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Fresh Kills
by Ms Brooklyn


The porch light was on. Alex Krycek stared at it for a long time before shutting off the engine of his BMW and reaching for his gun. He distinctly remembered turning the light off when he left three weeks ago. It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess that somebody turned it on and was, quite possibly, waiting inside.

Silently, he slid out of the car and made his way up the walk, opening the well-oiled locks without making a sound. The place was dark, curtains still drawn, blocking out the mid-afternoon sunshine. Alex disengaged the safety, put on the silencer and held his gun at ready, making his way to the living room.

Something under his foot squeaked loudly, startling Alex so badly that he pulled the trigger and put a hole dead center in the McKnight print Feldman gave him last month. Maybe she wouldn't notice before he had a chance to replace it. He lifted his foot and groaned inwardly when he saw what he stepped on. The squeaky-gecko. It wasn't supposed to be a cat toy but when he saw it during his trip to Japan, he knew Winky would love it. Sighing, Alex bent over, picked up the toy and dropped it on the pile of cat toys in the corner. The pile of cat toys was a sure sign that he, Alex Krycek, was slowly being domesticated, possibly pussy-whipped, and Alex wondered if it also meant he was starting to lose his edge. God, he hoped not.

Gritting his teeth, he made a quick round of the first floor. Nothing. That meant whoever it was might still be upstairs. Alex took the stairs two at a time, careful to avoid the fourth step because it squeaked and he was damned if he knew how to fix that. Hell, he panicked when the toilet got stuck, but Feldman calmly plunged it, yanked out a part and sent him to the hardware store for a new one, which she installed. She never ceased to surprise him with the things she knew how to do.

Something brushed his leg, startling him yet again. This time, the casualty was a small mirror that he bought with the rest of the furniture in this place. Alex winced and looked down but whatever it was had disappeared.

That was when something else, something distinctly gun-like was pressed into his back. Once again, his finger squeezed the trigger, shattering the mirror into a thousand tiny pieces.

"Nice shooting, Tex. Try aiming for that ugly lamp in the living room. I've been dying to replace that for months."

Feldman? How the hell did she manage to get the drop on him? And why was she holding a gun on him? Did she find out what he was doing in Ireland? Or, more to the point, what he was doing with Liam in Ireland? "Feldman....honey, I swear I'll replace the lamp. Just put the gun away. And if there's anything else bothering you, kitten, we can talk about it. Put the gun down and we'll talk."

"It's time to come clean, Ratboy."

"Alex," he corrected her, automatically. "My name is Alex."

"Whatever. You've been gone three very long weeks and you didn't call me."

Alex blinked. He didn't call her. That was a relationship thing, wasn't it? Right. Men got dumped because they didn't call. Was she going to tell him to get lost and then blow his head off? Or was there still a chance he could reason with her? "Feldman, kitten...we talked about this, remember? I told you I wouldn't be able to call you."

"You must've called somebody, because there's a hell of a hickey on your neck," she said, sweetly. "What was his name? Was it Patrick? Sean? Kevin? Liam?"

Shit! Shitshitshit! She knew! She had to know. "It was business, kitten. Nothing but business—"

"Spare me the business should be pleasure speech, Ace. I've heard it before and I'm still not convinced. Turn around slowly. I want you to watch me pull the trigger."

Oh. God. She was going to kill him because of Liam. And he was going to die with a huge hard-on. For reasons it would take Freud to figure out, the idea of Feldman holding a gun on him made him hornier than hell. Alex swallowed and turned slowly. A stream of liquid hit his leather jacket dead center. Liquid?

"Bang. You're disinfected."

"Disinfected?"

"You've been shot with Lysol." She waved the bottle in front of his face and then, with a cocky grin, engaged the spray bottle safety. "Don't worry, it won't hurt the leather."

"Screw the leather. You gave me a goddamned heart attack!"

"That's not all I gave you, is it?" Feldman's fingers closed over the bulge in his jeans, caressing him.

Alex moaned softly as she set down the Lysol and gave him her full attention.

"Did you miss me, Ratboy?"

"Alex," he groaned, as she undid his jeans and slipped her hand inside. He knew he should be asking why she was here, why she was cleaning the place and— "Did you leave the porch light on?"

"Uh huh." Feldman kneeled in front of him and looked up at him with gleaming brown eyes as she took him in her mouth.

"Why," he managed to stammer and then instantly regretted the question because she was going to have to stop what she was doing to answer.

"So you'd know I'm here. I moved in."

"You what?"

"I moved in."

Why was he asking questions when he was about to get a blow-job from Feldman? Maybe he should be seeing a therapist....

"Any more questions or can I go back to work," Feldman asked, squeezing his knee affectionately. "Because if you'd rather have a conversation, I can tuck Little Ratboy back into his—"

"Please don't call my cock Little Ratboy."

"But—"

"Don't. Please. I beg you." The nickname was having a very deleterious effect on his hard-on, Alex noted. "You know, this wasn't what I expected."

"Excuse me?"

"I figured I'd come home, shower, stop by your place and screw you silly. Never, in my worst nightmare did I expect to be attacked with Lysol and have my cock maligned with that name!"

Feldman got up and looked him in the eye. "If you don't want me living with you, Ratbo—"

"Alex. My name is Alex," he hissed between clenched teeth. "And it's not the shacking up that's pissing me off, it's that name."

"Ratboy?"

Alex clamped his hand over her mouth. "That's the one. Let's make a deal, kitten. You can stay if you promise not to call me that name ever again. If you call me Ratboy again, I'm tossing you out on the street. Think you can handle that?"

"Mmmmfffmmm."

"Good." He let go and eyed her warily. Of course she was going to call him Ratboy again and he, poor pussy-whipped Alex would meekly correct her and she knew it, damn her.

Feldman frowned and nodded towards his crotch. "Will it come back to life or do I have to point the Lysol at you again?"

"Why? Why me?"

"Alex."

Her voice was soft, silky and she practically purred his name. What the hell did she want now? He'd gotten it up for her twice in rapid succession and frankly, he needed a breather. Alex rolled onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow.

Fingers traced a path along his spine. "Alex...would you like some water?"

Okay, it wasn't sex she was after. It was something much, much worse. He raised himself up on an elbow to look at her. Yup. She wanted something alright. Maybe he'd get lucky and all she wanted was to get pregnant. Nah. He'd never get off that easy. "Sure, kitten. Water would be nice."

"A snack, maybe?"

"Sure." Nope. Not a baby. This was bigger. More ominous.

Moments later, she returned with a tray of fruit and two glasses of water.

Alex reached for a glass, took a long, refreshing swallow and braced himself. "What do you want, Feldman?"

"I want to go to New York." There. She said it. After rehearsing for three weeks, it came out easily. Now, if he didn't ask why....

"Why?"

Damn. Why did he have to ask that!? Well, what were her options? There was the truth or the truth after making her Ratboy jump through a series of hoops. For a change, Ellen decided to take the direct approach. "Carmine told Uncle Nicky we're living together."

Her Ratboy nearly choked on a grape. "He what?! Why?!"

Again with wanting to know why? Her Ratboy was going to be the death of her. "Uncle Nicky wanted to set me up with Tony's cousin, Nunzio, the construction worker, and Carmine sort of let it slip that I had a boyfriend."

"And now he wants to meet me," Krycek groaned. "Why couldn't you just go out with Nunzio and tell the old bastard Nunzio wasn't your type or he had two arms or his cock was too small or something?"

"Ewww! Nunzio is gross! He's got a receding hairline and the IQ of a fern!"

"I didn't say you had to sleep with him. Just dinner and goodbye."

"What the hell is your problem, Ratboy? You keep saying you want to meet my family. Here's your big chance."

Her Ratboy cupped her face in his hand. "Didn't we have an agreement about you using that name?"

Oooops. She batted her eyes at him. "What name?"

"Ratboy."

"Oh, Sasha, did I use that horrible name? I didn't mean it." Sasha. Yuck! But look at that shit-eating grin! He liked it! "Anyway, you said you want to meet my family and Uncle Nicky is family—"

"I said I wanted to meet your parents, not your godfather."

"What's wrong with meeting Uncle Nicky," Ellen demanded. "He was there for me when you redecorated my apartment with a sledgehammer and spray paint four years ago! And he sent Carmine to protect me when you kidnapped me—"

"Okay, okay, I get the point." Her Ratboy raised his hand in defeat. "I'll go kiss his ring."

"You'll have to kiss more than that. He got kind of upset when he found out we were living together—"

"But we weren't—!"

"We are now."

"You moved in to piss off Nicky?"

She moved in because her clients kept stiffing her and she couldn't afford rent on her office and her apartment. And because she was lonely. Not that she'd admit it, of course. Her Ratboy would never let her hear the end of it. "Of course not, Sasha. Anyhow, Uncle Nicky wants us there this weekend, which is tomorrow, actually. He's making his famous lasagna and you can meet Aunt Carmella and Carmine will be there—"

"Maybe I should check with the smoker—"

"I checked. You're on downtime for two weeks." Per her request, of course. No way in hell he was going to weasel out of this one. Not after the way she had to suffer through that phone call from Uncle Nicky. All those questions about what the hell she was thinking, did she have any idea what she was doing, etc., etc.

Suddenly, he smiled and Ellen wondered what sort of evil plan he just concocted. Whatever it was, she knew she wouldn't like it. "Okay, Feldman. We'll go to New York and have dinner with your Uncle Nicky. And since we'll be in town, why don't we drop in on your mommy and daddy so you can introduce me?"

No! Not fair! How dare he think of that? And it was so damned reasonable. Too bad she couldn't let him meet her parents. She thought fast. "You can't."

"Why not?"

Good question. Why not? Think, Ellen, think. "They're, uh, on vacation. In Las Vegas."

"Vegas? We could go to Vegas—"

"Ewww! No, it's tacky there." Yeah, that sounded nice and plausible. And it was true. Vegas was very, very tacky. "You'll just have to wait."

"You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, kitten?"

"Me? Lie?" Of course she was lying. "Would I lie to you, Sasha?"

Yes, the gratuitous 'Sasha' worked! Look at that grin! "Say that again."

"Sasha," she purred.

"One more time."

"Saaaaa-shaaaa"

"C'mere, Feldman."

Worked like a charm. She'd have to remember that.

Carmine Cantone hung up the phone and took a deep breath. "Ellen's on her way."

"She's bringing the Polack, right," Nicky Scavelli asked, not looking up from the New York Post Wonderword.

"Russian. He's Russian."

"Russian, Polish, what difference does it make? He's not Italian and he's not Jewish. You think her parents are gonna stand for that?"

No, but then again, this was Ellen, so nothing ever worked out the way it the way Carmine expected. Did he expect her to hook up with a Fed? Did he expect her to get kidnapped repeatedly by a one-armed Commie? And then fall in love (or so she claimed) with the Commie— oh no, the arm. Should he tell Nicky that Krycek only had one arm? Nah, let that be a surprise. "She's living with him, Nicky. I don't think her parents' opinions are gonna matter."

"Maybe it's that Sweden thing. You know like that kid, whatsername, Patty Hearst had?"

Stockholm Syndrome. Carmine debated clarifying that for Nicky, but decided against it. After all, Nicky had bigger worries. Like business. "They seem pretty happy."

"Happier than she was with that Fed?" Nicky finally looked up from his puzzle.

"Yeah." As painful as that was to admit.

"Maybe it's not so bad, then." Nicky tapped his pencil on the counter and looked out at the transmission shop. The workers were doing four jobs and two more were waiting outside. "Any news on the situation in Brighton Beach?"

"They don't want to deal and they blew up a dumpster this morning."

"Maybe this Krycek mook knows them."

Carmine's jaw clenched. Just because the one-armed mook was Russian didn't mean he knew the Russian mob operating out of Brighton Beach. Go tell that to Nicky, though. The last of the provincials. Maybe it wasn't too late to go for that Master of Fine Arts degree after all. "Uh, yeah, Nicky. Maybe he knows 'em."

"Is this Krycek kid still working for that shadow government?"

"I'm not sure."

"You were supposed to find out," Nicky barked. "How can I make him nervous about shacking up with Ellen if I don't know nothin' about him?"

"I'm workin' on it, Nicky."

"Yeah, well work faster."

Why? Why him?

Yuri Kotlyarsky and Wojtek Szmarnsczyk were engaged in a heated debate.

"Subway."

"Bus."

"Subway. You know how much I hate the bus," Wojtek complained.

"If we had a car—"

"If we worked for a government that wasn't bankrupt—"

"If you two don't stop arguing, you're going to walk all the way to Manhattan." Jurik Jarozlaus put his considerable bulk between them. "I hired you two because you're supposed to be good at something other than arguing."

Wojtek eyed the fat man with barely disguised distaste. "You asked us to take care of the Italian problem and we're taking care of it."

"You blew up a dumpster. You call that taking care of it," Jurik exploded. "I expected to have control of the carting business by now—"

"These things take time and precision," Yuri soothed. "You'll have the business and the equipment very, very soon."

"I'd better," the fat man grumbled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap Te Amo cigar. Yuri backed up a step, dreading the inevitable stench from the stogie. "Where are you two headed, anyway?"

"Business meeting," Yuri said, quickly. "Russian consulate business. We'll be back later with news of your investments. Come on, Wojtek. We don't want to miss that bus."

"Sub—uh, yeah, we don't want to miss the bus."

It was practically a race to escape the dingy Russian coffee shop and the cigar-smoking fat man.

"I always forget how much I miss living in New York City until we come here for a visit," Ellen mused, looking out their hotel room window at the traffic on East 29th Street.

Her Ratboy turned her gently so that she was facing him. "There's no reason we can't make New York our permanent residence. I seem to recall from your file that you're licensed to practice here."

"What about your job? Our jobs...with the smoker, I mean. Doesn't he need us to be in DC?"

He kissed the tip of her nose. "As long as we get the job done, it doesn't matter if we live in Anchorage."

"Smooth. Very smooth, Ratboy. Too bad you're practically wearing a sign that says 'ulterior motive'."

"Alex," he sighed, wearily. "My name is still Alex. And do you have to ruin every single romantic thing I do?"

"Romantic is fine, but you were being downright manipulative."

"I was trying to make you happy—"

"You were trying to make me say that I— that, you know." Whew. She almost said those words.

"Why don't you tell me you love me, Feldman," Krycek demanded, angrily. "Would it be such a hardship for you?"

"Oh, come on, Ratboy—"

"Alex. When the hell are you going to remember to call me Alex?!"

When was he going to accept the fact that he was always going to be her Ratboy? Ellen nibbled at her lower lip, as she worked out a plan that would get him out of his snit. "Sasha—"

"Forget it, Feldman. You can't 'Sasha' your way out of this. I want to hear my name. In fact, I want to hear you say, 'I love you, Alex.'"

"I'm hungry, Alex."

"Why? Why me?!"

"There's nothing better than poker night," Yuri declared, weaving drunkenly up East 28th Street.

Wojtek rolled his eyes. "You lost your entire paycheck."

"And? They paid us in rubles, Wojtek." Yuri sighed theatrically. "My entire paycheck was the equivalent of twenty American dollars."

Wojtek thought about the value of his paycheck and sighed, too. At least they had jobs with Jurik that paid in American dollars. And perhaps it was a good thing they couldn't go back to Russia until they recovered Alex Krycek. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right. And I was right about not asking for a ride to Brooklyn. If they knew we didn't have a car, we would be laughingstocks." Yuri turned a corner and headed down Second Avenue.

Wojtek didn't have the heart to point out they were walking away from the subway. Besides, Yuri insisted he had an excellent sense of direction. "We're lucky it's not raining, like the last time it was poker night."

Yuri stopped in his tracks and pointed at a cab half a block away. "Look! There's Krycek! And a girl!"

"There's two pints of vodka," Wojtek grumbled.

"No! LOOK!"

Wojtek sighed, wiped off his glasses and looked. "By Stalin, you're right! It is! It's Krycek!"

"Let's grab him."

"And do what with him? Throw him in the trunk of our invisible car? Bring him back to Russia on the D train?"

"I know," Yuri sang. "Let's go say hello."

"Are you out of your mind?!"

Before Wojtek could stop him, Yuri threw back his head and shouted Krycek's name.

Ellen watched as her Ratboy pulled his gun and whirled, shoving her behind him. He moved with the lethal grace of a panther. She found that amazing, considering the size of the dinner he just wolfed down in Chinatown. In fact, she was so stuffed, she could barely move and he'd eaten twice as much.

A bulky, drunk man staggered up the street, babbling in Russian. He was followed by a smaller, leaner man who was cursing in English and what sounded like Russian.

"Alexei, put the gun away, I'm too drunk for business," the drunk man slurred in heavily accented English. "Unless, of course, you would like to play a few rounds of poker. We got paid tonight. Rubles, of course. They pay us in rubles. You know what you're worth in rubles, Alexei? Hell, I don't even know. The exchange rate gets worse every day. Even if we decided to take you they couldn't pay us—"

"Yuri, shut up," the smaller man hissed.

"Who the hell are you two buffoons," Ellen demanded, peeking out from behind her Ratboy.

The drunk man showed a mouthful of perfectly capped teeth. "I am Yuri Kotlyarsky and this is Wojtek Szmarnsczyk. We represent the Russian government in power this week."

"Imbecile," the one called Wojtek spat. "That might be treason."

"It might not. They keep re-writing the laws. Maybe we should just apply for green cards and forget the whole thing. We can work for the fast food chains and make more money. We'd even get to wear those snazzy uniforms," Yuri babbled. "What do you think, Krycek? Wouldn't Wojtek look wonderful in a uniform?"

Ellen could smell the vodka emanating from Yuri's pores and she stepped back behind her Ratboy, just in case Yuri was a dangerous drunk. "Ratb— uh, Sasha, who are these guys?"

"Be still my heart, she called him Sasha!" Yuri clapped a hand over his chest. "Alexei, this is true love, to get an American girl to call you that. You marry her and make lots of beautiful one-armed traitor babies, you hear me?!"

"They heard you back in Moscow," Wojtek complained. "Let's go, Yuri."

"I can't. I lost my subway fare in the poker game."

"I'll lend you the money, come on."

As the two began arguing anew, Krycek holstered his gun. Ellen stared up at him in surprise, but then he grabbed her arm. "Let's get out of here, kitten."

"But—"

"Come on." He dragged her down the street. "Run."

"This isn't finished yet, Krycek," Yuri shouted after them. "As soon as they can pay us, we're going to get you!"

Alex peered out the window one more time, making sure they lost Yuri and Wojtek. Lucky for him Feldman knew her way down these streets. Lucky for him Yuri was too drunk to follow them. And luckier still that Wojtek didn't decide to ditch his partner and chase them both anyway. Maybe he really was losing his edge. Maybe he really was becoming pussy-whipped— just like Mulder. It was the Feldman Effect, wasn't it?

"How come you didn't kill those two idiots?"

"What?!" The Glock slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet. Thankfully, the safety was on. "What did you say?!"

Feldman bent down, picked up the gun and inspected it idly. "You heard me the first time."

"Yeah and I still can't believe what I heard." Alex snatched the gun from her and holstered it. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's a question of them or you, Ratboy—"

"Alex."

"Whatever—"

"No. Not whatever. My name is Alex and I want you to call me Alex, understand?!"

"Yes, dear," she sighed.

"Alex."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to hear you say my name."

Feldman flashed him a hungry look. "I can scream your name if you prefer. Loud enough to crack the paint on the ceiling."

"Say my name first and then, if you say it real pretty, I'll make you scream it," he countered. Feldman was never one to turn down a dare. Especially if it involved a roll in the hay.

"Alex."

"Again."

"Alex."

"One more time."

"Alex," she breathed. "Ohhhh, Alex, yes, baby, yes, Alex....oh yes."

Now that was pretty. Overdone, but pretty. And he was looking forward to watching the paint crack. "C'mere."

"Are they here yet?"

"If they were here, you'd notice them, Nicky," Carmine muttered. Why he had to be here was a total mystery. It wasn't as if he wanted to be here when Nicky met the love of Ellen's life, that miserable, sneaky one-armed Commie sonofabitch.

Nicky paced his backyard for the umpteenth time. "They're late."

"There were delays on the FDR."

"You think the Polack'll like lasagna?"

"Russian," Carmine sighed. "And yeah, I'm sure he'll like lasagna."

"He'd better. Carmella spent all day working on it." Nicky inspected his tomato plants, frowning at the leaves. "You find out anything more?"

"Not a thing. It's like the guy never existed."

"So all we know about him is what we learned four years ago?"

"Pretty much. He covers his tracks like a pro."

Nicky turned away from his tomatoes, glaring at Carmine. "Well, he'd better like lasagna."

It was going to be a long dinner.

"Stop fidgeting."

"I'm not fidgeting."

"Yes, you are." Alex patted her knee. "You've filed your nails four times, fixed your lipstick twice, put your hair up, took it down, put it up again— face it, kitten, you're fidgeting."

"Well, gee, Ratboy, maybe if you left an hour earlier like I told you, we wouldn't have gotten stuck in traffic and I wouldn't have had all this time to fidget."

Ratboy. Again with Ratboy. Bad enough that was the name she screamed in bed last night and again this morning, but did he have to hear it now? "Alex. And you'd better not call me that in front of the Goombah Goon Squad."

"And you ought to be more respectful," Feldman sniffed. "Carmine might not appreciate being made fun of."

"You didn't say anything about Carmine being there."

"Well, of course he's going to be there, Rat—"

"Alex."

"-boy," she finished, ignoring the pained look on his face. "Carmine is Nicky's nephew on Aunt Carmella's side of the family. Besides, I'm sure you and Carmine have a lot in common."

"I'm sure."

"Ratboy!"

"Alex," he corrected, patiently. "Let's make a deal, kitten. I won't fight with Carmine if you don't call me Ratboy."

"But—"

"You want to see me toss Carmine into the marinara sauce," he asked, idly, changing lanes. "I can arrange it with no problem. I can even think of several embarrassing stories about you I can tell."

"That's blackmail!"

"That's right." Alex flashed her a toothy smile. There was only one reason he was subjecting himself to this torture. One. And it involved a simple four word sentence. Feldman was going to tell him she loved him if it killed everybody in New York City.

"That's not fair, Sasha."

Sasha? Feldman was after something, too! Well, if it was the engagement ring, he had it in his pocket, waiting for just the right moment when Feldman would have no other choice but to declare her love. "Rules bore me, Feldman."

"Ellen."

"Excuse me?"

"If I have to call you Alex, you have to call me Ellen."

"Ellen's too ordinary a name for you."

"What's wrong with my name," she demanded.

"Feldman has character and before you say it, no, Ratboy does not have character. Ratboy is demeaning." He gave her what he hoped was a stern look. "Speaking of which, do we have a deal?"

"Oh, all right. I won't call you Ratboy in front of Uncle Nicky, but you have to call me Ellen."

"I didn't agree to that."

"That's my condition. Take it or leave it, Ra—"

"Don't you dare call me Ratboy."

"Take it or leave it, Sasha."

"Fine." It was going to be a long, bumpy night.

"Oy, my aching head."

"Serves you right, Yuri Pyotr," Wojtek sniffed, disdainfully. "Drinking two pints of cheap vodka, making an ass out of yourself in front of Krycek—"

"I didn't see you stopping me." Yuri rubbed his throbbing temples. "You just stood there apologizing to Krycek and his pretty American girlfriend."

"What was I supposed to do? March him down Second Avenue at gunpoint while you hailed a cab?"

"We could have brought him to the Russian embassy," Yuri pointed out.

"Right, and they would have screwed us out of the money." Wojtek circled another used car classified ad. "We know he's here in New York, we have an idea where he's staying. All we have to do is get the means to catch him."

"What about the Italians, or have your already forgotten our new employer?"

"We'll take care of all of them and then we'll take a vacation with all the money we collect."

"It's about time," Nicky said, plastering a kiss on Ellen's cheek.

"Traffic was murder, Uncle Nicky." Ellen handed him a white bakery box containing a cheesecake. Her Ratboy was mystified when she told him to stop at the bakery, but when she explained that it was impolite to visit and not bring dessert, he reached for his wallet, and bought the biggest cheesecake in the place. Ellen drew a deep breath and braced herself. "Uncle Nicky, this is Alex Krycek."

Her Ratboy offered Nicky a radiant smile. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. Ellen's told me a lot about you—"

"And she told me nothin' about you, can you imagine that? Last I heard about you, it was four years ago and you redecorated her apartment with spray paint." Nicky handed the cheesecake to Carmine, who dashed for the safety of the kitchen. "Actually, maybe the last I heard of you was when you kidnapped her. Of course, you did that a lot, so I can't exactly pinpoint the date, you know what I mean, kid? Anyhow, you can imagine how surprised I am, here it is four years later, an' I find out you two are shacked up."

