Two weeks later, when they were still no closer to getting their serial killer, Scully wondered
what she would have done without Krycek. Mulder was retreating further and further away from her.
They were all putting in fourteen, eighteen hour days, living on takeout and gallons of coffee.
Tempers were beginning to fray. There were frequent disagreements, arguments, and as always
Scully was the person supposed to keep them together, working as a team. The person they all
looked to, to keep her brilliant but maverick partner in line.
She was frequently tired, angry, and frustrated enough to scream. But when she came home so
exhausted she had to drag herself from the car, Alex was there. What really mattered were not the
dinners, the care he lavished on her comfort. Like the time he'd brought a Japanese masseuse who
was waiting for her, because the day before she'd complained about a stiff back. Not even the
times he seemed instinctively to know that she needed to be held. The times when she had to pour
out all the ugliness, the pain and terror she had seen all day.
What she came to treasure was the fact that he was *there.* That he listened and that he cared
for her. Mulder had many fine qualities but tenderness and concern for his partner were not chief
among them. But no, she was doing her partner a disservice, she knew. He was even deeper into
this case than she was, and unlike her, he had no one to take care of him. Scully almost smiled.
The truth was that neither was she a particularly tender or caring person. To her immense
surprise Alex Krycek was. Either that or he was a superb actor.
She wondered at times over the care he lavished on her. The change from the mysterious stranger
using her own body against her to the tender, considerate lover was too great to be able to
accept without questions. Finally she did what Dana Scully had always done; asked him outright.
Inevitably they were in bed. He was holding her, already half-asleep judging from the slow
relaxed breathing. His body lax, moulded against hers - if there was one single thing that
fascinated her about Krycek it was his seemingly endless need to be close. To touch her. She had
always thought him rather standoffish, and remembering Mulder's complaints, had expected him to
be the same with her. To keep his distance, to need the space. Instead she was the one in danger
of feeling claustrophobic as he wrapped himself around her bodily and mentally.
Suppressing a yawn, Scully murmured sleepily, "Some day you'll have to tell me why you're doing
this, Alex."
A drowsy drawl. "Do what?"
She snuggled into his shoulder. "Your best to turn into the lover of my dreams."
His eyes snapped open. If she'd looked up, she would have seen a startled, naked vulnerability.
There was also a brief shadow flying over his face, as if reminded of something he would much
rather not be. He asked rather bleakly, "You think that's what I'm doing?"
She yawned, burrowing deeper. "Isn't it? You're perfect, Alex, you never complain, never think of
anything but me and what I want." She murmured sleepily, "You listen patiently when I ramble on
and on about work. You give and give, and I give nothing in return."
He rolled over, leaning on his elbow, looking down into her face. "Nothing in return? Dana do you
have the faintest idea of just how much you've already given me? The difference you've made in my
life?"
There was a dangerous heat lightning his eyes from inside. Emotion intense enough to make her a
little uncomfortable. He bent his head and kissed her deeply. A slow, thorough, drugging, kiss.
"Dana, Dana, what you do to me." He brushed back a strand of red hair from her forehead. "You
really have no idea what a miracle you are, do you?"
"Me?" She was genuinely surprised. "I'm a very ordinary person."
A soft, incredulous laugh. "You ordinary? Like a nova is ordinary!" He sobered. "You remind me
that there is another world out there." He burrowed his face in her neck. "I've lived in shadows
and darkness so long dousha and you bring me light and life and laughter. Everything I'd
forgotten existed."
And listening to the quiet dark voice whispering of need and want, Scully dared to believe he was
telling the truth.
She even found herself, against all regulations, discussing the case with him and was surprised
by the shrewd, incisive comments he made. Although some of them were strangely skewed, and from
one or two casual observations, it became evident that he was brought up in a far more ruthless
school than the FBI. She even commented on it one night over dinner.
"Well, I did graduate from Quantico. And I was Mulder's partner, so I'm not a total greenhorn."
"Granted, but it's more than that," she gave him a long thoughtful look over her Peking duck,
"don't try and fool me, Alex, you've had a hell of a lot more experience at this than just
Quantico and your time as Mulder's partner, haven't you?"
He avoided her glance, forking up his fried noodles. "Yes and no."
"Meaning what exactly?"
He drank down some beer. "Let's just say that I've seen it from both sides, okay?"
Scully frowned, "What are you talking about?"
He sighed and put down his chopsticks, telling her levelly. "Dana, I've been *hunted* by the FBI,
remember? And trust me when you're on the run, you soon learn how to keep moving. To keep your
tracks covered. You also spend a lot of time thinking and wondering what the agents after you are
thinking and planning. Besides, in a way you're right, Quantico wasn't my first experience with,
umm, law enforcement of a kind. In Russia - " he broke off, "it doesn't matter." And that
shuttered, closed look she hated suddenly locked her out of his thoughts and mind.
Realising that she was once again running up against the invisible wall he kept around him,
Scully did not push. The more she learned about Alex Krycek the more questions she had. It was
strange, she had slept with him, she was beginning to care for him to a dangerous degree, yet she
felt as if she didn't know him at all, and for every little revelation about himself, the more
uncertain she felt.
Later that night she was reading some forensic notes, sitting on the floor by the sofa table,
bare feet buried in a deep velvety carpet. Mozart was playing softly in the background. To her
surprise, and faint embarrassment for stereotyping, she found that Krycek's tastes ran towards
the classics, with a preference for the melodic and whimsical; Mozart, Schubert and Liszt.
Alex was on the sofa, reading a book, glancing over at her once in a while. Sometimes they shared
a quiet smile, a murmured comment. Scully reflected more than once how lovely it was to be able
to simply be quiet together. Something very rare and restful she was forced to admit. Especially
to someone used to Mulder's constant, aggressive flow of thoughts, ideas, theories. His agile
mind jumping from tangent to tangent.
She was engrossed in a forensic lab report on victim number five's blood type when Alex put the
book aside.
"I have to talk to you."
She glanced up, "Shoot."
"I have to leave, Dana, I'll be back in a couple of weeks or so."
That caught her attention. She put down the report, heart suddenly beating a little faster. "Can
I ask where you're going?" Adding quickly, in case he thought she was being nosy. "Not that I'm
interested."
He shook his head, "No, you can't ask, I'm sorry." He rose and came over to where she was sitting
kneeling beside her. "But you know, this might not be a bad time for you to be alone." He tucked
a strand of hair back behind her ear, giving her cheek a small caress at the same time.
Unconsciously she leaned into his fingers, body relaxing, heartbeat slowly picking up speed.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why what?" he said distracted, supporting her body weight as they slowly sank to the floor.
"Why do think it's better for me to be alone?" She moaned faintly when his hand slid around her
gently stroking her back.
"Umm..." he rolled over on his back, pulling her with him so she was sprawled on top of him.
"Because I want more, much more than a few stolen nights," he ignored her slight stiffening.
"I want you to come home to me each night, to share more than my bed..." He reached up and
brought her head down for a long, slow, drugging kiss, and when he finally broke off, she was
squirming against him. "So you think about that while I'm gone. Think about this," his hand
worked itself down her body, knowing exactly where to linger, where to tease and where to stroke
until she was writhing mindless. No thought but his hand and mouth and body making her forget
everything but him, and what he made her feel and do....
Later that night, getting ready for bed, Scully was drying her hair in front of the mirror, and
reflecting over the weird normality of her situation. Rather like an episode of the old 'Twilight
Zone' tv show that Mulder swore was one of the true pinnacles of 20th century culture.
What, after all, could be more normal and common place than two adults sharing a bed, and
tenatively building a realtionship? Turning off the hair-dryer and shaking out her hair, she
thought dryly the only problem was that she was a FBI agent and he was wanted for murder, treason
and theft. A match made in heaven. What the hell was she doing here, Scully asked herself for the
millionth time, and for the millionth time not finding a good answer, when her thoughts were
abruptly interrupted by a crash from the bathroom and then muffled cursing.
Going across the bedroom she knocked on the door, "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. Go away, Dana."
But everything was patently not fine, and ignoring the order, Scully opened the door.
Alex was on his knees, scrambling for the mug he used for brushing his teeth and which had fallen
on the floor.
Scully leaned against the door, and asked casually, "What are you doing down there, Krycek,
seeking your own natural level?"
"Funny, funny, Scully," he gave her a glare. "I knocked the thing over and it rolled behind the
toilet."
She knelt beside him and picked up the mug, putting it back by the washbasin. He was still on the
floor, head bent, knees drawn up, and giving in to impulse she stroked his hair, tangling her
fingers in the silky soft strands. "What's the matter, Alex?" she asked gently when he still
didn't look at her.
A mixture of anger and bitterness reflected in shadowed green eyes. "I can't even brush my teeth
properly. Every little thing, taking a shower, cooking dinner, driving a car, it's become a
problem. Dammit!" he looked away but not before she could see something very close to tears, "I
can't do anything!"
Scully had to swallow, feeling emotion prickling the corner of her eyes. Usually he dismissed the
loss of his arm so easily, she hadn't realized how much it must have affected him. Once again,
she thought later, underestimating him.
"You can do anything you want, Alex. And besides," a teasing look, "you still have all your, ah,
necessary parts..."
He hid his face in her neck, trying to laugh although it came out closer to a sob. "Yeah, if I
had to get something cut off, I guess it was lucky it was my arm. I wouldn't have been much use
to you otherwise."
"Actually I was referring to your brain," she murmured demurely.
This time his laugh was real. Using his one remaining arm to pull her close to him, twisting
around so they were side by side, leaning their backs against the bathtub. "That's my Scully, the
logical FBI agent," he put his arm around her shoulders.
She snuggled close feeling a strange pleasure at the easy allusion to being his. "Guilty as
charged."
He leaned his head against her breast, "I'm going to miss you, Dana. Damn, I wish I didn't have
to leave."
A gentle, soft caress, her fingers running through his hair, had him groaning in pleasure. "Do
you really?"
He raised his head kissing her gently. "I'm afraid so. Going to miss me, Scully?"
"In your dreams, Krycek," but her smile was tender and teasing. The kiss deep, and, not hesitant
to show it any longer, very hungry. * * *
 It was the middle of the night and Scully was sleeping peacefully by his side when the phone
woke him. Coming instantly awake, Alex was out of the bed in one smooth move, balancing on the
heels of his feet. Moving like a cat, he came up in a crouch, eyes scanning the room. Realizing
it was only the phone, and that he was at Hadley's Place, he relaxed fractionally taking the time
to give the sleeping woman in his bed a tender look, before he walked over and picked up the
phone, and bringing it to the living room to avoid disturbing her.
"Hello."
"Greetings, little one," Krycek went cold as ice.
"Colonel Rostov, what an unexpected... pleasure," despite himself the last word came out with
faint irony.
The answer was a booming laugh. "Ever the joker eh, commander."
"If you say so, colonel," Krycek said woodenly.
The bonhomie dropped like the mask it was. "We need to meet, tomorrow, the Ambassador Hotel,
suite 478, at two, don't be late." The phone started to buzz as the other caller disconnected.
Krycek automatically pressed the off button, slowly putting the phone down. He wanted to go back
to Dana, to take her in his arms, arm, he reminded himself with a grimace. Instead he crossed the
room and poured a big shot of whisky, coughing as the liquid burned down his throat and settled
like a small living coal in the pit of his stomach.
As always the sound of that particular voice brought back memories he'd prefer buried. He was a
free man. Well as free as any man playing a double, at times a triple game of betrayal. He was
independently wealthy after years of salting away money in numbered Swiss and Aruba off-shore
accounts. He had the woman of his dreams sleeping in his bed, he had....
Alex Krycek almost groaned aloud. He had shit! All the years, all the choices, all the
sacrifices, and he was still nothing more than a pawn in a game larger than him. And now for the
first time in far too long, he really had something to lose. Dammit! He *couldn't* fail now when
he was finally so close.
"Alex?" Scully came up behind him, putting a small slender hand on his shoulder fingers sliding
across damp, hot skin. "Where did you go? I woke up and you weren't there."
He pulled her around on to his lap, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
She reached up and smoothed the frown from his forehead, "You're looking troubled, anything you
want to talk about?"
He shook his head, "Not want, can't, Dana." He pulled her head down for a long deep kiss to stop
any further questions.
When she finally broke off, they were both gasping for air. She framed his face, looking deep
into his eyes.
"Alex, let me help."
He gave her a weary smile infinitely warmed by the faint concern in her eyes, the soft caress of
delicate slender hands. "Dana, Dana, what would I do without you?" he whispered leaning up and
capturing her lips in another long, soft drugging kiss. And although the woman in his arms smiled
as if it was a joke. Krycek knew it was nothing less than the truth. He kissed her again,
laughing against her mouth when she tried half-heartedly to keep him away.
