Departure III Prologue: Scully Today Skinner asked me -- tactfully, so very delicately -- if I would like to get some new furniture, if I need some temporary help to clean up the office a bit. He knows what happened to Mulder -- knows everything except for a few crucial facts. To him, Mulder is MIA, and the fact that he was last seen with the enemy signifies that he's probably dead. In his own way, Skinner's trying to help ease me through it. I know the full, unadorned truth -- to the best of my knowledge, I am the only one who knows, other than the principals themselves -- and I can't bring myself to change anything in the office, in the hope that Mulder will come to his senses and return. Or maybe he has come to his senses. I don't know. I was ready to do it. I really was. From the moment I passed Krycek in the hallway and utilized every ounce of control pretending not to notice him, I knew what was going to happen, and what I was going to do about it. I staked out that back entrance for hours, I stalked him, and when the moment was right, I pounced... I was ready to do it. I was completely prepared to kill Krycek, and never mind that Mulder might have hated me for it. I was convinced, down to the core of my soul, that I had to free Mulder from his obsession, no matter the cost... And then everything changed in about half a second, and suddenly nothing was certain. It was such a small move. Just a quick step sideways: Krycek, placing himself in front of Mulder. I remember thinking: that's stupid; doesn't he realize he's the one I want to shoot? Then it struck me: how very instinctive the move had been. How deeply ingrained was his reflex to protect Mulder. That was when my perspective began to shift. I got another of the notes today: another anonymous slip of paper with two neatly typed words. "Situation stable." They appear periodically, at irregular intervals: slipped under my apartment door, rolled up in my morning newspaper, wedged between memos in my interoffice mail. The routine is mystifying, but comforting. Such a small thread, on which to base my sanity... Damn him, damn Krycek. I can't even hate him anymore. Not since I saw the way Mulder looked at him. The way he looked at Mulder. It may well be twisted and unhealthy, this attachment, but it's real. And mutual. And Mulder deserves to be happy for a change. Even if it isn't with me. I never dreamed that it would be any other way. I always believed it was just a matter of time before our relationship developed into romance. I knew how I felt about him, I was certain of the way he felt about me, and we just kept getting closer... And now this. It isn't fair. In the middle of the night, sometimes, I hear his voice in my ears, incredulous and plaintive: "You did..." A two-word indictment of our partnership. His likening of our relationship to the one he shares with Krycek infuriates me -- but what frightens me is the thought that he might be right. And what makes me cry myself to sleep some nights is the thought that Mulder is sharing his life and his love and his body with Alex Krycek, and I'm alone here, missing him. Damn. I'm in charge of the X-Files Division now, which is meaningless, since I'm the only one in it. All it means, really, is that Mulder's old life is still here, still viable, if he ever chooses to step back into it. Skinner thinks I'm clinging to an unrealistic hope; it hurts him, I think, the way I cling to the idea that Mulder might return. It would be easier, less painful, to close the door on the possibility: it would allow the wound of his absence to begin to heal. But I can't let go. It hurts me -- it kills me -- that Mulder was able to let go of me. And then I remember the expression on his face when he turned for one long last look back... 'Situation stable', the notes say -- and never mind that they could be lies: even if true, there is still so much they don't convey. Is Mulder at peace? Is he happy? Does he wish he could turn back the clock and change the choice he made? Does he miss me? Does he ever wonder what-if, and ponder what might have happened instead if one of us had made a move sooner? Or is he so wrapped up in Krycek that he doesn't think of me at all? Some nights I can't shake the fear that it's all a cruel lie: that Mulder is already dead by Krycek's hand, and his murderer is merely playing a heartless game designed to shatter my soul once and for all. Then I remember the way they looked at each other, and fear becomes -- I admit it -- jealousy, that someone else should own the part of him that I'd always thought would be mine. And adrift, bereft, I journey through the nights and days alone, aching inside and always wondering about the would-have-been, the should-have-been, the future I'll never know. Part Three The ventilation crawlspace is narrow, dark, stuffy and thoroughly claustrophobic, and for the thousandth time I curse my curiosity and my vendetta in soundless Russian. I could be in a very comfortable bed right now, I think, in a wonderfully uncomfortable position, having all sorts of incredible things done to me; so what the hell am I doing here? Oh, but this is interesting. Very, very interesting. Enough to make the dirt and discomfort worthwhile. A cockroach scuttles across my hand. I don't flinch; I've trained myself to suppress such reactions. The price of being a survivor. Besides, the ugly little insect is a spiritual relative, of sorts: we're two of a kind. My childhood cubbyhole-bedroom was cockroach-infested, like the rest of the apartment, and no amount of determination or chemical warfare could eliminate the problem. I used to wake up shrieking and swatting at the feel of them running over me. Then one day it dawned on my impressionable young mind that there was something admirable in the sheer persistence of the vermin -- the way nothing could stop them or hold them back; the way they managed to shrug off anything we could throw at them. Not long after my epiphany, my father 'changed jobs', and suddenly we had much more money, and a far better place to live -- but I've maintained a grudging respect for roaches ever since. Eagles may soar, but cockroaches survive. Together, the insect and I watch and listen through the tiny slotted grate as events transpire... oh, this is very interesting. Definitely worth the trip. Of course, Mulder wouldn't agree -- he hates it when I leave him -- but I have the feeling that when he hears this, he might just forgive me for being gone so long. Assuming I make it out in one piece, and return home to tell him. I recognize the whole cast of characters, having known them a few short years and a lifetime ago. They're all there, playing their parts in this pathetic charade. The ones who used to be my employers, my patrons, my associates and allies. The ones who have done their utmost to see me dead, now that they can no longer rely on me to do their dirty work for them. Some of their faces, Mulder would recognize -- some of them quite well: the smell of Morley smoke curls through the ventilation shaft where I am concealed. Some of their faces, no one would know, except for a former player like myself -- seemingly ordinary men whose lives are kept carefully separate from any hint of governmental intrigue, the better to conceal the sick truths of their existences. They all see themselves as superior to the rest of mankind. They believe themselves the shapers of history, when in fact they are only the most pathetic of pawns. It seems their masters have demanded yet another group of human subjects, to satisfy their incessant curiosity about the human species and our many weaknesses. The more they know about us, the easier the colonization will be; but these 'superior men' never hesitate in carrying out their masters' wishes. Which means that the world is in for yet another rash of unexplained disappearances and abductions. The rabid xenophiles among the UFO theorists will have a field day, extrapolating fond dreams of a wise and benevolent alien race choosing human ambassadors, preparing us for the day when they will bestow their gifts of wisdom and peace upon humanity... Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. And what a rude awakening it will be, when the truth becomes known. My thoughts turn briefly to Mulder's former partner -- Dana Scully was luckier than she knew. Her abduction had more to do with undermining Mulder than with the colonization itself; her usage as a test subject was almost an afterthought. Those tests were orchestrated in connection with one of the occasional token attempts at resistance undertaken by these desperate men, more to assuage any remnants of conscience they might possess than from any genuine belief that their actions might bear fruit. Her captors, her testers, were the hirelings of the men who stand before me, and so she managed to survive the experience. The victims who are chosen at the command of the aliens are never so fortunate. None of these have ever returned. And now another group of innocents will be sent to the slaughter... Mulder's Cancerman is on the secure phone line, barking out orders to his newest (and therefore most expendable) batch of hired help, directing the delivery of the latest shipment of 'merchandise' to the principal testing center. Pathetic bastards have no way of knowing that they themselves will be part of the shipment as well; thus is the absolute secrecy of the Project maintained. But not this time. I don't even try to repress my satisfied grin. After months of patient and less-than-patient watching and waiting, scurrying down dark hallways and crawling through narrow passages, I have what I've been searching for: a location. I now know where the test subjects are being taken and held. It's not the Project's central command, but it's the best piece of information I've yet come across: a destination, a place of importance to them, a possible way to hurt them. It is my first real chance to take these motherfuckers down. The conversation concludes, the principal players leave the room; and once there is no one left to hear any small noises I might make, I begin the slow, arduous process of inching backward along the shaft. After I extricate myself from the ventilation system, it'll just be a matter of navigating unseen through hostile territory, then driving a thousand miles via a circuitous route. Just another typical commute home from work, for me. But for now, as for the last ten months of my life, I have something to look forward to when I get there. By the time I reach the third of five main entrances to my underground sanctum, I'm covered with four distinct layers of dirt, and I want a shower so badly I can taste it. It's hard to be cautious and circumspect when all I can think of is getting back to him -- but I force myself to take the time to cover my tracks, make myself spend three hours concealed in sparse shrubbery until I'm certain I haven't been tracked or followed, before I slip into a crack in the earth and slither home. Of the five routes I can take, this is the most difficult and annoying -- I inch my way forward, hand over hand, flat on my stomach, until the tunnel widens enough for me to crawl on hands and knees. I evade two of the traps I've set to discourage uninvited visitors, disarm and rearm the others, as I continue creeping forward until the narrow passage joins with the main entrance. Once upon a time, this was my emergency route, to be used only when the threat of detection was highest; since bringing Mulder here, it has been my route of choice, as I will take no chances with his safety. But that caution is almost more effort than I can bear to expend, in my current state of exhaustion. I barely remember to trigger the soft chime that will let him know it's me, so that I don't get a hole blown in my chest once I open that last door. My hands are shaking by the time I get to the entrance and stagger through, utterly spent. It's more than worth it, though. Because there he is: a sight for sore eyes and then some. He's reclining on the sofa in his usual position, pretending to read a book -- I notice that he is holding it upside-down; but this is our ritual, and one we both need, so I don't call him on the slip. Instead, I put all my remaining energy into sounding as wrung-out as I feel. "Hey." Mulder glances up at me -- tosses the book aside and is on his feet in the same motion; half a second later, his arms are sliding around me. "You look like shit," he comments. "Are you hurt?" "Not this time." I start for the sofa, pretend to stumble -- realize halfway down that I'm too tired to regain my balance as I'd planned; but just as I'd calculated, he catches me and keeps me from falling. Damn, it's good to be home. He guides me to the couch, gets me settled, fusses over me like a mother hen. Moments later, I feel his hands stripping off my dirty clothes. "You're not that tired," he says sardonically as he pulls off my jeans, sliding one hand along my rising cock. "I'm never that tired," I agree, arching my hips into his hand. Mulder strokes me a few times; then his hand stills. "You need a shower." Oh, hell, don't stop...! "I can wait." "No, you can't. You smell like something that died a week ago." "What a wonderful way with words you have, Mulder. So poetic. So romantic." "Shut up, asshole. And you're taking that shower, whether you want to or not." Pseudo-sternness fades into affection. "Don't look at me that way. I'm planning to join you." Damn, it's good to be home. "Come on," he says, and extends his hands; I reach back and clasp his wrists fireman-style, and he hauls me off the couch and into his arms. He drags me into the shower and bathes me, lathering me and caressing me until I'm so aroused I've totally forgotten to be tired: scolding me the whole time, his voice both annoyed and relieved, for having been away so long. "So where the hell have you been for the last three weeks?" he wonders finally. I weigh my options swiftly. If I tell him now, I'll lose him to the problem: discussion will become debriefing, and all prospects of sex will fade into the background -- and I really really want him right now. "Later," I say. Instantly, he looks intrigued -- most of the time, I don't offer to tell him anything at all -- but a long kiss distracts him effectively. He's good. He's really good. I never expected... I thought it would be a long uphill struggle; that I'd have to drag him kicking and screaming into grudging acceptance. I never imagined that he'd be so damn willing. Never dreamed that I'd wake up in the middle of the night with his tongue shoved down my throat and his hands roaming all over my body. Never thought I'd share my home with him, spend my days and nights immersed in him, or return after a long absence to find him waiting to welcome me. I was gone for six weeks once, and he cried when I came back: cried like a baby in my arms, then literally threw me into bed and kept me there for four days straight. He's become a little more blase about my absences since then -- not much, but a little; just enough to maintain a facade of uncaring indifference, one that covers everything except the desperation in his eyes. I can't remember a time since I was a kid when there was anyone who cared whether I lived or died. Nor can I remember a time when sex was more than just a power game for me -- or a time when hands caressed me in desire instead of calculated coldness; when it was lovemaking, instead of just fucking. Nor has there ever been anyone who could bring me off with nothing more than a kiss. I have come to the conclusion that if this is a mistake, if my... obsession with Mulder is a weakness I cannot afford, then to hell with the consequences: it's a mistake I'm willing to make. I'll take my chances with the future, if it will gain me one more day with him. Our current situation won't continue indefinitely; I know it can't last. But while it does... this is the happiest I've ever been. He precedes me out of the shower, wraps a towel around my waist -- leaves his arms wrapped around me and hugs me; his lips form a kiss against my neck, just below my ear. "Three weeks is too goddamn long," he growls softly. Damn, it's good to be home. Back at the very beginning, the first thing Mulder ever did to me was ditch me. I remember driving like a maniac to try to catch up to him, cursing under my breath in Russian, and wondering why the hell I was getting an erection. From the first time I saw his picture, I knew he was gorgeous; from the first time we met, I knew that he was an annoying son-of-a-bitch... The thing I don't know, the thing I have never managed to figure out, is why I find him so damned irresistible. But at times like this, I really don't care. I love fucking him. I love watching his face while I fuck him. He's so damn beautiful that it hurts to look at him, it hurts to watch his face twisting in ecstasy... but I keep coming back for more, because it's the sweetest pain I've ever known. I get so lost in watching him that I forget my own desires, right up until the moment he comes and takes me over the edge with him. I lose myself in him, every time. And afterwards I collapse onto him, feeling our hearts pounding together, amazed all over again by the intensity of what we share. Not for too long -- there's the inevitable clean-up to be dealt with, the one thing I truly hate about sex with another man. Women are easier: the positioning isn't as difficult, the byproducts aren't as messy. Probably one of the reasons I've spent more time screwing women, over the years: it's the path of least resistance. Come to think of it, most of my life has been spent following the path of least resistance... but never mind that now. I am what I am, and it's too late to change. I drag myself to the bathroom and back, then it's his turn -- and by the time he comes back to bed, we're both ready for round two. I love it when he fucks me. He knows just how I like it: how to be rough, and how rough to be, and when I need him to be gentle. The one thing I need that no woman can give me is the feeling of being taken, conquered and held captive by a strength greater than my own -- what I like best and resent the most, which is maybe why so many of my male companions have ended up dead, by one means or another. I can somehow never quite forgive them for giving me what I wanted from them in the first place. But Mulder knows how to conquer me so thoroughly that submission becomes willing surrender... and I can't get enough of it, not ever. He's a drug so addictive he ought to be illegal, and I should know better -- I do know better -- but I'm enjoying the high too much to quit before I have to. And when I'm lying sprawled across the bed, too sated and exhausted to manage the effort required to draw the bedsheet over myself, I feel his hands caressing me -- massaging, fingertips digging into the tight muscle-knots, smoothing over the sore spots, easing away the last remnants of tension in me that lovemaking couldn't quite reach, leaving me in a state of utter languor. I live my life on the edge, in adrenaline-bursts of action and violence and subterfuge; I can never afford to relax -- except for here: except with him. He gives me what I need: reads my mind and my body and my soul, turns me inside out with his eyes and examines me with unwavering scrutiny, and uses that knowledge to pleasure me, to please me, to create a zone of safety and comfort in which I can rest. I have spent my life making sure that no one could ever know me so well... but this is paradise. Sleep takes me like a lover, hard and fast and all-encompassing; and as consciousness dissolves into darkness, my last thought is the one that's become my mantra: Damn, it's good to be home. I've always preferred sleeping alone. I hate the feeling of being confined, imprisoned by another person's embrace. But Mulder is the type who seeks warmth in his sleep, so I've gotten used to awakening with his arms and legs tangled around me. Sometimes I even enjoy it: the sensation of waking up slowly, knowing that there is no imminent danger, only the promise of pleasure inherent in the sweaty body pressed against mine. Then there are the times when I wake up to the sound of his snoring in my ear, thinking of nothing except how badly I need to take a leak, and cursing him under my breath as I struggle to extricate myself from his grasping arms. This awakening comes with a splitting headache, signifying that I really need more sleep; and all that restrains me is an arm flung possessively across my chest. A vision of Tylenol lures me out of bed -- I swallow three of them, measure Jamaican Blue Mountain into the coffeemaker, and start thinking about what I want for breakfast. I really don't understand why people are always so amazed to learn that I can cook. It's no mystery: I like to live well, which means that I like to eat well, which means that I've taught myself how to make a decent meal out of whatever happens to be around. By the time I was thirteen, my father was almost never home, and my mother was almost always drunk; if I wanted to eat anything other than fast-food hamburgers, it was up to me to make sure I did. But since I never discuss my childhood with anyone unless it's absolutely necessary, and since I don't care enough about most people to bother cooking for them, the few who do find out consider it somehow odd that I have this skill. Mulder damn near went into shock the first time I fixed him a meal. Of course, he's a special case -- his kitchen contained, at the best of times, a jar of Tang and a box of baking soda and exactly one fork. The man can make incredible leaps of logic on the strength of a single shred of evidence, but he couldn't find his way to a cheese omelet with a compass and a cookbook... I keep the kitchen arranged for quick, convenient meals that I can assemble without much thought, and pre-cooked dinners that Mulder can toss into the microwave and heat up without having to destroy my kitchen in the process. The freezer yields ziploc bags of sliced cooked potatoes and crumbled sausage and shredded cheese: I find a can of soup in the cupboard, next to the egg mix. Powdered eggs have got to be one of the foulest concoctions mankind has ever invented, but if you doctor them enough, they're bearable... By the time I've finished my first cup of coffee, a breakfast casserole is in the oven; and as I pour myself a second cup, I feel a pair of arms lock around my waist, and lips planting a soft kiss on the back of my neck. "Morning," he mutters groggily. I reach for his mug and fill it before I turn around. Disregarding this considerate gesture on my part, he takes both cups from my hands and places them on the counter behind me, then kisses me -- a slow progression, beginning with his teeth nibbling at my lower lip and escalating until his tongue is searching for my tonsils. "Good morning to you, too," I say, when I can breathe again, and he grins at me briefly before grabbing his coffee and shuffling off to collapse into his chair at the table. Funny: a year ago, I just had chairs. Now there is his chair and my chair -- such a small change in terminology; such a radical shift of perspective. He gulps down his coffee, too quickly to taste it -- fifty-dollar-per-pound coffee, and he guzzles it like the swill you get from the corner deli; it irritates me, even though I don't actually have to buy the stuff -- and as he struggles to awaken, I spend a few moments studying him, unobserved. Hair tousled, eyes soft and sleepy, limbs uncoordinated... I have to fight back the urge to drag him back to bed. After we eat, maybe... His eyes travel dubiously toward the oven. "What's for breakfast?" "Breakfast," I say, and he grins at me again: a small secret smile, the key to unlock a private joke that only we understand. It takes the edge off my annoyance that he still doesn't trust my ability to cook a decent meal, even though he praises me extravagantly for every one I fix for him. "And what was it that you were going to tell me last night?" he inquires -- too innocently; his gaze is sharp, penetrating. The eyes of the profiler, the investigator, seeking clues. "It can wait," I tell him. He accepts this -- but only barely. One quick glance tells me that he's aching to get it out of me... but his memory is all but perfect; and some of our most vicious fights have come from his insistence on being told things I do not wish to tell him. He's learned not to try to pry my secrets from me. In turn, I've learned how to keep him from suspecting that there are secrets he might wish to know, unless I'm willing to share them -- and that there are secrets I can share with him, and trust him not to use against me. All things considered, we've become damn good at living together. I'm so comfortable with him, so used to him being a part of my existence... which is a very, very bad thing. Because I know this cannot last. And what I have to tell him now... I have the gut-wrenching certainty that this will be the beginning of the end. But I can't hide this from him; he needs to know, and I can't leave this one alone, and I need his expertise to guide me, and perhaps most importantly... Mulder is bored. Oh, he'd never admit it to me, even if I asked, but I know him well enough to see the signs. At first, it was all right: he was shell-shocked, shaken, and perfectly content to be sheltered from the world while he healed. I brought him here and kept him here, took him on carefully-planned trips outside just often enough to keep him from becoming agoraphobic. I fed him and cared for him -- I'm not exactly the nurturing type, but I'm too fucking protective of Mulder for my own good -- left him alone as little as possible, and locked him in when I had to leave, for his safety and for my peace of mind. And it worked... it was perfect, for an amazing length of time; for months, everything was fine. Little by little, it changed. The books and CDs and video games I brought back with me stopped being enough to keep him entertained. He became steadily more irritable, more restless; his questions, about my life and my past and my prolonged absences, became more pointed and incisive. Recently, it has sometimes seemed as though he were looking for reasons and excuses to bicker with me. Anything to keep himself occupied. And of course, it's completely understandable. A mind like his can't be left to stagnate in a void. He can't stay here forever, and I... I have to have the strength to know when and how to let him go. Not yet. It's not time, yet. But soon. The news that I have for him will only hasten that inevitable parting. But these are not good thoughts for me to be thinking. Not now, when I am weakened from too little sleep and not enough coffee and the pounding headache that the Tylenol still hasn't kicked in to relieve. I need all my strength, and all the coldness I possess, to think about the imminent day when I will lose him. Sudden childhood flashback to a Saturday-morning kids' show I used to watch, curled up on the rug in the living room with a bowl of sugared cereal in my hands and Svetlana sitting on the couch behind me: I have a brief, ludicrous vision of myself as a cartoon figure, raising my fist into the air and shouting, 'I summon The Power of The Cockroach to protect me!' It's an insane image, and it makes me smile -- and banishes the onslaught of despair with swift thoroughness. "What?" says Mulder curiously, and I shake my head. Maybe I'll explain it to him sometime. We discuss all sorts of things in the lazy times after lovemaking; I've told him things that I've never shared with anyone, and gotten glimpses of his own most private dreams and fears... I'm going to miss that, so much. But never mind that now. Breakfast is ready; I watch as he digs a heaping serving out of the corningware, coats it in a layer of ketchup and begins stuffing his face. He finishes his meal in half the time it takes me to work through mine -- I'm starving, but still slightly nauseous, although the headache is finally fading -- and sits across the table staring at me, studying me, as I eat. Finally, I tire of the scrutiny, of his silent impatience. "Go ahead," I say wearily, "ask me." His hand reaches across the table, grasps mine quickly, gives it a small squeeze. "Finish eating," he says softly. The moments of unexpected consideration, the small startling displays of sweetness: these are the things that undo me, more than anything else. Oh, hell, Mulder, what you do to me... "It's all right," I respond. "Ask me." After a brief hesitation, he nods slightly, and obliges. "Okay," he murmurs, "I'm asking." And between bites of breakfast, I tell him. Mulder lets me relate the tale from beginning to end, restraining his questions until I've finished; and the first thing he asks me is, "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" "Incomplete data," I say. A partial truth: if I had told him before now, he would have insisted on taking action, and that would have been disastrous. Not only because of the information I didn't yet have, but because of his state of mind. When I first brought him back from the hospital, he was in no shape to Battle The Forces Of Evil, and any attempt would have gotten us both killed. Now, though... he's better than he was; and the new information I've acquired gives us a chance of actually beating the bastards at their own game. Besides, there's no more time left to sneak and skulk and strategize -- and procrastinate. If we don't do something now, there won't be another opportunity. It's that close to happening: the colonization, the enslavement of all but -- at best -- a select handful of the human race. And having experienced it myself -- having felt that oily inhuman presence crawling around in my own mind, raping me, controlling me -- I'll be damned if I'm going to let it happen again when I have the chance to stop it. Not to me, not to Mulder, and not to the rest of our species. He's silent for awhile, thinking over what I've told him; I finish the last of my meal, take our plates to the sink and leave them there, shove the remains of breakfast into the refrigerator, waiting for the inevitable. I know what he's going to say, what he has to say -- it's just a matter of waiting for the words. As I pour myself another cup of coffee, he says it. "We have to tell Scully about this." Of course. I've been expecting this from the start. So why is it that I feel his words ripping through me like a bullet? Stupid question. She's closer to him than I'll ever be, and long after he leaves me, she'll still be a part of his life. I don't stand a chance of competing with that bond, or even threatening it; I never did. And even though involving her with this business is the most intelligent, sensible course of action, it is the last thing I want to do. I've had him all to myself for... about ten months, now. I don't want to share him with anyone, least of all the one person who stands a damn good chance of taking him away from me. But my face reflects none of my internal struggle; it is as expressionless as years of ruthless practice can make it. I take a slow, deep breath, so that when I speak, my voice is calm. "Sure," I tell him. "I'll contact her, arrange a meeting." Washing the dishes is his job -- unspoken agreement between us: I cook, he cleans up the mess. But now I start doing the dishes, because it allows me to keep my back turned toward him, keeps him from seeing my face. Small noises: his chair scraping across the floor, soft footfalls as he pads barefoot toward me -- then his arms wrapping around my waist, his body pressed up against me, his growing hardness rubbing against my ass, and his lips on my shoulders, the back of my neck. "It'll be all right," he whispers into my ear. Like hell it will. But what choice do I have? There's a war to be fought, and even I can't walk away from this one. I abandon the dishes, turn to face him and pull him close, relishing the feel of him in my arms, trying to memorize his touch and his taste and his scent. Ten months isn't long enough. No amount of time could be long enough. "Let's go back to bed," he murmurs, and kisses me; and I sink into the kiss, and try to forget that this is the beginning of the end. Some time later, I find myself hiding behind a stand of neatly-trimmed bushes, waiting for her. I don't have long to wait; I've timed it perfectly. Her car pulls into the apartment-complex lot, into her designated spot, and she emerges from the vehicle. She looks well, although there are new worry-lines in her face. I've kept a distant eye on her, mostly on paper through my remaining contacts in the government, and all indications are that she's been going on with her life and her work -- their work -- since his disappearance; as if the small matter of her missing-presumed-dead partner hasn't caused her the slightest bit of distress. It's a nice act, one that wouldn't fool anyone who knew her worth a damn. Of course, all I know of her is what I've learned from Mulder, really -- but I recognize the look in her eyes. I've seen it on my own face in the mirror. I wait until she passes my hiding place: I emerge from the bushes behind her, my weapon at the ready -- she's fast and she's a damn good shot, and I don't want to take a bullet for this if I can avoid it. "Hey, Scully," I say. She's fast, all right. Her gun appears in her hand, even before she finishes turning to face me. Not that this would have saved her, if I'd meant to kill her -- I'm faster than she is, but hopefully she'll never have to know it. "Don't," I tell her. "We have to talk." For an endless moment, we stand there, frozen in confrontation -- her eyes rake over my face, studying me intensively, measuring my intentions; I look her over just as thoroughly and try to figure out just how badly she wants me dead -- and at almost the same instant, we both avert our aim, letting the moment pass. "How is he?" are the first words out of her mouth -- and much as I resent her, it pleases me that this should be her first concern. "He's fine," I say, and she relaxes, just a little. "Want to see him?" and she tenses all over again, scrutinizing my face as if doing so will tell her whether I'm luring her into a trap... I'm better than that, babe; if I wanted to reel you in, I'd do it, and you'd never see it coming. But her opinion of me is low enough as it stands, and my feelings about her are irrelevant: I need her as an ally, in this. Finally, she gives me a curt, nearly imperceptible nod; I nod back, and make a show of putting my gun away. Never mind that I could still disarm you and kill you in about a minute; that's never been part of the game. "This might take a while," I inform her. "You might want to pack a change of clothes..." "I keep an overnight bag in the trunk," she responds, and I acknowledge that with a nod as I lead her back toward her car. "Give me the keys," I tell her, and she shoots me another long, suspicious look before handing them over. It takes me a few moments to get the seat adjusted to a depth I can live with, and then we're off, heading out of the parking lot and into the deepening night. "What's this about, Krycek?" she asks me, as I merge into highway traffic and lose us in the throng of evening commuters. "Oh, I thought maybe we could sit around and talk about old times, drink some cappuccino, go through the photo albums..." This is not the time to bring up the purpose of our visit, and I am not the person to do it. She's not about to listen to, or believe, a word I have to say. Mulder, she'll listen to -- Mulder, she'll believe. They share a deep rapport, after all... That thought leaves a bitter taste in my mind, but it's the truth, and I do my best not to ignore the truth. Survival characteristic: denial isn't much good for keeping you alive. Now if I'd remembered that, back when it was just me and Mulder in that old warehouse, my life would be far less complicated right now... ...oh, but I wouldn't change it for the world. Even though eventually, I'm going to pay dearly for this lapse of sanity. Like when he leaves me, and I have to relearn how to deal with life without him... But I don't want to think about that now. I keep my eyes on the road. The Friday-night rush-hour commuters require all my attention; terrible drivers, willing to cause five-car accidents behind themselves if it will get them home two minutes faster -- but I can feel her eyes on me, like laser beams. "Is he all right?" she says pointedly. "I told you, he's fine. I've been keeping you updated all along, haven't I?" Small reminder of the notes I've been arranging for her to receive. A dangerous choice, on my part: any contact between us is risky, increasing the chances that some interested party might track me down. But I've felt... obligated, somehow, to keep her in the loop. Shit, if I were in her shoes, I would have wanted to know. She let us go, let me go, and she didn't have to. By doing so, she committed the same lapse of judgement that she condemned Mulder for -- the condemnation that would have ended his life, damn it, if I hadn't been there to stop the bleeding and call for an ambulance. I wonder if she's ever figured out that part? I wonder if she's ever thought it through enough to realize that the man she's so damned worried about wouldn't be alive right now, if it weren't for me? ...Of course, he wouldn't have been driven to suicide in the first place if I hadn't messed with his mind and screwed up his life, so I guess it all comes out even in the end. Shit, I find myself thinking, what am I doing here? Why the hell am I bringing her to him, when she's the last person I want within fifty miles of him? Easy answer to that: because it's what Mulder wants, of course. Oh, sure, she's the most useful person I can think of to help us fight the impending battle -- but left to my own devices, she's the last person I ever would have contacted. But it's what Mulder wants; and where Mulder is concerned, my judgement is... flawed, to say the least. Off the highway, and onto a local route, one meandering enough to be scorned by most commuters, and therefore empty enough to detect a tail. I pull the car into the parking lot of a strip mall, drive around back to the loading area behind the stores, keep it in drive with my foot on the brake... "What are we doing?" she asks me, after we've been sitting there for a couple of minutes. "Waiting to see if we've been followed," I reply. "Keep your finger on the trigger," because maybe she thinks I haven't noticed that her hand hasn't been more than two inches from her weapon since I first confronted her outside her apartment. She shoots me a grim little sideways smile -- the expression of a co-conspirator -- and for a moment, I almost like her. After ten minutes, I decide that it's safe to proceed, make a quick U-turn and exit the strip mall, taking us down a back road. We repeat this ritual several times; she doesn't question me about it again, merely keeps a sharp eye out for pursuit. She's good, Scully is -- and if nothing else, her alertness reassures me about her suitability for the task ahead of us. Yeah, I resent her, and the competition she presents -- but she's a swift, strong little thing: probably a better warrior than Mulder is. It'll be good to have her at my side in a fight. If I can keep her from killing me, that is. With a straightforward route, the drive would have taken us an hour. Doing it my way, it takes nearly three. We make a bathroom-and-coffee stop halfway through, at a little hole-in-the-wall gas station, taking turns standing guard for each other outside the restroom door without bothering to discuss the necessity of doing so; I note that she takes her coffee black, and find myself wondering idly if she would appreciate the finer points of really good coffee more than he does. Finally, we're pulling around to the back of a shabby little motel, one that takes cash and doesn't ask for I.D. upon check-in. I park in front of a room where the curtains are tightly drawn. We get out of the car together, walk to the door. I notice that she is trembling, more so than can be accounted for by the chill night air -- and I knock on the door: one quick tap, then three, then two, code to let him know that it's me, before slipping my key into the lock. I open the door, and we step inside, and there he is: sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a gun trained on the door. He slips on the safety as I step inside, sets the weapon aside on the nightstand, and at the sight of his former partner, he's up and moving... It tears me apart to watch their embrace, fervent and tearful, the reunion of two long-parted lovers-who-never-were. I can't bear to watch, but I can't drag my eyes away, either. He kisses her forehead, strokes her hair, cherishing the very sight of her, and I suddenly know that this is what it will be like for them when it ends between Mulder and myself -- I'm seeing the future, an image of what will someday be, and I hate it. My fingers twitch with wanting to hit something, hurt something, take out my bitter fury on a wall or a pane of glass, because it wouldn't do to punch her... and I can do nothing but stand there and watch them fall into each other. Damn it, I can't take this. "How are you doing?" she asks him, in a voice that tries to be steady despite the emotion being held rigidly in check. I see him smile. "I'm okay," he tells her. "A damn sight better than I was feeling the last time I saw you. But how are you, Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder," she says, in a patient, long-suffering tone. "You're always fine," he chides her -- and they exchange grins, over what is obviously a private joke: one that excludes me. Then he disengages from the embrace, reaches out with one hand toward me, his smile widening as he looks at me -- which soothes my nerves, just a little. I take a step toward him, reach back to him, and feel his hand curl around mine. She spares me a dubious glance, and I feel myself glaring back -- he's mine now! I think, but that's cold comfort when I know that it won't be true for all that much longer. "It's good to see you again," she says to him gently, taking his other hand. And there we stand for a long moment, Scully holding his left hand, me holding his right, all three of us trying to adapt to the sheer strangeness of this situation. "So," she says finally, "why are we here?" and I could almost kiss her for breaking the tense silence. We settle down in a loose circle on the room's double-bed, with cans of soda and a jumbo-sized bag of chips in the center, and I begin to tell the story. What I've learned, what I've surmised, the timetable involved. Mulder interrupts periodically, tossing in his own theories; and Scully listens intently, stopping us every so often to interject a question or supporting observation of her own. When at last the tale is finished, he gazes at her expectantly, awaiting her opinion of the matter... She stares back at him levelly. "You know what I'm going to say." He nods briefly. "Are you saying that an alien intelligence of some kind is on the brink of conquering humanity and making us all slaves?" he says, in a passable imitation of Scully's intonation. "Mulder, that's crazy," and shoots her a wry grin. Almost, she laughs; the corners of her lips twitch with wanting to smile, as she tries to glare severely at him. "Right," she says. "And now that we've got that behind us, what do you propose we do about it?" turning to face me for the last half of the sentence, directing the query to me -- accepting the fact that this is my operation, that I'm the one calling the shots, even though I know she can't be happy about it. Damn it, if she weren't competition, I could really get to like her. "I propose that we fight," I say. "While we still can. In whatever way we must." Scully thinks about this for a moment. "All right," she agrees. "What's our first move?" It's that simple. No long, wearying argument, and no hesitation: 'All right', and she's with us. I've always respected her, despite my resentment; and that assessment jumps a few notches, even though I still loathe the idea of her presence. "Road trip," I tell her. "Let's get started -- we've got a world to save." In order to confuse any future pursuers, and to avoid the perils of possible discovery inherent in returning to her apartment, we've decided to leave Scully's car in the parking garage of a shopping mall she frequents. The garage also provides space to guests of the adjacent hotel, which should allow the car to go unnoticed for some time. To do this, she needs to drive there, while I follow her in my car. "I'll ride with Scully," Mulder volunteered -- which means that I've spent the last hour watching them through the rear window of her car, my hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly that they hurt. They're talking: non-stop rapid-fire conversation. I can see the movement of their lips when one or the other turns their head sideways. Occasionally, I see their shoulders move, as they reach out to each other -- and once, Mulder touched her face, a long caress at a red traffic light that made me want to rear-end Scully's car just to make it stop. Old friends, reliving old times and catching up on recent history. Yeah. But it's killing me. Against my will, I find myself remembering the way it was when I rescued him from the hospital. Sound and fury, signifying everything: the roar of the engine as we tore down the highway, the howls of the music blaring from the stereo, the feel of his arms wrapped around my waist. Mulder clinging to me with all his strength, terrified out of his wits -- he'd never ridden a motorcycle before, I think, let alone at the speeds I ride -- and the sensation of his body pressed against my back almost more than I could bear. Laughing: triumphant, exultant, reveling in the sheer power of having claimed what I most wanted. Three days of twenty-hour rides, eating at dingy little truck-stops, sleeping in abandoned buildings with my body curled around his; culminating finally with his open-mouthed surprise at my secret hideaway -- astonishment and delight mutating into desire as he moved toward me, seizing me and capturing me with a hard and hungry kiss... He was mine, and mine alone; and now he's slipping away from me -- and lucky me, I get to watch it happen. By the time we reach the agreed-upon shopping mall, I'm seething. My mood is not improved by the fact that it takes nearly half an hour for Scully to find a parking space that suits her in the all-but-empty lot, or the fact that the conversation between them seems to get more animated as she tours the garage. Tying up loose ends while I'm not around to hear. Nice, real nice. Finally, she parks her damn car, and I pull into a spot across the aisle and slam the car into park so forcefully that I'm surprised I don't break the gearshift lever. Calm, Alex. Never let 'em see you sweat. One long, deep breath and a moment with my eyes closed, and my face is as impassive as I can make it; and I get out of the car and walk toward them, as nonchalantly as if the last hour and a half hasn't been sheer torture for me. The two of them get out of the car at the same time; Scully starts rummaging around in the trunk. Mulder comes toward me, reaching out to take my hand -- I jam both my hands into the pockets of my jeans and brush past him, ignoring him as if he doesn't exist. How dare he pretend that nothing's wrong?! "You ready?" I say to Scully, hearing the edge of anger in my voice, tamping it down as best I can. She extricates her overnight bag from the trunk and slams it shut. "I'm ready," she says. The look she gives me is an odd one, as if she's never seen me before -- what the hell has Mulder been telling her? And do I really want to know? No, not really. "Let's go," I say, and turn back to the car. I catch a glimpse of Mulder's face, from the corner of my eye -- that kicked-puppy look, the one that almost never fails to touch me -- and turn away fast, before it can affect me. Damn you, Mulder. Damn you for making me hurt like this. I slide into the driver's seat, and when Mulder takes the seat beside me, I realize that I'd been expecting him to get into the back with Scully. I should be relieved by this, I suppose; instead, it only makes me angrier. Like he's doing me some kind of huge fucking favor by choosing to sit with me. I don't need his favors, I don't need... ...oh, who the hell am I kidding? I need him: more than I need air, or the blood in my veins -- and right now I hate him for that. As I'm steering out of the lot, I feel the barest feather-touch against the side of my leg; not an erotic touch, just the faintest contact. I look down at his hand, then sideways at his face. His expression is anxious, concerned: what's wrong? -- and innocent, as if he doesn't have the slightest idea what he's putting me through. And maybe he doesn't; maybe he's utterly blind to the way his actions affect me. Maybe he doesn't know that Scully's presence, and his bond with her, is driving me up a fucking wall. Typical Mulder: to be so oblivious to something so evident. His hand slides along my leg, settles on my knee, a solicitous, possessive gesture -- and almost against my will, I disengage one hand from the steering wheel and cover his hand with my own. Damn him for making me feel this way, but I can't resist him. I've never been able to. And as his fingers entwine with mine and clasp hard, I feel something inside me loosen. He's still mine -- for now, anyway. So what else is new? Now is all I've ever had, and nothing lasts forever. How I wish this could. I negotiate the car onto the highway one-handed, unwilling to release him. His fingers twitch a little as we merge into traffic, ready to surrender my hand to the necessity of driving, but I hang on. I don't want to let go. I don't ever want to let go. The car is silent as a tomb; every so often I glance into the rear-view and catch Scully watching us -- watching me -- studying me, curiously: what the hell did Mulder tell her? I don't know if she can see us holding hands; shit, the woman's got radar, she probably knows -- and for some reason it gives me the creeps to think about her watching, yet still I hang on. It's my connection to the recent past, when everything was secure and perfect, and I was as happy with my world as I've ever been. Memories: talking to Mulder, confiding things I'd never imagined telling him. About my sister and what happened to her, about my father and his associates, about how I found my way into the FBI and the brief period of time in which I actually believed in justice, about how I got dragged from that short interval of light back into the darkness of shadows. About what it felt like to have that oily shit crawling around inside my body and my brain. About who I am, and how I got to be who I am, and what it feels like to be me. And Mulder listening, punctuating listening with kisses, interrupting with passionate, distracting caresses when the pain of remembering got to be too intense for me; empathizing and accepting me, the only one who ever has... Now we sit in silence, conscious of the observer in the back seat: his partner, my rival, our ally for the time being, and an intruder in the intimacy we would otherwise share. All we have in this moment is the touch of our hands, the small contact of skin against skin, and I feel his fingers wrapped around mine as intensely as I have ever felt him make love to me -- an infinitesimal reminder of ten months of languorous familiarity, now that the interlude of peace has come to an end. I need him now. I need him beside me, inside me: I need to own him, for just a little longer. I need him, in a way that has nothing to do with sex. Our mission is paramount, and discretion has to be our top priority, but... I need him, and somehow I'll have to arrange for us to have enough privacy to make that possible. Nothing else matters to me right now but feeling that close to him, for even a little while. We journey onwards, for what feels like endless miles and endless hours. Mulder falls asleep with his head against the passenger-door window; Scully sleeps curled up on the back seat. I drive, listening to them breathing in counterpoint, to Mulder's faint snores, and try to keep myself awake despite the soporific sounds. When I feel my eyes closing, I turn on the radio... but we're deep into Pennsylvania now, and there's no reception at all: nothing to keep me from falling asleep at the wheel. I manage to snag the tape case from the floor between Mulder's legs without becoming distracted along the way, or ramming one of the semis that's speeding down the highway, and pop a cassette into the stereo without looking at it. Turns out to be Metallica: perfect. Loud, which is exactly what I need. After a few minutes of thrash metal, I catch a glimpse of tousled red hair dragging itself to a sitting position. "Could you turn that down a little?" she mumbles. "No," I reply. "Sorry." Bitch. You try driving all night on two hours' sleep and more stress than one person ought to have to handle, and see if you don't need something to keep you awake! But I keep that reaction to myself. It won't do to antagonize her so soon... and after all, there'll be plenty of time to antagonize her later. She doesn't argue; merely sighs and flops back down onto the seat. Mulder, by contrast, never even stirs -- he's used to my music. He's used to me. Damn. I remember when I told him about Svetlana. Somehow, he'd gotten onto the subject of his sister, and was busy falling deep into one of his depressions, and it worried me -- and pissed me off. You'd think he was the only person who'd ever lost someone...! So I told him about my own loss of childhood innocence. Svetlana, who wanted to be called Lana but who everyone called Sweetie because she was so damn nice. Eight years older than me, and closer to me than either of my parents since she'd been looking after me since almost the day I was born. She used to pack my school lunches and sing me to sleep at night, she was my big sister and my best friend; and twelve days after her seventeenth birthday, three days before I turned nine, two men in an expensive black car drove past our apartment building and put five bullets into her chest and her skull. I came home from school and slipped and fell into a puddle of still-wet blood on the sidewalk, ran up the stairs to find my mother screaming at my father in hysterical Russian about how it was all his fault, and life was never the same for me again... I hadn't told anyone about Svetlana for years and years, and as always reliving the memory made me a little crazy; by the time I got to the end of it, I was shouting at him. 