Second Grace Book Two Author: Logan Rating: NC-17 Genre: Mulder/Krycek Slash, Angst, Adventure, Romance Spoilers: diverts from "canon" after Requiem See Part One for Summary and Author's notes logan@hegalplace.com *** Second Grace - Book II by Logan The night sky is covered with a canopy of thick gray clouds when the plane lands in DC, and the air is heavy and cold with the promise of snow. My thin cotton shirt and leather jacket were more than enough to keep me warm in the practically balmy air of the delta, but here the wind cuts through the layers of my clothes and leaves me shivering. The cold is nothing compared to the icy dread I feel when I reach the terminal gate and am greeted by Walter Skinner. Well, maybe greeted is too strong a word. He stands at the end of the terminal in his suit and trench coat looking like half a ton of "Don't-Fuck-With-Me". Shit, I'm a dead man. I drop my carry-on to my feet and slowly begin to raise my good arm. A glint of malicious amusement flares in his eyes. "We'd started to think you'd screwed Mulder over yet again," he says as he picks up my bag and hands it back to me. I'm shaking slightly from the adrenaline coursing through me and my blood is pounding in my veins, roaring in my ears. "What?" "He kept saying you would come. Dana thought he was delusional, asking for someone named Alex, until we got Byers to give us a name. apparently Mulder told him before surgery that if he died Byers should send a letter to an address in Baton Rouge. You're slipping, Krycek. It only took about two hours to connect you to Michael A. Drake." "I'm not hiding, Skinner. Just trying to start over. You're not going to arrest me?" He shakes his head. "Arrest you for what? You know damned well that there's no evidence against you for anything you've done. I just want to find my son -- Mulder's son." I nod. At least there is one point we can agree on. "I want that too. I don't expect your trust, but I'm giving you my word that I'll do what I can to help." "Your word means jack shit to me, Krycek. Do you want to go to the hospital now, or check into a hotel first?" He starts walking down the concourse and I have no choice but to rush to keep up with his long strides. "Hospital first. How is he?" I ask, hooking my bag over my left shoulder. "Improved. It took a few tries, but the doctors have found an antibiotic he's responding to. For a while it looked like he might have to go back to surgery and a portion of his bowel removed. His fever broke during the night, though. The doctors are optimistic about his recovery." I hate cautious, tentative words like optimistic. Doctors only use words like that when they're trying to cover their own asses. I follow Skinner out to his car. He stands next to the car for a few moments, looking at me speculatively, before he says, "Assume the position, Krycek." It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. The bastard wants to frisk me. "You know I'm carrying, Skinner. I'm not going to shoot you, just let me give you the gun." I slowly reach into my jacket and pull the gun from my shoulder holster. I empty the chamber and pop the clip loose before handing it to him. He nods jerkily and tosses the gun in the trunk of his car along with my bag, then unlocks the doors. I climb in the passenger seat. "You'll have to give that back to me when we get to the hospital. I can't be seen in this city unprotected. Once people find out I'm not dead there will be a line to see who gets to do the remedy that." He doesn't respond as he maneuvers the car out of the parking garage. The drive to the hospital is silent and tense. Finally I break the uneasy quiet by asking, "Are you going to tell me about the case? I don't have contacts anymore -- all I know I got from a newspaper clipping someone slipped in my mailbox." "I really can't decide if I should tell you anything or not. I don't trust you, Krycek. I realize that Mulder does -- to a fault, perhaps. I don't know what the hell's been going on between the two of you, but I've never seen anyone have such a radical change of opinion so quickly." His eyes never leave the road as he speaks. Nothing I say is going to change his mind about me. It's almost comical, how the irredeemable can still long for redemption. Over the past months I'd almost gotten used to having people take me at face value. "I've been sleeping with Mulder for four years, Skinner. It never affected his work. He did his job and never compromised the safety of other agents. The only place where it was personal between us was in his bedroom. So don't you think if now his opinion has changed, there might be a reason?" He doesn't respond, just clenches his jaw and white-knuckles the steering wheel. "Look, you need me," I try again. "Like it or not, I can get things done that won't dirty yours or Agent Scully's hands -- the only things that may get the baby back. I had nothing to do with this. I was on the phone with Mulder from Baton Rouge just a few hours before it happened. You don't have any choice but to trust me on this." If words don't convince him, I think a fist might do nicely. I don't have the time or inclination to play games with him. I'm scared shitless for Fox and I really want to hurt someone right now. Skinner will do just fine. He sighs, resigned. "Dana and Sean were discharged around 9 AM on Sunday. At approximately 1 PM Dana was in bed sleeping while Mulder was in the other bedroom putting together the crib. I was there earlier, but had gone home to get a change of clothes and pick up Dana's prescriptions. Sean was asleep in a bassinette in the living room. Mulder heard a crash in the living room and ran to see what was going on. Two armed men in black ski masks came through the door. One of them fired and hit him, the other grabbed the baby. By the time Dana made it to the living room they were gone. No one in the building saw a damn thing." "Was Mulder able to give any kind of description of the men?" "Black clothes, black ski masks. It's damned funny how so much goes on in that apartment building and no one ever sees anything. We ran ballistics on the bullet, but it won't do any good." "No, it won't. The FBI can't do shit about this. These people are above the law, or below it. We all know the only group of people this child would be of such value to, and that makes it even more urgent that we find him. If we give them too long they can make it look like he was nothing but a figment of our imaginations." "I thought the project was over," he says with little conviction. Yeah, and if wishes were horses.... "It's never over. Players come and go, but the game is always the same. That's part of your problem. You thought Spender was the king of the mountain, but he was just one of dozens. The Consortium is a fucking Hydra -- no matter how many heads you cut off, there's another waiting to take its place." Not that this is going to stop me from killing as many of them as I can. Every hour that child is away from his mother, one of those fuckers will pay for it with his life. We arrive at the hospital and Skinner is decent enough to give my gun back, probably thinking I won't off Mulder right there in front of all those witnesses. I try to school my features into calmness, to remain in control of my emotions, but my palm is sweating and my stomach burns. What am I doing here? Am I Alex Drake, Fox Mulder's concerned lover, or Alex Krycek, a spy only being tolerated for the information I might provide? The elevator opens and I see is Dana Scully, sitting on a bench outside of the SICU. I feel a deep pang of sympathy for her. She looks worn and drawn, her skin the color of bone china. She looks up when she hears us approaching, managing a wary look in my direction before standing with some effort. Skinner goes to her and kisses her swiftly, then she draws herself up to her full height and walks towards me. "Krycek." It sounds like a death sentence coming from her. I nod. "Scully. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. I'm sorry about what's happened, and I'll do everything in my power to find your son." I brace myself for a slap on the face, but instead she gestures for me to follow her. "He's been asking for you. We've had a very -- illuminating -- conversation this evening. You can only see him for fifteen minutes every other hour." Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. Where's a remote listening device when you need one? The nurse at the desk stops us to sign in. I pause for a moment before signing in as Alex Drake. A small gesture, but I'd like to hang onto Alex Drake for as long as I can before I have to turn Alex Krycek loose. "This is the investigator I told you would be coming to question Mr. Mulder. We won't be in very long," Scully explains to the guard posted outside his door. I draw in a deep breath and push the door open. Fox looks much the same as he did the night I found him on my front porch. His face is ashen and his respiration shallow underneath an oxygen mask. "How is he?" I ask her softly, afraid to wake him, not knowing what I'll say to him. Can't she leave so we can be alone? Of course not, she's probably afraid I'll suffocate him with a pillow. The lioness protecting her cub -- or in this case, her cub's father -- to the very end. "He's improving. The infection is under control and his fever is down. He'll recover, this time." I take a step towards him and she grabs my arm. "Krycek, don't you say anything to upset him," she warns. "I never would have allowed you to be here, but Mulder thinks you can find my son." Her eyes flare with intent. "Naturally. It doesn't matter that he asked for me, just that I can help you. I'm going to help find your baby, Agent, but in this room you aren't his partner -- I am," I say softly, far more calmly than I feel. He stirs in his bed. "Alex?" I move quickly to his bedside. His hand is cold. Even the bones beneath the skin feel fragile as I lace his fingers with mine. "I'm here, Fox. I'm sorry I didn't get here yesterday. You know, when I told you how much I missed you I didn't mean for you to get yourself shot so I could get you on your back." I try for humor to hide the tremble in my voice. He and I are none of Scully's business, and I can't bring myself to say what I really want to in front of her. He tries to chuckle, but grimaces in pain. "Did Byers get you on the phone?" "Yes, he did. I was scared shitless, but I knew you were in good hands and I had to put some safeguards in place," I explain. I emptied out my bank account, meager though it was, and left a couple of letters with an attorney that should be very enlightening to certain parties should something ever happen to me. "I understand. Is Alex Krycek's return to the land of the living going to make things unsafe for your family? I couldn't stand to know I put them in danger. I'm sorry, Alex, they gave me some really good drugs after the surgery and apparently I babbled my goddamn head off." His voice is thick and rusty. I remove my hand from his to smooth it over his hair. "It's okay, I took care of things. Everyone is fine. They're all sorry you missed Christmas and can't wait to see you again. The boys loved the Legos. You picked well," I say, smiling softly. Shadows gather like storm clouds in his feverish. "You have to help me. Make them let me out of this damned bed so I can find my son," he says, his voice sharply edged with desperation. "Fox, you took a bullet in the gut, you aren't getting out of this bed anytime soon. I promise you, first thing in the morning I'll start looking into things. We'll get to the bottom of this and find your child." God, I want to kiss him so badly, to lie my head on his chest and feel his heart beat. Why the hell won't she just go away? Scully clears her throat loudly, giving me a purposeful look. "I think he's had enough for tonight." Bitch. "Looks like Dr. Scully wants me to get out and let you get your rest," I tell him softly. He grabs my hand. "Don't leave." To hell with her. I lean over and move the oxygen mask aside to brush my lips over his. He tastes like iodine, but I drink in the sensation of being close to him, savoring the stale breath that at least means he's alive. "I need to be briefed on the situation, and you need to be quiet and heal. I'll be back in the morning. I'll pick up a book and read to you like we do at home, okay?" "Sounds good. I wish we were at home, with the big warm bed and the furnace that doesn't work worth a shit," he says wistfully. "Me too. Get well and we'll go home sooner than you think." "Not until we find Sean. I'm not leaving until we find my son and the bastards who took him." I give him another quick kiss on his forehead. "We'll find him." Fox slips back into sleep. I take a moment to compose myself before turning to face Scully again. She's looking at me like I've grown a second head, but stays silent until we've left the ward and are back in the corridor with Skinner. "Mulder and I talked earlier this evening," she says, brushing an errant lock of hair from her forehead. "But I'm still trying to understand how my partner, who has considered you his adversary for many years, has also been sleeping with you for most of that time." Her voice is taut and Skinner looks like somebody pissed in his cornflakes. "If Fox wants to talk to you about that, it's his business. He's not a child, and I'm not his keeper," I tell her. The reason they're barely on speaking terms now is the constant disdain she shows for his choices. "I don't know what you're getting out of this, but Mulder seems to think you'll help us find Sean. I don't like you, and I sure as hell don't trust you, but I'm willing to concede that I can't afford to turn away any help I can get. However, if I find out you're involved in this, or that you've done something to Mulder, I'll shoot you myself," she says, her eyes hard and bright. "Scully, I'm not about to give you a 101 course on my relationship with Mulder. It will have to be enough for you that if it affects him, it affects me, and I want to find his son. Now, I need a computer with net access and a quiet place to work." "Fine," she says briskly, "I'll take you to the Gunmen." "I know where it is. Could you take me to rent a car, and I'll meet you there?" "How do I know you're not just going to run off on your own?" She asks. "How do I know you're not just setting me up?" I retort. I'm tired of playing nice. She sighs and leans into Skinner for a moment, then shakily extends her hand to me. "24 hour truce, okay? Let's see how much we can really trust one other. At this point I have nothing to lose." I know it took a lot her to say that. Maybe, just maybe, she's willing to give me a chance. I reach out and shake her hand. "Scully, I've never promised you a damned thing the entire time I've known you, but I'm promising you now that I'm only here to help." ///////////////////////////////// Dawn is creeping murkily across the city when I leave the Lone Gunmen's lair to find a hotel. With their help I've tracked down the telephone numbers and addresses of people who might be helpful, as well as traced some credit card numbers see if they're active. The work was fruitful -- a few people who I had assumed were dead are obviously using those aliases. In less than twelve hours I've burned down my parent's house, declared a truce with Dana Scully and resurrected Alex Krycek from the dead. It's been a productive evening. It wasn't easy. I don't consider myself a proud person: at times I'll do anything to survive. But it really galled me to tell Fox's three friends that I'm broke and needed my credit card doctored to afford the hotel. A few taps on the keyboard by Langly, and my Visa card will never reach its limit. Hell, at least they know I'm not trying to live off of Fox's pension. I find a reasonably priced hotel that has a data port in each room and check in. I've been awake a little over 24 hours at this point and the only thing I can think about is grabbing a couple of hours of sleep. I've gone soft -- two years ago this would have been a piece of cake for me. I get in the shower and let the hot water sluice over me, washing away fear, anxiety, and a plethora of emotions I don't even have the courage to examine. Sometimes I cannot handle how I feel about Fox. In Baton Rouge it was safe: we were able to nurture that spark into something that was bigger than either of us. Will it be able to stand up to the light of day and the scrutiny of the world? I don't know if I'm brave enough to be the same person with him that I am when I'm sheltered and supported by friends and family. After the shower I sprawl out on the bed and at the ceiling, too pumped on adrenaline to sleep. I feel like two different people. Alex Drake isn't safe here in DC. He's too new. His skin's not thick enough. I hope Fox can understand that and forgive me. I know I'm going to lose him. We can't go back to Louisiana after this is over. I have nothing else to offer him, and I wouldn't blame him for never wanting to let that child out of his sight again. God dammit, I was so close. For a few short weeks I had a glimpse of what my life could have been if I'd chosen a different path, and it was so sweet. I miss it already. ////////////////////////// I awake around 11 AM and dress in ratty jeans and my tattered black leather jacket. It feels strange to wear these clothes again, as if I'm a child dressing for Halloween. I scribble down some addresses and set myself up a few disposable email accounts on the laptop the gunmen lent to me, then stop at a Borders bookstore and head for the hospital. Fox is sitting up in bed when I arrive, trying to force down some dubious looking beef broth. He's still deathly pale and his hand shakes as he maneuvers the spoon to his mouth, but at least he's upright. "You look good enough to eat," he says, smiling. I lean down for a quick kiss. "I probably have less sodium than that crap they're feeding you. I'll stop and get you some vitamins and stuff this afternoon. Is there a health food store around here that sells homeopathic remedies?" He laughs, then winces and holds his abdomen. "Hell if I know. I think I'll stick with the stuff they feed me around here. It hasn't killed me yet." "Just give it time. I brought you some stuff to read," I say, handing him the bag with the new Omni magazine and a couple of books. He peeks into the bag and graces me with one of those easy, languid smiles. I look into his eyes and see that they are slightly unfocused and his pupils are sluggish. Ah, the joys of Morphine. No wonder he's in such a good mood. "Picnic at Hanging Rock. Good choice. You can read it to me for my bedtime story." I pull a chair next to the bed and sit. "You know, I really do want to just stay here and keep you company, but there's a lot to be done. If I have to go undercover and find a lead that takes me away, I might not be able to stay in close contact." "Yes, I know." He reaches to caress the top of my hand, "Alex, I feel like a total shit. I know you didn't want to do this anymore. You were finally free. But I have to do whatever it takes to find my son." "Hey, you didn't ask me to do this, did you? Maybe I have a chance to make up for some of what I've done in the past," I say softly, the lump in my throat growing with each word. "Alex, you don't have to redeem yourself to me." His voice is steady, determined. I try to smile, but fall short. How can he absolve me so easily? "He's your child, and you're my life. That puts him pretty high on my priority list." I manage to keep my voice even, but he seems to know how hard this admission is for me. He gives a tiny smile and nods. "I'm getting kicked to the step-down unit today, so I can have regular visitation hours." He takes my hand, his long fingers cupping mine, his thumb making lazy circles on my knuckles. "Will you stay with me tonight, if you can?" "What will the nurses think?" "Who cares? Don't make me tell you how much I need you, or I'll have to kill you for ruining my cool masculine persona," he says with a gleam in his eye. He's pale and wan against the white sheets, but at least his imagination is still fertile. I kiss him again, imprinting the taste of him on my mind. Right now each kiss, each touch, could very well be the last. "You're all man, no worries there. I have a lot I need to do today, but I'll come back tonight." We talk for a few minutes more before the nurse throws me out. He gives me Scully and Skinner's cell phone numbers before I leave and I promise to return later that night. I wish I didn't feel so compelled to make promises to him. My first errand is to visit a less than reputable pawn shop to purchase two extra guns, ammo, a few fake identities and some phony license plates for the rental car. I change them right away and throw the valid ones in the trunk. It probably won't do any good, someone could be tailing me even now, but old habits die hard. I'm worn out and frustrated when I give up for the day. Only one of my old contacts was to be found, and he was so strung out on heroin that he didn't recognize me. Two of them I confirmed as dead, and a few simply vanished. I stop at a local coffee shop to check my email accounts, but there is no mail waiting for me. Damn. I knew this wasn't going to be easy, but I expected to find a little something today. I can't procure information if there is no one around to get it from. I get a latte to go, hoping the warm drink will help, though I know the chill in my bones has nothing to do with the miserable DC weather. God, please don't let the child be dead. If someone has to lose here, let it be me. Let Fox and Scully ride off into the sunset with their son and live happily ever after. Skinner and I can off one another in loss and anger. The