 
relationship remains platonic, I can control it.  The 
moment I allow myself to return the passion he can 
give me, I lose control.  And losing control 
terrifies me.

Krycek was easy.  I knew exactly what he had to offer 
me, and I took it.  I could have a passionate 
relationship with him because my heart wasn't 
involved.  I could sleep with him and give myself 
some sexual release without being bound by the 
frightening chaos of love.  The problem is that I 
never expected it to affect me so deeply.  I never 
expected to get drawn into it, into him.  When I 
first told him to touch me, to kiss me, I didn't 
realize that it would be so exhilarating and that I 
would come to crave his touch.  He wasn't supposed to 
hold me close, to brighten my day with a smile he 
didn't think I saw, or to make me lose all control 
when I coveted his body next to mine.  I never 
thought he'd fall in love with me, and I never 
thought I'd want that love, even if I didn't return 
it.

I don't know if I ever could return it.  The idea is 
tempting.  He fascinates the hell out of me.  I 
loathe the idea of wanting him beyond the sex, but 
that the idea crosses my mind sometimes, more than I 
want it to. I haven't seen him since St. Petersburg, 
when we had that strange sex.  He acted like it was 
all just a joke, that the idea of running away from 
it all and living a normal life was good for a laugh, 
a fantasy that became a turn-on.  But it caught my 
attention.  He wanted it more than he let on. It was 
obvious in his eyes.  I played along, but after he 
fled the bed for the shower, I thought about what had 
happened.  Could I just run away with him, settle 
down and build a life with him?  God, no.  The person 
he is outside of the fantasy we've constructed in bed 
negates all possibility of that.  But it's tempting.  
It's so damned tempting to just leave with him -- to 
have that incredible body all to myself and live with 
a man who seems to worship me and who could let me 
flirt with all those dangerous feelings he brings out 
in me.

So now, here I am, typing these words as if by 
setting them down I can make some sense of my life.  
What was it that Anne Frank said?  "Paper is more 
patient that people?"  This isn't paper, but it's a 
good substitute.  My fingers type more easily than 
they can grip a pen, and I can voice these thoughts 
on a computer screen better than I could ever say 
them aloud.

Life doesn't provide closure.  That's not what it's 
about.  It's nice to think that for every decision we 
make, the consequences are clear and finite.  They're 
not, though.  I walked away from my high school 
boyfriend and never solved that problem.  I decided 
to accept the offer to work with Fox Mulder, and the 
consequences of that decision are neverending -- and 
I like it that way.  I decided to agree to go with 
Krycek and find the proof that Mulder and I had been 
seeking, and when it became more than I could handle, 
I set it aside and refused to confront it.  I pushed 
Mulder's love away and now am left with the 
uncertainty that the closeness we once had might 
never wholly return.  I slept with Krycek and even 
though it opened a whole new world of physical 
passion, it created problems I'd never anticipated.

I guess that's what life is all about.  We think that 
everything will be wrapped up in a nice package we 
can stow away and move on without any baggage, but 
that's not true.  I'm allowed to use cliches in my 
diary, right?  Well, a good cliché is that life is 
like a work-in-progress.  It begins one way, then 
evolves in a completely different way than how we 
expect.  What seemed predestined unravels, and the 
logical end changes so much that it's unrecognizable 
by the time we've reached what we thought would be 
the consequence of a decision.

Right now I just wish that my life would become some 
complete whole.  That I could come to a logical end 
already.  But I guess that's just life. There's no 
real end in sight.

+++++

"Alex?  It's Irina.  You have heard about my uncle, 
yes?  My mother wants me to come to New York to 
settle his estate.  I arrive tomorrow evening, and I 
shall stay at his house.  Perhaps we might have 
dinner while I am here?  Please call me. I believe 
you know the telephone number."

+++++

She asked me to meet her at her apartment, but I 
insisted she come over to mine.  Her place is too 
tainted by my imaginings of the two of them together 
in her bed.  I'm sure those thoughts will fade one 
day, but they're still too fresh in my mind.  Maybe 
they won't fade.  After all, I don’t even know if 
she's still with that -- with Krycek.

I'd like to think that that night in my hotel room 
changed her world.  That my kiss was enough to make 
her throw him away like the garbage he is.  But over 
the past six years I've also learned never to second-
guess Scully, because she second-guesses herself 
enough to overwhelm whatever I might expect.  She 
doesn't think she's doing that, but she does.  
Sometimes I think I know her better than she does 
herself, but then I guess that theory was blown out 
of the water when I found out she was sleeping with 
him.