'You think your life is so fucking lousy? At least you have hope! All I have is a grafitti-covered gravestone in a Brooklyn cemetery...' And he just sat there, listening, staring at me, silent tears streaming down his face -- and when I was too hoarse and miserable to yell at him anymore, he got up and came to me, wrapped his arms around me and held me until I stopped shaking, took me to bed and made love to me until the memory receded and I was more or less sane again. He never said anything to try to soothe me -- he knew, I think, how useless and ridiculous such platitudes would be. He just... listened, and understood, and used his hands and lips and tongue and cock to try to take my pain away. And nobody since Svetlana had ever cared about how I felt, or whether I was hurting: it was a new feeling, to have someone see inside me and not use that insight to harm me or use me to satisfy their own agenda. I rested in his arms afterwards, felt his hands stroking my back, his lips pressing small gentle kisses against my face, and marveled at the feeling of being cared for; of being comforted. I had already given Mulder my body and my heart and half of my secret hideaway -- that was the night I gave him my soul. And now it's being shredded and torn into a thousand bloody pieces; and the worst part is that he's not even trying to hurt me. It's just happening -- because of who he is, and who he needs to be. He's right next to me, and I miss him already. How will I survive when he's gone? The road blurs before me, and with horror, I realize that there are tears in my eyes, very close to rolling down my face. Fuck! No, I can't let this happen. Not here, not now, not with Scully in the goddamn back seat and him beside me. Not at all, if I can help it; but if I'm going to fall apart, it's going to be when I'm alone, and free to be miserable without having to endure their scrutiny. Not hers; not even his. This is a pain he can't relieve, and one I will not allow her to see. I roll the window open; the harsh wind strikes my face and helps me freeze my face into impassivity. Cold, like the ice I keep inside me. Only problem is, Mulder's been melting the ice for ten months now, and my control isn't what it used to be. I've gotten used to letting him see me, letting him know me. I've gotten used to not having to hide from him. How am I going to get used to being alone again? By the time the gas gauge drops to an eighth of a tank, I've managed to regain my outward equanimity. I pull into the station, toss a twenty at the attendant manning the full-serve island, and manage to escape before either of my passengers are more than half awake. Bathroom first, a quick piss and a few handfuls of cold water splashed against my face until the mirror's reflection is as cold and unfeeling as I wish I felt inside. Then coffee and a package of Hostess cupcakes, caffeine and sugar to keep me alert for a little longer. On my way back to the car, I pass Scully on her way to the rest room; she acknowledges me with a flicker of her gaze and half a smile, and I raise my eyebrows in the barest fragment of a response. Don't look at me. Don't try to communicate with me. Don't remind me you're here. Mulder is still standing beside the car, waiting for me. He gets back inside as I reclaim my seat. "I'll drive for a while, if you want," he offers. "No, I'm okay," I tell him. The cold air and the movement and the coffee are reviving me; I should be able to hold out until dawn. By which time, we should have reached a motel I know, a place where we should be able to lay low for long enough to sleep awhile, and maybe more... "Alex?" His voice is soft, worried. "What's wrong?" He reaches out, takes both my hands in his, caressing... and the sound of him, the feel of him, melts the ice all over again, shattering the too-thin facade I've managed to rebuild. Damn him and his concern, anyway. I pull my hands away. It hurts; the loss of his warmth hurts like hell. "Don't," I say: a warning. Don't touch me, Mulder, or I'll break. Don't talk to me, or I'll shatter. Don't touch me, Mulder. Just don't. A sip of coffee, a bite of preservative-laden spongecake and orange icing, and all the while his eyes boring holes into me -- then he gives up; "I'll be back in a minute," he says, and gets out of the car, closing the door behind himself. And for a few precious moments, I am alone: I can collect myself, try to compose myself, in privacy. I've made a bad miscalculation. At this rate, I'm not going to survive long enough to be destroyed by the alien menace; this misery will kill me first. The irony of it would be amusing, if I didn't hurt so much. Oh, hell, Mulder. Do you even have the slightest idea how you make me feel? By the time they return -- together, damn it, talking in low voices as they approach the car -- my walls are back in place, impervious even to his caring. They fall silent as they get into the car, which suits me fine, and I pull back onto the highway. Music and cold air and the dregs of my coffee keep me alert. I play a subdued game of who's-passing-who with the semis, mindful of my passengers' safety as I wouldn't be if I were alone, but needing something to keep my mind occupied, anything other than the man sleeping beside me and the woman in the back seat, and what their unity means to the relationship I've forged with him. The Capri Motel is the kind of place you don't find unless you're looking for it, and even then, not without a struggle. It's hidden at the back of a long deserted road that doesn't go anywhere in particular; as a consequence, it's dirt-cheap, and its owners don't ask a lot of questions, even of people they don't already know. I pull around back, behind the cabin I intend to occupy, and walk across the gravel lot to the office to get the keys. The office is closed for the night -- Jim's pickup truck is gone, so I assume he's away on 'business', and rather than wake up his wife Bess, I pick the lock. "Hey, Bowser," I say softly, before the couple's mongrel dog can chew my leg off, and Bowser rests his head back on his paws and watches me as I take the key to cabin fourteen, and leave a couple of bills in its place. "That you, Razor?" comes a sleepy voice from the back room, and I feel a grim smile tug at my lips: Bess has ears like radar. "Yeah," I affirm. I have so many names that I sometimes have trouble keeping track of them all. 'Razor' is a convenient persona, and one I use fairly often: he's a bad-ass biker dude with a number of steadfast allies and an even greater number of people he's alienated by cheating them at poker. Jim and Bess are among the former -- I do them the occasional favor, and they watch my back when I need it. A good deal all around. "I'm taking fourteen," I tell her. "Everything clear?" "Smooth sailing," she murmurs sleepily. "I'll tell Jimmy you said hello." "You do that," I say, and make my exit, back out into the dawn. There are a couple of bikes parked outside several of the cabins. I check them out carefully, from a distance, and note that none of them seem to belong to anyone I know -- which is good: the last thing I need now is to have the various aspects of my life colliding. The sun is still low enough that it doesn't hurt my tired eyes, providing just enough light to create a soft glow over the world. If I fall asleep quickly enough, I can be out cold before daylight takes hold. But despite my fatigue, sleep is the last thing on my mind. Mulder and Scully are both awake when I get back to the car. Scully is looking around nervously; Mulder is just waiting for me. I jingle the keys at them and gesture at the cabin, and Mulder gets out of the car to join me as I unlock the door -- Scully is a little slower, surveying her surroundings before leaving the relative safety of the car, as defensive as Mulder is trusting. "Where are we?" she wants to know. "We're safe," I reply. "For the moment." Whoever originally built this place must have envisioned it as a 'family retreat'. The cabins are all two- and three-bedroom jobs with little kitchenettes and living-room alcoves, and once upon a time they must've been pretty nice. They're run-down and dingy now: half the furnishings stolen, the other half broken -- but there are walls, a roof, beds and a bathroom, and that's all that really matters. Mulder makes a beeline for the bathroom while Scully looks the place over critically, and I go back out to the car to get our things. Her overnight bag, and the one Mulder and I are sharing, and a few extra supplies -- I can live without my morning cup of coffee, but I don't much like to, and traveling on four wheels instead of two allows me the luxury of not having to suffer. I live like a cockroach when I have to; that's more than enough to endure. Scully's eyes widen a little as I set up the coffeemaker on the counter; apparently, I've managed to surprise her, but she doesn't comment. Mulder, by contrast, seems delighted. "Did you bring the good coffee?" he asks me as he emerges from the bathroom. "I didn't know you noticed the difference," I reply sardonically. "I notice a lot of things," he says, coming to stand beside me. I feel his hand slide across my ass in a quick, furtive caress, below the level of the counter so that Scully won't see -- if we were at home together, he would have wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder, the way he always does; but of course, Scully is watching, and that changes everything -- and all at once, the seething rage is back, rising in a hot wave inside me, choking me. Damn her! I think; then, Damn him -- he notices everything except what he's doing to me... I evade his hand, move away. "That room's yours," I tell Scully, gesturing toward the far bedroom. And why don't you go there, and close the door behind you, and get the hell out of my life for a while? She slings her bag over her shoulder. "You've been here before," she says, not quite a question. "Yeah," I say, and leave it at that. It's none of her damn business what I do with my time, and it's sure as hell none of her business what I do with Mulder, and I need some time alone with him, without her in the way... Scully looks at me, then trades a longer glance with Mulder -- "Well, I'm going to get some sleep," she says, taking the hint. "Goodnight," and the two of them clasp hands briefly before she disappears into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Mulder watches her go, then turns to look at me. "Talk to me, Alex," he says softly. "What's going on?" I stare at him, incredulous. Just how dense is he? "I'm going to take a shower," I say, and stalk away. The hot water and momentary solitude help ease my increasingly foul mood, relax me enough to find something resembling perspective. Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Maybe I'm just being paranoid and insecure. In any case, if I don't calm down, I'm going to jeopardize our mission with my tension and hostility -- and damn it, there's so much more at stake here than my relationship with Mulder... It amuses me, in a sour and bitter sort of way, to realize that the fate of the human race means less to me than he does. Eventually, I emerge from the shower feeling somewhat better, wrap myself in one of the oversized bath towels I brought -- another minor luxury, in lieu of the threadbare scraps of fabric Bess and Jimmy provide to their guests -- and pad barefoot into our bedroom. Mulder's lying in bed, flat on his back, eyes closed... asleep? No: as I close the door behind me, his eyes open and track me as I move toward the bed. "About time you got here," he grumbles, as I slide beneath the covers. I don't bother to answer, just pull him close to me. Ahhh, yes... this is what I've been waiting for. And all the moves are right: the kisses, the caresses, the feel of his cock hardening against me, but... there's this strange hesitancy in him, almost reluctance, like a wall between us that I can't break through. It infuriates me; I need him, all of him, not just his hands or his lips or his cock but his soul as well -- and nothing I do can bridge that gap; I can arouse him, but I can't seem to capture him. Finally, he pulls back, pulls away from me in the middle of a kiss. "Alex... I don't think I can do this," he whispers apologetically. "Not with Scully in the next room..." I can only stare. Oh, you've got to be kidding. You can't do this to me, damn it, not now... But the look on his face tells me very clearly that yes, he's completely serious; and that my hard-on and my needs don't matter to him as much as the opinion of the woman who's probably already fast asleep, one room over. All right, Mulder. Now I know where I stand with you. Thanks ever so fucking much, you son of a bitch. "Fine," I say, and roll over, turn my back to him and curl up on the far edge of the bed. Alone. Alone and aching, when what I need most in the world is to be with him... I hate her. I hate him. I hate them both, and what the hell am I doing here, putting myself through this? I should have just left him on her doorstep with a gun and a map and a kiss goodbye, and spared myself the slow agony of losing him by inches. Or maybe I should've just laid in some extra supplies and holed up with him in my hideaway while the rest of the planet died. To hell with the world's future, and to hell with what he needs: what about what I need? Doesn't that matter? I thought it mattered to him, but all he cares about is her... "Alex?" The faint sound of his voice, the lightest brush of his hand against my back. "I'm sorry..." "Don't," I force out, between clenched teeth. Don't touch me. Don't be fucking sorry. Don't hurt me anymore, damn it, just leave me alone...! His hand withdraws, leaving me to my desolation. In the next heartbeat, his body is pressed firmly against my back, heat and sweat and the tantalizing pressure of his hard-on shoved up against my ass, as his arm curves around my hip and his hand wraps around my throbbing cock, stroking... Damn it, he even knows me well enough to know when not to listen to me. How can he know me so well, and yet not know me at all? "Alex, I want you so much, I just..." and his lips clamp down on my shoulder, teeth biting, sucking at my skin -- and I need him so badly, but what I need even more is to not need him. I need to be able to resist him, and oh hell, I just can't... "I need you so much it scares me sometimes," he confesses, his voice soft and hoarse and pained. "I can't be near you without needing to sink into you and be a part of you, and... and I don't want Scully to know about that. What we are when we're together, Alex, that's ours; it's private, and I don't want to share that with anyone. Not even her." ...And sometimes he says exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, so perfectly in tune with what I need to hear that I wonder if he's telepathic -- and my heart aches with the knowledge that he's the only one who'll ever know me so well. I roll over, into his arms. "Just shut up and fuck me," I tell him, in a voice that comes far too close to pleading for my comfort; and he cups my face in his hands and kisses me so deeply that I can't breathe. Oh, God, Mulder: yeah, just like that. No walls, no hesitation and no resistance; just you and me, Mulder, your arms crushing me against you, your lips hard and hungry as the rest of you, devouring me whole. This is the way it should be between us, this is the way I need it to be. Your hands pushing me back against the mattress as your lips and teeth draw a trail of hickeys down my chest, to... ohhh, damn, you've gotten so good at this. Practice makes perfect, and you are so goddamn perfect I could scream -- it takes all the restraint I have to keep from screaming, Mulder, when you do that thing with your tongue and teeth; you learned that from me, didn't you? But if I scream, you might remember your partner next door, and I'll die if you stop now, Mulder. I really will. Don't, oh hell, don't stop... I'm so damn close that I can't stand it, but I want you inside me; if only you could suck me and fuck me at the same time, I'd die a happy man. Just hurry up, will you? Where the hell is the... there, on the nightstand; you're afraid of your partner hearing us screw, but you still made sure you were ready for me, didn't you? I can see it in your eyes: you're as desperate as I am for this. And you don't know what it does to me, to know you need me the same way I need you. Because I'm scared too, Mulder. It scares the hell out of me to need you like this, because I can't live without you, and I know I'm going to lose you... but not today. Not now. Right now, it's just you and me, Mulder: you, easing my knees up against my chest, and me, rubbing my cock and wishing you'd hurry the hell up. Your cock poised for entry, and me on the verge of coming just from anticipating what it'll feel like when you... oh... fuck, yeah... all the way in, Mulder. Yeah. Oh, yeah. This is perfect. Cold sweat, dripping from your forehead onto my chest as you lean over me, gazing into my eyes... do you see what I'm feeling right now? Do you, Mulder? You're the only one who could ever take me like this and not make me hate you for it afterwards, you're the only one who ever made me come back begging for more. You... ohhh, yeah, you know what I like; ram it in, hard and fast, like... ohhh, just like that. Yeah. Give it to me, baby; give me all of you, take all of me. I'm yours, Mulder. I can't be anything else but yours, not anymore. Ohhhh, yeah... so good, so damn good... harder, and faster, and... oh, it's starting, so strong, so damn intense, building and building and... oh, fuck, yes...! So goddamn fucking good, his cock pumping into me, spurting into me as I come; I forget not to cry out, and so does he, and it's just the feeling: sweeping over both of us, Mulder sweaty and gorgeous and sobbing with pleasure as we share the same orgasm, nothing but the feeling, filling us and draining us and uniting us into one being, beyond any possibility of separation. He slumps over, onto me, lips finding mine and kissing me sweetly, softly -- and I can breathe again. He's mine: I own him, and he owns me, and for a little while, for now at least, I can breathe again. I lie still as he withdraws, work on stretching and straightening my legs as he cleans up the aftermath of our lovemaking with a couple of tissues; when he reaches for me, I nestle into his embrace, rest my head on his shoulder and snuggle up against him. I've never been the cuddle-after-sex type before, but with him... this is wonderful. This is exactly right. "You okay now?" he murmurs, turning his head sideways to look at me with eyes that radiate concern and warmth. I consider, for a moment. "Better," I admit. It's hard to be paranoid and miserable when I can still feel small residual tremors of orgasm resonating through me, feel his heart pounding and smell my sweat on his body. Oh, yeah, I feel a hell of a lot better now. He kisses my forehead tenderly, and suddenly all my fears seem utterly ludicrous. How could anyone, anything, compete with what we share? Amazing, how much easier it is for me to think clearly when I've just had sex. Dawn has turned into day, and the sun is streaming through the gaps in the closed curtains... one bright ray hits my face, and I wince. Mulder pulls the sheets up around me to shield my face, smooths his hand over my hair. "Get some sleep," he says. I smile, and relax in his embrace, and feel the fatigue take me away. I awaken to the sound of a firm knock on the door, awaken in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed -- all signs of imminent danger -- and the only thing that keeps me from springing to my feet and assuming a defensive posture is the feel of Mulder's body wrapped around me: the instinctive awareness that he is awake and unworried. "Yeah?" he murmurs sleepily, and as I blink and focus, I remember: the Capri, Scully in the next room; right. The bedroom door opens -- just a crack: not enough for her to see us naked and tangled up in each other, only enough to allow her voice to carry clearly. "Coffee's ready," she says. "Thanks," Mulder says, and the door closes again, leaving us our privacy. Twilight seeping through the curtains -- a full day's sleep, and time for us to get going. I yawn and stretch, feeling rested and well-fucked; a good combination. A second round would go over nicely, but with Scully unmistakably awake and prowling around the next room, I figure I don't stand much of a chance of getting Mulder to go along with that. It's a measure of how my mood has improved, that this fact doesn't bother me as much as it could. "G'morning," I greet him, through another yawn -- 'morning' being a subjective concept; we've lived quite literally underground together for long enough that 'morning' is whenever we happen to wake up. He catches me open-mouthed, delivers a kiss that leaves me breathless -- he's never given a damn about morning breath, neither his nor mine. "Good morning," he says afterwards, in a seductive voice. "Sleep well?" I just grin at him: sex always helps me sleep, as he well knows. "You want the towel, or the sheet?" I ask him. Mulder thinks this over for a minute. "Sheet," he decides, and I snatch up last night's bathtowel, wrap it around my waist, grab our overnight bag and head off for the bathroom. It takes me a while to work my way through the inevitable physical after-effects of being fucked, and to brush my teeth and wash my face; "Hurry up, willya?" Mulder whines through the locked door, and I let him in so that he can piss while I shave. "Meet me in the shower," he murmurs into my ear afterwards, nibbling briefly on the lobe, as I head off in search of coffee. Still wearing my towel and nothing else, I wander into the cabin's main room, lured by the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. I pour myself a cup, and study our third roommate. She is sitting on the shabby couch, showered and dressed in a pair of functional blue jeans and a man's shirt large enough to be Mulder's -- for all I know, it is -- and there is a mug of coffee in her hands, which she is sipping slowly. I see her register my presence, and I take the chair opposite her, so that she can't ignore me. "Good evening," she says, courteously enough. "I take it you slept well?" with an odd little sidelong look that renders it a rhetorical question -- obviously, she was awake, and heard everything. And so what if she did? I've got him, and you don't; and he's better than you could ever imagine. Deal with it, babe, I find myself thinking, with a certain smug pleasure. "Very well, actually." "Well, that's good," she replies, "since you're the only one who knows where we're going," her voice sharpening at the end, signifying an unspoken question. Just where the hell are you taking me, anyway? I have quality coffee in my mug, I have Mulder in the shower waiting for me; I'm feeling good enough to be magnanimous, so I give her an answer. "Southwestern Montana," I tell her. She considers this, nods slightly. "This is excellent coffee," she says. "I'm glad you brought it." If she can appreciate the finer points of quality coffee, she can't be all bad, I catch myself thinking. "I suppose I should thank you," she continues, in a carefully measured voice, without meeting my eyes. "For the coffee?" I respond, confused by the shift in her tone. There is a moment's silence, as she gathers her thoughts. "You kept him alive," she says finally. Ah. "Someone had to." It occurs to me after I say it that the statement is perhaps unnecessarily cruel. Yet she doesn't flinch at the words. "I didn't," she says, with a self-honesty I hadn't expected. "I couldn't. It would have meant... surrendering too much of what I believe in." Sadness in her voice, in her eyes: for what she believes to be her betrayal of him, perhaps, or for the price she had to pay for her beliefs. Suddenly, irrationally, I feel the need to reassure her. I tell myself that it's because I need her as an ally, that it suits my purposes to keep our relationship from becoming antagonistic -- but I suspect that the truth is more complex than that. "You would have done it," I tell her. "If I hadn't taken him... you would have kept him going. You would have found a way." Another silence. "Then I really should thank you," she says at last, glancing up for the first time to meet my gaze. "Because you did... and I didn't have to." She's strong, this one. So strong. All the faceless men who quake in fear at the mention of Mulder's name -- and none of them realize: he's not half the threat that she is. Guilt and fear and pain and loneliness, and she has the strength to withstand all of it, without falling prey to disillusionment and doubt. She lost him to someone she despises, and still she has the strength, the self-awareness, to sit here before me and thank me for having taken care of him so that she didn't have to compromise her principles to do so. What an astonishing woman. If I am indeed destined to lose him... some part of me takes comfort in the knowledge that I will lose him to her. Suddenly, I can't bear to be near her anymore. "Not if you don't want to," I tell her, and escape to the haven of the bathroom. A wall of steam greets me, and the sound of the shower... "Hey," I call out, over the rushing water. "Is there enough hot water for two?" Wry laughter. "Get your sweet ass in here," and I tug off the towel I'm still wearing, and take myself and my coffee into the shower with him. Mulder naked and wet is a sight to behold. "Gimme that," he says, takes the mug from my hand and drains half of it. "Hey!" I protest half-heartedly, reclaim the cup before he can get shower-water in it and finish the remainder, reach beyond the curtain and set the empty mug in the tiny sink so that I can give my full attention to the matter at hand. Naked and wet and sporting a massive hard-on. Better than coffee. "Want me to wash your back?" I ask. "Wash this," says Mulder, guiding my hand downward and pulling me close. We tried screwing in the shower, once. The resultant bruises and gashes convinced us not to try it again -- and even blowjobs are risky; we both get too into it to worry much about little things like maintaining balance on slippery tile. But kissing and fondling are relatively safe, and damned good; and I find myself wondering if maybe I'm completely wrong. Maybe I won't lose him after all. I mean, hey, he's here with me, isn't he? Scully's in the next room drinking her coffee, and he's here with me, his tongue exploring my mouth and his hands all over me... I know better than to be optimistic. Life has taught me as much. But right now, I can't imagine us ever being parted -- I can't imagine him leaving me for anyone, or anything. Every time we shower together, I remember the first time he touched me of his own accord: both of us sore and aching, and his soapy hands caressing my skin, and how powerfully arousing it was to know that he wanted to touch me, with caring instead of anger. I'd been so afraid that I would return to find him dead, or dying and too far gone to save, or simply so enraged that he would never forgive me for my absence, and instead... instead, that was the night we stopped struggling against each other, and against ourselves. Neither of us had the strength to keep our guard up any longer, and he needed me so much, and I needed him... and every time we shower together, I remember that first time, and am all but overcome by the incredible tenderness I feel toward him. It doesn't take long for him to bring me off; all I have to do is let myself fall into that memory and the feel of his hands, and I'm gone. But I take my time with him, teasing him a little, so that I can watch his face as his desire builds into desperation, feel his hands clutch at me tightly enough to bruise as I bring him to the edge and drag him back again, hear him cry out my name in that sobbing moan as he climaxes. Damn, but he's beautiful... "I'd rather have you in the morning than coffee," he tells me afterwards, as we're drying ourselves off and struggling to dress in the humid little room; he wraps his arms around my waist from behind, rests his chin on my shoulder, and for long moments we both gaze at our reflection in the half-fogged mirror. Our faces side by side, blurred by the mist: a portrait of us at our closest, at our best. How could I be stupid enough to think that anything short of death could tear us apart? We're too close, we've come too far together. Not even Scully has that power, now. I smile at him in the mirror, and he grins back at me: a lazy, satisfied grin -- and thus fortified, we head out of the bathroom to face the day together. "I'll drive for awhile, if you want," Scully volunteers. We're at a filling station, doing one of the usual gas, piss and munchies stops that are quickly becoming routine. "Just tell me what roads to take," she persists, "and you can catch a few winks." It's a tempting idea. I've been driving for hours now, and I could use a break -- and with more than one driver, we could make better time. But it goes against the grain to surrender control of the situation to anyone else, and especially to her. Still... it makes sense, and I need to be sensible, not give way to knee-jerk reactions rooted more in jealousy than anything else. "All right," I say dubiously. As I'm tracing out the next leg of the journey on the map for her, Mulder returns from the washroom. "What's going on?" he asks. "I'm going to drive for awhile," she tells him. "Oh," he says, and his eyes flicker from her face to mine and back again, in a silent question that I don't quite understand. Only as I slide into the back seat does it dawn on me: so, where's Mulder going to sit? Up front with his partner, or in the back with me? With the back seat to myself, I can stretch out, get more comfortable, maybe even sleep a little bit. We're not high-school kids playing at going-steady; insecurities aside, it won't kill me to have him sit next to Scully for awhile -- but as I'm working out a way to let him know this, Mulder shoots her a look that might be a silent apology, and gets into the car next to me. Well. Okay. See, Alex? Maybe all your doom-and-gloom predictions are wrong after all. He turns sideways, makes himself comfortable, then holds out his arms; I settle against him, using his shoulder as a pillow. As Scully pulls back onto the road toward the highway, his arms curve around me and hold me in place possessively, and I close my eyes and relax, unwilling to let slumber take me away from the awareness of his embrace, welcoming the chance to be close to him. Then I feel his hand shifting, moving down... Excuse me. Is this the same man who didn't want to have sex with me because his partner was in the next room, now groping me like a horny teenager in the back seat while she drives? Reality check... "Mulder," I murmur, half query and half warning. In the faint flashes of passing headlights, I see him grinning at me: mischievous and seductive and sexy, as his fingers dance lightly over my crotch. Damn it... don't tempt me, Mulder; I'm just as likely to rip off your jeans and take you right here, and to hell with Scully... I wonder if she'd be startled enough to steer us into a guard-rail or an oncoming semi, or if she'd just watch us through the rear-view mirror and keep on driving? For that matter, I wonder whether she'd be disgusted or turned on by the sight? Hmm... it would be an interesting thought, if she weren't the competition. Hell, it's still an interesting thought. What Mulder's doing to me is even more interesting: just enough to tantalize, not enough to make me crazy. Comforting, somehow, to know that he's focused on me instead of her. Damn good to feel his hands on me, even if I can't really do much about it at the moment. For just a moment, I let my mind contemplate what it might be like, if... Mulder, working by my side. Watching my back. Being my partner. Sharing the load and the worry with me. Oh, what I wouldn't give for that. An impossible dream, but so damn sweet... But I know what's happened to me, over years of learning and knowing about the horrors of the conspiracy. I'm not the same man I once was, and he wouldn't be, either. And to lose this Mulder to that nightmares is unthinkable. He's here with me now; that has to be enough. Gradually, with the grumble of the car's engine as a background rhythm, and the feel of his hands embracing and fondling me, I fall asleep. Rape isn't a physical thing. Not as far as I'm concerned. Unwanted sexual contact, that's just flesh and blood; the mind closes off and shuts itself away, to make the intrusion bearable. No, rape is when the intruder is inside your head, taking over and using you as casually and thoughtlessly as the piece of toilet paper you wipe your ass with and flush away afterwards. Rape is walking through the world, seeing and hearing and able to affect nothing, tasting words flowing over your tongue that aren't yours. Fighting, summoning every ounce of rage and terror and hatred and struggling to make yourself known, desperately trying to communicate the situation to the one man who might believe you, who might save you or kill you -- same thing, really -- and feeling your rapist crushing you effortlessly, keeping you trapped inside the little cage it's built for you inside your head. Rape is when you are nothing. Not even a victim but an afterthought, a thing of no consequence, a tiny spark of consciousness flailing helplessly inside a shell of flesh no longer your own. Being consumed but not eradicated, and praying to gods you never believed in that you might finally be extinguished, so as not to have to endure the violation any longer -- and helpless even to die, unable to seek solace in oblivion. And hell is crouching in darkness, retching and shuddering as your guts turn to liquid and force their way out of every orifice you possess; strangling, choking you so that you can't even scream, and being certain that this is the way you're going to die... hell is living through it and wishing you hadn't, locked in a deep hole and knowing that this is the end, praying and pleading and howling to be set free... I awaken, trembling, biting back the scream lurking at the back of my throat, sitting bolt upright as my eyes frantically strain to assimilate my surroundings: the car, the road, Scully driving, and... An arm, encircling me; a hand, palm flat against my chest, warm and solid and reassuring, measuring the pounding of my heart. "Hey," his voice quiet and calm and steadying, helping to bring me back to the here-and-now. Behind me, he moves, sitting up and pulling me back against him, holding me close. His lips, brushing against my ear: "The silo?" in the barest breath of a whisper, so that she won't hear. I don't have to respond; he knows the answer. Instead, I reach up and hold his hand in place, pressed against my chest, as I struggle to slow my breathing to a normal rate. The soft heat of kisses on the back of my neck. "It's all right, Alex. I'm here." In my worst nightmares, he holds me and says similar words to me, and I kiss him -- and then pull back, and see the black sheen covering his eyes as his hands clench around my throat... I turn around fast, because I have to look at him, I have to see him, and know that it isn't true -- I search his eyes, and see only his concern, his affection. Relief washes over me. Ah, but not for long... I'm taking him into hell, exposing him to the reality of the nightmare, and what will happen to him then? Damn. I should never have involved him. I should have fought this war alone... "Pull over," I say, and Scully catches the urgency in my voice; she pulls onto the shoulder and stops the car just in time for me to wrench the door open and fall to my knees on the gravel as the nausea takes over. Shit, I hate this. The feel of the vomit is too reminiscent of that thing making its way out of my body; and the nightmare has brought the memory to the surface, too vivid to repress -- I endure, as my stomach rejects its load of coffee and junk food, spitting to clear the taste of bile from my mouth; and gradually I become aware of his hand on my back, rubbing lightly, attempting to soothe me. But we're a long way from the Ratcave, where nightmares were just memories instead of grim prophecies of the future; and there is no consolation for me now. "Are you okay?" I hear Scully ask me, as if from a great distance; her hand drifts into my field of vision, holding a Kleenex, and I take it with shaking fingers and wipe my mouth. "He'll be all right," Mulder answers her. "We've... done this before." Oh, thanks, Mulder; like that's any of her damn business? And yet it feels good to have him protecting me; the intimacy of the casual 'we' catches me off-guard and, defenseless as I am right now, almost makes me cry. I'm always like this after one of those night terrors, too damn vulnerable and on the edge of breaking -- it used to scare the hell out of me when Mulder first came to live with me, before I learned that I could trust him with my fears -- and I have to get a grip, right now, because Scully seeing me like this is the last thing I need. Slowly, I stand up, brushing gravel from my knees. "I'm driving," I tell her. "I don't think that's wise," she counters flatly. Who the fuck are you to know what's right for me? And Mulder's hand wraps around my arm, gently but firmly, restraining me -- I realize that my hand is clenched into a tight fist, and that I'm on the verge of punching her. She's noticed this, but stands her ground. "I think you should rest," she says firmly. "I don't feel like sleeping right now," I lash out at her; and Mulder's hand tightens on my arm, as if he's afraid I still might hit her. Probably a good move: I don't have a whole lot of control at the moment. But Scully's a brave little thing: she doesn't take shit from anyone. No wonder Mulder likes her. "In my medical opinion," she says, "you're in no shape to drive at the moment." She's probably right -- my head is pounding, my stomach is still complaining. But what she doesn't realize is that if I don't have something concrete and definite to occupy my attention, I'm going to fall apart, or explode... "I'm driving," I say, and wrench free of Mulder's grip, push past her to the driver's door. It takes a few minutes before either of them gets into the car. I sense a discussion, maybe an argument, taking place outside -- self-preservation instincts tell me that I should be eavesdropping; but really, I'm not in the mood to deal with it. I don't want to know what they're saying about me... ...oh, hell. I have to know. I crack the window open and listen, as I push the seat back to suit me; I adjust the rear-view mirror enough to give me a clear view of them, standing by the trunk. Scully, ignoring the height differential that would leave most other people at a disadvantage, glaring up at Mulder: "...medical opinion; you could at least back me up, here!" "I know him, Scully. He's not going to get us killed, okay? Just... leave it alone." His voice is pained, as if it distresses him to argue with her -- or as if he's as worried about the situation as she is, but doesn't want to let on. She is silent for a moment. "I think your judgement is flawed where he's concerned." "Oh, definitely. Without a doubt." Even without the mirror, I can hear the smile in his voice. "But I know him, Scully, and... I trust him. I know you can't share that trust, or even understand it, but I need you to at least trust me..." "Mulder, I do trust you. I'm even beginning to understand. I just..." She sighs. "Krycek is in no physical shape to drive right now, and you know it as well as I do. Can't you persuade him...?" "Not without a bed," he says, and I watch as a small, wry grin spreads across her face in response to his. Interesting reaction to the mention of our physical relationship, but I'm too tired to analyze it right now. "And maybe not even then. Believe me, when he doesn't want to be persuaded, there's not a damn thing I can do to change his mind. Besides, I've seen him drive for twenty hours straight on three hours' sleep. It'll be fine, Scully -- just leave it alone." A long, long pause. "If you're certain." "Yeah, I am." She sighs and nods slightly, and he touches her shoulder and smiles, and then the two of them come around to the side of the car -- and casually, I readjust the rear-view to a roadworthy position, insert the key in the ignition, and pretend I hadn't been watching them. Mulder gets in next to me, and I try to figure out whether I'm proud of him, or angry. Something about the idea of Scully knowing anything about our physical relationship makes my skin crawl, even as it brings my dick to life -- an intriguing contradiction, but one I don't want to examine at the moment. More to the point: he defended me to her, and his declaration of faith warms me as much as it dismays me. Damn it, Mulder, don't you know how terrifying it is to know how much you believe in me? Scully climbs into the back seat, leans forward and places one hand on my shoulder to get my attention. "If we begin to swerve, or if your driving falters in any way..." "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Do I look stupid? Does she really think I want to attract the attention of the state troopers? Or, far worse, endanger the life of the man sitting beside me? Nobody expects you to trust me, Scully, but you could at least revise your opinion of me to a level above 'idiot'. I check the mirrors very carefully before pulling back onto the road; and Mulder waits until I've settled the car firmly into a lane before sliding his hand onto my thigh. He's no idiot, either; he doesn't do anything that might distract me -- just keeps his hand there, solidly reassuring, reminder of his presence. Which doesn't stop my cock from noticing, and getting ideas of its own. Ah, Mulder, what you do to me... And you know, the little bitch is right. I'm not in any shape to drive. True, it helps me shake off the last of the nightmare, but my headache won't quit, and I still feel vaguely nauseous, and... and I'd much rather have Mulder's arms around me than just his hand on my leg. Damned if I'll let her know that, though, so I pass the upcoming exit and its Gas-Food-Lodging signs without so much as slowing down. But by the time the next set of exit signs come into view, twelve miles down the road, I'm ready to concede defeat. I pull off onto a long, dark highway, into the island of light in which the gas station resides, the only sign of life for miles. "You win," I tell her, and drop the keys into her hand as we get out of the car. "You think this is about winning? It's about safety," she chides me. Just as I'm ready to snap at her for being such a cold bitch, her eyes soften -- "I have some Tylenol and some Pepto-Bismol, if you need anything," she says. Damn it, you won't even let me hate you, will you? "I'll be fine," I tell her. Mulder has gone ahead, paid the attendant to fill up the tank, and procured the rest-room keys; he tosses one of them at Scully, as we head to opposite sides of the building. And rest-room keys means a door that locks -- good. Very good. Perfect. He unlocks the men's-room door, and I push him inside and hit the light switch and kick the door shut behind us and slam him up against the wall, all in one motion; and his arms lock around my waist as I shove my tongue down his throat as far as I can. He's already got a hard-on, which saves time -- slow seduction is not on my things-to-do list at the moment. And he knows how I get, at times like this, so he doesn't resist or protest when I turn him around and bend him over the sink, just fumbles with his jeans and pulls them down. I reach into my back pocket -- yes, they do sell lubricant in little single-use packets, and yes, I do carry 'em around in my wallet -- rip the packet open with my teeth and squeeze half of it out of the foil before my fingers slip and drop it on the floor; well, that'll have to be enough, because I can't wait. I just can't. I hear him make a little sound, sort of a choked cry, as I push into him, but my mind doesn't quite register the sound of pain, nor would it make a difference if it did. I'm running on automatic, now. The memory is hot and aching inside me, as much so as my cock buried in his ass; and I need to fuck him, because nothing else can take away the ache. Hard and fast, no finesse and no restraint, just slamming into him until my balls twitch and spasm and explode, draining me of the need and the fury and the pain. Ahh, sweet relief. And it's only when I pull out, and notice the traces of blood, that I realize... Fuck! Oh, hell, Mulder, I never want to hurt you. He doesn't move as I clean us both up -- only a little blood: no serious damage -- straightens up slowly afterwards, taking entirely too long to zip up his jeans. Damn it. I grab his shoulders and turn him around before he can finish shoving his still-hard cock into his pants, drop to my knees and take him into my mouth. He comes about as fast as I did, and I suck him dry, tasting him and apologizing with my tongue until his cock softens. "I'm sorry," I murmur, as I release him. Then I feel his hands under my armpits, hauling me to my feet, pulling me hard against him. Startled, I find myself looking into his eyes, taking in the intensity of his gaze... "Don't be sorry," he whispers, and kisses me forcefully. I think that if this man ever walks out of my life, I'm going to have to kill myself, because there will be nothing left worth living for. Another kiss, and he releases me, moves past me to the toilet stall and locks himself inside. "A little privacy, maybe?" he calls out to me. "You all right?" He's got to be hurting right now, and that bothers me more than I could ever have imagined. "I'm fine, Alex." His voice sounds normal enough, but I can't see his face; and I can never really be sure what he's feeling when I can't look into his eyes to find the truth. "I didn't mean to hurt you." How goddamned lame that sounds. I took him like a cheap whore in a fucking gas-station bathroom, for chrissake -- nice work, Alex. Just treat him like trash... him, the only person in this whole rotten world who cares about you... "I know." So soft and gentle, his voice. "It's all right. Just... go away and let me take a shit in peace, will you?" So I wait outside for him, worrying at the length of time he's been in there, and feeling lousy. One thing for us to hurt each other in a relatively fair fight, of the type we had so many of in the days before we were lovers, but this... this was rape. Never mind whether he blames me for it or even whether he enjoyed it; that's not the point. I've been desperate for him before, and we've gotten rough with each other, during sex and otherwise -- but not like this. Never like this. Damn it, I made him bleed; and that's never happened, not even the first time I probed his virginal asshole. I've always been so careful, and now... what if he is hurt? Granted, we do have a doctor on hand, but the thought of having her examine and treat this particular injury makes me cringe -- and doubtless he'd feel the same way. Eventually he emerges, walking a little stiffly; he must be hurting pretty damn badly, to be showing it in even a small way. "Mulder..." I begin, feeling about two steps lower than arthropoda on the evolutionary scale, ready to start apologizing anew. "Listen, Alex," he cuts me off, placing his hands on my shoulders and halting me in my tracks, meeting my gaze squarely. "If I had a problem with you or your behavior, I would tell you. Maybe I'd punch you in the face -- I've done it before, remember? I know how. I'm a little sore right now, but I'll be fine; and the only objection I have to that little interlude is that it didn't last longer." He smiles at me, so affectionately that it leaves me breathless. "So stop looking like you want to go play in traffic. We're square, okay?" Only you, Mulder, could know me for who I am and care for me anyway. "You really are a piece of work," I murmur. His hands move up to my face, caressing me. "I'm your piece of work," he responds, his smile broadening. "Deal with it." Forever, if you'll let me. "Yes, dear," I say instead, in the usual sarcastic tone, and he laughs and kisses me. And y'know, men don't kiss other men in public except for certain neighborhoods in certain large cities, not even in the near-darkness behind an all-but-deserted gas station in the middle of nowhere -- but I kiss him back, and hold on to him longer than I should. Not even the awareness that Scully is a few yards away, watching us and waiting patiently, can induce me to let go. "I don't deserve you," I hear myself whisper into his ear. "Yeah you do," he whispers back. "Face it, Alex, we're a match. We're both completely fucked up, and horny as hell; what could be more perfect?" I laugh, and can't stop laughing, because it's just so damned true. "C'mon," he says, releasing me only long enough to wrap his arm around my shoulders; I slide one arm around his waist, and together we join Scully and head for the car. The miles slide past in a liquid haze. We take turns driving, mostly at night, and sleep during the day. On Sunday, we can't find a motel that will let us check in before three p.m., nor a place to park where we can sleep in the car undisturbed; so we buy movie tickets at the discount theater and doze in the darkened hall through four consecutive showings of Godzilla. Later, when we're on the road again, Mulder tells us about the dream he had, about a four-hundred-foot-tall Skinner who single-handedly destroyed D.C., and does such a good job of telling the story that it sends Scully and me into fits of hysterical laughter that last for fifty miles. On Monday morning, Scully calls the Bureau from a pay phone, reporting a bad case of the flu and requesting/demanding an interval of sick leave; and I wonder what Skinner would say if he knew the truth. Probably he would think she'd lost her mind. I mean, come on, everyone knows better than to trust me. Never mind that none of them have the slightest idea who I really am, or know about the war I've been involved in since before anyone else had a clue that there was a problem. No, I'm Krycek-the-traitor, and no one really wants to know anything more about me than that. Although Scully... I don't know. I don't know what goes through her mind when she looks at me anymore; it's been a long time, relatively speaking, since I saw hatred in her eyes. On Tuesday, we do laundry, and go shopping at a local strip mall for a few supplies. Doctor Scully keeps a better-than-basic first-aid kit in her overnight bag, but with the kind of danger we're walking into, I figure it's a good idea to be prepared for more than minor lacerations. There's also the small matter of our depleted supply of lubricant; I toss a tube into Scully's shopping basket at the drugstore, and force my face to blankness so as not to look as embarrassed as I feel when she grins at me. We pick up extra clothes -- mostly in black: things that will help us blend into the shadows once we get to our destination. And more coffee, from a gourmet specialty shop and actually paid for this time, since my stash is running low. I'm getting impatient by this point; if it had been just Mulder and me on my bike, we would have been there by now -- but then again, this isn't the kind of trip that should be done in twenty-hour drives and catnaps; we need to be well-rested and alert when we get there. On Wednesday, we find a cheap motel a hundred miles away from our target, and settle into adjoining rooms. The very first thing I do is drag Mulder into bed for a few hours -- not that he really needs to be persuaded. For the last two nights, we've been sharing motel rooms with Scully, sleeping together in one of the double beds while she occupies the other. It's been killing me to sleep next to him without being able to have sex -- we're getting very good at making love in bathrooms, but it's not the same -- and once we're together, alone, there's no way I can keep my hands off him. Nor am I alone in this urgency: he shreds one of my favorite shirts in his haste to get it off me. And after we've had sex a few times, slept for awhile and had sex again, we join Scully in her room and begin making plans. The Consortium has been careful to keep their project under tight secrecy -- which will be their downfall, I hope. Instead of diversifying and running the operation from a number of different staging grounds, they've kept everything centralized, using only a handful of locations. This place, this nameless facility in Montana where humans are assimilated, tested, tortured and killed to advance the goals of their inhuman captors, is the second-most important base of operations next to the still-unknown command base. If we can somehow manage to bring this facility to its knees, we will have halted the menace -- or crippled it so severely that it'll take years, decades, before the invader has brought itself to a position of strength from which to try again. At least, that is my hope. That's the up side. The down side is that we'll be walking into Their territory with nothing more than hand weapons for defense -- guns which will kill humans, but not the oiliens or their half-breed servants -- and that all the oiliens have to do is get close enough to seep into our skin, and we're toast. Or test subjects: a far more horrifying prospect. I emphasize this last point repeatedly, and with great intensity. "Don't touch anything," I tell them both, "don't touch anyone, and don't let anyone touch you. The black oil can survive indefinitely without a host, and if you get within a foot of the stuff, it'll have one. It can also jump from human to human at will; and once that shit takes you, there's nothing you can do until and unless it decides to leave..." and all at once, I'm back in that fucking silo, choking and struggling to breathe as the ooze crawls out of me. A hand wrapping around mine brings me back to reality, and I realize that I'm shaking; and I squeeze Mulder's hand hard, using the grip to anchor myself. "We don't split up," I continue, striving for a steady voice, "we don't separate, not even for a moment. Once a person's infected, it's almost impossible to tell. The only tip-off is the black haze over the eyes, and that doesn't show once the infection's established; not unless it wants to. Mulder was with me for hours, and he never knew," as my eyes slide sideways to meet his -- he nods slowly, his gaze compassionate and guilt-ridden. I wish I'd known, he told me, the first time I confessed to him about the nightmares, I would have found a way to help you, but the truth is that there wasn't anything he could have done. There are rumors that the Russians are close to developing a vaccine that might provide a defense against the black oil, but as far as I know, it hasn't been perfected yet -- assuming it even exists. Which means the only way to help an infected person is to kill them, and that's not an easy task; and even if you do manage to kill them, you run the risk of being infected yourself as the oil seeks a new host... I tell them that, too, and make it very clear: "If any of us are infected -- don't try to talk, don't even shoot; just run. Run as far and as fast as you can, get clear of the facility at maximum speed, and try to find someone who'll believe you and help you fight this thing. Don't let sentimentality get in the way. As far as I know, we three are the only people on this planet with knowledge of the colonization who are prepared to try and fight it. If this goes bad... one of us, at least, has to survive, and spread the word." "The others -- the Consortium -- why on earth are they going along with this?" This from Scully, who despite her fierce strength is undoubtedly the most naive of any of us. Lucky girl... how I miss my own days of naivete: the brief period of time in which I believed in justice, and the idea that good might prevail over evil. When I still imagined that humanity was essentially good at heart. And the reasons are far too convoluted to explain completely, so I give her the short form. "They've been told that they'll be spared from slavery," I tell her, "as a reward for their faithful service. They prefer to believe this, despite evidence to the contrary, because the alternative is unthinkable. They're desperate men, relying on a desperate hope -- and willing to sacrifice their entire species for the chance of personal survival, in the face of what they regard as a bleak and inevitable future." "Is there no chance that any of them might be swayed, persuaded to help?" she persists -- knowing, I think, what my answer will be, but holding on to her own desperate, futile hope. I shake my head. "The ones who've been... less than committed to the Project... have been systematically weeded out over the years." Mulder's father. Mine. The string of informants who've found their way to Mulder over the years. Others, some of whom I killed myself before I knew what was really going on. "The Consortium has been ruthless in its elimination of all weakness from within. If this thing's going to be stopped, Scully, it's up to us to do it." She nods, begins to speak -- hesitates, clears her throat, and finally says, "There isn't any easy way of saying this, but I have to... Krycek, how do I know you're not leading us into a trap?" And is about to continue, to say something else, until she glances up and sees my face and falls very suddenly silent. You fucking bitch. Oh, but of course I've expected this. Scully doesn't trust me, and why should she? I'm Alex Krycek, liar, murderer and coward: isn't that what everyone says? Never mind that I've repeatedly put my ass on the line to get this information, when I could just as easily have spent my time amassing wealth and power, or stayed safely hidden away with my lover where nothing could touch us. Never mind that I've been one of those hosts, enduring the filthy touch of the alien bastard inside me, stealing my mind and my body and my self and leaving me forever scarred in ways she can't even imagine. Never mind that for the last sixteen and a half months, I've been hopelessly wrapped around the little finger of the partner she claims to trust above all others, and that he trusts me enough to follow me through the gates of hell without question. Never mind that I could have killed her, any number of times, without even getting my hands dirty; I'm Alex fucking Krycek, fucking traitor, fucking killer, just another fucking scumbag cockroach to be crushed under her self-righteous heel... "You don't," I spit at her, and stalk out of the room and back to my own before I can give in to my impulse to throw her against the wall and break every bone in her body. I slam the connecting door shut -- it isn't enough. I need something to break. Something to smash. The lamp -- it hits the wall and shatters with a satisfying crash, and still it isn't enough. The window...? "Alex," and I whirl around to face him: he isn't Mulder now, he's a target, something