Season Six:
Episode 18

Mulder's Apartment
December 24
6:52 pm.

Twas the night before Christmas. All was quiet, except for the radio softly playing Christmas carols. Just the way Fox Mulder liked it. Well, he actually preferred complete radio silence but he'd allowed himself this one small concession to the season, settling for "mostly quiet." He needed quiet time. To think. To make some sense out of his life. 1998 had been a rough year. Now it was almost over. What had been achieved? If anything?

Scully had, of course, invited him to her mother's. Out of habit, Mulder thought. Her mind had been about a trillion miles away when her mouth delivered the invitation. That had been his read anyway. Her whole immediate family, with the expected exception of her brother Charles, would be there rallying around Scully. Seeing her through her own version of "The Year in Review". His partner would be swathed in love and affection and protectiveness and who knows what other warm and fuzzy emotions for the next week. Mulder suspected that Scully needed it, probably more than she ever had given what the last few weeks had brought.

Spender was dead. He'd died yesterday at 11:44 pm, never recovering from the neurotoxin delivered to his system. Not unexpected. There was no known cure. No way to stop, or even to slow, the deterioration. He and Scully had proved that he had been exposed to a STAT derivative, probably of a topical nature, but that's all. A hollow victory. Knowing how he died was something but not much. Before it had happened, Mulder would've anticipated that anything involving Spender, particularly something negative, would have no impact on him. He was wrong. Although he was unlikely to ever admit it aloud, Mulder felt that Spender deserved better.

Diana had withdrawn completely into herself. In denial. In shock. The absolute nature of her reaction had surprised Mulder somewhat. He hadn't appreciated, and apparently still didn't appreciate, the nature of her relationship with Spender and what it meant to her. This was troubling in light of the large amount of time that he and Diana had spent together in the last few weeks, while the younger man had engaged in his isolated battle against the poison in his system. Quality time, Mulder thought. Intensely exploring the boundaries of their own relationship. When the bad news came, she'd cried on his shoulder. After the tears had stopped, she'd kissed him passionately ... and left. He'd not seen her since. She wasn't answering her phone. She hadn't answered the door either when Mulder had gone over to her place. He was concerned. But she'd shut him out. Completely.

Skinner was distracted. That was the best word that Mulder could think of to describe his boss. But why? Mulder didn't think it was Marita Covarrubias but that was the rumor at the Bureau. How the rumor began was a mystery to Mulder. Who knew about Marita? Mulder. Scully. Spender. Fowley. Skinner. That was about it. And maybe Skinner's administrative assistant. Anyone else? No one came to mind. Besides Krycek, who had no business and seemingly no inclination, to talk to anyone else at the Bureau. Mulder thought that Skinner's mindset was caused by something else. Pressure. Concerning what? From whom? Just two more questions that Mulder couldn't answer. But he thought that he'd seen this before. When sources unknown to Mulder visited their brand of intrigue upon Skinner. Recognizing it was one thing. Figuring out what to do about it was another.

Krycek had gone missing. Again. Scully had spoken with him by cellular phone seventeen days ago. Then ... nothing. Ominous silence, despite what Mulder suspected were numerous attempts at contact. Maybe he'd finally run out of luck. Oddly enough, Mulder found himself hoping not. Must be the holidays. Or Scully's obvious concern for the wastrel. Or Mulder's all-encompassing belief that the answers to many of his questions could be found in Alex Krycek's head. If only Mulder could find a way to get at that information. Without endangering Scully.

Scully was a woman possessed. She'd pursued the STAT lead like a pit bull. Then she'd thrown herself into their analysis of the uplink-directed re-opened Xfiles. She'd also been insistent that they travel to Northern California to investigate the domestic violence murder of a software developer employed by a top defense contractor. His wife had killed him, claiming that Tim Allen of Home Improvement had told her to do so. The local authorities hadn't been able to keep the story out of the tabloids. The actor couldn't be pleased. She also was keeping after the Lone Gunmen with regard to information on Project End Game. When Skinner had shared Marita Covarrubias' file with them, she absorbed the contents like a sponge and did the analysis herself. During all of this voracious activity, Scully struggled to hide her concern. Her rising level of fear ... for him. Alex Krycek. Mulder saw it immediately. Despite his preoccupation, Skinner had as well. Neither man was comfortable enough to discuss it with her. So they waited. And wondered.

Mulder was ... what exactly? He sighed and turned off the radio. He felt like Scrooge in some ways. Hopefully his evening would not be interrupted by visitations from apparitions representing the past, present and future. Fox Mulder wasn't in the mood.

Walter Skinner had been avoiding going home. He was driving aimlessly around his neighborhood. He wasn't ready to confront an empty apartment on Christmas Eve. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that things were different. That he and his ex-wife hadn't drifted apart. That his job and temperament hadn't led to a seemingly unbridgeable gulf between he and his family. That rumors hadn't spread like wild fire throughout the Bureau about him and his former house guest. After his audience with the Director, he'd known that he had to do something. So he'd ensconced her in a hotel in Crystal City. With two men assigned to watch and protect her. He thought she'd be less tempted to get into trouble if she wasn't downtown. He was wrong.

She'd seduced everyone he'd assigned to her. To the point of immobilizing them and making her escape. Never further. Embarrassing them more than anything. Because it was easy to reacquire her. She always went to Skinner's. Fueling the rumors very very effectively and much to Skinner's chagrin. His sense of duty dictated that he do "the right thing." Which he had. On four separate occasions, he'd called in and reported her location. To her dismay and disappointment, which she voiced loudly and longly as they waited for reinforcements to arrive. To take her back. To what he considered her accommodations. To what she viewed as her prison cell.

So Skinner had assigned female agents. Ones that a review of their personnel file suggested a trait that Skinner's ex-wife had referred to as "flaming heterosexuality." The women he'd chosen appeared to like men ... a bit too much. The escaping had ceased. Skinner had to admit to some disappointment about that state of affairs. Without realizing it, he'd gotten accustomed to spending the occasional evening with her. If he was honest with himself, Skinner knew that he wasn't sure what to do about ... or with Marita. The Assistant Director had to chuckle at how his thoughts were reminiscent of a song from The Sound of Music. The problem in that story's name was Maria. Close enough for government work. Marita was more and more in his thoughts, perhaps because contemplating her was infinitely more pleasant than trying to puzzle his way out of the complicated situation in which he found himself.

The powers that be within the Bureau did not value or support the Xfiles. Skinner had to be eloquent in his defense of his agents and their investigations. Sometimes he wasn't up to it and he lost ground. It never ceased to amaze him, how quickly backsliding happened. Much faster than the reverse. David and Russell claimed to value and support the Xfiles but so far they were all talk. As far as Skinner knew. Maybe they'd helped. If so, they did it quietly. No more noisily than snow falling. Was it even possible to provide assistance unnoticeably? Silently? Just more questions. His own personal Xfiles. There were both advocates and detractors of Mulder's version on the Hill. And the detractors were winning.

In this mood, he simply couldn't avoid contemplating the smoker. He was military. Affiliated with the armed services in some manner. Of that, Skinner was fairly certain. And he'd been more ubiquitous lately, confidently roaming the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He'd even had the gall to smile at Skinner last week as he passed him in the hall. "Happy Holidays Mr. Skinner," he'd said, as he blew smoke in the Assistant Director's face. Skinner had merely nodded and moved past him, a set of actions that had taken all of his near legendary self-restraint to accomplish. It had taken a lot out of him. More than he'd believed possible at the time. Perhaps too much.

Contemplating his life from a heated car in the driving rain depressed him. The holidays were bad enough. He usually just dwelled on the failure of his marriage or wallowed in thoughts of the estrangement of his family. This year he had many more failures, slights and stresses to think about, primarily, but not all, work-related. That realization forced Skinner's hand. He made the decision that tonight he'd forget his problems by removing his ability to think. He had enough alcohol in the liquor cabinet to allow that to happen. The morning after headache would be worth it. With his course of action resolved, Skinner parked the car in the underground garage. His sigh as he moved toward the elevator indicated the release of tension. Unfortunately, what he had dispelled was merely the tip of the tension iceberg.

Out of the elevator and on the correct floor, a situation he usually didn't view as an achievement, he sighed again. Oblivion was only a few steps and a few drinks away. He was on automatic pilot as he unlocked the door and entered his home. Consequently, it took him a moment to register that the lights had been illuminated. He frowned. He was sure he'd turned them off that morning. His routine was invariant. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he drew his weapon. Footsteps were approaching from the direction of the bedroom or the bathroom. Skinner dropped to one knee and braced his right hand with his left, aiming in the direction of the sound.

