A Snowball's Chance in Hell

By Logan

logan@hegalplace.com

http://www.hegalplace.com/logan

Rating: R (slash, language, adult themes)

Archive: Please ask first

Spoilers: None

This story is a sequel to Cold Comfort, also written for the X-Files Lyric Wheel. It will make no sense if you don't read Cold Comfort first. It can be found here: http://www.hegalplace.com/logan/coldcomfort.html

To Mars and Satina, who insisted there was more to the story.



A Snowball's Chance in Hell
By Logan
////////////////////////////////

Alex Krycek sat in the darkened movie theater, watching the credits flash on the screen. Terrence H. Bannister, Gaffer. What the hell was a gaffer anyway, he wondered. Rory Goldman, second assistant to the director. What did a second assistant do, hold the director's dick while he took a leak?

The house lights came up, and a boy in serious need of a good dermatologist approached Alex's seat.

"Sir, are you awake? The movie is over, we're closing now."

Alex looked up at him. "Young man, when I spend twenty dollars to see a film I damned well stay awake through it."

He didn't know why he used the word "film". All the movies were digital now, there was no film involved. But old habits died hard.

The boy blushed. "Yes sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"Yes you did," Alex replied, coming slowly to his feet. "Tell me, is there an older gentlemen with gray hair and a cane sitting in the lobby?" He'd heard Mulder call his name, and had ducked into the auditorium as quickly as his sore knees could carry him.

"Naw, he left a few minutes ago. Were you waiting for him?"

Alex sighed. "No. Yes. I don't know. Thank you."

He walked past the confused boy and made his way up the aisle, out of the auditorium into the warm, brightly-lit theater. The smell of popcorn lingered in the air as the employees rushed about, polishing the shiny chrome counters and sweeping kernels from the floor, anxious to get home for the evening.

Alex put on his hat, looped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat, then tugged on his gloves. The rebels had regrown his left arm, but it was almost twenty years younger than the right. Only now was it begging to age, and the curious juxtaposition of the smooth, unlined skin with the worn and aged right one was a constant reminder of the old injury, the old pain.

He looked out of the glass double doors to see that it was snowing rather heavily now. He sighed and stepped out into the blustery night.

He didn't want to go home just yet. For all he knew Mulder had gotten a good look at him and was now assured of his continued survival. He could be waiting outside of his apartment right now, if not to punch him then to whack him with his cane. Mulder might not be able to beat him anymore, but he still had his wits about him. He could still throw accusations and insults, and those had hurt nearly as much as Mulder's fists.

He felt something under his foot and looked down. There was a black leather glove on the sidewalk. He leaned down slowly and picked it up. Some curious impulse made him bring it to his nose and inhale. The smell was so familiar, igniting memories so long buried that they almost made him dizzy. The smell of Mulder's couch, sweat and aftershave and leather, a smell so strong and sweet that just sitting on the damned thing had made his mouth water.... He swallowed hard, pocketed the glove, and started moving again.

Alex walked to the end of the block to a small pub he frequented. He came to this theater often, when he felt that the walls of his apartment were closing in on him and he couldn't stand the loneliness any longer. He enjoyed being around other people, the brief escape from his own existence as he lost himself in whatever film -- movie -- was showing.

His favorites were the ones that still featured human actors, instead of the CGI characters that were frequently the stars now. They were always young, always beautiful, and capable of physical feats unknown to humans. But their eyes were soulless, and Alex would happily drop his twenty bucks even to see the newest Mary Kate Olsen romantic comedy, just to see a real human face on the screen.

Warm air that smelled of beer and bacon hit him in the face when he pushed open the pub's door. He went to his usual corner table and sat down, put his hat and gloves on the table next to him. A waitress appeared, young and blonde and smiling.

"Mr. Parker, the usual tonight?" She asked, setting down silverware and a glass of water.

He nodded. "Yes, thank you. And bring me a double bourbon, please."

She eyed him for a moment. "You still want the beer with your sandwich?"

He nodded again, and she looked at him for another moment before walking away. She returned shortly with his drink and placed the neat bourbon on a coaster on the table. His hand shook when he reached for it.

When he'd heard that voice -- God, that voice -- calling out for Alex, it almost hadn't registered that it had been calling for him. He'd been David Parker for so many years now that he even thought of himself as David. Alex Krycek was only a memory most days.

