Unnatural Tendencies

I awakened out of a sound sleep to find him standing in the doorway of my bedroom. I'm usually a light sleeper, and I don't know what kept me from hearing him before then. I guess my subconscious must have thought it was Mulder.

"Don't try for it, Scully," he says. "I will shoot you, you know."

I don't try for it. I know that tone. It's the one he uses when he's serious and he means what he says. I know that he will shoot me if I try for it, even if that's the last thing he wants.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, sitting up in bed, the covers sliding down the silk of my pajamas to my waist. It's chilly in the room. I'm economical and I have the heat programmed to go down at night.

"Not even, 'Hello Krycek'?" he asks, sounding ironically disappointed. He moves to the side of my bed and takes my Sig off the nightstand. He opens the drawer and takes out my spare clip, too, using the prosthesis. He's actually quite good with that thing. He shoves them into the pocket of his leather jacket and my cell phone follows, then he pulls my home phone out of the wall. Typically thorough of him.

"I don't tend to say hello to people who break into my apartment and threaten me with guns," I tell him.

"Maybe you should," he tells me, taking my gun and phones to the other side of the room and putting them on my dresser along with the ammo clip. "It might put them in a better mood."

"And why should I care what kind of mood you're in?" I ask.

"No reason, I guess," he says, sitting down in the chair across from my bed that Mulder likes to wait in when he's sneaking up on me.

It sounds like such a simple action, sitting down. But judging from the way he did it I could tell a number of things about Alex Krycek. First, was that he was tired. And not just tired, but bone weary. I've been like that myself, and I know what it feels like. It makes you move like you've suddenly aged by fifty years and have become afflicted with arthritis overnight. I've felt it. I've seen it on Mulder. I know it well. Second, was that he was hurt. I wasn't certain where yet, but somewhere and recently. Third, was that he didn't really intend to stay in the chair very long. He was just resting on the edge, his back not against the back of the chair. Probably afraid he'd fall asleep if he remained in one position too long. Or maybe, he was just afraid. I'd seen that on him before, too. No matter how hard he tried to hide it. And he had the look of a frightened man right now even though he was maintaining well. Perhaps more frightened than I'd ever seen him before, even when he was staring down the barrel of Mulder's gun.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Just full of questions tonight, aren't we, Scully?" he says with a sigh. "As usual, I want a lot of things. Where are your handcuffs?"

I shut my eyes. I didn't want a repeat of what had happened the last time Krycek had gotten ahold of my handcuffs.

"Don't look like that," he tells me softly, and with a note of genuine pain in his voice that makes me open my eyes again. "I can't stand you looking like that."

"What do you expect?" I ask.

"Christ!" he says, launching himself out of the chair again, to take a few quick steps toward me. "What IS this, the fucking third degree? Where are the goddamned handcuffs?"

Abrupt mood shift - another Krycek trademark, if something so random can be called a trademark. His hands are reaching out toward me, one of them still holding the gun, and he doesn't look like he is pleading.

So I realize that my choices have been limited by this man again, as they were months ago in a hotel room in Rhode Island when I said no and it didn't matter at all. That I again have to decide how I will comply with his orders, or he will force me anyway. And while Krycek has never physically hurt me, he's frightened and tired and on the rawest edge I've ever seen. He might do something out of fear or pain that he ordinarily wouldn't. I'm not afraid of him exactly, but it's obvious that it's better not to frustrate him too much right now. So I won't. I want to stay alive.

"They're on the dresser with my ID and keys," I tell him. He immediately goes over to look.

"I should have seen them, but I missed it, Jesus!" he says, pounding his fist on the top of the dresser . He rests his forehead on the fist for a few seconds and takes several deep breaths before he picks up the cuffs.

There is something very wrong with him. He's rattled. And more scared and upset than he'd been when we'd picked him up from the wreckage of that terrorist van before he and Mulder headed off to Russia.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he says contritely, shifting moods again and coming toward me with the cuffs. "This isn't your fault and I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"Right. I hope you don't," I say and he smiles as he sits down on the edge of the bed. He just sits there for a long time and simply looks at me with that same smile on his face. Like he's really glad to see me. And I don't think there is really any question that he actually is.

Mulder tends to treat Krycek like he's the Devil himself, with all of the Lord of Lies bullshit that goes along with it. But the fact is, I've never noticed Krycek being the Lord of much of anything. As long as I've known him he's been carrying out someone else's orders, even if he is also playing a deeper game that's all his own -- the make-sure-Krycek-comes-out-on-top game.

But being the Lord of Lies is a complicated matter. And I think Krycek is actually more simple than that. At least I think that what Krycek wants for himself is simple. Krycek wants to survive. He wants to win. He wants revenge on the people who have hurt and betrayed him. He wants to be the hero of his own story. He wants what everyone wants even if he does tell lies within lies. But that's what he says, what he tells, not what he wants or what he is.

The simple truth is, that no one can lie all the time, or hide what they are. It's simply too exhausting. It requires a level of effort beyond what most people are capable of. And Krycek doesn't bother with us beyond the lies required by his profession. He feeds us false information, or clues, depending on which game he's playing at the moment, but he doesn't pretend to be someone he's not. It's like you can see him relax and become more himself even while he's waiting for Mulder to slug him again.

"Wrists please," Krycek says, finally.

I look at him for a long moment, and he raises his eyebrows in encouragement and to know that he's really serious. I hold out my right hand and he snaps the cuff on it.

"Ok, through the headboard," he says.

"Do we have to?" I ask. "I really don't want to scratch it up. This is my furniture, you know."

He laughs then and shakes his head in a way that makes you remember how good-looking he is even if he is the enemy.

"Do you have some duct tape?" Krycek asks.

I can think of a million and one unpleasant uses for that, so I hedge.

"Not that I can lay my hands on right now, no," I tell him.

"Guess I'll have to use mine, then," he sighs and gets up off the bed, backing out of the room just into the hallway, with the gun out again and pointed at me. "Don't move, Scully."

I contemplate moving anyway. The dresser is just a few steps away from my bed and I can probably get to the cell phone before he can shoot me. So I could call my own ambulance and see if I bleed to death before they get here. However, I don't think he plans to hurt me, and I can probably get to the cell phone later without risking a bullet hole. He's awfully tired.

And damn him if he doesn't come back with his bag, half a roll of gray duct tape and his knife.

"What do you plan to do with that?" I ask.

"Make sure we don't hurt your furniture," he replies, and unrolls a piece of duct tape, holds it with his teeth and the prosthesis and uses his good hand to cut it neatly near the beginning of the roll. Realizing he's not going to use it on me, I reach out and fold the end over so it doesn't stick to itself.

"Thanks," Krycek says and smiles at me. Then he takes his tape and winds it around the chain that links the cuffs together. Perfect way to prevent it from scratching the spindles of my not-inexpensive-on-an-FBI-salary oak headboard.

It seems that the courteous relationship Krycek tried to create between us in Rhode Island is going to continue even while he makes me do exactly what he wants - again.

"Arms over your head, Scully," he tells me, and I grudgingly oblige. Krycek neatly closes the other cuff around my left wrist, interlocking the chain through three of the spindles on the headboard. They're rather thin.

"Ok, now that I'm all tied up, do you want to tell me why you've broken into my home in the middle of the night?" I ask him.

"You don't have to be so hostile, you know," Krycek snaps, irritated.

I just look at him, so he switches tactics, apparently still wanting to jolly me along.

"It's really sort of embarrassing," Krycek says giving me a studied bashful boy routine. I'm not buying it and I frown my disapproval in a look usually reserved for Mulder's innuendoes.

"Cut the nonsense and tell me," I tell him.

"I need somewhere to stay," Krycek says dropping the crap and looking tired and himself again. "I'm in some trouble right now, and I can't go to a hotel or to anywhere that would ordinarily be safe. They'll never look for me here. I actually thought of going over to Mulder's but he'd just be too much trouble, and there probably wouldn't be anything to eat. I bet you have something in your 'fridge other than month old orange juice and rotted Chinese take-out."

"You could turn yourself in and I could get you to a safe house," I tell him.

"You mean like last time? Take me over to Skinner's so the old man can slug me and tie me out on the balcony? Chain me up so the assassin can find me easier? I think not," Krycek says bitterly.

Mulder hadn't told me they'd done that, just that Krycek had thrown some man off Skinner's balcony and murdered him, causing Skinner all kinds of problems.

"With what you know we could get you into the Witness Protection Program," I suggest.

"You and I both know I'd never live that long," he smiles tiredly. "It's ok, though, I have a plan to get myself out of it. I just have to get some rest and then I can get to work. I've been up for the better part of a week now, and I'm just not thinking clearly enough to do what I have to do."

"So you came here to crash on my couch?" I ask.

"The couch? Really, Scully, I thought we were better friends than that," he says it lightly, in an ironic and teasing way, but I can tell that he's really serious and that he actually is hurt at the suggestion. Like I should just have thrown my arms around him as soon as he walked in my door and asked him to hop in the bed with me. I know he can't seriously expect that, but amazingly he's hurt by it anyway.

"We're not friends at all, Krycek," I say, with the emphasis on the word friends, but I say it gently, more like a fact than a dismissal. I don't want to insult or anger him.

He reaches up and caresses my cheek. I curse myself inwardly for leaving myself open to it.

"You're right, Scully, we're not friends," he says gently, with the same emphasis as I'd used.

"Aren't you too tired for this?" I ask hopefully.

Krycek just smiles and leans forward to kiss me. I turn my head to the side and his lips connect with my cheek instead. He makes a little sound to acknowledge that he's been thwarted and then reaches up and turns my face toward him. Then our lips connect, and it's just like it was the last time. Wonderful in an awful sort of way.

It's just been too long since anyone has kissed me. I'd nearly forgotten what it was like until Krycek did it up in Rhode Island. I didn't want him to. It wasn't my idea. And it wasn't as though he'd done it as part of any sort of normal courtship or friendship or lustship. But he was good at it. It felt good. It feels good now. And I'm sure he finds it similarly pleasurable or he wouldn't be doing it.

There are, after all, infinite numbers of ways he could find to make me submit to his will. He chooses this one. I don't know why for certain, but I'm very certain submitting isn't the goal. I don't think breaking someone or forcing them to his will is what chugs Krycek's choo-choo. It's not the submission he's after, it's just necessary to get what he really wants. I think that's why I'm not repulsed by him.

I am not a woman who likes to submit to anyone. I like to fight to the bitter end, thank you very much. It's why I don't let Mulder get away with anything. It's why I didn't let my father stop me from joining the FBI. It's why I persisted despite the huge drop-out rate among women at Med School and the good ole boy network of doctors who think that a woman's place is in the kitchen and not in the operating room. It's how I've become what I am today.

Krycek knows all that, and he ignores it. But he does it in a gentle sort of way, damn him. He does it in a way that makes it feel like I'm not really submitting, or that the submission is irrelevant and has no bearing on my self-respect. Just like in Rhode Island.

Mulder still hasn't forgiven me for that.

But I have forgiven myself. For a number of reasons.

At first, when I got myself loose in the bathroom, freed myself from the cuffs and got Mulder out of his own situation about 45 minutes after Krycek stole our car, I was feeling pretty bad. Especially about the way I'd behaved in the bathroom, instead of just enduring in my role of forced submission, actually going along -- and what's more -- encouraging him.

I was kicking myself. Doing the whole "Dana, what were you thinking?" routine. I always do that whenever I do something even remotely impulsive. Or actually when I do anything that I haven't thought over, say, nine or ten years. And the fact is, whenever I do something impulsive, it usually comes back to bite me right away. The whole Ed Jerse situation immediately springs to mind, and there are a few others, that while not so life-threatening, were certainly much more embarrassing because they occurred in front of people who knew me instead of in a strange and anonymous city.