thought cheers me momentarily. I call Scully as I drive back towards the hotel. A shower and a nap sound like heaven right now, but there is much left to be done. She must be waiting by the phone for information, as she answers on the first ring. "Hello, Scully. Any news?" I ask. "No, nothing. How about you?" "Just that a lot of peon-level hired guns are dead or missing. That doesn't really mean anything, though. I had just hoped to get lucky and find out if the kidnappers were local boys." I pause to navigate a busy intersection. "Look, I know you don't exactly want to break bread with me, but we need to have a strategy meeting. Could we meet around six? I told Fox I would be back at the hospital by eight." "He lets you call him Fox?" Her voice is light, uncertain; some odd mixture of tones that I'm too tired to analyze. Let Skinner deal with her emotional baggage. I sigh in frustration. I'll bet it irks the shit out of her, that I have a privilege she never earned. "Can we meet this evening or not?" "Yes, we can meet. There's a diner about a block from my apartment. Walter and I will meet you there at six." "Good. I'll see you then." I hang up and pull into the parking lot of the hotel. Once inside, I sit down at the small desk and check for email again, then grab a legal pad to take some notes. Michael Lozano -- junkie. Jack Bonatz -- Dead. Chris Sandberg -- Dead. Joel Martin -- missing, making him a potential suspect. Brandon Forest -- another possible suspect. The list is far too short. It can't be this easy -- that the two men I can't find will be the perps. In large letters at the bottom of the page I write a single name. Marita Covarrubias. Like a damned snake, that woman never gets caught, just sheds her skin and slithers off into the darkness. I should know, I taught her most of what she knows. I'll find her, and if she's responsible for this, she'll pay. She'll die slowly and painfully, begging for her life with her last breath. ///////////////////////////////// Scully and Skinner have already arrived when I reach the diner. I slide into the booth across from them and order a cup of coffee from the waitress. At this rate I'm going to have precious little blood in my caffeine stream before long. I am getting soft; a few years ago this would have been the top of the morning for me, but the mileage is getting to me, and worry for Fox and the child are dragging me down. "Krycek," Skinner says, looking awkward. Scully doesn't even bother to look at me, just busies herself with the menu. I know she's frail and frightened, so I try not to think about what a sanctimonious bitch she is. "I didn't come up with anything significant today," I say. I'm not up for social niceties. "So I have an idea," I continue. "Someone slipped that envelope into my mailbox -- they wanted me to know what happened. I think they wanted to draw me out into the open, to see if I gave a shit and would take the bait." "The fact that you came here doesn't prove that you care about Mulder, it only proves to me that there's something in this for you," Scully replies. I take a deep breath. I don't have the energy to think about Scully's issues with me right now. I seem to be dismissing her concerns about me and Fox and awful lot, and I don't want to think about that either. "Scully, this isn't going to get us anywhere. I have nothing to prove to you where he's concerned. You said you wanted my help, so shut up and listen, alright?" I sip my coffee and then continue. "Now, if someone wanted to lure me out, the first thing we have to do is find out who it is. The list of people who still have the power to execute an operation like this is short. I think that if I hang around the city long enough someone will contact me. I talked to a few people today, so hopefully word will get out that I'm back in town." "Basically you're going to offer yourself as bait and hope that someone's fishing," Skinner muses. "But if this isn't about you, Krycek, and Sean is the actual target, is using yourself as bait going to make a difference?" "I don't know. Do you have other suggestions? Now would be a good time to bring them up." I run my finger around the lip of my mug, biting back what I'd really like to say. What the fuck does he want from me? Do they really think I have that kind of power over the consortium? I was just a peon. The limited power I had, even when I held his life in my hands, was nothing compared to what these people are capable of. "What if that doesn't work? We have to find Sean right away. He has medical problems, and a milk allergy. If he's not being fed or cared for properly, it could be very serious," he retorts. Skinner's face falls when Scully starts to cry. Her soft, hitching sobs tug at my heart. I want to say something to reassure her, but the words won't come out. Hell, if I'm honest with myself I know that a couple of years ago it would have been me who'd pulled off the job, and I'd have felt no remorse at all. But I seem to have lost the ability to lock the door on my emotions. Nothing I do now is without remorse, or fear, or doubt. I study the silverware to spare her my scrutiny. She wants my help, not my pity. I give her a moment and then continue. "We're not going to draw this out. If things don't happen quickly, I have ways of calling attention to myself. All I have to do is show up at the Hoover building, and if it's still being watched we'll know right away. Right now my biggest concern is finding out what the goal of this operation is. Was this revenge against me for my relationship with Mulder, or a planned operation since the child's conception? Scully, it would be helpful if I could see your medical records. I wasn't involved in the scientific operations, but it's possible that some names might be familiar." "You think this could have been planned the whole time?" Skinner asks, handing Scully his handkerchief. She blots at her eyes, regaining her composure. "Anything is possible. The baby could have been the target, or Mulder or you," I reply, gesturing at Scully. "The kidnapping could be a diversion to hide a larger operation. I haven't been a part of the game for a year now, and a lot can happen in that amount of time. Besides, I wasn't exactly privy to every going-on in the Consortium. I was never part of the planning, I just did as I was told," I reply. "Or played with your palm pilot," Skinner retorts. "Skinner, did you get the flu right after Mulder was abducted?" I ask. He looks startled. "Yes, I did." I lean forward a little, locking eyes with him. "That was the nanocytes leaving your system. The controller has been destroyed, along with all the software. You don't have to worry about that anymore." "Do you want a merit badge for that, Krycek? It's certainly not going to change how I feel about you being here or being a part of Mulder's life," Scully says, glaring at me. I've had enough of this. "You can take it however you like, Scully. I'm just providing information, as you asked me to." I stand up and pull some money from my wallet, dropping it on the table. "Do you know if Mulder's been moved yet?" She looks down at the table and sighs. "He's in room 416." "Thank you. I'll be in touch." I turn and walk out, fighting to keep my anger in check. I need to hit something. I get in the car and punch the steering wheel a few times. I have no right to be angry. I expected to be treated far worse than this. They have no reason to feel otherwise about me. I'm not asking for huggles and snuggles and an invite to tea, but some fucking courtesy would be nice. I can't lose it right now. I have to find that child before something terrible happens to him. I have no personal attachment to him. But when I think of my own niece and nephews and rage bubbles inside of me at the thought of them being harmed. What Fox and Scully must feel compared to that is a compelling reason to keep focused on the work and nothing else. I arrive at the hospital and find Fox sleeping. I settle into a chair next to his bed and watch him for a while, relieved to see the oxygen mask gone. After all that time I spent feeding him every chance I got, he is painfully underweight again. Time and age have finally caught up with the eternally youthful Fox Mulder, and he no longer has the stamina to recover from such injuries faster than a speeding bullet. None of us are young anymore. Not only because we're all staring middle age in the face. Knowledge and experience have aged us more than the years. I notice that the stitches have been removed from his right hand. God, did that awful night in the bathroom happen just a few weeks ago? Time is bleeding together for me, defined only by the moment when I sat on my porch with that newspaper clipping in my hand, watching my world fall apart around me. Fox stirs and his eyes flutter open. He graces me with a lazy, pleased smile. "You came." "Did you think I wouldn't?" I reply, lifting a brow. "I knew that there was a chance you wouldn't be able to. I guess since you're here that means the investigation isn't going well." I sigh. "No, it's not. I've been out of the loop too long. Everyone is gone and I don't know who the players are. I'm going to make some noise and hopefully draw out whoever wanted to make sure I knew what had happened." "Alex, what do you think the motivation is behind this? The fact that I was shot and you were contacted leads me to think this was directed at us and that the baby and Scully are secondary." He tries to sit up but stops halfway, inhaling sharply, his face etched with pain. I put my hand on his chest to ease him back down. "Fox, you aren't going to help by popping your stitches. Your mind still works just fine. Why do I get you something to write with and you can write down all the details for me?" His eyes are darkened with another kind of pain. "There's something you need to know, and I'm afraid that Scully's not going to be pleased that I told you. The paternity test conclusively showed that I am Sean's father, but it shouldn't be possible. Scully has two negative pregnancy tests after our last IVF attempt, and then suddenly three weeks later she had an HCG level of 85." "I'm afraid you're losing me. What does that mean?" "HCG is a hormone only produced during pregnancy. The numbers go up very quickly in early pregnancy. A level of 85 would indicate a pregnancy perhaps 10 to 12 days after conception. If she had gotten pregnant during our last attempt, that number should have been in the thousands." "So someone intervened and caused this pregnancy?" "I think so. Thinking back over that time period, the only thing that comes to mind is a case we worked in Kansas City in early May. We were both held overnight for observation in the hospital. Someone could have gotten to her then." His face pales as he realizes that he and his partner were probably the victims of medical rape. Christ, I'd wish they'd actually done the deed and made this baby the old fashioned way. Anything but this. "What kind of case was it?" I'm wracking my brain for some connection the consortium had to that city, but Kansas is in the middle of farm country. There could have been any number of research facilities or storage places. Talk about a needle in a haystack. He gives a stilted laugh. "Trust me, it had nothing to do with the Consortium. We were both beaten up pretty badly at an amateur wrestling match." He scowls, chews his bottom lip for a moment. "you know, I can see why they held me, I dislocated my jaw. But looking back, I can't think of why they kept Scully." I give him a gentle smile, though my mind is putting together the piece of a horrific puzzle. "See, you can still investigate while you convalesce. We need to get those hospital records." "You can't let Scully or Skinner know. We had agreed not to tell anyone. Sean appears normal and healthy. We just wanted to let him have a normal life." He sucks on his bottom lip some more, a gesture that in better circumstances would have me pouncing on him. "I hope you know I don't like keeping things from you, but this isn't just about me. This is Scully's life too, and I have to respect her wishes." "I understand that, but right now isn't the time to keep secrets. I think secrets have done enough damage." He nods. "I know. So, what is this 'noise' you're planning to make? I want you to be careful, Alex. I want to find my son, but I'm not going to sacrifice you in the process." "Hey, any sacrifices I make are my decision. We'll all do what we have to in order to find the baby." Doesn't he understand that I'm expendable? "Would you like to read now?" I ask. "I've been dying to start this book." //////////////////////////////// A couple of hours later Fox falls asleep again. I go to the waiting room and make a couple of phone calls; one to acquire Scully's medical records, and another to put the Gunmen on Marita's trail. The lone gunmen. More like the three technostooges. What a weird triad. I wonder about three single guys barricaded up in that warehouse all the time, but I don't doubt their competence. they are damned good at what they do. If Marita is using any of the aliases I have for her, they'll find her. Part of me protests that I should be doing this legwork myself; I shouldn't trust it to anyone else. But after the tears Fox shed when he showed me a picture of the baby, I cannot bring myself to leave. I only hope my actions don't cost us time that we don't have. When I walk back down the corridor I see a flurry of activity around Fox's room. I to his room to find three nurses trying to hold him down and a fourth about to inject something into his IV. "What the hell is going on?" I bump a nurse out of the way and plant myself at Fox's side. His eyes are wild in a way I have become all too familiar with. "Mr. Mulder became agitated. We're going to give him something to help him rest. Before she left today, Dr. Scully requested that we give it, should this happen again," the nurse with the syringe replies, giving me the evil eye. "Do you mind if I ask what business this is of yours?" "This man is my business, that's all you need to know. Dr. Scully is not a practicing medical doctor, and Dr. Corselin is a surgeon. I don't think either of them is taking into account that he has post traumatic stress disorder. You aren't going to shoot him up with drugs for having a night terror." I lean over to look Fox directly in his unseeing eyes and speak as calmly as I can. "Fox, it's Alex. Look at me, babe, please. You had a dream -- it was just a dream. You're in a hospital in DC, but you're fine." For several agonizing moments he doesn't respond, and I wonder if I'm going to have to get physical with the nurse to keep her from drugging him. Finally, after long minutes and a litany of pleas and embarrassing endearments, his eyes focus and his breathing slows. "Fox, you with me now?" I ask softly, petting his hair. "Alex?" "Yeah, I'm here." Thank you, God. I owe you one. "Can we go home? I want to go home." He sounds frightened and childlike, his voice high and panicked. "How often does he do this?" the nurse asks. I watch her carefully as she steps to the sink to empty that syringe, before finally dropping it in a large red sharps disposal box. "About once a week. More often if he's under stress." Fox closes his eyes and slips back into heavy slumber as I stroke his hair. "And is he usually violent? He almost injured a nurse." I sigh heavily. "Yes, sometimes. He's never hit anyone before, but he's injured himself. The cut on his hand.... You only need to keep him from hurting himself, you don't have to drug him. I want it put in his chart that Dana Scully is not to treat him. I'll stay at night from now on and make sure nothing happens." She gives me that look again. "I won't give him the medication tonight, but if I see you so much as walk out of this room for a cup of coffee I'm putting him in restraints for his own protection. I'll leave a note for Dr. Corselin so he can discuss Mr. Mulder's care with him in the morning." The group of nurses finally leaves and I sink down into the chair beside the bed, combing my fingers through Fox's hair. God only knows what such a brilliant, imaginative mind can create to be so terrified of in the dark. ////////////////////////// I wake to the sound of the door opening, jerking my head up from where it's resting on the edge of the hospital bed. The muscles in my back scream their protest as I look up to see Scully and Skinner enter the room. "What time's it?" Mulder asks blurrily. "About seven," Scully replies, placing a Starbucks cup on his tray and brushing a kiss over his forehead, pointedly ignoring me. "I thought you'd appreciate having some real coffee this morning." He nods and reaches for the cup, groaning with pleasure as he drinks. His color is much better this morning. He gives no indication that he remembers what happened last night. Sometimes I think he's the lucky one, not having to live with the aftermath in the morning. "Were you here all night, Krycek?" Skinner asks me. Gee, at least they acknowledge that I'm alive. "Yeah, I came straight here after our meeting." "Anything turned up yet?" Fox asks. Scully's mouth compresses into a grim line. She shakes her head. "Nothing." She deems fit to grace me with a glance. "Krycek, Langly called. The trace on those names you gave him haven't shown any activity. What makes you so sure you're going to find something on Covarrubias?" "She was there when I killed the old man. It would have been easy for her to report to her superiors that I acted alone and turn the situation to her advantage." "What old man?" Skinner asks, frowning. "Alex killed Spender," Mulder replies softly, reaching for my hand. I jerk away and hold myself rigidly, preparing for the attack. "Other than the dozen or so obvious reasons, why?" Scully asks. I fix my gaze to a spot on the floor, shame washing over me again at how blatantly the old bastard used me. "He set me up. He sent me to find that ship, when all along he only meant for me to lead Mulder to it. I didn't realize until it was too late...." They don't need to know this shit. We are not here to delve into the convoluted psyche of Alex-whoever-the-fuck-I-am-this-week. To steal a line from good old Will Shakespeare, any good that I do here will be interred with my bones. I will be nothing but a murderer, a liar, a traitor to the human race for as long as I am remembered. Why does that hurt all of a sudden? Fox is looking at me intently, giving me that look that feels like he's reading me like a book written in his own private language. I see forgiveness in his eyes, mingling with some other, more complex, emotion. Right now I think I'd give just about anything to hear him tell me that he believes in me. I stand up and push the chair back. "I'm going to get coffee." I lean down and kiss him softly, watching Scully and Skinner for a reaction, somewhat disappointed when I don't get one. I close the door to his room behind me. After a few deep breaths I head towards the elevators to go to the cafeteria. I've got to get a grip on myself. I can't afford grief or guilt or anger right now. Cori told me to redeem myself to Fox. I can do that by finding his son, not by being weak and letting my emotions rule me. I sit in the crowded cafeteria and slowly drink my first cup of coffee, followed by a truly disgusting breakfast of stale wheat toast and a banana. I'm going to starve if I don't find some real food soon. When I return to the floor I hear raised voices coming from Fox's room. "How could he refuse to let the nurses administer your medication? What is he trying to do to you, Mulder?" I hear Scully demand. "I don't even remember what happened, but it doesn't matter. I trust him! I don't want to be doped out! The Morphine is bad enough." Mulder replies vehemently. I'm not really eavesdropping. I'm giving him and Scully space to work out their problems. There's a lot more going on here than her feelings about mine and his relationship -- this is about them repairing a friendship that they both desperately need right now, even if my jealousy tears me to shreds. "Mulder, you told me that you cut your hand wide open the last time you had a night terror. And we both know this isn't the first time this has happened. You can't risk injuring yourself. Would you please let Dr. Corselin write you a prescription for something to help you sleep?" "Scully, this isn't about my nightmares, this is about you not wanting Alex to make medical decisions for me. I'm not asking you to trust him, I'm asking you to respect the fact that I trust him. This is not a fling, Scully. I'm in this for life, and you're going to have to accept that. He risked his life coming here to help us find Sean. Can't you give him some credit for that?" Life. Did he just say he's in this for life? I had hoped... I had wanted to believe, but I spend so much of my life afraid to even think about tomorrow and I just hadn't given it much thought. Jesus, he's so much stronger than I am to have the courage to say that out loud. He looked so fragile and helpless last night, but when it really counts he's such a better man than I am. "Do you enjoy listening to what you've brought them to?" Skinner says appearing out of nowhere, startling me. Oops. Busted. "I thought it better not to interrupt. They need to work this out for themselves. She needs to accept that he's not everything she wants him to be. She's missing a hell of a lot by not getting to know him for who he is." His eyes narrow. "And you know him? You don't know anything about him, Krycek. You feed his pain and self loathing, but you don't know him." I close my eyes and count to ten in an attempt to keep from burying my fist in his stomach. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Skinner. He and I are none of your business." "You're wrong about that. Mulder is my friend, and that makes this my business. I won't let you destroy him like everything else you touch." His tone is flat and deadly. There is hope for my death in his eyes. I'm so goddamn tired. I'm tired of being reviled no matter what I do to make amends. I want to go home to my quiet little life and tend bar and go to bed at night with Fox. I want to be Alex Drake, who loves his family and pays his taxes and doesn't hurt anyone. But my American Dream is going up in smoke. Skinner brushes past me and knocks on the door to announce himself, then strides in. I follow him, and try not to let my anger show when I see Fox. His face is flushed and his breathing rapid. One look at Scully's pale face and tear-glazed eyes cools my temper rapidly. Though Fox is injured, she is not in much better shape. She had a cesarean section and a hysterectomy not quite three weeks ago, and is painfully thin and pallid. The silence in the room is jagged. Skinner stands behind Scully and rubs her shoulders, then rests his head on her fiery hair for a moment. "Dana, you need rest. You're exhausted, and so is Mulder. Why don't I take you back home so you can lie down? Let me take care of things for today. You're running on empty, and that's not going to do you or Sean any good," he says soothingly to her. I've gotta give the jarhead some credit, he genuinely seems to love this woman. "Walter is right," Fox agrees, reaching for her hand. "You've been through one hell of an ordeal, and you've got to keep your strength up. You're going to make yourself sick. Go home and rest." Scully straightens and pulls away from both of them. She takes a deep breath and struggles for control. "I can't rest knowing he's out there somewhere. How could I?" "Scully, why don't you see about compiling the hospital security tapes from the time of your son's birth for me? I might recognize some faces. It might give us a clue who was involved here. Until we get some more leads, that's the best approach to take." I hope that some busy work will keep her off her feet for a while. The last thing Fox needs is to be worried about her health on top of everything else. She nods curtly. "Fine, I'll do that. I can work from the office, then I'll bring them by your hotel later in the afternoon." "Thank you. That would be a lot of help," I reply. After Scully and Skinner leave a nurse comes in to take Fox's vitals. "You're doing really well, Mr. Mulder," She says, making a note in the chart. "I wouldn't be surprised if you're released in a few days." "Could you please amend my chart to show that I am not to be sedated if I have a nightmare?" he asks. "Sir, the incident last night was discussed with the charge nurse this morning. If you refuse the medication, you'll have to be restrained for your own protection." "I understand that. But I do not want drugs," he says emphatically. "Okay, I'll make a note of that, and you can discuss it with your doctor when he comes in," she says, flashing him a brief smile and leaving the room. Fox sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. "I've got to get out of here. Scully can't do this alone, and I'm afraid if we don't find Sean soon we aren't going to find him at all." I reach over and stroke his face. He looks weary and heartbroken, and there's not a damn thing I can do to make it better. It hurts to see him grieving like this. I want to take him in my arms and try to protect him, show him with my hands and mouth how sad I am for him. He leans into my touch and looks at me with eyes full of pain. "I miss you, Alex. I want to hold you and forget about everything for a few hours. That day at the airport... I felt like everything was going to be okay. Now it seems like nothing is going to be okay ever again." It's spooky how he seems to read my thoughts sometimes, but I don't think he'd appreciate me saying so. "Fox, there aren't enough hiding places on this planet to keep us from finding your son. If ever there were a more dangerous pair of people to piss off than you and Scully, I don't know who it would be." "Who says they have to be hiding him on this planet?" I'd thought of that too, of course, but certainly didn't want to bring it up. I stand up and lower the bed rail, then prop my hip against the bed so I can lean down and rest my head against his. His close-cropped hair feels like crushed velvet against my cheek. I could drown in the sensation of being close to him. I want to believe that somehow we can make this right. I want to believe that for once the good guys are going to win. Even if I'm not really one of them. //////////////////////////// Later in the afternoon I return to my hotel to shower and change clothes. I check my email and find only a message from Frohike telling me that I can pick up Scully's medical records whenever I have time. The voice mail from my house yields a message saying that Fox's library books are now five weeks late and a message from Joe, asking if everything is okay and when I'll be home. I wish I could answer that question. It's disconcerting how quickly I became attached to my life in Baton Rouge. I'd almost dare to say it suited me, and was starting to suit Fox, too. Things were far from perfect, but we were finding our way. I suppose I got too attached to that life for my own good, because it hurts like a motherfucker to have it ripped away. I pull out the cellular phone the Gunmen provided and punch in Joe's home number. I exchange pleasantries with Joe's wife, Althea, before Joe comes to the phone. "Alex, it's good to hear from you. How's the big city?" "Fine, Joe, just fine. Look, things have gotten complicated and it's going to be a while before I come home. It'll probably be several weeks, so I think I'd better let you find another manager," I say, feeling an unexpected sorrow at the thought. "Bullshit, Alex. Vince and Greg have things under control for now. Your job will still be here when you get back. You're not that pissed off about the jukebox thing, are ya?" I laugh. "No, I'm not pissed about the jukebox. If you're really sure about this, I'm looking forward to coming back. I just don't want to leave you in the lurch." I can't bring myself to tell him the truth; that I'm never coming back. If I admit it to Joe, then I have to admit it to myself, and I'm not ready to do that yet. "That's considerate of you, but you're not getting away from us that easily. Once you join the Bayou family, you don't ever get to leave," he replies in a poor imitation of Marlon Brando's voice. "You got it, Godfather," I chuckle. "I'll keep in touch and let you know when I'll be home." "Good. Give Fox my best." "I will, Joe. Bye." I hang up the phone and sit for a while starting into space, trying to pull answers from the air. Nothing is forthcoming but a phenomenal headache and a burning in the pit of my stomach. Some time later I lie down on the uncomfortable bed and try to take a nap. I'm sore from sleeping slumped against Fox's hospital bed and my head thrums painfully. My eyes burn with lack of sleep, but my mind refuses to shut down and allow me a few hours' rest. I lay that way for a long time, before sleep pulls at the edges of my consciousness. "You shouldn't be here. It should have been you instead of Matushka," I say to the pink bundle in the bassinette. Corinne is three weeks old and has the lungs of a banshee. She wails with frustration, her small face screwed up with indignation. We buried my mother three days after Corinne's birth. Even as I watched the coffin being lowered into the ground I could not cry. The tears stuck in my throat like shards of broken glass, ripping me apart from the inside out. I adored my mother. She was a warm, loving woman who cooked and cleaned and sewed for us and seemed happy to be a wife and a parent. Unlike Papa, her English was poor and she often resorted to speaking in Russian to express herself. I loved to hear her speak to us in those staccato, guttural tones. She seemed so exotic and worldly compared to other parents. At eleven I should be too old to long for my mother so, but I want nothing more than to curl up in her lap and believe this was all a miserable dream. Corinne is still screaming, and the baby nurse is nowhere to be found. Her face is turning a deep, angry red and she makes these pathetic little mewling noises as she inhales between keening shrieks. I reach into the bassinette and scoop her up. I've never held her before, and I'm surprised at how warm and light she is. I cautiously carry her over the rocking chair by the window and begin rocking. "Maybe Papa won't keep you," I speculate aloud to my tiny burden. "You cry so much, he can't even find you a nanny. This is the second one we've had since you came home. Too bad Papa didn't just leave you at the hospital." I look down at the infant in my arms. I'm seized with horror when I see oil, a living entity as black as nothingness, seeping from her eyes and mouth. Corinne opens her mouth to cry but the oil burbles up, overflowing from her lips to stain the swaddling. I try to scream for help but no sound comes out. I bolt awake, wheezing as I draw air into my lungs. Just a dream, it was just a dream. Corinne is alive and well and I'm not eleven anymore and there's no oil on my hands, no oil in my eyes or nose or mouth.... I lean over and retch into the waste can by the bed until there is nothing left but dry heaves rippling through my body like a seizure. As soon as I can stand, I drag myself into the bathroom and turn on the shower, then strip off my clothing. The water is too hot and scalds my skin, but I still can't get warm. I shake under the powerful spray until the water grows cold. It's all gone to Hell. We're never going to find that baby, and I'm going to lose Fox just when I've finally found him. I can't go home to my family, I can't go back to being Alex Drake, and spending the rest of my life as Alex Krycek is something I just can't contemplate. I've lost everything. Finally I dress and get myself together, then drive over to the Gunmen's place to retrieve the documents they have for me. I linger around asking stupid questions. I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to go back to the hospital and have Fox analyze the hell out of me. "Krycek, Frohike just made eggplant parmesan for dinner. Would you like to eat and go over these files together?" Byers asks. I'm taken aback by the invitation. My first reaction is to say no, but even if they are only being nice to me because of Fox, I really don't want to be alone right now. "I'm a vegetarian," I reply as Frohike enters the room, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "If you're lacto-ovo it's cool. Only animal products are egg and cheese. You'd better stay, it's the only meal you'll ever get around here with no meat in it," Frohike says as he moves to set the table. I grab a stack of plates off of the shelf by the table and start laying them out. Frohike gives me a speculative look and hands me the silverware. I guess I'm staying for dinner. After dinner, we go over every line of Scully's medical records. Of course we find absolutely nothing amiss. We make a list of all medical personnel named in the files to run through a background check, but even as we go through the motions I know they'll all come up squeaky clean. There is still no trace of Marita under her many aliases. She seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. This makes me suspicious simply because Marita is not the type of person to sink quietly into obscurity. "Jesus, this is getting us nowhere," I say as I rub my eyes. After staring at the computer screen for over an hours, my headache is back with a vengeance. "I haven't had the heart to say this to Mulder or Scully, but we're not going to find this child until they're ready for us to find him," Byers says. "I know," I reply. "But we can't tell them that. These fuckers are not infallible. There has to be some evidence somewhere." After another hour I prepare to leave and return to the hospital. Byers walks me to the door to lock up behind me. I shake his hand and thank him for his help, then turn to leave. He stops me with a hand on my arm. "You really care about him, don't you?" he asks me in that quiet way of his. I don't know if he means Fox or Sean, but I answer anyway. "Yes, I do. Big surprise, huh? The Grinch has a heart after all." "I'm willing to suspend my judgment and accept that Mulder seems very happy and that your intentions here seem sincere." I nod. "Thank you. You all are his friends, and he needs you now." As I drive towards the hospital, I wonder what Fox said to make them all so willing to give me a chance. Whatever it is, I have to admit that it makes me feel good that he's been so open about our relationship. I have too many facades to juggle right now, without having to pretend he and I are just buddies. Fox is sitting up in a chair when I enter his room. "Well, well, look who's back among the living," I say, leaning in for a kiss and dropping a bag of jellybeans in his lap. "Ooh, mocha and marshmallow Jelly Bellies. You're too kind," he says with a smile, tearing the bag open and popping a couple into his mouth. "I once heard that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach," I reply, sitting on the edge of the bed. He leers at me. "Not this man, but it's a start. The nurse said I could take a shower tonight if they wrap my incision in plastic first. Think I can persuade you to help me clean up? It's you or that pretty blonde nurse with the big--" "I think I'm amenable to that," I cut in, smiling. "As long as you behave yourself. I'm wise to you -- being injured turns you on." "What's wrong, Alex, don't like your men looking like Swiss cheese?" He smirks and pops a jelly bean into his mouth. I swoop down for a kiss, pushing into his mouth and retrieving the jelly bean. God, he's so warm and he tastes so good. I could swallow him whole. I pull back and swallow the jelly bean instead. "I like my men looking like Fox Mulder." He gulps and flushes. "Alex Drake, you do realize how long it's been since I've gotten laid, don't you? Don't be a cock-tease." I trace a finger along his jaw line and smile sweetly. "I'm not teasing. I'm giving you a preview." He laughs and swats at my hand. "Asshole. Did you and the Gunmen find anything useful?" I feel like he just dumped a bucket of ice water in my lap. "No. I'm sorry. We're trying. We'll find something." "I don't think we will," he replies, shaking his head. "I think he's gone, and we're not going to get him back. I feel so damned useless, lying in a fucking hospital bed when I should be finding my son." He runs his fingers through his hair and sucks his lower lip between his teeth, lines of frustration etched into his face. There's nothing I can say. I can't lie and pacify him with reassurances that we both know aren't true, and there's a limit to how many times I can say I'm sorry. Unfortunately, right now I can't offer him the solace of physical release, as I have often done in the past. Perhaps now that sex is out of the question, we'll have to learn to communicate. Later the nurse comes and brings everything Fox needs to get in the shower. I help him undress and revel in the feeling of his warm, living skin under my hands. There is nothing sexual in our touches, just relief to be close to one another again, to have this visceral connection when so much fear and pain lies between us. Fox shakes with the effort of standing while I wrap the plastic film across his midsection and tape it into place. He holds himself stiffly as I work, and I wonder if his discomfort is from pain, or from his frustration with the situation. In his shoes, I wouldn't want to be babied either. I press a kiss into his shoulder and nuzzle at his neck, suffused with warmth and a feeling of safety that I didn't even realize I'd been lacking. He softly moans my name, and I know he feels it too. When I'm done I strip out of my own clothes and steer Fox into the shower. He's worn out from dressing his wounds and almost too weak to stand, so I ease him into the shower chair and turn on the water. The glide of my hand across his soapy back calms my nerves, and after a while he relaxes into my touch. The goosepimpled flesh on the nape of his neck feels like raw silk under my fingertips as I caress the soap into his skin, trying to convey by touch the things I cannot bring myself to say. I love him. I ache for him. I grieve with him for the loss of his child. He leans his head back against my hip while I run the washcloth down the line of his neck and across his collarbone. His eyes are closed and tiny beads of water collect on his lashes. His lips are slightly parted and his breathing slow and deep. He's so beautiful. It's amazing. Despite all he's been through, my touch can bring him respite. Curiously, being naked in the warm spray together stirs no arousal between us. This connection is beyond sex. This is what it's like to truly be comforted by another person. It's a strange sensation for me -- I never would have imagined a time when having Fox naked in my hands wouldn't make my blood sing with desire. But for now, I'm thrilled by the blissed out look on his face as I massage shampoo into his scalp. With my body I thee worship... I remember those words from Delia's wedding. I always thought that was a rather overtly sexual statement to be made in a church, but now I realize that it means so much more than that. With my body I love you, satisfy you, comfort and protect you.... Perhaps there's a lot more to loving this man than fucking him into ecstasy every chance I get. When I wake up from this horrible dream that has become my life, I'll have to give that some more thought. Right now, I'm going to just be grateful for this moment, in which I've given Fox something I never knew was mine to give. ///////////////////////////// I awake the next morning on the narrow cot the nurse provided for me. Morning sun sifts through the blinds and throws narrow bands of light across the room. I slept like I was comatose. Exhaustion, physical and emotional, finally short-circuited my brain and allowed me to sleep. Despite the accommodations, I feel well rested for the first time in days. When Fox wakens I can tell he has turned the corner towards recovery. He grouses for food and asks for coffee and a newspaper. Grateful to see his appetite returning, I oblige him and go to the coffee shop down the streetto bring him coffee and croissants. When I return the doctor is with him. He says that Fox should be released in two more days, on Tuesday. Part of me is elated, but the rational part is concerned with the practicalities. "Are you going to stay with Scully?" I ask off-handedly, after the doctor leaves. He shoots me a look. "Hell no. I don't want to listen to the two of you go at each other every ten minutes. I'll go back to your hotel room." "Fox, that's not a good idea. You won't be comfortable there. Getting out of the hospital doesn't mean you'll be totally recuperated." "Well, I'm not staying anywhere that you aren't welcome, so I guess I'll see if we can crash with the Gunmen. It'll be easier to coordinate our efforts if we have a central meeting place anyway," he replies, reaching for the phone. After calling Scully and the Gunmen, the decision is reached -- without my input -- that we should have around the clock security. I hate the idea -- I *am* the security, goddammit -- but they won't be budged. So the Gunmen set out to find a rental property to use as a safe house that will serve as living quarters and the HQ of the investigation. Fox and I lapse into uneasy silence after the decision is made. I turn my thoughts over like a puzzle box, worrying at them until I probably couldn't string two cohesive words together. On one hand, I've gotten rather accustomed to my creature comforts and it will be nice to stay in an actual home instead of a hotel. But it's also a painful reminder that I'll most likely never see my home again, the home I renovated with my own sweat and money, the home where I made love to Fox and actually have pictures of my family on the walls. The first home I've had in almost twenty years. At least Fox and I will have some comfort and privacy for now. I know that soon -- God, far too soon, I'll be a fugitive again, and I cannot ask Fox to follow me. I'll have to say goodbye and leave him to pick up the pieces of his life. While I can, it will be heaven to sleep next to him in a comfortable bed and try to find the courage to say all the things I should before it is time for me to go. Shit, I'm so tired of running, hiding, eking out an existence at any cost. Without him, without my family, it's just not worth it. Perhaps it's time to just stand still and enjoy what I have until justice catches up with me. Apparently he's reading my mind again. He reaches over and cups my chin, turning my head so I have no choice but to look him in the eye. "Alex, no matter what happens here, we're walking away from this together. You got that?" he says softly. His voice is so sure and steady, melting my resolve like warmed honey. How can he be so sure? But I see in his eyes that he really is sure. The warmth of his gaze is fierce and loving and determined. "I..." I'm a wuss. I love him so much that I think my heart is going to break from the wonder of it all, but I still can't get the words out. He smiles softly, looking impossibly sexy and warm and pleased. "I know." He runs his thumb along my lips and I feel the touch all the way down to my cock. "I love you, too." We sit quietly for a long time after that, exchanging small touches and kisses that speak far more eloquently than any