Marita Covarrubias entered the room, smiling broadly. "Merry Christmas, Walter." She grinned, as his jaw dropped in surprise. Or something else. Perhaps the cobalt blue silk dress was more of an inspiration than she'd thought. "I hope you don't mind. I didn't want to spend tonight with those tedious women. I've been good for almost a week now. Just like you asked." Only when Marita stopped within a few feet of him and uttered a puzzled, "Walter?" did Skinner realize he was still in firing position.

Smiling to cover his confusion, he stood slowly and moved to place his weapon in the drawer in which he kept it on the weekends, taking care to lock it. He didn't speak, because he wasn't sure what to say. This was something he hadn't planned on. That he was pleased by the turn of events unnerved him. He hated surprises. He always had. But this ... this was different. Somehow. "Ms. Covarrubias, I ..."

The woman he was addressing stopped him by putting a perfectly manicured finger to his lips. "My name is Marita, Walter. I thought we'd agreed that you'd use it."

Skinner nodded once. Marita removed her finger and waited for him to continue, smiling. Her smile was infectious but distracting. For the life of him, Skinner couldn't remember what he'd been about to say. So he moved on to another topic. "What am I supposed to do with you?" he asked. "I'm getting tired of reporting that you've turned up here. People are starting to talk."

"You know that I'd be more than happy to give them something to talk about, but I'll settle for some company. Maybe a conversation about something other than what happens to be on television tonight? My needs are few. My wants, on the other hand, are ..." Marita let her sentence trail off meaningfully, while she reached out and unbuttoned the only fastened button on Skinner's suit jacket. His sharply intaken breath emboldened her to step closer and slip the jacket off of his shoulders.

Skinner let her take his jacket, but beat a hasty retreat toward the liquor cabinet immediately thereafter. She watched him for a moment, shrugged and moved to hang up his suit coat. Marita was in no hurry. She had plenty of time. And, for once, Skinner had not made a direct beeline to the telephone to report her location. Vastly improved circumstances from her point of view.

Dana Scully was hiding behind a fake smile and a claim of a stomach bug. Her mother was worried. Dana could tell. But she was determined to keep her own counsel. Besides, her mom's attention was continuously attracted to her grandchild. Her brother and his wife were parents of the doting variety. That suited Scully. She wanted people around. It comforted her. But she didn't want conversation. That could lead to ... complications, situations she just as soon avoid.

Then the door bell rang. Scully winced. "The cavalcade of neighbors continues," she thought. Many would stop by to spread Christmas cheer on the night before. Dana was certain that she wasn't up to this, but armed with her fake smile and some single malt scotch she thought she could get through it. She was dimly aware of her mother answering the door, inviting the neighbors inside and offering to fatten them up with cookies. Maybe she should've followed Mulder's lead and stayed at home. Her reverie was shattered by a young, somewhat shy voice.

"Merry Christmas, Agent Scully. Remember me?"

"Gibson?" Dana asked as she jumped off of the couch. Forgetting that she'd been moving slowly to sell her stomach upset to her concerned family members. Her smile when she spotted the boy overcame his reticence. He moved closer and allowed her to hug him fiercely. "How?" she whispered in his ear, before holding him at arms length to examine him closely. The only obvious injury was his casted left arm.

"Alex brought me. He keeps calling me your Christmas present. Did you really want to see me for Christmas?" Gibson Praise laughed at the jumbled thoughts that ran through Agent Scully's head at the mention of Krycek. Adults were weird. Gibson sometimes wondered if it was wise that they could vote.

Dana raised her head slowly, her eyes darting everywhere. Krycek had hung back near the family room doorway. Watching the reunion with what appeared to be nothing more than polite interest. As though he was uninvolved, completely separate and apart. Typical in other words. Scully hugged Gibson once more, nodding an affirmative answer to his question. Over the boy's head, she observed her mother offering Alex some eggnog. He seemed to be trying to decline, but her mother was having none of it. After a few moments of debate, Alex laughed and accepted the beverage. He appeared about to glance her way when her overly protective older brother stepped between them. Dana couldn't hear Bill's question, but her sibling seemed satisfied with Krycek's negative response.

"Can I play with the train?"

Scully jumped slightly when the boy spoke. "Sure Gibson. Just don't run it as fast as it can go. It has a tendency to jump the track and lay waste to the village." Scully had given her instructions while rising to her feet, not really even thinking about the devastating train wreck earlier in the evening -- the one that required about forty five minutes of village reconstruction.

Gibson nodded solemnly. It'd be a bummer to get hit by a train on Christmas Eve. Even if you were only a small ceramic figurine. In order to preserve his train-playing time, Gibson felt it prudent to issue a warning. "Be careful, Alex. She's mad at you."

Both Krycek and Scully looked Gibson's way but he was moving toward the train with a purpose, adults forgotten. Scully's mother and brother glanced at each other uncertainly. Bill's wife picked up the baby and suggested, "Why don't we go and check on the last batch of cookies? It'd be a shame to have our streak of flawless baking broken at the eleventh hour." Bill looked for a moment like he was going to protest. A significant "Do as I say" look from his wife encouraged compliance.

Margaret Scully hesitated only slightly longer. Dana had been through so much recently. Still, her father had instilled a streak of what he called fierce independence in her. You could less charitably view the trait as stubbornness. Whatever you called it, Dana appeared intent on dealing with this young man in her own way. She had that look on her face. The one that signaled that she was serious. And angry. Maggie noted that ... Alex held his ground. He didn't look cowed in the least. And, unless Maggie was mistaken, seemed unlikely to accept his scolding meekly. This could prove to be an interesting encounter as well as a significant departure for Dana. Usually her daughter brought home an authority figure, a surrogate for her father, or an adoring docile creature that would immediately reply "How high?" to her "Jump."

Even as she moved toward the kitchen, Maggie recognized what she was feeling. She was hurt. Dana hadn't mentioned a boy friend. While the clean cut young man's status hadn't been firmly established, the tension between the two was palpable. The chemistry. Mothers could sense these things. It was strange that she hadn't intuited that her daughter had commenced a new relationship even if Dana hadn't mentioned him. There should've been something in her daughter's bearing, demeanor or attitude that tipped her off. Always had been in the past. Also, Dana generally talked about such things with her. Particularly over the last few since Missy had died. Although the topics for discussion had been few and far between. Why hadn't she this time? What was going on? Who is this Alex anyway? Where did they meet? What were their future plans? How did Gibson factor in them? Contemplating these and many other questions of significance, Margaret Scully retreated to the kitchen.

"Where. Have. You. Been?" Scully's asked, carefully enunciating each word to avoid any actual or claimed confusion on his part as to her question. The "Where" was intoned immediately following the shutting of the kitchen door behind her family.

Alex hesitated briefly before responding, "I can explain ..."

"Good. I anticipate that you'll also be able to explain why you suggested the moderately informative, but ultimately unsatisfying investigation into STAT derivatives. I imagine you also might be able to shed light on what Marita is up to vis a vis Skinner and the significance of the death of Henry Billingsley. You see, I'm expecting quite a lot from you, Alex. I hope you're up to it. I really do. For your sake." Scully had closed the distance separating them as she spoke, and punctuated her last statement by poking his breast bone with her index finger.

Krycek had expected anger. He'd expected hurt. He hadn't anticipated vehemence. Controlled rage. That miscalculation could cost him. Of that, he was well aware. How best to proceed? Stay in the vicinity of the truth. That's the ticket. And calm her down. "Dana I ...," he began, reaching for her.

She stepped back. "Talk Krycek. My patience is wearing thin."

So was his. He also knew that responding in kind was not likely to better the situation. But he just couldn't resist volleying spite for spite. "I'll talk, Scully. If that's the form of address you'd prefer. But I'd rather spare your family a shouting match if that's at all possible."

"Spare my family? You have a lot of nerve taking that tack ... and that tone with me. After what you've done to my family." Scully hadn't realized the power of the emotions that were simmering right below the surface before they overflowed, imbuing her tone with venom. "After what you've done to me." The startled look on his face should've pleased her. It didn't. Her anxiety just increased. She was on the verge of tears, angry ones, but was exerting all of the self-discipline at her command not to break down in front of him. She vowed silently that she'd die before giving him the satisfaction. And she was determined enough to make good on that promise.

"Look. I don't want to cause any trouble. We came here tonight, because ... Gibson wanted to see you." There was no change in her demeanor. She was staring at him with an expression on her face that made him nervous, although he couldn't say why. And that made him even more nervous. "Hell, I wanted to see you." Still no reaction. Even in the face of an admission against interest. "Umm ... I've obviously made a mistake. I'm sorry. We'll go. Hey, Gibson, c'mon. Dana's tired. We need to get going."

