Static

Part One

Static ought to be the least of her problems, he thought. From the darkened interior of his midnight-black Isuzu Rodeo, amidst an array of surveillance equipment that would make even the CIA envious, he watched Scully shake out a clingy classic tweed suit that she'd apparently selected to wear on the plane.

As she leaned forward to smooth out the fabric of the garment that was trademark Scully-professional, the slight static charge the suit hosted raised a few strands of her auburn hair. A hairbrush, sensible pumps; Scully moved through her apartment gathering items for her trip, unaware that she was being watched.

The Rodeo was Alex Krycek's favorite vehicle, recently purchased and outfitted. Sheltered in a comforting envelope of new car smell, he felt like James Bond after receiving an amazing technological toy from the armorer, Q.

The makers of this vehicle were duly proud of it. Krycek didn't spend much time on surveillance anymore, but for this one instance, this one case, he was glad he'd acquired the vehicle that the Syndicate technicians had jokingly dubbed "The Black Helicopter."

Her small breaths and grumbles resounded through the 'copter from advanced directional microphones, a hybrid of alien and human technologies, to an inconspicuous earphone. Scully carefully packed a couple of garments in a rolling suitcase and picked up a small piece of paper. Using a pen that rested upon her bed, she made a few marks on the paper.

Though the equipment in the SUV was sophisticated enough to allow him to hear the faintest sounds in her apartment and to see more clearly than if he'd actually stood in her room, it had limitations. If she twisted the paper toward the window, he could read it...but he didn't need to: pantyhose, burgundy suit, black suit, grey suit, blouses. Krycek watched her methodically pack first outerwear, underwear, then toiletries, each item checked off her list in turn.

Spying on Scully was easy. Despite the paranoia her partner had periodically infected her with, she seldomly closed the blinds. Not that it would have mattered. Though she was rarely under active surveillance anymore, her apartment was riddled with built-in listening devices and tiny cameras he could have monitored if he hadn't preferred to test his new vehicle's capabilities.

Some of the same technology the Russians used in the American Embassy in Moscow reflected in the devices hidden throughout her place. Krycek appreciated the technological byproduct of a nation that refused to admit that the Cold War had ended. Her apartment was full of bugs so complex that they were virtually impossible to detect, most would never need a battery -- they were recharged kinetically by vibrations in the wall or the tread of small Scully feet across the floor.

Considering how often she traveled, she was slow and deliberate while packing. Krycek wondered if she'd ever lobbied for an additional stipend for clothing damaged in the line of duty. How many suits, shoes, pairs of pantyhose had fallen prey to her messy and dangerous work? Which designer created professional attire out of cloth resilient enough to withstand alien goo, and with which solvent did her resourceful dry cleaner remove it?

Krycek was not surprised when Mulder pulled up outside the building. Mulder grudgingly offered Scully a ride to the airport, even though Scully was leaving for the second time recently to investigate a potential X-File without him.

Listening in on their telephone call earlier, Krycek had heard Scully relate her new case assignment and had sensed the resentment in Mulder's terse replies. Once again, Mulder was being left behind, but why was a mystery. The X-Files belonged to Mulder and Scully again, so this wasn't a punishment from one of the Assistant Directors.

Though the windows were tinted, Krycek deftly ducked his head below the dash of the truck before Mulder stepped out of his car. Once Krycek heard Scully open the door to admit her partner, he sat back up. Mulder slid through the door wearing a tight, contrived smile.

"Hey, I'm sorry about the case, Mulder. I told Skinner that you really ought to get this one since I was sent out last time..."

"It's okay, Scully," he interrupted. Mulder grabbed her suitcase and headed toward the door. Scully had conscientiously packed only one suitcase and a carry-on, adhering to unspoken airline etiquette regarding traveling light.

Agent Mulder's car had been bugged for a very long time. Periodically he would get suspicious, check, and remove the device, but within a week a new listening device would be planted in the vehicle. Mulder's guard was down lately, though. Most of the existing Consortium leaders had been torched during the alien rebel's attack, so Mulder probably felt he had little need for caution.

Though in disarray, the Syndicate still limped along. There were a few of the major players left and most of the minor ones. The lower echelons had initially balked at the betrayal when they were left like scraps during the planned colonization, but in the end it had worked out well for them. The roles of power vacated recently needed strong men and women to fill them, and many of those left were willing to die to prove their worth. The goals of the Syndicate might change, but for now they would reorganize and reassess their position.

As Mulder pulled away from the curb, Krycek activated the receptor to find the frequency of the bug on the departing car. Nonchalantly, Krycek fell into the heavy traffic a few cars behind the sedan.

Listening to the stereo wasn't an option, since Krycek might miss some quiet conversation from the sedan, but he wished he could pass the time with a little music. Traffic was slow, and the agents in the car ahead of him were immersed in a tense silence. They didn't even have the radio on, though he wished he could have heard soft music waft through the earphone.

Though Krycek could only see the backs of Mulder and Scully's heads, he guessed that Mulder wore a look of intense concentration to avoid conversation. Finally, Scully spoke. "I'll go do a preliminary assessment and if the case looks legitimate, I'll see if I can convince Skinner to send you out to Austin to join me."

"Don't bother."

From the passenger seat, Scully's head constantly craned toward her partner. Mulder continued to stare at the road.

"Aren't you interested in Caleb Carson?" she asked.

"Sounds like Darren Oswald, except that Carson isn't actually killing people."

Krycek wasn't fooled by Mulder's disinterested tone. He knew little of the work the agents did on cases that didn't involve the Syndicate or the existence of extraterrestrial life, but as jaded as he was, Krycek was curious about the case.

He'd been briefed by a highly placed source within the Bureau on Scully's new case. Krycek would follow Scully to Austin while she investigated. Why, he'd asked. Surveillance on either Mulder or Scully was rare when they were not meddling in Consortium business, especially when they were out of the DC area.

Krycek suspected this assignment was a diversion to draw him away from Washington while the skeleton of the Syndicate implemented some shadowy plan. It probably involved Mulder, since Scully would be gone and Krycek would be away, too.

Cataloguing his assets took considerably less time than calculating the faults that the remaining bigwigs of the Syndicate saw in him. First and foremost on the list of negatives was a complete lack of respect for authority. The man with the Morleys was still alive, so was Diana. They were the well-known survivors. It was critical for them to cement their positions and to quash any rebellion or threat quickly while uncertainty still abounded.