I've been in her apartment once since we got back.  
In fact, it was the night we returned from Florida.  
I stepped inside to make sure she got safely home, 
though I didn't tell her that.  Once we stepped 
inside, I could feel the air change.  All that 
negative energy Alex seems to carry around like a 
damned lightning rod.  I stood next to her doorway 
while she moved around the place, turning on lights 
and checking to make sure everything was as she left 
it.  She walked over to a stack of two boxes in the 
corner, then picked one of them up and brought it 
over to me, placing it at my feet.

I knew what it was -- the files we had procured over 
a month before.  Dust had collected on the top.  I 
knew without asking that she had kept them there, not 
touching them.  Despite the negative energy left by 
Krycek's presence, my heart bled a little for her 
right there.  The knowledge in those files was 
painful for her.  I remembered the way she had curled 
up in my arms when we first began to look at them.  
Perhaps time had given her the ability to get over 
the terror of them, but I doubted it.  Instead, time 
had allowed her to box them up in her mind, just as 
they had been boxed up in her living room.  She 
wouldn't have to think about them and the horrors 
they contained if they stayed there.

She helped me take the two boxes out to my car, and I 
took them home.  I was itching with the need to open 
them and explore.  But this quest isn't just mine 
anymore.  It's hers too, and I forced myself to wait 
until she was ready to do so with me.

That was several weeks ago, and so much has happened 
since then.  Cases to be investigated, criminals to 
bring down.  And the files still in my dining room, 
stacked up and waiting for her to be ready.

She asked me this morning to bring over the boxes to 
her apartment, that she wanted to start going over 
them.  But I just can't go back over there, not yet.  
So I reversed the tables and invited her over here.  
It's a Thursday night.  I've always liked Thursdays -
- right on the verge of a weekend of freedom, though 
the freedom of hours with no obligations aren't 
always welcome.  But anyway, we parted at the office 
and I came back home, expecting her visit at eight.  
My place was clean but I ran a dustrag over the 
surfaces anyway, just to be safe, and cooked us a 
simple meal.

Scully arrived on time.  She has always been so 
precise that way.  She'd told me she was ready to 
start this new investigation, but I didn't want to 
rush her.  I wanted this night to be informal, 
comfortable.  Dinner was put on plates and carried 
into the living room instead of to the dining table. 
I sat in the brown leather armchair, a plate on my 
lap, and she took a seat on the sofa.

Work was discussed over dinner.  Not the work of the 
conspiracy, but rather a joint debriefing of the 
monsters we seemed to see on a weekly basis.  I 
caught her glancing up at the vent high on the wall a 
few times, wondering if she could hear the voice of 
the young opera singer who had just moved in next 
door, aspiring toward more... healthy creative 
pursuits than her predecessor.

Things change, don’t they?  Old hates are expelled 
and hopefully replaced by newer, happier feelings.

I had Scully here with me.  I had no reason to 
believe she had ended things with Krycek, but then I 
had no reason to believe she hadn't.  She had already 
smiled at me several times since we returned from 
Florida, and once I saw her licking her lips as she 
looked in my direction, as if she was remembering 
that kiss we'd shared.  I wonder if it had changed 
her life as much as it had mine?

I hoped it did.

The time came for us to face the files.  I stood and 
gathered our plates and took them into the kitchen, 
then went into the dining room and carried the boxes 
into where she was sitting.  They sat on the floor at 
the end of the coffee table for several minutes while 
I waited for her to say something, but she didn't.  I 
didn't want to pressure her.

She looked at me and said, "Could you come sit over 
here, next to me?"  Of course I complied.  I felt 
only positive energy as her warmth suffused my skin, 
even though we didn't touch.  Scully said nothing 
else, though she glanced over at the two boxes.  Her 
chin dropped to her chest and her hair formed a 
curtain around her face.  The sight showed as much 
sadness as Scully could ever show me.

We hadn't come to any real understanding since that 
kiss in St. Petersburg, but I knew she wanted 
another.  Maybe it was just me projecting my wants 
onto her, but I took a risk anyway.

