With a final look to make sure he stayed put, Scully snatched up a handful of napkins and began daubing up the gobs and spatters of foodstuffs dappling the files still laid out on the floor. Meanwhile, upstairs, Skinner was rummaging in his drawers for a pair of sweats so Mulder could change out of his dip-coated suit pants. He passed them to Mulder, who was cooling his heels in the bathroom. When he'd changed, Mulder opened the door, but Skinner put a hand to his chest and gently backed him inside. Skinner followed him in and shut the door. "Is it true? Were you having sex with Krycek while you were partners?" Mulder sighed. "Yeah." "I thought you had more sense than that?" Skinner groused. "Even if he *hadn't* been working for the Consortium, there's so much surveillance on you, it could easily have gotten out and ruined your career." "Whatever happened to: 'don't ask, don't tell'?" Mulder whined. "Like you really had the performance jacket to be a test case for the F.B.I.'s gay tolerance policy?" Skinner rejoined. "Aw! There was hardly more to it than mutual hand jobs off-duty over pizza and porn flicks --heterosexual porn flicks, at that." Mulder protested, belatedly adding: "Sir!" "'Picking out china patterns' sounds a little more serious than 'mutual hands jobs,'" Skinner asserted. Mulder shrugged. "We got pretty involved towards the end." "'Pretty involved' meaning?" "We were fucking like bunnies, OK?" Mulder snapped. Skinner nodded. "He ever try to steer you away from any cases during his tenure as your partner?" "All the time!" Mulder exclaimed, as if shifting the blame would help his situation. Skinner looked skeptical. "Did he at any time *succeed*?" Mulder gave Skinner an: 'Oh, please' look. "Of course not." "Did he ever try to involve you in a case you wouldn't have otherwise investigated?" "No." "And no one's ever tried to blackmail you with compromising photos?" "Never." "Was there ever a time you suspected Krycek of tampering with, destroying, or mis-handling evidence?" "Yes! He stole the secret files I had on the Augustus Cole case!" "So you keep saying, even though you've never been able to prove it. I take it no legally obtained, properly catalogued items ever disappeared?" Skinner amended. "...No." "Did he ever perform his duties in a less than satisfactory manner, fail to follow up on leads, slough off work, cut corners, or in any way hinder your investigations?" "...He liked to knock off work after twelve hours, sharp, buy pizza and watch porn flicks." "And give you hand jobs?" Skinner guessed. "...Yeah...," Mulder wilted under Skinner's asperic glare, "and a blow job or two...or three." "So, basically, what you're saying is: Krycek was no more a hindrance to your investigations than Scully." "...I guess." "And he was, in fact, a diligent worker." "He murdered my father!" "Something else you persist in maintaining without solid evidence," Skinner said. "Because he was there!" "Maybe he was," Skinner allowed. "But so were you. If merely being there was proof of guilt, the police would have arrested *you.* In fact, as I recall, they liked you for the crime, not only because you were high on hallucinogens, but because you'd recently discovered he was complicit in your sister's abduction --after twenty-two years of blaming you. It was only Scully's fast work on your behalf which kept you out of jail." "But *I know* Krycek murdered him!" Mulder wailed. "Just like you *knew* Krycek killed Melissa Scully? "Face facts, Mulder: you could have *witnessed* the murder and it wouldn't have made a whit of difference, because you were so stoned out of your mind you couldn't legally attest that *anything* you 'saw' that night actually happened. In point of fact, *I'd* be more inclined to believe you if you *had* hallucinated Krycek murdering your father, but you can't even give me that much. All you *really* have to link him to the crime is a man's size 12 D footprint! "Meanwhile, you totally ignore a damn good paper trail connecting Spender to the crime so you can persecute Krycek instead! Spender's not only a known Consortium bigwig, but an assassin with personal *and* business ties to your father *and* mother giving him motive twice over! Lord knows he's got the means and it's possible he had the opportunity, yet you've never shown the least bit of interest in nailing *him* for the crime, even though doing so would cripple the Consortium which you profess to want to destroy. "It sort of begs the question, Mulder: if Krycek really did kill your father, his only possible motive for doing so is