Ambiguously threatened by Krycek, the group trusted him only as long as he was within easy range of one of their snipers. Krycek knew the cigarette-smoking bastard had long suspected his conflicting loyalties between Mulder, the Syndicate, and his own personal agenda. Since he would be farther out of reach, the assignment to follow Scully could not be crucial.

From what the Bureau source told Krycek about Carson, several women in the Austin area had called the police to report that they'd been assaulted. Each time Caleb Carson was positively identified, apprehended, and released.

The police reports were similar. The victim, a young, attractive woman, alleged she'd been violently electrically shocked, but there was no visible physical evidence to support the allegations. When Carson was arrested, no electrical device could be found on his person, in his car, or in his apartment. There had been six incidences, almost identical. The Austin Police released Carson because the cases disintegrated into the victim's word against the suspect's...and the suspect was more credible.

Caleb Carson was a respected businessman, well-liked among his peers and colleagues. Without evidence to support the allegations, there was no case, but due to the number of incidents and the lack of evidence to convict Carson, the Austin Police Department requested the assistance of the FBI.

In a familiar setting, like DC, surveillance was a routine and simple assignment. In fact, unless the subject of the watch was involved in something lurid and pornographic, which was unlikely since he was observing Scully, surveillance was downright boring.

Above the lowest ranks of the Syndicate, these surveillance assignments were usually doled out as punishment. Krycek was not dead now only because the remaining members of the group were not sure what kind of secret threat Alex Krycek might pose, dead or alive. Though they didn't dare kill him at this point, they didn't kiss his ass, either.

Sometimes Krycek shared in the important tasks, sometimes he was sent out to play toady. While the shadowy figureheads of the Syndicate continued their project to uncover the secrets that Krycek held, Krycek sought to discover new ways to increase his leverage and extend the dwindling mortgage on his life.

Except for the fact that he'd been cut out of something important, left out of whatever devious plan was developing in DC, he didn't mind his current assignment. Austin could be interesting, one of the Syndicate's grommets, a flunky of the lowest tiers on the food chain of the Consortium, was going accompany the Black Helicopter to Texas so that he could have his own truck, and his subject was intriguing.

Scully hated him, no doubt, but she piqued his interest. If she caught him spying on her, she would personally created new painful deaths for him just so he might feel special. He admired that about her.

Though Krycek was curious about her, he didn't get off on watching her. He'd been assigned to her a few other times. Once, months ago, as he sat in a darkened sedan, invading her privacy, she began to undress. As she steadily removed each item of clothing, Krycek grew more uncomfortable and embarrassed rather than aroused. His reaction surprised him, since he was usually able to stay very detached. The sedan he used was a company car, used routinely on these types of assignments, by different men on different jobs.

In communal cars, he'd learned to recognize the splatter pattern of the stains on the door, seat, dash, and ceiling for what they were. Although he was presently alone, and had been for quite some time, he was loath to become one of the sad voyeurs that had long ago ruined the sedan's upholstery. Reason number two for the purchase of the Rodeo - no biological stains, and god help him, it was going to stay that way.

Mulder navigated the sluggish, impatient airport traffic with ease borne of practice. Pulling to the side in front of Scully's terminal, he briefly stopped the car and unloaded her bag from the trunk.

With his earphone still chattering with the voices of Mulder and Scully reassuring each other that everything was fine and they'd see each other in a couple of days, Krycek angled his truck to the curb about five cars behind them.

As Krycek killed the engine, grabbed his duffel bag, and stepped down from the vehicle, a young businessman emerged from the bustling crowd. The young suit was Pierson Thomas, and the name alone made Krycek nauseous. Thomas was intent upon an alternative career choice, a life above and outside of the law. The turmoil within the Consortium gave Thomas the perfect opportunity to ascend within the ranks of power. He was one of the low men, but was ruthless enough that he wouldn't stay that way. Despite his cherubic blonde hair and soft features, Pierson had no qualms about killing off the competition.

Pierson had the overconfident air of someone born into money. He rounded the front of the Rodeo and stopped well within what Krycek considered to be personal space.

"Alex! Hey! How's it going?" Thomas had an ear-to-ear grin, which set Krycek's stomach to churning again, especially as Thomas extended his arm to shake hands.

"I don't shake hands," Krycek growled. When he'd been younger, Krycek had played the game, almost shamefully, like Thomas did. The law was suck up until it was time to make the kill. Age and experience had worn away the gilt, leaving only a bleak and ugly reality. Krycek didn't waste time on charm. Plus, shaking hands, even though he still had his right arm, seemed to emphasize his inadequacy.

Pierson looked him up and down. "Oh, yeah. Forgot about your arm. Tunguska, right?"

"Shut up." Krycek snarled his warning to Pierson, barely an inch from his face. Leaning in so that the aspiring grommet could feel his hot breath against his cheek, Krycek wadded his hand up in the fabric of Pierson's tailored suit jacket and lifted him off the ground with a rough shake.

Krycek made sure the younger man got the picture without attracting unwanted attention. The small act of violence did little to quell Krycek's anger, though.

With a practiced flutter, Thomas returned his lapels to their proper position. Krycek shouldered his duffel and shoved the truck keys at Thomas, who clutched the keys in a white-knuckle grip.

"It's five o'clock now. The plane leaves in an hour and a half and won't arrive in Austin for a few hours. I'm pretty sure Scully won't start the investigation that late. I want that truck at the motel at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow."

"Alex, I don't think that's possible."

"There's someone who owes me a favor at Fort Bragg. You'll need to get there quickly so that you can meet him and he'll fly you to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio. From there, it's about seventy miles to Austin."

"Who is this guy? Why is he going to do this?"

"His name is McCarrick. He'll be waiting to take you in a heavy-duty transport helicopter, a Chinook. As for why...well, you don't need to know. Just know that he'd be happy to give you a lesson in skydiving minus the parachute if he had less incentive to keep me happy." Seeing Pierson's calculated gaze, Krycek advised, "And if you damage my new truck, I'll have you on trash duty so fast..."

Pierson blanched. A few people within the Syndicate had managed to screw up bad enough to actually deserve a fate worse than death. These people were on trash duty. Once in the Syndicate, they couldn't just leave. So if they were alive, they did as they were told. These unfortunates were summoned anytime a case required that a trash can, biomedical waste receptacle, or dump be searched. In addition, they picked up the bodies. Krycek's threat was more effective than promising death to someone like Pierson.

The struggle to regain composure was apparent in the way Thomas compulsively straightened his jacket. "Austin, eh?"

"Yeehaw," Krycek replied as he followed Scully's retreating figure into the terminal.

