Category Mistake

Part One

Alex absently sipped his whiskey, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection. The bartender appeared, bottle at the ready, but Alex waved him off. If this had been a social call he would have been more than happy to get wasted. But this was business.

Marita wanted him to leave his 'business' be. They had more important things to do apparently. But what was more important than getting rid of one more enemy? Now that Spender was gone, they had to let everyone know who was running the show. They had to set an example for anyone who might be thinking of crossing them.

What Marita hadn't even known was that Spender had a personal confidant. One which knew everything about him, the Consortium, the Project, you name it. With all that knowledge he wielded just as much power as dear old Smoky had. When Alex had been the golden boy, the prodigal son, he had often met Spender at an acreage in Montana. Spender's confidante was always there, lurking in the shadows.

Alex sometimes wondered if they were lovers, and pushed the thought away with a disgusted shudder and the distinct shrinking of his genitals. Quick, think of something else before the urge to vomit puts to waste this expensive whiskey. A brief but vivid flash of red hair proved to be his salvation. Ah, red. Red reminded him of blood, of apples, of that 'vette he'd always wanted as a kid, and . . . Scully. Poor Scully.

He'd been so busy rebuilding the empire to his own specifications that Scully and the newly abducted Mulder had not been tops on his priority list. The reports he'd had time to skim indicated that Scully-without-Mulder was more of a handful that Mulder-without-Scully. She was a real pitbull, but without that flying off the handle quality that always prevented Mulder from really discovering anything.

Mulder would be returned, eventually. They always returned them. Mulder might not be himself, but Alex was prepared for that possibility. He could never kill Fox Mulder, but a Replacement . . . that was another story.

He suspected Spender had activated Scully's chip before his untimely demise. The current operatives hadn't yet discovered and decrypted all the intel involved in the implants. Alex was unsure what to do when he found out. The power of that chip would be in his hands. A few buttons, a code maybe, and DNA would break down. Scully's baby would be no more. But he had no desire to completely destroy the woman. First her sister, then Mulder, then her 'miracle' baby? He didn't want to--he had no desire to be a baby killer, but if it came down to one baby or the rest of the world, he only had one choice.

He could always shoot himself afterwards.

Another flash of red hair, the sound of a glass breaking. Alex saw his mark enter the bar and join two other men. They ordered a round and settled into conversation. So he was talking already. Telling Spender's dirty little secrets.

Alex was making mental bets with himself over whether it would be the bathroom or the alley. The gun and silencer were a reassuring weight under his arm if he needed a quick, clean, quiet kill. But he had a variety of toys up his sleeve to set a messier example. Knives, a garrote. His left arm served as a useful club if needed. Marita had turned her nose up at him. Well, somebody had do the dirty work, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her. She might chip a nail or something.

He watched the men talk for a minute. The other two were familiar--he recognized them as some of the fringe members of the Consortium. People who had lived just outside the inner circle. Like him. Scratch that. Like he had been. Now he was the inner circle.

Suddenly his mark blanched and froze. Something had spooked him, and it wasn't Alex. Alex discretely scanned the bar, wondering who else could be there. The man got to his feet and hurried toward the back. Alex followed just in time to see the exit swing shut. The alley it was then. He stepped outside, gun at the ready. His target was just standing there, staring into the shadows.

"This is going to be too easy," he said to himself. Then he wondered why the man wasn't even looking at him. Remembering someone else had him spooked. Oh shit.

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Krycek," came a feminine voice from behind him. A searing pain lanced through his skull and colors exploded behind his eyelids before fading to black.

He came to on a lumpy bed, his right arm stretched painfully over his head, and his left . . . Fuck. Someone had taken his prosthesis. An experimental stretch revealed the jangle of handcuffs. His legs were spread eagle, but immobile. By the lack of feeling in his feet he suspected he'd been tied up for awhile now.

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus in on the red blur above him. Red. The bar. Red hair. Oh shit.

"Scully," he croaked.

"Gee, you really are a smart one, Krycek."

He blinked a few times and tried to swallow away the cotton in his mouth. She sounded funny. Not the calm, imperial Scullyvoice he was used to hearing. She sounded a little . . . girlish. And he'd never pictured Scully as the type of woman to say 'gee'. Then again, she didn't seem like the type of woman to cold cock him and tie him to a bed either. Where the hell were they anyway?