Oh. God. Not even here two minutes and it was starting. Ellen stole a quick peek at her Ratboy. He smiled down at her and squeezed her hand in his.

"Come on out back. We'll have a glass of vino— I make it myself—and we'll talk," Nicky continued, guiding them to the backyard, past the tomato plants and the grape vines. "How's the job, Ellen?"

"What?" Did he find out about her work for the smoker? "Which job?"

"Your law practice."

"Oh, uh, it's good."

"That's nice. When are you two going to get married?"

"What?!"

Her Ratboy squeezed her hand again. "Ellen's not ready for marriage yet."

"But you're ready to live in sin and shame your parents?" Nicky handed each of them a murky glass of red wine. "I thought they brought you up better than that, Ellen."

She took a long sip of the wine, coughing as it burned its way down her throat.

"I asked her to marry me and she said no," Krycek said, plucking the wine glass from her hand. "She wanted to live together."

Two bushy gray eyebrows knitted together on Nicky Scavelli's face as he stared at Ellen. "Explain to me the difference between living together and getting married."

Okay, she was prepared for this one. "Well, legally speaking, I have no rights in—"

"Forget legally. Explain emotionally," Nicky barked. "Do you love him?"

"What?"

"Do you love him," Nicky repeated, louder this time. Ellen was positive all of Queens had heard him. "You're living with him, you oughtta feel somethin' for the poor mook."

"I don't know what she feels," Krycek chimed in, with an earnest look on his lying face that made Ellen want to duck under the redwood picnic table they were all sitting at. "She's never told me she loves me or even that she likes me. And you'd think she would've after I went out and got her a two-and-a-quarter estate piece engagement ring like she wanted."

She had to hand it to her Ratboy, he was an accomplished liar. So accomplished that Nicky turned bright red and pounded the table hard enough to knock over all the wine glasses. "Goddammit, Ellen! How the hell can you lead the poor bastid on like that?! You tell him how you feel right now!"

"And give up my advantage?"

"Advantage," Nicky echoed, as his face flushed a more dangerous shade of red. "Advantage?! Either you love him or you don't and if you don't, you got no business living with him!"

Ellen dared a peek at her Ratboy, who was leaning back in his chair, watching her with an amused smile. How did he do it? How did he take a situation that was supposed to have him on the hot seat and turn it into Ellen Feldman's Fourth Ring of Hell? "Well, I....that is, I....uh..."

"I'm waiting," Nicky thundered. "So's your boyfriend."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Ellen squeaked, leaping out of her chair and dashing for the safety of the house. She almost collided with Carmine, who grunted a greeting and crossed himself as he headed out into the yard.

There had to be a way out of this and she'd find it if she had to spend the next two hours in Uncle Nicky's bathroom.

Alex sipped Nicky's wine, marveling how somebody could be so proud of something that tasted so awful. But if it meant getting an 'I love you, Alex' or an 'I love you, Sasha' out of Feldman, then he'd drink a gallon of this noxious, toxic sludge. And the way things were going, it looked like he was going to hear that phrase before this visit was over. He finally had Feldman where he wanted her.

"So," Nicky said, finally, as he refilled his glass of wine.

"So," Carmine added, helpfully.

Alex hit the two of them with his most mesmerizing smile, the one that made women wet and men hard. So what if it wasn't appropriate? He was here to have fun. "So?"

Nicky cleared his throat and studied his wine. "So. Now that it's just us guys, why don't we talk business, kid?"

"Business." Later, when he told Feldman about this, and he would, Alex promised himself to ape every single twitch Nicky and Carmine made. "What about business, sir?"

"Nicky, kid. You can call me Nicky." Slightly arthritic hands clasped together on the redwood table. "They tell me you're your own boy these days, which is a good thing, don't get me wrong, but y'know sometimes you need somewhere to go, y'unnerstan'?"

Oh. Sweet. Heaven. Was this low-budget Don Corleone about to offer him a job? "Sure, Nicky. I understand perfectly."

"Good, kid, good. 'Cuz the way I see it, Ellen's family and I take care of family." Nicky clamped a fatherly hand on Alex's shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way, kid, but I kinda noticed you're, uh, injured. I see this, I worry about Ellen. What happens to her if somethin' happens to you on'na job?"

"Well, I—"

"Don't say anything. Hear me out. I'm not gettin' any younger, ya know? Carmine's a good soldier, but he can't run things by himself. Not with the Columbians and the Asians and them goddamned Russians— no offense, kid, but those Russians are unbelievable. They blew up one of my dumpsters!" The older man took a deep breath and drained his glass of wine. "I'd like to put you to work on the Russian problem, kid."

"Well, I—"

"I can call my cousin, Frank the priest and we can have you an' Ellen married by tomorrow. I know some people, we can get ya a nice house in the neighborhood an' you can get started on a couple'a bambinos."

Alex could feel Carmine staring at him and he flashed the burly Italian yet another mesmerizing smile. Carmine quickly found the tomato plants very interesting. How did Feldman manage to do this to him? How did she manage to turn this triumph into Alex Krycek's Fourth Ring of Hell? He had the old bastard eating out of his hand, bullying Feldman into declaring her undying love and now....Shit. He was on the receiving end of a shotgun wedding, a shotgun career change and working for a low-budget Godfather. It was going to take some doing to get out of this one without offending the self-important old bastard. "I'd really like to help you, sir, but—"

"Great, I'll call Frank. You go grab Ellen." Nicky was on his feet. "Where is she? It doesn't take that long for her to fix her make-up."

"I think I have an idea. Let me go talk to her and see what she thinks about getting married so soon." And maybe that would buy him some time to figure out how to turn down Nicky's offer without offending the big man while still getting that 'I love you'.

Ellen sighed and peered at the rental car's fan belt again. Definitely starting to shred. These cars were so poorly maintained it was amazing the company was still in business. As she leaned over to get a better look at the radiator, somebody slapped her ass. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. But enough to get her attention. Enough to make her grab the transmission fluid dipstick and spin, brandishing her meager weapon and stabbing the tip into her attacker's jugular.

Her Ratboy sighed and brushed the thin metal object away with a finger. "Some professional advice, kitten. It's never a good idea to sabotage the car you're going to be a passenger in."

"I wasn't sabotaging—"

"You've managed to sabotage your poor uncle, kiddo."

He plucked the dipstick from her fingers and studied it with far too much interest. That's when Ellen realized that maybe she hadn't lost the advantage here, after all. Ellen took the dipstick from him and slid it back where it belonged. She slammed the hood shut and faced her Ratboy again, with just a bit more confidence than she had five minutes earlier. "You're right, honey, let's go back in there."

"Uh...why don't we have a little chat first?"

Yup, something was definitely up between her Ratboy and her Uncle Nicky. Something that was going to take her off the hook for sure. "Sure, sweetheart. Tell me whatever's on your mind."

Green eyes widened in surprise at her use of 'sweetheart' and Ellen mentally slapped herself for laying it on too thick. Then again... "I wasn't expecting things to work out with Nicky the way they did."

"What do you mean, lover?" Oh yes! Look at him! Every term of endearment confused him even more! And if she gave him her most innocent, loving Bambi-eyed look...Ooooh, perfect!

Krycek cleared his throat, looked away from her for a second and then frowned down at her. "He offered me a job."

It took every ounce of self-control not to burst out laughing. "Doing what, hon?"

"Uh....working on the...uh, Russian....matter." More throat clearing. "They blew up one of his dumpsters."

"That's great, honey! I'll start writing your resignation letter to the smoker and we can go house-hunting tomorrow. You're going to love working for Uncle Nicky." And she was going to be sick if she kept this up.

Her Ratboy rested his hand on her shoulder. "I'm not going to take the job, kitten."

"Oh, but Sasha," she purred— she was definitely going to hell for this one— , "nobody ever says no to Nicky."

"What do you mean, nobody tells him no?!"

"Nobody tells him no." Ellen gave him her most concerned lawyer look— the one she used when she convinced somebody to go for somebody else's balls— and patted his cheek. "Welcome to the Mafia, my darling."

"Feldman!"

"Krycek?" Innocently. "Is there more, Sasha, my sweet?"

"More? Of course there's more. Father Frank, for instance."

Father Frank? A shotgun wedding? Oh, her poor Ratboy was definitely out of his league here. And she was back in control. "Maybe we can cut a deal, Ratboy."

"Alex," he said, warily. "My name is Alex. What kind of deal?"

"I don't have to tell you I love you until I'm damned well good and ready and you don't have to deal with Father Frank."

"What about the job? I don't relish the idea of giving up the Consortium for Carmine."

Ellen licked her lips slowly, savoring the moment as her Ratboy stared, transfixed by the motion of her tongue. "Well, he's having trouble with the Russian mob. Maybe you could help him just a little bit so you don't hurt his pride. You're pretty good at dealing with Russians, aren't you, my big, strong stud?"

Alex blinked. Big, strong stud? Honey? Darling? God, she was in full manipulation mode and for once, he was out-classed. Give him a world power concealing the existence of extra-terrestrials and he knew where he stood. But this? How could he cope with this? "Feldman...uh, Ellen, honey, I can't....I don't do mob wars....and the smoker—"

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Feldman cooed at him, blinking oh-so-innocently. "And Uncle Nicky really needs the help, Sasha."

Sasha. That settled it. If he was going to bail out Nicky's ass, he was going to get his 'I love you'. "I'll help him if you do something for me."

"Of course, my sweet Sasha, anything."

"You know what I want to hear."

"Sorry, Ratboy. If I have to say that, you have to meet Father Frank and buy the house next door to Uncle Nicky."

"My name is Alex," he hissed through clenched teeth. Feldman had him by the short hairs. There had to be a way out of this or at least a way to get something he wanted. "Let me tell you something, Feldman, the old bastard has a point. You've got no business living in my house without telling me you have some kind of goddamned feelings for me."

Feldman took a step back, swallowed hard and considered his words.

Better. Much, much better. Say it, he urged her. Say it. Say it!

Her tongue roamed slowly over her lips as she attempted to buy herself some time.

Alex folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow expectantly.

"Well, y'know, you've never told me how you feel, either, sport."

Damn. That was dirty pool. He thought fast. "Let's see, kitten, I bought you an engagement ring, asked you to marry me and then let you move in with me. That oughtta tell you something."

"And I jumped your bones in the engine room of that ship."

"That tells me you were horny, Feldman. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Feldman inspected her nail polish, decided it met her standards and then met his eyes. "Okay, here's the way it's gonna go down, Krycek. Count of three. I say it. You say it. You game?"

Sure he was. He had a plan of his own. "Okay. Shall I count?"

"Hell, no!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Feldman snorted at him. "One Mississippi."

Alex braced himself. He was finally going to hear it.

"Two Mississippi."

Yes!

"Three Mississippi."

Neither one of them said a word.

Alex gritted his teeth. "Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Why can't you do something for me, just once? Would it kill you to tell me you love me? Would it?!"

"What's your excuse," she sniffed, haughtily.

"Don't you dare put this on me, Feldman," he exploded. "I saved your life! I got you the vaccine! Mulder didn't do that for you— I did! You wanted stuff, I bought you stuff. I bought stuff for your cat. You wanted a house, I bought you a house. I don't know the first fucking thing about having a house or a relationship, but I've been trying. I've bent over backwards to give you whatever the hell you wanted and all I want in return is one little thing. I want to hear you tell me you love me, goddammit!"

"A little louder, Ace. They didn't hear you in Coney Island."

This was getting tedious. He wanted an 'I love you' and by God, he was going to get it. Even if he had to resort to guerrilla tactics to get it. "Forget it, Feldman. You're not changing the subject. Either you tell me how you feel or you get the hell out of my life."

"That's not fair!"

"And playing with my feelings because you don't have the guts to tell me you love me is fair?"

"Well...what if you don't love me back?"

"There's only one way to find out."

"You'd really dump me?"

Of course not. But he nodded firmly.

Her eyes searched his. And then, unbelievably, she called his bluff. "Okay. Do it. Dump me. I wanna see you do it."

Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Why did she have to be so fucking difficult?! "Feldman! Just say it so we can get the hell in there, have dinner and go the hell home!"

"I knew you wouldn't have the guts to dump me."

"And I knew you wouldn't have the guts to tell me you love me," he countered. "Just forget it, already. I'm going in there and telling Nicky thanks but no thanks. You can stay out here and finish sabotaging the car."

With that, he turned on his heel and started walking towards the house.

"Alex..."

No. Don't look back, he told himself. The conversation was over and he still didn't get what he wanted. Again.

"I love you, Alex."

She what? What? What did she say? He spun around, confused. "Say that again."

"Nope. That's all you're getting for tonight, sport. And remember, a gentleman always returns the sentiment."

Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Why him? Why? "I....l-l-lo—"

"Come on, Fonzie, spit it out."

"I love you, you little bitch! Are you satisfied now that you've totally emasculated me?!"

"I think we're even, Ace." Feldman took his hand and tugged him towards the house. "And I think the lasagna's ready. How about we finish this conversation later? Horizontally?"

Why him? Oh, that's right. He was in love with Feldman.

Nicky drained his glass of wine and turned to Carmine. "I love her like a daughter, but, Carmine, I gotta confession. I don't think I could handle having them around every day."

Carmine nodded, barely concealing his joy. Nicky heard the shouting outside, went to see what was going on and heard the entire disgusting exchange between the Commie and Ellen. "What if he decides he wants to work for you, Nicky?"

"I'm hoping he likes his spook work better."

Carmine hoped so, too.

Alex sank down onto the cheap plastic lawn chair and regarded Nicky cautiously. The older man stared back at him. They stared at each other. Silence. More silence. Throat clearing. Time dragged. Finally, Alex screwed up his courage. "Uh, Nicky?"

"Yeah?"

"About Father Frank...."

"Yeah?" One bushy eyebrow rose.

Why was he nervous? It wasn't like Nicky was the smoker. "We're..uh...we...tell him, Feldman."

Feldman shot him a look that made him reach for the wine again. Then she plastered a smile on her face. "You see, Nicky, uh....well, we're Jewish. We want a Jewish wedding."

"He's Jewish," Nicky asked, doubtfully. "He don't look Jewish. Look at that nose—"

"Half. I'm half Jewish," Alex muttered.

"Right." She patted his knee even as she kicked him under the table. "So, uh, we've been talking to rabbis because...um, because I want a traditional wedding. I want the chuppa and the glass and—"

"What the hell's a chuppa," Carmine demanded.

"It's a tent thing. Very traditional," Feldman explained. "And you pronounce the 'ch' like you would for 'chutzpa."

"What about the glass," Nicky asked. "What kinda glass?"

Alex was curious about that himself.

Feldman took the wine glass from his hand, sipped without choking and set it down carefully. "Well, traditionally, the groom— that would be Ra— uh, Alex, crushes a glass. With his foot."

"With my foot?!"

"They wrap it in a napkin! And you don't do it barefoot!"

"Why would I do something like that?!"

"It symbolizes the taking of her virginity," Carmine put in.

"Well, it's a little late for that," Alex snorted. He yelped as Feldman kicked him in the shin. "I mean, that's nice."

"Anyway," Feldman continued, resting her hand over his. "My mother would never speak to me again if I got married by a Roman Catholic priest. Even if it's Father Frank. I hope you understand, Uncle Nicky."

"Sure, doll, sure I do."

Was it Alex's imagination or was Nicky relieved about that? "And, uh, Nicky, about that job offer...uh, tell him, Feldman."

Scarlet French manicured nails dug into the back of his hand. "Nothing doing, Ratboy—"

"Alex," he corrected her, quietly.

"You tell him."

"Yeah, tell him already," Carmine snorted.

"I'm happy with my present employer, but if you'd like, I can help you on the, uh, Russian matter," Alex said, quickly.

Carmine and Nicky exchanged looks.

Feldman dug her nails into his hand again.

Finally, Nicky cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, kid, that'd be nice. Real nice. Carmine can fill ya in."

"I don't wanna work with him," Carmine protested.

Nicky shot him a look.

"I'll work with him," Carmine grumbled.

Nicky reached for his fork. "It's settled then. Let's eat."

"This simply will not do." Jurik reached into the cheap Te Amo cigar box that adorned his battered, Salvation Army desk and fondled the cheap cellophane wrapped cigar, much to Yuri's dismay. "I'm no closer to controlling the garbage carting business in New York City than I was a month ago."

Yuri and Wojtek exchanged glances. Wojtek cleared his throat. "Jurik, these things take time and finesse—"

"Finesse? How much finesse does it take to break arms and legs until you find out who controls what I want? How much finesse does it take to kill him and take his business—"

"It takes finesse to take the customers without them going to the police," Yuri soothed. "These things take time. It's not like the old country."

"I want to see results," Jurik complained, unwrapping his cigar. "I want to see results tomorrow."

"You can't have control of the carting business by tomorrow," Yuri protested.

"Get me something by tomorrow or you're both landfill!"

"Yes, Jurik," they said in unison.

It was going to be a long day.

Silence. Awkward silence. Ellen busied herself looking out the window of their hotel room at the Sheraton. A Virgin Atlantic plane was taking off from JFK. Her Ratboy, as usual, busied himself checking his guns. That lasted all of nine minutes. Ellen knew because she timed him. Right on schedule.

Satisfied, he laid his trusty nine millimeter on the night stand. "Feldman. Get over here."

"Why?" "

Because I said so."

"Ratboy—"

"Alex." He tapped his foot impatiently. "C'mere."

Warily, she moved forward. He caught her left hand in his in a movement so swift that it wasn't until he released her that she realized she was wearing an engagement ring. The engagement ring. The Rock. "B-but...I don't want-"

"I'm not saying marriage, Feldman. I'm not ready, either." His fingers brushed her cheek. "Engagement. Now that I know how you feel about me, I want you to wear it."

Ellen looked down at The Rock and then back up at her Ratboy. "Engagement? Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Positive."

"B-but...I thought...." She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was a trial lawyers. Trial lawyers never, ever get flustered. And if they do, they don't show it, she told herself. "Engagement but not marriage. Could you maybe explain what you think this ring symbolizes, exactly?"

It was impossible to tell which was glowing more— his face or his eyes. "It symbolizes that you love me and vice versa—"

"Vice versa?"

"Don't start. You know what I mean."

"What about monogamy?"

"What about it?"

Ellen sighed. "Generally, when you get engaged that means you don't sleep with anybody else—"

"Well, that's business," he argued.

"But you like it!"

"I think a person should enjoy their work, don't you?" He favored her with a sly smile that made her insides quiver. "That's got nothing to do with anything, Feldman. I always come home to you."

Awww. That was soooo sweet. But there was still something that bothered her. A lot. "What if you meet somebody you like better while you're out there enjoying your work?"

Her Ratboy looked confused. "Better how?"

"You know. In bed. And maybe, just maybe, they're nicer to you than I am."

He chuckled softly.

That wasn't an answer. "That's not an answer, Ratboy."

"Alex."

"Whatever."

"Say my name."

"Alex," she purred, watching as he seemed to preen with her pronunciation.

"Come here and I'll show you the difference between business and pleasure."

"I thought we weren't going to blow up any more dumpsters," Yuri complained.

Wojtek shot him a look that would freeze lava. "I've been doing research, Yuri. These dumpsters are expensive. Also, it interferes with business, so it becomes even more expensive for...which company is this?"

"LaMadonna."

"A..how do you call it, a shell corporation. Jurik still doesn't know who owns it."

"We must do our own research, then."

"You must quit climbing into a vodka bottle every night," Wojtek scolded. "While you're drinking yourself into oblivion, I'm using my head. I've almost got the name of the owner of these carting companies."

Yuri set the timer and sighed. "What about our other job?"

"Krycek?"

"No, the other recovery."

"I think it ties in quite well with our work for Jurik, don't you?"

"You're such a schemer, Wojtek."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"If I looked like Krycek's American girlfriend—"

"Feldman. She's a lawyer."

Yuri's face screwed up in distaste. "Krycek and a lawyer? I knew he was unbalanced, but still...."

"There's no accounting for taste, comrade." Wojtek finished securing the bomb. "We're finished here. Besides, I know of a poker game in Canarsie. They play for American dollars and I feel lucky tonight."

He'd worn her out. Feldman was sprawled bonelessly in the center of the bed, eyes closed, still breathing heavily. It was a wonderful sight. And certainly no easy task. The moment was shattered by the bleating of his cell phone and Alex waged a quick debate on the merits of answering the call. No contest, unfortunately.

"I'm in the lobby." The smoker's voice was casual. "Meet me down here in five minutes. Both of you."

Feldman, amazingly, was still asleep. "Ellen needs a little more time. Can you give her half an hour?"

"No. You have ten minutes and not a minute more."

Alex slid into the booth, across from the smoker and held out his hand to a still-sleepy Feldman. Yawning, she climbed into his lap, burying her face against his shoulder. It was the least professional he'd ever seen her. Normally, she'd throw on a suit, put up her hair and carry a briefcase. Tonight, her hair was back in a pony-tail, no makeup and she was dressed in a sweater and tight leggings that left no doubt she wasn't wearing underwear.

The smoker's eyes traveled over her slowly. "Ellen."

"Mmmmm?"

"Pay attention."

"Mmmm."

"Kitten, come on." Alex nudged her gently and her head lifted, sleepy eyes meeting his. She shifted, leaning back against him, still in his lap, but looking at the smoker now. "There's a good girl."

"Mmmm."

The smoker crushed his cigarette. "Is she well?"

"She's a little worn out," Alex admitted. He waved over the waitress and ordered coffee.

"You're going to have to wake up, Ellen. Your flight leaves in an hour," the smoker said, lighting a fresh cigarette.

Feldman was suddenly alert. "Flight? Where are we going?"

"Just you. I'll explain momentarily." A deep drag on the cigarette. "As you may recall, Alex, there was a certain...object in Terma. And as you also know, that object was moved. It has been moved several times and its most current location is the Fresh Kills landfill—"

"In Staten Island? Ewwww." Feldman's nose wrinkled. "That's worse than hiding whatever it is in Jersey!"

"Feldman!" The things that came out of her mouth during these meetings! Unbelievable.

The smoker seemed amused. "Ellen is correct, but for different reasons. First, as you two are painfully aware, Ellen's...uncle...is involved in a territorial dispute over his garbage carting business. One of the places he dumps that garbage is Fresh Kills. And as you are also aware, it is a Russian outfit that seeks control of this business. You already know two key players, Alex."

There was a pause as the smoker studied his cigarette. Alex felt his stomach knot as he waited for the inevitable words to come.

"Yuri Kotlyarsky and Wojtek Szmarnsczyk."

Other than sitting up just a bit straighter, Feldman didn't give anything away. "Sir, I'm not familiar with them. Do we have any research—"

"No."

"But—"

"We both know you are quite familiar with them, Ellen." The smoker took another long drag and addressed Alex again. "Your friends are playing a dangerous game, working for the Russian mob and for the Russian government, particularly when the assignments are as intertwined as they are."

"I take it they're looking for the object, too," Feldman said, confident in her logic.

"The object. And the merchandise."

"Merchandise? You mean it got loose?" Alex felt queasy. The merchandise. The alien. The alien that took over his body. That kept him company until he was miraculously freed from the silo. "How?"

"The same way these things always happen."

Feldman shifted again. "Strughold's screw-up?"

The smoker arched an eyebrow. "Why would you say that?"

"A hunch."

Alex cringed inwardly. Didn't she know you weren't supposed to say things like that?

Another enigmatic smile in Feldman's direction. "In any event, Alex, you're needed to head our operation to recover the merchandise. You may use your offer of employment from Scavelli to camouflage your activities."

"Now wait just a second," Feldman protested. "Uncle Nicky—"

"Ellen." The smoker raised a finger. "This is not open to negotiation or discussion."

"But—"

"Ellen." Tone slightly threatening now.

Alex clamped his hand over her mouth. "It'll be fine, kitten."

"Mmmmffmmm!" Her nails dug into the back of his hand.

"Settle down and I'll let go." Ouch! Ouch! "You gonna behave?"

"Mmmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Mmm."

Alex released her, keeping his hand ready in case she needed to be silenced again. When was she going to learn?

"Now, Ellen, as for you...." There was a pause as the smoker waited for any kind of reaction. Luckily, Feldman just sat there, waiting. "I need you to do what you do best. It seems Agent Mulder has been making inquiries concerning several unfortunate accidents that have occurred at Fresh Kills. He's even gone so far as to telephone Mr. Scavelli to gain access to the landfill."

Alex flexed his fingers under her nose, warning her not to say anything. As usual, she ignored him.

"Uncle Nicky didn't mention that to me."