Fox Mulder. That name was more than a memory. It was always present, almost on the tip of his tongue, as if Mulder were just in the next room waiting for Alex to join him.

They'd been lovers so briefly, for six wonderful, tempestuous weeks after the Augustus Cole case. And then Duane Barry had escaped, and Alex had received orders. He'd executed them to the letter, and murdered their relationship with his blind obedience. In a heartbeat their passion had turned to something darker, bloodier. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Or was it? Alex gulped the burning amber in his glass, went to take another sip and found it empty. He set it down and sighed heavily.

He had hid from Mulder like a coward, for twenty years now. For the first ten he had traveled the world, squandering his ill-gotten gains on good food, lavish hotels and beautiful prostitutes of every race and gender. But nothing had helped him forget those short, wonderful weeks, and like a moth to a flame he'd been drawn back to Washington. Back to Mulder. He'd settled into a new name, a new identity, and had lived quietly for the last ten years, never approaching Mulder or initiating contact. It was satisfactory to be close enough to check up on him occasionally, assure himself that Mulder was in good health and fairing well, even if he did behave like a little old man, aged by grief and pain more than years.

Alex himself was in excellent health, and still turned the eyes of women and the occasional man. His solitary existence was a choice, not something imposed on him by age. He found it strangely comforting to know that Mulder lived a similar, almost reclusive, existence.

Not that he wanted Mulder to be lonely. He knew too well what is was like to spend so much time alone, wondering what could have been. How many times had his mind taken those few weeks and spun them into a lifetime? They had been the happiest weeks of his life, but after all this time they were cold comfort when he awoke alone in the middle of the night, his only companions his television and a spoiled cat named Spooky, who liked to eat his houseplants and created spectacular furballs on his rugs.

The waitress brought his glass of beer and sandwich and placed them on the table. Alex picked up the beer and sipped it slowly, still lost in thought.

Time had rose-tinted his memories, allowing him the luxury of fantasizing that he and Mulder could have been so much more to one another. It had taken him a long time to stop clinging to the bright scrap of joy that Mulder hadn't beaten the hell out of him that day when he'd kissed him. Perhaps Mulder had still thought reverently of those memories once, as Alex himself still did.

But unless he finally faced Mulder, he would never know. Would seeing that loathing in Mulder's eyes once again be worth the opportunity just to say "I'm sorry"? Had time softened Mulder's heart enough that he might believe it?

He didn't know if he could cope with making amends with Mulder. Mulder's hatred for him was one of those universal constants that one came to rely upon in life, like death, taxes, and the Atlanta Falcons sucking ass. Alex was old, and tired. He wasn't sure he wanted his world turned upside down at this point. Maybe he just wanted to spend the rest of his life eating frozen dinners while watching reruns of NYPD Blue on Nick at Night until one day he just didn't wake up. No one would notice he was gone until the smell got unbearable and the cat had feasted on his corpse....

He shuddered and pushed his plate away, his appetite quelled.

He pulled the glove from his pocket and held it in his hand, caressing the black leather, and let memories carry him away. Youth and laughter, Mulder's soft hair and big hands and the intensity of those brilliant, mercurial eyes when they looked at him, with desire or passion or even hate, piercing through him, as if he could read the secret language of Alex's heart.

Could he risk Mulder's disdain for another look at the man? Or were his dreamy, timeless memories enough to sustain him?

Alex decided he'd had too much to drink. He needed to go to bed and sleep. Maybe things would be clearer in the morning. He went to the counter and paid, then pushed the door open and stepped out into rapidly accumulating snow. It crunched under his feet as he walked to the corner to hail a cab.

A taxi rolled to a stop at the curb and Alex climbed into the back seat, arranged his coat and removed his hat, placing the black fedora on the seat beside him.

"Wesley Heights," he said, then paused. "No. Take me to Georgetown."

Twenty years had been long enough. They would talk, and say goodbye properly, or they would... do something else. Alex knew not what. But after all these years, he suddenly had an urgent need to find out.

//////////////////////////

It was nearly midnight. Mulder was sitting in his recliner, sipping scotch as he stared mindlessly at the television, watching the lights and colors on the screen shift patterns without paying any attention to the program.

