On the Edge of Your World Jami Wilsen Alex Krycek sat alone, staring sightlessly into space. Somehow, having gotten out of the loop hadn't helped. He idly wondered if he'd made the right decision to jump ship and leave it all behind. Now, he didn't even have hints and tidbits to give Mulder, let alone hard information. That was the problem. All that was left was himself: his own fears, his own life and his own abilities. Which were all fairly useless in any arena other than the one in which he'd relentlessly worked to ensure his own indispensability. How quickly he had become redundant and unwanted. In attempting to turn his situation into something Mulder would accept, he had ended up with nothing to offer him. Which left him at a loss because one of the things he had wanted to gain by leaving was the possibility of redeeming himself in Mulder's eyes. He suspected Mulder would see it as cowardice on his part. Alex tried not to fall back into a frustrated and deeply resentful mood over this; he had no idea how to find a solution to this dilemma. Alex wondered if Mulder even knew that he'd bailed out. Or that he was living barely three miles from his apartment. Not that Mulder would care; not that Mulder would do anything but promptly have him arrested if he showed up at his door. After beating the crap out of him, of course. Ironic, that the only way Alex could even attempt to have a conversation with his ex-partner was to hold a gun on him, when all he wanted was to have a civil conversation without guns; just once. An interlude that didn't involve raised voices, hatred, insults or violence. No, he most definitely did not want Mulder alerted to his proximity. He was hiding in plain sight; he had become Poe's purloined letter, and he would compromise his own safety if Mulder got even so much of a hint that he was here. This was unfortunate. Because it was all Alex could do not to go hang out across the street from Mulder's apartment, even then. He'd done it before, in years gone by. It was a heady but empty act. Just to take the simple pleasure he derived from seeing Mulder's silhouette against his window occasionally, backlit by one of his skin flicks. Sometimes the longing was overwhelming to the extreme. Alex remained sitting, slumped on the dilapidated couch. The television was on but the sound was down; he sat watching one program flicker into the next in a seedy procession of futile images. Everything was gray and pointless, including his miserable existence—in fact, that most of all. What do I really have, he thought, when one took away all the intrigue, the secrets and the contacts? Nothing much, apart from a phantom itch and constant, dull ache from his missing arm, and a list of faces and names to avoid that was far too long for comfort. He'd been riding on top of the worldh—precariously, yes, depending on whether he could dodge the intentions of CSM until that dubiously wonderful day he'd pushed the man down the stairs. But now there was? nothing. It was as if the plans and schemes for holding the reins of power had all been made of the same curling smoke that surrounded the evil son of a bitch right up to his moment of death. Alex found that he wasn't even bitter; he'd already tasted resentment, pain, fury and disappointment. This was worse: apathy. At first, after Mulder's return from his sojourn with the alien grays, things had been interesting. But soon, all too soon, the status quo had returned on the preoccupied agent's heels. Normality had reclaimed the situation, even in the face of Mulder's experiences. It seemed everyone expected nothing less from Spooky Mulder. And when Alex Krycek had shown up at the FBI offices again, this time with a partly apologetic air for having been instrumental in Mulder's abduction, however inadvertently, Mulder hadn't even bothered going for him. No, somehow it was worse; he'd just glowered, curled up his lip and then turned away, ignoring him. At first, Alex had been glad that Mulder had given up the usual fisticuffs routine? Until he realized that any attention was better than the cold shoulder as Mulder shut him out altogether. Despite his attempts to pretend it didn't matter to him, it hurt. He wondered what he could do to get a rise out of Mulder, going so far as to invite himself into the haphazard congregations of the briefings that followed Mulder's return. Even then Mulder ignored him entirely, and it wasn't just him. Others did too, when they weren't throwing fearful, furtive glances in his direction. Alex figured it out. After a while, the pain grew so much that he couldn't bear to stay anymore. He left. He'd finally wrapped up his own affairs soon afterwards. He sent the palm pilot, its schematics and even the technical notes he possessed of the nanocytes to Skinner without a note of explanation; the thing was self-explanatory and the gesture even more so. He began cutting ties with people all over and withdrawing his interests in various endeavors in overseas operations. When he appointed several people he felt could replace him in those operations, they expressed surprise at his move—place. He hadn't commented. He had in fact felt a great degree of relief. Extricating himself from the situation had been easy except for the blow to his conscience. He'd felt as though he was dodging responsibility. But there really wasn't anything more he could do, unless he wanted to set himself up in power the same way that old CGB Spender had. Things were so badly splintered after the Smoker died; the Consortium's original plans had never recovered from the coup by the alien rebels. Alex hadn't missed the lesson though, for with the demise of the Syndicate and the Conspiracy he had seen firsthand just how hard the mighty fall, especially when they are up to their noses in shit as deep as they had been. He wouldn't have survived, if it hadn't been for his shaky liaison with the rebels and his usual unfailing instincts to miss that rendezvous that had ended in a mass incineration, all the leading players of the Syndicate torched to black husks. And it was a thankless task, besides, to play the Devil. Oh, well. It wasn't like anyone would actually miss him. And Mulder seemed to have a better grasp on what was happening now than any of themh—which made a change. Usually, it was Alex who was holding the cards; now Mulder didn't even need him. That was what remained a sore point, he realized. Like a bad tooth it kept hurting, reminding him of its existence at the worst times. At night, or when he awoke in the mornings, or when he sat alone the way he was right now in front of the television for hours on end, passing time. Killing time. And he couldn't even really get upset about it. Hell, who would actually be crazy enough to want to be mixed up in that agenda? He should be glad. He ought to be rejoicing that he'd got out. At the moment, he didn't even really feel anything at all, except a background hurt at the loss of his association with? Mulder. Fox Mulder. Since when had this all hinged on that man? Since when had his own life revolved around the ideals and pursuits of Mulder? As if the whole goddamned world revolved around one asshole who couldn't even acknowledge when he was wrong about something. Fucking Fox Mulder. Who acted oh-so-nobly and yet couldn't give the benefit of the doubt to someone from his mixed-up past, that he actually knew had helped him countless times. Strange, that Mulder had been so willing to blindly trust Diana Fowley, going so far even as to forgive her without question when she had betrayed him far more insidiously and completely than Alex ever would have dreamed of doing. Not that Alex would ever dream of betraying Mulder again. Strange, and unfair. Terribly unfair. Was this an actual, real live reaction he could feel welling up inside at the thought of Fowley? Yeah, anger. Deep and hard. She'd had what he couldn't even dream or hope of ever having... He couldn't be anything but glad that Fowley had finally crossed the Smoking Man herself and bought a ticket to Hell. Jealousy? No, that particular response was reserved for Dana Scully. Saint Scully the Impeccable, Our Lady of Mercy and Logic, who had forever captured Mulder's ideals. Mulder had long ago placed Dana on a pedestal. Hell, Mulder couldn't even fuck herh—she was so sanctified in her place as his 'best friend' that she had passed into some no-man's land of platonic idol worship. What a waste, Alex reminisced at the thought of the red-haired beauty. Mulder was an idiot. To pass over Saint Scully? For Fowley? What a joke. Mulder had never been a good judge of character and his decisions were decidedly pathetic when it came to the personal relationships in his life. As a profiler and an agent, and for pure research and investigation, the man was a genius. But his social and personal life was shit. But Alex cut short that train of thought: who was he to compare? People in glass houses and all that, he thought. Any stone he tried to throw inevitably hit home on some sore spot of his own. He knew he was suffering partly from an inability to adjust to a more stable lifestyle and the forced retirement he had flung himself into. He needed to find something else to do, but what? The thought of a job at this point filled him with despair and even more apathy. Futility. What was the point? He had money; it was useless. A career? Doing what? He didn't have any causes to pursue, no goals to achieve. Except maybe the seduction of Mulder? and that seemed like a fairly pathetic thing to contemplate. Especially in the light of the fact that Mulder would much more enjoy seeing him dead more than anything else. And maybe even over finally having all his final answers that the man so desperately searched for. Truth, like beauty, is relative. Mulder was a fool. So what did that make him? A dead end. He could well imagine the satisfaction that Mulder might display at knowing how low Alex had fallen. Back to the gutterh—where he belonged, Mulder would say. This last thought was too much and he picked himself up. Going to the door, he pulled on his jacket and snatched up his keys. He had to get out. Suddenly the four walls were closing in on him. Even the slightest hint of claustrophobic thoughts tended to revive the silo-induced panic attacks that still plagued him. The sky was fittingly gray and dull. A slight drizzle was falling and somehow this made everything seem... perfect. It was a little too cold and a little too wet outside for him to feel better. It allowed him the exasperation of inconvenience to distract him from the pain that glowed inside him like the embers of a fire that refused to go out completely. He hunkered down, his hands in his pockets, both the artificial one and his cold real one, walking slowly. He wondered why he hadn't worn gloves. Oh, right: even more inconvenience to sharply remind him he was still alive. In fact, the cold was making his stump ache, which was just fine. At least he was feeling something that took his mind off the dark considerations he had begun to entertain. Considerations of the various means of dying. The most excellent of them all involved him going up to Mulder and deliberately inciting his rage so that he would overreact and finish him off. Just one thing stopped him from doing this. He knew Mulder's guilt, which was a massive and all-consuming, self- absorbed thing, would wrack Mulder afterwards, and he just didn't have the heart to do that to him. Besides, it made him feel better about himself, to know that he was sparing Mulder such a terrible experience by keeping himself out of Mulder's way. Another selfless act that he could add to the list of things Mulder would never thank him for. Wandering the streets, he couldn't tell which he disliked more: the shop windows with their material offerings displayed, their promised empty pleasures of simple possession of pointless goods, or the apartments with lit interiors betraying the empty lives of small people who lived quietly in their desperate scrabbling for a normal daily existence. Unlike some, Alex had never been drawn to the 'envy of cozy homes and families' scenario when looking inside others' dwellings; he never saw the lost possibilities of lives he couldn't have. How could he, when he knew the threat that loomed over their heads? When he knew it in such detail that he could even count the days, hours and minutes left until the scheduled holocaust? He pitied them. Alex did not believe that ignorance was bliss. And it all added together to create the suggestion that it really didn't matter whether he carried on or not. The afternoon slipped by, as did the water sprinkling from the sky. He didn't see the gaze of someone in a car coasting down the street; someone who recognized him with considerable surprise and pulled back to shadow him from a safer distance behind him. It was Sunday; he could tell from the activity on the streets. There were too many children out, milling outside malls and shopping centers, arcades and cinemas, for it to be a school day. He remembered it was the weekend. Hell, maybe it was Saturday. It didn't really matter. And the womenh—women with umbrellas, laden with those same pointless goods as they traipsed out of one clothing store into another. It wasn't until he saw a painting in an antique store window that something finally hit home, hard. It was a rendering of some mountainous region; with a cottage that looked like it was lit by lots of candles on the inside. A panoramic view of a prairie expanse. Now someplace like that, he thought, I could go for that. Somewhere away from the bustle of crowds, where one wouldn't have to watch the demise of the world when the apocalypse arrived. One would be spared even the sight of the smoke on the horizon. It would probably be years before it would even matter that the Black Oil had become the chief concern and master of a sheep population. Still, somehow, being here in the heart of government and civilization afforded him enough perspective on the barren emptiness of his own life that he could remember that the wilderness was just a prettier reflection of futility. Alex licked his lips and swallowed suddenly against the rising black waters that threatened to undo him right there, in the street. Family... He didn't have any family left, or friends, or even associates that meant anything to him. He existed in a vacuum; in an emotional desert, deprived of any kind of real contact. The loss of his arm had complicated his social life. And he had also limited his sex life to prostitutes and fifteen-minute encounters. He had been standing too long in front of the painting, before the window; the proprietor was warily watching him now. He turned away. He wandered for a while longer, until the rain started coming down harder. This walk had served its purpose; he much preferred the quiet solitude of his apartment. He began to meander back towards his building, remembering to avoid the streets that Mulder might frequent. The car kept a discreet distance behind him at a slow pace; often pulling back to park temporarily until he'd left the street he was currently on. When Alex finally got home, he was soaked through; he went to the bathroom and picked up a towel to dry himself off. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, he saw a tired, empty face devoid of expression but for the eyes that burned a little too brightly, with too much unsaid and too much given away within their haunted depths. He tried to think of a reason, one single reason, why he should keep going. He really couldn't find one. Not one. Not even the one that bore the name 'Mulder'. He looked away and went back out to the living room. Taking up position on the couch once more, he sighed. Alex felt sick inside that he had reduced himself to being a pathetic, lovesick idiot over someone who really didn't deserve it. He was disgusted by his own emotional state and had tried his best to divest himself of feeling anything, after a while. For one brief moment, he allowed himself the freedom to imagine what he might gain by trying once more to rally himself, but the crushing weight of the knowledge that nobody wanted to know him was enough to jolt him out of pretending to hope again. He was reaping what he'd sown, he thought. The memory of pushing the Smoking Man down the stairs, that brief nasty rejoicing in the act; it had all dissipated so quickly, as revenge always does, leaving in its place only the bitter dregs of what was once something worth pursuing but that was now finished. He didn't bother trying to sleep any more. Sleep brought him face to face with too many terrors and past pains—when indeed he managed to achieve it. Sadly, he wondered if there was any way that he could find to slide into unconsciousness, a blessed, black darkness devoid of any contemplation or imagery whatsoever. Even if it started off that way, he inevitably ended up in the throes of some nightmare. Taking sleeping pills just ensured that he'd be trapped in the nightmares for longer, with less ability to rouse himself from them. It was after another useless hour of this mental drifting that Alex realized he was contemplating ending it all. Now. Death. No pain, no struggle, blood or violence. Just clean, quick, painless death. He should know how; he'd been the instrument of death for several people in the pasth—the number was far less than Mulder imagined or liked to loudly claim in his presence, but there was no point denying it; he had become very good, very quickly, out of necessity really, at knowing how to kill. Swiftly, deftly and cleanly. Coldly. The notion was growing in potential. There was no panic involved, no desperate rush; just a slow pull towards the inevitable outcome, like the countdown towards his own personal apocalypse. The only problem he kept encountering was his own drive for survival. The rationalization he produced for this within the privacy of his mind was that he didn't want to die while there remained even the slim chance that he might one day? have? What, acceptance? Forgiveness? Evenh—Mulder's approval? His friendship? Unlikely as those were, it had provided a single ray of hope to shine through his dark intentions and nightly terrors. It always had. Never mind that Mulder always entered an immediate, charging-bull, fugue state of homicidally violent rage whenever he saw Krycek. Never mind that Mulder actually enjoyed punching him, hurting him in whatever way he could, whether verbally or not, or that Mulder could never be bothered to question the validity of his own reactions to Krycek's presence. Never mind that Mulder felt justified in hating him, despising him, for having killed Bill Mulder as well as a host of other crimes that Mulder strangely never seemed to be able to get around to identifying. It seemed that Krycek had provided Mulder with a convenient cipher to hate, a face to vent his frustrations upon amongst all those shadows that had eluded Mulder's searching and frustrated eyes all those years past. Never mind that Mulder wasn't even really worthy of his attention. It was physical attraction, that's all it was. Wait! When had all this become Mulder-centric, again? Alex was sick of thinking about him. His thoughts always came back to Mulder when he was at his lowest. Alex wondered if he might possibly have become obsessed somewhere along the line. He couldn't remember when it might have happened. He'd hated Mulder for a while. Then ended up trying to prove himself in his own eyes, despite Mulder's continued appraisal of his unworthiness throughout the years. If it weren't for Mulder, Alex would never have become estranged from the Consortium in the first place. He might very well never have left the FBI but instead enjoyed an interesting career as an inside plant like so many others in the federal agencies. He had always regretted the necessity of following through on his initial betrayal of Mulder. Really, a part of him couldn't deny that Mulder was perfectly justified for hating him for it, but a stifled little voice inside him always whispered, 'then what about Fowley', whenever that came up. Mulder had pardoned her unquestioningly, both before and after her betrayal of him. No matter; Alex was tired. It was academic. There wasn't any way of going back. He was tired of hurting and of having to suffer fools gladly, of suffering on behalf of other people and taking their knocks for them without any recognition for it. And he was tired of always receiving nothing for his pains but more pain, and of being forced to eat it gladly. At times, he couldn't tell the pain from the emptiness; they had both joined into one thing, an amalgamated and indigestible lump inside him. It was a lump of such horrible proportions that if he bravely examined it; he always ended up breaking down and having to piece himself back together again afterwards. He'd grown tired of having to do that. Survival for its own sake was looking more and more over the passage of time like an inconvenient, primal mechanism