Warp
Practice
Well, now. That could possibly have gone better. But I honestly don't see how.
I knew it. No, really, I did. I knew Mulder would be like this.
I knew it.
He's practically unconscious at the moment. It's a good look for him. He
collapsed at my side when I started laughing right after we'd fucked. I couldn't
help it. Oh, I wasn't laughing at him. Hell, no. I've got no reason to laugh
at him.
Things just strike me as funny, sometimes. Maybe one of these days I'll tell him
about some of them. But not today.
Damn.
I've got him.
I have really got him.
Shit, look at that grin. Sleepy, hazy, blissful, slightly smug. Hey, I can let
him be smug. No skin off my nose. Besides, it's good for him.
A soft kiss on my shoulder and he's down for the count. Oh, the things I could
do to him, right now. Staggering.
Don't go there, Alex.
Damn, I need a shower.
Maybe later, when he's awake. I don't want to disturb him. Not right now.
It's not too bad, you know. The post-coital lassitude, I mean. Not entirely
uncomfortable, this vulnerable, naked feeling. Still, it's not like I don't know
where every weapon in the room is, or anything. Christ, I'm not stupid.
About earlier...You know, I liked the way he looked at me. No pity. Which was
good, 'cause I really fucking hate that. Lust was real good. Want was even
better. I still can't believe he admitted to it in a public park, though.
Jesus, Mulder.
I also liked the way he acted like he hadn't been touched in half of forever,
which kind of precluded anything naked and nasty happening between him and Bald
Mountain. I just might have to do something nice for Skinner. Especially since I
came so close to offing the bastard.
It was necessary to bring him into it, to watch Fox's back, but that didn't mean
I was just going to sit by and let him poach.
It started at the hockey game. All that fucking sympathy. Yeah, I noticed when
Mulder lost it. I was up in the booth, watching the action. What a view. I owe
Danny for that, too.
Danny. Christ, that's a whole 'nother story. One that could be chalked up to
vanity, maybe. Or something pathetic like insecurity. Pick one. I really don't
give a shit which.
I was actually on my way out of the arena, when he ran right into me. Literally.
Startled both of us, plus the guy behind him who took one look at me and narrowed
his eyes like he knew exactly who and what I was. I was about to answer that
challenge, when the man in front of me spoke. And I looked at him.
Leather jacket. Large nose. Dark hair. Nice eyes. Not hazel, but still.
Young. Too fucking young. God, I've never been that young.
And he was apologizing, steadying me, hand on my arm. Kind of funny when his
eyes grew a little big the second he realized how hard it was.
I told him there'd been no harm done and he blurted out something like 'Yeah, I
guess there wouldn't be' then turned about six shades of scarlet. I managed to
get in a chuckle of sorts before he launched into more apologies and I shrugged
off a 'Don't worry about it' of my own.
The guy behind him clapped a hand on his shoulder and said something about
getting back to the booth, eyes never getting much bigger than slits as he glared
at me. I couldn't help wondering what the hell I'd ever done to this fuck,
anyway, but the one who'd crashed into me stuck out his hand and introduced
himself.
Danny Rydell.
Fine, we can be civilized. You want civilized, I'll fucking give you civilized.
Alex Krycek.
Yeah, now we're buddies, right?
Shit.
And then he was asking if I wanted to come with them, up to the booth. I'd 'have
to be quiet, they were broadcasting'. And 'could I do quiet'?
Where do I find these people?
I shrugged and said I thought I could handle quiet, said it wasn't necessary,
really, and paused just long enough for him to insist, right on cue, good boy.
I admit, part of me accepted the invite just to see the look on the other guy's
face. Casey...something or other. Too fucking hilarious.
I followed Danny, Casey followed me, and I made several deliberate passes over
Danny's ass with my eyes, making sure that Casey saw me doing it. Sweet, too
fucking sweet. After a while, I quit baiting Casey. Danny's ass was nice in its
own right, I've got to tell you.
The booth was this amazing scene of crowded, controlled chaos, everything and
everyone working like sixty, and making no goddamned sense whatsoever to anyone
watching who didn't speak the language.
Kind of like the inside of Mulder's head, I'm willing to bet.
Danny introduced me to a few of the people there, Jeremy somebody, who was a lot
happier about getting this call than the last one, whatever the hell that meant,
a few of the guys running the boards and equipment, nice gear, and then Casey got
into my space.