I can vent my fury on. Mindlessly, I move to lash out at him, and he grabs my wrists and clamps down tight, holding me in place. "It's her nature," he says, very quietly, very calmly. "She has to question, she has to be skeptical; it's who she is." The words flow into my ears, they make perfect sense, and they don't matter in the slightest. They're just words, powerless against the rage. I twist, trying to wrench free; he hangs on. "She doesn't know you the way I do," he murmurs. "She doesn't understand." And all I can think about is that I need to get away from him, need to hit something, break something... "Alex," he repeats, gently, insistently, "look at me. Look at me." I look at him. Into his eyes. Gradually, I begin to see him. Mulder. "Deep breaths, Alex," he says softly. "C'mon. Just breathe." I look at him. I breathe. Deep breaths. "That bitch," I growl. "She's Dana Scully," he tells me, "you're Alex Krycek. That's not your fault, or hers. It's just who you both are." He's still clutching my arms firmly; but now his thumbs are rubbing little soothing circles on the insides of my wrists. "Breathe, Alex." Deep breaths. Calm. Control. Yes. These are the kind of moods in which people around me tend to die, brutally and messily -- and the only person around me right now is Mulder. "When'd you get so good at talking me down off ledges?" I hear myself ask him. A slight smile crosses his face. "I learned from you," he says. "You've spent the last few months talking me down from mine; now it's my turn," releasing his grip just a little, waiting to see if I'm going to go off again. When I don't, he slides his hands up my arms, over my shoulders, settles his palms against my cheeks and moves in -- kisses me, a small soft kiss. "I trust you, Alex," he says. "With my life, with Scully's life, and then some." He rubs the tip of his nose against mine, in what some call an Eskimo kiss -- such a sweet, affectionate little gesture that it drains away the last of my unreasoning fury. "Yeah," I whisper. "I know." And I slip my arms around him, and he holds me, until I feel almost normal again. When he judges that I've regained control, he takes my hand and leads me back into the other room, where Scully is still sitting at the little table, waiting. "I'm sorry," she says to me, at once. "That was unfair." Yes, it was. Bitch. But was it, really? She has no reason to trust me. I've been involved with so many things that have hurt her... I don't trust her, and I never expected her to trust me; why the hell does it suddenly bother me so much? It's all tied up together in my head somehow: my dread of losing Mulder, my terror of the oiliens, Scully's distrust -- all the fury and fear in me, tangled into a giant snarl that will either keep me alive and wary, or get me killed. Damn it. "You want an answer to your question?" I say, feeling the anger surge forth again, and forcing it back; feeling Mulder's hand gripping mine, and clinging to it as my sole anchor to sanity. "No, you don't know that I'm not leading you into a trap. You don't know the first thing about who I am, or what I do. I hate to tell you this, Scully, but you're just going to have to take this one on faith." She gives me a long look, studying me, then gazes at Mulder for even longer... "I don't trust you," she says to me, finally -- no hatred, no loathing: just a simple statement of fact. "But I trust him, and he trusts you. I guess that's going to have to be enough." Our eyes meet, and lock, for an endless moment. All right. Fair enough. I signify acceptance with a curt nod. She nods back. And slowly, ever so slowly, Mulder's fierce grip on my hand loosens. We sit down at the table with her, and go back to our planning, as if nothing had ever happened. But Scully's words linger in my mind. Most likely, no one's ever going to know what we've done here: whether we succeed or fail, our efforts will go unnoticed and unrecognized. But if history ever does record our actions, if any of us ever make it to the status of footnote... Mulder and Scully will be the brave heroic figures who stood up to the Forces Of Evil and vanquished their foes, or died trying. And me? If I'm remembered at all, it will be as a liar, traitor and murderer; and if anything goes wrong with this operation, it will have been deemed my fault. I've never given a damn what people thought of me. Not since Svetlana died, and I stopped giving a damn about anyone and anything except myself. But I've been working to defeat these bastards from the inside, from the moment I first figured it out, and it's disturbing -- insulting -- to realize that no one will ever know what I've done, what I've sacrificed and how I've suffered, to try to bring them down. Not that I'm faultless, or blameless; not to imply that I haven't followed a purely personal agenda at times, or that I'm not a cold ruthless son-of-a-bitch when I want or need to be. There are many shades of grey, though, between the extremes of black and white; and for Scully to have so firmly assigned me to the dark end of the spectrum, when she of all people should know better than to categorize... makes me realize that no one else will ever judge me in any other way. Mulder knows better. Mulder knows me. But who's going to listen to Spooky Mulder, when he tries to tell them that his lover isn't quite the man they imagine him to be? They'll label him a crazy faggot, turn their backs as they've always done when confronted with his beliefs. I shouldn't care about any of this. I never have before. But somehow, now, I do. Maybe it's because I'm so damn terrified that at least one of us is going to die tonight; and if it's Mulder, well, I just hope that I go down with him. We've made our plans; and now we're taking a few hours to rest before we head out. We've set two a.m. as our ETA at the facility, and the sun is only just setting now. Plenty of time to catch some sleep. Except that I don't dare sleep: the real-life nightmare is too close, and I can't take the chance of succumbing to the terror of my dreams. They leave me too shaky afterwards, and I'd rather be fatigued than trembling. I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, and Mulder lies beside me, doing the same thing -- we don't touch, we don't speak; just knowing he's there is enough for me. When I was seventeen, I ran with a gang of would-be hoodlums in Brooklyn; one day we got drunk and brave and stupid, and attempted to boost a car. A passing patrol car caught us red-handed, and we scattered and ran -- I didn't run fast enough. I was underage, and we hadn't actually managed to steal the car, so the cops didn't book me; instead, they called my parents, and I ended up cooling my heels in a jail cell at the station, waiting for them to come and get me. But it wasn't my father who picked me up. It was two men in dark suits, who manhandled me into a long black car with tinted windows. They took me to one of the big old houses in Bensonhurst, dragged me down to the basement, and proceeded to explain to me -- in Russian-accented voices and with fists bearing heavy, sharp rings -- the errors of my ways. I was my father's son, and a native-born American, and as such, they had plans for me. Plans that did not include youthful delinquency. I was to become their mole, their man on the inside; and it was time that I learned to obey, like a good little soldier. When they finally brought me back to my parents' house, I was in bed for three weeks, recovering. Every night, my father came into my room and explained our family's history, and how important I was to our future; every morning, my mother came in and wept drunkenly over me, begging me not to resist, lest I end up like Svetlana. I thought about running away at least a thousand times; but by the time I'd healed enough to attempt it, I'd heard enough to be afraid of what would happen to me if I tried. Then the gifts began: money, clothes, a car of my own... and it started to seem like a good idea, to be what they wanted me to be. While I was in my senior year of college, the news broke, saturating the media: an espionage ring cracked wide open, its main players apprehended. At first, the only thing that hit home was my father's suicide -- then I began to recognize some of the faces in the newspaper. I should have been terrified; instead, I was elated. I was free, or so it seemed. American justice had prevailed, and now I could live my own life, steer whatever course I chose for myself. The original plan had been for me to worm my way into the federal government somehow, and since I didn't have any better plans for my future, I let the FBI recruit me upon graduation -- amazingly, the background cover-work my father's associates had done on my behalf was still intact. I came to love the work, the atmosphere, the very concept of being part of the Bureau; I began to believe in the power of The System to right wrongs and mete out justice. And then came the day when I was contacted by the Consortium's minions... So much for my brief period of youthful idealism. They knew of my past, of my family's work on behalf of the Russian government and the aborted plans for me to carry on the tradition, and assured me that others would know as well unless I worked with them. The old story: punishment if I resisted, rewards if I obeyed. I accepted their terms, since it didn't seem as if I had a choice; and for a while it was exciting, the subterfuge and the danger. So what if I wasn't precisely doing the Bureau's work, I told myself; I was working toward a greater good. I kept telling myself that, right up until the day I learned what was really going on... That was when I went freelance. Began working toward my own aims, keeping only as many ties with the Consortium as I needed to accomplish my goals. Oddly enough, my rebellion gained me a certain amount of respect from the old boys, gave me a certain status as a player -- until I found myself in that damned silo, puking up an alien entity and suddenly, bleakly aware of what was at stake, for myself and for the whole goddamned planet, and just how expendable I really was. I learned, then, how to be a survivor. How to exist in shadows and chaos and turn them both to my advantage. I learned how to live like a cockroach: how to survive on rotting food in dumpsters and sleep without losing consciousness, how to steal a wallet or a car or the contents of a bank account without being noticed, how to endure filth and squalor -- and how to transcend them, and snatch wealth and luxury and comfort wherever I could. I learned that the ends justify the means, and that survival justifies everything. I worked with the Consortium and against them at once, and I ferreted out every scrap of information I could, and above all else, I survived. Then one day, I was bored and restless and depressed about the grim state of my life and about my slender chances for success at my various goals -- too many nightmares, not enough gratification, unable to keep myself from wondering what the hell was the point of bothering to survive -- and I started thinking about the man who'd been giving me hard-ons since I'd first met him, whether we were working together or at each other's throats, and about how much I'd always wanted to find out what it would be like to be with him for real, instead of in my dreams -- and said to myself, 'What the hell'. And then things got really confusing. Now here I am, in a nondescript motel room in an obscure little town, poised on the brink of confronting the greatest menace ever known to mankind: all my life, everything I've lived through and endured has led to this penultimate moment of triumph or downfall -- and I lie in bed and listen to Mulder breathing, and all I can think about is what a precious sound that is. The sound of life. His life. His body and soul, which have somehow against all odds entwined with mine and taught me, at the last possible moment, just how good living can be. If I die tonight, I will die with the knowledge of what it means to be truly happy. If I die tonight, I will die content. I turn my head sideways to look at him, profile silhouetted by the fading embers of sunset seeping through the closed blinds. Sensing the movement, he turns his head to face me, and for a few seconds, we just look at each other, in silence. I'll never have the words to tell you what you mean to me, Mulder. But then, I think you already know. "You want to make love?" I ask him. He smiles. So beautiful, his smile. "Yeah," he whispers. I roll over on my side and reach out to touch him. He's wearing jeans and nothing else, and I let my fingers trail down his bare chest. Skin like silk, and the pounding of his heartbeat. And he doesn't move, just lies there gazing into my eyes, breathing a little faster, as I stroke his chest slowly. Just touching him this way is making me hard. Hell, just looking at him makes me hard. He turns toward me, onto his side, and his fingertips move slowly down my side, from just beneath my armpit to my hip -- settle finally on the waistband of my jeans, nudging their way just under the edge of the fabric, resting against my stomach. Such a light touch, but it feels like fire, sizzling and searing me. I let my fingers stray over his nipples, and he makes a small sound, half-sigh, half-moan; and suddenly I'm so aroused that it hurts. I push him back against the mattress, position myself above him, so that my crotch touches his, and nothing else: just my hard-on and his, and a double layer of denim separating us, and I can feel the heat of his cock, so tantalizing that I could scream -- the slowness of this seduction is driving me crazy, but even as I long to take him and have him, I don't want this to end. He's trembling. Eyes closed, breath in sharp rapid bursts, trembling... "Look at me," I say, and he opens his eyes -- passion-dark and gorgeous; and I fall into their depths. "Fox." Not a name I can get away with more than once every six months or so; but tonight it opens him like a flower, leaves him even more breathless and utterly vulnerable. Mine. He's mine. "Alex," and the sound of my name drifting atop his soft moan sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I kiss his lips and his chin and the hollow at the base of his throat, moving down slowly to taste his skin: to tease him, and myself. There was a time when I couldn't kiss him without leaving my mark on his flesh, but we're beyond needing to prove ownership now -- well, most of the time -- and this is a time for quivering restraint, the slow buildup of desire into desperation. This could be our last time together... I don't want to think about that. And yet the realization makes every touch, every caress, infinitely more vivid and intense. It could be the last time, and if either of us survives without the other, it should be a time whose memory will sustain us through the agony of loss. For a moment, I rest my cheek against the bulge of his cock, heated denim pulsating against my face, wishing that this was all that existed, and that I could shut out time and the future and everything but me and him and what we feel for each other. Then he moves, a little involuntary thrust of his hips, seeking pressure, needing contact; it draws me from my reverie into the reality of his need, and I press my lips against the denim and hear him cry out softly. I love teasing him: I love the sounds he makes, the way his body tenses and writhes... I nibble at the fabric for awhile, just to hear him whimper, feel him squirming beneath me; then kiss my way back up until I can reach his lips. He kisses me back -- and then seizes my shoulders and rolls us over, pushes me back against the mattress and gazes down at me, his eyes sparkling. "Your turn," he says. Oh, is it ever. Lips and tongue and teeth and fingertips bringing me to within a hairsbreadth of orgasm, and he never even touches me below the waist. "Stop," I gasp finally, between moans, because I'm too close to hold back much longer -- and when he stops, I want to beg him to continue; instead, I lie very still and concentrate very hard on not coming, until the urgency subsides. Stretching out on his side next to me, he reaches out with one fingertip and traces a line down the center of my face from forehead to throat, lingering on my lower lip for one extra moment. Memorizing me? Is he feeling the same sense of last-time poignancy, wondering and worrying about which of us will die first? "How do you want to do it?" Usually, I don't need to ask; usually, we both know, without having to discuss it. Lovers' intuition. But this is different, somehow; I can't tell what he wants, nor decide what I want. He shakes his head slightly. "I don't know," he murmurs. "I don't care." His hand moves to the side of my face, settles there, tightening briefly against my jaw. "As long as I'm with you." Ah, Mulder... Yeah. Exactly."What do you want?" he asks me, and I shrug -- it doesn't matter to me, either. He moves closer, and I reach out and pull him to me, and we kiss, deeply and at length. "I want you inside me," he whispers, as we part. "I want you to make love to me that way. Because no one else ever has... and no one else ever will." So. He's feeling it too. Another kiss, and he moves down to undo my jeans -- draws my erection into his mouth for one nerve-shattering moment, one long hard suck, before he releases me; I want to pull his head down and keep it there, but somehow restrain myself -- tugs my pants down my legs and off, leaving them in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. Then it's my turn to undress him, unzipping his fly, sliding his jeans down over his ass and his thighs and his calves and feet. I leave his pants in a crumpled heap on the floor, kneel between his legs, and study him as if I've never seen him before. It's times like this that I know, with complete certainty, why I've surrendered so much of myself to him: why I've given up my solitude and my independence, why I've been so willing to change my world and myself to fit into his expectations and needs. Why I've been so hopelessly enthralled with him since the moment I first set eyes on him. Why I risked my life to salvage his, and would do it again in a heartbeat. He is Fox Mulder, and he is unique and irresistible and gorgeous, and he is mine. Slowly, so slowly, I prepare him and myself and slide into him, immersing myself in a rush of sensation that feels like a homecoming. His legs wrap around my hips and hold me there, inside him, and our eyes meet... so intimate, so much more than simple fucking. "Alex," he whispers, and I watch, mesmerized, as his lips form my name. Amazing: the sound of him speaking my name with such passion is even more arousing than the hot, tight grip of his ass. Obsession. Addiction. Such negative words, for something as pure and exquisite as what I feel for him. Slowly, so slowly, I move inside him: torment for both of us, each stroke bringing a renewed onslaught of need so ferocious that it demands more... I hold back, even though my balls are aching and throbbing for release, even though he is sobbing my name in that particular raspy tone that never fails to drive me wild. I hold back, clinging fiercely to what little restraint I possess, because this is so perfect that I don't want it to end. And Mulder's hand works at his cock in the same slow pace, holding himself back as well, matching my rhythm and my desperation... His eyes are locked with mine, and all I see is him: his need, his longing, his devotion, and so much more. Things I don't dare examine too closely, or clarify in my mind. Affection... more than affection. So much more. Slowly, so slowly, until the feeling screams through me, shockingly intense and insistent -- "Alex, please," Mulder groans, and it's more than I can bear. Harder, faster, as he writhes and moans beneath me, the pleasure building almost to pain, building and building until I can't withstand it anymore, until the world explodes into shuddering ecstasy. Damn, it's so good with him. It's never been better than this, not with anyone. He's still shaking, and I reach down and place my palm flat against his chest to feel the pounding of his heart; his hand covers mine and holds it there as our eyes meet and lock. Your heart. Mine. If I had for one moment imagined that my act of boredom, all those months ago in the abandoned warehouse, would lead us to this, I never would have done it -- this kind of intimacy is what I fear the most. But now that I'm here, that we're here, I can't imagine doing without it... Do you know what you mean to me, Mulder? Do you? He curls his hand around mine, brings it to his lips and kisses my palm -- I swear, the man is telepathic. At least, when we're naked together. And I disengage, fall on top of him, flesh against sticky flesh; and let myself sink into him, luxuriating in the brief peace we can share before the time comes for us to face my worst nightmares. This isn't right. This is all wrong. We creep through darkened hallways, alert to any signs of movement -- but there is none. To all appearances, the place is deserted. It's a trap, it's got to be a trap -- or so I think, until we reach the deepest levels of the facility. The containment vessels in which the oiliens live when they're not infecting a host... they're gone: there's nothing but a huge empty space. Nothing. But what does it mean? Is this a part of the plan that I never heard about? Or did they somehow get wind of my intentions, and move their operation elsewhere? Or have I been led completely down the garden path...? "I don't like this," Scully says, very softly. "Me neither," Mulder concurs, in a near-whisper. My mind races through alternatives, and not one of them is good; most of them point to the conclusion that my infiltration has been discovered, which means... they knew we were coming: they know we're here. "We've got to get out of here," I say tightly. "Now." I'm half-expecting either or both of them to fall into FBI-Hero mode, but to their credit, both of them are instantly with me -- something I hadn't anticipated: that the seamless partnership the two of them forged over the years should expand to include me. It's been this way since we left the car hidden, some miles down the road, and began our slow wearying trek to the facility -- we've been a team of three, communicating more with gestures and glances than with words. Like three parts of a whole. I could get used to this. If I live long enough. Shadows creep at the edge of the flashlight beams, distracting me -- I'm certain that every black half-seen shape is an oilien, and only the fiercest effort of will can shake me from that belief. We move up staircases, as silently as possible considering that we're trying for maximum speed; through deserted rooms that were once laboratories, offices... Mulder stops. "Move!" I hiss at him. This is either a waste of time or a trap, and either way, we need to get out of here... "Wait," he says. "This looks like their computer room." He surveys the space, the charred backup tapes on the floor -- moves toward the main computer of what looks like it might be a UNIX system, and begins tugging at the blue external hard drives. "What are you doing, Mulder?" Scully asks, a moment before I would have. "There's a chance there might still be some data left. I doubt they had time to really wipe the disks clean; most likely, they just did a global delete, and hoped that would be enough." "The Gunmen?" says Scully. "Give 'em something to play with," he answers, as the last of the six drives comes free from its housing. He piles them neatly on a table, wraps his spare sweatshirt around the stack, stuffs the bulky package into his knapsack and shrugs it onto his back again. "There," with satisfaction. "It won't guarantee results, but it's worth a shot." "Are you finished? Can we leave now?" The interminable silence and stillness are getting to me. I want us out of here, and as safe as we can be, considering it's a likely shot that the Consortium now knows what we're up to. "Yeah," he says, and we leave the computer room behind and flee. Up, and up, and out... We're almost at the exit. We're almost clear. Just a few more yards, and... "Unhhh," I hear, and a thud, and I turn to see Scully fallen to the floor. Shot? No, even a silencer makes some sound. Oiliens? No... "I twisted my ankle," she says, as Mulder kneels beside her. Good work, Agent Scully, I think sardonically; and from the chagrined expression on her face, she is thinking the same thing. But there is no time for recriminations now. "C'mon," he says, slides his arm around her and hauls her to her feet; I take her other side, and we carry her out of that godforsaken place. It soon becomes abundantly obvious that we can't continue this way indefinitely. Mulder's got her right side, so his gun arm is free, and I can shoot left-handed when I have to -- but there are limits to how fast one can travel while supporting another person, and to how far one can go. Our defensive capability has been sharply reduced, and forget about stealth... We make it as far as the guardhouse down the road; I kick the door open and Mulder takes the lead, ready to shoot -- but the little shack is as deserted as the main facility had been. Carefully, we ease Scully down to the floor; I occupy myself with guarding the door while Mulder takes off her shoe. He makes a sound of dismay, and I glance back -- that's a nasty sprain, all right. She reaches into her bag and rummages through her first-aid supplies, comes up with an Ace bandage and begins to wrap the ankle. I'm no doctor, but I can tell it isn't going to work. Not enough for her to be able to walk all the way back to the car -- safety precaution, leaving our means of escape far enough away to not be detected; damn it, how was I to know it would be the wrong choice? But I keep my thoughts to myself as she bandages her ankle, tries to stand, manages it only briefly before slumping back to the floor. "Damn," she mutters, and I see self-castigation in her face -- twisting her ankle was such a stupid error, and such a massive one. I can sympathize: how many times have I sabotaged my own plans with one tiny mistake that blew up in my face? Yeah, it happens, to even the best and brightest of us. "We'll carry you," Mulder says, determined -- but the act falls flat; he knows as well as I do that we're not going to be able to carry her that far. She shakes her head. "You two go on ahead," she says, "get the car, and come back for me." Oh, yeah, right. Like Mulder's going to leave her... In that moment, I know what I have to do. "I'll go," I tell them. I hate the idea of leaving him here, within sight distance of the hellhole; it looked deserted, but how can I really be sure? The oiliens could still be here, they could seep into him and take him away from me while I'm gone... but it's the only way. "No," Mulder says. "I'll go." An option I like even less. If he stays here with Scully, at least there will be two sets of eyes, two guns, to defend themselves. But to stay here, knowing that he's on the road alone, unguarded... Before I can begin to argue, he grabs my shoulders and pulls me close. "You're a better shot than I am," he says, quietly but with great intensity -- and I can tell that it's cost him to make that admission; never mind that it's true. "I need to know that you're here, protecting her. And that she's here to protect you." Shit, Mulder, I hate it when you use my own arguments against me. And it's worse for him, because he's got two of us to worry about -- his eyes bore into mine, and I know he's not going to back down on this one. Arguing about it will only waste time, and accomplish nothing. "All right," I agree, forcing out the words, hating them. We spend a few minutes dividing our remaining supplies, checking our weapons and ammunition, dithering over the leave-taking because none of us want it to happen -- but finally, we can delay no longer. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says to Scully, kneeling beside her and taking her hand, squeezing it gently as she gazes back at him and tries hard to smile for his benefit. Then he stands, turns to me. His face is drawn, worried. "Take care of her," he says. "Promise me, Alex..." each word very distinct, very clear: charging me with the responsibility for something unutterably precious to him. I resent the words, and the attitude -- as if I don't know how he feels about her? as if I need to be told? -- but now is not the time to make an issue of it. "I promise," I reply, because he needs to hear me say it. He nods slightly -- and suddenly there are tears in his eyes. "And take care of yourself," he says, his voice as harsh as if the words are acid, burning him up inside. Shit, I hate this. "Yeah, you too," I manage to say. Mulder reaches out and pulls me close, crushing himself against me in a sharp, passionate kiss -- don't let this be the last! -- then turns abruptly and heads out, without looking back. I watch through the tiny, dirty window as he jogs down the road toward the highway, watch his form grow smaller and smaller until he disappears around a curve, out of view. It's as if he's ripped out my soul and taken it with him. I feel empty, and unbearably alone. "I hope you gave him the car keys," a small voice ventures -- distracting me; probably trying to distract us both. "He has his own set," I say absently, and kneel beside her, welcoming the diversion. She watches me as I find a cardboard box left abandoned in a corner, mash down one side and ease it under her injured ankle, elevating the wounded limb. I unwrap the bandage -- we're not going anywhere, and she can't walk worth a damn anyway, so there's little point in her being uncomfortable. "Wish we had some ice," I remark. Scully shivers. "The way the weather's turning, that won't be a problem." "It'll warm up when the sun rises." But she's right; it's been getting steadily colder throughout the night. At least we have some shelter, though; Mulder, alone on the road... Oh, hell, I can't let myself think about that. I can't. I sit down beside her, leaning back against the wall facing the single door; I place my gun on the floor, so that I can snatch it up in an instant should it be necessary. And together, in silence, we wait for Mulder's return. It's getting lighter outside. Dawn is coming. And it's getting colder -- from what I can see of the sky, a storm's moving in. Back home at the Rathole, clouds that color would mean rain, or maybe hail. But here, up North, it's probably snow. Damn it. Scully is still shivering, more fiercely now -- I'm more used to the cold than she is; so I strip off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. She resists at first: "I'm all right." "I promised to take care of you," I remind her. "I'm going to do that, whether you like it or not." Her face creases into a rueful grin, and she allows me to tuck my jacket around her. "I didn't know promises mattered to you," she says, but her voice is light -- not an accusation: more of an exploration. When I need to lie, I do so without hesitation or guilt: but when I make a promise, I keep it. That's the way I am -- what passes for a personal code of ethics. But she doesn't need that much information. "The promises I make to Mulder are the ones you can count on," I tell her. She seems to like this answer; her face softens into a thoughtful expression. "You and Mulder..." and her voice trails off. The silence stretches out, and finally I ask her: "What?" "Nothing," she says, evidently thinking better of whatever question she was about to ask. Then, when I've already tabled the matter and considered it closed, she murmurs, "I don't think I've ever seen two people more in love with each other." Her statement stuns me. I have absolutely no idea what to say to that. Especially since that word is one I don't ever use, not even in the privacy of my own mind. "Love is for sane people with safe lives," I mutter finally, when it becomes clear that she's waiting for me to answer, and hope that'll be enough to shut her up. I'm staring at the door to evade her eyes, but I can feel her scrutiny -- sharp, laser-beam eyes. "Love is love," she replies, "it happens. Usually when you least expect it... and at the least convenient times." Just who is she talking about, anyway? Me, or herself? All right, I've had enough of this. Engage defensive mode, Alex. "Why don't we talk about your love for Mulder, instead?" I shoot back at her, turning my head to underscore my point with a cold stare. She gazes back steadily. "We could," she responds, "if you want." Shit. Bluff called. And no, actually, that is the last thing I want... "Haven't you ever wondered why I didn't kill you, back at the hospital?" she asks me. Actually, yeah, I have. She'd had a clear, perfect shot at me -- and she's good; she could've taken me out easily. But I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of my curiosity. "Because you love him?" I parry snidely. And she nods. "Enough to let him go," she says softly. Who the hell are you, Dana Scully? Not the person I'd thought, that's for certain. "I want him to be happy. I think he is, with you." Such sincerity in her eyes. Oh, sure, I can fake sincerity easily -- but she isn't me: she's never learned that skill. She's so straightforward that I can't imagine how she's survived so long in the Bureau. Other people learn how to sneak and deceive and kiss ass -- but not Scully, any more than Mulder ever did. I can sense it, I can feel it: what she's saying to me is real. And how the hell am I supposed to deal with it? Distrust, loathing, hatred, I'm used to facing those... but this is a new one, in my experience. Truth, maybe? This is Mulder we're talking about, and she has as much of a vested interest in his well-being as I do; I suppose she deserves to know. "I think he is, too," I answer. A slight nod. "In the final analysis, that's what matters most to me. I..." She hesitates, searching for words. "I want him to be happy," she repeats finally, "and what I feel for him doesn't matter as much, in that sense, as what he feels -- and who he feels it for." I should leave it alone. I should. But somehow, I can't. "So you're willing to overlook the fact that he's in..." I can't say the word. "...that he's involved with a traitor and a killer?" I've managed to strike a nerve, I can tell. "I don't have a choice," she says, after some thought. "In all the years we've worked together, I've never seen him so... so content. I can't take that away from him. If I thought for a moment that you intended to cause him harm, or that you were even capable of doing so, I'd kill you in a heartbeat -- but I can't believe that. Not now." I can only stare at her in disbelief. Never in my wildest dreams have I imagined Dana Scully as anything but an adversary... I struggle to find my voice, and eventually succeed. "It sounds as if you're saying that you're in favor of our relationship." Again, she hesitates. "Yes," she says, "that is what I'm saying." And it's obvious, from her tone and her expression, that it's costing her a great deal to speak the words -- but just as obvious that she means them. Even if it hurts. Well, who would've thought? Shit, I think -- then realize that I have said it aloud, as she laughs. "Yeah," she responds, sharing the irony of the situation with me, and reaching out to cover her hand with mine. Her hand is warm and strong, and I can extrapolate what her handshake must be like -- not one of those limp, cold-fish evasions, nor a butch wanna-be bonecrusher, but firm and solid: as honest and real as the rest of her. I could get to like you, Dana Scully. I could like you a lot. Then her eyes flicker past me, and her expression darkens. "Damn," she mutters, and I turn to look out the window, as the first snowflakes begin to flutter past the dirty pane of glass to the ground. Dawn has deepened into day, not that you can tell -- the sky is cloud-covered, and only a grey light penetrates into the guard-house. It's enough, though, for us to see the snow coming down in huge wet flakes. There's at least two inches on the ground already... "He's going to be all right," Scully says steadily. I turn to glare at her. Don't try to reassure me with platitudes, all right? But she doesn't flinch at my look. "He grew up in New England; this is probably just a light snowfall, for him," she continues. "People die in storms like this," I counter, and feel myself trembling. She's shaking, too, but not from emotion. We're sheltered, but it's still damned cold, and no way to start a fire that wouldn't burn down the shack. Body heat... "C'mere," I say, sliding my arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. "Why, Krycek, I didn't know you cared," she says sarcastically; but she doesn't resist, just huddles close against me. "I said I'd take care of you, remember?" In a small way, the snow is reassuring -- the oiliens don't seem to handle extreme cold very well; it tends to send them into hibernation, or at least slow them down -- but that bit of comfort pales before the thought of Mulder out there in the snow. "Considering your proclivities, I don't suppose I have anything to worry about," she shoots back at me. Ouch. That one stung. And here I'd thought I'd stopped being insecure about my masculinity years ago. "You think I couldn't get it up for you? News flash, babe: I go both ways." She doesn't respond to this, so I press the point a little further, going straight for the nerve. "If I wanted to, I could make you feel so good you'd forget how much you despise me..." and stop there, because all at once her body is stiff and tense in my arms. Yeah, I suppose it has to be a little scary for her, being alone in this godforsaken place with a man she doesn't trust -- sure, she's got a gun, but so do I; she's probably thinking words like 'rape' about now. "Of course, Mulder would cut my balls off if I did," I add. "Don't worry, I'll be a perfect gentleman." She relaxes, a little. "Wouldn't want Mulder to cut your balls off," she murmurs. "He'd be so unhappy, afterwards." A breath of laughter escapes me. "It would put a crimp in our sex life," I agree. "Mm." She hesitates, then says, in a small voice, "Can I ask a very nosy question?" I have the feeling that I know what's coming. "You can ask," I say, leaving the other part of it unspoken: but I don't promise to answer. It takes her a few moments to get the words out. "Is he good?" And I debate how to respond to that. I could reply, 'Good at what?' and put her through the embarrassment of having to elaborate. Or I could tell her that it's none of her damn business, which it really isn't. Except that I can certainly understand the curiosity, having felt it myself -- and in this moment in time, we're kindred spirits: both of us nervous and fearful, waiting for Mulder to return, trying desperately to submerge our terror that he won't. In the end, I opt for honesty. "Astonishing," I tell her. "The best I ever had." Though that last might be less due to his technical expertise than the feelings I have for him. Even in the beginning, when he didn't know the first thing about giving a decent blowjob, just the sensation of his lips on my cock could bring me off... "Mm." She is silent for a moment. "I'd assumed as much, actually. Considering the way you sound when you're, um, with him." Ah, shit. "What, you were eavesdropping?" I twist a little so I can see her face, trying to discern whether I'm being needled or just teased. "'Eavesdropping' implies effort," she retorts. "Do you have any idea how loud you two are?" There's a definite twinkle in her eyes, and no malice -- teasing, then. All right; I can deal with that. "I've never had occasion to worry about it." Not at the Ratcave, certainly. Though her statement makes me wonder about the times before that, and what Mulder's ex-neighbors might have thought. "Well, now you know: subtlety is not your strong point." She grins up at me. And did you like it, Scully? Did it turn you on to listen? I want to ask, but restrain myself. For one thing, I'm not sure I want to know the answer. For another, I'm starting to get a hard-on, which is definitely not beneficial to the situation. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, hoping that she doesn't see fit to drop this bombshell in Mulder's lap. Personally, I don't care whether she listens or not; but it might make him self-conscious, and that would really dry up our sex life for as long as we're all together in this situation. Assuming that Mulder returns, so that we can continue to have a sex life. Damn. For a few minutes, I'd managed to forget the danger he's in, and how fucking worried I am about him... "He's going to be all right," Scully says softly. "How can you know that?" And for one brief, irrational moment, I find myself praying that she'll tell me that she's got some unearthly precognitive power: that she can foresee the future, and accurately predict his safety... "He has to be all right," she murmurs. "We need him too much to lose him." Yeah, we do, don't we? Yet I can't bring myself to resent her, neither for the emotion nor for the presumption. Right now we're kindred spirits, after all. I cling to her a little tighter, because she's all I have to cling to and I need to hang on to something; she buries her face against my chest, and together we withstand the storm. "Hungry?" "Yeah," she says at once. I dig into the bag and bring out our meager supply. The water bottle is half-empty; our food consists of a handful of the plastic-wrapped beef-jerky-and-cheese-stick snacks they sell at truckstops. I congratulate myself, for having thought to bring food on what should have been a quick in-and-out operation; I kick myself mentally, for not having brought more of it. We each take one of the little packages, rip them open and begin chewing determinedly. This isn't food; it's sustenance, and barely even that. "What I wouldn't give for a pizza right now," Scully says wistfully. "Or a container of chicken chow mein." "Such pedestrian tastes," I say disparagingly, more for the momentary diversion of teasing her than anything else. "Oh yeah? If you had a choice, what would you be eating right now?" she retorts. Too good a straight line; I can't resist. "You mean, besides Mulder?" My reward is a look that tries to be severe, and succeeds only in conveying wry amusement. "I mean food," she says. I think about it for a moment, closing my eyes to better visualize the menu. "Shrimp broiled in garlic butter, chilled and served with cocktail sauce. Filet mignon with pearl onions and portobello mushrooms. Asparagus with cream cheese, wrapped in prosciutto, covered with a light raspberry vinaigrette. And dessert -- strawberries and cannoli cream, drenched in rum and amaretto." I open my eyes again, study my stick of beef jerky with distaste... damn, I'm hungry, and that little trip down memory lane has done nothing to make my present meal any more palatable. "Such gourmet tastes," Scully mocks me; but there's surprise behind the taunt. "I like to eat," I tell her. "I mean... food, too." Dana Scully is a good-looking woman -- but when she smiles, she's fucking gorgeous. And Mulder's been hot for her for five years, and never jumped her bones? Shit. Either he's got better control than I do, or he's insane. "When this is all over, if we survive," she remarks, "you've got to take me out to eat some time." "When this is all over, if we survive," I say, without thinking, "I'll make you that dinner." Flat-out startlement, this time. "You can cook?" I sigh. Why is that always the reaction? "Yes, I can cook," I respond wearily. "And if you repeat one tired old cliche about my sexual orientation, I swear I'll beat you up, no matter what I promised him." She laughs. "Agreed. I do have one question, though." "Yes?" "How do you cook shrimp, anyway? Every time I try, they end up as tough as shoe leather..." The next thing I know, I'm telling her how to peel and devein shrimp, and how to pick out seafood at the market, and she's giving me her mother's recipe for banana bread; and my mind is reeling at the idea that I'm having this conversation with her -- holding her in my arms, no less, and trading recipes with the same woman who I'd been considering my rival. Kind of nice, though, in a bizarre sort of way. Friendly. Most of the people in my life have been adversaries or lovers, or both; it's not often that I get the chance to have a normal conversation. First Mulder, now this... too much of this relentless camaraderie, and I might forget how to be a calculating, soulless bastard, and what will become of me then? "I'm going to hold you to that promise," she says, when we've run out of recipes and helpful hints to exchange. "Shrimp and filet mignon -- I'm not overly fond of strawberries, though." "Mm. How about raspberries and whipped cream over amaretto poundcake?" Scully smiles. "That sounds wonderful." She rests her head against my chest. "You're cold," she says faintly. Well, yeah. It's snowing outside, not much warmer in here, and someone else has my jacket -- I'm wearing a sweatshirt and a t-shirt, but it isn't enough. "I'm all right," I tell her, because if I admit to the fact that I'm fucking freezing, she'll make me take back the jacket. I've endured worse than this, and she needs it more than I do, and... and I promised him that I'd take care of her. And how much is that promise going to cost me in the end? Damn. "The hell you are," she murmurs, and nestles into me. "Take your jacket, Alex." "I'm okay. Really." But I pull her a little closer, because it's warmer than being alone. She yawns, and abruptly I realize how long it's been since I slept... "Why don't you rest for awhile? I'll keep watch." "You're cold and tired," she notes sleepily. "I'll sleep after you do. Rest." She really is warm, for such a little thing. "Rest, Dana..." I startle myself by using her first name -- but she doesn't seem disturbed, and it feels right somehow. Her eyes flutter closed, and I feel her body relax against mine; and I hold her close and stare at the window, at the snow still falling outside. "I think we need to face facts," I tell her, some time later. "I think we need to start dealing with the concept that he's not coming back." "Alex, we don't know that..." "The snow's knee-deep, and still falling." I know this from first-hand experience, having nearly frozen my nuts off while taking a leak. I don't want to think about what it must've been like for Scully. "Even if he managed to reach the car, there's no way he's going to make it back here..." "We can't give up hope," she says strenuously. "I know Mulder; he'll stop at nothing to save us." "Yeah. Even if he kills himself trying." I can't stand still. I pace back and forth, cursing under my breath in Russian because there isn't enough room to pace properly; and she sits there on the floor, shivering and watching me pace. "I believe in Mulder," she says, very softly. "I have faith in him. Don't you?" "I'm a realist, Dana," I lash out at her. "He's out there in that storm, and my faith or lack thereof won't make a damn bit of difference! Damn it... I always knew it could never last, that everything we had was too fucking good to be true..." and I can't speak anymore, because if I do, I'm going to crack wide open, and there will be nothing left but the misery and the agony and the fury. I want more than anything to drive my fist through the window, and there's only the thinnest shred of rationality holding me back, the knowledge that this would be the stupidest thing I could do... "Go," Scully says softly. The single word pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to look at her, and she's holding out my jacket. "Go," she repeats. "Go look for him." Ah, hell. Don't you know that you're only making this worse for me? Slowly, I shake my head. "I wouldn't get half a mile in this storm," I point out. "Even if I did, I wouldn't know where to look. If he's... if he's fallen, I could pass within three feet of him, and miss him entirely. Besides... I promised him I'd take care of you," and it's the last part that all but shatters me. He'll die out there, and I'm powerless to even try to help him, because of that fucking promise -- and if I do break it, if I manage to save him at Scully's expense, he'll never forgive me. Never. And I'd been so afraid that he'd leave me for her, or that he'd be shot and killed by some Consortium assassin... this is the worst possible way to lose him, and I can't take it. I can't. A sound: she struggles clumsily to her feet and hobbles painfully over to me. "When the storm lets up," she says quietly, "we'll go and look for him together." Her eyes, her face, hold such compassion -- I've seen that look before, but never directed at me. "We'll find him, Alex," she says, and reaches up to place one small hand against the side of my face. "We will." Yeah, frozen through, dead or dying in the snow... But I don't say it. She needs to hope, and I can't take that away from her. Even though -- or maybe because -- I just don't have what it takes to keep hoping, myself. She slides her arms around my waist and I hold her close, not knowing whether I am comforting her or seeking comfort, and not caring: I am losing him, I have lost him, and nothing else matters. Nothing. "It's not going to let up, is it?" "No, I don't think so." A long hesitation. "We're going to die here, aren't we?" I'm too tired to lie to her. "Yeah, I think we probably are."Silence. "You're probably right," she whispers, "he's probably already dead." "Yeah," and I close my eyes tightly against the tears. "Alex, I'm so cold..." "It's all right." They say that freezing to death is one of the more pleasant ways to die. No pain, just numbness, and eventual darkness. "It's all right, Dana." And then there is nothing but the silence, and the cold. Sleeping. I want to keep sleeping. It's cold, I'm so cold, and Mulder's gone, dead probably, and the cold is ice and numb and oblivion: don't wake me up. Don't. Just let me stay here, in the unknowing cold... "Alex. Wake up, Alex. Wake up." No. It's a dream, a hallucination, he's not here. Can't be here. Impossible... "C'mon, Alex, wake up." Such urgency in the voice: hands on me, arms around my waist, hauling me upright, and lips on mine... I know the taste of those lips. Oh, so well. "You're alive," I tell him foggily. He smiles. Mulder, you're so fucking gorgeous. "Yeah, I know." "Could've let me in on it sooner," I argue. "Sorry." Another beautiful smile. If this is a hallucination, it's wonderful. "Let's get you out of here, hmm?" He pulls me, drags me to my feet; he guides me to the door, and I stumble along beside him. A sudden blurry thought strikes me: "Scully?" "She's fine," my dream-Mulder says soothingly. "She's in better shape than you are, actually. She had two jackets, and you had none. Idiot," in such an affectionate tone, it seems an endearment. "I took care of her," I tell him -- it seems vitally important that he know this. "I kept my promise." One more brilliant smile, to warm me from the inside out. "I knew you would." Cold wind slaps me in the face as he opens the door, as we plough through snow like walking through Jello, as he leads me to the biggest fucking pickup truck I've ever seen in my life. "Up you go," as he shoves me inside, and I fall sprawling onto the seat, into... what is this feeling? Oh, yeah, right, it's warmth. I'd forgotten. On the other side of the truck, a door opens, and Scully topples onto the seat; she favors me with a weak smile, and very slowly I begin to believe that this dream might be real after all. Then Mulder climbs into the truck's back seat, moving past Scully to sit between us; he slides one arm around her shoulders, grabs me with the other, and pulls us both close. He's warm. So warm. The truck is warm, and Mulder is warm, and I can't stop shaking from the cold and the fear and the overwhelming relief of being with him again... "Let's get the hell out of here," he says to someone in the front seat, and the engine growls and roars as the truck begins to move. I hang onto Mulder for dear life, working my nearly-numb arms around Scully's, because she's doing the same thing; his arm tightens around me, and her hand grabs my wrist and clings tightly to me, and the three of us huddle together in the warmth of the truck, of each other. He's alive. We're alive. And nothing else matters. Nothing.------- The next awakening is a pleasure, a luxury. I'm warm. My jeans are wet from the knees down, from wading through the snow; but even the dampness is warm. Heaven. And as I become more aware of my surroundings, I assimilate my position: I'm sitting with my back against the truck's side door, and Mulder is snuggled close against me, and Scully is leaning against the curve of his back; like a pair of dominoes toppled against me, and both of them fast asleep. I feel my face stretch into a grin, and close my eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation: of being warm, of being with Mulder again. Only question is: Who's driving the pickup? Ever so casually, I glance toward the driver... Shit. I'd know that bald head anywhere. He glances at the rear-view mirror, and our eyes meet. "Where are we going?" I say, in a voice like steel. "Somewhere safe." His tone is curt, filled with all the usual things: loathing, distrust, disgust. He hates me, this one. And if he's doing his job, that means he's taking me... ...oh yeah, somewhere safe, someplace where the windows have bars, maybe? The knapsack, the one with our supplies, it's right by my foot, and in it... I move as swiftly as I can, which is pretty damn fast even with the weight of two bodies pressing against me, come up a second later with the gun in my left hand -- not my first choice, but at this range I can't miss -- and press its muzzle against the back of his neck. Click: there goes the safety. "I said, where are we going?" I can see the tension come over him, the sudden gut-clenching fear that comes with having a gun pointed at one's head. "Take it easy, Krycek..." "I don't take orders from you; I never did." Sweat, bald man, sweat. And damn, what a rush it is: being the one with the gun, the one with the power, the one in control. I always did love this part. "Stop jerking me around. Tell. Me. Where. We're. Going." "Alex?" Sleepy voice, smothering a yawn -- oh hell, I don't need this now. "Not now, Mulder. I'm busy." Like I stand a chance in hell of him listening to me. Before he can awaken enough to interfere, I shove the gun a little more forcefully against the base of Skinner's skull. "I want to know where we are, and where we're going, and I want to know now." Skinner clears his throat. "We're on the interstate, heading east," he says evenly, trying not to betray his nervousness. " A friend of mine owns a place in rural Michigan. It seemed like a good place to lay low until we figure this out. Damn it, Krycek, put the gun away before you get us all killed." The man has a point, I have to admit. We're driving through ice and snow, and if I kill him... by the time I can climb into the front, wrench his deadweight out of the driver's seat and grab the wheel, we'll be off the road, into the guardrail or over it, and quite possibly dead. None of which dissuades me -- but does ease my finger off the trigger, just a bit. "Alex." Mulder's awake now, and speaking in that steady, calming voice he uses to talk me out of my more extreme moods. "Don't interfere," I tell him tersely. Yeah, fat chance of that. "He's not going to hurt you, Alex." Damn that voice; damn what it does to me. "He's not going to haul you off to prison." "Right. How do you know that?" I've got to keep perspective, not let Mulder sway me... "Because I won't let him." Such a quiet tone, and so determined. My gun hand doesn't waver, but I turn my head, just a little, to look at him through the corner of my eye. "I'm not going to let anyone separate us," he says, once he's sure I'm paying attention. "Not ever." Soft fingertips caress my cheek, trail down to my neck. "You've kept me safe for all this time, and now it's my turn; and that's what I'm going to do. No matter what it takes." His hand on my shoulder, gentle reminder of who we are and what we share. "Put the gun down, Alex." Damn. There's no way out of this, is there? Mulder's not going to let me kill his ex-boss, even if I do decide to take the risk of running the pickup off the road. I don't have a lot of options here... the only real choice is to give in, and hope Mulder knows what he's talking about. 