and not a product of vital intelligence at all. Indeed, the thought of ending all the pain was becoming a brighter one with each passing moment. He also saw that all he had ever feared of death was the moment of physically dying, the departure itself and the possibility of pain, and he didn't fear that anymore. If anything, death loomed like an answering prayer, offering peace and silence, a soothing ending of horror and painfully boring interludes interspaced with banality and fleeting excitements that were all too transient and shallow. It was so tempting now: a permanent state of darkness and comfort from his nightmares that would never entail having to wake up again to either the emotional or the physical pain of living. He couldn't even think of anyone he would actually miss. Or who would miss him. Besides, what did he really have, other than a mouth full of ashes and a head full of bad memories? He knew where to get hold of the perfect substance; it would kill clean and fast and leave him dead within sixty seconds. He— The knocking on the door finally filtered through his morbid contemplation. The pounding, rather. A muffled voice came to him but it was down the hall and past two doors, so he couldn't make it out. Alex wondered if someone had tracked him down. Oh well; death— even this way, though it was messier than he would have preferred— was welcome. He absently dragged himself to his feet, wandered down the hall, unlocked and opened the front door of the apartment. Well, well, he thought silently to himself, speak of the devil. Mulder stood there, looking irritated, unhappy and perturbed. Alex's eyes widened briefly and an unspoken current flashed between the two of them as they stood there. His heart fluttered in his chest and he had to question just how serious he had been, about wanting to die. After all, here was Mulder, delivered right to his doorh—within minutes of his decision to end it all. Alex waited, holding his breath, wondering if Mulder was going to throw a punch at him. Mulder showed no sign of wanting to hit him though, which was... a small mercy. But the night was young. He sighed, closing his eyes; he didn't feel up to this particular confrontation tonight. Opening them again and looking back up, he said, "Mulder. Why am I not surprised." Mulder looked taken aback, particularly at Krycek's subdued reaction and his rather unkempt appearance. Untidy, unshaven and? looking like he'd had a very long, protracted and rough weekend, not just a Saturday at home. "Krycek?" Mulder's voice almost squeaked with the surprise that carried with it. He obviously hadn't expected this reception but more of the same coolly collected Consortium Rep he had met the last few times Krycek had been in his vicinity. Krycek just snorted slightly and turned away, leaving him at the door and returning to the couch in the living room. Damn, he thought; and he'd been so careful, too, not to go anywhere near Mulder's apartment. He had a sinking feeling that whatever Mulder was doing here, it wasn't a social call and would inevitably end up with Mulder attempting to vent his frustrations on him in a very hostile manner. It was the way of things. Hell, he was used to it by now. Then he wondered bleakly if Mulder was here to tell him to get out, to leave. To vacate the area. After all, he was in Mulder's territory. Mulder was bound to take this as a deliberate incursion and a threatening sign that Alex was watching him or something. Mulder chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment and then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and following Krycek through to stand in the doorway of the living room. He regarded Krycek quizzically, thrown off-balance by Krycek's apathetic response to him. Usually the man had a quiet intensity; and now the lack of it was remarkable in its empty wake, making it all the more clear that something was wrong. "Have I come at a bad time? Am I interrupting something?" Krycek didn't even bother looking up at him, staring at the television. The silent television. Mulder sighed through his nose, a little petulantly. "Where have you been? People have been looking high and low for you. We were starting to worry that maybe a part of your moreh—uh, unsavory past had caught up with you. Skinner said you were still lurking about, somewhere. If you'd left DC we probably wouldn't even have found you. And here you are, in my neighborhood. What are you playing at? I was lucky to see you on the street. You haven't left any trace at all." Mulder was angry that the whole time he'd been trying to find him, Krycek had been right under his nose. He felt embarrassed at having been played for a fool; and suspected that Krycek had done it deliberately, picking out a residence that would be right in Mulder's backyard, knowing full well that it was the last area Mulder would think to look. "That? was kind of the idea, Mulder. What do you want?" Mulder found himself growing even more uneasy at the flat toneless sound of Krycek's voice and the lack of expression in his face. That in itself wasn't remarkable, but there was something in it that Mulder found slightly frightening this time. Shit, just what he needed right now: a depressed killer, missing the zest of life. He sighed more heavily. God, this was going to be fun. Not. "Well, you've kind of just left everything in limbo, Krycek. You realize people are running around like chickens in a farmyard after a Thanksgiving massacre? While you sit here feeling sorry for yourself, the shady types behind the government front men are clawing each other bloody, trying to scramble together some kind of organized effort. They need you. Badly." "Who gives a fuck? I mean, really, Mulder, after all the shit we've been through. After all you've been through, I would've thought you'd be tired of it too, by now." Mulder stared at him, wondering if this was another attempt on Krycek's part to obfuscate him, to try to throw him off the scent. "Sure, I'm tired of the craph—and right now we're swimming in it because there's nobody to step in and take charge of what's left of the shark pond. You've been gone for weeks. When you disappeared, things started going downhill. We need you." Mulder wanted to bite his tongue for having to say this to Krycek, of all people, but the fact was that Krycek was a safer bet to have on the other side than one of the more mercenary, incompetent and frankly clueless shadows that were skulking around behind the scenes like carrion scavengers right now. Krycek was an adversary they at least were familiar with, and oddly enough, it had been Skinner who had pointed this out to him. Skinner had claimed it had nothing to do with Krycek's blackmail of him with the nanocytes. In fact, it had everything to do with the fact that Krycek had released him from his compromised position as his puppet. And reluctantly, Mulder had to admit that Skinner was right. It would be far better to have Krycek back in position, seeing as he had proven where his interests lay. He'd proven that he was on their sideh—at least eventually, once one discounted all the self-serving aspects of his actions. Despite his shifting loyalties and ambiguous self-image in his role as Consortium Rep, Krycek was at least on their side enough to bring Mulder information when it counted most. He had handed them the Oregon UFO after the smoking bastard had Marita and Krycek check it out, alongside his plans to revive the Conspiracy. As long as his self- serving aims coincided with their cause, it was worth pursuing the association. He had just as much to lose as the rest of the human race, and was smart enough to know it. Mulder recalled the day not long afterwards when Skinner had called him into his office. "What?! Why me? Why do I have to find him? Come on, you know how I feel about that son of a bitchh—I'd have a hard time just trying not to shoot him." "Mulder?" Skinner's voice had that long-suffering, weary tone, "That's precisely the point. He's bailed out, and I don't think he would believe it, that he'd listen to anyone else. If it's you, he'll take it seriously. He listens to you; he respects you." Mulder had been furious, but unable to deny the truth of what Skinner was saying. And now, here he was in the rat's own lair. He was keenly embarrassed at having to come here and beg Krycek of all people to listen to him, to come back... when they both knew he would much rather bring him in and put him away, behind bars. It was no secret to anyone that he hated Krycek, although he'd noticed lately that Scully and others had been looking decidedly bored and impatient with his preoccupation regarding the rat. Alex flicked a glance over Mulder. Gone was the Armani poster boy. G- Man had dressed down for the occasion; in his casual black jeans, dark t-shirt and his black leather jacket, Mulder's subconscious was obviously attempting to emulate his perception of the 'Krycek Look'. That was kind of sad, really. Alex knew his own jacket was much better; and he'd left that scruffy 'down-and-out, bad-boy' look behind, long even before his stint in a Tunisian prison. What, did Mulder think he dressed like that on purpose, back in Hong Kong? But it told Alex what he needed to know: Mulder was here to try to talk him back into the game. Brief curiosity pricked inside. "Why? Why me? What the fuck do you need me for?" "Krycek, I'm surprised at you," Mulder replied, managing to sound surprised and humorously sarcastic at the same time, "I didn't take you for a quitter. What, has the killing and treachery finally got you down, after all this time? You had a promising career in the aftermath of the Consortium's burn-out; why throw all that away?" "What are you, my guidance counselor?" Alex found himself chuckling aloud at this thought. "'Fox Mulder, Careers Advisor for Ex-Assassins and Unhappy Syndicate Affiliates'." Mulder gave him a funny look. "What've you got to lose? Hey, you could always eat a bullet afterwards, once it's all taken care of. Think of it this way: you'd have something to look forward to." Mulder's callous suggestion was rewarded with a shadow of pain that briefly crossed Krycek's face before he could hide it. "I don't need one of your pep talks, thanks all the same. I'm quite content," Krycek answered. Too late, that little flash of wounded hurt had told Mulder what he needed to know. Well, at least someone's still in there, Mulder thought. And then wondered why he should care that Alex-fucking-Krycek, the murdering, lying, scum-sucking, cowardly, rat-bastard traitor, should be at the end of his rope. He stepped closer, wondering if he should stand between the couch and the television to cut off the view and force Krycek to confront him. He stood resolutely and folded his arms across his chest. "Krycek," he said, more forcefully, demanding attention. Alex sniffed once and rewarded him with a blank gaze, the same one he reserved for the television, saying, "Let me get this straight; you want me toh—you actually want me back in there, to play the enemy so that you can tell me what a bastard I am, what an evil son of a bitch I am, and how much you want me dead, right?" He shook his head slightly. "And what do I get out of that? So far, all it's got me is a missing limb. You'll forgive me if I revel in my freedom and rejoice that I got out of the, ah, rat-race." Mulder's patience was wearing thin. He didn't want to be here. He hated the fact that he was the one having to talk to Krycek at all, let alone convince him to come back. Personally, he would've much preferred it if they'd carried on without him. He angrily let out a breath and tried to give it his best shot. "You once gave me back my faith. You came to me in my darkest hour and revived my search. You gave me back my belief in my own personal quest, the truth about the fate of the planet." Mulder very carefully did not refer to it in any more detail than that. Krycek wasn't stupid; he looked away. This time, another emotion crossed his face, so quickly that Mulder could hardly have said it was there, but he still caught it. It was fear... and also a little embarrassment. Hm. No doubt they were both thinking about that peck on the cheek h—sealed with a kiss, indeed. It was true; if Krycek hadn't shocked him with that little move, both revealing and ambiguous as it was, he doubted he would've been inclined to take the man seriously that night. Mulder had been seriously close to giving up. Now it was time to return the favor. Skinner was right; they needed Krycek. No one else could do it and remain on the right side; they'd be seduced by the power such a role offered. Krycek was ambitious but he knew the game plan and the stakes too. After all, better the devil they knew over the ones they didn't. What a choice. He sighed deeply. He stepped forward, deliberately placing himself in front of Krycek, blocking his view. Slowly, he said, " Come on, Krycek. You can't back out now, not after all you've done. Have you survived everything simply to throw it all away?" Alex laughed quietly, derisively. "You expect me to believeh—that? I should go back and take up the role I had before, the same one that you despised me for? No, thanks. I get no satisfaction from it and at this point, I really couldn't give a damn if the Grays and their Black Oil parasites win or not. It's all gone to hell anyway. It's a losing battle. Why bother?" Mulder fell silent. He was temporarily at a loss, for Krycek had a point; Mulder was asking him to return to a thankless position, one that Mulder himself had indeed hated him for holding. However, in a way, by asking Krycek to return to it Mulder was tacitly giving him the credit of having fulfilled a necessary part in the game. Krycek had to be made aware of this. Mulder's eyes narrowed. This was seriously fucked-up. How was he supposed to give a cowardly, lying, treacherous and murdering, scum- sucking son of a bitch a reason to carry on? Mulder had always had his faith... He experienced a heady little flash of that impassioned speech of Krycek'sh—followed by that kissh—a memory of two things that night that he couldn't forget, and Mulder tried to squelch it. Even despite the fact he knew Samantha was dead, both his parents were now dead, and he had nothing else, the truth still mattered to Mulder. That, however, would hardly appeal to Krycek; and it was no incentive to offer the satisfaction of seeing a victorious outcome for its own sake. He found himself floundering, realizing he really knew next to nothing about the familiar man he had grown used to hating over the last six years. "What do you want? Another chance? To start over, turn back the clock?" Another black glimmer that clouded Krycek's face at his words reminded Mulder that Krycek wasn't really interested in anything at the moment. "Redemption? A way to make up for the past, or acts you've committed? We can give that to you. A full pardon." They could always retract it later, anyway... The legal grounds, and the evidence against him... Alex made a soundless chuckle at this. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To have me begging to do it for free, for the knowledge that I can atone for my past, for my 'criminal behavior'," he added with a sneer. "I'm here to offer you what you really want, Krycek." "I doubt that." Alex said in that usual, knowing voice, accompanied by the smug look that always made Mulder clench his fists with the longing to wipe it from his face. "What do you want?" Mulder demanded. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'm right? That maybe there really isn't any reason to keep fighting?" Mulder stopped, considering him. "I don't believe you. I don't believe this; what you're doing. It's not going to work. Why don't you do the honest thing for once in your miserable, fucked-up existence and come clean, Krycek? What are you really up to? You expect me to believe this bullshit? Come on." Alex sighed. "Just... just fuck off, Mulder." It wasn't the words themselves, although they were reason enough to set him off; no, it was the dismissive tone that Krycek delivered them in that made Mulder move forward at last, unable to control himself as the rage swept over him. "You bastard," he gritted out, grabbing Krycek by the front of his shirt. Half-heartedly and a little too late, Alex angrily tried to twist out his grip but Mulder grappled with him, using the advantage of his superior angle as he knelt over him, virtually on top of him, managing to get a few blows in and snapping the man's head back with their force. Leaning over him, grabbing hold of his shirt with both hands again and breathing hard, Mulder exclaimed, "Come on, you piece of shit; give me one good reason why I shouldn't do it. Just one!" Do what, exactly, Mulder wasn't saying but Alex knew what he meant. The helplessness of this same old song and dance gave him the familiar deja vu again; Mulder hitting him, enraged, needing very little encouragement to attack him. In fact, none. But... at least it was something. It was better than being ignored. At least it was Mulder, Fox Mulder. His very own Fox, here, in his own apartment, close to him, hitting him, touching him— Mulder stared down at Krycek, wondering why the man had suddenly relaxed in his grip. There was something frightening in the way Krycek just sat there, staring up at him, almosth—begging him. And his eyesh—in that same, sickening moment Mulder realized that Alex wouldn't fight back; in fact, had never fought back. Never would. Krycek said nothing but his eyes were practically pleading Mulder to keep going, to finish the game at last. They were empty. Empty of everything except pain and a sort of fatalistic despair. Add to that the fact that his nose was bleeding now and the bruises were showing up lividly against his pale, drawn, unshaven face... It dawned on Mulder that Krycek actually believed what he'd said; that there was no point, no reason to carry on. Fuck, the man was on the edge. And to be honest, deep down, Mulder realized he felt a little ashamed. Raggedly drawing a breath, Alex said in a pain-soaked tone that left no doubt of the sincerity or depth of his apathy and suffering, "Go on, Mulder. Please. Please, finish it this time." And his words lent validity to the hopelessness that Mulder was seeing in his eyes. Mulder let go of him as quickly as he had first grabbed him, and got to his feet. Thish—this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Why didn't he fight back? Mulder tried to suppress the anxious stab of guilt that arose now. He felt like he'd been antagonizing a beaten dog, kicking it while it was down. Mulder took a step back, for Krycek had risen and was moving towards him. "There isn't anyone else in the world that could do this. It should be you, it has to be you." "Me? Why? For what?" Mulder's mind whirled. What the hell was Krycek talking about? Had he missed something somewhere along the line? But Krycek had grabbed up a gun from somewhere and was pressing it into his hands. "Please. Promise me. If you don't do it now, than do it later after I'veh—taken care of things. It's a deal. I'll return for a while, just to get things sorted outh—I'll take care of things for you. And then you can take care of me." The emphasis Krycek put on that last word struck home and the light switched on in Mulder's brain. He froze and the gun slipped from his hand and fell with a dull clunk on the old, worn carpet. "You wanth—to die? You want me to kill you?" Mulder stared at him. "You're serious, aren't you? You've fucking lost it. Haven't you?" Krycek was kneeling before him, his right arm going around Mulder's left leg, pressing his forehead against Mulder's thigh, just above his knee. "Please," Krycek repeated, in a broken, hoarse whisper, "Please. You've always wanted to. C'mon, Mulder, here I am, asking you to do the very thing you've wanted to do for so long. Tell me you'll do it. It's the only thing I want. You said you were here to give me what I want. That's what it is. That's all." This isn't happening, Mulder told himself in disbelief. He was surprised to find that he actually had no desire now to shoot Krycek whatsoever, let alone punch him up or arrest him, beat him, cuff him, or kill him. He shook his head slowly. This was surreal: Krycek at his feet, begging to be shot. It was disturbing, actually. Not to mention that the sensation of warmth and pressure of Krycek's hand curled around his leg and Krycek's arm where it was pressed to him was distracting to no end, for some reason. He licked his lips and tried to think of the best way to handle this. He reached down to shake loose Krycek's hold on him, to get hold of his elbow and help him to his feet. "Look, we'llh—we'll discuss it, okay? Come on, stand up. We can?we can help you. We'll talk about your return and the Consortium's lost plans later. Right now, we need to justh—talk." Angrily, Krycek got to his feet and shoved at Mulder, forcing him to take a step back to regain his balance. "Fine. Fuck this. I should