And all I could think was please don't make me hurt you. Danny seems to like
you, and he's a decent sort, please don't make me hurt you.
I'll admit it, I got a little pissed. Opened up the jacket, resituated the gun
at my back, propped my foot up on a chair to check the ankle holster, moved one
of the knives to an inside pocket and flicked open the switchpick, just to make
sure it still worked, of course. Nothing more. Then, I went to the window and
asked Danny over my shoulder if I'd be in the way where I was.
Silence.
Beautiful, stunned silence. Broken only by Jeremy's faint 'Oookay'. And Casey's
not-so-faint 'Who the fuck is this guy?'. And Danny's hand on my shoulder. I
turned to face him with a huge smile, one of my personal best, if his reaction
was anything to go by.
And he told me I was fine.
Thanks for the vote, kid.
I paid attention to the little light that told people when to observe strict
silence and watched the game and the big goodbye and then dug out my own set of
binocs and saw Skinner with his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and those big hazel
eyes full of tears, and growled quietly to myself.
Prick.
God, I wanted Skinner dead. Really dead. Non-resurrectible, go toward the
light, taking the dirt-nap dead.
And decided to settle for making Casey go quietly insane, instead.
Which was its own reward, let me tell you.
The guys were packing the gear, and Danny was getting out of his mike and
earphone, and I waited til he seemed mostly done, and moved near him, soundlessly
even in boots, and asked if I could buy him dinner. To say thank you for a hell
of a night.
Deer in the headlights, I kid you not.
Shock, not fear. Which was good. Especially since Casey had apparently cornered
the market on fear.
I asked Danny if he liked Russian, he suggested Italian, and we settled on Greek.
And I steered him out of the room while he tossed a 'See ya later, Case' at the
man sitting poleaxed behind the anchordesk.
We headed out of the arena, avoided the crowds by walking down corridors Danny
knew about, went through some doors, then popped out onto the street.
I'd deliberately parked some ways away. I hate being trapped anywhere,
regardless, but in a crowd? After a hockey game? Especially Gretzky's last?
Please, I'm not insane. These people can be worse than soccer fans.
Anyway, the night was fair and the walk was pleasant. We were heading past
Tiffany's, and I always look, can't help it, and saw the watches in the window.
The usual glitz and glamour, flash and ostentation. Ugh. And Danny caught the
sneer of total contempt on my face, touched my shoulder, and pointed to the end.
Okay, now that was the watch of a man who didn't have a goddamned thing to
prove. Subtle. Classy. Expensive. Perfect.
I grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, laughing, lost him over by the
cufflinks and tie tacks, and bought the watch, intending to give it to Mulder,
just to mess with his head. And looked over at Danny. And grinned. And bought
another. Just in case. If things went badly, I could always keep it myself.
Matching watches—how fucking cute was that?
Anyway, we headed out, I thanked him for seeing it, he grinned, and I led us down
the street.
And then Danny caught sight of the Auburn, which I'd been driving since I'd
gotten it out of storage, making sure it was good to go for Mulder.
It was fun watching all the wheels in his head try to add this to the equation,
the closer we got to it.
All he said was 'Sweet', but the grin on his face said a whole lot more. He
navigated to the restaurant, talking quietly but not alot, which was sincerely
appreciated because I really hate chatter. Turns out we're both from Connecticut
and he's got to be one of about three people who have actually heard of
Riverview. Danny pointed out where to park, we got out, and he patted the hood
of the car when he came around to my side.
I knew I liked him.
The wait was short, the people knew him, talked with him, and looked curiously at
me while I ignored them and pretended to study the matted prints on the walls.
His hand was on my back, leading me into a quiet corner, letting me take the seat
I wanted, no surprise when I took the gunfighter seat, keeping everything and
everyone in view.
I let him order and he didn't disappoint me. Food we could play with, food we
could share, food we could get each other hot over just by licking our fingers.
Mulder would call it normal.
I'd call it a fucking revelation.
Two guys, having dinner.
Sounds simple enough, you'd think, right?
Wrong.
It was just a dry run. I had no feelings for Danny, really. It wasn't like it
mattered. But if I could fake my way through it, then I could probably bring
myself to do it with Fox.
And I don't mean dinner.
I'm talking about sex.