"Nevertheless, it happened." The cigarette was crushed slowly. "I need you to change clothes and accompany me back to DC where you will employ whatever means are necessary to keep Agent Mulder away from Fresh Kills until I tell you to bring him there."

"What do you mean 'whatever means necessary'," Feldman demanded.

"I mean precisely what the term suggests, Ellen."

"Are you nuts—"

Alex clamped his hand over her mouth again. "Settle down."

"Mmmmffmmm!"

The smoker reached across the table and stroked the underside of her chin with a finger. "Need I remind you that you've proven quite adept at manipulating Mulder without resorting to using your body, Ellen? Besides, it's not as if you haven't done this type of work before."

"Mmmffmm!"

"He's right," Alex added.

"Mmm."

Warily, Alex took his hand away again. Not that it mattered. She was going to say something that could get them killed. She always did. He could warn her from now until next year, but Feldman insisted on speaking her mind to the smoker. It was a wonder they were still alive.

She waited all of half a second before erupting. "I thought we agreed I didn't have to do that kind of work! And I also thought we agreed Alex and I had a two week leave—"

"Feldman, shut up," Alex hissed, clamping his hand on her mouth yet again. "We can take a leave when this is over, besides—"

"I'm not telling you to do anything, Ellen," the smoker said. "You do what you feel is necessary to fulfill the mission. As for your leave, consider it canceled. I suggest you go upstairs and change into something more suitable, Ellen. Our flight leaves in half an hour. And I expect you to be better behaved when you return."

"She will be, sir," Alex said, quickly, yanking her to her feet.

"But—"

He clamped his prosthetic over her face and dragged her out of there.

"Better behaved," Ellen exploded, grabbing her dresses from the closet and throwing them in the general direction of the bed. "Better behaved?! That double-dealing, lying—"

"Calm down." Krycek caught her by the wrist. "Take a deep breath. Good girl. Now, think about it. Isn't he right? Haven't you done this before?"

"Not intentionally."

"Sure you did. You led me on plenty of times. We never had sex, but you sure as hell distracted me." He released her and sorted through the pile of clothes, selecting a pale lavender v-neck merino wool dress. "How about this one?"

"You bought that for me."

"And?"

"I'd rather wear it for you first."

He smiled at her. "You're about to, but you'd better hurry because if you miss the flight he's going to be furious."

Her fingers stroked the ring on her left hand. God, it was beautiful "Maybe you should keep this 'til I get back."

"What? Why?"

Ellen thought fast. "Because Mulder would notice it and then maybe my efforts wouldn't work."

Her Ratboy nodded thoughtfully. "Good point. He likes to pretend he has ethics."

"I love this ring." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Not the dumbest thing she'd ever said, but damned close.

Krycek chuckled softly. "I know you do. That's why I bought it for you."

Should she tell him she loved him? Did she dare? Well, it would certainly take his mind off the stupid remark. Ellen screwed up her courage and looked him in the eyes. "Alex?"

"Yes?"

No, she couldn't tell him she loved him. Not now anyway. "What shoes should I wear with that dress?"

"Why? Why me?"

"That's two dumpsters," Nicky barked, slamming his fist on the battered wooden desk. "Two in one week! Why would they blow up dumpsters?"

Carmine watched Cheech and Angie flinch. Unlike them, he was used to such unbelievable displays of temper. "Be thankful it was a dumpster and not one of us."

"You got any idea what a dumpster costs," Nicky demanded.

"No, Nicky," Cheech and Angie answered in unison.

Nicky glared at them. "We know who did it. Jurik Jarozlaus. Carmine did some poking around and got us a name. Now we're gonna hit him back. Hard."

Just then, Carmine had an idea. An idea that might solve more than one problem. An idea that would send a certain fruity one-armed Commie running back into his rat hole. "Why don't I give the Commie a call, Nicky? He can drive or somethin'."

Nicky's eyes lit up as he realized what Carmine meant. "Yeah! He can drive."

"Aww, boss, that ain't fair," Cheech whined. "I always drive."

"You ain't drivin' this time," Carmine growled. "And don't call me boss."

"Why me," Nicky sighed.

Special Agent Fox Mulder was tired. And hungry. As usual. And as usual, he had a bag of take-out from King Ying. Nothing fancy tonight. Hot and sour soup. General Tso's chicken. That eggplant dish he liked. And damned lucky he was to get it, because King Ying closed at midnight on Friday night. If he hadn't been such a faithful customer, they would never have cooked all this up for him. Or reheated it for him. Or whatever.

Either way, with the two cans of Sapporo, it was going to a nice, relaxing meal. He deserved a relaxing meal. How in the world did he end up in meetings— budget meetings, no less— that kept him busy from four in the afternoon until eleven thirty at night? He sighed and let himself into the apartment.

It wasn't the note on the floor that got his attention, but the subtle floral perfume. "Feldman?"

"Hi."

Mulder switched on the light, frowning at the sleepy-looking woman curled on his couch. The Bloomingdale's shopping bag on the floor only added to his irritation. "Get out, Feldrat."

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. "Can't."

"You can and you will. I'm not in the mood—"

"There's a first," she yawned, reaching for her glasses. "Ooooh, King Ying! Did you get that eggplant stuff?"

"Feldman, please get out before I throw you out."

"I brought you something."

"Feldman."

She reached into the shopping bag and retrieved an empty Ragu jar.

Mulder frowned at her. "Gee, thanks, Feldman. You brought me garbage."

"No, it's in here. It just crawled— no, slithered, that's the right word— to the top." Feldman shook the jar and Mulder's gut clenched when he saw the viscous black fluid that fell from the inside of the lid.

"Feldman...." What should he do? How quickly could the CDC get here? How would he explain what this stuff was anyway? "Put the jar down. Now."

"Alex said you'd know what this stuff is."

"He's right. Put it down. Carefully."

Instead, she got up and held the jar out to him. "What is it?"

Mulder took it gingerly. "More importantly, where did you get it from?"

"I don't know where it came from. Alex gave it to me and told me to bring it to you." Innocent brown eyes peered into his and Mulder knew instinctively that she was lying about something. "He said you'd know what to do with it."

"I do. And I know what to do with you, too." Mulder set the jar down and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her into the bedroom, where he cuffed her to the bedpost. "I'll be back as soon as we've contained it. And then we're going to have a little chat."

Feldman tugged at the restraint. "Mulder! You uncuff me this instant!"

"No."

"Then give me some of that eggplant."

"Why me?"

Alex gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the idiots in the back of the car. What were their names again? Cheech. That was the fat one. Angie. The short one. And Carmine was sitting next to him, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

"I don't like this, Carmine," Angie complained again.

"I don't care. Nicky called this Jurik guy an' he agreed to send a coupl'a his guys to talk with me." The burly Italian adjusted the plastic parking Jesus. "I'm not crazy about meeting in the dump, but that's why you two are here."

"Why's he here," Cheech demanded, pointed at Alex. "Just cuz he's bangin' Ellen don't make him one a' us!"

"Hey!" Carmine turned around. "You don't talk about Ellen like that. She's a good girl. As for this guy, he's here to drive."

And listen to this bunch of idiots, Alex added silently. And look for the merchandise. If he was lucky, it would inhabit one of them and he'd be more than happy to stitch their lips shut. Alex checked the dashboard clock. "They're late."

"Maybe they couldn't find Fresh Kills," Angie suggested.

"How could you not find it," Alex demanded. "You can smell it twenty miles away!"

"We're late," Yuri sighed.

"This heap doesn't go any faster."

"Couldn't you have borrowed a faster car?"

"No," Wojtek answered, flatly. "Check the map again. Are we almost there?"

"Roll down the window and ask that again."

"Ugghhh! You're right. Disgusting!"

"Next time, look the word up in the dictionary before you accept Jurik at his word."

"Idiot," Wojtek hissed. "We needed to go there. The creature is there. And we're going to use the Italians as bait."

"Oooooh! Good plan."

It was going to be a long night.

It waited.

It needed a host and so far the candidates were a sorry lot. Nothing at all like the host It encountered in the place they called Hong Kong. The one that lived with It in the night place. How It longed for a host like that again. A host with a strong body and a strong mind. A host that the other primitive creatures seemed attracted to. Thus far, It had found hosts whose minds were drug or alcohol addled, whose bodies had poor mobility. It also found small creatures that lived among the garbage— rats, they were called. Disgusting creatures. And then there were those odd hosts It couldn't get into that actually had the gall to take part of It away in a container of some kind. The primitives took It so far away It lost contact with that part of Itself.

How was It ever going to get Its ship out of here unless It had a suitable host? And how was It ever going to find that part of Itself? So much to do, so little time and not a suitable host to be found.

Suddenly It sensed Others. Hosts. Lots of them. There had to be one suitable candidate in the bunch—wait. It was him! The host that called itself Krycek. The host that the other primitives loved. The host that It was at home in!

It oozed forward eager to reclaim Its favorite host. The wait was over.

"Where did she get it from," Scully asked, softly, as the jar was put into a special air-tight tank.

Mulder shook his head. "Haven't gotten it out of her. Yet."

"You should bring her in for questioning."

"That doesn't frighten her, Scully. She gets off on it, I think." He watched as the alien 'guest' continued to explore the confines of the Ragu jar. "And, as usual, she had no idea what this thing was."

"Interesting how she turned up with it around the same time you were looking for its big brother."

"Isn't it? I thought so, too."

Carmine drew his gun as he watched the battered 1978 Nova pull up next to his car.

The two Commies exchanged startled glances and began chattering in Russian.

"Hey," Carmine boomed.

They shut up.

"This is America. Speak English."

Cheech and Angie got out of the Monte Carlo. Ellen's Commie followed suit, ignoring Carmine's orders.

That's when all hell broke loose.

"Yuri! It's Krycek!"

"Get him!"

Before Carmine could react, one of the Commies took a shot at Ellen's Commie. Instead of doing the smart thing and shooting back, Krycek ran through the gate into the landfill. The two badly-dressed Commies followed. Within seconds, they were out of sight.

"I ain't goin' in there," Angie said.

"Yer goin'," Carmine barked. "Both a' youse."

They went.

It was going to be a long night.

This was almost too good to be true, Alex thought, as he led Yuri and Wojtek through the foul smelling piles of garbage. For once, everything was going according to plan. The alien was oozing around out there somewhere and he had a nice pair of host bodies for it to choose from. Okay, it would have been poetic justice to use Carmine or one of his greasy friends, but Feldman would have pitched a fit. And, much as he loathed to admit it, he was starting to like Carmine.

He didn't like Fresh Kills, though. It reeked to high heaven and the garbage.... What New Yorkers threw away was unbelievable. There were junked cars and refrigerators and what looked like the front half of a Cessna. No time to speculate, though, he was looking for something very specific. Something, that, hopefully, was not looking for him. Being taken over once was bad enough, but the thing kept doing it while they were trapped in the silo. Alex would be damned if he let that happen again.

Thehostthehostthehost! The host was here! Hereherehere. And it brought others with it. If a puddle of oily sludge had emotions, this one would be oozing for joy! The others...what should It do with the others? Should It try them first? Could they possibly be better than Krycek? In all the Universe, could any host be better than Krycek? Not likely. It waited. Krycek would come to It very, very soon.

It happened so quickly that it wasn't until it was over that Alex was able to put the chain of events together. He was running. Yuri and Wojtek were hot on his heels and then suddenly, his feet went out from under him. And he landed face-first in a puddle of living, oozing black oily alien.

Alex leaped to his feet with a yelp, brushing frantically at the viscous alien that clung to his jacket. "Get off! Get off!"

"Yuri! There he is!"

Oh. Crap. Not now. Not like this. And the oily stuff was clinging to him like an overzealous lover.

Wojtek drew his gun. "What's he doing?"

"He's slapping at himself, I'd say. I told you he was unbalanced."

"He looks like he's having some kind of fit."

"Please get the hell off of me," Alex begged the slimy black stuff. "Pleasepleaseplease."

"Hey, Krycek, who are you talking to," Yuri asked.

"Look," Alex pleaded frantically with the rest of the oilien as it oozed towards him. "Two nice host bodies. Look at them. Don't you want them?"

The puddle stopped midflow and changed direction, heading directly for Yuri, who emitted a high-pitched girlie scream. Within seconds, the alien had him.

Wojtek raised his gun and then lowered it. "What is that thing, Krycek?"

"I don't like this host," Yuri said. And the oilien gushed out of his eyes, mouth and nose and headed straight for Wojtek.

Alex watched as Wojtek ran with the speed of an Olympic athlete. Unfortunately, it wasn't fast enough. "Good alien. Nice alien. Now you just stay put in Wojtek and—"

"I don't like this host. I like Krycek."

Why? Why him? He gave the alien his most charming smile. "That host suits you. Really it does. And look, he's got two arms, not like me. I can't do all the things I used to and—"

"Want Krycek." The alien wasn't convinced. It started oozing out of Wojtek.

No! Nonononono! This wasn't the plan. It was supposed to take Yuri or Wojtek. It wasn't supposed to have the hots for him. Damn his magnetic personality! Alex ran as fast as his legs could carry him but the alien was at his heels. "Get away from me! Once was enough!"

There had to be some place to hide from this thing. Someplace safe. Alien proof. Something like that burnt-out 1972 baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. Yeah! Alex jumped onto it and climbed onto the dented roof. The oilien slowed as it pondered the dilemma of how to get him.

"Come on," Alex pleaded. "Those are such nice host bodies. You have to want one of them."

The oilien wasn't convinced.

"Why? Why me?"

That's when reality lost all meaning. The oilien contorted its shape until Alex could swear it was shaping itself into a valentine. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

Why did he have to be such a handsome, charming devil? Why? Why? It didn't used to be a curse. It was a good thing once. Women loved him. Men loved him. Kids and animals loved him. Even Feldman finally said she loved him. But he drew the line at oiliens.

Maybe he could reason with it. "I'm flattered, really, but I'm, uh....engaged. Yeah, that's it. I'm engaged. And she's a lawyer."

Those words were usually enough to inspire pangs of terror in anyone, but maybe the oilien didn't understand the concept. Too bad because Feldman was enough to scare the pants off of anybody.

"Krycek." Yuri staggered towards him, holding Wojtek's gun. "What did you do to me, Krycek?!"

Okay, he was safe as long as Yuri didn't start shooting.

Yuri fired.

Alex fell off the roof of the car right into the alien puddle. His last thought as the oilien slithered into his nose was that he was definitely starting to lose his edge.

Things had gotten way out of control. The smoker lit a fresh Morley and tried to determine when matters had slipped away from him. It all came back to one thing. One person. Feldman. If Feldman weren't involved, he wouldn't be doing this right now. He wouldn't be humiliating himself. He wouldn't be drinking this god-awful home-made wine and listening to this self-righteous junior Don Corleone or his burly associate. And he most certainly wouldn't be extending an offer of employment to Kotlyarsky or Szmarnsczyk. But he was.

And it was humiliating.

"So lemme get this straight," Scavelli said, refilling the smoker's wine glass. "You're gonna hire these two mooks an' you're gonna get rid of that Jurik jerk an' all I gotta do is help you find Ellen's boyfriend an' some kinda boat that accidentally got dumped in Fresh Kills."

"That is correct."

"Forgive me, friend, but that sounds too good to be true. An' I don' even know your name."

"An' he ain't Italian," Cheech put in.

Carmine glared at him. "Get lost."

Nicky got up and paced. "See, I haven't lived this long and been this successful without knowin' you don't get somethin' for nothin'. So the question is, what do you get out of this?"

"I get Krycek and my property back."

The Italian eyed him warily. "What about Ellen?"

"What about her," the smoker asked, carefully. It didn't really matter to him whether Scavelli knew that Feldman worked for him but if Scavelli interfered with Feldman's performance of her duties then it would be the smoker's problem.

"She's family an' she's engaged to this Krycek kid."

Engaged? Feldman? And Krycek? It boggled the mind. No. Better not to think of that now. "And your point is?"

"To be honest, I'm not crazy about him. He's not Italian. He says he's Jewish, but with that nose...well, that's neither here nor there. She loves him. What am I gonna tell her? Don't marry him? Oy!" Scavelli clamped a hand over his chest. "The fact of the matter is, he's your boy an' I got him into this by sendin' him out to take care of one a' my problems. Which means, paesan, I am responsible for him. I will get him out. As for your whosis, I'm afraid that's your problem. I can give you access, but I ain't recoverin' nothin' that's gonna make me noticeable."

"It would be far more noticeable if I sent my operatives in," the smoker pointed out.

"True, especially with that Fed sniffing around."

"I have the Mulder situation under control."

"What'd you do? Send Ellen to flirt wit' 'im," Cheech snickered.

Carmine and Nicky both glared at the overweight errand boy. The smoker merely lit another cigarette. "Mr. Scavelli, I'm eliminating your competition. That in itself might draw attention. I believe the risk of our potential exposure on these matters is about equal. Further, your staff is far more familiar with the terrain of Fresh Kills than mine."

"Awright, you got a deal." Scavelli picked up his wine glass. "Salud!"

The smoker raised his glass and thanked the stars that the Brit wasn't alive to see this ridiculous partnership.

Ellen's beeper was going off. This was the third time in ten minutes, but her cell phone was with her beeper. In her purse. Mulder's phone, on the other hand, was right here. On the nightstand. Should she? The beeper sounded again. Only two people knew that number. One of them was in Brooklyn. She dialed the number for the other.

"Feldman, that had better be you." The smoker's voice was slightly irritated.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm a little...tied up."

"There's been an incident. The plans have been changed."

What? Something must have happened to her Ratboy. "Is Alex hurt?"

There was the telltale click of a lighter. "I'm changing your assignment. Bring Mulder directly to the landfill. Tell him Alex found the merchandise and the object and he wants Mulder to have first crack at them."

"Is Alex injured," Ellen demanded.

The line went dead.

When she tried again, she got a message telling her the line had been disconnected. Just as she was about to hurl the phone across the room, she heard keys rattling in the lock. Ellen quickly shoved the phone back into place as Mulder came in. Suspicious hazel eyes swept over her and then, as if he knew what she was up to while he was gone, he picked up the phone and hit the redial button.

Ellen swallowed hard and thought fast.

Mulder hung up the phone and considered his prisoner with a thoughtful expression. "Well, now."

"Well?" She needed to get him on a flight to New York. Now.

"Well," Mulder repeated. "You have some explaining to do."

"About?" Maybe if he narrowed it down....

"The alien in the Ragu jar for starters."

"I told you—"

"Yeah, but I'd like the truth."

"Uncuff me and I'll sing like a canary."

Warily, he uncuffed her. "Start singing, Tweety."

Ellen sat down on his bed and rubbed her wrist. How much could she say without getting in trouble? "You called Uncle Nicky about Fresh Kills. He called me. I mentioned it to Alex and Alex made some inquiries. We took a trip to New York, he gave me that jar, told me to get it to you and now we have to go rescue him—"

"Back up. He gave you the jar in New York?"

She nodded. Where was the flaw in her story? There must be one if he was asking this question...

"You flew to DC?"

"Yes." Oh. Crap. The airlines! The smoker got her here on a military flight. No airport security. "It was carry on. Nobody really paid attention to it."

He didn't seem convinced. "You have your ticket?"

"No."

"Credit card receipt?"

"I paid cash."

"Which airline?"

When did Mulder suddenly develop a clue? "Mulder, there are more important things to worry about. Like where that thing came from and—"

"And how you got it into a spaghetti sauce jar without getting killed."

"I don't know." That was the truth. Now to follow it with a lie. "Alex did it somehow. And that number you just called...well, I was checking in and he's missing."

"Forget it, Feldman. My job description doesn't include Ratboy rescues."

"His name is Alex."

"Whatever. I'm still not saving his skin."

Ellen nibbled at her lower lip. "He said to tell you that he's located the merchandise. And he wants you to see it."

Mulder's reaction was as immediate as it was strong. "What? What did you just say?"

Pay dirt. "He wants you to see the merchandise."

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?"

"None whatsoever."

Mulder rested his palms on her shoulders and leaned down, looking into her eyes. "I won't help you if you don't tell me the truth."

If she blurted it, would the surveillance equipment in Mulder's apartment pick it up? Of course, she wasn't certain there was surveillance equipment, but the odds were in favor that there was. How could she camouflage her confession? Yes! Perfect. Ellen stood up on tiptoe, captured Mulder's face in her hands and brushed his lips with hers. Before he could react, she trailed kisses along his jawline, just below his ear and murmured, "The merchandise is the alien and there's also a ship hidden in the landfill."

The federal agent pushed her away, stared down at her and then, after he realized what she was doing, nipped his way along her throat. "We being watched?"

"Ohhhhh, yes....."

He guided her to the bed and pushed her down onto her back, still nipping at her throat. "By whom?"

Ellen licked his ear. "Who do you think?"

A trail of kisses along her collarbone. "Who sent you?"

"Ohhhhh, Rrrrrrrrrrrrratboy."

"Mulder. My name is Mulder." He straightened up suddenly, looked into her eyes and slid away from the bed. "And I think it's time for you to leave."

Feldman stared at him with a look of disbelief. "Say what?!"

"I want you to leave."

"B-but—"

"No," Mulder repeated firmly, yanking her to her feet. "Out with you."

"But my Ra— uh, my Alex—"

"Forget it, Feldman. I told you, it's not my job to rescue him."

"But he gave you—"

"He gave me death in a Ragu jar," Mulder countered. "And then he added insult to injury by sending you with it."

Mulder could almost see the wheels turning as she fought to regain her advantage. Her voice dropped seductively. "I can give you what you want, Mulder."

"Really? Do you work for Cancerman, too?"

"No!"

Yes. That barely perceptible nervous little twitch when he asked the question told him all he needed to know. "Time to leave now."

"But—"

"Out."

"Mulder—"

No, this time he was going to be firm. All he had to do was resist the temptation to peek down the front of that clingy V-neck dress and ignore that finely shaped ass. "Good luck finding your Ratboy."

Feldman wrenched around, inadvertently giving him the view he didn't want of her perky little breasts. "Mulder, please, I can't do this by myself."

Mulder found himself unable to avert his gaze. When had she stopped wearing those damnable Wonderbras? He had to admit, she still had an effect on him. Too bad trouble followed her like a black cat running under a ladder on Friday the 13th. The fact of the matter was, even if he ditched her now, she'd be waiting at Fresh Kills. He'd be safer if he kept an eye on her. He hoped. "All right. I'll help you. But just this one time and after that, no more favors."

He was going to live to regret this.

"So this is where you and Ratboy hole up," Mulder commented, taking in the well-tended front lawn and flowers that lined the flagstone walkway. The townhouse was utterly charming with its potted geraniums and the cute cat mailbox. The house screamed cozy domesticity— an utter contradiction to its occupants.

Feldman shot him an angry glare as she opened the door. "His name is Alex. And nobody told you to come with me. I offered to meet you—"

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." A welcome mat. Whose touch was that? Mulder walked slowly inside, studying the furniture with interest. His inspection halted abruptly at the McKnight print which had a bullet hole dead center. "Which of you is the art critic?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

He chuckled softly and continued looking around. Easy enough to imagine Feldman living here, but Ratboy?! The image of Ratboy standing in that immaculate kitchen wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron made his temples throb.

"Mew?" Winky bounded down the stairs and stopped in front of the tall federal agent, nearly tripping him. "Raa-raaa."

Feldman scratched the cat under the chin. "Hi, baby. Has Leslie been taking good care of you?"

"Leslie?"

"Our cat-sitter."

Cat-sitter? It looked like Feldman domesticated Ratboy. Or at least had him so pussy-whipped he catered to her every whim. Poor Ratboy didn't stand a chance, did he?

Feldman was staring at him through narrowed eyes. "You have a problem?"

"No, just admiring your happy little home."

"Fine." She grabbed a few magazines from the coffee table, shoved them into his hand and pushed him towards the sofa. "Sit. I'll be back in a minute."

"Don't I get the grand tour?" An eight-month old copy of House Beautiful? Guns & Ammo? Motor Trend? Modern Bride? There had to be some strange dinner conversations at Casa de Ratboy.

"No."

"Why not? You and Ratboy make yourselves at home in my apartment every time you decide to break in."

"Alex. His name is Alex," she hissed, throwing him a venomous stare before she dashed up the stairs. "And I've only broken in twice."

Touchy little lawyer. Why didn't she want him to see how she and Ratboy lived? He'd have thought she'd be gloating about the way Ratboy kept her. One thing he hadn't expected was for Feldman to be self-conscious. Mulder waited all of three seconds before he followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom where she opened the huge walk-in closet and began rummaging.

"I thought I told you to wait downstairs!"

"You did. Do you actually wear all of those clothes?"

"Get out of my closet!"