have realized you wouldn't have it in you. You never could finish anything. You've been threatening me for years. I bet you're that way in bed, too? A fucking pricktease. No wonder you're more celibate than an orthodox monk," he sneered, somewhat disjointedly, and threw himself back onto the couch in a disgusted manner, folding his arm across his chest defensively and glowering at the television. Mulder stiffened. This wasn't what he was here for. In fact, he was cursing that he'd allowed himself to fall into a repetition of his usual pattern. He bent down and picked up the gun, carefully. It was loaded. He remembered the man was dangerous; far too dangerous to face without taking precautions. Mulder had faced down many an unstable, suffering beings in his life, many of them barely even human. For some reason, this one made him truly afraid. He wondered how he'd ever found the nerve actually to attack him on all those instances their paths had crossed. Trained as he was, Krycek could have taken him out at any time. Krycek looked up at him again. He laughed bitterly in Mulder's face, outright. "'I want to believe'. What a joke. Your motto should be 'deny everything'. You live in a state of denial. You can't pull the trigger because that would end it all. And you can't have that, can you, Fox? Closure is just a little too comfortable for you, isn't it?" Mulder considered him. He remembered why he was there; he was supposed to be convincing Krycek to come back. "This is getting old. Come on, get over it! Everybody feels like giving up sometimes. Okay, so you need a vacation. So take one. But we're talking about the fate of the planeth—nearly six billion lives. The fight isn't over, not for the rest of the human race. They don't want to die; who are you to choose that for them?" "I don't have anything else! I don't have anything left but that! There is nothing for me to look forward to, other than you pulling that trigger," Krycek exclaimed, angrily, turning on Mulder with a heated glare. "Fuck. Right: 'saving the world'... I was never an altruist and neither were you. You had your sister; you had your precious truth to find. What? Did you think were we just doing this because the rest of the planet, like a bunch of goddamned lemmings, was running over the side of the cliff? What's so satisfying about saving the lives of sheep? Ungrateful sheep, at that." His eyes were bright and his voice was thicker now. "Tell me how that's supposed to be so fucking fulfilling. I don't have a life, and neither do you. We can't have one. The difference is that I want a life— and you don't need one!" Mulder gradually became aware that Krycek was more animated and human in this moment, during this entire encounter, than he could remember seeing him in years. Since they'd been partners, in fact. He had grown so accustomed to seeing Krycek with that cold indifference and slightly smirking professional air that to see him like this made him suddenly appear as another person altogether. "You can't just give up," Mulder stated, lamely, feeling at a loss. "Yeah? Why not?" Challenging him, Krycek looked pretty pissed-off. "There's more at stake here than your self-pity and misery!" "Where do you get off? Go to hell, Mulder!" Krycek hissed, furious at Mulder's accusation. "How dare you presume to waltz in here, looking— looking perfect and, and, official," he spat. "God, you should be wearing your suit for this. You can't give me your cause. There is more to life than your conspiracy theories and obsession with extra-terrestrial life, you know." Alex paused to wipe away the blood from his nose, gingerly, and not a little ironically. Dryly, Mulder replied, "Indeed? Tell me about it, Krycek. You'll have to forgive me if I doubt the credibility of that though, coming from someone as strung out as you are right now. Apparently it's enough to keep me going, whereas you're sitting there asking me to kill you." Alex stopped, breathing hard, obviously backtracking. Degenerating into an argument would hardly help and certainly wouldn't do anything but provoke Mulder into growing more obstinate. He'd never get Mulder to kill him now. Mulder tended to be stubborn once he'd made up his mind about something like this. Once Mulder decided he was right, nothing could shake him loose from his conviction. Like the one about Alex being an evil bastard who deserved a fate worse than death? Alex wondered what fate that might be. Curiously, he asked, "Mulder, just for the record, since you won't kill me, what exactly do you think it is that I deserve for my, uh, 'crimes'? You could tell me, don't you think?" The abrupt change of mood made Mulder swiftly reassess his role in this little confrontation. He was unsure whether he was really a therapist, a law enforcer, a spokesperson for the only organized human resistance to an alien threat or a righteously angry son of a dead parent? Damn it; he was all four. And Krycek thought that he had schizoid problems. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on, and tried to ask himself why he should care if Krycek died or not. As Mulder didn't reply, Alex continued, "Sorry, Mulder, I can't quite buy it. The fate of the world, resting on me? That's about the lamest thing you've ever come up with." "Do you have any coffee?" Alex didn't bat an eyelash at this change of subject. And his tone of voice didn't change, either. "No. Well, I've got instant though. And sugar." It made him sound overly belligerent and even testy, which almost took Mulder off-guard with a twitch of a smile. But Mulder suppressed it; he didn't want to bait Krycek now. "Do you want any? I'm going to make some." "Uh, sure." Alex tried to swallow around the lump in his throat that developed at this. Mulder saw it, too. It would be so easy for Krycek to imagine that he was actually serious... That he was actually backing down, that he didn't want him dead, that there was a chance that Mulder was serious about needing him to come back. Mulder turned and made his way to the kitchen, switching on the light and looking around. He opened a cupboard and found mugs. As he made the coffee, he noticed the place was remarkably tidy. It was almost Spartan. Somehow, judging from Krycek's current state of mind, he'd imagined the place would be in a far worse shape than it was. He filled the kettle with spring water he found in a jug and put it on to boil. Then paused, waiting, wondering what the hell he was going to do with a man who was begging him for death at his hands. And found himself having to revise all his earlier assessments of him. Krycek had been a thorn in his side for so long that it was unnerving to find himself in the awkward position of having to save Krycek. He doubted that the man would actually kill himself while Mulder was still there. Despite being as close to the edge as Krycek appeared to be, there was stamina, an endurance that the man possessed that had kept him alive through far worse pain than he was in now, although those had all been physical tests, and maybe the psychological toll had been too great over the years. He wondered how long Krycek had been running on empty. "Mulder," Krycek called, in that husky, lilting manner he had, filling Mulder with a nameless kind of anxiety that he couldn't place. It sounded oh-so-familiar, and did bad things to his peace of mind. He flinched. "What?" he called back, pouring hot water onto the coffee in the two cups. "You knew Diana Fowley had betrayed you, and that she was working with Old Spender. Why did you forgive her?" Mulder grinned humorlessly to himself. You mean, why didn't I forgive you the same as I forgave her, he thought. He picked up the two cups and brought them into the living room. He handed one to Krycek and then sat down before replying. Sipping cautiously, he said simply, "I loved her. Haven't you ever loved anyone, Krycek? Unconditionally, without reservation? To the point where you would forgive them anything? Do anything for them?" Alex sat, holding his coffee, staring at it blankly. For a moment, Mulder wondered if he'd actually heard him. Then he noticed the white, clenched knuckles around his cup, and that the bland, indifferent mask was back. Guess I hit a nerve, Mulder mused silently to himself. He felt no joy at the victory. If anything, he felt distinctly unsettled. What did it mean; that Krycek wanted him to care? Why should he want him to, especially after all the hostility between them, and at this late date? It couldn't be that the man was so starved for affection or companionship that even the company of someone who despised him was better than none, could it? And he felt the stirring of real pity for him beginning inside him somewhere. Was he to believe this poor bastard actually envied Diana Fowley?! How... utterly pathetic. Alex eventually noticed the coffee was too hot and he absently placed the hot cup down on the table beside him. Pain blossomed through his chest at Mulder's words. He wondered if Mulder had said it deliberately. To rub his nose in it, so to speak. To make it clear that it was one thing that he, Krycek, the unworthy, would never have. It was a matter of pride, as well as dignity. If Mulder wasn't going to end this, he certainly didn't want to give Mulder even more ammunition to use against him. But he couldn't disguise the longing in his eyes well enough when he turned back to Mulder and said, quietly, "Give me one good reason why I should help you; one thing that it will afford me. I don't stand to gain anything by it. I don't see how can you trust someone who wants out as badly as I do, anyway? How can you be sure I wouldn't sabotage the situation and sell you out? I know a lot; the damage I could do would be considerable. I could hand everyone over to them on a plate. Why shouldn't I? I've lost everything that meant anything to me, ever. Doesn't thath—doesn't that make you just a little nervous? It should." Alex was curious now, and calm. Inside though, his mind was racing and he could hardly stand the desire to either hurl himself at Mulder in an attempt to get him to shoot him after all, or to throw himself at his feet once more and beg him for... what? To show even a little forgiveness, a little kindness? Just something, anything at all. Interesting, that Krycek should want Mulder to like him, enough to feel so defensive about it and try to hide it. But Mulder reacted to his words and had to catalogue away for future reference that insight into Krycek's black little world. Mulder licked his lips. Why did he always end up in situations like this, where he had to fly by the seat of his pants, where just one wrong reply he gave could blow a fuse? He suddenly had the mental image of his life's pursuits as a procession of psychological bomb threats; if he cut the red wire instead of the green one, the patient would explode. And he was colorblind. There was always a 75% chance that he would choose the wrong approach. He thought of the number of times he'd had to shoot someone down, even in self-defense, on the job. There were too many. And suddenly he had the irritating sensation that he held a sympathetic parallel to Krycek in that they both had done things they wished they hadn't had to do... in the line of duty and in the name of national security. He cleared his throat. "You wouldn't do that. It would go against your nature." Alex lifted a brow at him and gave him a scathing look. "According to your opinion of me these past years, it is perfectly within my nature, Mulder. In fact, if I were to quote you, my character profile fits well within selling out anyone, not just you and Saint Scully." "Saint Scully?" Alex smiled without humor. "My nickname for her." Mulder squirmed slightly. He breathed out through his nose, exasperatedly. "Okay, okay. Maybe I was a little over the top. You aren't a total scum-bag, just? mostly a scum-bag." "How generous of you." Alex was dry. But he didn't say anything else. He was obviously waiting for Mulder to follow up his sarcastic answer with something more mollifying. God, I hate this, Mulder thought. I will be damned to hell and back before I apologize to him. Still, he could afford to have a little pity, considering the man wanted to die. And it was up to him to convince him otherwise. "Look, Krycek. I—" he stopped, wondering how to phrase it, "I don't actually know you. I don't know what you want, or what makes you tick, okay? I never wanted to go there. So help me out here; what do you really want? Besides a bullet between the eyes, I mean. What would make life worth living, for you? In an ideal world? Then, maybe we can set about trying to get it for you, okay?" Alex laughed; and this time he laughed longer, too. Finally, he sat back, shaking his head at him. Mulder found it disturbing; he couldn't see what the man might find so funny. And there was still that underlying humorless quality to it, as well. And then Alex was explaining, "I'm tired. In fact, I'm exhausted. I'm sick of it all. Contrary to what you might believe about me, I'm not a robot. I'm not a damned Energizer rabbit, going and going and going. My battery's dead, all right? I just don't care anymore, got it? Understand this, Mulder. I. Don't. Care." Which couldn't be true, or he would already have offed himself, Mulder thought, and swiftly replied, in a careful, measured tone, "You're right. But us humans; we're rechargeable. What would recharge your batteries, Krycek?" Alex shot him a look. He leaned forward and picked up his coffee, to gaze into it almost bemused. "Mulder, if I'm dead," he answered, almost puzzled at why this should have to be asked at all, like it was obvious, "why should I care whether others go on living or not? Maybe it would be better for this planet for the Black Cancer to take over and end civilization. Did you ever think that maybe it's kind of unavoidable? A part of some divine plan; something we can't stop? A fait accompli?" Mulder regarded him curiously. "Do you believe in karma, Krycek?" "Now you're getting desperate." "Not really. I just wonder if you believe in cause and effect over time, spanning lifetimes, rather than just this one existence." "I know what you mean. And I still think it's desperate of you to try to appeal to my sense of moral reasoning in that manner. Especially when you don't believe I have any. Besides, if we're going to go down that road, you've killed more people than I have, this time round. Karma? Don't make me laugh." "Damn, Krycek," said Mulder, impressed, "you sound pretty lucid for someone in a suicidal state." "I'm not sure I like what you're implying," Alex said, flatly. Mulder stared at him. "What? What is it you think I'm implying?" "That I'm just playing around with this. I don't want to die, you moron. No one ever does. It's just the least painful option left to me at this point is all. I thought you went to Oxford?" Mulder's eyes flashed at this. He wasn't sure whether to be angry or not. The conversation had taken a surreal turn but on terms he could handle. At least this was the kind of territory he was familiar with. So instead, he said, "That took you long enough to admit. And I'm more than willing to admit that I don't understand you at all. I don't think you understand me, either. The one thing that keeps me going is the truth. I guess you could say it's sort of become my god. It's my religion." Alex lifted his eyes to meet his, briefly. Waiting. Slightly hooked. Gotcha, Mulder thought. And added in a deceptively mild tone, "What's yours? What's your god, Krycek?" Alex looked down at the floor. Wanting Mulder to kill him was very different to telling Mulder that he wanted him. Passionately, with every cell in his body, each heartbeat, every breath he took. That it was suffocating, the painful wish that he could just spend ten seconds being held by him. That at this point, if Mulder would just hold him for a few minutes, he'd do anything he wanted. It was Mulder's turn to wait, his pulse quickening. He really did want to know, now. He reminded himself to breathe as Krycek took longer and longer to answer. Alex seemed to deflate slightly though, and sat back once more. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Mulder tried to suppress his disappointment. And then wondered when his initial animosity towards Krycek had mutated into an urge to understand what psychological forces drove his actions. Suddenly it had become all-important that he gain Krycek's trust to the point of having the man open up to him, even if just a fraction. He didn't dare examine why that should be, though. A hunted look had come over Krycek, leaving Mulder with the impression that he'd come a little too close to the bone for comfort. Krycek was also avoiding his eyes now. That was not a good sign. And in the next strange second, Mulder found he was wondering if Krycek wanted a reciprocation of what he'd given Mulder that night Krycek had visited him in the dark with cryptic warnings and leads. His brain shied away from that possibility. He hoped it wasn't the case. The thought of having to lean in and kiss Krycek, to comfort him and tell him everything was going to be alright, sent a frisson of both revulsion and fear through him, all the way down to his cock. In an attempt to reopen the moment and regain some sane hold on his position, Mulder said thoughtfully, "I think we're more alike than we might have guessed." Alex looked up to regard him with some surprise. That was some concession, coming from Mulder. He wondered what Mulder was leading up to. He would never say something outright that was complimentary to him, without using it as a way of making a statement and hurting him in the end after all. "Well, think about it," Mulder insisted. "Like you said, we've made this fight our whole life. We don't have time for anything else and if we try to give it up, we reach a dead end. We've invested far too much in it to find anything else to take its place at this late date. And we both have nothing to lose. No family, no ties, nothing they can take from us. In fact, we're the perfect altruists." "The perfect martyrs," Alex said, pointedly, darkly. "Sure. But it also makes us dangerous. Imagine what we could achieve together, if we're both working towards the same goal, without the hostility." Alex sighed heavily. "I hate to be the one to have to point this out to you —again, Mulderh—but you're the one who's been hostile. I've always done everything I can to be reasonable, but you always flip out whenever I walk in the room." Mulder frowned. "Yeah, well, maybe that's had something to do with the fact that your modus operandi always exists outside anything remotely resembling ethics or compassion. You've got to admit, you have left a trail of bodies in your wake." "And you haven't?" countered Alex, getting angry again. "Correct me if I'm wrong but every contact who's ever tried to help you have always ended up dead, haven't they?" "Blackmail? Skinner?" Mulder raised his brows at Krycek. "Dr Sandoz? Betrayal? Hello?" He waved a hand before him, once. Alex sighed quietly and seemed to sink into the couch again. "You're right, Mulder. You're always right." Mulder belatedly remembered this wasn't about scoring intellectual points but convincing Krycek to return to a position that he detested and had grown so demoralized over that he was thinking of death as a sober alternative. "Seriously, all moral considerations aside, don't you agree that we would make a good team if we joined forces?" "I see. It's a heinous suggestion if it comes from me, but if you make it, it's the most reasonable and logical thing for me to do." Mulder grinned. "If you like." "You're boring me, Mulder." "And you're boring me. I don't buy this suicide trip you say you're on. I can't stop you from doing it right now, and you haven't done it yet in the weeks you've had, either." Alex grinned back at him, toothily, but not pleasantly. "Calling my bluff?" "Calling you out. If you're so far gone you still want to play this game, you've rendered yourself useless to us anyway, at this point. I'll just go." Alex was shaking his head at him. "Your negotiating skills really suck, Mulder. You've let yourself go quite badly, haven't you? Must've been all that time you spent lying on your back aboard the Grays' ship. You can tell me: did they help you with your issues? Is it true what they say about the rectal probes?" Mulder nearly rose to his baiting but it dawned on him that he was enjoying this exchange too much and probably Krycek was too. The joy of this verbal sparring wasn't as satisfying as an actual physical confrontation but it helped to express it. And Mulder was abruptly left with the realization that whether they fought or argued, the purpose was the same: the deliberate covering-up of what they really thought, what they felt towards each other. In a sickening moment of self-insight, Mulder saw that he was afraid of what Krycek actually represented in his life, of what it might mean if Krycek was gone at last, if things had changed sufficiently that