Dreamily Scully thought this was what heaven was like, the sweetness of Alex's kisses, the steady
beat of his heart under her ear, when she rested her head on his chest. Later, when they made
love, she had the strangest feeling that tonight, he wanted something more from her than passion,
tonight, he wanted oblivion, there was something close to desperation as he loved her, something
in the beautiful face bent over her that she would remember for a long time to come... * * *
 "Sir," Jesus Christ, how many bastards did he have to call sir? Alex thought, submitting to the
hearty embrace, the kisses on both cheeks.
The thick-bodied, gray-haired man stood back, studying Krycek closely. "You look tired my dear
Alexei Sergevich."
*I am not your anything, you perverted bastard!* Alex thought in a flash of rage, but he was far
too wise to let any hint of what he was thinking or feeling cross his face.
Aloud he only said, "You look good too, Boris. So what was so urgent we had to meet like this?"
Steering him to the chair, and pouring a shot of vodka, Boris, laughed. "So impatient, Sasha;
life in America hasn't improved you." He poured himself another shot of vodka tossing it down,
"Nastravodje!"
Alex drank down his own vodka, feeling the fiery alcohol burn down his throat. "Nastravodje." He
replaced the glass on the table, "and now, as the Americans say, why don't you cut to the chase?"
Dropping down in a chair, Boris's face changed. "You are involved with a woman."
Krycek's stomach clenched. Shit, shit, shit!! Trying to calm his racing heart he said, "Yes, so?
It's private, Boris, nothing to do with the Fifth Directorate."
Boris steepled his fingers. "Now there you are wrong my friend, Elizabeth Berkley is very much
our business, especially since you are working for the Consortium on this."
Restraining an insane impulse to laugh, Krycek realized Boris was talking of the Consortium's
target, not Dana. Lenin's Ghost be thanked. Relaxing he said almost cheerfully, "True, but a man
has to live you know, and the Consortium pays well."
"Alexei we need access to the data before the Consortium does."
Krycek almost choked. "You want me to double-cross the Consortium?! If you want to get rid of me
that badly just say so and I'll shoot myself! It will save time and a hell of a lot of pain."
Boris chuckled. "Calm down little brother, we are not wanting you to break your cover. We will
simply provide you with an alternative set of data, you will give this to the Consortium. And if
they ever discover that it is faked, they will assume it was the good Doctor Berkley who fooled
you."
"Great," Krycek said sardonically, "as if that will make them hesitate in disposing of me." He
sighed knowing he had no choice, that he'd never had one. "Fine, give me the disk and I'll se
what I can do."
He rose, bringing the meeting to an end, but Boris remained seated. "Was there anything else?"
A long silence and a sudden leering look. "I thought we might get reacquainted, Sasha, it must be
lonely for you here, no one who, ah, understands you the way I do." He inspected the fingers of
one hand, "I have booked a room here for the night."
Krycek felt very cold. "I don't think so, Boris," he said calmly. And then he leaned forward,
eyes glittering. "I'll never be your toy again, got that? You find someone else to play your
little games with."
"You don't want to make me angry, my Alexei," Boris warned gently.
Krycek laughed shortly, "Could I? Look, *sir* I'm not one of your students, or your subordinates.
Nowadays I decide who and what I sleep with." He tried very hard to ignore the inner mocking
voice reminding him of the Smoking Man and Elizabeth Berkley.
Boris studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Very well, I will find my amusements somewhere
else." He added casually, "by the way, father sends his regards."
Krycek went rigid. "I'm leaving!"
But behind him as he closed the door he heard the taunting laugh. "You can run little brother,
but you cannot hide forever..." * * *
 Elizabeth Berkley lived in a typical block of apartments suitable for young professionals. Airy,
clean, comfortable and lacking any kind of character or individuality. Krycek sat in his rented
car watching her leave the building to bring up the second load of groceries from the car parked
in front of the apartment building.
A pretty young woman, honey-blond hair shoulder length caught back by two green combs, she was
enough to make any man give her a second glance. Krycek sighed, leaning his arms against the
steering wheel. He had never felt more disgusted with an assignment. Still, it was a job, and it
had to be done. He got out, slamming the door a little harder than necessary to relieve a little
of his feelings and headed towards the target.
"Hey, that looks heavy, can I help you?" he gave her a charming boyish smile.
"Why, thank you," she half-turned, glancing at him idly and then abruptly swivelled back for a
second look, eyes widening, sliding to his missing arm, then jerking away and flushing slightly
when she realized he had caught her staring. But not before he had seen the compassion bordering
on pity softening the blue. Krycek set his jaw. But it had also told him what he needed to know
on the best approach to his assignment.
"Here, I'll take that," he deftly caught one of the grocery bags.
She gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, it was a little too much." Chatting easily, she led their
way to the second floor, moving quickly, gracefully.
They stopped outside her door, and Krycek waited until she'd unlocked the door but not making any
move to enter. He was careful to keep a small space between them to avoid her feeling the least
bit crowded or threatened, and handed her the grocery bag.
"Here, you are." He started to move away, then suddenly turned back and gave her another boyish
rueful smile. "I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, I'm Alex, Alex Ferguson, and I've just
moved in. The guy who leased me the place didn't tell me there were neighbours like you here or I
might have paid him more," his green eyes glimmered with lazy appreciation.
She smiled and actually blushed a little. "Are you flirting with me, Alex Ferguson?"
He cocked his head. "I could be, do you mind? Ms...?"
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth Berkley," she smiled, "and no, I don't mind, not at all." A sudden thought
struck her. "Look, I'm having a small party at my place tonight. Just some friends, and friends
of friends. Why don't you stop by?"
He grinned at her, warmly enough to chase a hint of colour onto her cheeks. Sticking his hands in
his pockets, he unconsciously posed against the wall. The well-honed muscles moved under the thin
white T-shirt he was wearing, and he noticed how her eyes followed the movements. Yes this would
definitely work. But oddly the thought brought him little satisfaction or pleasure.
"Thanks, I might do that."
When Krycek knocked on her door later that evening, he could hear the faint sounds of music and
loud cheerful chatter. The door opened and Elizabeth appeared. She had changed into a small
aquamarine armless dress that flattered her hair and brought out the blue in her eyes.
"Hi!" she exclaimed with a smile, "I wasn't sure you were going to show up."
He gave her a boyish smile, "I wasn't sure myself," he admitted candidly.
"Well now that you're here, why don't you come in and I'll introduce you to everyone." She took
his hand and pulled him into the room.
Her apartment was the bigger two bedroom unit, and he realized she must be pulling down quite a
salary to be able to afford a place like this. It had a large living room cum kitchen and two
smaller bedrooms off to each side of the fireplace. At the moment the room was filled with
people, mostly young, well-dressed professionals. Glancing around at their pleasant well-scrubbed
faces, the expensive clothes and casual sophisticated manner, Krycek had to hide a sudden bitter
smile. They were so innocent, so unaware of their own luck.
However, they were all very cheerful and friendly, and more than one woman was eyeing him with
something more than casual interest. Elizabeth was flitting around making sure everyone had
something to drink and stopping briefly at each group of people for a quick word and a smile.
Once something someone said made her laugh, throwing back her head, hair flying. Krycek sipped
his drink, watching her thoughtfully.
"She's quite something isn't she?" He looked up to see one of the guys, what was his name? Eric,
ah yes, that's right, Eric.
"Yes she is," he agreed politely.
"Brilliant mind, great body, and not a selfish bone in her," Eric said. "Did you know she spends
her Saturdays off as a volunteer for Greenpeace? And she's also working for Amnesty
International."
"You've known her long?"
"Since college, although she was always more dedicated." A quick rueful smile, "and more talented
to tell the truth. Which is why she's pulling down the big money and I'm pounding physics,
chemistry and biology into rebellious teenagers and living below the poverty line." He shrugged.
"I'm a science teacher at Walter Whitman High."
"Sounds interesting," Krycek said politely.
"It stinks," Eric said frankly. "But hell it's a living, and we can't all of us be geniuses like
Liz."
Elizabeth chose that moment to come back. "Hey Alex, are you talking to Eric?" she giggled,
sitting down on his lap. Krycek could feel the slight unsteadiness, and see the dilated pupils.
The lady was definitely very relaxed. He casually put an arm around her waist, steadying her.
"Right, Eric is telling me all your dirty little secrets," he said, reaching around her to grab a
handful of peanuts.
Listening to Elizabeth, *Liz*, and Eric bicker in the way only two good old friends can, Krycek
wondered what the hell he was doing here. He wanted to be in Washington, holding his beautiful
FBI agent. His body hardened just thinking of her short red hair, like a cloud of living fire
spread across his pillow. The way her blue eyes darkened when he brought her body alive with a
single touch. The way she absently played with her earring when she was deep in thought.
Tearing himself away from all thoughts of Dana Scully, Alex Krycek concentrated grimly on the
task at hand. By the end of the evening when he thought his face would break from so much
smiling, he had her exactly where he wanted. She was definitely *very* interested, and he had
made sure she knew he was as well. But without making the kind of move that would scare her off.
When he said good-bye, neither the first nor the last guest to leave, she followed him to the
door. Standing there, he took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.
"Look, I don't want to seem pushy, but are you seeing anyone?"
She shook her head, voice a little breathless. "No, my boyfriend and I broke up three months
ago."
He smiled into her eyes, "Are you going to be insulted if I tell you, good?"
Again she shook her head, "Not at all, actually I'm the one who broke it off, I, he..."
She broke off when he placed a gentle finger against her lips. "Shh, you don't have to explain
anything to me, Liz." He smiled at her blush. "I like the name. Elizabeth is too long and formal.
Elizabeth wears tailored suits and carries a briefcase. But Liz... Liz, will come with me
tomorrow for a walk along the beach and some hot dogs..."
She dropped her eyes, but the blush remained and she actually swayed a little closer. "I'd love
to, Alex."
"Good," he glanced around at the remaining guest, and then leaned closer whispering in her ear.
"I want to kiss you, Liz, but I don't want our first time to be with half your friends watching
us." A touch as soft as a butterfly's wing on her cheek, a last long look from warm green eyes,
and then he was gone but not before he had seen her stand watching him with wide amazed eyes, one
hand pressed to her cheek.
Gotcha! Krycek thought silently, allowing himself a single triumphant smile on the way to his
temporary home.
When he got inside, Alex permitted himself the indulgence of a whisky and a cigarette. Bringing
the cellphone out on the balcony, he dialed a number he had long ago memorized.
"Scully," her crisp voice as always made him smile.
"Hello dousha."
"Alex!" some muffled sounds as she shifted the phone, and when she spoke again it was in a
whisper. "What are you doing calling me on this number?"
"Did you want me to phone you on the official FBI extension?"
"I don't want you to call me at all," she retorted, but he could hear the slight softening in her
voice.
"Your wish is my command, milady," he started to hang up.
"No! Alex, dammit! Don't hang up!"
"I thought that's what you wanted," he said innocently. Then smiled at her frustrated wordless
growl.
"Okay, you win," she finally said grudgingly. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, how are things at the FBI?"
She sighed heavily, some of the animation leaving her voice. "Getting worse. We thought the fact
that the killer suffers from multiple personality disorder would give us an edge, but so far
zilch! We've been through every hospital record there is. And we've had a couple of promising
leads but nothing that's panned out so far."
"How is Mulder taking it?"
A long silence, "He's getting worse. Soon he's going to start speaking in tongues I think. We've
got two more tapes and by now he probably knows every word by heart. Even Carstairs is walking on
eggshells around him. But the truth is he is the only one who has even the slightest chance of
nailing the bastard, and knowing that just drives him on." Another long pause, "I'm really afraid
for him, Alex."
"Don't, Dana, Mulder's tougher than you know," adding silently to himself, he's had to be. Aloud
he said. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, but - "a silence and then very softly, "I miss you."
His heart almost skipped a beat. "It's mutual *douschenka*."
"Douschenka... what does that mean?"
He laughed softly, "'Little star', it's a Russian endearment, and it suits you perfectly."
"Oh, Alex," she groaned, "you know we're both completely mad. You're everything I am fighting
against. Corrupt as hell, a murderer, a paid *assassin* for God's sake! And just to make it
perfect you killed my partner's father and I know you know a hell of a lot more about Melissa
than you've told me. And ..." she breathed out softly, "and I can't sleep at night thinking of
you and your arms around me." Somehow the anonymity of the phone allowed her to tell him things
she could never have said face to face.
His voice grew a little rough. "Dana, beautiful Dana, what I wouldn't give to be there right now,
and hold you."
"So why aren't you?" she demanded. Need overwhelming prudence for the moment.
He said lightly, "I am asking myself the same thing right now, I -"
Scully said urgently, "Hang on a moment, Alex," there was a muffled sound as she covered the
phone with one hand, and then she came back and said quickly, "I have to hang up."
"I'll phone you later."