Part Two

Content warning: Krycek in his wig, duct tape, and an evil banker...more Scully stalking ensues.

I'm trying to decide whether to finish this story. If you're reading it, let me know what you think.

Someone with either a sick sense of humor or a complete lack of foresight had purchased the airline ticket for Krycek. Scully's seat was over the wing of the plane by the window. It was also directly in front of the seat that matched the number on the ticket Krycek was holding.

As he headed down the aisle to his seat, Krycek kept his head down and his eyes averted. Scully was stowing her carry-on at her feet when he slid into his seat.

The flight from DC was not direct. There was a layover in Houston, but the flight time to Houston was still about four hours. There was plenty of time for a curious or bored passenger to check out the people sitting a row behind.

Krycek feared the worst. If she got up to go to the bathroom at the rear of the plane, she'd have a hard time missing him. If she decided to strike up a conversation with the passengers around her, he was doomed. Of course, given her reserved nature, she was unlikely to be chatty on a plane, but anything was possible on a long, boring flight.

Ahead of him, Scully pulled two paperback books out of her bag. The top book was a collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury, "I Sing the Body Electric!" It was a well-worn copy. She discreetly placed the second book between the armrest of her seat and her thigh. Krycek didn't get a good look at the paperback.

For a while, she paged through the Bradbury book. Krycek had a magazine open on his lap and turned a page every so often, but could not be lax about observing her. If Scully recognized him, she'd boot the elderly lady beside him out of her seat, and Scully would chaperone him to Houston Intercontinental with the barrel of her gun kissing his testicles.

After approximately thirty minutes of Bradbury, she glanced sidelong at the passenger beside her then swapped the book of short stories for paperback number two. Krycek barely glimpsed the book before she had it open on her lap, but from the barely clothed couple embracing on the cover, he deduced it was a trashy romance novel. Interesting.

Although Krycek had expected her to be reading something more intellectual, she remained focused on the book for the remainder of the uneventful flight.

The layover in Houston was a short procession between planes. For the Houston to Austin stretch, Krycek was a more comfortable distance away. Back on the ground, he was almost in his element, though the unfamiliarity of a new city posed some interesting challenges.

A distant shadow, far enough from her to avoid notice, but close enough to keep an eye on her, Krycek hailed a cab. The short, direct ride allowed him a few moments respite from the constant vigilance required for surveillance.

Room 507, his hotel room, was adjacent to Scully's. It was a small, clean room with two double beds. The hotel was a nice but modest business-class establishment. Krycek pressed his ear to the adjoining wall between their rooms and was dismayed to find that he could hear very little through the thick walls...one of the worse features of a slightly higher-class hotel.

Without some technological aid, being in the room beside Scully's would be useless. Krycek strode purposefully back down to the front desk. Luckily, the clerk was not the same one who had checked him in.

"I seem to have misplaced my room key," Krycek confided, leaning toward the young woman with a contrived smile that didn't extend beyond his lips. Scully had probably ended up with a double room by an accident of hotel overbooking, but he hoped it would work to his advantage.

"Which room are you in?" The indifference reflected less skillfully in the desk clerk, who rotated her tall, swivel chair impatiently.

Krycek rarely used his handicap as a ploy, but he rested his prosthetic arm on the counter just under her eyes and preyed on her natural sympathy, "I'm registered under my wife's name, Dana Scully, Room 509."

She eyed the prosthetic, then refused to meet his eyes. Pity. Once people saw that he was missing an arm, he could only evoke fear or pity. People were ashamed of feeling either. "Here it is, D. Scully, Room 509." She pulled a key card out of a drawer and set it on the counter.

Another thing about non-handicapped people...they assume that if one arm is gone, the other one doesn't work. Krycek nimbly grabbed the card, gave the clerk an empty half-smile, then headed back to the elevator.

Fiddling absentmindedly with the key, Krycek was reminded of the obsolete computer punch cards. It was marvelous how far technology had advanced during his lifetime, especially with the hidden assistance from the aliens who wished to colonize the Earth.

It was 12:30 a.m. when Krycek returned to his room. He wondered whether Scully would be going out to get something to eat, leaving her room for a short while, which would enable him to plant the listening devices.

Krycek cracked the room door to enable him to hear as much as possible from the hall. The duffel bag on the bed contained several items that would serve as temporary ears. After riffling through the bag for a few moments, Krycek found what he needed: a small pouch.

The pouch was leather on the outside and lined with a shiny, flexible material that was one of the few technological gifts from the would-be colonists. The smooth fabric had several useful characteristics, one of which was that it effectively shielded the contents of the small bag from x-rays and metal detectors. Lining the whole duffel would have aroused suspicion, but airport security didn't question the small bag that contained a handgun, several bugs, two tiny surveillance cameras, an earpiece, and a very powerful microphone.

Set into the wall adjoining his room and Scully's was an air vent. Krycek grabbed the microphone and stepped onto the bed. The microphone had a mounting mechanism, but it was difficult to affix with only one arm, so Krycek opted for duct tape, another miracle item he always kept around for emergencies.

Classic, charming, and attractive as it wasn't, duct tape would hold the microphone up well enough for the time he would be monitoring his neighbor's room. With the mic activated, Krycek could hear the television in her room. If she didn't leave, he'd be unable to plant the bugs in her room. Though the microphone was powerful, it was easier to detect and a loud television or radio would ruin much of the reception. Krycek pressed an extra strip of silver tape over the device, then reclined on the bed, listening to the quiet sounds of the television in Scully's room.

The cacophony of sounds changed every few minutes, from a loud heavy metal video, to an old Dukes of Hazzard episode, to a nature program discussing the rehabilitation of bald eagles. He listened intently, learning about her viewing preferences by the sound of the television on a channel for a marginally longer period of time. She paused on an A&E mystery program for a bit, spent a few moments on Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and settled for a National Geographic special.

As the narrator's soothing voice on the program enveloped him, Krycek stared at the blank screen of the television in his own room. He fiddled restlessly with the straps on his prosthetic. The television noise had not changed in about thirty minutes. Krycek began to wonder whether Scully had fallen asleep in front of the television. When he finally heard her voice it was a welcome change from the electronic din of the unseen television that had surrounded him.

Low in tone and articulate by nature, her voice was one of her most attractive features, especially to a man whose job is to listen. Voices spoke volumes about the speaker. If Krycek had never met Scully, he'd still be able to tell by her voice that she was neither ditzy nor frivolous, but was a serious, intelligent, and sensuous woman.