words we could share. On Tuesday Fox is released from the hospital with a stack of prescriptions and a list of do's and don'ts a mile long. I stuff them in my pocket, knowing how likely he is to toss them in a trash can on the way out of the hospital. Scully insists on picking him up, leaving me to follow in my rental car. I checked out of the hotel last night, so my few possessions are in the trunk. She leads me to a neighborhood in northeast Washington with parked cars lining both sides of the narrow street. This could make an escape difficult, if not outright impossible, if a car were to approach from the other direction. Her car stops in front of a dark brick duplex house with a porch running across the front. I pull up behind her and get out of the car. "Is there somewhere else we can park? This isn't secure. People don't need to see cars coming and going from here all of the sudden," I say, scanning the area. Couldn't they have found a house that wasn't across the street from a daycare? "There's an alley in the back," she replies. "Good, pull around and park the cars there," I instruct, then get back in the car before she can argue. I park in the alley and help unload Fox's things from Scully's trunk. Fox shuffles slowly towards the gate into the back yard, leaning heavily on Scully. She offered to get him a cane to assist him, but of course the stubborn bastard refused. I should be jealous, to see him leaning against her, but I'm not. It looks natural -- they are as they should be, defending and supporting one another. I know he needs me, but he needs her as well. She's his better half, far more than I ever will be. The door from the back yard leads into a postage-stamp-sized kitchen. Scully points, indicating a set of stairs leading down into the basement. "We're setting up central command in the basement rooms. There will be two men posted there and on the main floor at all times. The bedrooms are upstairs. There are motion sensors on all the doors and windows. If you're going to open a door for any reason, you need to enter a pin number on the keypad by the door." The furnishings are sparse but comfortable. Someone, perhaps the gunmen, have gone out of their way to make sure Fox feels at home. His battered, dark green leather couch has been brought out of storage and set up in the living room. There is also a nice stereo and television. Upstairs, the largest bedroom has a king sized bed and another television. Most of the upstairs rooms are empty, save for an oddly shaped room with three desks complete with computers, a fax machine and assorted gadgetry. Another smaller bedroom contains a double bed and a dresser. The brief tour saps Fox's waning energy. He sinks down onto his old sofa with a contented sigh, caressing the armrest like a lover. There are lines of pain around his eyes again, and his breathing is a little too rapid. I kneel in front of him to remove his shoes, then help him get settled lying down on the couch. I tuck a blanket around him and hand him the remote to the television. "You hungry? How about some juice or tea?" I ask him softly, brushing my hand across his cheek. "I want that ginger tea you get at the health food store," he replies, his lips bowed into a pout. I'd really love to kiss that sulky look off his face, but Scully is standing behind me and I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head like she's willing my head to explode. "I don't think there is any tea, Mulder. There's a standard shopping list the bureau uses when they stock a safe house. I'll go out and get you some of that cereal you like and some frozen pizzas," she says. I stand up. "No, I'll go. He doesn't need to be eating junk like that, he needs vitamins and protein so he can heal." "Hey, people, I'm right here!" he says irritably. "Keep your tofu and textured vegetable protein to yourself, Drake. I don't want vitamins and protein, I want ice cream and tea and Diet Coke." "Fine." I refuse to argue with him in front of Scully. "I'll go get your damned ice cream. Scully, is there a health food store around here?" "There's a Fresh Fields around here somewhere..." "I just said--" he begins. "Fox, you're not the only person who has to eat around here," I retort. "You eat whatever the hell you want, and when your incision doesn't heal properly and your intestines fall out, I'm going to cram them back in and sew you shut with bailing wire." I stalk out of the living room, hearing Scully speak as I retreat. "Is he always like that?" "No. f you hadn't been here, he would have really reamed me out." I slam the back door shut behind me. Yeah, that's me; big, bad, mean Alex, who's only trying to take care of him when he's not concerned enough to take care of himself. Well, screw him. I stop and find a phone book to get the address of Fresh Fields. After a lot of driving around and cursing I find it tucked away on Wisconsin Avenue, clear on the other side of town. I take my time completing my errands, finding solace in the banal, mindless task of grocery shopping. The shadow government might be conspiring to destroy everything I love yet again, but we still have to eat. Next, I proceed to the Giant to buy crap for Fox. I throw packages of cookies and potato chips and frozen dinners in the cart with undue force. People stare at me, but I just don't give a shit. My anger and frustration are not really over the stupid disagreement with Fox. We still have no leads on Sean or Marita's whereabouts, and my hope sinks as the trail goes from cold to frozen. The child has simply vanished. The more I consider the possibility of the baby dead in an unmarked grave somewhere, the more I want to kill something, to strike out and destroy, as Fox and Scully's hope and happiness have been destroyed. But one cannot kill an invisible enemy. My last stop is the drug store just a few blocks from the house. I fill Fox's prescriptions and buy lube, the latter more out of habit than optimism. I return to the house to find a debriefing going on in the dining room. Skinner stands at the head of the table while a half dozen suit-clad agents stand around. Langly, Byers, Scully and Fox are seated at the dining room table while Frohike pours coffee. "...Ah, here is Mr. Drake now. As I told you, Mr. Drake and Mr. Mulder are protected witnesses in an ongoing investigation. Mr. Mulder is a retired department head with the Bureau, and should be treated with the same respect you would show any senior agent," Skinner says. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. Protected witnesses? How convenient of him not to mention that Fox is the victim's father. Retired? How about thrown to the wolves because Skinner couldn't protect him. Respect. Fuck him, and fuck his brand of respect, and fuck the goddamn FBI. I choose not to join their little party. I go to the kitchen and put away the groceries, quietly organizing the small kitchen to my liking. I'm not eavesdropping. I'm being quiet so I don't disturb them. It's not my fault that Skinner has a loud mouth and I can hear everything he says. When I'm done I go into the dining room and put a spoon, a napkin, and a pint of Cherry Garcia in front of Fox. "You need to eat so you can take your antibiotics." He smiles up at me. "Thanks, Babe." Babe? What the fuck is that? He's never called me by any endearment other than asshole before. I guess he wants everyone in the room to know the exact nature of our relationship. Almost as if he's proud of being with me. I lean down and kiss him softly, ignoring Skinner's pointed glare. "Sorry about earlier," I mutter against his mouth. "Me too. I'm an ass." "I won't argue with that." Skinner clears his throat. "Alright, agents, we'll debrief again in 12 hours." The agents depart for various areas of the house, but Skinner and Scully don't seem to be going anywhere. "Are the two of your staying for dinner?" I ask, deciding to do my best June Cleaver imitation. "You don't honestly think I'm going to leave Mulder alone on his first night out of the hospital, do you?" Scully asks. Anger flares inside me again, and I stomp it down as hard as I can. I know that she's scared to death -- she lost her son and nearly lost her best friend in the bargain. She's used to being his protector. But that's my job now. "He won't be alone, Scully, I'll be here. I can take care of him." "Yes, just look at his hand," she retorts. "I can see how well you've been taking care of him." Fox stands and slams the chair against the wall as he pushes it back. "Excuse me, but I am in the room. Don't talk about me like I'm a clumsy five year old. I don't need either one of you to take care of me, so why don't you just sit here and keep bitching at each other while I go take a nap." He turns and walks out of the room, corded muscles standing out in his neck as he struggles to walk without stooping over. I want to get up and help him, but I know he'd brush me off. Once Fox is gone, Skinner speaks. "Dana, we're all under a great deal of strain, but you and Mulder need one other, now more than ever. Let's not take our anger out on each other." She nods, massaging her temples. "I know, I know. But since he came back, it's like I don't even know him anymore. I want to be close to him again, but I can't seem to find any common ground." "Actually," I say, dreading her reaction, "he hasn't changed. He's just open about who he really is. If you want to get close to him, you need to show him that you can accept everything about him. Even the things you don't like." "Krycek--" she says, sighing. "Yeah, I know, I don't know anything about him. I just sleep with him, hold him when he has nightmares and I've watched him try to recover from your rejection when he was found after the abduction. I know you don't want advice from me, but the reason it works between him and me is because we've never hidden the worst of ourselves from each other. Maybe you need to reach out to him even when he's acting like an asshole, instead of taking the moral high road and leaving him alone." "I didn't--" I stand up and walk through the archway into the living room, the turn and speak again. "I'm not the one who needs to hear your explanations. Personally, I couldn't care less. But I will not stand by and watch you kick him to the curb again." Those are brave words, Alex, from the guy who felt like a kicked puppy when Fox was so overwrought from Scully's rejection the first time. I find Fox sleeping on the couch, a slight frown on his face and his hands clenched at his sides. I know this posture all too well -- he'll be screaming in his sleep before the night is over. I think that the turmoil of his strained relationship with Scully is taking as much of a toll on Fox as the baby's disappearance. I sigh and pull the blanket up to his shoulders, hearing soothing murmurs coming from Skinner in the other room. It's funny that he and I are the cheerleaders as our respective lovers square off against one other in one emotional battle after another. A couple of hours later Fox is still sleeping soundly. I've cooked dinner for the fibbies, the Gunmen, Skinner and Scully, set the table, served them, then washed and dried the dishes. Anything to keep busy, to not think about what tomorrow will bring. There is nothing left to clean and the gunmen are gone for the night, so I sit on the floor in front of the couch, using Fox's hip for a pillow, and read for a while. I hear Skinner and Scully arguing softly in the kitchen about who's staying and who's leaving. Apparently neither one wins, as they both walk through the living room with their overnight bags in hand and go upstairs without a word in my direction. Later in the night, I am jarred awake by something soft landing on my chest. I reach for the gun I stashed under the couch, then focus enough to see Skinner standing over me. The object on my chest is a pillow. He drops a blanket down beside me. "Your back is going to hurt like a son of a bitch tomorrow," he says blandly.I stand up and bite back a reply that it already hurts like a son of a bitch. "What are you doing up at this hour?" "I was going to steal some of those Oreos you bought for Mulder, if you don't mind." "No, go ahead." I follow him into the kitchen to find two of the agents trying to figure out how to work the coffee bean grinder. "Hey, I paid twelve dollars a pound for that coffee, you guys can drink the Maxwell House!" I say, snatching the bag of Kenyan special roast from the hands of the shorter, balding agent. Skinner rummages in the pantry for the cookies while I find the tea kettle and fill it with water. We assemble our snacks and sit down at the dining room table, he with cookies and milk and me with tea and almond butter on toast. "I thought about what you said earlier," he says after a while, "I don't like the way you spoke to her, but you did have some valid points." Well, knock me over with a feather; Skinner actually listened to something I said. "I want him to be happy, and he's not happy without her in his life," I say, sipping my tea. "If we don't find their baby, it's going to tear them apart if they can't lean on each other." He eyes me for a moment. "At first I thought it was all an act, but I don't think even you could pull it off for this long. You've changed." "I'll take that as a compliment." "Take it however you like," he says, then finishes his milk, "but you've still got blood on your hands." He gets up and walks away from the table. It's not much, but it's more than I had five minutes ago. ////////////////////////// Mulder actually sleeps peacefully through the night. The floor is not conducive to sleep, so I'm awake as soon as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains. The stump of my left arm hurts like a motherfucker -- it's been days since I've had the prosthesis off for any length of time, and the skin underneath is getting raw and chafed. I really need to take it off and let my skin get some air. I stand up and stretch to get the kinks out of my muscles. I wish to God I could go to the gym, vent some frustration and get some much-needed exercise, but I suppose we're basically under house arrest here. I go to the kitchen to make coffee. I'm annoyed as hell to find dirty plates and mugs in the sink. I am not going to play housekeeper to a bunch of goddamn fibbies, and I'm not going to have a dirty kitchen either. The two agents in the basement come up the stairs as I'm loading the dishwasher. "I'm not your damned mother," I say, "wash your own dishes or don't use them." They both nod but don't speak as they head into the dining room. Skinner appears a few minutes later, along with the two agents who spent the night in the sunroom on the back of the house. The other two are still parked across the street, observing the house from the outside. When the coffee is done I pour Skinner and myself a cup, then join them in the dining room. I place the mug in front of Skinner. He pauses for a moment and nods his thanks. The debriefing is short. No leads, no phone calls, no suspicious activity around the house. As we are all standing to go our separate ways I hear a scream from the living room. "Alex! Help me, oh God, help me!" Fox's voice is high and thin, as if his vocal chords are rubber bands about to snap. Before I can move I hear a muffled thud. I jump up and run to him, Skinner right ahead of me. Fox is on the floor on his hands and knees, clawing at the blanket I had slept under. "Fox, I'm here. What are you doing? Let me help you. You've got to calm down." I crouch down beside him, my heart clenched in fear. I'll never get used to this, and it's apparently not going to get better on it's own. We've got to get him some help. "Sean -- he's here, they've buried him here. I saw them...." he paws at the blanket, scratching at the wooden floor underneath. "No, baby, he's not here. Fox, look at me." I grasp his shoulders, deathly afraid of injuring him. "What can I do?" Skinner asks quietly. "I'll need you to help me get him back on the couch. He won't really wake up, he'll just pass back out." I wrap my real arm around Fox's upper chest and pull him awkwardly into my lap, whispering in his ear all the while. After a time he stops thrashing and I loosen my grip on him, running my hand lightly down his chest to just above the wound on his abdomen. He's so thin I could count his ribs under his thin cotton t-shirt. His head falls back onto my shoulder and Skinner says softly, "It looks like he's sleeping again." I nod and Skinner slips his arms under Fox's armpits, pulling him off the floor and half dragging him back to the couch. As soon as the feeling returns to my legs I scramble up and tuck him in. I see the agents staring at us from the archway into the dining room. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" I snarl, scattering them with my voice. "This happens often?" Skinner asks. He already knows the answer. I nod, going to the dining room to swallow down my cooling coffee. "Too often. I thought it would get better. It seemed to for a while, but now I'm not so sure. I think he needs professional help." Skinner looks down at Fox's pale form with something akin to tenderness. "I went through this after I was discharged from the service. I saw a shrink for a couple of years. It helped. It's not a sign of weakness that he can't stop this by willpower alone." "Yeah, convince him of that. Stubborn bastard. I'm going to make breakfast." I go to the kitchen and start pulling pans and bowls from the shelves. I need to stay busy before I go mad. Fox wakes just as I'm setting the table. I hear him groan, then call out, his voice hoarse. "Alex, you in there?" I go to the living room and lean over to kiss his forehead. "Morning. How are you feeling?" "Like shit," he replies, struggling to sit up. "My stomach muscles feel like I've been doing crunches all night. Can you help me up so I can get into the can?" He winces and gasps as I help him onto his feet. He slings his arm around my shoulders and we hobble into the bathroom. He's so weak I have to keep an arm around his chest while he takes a leak and washes his hands. This is intimacy above and beyond the call of duty. Yeah, I've had my tongue in his ass before, but watching him piss is outside of my personal comfort zone. I get him set up at the table with coffee, eggs and biscuits just as Skinner reappears with Scully in tow. She casts a long, unreadable look in the direction of the table. Okay, I went overboard. I suppose they weren't expecting me to cook for them again, but I wanted to show that I was capable of some degree of civility. Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. The two agents in the sunroom, whom Skinner addresses as Matthews and Peters -- which one is which I do not know, nor do I care -- join us at the table after a while. "I'm going to go over to the Hoover today. It's time to make some noise," I announce. "Scully, I'm going to mess up your office a bit to make it look like I've been poking my nose around. I'll try not to break anything valuable." "What if this doesn't work? If someone wanted to find you, it's not exactly as if you've been hiding out," Scully says. "This has to work. If it doesn't, I don't know where to go from here," I reply, hating the feeling of utter helplessness that's closing in on me. //////////////////////// I spend two hours wandering around the Hoover building, making certain every camera in the building gets a good, clear picture of my face. I go to Skinner's office and announce to Kimberly Cooke that Alex Krycek would like to see the assistant director. I know he's not in, but if his office is bugged I want whoever is listening to know I was here. I find a couple of listening devices in the basement office of Agent Dana Scully. I wonder if the people who planted them are still alive. For all I know I put them there myself, years ago. I rummage around the office and end up taking a couple of items I probably shouldn't. One is my own file, which I see is extremely detailed, leaving out only those dates when Fox and I met for personal reasons. For all his detail and precision, I see that Fox hasn't catalogued a third of my crimes. I wonder if he realizes the depth and scope of the things I've done. The second item is a photograph of Fox that I find in the casefile of his abduction. It's an old photograph, probably taken for his first FBI badge. He looks young and eager, as if he can't wait to be let loose upon the world. I tuck the photograph into my wallet and walk out. When I return to the house later in the afternoon Fox is sitting on the couch, exhausted and in pain. "Everything check out okay at the doctor's office?" I ask, sitting down next to him. "Yeah, everything's healing. I just wish it would heal faster," he says, resting his head on my shoulder. His soft hair tickles the side of my neck, and tendrils of arousal snake up my spine. I slip my arm around him and kiss the crown of his head. "Skinner said I had a night terror early this morning," he says, the sound of his voice muffled against my chest. I trace patterns on his back with my fingertips. "Yeah, you did. Fox, I think you need to let Scully write you a prescription to help you sleep. You could have ripped your stitches out this morning." "I'll think about it. I just don't like the idea of dulling my senses that way," he pulls back a bit and kisses the corner of my mouth. "Would you like to come take a shower with me?" My cock is at attention before I can open my mouth to reply. "Yeah, let's get you upstairs. You reek to high hell -- OW!" I yelp as he pinches my thigh. It takes him nearly five minutes to get up the stairs. He sits on the edge of the bed while I unpack our handful of possessions, then I kneel down in front of him to help him undress. He catches my hand as I reach for the hem of his t-shirt. "You first." His eyes are bright. From desire or codeine, I'm not sure. He starts to unbutton my shirt, his fingers gentle, so soft, like the wings of butterflies against my bare skin. God, I've missed his touch. I want to get lost in him, hold him to me and wrap myself in his warmth. I scoot forward on my knees until I'm between his legs, then tilt my head up to catch his mouth. His lips whisper against mine like warm silk. His lips part and I drink him in, my tongue dancing along the crevices of his mouth. He gasps softly and I pull back. "Did I hurt you?" "No," he replies, pulling his shirt over his head. "Alex, I want you. Please." The new scar on his stomach is livid and red, marring the perfection of his smooth skin. I cautiously stroke the healthy skin surrounding it. "I want you too... Jesus, want you so much... I just don't want to hurt you." "I'm not that fragile, Alex. You won't hurt me. We'll take it easy, but I'm not taking no for an answer." His fingers curl into my hair, cupping the back of my head and pulling me close for another kiss. The kiss lasts until I'm panting and in danger of coming from the friction of my jeans against my dick. I stand, not an easy task, and help him to his feet. We gather up our toiletries and go to the bathroom. We let the water run for a moment until it gets warm, kissing and groping as we lean against the tile wall. His erection nestles into the curve of my hip and I can't resist the urge to reach down and take both of our cocks in my hand, pumping them a few times. His head drops onto my shoulder and he latches onto the curve of my collarbone, sucking forcefully. The subtle, throbbing pain courses through me, stoking the exquisite inferno in my groin. I moan, squeezing our cocks together. Just a few more strokes and it'll be the Fourth of July in January.... "Alex, you're bleeding." His voice is raw with passion and concern. I open my eyes, watching as he strokes my shoulder. There is blood weeping from a particularly nasty sore on my stump. "Haven't had much time to leave the hardware off so I could let my skin air," I explain. He nods knowingly and kneads the tight muscles in the remaining portion of my arm for a moment, then tugs at my hand to draw me into the shower. I try to be gentle, but I've been starving for him. The heated, spicy man-smell of him skin is intoxicating, and his skin pressed against me becomes the focal point of my existence. Finally alone, able to communicate in the only language I am fluent in, I pour my heart out to him with my hands and mouth, showing him by touch how desperately I need him. I sink to my knees in front of him, the shower spray cascading over my head to run in rivulets down my face and shoulders. The head of his cock is hot and satiny and tastes of precum. I roll my tongue across the rigid flesh, teasing the tiny cleft and skirting the tip of my tongue along the corona. His eyes flutter shut, his long, dark lashes glinting with drops of water. A groan escapes him as his cock slides further into my mouth and I apply pressure to the underside with the flat of my tongue. He fills my mouth as I map the terrain with my tongue, tracing the veins and the tiny circumcision scar, nibbling very gently until he starts making those little whimpering sounds that drive me wild. His hips rock slowly and I run my hand up his flank, guiding him by his hip into a faster rhythm. I know that it won't take long for pain to outweigh the pleasure, and I don't want him to tire himself. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat and I increase the suction, savoring the bitter fluid leaking from the tip. His hand twists spastically in my hair. "Oh God, Alex, so close, oh god please...." Christ. I love that whiney edge in his voice when he's totally gone, so lost in what I have to give him that I'm all he sees or feels. My cock jumps at the sound, and my own noises rise up from my throat as his cock swells just a bit more and his fingers tighten in my hair. His cry echoes in the small bathroom as he comes. I swallow it all and continue sucking until I can tell the shaking in his thighs is from exhaustion rather than pleasure. "Thank you," I whisper after I let him slip from my mouth. I rest my head against his hip for a moment before rising unsteadily to my feet. He slips his arms around my neck and draws me close for a kiss. "What are you thanking me for?" For loving me? For giving me something to live for? The possibilities are endless and terrifying. "Because I really like sucking cock. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up and in bed before you fall over." We hastily finish showering and go to the bedroom. Fox acquiesces to letting me put some Vitamin E oil and Arnica on his incision. Even those innocent, simple touches make my dick hard again. Observant man that he is, Fox notices immediately. He takes the Arnica ointment from me and slowly massages it into the raw skin of my stump. Aside from nightmares and insecurities and a past that won't stay in the past, I think he and I do a pretty good job of taking care of each other. "I'm too wasted to take care of this for you," he says throatily, nuzzling my neck and skimming his fingers along my erection, "but I'd really like to watch you get off for me. Would you do that? Will you come for me?" Fuck, right now I could come just from the sound of that voice --that smoky monotone that curls my toes and makes my dick think it's the ruler of the known universe. "Yeah," I say, smiling. "Get in bed and I'll give you a one-man show." I tuck him into bed and then spread a towel over the coverlet. I retrieve the lube from the nightstand drawer -- this sure as hell isn't how I'd planned to use it, but I'm easy -- then sit back on my haunches on the towel. Fox takes the tube and squeezes some into my palm. It's cold against my heated flesh, but I'm so lost in those glittering hazel eyes of his that I wouldn't care if it were frozen solid. I'm too jacked up for a slow seduction, and despite Fox's intentions I can tell his energy is waning quickly. I stroke myself with practiced efficiency, my eyes locked with his. His licks his lips and I close my eyes, wishing it were his beautiful, ripe mouth wrapped around my cock. "Come for me, Alex. Keep those beautiful eyes closed and imagine that's my hand wrapped around your cock, and when I'm done I'm going to bend you over and fuck you so hard, baby...." His voice washes over me and sweeps me away, taking me over the precipice and into oblivion. I bite back a groan as my come spills over my hand. I take a moment to catch my breath, then move the towel to the floor and lie down next to him. "What's with this 'baby' stuff all of a sudden? You're getting really sappy in your old age," I say as I kiss him softly. "Keep your shorts on. You practically shit a brick over me calling you babe yesterday, but it's okay for you to call me lover and sweetheart in Russian? Or are endearments only when you're taking it up the ass?" If I find out my sisters have been teaching him Russian, they'll pay. Dearly. "E'b tvoju mat." Let Mr. Genius figure that one out. He kisses me and snuggles into the covers. "Fuck you too, zopoliz." I can't believe he just called me an asshole. He even got the accent right. Such a sweet talker, my Fox. I climb under the covers and fit my body to his, holding him until he falls asleep. /////////////////////////////// The next several days are tense and uneasy. My arm is in bad enough shape that I have no choice but to leave the prosthesis off for a while, and walking around with my left sleeve flapping in the breeze leaves me surly and defensive. Fox is recovering, albeit slowly, but pain and little stamina make him bitchy and sulky. Skinner and Scully are frustrated and scared out of their minds. The can't seem to bear the site of me and spend as little time here as possible. They're short and brusque when they are here. We are simply not a happy bunch of campers. We're all starting to lose hope. The trail is dead and cold, with no leads, no witnesses, and no physical evidence. Sean Scully has vanished into thin air, much as his father did last year, and we have exhausted our resources for finding him. Fox realizes this, and withdraws a little further into himself with every passing day. He sleeps a lot and stares at the television, snaps at Scully and me if we get too close. The only time he lets me in is at night. Then he clings to me and sobs in his sleep. Six days after my bogus break-in at the Hoover building, there is finally a ray of hope. I check my email, more by rote than anything, and have a single message in my inbox. The message is two brief sentences with an address: "I have information about the baby. Tomorrow at 3 PM." The fibbies go nuts over this single grain of sand, trying to trace the email and checking out the address. I know that it's pointless; they'll find nothing of use, but it keeps them busy for a while. Fox and Scully have a knockdown, drag-out argument over whether or not Fox should charge over to the location like Don Quixote rushing at a windmill. Fortunately, Scully wins and Fox retreats into the bedroom, slamming the door as he goes. The next morning at the routine briefing Skinner tries to assign two agents to back me up for the meeting with my cyber-informant. I slap the suggestion down as quickly post-haste. "There is no way I'm risking that. You think these people can't smell Feds from a mile away? I don't have to answer to you -- I'm not one of your boys. I go alone or you'll find these two locked in the trunk of their car on the Beltway." "You're going to get yourself killed, Krycek," Skinner says, folding his arms over his puffed-up chest. I smile at him. "Do you think you could say that with a little less glee, Walter? I'll be fine. No wires, no fibbies, no help from you. Just leave me the hell alone and let me do what I do best." "Why does 'what you do best' scare the shit out of me?" he asks. I snort. "Because you lack imagination. Don't worry, I won't leave any nasty crime scene for you gentleman to mop up later." As it turns out, I don't have to. At three o'clock I arrive at the dilapidated tenement. The door to the apartment is open a little, the doorknob hanging loose from the door like a partially amputated hand. I nudge the door open with one gloved hand to find a filthy, cluttered apartment and a dead body. My would-be informant is on the floor, lying in the pool of blood created by a single gunshot wound to his head. His body is still somewhat warm and the blood not yet coagulated, so he hasn't been dead long. I toss the apartment thoroughly, beginning in the living room. There is nothing of value or importance. I pick up the bed, the last piece of furniture, and slam it against the wall. Underneath it is a battered army-issue duffle bag. It contains a long sleeved black t-shirt and a black ski mask, two handguns, and a yellow flannel baby blanket, marred with a four dime-sized drops of blood. Something is very wrong here. No one who wanted to stop this man from talking to me would have been stupid enough to leave behind this kind of evidence. They wanted me to find this. I'm led around like a dog on a leash, and I don't even know who's holding the other end of the chain. Scully breaks when I show her the bloody blanket. The grief and terror she's been holding at bay finally overcome her. She reaches for Fox, sobbing brokenly into his shirt, clutching the blanket in a shaking fist. Skinner steps back, looking lost and out of place. I meet his eyes and nod. Yeah, I know how it feels. They're always going to turn to each other and Skinner and I just have to suck it up and deal with it. They'll always be partners. We're the unwitting sidekicks. "Scully, we can't jump to conclusions. A few drops of blood don't mean anything. His umbilical cord was still bleeding a little; the blood could have come from there. Don't give up hope, we're going to find him," Fox says as he smoothes down her hair, holding her to him and trying to bite back his own pain. His eyes are dark, resigned. He knows. He knows that baby is dead, and still he refuses to believe. God, he's going to spend the rest of his life chasing after another ghost. "He's dead, Mulder, I know it. I can't feel him anymore. I can't remember how he smelled, how he felt in my arms... he's slipping away from me," she sobs, sinking onto the couch with Skinner on one side of her and Fox on the other. She grips Skinner's hand and presses her cheek to Fox's shoulder. I witness their anguish, reminded anew that there is blood on my proverbial hands. God only knows how my past actions contributed to this event, but I know there is a connection. It's easy to tell myself now that I never would have allowed this to happen, but that's a lie. I allowed it to happen by being involved in the first place. Up until his mother's death, I had my feelings for Fox neatly compartmentalized. I knew I cared on some level, but believed more strongly that I was working for the greater good and had to carry on, no matter what. I believed in what he was doing, but also felt that his work could only go so far before people like me had to be willing to dirty their hands and do the grunt work. I justified every murder, every act of theft and treason, by holding onto the feeble belief that what the Consortium was doing was just a heavy-handed version of Fox's search for the truth. I had to -- I had to believe my father had turned me over to work for a noble cause, no matter how unsavory my actions were. Even after my own father let Spender almost kill me over the DAT tape, I still wanted to believe. Even I need something to believe in. But all of that changed. He held me and fucked me, the weekend after his mother died, and his grief flow through me as if it were my own. I knew then that my feelings for him outweighed my belief in my father's lies. Instead of facing that, I ran. Ran as far and as fast as I could, all the way to Tunisia to sell the tape and get it out of my hands forever. The results of that decision were disastrous. The cumulative effect of a lifetime of bad decisions is now sitting before me. Three innocent people, grieving for a newborn child who is probably dead. I'm tempted to go upstairs and swallow my gun. The only thing stopping me is knowing that someone needs to be here to hold Fox while he rides the crest of his nightmares deep in the night. Fox and Scully stay together on the couch until the wee hours of the morning, the arguing and tension put aside in their mutual grief. Skinner and I, the outsiders, go about the necessities. I cook and clean while he sends agents to investigate the scene and run ballistics on the guns, hoping for a match with the bullet they dug out of Fox. Fox cajoles Scully into relinquishing the little yellow blanket to send to the lab. There are a dozen agents bumping into each other in the smallish house. I hide from the chaos, holing up in the kitchen to drink cup after cup of coffee. I'm still awake when Fox pads quietly into the bedroom sometime before dawn. I lie there silently while he sheds his clothes and slides into bed next to me. He reaches for me and pulls me against him, peppering my shoulders with kisses as his hands slide down my back to cup my buttocks and draw my groin to his. I gasp as he rubs against me, setting me on fire. Jesus, it's been so long.... My desire is shadowed by memories of all the times I offered him my body as a scapegoat for his pain. It would be so easy to do that now -- I've learned that he'll gladly accept anything I give him, no matter how meager it is. I hate myself for what I've done, for being a willing accomplice in destroying everything he holds dear. I fight to push that aside and have the courage to love him now. I stroke his cheek, the stubble rasping against my palm. I trace my fingertip across the whorl of his ear and feel him shiver under my hand. "Are you alright?" I ask softly, loving him so much that I think his pain will destroy me. His eyes are fathomless and unreadable. "I need you, Alex. Help me forget. Just for a while, please. I need to forget." I kiss him, sweeping my tongue across his palate and getting drunk on the taste of him. I close my eyes and everything falls away, except the warmth of his body against mine and the sound of our breathing. I swallow his soft moans and slowly move down his body with my mouth and hand, tasting and caressing his supple flesh. He cries out when my teeth close on his neck, nipping lightly then soothing the offended area with my tongue. He tries to pull me on top of him, but I'm afraid I'll hurt him and hold my ground. I rub my cheek against the hair on his chest, hair gone mostly gray now, but still one of the most sensual things I've ever felt. I gently push him over onto his back and work my way down his body, relearning the textures of coarse hair and soft skin while mapping the new scar tissue with my lips. His body tells the tale of a life in peril too many times, just as my own knife and bullet wounds speak of a life carelessly abused. Still, most of his scars are on the inside. Scars of the soul, seen only through the windows of his eyes, in candid moments that are mine alone to witness. He has given me so much, more than I could earn if I lived a million lifetimes. He laid his pain, his joy, his neuroses and fear out for me to witness, exposing himself to me and standing strong while I railed against him, against myself, against a world and a dead father that I blamed for every wrong deed on my conscience. The one thing I don't doubt anymore is my feelings for him. I love him so much that it hurts, knowing that I'll never be able to express it in enough ways or with enough words. His cock pulses in my mouth and his hips surge up from the bed. The heady taste of his arousal and the heat of his body fill my senses. I grind my own erection against the mattress, perilously close to orgasm. "Alex... Christ... fuck me. I want you inside of me," he grates out. "No, you'll get hurt. Just relax and let me blow you." "I want to make love. It's been so damned long. I need to be close to you, Alex. Please." I think for a moment, my tongue and lips still teasing his cock and balls. As much as I want him, I won't risk injuring him. I slide up to kiss his lips. "I think me fucking you is out of the question right now. But if you'll be a good boy and let me do all the work, maybe I can ride you without busting open your gut." He licks at my lips and smiles at me. "Then climb up here and let's go." He doesn't have to tell me twice. I grab the lube off the nightstand and hand it to him, then straddle his hips, grinding my cock against his. "Stop that. If you come now then I don't get laid," he growls, pushing on my hip. I rise up and let him slip his hand between my legs. The lube is cool against my buttocks as he slides a finger down the crevice between my cheeks, then into me. Oh Jesus, so good... I rock against his finger and he slips a second in, scissoring them out to stretch me. Yeah, that's the spot... magic fingers stroking my prostate, tendrils of heat snaking up my spine... oh fuck yeah, another finger, so full, so open and exposed to him, just a little more, don't stop, dammit, I'm so close.... Bereft and empty when he withdraws those fabulously long fingers, I whimper in disappointment. He slicks up his cock, then holds it by the base and nudges me forward. I sit up and position him against my opening, wincing a bit as the engorged head pushes into me. It's been a while, and there is a moment of burning pain as he fills me. He rests his hands on my thighs, letting me guide our motions. I hold still until the pain recedes, then sink down some more. Oh God, no pain now, the burn is a pure, blinding heat of pleasure. Perfect, so perfect, him filling me up, my ass now flush with his groin, every inch of him buried inside of me. Our bodies connected, the current arcs, and we burn together. I move up and down his length, tilting my pelvis until he hits The Spot, oh good-fuckin-god it's so good.... "Alex... my baby... so hot and tight..." His babbling drives me wild. I love doing this to him. I love him. I'm so lost, and I don't care anymore. Just want to make his hurting stop. He wraps his hand around my cock, pumping me. I'm on fire with sensation... close... so close.... I ride him harder, each brush against my prostate a small explosion of white light behind my closed eyes. "Love you, lyubimyj... ohjesusgod... FOX!" Falling, tumbling into completion and one last thrust -- OH GOD -- I'm there, flying, weightless, heat and light robbing me of sight and sound, just this blissful high and the slick heat of his come inside of me and the bright pulses of my own ejaculation which seem to last forever.... I manage by some miracle not to fall on top of him, lurching to the side to collapse on the bed next to him. We lie there gasping and nuzzling until reality returns and sticky fluid and chilling skin become uncomfortable. Fox is already asleep when I come back from the bathroom with towels and warm washcloths. I clean him up and tuck the blankets around him, then get back in bed and spoon against his back, the lullaby of his breathing lulling me to sleep. ///////////////////////////////// It's cold in the backyard of the white house on Evangeline. I'm shivering -- cold down to my core. Through the window I see flames erupt in the kitchen. Matushka's face appears in the window, twisted in agony as the fire licks at her hair. Papa stands next to me with the gun in his hand, his face stony and impassive as he watches my mother die. I lunge for him, shrieking. I wrestle him to the ground. But now I am the one on my back, the