"I, no, don't, Alex, I mean, you don't know, I..." she sounded a little incoherent and Krycek
smiled rather cynically.
"I take it what you're trying to tell me is that you don't want Mulder to know who is phoning
you?"
A silence, and then quietly, "Do you blame me?"
He muttered a curse in Russian. "No, no I don't. All right, I'll phone you when I'm back in
Washington again. In the meantime, take care of yourself and Mulder."
"I will, thanks for calling, Alex," she disconnected before he could say anything else. * * *
 "Mulder? Mulder!" Scully shook his shoulder gently.
"Wh...what?" he opened one eye blearily. "Wha'cha doing here Scully?"
"It's quarter past seven in the morning Mulder, and you're sleeping on your desk."
Mulder slowly lifted his head where it had fallen on a stack of witness reports. Maltreated
joints protested as he reached behind his head and started massaging his neck.
"Ouch, I've got a crick," he complained.
"No wonder, I found you in here twisted like a pretzel." She glanced at the reports lying opened
and scattered across his desk. "Did you find anything you missed the last three thousand times
you read them?"
He stretched slowly, working at the stiffness. "Not so you'd notice it. Dammit, Scully, I know
it's in there, the key to the case, if I could only see it."
She sat down opposite him. "Talk to me, Mulder, that might help sort things out."
Crossing his long legs, he started to go through what they had so far. He spoke calmly,
logically, and once again she was reminded of the cold intelligence, almost genius that was
constantly at war with his emotions. Too many people saw only the kookiness, the theories he
enjoyed pushing in people's faces if only to see their reactions. They never noticed the cool,
detached watcher looking out from his eyes, gauging their reactions, relishing their responses.
"So what you're saying," she interrupted, "is that the killer is most likely someone of
independent financial means."
"It's the only explanation to the fact that he's managed to remain at large for so long. He has
to have an undisturbed place, and the way he's been running around the country, he's either a
thief, except we've checked and there have been no crimes that fit his pattern committed around
the place where the kidnappings are, or he's got money."
Scully frowned. "He also has access to private transportation, since no public transportation
pattern corresponds to the killings?"
Mulder stretched, joints popping. "Right, a car? Possible, but there are one or two things about
the time frame that makes me wonder if he may have a private plane."
"But why do you think he has political influence?"
He picked up the last slice of cold congealed pizza lying on his desk, and started wolfing it
down hungrily. "It's the only answer, Scully. Look, *someone* has to have put a lid on it.
Remember Sheriff Bowles little tale? I mean, *we* didn't even get called in until victim number
eleven. Which is nothing less than criminal considering that they had all the forensic evidence
tying him to at least nine other murders. And when I talked to Fred Verhulst, the governor's
chief of staff." She nodded, "all he would tell me was it was a favour to a valued supporter of
the governor. Then he clamed up completely, ergo political pull in some very high places."
Scully repressed a shudder at the sight of the cold pizza, absently playing with a pen. "You're
making sense, Mulder, too much for my comfort," she admitted. "Have you talked to Skinner about
this?"
"Yep, and he agrees, so he's digging very quietly, calling in some favours, seeing what he can
find."
Nervously toying with her earring, Scully asked, "Do you really think he'll find anything?"
A shrug, "There's nothing to lose."
"You're right, but still," she couldn't shake a small tension at the base of her shoulders.
"There is something about this whole setup I don't like, Mulder."
Swallowing the last of the pizza and washing it down with a lukewarm coke that had long ago lost
its fizz, Mulder rotated his shoulders. "Agreed. It stinks to high heaven." A thoughtful pause.
"Perhaps it's time for some more tape on the window."
"Mulder, he's dead."
Mulder cocked his head, "Do you really think so?"
"We saw his body, remember?" Scully repressed the wayward thought that the dead did not always
stay dead.
Mulder echoed her silent doubts, "Which doesn't mean he's not still out there somewhere." A
hollow laugh, "look at people like the Smoking Man and Krycek, they've got more than nine lives.
Every time you think they're dead, up they pop again."
Not wanting to think of the Smoking Man since that inevitably led her to the man who had once
worked for the old bastard, Scully changed the subject. "You suspect the Consortium may be behind
this? Isn't that a little far out, even for you?"
Mulder sat down again, pulling off his shoe and waving his toes. Absently she noticed the socks
had holes on them. Nicely matching the wrinkled shirt, stubble and pale skin.
"No, not after the kind of polite brush off we've got from the locals. That stinks of cover-ups
and who else has that kind of pull?"
"According to you and the Lone Gunmen, various secret organisations dominated by aliens and
dedicated to taking over the world." She said dryly. "Are you sure there is nothing in the
suspicion that the United Nations is secretly plotting to take over the US government and the
numbers on the new highway signs are really a code to help the UN troops?"
Mulder said seriously, "Well actually, Scully..."
She groaned, holding her hands before her ears, "I don't want to hear! It was a joke, Mulder!"
He chuckled, "Remind me sometime to tell you about Frohike's theory on the origins of the United
Nations and the role the Rockefellers played."
An almost smile, "I always *thought* Nelson Rockefeller looked like an alien..." She frowned,
"and please spare me from Frohike. He's been mailing me again." She gave him a sudden glare hot
enough to singe. "Which reminds me. I have a *big* bone to pick with you!"
"What are you talking about?" he gave her an ingenuous smile.
Scully snorted, "Don't try that innocent routine with me! Mulder did you, or did you not send
Frohike love poetry from *me*?!"
Mulder shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "You're sending Frohike poetry? Don't
you have any shame, Scully?"
She almost choked, "I'm going to get you for this, Mulder!"
"Really, Scully, leading the poor man on. Do you know how excited he got when you called him your
fearless knight, doing battle in the cyberworld?" Mulder's eyes danced.
Declining to answer, Scully just turned her back on him and pretended to be very busy. She tried
her best to ignore the smiling loon she had the terrible forturne to be partnered with. * * *
 The following week Krycek methodically put his plan in action and resolutely resisted the
temptation to phone or even think about Dana Scully. The first date he did nothing more than hold
Elizabeth's hand as they strolled along the beach at sunset. When she asked him about his arm, he
gave her a rueful smile.
"My own stupid fault. I was heading up a Disaster and Rescue team, and I wasn't supposed to do
anything but coordinate. But," he gave her a depreciating glance, "I don't want to sound like I'm
bragging or bore you."
She smiled, taking his hand, "I don't think you're bragging, or boring me. Please go on, Alex, it
sounds fascinating."
He hesitated, sadness clouding his eyes for a moment. "As I said I was just coordinating when I
heard a small child calling out, I just couldn't stand there listening to her call for help so
off I went. I found her buried under a couple of tons of cement and broken pipes and we were all
afraid of the gas leaks. So we wanted to get her out fast. I volunteered to go in after her," a
pensive self-mocking smile shaped his mouth, "old indestructible Alex to the rescue. We got her
out and then something must have shifted because suddenly my arm was ..." his voice drifted off,
and she squeezed his hand in sympathy.
"Did you get the child out alive?"
His face lit into a genuine smile, "Yup! And because she was an orphan, her entire family died in
the earthquake, we brought her back with us. They found her a really good home." He shook his
head, "you know, people call us heroes for doing what we do, but the real heroes are people like
her. After everything she's been through, she's such a great well-adjusted kid. She's pulling
straight A's in school, and she's on the Track and Field team." He laughed softly, a thread of
tenderness running through it, "the last time we met," he looked a little abashed at the
admission, "I kind of like to keep an eye on her y'know? She claimed she's going to marry me if I
can only wait for her to grow up."
Liz smiled, "I can understand why." She gave him a soft admiring glance. "You're quite a man,
Alex."
He smiled back at her. "And you're quite a woman, Elizabeth Berkley. Eric was filling me in about
you last night."
She laughed, brushing back a long strand of blonde hair blown forward by the wind. "Don't mind
Eric, he thinks I'm Mother Teresa and Albert Einstein all rolled into one."
"And aren't you?" he glanced down at her, eyes warm and amused.
She blushed a little, "Not by far." Earnestly, wanting him to understand she said, "I work with
computers all day. It's extremely interesting, but also dehumanizing. At times you forget that
what really matters in life is *people*. So when I finish working I want to remember that I am a
member of the human race."
He stopped, and turned towards her, taking both her hands in his. "Well, I agree with Eric, I
think you're one hell of a lady, Liz." Quietly, he added, "and I'd like very much to get to know
you better. Okay?"
A little breathlessly she stared into his eyes, "Very okay."
He didn't kiss her until their third date, letting her set the pace and never pushing for more
than she wanted to give. While at the same time making it very, very clear that he wanted her. It
was a game he had played with a thousand women, and men, before. Once or twice Krycek thought
cynically that despite what biologists and Christian fundamentalists believed, there was really
no difference in the seduction of a woman or a man.
By the end of the second week, when he was going slowly mad from missing Scully, Elizabeth was
eating out if his hand. She was not even able to hide her infatuation. But then he had
deliberately created exactly the kind of man she would fall in love with.
The first time he took her to bed she reacted with a kind of surprised gratitude that made him
wonder about her previous lovers. Ah well, he thought as she moaned and writhed against him, in
response to his skill, he could at least give her some pleasure before she had to die. And was
surprised by his own thought. It had never occurred to him before, Scully's corrupting influence
no doubt, he thought with a tiny secret smile as he bent over Elizabeth again...
Sitting in her living room, drinking a glass of wine after dinner, listening to James Galway play
hauntingly in the background, he slowly led her to talk about her work. She was flattered and
happy he seemed so interested in what she was doing. Krycek listened, asked the right question,
and each night after he got home he listened and transposed the tape from the voice activated
bugs he had installed in her apartment and on her phone. Slowly he was building up a good base.
Not only of what she knew, but of what kind of questions he had to ask her.
They had been sleeping together for a week, and she had started to talk of introducing him to her
family, when he finally decided that he had everything that was necessary. That night after she
had gone to sleep, he quietly left their bed, and returned with a gauze pad drenched with ether.
Pressing it to her nose and mouth for about fifteen seconds, she was soon unconscious. Putting
away the pad, he locked her hands behind her back with a pair of leather padded cuffs to avoid
any tear of the skin or marks. Then half-carrying her, half-dragging her to a chair, he injected
the sodium pentothal, waited for it to work, and then gently slapped her, to wake her up.
"Elizabeth?"
She stared at him blurrily, "Ye..yes..."
"What's your name?"
"Elizabeth Susan Berkley."
"Where do you work?"
"Sun Alliance R&D."
Krycek breathed out, pleased. "All right Elizabeth, let's talk about your work...."
It took more than three hours, but at the end he was reasonably sure he had everything she knew
or thought she knew. Then he had to wait until she started to come out of the daze induced by the
drug. He waited patiently until her eyes were clear and conscious again, and he was relatively
sure little of the drug he had used remained in her blood.
Shaking her aching head, Elizabeth tried to put her hands up to massage her neck but realized
they wouldn't move. Confused, she looked around, and realized Alex was standing with his back to
her, packing up a small black bag.
"Alex?" she asked uncertainly.
He turned around, "So you're awake. I'm sorry you had to regain consciousness. But I couldn't
risk traces of the drug being found in your blood."
"Drugs, blood, what are you talking about?" she started to sound a little afraid. "And why am I
tied up?"
He snapped the bag closed, and came over to her. "It's a long story, but suffice it to say that I
was sent to kill you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."
Elizabeth stared at him with wide uncomprehending eyes. "You're going to kill me?"
He looked at her with an odd expression of regret. "I'm sorry, Liz, don't take it personally.
It's just a job."
She choked down an insane unbelieving burst of laughter. "You're going to *kill* me and you're
telling me not to take it personally?!"
He held up the syringe, tapping gently to push out the air bubble. "Trust me, Liz, I'm doing you
a favour. The others wouldn't have been as gentle, a couple of days in their hands and you would
have begged for death. This way you just go to sleep and never wake up again."
"What others? I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered. "If I'm going to die, you
can at least tell me *why*!"
He knelt by her side, lightly circling her arm and tracing the vein. "Sorry, this isn't like the
movies where the villain spends ten minutes explaining the plot and who the bad guys are, for the
heroine before killing her. Just to have the hero burst in at the last moment." He pressed a kiss
on her forehead, "I'm just about the closest thing you've got to a hero."
She shook her head, pleading, "How can you do this to me, Alex? Last night we were in bed
together. We *made love* and now you can just kill me without a second thought?"
He slid the needle into her vein and depressed the plunger. "No, Liz, we fucked. I've only ever
made love to one person in my life and she wasn't you."
Desperately she said, "If you let me go, I'll do anything you want. I won't tell anybody, I
*promise*!"
He said nothing, just watched silently as she raved against him, screamed and cursed. Called him
a bastard, a motherfucker, and later when she wept and pleaded and begged. He sat watching until
her eyes closed and her breathing became even and deep. When he was sure she was asleep, he
released her and carefully massaged away the faint marks from the cuffs.