About letting another man see me, really see me, and not having him cringe. Or
flinch. Or look at me with sorrow or pity or all those other fucking feelings I
hate so much, in his eyes.
It was practice. And Danny was a nice guy. And if Casey was somewhere grinding
his perfectly capped-for-TV teeth over it, well, so much the better.
So, yes, I caught, and thoroughly enjoyed, the look on Danny's face when I
tongued humous off my fingers. And he grinned back at me when I arched a silent
eyebrow after feeling the side of his foot stroke my leg.
Pistachio-and-rice pudding, complete with plenty of spoon-licking, finished
dinner, but I wouldn't have called it dessert.
Danny was dessert.
Danny was also staying in The Plaza. And guess who was staying in the adjoining
room next to him?
Casey.
Sometimes, it's wonderful to be me.
I paid for dinner with cash and Danny didn't so much as blink when he saw the
roll of money I was still carrying, even after getting the watches. Good boy.
We headed back to the car, got in, and he leaned over and kissed me. With some
care and caution, yes, but no hesitation at all.
Christ, the man was thorough. I pulled away carefully with a 'hold that thought'
and got us back to the hotel.
He didn't even check his messages.
I knew I liked him.
We made it to the room in record time, which was two floors below Mulder's.
Convenient.
I unloaded just about everything potentially lethal onto the dresser, caught his
look of bemusement, and grinned. He grinned back and wondered aloud 'Do I even
want to ask you what you do for a living?'. I answered 'No' and he seemed
content to let it slide.
Trusting fool.
Nice guy.
Shit.
He got mostly-naked damned quickly, then seemed to freeze, not wanting to help me
if I didn't welcome it. I didn't need the help, true enough, but I sure as hell
needed the practice. Letting another man undress me without any flinching of my
own was pretty fucking necessary. And he was careful, even with the arm. His
eyes only got a little wide when it came off and he looked at me with those
eyebrows which seemed to form natural question marks all by themselves.
He grinned when I winked, reassured, and asked the question with his eyes when he
saw the scarring. I said nothing. He was smart enough not to push it. Good
boy.
And the look on his face...not pity. Not grief. Anger. Seriously. It
surprised the hell out of me. I had to look twice to make sure it wasn't
revulsion. He looked at me and sighed. And shrugged. And spoke. And floored
me.
Not 'I'm sorry'.
Not 'What a shame'.
No, not Danny.
You know what he said?
'I know people'.
And I thought, Jesus H. Christ, kid, so do I. Believe me, you don't want to
meet them.
'In medicine' he said, perfectly serious. And explained.
Not your normal, shady-government-hybridizing-cloning-mad-scientist's-laboratory
type medicine, either, oh, no, not Danny. Sports Medicine. Experimental stuff.
State-of-the-fucking-art medicine.
The kind of medicine that lets track stars with limbs lost to accidents, run
marathons again. Archers with no more than three fingers, total, set records.
Swimmers with only one natural arm, break new times. There's a whole fucking
Olympic community for people like me, and he knew them. And their doctors.
I silently swore to myself that I would never hurt Casey, no matter how
tempting. That was really the best I could offer in return.
He got a piece of hotel stationary, wrote down some names. And places. And just
nodded when I said I had my own doctor, told me to have him check these people
out. Folded it up and stuck it in my pocket. Right before he finished stripping
me naked and tackling me to the bed.
He was all over me, everything, everywhere, god. So fucking hard and hot and
perfect and all over me. And part of me wanted to keep him. Really. I mean,
he was a public figure, a nationally-televised sports anchor for the love of
Christ, and I wanted to keep him. And thought that if it were half as good with
Mulder as it was gearing up to be with Danny, I was in deep shit.
The kid was joyful, ecstatic, enthusiastic, didn't wait for me to respond, or
protest, didn't wait to see if anything wasn't good or right, just swept over me
like a horned-out puppy dog and brought me screaming into the pillow in no time.
And laughed. Not at me, either. In delight. Sheer, unadulterated delight.
Then, he just kicked back, relaxed, and let me ravish him. Instant surrender, no
fight, no contest of will or strength, just encouragement, more laughter, some
loud, gleeful howls, and his hands fucking everywhere . Then he pulled away,
looked at me thoughtfully, and grinned.
'Hey, Alex? Tonight, you don't have one hand. You've got three, put 'em
wherever the hell you want 'em.'