His vision cleared enough for him to make out garish flowered curtains and a TV that looked older than he was. A hotel room. Dana Scully had spent money on him. How sweet.

"Wakey wakey. I got something for ya."

His gaze flicked back to her, and the gun she was pointing at him. His own gun. In her white-knuckled grip. Her finger tightened on the trigger and he tensed. He'd had that gun specially made with a featherweight trigger. He'd be dead in a second if she didn't relax. His face must have betrayed genuine fear because she smirked and relaxed her grip. "Scared?"

Hell yes. And the smell of liquor permeating the room was doing nothing for the throbbing at the back of his head. He remained silent, calculating his chances of escape. He was tied up, no weapons in reach, no way to get free. Right. Slim to none. But hey, if Scully really wanted him dead, he would have died in the alley. She probably thought he knew where Mulder was. Well, he did in the most general sense. He's in a spaceship, Scully. I don't think aliens have a missing persons department.

"You never seem scared. I was starting to wonder if you were really human." She lowered the gun as she spoke, and it was only then that he noticed the bottle dangling from her other hand. Cuervo Gold. Oh shit. Saint Scully was getting wasted on tequila. She turned away from the bed, teetering slightly on her way to the dresser.

Check that. Saint Scully *was* wasted on tequila. He was getting a bad feeling about this.

"Maybe you're not human. What do you think, Krycek?" His jacket and boots were on the dresser. When she spun back unsteadily to face him, one of his sharper knives was in her small grip. "Do you bleed red or green?" She advanced slowly, but with feverish intent.

Jesus Christ. Who was this woman? This was not Scully. Maybe she was a replacement. He began to struggle. The Mulder thing must have really pushed her over the edge. And she obviously didn't know she was pregnant, not if she was drinking like that. She'd tied his legs to the bed posts with the phone cord. Bonus points for creative use of a utility. He would have laughed if he wasn't so scared. Mulder had never scared him. But Scully cut up people professionally.

The bed shifted under he weight. He couldn't have felt more vulnerable. Well, there was the last time he'd been held down and threatened with a knife. His stump twitch with sympathy pain. Still, he'd rather be facing a Mulderbeating than PsychoScully.

She took a gulp of tequila large enough to make him wince, then banged the bottle down on the nightstand. Her eyes grew more dazed.

"Red or green. Green to match your eyes. Such a pretty, pretty green." She leaned toward his face and he thought for one bizarre moment she was going to kiss him. Then she grabbed his t-shirt and ripped down the middle with his knife.

This didn't bode well for his image. He was in charge, yet a skinny, drunk, little FBI agent was gleefully preparing to torture him. "Scully, you don't want to do this."

She was running the tip of the knife in random patterns over his bared chest. "Do what? You mean this?" She applied some pressure and a thin line of blood welled up down his sternum. It was a deep cut, but clean thanks to the knife's razor edge. He gritted his teeth against the sting. He could take much worse. Had taken much worse.

Abruptly, Scully leaned back to admire her handiwork. She seemed a little disappointed. Maybe she really had been expecting green. Scully groped the nightstand and chugged down some more tequila. Eyeing him thoughtfully she tipped the bottle and let the liquor splash over his chest. He hissed and jerked against the bonds as the tequila seeped into the wound. She waited for the sting to fade before tipping the bottle again. Then she did something Alex would have never expected. She leaned down and ran her pink tongue up his chest, lapping blood and tequila.

Scully obviously didn't appreciate his whimper of pleasure/pain, because she reared back and slashed. This time it was deeper, across his stomach. The blade zigzagged across his ribcage a few more times and then she seemed to collapse. Which was great, except for the fact that she had collapsed *on* him. The blade was dangerously close to his left eye. Her hand shook for the first time, and he tilted his head back. He really didn't need to lose another body part. He tried to move his head farther back, but the fingers of her other hand gripped his short hair. Her nails dug into his scalp, the flat of the blade pressed against his cheekbone.

"You tell me, you bastard," she hissed. "Why him? Why take Mulder and leave a filthy thing like you? Why? Why do you get to live? Tell me dammit!"

He was getting tired of being compared to some sort of savage animal. He didn't have to take it anymore. So he snapped. "Because he chose to go you crazy bitch!"