'I don't trust you, but I trust him, and he trusts you...' -- now I know how Scully felt. Leaps of faith suck. I flick the safety into place, tuck the gun back into the bag within easy reach, feeling disgusted and oddly relieved at once. "You're going to get me killed someday." "Nah. I'm gonna keep you alive." His hands tug at me, pulling me closer, drawing me into a kiss. The taste and feel of him against me goes straight to my groin, sparking flames -- I'd been so sure he was dead. Now here he is, alive and in my arms... I can't resist that; I can't resist him. And what the hell: if Skinner's going to beat the crap out of me and haul my ass off to a federal pen, he's going to do it whether or not I'm kissing his former agent in the back seat, right? It won't hurt to lose myself in Mulder, for just a little while -- to submerge myself in him, in the feel of his hands gliding over my face and shoulders, of his lips and tongue... Shit. This is not the time or place for the hard-on I'm getting. What a waste of a perfectly good erection. Two of 'em, actually: mine and his. Ah, Mulder. He backs off a little when the desire is on the edge of being painful, rests his head against my shoulder. Scully is awake now -- I suppose it must be difficult to sleep when the person you're using as a pillow is humping someone else -- she waits for Mulder to get comfortable before settling against him again. And aren't we a cozy little trio; I have to wonder what Skinner thinks of all this. Of course, I know what he thinks of me, or else I wouldn't have put a gun to his head, and even the people who respect Mulder think he's crazy -- but the fact that level-headed rational little Scully is going along with this deviation from sanity must be boggling his mind. Good: it'll keep him off balance, and that's the way I like my adversaries. "Tell me what happened," I say, into Mulder's ear. In a soft voice, just loud enough for both Scully and me to hear, he relates the tale: jogging back to the car, walking when he couldn't run anymore. Locating the vehicle, and finding the battery dead. Trying futilely to get the car started, becoming more and more desperate with each failure. Deciding finally to gather the most necessary of our supplies and return, sorting through the things in the trunk -- Scully's cell phone falling out of her overnight bag, sparking an idea: a long shot, but the best option he could think of. Waiting anxiously for salvation, huddled in the car watching the snow falling heavily, fearing the worst... he doesn't elaborate on his fears, but I can imagine: I was there too, feeling that same terror that anything I could do would be too little and too late. Skinner's eventual arrival, in the big pickup truck with the four-wheel drive. A hasty explanation of the situation -- oh, what I wouldn't give to have been there, to hear Mulder tell Skinner about what we are to each other -- and the extraction of a promise of amnesty for my past, at least for the duration of this situation. Searching for us, and how still and cold we were when he found us... I kiss his forehead, because the memory has caused him to start trembling; and Scully wraps her arms around him from behind and hugs him. A day or so ago, I would have wanted to kill her for that. Now, somehow, I don't mind. "The boys said they'll look over the drives, as soon as we can ship them out," Mulder says, changing the subject quickly. "They're not making any promises, naturally, but they'll see what, if anything, they can find." He pauses, twists a little to look at Scully. "When did you give Frohike my video collection?" There isn't much light, but I can see her expression darken with the memory of pain. "When your lease was up, and I had to clear out your apartment," she murmurs. "I didn't think you'd mind, all things considered." Yeah. Cleared out his apartment, the way relatives do when someone dies. Packed up his things, catalogued them and tucked them away, keeping them safe for him in his absence -- an absence that might as well have been a death. Mulder's face alters; it's clear that he's feeling the impact of this, and the way it must have been for Scully when he vanished. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and she hugs him again. "I have the rest of your stuff at my place," she tells him. "When this is all over, you can pick it up whenever you want." Then, inexplicably, she glances past him and smiles at me. "And you can cook me that dinner you promised." I find myself grinning back at her. It would be nice, actually, to cook for both of them. As comfortable and familiar as... as we are now, snuggled in a heap in the truck's back seat. Strange, how pleasant this feels. It's been a very long time since I was comfortable with anyone but Mulder; and he's an aberration, an exception: my lifestyle doesn't lend itself to comfort or to familiarity. Or friendship. How long has it been since I could just relax in the company of others, without having to disguise my motives or myself? Not since childhood, I think. No wonder I used to get depressed so often. Damn. Mulder glances from her to me, sensing the amity between us -- not a hard thing to pick up on: the tension between us up to this point has been thick enough to cut with a knife, and he's been caught squarely in the middle of it. He smiles and and relaxes against me, looking confused but content; and Scully settles herself in and closes her eyes. Yeah. The situation is stable, at least for them. But I can't sleep: danger-adrenaline is pumping through me as I stare past Skinner's bald head and out the front windshield, wondering what he's really got in store for me. Skinner watches the road, and I watch Skinner, as the miles roll past in a blur of blizzard-white; and leaning heavily against me, Mulder and Scully sleep the sleep of the innocent, blissfully oblivious to my tension and my fear. I awaken to the feel of the vehicle slowing, realize belatedly that I must have fallen asleep, and my fingers twitch toward the gun... then my eyes focus, on an illuminated gas-station sign and a parking lot strewn with eighteen-wheelers. Rest stop, then. Good; I could use one. The other occupants of the back seat wake up slowly, with grunts and grumbles and the stretching of aching muscles -- my right side is numb, damn it, and the release of their weight brings on a case of pins and needles. I drag myself out of the truck as we stop, devote a few moments to working the tingling out of my arm and leg; and in the general upheaval, I reach back into the pickup and retrieve the gun from the bag, tuck it surreptitiously into the waistband of my jeans and conceal it under my recently-reclaimed jacket. I don't like not being armed; it makes me nervous. I note idly that my favorite leather jacket now smells like Scully, as we wander into the truckstop together. The bathroom, and then the coffee station, and finally, what I've been wanting the most: I drag Mulder outside, so that I can talk to him privately. It'd be nice to do more than just talk, but this place is far too public, and we have some things to settle... It's cold, still snowing lightly, but there's no help for it: I'm not having this conversation in the car, or inside where people can watch and listen. "I don't like this," I tell him. "Alex..." Mulder is shivering, and no doubt anxious to get this over with so that we can go someplace warm. Part of me, endlessly fucking protective of him, wants the same thing; the rest of me, the part most intent on survival, is not about to let up until he hears what I have to say. "I want out of this," I tell him. "You, me, Scully if she wants, but not him. We can find our own hiding place, damn it; the Ratcave, if nothing else -- but I am not placing my safety in his hands." "Look, I didn't have any other choice," he says unhappily -- he looks hurt, and I'd love to kiss him and make that injured look go away; but not with Billy Joe Bob Trucker and his friends swaggering around, looking like they'd just love to beat up on some faggot-meat. "I did what I could, and frankly, I think I did pretty well, given the circumstances." "You did fine, Mulder. You got us out of there." Dying, picturing him dead in a snowbank and knowing I was dying, and aching for just one more chance to touch him... Great, just what I needed; a new nightmare to add to the collection. As if dreams of alien rapists weren't enough to bear. "But now it's time for us to get away from him." "You never listen to a word I say, do you?" Anger now, replacing the hurt. "I told you: he's not going to take action against you. He promised." "And you believed him? Damn it, Mulder..." How can he be so world-weary and so bitter and so goddamn naive? "Scully, okay; she cares enough about you to overlook a thing or two. But Skinner... he wants to nail my ass to the wall, and I don't mean that in a good way. He might go along with this for a little while, just to keep you pacified, but there's no way he's going to let me out of this alive!" "He will." Flat, stubborn denial. "He knows what's at stake, Alex. He knows what we're trying to accomplish here, and how important it is. And he knows how important you are to me." "You think that's going to stop him? Look, I understand that you trust the man, but..." "It's more than trust; it's a matter of necessity. Listen, Krycek," and that's a bad sign; he never calls me that anymore. "I don't trust Skinner, not completely, and not all the time -- but he's given me his word, and I do trust that. And if he breaks that promise, if he betrays you, betrays me... I swear to you, I'll kill him myself." His eyes are dark with intensity -- he means it. Shit. "Don't you get it, Mulder? That's just the point... I don't want you to have to. I don't want you to ever have to become like me." Jesus, I need to touch him. I need to touch his face and his chest and his cock, wrap my arms around him and cover him with kisses, strip off his clothes and feel all of him against me... and I can't: not even the slightest caress. Not here. Not now. He gazes back at me, with a pained, desperate look in his eyes that tells me he's wanting me, needing me just as badly, and... damn, it hurts, it hurts to need and be needed this way, and be helpless to assuage the urgency. "Alex," he says, "please trust me." And that hurts even more, because I have no choice: I have to trust him, he's everything that matters to me -- and the cockroach-survivor inside me is screaming bloody murder at the very idea of it. "All right," I say finally, even though the words feel like shards of broken glass in my throat. "All right, Fox. For you." His eyes -- he needs to touch me, and I need to be touched, and even bruised and beaten to within an inch of my life, I have never ached this badly before. Skinner and Scully are back in the pickup truck already; she's sitting in the front seat -- considerate of her -- and from the looks of it, the two of them are having an animated conversation. One guess as to what they're talking about... I wonder what he's saying to her. I wonder what she's telling him. And more than anything else, I want to be in the back seat with Mulder, in comfort if not solitude, wrapped up in his arms. "Let's go back," I say, and he nods, and we walk back toward the pickup together. She sees us coming, points at us; and he throws the truck into gear and drives toward us, lessening the distance of our hike through the snow. Mulder and I climb into the back seat, stow our respective cups of coffee in the convenient cupholders, reach for each other in the same moment -- I wrestle with his jacket until it slides away from him, as he divests me of mine, and we settle into each other's arms. Not as good as being alone with him, but oh, hell, to be able to bury my face in the silken skin of his neck, immerse myself in his musky scent, feel his arms tighten around me until I can scarcely breathe... The truck is almost wide enough for us to be comfortable. The back seat provides almost enough privacy. Almost, almost, but not quite enough. It's not enough, and yet it's everything. You're going to get me killed someday, Mulder. The cockroach-side of my psyche is writhing in agony, knowing that this intensity, this feeling, is the very antithesis of survival. Funny, how I can't bring myself to care. Thrumming growl of the truck's engine, small soft sounds of breathing in my ear: he's fallen asleep on top of me again, and I'm going to pay for it in muscle cramps later, but it feels so goddamn good. I'm awake, now, but keeping my eyes closed and my breathing even -- playing possum. Reflex, the way I usually wake up, when Mulder isn't around -- maintaining the pretense of slumber while I catalogue the world around me, and decide whether it's safe to let myself awaken visibly... "...knew all along that he was alive, and with Krycek, and you didn't tell me?" Skinner is speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the sleepers in the back seat -- but the softness of his voice doesn't hide the outrage, the underlying rumble of anger. "I didn't feel it was my secret to tell." Scully's voice is equally quiet, and as determined as I've ever heard it. Well. It seems that my natural caution has paid off, hasn't it? This should be interesting... "Didn't feel..." A brief, incredulous silence. "One of my agents goes off to play house with a wanted fugitive, and you didn't consider this to be Bureau business?" "You don't understand the situation. Sir." A hint of defensiveness in Scully's voice, but still that determination -- conviction, that she's done the right thing no matter what Skinner thinks of her. What I would call integrity. "No. No, I really don't. Why don't you explain it to me, Agent Scully?" All formality and stiff hostility. Seems like he's more pissed off at being out of the loop than he is by my relationship with Mulder. Amusing, really. Scully sighs. "My primary concern was for Mulder's life," she says. "He was suicidal, you know that..." "He was getting treatment..." "It wasn't helping." "Now you're a psychiatrist, as well as a medical doctor..." "I know Mulder." This ends the rapid-fire volley of words. Yeah, she knows Mulder. Better than any other medical professional, better than Skinner does; better than I do, maybe. Maybe. When Skinner speaks again, his voice is almost conciliatory, despite the accusation inherent in his words. "And you felt that it would be best for Mulder to go off and be 'healed' by Alex Krycek." "Yes. Exactly." Her answer is instantaneous: no hesitation, no space for thought. "Scully, why..." "Because I know Mulder." "That doesn't answer the question." "What is the question, then?" Scully's voice is rapid, tense. "The doctors couldn't help him, I couldn't help him -- I thought that there was a good chance Alex could help him, so I let them go. I second-guessed that decision a thousand times over the last ten months, wondering if I'd done the right thing... but now he's here; he's alive and healthy and happy, and it seems as if I made the right choice after all. So what is the question, Skinner? What is it that you can't accept?" It doesn't escape me that he's 'Skinner' and I'm 'Alex'. I wonder what that means. He sighs. "I can't accept any of this, Scully, and I'm wondering how you can. Don't even try to tell me that you trust Alex Krycek." She hesitates, and I wait to see how she's going to answer. "Where Mulder is concerned, I do," she says finally, firmly. "Scully..." "You haven't seen them together." "I've seen all I want to, thanks." The distaste is evident in his tone. "Mmm. I see. It isn't so much Mulder's involvement with Krycek; it's the fact that Mulder's involved with a man," Scully says thoughtfully, with equal disapproval in her voice -- and I have to work very hard to keep from smiling. You go, girl. "Now, don't you start." A pause; then, more softly, "I admit, I'm not exactly comfortable with homosexuality. But I have always been scrupulously fair with the agents under my command, regardless of their personal lives -- and if anyone but Alex Krycek was involved, I'd be having a much easier time of this." Mulder is still breathing evenly, asleep to all appearances -- but the hand wedged between the seat and my hip twitches, just a little. Well, well... playing possum too, is he? Sneaky little bastard... no wonder I'm so damned fond of him. If I weren't so intent on listening to this conversation, I'd kiss him. Carefully, so that no motion will be visible from the front seat, I slide my own arm forward an inch, just enough to place my hand in contact with his -- and his fingers curl snugly around mine. More intimate than a kiss, somehow: the knowledge that we're both awake, sharing this conversation that we were never meant to hear... yeah, we're two of a kind, Mulder and me. If I still believed in the concept of 'love'... "I understand your reluctance," Scully says, measuring out the words carefully, "but I think you should understand in turn that the man you despise so much happens to be the only reason Mulder is alive right now. And not incidentally, possesses information that might make the difference between the survival and imminent destruction of the human race." A long, long sigh. "Scully, why the hell do you think I'm here?" She doesn't answer, and the silence stretches on long enough for physical needs to override my curiosity and make themselves known. I'm in a damned uncomfortable position, and my muscles are cramping, and my bladder is sending distress signals through my central nervous system. Maybe it's time to 'wake up' and request a pit stop...? Just as I'm about ready to do so, Skinner speaks again. "Whatever's going down right now... I've picked up enough through 'unofficial channels' to know that it's more important than personal animosity. If Krycek can help us get to the bottom of this thing, I'm willing to overlook -- whatever I have to. Even that stunt with the gun." "And after this is over?" Scully presses. "You mean, assuming we survive? I don't know, Scully. I don't know what I'll do then. His crimes..." "Nothing's ever been proven," she argues strenuously. "That's not the point." "Isn't it? The very basis of our system of justice is the assumption that people are innocent until proven guilty. Or does that apply to everyone but Alex?" It surprised me to hear her fighting for us, but now she's fighting for me, and that is nothing short of astonishing. Apparently, Skinner thinks so, too. "After everything he's done... just whose side are you on, Agent Scully?" "This has nothing to do with sides! This has to do with the truth." With an apparent effort, she lowers her voice. "I know that Alex has been involved in some shady business in the past. But I also know that even in the middle of that, he's handed us leads that have brought us closer to the truth than we would have come otherwise... and I know what he's doing now: what he's risking, to try to defeat these bastards." "And that his safety is important to Mulder," Skinner interjects, very softly. "Yes," she says defiantly, "that too. But the most important thing is that now I know there's enough I don't know about him and his actions that I don't have the right to judge him. Not without all the facts." Oh, hell, Scully. Don't stand up for me, okay? Because here's a fact you don't have: I was there, in your apartment, gun in my hand and ready to kill you -- and I would have. I would have killed your sister, if Luis hadn't been quicker on the trigger -- I had no choice, at that point, but to follow orders; and the fact that I regret it now makes no difference. I would have killed you, Scully; so don't stand up for me. Please, don't. Hidden from view, Mulder's fingers curl a little tighter around mine, and that only makes me feel worse. He doesn't know -- it's one of the things we've never discussed. One of the few things I've never been able to tell him. And if he knew these things... I can just imagine the revulsion, the hatred in his eyes... "As I said, Scully, I'm willing to overlook whatever I have to, for the duration of this situation." "And afterwards?" "I don't know. Let's see what happens." Abruptly, his tone changes. "I'm going to take that exit up ahead. I need coffee." "I could use a break myself," Scully agrees. Good. My bladder is about to burst -- and I have had all I can take of this conversation. So this is why I've worked so hard at not letting my conscience be my guide; it hurts. It hurts like hell, now, to think of the things I've done, and how they've hurt people I've come to care about -- and the excuse that I 'didn't have a choice' just doesn't cut it, anymore. It takes forever to reach the service area, and the speed-ridges on the exit ramp are hell on a full bladder -- I feign waking up as we pull up to the gas station, and Mulder does likewise. I can't look at him, or Scully; my sudden spasm of conscience is still too fresh and raw. Instead, I make a bee-line for the bathroom -- a necessity, and a convenient escape. As I'm zipping up, he walks in -- I avert my eyes and concentrate on getting the hell out of there, but his voice stops me. "Alex?" That soft, querulous voice, so willing to help me work through whatever's bothering me... and it breaks my heart, it really does, because if he knew... I shake my head, and walk out of the men's room, out of the rest-stop shelter where Skinner is attempting to extract a cup of coffee from a vending machine, out past the edge of the parking lot, out into the cold winter night. For ten months, Mulder and I have lived together, made love with each other, told each other our most intimate secrets... ten months, and somehow I've avoided this pitfall; I've never told him about the things I did to him and to Scully. I've held him in my arms while he's cried, reliving the pain he felt when Scully was taken from him -- I've listened to him talk about his father's cruelty and compassion, about how it hurt him that he couldn't attend the funeral -- and never felt the faintest pang of guilt, never felt the need to tell him about my involvement in these matters. I'd walled it all off in my mind, as if my sexual relationship with him made all our past history somehow irrelevant. As if my repeated denial of his long-ago suspicions made the denial a fact. As if it had never happened, as if the past didn't exist. But now... Why do I feel this sudden compulsion to tell him, when I know that it will shatter our relationship irrevocably? Why? He's changed me. He's gotten inside me, so much more deeply than just his cock up my ass; he's wormed his way into my heart, melted the ice in my soul, transformed me into a person who cares. I could ignore the past when we were alone together in the Ratcave, safely hidden from the rest of the world -- but now we're here, back in the reality of our lives, and I can't avoid it any longer. I'm not the man I used to be... ...but we're both Alex Krycek. We share the same face, the same hands... ...and what these hands have done... I can't tell him. I can't ever tell him. I'll lose him if I tell him. But I can't lie to him, and withholding the truth is the same as a lie... He'll never forgive me. Never. A voice behind me. "Alex?" Oh, fuck. "Leave me alone." My voice is shaking. My entire body is shaking. I wish it were simply from the cold... yes, yes it is from the cold. The ice inside me, the cold son of a bitch I used to be, that I wish I could still be. If I were still that man, I could put on a quick facade and go back to the pretense... and I can't, I just can't, and here he is, all warm and caring and... "What Scully said," he murmurs. "It bothers you." Fucking psychologist. Fucking Spooky Mulder and his fucking intuition. He can see right through me, and what he's going to end up seeing now will drive him away from me forever, if he doesn't walk away and leave me alone... "Back off, Mulder!" He knows me, knows my warning signals -- for chrissakes, Mulder, take this one and go. Now. Before everything falls apart... "It bothers you, that she should defend you to Skinner," he continues. "Because you don't feel you deserve to be defended." No. Don't do this, Mulder. Don't. "Because of what you did at Skyland Mountain," he says, very softly. "Because of what happened to Melissa, and because it was very nearly you who did it." You son of a bitch. I whirl around to face him, to see the warm compassion in his eyes... He thinks he understands. He thinks he forgives me. He thinks so. The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, and as I feel them flow over my lips, I know that this is the last warmth, the last compassion I will ever see on his face. Here it is, Mulder: here's the fucking truth you hold so precious... is this really what you needed to hear? "I killed your father!" I hiss at him; and in my mind, I say goodbye. It was a wonderful sixteen and a half months; if only I weren't who I am, maybe it could have lasted forever... "All those times I denied it? Well, I lied. I pulled the trigger, and I watched him fall. I killed your father, Mulder!" His face never changes. "I know," he says quietly. Every thought in my mind, every bit of rage and pain, grinds to a screeching halt at this unexpected revelation. He knows...?! "You think I ever believed you about that?" He shakes his head. "I know you killed him. I've known that since it happened. I came to terms with it sometime between the first and second time we showered together, I think. Back when I was first realizing what you meant to me." A ghost of a smile. "I've often wondered if you'd ever have the courage to admit it, though." This can't be happening. It can't... "Do you really think I didn't know what I was getting into, when I first let myself want you? I knew who you were, Alex; I knew what you'd done. I could have fought my own desires -- I could have taken that first fuck and walked away like you thought you wanted me to. Or slapped you into cuffs the first time you showed up at my apartment afterwards. Or the second. Or any time afterwards. Or even just told you to get the hell out and not come back. I could have cured myself of the obsession at any time I chose." He shakes his head slowly. "I chose not to. I chose you. The dark and the light and all the shades of grey. All of you. And if that makes me the most screwed-up person on this planet..." A small shrug of one shoulder. "...what can I say? I'd rather be screwed up, and be with you, than any other alternative. You mean that much to me." Oh my fucking god. "The things that have happened, that you've done... that was then, Alex. This is now. You'd protect me with your life, now. You wouldn't harm Scully, or allow her to come to harm, if you could possibly prevent it. Because she matters to me, if for no other reason." Not questions: calm statements of fact. "I know who you've been, but I also know who you are now. And that's all I need to know." So this is what it feels like to the death-row inmate, walking the last mile to the gas chamber, when the governor calls with a pardon. This is what it feels like to be six feet underwater, drowning, when the lifeguard drags you to the surface for air... "C'mere," Mulder says, and holds out his arms to me. But I can't move; I can't stop shaking. So he comes to me, instead, and wraps his arms around me, pulls my head down to rest on his shoulder, strokes my hair with gentle fingers... This is what it feels like to be snatched from the brink of death. This is what it feels like to be saved. The feel of him. The scent of him. Every sensation is so unbearably vivid that I want to scream, I want to cry -- my eyes are burning, and only the thought of having to face Scully and Skinner with red, puffy eyes helps me keep my fragile hold on my composure. He knows, he knows, and he's still here... His lips, warm and silky, pressing a kiss against my earlobe. "Get used to it, Alex," he whispers. "I'm not letting go of you." The words seep into my soul like cool ointment on a raw, aching wound, soothing me, healing me. And still I can't speak, can't do anything except hang on to him for dear life. To be able to hold him now, when I'd thought I'd never feel his arms around me again -- the feeling is too strong, too powerfully intense for words. He moves a little, kisses me -- and everything I'm feeling comes pouring out in a kiss that damn near tears our lips off. I can't kiss him deeply enough, I can't hold him tightly enough, hell, even fucking wouldn't be enough; I need to crawl inside his skin, inside his soul. Even though I'm apparently already there. He's changed me, and I've changed him, so much so that there isn't really a 'him' or a 'me' anymore: only an 'us', a unit, one single entity. I pull back, enough to look at him, enough to gaze into his eyes and dissolve there. "Fox..." "Alex." And he smiles, that gorgeous intimate smile that is mine and mine alone, and kisses me again. I don't deserve him, I really don't. Except... he's changed me; everything that I am now, that I wasn't before, is because of him. So maybe I do deserve him, because I've let him change me. Maybe we deserve each other... because we're who we are because of each other. Maybe I'm not such a soulless, ruthless son of a bitch after all. Maybe I'm not as far beyond redemption as I'd thought. Maybe. If I can keep us both alive long enough to find out. Back in the parking lot, a horn honks. I don't have to look to know who it is. No doubt, Skinner's gotten tired of waiting for two fags to finish playing kissy-face. Bastard... "They're waiting for us," I mutter, croaking out the words through a throat that feels like sandpaper. Again, that beautiful smile. "Let 'em wait," he says, and kisses me once more. And we make them wait, clinging to each other and kissing, until the ache inside me stills to a small voice filled with disbelief and wonder, repeating his words over and over: I chose you. Get used to it, Alex; I'm not letting go of you... Cynicism fades into the far distance of my mental landscape; there are such things as miracles, and Fox Mulder is mine. And disbelief becomes determination: I will get him through this alive and whole. No matter what I have to do to make that happen. When the horn honks again, we gradually let go of each other, walk back to the truck together hand-in-hand. If Skinner doesn't like it, that's his problem. But the other face in the front seat... "Scully," I mutter softly, under my breath. Mulder glances at me sideways; his hand tightens around mine. "She knows, too." "Everything?" "All of it," he confirms. And still she defended me to Skinner...? Shit. Will wonders never cease. "Apparently, she's decided to give you a second chance," he continues, with another sidelong glance. "What the hell did you say to her, anyway, while I was freezing my ass off in the snow?" I shrug. "We talked about cooking, mostly," I tell him. "And about you, a little. Mostly looking out at the snow falling, and worrying about you." "So that's it," he muses. We're getting closer to the truck, and I want an answer before we get there. "What's 'it'?" "I've seen you worry about me. It's one of the things that shows me how much you care." He chuckles. "Looks like you convinced Scully, too." "And caring about you makes me trustworthy?" That makes no sense whatsoever. Dana Scully is far too logical to fall sway to such a fallacy... isn't she? Mulder grins at me -- that brilliant, thousand-watt smile that I'd never seen before we became lovers, the one that warms me from the inside out every time he favors me with its glow. "It's what makes you human, Alex," he says, disentangling his hand from mine and slinging his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close in a one-armed hug. Stupid assertion. But who knows? Maybe he's right. We climb into the truck, into its haven of warmth, under Skinner's baleful glare. "About time you two decided to come in out of the cold," he growls. "And good evening to you, too, Walter," I reply, in the most sugary-sweet voice I can conjure up, as Mulder snickers and Scully tries hard to repress a smile; and Skinner slams the gearshift into 'drive' much harder than is necessary as he wrestles the truck back onto the road. I slide out of my jacket, and Mulder shrugs off his own, folds it and tucks it behind his back as he settles against the locked door. He holds out his hand to me, and I take it and let him pull me down against him. I rest my head against his chest as he tucks my jacket around both of us like a blanket, reveling in the feel of being close to him. In his arms, where I belong. I find myself thinking back to the end of my college years, my time at Quantico and in the Bureau, before the Consortium contacted me and drew me into their tangled web of lies and deceit. The brief period when I believed in truth, justice, and the American Way. When life was bright and rosy and full of promise, when my future seemed to be something worth looking forward to. When I believed that there was nothing I couldn't be, nothing I couldn't do, no goal I couldn't achieve, if I worked hard enough. It's been a long time since my idealistic youth. I've lived through horrors no one should ever have to experience. I've seen humanity at its darkest, waded into the darkness myself and come out covered in it, become the very antithesis of everything I once hoped to be.I gave up on faith, and hope, and belief, a long time ago. But now... somehow, I feel... cleansed. As if everything is new. As if the past is truly gone, and only the future exists: the future, and the man holding me in his arms, and the faith he has in me. I find myself remembering a time between his captivity and my return to him, riding my motorcycle at top speed down a lonely road and wondering: If I could turn my back on everything I am, everything I've become... would I do it? For him? And the terror I felt at the sudden knowledge that I would; the desolation I felt, at the knowledge that it wasn't possible. But now... now, it's as if anything is possible. A foolish dream. But it sure as hell makes me feel better. And thus fortified, I slip off to sleep, feeling utterly content in Mulder's embrace. The next time I wake up, we're pulling into the parking lot of a Denny's; and Skinner is yawning. "You think you two can bring yourselves to relinquish the back seat?" he grumbles as we pile out of the truck. "I have to get some sleep." "I'll drive," I say, just because I know it'll piss him off. Mulder shoots me a sharp look -- not a real one, I know those; he's teasing me -- "I'll drive," he protests. I scowl at him instead of smiling. "I'll drive," I tell him firmly. He punches my shoulder -- not hard enough to hurt, but solidly enough for me to feel it -- "I'll drive," he retorts. And we bicker all the way into the restaurant, never varying the dialogue, pretending to become more and more irritated with each other and both of us loving it, until Scully turns around to face us and places her hands on her hips and says sternly, "Children...!" Mulder and I exchange pseudo-sheepish glances, Scully shakes her head and pretends to be annoyed, while Skinner stands there looking extremely uncomfortable with the impromptu camaraderie. While we wait for the hostess to get us a table in the near-empty restaurant, Mulder digs a coin out of his pocket. "Call it," he says. I think for a moment. "Tails," I tell him suggestively, thinking about his; and he reddens a little and grins at me. He flips the coin, catches it, slaps it down on his forearm and displays it to me. "I'm driving," he says triumphantly, and holds out his hand to Skinner, who deposits the keys into his palm. "Best two out of three," I suggest, as a bored-looking young woman leads us to the booth in the corner. "In your dreams," he tosses back, as we slide into the seats and begin perusing the menus.We've been eating road food since we left that hellhole -- I'm not exactly hungry, but the smell of cooking makes me realize that I'm dying for a decent meal. Not that Denny's is my idea of a decent meal, but it's closer than potato chips and stale cupcakes. After a period of thought, I settle on breakfast, eggs and bacon and hash browns, because there's really not much that even Denny's can do to ruin that. Mulder orders a chicken-fried steak and an ice-cream sundae, Scully orders a glorified salad with an insufferably cute name, and Skinner gets a burger, with coffee all 'round, and we set the menus aside and stare at each other. This is probably the oddest social situation I've ever been in. I'm used to open hostility, or barely-veiled hostility, or the stress of pretending to be innocent in a supposedly innocuous setting, but this... I mean, what the hell are we supposed to say to each other? We can't talk about the conspiracy and our plans, not here -- and there's not much else that we have in common that would make good dinner conversation. All things considered, it's amazing how relaxed I feel... Mulder's with me, Scully doesn't seem to despise me anymore, and I feel good. At peace, somehow. Oh, sure, there's the trifling matter of alien infiltration and subjugation of the human race to be dealt with -- but I don't feel the crushing weight of the world on my shoulders; and for however long it lasts, it's a nice feeling to be so unencumbered. Even so, the tension level at the table is thick enough to cut with a knife. "So what's the route?" Mulder asks Skinner. A grim half-smile. "Straight on I-94 for six hundred miles, turn left at Minneapolis," he says tiredly. "Easy enough for even you to remember," I needle Mulder, who shoots me another of those not-really-annoyed looks and slides his hand onto my thigh under the table. "When was the last time I got us lost?" he retorts. "Never..." "That's because I never let you drive," I point out. Scully snickers; and Mulder turns to confront her. "And when did I ever get you lost?" he demands. "That's because I always read the maps," she counters. "Maybe we should let Krycek drive," Skinner muses. "Oh, come on," Mulder protests, "I know I never got you lost." "That's because I never gave you the opportunity," he shoots back. And I'm watching Mulder, because he's nice to look at and because I've formed the habit of keeping an eye on him, to accurately gauge his moods and frame of mind -- old reflex, from our first weeks together in the Ratcave, when I still had to watch him carefully around guns and bladed weaponry in case he suddenly decided he was depressed. I watch as his face clouds up: and just as he's teetering on the edge of genuine anger, I see the mind of the psychologist kick in, as he realizes what's happening. Teasing him is one of the few safe avenues of conversation open to us; we're using it as a way of avoiding the darker issues hovering over us like stormclouds. "I have an excellent sense of direction," he says finally, in a tone of greatly injured dignity, giving us tacit permission to continue. "Right," I say sardonically. "That way," Mulder answers promptly, pointing with his right hand... to the left. "See?" "Color-blind and directionally deficient," Scully says. "Bullshit," I dispute her. "He's selectively color-blind." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mulder wants to know. "It means that all the fashion disasters you try to explain away with color-blindness are simply a matter of bad taste," Scully jumps in, not even bothering to hide her smirk. "What fashion disasters? I used to buy expensive suits..." "And horrible ties," she parries. "That wasn't bad taste. That was an act of rebellion. Neckties are the modern-day equivalent of slave collars, didn't you know that?" "I'd rather wear a necktie than pantyhose," she grumbles. "But women have more options. Thigh-highs. Stockings. Fishnets." His face has acquired a dreamy look. "Scully, do you..." "Mulder," she warns him, "don't go there." He begins to speak, pauses -- "Actually, I don't think I'm allowed to go there," he says finally, wryly, as the hand on my thigh twitches. There's an issue there to be dealt with, but now is not the time; more importantly, there's a punchline just begging to be spoken, and I just can't resist. "Well," I respond, "that depends. Are you sure you can find your way without a map?" There is a moment's silence -- then, at the same moment, we all start laughing. The laughter goes on for entirely too long; it really wasn't all that funny -- but the sudden, perceptible lightening of the atmosphere is such a relief that none of us can quite stop. It's been a tense drive, all that suspicion and animosity crowded together in that truck with us, and a human being can only keep the defenses up for so long before something has to give. Not that sharing a joke increases the trust between us -- but it does make it easier for us to share the same table. From there, the conversation degenerates into pointless small talk: random discourse about the weather, the miles of highway ahead of us, the unyielding immutability of the menus at Denny's over the years. I toss in comments when it suits me; mostly I just watch them, and keep an eye on the restaurant's other patrons with habitual caution. The food arrives, and we dig in -- Mulder reaches over and samples my breakfast without asking first, so I retaliate by taking a taste of his meal. Ugh. Someday I'll have to make him real chicken-fried steak, the way my sophomore-year college roommate from Atlanta taught me, so that he knows the difference. I don't mind sharing his ice-cream sundae, though -- we all end up sharing it, dipping spoons into the fluted glass unselfconsciously; even Skinner unbends from his posture of cool detachment for long enough to snag a spoonful of chocolate ice cream. I find myself in a spoon-fight with Scully as we both strive to capture a particularly choice glob of hot-fudge from the bottom of the glass, as if we were a couple of children... naturally, I win; but I relent, and let her scrape half the fudge from my spoon. And catch a glimpse of Mulder's face -- a wide grin of sheer delight, that the two people he cares most about should be actually getting along with each other. I see Scully notice this, too; and our eyes meet for the briefest moment... just one quick glance, but it says so much. Someday, if we live through this, if he doesn't decide to leave me for her... it's just barely possible that I might come to consider Dana Scully a friend. What a strange, improbable thought. But a comfortable one, somehow. We pay the check and return to the truck, settling into our new seats: Skinner stretches out as much as he can while still leaving room for Scully, and is asleep (or pretending to be) before we even get back to the highway. I lean against the locked passenger door, reflexively arranging my position so that I can watch all the car's occupants at once, placing enough space between myself and Mulder that I can't give in to my temptation to grope him -- he really isn't the best driver in the world, though it'd cause a world-class fight if I were to suggest that; and the roads are treacherous enough that I don't want to distract him. "Let me know if you get tired," I tell him. "I will," he responds absently, keeping his eyes on the road. Lousy driving conditions. It's still dark, and the highway is uniformly bland, road and snow and flat horizons and nothing else. Too easy to fall prey to road fatigue. Apparently, Mulder thinks so too -- "Talk to me, Alex," he says, after an interval of silence. Yeah, and say what? I glance back at the other two -- they seem asleep, but I don't trust appearances -- and what can I say to him that I don't mind them hearing? "What happened to my tapes?" I say, after a moment. "You did get them out of the car, didn't you?" "They're behind the back seat. No cassette deck to play 'em on, anyway." A quick look at the dashboard confirms this. "What a heap of junk," I grumble. His lips twitch into a grin. "You're going to complain about the vehicle that saved your life?" "I guess not. But damn, I didn't know they made cars without tape decks anymore." "I didn't know they made pickup trucks with back seats until I saw this one," he responds. "Then you've lived entirely too sheltered a life, Mulder." Having exhausted that topic of conversation, I search for another, similarly innocuous one. "What do you know about this place we're going to?" "About what you do. It's a house in the middle of nowhere. Relatively safe. A place for us to lay low while we figure out what to do next." "Your guys think they can come up with something?" He shrugs. "Dunno. They'll do their best." A swift sidelong glance. "We're going to get through this, Alex." "I wish I had your confidence." Visions of black-eyed zombies dance in front of my eyes -- I blink, hard, until the only thing I see is Mulder, driving. "It'll be all right." His right hand leaves the wheel, reaches sideways and settles on my leg, rubbing lightly. "Trust me?" "Always." It's true, after all; I do trust him, I can't help myself. "I just... you don't understand, Mulder. You don't know what we're up against." "You think I don't? Who's been easing you out of your nightmares all this time?" A quick, hard squeeze of my leg. "Anything that scares you that much... must be pretty damn fearsome." I really don't want to be talking about this, not with the possibility that the other two are listening -- but Skinner seems to be genuinely asleep, snoring a little; and if Scully's faking it, well, she's seen some of what I go through when my mind forces me to relive the horror. "I just wish there was a way for me to do this alone," I murmur. "So I can sit at home by myself and worry about you? No thanks. I'll take my chances," still rubbing my leg -- his hand abruptly ceases the caress, returns to the wheel as he switches lanes to avoid a dark patch of asphalt that might be ice. "All things considered, I'd prefer not to take chances with your safety." Nightmare vision: Mulder with black eyes, reaching out to strangle me, to kill me... I can't repress an involuntary shudder. "I thought we settled that? You're stuck with me, Alex." Another brief sideways smile. "It'll be all right," he repeats. "Fucking optimist," I grumble. "Someone has to be..." The hand returns to my leg, and even though it would really be safer for him to keep both hands on the wheel, I can't deny that I like -- need -- the contact. "Yeah, well, pardon me for not being overly fond of the idea of having to try to kill you." Was that movement behind me? did Scully just twitch a little? Maybe I'm imagining things. Or maybe she's as capable of being sneaky as I am. "Don't worry, I'm not fond of the idea myself. Though it's comforting to know you would, if you had to." No sarcasm in the tone -- Mulder has heard enough about my experiences to know that sometimes a quick death is the best gift one human being can give another. No matter how much pain that might cause the survivor. "Sure I would. As long as I had a bullet left for myself." Because there are some forms of pain that can't be endured. "Don't talk that way." His hand grips my leg hard. "If anything happens to me..." "...you won't be around to complain. Or to give orders," I finish his sentence. "Fuck, I don't want to talk about this. Can we change the subject?" "Gladly." But his eyes remain troubled. I lean forward a little, cover his hand with my own. "Just keep being optimistic." Because someone has to be, and I don't have it in me... "Yeah." He seems to force himself to smile. "So. When was the last time we had sex, anyway?" I can't help laughing. "This is your idea of a cheerful topic of conversation? Too damn long ago, Mulder." "We oughta do something about that," he muses. "I have a few ideas, but I think they'd impair your driving ability." Just thinking about making love with him is enough to make my cock respond -- but he's right; it's a hell of a lot more pleasant than thinking about his death. "I'd ask you to elaborate on these ideas, but I think that would impair my driving ability, too." A genuine smile, this time, spreading across his face. "Soon," I promise, stroking the back of his hand. Silence descends again. "Talk to me, Alex," Mulder says again, insistently. "C'mon... there's got to be something safe we can talk about." Yeah. Nothing about our relationship is 'safe'. Except for the way I feel when I'm in his arms, and not even that fits his current definition of the word. And I'm having trouble, now, thinking about anything besides sex; he had to go and mention it, didn't he? Damn. There's got to be something else we can discuss, something besides sex and death... "Van Halen," I say. "Roth or Hagar?" A quizzical look. "Huh?" "The early albums were much better," I tell him. "Raw primal energy, much more honest..." "Oh, but they evolved so much further, from a musical standpoint, with Hagar in the group," he responds. "They turned into a top-forty band," I disparage. We debate the issue for twenty miles, segue into a conversation about what Led Zeppelin might have become if John Bonham hadn't died -- abandon that one when it comes too close to the issue of death in general, and meander into a discussion of the punk-rock scene of the seventies, and how it influenced the subsequent trend toward eighties longhair-metal... we talk about music, somehow avoiding the topics of sex and death; not easy, when you consider the rock music industry, but we manage. Night fades into dim grey daylight; the sleepers in the back seat awaken long enough for us to pick up breakfast-to-go at McDonalds, and I trade places with Mulder. I drive with his hand on my thigh, and we talk about television and sports and the unending bleakness of the landscape until lunchtime, when we stop at a small-town Mailboxes-R-Us to Fedex the salvaged disk drives to Mulder's computer-geek friends in D.C. while Skinner concocts and phones in (under my watchful supervision) an excuse for his continued absence; we all swap seats again so that Scully can take her turn at the wheel... we drive, ever onward, until it seems all that really exists is four weary travelers in a pickup truck, and all the world beyond is nothing more than a misty hallucination of truck stops and rest rooms and stale coffee. And the miles flow steadily past. Skinner's friend's 'cabin' is less a rustic hunting retreat than a house that happens to have been built in the middle of nowhere. There's electricity, central heating and indoor plumbing. Neighbors, but none close enough to keep tabs on us through the woods. The roof doesn't seem to be leaking, despite the pouring rain. Yeah, it could be worse. But I've been waiting for the chance to get Mulder alone -- and it's one room, one fucking room and a tiny alcove of a kitchen, no privacy at all. This, needless to say, does not improve my mood. Last night, we staggered in and just barely managed to do a cursory sweep for bugs and booby traps before falling onto the beds like the half-dead creatures we were. I wake up in the morning feeling as if someone's shoved gravel under my eyelids and a pound of sand down my throat, and take inventory. Mulder, still asleep, on the other half of the fold-out sofa bed beside me. Scully and Skinner, also still asleep, occupying the two single beds on opposite sides of the room. Ambient temperature of the room: warm enough to be comfortable. Weather outside: raining, cats and dogs and buckets pouring down. I force myself out of bed, snag my overnight bag and stumble to the bathroom. As I piss, I find myself mentally measuring the square footage of the tile -- yeah, there's enough room to make love on the floor in relative comfort; face to face, the way I like it best. Okay, I can deal with this; it isn't the Ritz-Carleton, but it beats the hell out of gas-station rest-rooms. The shower spray is too gentle to invigorate, but the water is steaming hot -- I linger over my shower, mostly to find out just how much hot water there is. Not much. But I've dealt with worse accommodations than this, in my time; and all things considered, this isn't half bad. How I wish, though, that I was back at the Ratcave, in the privacy of my own home, with Mulder sprawled naked on the bed waiting for me... I dry myself off and slide into jeans and a sweatshirt, set off to explore the kitchen. Refrigerator, stove, microwave, standard stuff; coffee maker -- I start a pot of coffee before I do anything else. There's a little portable-type washer/dryer unit; convenient, as the clothes I'm wearing are the last clean things I've got. The shelves are well-stocked with non-perishables, and the few items we bought at the Stop'N'Go before we got here are in the fridge. Plenty for me to work with. Without thinking about it, I begin rummaging through the canned goods, lining up my selections on the counter, disregarding the small sounds of wakefulness coming from the room beyond. The annoyance of having to work in an unfamiliar kitchen fades as I figure out where everything is, and soon breakfast is in progress. It's a soothing ritual, one that takes my mind off the uncertainties of the future. I break four eggs into a mixing bowl, add a little onion powder and a dash of milk, and as I'm whipping them into a smooth blend, I hear footsteps approaching. Not Mulder's, and too heavy to be Scully's -- I look up and find Skinner watching me suspiciously. "What are you doing?" he wants to know. "I'm building a bomb," I tell him, straight-faced, and continue to beat the eggs into submission with a fork. He continues to watch me as I set the egg mixture aside so I can withdraw the cookie sheet of toasted bread from the oven, suspicion fading into incredulity. "You can cook?" Why is that always the reaction? "No, actually, this is all part of a conspiracy to take over the Pentagon with corned-beef hash." Mulder pads barefoot into the kitchen as Skinner pours himself a cup of coffee -- I'm busy layering slices of American cheese onto toast, but I know the sound of his footsteps -- I feel his arms slip around my waist, his lips against my neck briefly. "Hey," he says into my ear. "Whatcha makin'?" "I'm making a replica of the Titanic with popsicle sticks and dental floss," I tell him, and he kisses me again and moves past me to the coffeemaker. "I poured you a cup of seawater for your model boat," he tells me as I'm placing the cheese-covered toast back into the oven, sliding into my sarcasm with comforting familiarity; and I finish the task and sip at the mug of coffee he's left for me on the countertop. The corned-beef hash is sizzling nicely in its frying pan; I rummage and find a spatula in one of the drawers, shove it around the pan so it warms evenly, then dig out another pan and drizzle a few drops of oil into it. As I'm beginning to pour in the eggs, Scully appears in the kitchen, yawning. "Is that breakfast?" she says, blurrily. You know, I'm really not at my best in the morning. I feel myself slam the empty bowl down on the countertop; she flinches at the noise. "No," I reply, "it's a rebuilt carburetor from a '77 Chevy. What is it with all the stupid questions? Yes, I can cook, and yes, this is breakfast; and if it burns because you assholes have been distracting me, I'm going to hold you all at gunpoint and make you eat it anyway, so why don't you all get the fuck out of the kitchen and leave me alone?" There is a moment of blissful silence -- then Mulder speaks. "Gee, Alex," he says, with exaggerated innocence, "is that breakfast you're making?" I reach into the utensil drawer, grab the first available object and point it at him threateningly. "Out," I demand. He glances down at the thing I am holding. "Death by potato masher," he remarks. "Oooh, I'm scared." "Out!" I repeat, and he grins at me and goes away, followed by the other two. Peace and quiet, finally. For a moment. Then a small, hesitant female voice pipes up. "Can I get a cup of coffee? Please?" Preoccupied with scrambling the eggs, I glance at Scully -- she's not intimidated; she's amused. Somehow, that pleases me. "If you do it quietly," I tell her, and she smiles and ducks past me to the coffee maker. She pours two mugs' worth, as I pull the cheese-and-toast out of the oven and begin assembling the various ingredients into corned-beef hash-and-cheese-and-egg open-faced sandwiches. "Smells good," she says approvingly. "Thanks," I say, "now go away," and she grins at me and leaves. Another few minutes in the oven, and it's done. The simple meal earns me accolades -- more from surprise, I think, that I've managed to produce something edible than from the quality of the meal itself. Almost insulting, to receive such praise for something so simple. It doesn't matter, though: I eat as quickly as I can, anxious to get away from the table. The sheer strangeness of the ongoing situation is beginning to grate on my nerves -- I'm used to being alone, or alone with Mulder, and being forced into the company of relative strangers is starting to irritate me. These three have a history miles long and years wide, one that includes me only in the most negative light, and I'm acutely conscious of that, no matter how hard I work to not let it show. So I wolf down my food, grab a second cup of coffee and my jacket and, while the other three are conversing idly, slip outside to grab a few minutes alone. It's cold outside, but not the kind of bleak chill that gets into your bones and makes you ache -- this is brisk, invigorating