Il Traviato An X-Files Slash Novel by Cody Nelson Il Traviato is an amateur publication, and as such, is not meant to infringe upon the copyrights held by Fox TV, Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, or any other legally held copyrights in existence. All rights revert to the originators. ACT ONE: Quando non s'ami ancora. [As long as one is not in love.] "Agent Mulder." Fox Mulder looked up from the desk where he sat transcribing his wiretap recordings, and pulled the headphones down to rest around his neck. "Yeah." The young agent standing in front of his desk smiled a brief greeting and held out a file. "It's your three-oh-two. Assistant Director Skinner just approved it." Mulder took the file with an inward sigh of relief. Finally, a real case again--not just this endless eavesdropping on pathetic losers. The death of Dr. Saul Grissom had all the earmarks of an X-File--a man calls 911 to report a fire, and is found dead in a completely unburnt apartment. But...? "There's a mistake here. There's been another agent assigned to the case." "That would be me." The young agent thrust out his hand. "Krycek. Alex Krycek." Mulder ignored the proffered hand, and sat back in his chair. "Skinner didn't say anything about taking on a partner." "It wasn't Skinner. Actually, I opened the file two hours before your request, so technically, it's my case." Mulder rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And you already talked to the police?" Krycek fumbled in his jacket pocket for his notepad. "Yep. Just hung up on the officer in charge a few minutes ago. Detective named... Horton. Turns out Grissom called nine-one-one to report a fire." "I heard the tape." "Did you hear that forensics found a spent fire extinguisher on the floor? Grissom's prints were all over it." He leaned forward to point to the police photos in the file on Mulder's desk. "The walls and floor in his living room were covered with ammonium phosphate." There was an eager enthusiasm in the young agent's voice. Mulder found the man's attitude vaguely irritating, although he didn't know quite why. Was it because Scully, at this point, would be dryly insisting that there was a perfectly logical explanation for why Grissom thought there was a fire when there wasn't? "But no trace of fire." "Not even a burnt match." "Is that all you know?" "So far." Krycek smiled. "What do you think it means?" Mulder sighed. He looked up at the earnest, fresh-faced young agent standing over his desk and bit his lip. It was bad enough they wouldn't let him work with Scully any more, now they wanted to saddle him with this wet-behind-the-ears plebe with a two-dollar haircut and a Kmart suit. "Listen, I appreciate the show and tell, and... I don't want you to take this personally, but I work alone. I'll straighten things out with Skinner...." Mulder got up, snagging his suit coat from the back of his chair, and brushed past the young agent. "It's my case, Agent Mulder." The determination in Krycek's voice stopped Mulder in his tracks. "Look, I may be green, but I had the case first. I'm not going to give it away so quickly." Mulder turned back, prepared to pull rank, ridicule, threaten--whatever it took to get Krycek off his back and out of his life. But the words dried up in his throat. Was it the angle, or some trick of the light? Suddenly, it was no longer an innocent youth standing in front of him, but a hard-edged fallen angel, with cold intelligence shining out of those long-lashed eyes. His face was so sweet it tore at Mulder's heart. Yet there was a calculating hardness in his stare that made Mulder shiver. The shiver was not quite fear; not quite lust. It was the inevitable thrill of the unknown, beckoning to Mulder: This man was not what he seemed. Mulder's paranoia bells began to ring, at the same time that those deep, curtained eyes drew him in. He did not know which way to run. Away. "All right, I'll tell you what. I've got some work to finish up around here. Why don't you go down to the motor pool and requisition us a car, and I'll meet you down there?" He felt hopelessly foolish, ditching the man this way, but he didn't know how to deal with this exotic creature, who changed from an innocent puppy to a mysterious cold-eyed beauty in the blink of an eye. Krycek shook his head slightly. "That's all? I mean, you don't have a problem with us working together?" "Hey, it's your party." Placating now, wanting only to soothe the beast back into the puppy, to get him out of here before he changed into something else. Krycek nodded, obviously flustered by the easy capitulation. The moment was gone. "Well, um... I'll get the car." He swept past Mulder with his head down, a tight smile on his face. Mulder smiled faintly after him. Then he took a deep breath and headed for the stairs, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and calling for a cab along the way. * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: I met Fox Mulder today. What a jerk. Brilliant, he may be. Good-looking, definitely. Seriously lacking in social skills, without a doubt. I thought he was going to fight me tooth and nail about being his partner on the case--then he just crumbled. He stared at me like he was seeing a ghost, then he told me to go requisition a car, and took off in a panic. I thought it was strange, but I did what I was told. Good little Krycek-puppy, that's me. Then he ditched me. God, it was every high school nightmare come true. Didn't take any effort at all to play the hurt-feelings don't-be-so-mean-to-me I-want-to-believe hero-worshiping little twerp. Creepy how easy it was. Almost like I really believed it. Mulder really ate it up. I swear, his tongue was almost hanging out. It's pathetic--he wants to be believed in so badly, yet he's scared to death to trust anyone. He's set himself up to be hurt, over and over again. Touch of masochism, there, Mulder? Or just too deep in your obsession to see what you're doing? He's got a psychology degree, you'd think he'd be able to figure it out. And I met the famous Scully. She was about as friendly as Mulder. Did they go to the same Academy I did? "Treat everybody like you would like your mother to be treated." Apparently Mulder and Scully skipped that class. Hell, it's not my fault the X-Files got shut down. I'm just a guy trying to do a job. Trying to keep Mulder out of trouble. It's all Scully's fault, anyway. If she'd done her job in the first place and kept Mulder on a leash, they wouldn't have had to make the two of them go sit on opposite sides of the room. And brought me in to clean up. If Mulder'd just learn to let go every once in a while, forget about that damn sister--he wouldn't even know her if he saw her today anyway--and stick to his ghosts and goblins and werewolves and things, we could all go home and get some sleep. * * * Mulder prowled around his apartment restlessly. He stopped himself, for the third or fourth time, from picking up the phone and dialling Scully's number. She had never been fond of these late-night phone calls, and now that they were no longer partners, she'd gently but firmly made it clear that she wanted them to stop. But he needed to talk to her. The ideas spun so quickly through his mind that he couldn't get hold of them. He just needed someone to talk to, to help him get his thoughts calmed down and in order so he could settle down and get some sleep. He stopped at the aquarium and dropped a few flakes into the water. His two fat gold-and-white goldfish bobbled quickly to the surface and sucked the food into their wide, round mouths. "You'd think I starved you," he said affectionately, adding a few more flakes to the tank. "So tell me, Mie and Kei, what do you think about this case?" The fish regarded him with their inscrutable, unblinking eyes, and declined to answer. Mulder wandered back over to the phone. Well, it wasn't Scully, but he did have a partner. Alex Krycek hadn't turned out to be so bad after all. After the first day, they'd settled into a steady routine. The strange transformation from raw puppy to cold beauty had not occurred again. Mulder began to think he'd imagined the whole thing. Too many sunflower seeds, maybe. Too much paranoia. Krycek was no more than he'd first seemed--green as all hell, and charmingly enthusiastic. Mulder still had an aching desire to haul the kid off to a good tailor--but he was bright enough, and worked hard, and seemed open to extreme possibilities. He certainly was eager. Would he still be eager at one-thirty in the morning? He picked up the phone and dialled Krycek's home number. The phone rang four, five, six times before a sleepy male voice answered. "Krycek." "Krycek, it's me. Mulder. I was thinking about the case...." "Mulder, it's the middle of the night." "One-thirty A.M., to be exact. Past your bedtime?" "Mulder...." There was an exasperated sigh. "I just got home a little while ago. I had a very nice time and I'd kind of like to leave it that way." "What did you do?" Another annoyed little noise. "I went to the opera." His voice was belligerent, daring Mulder to make fun of him. "Which opera?" So Krycek liked opera. Mulder smiled slowly to himself. He liked poking into people's psyches, finding out what made them tick. He especially liked it when they revealed unexpected aspects. He hadn't expected opera from Alex Krycek. "La Traviata." Classic Verdi. Not terribly revealing. "Isn't that the one where the woman dies at the end?" Krycek giggled. It was a nice, throaty giggle, with a just the suggestion of a squeak. "Mulder, that's like saying it's the Schwartzenegger movie where a bunch of people get killed." "So what else happens?" "Mulder, you don't really want to hear about...?" Now his voice had a charming breathiness. "Sure I do. Tell me all about it." "Well... it's about Violetta. She's a Parisienne courtesan." "Mmm. Sounds kinky." "It's opera, Mulder. Of course it's kinky. Prostitution, incest, blasphemy, intrigue, betrayal--you name it, opera's got it. Anyway, Violetta's giving a party. Alfredo tells her he's in love with her, but she says she can't love anyone." Mulder closed his eyes and heard the strains of the brindisi--the drinking song in which Alfredo expresses his love for Violetta. It was one of the most well-known and well-loved melodies in opera. "Because she's a courtesan." "Right. But he sings to her so beautifully, she can't help falling in love. That's the first act." "Not much action." That giggle again. "Well, you know, they tend to spend more time singing than racking up a body count in opera." "Second act?" Krycek gave a good-natured sigh. "I'm tired, Mulder. You know, some of us actually sleep at night. I thought you wanted to talk about the case." "Well... I really just wanted to talk for a little while." "Oh." A pause. "Don't you have friends you can call? I mean, why me? I didn't think you even liked me." "You're my partner. Didn't I tell you? Late-night phone calls are part of the job." "No, that wasn't in my job description." "Special X-Files charter. Junior agent is at senior agent's beck and call twenty-four hours a day." Krycek yawned into the phone. "Well, you're going to have to let me get some sleep every once in a while, or I'll be wacky as those Marines." Mulder smiled. "Okay. Sleep tight. Sweet dreams." Krycek giggled. Mulder was glad he didn't giggle like that while they were together. It was heady enough over the phone. "Fuck off, Mulder." It was the nicest thing Krycek had ever said to him. Mulder leaned back in his chair and rolled his head, stretching his neck and eliciting several satisfying cracks. Suppressing a yawn, Krycek returned from the coffee station with fresh cups of coffee for them both. Well, refilled cups, anyway--you could hardly call the coffee fresh any more at this time of night--it had been cooking in the urns for hours. Krycek smiled at Mulder as he handed him a cup and sat down. He'd drawn the chair up sideways to the desk, leaning back against the file cabinets, and rested his elbow on the desk to doodle on his notepad. Nothing pertinent had been written there in several hours. Mulder took his cup and sipped. Krycek had learned right away just how much whitener Mulder liked in his coffee, and made it perfectly every time, no matter how strong the coffee was or what sort of creamer was on hand, all the way from fresh half-and-half to the cheapest powdered stuff. Definitely one of the perks of having Krycek for a partner--Scully would have laughed in his face if he'd ever even suggested that she bring him coffee. Scully had never been anywhere near as deferential as Krycek, from the first day she'd walked into his office. Of course, as a woman in a hidebound old boy's club like the FBI, she'd been forced to assert herself early, to project confidence whether she felt it or not, to defer to no one. Krycek, with no such gender expectations to overcome, was free to stare at the floor with a tight, sweet smile on his face as though he was trying very hard not to grin foolishly in the presence of his senior agent; to gaze up at Mulder from under those incredibly long, dark, thick eyelashes and hang on Mulder's every word; to bring his partner coffee and treats from the vending machine as though it was his due. Every senior agent should have such an adoring young partner at least once in his life. Krycek ripped the doodled page from his notepad, and carefully folded it diagonally. Creasing the long end with his fingernail, he tore it off to leave a perfect square. The pink tip of his tongue poked from between rounded lips as he concentrated on his task. Mulder gave up any pretense of trying to think about the case and watched his partner fold the square of paper in half, first diagonally, then turning it over, folding it lengthwise as well. Once you got past the bad haircut and worse suit, Krycek was really quite attractive. There were those eyes, of course, large and wide-set and thoughtful and framed by lashes most women would die for. His lips were full and round and plushly inviting. The slightly breathy quality of his low voice could sometimes make Mulder's spine tingle. His body--well, that was a problem under those awful suits--one couldn't really tell what kind of shape he was in. But on the occasions when Mulder had taken Krycek's arm, he'd found firm, hard muscle under his hand. Probably he worked out. Perhaps he could be induced to accompany Mulder on his morning swim sometime. Of course, he'd most likely wear those horrible baggy cotton swim trunks, if his fashion sense in swimwear matched his taste in suits. Make it an impromptu invitation, and lend him one of Mulder's Speedos, then. He looked to be a bit broader than Mulder. The Speedo would be tight. Mulder sipped his coffee and watched Krycek folding the piece of paper in ever-more-complicated patterns. A hazy smile spread unheeded across his face. Too much caffeine and too little sleep--Mulder was definitely getting punchy. But he allowed the fantasy to continue. He provided his mental image of Krycek with a smooth, white, firmly muscled body and a snug, nicely filled Speedo. Not red, that was Mulder's color. Blue, that was better. He pictured Krycek stepping out of the pool after some hard laps, chest heaving as he caught his breath, body glistening with streaming drops like sweat, his hair plastered flat. He'd lick the water from his lips and his eyelashes would be wet and spiky.... Mulder sat up abruptly and cleared his throat, embarrassed by the rushing heat in his groin. Krycek glanced up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. The piece of paper had become a small, delicate bird. His fingers gripped it tightly. "I, ah, didn't know you knew origami." Mulder hoped the catch in his voice wasn't as obvious to Krycek as it was to him. Krycek shrugged. "I have a Japanese grandmother, on my mother's side." "The crane is supposed to be lucky, isn't it?" The smile crept back onto Krycek's face. "Yeah. But you have to fold a thousand of them to get your wish." "And what do you wish for?" Mulder asked. Krycek's smile faded. "It doesn't matter. I'll never fold a thousand of them, anyway." Abruptly, he crushed the small paper bird in his hand, and tossed it into the trash. "Hey!" Mulder protested. "It was pretty. You shouldn't have thrown it away." Krycek looked at him curiously for a moment. "Never mind. I'll make you another one." He got up and walked away. Mulder sat back, heaving a deep breath. he warned himself. Having sex fantasies about your partners was all well and good--Mulder had a rich, full fantasy life and didn't mind making anyone fodder for his wet dreams--but he'd better be a bit more discreet about doing it in the sex object's presence. He hadn't any intention of acting on it, anyway, any more than he had with Scully. They were partners and all that, and in Krycek's case there was the added worry that the man might be offended and start screaming "Queer!" and get Mulder fired. Hmm. Mental note to casually root out Krycek's attitude towards same-sex activity one day soon.... Not that there was any real reason to know. But it would be interesting to find out just how far that innocence extended. Was Krycek as inexperienced in bed as he seemed in other areas? Perhaps he needed a senior partner to season him between the sheets, as well.... Krycek was back. Mulder firmly put that train of thought aside. Later. Much later. Meanwhile, Krycek had resumed his seat and was opening the candy bar he'd bought from the vending machine, carefully unfolding the inner foil wrapper. Absently, he broke the candy bar in two, handing half to Mulder and nibbling at the end of the other half himself before setting it aside and turning his mind to the task of folding a crane from the foil paper. He worked quickly, with practiced ease, and had soon created a shiny gold foil bird. With an ironic flourish, he presented it to Mulder. "Just for you, Agent Mulder." Mulder took it with a grin, his face burning. "Thank you, Agent Krycek." "Well." Krycek blushed furiously. He stared at the floor for a moment, then sat up briskly, putting his notepad in his pocket and unrolling his sleeves. "It's late, and we haven't gotten any work done in over an hour. You can stay here all night if you want, but I'm going home to bed." "Good idea." Mulder wasn't even all the way to his car when the fantasy began again. It would be late, a night like tonight, when they were tired and a bit punchy from too much chocolate and caffeine. Krycek would blush prettily. Krycek would protest, but in the end he'd allow Mulder to herd him off to the swimming pool. The pool would be empty, except for them. Not even a janitor, or night watchman. Krycek would insist on undressing in private, and come out of the locker room with his hands over his genitals, and his face would be that same charming shade of red it had been when he'd handed Mulder the golden crane. Mulder would be matter-of-fact and hearty at this point, pretending not to notice Krycek's discomfort, allowing him to relax in his senior partner's presence. And they would swim--long, lazy laps at first, just enjoying the sensual feel of the water caressing their naked skin. He'd dive underneath and watch Krycek from below, his flaccid penis streaming along between his powerful legs as he stroked his way across the pool. After a while, Mulder would start swimming alongside Krycek, urging him to keep up, teasing him into showing off. Unused to this kind of exercise, Krycek would overexert himself. Perhaps he'd get a cramp, or just a small stitch in his side. Grimacing slightly, Krycek would pull himself out of the pool, hand pressed to his side. Mulder would follow, concerned, taking Krycek's arm. Distracted by the slight pain, Krycek would be unconcerned with his nakedness. There would be a lounge area off the locker room with massage tables. Mulder would lead him there and help him up onto one of the tables. Spread out on his back, soaking wet and vulnerable, Krycek's self-consciousness would return. But Mulder would press him firmly down onto the table with a hand on his chest, murmuring, In an attempt to keep it on the level of a friend helping a friend with a cramp, Krycek would guide Mulder's hand to the offending pain, trying to relax. But the feel of Mulder's strong fingers stroking his wet skin would stir other feelings, and his helpless cock would begin to rise. Mulder would ignore it at first, continuing to pretend he was only interested in rubbing the cramp. But the circles his fingers made over Krycek's side would widen slowly, until his fingers were brushing the pelvic bone, and his thumb dipped into the sweet puckered navel. Krycek by now would be unmistakably erect, and he would clench his fists in an effort to suppress the unwanted arousal. Mulder would take one hard fist in his hand, stroking the tender area at the base of thumb and forefinger, and allow his other hand to lightly stroke the underside of Krycek's penis. Arching off the table, Krycek would cry out helplessly. But the cries of protest would soon turn to cries of pleasure, as Mulder would continue to fondle the warm cock, and tickle the tender balls. He'd keep holding Krycek's hand, as Krycek would now be gripping it hard, refusing to let go. The fine sheen of water would evaporate from the smooth white body, to be replaced by a finer sheen of sweat. Krycek would moan, his head tossing from side to side, and his cock would thrust into Mulder's hand. When he judged the boy to be ready, he would bend over the table and take the silky head of the cock into his mouth. He would taste the pre-ejaculate on his tongue, mixing with his saliva, and he would spread the fluids around the hard shaft of the cock, taking it gradually deeper into his mouth, until he felt it swell and Krycek's hips stiffened as he gasped and thrust and warm, salty semen flowed into Mulder's mouth.... Mulder jerked the steering wheel roughly, pulling the car over to the side of the road and slamming it into park, rear wheel still several feet from the curb. Swearing, he fumbled in the glove box for a tissue, while working at the clasp of his trousers with the other hand. He was only a few blocks from his own building, but he couldn't wait a second longer or he was going to explode. It was late and the street was deserted--it should be safe. He unzipped his pants in a frantic hurry, pulled his throbbing cock free and held the tissue over it while he pumped it furiously. Only moments later, he threw his head back and whimpered as his body arched, his thighs jammed against the steering wheel, and his semen flowed into the tissue. Mulder smiled to himself as he walked up the front steps of his apartment building. God, he never even got the chance to finish his fantasy! He'd meant to pull Krycek down to the end of the table, lift his legs over his shoulders and fuck him raw after he'd sucked him off. Well, that just left more to think about for later. He hadn't had this much fun in a long time--probably since the early days of his partnership with Scully. He'd had a hot-and-heavy affair with her in his mind for months, until their friendship settled in and became too real to brook fantasies like this. Scully. He hardly ever saw her any more. He still missed her, every day. Much as he was beginning to enjoy Krycek's company, he still ached for Scully's cool competence, her dry humor, her down-to-earth logic, her compassion. Was the end of their partnership going to mean the end of their friendship as well? He didn't want to think so, but they were both so busy with their work, and he had never been any good at keeping real relationships going. He'd have to call her, soon. Too bad it was so late, he daren't do it now. Maybe tomorrow, if he and Krycek finished at a decent hour. Or maybe he could meet her for lunch, if she wasn't too busy at Quantico. He'd call her in the morning. As he went through his evening routine, he thought about early days with Scully. They'd gone to Oregon on their first case. Students were being abducted and then returned with strange marks on their bodies. A panicked Scully had burst into his hotel room in her underwear, demanding to know what the red marks on her back were. He had reassured her, and then they'd talked. He'd told her about Samantha, and the effect his sister's disappearance had had on his family. She'd told him about her family. They'd begun the long process of learning to trust and care about one another. It had not occurred to him at the time to take advantage of her attack of nerves, but later the incident had become the jumping-off point for many pleasant fantasies. Settled on the couch in a tee shirt and sweat pants, with an old movie playing quietly on the television, he relaxed and let his mind wander. One hand slid under the waistband of his sweat pants and curled around his quiescent cock in a familiar routine. He smiled. His fingers rested lightly on her sides as he knelt behind her, inspecting the three small red marks on her lower back. Her red robe lay hanging from her waist. Her skin was creamy and soft. Her muscles jumped slightly as his thumb touched the waistband of her panties. This time, he would not stand up and move away from her. He would not hold himself uncomfortably still while she threw herself into his arms in relief. He would remain kneeling behind her, holding her gently. He would blow cool air over the tiny red marks. She would shiver, almost imperceptibly, but she would not pull away. He would touch one of the bites with the tip of his tongue, stroking it gently, moistening the tiny swelling. Then he would kiss it, and begin to suck. As he licked and sucked her tender skin, he would pull her robe away, letting it fall to the floor. Then his fingers would slowly work her panties down her hips. He would expose the silky white rounds of her bottom, kissing and nipping lightly at the firm cheeks. A slight moan would escape her. He would continue to caress her round bottom with his lips and tongue, while his hands explored around the sides of her hips to reach the soft, fuzzy hairs beneath her belly. He'd run his fingers through the luxuriant thatch of hair that protected her intimate folds, letting his fingers gradually explore lower and lower. She would whimper ever-so-softly, and her body would warm to his touch, but still she wouldn't move. Finally, he'd run his middle finger lightly over her clitoris, then trail it down to stroke the outer folds of her vagina. Slick wetness would seep onto his fingers. She'd gasp and twitch in his grasp. She'd press forward, rubbing herself into his hand. He would open his palm against her and let her stroke her swollen clitoris on his hand, choosing for herself the pressure and speed that satisfied her. He'd rest his cheek against her bottom, his arms encircling her, one hand holding the firm curve of her belly while the other covered her wet entrance. She'd moan as she thrust against him, her buttocks flexing beneath his cheek. Presently, he'd slip two fingers deep into her vagina. Her head would fall back and she'd moan her pleasure. Slowly, still holding her firmly, he'd stand, pressing his body against her back and hips. She was so tiny, he'd have to crouch down in order to mold himself to her. (Here was where Krycek had the advantage--he was practically the same height as Mulder. One could just walk up behind him and.... Well, that was another fantasy. For this one, assume Scully was about eight inches taller. Or standing on a box.) His hard cock would poke between her legs. (Wait a minute, what about his clothes? Never mind--let him be naked.) He'd lean back to give himself enough room to unhook her bra, then slip it down one arm and then the other, tossing it into the floor with her robe, while his other hand remained impaled in her wetness. He'd take her full breast into his hand, catching the nipple between his fingers and rolling it erect. Then he'd turn her around and urge her onto the bed on her stomach, still holding her by the breast and crotch. He'd slide on top of her, savoring the silky softness of her skin, damp with the heat of arousal. He'd kiss the back of her neck, nuzzling her earlobe and jaw. She'd smile at him over her shoulder and sigh. He'd release her then, leaning back onto his knees, and take her by the hips, pulling her up slightly so that he could enter her from behind. His hard cock would slide into her soft wetness, and she would thrust her hips against him, and he'd settle his weight onto her, sliding into her with increasing heat, while he reached around and stroked her clitoris with his fingers, bringing her to completion with him. Mulder was hot and sweaty and his cock was hard beneath his pumping hand, but he wasn't quite there yet. He needed another fantasy to finish off with.... How about the Bet? He and Scully would bet on whose theories would be proved correct on the next case. Loser bares his or her bottom and bends over the desk in their office. Winner applies corrections as desired. Let's see, should he win or lose this time...? * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: I like Mulder. This is not a good idea. It's too easy to forget I'm just playing a role. I can't let him get to me. I'm good at my job. I'm going to succeed at this. I'll do what I have to do. My boss told me that Mulder was so paranoid, he'd probably never really trust me. I told him, just give me a little time, I'll have him eating out of my hand. And I did. I thought it was going to be a pain, fawning over Mulder and waiting on him and pretending to be a believer. But he's so eager for the attention--he tries to pretend he's so cool and above it all, but I can tell. He loves it. And he likes me, or at least he acts like he does. Calls me at all hours of the night, just to talk. Keeps me at work till neither of us can keep our eyes open. God, he must be lonely. Still spends too damn much time with Scully, though. We'll have to do something about that. And he's just too damn gorgeous for his own good. Big sad eyes and pouty lips. If he weren't the mark I'd have a run at him. The way he looks at me sometimes I half think I'd have a chance at it. Of course I never would. Don't fall in love with the mark--that's rule number one. It's just a job. Remember that, Alex. Never fall in love with the mark. * * * Later, Mulder decided that it had to be the full moon that made him act so crazy. There was just no other explanation for it. Of course, he missed Scully. He missed her horribly and he knew he was gradually losing their friendship by working late so often and never having time to spend with her. Every once in a while he could get her to do the odd autopsy, help him with research, bounce an idea off her--but he had to get used to the fact that she wasn't his partner any longer. She had her own work--she didn't want to be bothered with his. And poor Krycek was obviously resentful of the preference he showed her. But Mulder wanted more than the occasional hurried lunch date or late-night pizza. He wanted her around on a daily basis, as she had been when she shared his office. Perhaps it was also those stupid fantasies, started up again after so many months. He'd reminded himself of just how lovely she was--her warm, intelligent blue eyes; full, sensuous mouth; soft, womanly figure. The attraction he'd always felt for her became strong and demanding. He'd kept a lid on that attraction while they were partners--their working relationship had come first, and their friendship had been enough to satisfy him. Now she was no longer his partner. The closeness he needed was fading away. And there was no reason to deny his attraction any longer. He'd even managed to convince himself that she must feel the same way. It was after two in the morning when he showed up at her door. Scully was yawning and disheveled in a sweatshirt and jeans. She looked at him with a combination of exasperation and indulgence, then stood aside to let him in. She settled him on the couch and went to make tea, leaving him to fidget nervously and wonder what the hell he was doing there. It had all seemed so clear when he'd started out. But now that he was here, he wished he hadn't come. What was left of his good sense told him that he should get up, apologize to her and leave. Scully returned with two cups of tea. She handed him one and then went to sit in the easy chair across from him. He'd hoped she would sit on the couch with him. This was even more awkward. "What is it, Mulder?" She was not quite impatient, but it was clear she was not entirely happy about this late-night visit. "I hardly ever see you any more." She smiled faintly. "I'd like to see more of you. But not necessarily at two in the morning." "Scully...." He supposed he should have been cooler about it. Made a little small talk, led up to it gradually. How could he expect anyone to respond favorably to a bald, blurted-out proposition? But he was floundering, already convinced it would be a disaster, and just wanted to get it out and over with. He leaned forward, took a deep breath, and plunged. "I want us to be more than friends. We don't work together any more. I miss you." She put her cup down on the coffee table, with a slight shake of her head. "Mulder, what are you talking about?" Mulder got up and went to stand in front of her. "I want us to be together, Scully--Dana." "Together, as in...?" His face burned. He bit his lip, and nodded. She just stared at him. "Mulder, what's this about? What brought this on?" "Nothing. I mean, I've always thought you and I... but we were partners, and couldn't do anything about it. Now we're not. Since the X-Files have been shut down, we hardly see each other. I don't want to lose you." She shook her head. "Mulder, you just want the X-Files back. You want our partnership. I want it too, but...." "No, Scully. I want you." She stood, and stepped close to him. The expression on her face was kind, but her answer was clear before she spoke. "I'm sorry, Mulder. It's not for us. When you think about it, I'm sure you'll see I'm right." "But Scully--it's been so hard lately--there never seems to be time--" She smiled faintly. "We don't have time to be friends, so you want us to be lovers?" He shook his head helplessly. It was all going wrong, and he didn't know how to say what he was feeling. "No, it's not like that." Scully took him by the arm. "Mulder, I'm your friend. I'll always be your friend. We don't need anything more to stay together." He pulled away from her. "We could do it. Why couldn't we try it?" "Mulder, it wouldn't work. You know it wouldn't." She stopped his protests with a hand on his arm. "You look tired. You know how you get when you don't get enough sleep." He shrugged. "I've been working late a lot." "Your new partner isn't taking care of you. I'll have to have a word with him." He managed a smile. "Hey, he brings me coffee. You never brought me coffee." "Well, he should be telling you to go home and get some sleep, instead of feeding you caffeine." She returned the smile briefly. "Mulder, I'm your friend. That isn't going to change. I'll always be here for you. Now, why don't you go home and get some rest?" His choked laugh had a slight tinge of hysteria. " 'I'm here for you, now go home'Ê?" "Yes." Her smile was warm and kind and understanding. It made him feel like a complete idiot. Suddenly, he felt extremely tired. And extremely foolish. He nodded and headed for the door. Mulder swore at himself in frustration as he pulled up in front of Krycek's apartment building. Wasn't it bad enough that he'd made a fool of himself with Scully tonight, now he had to inflict himself on Krycek too? It was nearly three o'clock. Scully was right, he should just go home and try to get some sleep. But he couldn't bear the thought of his empty apartment right now--and he knew he wouldn't sleep anyway, not after what he'd just done. He'd worry and fuss about it for hours. Unless he talked to someone for a little while. He could go home and call Krycek--he'd