The Gift of an Enemy Part III by Sylvia "That was a damn fool thing to do," Mulder informed Krycek tightly while Warren and his men piled back into their cars and pulled away from the curb in front of Riley's house, having missed all the excitement. Krycek was leaning against the hood of Mulder's car, watching them clear out with a distracted look on his face. At Mulder's words, he looked up to raise a cool eyebrow. "What're you talking about?" "Attacking the witch. You didn't know anything about his abilities-" "Oh please, Mulder." Krycek looked disgusted. Mulder frowned darkly. He couldn't very well deny that, coming from him, the reproach for recklessly plunging into the unknown had certain comic overtones, but that didn't change the fact that it had been a damn fool thing to do. "You're lucky you slipped," he went on, trying to ignore Krycek's incredulous stare. "Who knows what he would have-" "I didn't slip, Mulder. I never slip. The telekinetic little shit pushed me." Pausing midway through searching his pockets for the car keys, Mulder looked up. "The guns can't have been telekinesis-not three at the same time, not while he was controlling Riley and then Dahl. He can only hold one person at a time. Why should it be easier with objects? Shouldn't be a question of size. And splitting his concentration six ways? No. He would at least have been nervous. You're sure?" "Yes, Mulder, I am sure. Stand away from the car and I'll gladly demonstrate that I know how to do a high kick without falling on my ass." That's right, Krycek had had extensive training in unarmed combat. Had gone through that endless, inhuman torture the Consortium had devised to turn out lethal, remorseless, conscienceless killers whose only consideration was survival. Mulder felt ill thinking about it. What kind of people would put a young boy into a room with four armed killers and wait to see if he would come out alive- Mulder shook his head and frowned, irritated at his digressing thoughts. "Okay, he pushed you. That means telekinesis, preternaturally fast reflexes of course, telepathic or empathic hold over a maximum of one person at a time, and undefined abilities regarding the control of inanimate mechanical objects like locks, guns, and cars. It's possible Riley's car, the door, and the guns were also influenced by means of telekinesis, but considering how many different ways Max would have had to split the talent just now, it's not likely. The telepathic hold is a purely external one at first, not supported by internal and permanent factors like implants, but there may be a more permanent bond, perhaps established in part through physical intimacy. The interference effect caused by the pain could be chemical. Hormones, adrenaline, neurotransmitters, something similar. That would be easy to replicate. Or it could be mechanical. Some manner of neural overload." No response. Krycek was staring off down the street, clearly not paying attention. A surge of affronted anger rose in Mulder. "Apparently you have this all figured out, Krycek? If you think you don't have anything to do with this investigation you'd better think again after what-" "When are you going to drive out to the Lawrence's, Mulder?" Mulder glared at him. "What's this about? You afraid of being snatched by another alien influence?" Krycek flinched, very slightly, but noticeably. With perfect clarity, the picture of the witch and Krycek flashed into Mulder's mind. The way Krycek had stood clutching his gun, face white, eyes wide and almost black. How he'd briefly closed his eyes once the Lawrence had moved off, looking dazed and frightened... breathing with obvious concentration, the way people trying to stave off a panic attack often did. Shit. Mulder felt like a brute. "Look, Krycek, you held up pretty well in there. It must have been-" "Next time a Lawrence witch gets that close to me, Mulder, I'm going to kill the bastard," Krycek said without looking at Mulder, his voice hard and flat. "You want to keep them alive, you keep them the hell away from me." There was something odd in the way he said that.... On a hunch, Mulder called up the memory of the moment Maximilian Lawrence had reached out for Krycek. There had been a brief instant when Krycek's body had seemed to freeze into complete immobility. Then, still before the witch's leisurely gesture had been completed, he'd relaxed and shifted his stance. Moving in preparation for violence. He'd been about to attack then, before the Lawrence had ever touched him. Why hadn't he? Mulder considered the memory and came up with only one plausible explanation. "You thought I was talking to you." Krycek glanced at Mulder and, for the first time, seemed to notice that the other man was standing next to the driver's door, ready to get in the car. "Oh, you need the keys. I have them here somewhere-" "You didn't attack the witch because you thought I had told you not to." "Well, we both know how you get when you don't have everything your way, Mulder. I'm not in the mood for pain. Here, catch." Mulder fielded the keys one-handedly and jiggled them in his palm, regarding the other man thoughtfully. "I didn't realize you'd be stupid enough to try and kill him for chucking you under the chin." The younger man gave him a brief, hard glare and straightened away from the hood, wrenching the passenger's door open with more force than necessary. "Do me a favor and shut the fuck up, Mulder." The automatic assumption, Mulder had been ordering Krycek, not the witch, to cease and desist. The way he'd said Mulder's name-not as though he were asking for help, but as though he were announcing something. Announcing that he wasn't going to be able to follow-orders? Yes. Orders. File that away for later consideration. The closed look on his face when the witch had moved off. Trying to lock the panic away before anyone saw it-before anyone realized he was vulnerable. The incomprehension when Mulder asked if he was all right. Several more pieces of evidence to be fit into the pattern that was Krycek.... Pieces that fit nicely into the picture of a man raised for the purpose of being the perfect tool and weapon-a man who was, perhaps, even more alone within his own soul than Mulder was. A man who had demons locked in there with him that would give Mulder's a run for their money. The pattern was not complete, but then no human pattern ever was, or could be. Mulder had a lot to work with where Krycek was concerned. If only he could remember to work with it. Mulder got into the car, but didn't start the motor. After several moments, Krycek turned his head, giving him a coldly suspicious glance. "I was talking to Max Lawrence," Mulder told him. "When I said 'don't,' which you apparently interpreted as 'don't be a stupid asshole and try to blow the guy's head off because you don't like being chucked under the chin,' what I was actually saying was 'don't chuck my-lawyer-under the chin because he won't like it and may be a stupid asshole and try to blow your head off.'" Krycek shrugged and turned away to stare out of the window on his side of the car. "Crossbows," he said after a moment. "Pistol crossbows-or maybe that's already too complex, they might be able to jam the mechanism. Tournament or hunting longbows, though the projectiles have a much lower velocity. Maybe they'd be able to dodge, or catch them telekinetically. Knives, of course. Fencing foils with the safeties off and the tips sharpened. No poison-who knows what their body chemistry is like. Explosives should work, though. Telekinesis isn't much use against chemical reactions, I'd guess." "Krycek." "Well, someone has to think of the practical little details, Mulder. If you don't have enough sense to leave this alone, at least go in prepared." "Krycek, what did you tell the soldiers at Tunguska?" His head whipped around, eyes wide and incredulous. Mulder firmly squashed his own surprise. He hadn't known he was going to ask just that question-but then, he'd been meaning to ask it for days. Somehow he'd never quite gotten around to it. He'd been waiting for a fitting moment, which had apparently arrived. He'd asked-it was obvious that something about the moment had to be fitting. His own motivations were once again unsatisfactorily murky in his mind, as they always seemed to be when Krycek was involved. Mulder resolved not to think about that now, though. He was tired of trying to dig up the twisted roots of his own impulses. It didn't take Krycek long to gather himself; the familiar shuttered expression slipped across his features as the mask came down once more. Correction-one of the masks. The mask of the cool and cynical killer. Was it a mask? How much of it was true? How could Mulder make Krycek give him that particular bit of information? "You have the weirdest sense of timing, Mulder," Krycek said, sounding irritated and incidentally echoing Mulder's own thoughts on the subject. "Very well, back to playing twenty questions. I told them I was a KGB agent by the name of Arntzen sent to check up on the gulag. I told them you were an important American idiot I'd found useful in the past-that I still had uses for you, so they should let you escape and not chase you too energetically. Amazing how you managed to fuck that up so completely. I told you a million times that your shitty driving is going to get you-" "You expect me to believe that?" Mulder asked in a dangerously low tone. "You expect me to believe you were responsible for the fact I got out of there alive? When I was being exposed to the black cancer while you were drinking vodka with the supervisors-" Krycek's lips thinned. "Believe what you want, Mulder, I can't help you there. I can't do more than tell you the truth. And-I tried to stop them from experimenting on you. I couldn't risk pushing too hard, and it wouldn't have helped anyway since they didn't believe me yet at that point. I couldn't even be sure that invoking the KGB would make them help me at all. It might just as well have made them promote me to favorite test subject and punching bag. You never really know in Russia these days." Mulder got out of the car. After circling it twice, he had managed to calm himself enough to get back in, ready for the next question. Or, more precisely, the next answer. He hoped. "And are you a KGB agent?" Krycek shrugged. "Yes and no-the same way I was an FBI agent. The KGB's internal organization made it possible to establish me with relatively few appearances and cases. The right people made sure my name cropped up in the right places, and I went and put in some work on my US holidays. Had sick relatives a couple of times when something important came up. Even did weekends, sometimes. That made for mean jet-lag-almost got me killed once or twice." He shrugged again. "The Consortium might have turned Arntzen into a trap for me after I defected, but when it seemed the only choice left, I tried. And as it turned out, the Consortium's lost what's left of the KGB. That's why we're both here now, because the really big players don't do anarchy well." After another minute of silence, Mulder decided he'd wait to ask what kind of work Krycek had done for the KGB. What kind of a case took only part of a weekend? No investigation could be counted on to be over that quickly, certainly no surveillance or data gathering mission. The only real possibility- No, he'd ask some other time. Back to the case. It wouldn't do Dahl any good if Mulder charged in unprepared and managed to become the latest addition to the Lawrence menagerie.... He'd wait a day or two to give DC a chance to trace Clara Lawrence, and he'd put the time to good use. He still needed to talk with the mayor at more length. He'd ask around for anecdotes, legends-information of any kind on the phenomenon of the Weimar witches. He'd find maps of the Lawrence property, do some scouting, get some of the things Krycek had suggested. Poison was an assassin's weapon. It would never have occurred to Mulder, but Krycek had considered it automatically-casually-before judging it unfit for this particular purpose. Fencing foils with the safeties off. Improvising with the ease of long practice, finding suitable weapons wherever he could. Whatever it took-as natural as breathing. For Krycek, survival was synonymous with violence. Give him space and he might run, but you knew he'd be back, slipping from the shadows to slit your throat, insuring survival. Corner him and he would lie, cheat, fight his way out any way that he could, do whatever it took-to others, to himself. Whatever it took. It was survival. It was violence. The permanent violence of life. "Hey Mulder, I saw a bakery just around the corner. Since we're apparently going to be sitting here all day, how about you give me some money for donuts." It should have been all there was. It was what the Consortium had been aiming for. Untempered violence, contained by cold intellect. A tool, a weapon, nothing more. But there was more. Mulder caught himself wondering what the man would have been like if his parents hadn't chosen him. All of the strength, the endurance, the courage.... What would it have been like to meet Krycek the way he might have been, maybe a judge or a biologist or dentist-no, not a dentist, he wouldn't have liked that-maybe looking for his brother or sister.... Krycek was staring at him. Mulder shook himself from his musings and started the car, turning it to head back to the hotel. There was no help for it-before he could deal with the Lawrence witches effectively, he had to do something about Krycek. It couldn't go on like this. The man was distracting him from the case. Mulder hardly ever had to expend effort on concentrating all of his energies on a case-not if it was one like this, an X-File, a hidden truth waiting to be found out. That might be the problem, that Krycek was just as much an enigma as the Lawrence witches in his way. Whatever it was, the Krycek problem had to be solved, and the sooner the better. It was unfortunate that Mulder had no real idea of how to go about it, but he couldn't let that stop him. He would just have to improvise. As soon as the hotel room's door fell shut, Mulder hit Krycek in a full-body check, slamming him into the wall and pinning his wrists next to his head. The move was more reflex than anything else, and once he'd gotten this far, Mulder wasn't certain how to proceed. His usual course of action would have been to beat Krycek up. But that wasn't it-he no longer wanted to see the other man in pain, no longer felt the urge to make him feel some physical approximation of the agonizing betrayal Mulder felt whenever he caught sight of him. Because-as Mulder realized with some surprise-the pain of betrayal had receded, giving way to a confused tangle of other emotions.... And releasing the desire that had been lurking in the background from the violence he'd masked it with. Was that it, then; was this the root of the Krycek problem? If it was, then it made everything very simple. Mulder would merely have to flush his irrational preoccupation with the man from his system. Obvious. Should have thought of that before. By now, the expression on Krycek's face had passed from brief startlement into cool mockery tinged with bitterness. "Having another violent spell, Mulder? You should really see someone about the little mood problem you've got there...." Yes, it