Gibson looked up from the train set, his disappointment evident. "Just a few more minutes, Alex. Please."

Before Krycek could speak, Scully interjected, "Sure, Gibson. Alex and I aren't quite finished yet." Krycek had been encouraged by Scully's milder tone until he saw Gibson's eyes grow wide. Shit. Steeling himself for another verbal assault, Krycek was surprised when Scully smiled at him. Sure, it was kind of a predatory smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. Surprise became wariness when she moved closer. Wariness should've become fear, or at least DEFCON 5 alert status, when she put her arms around his waist and leaned against him. If he had any sense. But then, if he had any sense, he wouldn't have tentatively put his arms around her. He definitely wouldn't have relaxed as she snuggled closer, kissing the top of her head. Even someone completely devoid of sense, a group of which Alex Krycek now considered himself a member, would tense up if their own gun was suddenly pressed into their neck in the vicinity of their jugular vein. "Start with the where question, Krycek."

What where question? Oh yeah. "I've been dismantling an operation. A promise I made in exchange for Gibson ... and a few other things."

"Are you planning on alerting his parents? Or do you plan to use him for whatever nefarious purposes you have in mind without doing them the courtesy of letting them know he's alive and ... at least reasonably well?"

Krycek was always amazed at how, when under stress, irrelevant thoughts often leapt to the fore. In this case, Alex found himself admiring Dana's sardonic tone even as he contemplated the bruise that his neck would bear from the gun barrel, the reaction of Scully's family to this scene should they emerge from the kitchen and whether he'd left the iron on. Enough. "His parents are dead, Dana. He's alone."

Scully's anger diminished a bit as she allowed herself to feel concern and sympathy for Gibson. A slight shift in Krycek's position returned her attention to him. He'd moved to alleviate the pressure on his neck. Scully didn't approve. Not in the least. So she adjusted to apply the amount of force that she deemed appropriate. "Does he have you to thank for that?"

"No," was spoken through clenched teeth. Krycek was making an effort to keep his emotions in check, trying to avoid anger and to avert further escalation of hostilities.

"What else have you been up to?"

Diversion was looking like a good strategy. "Sitting tight. Going over information that I'd obtained from various sources but hadn't had time to review. Found some interesting stuff. Maybe we could ...."

"Why didn't you call me? I left about a million messages for you." Dana tried. She really tried. But she couldn't keep the pain out of her tone. So she made up for it by pressing the gun barrel into his neck harder.

It hurt. He could tell that she knew it. This wild angry woman was not who he'd anticipated encountering this evening. But he found her ... fascinating. He knew that Scully had many facets to her personality. Sides that he'd not seen before. Traits that he never would've anticipated. She was so complex. If she'd let up a little, he'd be happy to talk. About whatever she wanted. Wasn't that the goal of this little drama? Confused, Krycek decided to try a different approach. "I'm not going to answer until you stop this. C'mon, Dana, you'll give your mother a heart attack, if she decides that a decent amount of time has passed. If they expect us ... to have resolved our ... misunderstanding."

"And my brother will kill you so I won't have to. Answer the question."

"No."

"Damn you, Krycek!"

"My name's Alex and you'll get what you want the moment you put the gun down." As he spoke, Krycek forced his head down slightly to meet her eyes. He did it without retreating, knowing he was making the bruise worse. It was worth it. She reacted favorably to whatever it was that she saw. He hoped it was righteous indignation, because that's what he'd been striving to project. She took a step back from him and looked down at the gun in her hand.

"The safety was on," she commented numbly. "Stupid." Krycek wisely didn't speak as she stared at the weapon. Without looking at him, she held out the gun. He took it, slipped it back into the waistband of his jeans and waited for her to continue. "Why Alex?"

It took him a moment to realize that she wasn't asking him why she'd left the safety on but was reiterating the question he'd been refusing to answer. Relieved that he hadn't answered sparked another spate of anger by answering the wrong question and encouraged by her more subdued tone, Krycek approached and put his hands on her shoulders. Gently aiming her toward the couch, he asked, "Can we sit do you think? The couch looks comfortable."

"Stalling for time, Alex? Why?" The bitter harsh tone was back with a vengeance.

Krycek downed his remaining eggnog in one swallow to cover his unease. What was it about this woman? "I'm just trying to figure out what's wrong. Why you're so mad at me. That's all. You could save me the trouble and enlighten me, you know."

They'd made it to the couch, but he hadn't quite figured out how to induce her to sit down so that they'd at least look more comfortable. His preoccupation with creating a reasonable tableau for consumption by rest of the Scully family rendered him unprepared for her next sarcasm-laden outburst. "By all means Alex. Let me make it easy for you. Maybe I can draw you a diagram. Or send you a memo. The story of my life."

Understanding came quickly and without warning. Mulder. Exactly like Mulder, as far as she was concerned. He'd left her. Without notice. To her own devices with only a vague hint of where to look for the "Truth" about Spender. Information that really didn't lead anywhere particularly meaningful. Useful information on that topic simply didn't exist. Discovering that couldn't have been very gratifying. He'd effectively shut her out. Like Mulder often did. Why had he done it? There was always the possibility that some new research had been done. Something he hadn't heard of. Right? Krycek sighed, recognizing nascent self-delusion. Who was he kidding? Never yourself, Alex. Never kid yourself. He'd done it to get off of the phone. To avoid a conversation for which he wasn't prepared. No better reason. Expediency had a price. Krycek hoped it wasn't more than he could pay. "I'm not sure what to say, Dana," he began contritely. "I just ... got caught up in my own agenda, I guess."

Special Agent Scully glared at her companion, unsure of the veracity of his words. She was unnerved by how much she wanted to believe him. But wanting to believe wasn't enough anymore. "Is that all I can expect as we go forward?"

Alex sensed how important that question and his answer was to Scully. Glibness wouldn't go over well here. But what would? "It's all I know. I've worked alone, almost exclusively, for years. And when I haven't, I've regretted it." Bitterness was apparent in Krycek's voice, as he spoke his last statement. Thoughts of car bombs, abandoned missile silos and diversions in the form of seduction came unbidden. Pushing them aside, he focused on the woman standing before him. "I don't know how to work ... more closely ... I mean ... with a partner anymore. And I'm not sure I can."

"Are you willing to try?"

The reply was instantaneous and seemingly unedited. "I'm not sure."

Looking in his eyes, Dana was certain that she had received an honest answer. And that he very much wanted his answer to suffice. She was also sure that Alex wasn't aware of the insights into his character that the latter part of their conversation provided. He was so ... alone. Cut off. By necessity. To protect himself. By design. As a result of manipulation by others. He thought solitude was his only choice. At least he had before Gibson. Now there was a chink in the armor. What would happen if he let anyone else close?

"Why did you come here? Tonight of all nights?"

Cigarette Smoking Man looked at the only woman he'd ever sincerely professed to love. He saw the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in her eyes. The smells of pine, a wood fire and her perfume combined to remind him of another time. Another place. The uneasiness in her tone as she asked her questions suggested that she remembered as well. Perhaps a trifle less fondly. "I think you know the answer to both of those questions."

"I'd like to hear them from you. In the order asked. With no further delay." After stating her expectations, she settled back comfortably into the couch, sipped her champagne and observed him closely.

Cigarette Smoking Man laughed. It felt strange. He didn't do it often, and he sometimes forgot how much he enjoyed it. And how much more often he used to engage in the activity. Especially when he'd been with her. Intimately. Before answering her questions, he met her gaze and saw amusement in them. He found that interesting. "I wanted to see you. And as for tonight ... I suppose I have some pleasant memories of Christmas Eves past. Don't you?"

"I suppose. When the kids were young especially." She smiled at him when he reacted to her response, but that smile quickly became a frown.

The reaction wasn't what she expected. He stood abruptly and moved away, obviously tense.

Angry, she decided. Very angry. But why? Her feigned memory lapse about the circumstances under which they'd taken their relationship to the next level, as he'd been fond of saying, didn't warrant such animosity. Her memories of that particular night before Christmas were good ones. There'd been champagne then as well. And carols playing softly in the background. Bill had been "on assignment" -- status quo in those days. She'd been lonely. He'd been attentive. He'd listened. He'd done all the little things that she'd wanted Bill to do. The step over the line had been effortless. She'd often wondered whether he'd seek a reinstatement of their relationship. Was that his current goal? One way to find out. "What's this all about?"