Okay, so it was as close to crying as I've come in the last couple of decades.
And I took him up on it. It was almost like using him to masturbate, but
yet...not. Things I hadn't been able to do to, with, or for myself in fucking
years and he just let me...do them. Use him. Gladly.
Shit.
I made some mildly sarcastic comment about how well he took direction and he just
burst into laughter and said something along the lines of 'Well, duh. I work in
television, you asshole'.
He let me use his hands as my own until we brought me to orgasm again, then
pounced. Only fair. After all, it was his turn.
I really could've gotten used to it. You know?
And so it went, until some obscene hour of the very early morning and I had to
leave him. Not that I wanted to, but I had to.
I left behind the watch and a note, which simply said thank you. And that he was
a class act, which he sure as hell was. And I got my stuff together quietly and
left him, sleeping, sated, and snoring.
I paused out in the hallway. Stepped up and knocked on Casey's door. It opened
far too quickly for the person on the other side to have been asleep and
suddenly, there he was. Angry. Scared. Hurt. Worried.
The worried got to me.
I told him that Danny was fine. Was more than fine. Danny was fucking
incredible, all right? And that he'd better take damned good care of him.
He just nodded and said, very softly, that he would. I told him that Danny was
his. All his. And then I left to the sound of a door closing quietly. And
headed up to Mulder's suite.
I had to brace myself before going into the room I knew had to be Skinner's.
Mulder never snored like a fucking buzz saw. But god help Skinner if Mulder was
in that bed with him.
Luckily for Skinner, he wasn't.
I went into Fox's room. Unconscious, passed-out, almost-fully-clothed, drunk. I
straightened things up, left what I needed to, tucked him in a little better, and
fought an ugly battle with myself to keep from touching him anymore than
necessary. Let alone staying there with him. Then, I took off.
I can look at Fox, now, here, with me, and I'm grateful. To Danny. I don't know
if this would've happened without him. And I'm damned glad it worked out. I
wasn't at all sure it would, not with my track record. And maybe, sometime, if I
get a quiet moment, I'll ask Chae to check out Danny's list of names and places.
And get myself an arm that looks like it was put together in the last decade.
Maybe.
If.
Sometime.
You know, for a guy who used to measure his future in days, I find I'm suddenly
optimistic.
Questions
I was just laying there, playing with the hairs on the arm wrapped around me.
Feeling his breath warm the back of my neck. Content enough. Idly thinking
about Danny, a little. And Fox, a lot.
Wondering what his reaction would be, when I got around to telling him what I
needed his help for. I thought I had the bases covered, but he has managed to
surprise me, before. He could easily slip in something I hadn't even considered.
If anyone could do it, he could.
Anyway, I guess I wasn't really thinking. I was planning. Distracted. That's my
only excuse. The only conceivable reason for answering his softly murmured, "Can
I ask you something?" with a "Sure, anything."
I wasn't thinking.
I didn't even have time to prepare myself when his next question came.
"Why did you kill my father?"
Not 'did you'. ' Why did you'.
It stunned me, yes. He simply assumed I had. And was still naked at my side.
Never mind that Bill Mulder wasn't his father; Fox didn't know that. He went
into this thinking I had capped his old man and fucked me, anyway.
Jesus.
'Why did you kill my father'?
Why do I get the feeling that 'Because I was taking my orders from the wrong man
at the time' just wouldn't be enough to satisfy him?
Okay, then...
How much do I tell him? Assuming I don't tell him everything, how do I explain
it all later? What reasons can I come up with, for my silence? For the lies?
And how much will he understand? Or be able to forgive?
Obviously, I can't tell him everything. Not yet. It's too soon. Maybe...after.
When the smoke has cleared, the dust has settled. After the bodies are counted
and buried for good. Maybe then I can tell him. But for now...
Mulder just lay there, arm still around me, silent, patient, like he was asking
me to give him a reason, any reason, to make fucking me a bit more palatable
for him. And I wanted so badly to get pissed at him, but I couldn't. Because I
understood. And because I still needed his help. And to get his help, I had to
have his trust. And to get his trust, I had to tell him the truth about this.
Or, at the very least, part of one. A part we'd both be able to live with.
Deep breath. Let's start with his question. Simple enough.
Yeah, right.
"I had no choice."
He quietly thought it over, wheels spinning, cogs grinding, theories and ideas
clicking into place.