was all extremely simple. Mulder saw that now. Years ago, he'd subconsciously chosen an object to direct his sexual urges towards, and by the time it became apparent the object in question was not suitable, the fixation had been well established and it had been too late to redirect his impulses. Over the years, the sexual tension had built up steadily, partially venting itself in violence and gradually accumulating to a level where it could no longer be suppressed or even sublimated effectively. The result was that the secondary aggression was giving way to uncontrolled bursts of the primary effect, sexual desire.... As witnessed by Mulder's irrepressible response to a naked Krycek only that morning. It had been inevitable, really. To solve the problem, Mulder merely had to release the tension. Once he had, he would not only be able to see Krycek objectively, without his repressed and partially sublimated sexuality getting in the way, but he would also be able to choose a more fitting object of desire. It had been an error to fixate on this man, he reflected, shifting his grip on the captive wrists absently in order to avoid putting pressure on the healing wounds. It had been an error, yes, but it had been a very natural error. It was an indisputable fact that Krycek-Alex-was more than attractive, whatever else could be said about him. And the allure went beyond the obvious things, the bone structure, the coloration of hair and irises, the muscle configuration... Mulder didn't completely understand it, but there was more to it than that. It was, somehow, everything. For example, it was the way Alex was now looking off to the side briefly, pressing his lips together. Drawing attention to the lips. Displaying the long lashes and perfect profile. The line of the neck. And the way he looked back. Narrowing those amazing eyes. Flaring his nostrils slightly. Mulder pressed closer, watching green eyes widen as Alex felt the other man's erection pushing into him. Something sparked in the emerald depths; Mulder thrust his hips forward, rubbing against Alex and watching the spark flare, the pupils widen. Feeling the answering hardness grow against his body. The effort required to pull back again, even slightly, worried Mulder. He wanted this too much-he wanted Alex more than he could recall ever having wanted anyone. Had desire really always been this kind of wild, all-consuming, and unreasoning craving? He couldn't remember, but it must have been. It really had been too long if he couldn't even remember anymore.... The pause stretched, but Mulder forced himself to wait, to leave the next move up to the other man. If he was going to do this, and he desperately hoped he was, Mulder was going to do it properly. It was obvious the body pressed against his was willing, but he wasn't about to be fobbed off with just a body, no matter how desirable. There was more to Alex, and Mulder wanted it all. He didn't understand it, but he wanted it. The whole truth. The entire Alex. Calm green eyes held his as Alex twisted his wrists and slipped them from Mulder's loosened grasp. The thought of not being able to touch, to taste, to have.... Why did you stop-why did you have to try for the impossible and break your idiot neck, when will you learn to settle for the realistically attainable.... But it was too late for Mulder to change his mind now. He'd step away in just a moment-he'd have done so already except that he couldn't quite bring himself to end the contact with Alex yet. It felt so right! Why did he have to lust after this man of all people? And then Alex leaned forward, rubbing his entire body against Mulder slowly, sensuously, like a cat. Mulder froze as he felt the other man's breath on his neck. Lips, then teeth, found the base of his throat; Alex nipped him, tugged gently at a fold of the sensitive skin, released it, and then bit down with enough force to hurt. Mulder's cock surged in reaction and before he realized he was moving, he'd slammed the other man back into the wall, pulsing his groin against him convulsively. Alex gave a breathless little laugh. "I guess that means we're going to skip the part where you show me your ufology collection." An intoxicating rush of fierce triumph, blinding relief, and pure, unadulterated desire surged through Mulder, sweeping away the last vestiges of rational thought. He released his hold on it willingly, surrendering himself to the sensations flooding him. Alex shuddered against him as Mulder pressed his mouth against his, forcing it open with a swift thrust of the tongue and claiming it aggressively. As he pushed his hips against Alex's, the body sandwiched between him and the wall shifted, and suddenly there was a thigh between his, rubbing up against his genitals. Mulder thrust against the thigh once, twice, before he could tear himself away and step back. Breathing heavily, Alex leaned against the wall, lips slightly opened, eyes fixed on Mulder with undisguised hunger. He was still dressed as the polished young professional-in that expensive, conservative suit, with that look on his face and the bulge in the front of his pants, he looked like a debauched senator's son indulging himself with a quick fuck before returning to the reception held in the next room. There was certainly no sign of that strange innocence about him now.... But God, he looked young. Young and strangely reckless-giving himself up to the moment. He was Alex. The most arousing sight Mulder had ever seen. Alex straightened away from the wall slowly and began to stalk towards Mulder, moving like a predator... a sleek, lithe, green-eyed jungle creature. Feral, beautiful, and dangerous. Shouldn't touch it. Might take your hand off. But if it didn't.... Mulder seized Alex and stripped off his jacket, briefly fumbling with his tie before managing to get rid of it and discard the shirt and tee-shirt. Too many clothes.... When Mulder slid his hands down the other man's now-bare skin to his belt, Alex reached back and was suddenly holding a police-issue, large-caliber gun. He'd apparently had Dahl's gun tucked in the waistband at his back. Alex hesitated briefly before bending to put the weapon on the ground, a wary look passing across his features. Mulder hardly took note of the very deliberate disarming gesture; at this moment, it wouldn't have mattered to him if he'd caught Alex carrying a string of hand grenades and a sub-machine gun. He jerked his chin towards the closer bed. After another brief hesitation and an unreadable look, Alex slipped out of his remaining clothes with feline grace, never looking away from Mulder's face. Mulder was still struggling with his pants when Alex turned and walked towards the bed. The man was a work of art. Every part fit together perfectly-long legs elegantly muscled, firm buttocks perfectly shaped, athletic back and shoulders, soft dark hair falling over the nape of the neck.... Golden skin and rippling muscle. Controlled power and fierce male beauty. Mine. This man is mine. Deep green eyes. Finely drawn, almost delicate features.... The straight line of the shoulders, the unconsciously graceful way he held himself. Well-muscled arms, the beautifully molded, smooth chest marred only by the scars tracing across the skin. Slim hips and flat stomach.... A line of dark hair beginning low on his abdomen, widening to where the erect cock stood away from the body. "I take it I do get the Mulder seal of approval, then," Alex said, his voice huskier than Mulder had ever heard it. The voice alone would have been enough to drive Mulder insane. "I'll write you a certificate," Mulder rasped, surprised to find he could still talk. A small grin appeared, sparkling in those incredible eyes. "Great. You never know when you might need a reference like that." "You talk too much," Mulder growled. Where was the suitcase-he was sure he'd put condoms and lubricant in there in an overly optimistic mood a year or two ago.... Yes, there they were, and they hadn't even expired. Sometimes a photographic memory did come in handy. Mulder shoved Alex down to sprawl across the bed on his back, following immediately to cover him full-length with his own body. The feeling of heated skin against skin and the delicious friction when Alex writhed beneath him were almost enough to make him come then and there, and he closed his eyes against the sight of the man stretched flushed and panting beneath him, giving himself a moment to regain some measure of control. There was an odd expression in Alex's eyes when he looked at him again; in a distant, rational part of his mind, a spark of curiosity flared. Mulder ignored it, following the irresistible impulse to bend down and bite his former nemesis in the side of his neck, right below the curve of the jaw. Hard. The body beneath his arched up into his own. Alex gave a stifled gasp. Mulder caught an earlobe with his teeth, nipped it, drew it into his mouth. Nipped again, to be rewarded by a rough, dark little moan that went straight to his cock. This was going too fast. If Mulder didn't slow down, it would be over almost before it had started. He wasn't the type for quick tumbles-he liked drawn-out foreplay, a slow and torturous build up of passion, to be released in a blinding flash all the more intense for having been postponed. But Alex was so responsive. Did the man have to make those little growling sounds, how the hell was Mulder supposed to last.... Alex reached to the side and suddenly held the condom Mulder had thrown on the bed next to him. When Mulder moved back, Alex began to sit up, to reach for him, and he quickly put a hand on the younger man's chest to push him down again. Alex fell back without protest and watched while Mulder unrolled the condom over himself. It would have been more enjoyable to let Alex do it, but there was no way he could let the other man touch him now. In fact, he'd better wait for a moment or two before- "Mulder," Alex said, his tone low and hungry. The last vestiges of restraint splintered. Mulder lunged for him, shoving a hand in Alex's hair and dragging his head around to take his mouth with his own, to plunge his tongue in as deeply as he could, devouring, scouring, claiming as his own. His free hand fumbled for the lubricant and he could have screamed in frustration when he had to let Alex go again and use both hands to unscrew the tube. He made the best of the time by rubbing his erection against Alex's and biting his shoulder, his throat, nibbling along the line of the jaw to an ear. The top of the tube finally came off, just as Alex shuddered and moaned in a way that made Mulder's vision blur into a red haze of lust. He was certain he was going to die before he could come. He had never in his life been this hard. There was no way he was going to survive-but what a way to go. Alex shifted beneath him, spreading his legs and lifting his knees so Mulder was lying between them. His eyes were almost black, his breathing coming in short, harsh pants. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Mulder whispered roughly. "It's inhuman." For a moment he thought Alex was going to laugh. Then, he pushed a lubricated finger into Alex's body and watched his eyes grow larger still, darker still, as he arched up off the bed once more, pushing his erection into Mulder's stomach and pressing every inch of heated, satin skin to the other man's. Mulder added a second finger and moved both carefully, stretching Alex, reminding himself to go slowly, not to hurt him. Alex felt like hot, wet silk inside.... Perfect. He was perfect. The way he looked, the sounds he made. What he felt like. How he reacted to Mulder's touch.... How he shifted and pushed slightly against Mulder's hand, head thrown back, eyes drifting closed. How could anyone be so incredibly lovely.... The sight of Alex in the throes of passion was too much to risk when Mulder's control was already shredded, when only the merest remains of thought remained to warn him to prepare the other man for him, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. There was an unearthly fascination to Alex like this, naked and flushed with arousal and writhing beneath Mulder's touch, helpless with lust, all of his cool self-possession burned away in the rush of desire. The fiercely triumphant sense of power that came over Mulder almost burst his heart. You are mine now, Alex Krycek, I want you, I claim you- A third finger slid into the unresisting body. Mulder leaned forward and nibbled on Alex's temptingly full lower lip, sucked it into his mouth, kissed him deeply. His fingers found the spot he'd been searching for and Alex jerked against him, crying out, the sound muffled by Mulder's mouth. Mulder sought out the spot again, rubbing over it firmly. Pressing Alex's body into the bed with his own as the younger man thrust forward convulsively. Catching the full-throated scream, tasting it, claiming the irresistible mouth with deep strokes of the tongue. He was drunk on sex and the dark thrill of possession. He could do this to Alex. He was doing this to Alex. Making him scream and thrash and pant and gasp and arch into Mulder's touch, craving it, needing it. Making him lose control. Mine. You are mine. He had to have him. Now. Mulder drew his hand away, reaching blindly towards the head of the bed and managing to grab a pillow without once looking away from the man beneath him. Alex lifted his hips to allow Mulder to slide the cushion beneath him, pulling his knees up and enabling Mulder to enter him with a firm, swift stroke. Alex growled deep in his throat, moving to push against him. His eyes opened and fastened on Mulder's face, impossibly dilated, incredibly lovely. Mulder knew that he was moving too fast-that he should be giving Alex time to adjust, that he was thrusting too quickly, too roughly, maybe hurting the man beneath him-but he could not hold back any longer. He had no strength left to resist the sight of Alex, the sounds he made.... The way he felt, hot and tight and, oh God, so right.... He thrust deep and Alex moved to meet him, giving a breathless, husky little moan. From somewhere in Mulder's lust-clouded mind came a faint feeling of wonder and delight that Alex was this vocal. He wouldn't have thought it of him-for some reason, he'd expected him to make love quietly. Mulder quickly settled into a hard, rapid, almost violent rhythm, all but lifting Alex off the bed with the force of each penetration. Alex pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust and giving that same low, lovely, breathy moan every time Mulder buried himself in him. Just before Mulder's world caught fire to flash and burn in a burst of white-hot, blindingly violent pleasure, Alex gasped something in a language Mulder didn't understand-something that included his name. Alex had known it all along. This had been a bad idea. A very bad idea. He had no idea how long it would take him to recover the ground he'd lost. It was not a good thing to go all soft and dewy-eyed around Mulder. Mulder was going to have him for breakfast, and not in a sexual sense.... That wouldn't have been a problem. He had to do something, do something quickly.... Play up the toughness. Be seriously obnoxious. Make Mulder beat him. Make Mulder hate him. Convince Mulder he'd been set up for a major fall-maybe Alex could do the blackmail thing, threaten to spread