called him this late before--but here he was, he might as well go up. Krycek answered the door yawning and rubbing his eyes, rumpled and groggy in a ragged white vee-neck tee-shirt and shapeless gray sweat pants. Barefoot and sleep-tousled, he looked far too young to be an FBI agent. Dark eyelashes batted against his cheeks as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Mulder's breath caught in his throat, and he knew he'd made a terrible mistake coming here. Days of unrestrained fantasies about the man, along with the pain and humiliation of his earlier rejection--he was on the edge of his control already, and here was Krycek, blinking sleepily at him and looking irresistibly fuckable. If he had the least bit of sense left, he would apologize and leave immediately. Instead, he pasted on what he hoped was a hearty smile, and shouldered his way past Krycek into the room. "Hi, Krycek." "Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" Krycek spoke wearily, padding after Mulder, who was inspecting the furnishings of Krycek's small apartment with mock cheerfulness. "Just happened to be in the neighborhood," Mulder replied airily. "Mulder, for god's sake. Go home. Don't you ever sleep?" "Sure. Once or twice a week, at least. Nice couch." Krycek came up behind him, put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Mulder. What are you doing here?" The hand burned him like fire. The false heartiness drained out of him. Tears stung his eyes. "I was at Scully's." "And she kicked you out too? I'm not surprised." "No, she...." Mulder paused, rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I made a major fool of myself. I... I made a pass. She turned me down." He pulled his arms around himself and bit his lip to keep it from trembling. "Oh, Mulder," Krycek sighed. "You big jerk. I'm sorry." The hand slipped across Mulder's shoulders. Mulder turned, blindly, and slid into Krycek's arms. Krycek, startled, stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into the embrace, and wrapped his arms tightly around Mulder's back. Krycek's body emanated a delicious heat. Mulder felt warmly encased by the strong, hard arms. His hair caught against the roughness of Krycek's unshaved cheek as he buried his face in Krycek's neck. It was nice, for a change, not to have to stoop to embrace someone. A bit strange to press against a flat, muscular torso. Krycek's maleness was comforting, in an odd sort of way, just by its unfamiliarity. It did not remind him of Scully, and what he'd wanted from her. Mulder was aware that his erection was hard against Krycek's hip, but he didn't care. Krycek was a man; he would understand that these things happened. As a matter of fact, Krycek was hard, too. Mulder pressed his thigh against Krycek's groin, enjoying the feel of the stiff cock pulsing against his leg. Krycek's chest was heaving, and his grip tightened until Mulder thought he'd crush the air out of his lungs. Mulder smiled; and the movement of his lips against Krycek's neck caused fingers to dig fiercely into his back. Oh, this was good. His young partner was aroused by his touch. Krycek wanted him. And it felt so damn good to be wanted. For long moments, he just stood there, reveling in the embrace. He fully intended to pull away before things went any farther; to wrap himself up in this little moment and take it home to keep him warm on his lonely couch. But then the subversive thought hit him--Why should he leave? This was no fantasy--Krycek was here, and real, and stiff with need. Why not take him to bed? He could never have done this with Scully, but it was different with another man. They could enjoy a night of friendly sex without all the emotional trappings of a male-female relationship. Sure, Krycek was his partner, but they could handle this. It was just a buddy-fuck, nothing to get upset about. And he just couldn't go home alone and frustrated again. His cock was so hard it hurt, and he was thoroughly tired of living on fantasies and his own right hand. Mulder took Krycek's face in his hands, and covered those soft, full lips with his own. Krycek's lips opened and his tongue met Mulder's. His mouth was warm and sweet, just as Mulder had imagined it. Mulder closed his eyes and poured all his need, all his frustration, into the kiss; letting his tongue roam deep, taking possession as if it was his right. One hand slid under Krycek's tee-shirt, kneading the hot, muscular flesh of his back; the other moved down over the sweat pants, gripping one round buttock tightly. They kissed until Mulder thought he'd faint, and he was forced to pull his mouth away, sucking in great gasps of air. "Bedroom," Mulder managed to choke out. Krycek pulled away. "Mulder, wait. We can't...." Mulder took him by the shoulders, and stared into the half-lidded eyes. "Don't tell me no." He pulled Krycek to him and kissed him again. His lips were so perfect, so warm and soft. How could he expect anyone not to kiss him? Especially when he was groaning and kissing back with such ferocity. Krycek broke away again. He stood, breathing hard, mouth working. There was a desperate look in his eyes. "Mulder, please don't." "I want you. You want me. Why can't we do this? Tell me why." Krycek just stood, shaking his head. Shy. A little scared, maybe. Well, Mulder wasn't going to hurt him. But he wasn't going to go home rejected twice in one night, either. Mulder kissed him again, gently this time. "It will be all right, I promise. I just need somebody to hold me, Alex. I can't be alone tonight. You understand." Krycek clung to him. "Oh god, Mulder. All right." His voice was a breathy whisper. Mulder's cock throbbed. That beautiful, sexy, low voice--he wanted it whispering dirty words into his ear. He wanted to hear it moaning and begging for his caresses. He pulled out of the embrace, smiled reassuringly, and nodded. Krycek folded Mulder's hand into his and led him into the bedroom. A streetlight just outside the window shone through miniblinds, lending a dim light to the room. The only furnishings were a cheap chest of drawers and an unmade bed. It reminded Mulder of a hotel room--cold and impersonal. Krycek stood hesitantly by the bed. Mulder reached out for him, started to pull him in for another kiss. But Krycek turned his face away. Bewildered, Mulder stepped back. In the dim light, Krycek seemed to harden before his eyes. Mulder watched in fascination and perhaps a little fear as his sweet young partner disappeared, and the cold, beautiful, heartless angel briefly glimpsed at their first meeting returned. Then Krycek was on top of him, pushing him back onto the bed, kissing him fiercely. He let Krycek have him that way for a while, thinking it was nerves that were making him suddenly aggressive. Let him work it off, settle down a bit before Mulder took over again. Then he took Krycek by the arms and firmly flipped him over onto his back. The move took Krycek by surprise, and he lay quietly, staring at Mulder, wary and a bit sullen. His beauty was breathtaking, but there were dark thoughts roiling behind his troubled eyes. Mulder felt as though he'd captured some fairy creature, fey and lovely and not quite human. The sweet mouth hardened, then trembled. Mulder kissed the trembling lips gently, stroking the jawline, running his fingers through the short, dark hair. Patiently, he soothed the wild creature, stroking and taming him with tender care. Finally, with a groan, Krycek opened his mouth, slipped his tongue under Mulder's, tightened his arms around Mulder's shoulders, and yielded. The fey creature melted away, and Mulder's sweet innocent young partner was back. The body trembled slightly, but there was no resistance in it. Open and accepting, his wide eyes stared up at Mulder. Mulder sighed, giddy with relief. Now he would have what he wanted. First, he sat up and began to undress, leaving his clothing piled carelessly in the floor. Krycek watched him, dark-eyed, lips slightly parted. Naked, Mulder sat on the bed, and began to pull Krycek's tee shirt up. Krycek pushed himself upright, lifted his arms over his head, and allowed the shirt to be removed. Then he lay back down as Mulder eased his sweatpants down over his smooth, muscular hips and legs. Mulder drank in the sight of Krycek's nude form by the pale glow of the streetlight outside the window. Yes, he worked out. Perhaps indulged in a few too many chocolate bars, and didn't burn it off in nervous energy like Mulder did. That was all right. The smooth contours softened his appearance, enhanced his apparent youth. (He was in fact only a few years younger than Mulder--Mulder had checked his file, of course, within days of being assigned to work with him. But Mulder enjoyed thinking of him as a child, and his wide-eyed sweetness did nothing to dispel that notion.) His bottom would be nice and cushiony. Mulder ached to turn him over and slide his cock between those round cheeks. But he'd better not. The poor kid was nervous enough simply about kissing. Keep it simple--lots of hand and tongue and pleasant friction. Perhaps a blow job. Nothing too intense to deal with in the morning. His inspection complete, Mulder stretched out at Krycek's side, kissed him again, and whispered into his ear, "You're beautiful." "Oh, Mulder...." There was as much protest as passion in his breathy voice. The voice that sent delightful tingles down Mulder's spine. "Tell me I'm beautiful. I want to hear you say it, even if you don't mean it." A pause, then a sigh. "Mulder. You are beautiful." Mulder slid on top of the still-acquiescent body, surprised when Krycek opened his legs for him. Was he offering...? But still, Mulder would not take more. Not this time. He took Krycek's face in his hands and kissed him again. Krycek kissed like an angel, completely open and yielding. His arms curled over his head, and his legs lay apart. The only motions of his body were the searching of his tongue in Mulder's mouth, and the tiny rotations of his hips as he ground his groin into Mulder's. Mulder found the total surrender unutterably sweet. It was wonderful to stroke his burning cock against Krycek's. He wanted more than ever to sheathe his cock in this angel-beast-child's pliant flesh. But his need was driving him too hard--he was already near the brink, just from rubbing his cock against Krycek's body. If he was going to do anything but rub himself off, he'd better stop now. Right now. Gasping, Mulder tore his mouth away and buried his face in Krycek's neck, while his hips thrust spasmodically and his semen spurted between them. Krycek's arms came down to circle his back, stroking him gently, petting him like a cat, while the waves of his orgasm subsided. Nice. Very nice. He snuggled closer and nibbled at Krycek's small, delicately-shaped earlobe. Krycek's cock was hard under him. He considered what to do while he recovered from his own release. Hand? Mouth? Maybe he should just ask. "What do you want me to do?" he whispered into that small ear. "Go home." Krycek's breathy voice blew warm air across his cheek. Mulder chuckled. He slid half off of Krycek and trailed his fingers down Krycek's side, to run them along the underside of the stiff cock. Krycek moaned and writhed at Mulder's touch. Just a slight touch, and his eyes were turning back in his head. It was so sweet being able to provoke such a response. He still didn't understand why Krycek resisted it. He gripped Krycek's cock tighter, and began to work his hand up and down. "Still want me to go home?" he whispered. "God, Mulder...." "Is that a yes or a no?" His only answer was a tortured groan. Smiling, Mulder left off teasing and moved down until his face was by Krycek's hip. His own semen still pooled in the hollows of Krycek's pelvis. He touched his tongue to it gingerly, then decided to let Krycek clean himself up. Maybe he'd swallow Krycek's, though. He knew he shouldn't, but he wanted to try it, just this once. Krycek seemed so innocent--he must be safe. A bit tentatively, he ran his tongue up the shaft of Krycek's cock. In his fantasies he gave great blow jobs, but in reality he'd had few cocks in his mouth. Carefully, he placed his lips around the head, stroking it with his tongue, still gripping the shaft with his hand. He licked the tender underside just behind the crown, where his own cock was particularly sensitive. Apparently, Krycek's was too. His fists pounded the mattress at his sides. A small, keening sound emerged from deep in his throat. Mulder had never heard anything quite like it. He pulled the cock deeper into his mouth, and applied his tongue with more vigor. The keening turned to a wail; then Krycek stiffened, the cock swelled in Mulder's mouth, and warm, sticky fluid was flooding onto his tongue. Mulder swallowed, shuddered, and swallowed again. It was strange and bitter and he wasn't sure if he liked it. But he liked Krycek's sobbing gasps and quivering belly, and the small throbbing spasms in his cock. He held the cock in his mouth until it started to soften, then let it slide from between his lips and made his way back up to the head of the bed. Krycek was pretending to be asleep. Mulder sighed, and touched Krycek's shoulder, stroking it with his thumb. He didn't want to just leave--but Krycek was making it clear he wanted no more of Mulder that night. Better let him be. Gently, he kissed the stubbly cheek and murmured softly into the delicate ear. "Good night, Alex. I'll see you in the morning." That was only a few hours away now. Mulder slid from the bed, pausing to pull the covers up over Krycek's naked body, smoothing the sheet over his chest. Krycek remained motionless, although his breathing was too measured for sleep. Mulder searched the floor for his clothes. Cold reality was already starting to set in as he dressed. Poor Krycek would probably be in Skinner's office first thing in the morning, demanding a transfer. Or worse, filing sexual harassment charges. Mulder's gut went cold. Oh god, this had been a mistake. What should he do? Apologize? Beg for forgiveness? Plead with Krycek to say nothing? He sighed. It was so late. Let the poor kid alone. Talk to him in the morning. He paused at the bedroom door to look once more at his young partner, tousled and sated and precious. Krycek still hadn't moved. And, god help him, Mulder still wanted to fuck him. "Good night, Alex." He pulled his jacket around himself and left. The morning after was just as painful and difficult and humiliating as Mulder had known it would be. Krycek was already at work when he arrived, sullen and pasty-faced. He'd cut himself shaving; the small red cut stood out sharply against the pale cheek. When he saw Krycek's grim, angry expression, Mulder's gut twisted in fear, wondering if Krycek had been to Skinner's office already, but his question was answered with a sharp "No." Mulder's sick relief only slightly alleviated his worry. Krycek refused to refer to the events of the previous night at all. He cut off Mulder's pitiful attempts to apologize with curt demands to "Forget it." He snapped and growled and changed the subject repeatedly. Mulder was too shaky to press the issue. Maybe it would be better just to let Krycek stomp around a bit, get it out of his system. They could talk later, after he'd cooled down a little. God, he was angry! But at least he was here, still trying to work. They ought to be able to work it out eventually. Two hours later, they were on their way to Lynchburg, following up a lead in their case. It was a long drive, and a very grim one. Krycek sat pressed against the passenger-side door, staring out the window, unspeaking. Mulder had even offered to let him drive--Krycek's only response was a disgusted grunt. This was why sexual relationships between partners were not allowed, Mulder thought miserably. Misunderstanding, resentment, hostility. How could they work like this? Someone would take a potshot at him while he was distracted by worry and fear, and he'd end up in the hospital, or worse. Krycek's fury would cause him to hesitate in a crisis situation. Or even if their lives weren't in danger, they would miss clues. Their thinking would be cloudy. This could not go on. Mulder pulled the car off at the next exit. Krycek glared at him, a question in his face but not spoken aloud. Mulder just ignored it, until he found a convenient pullout on a frontage road. Then he stopped the car and waited. "What?" Krycek demanded flatly. "We need to talk." Krycek shifted in his seat. "Let's just get back on the road. We've got work to do." "No." Mulder turned to look at him directly. "We need to settle this. Now." Krycek groaned in frustration. He refused to look at Mulder. "Look, Mulder, it wasn't... it was just... the heat of the moment. Can't we just forget it?" "Heat of the moment, huh." Mulder sighed. "Maybe. It's just that you're really, really, really pissed." Krycek closed his eyes tightly, lips pressed together for a moment before answering. "I'm mad at myself. For letting it happen." "I didn't exactly give you a lot of choice." "Mulder, I'm a big boy. I know how to say no." "Then why does it upset you so much? I know I'm your partner and we shouldn't have done it, but it's more than that. Is it because I'm a man?" The choked noise that emerged from Krycek could have been a laugh. "I've had sex with men before. A lot more than you have." Mulder flinched slightly, but let the dig pass. "So it's just me you're upset about ending up in bed with." "Mulder, we're FBI. We could lose our jobs. And it's not like it meant anything," Krycek snapped. But his voice had gotten husky on that last retort. Mulder sighed. Krycek was feeling used, and well he should. Mulder had practically announced that Krycek was taking Scully's place for the evening. But it hadn't really been like that. And surely, once they were in each other's arms, all thought of a small, red-haired female had gone completely out of his mind. Then he supposed he ought to tell Krycek that. "Alex, I know you think I was just there because Scully turned me down, and I guess I wouldn't have been at your door at three in the morning if she hadn't, but that wasn't all there was to it. I mean, if all I wanted was a Scully substitute, I think I could get a lot closer. You don't even have red hair." Krycek's short laugh wasn't quite as choked this time. Encouraged, Mulder continued. "Maybe... the only reason I was at Scully's in the first place was that you've been driving me crazy lately." "You're such a fucking liar." But that tight little smile was on Krycek's face. Mulder smiled back. "I'm sorry, Alex." Krycek shrugged. "Never mind." "Sure?" "Yeah." Finally, he looked at Mulder. "It's not going to happen again." Mulder nodded. Maybe. But now was not the time to pursue it. He started the car and headed back for the freeway. * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: Never fall in love with the mark. Oh god. But they don't tell you how to do it, do they? Especially when the guy shows up at your door at three in the morning, rejected and crying, and throws himself at you. I tried to say no--yeah, right--but hell, it's three in the morning and he doesn't want to take no for an answer and I've been wanting this guy since the day I set eyes on him--so I caved. Thank god he was awkward and inexperienced and didn't go for anything more than a little frottage and a blow job. And lots of kissing. God he can kiss. Still it was a hell of a lot more than I was ready to deal with. So we had sex. That doesn't mean I have to fall in love with him. Except he's so pathetic. So hungry. Does it like a straight guy, all sweet and gentle, like you're made out of glass. Like he's going to freak if you move. (Then asks me if I'm upset about doing it with a man--no, Mulder, are you?) Obviously hasn't had much practice. But I'll give him an A for effort. He even swallowed it, though it just about made him choke, the stupid fool. I know I'm negative so I let him do it, but he didn't know that. God. Then this morning he lied his head off to me about how it wasn't just because Scully tossed him out on his ear and how crazy I make him. Liar. Liar. Because if it isn't a lie, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. Like I know what the hell I'm going to do anyway. I already liked him way more than I should. He's just a dumb jerk with a cold bastard for a father and a doormat for a mother and a missing sister, and he's hanging onto his Truth and his "I Want to Believe" and his "Extreme Possibilities" for dear life, and he doesn't mean any harm, he's just searching for something to hang onto, just like the rest of us. And here we are sneaking around behind his back, doing everything we can to make sure he never finds what he needs. Acting like the world would come to an end if he ever found his sister. I can't do it any more. I don't want to do it any more. He's been hurt enough. But what the hell am I going to do about it? If I go to my boss and tell him I'm out--well, I don't think this is the kind of job you quit. I'm in this up to my ears and they're not going to let me just walk away. And even if I could, they'd just get somebody else to spy on Mulder. Somebody who wouldn't care like I do. Somebody who'd pull the trigger if they told him to. I can't tell Mulder, either. He's so paranoid, he'd never believe I'm on his side now, he'd turn me in and my boss would find out and I'd be in the same trouble, except worse. I've just got to hang on here. Tell my boss only what I have to and try to protect Mulder and hope to god he never finds out. Thank god they don't want Mulder killed. He told me Mulder won't be killed unless it's absolutely necessary. As long as they don't ask me to kill him I guess I can stand it. I've got to be careful not to let Mulder get too close--that's going to be the hardest part. I told him it wasn't going to happen again, but I don't think he's given up on the idea. Mr. Obsession--once he gets an idea into his head, he doesn't let go. I should never have played the hero-worship angle so hard--but how was I supposed to know he was an equal-opportunity sex maniac? The files all said he was straight. So much for my employer's thorough background research. The irony of it is, my boss would absolutely love this. It would be a perfect way to get Mulder discredited, get him tossed out of the Bureau and derail his work without any danger or violence or stirring up his high-level contacts. Just another night like last night, with a strategically-placed video camera. I bet Skinner would get off on the tape as much as he'd get off on kicking Mulder's ass out of the Bureau. But I'd never do that to Mulder. Never. Even if I didn't care about him, I'd never use his sexuality against him like that. He's got a right to his private life, it's nobody's business but his. And mine now, I guess. Damn it, Mulder. Never fall in love with the mark. But I did. * * * ACT TWO: Mille serpi divoranmi il petto... [A thousand serpents are devouring my heart...] They would be at Mulder's desk. No, not the new one, out in the middle of everything--the old one, down in the basement. He'd lock the door and stand with his back against it. Krycek would nod. Trembling fingers would fumble with his belt-- A cold and beautiful angel. No. Make it Scully, bent over the desk, skirt pulled up to her waist. He would approach her gently, reach out to touch her soft skin-- A gentle and understanding smile. Krycek, then. Warm and unresisting, gasping at his touch, mouth offered for unbearably sweet kisses. Press him back over the desk, slip a hand under the crisp white shirt. Mulder sighed and released his partially-erect penis. Groaning in frustration, he levered himself off the couch and wandered out to the kitchen, adjusting his sweat pants. He switched on the fire under the tea kettle. The clock on the microwave mockingly informed him that it was 3:17 in bright, glowing numerals. He was beginning to despair of getting even a few hours of sleep tonight. What ever had possessed him to move on both of his partners in the same night? And the one who responded was the one he now had to face every day, sad-eyed and wary and no longer his faithful young friend. They hadn't spoken of it again, but that strange, almost frightening encounter continued to hang between them, charging even the most innocent exchanges with tension. He supposed they would have to talk about it again, but his continued shame had so far prevented him from bringing it up. Yawning, he spooned instant hot chocolate into his mug and waited for the water to boil. Sometimes a hot drink helped him get to sleep, but he had no hope for it tonight. He was far too troubled for such simple measures to have any effect. He wanted to talk to someone. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to relax if he talked to someone for a little while. But who was he going to call now? Not Krycek, certainly. Scully didn't want him to call her so late. Sometimes there was someone at the Lone Gunman offices at this time of night. Frohike, or maybe Langly. At least he wouldn't disturb anyone by calling there at this hour. He poured hot water into his mug and wandered back into the living room. He put the mug down on a magazine and picked up his phone. There was only one person he really wanted to talk to. It was late, but.... He punched out number one on his speed dial and waited for the ring. A sleepy voice answered. "Hello?" "Hi, Scully...." He was suddenly tongue-tied. "Mulder? Are you...? Is everything all right?" "I know it's late... I...." "It's okay. Is something wrong?" "No, I just couldn't sleep. I know you don't want me to call this late, but...." She sighed into the phone. "It's all right, Mulder. Really. I told you, I'm your friend. I guess this is just part of being your friend." He laughed ruefully. "Not much fun, is it?" She laughed with him, warm and friendly. "It's not so bad." The tightness inside his chest started to unknot. "So, how's it going?" "Fine. Same old thing. How about you?" He curled up on the couch with the phone cradled on his shoulder, in the familiar and cozy ritual for late-night phone conversations. "I'm going to Bozeman tomorrow. I'll eat a steak for you." "Bozeman... the Kafka Killer?" "Yeah." So-called because the murderer bound his victims, then inflicted hundreds of gradually-deepening knife wounds all over their bodies, until they finally died of shock and blood loss, reminiscent of the punishment in Kafka's "In the Penal Colony." " 'You will be inscribed with the names of your crimes,' " he quoted. "Not a very pretty case." "Serial murders rarely are. Is Krycek going with you?" "Yeah." He sighed. And how were they going to manage a trip out of town, when everything was so crazy between them? "You don't sound very happy about it." There were several reasons he was not happy about going out of town with Krycek. The one he would not tell Scully was that he was more obsessed than ever with Krycek. The brief, unsatisfactory encounter between them had only inflamed Mulder's need to possess his new partner completely. He didn't know how he was going to restrain himself from making another attempt while on the road in a strange town, with only a hotel room door between them. In fact, he'd already given up hoping he would, and packed condoms and a tube of KY Jelly in his overnight bag, just in case. But there were other reasons he could tell her. "He's just a kid, barely out of the Academy. He hasn't been through Behavioral Sciences training. He's going to be way out of his depth in this. I think the only reason Skinner's sending him along is to keep an eye on me." "Mulder, he's thirty years old. He's not a kid. And I thought you said he was good." "He is good. He's smart and quick and has a good, analytical mind. But he doesn't have the experience or the training for something like this. You saw how he reacted at Grissom's autopsy, and that wasn't even that extreme. How is he going to take the autopsy of a woman who was turned into hamburger over the course of four or five hours, while she was still alive? It's not fair to either one of us." Scully mulled that over for a moment. "Can you ask Skinner to take him off the case?" "I already tried. But Krycek insists he can handle it. He's a real blue flamer, Scully." "Then I guess you'll just have to let him try to handle it." Mulder smiled. Good old Scully. You could always count on her to cut right to the chase. "I know." "Staying up all night worrying over it isn't going to help." "I know." "You'd be better off getting a good night's sleep, so you can deal with whatever problems come up." "I know." He grinned happily. No, he didn't take Scully's advice, but he still loved hearing it. "Then why don't you?" "Why don't I let you get back to sleep, you mean." She yawned. "Well, one of us might as well get some sleep." "Okay. I'll talk to you when I get back. Thanks, Scully." "No need, Mulder. Good night." Mulder liked to sleep on planes. Strangely enough, though he tossed and turned in his own bed, and dozed in fits and starts on his big, comfortable leather couch, squeeze him into a too-small, back-breaking airline seat and he was out like a light. He woke when the change in the engine hum signalled that the plane was beginning its descent. His knee was pressed against Krycek's. He peered at his partner through almost-closed eyes. Krycek was reading Thomas Harris' _The Silence of the Lambs_, which he'd picked up at the airport gift shop. He remained intent on his book, seemingly unaware of the knee pressing against him. How long had they been like this? Well, Mulder's long frame always tended to encroach on his airline seatmates' space. And Krycek was tall, too--they could hardly sit next to each other on a plane without being forced into physical contact. It didn't mean anything. But it was nice. Mulder closed his eyes and pretended to be still asleep. The Bozeman, Montana chief of detectives was a thin, middleaged man with freckles on his balding forehead and a worried crease between his eyes. His face held a perpetually perplexed look as he showed Mulder and Krycek the files on the previous cases. One of the victims had been his cousin. His hand trembled when he handed them her pictures. There was a photograph of a rather plain, sandy-haired woman with a bright eyes and a fun-loving grin. Another photograph showed a body so criss-crossed by wounds as to be unidentifiable. Even the eyes were sliced through. Krycek swallowed and stared grimly at the photographs. It was a long and depressing day, spent gathering reports and talking to various officers and detectives who'd been involved in investigating the murders. They finally broke for dinner around nine-thirty. Mulder and Krycek ate at a local steak house recommended by Hawkins, the chief of detectives, then retired to their hotel. At the hotel, Mulder sat down with his files on the murders to go over everything one more time. He would have liked to have Scully's opinion on the patterns of the wounds. He looked at the phone thoughtfully, then sighed and left it alone. It was already after midnight, Washington time. Maybe he'd fax her some of the autopsy reports tomorrow and see what she thought. Meanwhile, he had a partner next door. Krycek hadn't said a whole lot about the case so far. It was about time he found out what was going on in Krycek's mind. He gathered up the files, then hesitated over the supplies in his overnight case. Krycek had looked awfully pale at dinner, which for him had been only a bowl of soup. The case was taking its toll on him already, and they hadn't even gotten to the really rough stuff yet. The latest victim was scheduled to be autopsied the next day; Detective Hawkins had arranged to pick them up in the morning and drive them there. Krycek would probably be better off with a quiet night alone, without either the case or Mulder's propositions to trouble him. On the other hand, maybe some nice sweaty sex was just what he needed to get his mind off the horrible murders they'd come to profile. Relax him so he could get some sleep. Mulder wouldn't press. He wouldn't do anything to make Krycek uncomfortable. But if, by some chance, it turned out that they ended up in bed, he didn't want to have to come rushing back to his room for the condoms and lube. Finally, he shrugged and slipped them into his pocket. It didn't mean he was going to make a pass. He just wanted to be ready for whatever transpired. Their rooms had a connecting door. He opened the door on his side and tapped on Krycek's. A moment later, Krycek answered, looking a bit disheveled in his shirt sleeves and stockinged feet. Mulder held up the files. "I thought we'd go over these a little more." "Oh." Krycek looked at him bleakly. He remained standing in the doorway. "Maybe we should go somewhere, get some coffee." "I don't know where we're going to find anyplace open--I think this is one of those places where they roll up the sidewalks at ten. Besides, there are coffeemakers in the bathrooms. Come on, Krycek. I just want to go over the case with you." Already he was pushing. But it was too absurd for Krycek to be afraid to be alone with him. Krycek nodded and stepped aside. He left the connecting doors open--as if that were going to protect him--and followed Mulder back into the room. The television was playing softly, and Krycek's paperback lay open on the foot of the bed. The table was too small to spread the files out on, and there was only one chair. Mulder dropped the files onto the bed, moving the paperback over to the table. "How do you like it?" he asked, nodding toward the book. "It's good." Krycek smiled faintly. "I probably should have stuck to Dick Francis." "He gets beat up all the time." "Yeah, well. At least he's not skinning people." Krycek did look rather shaky. Mulder sighed. "Maybe we should forget about it for tonight." "No, I'm fine," Krycek insisted. "Let's get to work." A four-star blue flamer. He'd work till he dropped, or went into hysterics, or something. Well, Mulder would keep it short. They would just go over the basics, and then he'd let Krycek get to bed. He sat on the side of the bed, one knee drawn up, facing the pile of reports and photographs. They'd had enough of the photos, he decided, tucking them away at the bottom of the pile, and pulling the various police reports from the four previous killings to the top. The bodies had been found dumped in state parks along I-90 between Billings and Bozeman. It was rough, mountainous country, but no particular attempt had been made to hide the bodies from unsuspecting campers. One had been found by a thirteen-year-old girl. Mulder made a mental note to ask if the girl had gotten counseling. Krycek sat rather reluctantly on the other side of the bed. Was he avoiding the gut-wrenching files, or Mulder? Or both? "The victims have all been women between the ages of twenty-three and forty-four. No particular physical type. The first was found four months ago, near Columbus." Mulder found the small map of the area where the locations of all of the victims' bodies had been marked and numbered. "The succeeding bodies were found approximately at one-month intervals." "He's on a lunar cycle," Krycek commented. "No. But his victims were." "What do you mean?" "The murders were anything from two to six weeks apart. Not a regular schedule. But all of the women were menstruating at the time of the their murder." Krycek went quite white. "Jesus." His voice was a choked whisper. "I don't suppose that could have been a coincidence." "Five randomly chosen women? I don't think so." "How... how did he know? I mean... jeez, Mulder...." "Finding that out is probably going to be the key to catching this guy. But it could be something as simple as his being a clerk in a drug store and watching to see which women buy tampons." Krycek stood, walked over to the bathroom door, then turned and walked back. He sat back down on the bed, running a hand through his hair. His mouth worked. Finally, he said, "I should