Carrying her to the bedroom and swearing over the missing arm he placed her on the bed and
arranged the body just right. Then he returned to the living room where he connected the zipdrive
to her computer and started downloading everything on the hard drive. While the data was being
transferred he opened the small toolbox he carried with him. Going back to the bedroom and not
giving the sleeping figure on the bed a single glance he knelt and carefully unscrewed one of the
electrical sockets in her bedroom. Gently, gently he twisted one of the wires, and placed it
against one of the unprotected metal circuits. After several tries a small blue flame suddenly
jumped from the metal onto the thick carpet. A little judicious feeding and soon it was burning
briskly. Once he was sure it had taken hold properly and that the window was open to create a
good draft, Krycek returned to the living room. He unhooked the zipdrive, and silently left.
Just as he had calculated, on a quiet Wednesday morning when everyone was at work, it took almost
half an hour for the fire to be discovered. By that time Elizabeth's apartment was engulfed in
flames. When the firemen arrived, they were able to save most of the rest of the building,
although almost half of the apartments had water and smoke damage. There were only two deaths,
the young doctor Elizabeth Berkley and an old vagabond who had taken refugee in a storage area to
sleep off last night's drunken binge.
On the plane back to Washington, Krycek read the newspaper article reporting on the fire. The
writer noted that the fire had been ruled an accident after the police and fire department
investigators had determined that a faulty electrical outlet in Dr. Berkley's bedroom was the
cause. Krycek nodded in satisfaction of a job well done. The fire he'd set had served a dual
purpose of effectively wiping all traces of computer tampering, and burning Elizabeth's body
badly enough that any remaining traces of the sodium pentothal would go undetected.
Too bad about the vagrant. If he'd known the guy was sleeping in the attic, he would have gotten
the old man out. Folding the newspaper, Krycek frowned slightly. Not checking things like that
smelled of sloppiness. As he knew too well, it was the little details that often slipped you up.
He'd have to watch out.
He closed his eyes leaning back in the seat, letting his mind drift to more pleasant things....
to Dana. Alex smiled, a soft tender smile, seeing in his mind's eye those ridiculous suits she
was so fond of wearing. As if disguising her body could somehow make people forget she was a
woman. Remembered her habit of chewing her pencil when she was worried, her sly smile when she'd
made one of her bad jokes...
Alex Krycek fell asleep with a smile on his lips.
He arrived back in Washington late at night, and although he was sorely tempted to phone Scully,
he refrained. Either she was still at FBI headquarters where she definitely did not want him to
contact her. Or she was at home snatching a few hours of sleep. In which case, she was going to
kill him for disturbing her. So repressing the fierce craving for her, he undressed, leaving all
his clothes in a pile on the floor, crawled into bed and was asleep the same moment his head hit
the pillow.
The next morning Krycek sat outside on the small terrace adjoining the apartment. He watched the
children playing, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and smiling in memory at Dana's reaction to
the first cup of coffee he had ever given her. He reached for his phone.
She answered after the second ring.
"Scully."
"Guess who?"
"Alex?!" There was no hiding either the surprise or the genuine happiness.
"None other, I'm back in DC. Come by tonight?"
A long soft sigh, "I, I shouldn't.... we're working around the clock here, but..." another long
pause. "You tempt me."
"Come on, dousha, all work and no play makes Dana a very unhappy little Fed."
She laughed softly, and the sound went through him like a knife. "You have a very twisted sense
of humour. Not to mention a shaky grasp of nursery rhymes." A sigh, "let me see what I can do.
I'll try and be by your place at eight.. and Alex - "
"Yes?"
"I've missed you."
"Not half as much as I've missed you, dousha."
When he hung up, he was smiling, whistling. Wandering inside to shower and shave, he started
planning their reunion. She especially loved BBQ chicken wings, and a dry white Mosel. A
disgusting combination, but then that was just about the only flaw in her he could think of... *
* *
 He waited for three hours before he realized she wasn't going to show up. With a sudden savage
gesture he swept the crystal glasses, the fine china from the table, watching it shatter at his
feet. The little bitch! He swore heatedly, feeling icy cold. Had he misjudged her that much? He
could have sworn that she felt something more than just lust. He knew she was not a woman who
could be held by her body's need alone. But Dana Scully also wasn't the kind of woman who could
go to bed casually without feelings.
Create a physical dependence and use it to conceive an emotional bond.
It was the first thing he had learned years ago. And wasn't that exactly what he had counted on
when he'd - Oh hell, Alex, admit the truth to yourself at least. Forced her into your bed and
raped her soul if not her body...
Alex Krycek sat up late that night with a bottle of vodka and his own dark thoughts.
He was still on the sofa, sleeping, the empty bottle on the floor when the sound of the ringing
bell woke him up. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was. But then memory, and the sight of the
broken glass on the floor made him recall too clearly last night. No one but Scully knew this
place, at least he sincerely hoped so. Sitting up and swearing over the bruises caused by the
prosthetic arm that he'd forgotten to take off in his drunken state last night, he staggered to
the door.
Scully walked in, geninune and unmistakable anticipation and happiness warming the blue of her
eyes . "Hello, Alex." She glanced around her, suddenly wrinkling her nose. "What happened here?"
Leaning against the wall, he tried a shrug, "I had a little accident."
Looking at the splinters of glass and china, the wine staining the floor, she lifted an eyebrow.
"Not so little."
He ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed, "Ah, well it doesn't matter," he mumbled.
One of the things he treasured most about Dana Scully was her sharp intelligence. She took in the
mess on the floor, the vodka bottle, his haggard appearance, and with a soft smile she walked
straight into his arms.
"Oh, Alex, I'm sorry! I did want to call you and explain why I couldn't come. But," a
half-teasing look, "I couldn't, since I still don't know your phone number."
He held her hard, the feel of her body against his, her arms around his waist, sending shivers of
pure joy through him. Alex closed his eyes and shook his head saying blankly. "I never thought
about that, I'll give you the number before you leave."
"Leave?" she raised an eyebrow, "I have no intention of leaving. Alex, hold me, hold me hard,"
she pleaded softly. For the first time since she entered he really looked at her. She was pale as
paper, and the fine skin was almost translucent with weariness. A terrible anguish darkened her
eyes and carved deep shadows around eyes and mouth. When she leaned against him, he could feel
the fine tremors running continually through her body. The desperate thinness of her bones. She
must have lost weight like crazy since he left.
"Dana? *Mylienkaya*" cursing the missing arm that prevented him from picking her up he had to
content himself with supporting her to the sofa. She sank down turned her head into his shoulder
and quietly started crying.
Listening to her tears, feeling the shaking of her shoulders under his caressing hand, Krycek
silently cursed Mulder, Skinner, the entire FBI and most of all himself for leaving at a time
when she so obviously needed him. Finally she calmed down a little, wiping her eyes on his shirt,
causing a chuckle. But at the same time he felt unbearably moved.
"Dammit! I *hate* falling apart like this! I've done nothing but snivel over you ever since this
case started," she mumbled.
"Shh...." he shifted so he was lying on the sofa, spooned around her soft, pliant body. "Nothing
can be that bad, tell me," he coaxed her gently.
Scully closed her eyes in anguish. "It's worse. Mulder is desperate and he's going crazy, Alex."
Krycek kissed her forehead feeling the, by now, all too familiar hurt deep inside. Mulder, always
Mulder... "Dana, he's a profiler, this is part of his work. He can handle it."
She shook her head. "No, this is different. This case has already brought to the surface all his
feelings for his sister. And something's happened that's made it even worse. Three days before
you phoned me, we got an urgent message that there had been another kidnapping matching the MO.
This time right on our doorstep, here in Washington."
Her voice gained strength as she told Krycek about what had happened while he had been away... *
* *
 Glancing at her partner as they drove to the downtown police station, Scully admitted she was
getting very concerned. It was not just the shadows under the eyes, or the wrinkled suit looking
as if he'd been sleeping in it - which he probably had - but there was a growing desperation he
couldn't hide. A desperation caused by too many hours chasing a shadow. Too many reminders in the
grief of the families of the victims of what he had lost. Too much time spent listening to the
ravings of a madman. A monster who knew Fox Mulder much too well for comfort.
The family was waiting for them in a private interview room, and seeing them, Scully's heart
sank. There was the father, a tall, lean dark man. Partner in a prestigous lawfirm, she recalled
from the file. A man used to command, but now looking grey and old under his tan. He seemed
bewildered, still in shock, as he tried to comfort the wife crying quietly by his side. But what
draw both hers and Mulder's eyes like magnets was their son. Twelve years old, faded jeans,
sneakers, an oversized plaid shirt and a baseball cap. Dark eyes fastened on them with a
frightened intensity. Eyes that held no hope, just anger, fear and most of all guilt. Guilt for
being there, for not being able to protect his sister. Scully's stomach twisted. Damn, this was
the last thing she needed.
She held out her hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Tomlinson? I'm Special Agent Scully and this is Special
Agent Mulder. We are from the FBI task force. First of all let me express our deepest sympathy
for your loss and assure you that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend the
perpetrator."
Mrs. Tomlinson, who under other circumstances would have been a pretty, quietly attractive woman,
a typical 'soccer mom' could only sob helplessly. Her husband visibly pulled himself together,
patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.
"Thank you," he seemed dazed, "What would you like to know?"
Scully sat down and opened her file. "The more information on Melanie you can give us, the
better. Her habits, friends, if you have seen any strangers around the house lately? Any little
detail really."
Peter Tomlinson suddenly exploded like a small dark whirlwind. "Fuck you! Why aren't you doing
something?! Talking won't get Mellie back!" He was on his feet, the chair falling back with a
clatter on the floor before he slammed out of the room.
His father half-rose. "Peter!" he called after his son. He turned and gave the two agents a
helpless look. "I'm sorry, Peter has taken this very hard. He was supposed to watch Mellie, but
he forgot. He feels it's his fault she has been taken." And so did his parents from the looks of
it.
Mrs. Tomlinson whispered through the sobs. "Peter is very intelligent and sensitive, he's in the
advanced class." Scully wasn't sure what exactly that had to do with anything, but Mulder seemed
to. He rose smoothly.
"Excuse me, I'll go and talk to him. Scully you can handle this alone?" She nodded and he left.
When she had finished the interview with the two devastated parents, Scully once again expressed
her sympathy and assurance that they were doing everything in their power to catch the killer.
She felt like a complete hypocrite and emotionally wrung out by the time she went looking for her
partner.
Mulder was sitting in the corridor by the soda vending machines. The harsh overhead lights
accentuated each wrinkle and shadow, and the brown hair was once again standing straight up. He
and Peter Tomlinson were sitting side by side, not talking but there was no hostility. There
might even have been a kind of tenuous connection between man and boy.
She told Mulder it was time to leave and he stood up. "I'm coming." He gave Peter a level look.
"Don't forget what I told you. No promises, but you know that I'll do whatever I can." Mulder was
speaking to him man to man, or rather, Scully thought, brother to brother.
Peter looked solemn. "I understand." For a moment the composure broke, and he looked what he was,
a lonely, frightened boy. "I just wish he'd have taken me instead of Mellie. She's too small for
this."
Mulder's eyes wore an unfathomable look as they rested on the dark head for a moment. Then he
said very softly, "They always are." * * *
 Finishing her story, Scully dropped her head in her hands. "After that meeting, Mulder worked
for the next thirty six hours straight. When Carstairs tried to get him to slow down, get some
rest, Mulder just snapped! From what I understand he actually went for Carstairs, punched him
out." She tried to smile, "Mulder may be the fair-haired boy of the moment, but even to him there
are limits. By the time I arrived he was throwing files and chairs around until most of the BSU
jumped him and wrestled him to the ground."
Remembering too well just how volatile Fox Mulder could be, Krycek tried to comfort her. "They'll
cut him plenty of slack, Dana, knowing the kind of pressure he's been under."
She swallowed the tears. "It's not his superiors, or not just them, I'm worried about. Mulder
will never forgive himself if he fails, or me. When I was called I just administered a sedative,
and when he finally started to calm down he wouldn't let go of my hand. He clung to it like a
small boy. I spent the rest of the night by his side, watching him having nightmares."
"This morning he was still disoriented, dehydrated too, so we just got him to the nearest
hospital and had him admitted, although he fought us every step of the way, howling that without
him there would be more girls dead." She bit her lip, "and unfortunately that's the truth. He
really is the only one, all the forensic evidence have led nowhere, all the other profilers have
admitted defeat, he's the only one left, and it's killing him, Alex."
She started shaking. "I'm so afraid, so afraid that when this is over I won't have a partner.