She jerked away as if he'd struck her. She stared at him for a moment, at the bleeding welts across his chest and torso. The knife clattered to the floor as she sprinted to the bathroom. Her wretching was loud, even from behind the closed door. If she hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes slicing him, he would have felt sorry for her.

Alex became aware of the suddenly overpowering smell of tequila and dampness under his side. Shit. When had that happened? The bottle was laying by his hip, soaking the sheets beneath him. If he could get a hold of it, and if he could break it, and if he could reach his feet, he could use it to cut through the phone cord. Yeah. Good plan.

Scully finally stumbled out of the bathroom wiping her chin and looking green. She wouldn't even glance his way. She slipped on her pumps, gathered her jacket and wallet. She grabbed all of his confiscated weapons and bundled them in his leather jacket. Then she tucked his gun in her pants and hid the bloody knife somewhere in her jacket. She was just going to leave him there. Shit.

"Scully."

She ignored him, opening the door.

"Scully. You can't just leave me here!"

The door slammed shut. She'd come back, he was sure of it. She was just putting that stuff in her car, then she'd come back and . . . what? Shoot him? Arrest him? Let him go? He snorted, causing the pain in his head to increase. Arrest him, more likely. At least then he'd be able to get away.

She had to come back.

Part Two

Summary: Scully's gone and left poor Alex all alone......for now.

He lost track of time somewhere between counting the stains on the ceiling, and wondering if it was going to collapse on him. Wouldn't that be the perfect ending to a perfect evening? Spender's confidante had probably gotten away, and if he ever managed to free himself, he'd have to face Marita's cold "I told you so" look. Somehow, he doubted Spender had ever gotten himself into a situation like this.

The bed creaked as he shifted, impossibly trying to find a more comfortable position. Unfortunately, there wasn't anywhere to go. Scully hadn't left any slack when she tied and shackled him. He couldn't believe she'd left him there. Mulder was the one who beat him up and left him for dead. Scully was the one who fixed things, who was rational, who always did the right thing. Apparently that all went out the window when tequila was involved.

He wondered if she knew about her pregnancy. Probably not, otherwise she wouldn't be drinking. Dr. Scully would know all about the side effects that alcohol had on a fetus. Well, it was only a guess on his part that she was carrying.

Despite being immersed in it for only god knows how long, the smell of tequila still filled his nostrils. It was starting to make him feel sick. That, and the need to go to the bathroom were turning this experience from unpleasant and embarrassing, to fucking unpleasant and embarrassing.

He wanted out. Now. Alex Krycek was not a man who liked to be trapped. It made him think of dirty Russian peasants and cold, dark missile silos. She'd taken his arm, for chrissakes. Had the woman no compassion?

If he ever got it back he was going to hunt her down and beat her with it. Maybe handcuff her to Skinner's balcony. Naked. That'd teach her, although old Walt might enjoy the view. Krycek sighed, a sound that bordered on a frustrated whimper. Now he was whining. How had Scully reduced him to this?

Headlights suddenly brightened the room, and he heard a car idling for a moment before the lights went out. A key in the lock. It wasn't housekeeping, so it had to be Scully. The door inched open, and a pair of long legs appeared, attached to the last person he wanted to see right now.

Marita focused her icy laser eyes on him, and her eyebrows went up a notch as she surveyed the bed.

He wanted her to cut him loose this instant. He had to piss like a racehorse, and he couldn't feel his feet or his hand. But more that pain, he hated begging. And he would never beg Marita, not even if he trusted her completely.

Still, she remained standing in the doorway, eyeing the phone cord, the stump of his shoulder, the cuts across his chest, wrinkling her nose slightly at the smell.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer."

"Don't tempt me," she replied, slamming the door closed. So she was angry. What did she have to be angry about? He was the one trussed up like a sacrificial lamb.

"So Alex, how are you doing this evening?" she asked, smiling tightly.

"Cut the crap Marita. And while you're at it, cut me loose. I have to piss."

She 'tsked' a few times, and came to stand beside the bed. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have keys for the handcuffs."

"I know you can pick the lock." That was one of the first things he'd taught her. "And don't tell me you haven't got a knife in the car. You're mean, but you're not stupid." Sure asshole, antagonize her some more. He wouldn't put it past her to just leave him here to lie in his own filth.