Her head at her chest, I reached a hand up and 
smoothed away the hair from the nape of her neck, 
then leaned over and placed a soft kiss there.  Such 
a frightening place for us, that patch of skin where 
the chip that guaranteed her health rested.  Someone 
shivered -- maybe her, definitely me.  I wrapped my 
arm around her shoulders and she leaned into my body. 
Then she raised her face to mine.

It was a different kind of fireworks this time, a 
different kind of passion.  This kiss was as much 
about healing as it was desire.  My lips floated over 
hers and her breath warmed my face.

I could feel forever in that kiss, and I hoped she 
felt the same.  But the thing I loved more than 
anything about her was that she never laid her 
emotions out for me.  They were always her own.

I just hoped that now we were sharing them.

I held her tightly for a long time, my lips on her 
cheek, then listened as she said, "Let's get 
started."

+++++

He wants to leave.

He can already feel the need slithering up his spine, 
dancing across his vertebrae.  Just leave, get the 
hell out of here, away from this.  Away from her.

The need is suffocating, wrapping itself around his 
throat.  If he could leave, all this darkness would 
be far away.  No, not the darkness of his life as an 
assassin, a spy.  He can live with that.  He enjoys 
it, in some disturbed way.  It has become so much a 
part of his life that he doesn't even see it as dark 
anymore.

No, the darkness is Scully.

Funny how such a light woman can be so dark, but 
there it is.  He sees the blackness in her life.  The 
denials.  The losses.  The self-neglect which allows 
her to deny herself what she wants and needs.  They 
make her alluring, one to be desired.  And that is 
where the darkness comes in.

He doesn't want to desire her.  It's unhealthy.  Oh, 
he might seem like the kind of man for whom such 
things matter little, but they do to him.  When he 
lay in that wood, screaming with the pain of an arm 
being cut off, the lack of concern for his own well-
being was lost.  He began to take care of himself in 
ways he never had.  Instead of running from one place 
to another, letting himself be mired in shit if it 
meant he was still alive, he began to want something 
more.  The finer things in life.  He dragged himself 
out of the dirt.  The Russians had slathered some tar 
over his stump to fend off bleeding, like Civil War 
re-enactors.  For some strange reason they took him 
to a local hospital, pristinely clean in the midst of 
such a tattered world.  At first he was puzzled, but 
then realized their reasons -- they already had his 
arm, and they were pragmatists who knew he wouldn't 
be much help if dying from blood loss and gangrene.  
Alex let himself be fixed up, then slipped out of the 
hospital and got himself the hell back to the States.

He became healthy.  He built up his body to flesh and 
muscle, no wasted cells.  He withdrew a chunk of the 
money from the DAT and bought himself a decent place 
to live and a wardrobe of fine fabrics, well-oiled 
leather. Drank clean water, ate whole foods.  As if 
all that cleanliness could wash away the dirt of that 
wood, purge the bacteria from his body.  Only one 
thing mattered anymore:  himself.

Left alone, without oxygen or nourishment, flesh can 
die.  His heart did. Or, at least, he thought it had.  
People became money to be spent or accumulated, 
nothing more.  It was exhilarating.  With nobody or 
nothing to care about but himself, life became so 
much easier.  Instead of living as a scavenger, he 
lived as an accumulator -- gathering wealth and 
power.  He had the world at his feet.

But then she came along, and she made him unhealthy.

Oh, he knew how to love.  He had done it once before, 
with the simplicity of a young man with his future 
ahead of him.  Then he let that love pass through his 
fingers, then back to Russia where she'd call him 
occasionally and they'd still tell one another they 
were friends.  He could tell himself that he'd 
experienced love, as if it was one more life-
experience he figured he ought to have before he 
died.  Never expected it to happen again. 

Dana Scully couldn’t pass through his fingers like 
water.  He couldn't pour her into a filter and purify 
himself of her.  She just wasn't that simple. First 
she was "Agent", a formal term of respect.  Then she 
became "Dana", and then his "Krasnaya", his Red.  He 
should never have let her take on new names.  She 
should have stayed "Agent", bottled up on a shelf 
which he could walk past without a second look.

He wants to put her back on that shelf, to keep 
walking.  To leave her far behind for those who are 
better for her.  Even the darkness of his Dana-less 
life would have been preferable.  A life without Red, 
a life without color.  Just darkness.  Yet there she 
was, a crimson streak across his vision.

If he could leave, it would all be so much easier.  
He could live only for himself.  But there she is.