He spun to face her. The unfocused look in his eyes frightened her. He appeared to be in pain. What could hurt him? He was invincible, his mystique impenetrable. Or so he'd have you believe. "I've lost a son."

His tone was one she couldn't ever recall hearing issuing from his mouth. She'd heard it from Bill continuously near the end. He sounded defeated. Uncertain. Old. Lost. She also wasn't sure what to make of his statement. Was he speaking plainly? Metaphorically? Metaphysically? Or in some code known only to him? One thing she was sure of, he was as vulnerable ... as fragile ... as she had ever seen him. She realized that she needed to handle this moment with care. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure." The moment he uttered the last syllable, he laughed bitterly. His pain was as obvious as his surprise that he felt it this strongly. "I can't think of the last time I've said that ... and meant it."

When he fell silent again, she recognized the conversational pattern. The witness will answer the question posed. No elaboration. They used to play this game for fun. The stakes were very different tonight, although she wasn't exactly sure what they were. "What do you think happened?"

"I think that someone decided to strike out at me. Jeffrey was a convenient means to that end." He'd moved away from the window as he spoke, instinctively seeking the greater personal safety afforded by the interior of the room and the shadows that were cast there. Another woman might've interpreted his movements as a desire to be closer to her. She knew better.

"And you intend to make them pay?"

Cigarette Smoking Man sighed, accepting the offer of support by taking the hand that she held out to him. "With interest and penalties. Full punitive damages."

"How does it feel?" The question was posed hesitantly, but she wanted an answer. To know was, in this case, to understand something very important ... essential ... fundamental about him. And about how the two of them might go forward. Meeting his eyes, she noted the questioning look. He didn't understand her query, so she continued, "To be manipulated by others. To have others dictate, in a very real way, the course of your life. To be at the mercy of forces the likes of which you so often have set in motion. To be a ... victim."

Cigarette Smoking Man's jaw had dropped as she clarified. He hadn't thought about his situation in the way that she described it, but her words struck a chord. They described how he was feeling. It was different from when they'd had him shot. That was business. This ... this was personal -- an "in your face" gesture, challenging his manhood rather than his professional pride. A challenge that he couldn't avoid accepting. But he had to be clever about it. Otherwise, whoever did this had already won. "It's ... intolerable."

She nodded once, but was still not satisfied. He was compartmentalizing his reactions, walling off the emotional. In the long run, that would be his downfall. Emotions, suddenly unchecked, would cause an error in judgment. In his position, such mistakes were often fatal. She had seen a lot in her life. Had buried her husband and many friends. She was not ready to lose another person that she had history with ... that she cared about. So she did what she deemed necessary. Chose a button to push. "You don't have a choice. You have to tolerate it. Your son was taken, no less than my daughter was. Directly or indirectly as a result of choices you've made. Deals you've done. You have to live with that. Can you?"

Cigarette Smoking Man had been blaming himself for Jeffery's predicament. But he hadn't anticipated hearing his dialog of self recrimination spoken by another person. And he didn't much care for it. Not even from her. He was harsh enough on himself. Any additional pressure was unwelcome and, in Cigarette Smoking Man's view, unwarranted. Who was she to place blame so blithely. She wasn't innocent in all of this. "I can, and I will. On my own terms."

"Then you've learned nothing."

"On the contrary, I've learned something very important." Cigarette Smoking Man paused dramatically. Sitting down next to her, searching her eyes with his. Letting her see his pain ... and his resolve. He wasn't going to fold ... to give in to the pressure. Bill Mulder's fate wasn't to be his. Not yet anyway. He believed that she understood his unspoken communication. She'd nodded once, reaching for his other hand with her free one. The moment was delicate. They were poised on a precipice. Neither really knowing what lay ahead ... or below. Both realized that much depended on whatever it was that Cigarette Smoking Man believed that he'd learned.

The phone rang. It seemed unnaturally loud sounding in the anticipatory silence. Their moment held until the second ring. Smiling apologetically, she squeezed both of his hands before reluctantly moving toward the phone. Her hesitance made Cigarette Smoking Man smile. Secure in the knowledge that she still cared, at least a little, Cigarette Smoking Man settled more comfortably into the couch. She winked as she picked up the receiver. "Hello."

"Hi, mom. Merry Christmas."

"Fox? I didn't expect you to call until tomorrow." She didn't miss Cigarette Smoking Man's instantly increased alertness when she spoke her son's name. It was not unexpected.

"I'm trying out my New Year's resolutions a few days early. A test run. To see how it goes. Can we talk, mom? Is this a good time?"

The earnestness in Fox's tone was a pleasant change. He'd been decidedly hostile in the recent past, constantly challenging and accusing her of various crimes as though he'd been granted the right to judge her. Actually, judge, jury and executioner was more like it. "I have a guest Fox, but I think he'll understand."

Walter Skinner hadn't laughed this much in a long time. Marita Covarrubias was in excellent form. She had been entertaining him with stories of her days at the United Nations, sparing none of the sordid details. In fact, those particular tidbits of information were what gave her tales their biting wit. Skinner had only a very few FBI stories that could compare. But she wasn't pressing him to match her, or to participate actively in any way. She seemed satisfied that he was enjoying himself. It had been a while since he'd spent an evening as the center of a woman's attention. "Marita stop. I'm going to rupture something if I laugh any more."

"That's too bad," she commented, smiling. "I've grown fond of the more relaxed, unguarded you. Perhaps a rupture of something small and unimportant would be permissible." At her words, Skinner grinned and did his best to suppress another laugh. He was mostly successful. "I'm not a doctor, Walter but it seems to me that you're more likely to rupture something trying not to laugh."

"I'll be sure to ask Agent Scully the next time I see her. A dispute on such a technical issue requires a professional to resolve."

"Clearly. More wine?" He held his glass out in response. She shifted closer to pour and saw no need to return to her original position once she had completed her task. That would only require her to move back when she poured next. Remaining in closer proximity was really much more efficient. Efficiency was important. Wasn't it? "Speaking of Agent Scully, I've been wondering about the nature of her interest in Alex. Any idea?"

"Jealous?" Skinner smiled as Marita turned startled blue eyes on him. He merely lifted one eyebrow and waited. His patience paid off. In a most unexpected way. "I do believe you're blushing Marita." Skinner found it endearing that she ducked her head to remove her cheeks from his line of vision. He also was beginning to recognize that she spoke more rapidly when dissembling, as she did now.

"That's just make up Walter. When I looked in the mirror earlier, I thought I was too pale. Evidently, I was wrong."

"I see." The man's tone and expression communicated his disbelief but he let her off of the hook graciously. "Being a male of the species, I can't reasonably be expected to tell the difference." Marita nodded vigorously in agreement, inspiring another grin from Skinner. "But if you want me to answer your question, it's only fair that you reply to mine."

Still embarrassed and feeling somewhat childish, Marita countered, "I asked you first."

The woman's pout was priceless, all puppy dog-eyed and sulky. He imagined that look generally resulted in her getting whatever she wanted. No real reason to deny her request. In fact, Skinner intended to explore his query a bit, while ostensibly answering hers. This could be fun ... and enlightening. "I'm worried about Agent Scully to be honest. I think she's in over her head."

Pout forgotten, Marita leaned forward slightly. "In what?"

"Whatever Krycek's mixed up in. I don't know who's idea it was for them to be confined together but, if the goal was to gain influence over Agent Scully, it was successful." Skinner had been watching his companion closely, and thought he'd seen a reaction worth exploring. "Did you suggest it, Marita?"

The young woman responded to the softly spoken question in a like manner. "The man who ignores every "No Smoking" sign he sees did but the goal was influence over Alex. I think."

"Wouldn't it have made more sense to use you for that?" Marita winced. Skinner observed her expression and his eyes widened as realized how his question might come across to her. "Sorry. I just thought ... I mean ... What I meant ..."

It was Marita's turn to bail him out. She did so in her own way, leaning slightly forward and kissing him lightly on the mouth. "I understand," she whispered. "Believe me. In answer to your question, it might've once. I made a mistake. From Alex's perspective anyway. One he won't or can't forgive." There seemed to be some regret in her tone and her eyes took on a faraway unfocused look for a few moments. Skinner waited, watching her with concern until the young woman shook her head in negation and re-focused on him. "Just tell me one thing and then we can leave this topic. How much influence does Alex have over Agent Scully and vice versa?"

"I'd say Krycek's capable of manipulating Agent Scully. Not at will, but generally effectively. The other direction, I doubt it. Krycek seems impervious to that sort of thing. To me, anyway but, then again, I'm not a beautiful woman. He might be just as susceptible as the next guy to ... What?"