this around the Bureau. Mulder was so credulous in some ways, Alex could claim he'd made a video and Mulder would buy it, he'd never even think about it at all.... Mulder collapsed forward onto Alex's chest, driving the air from his lungs. Now's the time, do it, Alex, get him while he's vulnerable- "Definitely," Mulder mumbled indistinctly. "Pick another Russian." Now, Alex. Say it. Well, Mulder, that was excellent, how nice you put on a good show, I'm sure all those dried-up old Feds will appreciate it when they get their copy in the mail.... He struggled to draw a breath against the weight of the man pressing him into the mattress. Strange how you never noticed how heavy someone was until after you'd come. "What are you talking about?" he wheezed. After another moment, Mulder drew himself up and sat back. Alex could feel him slide from his body and refused to feel regret. He wasn't going to be stupid about the man any longer. This had gone far enough. Hell, no-letting Fox fuck Alex's brains out had definitely been going too far. Mulder was wearing a demented, crooked, idiot grin that Alex had never seen before. He looked like a raving lunatic. He was mind-blowingly beautiful. "Russian is the perfect language for sex," Fox announced in slightly slurred tones of happy discovery. "It's something in the consonants. All those voiced affricates and palatal approximants and dark laterals...." "Pervert," Alex muttered, watching Mulder pull off the used condom and unconcernedly drop it over the side of the bed. What a slob. Alex, you're not going to be an idiot about this neurotic slob. You know what he's going to do to you if you let him.... Tear you apart. Break you. Finish what the Consortium started and couldn't pull through. This is survival. Mulder sat on his heels and regarded Alex for a second or two. The weird grin was still there, the accompanying sparkle lighting up his eyes. He looked happy. It hurt to look at him. He was wearing his inner beauty on the outside and it was almost more than Alex could bear. This man can hurt you. This man can break you. You must do something! But it was too late. Alex already knew he wouldn't be able to do this-not now. Maybe in a little while, but not now. It would hurt too much. He couldn't bear seeing the familiar loathing and hate and disgust flow back into those expressive eyes. And what would Fox do to himself-all of the tortured pain, the half-crazed self-hatred that he seemed to have forgotten for a moment would come back with reinforcements. He'd never be able to forgive himself for being fooled so completely, betrayed so terribly. And maybe he wouldn't be able to bear it this time, maybe it was too much, he'd only just had a breakdown.... Something that had been nagging at the back of Alex's mind finally penetrated. Voiced affricates. Dark laterals. Russian is the perfect language for sex. Mulder had said that Russian was the perfect language for sex. Shit. How did he phrase this? "What did I say?" Oh Alex, no, not like that-any way but that-God, you have to pull yourself together- The wacky grin splitting Fox's face grew even broader, an achievement which had seemed all but impossible before. "No wonder the Consortium ditched you. Talking in Russian during sex and forgetting all about it afterwards doesn't strike me as the most career-advancing habit in a triple agent." Alex clamped his mouth shut just in time to prevent himself from blurting out that it wasn't a habit, that he'd never done it before. Another close call. A second delayed bit of information trickled through his sluggish thought processes. Aliens. Deal with Mulder. Telling the truth. Yet another close call, and how close this time.... If he hadn't been too soft to pull off the blackmail scam the aliens would have caught him in the lie, reported it to Mulder, and turned him inside out again for their business partner's benefit. Fox cocked his head slightly to one side, the manic grin fading slightly. "You okay?" "Yeah, sure," Alex mumbled, feeling nauseous. Breathing slowly and carefully. "It's not the sex, you know. It's the pact," Fox said. "The sex has nothing to do with it except as a clause in the pact." Oh God, he was going to start talking about the fucking Lawrence witches. "Not now, Mulder," Alex snapped, reaching for calm and finding only turmoil. He quickly summoned the memory of what it had felt like to have Fox inside of him, to see his face transformed by rapture, open, aroused, starkly beautiful, more intensely Fox than ever before. Used the recollection of Fox making love to him as a weapon against the darkness.... Determinedly not remembering which part of the recollection was a lie. The demented glow receded from Mulder's face. A long pause followed, and by the time Alex had regained control several heartbeats later, Fox's expression had closed down to his usual guarded reserve. It was painful to watch. But why did the idiot have to start in on the bastard witches just then.... Alex hadn't gotten his barriers up again yet, he couldn't deal with this shit now. After regarding Alex for a while with a small, earnest frown, Fox nodded and seemed to come to a decision. Moving with careful concentration, he pulled the pillow out from beneath Alex, tossed it over his shoulder, straightened Alex's legs, tugged the bedspread from the floor by the corner still attached to the bed's foot end, and gave Alex's chest and stomach a few swipes with it. After patting his own front dry, he dropped the bedspread back to the floor and slowly and carefully stretched out on top of Alex, tucking his chin into the curve where Alex's neck met his shoulder. He wriggled slightly and sighed into Alex's ear, sounding contented. He hadn't gotten any lighter in the last two minutes. Whatever the hell this was supposed to be, it was extremely uncomfortable. "Mulder." "Shut up," Fox said pleasantly, his breath stirring the hair at Alex's nape. It didn't take Fox long to relax, breathing settling into an even, slow rhythm. This was such a typically twisted Mulder idea. It had nothing to do with snuggling-he was using Alex as a mattress. Lying there, balanced rather precariously, just as though this were the way he always slept. How did he do it? Alex certainly wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep this way. Not that he was tired anyway-it wasn't even mid-afternoon and he'd more than caught up on sleep the previous day. Mulder's legs threatened to slip from their precarious perch on Alex's and Alex caught himself trying to shift in order to keep them where they were. Which was when he realized that he was quickly developing cramped muscles from the stiff, motionless way he was lying in an effort not to dislodge Mulder. Feeling a twinge of something not unlike fear, Alex shoved Mulder off him and vaulted from the bed. Mulder was under so deep that even this rough treatment didn't wake him; he snuffled into the pillow where Alex's head had been and slept on. Alex turned away quickly. There was no way in hell that he was going to stare at a sleeping Mulder. He was done with this idiocy. So he'd slept with Mulder. So what. It might have been a bad idea, but it was water under the bridge. He'd done it, fine. It changed nothing. He'd get his act back together now. End of story. This was where you took a shower. You had sex, you took a shower, you left a friendly note not mentioning your phone number, you went out the door. You didn't look back. Okay, so Alex had to change it a bit to make allowances for the situation. You had sex, you took a shower, you forgot about the note-which Alex had never bothered with anyway-you went out the door to go for a stroll through the town and buy some crossbows and switchblades. You didn't look back. Sounded good. Of course it would have been too much to ask for Fox to sleep through it all. Alex had just finished putting Dahl's gun back together after cleaning and examining it when the other man rolled over to watch him. "No permanent damage as far as I can tell," Alex said after a moment, trying to fill the silence. Realizing that that was what he was doing an instant too late to stop himself. No response. Fox fished for the sheet and wrapped it around his waist. How cute- Jesus! No, Alex, it's not cute, he's not cute, he's a damned psycho and this is neurotic, over-modest, ridiculous, stupid behavior. Got that? "Little late for modesty, wouldn't you say?" Alex snarled, jamming the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. Fox blinked, completely taken aback. For a brief moment, before the familiar cool distance slipped back over his features, he looked genuinely hurt. "Are you always in such a foul temper after sex?" "Is this an official alien question? Well then I'll have no choice but to dish up the statistics on my post-coital mood, won't I? Let's see, we'll need some parameters-how about a scale of-" "Is that what this is all about?" His eyes had narrowed, but not in anger. He was being analytical. Great, just what Alex didn't need. "I made sure that-Alex, we both know that this was an entirely free decision for both of us. It has nothing to do with what you were forced into by the aliens. It's not surprising that you feel resentment, but you have to keep that separate from-" "Sure, Mulder, you have nothing to do with my alien problem." He bristled slightly and Alex shook his head in disgust, turning away to shrug into his suit jacket. "Look, I didn't mean-I've been a little on edge lately. Must be the weather or something." Alex had to find some peace and quiet and get his balance back. He had to get out of here. But now Fox was out of the bed and blocking the door. He was holding the sheet in place around his middle with one hand and looked like a half-undressed Greek statue. Alex felt his mouth go dry and his heart seize up with hopeless longing and couldn't believe how deeply he'd gotten himself into this mess. "Wait," Fox said. "I have to get this right first. It didn't work the first time." Talking to Fox Mulder frequently left the inexperienced with the impression that they were losing time. Alex had grown used to the lightning-quick jumps from one subject to another during his stint as the man's partner, but there were some occasions when it was impossible to know what turn his quirky mind had taken during the last micro-second. Alex sighed. "I don't have the slightest clue what you're talking about now. I want to have a look at the shops in the town center before-" With a small, self-conscious lift of the chin, Fox looked straight at Alex. "I haven't fully released the tension yet, and it's vital that I do. I am not certain what the result would be if it were left partially unresolved. I don't want to risk cementing the fixation." Several seconds passed while the words settled into meaning in Alex's mind, neatly falling into place among a multitude of previously unconnected facts that now clustered around the new point of reference, crystallizing into a clear and comprehensive shape. The shape of Mulder's reason for allowing himself to take an enemy to bed. Alex had been deliberately not thinking about the question of what had made Mulder decide to follow through on his aberrant impulses. He'd been well aware that it would be something he'd be better off not knowing, and unlike Mulder, Alex had never felt the urge to burden himself with unnecessary truths when the necessary ones were more than enough to deal with. Peculiar, though, that the knowledge felt like this. Like a punch in the stomach. Like the sudden, bone-chilling wash of frozen awareness he had felt when the girl stepping in front of him had looked up and he had realized that this was no girl, that this was something else entirely and that his life and future were suddenly and irrevocably no longer his own. How ridiculous that Alex was comparing that obscene moment to this predictable and inconsequential little revelation. This shouldn't have felt like some kind of shock. It wasn't. It was exactly what had stood to be expected. In fact, it was not nearly as bad as it might have been. There was no hate, no revenge, no assertion of dominance. Just a release of tension to get rid of a bothersome fixation-a needless and annoying distraction. Logical, calculated, coldly clinical. Admirable. Enviable. "Sorry, Mulder," Alex told the man blocking his way, noting without surprise that he sounded calm, even disinterested. Consortium conditioning ran deep. "I'm not your therapy surrogate. Go find a psychiatrist." Exasperation flickered briefly across expressive features. Then, Fox's mouth quirked slightly, curving into the beginnings of a smile that never appeared. It looked as though it would have been a rueful smile-conciliatory, even? Hell, no wonder the man only gave in to his sexual urges when his hormones were coming out of his ears. Why, he was acting like a good-humored, even-tempered person. It was obvious he was not well. If there'd been a Lawrence in the room, Alex would have been certain they'd gotten to Mulder. Fox stepped forward, still clutching that ridiculous sheet. Staring at Alex's mouth. Dread surged through Alex at the realization that the tightness in his throat was the longing to give in, to give up, to take whatever Fox Mulder was prepared to give and damn the consequences. To trade something that was not even the illusion of closeness, something intensely painful all by itself, for every last shred of safety and control. For God's sake, get it together.... You know better than this. You know what's at stake. You should have killed him the moment you noticed that it mattered to you whether he lived or died. But before Fox Mulder, Alex had never suspected he was capable of feeling something like this-an emotion burning bright and clear and tangled with a wild and desperate yearning. He hadn't been prepared for feeling anything like this when they'd assigned him to the interfering, meddling agent they didn't want dead for reasons never disclosed. He hadn't been prepared for feeling anything, and by the time he'd realized something peculiar was happening, it had been too late. Whatever this was, it was too intense to be anything but painful, and yet he wasn't certain whether he wished he could stop feeling it. He certainly should be wishing it, but.... The only thing Alex was certain of was that he was not equipped to deal with this. He never had been, and it was much worse now that Mulder had stopped being any help at all in suppressing the infatuation. Alex was scared. He needed time to regain control. He couldn't afford to stay because he didn't want to leave. He couldn't afford to sleep with Fox again because he wanted it too much-or rather, because he wanted the wrong thing, and because Fox Mulder wasn't stupid. Extremely focused, yes, but very far from stupid. And quite frighteningly perceptive once he wrenched his mind from whatever track he'd set it on and turned it loose.... He was locked on his own needs at the moment, but if he surfaced-when he surfaced- Fox's gaze flicked down, raking over Alex's body quickly before coming back up to his face. His expression was still very far from the customary, guarded look of faint suspicion. This looked more like intense concentration underlaid by a distinct hint of fascinated wonder. It made him look- Didn't matter. Could not be allowed to matter. It was high time to put this