He watches her make her way across the crowded floor 
of the restaurant, moving around tables like a 
centipede in a video game.  He remembers his manners, 
and stands as she reaches their table, pulling out 
her chair so she can sit.  Moving around to his own, 
he sits opposite her and just looks at her, returning 
her gaze.

"Why did you ask me to meet you here?"  She glances 
around the restaurant, as surprised as he is that 
they're meeting out here in the open, amongst 
society.  In the light.

Alex wonders what possessed him to phone her and ask 
her to meet him at Mezzaluna in Georgetown, sharing 
an Italian meal with the social climbers and 
politicos.  He almost says, 'I don't know,' but bites 
back the words and says, "I wanted to take you 
somewhere nice."

Her brows raise in a silent "Oh."

It's true.  He wants to treat her right for a change, 
show her the Good Life.  It's like that silly movie 
he saw on a long flight back from Russia a year or so 
ago.  She makes him want to be someone better, 
someone deserving of her.  This dinner won't make him 
that man, but it might make her happy.  She deserves 
to be happy.

Menus open on the table, eyes scanning the contents.  
A waitress appears and they order.  A strange flight 
of fancy overtakes him and he imagines ordering for 
her, choosing the best on the menu just so that it 
might bring

a smile to her face.  But she's too strong a person 
to let him choose for her, so he takes what he can 
get.  As much as he has determined a "finer" course 
of life for himself, with his fancy apartment and 
silk shirts and fashionable haircut, he doesn't know 
which wine is the best.  White for fish and chicken, 
red for pasta.  He chooses a Merlot which must be the 
finest they've got; after all, it has the highest 
price tag.  He realizes after he's instructed the 
waitress to bring it out that she hasn't seen the 
wine list.  She doesn't know that he's chosen the 
finest for her.  For every self-perceived victory, 
there are also losses.

They don’t talk much, neither quite knowing what to 
say to one another in a normal life.  Something 
possesses him to ask her how Mulder is doing, and she 
says, "He's fine," her words betraying nothing but a 
light passing over her face at the mention of him.  
She doesn't have that trademark afterglow, but he 
wonders if maybe the other man has finally given her 
what she needs, what she wants despite her assertions 
to the contrary.  The dark half of him is blindingly 
jealous, but that light half -- the one she created -
- hopes that maybe Mulder makes her happy.  Happy the 
way Alex will never make her.

It's funny how quiet the two of them can be.  Words 
fill the air around them, none of them loud enough 
for him to eavesdrop on others' conversations, but 
with enough amplitude to make the two of them seem 
deathly quiet by comparison.

They begin to talk over garlic bread and the first 
sips of the Merlot.  He asks her about some of the 
cases she and Mulder have been on recently -- after 
all, even without conspiracies to uncover, they still 
have a job to do.  He listens as she tells him about 
typewriters and escaped convicts and Las Vegas.  All 
the things she has done in-between nights in bed with 
him and trips to Florida to see burned bodies. The 
tales remind him that she has a full life without 
him.  The conspiracy is his life.  She has one 
outside of it.  It makes him feel oddly sheltered, 
that his life can be distilled down to one element 
while hers has so many vivid colors and experiences.  
He might have wealth amounting to eight digits on a 
Swiss banker's ledger, but she has a life.  She's 
richer than him.

It's nice, sitting here eating garlic bread and 
sauteed mushrooms and listening to her talk.  She 
relates her tales with a clinical vocabulary, but her 
eyes light up as she tells them.  They fascinate her, 
though she would never let on.  Dana mentions Mulder 
sometimes while she spins the tales.  He fascinates 
her too, though she never lets on.

One thing he notices is that she never glances around 
the room furtively, worrying someone will see them 
together.  At least he can be happy for that.  She 
doesn't fear him anymore.

Why?

He takes a bite of the pasta which had been placed on 
the table a few minutes ago, and remembers a dream he 
had two nights before.  The same dream he always had, 
memories of lying on that forest floor, the flame-hot 
blade slicing through his skin.  But instead of 
opening his eyes and seeing Russian faces, he sees 
hers.  She is making the first cut on flesh.  Her 
eyes look dead, no emotion therein.  'Dana, don't,' 
whispers through his lips, but she places more 
pressure on the blade.  Strength floods through him 
and he leaps up and pushes her down onto the ground, 
where he had just been.  His gun is drawn with a 
smooth motion and it is in her face before she even 
blinks.  The blood from his shoulder drips onto her 
face.  He doesn't know whether to kiss her like he 
had done that night when Lombard burned... or to kill 
her.  He jolts awake before he makes the decision.

