NOT MY LOVER: ENIGMA - Deslea R. Judd - 
Chapter 5 - Part 1 of 4.

The whole story to date is available at 
http://fiction.deslea.com

-----------------------------------------------

Not My Lover: Enigma *NC17* 5/?
Deslea R. Judd
Copyright 2001, 2002


DISCLAIMER: FANFIC = (characters x 1013) + 
(interpretation x deslea).
ARCHIVE: Yes, just keep my name and headers.
RATING: NC17 for sexual situations, adult 
concepts, and language.
SPOILERS/TIMEFRAME: Season 1-2; mytharc spoilers 
to Closure. This instalment is Alex's version of 
the events of Colony/Endgame.
CATEGORY/KEYWORDS: angst, x-file, romance, 
mythology, Krycek/Marita, Samantha, Diana.
SUMMARY: Prequel to Not My Lover. The death of 
Marita's protector and a startling discovery 
about her past leads her to the brink of darkness 
in her search for the truth. But can she let in 
the one man who would stand at her side? Alex and 
Marita's account of Seasons 1 and 2.
NOTE: This story can be read without reading Not 
My Lover, but it will be helpful for you to know 
that the Dark Man is X, Diana Donovan is Diana 
Fowley, Maxwell Donovan is the Well Manicured 
Man, and Michael Harrington is Deep Throat. More 
notes at the end of this chapter.
MORE FIC: http://fiction.deslea.com, or get 
updates in your in-box from drjuddfiction-
subscribe@yahoogroups.com.
FEEDBACK: Cherished and answered, but I can take 
a while. Please forgive me - I get a lot of 
email. deslea@deslea.com



The story so far: When Alex Krycek was assigned 
to partner Fox Mulder, he attended the funeral of 
Deep Throat, Michael Harrington, hoping to get 
more information about the assignment. He met 
Mulder's ex-wife, Diana Donovan, now the 
daughter-in-law of the Well-Manicured Man. He 
also saw UN aide Marita Covarrubias, Michael's 
young fiancee and a child prodigy. Diana gave him 
access to information and directed him to a sex 
club, the Den, owned by Michael and inherited by 
Marita. He learned of a faction within the group 
that was opposed to hybridisation, including 
Michael, Maxwell Donovan (WMM), Marita's mother 
Larissa, and Bill Mulder. 

Krycek and Mulder became lovers. He learned that 
Marita, as Marita Ekaterinberg, went to college 
with Diana and Mulder at Oxford (she knew the 
former but never met the latter). An imposter 
went to Harvard using her name and became a 
scientist. When Scully was abducted, Alex had to 
decide whether to co-operate or walk away. He had 
new information that might blow the work open: 
Marita and her imposter were identical. So he co-
operated with Scully's abduction and took refuge 
at the Den, determined to find out the truth 
about the identical women. 

Meanwhile, Marita learned of the existence of a 
twin sister and, with her mentor, the Dark Man 
(X), decided to try to find her. They speculated 
that Elena had been surrendered with the hostages 
in 1973. Marita balked at the idea of using the 
Den, but decided it was worth it to find her 
sister. Because she was inexperienced, X placed 
her as a dominatrix, making her less accessible, 
sexually, to those from whom she sought 
information. (Please see author's notes about the 
BDSM angle, but suffice it to say, BDSM is not 
really explored here). When Krycek started asking 
X about Larissa Covarrubias, he and Marita 
decided to take him on as one of her public 
submissives, and as her secret co-conspirator. It 
is clear now that Alex is writing in retrospect 
after the events of Not My Lover; but that 
Marita's account is from her diaries at the time. 

Alex and Marita found Samantha Mulder's diaries 
and discovered that she and Elena were lovers. 
Elena was recovered by Michael (Deep Throat) from 
a UFO crash site in 1983/84 and initially cared 
for at the Den by Samantha (herself hidden there 
after the events of Closure), and the then-
teenagers made a pact to bring down the project. 
Both apparently wound up working for Spender and 
Strughold. They posed as enemies within 
Strughold's operation but secretly made a colony 
of Samantha clones who served as the personnel 
for their work on a bioweapon against the 
Colonists. They were also sheltering the Dr 
Gregors, the clones we met onscreen in Colony, in 
exchange for intelligence that could be used in 
their work. Samantha committed suicide in 1992, 
and since then Elena has presumably continued the 
work with the help of the Gregor and Samantha 
clones.