"Pardon me, Feldman."

"Hmmmph." She tossed a small pile of black clothes on the bed and went back into the closet, emerging seconds later with a pair of combat boots. Doc Martens.

"I didn't know they made Baby Docs," Mulder commented, plucking them from her hands.

Feldman snatched them back and glared at him. Finally, she cleared her throat. "Excuse me. I'm changing clothes now."

"Go right ahead." So what if he was being a pain in the ass. He was entitled, considering the amount of abuse he was about to endure. Besides, Feldman had two options: she could order him out of the room or try to seduce him yet again with a mini strip show.

With a haughty sniff, she kicked off her pumps and yanked her dress off, tossing it on the bed. Feldman must have sworn off underwear because she wasn't wearing a stitch under the dress, Mulder noted.

It wasn't an overt seduction. In fact, Feldman was all business as she pulled on a pair of bikini briefs and a sports bra. Black, of course. Next came a pair of tights and then a pair of thermal leggings. There was a cropped black T shirt and a heavy black sweater. Feldman pushed past him and bundled her hair into a pony-tail. Mulder leaned back and watched, finding himself turned on by the fact that she wasn't trying to turn him on. Well, he was a psychologist. If he researched it enough, he'd find an explanation for it.

"What are you looking at?"

"You're sure you're wearing enough clothes?"

"Layers, Mulder. I'm dressing in layers. If I'm going to be traipsing through trash, I want to be able to strip down when I'm done."

"Traipsing through trash? Nice choice of words." He watched her pull out more clothes and stuff them into a backpack. "So, Feldman, what kind of work do you do for the smoker?"

"What?!" Feldman dropped the backpack. She snatched it up and busied herself snapping it closed. "I don't work for him. Really, I don't know where you get these ideas."

"Body language, Feldman. Body language."

The petite lawyer folded her arms across her chest. "If you're not interested in my body, Mulder, don't stare at it and don't read it."

"It's not that I'm not interested. I just know better than to do anything more than look." Idly, Mulder pulled back the sheets on the bed. "Hmmm. I didn't know Ratboy liked silk sheets. Can't get much traction that way, though. Unless he handcuffs you to those bedposts—"

"Mulder!" Feldman straightened the bed and tugged ineffectively at his arm.

"Or do you handcuff him?"

"Mulder..."

"Did he get you the job with the smoker or did you get that on your own?"

"Mulder—"

He smiled down at her. "Do you and Ratboy work together like Scully and I do?"

"Alex. His name is Alex. And no, we don't work together." Feldman glared up at him and quickly added, "Because I don't work for the smoker."

"Sure you do."

"No, I don't."

"Who told you Ratboy was missing?"

"What?!"

"If Ratboy is missing, he wouldn't be the one to tell you he's missing, would he? Ergo, Feldman, somebody else told you. Somebody he works for. And since that number was disconnected after you dialed it from my phone, I'm willing to bet you called the smoker."

"B-but—"

"I do work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Feldman. Remember?"

"But—"

"Care to change your story now?"

"Mulder....I....no."

"Come on, Feldman. I'm going to get my answers from you eventually."

"When did you get a clue, Mulder," she demanded, fists on her hips.

Mulder smiled again. "I've always had a clue, Feldman. I just let you push me around because you were good in bed."

"But—"

"Come on. We have a flight to catch."

"Where did Feldman get you from, you ugly little slug," Scully whispered to the viscous occupant of the Ragu jar. Not that it could hear her, of course. It didn't have ears. Or eyes. Or a mouth. It was liquid and it was alive. And it was trapped in a Ragu jar with a small clump of moldy marinara.

She hoped the marinara and the mold weren't going to screw up any of her test data. If they did, it would be Feldman's fault. Feldman. Was she ever going to be rid of Feldman? When Mulder finally dumped the whiny lawyer, Scully had been secretly thrilled. There were two very peaceful, Feldman-less years and then, out of the blue, Feldman was back. With a vengeance. And with her new boyfriend, Ratboy.

What followed were Feldman rescues. Ratboy rescues. And Ragu jars with alien slime for Scully to examine while Feldman dragged Mulder around by his—

"Agent Scully!"

No. It couldn't be. Not at four in the morning on a Sunday. But it was. Jeffrey Spender. "What do you want, Spender?"

"Why are you using Bureau resources on a Ragu jar?"

Scully considered giving a serious answer. For exactly two seconds. "It's an X-File, Agent Spender."

"Marinara sauce is not an X-File, Agent Scully! I'm going to call Assistant Director Skinner and tell him how you and Agent Mulder are squandering expensive resources on an examination of mold in a jar," Spender exploded, storming out of the lab.

What a jerk.

This was all Feldman's fault.

This was all her Ratboy's fault. Well, actually, it was the smoker's fault. And it was Mulder's fault. It certainly wasn't Ellen's fault. Not by a long shot. Mulder just let her push him around because she was good in bed. Hmmph. If she didn't have orders to bring him to Fresh Kills, she would have told Special Jerk Fox Mulder exactly what she thought of him. Instead, she was working on her manicure and trying to ignore Mulder's incessant questions about her job with the smoker.

"So what do you do for the smoker, Feldman?"

How many times was he going to ask that question? And couldn't this stupid plane go any faster? The sooner they were in New York, the sooner they could save her Ratboy and the sooner she'd be rid of Mulder. "I told you—"

"But you lied. Are you going to eat your pretzels?"

"No."

"Good. I'll take 'em." He tore open the package and popped a pretzel in his mouth. "So 'fess up, Feldman. How long have you worked for him?"

"Aren't you bored with this topic, Mulder?" Please, please, please.

"Not in the least. Are you sure you don't want a pretzel?"

"No."

His hazel eyes regarded her calmly. Ellen stared back with her best courtroom cross-examination stare. His lush lips quirked into a lazy grin. "Just give me a tiny little hint, Feldman. Does your work involve carrying a gun?"

Enough was enough. And she'd had absolutely enough. Ellen cupped his chin in her hand and looked him in the eyes. "Let's get this straight once and for all, Mulder. I do not work for the smoker."

"Sure you do."

"No, I don't.

"Who told you Ratboy was missing?"

Okay, now she figured out a plausible answer to that one. "Carmine. That was his cell phone number."

"Why would Ratboy be working with Carmine? They hate each other."

"Ra— uh, Alex is helping Uncle Nicky with a problem."

"Feldman, Feldman, Feldman. Do you really expect me to believe all that? Without fucking me senseless first?"

Not good. Not good at all. She was supposed to be able to control Mulder. Instead, he was messing with her head. "I don't care what you believe."

"Sure you do."

"No. I don't."

"I want to believe you, Feldman," Mulder said, sincerely. "Unfortunately, you're a devious little liar. When you were merely manipulative, it was fine, but now you're lying for Ratboy and for your new boss."

"I do not work for the smoker!"

"Feldman...."

"Okay, Mulder. You want the truth?" He wasn't going to get it. No, he was going to get the most vicious fabrication she could make up. "I don't work for the smoker. He works for me. They all work for me. I'm the leader of the conspiracy, Mulder. Me! I'm covering up the planned colonization. I'm orchestrating it. I'm—"

"Lying like a rug."

It was going to be a long flight.

Where was It? That piece of Itself that those awful beings took away. Now that It was in one of them, It could communicate with them and find Itself. And the other primitives liked communicating with Krycek.

Krycek had memories involving that piece of Itself. Memories that involved something called a jar and a primitive named Scully. The Scully was in a place called DC. All It had to do was get to DC and find the Scully and It would be whole again.

And then It would recover Its ship.

She hated like hell to do this, but thanks to Spender's interference, they made her take the jar out of the airtight tank. Scully sighed and set the jar in the lab's refrigerator, next to an abandoned sandwich that might have been ham and cheese. Once. A long, long time ago.

"Be good, you evil little bugger," Scully warned the occupant of the jar. "I'll be back for you in a few minutes."

A few minutes was all she needed to make a trip to the ladies' room. Of all the times to get her period—six in the morning on a Sunday. On less than three hours of sleep. With a jar full of alien goo—lethal alien goo, courtesy of expert pain-in-the-ass, Ellen Feldman, Esquire. Feldman was going to pay for ruining her weekend. Mulder was going to pay, too. And Spender was going to pay.

They would all pay.

God, she needed some Midol.

"Agent Scully?" Jeffrey Spender poked his head into the lab. No angry redheads in here. Good. He wandered into the lab and peeked at her notes. Such as they were. None of it made sense. Not a word. Well...maybe two. Feldman. And Krycek. Feldman? Ellen Feldman? That cute little lawyer? And Alex Krycek? How were they mixed up in all this? And what did Scully do with that jar?

Spender looked around and smiled when he saw the refrigerator. The perfect hiding place for a jar. And there it was, next to a rotting, unidentifiable sandwich. Yuck. Gingerly, he tossed the sandwich and the jar into the trash.

There. That would teach Mulder a lesson about wasting Bureau resources.

When was he going to learn his lesson? Carmine rubbed his throbbing temples and desperately wished he could excuse himself and get an aspirin. Unfortunately, he had to sit here and listen to Nicky lie to Mulder. And to Ellen.

"He just disappeared," Ellen asked, incredulously. "Just like that?"

"That's what Cheech said." Nicky sipped his coffee. "Carmine turned the place upside down but no luck. Sorry Ellen."

"Sorry? That's the best you can do? My Ra— uh, my Alex is missing and you don't even know what happened to him?! Are you sure the Russians didn't get him?!"

"We would'a seen 'em," Carmine put in. How come Mulder was being so quiet? Usually, Mulder had a lot of rude comments to make. Instead, Mulder seemed to be watching Ellen and if Carmine didn't know better, that was a smirk on Mulder's face.

"I want to go to the dump and I want to go now," Ellen demanded. "And you're going to take us, Carmine. You're going to show me exactly where you lost my Ra— uh, my Alex."

No. Not the dump. Not before ten in the morning on a Sunday, Carmine prayed. Please, Nicky, say something about church. About Frank the priest. Pleasepleaseplease.

"Take her, Carmine. It's the least we can do."

Why? Why him?

Free at last! Free! And not a moment too soon. Those primitive spore creatures were starting to win the battle to control the container. It seeped forward, looking for the rest of Itself. As It moved along, It sensed many primitive host creatures, including the one that was curious about It. In fact, that primitive was very close by. Perhaps It would satisfy the primitive's curiosity by using the primitive as a host.

"No! Dammit!" Scully pounded on the metal feminine hygiene product dispenser. "That was my last quarter, you rotten— why am I talking to an inanimate object? Great. Now I'm talking to myself."

Feldman's fault. Every single thing that had gone wrong since Mulder called her at two this morning was Feldman's fault. Including the fact that Scully's period was a week early. And the fact that she couldn't get a damned tampon.

Maybe if she jiggled the handle....

Movement by the door caught her eye. Movement low to the tile floor.

Oh. God. The little oilien was loose. But how?!

It didn't matter. It was Feldman's fault.

And, as usual, Scully was the one who had to clean up.

"This is the place."

Ellen glared at Carmine. "This the gate. Take us in there and show me where you lost my Ra—uh, my Alex, Carmine."

Carmine fiddled with the plastic parking Jesus on his dashboard. "I was out here when we lost 'im."

"Doing what?"

"You don't wanna know."

"I do want to know, Carmine. My fiance is missing."

"Mebbe this is a sign from God," Carmine suggested. "Mebbe he ain't the one for ya."

Mulder chortled and tried to disguise it as a cough.

Were they serious? Did either of them have the slightest idea what Ratboy was really like? Of course not. As usual, it was up to her to save the day. And save her Ratboy. She threw open the car door and stalked into the garbage dump.

Mulder and Carmine exchanged stares. Finally, Mulder sighed. "Why don't you wait here and I'll go get her?"

"Yeah, why don't I? An' while you're in there getting her, how about getting her mind off that one-armed creep? I'm not sayin' you gotta marry her or nothin' but just date her for a while. Get her interested in normal guys again."

"I am not dating Feldman again. Once was enough."

"Whaddaya mean? She's a good kid!"

"She's lethal, Carmine!" With that, Mulder let himself out of the car and walked slowly into the dump. Between the awful smell and the fact that there was an oilien on the loose, not to mention a pissed-off lawyer running around, he was tempted to put Feldman over his knee when he found her. "Here, Feldman, Feldman, Feldman. Here, girl."

No answer.

How far could she have gotten with a two minute lead? Scratch that. The real question was: how much trouble could she have gotten into with a two minute lead? The answer: a lot. "Come on, Feldman. Come to Mulder."

Something that felt an awful lot like the barrel of a gun was pressed into his spine. "Krycek? Is that you?"

"Guess again, Mulder."

"Feldman! Why the hell are you holding a gun on me?"

"It's not a gun, Mulder. It's a lipstick. Clinique Pink Chocolate, to be exact." Feldman circled him like a shark. "And I'm teaching you a lesson. I don't appreciate being addressed like a naughty cocker spaniel."

"Then stop behaving like one."

"Excuse me?"

"You ran off without even thinking about the consequences, as usual," he scolded. God, he sounded just like Scully. "There's a....a creature loose. We have no idea how to hold this thing or how to stop it—"

"Can you get it out of my Ra— uh, my Alex?"

"It's okay, Feldman. I won't tell him you call him Ratboy."

"But I don't!"

"Yes, you do," Mulder responded, wearily. Was it going to be like this from now on, arguing with Feldman over every little detail? "I've been keeping track of how many times you catch yourself."

"You didn't answer my question, Foxboy. Can you get the alien out of him?"

"How do you know it's in him, Feldman? And don't call me Foxboy."

"Where else would it be?"

"That's not an answer."

"That's all I've got." Her dark eyes locked with his, challenging him.

"It's not good enough." Mulder lifted her easily until she was eye level with him, her little combat boots dangling a foot off the ground. "Unless I start getting some answers from you, Feldrat, I'm going to toss you into that pile of garbage over there and go home."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Are you sure?"

"Jerk."

"Maybe so, but I'm a big, strong jerk with a badge." He took a couple of steps towards the pile of garbage. "Let's start with an easy question, Feldman. How do you know the alien is in Krycek?"

"I don't. I guessed because he said something about it taking him over once before when he was in a silo and he doesn't like to talk about it because I think it has something to do with what happened to his arm and—"

The truth was in there. Somewhere. "Did the smoker tell you the alien got Ratboy?"

"I didn't talk to the smoker—"

"Stop lying to me, Feldman. You work for him. We both know it." Mulder lifted her a little higher. "Unless you haven't told Ratboy about your new job..."

In reply, Feldman hooked her legs around his waist and squeezed, throwing Mulder off balance. They toppled into a pile of trash bags. "Ewwwwwww!"

Wonderful. He was lying on his back, surrounded by garbage with a lawyer straddling him. Somehow, it seemed almost appropriate. Feldman shifted slightly and looked down at him.

"If I told you I worked for the smoker, would you still help me," she asked, quietly.

"That depends on what you do for him."

Feldman licked her lips in a slow, seductive movement. That was new, Mulder noted. And effective. She took a deep breath. "They use me to keep Alex in line, just like they used me to keep you in line. Except this time, I'm getting paid for it."

"They probably do use you that way, Feldman, but that's not what you're getting paid for." Was it his imagination or was Feldman's crotch, which was pressing up against him, starting to feel like a hot tropical storm? "I know you, Ellen. You wouldn't sell yourself like that."

"Mulder, I—"

"If you tell me, I can help you. I can get you out of whatever trouble you're in and put you someplace safe—"

"Like witness protection?"

"Exactly. And I might even be able to help Ratboy if he cooperates."

Feldman smiled and bent down, brushing her lips against his. "I'm not ready to go underground yet, Mulder."

"Are you ready to answer my question?" It certainly felt like she was ready for something. In fact, he was ready, too, and if she kept it up, he might accept her invitation for a quick roll in the landfill this time.

"Do I have to?"

"It would make me more willing to help you if I thought I could trust you." Besides, maybe she would get the hell off of him. Bad enough she was hot and wet and ready but did she realize she was rubbing herself on him like a dog in heat? Between that and the fact that she'd knocked him on his ass, he had to admit, he liked this aggressive, horny Feldman. Not that she'd been passive, exactly, when they were together, but she was never this overtly sexual. "Feldman....we don't have all day."

"If I said I worked for the smoker, you'd hate me."

"That would depend on what you do for me— uh, him, Feldman." Rub a little lower, he urged her silently. Just five inches lower and slightly over to the left.

"Was that a Freudian slip?"

"No." Yes. And, as if she could read his mind, Feldman shifted so that she was straddling the hard-on that was threatening to burst right through his jeans. Mulder quickly assessed the consequences of sex with Feldman. Would Ratboy try to kill him if he found out? No, Ratboy had already given his blessing and even offered to join in. The only real downside would be Feldman herself. And maybe that wasn't such a downside, considering he couldn't seem to get rid of her no matter what he did.

The petite lawyer looked down at him, sighed and started to get up.

Decision time! How long had it been since he'd gotten laid? Answer: too long. Did it matter if they did it in the middle of a landfill? No. All that mattered was whether or not he used a condom, because heaven only knew where Ratboy had been. Mulder caught her by the wrist. "Get back here."

"Why?"

"You know damned well why." How could she not know? It was pointing right at her.

Feldman looked confused. "You said we were wasting time."

"I think we can spare fifteen minutes or so."

"For wha— oh...." She stared pointedly at the bulge in his jeans. "Oh. Gosh, I didn't...did I..?"

"These things don't happen by themselves," he lied, tugging at her wrist. "C'mere."

Ellen could feel her jaw hit the ground. Did he just suggest what she thought he was suggesting? Hadn't she just been here and done this in an engine room on a ship called the Intentional Tort with her Ratboy? Of course, he wasn't her Ratboy then. Well, maybe that little incident was the claiming of her Ratboy. Or not.

Either way, she was engaged. Well, sort of engaged. Engaged, but not in the traditional sense. Her Ratboy didn't make monogamy a condition, did he? And if he could get some pleasure out of business, what was stopping her?

What was stopping her was years of being brought up to be a lady.

On the other hand, she had over 72 inches of sexy federal agent to play with. And god, did he look sexy when he was flat on his back. Her hand wandered to the large bulge in his 501s. Business. Pleasure? Business should be pleasure, her Ratboy always said. And this was business because the smoker ordered her to bring Mulder here. It was also personal because her Ratboy was missing.

Should she? God knows, she'd done worse.

A low moan interrupted her reverie.

Oooops. While she was debating the issue and not paying attention, she must have been rubbing him.

"Don't stop..."

Oh, what the hell! Why not? Who would ever know?

For something that was the size of a Susan B. Anthony dollar, the little droplet moved fast. Too fast. Scully climbed onto the sink and tried to think of a way to contain the unwelcome visitor before somebody got hurt. Which, of course, would have been Mulder if he were here. Mulder was probably getting hurt somewhere else.

Scully sighed and watched the oilien work its way across the tile floor. Shooting it probably wouldn't work and there wasn't much else in here that would be of use. Even if she could lure it into one of the toilets, the little beastie could escape through the plumbing. Especially if she flushed— Flushed? Like a sanitary napkin? Her eyes wandered to the dispenser on the wall. If only she had a quarter....

Scratch that. She didn't need a quarter. She had her gun.

Scully aimed carefully and fired, wincing at the unbelievably loud echo. Good thing nobody was around to witness this or they would chalk her behavior up to an incredible case of PMS.

Slowly. Carefully. Easy, Dana, easy, she told herself as she leaned over and opened the vending machine. Pay dirt! There were three different kinds! Carefree. Stayfree. And Ultra-Stayfree with Wings and that dry-weave stuff. No contest there. Scully grabbed the Ultra, unwrapped it and whispered a quick prayer to St. Jude.

Should she cross herself? It couldn't hurt. There. A deep breath and she tossed the maxi pad. Perfect.

Oh no. Nononono! First that awful container. Then those horrible spore creatures and now this! This....confinement! It couldn't escape. Every movement sucked It in further. Whatever this object was, it was not a sentient being that could be used as a host. Perhaps this object was some kind of inanimate predator or a device invented by the Others. It had to escape and find Itself. It just had to!

"What the hell is going on here!?" Spender threw open the door to the ladies with a look of disgust that only magnified when he saw the dispenser and the maxi pad on the floor. "Agent Scully! I demand to know why you destroyed government property!"

What a jerk. Scully fought the urge to roll her eyes and tell him exactly what she thought of him. Instead, she gave him her most intimidating stare— the one she used on Skinner. "If you're not here to help, I suggest you leave, Agent Spender."

Spender ignored her and scowled at the debris on the floor. "I knew you had problems, but does the entire Bureau have to know you're menstruating? And we really didn't need to know it's black."

"Spender—"

"This is absolutely the most vile thing I've ever seen," he continued, reaching for a wad of paper towels. "You've obviously been working with Mulder way too long."

Scully's mouth hung open as she watched him pick up the maxi pad and head for one of the stalls. "Spender! Don't!"

Flush.

"There." He walked to the sink and rinsed his hands. "I suggest you go home and wait for OPC to call you, Agent Scully."

"You sanctimonious jackass! Do you have any idea what you just did," Scully exploded. "That pad contained—"

"Ugghh! Too much information!" Spender ran out with his tail between his legs.

This was all Feldman's fault.

"If you ever— and I mean EVER—breathe a word of this to anybody, I'll kill you."

Mulder tugged his jeans up stared down at her. "Who's going to care that we had sex, Feldman? Besides Ratboy, I mean. And it isn't like he'd object. If you told him we had sex, the only thing he'd be upset about was that he wasn't there to watch."

Feldman's mouth opened and then closed. It was the first time he ever saw her at a loss for words. And he liked it.

"Of course, if you tell your boss we did the wild thing, you'll probably get a bonus or a promotion—"

"How many times do I have to tell you I don't work for the smoker!?"

"As many times as you feel like lying to me, Feldman." He reached out and brushed the hair from her face. "You could try telling the truth, for a change."

"The truth? You want the truth?"

"That would be a nice change of pace."

"The truth is, you used an expired condom."

"It was only three months over—"

"They expire for a reason, Foxboy—"

"Mulder. My name is Mulder."

"Whatever. The point is, that thing could have broken and—"

"It didn't and don't think I'm not worried about what you might be carrying thanks to Ratboy!"

"His name," she sniffed, haughtily, "is Alex and he's quite healthy, thank you."

Impossible. He couldn't want her again. Not this soon. But he did. Too bad that was his only condom. "It's a good thing for Ratboy— and for you, Feldman, that I don't get laid very often, otherwise I might be offended by your critique of our quickie."

"I simply pointed out the condom was expired. I didn't comment on your technique or lack thereof."

"But you're about to, aren't you?"

Feldman snorted at this. "Let's just say you're no Ra— uh, Alex."

"And damned happy about it," he said, dryly. "Besides, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself."

Feldman flushed at the comment and she ducked her head, brushing at her clothes. "It was nice."

Nice? Sex with him was nice? Granted, it was sex in the middle of a landfill and it lasted less than ten minutes, but nice? At least she had the decency to be utterly embarrassed that she enjoyed cheating on Ratboy. "Glad I could help."

Feldman straightened abruptly, scowling up at him. "Help? Was that what you were doing, Foxboy—"

"Mulder."

"— my sweet Rat— uh, Alex is out there somewhere, infected with that horrible black oily alien and all you were thinking about was getting some!"

Should he even dignify that with a response? No. Mulder looked down at her and folded his arms across his chest. Ten. Nine. Eight....

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

So much for an apology. "I'm debating whether I want to leave you here or stay and watch you blunder your way through this mess you've gotten me into."

"Blunder? Are you saying I'm some kind of screw-up?"

"I'm pointing out that you're a perpetually horny menace to society." The thing was, he still liked her, even though she worked for the smoker and even though she was Krycek's lover. For all that, Feldman was still basically innocent. Basically. "Come on, Feldman. Let's go find Ratboy."

"Alex. His name is Al—" Feldman crashed into a pike of garbage bags with a horrified scream. Before he had a chance to see what she tripped on, the petite lawyer emitted a high-pitched shriek and threw herself into his arms. "The oilien!"

Mulder threw her behind him and drew his gun— for all the good that would do. Gingerly, he kicked the garbage bags aside. "Feldman...."

"Kill it."

"It's already dead, Feldman. It's been dead for a long time."

"How can you tell?"

"Because it's leaking from a rusty Buick."

"Are you sure it's not the oilien?"

"Yes, Feldman."

"Are you positive?"

"Why me?"

Using Krycek's body was the best thing It ever did. These insignificant host creatures seemed to want to give It anything It wanted when It used what the Krycek creature called its "mesmerizing smile." And, of course, those objects called credit cards and cash helped get It all the way from the place the primitives called Staten Island to Washington, DC, to the home of the Scully creature.