have let Skinner take me off this case, shouldn't I? I'm not going to be any good to you." Mulder began gathering up the papers and tucking them back into their folders. "Everybody's inexperienced sometime, Krycek. You think this case doesn't give me the creeps? You're just overloaded. It's late and we're both tired, I'll go and let you get some rest." He stood up and headed for the door to his room. "Mulder." Krycek was sitting with his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor beyond the end of the bed. "You don't have to go. Can we just... talk about something else for a while?" "Sure." Mulder dropped the files onto the dresser and returned to the bed. He ached to put his arms around those tired shoulders, to kiss away the disappointed hang of the head. But he must not. He was being offered Krycek's trust back, and didn't want to drive him away again. "You should take the Behavioral Sciences training. I think you could be good at this." Krycek shrugged. "I don't know. This isn't really what I had in mind when I went to the Academy." "What did you have in mind?" Krycek shrugged again. He continued to stare at the floor. "I wanted to find the truth." "The X-Files? There aren't any X-Files any more." "I know. But there are still cases like those Marines who didn't sleep. That was incredible. A guy who figured out how to make other people have his dreams? But this guy, he's just some sick bastard with a blood fetish." "You don't think he's some kind of genetic mutant who's allergic to menstruating women? Or maybe an alien who somehow thinks they're supposed to be bleeding from orifices all over their bodies?" "Jesus, Mulder!" Krycek stood, clutching his stomach. But he was also choking out helpless laughter. "You are really sick." "Sick humor is a necessary part of the job." Mulder smiled up at him. Krycek nodded, and sat down again. "Yeah." "This menstrual thing is really freaking you out, isn't it?" "Mulder, there are just some things I never really wanted to know that much about." "But you've had girlfriends, haven't you? Any time you're on intimate terms with a woman for longer than three weeks...." Krycek was staring at the floor again, lips pressed tightly together. Oh. So that's it. Stupid Mulder. Mulder sighed. Well, he could really be dense at times, couldn't he? Homosexual panic, indeed. So maybe it wasn't Mulder's feelings he was afraid of, but his own? He'd thought that Mulder was a straight guy having a meaningless little fling, and he didn't want to get hurt? Well, Krycek was probably right. Mulder wasn't interested in any serious relationships. On the other hand, he hadn't wanted anybody as badly as he wanted Krycek in a long time, and the knowledge that Krycek was susceptible just made him ache all the more. He reached out and took Krycek's face in his hand. Krycek stared at him, stricken. "I want you," Mulder said softly. "I don't think it has to be a bad thing." Krycek just stared. His jaw tensed under Mulder's hand. "Just tell me to leave and I'll go." Krycek swallowed but didn't speak. His eyes were huge, liquid, the irises swallowed in inky blackness. Mulder had to clench his teeth to keep himself steady. "You have to tell me, Alex. Stay or go?" Krycek's breathing had quickened. The thick curtain of lashes came down to cover huge eyes as he looked away. He spoke so quietly Mulder could barely hear him. "Stay." Mulder heaved a deep breath. The sudden relief threatened to make him come on the spot. He was going to have what he wanted. Krycek must let him have it. He pulled Krycek's face to his, gave him a brief, soft kiss, then released him to stand and take off his jacket and tie, hanging them over the back of the chair. Then he sat on the bed, bending to remove his shoes and socks. The rest would come later. Slowly, this time. Krycek had watched him beginning to undress, face pink. When Mulder finished and turned to him, he looked away, and fumbled with his own socks. His jacket and tie were already off. Mulder waited until he'd finished, then took him by the shoulders and urged him all the way onto the bed, lying face-to-face with him. Ah, it was good. The delicious heat of Krycek's body; the scent of whatever it was that he used in his hair; the crisp white cotton of his shirt under Mulder's hands; Mulder's senses were filled with Krycek's warm male presence. They lay holding each other, stroking each other's backs, their erections pressed together. Mulder felt like he was floating in a soft, timeless, white cloud of pleasure. He covered Krycek's face with light, damp kisses. His hand slid down Krycek's back, over the firm, round buttocks. He felt the buttocks flex under his caresses; felt the hips thrust, crotch rubbing hard against him. He cupped Krycek's bottom in his hand and pressed his fingers between Krycek's legs. Krycek's chest heaved against his. His lips found a small ear and whispered, "I want to be inside you." A tiny moan escaped his partner's throat. Mulder looked into the other man's face; saw desire and surrender in those beautiful, thick-lashed eyes, but also sadness and regret. He kissed each eye in turn, willing the sadness away, running his tongue along the closed eyelids, dampening the lashes, and tasting the quality of Krycek's passion. "Will you let me?" Krycek's breath was hot on his cheek. His voice was rough. "Do you have any condoms?" Mulder smiled at his partner's practicality. "Yes." He disentangled himself and reached for his jacket, pulling the condoms and tube of KY out of the pocket and placing them on the nightstand beside the bed. Krycek had pushed himself partly upright, and was now staring in dismay. "God, Mulder. You were planning this all along." Mulder shook his head. "No." He pulled Krycek back into his arms. "Not planning. Hoping. Wondering. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." Krycek let himself be soothed and stroked and kissed. Then he groaned, "I can't say no to you, Mulder," and opened his mouth to the kisses, inviting Mulder's tongue inside. Inviting Mulder inside. Yes. Oh, yes. Mulder's cock burned; he was so hard it hurt. He wanted it now. It was all he could do not to just jerk Krycek's pants down over his hips and jam it into him right then. But he forced himself to slow down. Forced himself to take his time, to unbutton Krycek's shirt buttons one by one, nuzzling at the pale throat as he exposed the soft cotton undershirt beneath. And he took his time with Krycek's wool pants, and red pinstriped boxer shorts--which Mulder found so endearing he nearly left them on, tucked up around Krycek's thighs, with his balls resting decoratively on the waistband and his erect cock standing stiffly above, so dark it nearly matched the red stripe in his shorts. But at last Mulder had stripped his yielding partner, who had lain quietly and allowed every touch, even the playful interlude with his underwear, even though Mulder remained almost fully dressed. Mulder lay back down beside Krycek, looking for signs of reluctance in his face and finding none, and helping himself again to those full, round lips, gratified by the sweet response. Krycek slid his arms around Mulder and held him as he kissed, but made no attempt to remove Mulder's shirt. When the kiss ended, he glanced down, batting those dark lashes against his cheek, and asked, "Front or back?" Mulder knew the answer he wanted, of course--he wanted Krycek on his stomach, bottom upturned, legs parted. He wanted his groin to pound into cushiony cheeks. But Krycek had been so accommodating so far, he supposed he ought to give him some choice. "What do you want?" Krycek looked at him. He ran his tongue over his lips and smiled ever-so-slightly--that same tight little smile that Mulder used to catch on his face at odd moments, mostly when he thought Mulder wasn't looking. He hadn't seen it since the night he'd gone to Krycek's apartment. Then Krycek released him and started, slowly, to turn over. Mulder was certain that Krycek was doing it because he knew it was what Mulder wanted, not because it was what he wanted. He supposed he'd been obvious enough. Never mind, if Krycek wanted to indulge him, he'd let him. He caught Krycek by the arm before he'd fully turned. "Wait. We'd better get off the bedspread." Krycek slipped off the bed and stood, one fist at his mouth, while Mulder pulled the covers back and plumped the pillows. Then he nodded, and, while Krycek arranged himself on the bed, Mulder undressed himself. He took one of the condoms and rolled it onto his aching cock, and finally lay down beside the beautiful body laid out for his pleasure. He stroked Krycek's back, already moist with sweat. He straddled the strong, muscular thighs and kneaded Krycek's shoulders. Krycek lay quite still, eyes tightly shut. But the heavy rise and fall of his back and the increasing dampness of his skin told of his response. Mulder's urgency, which had faded slightly as he took his time over the undressing, was returning now with new intensity. He moved back, bringing his knees between Krycek's legs, and reached for the tube of KY. He squeezed the lubricant onto his fingers and bent down to kiss and nip at the smooth cheeks as he slipped his slick fingers between them, finding the tight ring of muscle and beginning to massage gently. Krycek let out a strangled moan when Mulder's fingers touched him. His hips made tiny thrusting motions, and Mulder felt the muscles tighten, then relax, under his fingers. Mulder eased his middle finger into Krycek's anus, just a little way, stretching the opening gently with easy, circular motions. The inside of Krycek's body was moist and tender and hot as a furnace. He withdrew momentarily for more lubricant, eliciting another groan from Krycek when he reentered. He worked the lubricant in, opening him up with one finger, then two, thrusting his fingers deeper and deeper. God, how he'd been wanting this! He was already so desperate he knew he wouldn't last long once he finally got his cock into Krycek's ass. Krycek would think he was always a quick shooter. Well, never mind. It was all Krycek's fault anyway, for being so desirable and so hard to get. They'd have time for more leisurely encounters later. Krycek didn't dare tell him it wouldn't happen again now. Mulder would have his sweet ass as often as he wanted. Too bad the basement office was closed up and locked off. He'd always wanted to have someone bent over that desk. Mulder let his fingers slide free and positioned himself with his cock pressing lightly into Krycek's anus. Slowly, he began to push, with easy circular motions of his hips. He might not have much experience with men, but he knew about anal sex. He'd known women who liked it, and who taught him how to do it without causing pain. So he knew how to thrust gently, with just the head of his cock nudging the entrance; how to watch for signs of tension in his partner's hips and shoulders; how to gradually increase the pressure until the anus opened for him and his cock slid in.... And he knew how incredibly good it felt to be sheathed in hot, tight flesh. There was no tension in Krycek's body, and very little resistance to his entrance. Krycek remained almost completely unmoving; just the small, helpless movements of his fingers scrabbling at the mattress and the keening noises at the back of his throat demonstrating his pleasure. Mulder found it terribly appealing. It was just like his fantasy--Krycek quiescent, accepting, completely overwhelmed by his touch. Mulder moaned as he thrust, driving himself in to the hilt. He was already on the edge; he barely needed to move. Just small, sharp thrusts, keeping himself deeply impaled in Krycek's ass, while he nibbled at Krycek's ear and kissed his neck and rubbed his chest against Krycek's back. Tears squeezed from between Krycek's closed eyelids, dripping down the side of his face. Mulder hoped it was passion, not regret, making him weep. Krycek was never going to come this way--not touching himself, not moving against the mattress. On another day, Mulder would work him harder, faster, reach his hand beneath to stroke Krycek's cock, bring him off while Mulder was still inside him--but tonight he might as well give up on that thought. He could already feel the heat gathering in his groin, the delicious fullness in his balls, the tingling pressure in his cock, intimately massaged and held within Krycek's body. Just a few more slight, precise thrusts of his hips and he was crying out his pleasure with muffled moans into Krycek's neck while his body stiffened and waves of orgasm washed through him. Mulder held Krycek by the shoulders and gasped, waiting for the spasms to subside. Then he gathered himself up and continued for a few moments--but he was already losing his erection, and Krycek still seemed far from his release. Sighing, he reached down to hold the condom on his softening cock as he withdrew. Krycek whimpered a little as Mulder pulled out. "Sorry," he whispered into Krycek's ear. He stripped off the condom and tossed it into the trash, then settled back down at Krycek's side, stroking his hair. "I'd ask you what you want me to do, but I'm afraid you'd just tell me to leave." "You don't have to do anything," Krycek mumbled. His eyes opened, but tears continued to stream from them. "I want to. I like making you feel good. Why don't you want me to? I thought you'd decided that this was all right." "Mulder, it's just... everything you do takes another little piece of me. Pretty soon there'll be nothing left." Mulder kissed the broad shoulders, now tense under his caresses. "I don't want to own you." And was that really true? But he didn't want to hurt him, he just wanted to give him pleasure. "I want to make love to you." "Then do it." The husky voice was rough with passion. If he were really strong, if he put Krycek's comfort and ease of mind first, perhaps he would have stopped, forced Krycek to tell him why this troubled him so, allowed him to keep the pieces of himself that he was losing. But Mulder needed Krycek's climax as much as he needed his own, and he could not leave things half-finished this way. Maybe a little reciprocation would reassure. Mulder wasn't terribly fond of being penetrated, but perhaps that was due to the failures of his previous partners. Perhaps he could teach Krycek as he'd been taught. "Why don't you fuck me?" But this only troubled Krycek more. His mouth tightened. "No." "Why not? You seem to like it." "No, Mulder. I can't. Please don't ask me." "All right." He stroked Krycek's hair soothingly. "All right. Never mind." He pulled Krycek onto his side, curled up against Krycek's back, and slid his hand around the trembling flank to stroke the still-hard cock. "Is this all right?" "Unh." It was more of a grunt than a word, but Mulder decided it sounded like assent. He brought his other hand between Krycek's buttocks and worked his thumb into the passage, still soft and open from being fucked. He liked how it felt. He found Krycek's prostate and stroked, while his other hand moved on Krycek's cock. Krycek relaxed into him finally, hips working between the thumb in his ass and the hand on his cock. He moaned, and gradually the keening began again, and his movements became more frantic. Mulder felt the surge in Krycek's cock, the pulse in his ass, and suddenly he was clutching the pillow and wailing and spurting his semen into Mulder's hand. Mulder held him and waited until the body in his arms relaxed into a hot, damp boneless puddle. Then Mulder sighed contentedly and drew up his arms to hold Krycek around the chest, fitting himself to the length of Krycek's back and legs. He kissed Krycek wetly on the shoulder. Krycek drew a gasping breath. "Mulder, I love you." Mulder's eyes opened. "Alex...." "Don't say anything. I'm not going to say it again, and I don't expect you to do anything about it. I just want you to know--no matter what happens, I love you. Remember that." "Okay. I'll remember." Mulder's grip tightened. Good lord, now what was he going to do? No wonder Krycek was upset. Helplessly, he held his partner, rubbing his chest and stomach, kissing his neck. Trying to be reassuring when his own heart was pounding. Well, they'd just have to deal with it somehow. Everything would be all right. They would find a way to make it all right. Tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep and worry about it tomorrow. "I'm going to turn off the light now." "Mulder, don't go to sleep." "What?" "You can't sleep here. You have to go back to your own room." Mulder sighed again. "Alex. I'll put the 'Do Not Disturb' signs on both of our doors. I'll mess up the bed in my room and I'll set the alarm for six, so we'll be up and gone well before the maids get here. Okay?" "They're going to find the condom in the trash." "I'm sure they find them all the time. They'll just think you had a girl in here." Krycek thought about it. "Okay." Mulder pulled him onto his back for a kiss before getting up to arrange things as he'd said. "And I thought I was paranoid." Finally, he was rewarded with a smile. Mulder slept surprisingly well, wrapped around his partner. He didn't think Krycek slept nearly so well--when the alarm clock rang, Krycek blinked and muttered groggily that he didn't want breakfast and why didn't Mulder just go on without him? He looked pale and worn-out. Still worrying about last night? Or anticipating the upcoming autopsy? Maybe he just wasn't a morning person. But he'd hardly eaten last night, and he wasn't likely to want lunch either, after watching a poor murdered woman being dissected, so he really should eat breakfast. "I don't want breakfast, Mulder, I want to go back to sleep. So quit bothering me and get out of here." Mulder slapped him on the butt cheerfully. "Well, I guess you're in no danger of starving." Krycek could not entirely prevent a grin from softening his affronted glare. Determinedly, he took Mulder by the shoulders and pushed him out of bed. "Go!" "All right, all right," Mulder laughed. "I'll be back in an hour. Try to wipe the silly grin off your face by then." A pillow caromed off the doorframe behind Mulder as he disappeared into his own room. The latest victim of the Kafka Killer was a Native American woman from nearby Livingston who had worked in Bozeman as an elementary school teacher. She was twenty-eight years old and unmarried. In the photographs, she had a gentle, good-natured face and a full figure. Of course, none of that was recognizable now. The body that lay on the autopsy table was sliced into a pile of raw meat. Krycek stood beside Mulder with his arms folded, saying nothing. His mouth was tight, but he seemed in control. In fact, he seemed to be handling it better than the poor local doctor who was expected to perform the autopsy. No doubt the man had never handled anything worse than a hunting accident before. Mulder sighed inwardly. Too bad he couldn't have had the body shipped back to Quantico for Scully to work on. Too bad he didn't have Scully with him. Too bad.... How was he going to get any real information from this autopsy when the doctor didn't have the slightest idea what to look for? Maybe he could arrange to have an FBI pathologist flown in. Five hours later, Mulder and Krycek were sitting in a booth at a local coffee shop having lunch. Or rather, Mulder was having lunch. Krycek was sipping coffee and staring rather sickly at Mulder's grilled cheese sandwich. Mulder had been tempted to order French dip, but kindly refrained, knowing poor Krycek's stomach would have been sorely tried by the sight and smell of dripping meat. Now he was beginning to wonder if he should have eaten anything at all. They still had to talk about the case. Much as he would have liked to put it all aside, they were here to do a job, and Krycek was going to have to learn to deal with it. "The pattern is just the same as with all the others," Mulder began. "There were rope fibers in her wrists and ankles, showing where she had been tied. She was probably suspended in some sort of frame, so he could reach all parts of her body at once. There's no evidence of any sort of gag being used, or drugs. The histamine level in the wounds indicates that she was alive for hours after the ordeal began. "What does that tell you, Alex?" Get him thinking. Get him looking at it like a puzzle, something to solve, not just a horrible, frightening tragedy. "Uh... he's got some sort of special place set up to do it. He... he can't just grab them and kill them on the spot, he has to take them somewhere. Someplace he can tie them and... where the blood won't be noticed. Or the screams. So it's isolated. A place out in the woods. On his own property, where he knows he won't be disturbed." Krycek's voice had gotten gradually stronger as he spoke. Good, he was beginning to overcome his discomfort. And his conclusions were all logical and most likely correct. Of course, it was all pretty straightforward so far. Anyone could have figured this much, with simple logic. But then, that's what it all was--logic and experience. Krycek didn't have the experience yet, but he had a good, rational mind. Mulder could lead him through the analysis, and time would take care of the rest. "Okay. And the lack of drugs or head trauma or other injuries, what does that tell you?" Krycek shook his head. "I don't know. Well, he ties them up. But he doesn't knock them out first. So he must be strong. He overpowers them physically. Or he threatens them, somehow, with a knife or a gun or something...." "Right. And you said he's got some isolated, private place where he does it...?" "Oh, I see what you mean. He's got to lure them out there somehow. He doesn't just jump out of the bushes and grab them. Or if he does, he... he has to keep them under control until he gets them to the location where he ties them up. So... so... hell, I don't know, Mulder. What does it mean?" Mulder grinned. "It means he has a certain amount of self-confidence. He's a charmer, someone who can put up a good front, someone who's not so afraid of his quarry getting away that he has to kill them or knock them unconscious the minute he gets them." Krycek took a deep breath. "Okay, I can see that. He likes them conscious while he's killing them, too. He wants to hear them scream, and watch them struggle...." "Right," Mulder agreed briskly. "And then what does he do with the bodies?" "He dumps them in different locations. Oh, okay, he transports them to the dump sites. He has a truck or something." He laughed humorlessly. "A red one, probably." "You're probably right," Mulder agreed. "A late-model pickup. A big one. And red." Krycek eyed him suspiciously. "You're kidding, right?" "Actually, I'm not. What I am doing is showing off." Krycek giggled. And it was very sweet to hear that charming giggle again, finally. "So, what's the license plate number, Mulder? Let's put this guy away and go home." "I wish. I'm not quite that good, yet." Krycek frowned thoughtfully, tracing patterns on his placemat with the tip of his spoon. "He finds them somewhere. At a store, on the street. He strikes up a conversation. He talks them into going with him. When they get to his place, he overpowers them and ties them up. He... he cuts them up. When they're dead, he puts them in his truck and takes the bodies out to the hills and dumps them. So. Is there blood in the back of the truck?" "Yes. But he probably hoses it down when he gets it home. There'll be traces left for evidence once we find him, but we're not going to be able to spot some truck with buckets of blood in the back, and arrest him that way." "Is there even that much blood left in them by the time he hauls them off? Maybe he leaves the bodies in the rack overnight to drain." He had it all the way out before the impact of what he was saying hit him. His face twisted unhappily. "Maybe," Mulder answered quickly. "Anyway, the blood in the truck isn't going to help us until after we've caught him." "Well, what is going to help us?" "You left one thing out of your scenario. How does he pick them?" "Is there any connection between the women? Do they all go to the same stores, take the same classes? Did they all recently meet a new boyfriend?" "No, no, and no," Mulder grinned, "But those are good questions. So far, the only thing all the women have in common is...." He waited for Krycek to fill in the answer. "The blood thing." Krycek's face had a look of pained distaste. Mulder grinned, shaking his head. "Alex, it's a perfectly natural biological function." "Yeah, yeah." Mulder sighed. "It's also a vital part of this case. You're going to have to deal with it." Krycek sipped his coffee, took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. Okay. So, you said maybe he works in a store where he sees them buying...." "Tampons. Menstrual pads. That's one possibility. Although the victims didn't really live close enough to each other that they'd be likely to have gone to the same drug store for their personal products." "Then how...?" "Think about it. How could he have known?" "Hell. He's a blood-sniffing alien." Mulder grinned. "Okay. That's one possibility. What else?" "Maybe... he asks them." "Good. That's good. Anything else?" "Mulder, you're not serious." "Well, I'm sure he doesn't just go up to random women and say, 'Excuse me, but are you menstruating?' But he could strike up a conversation, work it in somehow." "You seriously think a woman would tell a guy something like that?" "Maybe. Some would. Not every woman. Not every time." "Yeah, but, jeez, Mulder. Okay, he's got a twenty-five percent chance of picking one he wants at random in the first place. Then maybe, say, three quarters of those are busy or not interested or lesbians or whatever, and they just blow him off. So you're down to, what, six percent? And of those, how many are going to say, 'yeah, I'm menstruating,' no matter how delicately he phrases it? Be generous and say half, and you're still down to maybe three percent of all the women he hits on. And this guy's doing a woman on average once a month? He'd have to be trolling pretty much constantly to be catching that many." Mulder grinned. he wanted to say. He loved the spark in those huge stormy-sea green eyes when Krycek got on a roll. "Actually, if he tried one a day, according to your analysis, he'd catch one on average once every thirty-three days. Give him twice on Sundays, and...." "Jeez. Do you really think that's how he's doing it?" "No, not really. Something this important to him, he'll have a better way of finding the ones he wants." "The ones he wants... suppose it isn't the ones he wants. Suppose it's the opposite. He meets a woman, he's fine, they get along fine, and then one day he finds a used pad in his bathroom wastebasket and goes ballistic." Mulder nodded slowly. "Okay. That's okay... except it means he's picking up a new girlfriend almost immediately on killing the last one. But that could be." He smiled encouragingly. "That's a good idea, Alex. See, I told you you'd be good at this." Krycek stared into his coffee cup and smiled tightly. "Maybe. I still don't see how it helps us catch the guy." "Anything can help. It's all part of the big picture. Okay, we've thought about it from the killer's point of view. Now let's look at it from the other side." Krycek stared warily. "The other side?" "The victim. To see the whole picture, we have to look at it from her point of view, too." This was going to be harder, and he'd have to be careful not to push Krycek too hard. Krycek blinked, then swallowed, stretching his neck slightly the way he did when he was mentally preparing himself for some task. "The victim. Okay. She's a schoolteacher. She lives... lived in Livingston and worked in Bozeman. Twenty-eight years old. Native American... Mulder, don't serial killers usually hunt within their own racial group?" "Yes." Clever boy, to have picked up on that. "There are a couple of possibilities here. One, he's having a hard time finding the right women, so he's had to widen the parameters of his search." "Or maybe he just doesn't think of them as another race. If he grew up around here, he's lived around Native Americans all his life, maybe he doesn't see them as different." "Or he could be Native American himself." "Do you think so?" "Possibly. But I doubt it, really. I think your idea is most likely to be right." "Really?" A hint of a pleased smile, quickly covered by another sip of coffee. Mulder gestured to the waitress for more coffee, smiling to himself. He loved the way Krycek tried to hide his smiles, embarrassed to be so pleased by Mulder's approval. It was terribly sweet. He almost regretted having to season that innocence out of him--he would hate to lose those reluctant smiles. But would he? As Scully had pointed out, Krycek was thirty years old. He was fairly green as an agent, but he wasn't a child. Perhaps those smiles were just part of his nature, a shyness he wouldn't outgrow. "Yeah, really." There was a rush of affection in his voice he couldn't quite tame. Krycek stared, then blushed a brilliant red. "Excuse me." He jumped rather precipitously up from the table and rushed off to the restroom. Mulder hid his face behind his hand and laughed softly. And thought about last night, and that fine, strong body naked and willing and pliant under his. With any luck, the case would stretch on for days, and he'd have more nights to enjoy and explore that sweet body.... With _luck_--what was he thinking? This case should be wrapped us just as quickly as he and everyone else working on it could possibly do it. And leave poor Krycek alone, for god's sake. The guy was his partner, and he was in love with Mulder, and this was tearing him apart. Leave him the fuck alone. When Krycek returned from the bathroom, he was all business. "Okay, the victim. She was last seen Friday afternoon, right? At her last class of the day." "Right. She had no plans for that night that anyone knew of. She was supposed to meet a friend Saturday night, but she didn't show up. The friend thought it was unusual, but didn't think to report it. It wasn't until she didn't show up for work Monday morning that the police were notified." "The body wasn't found until Wednesday. But she was probably killed Friday night, or Saturday morning. So... maybe she stopped somewhere on her way home from work." "She wasn't known to frequent bars." "Or to pick up strangers." "So where did she stop?" "Well...." Krycek leaned his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "It could be like you said. She stopped in at a drug store for... tampons or something, and he spotted her there." Mulder nodded. "And then?" "He struck up a conversation. He charmed her. He talked her into going out for a drink with him, or to dinner." He frowned. "What?" "I don't know. It doesn't seem right. She was a schoolteacher. Would she really go home with a total stranger, no matter how charming he was?" Mulder grinned. "Obviously, you've never seen _Looking for Mr. Goodbar_." Krycek grimaced, then laughed weakly. "Okay, I'm not quite that naive. People take stupid risks. Even schoolteachers. And ninety-eight percent of charming strangers are just charming strangers, not psycho killers. But it still doesn't feel right. Not that that means a hell of a lot." "It does. Instincts are important. Think about it, though. Why doesn't it feel right?" Krycek put his head in his hands and groaned. "I don't know, Mulder. Look, this isn't helping. You know all this stuff already, you don't need me to tell you anything." All right, Mulder had pushed him far enough. God, he looked tired. And his hands were beginning to shake from drinking so much coffee on an empty stomach. "Alex, you're wrong," he said softly. "It does help to talk to you about it. But we can stop now. You really should try to eat something. Have some soup, at least." Krycek smiled faintly. "Okay, mother." Mulder was careful to keep the conversation pleasant and neutral while Krycek slowly worked on a bowl of barley beef soup. He didn't look like he was enjoying it much, but at least his hands stopped trembling and a little bit of color came back into his face as he ate. Finally, Krycek put his spoon down. Mulder had to bite back the urge to fuss at him to finish his soup. He waited, sipping his own coffee, while Krycek stared out the window. "Mulder, have you ever killed anyone?" The question was abrupt. Krycek didn't turn from the window. "Yes. A man named John Barnett. He'd killed a lot of people, and was about to kill someone else." "How do you feel about it?" Still staring blankly out the window. The flatness in his voice belied the importance of the question. "It was necessary. He had to be stopped. I only wish I'd done it sooner, before more people died." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but was not entirely successful. Reggie was one of those people who'd died. And others, agents he knew. "Ideally, we'd never have to kill anyone, but it's not an ideal world." "Would you kill this guy?" "If I had to. But it won't be necessary. We're just here to help the local police do their job. What about you, Alex? You killed Augustus Cole. How do you feel about that?" It was a risk--Krycek had been very upset when he'd discovered that the ex-Marine didn't have a gun, he was just using his ability to form images in people's minds to trick Krycek into killing him. He'd made the mandated visits to one of the Bureau's counselors, but he'd never spoken of the incident afterwards. "He made me do it. He was just using me to commit suicide. He wanted to die." "But how do you feel about it?" Krycek shrugged. "I don't like being used." "But you didn't know that at the time. What if he had had a gun?" "I thought he was going to kill you. I was trying to protect you." He stared into his soup. His tone was studied, casual--but the slight roughness betrayed his emotion. "I'd do it again." Mulder smiled. "I wouldn't want a partner who wouldn't." A slight, wry smile answered him. Then, "Do you believe in the death penalty?" "Yes, in certain circumstances. For people like this. The John Barnetts and Jeffrey Dahmers and John Wayne Gacys of the world. Men like these... you can't cure them or rehabilitate them. They are so damaged, they'll never be able to lead any sort of normal life. And the crimes they commit horrify and violate society on the deepest, most basic levels. I think society has a right to destroy them." Mulder found his hand tightening on his coffee cup. It wasn't something that was easy for him to talk about. He hadn't always held this belief--he had the greatest respect for human life, and state-sanctioned killing was not something to be taken lightly or supported without thorough thought and consideration. But he'd seen too much horror in his days with the Behavioral Science Unit. Too many crimes that made his blood run cold and filled his rare sleep with dread disturbing dreams. He'd finally come to believe that the world would just be better off without some of these people in it. "What about you?" "I don't know. I suppose I do. Although, if you put them away where they can't do any harm, that should be just as good as killing them." "I'm not sure I think that true evil can be contained by concrete and steel. Maybe they do harm just by existing." Krycek chewed on his lower lip. Which reminded Mulder of the taste and feel of those round, moist lips. It was a strangely erotic situation--discussing death with the youthful partner who'd lain so sweetly beneath him last night. Sex and death and love and forbidden desire--it was a poignant and heady combination. Perhaps he just couldn't resist eroticizing everything. With Scully, the sexual dynamic had been implicit in their relationship, just by their being male and female. With a male partner, the eroticism had to be more explicitly stated. Or perhaps he was, as usual, overanalyzing everything. "So it's all right to kill someone who's truly evil," Krycek said, frowning. He was working his way to something; it seemed he was testing his own beliefs of when killing could be justified. "Or to protect someone else. What about the classic hypothetical question--if you had the chance to go back in time and kill Hitler, would you do it?" Mulder sat back and took a deep breath. "No, I don't think so. How could you know you wouldn't just make things worse somehow? Maybe if you put Hitler out of the way, he'd just be replaced by someone else. Someone who'd win the war instead of losing it. I wouldn't want to mess around with the time stream." "So it wouldn't be because you thought it was wrong to kill him before he'd actually done anything. It would be because you were afraid of making things worse." Mulder suppressed a grin. He loved it when Krycek got on one of these kicks. Digging, asking questions, poking and worrying at a subject until he'd dissected it to his satisfaction. "Theoretically, I'd say it was wrong to punish someone for a crime they hadn't yet committed. But if you could time travel, that wouldn't really apply. It would have already happened." "But there'd be no due process. Unless you're talking about a time court that passes judgment after the fact, and then goes back in time to pass sentence." Mulder grinned. "I like that idea. But I doubt it would fly, for the other reason. You don't know what you might be making worse by killing someone before his time." "So you don't think it would be right to kill someone to prevent him from doing something horrible, unless you had certain future knowledge of his actions." "Well, that's relative, too, isn't it? I mean, when you see someone pointing a gun at someone else, you don't have certain knowledge that he's going to shoot. But you have a reasonable assumption that he's putting lives in danger, and you're justified in stopping him any way you can." "But what if the weapon isn't that obvious? The guy isn't standing there pointing a gun at someone, but he's doing something that you know will have dire consequences. Are you justified in stopping him then?" He looked so earnest, leaning forward with his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. He had a way of doing that, leaning over so that he had to look up at Mulder, enormous wide eyes staring intently from under long, dark lashes. came the unbidden thought. Stripped him of that ridiculous suit, unbuttoned the crisp white shirt, slid a hand between the firm, round buttocks. God, he wanted to do it again. Right here and now. "What about due process? Why do you have to kill him? Why don't you just arrest him?" Krycek sat back and gave himself a shake, staring out the window. "I don't know. Suppose there's some reason you can't bring him up on charges. Suppose what he's doing isn't even illegal. But if he isn't stopped, he'll set in motion a chain of events that will result in hundreds of deaths. Thousands. And there's nothing else you can do." Mulder shook his head. "I don't know, Alex, I think you've been reading too much Tom Clancy. This is all just too hypothetical." "Yeah. But do you think there could ever be a situation like that, where you thought it was justified to just kill someone?" Mulder shrugged. "It's impossible to say. Maybe. Why are you worrying about this, anyway? What does it have to do with our killer?" Krycek suddenly became very intent on finishing his soup. "Nothing, Mulder. I'm just flying off on a tangent, as usual." "Yeah, okay. I think it's about time we got back to work. You going to be all right?" "Sure. I'm all right." Mulder was far from convinced. But there was nothing more he could do. Five women. Ordinary women, living ordinary lives. Working, spending time with friends, participating in hobbies. They shopped, they telephoned their mothers, they watched television and balanced their checkbooks. And then one day they walked out of their jobs, or left their homes, and disappeared--only to reappear two days, four days, a week later, nude and sliced to ribbons, unceremoniously dumped behind a bush, reduced to a mass of reddened, bleeding flesh. Friends and family stood with their arms spread in stunned disbelief. Local cops, accustomed to breaking up bar fights and stopping rowdy teenagers from shooting out traffic lights, shook their heads, protesting that this sort of thing didn't happen out here. Mulder soothed and sympathized and sifted through the evidence, mentally cursing the inadequate autopsies and careless procedures. Still, a picture began to form of the man in his mind. A mature man. Mid-thirties. Self-confident, strong, charming. Familiar with the area. A local man; someone who blended in. He might have been married in the past, but now he lived alone. People who knew him would say he seemed nice, but he always kept to himself. Mulder could almost see the man's smile in his mind: secret, knowing, charismatic. Mulder asked the man in his mind. What did it mean to him to make these women bleed? Bleeding women, bleeding.... Mulder found himself slipping into the mindset. He was on the hunt, testing the air, studying the tracks. His quarry was coming clearer, but it still wasn't enough. Not enough to say, "This is the man. Here's your killer." He needed something more, and it all had to do with the blood. Krycek stuck it out, face grim and set, scribbling on his notepad, sharp mind collecting the details. He didn't have the mindset, not yet, but he was getting there. He'd settled down after lunch and appeared to be handling it well. He was doing his best, but he didn't have the tools he needed to go where Mulder was going. He had the potential, though. Mulder had a feeling that if Krycek decided to go with this kind of work, he could be the next bright young hotshot for Behavioral Sciences. Mulder felt a kind of possessive pride in Krycek's purposeful intensity. My junior agent. My protege. My lover. It was late again when they finally stopped for the day. Mulder was determined this time that Krycek should eat a full meal, whether he wanted it or not. He was still pale and tended to waver at odd moments when his determination slacked. Mulder chose McDonald's, knowing that Krycek ate there often, hoping the familiar food would appeal to his shaky appetite. And it worked--or else Krycek had gone without food long enough, or calmed down enough, to finally be hungry. He wolfed down a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate shake, and Mulder watched him with relief while he ate his own dinner. It was after ten by the time they returned to their hotel. Still on Washington time, and exhausted by the horrific work they were doing, they were both yawning when they reached their rooms. Mulder followed Krycek into his room, intending only to offer a few words of encouragement before going to his own room. But the moment the door closed behind him, Krycek turned and threw himself into Mulder's arms, with a savagery that took Mulder by surprise. "Alex...?" Krycek pushed him away, and stood staring at him wildly. It was the cold, fey beauty again--or no, not cold this time, but red hot. Hard and strange and desperate--for what, Mulder didn't know. "Fuck me." It was almost a profanity. Krycek's eyes were wide and swallowed up by the black pupils. "Alex, take it easy," Mulder soothed, reaching out a hand to stroke Krycek's arm. Krycek shook it off. "No! Not like this. Not easy. Fuck me hard." Mulder took a short step back. It had all been too much for Krycek after all, and he couldn't hold it in any longer. He wanted to drown it in sex--that was all right with Mulder, but first he needed to quiet this desperate creature. "Alex--" He reached out again. Krycek flinched away from his touch. "Hurt me, Mulder. Hit me. I can't stand it like this." His eyes were unfocused. There was a pleading tone in his voice, wavering towards hysteria. "Alex, stop it. I'm not going to hit you." He gripped Krycek's arm firmly this time. "I know you're upset, but this isn't the way. Just settle down...." Krycek whirled away, and stepped forward to stand facing the wall. "God damn it, Mulder, why can't you just fuck me?" He was nearly shouting. "Shhh!" Mulder hissed. "For god's sake, Alex, the walls are paper thin in here. Get a grip on yourself." He stepped up to Krycek and slid his arms around him, holding him tightly, one arm around his waist, the other around his chest. His body was stiff and trembling. Mulder felt that he was gripping a quicksilver spirit; elusive and mysterious who lived within this man, outwardly a child-man, sweet and innocent--but somewhere inside was this troubled, roiling creature. Krycek remained resistant, but didn't try to break away. Mulder felt the chest heaving; felt the heat radiating from him. Mulder kissed the back of his neck, nibbled on one earlobe. "It's all right, Alex. It's all right. Just let me hold you." He began to pull Krycek toward the bed. "I want to make love to you. I don't want to hurt you." He turned Krycek around and kissed him, gently at first, just brushing his mouth against his partner's, then sliding his tongue between Krycek's lips. Finally, the resistance collapsed. "Oh, god, Mulder. You don't know what you're doing to me," Krycek moaned, as he melted into Mulder's arms. Mulder hadn't planned it, and it wasn't the way he'd have wanted it if he had planned it, but Krycek was begging to be taken. It could only make things worse to refuse him now. Anyway, Mulder didn't want to refuse him. He wanted to hold him and reassure him and make him feel better. And he wanted to fuck him, so he would. After this case was over, they would have to talk. Sort out Krycek's feelings, whatever they were, and Mulder's, whatever they were, and decide if this relationship was something they wanted to continue. Meanwhile, they were already in it, and one more fucking more or less wasn't going to change the world. But it sure would feel good. Krycek lay with his hands over his head, gripping one arm tightly by the wrist, while Mulder tongued one hard, brown nipple and worked two fingers within Krycek's anus. Mulder had almost been afraid to go back to his room for the condoms and lubricant, wondering what Krycek might turn into while he was gone, but he'd found Krycek just as he'd left him--lying on his back, naked, biting his lower lip and looking up at Mulder with a strange combination of lust and weary desolation. He'd kissed Krycek until the tears ran down his face--and made up his mind to believe that Krycek just cried when he was overcome with passion--and then he'd set about searching out every sensitive spot on Krycek's body. He was determined that this time he wasn't going to come while Krycek was still cold. He ignored the urgency in his own cock, cupping Krycek's balls in his palm while his fingers explored the moist, heated recesses of Krycek's body. He couldn't really say why it meant so much to him to be able to have Krycek this way. Why he felt the crushing need to penetrate and possess this man; why making Krycek whimper with pleasure from his touch filled Mulder with almost unbearable desire. His cock throbbed with it; his heart pounded; his loins burned. How could he honestly tell himself he would ever be able to deny himself this? He released Krycek and leaned back on his heels, gasping for breath. Krycek's left nipple glistened with Mulder's saliva. His hard cock lay along his belly, one ropy vein tracing a path along its length, swollen dark with need. Mulder wondered what it would feel like to have it inside him. Some day he would have to find out--but not tonight. Tonight, Alex had demanded, And there was nothing Mulder wanted more than to oblige him. Mulder reached for the condom and began to roll it on. Front, this time, he thought. So he could watch those wild eyes while his cock plundered the body. Taste Krycek's pleasure in it on his mouth; swallow his moans. Mulder took Krycek's knees in his hands and lifted them, pressing them against his chest. The thick-lashed aqua eyes were wide and hazy. Watching Krycek's face all the while, Mulder spread more of the cool, slippery KY onto Krycek's anus. Krycek's eyelids fluttered shut at the touch, and his hands came up to grip his knees, holding his body open to Mulder's approach. Then, at last, Mulder settled his body over Krycek's, and began to ease his cock inside him. He slid in smoothly, meeting only the smallest resistance. It troubled him, ever so slightly. He was no expert in these matters, but could Krycek really be as inexperienced as he seemed? He wasn't sure how much fucking it took to accustom a body to being penetrated this easily, but Mulder knew that he himself was not capable of it. He didn't like to think that other men's cocks had been where his was now. He wanted this man for himself. Well, Krycek had told him he'd had sex with men before--Mulder couldn't say he'd been lied to, but he'd been taken in by Krycek's innocent appearance. Or, to be honest, he'd wanted to believe in it, despite evidence to the contrary. Never mind that. Krycek was his now; no one else would have him. He had to resist the urge to spell it out to Krycek: He forced the fierceness to subside, searching out the loving tenderness he'd felt earlier, kissing Krycek's full, round lips and moving his cock slowly within him. Krycek didn't need a demanding lover right now, after what he'd been through. He needed to be soothed and treated gently. He loved the little noises Krycek made when he was overcome with passion. He loved the feel of Krycek's mouth on his neck, and Krycek's arms around his back, fingernails digging into his shoulders. It was so tempting to forget himself and pound into Krycek savagely. He had to fight to keep his thrusts gentle and easy. It would make it last longer, anyway, and he was determined that Krycek would come while he was still inside him. So he bit his own lip and held onto his control, concentrating on the incredible feel of Krycek's tight ass stroking the length of his cock. He could feel Krycek's passion growing--chest heaving, hands clutching, hips thrusting, hard cock sliding against Mulder's sweating belly--and that was good. Finally, everything was going to be perfect. Then Krycek cried out, with a strange, wailing moan, and arched up into Mulder's body, and his semen flowed out between them, hot and sticky and wet. Mulder felt the tight passage pulsing on his cock, and it was so sweet he fell onto Krycek and groaned, and then finally he gave up and let his body move as it willed, plunging his cock hard and deep. Each thrust elicited another squeaky cry from Krycek, driving Mulder right out of his mind, so that nothing mattered any longer except fucking Krycek, until his own orgasm took him, fierce and hot. They lay in a sweaty, tangled heap. Mulder never wanted to move again. But his cock was going soft, and he had to get rid of the condom, and Krycek couldn't be comfortable twisted up under Mulder as he was, although he wasn't complaining. He yawned and pulled himself up, peeling the condom free and tossing it into the trash. He waited while Krycek rearranged himself, then settled beside him, one arm around his chest. Krycek squirmed against him, sighing. But the sigh was not pure contentment. There was also sadness in it. Mulder pulled him closer and spoke softly into his ear. "Alex, is everything okay?" "Yeah." It was not entirely convincing, but Mulder decided not to pursue it. But that wouldn't be fair. He kissed Krycek's shoulder. "I guess we should get some sleep." "Did you put up the 'Do Not Disturb' signs?" Mulder grinned. "How did that get to be my job?" "Senior agent. Buys condoms, sets alarms. Puts up 'Do Not Disturb' signs." His voice was heavy with impending sleep. And Mulder didn't have the heart to make him stir. "That wasn't in my job description." But he was already getting up to go perform the evening chores. And there was something calmly reassuring about it--on only the second evening, there was already a nightly ritual to their togetherness. He briefly considered taking a shower before returning to Krycek's bed, but decided he wanted Krycek's body pressed against his more than he wanted to be clean. He slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up around them. "Good night, Alex." "Shut up, Mulder." Mulder chuckled, and fell asleep. Some time later, Mulder woke from a light doze, aware of Krycek shifting, fighting free of the tangled sheet, then settling onto his stomach with his face in his pillow. He smiled, and moved closer, covering Krycek's shoulders with his arm. Once this case was over, and they'd gone back to D.C., they would have to deal with the reality of their situation. There would be hard discussion, some pain, perhaps some joy. They would end it, or they would figure out how to conduct a forbidden affair, with all the danger to their careers it would entail. In any case, this sweet idyll would end. But Mulder meant to make the most of it, while it lasted. He kissed Krycek's ear, running his tongue along the delicate folds. Krycek tried to hide his giggles in the pillow. "Having trouble sleeping?" he mumbled into that ear. He ran a hand down Krycek's back, to cup one of the smooth, round buttocks. Front was nice, but back was better. He liked the firm cushion of Krycek's bottom under his groin. It had to be more comfortable for Krycek, not to have his knees jammed against his chest. It gave them both more freedom of movement. And here was Krycek, already laid out for the taking. And already heating under his caresses. "You need something to help you relax," he murmured. Then he slid onto Krycek's back, kissing his neck. There might well be disaster looming on the horizon, but for now, for however long it lasted, Krycek was his. Another day, and no closer to a solution. Mulder was starting to feel useless and depressed himself. He was supposed to be the FBI's best and brightest. He was supposed to be able to conjure up stunningly accurate profiles out of wind and will o'the wisps. He was not supposed to helplessly stand by while days passed and the probability of another murder grew. And he was most certainly not supposed to be spinning his mental wheels obsessing over his partner instead of concentrating on the case. And Krycek was in no better shape. His mood shifted wildly, from nearly giddy cheerfulness to irritated impatience to grim horror. Obviously, the sex was only adding to his stress, not helping him to deal with it. But what was Mulder supposed to do? It was Krycek who'd asked for it last night. Mulder had tried to be as considerate as he could. He just didn't know what else to do. The only new development in the case was the discovery of the latest victim's dog, howling mournfully outside the door of her house. Where the dog had spent the last five days, no one knew. If they could ask the dog, no doubt it could lead them to the killer, but the dog just whimpered unhappily and pined after its lost mistress. Watching the dog huddled in its cage at the local pound seemed to upset Krycek nearly as much as the autopsy had done. He clutched the chickenwire walls of the pen, swallowing repeatedly, leaning in toward the grieving dog, as though he were the one in a cage. They decided to skip lunch and go on working, opting instead for an early dinner at the diner where they'd eaten lunch the day before. Krycek glared at his menu as if it were taunting him, and ordered the Blue Plate special without even asking what it was. Mulder, not to be outdone, did the same. Mulder sipped his coffee and wondered whether either of them would be able to eat. "So wherever she was when he got to her, she must have had her dog with her." It wasn't much to go on, but it was another piece to add to the puzzle. "Did the other women have dogs?" Krycek leaned forward with the heel of his hand on his forehead, speaking with a world-weary tone. "Only one. Her dog was found at home, safe and sound." "At least he didn't kill the dog. Who's going to take care of it now?" "Someone will take it." "Are you sure?" Mulder smiled gently. "I'm sure. People will feel sorry for the dog. They'll be lined up to take it." Krycek nodded. It seemed to make him feel better, and Mulder was glad. God, he wished this case was over. He'd seen worse himself, certainly, but he'd never had to watch a partner suffer through one like this. Had he ever been this green? He supposed he must have, but at least he'd had the Behavioral Sciences training before he'd worked his first serial murder case. He'd chosen this work, and he'd gone into it with his eyes open and with as much preparation as the Academy could give. And he hadn't been sleeping with his partner, either. Damn it, he should have gone to Skinner and insisted that Krycek be taken off the case. "Do you think he drinks their blood?" Krycek asked suddenly. "What?" Now where the hell had that come from? "I don't know. Do you think he thinks he's some kind of vampire?" Krycek shrugged. "Well, he sure loves blood." There was something almost endearing about the flat, exaggeratedly hopeless tone of his voice. Mulder grinned. "Probably drinks Bloody Marys." A slight smile quirked at the corners of Krycek's mouth. "And eats blood sausage." "His favorite movie is _Theatre of Blood_." "_Blood Feast_." "_Blood Wedding_." Mulder's response was rapid-fire. Krycek giggled. "_Bloody Mama_." God, it was good to hear that giggle again, even if there was a slight edge of hysteria to it. "Wears bloodstone jewelry." "Raises bloodhounds." "What?" Mulder froze, felt his eyes widen. Could it be? Krycek frowned suspiciously, afraid he'd said something wrong. "What do you mean?" "A bloodhound--he could be using a bloodhound to find the women. Or some kind of hunting dog." "You're not serious." "A bloodhound has an extremely keen sense of smell. And can be trained to hunt just about anything." Mulder leaned forward, grinning. "Think about it. All he'd have to do is take his dog out for a walk, and the dog would point out the right women to him." Krycek's face was a mask of thrilled horror. "He trained his dog to hunt menstruating women?" "Alex, it's perfect. The dog runs up to a woman, barking, and he knows he's got a target. Then he apologizes, tells her the dog doesn't usually do that--and she can see the dog's ignored everyone else around--so he must really like her. He's got a great conversation starter, as well as a surefire way to identify potential victims." Krycek shook his head in wonder. "Yeah, but Mulder. How is he going to train the dog in the first place? I mean, he has to have... something to train it with." Mulder nibbled his knuckle and thought about it. He was right, he could feel it in his bones. He was this close to nailing the killer, he just had to be careful and fill in all the details. "He has to have had access to menstrual blood at one time. Mother, a sister, a girlfriend, a wife...." "You think he's married?" "Not now. He needs privacy for the things he does. And the depth of the fantasy--the intricacy, the details--he's expending a lot of energy on his hunt. Probably doesn't have time for even the pretense of another relationship. But he's been married, I'm sure of it. The breakup of the marriage might be the stressor that sent him over the edge and made him start killing. But it had been brewing for a long time." "Then he's probably got some kind of record, doesn't he? Or his ex-wife, at least, knows there's something wrong with him." Krycek's eyes were bright--he was starting to get the feel for it; starting to slip into the mindset. Yes, he had the talent for it, if he could get over the emotional trauma of dealing with these kinds of cases. Mulder was inordinately pleased to see it. "I don't think he has a violent history. His method is very careful and precise. He doesn't slash the women angrily, or beat them. He's very controlled and ritualistic. He doesn't get excited while he's committing the murders, he goes into a fugue state and stays emotionally flat. And his wife probably thinks he's a cold bastard, but would never think of him as a killer." Krycek sighed. "So how is it going to help find him? Around here, everybody and his brother has a dog." Mulder smiled. "He's talked to the police, insinuated himself into the investigation somehow. Maybe offered to help. He's gloating. When I take our profile to the police, someone is going to say, 'Hey, that's So-and-So.' And we'll have our UNSUB." And that was exactly what happened. It was Detective Hawkins who listened in something like awe as Mulder rattled off all the characteristics he thought the killer would have--early to mid-thirties, recently divorced, large red pickup truck, hunting dog, isolated home, smooth, charming personality--until finally he broke in, "That sounds just like Ed Vanson!" Vanson, Hawkins told them, was a carpenter who lived in an old ramshackle house off of Route 89 near Livingston. He was thirty-three, had an old hound named Red who went with him everywhere, and everyone had joked about the way he'd finally cleaned up the bed of his pickup after his wife had packed up and gone home to Colorado five months ago. Just before the first of the murders had started. "But it couldn't be Ed. He's a great guy, everyone likes him...." "Except his wife," Krycek muttered. "I wonder if she's really in Colorado?" Hawkins turned sickly pale. "You think...?" "I think you should bring him in," Mulder interposed smoothly. They had five real murders already; they didn't need to start speculating on a sixth--yet. "And search his place. It shouldn't be hard to come up with solid evidence. There will be some sort of rack he used to immobilize his victims, and a lot of blood on the ground beneath it. He'll have kept souvenirs--articles of the women's clothing, probably, since none of their clothes have been discovered. A journal or map or something, recording the murders. And, of course, the implements he used to cut them." "How... how are we supposed to get a search warrant?" Hawkins had a dazed look. "Based on the profile. It's been done before. I can cite cases for your judge in which FBI profiles have been used to obtain search warrants." Hawkins swallowed, and nodded. "We'd better get it in writing, then. You can dictate it to my secretary." It took several hours to get the search warrant. While they waited, Mulder outlined strategies for the interrogation with Detective Hawkins. "It probably won't be vital to your case to obtain a confession, since I'm certain there will be physical evidence at Vanson's home. But it's always better to have one, if you can, especially with a popular, charming suspect like this, who people aren't going to want to believe is guilty." Hawkins stared off into space, still unbelieving himself. "He came to us after the first girl was killed. He knew her, he said. Not well, but he'd done a couple of jobs at her place. Said it was such a tragedy, and if there was anything he could do.... It just never occurred to any of us that he might have been the one. Are you sure, Agent Mulder? I sure wouldn't like to go out there and arrest Ed and turn his place upside down, and find out it was a mistake." "He fits the profile. There could be someone else who fits it just as well, but I think you'd know it if there was. And whoever it is, it's going to be someone you'd feel that way about." "I remember he came in here after the second murder, too. Said he was almost glad his wife was gone, with all this going on, he wouldn't feel she was safe. And--it was the damnedest thing--that old hound of his made such a fuss over my secretary, Lucy. Howled and tried to crawl right into her lap. He'd never done such a thing before or since. And Ed laughed and said the dog was going crazy in his old age, and had to put him out in his truck.... Are you sure, Agent Mulder?" Mulder and Krycek exchanged a look. Krycek's face was grim. Mulder turned back to Hawkins. "I'm sure." They waited it out in the hotel coffee shop, drinking cup after cup of strong coffee, too wound up to eat even though they'd never gotten around to dinner. Krycek sat tapping his spoon on the place mat, staring out the window. Mulder sat staring at Krycek, considering how impossible it was to ever really know what was going on in another person's mind. Mulder's cellular rang. Vanson had smiled at the police officers who'd come to arrest him. "So you caught me," he'd said, and then went silent, refusing to say another word. They'd found it all just as Mulder had predicted: the rack, constructed out of an old iron bedframe, in a shed out back, the hard-packed dirt beneath it dark with blood. The women's clothing, neatly folded, in a chest of drawers in the corner. A map on the wall, with five red-tipped pins marking spots along I 90 between Billings and Bozeman. A collection of knives and straight razors, polished and shiny, on top of the chest of drawers. And in the freezer of an old refrigerator, five small freezer bags full of blood, each neatly labelled with the name of the woman and the date of her death. They celebrated with chocolate sundaes. Krycek was quiet and thoughtful, but tended to burst into giggles at odd moments. The talk was desultory and apropos of nothing. Mulder was content to bask in the glow of a successful conclusion to a harrowing case, and let the silences lengthen, smiling to himself, and joining Krycek in his occasional giggling fits. They could have packed up and headed for the airport immediately, but it was already late, and Mulder was in no hurry to end their stay. One more night in Montana. One more night in Krycek's bed, then tomorrow back to Washington and reality. Would it be possible to continue the affair once they'd returned home? Krycek was reluctant, that was obvious, but would Mulder be able to reassure his fears, whatever they were, and find a way to make it work? There wasn't really that much danger of being discovered, as long as they were reasonably discreet. It would actually be easier than carrying on an affair with Scully would have been--there had been gossip about them, just because they were male and female, but no one would think anything of it if he and Krycek spent time together outside of office hours. If they could refrain from kissing each other in the elevators or slipping into the broom closets for a quick grope, there shouldn't be any problem. The real problem, of course, was that little confession Krycek had made on their first night here. Anguished declarations of love. Krycek wanted more than he thought Mulder could give. And perhaps he was right. But if he really was gay, he'd know damn well that he wasn't going to be able to be open about his relationships and keep his job. Wouldn't it be better if he was with someone who was in the same position, who wouldn't complain about not being able to live together or kiss him in public? Really, what Mulder was offering would be the best thing for him--partnership, friendship, hot sex, no demands. He'd have to see that. Mulder would talk to him about it. Tomorrow. Tonight Mulder was sick of talking, sick of thinking. He wanted to forget everything except Krycek's heat, Krycek's firm body, Krycek's sweet moans, and Krycek's pliant ass. He followed Krycek into his hotel room, and pulled him into his arms as soon as the door closed behind them. Krycek didn't pull away, but he didn't return the embrace either, he simply stood with his hands resting lightly on Mulder's waist. He closed his eyes when Mulder kissed his cheek. His lips were pressed together tightly. "We did it," Mulder murmured into Krycek's ear. He loved Krycek's ears; small and neat and sensitive. No piercings, as Mulder's had, from youthful fashion experiments. He nibbled at the lobe, enjoying the shivers in Krycek's body. "You did it," Krycek corrected, a little breathlessly. "No, it was both of us. I couldn't have done it without you, Alex. Talking to you helped me figure it all out." He ran his tongue along Krycek's jawline, and nuzzled his neck. Krycek's hands tightened on his waist. "Mulder, don't." He stood back then, just a few inches, so he could study Krycek's face. Still troubled--perhaps even more so now. Although he could also read the desire there, in the hazy, half-lidded eyes. Always, there was this resistance. It was sweet, when he knew how easily it was overcome. He pulled Krycek's head to him and kissed his mouth, just a gentle pressure on his lips. "Mulder," Krycek nearly gasped. "We should talk. I should tell you... I have to tell you...." Mulder stopped him with his fingers on the trembling mouth. "When we get home, you can tell me anything you want. We'll talk about it then, I promise. I know there are a hundred reasons we shouldn't be doing this. Just give me tonight. Just one more night, with no case to worry about, no FBI breathing down our necks, no guilt and no regrets. Just you and me and nothing else. Please." Krycek fell into his arms with a troubled laugh. "God, Mulder. I bet you were a terror in high school." Mulder held him tightly, stroking his back, grinning. "Are you telling me my lines are high school?" The giggle was muffled in his neck, and it sent sweet shivers through Mulder's body. "If they are, then so am I, for falling for them." It was perfect, and Mulder thought he'd gladly spend the rest of his life like this, with Krycek beneath him, legs spread, face crushed into the pillow, incredible eyelashes batting against his cheek, fists curled at his sides, breathing raggedly in time to the slow, deep strokes of Mulder's cock inside him. Mulder had achieved a lovely warm state of pure pleasure, his entire body glowing with the sweet sensations spreading from his cock. He brought his lips to Krycek's ear and whispered, "You feel so good...." Krycek whimpered, and shifted on his knees, tilting his hips up to offer himself more openly. Mulder kissed his cheek, and it was salty with sweat. Tears dripped from Krycek's huge, beautiful eyes, and Mulder tasted them, too. He added a sharp, hard thrust to the end of each stroke of his cock, delighting in the purring moans they brought from Krycek's throat. The sweetness was almost unbearable. he thought, and he almost said it. But not yet. After they'd returned home, after they'd talked about it, if they decided to go on with it, he'd take Krycek into his arms and let him know who he belonged to. For tonight, he'd let his body tell the tale. Krycek squealed, and his body stiffened, and then his orgasm was squeezing Mulder's cock. Mulder thought in wonder. How could it feel that good? He'd have to make Krycek show him. Mulder held him tightly while he gasped into the pillow, and reached underneath to feel the still-spasming cock releasing its puddle of semen into the mattress. He loved that he could cause this, with the motion of his cock in his lover's ass. Still holding Krycek's cock in his hand, he resumed, until his own orgasm took him, and he collapsed panting onto his partner's broad back. He lay there happily for a while, stroking Krycek's arm thoughtfully, from shoulder to hand, then playing with the slender fingers briefly before going back to the shoulder to start again. How many times in one night could he manage? He wasn't a kid any more. They hadn't eaten dinner yet, either. They should probably order something from room service now, before it closed, and shower and eat before settling in for the next round. It had been so good last night to wake up to find a willing lover at his side--they'd do that again, too. And in the morning when they woke up--they hadn't had the chance to try that yet, either. If he had any energy left by then. He kissed the back of Krycek's neck. "Alex, are you okay?" "Mm," Krycek mumbled. He turned his face out of the pillow and half-smiled. There was a hint of wildness in his eye. "Yeah. No guilt and no regrets, right? Everything's fine." Mulder felt a sudden chill. What truly was behind Krycek's doubts? Should he really have been so quick to brush them aside? Never mind. He'd established the rules for tonight himself, and he'd follow them. No guilt and no regrets. There'd be plenty of time for that tomorrow. Mulder