Alex and Marita fell in love during the 
investigation. However, Marita experienced 
lingering effects of her childhood, her 
involvement with Michael, and her work at the 
Den, manifesting in trust and intimacy issues. 
Alex was patient with her, and in turn, he was 
touched by her strength and her willingness to 
fight her own demons to be with him. It was four 
months and several traumatic botched attempts 
before they successfully consummated the 
relationship. The ordeal strengthened their 
relationship, to which only Diana, Diana's 
husband Edward, and X were privy. The Dark Man 
(X) was absent for much of this time, 
investigating a UFO whose origins were unknown to 
both the Consortium and the Colonists.

Alex and Marita found Samantha's cache of alien 
weapons but don't yet know what they are. They 
also have a log file on Mulder's email. While 
investigating Elena's past, Alex and Marita met 
her academic mentor, professor and variola expert 
Bonita Charne-Sayrre, and learned of a friendship 
with lecturer-in-residence Sally Kendrick. Since 
then, it's become clear that Marita still has 
some issues with intimacy - and that as Alex 
compiles their account in the present day, those 
issues are echoing in their life together with 
their family (which includes Gibson Praise and 
Diana's children). Now, Alex takes up the tale. 



FIVE



Thank God she wrote it down. 

I've relived that first time with Marita a 
thousand times, but I could never have written it 
down. What I felt that night is not something 
that comes easily to me in words. Reading her 
journal, I can feel the love infused in the 
things she wrote about us; and that brings me to 
my knees in a way that six years in hell could 
not. It brings me an odd kind of grief - grief 
for something so fragile and exquisite that it 
must necessarily be no more. That is, until I 
look at her, and realise I still have it, deeper 
and stronger than ever before. 

Melding with her softness that night was 
glorious. Part of the exhilaration was just her - 
her breath melding with mine as she whispered my 
name, her face warm and serene beneath my 
fingertips, her eyes bright with longing as I 
threaded my hands through her hair. We men fill 
the void in a woman's body, but let me let you in 
on a little secret: it is we who are incomplete, 
not them. That's why we madden women the world 
over with our silence in the aftermath; that's 
why we sleep. It's because at last we're whole. 

So that was part of it - the jubilation that 
every man feels, whether he will admit to it or 
not, at joining with the woman he loves. But part 
of it, I have to admit, was the stupidly, 
criminally naive belief that it was all behind us 
now. That the barriers between us were no more. 

I should have known. 

Twenty-three years of damage are not undone by a 
stolen moment in the night. Making love to her 
was a step - but it was only a step. I should 
have known that the fight had only just begun. 

But I didn't. I was oblivious to her disquiet 
when we returned from Boston. Worse, I concealed 
disquiet of my own. I was falling into exactly 
the same trap as everyone else around her - and I 
couldn't see it. Somewhere, beneath layers of 
consciousness, I knew the truth about her, and 
glimmers of that knowledge were making themselves 
known to me, and like so many well-meaning people 
before me, I didn't tell her. I didn't tell her 
until I'd all but lost her. 

I don't know exactly when my knowledge began. 
There was no one clue that made it all make 
sense. There was her extraordinary intelligence, 
her physical strength; there was her mother's 
distance and the question marks over her name. 
All I know is that it took a single name, a 
familiar name to bring forth a host of fears, 
fully-formed to the forefront of my 
consciousness. That name was Sally Kendrick, and 
it was a name that opened the way to a legacy of 
truths buried deep in the X Files - truths about 
Michael, about Larissa, about Marita. Truths I 
feared would destroy her. 

But it was fear, not truth, that nearly ripped us 
apart. 

And in the end, it was truth that saved us both. 




When I woke, it was dawn. 

She was sitting at the dresser, laptop open, 
peering intently into the screen. Faint streams 
of light came in the window, illuminating her 
hair here and there. She had it tied back in a 
loose knot, and threads of it trailed out at her 
neck and behind her ears, gleaming in the morning 
light, framing the slope of her neck. She was 
dressed already, all in black, and her slender 
hands moved purposefully over the keys. I was 
half-awake and drunk on her, and she was 
beautiful. 

"You're up early," I said, rising and turning to 
hunt for my track pants. I found them, stretched, 
then sat down on the side of the bed to put them 
on. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Something like that." 

I stretched my legs out before me, rubbing my 
eyes. She went to the minibar and poured us both 
glasses of juice. She brought mine over, setting 
it down beside me on the bedside table. "Have 
some vitamin C," she said. "You look like death 
warmed up." 