weather; and the air is fresh and clean. I set my coffee mug down on the flat porch railing and slide into my jacket, welcoming the warmth, then stretch out on the porch swing. This is nice. Silence, stillness, just the crackle of the breeze rustling dry tree limbs and the slow creak of the swing as it rocks me back and forth gently. The motion of the swing brings back a vague memory of my nanna's rocking chair on the front porch of her house in the Rockaways, the sound of the ocean and the Russian lullabies with which she used to sing me to sleep. Old, old memory -- Nonna died when I was very small. But I have so many bad memories, of my childhood and my life in general, terrible memories that haunt me in wakefulness and in dreams... and it's nice to be able to remember the good things, sometimes. I sip my coffee, thinking of Mulder and all the good memories he's brought to me, each one a gift beyond price. Speak of the devil and there he is, opening the door and stepping through, wincing as the cold air penetrates his inadequate sweatshirt. "Where's your jacket?" I ask him. "Inside," he says, through chattering teeth. "Go get it," I tell him, and of course he doesn't listen. Instead, he comes over and stares down at me until I slide over and make room for him on the swing. "You all right?" he wants to know, and I shrug. There's no answer to that question, really. I'm tired of being scrutinized and suspected: I want to be alone with him, truly alone, without having to worry about who's watching or what they'll think. But I'm alive, and he's alive and here with me... and as long as those two conditions apply, everything else is negotiable. I sip at my coffee, gaze out at the winter-bleak woods, until the feel of his eyes studying me is more than I can ignore. "What?" He shrugs, this time. "I like looking at you," he says, his voice soft and intimate. Oh, that voice. That's the voice that usually coaxes me back to bed after breakfast, for long hours of lazy lovemaking... I finish the last dregs of my coffee, set the empty mug aside and reach for him, turn sideways and pull him into my arms. "I like touching you," I murmur into his ear, and he smiles and snuggles into me. Now, this... this is really nice. Cozy. Just me and Mulder on a porch swing, cuddling. Whistle of wind through naked tree branches, slow rocking of the swing, and Mulder on top of me and wrapped around me. Give me one wish, just one, and let me stay here forever... let me be here with him, alone with him, never again alone; with him, always with him... To be this content, to be this happy, damn it, even for just a brief time... makes all the rest of my lousy fucked-up life worthwhile. "Thank you," I hear myself whisper. He raises his head to look at me. "For?" "Being you," I tell him. His eyes are so warm, so affectionate; he shifts position, snuggles a little closer, and kisses me -- little soft kisses all over my face: cheeks, nose, eyelids, settling finally on my lips and lingering there. The kisses, the closeness, are all but unbearable -- it feels like forever since we made love. It has been, actually: since before our ill-fated assault on the Montana base. Not even a quickie to take the edge off, and after all these months of being able to make love almost whenever we please, that's a real hardship. Hard in the literal sense: if this keeps up, I'm going to have to start buying looser jeans. "I'm going to go take a shower," he whispers into my ear. "Want to join me?" Oh, hell, yes... "I already showered," I point out, just to sound a little less eager. As if he doesn't know me well enough to see right through it. Ridiculous pretense; I wonder why I bother -- but he seems to like the game. "Not with me," and his teeth graze my earlobe, nibbling and sucking, promising more of the same. "Yeah," I sigh. "Just, um... give me a little space, okay? or I'm not going to make it to the shower..." He laughs and backs off, retreating to his own end of the swing: a cold breeze sweeps past, icy chill where his warmth was nestled against me moments before. His sharp gaze devours me as I struggle to calm myself, savoring my evident arousal, savoring me -- hell, seeing him look at me that way only makes it worse. I have to close my eyes, shut out the sight of him, if I want my hard-on to subside enough for me to walk. "Beautiful," he says softly, the barest breath of a whisper merging with the wind. Then, more audibly: "I'll meet you inside," and the swing shudders beneath me as he stands. "Don't keep me waiting, Alex." As if I could resist that invitation, that voice. The cold and the absence of Mulder help calm me down. Not by much: I'm too aware of what awaits me when I venture back inside. Just the thought of him... He can do that to me. With a look, with a few words in the right tone of voice -- even back before we were lovers: he could do it with a hard right to my jaw, or a scathing diatribe on my lack of human decency. Just by being Mulder, he does it to me. I've always been too damn susceptible to him. Not that I'm complaining. No, not anymore... With a long sigh, I tug what's left of my armor back into place, arrange my face into the best mask I can manage -- when did camouflage stop being habit and start becoming an effort? -- and head back into the house. Instinctive radar tells me that Scully and Skinner are still lingering over coffee at the table, but I'm only peripherally aware of them. Every sense I have is focused on Mulder, leaning against the wall by the bathroom door, waiting for me. He beckons to me, and I toss my jacket onto the sofabed and go to him; he follows me into the bathroom and closes the door. The sound of his fingers sliding the bolt-lock home is startlingly arousing. It signifies solitude. We're alone together. Awareness of this sinks into me hot and slow, and the resultant wave of desire is so strong that I can barely breathe. I can feel him behind me, hear him breathing; just the sense of his presence makes me hard all over again. Very deliberately, I lean into the shower and turn the cold water tap; the patter of the spray into the tub will provide white-noise cover for our activities, but there's no use wasting the hot water until we're ready to actually bathe, is there? One last bit of pragmatism, before passion wipes all trace of reason from my mind. Then, as I'm straightening up, his arms slide around my waist from behind -- and I surrender: to him, to myself, to the overwhelming need surging through me and consuming me. I lean back into him, and he holds me -- just holds me, for long moments, and nothing exists except the feel of his chest moving with each breath, the bulge of his hard-on pressed against my ass, his chin resting on my shoulder, his arms wrapped around my waist. Then his hands stray lower, fingertips tracing paths along my stomach, past my groin, evading the contours of my swelling cock before moving in to brush lightly against straining denim -- oh hell, oh God, one little touch and I'm on the verge of coming, sucking in deep breaths as I struggle for control. "Mulder," I murmur through clenched teeth, "foreplay is not necessary right now, you know?" A soft, sexy chuckle that goes straight to my balls. "Yeah, I know," he says. "But you're so beautiful when you're desperate..." and his lips and teeth seize my neck, nipping and sucking; his hands slide over my aching cock and begin a slow, torturous massage. It feels so good that it hurts, and all I want is more; I want to seize him and drag him down to the floor on top of me, strip off his clothes and feel him inside me -- but I can't move. I can't. Volition is gone, along with resistance and common sense, and I can only stand there, trembling, as he caresses me. When he releases me, I hear myself moan -- remember just in time the need for quiet, and bite back the cry with difficulty. I turn around, to find him spreading towels on the cold floor. "Lie down," he tells me, his voice so gentle that I can almost believe it isn't a direct order; I lower myself to the floor, stretch out on my back as he kneels between my legs, reaches for my zipper and strips off my jeans. Quiet. Be quiet. Don't scream. One last infinitesimal fragment of rationality: all I've got left. His lips are on my cock, lips and tongue, sucking, stroking, sharp sensation bringing me right to the edge and ebbing away, easing off before I can get too close, robbing me of the ability to do more than writhe and whimper... Memories: It's payback time. Echo of our anniversary, a year to the day of the first time we made love: of the day he gave himself to me, and I lost myself in him. Time for me to take my revenge. Waking up to find my wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts, naked and spread-eagled and helpless; and Mulder towering over me with a febrile gleam in his eyes. You ought to know what it feels like, don't you think? Sudden burst of sheer terror, that he'd decided he'd been wronged, that he was going to hurt me -- him, Mulder, the only person I'd ever learned to trust -- and then his hands, gliding over me in a whisper-soft caress. I'm going to make you feel so good, Alex. But not... just... yet. Five hours later, I was a shaking, sobbing wreck, every nerve in my body screaming for relief, begging him pitifully for mercy, pleading for orgasm... ...he raises his head to look at me, enough for me to see his face, and his eyes are just the same: fever-bright and hungry, devouring my passion and my need for him. "Beautiful," he whispers. He licks his fingers, bends his head to take me into his mouth again, as his saliva-slicked fingers slide behind my balls and into me and... don't scream, don't scream, but oh dear fucking god, the feel of it. And still I can't come, so close but I can't, because he won't let me; I would beg, but if I open my mouth I won't be able to keep from howling. 'Desperate' is an understatement: I'm dying here, fingers digging holes in the terrycloth as my hands clench into fists around the towels beneath me, muscles knotted so tight that I feel like they'll snap my bones, everything in me hooked directly into my swollen, throbbing balls, searing sheets of flame with every wave of suction, every brush of his tongue... ...then it's his hand wrapped around me, his cock pushing into me, slamming into me, don't scream, don't scream, hard and deep and fast, and again, and again, oh fuck don't scream, but it's so strong, so intense, my body is convulsing beyond my control and still he's holding me back, keeping me away from the edge, and I need to come, I need it, need, more, more, don't scream, don't scream, pulling at my cock and pounding me into the floor, harder, harder, it's starting, harder and harder and oh god Mulder don't stop now, and I open my mouth to scream and the heel of his palm is stifling the cry and I bite down hard as my body explodes, shattering, ruby-red spasms of knife-sharp pleasure slicing me open and shredding me into tiny fragments of trembling ecstasy on the floor. Very gradually, very slowly, it subsides. "Beautiful," I hear him whisper again, a husky growl, as I begin to come back to myself. Blood on my face, on my lips: his blood. I suck at his bleeding hand -- involuntary reflex, like a baby nursing -- as he collapses onto me, languid sweaty weight pressing me into the tile. Like our anniversary, that eventual orgasm, screaming myself hoarse because it was too intense for anything else, so overwhelmed and drained that afterwards I couldn't move, could barely breathe, could only lie there, trembling, and feel... I don't want to move. Maybe not ever. His hand, still bleeding, slides away from my mouth to the back of my neck. He kisses me, lips fastening themselves to mine, tongue probing deeply. He has seen, he has come, he has conquered; with a long, slow, lazy kiss, he claims me as his own. He can do that to me. Oh, hell yes, he can do that to me any time he wants. "S'good?" he queries after the kiss, in a self-satisfied tone that suggests he's well aware of the answer. "Nnngh," is all I can manage by way of reply. Soft chuckle, like a tiger's purr. "You're welcome," he murmurs complacently. I summon up what little strength I still possess to wrap my arms around his waist and kiss the smug bastard thoroughly. Eventually, we shower together -- he's done such an exemplary job of bringing me off that I don't even get hard when he lathers my dick, which is nothing short of astonishing -- towel each other off and dress. I smear medicinal cream on his wound and wrap it in gauze, even though it's stopped bleeding. "Another one for the collection," he muses, looking vaguely pleased -- a strange sentiment, but one I fully understand. Of all the scars I've amassed, the ones I'm proudest of are the healed-over bitemarks. "Shall we just brand our initials on each other's asses, and be done with it?" I ask him wryly. He laughs, kisses my shoulder. "Don't tempt me." "Temptation, thy name is Mulder..." It's meant to be a wisecrack, but it doesn't come out quite that way -- more tender than sardonic. And before we leave the sanctuary of the bathroom, we spend several precious moments simply holding each other; I nuzzle into his neck, smelling him, tasting him, sinking into the feel of him... ...a knock on the door, faint and tentative. "I really need to get in there," Scully's voice comes through the door, and I remember belatedly that this is the only bathroom in the cottage, after all. We emerge, she heads inside -- "Next time, issue a general warning before you camp out in there?" she requests. Mulder arranges his face into a sheepish expression that doesn't quite erase the smug satisfied look. "Sorry," he says. She grins at him -- at both of us. "No you're not," she says, and closes the door firmly. Skinner is quite pointedly ignoring us, sitting in the easy chair with a book from one of the shelves, reading or pretending to read. Maybe we weren't as quiet as we tried to be... But who cares what he thinks? Still, the strained atmosphere isn't my idea of a good time. I snatch up the woven blanket and one of the pillows from the sofabed with the hand that isn't entwined with Mulder's, and head outside. Once on the porch, I toss him the pillow; he stretches out on the swing, tucking the pillow behind his head. When he's comfortable, I curl up next to him, resting my head on his shoulder: after a few minor adjustments, we manage to find a mutually comfortable position. Body heat builds up to a pleasant level beneath the blanket, counteracting the winter chill beyond. His hand moves in slow circles over my back, stroking me absently. I can feel Mulder's heart beating, steady reassurance of his presence. "You all right?" he says, in that lazy tiger's-purr voice. Laughter bubbles up and escapes; I can't stop grinning. "I'm just fine." "Good." And then there is only the sound of the wind, and his heartbeat, and the warmth we share. We've driven into town -- not the closest town, but three towns up the line; as far as we know, no one knows we're here, but it doesn't hurt to be too careful. Mulder needs to call his weird computer-hacker friends, and Skinner wants to investigate a few leads of his own, and I've come along because there are things I want from the supermarket, and Scully is here because we've decided that it's safer if we aren't too widely separated. Skinner parks the truck, and we separate into two groups -- as the other two are getting out of the truck, I drag Mulder aside. "Keep an eye on him, watch who he calls, what he says," I tell him, because I don't trust Skinner, not one bit. I don't trust him not to call out his federal bully-boys to drag me away, no matter what Mulder thinks... "Don't worry," Mulder says grimly, "I will," as his hand grips my arm solidly, reassuringly. Silent message: I won't let you down. And it disturbs me to realize how much I believe it, how much I trust him, how much faith I have in him. I don't trust anyone to that degree, that's why I'm still alive; but Mulder... is different. He leans close, plants a quick, surreptitious kiss on my cheek -- the lot is devoid of people, there's no one watching, but it's still not a good idea for two men to kiss in small-town America -- then he whispers in my ear, "Today's Scully's birthday, you know." I pull back, and for a few moments we communicate without words. I raise my eyebrows at him: Is it? and he gives me a look in return: yeah, it is, and what are you going to do about it? and I shrug: I'll figure something out. "Let's go," says Skinner, and the two of them head off toward the gas station and its pay phones; Scully glances at me inquiringly, and we begin to walk in the opposite direction, toward the Meijer's. But I can't stop looking backwards, watching his retreating form... For so long, we've been together, all the time; and when we weren't, I had the security of knowing he was safely locked up and out of harm's way. Here and now, in the world outside the Ratcave, anything could happen -- I find myself shivering, for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. "It's going to be fine, Alex," Scully says, very quietly. I look at her in surprise, and she gazes steadily back at me. "Am I that transparent?" I wonder aloud. She shrugs. "Sometimes," she says, and I can almost hear the unspoken addition: when it comes to Mulder. I can't restrain myself from taking one last look back -- but Mulder and Skinner have already rounded the corner and disappeared. "He'll be fine," Scully repeats. "Come on -- didn't you want to go shopping?" It's her birthday, I recall, and a plan takes form in my mind. "Yeah," I say slowly, "let's go shopping." Meijer's is an amazing experience, as far as stores go; I'm not sure there's anything you can't buy there, from groceries to clothes to lawn furniture and beyond. The last time I came back from an extended period in my parents' 'old country', I spent half a day strolling through a Meijer's -- not shopping, not buying anything, just marveling at the American economy and the diversity of the shopping experience. Culture shock, and then some... We wander for awhile, looking at things aimlessly, as we make our leisurely way toward the food section. Missing my music, I pick up a cheap cassette player and a couple of packages of batteries from the Home Electronics department, and a few more tapes from the music section. I stop at a display rack of thermal sweatshirts, decide that Mulder doesn't dress warmly enough, and grab one in his size -- after a moment's thought, I select another for myself. Scully pauses to try out a perfume tester bottle, sniffs at the resultant fragrance, makes a face; tries another, seems to like it, looks at the price tag wistfully, and moves on. When she's not looking, I grab a bottle of the stuff and hide it at the bottom of the cart, under the shirts. There's something oddly companionable about meandering through the store with Scully. We drift separately, each of us following our own path, yet connected somehow as if by an invisible cord: keeping each other in sight, making sure we don't wander too far from each other. Part of it is reflexive caution, and some of it is just... familiarity, I suppose. In the last -- has it only been a week and a half? -- I've grown accustomed to her presence. Hell, I'm beginning to like her. Of all the things I never would have imagined... So far, this mission has been an educational experience in a number of unexpected ways. I can't help but wonder what else I might learn by the time it's over, assuming I survive to see the end of the trip. Eventually, we work our way around to the grocery area, and I begin working on compiling the ingredients for the dinner menu I have in mind. A couple of packages of 31/40 tiger shrimp, and a jar of cocktail sauce. Portobello mushrooms and pearl onions and slender stalks of asparagus from the produce section. As I'm debating the relative merits of two different max-packages of meat, she figures it out. "What are you doing?" she asks me suspiciously. I summon up my most innocent expression for her benefit. "It's your birthday, isn't it?" Her face twists into something between annoyance and embarrassment. "Look, you don't have to..." "Maybe I want to," I counter, before she can finish the protest -- and realize, as I am saying the words, that they are true. She glares up at me -- then relents, her face softening into a smile. "Thank you," she murmurs. "Hey, everyone ought to have something special done for them on their birthday." Mulder, at least, is of that opinion; he's far more sentimental than I am. Which is probably best. In my line of work, the world doesn't come to a standstill for things like holidays and anniversaries of birth. "And what did you have done for you, on your last birthday?" she inquires, as I place a 'family-pack' of steaks into the cart. Candlelight, a bottle of wine dug out of storage, and Mulder all but naked in my black satin robe, advancing upon me with massage oil and that feverish gleam in his eyes, stripping my clothes off with tantalizing slowness: happy birthday, beautiful... With an effort, I drag myself back to the present, before my body can respond to the memory in a way that would be publicly embarrassing. "Nothing you're going to get," I hear myself say. "Let me guess: it involved Mulder, and some form of lubricant...?" And she laughs, an appreciative, wicked little chuckle. Is this really the same woman Mulder's known for so many years? To hear him talk, you'd think she was some saintly creature who wouldn't dignify a double-entendre with so much as a twitch. It astonishes me, to think that in some small way I might be closer to her than he is. "You're really okay with this," I hear myself saying, in a tone of wonder. "Dinner? Well, you certainly don't have to, but I must admit that it looks wonderful..." "No, I meant..." "...you and Mulder?" She thinks about it for a moment. "Yes, I guess I am," sounding faintly surprised. We're at the deli section now; "A pound of prosciutto, sliced thin," I say to the clerk. And to Scully: "Tell the truth: you're jealous," not sure why I'm probing into the subject, but curious as hell to hear her answer. Again, she pauses to consider my words. "I was," she says, "at first. When you took him, yes, I was jealous; I was worried about him..." "I kept you informed," I remind her. "Yes, you did. Thank you for that, by the way. But I had no way of knowing if your notes represented the truth." She examines a prepackaged half-pound of German-style potato salad, places it into the cart. "I didn't know you then." "And you think you know me now?" "I know how you are with Mulder," she responds promptly. "I'm still a cold-hearted, ruthless bastard," I tell her, wondering why in the world I feel compelled to point that out to her. Maybe because I'm not so sure it's really true... "Perhaps," she allows. "But not with Mulder." An odd little half-smile. "And not, that I've noticed, with me." The clerk hands me the package of prosciutto with a friendly grin, and we move on. "So you're not jealous," I press her. "No, I guess not. I should be, shouldn't I?" she says thoughtfully. "I do love him, you know," so casually, so matter-of-factly saying words to me that she's never, to my knowledge, spoken to the man in question. "But there are many types of love..." "You love him like a brother," I interject, letting my sardonic disbelief color my voice. A short bark of a laugh greets my remark. "Hardly," she retorts. "You've never met my brother Bill. Sometimes brothers are people you love only because you're supposed to. No, Mulder means more than that to me." We turn down the salad-dressing aisle, and I begin scanning the shelves peripherally for raspberry vinaigrette, reserving most of my attention for the woman beside me. "I can't categorize what I feel for him, and I won't deny that for a long time, it was... more than a platonic love." For the first time, there is a hint of reticence in her voice: she might not deny it, but she doesn't want to admit it, either. "I'd thought it would be difficult for me, seeing the two of you together. Knowing that I'd lost whatever chance I might have had at a relationship with him. Instead... I look at Mulder and I see a man I've never known before -- more content, more at peace than I've ever known him to be -- and it isn't difficult at all. I'm happy for him... I'm even happy for you." A slight smile crosses her face. "And to be perfectly honest, Alex, I don't fully understand it myself." I think about what she's said, as I select a bottle of dressing from the display rack. About what she's said, about her courage in having said it. From listening to Mulder, I know that she's never spoken this frankly with him about her feelings, and I wonder why she's been so straightforward with me. We've established a pattern of candor between us, and that feels peculiar enough -- to be so open with someone other than Mulder. I'm used to hiding behind barriers, never letting anyone see the truths I keep hidden, and this honesty between us makes me feel acutely vulnerable. And yet it's somehow comforting to be able to speak with her this way: as an equal, almost... as a friend. Could it be that she feels the same way? "I'm just having trouble believing that you really don't have a problem with this," I admit to her. A rueful smile. "So am I, actually." Her hand moves, comes to rest lightly on my arm. "It's a strange situation, isn't it? I should despise you... but I don't, and I'd just as soon not. If that's all right with you." I can't help laughing. "Oh, I don't know; I've gotten used to being despised." "But you don't enjoy it," she says, very quietly, "do you?" Reflexively, I begin to formulate a flippant reply -- but my voice catches in my throat, and I can't. Krycek, the traitor, the murderer. Betrayer of all that's good and decent. Krycek, the rat. Yeah, I know what people think of me. I know all about my reputation. To a large degree, it keeps danger at arm's length, as much as my skill with a knife or a gun. It's part of the Power of the Cockroach; it helps me survive. And I hate it, I hate it; I hate what I've become. Damn it. Her hand tightens on my arm. Such strength in such a small hand. "I don't despise you, Alex," she says, her voice soft and yet as firm as her grip. I have to stop, close my eyes, draw a deep breath, because her calm statement has brought me to the brink of tears. Control, dammit. Composure. Now. "Yeah, well, whatever. What else do we need? We don't want to keep them waiting." Change the subject fast, before the conversation can crack me wide open. My voice is too rough, not quite steady; I break away from her hold on my arm and walk a little faster, pushing the cart ahead of me, so that she can't see my face. "You mentioned cream cheese," Scully suggests. "That way, I think," indicating a left-hand turn at the end of the aisle -- letting me get away with it, giving me space to recover. For the rest of our time in the market, the conversation remains limited to food and cooking and tonight's dinner. I place our purchases on the conveyor belt for the cashier to scan; Scully packs them into bags. I pay the bill with a completely legitimate credit card that is neither stolen nor mine, but which never maxes out no matter how much I charge to it -- Mulder isn't the only one with computer-geek friends -- load the bags back into the cart; and as we're approaching the exit, I manage to summon up the strength to say to her, without allowing a break in my armor: "Thanks." Her hand touches mine briefly, lightly, in acknowledgement. As we cross the parking lot with our cart full of groceries, I notice that Mulder and Skinner have finished their respective phone calls and returned to the truck. They're standing by its front bumper, talking -- arguing, from the body language, though we're too far away to hear what's being said. Even the briefest consideration of what these two might be arguing about is enough to make me nervous, and I pick up the pace... now I can just see Mulder's face, and from the look of it, he's downright furious about something. Skinner, meanwhile, is standing his ground... this can't be good. Nearer, now, and Skinner's voice rising: "...spend the rest of your life playing house?!" is all I hear, before Mulder catches sight of us approaching: he brushes past Skinner, ending the conversation abruptly, coming toward us -- toward me. "Hi," is all he says, but his hand folds around mine and grips hard, almost painfully... "What's wrong?" I ask him. Because something is definitely very wrong -- his eyes are stormy, mixture of anger and... something I can't quite pinpoint. Skinner sold me out, is my first thought, and reflexively I begin planning our escape... "Nothing," he says, lying through his gritted teeth. Then he takes a closer look at me, and his expression softens -- "Nothing you need to worry about," he amends. His arm snakes around my waist, he pulls me closer, kisses me -- but there's anger in the kiss, and defiance. Instead of the usual warm intimacy, I feel as though he's a million miles away, and becoming more distant by the second. I turn to stare suspiciously at Skinner, but he will not look at me. The loading of our purchases into the truck, the long drive back to the cabin, all take place in an uncomfortable silence. Mulder sits beside me in the back seat, as usual, but we don't touch; he's withdrawn into himself, behind a sullen wall of hostility that I can't penetrate. With every passing mile, with each moment, I become more afraid. What the hell did that bastard say to him? Damn it, I've seen Mulder in every mood from reckless happiness to bleak despair, but I've never seen him quite like this -- in the months since we've been lovers, I've never felt so separate from him. And if I ever needed him with me, it's now... here, in the middle of hostile territory, with his people -- okay, Scully's being amazingly decent, but still... At about the halfway mark, I reach out to him; have to force myself to take his hand -- can't shake the feeling that he'll push me away -- instead, he seems to welcome the contact, squeezes my hand so fiercely that I can feel the circulation in my fingers being cut off -- but he still won't meet my eyes, and that scares me more than anything else. I have to fight to keep from reaching for my gun; have to keep reminding myself that this isn't a tangible threat that can be bullied and subdued with weaponry. If only it was that easy. The thought of losing Mulder is more frightening than any physical danger I've ever faced, and I ache to shoot something... And of course the trip back takes forever, because I'm counting the seconds until we arrive: finally we're driving down the unpaved road, barely more than a trail, to the house in the woods. As soon as the truck comes to a halt I'm pulling the door open, pulling Mulder out of the truck with me, leaving the other two to unload the bags as I drag him away from the truck and the house and curious eyes, just far enough into the foliage to have some fragment of privacy, so that I can grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him close to me and demand, "Talk to me, Mulder!" But he won't look at me, damn it, still won't look at me; I have to grab his face and turn it toward me, and even then his eyes only flicker toward mine for the barest instant. "It doesn't... it isn't important," he says finally, very softly, with the barest hint of wistfulness in his voice. "It doesn't matter." And then he is looking at me, staring into my eyes with a gaze like laserbeams. "You matter," he says intensely. "You're all that matters, Alex." Then he's pulling me into his arms, hugging me fiercely, tugging aside the collar of my jacket to fasten lips and teeth against my neck and chew kisses into my skin; and I still don't know what's going on, damn it, but feeling him close to me is making me a lot less scared. He's shaking, just slightly, and I don't think it's from the cold; I hold him as tightly as I can, sliding my hands up underneath his jacket to rub his back -- he likes that, when he's upset. I nuzzle him, slide into kissing him, feel his body press close... so familiar, so much a part of my life, his presence, his touch. "I could never live without you now," I hear myself murmur; it's true, but I hadn't meant to say it. "Yeah, I know." Something about his voice isn't quite right. Sadness? is that it? "I don't ever want to lose you," and his embrace grows even tighter, all but crushing the breath out of me. And it's wonderful, absolutely wonderful, marred only by the memory of the subtle pain in his voice, and the knowledge that he's keeping the reason from me. Eventually, we return to the house. The bag containing my purchases is waiting for me on the sofabed; Skinner is working on building a fire in the fireplace, and Scully is putting the groceries away. Cozy little domestic scene, yeah. I give Mulder the thermal sweatshirt I bought for him, which he accepts with the same delight and reverence as if I'd presented him with the Hope Diamond; surreptitiously, I show him the bottle of perfume I managed to hide from Scully at the checkout stand, and he nods and smiles in silent approval. He shows me what he bought her: a ridiculous little green alien stuffed toy, wearing a party hat and holding a bouquet, emblazoned with the words 'Happy Birthday' on its belly: then we tuck the presents back into their respective bags, and I head to the kitchen to make dinner. "I just put those away," Scully complains mildly, as I begin lining up packages on the counter. "Can I help with anything?" "It's your birthday dinner," I reply, "no, you can't help." "You said you'd teach me how you cook," she persists. And there's that determined look in her eyes, and I don't feel like an argument -- with a sigh, I assent. "Go get the tape player, and my tapes," I tell Mulder, who's followed me into the kitchen, and he obeys. He sets up the little plastic boom-box on the countertop and chooses a tape for me with uncanny accuracy: the Grateful Dead album that I so often use as background music when I'm doing something else, the 'mainstream' one with the white cover. The sound from the tape player is lousy, but what do you expect for twelve ninety-nine? It's music; I'm content. I set Scully to work on the pedestrian tasks -- getting water boiling for the asparagus, washing vegetables -- and since I'm supposed to be teaching her, I explain as I go along what spices I'm using for the steaks, and why. I show her how to peel and devein the shrimp with a few flicks of a sharp knife, then leave her to it as I dice garlic cloves. All the while Mulder hovers nearby, the way he tends to when I'm cooking: close enough to touch when he can manage it, giving me space when I need it -- metaphor for our life together, actually. We fall into an odd rhythm, the three of us, in the tiny kitchen: moving around each other to get the job done, somehow never getting in each other's way, like a complex, choreographed dance... The cooking, the music, the company, all relax me into a mellow mood; my earlier tension slips away. "That's it?" Scully says with surprise, when the preparation is finished, and all that remains is to wait for the steaks to finish cooking. "I told you it wasn't that difficult," I tell her smugly. "But that took hardly any time at all..." "Yeah, I have better things to do with my time at home than spend it slaving over a hot stove," I tell her -- and have the satisfaction of watching Mulder blush. I notice that Scully's as amused by this phenomenon as I am. "Of course, it's helpful to have someone to assist," I add. "Thanks, Dana."She smiles at me. "You're welcome," she says. Dinner goes well. The mere sight of Skinner pisses me off all over again, but I restrain myself; it's Scully's birthday, after all. I accept his grudging praise for dinner with bland courtesy, to keep the peace. After we've eaten, I stick candles in a half-thawed Sara Lee pound cake, and we sing the birthday song to Scully -- horribly off-key, but she doesn't seem to mind -- and present her with our gifts, to which she reacts with a combination of embarrassment and delight. "It doesn't seem right," she muses, turning Skinner's gift of an engraved initial keyring over and over in her hands, "for the fight against global subjugation to come to a screeching halt for my birthday." "Why not?" I ask her, from the kitchen, where I'm busy converting the plain pound cake into dessert with the aid of a bottle of amaretto, a package of thawed frozen raspberries and a can of whipped cream. "It's all about humanity, isn't it, and what could be more human than a birthday party?" She pauses to consider this, doesn't seem to be able to formulate a rebuttal. "Thank you," she says finally, softly. Mulder comes to stand behind me, wraps one arm around my waist -- extends two fingers in front of me, in another of our rituals; I squirt whipped cream from the can onto his fingers, and he licks them gleefully, like a little kid. "You did a nice job for her birthday," he whispers into my ear. "Thanks, Alex." "No big deal," I tell him just as quietly. It wasn't, really -- but it's easy to see that it mattered to Scully. Not so much the dinner or the token gifts as the idea that we cared enough to make the effort, even in less-than-ideal circumstances. "Besides... I think she's okay," I confess, feeling somehow sheepish about that fact. "Your Scully's all right." I don't have to look at him to feel him smile, brilliant as a stage spotlight. "Good," he says, and holds out his hand for more whipped cream. After dessert, we settle down in front of the fire to digest. Mulder stretches out on the rug, gazing into the fire's glow, gorgeous in the flicker of the flames -- I can imagine what it might be like to ease off his clothes and devour him, nibbling kisses along creamy skin turned golden by firelight -- but content myself with stretching out behind him, wrapping my arms around him, luxuriating in his warmth. Scully and Skinner occupy the pair of easy chairs -- Scully looks lazily content; Skinner's face is cold, set in an expression of forbidding disapproval. His evident distaste for my closeness with Mulder makes me snuggle a little closer in defiance. Where the hell does he think he gets the right to judge us, anyway? "You never mentioned what the guys had to say about the disk drives," Scully murmures -- regretfully, as if it pains her to disturb the fragile peace we've found. In my arms, Mulder shrugs. "Nothing yet," he says. "They're pulling data off the disks, but they're having to scan it bit by bit to try to make sense of it. Add to that the fact that the data seems to be encrypted, and..." Another shrug, this one more eloquent. "It might take some time." Time. Yeah. I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. To be here, with others, when I would have much preferred to be alone with Mulder -- and yet, time is time, every moment with him a precious treasure. But the clock is ticking, and while we sit here and wait, the Consortium is moving steadily toward their goal -- it could happen, while we're holed up here waiting; the human race could fall, and all our efforts could be for naught... "Time is the one thing we haven't got," Skinner muses -- a perfectly rational statement; I was thinking the same thing myself -- but Mulder's body goes rigid in my arms, a sudden onslaught of tension. "What I do with my time is my own decision," he responds, in a strange, tight voice. "While you're deciding, the world goes on without you," counters Skinner levelly. "Why should I care?" All at once, Mulder's wrenching free of my embrace, scrambling to his feet, glaring at his erstwhile boss. "Haven't I given enough of my life and my self to useless, futile quests for truths that may or may not even exist? Haven't I suffered enough? Me and the people around me..." A quick, sideways glance at Scully. "...spending years of our life and losing more than we can afford to lose, and the only answers we've ever found have been lies, and you want me to give up the only happiness I've ever found and go back to that?" Skinner doesn't react to the man standing over him, glowering fury down at him: alpha male all the way, it takes more than that to rattle him. "I would have thought that the current situation..." "...proves that nothing I ever did made a difference," Mulder retorts. "Alex had the answers; I never came close." He was closer than he knew... but now is not the time to say so. "When this is over," he continues, "win or lose, and assuming we survive, I'm going home. With Alex. And I don't want to hear one more fucking word about it." With that, he storms out of the house, slamming the door shut behind himself. In the wake of his departure, the room is utterly silent. "What did you say to him?" I hear myself growl; but of course, I already know. "That's none of your goddamn business," Skinner replies. "The hell it's not!" and I'm on my feet, ready to beat the shit out of him or die trying -- but there's a hand on my arm, gripping tightly. "Alex," says a calm, quiet voice. "It's dark out there. And cold. And he didn't take a jacket." Shit. I turn to look at her, and in that moment I can read her face as easily as I ever read Mulder's. Go after him. He needs you. And Scully-Voice-Of-Reason is perfectly correct; there will be time to beat the shit out of Skinner later. Sliding into my own jacket, snatching up his from the couch, I slam my way out of the cabin. Past the porch swing where we snuggled together, down the steps -- and I pause, straining to catch any faint sound I can. Behind me, in the house, I can just barely hear Scully yelling; I feel my lips stretching into a grim smile, hoping she rips Skinner a new asshole while I'm gone. And there, in the distance, sounds of rustling... I follow the sound of movement, deeper into the woods. The trees are winter-bare, giving me moonlight to guide my way. I'm used to the dark, and once my eyes adjust, I can move fairly quickly and quietly -- Mulder, on the other hand, is driven by fury; he's not taking any precautions to be silent, nor is he looking where he's going. I hear him stumble, hear him curse, and redouble my speed -- this is not a park we're in; this is deep forest, with predators who'd consider him a tasty morsel, and he is not armed. Dark shadow ahead of me, stumbling blindly through the darkness; I lunge forward and grab him, hang on tight as he struggles, pull him close despite his resistance. "Easy, Mulder," I murmur. "Easy." He's so much like me, in this: when strong emotion takes hold, anger or pain, there's no reasoning with him -- words can't reach him; only touch. So I touch him, caress him, smooth my hands along taut muscles as I wrap his jacket around his shoulders. "It's all right," I say, "it's all right," lying to him, because of course nothing is all right. But the sound of my voice seems to help; and eventually the tension goes out of him, resistance dissolving. "Skinner says I'm wasting my life," Mulder reports, teeth chattering in the night cold, "wasting my talents. Damn it... he doesn't understand, he doesn't want to understand. I'm happy with you," and his arms wrap tightly around my waist, holding on to me. "What's wrong with me being happy for a change?" "Nothing," I tell him; but my thoughts are racing. "All that wasted time... what good did it ever do?" he wonders aloud, his voice bitter and... and pleading, somehow. "You made a difference, Mulder," I say, because it is so obviously what he wants to hear. "How?" A single word, angry and demanding and almost fearful. "You had more of the answers than you knew. And you were the wild card, the loose cannon, the unknown variable in the equation. They spent time and energy keeping you off-balance, instead of furthering their own cause... if they hadn't, I would never have learned as much as I did..." and I see his face altering subtly in the moonlight; and I stop there, realizing abruptly that I've said exactly the wrong thing. Convinced of the futility of his efforts, it was easy for him to walk away from the Bureau and the X-Files -- secure in his own uselessness, he's been content to spend his time in hiding, with me. But if his work did make a difference, any kind of difference, then that means that Skinner was right... ...oh damn, oh hell, oh fuck, what have I said? The truth, the truth, I told him the fucking truth, and it's the worst thing I could have done. He crumples, falling into me, burying his face against my neck, as helpless and pliant as in his first weeks in the Ratcave, when he clung to me with all the desperate vulnerability of a small child. "I just want to be with you," he whispers plaintively. But he misses his work, too. He misses his work and his life and damn it, his partner, and now he's got Skinner urging him to go back, and... Tears sting my eyes, hot and fierce, because now I know with certainty that I will lose him. I'm going to lose him, and nothing we feel for each other will change that -- it's just a matter of time. "I can't live without you," I tell him -- reminding him, begging him, damn it: don't leave me! His arms tighten almost painfully around me. "You won't ever have to," he says, his voice determined. Liar. That goddamn bastard Skinner is going to pay for this. Yes, he will. Some time after this is all over, a long and painful death -- maybe a hooker dead in his bed with him again, or a kilo of cocaine in his briefcase, something to destroy his reputation as well as his life. Why the hell not? He'll have taken away the only thing that matters to me... ...and it's so much easier to blame Skinner than to blame Mulder, whose only offense is being true to himself and his beliefs; or blaming myself, for allowing myself to sink into the pleasure of his company and forget the inevitability of the end. Mulder shifts in my arms and his lips claim mine, tongue probing deeply. Weight against me, forcing me back, slamming me up against a tree, holding me there -- his body pressing into mine, all heat and hunger and rampant need. So much like me: sometimes, sex is the only thing that'll take the pain away. And yeah, I need him too, but... "Here?" His lips tear away from mine to reply, an agonizing loss of sensation. "Where else do we have?" in a bitter tone that evokes memories of our soft bed back home, of the luxury of snuggling close and caressing each other for hours and hours on end. "Here. Now," and he drops to his knees in a crunch of dry leaves, tearing at my fly with desperate fingers, taking me into his mouth... He's gotten so good at this. I can't stop myself from grabbing his head and pulling him close, but that doesn't faze him anymore -- not like the beginning, when he could barely take the head of my cock without gagging -- now he all but swallows me whole, sucking fiercely, teeth grazing the skin oh-so-lightly, and his tongue, damn, his tongue... his hair sliding silkenly over my fingers as I clutch at his head, his arms twining around my legs and keeping my knees from buckling beneath me, putting all his attention and energy into sucking me. God. There's no way I can hold out against this, even though I want it to last forever. I try, forcing back the eruption I can feel pooling in my balls, straining to keep from coming for one more moment, but he's not letting up, not giving me space to build restraint, just sucking me, quick sharp strokes, his tongue... oh, God... and I can't, I can't hold back; the feeling sweeps over me, rushes through me, so intense that it feels like my cock is exploding. And he swallows without hesitation, sucking me dry, where once he would have gagged and spat it out... yeah, he's gotten good at this. My treacherous mind insists on wondering: who will reap the benefits of this newfound expertise, once he leaves me? Damn it, I can't even have a few minutes of afterglow without the pain. He zips me up, and with difficulty, gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans as he tries to stand upright. So like him, not to mention it, not to ask -- and what would he do, I wonder, if I just led him back to the cabin now? Would he speak up, or just endure? It's not shyness, it can't be, because he is certainly not shy in bed -- trust, maybe. Trusting me enough that he knows he doesn't need to ask, knowing that I'll reach out... I reach out and cup my hand around his crotch, and he moans softly and arches into me. I'll bet he could cut diamond with that hard-on; I wonder how his zipper can withstand the onslaught. "I don't suppose you want me to do something about that," I muse, with just a hint of sarcasm. "Do something about what?" he responds innocently, an effect marred by the fact that his voice is shaking. My fingers trail lightly over that hard swell of denim, and I hear him choke back a cry. "I guess it's not that important," I say, keeping my voice carefully serious. "Do you want to go back?" "Uhhh..." dissolving into a sobbing whimper as I stroke him more firmly. His hands are twitching at his sides, wanting to touch himself, or perhaps to grab me -- yet he restrains himself, lets me tease him with another slow caress. So this is what he wants, hmm? The forest is not the best place for these games... yet the hint of danger is compelling, and his evident arousal even more so. Yes, Fox Mulder will get me killed one of these days. But I can think of no more pleasant way to die. Of course, there are none of the usual props and accoutrements. Well, we'll have to make do. I glance around quickly, spot a slender tree with branches at about waist level -- consider for a moment, and decide that it'll work. He lets me lead him to the tree and position him the way I want him: bending him over slightly, placing each hand on a slim branch for support. "Keep your hands there," I tell him, "both of them," and Mulder, familiar with the game, simply nods and waits breathlessly for me to make my next move. Sometimes I wonder whether he's always had a taste for the subdued games of dominance and submission that we play, or whether I created the need in him: to demonstrate his power over me by bringing me to sobbing ecstasy, to be taken and stripped of control and pleasured ruthlessly with just a hint of pain to keep it interesting. Sometimes I wonder if the only thing that keeps us together is the fact that I've unwittingly managed to tap into an unacknowledged psychological quirk of his -- and whether he really cares about me at all, or is simply helpless against the strength of his desires. And sometimes I don't think at all; sometimes, all I can do is sink into the feeling as he tortures me with his hands and mouth and cock into screaming orgasm, or gaze at him as he waits for me in perfect willing surrender and revel in how utterly beautiful he is to me. Finally, I move closer and slide my hands over his ass, feeling him tremble at the caress -- reach between his legs and rub the bulge in his jeans, just to hear him groan -- hear him moan again as I release him, to reach for my wallet and the handy little packets of lubricant I keep there for just such occasions as these. He whimpers a little as I unfasten his jeans and pull them down to his knees, releasing his aching hard-on -- makes an entirely different sound as I wrap my hand around his cock. My hands are cold: I could have warmed them before touching him, but this will help take the edge off his arousal, just enough to keep him from a precipitous reaction. Even so, I feel him thrusting against me, seeking the friction that he needs -- so I release him, earning another anguished moan. Mulder loves being fucked, absolutely loves it -- but it isn't enough to bring him off, no matter how horny he is. At the right moment, a single fingertip against the head of his cock can do it for him, but without that direct stimulation, nothing. Which means that I can keep him going more or less indefinitely, without any particular effort on my part, until he's begging me for release -- and he loves that, too. Sometimes, when he's the most troubled, he needs that intensity to blot out the pain of whatever's going on in his head... I've known this for a long time, and it doesn't surprise me that he needs that from me now. Nor does it bother me, despite the fact that this is neither the time nor the place for us to be playing sex games, because he's unbelievably fucking gorgeous when he's that far gone. Of course I'm rock-hard all over again, and I grease him up and slide into him, soaking up his trembling cries as I begin to thrust -- just a little, just enough to make him even crazier. I want so much to take him in my hand and feel his aching hardness, but that would end the game far before either of us are ready; instead, I reach around and rest my palm against his stomach, letting him feel my touch and yearn for that hand where he needs it the most. The other rests on his trembling back, helping me keep my balance as I rock against him -- oh, hell, I'm going crazy myself, longing to just slam into him and feel that tight friction. But the ache is the best part of this game: it hurts so bad and it hurts so good, and I can't get enough of it. He's whimpering, little plaintive sobbing sounds. My name in there, along with 'please' and 'more' and incoherent syllables that speak no language but need. His erection bumps up against the back of my hand -- steel-solid, throbbing -- and I quickly move the hand away, in case even that contact is too much. God, I want to touch him, and he's desperate to be touched; I'm thrusting into him harder now, and any other time he'd be dissolving into orgasm already. And I would be, too; and it's so damn hard to hang on -- if he hadn't sucked me off, I'd be way past the point of no return by now -- but I manage to keep fucking him, manage to keep from touching his cock, knowing that when I do, it'll be so incredible for him, for us both. "Please," he moans, and I ignore the plea. He's not ready yet. I know the way he sounds when he is. I know the sound of his voice when the pleasure is becoming painful; I've learned how to catch that precise moment between the two, when his climax will be the most intense. Just like he knows how to give that to me. We've spent so many wonderful hours exploring each other, learning each other's reactions, discovering new ways to evoke the same old responses -- orgasm is supposed to be the same set of muscle contractions every time, but each time we make love, it's different and new. I know him by heart, yet he never fails to surprise me, and no amount of repetition is ever boring -- and his whimpers are turning to whining moans, signal that he's close to breaking. "Please," he begs me again, and my only response is to thrust a little harder, because he's still not quite ready, and I want him to howl when he comes. Beautiful. I can't see his face, I can't see his hard cock, but he's still so beautiful -- I can extrapolate the expression he's wearing from the way he's trembling, the sounds he's making; I can envision the look of desperate passion. And as for his cock, I know that by heart too: the heat of it in my hand, in my mouth, buried deep in my ass, contours and dimensions branded into my soul. His cock and his face and all of him, so beautiful... "Please," he sobs, and that's the sound I've been waiting for. I pull back nearly all the way, lean forward and reach around him, wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him hard as I thrust deep into him; he's throbbing in my hand, and he convulses as I slam into him. My other hand cups his balls as I jerk him off, as my hips move automatically to thrust into him again -- balance is a precarious thing, but we're used to this, we're good at this, and I can lean against his bowed back and steady myself against him, feel the heat of his body against me. Another thrust and another stroke, and I'm climaxing but I hardly notice it because Mulder is screaming my name, howling, shuddering, coming in hard sticky spurts all over my hand, coming and coming and coming as the force of it drains him completely; and his orgasm is my pleasure, more than my own. Afterwards, I have to pry his clenched hands from the boughs they've been clutching, rub his palms to brush tiny fragments of tree bark from the soft skin; and I have to pull up and zip his jeans for him, because his hands won't work and it's all he can do to stand upright. And when all the little details have been attended to, I reach out to embrace him -- and he falls into me, utterly pliant, clinging to me and covering my face and neck with little fervent kisses. "I'm yours," he whispers. "I'm yours, always." Liar. The pain strikes at me and slices through me like a hot knife, slashing away layers of contentment and leaving me raw -- but somehow I manage to keep it from showing. Somehow, I manage to kiss him and stroke his hair and return his warm smile; and if my hand clasps his a little too tightly when we head back