The journey was short, but educational. It learned that the primitives could see that Krycek was being used by looking at Krycek's optical sensors. By acquiring coverings called Ray-Bans, It's presence was now camouflaged. More or less. The primitives did not seem to wear Ray-Bans after the sun had set. No matter. None of them seemed interested in questioning It.

And now It was here. At the lair of the Scully creature, the location of which was embedded in Krycek's memories. Krycek knew so many useful things.

It was going to be whole again.

The doorbell rang. No. Not now. Not when there was a hot bubble-bath and a glass of wine waiting for her. Scully gritted her teeth, grabbed her gun and stomped to her front door. A quick peek through the window confirmed what Scully knew all along— this was Feldman's fault.

She slid back the safety of her gun and threw open the door. "What the hell do you want, Krycek?!"

Her visitor favored her with a placid, almost docile smile. "Where is it?"

Oh. Great. He was looking for the Ragu jar. "Don't tell me you want it back."

Seemingly oblivious to the gun pointed at his chest, Krycek pushed his way past her into the apartment. Why the hell was he wearing sunglasses after dark? No. Scratch that. Where did he get the nerve to come up and ring her bell like they were old friends? And why was he looking at her like that? His smile grew even more radiant, if that were possible. "I need it. Where is it?"

That smile...it was absolutely mesmerizing. And it was doing some strange things to certain parts of her anatomy.

"Please....I have to have it. Now."

Despite everything she knew about the man, Scully lowered the gun. "Excuse me?"

"I need it. Please?"

He needed it? He needed it? What about her? What about Dana Scully's needs? She needed it more than anybody. "You need it?"

"Yes. Please."

"You want it that badly?"

"Yes. Please. Where is it?"

Scully took his hand and dragged him towards the bedroom. "It's right in here."

"No!"

"Feldman. It's dark. The rats are coming out and not one of them is the rat you're looking for."

Ellen spun around, hands curling into fists. She was cold. She was miserable. Her feet were sore and she had the headache of her life. And Mulder was calling her Ratboy...well, a rat.

Mulder backed up a step. "Easy, Feldman."

"Stop insulting my Ratboy! Alex. I mean, my Alex."

"You were right the first time. He's your Ratboy."

"I won't let you call him that awful name—"

"Why? You do. In fact, I distinctly recall you shouting harder, Ratboy, harder during our little encounter among the landfill."

"I did not!" Yes, she did. She'd hoped Mulder didn't notice, but he did. Damn him.

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Sure you did, Feldman. All I ask is that you never, ever do that again. With me, I mean."

There was going to be a next time? Hooray! "Don't you think you're presuming a bit much, Agent Mulder?"

"Nah."

Nah? Like he was that great she would jump his bones anywhere? Well, he was awfully good, but he was no Ratboy.

"Wipe that look off your face, Feldman. We're all consenting adults. Ratboy doesn't mind. You don't mind. Why should I?" Mulder took her by the arm and guided her towards the gate. "Besides, you might let something your boss told you slip during the heat of, uh, passion."

"Are you going to start that again?!"

"Sure."

Before she could call him a jerk, her beeper went off. Sighing, she reached into her backpack. Where was the 'off' button?

Mulder snatched the beeper from her and read the message with a sly grin.

"Gimme that!"

"Want me to lend you my phone?" He held it just out of her reach.

Ellen clenched her teeth and tried to climb the lanky federal agent.

"Hey! Down girl! Down, Feldman!"

"I am not a dog!"

A soft chuckle as he pushed her away. "Beats being called 'kitten' all the time, doesn't it?"

"It does not and give me my beeper."

"In a minute." Mulder stuffed the beeper into his pocket and took out his cell phone.

No. He wouldn't dare. Oh yes he would.

The smoker reached for his cell phone. It was about time Feldman checked in. He had some very interesting news about her Alex's—well, the body of her Alex, anyway— whereabouts. "Hello?"

"Who's this?"

Mulder. Feldman was going to have some explaining to do. "You must have the wrong number."

"No, this is the right one. You beeped Ellen Feldman, didn't you, smokey?"

Think fast. Think. "This is Judge Thackeray. I need to speak to Ellen about a brief she's filed."

"Isn't that kind of ex parte communication prohibited, Your Honor?"

The smoker heard what sounded like a brief scuffle and then to his relief, Feldman's voice. "Your Honor?"

Any other operative would be shaking in his boots for such an outrage. Feldman, naturally, was oblivious. "You will explain what just happened the next time I see you, is that understood?"

"Yes, Your Honor. We did move for a continuance."

"Our operatives have located Alex. He's in Washington, DC."

"What?! Uh, I mean, they filed in the District of Columbia? Alleging what?"

"Go there immediately."

"Yes, Your Honor. I most certainly will follow up on that subpoena."

A sigh as he disconnected. He almost wished he could hear the conversation between Feldman and Mulder. Almost. No. Better not to wish for things like that. And perhaps he should consider keeping Feldman out of the field in the future. Restrict her to research and paperwork. Yes. That sounded like a good idea.

This was a bad idea. One of the worst she'd ever had. So why was it sooooo good? Scully draped a leg over an exhausted Alex Krycek, who was, oddly enough, still wearing his sunglasses. And nothing but. Not a word of protest when she slipped the prosthetic off but when she touched the sunglasses...he nearly bolted.

Who would have ever thought that greasy-haired, geeky little Krycek from four years ago would turn out to be a well-hung sex machine? If she had any idea back then— well, if she hadn't been abducted back then.... Feldman sure could pick them. First the little piranha set her sights on Mulder, who supposedly was no slouch in the sack (not that he'd ever let Dana Scully have a crack at him) and then she snagged Ratboy. The over-sexed little bitch. Then again, the over-sexed little bitch might have to learn to share because there was no way in hell Scully was going to give up such a prime piece of ass. Not without a fight, anyway.

Krycek stirred, raised himself on his elbow and smiled radiantly at her.

"Again?"

"You didn't show me where It is."

"Sure I did. And you got it right every time." And that was truly a first.

"It wasn't there."

"Excuse me?"

"The Feldman gave It to you."

The Feldman? Gave it? Scully scowled at him and Krycek's mouth dropped open in fear. "If you're looking for that stupid alien thing, I trapped it in a maxi pad and Spender flushed it."

"Flushed it?"

"That's right. It's in the sewer system. Which is where you belong you rotten, lying, sneaky conniving no-good—"

Krycek leaped out of the bed.

"How dare you have sex with me to get the oilien back!?"

"Sex? With you? For the oilien?"

Scully reached for her gun. "Where the hell have you been for the last two hours, Ratboy?!"

"Here," Krycek said, doubtfully.

"I don't think so because you obviously weren't paying attention."

"How do I get It back?"

"Get out! Get out before I shoot you," Scully exploded. "You...you Indian-giver!"

To his credit, Ratboy didn't even bother grabbing his clothes. He just leaped out the window— well, through the window, actually— and took off down the street stark naked, running with grace that made her lower her gun and lick her lips with admiration.

So what if he was an Indian-giver dirtbag? He had a body that didn't quit. And now that she showed him who was boss.... Ratboy was going to do things her way. And Feldman was going to learn to share if it killed everybody on the planet.

"This has been an awful day," Yuri sighed.

Wojtek dropped another quarter into the dryer. "Should we put in some Bounce?"

"Yes, I hate static cling." He rummaged in their bag and tossed the box of dryer sheets to Wojtek. "Make sure you only use one. Those things are expensive."

"It's still cheaper than buying new clothes. You think that alien residue stuff will come out?"

"How the hell should I know? If you wanted to know that, you should have asked the man with the cigarettes."

"As if you could trust anything he says," Wojtek sniffed. "He's like an American Jurik. Worse maybe, because this one knows things that Jurik would never understand."

"How many people do we now work for?"

"I've lost count. The American wants us to take out Jurik, Jurik wants us to take out the Italian. Our government still wants us to get Krycek, but the exchange rate is so terrible that we would lose money on the deal." Wojtek sighed and watched their clothes cycle in the dryer. "You would think with all these employers we'd have money for a cab home tonight. We can't even afford the bus."

"Subway."

"Why me?"

"Why do these things always happen to me," Carmine complained.

Nicky stared at him for a full minute. "It's your fault."

"It is not my fault."

"I told you to take Ellen an' the jerk to the dump—"

"Which I did."

"Yeah, but you left them there. You were supposed to wait. How the hell are they supposed to get back?"

"I had to go to confession," Carmine said, softly. "It's been kinda a rough week."

"Oh."

"I was there for over an hour."

"Oh." Nicky drained his cup of coffee. "In that case, I'm sure they was able to find a cab or somethin'."

"Is there somewhere we need to go?"

Feldman glared at him for a full minute before answering. "What do you mean?"

"Did your boss find Ratboy," Mulder asked. The answer to that question was obvious, if the scheming look on her face was any indication. And from that poorly disguised conversation, Mulder was pretty sure Ratboy was in DC.

"I told you—"

"I know, I know. You don't work for the smoker." Before he could needle her further, the cell phone rang. "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Scully. She was agitated and...something else. Something that he couldn't quite identify. "You need to get back here. Now. Ratboy was just here and he was looking for the sample you gave me to analyze."

"Did he get it?"

"What?"

"Did he get the sample?" Was it his imagination or did she sound slightly guilty?

"No. Spender flushed it."

"What?!"

"It's a long story, Mulder. I'll explain later. The long and the short of it is that the alien got absorbed by the dry-weave in a Stay-Free Ultra and flushed down a toilet in the ladies' room in the Hoover Building by that moron, Spender. Speaking of which fiasco, Skinner wants to see me in his office ASAP. I'll talk to you when you get here."

Mulder hit the 'off' button and stared at Feldman. Somehow, this was all her fault. Somehow. Even if she wasn't there. This episode had the Feldman Effect written all over it.

"Now what," Feldman asked, tapping a Baby Doc Marten impatiently.

"Now you tell me where we need to go next." He'd give her ten minutes. Ten minutes in which she would lie and connive and attempt to convince him to go to DC. Ten entertaining minutes of Feldman lying through her teeth. Maybe two minutes of lying and then maybe eight minutes of her doing something else with that mouth.... She would if he asked nicely. Hell, he didn't even have to ask. When he refused to believe those lies, of course Feldman was going to use sex to get him to do what she wanted. And now that he'd made his position on that matter crystal clear, he had no problem accepting whatever she offered in exchange for sending him off to rescue Ratboy.

"We have to go to DC, Mulder."

"Why is that?"

"Weren't you paying attention to your own conversation, Inspector Clouseau?"

"I don't believe I mentioned Ratboy—"

"Not by name, but who else would know Scully has the sample?"

Forget ten minutes. She made her point in less than ten seconds. So much for that oral argument he was hoping for. Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't play with her a little, just to keep her on her toes. "Your boss would know, wouldn't he?"

"I must have been right because you changed the subject."

Oooh. Sneaky Feldman. Smart, sneaky Feldman. "I'm not changing the subject, Feldman. I'm questioning the content of your conversation with— what did he call himself?—Judge Thackeray."

"You know, I'm really tempted to have Alex give the smoker my resume just so I can get a job with him and piss you off."

"I wouldn't be pissed off, Feldman. Just amused."

"Would you, really, Foxboy?"

"Mulder," he corrected, tapping her lightly on the nose with a finger. "And yes, I would. In fact, I am. You must be driving the old bastard crazy. You've got Ratboy so distracted he's practically useless—"

"What?!" Feldman glared up at him, fists on her hips. "How dare you—"

"How else would Ratboy have ended up in so much trouble?" Mulder draped an arm casually around her shoulder. "Maybe the smoker would have sent him here to recover the alien and the ship, but Carmine and his goons wouldn't have been involved. And Ratboy wouldn't have gotten taken over by the alien."

"Are saying it's my fault he's missing?!"

"Not completely. If he's pussy-whipped, it's because he let himself get pussy-whipped."

Feldman jerked out of his grasp. "What do you mean, pussy-whipped—"

"Exactly what it sounds like. But you're changing the subject again. We were talking about your boss, the judge." Mulder hooked his arm through hers and tugged her towards the gate. "You can deny it all you like, but the evidence speaks for itself. You've got Ratboy working with Carmine and you and I both know that's as unnatural as oil and water mixing."


It stared down into the swirling water of the Potomac, ignoring the screams of the other primitives. Krycek's body seemed affected by the loss of the fabrics - clothes, they were called. In fact the appendage that the Scully seemed so fascinated with because it was so large (she said) had shrunk noticeably from the temperature.

That part of Itself was in something called the sewer somewhere. The primitive that It encountered in the park, in between ramblings about aliens from outer space, had explained that the sewer was connected to the water somehow.

Krycek's body was not suited for long periods underwater. It now had a problem to solve.

"Looking for something?"

It turned and saw a human in a uniform holding an object. A flashlight, Krycek's brain supplied, helpfully. "Yes. It is in the sewer. I need It."

"Yeah, I bet you do. How much of it did you have tonight, buddy?"

"I didn't have It. It was taken from me but the Scully says It's in the sewer." It used Krycek's smile but the human— a cop, Krycek's brain put in— didn't seem affected.

In fact, The Cop seemed angry at the gesture. "Get on your knees and put your hands over your head."

"I need It."

"You'll get it, alright. Just do what I tell you."

Finally! A human who was going to help.

It was all going straight to hell.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner glared angrily at the yellow 'caution wet floor' sign and cursed beneath his breath. He cursed Special Agent Fox Mulder because even though Mulder wasn't here, this was Mulder's fault. Next, Skinner cursed Special Agent Dana Scully, because even though Scully wasn't here— yet - she caused this particular fiasco. And finally, Skinner cursed Special Agent Jeffrey Spender.

"Sir?" Scully's voice echoed in the empty hallway.

Skinner turned and hit her with his meanest, angriest glare. "I trust I don't have to explain why I called you here."

"Oh. My. God. The toilet overflowed," Scully gasped. "This is all Spender's fault."

Scully looked different somehow. Her hair, which was usually perfectly coiffed, was slightly disheveled. And what was with that low-cut clingy sweater? Skinner scrutinized her carefully. Sweet heaven. Had Scully finally gotten laid? By whom? Who would be that foolhardy? He cleared his throat and tried not to look down her sweater, but it was hard because she was so damned short and he had to look down at her anyway. Oh, screw it. Why did women wear things like that if they didn't expect men to look? "Spender says it's all your fault, Agent Scully."

"Actually, sir, it's Ellen Feldman's fault." This was said in the tone of a younger sibling ratting out an older sibling.

"Feldman? She hasn't worked here since 1996. How is this her fault?"

"Trust me, sir, it is." Scully drew her gun and started stalking down the hall. "We have to find it, sir, before it gets out of the building."

"Before what gets out of the building?"

"The thing Spender tried to flush down the toilet."

"The thing was a ..." God, he could hardly make his lips form the words. "...maxi pad."

"And it contained a dangerous life-form that I was trying to—"

"There you are!" Spender's shout echoed so loudly it made the fillings in Skinner's teeth ache. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in, Agent Scully? Those maxi pads are non-flushable!"

"— trying to examine until Poodle-boy here interrupted me, set the damned thing loose and then flushed it," Scully finished, with a growl that made the hair on the back of Skinner's neck stand up.

"You should've warned me," Spender argued.

"You were too busy being a jerk to listen!" The red-head glared at Spender with such ferocity that the man stepped back. Even Skinner found himself tensing when Scully focused her attention on him once again. "We need to seal off this building until we find it."

"We are not sealing off a building to look for feminine hygiene products," Spender snapped. "Tell her, sir."

"Let's seal off the building," Skinner ordered. But not before he downed four or five Tylenol. It was going to be a long day.

Jet lag. Definitely jet lag. Add to that an in-flight bagel went down like a Goodyear tire and a headache that wouldn't quit. Ellen groaned and slouched down in the passenger seat of Mulder's BuCar.

"Where to, Feldman?"

"If you ask me that one more time—"

"I'm deferring to your expertise in Ratboy rescues."

Sighing, Ellen scrunched her eyes shut. "Five minutes, Mulder. That's all I ask. Give it a rest for five minutes, okay?"

He patted her knee in a sympathetic gesture. "Sorry, Feldman. No can do."

"What?!" Her eyes flew open.

"You dragged me into this mess. I think I'm entitled to some fun— even if it's at your expense, don't you?"

"Jerk." Oh, her aching head. Her bubbling stomach. And worst of all, she smelled. Like landfill. She was sure Mulder smelled, too, but she couldn't tell over the stench of her own clothes.

"Uh-huh." His hand wandered further up her thigh.

Ellen's teeth clenched as she pushed his hand away.

He put it back.

She shoved it away again.

The offending hand returned, landing much further up her thigh with a playful squeeze. "I have an idea."

"Swell."

"How about we stop by my place and shower? No offense, Feldman, but you stink to high heaven."

"Five minutes," she muttered. "All I ask is five minutes."

"You'll need at least fifteen and a good, strong soap." Another squeeze of her thigh, accompanied by a grin in her direction. "I insist on lathering you myself, just to be sure you're thoroughly clean."

He was...flirting with her? Now? On the other hand, a long, hot shower sounded like a wonderful idea. "Gee, you're so considerate."

"Aren't I? And here I thought you didn't appreciate my efforts." His fingers continued their exploration. "Maybe you'll give me a Ratboy Rescue merit badge for my trouble."

She supposed he was expecting her to offer to give him something else. "Maybe."

"Don't sulk, Stinky."

"I'm not sulking and don't call me Stinky. You smell just as badly as I do, if not worse." So there.

"Which is why we're stopping at my place. And while I'm scrubbing you spotless, you'll have plenty of time to think of a good story about how you know where Ratboy is. Not that I'll believe anything other than the truth."

"Which is?"

"That you work for the smoker, of course."

"You're really starting to get on my nerves."

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Stinky?"

"Why? Why me?"

No! Nonononono! This was all wrong. The Cop wasn't helping at all. The Cop wasn't even serving or protecting, even though those were the words on the Cop's vehicle. In fact, the Cop was hindering Its progress by refusing to help. The Cop wouldn't listen, didn't care about what the Scully had done with the part of It that was missing. Perhaps those words— to serve and to protect - were meaningless. The Cop wasn't interested in serving or protecting and It wasn't interested in using the Cop's body. It was even less interested in what the Cop had to say about remaining silent.

It had the right to an Attorney. Whatever that was. Krycek's memories contained very graphic images of an Attorney doing things the Scully had done, so perhaps the Scully was also an Attorney. In any event, It wasn't interested in having another.

"Do you understand these rights," the Cop asked.

"Why are you interfering?"

"Because you're wandering the streets of Washington DC in your birthday suit and a pair of RayBans, pal."

The fabrics. All the primitives draped themselves in fabrics. It would have to remember that for next time. Or for now. This primitive certainly wasn't going to need its fabrics.

It used Krycek's mesmerizing smile. And then It did what came naturally.

"See? Didn't I tell you you'd feel much better after a nice hot shower?" Mulder tousled Feldman's damp hair. "And you've had almost an hour to think of a way to tell me where Ratboy is without letting me know you work for the smoker."

Feldman folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "I'm beginning to get a little tired of—"

"Me being right all the time?" God, he was enjoying this. Maybe more than he should, but still, it was nice to watch her struggle to be in control of the situation. And lose every time because she kept underestimating him.

"You being a jerk all the time." She smacked his hand away.

"You think your boss is going to like hearing you talk to me like that?" Mulder gestured to the light fixture in the ceiling. "He's watching you right now and thinking how you're botching your assignment to hell. After all, he sent you to seduce me and calling me a jerk isn't very romantic, is it?"

"You're right, Mulder. Go get the taco sauce."

"What?"

Feldman smiled at him. "You heard me. Get the taco sauce."

"What about rescuing Ratboy?"

"Well, I don't know where he is. You do, though. Scully told you she saw him so that means he was either at the Hoover building or at Scully's place, which I doubt, but you never know if he was possessed by the oilien. And anyway..." Her small hand shot out and yanked the towel from his waist. "You insist on playing games and wasting time. We may as well waste it doing something that I enjoy. In other words, Foxboy, get the taco sauce."

Speaking of underestimating... "Feldman."

She dropped to her knees and looked up at him. "Yes?"

"Don't call me Foxboy."

"Don't say another word, Spender!" Scully crouched on the floor of the women's room and shined her flashlight behind the toilet. "Not one more word. I've had enough of your sanctimonious—"

"Sanctimonious? This is some kind of menstrual hormonal rage, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice took on a dangerous edge as she lowered the flashlight.

"It's not uncommon," Spender continued. "Coupled with the fact that I've got the X-Files and you don't—"

"Spender, you have five seconds to shut up and get out."

"Is that a threat, Agent Scully? Is it? Because I don't respond well to threats."

"Maybe you'll respond better to me shoving this flashlight up your—"

"Agent Scully!" Skinner's voice echoed in the bathroom. "The CDC team needs your input. Now!"

"Later, Spender." Scully waved the flashlight under his nose. "That's not a threat. It's a promise."

"Oh, go suck a Midol."

Skinner rubbed his temples. "Why? Why me?"

"I don't believe this. They lied. The Americans lied!"

Yuri flinched as Wojtek pounded his fist on the laundry table. "Easy, comrade."

"Easy? Our clothes are ruined! This Shout does not work! Neither did the stain-lifter that's All! So much for superior American products!"

"Shhh, my friend. Perhaps the manufacturers did not contemplate the products being used on...." Yuri looked around, making sure the laundromat was empty. "..extra-terrestrial stains."

"Of course they didn't. How could they? Why would they? Unless Krycek sold the formula to them, too."

"What?!"

"Krycek is a greedy bastard. Maybe he sold the formula—"

"Don't go there. I know you're furious but that argument makes no sense whatsoever." Yuri rested his hand on Wojtek's shoulder. "Our first order of business is simple. We need new clothes. We cannot catch Krycek until we have new clothes."

"We can't afford new clothes."

"Details. Mere details." Yuri gestured to the humming machines. "Look around you. A veritable shopping mall. Designer. K-mart. It's all here. And if we don't see anything we like, we can try other laundromats."

"How far have we sunk that we're stealing clothes in laundromats?"

"Don't look at it that way! Think of it like that capitalist tale, Robin Hood. We take from the rich and give to the poor."

"Rationalizations—"

"Yes! Do we have money for new clothes?"

"No," Wojtek said, slowly.

"So?"

"Third dryer from the right. I thought I saw some Ralph Lauren."

Taco sauce. The smoker lit a fresh Morley as he watched Feldman face off against Mulder. His inexperienced little operative had her work cut out for her, since Mulder was being less than cooperative. And yet...that little power struggle going on between them was fascinating. Even though Feldman didn't have him completely under control, she still managed to hold her own against him. Which was far more than most of his operatives could.

She might manage to pull this off yet. Unlike Mulder or Krycek, he knew better than to underestimate her. Of course, he still tended to underestimate her innate ability to take a perfectly simple operation and turn it into something that required hours of damage control.

This was going to be Feldman's last field assignment, he promised himself.

Well, that little bluff worked perfectly, Ellen congratulated herself. Mulder thought about accepting the blow-job for all of ten seconds and then he told her to get up. Maybe she couldn't push him around any more, but she could still predict at least a couple of his responses. Heh heh. With a grin, she hitched up her towel and held out his cell phone. "Call Scully."

"Excuse me?"

His towel was exactly where she tossed it. No modesty for Mulder. Unless he was deliberately taunting her. Oh, the game was afoot now. "She was the last one to see my Rat— uh, my Alex."

Mulder shrugged. "Why don't you do it? It's number one on my speed dial."

"I don't wanna talk to her!" Oh, now that was an intelligent thing to say. "I mean, uh, she's your partner and you know she's never liked me much and—"

"True, but this is your Ratboy at stake, Feldman. Are you going to let fear of my partner get in the way of finding him?"

"I'm not afraid of her." Much. The red-headed harpy only carried a Sig Sauer and was an expert marksman. Think fast, Feldman, think, think. "Um, you know, Mulder, you've got that whole partner rapport thing going. You should call her —"

"I should, but I'd rather watch you do it."

Bambi eyes? Nah, that hadn't worked in way too long. It was time for something new. Something completely unexpected. "I'll call the smoker if you call Scully."

His only response was a slightly arched eyebrow. "Okay."

Sucker.

"Go ahead." Mulder held out the phone.

"You first." Damndamndamn!

"Come on, Feldman. Every second you delay, Ratboy could be getting into worse trouble than he's already in."

Time for Bambi eyes. Just because her Ratboy was immune didn't mean her Foxboy was. "But Mul-derrrrrr....."

"Uh-uh, Feldrat. You offered to call the smoker. I'm not letting you off that easily."