"Thanks." I took it and followed her back to the 
dresser. "What are you doing?" I wondered, 
looking over her shoulder. "Backtracking over 
Elena?" 

Her eyes gleamed in the light of the screen. 
"Just going over old ground." 

I rested my hand on her shoulder and, leaning 
forward, I kissed her hair. "We'll find her, 
Mare." 

She turned to look up at me, her expression warm, 
and nodded. "Yeah, we will." She nodded to the 
glass in my hand. "Have your drink." She lifted 
her own from the dresser and sipped it, holding 
me with watchful eyes. 

I did as she said, then I took both our glasses 
back to the bar and returned to her side. I ran 
my hand lightly over the back of her neck. "I 
haven't seen your hair like this before. I like 
it." 

She smiled faintly. "Thanks." 

"Hey," I said, watching her, familiar warmth 
streaming through my body. She turned to look at 
me more fully, and I felt something in myself go 
loose and free. "I love you, Mare." 

The smile grew wider, more real, less automatic. 
"I love you, too." 

I leaned down to her, turning her on her swivel 
chair until she faced me. I kissed her lips, just 
once, and she took my hands in hers. Rising, she 
said, "I can't, honey. I have to go. I've got 
that appointment in D.C. this morning. Didn't I 
tell you?" 

"Yeah - Michael's estate." I stroked back her 
hair. "You sure? Probably wouldn't take long, the 
way I'm feeling," I teased, raising my eyebrows 
at her with an amiable grin. 

"That's not necessarily a mark in your favour," 
she laughed. "I have to go. I'm sorry." 

I shrugged. "Okay," I said easily. "See you 
tonight?" 

She leaned up and kissed my cheek. "Wouldn't 
miss." She pulled her hands away and headed for 
the door. Turning back, she blew me a kiss and 
left. 

I watched her go, and then I lay back on the bed, 
a huge grin spreading over my face. Who knew it 
would be that easy? 

She loved me. She really did. 




"Alexi?" 

I opened my eyes. My eyelids felt unnaturally 
heavy; their sockets felt dry. I turned, 
blinking, fighting off disorientation. 

"Mare," I said at last. "I thought you were in 
Washington." 

"I was. Have you been asleep all day?" she 
wondered, her voice tinged with mirth. 

I frowned, looking past her hovering form to the 
window. The sun was low in the sky - mid-
afternoon, I guessed. I struggled to sit up. 
"Apparently." 

"You must have needed it. Benedictine?" 

"Not two minutes after waking up, but thanks 
anyway." She nodded, going to the bar and pouring 
herself a glass of wine. I got up and pulled on a 
sweater, stretching a little, and pushed my feet 
into my trainers. I yawned. "I feel like I'm hung 
over." 

"Maybe you're coming down with something," Marita 
suggested. She picked up the two glasses from 
that morning and looked at them, her brow 
puckered. 

"God, I hope not. I hate being sick." I followed 
her to the bar and slid my arms around her waist 
from behind. I nuzzled at her neck contentedly. 

"Mmm, that's nice," she whispered, arching her 
neck, giving me access. She put the glasses down, 
leaning back in to me. 

"I missed you this morning," I murmured. I tugged 
her blouse out from where it was tucked into her 
trousers, soft and white between my fingers. "You 
changed your clothes." 

"Hmm?" she said as my hand slid over the soft 
flesh of her belly, but then she sighed. "Oh, 
that's good." She turned to face me, a smile 
lighting over her features, and slid her hands up 
over my shoulders. Her fingers stroked at my 
neck. She turned her face up to me and touched 
her lips to mine. 

I returned the kiss, pulling her closer, cupping 
my palms over her shoulder blades and down her 
back. "So beautiful, Mare," I whispered. I felt 
her body go loose against me, felt her lean in to 
me. "So beautiful." 

"Alexi," she breathed, pulling back a little, 
teasing her fingers up through my hair. Her eyes 
were shining. 

I tucked her hair back behind her ear; said with 
contented ease, "Love you." I leaned forward to 
kiss her once more. 

I felt her go tense in my arms. She drew back, 
watching me with sudden caution. She smiled 
uneasily, then pulled away a little, and turned 
back to the bar. She picked up the glasses again, 
the lines of her body taut and harsh. 

I watched her with growing bewilderment. 
Something was wrong. I moved closer, and I 
touched her shoulder. She bowed her head with a 
sigh. "Please don't, Alex." 