because he was following orders, so why haven't you ever offered him immunity in exchange for his testimony against the true villain: the man who ordered the hit?" Mulder hung his head, not even trying to defend himself, since they both knew --all too well-- that there was nothing he could say that could possibly justify his lapse of judgement that wouldn't condemn him even further in his boss's eyes. "Frankly, I think it's about time you stopped thinking with your gonads and started using your university degree. It's pretty obvious that Krycek's betrayal hurt you more than your father's murder. So why don't you just admit that blaming Krycek for your father's murder gives you a less petty reason for hating him than the trite 'loved 'em and left 'em' saw your whole 'mad-on' is really about?" "I can't help it!" Mulder confessed. "I keep remembering the way he kissed me --especially our last weekend together." "Krycek kissed you?" Skinner marveled. "Yeah. And I'm telling you it was 'Bull Durham' all over again," Mulder said. "Mulder, you're a psychologist. You know that prostitutes don't kiss their Johns." Mulder sneered. "He's a *spy.* Spies kiss their targets all the time." "And end up falling for them four times out of ten," Skinner pointed out. "That scum bucket wouldn't know a genuine emotion if it bit him on the ass!" Mulder scoffed. Skinner sighed noisily. As per usual, when Mulder decided to ignore the obvious, he did so with a vengeance. Skinner wasn't that stubborn, thankfully. He realized that, no matter how much training Krycek might have gotten from the Consortium in the fine art of seduction, it had only come after his stint as a rentboy and he was betting Krycek's 'professional instincts' would have kicked in under pressure. "So, tell me, Mulder, how far into the relationship were you when he kissed you the first time?" "Uh...well...actually...the seventh weekend." Mulder said as he thought back. "It --it was a good-night kiss. On the cheek. He, ah, he kissed and ran, actually. Just like--" //--like that time in my apartment when he told me about the Alien Resistence leader being held at Weikamp Air Base,// he thought, not daring to finish *that* thought aloud. "After that, the fireworks *really* started to fly." Skinner nodded grimly. Whores saved *their* kisses for their significant others. If Krycek had kissed Mulder, he had really loved Mulder. In fact, Skinner mused, it was pretty obvious Krycek *still* loved Mulder. It explained so much. "Tell me something, honestly, Mulder: the last, say, four times you've met Krycek, how many of those times have you hit him?" "...Um...four," Mulder confessed. "Why?" "Does he always let you get a few hits in before he defends himself?" "Hey! It's not my fault he's slow off the blocks!" Mulder said defensively. "Yeah, right...." //So much for his hesitating on *my* account.// "Is there any way we can catch Kapustcha without Krycek's help?" "Why would we want to?" "Facing Kapustcha is going to be as hard for Krycek as facing Donny Pfaster was for Scully." "And that means what? We hold his hand and burp him? Or, maybe you'd rather we just cut him loose and use inferior bait? Maybe lose another eighteen innocent victims before we set our hooks into this perv? Would you like *that*? Krycek's agreed to help, and he's damn well going to follow through, if I have to drag him to San Francisco in handcuffs and tie him to a tree like a stalking goat!" Mulder averred. "Fine. But I think it would be best for this investigation if I look after Krycek for the duration." "So he can dig out his little nanobot controller and make you set him free when he turns chicken shit and wants to run off to Bum Fuck, Idaho? I don't think so." "If you need reassurance, I'll let you frisk him before you leave, and I'll keep him here tonight so he'll have no opportunity to secure the controller, but that's as much of a concession as I will make in this matter, Special Agent," Skinner told Mulder pointedly. "Fine. Is that all, sir?" Mulder asked as he shouldered past Skinner and gripped the doorknob. "No. Don't forget your pants," Skinner reminded him. Mulder twisted to snatch his soggy pants off the top of the hamper, rolled them into a bundle, and stuck them under his arm, then the two of them trooped downstairs to find Scully stacking the last of the ruined coffee table by the door, ready for disposal. The files had been cleaned and put away, whatever had been salvageable of the cups and utensils had been picked up and washed, and whatever was left had been wiped, swept, and in all