"Was it a choice of you or him?"
Actually, mercifully, it wasn't. That might have been a little harder.
"No. It was you or him."
A small lie. They would never have killed Mulder. Destruction, however, was
something else entirely.
And as for Fox...
Stillness. Absorption. Then a slow nod out of the corner of my eye. That, he
can believe. Now. After...everything. He'd never have bought it a couple of
weeks ago. He would never have believed that it would have made any difference
to me, whatsoever. Now, he's willing to consider the possibility that it made
all the difference in the world. And if that didn't please me so damned much,
I'd be feeling pretty fucking smug about it.
"Was he my father, Alex?"
Shit, shit, shit.
Come on, Alex. Simple yes or no, that's all that's required.
Sure it is.
"No. Biologically speaking, no."
True enough. None of that cold man's genetic material is present in the
wonderfully warm being next to me.
I, myself, am not so fortunate. Which probably explains more about me than I'd
like to admit.
"Who is?"
He refuses to ask the easy questions. Isn't that a surprise?
"Not the man you're thinking of."
His relief was palpable and he moved closer to me, of all things, as I sighed,
leaned back into him, and rested my head on his shoulder as he shifted slightly
above me.
No, the nicotine-poisoned walking corpse is not your father, Fox. He'd have been
dead a long time ago, if he were. I'd have taken care of it personally. And
with no small amount of pleasure.
"Do you know who is?"
"I only know of his existence. Much the same way I know of Samantha's."
He looked at me, realized I was only making a point, not a strike. And, more
importantly, that I really didn't know all that much about either of them. Which
was the truth.
"Did you help them take Scully?"
Fuck.
"No."
He sighed with something like relief and took my hand in one of his.
Oh, no, Fox. Don't get too relaxed, yet. It's not that simple. Nothing ever
is.
"I just made sure they didn't get you, too."
He stopped moving, briefly. Frozen. Finally, a slow thaw. Very slow. But a
thaw, nonetheless.
When did he become so forgiving? I wondered.
And then I remembered something.
That's how all this started. In the warehouse. Kersh. Too late for Scully,
this time not on purpose. And making damned sure Mulder was all right and out
of the way. Again.
Well, now. I hadn't realized I'd established a pattern.
Time to toss him something else to chew on.
"I brought her back, once I'd figured out where she was."
"And no one saw you. How'd you manage that?"
It wasn't doubt I heard in his voice. Or disbelief. Something harder, colder
than idle curiosity, though.
"I can all but disappear in a hospital, Fox. You wouldn't believe how often I
frequent them."
"What, you go in as a doctor?"
"No. Someone practically invisible, to city-dwellers. Someone their eyes are
used to sliding right past, without really seeing. It's extremely effective."
Doesn't say much for humanity, though, does it? Of course, humanity wouldn't say
much for me, either.
I find myself wondering if Fox knew how many times he'd walked right past me on
a street corner, a subway platform, in a bus terminal, a parking garage. How
many times his eyes had been the ones that slid over me, unseeing.
I've lost count.
"No one knew where she'd come from, when she was returned," he said softly,
catching my wandering attention again. "Or who'd brought her in. No one could
tell me anything."
"I'm not surprised."
"That's damned effective."
"It has its uses."
Silence, like he was gathering himself for something. Slight tension curling
through him. I rolled over all the way and saw him frowning. And sighed,
settled on my back, pressed up against his warmth, and waited.
"Did you have anything to do with Melissa Scully's death?"
I should have stayed where I was.
He saw the truth in my eyes before I even opened my mouth to answer him.
Answers
Maybe a simple truth.
"I was there. Yes."
Sometimes the simplest answers just aren't, you know?
He just looked at me, waiting for me to explain this one, as I had the others.
So I did. More or less.
"Did Scully tell you she'd been warned that someone she knew and trusted would
try and kill her?"
"Umm, yeah. She thought it was Skinner. They were having a Mexican stand-off in
my living room when I came back from the dead."
"It wasn't Skinner."
"Obviously."
His eyes widened, turned wary and unbelieving, and I cursed, silently, yet
fervently, as I felt something tenuous slowly slipping away.
"Are you saying that Melissa was the one who...? No fucking way!"
"Yeah," I answered softly and sighed and cursed some more, because he wasn't any
closer to believing me.