Sensuous? Oh, Brother.

"Yes, I'm fine, Mulder. The flight was fine," she said, " and now I'm going to get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll check out Carson and then I'll see if the AD will send you out here." Krycek wished he'd had a chance to bug the phone so he could hear both sides of the conversation.

After a pause, her voice grew sharper. "If you don't want to come to Austin, that's fine. Fine, Mulder."

Mulder must be throwing a tantrum of some kind, because her voice got louder and her words were shorter. "Okay, I'm going to talk to you later. If you change your mind, let me know."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Sure. I'll see you in a couple of days, Mulder."

There was a harsh click of the phone returned forcefully to its cradle followed by a quite growling sound of irritation.

Krycek ran his hand through his hair. His jean-clad legs were crossed in front of him and he studied the lighter worn-spots on the pants intently.

Her voice again. "Hello? Could you tell me how to get to the Magnolia Cafe from here?"

Shit, Krycek thought. She was going to start the investigation right away. Magnolia Cafe was mentioned in three of the police reports. Allegedly, the attacks had taken place just outside the popular restaurant.

Of course, Krycek would go, but first he had to bug her room. Moments after he heard the soft tread of her feet pass down the hallway, he slipped into her room and Room 509 was wired for sound. Just to be thorough, Krycek also mounted a small camera inside the television cabinet.

Krycek hailed a cab. When the taxi arrived, he climbed into the back and insisted, "Magnolia Cafe."

"You're not weird enough to go there," the cab driver stated as he turned to face Krycek, visibly appraising Krycek's close cropped black hair, faded jeans, and grey T-shirt.

Krycek patted the backpack on the seat beside him, reciprocating the appraisal. The cabbie was about 25 with blue-black hair in several different lengths and a glittering assortment of unusual piercings. "How weird should I be?"

The driver laughed. Really, truly laughed in a way that made Krycek chuckle and shake his head. After a few moments, the cabbie's laughter subsided, and he craned around to get another good look at his passenger. "Hey, is that arm fake? Man, reminds me of that movie, The Fugitive..."

Krycek bristled, but said nothing. The driver took the hint and continued in silence. Indicating that he should be let out in the darkness of the parking lot beyond the brightly-lit cafe, Krycek slipped the fare to the young man.

Magnolia Cafe was a small, cozy, almost house-like restaurant. The cafe served eclectic food to an eclectic crowd, with the catchy motto: "Sorry we're open. 24/8." Set just south of the bustle of downtown, Magnolia was a mecca for the late-night Austin intellectual crowd.

The shadows were deep between the restaurant and the wooden privacy fence just outside the back door. From his backpack, Krycek pulled his shoulder holster and gun. Though there was only a slight chill in the air, the leather jacket he donned would not be out of place as it concealed both his gun and his missing arm.

Scully had already seen him wearing the wig he'd brought, but as he slipped it over his head he hoped that she would not recognize him this time, either. The long, thick flowing chestnut tresses made him feel both artistic and messianic. It might allow him to blend with the patrons and avoid Scully's recognition.

When he entered the cafe, he approached the hostess, a young woman with dark-rimmed glasses, a pixie haircut, and a nose ring. She took his name, an alias, and asked him to wait about fifteen minutes.

Krycek took a seat on a low bench across from a bulletin board full of advertisements for everything from holistic remedies to roommates. Though he skimmed over the miscellaneous pieces of paper tacked to the board, mostly he surreptitiously studied Scully, who was sitting on a nearby bench.

She was engrossed in the Bradbury book he'd seen earlier. Briefly, she glanced up and in his general direction, but Krycek was careful not to meet her gaze and she returned her attention to the book.

The hostess returned to the podium near the door and called out, "Melissa, party of one." Scully got up and followed the hostess to a tiny table situated between two flanking rows of booths. Apparently, she was going incognito on this trip, too.

From the hallway where he waited, Krycek could see little of the cafe. When he was seated, his small table was conveniently near Scully's. A few minutes later, another man was led to a table in their area. Krycek recognized him from the police booking photos as Caleb Carson.

Caleb Carson walked like a banker. Specifically, he walked like a lender. He had the smug aura of a man who played god with large amounts of theoretical money. One foot preceded the other with an amount of carefully calculated risk, trailing 190 pounds of computer- induced slouch.

Krycek was an avid people-watcher, even when not on duty. Apparently, Carson shared this passion, because his eyes scanned the room in fluid motion continually. As Carson sat in the small booth his eyes never stopped, and they settled on Scully several times.

Though Caleb was not a bad looking fellow, he was entirely out of his league with Scully. Carson was blessed with attractive, if doughy, features. His eyes were keen, bright, and blue. Strong, high cheekbones slashed across his face, but the skin hung a bit loosely. To avoid being too staid, Caleb's umber hair fell past his collar, unruly but not unkempt. Krycek estimated Carson to be approximately his same age, and felt slightly revolted that Carson should be getting soft in the prime of his life.

Carson must have realized that Scully was unattainable, too. After eyeing her for about forty-five minutes as she pushed cut-up bits of gingerbread pancakes around her plate, he approached a twenty-something blonde who was sitting alone. Krycek couldn't hear their conversation, but the young woman deflected him within minutes.

Defeated, Caleb paid his bill and left. Minutes later, Scully followed. Krycek pushed away his omelet and called a cab.

Early the next morning, Krycek woke, showered, and kept an eye on Scully. After leaving the cafe last night, she'd gone directly to the hotel and slept. Though not tired, Krycek adhered to her schedule and slept while the opportunity presented itself.

The small camera he'd installed had not been detected, so the surveillance was both easier and more interesting than the pure audio version he'd experienced the day before. Setting his pace for the morning was simple, since he could watch her progress as she walked in and out of the bathroom doing typical morning things like showering and applying cosmetics.

Scully was working with her hair when Krycek's cell phone rang. Pierson had managed to arrive in one piece and the truck had survived the flight, apparently.

Pierson came up to Krycek's room to deliver the keys. "Morning, Alex." He feinted tossing the truck keys to Krycek, but Krycek didn't attempt to catch them.

"I'm impressed," Krycek admitted as he read the fatigue deep beneath the younger man's surface-level cheerfulness. "Fifteen minutes early."

"Flying the truck out here made all the difference. I still had to speed up here from San Antonio, though. Just south of New Braunfels, a cop pulled me over..."

"Exactly how stupid are you, Pierson?"

Pierson shrugged. "Don't worry. I shot him."