But the fact of it was, Krycek was so damned delighted with my participation whether slight or great, it was like I was giving him a gift or something. I have never really been encouraged to view having sex with someone that way. It's usually a grim and very serious sort of occasion fraught with meaning and significance. It's usually after a long negotiation about what my status in the ensuing relationship is going to be. It's usually about my proving that I really really love them and am willing to sacrifice of myself to forward our relationship. It usually takes all the fun out of it.

Krycek acted like I was the coolest present he'd gotten under the tree on Christmas morning. He actually giggled with delight when I got down on my knees. It was impossible to resist. Ok, so not impossible, but I really didn't want to resist. And I didn't want to examine the reason why for that just then, either. I considered protesting for maybe a second out of pure knee-jerk reaction, and then I just put it aside and did what I really wanted. I went with it. And it was ok to do that, because in the end there would be no relationship beyond the moment. No bargaining had to occur because once we were done everything would go back to the way it had been before. With Krycek playing his game and me trying to stop him. What we did there wasn't about loyalty, or games, or conspiracy. I just wish that Mulder could understand that. What happened in the bathroom wasn't about anything but two human beings choosing to enjoy a moment that wasn't about anything but pleasure. And I could make that choice even after what he'd done.

The first time, in the hotel room was not a choice. It was an imposition of Krycek's will over mine. But the way he did it, it just didn't feel like I was being victimized, even though I know I was.

Later, I thought that the whole experience had actually been like someone giving you a really ugly lamp as a present. Something you didn't want. That didn't go with anything you owned, that you never would have picked out for yourself, and that you simply didn't know what to do with. You couldn't throw it away because they were giving it to you, but you really didn't want it. That's what the whole thing felt like when it was happening, not like Krycek was taking something from me, but more like he was giving me something I didn't want and had absolutely no use for.

It changed the nature of my choices, I think, by changing the dynamic of the situation from Krycek's forcibly taking something from me to Krycek's forcing me to take something from him. Obviously the force is an important part of it, I was tied up then as I'm tied up now, but the giving is important, too. One doesn't outweigh the other, but it's a lot harder to get angry at someone for giving you something than it is to get angry at someone who is trying to hurt and humiliate you.

I mean, then, like right now, I could have chosen to get upset and make everything completely and utterly horrible and grim. I could have turned something so obviously not intended by Krycek to be awful into a scene of ultimate horror and humiliation. That was also my choice. Some people would think it was my only legitimate option. That it was somehow my duty to make it be horrible, because it hadn't been my idea and because Krycek hadn't asked, he'd told.

But that wasn't really how it was. And I knew it then as I know it now.

The whole ride to Rhode Island, he'd spent his time trying to make me smile. He told stupid jokes. He talked about nothing. He acted like we were high school kids out on our first date. And he very deliberately tried to establish a feeling of intimacy between us. I think it was a feeling that he'd been feeling alone for a long time, and he finally wanted to tell me about it. In a typically screwed up way, like everything in his life, that and what happened afterward in that hotel room was the way he'd thought of.

I still don't know exactly why he did what he did, but it was crystal clear that he wasn't trying to hurt me or Mulder. He took extreme care to do just the opposite and the man never touched me in a way that was anything but gentle. And whenever he did something that might have made me frightened, he tried to reassure me that everything was going to be all right. Despite that, it was still all wrong.

Krycek raped me.

There's no arguing about that.

He didn't ask, and I wouldn't have said yes if he had. There's no way I ever would have said yes. I couldn't have said yes any more than Krycek could have allowed himself to ask me. We're on opposite sides.

And Krycek knows that as well as I do.

But all the while he didn't ask for my consent, he acted like it was affection. That he was my lover. And once the deed had been done so to speak, and Krycek was well and firmly in the role he'd elected for himself, I was free to decide what I would do.

So I watched him carefully, and I weighed the evidence in front of me, and I tried to understand what was really going on, because just looking at him let you know that it wasn't about the surfaces of things, but about something much deeper. Krycek is used to playing games within games. It's what he does. And while this was so very obviously not a game to him, it had layers like an onion and I had to peel them back one by one to try to see the truth at the heart of it.

Truth that Krycek was, of course, trying desperately to hide. So I had to look for clues. And they came in what he said, the way he touched me. The way he looked at me. His attentiveness to my every sound, my every movement. His reactions to my reactions. It was all there plain as ink on paper to be read if you only looked.

It was all his idea from the beginning, from the moment he put us in the car, in fact. But the way it played out it was like the whole thing was more about my getting off than Krycek getting off. That it was about us, rather than about him.

I think he was surprised at how much he wanted me. He looked surprised when he realized he couldn't hold out any longer and came inside me, just after my own orgasm. The third non-faked one during intercourse in my entire life, by the way. Most of my lovers, men who were supposed to value me, didn't care enough to make certain I had one. But Krycek did. Why?

It was when he surprised himself by coming that my rather shocked and addled brain really snapped back into gear and I thought about what it all meant to Krycek. That I started thinking about him as a person - about his life. Putting myself in his place, the way Mulder can seem to do with anyone but Krycek. I thought about it the whole while he slept in my arms. Or would have been in my arms, if they hadn't been fastened to the headboard.

Because I would have held him. He needed it more than anyone I've ever seen, I think. And that's what it was really all about.

Krycek has actually been through as much as I have in the past five years in his own way. Maybe more. I have no idea what he does when he's not with us. But, obviously a great many things that aren't natural tendencies. I noticed that as I watched him with Mulder.

The coy little-boy act and almost simpering way he tried to flirt with him at first, the way he looked Mulder over, it was like he was channeling a Geisha it was so artful and so false. But as Mulder kept on insulting him, the real Krycek began to gradually seep through the cracks until he was back again, the artful Geisha-boy completely gone. There's something significant about the way he feels about Mulder, you could tell that by the way Krycek looked at him. I actually think what he wants from Mulder is more about acceptance and approval than sex, though Mulder's certainly attractive enough to inspire all sorts of lust. I can objectively say that. And Krycek definitely wanted him when they were looking at one another like that.

We're both Mulder's partners. We both want him. But Krycek can admit it - to himself and to Mulder. That's where we're different, I guess. Krycek has given up caring about saving face. Probably because in Mulder's eyes he has no more face to save. He knows it, but he still somehow wants Mulder's approval. Approval he can never have.

Actually what he really reminds me of is that old Warner Bros. Cartoon that someone created after reading "Of Mice and Men" one too many times. You know the one with the big bulldog being followed around by the little, spazzy puppy dog that occasionally leaps up in the air and jumps over its back? The little one is trotting along by its side saying "Yeah, Spike! You bet! What da ya think? Think I could do that, too? Think I could be a big, tough dog like you, Spike?" Well, that little dog is Krycek and the big bulldog that ignores it and occasionally beats it up is Mulder. I really don't know how their relationship got to that dynamic, but it's the only one I've ever seen them in.

Mulder tries to hurt Krycek, and Krycek tries desperately to please Mulder whenever he can. And it is desperate, too. Krycek desperately wants Mulder's approval for some reason. I've never been able to fathom why.

In fact, I actually thought Krycek hated me at first. When we first met, when I was in the lab at Quantico and he was there as Mulder's new partner, Mulder just shut him out of the conversation and talked to me like Krycek wasn't even there. I found it a little odd, but I was so glad to see him that I just forgot about Krycek until I saw Krycek looking at me with something that bordered on hate. We were in a turf war over Mulder. I don't know why. I still don't. And I don't know why or how it ended, either. But it has. Krycek doesn't hate me now at all. In fact, I think he identifies with me in some strange way. And I don't know where that came from, either. It happened while he was away.

And when he came back, he wanted things from both of us.

Krycek kisses sweetly, too. And I can tell a number of things by the way he's doing it.

He really is tired. He isn't trying to make me. He really really wants me to kiss him back. And again, like in Rhode Island, it is more than clear that Krycek is not trying to take something from me, but is rather asking me to accept something of him.

It's why I did what I did then. He needed it so badly, someone to accept him. And acceptance is so passive. He didn't ask me to do anything, just to accept him and what he was offering.

And so now, like then, I do.

And now, like then, he's surprised and so delighted he can hardly contain himself. It makes me feel good to make him happy. The very last person on earth I should care to make that way. It's perverse.

"Dana Scully, you are a pervert", I tell myself as I kiss him back, gently, sweetly as he's kissing me. Krycek makes a small sound of pure need, and slips his arm around my back, pressing himself against my chest.

I didn't ask for this, but I can't help but want to give what I can. It's like Krycek is a vacuum and my mass is instinctively drawn there to fill the emptiness. I don't love him, but I don't know what else to do in response to a need like that.

Because, like me, Krycek is broken. And it's going to take a hell of a lot more than his gray duct tape to put him back together again.

"What were you before?" I think, as Krycek finally breaks the kiss to look at me half in wonder, half in fear. He looks so young. He's what, maybe four, five years younger than I am? But I feel like I could be his mother in so many ways. Yet another perverse thought to add to the pile, considering. But I often forget I'm 35 and not 60. Was I really ever as young as he is now? I don't remember, but I must have been. What was I like then? Did I need this much? I don't think so. I think I was too self-absorbed and focused on my career to miss the human things. That's Krycek's appeal, because he already knows what's really important. The things it took me years to understand because I'd always been so secure. I'd always taken them for granted.

People are really the only thing that's important. And it really isn't until you lose a few that you can appreciate that. Or at least that's what it took for me.

Who was it that Krycek lost? It makes me wonder. But viewing it objectively, I think it's safe to say that in the past five years at least he's lost everyone. Maybe even himself. At least he's lost everyone he knew, worked with, and had established some kind of life with here in Washington. Now he wanders around working for people that he knows can't be trusted. Where can he place his loyalty? Or does he have any left to place?

Oddly, I think he places it in Mulder. And by default, in me. I think that's also what this is about.

We're the one thing in his universe that he really can be sure about. He knows what we are. And we're pretty consistent. I don't know what else in his life is. Mulder would say his iniquity. But Mulder's an asshole when it comes to Krycek. I've seen it myself on a lot of occasions.

I know my partner well, and in some ways I love him very much. I do not love the way he treats Krycek. He's like the damned playground bully with the kid in first grade who wants in to the group. He has all the power and he abuses it. He reminds me of my brother Bill. It's the only time he does, and it's not a nice comparison.

Whenever Krycek approaches Mulder he's so - hopeful. It's nearly nauseating the kind of kid-brother hero worship he has for Mulder. And Mulder's nothing but horrible to him. I don't know how Krycek can muster up the courage to put himself out there like that time and time again to be slapped down by Mulder. It's a kind of emotional courage I've never possessed myself. I can't help but admire it. And I can't help but admire his determination and cussed stubbornness because I know that somewhere inside Krycek he figures he can just wear Mulder down. And I think he may just be right because I know my partner to be a good and kind person when it comes to everyone but Krycek. One of these days he's just got to recognize what Krycek's doing for what it is.

"Scully," Krycek asks with a bit of a dramatic flair and a skeptical look at me, "Are you high?"

"I'm a Federal Agent, Krycek," I say. "I have to drug test, you know that. Why do you ask?"

"You just totally zoned out there," he tells me. He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes like he's trying to wake me out of a trance.

"Well it is past my bedtime," I deadpan.

"But you're in bed," Krycek smiles.

"Oh, so this is just some strange nightmare, then," I say. "Good, because you had me going there. I could swear I was handcuffed to the headboard. Again."

"If you're bored I could handcuff you to something else," Krycek says with a rather evil grin. "How about the stove? But I'd think the kitchen floor would be a little cold this time of night. You might want to consider staying where you are."

"Ha ha," I say.

Krycek looks slyly about the room, like the villain in a turn-of-the-century melodrama.

"Speaking of appliances," he begins. "This looks like a pretty nice apartment building. It wouldn't happen to be one that has a washer and dryer in the unit, would it?"

"In the hall closet, why..." I can't even finish because Krycek is off the bed like a shot, practically chuckling to himself in glee. He picks up his duffle bag and carries it out into the hall.