"How in the hell is that possible ?"
"They drugged her. With something called 'AH'. It's supposed to make someone
highly susceptible to suggestion. Mind control."
"Yeah. Anionic histamine. Scully told me about it," he said, haltingly. "She
got shot up with it in Vegas. And Langley. They used it on him to program him
to kill...someone."
His eyes met mine and I nodded and then, suddenly, he looked pissed again.
"Alex, fuck , there's an antidote...!"
"Mulder, there wasn't three fucking years ago, okay? Deprogramming was an option
but an option that Cardinale's trigger-finger removed from the realm of
possibility."
"Why? Why did you...?"
"Scully was necessary, all right? To keep you alive and in the game. She could
do what I couldn't, what no one could, because she was one of the few people you
could bring yourself to trust. She had to be there. With you."
That was the warm and fuzzy reason.
The not-so-warm-and-fuzzy reason was that she was a much more immediate liability
than Samantha was. And a weakness. A nice, red-headed, exploitable weakness.
And you couldn't exploit a dead partner. And they knew that.
Jesus, did they know that.
"If you felt like that, then why didn't...When they took her..."
This was getting fucking absurd.
"Listen to me."
I tried to keep my voice just on this side of deadly, still comfortably in firm,
but I hadn't entirely succeeded, if the look on his face was anything to go by.
Forgot who you were dealing with, there, for a moment, didn't you, Fox?
"You're right if you're thinking I had choices, that they gave me choices. But
you need to understand that my choices, weren't . They were an illusion,
nothing more."
I licked my lips and kept going.
"Kill Bill Mulder or kill you, or kill neither, let someone else kill you both
and kill me, too, for blowing off a direct order. No choice, Fox. Not a
goddamned choice at all."
He just looked at me, but the gears were turning, I could fucking hear them.
"Kill Melissa Scully, or let her kill Dana. And they'd have killed Melissa
anyway, as soon as she'd done what she'd been programmed to do. Again, no
choice."
Mulder sighed and it sounded raspy, wrong.
"I know that Old Smokey has told you things, let you find out things, that make
me look like your worst enemy."
"The Morleys in the ashtray."
"Exactly. Did you really think it was simple carelessness?"
Mulder dragged a hand over his face and I went on.
"He couldn't afford to have you trust me, once he figured out what side I was on.
And this is no triangle, believe me. There are only two sides."
"Resist or serve," he muttered.
I nodded.
"Exactly. And having you against me put you on his side, by default, right
where he wanted, needed you to be. Right where Bill Mulder had been until it
was too goddamned late for him to save himself."
Mulder was doing his best to look at me, but it was hard for him. So hard.
"Fox, Spender let things slip to me, deliberately, knowing exactly what I'd
have to do: horrible things to keep something even worse from happening. He knew
damned well what he was doing because he'd set them up, them and me, in the
first place, and knew , the bastard knew I'd have no choice..."
I mean, really, why do you tell an assassin anything ? Why do you bring a
problem to his attention? To get his fucking sympathy ?
"What do you want from me?"
Jesus H. Christ.
Like I was supposed to tell him now ? And have him believe me, have him there
for me, working with me, helping me commit a damned illegal act which could
possibly end in an international incident? Oh, yeah, right...
"I've had enough. Just tell me," he murmured with a heavy sigh echoed from a
heavy heart. "What do you need my help with?"
"It's a long story," I whispered, staring up at the ceiling, and Fox rolled onto
his side so he could maintain eye contact with me. Which actually made me feel
more naked than I already was.
"Bill Mulder."
"What about him?"
"God, Fox."
"Please, just...I need to know."
"What do you know about a project named 'Emerald'?"
He got a little unfocused for a minute as he accessed every damned file stored in
that incredible memory of his. And came up blank.
"Nothing," he shook his head with a frown.
"Lab-created, Mulder. And I'm not talking gemstones, here. Something just as
valuable, though."
"What have they got?"
"A three-year-old child. A little girl."
"A clone?"
"No. No, she's not a clone."
"Lab-created...?"
"She's Scully's daughter, Fox."
"Oh, fuck."
"And m...She's a Mulder."
Jesus, Alex, watch it. It's too damned soon for that piece of the puzzle.
"What...?"
He trailed off, mind going like crazy, thoughts, theories flying across his face,
being considered and discarded until he came to one. The one.