Marita noted his slightly annoyed tone, and managed to stifle the fit of giggles that had plagued her. "Walter, I, for one, am sincerely grateful that you're not a woman, beautiful or not. And I'm certainly hopeful that you're at least just as susceptible as the next guy to a determined feminine onslaught."

The mock horror on Skinner's face threatened to start the giggles again, but Marita resisted. "Is that what you've been plotting all along?" he demanded. "A DFO?"

"You got a problem with that Assistant Director Skinner?" Marita delivered her question in a slightly challenging tone.

"None worth noting Ms. Covarrubias."

Fox Mulder was having the most civilized conversation that he'd had with his mother in some time. The interaction was also notable for the genuine affection that seemed to be flowing in both directions. Mulder knew anyone he'd tell, including Scully, would attribute those things to the holidays. He hoped it was a sign of something else, signifying that he was beginning to climb out of the funk that he'd tumbled into a year or so ago and had wallowed in since then. The death of someone you knew, especially someone younger regardless of how you felt about them, brought perspective, something he'd been sorely lacking. He could see that now. He'd be damned if he'd admit it to anyone else though. A man has to have his pride.

In response to a neutral comment his mother made about the holiday season, a slightly preoccupied and self-absorbed Mulder began, "I just wish ..." He stopped when he realized what he was saying. Wishing was for children. Not for someone who'd seen and experienced all that he had.

"Go on, Fox. I'm curious about what it is you wish for." Mrs. Mulder glanced at her companion as she spoke. Cigarette Smoking Man had merely sipped his champagne quietly while she talked with her son, his expression neutral. Such equanimity couldn't be easy to maintain given his recent loss.

"That I hadn't wasted so much time being angry. Fighting. With you. With dad. With ... Sam. More recently with Scully. And even Spender. As I sit here contemplating life, the universe and everything, I'm not sure when the search for the truth became a battle. Or why?" Mulder smiled into the receiver and sighed, before resuming. "And before you ask, I'm not sure what I'm talking about. It made perfect sense before I tried to put it into words."

She thought she had a very good idea as to what he meant. Bill had been angry all the time. He was constantly fighting demons -- those within and those without. For Bill, the fight became his whole existence -- the only thing that touched his soul. He died the day he gave up the fight. Not ignominiously in his bathroom. Not really. That was just his body, a mere shadow of the man he'd been when he'd believed in something. Now her son was fighting a similar battle. She fervently hoped for a better outcome. "What do you intend to do about this epiphany of yours? Anything? Or is reverting to status quo on your horizon?"

"I'm tired of fighting, mom."

She couldn't stifle her sharply intaken breath or hide her emotions from a visual inspection. Cigarette Smoking Man saw her look of alarm, put down his drink and approached. "So long as that doesn't mean that you're giving up the pursuit of things that matter to you. If not, keep fighting. It's better than quitting."

Mulder heard the concern in his mother's voice as well as her rising anxiety. "I'm not a quitter, mom. You know that. You taught me that. I just think I need to try a different approach. That's all. My curiosity's intact and as all-encompassing as ever. Don't worry about me. Please."

Fox isn't Bill, she reminded herself. He isn't either, she thought sadly even as she allowed Cigarette Smoking Man to hold her. "I watched your father struggle with similar issues, Fox. It frightened me." And it destroyed him.

"No need to be afraid for me, mom. I'm way too ornery to give up. Look, go back to your guests. All I've done is realized some things about myself. Things I intend to try and do something about. I just ... wanted you to know." Mulder spoke as eloquently as he could. He didn't want this conversation to end on a sour note. It had gone so well. Waiting nervously for his mother to respond, Mulder almost didn't hear the soft knock at his door. "Tell me you're ok with this, mom, please. I've got someone at the door."

"I'm fine, Fox. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, mom. I love you."

Her reciprocation of the sentiment made Mulder smile as he hung up the telephone. Moving toward the door, he considered what he'd just done. For the first time in too long, Mulder was genuinely proud of himself. It felt good. Feeling much less "Bah Humbug," he opened his door with a flourish without first looking through the peephole. Very uncharacteristic behavior that he labeled as part of the turning over a new leaf process.

"Hello, Fox. Can I come in?"

Smiling broadly, Mulder gestured grandly toward the interior of his apartment. Diana Fowley entered, returning his smile tentatively.

Dana Scully was astounded. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd anticipated but it wasn't this. Alex Krycek had been a perfect gentleman. Exceedingly charming to her mother and sister in law. Suitably companionable to her brother. Necessarily firm to a cookie-stuffed Gibson, and remarkably gentle with the baby. He seemed to be enjoying the role in which he'd been cast throughout numerous visits by neighbors. He'd stayed at her side, playing for his audience. Attentive. Solicitous. Smitten. Only Dana was privy to the amusement he derived from the whole exercise. The smirks and eye rolls were for her benefit only.

Her brother had given her a hard time about the bruise on Alex' neck, never imagining the actual circumstances surrounding causation. The "victim" himself managed to look alternately wounded and self-satisfied during that interlude. Her mother had been watching them like a hawk, particularly after the baby went to sleep "just like a little angel." Dana knew that speculative look. She'd seen it before. What's more, she knew Alex noticed and correctly interpreted it.

"Your mom likes me," he'd gloated. Dana didn't know how he could make a whisper in her ear a gloat, but he did. When he'd said that, the ramifications of this evening were driven home to Scully. If her mother mentioned her "boyfriend" to Mulder, there'd be hell to pay. And Scully was fresh out of currency. Uncertain as to how to proceed, she pulled away. Or tried to. She hadn't realized that his arms were around her waist.

"What's wrong, Dana? Tired of the game?" Mocking. Self-assured. Arrogant. How dare he play with her emotions like this? Ok. She hadn't stopped him. She hadn't resisted. You might even say that she'd played along. That could well be how he viewed the situation. But there was more to it than that from her perspective. She'd enjoyed the attention and felt comfortable in his arms such that she'd forgotten the complications that such a scenario could create. And she'd passively allowed him to assume control of the situation. It was too late to change that now. Or was it?

Dana turned to face Alex, smiling. "Not tired, Alex. Bored." She gave him no time to consider her reply. That would only result in some smart ass remark. Instead, she seized the initiative and aggressively kissed him, forcing him to fall back and pursuing him relentlessly. He took about two and a half steps backward until his back was against the family room wall. No where to run. Only then did she pause to admire her handiwork. He was breathing hard. His face was flushed. His expression was complex. Shock, seemingly of both the pleasant and unpleasant varieties, mixed with a healthy dose of something that looked like ... fear. "Something wrong, Alex?" He opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again. Uncertain. Collecting his thoughts. Or trying to.

"I guess I should've provided written notice before altering the rules. But I thought the game could use a little excitement. And I didn't think you'd mind." She was whispering and standing very close to him almost, but not quite, taunting.

What the hell had happened? Things had been proceeding in a predictable way. Her anger had seemed to dissipate after they'd talked. Her family had returned and the evening had taken on a surreal quality. The expectations of others vis a vis them were obvious and easy to comply with. It'd been fun. Nice actually. Normal, which for him was something of a novelty. And then ... then ... what? She'd shifted into attack mode. Without warning. Well, maybe the comment about her mother set her off. Mistake noted. More particularly, ramifications noted. Before he completed the review process, he risked a look at the cause of his consternation. Another mistake. The last few moments had been error-ridden, and Alex had no idea how to extricate himself. And the will to do so was rapidly diminishing. She had beautiful eyes and a captivating smile. Would it be so bad to ...? He froze, realizing what he'd been about to do. That was impossible. This frolic and detour had to stop. Right here. Right now. "Dana ... I can't ... I mean, we shouldn't ..." Krycek winced slightly as he realized that he sounded unsure, nervous and almost completely lacking in conviction.

Her smile broadened, then tapered off into a wicked grin. "Can't, Alex? Shouldn't? Those "nots", particularly in this context, imply rules of conduct. I was under the impression that you didn't subscribe to any. Certainly not the puritanical set. Not my Alex. Say it isn't so." Scully concentrated on maintaining a playfully challenging expression on her face as she observed his reaction.

She made it past the widened eyes, the darting glance reminiscent of cornered prey and the uncertain "Is she serious?" glance, but came near to laughter at the stricken questioning mutter of "Her Alex?"

Her instinct suggesting the inclusion of the possessive pronoun was dead on correct. Alex was emoting a typical male reaction. He'd get around to flight shortly, if she left him an opening. She didn't intend to. "Don't you want your Christmas present?"