That he'll be gone, like Bill Patterson, locked away somewhere inside the darkness of his own
mind." She abruptly twisted away from him, curling around herself, "I feel so helpless Alex, God
I don't know what to do! I *can't* lose him!"
"Hush," he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't think about it now," he tried to draw her
back to him, but she resisted, curling up.
"I can't lose him, Alex," she repeated softly. "I carry around enough guilt, God! If there was
just something I could *do*, somebody who could help me!" it was a cry straight from the heart.
Krycek stiffened. Surely she didn't suspect? No, he told himself he was just being extremely
paranoid. But as he set himself to gently cajoling her into his arms, she abruptly turned to him,
clutching him hard.
"Help me forget, Alex!" she begged. "For a few hours at least, let me forget."
He silenced her with hot, burning kisses. Hearing her soft moans, and watching the tension
leaving her as passion took it's place, as he loved her, Krycek knew there was literally nothing
he wouldn't do for the woman in his arms.
After she had finally gone to sleep, he looked down into her face the strain temporarily gone.
But even in her sleep she was frowning slightly, muttering a little. He smiled wryly to himself.
Not exactly how he'd planned their reunion, but he wasn't complaining. She was starting to trust,
to rely on him. Alex yawned, relaxing, as he pulled her against her, loving the way her slender
tiny body curved itself against his. No, he wasn't complaining.... * * *
 After Scully left the next morning, refreshed, a little more rested, but still with the haunted
look in her eyes, Alex knew what he had to do. But Lenin's Ghost, it was so hard to do the right
thing. For the first time he had the opportunity to be free, truly free, and he was going to
throw it away, for what? A man who would put a bullet through him if he ever got the chance.
Krycek saw him at some distance. He was sitting by the duckpond, placidly feeding the eager ducks
quacking at his feet. Restraining an impulse to call out and warn the animals that the bread was
probably laced with arsenic, he walked closer and sat down beside the man.
"Do you have it?"
Mutely Krycek handed over the zip disk and a small cassette. "It's all there."
"Good," the older man pulled up some more bread crumbs scattering them around. "Silly useless
animals, but feeding them is rather soothing."
"Yes, sir," he took a deep breath. "Sir, I want something else in return for the information."
The Smoking Man lifted an eyebrow. "More, Alex? That's a little greedy don't you think?"
Krycek breathed out, damn! "A trade sir."
The other man put the paper bag beside him and pulled up a package of cigarettes, lightning up.
"I am listening."
"James Morrison."
A slight pause, and a flash of something that might have been amusement or satisfaction. "Ahhh,
the case the FBI are pursuing so zealously."
Careful, Alex. "Yes, sir. It is Morrison, isn't it?"
A cloud of smoke rose between them. "Presumably, yes."
"You know where he is?"
Another cloud of smoke, a slight twist of desiccated lips. "What makes you think I do?"
Because you never let go, you black-hearted, lung-rotting bastard, Krycek thought darkly.
"Because he is, or was, one of your operatives and you don't like not knowing where they are." A
pause and then softly, "and because you owe his father."
"Very true, ah, *Krycek*." There was enough insinuation in the dry voice to turn him cold as ice.
"So..."
"Give me one reason for giving you the information."
Krycek's stomach muscles clenched, he had never had much hope, but still. A deep breath to steady
his voice, "As payment for Elizabeth Berkley."
A sudden glimmer of interest, "You are withdrawing your earlier, ah, request?"
Very evenly, "Yes, sir."
The Smoking Man picked up his paper bag again, scattering more bread. "You must be wary of your
weakness, Alex. A man like you cannot afford a woman like her."
Krycek didn't say anything, but silently he thought, and if I want advice from the devil, I'll
remember to come ask you. "That's my business, sir."
"Very well," the old man turned, a little stiffly and pulled up a slim file from the briefcase
beside him. "Here is his address, a doctor's report, diagnosing him as suffering from multiple
personality disorder. The doctor's report warning of his incipient violence and schizophrenia.
Surveillance photos. You'll find all the evidence you need inside his place."
Krycek took the file automatically. "You son of a bitch! You knew what I was going to ask for!"
A bone-dry chuckle, "Alex, Alex, you are so predictable. It is one of your ah, charms..." He
dropped the cigarette butt crushing it under his heel. "Do give Agents Mulder and Scully my
best."
Needing badly to get away, to breathe some fresh air, he turned to leave, when the soft voice
behind him said, gently, "I will see you soon, Alex Krycek."
Walking away rapidly, Krycek cursed himself and Dana Scully and most of all Fox Mulder. He was
caught and he knew it.
Only time would show the true cost of the file he was carrying. * * *
 That night when Scully arrived, the file was lying by her plate on the table. Picking it up, she
asked, "What is this?" Adding a little nervously, "not more material on Melissa?"
A quick twisted smile. "No, it's all the information you'll need to catch your serial killer." He
shook his head, stopping the questions before she could ask them. "No, don't ask, Dana. Just be
satisfied that if you go to that address you'll find your killer, *and* all the evidence you can
possible require to tie him to the murders."
"How did you get it?!" she still demanded, already rising. "Who gave it to you?"
"Does it matter?"
Hunting for her cellphone, Scully looked at him surprised. "Of course it matters. What am I going
to tell my superiors?"
Wryly, "If they ask, just tell them, you can't reveal your sources."
Dialing an obviously familiar number, Scully gave him a speaking glance. "Right, that will really
go down well with Skinner."
Pouring himself a glass of wine, Krycek said calmly, "Don't worry about Skinner, he's got his own
secrets, he won't dig too deeply."
"What are you talking about? No, never mind," she suddenly started talking into her phone.
"Mulder? Scully here, I just got the break we needed. That's right," she was smiling, glowing,
excited, and Krycek had to turn away from the sight.
By the time she had finished her call he had recovered, and was smiling at her excitement. "Do
you have time for a celebratory glass of wine before you leave?"
She shook her head, "I'm sorry, Alex, but I have to run." She picked up the file, and crossed to
him, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thank you!" Scully was halfway out the door, when she
suddenly turned and gave him a sharp look. "And when I get back we're going to have a very
detailed talk about where you got this!" * * *
 When Scully arrived at the abandoned warehouse by the river, tension was clawing inside. The
first thing she saw, after parking the car at a safe distance and walking the rest of the way,
was Mulder crouched around a corner, talking quietly into a small walkie-talkie. Scully crept up
beside him. "Is he in there?"
Mulder didn't turn his head. "As far as we can tell. Skinner and Carstairs are setting up the
SWAT team and the snipers."
She flattened herself against the wall. "Is Melanie Tomlinson there as well?"
His eyes never left the building. "We don't know. But as soon as they're in position, I'm going
in."
Scully pushed down her first impulse which was to tell him not to be an idiot. "Not a good idea,
Mulder, going off half-cocked. Are the negotiators here?"
"In the command center with Skinner and Carstairs."
"Any sign he knows we're coming?"
He shook his head once. "So far everything is calm."
After a short but heated conversation with Skinner, Mulder and Scully were among the agents
moving like dark shadows towards the warehouse. Gun at the ready, Scully thought with dry
amusement that not even AD Skinner was a match for a Mulder in full cry. A Mulder, she knew
instinctively, driven by the memory of a twelve year old boy with eyes that trusted him to bring
his sister back.
Mulder nodded to one of the other who moved in front of the door, and then Mulder raised his
voice. "FBI! Don't move!" The agent kicked in the door, covered by the others.
Bursting into the enormous room, everyone immediately spread out, although the darkness slowed
them down a little as their eyes adjusted.
Moving smoothly, Mulder nodded once, holding up two fingers then just one, pointing to the door
in the other end of the room. Scully hugged the wall, gun cocked and ready. There was no sound,
no acknowledgment that they weren't alone.
One of the agents found a switch, and suddenly they were bathed in light, leaving them all
blinking.
They were standing in an enormous completely bare room. There was nothing but a vast expanse of
cement and in one corner, looking profoundly out of place a small stove and a sink piled high
with dirty dishes. Against one wall was a long bench with a single office chair on wheels. Almost
the entire surface was taken up by computer monitors, scanners, faxes, video cameras, and things
Scully had no idea what they were. The only other thing was a small scrap of paper pinned to the
monitor. Walking over to examine it, she spied something lying beside the keyboard.
"Mulder, look at this!" Scully picked up a small dog-eared black and white snapshot.
"What is it?" He came over and froze. It didn't even need his choked whisper, "Sam," to know it
was Mulder and his long-lost sister. Curiously, Scully examined the photo over Mulder's shoulder.
The two children were laughing up at the camera. Samantha Mulder was on the swing being pushed by
a thin, tanned boy, his ears sticking straight out, hair tousled. He was smiling, and the eyes
were innocent, trusting, a far cry from the adult Mulder. She only got a brief glance at the
photo however before Mulder put it in his pocket, mouth thinned and angry.
Scully frowned. To coin a phrase, she had a bad feeling about this whole set-up. Nothing was
going as it was supposed to, and Dana Scully was a woman who liked order and clarity in her work,
and life. Sitting down in front of the monitor she started checking the files.
"Everything's coded, we need a hacker to crack this, Mulder."
"I'll call Frohike," Mulder said curtly. "Let's go!"
"Just a moment," Scully frowned. "Mulder, take a look at this." She held out the small scrap of
paper glued to the monitor. It contained nothing but a poem:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of death
I shall fear no evil
For the valleys are gone
And only death awaits
And I am the evil.The line *And I am the evil* had been underlined several times. "What do you
make of this?"
Mulder glanced at the poem. "I'll tell you later, right now our priority is finding Morrison.
Jacobsen!" he raised his voice slightly, "have you found anything?"
"Over here, sir!" They both turned at the sudden shout. Mulder crossed the room swiftly, Scully
slightly behind and to the left of him, covering his back.
Once again they were standing outside a door, and after a curt nod by Mulder, Jacobsen kicked it
open and they went in, guns at ready.
The sight that met them, had them all staring in mingled amazement and repugnance. An obese,
unshaven, filthy man was kneeling in the middle of another completely bare room. There was a camp
bed in one corner, a door in the opposite wall, and on a bare wall an enormous cross made of
scrap metal.
The man didn't look up, didn't seem aware he was no longer alone. He was grossly fat, but had
recently lost a lot of weight and his skin hung in grey grimy folds all around his body. He was
wearing nothing but a soiled netshirt and boxers. Even buried in fat and rolls of loose skin,
Scully experienced at sudden shiver down her back at the sight of a pair of colourless, almost
transparent eyes staring back at the FBI agents. They shone with an eerie ecstasy and exultation
cutting through her like a finely honed laser beam. From the restless mutters and sudden
fingering of guns, she was not the only one so affected.
Mulder, never afraid to walk where angels fear to tread walked up to him, gun cocked. "James
Morrison, I arrest you on charges of multiple counts of abduction, and murder. Do you understand
these charges?"
The man did not move, hands clasped in front of him, whispering, "Our Father who art in
heaven..." Tears streaming down his face, he blinked once, and his eyes regained some sanity.
"I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I can't stop him." He met Mulder's eyes in a long, intensely
private look. "I'm sorry, for everything." He looked confused and then his mouth pulled into a
horrible, cunning smile. "You took your time getting here. Hello FC," Mulder started and looked
at him sharply, "long time no see, I've heard a lot about you. Awww, didn't Mr. Mulder want his
little boy play to with the plebes?" Once again his face changed, and Scully found the sight very
disconcerting. It reminded her of nothing so much as a giant sponge wiping everything clean.
Leaving a blank slate for the next person to take possession.
Recovering from his momentary shock, Mulder yelled, "Where is Melanie Tomlinson?!" and started
shaking him violently.
Scully grabbed his arm and hauled him off, as two other FBI agents closed in on either side of
Morrison securing his arms.
"Stop it, Mulder!" she clung to his arm. "Let them do their job!" She tensed, cocking her head.
"Hush, listen!"
They could both hear the faint sounds coming from behind the closed door, and Mulder being taller
and faster outdistanced Scully with a hairsbreath as he tore the door open.
Inside the door was another, much smaller room. There were no windows, the only light being a
bare light-bulb giving off a cold harsh light. And crawled into one corner was a small dirty
girl. When she realized the door had opened she whimpered softly. In a pathetic gesture put up
her hands for protection.
"Shhh," Scully crouched down, holding out her hand. "Don't be afraid, Melanie, I'm a FBI agent
and we've come to take you home. My name is Scully and this is Mulder, my partner. You're safe
now."
Melanie stared at them with wide, panicked eyes, still whimpering soundlessly. As soon as Scully
moved closer she crawled away, hugging the wall.
Mulder gestured with his head, for her to get back. Scully pulled back, and Mulder remained where
he was, not moving closer.
Quietly he said, "Hi, Melanie, I'm Mulder. You know you're even prettier than your brother says."
She suddenly lifted her head, peering at him. "You know Peter?"