possible ways erased from memory. "Wow! Talk about your white tornadoes!" Mulder marveled. "Agent Scully!" Skinner mildly reproved, "you shouldn't have." "No problem, sir. I had to do something to work off the adrenalin," Scully explained. She stared pointedly at Krycek, who looked as though he would have happily vacated the premises, if only she had allowed him access to the door. She had practically threatened to shoot him the two times he had moved: once to a grab for napkins to blot his bloody nose, the second time to retrieve his jammer from the mess on the floor. "Well, you can work the rest of it off by going home and packing," Skinner told her, as he filled her in on their planned exodus to San Francisco. "What about me?" Krycek implored in an oddly nasal voice, nose plugged by a napkin and pinched by thumb and forefinger. "I need to pack, too." Mulder smirked. "Like we'd let you out of our sight!" "What do you mean?" Krycek couldn't help a panicked glance towards the closed drapes. "I am *not* spending another night cuffed to that damned balcony!" "Of course not!" Skinner reassured him. "I have a guest room, you'll sleep there." "Handcuffed to the headboard, I hope," Mulder intoned. "He has a tendency to disappear when you turn your back." "Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black ass, Mr. Ditch 'Em Like A Bad Date," Krycek sniped. "And I can't go to the airport in these clothes." "Hush!" Skinner told Krycek. Then he turned to Mulder. "He *will* need clothing and toiletries," Skinner said to Mulder in his most reasonable tone. "And it's not like he could borrow mine convincingly." "And I need a disguise and some fake I.D.!" Krycek insisted. "No false I.D.," Skinner ordered. "Anyone you'd get it from here would know you, and might report it to Spender." "Oh, and like they wouldn't report my boarding an airplane with you?" Krycek said snidely. "Yes, they would," Skinner admitted. "But it's a little too late to do anything about that, now. I can requisition some funds tomorrow." "And leave a paper trail for Kersh and his little mole buddies to follow? You aren't supposed to have any substantial leads on this case," Krycek argued, "so how could you possibly need a clothing allowance?" "He's right," Scully said, and looked at Mulder coolly. "You've got the biggest bank account here. I say you pay for it." "You *are* the one who doesn't want to let him out of our sight," Skinner seconded. "Fine! I guess it's *your* turn to 'Thank God for the Trust Fund'!" Mulder told Krycek heatedly, then turned to Skinner. "I'll bring in some cash tomorrow morning." "Good. You can take Krycek shopping for a disguise while I'm wrapping things up at the office," Skinner decided. "Oh, swell! My day's complete!" Mulder moaned. "Well, if you'd rather do the paperwork, *I* can take Krycek shopping," Scully offered. "Oh, yeah, like that'll happen!" Mulder practically pouted as he contemplated a day from hell. As usual, he decided to take his disgruntlement out on The Rat. "Get up and assume the position. Now!" He prodded Krycek out of the chair and turned him so his hands were on the backrest, then patted him down, tossing all found items onto the chair's seat. Krycek was not carrying the palm pilot, but he did have the recently rescued jammer, a Glock, a snub-nosed Barretta, two extra ammo clips for each gun, two throwing knives, a switchpick of the configuration Mulder referred to as a 'plam,' a switchblade, a set of brass knuckles, a pair of handcuffs, and a garrote, as well as more mundane items like a wallet, a pack of cinnamon flavored chewing gum, a selection of keys, a comb, memo pad, ball point pen, cell phone, pager, travel pack of Kleenex, a handful of coins, and a card holder with picture I.D. signed by the President and the Secretary of Defense giving the bearer carte blanche in any state, territory, reservation, or commonwealth of the United States. "Geez, Krycek, you're a regular International Man of Mystery, aren't 'cha," Mulder remarked. Skinner silently admitted to a slight twinge of disappointment when the palm pilot wasn't amongst Krycek's stash, but The Rat was nothing if not wily, and walking into a virtual snare with his best piece of leverage wouldn't have been the smartest move on his part. "Well, if you're satisfied, I think it's 'good night,'" Skinner said to Mulder, and motioned to the door with his free hand. "Night, sir," Scully said, taking the hint at once and heading for the exit. Mulder picked out Krycek's weaponry from the pile and loaded them into Skinner's arms before