Alex Krycek shut his eyes briefly, harboring the childish hope that Dana wouldn't be snuggled against him when he re-opened them. That he wouldn't be holding her, because she felt good in his arms. That he wouldn't be having decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts with regard to her person. That he wasn't both inordinately pleased and fundamentally disturbed by her use of the word "my" with regard to him. Christmas present? From Dana? No. He most certainly didn't want such a thing. Absolutely not. Opening his eyes and sighing, Krycek allowed himself to admit that through all of those denials, he'd been wondering what the present was. He needed time to consider all of this. And space. Yes. Space would be good too. Stall for time. Create some distance. There was the strategy. Elegant in its simplicity. Absolutely imperative for his peace of mind. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Dana." For once, the truth served him reasonably well. She'd taken a step back, and was looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Had space. Needed time. "There are far too many potential ... complications. I don't want to hurt you. Or see you hurt." Plausible. Good. She's thinking it over.

Dana Scully sensed that this encounter had moved beyond her teaching him a lesson about how she wanted to be treated. It had escalated into a battle of wills for control of the situation ... and then beyond. Well beyond. She believed that Alex was speaking more generally about the chemistry at work between them. The - might as well go ahead and face it Dana - mutual attraction. Exploring that topic had seemed "safe" in the compound and in the posh New York hotel - both artificial controlled environments encapsulating the present only and not the future. Their current situation and surroundings were mainstream. Her family was a fundamental cornerstone of Dana's life. Considering their relationship in this context was ... frightening. Pain was a likely outcome. He was right about that. But her father had taught her to take on challenges, despite the chance of being hurt. The chance of success made the risk of failure worth it. She'd built her life on that principle, although she sometimes went through crises of confidence when she didn't apply it.

Krycek didn't like the look of this. The play of emotions on Dana's face had been progressing on a path to his liking --puzzlement to thoughtfulness to concern to fear. Then something happened. Fear was brushed aside in favor of ... resolve. Dana Scully and resolve was a combination that he didn't favor at the moment. Better interrupt the thought process, before matters went from bad to worse. "Dana," he began tentatively. She focused on him immediately, grinned happily and hugged him fiercely. Damn! Krycek's mind raced through possible ways to respond. Uninspired, he opted for retreat. "Gibson's done in. He can't even muster the energy to eat another cookie. We need to go."

To observe his reaction to her response, she released him and, smirking slightly, placed her hands on his shoulders. "To disappear again? I think not, Alex. That'd make it far too easy for you. You'll have to work harder than that to get rid of me." The tension in his shoulders increased fractionally, causing Dana to believe that her concerns were valid.

"Who says I want to get rid of you? All I want is ... " Alex broke off his statement abruptly, taking a sudden interest in a Scully family photo situated on a small table located to his right. Alex didn't want to finish this sentence at all. Even in his own mind, he amended his statement to conclude "not to be continuously off balance when you look at me like that."

"So you won't tell me what you want. Fine. I'll go first. I ..."

"Dana. Don't. Please."

Scully heard the alarm in his voice. When she met Krycek's eyes, the fear she saw in his green ones startled her. Instinctively, she reached for him, hiding her disappointment as best she could when he tried to evade her. That he couldn't she owed, once again, to the family room wall in combination with his efforts to avoid attracting the attention of her family or Gibson. Pressing her advantage, she spoke earnestly. "Alex, I know you've learned some very hard lessons. I think you're more comfortable ... you feel safer ... relying on yourself. Despite that, I'm asking you to trust me. To let me help you. Meaningfully, not shunted off to the side ... out of the way. Out of danger. Forever protected. Like some fragile creature." She held up her index finger and shook her head. "Don't interrupt. I'm tired of always reacting to what happens to me. I want to influence it to the extent I can. Regardless of the danger, I need to. Alex, I get the impression that what you choose to do in the coming weeks will impact me. Quite possibly significantly. I'd like input and I think I deserve it." Scully paused, trying to assess his reaction to her plea. She wasn't sure what he was thinking, but she had his attention. He was definitely listening. Time to go for broke. "I'm asking you to let me in, professionally ... and personally. Will you?"

Alex regarded Dana closely. She had no idea of what she was asking. This was nuts. Crazy. Absurd. And ... tempting. Going over all the information at his disposal had been a solitary task. During which Alex had wished for someone to brainstorm with on more than one occasion. But Dana Scully? Personally as well? He couldn't afford that. To even think about it, really. Then why was he? This Christmas thing was dangerous. Caused brain damage or something. Aloud, he finally voiced a question that had been plaguing him, "What're you doing to me, Dana Scully?" He was tired and under a high level of stress and he sounded like it.

In response, she kissed him. Inviting, rather than demanding, active participation on his part this time. An invitation he accepted, albeit hesitantly at first. Reticence overcome, they both directed their full attention to the activity and neither heard Bill Scully's first two throat clearings. His rather loud, "Excuse me you two" finally registered. Krycek gently extricated himself, at least partially, from Dana's embrace, meeting Bill's grin with an uncertain one of his own. Dana kept her arms around him, cocking her head toward Bill expectantly. "Our anti-social brother is on the phone, asking to talk to you."

Dana nodded, reluctantly releasing Krycek. She wasn't sure she'd sealed the deal yet. Her suspicion was confirmed by his whispered, "That wasn't yes, Dana. On either front. More like, I'll think about it. Ok?"

Dana nodded, smiling encouragement. "I understand, Alex. And you know where I stand." He met her gaze, with a tentative smile before she turned away. It had been a while since she'd seen him like this. Unsure. Almost shy. As she took the phone from her mother, Dana Scully glanced back. Alex appeared troubled which wasn't surprising. She'd given him quite a bit to think about.

Fox Mulder was concerned. Diana was moody, perhaps dangerously so. Mulder was aware that he lived in a glass house in that regard but the way Diana was behaving made him look well adjusted. That was a sobering thought. Mulder frowned. He'd finally managed to get into a little bit of a holiday spirit. Sobering thoughts were not particularly conducive to maintaining his current mood. Still, he couldn't afford to backslide. Reinforcing behavior was not what Diana needed. She required a stabilizing influence, a role unfamiliar to Mulder. That was Scully's forte.

Diana was currently staring out the window, silent and contemplative. Mulder watched and waited. If the quiet brooding pattern repeated itself, she'd begin talking soon. That would be followed by shouting or crying, fading back to silence again. He wasn't disappointed.

"It's the essential futility of it all, Fox. That's what's so hard to take." She paused, turned and looked Mulder squarely in the eye for the first time since she'd entered his apartment. "What makes us think it's worth the effort? We had hopes once. Dreams. Things we wanted to accomplish. To experience. We wanted to know. The explanation. The meaning. The truth. Those were the questions we asked when we discovered the Xfiles. How can the phenomena be explained? What meaning could we attribute to the explanation? What truth about us, or about our place in the universe, was embedded in that meaning? They seemed to be important questions then. Who am I trying to kid? We thought they were the only questions. Do you remember those days, Fox? Do you?"

Agent Fowley had clasped Mulder's hands in her own as she repeated her final question. The look in her eyes tugged at his heart. It also scared him. The combination of pain, frustration, confusion and anger he saw there reminded him of ... him. That wouldn't do. Diana didn't want to go there. She really didn't. Armed with his vast experience in this state of mind, Mulder didn't want to witness someone else's trip to Hell. You never knew if return would actually be possible. Yet she'd come to him. He owed it to her to try and help. And she was waiting expectantly as though he had a life vest to offer her. "I'm still living them Diana," he replied quietly.

She moved away, seeking the privacy of the kitchen and gaining distance as though her life depended on it. His perspective hadn't helped much. He hoped that honesty would. When she returned with a beer, she paused in the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. "The only question I have left is - Where has that gotten us?" Mulder waited. He recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one. He should. He'd asked enough of them. "Sounds like it's gotten you nowhere. I guess you and Scully are retreading our old ground with some new trappings. The bells and whistles are different, but the apparatus does the same thing. I Fox Mulder. I seek Truth. What the hell are you going to do when you find it? Alert the media? Write it on tablets and descend from a mountain top? Distill it down to an incredibly meaningful epitaph? What Fox?"

Mulder had actually considered this question. "Any more, I think it'll be enough just for me to know it Diana. Unless exposing it is necessary for some reason."

"What reason would be good enough? And what gives you the right to decide?"

"Finding it, I guess. Look, Diana, you're tired. You're grieving. Now is not the time for an in depth analysis of your life ... or mine. I've done enough of that the last few days to last a lifetime."

"If not now, when, Fox?" Her last question was spoken from another emotional place that Fox Mulder had visited recently. Defeatism burgeoning on fatalism. From his view, this state was easier to deal with. Diversion could work. So might humor, if broached delicately enough.