they could at last engage on a level other than conflict. He fell silent and looked so intense at this that Alex actually stopped and shot a panicked look his way, as if fearing that he was going to call both their bluffs. Indeed, Alex's eyes widened and he looked like he was about to say something. In reality, Alex was afraid he'd gone too far and was about to apologize. The panic that overcame him at getting Mulder angry enough at him to return to his usual hatred of him, or worseh—ignoring him again, was blinding. He hadn't meant to alienate him again. Mulder set his cup down and sat back, wearily. "Okay, it's your call. What do you want? Anything. Just name your price." Alex looked down. "It can't be bought." He didn't want to see Mulder anymore. It was too painful. Mulder had no idea how much this was taking out of him, just to maintain his composure. Alex wanted to pretend that the earlier scene he'd made had never happened. Jesus, he'd actually begged Mulder to... He'd got down on his knees. The unbelievable stupidity of everything he'd said and done since Mulder had arrived overwhelmed him. He wished desperately this was just another dream, another imagined conversation with hallucinatory lucidity. A feeling of final despair covered him. He wanted to beg Mulder for more than death; he wanted forgiveness, he wanted to apologize for everything he'd ever done. He was flooded with the impulse to just confide in him and tell him exactly what he did think of him, of how he'd always admired him for his integrity in the face of incredible odds, and of how he had looked up to him. That somehow, for him, Mulder's clean image in this menacing war against a bizarre and horrifying foe had remained untarnished despite Mulder's all-too-human and contrary nature. And that Mulder inspired him still, even as Mulder had despised him. And that he did know what love was, that he understood what it was like to love someone so completely that, beyond all reason or self-interest, one could find the ability to forgive anything. But he knew Mulder would never buy it; an assassin with a heart, who had killed in cold blood the man's own father and then claimed that he 'loved' him? Mulder would make mincemeat of him over that one, and Alex was tired of arguing. Tired of trying to find ways to say he was sorry. Tired of proving himself endlessly only to himself. Besides, even if Mulder were to 'let' him love him, Mulder would never return it. And the certainty of both that and the fact that he actually did love Mulder were enough to bring a horrid sense of finality to this entire conversation. He couldn't afford to keep doing this. Not if he didn't want to end up weeping at the man's feet. He remembered a quote from a film, the name of which eluded him: sarcastically, 'Does it really matter how one falls down?' And the answer, gravely, 'When the fall is all there is, it matters.' He shook his head and drew a breath. Standing up, he said, "Just... get out. Leave me alone, Mulder." And he turned and went to the window, staring out of it at the slow traffic passing wetly in the street below. It was dark outside now. Feeling the dismissal as something Krycek obviously meant seriously, not just as an insult, Mulder remained where he was. The challenge really had been set, now. There was no way he was leaving until he'd gained both Krycek's trust and the security that Krycek wasn't going to kill himself after he left. "I can't do that, and you know it. You shouldn't have told me you wanted to die. That was a mistake, Krycek. Besides, I don't think you really want me to go, or you would've played along and got me to believe you would agree to come back; then killed yourself once I left." Krycek snorted. "Bullshit. You don't believe I mean to do it, anyway." "That doesn't change the fact that you're seriously strung out, here." "You know, I don't know what's worse: that the only reason you give a damn is because it makes a difference to your cause, or that you really don't give a damn h—and yet you expect me to believe that you do." What the fuck—? Mulder found himself having to go over that one again. So, Krycek was upset that Mulder didn't care about him except where it concerned their objectivesh—and he was upset that Mulder didn't care about him. Hm. Very interesting. He wondered if Krycek realized exactly what he had just said. Or rather, what he'd just given away. And that nauseous, nervous tension returned to haunt Mulder's stomach. The bastard wanted him to care about him. Shit. Pity was one thing; feigning actual concern was another. And despite what he might say, Mulder was all too aware of Krycek's death wish at this point. He knew it was merely a few steps more down to a deeper, darker place and then Krycek really would go through with it. He had to question why it was paramount that he not allow this to happen. Was it really out of pity, or in the interests of their cause? What a fucking can of worms. He wanted to do exactly what Krycek had demanded and just go. He couldn't just offer a hand of friendship or comfort because Krycek had made it personal. It wasn't just any friend he wanted; it was Mulder. And it wasn't just any comfort, or shoulder to cry on; it was Mulder's. So there it was: did Mulder really want to find it within himself to care enough for Krycek to give him what he wanted? Or was this coming to a close at last; and they'd come full circle through the years of this dance only to reach a very fatal end? Alex wanted to slap his own face for the sheer stupidity of what he'd just uttered. He'd basically handed his heart over to Mulder on a silver platter and said, 'dig in'. The panic rose in his throat and nearly choked him; he wanted to walk out of the room but couldn't find a way to do it without Mulder believing he was bolting. And Mulder was right, damn him; he should have played it more carefully and not let on that he was so far down the road of actually wanting to do it. He could have played along, pretended to agree with Mulder and then slipped away afterwards. Which practically begged the question: why had he remained in DC at all, if he hadn't really been hoping for some kind of final confrontation, even if the resolution involved the curtailing of their erstwhile violent and painful relationship? He found himself shaking. And behind him, Mulder hadn't even moved. He only said, with the hint of a knowing smile in his voice, "How about dinner? It's on me." Mulder took out his cellphone, nonchalantly phoning his favorite Chinese and ordering with allowance for plenty of leftovers. Alex wasn't sure what to be more indignant about: the fact that Mulder was making a point of paying for it, which said a lot about what he imagined Krycek's external situation was, or that he was deliberately extending this... showdown; right on the heels of Krycek's dismissal of him, no less. He saw though that he wasn't getting rid of Mulder that easily. He felt a burning surge of anger go through him and he turned to regard Mulder with a glare. Mulder didn't intend to allow him even the slightest hint of dignity. Mulder looked surprised at first and then paralyzed. It took a moment for Alex to realize that he'd succeeded in terrifying him. He wondered how daunting he actually looked. Mulder was obviously thinking he'd gone too far and had pushed Krycek over the edge. But that was Mulder's trademark, wasn't it? Getting himself into sticky situations, in way over his head until finally someone else pulled him out? In this case Alex himself, who had to remember that he didn't want to kill Mulder at all and actually felt lightheaded in the wake of the impulse to do him bodily harm. Softly, Alex said, "You have no idea how lucky you are." Mulder swallowed visibly and then said, roughly, "Actually, I think I do. Look, why don't you... just come sit down? We can talk." "We've done nothing but talk since you arrived." "And when the food arrives, we'll eat. But until then, let's talk." And he added, "Some more." Alex slowly went back to the couch and sat down. Mulder regarded him with some nervousness. He was obviously gauging how close Alex still was to snapping. Alex shook his head briefly, quickly. "Mulder, only you. Only you would refuse to respect someone until you drive him to nearly murder you. I have to ask, how early on in your partnership did Dana turn on you? By the time I met you, she already had you firmly wrapped around her little finger." Mulder's eyes narrowed. "You'd kill me over my ordering in dinner for us? What, was it the Chinese?" And he said it in all seriousness. Alex had to laugh at this. "If we compared our respective body counts to date, yours is still higher than mine. And although I'm aware my word means nothing to you, Duane Barry is entirely your responsibility." And he added, "To my knowledge, anyway. So what's the deal with Scully?" Mulder relaxed. "What about her?" "Well, she always was the main competition, wasn't she?" Alex said, dryly. It was Mulder's turn to feel lightheaded. He wasn't sure he liked how open and honest the conversation was becoming; especially if Krycek kept coming up with personal revelations and information. After all the years Mulder had wanted to beat the truth out of him, convinced the man was a liar of the worst kind, he now found he'd much rather not know. "She'sh—like a sister. We've known each other for too long now for it to be anything else. We're too familiar. I mean, in a way Scully's been the replacement for Samantha, for me." Alex understood this. Sure, the older brother's need to fill a protective role had been satisfied by Mulder's relationship with Scully as partner and friend. Even though Dana undoubtedly wanted more than that from him, and had to accept the fact that he really wasn't emotionally mature enough to be able to provide any other role for her. Suddenly, Alex felt years of jealousy lift and instead he felt a kinship, a sort of painful sympathy for her. And in the next instant he felt a deeper regret than ever before that he had felt absolutely nothing but a grim satisfaction that she'd been abducted all those years before. He wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. He met Mulder's gaze straight on and said, "You asked me what my god was, earlier. While we're playing the Truth game, I might as well tell you." Mulder looked furtive and Alex realized he didn't want to know; that, in fact, he already knew, but Mulder only said, "If you want to." Alex considered him. Mulder knew. He knew that Alex had made him the center of his world, that he'd been his ideal for some time now. And it hit him with almost blinding inspiration: love has its own dignity; it has its own self-respect. It needed no justification, no validity in the eyes of the object. It was in fact its own objective and required nothing but that it is to be experienced. He could afford to be charitable. If Mulder held the position for Truth's representative, then Alex could hold the one for Love. It didn't really matter that Mulder might find it a sensitive and disturbing possibility. It was also irrelevant that he might look down on him for it. Alex found suddenly that the same force that had always held him back from retaliating whenever Mulder had laid into him so violently all those times was now lending him the strength to be able to look him right in the eye, letting the full weight of what he really felt to go ahead and exist inside him, coloring his gaze with its own meaning. Mulder looked away abruptly; suddenly unable to bear the expression now Krycek wore for some reason. He felt as though Krycek had suddenly called his bluff. He licked his lips, unaccountably feeling more unsettled than before. The shift was too quick; first Krycek was glaring at him with what he could only describe as pure hatred and now he was looking at him with understanding, acceptance and even... affection? Alex shrugged, prompting him. "You wanted to talk." "I did." "Well, let's just say that where you love truth, I truly love. You can doubt that all you wanth—but then, I can also doubt that you really love truth as much as you say you do. For example, I'm not sure you can handle me telling you my truth. Truth you don't want to hear." Mulder stared at him with dismay. Since when had Krycek gotten the upper hand in this... whatever it was, that they were involved in? "Fine," he replied, firmly, "I'll believe you if you'll believe me." Alex gave him a quizzical little look. "Are we going to trust each other, here?" "Sounds like it, doesn't it?" There was a knock on the front door. Mulder got up to go to it and was halfway out into the hallway before he turned. "Sorry, do you want to—" Alex shook his head. "Go ahead." He got up and went to the kitchen for plates and forks. Annoyingly, it wasn't the food yet; it was some lost soul who had knocked on the wrong door. Mulder took the time though to try to gather his wits after he had closed the door. He took his time walking slowly back into the living room, deliberating over the stressful nature of the events of the evening and what he had discovered so far. Skinner owed him for this, big time, he thought. And then winced as he realized that Skinner had already paid for it during all those months he'd been compromised by the very same Alex Krycek who had all but openly claimed to love him, Mulder. The same Krycek who had not moments ago even confessed to seeing Scully as the only real competitive obstacle in his way. Krycek had come to stand in the kitchen doorway, regarding Mulder with a knowing look. "Second thoughts?" Mulder looked over at him. "No, it was just someone looking for the next apartment." "Mm. On the side of the angels, and never the twain shall meet?" Mulder sat down with a sigh and answered, "If you mean, I'll forgive you but I'll never forget what I forgave, you're right." Alex looked taken aback at this. "What with your Jewish ancestry, I'm not surprised to hear that. I've heard the Yiddish mother jokes. But do youh—are you serious? Do you really mean it?" Considering, Mulder shrugged. "Sure." A sincere smile crept over Alex and Mulder felt a little warmth go through him at having made it happen. In the next instant he found himself wondering why. Almost shyly, Alex turned, saying, "I'll get the plates." Too fucking surreal, even for me, Mulder thought, leaning forward to put his face in his hands. When had the world decided to do a ninety- degree turn and sit on its side? When had having dinner with Krycek become a victoryh—in the negotiation process of trying to get the ex- assassin to reenter the game instead of killing himself, no less? And when had it come to be something to feel proud of, that he had said something to make Krycek happy? He felt like pinching himself just to prove he was still awake and not in some weird, alternate reality or dream-state. But the impetus of the evening had its own intentions and didn't include cutting Mulder a break. Alex came through with plates, cold beer and forks and set them down on the low table. He glanced up at Mulder and said, "Is Heineken okay?" Mulder was shaking his head. "It'll have to be, won't it?" Alex stopped, regarding him solemnly. "Look, if it isn't, I can—" Mulder agitatedly said, "It's fine. Look, since when did—" "—I become human?" Alex interrupted, finishing for him. Mulder exhaled though his nose, slightly miffed. "I wasn't going to say that, but since you've brought it up... Whath—exactlyh—is going on here? I mean, I'll confess I'm a little lost. Are you still thinking of killing yourself, or are we moving on to the possibility of your collaborating with us in a takeover of the world's governments?" Alex smirked. "Why, Fox, I didn't think you had it in you. World domination? Stop it already; you're turning me on." Mulder found this decidedly unnerving; a flirtatious Krycek was something he had never, ever imagined he would ever be faced with; not in his most darkest, weirdest imaginings, which were pretty damned dark and weird, too. Mulder cleared his throat. He didn't want to think of Krycek as anything but a dangerous adversary, damn it! Slowly, he said, "You like that suggestion, do you?" Alex shrugged and opened his beer. "It wouldn't be hard, at this point. It would be remarkably easy, actually. Information is knowledge and knowledge really is powerh—unfortunately enough for the ignorant. And ignorance is no excuse." "You make it sound like they deserve to be sheared." "Don't they? Isn't that what you're getting ready to do? Think about it; you'll be instigating the setting up of a new power base behind the scenes, one that effectively runs every decision made in every country, with one aim in mind: total control, organized dominant rule for the sake of the masses against a common enemy. In other words, a dictatorship." "That... is not what I had in mind," Mulder said, vehemently, almost defensively. "It isn't what we had discussed, and it certainly isn't something anyone could openly condone." Alex tilted his head and gave him a curious look. "What do you think the Consortium was?" He stopped and added with a sigh, "Besides, what other options do we have?" "We?" Mulder asked, pointedly. The front door was being rapped and Alex got up this time. He threw over his shoulder, "We haven't discussed payment yet." "I already paid for it! I put it on my credit card, on my account," he called back to him, worried that Krycek would pay them a second time. When Alex came back bearing various bags, he said, "I didn't mean them. I meant payment for me." He dropped one of the bags on the table with a hiss. "They're hot." He put the others down and began opening them. Mulder sidestepped the payment issue for now by saying, "I hope you don't have strong feelings about duck because I do." "Whatever." Alex shrugged and picked up his beer. But once they'd helped themselves and their plates were full, Alex said between mouthfuls, with a confidence he didn't actually feel, "Don't worry, Mulder, I'm not going to ask you to kill me." Mulder put down his plate. "I suppose I should be grateful for small favors." Alex's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess: you're disappointed that I'm more high maintenance than you expected." Mulder picked up his own beer and took a long, long gulp of it. "Let's just say I'll be glad to get home tonight without your blood on meh—or mine." Alex looked down at his own plate. Quietly, he said, "Mulder? I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry you had to go through this. You know: all of this here with me, tonight. Justh—let's justh—" He stopped, looking back up at him, wondering how to say it, without really knowing what to say. When Mulder didn't say anything, he looked down once more. "This, just this right here, like this, is enough. You know?" Mulder raised a brow. "What, dinner? Or do you mean talk?" "I don't know. Both. It beats having you beat on me." Alex took a bite of jumbo shrimp. "Still, it isn't the same as me beating you off, is it," Mulder quipped. And then wondered what the hell had possessed him to say that. Why did he always end up making some kind of high-school innuendo when Krycek was around? Why? You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now. Alex carefully swallowed what he was chewing and regarded him thoughtfully, obviously coming to the same conclusion: that Mulder usually found a way of making a fool of himself at some time during their encounters and they'd finally reached it. "I can't argue with that." He picked up his beer again, seeking refuge and inspiration in it. "Moving along," he continued, mercifully, "I don't think you or anyone else would really be happy with me as the new emperor of the world, so you're gonna have to be more specific about what you expect. We don't want anyone else setting themselves up as Spender's heir, either. I can corral them but that's about all, unless you want someone to come up with another recreation of the Syndicate. I can do that, but I'd advise against it. An autonomous democracy would be ideal but I don't know who would represent the best interests of—" Feeling even more lightheaded than he had before, Mulder said, "Can weh—talk about it later? Right now, I just want to make sure you're on the level. Like, can I trust you to not shoot yourself or disappear, the moment I go out the door?" "I'm not asking that much," Alex said. "If you treat me with as much courtesy and civility as you treat anyone else, then we're on the level; sure. I guess," he added, pointedly, "you'll have to take my word for it." Mulder nodded slowly. "All right." Alex remarked, surprised, "Progress." Mulder tipped up his bottle, finishing it. Then he sat back in his seat, regarding the leftovers. "Can you fit the rest of this in your fridge?" Alex shrugged. "Sure." He drew a breath. "We've both come a long way here, actually." "We have?" "Yeah. You're no longer trying to kill me; and I'm no longer trying to kill me, either." "Well, when you put it that way," Mulder replied. "Look, Alex," he continued, "I'm not