I felt my face grow warm and flush, and my 
stomach go tight and hard. Just beneath the 
surface was fear - fear that, whatever she'd said 
that morning, she wasn't ready for what I had to 
give her. It was the same fear that had kept 
those words unsaid for months now - fear that 
would have left them unspoken if not for a moment 
of sleep-befuddled weakness. Now, I wondered if 
I'd made a terrible mistake. 

I watched her fussing over the glasses for a 
moment, and then I spoke. "Marita, have I done 
something wrong?" 

She turned to look at me. She suddenly looked 
very vulnerable. Cornered. "How could you just 
drop that on me, Alex?" 

I sighed. "Look, I know it was sudden, but you 
know, you were sitting there working, and the sun 
was on your hair and I was half-asleep and, damn 
it, I just loved you, all right?" Her brow 
creased, and then her gaze darted from me to the 
bar, then back again. "If you felt this way about 
it, why didn't you say so this morning, Mare?" 

"This - this morning?" 

"I know you had to go, but surely it could have 
waited a few minutes. You didn't have to sit on 
this all day." 

The lines of her face smoothed out in a rush, and 
she looked at me, expressionless for a long 
moment. A look of recognition passed over her 
features. She looked down at the two glasses in 
her hands once more, then lifted them both and 
held them against the light. "Alex," she said 
gently, turning back to the bar and setting one 
down, "I had a meeting in D.C. at seven-thirty 
this morning." She poured the dregs of the drink 
in her hand into the one on the bar. "I drove 
down. You were still asleep when I left." She 
turned back to me, and handed me the glass she'd 
emptied. There was a grainy sludge in the bottom. 
"You must have surprised her. She drugged you so 
she could get away." 

I stared down into the glass, then looked back up 
at her, uncomprehending. "What? What are you 
talking about?" 

Marita pushed past me and went to the laptop. She 
opened it and booted it. "She must have been 
looking for something," she said urgently, 
settling into her seat. 

"She?" I demanded. I looked back into the glass, 
and it all started to fall into place. "Elena?" 

She swivelled around to face me once more. "Just 
how many twins do you think I have?" 

"Hey, this is not my fault. I'm not the one who 
decided to subdivide when I was a blastocyst." It 
was a stupid response, one guaranteed to provoke 
an argument, but I felt used...manipulated. And 
just underneath that was worry. Our suite had 
been breached. Our sanctuary. If Elena had done 
it, who else had done it as well? 

Perhaps Mare considered that too, because her 
response was rude - and Mare isn't given to 
rudeness. "Fuck you, Alex," she snapped. She 
turned back to the computer. 

I walked towards her, my voice sharp with rising 
anger. "Marita, have I done something wrong? I 
mean, you seem pretty pissed." 

She swivelled back to face me again. She looked 
up at me, her jaw set firm, then rose in an 
instant, forcing her way into my space. The 
effect was intimidating. "No, Alex, everything's 
just fine. My sister was here with my..." she 
faltered for a moment "- with whatever the hell 
you are, and not only did you not realise it, you 
told her you loved her." She demanded in disgust, 
"Did you screw her, too?" 

I stared at her, disbelief melding into fury. 
"No," I said coldly. "She said she had to go. 
Which makes a lot more sense now, by the way, 
since she bats for the other team." 

"But you wanted to screw her." 

Jesus, she was jealous. Unbelievable. 

I took hold of her arm. "I wanted to make love," 
I said with emphasis, "to you." Some of my anger 
receded, and my grip loosened. More gently, I 
said, "It doesn't matter who I said the words to, 
Marita. I meant them for you." 

Her features softened. The lines of anger were 
gone, replaced with wariness. She said in a low 
voice, "Well, I don't know what to say to that." 

"And that's what you're really pissed about." 

She had the good grace to look chastened. 
"Maybe." She turned away and went back to the 
bar, and started fiddling with the glasses again. 
I felt like stalking over and throwing them 
against the wall, one after the other. 

At last, I spoke. "Did it occur to you that you 
don't have to say anything at all, Marita? That 
you could accept it for what it is?" 

"You'd take that to mean that - that -" she 
stopped. 

"That what?" 

She was very pale. "That I didn't love you." 

"Are you telling me that you don't?" My head was 
pounding. 

She made a sound of exasperation. "I'm not 
telling you that!" she said, upset. "I'm telling 
you I don't know what to say and that you're 
going to put your own interpretation on it 
anyway!" 