He held up the cut glass tumbler and swished the liquor around. The ice clinked against the sides, the expensive liquid glowing bronze in the light from the television. The taste of honey and peat rolled over his tongue as he sipped it.

The bottle of Aberlour had been a final gift from Frohike. He'd died of lung disease two years ago. The crazy bastard had known that his time was short and had thrown his own wake, complete with belly dancers, a catered buffet and gifts for all of his friends. Mulder missed him horribly.

Missing someone who wasn't there seemed to be a recurrent theme in his life. Samantha, his father -- who'd been so distant he might as well have been gone long before his actual death -- Melvin, Walter, Scully in her airy condominium with handsome, microbiologist husband. Alex. It always came back to Alex.

He carefully set the glass on the end table, then picked up the gun in his lap. He cradled it in his hands, watching light play off of the polished metal, rubbed his thumb over the grip. President John Fitzgerald Byers had outlawed private citizens owning handguns ten years ago, but as a retired law enforcement officer, and personal friend of the president, Mulder was still approved to carry one. He never did. It had been in his nightstand drawer for several years.

He was so tired. He was tired of being alone, tired of living a life fueled by regret. Only a few good moments kept him warm at night; the memory of bright green eyes and a dangerous smile, strong arms and heartfelt lust... but the memories always ended with hollow lies, and left him alone, hurting, in the middle of the night.

He curled his fingers around the handle, his knuckles creaking. His hand shook as he brought the gun to his temple. He was tired of hurting, tired of being alone. He just couldn't do it anymore. He thought for a long moment of the years that stretched ahead of him, the journey of his life trailing off into nothingness, bleak and cold as the night outside his front door, and swallowed hard as he pressed the barrel to his skin, his finger resting on the trigger. At least he wouldn't be alone. His sister waited for him. His parents, his friends... it would be okay now.... Everything that mattered was
gone... Alex...

A knock at the door nearly startled him into pulling the trigger. He closed his eyes, his heart thumping against his ribs, his mouth dry. Go away, he thought. I don't know what you're selling at this time of night, but I'm not buying. I'm not buying anything anymore. I'm done, dammit, now leave me the hell alone...

He nearly laughed aloud. Wasn't there a gun to his head because he'd been alone for so long? And now he was complaining that someone was knocking on his front door. He put the gun down, his hand shaking so hard that the butt of the gun knocked against the lamp as he set it down. He righted the recliner, stood slowly. The rapping on the door grew more insistent, louder and sharper.

He went to the front door and pressed the button to look at the video viewer. What he saw nearly brought him to his knees. He threw the door open and faced Alex Krycek for the first time in twenty years.

Krycek had matured, the angles of his face softened, and he was undeniably still attractive. He wore a long black wool coat, a purple scarf, and a black fedora. He reminded Mulder of a film noir star, dark and dangerous.

He smiled and reached into his pocket, then held up Mulder's black leather glove.

"You dropped this," he said softly. "Hello, Mulder."

Mulder didn't speak, just stared at the man who stood on his porch. Maybe this was Heaven; perhaps he'd pulled the trigger, and this was what waited for him on the other side. Alex. Finally.

Krycek nodded. "Yes, Mulder, it's good to see you too. No, I know it's snowing like hell and it's freezing out here, but I don't want to come in. I'd rather stay right here and get frostbite."

Mulder's synaptic function returned. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, please, come in. I'm just surprised. I thought I had seen you at the theater, but then...." He shook his head and stepped back, opened the door wider.

Krycek stepped inside, and faced him. Mulder's eyes examined each feature, each line and angle and contour, drinking in the sight of him, his enemy and his lover, so familiar and yet still such a mystery.

Alex Krycek's eyes glowed with emotion. Mulder recognized the look on Alex's face; wry amusement, a look Alex had worn often. The jump in his jaw muscle and little furrow between his brows gave away his nervousness.

"How long have you known where I lived?" Mulder asked. "Why didn't you come to see me before this? You could have at least told me to go to hell, for old time's sake."

Krycek grinned and removed his hat, placed it on the coat tree and then removed his gloves and stuffed them in his coat pockets. He unbuttoned the coat deftly and hung it. Mulder grabbed the smooth, organic left hand, examined it closely.

"Amazing," he breathed, squeezing the index finger between his own.