Krycek glanced at the screen that now showed Scully working pantyhose up her legs. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his still damp, unruly hair. "You don't just shoot people like that. It draws too much attention."

"But the plates on the Black Helicopter aren't traceable, and neither is the gun I used. What would you have suggested?"

Pierson's question was not so much as a request for advice as it was a dare, a taunt. Krycek kept his voice deliberately low, "I wouldn't have gotten in that situation to begin with."

The air of deference Pierson had worn before was gone. He stepped dangerously close to Krycek, "Yeah, you are the king of good calls, Alex. How many times have you been beaten to a pulp and left for dead? I bet you were a star with those Russian peasants."

Control was the only weapon for this situation. Krycek reached into his jacket pocket and watched Pierson's ultra-cool face disappear with a deep cringe. Pierson expected retaliation, but Krycek casually produced a plane ticket from an inside pocket.

Shoving the ticket into the frightened young man's hands, Krycek instructed, "Your flight leaves in an hour. Get out of here."

Part Three

Content warning: Krycek loses the illusion of control. Who says there's no such thing as UST?

Caleb Carson's home was a quaint old bungalow west of downtown and perpendicular to infamous Sixth Street. San Antonio Street sloped steeply not from north to south in the direction of the road, but east to west across the lanes.

When Scully parallel parked, gravity swung the door open and it stuck in the curbside grass. With a soft grunt of exertion and annoyance, Scully unwedged the car door and slammed it shut.

Parallel parked nearby, Krycek was thankful that in the moderately wealthy neighborhood, his sport-utility was inconspicuous because of the particular popularity of the vehicles in the city. With the flick of a switch and a short dissonant thrum, the sensitive listening equipment activated.

Carson answered the door at her knock wearing thick black rubber gloves. Assertively, Scully stepped forward. "Caleb Carson?"

As he not-so-subtly appraised her, he nodded. Scully wore a black, tailored gabardine pantsuit with a long jacket. The black suit set off her hair, which glimmered auburn in the morning sunlight.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI?"

"Pleased to meet you," Carson replied politely, finding his voice, "though I remember you from last night at the cafe."

Scully raised an eyebrow. Perhaps that small signal from her meant that she was as surprised by the courtesy as Krycek, or perhaps she was surprised that a man who ogled her would admit it.

Caleb extended a gloved hand, then as a shocked look passed over his face, he withdrew it. "I'm sorry I can't shake your hand. Would you like to come in?" He stepped back to give her room to enter.

"I don't guess you're here for some kind of fund-raiser?"

"No." Scully almost chuckled as she followed Carson into the house, around an interior wall and out of Krycek's sight. Her voice carried, "I have some questions about the allegations against you."

Carson and Scully reappeared behind the large living room windows, which were wide open due to the mild, pleasant weather. "Tell me your side of the story, Mr. Carson."

"Call me Caleb, please," he insisted as he sat on the futon which was curiously out of place in such a nice house. Scully took a seat in a denim armchair.

"Okay, Caleb, why did you attack those women?"

It was so typical of Scully to cut right to the crux of the matter? and not to allow the reciprocation of familiarity, Krycek thought. He spent a moment adjusting dials and knobs within the truck to clarify the reception again and was caught off guard by Carson's statement.

"Shouldn't you be asking about my gloves, Agent Scully?"

She only looked surprised momentarily. "I suspect, if you're truthful with me, that the gloves are part of the story."

Carson leaned forward in his seat, "So you already suspect that I might not be truthful with you?"

Scully scowled and braced her arms against the edge of the chair. "It would be naive of me to assume you would be completely truthful with me. People lie for a variety of reasons, not all of them malicious -- some people lie because they don't want to tell the truth, others lie because they don't know the truth but wish to appear knowledgeable, and sometimes people just lie because they're hiding something. Why don't we just talk and I'll make up my mind as we go along?"

Though he didn't seem to be appeased, Carson sat back, "I'm not a monster. I didn't attack those women."

"Then tell me what happened."

Caleb twined his gloved fingers together over his knees. The friction of the slight motion caused the rubber to squeak softly. "When I touch people, I electrocute them. It's a tragedy in itself, and now it makes me appear to be a criminal."

"How do you electrocute them? Is it a device?"

"No, it's just me. I don't know how it started. At first, I thought it was neat?to be able to deliver a small electrical charge whenever I wanted. It was like when you were a child and you discovered static electricity. You would shuffle around and then touch all the people around you to see their reactions. It's not funny anymore, I can't control it. I can't turn it off. I can't touch anything."

Krycek was amazed at how Scully managed to completely doubt Carson without sounding offensive.

"I have a hard time believing this, Mr. Carson," she said, giving him her undivided attention.

"Caleb, please?and believe it or not, it happens. The incidents you've heard about come not from a desire to harm, but from a simple desire for physical contact with another human being."

Scully shot up from the chair, shoving a pointed finger toward him. "You assaulted those women."

"No."

"What would you call it then?"

"Dating?" Caleb tried for a laugh.

Krycek's cell phone rang quietly. Swearing more softly, he answered, "Yeah."

"Hey, Alex. I'm back in DC."

Pierson. Would he never go away? "What do you need? I'm in the middle of a job," he answered, aware that someone might be watching the watcher, and that even a secure cell phone call could occasionally be overheard.

"Aaw, Alex, you just need to keep a general eye on her and keep her away from DC for a while. I've been given an assignment and I need your advice," Pierson urged in a voice that sounded so sincere that the hair stood up on the back of Krycek's neck.

"What is it?"

"We're cutting your friend out of the picture," Pierson replied vaguely.

Krycek paused for a moment longer than necessary. "Clarify, Pierson, which 'friend?'"

"Mulder. That's it. We don't need him anymore."

The dark grey interior of the truck was suddenly much more interesting than the events within the house he was surveilling. "We shouldn't be discussing this on the phone. Wait until I get back and I'll personally take care of the matter," Krycek pushed.

"No." Pierson was adamant. "You have to keep her there. The phone is safe, don't worry. This could be a suicide mission for me. I need you to tell me how to get him."

"God, Pierson." Krycek muttered. If he protested too loudly about killing Mulder, plans would continue anyway, but Krycek's own name would be added to the list, too.

Mulder wasn't Krycek's favorite person, but he was important. Despite the beatings they exchanged periodically and the fact that they'd attempted to kill each other before, Krycek respected Mulder? and almost liked him sometimes.