"Later. That's when." Mulder put his finger to her lips, as she opened them to utter a verbal denial to match the vigorous negative nod of her head. "No, Diana. Not tonight. Tonight I'm going to make you a stiff drink to replace that macro brew beer. I'm going to see that you eat. I've got a veritable plethora of microwavable dinners for you to choose from. Surely a vegetarian one slipped in my shopping cart at some point in a moment of weakness or inattention. Then I'm going to hold you. You will drink your drink. You will eat. And you can sit, talk, cry, yell, punch or whatever. Is this program understood?"

Diana Fowley was looking at Fox Mulder speculatively. Fox as a mother hen was ... unprecedented, as far as she could remember. At least he hadn't offered chicken soup and warm milk. That would've been too much. What he had offered was comfort and support. Just as she'd planned.

"So Fox had an ... epiphany did he?" Cigarette Smoking Man finally asked. He'd waited through dinner, dessert, hot from the oven chocolate chip cookies, and cognac, before endeavoring to assuage his curiosity. And to give her time to consider the matter. "One that frightened you somehow."

She nodded slowly. "He's recognized what his obsession has gotten him. And, perhaps, where the route he's chosen ultimately leads. He thinks he can adjust. I wish him well." Cigarette Smoking Man nodded as though he understood completely. Who knew? Maybe he did. "I just wish I believed he could. And that I hadn't seen Bill go through the same thing without success."

"Fox isn't Bill."

"That's what I kept reminding myself when I was on the phone. It wasn't much comfort."

Cigarette Smoking Man shifted his position on the couch to take her into his arms. "If it's comfort you want, I can do better."

She smiled, appreciating his effort to change the subject. Conversing of other things seemed like a very good idea. Her mental search for alternative topics led her to recall what they'd been discussing when Fox had unexpectedly called. "What did you learn? From Jeffrey's death."

Cigarette Smoking Man started at her question. He'd relaxed and had been contemplating more pleasant things. The future and the past as it impacted her ... and him. She'd brought him back to the present. A task she used to engage in with regularity. Her tactics had drastically changed. In their shared past, she'd engaged his attention physically first and intellectually a distant second. He found their recent interactions more satisfying, a fact that intrigued him and suggested that further analysis might produce some useful information. "Nothing that you don't already know. And have tried to instill. With a level of success that wasn't to your liking."

"I've had more failures in lesson giving than your average kindergarten teacher. I think there's something wrong with my approach or my logic."

"Or your pupils?"

"Ahhh. You're right, of course. Why didn't I think of that?"

They enjoyed a laugh but sobered nearly simultaneously. Both were disconcerted about their present circumstances - laughing in each other's arms and discussing things that mattered other than the Project. For the first time in a long while, his life's work wasn't intruding. It felt ... good. Different, but good. "I suppose I can describe my particular epiphany this way. I need to live in the present, engaging in more than planning for and working toward the future. That what I have ... and who I'm with is important. That I can't presume an entitlement to next week or next month or next year, regardless of what resources are at my disposal ... or at my command. Does that meet your rigorous epiphany standard?"

"If you actually practice it, yes." She considered his words, and the level of conviction that she sensed behind them. She'd waited in vain for Bill Mulder to come to that realization. And, as he'd indicated, she'd preached that particular gospel to Cigarette Smoking Man as well. He'd always nodded solemnly, and as soon as she was finished, if not before, he'd refocused his full and complete attention to the Project. She'd often compared his "relationship" with the Project to the devotion of a lifelong sailor to the sea. It was his one true love -- his only real and lasting passion. She supposed it was better than being passionate about nothing but it ultimately was a lonely existence.

Bill had had a family in an effort to dispel the solitude. It was an unsuccessful experiment. His isolation persisted, causing the family unit to become dysfunctional. However, the real decline was a direct result of his costly and unilateral decision to "preserve the human gene pool." He'd considered it his duty in furtherance of a noble cause. She viewed it as cowardice, giving in to the whims and dictates of a group of men that had mortgaged the future in an effort to preserve their present. That was her interpretation of their actions and no one had ever been able to persuade her otherwise. The counter argument was allegedly the Project. An effort to fight the future that the group had promised because they believed they had no choice. The goal of the Project was breaking that promise.

Samantha was part of a bet hedging strategy that proved to her that Bill hadn't believed that the Project would be successful. That plan for failure had cost more than she could bear. The substance of Samantha was gone forever. Her form ... her DNA remained, in a mutated hybrid form. Somewhere. So she'd been told. Both something less and something more than Samantha might've been. Multiple copies could not truly capture Samantha's essence. That's why she had declined the invitation to see her "daughter". That was no longer possible. She understood that Fox had elected to see her. It was impossible for him to have resisted that temptation. His whole life had been shaped by Sam's disappearance.

Shuddering, she directed her thoughts back to the days before her daughter's disappearance. The shouting matches. The histrionics. Her pleas and logical arguments that fell on deaf ears. She knew that her children were aware of her pain. But that collateral damage was incidental in comparison to the mistake she was trying to prevent her husband from making. The unbearable situation had been the fatal blow to their marriage, especially because Bill had made her choose. He'd had the audacity ... the unmitigated gall to insist that she select the child to sacrifice to the cause in which only he believed. And her choice had broken his heart ... and to a large extent his spirit.

Cigarette Smoking Man had been silently observing the woman. Mentally and emotionally, she was very far away yet she was physically quite close. Their body heat mingled pleasantly. "What are you thinking?" he asked quietly. She emerged from her reverie with a startled cry. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken."

"No, going over old news isn't healthy. I think I need to emulate you, and focus my attention and energy forward." Her smile was tired, but genuine. And it inspired one in return.

"How shall we proceed?" he asked lightly, belying his intense interest in her response.

Dana Scully was extremely comfortable. She was lounging on the couch in her mother's family room, single malt Scotch in one hand. The other was occupied holding one of Alex Krycek's. Her head was on his chest. Her eyes were closed. She was listening to her family's stream of consciousness conversation and the sound of Alex' heart beating. She smiled contentedly. The evening had been eventful. And, in an unusual twist for eventful times in her life lately, she felt good about it. She'd uncharacteristically near gossiped to Charles about her determined campaign against the castle Krycek. The siege was on. He'd run out of supplies soon. She hoped. The man in question had gotten quiet. But he hadn't otherwise retreated.

"We should be going soon," Alex announced.

Scully had to smile.

"It's getting late isn't it," Margaret Scully commented. She liked this young man very much. Finally, her daughter had accepted a bit more of a challenge and appeared to be handling it. They certainly looked comfortable together even though Dana had scared him somehow. The mother in her found that fact interesting. It was unlike Dana to actively drive a personal relationship. She was generally more passive, waiting for the course to be set before determining whether she cared to go along. Maggie was, more than anything else, curious. Time to seek additional data. "You know, Alex, I've got plenty of room. You don't have to make the drive back into town."

"Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Scully, but tomorrow's kind of a full day. I'm not sure I want to face a cold car first thing." As he spoke, Krycek was aware of the younger female Scully shifting position. When she settled, her arms were around him possessively, her head now resting on his left shoulder. Alex had been relaxed and drowsy. Reasonably comfortable, despite all the surprises the evening had included. Now, he was nervous and keyed up again. This was getting ridiculous. He had to regain his detachment or at least a veneer of it. The assassin mind set led to safety. Alex Krycek didn't even want to consider alternative paths.

Dana Scully noticed the changes in him immediately -- from comfortable to agitated and from agitated to ... what? She wasn't sure, but she didn't like it. An unnatural calm came over him. The distance between them now seemed to be miles instead of centimeters. The temperature seemed to have dropped at least fifteen degrees as well. How the hell did he do that? Something to do with how he held himself, the tension in certain muscles, the distant look in his eyes and the closed expression on his face. She'd been satisfied with agitated. Pleasant contemplations concerning channeling that energy more productively were still processing in the back of her mind. Dana surprised even herself with some of the creative ideas she'd had, all without really applying herself to the problem.

Gibson was smirking at them. Both adults noticed the boy at about the same time. Then Krycek looked at Scully questioningly, interested in whatever it was the boy was sensing. She was avoiding his eyes and ... blushing. Alex's confidence shot up by an order of magnitude or more. He went from hoping he just might get out of this without making a huge error to certainty in only seconds. "What exactly is going on in that fascinating mind of yours, Dana? Should I be insulted ... or flattered?"