"I told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You don't work for him."

How could he be that naked, that hard and that confident? Unless... Oh no. That's it. The whole thing was a trick to get her back down on her knees or to call Scully or to call the smoker. However it ended up, Mulder was going to win. Not fair. Not fair at all!

"Well?"

"No."

"No," he repeated, slowly. "No what?"

Ellen gave him her coldest courtroom stare. "No, Mulder. No, I don't work for the smoker. No, I will not call the smoker and no, I am not calling that bi-uh, Scully."

"Well, then." Mulder rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "No, I won't help you. Have fun chasing Ratboy on your own."

"But you promised!"

"No, I didn't."

How humiliating! Bad enough Ratboy was getting the upper hand these days, but Mulder?! Was Winky going to be next? Ellen sighed. "Give me the phone."

"Why?"

"So I can call Scully."

"Good girl. I'll have you paper-trained before you know it."

"I am not a dog!" Ohhhh, he was going to pay for this.

Scully was going to pay for this. Mulder was going to pay for this. And if he had to go whining to his father to make them pay for this, Jeffrey Spender would whine with the best of them. Didn't he whine his way into getting the X-Files and that hot Diana chick as his partner?

Yeah, the craggy, old, Morley-smoking bastard would do anything for his little Jeffrey. Including getting that cute Ellen Feldman. So far, the old guy swore Feldman wasn't a good match, but what did he know about true love? Well, true lust anyway. He'd bring her here, show her his new office and she'd be perfumed putty in his hands. All the women were going to swoon for him.

Yes, sir, this was the new and improved Jeffrey Stuart Spender. He had it all - looks, power and ——

Some kind of gunk on his shoe.

His new Ferragamo loafers. With the tassels. Dammit.

Spender scowled down at the black stuff on the toe of his left shoe. It wasn't gum. It wasn't toner from the copier or fax machine. It looked like ink. Or oil.

Oil that was moving of its own accord.

"Get off! Get off of me!" Spender shook his leg frantically. "You're ruining my Ferragamo loafer! And my Armani sock! Get off, damn you!"

And suddenly, his left foot was all tingly. But a happy tingly. Joyful, almost. If his foot was happy, then all was right with the world.

Whistling, Spender continued his search for Scully's missing maxi pad.

"I'm plagued by the evil demons of stupidity," Scully informed her Dogbert doll. Normally, she kept it in her desk drawer, where Mulder wouldn't see it and make his usual stupid, unwelcome comment. You would think that after so many years of working for a bureaucracy, Mulder would appreciate Dilbert. But he didn't. For a man who understood every single Far Side cartoon, he could be unbelievably dense sometimes.

She sank down into her chair— her special chair. The one she special-ordered after her old chair got destroyed in the fire. Mulder bitched about how she was taking money out of the budget, but when she told him she needed to reach her desk (or else) he shut up really fast. Eventually, she'd have him trained. Eventually.

But in the meantime, she was being plagued by the evil demons of stupidity— Spender, Krycek, and the evilest one of them all, Feldman.

This hellish day was completely Feldman's fault. From the oilien in the Ragu jar to that amazing roll in the hay with Ratboy to being trapped in the Hoover building with a pissed off Skinner and a whining, self-righteous Spender. Everything. All Feldman's fault.

As if on cue, her cell phone bleated. "Yes, Mulder."

"Dana?"

No! Oh no! Nonononono! "What the hell do you want, Feldman? Where's Mulder?"

"You know damned well what I want," Feldman snapped, all pretense of any deference to Scully vanishing. "I want my Ratboy. What did you do with him?"

"I didn't do anything with him." Liarliarliar. Damn her Catholic inner voice. How many Hail Marys was she going to owe when this was all over?

"What?!"

"I said..." Think fast, Scully. Think. Think. "...I didn't do anything to him. He showed up at my place, asked for the jar and ran away when I threatened to shoot him."

"He showed up at your place?"

Scully's nails dug into the wood of her desk at the tone of Feldman's voice. The little piranha definitely sounded suspicious. Or maybe that was her courtroom technique. "What did I just say, Feldman?"

"What was he wearing?"

"Nothing! I mean...uh...I don't remember...I mean..." Get a hold of yourself, Scully. "He left his jacket. He was carrying it and he dropped it when I pulled my gun on him."

"Was he wearing it when he rang your bell?"

Damn! The piranha was good! "I just told you he was carrying it. He was also carrying his prosthesis."

"Why?"

"How the hell should I know?" This is what she got for trying to give Ratboy his property back. If Mulder wouldn't have recognized it, she would have kept the damned jacket. It was a nice one— soft, supple leather. And a sizable quantity of condoms, not to mention a full tube of lube in the pocket. "Maybe he got into some kind of trouble before he got here. The point is, Feldman, I threatened to shoot him, he dropped everything and he ran off. Can I speak to Mulder now?"

"No, because I don't believe you."

"You little—! Feldman. Put Mulder on. NOW!" What was it they practiced? Plausible deniability? Mulder would believe her and he'd convince Feldman. Yeah. Plausible. Deniability.

Ellen lowered the phone and stared at it. Something was wrong about this whole conversation. She took a deep breath and pretended Scully was a hostile witness. "After you threatened to shoot him, in which direction did he run?"

"Didn't I tell you to put Mulder on," Scully hissed.

"The door to your apartment faces north on an east-west street. Did Alex run east or west?" Yes, Scully was getting pissed off, but she also wasn't telling everything she knew. And that worried Ellen.

"He ran for his life," Scully snapped. "And if you value yours, you'll put Mulder on the phone."

"Are you going to tell him the truth about what happened?"

"What?! I mean...uh, never mind. Just put him on the phone. NOW!"

Mulder chuckled softly as he took the phone. "Scully? Uh-huh. Yes. Okay. It did? How long? Right. We'll call you if we turn up anything."

"Well?" Ellen poked his chest with a scarlet nail. Damn. The polish was chipped. "What did she say?"

"She said the toilet overflowed and our little oilien friend is loose in the Hoover building." He grinned down at her. "The whole building's been sealed off while they try to locate it. By the way, your nail polish is chipped."

"What did she say about my Ratb— uh, my Alex?"

"She said he ran west."

"Did she say why he took his took off his jacket, shirt and prosthetic?"

"Excuse me?"

Did this man ever pay attention to anything that didn't involve little green/gray men? "She told me he left his jacket and prosthetic behind. He couldn't take off his prosthetic without taking off his shirt. Now why do you suppose my Ratb— uh, my—"

"For convenience's sake, just call him your Ratboy and stop pretending you use his real name, okay?" Mulder padded into his bedroom and began laying out clothes. "I'm assuming your next question would be why Ratboy would strip for Scully. Remember, Feldman, he's got that oilien in him, so it's making all the decisions."

He paused dramatically and Ellen swallowed hard as she realized what he was going to say next.

"Maybe they did the wild thing."

"Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!"

"You seem to find him irresistible," Mulder continued. "I can't imagine why. Who knows, maybe he had the same effect on Scully. It could be that wounded, dangerous animal thing he has going or—"

"Or the fact that he's hung like a—"

"Feldman!"

Gotcha! "Well, he is. Anyway, he'd never do Scully because she's—"

"But it's not him. It's the oilien and maybe it liked her." He grinned wickedly. "Of course, she'd have to get over her revulsion, so maybe you're right. But I can't think of any other reason why he'd strip to the waist."

"And you're supposed to be an expert profiler," Ellen sniffed.

Mulder regarded her calmly as he buttoned his Levis. "Oh, I've already built a profile of Ratboy, Feldman, and it's quite accurate, although I have to revise it to reflect the fact that you've got him completely pussy-whipped—"

"I do not!"

"Sure you do." He chucked her under the chin. "Anyway, my point is, I may have a workable profile of Ratboy, but I don't have a profile on the oilien. Or you."

"Me?" Ellen snatched his shirt and looked at it with disdain. "This has a hole in it."

Mulder took it from her and tossed it into the corner. "Yes, you. I didn't think I needed a profile of you before, but now that you're a player... Well, let's just say you've managed to influence all the other co-conspirators."

"I told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You don't work for the smoker and Ratboy's not pussy-whipped," he snorted, reaching into his closet for another shirt. "Does this meet your approval, mistress?"

"Who cares. Start profiling the oilien. I want my Ratboy back."

"Sorry, Feldman, unlike Ratboy, I'm not pussy-whipped."

Oooooh! What a jerk! "What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

"I don't take orders from you. If you want me to do something, you have to ask. Nicely."

Jerk! Jerkjerkjerk! Okay, time for her best Ratboy-attempting to-seduce-Mulder imitation. "Mul-derrrrrrr."

The federal agent nearly dropped his shirt. Ellen had to hand it to him, he recovered quickly. "Yes, Feldrat?"

"Mul-derrrrrr," she purred again. God, that rolled sooo nicely. "Won't you help me? Please? Pretty please?"

"Maybe." He tugged at her towel. Ellen lifted her arms and let him take it off of her. "What do you want me to do?"

"Start profiling the oilien, sweetheart," she cooed. Sweetheart? Ewwww. "And while you're doing that, I'll bet we can think of something I can do for you."

"Know what you can do for me?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you do for the smoker."

Why? Why her? It was going to be a long, long night.

Useless. Utterly useless. It's missing part was nowhere to be found. Unless...It was making It's way back to the ship. The missing part wasn't at the Scully's lair. It went back there and checked. Even the Scully was missing.

Yes, It would go back to the ship and rest for a while. Krycek's body, as wonderful as it was, was exhausting to control. And maybe, just maybe, while It rested, and Krycek's body recovered from the uses to which it had been put, the little missing piece would come home.

It could only hope.

Scully read the police report and pounded her desk so hard, Dogbert fell off of her monitor. This was most definitely Feldman's fault. Sighing, she reached down and picked up the small white, plush dog. "Mulder will never believe this is Feldman's fault."

"Who are you talking to, Agent Scully?" Spender strode into her office with a strangely placid smile. "Oh! Dogbert! I have a Catbert on my desk."

"Do you really?" As if she cared what he had anywhere.

"Uh-huh." He plucked the police report from her hand. "This is an X-File, Agent Scully."

"No, it isn't." Yes, it was. "Show me one iota of paranormal activity in that police report."

As if he could. Spender's left eyebrow twitched as he scanned the report for something, anything that would let him take the case. Finally, he crumpled it up and skipped out of her office.

"Newbie," she muttered, reaching for her cell phone. Wait until Mulder heard what Feldman did now.

Mulder sighed contentedly and lay back on his pillows. He could feel Feldman shift on the bed next to him and he opened his eyes to see her staring down at him. "Yes?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"The profile," she prompted. "Did you whip one up yet?"

She couldn't be serious. No. Wait. She was serious. Feldman really believed that he could profile a viscous fluid that sometimes mutated into a deadly alien. And what's more, she believed he could 'whip one up' while... Mulder sighed. "Just a very, very rough draft."

"Tell me." v Think Mulder. Think. Think. "Uh...it's kinda technical. You know, a lot of jargon."

"In other words, you didn't do anything."

"Well, I—" Yes! Saved by his cell phone. "Mulder."

"I have a lead on Ratboy." Scully's scowl was almost audible. The oilien infested Ratboy must really have pissed her off. Maybe he/it made a move on her after all. Heaven help the poor creature. Heaven help poor Ratboy. "They found the radioactive remains of a police officer and his patrol car near Cabin Bridge Road. Need I remind you where we saw that before?"

And need he remind her that she didn't believe in oiliens the first time she saw it? "Do we have a time of death?"

"We've got better than that. We've got the entire thing on video."

"Oh, boy."

"Uh-huh. And you'd better believe the local cops are pissed. You know what they do to cop killers." Was it his imagination or did she sound almost worried? "You'd better find him before they do."

"Right." He hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. "Feldman, I...."

"What happened to my Ratboy," Feldman demanded.

"The...uh, thing...vaporized a cop." Mulder slipped out of the bed, watching her carefully. "You know that most police cars have video cameras—"

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. So you can imagine there's quite a manhunt on for Ratboy." It took all his willpower not to smirk. "Feldman...I know you don't work for the smoker, but maybe you know a couple of Ratboy's friends. Why don't you shake a couple of trees while I shower and see if somebody can do damage control?"

"We have to find him."

"We will. I promise." Why he was promising to find Krycek was beyond him. It wasn't as if he owed either of them anything. It wasn't as if he liked either of them. Well, he sort of liked them, not that he would admit it. "We'll rescue your Ratboy."

"You know I don't work for the smoker," Feldman said, quietly, looking at cell the phone on his night stand. Yup. She was already planning what she was going to say. Suddenly, Mulder found himself pitying the smoker.

"I know." Mulder dropped his cell phone in her lap with a wry grin. "And I know you probably can't get that video since you don't work for him, but if it falls into our hands in the next half hour or so, that would be very helpful."

"But, I—"

"Look, I'll agree you don't work for the smoker and I'll even give you the privacy to go to him behind my back on my cell phone. I won't even question you about it or trace the call. Just do it, okay?"

"I don't work for the smoker."

It was going to be a long, long shower.

The phone was ringing. His lips clenched the cigarette tighter as he reached for the receiver. He'd been dreading this call for the past thirty minutes, when he learned about the incident. "Yes, Ellen?"

"It's about Alex—"

"Yes, yes, I know all about your Ratboy. It's being taken care of." Discreetly, for a change.

"I need a copy of the video." There was a small pause and then Feldman added a hasty, respectful, "Sir."

"Why?"

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. "So I can figure out it's next move."

"So Mulder can figure out it's next move, you mean. Don't you?" He took a long drag on the cigarette and waited to hear what she'd say next.

"Whatever. I need it delivered to Mulder's place in half an hour."

He'd had agents killed for lesser incidents of insubordination. "Are you taking your orders from Agent Mulder or from me, Ellen?"

"I'm trying to carry out your orders," she snapped. "You told me to keep Mulder on a short leash, I'm doing that. You told me to find Ratboy and I'm working on that. But I need the damned tape—"

"You need to choose your words more carefully," he said, coldly. "And I suggest you watch your tone, as well. I'm well aware of what you and Agent Mulder have been doing for the past two hours."

"What?!"

"Agent Mulder was incorrect. The video surveillance equipment isn't in the living room."

There was a long, satisfying pause. "Send over the tape."

Did she just give him an order and hang up on him? She must have, if the recorded instruction to please hang up and dial again was any indication. Incorrigible. Impudent. Irritating. Effective. Her only saving grace. Well, he also found her amusing. To a degree. Sighing, the smoker reached for the phone.

Wow. What a conversation. Did the smoker really say Ratboy? Did he really see...? Ewww. Gross! Grossgrossgross. What if he had it on video? What if... Ewwwwwww! Ellen found herself staring up at Mulder's ceiling fan.

She beat a hasty retreat into the bathroom, stifling the urge to stick out her tongue or give the fan the finger. That kind of thing could wait until after she got the tape.

"Feldman, that had better be you."

She slipped into the shower with Mulder and let her eyes wander appreciatively over his slim, runner's body. True, he wasn't her Ratboy, but he wasn't a bad second—

"How long until the tape gets here?"

"I told you—"

"You tell me a lot of things." A soapy arm slid around her waist. "Some of them might even be true."

Again? Well, it was a good way to kill time and avoid actual conversation until the tape arrived. But...what if the video surveillance equipment was in the bathroom, not the bedroom? Ellen found herself staring up at the shower head.

Mulder chuckled softly. "Smile for the camera, Feldman."

"What?!"

"C'mere."

"What?!"

"You need to keep me busy until the tape gets here."

This. Was. Not. Fair.

"I have a clue, remember?"

How could she forget?

"Yuri! Look! Tommy Hilfiger! And it's an extra-large!"

Yuri winced. He created a monster. A monster with a designer clothes fetish. "You don't wear an extra-large, Wojtek. And lavender isn't your color."

"It could be. I've never tried it before. Besides, doesn't the lavender look good with these khakis?" Wojtek reached into his laundry bag and held up a pair of pants. "No, you're right. This looks terrible. We need a laundromat in a better neighborhood."

"But we've already been to three—"

"The night is young and my laundry bag isn't full, comrade!" Wojtek continued rummaging through the dryer. "Ooooh! Look at this nightie!"

"Please don't make me."

"Don't you wish you had a woman who would wear something like this for you?"

"Yes, but if I did, she'd have enough common sense to wash it by hand at home," Yuri groaned, snatching the silky garment from his partner and tossing it back in the dryer. "Let's go."

"But we haven't finished looking yet," Wojtek complained.

"I know where there's a really good laundromat," Yuri lied. "Very rich neighborhood."

"Well, then! What are we waiting for? Let's go!" Wojtek reached for his overstuffed laundry bag.

Yuri cheered silently.

And then Wojtek snatched the nightie from the dryer and shoved it in his bag. He grinned at Yuri. "You never know. I might meet a size six American girl."

"Why? Why me?"

"Pizza."

"That must be our tape. And they sent us food with it. How considerate." Mulder grinned at Feldman, who suddenly seemed very interested in his copy of Psychology Today. "You have any cash on you?"

Wordlessly, she reached into her knapsack and handed him a twenty.

Mulder opened the door to a kid in a Domino's uniform. "Oh, nice touch, Feldman. The uniform is very convincing."

"I told you—"

"Of course you did." He handed the startled delivery boy the money and shut the door. "What do you think? Pepperoni? Anchovies? Video?"

"I wouldn't know," Feldman sniffed.

"Sure you do."

"I do not."

"Open it," Mulder instructed, setting the box down on the coffee table. "After all, you ordered it."

"I did not! I mean, yeah, I ordered a pizza."

Gotcha! He placed his hand over hers, preventing her from opening it. "What kind is it?"

"What," she asked, weakly.

He felt a tiny flash of sympathy for her. After all, he'd never worked her over quite like this before. Still, she was holding up rather well. The average person lasted about ten minutes under far less stressful circumstances. "What kind of pizza did you order?"

"What difference does it make," Feldman exploded, digging the nails of her other hand into the back of his. "You know there's a tape in there. I know there's a tape in there. And we both know there's a pizza in there! But are you going to let me have a slice? No! You're going to nag me about how the damn tape got in the stupid box of pizza—"

"Down, Feldman. Easy, girl." Ouch! His poor hand. Mulder used his free hand to stroke her hair like he was soothing a nervous dog. "That's my good girl. Good, Feldman. Nice, Feldpup. That's better. Take your claws out of my hand and I'll give you a nice dish of pizza."

"You sonofabitch!" Feldman shoved him. Hard. Hard enough to knock him flat on his back. She straddled his chest and he let her pin his wrists. "For the last time, Mulder, I am not a dog and I don't work for the smoker! Got that?!"

"Can I still call Krycek 'Ratboy' or are you deluding yourself about that, too?"

"Mulder—"

"And now that you've told me what you're not and what you don't do, why don't you tell me the truth?"

"The truth? There is no truth, Foxboy!"

"Mulder."

She squeezed his wrists in what he supposed was an attempt to be forceful. "The truth is, I'm an idiot for asking you to help me find my Rat— uh, my Al— my Ratboy! Yeah, he's my Ratboy, dammit! Mine!"

"You didn't ask me to help you. You came to me because your boss, the smoker, sent you to screw up my investigation. And I must say, you've done an outstanding job of it." Should he sit up and knock her off? Nah. He kind of liked having her on top of him. "I hope this gets you that raise you've been hoping for."

Feldman slid off him with a disdainful sniff. "If all you're going to do is call me names and accuse me of things, you can stay here and wait for the truth. I'll find my Ratboy by myself."

"What about that pizza?"

"What?!"

"Don't you want a slice?" Grinning, he sat up and opened the box. The video was sealed in a plastic zip-lock bag and taped to the box top. "Look. Pepperoni. Your favorite."

"Oh."

"Pizza and a video, Feldman. Just like a real date."

"But—"

"And then I'll figure out where Ratboy is."

"Really?"

"Yes, Feldman." After all, he couldn't have her running around after the oilien by herself. Innocent bystanders could get hurt. "Go get your dish."

"Mulder!"

"Stupid!"

Kick.

"Rotten."

Kick.

"Machine!"

Kick!

Nothing. Scully glared at the machine. "Those were my last dollar bills, damn you!"

And the Twinkie dangled from slot B6, taunting her with its artificial flavors and fillers. Just an eighth of a centimeter and it should have dropped. But nooooo. Somehow, Scully was certain this, too, was Feldman's fault.

She reached for her gun and aimed carefully.

"Agent Scully! What the hell are you doing?!"

Caught. By Skinner. Attempting to liberate a Twinkie with a Sig Sauer. How humiliating. "Uh....I'm out of change...sir...."

"I'm beginning to think Agent Spender might have a point," Skinner muttered, reaching for his wallet. "Do you have some kind of problem with vending machines?"

"Just the ones in this building." Oh yes. Yesyesyes. He was going to buy her that Twinkie. Bless his bald little head. Before she could stop herself, the words came of their own accord, "This is all Feldman's fault."

Skinner stopped short of feeding his dollar bill to the machine and stared at her. "In what way is it her fault?"

"I don't have all the facts just yet," she said in her most analytical voice. "But Agent Mulder and I are gathering that information for you."

"This report I can't wait to see." Skinner handed her the dollar bill and stalked out of the cafeteria.

Sighing, Scully attempted to feed the dollar bill to the machine. It spat it out. She fed it again. The machine spat it out again. No! Nononono!

Feldman's fault! Definitely Feldman's fault.

"Forget your troubles, c'mon get happy....la da la la la..." Yes. He was happy. His left foot was absolutely joyful. Spender looked down at his new pair of sandals and grinned from ear to ear. So what if it was cold outside? His left foot was tingling with joy. Too bad his right foot couldn't get with the program.

As he skipped down the street, Spender supposed he should have still been in the Hoover building. But if they wanted to keep him there, they should have sealed the building tighter. Idiots.

Not that they could have held him if they wanted to. His left foot had places it needed to go. As for the rest of his body...well, the left foot was in charge.

"Stop it right there. Rewind it."

"Again?"

Mulder draped his arm loosely around her shoulders and used his other hand to pluck the remote from her lap. "Again. Until I'm satisfied."

"But we've watched this part eleven times," Ellen protested, snuggling closer to Mulder. He responded by holding her tighter and squeezing her thigh.

"We're about to see it twelve times. You asked me to do a profile, this is how I do it."

"I've seen what I needed to see."

"Really?" Hazel eyes peered into hers, sparkling with more than a hint of mischief. "What have you observed, counselor?"

"I observed that your partner is a lying tramp who's going to get her ass kicked when I see her next."

Mulder let go immediately. "What?!"

"Didn't you see? Couldn't you tell? Ratboy was naked! He didn't just leave his jacket and arm—"

"That doesn't mean he slept with Scully!"

"No, but the bite marks on his shoulders are a pretty good clue."

"Anybody could have put those there!"

"I was the last person to have sex with him before he got oily," Ellen protested. "And I didn't bite him there."

"No," Mulder said, dryly. "You're responsible for the hickey on his neck."

"Liam did that," she blurted. Great. The stress was starting to get to her. "Uh, I mean, I don't know who put that.....I mean, yeah, it was me."

"Liam?"

She gave him her most innocent look. "Who?"

"We have two choices, Feldman," Mulder sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "You can answer the question now or I can make your life miserable and then you'll answer the question."

He would, too. The jerk. He'd start in on that 'you work for the smoker' routine and then start with that stupid 'Feldpup' garbage. Jerk. Jerkjerkjerk! She tilted her chin up at him and hit him with her most lawyerly tone, "Mulder, Liam is irrelevant to the problem at hand. I don't believe he has any bearing whatsoever on your profile. Unless, of course, you don't have a profile."

"I do, Feldpup. In fact, I'm even refining yours."

Oh, for the good old days when Mulder was actually nice to her. "I was beginning to doubt you even knew how to profile."

"Feldman! I'm shocked."

"Why? You've been avoiding producing results for hours now."

"Not necessarily. I just avoided sharing them with you."

Jerk! Through clenched teeth, she hissed, "Where is that thing taking my Ratboy?"

"Back to it's ship. Are you up to another flight?"

Not again. Not another flight back to New York. "Yes."

"You want to call your boss for back-up?"

"I told you—"

"Feldman, the tape didn't just pop out of thin air or pizza dough."

"I do not—"

"You do. Admit it. You'll be much happier if you do."

"Why? You'll just find something else to be a pain in the ass about."

"Feldman! I do believe you've profiled me!"

It was going to be a long flight.

"Thank you for flying Delta Airlines. How may I help you, sir?"

"New York."

"Our next shuttle leaves in twenty minutes, sir. Will that be cash or credit?"