"Don't look, Scully, it's really too horrible," he says as he begins pulling incredibly dirty clothes out of the bag. The surreal nature of this night once again overwhelms me as I realize the man is going to do his laundry.

So I watch him. And unlike most men, who I've always found are pretty hopeless when it comes to laundry, Krycek, like Mulder, sorts his expertly, actually humming to himself, and goes about selecting the settings properly on the washing machine. Medium level water for the size of the load and hot wash, cold rinse for whites. I feel like I'm losing my mind. But then, who would Krycek have to do his laundry for him?

He puts in the soap and bleach. Chlorine bleach, but seeing he's sorted, it doesn't really matter, and everything will be germ-free, too, which is good if he's been carrying it all jumbled together in the bag. Then he lets the washer fill about half full before he puts in the clothes. I feel like I'm watching my Mother. Krycek would definitely get the Maggie Scully Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for laundry. He's more meticulous than I am.

After he puts the clothes in he shakes his head like a man waking up from hypnosis.

"I am so stupid!" he mutters to himself. "Shower first, you asshole."

So Krycek talks to himself, too. I was thinking it was just me. I've never seen Mulder do it, and he's really the only one I'm around enough to know if they did it or not.

"I think you're just tired," I tell him and he looks startled to hear someone answer other than himself.

"Oh, yeah, cut me some more slack, Scully," Krycek comes back into the bedroom and grins. "I could get used to it."

"Don't," I say. "I'm usually not in such a benevolent mood. Just ask Mulder."

Krycek hovers in the doorway for a little while, then he takes off his leather jacket. Removing the gun from the pocket, he carries the gun into the bathroom. Under the jacket he's wearing jeans, which seem de rigueur for Krycek these days and a thermal henley, which isn't a bad idea for late fall in D.C. It was only about 45 today.

He looks around my bathroom for a minute or so.

"Towels?" he asks.

"In the linen closet in the bathroom," I tell him.

"Cool," he says, and strips off the henley without shutting the bathroom door.

He's not wearing a t-shirt under it, which is unusual for him. That's when I notice the bruises. Someone's beaten the hell out of him, and recently. Maybe several someones judging by the number and impact angles on the bruises. When he turns to get out a towel and a washcloth I see the gunshot wound. It's low down on the left side, just above his waist. Looks like it hit nothing terribly vital and just went clean through. Entrance wound on the back.

Someone shot him in the back. Maybe while he was running away.

It's typical of the people he works for, I guess, but it chills me nevertheless. You just don't expect to see that on someone you know.

Krycek turns on the water, adjusting it to the proper level of heat. Then he takes off his boots and socks, then his jeans and boxers. He doesn't turn around to see if I'm watching him. He probably knows I am. And it's not like I haven't seen it all before, after all.

Then he does something I haven't seen before. He reaches up to the straps that attach the artificial arm to what remains of his own and he undoes the buckles that hold it in place. And when he removes it, I can see why.

There are red welts all along Krycek's body where the straps hold the arm in place. He's worn it so long without being able to take it off it's rubbed him raw, even though you can tell it's very well fitted. He probably better put it on over the t-shirt next time instead of using the t-shirt to try to minimize the strangeness of it.

I know it bothers him to take it off. It's probably why he's not looking at me. He was awfully odd about it the last time. And from the things he said, he's very bitter about what he's lost. Like I am.

I know Krycek in that if in nothing else. The ache of missing some part of you you can never have back again.

But Krycek doesn't say anything and goes about his business. He gets into the shower and I can hear the water striking against his battered body as he tilts his head back to let the water run down over his hair. I remember how he was the last time I saw him in the shower.

It makes me wonder what he's going to want after he gets out of there. I try not to think about it. I'll deal with whatever happens when it happens, no use torturing myself with anticipation.

I'm shivering. It's cold in here with the heat down for the night and with my arms tied above my head outside of the covers.

The shower's warm, though. I can see the steam in the air, fogging my bathroom mirror.

I hope it will make him sleepy. He's tired. He's had the hell beaten out of him. He needs to rest somewhere safe. And the Lord himself knows my bed's about the safest place in all of Georgetown, maybe in the entire D.C. metropolitan area.

It wasn't safe in Rhode Island. And I thought Mulder was going to kill someone after I pulled the towel rod loose in the bathroom and came back out into the hotel room and untied him. At first I thought he was going to kill me.

Instead he just growled and grabbed the towel off my hair, wrapped it around his waist and stalked off into the shower. I'd tried not to look at him, as I had a towel and he was still completely naked and undeniably humiliated, but I think his anger had eclipsed anything else he was feeling by then. At least I hope so. I don't like the alternative. I don't like to think about Mulder being hurt - ever - and I don't like to think of me being part of what's hurt him. I hope he was just angry, even if he was angry with me.

He was in there a long time, until the hot water ran out I think. I was dressed in what was left of my clothes by the time he got out of the shower, his skin very red from the heat of the water. I think Mulder felt used, and it made me feel even more guilty because I didn't. But the more anger I saw in Mulder and the sulkier and more sullen he became as he dressed and reported our car stolen, the less guilty I felt.

I let him take care of things while I sat in the room and looked at the remains of the Chinese food and drank one of the leftover cans of Coke. Mulder didn't say a single word about what had just happened. He just looked at me, like he was affronted by my very existence.

I don't know if it was because I had witnessed what had happened between him and Krycek, because despite how Mulder felt about it afterward, despite how upset he was while it was happening, he had enjoyed it in some ways. In ways that were more than simply physical. I could tell by the way he looked at Krycek while Krycek had him in his mouth. Mulder was intense, but not with horror or rage, he simply concentrated on Krycek as he had when they'd had their little staring competition on the bed, while each of them grew increasingly aroused. It had really been something to watch. I never would have believed it of either of them but I saw it with my own eyes. They got hard just looking at one another. Into one another's eyes. That's much more than physical.

But it's the way I feel about Mulder sometimes, too. Not when he's looking at me, though. I'd be too afraid that he could see it in me as he had in Krycek. And I can't let him know. I don't want him to know that about me. It could ruin everything we've worked so hard to build.

But sometimes I can't help but watch him and wonder what he'd be like. When he's sitting across the office with his glasses on and concentrating hard on something in one of the files, or at something on his computer screen. He has that intensity again, like he had with Krycek, and I have to squirm in my chair, press my thighs together and think about other things so he won't catch me watching and know what I'm thinking. I can't help but think that it would be written on my face like LED lights.

I have to avoid watching him sleeping on the plane. His chest slowly rising and falling with his breath, his head lolling down toward my shoulder, his lips parted. I can't look or one of these times I just might not be able to keep myself from tasting him. So I pretend to be engrossed in my book, or whatever's on my laptop screen, all the while keeping him in my peripheral regard, though never looking directly at him, like I'm viewing an eclipse.

And when we're in the car, like it seems we always are, it's the worst. I've had so many so wild and horrible thoughts in so many nice, bland rental sedans, I can't even keep count any more. And Mulder doesn't know. He doesn't know even when I can feel it radiating from my pores like summer sweat.

I never thought I could be aroused by two men having sex with one another. Pornography may be Mulder's thing, but it certainly isn't mine, and while I have no problem with what other consenting adults want to do in the privacy of their own bedrooms, homosexual sex has never been one of my fantasies. That was until I saw Krycek and Mulder together.

It almost broke me, to be honest. For the first time in my life I wanted to be a man, specifically I wanted to be Krycek, because I wanted to know what Mulder was like, how he felt, how he tasted. I already knew what it was with Krycek, but Mulder is still and will forever remain the mystery. Because I just can't let myself be that weak with him. But it was almost like I was part of it, because they let me be there, or Krycek did. I know that Mulder didn't want me to see, and I also think I know why. He didn't want me to see that he wanted Krycek. That he could want him, after all we've been through. He didn't want me to know that he was as weak as I was.

And I'd wanted Krycek. Or I'd let him want me, let him have me because of his wanting at first. And then after I saw them, I'd wanted him back. And so I'd responded to him in the shower because I didn't have to act with him. I had nothing to lose or gain by it. So I'd done just what I wanted to do, the minute I wanted to do it, for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I didn't think about it. Not until later.

And later I mostly thought about how much Mulder despised me, despises me, for what I did. I had only imagined I had nothing to lose. I had no idea of the true consequences. Or I just ignored them and got myself in trouble again. Like with Ed Jerse.

I should never, ever do what I want. It always leads to trouble. I only ever seem to want what's bad for me, like a little girl with a sweet tooth stuffing herself on candy until she throws up. I think Mulder is another of those sweet things. And equally hard to resist.

Krycek is done with his shower. And in the act of the truly anal-retentive, he wipes the water off the glass doors of the shower stall before he gets out. I won't have any hard water stains. This is remarkable because he's the only person to ever do that but me. Mulder must have used my shower 25 times in the last 5 years and has never once thought to wipe down the stall when he's done. I always have to clean up after him.

Krycek comes out of the bathroom drying himself on the towel, not a stitch of clothing on, and walks into the hallway to turn on the washer. He tosses in the shorts he was wearing before the shower and the towel itself for good measure. He comes back to the bedroom and stands in my doorway looking at me, totally naked.

Standing there, he looks like a statue of some Roman discus thrower damaged by the Vandals who couldn't understand its value in their haste to sack and destroy. He's too beautiful to inspire fear. Even if he is only steps away from my gun. Krycek looks at me looking at him. He's getting a wicked glitter in his green eyes, but suddenly he yawns.

"Sorry," he says, completely switching gears in a typical act of Krycek unpredictability. "You wouldn't happen to be one of those women who wear men's boxers as shorts, would you?"

"Second to the bottom drawer on the dresser," I tell him. "There's some blue plaid flannel ones there that should fit you."

Krycek goes and gets them out, and holds them up. He seems to approve. While he slips them on he asks, "Mulder's?"

"Mine," I reply. "What makes you ask?"

"You mean you two still haven't..." At my warning look Krycek stops dead and just shakes his head.

"What the hell is wrong with him, anyway?" he asks me.

"Nothing as far as I know," I say rather defensively.

"Scully," Krycek is taking me to task. I almost laugh at him. "You and Mulder should have been making red hot monkey love for at least four years that I know of. You should have seen him when you got abducted. I thought he was going to kill himself. And it wasn't just guilt, so don't attempt to delude yourself. That man wants you, and I should know."

I'm rather intrigued to know what he means here, so I just raise my eyebrows quizzically. But he doesn't seem inclined to talk further, he just reaches up and undoes the cuffs. Then he takes out my right wrist entirely and resecures the left one to the headboard.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Getting ready for bed," Krycek tells me and then walks around to the other side to get in with me.

"Before you do that, go into the medicine cabinet and get the Neosporin. I want to put some on those abrasions on your shoulder. They should be a lot better in the morning and they won't get infected," I tell him.

"How sweet of you to think of me, Dr. Scully," Krycek says rather sarcastically, but he goes to get the ointment. It really is a wonder drug. He brings it back and puts it into my hand. "So how are you going to get the cap off?"

It's a challenge. A challenge to see if I can manage as he does. I put the tube up to my mouth and unscrew the cap with my teeth. Krycek smiles approvingly.

"Nice, but how are you going to squeeze it out?" he asks.

I move the tube forward in my hand and press it with my last three fingers and my palm, squeezing out a decent dollop onto my index finger. Krycek smiles broadly then and sits down, his back to me, to let me put the Neosporin on his raw, rubbed skin. I'm careful, and I don't think I hurt him. It takes a little time, squeezing out more ointment and rubbing it in one-handed, but I get all of the bad spots at least. He should be a lot better off in the morning.

What I don't like about it is how stiff he's gotten, tensing every muscle in his body as I touch his maimed side. He's ashamed of it, like he isn't of all the unspeakable things he's done. Male vanity will never cease to amaze me.

I stop with the ointment and rub his tense shoulder muscles instead.