sure where this is going, but I just want to make it clear that... nothing is... going to happen, here." Alex developed that familiar little crease between his brows, leaving Mulder with the impression he had just said something equally as silly as his earlier remark. "I'm glad you haven't lost that endearing habit you have; of seeking confirmation that everyone else's reality is still the same as the one you're sharing with them, Mulder." Inside, Alex was thinking, God forbid that Mulder actually discovers the true nature of his own 'truth'. But Alex really didn't want to rock the boat at this point so he kept that silent. Awkwardly, Mulder repeated, "Just wanted to say that; to make it clear, that's all." "Sure, Mulder." Denial, anyone? Talk about compounding your own problem, Alex thought. And tried to ignore the shaft of pain that reemerged somewhere in the region of his chest at Mulder's clumsy attempts to tell him yet again that he didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of ever having... Of anything happening, ever. And he looked down, feeling that familiar despair cover him again. Mulder saw the swift attempt on Krycek's part to cover the hurt that his statement had caused. Again. And thought furiously to himself, damn it; I'm not responsible for his well-being! I'm not responsible for any feelings he might have for me; I'm not! And he wondered how he could ever have imagined Krycek's face as being cold or unfeeling. Why, the younger man's eyes gave everything away, every time. Even now, he had brought down those lashes like a curtain veiling them. As if that little act didn't give him away, itself. Mulder realized with some distaste that he himself had never wanted to see this either, and had never dared to look closer. Tiredly, he found himself yawning. "Excuse me. So, hey, we're all clear then? You're going to be okay? And we'll see you at the FBI Building tomorrow? Say, about ten?" "Sure." Mulder shot him a look. "You mean that, now? You're not just saying that, to pacify me?" "Mulder, I'll be there. You have my word. Unless I get run over by a bus." Mulder's scowl at this let Alex know that he suspected that should any bus stop him, it would have to be a deliberate move on his part. Alex shook his head slightly. "I promise; no buses. I'll be driving." "Okay." "Thanks for the dinner." "Thanks... for the beer." "Tomorrow, then." Alex stated this matter-of-factly. Mulder stood up to go. "Alright, then." Alex remained where he was, and glanced up at him. "I'll clear this up, here. Let yourself out?" "Yeah. Okay." Mulder remained standing there, a little awkwardly again. Then took a breath and turned to go. "Goodnight." "Goodnight." Alex watched him leave, wondering what was going through his mind. As Mulder drove off, he was cursing himself for feeling guilty for not kissing Krycek on the cheek, or even shaking his hand. He felt as though he was supposed to feel relief at having got away, to finally go home. But in actuality, he hadn't wanted to leave at all. And this disturbed him mightily. Alex put the food away and then sank back into his couch, wondering what the hell had just happened. A dark and not-so-secret part inside of him was wishing that Mulder had stayed; that he would stay for a few more hours, just sit and talk with him a little longer. He sincerely hoped that Mulder was serious, particularly because it meant that he had a chance at attaining the one thing he'd ever wanted: the friendship of one Fox Mulder. Fox Mulder himself, at his door, askingh—begging him, even!h—to come back... He forgives me, Alex thought happily, allowing himself the luxury of enjoying it. He hadn't dared to believe it could ever happen. For the first time in many long years, Alex found himself passing the night hours in a state of anticipation of the coming day, instead of dread. ooOoOOoOoo The day was cold and bright. When Alex opened the door, tousled, blinking, he wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him. Mulder stood there, grasping a dozen, dusky red roses, the bottoms of their stems dripping in the doorway. He looked perturbed. "Look, Krycek —Alex, I can't accept these." Alex blinked, and blinked again. He quickly deduced what had happened. Someone had sent these to Mulderh—and Mulder had assumed that he... Alex began to chuckle, and leaned against the door. "I didn't send them. I'm not responsible for them but, hey, hold on and I'll get you a vase. Or something. They're going to die otherwise." He left the door open, leaving Mulder standing there to take his turn to do the bemused owl impression. Mulder heard Alex distantly crashing about in the kitchen and he sighed heavily. He went in and shut the door. By the time he entered the kitchen, Alex triumphantly produced a very large glass. "This'll do. Here." And he took the roses from him and placed them in the glass strategically, artfully, and then filled it with water. He then handed the glass back to Mulder. "There you are." Mulder stood holding it with both hands, looking disgruntled. He held it back out to Krycek. "Keep them. I'm not carrying them all the way back like this. It's too much trouble; there's no point. Besides, I'm going straight to work from here." Alex took them back, with a curious expression on his face. "Mulder... What did the card say?" "There was no card." But Alex had sat the vase down on the kitchen table and was fishing through the roses, flinching as a stray thorn nipped him. And then produced a small white card with a smug grin. Mulder had obviously been so flustered at receiving them that he hadn't even looked that hard. He held it out to him. Mulder took it, his face deliberately closed. Flicking it open, Mulder read it, a little frown still sitting on his brow. "With apologies, M?" he repeated. "Who's M?" "Breakfast?" Alex was rummaging through the fridge. "What?" Mulder looked lost. He looked, in fact, like a lost orphan, in need of either a compass, a set of adoptive parents or a scout- master. "Eggs? Toast? Bacon? Leftover Chinese?" "Uh, no, thanks. Just coffee." Mulder turned the note over in his hand and then read it again, trying to work it out from the printed card but there wasn't any recognizable handwriting. "They probably didn't write it themselves," Alex pointed out as he poured instant coffee and very hot water into a cup. "If I'd known you were going to be coming round on a regular basis, I would've got a coffee-maker." Mulder sat down at the kitchen table looking positively forlorn in his expensive suit. "I'm sorry I showed up likeh—like this." He was obviously embarrassed. "No problem. I got twelve red roses out of it, even if it was by default. Who's gonna turn that down? Let alone a Foxy Mulder at their door, first thing in the morning?" Alex grinned at him. Mulder just moaned slightly, his head still in his hands. "You're not making this any easier." He looked up again. "'Apologies, M?' What the hell am I supposed to make of that? Who's 'M' and why are they apologizing to me? For doing this to me, maybe?" Alex began frying bacon deftly in the pan and retrieved four eggs out of the fridge to add to it afterwards. "Marita? Did you invite her? Or did someone else?" Mulder snapped his fingers. "That's it," he said, relieved. Then was even more embarrassed that he'd gotten so flustered over any of it, in the first place. And here he was, without design or intent, about to have breakfast with Krycek. But Mulder was more than used to the bizarre and he recovered with aplomb. "Over easy," he nonchalantly instructed Krycek on the eggs as his cellphone rang. The bacon was sizzling loudly on its last stretch and Mulder turned away. "Oh, hi, Scully. Yeah, I'm up. Why... No, I didn't. Did you...no... yeah... okay... Scully, listen, did you... no. What?... Your mother?....Okay.... Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll see you there." Mulder put his phone away and turned to Krycek with a slightly mystified expression. Alex turned to him and handed him a plate loaded with fried food, then sat down himself, pouring orange juice into a glass. "The mystery sender, I take it?" "Yeah, it was Scully's mother. She sent them because she felt bad about forgetting my birthday. That was... Christ, that was weeks ago. Months, even. The florist misprinted; they were supposed to put M.S. And they delivered it weeks late. It was some sort of dispatch error. She just got it sorted out and phoned Scully. How weird is that?" Alex found himself thoughtfully considering the roses sitting on the table in front of them... between them, even. "I'd say it was fortuitously perfect timing." But he didn't meet Mulder's eyes. Instead, he turned to his own breakfast. "I didn't get you out of bed, did I?" Mulder asked. "Nice of you to care. It's okay. I only had ten more minutes anyway, before my alarm was set." Alex tried to adopt a nonchalance he didn't feel. He just prayed that Mulder couldn't see how awkward he felt, having him so close, so near. The entire scene was looking so domestic that Mulder was beginning to wonder if he hadn't actually entered some parallel dimension sometime the day before. He found himself chuckling, wryly. "We had dinner last night, now it's breakfast this morning. And you realize we'll probably end up having lunch as well? I mean, we're both going to the same meeting, at the same place." A curious mixture of yearning, pleasure and wistfulness rendered Alex temporarily incapable of answering and he covered his confusion by shoving food into his mouth. Taking the time to compose himself, he then drained his orange juice, trying manfully to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. How the fuck was he supposed to digest anything first thing of the day with a morning-fresh Mulder unexpectedly sitting at his breakfast table? Let alone one that came bearing red roses? He suddenly felt very vulnerable. Suddenly he had more of Mulder in his life than he could cope with. The presence of the roses on his kitchen table only served to remind him that, like their appearance there, Mulder's presence wasn't for him at all but only for some higher, greater cause and he could only enjoy it by proxy. And right in his face, too; in his own home. It wasn't like it was neutral ground. He looked down at his plate, the silence growing as Mulder finished off the bacon. Mulder's words from the previous evening suddenly returned to twist his insides coldly, reminding him that whatever it was that was taking place here, nothing was going to happen. 'It' wasn't going to happen. Damn it, he couldn't even have the morning to prepare himself for encountering Mulder; he had the man on his doorstep, first thing. He became aware of how close Mulder was, a few scant inches away and tried to stifle the self-consciousness that came over him. He needed a shower; he was still in sleep-rumpled clothes. Mulder's own thoughts must have taken a similar turn because he'd finished his own breakfast and his eyes had narrowed shrewdly, taking in Alex's discomfiture, not missing the fact that Alex's eyes only darted up to the roses every now and again and nowhere else. He looked away, at the clock on the wall, and then around the kitchen. "How long have you been living here?" "About as long as anywhere else. Although, I suppose I've been here longer than any one time in..." Alex trailed off. He stood up and said, "I need a shower. Let yourself out again, yeah?" "Sure. Thanks for breakfast," Mulder said, wondering if he'd said or done something to upset Krycek. The guy looked like he was keeping himself together with some effort. And as their eyes met momentarily before Krycek turned to go, Mulder found himself robbed of breath at the depth of the sadness and longing in his expression. After Krycek had left the room, Mulder was surprised at his instinctive, compassionate impulse; he'd wanted to just take him into his arms, hold him and tell him that everything was going to be all right. Then he realized how it must look to Krycek, for Mulder to come demanding on his doorstep first thing in the morning that Krycek take back the roses... When he had in fact not even sent them. Then for Krycek to end up keeping them as a painful reminder that they weren't even for him, and were from the mother of Mulder's partner —yet another someone that Krycek had hurt, however indirectly, so long ago, by his involvement in Scully's abduction and the death of her sister. Damn it. It seemed as though Krycek's life and theirs were somehow inextricably intertwined. As though their combined destinies were bound together in spite of their wishes to the contrary. He sighed and left the apartment, wishing that he wasn't destined to see Krycek yet again, barely even an hour hence, and cursed the part of him that actually wanted to stay and join Krycek in the shower... Mulder found himself distracted and edgy after he arrived at the Hoover Building. Scully was on the phone incessantly and he was sitting in the briefing room alone, tapping his fingers on the table. Waiting. Skinner came and went, more than three times in succession, followed by underlings, agents and even a Director... Mulder continued to sit and wait. Not only was he getting more agitated by the moment at being kept waiting by bureaucracyh—was this or was this not a more important matter?—he was also angry with himself for being so happy that Krycek was going to be there. Since when did he care about the rat-bastard? He still hated Krycek, didn't he? Or... at least looked down on him. Scully was still on the phone. Mulder waited. Over an hour had passed and still he remained the only person in the room. By now of course, he was pacing the floor and eating sunflower seeds out of his pocket. Another twenty minutes came and went. When the door opened and Krycek walked in, obviously expecting to see more than just Mulder sitting there, Mulder leaned over and indicated the chair not far from him. "Thank God," Mulder murmured. "At last. I've been here for hours." Mulder hoped he had successfully covered the little leap his insides gave when Krycek entered the room. Krycek had shaved and cleaned up quite well; he wore a silk shirt and a dark suit that flattered him impressively. The dark bruises that were the proof of Mulder's anger last night caught him off-guard though. Everyone would see that he had been hitting Krycek again, when he was supposed to have been convincing Krycek to attend. The bruises made him look younger, more vulnerable. Mulder slid his gaze away quickly, not wanting to be caught looking him over. He hated the fact that he felt simultaneously glad to see him and guiltily ashamed at having attacked him in the first place. Krycek checked his watch. Mulder qualified, "You're the only other person to come in here since I arrived. For any meaningful length of time, anyway." He dug another seed out of his pocket and nibbled away. Krycek visibly relaxed, finally getting Mulder's drift. "How serious is this?" he asked. "You mean how serious are they?" Mulder returned, swiveling in his chair. "About as serious as the FBI can ever be about anything, I guess. Come on, Alex. You remember what they're like, surely? They run on red tape." He withdrew another sunflower seed and crunched. Alex took a breath. "So it's like that, is it?" He had wondered what might have contributed to Mulder's whimsical mood. It was the pencil syndrome again. He'd seen that particular display of Mulder-boredom on the surveillance tapes. He almost found himself looking around to ensure there weren't any sharpened pencils in the vicinity in case Mulder should be tempted to hurl them at the ceiling. He wondered if Mulder had even realized he'd called him 'Alex'; in fact, had done so several times since he'd arrived the night before. It made a feeling of warmth go through him, which worried him. After the initial fear that Mulder would go for him when he went in, Alex had wondered why Mulder should be so civil towards him. He felt sick to his stomach. He'd only just arrived and was already hanging on his every word, silently begging for positive attention from the man. For all he knew, this could have been a trap after all. Crack. Crunch. Nibble. "Mulder?" "What?" Crack. "You haven't spoken to anyone abouth—me, or yesterday, have you?" Crunch. "No. I haven't had a chance to. I was barely able to get them all to come to this meeting this morning, on such short notice." Nibble. "Good," Alex muttered. "Think you could keep it up? Not having a chance to, I mean?" Crack. "Sure. I was already going to. You've gotten paranoid in your old age, haven't you?" Crunch. "I'll never match you, Mulder. You've taken paranoia to new heights of expertise." "Thanks." Crack. Alex found himself chuckling wryly. "I fought my way through traffic for this?" Crunch. "Yep. Is it starting to all come back to you, now?" Nibble. The simple solidarity of their being here, both inconvenienced by bureaucracy in this fashion, while the stakes loomed over their heads impossibly large and hideous? It created a false sense of camaraderie that Alex nevertheless reveled in to the fullest extent it afforded him. He almost felt like a sophomore in high school again, basking in the company of an older icon from the swim-team. Certainly the same hero-worship aspect was present; though Alex had spent years taming that down to a manageable crush instead. It was different than when he'd been here before, as a green, naive agent running around like a little dog after Mulder's heels. This time, he actually felt more of a sense of belonging. He was struck by the difference, and how he could finally compare the two. Even if it were still only an illusion, he felt more at home here than he'd ever felt previously. Crack. "Krycek." "Yeah?" Crunch. "What do you say we take over the world ourselves and carry on without them?" Nibble. "I thought you'd never ask." Krycek stretched and stood. He went to the large whiteboard that had been erected at the side of the room. He grabbed up a marker and began sketching out the basic hierarchical tiers of the global power structure, as it currently existed. Crack. "Krycek?" Crunch. Absently, Alex said, "Yeah?" Nibble. "That's pretty impressive." "Thanks." Next, he moved on to another color, delineating all the underlying organizations that actually provided the moving factors of change and decision-making in each power base. Crack. Crunch. "Hey, Krycek?" "What?" "That's pretty good, too." Nibble. "Thanks. It ought to be; I spent two and a half years designing, creating and managing it." Crack. "Krycek?" Even more absently: "What is it, Mulder?" Crunch. "I've come to the conclusion that you're far more dangerous than I thought you were." Nibble. "Thanks, Mulder." Done with that, Alex grabbed up another color, red this time. He'd used black and blue before, knowing Mulder would probably be able to tell the difference, but was drawn to use red simply because it appealed to him on a basic level inside. He now started to star and label all the key positions that they would need to influence or directly involve, for them to affect any real change or master plan. Crack. "Krycek?" "Yes, Mulder?" Crunch. "I can't tell... which color is that? What color are you using?" Nibble. "It's red, Mulder. I'm sorry. But I had to. Red is a power color. It's also the color for priorities and urgent issues. Next time, I'll use green, okay?" Crack. "Okay." Mulder stood up and stretched a bone-popping stretch before going to the door. "Coffee?" "Yeah." By the time Mulder returned with two black coffees andh—miracle of miraclesh—a Mars bar for Krycek, he'd already set up and filled out the flipchart beside the board with his proposals for both the best people for the jobs and the worst-case outcomes they could expect if the plan should fail. "Thanks," Alex said, taken aback at the gesture. He turned back to regard the flipchart to hide his reaction. He was touched that Mulder would remember after all these years, and then go so far as to bother. Fuck, he cursed silently to himself. Brought low by a candy bar. This was ridiculous. First roses and now candy. At least the candy was for him, this time. Chocolate, at that. What the hell was he supposed to say to this? But he'd forgotten how thoughtful Mulder was, at times. And how compassionate and sweet he could be. He just had never thought that he might one day be on the receiving end of that kind of attention again. And it nearly brought tears to his eyes— Crack. "Krycek?" It was a baffled tone this time, followed by a slurp of coffee. "Hm?" "How come you don't have anything in the NSA box?" Crunch. Nibble. Slurp. Krycek turned to regard Mulder with a perplexed little frown. "Don't tell me you don't know? Surely the Lone Gunmen..." Slurp. "There's no need to be condescending. I don't necessarily take everything they tell me seriously." Crack. "Mulder, the NSA is practically a maverick unit now. They've gone almost entirely autonomous and have become a real liability. The only way to get into them is by infiltration, and you'll have to be a real whiz at the psychic stuff too, or they'll find you out in no time." Crunch. Nibble. "No problem." "No prob—Mulder, these guys aren't piss-ante Interpol or your usual bonehead CIA moles. We're talking state-of-the-art psychic warfare and espionage, here." "It's like I said, Krycek. You're getting paranoid in your old age. Don't worry about it. I've got me a link into them. Langley is a technical-hacker-genius-extraordinaire." Slurp. A sudden noise made both of them turn and look at the doorway. Skinner looked askance at the whiteboard and Krycek's diagram. And then back to Mulder, and then Krycek again. "Well, Agent Mulder, it looks like the two of you have already solved all of our problems." "Yes, sir. We were thinking of taking the rest of the day off, actually." Crunch. Nibble. Scully was regarding Krycek thoughtfully. Mulder knew that look. She was wondering if Krycek was there under duress. Mulder suddenly swallowed the twin prong of guilt and shame again as he saw how the bruises on Alex's face appeared to the others... He made an innocent face at Scully who raised one delicate eyebrow and then turned back to face Krycek and said, "Krycek? Are you here under your own power? I hope you weren't forced or threatened to attend this meeting?" Or it's Mulder's ass, was the implication that was left hanging in the air. "Not at all," he answered. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." Alex delivered it with just enough genuine feeling to make herh—and the othersh—believe it. Secretly, Alex thought, this was unexpected considering how much just cause Dana Scully had to hate him as well. But then, he was well aware that Dana had hated having to watch Mulder lose it every time Krycek had come into the room, before. And Skinner had grown tired of restraining him. Alex suddenly realized this had been the reason behind Mulder's final cold shoulder and ignoring of him, before. Mulder had been sulking because they'd finally got tired of his violent tendencies towards Krycek and told him it solved nothing and to get over it. Mulder managed to look miserable and indignant at the same time. Scully returned his gaze coolly, flicking a casual glance at Skinner, and then at the door for some inexplicable reason. They communicated virtually without words, conveying the most complex responses to each other without saying anything. Alex realized it was one of those things that no one else in the world could possibly attempt to duplicate with either of them. Rather like sibling or spousal small- scale telepathy, he thought. But this didn't make the jealousy any less painful as it bit deeply once more. Shit, the first time he'd felt that had been when they'd bent heads together over that autopsy report with him in the room along with that corpse that had burned itself to death without the aid of fire... Barely suffering his presence... Fortunately, Skinner came up to him at this point and warily engaged him with questions about what he'd written on the board. Alex was glad that in the course of their conversation he managed to convey adequately to Skinner both that he was sorry that he'd had to introduce the nanocytes into him and control him while at the same time let him know that he was actually no longer a threat to Skinner's well-beingh—at least to him personallyh—all without saying it aloud. Beat that, Mulder and Scully, Alex thought with a slightly childish sense of achievement at this feat. He wasn't even all that close to Skinner. Not that he would have minded being closer, but somehow he'd always got the impression that, like Mulder, Skinner would rather extract pints of his blood with a blunt instrument. Then of course there was Doggett, who seemed to be less in the know than everyone else, but no less enthusiastic. He was a newer card but, again, no less involved. No one could remain so, if they actually spent any time in the X-Files. Kersh was present but he might as well have not been; for all the savvy he displayed; the man was way out of his depth. Of course, through all of this Alex refused to let down his guard. He knew this was merely a momentary truce, hardly something for him to actually get comfortable with. Things could shift dangerously within the space of five or ten minutes, leaving him public enemy number one in the eyes of these people once again. Even so, he had worked so hard and waited for so long to feel a modicum of this sense of belonging and teamwork. And all for such a worthy cause, too. Even if the bubble had to burst afterwards, he felt sustained by it. He remained very quiet, keeping his answers brief and to the point, speaking only when someone actually addressed him, preferring to watch and listen. He felt Dana's eyes on him again, several times. At one point, he turned and caught her gaze; she returned it coolly and yet with a certain amount of sympathy. She looked almost understanding at his uncomfortable state in the present company. Funny, that. He could have sworn the Ice Queen would never melt. It appeared that the earnest Agent Doggett had managed to get her to add a bit more of a field-agent flavor to her overall agent identity. That was nice. Mulder found himself resenting Krycek's presence more and more throughout the entire debacle, until it grew to a nearly fever-pitch intensity within him. It wasn't Krycek's fault, really. Mulder was more than aware that it was from the simple fact that he couldn't stop himself from coasting an adrenaline high at the man's simple presence there in the room with them. He was acutely aware of where Krycek was at all times and whenever he spoke Mulder found himself hanging on every syllable, and it was all because he knew that the man... was hot for him. There was no other reason for it but that. Mulder was unappreciative of a distraction of that nature. Mostly because it seemed so unfair. He could hardly deny the chemical attraction, or the nearly electric tension that he could feel anytime he felt Krycek's eyes on him. It was all he could do not to excuse himself to go the bathroom and take care of business. He got rather curt and snippy towards the end of the meeting. By the time they'd come to some kind of consensus as to who was going to do what, and when they'd meet again, Mulder was practically shifting from one leg to the other. And they all put it down to his excitement at the nature of their agenda. Spooky Mulder, who springs a boner every time they come together to discuss conspiracies and aliens. What a joke. For once, he found himself actually glad that he had some kind of odd alibi because he really didn't think any of them would excuse his preoccupation with Krycek. It was with this thought that something finally occurred to Mulder: what if others found Krycek just as interesting as he did. Well, too bad for them, he thought with sudden possessive pride; Krycek was already interestedh—in him. And then gulped as he realized what such a reaction meant on his part. As they began to collapse back into congeniality, still slightly high from the buzz of their meeting, they began to drift out of the room. Things were looking up, indeed. It was way past lunchtime. Scully had gone off with Doggett, telling Mulder in passing that she had some paperwork to do. Mulder had the rest of the day off, and he suddenly realized there was nothing else he wanted to do except make sure that Krycek was still on the level and not relapsing into any suicidal depression... He excused himself and ran off towards the toilets. As people had started going, Krycek began to grow uneasy wondered how he could leave without being noticed. Marita approached him at one point, her cool gaze sweeping over the livid marks on his face. "Alex?" she said, acknowledging him in greeting. "Still taking it from him, I see. When are you going to give some of it back to him? Or is this yet another step in your relationship?" Alex didn't dignify that with an answer, merely said, "I'm surprised you made it. Happy I brought back that vaccine, now? You should be." Marita returned his stare evenly. "You deserve better, Alex. Take care of yourself." She turned away, inscrutable. And then out of the blue, there was Mulder's hand, on his shoulder— his left shoulder. Krycek stiffened and went quite still. Mulder took his hand back as though he'd been burnt. "Sorry. I'mh—sorry. Uh, so, what are you doing now? What are your plans?" Without any hesitation, Alex calmly replied, "I thought we were doing lunch?" "Then let's go." As they left the building, making their way down to the car park, neither of them were aware of the looks that followed them; some thoughtful and others envious. Alex led the way this time... they took his car, parked outside, and he led Mulder into a nearby Subway. Sandwiches. He grinned silently at Mulder, who shrugged and muttered something about benches and Capitol Hill, and the Millennium. By the time Alex caught the words 'Hilary Clinton', as the rest was lost to his ears in the lunchtime crowd in the place, he grew more convinced that Mulder was telling him either a sexual fantasy or a dirty joke, although knowing Mulder, it was probably neither. Alex paid for them and finally bearing their sandwiches eagerly away, they found their way to a bench that, although it didn't overlook the Potomac or Capitol Hill or even Hilary Clinton, did sit on the edge of a nice park. A gathering of pigeons at their feet awaited the crumbs expectantly. As Mulder practically inhaled his sandwich, partly out of growing nervousness at his own responses to Krycek, Alex attempted to keep his eyes front and not stray down to Mulder's pants. Said pants had been looking more and more interesting throughout the entire morning. Being a keen observer, Alex had also noticed he wasn't the only one who'd found them interesting, either. Virtually all of them had been casting glances at the two of them. It had hammered home the fact that Mulder had reiterated that he was off-limits. Every time he thought about it now, it just brought that familiar craving and lonely ache that he knew spelled trouble for him later on. Not only would he be left feeling utterly empty and devoid of meaning but with a painful case of blue balls as well. Loving Mulder was an overall body torture, he realized. It hurt his head, his heart, his cock and his digestion; and probably some lesser parts, too. Strangely, the sharpest pang was caused by the friendly and even bewildered look Mulder wore. It was almost as if they didn't share a mutual violent history. It was almost easy to pretend they hadn't been enemies for years and years. And finally the food stuck in his dry throat and he gave the rest to the pigeon crowd. Mulder of course took this as a sign to worry over his mental and psychological state and, obviously feeling as though he was responsible for him, having taken him under his wing temporarily, Mulder started fussing over him like a mother henh—in a manner he'd obviously picked up from both his mother and Dana Scully. "Aren't you hungry? You have to eat, you know. If you stop eating, I'm going to take that as a sign that you're lapsing back into suicidal mode and I'll-" "Mulder," interrupted Alex, "Having you carry on like this is enough to make anyone suicidal. I'm fine. Just leave it." Mulder went quiet. "Okay, okay." He was in reality trying very hard to come up with good reasons not to lean over and make out with Krycek on the bench, right at that very moment. The thought of: (a) a policeman interrupting them, (b) someone they knew observing them, (c) Krycek hurting him for it, (d) Krycek killing him inadvertently over it, (e) causing a public fight between the two of them over it, or (f) making a fool of himself, stopped him. In the case of (a), Mulder really didn't need that kind of problem right now. The same with (b). He could find (c) more than understandable; he would probably do the same in Krycek's position and as for (d), Krycek was a trained killer, for God's sake. (e) remained the mostly likely outcome at this point and he was bound to do (f) anyway, regardless. So he did nothing. The wind blew a little colder and caused more shivering. It was an excellent cover for the plight both were suffering from that had nothing to do with the cold: trembling fingers and knees. Alex was beginning to question the validity of any imagined right he'd thought he'd had to enjoy Mulder's company, particularly since Mulder was so quiet, while Mulder was trying to find the courage to actually say something without (f) making a fool of himself or (e) causing a fight. After all, he had no right to expect Krycek to be understanding about it if he wanted to suggest anything now. He had pounded Krycek bloodily into his own couch just the night before. It finally became so obvious that it was painful for Alex to sit there beside him in this strange silence, especially after the shared moments they'd had before where he had thought they'd made some kind of real progress towards healing their estrangement at last, that Mulder turned as Alex broke down and said, roughly, "What are you doing for the rest of the day?" Thank God, thought Mulder. "Not a clue. Why? What did you have in mind?" "Something a little warmer than this would be just fine at the moment." "Yeah, I hear you. Well, there's your place, or there's mine. I guess yours would be better. Less clutter," suggested Mulder, counting on the fact that a lovelorn assassin would be well stocked with anything they might need in a pinch. Or was that a clinch... He supposed hand lotion would do but he was fairly certain that Krycek could afford lube and wouldn't resort to hand lotion anyway. He couldn't even be bothered to pretend he wasn't thinking of doing anything with him, at this point. And then gulped down the panic that rose. It was lust, just lust, that's all it was. They ended up splitting and taking their separate cars back to Alex's apartment. They met back on the doorstep at the same time too, which Alex took as a further sign that maybe their friendship was at least meant to be. Almost immediately after thinking this, he cursed himself for being such a romantic idiot as to believe that there was anything to Mulder being here. Mulder just didn't want him to kill himself, was all. Still, that was better than nothing. Mulder didn't want him dead. Although aware that it wasn't for himself but the help that it afforded the cause, the Resistance, it was enough to bring a slight warmth to dispel the chill inside him. "It's colder than a witch's tits out there," Mulder declared, "and in here." His teeth were chattering by now, as they entered Alex's living room and Alex turned on the heater. "How p.c. of you, Mulder," remarked Alex. "Krycek, we need to talk," Mulder said, without even waiting for a pause. Alex sighed and closed his eyes. He didn't think he could take much more of this on-again, off-again, hot-and-now-cold routine that Mulder was putting him through. "Of course we do. It seems to be your favorite pastime. It's a miracle you ever get past first base, with anyone." Mulder stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" Alex sucked in a breath. Damn it, I can't evenh—"Nothing, Mulder. I just get the distinct impression that you still aren't quite happy with this. I'm wondering what it is you expect from me." I'm sick of walking on fucking eggs around you; he wanted to add. But he didn't want to fight. He was so very, very tired of fighting with this man. He sighed again. What he really wanted was to lick lightly at that full, lower lip and then capture it between his teeth, gently. Hell, who was he kidding. He wanted to fuck him into next week and hear him begging for it, the entire duration of the trip. Mulder sat down in the chair opposite the couch, in an unconscious acknowledgement of Krycek's territorial rights to it. Alex sat down, feeling apprehensive. Mulder said, quietly, "I think things have moved on quite a bit in the last several hours, don't you?" "Yeah, I guess so," Alex agreed. "You guess so?" Mulder sounded dubious. "I can think of ways to make it go faster, yet." Alex raised a brow at him. "Too fast and you might get derailed." "You're just saying that because of what I said last night," Mulder stated. Alex was stunned at the baldness of Mulder's answer and he wondered if he ought to get upset at it. "Don't take offense," Mulder suggested, "I'm not implying anything. I'm only saying that things have moved on considerably since then. It's not exactly the same game plan as before." "Well, Fox, I'd appreciate you telling me when you're going to move the goal posts or make up new rules, because I'm kind of at a disadvantage here," Alex reminded him, stiffly. Inside, his heart was breaking because they looked all set to spiral down into a stupid argument again. When all he wanted to do was just... hold him. Touch him. Just be with him. "I'm not. Well, technically I guess I am, but the new rulings are in your favor." Mulder regarded him solemnly. "I think I may have been an ass. And I do mean a prime, numero uno, braying jackass of the worst kind." Alex could only look back at him, puzzled. He licked his lips. "What are you saying, Mulder?" Mulder closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, before releasing it and replying, "I believe I may have... partly... misjudged you. And maybe I've—" he stopped, hesitating. "Maybe I've treated you in an undeserving manner." Alex blinked, once; the reality of what Mulder was actually confessing here was beginning to percolate through his muddy attempt of it. He shook his head. "I did things that hurt you, badly. I—" "You weren't the villain I always pictured you were, Alex. You did things, yes. But I'm beginning to see that maybe I didn't want to see you as anything but..." Mulder trailed off, and then bit his lip, wondering what to say, how to go on. Alex suddenly grasped that Mulder was trying to find a way to say that it was all right and he felt a surge of hope, followed equally by a measure of cold cynicism. Mulder would have everything to gain by pretending to go along with this. A pity fuck, followed by a terribly exacting revenge. That keen edge brought him nearly back to the original despair that he had existed in prior to Mulder's visit the night before. He wanted to believe this was real but of course it was too good to be true. His fear and distrust must have shown because Mulder said, "Alex? Let's go back to what we were saying last night? I'll accept that you really love me, if you'll accept that I'm really telling you the truth. What do you think?" Alex slowly nodded. "All right. So?" "I'm saying that I care about you." Mulder stopped. That was it. It was true. What else could he say? Was anything else necessary? He couldn't say for sure whether or not he 'loved' Alex Krycek; hell, the idea was still more than bizarre and disturbing to him. But he could no longer deny the fact that they shared a bond of some kind, which on many levels was sexual and complex; and once he had accepted this, something had opened up in Mulder's mind and he was able to finally see what he'd been trying to deny all along. He'd been playing a dominance/submission game; not just a sublimation of violenceh—the only way he could let himself touch Krycekh—the fact was that the only way Krycek could relate to him was if he held a gun on Mulder and restrained him, so that Mulder could be guilt-free and could pretend that he was 'forced into it'. However, since Krycek actually had real feelings for him, he couldn't really bring himself to 'force Mulder' into anythingh—hence their stalemate: a standoff that had brought both of them nothing but unfulfilled loneliness and dissatisfaction for a long time. And with this knowledge came freedom. And the delighted, wicked grin that suddenly curled Mulder's lips with glee caused a sharp intake of breath from Alex, who was taken by surprise at Mulder's sudden change of demeanor. Mulder slowly began to move towards Alex, who probably would have jumped up in alarm if Mulder had moved more quickly. Alex realized what Mulder was doing and froze. All his muscles tensed up and as Mulder slowly moved to sit beside him on the couch, the intensity of the air between them was so charged that Alex could feel the nearness of him like a palpable touch against his skin. He could feel the heat from Mulder's body. The fine hairs stood up on his arm as Mulder sat close to his right side. Alex felt stalked. Well and truly stalked. It was kind of unnerving; he was usually the one who did the stalking. The fox hunting the rat, as always, he thought with a deprecating sneer inside, wondering if Mulder had any idea what he was getting into. He was hardly a cuddlesome pet. Not only that but he wanted a lot more from him than a necking session. "Mulder... what are you doing?" "What does it look like? I thought you were a smart guy, Alex." Mulder loomed even closer, sitting beside him now and leaning over his shoulder with a slight grin. "We don't have time for this. Time... is one luxury