lay curled around Krycek, arm draped around Krycek's waist, the firm bottom tucked into his lap. It was nearly six A.M., and they'd made love three times--Mulder didn't think they'd make it to four. He was drifting contentedly in an exhausted, sex-drenched haze, too tired to move, but not quite willing to let go of this pleasantness for the deeper darkness of sleep. He nipped gently at Krycek's neck with his teeth. His partner squirmed in his grasp, trying to nestle even closer. So Krycek was still awake, too. He cast about for something inconsequential to talk about, to prolong the evening just a little longer. What did he even know about Krycek? The bare facts in his file--only child, Army brat, Political Science degree from Dartmouth, wide receiver on the college football team. He'd been twenty-eight when he graduated from college--not in any big hurry to get out into the real world, obviously. And he still had that fresh-from-college innocence. He liked sports, pizza and chocolate, silly '50s science fiction movies, paperback thrillers. And opera. "Tell me about the second act," he said softly. "What?" "La Traviata. You only told me about the first act." A single, sleepy giggle. "That was months ago, Mulder. I can't believe you even remember that." It was the first time he'd ever called Krycek outside of work. The small beginnings of the closeness between them. Even if he didn't have an eidetic memory, he'd have remembered every word of that conversation. "I've been on tenterhooks ever since, waiting to find out what happened next." "God, you're a liar. Why don't you go to sleep?" "I can't. Not until I find out. What happens to Violetta and Alfredo?" "Unh. Well." Krycek squirmed into Mulder's lap again, settling himself firmly in place. Mulder pulled him close and kissed his shoulder. "Okay, La Traviata, Act Two. Violetta and Alfredo are living together in the country. They're happy but they have no money, because Alfredo's left his family and Violetta's not working any more. Then Alfredo's father comes to visit Violetta. He tells her... ," he paused for a yawn, "her relationship with Alfredo is ruining his sister's chances of marriage, and she has to leave him for his sister's sake. So she does. But he thinks she's dumped him to go back to her old life." "Why doesn't she tell him the truth?" "She can't. She promised Alfredo's father she wouldn't tell him." "Why?" "I don't know. Some stupid opera reason." Mulder chuckled. That "stupid opera reason" was the reasonable assumption that if Alfredo knew the truth, he wouldn't allow Violetta to leave him. And, of course, if that happened, the opera would be over before the third act and everyone would have ended up happy (with the possible exception of Alfredo's sister), which would have been quite unacceptable. "So is that it?" "No, then Alfredo and Violetta meet at a party and have a horrible confrontation. Alfredo... denounces her and throws his gambling winnings at her." Krycek's speech was beginning to be slurred; he was drifting into sleep even as he talked. "So there's no happy ending." Krycek yawned again. "Not... until the third act." "What happens then?" "They go to sleep." And he did, going limp in Mulder's arms. Well, nothing lasted forever. Like Violetta and Alfredo, they'd had their interlude of happiness in the country, and now would have to return to the real world. But life wasn't opera; they wouldn't have to let the demands of others separate them. Mulder yawned, wrapped his arm tighter around Krycek's chest, and fell asleep. He called Scully from Dulles Airport, pulling his cellular from his pocket as he waited outside the men's room for Krycek. Poor guy had been stumbling at his side all the way off the plane and into the terminal. Mulder supposed he really should have let Krycek sleep last night, instead of keeping him up all night fucking. Well, never mind--they were home now, and it was still early afternoon, Washington time. Krycek could just go home and sleep the rest of the day away. "Scully, it's me." He'd called her away from one of her classes. "I'm back." "I heard--Congratulations. That was fast work." There was only a slight undertone of exasperation in her voice. "They should have called us in sooner." "Mulder...." The exasperation was stronger now, but affectionate and familiar. This was an old conversation. "You did everything you could. How was Krycek?" Standing at his side, just now, leaning tiredly into the wall, watching him with a strange, guarded expression. "Fine. I'll tell you all about it tonight, at dinner. Seven o'clock okay?" There was a pause. "All right. Shall I meet you somewhere, or...?" "I'll pick you up at home. I have to go now. I'll see you tonight." He disconnected, offering Krycek a tentative smile as he folded the phone back into his pocket. "You look tired." Krycek nodded towards the phone. "Scully?" "Yeah." Why did he suddenly feel like he'd been caught cheating on his girlfriend? he'd told Krycek. Surely he didn't think that meant the moment they returned to Washington...? He put a hand on Krycek's shoulder. God, the guy looked like he'd been run over by a truck. He hadn't slept on the plane, like Mulder had, or had a good night's sleep since they'd left for Montana. He couldn't be thinking clearly. "Come on, I'll take you home." Krycek nodded dully and allowed himself to be led off. They'd finished most of their meal when Mulder leaned forward onto his elbow, chin in hand, and settled in for one of his favorite pastimes--Scully watching. She still had half a dozen French fries, and studied them as if they were slides under a microscope. When her fork descended, it stabbed precisely in the center of the selected fry, then carried it decisively to her mouth. Surgically executed. Perfectly Scully. She paused to tuck her hair behind her ear while she chewed. Her lips were wonderfully full and round. It wasn't really necessary for her to have such beautiful porcelain skin or eyes like cool aquamarines. But there it was. An embarrassment of riches; so much to gaze at, and all of it Scully. Scully dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and raised an eyebrow at Mulder. "Do I have something in my teeth?" He leaned back and grinned. "Just counting your freckles." She smiled. "I don't have freckles." "Must be ketchup, then." She put down her fork and sat back. "I think you're seeing spots before your eyes." "No, just freckles." Krycek didn't have freckles. But he did have a small mole on his left hip. There was a sudden pulse in Mulder's cock. "So, tell me about the Kafka Killer." "Not much to tell. Just your garden variety psychopath." "How did Krycek handle it?" "He had a pretty hard time. But he handled it." Mulder sighed, shaking his head. "I never saw anybody suffer through a case like that. Everything hurt him. But he held it together, and he even helped me solve the case. He's a good agent, Scully. He should take the Behavioral Sciences training, or forensics, or something. He should--" "Does he want to take the Behavioral Sciences training?" Scully's smile was slightly teasing. "I don't know. Probably not right now. Maybe after he's had time to think about it a little." Mulder grinned. "What he really wants is the X-Files." Scully sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I think I feel the same way." Mulder stared at the wall. "Yeah." Scully cleared her throat, then smiled brightly. "But I'm glad Krycek's working out." The words were on the tip of his tongue. Could he tell her? He thought she'd understand. Or if not understand, at least not hate him for it. She wouldn't report them, that he was sure of. Perhaps she'd sigh, with that determinedly non-judgmental yet slightly exasperated look she got when he was about to go off on some particularly dangerous and foolish wild goose chase. she'd ask, calmly, as if they were discussing whether or not to order the fish of the day. "He's working out a lot better than I expected." "I hope you're not pushing him too hard." "I'm trying not to." "You get on these crusades, Mulder, and you can't see anything but what you want to see. I know you don't mean to run people down along the way, but sometimes you just forget to look around yourself and see what's happening. And Krycek, from what you've told me about him, seems like the kind of guy who'd half kill himself trying to live up to your standards." "I know." Mulder forced a half-hearted grin. "Hey, you were the one telling me he's a big boy, that he can take care of himself." Scully's answering smile was sad and affectionate. "He's a big boy. Big boys can get hurt, too. Just don't let your need for the truth make you forget to see other people's truth." Mulder felt a wave of regret and guilt wash through him. Scully was speaking from experience. Fortunately, she was strong. She was tougher in some ways than Mulder, and he'd come to lean on that strength. But it hadn't been easy for her. No doubt she was relieved to be out of it. "Yeah. I'll talk to him tomorrow. Make sure he's all right." Scully smiled. It was a warm smile, familiar and affectionate, yet somehow sad. As if she'd been having her own mental conversation with him, too, as he'd been having his, and she didn't entirely like the conclusions she had drawn. What would she be saying to him in her mind, that she didn't think she could say out loud? Some day, they would have to sit down and have one of these conversations out in the open. Some day, he would tell her everything she really meant to him. But tonight, he was tired and strained and already had one very stressed and unhappy partner to deal with. Go to him now? It wasn't that late. Krycek had been exhausted, though, he'd already be in bed. Just crawl in with him, and hold him close, like last night. Ask him silly questions he can't answer with his mind so heavy with sleep, make him giggle and squirm closer. "That sounds like a good idea, Mulder." He started. It took a moment to remember what he'd actually said. He almost laughed. "Mulder?" He grinned at her. "You actually agreed with me. I was startled for a minute." She grinned back. "It does happen occasionally." Not nearly often enough. And whose fault was that? Only his own, he knew. And it would be his fault with Krycek, too, whatever happened. * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: I have to tell Mulder the truth. He's going to hate me and I'll get transferred and my boss will kill me. Literally. God I really could get killed for this. But I don't know what else to do. I can't go on like this. Mulder just won't leave me alone and I can't figure out a way to say no to him that he'll buy, when he can see how badly I want him. The trip to Montana was a disaster right from the start. I had no business being on that case and I knew it and Mulder knew it and the only reason I was there was supposedly to babysit Mulder (as far as Skinner was concerned) or to spy on him (as far as my other boss was concerned). Only he ended up babysitting me, because I couldn't handle it. Okay, I killed a guy once. I thought he was going to kill Mulder and I didn't have any choice and anyway I used a gun and I was at least twenty feet away from him. Still it shook me up so bad I went home and cried (never told anybody about that and never will). I'd do it again if I had to I guess but I sure as hell didn't do it for fun. But this guy--this Kafka Killer--he doesn't just do it for fun, he makes it as long and painful and horrible as he can. You go through the FBI training and the special covert ops training and you think you know. You think you're some hotshot like Mission Impossible--"if any of your IM Force should be caught or killed the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions"--and it's all a game. Then one day you wake up in a cheap hotel room in Montana with color photos of piles of raw meat that used to be women lying on the dresser and your partner you're supposed to be spying on is fucking your ass. Then you realize: you don't know shit. And you go over and over it in your head but you can't figure out just how you got into this situation and you sure as hell don't know how to get out of it. Except telling the guy you love him isn't exactly the smartest thing you could have done. I just wanted him to know. Some day he's going to find out everything, I thought, and he's going to think I just slept with him because he was the mark, and that it was a lie just like everything else. Somehow, I don't mind the thought of him hating me as much as I mind him thinking I never felt anything for him. We were there for three days and he fucked me every night. Last night three times. God. Well, you can't chalk that up to the heat of the moment, can you? That was one very long moment. He is so damn sweet--all gentle and tender and so determined. You could almost laugh or cry or something. He doesn't know what he's doing but he sure knows what he wants. What the hell must he think I am? I don't know, but I wish I was whatever it is. He pushes buttons I didn't even know I had. Makes me feel like I'd do anything, any fucking thing in the world, just to have him inside me again. So I'm going to have to tell him. God, it scares me. He might even kill me, I don't know. But somehow I've got to get out of this. I've got to make Mulder believe me, and I've got to get away from that bastard of a boss. Maybe somehow I can get something on him so he'll have to let me go. I don't know what, and I'll probably just get myself killed, but I have to try. From now on I'm taping every conversation I have with that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch. And I'm going to tell Fox Mulder the truth. * * * The next morning, Mulder was at the pool doing laps when Krycek came in, walking around the side of the pool to meet Mulder at the end of his lap. The swimming pool fantasy of a few months ago popped into Mulder's mind, and he grinned to himself as he swam up to Krycek. Wouldn't it be fun to pull Krycek in, undress him and make him swim laps, swimming along beside him, slapping him on the bottom when he flagged, urging him to keep up? Too bad he was dressed for work, in one of his awful suits, and couldn't be made to play. Krycek was determinedly businesslike, but his face was pink as he stopped at the edge, looking down at Mulder. "Agent Mulder." His smile was even tighter than usual. "Krycek." Mulder grinned at him. "What's up?" He swam over to the ladder and climbed out of the pool. Krycek glanced down, caught a brief glimpse of Mulder's red Speedo, then quickly looked away. "There's a situation going down. They want you out there right away." Krycek followed Mulder over to his towel. There was a slightly awkward motion in Krycek's walk, as if he had too much on his mind to keep track of his arms and legs. "What kind of situation?" "Hostage negotiation." Mulder picked up his towel and began to wipe the water from his face and chest. "And they want me?" "Yeah." "What for?" Krycek looked at him earnestly, his huge eyes glowing liquid green. "The guy escaped a mental institution--he's got four people at gunpoint in an office building, claims he's being controlled by aliens." Mulder felt the slow smile form on his face. It was probably nothing. Just another garden variety psycho. Probably another jerkoff assignment to keep him out of trouble. A bone thrown to him to keep him from getting too agitated about losing the X-Files. But maybe not. Duane Barry was an abductee, a genuine one, Mulder was sure of it. The man knew things. About the aliens, about abductions, about government conspiracies.... And maybe he could have taken Mulder to the abduction site, and maybe Mulder could have seen it for himself, and maybe he could have found out once and for all what had happened to his sister, if only, if only.... But poor Duane Barry was frightened and desperate and unbalanced, and the hostages were in mortal danger, and Mulder had had no choice but to send Barry to the door where the snipers could take him out. No choice. It was late by the time Duane Barry had been driven away to the hospital, and Mulder was exhausted and unhappy, and Scully was there, and maybe it was insensitive of him, but he told Krycek to go on ahead back to D.C. without him, he'd ride back with Scully. He wanted her calm, familiar presence; and he definitely was not ready to deal with Krycek and the feelings that had surfaced during their trip to Montana. He determinedly avoided seeing the forced cheer on Krycek's face as his new partner nodded and insisted that no, he didn't mind driving back alone. But ready to deal with those feelings or not, they wouldn't leave his tired mind alone. Mulder lay awake on his couch late into the night, in the silent dark, while the events of the past few days spun through his mind, over and over, like a stuck record. It was just all happening too fast. Duane Barry. Alien abductions. Hostage negotiations. Scully. And two nights ago, he'd been lying in bed in a hotel room in Montana, fucking his male partner just as often and as long as he was physically capable. He'd touched Krycek in places he wouldn't even touch his own body. They'd lain wrapped together for hours, so tightly they could barely move, even when their sated bodies were unable to respond. And Krycek was right--Mulder had come on like a high school lothario, insisting on having his way, refusing to let Krycek express his doubts. He'd promised they'd talk as soon as they got back to D.C., but now he was doing his best to avoid it. He just didn't know what to say. One minute he was determined to end the affair immediately; the next he was fantasizing about dragging Krycek off into a broom closet for a quickie. They had to do something, but he had no idea what. And he was perfectly well aware that sitting down with Krycek and talking about it would be the best way to figure it out, but he just couldn't manage to face it. Well, he was tired. It had been a harrowing day. Surely there was nothing wrong with just wanting to go home and rest after a day like today. (And how many days in Mulder's life weren't days like today? It hadn't stopped him from knocking on Krycek's door and fast-talking his way into Krycek's bed.) Mulder pushed himself upright and reached for the phone. But he'd only gotten half the number punched in before he put the phone back down. What was he going to do? Call Scully and ask her whether or not she thought he should be sleeping with his partner? Call Krycek and tell him he didn't want to talk about what happened in Montana, he just felt like waking him up at three in the morning? He picked up the phone again, and punched out a number. "Mulder?" Krycek's voice was husky with sleep. Mulder smiled into the phone. "How did you know it was me?" "Well, of the hundreds of people who usually call me at three o'clock in the morning, you're the only one who does it after he ditches me." "Sorry. Look, Alex. I am sorry about putting you off again. Do you want to get together tomorrow night?" "Sure. You couldn't have asked me this in the morning?" Mulder grinned. "I had to call you tonight. I ditched you today, remember?" "Are you going to ditch me tomorrow?" "No, I promise. We'll talk tomorrow." "Okay, Mulder. Can I go to bed now?" "Wish I was there." "Yeah, right." But the humor was back in Krycek's voice. "I'll see you tomorrow." Smiling, Mulder hung up. All right, he'd gotten back into Krycek's good graces. But he was going to have to talk to him tomorrow. Mulder did not sleep that night. Mulder punched the button on his answering machine and tossed his jacket across the back of a chair, loosening his tie as he dropped onto the couch. It was late, as usual, but he couldn't put it off any longer. He'd avoided Krycek all day, breezing past him with the flimsiest of excuses, spending the day with Scully and the agents who'd been in charge of the hostage negotiation. He'd gone to see Duane Barry in the hospital. He'd even hidden in the library. He just couldn't look at Krycek, with the memory of Montana scalding his nerve endings, and the knowledge that soon they'd have to talk about what had happened twisting his guts. Not in public, anyway. He'd call Krycek as soon as he checked his messages. The first was from Scully. "Mulder, it's me. I just had something incredibly strange happen. This piece of metal that they took out of Duane Barry--it has some kind of code on it. I ran it through a scanner, and some kind of serial number came up. What the hell is this thing, Mulder? It's almost as if... it's almost as if somebody was using it to catalog him!" There was a pause. Mulder stopped, stared at the answering machine. What was that noise? Then there was a gasp, and a crash, and "Mulder! I need your help! Mulder! Mulder!" Oh god--how long ago had that message come in? Mulder grabbed his coat and keys, heart pounding, and launched himself out the door. She was gone. Her mother appeared at her apartment, crying. The phone lay on the floor, smashed. There was blood and hair on the edge of the coffee table. Red hair. Scully's hair. He stayed with the police all night. Her mother, he finally talked into going home. he assured her. He worked all night like a man possessed. He called in every favor he'd ever earned, and bought a whole lot more on credit. He cajoled, pleaded, pushed, and threatened, not caring who he woke. He did everything he could think of, and cursed himself that he couldn't do more, to find Scully. It wasn't until nearly five A.M. that he remembered Krycek, and finally made the long-delayed call. The irritation quickly disappeared from Krycek's voice when Mulder explained what had happened. Within half an hour, Krycek was at his side, looking strained and red-eyed, but solidly reassuring. And his pain eased, ever so slightly, but even the slightest relief from that pain was a blessing. Krycek brushed off his feeble attempts at apologies. Grateful, Mulder had gone determinedly back to work. Late morning. At least twenty-nine hours since he'd slept. He'd drunk so much coffee his hands were beginning to tremble. His stomach churned. He despised every minute that ticked by, another minute of danger to Scully. At his desk, Mulder sat staring at the police reports, the photographs, the cassette tapes, willing them to make sense, to resolve themselves into the answers he needed. It had to be here somewhere, why couldn't he find it? He was letting Scully down. He had to get her back. Had to. He couldn't lose another... no, don't think about that. Just find Duane Barry, find Scully, get her back. Krycek sat on the edge of Mulder's desk, chewing on a bagel. He tore off a piece and handed it to Mulder, who took it without thinking and pushed it into his mouth. He'd already swallowed it before he realized that he must have finished nearly half of Krycek's bagel. Krycek had been feeding him all morning, bite by bite. Half of a bagel. Parts of two muffins. Never a word, just handing Mulder pieces of whatever he was eating, knowing Mulder would refuse to eat if asked, but that he'd accept casually-handed-over bits of Krycek's food without even thinking about it. Mulder stopped and stared at Krycek, as if he were staring at a stranger. Who was this man, who had Mulder eating out of his hand, who had doggedly followed Mulder around all morning, who didn't even know Scully, but who was willing to dedicate himself to her safety, for Mulder's sake? Obviously a man who had slept little last night, who had dressed hurriedly and carelessly early this morning. Usually a fastidious man, today his striped tie (and where did he get those awful ties?) was knotted crookedly, and there was a scuff on the toe of his left shoe. His face was drawn and pale and the huge eyes were circled with dark smudges. He looked like he was wearing eyeliner, Mulder suddenly thought, and it made him want to wash Krycek's face. Had he stayed up last night, waiting for the call that never came, nibbling on his lower lip until it was reddened and swollen, wondering if Mulder would ever keep his promise? Or had he gone to bed in disgust and lain there, tossing and turning, wishing he'd never gotten involved with Fox Mulder? Pain tightened in Mulder's chest. Everything had gone so wrong--he'd failed Scully, and now he was failing Krycek, and he wanted so badly to explain, to make Krycek understand that he'd never meant to let him down. Everything was crazy right now, but if only Krycek would just help him get through it, then he'd make everything all right. But he didn't know how to say any of it. He could only stare at Krycek, hoping somehow Krycek would know. Krycek's face turned pink under Mulder's scrutiny, and he looked away, swallowing. "I'll get us some coffee," Krycek muttered, and hurried away. It had been so close. If only they'd gotten to the top of the mountain a little bit sooner, they might have been able to save her. The hood of her car was still warm when Mulder felt it. Duane Barry was still standing with his arms outstretched to the sky, exulting in not being the one who was taken this time. And Scully was gone beyond Mulder's reach. Only a few minutes, but in those few minutes everything changed. Scully was taken, and there was nothing more for Mulder to do, except to go home and apologize to her mother and wait and hope that somehow she'd return. Mulder was silent during the long ride home from Skyland Mountain. Krycek insisted on driving; Mulder didn't even make a token protest. He sat and stared out the window, feeling empty and cold and hopeless. He stared into the night, and his soul felt as black as the sky. Krycek pulled up in front of Mulder's apartment building. Mulder shifted in his seat, muscles stiff from sitting motionless against the car door for so many hours. He glanced across the seat at Krycek, who was watching him thoughtfully from under his lashes, so long they cast a shadow across his cheek in the pale light from the streetlamps. "I'm sorry, Mulder." His low voice seemed to float gently on the air between them, clear and soothing. "Are you going to be all right?" Mulder's throat was raw. There was a rushing noise in his ears. One hand groped blindly to catch Krycek's shoulder; then he was pulling Krycek towards him, burying his face in the coarse fabric of Krycek's suit. "Stay with me." Krycek's arms encircled him, solid and tight. He felt Krycek's lips brush against his ear. "Mulder, you need to sleep." Mulder felt his chest tighten, and the rush of misery flowed into his empty heart, like blood flowing back into deadened limbs. "How am I going to sleep? Alex, I know I promised you we'd talk...." "That doesn't matter--god, Mulder, do you think I'd expect you to sit down and talk about us, with all this happening? I don't care about that." He squeezed Mulder until the air was forced out of his lungs, and it felt so good, Mulder would have cried if he'd been able to breathe. "But there are still things we need to talk about before...." "What things?" Mulder wanted to shake him. Perhaps he would have, if he'd been able to move. What could be more important tonight than being together? And then he remembered the first time he'd said that to Krycek--after Scully had turned him down. When he had lost her in a different way. And now he'd lost her again, and again he was expecting Krycek to fill the void left by her absence. "Oh, Alex, I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep doing this to you, but please--" "Mulder, you don't understand." And Krycek's voice, too, was shot through with pain. "I just have things I have to tell you. But I can't tell you now. I want to be with you, god, you don't know how bad I want to be with you--there are things, I just can't explain to you now." Krycek's words were muffled through hot, fervent kisses to Mulder's cheek, his temple, his ear. Mulder fought himself loose from Krycek's iron grip--he had to grab a fistful of Krycek's collar and forcefully pull his head back--just to get enough room to bring Krycek's face to his, to crush their mouths together. And then, for just a little while, blessed silence: the universe stopped pounding at his brain, and Krycek's own special sweet taste overwhelmed Mulder's senses, and made everything all right. Of course, it couldn't last, although Mulder dazedly thought that he wouldn't mind suffocating to death on the spot, putting a final end to his pain with this fiery heart-stopping pleasure. But they broke apart at last, gasping. The interior of the car had gone foggy. "Alex, please...." "Mulder, do you remember what I said to you, that first night in Montana?" Krycek's voice was hot and urgent. "I remember." And how could he ever forget? "I meant it. I still mean it. I love you, Mulder. I always will. Never forget it." "Then why can't we be together?" Krycek kissed him again, firm lips pressing Mulder's with dazzling perfection. "We can. We will. As soon as I've had a chance to explain." "Then tell me." "Not tonight. You need to rest. I need to rest." Krycek stroked Mulder's hair. His smile was fragile and full of pain. His eyes were inky in the dark; tiny chips of glowing obsidian. "Just remember what I said." Mulder nodded, then, and the terrible need drained out of him, leaving him sad and empty again. But not quite as cold. "All right." One last kiss, gentle and tender; then Mulder got out of the car, and went into his apartment, alone. Mulder lay on his couch, in tee-shirt and jeans, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ceiling. It was cold, but he didn't pull a blanket over himself. Every once in a while, he glanced at the clock on the VCR, and blankly noted the passage of the hours. His mind was a shattered vessel of images, frozen like a handful of photographs, scattered and jumbled and senseless. Scully, eyes wide, strapped to a table, surrounded by small grey aliens. Krycek lying naked on his stomach with his legs spread. Duane Barry standing in the doorway with a small red laser dot on his chest. Samantha suspended in midair, floating through the window. Scully in her apartment late at night, wearing a sweatshirt and old jeans, shaking her head sadly. His mother weeping quietly by the window. Krycek with his tie crooked and a scuff on the toe of his shoe. Somehow, he thought, there must be a way to put them together. A way to make the puzzle make sense. He was too weary to think, and too ruined to sleep, but maybe if he just let the images play, they would at last resolve themselves into a whole picture, and he would understand. The images played on, over and over and over. He got up early and drove to Quantico, to see what had been learned from Duane Barry's autopsy. Someone had killed Scully's kidnaper--and it wasn't Mulder. Someone didn't want Barry talking about what he knew and what he had seen. If he could discover who it was, perhaps it would lead him to whoever had taken Scully. It was a long shot, but it was the only lead he had, and he was determined to follow it to the bitter end. But the autopsy was another frustration, another cover-up, and another dead end. The Navy pathologist wouldn't tell him anything. Toxicological test results were delayed, perhaps forever, and wouldn't be available to him in any case. From there he went on to an inquiry into his own role in Duane Barry's death. If he hadn't been so numb by this time, he might have actually found it funny. Scully was gone. He'd seen Army helicopters on the scene. Duane Barry had been murdered, and the military was covering up the autopsy results. And all his superiors were interested in was whether he'd been too rough on Duane Barry. He answered their questions dully, not really caring if they believed him. After the meeting had ended, he caught up with Krycek in the hall, and pestered him into giving him his car keys. Mulder had one hope left, and that was his contact, Senator Matheson. Perhaps the Senator could shake loose the autopsy results, and that might give Mulder another shred of evidence to keep going on. But this was a dead end too. He didn't even get in to see the Senator; his occasional informant and nemesis, X, had appeared in the stairwell to warn him off. He returned to Krycek's car, not quite having wrapped his mind around the hopelessness of his cause, somehow sure that something would occur to him, there would be another idea, another lead, no matter how slim, that he couldn't just go home and give up, Scully wasn't lost forever, there must still be a way to find her and bring her home. He sat for a moment in Krycek's car, taking what comfort he could from the signs of his lover's presence. The car seat, adjusted to Krycek's height, the same as Mulder's own. The Hershey bars and opera tapes in the glove compartment. The ashtray full of change.... Mulder stared at the cigarette butt, uncomprehending. Krycek didn't smoke. How could this have gotten into his car? Krycek was a stickler for procedure, and would never use his Bucar for personal trips. And it was late and they were both exhausted when Krycek had taken him home last night. They had both been at headquarters all day. There was no time, no reason. Mulder picked up the cigarette butt. Morley, only a few puffs taken before it had been stubbed out. Mulder felt dizzy, his sight beginning to go black. God, no. Not Krycek. Not his one remaining friend, his precious junior partner, his sweet innocent lover. Not Krycek, working for his enemy. Stopping the tram to delay him from getting to the top of Skyland Mountain. Slipping something deadly into Duane Barry's water while Mulder stood in the hall imagining Scully on the aliens' examining table. Helping them to take Scully. Lying to him, spying on him, destroying his life. Betrayed. Mulder sat in the car, and stared at the cigarette butt. Such a small, insignificant thing, to cause so much pain. Mulder blinked, and the image of the innocent, beloved man-child in his mind shattered and disappeared forever, leaving only the mysterious cold beauty in its place. It was the final, crushing blow. Samantha. Scully. Krycek. Mulder's forehead came down to rest on the steering wheel, and his eyes flooded with hopeless tears. He sat in the car and wept, alone. Betrayed. ACT THREE La rea son io; Ma solo amore tal mi rende«... [I am the guilty one, but it was love alone that made me do it...] Mulder knelt before his disorganized CD collection, searching dejectedly through the motley pile, hoping to find something to take take the edge off his late-night nerves. There was no one to call this time: Scully was away for the weekend; the Lone Gunman office was empty. So he was left to his own devices, and if he was ever going to get to sleep, he'd have to figure out his own way to quiet his mind. Some jazz, maybe? Wailing sax and jangly piano, driving and hypnotic? But melancholy, too, and perhaps a little too lonely. Rock and roll? Old favorites from college, to bring back other days? But other days reminded him too much of the regrets of today. Classical? Some stately baroque, perhaps, clean and elegant and intricate? Too detached. He scattered the CDs in the floor as he worked through the stacks, delving past his usual selections to the seldom-played choices underneath. La Traviata. His hand froze on the jewel case. It had been a present from his mother, ages ago, a brief respite from the boring ties and leather wallets that were her usual gifts. He'd taken her to the opera for her birthday, one summer home from Oxford, and she'd bought him the CD for Christmas. Not that he didn't like it, but it wasn't something he often played, except for a brief flurry of interest back when... well, admit it, back when he was working with Krycek. His hands moved slowly, picking up the CD and opening the case, while he stared at it, as if hypnotized. From inside the case, a small bit of gold foil fell--an origami crane, folded out of a candy wrapper. Mulder felt his heart pound, and his face grow hot. The CD case fell, and he snatched up the gold crane, crushing it in his fist. He stood, staring around wildly for