"You'd better stop that, or you're going to pull something," I tell him in an even tone.

He starts and then cranes his head around to his left to look at me over his shoulder. I keep my expression very neutral, but he knows I'm not disgusted by him. He chooses to ignore this act of acceptance - the preening thing.

But I suppose if you've spent most of your life as a pretty boy, it's got to be awfully hard to take something so severe.

Krycek inspects my work on his shoulder.

"It doesn't smell bad but now I'm going to get your sheets all goopy," he declares finally.

"Not if you go into the drawer above the one where you got the shorts and get a t-shirt," I tell him. "There are several there that I use to sleep in in the summer. They're extra-large."

Krycek gets up again to rummage through my drawers.

"Cool, the Who", he says, pulling out my "Kids are Alright" tour shirt from the 80s. Of course he would pick a favorite, sacred one.

"Wear it and I'll have to kill you," I tell him.

"Hey, now, I used to be able to play "Pinball Wizard", not to mention "I'm One", which is actually harder," Krycek tells me, still holding the shirt in his hand.

"What do you mean, you could play it?"

"On the guitar, you know, like Pete Townshend," he tells me.

"You play guitar," I say.

"Played," Krycek says, shrugging the shoulder with the missing arm. He looks down at the space.

"Were you any good?"

"Good enough to have a band," he says with kind of a wistful sort of smile. "I spent most of my time in high school getting laid because of how good I was. I think selling my Les Paul was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But I really didn't have much use for it any more, and looking at it just made me remember that I could never play it again."

He looks at the t-shirt in his hand and then lays it down on the foot of my bed and refolds it. He goes back to the drawer and looks for another.

"I suppose Tori Amos is out, too," he says. "Though the thought of two redheads in the same bed is kind of scary anyway."

He shuffles down further among my clothes.

"Oh, wait, here's the one I'm gonna wear," he smiles and pulls out my official FBI t-shirt. The one they make you wear for training sessions. "The irony amuses me."

I smile back because it amuses me, too.

Krycek pulls the shirt over his head and comes to bed. He crawls in on the right side away from the alarm.

"Are you comfortable like that?" he asks.

I actually am much better now that one hand is free. I pulled up the covers, though I'm still colder than I'd like.

"It's not too bad," I tell him.

"That's not good enough," he says, moving closer. I can feel his warmth next to me, though he's not touching me. He smells clean, like my soap. "What's the matter?"

"My arm is handcuffed to the headboard?" I suggest.

Krycek smiles.

"Roll over on your side," he says. He's not asking again so I just look at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Don't tell me what to do in my own bed unless you plan to make me," I say angrily.

"Hey, where is that coming from?" he asks, wondering at my sudden contrariness. "I was just going to make you more comfortable."

"How?" I ask. "Why don't you tell me."

"Then it won't be a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," I tell him. "I especially don't like to turn my back on people and then have them surprise me."

Then Alex Krycek smiles perhaps the most evil smile I've ever seen. Rather reminiscent of the one the Grinch smiled in the "Grinch Who Stole Christmas", when he thinks of stealing all the Whos' presents. The one that takes about a year to unroll itself across his face while his hair locks curl menacingly.

"That is NOT what I meant," I say huffily. "And you could hardly call THAT a surprise. I knew what you were going to do."

Krycek just bats his eyelashes and continues to smile.

"I did know," I say. "You did say, 'assume the position', remember?"

"'The Lady doth protest too much, methinks'," Krycek quotes, then he reaches out and gives me a gentle shove, moving me over onto my left side, I crane my neck to look back at him. His face is the picture of innocence.

But I am a lot more comfortable. I often have my arm above my head when I'm lying on my side. Everyone does.

Krycek settles his body warmly against my back, curling his long form around my smaller one. He puts his arm around my waist, his hand curling under at the place where my pajama top is parting from the bottoms because of the position of my arm. I hope he doesn't notice the exposed skin. I don't want to cause any trouble.

Of course as soon as I think it, he does notice it, and he begins rubbing his warm hand all along the skin of my midriff.

"I don't think this is such a good idea, Krycek," I say, and begin to try to flail myself back onto my back. Krycek tightens his arm, presses himself harder against my back, and keeps me from doing it.

"It's a great idea, Scully," he says, his lips brushing the hairs at the nape of my neck and making me tremble. "Just lie still and go to sleep."

"If you want me to go to sleep, you have to stop doing that," I say. "I'm not used to sleeping with anybody else and if you move around too much I'm not going to be able to sleep at all."

"Oh, and that's the reason, huh?" he asks, knowing I'm a liar.

This is heading quickly down a very dangerous path. I've got to put a stop to it once and for all.

"Are you planning to rape me again?" I ask, putting just the right amount of coldness into it to let him know I'm serious.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asks. He's angry, and shocked and hurt all at once. It's there in his voice despite the fact that I can't see his face. Well I'm glad I can't. It don't want to see what he's feeling. I shouldn't care about that after what he did to me and to Mulder.

"That's what you did up in Rhode Island," I say.

"It was nothing of the kind, and you know it," he tells me, proving I was right in my assessment of his mental state at the time.

"I said 'no', Krycek," I say. "No means no."

"Well yeah, but..." Krycek begins, again just what I thought.

"But what?" I press. "Except when you do it?"

"Except that you didn't really mean 'no'. And you really didn't even say it. You just kept telling me I didn't want to do it, and I did. It was exactly what I wanted to do."

"To show Mulder who was boss," I say, hitting on the one nagging doubt I harbor about the whole situation. There was something going on with those two. Some kind of macho posturing for one another that I had been made part of.

"To show you that you need to stop waiting around for him," he tells me. The first real lie I've heard this evening, or if not lie, then diversionary tactic. "Either fuck him or forget him, Scully. He's too into playing games to be any good for you."

"Mulder doesn't want me," I say.

Krycek laughs bitterly. "Yeah, and I'm Little Bo Peep," he says.

"I really don't want to hear about your sex life," I say. It's one worthy of Mulder, really.

Krycek laughs genuinely this time.

"That's what I love about you, girl," he says giving me a squeeze. "You are just so damned snarky. But that isn't why I wanted to do it. It wasn't all about Mulder."

"But it was some about him," I state my accusation.

"Wasn't it for you?" he asks. And damn him, he's right of course.

"I didn't want to be there," I say.

"Yeah I could really tell that in the bathroom," he says skeptically. Damn him again.

I start to writhe around again to get back on my back, and this time Krycek lets me. Once I get there I realize I've made a very bad move.

Krycek is on top of me, his mouth pressed hard on mine in about two seconds flat. And here I was thinking he was exhausted. I put my free hand against his chest and try to push him away, but he outweighs me by about sixty pounds. And while I am engaged in a power struggle with him again, I can't say it doesn't feel good.

Krycek knows just how to touch me. And he's gentle. It's damnable, really the way he can force me and make it not feel like force. I know it's not my idea. Oh, it's not like I haven't been thinking about it since I saw him in the doorway, but I don't want him to. I don't want to have to feel this way about him.

But I do. I want to be able to believe that this is what he's really like. That this gentleness, this care with which he touches me is all of him, the true part, anyway. But I know that the same hand that is cupping my breast so gently is the same one that pulled the trigger on Mulder's father. I know that the same body pressing warm and hard against me belongs to the very men we fight against every day of our lives, the same men who took away my babies, my sister.

Ultimately I have to let him, just like before. I let him and I wait.

"Scully," he breathes roughly, taking his mouth from mine, his hand still roaming under my pajama top. "Dana, let me make love with you."

I want to, just like I did in the bathroom in Rhode Island, but I just can't do that again. I can't do that to him, or to me.

"No," I say. "It's wrong. We've got to stop. We can't do this. There's too much against us. There's too much between us."

"And this isn't between us?" he asks, pressing himself against me. And I know just what he means. And he's right, it is real, it is between us. But this isn't enough in the balance, no matter how much or how little this really is.

I shake my head. "Not enough," I say.

"It should be," Krycek says, letting go of me and moving away across the bed to try to regain some kind of control over himself. "It should be. I mean, they've taken everything else, they should not be able to take this, too. We shouldn't let them."

That's one of the worst things about Alex Krycek - the way he thinks. He's smart. And he operates under a kind of bizarre logic that's oddly appealing sometimes. It's almost like listening to Mulder.

"You mean if we quit, they win," I say, and can't stop myself from laughing at it.

"Exactly," Krycek says. "Why do you find it so amusing?"

"Because...." I'm laughing so hard now, I can hardly catch my breath. "Because... that's exactly what Mulder....what Mulder says....about the X-Files."

"You mean I'm even beginning to sound like him?" Krycek says, looking kind of disgusted. "I should seek therapy immediately."

"You should try to... get some sleep," I tell him, as I finally get myself back under control. There's something about this man that makes me lose it every time one way or another. I suppose there are just some people who do things like that to you.

My brother Charlie has a friend from high school that never fails to get him drunk as a proverbial skunk every time he comes into town. And Charlie never gets drunk otherwise, despite the fact that we're Irish. It's just something that happens every time they see one another. Krycek just makes me lose control. It's the same effect he has on Mulder, in some ways. I guess that my first impulse isn't to hit him, that's all.

Krycek inches back toward me across the width of my queen-size mattress. He wants to touch me, I can tell. I look at him skeptically.

"Lay back on your side, Scully," he tells me gently, almost pleadingly. "It's more comfortable that way and I promise I'm not going to try anything. I'm just going to sleep over here by you, ok?"

That's the secret of the thing, isn't it, Dana? That's what he really wants. It's just that he thinks he has to buy it with sex first.

"Ok, Krycek," I say, rolling over onto my side again. "It's warmer that way, too."

Krycek tentatively moves up behind me again, and his arm goes warm around me. And he's true to his word. He doesn't try anything funny. But he's very tense. It's awkward now. He doesn't know what to do with getting it for free.

"What kind of a band did you have in high school, Krycek?" I ask, trying to get him to a completely safe subject. Something totally removed from us.

"Pretty straight rock and roll, actually," he tells me. "We did covers of normal rock bands, classic rock like the Stones, Beatles, Bad Company, the Who, Hendrix, Clapton, popular stuff like, the Cure, REM, The Clash, we stayed pretty far away from the plague of metal and pop metal, fortunately. No Bon Jovi or Ratt. We did do some Van Halen and Journey, Cheap Trick, even REO Speedwagon, J. Geils, let me think..."

"So you just played guitar," I say.

"Of course not, I was the front man," he tells me. "I sang, too."

"Really? I can't sing at all," I say honestly.

"With that voice?"

"I can't hold pitch," I tell him.

"Man, that's a shame. You'd think you'd sound like Karen Carpenter or Alison Moyet or Amy Ray or someone like that."

"I'm afraid not," I tell him. "So what else did you do?"

"Well, we did some originals, too," Krycek say. "Had a little bit of a following for a while around home, but I ended up... um....changing careers and it just sort of went by the wayside. You know how it is."

"Not really," I tell him.

Krycek chuckles and starts moving his hand around my middle again, but it's different this time, fast and not flat against my skin.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask him.

"The strum to Pinball Wizard," he says dreamily. "I was wondering if I still remembered it. Seems I do. You make an ok guitar, Scully. Curves in the right places, anyway."

"Gee, thanks. You are an incredibly strange man, Alex Krycek," I tell him. "Now stop strumming and go to sleep."

"I was just thinking, when I mentioned Hendrix," he stops moving his hand and speaks dreamily against the back of my neck.

"Thinking what?" I ask.

"Hendrix was left-handed," It's quite a while before he continues, he's drifting off, I think. "He used to play his guitar the other way. You know, fretting with his right hand instead. Paul McCartney does, too, not that he's any great shakes as a guitarist. Maybe I could figure out some way to strum with the prosthesis. Maybe I could teach myself to play again, or maybe I could learn slide or something."

"You certainly could try," I say, wishing there was some solution as simple for me as just trying it the other way.