Cash or credit. It rummaged through the pockets of The Cop's clothes for the Wallet. Using Krycek's mesmerizing smile, It pushed the Wallet at the primitive.

The primitive smiled back at It as it went through the Wallet. "You must be an actor."

An Actor? "Yes. An Actor. New York."

"That uniform is very authentic." The primitive finished whatever it was doing and held out the Wallet. "Flight 1013, gate 11B. Break a leg."

"Yes." Such confusing beings. Well, it wouldn't matter. Soon, they would all be hosts. It was going to keep Krycek for Its very own. The others might ruin Krycek. Especially if they were going to Become. And It would kill them before It let them ruin Its Krycek.

Yes, It would.

Uh-oh. Primitives were paying too much attention to It. Where could It hide?

There had to be a nice safe haven until The Plane left.

This horrible planet was so complicated.

"Happy days are here again...la lalalala...." Oh, his toes were tingling. Just his left toes, mind you. Why, oh why couldn't his right foot be as happy as his left? It wasn't as if he didn't pamper his feet equally. It wasn't as if that pedicure didn't make both of his feet look and feel good. And the way that technician used that pumice and those lotions.... His right foot should have been ecstatic.

Spender was bouncing as he walked through the airport. Yes, he was going to take his feet to New York, to whatever destination his left foot had in mind. Or in toe.

"Excuse me," a very fat woman chirped, stepping squarely on the exposed toes of his left foot.

Pain! Oh, God, the pain. Ouchouchouch! Should he shoot her for ruining his foot's mood? Spender's fingers curled around the handle of his gun while he considered it. No. It was an accident. Of course, if somebody did something like that on purpose, it would be another story. Another story altogether.

"I'm going to the men's room," Mulder announced.

"Gee, thanks for the news flash," Ellen sniped.

He grinned down at her. "I should be about five minutes, in case you want to be able to time your call to your boss and let him know where we're going."

Jerk! She thought fast. "He already knows. There are bugs in your button fly jeans."

"You're cute when you're lying."

"Just go already, will you?"

"Five minutes," Mulder intoned, walking into the men's room.

Five peaceful Mulderless minutes. Oh, how wonderful it would be to have her Ratboy back. Then again, it was the same story with Ratboy. Mulder wanted her to say she worked for the smoker, Ratboy wanted to hear that she loved him. Would Ellen Feldman ever know another moment's peace again? Sighing, she leaned against the wall and watched the crowd of people.

Wow. Look at that yummy cop. That yummy cop's incredible ass.

That yummy cop with the incredible ass only had one arm and was wearing a pair of RayBans.

Ratboy.

The oilien.

The oilien with absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever. Bad enough it wore sunglasses at night when it killed that cop, but to wear them indoors! She was going to teach it a lesson it would never forget.

Stealthily, she moved up behind it and rested her hand on its shoulder. "Excuse me."

The creature whirled, startled.

Ellen smiled pleasantly. "You have something that belongs to me and I want it back."

Oh, no! Nononono! Krycek's body had a lot of memories of this creature. This was a Feldman. And the Feldman said Krycek belonged to it. There was only one thing to do.

It fled.

The Feldman wasn't giving up that easily. No, the Feldman was giving chase. "You give me back my Ratboy!"

"No! This is my Krycek," It shouted back, ducking through doors marked 'authorized personnel only'— whatever that meant. "Go away, Feldman creature."

"I most certainly will not!"

There was no more room to run. It looked around frantically. This was some sort of storage facility. Primitive creatures—dogs, if Krycek's memories could be relied on— were being stored back here. And they were all howling at It. The Feldman was howling at It.

"....not giving up that easily! And how dare you use his body to have sex with Scully! You rotten, no-good—"

"The Scully used us," It whined.

"Do you have any idea what you've done," the Feldman snarled. "Any idea at all?"

"The Scully said she had It—"

"Scully would have said anything to get laid!"

It could vaporize the Feldman, but Krycek's memories said that the Feldman belonged to Krycek. If these two were Joined, It couldn't risk harming Its host that way.

Think. Think fast.

And then It had a plan.

Voices. Ellen was sure she heard voices. And she smelled dog.

"Feldman? Can you hear me?"

Mulder. "I told you—"

"Feldman!"

Ellen cracked one eye open and looked around. "Oh. My. God."

This had to be the most humiliating situation she'd ever been in. Well, at least this week, anyway. The rotten thing using her Ratboy's body knocked her out and stuffed her in a dog carrier.

Winky had a carrier just like this and there was only one way to open the door. From the outside. "Mulder?"

Mulder winked at her and then addressed the airport security guards. "I have the situation here under control. Why don't you gentlemen round up those dogs?"

Round up —? Ellen looked around as best she could. There wasn't a single dog in sight. That rotten alien must have let them all loose and tried stuffing her in the cages until it found one that fit. She was going to get it for this!

"Well, now...." Mulder crouched and peered at her through the door to her cage. "I guess it's true, Pansy, I can't leave you alone for five minutes."

"Pansy?" Even as the name left her lips she realized what it was. Pansy was the original occupant of this carrier. A dog. Mulder was going to die for this. The oilien was going to die for this. Somebody had to die for this.

"I'm considering obedience school," Mulder continued. "It certainly couldn't hurt."

"Very funny. Let me out."

"Tell me what happened."

"I'll tell you after you let me out."

"You can tell me from the cage. If you're telling the truth, I'll let you out. If you're lying, you get to go home to...." He read the tag on the cage. "...Minneapolis."

Jerk! Jerkjerkjerk! She rattled the door of the cage. "Let me out!"

"Tell me what happened."

"Mulder...."

"Yes, Feldman?" His fingers toyed with the door latch.

"I saw my Ra— uh, Alex—no, it was his body, but it wasn't him."

"Here?!"

"Yes!" Didn't he ever pay attention?! "I chased it back here and—"

"You chased it?!" Mulder stared at her incredulously. "You saw that thing vaporize a cop. Did it occur to you that you might get hurt?"

No. "Yes..."

"Have fun in Minneapolis." He stood up.

"Hey! You said you'd let me out if I told you what happened!"

"I changed my mind."

"Mulder!"

"I think I hear them announcing your flight. Hope that luggage compartment isn't too cold."

"Mulder!"

"I'm sure your owner won't be too upset about the switch. After all, you've got to be more vicious than a rottweiler."

"Mulder!!!" Ellen pounded on the cage door. "Mulder! Let me out of here! Now!"

"I'll bet there'll be treats and frisbees and walks in the park—"

"Mulder..." Special Jerk Fox Mulder was going to be the death of her yet. "Please let me out of here."

"Feldman! You said please. Very good. Too bad I don't have a Scooby snack for you."

"C'mon, Mulder...let me out," she whined. If this is what he wanted....

He smiled down at her. "What do you do for the smoker?"

"What?!"

"You know the question."

"I told you—"

"I know what you told me. Now I want the truth."

"Mulder!!!!"

It was going to be a long flight.

This was not her day.

Scully sipped her Dr. Pepper and frowned at Skinner. "What do you mean, Spender's missing? The CDC team sealed off the building."

"I mean exactly what I said, Agent Scully." Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. "Security cameras show him sneaking out through the parking garage. Actually, sneaking isn't the right word. He was...skipping. And singing."

"That's impossible!"

"I have it on tape."

Mulder was going to love that. Mulder. Feldman. The oilien sample. No! Yes. This was Feldman's fault. Every single thing that happened. "Sir, I think we can call off the quarantine. I know where the oilien is."

"You don't mean...please don't tell me..."

"Exactly, sir. In Spender."

And this was, without a doubt, Feldman's fault.

The smoker added the tape to the growing pile on his desk and lit a cigarette with a sigh. So much for a nice, easy recovery. He should have expected as much. After all, he was using Feldman in this matter.

So many video tapes. Evidence of things he'd rather not see.

Like the tape of Krycek under the alien's control as it killed that police officer. Or the tape of Krycek under the alien's control having sex with Agent Scully. Three times. Or the tapes of Feldman and Mulder....well, he'd seen that before. And those might be very, very useful if Krycek got out of line, provided they got the alien out of him.

And finally, there was the tape of Jeffrey behaving in a very un-Jeffrey-like way. A way that suggested the missing alien droplet was in his son.

A nice, easy recovery was becoming a complex matter involving detoxification and denials. Lots of denials. He hoped Strughold didn't hear about it before the mess was cleaned up and things could be plausibly denied.

If only Feldman could be plausibly denied....

Tired. So very, very tired. And Krycek's body was tired, too, if the sluggish responses were any indication. Well, It would give Its Krycek some rest before It reclaimed him. All it needed to do was get back to Its ship, which was right over —

Oh no. No. Nononononono!

The Ship was gone! Gonegonegone!

But that couldn't be! Who would take Its ship? It ran through the piles of refuse, looking for a sign, a clue. Anything. But all It found was more garbage.

It threw back Krycek's head and howled.

Its Ship. Its beautiful, beautiful Ship.

It had to be around here somewhere. It just had to.

"Here we are, Feldman. Fresh Kills landfill."

"Hooray." Ellen slipped out of the car and wrinkled her nose. Was it possible this place could smell even worse since they were here last? "Okay, Master Profiler, where to now?"

Mulder smiled down at her. "The ship."

"What ship?" "The alien spacecraft," he prompted. "The one Ratboy was going to show me. The one you told me was hidden here."

"Oh." Uh-oh.

"Which way, Feldman?"

Double uh-oh. "I....uh....north."

Hazel eyes appraised her as they met hers. "Can you be more specific?"

Truth or lie? Truth? Or lie? What would her Ratboy do in this situation? "No."

"No," Mulder echoed. "And why is that?"

"Because I don't know where it is, exactly," she muttered, kicking at the decapitated head of a Barbie doll.

"Do you know where it might be?"

"No."

The federal agent rubbed his eyes with his hand and groaned. "If I close my eyes and count to twenty, could you 'accidentally' stumble across it?"

"No." God, she was starting to feel really, really stupid.

"Feldman..." With a weary sigh, he reached into his jacket and handed her his cell phone. "Call your boss and ask where the damned thing is. Now."

"But I—"

"Now, Feldman."

"But—"

Further protests were cut off by a desperate animal howl coming from deep in the landfill. It sounded like...a dog. It sounded like...

"Ratboy!"

"Are you sure," Mulder asked, resting his hand on the gun holstered at his side.

"He makes that sound when— uh, never mind. It's him."

"As long as you're sure."

Damn, she forgot what long legs Mulder had. It was hard enough keeping up with him on level ground, but he could step over piles of trash that she couldn't. And jerk that he was, he didn't even notice she was having trouble keeping up. "Slow down, dammit!"

He turned and flashed a boyish grin at her. "I thought you were in a hurry."

"I am." Ewww. What was she standing in? Whatever it was smelled. Bad. And there was no way in hell she was keeping these boots, no matter how much they cost.

Another inhuman howl sliced the night.

"Somebody doesn't sound very happy."

"That thing had better not be hurting my Ratboy."

"You're not carrying, are you," Mulder asked, frisking her quickly.

"Cut that out," Ellen snapped, slapping his hands away. "That tickles. You wouldn't let me bring a gun, remember?"

"That's because I value my life."

Another howl.

"Over there." Mulder pointed vaguely to their left.

Garbage or no garbage, her Ratboy's body sounded like it was in agony. Ellen sprinted as best she could through the large piles of trash, trying to ignore things that squished, cracked and splattered under her boots. Gross! Grossgrossgross! She was going to burn these clothes.

As she made her way past a particularly smelly pile, the screaming grew louder. "Mulder. Look! There! By the Beetle!"

Mulder grabbed her by the collar and yanked her down in the garbage. "Shhhh."

"Ewww! Ick! Mulder, lemme go!"

"Shhh," he hissed. "Didn't Ratboy teach you anything? You need to observe your enemy before you attack."

Oh yeah. "He might have mentioned something—"

"Lower your voice."

"How do we get it out of him, Mulder?"

Mulder stared at her as if she were the alien. "I thought you knew."

"Why would I know? You're the expert."

"Yeah, but your boss sent you to recover it."

"He didn't send me, he sent Ratboy!" Ellen quickly realized her mistake. "He couldn't send me because I don't work for him."

"Feldman!" With a weary sigh, Mulder held out his cell phone. "Call him. I promise I won't peek at the number."

Just then, they heard it. Singing. Off-key, bad singing. Jeffrey Spender was skipping happily through piles of garbage, clad in his mid-priced suit and a pair of sandals.

"Oh my god, he's wearing Birkenstocks with a Geoffrey Beene suit!"

"Life around you is never boring, is it, Feldman?"

"This is not my fault," Ellen snapped.

"Uh-huh. Tell me another one."

They watched as Spender skipped up to Krycek— well, the oilien-Krycek—and smiled ecstatically at him. "Reunited."

The oilien squeaked happily, the oily tears running down Ratboy's face finally subsiding as it reached out with Krycek's good hand to touch Spender.

"Ewwww!" Feldman squirmed uncomfortably as her possessed Ratboy stroked Spender's face and Spender touched her Ratboy. "Mulder, do something!"

"Like what? Toss them a couple of condoms?"

"Mulder!"

"Call your boss, Feldman. He'll know what to do." Mulder thrust the phone into her hand. "Do it before they start having sex or something."

"Ewwww!"

"Hurry, Feldman."

"This doesn't mean I work for him," she muttered, as she punched in the number.

"Whatever."

"Uh...hi...this is Ellen Feldman. Um, Alex Krycek's girlfriend? We might have met once or twice," Ellen lied when the smoker answered. "Uh, I kind of have a situation here."

"It had better be life or death for you to be calling me from Mulder's phone for the second time in as many days, Ellen," the smoker said, ominously.

Don't look at Mulder, she told herself. If you look at him, you'll lose your concentration. "I need to get the alien out of Rat...uh, Alex. And maybe out of Jeffrey Spender, too."

"What?!"

"Unless you don't want me to."

"I most certainly do not. Do not touch either of them. I'm sending a team there right now."

"B-but...they're...all over each other. Spender's trying to mow my lawn!"

"Ellen...."

It was getting worse by the second. Her Ratboy was snuggling against Spender in the front seat of the VW bug and they were saying things to each other she couldn't hear, although she was pretty sure she heard the words unite and join. Mulder seemed to be having the time of his life, watching them and watching her stutter like an idiot while not getting the information she needed. Her eyes traveled down to the gun holstered at Mulder's side. Maybe...just maybe she could bluff the smoker.

Gently, she rested her free hand on Mulder's butt, stroking slowly towards her destination, while the smoker lectured her about how she'd botched this mission completely to hell. Her fingers curled around the handle of the gun and she yanked it from the holster, pointing it squarely at Mulder's face.

"Feldman! Jesus Christ," Mulder exclaimed, as she unlatched the safety.

"You listen to me, smokey, and you listen good," Ellen snarled. "I've got Mulder hostage and unless you tell me how to get the damned alien out of my Ratboy, I'm going to shoot him. Piece by piece."

There was an audible gasp on the other end of the phone.

"You know the number." She disconnected and aimed carefully at Mulder's chest. "Sorry, Mulder, but I can't wait for some detox team."

"Feldman...put the gun down. The smoker can't see—"

"I'm sure he's got this place wired, just like your apartment."

Mulder licked his lips and drew a deep, nervous breath. "Feldman..."

Hmm, Mulder didn't seem at all turned on by her holding a gun on him. Not like her Ratboy. "Just relax, Mulder, he'll call back in a few seconds. Once he's sure I'm not playing around."

"C'mon, Feldman, put the gun down and I swear I won't arrest you—"

The bleating of his cell phone nearly made the federal agent jump out of his skin. Ellen grinned as she answered it. "Well?"

"Ellen, you're treading on some very thin ice," the smoker said, coldly. "I'm giving you this opportunity to save yourself and let Agent Mulder go."

"Answers first, smokey, or I turn him into FBI Swiss cheese."

"Feldman! Do not push me! I allow you much leeway, but not for something like this." With that, the smoker disconnected.

Crap. He called her bluff. And now she had a hostage she didn't want and no way to save her Ratboy. Or maybe, she had everything she needed to rescue her Ratboy. "On your feet, Mulder. Now!"

Mulder blinked at the order. "Look, I know you're a little miffed about—"

"Shut up and get up."

"Feldman..."

Ellen nibbled her lower lip as she watched him rise slowly. "Good boy. Now walk over to where they can see you."

"Whatever you're planning, Ellen, don't do it. You saw that thing vaporize a cop. Do you want to be next?"

"We won't be next, Foxboy. Trust me."

"I would if you had the slightest idea what you were doing," Mulder complained. "And if you weren't pointing a gun at me. And if you didn't work for the smoker—"

"Shut up," Ellen ordered. Mulder's mouth snapped closed. Oooh. That was kind of fun. What else could she make him do? "Move."

Mulder moved slowly, hands raised, towards the Volkswagen, wincing at the sight of Spender cuddling with Krycek. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Me, first."

"Okay, Feldman. Now what?"

"Yooohooo! Oilien! Look what I've got," Ellen called.

Both possessed-Spender and possessed-Ratboy turned their heads in her direction.

"Look at this pretty host body. Look how nice and healthy it is." She pointed with the gun at Mulder, whose mouth was hanging open. "Two arms, nice ass, hung. A real babe magnet."

"Krycek is better," possessed-Krycek said.

"How do you know unless you try him on," Ellen wheedled.

Mulder stuttered wordlessly for a second. "I'm not a pair of shoes, Feldman!"

"You're better than a pair of shoes," Ellen soothed. "Maybe not better than a pair of Bally, but better than Easy Spirit, that's for sure."

The federal agent looked completely horrified. "Feldman!"

"Shhh, Mulder. Just hold still and let our friend get a good look at you."

Possessed-Krycek rubbed his cheek against Possessed-Spender's. "We prefer this body."

Ellen thought fast. She needed a closing argument that would get the job done. "I used to prefer that body, too, but I'm the Feldman, remember? That body belonged to me. I also own this one. I'm willing to make a trade. This one has all functional parts. It's a little older, sure—"

"Feldman!"

"Shut up, Foxboy," she hissed at him and then directed a sweet smile at the oiliens. "Older, yes, but this baby comes with a few features that newer model doesn't have. Uh, like an eidetic memory. Do you boys know what that is?"

"I am not a used car," Mulder protested.

Ellen gave him a quelling stare. "Yeah, he's got that state-of-the-art eidetic memory and best of all, he doesn't need sleep. He can go for days without sleeping."

The two oilien-infested men looked at each other as they considered the offer.

"How about a test drive? You can take Mulder around the block and see if you like him. If you don't, there's no obligation to keep him. Just return him without any wear and tear and your money back." Wow. What a spiel. And Mulder was going to get her for this, she was sure. But it served him right after all the crap he pulled on her during the last couple of days.

"If we don't like him, we can keep Krycek," the oilien asked, blinking innocently.

"Sure," Ellen lied. "Absolutely. I've got a Mulder. Why do I need an outmoded Krycek?"

"Feldman, you don't have to do this," Mulder negotiated. "We can—"

"We'll try him," the oilien decided. "On one condition. We want to see his smile."

Ellen waved the gun. "Smile, Mulder."

"What?!"

"The Mulder's smile must be as useful as Krycek's," the oilien insisted. "Otherwise, we won't try it."

She pointed the gun squarely at Mulder's crotch and repeated a threat that worked so well with her Ratboy. "Smile or I'll make a eunuch out of you."

Mulder smiled radiantly. Yes, he was going to get her for this. If she thought the treatment she got during the past two days was bad... Of course, that pre-supposed his surviving this little oilien encounter.

The oilien looked him over and Mulder wondered idly if it was going to kick his tires. "We will try the Mulder."

"Keep smiling," Feldman ordered. "And stop squirming."

"Feldman—"

"Shhh!" The little piranha smiled at the oilien. "Okay, what do I need to do to help you?"

"Hold the Mulder still," the oilien said.

Feldman nodded and kept the gun trained on his crotch and Mulder could feel his balls shrivel and seek cover.

"You must ignore the sounds Krycek makes as we leave. Krycek is in no danger."

"Right-o."

Mulder could feel his jaw hit the ground as the black oil began to pour out of Krycek's mouth, nose and eyes. It wasn't the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen, but it sure was the most disgusting thing Feldman ever saw, if the look on her face was any indication.

Krycek groaned and slumped to his knees as the thing continued to pour out of him and ooze slowly towards Mulder.

"Mulder..." Feldman looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you're sorry, but Ratboy comes first."

"No, you idiot! Run!!"

He didn't have to be told twice. Mulder sprinted through the piles of garbage, wondering what the hell just happened. Did she plan this? Now that was a scary thought. Feldman without a clue was terrifying in itself, but Feldman with a plan....

The oilien didn't seem to be giving chase. Which meant...Feldman was about to be in over her head. As usual.

Mulder doubled back and crouched low to the ground. No oilien in sight. And there was Feldman, tugging at a semi-conscious Ratboy.

"Get up, dammit," she yelled at Krycek. The Sig was tucked in the waistband of Feldman's leggings and he sincerely hoped she remembered to engage the safety. "Ratboy....please get up...we don't have time for this..."

Krycek groaned and spat oily fluid from his mouth.

Despite everything Krycek ever did to him, Mulder felt a twinge of pity for the one-armed, pussy-whipped bastard.

Spender came up behind Feldman and yanked her back by her hair. "Krycek is ours! You lied to us! You weren't going to give us the Mulder and you were going to steal Krycek!"

Yup. Feldman was now officially in over her head.

"Krycek's body is mine," Feldman argued with the oilien infested Spender.

Mulder looked around frantically. At least he knew where the oilien was — and it couldn't have happened to a better person—but he couldn't let it vaporize Feldman. "Hey! Over here. You want this body? Come and get it!"

That was all the distraction Feldman needed. She scrambled to her feet and took off in search of a weapon, Mulder hoped.

The oilien began oozing out of Spender and heading straight for Mulder.

"Mulder! Look out!" Scully's voice echoed through Fresh Kills.

For once, Mulder did as he was told and narrowly avoided being torched by the flame-thrower Scully was toting. Unfortunately, she missed and the oilien beat a hasty retreat for the limp body of Ratboy.

Feldman came up behind Scully waving Mulder's gun. "Gimme the damn flame-thrower you red-headed harpy!"

Oh Christ! Of all the things for Feldman to do....

"You think you can do a better job, you selfish, little piranha? Go ahead." Scully handed Feldman the flame-thrower with a disdainful sniff.

The petite lawyer fired up the flame thrower and stalked towards the oilien. "Get away from him, you...you bitch!"

Wonderful. Feldman was having delusions of being Sigourney Weaver. Did she have any idea at all what she was doing?

A burst of flame narrowly missed her Ratboy's face, driving the oilien away from the man and back towards the landfill. Feldman stomped after it, a terrifying scowl plastered on her face. "Nobody messes with my Ratboy! Nobody!"

"Does she have any idea what she's doing," Scully snapped, echoing Mulder's thoughts, but with a bitchy edge to her voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Maybe." He hoped. He prayed. Feldman kept pushing the oilien further into the landfill, back towards the Volkswagen. "Scully, grab Spender. I'll get Ratboy. We've got to get out of here. Now."

"Oh my God..." Scully's mouth was agape as realization dawned.

Mulder threw Ratboy over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and called to Feldman. "Feldman, be careful with that flame! There's methane here!"

"What?!" Ellen glanced over her shoulder and saw Mulder carrying her Ratboy to safety. Wow, that looked nice. Too bad she didn't have a camera on her.

The oilien retreated under the Volkswagen. Right into the oil pan, Ellen guessed. After all, what better hiding place was there?

She aimed carefully. So what if she torched it? It was an ugly car anyway. And this was a garbage dump. It wasn't as if she was going to be sued for property damage.

The newspapers would be writing about the explosion at the Fresh Kills landfill for the next week and a half.

Aftermath

"You're an X-File, Feldman."

Alex didn't even bother opening his eyes. No, it was better to keep them closed and imagine whatever the hell was going on around him. Somebody was taking his temperature and stroking his forehead. Somebody who was being far too gentle to be Scully.

"How do you feel, Krycek?"

No, that was definitely Scully's voice murmuring in his ear.

"You're a walking disaster." Mulder's voice rose as he continued lecturing Feldman. "First you sink the Fire Island Ferry, now you've blown up a landfill. What's next? Taking out a continent?"

Scully's lips brushed his cheek. "I'm going to take a blood sample now."

Alex groaned his assent to the blood sample. What the hell was going on here?

"Hey! What are you doing to my Ratboy!?"

Ah, there was his little Feldy. Defender of his civil rights and blood samples.

"I'm taking a blood sample," Scully snapped. "You'd like to know if he's suffered permanent damage, wouldn't you!?"