The teasing tone was back, pitched for her ears only. What does that mean? Dana had the overwhelming sense of shifting momentum. Alex seemed to have the upper hand once again. And her mortification at the thought of Gibson "listening in" to her most recent mental gymnastics had only made the transition easier for him. Fortunately, her brother chose that moment to announce that he was going to join his wife and child who'd retired earlier. The good nights and hand shakes deflected attention from Scully's discomfort.

Her brother's parting comment annoyed her. "Your daughter's showing some signs of life mom. Not spending all her time with people from work. Keep it up Dana. I approve."

Bill smirked and went upstairs. Krycek smiled and focused his attention on the Christmas tree. Margaret sighed and glanced at her daughter, who looked puzzled. "Where'd that come from?" Dana asked softly, not expecting an answer.

Krycek turned toward the questioner and considered whether to respond. This topic seemed safer ground than some previous ones. "The first thing he said to me was 'You don't work for the FBI do you?'" Alex offered. Her look of sibling distress was kind of cute. She seemed to focus immediately on how she'd deal with her older brother. That suited Krycek just fine. Couldn't hurt to add a little fuel to that particular fire. "He thinks you don't get out enough."

"I see. You interested in helping me tackle that problem?"

Uh Oh. Another miscalculation. He was on a roll, but it certainly wasn't a lucky one.

"Bill approves," she began with a smirk. "What about you mom?"

Margaret Scully struggled to look like she was considering the question carefully. She had to hide a smile behind her hand. Alex looked trapped. There was no other word for it. He avoided looking at Dana or at her. That was difficult to do given Dana's proximity and her location relative to him. But he did it. Stubborn this one, she thought. "I don't know Dana. I lack certain key information. Like what you got him for Christmas."

Krycek made a noise that sounded like a groan. He now fully realized his situation. Two against one wasn't fair, especially not these two women. Some of the similarities in mother and daughter were unnerving.

Dana was well aware of her mother's ability to make men nervous and of Alex's discomfort. So she moved slowly and purposefully toward the tree, prolonging the moment and increasing the tension. When she reached it, she made a show of examining many of the packages thereunder. Glancing back over her shoulder with a playful smile, she was pleased to see that she had Alex's attention. Despite himself, he was curious. Turning back to the task at hand, she selected a relatively small package and approached Krycek with it, her smile now enigmatic.

Alex waited, unmoving and considering bundling Gibson under one arm and making a break for it. Inadvertently, he met Margaret Scully's eyes. She smiled and winked at him. That reassured him ... sort of. He had no idea why. After he calmly (more or less) accepted the gift from Dana, she reassumed her territorial position. Forcing him to put his arms around her to deal with the package. It wasn't heavy. He shook it tentatively. No useful information there. He then examined it from all angles. Finally, Scully giggled. "Open it Alex. It won't explode or bite you or anything else nasty."

His exaggerated sigh of relief sparked laughter from both women. As instructed, Krycek applied himself to opening the package. When he saw what was inside, he laughed. "You got me a beeper?"

Facing an amused and incredulous man, Dana smirked. "Don't worry, only I know the number. I need some way to keep track of you to avoid future ... misunderstandings." She punctuated her statement with a gentle touch of the bruise on his neck. An apology of a sort for which he nodded acceptance.

"I see that you managed to handle the last cookie, Gibson," Margaret Scully commented, patting the boy on the shoulder affectionately.

"Someone had to," he replied, solemnly acknowledging the awesome responsibility.

Krycek and Scully watched Maggie retreat into the kitchen with the now empty cookie plate. He then returned his attention to the, from his perspective, puzzling gift. "You're not serious?"

"Deadly serious, Alex. Your disappearing days are over. You'll just have to accept that someone cares enough to worry when you go AWOL." She knew that, despite her best efforts to the contrary, her fear and vulnerability showed. His expression verified it. A little embarrassed, she turned away.

Against his better judgment, which he'd pretty much ignored for the last few hours anyway, Alex opted to disclose certain facts relevant to her concern. "Dana I have to disappear. Tomorrow. For about a week." At his announcement, she turned her back to him. He wasn't sure if she was angry, hurt, scared or something else entirely. He also knew he didn't want the evening to end like this. She deserved better. "Gibson, get my jacket, would you?" Thankful that the boy complied without any fuss, Krycek turned his attention back to Scully. Holding her tight and whispering in her ear. "I need to take care of something. It's not dangerous. It's just that I've been there before. I know the drill. It's easier for me than someone like Katya or Graham." When she didn't speak, he continued as earnestly as he was able. "There's no need to worry or to feel left out. This is a one person job."

"Aren't they all, as far as you're concerned?" Her voice was soft, her tone defeated. He was given a reprieve to consider his response by Gibson Praise throwing his jacket at him, accompanied by an announcement that he was off in search of more cookies.

It was time to be blunt whatever the ramifications. She had to understand her own situation to have a chance of understanding how it impacted him. "They are, so long as you've got that implant. It makes you too unpredictable. Vulnerable to anyone with certain equipment and the will to use it. And the number of those people is growing enough to be a real concern." Seeing her confusion, bordering on disbelief, he opted to illustrate by example. "I don't want to wake up one morning with my own gun in my mouth, and you staring out the window at the sunrise as you pull the trigger. Do you?"

Scully's eyes filled with tears. She didn't want to look at him, but he took her chin in his hand and gently but firmly forced her. She was startled by the concern for her in his eyes. Showing her anguish wasn't in the plan, but it emerged in response to his sympathy, raw and unburdened by her usual restraint. "So I can't help. I just have to sit back and take whatever happens to me. I'm not sure I can accept that fate, Alex. I'm just not."

"You don't have to."

Scully had begun to retreat into herself. His statement halted that process. When she permitted herself to look outward, she realized that he was offering a small device to her.

As she took it, he said, "Merry Christmas."

She looked at the device carefully, but couldn't fathom what it was. So she returned her attention to Krycek, her expression expectant.

He smiled. "It's a scrambler. Very new. Very high end. Audio. Video. A plethora of wavelengths. And directed pulses." Alex paused briefly, waiting for signs of recognition. There were none. "The signals recognized by your implant."

He watched the realization of the implications come over her. It was an amazing process. Dana's smile, signifying the conclusion of her analysis, took his breath away. Which was problematic, because he could've used it in furtherance of the intense and lengthy kiss that followed. Somehow, he overcame his bout of oxygen depravation to mention one minor condition. "It'd make it a bit easier on me if you didn't show it to Mulder."

"Where did you ... how ... when did you get this?" They both laughed at her tripartite question.

"I got it in exchange for certain information. I think. I hope. If I'm wrong, the additional payment will be a bit more painful. But delayed. Assassinations are just too difficult to plan and execute over the holidays. Anyway, it was part of the deal involving Gibson that I did a couple of weeks ago."

Dana Scully had stopped laughing during his response. Her concern and fear obvious, as she absently brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Time will tell," he concluded with a shrug.

He was trying to make light of the situation. Dana couldn't believe it. This was totally out of character for him. "Are you crazy? I thought, if you'd learned anything from your particular set of life experiences, it was to avoid needlessly putting yourself at risk."

Krycek shrugged, smiling ruefully before meeting Dana's eyes. Let her think on this. "Maybe I didn't see it as needless."

David and Russell were standing off to the side of a crowded room. Each had a glass of fine French champagne. They didn't speak. From time to time one or the other would smile or nod or wave to a passerby. No one stopped. No one approached. No one spoke to them. That was fine. The situation suited them. They had nothing to say to the vast majority of the other attendees. It was tiresome spending any amount of time in a group of people that either didn't know who you were or feared you because they did.

David glanced at Russell. Russell was smiling at something. David followed Russell's eyes, but he couldn't determine the cause of what appeared to be amusement. Russell appeared to be looking at nothing in particular. David knew that he was often in the dark with regard to what Russell was thinking. Most of the time it didn't concern him. He knew enough to be their mouthpiece, and contented himself by basking in the reflection of Russell's power and mystique. For some reason, he was unable to attain his usual calm, cool and collected state in the face of that smile. The Cheshire Cat couldn't have looked more self-satisfied than Russell did at the moment. Curiosity was not one of David's dominant character traits, but it came to the fore now. "This level of Christmas cheer is certainly unexpected. Did you start opening your presents early?"

"Only one David. Only one." Russell's smile broadened as he replied. "The only thing I wanted for Christmas has been delivered." David waited, recognizing Russell's dramatic pause for what it was. He would've avoided the question completely had he not intended to answer it. "My weapon is locked and loaded. All we have to do is aim it."

"Weapon?" David dutifully asked the question, acknowledging the metaphor. Russell had no need of actual weapons. Those were for other lesser persons.

"Alex Krycek."