"Hmmm," Krycek says. And then he falls asleep. I can tell by the change in his breathing.

It takes me longer, but I wake up sometime later, no, at precisely 4:12 a.m, to notice that I'm really cold.

"Krycek?" I ask, looking for him in the gloom.

"It's ok, Scully," he answers from the hallway. "I'm just putting in the other wash and putting this stuff in the dryer."

"How did you wake up to do that?" I ask, as he starts the appliances and comes back to bed.

"I'm not a good sleeper," he tells me.

"My father would say that was the sure sign of a guilty conscience," I tell him.

"Well, looks like I'm in good company, then," he tells me, and snuggles up against my back once more. He's asleep in what seems like a few seconds. I stare at the clock until it reads 5:03, feeling incredibly guilty because it feels so good to have a man in my bed again. Even if it's only for one night and the man is Alex Krycek. I'd almost forgotten what it was like.

The last man to stay overnight here was Mulder, and he was delirious and drugged out of his mind at the time. I spent the whole night hovering on the edge of the bed, trying to cool his fever, and running off to get him more acetaminophen while I listened to him cry. Not a pretty picture. Not what I want to hear coming out of the man in my bed. I've done enough crying here, myself.

When I finally wake again it's to the smell of fresh coffee and the feel of sunlight on my face. Thank God it's Saturday, or I'd be late for something.

I'm still attached to the headboard, but Krycek tucked the covers in over me whenever it was that he got out of the bed. I turn my head to look for him and he's there in my hallway, dressed, shaven, with his prosthesis on, and neatly folding his laundry and putting it into his dufflebag.

"Is that coffee I smell?" I ask.

"Yep," he tells me. "I made the Kenyan you had in the freezer. Not quite as good as Costa Rican Peaberry, but good."

"Mulder's right," I say. "You must be gay if you're a coffee snob."

"And do I have to come in there and show you just how not gay I am, little FBI girl?" he asks with a wicked smile. "'Cause you won't have to twist my arm."

"Speaking of your arm, are the sores better?" I ask, knowing it will put him off.

"Yes, Dr. Scully, they are. Thanks," he says rather snippily. He pulls the last piece of laundry out of the dryer, a heather colored Aran and puts it to his nose and smells it. "Ah, April Fresh."

He folds it and puts it away while I laugh at him.

Then he brings me my coffee and two pieces of perfectly browned toast with butter and strawberry jam. Decadence on a plate. I usually grab half a bagel with light cream cheese once I get to the office.

He sits down at the foot of the bed with his own cup and what looks to be an egg sandwich. I bet when I get out of here I'll find that he even put the pan in the sink once he was done with it. And I bet he won't leave the coffee maker on, either.

"So, what are you going to do?" I ask. We eat our food and drink our coffee.

"Can't tell you," he says. "Not only might it bust me, but you'd be in a lot of danger if you knew. Just assure yourself that it's a good plan and that I've pulled my ass out of several fires that were a lot hotter than this one. It's just that I couldn't get any rest this time. Usually I can find somewhere to hide for a few hours, but they were right on me. I only lost them at the airport here in D.C. And they would never look for me here.

And whatever you're doing about the surveillance is working, because there haven't been active bugs here in a while. Mulder isn't as careful. You might tell him that. I'm getting really sick of watching him whack off."

"Thanks for sharing," I say, coughing on my toast.

"Hey, he doesn't have to be alone all the time," Krycek says looking at me significantly across the length of my bed. "But he is."

"What are you, Alex the Yente or something?" I ask him.

"Well you won't fuck me 'cause I'm on the wrong side, so what's wrong with Mulder? He certainly shares your political affiliation," Krycek says with a shrug.

"Mulder is Mulder," I say, like that explains things. And I think it does, because Krycek nods.

"And admitting something is admitting something," he says finally, drinking the last of his coffee. "Well, I've gotta run, so you'd better use the bathroom."

Krycek unhooks me and takes me into the bathroom as he had in the hotel room in Rhode Island. As he did before, he doesn't watch. I'm grateful for that. For both remembering that I'd really have to pee after being chained to the bed all night, and for not watching me while I do. I wash my hands and he takes me back to the bed.

He hooks me back up again, one-handed, only this time it's my right hand that he chains to the bedpost.

"Ought to make it harder for you to get out of it," he says. And then he moves my nightstand out of reach. My phone is already unhooked and the cell phone is on the dresser across the room.

"I don't want to have to break my bed to get out of this, Krycek," I tell him. "Can't you just tie me up some other way?"

"Oooh, kinky," he says, with another evil grin. "I can think of several ways, but no, Scully, you'll be able to figure a way out of this eventually. Without damaging your furniture."

He goes to the kitchen and he brings me back some water in a squeeze bottle I use when I go running, so I won't spill it in the bed even though I don't have somewhere to put it. I just can't believe how thoughtful he is in so many strange ways.

He puts the bottle on the bed next to me.

"Gotta go," he says. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"You make it sound like you were invited," I tell him.

"I was," he smiles again. "That was sort of an open invitation in the bathroom, you know."

"Consider it closed," I say.

Krycek bends down and kisses me. I don't stop him. He's leaving and it's not going to lead to anything.

And I still know what he really wants. Both that day and this. I reach up my free hand and touch his face.

"Don't let them kill you," I tell him as he moves away, looking very pleased with things. "Mulder's got dibs."

"Ok," Krycek says with another smile. He knows I mean it and it's ok that I do. And then he walks down my hallway and out of my apartment to do whatever errand he has to run to try to save his life.

And I do hope he's successful. I don't want them to kill him. Like I say, Mulder has dibs. And he wants it more now than ever.

And now I have to find some way to call him, so he can come and get me out of the handcuffs. It's either Mulder or Mom, and it can't be Mom. The vision of my mother's face as she sees me handcuffed to my own bed is one I don't want to have to replay over and over in my mind until my dying day.

I just hope Mulder hasn't decided that this would be a good weekend to run off somewhere on a UFO hunt or something. I hope he hasn't decided to crash with the Gunmen after a wild night of government satellite web-surfing and cheese steaks. I don't want to imagine Frohike seeing me handcuffed to my bed, either. And there's no way he'd let Mulder come alone if that was what I called about.

But first, I have to get to the phone. And I'm still stuck to the head of my bed.

I can't get to the regular one. It's disconnected from the wall plug and that's too far for me to reach to plug back in, so it has to be the cell. Which is currently on the top of my dresser with the rest of my FBI agent paraphernalia.

It will be a pain in the ass, but Krycek is right. I can get the phone without wrecking my bed. I just have to unmake it, first.

I pull the sheet and blanket up from the bottom, fortunately not ripping anything as I do so. Krycek inadvertently helped me here, he's tall and he pulled the covers more loose than they usually are. No neat hospital corners with someone six feet tall in the bed. Bunching up the sheet, I awkwardly toss it with my clumsy left hand a few times, hanging onto the end, until it's right up against the foot of the dresser. Tossing down a pillow, so I don't end up breaking what I want to retrieve, I use the blanket to knock the objects from the top of the dresser onto the waiting sheet.

On the fifth try, I manage to get the cell phone. Unfortunately Krycek didn't see fit to leave my keys there, or I'd just be able to unlock the cuffs and Mulder would never have to know he'd been here at all. But I'm not that lucky.

It proves that we all have to pay for our sins sooner or later. And this time I'd have to answer to someone rather more unforgiving than God. I doubt some Hail Marys and Our Fathers are going to be sufficient to make this up to Mulder. I doubt even crucifying myself on the altar of his self-pity will be sufficient.

I drag the cell phone over to the bed and awkwardly pick it up with my feet. I'll have to talk to Mulder anyway if I want to get out of this.

His number is first on my speed dial.

It's 9 a.m. and he picks up on the first ring.

"Mulder," he says. I almost hang it up and call my mom instead. Having her think I'm a disgusting skank would almost be preferable than what I'm bound to get from my partner when I tell him this.

"Um, Mulder?" I say, hating myself for how weak and pitiful I sound.

"Scully, are you all right?" he asks, all concern and warmth. I hate him right now for being so nice. Because I have to hurt him.

"Well, yes, I'm... all right," I say, still sounding pathetic.

"You don't sound all right, what's wrong?"

"I'm all right, Mulder," I say, my voice getting stronger again. "I just..."

"You always fucking say that, what's wrong?"

"Will you listen, please?" I ask. He's silent. "I need your help. I'm... I'm at home, but I need your help. Will you come?"

"I'll be there in under an hour," he says. I can hear him getting up off his leather couch and walking across the room. He hasn't got shoes on, I can tell by the sound of his feet hitting the wood floor. "I'm going to the car right now."

"It's no rush, Mulder, I'm ok," I tell him. "I'm just a little stuck and I need your help to get loose."

"What do you mean, stuck?" he asks, confused. I can hear him hunting for his shoes.

"It will be better if I explain it when you get here," I tell him. "I'm in no danger. I'm not uncomfortable. And I can wait for you. Don't drive like a maniac."

"Is this a Fire Department kind of stuck?" he asks. I can hear the smile in his voice, even though he's still nervous. "Are you in the tub or something? Are you naked?"

"Nothing like that," I say, even though it sort of is. "I'll see you when you get here."

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asks, and I can hear the anxiety again, clear in his voice.

"Yes," I tell him. "Everything's ok, Mulder. I just need your help for a minute, that's all. I'm hanging up now."

I put down the cell phone and turn it off. I don't want him to call me while I wait.

And oh, God, the wait. It's the longest hour of my life, waiting for Mulder and imagining all the awful ways this is going to turn out. I can't imagine a single one that doesn't end with his leaving me for good. He's that far gone when it comes to Krycek. Especially after Rhode Island.

And I know just what he's going to think.

And I know just what he's going to think of me.

And I know just what he thinks it all means.

And he'll be wrong on every count, but it won't matter. Because once Mulder makes up his mind about something he's utterly implacable.

And I'm so afraid he's going to make up his mind about me. And that will be the end of it. The end of everything. The end of me.

I wait, and at last, after what seems a lifetime of dread, I hear his key scraping in my lock.

"Scully?" he asks tentatively. He knows I'm home, but he isn't sure what to expect.

"In here, Mulder," I call.

"Where?" he asks, but he's heading in the right direction.

"In the bedroom," I say, and then he's in the doorway, dressed in usual weekend gear of jeans and leather jacket. He's got on the old off-white henley he's had since before I knew him. The one I saw for the first time in Alaska when we all almost got infected with ice worms. Mulder's dressed oddly like Krycek was last night. Irony doesn't come better than this.

It only takes him a few seconds to take in the whole scene. The moved furniture, the pulled out phone, the items from the dresser scattered on the floor, the tousled covers and the tousled, pajama-clad, handcuffed Dana Scully in the center of it all.

"Please tell me it was someone you picked up at a bar," he says finally, weakly. He very nearly looks like he's going to begin to cry. That lower lip of his is actually trembling.

"And when did you know me to do that?" I ask softly, reasonably. Five seconds to look at me and it's already gone as bad as bad can be.

"Philadelphia," he says angrily.

"That was a tattoo parlor," I reply.

"So, do you have a new one to show for it at least?" he asks, making no move to approach me or to free me. He's going to make me pay even more than I'd thought. He's hurt, but he feels he has the right to torture me because of it. That only makes me mad.

I mean, my choices began and ended with how I was going to comply with what Krycek wanted. Not whether I was going to comply.

"Sure, I got N and Y on my ass, to celebrate the Yankees winning season," I paraphrased Mulder with an unfriendly smile stretching across my face.

Mulder is silent for a long time. He looks at my window, but the blinds are down and he can't see out.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

He's looking for excuses. A way to forgive me. When all our training tells us to go along with our kidnappers, the men with the guns, to stay alive. But that's not enough once we get back, is it? If we're alive and unhurt, it's almost like we've betrayed ourselves somehow. Isn't our virtue worth dying for?