"Ow!" Krycek snatched his hand back, sucked the offended knuckle, glaring at Mulder. He dropped his hand to his side and scrutinized Mulder for a long moment. Mulder's heart pounded, wondering what exactly Krycek saw when he looked at him. An old man, with more salt than pepper in his hair, washed up and used up? Was he anything more than that anymore?

"I was tired of old times," Krycek said softly. "I thought we needed some time to gain perspective on things before we could sit around swapping war stories."

"Twenty years?" Mulder asked dumbly.

Krycek smiled again, a toothy grin that lit his eyes. Crow's feet fanned from the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Mulder resisted the urge to run his fingertips over the crinkled skin.

"Given our history, I'd say it's a great accomplishment that we've made it this far in one lifetime." He sighed, his expression softening. "The truth is, Mulder, I have a few good memories of us, and I didn't want to heap any more bad ones on top of them. Now, are you going to offer me a cup of coffee, or are we going to stand here all night?"

Mulder felt old rage burn in his gut. Who the hell did Krycek think he was? Mulder had been moments away from ending his life, had spent so many long, lonely years wondering if the man was alive or dead, and Krycek had the nerve, the fucking audacity to show up in the middle of the night and demand coffee? The sheer, unmitigated gall of the man...

"How dare you," he rasped, coming closer, grasping Alex's upper arm with a strength he hadn't felt in his hands in years. "How fucking dare you! You have no idea what it's been like for me, how many nights I've been awake wondering what happened to you, and all this time you were fine, apparently. Did you think about what you did to me when you left? Did it occur to you for a split second that I might care what happened to you? One fucking postcard from you and maybe I could have gone on with my life!" He was shouting now, his face inches from the other man's, his vision blurry with scalding tears. He shook Krycek roughly.

"I fucking missed you," he whispered. "You bastard, it was all over and I had nothing, you left me with nothing," he sobbed, letting his hands fall helplessly to his sides, his shoulders bowed. He turned away from Krycek, walked over to grab his glass of scotch. His fingers grazed the barrel of the gun as he snatched up the glass. It was empty. He turned, flung the glass at the wall above the television, watched with grim satisfaction as it shattered. How dare Krycek show up here, why had he waited so long....

A warm hand rested on his shoulder. Alex sighed, and Mulder shivered, remembering that warm breath against his skin. "I wasn't ready, Mulder. I didn't like who I'd become. I needed to make peace with myself before I could do it with anyone else. Especially you. You always made me want to be someone you could be proud of. I couldn't be close to you when I wasn't proud of myself. I needed time to find a way to accept that I'd done the right things, and still felt that I'd lost."

Mulder rounded on him, his hands curled into fists. "Twenty years?" he demanded, resisting the urge to shake the man again.

"Don't give me that shit," Krycek retorted, looking stung. "You haven't been alone for twenty years. You had Scully. If you fucked up your marriage, how is that my problem? You had friends, a career, international recognition for your part in things. You're friends with the goddamn president! If you've lived like a monk for the last few years, shuffling around like a little old man, that's not my fault. One of the reasons I left was so you could have a life free from the past; if you flushed it down the crapper, you're not going to hang it on me."

Mulder forced his hands to relax, raked his fingers through his hair. "Scully... we wanted to be right for each other. We wanted to be in love. But that boat sailed long before we got married. We were too busy chasing monsters to realize it. She deserved more. I'm glad she's got it now."

Krycek cleared his throat, looking at Mulder with piercing scrutiny. "You both deserved more. How sad, Mulder. You faced down an alien invasion, but never could admit you liked to suck dick? You've spent all these years alone in your nice little closet, still trying to be what everyone else expects you to be." He chuckled humorously. "And I thought I'd lost myself, lost touch with my emotions. You were never any different than me, Mulder. You just cleaned up better. Perhaps I made a mistake coming here."

"Maybe you did." Mulder took a step back, narrowly avoiding stepping on a thick, jagged shard of the bottom of the glass he'd thrown. "You disappeared, cleaned out your apartment and took off without a word. Skinner was going to get your name cleared, help you put your life back together, and you fucking ran. You didn't give me a chance to make things right, didn't even let me know if you were alive, and now you show up here in the middle of the fucking night...."