"You're right," she said, suddenly hiking up her skirt. A leather sheath was wrapped around her thigh, and she pulled out a small dagger. At any other time, the sight might have excited him, but he'd had enough of women and knives for one evening. She sat hard on the bed, jolting him and his bladder, and angrily sawed through the phone cord.

"Let me tell you a little story, Alex. I was sitting at home, relaxing with a book and a good Merlot, when the phone rings. I'm expecting you, since you're the only person left who has that number. But who do I find on the other end? Dana Scully. Special Agent Dana Scully. She doesn't tell me her name, of course, but I'd know that voice anywhere. All she says is 'He's at the Westside Motel. Room 13.' Naturally, what I want to know is where she got my number."

She looked at him pointedly, but he shook his head in denial and slowly bent his legs. "How did you know it was me?"

She set the knife on the nightstand and pulled a small lockpick set out of god-knows-where. "Why else would she call me? Who else cares about you?" The harsh words were tempered by her soft voice. Still, the truth hurt. There really wasn't anyone left who gave a rat's ass besides Marita. Sure, anyone still involved in the Project looked to him for leadership, but beyond that no one cared whether he lived or died, as long as there was someone left to pick up the reins.

She leaned over him as she worked to unlock the cuffs. His face ended up pressed between her breasts, but he was grateful as the smell of her perfume washed over him. If he never smelled tequila again it would be too soon.

"Don't get too comfortable down there," she drawled. And why not? It wasn't like he'd never been there before.

"But I'm thirsty." It was true. He'd kill for a cold beer. Maybe an ice tea.

Marita moved away slightly so she could look into his face. Uh-oh. She had her lips pursed disapprovingly.

"I hardly think you're in any position to be making jokes." Just then he heard a click and the cuffs fell away from his wrist.

"Whatever you say, Marita. But first things first." He sat up and stumbled to the bathroom on shaky legs. It was only through sheer force of will that he was able to get his fly undone with nerveless fingers and aim somewhere near the toilet. He couldn't help the sigh that fell from his lips as he let his head fall back and emptied his bladder. Just as he was finishing, he opened his eyes and caught Marita's reflection in the mirror. She was leaning in the doorway, watching him with calculating eyes.

"Jesus, Marita!" He turned slightly to shield his body from her eyes. Shit. He'd left the door wide open.

"Don't get shy on me now. Remember, I've seen it all before."

"That was a long time ago."

"Yes. It was."

He glanced at her sharply. The faraway look on her face, the tone of her voice. She sounded wistful. Don't tell him after all this time . . . Then the look was gone, and she seemed like herself again. All business. Except for the lingering softness in her eyes.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up. You're not going anywhere near my car upholstery looking like that."

While he washed his hands she found a clean face cloth and wetted it under the warm water. She gently pulled off the tattered remnants of his t-shirt and began wiping away the dried blood and tequila residue. He leaned against the counter, trying to relax. It had been so long since someone had laid gentle hands on him. In fact, Marita may have been the last.

Now there was a depressing thought.

She rinsed the bloodied cloth and swept her eyes over him critically. "Take off your pants."

"What?"

"They're soaked in tequila. Take them off. You smell like a still."

"Did it ever occur to you that I could just take a shower?"

"Fine. Go ahead."

He pulled back the grubby shower curtain and withdrew immediately. God. Was that a cockroach? Because if it wasn't, he didn't want to know.

When he met her eyes, she just arched her brow and stared at him. Refusing to be the first one to look away, he reached for the button of his jeans and slowly kicked them off. Her eyes didn't flick down once, not even for a second. He didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.

She handed him the cloth. "Here. You finish. I'm going to get a blanket from the car. And the underwear go too."

He glared at her retreating back. Marita could be an icy bitch, but he knew her well enough to know that she was enjoying this. She had a hundred ways to say 'I told you so' and none of them involved the actual words.

He swung his arm a few times, trying to loosen his stiff shoulder, then tossed the cloth in the sink. If he couldn't mess up her car, the least he could do was dirty up the blanket. She quickly returned with the plaid flannel.

"Done washing?"

She looked unconvinced at his nod, but held out the blanket anyway. Without another word he wrapped it around his shoulders and removed his underwear, tossing them in the trash. He peered suspiciously out the door of the motel room. If anyone saw them--saw him--he'd be a laughingstock. If anyone wanted to kill him, now was their chance. Somehow, he doubted that flannel was bulletproof. Not even the plaid kind.