Mulder nodded, "Sure I do. We had a long talk just a couple of days ago."
She gazed at him distrustfully. "I don't think Peter would have talked to you."
Mulder smiled, "He told me a lot about you. That you hate peas, but like broccoli. That you wait
until your mommy has turned out the light and then you sneak over to his room so he can tell you
ghost stories." His smile widened. "He says you get so scared you refuse to leave, and he has to
wait until you are asleep and then carry you into your own room."
Melanie abruptly relaxed and tottered towards Mulder. She nearly fell over, but he caught her and
swept her up into his arms.
"Shh, baby, don't be scared, you're safe now," he whispered as she clung to him. Trailing them
outside, Scully thought that anyone who had ever accused Mulder of being cold, and obsessed only
with his quest for the truth, should have been there right now. Seen the expression on his face
as he gently cradled the small girl.
The two agents walked outside into the raw blustery night lit up by police cars and ambulances.
The stillness broken by a crackling of walkie-talkies and police radios.
When the paramedics came up to take Melanie, she clutched at his neck, burrowing her head into
his shoulder. He reached up with gentle hands, untangling her fingers.
"No, darling, you go with them, they're friends. They'll make sure you are okay." He gently
stroked her hair, and handing her over to the woman, pressed a quick kiss on her forehead. "Don't
be afraid, Mellie. Peter will be here soon, just as he promised."
"Peter is coming?"
Mulder's smile was sweet as honey. "He's coming. He's missed you, a lot."
Nestling into the arms of the female paramedic, Melanie grinned, showing one missing tooth. "He
calls me a pest, but he always lets me go with him if I want to." She added with the absolute
confidence of a child, "he always comes for me."
Mulder looked after two paramedics as they carried the little girl away. He turned to Scully, "I
really think tha - "
There was a sudden soft pop, and for a moment Scully thought it was just the backfire of a car.
But then she realized Mulder was turning and shouting something. Suddenly everyone moved in
slow-motion, as if mired in molasses. Even their voices slowed to an unintelligible growl. Scully
pivoted and watched helplessly as James Morrison opened his eyes wide, looking more surprised
than afraid, mouth sagging. The two FBI agents at his side grabbed for his arms.
"NO!" Mulder screamed and abruptly everything moved at its normal speed again as he sprinted
towards the man flung backwards by the force of the bullet, arms and legs in limp disarray.
Scully pulled her gun and ran towards the suddenly yelling and crouching FBI agents swarming
around the cars. Trying to spy where the bullet had come from, she realized that about thirty
other agents had the same idea, and holstered the gun. Skinner was bellowing orders, face dark
and dangerous.
"I want that son of a bitch!" He spied Scully. "How is Morrison?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Go check then!" he snapped and turned away to yell some more orders.
Scully returning saw in one glance that there was nothing to be done.
Kneeling by the dying man, Mulder hissed between clenched teeth, "I want the ass of whoever
fired!"
"It wasn't one of ours, Mulder. Skinner is deploying agents to check the roofs and windows, but I
doubt they'll catch him. Whoever it was, he'll have had a good head start."
She broke off as the man on the ground gasped once, softly and then his eyes rolled up and he
went limp. Mulder stood up, cursing bitterly. "Shit!"
Scully looked down at the dead man, feeling nothing but relief that it was over and anger that
James Morrison would escape earthly justice. "Come on, Mulder, he's dead. There is nothing gained
by staying here."

For a moment she thought he would refuse, but then with another curse, Mulder got to his feet and
without another glance at what had once been a man, walked away. She knew better than to follow.
She would give him the time he needed to compose himself, to realize on his own that there was
nothing else he could have done.
Half an hour later, Scully left the command center after talking to AD Skinner who was almost as
angry as Mulder, and Eliott Carstairs who told them both bluntly that he didn't give a damn, but
was just relieved they'd gotten their man.
Scully had to push her way through the quickly gathering crowd, and she shook her head in faint
disgust. The ghoulish curiosity of people never ceased to amaze her. The body of James Morrison
had been packed up and shipped out for examination. But people were still pointing to the spot
where he had died, and told newcomers of what had happened. Feeling tired and faintly depressed,
the inevitable reaction to the earlier tension, Scully just wanted to find Mulder and go home.
There were uniforms everywhere, thankfully keeping the curious onlookers back, red and blue
sirens blinking. Finishing her briefing of the sergeant in charge, Scully looked around for her
partner. Finally she spotted him, huddled under a blanket, and sitting on the lowest step of an
ambulance. Alone even in the midst of a crowd.
Scully walked over to him. Coming closer she could see the tiny shivers still rippling through
him, the teeth he clenched to keep from chattering.
"Here," she thrust a mug under Mulder's nose.
He took it automatically, drawing in the warm rich steam curling up. "What is this?"
"Soup, chicken vegetable I think. One of the paramedics gave it to me," Scully told him, sitting
down beside him on the step.
He tried a pale attempt at smiling. "What happened to the traditional whisky?"
"Alcohol is contraindicated in cases of shock," she said crisply.
"I'm not in shock!" he snapped.
"I never said you were," she replied calmly.
"And don't humor me, I'm not a child," he muttered. She gave him look that said he was being an
ungrateful idiot and he had the grace to look faintly sheepish.
And then Scully continued to look pointedly at the mug until he took a sip, and then another. As
the warmth slide down his throat, she saw the moment when, less frozen, blankess was replaced by
memory.
He curled his fingers around the cup, drawing comfort from the heat. "He knew me, Scully."
She nodded. "I know. What he called you, 'FC,' does it mean anything to you?"
"Fox cub, a stupid nickname I haven't heard in...." his voice trailed away, "it must be twenty,
twenty five years."
"Where does it come from?"
He shrugged, the blanket sliding down his back. "When I was a kid, I was a scout." He gave her a
dry look at the sudden quirk of her lips. "It's true, I've even got the badges to prove it." His
smile died away. "We were a bunch of guys in the same pack. We'd go camping in the woods, lie for
hours watching the birds, deer, drink beer we'd persuaded some older brother to buy for us. Spend
nights around the campfire talking. Stuff like that. We were cub scouts, my name is Fox, hence
Fox Cub, FC."
"So he knew you from back then?"
Mulder rubbed his face. "I don't know. He obviously remembered me, but I have no recollection of
him."
"At least this explains why he addressed his tapes to you personally, and how he knew about
Samantha."
His eyes darkened. "Maybe. But you know we're left with more questions than answers. Who he
really is, was. I don't remember any James Morrison. Why he fixated on me, why he tortured and
killed."
Drawing the blanket back up in a practiced unconsciously tender gesture, Scully said calmly. "All
that can wait until tomorrow. Right now you need to go home, go to bed and sleep. The nightmare
is over, Mulder. He won't ever kill again."
She let her hand lightly rest on his shoulder. "Don't forget the most important thing; that
Melanie Tomlinson is safe." She nodded towards another ambulance where Melanie was sitting,
wrapped like Mulder in a blanket and being fussed over by two paramedics. As they watched a car
drove up and Mr., Mrs., and Peter Tomlinson burst out. The parents immediately surrounded the
little girl, hugging her and crying.
Peter just stood by the car and watched his family. A small still figure. There was no smile on
his face, dark eyes enigmatic. He suddenly turned his head and uncannily he seemed to zero in on
where Mulder was sitting. His head came up, and for a moment he and Mulder just looked at each
other. Then a smile, like the sunrise dawned, changing his face completely. He made a thumbs up,
mouthing, 'thank you.' Melanie suddenly realized he was there, and pulling away from her mother's
arms, she ran over to him, yelling his name.
Scully and Mulder watched as he braced his body, catching her as she hurled herself at him, and
small grubby thin arms securely around his neck, he swung her around and around, while she clung
to him like a linchpin. Even from the distance they could hear her childish treble. "I knew you
were coming, Peter, you said you were, and you did!"
Her big brother didn't answer in words. But the look on his face when she kissed his cheek, would
remain with both agents for a long time.
Mulder abruptly put down his mug. "You're right, Scully, let's go home."
She smiled quietly, giving his hand a small quick touch as they made their way to the car.
Driving to his apartment slowly, Scully gave him an assessing glance. He looked like hell, eyes
closed, the stubble beginning to show. But there was a smile on his lips, and he slumped in the
seat, relaxed. Parking by the curb, waiting for him to get out, she reached across and took her
partner's hand. "Sleep in tomorrow, Mulder, you've earned it."
He yawned widely. "I feel like I could sleep for twenty four hours. But when I finally surface
again you and I are going to talk about how the hell you knew who Morrison was."
Her stomach muscles tightened. Sooner or later she would have to deal with this. And typical Dana
Scully she chose now. "Mulder?"
He was halfway out the car, turning his head to glance back at her. "What?"
She looked at him steadily. "Do you trust me?"
He looked surprised. "You know I do."
"No, I mean really trust me."
The gravity of her question finally penetrated and he sank back in the passenger's seat again.
"With my life."
She held out her hand and waited until he took it. "Then, please trust me that I can't tell you
where I got the information from. Not yet. Please, Mulder?"
He hesitated, and then squeezed her hand, quipping weakly. "Careful, Scully, or you'll end up
like me."
She smiled. In relief and unbearable guilt. Once again she had the proof, if any were needed that
Fox Mulder who trusted no one had blind faith in her. "You mean putting tape on my windows,
holding meetings in underground garages? What a delightful prospect."
Scully never realized that Mulder had stopped just by his entrance, watching her drive away. A
cool, calculating look in hazel eyes as her car disappeared down the street. * * *
 Excerpt from the final report filed on James Morrison:
".... the capture and unfortunate death of James Morrison has left us with more questions than
answers. An extensive search has revealed no clues as to his real identity. It seems certain that
'James Morrison' was an alias, but who provided him with the necessary papers and documentation
remains a mystery.
A background check reveal that James Morrison did not work, did not receive social security, and
did not have any bank accounts, apart from a current checking account. Regular payments, in cash,
were made to that account which was then used to pay for his credit card and other expenses. A
search of FBI, CIA and Interpol databases did not match any known fingerprints. Electronic
experts value the equipment found at the scene in excess of $250,000. There has also been
confirmation that Morrison did in fact own a small private plane, and blood samples found inside
the plane confirms Agent Mulder's suspicion that it was used to transport the victims. Nor,
despite extensive investigation, is it possible to determine exactly how Morrison, if he acted
alone as is assumed, was able to operate freely and seemingly undisturbed by the authorities for
an extended time period. Special Agent Mulder is convinced that Morrison enjoyed the protection
of unknown people of political influence and power. However, there does not exist at this point
any evidence supporting Agent Mulder's claims.
Philip Carlowitz, a renowned psychiatrist has admitted that last January he began treating James
Morrison for supposed MPD. The FBI have subpoenaed his records, and hopefully they will shed some
light on Morrison's sickness and his background. Dr. Carlowitz has indicated that the patient
remained reluctant to speak of his family, despite the doctor's repeated attempts to do so. Dr.
Carlowitz has also stated during interviews with this agent that it is his personal opinion that
James Morrison's sickness was rooted in a childhood trauma rather than a chemical imbalance of
the brain. According to Dr. Carlowitz, James Morrison abruptly broke off his treatment two months
after first being referred in response to the doctor's questions about his family and background.
The doctor signing the referral to Dr. Carlowitz is another mystery, as no doctor of that name is
registered with the AMA.
An autopsy was done of the body and revealed an unknown chemical in the blood. Several samples
have been sent off to university laboratories, but so far an exact identification of the
substance has proved impossible. Professor Dawson at MIT is speculating that the chemical may
induce, and I stress, may, a state of euphoria, not dissimilar to that of 'uppers.' Whether this
had anything to do with the abduction of the victims is unknown.
Whether James Morrison suffered from MPD or not is still debatable. Indeed medical science
remains divided on the question of whether MPD is a genuine illness or not. However, it is the
opinion of this agent that James Morrison did in fact suffer from schizophrenia. Whether it was
just one of his personalities that was schizophrenic, as Agent Mulder believes, or if the
schizophrenia made him simulate the symptoms of Multiple Personality Disorder, cannot at this
time be determined. Nor is it likely that we will ever know the reason he abducted and killed the
girls. Without any further information on his childhood and identity it seems unlikely that we
will ever know. As to Morrison's death, it has been determined that the bullet killing him was
not of a make or caliber used by the FBI or the SWAT team. The identity of the killer of James
Morrison remains unknown.
Morrison's connection to Special Agent Mulder also remains unexplained. Agent Mulder cannot
recollect anyone matching the description of Morrison, nor can he explain why Morrison was in
possession of a photograph of Agent Mulder and his sister. The poem has been identified as
written by Stan Platke, a Specialist Four Rifleman in the Fourth Infantry Division, who served in
Vietnam. A search of the armed forces fingerprint records show no match for either a 'James
Morrison,' or another alias.