to the cabin, he doesn't notice. Morning. A night of restless sleep, of Mulder clutching at me fiercely enough to cut off circulation. A long, long night of staring at the ceiling, turning over possibilities in my mind and hating all of them. Of wanting to wake him up and smother him in kisses, drag him off to the bathroom and have him fuck me senseless -- and knowing that to do so would betray my worry and fear to him, which I don't want to do. Of wanting to strangle Skinner as he sleeps, wake him up just long enough to spit in his face and then choke the breath out of him... And now it's morning, a morning with no ease or comfort in it: waking up from a light doze into too-bright daylight, with Skinner of all people wide awake and drinking coffee at the kitchen table. I go through the minimal morning routine, slide into clothes and fetch a cup of coffee, and decide that there is no better time to corner the bastard than when I'm at my absolute worst. "You," I snarl at him. "Outside. Now." There's absolutely no reason for him to take orders from me -- except that this is very obviously a challenge, and no alpha-male-type can resist a challenge. Skinner is no exception. He glares at me briefly, then gets up and moves through the cabin and out the door. I follow him. Take a long swig of hot coffee before I set down the cup on the porch rail, fortifying myself -- this isn't going to be fun, but the hell with it. No way am I letting Mulder go without a fight. "Get one thing straight," I say, in my coldest and most hostile voice. "What happens between Mulder and me is none of your concern." "Isn't it?" Skinner is far too calm and relaxed for my tastes. Goddamned morning people; they should all be lined up and shot. "As one of my agents, his welfare is very much my concern." "He may be your agent, but he's my lover," I respond, keeping my voice very even, and have the brief satisfaction of watching Skinner turn faintly green. I have to give him credit: he doesn't let his distaste stop him. "Explain to me exactly how this situation benefits Mulder." "What, you want details? I didn't think you were that much of a voyeur," I toss back, wondering exactly how far I can push this. But Skinner continues, unfazed. "He's given up his career and his future in order to spend his life with you," he says. "I have to wonder what you can offer him in exchange. Besides sex, that is." Fuck. Don't ask me questions I have no answers for... "As I said, our life together is none of your concern," I remind him, tightly. "Isn't it?" he repeats. "Who else is there, to be concerned for him?" "Your Agent Scully, for one," I reply, thinking, that ought to shut him up. After all, Scully knows him better than anyone, and Scully's on our side... "I don't buy it." All at once, his tone is cold, unyielding. "I don't know how you've managed to persuade her that your motives are benevolent, but I don't buy it." "And just what do you think I'm planning to do with him?" Fucking scumbag. Another one who has no idea who I am, what I've been through. "Oh, I don't know; sell him to the highest bidder, maybe?" he retorts. "Or perhaps it's more enjoyable for you this way, keeping him for your own amusement." I have a knife in my boot and a gun tucked into the waistband of my jeans, and it's taking all my restraint not to use either of them, not to slice that look of disgust right off his face, not to blow a gaping hole right in the middle of it. "Sounds to me like someone's jealous..." Fucking homophobe. Killing him would be doing the world a favor. "Sounds to me like someone's found a good way of getting Mulder out of action," Skinner shoots back at me. "If that were my motivation, why would I be here with him?" Damn it, the man has to have some common sense -- doesn't he? "Whatever your motivation, the fact remains: Mulder has been effectively removed from the X-Files. Tell me, what does that do for the people you purport to be fighting?" Damn it. Fuck you, bald man. You and your goddamn fucking questions. "You think I should have left him there, left him in the hospital to rot? What do you think would have happened to him, if I had? You don't know the first fucking thing about what's going on in the Consortium, or about Mulder. If you did, you'd have the sense to keep your goddamn mouth shut." And all of this sound and fury is no cover for the fact that, damn it, he's right. The son of a bitch is right. I want to kill him even more badly, now. "All I know," says Skinner, in a low voice that seethes with anger, "is that one of my best agents has surrendered everything he once believed in, so that he can 'play house' with a wanted fugitive -- a man he has always despised. Do you honestly expect me not to wonder what sort of drugs or brainwashing might have brought about such a transformation? Do you really expect me not to question such a complete change of attitude?" "Maybe I give a damn about him. And maybe he gives a damn about me. And maybe, just maybe, it is none of your goddamn business," and I pick up my coffee and stalk back into the house, because if I stay there on that porch with him for one more moment, I will kill him. Mulder is awake, now. Sitting on the edge of the sofabed, coffee mug in hand, close enough to the door to have heard our 'discussion'. Staring at me, wide-eyed and unhappy. "Morning," I say briefly, not in the mood for any more of the same. His hand snags my jeans leg as I move past him, clutching at the fabric. "Alex?" he says tentatively. "Yeah?" Don't start with me, Mulder, not now... "I give a damn about you." So soft, his voice. So soft and so warm. My Mulder. Oh, hell yeah, I give a damn about you, too. I sit down beside him on the sofabed, take the coffee mug out of his hand and set both of our cups on the floor, wrap my arms around him and kiss him -- he melts into it, and the world goes away -- distantly, I hear the door opening again, heavy footsteps as Skinner comes in; and I don't care, because I'm kissing Mulder, and even though he hasn't bothered brushing his teeth yet, it's the sweetest taste in the world. As we pause for breath, I hear Scully berating Skinner in a low voice -- "...thought I told you to back off..." and I can't help smiling. It feels damned good to know that I'm not alone -- that I have an ally other than Mulder, someone who's willing to fight for us and our right to be together. I'll need to thank her for that, one of these days. If I can find the words. It's been so long since I've had an honest-to-god friend that I'm not quite sure what to do with one. But it would be nice -- very nice indeed -- to have the chance to learn. Mulder's hands tug my t-shirt free from the waistband of my jeans, slide up my back, a wonderfully intimate touch. "Gonna make us breakfast?" he wonders. "Even though Skinner's an asshole?" Oh, and that feels damned good, too. Not just the touch. The knowledge that even if the asshole in question is right about Mulder's importance in the Grand Scheme Of Things, that Mulder himself is perfectly content right where he is. With me. ...but will that be enough, over the long haul? Enough to overcome the boredom of incarceration in my cave-home, enough to make up for all he's lost? I'll make it better. I'll find a way to keep him happy, I vow silently. Anything to keep him with me -- to be able to feel those wonderful hands on my skin, pulling me close, wanting me, needing me -- anything to have him look at me this way, all tenderness and forthright desire. "Yeah," I assent, "I'll make breakfast. Even for the asshole. Hey," as a sudden thought occurs to me, "can I play Lucrezia Borgia with his portion?" "No," Mulder admonishes me. "Be good." A small smile. "Try, anyway." I nuzzle him, whisper into his ear: "If he hits me, can I hit him back?" Rhetorical question; if the bald man touches me, he's roadkill. I'm curious, though, to see what Mulder will say. A breath of laughter is my response. "If he hits you, I expect you to pound him into the ground." He pulls back so that I can see his face, the wicked little grin he's wearing. "Nobody's allowed to hit you but me." I can laugh about that, now that we've progressed beyond such things. "Your idea of foreplay always was skewed," I needle him, and he kisses me again -- firmly, and with teeth involved, nipping at my lips. "Ahem," comes the sound of greatly-exaggerated throat-clearing; and we separate and turn to look at the source of the noise. Scully has apparently finished lecturing Skinner about his transgressions; she's leaning on the back of the sofabed, watching us. Enjoying watching us, if the tiny smile on her face is any indication. "Are you making breakfast, or shall I?" she asks me. "Yeah, I'll cook," I tell her. "Good. You're so much better at it." Then, leaning in: "Don't worry about him," indicating Skinner with a small gesture. "He doesn't know any better." I have to smile -- this feels so much like friendship, whether or not it really is. "Eavesdropping again?" I tease her. "I repeat: you are loud." Her smile widens. "In all things, apparently. Not that I mean to interrupt you," with an apologetic glance at Mulder, "but I really am hungry. Is there anything I can get started for you?" "Break six eggs into a bowl and scramble 'em?" I ask her. Scully nods and grins at me. "As you were," she says, and heads off for the kitchen. "She really is taking this well, I think," Mulder says thoughtfully, watching her go. Too well, maybe? "You think this is uncharacteristic behavior?" I ask him, wondering for the first time if Scully has some ulterior motive: if she's trying to win my trust, perhaps, to facilitate a later betrayal. You're slipping, Alex; you should have thought of that ages ago. Are you really so hungry for approval that you're willing to take it at face value, even from people you have good reason to distrust? I don't bother to answer my own rhetorical question -- the wave of hot shame that passes through me is answer enough. Mulder considers this for a moment. "Not uncharacteristic," he says slowly. "Surprising, maybe. When I first told her..." His eyes close briefly, and there's a small quick shake of his head, as if he's forcibly banishing an unpleasant memory. "I wouldn't have ever thought she'd accept us, accept you. She was willing to break up our partnership, rather than take the chance that you might betray us both..." "So this is uncharacteristic for her," I press him, feeling the first pangs of doubt -- and dismayed by the disappointment that comes with it. Disturbed to realize how much Scully's approval means to me. He shakes his head again; this time, a negative. "She wouldn't treat us this way if she didn't mean it. If she hadn't seen something in you that she could believe in. She sure as hell wouldn't humor me; she never has before, in anything. Come on, Alex, you know the way it was when we first picked her up; do you really think she'd have changed her attitude, if she hadn't changed her mind?" The reminder cheers me considerably. No, there's never been any pretense about Dana Scully -- but then, he knows her so much better than I do, or likely ever will. It's good to know Mulder's instincts agree with my own... especially since I have the dismal feeling that my instincts have eroded, of late. Particularly where Mulder is concerned. It's been such a fucking lonely life, says a small voice in my head, a voice I've learned not to hear -- but this time it speaks up loud and clear, a plaintive little cry for acceptance, companionship, friendship. Damn it, I'm stronger than this, tough and hard and smart enough to know better. When did survival cease to be the most important objective? ...When I started having sex with Mulder. Big surprise there. Lonely... but it's been a long time since I've been lonely; and I reach out for the reason, pull him close and kiss him, tasting morning breath and a hint of coffee, feeling an eager restless tongue and a breath of a moan against my mouth. Hands working their way under my shirt, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of my jeans, wanting to touch me, wanting me... I can't get enough of this. I could live forever and never get enough of this. "Go make breakfast," he directs me, when we part; but his hands rise to my cheeks, my neck, caressing me and pulling me to him for one last taste. "Yes, dear," I respond, and he smiles at me; a thousand watts of brilliant blinding light, and I bask in the glow for just a moment before I head off to fix our morning meal. Time. Never enough. Too damn much. Day after day, stuck in that little one-room house. Cooking for them, two and sometimes three times a day, and gradually getting used to the novelty of preparing food for a crowd. Teaching Scully bits and pieces of what I know, and gradually getting used to the novelty of preparing food with an assistant. With a friend. Long walks in the woods. With Mulder, mostly: talking about life, the universe and everything; worrying about the future; smoothing over parts of our shared past; watching the sky change from dawn to day, or from afternoon to evening; making love in scraps of privacy, despite the winter chill. With Scully, a few times: awkwardness fading slowly into companionable conversation, discussing recipes and Mulder and our respective childhoods and Mulder and -- gradually, painfully -- her abduction and her sister's death, and the roles I'd played in both. Being startled by the tears stinging my eyes, being even more startled by the feel of her arms around me and the strength in them, and words I'd never in a thousand years expected to hear -- "I forgive you" -- soaking into me like water into a dry sponge, easing an ache I'd never known was there. Discussing Mulder yet again, and telling her things I never thought I'd share with anyone -- how he chases my nightmares away, how we laugh together over ridiculous things that no one else would consider funny, how annoying he can be and how it really doesn't matter, how much he gives me just by being himself -- her hand on mine, warmer and stronger than such a small hand had any right to be, and the sweetness of her smile... and her acceptance, and soaking that up, too. Her voice: "I think we're bonding," and mine: "I think I'm scared," and our shared laughter echoing merrily through the desolate forest. Walking back to the cabin with her, feeling as though I'd found something I'd never known I'd lost; and Mulder, waiting for us on the porch swing, trying not to look anxious or nervous or apprehensive, trying to hide his relief at our return, coming down the path to greet us, wrapping one arm around my waist and taking Dana's hand with the other and smiling, so happy to see the two people closest to him getting along so well. And once, Mulder and Scully going off into the woods together, and my turn to wait on the swing this time: to wait and wonder if they were making love or simply talking, to try to deny the waves of jealousy and insecurity that washed over me in turns. Waiting, for an interval that seemed endless, listening breathlessly for the sound of their footsteps coming up the path. Finally, finally, their return; and being unable to keep from looking for the signs of dishevelment, the faint telltale smells that would tell me if he'd taken advantage of the relative privacy for anything more than conversation -- Mulder, oblivious, and Scully catching me at it, shooting me a small, wry smile: "See? I brought him back to you," understanding my fears and signifying acceptance of my territorial claim in the same breath. And Mulder, catching the subtext two beats too late, hugging me fiercely: "I'm yours," in my ear, warming me as nothing else possibly could. Walking back up the path with one of them on either side of me, feeling a sense of comfort so intense as to be almost painful, a sense of belonging so unbearably exquisite that I could hardly breathe. Avoiding Skinner. Going to ludicrous lengths to avoid Skinner in the one-room cabin. The tension broken, one memorable afternoon, by a radio broadcast of a basketball game, and the discovery that we both backed the Celtics against Orlando. Drinking beer together afterwards and celebrating the win, reminiscing about past games, both of us adhering rigidly to the subject lest we shatter the fragile peace between us, catching each other's eye and nearly smiling at the mutual realization of how hard we were both trying, mostly for Mulder's sake... Skinner cooked our evening meal that night, beer-batter-fried shrimp with hot sauce, and the atmosphere around the dinner table was almost friendly. That temporary camaraderie had faded by the next morning, of course; but afterwards, he didn't growl at me quite so much, nor did I snarl back as loudly in return. Mulder -- always, always Mulder. Making love, in the forest and in the bathroom and occasionally, when Scully dragged Skinner off for long walks or a ride into town for supplies, in the relative comfort of the sofabed. Mornings of sleepy kisses redolent of morning breath or toothpaste, evenings of lying curled up together before the fireplace and kisses tasting of marshmallow and hot cocoa. Long used to spending days and nights together in close quarters, the enforced togetherness was no problem for us: the only difference was the presence of others in that solitude, and to this, we adapted. And each kiss, each caress, each furtive session of lovemaking, I treasured -- unable to ever quite forget the obstacles that still loomed ahead, the fight we still faced. Time, and the four of us, moving through time together. Unalloyed trust binding some of us, tentative friendship and grudging tolerance the link between others; and above all of that, the knowledge that we were all that stood between our world and disaster. Sharing knowledge and hypotheses, facts and suppositions, trying to come up with a workable plan in case we find ourselves in a position to implement it. Slowly, gradually weaving ourselves into something resembling a team. And just as it had begun to seem as if our timeless time in the forest would last forever, a pay-phone call that changed everything: a few bits of data, a location, a destination... and a date. With that phone call, time ceased to be an infinite luxury and became something to be counted in seconds. Skinner has obtained and installed a cap for the pickup, giving us covered storage space for our supplies and a place to stretch out and sleep -- though the bed of the truck is neither warm nor comfortable. It's a seven hundred mile drive to southeastern Ohio, and there's no time for anything but the most minimal gas and piss breaks. There's barely enough time for us to get there, before they begin Stage One of the plan... It's a good location that they've picked for their purposes: isolated enough to avoid scrutiny, yet close enough to the major population centers of the U.S. to allow a rapid spread of the so-called disease. I'm guessing they'll hit Pittsburgh first, and maybe Columbus -- testing grounds, to make sure their plan will work. From there, the 'infection' will spread outward, throughout the continent, and then the world. Oh, I've known the plan all along; it's just the location of Ground Zero that's remained a cipher to me. But now we know; and here we are, on our way to doom or destiny -- and I've never been so goddamned terrified in my life. I spend most of the drive in the back of the truck, with Mulder. Neither warm nor comfortable, but it is private... There isn't enough time to say all the things I want to say to him, and so I say nothing at all: merely stretch out beside him, touching him and holding him and kissing him and hoping that the kisses say enough. This has been the happiest time of my life, being with him -- and if it's going to end, I can only hope it's with a blaze of glory, taking our enemies down with us. And selfishly, I hope that I die first, so as not to have to see him fall. Most of these facilities are built along the same design -- disposable places, all of them; and easier for everyone concerned if they don't have to adjust to a new layout with every move. I've sketched a rough map from memory, though I don't know how correct it will be. We've taken turns studying it -- I can only hope it'll be enough. Because this isn't just any Consortium test facility. This is Ground Zero. This is where it all begins -- and hopefully, where it all ends. The others wonder how I can be so sure, but the data Mulder's computer geeks were able to get off the disks is enough for my certainty. Code words, bits of phrasing. The level of encryption on those seemingly innocuous phrases. Subtle things that only someone who'd been privy to Consortium secrets would notice. Not to mention the indications that the Project's first stage will begin here... it all fits together too perfectly. This has to be it. Which means having to face Them: the rapists who've haunted my dreams for years... Which means a chance to destroy Them, and eliminate the threat once and for all. I'm enraged, and I'm determined, and I'm so damn scared. Mulder notices. Of course he notices. He knows me too well not to notice; and he devotes his energy to trying to distract me. With kisses, with caresses, with a quick and extraordinarily intense blowjob that actually manages to relax me for a little while. His efforts are successful, to a degree -- but all I can think about, with every kiss and caress and flick of his tongue against my cock, is that we might both soon be dead. Ah, well. Better both of us than only him, and me left behind to mourn... The preparation, the drive, they seem to take forever; but suddenly it's all over and we're gathered around a table in a nondescript motel room making our final plans, and where did the time go? Never mind that now. Study my rough-sketched map for the thousandth time, and hope to heaven that I got it right. Discuss again what we plan to do, how we plan to do it, and hope that we can make it happen... The disk drives revealed schematics for an elaborate containment system; we're assuming that this is the central location of the oiliens running the show. One hell of an assumption, because our plans depend on being able to short-circuit this support system, override the failsafes and cause their extinction. Get it right, and the threat will be over. But if we fail, we and several million other people will be toast, in short order. About the only certain part of the operation is getting into the facility -- the security system is one I've circumvented any number of times, and thus, I have designated myself to be in charge of breaching its defenses. Except that Mulder has decided, at the last minute, to throw a monkey wrench into the works. "I'm going with you," he insists. "You're not," I tell him. "You'll need backup..." "Not from you." "Why not?" His voice is incredulous, plaintive, hurt. I look at him, see the emotions mirrored on his face. Is it possible that he doesn't know? Not only possible, but probable -- he has an uncanny knack for discerning hidden details that ordinary mortals miss, yet so often misses the most obvious things. Which leaves me having to spell it out in words of one syllable or less, in front of the others. Wonderful. "Mulder, if you go down, and I see you go down, I'm going to be useless, and that'll blow the whole operation." His lips tighten into a thin line. "Montana..." he begins to protest. "Unavoidable. No other choice. And not my idea of a good time." Sitting there in the cold little shack, waiting to die, terrified that he was already dead... crippling, that terror. "You're my one weakness," I tell him, "and I can't afford to have you on my team." He doesn't like it, that much is clear -- I think he's afflicted with some misguided notion that he can protect me -- but he accepts my judgment. "You still need backup," he persists stubbornly. Hardly: I've been working alone for so many years that it's second nature to me, and I'm quicker and more deadly on my own. But before I can voice this, Skinner speaks up. "I'll go with him," he says. I look at Skinner, assessing the offer. Our weeks of reluctant cohabitation make no difference -- he doesn't trust my loyalties; he wants to keep an eye on me. Unsurprising: in his place, I'd feel the same way. But he's an ex-Marine, so he knows the meaning of war; he'll shoot to kill, without hesitation, if he feels that it's justified. And he's a big, strong, intimidating son-of-a-bitch... not a bad person to have by my side, regardless of the reason. Besides, this will team Scully and Mulder, and that's what they do best: what they've been doing for years, so well that not even the Consortium could keep them apart... "All right," I agree. Skinner looks briefly surprised, then nods curtly: it's decided. Mulder and Scully exchange a quick glance, in that spooky near-telepathic rapport that they share sometimes -- different from what Mulder and I share, and superior in its own way -- and I begin to feel the vaguest of hopes, that perhaps we'll succeed despite the odds against us. Perhaps. A mirror on one wall gives me our reflection: four figures dressed in black... we don't look like a strike force. Give Mulder a dangle earring and spike Scully's hair, tint Skinner's glasses neon-green, rip the knees of our jeans, and we'd look like a seventies punk-rock band. The mental image of Skinner hefting an electric guitar nearly makes me laugh. And of course, all of this is deliberate distraction; my mind, struggling to focus on anything besides what is to come... I ache for another day, a few more hours, the chance to make love to Mulder one last time. But there is no time, none at all.We stand around the table, looking at one another uncomfortably, wasting precious seconds on that silent revelation, and refusing to say goodbye. Finally, I draw a deep breath, and say the words that no one wants to say, or to hear. "Let's go." And we do. Running, running, faster! now! and duck into shadows quickly, before anyone can see. At any moment, someone will notice that the facility's defenses have been breached, and they'll mobilize against the intruders... but not quite yet; and it's imperative to use this interval to maximum advantage. One guard is already dead. Skinner's work: swift and deadly, damn, I didn't know the man could move that fast. I suspect that he hadn't meant to kill -- but I'd been in the middle of disarming the security systems to get the other two in, and Skinner did what was necessary to keep the guard from raising alarms, to allow me to finish my work. Vindication of my opinion, and my decision to have him watch my back. I don't know where Skinner is, now. I don't know where any of them are, precisely, save for the fact that they're somewhere in this facility with me. Oh, I know the plan: but plans have a way of going wrong, and I haven't seen Mulder since we began the operation. That one last kiss... I can still taste it, taste him on my lips. If we're still adhering to the tentative schedule, he should be at the main computer room, looking for a way to throw a monkeywrench into the works; his geeky friends have taught him a thing or two that might prove useful. Scully, the doctor, should be tackling the containment vessel -- maybe she'll be able to sabotage its life support. Skinner ought to be at the main power installation... but without any really good intelligence, most of this is conjecture. All we can really do is wander around aimlessly looking for useful things to destroy, and hope that we can do some serious damage before we get caught. I've worked with the Consortium: I know who the players are. And unlike the others, trained to adhere to proper procedure, I have no qualms about assassination. So I'm heading for what ought to be the main control room, looking for people to kill -- not that this will stop the menace, but taking out a few of the main decision-makers might slow them down a little. Of course, it's possible that the oiliens are already on the move, spreading the 'contagion'... in which case, this is all for naught. But we have to try... Hidden in the stairwell, I notice the lights in the corridor beyond flicker and die; emergency lighting comes to life, a pale amber glow -- at least Skinner's managed to get something done. A good start. I hope. Then alarm klaxons begin to wail, and I wonder if this means that one of the others has succeeded in their sabotage, or simply that we've been discovered. No time for wondering, or for hope. Instead, I move. I feel it before I see it: a pressure, a formless weight inside my mind. I wonder how anyone can function within range of this sensation -- or maybe it's just me who feels it: maybe that oilien left some small part of itself inside me, leaving me sensitized to things that other, less afflicted humans would never sense. The containment vessel looms in my vision, made more imposing by my dread; it's all I can do to look at it. Memories surge forth, and I can feel the spasms, taste the thing forcing its way up my throat... ...no, no, no; calm, CONTROL, and somehow I manage to push the memories back, so that I can breathe. The lights are dimmed to emergency levels, but the power flowing to the alien containment vessel seems undisturbed. Separate power supply, then. Not unexpected, but damned inconvenient... And no sign of Scully anywhere. So the plan's been shot to hell, but not necessarily the operation -- not if I can do something here myself. I'm no electronics genius, but I get by; and I've seen these things before -- under circumstances that make my flesh crawl, but the memory is nonetheless useful. That pressure, though. I can't shake the feeling that They can see inside me, that They know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, what I'm doing. Theoretically, without one of the oiliens inside me, They can't... but the fear makes me work quickly, hopefully to be done before They can take action against me. My hands are shaking. Sheer fucking terror. And yet I'm still working, cutting wires carefully -- disable the wrong system, and it'll give warning to those monitoring the life support before I can finish the job. Which I can't, in any case. The main power cables are too well shielded for me to get to. All I can do is sabotage the emergency backups, so that when the mains go down, there'll be nothing else... But killing the main power will have to be done from elsewhere. Where? Their control room, perhaps. And I don't know where the others are, or what they're doing, which means -- I have to assume -- that it's all up to me. Where the hell is Mulder? But I can't let myself think about that, any more than I can afford to let the memory of the oilien rape take over my thoughts. Either consideration will leave me unable to function, and too much rests on this operation. There... done. At least, I hope so. Now, to try to find the central control... and hope I find Mulder along the way, for my own peace of mind. "Hold it right there." Dammit. I don't need to turn and look; I know the feel of a gun leveled at my back. Shit, damn, hell... Think fast, Alex. There's got to be a way out of this... and one question comes to mind: how good an actor am I? Time to find out. Disregarding the directive, I turn around -- stand up a little straighter, assume an air of command. "About time you showed up," I tell the lackey. Cannon fodder, though he doesn't know it; the lower ranks are expendable. "Take me to your boss. I have news for him." He doesn't quite believe me, but he doesn't call my bluff, either. Instead, he simply marches me down corridors at gunpoint, taking me to the control room I'd been heading for in the first place. I stride inside as if I own the place -- and fight to keep my despair from showing: Scully and Skinner are already there, held prisoner, being guarded by more of the Consortium's minions. Shit. So much for the strike force. And where the hell is Mulder? A swivel chair turns, and a puff of cigarette smoke wafts into my face. Not the boss, but good enough. "Krycek," he says, seeming to savor the sound of my name. "Three apprehended, and the most troublesome one terminated... and so we end this pathetic game." Terminated? No... My gaze flickers, unbidden, to the security monitor on the console behind him. Grainy black-and-white image; that's what you get for contracting with the lowest bidder... The scene displayed is a random corridor, and a fallen body. Tall, slim, dressed in black -- lying still, in a pool of blood... No. I turn slightly, catch a glimpse of Scully's face -- notice the tracks of dried tears on her face. No... "A shame, really," Cancerman muses, reeking of nicotine and false sympathy. "Mulder held such promise... he might have been a player, someday. Ah, well." My heart lurches, my stomach turns over, something inside me breaks -- and I can't give in to it, can't let any of it show. It can't be true, part of me insists... while another part knows that it is true, and that it's been inevitable from the start. Mulder is dead. No more skillful strong-gentle hands gliding over my skin, stroking me and soothing me when I need it. No more soft morning-breath kisses to ease me into wakefulness. No more dark eyes dancing with mischief, sparkling with desire, blazing with passion. No more refuge from aching solitude in the warmth of his presence. He's dead. Mulder is dead. Which means, effectively, that my life is over. Which means that I now have nothing left to lose. How good an actor are you, Alex? a little voice inside me whispers. Time to find out. I meet the smoker's gaze squarely, calmly. "You never were much good at evaluating your opposition. Nor at judging the potential of the others on your team." I incline my head toward the two captives. "I had thought to bring you a gift. Unfortunate that you saw fit to spoil the surprise." He seems amused. "Really," he says. "Come, now; we know all about your ridiculous attempts at espionage..." Shit. Still, I can salvage this. "And how else should I proceed, when you cut me out of your plans?" I shoot back, letting some of my anger show. Careful, now: only a little anger, not the full rage, nor the pain... don't think about the pain. Don't. "You owe me a chance to be in on this." "I owe you nothing." But he eyes me speculatively. "I did what you wanted, and then some. You owe me the chance to survive!" Self-interest: the smoker will understand that. Completely in character for the Alex Krycek he's always known. Yes, let me be that Alex Krycek, the cockroach survivor; that man would never have become attached to anyone else, would never have mourned a death... Just for a little while. Just long enough to pull off the deception; to keep from falling into a crumpled heap of screaming grief on the floor. Mulder is dead... Don't think about that. Think about the terminal just a little to the left of where the smoker is sitting. Think about the control commands you learned, back when you were just another hired hand, before you were supposed to know what you were monitoring. Think hard, Alex, because if you can get to that terminal, you're not going to have more than a minute's grace time before they cut you down... "I know what's going on," I tell the smoker, "and I want the chance to live past colonization. Don't even pretend that I can't still be useful to you," and I put just a touch of emphasis on that: hoping it will call to mind the back-room blowjobs that were once part of my job description. Hoping that my tone of voice will be construed as a promise of more of the same. Any small edge I can get, at this point, is helpful. "You son of a bitch." Low growl from Skinner, behind me. "You set us up, right from the beginning." He thinks, he thinks I've betrayed them... Well, what else could I expect? He never trusted me, and now I've given him proof of my duplicity; and the only one who knows me better than that is... don't think about that. I turn and meet his glare, forcing myself into the pose of smug certainty that suits the role I'm playing, knowing that it will serve to confirm everything he's believed about me all along -- and don't allow myself to acknowledge the fact that it hurts to do so. "I should have known better than to trust someone who'd back Orlando," he mutters, disgustedly, under his breath. The comment makes no sense, is in fact such a non sequitur that I nearly react visibly with confusion. For one thing, what the hell is he doing thinking about basketball at a time like this? and is he really so senile that he doesn't remember the two of us cheering the Celtics on... ...oh. Oh. "Yeah, and you can forget about that twenty bucks I owe you," I toss back cavalierly. Skinner says nothing, merely stares murderously at me through narrowed eyes... but there's a concealed glint of something more complex behind that feigned fury.He knows. He knows. He knows, and he's trusting me... I stop that train of thought before it can progress; I can't let myself be distracted. I can't let myself think about what it means, that after all we've been through, Skinner was willing to believe I wasn't a traitor after all... One swift glance at Scully tells me that she never doubted me at all. And both of them are waiting, held at gunpoint but ready and waiting for a signal, whatever chance I can give them. If we manage to live through this, I'll have to take an hour or so to let myself feel what I feel about that. Mulder will be... Mulder is dead. The realization slams through me all over again, fresh waves of agony, and I have to apply every ounce of self-control I possess to keep it from taking over. "Your usefulness ended quite some time ago," the smoker's voice reaches me; and it's all I can do to keep from lunging at him and breaking his neck. "I might be persuaded to keep you alive, however. Purely for my own amusement..." "Sir," one of the lackeys calls out to him, "the system won't respond." "What do you mean, the system won't respond?" and the smoker rises from his seat and goes to the very terminal I'd been focused on. So Mulder managed to do something useful before he died... Now it's up to me to make sure that his death isn't for naught. I wait for a few moments while they fiddle with the keyboard, then clear my throat ostentatiously. "Looks like you didn't apprehend them quickly enough," I say, when I'm sure I have the smoker's attention. He stares at me. "You can reverse the damage?" he says suspiciously. "In return for certain... assurances," I respond. Time stands still for a moment while he considers my ultimatum. "All right," he says, finally. "Undo the damage, and you will live. Fail, and you die," and one of his hired guns aims straight for my skull. I almost laugh at that, because Mulder is dead, and that means I'm a dead man anyway. I take the seat at the terminal, shooting Skinner a quick glance as I pass him. Any onlooker would most likely interpret it as a glance of derision, or triumph. Skinner will, I hope, recognize what it really means. I need a diversion... And as my fingers settle on the keyboard, I hear the sound of a scuffle behind me, as Skinner attempts to overpower his guard. Time, precious moments, who knows how many I'll have? Access power systems control. Password? I tap in a sequence of alphanumerics, praying that they haven't changed them recently... Lazy bastards never change their passwords; I'm in. Disable primary power to containment vessel... password? Let's try this one... dammit. Or this one... no! Shit, fuck, it locked me out... Think fast, Alex, think fast, there has to be something... Life support. Yes. Password? Got it. Don't try to disable it; that'll likely lock me out again. Mix: hydrogen, oxygen,. ammonia... Bingo. Decrease ammonia and trace gases: fifty percent, forty percent, thirty, twenty, ten, five, zero. Password? Dear lord, let this one work... "Get away from that console!" and the smoker's lunging toward me; a red-haired blur knocks him aside and to the ground. Red lights flashing. Danger, danger, indicated sequence contraindicates system requirements; proceed or cancel? Proceed... password? Type and pray... Gunfire. Shots ringing out, and aaaaaaaugh slamming me forward against the console. But I can't let that stop me. One last level of security to get past. Password... my left hand won't work. Where the hell are the keys? Hunt and peck, no time for typos, key and key and ENTER, and... Warning lights. Sirens. The voice of the smoker: "Kill him!" And a low ominous rumble through the floor as I slide from the chair and collapse onto cold metal; a figure standing in the doorway, leveling an automatic weapon... It's done. I did it. The oiliens will choke and die and wither away. The world will be safe; humanity will survive. Not me, though. There's a warm wetness covering me: blood, my blood, and everything is slowly fading, going silent and dark. Mulder, I'm sorry. I wish I could have done more, and sooner. I wish I could have made this happen without sacrificing us both. But if there is such a thing as redemption, maybe I'll see you in the afterlife -- if there is an afterlife -- just to see you one last time and tell you all the things I never have. How much you mean to me. How much you've given me. How much I lo... ...and the world goes away. Hazy, hurting, upside-down? and being jolted. Running, someone is running, and I'm slung over their shoulder like the sack of dead weight I am. Voices, shouting, but none of them the voice I long to hear... The world shudders. Again. And then there is a BOOM, a paroxysm of sound and light and force that batters me... I fall, tumbling to the ground, cheek scraped against asphalt, a bright new stabbing of pain inside the throbbing ache that is all that's left of me. And then I'm being picked up, slung back over the shoulder, agony bursting through me, hurting, hurting... ...and again, the world goes away. "...He's coming around," says a strong male voice from above and behind me. "Fuck," curses a feminine voice, and it strikes me that this curse spoken in this voice is an unusual thing, though I can't quite remember why. "I had hoped he'd stay out for this. What I wouldn't give for a syringe of lidocaine... Hold him down, Walter." "Right," in the same gruff male voice. Then it all comes back to me: the mission, the explosion, the gunshot wound, Mulder... oh, God, Mulder... A flash of metal. A scalpel. "Alex, I can't stop the bleeding, I have to remove the bullet," Scully says, her voice calm and kind and professional: a doctor's voice, trying to soothe her patient. "It's going to hurt like hell, but I need you to try and be still... okay?" No, it's not okay. Nothing is fucking okay, not for me, not ever again. Why the hell are they trying to help me? Don't they know that I have no reason to live anymore? Why the hell didn't they just leave me there to die...? I can barely think, and moving is torturous, but suddenly all I want is to escape. To get away from them. To go back, even if I have to crawl; to dive into the flames and die there, with Mulder... "Alex, let us help you!" in the doctor's insistent voice, but I can't stop struggling. I can't. I need to go back, I need to be with him, even if it's only to die with him... they don't understand. They can't understand. He was all I ever had that mattered, and now he's gone, and I have nothing. Nothing. Leave me alone, let me go, let me go... "Alex." Another voice. Dear God, I must be dreaming. Hallucinating. "Alex, calm down, okay? It's all right. Everything's all right." It can't be. I saw him. I saw him, dead on the floor... I open my eyes, because I have to; I have to prove to myself that it isn't real, that it's nothing more than a cruel fantasy. Leaning over me. His face, smudged with soot, marred by a barely-clotted scrape across his forehead. His eyes, dark with worry. His hand, reaching out to touch my forehead. I know that touch. I know the feel of that hand, settling against the side of my head, thumb rubbing little circles against my cheekbone... It can't be. It can't be. I saw him, he's dead... This has to be a hallucination. But please, oh please, let me keep this dream for just a little bit longer. My head turns sideways, and I close my eyes and lean into the hand -- his hand, or the illusion of his hand -- drinking in the feel of it, the warmth and solidity and support. It feels so real. I want so badly for it to be real. A press of twisted cloth against my lips, and I open my mouth and bite down hard; "Okay, Alex, brace yourself," in Scully's level voice. And the pain becomes agony. This is a thousand times worse than the original wound. Tearing, screaming pain as she slices into me, again and again, widening and deepening the incision. She's trying to be careful, trying to get it over with quickly, but there's just no way this can be anything but hellish -- and I do my damndest not to struggle against the strong arms holding me down, but I can't keep from trying to scream past my clenched teeth; it hurts, it hurts, it hurts... But there's that hand on my face. And another, now, on my bare chest -- the way he does when we make love, so he can feel the pounding of my heart. The way he did. This can't be real, it just can't. But I need it so much, I need him, the illusion of him if nothing else; I wish I could forget the truth and believe the lie my mind is giving me, but even though I can't, the illusion helps. ...Am I going to become one of those crazy people who shambles down city sidewalks, talking to someone only they can see? Strangely enough, the thought brings me comfort. Even the illusion of him is better than nothing at all, if I can only keep the fantasy intact... "I've got it," I hear Scully say; the pain diminishes somewhat, into the uncommonly odd sensation of something moving beneath my skin. Then agony all over again, at the sharp bite of antiseptic... I'm familiar enough with being injured that I can recognize what she's doing from the feel of it: packing the incision, bandaging the external wound. "It's over, Alex," she says gently. "The worst is over." No, no, no. The worst will be when I open my eyes and realize that he's not really there. Agony dims into throbbing pain, as Skinner eases me up into a sitting position, supporting my back; the hands on my face and chest fall away, leaving me bereft. Scully's hands slide a double-thickness of gauze between my arm and my chest, place the limb where she wants it, "Take a deep breath and hold it," and then tape wrapping around my arm and chest and back, strapping down my arm to limit movement. "Alex? I need you to take these pills -- open your eyes, hmm?" No, no, I don't want to. I'll open my eyes, and he won't be there... But I can't spend the rest of my life with my eyes shut. No matter how brief that life may be. I open my eyes as bidden, confining my gaze solely to Scully's concerned face -- and the concern touches me; she genuinely cares. Not just as a doctor, but as a friend. It's been good, to know that caring. So good, to have one friend before I die. She drops a selection of pills in my good hand, two of this and two of that and three of something else -- I dump them all into my mouth at once, wash 'em down with a long swallow of bottled water, without bothering to question what she's giving me. This is Dana; she wouldn't give me anything harmful. More's the pity; it would be nice to simply fall asleep and never awaken, never have to face the truth. Her hand touches my face sympathetically. "You'll be all right," she says. "Get some rest." Then, something's jostling her aside; and there's that hand on my good arm again. And Scully glances sideways and smiles a little, as if she sees it too. I'm afraid to turn and look, but I do. And there it is again, the hallucination: Mulder's face, Mulder's eyes, filled with anxiety and a vast relief. Mulder's body, wearing the army-green uniform of the facility's guards. Mulder's hands, sliding over my skin. Such a detailed, perfect image. And the thing is, y'know, I've never hallucinated in my life... "Relax, Mulder," Scully murmurs. "He's going to be fine." ...and if she's talking to my hallucination, then it can't be a hallucination at all, can it? His hand slides over my face again, settling on my cheek. "You scared the hell out of me," he says, in a voice roughened by emotion. I barely hear the words; my mind doesn't process them, has no idea what he's said. He's alive. I saw him, face-down on the floor in a pool of blood... I saw him. Or what I thought was him. But it wasn't, it couldn't have been, because he's alive. He's alive. "You're alive," I hear myself say, from a very great distance. Mulder smiles. "Hey, I'm pretty hard to kill," he says, "you should know, right?" his tone gently chiding, gently teasing. And still I barely hear what he's said. The words don't matter; only that he's alive to say them. "You're alive," issues forth from my lips again, in a voice more intense and even less steady than before -- and the rest of me is a million miles away, staring at him in dazed shock, unable to quite believe. He begins to speak -- looks at me, sees something in my face that makes him pause; and instead, his arms slide carefully around me and draw me forward, pull me against him. His arms. His body, his neck and shoulders and chest. His scent, rising above the smells of smoke and blood to saturate my nostrils. His lips, on my forehead: "I'm here, Alex. I'm right here." And all at once, it all slams home, the truth and the reality of it: his arms around me, his body against me, living and breathing and strong. Alive, oh God, alive... I draw a deep, shuddering breath, try to speak -- and burst into tears. The relief is so overwhelming, so exquisite, that it actually takes me a couple of minutes to feel the humiliation of this lapse. It's not the first time I've cried in his arms -- that was when I told him about my nightmares and the horror behind them; when I learned that Mulder could give comfort as well as receive it, that I could allow myself to be vulnerable to him and know that I was safe. But damn it, Scully's here, and Skinner, and I don't want them to see me like this... and I can't stop crying, can't stop sobbing and shaking and clutching at him. He's alive, he's alive, my Fox is alive, and I just can't. And he's holding me, being careful of the injured shoulder and yet holding me tightly, holding me close, rubbing my back with one arm, and shielding my face with the other so that no one will see me cry; and that realization makes the tears all the more fierce. He knows me, he's the only one who ever truly will: he protects me, he cares for me, and... and... and nothing else matters, not my tears and not who's watching, nothing but his arms around me and the feel of his heart beating against my face. Nothing matters, nothing exists except for Mulder and my tears; yet very dimly, I'm aware of movement around me, and eventually, the growl of the truck's engine and the motion of the vehicle as it takes to the road. My mind registers the changes without bothering to try to understand them, because I still can't stop crying. I'm not even sure I want to, anymore. They're tears of mourning-that-isn't, they're tears for Mulder, and every harsh sob that wrenches at me is a wave of misery falling away from me, like the draining of a long-infected wound. A release of pressure, of pain. Relief. But now the pills are starting to take hold. Obviously, some of them were painkillers, and strong ones; my shoulder is hurting a lot less, and so is everything else. The world is becoming fuzzy, and remote... Mulder's still here, though. Mulder's touch and Mulder's kisses, soft little kisses all over my face. "You really thought I was dead?" he asks me, in a tone of worry and wonder. I can't answer him. My lips feel numb. Jesus, these are good meds, is the closest I can approximate a coherent thought. But I can wriggle closer and kiss him -- and even through numb lips, it's so sweet. He kisses me, and I feel his kiss resonate through me, warming me, filling me. "My Alex," he whispers. Then he's pulling at me, gently easing me over and down, onto layers of blankets that almost cushion the hard truck bed; he's guiding me against him, to lean against his shoulder and chest. He's wrapping a blanket ever so carefully around me, and he's holding me, smoothing his hand over my back. "Sleep, baby," I hear him murmur. "Sleep." And everything in my world is so pleasant, so perfect, so right, that I can simply sink into the comfort and the warmth and the rightness of it. Secure in his arms, in his presence, I let myself drift away. I'm drifting. I'm awake, and yet I'm drifting. The growl of the engine is the soft purring of a contented cat. The vibration of the truck around me is a gentle massage. Mulder is beneath me and wrapped around me, and his presence is heavenly warmth, the touch of angels smiling benevolently upon me. I hurt, but only from a distance. And my bladder is so full that it's about to burst, and even that ache is curiously remote. I am sooooo stoned. Ah, this is nice. Comfy. The world is a warm and fuzzy place, a happy place, a lovely friendly place. It dimly occurs to me that the street value of whatever Scully gave me must be extraordinarily high. I just feel too damned good for words. ...nnnnngh, except for that. "You awake, beautiful?" His voice is like music, and I could get lost in the sound of it. But I have something vitally important to tell him... if I can just remember what that is. Oh yeah, right. "I gotta pee." His hand rubs my back. "We'll be stopping soon." Uhh, no, that's not good enough. "I gotta pee now," I emphasize, and Mulder half-turns, pounds on the back window of the truck cap with his hand. Soon, we're slowing, swerving onto the gravel shoulder. Not soon enough for my comfort. Ungh. Dammit. The world is no longer a warm and fuzzy place: it is a swirling maelstrom of desperate swelling need. And gravel is bumpy, and that is a Bad Thing. Moving is an even Worse Thing, and nearly impossible, because one arm won't work and the other is wedged between my legs, and Christ, it hurts... Then I'm standing, swaying, leaning back into Mulder while the world spins merrily around me, and his hands are fumbling with my zipper, and ohhhhh, sweet relief. Goddamn, that feels good, oh yes indeed. The world is spinning and spinning around me, and I can't help laughing. It's like being on a carnival ride; and the relief of internal pressure is almost as good as an orgasm. Mulder laughs with me. "You are gone," he observes, lips brushing against my ear. "Way, way gone," I agree, and start laughing again. Time is taffy, stretching endlessly, and taking a piss seems to take several months, subjectively speaking. Finally, it's done, and Mulder shakes my dick for me and tucks it away. The process sets up an echo in my mind -- didn't this happen once before? Oh, yeah, right, but the other way around. Strange, how we weren't lovers then. Strange, because it seems like we've been lovers forever. Forever and ever, so that the man standing behind me and holding me steady is as much a part of me as my own flesh and blood. I manage to turn around without falling, so that I can look at him; and he smiles at me. "My beautiful stoned Alex," he murmurs, and kisses me. Beautiful? am I? I guess I must be, because the rest of the sentence applies: I am Alex, and I am his, and I am most certainly stoned, and if Mulder says it, it must be true. "My Fox," I say, because if I'm stoned and injured, I know he won't growl at me for it. "Beautiful, beautiful Fox," and I kiss his nose and his cheeks and his eyelids and his lips and nuzzle him like a cat, and he laughs and lets me nuzzle him, and his face when he laughs is more gorgeous than anything else could ever be. He guides me back to the truck, seats me on the open tailgate, keeping close to me lest I sway and fall -- the world is still spinning, around and around and around; and look, here's Scully, coming to visit me. "Hi, Dana," I say happily. She smiles at me too, the same way Mulder is smiling at me. "How do you feel?" I think about it for a moment. "I'm really stoned," I tell her gravely. "No. Really?" she says, very seriously. "Uh-huh," I tell her. She's my doctor, and she probably ought to know this. "Okay, Alex. I believe you." She touches my forehead, holds my wrist for a moment, peers into my eyes. I gaze back at her solemnly, wondering if she's reading my mind and my soul, or just checking on the dilation of my pupils. It occurs to me that it's very likely Scully can read minds, if she chooses to. "How would you like some more pills?" Now there's a happy thought. "You have good pills," I tell her. "Thank you," she says courteously. "Um, Scully?" Mulder says tentatively, from beside me. "It's all right," she tells him. "A little temporary pharmaceutical impairment won't do him any harm, and I think he'll be much happier if we don't let the pain meds wear off, don't you? Besides," and her smile widens, "I think he's kind of cute this way." Most of what she's saying is going right over my head -- I must be stoned -- but I like the fact that she thinks I'm cute. "I think you're cute, too," I tell her. Scully laughs delightedly, leans over and kisses my forehead. She gives me pills, and I take them, then swallow some more of the water because I'm suddenly really, really thirsty. My hand doesn't seem to want to work right, though, because I keep spilling the water. Mulder has to help me hold the bottle. "You're cold," he says worriedly. I think about it for a moment, and decide that I probably am; it would account for the fact that I'm shivering. "Yeah," I agree. "Come on," he says, "let's get you back inside," and together we crawl back into the truck; Scully shuts the tailgate behind us. Once there, we snuggle back into the blankets together. The world is once again a warm and fuzzy place, and Mulder is holding me, and everything is good. But wait, maybe not. "You don't mind that she's cute," I ask him -- no, that's not right -- "that I think she's cute," I amend, "do you?" Mulder laughs a little and holds me tighter. "No," he says. "I think she's cute, too." Oh, that's good. No, wait, no it's not. "Not as cute as me, though... right?" More soft laughter. "No one is as cute as you," he reassures me. Well, that's all right, then. "You get some sleep, cutie-pie," and he's laughing again, and somewhere in my mind I get the idea that he's laughing at me -- but I really don't care, because he's beautiful, and his laughter is beautiful, and I'm with him, and I'm happy. "Okay," I say sleepily, and nestle into his arms. The next time I have to piss, Mulder makes me walk all the way to an actual bathroom, and wait until he gets the key to the door, and I feel like I'm gonna die. Or explode. Or wet my pants. I just barely make it in time. These are wonderful pills, this is a wonderful feeling, but we have to pull over more often, we really do. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm so thirsty I could drink Niagara Falls, or that I don't seem to wake up until it's almost too late... We're at a gas station, and it's raining, and the droplets of water glistening on the pumps and the asphalt and the lighted signs are beautiful: little dazzling shimmers of light. Like tiny crystal balls. I wonder if I could see my future if I stare long enough... I get caught up in looking at them, until Mulder pulls me gently away. "We're going to go and eat now," he says. "Does that sound good?" Eat. Food. Food sounds good. "Yes," I agree, and Mulder takes me back to the truck long enough to very carefully ease me into a sweatshirt, so that I'm not cold anymore; then the four of us walk next door, to the all-night diner. There's a jukebox, and I want music. Gotta have music. I tell them this, repeatedly, until Skinner sighs and digs into his pocket for a handful of change. "Thanks, Walter, you're a real pal," I tell him gratefully; and he looks at me oddly for a moment before smiling, just a little, back at me. Funny thing is, my eyes don't seem to want to focus on the list of songs, nor do my fingers want to cooperate with me long enough to put the quarters into the jukebox. Scully reads the song titles to me, and Mulder punches the buttons, and soon there is music. It makes me happy, that there's music. I sing along a little, until Mulder hushes me, tells me that he doesn't want me to sing to anyone but him, when we're alone... He's so sweet to me; he pulls my head down to his shoulder and strokes my hair, and it's so good to be close to him. So damn good. I can't read the menu, either, and when Mulder reads it to me, I can't decide between a hot roast beef sandwich and macaroni-and-cheese. He orders them both, splitting them halfwise between us; he cuts up the meat for me and feeds me, slow careful mouthfuls. We did this before, too, didn't we? Yes, we did. What comes around, goes around, I guess. "You know I never meant to hurt you, right?" I ask him between mouthfuls. He smiles at me. "I've always known," he says, very softly. "You're everything that matters to me, you know," I tell him, because suddenly I need to make sure he knows that. I mean, I know he does, but I have to be sure. "I know, Alex. I feel the same way about you." He touches my face briefly, then begins to amass another forkful of roast beef. "Macaroni," I insist, and he obliges. After dinner, Mulder shares a big slice of really good chocolate cake with me, and Scully gives me more of the Wonderpills -- and then I have to be taken to the bathroom again, because everything's just running right through me, which is more than a little annoying. But at least Mulder is with me -- I know I can trust him to take care of me. It's why I don't mind being stoned, why I can afford to be less than alert and wary: because I know he'll take care of me. He's alive, and he's with me, taking care of me -- and leaning over the sink, I almost start crying all over again, from the sheer knowledge of that. "Hey... easy, baby," and his arms are around me, pulling me close, soothing me. "Easy, Alex. Everything's all right," and I believe him. It occurs to me that somewhere in the distant past I was afraid, of leaving him or losing him or some such thing, but that's all very far away now: he's with me, he's taking care of me, he says everything's fine and I believe him. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Of course, I'm still very stoned. I have just enough sense to realize this. Maybe when I'm not stoned, I'll be worried again... that thought bothers me, and so I try not to think it, to just hold onto Mulder and let him soothe me, which is possibly the best feeling in the world. Back at the truck, we settle down into our nest of blankets again, and the thrumming of the engine is a gentle lullaby. I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep anymore; I'm feeling good, happily stoned and happily snuggled up to the person who means more to me than anything, and I want to stay awake and savor it. I can't get enough of him, I never could; and we're alone... Alone. The word strikes a chord within my foggy brain. Alone together... Mmm. "What are you doing?" he asks, as I fumble at his pants with the hand that isn't strapped to my chest.I don't bother answering him, because I think he can figure that out for himself. "Alex," he says patiently, "you're tired, you're injured, you're drugged..." All very true. But that's not all I am. "Ow," I say, as I struggle to reposition myself and manage to bump my wounded shoulder against his hip. "Alex, you shouldn't be doing this... ohhh, God," the last bit a slow moan, as I take him into my mouth. Stoned, yes, I am stoned, but I could do this in my sleep. Six feet under with the worms crawling in and out, put Mulder's cock near my lips and I'd come back to life long enough to suck him off. It's reflex, intuition, my favorite habit, and I just love the taste of him, the feel... The truck hits a bump in the road, and unprepared, my teeth close just a little too tightly, and that sound was not a cry of pleasure. Damn, I'm sorry. I apologize with my tongue, ascertaining in short order that there has been no permanent damage, and feel him rise and swell to fill my mouth; his fingers lacing through my hair and his voice groaning my name and the taste of him as he becomes steadily more aroused, purest essence of the man on my tongue as I happily worship at the phallic altar of his blessed Mulderness. Shit, I can't believe I just thought that. I really am stoned. But I love this. I really do love this, feeling him getting hotter and hotter at my command, coaxing him from restraint into abandon, the tension building in him, and the need, and the choked little cry as it all becomes too much for him... Mmm. Better than chocolate cake. I know that I don't possess the coordination to rearrange things and zip him up without doing damage to sensitive flesh, so I don't even try. Instead, I just kiss my way upward, licking and slurping whatever skin I can reach, burrowing under his t-shirt -- maybe tickling him a little, because he's laughing, hugging me and laughing. "Alex, my Alex, my sweet stoned Alex," and I try to look up and see his face, but I can't, because my head is trapped beneath his shirt. He wriggles a little and pulls it off, gazes down at me, and his eyes are shining. "Alex," he says again, and I manage to get close enough to kiss him, bumping my shoulder against him again and hurting and not caring. That look in his eyes. Unalloyed, pure lo... but stoned though I am, I still can't even think the word. Doesn't matter. I know what the look means. I know, right down to the core of me. And it feels so good, to know. "How about, your turn this time?" he says, eyes flickering mischief at me. My turn for what? I wonder; and then his hand cups over my crotch and rubs me, and ohmigod. He moves his hand away and ohhh no don't do that, and he eases me back and down flat on my back and shoulder? what shoulder? and then he's unzipping me and ahhh and kissing the tip of my cock and oh jesus and sucking me into his mouth and ohmigod ohmigod dammit please more and more and more. Tongue and lips and suction and tongue and hands on my stomach, on my thighs, pulling down my pants to feel more of me, fingers touching my balls and ohmiGOD up inside me and all I can do is feel. There is no thought. Only feeling, feeling him, feeling him touching me sucking me massaging ohmigod and don't let this end, not now, not ever. Time like taffy again, and I want, I want, I need, yet I can't quite, and I don't want to. This is too good. Mulder. Just Mulder and this feeling, this feeling, so strong and so intense and more than I can take and never enough and building and building until I could scream; and I keep the scream inside because I don't want to lose any of this intensity, I want to keep it all inside of me, Mulder and this feeling, forever and ever. Yes. Oh yes. Ohhh yes. And is it really taking forever, is it the drugs making it seem that way, or holding me back, or is it just me? sinking so deep into the feeling that nothing else including time exists? Whatever. It's so good, so good, so goddamn fucking incredibly good, and I let it take me, let it consume me, let him consume me; and then suddenly it's all happening at once, so tense and tight and strong that I'm afraid: it's going to hurt, it's going to burn, it's going to tear me apart, and OHMIGOD ecstasy pleasure passion throbbing pouring out of me, pulse white-hot rapture, pulse again, pulse again, and again and again and on and on, until all the world is nothing more than an endless orgasm with me at its core. Oh. My. God. And as it begins, ever so slowly, to ebb away, one coherent thought rises into my fuzzy brain: I really should get stoned more often. "Mulder," I whisper -- and to my ears, as raw and sensitized as the rest of me, it is a shout. "Alex." When did he move? Whenever: he's beside me now, drawing me gently into his arms. "My beautiful, beautiful Alex." My Mulder. Mine. Giver of pleasure and comfort and all the good things I never had before. Mine. "Sleep, baby," and he strokes my hair, my back, slow rhythmic strokes as much a lullaby as the truck's engine growling me to sleep. "No," I protest, "wanna stay awake, wanna be with you, stay with you..." "You're with me. Always with me." Impossible to disbelieve such conviction. "Always." Always. Forever. Yes. And I don't want to, but I can't help it; my eyes close, and I sleep. I'm getting really tired of waking up with my bladder on the verge of bursting, and my entire side hurts like hell in waves of pain radiating outward from my shoulder, and my head aches, and I feel awful... Mulder holds me upright while I piss on a clump of weeds at the side of the road, and then Scully gives me another handful of various pills, and shortly thereafter I'm feeling much better. She waits for the pain meds to start taking hold before checking and cleaning and rebandaging my wounded shoulder; I am eternally grateful, because even through the fuzzy haze, it hurts like hell. But Mulder holds me close as she goes through the torturous procedure, steadying me, and that makes it easier to bear. "He's too warm," Mulder tells my doctor, as she finishes with my shoulder. Her hand feels cool against my forehead. "Yes, he is," she says, her voice troubled. "Not a good sign. Keep an eye on him," to Mulder -- and then, a faint laugh. "As if I have to tell you that." "I feel fine," I protest. "I'm fine." Scully smiles at me. "Just get some rest," she says, and kisses me on the forehead again. Mulder helps me back into the truck, but lingers outside to talk to Scully for awhile; and when he's finished, and the Wonderpills are spreading their magic through my system, he climbs in and settles down next to me, and we head out again. It's daylight now, and the sun hurts my eyes. Mulder takes note of my distress and busies himself fastening bits of clothing and assorted detritus to the truck cap's windows, shutting out most of the light. "That better?" he asks me. "You're so good to me," I tell him. Snuggling close to him makes me remember the last time I was awake, and that exquisite pleasure... and he's close to me, holding me, and that's good; but I want skin, his skin against mine. I tug at his t-shirt until he yields and takes it off, pulls off my own shirt, and I can feel his body next to mine. Better, much better. My head is resting against his shoulder, and his nipple is tantalizing me: kiss me, it seems to say, beckoning until I have no choice but to lower my head and obey. Soft groan emanating from his chest. "Alex, we shouldn't..." But his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. "You are too warm," he murmurs. "I'm hot for you," I tell him, because it sure does seem like a good idea. "No, you're not. You're sick, and you will rest. Even if it kills me." He removes my hand from his crotch with what seems to be a visible effort. But I want to touch him. Need to. I almost lost him, he was dead and I was going to join him, but now he's here and I need him... He doesn't understand. "You don't want me anymore," I accuse, feeling uncommonly hurt. "I always want you. Right now, though, I want you to rest." Again, he pulls me close to him, trapping my good hand between us so that I can't do anything interesting with it. "C'mon, baby, try to go back to sleep." "I'm not a baby," I complain. "You're my baby," he says softly, smoothing a hand over my hair. "And I'm not tired," I add, yawning. "Okay. You're not tired." His hands are so soothing, the way he's stroking me. "Don't patronize me," I say, realizing distantly that I sound like a sulky child. "I'm not. I'm taking care of you. Thought you liked that, hmm?" "...yeah," I admit reluctantly, and he kisses my forehead. "So let me take care of you, baby. Alex," he corrects himself. "My beautiful Alex." It just melts me, when he says that. "Am I still stoned?" I wonder aloud, yawning again. "Oh, yeah, you're still stoned." Another gentle kiss. "Right now, I think it's probably good for you. You've been through so much... you need to rest. Your mind, most of all." "You don't know the half of it," I tell him, not entirely sure what I'm even talking about. Just barely remembering intense stress, and extreme worry, and a great overwhelming fear... "I keep thinking I'm going to lose you. I've been so afraid of losing you." Wait, I wasn't going to tell him that. Oh, well, too late now. "Never," and his voice is suddenly fierce and tense and filled with sharp emotion. "You're never going to lose me, Alex. Never." And his arms squeeze me tight, so tight, so wonderfully tight; even when my shoulder starts to hurt, and I bite back a cry of pain, because I don't want him to notice and stop. He notices anyway, and eases up just a little. "Sorry..." "No." All right, maybe I am tired. I can't stop yawning, anyway. "Just hold me," I tell him. "Gladly," and Mulder kisses me again. "Always." But his voice is disappearing down a long dark tunnel, along with everything else, and I am tired, I'm so tired, and I close my eyes, just for a minute... I wake up vomiting. Half-upright, Mulder holding me, and god, puking all over the truck, and I can barely breathe between heaves, and I can't stop shaking. I'm cold and I'm hot and I hurt all over and I'm choking and it's coming out of my nose, dammit, just like the last time, the black oil; no, not that memory too, not now -- Mulder holding me, trying to say soothing things but his voice is trembling and fearful and he's pounding with one hand on the truck cap: stop the truck, pull over now... Two sets of hands helping me out of the truck, and I fall to my knees in the dirt, still retching up what's left of my last meal; oh, hell, just shoot me now. Please, someone, put me out of my misery. Finally, there's nothing left to come up, just awful dry heaves that make me ache all through; my shoulder is a hot blaze of pain, throbbing agony. There's still that weird blurry haze separating me from the world, but it's not a comfortable feeling anymore: now it's just disorienting and frightening. Someone's rubbing my back, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders; and someone else is wiping the vomit from my chest with a damp towel; and a third set of hands is giving me a tissue to blow my nose and placing a cup of cool water against my lips, and I'm so far gone that I can't even tell which one of them is my lover. "He's burning up. We need to get him to a hospital." "We can't...!" "I know that!" Rapid-fire conversation, tense and urgent. Words that ought to mean something to me, but don't. "We have to find a motel, get him settled, until this fever breaks." "We're less than two hours from the cabin..." "Too long." I finish spitting out as much of the vile taste as I can, manage to catch enough breath to speak. "Home," I gasp. Silence, and then Scully's voice. "Alex..." "The cabin. Take me home." It's not home, not really; but it's close enough. Better than some motel. I've spent too much of my life in anonymous motel rooms, drifting from place to place; the memory of the little house in the Michigan woods tugs at me with ridiculous nostalgia. If I have to be anywhere, feeling as lousy as I do now, I want to be there. "Please..." More silence. Finally, Mulder: "All right, Alex. We'll go home." Hands, helping me to my feet, keeping me from falling. Helping me into the back seat of the truck, helping me get settled -- Mulder's chest beneath my cheek, and the faint lingering sour smell of my vomit. "Easy, beautiful. Easy..." and he's so scared, I can hear it in his voice. So worried about me. "Hang on," says Skinner, as we pull back onto the road; and the sound of the engine tells me he's flooring it. I can't sleep, I feel too awful to sleep, but I drift. Awareness is fleeting, comes to me in brief snatches. We stop after a short while, park with the engine idling for a long while -- I'm roused to something approaching consciousness by a sharp puncture, needle sliding beneath my skin. Four or five of these, in quick succession. "What's that?" I hear Mulder ask, and Scully rattles off a long string of syllables that fade away as I begin to drift again. I come out of it to the feel of an icepack against my forehead, a cool wet cloth sliding over my neck and chest until the heat subsides and I begin to shiver; and then the blanket snugs warmly around me, and I sink into Mulder and drift some more. A few more random moments of awareness, mostly of being too hot or too cold or aching; and then the churning bumps of a gravel road making my stomach twist, and then: "C'mon, Alex. We're home." Home. Hands, arms around me, helping me stumble up the steps; jingle of keys in the lock and stumbling forward into cool darkness, banging my leg into the sofabed we never bothered folding up before we left... ...And I'm falling, onto the bed, into the darkness, falling and falling until everything goes black. Smell of coffee, floating through the room. Scent of something cooking, baking: blueberry muffins, maybe. Same ceiling I've woken up to for the last several weeks: not-quite-home-sweet-home. Reflexively, I take stock of the situation. My shoulder is just barely aching, I'm not sweating or shivering, I feel relatively close to human. A little blurry -- still pleasantly stoned. All things considered, I feel pretty good. Footsteps, coming closer. A hand on my forehead. "Welcome back, Alex." "Hi, Dana." I listen to my own voice, decide that I sound as stoned as I feel. The thought makes me giggle; and Scully smiles with me. "Welcome back... where was I?" She hesitates. "You were in a very scary place," she says, finally. "For all of us." I try to sort that out, fail utterly. "Where's Mulder?" Her hand moves to cup my chin, turns my head sideways to the right, and there he is: lying beside me, fast asleep. I start to reach out for him, but Scully grabs my hand before I can make contact. "Don't wake him," she says, gently scolding me. "He's been up with you for the last forty-eight hours, he needs his sleep." He looks so tired. He's asleep, and he looks so tired. "What happened to me?" "Infection. Fever. You had us all very worried." Again, her hand smooths over my forehead. "But everything's going to be fine, now." Forty-eight hours. Two days. He must have been frantic. "I'm sorry," I mumble, apologizing to her and to him at once. "It's all right, Alex." Another sweet smile. "I don't mind. And you can be sure he doesn't, either." No, Mulder doesn't mind. He never minds taking care of me. But the others... "Why didn't you just let me die?" I hear myself ask. Her smile dims briefly, and she blinks hard. "You're worth more than that," she says softly. "To all of us." I'm too stoned to quite figure out what she means by that, but it makes me feel good to hear it anyway. But now I need to get up, find the bathroom, then maybe breakfast... The feel of the sheets against my skin stops me. Too much skin. I lift the sheets and glance underneath, just to make sure -- yeah, way too much skin. And Doctor Scully's probably seen it already, but dammit, I wasn't awake then... I look up at her, wondering what the hell to say, and am spared the effort of trying by the fact that she's holding my bathrobe in her other hand. "Thanks, Dana." She smiles, and helps me out of bed, helps me get the robe around me and tied shut. I don't know how I would have dealt with it otherwise, with only one hand and impaired as hell... And thank you, no, I can manage in the bathroom just fine by myself; but the logistics are interesting, to say the least. It takes some time to finish pissing and wiping up the results of my lousy aim, and brushing my teeth to clear the awful taste in my mouth, and washing myself as best I can, and by the time I stagger back to bed, I feel like I've just run a three-minute mile with fifty-pound weights strapped to my ankles. So I don't complain when she fusses with my pillows and tucks the sheets around me; it's nice to lie back and let myself be cared for, such a luxury. Even though it isn't Mulder doing it. Maybe because it isn't Mulder -- because there's someone else in the world who feels I'm worth the effort. A warm, rosy glow that has nothing to do with the level of medication in my bloodstream. It occurs to me that this kindness she's displaying might, just might, extend a tiny bit further. "Do you think I could have some coffee? And maybe some breakfast? I'm really hungry..." Her smile warms me even more. "That's the best thing I've heard in at least the last couple of days," she says. "Sit tight, and I'll bring you something." And yes, there are blueberry muffins -- from a mix, Scully confesses, as if I'm going to scold her for that -- hot and fresh and buttered, and good strong coffee; and as I'm working my way through the meal, sitting up in bed, Mulder wakes up just long enough to snuggle close to me, bury his face against my hip, sling one arm over my lap and fall asleep again. Scully reaches over me and runs her hand over Mulder's hair in a quick caress -- then wraps one arm around my shoulder long enough to tug me gently sideways and plant a kiss on my forehead -- then gets up and leaves me to finish my breakfast alone. Faint sunlight is penetrating the gaps in the curtains, casting rays on the floor, turning airborne dust motes into sparkling fairydust. Like magic. And life is good. When next I awaken, there is music playing softly: my music, the stuff I like best. My head is resting in Mulder's lap, and my hair is being stroked in a slow steady rhythm, and I just feel so good. So good. I keepmy eyes closed, keep still, so as not to disturb this perfect, wonderful feeling. "...shoulder healed properly," Scully is saying, in a quiet voice. "Especially after that infection. So don't plan on going anywhere just yet." "I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you," Mulder answers her. "Alex is in no shape to make plans right now, and I... well, it's been a long time, Scully. And probably an even longer time before we see each other again, after this." "If his condition continues to improve, I think I'll be cutting back on the pain medication soon. A vacation from pain and stress is one thing; an addiction is another, and I have no intention of leaving him with that." She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is even softer, and wistful. "It has been a long time, hasn't it? The last few weeks, it's been so easy to forget..." "We'll keep in touch," Mulder says, in the same gentle tone he uses when he thinks I need soothing. "You'd damn well better." A slight hesitation. "Both of you." There's another hand on me now, resting on my lower arm, rubbing slightly. "I've become very fond of him." "Yeah, he does tend to grow on you, doesn't he?" and I can hear the smile in my lover's voice. "He does," she agrees. "I just... I just wish you were coming back with us." "Scully..." "Don't. You don't have to say it. I know -- and I understand. It's just... it's not the same without you." "Yeah. Well." His voice is wistful, sad. "My priorities are a little different now," his voice warming as the hand stroking my hair stills briefly, settles against the side of my face. "Which is as it should be. God knows, you've earned a little happiness in your life." Another pause. "What do you think you'll be doing next? Both of you, I mean, now that the threat's been eliminated." "What will we do?" He sounds lost, forlorn. "I dunno. I'll let Alex decide." "When he's sober, I hope." A breath of laughter. "The state he's in now, he's liable to decide you'd both be perfectly suited to jobs as costumed cartoon characters at Disneyland." "Shh. Subliminal messages. You might give him ideas," and both of them laugh, this time. Hmm. What's so funny about that? Built-in disguises, and free passes to the E-ticket rides... Mulder, tentatively: "So, what... what's it been like? You know... without me." A sardonic sound from Scully, not quite a laugh. "Many fewer solved cases, for one thing. For all the times I ever told you that your ideas were crazy... well, without your intuitive leaps..." and she doesn't finish the sentence. "You really do have a gift, Mulder. I hope that... whatever you end up doing, you can use that gift, the way you used to on the X-Files." "Yeah, me too," Mulder says, very softly. I feel like I'm missing at least half of this conversation. Drugged as I am, none of it is quite clear... and yet, that perfect, wonderful feeling is neither perfect nor wonderful anymore. Like there's a dark cloud obscuring the sunshine. Something's wrong. Mulder's unhappy. Something's very wrong. I open my eyes and look up at him, and instantly his attention is focused on me. "Hey, beautiful," he says. "Just wake up?" "Uh-huh," I tell him, because it seems to be what he wants to hear; he looks relieved. "How do you feel?" he asks me. "I'm okay." And what about you? But I can't bring myself to say it, because... because he might tell me how he feels, and I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what he might say. Scully, my doctor, isn't content with my words: she has to check my temperature, my pulse, et cetera, ad infinitum, and I just lie there with my head on Mulder's lap and let her do whatever she wants. She fixes my bandages and gives me another shot, and he strokes my hair while she does; and then he helps me to a sitting position so she can give me more pills to swallow. It's kind of nice, the way they're both so focused on taking care of me. That unity... I never really got to see what they were like together, before I took the job that got me into this situation in the first place. If I had, I might not have taken it. But later, the rapport I caught in little glimpses... I don't know. I don't know anything, anymore. For all that they're working together to take care of me, the way they're doing it makes me feel like an outsider. Like I don't belong. Even though I know, now, that she likes me. Even though I know that he never wants us to be apart. Slowly, the pills start to take hold; and after awhile, I don't feel anything but stoned again. And yet... the uncertainty lingers. Something wakes me from a sound sleep. Something subliminal, something indefinable, something... ...sweet. Something sugary, maybe chocolatey, maybe... ...cookies. I want cookies. Chocolate-chip cookies. Fresh, hot-from-the-oven chocolate-chip pan cookies. Yes. That is what I want. And now. Right now. Right this minute. The cabin is dark; it must be late. I ease carefully away from the warm body snuggled up to me, slip into the robe lying in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the sofabed, and sneak quietly over to the kitchenette. Or what would have been quietly, except for the fact that I can't seem to walk a straight line, and all these walls keep coming and smacking into me... I know there are the makings of decent cookies in this kitchen. I remember buying the ingredients myself. Bittersweet chocolate and almond extract and Malibu rum; yes, these are the things that make even the cheapest generic cookie mix into a great and wondrous thing. Now, if I could only remember where I put everything... Tousled red hair and yawning, blocking my access to the refrigerator. "Alex, what are you doing?" "I'm hungry," I tell her. "I'll make you something..." "I want cookies," I elaborate, since she obviously isn't reading my mind well enough to know that. "Well, then, I'll make you cookies..." "No, I want my cookies. The ones I make. Excuse me," and I nudge my way past her to the refrigerator for the eggs. "Alex..." Her hair is a mess, wisps all over at odd angles; her eyes bear raccoon-circles of smudged eyeliner. And yet, somehow she manages to look gorgeous. Maybe it's the just-got-out-of-bed aura of sleepy sensuality that she doesn't seem aware she possesses, or maybe it's just the concern in her eyes when she looks at me. "You are cute," I tell her, just so she knows. She touches my forehead, checks my pulse, and sighs. There's the almond extract, all the way up on the high shelf. I can reach it. I think I can reach it. I wish my hand would stop shaking. There... oh... oops... and Scully catches the little bottle before it can fall to the floor and break. "Oh, thanks." "Alex," she says very patiently, "it's the middle of the night, and you need to rest..." "We need to rest," grumbles Skinner, padding into the glow of kitchen light and looking none too pleased. "What are you doing?" he says to me. "I'm selling the Brooklyn Bridge to Saudi Arabia," I tell him gravely, congratulating myself for having enough sense to be able to put together a coherent quip. Either the meds are wearing off, or I'm getting used to them... "Where's that bottle of rum I bought? And if you tell me you drank it, you're a dead man, Walter." He hesitates; Scully fills in. "Alex, you shouldn't be drinking..." "The alcohol content burns off in the cooking process, get me the rum." It's nice that they care enough to protect me. I think it's nice. Or maybe it's just annoying. What the hell; I'll sort it out later. Butter, we need butter, so I rummage through the fridge until I find it, and hand the stick to Skinner. "Melt this over a low flame. A low flame. Don't burn it." Out of the corner of my eye, I see him glance at Scully; I see her shrug helplessly, and I turn away so they won't see me smile. It's nice to be cared for, but it's even nicer to get my own way. And what else do I need? The bittersweet baking chocolate. Also on the high shelf. At least that won't break when it falls. Which it does. I bend over to pick it up, and almost fall down. This is why I dislike altered states of consciousness; it makes dealing with reality so much harder... "Hey, what's going on?" says a sleepy voice, as a pair of strong arms help me to my feet -- and the good part of being drugged is the way the feel of him is so much more intense, the way I can sink into his arms and immerse myself fully in the sense of security that it always gives me to be held by him. "Hi, baby." Hands stroking my hair, rubbing my back, making me feel so good. "Making cookies?" Rhetorical question: he knows this ritual well. "Where's the rum?" And he knows the recipe, too -- helped me perfect it, over the course of endless batches of midnight cookies, cooked and eaten to fortify ourselves for that second or third or fourth round of sex... just the thought is making me horny. But Skinner is in the kitchen with us, looking wearily annoyed as he watches the butter melt; and Scully is in the kitchen, too, gazing at me with concern and still failing to fetch the rum. "The rum," I prompt her, and Scully sighs and goes to get it. "You could lie down," Mulder suggests, "and I could make the cookies for you." "You burn things," I counter. "You always burn things." He burned water, once; boiled it away and scorched a hole right through the damned saucepan. Okay, so he was distracted -- I was sucking his cock at the time. But he gives me blowjobs all the time when I'm making dinner, and I never burn the food... I'm sorry, but sexual distraction is no excuse for bad cooking. Ah, but temptation-thy-name-is-Mulder, and it feels so amazingly good to be held and stroked in what is no doubt meant to be a non-sexual manner... ...but I really want cookies. I pull away from him, though it is the last thing I want to do, and begin fumbling with the package of cookie mix. "I'll do that," he says, and takes the package out of my hands. He retrieves a mixing bowl from the top shelf, rips the package open and empties the cookie mix into it; the butter is melted, and he takes the saucepan from the stove and pours it in without needing to be prompted, stirs the mix a little. "If I bring you a chair," he asks me, "will you sit down and supervise?" Hmm. I consider the idea. I like to do my own cooking, damn it... but the idea of lording it over my kitchen staff holds a certain appeal, and I am kind of dizzy... "All right," I agree finally. So I sit in the chair Mulder brings me, and delegate: Skinner melts things, and Scully stirs things, and Mulder strokes my hair and swipes spoonfuls of cookie mix when he thinks I'm not looking, and it isn't too long before the batter is in the oven, baking. Soon the cabin smells like the Ratcave so often does at three in the morning -- tiny fragment of home, bittersweet through the drugged fog because in a strange way this has become home to me, too. I don't pause to analyze the feeling; I can't, not at the moment... but for some reason, I feel sad. The sadness lifts, though, when the cookies are done. More like brownies, actually, in appearance and texture; and suddenly everyone wants cookies, not just me. Mulder cuts them into narrow strips, and Scully pours the milk, and we sit around the table eating and drinking... and laughing. It's late, and everyone is tired, and I'm drugged, and everything seems enormously funny. Dana is beautiful when she laughs, and Walter seems almost human, and Fox... my Fox, my wonderful gorgeous Fox, is simply a treasure. And suddenly I stop laughing, as the import sinks in through the haze. Camaraderie... no, friendship. In this space, in this time, these people are my friends. It may not be true tomorrow, or the next day, but for now... "What's wrong?" and I turn my head to gaze at Mulder, who's noted my sudden silence with concern. How to explain? Maybe some things are better left unsaid. "I'm just... glad to be here," I tell him. It seems to be enough. More than enough; the table falls into a thoughtful silence. "As are we all," Walter says, very quietly. Dana nods reflectively. She gets up, taking her milk and her plate toward the sink; on the way, she pauses just behind me and places one hand on my shoulder. Small hands, strong hands, hands that saved my life... "Get some rest," she murmurs, and it feels as if she's said so much more. Having gotten my way, and satisfied my craving, I feel as if I can sleep -- Mulder leads me back to the sofabed; we slide beneath the blankets and he curls himself around me. "Happy now?" he asks. I begin a reflex reply, but can't finish it. Yeah, I'm happy -- happier than I should be. Happier than either his presence or the cookies can account for. I'm happy to be here, with Scully and even Skinner. I am happy, deep down and all through, in a way I never quite have been before. Instead of answering, I kiss him, and he kisses me back; Scully dims the lights in time for Skinner to stub his toe on his way back to bed. Muttered curses in the darkness, and then quiet. Drowsy, content, I drift off to sleep. Aaaaaugh. This is, without a doubt, the mother of all headaches. Pounding, throbbing, oh fuck it hurts. Enough to make me forget the pain in my shoulder. And what happened to that lovely drifting haze? I miss it... I roll over onto my back, and the effort makes me moan; and there's suddenly a cool damp washcloth on my forehead. "How do you feel?" Dana wants to know. "How the fuck do you think I feel?" I respond, with my usual courteous civility; and Scully, damn her, laughs. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "You want a couple Tylenol?" "All I get is Tylenol? Guess I must be off the critical list." Foggy memory, something about Scully saying that she didn't want me to end up addicted... and yes, that is the last thing I need, but still... "Shit," I mutter. "You'll feel better in awhile," she assures me, and gets up to fetch the medicine. But the hands that bring me Tylenol and coffee aren't hers; I find myself blinking up at Mulder. "Hey," he says briefly, helps ease me into a sitting position. "Headache?" he inquires. "What a fucking genius," I grumble, and swallow the pills -- tipping my head back hurts, swallowing hurts, holding the goddamn mug hurts. And Mulder laughs at me. What is it about my being in pain that makes people laugh at me? "Welcome back," he says. The next thing I know, there are strong fingers massaging my scalp; the pain is inside my skull, beyond his reach, but it still feels wonderful. He settles in beside me, pulls me close, and the closeness does more for me than any painkiller could... "Easy, baby," he murmurs. "Relax. Everything's going to be all right." Holding him helps. Drinking coffee helps. Showering with him, leaning into him and letting him soap me as the hot water streams over my aching head, helps... and when we emerge, there's hot food waiting, and that helps too. Slowly, the headache fades; slowly, the world comes into focus. As I'm eating breakfast, with a forkful of eggs and sausage halfway to my mouth, suddenly it hits home... "Alex?" Mulder queries, looking at me worriedly. "We did it, didn't we?" All the pain and medication since then haven't left me any room to contemplate what's transpired. But now, suddenly, it feels real... "Didn't we?" A long silence; and then the others begin filling me in on what I'd missed. While Scully and Skinner had been getting themselves captured and I'd been lying through my teeth to try to save the situation, Mulder -- presumed but not actually dead -- had been having some fun at the main power generator. An unexpectedly lethal fight with a facility guard had provided him with a uniform, and keycard-entry to the most secure areas... but as I'd discovered, there wasn't much he could do without access to the computers, and the proper passwords. So he'd come to find us. Had done so just as I'd blacked out; the armed figure I'd barely remembered seeing in the doorway had been him... I'd left the computer terminal in command mode, and though a self-destruct would have required passwords even I had never had, he'd found a back-door way to help his fumbling attempts at sabotage overload the generators. And then they'd gotten the hell out of there, just before the place had gone up in a blaze of less-than-glory. When they'd finished relating the tale, I sat there for a moment, and let it all sink in. The knowledge felt too big, too huge, to be real. It couldn't be true -- but apparently it was. "We did it," I hear myself whisper. Mulder slides his hand to cover mine -- but the answer comes from elsewhere. "You did it, Alex," Skinner says, moving to stand before me, so that I can see his face: his voice is low and gruff, but there's nothing grudging about the sentiment. "Thank you." And this has an impact that little else could: that Skinner, of all people, should be thanking me... We did it. It's over. It's done. All at once, I can't eat anymore; the thought of food makes me nauseous. "Excuse me," I mutter under my breath, and escape to the front porch. It's cold outside, especially to someone dressed only in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Good thing Mulder's a slob, and never bothered bringing in the blanket from the last time we were snuggling here together. I brush off a couple of spiders who've made a home there and wrap myself up in it, curl up on the porch swing. The sky is overcast, sun struggling to peek through clouds; it's anyone's guess which will triumph. It's done. It's over; and against all odds, we've survived. And now what will I do? I never had a purpose in life, until I found out about the alien invasion. Then I started working to defeat them -- and I'd been doing it for so long that it had started to feel as if there would never be anything more to my life than that. I had begun to take for granted that I'd spend the rest of my life fighting the invasion... literally; I always assumed that either the aliens or my battle against them would kill me. But now... ...now, what the hell am I going to do with my life? I could sink into one of the personas I've created for myself over the years. I could become Razor, cruise around the country on my motorcycle provoking barroom brawls and cheating people at poker. I could assume one of my businessman-identities and take over Microsoft, and quell an invasion of an entirely different sort. Or just settle down in the Ratcave with the wealth I've amassed and tucked away, and spend the rest of my life in sheltered comfort. But though that last holds a certain appeal, I know instinctively that I'd be bored within a month... ...and what about Mulder? "Hey." Soft voice interrupting my reverie, and I look up -- savor the treasured face of the one person on this earth who I can't live without. He looks uncertain, and worried. "Are you all right?" I shrug -- it hurts to shrug, but I can't manufacture words for what I'm feeling. 'All right'? No. But I can't quite pinpoint what's wrong, either. "It's over," he says, "we won. You won, Alex." And though the words are meant to make me feel better, they somehow don't. He comes to me, kneels in front of the swing and gazes earnestly up at me. "We're free," he says, "we can do whatever we want..." Ah, but that's the problem, isn't it? "What do you want to do?" The question leaves my mouth before I'm aware of asking it; and as I hear myself say the words, I realize that I'm afraid -- terrified -- of his answer. He hesitates; and that only makes it worse. "I want to be with you." No trace of uncertainty in that answer, at least; and it warms me a little, but... not enough. "Doing what?" I press, wondering why I'm doing this to myself. Again, that hesitation, and it rips at my soul. "Whatever," he says, and shrugs, but something in his voice rings false. I don't want to ask. I don't. But I have to. "You miss your old life, don't you?" Slowly, Mulder shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs. "I'm here with you, now." He reaches up and touches my face. "That's what counts." It's meant to comfort me, to reassure me. But it doesn't. "Come inside, Alex," he cajoles. "It's cold out here." Rubbing my knees; taking my good hand and attempting to draw me to my feet. "C'mon, come inside..." "Not just yet. I... I need some time." Alone, I think but do not say. But Mulder takes the hint. Slowly, regretfully, he rises to his feet. "Don't stay out too long, okay?" "Okay," I agree. Anything to get rid of him and be alone with my dismal thoughts. He bends and kisses my forehead: soft brush of warm lips that makes me ache. Then the screen door closes, and I'm alone again. Alone. What would it be like to be alone again? To exist in a void, without the focus of world domination to rage against, without even the momentary solace of quick midnight visits to Mulder's apartment? Without even the dubious relief of fantasies, because to think about him would be even more painful... What would it be like to live that way? Do I have the strength to live that way? Again, the screen door opens, and I look up, ready to be annoyed... but it's not Mulder; it's Scully, my doctor, come to check on me. She touches my forehead without asking first, measuring my temperature. "Are you all right?" she asks me. "I'm healing fine," I tell her. "That's not what I meant." Uninvited, she sits down beside me. "You seem troubled," she probes. And what can I say to that? For a moment, I ache to spill it all -- my confusion, my doubts, my uncertainties -- to confide in a friend, for one of the few times in my life, and share the burden of my unhappiness with another person. But I withstand the ache, and gradually it fades. "Just thinking about my next step," I say evasively. She is quiet for a moment. "I think I can guarantee you that Skinner won't seek to prosecute you for your... earlier actions," she says finally. "What you've done... I think that merits a certain amnesty for the past, and I think Skinner does, too." Well, that's nice, I guess. I think it's nice. But without even the pressure to remain underground, I have no focus, not even the most minimal guideline on which to build a new life. So is it really a favor? or a curse in disguise? "You know... it would be good for Mulder to be doing something constructive," she continues slowly. "Something where he can use his talents and skills in a positive way. I don't know how well this fits with your plans for the future, but... it's something to consider." Yeah, right, something more to consider. Just what I needed. "What the two of you have together -- it's a wonderful thing, Alex, and I'm happy for you," Scully says gravely. "But a mind like Mulder's can't be still for long; and I think that in the long run, he'll never be completely content without some sort of focus for his gifts." Yeah. Yeah. I know. "He did good work with the X-Files," I hear myself saying. My goddamned mouth has a mind of its own today, it seems. "We had one of the highest solve rates in the Bureau," she confirms. Had. Not have, had. And even without the alien threat, there are still so many things to be investigated, so many conspiracies to be unraveled... "After everything that's happened," my treacherous lips shape the words, "he wouldn't be able to return to the Bureau, would he?" Scully shrugs. "Oh, I don't know about that," she says. "He was only ever listed as 'missing'; he'd need to pass psych exams and requalify on weapons, but I don't think it would be that much of a problem, if he ever wanted to return." With those words, the last obstacle melts away. "Of course, it's a moot point," she adds. "Is it?" I wonder aloud. "Isn't it?" she parries, sounding surprised. "He has to make his own choices." The thought of what those choices might include chills me more than the wind ruffling my blanket. "It looks to me as if he's made that choice," Scully tells me. "I suppose that if there were no Alex Krycek in his life, it would have been a very different choice; but as it stands..." And there it is: the heart of the matter. From the moment I stepped into his life the very first time, interrupting his transcription of a wiretap recording to place an X-File into his hands, I've been warping his life away from the course it was meant to take. This last transgression has been the most severe. I took him, I kidnapped him, and I made him want me -- and he's never been the same since. I've been kidding myself, telling myself that he's better off this way -- but he's not. Especially now. I have no clue what I'll do next, I have nowhere to go except the sanctuary of the Ratcave, no future lined up for me... but he has his own world waiting for him, whole and entire. He'll deny himself that, if I let him; he'll cling to me and tell himself it's what he wants. And maybe it is, maybe being with me is what he thinks he wants... ...but it's not what he needs. Mulder needs a life. Mulder has a life. But it doesn't include me. And maybe it shouldn't. "...I think it's pretty clear what Mulder has decided," Scully finishes her sentence, smiling at me as if to indicate that despite her sadness, she approves. Yeah. Mulder has made his choice -- which leaves it up to me, to make my own. What I want, what I need -- or what Mulder needs. It's a measure of how much I've changed, that I know which choice I have to make. Even though, dear god, it hurts. Scully pats my knee lightly, a little casual friendly gesture. "Come inside," she urges me, "you'll catch cold." And what is it about these people that they feel they have to look out for me? Annoying, patronizing... and I'm going to miss it so much, once I'm gone. "In a minute." Because the import of the knowledge of what I must do is sweeping over me, and I need some time to deal with it. "I just need a minute or two alone," I tell her. Scully nods. "I'm going to time you," she warns me, "and if you don't come in out of the cold, I'm going to carry you inside." Any other time, the imagery of being carried anywhere by little Dana Scully would have made me laugh -- but this tme I merely nod back, anxious for her to leave. Finally, she does; and I wrap the blankets a little more tightly around myself and stare off into the distance, trying not to think, or feel. Trying not to acknowledge what I know needs to be done. Trying not to imagine life without Mulder. It doesn't work. Tears burn behind my eyes -- chill my skin as they slip free from my control and trickle down my face. No, I can't let this happen; I can't let the others see me like this. Mulder will know something's wrong -- and he might talk me out of it, and I can't let that happen. He'll be happier without me. Not right away, maybe, but in the long run... And what about me? No, I can't let myself think about that. I close my eyes, consciously blank my thoughts. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Flat grey screen. Hard as hell to accomplish, but it helps push the misery away, helps dry the tears before they can mark my eyes red and bloodshot and give it all away. Calm, calm... deep breaths, until I'm back in control. How good an actor are you, Alex? Better in some situations than others, and this one is a bitch... but I can make it work. I have to make it work. For Mulder's sake. The other three are sitting around the table when I re-enter the house, playing cards. The same game of Rummy 500 we've been playing for weeks: people dropping into or out of the game as they choose, so that the scores we've been keeping so religiously have little or no meaning. I glance at the scorepad and note that Mulder has made some progress in the standings with his last, particularly solid hand -- now he's only twelve thousand points behind Skinner. Dana is shuffling the cards; "Deal me in," I tell her, as I breeze past the table and fetch myself a can of Coke. So far, so good. If I focus on the moment, the now, I can avoid troublesome thoughts about the future. I can keep from dwelling on what I must do; I can keep from feeling the pain -- and I can enjoy the pleasures of the present: the camaraderie, the friendship, the uncommon feeling of belonging. And Mulder, of course. He grins at me as I seat myself at the table and check out my cards. Not a bad hand. I grin back at him, then turn my attention to Skinner, who has been dominating the game despite my best efforts to topple his lead. "I'm gonna kick your ass this time," I warn him. "Dream on," he retorts, and the low growl sounds almost friendly. Mulder draws a card, contemplates his hand for a moment, then sets half of it down on the table in a dizzyingly high-points display of aces and face cards. "You're going to kick whose ass?" he inquires sweetly. "Shut up," I tell him, while Skinner chuckles. I draw a card from the deck, look at it -- do a quick double-take, then begin laying down cards: three on Mulder's cards, a four-five-six of diamonds, four threes, and toss the last card face-down into the discard pile -- winning the hand. "I'm gonna kick everybody's ass," I proclaim. The others groan and toss their cards toward me to count and score; and I lean back in my chair and smile. Days pass, and little by little, bits of information coalesce into a whole. Mulder's geek-friends are working overtime, ferreting out scraps of data based on his reports, and their own hunches, and the things I pass along to them via Mulder. To all appearances, the destruction we wreaked has put an end to the Project in ways I hadn't dared dream. Sudden closings of government facilities whose true purpose was known to only a select few. Unexplained fires and explosions in warehouses and factories, destroying the evidence of their failed work. Obituaries -- one after another, names I'd known and loathed: killing each other, or killing themselves. The last remnants of the Project collapsing, withering away. Success, on a scope that I hadn't dared dream. Yet even as the implications sink in -- a life without having to run and hide and live in fear? Impossible... isn't it? -- things around the cabin remain unyieldingly normal. The same routine of mealtimes and card games and lazy conversations around the fire. The same tentative camaraderie, growing more and more sure and steady with every passing day. Mulder and I make love whenever we can: in the woods, in the bathroom, wherever. It's a little awkward, with my healing shoulder, but we get by. Normal behavior, for us -- at home, in the Ratcave, we'd make love as frequently as our bodies could manage -- so there's no reason for Mulder to notice anything unusual; and as for my own motives for wanting as much of him as I can get, well, he doesn't need to know. On a day warm enough to feel like spring, Skinner spends a couple of hours scrubbing rust off the barbecue grill; and that evening, we have a cook-out. Steaks and roasted ears of corn; someone mentions camp songs, and we spend a couple of hours trying to remember and then singing all fifty-odd verses of "On Top Of Spaghetti" while we toast marshmallows on sticks over the dying coals. Laughing. I don't think I've ever laughed so frequently in my life as with these people... Dana has a great laugh, contagious giggles that don't seem to want to stop once they get started; and Skinner doesn't laugh much, but once the stone facade cracks, it's a thing of wonder to behold. And Mulder, well, of course, I can't ever get enough of his laughter, or of him... Eventually, the two of us drift off together, into the woods, into the deepening twilight. The air is turning chill, making me glad of my leather jacket, but his hand is warm in mine. Silence, until Mulder speaks and breaks it. "So," he says, "have you thought much about what we'll be doing next?" Not a subject I want to discuss -- and not one I can avoid. "Some," I tell him, "not much." Not more than I have to. He hesitates. "I still don't know what happened to Samantha," he muses, very softly. I've tried, over the years, to find out about Mulder's sister -- simple curiosity, at first; and later, for his benefit -- but if the Consortium was truly involved with her disappearance, the records are buried far deeper than I could ever access. Were buried, rather. "You know, with everything falling apart, there's virtually no chance you'll ever find out," I say, as gently as I can. And your best chance at finding that information is through the X-Files, Mulder. His eyes close in a brief stab of pain. "I know," he whispers. "But... if there was any way we could..." "I'll do my best," I promise him. "You know that." I'll always do my best for you. Even if it means leaving you. "Yeah, I know," Mulder responds. Absolute trust in his voice; and his eyes, as he glances at me and smiles, are as warm as his hand wrapped around mine. I am going to miss you so much, Mulder. But it's become second nature, now, to hide such thoughts so deeply that they don't show on my face; and I simply smile back and squeeze his hand a little, as if nothing were amiss. He draws me close, into his arms -- talk about second nature: I'm so used to this, it feels like I belong there -- I settle against him, and we kiss. Utter familiarity, but no less passionate for that. To think, there was a time in my life when I thought that it had to be a one-night stand in order to be exciting. Knowing this man, learning every detail and nuance of his responses and reactions, is a constant adventure. Don't think about leaving him. Don't. Don't. And somehow I manage to forget my plans, and lose myself in the intimacy. To simply enjoy the sensations of his hands settling on my ass and pulling us together, of his tongue probing my mouth. To submerge myself in my rapidly-growing arousal, and his. So damn good. Everything I ever wanted, and more. I find myself falling to my knees before him, unzipping him before I'm even really aware of what I'm doing. Instinctive desire: I need to taste him. To feel his cock swelling in my mouth, run my tongue underneath and hear him moan. I take him deep, locking my arms around his thighs, holding him steady, pulling him close, as his hips thrust against me. More, yes, more. And never enough.Giving, receiving, it's all one and the same, as long as we're together. Little cries, soft moans, blending with the night wind. I'll remember this for the rest of my life: the sound of him, the warmth of his body, the feel of his fingers ruffling urgently through my hair. The building tension, the small spasms as his pleasure builds into an aching need that must be fulfilled. Yes, Mulder, and I'm here. For now, at least, I am here; and I can only hope you'll remember this as long and as intensely as I will. Remember me this way: on my knees, giving you everything I can, everything I am. Remember my mouth wrapped around your cock, and my tongue sliding between your lips, and my body wrapped around yours as we sleep at night. Remember me, and know that there will not be a single day when I am not remembering you... A shudder, and a sharp cry; and I swallow, not too quickly, imprinting the flavor of his come into my memories. His breathing is harsh as he recovers -- and I let his softening cock slip from my mouth as I do the same: struggling with every bit of strength I possess to regain my equanimity. To push aside, for the moment, the fact that this may well be the last time... And then Mulder drops to his knees beside me, reaching out to press sweaty palms against my face. To draw me in for a lingering, tender kiss. The kiss deepens; and I feel his hand rubbing me between my legs, coaxing my arousal to a fever pitch. Unzipping me, fingers enfolding me, exquisite sensation as he strokes me, still kissing me -- bodies pressed close, kissing and kissing and the sweet sharp pleasure of the handjob, and Mulder you will never know what this means to me. To be this close, to be able to touch and be touched easily, effortlessly, without pretense or ceremony. It's become so normal to be able to reach out to you, and if this is it, if this is the last time... I mask a moan of agony inside a cry of orgasm; and I bury my face against his neck as I come, hoping that he'll let the few teardrops pass without comment. The emotion is intense enough; he doesn't need to know the reason. His free arm snugs tightly around me, holds me as my body shakes... Just be with me, Mulder. Just be with me, this one last time. "Alex," the merest breath of sound in my ear, lazy and content. "My Alex," and I can feel my heart shattering in my chest. Somehow, I find the strength to speak. "I'll always be your Alex," I tell him, my voice remarkably steady. Remember that, Mulder. Even when we're apart, it will still be true... He smiles at me, cheerfully oblivious, and kisses me again. "Let's go inside," he says. "Maybe we can find time for one last quickie before Scully and Skinner decide to come in for the night." One last quickie. Yeah. But I summon my last dregs of control to smile back; and keep my face and posture calm and controlled as I zip up my fly, rise to my feet and follow him inside.