show on the road, to lay down the false tracks that would keep Mulder from the truth. And to do it without lying. Alex exhaled slowly, collecting himself before giving a low, mocking laugh. "You don't have any idea of how to handle this kind of thing, do you? Well, let me introduce you to rule number one. Never tell them the truth. Never. Nothing ruins the mood like the truth. What you should have done is grab me and drag me back to bed swearing that you've never wanted anyone like this, that you don't know what's happening to you, that it's completely unlike you, that you never thought anything like this could happen to you, and so forth. And the sheet-get real, Mulder, on some shy little virgin maybe, but on me? On someone like me, you use the brutal and straightforward method. You were right on target earlier, a little violence is good with a certain type of-" "Don't," Fox interrupted, looking uncomfortable. "I-that was-you're not-" The sharp pang that the sudden uncertainty in the hazel eyes sent through Alex alarmed him; he deliberately turned it towards feeding his resolve. "How would you know? Face it, you were just stumbling through on instinct. Instinct is nice, but it's not reliable-it has to be harnessed, consciously deployed." Fox flushed, but still not in anger. "You seemed to have no objections to my unreliable instinct earlier." Embarrassment was good, confusion even better, but it was anger that Alex wanted. Have to turn it up another notch.... "It's a wonderful thing to be undiscriminating." The barb earned him a flinch and a look of hurt reproach, but still no anger. What the hell was wrong with Mulder? Alex braced himself to go on. This was no time to grow squeamish. He had never been squeamish and he didn't care what Fox Mulder thought-or rather, he did. Anger and disgust were what he was aiming for here. "It's vital, in fact. Have you ever met the wife of the former US ambassador to the Soviet-" "I don't want to hear this, Alex!" He almost told Fox not to call him Alex. He caught himself just in time, turning the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in him into a sarcastic chuckle. "What! Fox Mulder doesn't want to hear the truth? Unthinkable! It's quite a fascinating story, you might learn something new about your precious verity. Because strictly speaking, rule number one is not true. You can tell them the truth if you know what you're doing. Truth can be the most devastating weapon of all. I told it to Debbie, you know-confessed that I was KGB and she was my assignment. You wouldn't believe the things she did so I could keep my superiors happy until she'd managed to arrange for me to be smuggled out of the country and given a new identity under some kind of witness protection or-" "This is beside the point!" Mulder took another step closer, almost stumbling over his sheet. He dragged it up with an impatient jerk, but while the look he gave Alex now definitely held irritation, there was still no real anger. This had been an even bigger mistake than Alex had thought. Getting Mulder angry had never been a problem before. One more try-if this didn't work, he'd have to find some new way to make Mulder lose his cool. Toss him around a little, maybe? Carefully, though. With the witches around, the last thing Mulder needed was broken bones. "Well, since you're so eager, Fox.... What's your offer?" Fox blinked. "What?" "Oh, for heaven's sake." Alex snorted derisively. "It's not that difficult a concept to grasp. Let's see... I don't need money at the moment. We can alter the alien deal. Forget about the lie-detecting check and you can resolve your fixation all you want. I'm open to other suggestions. Know any incriminating secrets? I could use some more leverage in the US." For a moment it seemed Alex had hit on the right method-exactly the mixture of anger and disgust he'd been trying for crossed Mulder's face. Unfortunately, it was almost immediately replaced by suspicion. "You know I wouldn't agree to something like that." "Well, can't blame me for trying. Now if you're done hitting on me-" Fox's features smoothed into comprehension. "You're offended. I-well, I guess I did put it a bit-" "This discussion sucks. I'm leaving now. Either get out of my way or be put out of it. Your choice." "Alex, I didn't mean-" "Does sex always turn you into such a wet towel, Mulder?" "Wet towel?" Mulder's mouth twitched. It looked as though he were trying not to laugh. This was not going well. Time for plan B. Mulder didn't seem even remotely prepared-he put up no struggle at all as Alex spun him around and slammed him face-first against the wall with carefully restrained force, twisting his right arm painfully behind his back. He was still clutching the sheet in his left hand. Alex was helpless to prevent a choked laugh from escaping. This entire thing was ridiculous. "You need to take some self-defense classes, Mulder," he said, tugging the captive arm upwards. Mulder growled. Thank God, something was getting to him at last. "I believe I'll be going now. Anything you need from town? Some sunflower seeds, perhaps?" Before Mulder could spit out the venomous answer that Alex hoped was on the tip of his tongue, someone rapped on the door. The sudden sound startled Alex and Fox yelped as his grip on the other man's arm tightened. Instantly releasing his hold, Alex stepped back quickly in order to avoid elbows to the stomach or other such reprisals. Nothing. Fox turned around slowly, leaned back against the wall and held up his sheet. It was probably some kind of mental condition. The Sheet Syndrome. "Agent Mulder? Are you all right?" Riley's voice was hardly muffled by the door and Alex spared a second to think back on how much noise he and Fox had made. Not too much, as far as he remembered-but hell, when he couldn't even remember what he'd said- "Agent Mulder!" She sounded alarmed now. Fox didn't move, looking at Alex with an indecipherable expression on his face. "Stubbed my toe," he said loudly. "I was about to take a shower-can it wait for ten minutes or so?" Impatient grumbling could be heard through the thin wood. After a brief pause, Riley sighed loudly. "I'll wait in the bar downstairs." "I'll be right there," he called back. Ordinarily, Alex would have given her several minutes to move off, but now, he waited for no more than the bare minimum of time necessary to get to the elevator. He could take the stairs. He would have used the fire escape before spending any more time in here with a sheet-clad Fox Mulder who was still staring at him. Alex was already in the corridor, shutting the door behind himself, when Fox said, quietly, "Don't do anything stupid." There was something very wrong here. Once in the lobby, with most of the hotel separating him from Mulder, Alex reconsidered, turning back and searching out the hotel bar in order to have a few words with Maureen Riley himself. At this hour of the day, the bar was completely empty except for Riley, who was perched on a stool at the counter with both hands wrapped around a tall glass of something that looked as though it should have been served in a considerably smaller dosage. She shot Alex a brief glance when he came in, but didn't turn her head or acknowledge his presence by even so much as a nod. The expression on her face was deliberately blank, though tension was evident in every line of her body; in the slight edge to her movements, the sharp glitter in her eyes, the thin, compressed line of her lips.... No doubt about it. Riley was being consumed by carefully contained rage. This kind of anger was dangerous-for the one being eaten alive by it, for the object of the fury, and for everyone caught in the vicinity when the delayed explosion finally occurred. If Max Lawrence had any sense, he would not be coming back for Maureen Riley. If Fox Mulder had any sense, he would not work with this woman. Damn. "It's good to see you looking so well," Alex told her seriously, glancing at the loose sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Your arm is not giving you any trouble, I hope?" "Fuck my arm," she snapped, taking a swig of whatever it was she was drinking. Alex schooled his face into startled reproach. "I regret that my inquiry after your health offends you, Deputy." Riley gave him an indifferent look and a grim twitch of the mouth that might conceivably have passed for a smile. "My arm's fine, it's just a flesh wound." She paused to take another swallow from her glass. When she spoke again after a brief pause, her voice had turned even harsher and her gaze was locked to her own reflection in the mirror behind the counter. She was no longer speaking to Alex. "That idiot kid-if-when I see him again I'm going to break his jaw. What a stupid thing to do-" "He seemed quite competent to me," Alex said calmly. "What is it you're having? I wouldn't be averse to a glass of something alcoholic myself." "Help yourself. He's a fool. Wet behind the ears. Idiotic stunt to pull." Alex slipped behind the counter, poured himself a small shot of bourbon, and rummaged around between bottle openers and various containers of paper umbrellas and flamingos. "Surely there's a list somewhere for us to put down what we drink? They can't just-" "The girl in the lobby said she'd send someone to tend the bar," Riley interrupted impatiently. "I just didn't feel like waiting." "Oh." He edged out from behind the counter again, looking towards the entrance in a display of vague discomfort at the minor infraction. "Well.... About Officer Dahl, I must say that I can't agree with your assessment. I was rather impressed by his accurate grasp of the situation and his competent-" "He was kidnapped by the Lawrence," she snarled, briefly meeting Alex's gaze in the mirror. The name sounded like a curse from her lips. "I hardly regard that a sign of competence. Or do you consider that an acceptable outcome?" Clearly, no one who valued his life would consider that an acceptable outcome around Deputy Riley. Alex lifted his eyebrows haughtily, turning to study the policewoman's stony profile with vague disapproval. "The relevant question is whether Officer Dahl considered his abduction an acceptable outcome, and that question must be answered in the affirmative." "What!" "Certainly. From what I observed, he decided that the outcome he brought about, while far from desirable in itself, was more acceptable than the alternative of allowing you to be abducted by Maximilian Lawrence." She said nothing, choosing to drain her glass instead. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she slid off her stool and set about mixing herself another drink. The dollop of orange juice she added was clearly an afterthought. "Special Agent Mulder has informed me of his intention to fall back on-ah-more traditional methods of self-defense," Alex said when it became clear that if it were left to Riley, the silence would stretch indefinitely. "Of course, it seems rather unlikely that the malfunction of Officer Dahl's and my own weapon was caused by some sort of interference on the part of Mr. Lawrence. However, Agent Mulder appears to feel that-" "Unlikely," Riley cut in, her voice hard and flat. "Yes. It does seem unlikely, doesn't it. It also seems unlikely that for a while there I was convinced that that bastard was the most wonderful person ever to walk the earth." "You didn't feel coerced while you were under his influence?" Riley slanted a narrow glance at him, a brief flare of interest igniting in her eyes before being crushed beneath the weight of her fury. The question seemed to hold her interest, though; she sipped at her drink while she turned it over in her mind. Either the Lawrence witches felt nothing like aliens-like either of the kinds of aliens Alex had had a close acquaintance with-or Maureen Riley boasted a disquieting degree of self-control and mental stability. Even if it hadn't been for the physical aftereffects of alien possession, Alex doubted that he, or anyone, could have sat there thinking about the experience so calmly no more than-what, two or three hours after the event? "Only in the beginning," Riley said at last, choosing her words carefully. "Just after he appeared in my study, he asked me what my first name was and told me to put the gun away and sit back down, and I did, even though I had no intention of doing so. It was like the first time I ran into him, when I was driving out to the Lawrence place. My body simply did what he told it to independently of my will. But that only lasted a couple of moments. After that-" She slashed the edge of her hand through the air in a motion curiously unconnected to her words. "Until the pain cleared my head, I belonged to him body and soul, from what felt like my own free will. I worshipped him." Definitely not like the aliens, though perhaps no better in the long run.... Perhaps even worse. At least Alex had known he hated those alien bastards, had known it during every second of what they did to him. He'd retained that much of himself-his emotions hadn't betrayed him. His body, yes, and his mind, but not his emotions. He drank the bourbon down in one swallow and focused on the burn in his throat, shutting out the numb horror clawing at the edges of his thoughts. "I imagine that must have been very disturbing, Deputy Riley. Perhaps-yes, considering that Maximilian Lawrence as much as threatened my person, and considering that my brother may very well be in the same position as Officer Dahl, I believe it would not be unwise to follow Agent Mulder's advice and obtain some means of defense which will be able to withstand any attempt at, uhm, tampering. What I mean is-" "I know what you mean, Mr. Alexander." Riley cast a glance at the door, obviously impatient for Mulder to show. "Try Frenzel Sporting Supplies in Charlotte Street." He asked for directions and had begun to leave when she suddenly twisted on her stool, looking at him squarely for the first time since he'd come in. "The Lawrence bastard did have a point. You really don't find many lawyers who trail around after FBI agents and have had that kind of training." Alex smiled smugly. "You don't, do you." Her eyes narrowed. "You arrived together, you follow him around, you are sharing one room. You carry a gun and know how to use it. You may not be very steady on your feet, but you have also had some training in martial arts." He waited for a moment and then smiled again, this time with careful politeness. "Yes?" "He called you Alex." "Everyone calls me Alex. My father's name is also Kevin, so it cuts down on the confusion." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't quite know where you're headed with this line of inquiry, Deputy Riley." There was a long pause; then she shook her head and turned her attention back to her drink. "Never mind." Easy for her to say. It wasn't her cover going down the drain. Kevin Alexander had cost Alex a lot of time and effort, not to mention immense amounts of money, and thanks to the alien body snatchers he would have to set up an entire new cover. Time, effort, and money were not resources he could afford to spend lightly. Add to that the possible set-backs in his plans-and of course he'd have to relocate, which not only brought its own host of risks and dangers, but was a set-back in itself. Berlin had been ideal, and now he'd have to settle for a less well suited base merely because some off-planet bastards had decided that flowers, a bottle of wine or a donation to a Swiss bank account was not original enough. The aliens themselves were a problem Alex wasn't allowing himself to dwell on. It would do no good to brood over what they'd do once they decided they'd let Mulder dangle long enough. There was no way to predict their actions, and no way to prepare for or defend against them, either. Alex would simply have to deal with it when the time came. Damn Mulder, anyway. He had to be the only person on the face of this planet deranged and brilliant enough to make an ideal business partner for enterprising aliens. Alex briefly attempted to feel anger at the man for getting Alex into this untenable situation, for dragging him into bed and then calmly standing there announcing it hadn't worked, for being so twisted and volatile and unpredictable and irresistible.... It was hard to fault Mulder for being Mulder, though. Besides, if Alex hadn't made himself vulnerable by refusing to learn the Consortium's final lesson-if he hadn't been foolish enough to commit the unbelievable idiocy of falling for his assignment-chances were that at this very moment, Fox would be either dead by his own hand or locked into a padded cell, and Alex would be going about his business unmolested by aliens or witches and completely safe from his own dangerous yearnings. When you put it that way.... There were worse things than being forced to construct a new identity. Agent Mulder?" Mulder turned to find the girl behind the reception counter smiling at him. "Someone called for you a minute ago-you must just have left your room. The caller left a message." She handed him an envelope, camouflaging her arrested stare with another bright smile. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he had a bite mark on his neck. He'd checked very carefully, though, so it must be the unparalleled excitement of not only having a genuine, real live FBI agent in the hotel, but actually having taken down a message for him. Mulder tore the envelope open, distractedly composing a list of people who would try to reach him through the hotel rather than calling him on his cell phone. People who knew he was in Weimar but had no access to his phone number. Sloppy people who had lost his phone number. People checking up on the receptionist's message-taking abilities. People who felt that cellular phones were an invention of the devil or constantly monitored by the FBI-although since they were calling an FBI agent, the latter scenario only worked if they also believed the FBI was infiltrated by a multi-national corporation that involved itself in alien abductions, covered up everything, and ran the world. Nah. More likely, the caller thought it was the CIA or the KGB listening in. A not unreasonable suspicion, really. Mulder had never trusted the CIA, and Alex might have been there when Mulder took the call. He unfolded the sheet of hotel stationary in order to solve the mystery. Printed neatly beneath the hotel's logo was the message "Call Rick as soon as possible", underlined twice with a ruler. Ah. People who had rebelliously thrown Mulder's phone number in the trash and now couldn't find it underneath the potato peels and tea leaves. The number carefully centered on the sheet was boxed in with precise, ruler-drawn lines. Mulder could not prevent himself from casting a quick look at the receptionist, who was still watching him. Maybe he should tell her to monitor her tendency towards compulsive order so she could seek professional help if it got worse. Or maybe he should concentrate on his own compulsive disorders. Yes, that would definitely be a good idea, considering that no more than a quarter of an hour ago he had done everything but hit Alex Krycek over the head to drag him back to bed. Mulder's attempt to resolve this fixation by a simple release of tension was a spectacular failure, and now that a cold shower had cleared his head somewhat, he was not surprised in the least. The conclusion that the solution was to be found in self-indulgence had clearly not been reasoned out in the part of his anatomy originally designed for thinking. He found a quiet corner and punched Rick's number into his cell phone. Where had Alex gone? After his own performance just now, the only thing that gave Mulder the certainty that Alex would come back was that he had no choice. With the threat of the aliens hanging over his head, Alex had to stick close. Had to ensure Mulder's continued good will.... It hadn't been Mulder's intention to blackmail Alex into giving in to his advances, but was that the way it had seemed? A chilling thought-and one that raised another, no less chilling question. How much of Alex's passion had been real? Oh, certainly he'd been aroused on some level, but when he himself calmly admitted to being trained for this kind of... deceit.... The first ring wasn't even completed before Rick's breathless voice burst into Mulder's ear. "Yes?" "Rick, it's Mulder," Mulder said absently. He was beginning to feel slightly ill, for more than one reason. If he ever got to the people responsible for doing this to-to who knew how many innocent children-he would not be held accountable for his actions. He had to talk with Alex. If only he hadn't run off like that- "Agent Mulder!" A curious mixture of relief and excitement tinged Rick's voice. "Emma's at the library! Mrs. Markham called me, that's the librarian, she warned me to stay away. Of course she really wanted to talk to my parents, but they weren't there. Anyway, you want to talk to her, don't you? To Emma, I mean? I want to come. I have to talk to her." Could this be a coincidence? Were the Lawrences always so busy about town? "Is she usually at the library at this time on Saturdays?" "I don't know. She spends a lot of time there, but not that regularly as far as I know... Agent Mulder, what are you going to do? You're going to talk to her, aren't you. I know that you-" "Where are you now?" After a momentary silence, Rick gave a slightly sheepish laugh. Mulder closed his eyes. Was it something in the air of this town? "Rick. Please do not be an idiot. Stay away from Emma Lawrence. Do you understand me? I have just watched one of Emma's relatives take away a new victim without being able to do anything to stop him, and believe me, I do not want to explain how I could let the same thing happen twice in one day." "Hey, Emma's in the library and I'm in the café across the street. She has no reason to come looking for me here, and I can watch the entrance to see whether she comes out. It's perfectly safe. I promise to wait like a good boy until you get here." Unfortunately, past experience did not give Mulder much confidence in his own ability to stop Emma Lawrence from taking Rick away if she was so inclined. He quickly ran several possible courses of action through his mind and settled on calling the mayor, letting him know where to find his wayward son, and waiting until Rick had been safely locked into his room before going to talk to the witch. "Agent Mulder?" Rick sounded almost pleading. "Listen, I've been thinking. She could have come for me by now. It's not as though she couldn't have gotten to me-Nita would let her in, she's never met Emma, she'd just think she was in my class or something. But I think she can't put a new hold on me now, and that's why she hasn't been around. Right now it's probably safer for me to talk to her than it is for you. You know that they say people from out of town are basically fair game, don't you? And I know Emma. That could be useful. I do know her. I think she's basically the girl I know, only-also something else. But just because she kept that part of herself from me doesn't mean it was all faked. You know? It makes more sense this way." "Yes," Mulder said slowly. "I do know. The only question is whether it makes sense because your assessment of the situation is correct or merely because you want to believe it." In the silence that followed, the faint jingling of chimes in the background announced that a customer was entering or leaving the café near the library. "I see what you mean," Rick said at last. "But that's always the way it is. If I went around asking myself that all the time, I'd end up doubting everything I see and think I know and be afraid of doing anything at all. I'll just stick with what I think I know until something other than my own doubts gives me reason to think again." The phrasing might be tangled, but the point was valid. Mulder frowned slightly and listened to the faint murmurs of distant conversation that drifted through from Rick's end of the connection, trying to make his misgivings solidify into a counter-argument. After a long moment, he gave up and shook his head. "You're a strange kid, Frederick." "Thanks. Does that mean you're coming?" Mulder sighed. "If you set one foot outside of the café before I get there, I'll shoot you in the leg." "Yeah, whatever. Just hurry up." First, though, Mulder had to see what Riley had come to talk about-as though he couldn't guess. He'd have to keep it short. Maybe he could take her along. Yes, that would be a good idea for more than one reason. An advantage in numbers was clearly called for when dealing with the Lawrence family. Deputy Riley was the only person in the hotel bar when Mulder came in. He studied her as unobtrusively as possible while he crossed the room to her; his conclusions, while far from surprising, were not at all satisfactory. The policewoman appeared calm, but her collected demeanor had a rigid quality to it that spoke clearly of the effort she put into maintaining it. Even if Mulder hadn't been familiar with the situation, he could not have missed the strain suffusing her, hinting at intense emotions roiling beneath the stonily impassive surface-emotions liable to erupt at any provocation. Inevitable, considering the circumstances of Dahl's abduction. She was blaming herself. Mulder wished he had the time to sit down and bring her to talk about it. It would have to wait, though. Dahl was already gone and Riley would survive-Rick took precedence. "I've paid a visit to Katja Dahl," Riley announced without preamble. "Her other children will be meeting at her house for dinner, and I told her we'd be there as well. Some time between six and seven. If you can't make it that early, that's okay, too-she's an old police wife, she'll make something that will keep." Mulder was about to bridle at Riley's easy disposition of his time when he remembered that he'd already agreed to have dinner with her today. Had it been only yesterday? It seemed like years ago. So much had happened since then-so much had changed. Mulder had met a witch, Dahl had been kidnapped, there'd been Alex.... Dragging his mind back to the policewoman in front of him, Mulder raised his brows slightly. "I don't want this to turn into a vendetta, Deputy, and I'm certain you realize that bringing civilians into this is not-" "I'm not the one who brought Dahl's family into this!" she snapped. "Max Lawrence is the one who walked off with the idiot kid-the National Guard couldn't keep the Dahl clan out of it at this point. You can't even put them into protective custody because half of the police force is related to them. They'd just forget to lock the cell." "Deputy-" Riley slid off her barstool to face Mulder, determination burning in hard grey eyes. "I'm sorry for my short temper, but my partner was kidnapped because of me-he was trying to protect me from a threat I didn't take seriously, a threat he'd been warning me about all along. I cannot and will not sit back and fold my hands in my lap like the other people in this town. Neither will Katja and the rest of the Dahls. We're not going to let that bastard get away with this. It's not a vendetta. It's called loyalty, Agent Mulder. It's called justice." Asking Maureen Riley to accompany Mulder to the library for his interview with Emma Lawrence was definitely not an option. Confronting her with any member of the Lawrence family at this moment would be asking far too much of her self-control. "I'll be there," Mulder said at last. The set lines of her expression eased and softened instantly, her face relaxing into a smile. "I'm very glad to hear it. Katja Dahl knows everything there is to know about Weimar-she should be able to provide us with valuable information on the Lawrences. And she's a very good cook, too." Mulder had given the right answer. He was once again classed as part of Riley's "us." Either with us or against us. Two diametrically opposed sides with a clear-cut boundary between them. Was this what Alex had meant when he'd said she was like Mulder? But Mulder didn't class people like that. He was a psychologist-he knew how complex human beings were, how tangled their motivations.... But then Riley knew that, as well. You didn't have to be a psychologist to know about such a basic fact of human nature. "Bring Alex," Riley said. Caught off guard, Mulder brought his head up too quickly. He knew his quickly assumed casual expression was an abject failure when he saw the grin spread across Riley's face. "Shouldn't call casual acquaintances by their special nicknames, Agent Mulder. Shouldn't share hotel rooms with them, either." "Uhm," Mulder said, hoping that no more intelligent answer was required. It appeared that he had achieved a status equivalent to "police buddy", thus becoming eligible for teasing. "He has a right to be in on this," she went on, sobering quickly. "One of the bastards has his brother. And as long as we can keep him from going overboard and trying any fancy karate moves, or whatever that was supposed to be, he should be able to take care of himself if it comes to a fight." "Uhm. Yes. I believe so. It's a family tradition. The training, that is." He was lying for Alex Krycek. Scully was right, he did need to get his head examined. Or perhaps some other body parts. Riley shrugged, uncaring. She seemed more sanguine now, bolstered by the knowledge that the strike force she was assembling was growing apace. Damn. Mulder's most dedicated ally in Weimar had turned wrathful avenger, rendering her useless to him in the present situation. There would be no help from the rest of the police, either. The reluctance to move against a Lawrence had been heavy in the sheriff's voice even when Max had broken into a house and was threatening two police officers-nothing short of mind-altering drugs would induce the man to let any of his people bother one of the model citizens while she was peacefully going about her business in the public library. Where the hell was Alex when you-when he would have come in useful? Mulder parted company with Riley in front of the hotel. She announced that she was going to pay a visit to the police station, obviously in order to enlist as many of Dahl's friends for her cause as she could by means of rational argumentation, emotional appeals, intimidation, and sheer bullying. On his lone drive to the library, Mulder pondered the best method of pointing out to the deputy that obliterating all trace of the Lawrences' existence from the face of the earth was not actually what he was trying to accomplish. Weimar's public library was designed along the lines of a villa and built from stone in a warm shade of beige that contrasted pleasantly with