tagging after her. Skinner walked behind them, cradling the hardware, locking the door after they left and pocketing the keys, which usually stayed in the door, in case of emergencies. He stood at the foot of the stairs and stared at Krycek. "Well?" Krycek hung his head. "I--...I'd like to take a bath." "It's late for it, but there's a guest bath upstairs." "I...I'd like to take my arm, uh,...prosthetic off." Skinner stared at him. "And?" "There's-- I have a bag in my car. It's got all my stuff. My essentials. The key that lets me take my prosthetic off." "You keep your belongings in your car?" Skinner questioned. Krycek stuck his chin out. "If stuff gets abandoned in a rented room, the landlord can sell it for back rent. If a car is abandoned on the street, it gets impounded. If it's not vandalized, you can usually salvage stuff from an impounded car. So I keep the stuff I can't carry on me, but don't want to lose if I...have to leave quickly, in the trunk." A lightning bolt hit Skinner in the gut. Maybe the palm pilot was in the car. "OK. We'll go get it together," he said. "But you don't touch it till I check it, understood?" He laid the weapons on the stairs, put on his jacket and unlocked the door. "Come on. We can take this out as we go," he said, as he picked up the main body of his broken coffee table. Krycek stooped to grab his keys, picked up the coffee table's bottom tier, and they went down and dumped the debris in a dipsy dumpster in the garage. Then they exited the garage and walked four blocks to a nondescript, black sedan that looked to have seen better days and a lot of pavement. Krycek looked around, then took out his car keys and opened the trunk. Skinner saw a spare tire, jack, and a carry-all. He stooped to grab it, but Krycek stopped him. "Leave it, it's a dummy bag." "Dummy bag?" Skinner repeated. "Feels hefty enough." "Yeah. It's got the hotplate, electric kettle, plates and stuff. You know, all the cooking stuff you need for places that don't let you cook in your room? It's a decoy bag for robbers. The real stuff is in the wheel well." Krycek removed the spare tire, folded back the carpeting, and lifted up the masonboard tirewell lid. Tucked inside the tirewell was another gym-type carry-all. Skinner batted Krycek aside, gripped the handles and hoisted it out. "That it?" Skinner asked. "Well, yeah, but you can put the other bag back inside," Krycek said, as he piled the tire and jack back into the car. The relief in his voice told Skinner that nothing else of value was in the car. Skinner set the decoy bag back inside and closed the trunk lid, then they retreated up the darkened street to the Vista Towers, and Skinner's condo. Skinner locked the door behind them, pocketed the keys, set the bag onto the stairs beside the weapon stash, and pulled open the main zippered compartment. Hope rose in his guts as he pulled out the contents. First up was a plastic sack containing two soiled T-shirts, two soiled briefs, two pairs of soiled socks, and one pair of soiled jeans. Skinner made sure nothing was hidden in with them by wringing each item through his fist. A suit rolled into another sack came next, an off the rack, dark blue, medium weight, gaberdine. Nothing in the pockets. There was a toiletry kit with the standard items, plus a few things Krycek had to identify, including the aforementioned release key and vacuum pump for his artificial arm; a 'buttoner', a handle with an attached loop of wire that slipped into button holes, caught the proper button, and dragged it back through the buttonhole; and a wrist stand with clips that allowed him to strap on things like bracelets and watchstraps one-handed. It was only then that Skinner noticed that all the bottles of lotions in the kit had lids that flipped open and/or pumped. Nothing screwed. Screwing things open and shut was harder with one hand. Then there was the five inch wide, foot long 'rubber band' which Krycek said was an exerciser for his stump, and a three inch high, well-chewed, rubber McDonald's Mayor McCheese doll with 'Viktor' cut into the back. "'Viktor'?" Skinner inquired. Krycek shrugged. "I stole it." "Recently?" "When I was a kid!" Krycek snapped with exasperated irritation. "And you've kept it all these years?" Krycek shrugged again. "It's all I have from...back then." Skinner nodded and went back to the inventory. There was a wash cloth; hand towel; soap; electric shaver *and* safety razors; foil packets of 'clean wipes;' deodorant; shoe polish and buffer; a pair of sneakers; a couple paperback books, one in