There were unwritten rules, too. A worthy adversary deserves a fair contest. For instance, Krycek knew that someday Mulder might kill him. It was a calculated risk. There might come a time when Mulder would have to die by Krycek's hand, but the justification would have to be more substantial than just a shadowy order saying, "The time has come!"

Mulder and Krycek waved guns in each other's faces almost every time they met. It was usually the only way they would listen to each other, but there was a need there. Krycek had information, as dubious as its source might be. Mulder needed information and would tread perilously close to the dark side to get it. They were not friends, though, not even in the sense of the word, tovarish, comrade, that Krycek had thrown at him in a darkened apartment a long time ago.

Loyalties were being questioned, though. Lines were being drawn with the demand: choose your side.

"Here's what you do, Pierson. Mulder is a light sleeper, if he sleeps at all. So, the best way to get him and get out alive is to go late at night. As long as you enter quickly, gun drawn, his television should drown out any sounds he might make?"

Krycek pressed the end button on the cell phone. Prekratit, the readout said - end.

Inside the bungalow, Scully was explaining that she didn't believe in the "power" Carson claimed to be infected with, against his will. She was arguing, mostly against herself, throwing out explanations, objections, and theories.

Caleb rose to his feet and snapped off the rubber gloves.

Awkwardly, Scully rose to her feet and tried to put some distance between Caleb's approaching form and herself. Her hand was poised near her gun as Carson lunged for her.

Since she'd attempted to strong-arm him with firepower rather than motion, she was directly in his path as his large hands closed around her waist. The momentum forced her back onto the chair as a powerful jolt of electricity arced between his hands and through her midsection. She screamed.

Krycek felt himself reaching for his gun, albeit too late. Scully was limp on the chair, her head lolling to the side. From the truck, he couldn't tell if she was unconscious or dead.

As Krycek opened the door to the SUV and slunk out, Caleb pilfered Scully's handcuffs and clicked them around her wrists. Krycek relaxed somewhat since the need for cuffs confirmed the fact that she was alive.

The rubber gloves were still off, which Krycek took as an indication that Carson was still charged. The way Scully's body jerked when Carson hoisted her up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry caused Krycek to choke down bile rising in his throat.

Low and fast, Krycek whisked through the carpet-grass covering the ground between his crouched position behind the 'copter and a sheltered spot to the left of the front door. The door opened toward Krycek, shielding him from view.

Quietly, he unholstered his pistol, and as Caleb turned to shut the door, Krycek jammed the gun in his face.

"Where were you planning to take her?" Krycek demanded, moving the pistol from a stationary point in front of the worried man's face to just underneath the soft flesh of Carson's chin, carefully avoiding touching him, though, lest his gun become an excellent conductor.

"I don't know," Carson trembled. Scully was draped over his shoulder, cuffed, helpless, and still out cold.

With the gun, Krycek indicated that Carson should put her down. One of Carson's hands held Scully firmly pressed face down, the continued electricity periodically making her twitch. Carson raised his other arm in the small gap between him and Krycek.

"Don't fucking try it," Krycek grated, watching the man's hands intently. Carson winced and withdrew his hand, inching it upward to support Scully's body as he lowered her to the concrete of the bungalow's porch.

The neighborhood was still and quiet, but Krycek worried that someone might drive down the street. "You're a moron, Carson. If you assault a federal agent, you might as well kill them. Especially this one?she'll have your balls for breakfast."

"But?but," Caleb stammered, "What are you going to do with her?"

Enraged, Krycek shoved the gun at Carson, coming perilously close to the electric man, "Never-fucking-mind. Get out of here!"

Lowering the gun, Krycek watched Caleb run down the short street. A couple of neighborhood dogs barked from their yards as he fled. Krycek's jaw hurt from clenching his teeth?something he hadn't realized he was doing.

Lying unconscious on the soft grass, Scully looked almost peaceful. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, her torso and pelvis flat against the ground, with her legs tucked somewhat to the side. The look he'd seen on her face when she screamed had been replaced by an expression that reflected the complete state of relaxation she was in.

Krycek doubted many people had ever seen her this way?this unguarded. It was disarming.

When she woke, there would be a terrible confrontation. This wasn't the place for it. Carson had disappeared from sight, and all the dogs except some distant little yappy dog had quieted. Krycek grabbed the handcuffs, receiving a slight residual shock, and leveraged her into a semi-upright position.

Kneeling before her limp form, he tucked his shoulder into her abdomen and pushed himself forward and upward until he stood, holding her over his shoulder much as Carson had. Scully wasn't nearly as light as she looked. Her arms hung loosely, the soft weight of her hands and the cuffs hitting his ass with each step toward the truck. He could feel her breasts pressed firmly against his back.

Though her current state of vulnerability tempted him to remove the handcuffs, he resisted the urge. Scully wouldn't be happy to see him, and would probably regard him as a much greater threat than Carson. Somewhere in his mind, he almost allowed himself to think of her as just a woman, but that kind of thinking was dangerous. This woman could kill.

Gently, he laid her in the back of the SUV. The shock Carson had given her must have been powerful to keep her unconscious so long. He did not know when she would wake or how much she would remember, so he took her cell phone and gun, then placed his own gun on the passenger seat, within easy reach.

There were several motels near Magnolia Cafe that would take his money and turn a blind eye. Going back to the other hotel was out of the question. Carrying a handcuffed woman through the lobby would probably raise a few eyebrows.

The Dunes Motel was a rotting dinosaur of another age. Once, South Congress might have been the main drag leading up to the Capital and stretching south all the way to San Antonio. From the edge of the Dune's driveway, Krycek could look northward on Congress and see the hub of Texas politics in the distance. With the advent of interstate highways, these small motels continued to exist and draw patrons only due to their adaptive policies: accept only cash, don't ask because you don't want to know, and be sure to bleach the bedding.

The room was toward the back of the motel, so luckily the office staff would be unable to watch him unload the bound federal agent he had stashed in the 'copter. Scully still hadn't even moaned. How long could she be unconscious before it became dangerous? Could she be in a coma? Could the electricity have fried her brain permanently?

"Shit," Krycek muttered. "I should have shot the bastard."

With the assistance of his booted foot, the door opened. Krycek briefly assessed the room, then went back outside and gently lifted Scully out of the truck and hoisted her back over his shoulder. The handcuffs clanked rhythmically with his footsteps.

As carefully as possible, he stretched her out on the bed. The room was tiny and dirty with a single waterbed that had quite a bit of play in it since the mattress was only about three-quarters full. The bedspread was dark brown with huge yellow sunflowers and managed to just barely miss the exact shade of the faux-wood paneling on all four walls. The overall effect made the room look very dark, very small, and very badly in need of remodeling.