"I wasn't followed," she said, reading his expression.

With one last lingering look he followed her to the car.

"So how did she do it? SWAT team? Tranquilizer darts?"

If only. There was no way he was telling Marita that Scully knocked him out single-handedly. He was naked. Wasn't he emasculated enough?

"And Spender's friend?"

"He was there."

"Did he see you?"

"Yeah, he saw me."

"So now he knows we're looking for him.

And the old bastard would probably go underground. Or not. "After what happened, I doubt I've put the fear of God in him."

"Still--"

"Let it go, Marita." He didn't need this right now. Once he had clothes, and his arm, and a concealed weapon she could give him all the shit she wanted. Just not now.

"I was all prepared to let it go," she said, ignoring his dark look. "You were the one who insisted that this man had to be silenced, that he was a threat."

He remembered a time when he could silence Marita with a look--a time when she actually listened to him. The good old days. When Mulder was around to torment and Scully was her predictable self. Things had really gone to shit.

"Do you think," he said, seemingly out of the blue, "that if I gave Earth to the colonists they'd build me a time machine?"

The car stopped at a red light and she turned her head slowly. It was obvious that she was trying to determine if he'd really flipped his lid. She even ignored the honks behind them as the light turned green. He grinned wryly, and she finally turned her attention back to the road, speeding through the intersections just as the light changed back to red.

Well, at least she'd stopped asking him questions he didn't want to answer.

Part Three

Summary: Krycek confronts Scully, but the results aren't quite what he expected.

The key in the lock alerted him to her presence. He sat up and glanced at his watch, blinking bleary eyes. Scully had left work at five on the dot, but obviously hadn't come home right away. In the meantime, he'd been sitting in her annoyingly neat apartment for three hours. So much for spontaneity.

He was sitting in a dark corner, hoping to jump out and scare the bejesus out of her at the appropriate time. But instead of walking in and turning the lights on and doing Scully-like things, she stood in the doorway for a moment, slight figure outlined by the light from the hallway. After a few moments she shut the door behind her, but didn't come any farther into her apartment.

"I know you're there," she said into the shadows. "So why don't you just kill me now and get it over with."

Holy Christ. She must have eyes like a hawk. And her voice . . . He wondered if she'd been drinking again. But no, there was no slurring, no giggling. She just sounded . . . empty. Dead.

Taking a deep breath he stepped out of his hiding spot, gun at the ready. "And where's the challenge in that?"

Puffy red eyes snapped up to meet his, and she gasped, "Krycek!" Then she pulled out her gun and aimed straight at his forehead.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. First she wanted him to kill her, now she was threatening him. Couldn't this woman make up her mind? It occured to him that she was a little too surprised to see him. So who did she think she'd been talking to?

"You know, you should be a little more careful about asking strangers to kill you. Next time, someone might take you up on that offer."

"What do you want?"

"You have some things that belong to me."

At his words, and the deadly tone of his voice, her face blanched. Her grip shook a little as he advanced on her.

"My jacket. My weapons. My keys. My goddamn arm!"

She backed up, eyes widening as her shoulders hit the door. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was trapped, and she knew it.

His hand snaked out and grabbed the gun from her hand without protest. He placed his gun against her temple and ground out. "My arm. Where. Is. It."

She choked back a sob and stuttered. "In the--the l-laundry room. B-behind the washer."

He stepped back and watched her slide bonelessly to the floor. His leather jacket was sitting behind a washer? Succumbing to humidity and dustbunnies? He stomped to the laundry room and peered behind the appliance. Sure enough, a large bundle was wedged in there. Grunting and cursing, he managed to pull the washer out far enough to reach his belongings. And with only one arm it was no easy feat. He set his jacket on the washer and opened it. Inside was his gun, knives, his spare gun, and his arm. His wallet and keys were in the jacket pocket. Satisfied that everything had been recovered, he slipped into the old familiar leather and stored all the weapons away. He wished he could put the arm on right now, but it would take too long.

He strolled back into the living room, intent on making her pay for his humiliation, speech prepared. It would be psychological torture, of course. No way was he going to physically harm a maybe-pregnant woman. He stopped when he saw her still by the door, knees pulled up to her chest, hands fisted in her hair. And she was shaking. Everyonce in awhile a ragged sob escaped her lips, otherwise she was completely silent. He was caught between annoyance and pity. As his boots came to a halt by her feet, she looked up at him with teary blue eyes.