we don't have." "If we're going to have a life, any kind of a life worth living, we have to live now. I'm not gonna let them dictate how I enjoy my day, or pursue my goals, or hold my beliefs. It's a subtle form of terrorism." Alex raised his brows. "Fine. That'sh—admirable, I guess." Mulder regarded him. "But you think I'm still the ostrich in the sand, right?" "Not at all. I just know that you can't fight..." he trailed off. It was Mulder's turn to peer into his face, perfectly aware of why he'd stopped. "Fight the future?" he finished. "Are we still at the stage of trying to get you to look on the bright side of things? Let me give you something that might cheer you up a little." He leaned over and planted a big, warm kiss on Alex's mouth, remaining there longer than was necessary to make the point. He drew back when he thought Alex was sufficiently distracted by it. Quietly, Mulder said, "I think we complement each other quite well. I've usually tried to find the light behind the external forces in the world, the light of my truth. Didn't matter to me whether others agreed with it or not; it was still the truth, you know? But you, you seem to have made the personal quest for happiness your grail, rather than any external goal. No wonder you have such an over- developed survival drive." Two high spots of color danced on Alex's cheeks and his breathing was erratic. "Coming from you, I'm not so sure that's a compliment." "No, I didn't mean 'compliment', likeh—" Alex avoided looking at him. "I know what you mean. But at least that explains what gives us both the strength to endure, to carry on. To beat the odds." Mulder leaned close and kissed him again, this time letting his lips linger more slowly, more gently. It was taking Alex apart, stripping his composure away and revealing the raw, hurting parts of him that wanted this so badly. He found, as if from far away, that he was clutching at Mulder, without knowing when he'd reached up. When Mulder pulled away this time, Alex felt distinctly unraveled. It was an effort just to remain calm and not break down right there, in front of Mulder, in his arms. Wanted this, wanted you, for so long... And that horrible suspicion gnawed at his insides again. Mulder was playing him like a fish. And he was falling for it completely. Mulder was wondering why the aloof, poised mask had returned to grace Alex's face and he finally understood; Alex almost always adopted that expression around him and now he knew why. He didn't want Mulder to know what it meant to him, how much Mulder meant to him. What Mulder's presence did to him. Mulder sighed, unable to help feeling a little more sorry for him at this point, and reached up a hand to Alex's jaw, to his neck. And to lightly smooth over the skin where the bruises showed. "I know what you want, Alex," he said, in a low voice. "And you can have it. I'll give it to you." After a moment's consideration of that little bombshell, Alex cleared his throat. "I don't think you really do. What I wanth—let's just say, I'd never ask it of you, because I know it isn't something you can give." "But it's your payment, isn't it?" Mulder pointed out. Alex replied tiredly and a bit stiffly, "I'm not asking you to whore yourself for me." "I know. You want love. You think I'm not capable of giving that?" "To me? No, I don't." Mulder was grinning now. "Are you calling my bluff, Alex?" Alex closed his eyes. He had to remind Mulder just exactly whom he was talking to. "I had no choice, to betray youh—in the beginning." Dryly, Mulder replied, "You weren't exactly on the side of the angels, were you?" Swiftly, Alex retorted, "Hey, no one asked you to go poking around where angels fear to tread." Nettled at this, Mulder said coldly, "It wasn't angels who lifted my sister out from under my nose that night." "Jesus!" Alex exclaimed explosively, getting to his feet. "No, it wasn't, was it? It was dear old Dad, wasn't it, Mulder?" Mulder sighed and said wearily, "Sit down, Alex." Alex stared at him. "Whath—did you think I was going to be easy, here, just because I've got a 'thing' for you? Screw this; I'm not Pavlov's dog. You can't just throw me a bone and imagine that everything's fine now." He went to stand furiously at the window. "I should have known this was too good to be true," he muttered. He was shaking though; his lips burned where Mulder had kissed him, and he wished he could go back and erase the last ten minutes. The memory of those kisses were indelibly printed onto his mouth and the warmthh—God, the warmth of ith—even if it was a lie, he still wanted it with everything in him that was lonely and dying. The last vestiges of his soul were crying out just to swallow his pride, go sit back down and let even an act on Mulder's part be the water that eased the parched desert that was his heart. "I get it. 'All or nothing'; eh, Krycek?" Mulder's tone was sardonic. Alex snorted slightly to himself; so they were back to 'Krycek', now. The cold, hard mask slipped back over him completely and effortlessly at this, and he turned back to face Mulder. But Mulder hadn't finished. "I can't just forget what's happened, the things you've done. You can't expect me to. That isn't fair." "I'm not asking you to," Alex answered, tonelessly. "I'm asking for forgiveness." "Look, I'm really sorry that you've been behind just about every single move that ever hurt me, my family, my partner, or my friends, but I never chose your friends for you, Krycek. I'm not the one you should be asking for forgiveness. You should go to Mrs. Scully, to Dana, and others; not me." Alex swallowed and looked down. Then back up at him, meeting his eyes even though he didn't really want to. Even though the act was enough to tear out what was left of his will to go on. "What other option do I have, at this moment? What do I have to do to prove to you that I'm not the black-hearted, cold-blooded son of a bitch that you keep insisting I am?" Obviously aware that he was dangerously close to pushing Krycek back over that thin line he'd been on the day before, and also that he was using this as a way to avoid confronting his own attraction to Krycek, Mulder adopted a more gentle tone of voice. Placating, even. "I'm not saying that's what you are. I know that you regret it, but it doesn't change what's happened. You'll have to give me a little time to get used to the idea. You can do that, can't you? Surely you can understand why? Actions speak louder than words and so far, you've given me very little else to go on until today." Considering this, Alex replied slowly, "Do you always judge by appearances? I always gave you more credit than that. I would've thought that you'd know that a lot more went on behind the scenes than anyone revealed to you. If you knew—" he stopped. Was there really any point at this juncture, trying to convince Mulder of the necessity and justifications for his actions? Even for just the events that Mulder was aware of? He didn't have the full extent of inside knowledge of the situation that Alex had, nor the same access to information about the Consortium's plans either. Alex had been forced to do terrible things in the name of the future safety of six billion lives; he doubted that Mulder would see it that way. And indeed, he'd had little choice but to adopt that rationalization if he didn't want to go mad with self-disgust and loathing each time, himself. But Mulder was right; it was a nightmare world that he inhabited, even now. All of this was academic. It left him right back at his original position, facing a catch-22. "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. Between the devil and the whirlpool, Mulder. I always have been. " "We're known by the company we keep." Mulder's reply was barely audible. He leaned forward, seemingly deliberating silently within. "I don't envy you. And I'm sorry you've been put in the position that you're in. But you chose to play the hand you were dealt. You could have opted out." Alex smiled, a twisted and self-mocking expression. "Right. And lost any chance of—" he paused, "-staying in the game, or staying alive." He'd been about to say, helping you, making a difference, being able to see you, and any number of more revealing things. Although at this point, he was painfully aware that Mulder knew exactly what he wanted: everything. Mulder sensed it, too. He chewed his lower lip, thoughtfully, for a moment. Then came to an inner decision, consolidating his focus. "I know it isn't easy for you; us asking you to take up this role again. But I don't know if I can give you what you need. What you want. I'm willing to try. I told you that." Alex's eyes narrowed. That wasn't exactly what he'd said at all. But it was hardly fair to expect Mulder to suddenly get over his prejudices and issues all at once, in the space of twenty-four hours. Alex had already had years in which to do so, to get used to the idea of loving Mulder and all the complications that it entailed. Maybe he was asking too much, as Mulder had suggested. "Beggars can't be choosers, huh?" Mulder threw him a look. He'd almost hoped that Krycek would back down on this. It looked as though he really would take whatever Mulder would be willing to offer. Damn. Which also meant, of course, that Krycek was whoring himself. And an annoying little voice inside him whispered, 'interesting, isn't it, that you'd rather think of it as you whoring yourself than actually having real feelings for him'? He grimaced and stood up. "Can I use your bathroom?" "First door on the left," Alex murmured, turning back to the window. In the privacy of the bathroom, Mulder relieved himself and took the moment to reflect. It was unnerving how much he was looking forward to this. He wanted to do it so much; it was almost selfish the way he was trying to make it happen and that was why he felt anxious now. Anxious enough to try to back out and pretend that he didn't want it. Alex knew this; he had to, And had to consider Mulder was being chicken-shit about it, too. His pride suddenly stung, he thought to himself, I will do this. There's no shame in it; he's a good-looking man. Who wouldn't be excited at the prospect? But that was it, wasn't it? He had to acknowledge that he'd always felt a measure of physical attraction to him, from the very start. The problem was, Krycek had real feelings for him and was actually asking for more than sex. In fact, Mulder was willing to bet that he'd forego the sex simply to hear Mulder tell him he loved him back. 'Tell me lies'... Mulder wondered who was being more self-sacrificing: Krycek for not demanding it of him or he for deciding to offer it. Alex leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass. The afternoon was quiet, as was the street below. He was losing Mulder. And all because he was demanding too much, more than Mulder could give. Stupid, he fiercely thought to himself. There had to be a halfway point. It was so hard to think and not just emote or react around Mulder. It didn't help, either, that both of them were doing it. It just compounded the problem. Still, Mulder had kissed him; he'd taken the first step towards trying to work things out between them. The least Alex could do was take a step forward, in response. As much as it hurt, maybe the only way he could not lose out completely in this situation was swallow his pride and accept anything Mulder held out to him. In which case?which of them was the one whoring himself? At least they'd moved beyond the old Mulder throwing-a-punch-and-Alex-trying-to-duck routine. He supposed he should be the one grateful for small favors. He shut away the sensation of loss, of knowing that even as he got Mulder, he could never really possess him. Alex turned to face Mulder once more as he came back into the living room. Mulder looked stronger, more determined. "If you come sit back down, I promise not to jump you. I won't hit you, and I won't kiss you. Come on; sit down, Alex." A feeling of deja vu came over him and Alex wondered if he wasn't playing directly into Mulder's hands by doing so; but he went forward anyway, to take his seat on the couch again. Keeping his face wooden as he did so, hoping that Mulder couldn't see how desperate and crazy it made him feel, to be in such close proximity to him. Mulder seemed to know though and take pity on him, for he didn't sit next to him. Instead, Mulder sat back down in the seat across from him and folded his arms. It was too much. To be this close to him; too much by far. He wanted to get down on his knees and justh—just beg Mulder to let Alex love him. He felt choked by it; it was almost the only thing he could think of. He needed to take his turn to regain his composure. Alex got up, saying, "I'll be right back." He retreated to the bathroom. Mulder sat silently, unmoving. He saw Alex's wallet sitting on the table, along with his keys. Slowly, unhurried, he sat up, reached forward and picked it up, almost absently. His prying was rewarded with a small, dog-eared, worn, black and white photo of himself in one of the pockets, behind several plastic cards. And tucked into the very back was another, this time in color. It looked newer. He sucked thoughtfully at a tooth, and put them back, setting the wallet back where it had lain. Jesus, he couldn't get away from it. The evidence of Alex's feelings certainly seemed to bear out their validity, so far. As Alex came back out and sat down, Mulder stated without preamble, with rare, almost blunt honesty, "I resent it, that you've taken away some of the reasons to hate you. I hate that you've also taken away the reasons I had been holding onto, to feel justified in treating you the way that I have. In fact, I hate that you've managed to make me feel sorry for you. Or care. However, I'm willing to work this out. But you still haven't actually told me exactly what it is you want from me. I want to know. Now. Before we go any further." With Mulder watching him closely, Alex looked back at him with hollow, empty eyes and said tightly, "You. Justh—you," and with that admission, he felt the dark pain inside him open wider like a big hole in his chest, tinged with sharp, silver stings of remorse and loss. For what did he really have, anyway? No matter what Mulder did, he was still left with... Nothing. For he knew, he knew he could never really have him. He closed his eyes. And as Mulder sat there, watching him let the pain wrap around him like a shroud, Mulder felt ashamed. He was responsible for having driven him to this point; he was. He couldn't get out of that anymore. He also had to face his own prevarication surrounding the whole mutual attraction issue. With a dry throat, he said, "Okay. All right. All right." When it looked as though Alex hadn't even really heard him, he continued uncomfortably, "Alex? You can have it. I mean, me. Okay?" Alex opened his eyes, dully. "It means that much to you, huh? Mulder, just how the hell have you managed to convince yourself that you're doing this for the fate of the world? Or some equally convoluted justification, like stopping me from killing myself? Why can't you admit that you want it?" Mulder's gaze dropped, considering the table between them. And he straightened slightly. "You're right. I'm not doing this for you or anyone else. I'm doing it for myself. I want this. I want you." And he sucked in a breath at the charge that went through him to say it aloud like that. The change that came over Alex at his words, too, was enough to bring him up short. Alex bit his lower lip and looked so defensive, so hopeful, and at the same time so intense, it was all Mulder could do not to stand up and pace the floor... Something, anything to try to keep a hold of the reality of the situation. He realized how Alex must have felt when he'd kissed him, after slowly pouncing on him. After attacking him, holding him down and hitting him just the night before. A mild panic swept over him, and he knew he'd committed himself to this. Knowing he couldn't back out now gave him a little more confidence, and stability returned to his world. Knowing how much it meant to Krycek made a difference, too. He smiled. Alex wondered if Mulder realized the full extent of what he'd just said. "Mulder, you don't have to." A part of him was screaming, no, you idiot! Take it! Run with it! "I know. I want to." Alex took a breath that was composed of pure relief. "Good. I mean, okay." Then wondered if it was up to him to make a move at this point, or Mulder. He cleared his throat, before tentatively saying, "I am sorry. I really am. For, you know. Everything." "I know," Mulder said, and then got to his feet. "Alex. Come on. Let's— go next door." With a pained expression, Alex asked, "Right now? Do we have to? Can't we just, well—" Mulder licked his lips, shaking his head. "No sense in delaying it anymore. Don't you think?" Alex regarded him, his eyes narrowing, trying to gauge just how out of it Mulder actually was. "Okay, Mulder. We'll play it your way. I just don't want you thinking that you have to, is all." But as Alex led the way to the bedroom now, with Mulder following behind him, he couldn't shake the way that time had slowed down. Every passing second felt like an eternity and the moment was loaded with unspoken, desperately meaningful subtleties. There was the unbearable feeling that everything they had been through, together or apart, had been leading up to this one hour, this minute, right now and right here. He stopped, in front of the bed, not daring to turn around, wondering why he was shaking as if it were his first time. A part of him knew it was because it was the first time that it really meant something to him, of this magnitude. He nearly came undone when Mulder's hands reached up to rest on either side of his neck. The weight of them was warm and heavy, yet at the same time comforting in their sheer, ordinary reality. Then Mulder stepped close, to wrap his arms around him and press up against him from behind, letting his chin fall to the right side of his neck. Pressing his face against Alex's ear, and resting it against him there, Mulder said quietly, "I want this. And you." The room was still dark; they hadn't turned on the light. His voice husky, Alex managed, "Be sure. Be very sure." "I think you're the one who's not sure, now. Don't be afraid." And Mulder turned to press his lips against the exposed skin of Alex's neck, making a shiver run over him. "Mulder—" It was almost a moan. Alex was almost afraid to move. He didn't want to break the spell. It felt like a dream. He'd imagined what it would be like, to have Mulder there, for so long now that it didn't seem quite real. Even with the very undeniable sensation of Mulder's lips on him, tasting him. Mulder was shocked at how incredibly right it felt, to be here doing this. Or how very warm and musky Alex smelt; it made him want to strip the shirt off of him and explore more completely. He was surprised and put down the urgency of this wish to the fact that it had been literally years since he'd been intimate with anyone. As he instinctively tightened his grip on Alex, he felt the hard, unyielding length of the prosthetic left arm and wondered if it was a problem for him. "Take it off. Take it all off," he mouthed against Alex in a whispered command. The breath seemed to leave Alex all at once, and he almost sagged in its wake. Mulder's warm breath against his skin, his ear, over the wet traces left by his tongue, was driving him crazy. It left him hard and aching, drifting on a high point of desire. He slowly reached up to begin pulling his long-sleeved shirt up and off, over his head. The t-shirt beneath it, too. Mulder helped him to remove both, moving then to unstrap the Velcro and unfasten the prosthetic, laying it down on both the shirts on the floor. Mulder slid his own shirt off quickly and then placed his hands on Alex's waist, on either side. He moved in close once more, letting his chest press against Alex's back. Alex leaned backwards, into him, for a moment, and then he turned around to face him. His face was drawn and his eyes glimmered a little too brightly in the dim light of the room. But it was the way he pressed his lips together tightly, and the fine tremors that gave him away the most. He was balanced on the edge of having everything he'd ever wanted, and was scared that it could be ripped away at any moment, with maybe one wrong word, or a single gesture on his part. The last of Mulder's reserve melted as he stepped close again, pulling Alex into his arms while he muttered, "Come on, it's all right. We really are going to do this." His face pressed into Mulder's neck, Alex said brokenly in a ragged voice that was barely audible, "You're all I've wanted, I swear. Everything. The only thing. You'reh—You're the reason I kept going." "I know. It's okay, it's alright," Mulder found himself replying, quietly, while stroking Alex's back and neck. They stood like that for a little while, until Alex's trembling seemed to abate and Mulder finally pulled back to look