"Permanent damage from what? The oilien or you slobbering on him!?"

Say what?! Alex strained to open his eyes.

"Listen to me, Feldman, and listen good, you don't get exclusive rights on all the hot, well-hung men. Understand?!"

"Excuse me?" Feldman's voice was colder than ice.

"Don't think I don't know what you and Mulder were up to while Ratboy was under alien control," Scully hissed. "I can spot your claw marks a mile away."

Feldman? And Mulder? Good for her! About time she got over that hang-up about the difference between business and pleasure.

"And don't think I don't know what you did to my Ratboy while he was under alien control, you slut! Where do you get off mowing my lawn?!"

Alex felt whatever contents remained in his stomach rise. Scully? And him? Bleecccchhhh.

"I'll mow your lawn any time I damn well please," Scully exploded. "Mulder won't let me have a crack at him, but Ratboy—"

"Alex," he protested, weakly. "My name is Alex."

"-Ratboy is mine," Feldman barked. "And as for Mulder, if he doesn't want you, that shows he's got taste."

"Feldman, shhhh." Mulder clamped his hand over Feldman's mouth. "That's enough."

"Let go of me, Foxboy!"

Foxboy? Foxboy?! Say WHAT?!

"Down, Feldman. Down, girl."

"I am not a dog, dammit!"

"Maybe not, but you can't deny you work for the smoker."

"Yes, I can!"

Maybe this was one of those alternate universes he kept reading about.... Nah, he'd never get that lucky.

"Okay, little Ms. Denial, explain where the tape in the pizza box came from," Mulder challenged, moving closer to Feldman.

Feldman licked her lips slowly and Alex felt a slight pang of...no, that couldn't be jealousy, could it?

"The tape came from Domino's," Feldman purred. "Honestly, Mulder, you see conspiracies everywhere."

"I see a lot of plausible denials coming to cover up your misdeeds, you little criminal," Mulder murmured, hooking his arm around Feldman's waist. "And I see a very, very long interrogation ahead of you."

No. This couldn't be happening. But it was. Alex struggled to sit up and watch as Feldman blurred the lines between business and pleasure. Blurred them to the point where it made his blood boil.

"I told you, Mulder—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you're not a dog and you don't work for the smoker." Mulder leaned down and rubbed noses with Feldman. "But you know something, Feldpup, that's not what my profile of you says."

"Feldman," Alex rasped. "Get over here. Now."

"What is it, Ratboy?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Talking to Mulder." Feldman looked confused. He had to give her that— the little wench had no idea what she was doing.

"Are you fucking Mulder," he asked, softly.

Feldman nodded proudly. "You were right, Ratboy, it's easy—"

"Sure it is," he interrupted. "It's very easy to make a pussy-whipped cuckold out of me, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Don't get me wrong, Feldman, you can fuck him, but I don't think I can let you talk to him. Unless, of course, you're willing to share."

"Feldman? Share?" Scully snorted her disgust. "No, she wants all the men for herself, while I get stuck fending off—"

"Maybe if you didn't put your make-up on with a shovel and walk around with a stick up your ass, you might get laid," Feldman snarled.

Scully folded her arms across her chest. "I got laid by Ratboy, Feldman. Three times."

"Yeah, but he had to be under alien control to get it up for you." Feldman grinned evilly. "And it helps if you're not afraid to swallow."

"You bitch!"

"You lawn-mowing harpy!"

"Bra-stuffer!"

"Dye-job!"

Alex found himself looking up at Mulder.

The lanky federal agent grinned at him. "I'm getting out of here before this catfight gets out of hand. Care to join me?"

"Absolutely."

"This doesn't mean it's a date," Mulder added, quickly.

But that didn't mean it wasn't.

Epilogue One — Lawnmower Man

"If you ever—and I mean EVER— breathe a word of this to anybody, I'll kill you."

Krycek rose slowly on one elbow and stared down at Mulder. "Who's going to care that we had sex?"

"Shut up! I told you not to mention it!" Mulder covered his eyes with his hand and groaned. What the hell had he been thinking?!

"You told me not to tell anybody. You didn't say I couldn't talk about it with you." He pried Mulder's fingers from his eyes. "I had no idea you liked to bite—"

"Krycek!"

"Aww, Mulder....you can trust me. I'm the epitome of discretion."

Mulder sniffed disdainfully. "This didn't happen and it's not going to happen again."

"Sure it will," Krycek said, confidently. "And maybe we can get Feldman to play, too. I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Please shut up..."

"She's going to want to know where the bite marks on my shoulders came from, Mulder and she's not stupid. Feldman's going to recognize them as yours. After all, she's got the same ones."

"Please..."

"Mmm, mmm, mmm." Krycek smacked his lips. "I sure could go for an FBI sandwich."

"Why me?"

Epilogue Two— A Tale of Two Assistant Directors

"Somebody has to pay for the damage to the eighth floor women's room." Assistant Director Alvin Kersh scowled at Assistant Director Walter Skinner. "Somebody has to pay for the damage to the vending machines. Explain to me why that somebody shouldn't be Special Agent Scully."

Because that would be a year's salary, you pompous ass, Skinner wanted to shout. "Agent Spender was the one responsible for setting the....thing loose in the first place."

"That brings us to that matter," Kersh said, and Skinner could swear he detected a note of subdued glee in the other man's voice. "Does anybody have conclusive proof that this alleged creature exists? And I mean conclusive, Walter."

Oh, for some Tylenol. Oh, for some arsenic. "I'm sure Agent Scully has something—"

"Something? Like what? A tampon wrapper?" Kersh pounded his fist on his desk. "You coddled those agents too damned much, Walt. You never asked for results, you never asked for proof. You let them walk all over you and waste Bureau resources."

"Right."

"Don't take that tone with me. Have you seen Agent Scully's report," Kersh asked, lifting the slim document from his desk and sliding it under Skinner's nose. "Who the hell is Ellen Feldman, anyway?"

"A former employee."

"And why is it nobody's questioned her about her role in this matter, hmmm?"

"Didn't you assign that task to Jeffrey Spender?"

"Damn straight I did. That kid's a brown nose, but he does what he's told, unlike Scully and Mulder. And you know something, Walt?"

Did he want to? "What?"

"I can't wait to hear Agent Mulder's story about how the destruction of an FBI bathroom, a tampon machine and a snack machine all tie in with the explosion at Fresh Kills. I'm sure there'll be aliens and spacelings and maybe even this Feldperson." Kersh smiled a cobra's smile at Skinner. "Wanna stay for the entertainment?"

Maybe Scully was right. Maybe this was Feldman's fault.

Epilogue Three— Earth Shoes, Anyone?

Buried deep in the basement of the Hoover building, Jeffrey Spender sat and pondered the pair of brown suede Birkenstocks that sat on his desk. Sandals. He woke up wearing sandals. Other agents saw him wearing sandals. With his good navy Geoffrey Beene suit. It was utterly humiliating.

What made it worse was that he'd spent his entire life avoiding sandals. Yes, his mother often extolled the virtues of open-toed footwear, but it just didn't seem right for a boy to be wearing them. Men who wore sandals were...hippies, counter-culture weirdos. Spender was positive Mulder owned a pair.

Mulder. If anyone was responsible for the events of the past three days it was Mulder. Unfortunately, just like Mulder's cases, there was no hard evidence of that. There was, however a witness.

Ellen Janine Feldman. Esquire. And A.D. Kersh just gave Jeffrey Spender the plum assignment of getting her statement.

"Jeffrey?"

"Dad?" Too late to hide those damned sandals. Too late to do anything except feel ashamed that they were sitting on top of his day-by-day desk blotter.

His father lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the footwear. "I'll have those burnt for you."

"Thanks, Dad." Gee, the old guy was really making up for all those missed birthdays....

"I came to talk to you about your assignment—"

"Ellen Feldman? Don't worry, Dad, I'll make sure Mulder doesn't get her killed." Jeffrey allowed himself a confident smile. "I'll make sure she doesn't go near him again."

"You will?"

"Absolutely. Once I start going out with her—"

"No!" The old man nearly dropped his cigarette. "You are to have nothing to do with her."

He must've struck a nerve. "Dad? Is there something going on between you and Ellen?"

"Just stay away from her. She's not for you." The smoker snatched the file and the sandals from Spender's desk and stormed out, slamming the office door behind him.

Yeah, this was all Mulder's fault. And Spender was positive Mulder owned more than a couple of pairs of sandals.

Epilogue Four— The Sound of Silence

Mulder finished another game of solitaire and tried to ignore the sound of Scully stabbing her keyboard with her sensibly manicured fingernails. From time to time, she would stop and flip through the pages of the Quicken manual. And somewhere, in between all that, she would shoot him looks that would freeze lava.

Did she know about the Ratboy incident?

Or was it because Kersh was making her pay for all that damage?

She hadn't said a word to him since they left Kersh's office.

Maybe it was better that way. Because sooner or later, the truth was going to come out. Not the truth about extra-terrestrial life. Scully would deny that until her dying day. No, this was the truth about Ratboy.

About what he and Scully did with Ratboy.

And the truth was, if he got the chance, he was going to do it again. Because killer or no killer, Ratboy had technique.

Which just about proved Scully's point: Feldman was going to have to learn to share.

Scully looked at her projected budget and scowled at the screen. This was all Mulder's fault, so why did she have to pay for everything? Was this going to her life at the FBI? Paying for Mulder's breaches of protocol? His screw-ups? His inability to get rid of Ellen Feldman once and for all?

Feldman. That was who should be paying for this mess.

What did Mulder see in her? Hell, what did Ratboy see in Feldman, for that matter?

What made Feldman so damned irresistible to those two?

It just wasn't fair. And that selfish bitch wouldn't even share.

Epilogue Five— In the Cold Light of Day....

"If you ever—and I mean EVER— breathe a word of this to anybody, I'll kill you."

Feldman rose slowly on one elbow and stared down at Scully. "Who's going to care that we had sex?"

"Shut up! I told you not to mention it!" Scully covered her eyes with her hand and groaned. What the hell had she been thinking?!

"You told me not to tell anybody. You didn't say I couldn't talk about it with you." She pried Scully's fingers from her eyes. "I had no idea you liked to bite—"

"Feldman!"

"Aww, Scully....you can trust me. I'm the epitome of discretion."

Scully sniffed disdainfully. "This didn't happen and it's not going to happen again."

"Sure it will," Feldman said, confidently. "Everybody is a patch of my lawn. Even you."

"No!"

Scully opened her eyes and looked around her bedroom. Just a dream. Thank God that was just a dream. She crossed herself. And made sure her door and windows were locked.

What a nightmare.

She reached for her vibrator thinking that this was all Feldman's fault.

Epilogue Six— Bless me, Father.

Scully slipped into the confessional, thankful to have avoided Father McCue on her way into the church. She took a deep breath and waited for the confessor-priest to open the little window. Finally, the window slid open and a pair of sympathetic green eyes looked at her through the screen.

"Yes, my child?"

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession." The words tumbled out in a rush. Yeah, five days since the last fiasco Mulder dragged her into. "In that time, I have committed adultery, I have coveted, I've—"

"Adultery? Are you married?"

"No...but there is someone....sort of." God, she felt like an idiot. This, too, was Feldman's fault. "Anyway, that's not important. What's important is, I fornicated with somebody I wasn't supposed to and I—"

"Was this man married?"

"No, but he's involved with a selfish bitch— I mean, he's with somebody."

"I see."

"No, you don't. You don't see at all! This was the best sex I ever had and it wasn't even with this man. It was with his body!" Oh, that sounded really good. How many hail Marys for necrophelia? "He was drunk—"

"No, he wasn't."

Oh, God. That voice. It couldn't be. "Ratboy?"

"Alex. It's a nice, Christian name."

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

"I followed you. Feldman and I had a bet. I bet that you'd go to confession within a day. She bet you'd wait 'til Sunday. Looks like I win."

If she shot him, she'd never have sex with him again. And she wanted to have sex with him again. "What did you do with the priest?"

A soft ironic chuckle. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Ratboy—"

"I told you, my name is Alex. And if you insist on calling me Ratboy, you'll never have a shot of getting me in the sack again."

Yes! She had a chance! "Why don't you come home with me, Alex? I'd like to check you out—"

"I know you would," he purred.

"I meant examine you."

"Of course." Another soft chuckle. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a rain check. I have a date with Mulder tonight."

"What?!"

"That was my bet with Feldman. If she won, she got Mulder. But, as you know...." Leather crackled as Krycek shifted in the confessional. "I'm a good sport, though. I'm going to let her tag along. I'd let you tag along, but you're not the type."

"The type for what," Scully asked, weakly.

"The type for an FBI sandwich."

Scully leaped out of the confessional, but he was gone. Damn it. Now she was going to have to teach Mulder to share, too. Sighing, she walked over to the holy water and splashed some on her face.

Yeah, no doubt about it.

This was Feldman's fault.

Epilogue Seven— Shout 'em Out!

"Wojtek, you promised!"

"Just one last laundromat, Yuri."

Yuri groaned. "You said that four laundromats ago. Don't you think you're going a bit overboard?"

"No! I love this! I've never had so many nice clothes," Wojtek boomed, as he began rummaging through a dryer. "And you can't beat the price."

"No, but I can beat you black and blue for stealing my shirt, you Commie freak."

The Russians gasped in unison as Carmine, still clutching his box of Mountain Spring Downy, bore down on them.

"I knew you guys had no class when you blew up those dumpsters," Carmine snarled. "But to steal clothes from a laundromat? Whatsamatter? Don't that jerk, Jurik pay you nothin'?"

"We get paid in rubles," Yuri squeaked, nervously, backing towards the door. "Do you know what a ruble is worth?"

"No, but I hope you got enough of 'em saved to pay your hospital bills."

The Maytag repairman was called in later that day to remove the two Russians from the oversized washers. Although Yuri and Wojtek were injured, the machines were unharmed, thus proving the dependability of Maytag appliances once again.

Epilogue Eight— It's Never Too Late to Change Careers

Jurik Jarozlaus heaved a weary sigh. His chances of becoming a major crime boss were gone. Now all he was, was a laughingstock. They pulled his top men out washing machines— washing machines, yet—where they were stealing clothes, for Stalin's sake.

Worse still, the Italians were coming to speak with him. To make him an offer he couldn't refuse, no doubt. Why did communism have to go and collapse and ruin all his black market operations in Russia? Why?

He wasn't equipped to compete in this American marketplace. All he knew was what he saw in those movies he smuggled— The Godfather (parts one through three, naturally), Goodfellas and Johnny Dangerously. Those movies, unfortunately, were completely useless to him now.

"Jerk! It's about time we met face ta face."

"Jurik. My name is Jurik." He managed a weak smile of gold teeth. "You must be Mr. Scavelli."

"And this is my associate, Carmine." Scavelli gestured to a wall of a man who looked angrier than a bull staring at the red flag of communism. "We've come to talk about your future."

"I ain't no psychic or nothin'," the human wall named Carmine rumbled. "But I gotta tell ya, I see a trip in your future. Capisce?"

"Capisce." Maybe be could make a living in Cuba.

"My friend," Scavelli said, pulling a plane ticket out of his jacket and thrusting it into Jurik's hand. "I do believe I see you setting up shop in Vermont."

"V-vermont?"

"Yeah. There ain't no carting cartel there. Mebbe a piker like you could make a name fer himself." Carmine flexed his muscles. "You gotta problem with Vermont?"

"No."

Where the hell was Vermont?

Epilogue Nine— Why me?

"The reason I asked you to be here, Alex, was to help me review Ellen's activities over the past few days and assist me in critiquing them."

Alex didn't dare peek at Feldman. No, he kept his eyes on the smoker's and prayed they would all survive this meeting.

"Let us begin with recovery of the merchandise," the smoker said, crushing his Morley. "I believe I assigned that to you, Alex. Therefore, Ellen, you will not be held responsible for failing to follow that order. I am, however, holding you responsible for the explosion at the landfill. There is no doubt in my mind that could have been avoided had you simply followed orders."

Feldman drew herself up. "Your orders—"

"Are to be obeyed without question. Had you simply waited fifteen minutes, a team would have arrived and gotten the creature out of Alex without destroying government property and generating undue attention." A new cigarette was pulled lovingly from the pack. "Instead, you took Agent Mulder hostage and threatened to kill him."

Oh shit! Shitshitshit. They were dead. All because Feldman had no idea what she was dealing with.

"We do not threaten to kill Agent Mulder, Ellen. Ever." The smoker lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag. "And you are not to take him hostage. In fact, you are forbidden from taking any hostages unless you are so ordered and under supervision of a senior operative."

Say what?

"Which brings me to you, Alex. I'm making you her supervisor. You are responsible for seeing that she obeys my orders to the letter and that under no circumstances does she perform field work of any kind."

This was a fate worse than death. He was being made responsible for Feldman. That was like trying to control a tornado. "Sir, I —"

"I seem to recall you urging me to recruit Ellen, Alex." The smoker's mild expression belied the stalking cobra underneath. "You've got your wish and now you're responsible for her."

Alex felt a chill run up and down his spine. "B-but that was four years ago —"

"Good luck." And then, evilly, "You're going to need it."

"Now, wait a minute," Feldman protested. Alex clamped his hand over her mouth.

The smoker blew a cloud of smoke into her face. "And while we're still on the subject of Agent Mulder, Ellen, would you care to explain why you called me from his phone while he was present? Why you felt you could give me orders? Why you think your pitiful denials have him convinced you don't work for me? And, of course, what you intend to do about this relationship with him that you seem to have initiated?"

With each question, Alex slumped lower in his seat.

He was doomed.

Epilogue Ten— The Insult That Made A Man Out of Mac

"That went...uh...well, didn't it," Feldman ventured.

Alex pulled the car over and stared at her for a full minute while he tried to think of an answer that didn't involve him putting her over his knee. "That depends, Feldman. What were you trying to accomplish?"

She blinked innocently. "What do you mean?"

"I don't even know where to start. You tried ordering the smoker around. You took Mulder hostage. Do you ever think about what the hell you're doing?!"

"Hey! Don't take that tone with me, Ratboy—"

"Alex."

"— I saved your skin. Again."

Was it his imagination or did she sound more than a little smug about that? "I saved you plenty of times when you were dating Mulder. Hell, I even helped you save Mulder."

"How classy of you to throw it in my face," Feldman sniffed.

"I'm stating a fact." Maybe putting her over his knee wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Look, kitten—"

"I am not a kitten!"

It was too soon for PMS, wasn't it? Patience was the key, he reminded himself. "You did some very, very bad things. I know you had good intentions, that you wanted to rescue me, but you need to be subtle in this business. Otherwise, you end up dead. Fast."

Feldman examined her nails. "Gee, thanks, boss."

"That's right, honey. I'm your boss from now on." God help him. "And if you learn from me, you're going to be very, very successful."

"I've been very, very successful without your advice."

"Really? Let's review those successes, shall we?" He reached into the back seat and produced a thick manila envelope. "The smoker gave these to me while you were powdering your nose. He said we needed to go over them and I should explain what you did wrong."

Maybe he shouldn't be enjoying watching her squirm, but he did. God, did he ever.

Alex tore open the envelope with a flourish and shook the contents into his lap. There were pictures and transcripts galore. He selected a picture at random and had to stop himself from bursting into hysterical laughter. "Okay, Fido, explain the dog crate."

"I am not a dog."

"True, but you do work for the smoker." He grinned at her. "And for me."

"Ratboy—"

"Alex." Hmm, this was an interesting picture. "You did it in a landfill with Mulder? Didn't the smell bother you? And shouldn't you have been looking for me?"

"I was looking for you," Feldman protested.

"In Mulder's pants? I don't think so."

"Oh, Alex," she whined, her eyes going dewy as she looked up at him. "You don't know what a horrible time I had. Mulder kept calling me names and he was so mean to me—"

"Very mean to do you in a landfill," Alex murmured, flipping through the pictures. "And his shower. And his living room. His bedroom, too? Jesus! You brought him to my house!"

Feldman blinked innocently. "Our house."

"My house. I paid for it and I let you live there if you don't call me Ratboy." He sighed and looked at the surveillance photo of Mulder snickering at the welcome mat. "My ex-house. I'm going to have to sell it now."

"B-but—"

"I can't have Mulder knowing where I live, Feldman."

"Ra— uh—Al ... uh, —sweetie—"

"Forget it. The house is history." Alex thrust the picture under her nose. "You know what he'd do if I didn't? Every time he wanted an answer to something, he'd come barging in and beat me up. And even if I had no idea what he was talking about, he wouldn't believe me. I'm not getting pounded to a pulp in my own home, kitten."

"But, Alex, I can't afford rent!"

"Fine, then you keep the house. I'll move out."

"But Ratboy—"

"Alex." He stuffed the pictures back into the envelope. "Look, I was planning on getting you your own place anyway. I think it's better if we don't share accommodations."

Ellen could feel her mouth drop open. "Y-you're dumping me? It's not because of Mulder, is it? Because I could give him up. At least, I think I can—"

Her Ratboy waggled a finger. "No. I am not dumping you. I'm just not cut out to be...domesticated."

"But you're the one who wanted to be domesticated in the first place," Ellen exploded. "I wasn't the one who told you to buy the house. I wasn't the one who wanted to get married and have kids! I wasn't—"

"I didn't say you were—"

"And I certainly didn't pussywhip you, either," she finished, with an angry sniff. "No matter what Mulder says."

Her Ratboy buried his face in his hand. "Swell."

"You're not pussywhipped, Ratboy!"

"I must be," he muttered. "I let you call me Ratboy."

"You can't move out, Alex." There. She used his name. "Where will you go?"

"Wherever I'm assigned. Just like I did before you pussywhipped me. And when I'm in town, I'll stay with you." He grinned wickedly. "Or Mulder."

"What?!"

"I told Mulder I wouldn't kiss and tell. You don't mind sharing with me, do you?"

"You want to mow my lawn?!"

"I thought I was your lawn."

Think Feldman. Think fast. "You are. You're my front lawn. He's my back. And I don't know if my lawns should mow each other."

"Don't you remember, kitten? You're my favorite."

"Your favorite what," Ellen sniffed. "What happened to being engaged?"

Her Ratboy looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck.

"You said you loved me," she whined. Oh yes, she had him now. Did he think she was going to beg him to stay? No, when she was finished, he was going to beg her to be allowed to stay. "You said you wanted to have a relationship with me. All you want is a regular lay."

"I do. That's what Mulder is for."

"He's mine!"

"Scully's right. You are a selfish little bitch." Those long-lashed green eyes had her pinned in place. "And as long as we're on the subject, you said you loved me and wanted to be monogamous. But what do you do the first time I get possessed by an oilien? You go bang Mulder. Which isn't unforgivable. But that....flirting, I can't have that."

"You do it! You bat those damned eyelashes at him every chance you get. It's unfair, using your eyelashes like that. I can't get that look with any mascara on the market."

"You have other assets that Mulder likes."

"You have one that's eight inches."

Her Ratboy gave her a smile that left her underwear dripping. "Yes, I do. And yes, he does. You're welcome to come play with us if you're willing to share and share alike."

"What about Scully?"

His nose wrinkled. "Bleccchhhh."

"Oh, Ratboy—"

"Alex. Forget it, Feldman. I'm not going back to that house and giving Mulder an advantage over me." He patted her knee. "Look, I promise I'll stay with you when I'm here—"

"So how is that different from our arrangement now? You're still gonna keep your stuff in my closet."

"I own two suits, two pairs of jeans, four sweaters, a couple of T shirts, the boots I'm wearing and this jacket."

"Oh, honey, you do want a commitment." And a real wardrobe.

"That's what I've been saying. I just don't want to lose my edge. Got it?"

"No. Because your argument makes no sense whatsoever."

"You want me to say it? Fine, I'll say it. A domesticated Ratboy is a dead Ratboy. Understand now?"

"But I didn't domesticate you. You domesticated yourself!"

"I did it for you."

"I don't want a domesticated Ratboy. I want the dangerous Ratboy I took hostage."

"Feldman!"

Oh, look. There was his gun, hanging within easy reach in his cute little shoulder holster. With a grin, she lunged forward and grabbed it, disengaging the safety easily. "Now, then. I've got the gun, so I guess that makes me the one in charge."

"Feldman!" Those sexy green eyes widened in surprise. "Didn't you hear what the smoker said about taking hostages?"

"Consider this a coup, Ratboss."

"Alex...my name is Alex. And for God's sake, be careful. That thing has a very light trigger."

"So do you." She reached out with her free hand to undo his jeans and free the monster erection that lurked within. "You're not going anywhere, Ratboy."

It was going to be a long hostage crisis.

The End. For now.

xx

MsBrooklyn@aol.com

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