------- I awaken to the first pale rays of dawn streaming past the gaps in the curtains, a dull ache in my shoulder, and a comforting warmth beside me. Mulder. Alive and asleep, snuggled up next to me, wrapped around the uninjured side of my body. So good to feel his breath against my skin. So good to be close to him. Unwillingly, I free myself from his embrace. Dawn's early light, casting a gentle glow over the room. Everyone sleeping except for me: and I move silently through the cabin, to the bathroom and eventually back to the sofabed. I seat myself on the upholstered arm and watch Mulder sleep, luxuriating in what I suddenly know is my last sight of him. It's time. The shattered, shaking man I took from the lockup ward of a psychiatric hospital has been healed: he is himself again, whole and strong. The pieces of his world are coalescing: he will be able to step back into his life as if he'd never left. As if I'd never wrenched him out of his world, and into mine. It's time. It's time for me to go. Scully did a good job on my shoulder. It hurts like hell, and I can barely use the arm, but the wound will heal well -- I've been injured enough times to know. And even with only one arm, I manage to pack a few things into a bag: a little food, some cash from Skinner's wallet, a change of clothing. Enough to get me back to my hideaway. Mulder only knows about one of the entrances, the one with the most booby-traps; I can collapse that tunnel behind me, and that will give me enough time to regroup. To escape, to somewhere he won't be able to find me. I don't allow myself to think about what I'm doing, as I prepare my getaway pack and struggle into clothing. If I think about it, I won't be able to do it, and I must... ...but how can I leave him? We've been so good together, so good for each other. Hard as it is for me to admit that I need anything other than my own resourcefulness... he's been just what I needed. Everything I needed. He's been everything to me... ...oh, hell. I can't let myself think these thoughts. I can't. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, Alex. Pull on the pants, button, zip; jacket, over the arms, ouch, button it up; drag the bag onto your good shoulder, and out the door... out the door... just one, just one look back... Mulder. Little restless moves in his sleep, searching blindly. For me. So goddamn beautiful that I could scream. Or cry. Mulder... I do neither. Instead, I turn my back on him and step through the door, pull it silently closed behind me. Cold crisp morning air slaps me in the face. Time to wake up, Alex. Time to leave the dream behind. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, just like you always do. Just keep moving, until you've put it all behind you. I walk away. I follow the path as it curves away from the cabin, then leave the trail to make my own way to the highway. I'll walk along the side of the road until I can get a ride, or find a car I can hotwire, or... whatever. I've never had trouble escaping before. I'll manage this time, too. I'll find a way back to... ...the Ratcave, he called it; where we slept together, made love together, tangled in each other's arms and legs, covered in each other's sweat, hours and hours of just being together... Maybe I'll find someplace else to lay low. Maybe I'll find a woman, some two-bit criminal, hooker or addict with a lousy self-image, who'll let me leech off her for awhile. Maybe I'll bury myself in cheap, meaningless sex and violence. Maybe that will help me escape. Maybe nothing will. Sometimes, not even cockroaches survive. I walk away. One foot in front of the other, legs moving independent of my thoughts. Visions of him... no, don't! but it's useless; his image and his scent and the feel of him are burned into my soul. Shut it off, Alex: shut off your mind and just go on reflex, one foot in front of the other, until it's over. Until you've gotten away from this place, away from him: until it's too late to change your mind and return. Just keep moving, Alex. Just keep moving. Look at the sun, streaming through the trees in ribbons of light. Look at the patterns it's forming on the leaves. Look at anything except the pictures in your mind. Anything but that. You'll fall apart if you think of him. Just keep moving, Alex. Just keep walking away... "Hold it right there," says a female voice that I know only too well. Oh, hell. "You're slipping, Krycek," she remarks, "you didn't even hear me coming, did you? No, don't turn around," and I hear the small telltale click of a handgun, and freeze in place. "Just tell me, if you don't mind: just where do you think you're going?" Shit, Scully, don't do this. I take a deep breath, and summon all my control, and am pleased to note that my voice is flat and steady. "It's obvious, isn't it? I'm leaving him." "Yes, that part is obvious," she agrees. "The next logical question would be, why?" I knew it. I knew I was going to regret letting her get to know me... She's every bit as sharp as Mulder, and twice as strong, without any of the coldness that strong women so often possess. If there was no Mulder, and if life had cast us in different roles, I could go for her in a big way. But right here, right now, she is one of the biggest dangers I've ever faced. There is no lying to this woman: she's a walking truth detector, and if I don't give her a damned good reason, she's going to drag me back to that cabin at gunpoint... Damn it. "Scully, what happens if I don't leave?" I give her a moment to figure it out for herself, then elaborate. "The battle is over; it's time for us all to return to where we belong. You and Skinner go back to D.C., back to your world -- and I go back to mine." I pause for another second -- not for her benefit, this time, but for mine; just talking about it is enough to tear at my fragile composure. "And what about Mulder? Where does he go?" She is silent for some time -- I use the interval to tug my mask back into place, figuratively speaking: to summon the strength I'll need to get through this confrontation. "I had assumed," she says slowly, "that he would return with you to... wherever it is that the two of you go." Pain in her voice, carefully concealed -- it's cost her to make that assumption, and cost her more to speak it aloud. It's hurt her to lose him, and now she's prepared herself to lose him again, and that's hurting her even more. I know the feeling; and I feel a surge of empathy for her. We have so damn much in common, she and I, and so much of it is Mulder... "And then what happens to him? He lives in hiding, concealed in the shadows I cast for him... what sort of life is that?" My voice is cracking -- shit, that's not good. Quickly, Alex: toss cement over the cracks, before the wall can buckle and give way. "Or should I bring him into my world? Shall I teach him how to be as cold and calculating and ruthless as I am? What's that going to do to him, Scully?" Silence again. She doesn't know what to say, probably because she agrees with me -- and doesn't quite know how to handle that bizarre turn of events, any more than I do. "I took him with me because it was the only way I could think of to fix the damage I had caused." Oh, this is getting too close to the bone. I don't know if I can get through this without breaking. "But if he stays with me, it will destroy him. I can't... I can't do that to him." Deep breath, Alex: control. "He deserves better than that." "You think it won't destroy him to lose you?" Thank you very much, Scully: just rip my heart out of my chest and tear it to shreds. Just what I fucking needed. Another long, deep breath. "No. Not now. He's stronger, more resilient than he was... and you'll help him. You'll be there with him, and that will hold him together..." And who's going to hold you together, Alex? What's going to keep you from falling apart? But I can't afford to think about that now. "I have to leave him, because it's the only thing I can give him now that's worth a damn." I can get through this; I have to. Deep breaths. Just hold on a little bit longer. "I can't give him a life, or a future... I can only give him his freedom, to take back the life that should have been his all along." Behind me, I hear Scully draw a ragged breath. "Alex..." Strange; it almost sounds as if she's on the verge of tears. If she breaks down, so will I... Time to end this, while I'm still nominally in control. "We both know that I'm right," I tell her. "You can shoot me in the back while I stand here, or you can shoot me as I walk away, or you can let me go -- but you're not going to change my mind." I gather myself, and take the first step forward -- she doesn't shoot me, so I take another. There you go, Alex. It's over, now, and you survived. You're a survivor; that's what you do. You'll survive this, too. Somehow. And if you don't... well, it doesn't really matter anymore, does it? Then I hear another voice, one that stops me dead in my tracks. "Alex..." Fuck. I should have known, I should have known; they're a goddamned matched set, and where you find one of 'em... I close my eyes and concentrate hard on building steel barriers between myself and that voice, so that nothing he says will affect me, so that nothing he says can sway my resolve or alter my decision. "I love you too," Mulder says, very quietly. ...Except that. The bag slips from my shoulder and falls to the ground; I hear it, but don't feel it. It's as if everything in me has suddenly gone numb. Everything except my heart, which is pounding like thunder in my chest. "Everything you said is true," he murmurs, "and none of it matters. I'm not letting go of you." Bitter laughter forces its way from my throat. "The one time in my life that I do something completely unselfish," I hear myself say, "and you have to go and fuck it up." Footsteps behind me: I can feel him coming closer, his presence so tangible that I can hardly bear it. "I'm not letting go of you," he repeats, in a voice one half-step away from tears. "You've changed me, okay? You are my life now, Alex; and I don't want one that doesn't have you in it. I need you..." his hands close on my shoulders, just a gentle restraint, but one that sends tremors through me, "and I want you..." he turns me around to face him, and it's taking all my strength just to hold myself together now; I have nothing left with which to resist, "and I love you," and the sound of those words, coupled with the look on his face... shatters me. Completely. I fall into his arms, and he catches me, and that embrace, which I'd thought I'd never feel again... Damn it, some hazy part of my mind thinks vaguely, this is the second time Scully's seen me cry. Then Mulder's lips fasten on my neck, in a sharp kiss, and there is no more room for thought, only the feeling of holding him, being held; the knowing that the battle is over, my resistance evaporated in the heat of his desire, his... love... no room, even, for shame at my own tears. Nothing but Mulder. Only Mulder, the warmth and the strength of him, and the slow trickle of his tears dampening my shirt as I sob helplessly against his shoulder. Hell, I don't care anymore who sees me cry. Not as long as I can feel his arms around me, and know that it isn't going to end. He takes my face in his hands, kisses me -- small soft kisses all over my face, kissing away the pain; settling finally on my lips as his arms snake around my waist, both of our tears running down our cheeks, kissing me until the tears taper off and there is nothing left but the kiss. Drained by the effort of walking away and the tumult of being drawn back, I rest my head on his shoulder -- I rest, inhaling his scent, absorbing the feel of him through my skin. The battle is over; I've lost -- and I've won -- and I can rest now, in his arms. He loves me. How terrifying. How astonishing. How amazingly fucking wonderful. After a time, he draws back, just a little. Peripheral vision tells me that Scully has departed; we have the clearing to ourselves. The wind is picking up, chilly Michigan morning, but his hands snaked under my jacket are so warm. His hands, and his eyes, and his lips... "You've given me so much," he says softly, intensely, his voice blending into the breeze. "I'm happy with you, Alex, and I've never been truly happy before in my life. You think that's not worth more to me than any job? Idiot," and his voice is so affectionate that it makes me want to cry again. "I just wanted..." "I know. I know." A light, gentle kiss. "And I appreciate the intention, but... no. We belong together. Don't you forget that. And don't you ever," his voice in my ear, trembling a little, "don't you fucking ever pull this shit with me again, d'you understand? Do you?" He pulls back again, shakes me a little to emphasize his point. "I would die without you. And you would die without me, and I damn well know it. Don't you ever try to walk away from me again, Alex. Not ever." I have to swallow hard, and fight to catch my breath, and even then it's all I can do to force out a single syllable of assent: "'kay," I manage somehow. "I'm not letting go of you," he murmurs hoarsely, "and you're not letting go of me, either. Promise me, Alex. Promise." "I promise." Easy promise to make. It took every ounce of strength and resolve I had to try to walk away this time; I don't have what it takes to do it again. Especially when... "I love you," Mulder says once more, and the sound of the words is almost more than I can stand. And I want to say them back to him, but... but I can't talk, I can't do anything besides cling to him and bury my face in his neck; and he pulls my head down and strokes my hair and makes words unnecessary. I love you. I've never said those words before, not to anyone, not for any reason. Can't even phrase them in my mind without feeling oddly uneasy. But the way I feel about this man... I want to say the words. I want him to hear them, and know... "Mulder." "Shhh." Soothing whisper, like the wind blowing past my ear. No, he doesn't understand. "Fox... I, I..." "Shhh." Drawing back just enough to brush his lips across mine. "I know," he says softly. "I know." But does he, really? I look at him, into his eyes, searching... his gaze is steady, utterly open to me, seeing everything I am and giving me everything of himself in return... Yeah, I guess he does know. Maybe better than I know myself. I open my mouth to speak, and he kisses me before I can utter a sound. "Shhh," he repeats, settling back into the embrace. And for a while, it seems as if the universe begins and ends in this clearing, with the two of us, nothing else existing but the wind rustling through the trees and the scent and taste and feel of him wrapped around me. He is everything that matters to me, everything I need to survive: my blood, my breath. I've known this since... since a desolate old warehouse, and hearing his footsteps walking back to me. But this is the first time I've been able to allow myself to truly sink into the feeling and be lost in it, knowing that I'm not the only one feeling it, and that it's not going to go away. Pricey rings and fancy vows and three-tiered cakes might be traditional for some, but to me, this is commitment: being securely held in a bond improbable beyond imagining and precious beyond description, by a man who could have anything he wants and chooses me above all else. I keep setting him free, and he keeps coming back to me... My lover. My love. For a very long time, I can't do anything but hold him, be held by him. I just can't move. And then I do: I tear myself away from him, knowing that if I don't let go of him now, I never will. It feels like ripping off a full-body band-aid, but I manage. Slow, deep breaths while I recover; then, the sound of his voice -- "Are you all right?" and fingertips brushing my face. Am I all right? Patently ridiculous question, and I feel myself smile. Reach up and wrap my hand around those gentle fingers, gaze once more into those warm, dark eyes... "I'm fine," I hear myself say, and know that I have never meant the words more. Mulder smiles back at me -- breathtakingly gorgeous, when he smiles that smile. "Everything's going to be fine, now." He's wrong, of course; there are a thousand different things that could go wrong from here, any number of pitfalls and traps lying ahead. And yet... "Yes, it is," I agree. His hand curls around mine, and we walk hand in hand back toward the cabin. Scully and Skinner are sitting at the table, both wide awake and dressed, talking in low voices. They look up as we enter. "We're going for a walk," Scully says, an apparent non sequitur. "At five-thirty in the morning," Skinner grumbles, but it seems more habit than heartfelt. Dana elbows him, sharply enough that he winces. "We'll be gone for at least an hour," she continues, "probably two," and suddenly I understand. 'Gratitude' would be an overly mild term for what I feel. "Thank you," I say, though the words are pitifully inadequate, and grin at her; she grins back, and even Skinner manages a lukewarm smile. Then they're gone, and Mulder and I are alone together. "How's the shoulder?" he asks quietly. I shrug -- an expression of nonchalance, and an answer in itself. "Okay." He nods slightly. "Good," he murmurs, "because I need to be with you, Alex." The sound of his voice, of those words, sends waves of shivers down my spine. "Yes," I whisper. Mulder's lips curve into a sweet smile. He moves toward me -- one step, then another -- close enough to touch, now, but not touching. I can almost feel the heat of his skin across the space that separates us; and suddenly I'm trembling and can't stop. "Mulder..." His eyebrows rise: he pauses, waits for me to speak. There's only one thing to say, really. "Fox," making the hated name into an endearment. "Make love to me," remembering how those words made me feel, when first I heard them. "Please..." Mulder blinks, hard; his face softens and brightens into an expression unlike any I've seen before. "Yes," he says, a nearly inaudible murmur. "Oh, yes." And one shaking arm extends, fingertips outstretched, as he touches me -- fingertips barely making contact with my collarbone; but I want, I need his touch so desperately that even that small sensation is electric. Stroking down my chest, a feather touch, beginning to unbutton my shirt; and I want to throw myself at him, yet I cannot move. He slides my jacket and shirt off my shoulders together, and I shiver briefly in the sudden coolness. His hands move lower, unfastening my jeans, and still I am helpless to do more than stand there and let it happen... His breathing is loud in the silence. My own heartbeat is a thundering roar. Every bit of sound and sensation is sharp and poignant and damn near overwhelming. He kneels to unfasten my boots, urges me with swift small touches to step out of pants and shoes; and I move sluggishly, as if through a dream, until I stand naked before him. Mulder rises to his feet, and... looks at me. Gazes at me as if I'm a work of art. "You're so beautiful," he says softly, and I can feel the truth of it. Countless loving glances over the months, and yet I have never felt so cherished as I do in this moment. He loves me... And of course, I've always known. Everything he's said and done has pointed toward that emotion. So why does it make such a difference to hear the words? I don't know, but it does. Commitment, maybe. Knowing that this dream I've been savoring doesn't ever, ever have to end... He reaches out and places his hands on my shoulders, and I feel myself dissolving into a shuddering moan that expresses what I'm feeling more perfectly than words ever could. Then he's drawing me near, holding me close, and I'm melting into him. Moaning, still; half-sobbing from the sheer joy of it. I can't... I can't think straight, only feel: my hands clutch at his t-shirt and sweatpants, trying to shred them from his body, needing more of him and too shattered to think about how to accomplish that. Mulder moves, too, and somehow the clothes slide away from him, though I'm not certain how. His skin against mine, nothing but skin and warmth and soft kisses on my face and neck; and I'm rock-hard and barely noticing, because the rest of me is aching for that touch just as badly. Mulder, my Mulder, my Mulder, who I thought I'd never be with again... and he loves me, he loves me; and nothing could matter more than that. We're kissing, now, and rocking together a little, holding on to each other for dear life -- I'm crying again, and so is he, and it seems right somehow that we should. There's too much for mere sex, or words, to express. Too much love to be shared. Skin-heat and sweat and tears and little soft inarticulate cries from both of us, and I can't hold him tightly enough; and I could come just from this, from being held, being loved. Never mind fancy technique: this is, this is all that's ever mattered. This is everything. Clinging together and rubbing against each other, and I am going to come from this -- so close, just from the feel of him and the scent of him and knowing he's mine... Rippling waves of pleasure, sweet release that leaves me craving more -- and I can't believe I almost walked away from this. From him. Never, no, never again; not after this, no. "Alex." His voice is velvet, soft and sensual. Hands smoothing along my skin, lips trailing kisses over my face, easing me down from the climax and starting me along the way to the next one; and I lean into him, snuggle against him, utterly pliant. Mulder guides me to the sofabed. Eases me down, settles me in -- "Comfortable?" he asks me, and I gaze up at him and smile. "Good," in that velvety purr, as he stretches out atop me and begins to kiss me in earnest. Oh. Oh, yes. I'm still crying. I can't stop crying. It occurs to me that I ought to be ashamed of this, maybe, but I'm not. There's just so much emotion in me, there's no room for it all -- and I'm not afraid to cry in his arms now, as I once would have been. Comfortable? Yeah, I'm comfortable. This is comfort, as I have never known it before. He loves me, he loves me, and some part of my mind is just stuck on that knowledge like a skipping record, repeating it over and over in disbelief and astonishment. And his weight is pressing me into the thin mattress, and his lips and tongue are claiming-invading-caressing my mouth, and I can't stop crying. Tears streaming down the sides of my face, little shuddering sobs hitching at every breath; and his hands find the sides of my face and stroke the tears away as we kiss. But the moisture doesn't diminish, and I reach back to him, and find that he's still crying, too. This isn't lovemaking. This is union. Pleasure, infinite pleasure, and it's nothing like making love. Not sharp or intense or craving, this is... sating, filling, consoling, relaxing me even as I become steadily more aroused. Bringing peace. I know where I belong, now, and I know who I am... I'm Mulder's, I'm the one he loves, and that is all I need to know. It defines me, gives me purpose and meaning and identity in a way I've never known before in my life. This is -- he is -- all I want, all I need, and more. We kiss. But it's not kissing: it's blending, it's merging, it's, it's... I'm losing my capacity to think, to reason. What do I need to think about right now, anyway? All I need to do is feel. Physically, emotionally... Mulder, wrapped around me, body and soul, and I still can't stop crying. And I can't believe how good it all feels -- the crying, the kissing, the knowledge that I have found my home. His cock rubs against me, hard and urgent; and I wrap my legs around his waist and keep him close as he stretches to reach for the lube we keep hidden in the nightstand. We couldn't choreograph this any better if we tried. It's as if we're merged so far into each other that we're one person, one heart and mind and body. I can feel the ache in him, and the need, and the... the love... Mulder, oh Fox, what you do to me... Coherent thought ends as he slides into me, one long slow glide, burying himself deep inside me. I've always loved this, but this time the sensation seizes and captures me as never before: held, possessed, taken, owned, I am his and he is mine and this is everything. Our eyes meet. He looks at me, and I fall into his gaze. All that he is, all that he feels for me, are right there in his eyes; and I'm melting in the glow. I'll never be the same after this, never be that Alex Krycek again... now I'm his Alex. He loves me, he loves me, and it makes all the difference in the world. He's moving inside me, now. Sweating, needing, wanting, but taking it slow. Stretching it out, not letting it end. Wanting more than anything else to just be inside me, to be that close to me... I know this, because I can feel what he's feeling. He's inside me, and I'm inside him, and we are one. I'm still crying, and Mulder's tears are still mingling with mine. And with every moment of building pleasure, as we ascend together toward climax, I feel the certainty even more strongly. Just as my life would have ended with his death, or my departure... now it begins anew with our lovemaking. With our love. "I love you," he whispers hoarsely, just before the spasms begin and sweep us both away. On a technical level, it's probably not the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced, but it's certainly the sweetest; and as it ebbs away, Mulder sags onto me, arms locking around me, holding us close together. He loves me. For no reason, without warning, I find myself sobbing helplessly again. Then Mulder is kissing me, little soft kisses, licking the tears from my face. He rolls us both over and draws my head down to settle against his chest, stroking my hair with one hand, rubbing my back soothingly with the other. "Alex. It's all right. It's all right now." Yes. Yes, it is. And I'm so goddamn happy that I can't do anything but cling to him and cry. And that's all right, too. I awaken alone. That realization robs me of the lazy pleasure of awakening slowly; I blink hard and force myself to alertness without moving a muscle. Cool air outside the cocoon of blankets I'm ensconced in, and the sound of voices -- the sound of intense conversation, though too quiet for me to hear. I focus, and gradually make out bits and pieces of it. Mulder: "Unacceptable. I won't risk..." Another blur of soft babble. Then, Skinner: "...won't be a risk, not if..." and again the words blend together into illegibility. Finally, Scully: "...can make this work; it's just a question of..." and more chatter, and then Mulder again: "...but don't forget, it's not my choice to make." They're talking about me. I don't need to hear the words to know it. Scully and Skinner and yeah, even Mulder, having a little secret conference while they think I'm asleep. And I don't like it, no, I don't like it one bit... I love you, Alex. Impossible to disbelieve that, now; and the memory of those words brings down my level of paranoia just a little. But not much. I drag myself out of bed, pulling the blanket around me as I do -- I don't look toward the kitchen table to see what's happening, but I hear the conversation pause for just a moment as they register my wakefulness, then resume at the same hushed volume as before. The fact that they're not trying to hide the discussion from me eases the instinctive paranoia a little bit more. On the other hand, I can think of a half-dozen reasons why they might not bother hiding the fact that they're plotting against me. On the other hand... I love you. He told me that he loves me, and I believe him, so what the hell am I so worried about? Ah, well, old habits are damned hard to break. I go through the short version of the morning ritual, slide into a pair of sweatpants and a shirt from the pile of laundry in the corner and head back out of the bathroom -- ostensibly in search of coffee, but more interested in the discussion. As I draw closer, I note that the three of them are having an amiable debate about some aspect of computer hacking... Mulder grabs my hand as I move past him, follows me to the coffeemaker. "Morning," he says, sliding his arms around my waist, pressing a quick kiss on my neck from behind. "Bring your coffee and come join us, okay?" hugs me quickly, and reclaims his seat and his place in the conversation as smoothly as if he'd never left. For a moment all I can do is stand by the counter, absorbing the fading warmth of the swift embrace, letting the feel of it ripple through me. He loves me... After I've recovered, I obey his request -- coffee in hand, I take the fourth seat at the table: facing Skinner, with Mulder to my left and Scully to my right. The discussion falters and dies as I join the group, as the other three glance at each other with what looks like apprehension, each waiting for the other to speak... and I wait, with increasing anxiety, to hear what they have to say. Skinner takes the initiative, finally, and begins; Scully chimes in, every so often, with something of her own. They talk of the good I've done, how my actions have averted disaster; they talk about amnesty, overlooking past 'transgressions' in light of recent events. They talk about the future, about endings and new beginnings. They talk about the Bureau, about the X-Files, about Mulder; they talk about my own brief career as an agent, before things began to go bad. And very slowly, very gradually, it begins to dawn on me what they're really talking about. It amounts to a little judicious computer tampering by a trio of experts, aided by the recent deaths of many of the old players. A whopping dose of trust from the few living souls who remember the bad ol' days, and who Alex Krycek used to be. A fresh start. A new beginning. A career with the FBI. With the X-Files Division. Working with Mulder and Scully. As I digest this, Mulder speaks: the first words he's spoken since I sat down at the table. "If you want it," he says, very softly. I look at him, at the concealed tension in his dark eyes. Then I glance at Skinner, and then at Scully -- and then back to Mulder. "Excuse me," I tell them, pick up my coffee cup and walk outside. Night. I must have slept all day. Well, why not, considering how draining the first few hours proved to be. Imagine, just this morning I thought I was leaving him. Just this morning, I strode over this porch with my heart breaking, thinking I'd never see him again... My god, they're offering me the chance to come home. How many times have I wondered what my life would have been like if the Consortium hadn't interceded? Well, okay, not that often. But that's only because I've been caught up in the struggle, and haven't wanted to depress myself by considering everything I might have lost. Frankly, I suspect that I haven't lost all that much. If my life hadn't been twisted and shredded by the 'dark side of the force', it would probably have been incredibly boring. Still. To work at the Bureau -- for real, this time. Truth, justice, and the American way. No more taking matters into my own hands and dealing with them as I see fit; my hands will be tied, and there'll be a form to fill out every time I fire a gun. Rules and regulations, constricting, stifling... Mulder by my side, working with me. Mulder and Scully, the partnership I've always envied; and they're inviting me into their midst, to work with them, to be a part of that unity. Stars, twinkling. When I was a child, the only time I ever got to see the stars was when we took a family trip to visit the cousins on Long Island. Of late, the stars have been ominous portents of a dismal future. Now... now they're just pretty. Dark blue velvet sky and twinkling stars like diamonds. Nine to five. Paperwork. Rush-hour traffic. Wearing a suit, all the time. No more running, no more hiding, no more struggling to survive. I've come full circle -- the symmetry of a perfect answer, or just the spinning-in-circles of a repeated mistake? I don't know what to do. Creak of a rusty hinge, wood slamming against the frame as the screen door swings shut, and I look up. "Hi," Mulder says quietly. I give him half a smile, and he sits down beside me without asking permission, hands twisting nervously in his lap. I look at his hands, then at his face, and it doesn't take a genius to know what he wants. He gazes back at me steadily. "It's your choice, you know." Is it, really? Only this morning, I was ready to walk away from him, to make his choices for him so that he could be happy with his life. This option would give him the same results, and allow us to stay together... don't I owe it to him, to give him that? As if reading my mind, his eyes flicker annoyance at me; one extended index finger pokes me lightly in the center of my chest. "Your choice," he repeats. "I want you to make the choice based on what you want, not anything else." Well, what do I want? Mulder, of course; that stopped being a question eons ago. But aside from that... Redemption. A chance to right the wrongs I've done. To remake myself into someone new. Yeah, I've wished for that -- but is the price too high? And what happens if it all goes wrong? I find myself remembering my roadside confession to Mulder, so certain that he would reject me, and instead receiving only forgiveness: This is what it feels like to be snatched from the brink of death. This is what it feels like to be saved. How I felt afterwards, untethered by old burdens of pain... "What if I choose not to?" I hear myself say. He shrugs. "Then we go back to the Ratcave and make love." Love. So much love in his eyes. I would give him anything I have, everything I am, just to see that look on his face... I would do it only for him; but I'd be lying if I said that was my only reason for doing it. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" Sudden apprehension in his voice, as he picks up on the note of decision in mine. From the first moment I ever saw him, he has been changing me: altering what I thought were inevitabilities, taking my life along new and unexpected paths. I thought, once, that I was taking him by force; he turned my strength into weakness, then transformed it into an entirely different type of strength. And in the months we've been together, during which I have ostensibly been taking care of him, he has given me... oh, so much. And now he watches me with those beautiful dark eyes, waiting to see what I will decide, ready to stand by my side no matter what I choose. Giving himself to me once again -- not just his body and his heart, but his very soul. "I love you, too," I tell him; and the words come easily, effortlessly. One quick, sharply-indrawn breath of surprise; then his expression softens into pure warmth, eyes suspiciously bright, as he smiles. I set my coffee cup aside and reach out for him, and he melts into my arms; we kiss, deeply and passionately. He holds me, and I let myself be held -- sink into the embrace, luxuriating in the sudden gut-deep certainty that I'm making the right choice for both of us, and the knowledge that this is where I belong. We belong to each other, we belong together -- and we're both going back to a home where we'd never thought we might belong again. After awhile I get up, pull him to his feet; we walk back inside holding hands. Scully and Skinner are still sitting together at the table; they look up as we enter. "I've decided to take you up on your offer," I tell them, as I move past them into the kitchen. Casually, as if the words don't signify the single greatest and most unbelievable change that might have happened in any of our lives. Easier that way. "So. What do you want for dinner?" Brief silence. "Whatever you cook is fine with me," Skinner says after a moment, looking at me as if he's never seen me before, but approves of what he sees. Mulder slips his arms around my waist from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder. "Spaghetti?" he suggests. "Spaghetti sounds good," Scully seconds, smiling at us. "Spaghetti it is. Make yourself useful," I tell my lover, who kisses my earlobe and heads off to find the tomato sauce. I rummage a couple of onions and a clove of garlic out of the cupboard and hand them to Scully to be chopped, while Skinner fills a pot with water for the pasta without being asked. And life goes on. Epilogue It's almost morning, and I can't sleep. Haven't been able to sleep, all night. Even after we made love; I should have been exhausted, but instead I lay awake, tossing and turning... Mulder, by contrast, is out like a light. Sprawled lazily, tangled in sheets and blankets, snoring lightly -- deliciously warm, as always; I've spent several hours snuggled up against him, not minding insomnia half so much with his body pressed against mine. But the closer it gets to morning, the more restless I become, until I can't lie still any longer. Finally, I rise from bed -- pause to tuck the sheets around him, to keep him warm -- linger an extra moment, to study him. So beautiful. So beautiful, and all mine. Only ever one stroke of real luck in my miserable life, and he's it; and I wouldn't trade for anything. I shower at length, enjoying the hot spray. One good thing about this apartment complex, there's always plenty of hot water, even when we take one of our endless showers together. Today's shower, alone, is far more brief. But it washes away my fatigue, and when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I look relatively respectable. Shirt and tie and suit and shoes, all of them brand-new. I didn't bring much from the Ratcave; mostly sentimental things, keepsakes. Somehow it wouldn't have felt right to wear one of the suits I used to wear as camouflage during my ventures, not now... so we'd gone shopping together, all three of us, on an epic journey to buy the new-and-improved Alex Krycek a new wardrobe. Scully had picked this suit for me, and Mulder had concurred; it seemed symbolic and proper for me to wear it today. Showered and shaved and dressed, and still Mulder is fast asleep... and I can't sit awake waiting for him, not now. But he'll worry if he awakens to find me gone. I settle on a compromise: I write him a note. 'Mulder: Couldn't sleep, headed in early. Will see you there.' Rereading it, the note seems incomplete -- I add three words, scribble my name, and am satisfied; I tape the note to the bathroom mirror, where he can't fail to find it. I bend over the bed and kiss him goodbye, savoring soft skin against my lips, then leave the apartment as quietly as I can. I've never been a morning person, never will be, but I love the way the world looks at dawn: the new light, tentative and fragile, rendering everything aglow. I've seen sunrise from desert mountains, and burned-out tenement buildings -- but never like this. Suburbia: neatly manicured lawns and hedges, people in bathrobes retrieving newspapers, or jogging or walking dogs. The few passersby on the street catch my eye and nod, in silent acknowledgement. It baffles me, at first; I'm so used to being the outsider, the renegade. But now, in my suit and tie, I'm not something to be feared; I'm one of them. What a strange feeling: frightening and warming, at once. It's a long walk to the Metro station, but it's a nice time to be walking: almost no cars on the streets to belch exhaust fumes, the air fresh and clean. I tuck my hands in the pockets of my coat and stroll down the road. The neighborhood may be home, now, but it's still new to me; and looking around at the newness helps distract me from the restless anxiety I can't help feeling. By the time I reach the Metro, the streets have become considerably more populated, with morning commuters on their way to work, parents taking their children to school. There's a little cafe by the station, and I stand on line and await my turn to order coffee and a muffin, take my breakfast to one of the small round tables by the window. Someone has left the morning paper there, and I scan the headlines, watch the passersby through the glass, feeling uncommonly ordinary. My cellphone rings, and I dig it out of my pocket, knowing who it will be. "Good morning," I say. "G'morning..." Sleepy voice, smothering a yawn. "Are you okay?" concern sharpening his voice to coherence. I smile, though he can't see it. "I'm fine," I tell him. "A little nervous, maybe." "Don't be. Everything's all right." A pause. "Do you want me to come and pick you up on my way in?" "No, I'm going to ride the Metro today." I find myself picturing him: lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, blinking fatigue from his eyes... "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks me, his voice low and intimate, and I feel a rush of affection. "No second thoughts...?" "I'm sure." I hesitate -- it still feels so strange, to say the words -- but he needs to hear them, and hell, I need to say them. "I love you so much." Another pause. "Alex," and his voice is smoke and silk, roughened by emotion and yet richly musical. "I love you. Always." Without another word, he hangs up -- but then, what else needs to be said? At the next table, a middle-aged woman is watching me, eavesdropping. "Newlyweds?" she inquires. "Yeah," I answer, without thinking twice about it; and the woman smiles. The coffee is hot and strong, the muffin fresh-baked and tasty. The Metro train, when I finally ascend to the platform and board, isn't too crowded; we're the second-to-last stop on our line, and I can claim a seat. I'm glad of that, within a few more stops -- by the time we get into DC proper, the train is packed solid with people, and I have to elbow my way through the crowd to get off at my station. A short, brisk walk through busy morning streets, and I find myself looking up at the Hoover Building. It seems a thousand lifetimes ago that I first stood here and looked at it, and oh, everything was so different then. A million years away. Yet I'm still the same person -- aren't I? No... no, I'm not. These are the same hands which crafted one betrayal after another, but the mind guiding them is someone else. Someone new. I stride forward with a confidence I don't quite feel, enter the building and show my brand-new ID to the guard -- deja vu all over again, but yet not, because all I feel this time is a nervous sort of hope. Welcome to your new life, Alex. The life you could have had, should have had, if everything hadn't gone wrong the first time. Except that if it hadn't, you wouldn't be who you are now -- older, wiser, and dear lord, loved. And that last is what makes all the difference, isn't it? I take the elevator up -- I have a meeting with my new boss. Just like that first day a million years ago, but again, so different that there's really no comparison. Walking through the hallways, I feel vulnerable, exposed, as if every doorway conceals a sniper targeting me, or a crowd of Fibbies waiting to arrest me for my crimes. But the duality of my nature was never widely known, or officially noted -- otherwise Mulder's Lone Gunmen friends would never have been able to 'fix' my history enough to allow me to do this under my own name and identity -- and the men who would have had me killed for my return are all dead, or hidden so deeply underground that they daren't rise to take revenge. At least, that is the assumption, and no amount of digging has been able to prove otherwise. I'll still have to watch my back -- but I am at least nominally safe from retribution, for the time being. "AD Skinner is waiting for you," his secretary tells me, and I swallow hard and walk into the office. Suit and tie, all stern severity. But this is the man who carried my bruised bleeding body out of the depths of hell. There's a bond between us, though he still doesn't really like me, or quite trust me completely... a bond that lets him trust me just enough that I'm here. That has built within him a willingness to give me a second chance. "Agent Krycek," he says, and the words feel at once unbearably foreign and utterly right. "Sir," I respond automatically. For long moments, we just look at each other. Normally, a new agent would be briefed on his responsibilities -- but I know all that; the issues between us have nothing to do with standard FBI procedure. And really, there's very little to be said. When Skinner speaks again, his voice is not the gruff tone I've become accustomed to -- it's softer, thoughtful, almost friendly. "Don't screw this up, Alex," he says. What can I say to that? 'I won't' -- but I don't know that I won't. Everyone makes mistakes. Is it a question of betrayal? He should know better, at least in one vital regard... I recall what I said to Scully once, in a cold dark little shed, and decide that the words apply just as well here. "The promises I make to Mulder are the ones you can count on," I tell him. An ironic little smile quirks at his mouth. "Isn't that what I'm doing?" Yes, yes it is... and leaps of faith suck; but he's willing to take this one. For Mulder, for Scully, and even for me. Alex Krycek the cockroach survivor would have been looking for ways to exploit that trust -- but that man died his final death in an explosion in Ohio; and there's a lump in my throat from the knowledge that I am being trusted, again, by the very people I'd once betrayed. Redemption. What an amazing concept. What an overwhelming, astonishing feeling. "I won't let you down, sir," and if my voice is a little choked, a little too emotional, he's courteous enough not to call attention to the fact. He rises from his chair, offers me his hand. "You're going to do fine," he says, and the warmth in his voice... makes me believe it. That somehow, against all odds, everything's going to be all right. His handshake is firm and strong, the sealing of an unspoken pact between us. "Get to work," he says, "they're waiting for you." Yes, they are. My partners, my... dear lord... my friends. "Thank you, sir," is all I can think of to say, and the cliched courtesy is anything but meaningless. And I leave Skinner's office, and head downstairs to the basement. Dusty... do they ever clean down here? My footsteps echo in the hall. I have to navigate around stacks of file boxes, the assorted detritus that tends to find its way to unattended areas of any large, busy building. And with every step I take, another butterfly joins the flock in my stomach until the nervous tremors are almost enough to make me vomit. Will this work, really? Can they ever truly accept me? For years they worked together, just the two of them against the world, building a rapport that could not be broken -- so what if I'm Mulder's lover; will they be able to expand that rapport to include me? Will they even want to? Or will I be the thorn in their side, the unwanted fifth wheel, hindering them, slowing them down... This could be a disaster. Or it could be magnificent. Only one way to find out. I take a deep breath, raise my hand to knock -- and only then do I register the plaques on the door: 'X-Files Division' says the one at the top, then below it, a series of smaller plaques. 'D. Scully," is the top one, since she's officially the head of the division now. Then, below it, 'F. Mulder' -- and below that, a brand-new nameplate in gleaming gold: 'A. Krycek'. Goddamnit, looking at the blasted thing is almost enough to make me cry. I brush my fingers against the engraved letters, fight back the unseemly emotion and tug my mask into place, then open the door. Still only room for one desk in the tiny office. She's sitting at it, leaning back in her chair; he's resting one hip on the edge of the desk, having moved aside a stack of files to do so. The office is far neater, now, than it ever was before, though I have the feeling that within a few weeks of Mulder's return, it will look the way it always did. But the walls and bulletin boards are still resplendent with clippings, and the famous poster still dominates the display. Some things, it seems, never change. They turn to look at me as I enter; Mulder is grinning like an idiot, and Scully is smiling a warm smile that puts the whole Ice Queen rumor to a permanent rest. She stands up and reaches across the desk to offer me her hand; a professionalism that is in itself one of the best gifts she could give me. "Welcome aboard, Agent Krycek," she says. And again, I'm too close to crying for my own comfort; damn it, I never used to be this emotional. But then, the man I used to be didn't care about anything or anyone, didn't have anyone who cared about him... I like this better. Even though the tears lurking just-barely-unshed make me feel like a goddamned wuss. "Thanks," I manage to say, ridiculously proud of the fact that my voice is mostly steady. "It's... it's good to be here." A long moment passes, a moment that feels like a milestone. The X-Files Division, and the three of us working together... this is what might have been years ago, if everything had been different, and in some strange way it feels inevitable. The alien menace has been defeated, but there are still so many tangles of conspiracy, so much outright weirdness to be unraveled -- and three of us to do it. Scully, Mulder, and me. It feels right. And it feels so damn good. Mulder's hand settles on mine, squeezes briefly, then releases me -- professionalism again, and I wouldn't have it any other way. "Since you're the junior member of this division," he says, "I hereby delegate you to do the filing," and promptly dumps a load of folders into my arms, with a wicked little gleam in his eyes. "Gee, thanks," I say sardonically; and yet I'm loving it, the casual acceptance, the feeling of belonging, all of it. Scully, meanwhile, is wearing a mischievous smile of her own. "And as the senior member of this division," she says to Mulder, in a tone that indicates she's not going to let him forget it for a long, long time, "I hereby delegate you to go and get us all coffee." He blinks at her, surprised beyond words. And then suddenly we're all laughing, sheer reckless laughter at nothing in particular. "Black with NutraSweet," Scully chokes out through her giggles. "Cream and sugar," I add, through my own. Mulder tosses us a sloppy salute, also still laughing. "You got it," he says. He leaves to get the coffee; and Scully settles down to sort through a pile of paperwork; and I begin alphabetizing the file folders to be put away. ...Damn, it's good to be home. end of part three Alex's Interactive Midnight-Sugar-Craving Cookie Bars 1 package Betty Crocker chocolate-chip cookie mix 1/2 cup butter (as per package instructions) 1 egg, beaten (as per package instructions) 1/2 bottle high-quality pure almond extract (recommend: Beck's Secret Spoon brand extract) 1/2 tsp. high-quality pure vanilla extract (recommend: Beck's Secret Spoon brand extract) 1 ounce bittersweet baking chocolate 3/4 package butterscotch morsels 3/4 package white chocolate morsels 3 shots Malibu coconut-flavored rum OR 2 tsp. rum extract Caramel-flavored ice-cream topping Fox Mulder Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pour cookie mix into large mixing bowl. Melt 1/2 cup butter in small saucepan over very low heat until fully liquefied. Disregard package directions that butter should be 'softened'. Pour butter over cookie mix. Stir well. (Mix will be crumbly.) Add almond and vanilla extracts. Stir well. In the same pan in which you prepared the butter, melt the baking chocolate over even lower heat. As soon as just barely melted, add to cookie mixture. Stir well. Place saucepan in sink immediately and run hot water into it, or cleanup will be hell. Pour two shots of Malibu rum into the cookie mixture. Stir well. Drink the third shot yourself. Dip a clean teaspoon into the cookie mixture and give it to Mulder, so he'll stop begging for a taste of cookie dough and leave you alone. Add the beaten egg to the cookie mixture. Stir well. Add white chocolate and butterscotch morsels. Stir well. Pour the mixture into an 8 x 8 ungreased pan, or spread out on an ungreased cookie sheet. Let Mulder lick the mixing bowl. Lick remaining cookie dough off Mulder's face. Bake for about as long as it takes to complete a quickie on the couch and recover. (Maybe 20-25 minutes for the 8 x 8 pan; considerably less if you use the cookie sheet.) Remove cookies from oven, let cool somewhat. Remove Mulder from couch, let him cool somewhat. Cut into squares, or spoon into bowls, whichever is more expedient. Drench in caramel syrup. Enjoy. Serves six normal people, or two hungry people after sex. | imajiru | fiction | astrology | email |