"No, Mulder, he didn't hurt me," I tell him even though I know what it will mean in his mind.

"So how many times did you fuck him last night?" he asks with an air of feigned nonchalance. As if he's asking the score of the latest Redskins game.

Not even the benefit of the doubt. Just another betrayal to add to the long list he's assembled for himself over the years. I wonder how many times I'm on it. But I don't really want to know.

He makes me see red. I want to kill him. I want to rip the fucking bed apart to get to him. Instead, I ask him in my coldest tone, "Will you just unlock the cuffs?"

"No," he says after another long minute of looking out my window. "Not until you answer my question."

"The answer is none, Mulder," I tell him, knowing he won't believe. He doesn't want to believe.

"Allow me to rephrase then," Mulder turns glittery cold eyes on me, almost gray now with anger. "How many times did he fuck you?"

"I told you, none," I repeat.

"And you expect me to believe that. When he was obviously here all night. When the two of you had breakfast together. I saw the dishes and the coffee as I came in. Did you cook for him, Scully? Did you bring him breakfast in bed?"

"Other way around, actually," I say. "I'm the one fastened to the headboard, remember."

"Krycek cooked for you," he says in disbelief.

"Krycek cooked for himself. I had toast and jam," I reply. "Apparently he knows I'm not a big breakfast eater."

"Even better than ice tea, it must be true love, then," Mulder says with a sarcastic sneer in his voice that I've only heard him use when he's speaking to Krycek. "Will I be invited to the wedding? I only wonder which side you'll want me to sit on, seeing I'm such intimate friends with you both."

"You're only intimate friends with Krycek," I say, not believing I'm actually saying it until it comes out of my mouth.

"Definitely the groom's side, then," Mulder sneers. He is looking back at my window again, so I can't see his eyes. Looking at his face is bad enough. It's hard to reconcile how harsh his voice is with the blank look of utter despair he hasn't been careful enough to hide.

The blank look of despair is in contrast, of course, to Mulder's blank look of panic, blank look of concentration, blank look of fantasizing about large breasted women, and blank stare of boredom which only people who know him well can discover the subtle nuances of. I, who am with him every day and what seems like half the nights each year, know each one as well as I know my own slightly frowny look of determination, studied blank look of pain, and raised eyebrows look of skepticism. I can read him like a book, and I'd be sorrier for how he feels if I just wasn't so angry at his accusations both spoken and unspoken.

"If you're just planning to leave me here until my arm falls off, I'll have to call my mother after all," I tell him as he stares dazedly at nothing.

"God damn you, Scully, how could you ever do it? After everything that's happened, after everything they've done to you? How could you just fuck him like that? How could you let him in here, stay here? He's the man who murdered my father, remember? He's the man who helped Duane Barry abduct you and let them do what they did! He's responsible for all that. For your not being able to have children. For that chip in your neck. For murdering I-don't-know-how-many people. And yet you flop over on your back for him like he's some goddamned hero from a dimestore romance novel. Do you think he's a romantic pirate, Scully? A misunderstood hooker with a heart of gold? The highwayman who turns out to be the Lord of the Manor? Fucking Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester or whatever else stupid little girls read about in gothic-ass Bronte bullshit novels?

"Well that man is none of those things. I would have been surprised to find out he's even human if I hadn't seen him bleed red for myself. He's nothing but a filthy, murdering bastard who'd sell his own mother, or fuck her if he thought it could get him anything. He's nothing but a selfish, lying killer who is out for nothing and no one but himself. And he's using you. He's using you to get to me. To make me crazy. To make us both stupid. And he's laughing at you, Scully. He's laughing all the way back to the Smoking Man and all the rest. How can you be so stupid?"

"How could you do it? Can't you see what he is? How could you let him touch you?"

"And what the hell was I supposed to do, Mulder? Fight him? Make him hurt me? Because you and I both know he would have if I'd made him. He would have hurt me and he would have been sorry to do it, but I would have had to do exactly what he wanted anyway," I tell him. "You know it as well as I do."

"I don't want him to hurt you, Scully. I never want you to be hurt," Mulder says passionately, but it still leaves me cold. "But you don't have to go along with him the way you do. You don't have to.. to.."

"To what?"

"You don't have to... to participate."

And of course he's right. But he doesn't care about why I did what I did. He'll never ask me why. He's already viewed my action in light of his cosmology and judged me accordingly. Mulder, the god of our universe. But he's an old-fashioned god, like the ones from Olympus or Asgard. Petty, self-involved and forever interfering in the lives of us mere mortals, so afraid that we might find something other than him to think of, someone other than him to please.

"Jealous?"

He stares at me like I'd hit him with a bucket of cold water. He stands there for a long minute just looking at me, growing visibly calmer and then he sighs.

"Not only did I never expect to hear you ask something like that, I never thought I'd ever have to ask, 'Just how do you mean that'?" he says tentatively with a note of resignation in his voice.

I had been expecting him to launch into another tirade about my betrayal of him with Krycek, and so I found this new attitude surprising to say the least.

"What do you mean?" I ask him.

"I mean, Scully," he says with a sigh. "That by 'jealous', are you asking if I'm jealous because you fucked Krycek instead or because Krycek fucked you instead? Because how I answer depends on what you're asking."

"I don't think I actually want an answer to that," I tell him. And I don't. "I just wanted you to stop."

"Well, you're going to get one, so you'd better define it," Mulder comes to stand at the foot of the bed, pressing his shins against the end. He crosses his arms over his middle protectively, like he expects me to slug him. Maybe he feels like I already have.

"I don't want to hear this," I say, shaking my head as if the denial can be more severe this way. "I've had a really rotten night. I'm chained to my own bed. I'd really like to be able to get up and take a shower. I just want you to let me go."

"Well maybe I'm not ready to do that yet. I'm not ready to let you go," Mulder says, looking away from me, at the curtained windows again. "We've never talked about what happened up there. I didn't want to talk about it at first, or I might have just started screaming. I had to think. I had to process it before I could speak about the horror of the situation. About what he did to you, and to me. But I just don't understand it, myself, it seems. I mean, I thought it had been the same thing for both of us. Krycek violated us both.

"But the thing I don't get is that you don't seem to mind it. You don't feel the way I do about it. About the hurt, the humiliation of it, about the way he took our choices away, the way he used us. You don't seem to mind. You don't seem to mind when Krycek's in control," he says.

"What the hell is this, Mulder?" I snap, ignoring his pain. I don't want to know about his pain, because it was the same for both of us, only I'm not carrying on like it was a fate worse than death. There's nothing worse than death. "Is this some sort of territorial pissing match or something, with me as the territory? I'd suggest you go out and measure to see which one of you has the bigger dick, but after Rhode Island we all know the answer already. Pity you actually have to BE a bigger dick, too."

"And what do you mean by that?" Mulder's head snaps around to look at me again.

"While Krycek might come by here in the middle of the night, break in, and chain me to my bed, at least he's fairly courteous and doesn't need to verbally abuse me on top of it. He confines his humiliation to the realm of the physical." I stop then. I've made myself think. I smile mirthlessly.

"And you think that's funny?" Mulder asks, still trying to pick a fight.

"I was just thinking it's sort of like tag-team action in wrestling," I explain. "I mean, Krycek comes here, ties me up, uses my washer and my kitchen like he's my kid brother home from college for the weekend, and then you show up to emotionally abuse me and make me feel guilty for not getting myself killed trying to resist him."

"Did he hurt you, Scully?" Mulder asks finally, the blank look of panic replacing the blank look of hurt on his face for the first time since he's been here.

"He could have, but he didn't," I tell him. "Just like he could have done it the last time, but he didn't. It's not about that for him."

"Really, and what is it about then, Dr. amateur psychologist?" As soon as he knows I'm really not injured, Mulder is back to sneering again.

"My God, Mulder, can't you see what he wants from us?" I ask him. "You were in the same hotel room I was."

"You mean the one where we were both raped by a calculating, little, back-stabbing traitorous assassin," Mulder practically hisses, his eyes are glittery with rage.

"Traitorous to whom?" I ask, diverting his attention from his wallowing in self-pity.

"What are you talking about, Scully?"

"Didn't he work for them before he joined the FBI, Mulder?" I ask. "Wasn't that a part of it the whole time? If he was always one of them, then just who did he betray? You? I don't think so. I think he betrays them when he slips you information to try to win your approval, which he seems to want for some reason. Why is that, Mulder? Have you thought about it? I have. I don't know why he wants it, but he does. You can put yourself in the place of the sickest, most abject serial killer like John Lee Roche, but you won't even try to understand Krycek or to see what he wants from you when it just might help explain things."

"Why should I care what he wants?" Mulder says. "He killed my father, Scully. He needs to die. He needs to be put down like the mad dog he is. For everyone's safety."

"No, for your safety, Mulder," I tell him. "You're the one who needs him gone. So there won't ever be a repeat of what happened up in Rhode Island. So you won't ever have to think about it. So you won't ever have to admit to yourself that you wanted him."

"I didn't want him," Mulder says hollowly. "He raped me. He violated me in the most humilating way he could think of. I'd never want that. I'd never want him. But you wanted him. You went with him. You left me lying there tied to the fucking bed and you went in the bathroom and you fucked him. Just like you did last night."

"No sex happened in this bed last night, Mulder, whatever you're going to believe," I tell him. "But you're right about Rhode Island. What happened here last night was exactly like that - exactly the same. Because I did just the same thing.

"I didn't fight him because it would only have hurt me. I let him have what he really wanted, somewhere safe to be with someone who wasn't actively trying to harm him. And I treated him like a human being, because that's what he is. Not like a symbol, not like a monster, not like a thing, but like a human being and I received the same treatment in return.

"Yet you insist on turning that into some kind of a betrayal of you. It had nothing to do with you, Mulder. Yet you insist on couching it as some kind of competition for my goodwill or something. Two deluded boys fighting it out over who wins Scully's loyalty when that isn't even in question, and I'm caught in the middle, like some sick den mother to the Cub Scout Troop from "Lord of the Flies"."

"Oh that's a lovely image," Mulder tells me, closing his eyes in protest. "Now all I can think of is you making it with a bunch of eight year-olds under a rotting pig's head on a post. That's just great."

"Just let me go," I say.

"Why? Did he ask you to meet him somewhere?" Mulder asks. Krycek holds a gun on me again and I'm suddenly Mata Hari.

"If you're not going to help me, then go," I say.

"He's coming back," Mulder declares. He sits down on the end of my bed to wait.

"No. He's not coming back. He won't be back if you sit there 'till Doomsday, but I want to get out of bed," I tell him. "My arm's asleep and I have a crick in my back, and I want to get on with my life instead of sitting here all day."

"You'd sit there all day if he was the one that was here," Mulder says stubbornly, and I'm in for a regular sulk-fest, I can tell.

I turn around on my knees and start trying to take apart my headboard. If I can pull the post out of the bendy part, then maybe I'll be able to put it back together later on with wood glue instead of totally destroying it. Right now, I'd gnaw my arm off at the wrist just to get away from him and his endless self-pity. I just wish my back hurt less.

"Scully, what are you doing?" Mulder is suddenly at my shoulder, still moping, but somewhat interested in my newfound activity.

"Trying to get my headboard apart," I tell him, giving the bendy part a mighty pull. I'm studiously ignoring his presence though he's so close at my side that I can feel the heat of his body through the satin of my pajamas.

"Why?" he asks.

"So I..." I pull. "Can get..." I pull again. "Away.." Another yank, it seems to be loosening slightly, but I don't have good leverage against my mattress or much body weight to put behind it. "From you!" I finish, and give a mighty heave that does absolutely nothing. God damned North Carolina furniture manufacturers. Double be-damned American craftsmanship!