Special Agent Mulder is still pursuing the case, but at this point and without any new supporting
evidence, it is questionable if there will ever be a satisfactory explanation to the question
marks surrounding the motives, background and death of James Morrison."
Submitted by Special Agent Dana Scully. * * *
 While Scully waved goodbye to Mulder, a meeting was taking place on the other side of town.
The place was, as always, almost too inconspicuous. A modern office building like a million
others. There was no sign outside the plain door, no hint that inside some of the most powerful
men on earth were waiting for him.
The Smoking Man watched them all carefully but not even a master manipulator like himself could
read anything on their calm, still faces. Seated around a table their shadows fell across the
polished oak surface. And standing by the walls were silent watchful men. Young men in peak
physical condition there to protect and serve, and if necessary give their lives for the old men
who were their masters. The members of the Consortium had everything, everything but trust in
their fellow members.
He sat down at the head of the table. It was the place of honour, the place of a chairman and
leader. It was also the place of an accused facing a tribunal for final judgment.
"The Morrison situation is becoming troublesome," one of them broke the silence. His crisp
cultivated voice called up images of five o'clock tea on well cut lawns. Of cricket and a world
once great but now in decline.
The Smoking Man lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke and coughing lightly. "It is being dealt with
even as we speak."
"How?" Sharply from another of the men. Tall and distinguished with a shock of white hair he
retained the indefinable rigidity that a soldier never quite loses. It is the legacy of too many
parades, too much time spent at attention.
"The FBI are closing in on Morrison's hideout." He waited for the room to grow quiet once again
before he continued speaking, calmly. "However, there is no need for concern, I have assigned one
of my best men to make sure he is not taken alive."
A stocky black man said quietly, "I warned you all months ago that Morrison had crossed the
line." He leaned back in the chair, steepling his broad blunt-fingered hands.
Exhaling another cloud of smoke, the man who had worn a thousand different names and identities,
but who in the here and now was known as Spender, watched the tendrils whisper up through the
still air. "And I told you then I had the situation under control."
A quick braying laugh startled them all. It came from a man with the appearance of a retired
accountant. Short and thin, he looked as if he could not hurt a fly. Until you looked into his
eyes. Cold, calm, empty eyes. The eyes of a madman or a killer. "Under control? We have a serial
killer on the loose who kills and tortures little girls," his lip curled, "you all know how
emotional the public get about things like that. So we have the vice-president going on national
TV vowing to catch the killer. We have the FBI and most of the national media focusing in on a
man who can be traced back directly to the Consortium. I would not call that 'under control.'" He
smiled again thinly , as he and the Smoking Man exchanged an icy look of mutual hatred.
The first man spoke again. "How did the Morrison situation get out of control in the first
place?"
The Cigarette Smoking Man inhaled and coughed. "As you all know Th... ah, Morrison was discovered
at a young age to have a latent psychic ability. He was able, as yet we do not know how, to
subdue his own personality and allow himself to become nothing more than a vessel for whoever
took over his body. During that time he had access to all the memories and knowledge of the
subject in question. After further training by our allies, he has been of much use to the
Consortium." The old man absently crushed out his cigarette. "However, two months ago there was a
slight, ah, miscalculation."
"You mean you made a mistake," an old man, who looked frail enough that a puff of strong wind
would carry him off said coldly. "I have warned you before of your arrogance."
The Smoking Man gave him a long cool look, "As you said. I made a mistake. Two months ago it was
discovered that another of our agents was less than stable mentally. He was also selling
Consortium secrets. I had the matter dealt with, but I needed to know the extent of the damage. I
assigned Morrison to discover the truth." He paused to light another cigarette. "Something went
wrong. The transference was permanent. Dalton took over Morrison's body and psyche. Two weeks
later Morrison disappeared. When we finally caught up with him again he had already begun to
kill."
A tall slender man leaned forward slightly. His white hair caught the lamplight as he asked. "Why
did you not immediately dispose of Morrison?"
For the first time the Smoking Man hesitated almost imperceptibly. "At the time I still hoped to
discover a way of erasing Dalton's personality from Morrison. However," he half-shrugged,
"somehow the two psyches have begun to merge. Our own people believe that is what has pushed,
Morrison or Dalton, over the edge. There are still brief moments when Morrison is in control, but
they are becoming increasingly rare."
He contemplated the glowing tip of his cigarette. "In actuality this created an added
complication. As a child Morrison knew Fox Mulder," he waited for the murmurs to die down before
continuing, "and once when he was in control he sent a personal appeal to Agent Mulder." Spender
paused before admitting levelly, "Certainly Morrison should have been dealt with when his
instability first became apparent. I take full responsibility for that blunder. However, the
attempt had to be made to salvage him. He was very useful to the Consortium."
A soft bark came from the soldier. "And you owed his father, Spender! You protected the son
because of the father," malicious insinuation coloured his tone, "and not only Morrison, eh? So
now we have the fucking FBI closing in on our problem. They must not be allowed to get him
alive!"
A few of the men moved uncomfortably in their chairs and one of them murmured censoriously,
"Really, there is no need to be vulgar."
The only reply was a shrug. "Forgive me, you are correct. However, I think this calls for both
strong language and action. As soon as you realized Morrison was incurable, why didn't you kill
him?"
The Smoking Man fought down a soft cough. There was no hint of emotion in either his voice or
face. "I told you, I still hoped that we could salvage something at least from this unfortunate
situation. Mental instability as such did not invalidate Morrison's usefulness." He paused, "I
also believed that we had successfully cleaned up behind him. I hoped that sooner or later he
would begin working for us again... And as long as we continued to monitor the situation closely
and avoided any undue attention," he raised an eyebrow, smiling coldly, "no real harm done eh?"
"I still say you should have killed him, if not when he went rogue, then at least as soon as the
FBI began taking an interest."
Spender shook his head, "No, Cahill unfortunately is right. It became too dangerous. Not only the
FBI but the media was following this with very close interest. We had to give them someone or
they would have continued digging." He did not need to add that so would Fox Mulder.
A man sitting at the back said in the crisp cultured accent that belongs to the dusty classrooms
of an Ivy League university, "Then you should have simply framed someone else for Morrison's
crimes. It didn't matter who." A brief wintry smile crossed his face, "Why not your former
protégé Alex Krycek? You yourself have said he can no longer be trusted."
A long thoughtful look, "If necessary I would have done so. However, I dislike waste, and for now
Krycek remains useful."
The tall man sitting at the other end of the table frowned slightly. There was no overt
indication that he was the leader, and yet subtly, the power and the burden of leadership rested
on his thin, stooping shoulders. "Very well, for now we will allow you to deal with the
situation. As long..." he paused, "as it is resolved and swiftly. We do not tolerate failure,
remember that."
Rising, Spender looked at the old men. His peers, his friends, his allies and his enemies.
Expressionless he said, "I know."
He walked out the door. * * *
 Scully came back to Hadley Place again, filthy, wrinkled, exhausted and... incandescent, was
probably the best word to describe her.
Krycek watched her with a wry smile. Had he ever felt as deeply as Dana Scully? Cared as much?
She was only a few years younger than he, but at times he felt a hundred years older. Had he ever
had her zest, her optimism, her delight in life? Even now, even after everything she had seen,
after her own abduction, nearly dying, she was still an optimist. But watching her, twirl around
the room, laughing, talking excitedly. the desperation smoothed from her face, the tension
released from her shoulders, Alex knew with an inner peace, that he had done the right thing this
morning. Whatever it may cost him in the future.
Scully did not go to work the next morning, allowing herself the luxury of calling in sick.
Instead she and Krycek spent the day in bed, making love, talking desultorily, simply enjoying
the relief from strain.
The following weeks saw their relationship begin to stabilize, and normalize, if that was the
right word for it. For some reason the old smoking bastard hadn't called to collect his debt so
Krycek was left relatively free. Which meant more and more time spent with Scully. Gradually she
had even moved some of her things, a toothbrush, a few blouses and skirts to his place, and he
was seriously considering signing a long-term lease on the place, the first home he had had in...
actually it was the first home, period.
Despite his apprehension, she never asked how he had gotten the information that led to
Morrison's capture and death. Perhaps she was as wary of knowing as he was of telling. There were
still areas they avoided, subjects they did not bring up, chief among them Melissa Scully. Krycek
tried, and failed, to forget the unmarked envelope that had appeared in the post box he
maintained downtown, with more photos of Melissa, a videotape, a medical report.
There were other tensions however, that inevitably intruded into their world. And try as he
might, Alex Krycek was not always able to escape from his past, or the 'other' life as he
silently called it. But he tried his best to push them away, even if it meant walking a very
slippery tightrope indeed. * * *
 Scully parked her car and got out locking the door. She breathed in deeply of the fresh, crisp
autumn air. It was one of those glorious summer-into-autumn days when all the colors appear
deeper and more vivid. Turning her face into the sun, she realized, rather surprised, that she
was happy. For the first time in far too long both her personal and her private life was moving
along smoothly.
The conclusion of the Morrison case had allowed her and Mulder to return to the X-Files. They
were currently investigating a man who claimed he could speak to his vegetables. Or, at least
that was his explanation for the exceptionally large and fine tomatoes, cucumbers and apples that
won blue ribbons in competition after competition. His next-door neighbor however had filed a
complaint alleging witchcraft. And when a polite officer visiting her the first time explained
that was not a crime, she accused him of stealing her chickens, as well as her favourite goat
Frida. And of using Frida as the main component in a Friday night black sabbath.
Even Mulder, Scully unconsciously smiled as she headed towards Hadley Place, was having problems
finding any connection to the supernatural, while his partner had never believed there were any
traces to be found. However, since their investigation involved driving around the Maryland
countryside comparing vegetables - and having delightful lunches in quiet, tucked away
restaurants - for once, Scully didn't mind Mulder's increasingly desperate attempts to prove it
an X-File.
Of course, things had not exactly gone his way. Especially not when Frida had returned yesterday,
although so far not talking of her experiences, supernatural or not. But seemingly none the worse
for her absence. Keeping an absolutely straight face, Scully had suggested they contact an animal
hypnotist who allegedly could 'channel' animals so they could find out what had happened to
Frida. Mulder had given her a glare hot enough to singe. But later, she had caught him furtively
looking through the telephone book. She had given him an incredulous look, and he had grinned and
pointed out it was her idea after all.
Still, she found she couldn't stay exasperated with Mulder for long. Not while she knew that when
she returned home at night, Alex was waiting for her. For now she had given up trying to analyze
their complex and tangled relationship. It was enough that he was there and that so far he'd
given no indication of leaving. Actually, he was talking of them renting a cabin in the mountains
for some skiing and fishing. She still wasn't sure she was ready for the kind of comitment that
indicated, but at least it meant he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.
She was still a way off from the entrance, and momentarily hidden by one of the trees that were
the delight of the children living at Hadley Place, when she suddenly spied Alex coming through
the door. He was frowning slightly, the long arms of the leather jacket effectively hiding his
prosthetic. From the determined way he moved, she realized that wherever he was going, it was
important.
She opened her mouth to call out to him. But some instinct closed her mouth before a sound
emerged. Smoothly, unhurriedly she followed him as he hailed a cab. Stepping into the street,
Scully was grateful for the luck that had another empty cab follow on the heels of the other.
Waving it down and getting in, Scully did something she'd always wanted to. Feeling silly but at
the same time fighting down a mischievous grin, she flashed her FBI identification.
"FBI, follow that cab!" she ordered.
The driver, a middle-aged black man, stared at her in the rearview mirror for a moment, but then
obviously deciding she was genuine, he just shrugged and did as ordered.
Scully sat in the back-seat torn between embarrassment for following him and a growing
apprehension. Once again she realized just how little she knew of Alex Krycek. While he certainly
seemed to have plenty of money, she had no idea where it came from. Nor, apart from his enigmatic
comment the night when they first met, had she ever managed to pin him down on what he did for a
living or even what he did when she was working. Whenever she tried to ask him, he would distract
her with a kiss or a quiet joke. And his obvious reluctance to answer meant that she had more or
less given up probing.
Ten minutes later, the cab in front of her slowed down and came to a stop outside nothing more
sinister than a cheerful green and gold sign announcing 'Justin's.'
"What is that place?" Scully asked her driver as she took out money to pay him.
"Just a bookshop," he replied, counting out the change.
Scully waited until Alex had gone inside before getting out.
She stood in the street once again undecided whether she should just leave before she embarrassed
herself. However, she hesitated only briefly before opening the door. Curiosity, both
professional and personal proved stronger than any lingering fear of looking like a jealous fool.
Inside the air was redolent of coffee, hot donuts, and the sharp, dusty smell of newsprint and
uncreased paper. Scully quickly spied Krycek. He was sitting at one of the small tables adjoining
the book shelves. An untouched cup of coffee was in front of him. He was frowning, obviously deep
in dark thoughts. He did not look up as the door opened with a soft jangle of the bell.