"Marita-" 

"No, just go away, Alex! You had no business 
putting that on me now-" she broke off with a 
hiss, and she looked down at the bar. My gaze 
followed hers. The glass was shattered in her 
bloodied hand. 

"Jesus, you're hurt," I said, the fight 
forgotten. I came over and took her hand in mine, 
picking the shards free. 

She allowed it, her brow puckered. "I don't know 
my own strength," she said uneasily. She let me 
look over her hand for a moment, but then she 
pulled away. "Don't fuss, Alex. They're only 
shallow." She pushed past me and went to the 
basin on the dais, leaving me to stare down at 
the pieces of glass. 

"She was in our room," I said at last. 

"I know that," she said tersely. She rinsed her 
hand. The water ran streaky pink with blood. 

"She was in our room, Marita! What if she's not 
the only one? What if they know?" 

"I don't know!" she snapped, turning to face me. 
"My sister was here, Alex! Why are you making 
this about you?" 

"It is about me! I know too much - and not 
enough. I'm a gamble with no payoff. If Spender 
finds out that we're together, really together, 
they *will* kill me." She stared up at me, 
stricken. "It's worth it, Marita. You're worth it 
- but only if this means something to you. I can 
wait for the rest, but I need to know that much 
right now." 

She hung her head in her hands. "Goddammit! Just 
go, Alex!" 

I made a sound of disgust. "That's what I 
thought." 

I banged the door when I left her. 




Why the hell did I bother? 

I walked across the grounds in long strides, my 
hands clenched into fists at my side. My nails 
dug into the soft flesh there; I felt dampness 
there in my palms. Probably just sweat, but I 
wondered whether I'd drawn blood. I was certainly 
angry enough. 

Goddamn complicated bitch. She fought and she 
fought and she fought. Everything was such a 
fucking battle. Why did I bother? 

I felt angry, and more than that, I felt 
embarrassed. My face flushed, red and warm when I 
thought of how she'd pulled herself away from me. 
She'd acted like I'd done something wrong. I felt 
a nagging sense of shame, and in that moment, I 
hated her for that. 

I pushed my way into the rink. It was deserted as 
usual. I could hear the murmurs of the little 
television from the manager's office. I waved a 
hand at her as I passed the glass partition; she 
waved back and turned back to her serial, 
hunkering down with her chin on her hands. You 
like drama, Lorena? Let me tell you 'bout my life 
sometime. 

Bypassing the stands, I went into the club room 
and dropped down onto the bench. I stared down at 
my palms. They were red where I'd pressed my 
fingers into them, but the dampness was just 
sweat after all. Sighing, I wiped my hands on my 
pants and I put on my skates, but I didn't go out 
on the ice. Not right away. I just sat there, 
breathing heavily, fighting down waves of nausea 
and sadness. 

I didn't normally come in this part of the rink. 
The last time had been with Marita, and that was 
months ago. We'd stood here, turning over 
Samantha's skates in our hands. Working together. 
Her brilliant mind, my knowledge. We achieved so 
much - more than either of us could have done 
alone. And then I'd kissed her for the first 
time. 

How could she let that slip away? She was killing 
what we had - suffocating it with her silence and 
her distance. She was the strongest person I knew 

- how could she be so fucking weak? I'd thought 
all this was behind us now, that we could move 
forward - but now she seemed further away from me 
than ever. 

I got to my feet and went out into the arena. 

Stepping onto the ice, it occurred to me that I 
was getting a little old to be doing this. Racing 
around an ice rink suddenly seemed like a 
childish thing to do. I was in the big leagues 
now. Playing for keeps. And sacrificing the 
normal, the mundane, the comforts of routine - 
sacrificing those things was part of that. I'd 
known that for a long time now, and I'd fought it 
- wasn't that why I still came here every day? 
But I didn't know what else to do, so I skated 
anyway. It might not help, but if nothing else, 
it would clear my head. 

I heard the glass door open. Air escaped the seal 
with a hiss, echoing through the arena. Out of 
the corner of my eye, I saw her, pushing her way 
into the rink. There was a cloth dressing on her 
hand, and she was wearing my jacket. I felt like 
going over to her and stripping it from her. She 
wasn't mine. She didn't want to be mine. She had 
no right to wear that. 

She came over to the boards. "Alexi." 

I found my voice. "Don't call me that." 

A stricken look passed over her features, but she 
complied. "Alex, please come and talk to me." 

"There's nothing to talk about," I called. She 
walked around the rink, following my course. I 
picked up speed. 