gun in my hand and it is Fox who is on top of me, his face darkened with soot. He is screaming at me, calling me a monster and a murderer. Matushka's cries ring out in the cold air. "Krycek, are you all right?" I yelp, shrinking from Scully's touch as I orient myself. A dream, just another dream, only it wasn't really a dream, because I did burn down the house on Evangeline.... "Bad dream?" She asks, her tone gentle. "I heard you yelling all the way down the hall. Matushka means mother, doesn't it?" "I'm okay, just leave me alone. Where's Fox?" I push her hands away and draw myself up against the headboard, dragging the blanket along to hide my nudity. "He's downstairs. It's almost 10 AM. I just woke up myself. It was a long night for all of us, I guess." Her cheeks pink up and I wonder how well sound carries in this place. When I look up she averts her gaze. I'll take that to mean it carries pretty damned well. Fox and I must have given them quite a sound show last night. "I'm fine now, just get out so I can get dressed. And knock next time, okay?" She goes to the door, then pauses. She speaks softly, not turning around to look at me. "I find it hard to believe you could become a productive member of society, Krycek, but I've always prided myself on judging situations based on the evidence before me and not my own predispositions. You have changed, that's obvious, and it also appears that you're very devoted to Mulder. If you ever hurt him I will kill you, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. At this point, I think it's more likely that the two of you will nag each other to death than I think you would purposefully harm him." My throat is tight. Since when did I care what she thought of me? "Thank you," I reply thickly. She takes another step before I speak again. "Scully -- I'm sorry about your son. I didn't know him, but I have a niece and nephews. I know how much it would hurt if something happened to them. I don't know how I would live with it." Her head bows and she wilts. "Thank you, Alex," she murmurs before walking out. Later in the afternoon the reports start coming in. Our dead body is a John Doe with no matches in the FBI fingerprint databases, and none of the guns in his possession match the bullet that hit Fox. As Skinner skim's over the last report tears well in his eyes and roll down his cheeks. I pick up the report when he drops it on the table. Hair and blood taken from the blanket match the DNA of Sean Ryan Scully. Skinner turns to look out the window, his shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. "Do you need a minute before I go get Fox and Scully?" I ask quietly. "Yes, please," he replies, removing his glasses to wipe at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Skinner, I wish to God I could have done something...." He nods jerkily. "I need some air," he says, stalking out of the dining room, towards the back door. A short while later Fox comes upstairs from the basement. Not knowing what to say, I stand up, hand him the stack of reports and move behind him to wrap my arm around his waist. I press my cheek to the soft flannel of his shirt, and feel him stiffen when he gets to the last page. "He's dead," he says, his voice thin and reedy, "We only had him for eight days, and I spent that whole time trying not to love him too much, because I wasn't going to be his father. No matter how hard I tried to keep my distance, I loved him so goddamn much.... I just wanted him to have a stable family. I didn't want him to have a shitty father, like I did. Do you think he knew that I loved him?" "I'm sure he did, Fox. Babies are very perceptive. He knew that you loved him." I know exactly Jack Squat about babies, but I'll say anything if it will make him feel better. He pulls away and wipes at his tears with the back of his hand. I put my hand to his cheek and he sighs deeply, the tears flowing freely now as he relaxes into my touch. "Skinner went outside to calm down before he tells Scully. Why don't you go join him? I'll make myself scarce for a while." He nods and kisses me. "Thank you." /////////////////////////////////// I don't know what transpires between them after I leave for the grocery store, only that they quiet and subdued when I return. Skinner is having a conference with the fibbies in the basement. Scully is in the kitchen, talking to her mother on the telephone, and Mulder is playing Axis and Allies with the gunmen at the dining room table. I put away the groceries, filling the small freezer with the pints of ice cream and frozen pizzas that Mulder and Scully have been scarfing by the shovelful. At any other time it might be funny as hell that they are both nervous eaters, but they're both dropping weight they can't afford to lose. They can have all the Oreos and potato chips they want, if they'll just stop wasting away. Strangely enough, I find that I'm worried about Dana Scully's health. I'm a realist: I know we'll never be friends. But she's a genuinely good person, and she's been through hell. She deserves some compassion. Even from an asshole like me. After dinner Mulder tucks Scully's small form against his side and escorts her to the kitchen to peruse the ice cream selection. Each of them comes back to the table with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Normally I don't eat many sweets, but for some reason, I swear to God, I can practically smell the chocolate -- rich and sweet and creamy -- wafting from the open cartons. My mouth waters as I watch a small bit of the confection drip down the corner of Fox's mouth. He notices me staring at him and gives me a lazy, sexy grin. "What's wrong, Al? Want some of my ice cream? It's sooo good. C'mere, have a bite." He holds the spoon out to me. "It's good for you, the milk is even organic." I push his hand away. "Cane sugar is horrible for you. I'm not eating that stuff." Jesus it looks good -- cold and smooth and it's got those fish-shaped chunks of fudge.... I have *got* to have something sweet to eat. I go into the kitchen and start pulling items from the refrigerator. I've got almost everything I need. I don't have any all-natural peanut butter, but I suppose the Peter Pan stuff won't kill me just this once.... "Alex, what the hell are you doing?" Fox asks from the doorway, spooning another glob of frozen sugar into his mouth. "I'm craving sweets. I'm going to bake a pie." I turn the oven on and go into the pantry for the carob chips. "With tofu? Christ, that's disgusting. And I thought Scully with PMS was bad. C'mon, have some ice cream. Live a little, it's not going to kill you." I crouch down to dig in the cabinet for a double boiler. Shit, of course there isn't one. I can't even find a second saucepan to melt the chips in.... Damn. this is not good. I NEED chocolate peanut butter pie. "Goddammit, how the hell am I supposed to cook when there are no pots and pans? You two sit here all day, shoveling junk food in your mouths, and when I want something to eat I can't even find a pot to cook it in!" I know I'm pouting, but I'm tired and stressed out and I want chocolate. I really don't think that's too much to ask. I stand up and slam the only saucepan I can find onto the counter. "It's not fair!" Gee, Alex, sound like a petulant child much? Fuck. I don't have a piecrust either, and I don't have any graham crackers to make one, and there's probably not a fucking pie pan around here anyway.... Fox grabs me by the waist and turns me around, pinning me to the counter with his hips against mine. He picks up the ice cream container from the counter and holds out the spoon. His eyes shine with a slightly manic glow, fueled by stress and emotional overload. "Open your mouth, Al. It's just a spoonful, I swear to God you'll survive. You might even enjoy it," he purrs, rubbing his groin against mine. Damn I want that ice cream. I want to take him upstairs and lick it off of every inch of his body. I sigh deeply and open my mouth. The sugary sweetness explodes across my tongue, making my taste buds trill with joy. I roll the dollop of richness around my palate until it melts, then open my mouth for another bite. In for a spoonful, might as well eat the whole damned carton. Fox grins in triumph. Hell, at least I made him smile. He spoons the next bite into his own mouth then swoops in for a kiss. I suck the confection from his tongue, realizing how completely erotic his mouth is when it tastes of chocolate. I'll have to file that away for future reference. "I hope you'll still want me when I'm fat," I say, then push him away and put the forgotten pie ingredients back in the fridge. I open the freezer and select a pint of Chunky Monkey for myself. If Fox and Scully can drown their sorrows in ice cream, maybe it will work for me too. The next morning I awake with a distinct rumble of nausea in my stomach. Montezuma's lactose revenge. Just what I need right now. I pull on my sweats and go down the hall to the bathroom. Fox is in the shower. I hear his muffled sobs over the water splashing against the tiles. I knew this was going to happen eventually. He was far too calm yesterday, as if the magnitude of the situation hadn't dawned on him yet. Maybe he was just trying to be stoic for Scully. But I knew it had to come out, sooner rather than later. I shuck off my sweats and step into the shower with him. He looks at me with swollen, gleaming eyes. silently, I pull him to me. He presses his body against mine and buries his face against my neck, shaking so hard I fear he'll come apart in my arms. I wrap my arm around his waist and hold him until the water runs cold. He's composed but quiet the rest of the day. He sits silently while we convene in the basement, away from Scully's ears, to discuss what to do next. I suggest going to Russia to contact some old associates, but Skinner points out that any information I glean wouldn't do any good if I don't make it back out of the country alive. I'm not on good terms with the KGB, so I could probably expect a welcome much like the one I got in Tunisia. Still, despite the logic of his argument, I think Skinner has other reasons for keeping me around. Fox and Scully are as thick as thieves again, and eliminating me would leave him as the only barrier between them. Skinner isn't sure if he's enough to keep them from turning their love into a love affair. I file that little factoid away for future reference and go back to the work at hand. I have a few other ideas, but none of them are things I can discuss in front of Skinner and half a dozen FBI agents. Skinner leaves to take Scully home, and I quietly pull Frohike aside. "Why don't you do some discreet inquiry into the deputy director and other assistant directors? There has got to be something we're missing." I say softly, in case there are listening devices. Apparently he and I are on the same page. He nods and says he'll get right on it. The gunmen leave shortly after Skinner and Scully. The fibbies are making themselves scarce and Fox is upstairs sleeping. The house is eerily quiet. I hate this hurry up and wait bullshit. Patience has never been my strong suit. I have too much time to think when it's quiet. I miss my family, but I'm scared to call them. I can't tell them when I'm coming home, and I don't want to lie and say that I am coming home. Maybe I can email Corinne, just to let her know that Fox and I are still alive. Fox and I haven't discussed what happens when we leave here. I can't even think about life without him. I try to picture it and my mind simply blanks out. But how can I ask him to leave with me and start over yet again? I can't. I won't. He deserves better. After all that's happened he needs a sense of stability that I can't provide. He needs Scully, and the X Files, the things that have been the mainstays of his life. Once this is over and he's stronger, it will be time for me to move on alone. Until then I'm going to be grateful for every second with him. Scully calls to say she's decided to sleep at her own apartment, so we are more or less alone for the rest of the night. We turn in early, both of us listless and uncommunicative for our own reasons. After lying curled around one another in the dark for a while, he speaks. "I had Scully write me a script for something to stop the night terrors. I'll get it filled tomorrow," he says, his lips drifting along the nape of my neck. "Good. You know, I don't much believe in shrinks, but it might be good for you to talk to someone about everything that happened. You don't even talk to me about it." "You never asked." Touche. I roll over to face him. "I'm asking now. What happened after you were taken?" "I wasn't taken, Alex. I went willingly. At first I was excited, because I thought I was finally going to get my precious answers." He sighs. "It certainly didn't happen that way." "So what did happen?" "Most of the memories are hazy. I was exposed to the oil almost immediately. I think it worked as a communication medium, but it only went one way. They always seemed to anticipate my next move. If I got cold, the ambient air got warm. When I got hungry, food appeared. I almost think the oil communicated with the organic material in the ship." His voice is flat, the cadence odd. He's trying to detach himself from the story he's telling. Like he'd rather pretend it happened to someone else. It takes him a long time, with many starts and stops, to get it all out. The tale he tells is horrific. It makes my stint in the missile silo look like a trip to Disney World. Perhaps the worst part is that he took his quest for the truth further than any man could be expected to, and still he has no answers. He doesn't know what happened to his sister, nor about the plans for colonization. I the small, puckered scars on his cheeks. "You don't remember how you got these?" He shakes his head. "No. I remember the pain, but not how it was inflicted. I keep hoping one day it will all come back to me. Maybe I learned more than I realize and just can't access it." He kisses me softly, his lips warm and pliant against mine. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I want you inside of me, Alex. Please." Memories of Christmas Eve play out in my mind. God, I get it now. I finally understand that there really is a difference between just having sex and making love. It's such a small admission to make now, after all that he's revealed to me tonight. But I remember how much he wanted to hear it that night, and what a god-awful coward I was. "I want to make love to you, Fox." There it is again, that odd sensation in my chest, like soap bubbles popping, as if my body can't contain what I feel for him. He doesn't reply, but the touch of his mouth on mine is answer enough. /////////////////////////// In the morning Scully arrives with her mother. I've only glimpsed Margaret Scully once, while Scully was in the hospital after her abduction. I can tell by the kind smile she grants me that she doesn't know who I am. I can't believe Scully hasn't told her that I was a party to Melissa Scully's death. I didn't mean to let anyone be killed that night. My grand plan had been to kill Luis Cardinale -- he didn't count, he was a waste of flesh -- and take the DAT tape without harming anyone else. That tape was to have been my ticket out -- the leverage I needed to get myself out from under Spender's thumb. I gave the tape to my father, who promised to keep it safe and let me get out of the country. Papa let me think I was going to buy my freedom, and then he stood by while Spender tried to kill me with a car bomb. They arrive unannounced and catch me wandering around in nothing but sweatpants, sans shirt or hardware. I can tell that Mrs. Scully tries hard not to look. Scully fumbles over my name and calls me Alex Krydrake. All in all, it's safe to say I didn't put my best foot forward. I go upstairs to change and wake Fox up. He dresses hastily and joins them downstairs while I shower. When I'm done I find them sitting on the couch, Fox holding a pastel blue box in his lap. It takes a colossal amount of willpower to mind my own business and go into the kitchen to make coffee. I bring the coffee out and pass around the mugs, then bring a chair from the dining room to sit across the coffee table from them. On the table is an assortment of papers and photographs. Most of the pictures show Fox, Scully and Skinner dressed in blue hospital gowns hovering over the baby in his plexiglass bassinette. "Margaret brought me copies of all the pictures she took at the hospital," Fox says. "That was very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Scully," I reply. How horrible, that they have nothing but these blurry photographs to hold onto. Fox picks up a little stuffed doll in a baseball outfit. "I bought this for Sean at the airport on Christmas Day. It stayed in his bed the whole time he was in the hospital." He smiles sadly and places the doll back in the box. My throat tightens as I watch them leaf through their few mementos. A handful of photographs, a pacifier, a birth certificate with small footprints stamped on it, a tiny little white t-shirt. Fox fondles the shirt reverently as he brings it to his nose. "It still smells like baby lotion," he says, his voice cracking. I feel like a stranger at a funeral. I don't belong here. At least that's what I tell myself. Truth be told, I simply cannot stay. "If you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run this morning. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Mrs. Scully, it was a pleasure to meet you," I say as I stand up. "I'll walk you out," Fox replies. At the back door he kisses me softly. "We're not running you out, are we?" "No, it just looked like you could use some privacy. Go spend time with them -- I have some things to take care of." "Okay. Stay out of trouble." I give him my best 'who, me?' look and walk out the door. I drive to the east side of town and pay a visit to the gunmen to look over the preliminary information they've gathered on the upper echelon of the FBI. A cursory glance shows nothing overtly suspicious. I do wonder if the FBI knows how much of their internet bandwidth is used accessing porn sites, but that's not what I'm interested in. It's good to be out of the house, away from the discreetly prying eyes of the fibbies who wonder why a former department head is playing house with a one armed man. I drive around aimlessly for a while, then decide to stop at a bookstore and pick up some more reading material. Fox is driving me insane with the television blaring all the time. I select a handful of paperbacks and a few magazines, then head for the checkout counter. By the counter a display of picture frames catches my eye. I think of Fox with those photos in his hand, and toss a pewter frame with a baseball motif etched into the metal onto the counter with my other purchases. I pay for my things and stow them in the trunk of the car, trying to decide how to kill some more time. As I'm walking around to the driver's side of the car, I spot a group of women wearing head coverings coming out of a large church across the corner. I do not believe in fate, serendipity, or anything else that would lead me to be standing across the street from the only Russian Orthodox Church in the District of Columbia. But here I am, right in front of St. John Russian Orthodox Church. I also do not believe in God, or one Holy, Universal, Apostolic Church. But that doesn't stop me from feeling pulled to that church like a moth to a flame. Perhaps it's just a yearning to recapture the peace and innocence of worship I felt in my childhood, or to feel a kinship with my sisters' devout faith. Whatever it is, it draws me across the street, into the nave of the church. The vestry and nave are warm and quiet, the air perfumed with incense and the walls bedecked with painted icons. Years ago, my faith faded. My belief died. Nevertheless, I find myself on my knees, speaking words I haven't heard since Corinne was baptized. "O God, our heavenly Father, Who lovest mankind, and art most merciful and compassionate, have mercy upon this child, Thy servant, Sean Ryan Scully Mulder, for whom I humbly pray Thee, and commend him to Thy gracious protection...." //////////////////////////////// I return to the house to find Fox sitting on a bench in the back yard. The set of his shoulders lacks the subtle tension I've become accustomed to, and his face is almost peaceful. He seems deep in thought when I sit down beside him. "You doing alright?" I ask him. He nods in response. "Yeah, I'm okay. Digging through all that stuff this morning was kinda cleansing. I won't stop searching -- I can't. But now I feel that this isn't a rescue mission, but a mission to bring the bastards down for killing my son. I've accepted that he's not coming back." "How does Scully feel about that?" He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. "She wants to have hope. I can't blame her for that. But I gave up 27 years of my life to that kind of hope, and I know how futile it is. I can't do it again. I will find out why this was done, but I can't keep torturing myself, believing that he's alive and I'm failing him every second of every day by not finding him." I reach into one of the bags at my feet and pull out the picture frame. "I thought you might like to keep a picture of him close by." His face softens as he runs his fingers along the edges of the metal frame. "Thank you. It's very nice. I'll put it next to my picture of Sam on the dresser when we go home. I don't think there's much reason to stay around here much longer. Obviously, if they want us they know where to find us." Merciful Christ. I didn't want to have this conversation with him. I was just going to slip away and