the autumnal tones of the trees scattered across the grounds with picturesque irregularity. Mulder spared the building no more than a brief glance before crossing the street to the small corner coffee shop where, he hoped, Rick would be waiting. He was. As soon as Mulder walked in, Rick bounced up from a window seat where he had been crouching behind a large, leafy plant. His clothes were not torn today, but he was still dressed entirely in black; his hair was pulled back into a ponytail and blue-tinted, mirror-finished shades rode low on his hawkish nose. Mulder detested mirrored shades. "Take those off," he commanded tersely. "Is she still inside?" Rick lifted an index finger and slid the glasses up the bridge of his nose with provocative slowness. "Unless she's jumped out a window in the back, yeah." Oh, very well then. The sunglasses weren't worth putting up the boy's hackles about-if Rick could gain confidence by hiding behind two small pieces of tinted glass, there was no reason to deny him the extra measure of assurance. He would probably need it. "I'll try to steer Emma into a corner where we can talk in peace while staying within sight of as many people as possible," Mulder began. "It will probably reduce the risk of her taking offensive action-" "The copy room. That's sectioned off from the newspaper room by a glass partition. I bet Emma's in the newspaper room, anyway. She likes to read the papers, she usually does that first." "First?" "She's pretty predictable. After that.... Well, usually she'll find something she wants to know more about, get back issues or go to the reference section or get some books on the subject. And then she'll pick up some stuff to read on the side. Novels, that kind of thing. Plays, sometimes." "Does she do research on anything in particular? Are there subjects she's especially interested in?" Rick shrugged. "Not really. She's interested in lots of things. She didn't use to be, but it was just because she'd never gotten into the habit. The stuff she used to read was just the normal fluff-you know, thrillers and horror novels and romances and so forth." "And you changed that?" "Can't really understand anything without a view of the big picture. Everything fits in somewhere else." Rick looked to the library across the street, his mouth twisting into an expression probably intended as a wry smile. The shades did nothing to conceal his pain. "She really seemed interested in what I think about things. Not many people are. I don't believe it was just a pretense. Not all of it." "What's wrong with the normal fluff?" The hint of derision in the boy's voice when he'd said that term had woken Mulder's curiosity. A snort flared Rick's nostrils. "It's not that there's anything wrong with it, at least not with all of it. It's the same with movies. There's good stuff there, it's just that most people don't know how to tell. How can they-no one teaches them, or they're taught wrong. When they think something's boring, they think it's because there's not enough action, when really it's that there's no depth, you know? There's lots of stuff that's nothing but convoluted plot, completely on the surface. And mostly, when someone does decide to say something, it gets really awful. They kind of bash you over the head with a moral until you're ready to throw up. That's the worst. What's important is characterization and how it all fits together. You have to show people about others, let them see how it all works. Make them understand about themselves." "You think books and movies should show people the truth?" There was something strange here, and it wasn't that Rick Lowborough didn't fit his carefully cultivated image. Or was it? Mulder couldn't quite put his finger on it.... Rick threw Mulder a glance rendered unreadable by the glasses. "What's the truth? Look, we can talk about this later. Let's go find Emma now, okay?" The teenager brushed past him and set off, chimes jingling in his wake. Before Mulder could follow, the hovering waiter informed him that the young gentleman had not paid for the three coffees and two chocolate nut twists he'd had. Between settling Rick's bill and being delayed by several inopportune cars, Mulder lost the opportunity to ask additional questions. He caught up with the peculiar teen in the main room of the library and had just reached out to take his arm into a firm grip when a striking, raven-haired woman who was passing by with an armful of books glanced over. Dark eyes widened in shocked disbelief as her head snapped around in a classic double-take; then she dropped the books unceremoniously and changed direction in mid-stride, almost running down a startled older gentleman who had the misfortune to be in her way. This woman was too old to fit Mulder's mental picture of the witch they had come to find, and a quick glance at his companion confirmed the impression that there was no cause for alarm. It was highly unlikely that the emotions the sight of Emma Lawrence would evoke in Rick were resignation and contrition. "Rick!" the dark-haired woman hissed in a low, but penetrating whisper that immediately identified her as a librarian. She took the teenager's free arm and tried to steer him back out, completely ignoring Mulder. Rick resisted, setting his jaw into the mulish expression Mulder was already very familiar with. "Get out of here!" she commanded fiercely. "Why do you think I called? I wanted to help you! How can you be so foolish and selfish and-" "It's all right, Helen." Rick had decided to abandon sullenness in favor of hopeful entreaty. "Hey, Helen-this is Agent Mulder, FBI. He's the one who's here to talk to her. I'm just tagging along. There won't be any trouble, and we'll be real quiet, too. Really." She glanced at Mulder, who gave her his best reassuring smile while rifling through his memories of the phone conversation with Rick for the name of the concerned librarian. "Mrs. Markham?" Helen Markham nodded and Mulder held out a hand. She automatically released Rick's arm to take it. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name, Agent...?" "Special Agent Fox Mulder. I am investigating the disappearances haunting Weimar and hope Emma Lawrence will be able to cast light on the involvement of several members of her family." The librarian's lips had compressed into a thin white line. She said not a word, but the accusing glare she leveled at Rick was enough to make him defend himself. "Well, it's not as though it makes any difference for me at this point, is it? Emma already tried to snatch me, keeping quiet so they'll leave me alone seems kind of pointless. And besides, I'm not the one who told him. He already knew about the Lawrences when he came to talk to me." A long moment passed while Helen Markham stared at both of the malefactors, face set in a mask of stern disapproval. "Well, Frederick, this is a public library, so I can hardly prevent you from coming in. However, I must say that I expected you, of all people, to show better judgment. And as for you, Agent Mulder... I certainly hope you know what you are doing." She turned smoothly on one heel and strode off, disappearing around a corner with the energetic gait of a woman with a purpose. "Great. Now she's going to call everyone and set the town on its ear until she finds my father." Rick sighed, sounding resigned. "We'd better hurry before he sends someone for me. Here, to the left." The short corridor to the left led to an airy room with windows opening onto a large, well-tended courtyard. Outside, a small fountain stood centered on a plot of emerald grass encircled by a walk and several cast-iron benches; inside, rows of small tables ran along shelves displaying newspapers and magazines. "Emma," Rick said flatly. A girl sitting near the door stiffened and turned so quickly that she almost fell from her seat. Mulder noted that her movements definitely exceeded what could be considered normal speed. The young witch's features displayed a more delicate, entirely feminine version of Max's classic, even-featured good looks; the resemblance was marked enough that Mulder would have been able to identify her as a Lawrence from appearance alone. She wore designer jeans, suede pumps, and an expensive blazer over a cashmere sweater in shades of tan and chocolate, and small pearl earrings showed when she lifted her head abruptly, making the perfectly groomed sides of her gleaming, chin-length bob swing back from her ears. She was not older than Rick, but she was trying hard. Emma Lawrence was going for mature, sober and conservative with no holds barred. An extremely difficult stand to take with someone like Max around-to him, this kind of studied sobriety would be like a red cloth to a bull. Which was probably at least partly the reason she had turned out this way in the first place, but which made her choice of Rick as a prospective-pet? plaything? servant?-even more peculiar. "Rick." Her voice was deep, almost throaty, and would have been pleasant if it hadn't practically frozen in the air. "What do you want?" A flush crept up Rick's neck as he straightened to his full height, dragging Mulder forward half a step. The sudden tension in his bearing did not bode well. "I think we should continue this conversation in the copy room." Mulder released Rick's arm in order to step between him and the witch. "I have nothing to say to him," Emma snapped, raising her chin by another degree and compressing her mouth into a priggish line. "But I have a great deal to say to her," Rick spat back. "Then you should have come when I called you!" The sudden shout echoed in the utter silence. Mulder's hand crept to his gun as he backed up, herding Rick away from the girl. The library's other patrons were staring at the spectacle, several already on their feet and edging towards the door. Locals, thank God. At least Mulder wouldn't have to worry about ill-advised attempts at interference or belligerent demands for silence. "I should have come?" Rick exploded, yelling directly into Mulder's ear. Mulder winced and put out an arm to detain the boy when he surged forward. After a brief struggle, Rick subsided, contenting himself with raising his voice even further in order to make sure that Emma could hear him clearly from where she sat three yards away. "How dare you say that! How can you even look at me after what you did! How dare you sit there looking prim and proper and righteous! I'm glad my father locked me up! It was worth the pain to find out what you really are-I never would have believed you capable of such a thing if I hadn't lived through it. I can't believe I actually thought I cared for you-how stupid of me, how much you hurt me-" "You didn't come when I called! It was your fault!" Emma sprang up, her chair clattering to the floor. The witch didn't attempt to match her ex-boyfriend's volume, but more than compensated for the lack through sheer hostility. Mulder backed up another step, dragging Rick with him. While it was a question of considerable interest whether all Lawrences shared Max's ability to incapacitate sidearms, Mulder preferred to guide this confrontation in such a way that he would not come closer to an answer just yet. Rick twisted from Mulder's restraining grip to turn and stare blindly at the nearest rack of magazines. For someone of his age, he succeeded remarkably quickly in reining in his anger; he let out his breath very slowly, consciously relaxing his stance, and turned back after no more than a moment, the sharp planes and angles of his face now set into stern, immobile lines. The tense silence lay in the room so heavily that when Rick calmly took off the shades and folded them together, the small sound of plastic against plastic burst through the stillness with the force of an explosion. "I was wrong." Rick's voice was low and even, resonating with a note of quiet authority. It was the voice of a much older, very self-assured man, and it went well with the pale, serious cast of his features. "I thought you understood the things we talked about. You believe it was your right to command me, to own me, to inflict pain to punish me? That I loved you gave you no such right. Nothing could have given you such a right. Even if you had succeeded in forcing me to do your will, I would not have belonged to you. If you had asked me to come, I would have found a way to do so because I wanted to-because I am prepared to do a great many things for the happiness of someone I love. But you did not ask, you commanded, as though I owed you obedience. I do not love you now. I know better now. I will never be yours, and what's more, I never was. If you find a way to force me to return to you, nothing will change." After studying Emma for an instant longer, he seemed to dismiss her from his thoughts and inclined his head to Mulder with composed dignity. "Thank you for taking me along. It has been very helpful. I have seen what I came to see." Without taking any more note of his former girlfriend, Rick Lowborough walked out. Emma's eyes were wide and incredulous; she seemed almost stunned and made no move to follow or to prevent him from leaving. The feeling that Mulder was missing something nagged at him with renewed strength. "I almost think he meant that." Emma sounded strained. "He always goes all grand and pompous when he means it.... He won't be back, will he?" "Not of his own will," Mulder said, watching her closely as she whirled to stare out into the courtyard, her face set in a grim frown. She was deeply upset and almost beyond trying to hide it. It was the ideal moment to run some assumptions past her and see how accurate they were. "He suspected you wouldn't be able to reassert your influence over him." A slight hunching of the girl's shoulders declared not only that this was indeed the case, but also that she was too distraught to check her instinctive responses before Mulder could see them. Very promising. Perhaps Mulder should make a practice of having ex-lovers harangue recalcitrant witnesses prior to questioning. "Emma, you were almost ready to take him home with you, weren't you? If he had come when you called, you would not have let him return." Mulder gave in to the impulse to step a little closer, telling himself that one or two yards hardly made a difference-not to someone with the kind of speed Max had demonstrated. "You would have liked to take him away earlier. You couldn't, though, because it wasn't enough to sleep with him. That only removed the protection afforded by the treaty." Mulder paused while he put his thoughts into the right order, carefully watching the witch's profile. Emma was pretending not to pay attention, but she was listening quite closely.... And she was uncomfortable, uncertain of how to react. Mulder was on the right track. "You needed time to bind him to you-to do it properly," he went on slowly. Dahl's expressionless face flashed past his mind, superimposed on the adoration that had been written so plainly in Riley's countenance. Max, who would show off at every opportunity, had merely shut Dahl down into impassivity. Riley, on the other hand-the hold he'd established over the policewoman had been completely unlike the superficial one he'd put on her at the occasion of their first encounter... unlike the one over Dahl. Riley was simple. Dahl was not. Distant relatives? Similarity in genetic make-up? "It's