"My fa...Bill Mulder's...?"
And here I thought his eyes couldn't possibly get any wider.
"Yeah."
No, actually, not Bill's. But it's just a small lie, Alex. Just keep telling
yourself that.
"Daughter?"
"Yeah."
"Christ," he ground out, falling back to do some of his own staring at the
ceiling, and I came up onto my side to keep the connection with him.
He shook his head and muttered and cursed and thought and cursed some more and
looked up at me and glared.
The son-of-a-bitch glared at me.
"Did you think I'd say NO ?"
Spoken with a grinding snarl.
Ohh, shit.
"Did you think I'd refuse to help you, is that it?"
Damn.
"Krycek, fuck, where's my gun? Damn you!"
"No."
I said it softly enough to get his attention.
"If you didn't trust me, you wouldn't have believed me in the first place. You'd
think it was a trap, or worse. It isn't. I just don't want her to end up like
Emily, that's all."
I saw him instantly remember Scully's other daughter, and the memory of another
doomed child pulled a wince across his face.
"Was she part of this...project?"
"Similar thing, different name."
"Jesus, how many of them are there?"
"I don't know."
"How did you find her? Where is she?"
"Nova Scotia."
"Alex...How?"
A heavy sigh on my part. I'm good at sound more defeated than I am.
"I found her when I was looking for information on Samantha."
"What?"
"I've got access to resources I didn't have before. I've been...using them."
"And you found her, how, exactly?"
"The Mulder code."
"The what?"
"Another long story."
Gee, how did I know that answer wouldn't satisfy him?
"Tell me."
"Damned near everyone in this country has a code, made up of several sequences of
letters and numbers. Each sequence is like a pedigree, for your parents,
grandparents, as far back as they can go. And if you take anyone's code, minus
their own unique sequence and their mother's, you get their father's."
"You used my...his code to try and find something on Samantha."
"Bingo."
Actually, no.
I used the Mulder code, yes. Just not Bill's.
"What if Sam isn't his child, either?"
"She isn't. I know that, now."
"Ohh, shit."
His eyes shut and he shook his head, probably already knowing the answer to the
question I knew he was going to ask.
"But, I found his daughter," I rushed in, on a wave of half-truths, trying to
stave off the inevitable. "His real daughter, and Scully's, using the code."
Try and hold back the tide, why dontcha, Alex?
"Who is Sam's father?"
"Another long story, Fox."
"Aren't they all?" he asked dryly.
"You're asking me to explain about fifty years of history in minutes, here."
"Spender?"
He sounded so tired.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"She really is his daughter."
"Yeah."
"Fuck. He was just taking her back, wasn't he?"
It was close enough to the truth. For now.
"Basically, yeah."
He thought and thought and fortunately he was distracted enough that he couldn't
get into it any further.
"Nova Scotia?"
"Yeah. She was in Mexico. I caught the transfer order for her shipment. The
code was part of the order."
"You really were in Mexico, weren't you?" he grinned. Sort of.
"I told you I was," I smirked. Sort of.
"You also told me you'd gotten your leg signed by Zorro, asshole!"
"The truth is in the details, Mulder."
He snorted.
"Sure it is, Livy."
I've got to admit, I liked his reference to the Ancient Roman historian and my
grin told him as much. For Livy, the important truth was never in the details
but in the major lesson of an historical event. It's a lesson Fox still needs to
learn.
And one I'll be more than happy to teach him.
He sighed, stretched, and then grinned wider when my eyes focused like a hawk on
a rabbit, watching him move.
"So, when do we leave for Nova Scotia?" he asked casually and it took a moment to
register, to pull my eyes off his body, tear my attention from his eyes and his
mouth and...Christ. What the fuck had he asked me?
Oh, right.
"Tomorrow."
He nodded, brain working a mile a minute.
"Is she okay? She's not sick, is she?"
"Not yet."
"They're going to be testing her, aren't they? Because she's part of the hybrid
experiments?" he asked in a moment of clarity based on a hunch born from his
usual brilliance and cursed when I nodded.
"Are you going to be all right to go, tomorrow?"
He looked worried. About me. Shit.
"Yeah," I murmured, feeling his concern settle around me like a blanket. God,
don't let me get used to this. Please.
"Okay," he frowned, nodding thoughtfully. "Tomorrow."
Tapestry II
by Amirin