The pasta is rubbery in his mouth.  Alex looks across 
the table at her.  A bit of creamy tomato sauce is 
gathered at the corner of her mouth.  Just like his 
blood in his dream.

This is unhealthy, he reminds himself.  It is as 
unhealthy for him as it is for her.  The lack of 
suspicion makes her sick.  She can't be well again 
until she hates him.

But he can't have her hating him.  He can't bear the 
thought of it.

He wants to leave.

In between bites of pasta, Alex tells her about 
Irina, and the message she had left on his answering 
machine yesterday afternoon while he was busy chasing 
down a member of the Organization who had escaped the 
El Rico inferno.  Dana seems genuinely interested in 
the news, and he searches her face for any sign of 
jealousy, as if that envy would prove to him that the 
love he feels isn't unrequited, even though he knows 
it is.  He tells her that he doesn't know if he'll 
accept Irina's offer to take him to dinner, but Dana 
encourages him to see his ex-wife.  "Didn't you say 
that you two are still friends?  It's always nice to 
see people."

Does she know that Irina is his only friend?  Dana 
and Mulder -- they're not friends of his.  They'll 
never be 'friends', even if he's shared her bed, 
fallen in love with her.  And Mulder?  Mulder may 
tolerate him but he knows the man wants him dead.  He 
only tolerates Alex because for some incomprehensible 
reason, his Scully wants Alex around.  And because 
Mulder knows that Alex can provide them with 
information and answers.  This isn't the first time 
Alex has felt used.  It won't be the last.  And 
besides, he knows that he uses more people than use 
him.

The topic of conversation dies out and they finish 
dinner in silence.  She orders coffee for him and 
tiramisu for herself.  He watches her lips wrap 
around each bite of the ladyfingers and cream, 
remembering how those lips wrapped themselves around 
his skin.

The check arrives and he pays it despite her polite 
protestations that she should share the expense.  She 
is, after all, an upstanding citizen of society.  He 
left society behind a long time ago.

He really does have to leave now, and not just 
because of the stifling need to get away from this 
unhealthy situation, as much as it hurts to do so.

The man and the woman are sitting opposite each other 
at the table, both knowing that the time is up and 
politesse says they must vacate their table for the 
next couple to occupy it.

He lets a rare smile spread over his face, so much 
more than the pained smirk he usually lets suffice as 
a smile.  She smiles back at him and he's surprised 
to see it, that for some incomprehensible reason he 
has made her happy.  Dana licks her lips and they 
shine like the titanium he had seen in the jewelry 
store window so long ago.

"I'm going to be away for a while," he tells her.

She looks at him and he sees the realization on her 
face.  Then she shocks him by saying, "I'll miss 
you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he merely 
nods his head.

Together, they walk out of the restaurant.

+++++

END of novel.



First, before you write and ask for a sequel -- I 
won't write one.  I fully understand that the ending 
is ambiguous, and I intended it to be.  We very 
seldom get cut-and-dried endings on The X-Files, 
where every question is resolved and things look rosy 
at the end.  Life isn't like that either.  I wanted 
to leave the ending up to the reader's imagination.  
If you want a S/K resolution, you've received your 
wish, as have the ones who wrote begging me for MSR 
:).

Thank you so very much to everyone who has sent 
support and kind words as I have been writing this 
story.  They've meant the world to me!  I have to 
give special thanks to several people who have helped 
by reading or giving suggestions:  Annie, Rachel, 
Suzanne, and Kim.  And I owe the world to the woman 
who has been there and helped more than words can 
say:  Susanne B. She wasn't particularly interested 
in Krycek when she began to help me, but has warmed 
to him and has been invaluable!

And to see Susanne's "sequel" to Titanium, please 
read Linoleum.  (Warning, it's a parody -- and I love 
it!)

I hope that those of you who are opposed to the very 
idea of Scully/Krycek have at least given this a 
chance, even if it didn't change your mind.  I didn't 
expect it to change the world, but it was a story I 
very much wanted to tell, and have loved doing so.

Please tell me what you think -- alanna@alanna.net