"How the hell was I supposed to know you wanted to make anything right? When we were working together to stop the invasion, you treated me like you could barely stand the sight of me. I was just a necessary evil. So what exactly did you want to make right, Mulder?"

Mulder looked at him for a long moment. He'd played this scene out in his head so many times, and it didn't go like this. He'd sworn he wouldn't let it be like this again. He'd waited so long for this chance, and here he was practically pushing the man out the door, out of his life again....

"I waited for you to come out of the theater tonight not to fight with you, but to thank you for risking your life to save the world. And to tell you that I have good memories of us too. You are the one thing that was always missing from my life, Alex. I used to thrive on searching for things I knew I couldn't have. My sister, whatever I thought was the truth any given week. I stopped living for that a long time ago, and since then there's been nothing..." He sighed heavily, tears burning in his eyes again. "I can't do it anymore. That's why I was going to...."

"Shoot me the next time you got the chance?" Krycek asked, looking over at the gun on the end table. "Do you sit here every night, waiting for me to show up so you can finally kill me?"

"I wasn't going to shoot you." The confession burned like gasoline in his throat. "I was going to shoot myself. I've been alone for so long, you fucking left me, please don't leave, Alex...."

Fifteen minutes before, Fox Mulder had been planning suicide. Instead, he sobbed softly in Alex Krycek's arms as the anger drained from him, leaving him light-headed. He felt the other man shake against him, buried his face in the soft hair and wept, a lifetime of anger and regret rushing through him at once, dizzying and fierce, then receding in a tide of tears. He clung to Krycek until his bad knee started to give.

Krycek helped ease him into his recliner, took his gun and unloaded it, pocketing the bullets. Mulder watched as he went to the kitchen and came back with a dishtowel and a dustpan. He got up the largest pieces of broken glass, disposed of them, then came back to stand in front of Mulder. He reached out and stroked his hair gently.

"I started a pot of coffee. Come on, let's talk."

Mulder grabbed his cane and followed Krycek into the kitchen. They sat at his kitchen table and talked quietly until the coffee pot was empty, then switched to the bottle of scotch. Mulder told Alex about Frohike's funeral, how Langly and his teenage son had built a barge and John Byers had had the navy pull the small barge containing Frohike's body out to sea and set it afire, just as the man had wanted. He told him that Skinner had gone to Tibet as a special envoy to President Byers, met a woman and never come back. He was 72 and she was 30, they'd had three children in five years and Skinner still wrote him snail mail letters, sounding happier than any man had a right to.

Alex told him of his global exploits, of an orgy at a white party in Miami Beach, of smoking hashish and spending a weekend in a Thailand hotel with 20 year old identical twins from Germany, of a stunning Greek heiress who'd tied him up and whipped him at a bondage club in France, then sent him a Cartier watch and a diamond studded cock ring as a thank you gift.

"But was it fun?" Mulder asked mildly, sipping his drink. He'd kept his composure as Krycek talked. What right did he have to be insanely jealous? He'd been married for five years, and certainly couldn't expect that someone like Alex would curl into a ball and hide from the world as he had. Only the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the glass gave away his reaction to the thought of Alex fucking his way across the free world.

Alex looked at him and shrugged. "I came back here, didn't I? Sure, it was fun at the time, but afterwards I always felt... hollow. Then about ten years ago I got sentimental, decided I'd look up a few people that I'd always wondered about." He sighed heavily as he ran his fingertip around the lip of his empty glass.

"I found Marita in a hospital in Norway. She was in the end stages of nasopharyngeal cancer," he said, his voice low and rough. "I checked her out of the hospital and rented us a beach house on one of the Lofoten Islands. She lived three more weeks after I found her. After she died, I realized that everything I'd sacrificed had to have more meaning than drinking myself into a gutter and ending up with AIDS." He smirked. "Well, maybe I didn't realize that myself. Maybe Marita said it. But she was right." He looked at Mulder intently, his expression tender.

"So I thought about what was left that meant anything to me. And I came to the conclusion that the hope that you and I might sit down together like this one day meant more to me than being a pampered and sought-after male whore, as fun as that was." He grinned broadly as he finished the sentence.

Mulder snorted, the scotch burning his sinuses as it backwashed up towards his nostrils. "Oh Christ," he moaned, choking back laughter. "I'm too old for this. I really am."