into his face. Mulder smiled. "Hey. You okay?" Alex licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, slowly. "I am, if you are." "Yeah, I am. I think we—" But whatever Mulder might have thought was lost in the sure, sudden motion of Alex turning his head to one side and claiming his mouth; Alex finally letting his lips tell him without words just exactly how much he wanted this. With their mouths locked together, they fumbled back towards the bed, finally having to break it off to reach down to their respective trousers. They weren't there for very long; Alex had undone his zipper and was pulling them down quickly and no sooner had Mulder removed his own shorts then Alex had grabbed him again, and pulled Mulder to him as they crashed onto the bed, stripping themselves of all remaining clothing in a frenzy. Then Alex had rolled him slightly onto his side, so that as Alex joined him, Mulder was pressed onto his back under him. And now Alex let go at last, seizing Mulder's mouth under his own between muttering, "God, want you... Fox...Oh, Fox... Want you so fucking bad—" Mulder found himself ignoring the missing left arm, the stump with the scarred tissueh—For him to pay attention to it at all was to have to face the fact that he'd been partly responsible for what had happened and he really didn't want to get involved in the inherent guilt trip that came with this. Instead, he brought both hands up to place them on either side of Alex's head and return the kisses with as much desperation as he was getting, shocked at how much his own urgency mirrored Alex's at this point. Swept up in the mindless crashing of the need that was pulling at both of them, Alex tried to resurface with a thought of practicality at this point. "Needh—somethingh—the first drawer," he directed, and then pulled away, up and off of Mulder to go to the little bedside cabinet and tear open the drawer, hunting in the dark for the little tube and the length of the plastic strip of condoms. Tearing one off with his teeth, and palming the lube, he quickly rejoined Mulder on the bed, where Mulder had pulled back the sheets and climbed between them. Climbing in beside him, Alex took a breath. "I really want you." Part of his brain feeling like it had long departed and the other half like it was still floating somewhere between here and the living room, Mulder said, "Yeah, okay." And he pulled away, turning and shifting until he lay on his front, on his belly. Concerned, Alex wondered if he knew what he was in for. "Are you sure? I mean, can you? You don'th—you don't mind?" Muffled slightly against the mattress, Mulder responded, "Just do it, before I change my mind. If you take too long, I'm going to have to fuck you." Taking him at his word, and grinning widely at it too, Alex slithered over and moved atop him, sighing slightly at the incredible feeling of Mulder's warm, slick flesh under his as they pulled the covers back over them, up to their hips. Getting back up to take his position above him, Alex unrolled the condom over his rigid, straining erection, hoping he'd last long enough once he started to slide into him. And then looked down. Thath—incredible ass. Jesus. Firm, pert, delectable. Beautiful. He trailed his hand over it, warmly, enjoying the way Mulder's breath hitched and he couldn't help moving under the touch, and stopping to cup the right cheek momentarily before reaching for the lube. Knowing there was no turning back now, he covered his fingers and then moved them to gently dip down, down and further down the sweet crack of Mulder's buttocks until he found that tight, so-tight little pucker... The answering groan that Mulder made at this light touch sent a shaft of pure need through Alex and he bit his lips, forcing himself to be patient, take his time, as he slid a cautious finger into him. Pulling out, only to slide back inside again, repeating this slowly over and over until Mulder actually began to rear back against his hand. Finally, in a strained and exasperated voice, Mulder demanded, "Just fucking do it, won't you!" Laughing slightly, Alex reached for the lube once more, this time to smear his cock liberally. Fuck, the moment of truth, he thought, as he lay back down full-length against Mulder now, trying to guide his slick cock into that delicious, tight entrance. And then he was there, pressing forward ever so slightly, as Mulder's breath was sucked out of him with a high-pitched little moan of fear mingled with anticipation and distress. Stopping, his heart pounding, Alex murmured against his neck, "I'm going to make this so good for you; you'll never forget it. And you won't regret it, either." Quivering, he slid barely an inch forward, waiting until he could feel Mulder relax a little more under him. Jesus, God, the feeling of pressing down against him, trapping him to the bed under him, the exultation of finally having Fox Mulder, of— Mulder pressed backwards and he slid into him another two inches or more, nearly involuntarily, as Mulder cried aloud. The sound tore through Alex and it was all he could do not to drive home and nail him to the bed then and there. "So long, so long," he found himself whispering, incoherently. "I never, never thought you'd ever let me—" Then he fastened his mouth on the back of Mulder's neck, sucking, licking, his tongue lashing at the skin there. And slid forward yet another inch, only to pull back now. This elicited a gasp from Mulder; one he could tell was borne partly of wonder, but also of pleasure and discomfort. He moved into him again, and then pulled back once more. "Fuck," Mulder muttered under him, with feeling. "Oh, Godh—Fuck. Fuck me!" Alex chuckled silently behind him, into his neck. "That is the general idea," he said. "I'mh—ready. Go ahead. Do it," Mulder said, his breath coming in gasps. Oh, wow. Fox Mulder, asking to be fucked. This was tooh—this was too good. He waited, not moving, knowing Mulder would break soon. "For God's sake," Mulder muttered, "Alex, just do it!" Still waiting for the desperation to build, Alex grinned invisibly behind him. Finally, Mulder swallowed. "Alex? Please?" "Are you sure, Fox? Are you really sure? I mean, I wouldn't want to do this if you aren't sure you want it." And he couldn't keep the slight grin out of his voice. "Bastard," Mulder said, his voice shaking slightly. "Fuck me, Alex. Please. Fuck me. Come on. Please?" "Oh, baby, you asked for it. Just remember that," Alex breathed behind him, into his neck, lovingly... Before rearing back and then sliding into him, all the way home. "And I'm going to give it to you." The keening sound that was drawn from Mulder at this motion was nothing to the moan in the backlash as Alex promptly drew back and out of him nearly all the way again. "I'm going to fuck you, my Fox, going to fuck you so good," Alex promised, before thrusting forward once more. He started a rhythm that unfortunately was so good, he didn't think it would take much more to bring them both over the edge. Mulder found that the magic, pleasurable spot that Alex's cock kept slamming against brought stars that swam with little sparkling trails across his vision and he was making open-mouthed cries and entreaties as he desperately grabbed at the sheet under him. It was too much and he tried to reach down a hand, ended up lifting his hips to meet each penetrating thrust that Alex gave him as Mulder moved to a frog-legged position beneath him. And then Alex was sobbing something against the back of his neck, kissing him and biting at him, wildly, stabbing hard again and again into him as Mulder managed to finally seize his own cock and with two tugs he was spurting hot cream all over the bed under them with a fierce cry. Their skin was flushed and damp, and quickly cooling in the cold air. Breathing hard and moving up against Mulder as he turned on his side, Alex pulled the covers up over them. Alex was laying on his left side and even in the dark he could see Mulder's eyes were open. The reality of what had just occurred landed with a seasick thud in the pit of his stomach and he closed his eyes, catching his breath, turning his face into the pillow. "Don't," Mulder murmured. His eyes opened and he considered the man's mood. Mulder seemed calm, despite his flushed face, his own short breaths. Even, distantly concerned. "Don't what?" "Close yourself up again. You don't have to. I'm not going to hurt you." How would you know? Alex felt like demanding. He swallowed around the sudden ache that had returned inside his chest, this time with a burning pain that stung at his eyes. "Hurts just looking at you." The lonely, hopeless tone of that husky whisper caught inside Mulder's defenses and he knew he was lost. He had to face it at last: he cared. He did. And licking his lips, deliberating, he said, "I could say the same. I thought you wanted this. What do you want from me?" Alex sighed through his nose, silently, closing his eyes again. This was unbearable. Mulder moved closer and pulled him into his arms again, pulling the covers up more to gather around their necks and cocoon them securely together. He stroked Alex's short dark hair that had streaks of light silver running through it now. He absently thought it lent a rather charming attitude to him. "This is what it is, you know. However we are, right now, is how it'll be. I promise. This doesn't have to change." Wanting to believe him, Alex pressed himself closer against him, relaxing once more and letting himself enjoy the heat of Mulder's body. He cleared his throat. "I didn't think you would let me have you. Not— like this, anyway." Mulder's lips twisted in a slight smile. "What, did you think I was a prude?" "No, celibate." "Oh, I don't know. There are a large stack of blonde, big-breasted women on video in my apartment who would disagree with you." Mulder's voice was light. Alex found himself shaking with suppressed chuckling in spite of himself. And then stopped. Mulder was still running his hand over Alex's hair. "Alex?" Mulder's tone was sufficiently warning in that curious inflection; it let him know that he was about to be interrogated. "Yeah?" he responded, warily. "What do you use to get off? You can tell me. You know what my methods are... and since we're so intimate and everything, now." Alex realized he was being played; Mulder was turning the moment to a lighter mood and actually, he was grateful. "What, did you think I cried myself to sleep every night, thinking of you?" He hoped Mulder wouldn't call him on this one; it was a little too close to the truth. There were too many nights that he'd spent obsessing over this man. The man he finally held. He thought with some wonder: hey, I got him. I finally got him, after all. And he smiled. "No, I justh—Now don't take this the wrong way, okay? But your new prosthetic... It's pretty state of the arth—And, well, I just wondered if you used it. To get off with. I mean, I was thinking it would feel like someone else's hand, yeah?" Alex grinned and replied, dryly, "You would. But no, I don't. I tried it once, actually, but there wasn't enough control to really make it worthwhile. So I really have been reduced to Mrs Five-Fingers." "Hm. But, you know, it really isn't all that bad. I mean, so do I; when I'm holding the remote control in the other hand... I only have one hand left free." Alex was snickering quietly at him and then Mulder found his mouth silenced by a tenderly passionate and heated kiss. Alex put all the words he wanted to say into this one moment. He didn't want to ruin it with more confessions of insecurity and doubt. Although he still didn't believe that they'd cleared all the obstacles that lay between them. When they pulled apart for air, Mulder managed, "So, are we okay with this then? I like it. Tell you what; we could have an odd-even-odd arrangement. I'll come to your place on even days, you come to mine on the odd. How's that?" Alex looked down, considering. "What, we're actually going to have a real relationship, here?" The surprise and dawning hope in Alex's voice made Mulder grin. He brought his hand down to Alex's chin and lifted it up again. "Yeah. We are. Alex, tell me the truth, okay? You weren't really going to kill yourself, were you?" Alex licked his lips. "Fox. Foxy," and he took a shuddering little breath. "I won't, I give you my word. Not now that I've got everything I ever wanted right here, right now. With you. I told you already; all I want is you. While I've got you, that's all I need. Okay?" "Okay." Mulder's answer was quiet, reflective and a little subdued. He obviously hadn't counted on the responsibility that accepting this would entail for him; he'd committed himself irrevocably. "Alex," he whispered. "Thanks for saving me. I think I'd lost my way, there. Again. I got off track again; you keep bringing me back. I have a way of doing that... losing sight of my own humanity in the craziness of the big picture." Mulder found himself clinging to Alex with the fear of just how far he had strayed from being even one step higher than the bastard he'd always projected in his mind as Alex Krycek. No life was worth losing, even his enemy's. And in accepting this, he'd gained something a lot more precious and valuable than a friend. He wasn't sure he could ever really see Alex as a friend, but a lover? That was more than do-able, in this alternate reality he seemed to exist in now. It was something he never would have imagined he would appreciate, at all. But it remained: Alex was his. "I know," Alex said, with a surety in his voice that was borne of knowing. For he was thinking exactly the same thing. Even as the tender, glowing happiness was healing all the torn and dark places inside of him, he knew that friendship was a little much to ask for just yet. But love? No boundaries there. And he said, "I do love you, you know." "Me, too. I mean, love you, Alex." "Yeah? Do you love me enough to let me take you again?" Alex let the pleasure of what Mulder had just said suffuse him. He'd never thought he'd ever hear that, and believe it. "I'd say we have the rest of today for me to prove it to you. And all night, too." "Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Alex pushed him, over onto his back. And Mulder's cellphone rang. He sighed mightily, leaned over the side of the bed and picked it up. "Yeah; Mulder... Oh, hi. Yeah." He glanced over at Alex who lifted his brows at him. "Yeah, Scully, I'd say we worked out our differences." He chuckled. "No, no, nothing like that. Don't worry. Yeah. Okay... Yeah...I'm sorry...No...You're right...yeah...Okay... All right. Yeah, tomorrow... Bye." He put it away and sank back down on the bed. He sniffed. "She said that no matter how untrustworthy you might be, there was no excuse for me to beat you up. She said if I did it again, she'd shoot me again." "Better not cross her. She's good at keeping her promises," Alex warned. "Yeah, well, Alex. I think if she saw us like this, she'd shoot us both." "Really? I don't know; don't sell her short. She might be more open- minded than you take her for. Who knows; maybe we could eventually get her in on the action." "Alex." Mulder regarded him with horror in the dim bedroom. "You're not going to seduce Scully." "You're right; Frohike deserves his chance. He's waited so long for it, after all." Mulder sighed in exasperation and scooted in close to hold him. "Mulder," started Alex, with a hint of promise in his voice, "Do you wanna hear some gossip?" "I have the feeling you're going to tell me anyway." "Marita swings both ways. She has a thing for Dana, too." "Really?" Mulder's interest perked up at this. The image of the blonde, and the redhead... together... Alex was laughing now. "You're so easy, Mulder." "Oh, screw you. I can't believe you would—" "No, no; it's true. I wasn't making it up," Alex protested, grinning. "Although, I didn't hear it from her." They fell silent. After a while though, Alex's smile fell away. "Mulder, are you sure about this?" "Enough, already. Alex, read my lips. I'm yours." "I don't read in the dark; it's bad for the eyes." "You shouldn't put any stock in old wives' tales like that. If they were true, I'd be blind with hairy palms by now. And so would you." "Yeah. Thank God we don't have to be back there, anymore." "Amen," Mulder murmured, leaning his face against him again, nuzzling his face into Alex's neck. "I always wanted you, you know." "Yeah. I know, Mulder. Just like you knew I wanted you. It's called denial." "You tried to tell me, didn't you." "Yeah. I'm always trying to tell you things. Now, if you don't listen to me, I get to tie you down and make you." Mulder answered mildly, "Are you threatening me, Alex?" "Nope. My word is good. It's a promise." "I think you'll find it hard to make good on that one if I'm sitting on you," Mulder stated, grabbing hold of him and holding him tightly, to make the point. "Why, you're so impetuous, Fox." Alex was grinning widely; a Cheshire Cat impression that made Mulder smile back. Mulder didn't answer; just captured Alex's lips again and slowly began his assault. It marked the first of many intended explorations and forays down into the special hell reserved for people like them, who preferred to work out their issues and sexual hang-ups in a hands-on fashion. In the back of Mulder's mind, even as he gave himself over to the sinfully, wickedly, delightfully, lovely creature whose bed they were occupying at present, he couldn't help the niggling curiosity from distracting him. He wouldn't be able to rest now; the idea had been planted. Did Scully really have a more adventurous and open mind than he had thought? Did Marita really have a thing for Scully? He gave a low chuckle, at which Alex stopped kissing him, retreated and looked at him. After a moment, Alex said, "What? What is it?" "Nothing. Just thinking." "Mind sharing?" "Not at all. Just wondering who's gonna score with Scully—" Alex let out a breath, rather impatiently. "I was joking. There's nothing to it. Nothing at all. I made it up, Fox. Come on. Let's not get distracted." And he pressed Mulder back into the pillow with the force of his kisses, taking the time between each possession of Mulder's lips to say brokenly, "No. One. Else. But. You." He pulled back again slightly, holding Mulder's gaze. "Okay?" Mulder grinned slowly, feeling foolish. "You keep making declarations like that, Alex, and I'm gonna start believing you want to set up house with me. What, are we gonna pick out curtains together? Will we find ourselves signing pre-nuptial agreements? On the dotted line: 'No more hits, and no more hookers'?" But Alex was staring down at him with a serious expression. "Agreed," he breathed, then leaned into Mulder's mouth with more gentleness than Mulder could remember receiving from him, ever. Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "Mm. Alex," he attempted, "Ih—mmph— Alex. I wasn't suggesting—" Alex released him with a small smile. "I know. But I can wait. I've waited this long. Just try and get rid of me now." And his eyes glittered in the dark with a possessive pride and joy that suddenly brought it sharply home to Mulder; just how serious Alex was about thish—the two of them. Together. He realized that there was no backing out of this. Mulder found he really didn't mind. The thought of commitment was not that frightening, after all. Not only would he have the promise of getting laid on a regular basis, but he would also have someone to talk to. In fact, he would have a companion, someone who wouldn't question everything he suggested as if he were crazyh—someone to take him seriously. He smiled again; feeling a strange, unaccustomed happiness welling up inside. Alex didn't know why Mulder was smiling and at that moment he didn't really care. He could feel Mulder's heart beating as he lay against him. He reveled in the simple reality of this cryptic, warm smile and found that it meant more to him than anything ever had. He smiled back. However long they had together, Alex didn't want to waste a single moment. Not after having waited for so long, having dreamed for so many years of being with him in exactly this circumstance. And with a happy sigh of relief, he laid his head on Mulder's chest, to better listen to his heartbeat and feel the warmth coming off of him. They fell asleep like that, Mulder's arms going tighter around him in a protective embrace. The End Jamiwilsen@hotmail.com

Title: On the Edge of Your World Pairing: M/K Rating: NC17 for m/m sex, language, angst Disclaimer: All characters belong to Chris Carter/1013 Productions. Feedback: jamiwilsen@hotmail.com Spoilers: Post-Requiem fic. Possible spoilers up to Requiem Betas: Lorelei, Candace, Jas, Sue, Bernice Summary: Krycek is suicidal and depressed. Can Mulder help him regain the will to live? Note: Written for the over eXposure zine—IIBNF Press. (This is NOT deathfic, don't worry! I don't like deathfic and I won't write it. This is about salvage and redemption.) back to top

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