"Alex!" 

I skidded to a stop and faced her. "No!" I 
snapped. "No, Marita! I can't do this any more! I 
can't watch you pull away from me and say, 
'That's okay, Mare, I know this is hard for 
you.'" I stroked over to the boards to meet her, 
and I leaned over the barrier, pushing into her 
space. "Sooner or later you are going to have to 
find it within yourself to meet me halfway." 

She stared at me, her face flushed with fury, 
eyes dark. Closed to me. God, I wanted to kiss 
her or slap her or fuck her hard right there 
against the boards. Anything to make her see me 
and feel me and feel for me again. In that 
moment, I think I would even have welcomed her 
hatred. 

Her voice was deathly quiet. "What do you want 
from me?" 

"I want you to feel! I want you to care, like you 
used to!" 

That touched her. She blinked a couple of times, 
and the flush of anger faded a little. "I do, 
Alex. How could you think that I don't?" 

"Because back there, you treated me like an 
intruder. You treated me like some guy who was 
forcing some attention on you that you didn't 
want. You treated me like one of your 
submissives." 

She flinched. I'd wounded her. 

She stood there, trembling a little, and she 
opened her mouth to speak a couple of times. She 
faltered, and then she turned on her heel and 
strode away. 

I watched as she stormed into the clubroom, 
banging the door behind her with surprising 
force. That pissed me off, too. Damn it all, why 
did she have to go in there to cry or think or 
whatever the fuck she was doing? She'd have to 
pass me again to leave. Why couldn't she have 
gone back to our room, and left me alone? 

I took off around the rink in a perfect fever of 
fury, but that didn't last for long. One lap, 
two, a slower third. I came to a halt in the 
middle of the ice, and I stood there, my arms 
crossed over myself, my head bowed low. The 
adrenaline of the argument was easing off, and 
the magnitude of what had happened was beginning 
to creep over me. It settled over me like lead 
weight through my limbs. 

I'd lost her. 

Could it be fixed? I had no idea. But I had to 
try. I lifted my head and turned towards the 
stands. And then I stopped. 

Mare. 

She was wearing skates - Samantha's skates, by 
the look of them - and she stepped onto the ice 
and glided over, a little cautiously. She was 
pale, and she had an uncertainty about her that 
I'd never seen from her before. 

She came to a stop in front of me. My eyes held 
hers. 

"You mean everything to me," she whispered. 
"That's all I can give you right now." 

The tension fell away. I felt it dissipate, 
relief rushing through my body. I searched her 
face for a long moment. "Yeah?" 

She nodded. Her eyes were bright. She took my 
hands. "I'm sorry I've been pushing you away, 
Alexi. I never meant to do that. I never want to 
do that." She leaned up diffidently to kiss my 
cheek, but I turned my face and met her with my 
lips. This kiss was light, tentative, with the 
caution of new lovers who haven't yet worked out 
all the rules. 

We stood there, silent and still together, 
watching each other. At last, she pulled away, 
letting go of one of my hands, still holding the 
other. Tugging a little, she led me off the ice, 
past the boards, up into the stands. She dropped 
down, and I did the same. We sat there, side by 
side, leaned forward, elbows resting on knees 
like painfully shy children. Her thigh was 
comforting and warm against mine. 

We were silent for a while, but at last, I turned 
to look at her. "Why is this so hard for you?" I 
said without rancour. "Was it this hard with 
Michael?" 

She pressed her lips together, thinking it over. 
She shook her head. "No. But Michael didn't 
matter the way you do. Michael...Michael was 
something I did because it was expected of me. 
But you - you make demands of me, Alex." I opened 
my mouth to speak, but she turned her head to 
meet my gaze. "I don't mean like that. I don't 
mean you pressure me. You've been -" she suddenly 
looked very young. She slid her hand around mine, 
holding it tightly. "You've been wonderful, 
Alexi. I don't always act like I know that, but I 
do. But you make claims on my heart. You make 
demands on me just because of who we are 
together. And I don't always know what to do with 
that." 

She looked so lost, and I felt vague, nagging 
shame for making her look that way. "I'm sorry 
this happened the way it did," I said. "I'm sorry 
about Elena and I'm sorry I upset you and I'm 
sorry I pushed." 

She shook her head, putting her free hand on my 
arm. "You didn't do anything wrong, Alex. I was 
ungracious and I was unkind, and I never want to 
be those things with you. I'm sorry." She looked 
bereft. "Just don't give up on me, all right?" 