hard with someone born here, isn't it? Not like taking people from out of town." "It's not fair," Emma blurted suddenly. "I did everything right. I was so careful! He should be mine! I wanted to keep him. He's different, he feels... special. It's just not fair!" If her speed had been that of a normal human, Mulder might have shot her by reflex. Her movements were far too rapid for his brain to track, though. By the time he had grown aware of the fact that she had moved, she was already clinging to him, her face buried in his shirtfront. "It always works for the others! I only wanted one! It's not fair!" Mulder looked over the top of her head to find a growing clutch of spectators gathered behind the window on the opposite side of the courtyard. He could pick out the straight figure of Helen Markham in the background, standing with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. The witch twisted Mulder's lapels in her fists and sobbed once, her entire body heaving. The Lawrences were clearly suffering from the all-too-human, all-too-common problem of incomplete socialization-given the conditions they lived under, it would have been surprising if they had not. Max was a classic case: A sociopath who was unable to connect or empathize with anyone and so drew pleasure from others' pain and fear instead, who knew his own worth only through the power he exerted. This girl was at least dimly aware that she lacked something-she felt loneliness and was desperately trying to connect in the only way she knew. However, while this indicated a certain measure of emotional competence, it was not necessarily a good sign. Emma's behavior and attitude proved that she might grow to resemble Max in more than appearance, in which case her greater awareness of her own pain would in all likelihood make her even more unpredictable and dangerous. But at this moment, she could still be reached, perhaps reasoned with.... Certainly led. Mulder patted the witch's back consolingly and waited until her grip on his Armani suit loosened. "You love Rick, don't you?" She lifted her face to glare at him from reddened eyes, revealing a blotchy face framed by disheveled hair. No trace of polish or sophistication remained. She looked exactly like the miserable teenager she was. "I don't see what business it is of yours!" Mulder dug out a handkerchief and dangled it in front of her. She stopped mangling his jacket, snatching the offered square of cloth instead. "You did seriously crumple my very expensive suit over it," he said reasonably after she'd blown her nose. "Rick gave me his point of view of your relationship. Perhaps if you give me yours, it will become clear what went wrong." Besides the fact that you are a witch, that you caused your hapless boyfriend an amount of pain that would have driven a less stable individual permanently round the bend, and, of course, that you just now declared that he deserved it for failing to appear when whistled for. "What did he say?" gasped Emma, her left hand shooting out to reclaim one already severely wrinkled lapel. He pretended to consider. "I don't think I should tell you-Rick probably wouldn't want me to pass on something he recounted in confidence." "Of course you will tell me!" she shouted. "I am Emma Lawrence!" Mulder freed his jacket with a sharp tug and perched on a nearby table. "Pleased to meet you, Emma. I want to understand what kind of relationship you and Rick had before I decide how much to tell you of his view of the matter. Since it is this important for you to know how he feels, why don't you tell me how you feel? The only other option to obtain the information from me would involve breaking the treaty. Are you willing to go that far, Emma?" Of course, she would not be breaking the treaty by exerting undue influence over Mulder, but he was reasonably certain that-unless the witches were amusing themselves passing around pictures of the FBI agent-she'd have no way of knowing that. With the high-pitched, frustrated shriek of a child throwing a tantrum, Emma smashed her fist down on the surface of the table she'd been sitting at earlier, her arm moving so fast not even a blur could be seen. The wooden top splintered and broke nearly in two, causing the table to sag inwards drunkenly. Not necessarily revealing, except in regard to her mental state.... Some humans could break bricks with the edge of their hand. Supposedly, it was a matter of concentration rather than strength. "The answer is no, then." Mulder nodded briskly. "Good. You said that this is not fair. Exactly what about the situation isn't fair, Emma?" "He's the only one I ever wanted!" Emma sagged down on the nearest chair, hugging herself tightly. "It's not fair, I never took anyone before, I never even tried, and-and now when I want to I can't, just because he didn't come when I called. I was so careful-I know I did everything right. And he even told me he loved me! He's mine! It's not fair!" "Three days," Mulder guessed, following his intuition. "When someone refuses the call for three days, they're free. That's why you can't have him now. You lost your chance." She wadded up the handkerchief with both hands and stared down at it. "I was completely exhausted. I sat there calling and calling and he never showed.... It's his fault. He was the one who stood me up, it's all his fault, my whole life is ruined and it's his fault!" Defensive, needing to convince herself. Well, now.... This was interesting. She knew she was in the right, knew it with the deep conviction born of society and upbringing.... But a small element of doubt had been introduced into the settled worldview in which Non-Lawrences existed only to come when called. It had not even occurred to Emma to ask Mulder who he was or why he was here. It didn't signify, just as he himself didn't signify. And yet, she was feeling guilt over what she had done to Rick. Within three months, Rick Lowborough had managed to erode the foundations of Emma's world. Mulder revised his opinion of the mayor's son upwards yet again. "You didn't tell Rick who you are, Emma." Emma's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the wad of cloth. The quick, hard look she shot at Mulder set off a lightning chain of conclusions in his mind. "You broke the treaty," he stated softly. "Telling you who we are isn't part of the treaty." She was a terrible liar. Even if Mulder hadn't been keeping company with Alex Krycek for the last couple of days, thus perforce honing his skills at detecting misinformation and evasion, this falsehood was so blatantly obvious he would have had no trouble at all in catching it. Far more interesting than the lie itself was the fact that Emma was not at all worried. She was confident that she would be believed. The people of Weimar were not expected to know all the terms of the treaty. The Lawrences had been deliberately obscuring clauses that had originally been common knowledge. And even though these clauses had been forgotten by one party involved, the other party remembered them, told their children about them. Pointless, risky even-unless the need to observe them was still given. There was no risk of the unsuspecting Weimarians crying breach of contract. So, was there a third, impartial party or power involved to police the terms of the treaty? But that didn't quite fit either.... Mulder had yet to learn of any written record of the treaty and its terms. He had assumed this was part and parcel of the silence imposed on Weimar. But even if the Weimarians believed this to be the case, it was not necessarily true. What if the records had been purposely destroyed? For what purpose, if the Lawrences had to stick to the clauses even if the Weimarians weren't aware of them? For the purpose of making the pact between Weimar and the Lawrences look like something other than what it was. To listen to the Weimarians, they'd gotten the short end of the stick-in exchange for a tenuous promise of safety from the witches, a promise apparently enforced by nothing but tradition and good will, said witches were free to roam the town and do as they pleased. The Lawrences were protected from discovery and persecution, demanded and received submission and obedience, indulged themselves to the fullest, gave in to every whim and fancy.... If they saw something they wanted, they took it and let the town carry the cost. If they saw someone they wanted, they had the right to at least attempt taking them, as well. Could that truly have been the way the treaty had been set up? Could a small clan of witches force a much larger group of settlers to enter into such a pact? Why not simply move on, or gang up on the freaks? Violence was, after all, the traditional method of dealing with the unknown. What was unfamiliar and inexplicable was almost inevitably met with fear and hate, emotions that, in their turn, inevitably led to the urge to destroy, to eliminate the perceived threat. Burn the witch. Surround her cottage and set fire to it. Bring her down in the fields when she tries to flee. Let her stop one member of the lynch mob with her powers, let her kill others through sheer speed-in the end, she stands no chance. "You broke the terms of the treaty," Mulder repeated, not entirely certain where he was headed but willing to follow his instincts. "Do you know what will happen to you when this comes out, Emma?" Fear, quickly covered by returning anger, but unmistakable. She knew-or if she didn't, she suspected. Emma stood abruptly. "No wonder you and Rick get along so well. You talk just as much nonsense as he does. Tell him to go to hell. I'm glad he didn't come. I'm glad I don't have to bother with him for the rest of his miserable life!" Mulder didn't attempt to stop her when she rushed out. She was angry, afraid, and confused-it would not have been a good idea to get in her way. The spectators scattered slowly, Helen Markham lingering longest. No one came to join Mulder in the newspaper room, though, and that suited him very well. He needed some time alone to consider what he had learned. The situation in Weimar was far more complex than him seemed at first glance. The town's present dilemma was not merely the result of a family of beings with unusual powers preying on the populace.... There was the long shared history of the Lawrences and Weimar to consider, a close and apparently increasingly tangled association that went back all the way to the town's beginnings. The witches were not a foreign element that had descended on the community from the outside, they had been part of the community from the start, allocated a definite place within it. An agreement had been reached. Rules had been set. And now, no one in Weimar seemed to have a grasp of what the rules were anymore, and the witches were cheating. No wonder things were going wrong. It was beginning to grow dark when Mulder returned to the hotel, and Alex was there. Mulder knew this as soon as he stepped off the elevator, and the conviction increased with every step that brought him closer to the room he shared with the other man. Of course Mulder was perfectly aware that the impression of being able to sense Alex's presence was nothing but the latest, most outlandish symptom of what would at this point have to be classified as an obsession. Unfortunately, knowing this did nothing to change the fact that he could feel the other man's proximity-that it tugged at him, called to him, enticed him.... Sleeping with Alex had only made things worse. Big surprise, Mulder. You'd think you didn't know the first thing about the psychology of human sexuality. Resolving the fixation through a release of tension. If someone else had told you that one, you'd have ruptured something laughing. "We have to talk," Alex said flatly from where he sat against the headboard of the second bed. He seemed to like sitting like that, with his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He never sat on chairs when there was a bed in the room to be sat on instead. It was highly unlikely he cultivated the preference in order to wake the kind of associations that were flitting through Mulder's mind at the sight, of course. Mulder sighed, sagging back against the closed door. The leaden exhaustion that had invaded his bones at some point between the elevator and the hotel room's door made him decide against sitting down-he wasn't certain he'd be able to summon the necessary energy for standing up again. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a comfortable chair and not move a finger while he examined and evaluated the events of the past day, but that was a luxury he would not be granted yet. The day was not over-he had a dinner appointment to keep. No choice about that. Not only did Mulder want to talk to Katja Dahl, he also had to keep an eye on Riley, who was probably breaking out the assault rifles right now. Besides, nothing could possibly be more of a strain than sitting still and trying to keep his mind on the case when he was alone with Alex. Alone with Alex and a bed-Alex sitting on a bed. Giving himself a mental shake, Mulder glared at the other man. "So now you think we have to talk, do you? You're the one who couldn't wait to run out." Alex was right, of course. They did have to talk. In fact, Mulder distinctly remembered that not too long ago, he'd had every intention of having this kind of talk with Alex as soon as possible. He'd changed his mind, though-he needed to think things through first. He had to sort out what had happened, to understand why it had happened.... The only thing he was sure of at the moment was that it hadn't been anything as simple or straightforward as sex brought on by a sudden reciprocal attack of desire or an old fixation reaching flashpoint. Nothing was ever simple or straightforward where Alex Krycek was concerned, least of all Mulder's feelings. Sexual attraction was only a part of the Krycek problem, though certainly not one that Mulder could afford to trivialize. It had been getting in the way of Mulder's judgment ever since he'd first decided that Agent Krycek was not nearly as uninteresting as his awkward manner and ingratiating eagerness made it seem at first, that he was evidently rather intelligent and also quite attractive, in spite of the ill-fitting suits and gooped-up hair. Even when Mulder had made himself believe that the only things he felt for the treacherous murderer were hatred and disgust, he'd been aware of Krycek's physical appeal at some level-looking back, it was obvious that the uncontrollable rage that had risen in him every time he caught sight of Krycek had been at least partly due to the desire Mulder felt, a desire completely unacceptable to his conscious mind. It was certainly not wrong to feel a certain measure of sympathy for Krycek, to marvel at the fact he had resisted and survived as much as he had, to respect his strength of will and character, to regret the loss of potential. It was even permissible to feel sorrow for the man he might have been. But all things considered, it had to stop there. Krycek was not and could never be the man he might have been-and the man he was killed as easily as he breathed, knew no cause except his own survival, would do anything and believed in nothing. Mulder knew there was more to him, but nevertheless the fact remained that Alex Krycek was and always would be an amoral