a moment, then strode into the kitchen and tossed the wadded bit of foil into the trash. His mind sang the litany of epithets against his former partner, battering and reviling the image that rose uncontrollably into his mind: the sweet, blushing man, sitting on the other side of Mulder's desk, a stray lock of hair falling across his forehead, tongue between his teeth in concentration as he carefully folded the tiny crane from the inner wrapper of his candy bar. No. It had all been lies, deceit and treachery. Mulder wrapped his arms around himself, felt himself shaking. Blood pounded in his ears. He remembered sitting in the car--in Alex Krycek's car--the butt of a partially-smoked Morley cigarette in his hand, as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and the depth of his betrayal came clear. The pain was shocking, even now, hitting Mulder in the gut like a punch to the stomach. Scully. Mulder was halfway to the phone before he remembered. she'd told him before she left. It had been hard. He'd thought for a little while that he'd gotten his sister back. He'd gotten Scully back, and that had been hard, too, but despite what they'd done to her, she'd miraculously survived, and was once again at his side. Then Samantha--and he'd almost let himself believe that he was going to succeed, that he really could protect the people he cared about, that persistence and hard work and just wanting something badly enough could actually make a difference. But then he'd found out that the woman he thought was his sister was a clone, and he'd nearly been killed, and Scully had nearly been killed, and his mother's heart had been broken all over again, and his father had been disappointed in him again. But he'd gained a little, too. He'd learned a little more, and he was more sure than ever that his sister was still alive, and more determined than ever to find her. But it had been hard, and the last thing he wanted now was to think about Alex Goddamned Krycek, who'd disappeared months ago, before Mulder had ever gotten the chance to confront him about his treachery, whose merest memory was still enough to scald Mulder's nerve endings like fire. Mulder went back into the living room and picked up the CD, carefully closing the case and tucking it at the bottom of the pile. It was a gift from his mother, and damned if he'd let Krycek's memory make him get rid of a gift from his mother. Maybe he'd never play it again, but he'd keep and cherish it just the same. The origami crane, though--funny how he'd managed to put it out of his mind for all these months. Well, now it was in the garbage, where it belonged. Mulder's fingers worked, the prickly metallic feel of the foil imprinted unnaturally into his hand. He remembered Krycek's hands, the long, delicate fingers carefully folding the foil. His face had turned red, and he'd stared at the floor. Mulder had always known that Krycek couldn't possibly be as innocent as he seemed, and yet--and yet-- It wasn't possible to voluntarily control one's blush response, was it? (Damn it, he needed to talk to Scully.) Still, supposing Krycek did embarrass himself folding cranes for his partner, it didn't change anything. Unless it meant that not everything had been a lie. But Mulder didn't want to know about that. Didn't want to think about that. Because if not everything had been a lie, then one had to wonder what else might have been real among the falsehoods and deceits. Like, Mulder half-ran to his phone, punching out the number as he brought the receiver to his ear. But the phone rang eight, ten, twelve times, and Mulder finally hung up in frustration. The Lone Gunman office was empty, and those idiot paranoids wouldn't tell even him their home phone numbers, if in fact they had any. Phone sex? The home shopping network? Psychic hotline? Somewhere, even at four A.M., there were people he could talk to, live human voices on the other end of a phone line, for a price. Mulder sighed and put the phone down. Maybe he should go out and run? Wear himself out with some physical exercise? Read a book? Turn on the TV? Or maybe he should just give up and think about Krycek. Think about those long nights in Montana, the touch of his skin, the breathy moans, the tremors in his body, the precious salty tears. What would he do with that body now, if he had the chance? Punish him. Hurt him. Make him suffer, as Mulder had suffered. Mulder trembled, his eyes closed as he stood in his living room, fists clenched at his sides. He imagined his hand around Krycek's throat, the huge eyes wide and brilliant with fear. His fists would come down, over and over and over, and that beautiful, innocent face would crumple into pulpy, bruised flesh. You betrayed me. Mulder mouthed the words, hearing them in his mind, watching them score in flinching, whimpering guilt on the enemy lying naked at his feet. The body should be crisscrossed in welts and cuts. Mulder stood with a cane in his hand, ready to inflict the righteous punishment. Krycek, tied to a whipping post, his back exposed, begged for mercy. The bullwhip came down hard on the wide, muscular back, and the penitent screamed in pain. Mulder sank to his knees, one hand between his legs, working his cock through the coarse denim of his jeans, unaware of the tears streaming down his face. The ribs crunched and caved in under Mulder's boot, and the cries ended in the choked gurgle of a punctured lung. Mulder's cock burned and swelled and erupted in his jeans, and he let himself fall to the floor, gasping and sobbing, as his mind spun away into darkness. He went on. The X-Files went on. Scully was there, keeping him on track, keeping him steady. The memory of that other partner faded again, and settled into the corners of his mind, a slight irritant at the edge of his consciousness, like a grain of sand inside an oyster's shell. The occasional harried dream; a sudden twinge at the sight of a Hershey bar, a newspaper ad for the opera, an origami crane; the image of a pale, muscled male body that intruded on his fantasies, firmly pushed away; the low, breathy voice that whispered in his ear late at night in the fringe world between waking and sleep... it seemed that Alex Krycek could not be banished completely, but perhaps in time the memories could be smoothed out, covered over in pearly essence to reduce their sting. Mulder could only hope. He had no other defense against them. It was a night in the early spring, fresh and clean after a light rain. The sort of night that Mulder usually found invigorating--nights he enjoyed being outside, when the skies were clear and full of stars, even in the city. He sat on the couch with his knees drawn up, chin resting on one knee, rocking slightly. He should get something to eat, he thought. He hadn't had dinner. He should take a shower and change out of his sweats. The evening run, which had seemed like such a good idea when he got home from work, had just exhausted him further, but it was a nervous and shaky exhaustion, and held no promise of a better night's sleep. How many days had it been since he'd had even a few hours of rest? Never a sound sleeper, Mulder's nights lately had been even more restless than usual, full of troubled awakenings and feverish dreams. His head ached, and his tired mind wandered. If he didn't feel better soon, he'd have to see a doctor. The phone rang. Mulder started, then sat back, pulling irritably at his sweat-stained tee-shirt. It was his home phone, not his cell phone. He could ignore it and let the answering machine take it. The shrill ring made his sore head pound. Four rings before the machine picked up. Muttering under his breath, he let his feet fall to the floor and leaned forward to snatch up the receiver before it could shrill in his ear again. "Mulder." "Agent Mulder? Agent Fox Mulder?" It was a woman's voice, unfamiliar. "Yes." "Agent Mulder, this is Kate Krycek. Alex Krycek's mother. I'm sorry to call you at home, but I've tried calling the FBI and I can't get anyone to help me, and I know I shouldn't be bothering you, but I've been so worried...." "Mrs. Krycek?" Mulder's tired mind struggled to keep up with the woman's rapid-fire speech. "Is it Alex? Has something happened to him?" He'd met Krycek's mother briefly, a few days after Krycek disappeared, hoping to find some clue to where his treacherous partner had gone. Krycek had called her, apparently, with some story about a special assignment, top-secret, that he couldn't talk about, that would keep him out of touch for a while. Mulder hadn't had the heart to tell her what had really happened. Well, she didn't know anything, anyway. There was no point in making her worry. "No. I don't know. It's just been so long. I know you can't talk about what he's doing, all I want to know is that he's all right." "Mrs. Krycek, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can tell you." "They keep saying he doesn't even work for the FBI any more. That he just disappeared. It's part of his cover, I suppose. He wouldn't just disappear, despite what his father thinks." "I wish I could help you." There was a long pause. Mulder hoped rather desperately that she'd hang up. He did not want to be sitting here trying to reassure Alex Krycek's mother. Kate Krycek had the same huge, liquid green eyes her son had. "I'm sorry." Her voice was a harried whisper, low and breathy. The same tones, several notes higher, that had sent aching shivers through Mulder's body when her son whispered them. "I know you can't tell me anything. It's just that, well, I can't help worrying. I know he's a grown man, but," a gentle laugh, also painfully familiar, "I'm a mother. And Alex--he's a good boy, he tries so hard, but sometimes his enthusiasm gets the better of him, he throws himself into things without thinking them through." "I know." Mulder's own voice had gone soft with the effort to keep the bitterness away. "I remember how proud he was when he got his first assignment. His father thought he wouldn't even make it through the training, but I knew. And he was so excited about working with you. He used to talk about you all the time." "Me? He talked about me?" Mulder let his head fall forward into his hand. He gritted his teeth, thinking he had to end this phone call before he started screaming. "Oh, yes, he really admired you. It was 'Mulder this' and 'Mulder that'--I was so glad for him. I thought you'd be able to, well, keep an eye on him and help him. I know this job he's doing now, whatever it is, must be something important and I'm sure he's doing just fine. But I'd feel so much better if I knew he wasn't alone, if he had someone like you working with him." "I would too, Mrs. Krycek." Mulder gripped the receiver so tightly his hand ached. "He doesn't have that many friends. Not that he isn't easy to get along with, or that he doesn't like people. I think it has to do with the way he was raised, moving around all the time. His father's in the Army, you know." "Yes, I know." A full colonel. Krycek's father had been at work the day the FBI agent came to visit Krycek's family home, so Mulder hadn't met him. A phone call to the colonel's office hadn't gotten past his secretary. Apparently, he hadn't found it worth his time to discuss his son's sudden disappearance. Mrs. Krycek had smiled apologetically and shrugged. She'd seemed so sad, Mulder hadn't had the heart to press the matter. "He'd get so attached to people, and then we'd have to leave again, and it just broke his heart. It never seemed to get any easier for him, every time it was just like the first time. I hated to see it. I thought finally when he went to work at the FBI, he'd make some friends he'd be able to stay with." That last night, he'd seemed in as much pain as Mulder. he'd insisted. But he'd made his choices, and he'd helped them to take Scully, and then he'd had to leave. "I guess the FBI's like the Army that way. Sometimes you have to go where your job takes you." "Yes, I suppose. Well. I'd better go. I'm sorry to bother you, Agent Mulder." "It's all right. Good night, Mrs. Krycek." "Good night." Mulder put the receiver down slowly, then pulled his legs back up onto the couch. Well, everyone had a mother. Even Alex Krycek. And he'd been a child once, an Army brat, whose heart had broken afresh every time the family moved. It wasn't hard to believe, if the man you were talking about was the sweet-faced innocent who cried when he made love. But the man who betrayed his partner, silenced witnesses, helped the men in black to abduct an innocent woman--where was he in his mother's words? Where was Alex Krycek? Two days later, it began. It was innocuous enough, if annoying. The Lone Gunmen showed up at his apartment, something they rarely did, and even more rarely uninvited. He was still feeling tired and jumpy and his head seemed to ache all the time, and he was not in the mood for his friends' loopy paranoia. But their story of a colleague's break-in of the Defense Department's computer files was interrupted by gunshots--down the hall, a woman had murdered her husband, suddenly, for no apparent reason. Later, Mulder met with the man the Lone Gunmen had come to tell him about and received a digital computer tape that purportedly held all of the Defense Department's UFO documents for the past fifty years--everything, including Roswell, the Majestic files, Area 51--everything Mulder had been searching for. The Holy Grail. He brought the tape to work the next day, so excited he could barely breathe. But the files were encrypted; he couldn't read them. And while Scully went to try to find a way to decode the files, Mulder flew into a rage at Skinner for no reason, and scuffled with his superior in the hallway outside his office. Sick and confused and dejected, Mulder went home and took a sleeping pill, only to be startled awake by Scully, coming to rail at him for putting both of them in danger. He appeased her as best he could, then taped an "X" on his window and sat down to wait for his sometime informant, to see if he could find out what was happening. But before the mysterious X had made contact, Mulder's father called and asked him to come to see him. Mulder's relationship with his father had always been difficult. Mulder had supposed it was his own fault; he was a strange and opinionated child, intelligent and driven and moody. The abduction of Samantha had fractured the family, leaving everyone to crawl away and lick wounds in isolation. Never close, the family's grief had driven a wedge between father and son that neither had ever been able to break through. And the recent incident with the Samantha clone had only made an already strained relationship worse: somehow, Mulder had been made to feel that it was his fault that his mother had been forced to endure the loss of her daughter a second time. He'd barely spoken to his father since. But always, he craved his father's approval. Always, he did what his father asked, despite his exhaustion and need to meet with his informant. So he made the long drive to his father's house in West Tisbury. And sat in the living room while his father was murdered in the bathroom. He heard the shot, and rushed to find his father bleeding and dying in the floor. were his father's last words to him. Mulder never found out for what. He called Scully from his father's house, with his father's blood on his hands. she asked. As if she believed he'd done it. He went to her house and spent the night in her bed, while she slept on the couch, to find in the morning that she'd taken his gun. She still didn't trust him. Still thought he might have done it. Almost numb, he felt the pain of her abandonment only as a dull ache. Later, he went back to his own apartment. But before he entered the building, he caught a glimpse of a shadow around a corner. Just a glimpse. It could have been anything, anyone, for any perfectly innocuous reason. But Mulder no longer believed in innocuous occurrences. The whole universe seemed to be conspiring against him--if Scully could no longer be trusted, why should nameless shadows be innocent? He ran around the building and waited behind the corner, listening to the approaching footsteps. The hand, holding a gun, appeared first. Mulder grabbed, pulled, shoved the man against the brick wall, knocked the gun out of his hand. The sudden burst of fury was fierce and satisfying. Somehow, it was no surprise at all to find that the man he was hitting with all his strength was Alex Krycek. It seemed inevitable. Of course Krycek would return now, at this time, to make Mulder's misery complete. Of course, Krycek was behind Mulder's pain, just as he had been before. Krycek was the enemy. Krycek was now the receptacle for all of Mulder's pent-up rage and pain. Some corner of his photographic memory recorded the changes: longer hair, slicked back and styled; black leather jacket and work shirt; close-fitting blue jeans. No longer even a trace of innocence. Nothing awkward or charmingly geeky. A cold-eyed beauty, hard-faced and elegant and sleek. Mulder threw him onto the hood of a car, demanding, "Did you kill my father?" It seemed only obvious that Krycek must be the source of all the horror in Mulder's life. But Krycek stubbornly refused to admit his guilt, even with his beautiful mouth bleeding. Oddly, his eyes turned up in his head when Mulder's fist smashed into his mouth, just as they did when Mulder had touched his cock. It only increased Mulder's fury. Each mental accusation accompanied by a blow. Throw him to the ground. Kick him. Point his own gun at him and demand the truth. Make him suffer. Make him pay. Out of nowhere, Scully appeared. "Don't do it, Mulder! I have him." But he'd gone too far, he was over the edge, nothing was going to stop him now. Except Scully's bullet. He felt his eyes open in shock as the impact of the shot flung him to the ground. he thought, as the ground whirled up to meet him. Somehow, it was no more surprising than anything else that had happened. Then everything went black, and it was all over. * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: I talked to Mulder about killing once, in Montana, on that Kafka Killer case. When are you justified in killing someone? It all seemed so theoretical then, even though I had killed that man, Augustus Cole. But it wasn't something I did deliberately, in cold blood. I thought he had a gun. I thought he was going to shoot Mulder. I did it to protect him, and I'd do it again. The stuff with the tram operator and Duane Barry--that was to protect Mulder, too, although he probably wouldn't see it that way. But I knew if he got too close they'd kill him. They weren't going to let him save Scully, no matter what, they'd made that clear to me. His only chance, and hers, was to let them take her, and do what they were going to do with her. I did it for him. Can I make myself believe I did this for him, too? I killed his father. God. A sick old man in his bathroom, standing there with a bottle of pills in his hand, looking at me with sad, empty eyes. He didn't look scared, or even surprised. He looked resigned, as though he'd been expecting me. Hell, maybe he had. He must have known they wouldn't let him live, if he wasn't going to play their game any more. Maybe he even wanted it. Maybe he was tired of it all, and just wanted it to be over. He just stood there and stared at me. He didn't say anything or try to get away. He just stood there and let it happen. It must have taken only a few seconds. I stepped out from behind the shower curtain while his back was turned, and he saw me in the medicine cabinet mirror. He turned, and our eyes met, and we both knew what was going to happen, almost as if it was preordained. I wasn't even aware of the gun in my hand, or lifting it, or firing. I think the report of the gun was more of a shock to me than it was to him. Something in me wanted to stay and watch his life drain away. It seemed as if it was my right, even my duty, to stay and see him on his way. But of course I couldn't--Mulder was in the next room, and I had to be gone before he rushed into the bathroom and found me there. I couldn't help wishing I could stay there with them, though. I don't know what I thought would happen if Mulder ran in and saw me there, standing over his dead father. Maybe I thought I'd comfort him in his grief. Maybe I wanted him to hurt me, even kill me, to punish me for all the pain I've caused him. Maybe I just wanted to see him again, I don't know. But I kept having this ridiculous feeling, all the time I was driving away, that I should have stayed with him, that it was wrong to run away like that. Maybe I was just remembering that last night before I had to leave, after Scully was taken, when he begged me to stay with him and I couldn't do it. I was foolish enough then to think there was still a chance we could work things out, that I could explain to him why I'd done what I'd done and maybe he'd forgive me and everything would be all right. Sometimes I wish I'd gone ahead and spent one more night with him. Hell, it's not like the sacrifice did either of us any good in the long run. Stupid of me to think that being able to say, "Well, I didn't sleep with you after I helped them take Scully" was going to somehow make him hate me any less. And now I'm a murderer. A professional hitman. Someone told me, "Go kill this man," and I did it. I still can't really believe it. Could there have been another way? Something else I could have done? Well, yes, I could have told him no, I wouldn't do it. And then he would have killed me, because he couldn't take the chance that I'd go to Mulder with what I know. And he would have killed Samantha, and that would have destroyed Mulder. Unless my nameless boss was lying to me about that. Hell, I wouldn't know Samantha if I saw her, so how would I know if he'd killed her? He might have just been telling me that to make me do what he wanted. But even if he was, that just means he would have gotten someone else to kill Mulder's father, and I'd still be dead, and it still wouldn't have helped Mulder any. Hell. Should I have gone to Mulder, told him I'd tell him everything, and hoped he'd be able (and willing) to protect me? It's too late now. I thought maybe it wasn't. Stupid. I thought maybe I could still go to him and explain. He doesn't know I killed his father, I thought, maybe I can talk to him. If I can just get him to listen to me, maybe I can still make things right. Ha. He didn't even give me a chance, he just grabbed me and started hitting me and demanding to know if I'd killed his father. God, how did he know? I'm sure he didn't see me. Does he just hate me so much that he assumes I'm responsible for every tragedy that happens in his life? His face was so full of hate, I couldn't even speak. Not even to lie to him. Or to tell him the truth. If Scully hadn't shown up when she did, he would have killed me. I shouldn't have gone so soon. I should have waited a while to let him get over it a little. Or hell, I should just give up and admit that Mulder is never, ever going to forgive me. My life is a sorry mess. What's left of it, anyway. Now I'm stuck doing that cigarette-smoking bastard's dirty work until he gets tired of me and has me killed. Maybe I should have just let Mulder do it, at least I could have died knowing I'd given him some satisfaction. How did I end up like this? I never wanted to kill anyone. I know it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do. God, Mulder, please forgive me. I love you, god help me, I still love you. * * * He was vaguely aware of Scully pressing her hand to the gunshot wound she'd given him. And vaguely aware of being half-led, half-carried to a car, being bundled into the back seat, covered with a blanket and told to rest. And it seemed that he trusted her after all, even with her wound in his shoulder, because he shut his eyes obediently and went to sleep, knowing that whatever she was doing, it would be all right. He half-dozed throughout the long days that followed, drifting along with the rhythm of the car engine's hum, between sweet dreams of summer afternoons napping in the sun, and raddled nightmares of his father lying in his blood on the bathroom floor, Krycek pressed against the hood of a car with his mouth bleeding and his eyes staring, and Scully standing grimly behind the flash of a gun, and tearing agony in his shoulder. He finally opened his eyes to sense and reality in a hotel room in Farmington, New Mexico. Scully was bathing his brow with a cool cloth, and a Navajo man named Albert stood calmly in the background. Out in the quarry, a boxcar lay buried, and in it, the bodies of many small, inhuman creatures. Creatures with long-fingered hands and large, pear-shaped heads with huge eye-sockets. Mulder stood among the bodies and excitedly called Scully on his cell phone, while the Navajo boy, Albert's grandson, kept watch from above. The sound of a helicopter impinged on his consciousness, but he ignored it. Mulder insisted. This time it would not all be snatched away from him, just as he was about to have what he needed. This time he would have his answers. This time.... The boxcar's hatch slammed shut, leaving him in utter darkness. His cell phone cut out. His enemies had arrived. Scrambling in the dark, he found a door, which led to a tunnel into the rocks, and he flung himself into it. Desperately, he crawled into the earth. He felt the thrum of the helicopter landing. Rocks rattled and pinged around him. Pressure sang in his ears, and his injured shoulder throbbed. Then the explosion ripped through the ground, and the tunnel collapsed and twisted around him. He felt that the earth was swallowing him up. "Scully," he whispered to the rocks, then his mind sank into blackness. He seemed to be lying on a bed of branches under the starry desert sky. He seemed to hear chanting and smell sweet, aromatic smoke. He did not know where he was, but he wasn't troubled. It seemed that he'd come here for a reason, and he had only to wait patiently, and the answers would come to him. He seemed to hear the voice of his mentor, the man he'd known only as Deep Throat, now a year dead. He seemed to see his father, who told him things he'd always known but never realized. Down below, in the world of the living, learning these things would be harsh and painful, but up here in the sky they were merely interesting facts. Mulder drifted on the breeze, light as a feather. Only the thinnest cord held him to the earth. It could easily break and let him float away, and for a time, he was content to drift, not caring whether the cord held or not. But eventually, he felt the cord tug at him. His mother still dwelt below. Scully. Samantha. He had unfinished business, and it was time to get on with it. So he closed his eyes, then opened them again, and he was lying on a bed of branches on the ground in a Navajo lodge, with Albert and others of his tribe looking on, welcoming him home. As soon as he was able, he went home--first to his mother, to reassure her that he was all right and, yes, to ask her about his father, and about the past. In the basement, he found an old photograph of his father with a group of men. His mother's mouth tightened as she looked at it, but she insisted she didn't remember who any of them were. He took the photo and left. He returned to his apartment. Where Scully was holding a gun on Skinner, who was holding a gun on Scully, who said she'd been warned that someone she trusted would try to kill her. He didn't know the story but he knew who he trusted--Mulder added his gun to Scully's. After some tense moments, it shook out like this: Skinner had the DAT tape, and would hold it for safekeeping, while Mulder and Scully continued their search for the truth. At the Lone Gunman offices, they inspected Mulder's photograph with Langly and Byers, and discovered that Mulder's father had consorted with Nazi war criminals. Then Frohike burst in with a hug for Mulder, who he had feared was dead, and bad news for Scully--her sister had been shot, and was in the hospital in critical condition. Scully's sister, Melissa. The New Age mystic, who talked of healing crystals and auras and dark places of the soul, as opposite from her scientific, skeptical little sister as she could be. Mulder had to admit his first thought was, His second was to stop Scully from rushing to the hospital to see her, although it broke her heart to stay away. It wasn't safe; the bastards were after her now, and would surely be at the hospital waiting for her. They had to stay out of sight, and they had to keep searching for the truth. But this time, there was something more important than the truth. And it was Scully, straight-backed and stiff, saying grimly, "I need to see my sister." So he told Skinner to make the deal: the tape and the information on it, for his and Scully's jobs and their safety. They would find their answers, but they would find them another way. Sadly, it was too late to save Melissa Scully. "I don't have the tape," Skinner told them, in his office, after it was all over. "It was Albert, and the other codetalkers, and their incredible memories, I used to make the deal. I lost the tape at the hospital, when I went to see your mother." He nodded to Scully, then looked at Mulder thoughtfully. The two agents sat across from him at his huge oak desk--an imposing man, with an imposing desk, in an imposing office. Mulder always felt a little like a schoolboy called to the principal's office in Skinner's grand and intimidating presence. "There was a man outside the hospital room. Albert said he'd been there all day, watching. So I went after him, to find out what he was doing there. I was in the stairwell when he and two other men attacked me. Two of them held me while the third hit me, and took the tape." He paused, again covering Mulder with that appraising stare. There was a bruise on his jaw. "The third man was Krycek." Mulder felt every muscle in his body clench. It took every ounce of strength he had to force himself to remain sitting, to remain silent, to keep the grimace from his face. "He hit you?" he asked. His voice was strained and rough. He felt his face burn. Skinner stared at him. "Yes, Agent Mulder. Several times. Looked like he was enjoying it, too." "I...." Mulder cleared his throat. What was he going to say? "I wish you could have caught him." "So do I, Agent Mulder. So do I." Mulder nodded slightly, determined to keep his mouth shut. In his mind, the images roiled: Krycek, as he had been outside Mulder's apartment building. Hair long and shiny as silk, black leather jacket and blue jeans, shockingly beautiful, an explosive, smoldering presence. A traitor and murderer. Mulder felt Scully's elbow nudge surreptitiously against his, and he abruptly let out a long breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. So Krycek had the tape. Krycek had the tape, and silky-dark hair that fell in his eyes when he slammed back against a brick wall, and his fist had made the bruise on Skinner's jaw. Mulder swallowed, and wanted to get up and run out of the room. He wanted to run after Krycek. * * * From Alex Krycek's diary: The son of a bitch tried to kill me. Car bomb, as we were heading out of D.C. to New York. We stopped at a convenience store, and the other guys went in to get beer and sodas, and Luis kept asking me if I wanted anything, as if he cared. And the two of them stopped in the doorway of the store and stood there, looking back at me and it just gave me the creeps. Then I looked at the dashboard clock and it was flashing 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, and I just knew. So I slammed out of there and ran like hell, and the damn car blew up right behind me. Five seconds later and I'd be dead. Fuck. My hands are still shaking. I've got the tape, though. I've got the goddamned DAT tape, that I beat up Skinner for. I don't even know why I hit him so hard, except that I was so mad and so frustrated and so miserable, I just wanted to beat hell out of somebody, and he was there so I did it. Well, actually, I wanted somebody to beat hell out of me, but sometimes you have to be on top to be on the bottom. I called up the son of a bitch and told him his bomb didn't work. I probably should have just run, but what the hell. He was going to find out anyway, and I wanted the pleasure of telling him myself. Jesus, he's a cool one. Didn't even flinch. Of course, he had to keep up the cover for the rest of the gang, but Christ, you could almost swear he was happy to hear from me. Son of a bitch tried to kill me. Because I wouldn't shoot Scully, because I let Luis kill her sister instead. God. A completely innocent woman. That face is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. This is the worst thing I've ever done, worse than killing Mulder's father, who at least was a player himself, and nobody could have called him an innocent bystander. But Melissa Scully. There's no possible justification for letting her die. I could have stopped Luis from shooting her--I knew it wasn't Scully the minute she walked in the door. Too tall. Too much hair. And she just didn't walk right. But I let him shoot, because if it wasn't her it would have been Scully, and I couldn't let them kill Scully. Mulder needs her. He'd be lost without her. And I'll go to hell and suffer for all eternity, but I won't let them take Scully away from him again. He tried to kill me. I just can't believe this. And just two days ago the son of a bitch was telling me how much he liked me, and wanted me to be happy. Fucking liar. "I'm doing this for you," he told me. "I want you to forget about Mulder and the FBI. I want to bring you up in the organization. But you have to do some of the dirty work first, that's part of the process. Everyone starts at the bottom." You could almost believe he was sincere, the way he stood there with his blue eyes and his calm cool voice and his damned cigarettes. "I could help you. I could be like a father to you. I know your own family life hasn't been ideal." Well, my father might be a cold, demanding son of a bitch, but he never made me kill anybody. He even told me--Jesus, he told me, "You shouldn't feel so bad about what you've done. He wasn't really Mulder's father." As if that was supposed to help! Even if I believed him, how the hell is that supposed to make it any better? "Gee, Mulder, don't be mad. I know I killed the man who raised you, who was married to your mother, but he wasn't really your father so you shouldn't be so upset." Yeah, right. Well, we all know how sincere you were now. Car bomb, that's how sincere you were. So. Well. Guess I'm out of a job. And that's a relief, even if it means I'm a fugitive with an international consortium trying to kill me. At least I don't have to hurt Mulder any more. There's no way anybody can ever make me hurt Mulder again. So I'm glad, even if it means spending the rest of my life running. My career as a member of the Mission Impossible team is over. Now I'm starring in The Fugitive. Or hell, maybe it's La Traviata. Violetta left Alfredo and now her time's running out. Car bombs or consumption, it's all the same. Oh god. I guess I'd better scrounge up a passport and some cash and get out of the country, if I can. Goodbye, Mulder. You won't believe I did it for you, but I did. That hurts worse than anything, thinking about not seeing you again. I love you, Mulder. Goodbye. * * * It took him longer to come back this time. Each loss cut a little deeper, left another scar that wouldn't heal. First Samantha, all those years ago. Then Scully, although he got her back, and Krycek, whom he didn't. He got Samantha back, only to lose her again. Now his father, and Scully's sister. He made the long journey back, from the desert, from the dry, cold places of his soul, but he left something there as well. Not his determination, not his dedication to his quest. If anything, that was stronger than ever. He'd been hurt too much to ever let go of that until he'd found the answers to his questions. He still had his job, and Scully, and on the surface everything was the same. What was missing was a little of the spark, the tease, the playfulness. What was missing was the man who'd grin and say, who'd order pizza at four A.M. and show up at a friend's door with it and invite himself in to watch TV; who'd sit on the couch listening to opera on the stereo and turning a small gold foil crane in his hands, smiling to himself. But they went on, he and Scully, and they had some successes. He felt closer to her than ever, although, strangely, more distant as well. He worried about her, and what his quest was doing to her. He worried about what caring for her was doing to him. He remembered losing her, and didn't want to feel that pain again. He strained toward her, and away from her, and somehow maintained a balance. It wasn't always easy, but she was there, and that was enough. It was a midsummer morning, fresh and bright. Later in the day, the oppressive sun would turn the air hot and sticky. But in the hour of sunrise, with the sky fading from pale robin's egg stained with pink to clear, crystalline blue, the day was intoxicating in its newness. As Mulder circled his neighborhood on his morning run, he reflected that sometimes, a sky like this was all a person needed to feel that life was worth living. Not often, but often enough to remind him that there was a world out there, turning inexorably, following laws of physics and nature that had no concern for him and his quest. Mulder was smiling to himself as he ran up the front stairs of his building, unlocked the downstairs door, and into the elevator. He was even humming as he stood in front of his apartment door, fumbling with his keys. Then there was a something hard and cold pressing into the middle of his back, and a hot hand gripping tightly at his shoulder, and a voice that was painfully familiar despite the months since he'd heard it whispering in his ear, "Just open the door and go on in. You and I are going to have that talk." Mulder sat on his couch, hands clenched rigidly into fists, mouth pressed into a tight bow. His breath burned in his lungs, and his heart thudded viciously against his chest. From the corner of his eye he measured the distance to his gun in the desk drawer across the room. It was pure exercise, he knew--he was not going to get past the man stalking back and forth in front of him like a caged beast, gun waving nerve-wrackingly freely at his side. It was yet another version of Alex Krycek holding Mulder at gunpoint in his own apartment. The leather jacket was the same. Black jeans and a faded blue tee-shirt. But the dark hair was cropped short now, and rumpled as if it had never been combed, and the thick-lashed eyes were haunted and rimmed with red. The smooth, youthful cheeks were unshaven, and the loose-limbed gait had grown sudden and explosive. The life he'd chosen was not faring well with him. "You look like hell," Mulder muttered. Krycek's pacing was getting on his nerves. Why didn't the man just get on with whatever he'd come here for? "Yeah, well, you'd look like hell too if you had a contract out on you. It's hell on your sleep." The words came out in breathy little bursts, punctuated by jabs of his gun into the air between them. It made Mulder's chest itch. "Your master turn on his dog?" Mulder filled his voice with as much venom as he could muster. Krycek stopped and stood staring at Mulder, his face a strange mixture of anger, resentment, pain and longing. No longer the innocent child, but not the cold beauty either. This Krycek was hot enough to scald. Mulder could barely look at him. "I didn't come here to talk about that." His voice was strained and curiously soft. "What did you come to talk about? You want to tell me how you killed my father?" "Things happen." Krycek resumed his pacing. But this time it was awkward, confused, as if he couldn't decide where to step next, as if he were trapped, with nowhere to go. "It was my fault, but it wasn't all my fault. You promised we'd talk. I wanted to tell you, Mulder, but you wouldn't let me. It could have been so different, if you'd given me a chance...." Mulder felt his chest tighten in shock and anger. "Are you insane? You want to sit down and have a little talk about our relationship, _now_? After everything that's happened? After everything you've done?" His body began to ache from the effort to stay still, to refrain from jumping up to punch, to hit, to punish this man, whom he'd brought into his bed, who had betrayed him so deeply. He pushed his hands beneath him, and sat with his teeth bared. His gun, across the room, loomed large in his vision. "Jesus, Mulder, don't be an idiot." Krycek took a step forward, gun pointed straight at Mulder's forehead, hands suddenly steady as a rock. Mulder froze. This was a man with a gun, he reminded himself. A strained and desperate man. Then the gun drooped, and Krycek's shoulders slumped. And there was just a hint of the unhappy man who'd sat on the end of a bed in a hotel room in Montana, shaken and disappointed because he hadn't managed to face up to a harrowing case. The moment hit Mulder with a shaft of pain, almost as hard as a bullet from a gun. Krycek continued, sounding horribly like that unhappy young FBI agent. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect anything. I'm leaving the country tonight, and I won't be back. It didn't... nothing turned out the way I wanted it to. I just want you to listen to me--" "Tell me about my father, Krycek." Mulder couldn't stop his voice from rising. "Tell me about Scully, how you helped them take her. Tell me about--" "Damn it, Mulder, will you just for once listen to me?" Krycek stepped forward, then whirled away, his left hand coming up to gesture helplessly. Mulder was halfway off the couch before Krycek turned back, gun once more trained steadily on his former partner. His face twisted, and his voice was full of tears. "You never listen. Why won't you just listen to me?" Mulder gritted his teeth and bit back several retorts. It was all too surreal to be taken seriously. Here stood a man who'd betrayed him, hurt him and Scully, murdered his father--complaining about Mulder's relationship inadequacies like an angry lover. A man with a gun. Mulder sank down into the couch, easing his hands into his lap. "All right," he said calmly. "Tell me what you came to say." Krycek swallowed, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his leather jacket. "I was working for him. You know who I mean. He recruited me when I was in the Academy, for special ops. You know, the investigations behind the investigations. Mission Impossible stuff. I thought... I don't know what I thought. But what he told me about you--it didn't take me long to figure out it wasn't true. But I didn't know what to do." Krycek had stopped pacing. He stared somewhere at the wall near Mulder's head. Mulder watched the gun hand, seeing the muscles gradually relax, biding his time. "I couldn't quit. I didn't know what he'd do to me." Krycek laughed ruefully. "Now I know. Car bomb. He tried to kill me, but I'm not as stupid as he thinks." He smiled at Mulder, with a look that was friendly, almost affectionate. "Not as stupid as you think, either. Anyway, I thought it would be better for you if I stayed. I could protect you, if things got too crazy. I could keep them from hurting you, as much as I could. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. I knew you wouldn't believe me. You'd refuse to work with me, and they'd put someone else on you and I wouldn't be able to protect you. I tried... not to let... things happen." His face twisted again in pain. "I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help it. There was nothing I could tell you that would make sense. But after Montana I knew I had to tell you the truth, even if it meant the end of everything. I just couldn't go on the way things were." The hand holding the gun was loose at Krycek's side. Krycek stared at the wall and, just for a moment, pressed his eyes tightly shut. It was all the moment Mulder needed. He launched himself off the couch, and onto Krycek with all his strength. They both went crashing to the floor, the gun flying loose and skittering across the hardwood floor and under the desk. Mulder could smell the leather of Krycek's jacket, and the musk of his fear. Krycek lay quiescent under him, arms curved at the elbow, open-palmed hands flat on the floor. His face was anguished, but there was no resistance in it. Mulder could feel Krycek's heart thudding against his chest through the fabric of his blue tee-shirt. He could feel the hard column of flesh at Krycek's crotch, pressing against his pelvis. Time seemed to slow to a molasses crawl. He had Krycek under him, helpless, unresisting. He felt as though he stood on the edge of a cliff, looking down a long and dizzying depth. Lust for vengeance held him up, but another lust tickled at the back of his knees and shifted the ground beneath him. Krycek: lying quiescent, heart pounding, staring at him. Helpless. Punish him. Mulder's mouth came down on Krycek's, hard and devouring. The little flinch and gasp could have been desire, could have been pain. Either response was satisfying. He took Krycek's face in his hands, opened his mouth and ravaged his conquest, uncaring whether his teeth were too rough, or his tongue too deep. He could feel Krycek's whole body trembling, feet scrabbling for purchase as he attempted to push his hips further under Mulder's. Hands came up to grip Mulder's forearms. And Krycek kissed him back, the wild creature within him unleashed. Mulder almost laughed, a hollow sound between the mouths struggling into each other. As if he had discovered the true Krycek at last, in this rough possession. Discovered that here was a body he could do with as he pleased, control and punish and hurt if he liked, and no one could say he was wrong. The memory of Montana switched on in his brain: the second night, when they returned to the hotel, Krycek unhappy and agitated. he'd insisted. Mulder felt his chest swell with a terrible, triumphant glow. Mulder pushed himself to his knees, planted on the floor on either side of Krycek's hips. He sat upright, buttocks settled onto Krycek's strong, hard thighs, pulling Krycek up with him by his left hand, gripping a fistful of Krycek's shirt. Still, there was no resistance. Not even when Mulder drew his arm back and slapped Krycek hard across the face. He felt Krycek's cock jump in his jeans, as Krycek cried out, eyes pressed tightly shut. Mulder shook him, twice, by the fist still twisted in his shirt. "Look at me!" he hissed. Krycek's eyes opened. They were dark and cloudy, swallowed up by wide, inky irises. His jaw was slack. Mulder could see the handprint forming on his jaw, the slight swelling in his full, round lip. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so beautiful. Again, his mouth crushed against Krycek's, deliberately tasting the heat and tenderness of his blow on the other man's face. He pulled away, licking his lips, thoughtful now. Whatever else happened today, he was going to fuck Alex Krycek. But the logistics required a little thought. It would be a pleasure just to do it here and now, turn the man over and pull down his jeans and pound him into the floor. Unfortunately, the lube and condoms were in the bedroom. And getting from here to there might pose a problem. Krycek was pliant enough at the moment, but try to get up and haul him off to another room, and he might decide to fight. Both of their guns were out of easy reach. Mulder shifted slightly, pressing his burning cock into Krycek's crotch. Both Krycek's slack-jawed moan and the knife-sharp stab of need through his own groin were deliciously satisfying. Slowly, he began to push Krycek back to the floor, rubbing his crotch into Krycek's as he did so. He was smiling when he had Krycek lying once again on his back, breathing heavily and worrying at the swollen corner of his lip with his tongue. Krycek was calmer now, his face had cleared, and he lay quietly, hands loose at his shoulders, waiting. Almost as if this was what he had come for, or hoped for. And perhaps it was. Then, wouldn't he have come prepared? With a soft chuckle, still holding Krycek still by the throat, Mulder searched out the pockets of Krycek's leather jacket and thrust a hand deep within them, one by one. And was rewarded with what he needed--several condoms and a small tube of lubricant. He tossed them out onto the floor at his right hand. "Thank you," Mulder whispered. "This makes things much easier. Did they teach you this in black ops? Always come prepared for any eventuality?" Krycek's eyes rolled back, and his mouth worked, but he didn't answer. "You're right," Mulder agreed. "What is there to talk about? Let's just get on with it." He released Krycek's shirt and moved back, lifting himself up onto his knees. "Turn over." Between his legs, Krycek turned. Not as if he were following orders, but just as if he were finally being given the opportunity to do what he wanted all along. Cradling his head in his arms, he settled himself onto his stomach. A powerful thrill coursed through Mulder, at the sight of his enemy and former partner face down on the floor between Mulder's legs. The black leather jacket billowed out around him. His tender, reddened cheek lay crushed in his arms. His thick eyelashes brushed his sleeve. The round mounds of his bottom lay, covered by denim that would soon be removed, below the supple black leather of his jacket. Beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but he had been a liar, never truly Mulder's until now. He leaned forward to place one soft kiss on the back of Krycek's neck. "Open your pants," he whispered into Krycek's ear, nibbling at the lobe. Then he sat back again, up on his knees to allow Krycek the necessary room to move. Krycek struggled awkwardly, lifting his hips to get his hands underneath himself, weight balanced on his chest and knees. Mulder enjoyed watching this, too. He waited while Krycek worked the buttons open, then stopped him with a hand on his wrist when he took the waistband of his jeans and began to push them down. "I'll do that," Mulder said, and Krycek acquiesced, bringing his arms back up to pillow his head. Mulder took the waistband of Krycek's jeans in his hands, and began to work them down over the smooth, pale marble of Krycek's hips. Strong and muscular and still well-padded--he'd been eating well, despite being on the run, Mulder noted wryly. That was as it should be. He liked Krycek's body this way. He left the jeans at Krycek's thighs, and reached for the tube of lubricant. He found that his hands were trembling as he uncapped the tube and squeezed some of the cool, slippery gel onto his fingers. Too many unwanted memories came rushing back as he slid his fingers between Krycek's buttocks and into his anus. He felt his face burning as his fingers moved in the hot, moist flesh. He remembered the first time he'd entered Krycek's body, how wonderful it had felt to touch him inside, how amazing it had been to be allowed this intimacy. He'd wondered then why Krycek let him do it, how it could feel that good, and he wondered now even more. Krycek had come here for this? To give himself to a man he'd betrayed? Almost in a trance, Mulder knelt over Krycek's body, fingers moving carefully until he found the round lump of Krycek's prostate, and began to stroke it slowly. Krycek moaned, and his fists opened and closed, and his hips squirmed into Mulder's hands. It was so like it had been before, Mulder could almost forget they weren't still in Montana. Except they were in the floor in Mulder's apartment, and Krycek was in black leather and denim, and everything had changed. Everything except this: Krycek's body passive and receptive and hot as a furnace, soft little moans escaping his throat like tiny fluttering birds, and tears dampening his long eyelashes. Mulder groaned and fell forward, covering Krycek's body with his own. He withdrew his fingers and worked his own pants down past his stiff cock, just as awkwardly as Krycek had done. Impatiently cursing under his breath, he sat up again to find one of the condoms in the floor, and hurriedly put it on. Then he moved his legs between Krycek's, spreading him wide and ready for fucking. He paused a moment, kneading Krycek's buttocks in his hands, gently at first, then harder, until he was pinching them roughly. Still, Krycek's only response was to moan a little louder. With a sigh, and holding Krycek's buttocks open, he let himself settle onto the leather-clad back. The smell of leather and sweat was sharp and heady. He gripped Krycek around the throat with one hand, holding him firmly, and with the other hand, took his cock and began to press into Krycek's anus. Mulder could hurt him now, but there was no need, he was already conquered. He could concentrate on pleasure now, on working his cock slowly in, on feeling the tight, hot muscles squeezing him, on overcoming the body's last resistance until his cock slid fully home. Then he took a deep breath and lay for a moment, stroking Krycek's hair and staring off into the distance. It could have been like this... or could it? Had there ever been a time when this was not a lie? No. Mulder must not let himself be fooled by Krycek's deceptive innocence again. He must not fall into Krycek's trap. But he would fuck him. Mulder lifted his hips, withdrawing his cock until only the head was inserted, then slowly plunging it in to its full depth. Again and again, he indulged in long, slow, deep strokes. He took Krycek by the hips and lifted him slightly, adjusting the angle so he could make his deepest entrance. It was good, never mind the rest, forget everything but this shiveringly sweet pleasure. He chuckled softly, and whispered to Krycek, "No guilt and no regrets." Tears flowed beautifully from Krycek's eyes, and he licked them from the damp cheek. Then he thrust hard. Smiling to himself with terrible pleasure, he fucked Alex Krycek hard, until Krycek jerked with a gurgling cry, and his anus twitched on Mulder's cock, and Mulder fucked him harder, in a frenzy of lust, until his own orgasm took him, and everything melted away. Mulder groaned, and rolled off of Krycek's back, grimacing slightly as he pulled his cock free. He stood, a little unsteadily, on knees still watery from an orgasm that had ripped through his entire body like a ravaging fever. He stared down at Krycek, lying unmoving on the floor, except for the rise and fall of his back under the leather jacket. There was an odd rushing sound in his ears. God, what had he been thinking? Well, obviously he hadn't been thinking. He'd been angry; flush with adrenaline, and it had spilled over into leftover lust. No doubt Krycek was still beautiful. Even more so now, in his leather and denim. But he was evil, a liar and a murderer, and Mulder did not want him lying in his floor. "You...." There was a strange catch in his voice. He cleared his throat and started again. "You'd better go. Before I lose the afterglow and decide it's worth the cleanup and disposal problems to kill you." Krycek stirred, one hand coming up to wipe at his face, legs curling under him. He looked in no better shape than Mulder. With a disgusted groan, Mulder walked over to the wastebasket by the desk, stripping off the condom as he went, and tossing it angrily into the trash. Stupid, he told himself as he pulled up his sweatpants. He was going to be late for work, and what could he say? He should arrest him. Now? With a used condom in the trash and Krycek's semen all over his living room floor? Just get the man out of here. He snatched up his own gun, then leaned down to scoop up Krycek's gun from under the desk where it had slid. He should just keep the damned thing--but it would only get him in trouble somehow. Was this the gun that had killed his father? No way he could have it tested--how would he explain how he'd gotten it? He'd just end up framing himself, as Krycek had wanted all along. With his own gun tucked under his arm, he popped open Krycek's revolver, determined at least not to give Krycek back a loaded gun. All the chambers were empty. Mulder turned, staring at the man now standing shakily behind him, buttoning up his jeans. He'd come here with an unloaded gun. "What's the matter, Krycek? Can't afford ammo?" Krycek snatched the gun from Mulder's hand. And Mulder let him take it. They'd gone insane, he thought. Both of them. "I don't want to hurt you, Mulder. You know that." "But you came here with a gun." "The last time I came here to talk to you, you tried to kill me. I just wanted to make you listen to me, that's all." "Well, have you said what you came to say?" Krycek stared somewhere in the middle of Mulder's shirt. "Yeah. I guess." His lower lip trembled. Mulder suppressed the urge to suck on it. Krycek tucked the gun into its holster behind his back, and walked over to the door. "I won't bother you again." He looked back at Mulder. And there he was: wide-eyed and innocent, so sweet it would break your heart. Not even the bruise developing on the side of his face could spoil that aching sweetness. Mulder swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes. He heard the door open. "I meant what I said, Mulder. There were things I lied to you about, but never about that. I love you." The door closed. Mulder pressed his eyes tightly shut, and stood there by his desk. "Alex...." But he couldn't force himself to say the words. And Alex wasn't there to hear them, anyway. If only that were true. But Alex Krycek continued to bother him. In the morning when he returned from his morning jog (would he feel that gun at his back again? the hot hand on his shoulder, the warm breath in his ear?) at midday when he and Scully went out for lunch () in the evening when he sat on his couch and stared at the spot on the floor where he'd mopped up the puddle of Krycek's semen (thinking to himself, ) late at night when he couldn't sleep and reached for the phone and had the number half punched out before he remembered. But Krycek wouldn't be back. He was leaving the country, he'd said. Cancerman had tried to kill him, and he was now on the run. Did he still have the tape he'd stolen from Skinner? What would he do? Where would he go? Not that it mattered. Mulder would never see him again. The words haunted him. He kept replaying the incident over and over again in his mind. The anguish in Krycek's face; the agitated confession; the strange passivity; the empty gun--he saw it all happening with crystal clarity, but when he tried to analyze it, to figure out reasons, his mind went numb and refused to look at it. Something nagged at him, something that wanted to suggest that Krycek was right, it was at least partly Mulder's fault, that he had never given Krycek the chance to tell him the truth when he'd wanted to. He'd seen the big eyes and delicate features and heard the breathy voice, and invented an Alex Krycek in his mind to go along with the pictures he'd created, refusing to look at the real man behind those eyes. Should he have sat Krycek down and talked to him--really talked, the way he'd once promised they would? But that was ridiculous. Krycek had betrayed him and Scully, had killed his father. No matter what Mulder had done wrong, it was nothing compared to Krycek's crimes. There was nothing to be gained by listening to his excuses. Nothing Krycek could say would make it all right. Nothing. Several more months passed. They got close again--beginning with a ridiculous phony-looking alien autopsy tape that Mulder had found advertised in the back of a magazine, which turned out to be not so phony. But once again, when all was over, they were left with more questions than answers. And Scully met a group of women who'd all found implants in the back of their necks, like the one Scully had. A group of women who were all dying of various cancers, most likely caused by the experiments they'd been subjected to. Branched DNA. And Scully, lying near death in a hospital bed, her body ravaged almost beyond repair.... Mulder had always been willing to sacrifice whatever was necessary of himself to pursue his search for the truth. He cared little enough for his own life, if he could spend it in the realization of his quest. He almost expected to die in it--he couldn't really imagine life beyond the search. But the others--his family, his friends, Scully and her family--none of them should have to suffer for their involvement with him. Especially not Scully. But she'd been abducted, experimented on, lost her sister, and now it seemed that her health might be irrevocably damaged, all because she'd chosen to join him in his quest. Perhaps Krycek had had the right idea, after all--being Mulder's partner was too much of a liability. Much safer to stay on the other side. Not that Krycek was in any better shape. Marked for death and on the run--and why? Why would Cancerman turn on him, and try to kill him? Krycek had done his dirty work, right down the line. Was it true, that he'd tried to quit? That he'd intended to tell Mulder the truth, that last night in Montana? That he'd changed sides, and that was why Cancerman no longer trusted him? Then Krycek's pain was Mulder's responsibility, too, and Mulder couldn't bear to think about that. So he pushed those thoughts firmly aside, and all the while at the back of his mind, Krycek's voice tormented him: If Mulder could have covered his ears against the sound, he would have. The next time, it was a French salvage ship that limped into San Diego harbor with all its crew--except for one man--dying of extreme radiation burns. Mulder followed the surviving diver to San Francisco, then the return address on a letter in the diver's home led him to a salvage broker named Jerry (with a "J") Kallenchuk, whom he followed to Hong Kong. And she led him to Alex Krycek. It was the last thing he would ever have expected, yet it had a strange inevitability about it. That he should be standing here in a small, dark office in Hong Kong, backlit in lurid red from the neon outside the window, with a woman handcuffed to his wrist, and Alex Krycek standing in the shadows with a gun pointed in Mulder's face. Sweaty and red-eyed and grim, like a desperate creature that had been chased and harried through forest and dale, culvert and cave, run to ground and then flushed from its hiding place, survival the only instinct left. Mulder's heart lurched, and then raced, and nearly pounded through his chest. "Krycek...." His voice sounded strange in his own ears. His mind spun crazily, not knowing whether to laugh or scream. If he hadn't been handcuffed to Kallenchuk, he might have flung himself onto Krycek. Whether to squeeze the life from his throat, or to embrace him in joy, he didn't know. he ordered himself roughly. "I thought guns were illegal in Hong Kong." "You know what they say--when guns are outlawed...." Krycek's grin was almost a grimace. His eyes were hard and cold. "Why don't you take that gun and shoot yourself in the head, like you shot my father." It all seemed surreal, like he was standing in the middle of a Sam Peckinpah movie, trading macho cracks with a man he'd once... he'd once.... "Oh god. High noon in Hong Kong." Apparently, Jerry Kallenchuk thought so too. Krycek glared at her, teeth bared like an animal's. It was as if he'd just noticed her presence, and found it completely unacceptable. "Why don't you just shut up!" He grabbed her by the arm and roughly shoved her out into the hall, closing the door on the chain of the handcuffs. "That's no way to treat your partner," Mulder said. Shots rang out in the hallway. Mulder felt the chain of the cuffs being dragged down to the floor, heard the thump of her body. Krycek stared; his face shattering, for just a moment, into a haze of desperate pain. Then he broke and ran for the window, pausing before he leapt into the street. "Looks like she's your partner now." And then he was gone. He managed to find the handcuff key and free himself from the body of the salvage broker in time to escape out the window before Kallenchuk's killers entered the office. From there, he headed to the airport. It was his best guess as to where Krycek would have gone, Hong Kong now being a little too hot for him, as well as Mulder's own intention to return to D.C. at the earliest opportunity. And sure enough, Krycek was there. He was easy enough to spot--a big man in a black leather jacket, black jeans, boots and gloves. Not your typical Hong Kong businessman at all. Mulder took him as he passed, clotheslining him with the telephone he'd been pretending to use. One punch to the stomach, a head butt to the head, and Krycek was moaning and gasping for breath as Mulder reached behind him to appropriate the gun from his back holster. (It was the third time he'd taken Krycek's gun from him, some calculating part of his mind noted with interest. And some part of him that he tried not to listen to insisted that it couldn't be because he was that much better fighter than his former partner.) A few threats and insults and "I didn't kill your father," Krycek protested, although it seemed to come more from desperation than truth. Then, "Finish it, Mulder. Go on and finish it." Mulder stepped back, then. He told himself it was because he didn't want to make a scene while holding a gun in the Hong Kong airport. Not because Krycek's voice was grief-stricken and hopeless. Not because Krycek's face was streaked with sweat and tears and blood. Not because he felt sorry for him. Mulder asked him about the tape. "I'll give it to you, if you let me go." His only protection, and means of support. And he offered it to Mulder, for the chance to go free and live a little while longer. Life on the run had been hard on him, Mulder saw. There was no trace of innocence in that sweet face now. But it was still sweet. Mulder couldn't bear seeing the blood dripping from his nose. He gritted his teeth and forced the hardness back into his voice. "Go to the bathroom and clean yourself off. If you're not out of there in three minutes, I'm coming in there to kill you." Krycek seemed no more to believe the threat than Mulder did. But he allowed himself to be led to the restrooms, stood compliantly while Mulder checked out the men's room. Mulder was aware that Krycek could easily have broken and run while Mulder left him standing there. But he chose not to. He'd thrown in with Mulder. It was strange the way that thought twisted in him, made his stomach hurt. But when Krycek came out of the bathroom, something had changed. He was calm now, his face smoothed into a cool mask, his movements even and sinuous. So many Kryceks, and here was another new one. Mulder wondered which one this was. It wasn't until after he'd lost Krycek again, after the car accident, and Mulder had learned that the French diver's wife had been found in the bathroom of the Hong Kong airport, covered in the same diesel oil as her husband when he'd been found, that Mulder realized what had happened. The alien had been trapped at the bottom of the sea, until the French diver had found it. It had inhabited the diver, then the diver's wife, then Krycek, and now it was loose somewhere in the United States, looking for something. Now Mulder had to find out what it was that the alien wanted. For the next few days, events happened so quickly Mulder barely had time to think. Skinner was shot--by the same man who'd killed Scully's sister. He found the locker that was opened by the key that Krycek had given him, but the tape had already been taken. He did find the impression of a phone number on the package, which led to a meeting with a man who told him that the UFO the French salvage ship had found had been moved to a location in the United States. Then Scully caught her sister's killer, as he attempted to finish off Skinner, and found that he'd been present when Krycek had traded the tape to Cancerman for information on the location of the alien's ship. He told her where Krycek was headed--an abandoned missile site in North Dakota. Mulder and Scully immediately caught the first flight to North Dakota. They found men dying of radiation burns in the missile silo--proof that the alien had been there, in Krycek's body. They were close, so close-- But once again, it was not to be. Before they could find the alien, or its ship, or Krycek, Cancerman had found them. They were hauled out of the silo at gunpoint, unceremoniously loaded into a car and driven away. Once again, they ended up with nothing but more suspicions, more close calls, more unanswered questions. Skinner recovered. The French diver and his wife recovered. Luis Cardinale, Scully's sister's killer, died in his cell. And Krycek? Krycek was lost again. A few days later, Mulder was sitting in his basement office when Scully tapped on the door and came in with a fax in her hand and a tentative smile on her face. He sat back in his chair and smiled back, nodding to her to sit down. She pulled up a chair to the other side of his desk. She looked tired. A little strained around the eyes. The business with Luis Cardinale had hit her hard. She wanted justice for her sister, but all she got was another death, and another coverup. The men who gave the orders, the ones who were really responsible for Melissa Scully's murder, were still untouchable. "How are you doing?" he asked softly. She forced another smile, and nodded. Then she handed him the fax. "This just came in from San Francisco. The search of J. Kallenchuk Salvage Brokers turned up something interesting--a the key to a safety deposit box in a bank here in Washington." Mulder felt his eyes widen as he read the fax. Jerry Kallenchuk had had bank accounts all over the west coast and in Hong Kong. She had operations out of Seattle, Portland, and San Diego. She had recently traveled to Vancouver, B.C., Honolulu, Bangkok, and Manila, as well as Hong Kong. She seemed to have fingers in pies all over the Pacific Rim. But outside the Pacific Rim, there was one single key to a safety deposit box in Washington, D.C. "How soon can we get an order to open the box?" His fingers were tingling with excitement. He wasn't sure what they were onto, but he he had a feeling it was something big. "Already in the works. The key is being couriered, and should be here this afternoon. We'll have the court order by then." Two D.C. police officers, two bank officials, and Agents Mulder and Scully gathered in the narrow corridor between the walls of safety deposit boxes. Box number seventy-two was a small one, rented four months ago. According to bank records, the box had been opened only twice, once when it had been rented, and then again about a month ago. Mulder slipped his latex gloves onto trembling fingers as he watched the bank official and one of the police officers pull the box out of its slot and bring it over to the table. Mulder stepped up to the box. Inside, there were books. Three small, worn blank books with various patterned covers. And a microcassette. Scully, beside him, lifted the cassette in a gloved hand, holding it delicately between thumb and finger. "All it has is a date. December, nineteen ninety-four." Mulder nodded, staring at the books. He reached in and picked up the one on the top, one with a flowered cloth cover that looked like old-fashioned wallpaper. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. Perhaps it was something about the patterns, the tacky flowers and marbleized papers and fake lizardskin, that reminded him of red and navy striped ties and cheap thrillers and Hershey bars, but somehow he knew, even before he opened the book and saw the familiar handwriting, and read the first few lines. "Mulder?" Scully was looking up at him curiously. She reached for another of the books, and he stopped her with a gentle hand on her wrist. He swallowed, and cleared his throat. "Scully, these... these are Alex Krycek's diaries." They bagged the diaries and tape and brought them back to Mulder's basement office. Mulder stood behind his desk, holding the bag in his hands, looking at Scully standing across from him, waiting with her arms crossed, more-or-less patiently, for him to unbag the things so they could begin looking at them. There was no possible way he could tell her he didn't want her to read the diaries. She'd just want to know why, and no matter what he said, it would sound foolish, and no doubt she'd figure out the truth anyway. He could try sending her off to do something else... but that would only be a temporary solution, she'd still want to read them when she got the chance, and what were the chances she'd allow herself to be sidetracked by anything else in the first place? She was just as interested in Krycek's doings as he was. Should he try to warn her somehow? Prepare her for what she might read? But suppose Krycek hadn't written about the sex. Then he'd just be getting himself in deep water for no reason. Maybe.... "Mulder. Is something wrong?" Too late. He'd waffled too long, and Scully knew something was up. "No. It's just that he might have written about things that happened while he and I were working together. Things I'd just as soon no one else knew about." She lifted an eyebrow. "Things worse than anything that happened while you and I were working together?" "No. Well, not necessarily worse. Just different. It depends on your point of view, I suppose." He could feel his face growing hotter by the minute. She gave him one of those appraising looks. The ones that felt like they were going right through him, seeing all his secrets. She bit her lip. "Mulder, I don't want to invade your privacy. But I thought... I hoped that by now you would know that there isn't anything you can't tell me." And then he felt ashamed. After everything they'd been through together, how could he think she wouldn't understand? She'd seen him at his worst--angry and violent and selfish, insubordinate and insensitive, running roughshod over everyone in his path in the pursuit of his quest. And she'd stood by him, unconditionally, with more patience than he'd ever deserved. It was about time he gave her something back. Well, letting her find out he'd been sleeping with Krycek wasn't exactly a Christmas present, but it was an offer of trust that might in some small way repay the trust she'd given him. He nodded slowly. Then he dug through the bag to find the earliest of the diaries. The one that began, And he handed it to her. Mulder picked up the second of the diaries, sat down, and began to read: "I'm in Calgary now. It's not so bad, except that it reminds me of Montana. It's even the same kind of hotel. I wake up at night almost expecting he'll be here in bed with me. Then I have to get up and go out, because I can't get back to sleep. Funny how three days can change your life like that. Probably never be able to stay in a cheap hotel again without thinking about him. Hey, how about that, Mulder? I think of you whenever I think about serial killers and bloodhounds and cheap hotels. "And pizza and La Traviata and Ford Tauruses and the FBI and white shirts and grey suits and practically everything else. I think about Mulder every day, with every breath I draw, and wish like hell it hadn't been like this. What would have happened, that last night in Montana, if I'd made him listen to me, and told him the truth? Hell. Either he'd have kicked me out and that would have been the end of it, or he'd have let me stay with him and I'd have tried to help him save Scully, and we'd both have been killed. And Scully, too. I keep going over it in my mind, the whole thing, from the day that nameless bastard came to me, when I was fresh out of the academy and so naive I squeaked, and asked me if I wanted to do some special ops. Where was my mistake? What should I have done, to make things turn out right for me and Mulder? And I just can't figure it out. He wouldn't have let me quit. Mulder wouldn't have believed me if I tried to tell him I'd changed sides. The only answer I can come up with is that I should have told the sonofabitch no right there at the start, never gotten involved in his damned special ops in the first place. But then I never would have met Mulder at all. And he'd have gotten someone else to spy on Mulder. It just makes me crazy to think that no matter what I did, I couldn't have helped Mulder. That has to be wrong, I must be missing something, but I don't know what. "And what difference would it make now, even if I could figure it out? It's all over, way more than too late. I've lost Mulder, I've lost my job, and I'm sitting here in Canada waiting for the man who owns me to pull on my leash and tell me what to do next. And I don't even know how to get out of that. "It's hard, being here with nothing to do but think. He told me I could come back in another couple of weeks. He says he'll have a special job for me when I get back. I don't know whether to be glad about that or not. I don't know what he's going to want me to do now, but I know it's going to be something bad. I try not to think about it, but there's nothing to do here but think. I've gone out cruising a couple of times. It's weird, not to have to think about keeping up the cover any more. It wasn't any good, though. It just makes me think about Mulder, like everything else." Mulder paused, eyes tightly shut, hand pressed to his forehead. Damn Krycek! How dare he have regrets? How dare he wish things had been different? How dare he be... human, a decent man who'd made mistakes, too frightened and confused to know how to make things right? Mulder lowered his hand and looked across his desk at Scully, reading intently in the first of the diaries. She was biting her lower lip, and there were spots of red on her cheeks. Then she lowered the book, aware of his eyes on her, and glanced up at him. Her sympathetic smile had a slight waver in it. "He's... not at all what I expected." "How far have you gotten?" "Not far. He's just gone home and cried all night after killing Augustus Cole. He says... wait, I'll read it to you: 'Mulder was awfully nice to me about it. Even though the guy turned out not to have a gun, and Mulder was yelling at me not to shoot, and I screwed everything up. It kind of knocked me for a loop, having Mulder be so kind. Stupid, but I never expected anything like that. Like he wasn't going to be a real human being, he was just going to be the mark and I'd never have to worry about what anything I might have to do was going to do to him. Damn, I wish he'd just forget about this stuff, and do his job. Maybe if they transferred him out of D.C. he'd settle down. Send him to L.A. or somewhere, give him something really interesting to work on, not all this boring wiretap junk, so he won't mind losing the X-Files so much. Get him away from Scully, too. Really away, not just a two-hour drive to Quantico, did they really think that was going to stop him from seeing her? I made the recommendation, but I don't think my boss is going to listen to me. Well, I suppose he's got his reasons, I know there's a lot of stuff going on I don't know about, but it just seems mean, to keep letting Mulder get so close and then cutting him off at the knees. Makes me almost feel sorry for him.' " She looked up again, and her smile was sad and regretful. "Sounds like he didn't know what he was getting into at all." Mulder blinked several times. "Yeah." He could hear the huskiness in his voice. "You know, he was probably right, too. I wonder why they never transferred us to other field offices? It would have been so much easier." She hadn't yet gotten to the night he'd made his move--on both of his partners. The anticipation was making him ache. Should he just tell her now and get it over with? "I don't know. Maybe they thought it would be easier to keep an eye on you if you were here. What's happening in your volume?" Mulder cleared his throat. "Ah, he's holed up in Calgary. It's sometime after he took off. He doesn't date his entries, I'm not sure exactly when. He's doing a lot of thinking, wondering what he could have done differently." Her laugh was rueful. "I could tell him that." "Me too." But it wasn't quite so simple, was it? Krycek had been proven right in his worry that Cancerman would try to kill him if he rebelled. And--was he right about Mulder, too? What would he have done if Krycek had told him the truth, that last night in Montana? Would he have been able to listen, and forgive? Or would he have turned away, angry and betrayed, and thrust Krycek out of his life? "I guess it all looked different from where he was sitting." She sighed. "Yes. It can't have been easy for him. He was playing a dangerous game." She lifted her book, and began to read again. "Scully?" Mulder's hands gripped his own volume. She looked up expectantly. "Those things I was telling you about...." His throat closed on the words. He swallowed and shook his head. She'd find out soon enough. Why put himself through it? "Let me know when you get there. You'll know." She nodded thoughtfully. Mulder tried to smile, and returned to his own volume. It was painful reading. At times, tears filled his eyes, blurring the pages so that he had to stop and force back sobs, waiting for his breathing to slow, so that he could continue. The job that called Krycek out of Calgary was, as he'd suspected, something bad. The assassination of Mulder's father. Somehow he'd always known that it was Krycek, although he knew perfectly well that he had no real evidence, but even so, seeing it written in Krycek's own hand was far more wrenching than he could have imagined. But now, he also saw the threats, the anguish and remorse that had accompanied that action, and the agitated jumble of the words on the page twisted in his guts like tiny knives of ink. Astonishingly, as the damning words burned into his eyes, his hatred shifted, sliding across Krycek to focus on the Cancerman, and the fierce protective desire he'd once felt, long ago in Montana, welled up again. his anger burst out at his enemy. A hand gently touched his arm. "Mulder?" He looked up, startled, to find Scully standing at his side, her eyes dark with concern. He sat up, dropping the book on his desk, and wiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "I'm okay. He's writing about my father. He did it, Scully. Cancerman told him if he didn't, he'd kill Samantha." Scully swallowed. "My god." He glanced at the volume in her hand. "How far did you get?" She put her own book on the desk, smoothing the cover with her hand. Her mouth tightened into a painful smile. "I finished this one. It ends just after he disappeared." "Then you know." "That you had an affair with him? Yes. Mulder... he was in love with you." "So he kept telling me." "He kept telling you?" Mulder took a deep breath. "That night in Montana. Then after we got home, that last night." He turned to her, taking her hands in his, and looked up into her face. "After you were taken. I tried to get him to stay with me that night, but he wouldn't. He kept saying he had to tell me something first, but he couldn't tell me then. But he told me to remember what he'd said. 'Always remember that'--that's what he kept telling me. And then, about three months ago, he turned up at my apartment one morning with an empty gun, and told me again. He was leaving the country, he said, and he wanted to tell me before he left." Scully looked away, her eyes growing shiny, her lips pressed together. "My god. Poor Krycek." She looked down at him, and her mouth trembled. "Poor Mulder." Mulder shook his head. "He should have... he should have...." "Mulder, he said that he was going to start taping his conversations with his boss. I wonder if this tape...?" The microcassette. He'd forgotten all about it, engrossed in the diary and his roiling memories. "Where's the tape player?" He released Scully, and began scrabbling around on his desk. It was time for a break, past time, although god only knew if listening to whatever was on that tape was going to be any easier than reading Krycek's diaries. Scully helped him find the tape player, and then settled back into her chair to listen with him. He inserted the cassette, switched it on, and sat back. "Mr. Krycek, how was your vacation?" No mistaking that voice. It was Cancerman. And the answering voice was Alex Krycek's. "Fine. Not quite what I had in mind, but...." "It's unfortunate that your career in the FBI was cut short. I'd hoped to keep you in place considerably longer." "Yeah. Me too." Krycek's voice was weary. "But you can still be useful to us. I have a job for you. This may be a little more difficult for you, but if you can complete this assignment satisfactorily, then you'll still have bright future with us." Smooth, as always. Unemotional. As if they were discussing the weather. "What is it?" "I want you to terminate someone--a member of our group who has become dissatisfied, and threatens to reveal certain facts about our project." Mulder's hands gripped the arms of his chair. "I... I'm not a killer." "When you first joined us, you said you would do whatever was necessary." "But that was different! That wasn't... I was supposed to be working undercover, keeping tabs on Mulder. Not some kind of professional assassin." "You got to be quite fond of Mulder, didn't you? That's always a danger of this kind of work. You pretend something long enough, and you begin to believe it. You should like this assignment, then. You'll be protecting Mulder, in a way." "What do you mean?" Krycek was wary, untrusting, yet there was a flat sadness in his voice, as if he were already resigned to what he would be forced to do. Mulder's teeth clenched. "We've been watching Agent Mulder's father for some time now. There has always been a danger that he might be tempted to tell his son more than it would be safe for him to know. That unfortunate business with the young woman who pretended to be the daughter, Samantha, has only made the problem worse. We can't take the risk any longer. He'll have to be removed." "You... you want me to kill Mulder's father?" "Yes." "And I'm supposed to believe that this is protecting Mulder?" There was a sharp bitterness in Krycek's voice now. "If his father were to tell him too much, we'd have to eliminate them both. I'm sure neither of us wants that to happen." Mulder thought. "I... I don't know if I can do it." "There is one other option. We could terminate Samantha Mulder. Perhaps that would be a better solution in the long run. End Mulder's quest once and for all." And there it was. It was true, what Krycek had written. The bastard had threatened Samantha. Used his sister to force Krycek to commit murder. "Kill Samantha? That would destroy Mulder." "I would prefer the first option, myself. But it will have to be one or the other." "But why me? Why make me do this?" "I think you know the answer to that." There was a pause. When Krycek continued, his voice was rough with pain. "You want Mulder to hate me. You want to make sure I can never go to him and tell him the truth." "I think we'll all rest easier, when you've finally been able to put all your doubts about the choices you've made to rest." "And if I refuse, you'll kill Samantha." "Those are the options." "And you'll kill me." "I don't like to make threats. But you know our methods." There was another very long pause. Mulder and Scully both sat motionless in their chairs. The faint squeak of the tape player hubs turning filled the still air of the room. Finally, very quietly, Krycek's voice emerged. "All right. All right, you win. I'll do it." Mulder reached out angrily and punched the stop button, so hard the tape player jumped on the desk. "Damn it, Scully. Damn it. He was just a stupid, green kid who didn't know any better. Why did they have to do it to him?" Scully sat staring at the tape player. Then, she put her hand on the first volume of Krycek's diaries, and pushed it a few inches across the desk toward him. "I think you should read this." The afternoon wore on into evening. Mulder sat until his back grew stiff and his stomach empty, reading. Scully sat across from him, likewise. At first, he cried while he read, the tears streaming down his face until he no longer bothered to wipe them, watching them with vague curiosity as they stained his tie. Eventually, the pain passed beyond the point of tears, and his mind went numb as he took in all of Krycek's confusion, suffering and guilt. He relived with him the poignant and heady excitement of the days in Montana, his face burning as he finally discovered the source of Krycek's resistance and pain. He read of Krycek's horror as the events of Scully's abduction unfolded, saw the helpless reluctance with which he followed his orders and helped them take her. He followed Krycek to Calgary, to San Francisco, and to Hong Kong, reading page after page filled with Mulder's name, even months after Krycek had left, and all hope was gone. The third volume was short and bitter. This was the man Mulder had encountered in Hong Kong barely a week ago--angry and desperate and beaten down, with no future to look forward to, and no pleasure to ease the crushing emptiness of his days. He'd reduced his goals and needs to this: survival for another day, clinging to his life with a tenacity that was almost mindless in its unreasoning fierceness. He'd discovered an animal cunning in himself that he regarded with ironic amusement. "I don't know how much longer I'll live. Probably not long. He'll catch up with me eventually, there's no way I can stay out of his reach forever, especially now that I've started selling information from the tape. Strange to think that I'm committing treason by doing this. Strange to think I'm doing it and I don't care. I used to think the law was a wonderful thing, shining and noble and worthy of one's life, like knights in armor defending its honor. Lady Justice, with her blindfold and scales. It used to give me chills to look at her. I used to love my FBI badge, like I loved my job, like I loved Fox Mulder. Well, I've lost all that. All I've got left is my life, which isn't worth a Hong Kong nickel. Still, I hang onto it. I'm a thorn in that bastard's side, and that's worth something. I can't help Mulder, but I can worry his enemies. I hope I can give them a good run before I die." Mulder laid the volume down, and took a ragged breath. Scully, who'd been listening to the tape on headphones, switched off the tape player and pulled the headphones off. "If we can get a voice analysis on this tape, we can nail him for ordering your father's death. And mine." Mulder stared at the tape. She was right, it was hard evidence against Cancerman. It hadn't even occurred to him, he'd only been thinking of Krycek. "We'd need Krycek's testimony to nail it down. And he's...." "We need to find him. We can offer him immunity for his testimony, put him in the witness protection program." "Scully. He wouldn't live a day in custody, you know that. Even if we could find him. If he's still alive in the first place." She frowned thoughtfully. "There's no reason to think he's dead. The diver and his wife both recovered fully. And there's been no body found. They've never been too concerned about hiding the bodies." Mulder closed his eyes. Alex Krycek, alive. Somewhere. Running, hurting, desperate. "If he's alive, using the tape will be the surest way to kill him." Scully didn't answer. Mulder opened his eyes, to find her regarding him carefully. He looked away, hurt by the intensity of her gaze. "Mulder," she began quietly, "maybe we should back up a little. The diaries, obviously, we won't use. He never mentioned his boss by name, or described him in any way that would absolutely identify him. The diaries aren't evidence against anybody but Krycek, and we don't need evidence against him. Arresting him would be as good as killing him, as you've said." "Not to mention that they'd damage the reputation of a certain FBI agent." The attempt at humor was pathetically weak, but Scully beamed at him just the same. "So we'll seal them and put them away, and with any luck, they'll mold away before anyone ever gets the notion to look at them." Mulder sat up suddenly. God, that was another thing that had never occurred to him--the diaries were evidence in a Federal investigation. They'd been counted and logged in and couldn't just be made to disappear, not without questions and further investigations. "Scully, if anybody reads those, I'm finished." Scully shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Technically, you didn't do anything wrong. Relationships between partners are discouraged, but not forbidden outright. And neither is homosexual activity. They'd have to have some other reason to use it against you. And they'd need some sort of corroborating evidence. The diaries alone don't constitute proof, especially without Krycek to back them up." Mulder just sat there, unable to speak. It was all too much. Krycek, Cancerman, evidence... he didn't know what to say. Scully sighed. "Look, this isn't what's important right now." She picked up the first volume of the diaries, and held it thoughtfully, stroking the sad flowered cover. "You've hated him for a long time. He betrayed you, and hurt you terribly. But you cared about him once, a lot more than I ever realized. Maybe more than you realized. And now, we have his side of the story. And it looks like he had reasons for doing some of the things he did that mitigate his actions. I know I feel differently about him now. How about you?" "I don't know." Mulder took the diary from her, and opened it to the first page. "He killed my father. He helped them take you." He reached across the table and touched her face with his fingertips. Then he sighed. "He's probably dead anyway. And even if he isn't, we'll never find him. How can I forgive him?" "Do you want to forgive him?" "What difference does that make?" "Mulder, I'd say that makes all the difference. You don't forgive someone because it's convenient. Or because you have some guarantee that things will work out if you do, or because what they've done falls into some predefined set of forgivable sins. You forgive them because they're sorry, and because you want to. Because you care enough to want to heal the damage done." Mulder felt his lip tremble. Tears clouded his eyes. "I want to. But it's too late." Scully took the microcassette out of the player, and held it thoughtfully in her fingers. "Maybe not. Krycek made this tape for protection, but apparently he never got the chance to use it. Maybe it could still be used." A faint smile touched his mouth. "Agent Scully, that tape is Federal evidence." "And this tape will go safely into Federal evidence storage. Along with those diaries. Where, unfortunately, it will most likely be mislabelled and buried at the bottom of some file drawer and never seen again. But I think it would be a good idea to make a copy, just for safekeeping. Don't you?" Mulder managed a laugh--small and fragile, but genuine. Thank god for Scully. Thank god. "Yes, I think that would be a very good idea." Alex. Maybe it wasn't too late. But they had to work fast. Mulder stood in the hallway, hand poised to knock on the man's apartment door. He'd been here only once before, back in some of the darkest days of his life, when Scully, finally returned, lay dying in the hospital. He'd been given the address by someone--he thought it was Skinner, but he couldn't be sure--and he'd come here, crazy with grief, not really sure what he meant to do, waving his gun and right on the edge of losing everything, to confront the man who'd taken Scully from him. Well, he'd gotten Scully back, and now he wanted Krycek back, and he'd come once again to confront this man. Not with a gun this time, but with a tiny cassette tape in his pocket. Funny, he knew the man's address, but he still didn't know his name. He knocked. He could hear the television through the apartment door, so he knew the man was home. He waited patiently, trying to smooth his features, trying not to look like the homicidal maniac he felt inside, to present the face of a reasonable man to the spyhole. I just want to talk, he rehearsed. I'm not armed. The door opened, and there Mulder's nemesis stood, face an emotionless mask, ever-present cigarette in his hand, wreathing smoke around his fingers. "Mr. Mulder. To what do I owe the pleasure...?" "I want to talk to you. About Krycek. I'm not armed." "No reason for you to be." The man stood aside, and allowed Mulder to step into the room. A small apartment, not so different from Mulder's own, except for the haze of cigarette smoke, and the glass of bourbon on the side table. An old western movie played on the television. "Would you like a drink?" "No. What I want is Krycek. I want you to let him go." The man sat in his well-worn easy chair, and gestured Mulder to the couch. Mulder ignored the gesture and stood where he was, several feet from the man's chair. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, letting the feel of the cassette pricking his fingers calm him. "What makes you think I have him?" "He was there at the silo. I know. Cardinale told us where Krycek was headed before you had him killed. We saw the men there with the radiation burns. He was there, and so were you, and you have him. Or you know what happened to him." "What makes you think he's alive?" Mulder's fists twisted in his pockets. "If he isn't, show me a body. Let me bury him. Let me call his mother and tell her, so she doesn't worry for the rest of her life. Let me put him to rest." Tears gathered, and he fought them back. "And if he is alive?" The man smoked his cigarette. Mulder wanted to hit him. "Let me have him. Give him back to me, like you gave Scully back." "And why should I do that?" "For the same reason." Mulder had demanded, that time before. And the man had replied, For the first time, there was just the tiniest crack in the man's equanimity. He looked away, taking a quick drag on his cigarette, a quick gulp of his bourbon. Then he was looking back at Mulder, calm and smooth as ever. "I do like him. But he's a danger to me." The pieces of the puzzle fell suddenly into place. Mulder swallowed a choking gasp that was almost a laugh, and a glow of hope began to gather in his chest. Mulder thought, daring to let a triumphant note creep into his inner voice. It had all been there in Krycek's diaries, although Krycek himself had never seen it: the continued attempts to bring Krycek in line, to bind him with the awful deeds he was forced to commit, to drive a wedge between him and Mulder. The ridiculous lie about Mulder's father, a sad attempt at comfort when Krycek's grief over what he'd been forced to do threatened to overwhelm him. The strange, calm pleasure with which the man discovered that his clumsy attempt to eliminate his recalcitrant operative had failed. And the final, damning proof--Krycek was still alive, despite everything he'd done. Cancerman had him, and it would have been so easy to kill him, so easy to clean up his body along with the other radiation-burned troops in the silo, and every reason to do so, and no possible reason to keep him alive. Except that he didn't want to. He loved his precious, rebellious, impossibly innocent fallen angel of an agent, and couldn't bring himself to kill him. Now all he needed was an excuse, a reason to let him go. And watching Mulder beg, having Mulder owe him a favor--wouldn't that be the most pleasant reason of all? Mulder crushed his fist around the microcassette in his pocket. He wasn't going to need it. His heart pounded in his chest. "Not if you let him go. All he wants is to be free. He won't hurt you, please, just let him go." "Are you guaranteeing his behavior?" There was just a trace of a smile on the man's face. "Yes." Some part of himself wondered that he so easily made this promise. But he'd read those diaries. He knew what Alex Krycek wanted, and it wasn't revenge, and it wasn't the truth, and it wasn't justice. It was Fox Mulder. He could guarantee this. "He can't hurt you. He doesn't know enough, he'd be in too much trouble himself if he tried. You've got the DAT tape back. He's just an unhappy employee, who wants out of his contract. Let him go." "And you're willing to forego the use of whatever knowledge Krycek might have?" "Yes." This was a little harder. But that knowledge was out of his reach, anyway. It was Alex's death if he used it, and he was willing to trade it for Alex Krycek, solid and real and in his arms. The man took one more long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. Taking another cigarette from the pack sitting beside the ashtray, he lit it with his silver lighter. Mulder watched the smoke drift up, barely breathing, waiting. Then the man looked up at him and nodded. A slight smile stretched his mouth. "I believe you're an honorable man, Mr. Mulder. We have a deal." Mulder and Scully pulled up their rental car in front of the missile silo in the bright glare of a clear midday sun, as they had just days ago. The site appeared just as empty as it had then, but they knew that this time the cigarette-smoking man would not be arriving with his goons to haul them away. In fact, that man himself had promised that no one at all would be there, except for the one man they had come to find. Behind the door of silo 1013, no doubt hungry and thirsty and frightened, but still alive, Mulder would find his other lost partner. They'd spent the rest of the night, before they caught the early morning flight to Fargo, North Dakota, negotiating with Skinner to drop all the warrants against Krycek. Mulder had to chuckle about that--Skinner had been a much harder sell than Cancerman, and of course they couldn't show him the diaries in explanation of their sudden change of heart toward their erstwhile enemy. Mulder had ended up spinning an elaborate semi-true tale about secret deals with Cancerman and Krycek at which Skinner, already at a disadvantage from being awakened at two in the morning by his two brightest and best but most irritating agents, finally threw up his hands and agreed that yes, all right, they didn't have any solid evidence against him anyway, and yes, he would no doubt be killed the day he was put in custody, so if they were willing to forget everything Krycek had done, so was he. So it was all going to be all right. Mulder could barely believe it. All he had to do now was walk into the silo, go eight stories down to the bottom, and open door 1013, and he would have Alex back. His skin tingled at the thought. His knees were like jelly, and his hand froze on the door handle. "Mulder?" He smiled sheepishly at Scully, who was grinning at him from the driver's seat. ( He'd expected to be teased unmercifully, but all he'd gotten was one lift of her expressive eyebrow.) "I'll wait here for you," she told him. "But don't take too long. I'd hate to get worried and go down there to find you in the middle of your reunion." All right, she couldn't resist at least one dig. Mulder forced a laugh, while his face flamed. He hadn't thought about that, though--never mind, he hadn't brought any condoms with him, and anyway, Krycek was going to be starving and miserable and in no shape for sex. Soon, though. Very soon. Mulder took a deep breath. Then another. Finally, he opened the car door and stepped out. He turned to say something to Scully, but found that he couldn't speak past the huge, silly grin on his face. Scully's answering smile was warm and generous and full of affection. With his heart so full he could barely breathe, he nodded and went into the silo. Door 1013. Mulder's hands were shaking as he turned the wheel to open it. It was dark inside, and he could see nothing through the glare on the glass in the small window. He stood back and pulled the door open. Alex Krycek stood several feet away in the doorway, blinking in the light. Still wearing the black leather jacket and black jeans and grey shirt he'd been wearing when Mulder had found him in Hong Kong a week ago. Still wary and desperate. Several days more growth of beard; several days less sleep. He was red-eyed and shaky and streaked with oil. He was the most beautiful thing Mulder had ever seen. "Hello, Alex," he said softly. "Mulder." Krycek's voice was flat and toneless. "Go ahead and kill me. I'd rather it was you than him." His shoulders hung, defeated. And he offered up his life. Mulder's eyes stung. "I'm not here to kill you, Alex. I'm here to take you home." Krycek flinched, as if he'd been hit. Then he stood blinking, unable to comprehend it. His mouth worked. Heedless of the oil and dirt, Mulder stepped up to him and folded him into his arms. It felt like sheer heaven, oil and leather and hot trembling flesh. Krycek made a small, helpless sound and melted into him. "Mulder, I... I...." Krycek's warm breath tickled the hairs on his neck. "It's all right," Mulder whispered. Then, suddenly remembering Krycek's long days locked up here in the dark, he pulled one arm free to find the bottle of water in the capacious pocket of his anorak. Krycek took it eagerly, and as he drank, Mulder stroked his hair and explained, "We found your diaries and the tape. I understand now, Alex. I'm sorry I wouldn't listen to you before." Krycek's face twisted, and the empty bottle fell to his feet. "Oh, god, Mulder, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry about everything, I made so many mistakes...." Mulder crushed him into his arms again. "It's all right. Everything's all right. Come on, let's get out of here. Scully's waiting for us up top." Still dazed, Krycek allowed himself to be led out of the silo. But then, in the corridor, he pulled away and stopped. His face was frightened and desolate again. "Mulder, he's going to kill me." "No, he won't," Mulder smiled gently. "I talked to him. He agreed to let you go." Krycek shook his head, once. "He did? Why?" "Because he likes you. I don't know, maybe he felt sorry for me. I had to promise we'd never use anything you know against him, but I didn't think that would be a problem." Krycek stood, mouth hanging open. One choked laugh bubbled from his throat. Then, a smile split his face and he laughed again. "He's Germont." "What?" Mulder smiled back, playing along, glad to see Krycek finally coming out of his shock. Poor guy, he was delirious with relief. Not to mention hunger. Well, he had a right. Mulder himself was giddy with it: Krycek standing there in front of him, solid flesh and bone, touchable and takeable and every inch of him Mulder's. "Germont. Alfredo's father." Krycek shook his head, then giggled. It was like a million tiny sweet fingers tickling Mulder's skin. "You remember, Mulder. La Traviata. Germont forces them apart, but in the third act he relents and lets Alfredo and Violetta be together again." Mulder laughed, a long, happy laugh. "Well, I've often thought my life had operatic overtones." Krycek's smile widened. "Here's where I die of consumption." Mulder pulled him into his arms again, decided damn the oil and pressed his lips to Krycek's. Krycek's eyes fluttered shut, and he returned the kiss delicately. There was a sharp tang on Mulder's lips, but the soft, warm roundness of the mouth beneath his was sweet as nectar. "Not this time, Violetta," he whispered into Krycek's ear. He stepped back, still holding Krycek around the shoulders, and began once again to lead them toward the exit. "Not this time," he repeated. "This opera has a happy ending." Krycek smiled crookedly, and happy tears dripped down his cheeks, making trails in the dirt and oil on his face. Would he still cry when Mulder made love to him, now that there were no secrets between them? Somehow, Mulder thought he would. And somehow, the thought made him very happy. He had his Krycek back. He didn't intend to let him go again. end.