"Are you going to kill me now?" she whispered.

The recrimination on her face was almost too much for him. He didn't need to torture her. She was doing a fine job all on her own. And the way she was looking at him, like a little kid who'd lost her dog. Or her Fox.

Any and all traces of anger quickly drained from him as he sighed and gestured for her to get up. She obeyed slowly, watching him with a confused and wary expression.

"I'm not going to kill you, Scully. I just wanted my arm back," he said, holding up the prosthetic limb.

She looked between the arm and his face, and then her gaze slid down to the floor. He tucked the limb under his armpit and watched the top of her head.

Her voice was a dry whisper. "I'm sorry. For what I did to you."

You better be. He shook himself of the thought and reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder. She tensed, but didn't move.

"At least you sent Marita to get me."

She glanced up quickly, surprise written on her features.

"Yeah, she recognized your voice. She seemed quite impressed that you were able to find her number."

Scully sniffled. "It was the Lone Gunmen."

The Lone Gunmen. Hmm. He hadn't really given them any serious thought in, well, never. They seemed resourceful enough, but somewhat . . . bumbling. Maybe he'd pay them a call one of these days. His own team still couldn't decrypt Spender's files. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear her soft mumble.

"What?"

"Were--were you telling the truth? About Mulder?"

He was lost for a second. He said a lot of things about Mulder a lot of the time. Then it hit him.

**"Why take Mulder and leave a filthy thing like you?"

"Because he chose to go you crazy bitch!"**

That was him. Mr. Tact. But if he recalled correctly, he had a knife at his eyeball at the time, so you could hardly blame him.

"Scully. I don't think he chose to go--to leave you. You know Mulder. He needs that Truth he's always looking for." That was true, at least. If Mulder knew what was waiting for him up there, he probably would have run the other way. But she didn't need to hear that, not right now.

She laughed shortly, fresh tears streaming down her face. Scully Waterworks Inc. She probably deserved to let go after everything she'd been through.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she whispered. "I've been so sick . . ."

Well, that answered that. She was pregnant and didn't know it. Her chin fell to her chest as the sobs reemerged in earnest. Awkwardly, he slid his arm around her shoulders. Without another hesitation, she buried her nose in his shoulder, clutching the lapels of his jacket.

He only intended to give her a little comfort, not to let her snot up his favorite coat. But she clung to him like he was a life preserver, and he found himself cradling the back of her head and whispering soothing nonsense. Marita's parting words from last night echoed in his mind.

**"You know, now that Mulder's gone, Scully's the last link we have."

"Mulder will be back."

"It'll be months before that happens. And you know as well as I that it probably won't really be him. We need her, Alex."**

We need her. He wasn't as sure of that as Marita was. In the past two days he'd seen two sides of Dana Scully that he hoped never to see again. Drunk and crazy, and sobbing mess on the verge of a breakdown. The Old Dana Scully, that was someone they could have used, nevermind the fact that she would never agree to help them. But whatever he was holding in his arms--no, he didn't need that.

She obviously needed someone, and that someone was Fox Mulder.

"Is there anyway to find him?" she whispered against his chest.

"No," he replied softly.

"Will he come back?"

After a brief pause, he said, "Eventually. But Scully . . . you've got to be prepared for the possibility that Mulder, well, Mulder might not be Mulder."

"What do you mean?"

Well, this was it. This was the moment where he either walked out of the apartment and let her wallow in her misery, or he told her everything. Both options seemed equally impossible, so he settled for a compromise. She couldn't stay here. If she walked into her own apartment expecting someone to be waiting to kill her, it wasn't safe. She could take him to the Lone Gunmen to decrypt the files. Whatever information they got that pertained to her directly, she could have.

"Do you really want to know?"

He was glad to see the question sink it, glad to see that she paused to think about it. A spark of that cutting intelligence flared briefly in her eyes before she nodded.

"You're going to have to come with me." Scully tensed and let go of him, face wary. Before she could object, he added, "It isn't safe here. I can give you your answers. Some of them, anyway."

He counted ten heartbeats before her shoulders slumped forward and she slowly nodded again. "Just give me a second," she said, edging around him to go to her bedroom. The door shut behind her, so he sat down on the couch to wait.

**We need her, Alex.**

He sure hoped Marita was right.