Scully looked tiny lying on the grotesque bed, and she was still so serene?but as much as he dreaded the confrontation, he needed her awake. Krycek sat down on the bed beside her and gentle water ripples radiated out and bounced off the sideboards like a karmic pool.

Bracing himself with his prosthetic arm, he gently shook her by the shoulder. No response. "Scully," he whispered.

When she didn't move, he leaned closer so his face was barely an inch from hers. "Goddamnit, wake up."

Scully didn't stir. Up close, she smelled like vanilla, a clean, natural, intoxicating scent. Her body exuded heat. Unconsciously, Krycek settled closer, lying over her. Nestling beside her, his cheek pressed to hers, he tried again, "You have got to wake up, Scully."

Inspired and possessed, his curious teeth pulled her earlobe into his mouth. "Scully," he moaned as he lightly bit her, then applied fiercer pressure with his teeth.

Her slight motion rolled through the waterbed as she moaned in response. Without opening her eyes, Scully tried to raise her hands, but the shackles made the motion difficult.

At the resistance she met, her eyes jolted open. Krycek was still leaning over her as her body jerked in an instinctive move to reach for her gun. As soon as she realized it wasn't there, she made a growling sound of frustration. The waterbed bucked wildly as she brought her arms up and shoved Krycek off balance.

"Get the fuck off me, Krycek!"

He backed off to give her breathing room, but kept his arm across her waist. "Calm down. You've got to listen to me."

Scully was breathing hard and her jaw was clenched. "Calm down? I wake up in a strange bed, handcuffed underneath a murdering son-of-a-bitch, and you expect me to calm down? Fuck you."

"Listen," he said as softly as he could manage, "you were unconscious - I needed you awake. Mulder is in danger."

Her eyes widened, then she regained her composure. "You're a liar. Why are you here?"

"I was spying on you?" Krycek admitted.

Scully clasped her bound hands together and swung them like an anvil against the side of his head. He toppled off her.

Grabbing the chain that joined the shackles, he gave her a shake. "Listen! Carson knocked you out, I took you from him. You should be thanking me. I saved your life back there and now I'm going to give you the opportunity to save Mulder's."

"Thank you? You'll have to excuse me if I wake up in handcuffs and refuse to believe you're here to do me - or Mulder - any favors," she hissed.

"If you don't warn him, he's going to die."

"Why should I believe you," she challenged.

"The killer was given step-by-step directions on how to get Mulder while he was most vulnerable."

"Who told this thug how to do it?"

"I did."

Scully looked like she was about to punch him. "So, you tell the gunman how, then you tell me to warn Mulder?" Her eyebrow quirked with the logic of it. "You play both sides, Krycek. How do I know that warning him won't walk him right into the trap?"

Exasperated, Krycek offered, "I don't care what you tell him to do - I won't even listen when you call him if you don't want. Just tell him to get out of DC as fast as possible, lay low somewhere, and don't let him come here."

"Where's my gun, Krycek?"

"I have it." He backed away further from her seething heat.

"Then take off the cuffs," she demanded, stretching her bound hands out to him.

He looked at her dubiously over the floral-print bedspread.

"Krycek, I heard about how Mulder kept you cuffed and dragged you around before you went to Tunguska. I know you hung off Skinner's balcony for a long time, too." She rubbed absent-mindedly at the chaffed skin of her wrists. "Although I don't like you, and I certainly don't trust you, his treatment of you was cruel. I know he was going to leave you in that car?"

Though the psychology behind her carefully constructed plea was painfully obvious, Krycek remembered the humiliation and uncertainty of being dragged around like Mulder's least-favorite pet, wondering what would happen when Mulder walked away, leaving him bound in the long-term parking lot. The key jangled against the others on the ring lightly as Krycek fished it out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs, dropping them on the bed.

Swiveling around, Scully sat beside Krycek on the waterbed. She seemed to examine the tacky wood paneling a few Moments too long. Finally, with a soft, low voice, she Said, "Thanks."

"Call him," Krycek implored.

Scully regarded him carefully as she turned to face him?seeking his motive. Krycek knew what she saw when she looked at him. His face did not inspire trust. Krycek's teeth were just a little too long, his lips were a little too thin, too pensive. His green eyes attempted to compel her to trust him?just this once, but he knew Scully would have a hard time believing him. She viewed him through a dark, shifting shadow. His shadow's name was guilt.

After a long moment, she conceded, "I'll call." The "but" and following threat to his life, limb, and masculinity should this be a trap went unspoken but understood.

Since Scully did not ask him to leave when Krycek handed her cell phone back, he laid back on the bed and listened.

"Mulder," she uttered, and somehow she managed to convey both warning and greeting, "You've got to get out of DC. Someone is going to try to kill you."

Floating gently on the rippling waterbed, Krycek stretched out and attempted to get comfortable.

"I'm serious, Mulder," she continued as she coiled her body tight.

Krycek strained to hear the other side of the conversation but couldn't. Doubtless Mulder was trying to persuade her that it was a hoax or to find out who tipped her off.

"I can't tell you how I heard about it yet. Just get a few things and get going! I don't want you to tell anyone where you're going?just call me periodically."

Her demeanor was one ready for a full-blown argument. "No, don't come to Austin. It's too obvious."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Please be careful, Mulder."

Part Four

It's been a long time. For those of you who have been following this story, I appreciate you more than you know. Those of you who have encouraged me have given me a gift beyond compare. I offer to you, finally, the next chapter. It won't make sense unless you've read what has come before.

Content warning: Krycek in handcuff(s), a waterbed, and impromptu medical procedures! Scully and Krycek on a case-file!

Special thanks to my beta readers, Cynthia Douglas (I found your comments!) and Cassiopeia (from the GW fandom). They make my life complete and beat me up occasionally to keep me in line. *g*

Scully dropped the cell phone lightly on the bed. "He'll be heading out soon. I didn't even let him tell me where he was going - so you can't force it out of me."

"That wasn't my intention," Krycek said, his heavy-lidded eyes fighting against sleep. "I don't want to know where he went, I just wanted to warn him. If the warning had come from me, though, I'd be next on the hit-list."

Krycek stretched lazily again on the wavering waterbed. Like lightning, Scully was on top of him, slapping the handcuff over his right arm and locking him to the bedpost. She reached over to his bag and found the duct tape, then without preamble straddled his pelvis as she reached across to his other arm to secure it.