Relief washed over me. "I'm not going anywhere, 
Mare." 

"Because you love me," she said. Her voice was 
tentative, but not threatened like before. 

I nodded. "Because I love you." 

"Oh, Alex," she sighed, and she didn't return the 
sentiment, but her hand tightened on my arm. She 
leaned in, and she kissed me tenderly, and 
suddenly everything was all right again. Suddenly 
it didn't matter that the words were more 
confronting than she could accommodate. I meant 
everything to her, she'd said so; the rest could 
be worked out. 

We stayed there, holding one another silently for 
a while. It was a good silence - a healing one. I 
was still unsettled, and I thought she was too, 
but the gulf had been breached. I was glad. 

We were still sitting there when her cellphone 
shrilled. Reluctantly, I pulled away from her so 
she could answer it. "Marita Covarrubias," she 
said, opening it. There was a pause. "Yes, all 
right. Half an hour." She closed the flip. 

"You have to go?" I said. 

"We have to go," she corrected. "That was the 
Dark Man. He wants us to meet him in Samantha's 
suite. He said to get some dinner and bring it - 
it's going to be a late night." She shifted away 
from me and untied her boots. 

I frowned. "Did he say why?" 

"No. He just said something had come up." She 
eased her boots off her feet. 

I picked one of them up. "Samantha's?" I said in 
query. 

She gave a sheepish look. "I was in the club room 
when I decided to come and talk to you. Her 
locker was there. It was just easier than passing 
you to get to the hires." 

"God, we're a pair of idiots," I said, laughing 
ruefully. She laughed too. I said, "Do you want 
me to put those back for you? You can pick up 
some dinner and meet me at the suite." 

She rustled in her pocket and handed me the 
master keys. "You don't mind?" 

I shook my head. "Your feet okay? No blisters?" 

"No. You'd think I was born with them." She stood 
in her bare feet. "I'll see you up there?" 

I nodded. "Sure." 

I watched as she treaded cautiously along the 
stands. She stopped a little way along, slipped 
into her shoes, and continued on out of the rink. 
She wasn't hobbling, so the skates had been a 
good fit. That was something. 

Frowning, I bent to untie my laces. I felt uneasy 
and I wasn't sure why. I pulled off one skate, 
then the other, and rested them beside 
Samantha's. And then I stopped short and picked 
one of them up. 

-- All I know now that I didn't know when you 
left is that Samantha had unusually large feet. 

-- Nice custom boots. 

-- You'd think I was born with them. 

"They're not Samantha's," I said in wonder. 
"They're Elena's. That's how-" 

That was how she knew someone was onto her. 
Because she came to her locker - hers, not 
Samantha's - and found that the diaries weren't 
there. I breathed out in a rush, getting to my 
feet, both pairs of skates in my hands. I had to 
tell Marita and the Dark Man. 

I started down the stands, my mind racing. Elena 
was onto us. Somehow she'd figured out that it 
was Marita, and that was why she had searched our 
room. That meant that she- 

I stopped. 

That meant that Samantha might still have a 
locker. One we hadn't found. 

I made an about-face and ducked around the 
Zamboni into the club room. I put Elena's boots 
back into her locker, stopping to wipe the 
condensation from the blades. Old habits die 
hard. Then I went through the other lockers - the 
ones we hadn't searched the first time, believing 
we'd found what we were looking for. 

I identified Samantha's locker, a few bays along, 
almost at once. It had a faded Polaroid of Elena 
stuck to the back of the door. Inside, there were 
skates - large ones, I noted, with dance blades - 
and a thin manila folder. I drew the folder out, 
closed the locker, and sat down on the bench. 

The folder was old and tattered, spots of mildew 
and rust along its length where it had rested 
alongside the blades. Emblazoned on the front in 
red marker was the legend - ELENA. 

I opened it. 

It contained loose-leaf paper covered in 
Samantha's sprawling handwriting - random pieces 
of varying size and quality. There were crisp 
quarto printing sheets, and foolscap sheets brown 
with age. There were little notepad pages and 
restaurant napkins and, wonder of wonders, even a 
couple of McDonald's trayliners, spotted with oil 
and covered with a grid of creases. An image rose 
in my mind: Samantha, writing down her 
observations and speculations, maybe while Elena 
was in the ladies' room; and folding them up, 
tucking them into her pocket out of sight. That 
must have been an early one, then, before they 
were lovers. She wouldn't have risked Elena 
finding them in her clothes when they made love. 