"Scully, Scully, stop," he says, and places his large hands over my white knuckled ones on the headboard. His arms are around me and I can feel his warm body pressing into my back. It's eerily reminiscent of the night just past. Only it's Mulder this time, instead of Krycek. It's Mulder's breath on the back of my neck, Mulder's voice in my ear, Mulder's need so palpable it's like a hand touching my body.

I want to tell him to let go of me. I want to scream at him and hit him and hurt him like his lack of trust hurts me. But I'm chained to the headboard and there's nowhere I can go to escape him and his pain. The pain I'm partially responsible for causing. Equal partners with Mulder himself, for perhaps the only time in our association.

I pull again at the headboard and it creaks in protest like my back.

"Don't, Scully. Stop," Mulder tells me. He's so close now, I can feel his lips move as he speaks. Just brushing on the tiny invisible hairs along my neck. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself."

I want to throw my head back, crush that enormous nose with my skull, make him howl. I want to dig my fingernails into the backs of his hands and make him pull his arms from around my body. I'm desperate, desperate to get away from him in a way I never am when it's Krycek touching me like that.

Because when Krycek touches me, it means nothing. It's a thing of the moment with no past and no future, just two human beings groping for something warm in the dark. With Mulder it's filled with more significance than I can define and the danger is so great and the stakes are so high that I fear to contemplate the outcome. My mind boggles at the consequences.

I have to get away. I have to, because if he doesn't stop soon something IS going to happen in my bed and then I'll truly never be able to forgive myself. Because if there's anyone's need that Mulder can never see, it's mine. Even if it means he thinks I'm Jezebel. Even if he lumps me in with the Phoebe Greens and the wicked old men and everyone else who has ever betrayed him. Let him think I hate him, let him think anything, just don't let him see how much I want him. Even now, when I'm so angry I could claw his eyes out and laugh as he screamed.

He removes his right hand from mine, holding me firmly in place with his other arm and his body, solid against my back. The inside of his arm brushes against my breast and I start. He's breathing hard, as I am myself, more from the waves of terror and desire that are rocketing through my body than from my exertions with the headboard.

"Just wait," he says, his lips brushing the side of my neck now in earnest. I close my eyes in fearful anticipation. His right arm goes about me again and I know that whatever he does, I'll do whatever he wants. He has a power over me Krycek could never fathom, except that he feels it for himself. Mulder is the lodestar in our universe, the thing by which we navigate our courses. The one thing that makes sense of all the nothings we've found.

His body is warm against me and I shiver in his arms, my hands still gripping hard on the headboard of my bed, as if without that anchor I'd fly away. My eyes are still closed, I feel his breath hot on my neck.

There is the tiniest of clicks, and the handcuffs fall away. I'm free. The only thing holding me in place is Mulder, his body still wrapped around mine. We are both shaking with desire.

"Is this the way he touched you last night, Scully?" he whispers, wrapping his right arm around my waist, putting it under the satin of my pajama top to caress the skin of my midriff as Krycek did. "Did you hang onto the headboard and moan and tremble while he fucked you?"

"God damn you Mulder," I say, but it comes out weak. A paltry thing, in light of what I'm feeling now. The rage, the pain and the almost overwhelming desire that makes me want to turn toward him, not to punish him for torturing me, but to show him, in the same flawed way that Krycek chose, what he does to me.

I force myself to loosen my grip on the bed and try to move away, sideways towards my bathroom and the shower I so desperately want. The shower that will wash away the sweat of my lust, the moisture between my thighs, and leave me cold and able to face him once more. To argue my case or merely to stand my ground against him on equal footing. But Mulder has other ideas. He's not done with me yet.

"Where are you going, Scully?" he asks, arms wrapped around me tightly, his mouth pressed to the skin of my throat, just beneath my ear, just over my jugular. "Do you suddenly have a headache or something?"

"Yes," I hiss, trying unsuccessfully to wrench myself from his grip. "And it's called Fox Mulder being an asshole. I know what you want, Mulder. You want me to beg you to forgive me for not fighting him as hard as you wanted me to. You want to torture me until I break down and beg you to stop, just like I didn't beg him. Well I won't. Krycek didn't get me to beg, and you won't either, do you hear me?

"Why should you want to hurt me, to punish me? We're on the same side. I didn't ask Kryeck to come here. He came all on his own. And I couldn't stop him. He had a gun on me, Mulder. Should I have made him shoot me with it? Would you feel better about all this if I was simply dead and you could mourn me? Because you're acting like you've lost something, and I'm still here."

Mulder didn't say anything, but I could feel his tears running down the side of my neck.

"I can't protect you, Scully," he finally manages.

"No more than I can protect you," I tell him, and loose my grip on the headboard to place my arms over his. "But, Mulder, you have to understand this. I know it's hard and that you don't want to. But Krycek didn't want to hurt me now or in Rhode Island. He didn't want to hurt you."

"Krycek made us his victims, he's laughing at us," Mulder says stubbornly.

"You saw him just like I did," I say. "You looked into his eyes. You know it was much more complicated than that. You're the psychologist, what was Krycek doing? What did he want?"

"I don't know. He's twisted. Whatever it is, it's twisted, just like he needed to... to... hurt you in front of me. And to do the same to me in front of you. To prove he could. To prove I was helpless to save you. He wanted to humiliate us, to hurt us. Why aren't you humiliated, Scully?"

"I suppose that's a valid question," I sigh. "I'm not humiliated because I don't believe that that's what it was about. I think it was a lot more about Krycek and what he needed than it was about what he wanted to do to us. I agree, I think he wanted to prove that he could do it. That he could have power over us. But I think that was only part of it."

"The important part," Mulder comments.

"That man is scared, Mulder. And he's even closer to dying than we are. When he came here last night I saw a recent gunshot wound on him. In the back. And he'd been badly beaten, too. Recently. And he was running from them and had nowhere to go that was safe. So he came here. Why do you think that was?"

"Who cares?" Mulder says, but I go on.

"I think it was because he identifies with me in some way. Because he trusts me. Because he knows what I am. I think he came stumbling into my house in the dead of night because he had nowhere else to go. He said as much. I think he slept in my bed because he was lonely and frightened and the presence of another human being reassured him. I think it's that simple. That's all he wants from me. But with you, it's more complicated."

"Yeah, he wants to fuck me and then fuck me over every chance he gets," Mulder says.

"You know it's more than that. You hate him, Mulder, because he disappointed you. Because he turned out to be something other than you thought. But what really hurts, is that he keeps trying so hard to be what you wanted. Showing up to try by giving you some piece of the puzzle and ultimately disappointing you all over again simply because he is who he is.

"But shouldn't the trying at least be acknowledged? He'll never be what you want him to be, but doesn't the fact that he cares enough to try for you mean anything at all?"

"Yeah, it means he's a fucking lunatic along with being a murderer and a liar," Mulder shakes his head next to my neck, refusing to even try to understand.

"We mean something to Krycek. I don't know if he can even put it into words, I know that I can't. But I can see it. And I know you can, too, even when you don't want to. It's what makes you so angry with him. If you really thought him so worthless, you wouldn't care as much as you do. You'd hate him less. He'd just be another cog, like all of those nameless men who do the planning. But he's not. He's special. And all I really did was recognize it and let him know that I knew. And that I understood a little."

"Scully, you are so pathetically naïve," Mulder says, but his voice is less angry now that he's patronizing me.

"Why, Mulder? What do you know that you haven't told me already? What makes me so naïve?" I ask him.

"I know the deep duplicity of the man, Scully," Mulder says, giving my middle a squeeze as he makes his point. "I've looked right into his face when he opens his eyes too wide and tries to pull one over on me. I've seen him smile and pretend to be my ally all the while he's steering me into danger. I've had him leave me for dead to save his own ass. "I don't know that I can believe a word he says at this point. Even when he brings me information I don't act on it. I can't. It could be another of his lies.

"You say he's trying, but trying to do what exactly? You can't know. All you know is that he comes to me. But you don't know what game he's really playing. And I've been with him a lot more than you have. I've seen him "smile and smile and be a villain", Scully, because that's what he is.

"He's one of them. And it doesn't matter what he wants. It should never matter. If they kill him, we'll be better off. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

"You would have gone to prison for life, Mulder," I tell him. "And as for working for them, what makes him any different than all of your other informants in the past? Deep Throat, X? They all worked for them, too. And still they leaked you information and helped you, just as Krycek does. Why is he different?"

"Because they were only playing two sides and no one has a fucking clue how many Krycek is on. He's totally unreliable and you never know where the information is coming from. It could be from Them, the Russians, Rebel Aliens or the United Federation of Fucking Planets for all anyone knows. Or it could simply be out of Krycek's diseased little brain, designed to do nothing but run us around and make him come out on top in Step Fifteen of Plan Thirty-six "B" in the Alex Krycek Fuck-You-All playbook."

"And is it because you know all that about him that you can't forgive him for disappointing you, or yourself for wanting him, or me for doing what I did? Or is it something else?" I ask softly.

"God Damn it, Scully!" Mulder says and tightens his arms around me until it hurts, until it feels like he's going to pick me up and dash me against something to break me open. "What is the matter with you? Can't you see how dangerous he is?"

"All he can do is kill me, Mulder, or get me killed," I tell him. "He's not dangerous because he doesn't really matter except the way he matters to you. I hardly know him."

"Except carnally," Mulder grumbles.

"So?" I ask. "Why are you so obsessed with that? It doesn't mean anything. It was just sex, ok? I don't love him, or care about him particularly except in the way you care about people you know versus people you've never heard of. He's an acquaintance. Perhaps of more significance than some other acquaintances because of the way he's affected our lives in the past, but that's it, Mulder. Why are you making this into something it's not?"

"I....I... saw you, Scully," Mulder says at last, obviously more upset than ever. "Don't lie to me."

"Don't lie about what?" I ask.

"A....about the way you feel about him," Mulder says. "I was there. I saw you. I saw it all."

He didn't see it all. I'm thankful that he didn't.

"But I don't feel any way about him, Mulder," I tell him.

"You kissed him, Scully," Mulder says against my neck, I can feel his lips brushing my skin as he speaks.

"Yes, it felt good, Mulder," I say. "There was no getting away from him, so why not? If I couldn't get away, why not get something out of it? And, this may seem kind of low for me to bring up, but you kissed him, too. So why is it a criminal offense that I did?"

Mulder is silent. I can feel his hot tears wetting my neck.

"Mulder, don't you see that it wasn't criminal for either of us? It wasn't about betrayal. It wasn't about that. Not for us or for him. It wasn't part of it, of everything, it was personal. It was about you and me and Krycek, not about Them for once."

"And you think that makes it ok?"

"Yes. No. I don't think anything about it was ok. It was morally murky to say the least. I mean, I know Krycek raped me, but I don't feel like a victim. I'm not traumatized. I don't need counseling. I'm confused, but not hurt. I don't have nightmares. He doesn't scare me. I'm a lot more worried about you than anything else. Because... because I know you blame me," I spill my guts, the air needs clearing on this. Mulder and I don't talk about much, but I just can't let this fester any more. I can't possibly do us any more damage by talking about it than has been done already by not talking. "I know you did that day and have every day since. And I'm still trying to figure out what I did wrong. What I did differently than you that makes me morally culpable somehow. As far as I could tell it was exactly the same for both of us, except that I didn't insult him afterward."

"Are you angry that I don't hate him? He hasn't disappointed me because I have no expectations for him at all. He hasn't hurt me. He didn't try to make me feel victimized. He just forced me to receive sexual pleasure when that wasn't what I'd had planned for the afternoon. As far as I can tell that's what he did to you, though he did hit you over the head when you tried to punch him again."

"You make it sound like he gave you a manicure instead of fucking you in front of me," Mulder sniffles, it isn't quite a sob, but I know he's still crying.

"Well, that's about how significant it was, Mulder," I tell him, running my hands up and down on top of his, trying to soothe him if possible. "It doesn't mean anything if it isn't with someone you care about, don't you know that? Don't tell me you were in love with everyone you've ever had sex with."

I let that sink in for a moment.