Frantic, afraid, and cursing his ill-timed arousal, Krycek bucked beneath her. Scully managed to grab his prosthetic and wrench it toward the other bedpost. Her eyes widened at the awful sound of grinding on skin and a wretched groan that escaped his lips.

"You lost your arm, Alex?"

He cursed at her in Russian, then said, "So what?"

"I didn't know. I'm sorry. I think I hurt your shoulder."

Krycek didn't know if her apology was for his lost arm or for injuring him. He didn't care, either. "No shit," he growled.

Without asking, she worked his jacket off the prosthetic and around his back so it hung loosely off the handcuff that bound him to the bed. Her hands clutched his t-shirt and untucked it. As she raised the shirt, her nails dragged across his ribcage. He inhaled sharply, "What are you doing, Scully?"

Painfully aware that she still sat atop his hips, Krycek saw that she was studying his exposed chest. "Scully?"

"I'm going to take a look at your arm," she stated.

"It would be easier if you'd let me go."

The bed wavered slightly beneath them as Scully dashed his hopes. "I don't trust you, Krycek. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather send you packing and not have to see you again - but once you're out of my sight I can't control you. I don't know what you're up to."

Krycek twisted underneath her. "You're worse than Mulder. You remind me how awful it is to be in this position and then when I let you go, you repeat his dog-leash trick? Why don't you hit me, too? He would."

"I can't predict what you're going to do, Krycek." She searched his face briefly then finished baring his chest, shoving the t-shirt over his good arm to hang near the jacket.

As Scully leaned against him to remove the prosthetic, Krycek involuntarily arched his back and his hips twitched upward. He sucked in a deep breath as they connected, and he was pretty sure she gasped, too.

"Behave yourself, Krycek," she warned, "or your arm won't be the only thing that hurts."

"Then get the hell off me."

She didn't respond, didn't move. Krycek knew Scully would be more vulnerable if she didn't have him pinned to the bed - his legs would be free and he might be able to regain the advantage.

The weight of the artificial limb fell away and the cool air-conditioned breeze tickled the exposed stub of his arm. Even now, he could barely stand to look at what remained.

There was nothing clean about the wound. Without anesthesia and without warning his arm had been slowly and brutally sawed off with a knife that was too small and dull to do the job. He didn't receive medical attention for a long time afterward, either, so there was little that could be done for the jagged flesh and chiseled bone at the new termination point for his left arm. The skin was shiny and dead from their attempt to cauterize the wound.

Under the influence of enormous quantities of vodka (the potato kind, real Russian vodka - not the fake American kind), he tried to make the cut more aesthetically pleasing. After a few cuts intended to "even-out" the damage, he woke in a hospital suffering from extreme blood-loss and the early onset of an infection.

There was nothing pleasant about the old wound, and though he dreaded knowing what Scully thought, he needed to see her reaction.

She was examining the area with her eyes, but had not yet touched him. Scully betrayed nothing: no pity, no empathy, nothing. Krycek felt as if he were lying on an autopsy table waiting for her.

"God, Krycek," Scully said softly, "What they did to you - I'm surprised you survived it."

He saw some semblance of human emotion in her finally - not pity, but maybe compassion. "I sometimes wish I hadn't," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Scully cocked her head but said nothing. Gently her hands descended to his shoulder and probed the tender area.

His skin burned where her sure fingers traveled, even though her touch was professional, impersonal. She didn't avoid the stump of his arm, treating all equally and examining the shiny terminus, the scarred uneven area where his bicep abruptly ended, and the shoulder joint.

"It's dislocated," she diagnosed.

Krycek wished his right arm was free so that he could cover his face against the agony ahead. The best way to right a shoulder would be to grab the arm and using the leverage it allowed, pull really hard until things went back into place - that was Krycek's non-medical explanation. Scully probably had precise medical terminology to describe the procedure, but it would feel the same, either way.

Of course, it was a painful process and the fact that his arm was shortened left her with little for leverage.

"Gonna hurt," she advised as she wrapped her hands firmly around the arm. He winced with pain and embarrassment.

To compensate for the loss of the length of his arm, she placed her foot firmly against his chest. With strength he never expected, Scully jerked what remained of his left arm fiercely. It felt like she had shoved a fishing hook through his heart and was pulling it out through his shoulder. He grimaced but managed not to scream by biting through his bottom lip.

"So, what now," Krycek asked though a haze of bloody teeth when the sharp pain began to ebb.

"I don't know," she admitted. Scully had moved away to sit on the edge of the bed, considering the question carefully. "I've got to find Carson before he hurts anyone else - that's a priority, but..."

"But what," Krycek prodded when she seemed to be finishing her thought in her mind, not aloud.

"But the threat to Mulder's life and the fact that you're here complicates things."

"Forget Mulder," Krycek stated matter-of-factly. "You warned him. If he listens to you and takes precautions, he should be fine for now..."

"You seem to think there are bigger agendas here? How do I know you aren't here to kill me?"

Krycek rolled his eyes and jangled the handcuff that held him in place. "You were unconscious. You were bound. I could have done anything I wanted to you. If I were here to kill you, you'd be dead already and Carson would be in jail charged with the murder. Why on earth would I have let you go if I came here to kill you?"

"Maybe it's not a matter of what you want," she surmised, "Maybe you're waiting for orders."

"I'm in a fine position to execute them," he replied sardonically.

Scully got up and moved to the nightstand to collect her gun, Then she regarded Krycek carefully.

With a swift move, she was on top of him again, patting him down in search of weapons. She efficiently discovered his gun and a butterfly knife - legal, but just barely. Krycek squirmed under her hands.

"I should leave you here, but I need to know what you're doing. If I keep you close, I can make sure danger doesn't come from your direction," she explained.

Krycek understood her motivation and her distrust, so he was surprised by her announcement.

"You're coming with me to find Carson. That's the only way I can keep track of you."

Speechless, Krycek watched her stern face as she laid out the terms for his release.

"I keep the knife, your gun, your phone. If the phone rings, I'll give it to you so you can answer it as if everything is normal - but you can't initiate any calls," she continued.

Intending to protest, Krycek opened his mouth, then snapped it shut as Scully produced the handcuff key.

"I'm not going to drag you around in cuffs, but if you make any sudden or threatening moves, I'll shoot you. When we go talk to people, don't say anything or I'll arrest you as the federal fugitive you are - and if anything happens to Mulder, you're within easy reach."

With a soft "snick," she unlocked the cuffs. "Thank you," Krycek said.

"Don't thank me. You're driving."