Alex threw back his head and laughed, deep and throaty. "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder," he chided, still chuckling, "Age is all in your head. That must be why you shuffle around like you're pushing your centennial. You're only sixty, what in the hell is wrong with you?"

Apparently he'd meant it as a joke, but it cut deep. "I feel old," Mulder said gruffly. "I didn't travel the globe exploring the local delicacies. I stayed here to pick up the pieces, tried to make a life. Scully and I tried to adopt a child, and the birthmother changed her mind in the delivery room. The marriage fell apart after that. It wasn't strong enough in the first place. And I've been alone since then. I go to California and visit her and her new husband and her grown stepkids and now her grandkid. My friends have all died or moved on." He looked over at Alex. "I knew there was no point seeking something to fill me up. I knew what was missing all along, and I knew it was my fault it was gone."

Alex pushed back his chair, letting it scrape over the slate tile of the kitchen floor. He came to stand in front of Mulder, resting his hand lightly on the man's shoulder. "Yes, you fucked it up, Mulder, but I am not blameless either. I did what I had to do, and I don't regret that. But I lost a lot of myself along the way. I had to shut off emotions that had no place in a war, but when it was over, I couldn't function without them." He ran his fingertips over Mulder's jaw. "I couldn't love without them, as much as I wanted you. I came here to move on, or accept that we never would. Not to fight and blame and maim one another. I can't go there again. Not even for you. I don't think you want that either."

Mulder looked up at him and took Alex's hands in his own. One smooth and young, not showing the scars of the past. The other rough, calloused, carrying the sum of Alex's past and Mulder's as well. This hand had held him, hit him, but never failed to make him feel. That was what it came down to. Alex Krycek made him feel alive.

He brought the worn, aged hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over the knuckles. Alex pulled back, his hand curling into a fist for a moment, then opening as he reached to brush back the hair from Mulder's forehead, resting his hand tenderly on the crown of his head.

"Mulder..." he said, barely more than a whisper, but Mulder shook his head.

"You don't have to say anything. I know I sound like a crazy old man. I'm glad you came by, Alex. It was good to see you. I promise, I'm not going to shoot myself. You don't have to worry about me. I'm just glad to know you're all right." He looked down, but Alex placed two fingers under his chin and tipped his head up until their eyes met.

"Shut up, Mulder," Alex whispered, his voice mild, tender. He grasped Mulder's elbow and pulled him from the chair, until they stood facing one another. Mulder stroked Alex's cheek and then leaned in and pressed his lips to the other man's. The weight of years fell from Mulder as they kissed. He felt younger, lighter, stronger with each glide of his tongue over Alex's, each of the man's moans that he swallowed down.

The sun was coming up, and he closed his eyes against the dazzling light as it glinted off the snow outside and blazed through the windows. He sank into the warmth of Alex's body, the silence of dawn broken only by the sound of their labored breathing and the rustle of clothing. Finally Alex pulled back a little, his lips moist and swollen, tantalizing. Mulder leaned forward to capture them again, but Alex stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"One step at a time, Mulder," He whispered, smiling softly. "It took us twenty years to get here. Let's take the time to enjoy it."

Mulder squeezed his hand, the left one. "So what's next?"

Alex suppressed a yawn, grinning. "Sleep. I have to go home, feed my cat. Then dinner, tonight, at my place."

Mulder smiled tenderly, stroked his hair. "I'll be there."

He gave Alex the keys to his car. "You can drive it home. I'll take a cab to your place, pick it up tonight."

Alex donned his coat and hat, kissed Mulder again at the door. "I'll be very careful with it. Thank you." He swallowed nervously. "Not just for the car..."

Mulder nodded. "I know," he whispered. "I'll see you tonight, Alex."

Alex stroked his cheek with gloved fingers and grinned. "Pack a bag, just in case. It could be a long dinner." He turned and walked away, the snow on the walk crunching under his feet. Mulder stood in his doorway and watched as Alex drove away. He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms folded, and inhaled deeply of the crisp, sharp smell of the frozen dawn.

He had no way of knowing what the future held. But for the first time in two decades, he was looking forward to find out. Suddenly, the possibilities were endless, and they all lead to Alex Krycek's front door.

He hoped it would be a very long dinner.


End