"And it's not like I tossed my panties at him the moment he'd whacked you over the head and cried, "Oh, Krycek, do me you big, strapping, one-armed hunk!"

Mulder snickers wetly and I know I'm beginning to get through to him.

"Are you trying not-so-subtlely to tell me that I'm overreacting," he says.

"Just a bit," I say. "Do you want to tell me why you're taking this so hard? It's just something weird that happened in our already weird lives as far as I'm concerned. It doesn't change anything, or it shouldn't. Except maybe to let us realize that Krycek has a number of motives totally unrelated to the men he works for. Or the men he sometimes works for. Whatever."

"Outside of the plain fact that I'm taking it hard because I took it up the ass from a guy, Scully, are you saying Krycek's personal motives might be useful information or something?" Mulder asks bitterly, but I can tell he's ready to listen to what I have to say this time.

"I think we both knew that his loyalty to them was shaky at best, Mulder," I tell him, ignoring the rest of it. I don't want to debate it. I know what I saw. "But in a bizarre way I think it proves that his loyalty to you is rather strong. I mean, he had us Mulder."

"I remember," Mulder says ruefully.

"That's not what I meant," I say. "I mean he had us right where he wanted us and he could have done anything, anything at all. He could have flayed us alive while the other one watched, he could have beaten us to death, he could have killed us, Mulder. And he didn't. He chose to do something, that in his mind, I think, means the opposite of that."

"The Alex Krycek equivalent of a Valentine?" Mulder sneers, but there's real humor there this time, and I know he isn't angry with me.

"I would have preferred the roses and chocolates, myself," I say dryly. "But, yes. And its the same feeling I got from him last night. He kissed me, Mulder, I confess, and he wanted to do more, but I told him no. And he listened this time, because while I said no to that, I still gave him what he really wanted - which was the contact. The human contact with someone who knows him."

"It's twisted and it's sick and we're all too old and cynical to fall for it - even Krycek, I think - but Mulder, we were on the receiving end of what passes in Krycek for affection, not hate or revenge or any of the other things we're used to seeing from him. I really think that he loves us as much as he can love anyone besides himself. I don't know why. I don't know if he knows, but I think it's true. You don't have to agree, but all I know is that if I act like that is what it is, he doesn't hurt me, he even goes out of his way not to scratch my furniture or leave my place a wreck."

"It looks like a wreck to me," I can feel Mulder looking around my bedroom.

"I did that getting the cell phone," I say.

"So that's your theory then," he says.

"Yes," I agree. "'This is the theory. The theory that is mine, about the brontosaurus."

I can feel Mulder smiling at the old Monty Python quote, he's not surprised by now to know I know it.

"So you think playing mean jailer and clumsy inmate who dropped the soap is what passes for affection with Krycek?" Mulder asks, trying to keep it light, though I know he still feels horribly violated.

"I don't know that he knows what love is, Mulder," I tell him. "Maybe that's what love looks like to him. I don't know him well enough to make a judgement on it, I just know what I saw. And I didn't see someone who was trying to hurt you. I saw someone who was trying really really hard to make you come."

"And the bastard made me!" Mulder growls angrily. "With you watching."

"You watched me," I return. "And that seems to be the way Krycek wanted it. Because it was Krycek's scenario after all. Neither of us had any say in the matter."

"I... I'm sorry, Scully," he whispers, next to my ear, holding me tighter against his chest. "I... I just wanted to make sure that he wasn't hurting you. And then... then, I couldn't look away."

"It's all right, Mulder," I say, patting his hands again reassuringly, trying to put the smile I didn't feel into my voice. "I just wish I had the feeling that you'll still respect me in the morning."

"Of course I still respect you, Scully," he says, affronted by my suggestion. "What are you talking about? It was awful, what he did, but you were..." Mulder swallows hard by my ear, and shuffles around a little behind me on the bed. "Y...you were...b...beautiful." He says the last so softly I'm almost not certain I heard him correctly.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to think about that," I say, after thinking about it for a while.

"Wh...What do you mean?" Mulder asks.

"I guess I just didn't think I'd measure up," I tell him.

"Measure up?" he's confused. "Oh, no..." Mulder says tragically and his voice trails off. He shifts on the bed again, moving farther away. He's hardly touching me now, and I'm not certain whether I want that or not. No, I know I don't want it. I want his arms around me, so I know it's all right. I want his arms around me until we're done talking, and I know we've healed at least a little. I want to feel him if I can't see him because I need to know how he's reacting. "Scully, I could never... I mean I would never... I...I just couldn't think of you like that," he blurts out. The truth, I think. It explains a lot. It explains what Krycek was asking about, anyway. I'm actually surprised by how much it hurts. That Mulder can only let himself want me if he thinks I'm dirty, corrupt in some way. That if I'm sinless in his eyes I go back up on the pedestal, never to be touched. I wish he'd touch me.

"Is that why this has bothered you so much?" I ask him, twisting the knife in my own side while I twist his. "That Krycek can? Or that I can?"

"No," Mulder says, matter-of-factly, surprising me. "I was afraid you'd be angry at me for seeing it. For watching what he did to you. I didn't think you could forgive me for that. It made me feel like a voyeur in a way that people on videotape who've chosen to exploit themselves never could. Because you didn't have a choice. And I looked anyway."

"It was embarrassing, Mulder, I admit," I say, rubbing his hands again, wishing I could draw his arms back around me like a blanket. "But I really didn't think you'd done anything I needed to forgive you for. Except, maybe for treating me like crap once I came back from the bathroom and untied you."

"What happened in the bathroom, Scully?" Mulder asks. "What did he do to you in there? I couldn't see you, and I couldn't hear anything over the water, except the shower curtain rattled once and there was a thud."

"I think Krycek banged his knee at one point," I say. "That was probably the thud. And I was cuffed to the shower rod for a while, so that was probably what you heard with the curtain."

"What went on in there, Scully?" Mulder asks urgently, moving close to me again, but it's almost more threatening than comforting now. "You were in there a long time, you know."

"Just more of the same, Mulder," I sigh. "And Krycek took a shower, washed his hair, stuff like that. He didn't hurt me. And he left me where he knew I could get loose eventually. That was it."

"How many times?" he asks. He's starting to piss me off again.

"And you only felt like a voyeur because I didn't have a choice?" I comment.

"I want to know what he did, so I know how slowly and painfully to kill him the next time I see him," Mulder says carefully. "He's got a lot to answer for."

"Yes, he does," I tell him. "But I think I would concentrate on making him pay for more serious offenses like selling government secrets to the highest bidder or working with the Smoking Man rather than what happened in a dingy hotel room in Rhode Island. Those are the important things."

"I think what he did to you is more important," Mulder declares.

"Why? I'm just one person," I tell him. "I'm much more concerned about Krycek fucking over the American people than him fucking me, or you, for that matter, though I did think you were really going to lose it there for a while."

"But he was going to..."

"Yes?" I ask sweetly.

"But it's different for a guy," Mulder protests.

"How?" I ask. "Because of macho posturing and ego? I mean, women fuck men and blow men and whatnot all the time and it's perfectly ok, even expected, yet if two men do it to one another it's somehow wrong?"

"Apparently someone hasn't been reading her Old Testament lately," Mulder comments.

"Please," I say. "I know just how much you let all that guide your life. So what you're saying is what happened to you in front of me, was somehow worse than what happened to me in front of you. Why? What makes you so special? What makes one Mulder ass worth more than one Scully..."

"God, I love it when you talk dirty," Mulder leers into my ear, pulling me back hard against him again.

"You're just trying to distract me and keep me from making my point," I say, as he chuckles into my neck.

"Which is?"

"That what happened to us up there was exactly the same," I said. "Krycek did the same things, he got the same reactions, and yet I'm ok with it and you're not. My question is why, Mulder? Why are you not ok with it? Why do you think it has anything to do with anything? I know I haven't treated you differently because of what I saw, but you certainly have treated me differently. Why?"

"So you're saying it's all about me?" Mulder asks sweetly.

"Oh, stop being a smart ass for one minute!" I cry exasperated, trying to turn around to face him, but I'm unable to because of his arms holding me tightly against him. "Just tell me!" I plead.

"I was afraid," Mulder says quietly.

"Afraid of what?"

"Everything," he says. "Everything that could potentially happen because of a situation like that. When you came out of that bathroom, you were so business-like and efficient it was obvious you were repressing something. I couldn't begin to imagine the horrors that might have gone on in there. He could have done anything to you."

"Apparently Krycek's just not all that imaginative," I say. "All he really did was rub some soap on me and then had sex with me again."

"Well, I was laying there imagining the worst, not to mention feeling pretty used," Mulder explains. "And then you come out of the bathroom with your Scully the Super-Agent face on and all I could think of was how much I wanted to kill that bastard for making you look like that. For making you have to hide what he'd done from me."

"I wasn't hiding what he'd done from you," I say. "I was pretending it hadn't happened because I thought that's what you'd want. I thought you were going to kill me when I came out of there. I was trying to protect you."

"I'm a big boy, Scully, I don't need protecting," Mulder says.

"I couldn't have said it better, myself, but you try to do it anyway, don't you?" I tell him. "Well so do I. But you didn't seem to appreciate it much, and then you sulked all the way back to D.C., so I just never even thought of trying to talk to you about it. I thought you wanted to pretend like it had never happened. Like we'd never been there at all."

"I wish it had never happened," Mulder says.

"Well it isn't tops on my list of experiences I'd want to repeat, either," I tell him. "But I've had worse, and so have you."

"Diana wasn't that bad, Scully," Mulder is smirking, I can feel it.

"You know what I mean," I say, making a mental note to remember how Mulder talks about his old girlfriends.

"I hated not being able to stop him, Scully," Mulder sighs at last. "It was just like all the other times someone was doing something bad to you and I couldn't stop them. And the worst part was that this time I had to watch. I had to watch him."

"What he did to me wasn't that bad, Mulder," I say softly. "It was embarrassing, and a violation of my privacy and of my will, but that was the worst of it. There were no physical after-effects. I mean I got worse from..." I bite my tongue. It almost came out. The other thing we've never talked about.

"Ed Jerse?" Mulder asks lightly, but he's gone stiff behind me.

"Yes," I say. "And what happened with him was even more of a violation, really, because I trusted him. I never expected Ed to hurt me and he did. I did expect Krycek to, and he didn't. In fact, he was careful not to. He was with you, too."

"But I can see now that this is all about control. And maybe Krycek knew that about you and that's why he chose this to do. I don't know. But I can't help but think that he was really trying to express something, too. Maybe you could call it non-verbal communication," I smile, though I know he can't see.

"He said something about bonobos," Mulder says after a little while.

"What?" I ask.

"You were in the bathroom. You didn't hear it," Mulder tells me. "I thought it was really weird, so I looked them up."

"And?"

"It seems that they solve interpersonal or interbonobol conflicts with sex instead of by fighting," Mulder says, and I can feel the smile creeping into his voice.

"Make love not war?" I say.

"Um, something like that," Mulder tells me.

"Someone's been watching the Discovery Channel," I comment.

"Nothing like a good nature program to expand your horizons," Mulder comments.

"You don't think he was serious?" I say.

"How the fuck do I know? Am I suddenly the Krycek expert?" Mulder asks, but he's laughing now.

And I'm laughing too, but maybe not for exactly the same reason. It's because when I turned my head to look at Mulder I caught sight of us in my dresser mirror, clinging to one another like two experimental monkeys that have been shocked one too many times as they reached for the food pellet. Hanging on to one another to try to create meaning from random acts of unpredictable individuals.

And I can't help but think that maybe there's something in what Krycek was suggesting after all. That maybe there are other ways to go about things than the ones we usually fall back on, the ones that make us comfortable. That if you look at problems from a different perspective, then maybe you can take a step toward solving them permanently. Or at least you can take a step instead of forever being locked into your own habits and tendencies.

If that's even what he meant.