killer. The fact also remained that Mulder wanted to feel this particular amoral killer's naked body stretched out beneath his again, flushed and heated and panting with arousal. He wanted-needed-to taste Alex's mouth, the erratic pulse at the base of his throat-to feel the slide of silken skin against his, the flex of powerful muscles.... To listen to Alex moan and growl and husk out breathless, throaty words in Russian, and to know that it was Mulder causing this, Mulder's touch he craved. Oh God, yes... Mulder wanted that. Wanted Alex. That he desired Alex should not have been as disturbing to Mulder as it was-not anymore, not now. Mulder couldn't expect to get away with ignoring his body's demands indefinitely, after all, and he certainly couldn't expect his body to conform to his mind's ideas of a fitting sexual partner. But the form his desire for Alex took-this unreasoning, almost desperate need to possess- "It wasn't the right moment." Mulder's thoughts had wandered so far that it took him several seconds to put Alex's remark into the proper context. Looking away from the cool green gaze, Mulder noted for the first time that the other bed had been straightened up-the last time he'd seen it, it had been in a state of almost total dissolution. And come to think of it, the room must have been aired, as well.... There was no lingering smell of sex at all. "How domestic," he said, irritation over the twinge of regret that shot through him lending an edge to his voice. Alex raised a slightly mocking brow. "No need to shock the maid more than necessary, though my reputation is probably beyond saving anyway. There's not much to be done about the sheets, or the carpet for that matter. Really, Mulder, didn't your mother teach you anything?" The conversation hadn't even started yet and was already getting on Mulder's nerves. "Out with it," he said brusquely. "Let's not beat around the bush. We're invited for dinner with Dahl's family." "I'll be brief." Alex's face was devoid of expression. "If you are determined to have sex with me, Mulder, I can't stop you. I'd sleep with the entire Lawrence family if it would keep the aliens off my back. If that's how it's going to be, I'll have to deal with it. But if that's how it's going to be, then tell me now. Some things are easier if you know to expect them." The world ground to a halt as Alex's words sank into Mulder's mind, chilling him to the core. No. Not possible. That wasn't what had happened between them-that wasn't what it had been about. Alex had not slept with him because of the aliens. It could not be. Never mind that Mulder himself had wondered-had asked himself whether it was possible-no. It was not. It was unthinkable, unacceptable. Impossible. Mulder almost gasped as the frail defense of his denial shattered and reality closed around him with crushing force, stealing the air from his lungs. He struggled to draw a breath, air rasping painfully in his throat. Oh, yes, it was possible. More than possible. Somehow, Mulder had always known that this-something like this-would happen. He'd known it couldn't be as right as it had felt, that Alex couldn't be as right as he felt.... Deep down, Mulder had known all along. Leave Alex a route of escape and he'd run. Back him into a corner and he'd lie, deceive, or fight his way out.... Whatever it took. So when Mulder had had Alex pinned against the wall, when he couldn't run anymore, he'd started lying. He had accepted the necessity of giving in and had put on a good show. When someone held a knife to your throat, you gave him your money. When someone held the threat of aliens over your head, you spread your legs and came for him, if that was what he wanted. Nothing had been real, none of the passion, none of the responsiveness. Mulder had been sleeping with someone who didn't exist, believing in him-trusting the ultimate deceiver. When would he learn.... Had Mulder really thought Krycek had lost control, even for an instant? Laughable. The only time that man was not in complete control of himself was when he'd been taken over by an alien life-form. Sex couldn't even scratch his armor. It was merely a tool for him, a set of instincts to be harnessed and consciously deployed-and he was good at doing that, horribly good.... He had been exactly what Mulder wanted when Mulder himself hadn't had any clear concept of what that was. Hell, Mulder still didn't, and he was the one who was supposed to be the great psychologist. No wonder the Consortium ruled the world. With a dozen, half a dozen operatives like this.... Mulder was afraid he might be sick. He wished he'd sat down after all-no, that wasn't what he wished, he wished he'd never touched him, never wanted him, never laid eyes on him in his life! How could someone so breathtaking be so hollow-how did he do it, where did he get the passion, the sincerity, the depth? How could he seem so right, so alive.... Was there nothing there at all, nothing to conceal? Was that why Mulder believed in the performance again and again-because at any given moment, the mask Krycek wore was all there was of him? It wasn't even possible to hate Krycek anymore. The man couldn't help being what he was. He'd only been following the imperative that had been ingrained into him at a level deeper than any instinct-surrendering to the necessity. If it was necessary, he did it. Alex Krycek was someone who survived. Everything else had been burned out of him long ago. And now he was watching Mulder with teal-green eyes, calm, collected, waiting to be told whether he would be required to repeat his performance. And even now, even when he knew all of this, Mulder could not help but find him desirable. What was happening to him? This wasn't him, Mulder had never lusted after anyone for no other reason than that they inhabited an attractive body, he couldn't still want this man, not now, not ever, never again.... Mulder slammed the back of his head against the door, welcoming the bright explosion of physical pain. Clean, pure, unequivocal... drowning out the deeper, darker, twisted torment. His vision sparked briefly, pinpricks of light playing across his corneas, and he smelled the harsh, coppery tang of blood. Sensory illusions-like Alex. "So tell me," Mulder whispered raggedly, "What was it you said? Did they teach you how to design something fitting, depending on what the audience wants to hear? What did you say, Krycek? I liked it, the way it sounded-you're good, you're really good...." The silence held. Krycek sat motionless, not moving a muscle, as still as though he weren't there at all. Which, in a sense, he wasn't. There was nothing there but an empty husk trained to adapt, kill, and survive. A clever, efficient, aesthetically pleasing machine. "Tell me!" Mulder shouted, surging forward. "What did you say? Come on, Krycek, tell me! I want to know-we have a deal, tell me or I'll have the aliens drag it out of you, that and every other miserable, sordid little episode of your existence!" The head came up fractionally, the body stiffening. Mulder realized that he'd clenched his fists-that he'd reached the bed and was now towering over the other man threateningly. He made himself back off several steps and crossed his arms, hugging them close. There was no point in trying to make Krycek feel anything. That creature could feel nothing. Nothing at all. "If it means that much to you." Krycek's voice was completely impassive, but the trace of a sneer curled his lip. "It was nothing very inspired-everyone wants to hear more or less the same thing. But if I know you, you'll want the exact phrasing.... Well, you're the one with perfect recall, Mulder, not me. Let's hear it." Instantly, unbidden, the memory surfaced. The roughened voice gasping something slurred with passion, dark with emotion. The way he'd looked afterwards, wide-eyed and startled, when he'd asked what he'd said. Alex. Oh God, Alex.... How fitting that Spooky Mulder should suffer from the loss of someone who had never existed-that he should want a phantom, a fiction constructed of wishful thinking and deception. No truth here for you, Spooky, just you and your delusions.... None? Not so. There was something. A common denominator between truth and lie. A discrepancy between theory and fact. What did I say? You're the one with perfect recall. The glimpse of an underlying truth, a new and unsuspected pattern. "You don't remember," Mulder stated, his mind rapidly sifting through the accumulated stockpile of memory for other discrepancies to support the new theory. Assuming that he had been looking at the problem from the wrong side.... Assuming that it was not the Alex who responded to Mulder's touch who was the lie. What would the resulting pattern be? Could it integrate the facts the previous theory had left unexplained? Yes. It could-it did. Looked at from this angle, it made sense. Mulder couldn't believe he almost hadn't seen it. Alex was giving a faint, ironic shrug. "Believe it or not, it was not the only thing on my mind at the time. Only you would expect me to remember every unimportant detail." Weak with relief, Mulder sank down on the edge of the bed. Of course-it was the soulless survivalist who was the lie. Alex was projecting him as a cover to hide behind, to protect himself, to shield his weaknesses. Projecting a tough exterior, the most common defense mechanism of all. Essential in any criminal organization, or any other close-knit, inherently competitive hierarchical community. Mulder knew that, and yet he'd fallen for it-fallen like a ton of lead for the cheapest of tricks. Granted, Krycek's impression of an unemotional sociopath was chillingly authentic. He wouldn't be alive today if it were less convincing-he'd had to fool the Consortium for years. But Mulder had bought into it so often.... And he knew Alex was not a callous killing machine. Why was Mulder so eager to believe this particular falsehood? What was he afraid of-what could possibly be so horrible that his subconscious considered this kind of emotional agony the better alternative? It was so typical... Alex Krycek sent every single emotional disorder and anxiety Mulder possessed into overdrive, messed with his mind at every turn, played him like a harp-and Mulder let him do it. Why? Mulder sighed and massaged his temples. He wasn't going to find that answer today, and it was probably a good thing. "What's wrong, Mulder-cat got your tongue? What happened to your fabled memory?" Mulder looked up, meeting and holding the mocking gaze. "You know, if I'd been aware you were quite this accomplished at twisting the truth into knots, I'd have thought twice about entering into an agreement with you. It's beginning to feel like the kind of pact I should have signed in my own blood." Alex frowned, a wary look entering his expression. "Meaning?" "Meaning that I am sick and tired of being forced to play your twisted little mind-games!" A sharp stab of pain shot through Mulder's skull and he winced. After gingerly probing the back of his head, he decided that a couple of aspirin would solve the problem and went on in a lower voice, making a valiant effort to be annoyed. Annoyance was clearly called for. Relief was inappropriate. "I'm trying to solve a case here, Krycek! Can't you at least stow your devious plots and manipulations until the witches are taken care of?" An eyebrow arched sardonically. "And exactly what devious plots and manipulations would you be referring to? Come on, give me a hint-it's not easy keeping track of them all." Mulder gave up on the annoyance. It was too much of an effort. "Quit pretending the aliens made you do it. And don't try that soulless sociopath routine on me again. I don't like it, and I won't fall for it anyway." Alex's mouth tightened. "Your thoughts are jumping all over the place. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Do you make a habit of hitting your head against the wall? Explains a lot of things." "It was the door, not the wall-it's important to be accurate when describing psychopathological symptoms. Now. I have come to the conclusion that the Lawrence witches have been obscuring the actual terms of the treaty. Their purpose can only be conjectured at this point, but I believe that the treaty was originally conceived as something much more even-handed, benefiting both parties equally." Mulder had not expected to get this far without being interrupted; he paused briefly and looked at the other man, receiving only a hard green stare. The chill, empty facade was up at full force-it was impossible to tell what was going on behind the frozen surface of Alex's calm. After a moment, Mulder shrugged and went on. "It is interesting that Emma Lawrence, who broke a term not known to the Weimarians anymore by not revealing her identity to her potential victim, has obviously been warned against committing infractions against even those-" "You met Emma Lawrence?" "She turned up at the library. Nothing has happened to her yet, so there is no impartial third power involved unless it has to be invoked by one or the other of the primary parties to the treaty. What happens to a Lawrence who breaks the treaty? The Weimarians lose their immunity. Do the Lawrences lose theirs? Are they then free game for the community-to be hunted down, burned at stake-perhaps even with the active collaboration of the others-" Alex slid off the side of the bed across from Mulder and walked to the closet. The door opened onto an assortment of new cartons and packages. Mulder's train of thought derailed. "Do you realize that compulsive shopping is a serious mental-" The smile Alex wore when he turned was one of the rare, genuine ones. It was so unexpected that Mulder needed a moment to realize he'd stopped speaking in mid-sentence; he cleared his throat hastily and went on. "It's no laughing matter, it's a compulsion not unlike kleptomania or-" "Here, catch." Automatically, Mulder reached out to catch the object Alex had tossed to him, giving it a cursory glance and then a longer, incredulous stare. It suddenly became clear what kind of shopping trip Alex had been on. "My God. What have you-" "It's just a butterfly knife, Mulder. Surely you've seen one before." "It's not the knife, it's those other things! Krycek, if there are explosives in that closet-" Alex laughed. "I'm flattered-I think. As it happens, though, I have been strangely unable to obtain explosives, bio-chemical weapons, or nuclear warheads. Too bad, I hate leaving home without them." Mulder supposed he'd been asking for that. He restricted himself to a censorious frown and pocketed the knife without further thought. "All right, we've talked enough. Let's go have dinner." Which was the cue for Alex to produce something he called a pistol crossbow that he insisted be stowed under a seat in the car. The thing looked like a cross between a gun, a slingshot, and something straight out of the Middle Ages. It might have appeared more like a toy than a weapon, but if Alex thought it would stop a witch, Mulder had little doubt that it would. He didn't even ask what anachronistic but lethal weapon lurked in the long, slim bundle Alex deposited on the back seat. If he was lucky, he'd never find out whether his guess was accurate. Part IV worldsenough@gmx.net

[Stories by Author] [Stories by Title] [Mailing List] [Krycek/Skinner] [Links] [Submissions] [Home]