I pulled a very old piece from the back of the 
file. The edges were tattered, and they felt cool 
and brittle with encroaching moisture. The 
handwriting was less fluid than on most of the 
sheets - it was big and straggling, almost 
adolescent. This was early, I thought...maybe her 
earliest thoughts on meeting Elena. 

'E. interests me a great deal. She is incredibly 
smart, both in the native sense and in the sense 
of factual knowledge, and she has strong 
scientific leanings. As far as I can make out 
from her confused account of her captivity with 
the alien race, she received no formal education. 
She is very strong for her age (13) and seems 
unaware of how unusual her physical strength 
really is. It makes me wonder about what happened 
to those who remained in alien custody after my 
release. What were we exposed to? At any rate, 
she will need guidance if she is to function in 
normal society. For God's sake - the girl can't 
even use a knife and fork.' 

A leisurely wave of discomfort rolled over me. 
Samantha seemed to attribute Elena's strengths to 
the alien race - but Mare had never been in alien 
custody, and she shared at least the intellectual 
ones. Everyone seemed to take her prodigious 
leanings for granted, but they were there - and 
wasn't everyone's lack of comment on that a 
little odd, when you really thought about it? And 
as for physical strength...well, she was no 
superwoman, but she could take me down, which was 
more than any woman had at the FBI. If she really 
worked at it - if she did weights and track - 
well, who knew what she could do? 

I flipped through other pages. Random fragments 
caught my eye. 'E. threw a cup at a plate glass 
window. Broke the cup - and the window. Not sure 
how much more I can take.' For a moment, I 
thought of Mare's hand, covered in blood and 
glass, and I shivered. 'Michael says puberty a 
factor. Says it will get better. I hope so.' 
Then, further down the same page, 'Michael says 
Marita shows no sign of E.'s strength. Odd. I 
never asked if she had. Is he hiding something?' 
A few pages on, Mare's name caught my eye once 
again. 'Larissa put E. on the contraceptive Pill. 
Told her it would settle her skin. Michael says 
modulating her hormones will help with these 
outbursts and the strength that goes with them. 
But I saw another box with Marita's name, 
too...is that how they know what to do? Because 
they've been through it with Marita already?' 
And, most damning of all, much further on, 
'Michael and Marita are together. They look all 
wrong. Not like lovers. Like brother and sister. 
God forgive me for wondering...but is he sleeping 
with her so she'll stay on the Pill?' 

What had that report from the embassy in Istanbul 
said? Something about Larissa lying about the 
children's paternity to protect her husband? What 
if she and Michael had been hiding something more 
sinister? Was that the terrible secret that Diana 
was so desperate to keep from Mare? 

Eugenics, I wondered desperately. Cloning. What 
is a twin, after all, but a naturally-occurring 
clone? But Larissa had shown signs of giving 
birth. What if she'd made a switch? What if she'd 
been a KGB surrogate? What if she wasn't Marita's 
mother at all? There had been cases in the X 
Files, after all...the Adams and the Eves. Hadn't 
Sally Kendrick been unusually strong? 

Sally Kendrick...? 

I closed the folder abruptly. It made a slapping 
noise between my palms. I put it down on the 
bench beside me and rose. I paced the room. My 
mind was racing. 

It had been there in front of me all the time. 
Sally Kendrick was Eve Seven - and she knew 
Elena. She had probably sought Elena out in her 
own quest for answers. And the Eve project, our 
response to the Russian eugenics project, had 
been connected with Michael Harrington - who 
exchanged intelligence with Larissa Covarrubias 
during the Soviet rule. 

It all fit. 

In that moment, I felt absolute affinity with 
Samantha Mulder. She had faced this dilemma 
before me. She had known what I knew now: that 
the women we loved were Russian Eves. She had 
never told Elena - I was certain of that. If she 
had, Elena would have this file too. This was a 
secret Samantha had carried to her grave, 
probably never knowing that Elena had found out 
from Sally Kendrick anyway. 

But if Marita wasn't Larissa's...if Marita was 
somehow different...did I really want her to know 
that? I tried to think about it strategically, 
but I just couldn't. All I could think of was the 
effect such a revelation might have on her. She 
was so afraid, so fragile. One more shock and she 
might slip away from me forever. And I couldn't 
lose her. If I hadn't known that before today, I 
knew it now. 

I decided not to share my speculations with Mare. 

PART 2 IMMEDIATELY TO FOLLOW