Somehow she doubted he'd stopped by just for a coffee and a read.
Careful not to take the chance that he would see her she quickly turned her back and walked over
to the counter where she could keep a discreet eye on him without being seen. Perhaps ten minutes
later Krycek abruptly stiffened. If she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed his
small shift in position. Pretending to chose between blueberry cheesecake and a chocolate muffin,
Scully positioned herself so she could see Alex in the reflection of the mirror behind the
counter.
The man entering was tall and heavy. He wore a long black wool coat. With his back to her, she
was unable to see his face clearly. However, what she could see gave the impression of heft and
power. He was definitely bulky but not fat. Krycek stood up as he approached. Scully watched as
the two men embraced briefly, the stranger kissing both cheeks of the lean, dark man, greeting
him. Anger and something else briefly flashed in green eyes. To her it was obvious that Alex did
not appreciate the familiarity of the other man although he didn't protest verbally or flinch
away from the touch. The two men did not sit down again, instead they walked up the stairs to
where the bookshelves were.
Following them, Scully tried to look nonchalant as she strolled along the shelves until she saw
the top of a gray head.
Luckily the way the shelves were built, Scully could hear without being seen, and for once her
short stature was a plus rather than minus. Pretending to be absorbed by a book - 'How To Build a
Ship in A Bottle in Six Easy Steps' - she strained to listen. They were speaking in soft,
rapid.... Russian! Scully swore silently. One day she really must brush up on her linguistic
skills. However, after about five minutes of conversation, during which she managed to pick up
the words; FBI... Boris.... lublich... Mulder... father... Alex exhaled once in anger. His voice
all of a sudden sounded much louder and she realized he must have moved so he was standing almost
opposite where she was on the other side of the shelf. Instinctively she crouched down even
further, even though she knew he could have no idea she was listening.
Speaking in English as if the change in language would create a barrier between him and the other
man, Krycek said grimly. "I am not doing it, Boris. I told you once, no more hive ops!"
Frustrated he took out a book opening it, and pretending to look through the contents. The stiff
pages rustled as he turned them. "These aren't the old days, we're in the US, not in Siberia, and
you're not..." he hesitated briefly, "father."
'Boris' voice softened and he too must have moved because the next time he spoke Scully almost
jumped out of her skin. He sounded as if he was right beside her. He spoke excellent if accented
English. "I know that Alexei. But it is father who has sent me. You have been gone for too long
from us. He has given his permission for you to return home. No more Consortium, no more running
and hiding. You can take your rightful place."
Krycek swallowed once, and when he replied his voice was so controlled as to be completely
expressionless. "It's too late Boris, it's been too late for years, you know why I can't, I
won't, go back. Besides," he had himself under control once again. "I am rather enjoying the ah,
'decadent west,'" the irony was obvious.
Boris laughed heartily. "So am I little brother, so am I! But do not let yourself be corrupted by
their practices." There was a subtle warning in the quiet words. "They are not your kind, and
they never will be."
"What is 'my kind,' Boris?" Krycek asked softly.
"We are, Alexei," the other man switched to Russian again speaking rapidly.
Krycek, however, continued to speak in English. "Do you think I give a flying fuck about the
other Directors after Tunguska?" he demanded.
"You should, Alexei. After your betrayal there, you should tread very lightly. Do you know how
hard father had to fight for your survival?"
Krycek laughed softly, bitterly, "What, you mean that he still has use for me?" He added in
irritation. "And stop calling him father!"
"You judge him too harshly."
"And you?" Still in that soft bitter voice.
There was a silence. "I have never disobeyed the Directorate. You know why we cannot allow the
Consortium to do what they are planning."
"I know," Krycek replied dry sarcasm deepening his voice. "The survival of Homo Sapiens is at
stake, or at least the survival of certain carefully selected individuals. And we must make sure
it is *our* selection not theirs."
"Do you disagree, Alexei? You know they cannot be trusted. Don't you remember how they
double-crossed us after the Dallas affair. We trained and provided their scapegoats. We had a
deal and they reneged on it!"
"Boris that was in 1963," Alex sighed almost wearily. "I was not even born then and you were a
child at the time."
"True, but father was very much involved." A certain quiet amusement colored Rostov's voice as he
added, "and this has always been a family affair. For us, and for them. What is it they say? 'The
sins of the father...'"
Krycek suddenly laughed although there was little humor in the sound. "And how many generations
will it be until father's sins, and ours, will be expunged? Five, ten, twenty?"
"Stop it, Alexei! This cynical pose has never impressed me!" Suddenly Boris shifted to Russian
again, but this time he spoke with a much harder edge, issuing commands. And when Krycek replied
it was in a subdued mood.
"I understand, sir. I'll kill for you, you know that. But no more hive ops!" A long pause, and
then in an almost-whisper, "please."
There was an obvious hesitation before the other man said reluctantly. "Very well, I will respect
your wishes for now Alexei, but it would be a shame not use your skill. You were very good."
"I was the best," Krycek said flatly.
Boris burst into a hearty laugh. "Ah Alexei! I have missed you, little one."
"Don't call me that!" In sudden cold fury. "I told you, colonel, never call me that again!"
"As you wish, commander," was the affable reply. "I will contact you again when appropriate. In
the meantime...." a pause and then he added with evident salaciousness, "enjoy your little
redheaded FBI agent. I have always been told that red hair means a hotheaded temper, I only hope
she is as hot in bed. But then you always had a weakness for kittens with claws."
This time it was Krycek who turned to Russian as the two men started to move away. And from the
tone, he was not too pleased with Boris' knowledge.
Scully sagged against the bookcase. Thoughts whirling it took her a few minutes to compose
herself. My God, the more she learned about Alex the worse it became. What was the Directorate?
And what the hell was a 'hive op'? She knew she could never ask Alex, but perhaps Mulder would
know. * * *
 The phone rang and Scully picked it up without taking her eyes off the computer screen. "Scully
here." But when she heard the voice on the other end of the line a sudden smile softened her face
and she leaned back in her chair. "Emma! How are you? I haven't heard from you in ages!" She
listened for a minute and then laughed softly, "and the same to you 'ducky.'"
She laughed again, but at the same time shook her head, "We've already had this discussion,
remember? I'm perfectly happy where I am. Besides, the FBI may not pay a fortune but it sure
beats a Welsh university. And I don't think I could take the cut-throat world of academia in any
case." The smile lingered on her lips. "All right, I promise to think it over, but to be honest I
can't think of anything that would make me change my mind.... Yes, I agree, oh, and give my best
to Richard!"
Scully hung up, still smiling. She glanced over to where Mulder had looked up from where he'd
been reading a newsletter, feet on the desk. "Who was that?" he asked.
"An old university friend. Emma Ralson, she's the Provost at Swansea University in Wales. She
wants me to teach forensic pathology there. It's kind of a standing offer. Emma phones me once or
twice a year and tries to convince me to give the rest of my life to Science." Scully's voice
easily dropped the inverted quotation marks around Science.
"You're not thinking of accepting are you?" Mulder raised an eyebrow.
Scully shook her head. "You heard me didn't you? But Emma could give you a lesson in stubborness,
Mulder, she just won't take no for an answer."
"Oh, all right." He lost interest and returned to his newsletter. She wasn't sure what it was,
and from what she could see of its tawdry, blurred print and the lurid pictures didn't really
want to know. However, Emma's phone call had broken her concentration, and instead of turning
back to the computer again, she gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment undecided. But then she
asked, "Mulder, you've got a minute?"
He put the newsletter down, "Sure, what is it, Scully?"
She pivoted her chair so she was facing him. "Have you ever heard of a 'hive op'?"
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing comes to mind, unless you're talking about
the mutated killer bees we worked on."
She frowned, "From the context, I think not."
"What context would that be?" he suddenly perked up, giving her an sharp look. Ever since the
Morrison case she had noticed that he had been far more interested in her questions and comments.
A nice change from the way he used to completely ignore her. The realization that she too had
secrets, sources he knew nothing about had surprised him and she was faintly amused by the new
respect she could see in his eyes. However, it was not something she wanted to encourage right
now. So she looked at her partner with a calm censure.
"None of your business, Mulder. Oh no," a shake of the head forestalled all the questions she
knew were just waiting to burst out of him. "I'm not going to say another word, and that's
final." And by now Mulder knew his partner well enough to know that when she was wearing that
particular obstinate expression, there was nothing more to get out of her.
A week later, Mulder came into the FBI cafeteria where Scully was sitting at at a window table by
herself. She was perusing a autopsy report and absently eating some spaghetti Napolitana.
Studying the crime scene photograph of a disembowelled body, guts trailing on the floor, she
forked up some more long white strands of pasta. The fact that her plate closely resembled the
photo didn't trouble her. It hadn't bothered her since her first year in med school, when she'd
sworn off all pasta for a whole year.
Mulder sat down opposite her. "Hey, Scully, I talked to some friends, and they told me some
pretty interesting things about what a 'hive op' is."
Scully immediately stopped eating, putting down her report. "Tell me."
He glanced at the spaghetti, "You going to finish that?"
She sighed in resignation, pushing the plate across to him, "Go ahead."
He started wolfing the spaghetti, and between swallows told her. "Essentially a hive op is what
we, that is the Company, aka CIA, call a honey pot."
Scully frowned, "You've lost me."
"Well, basically a honey pot is an operation where an enemy agent, either a male or a female
agent, acquires information by seducing and creating a sexual relation with the target," he
grinned. "Sorry about the phrasing, put it down to the source. You think I'm paranoid? The
Company guys all act as if they've got state secrets in their briefcase. In any case," he
continued, "the Mossad and the KGB apparently used to specialise in honey pots, but, and here is
the interesting part, GRU decided to be different and code named it hive op instead. Although it
means the same thing."
Picking up the apple on her tray and biting into it, Scully frowned. "GRU being?"
"Sort of the secret KGB, army intelligence. The *real* spooks in the old S of U. The rumour is,
at least according to my man over at Langley, that they've set up their own shop after the fall
of communism. However, and here it gets *really* interesting, and it cost me a very expensive
dinner with a bottle of first class burgundy," he paused expectantly.
Scully narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm not interested in your culinary expenses, Mulder. What is
so interesting?"
"For years Daniel Kadowski, that's the guy I was talking to, says there have been some very quiet
rumours floating around the intelligence community that there was something even *more* secret
buried deep inside the GRU. A kind of Fifth Column or Directorate. An organization that sounds
very similar to what we've called the Consortium here... So spill, Scully, where did you hear
that name?"
She sighed in feigned disgust, to hide her suddenly beating heart. "Mulder whatever you're
working on it always comes back to the same thing. Does the word 'obsessed', mean anything to
you? I read or heard the phrase somewhere and I wondered. It may even have been on one of those
cop shows I watch when I'm too tired to turn off the TV."
He gave her a long thoughtful look, "You're holding out on me, Scully."
"So I am," she said equably. "But don't sulk, Mulder, I'm not the only one doing that to his
partner, you know."
"I don't sulk!" he glared at her until she laughed and unwillingly he joined in. "Okay, I won't
push, but you know if you need me, I'll be here."
"I know," she gave him a look of mute gratitude.
After Mulder had gone, and she was finally alone, Scully finally let the mask drop. Oh God, no,
it couldn't be true! What she and Alex had could *not* be a hive op. What had she told him, she
thought frantically, and mentally reviewed their conversations. To her relief she decided that
she had told him nothing that could be construed as information. Besides, she realized once she
had calmed down a little, what kind of information could she have that he didn't have access to
while he was a FBI agent himself? Or that the Consortium couldn't get far easier than through
her.
Furthermore, wasn't it Alex who had actually helped *her* solve the case? Unless... No, no, stop
being paranoid, Dana, she told herself, James Morrison was guilty as hell, all the evidence
pointed to him... unless that evidence had been carefully doctored. But what about the
independent doctors that had examined him, and not only declared that he was guilty but that he
was really suffering from multiple personality disorder? Worst case scenario was that Alex knew a
hell of a lot more about Morrison than he was telling, but did she not already suspect that?
Wasn't that why she hadn't asked where he got Morrison's file from? Why she had never asked about
the time he went out and returned late, with a shuttered, empty look in his eyes, and blood
staining the arm of his leather jacket. Because she simply *did not want to know.*
The relief of one fear only made worse the memory of his voice. 'I was the best...' that kept
running through her mind. To think of Alex casually seducing and using men and women, hurt more
than she wanted to admit. But why should she be surprised? Wasn't that exactly what he'd done to
Mulder? Used sex to confuse and distract? To create a dependency that still haunted Mulder even
after everything Krycek had done.
Once again doubts over his motives started to gnaw at Scully. Again and again she returned to the
question of what Krycek really wanted with her, what lay behi