French, the other in Russian; a surgical field and first aid kit; a gun cleaning kit, and a box of jewelry with rings, cuff-links, tie tacks, dress watch, chain bracelet, several stud earrings and a ball chain necklace with four locker keys. Skinner hefted the 'empty' carry-all. It was too heavy, yet. He set it back down and searched for false bottoms. Found one inside the main compartment. There was a cache of false identities; six American, three Russian, one German, one French, and one British passport, each under a different name, each bundled with all the necessary local identification: social security, driver's licence, credit cards, work permits, and travel visas, plus piles of cash in each country's legal tender. Additionally, there were boxes of ammo for the two previously confiscated guns, two more knives, and a black jack. No palm pilot. Skinner sighed, added the additional weaponry to the pile of stuff Mulder had confiscated, re-packed the rest, and lead the way upstairs, showing Krycek first to his room, and then the guest bath, down the hall. "There are fresh towels on the rack. Since your things are all soiled, I'll lend you underwear and a T-shirt, or a sweat suit to sleep in, whichever you prefer." "T-shirt and underwear, please," Krycek said. "OK. Go ahead and take your bath, there's a robe behind the door. I'll, uh, lock these up, then lay your night clothes on your bed for you." "What, no handcuffs?" Krycek sneered. Walter sighed. "No handcuffs. How's your nose? I could get you an ice pack?" Krycek shook his head. "OK, suit yourself. Breakfast is at 7:30." Skinner left Krycek to his own devices. If Krycek wanted out badly enough, he could always find a way, even eighteen stories up, but he didn't think Krycek was going anywhere. He stowed Krycek's weaponry in the master bedroom's munitions locker, where he kept his own weapons and extra ammo, got the requested apparel, laid them out on the guest bed, as promised, then retreated to his bedroom. He had to pass the guest bath on the way, and the sound of swishing water popped an image of Krycek, naked, in a steamy tub into his mind. His cock leapt up and tented his pants, and he fled to the sanctuary of his room. He knew Krycek was counting on him to kill Kapustcha, so he really had no reason to fear for his life, but his spine twitched nervously until he locked the bedroom door and braced it with a security cane. The door couldn't be forced open from the outside, now. He just hoped he didn't have a heart attack in the night and needed someone to break the door open to save him, 'cause, if he did, he was dead meat. He stripped to T-shirt and briefs and climbed into bed, set his alarm for 6:30 a.m. --it was already 2:37, fluffed his pillow, and courted sleep, but all he could think about was Krycek's skin, slick with soapy water, rubbing again him. //Wonder what his package looks like?// he thought, then immediately wanted to wash his brain with soap and water for even entertaining the idea. Even so, his cock reminded him painfully that he was not as in charge of his life as he maintained. Almost savagely, he took it in hand and pumped himself to completion, pulsing seed into a tissue with a fervor he hadn't felt in years. //I don't need this shit,// he thought as he tossed the sodden tissue into the bedside waste receptacle and slipped off into sated sleep. Krycek padded back into the guest room after his bath, put on his borrowed skivvies, then padded downstairs to the laundry room to wash his soiled clothing, cleaning and oiling his leather jacket and boots while the washing machine cycled. He explored Skinner's kitchen and study while his clothes dried, drank another glass of buttermilk, ate a sweet pickle, then a banana with sour cream, washed, dried, and put away his dirty dishes, and padded upstairs with his freshly laundered clothes. He crawled under the covers, tossed and turned, got up, grabbed his Mayor McCheese, went back to bed, and fell into a troubled sleep. ### CHAPTER FOUR # "You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you do not trust enough." --Frank Crane # Friday, March 10th # Skinner jolted awake from a brief but sound slumber, wondering why. Then he heard a scream and instinctively knew that another one had preceded it, and that is what had awakened him. He checked his clock: 5:44. He sighed, wondering if it was worth trying to get back to sleep just to wake up in forty-six minutes. He decided it wasn't. Especially since his house guest did not seem disposed to waking --or shutting up-- of his own accord.