Feverish

I navigate the familiar streets of Georgetown. Its cool and quiet on this dark November night. The only sounds I hear are barking dogs and the occasional passing car. I listen carefully, because I always do, and if I hear anything or the headlights of one single car comes within 50 feet of me I'll disappear so fast and so silent it'll be like I was never here.

My boots, my jeans and the soft leather of my jacket are black, and I feel like I'm invisible here; like I barely exist. Just a shadow moving down the darkened streets of this sleepy residential section of the city. Don't look at me; don't notice me; there's nothing here.

Its peaceful here tonight. And suddenly I feel like a fraud -- I don't belong anywhere peaceful. It feels safe and I'm definitely not safe. I'm a killer and a traitor, and if you come for me you better get it right the first time because there will be no second chances.

But if I'm honest with myself, and I usually am, I'd have to say that, at the moment, my situation is not good. That's an understatement of world-class proportions. I'm nearly out of money. Most of the people I know and probably quite a few that I don't would gladly put a bullet in my brain, and the prospects of changing either of those situations seems bleak.

I survey the buildings surrounding me. I'm here.

Its risky, but I don't feel I have a lot too lose at this point in my life. I made my choices. Amazingly stupid choices; unbelievably naive choices, but mine all the same. And now I'll suffer the consequences. Of course I had no fucking idea that it would turn out like this.

I let myself in through the back entrance and silently glide down the hallway to a door I recognize, pausing for a moment to listen for any sound coming from inside. Nothing. She could be asleep, although its early yet for that, but I hope she's not home. I've played out this scenario in my mind many times, sometimes she's in her bed, sometimes in the shower, but I like it best when she's not home. I like it best when she comes home and I'm there, ready for her.

I slip a small black vinyl case containing my tools from my coat pocket and set to work on the lock. Its pitifully easy. You'd think that someone who's seen the things she's seen and been through the things she's been through would pay a little more attention to home security. Although maybe those experiences have taught her that if they want to get in they'll get in, which I guess is the truth after all.

I slip inside and do a quick reconnaissance. The living room is as I remember it; there's a big armoire that casts a nice shadow to hide behind near the door. I move like a ghost through her kitchen, her bathroom and her bedroom. Everything is so clean and neat -- like her. No dirty dishes in the sink, no stack of bills on the coffee table like in most homes. Its hard for me to believe that a real person actually lives here. Its almost too perfect.

In fact its completely perfect...She's not home. I smile.

I settle into my familiar hiding place. She doesn't make me wait long. In fact I barely have time to get comfortable before I hear the quiet click of a key inserted into the lock.

The door swings open and there she is, her delicate profile highlighted by the bright hall lights. She takes a few steps into the room, kicks off her impractical heels, casually tosses her briefcase and overcoat onto a chair, reaches for the light on the low table next to the sofa...

I've almost waited too long, watching her, but I'm across the room in an instant. My right hand snakes around her waist while my left covers her mouth to stifle any sound she might make.

She jams her left elbow into my gut. Bitch, I think, as the breath is forced out of my lungs. It hurts but not enough to make me let go. She stomps on my foot with her heel, but her bare foot makes no impression on my steel-toed boot. I tighten my grip and lift her almost off the ground to discourage any further resistance. She probably can't breathe very well like this, but I really don't give a shit.

"Don't fight me," I whisper into her right ear, not really expecting her to comply.

A gasp of recognition and she redoubles her effort to get free. All in vain.

She smells clean and crisp like the cool autumn air outside, and suddenly I can't wait any longer; my nose and mouth are buried deep in her shoulder length red hair breathing in her scent.

My mouth makes its way to the pulse of her warm neck and I'm kissing and tasting that soft skin, gradually working my way down her neck towards her pale smooth shoulder. The delicate chain of a necklace distracts me from my journey. I use my tongue to trace its path, scratching her sensitive skin with my unshaven face. Without warning I take the necklace between my teeth and jerk it free of her neck, letting the chain and its tiny charm drop to the floor.

A small sound escapes her mouth, and is muffled in the confines of my hand. It sounds like she's moaning, probably in terror rather than pleasure, but my body reacts regardless. I'm shockingly hard.

I crush her to me, impossibly close. My thighs, hips and chest all press against her. I thrust my erection against the small of her back and her hips begin to press and rub, unbelievably and deliberately, against me.

"Oh fuck yes," I moan, my voice deep with desire and surprise, aware of nothing now but her body writhing against mine. Of all the countless scenarios I've imagined, nothing has been quite as good as this -- the reality of a very willing, very hot Dana Scully.

<Alex, you are one lucky son of a bitch,> I can't help but think to myself at exactly the same moment as I hear the door crash open behind me.

"Get away from her you rat bastard," Mulder screams, his voice hoarse with disgust.

I whirl around, dragging Dana with me, to find the door flung open and Mulder silhouetted in the doorway by the harsh hallway lights. His gun is pointed at my face and I notice that his finger is trembling on the trigger.

"No," Dana cries out before I even realize that Mulder has already fired, and that my left hand has dropped away from Dana's mouth and a fiery agony has lodged itself in my upper arm burning hotter and deeper into my body with every breath...

...Alex Krycek collapsed, as if in slow motion, towards the distant floor of Dana Scully's apartment...

...And landed in the cold Tunguska forest.

"He's awake," a man shouted in Russian.

A second man, just a boy really, but with the confidence of a man, strode over to where the newcomer lay near the fire.

"The fever's broken," the boy declared after briefly touching his palm to Krycek's forehead. "He'll be fine."

Krycek blinked his eyes to clear the lingering images of his dream and woke up to his worst nightmare.