leave, but the thought of deceiving him like that is unbearable. "Fox, we can't go back to Louisiana. God knows how long they'd been watching us. I can't put my family at risk like that." He gives a quick bark of a laugh. "Alex, your sisters all live within ten miles of the house you grew up in. Do you really think the consortium doesn't know how to find them? I had concerns that you getting involved with the investigation might have repercussions for them, but that didn't happen. Hell, you're the one who's always telling me that no one can hide from them or stop them. I think the best revenge is to go home and taking our fucking lives back." What a christless idiot I am. He's right, every last word of it. But I was so self-absorbed that all I saw was the potential threat of my presence. My family has probably been watched their whole lives, especially after Corinne managed to emancipate herself from marrying Jeff Spender. He rubs my thigh. "Is that what's been bothering you? You thought you couldn't go home? Alex, did it ever occur to you that they're safer with you there to protect them?" I shrug. "I guess it didn't." He cups my cheek and turns my face to look at him. His eyes are fierce and determined when he speaks. "They've taken everything else from me, but I won't let them have this. This is Fox Mulder's last stand. Do you want to be with me enough to fight for it?" I smile, leaning in to kiss him. "You have to ask?" ///////////////////////////// After another week, even Scully seems to accept the futility of continuing like this. We all sit idly by with no avenues of investigation to pursue. Skinner returns to spending his days at the Bureau and Scully starts visiting her office more frequently. She brings Mulder casefiles to read and they peruse them together, laughing sometimes or researching them on the internet. I can tell Fox is happy to put his mind to good use. The stack of files they get solid leads on gets rather large in an amazingly short amount of time. I ponder while I watch them sitting together at the dining room table, their heads close together while they look at the screen of the laptop. From the kitchen I can't quite hear their conversation, just murmured snippets here and there. Mulder says something and Scully laughs, reaching up to fondly stroke his cheek. He leans over and kisses her forehead, then grabs the cookie out of her hand and pops it in his mouth. They look so damned happy together that I have to wonder why Skinner and I are even in the picture. I wonder how long he'll be happy back in Louisiana, with no X files and no Scully and no real purpose. That scathing intellect of his makes him restless. He's not one to be idle for long. And while I love Baton Rouge, it's not DC. The pace is languid compared to the Big City, and I don't know if it will keep Fox stimulated for long. He belongs here, with the bright lights and the thrum of constant activity. It feeds his mania, it keeps him driven. It defines him. Until now, he's been happy to sit around the house or play chess or hang out with my family, but he's so much more stable now. The medication Scully prescribed is keeping most of the nightmares at bay, and his gunshot wound is healing quickly. He's even started jogging. Not the full on, run-til-you-drop pace he managed before, but his stamina is definitely returning. He still has his moments. I catch him staring at that framed photo of his son frequently, the look of sadness on his face almost unbearable. I even found that little t-shirt under his pillow once while I was making the bed. But unlike with his sister, at least he's grieving this time. He's not going to spend another two thirds of his life trapped in time, believing that somehow he can turn back the clock and make it all go away. He's learned the hardest lesson of them all -- that sometimes we can't fix things. We just have to deal with the pain and keep going. He looks up from the computer screen and smiles at me. He puts his arm around Scully and squeezes her shoulders, but his eyes are on me. Warm, sexy, loving eyes and a face that I know better than my own. I smile back, my heart beating a little faster. I'm a greedy bastard, but I can share a little of him with Dana Scully. As long as he keeps looking at me like that. That night as we are lying in bed, recovering senses obliterated by orgasm, he softly says, "I'm ready to go home. I don't think there's anything else I can do here. I'm not going to stop searching, but I can do everything I need to from the house." "If you're certain. I want you to be ready." He's not ready. He wants to run again. If he stays here much longer he'll get too attached again to ever leave. More so than ever, Scully is his anchor. She's his last physical connection to his son. If I needed any more evidence of how much he needs her in his life, I got it in spades tonight. "I'm ready. I miss our house, our bed. I don't want to leave Scully, but she doesn't really need me. She has Walter, and sitting around doing nothing is driving me crazy." He kisses my temple and burrows under the blankets, "Besides, this isn't fair to you. You gave up everything to come here. you need to go back to your life." What an idiot. Doesn't he know he is my life? "Hey, don't make any decisions on my account. I don't want you to leave here if you weren't sure that's what you want." His warm breath tickles the back of my neck. "I know that. You never ask for anything for yourself, Alex. It's a good thing you have me to take care of you." I snort. "The day I need you to take care of me--" His throaty chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah, tough guy, I know you don't need me. But it makes me feel better to think you might, just a little bit. It balances out how much I need you." A frisson of emotion rocks me to the bone. There are no words to tell him how much I need him. I make a sleepy, noncommittal noise and hope that he knows. The next day, as I come in the front door from a trip to the video store, I hear one of the agents call out, "Mr. Mulder, AD Skinner has a Corinne Gray on his line for Mr. Drake. You want him to patch the call through?" "Put it through, I'll take it," Fox yells back as I fumble with my key in the lock. I get the door open and put the tapes on top of the television, my heart slamming against my ribs. How the hell did Cori find us? This cannot be good. Every nerve in my body is screaming 'Danger Will Robinson!' and I can't catch my breath. I take the stairs two at a time to the basement, where the only landline phone in the house is located. Fox is sitting at a battered fold out table, speaking quietly on the phone. He looks up at me. Something is very, very wrong. "I'll tell him, Cori. We'll be in touch. Miss you too," he says fondly, then hangs up. He comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. His hazel eyes look almost golden, alit with emotion. My heart beats even faster, dizziness wrapping around me. "Joe died this morning, Alex. He had a heart attack, and was gone before they could get him to the hospital. I'm sorry, babe. I'm so sorry." No. Joe Morgan is my friend, he can't die without me saying goodbye to him. He's only 65; he's too young to die. He has a wife and 3 daughters and 8 grandkids and they all need him. I need him. Who else is going to tell me to stop being a maudlin asshole when I get in one of my black moods? Joe trusted me when no one else did. He gave me a second chance, gave me a job that I loved, when I had nothing. He made me believe that I was worthy of it. I must have been speaking out loud; Fox puts his arms around me and presses his cheek to mine. Are those tears running down my cheeks? Fuck. I didn't even cry when my own parents died. "I'm sorry, Al, I'm sorry. I know how much you cared about and respected him," he murmurs in my ear. The three agents have their backs to us, all looking at a file, trying not to pay attention. I pull away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Embarrassment burns the tears from my eyes. I clear my throat and ask, "Have the funeral arrangements been made?" "Not yet. Cori said you should call in a few hours and she'll have the details. She had a hell of a time finding us. She called the bureau switchboard and asked for Scully, then carried on enough that someone transferred her to Skinner." Something breaks inside of me. tears threaten behind my lashes again. How much worse can it get? In the last month my life has been torn into more pieces than I ever knew it contained. The thought of never seeing Joe again hurts so fucking much. I have the clearest picture of him, behind the bar on Christmas Eve, a pint of stout in one hand and his head thrown back in laughter. I can't fathom Joe gone, the bar closed and dark. "I'd better pack. I don't mean to bail on you, Fox, but I have to be there for the funeral." "Fuck that noise, Alex, I'm coming with you. He was my friend too. And you never know -- you might need me, just a little," he says with a hint of a smile, squeezing my shoulder. "Maybe just a little," I concede gruffly, not trusting my voice. "Go do whatever you need to. I'll call Scully and book us a flight out of here in the morning. If you don't mind waiting til then, that is. I'd like to say goodbye to Walter and Scully before we leave." "Yeah, I understand. I'm just gonna go upstairs and start packing." I turn and go upstairs before I can make an ass of myself in front of the fibbies again. For someone who's never been known for sudden outbursts of emotion, I've certainly made up for it since returning to DC. There's something about this city that isn't healthy for me. Too many skeletons in the closet. Too many memories, most of them unpleasant, even the memories of that apartment on Hegal Place, where Fox and I had sex while we ripped holes in each other's psyches. I won't be sorry to leave here. Later on, Fox goes to Scully's apartment to say goodbye. I call Cori for the funeral details, and almost have a nervous breakdown when she asks how the baby is doing. My brain is too numb to lie convincingly, and I don't know what Fox wants to make public about Sean. I tell her that the baby is doing very poorly and that I really don't want to talk about it. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she realizes I'm only telling her part of the story. I don't want to go home and rewrite history with another set of lies. This is not how I wanted my life to be. I'm too old for this, and too fucking tired. I'm weighted down by layer after layer of lies and half-truths and secrets. I'll always be at arms-length from those I love, held apart by the need to keep my carefully revised tales intact. Only Fox knows my truths. Fox knows the color and the shape of my soul and all the crimes that are etched into it. Still he loves me. I don't think I'll ever figure that out. Maybe I don't want to. Some things are too precious for scrutiny. //////////////////////// The redeye flight to New Orleans is nearly empty. The stewardess looks at me strangely when I ask for one of those mini bottles of vodka and dump it in my coffee. I down it quickly, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat and fortifies me. "Starting early?" Fox asks. I shrug. It takes me several minutes, and a second cup of 80 proof coffee, before I speak. "Cori asked me how the baby was doing. I didn't know what to tell her," I say. It's not the best way to start a conversation, but I need to get it off my chest. He closes his eyes for a moment before replying. "I'll tell them he died, if they ask." "Oh, trust me, they'll ask. Are you going to tell them he was yours?" "No. No one needs to know that," he replies, his voice tight, his face oddly expressionless. "If that's what you want." I wish he'd look at me so I could see his eyes. He's so good at putting on that flat, inflectionless expression, but his eyes always give him away. "I didn't earn the right to call myself his father," he says softly, his voicequavering slightly. "Fox--" "I don't want to do this right now, okay? I already went through it with Scully last night. I can't do it again." Tension stands out in every line and curve of his body, from the tendons in his neck to the incessant bouncing of his knee. My gratitude for not having to face Dana Scully last night suddenly goes up a notch. "Which was she angrier about, you leaving town or you leaving with me?" The vodka has loosened my tongue a bit too much. I should know by now not to question him when he's like this. He sighs and leans his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands. "Equal parts of both, I think. She said that I don't give half a shit about finding Sean or I wouldn't leave DC. Walter had pulled a few strings and made me an offer as a consultant in BSU -- they think I'm nuts for not taking the job. Christ, if I went back to BSU I would be nuts inside six months." He chuckles darkly. "I wonder if the Consortium is going to be disappointed. They gave Fox Mulder another truth to chase, but instead, I busted the shovel over the backhoe and walked away." Maybe I'm drunker than I thought. "Huh?" He shakes his head and folds his legs into a more comfortable position. "Forget it. Just something Scully said once. She said if they dropped me in the desert and told me the truth was out there I'd grab a shovel and start digging." I hold up my empty bottle to the stewardess and gesture for another one. This is going to be a long flight. "If I recall correctly, the last time you ended up in the desert looking for the truth, you found it." A wave of nausea courses through me. What the FUCK made me say that? Yeah, he found some pieces of the puzzle -- and then I killed his father to keep him from putting them together. Funny how that little detail slipped my mind. He nudges my knee with the back of his hand. "It's in the past, Alex, leave it there. Stop borrowing trouble." For the rest of the flight my mind stays in the past, wandering down dark, blood-smeared corridors lined with the faces of the dead. Nothing goes right for the rest of the journey. We miss our connection in New Orleans and waste a few hours waiting for the next flight. I argue the entire time that it would be faster to rent a car and drive the rest of the way home. The closer to home I get, the more anxious I am to return. I want my bed, and my books and cds and my sisters. I want to go to The Bayou and see Joe behind the bar and wish this were all just a bad dream. I want to roll back the calendar to mid December and pretend none of this happened. It's raining when we finally arrive in Baton Rouge. Torrents of rain fall in opaque sheets around us as we make the trek out to long-term parking to retrieve the truck. My fingers are numb with cold and we're both soaked to the bone by the time the truck is started and the heater turned on. "Home sweet home, huh?" Fox looks out the window at the slate-colored sky, watching lightning slice through the air. I grunt in response and put the truck in drive, pointing us towards the interstate. I'm so glad to see my small house with the overgrown lawn and the flaking white paint. If it weren't raining so hard, I'd get on my knees and kiss the ground. Instead I get our bags from behind the seat and dash for the front porch, Fox close on my heels. It's freezing inside the house. Our breath comes out in curling white bursts as I fumble out of my jacket and crank the thermostat up. Fox turns on a lamp and goes into the bathroom, calling out, "Get out of those wet clothes and come take a hot shower with me." Warm, wet, naked Fox Mulder. I don't need to be asked twice. My clothes fall into wet piles here and there as I shuck them off on the way into the bathroom. His goose-pimpled arms envelope me when I step under the steaming spray with him, shivering violently. Skin against skin, his hair tickling my chin as he nips at my neck, we stand and let the warmth drive the chill from our flesh. Fox washes my back, running the shower puff from my neck to the sensitive backs of my knees. Emotion, exhaustion, alcohol, all of them combined leave my mind longing to have him inside of me, but my body unresponsive. Great, now I can add erectile dysfunction to my list of troubles. Fox presses against me, and I'm surprised to find him in the same condition. He nips at the nape of my neck. "Stop thinking so much, Alex. I just want to touch you, I'm not gonna fuck you through the wall," he husks into my ear. Does he get the same pleasure from comforting me that I do when the roles are reversed? It really is telling that we have to be in crisis mode to enjoy one another with a measure of tenderness. But then again, when aren't we moving from one crisis to the next? I'm not good with words. Fox can be eloquent, even poetic, but I can rarely articulate my inner language into English or Russian to convey my feelings. I have to caress my feelings into his skin, press them into his lips with my mouth. It's the language of the flesh that I share with him, and the only time I feel certain of where I stand with him is when I can touch him and be touched in kind. After the house starts to warm and the water runs tepid we emerge, wrinkled but considerably more relaxed. I get dressed and call Cori to let her know we've arrived. "Is there anything I can do, Al? Can I get you guys some groceries or something? I cleaned out your fridge right after you left, but with everything going on I didn't have time to shop for you yesterday," her voice is warm, soothing like hot tea and honey. Jesus Christ, I've missed her. "No, we're fine. I think we're going to crash for a few hours, then I want to go down to the bar before Althea gets there for the wake. Want to make sure everything's in good shape." I really just want a few quiet moments alone at the bar. I don't know if Althea Morgan will keep the bar open after her husband's death, or if she trusts me to run the place as Joe did. Just in case, I need a few minutes to say goodbye. Fox is asleep when I get off the phone, but I feel restless. I ghost around the house, picking things up and touching them, reacquainting myself with everything. There is the medicine cabinet with no mirror, there is the hole Fox punched in the wall. There are the scuffmarks in the paint where we made the head of the bed bang against the wall. It's hard to believe I just moved in here in November. So much has happened since then. I've lived a whole lifetime in the span of a few months. The bar is dark and locked tight when I arrive around 4 PM. I stand for the longest time with the key in my hand, unable to open the door. Once I step inside I have to accept that Joe really won't be there. I feel as though I'm exorcising his ghost by opening the door and turning on the lights. Maybe I should have taken Fox up on his offer to come with me. He was trying to be supportive, but I thought this was something I needed to do alone. I wanted the quiet comfort of the scuffed oak bar, the warped mirror behind it, the booth on the far wall where I sat so many times to read and do paperwork. Who would have thought that a spy and assassin would make a good bartender? But I did -- I do. I love this place. My chest aches to think that tonight could be the last time The Bayou is open for business. I go into the office and dig through the plastic crates of compact discs to find some of Joe's favorites. Man, if the customers didn't like my taste in music, they should get a look at this collection. I smile, remembering Joe calling me Attila the Disc Jockey. Joe never played his music out front, only in the office while he worked. Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Tony Bennett, all the old crooners. I load the discs into the jukebox and turn it on, filling the emptiness with music. I walk through the building, turning on the lights and neon signs that backlight the bar area. If only for one more night, The Bayou is open for business. I pour myself a pint of Guinness and sit down in my booth, waiting for the other employees to arrive. Vince arrives shortly thereafter, escorting Althea Morgan. Althea is a tall, stout woman with black hair gone silver in many places. Born and raised in Baton Rouge, she is the epitome of her Creole heritage from her dark skin to her wide, broad cheekbones. I'm sure she was quite lovely in her youth. Joe loved her with unabashed adoration, even after 40 years of marriage. Vince wraps me in an unexpected embrace and pounds me on the back. "It's damned good to have you home, Alex." "Good to be back, Vince, thanks. Althea..." I take her hand, not knowing what to say. She kisses me warmly on both cheeks. "Thank you for rushing home, Alex. Why don't you pour me a glass of wine so we can sit down and talk? The girls will be here shortly and I don't want to upset them with talk of the funeral." I nod and go fetch Althea a glass of Shiraz while Vince escorts her to a table. We all sit and Althea speaks. "Alex, I would like you, Vince and Greg to be pall bearers. Joey's brother Howard will be the fourth," she says as she sips her wine. "Of course, anything I can do--" "Don't be so quick to promise that, dear boy. There's more. I have no intention of letting the Bayou close. This place was my Joey's dream, and he worked his whole life to build this business. The Bayou was closed last night, the first time besides Christmas Day in nearly 30 years. It wouldn't do to have that happen again. Joey would be so disappointed." "Althea, we'll all take up the slack. We won't let the bar close," Vince assures her. "Thank you, Vincent. When we first opened this place I waited tables and worked the bar, but I don't know much about how the operation actually works. I do know what Joe wanted, though. Alex, if you're planning to stay in town I'd like you to be general manager, with Vince as your assistant. Promote Greg to swing manager and put Miranda behind the bar. That will keep things afloat until I can make some decisions." "What kind of decisions? You don't have to worry about anything, Althea, we'll take care of it all," I reply. Vince nods in agreement. "I plan to sell the bar eventually." She raises her hands in supplication after seeing Vince and I react. "Now, now, calm down. I wouldn't sell this place to just anyone. My girls have their own lives; they aren't interested in The Bayou. But Joey considered all of you family -- I think you were the sons he never had. No matter how many daughters you give a man, he always wants a son," she says with a small smile. "Joey put in his will that he wanted you or Alex to have a chance to buy the bar before it went on the open market," she says, gesturing towards Vince. "If either of you wishes to do so, I think you'll find the terms most agreeable. Joey took care of everything -- he didn't want me to worry." Vince looks down at his beer, rolling the bottle between his palms. "Althea, I love this place, and you know I loved Joe, but there's no way I can do that. I've only got a year of grad school left, then I'm leaving. I don't want to stay in Baton Rouge the rest of my life." I close my eyes and draw in a long, shaky breath. My throat is painfully tight. I could easily envision myself owning this place. The idea of planting my feet and staying here forever is intoxicating. "I don't have the money, Althea, or I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I'll stay on as manager for as long as you need me." She lays her warm, soft hand on top of mine. "The money isn't an issue, Alex. We had insurance; Joey took good care of the girls and me. If you're serious about this, we'll work something out. Just think on it for a while." Before I can reply, Joe's two eldest daughters and their husbands come in. Althea pats my hand as she rises. "We'll discuss it later, dear." Joe was respected and loved in the community, and it seems that half the city wants to show their respect. A steady flow of people begin to arrive. Before long the bar is packed and the air is filled with the odor of strong, stout beer and the sounds of both laughter and occasional sobs. I hear snippets of stories about Joe or things that happened here at the bar accompanied by bursts of laughter. When Fox and Cori arrive I wrap my arm around my sister, grateful and relieved. "Fox told me the baby didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Al. That must have been just awful. I'm proud of you for sticking by Fox through all this," she says, her face muffled against my chest. I press a kiss to her silky dark hair. "Cori, I wouldn't have been strong enough to do it if it hadn't been for you. You opened my eyes. Who'd have thought a scrawny little kid sister would be good for anything?" I tease. My sadness is deep, but it's hard to not feel hopeful when there are so many warm and happy memories being shared. She pokes me in the ribs. "You, my dear brother, are an ass. But you're still my favorite brother." "I'm your only brother, Cori." "Not anymore. I think I'm adopting Fox. Or maybe you should just make him my brother-in-law." She smiles brightly. I scan the crowd and seek out Fox. I find him leaning against the jukebox, looking long and lean and sexy as hell as he talks with Miranda and her boyfriend. His eyes meet mine and he smiles warmly. Emotion heats my face and swells in my chest. Damned straight I could spend the rest of my life like this. It's too much to hope for, too bright and beautiful to think it could ever truly be mine. But I'm so fucking grateful to have it in the here and now that I could die with joy. //////////////////////////// It's clear and cold the next morning as we stand in the cemetery of St. Aloysius Catholic Church. Two of Joe's grandsons, one in his Navy dress whites and the younger is his ROTC uniform, are reverently folding the flag that was draped across the casket. A member of the Scottish Rite Temple plays Amazing Grace on the bagpipes. The plaintive notes are clear and crisp in the still January morning. Althea stands proud and regal at the head of her brood, nodding solemnly when her grandsons present her with the folded flag. Dozens of mourners, members of the church and patrons of the bar, bow their heads as we all recite the Lord's Prayer. The soft clink of many sets of rosary beads is audible over the murmurs of prayer. When the priest concludes, the word Amen ripples through the crowd. I turn to move into position for the final portion of the service. There are seven of us. Vince, Greg, Fox, Joe's brother Howard, two of Joe's grandsons and me. The military would not approve of our actions, and we may yet be arrested for firing a gun in the city limits, but we decided last night that Joe deserved this honor and we're damned well going to do it. Tom Haskell, the owner of The Library and a fellow Vietnam veteran, stands off to the side as we line up and point the rifles upward towards the sky. When Tom gives the signal we fire our blank cartridges into the air. Three volleys each, a 21 gun salute to a man that was a pillar of his community and a hero in his own right. Thank you, Joe. Thank you for having faith in me, //Fire!// and for picking me up by my bootstraps when I was falling apart. //Fire!// Thanks for being what I imagine a father is supposed to be. //Fire!// //////////////////////////////////// "I'm a lying on the floor naked, catching the breeze from the ceiling fan kinda man...." a dozen voices sing along to the last chorus of the song. Back at The Bayou we're all a little tipsy, singing along to a few local musicians who broke out their guitars and are giving an impromptu concert. The owners of the Factory came around with huge pots of Jambalaya to feed the masses and the bar is now covered with containers of food from local restaurants. Waiters from Highland Coffee run back and forth with thermal carafes of coffee and baskets of muffins and sweets. You know you're at a Cajun funeral when there is more food and liquor than tears. Joe would be pleased. Everyone is laughing and smiling as they remember him. The beer is flowing and people are singing. I ache with his loss, but I know we've done right by Joe's memory. Tonight The Bayou will be open for business, and as long as I have a say in the matter we'll stay open. I keep thinking about my conversation with Althea last night. My first reaction was that I don't have any money -- which is true. But if she's willing to be flexible, as I'm sure she will be, I could stay afloat by continuing to live off of my current salary and turning all of the bar's profits over to her. It's a frightening, thrilling prospect. I could actually make this happen. Hell, if I can play a part in a global conspiracy I can certainly manage to run a bar. I can't give this up. Not any of it. The quiet life I've built for myself, beautiful in its simplicity. The man who by some twist of fate wants to share it with me. Mine. I look back over the bloody ruins of my past and they seem like a hazy, distant bad dream that happened to someone else. We spend the entire day at the bar, greeting well-wishers and drinking and eating and drinking some more. By the time Fox steers me towards the door, it's early evening and I'm well past my limited alcohol tolerance. I lose some time between the Bayou and my front door. The next thing I know, Fox dumps me on the bed and tells me, "If you don't stop singing that damned ceiling fan song, I'm going to shove a sock down your throat." I try to respond, but my words just sound like the next line of the song. Fox snorts and pulls my jeans and boxers off, then climbs into bed beside me. Later, I begin to emerge from the depths of sleep, but I'm having a wonderful dream and don't want to wake up. There's something warm and wet bathing my cock. The promise of orgasm licks at my senses. Suddenly, the warmth is gone. I whimper. I hear a low, seductive laugh and realize I'm not dreaming. "Stop playing possum, Alex, I know you're awake," Fox rumbles as he presses against me and licks my neck. "Why'd you stop?" I wish I didn't sound so desperate. "Because I don't want to fuck a sot-drunk corpse. It's more fun when you're awake enough to appreciate my efforts." "I was appreciating your efforts a great deal. Now get back down there and suck my cock." I grin. I'm ridiculously happy. This is another prayer answered. Us, home in our bed after that agonizing time in DC. I thought I'd never see this place again. "Oh no, you slept through that part of the show. It's time for the main event." I love it when he's lighthearted and relaxed like this. I'm about to get fucked by the most dangerously sexy man I've ever seen. A shiver of anticipation runs through me. For a guy with one arm I'm pretty good at holding my own in a wrestling match. I manage to get Fox flipped over onto his back and enjoy the view. Limbs long and relaxed, sinew and bone overlain by muscle in all the right places, eyes closed and mouth moist and slack. He is a tableau vivant of seduction. I have never wanted anything in life the way I want him. "You're thinking too much, Al. Let's get to the NC-17 part," he says, looking at me from behind a fringe of dark lashes. I pounce. I explore all of that warm, supple flesh with my lips and hand, licking and nibbling and caressing until I am blind and deaf to everything except the need to rut. He lies there passively until I reach for the lube on the nightstand, then in one flexuous move reverses our positions. He looks down at me with a feral smile, hazel eyes burning green with lust. "Oh no, babe, this is my show." Oh God. I love it when he's playful; I love it when he's forceful. I love it when I drive him so wild that he goes caveman, and I love it when he's so high on sex that he babbles endearments. I love him so much I think I could come just from the look on his face. He prepares me slowly, teasing me with his hand until I'm writhing and twisting on his fingers, panting and cursing for him to hurry. Over and over again he lures me to the brink of orgasm then draws me back, using his intimate knowledge of my body as a tool to drive me insane. Finally he lifts my knees onto his shoulders and leans over to husk out, "I want you bad, Alex. I want to ride you nice and hard. Are you in the mood for that?" He takes my whimper as a yes. The blunt head of his cock presses into me slowly, sending tendrils of electricity dancing along my spine. He moves carefully, allowing my body to adjust to the intrusion. Any discomfort is gone by the time he pushes the rest of the way in. He lifts my hips and scoots forward so that my ass rests on his thighs. He really is going to do me hard. I have died and gone to heaven. "Okay?" he says softly, gripping my thighs. "Fuck. Yeah," I grate out. He slams into me with the first thrust and I scream. The neighbors must know I'm getting it better than I've gotten it before in my life. He sets a daunting rhythm, his hips surging forward with animal grace to plunge into me again and again. I keen and thrash beneath him, all thought and reason burned from my mind by the pure, raw pleasure of his cock pounding into me. Fox looks like a fallen angel. Face flushed, brows drawn together in concentration and rapturous intent, he pistons into me, banging against my prostate until my voice is hoarse from shouting and we're both gasping for breath. He's on his knees and the only part of me still on the bed is my head and shoulders. Like a flash fire, this is too intense to last long. We're not young men anymore, able to keep up the sexual athletics for hours at a time. He grabs my wrist and wraps my hand around my cock. I fist myself roughly, the first flames of completion sparking inside of me, teasing at my nerve endings, making my entire body hum. "Alex... c'mon..." Fox whispers urgently. "Oh jesus, yeah, do it..." I urge, clamping my muscles around him and bearing down. He slips a little deeper inside and I think I'm going to have a stroke. He gives a strangled shout and his head snaps back, corded muscles standing out in relief from the elegant column of his throat. His hips buck wildly as his orgasm pulses deep inside of me. One last frantic grinding of his hips against my ass and I'm done, a dead man, seized by the ephemeral rapture of la petite mort. But this is nothing like dying. This is flying fuck-blind and stupid through the ether, murmuring his name, over and over again, even though I can scarcely draw a breath.... Small, butterfly wing kisses flutter against my face and I reach blindly for him, drawing him down to wrap my sweaty body around his. "Jesus Christ, Fox, I..." Merciful Christ, why is it so damn hard for me to say? I love you. Three little words that refuse to come out of my mouth, no matter how much I mean them or want to say them. "Stop trying so hard, Alex. I know." More kisses on my neck, my shoulder. "But--" He shushes me with a soothing noise and a finger against my lips. "I have no doubt that you love me. Not since Christmas Day. I know what it took for you to say it, and I know you didn't give that away lightly. Alex, I've learned something about you. It's the things you can't say that you mean the most." Oh god. I will not cry. "I didn't give it away, Fox. When I shared it with you, I gave it back to myself." He kisses me softly, sweetly, and there is no need for words. ////////////////////////////// "Fox, I'm not having this conversation with you again. I'm going to the bank to apply for a loan, like every other red-blooded American business owner." I turn my back to him, and continue trying to knot my tie. He turns me around and grabs the tie from my fingers, knotting it quickly and settling it into place. "I don't understand what the big deal is. Why won't you take my money? What's the point in paying interest to the bank when I could make one call to my broker and have the money tomorrow?" Joe has been gone ten days now. Althea Morgan and I made the decision that I would buy The Bayou, but I couldn't bring myself to accept the terms she offered me. It felt like highway robbery. Fox and I have had this talk every day for the last week, and still I cannot get him to understand my position. I lean against the dresser, hand on my hip and what I hope is a stern look on my face. "The answer is no. It's been no every time we've had this discussion, and it's still no. The 'big deal' is that it's your money. I can do this on my own." I pick up my jacket and turn to walk from the room. The his voice freezes me. "Why is it, Alex, that everything is fine as long as it's your house, your bed, and your life, but when I try to set down some roots you backpedal on me?" Tread carefully, Alex. This has the potential to be the biggest fucking mess of your life. Do I listen to my own advice? Hell no. I turn again to face him. His eyes glitter fiercely. The pink, crescent-shaped scars on his cheeks are a livid red and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath. "What the fuck are you talking about? This has nothing to do with you." Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. "Yeah, I sure as hell know it doesn't. When will it have something to do with me? When does it stop being Alex Drake against the world?" Every warning alarm in my brain is going off, telling me that I'm missing some vital part of the big picture here. Why can't he just accept my decision? Instead of trying to figure that out, I shoot my stupid mouth off again. "Fuck off, Mulder. This is the first time I've ever had an opportunity to earn something on my own merit. Why the hell do you want to take that away from me? Why do you want to dirty it with your father's insurance money? Surely you haven't forgotten that you wouldn't have that goddamn money if it weren't for me." I'm yelling now, and I pause to draw in a breath and stop short. That thought had been at the back of my mind since the first time he'd offered me the money, but I'd sworn to myself I'd never voice it. So much for my good intentions. In three long strides he crosses the distance between us and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me. My first instinct is to punch the shit out of him, but I tamp it down. We stand toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose. I glare and he yells. "You son of a bitch! Stop using the past as an excuse to keep that goddamn chip on your shoulder. This doesn't have fuck-all to do with my father. It's about you and me, and the fact that I have no home, no job, no family. You seem to want me in your bed, but when I try to be a part of your life, you push me away. Is my only place in your life hanging around here like a fucking rent boy? If so, I think I'm a little too old for the job." I grab the front of his shirt and shove him hard. He stumbles, but catches himself by grabbing the footboard of the bed. "You want to know why I won't take your money? Because I knew this was going to happen. You can't forget the past and no matter what I fucking do I can't outlive it. I'm the reason you don't have a job, a family, the nice white picket fence and the mailbox that says Scully-Mulder on it! If I hadn't lead you to that ship you'd be in DC playing house with Scully and never would have given me a second thought! Now that you and Scully are copasetic again there's nothing stopping you from marching you ass back to DC and marrying her. You know she'd drop Skinner for you in a heartbeat." There it is. All of my fear, my anger, my grief, pouring from my mouth like blood from my veins. All of the things I swore I would never say come rushing out of me, taking on a raging, vengeful life of their own. These thoughts were my burden to bear, my punishment for the life I've lead. I have no right to lay them at his feet like this. He draws himself up to his full height and crosses his arms in front of him. "Get off the cross, Alex. Someone else needs the wood." "What?" "You're a jackass. Worse yet, you're a stupid jackass. You aren't going to pin this one on me. This is about your guilt. You can't forgive yourself, so you assume that I can't either. I have forgiven you, so find another excuse for your goddamn self-pity. You want me to leave? Then say so. But if I walk out of here, you'd better know it's because you kicked me out, not because I wanted to be anywhere else," he says as he walks towards me again. At least he's not headed for the door. Yet. "Alex, for God's sake..." He sighs. His face softens, his voice low and soothing. "how can such a brilliant man be so blind? What I have with Scully... it was never about happily ever after. It wouldn't be even if you weren't in the picture. But I can't keep doing this with you. Do you understand? I can't take anymore. You keep letting me in, then shoving me back and slamming the door in my face. I need something solid. I didn't want to hold the fucking bar over your head, I wanted -- I needed -- to know you were willing to commit to something with me." God, he looks so sad. How can he think I can't commit to him? He's everything to me. He's my future. What am I doing wrong that he can't see that? He steps back, pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. Great, now I've given him another headache. He's had one practically every day since we got back from DC. "Go to the bank," he says softly. He sounds tired. Defeated. "You're going to be late. I'm--" He looks around the room, sighs heavily. "Shit, I don't know what I'm doing." "Will you be here when I come back?" I'm shaking, my heart screaming for me to stop, turn around, fix this by any means necessary. But the memory of watching from the woods as Mulder cried over his father's still form freezes me in place. "I don't know. That depends on you." I draw in a trembling breath, tears pricking at my eyes. "Don't leave." "That's not going to cut it this time, Alex. If you want me here, ask me to stay." His voice is drawn and strained, lines of pain etched around his eyes. My voice sounds odd and tinny to my own ears as I force the words out. "Stay. Please." Oh dear God don't leave me, I need you, can't you see how much I love you? But the words won't come. God help me, he's going to walk out the door and out of my life, and I'm suddenly mute. Silence hangs heavy as his shoulders slump. "If you're sure..." I take a step forward, twisting my fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt. My mouth is suddenly dry, and I hope I can speak. "It's the only thing I'm sure of," I draw a breath and force the words out, hoping that he understands that it is fear, and not uncertainty, that makes me hesitate. "I want to be with you." This won't ever end. Before, we assaulted one another with fists and guns. Now we have love and passion to weave into this darkness. We can't seem to escape. Fox's eyes are overly bright. "Don't be afraid. We can escape, Alex. Just don't shut me out." I frown. I didn't say that aloud. I lean into him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. His skin tastes of fear, salty and hot under my lips. He sighs into my hair. "The bank, Alex. You need to leave or you'll miss your appointment." I slide my arms around his waist, drinking in his warmth, attempting to steady my frayed and frazzled nerves. "Nah, I'm gonna stay home and seduce my loan officer into bed. Maybe I can get a couple extra grand out of him to put in a new sound system," I say throatily, nibbling at his neck. I need to touch him, to hold onto him and convince myself that I didn't just come within a hair's breadth of losing him. His arms tighten around me. "I'd love to get naked and negotiate the terms of this agreement with you, but I've got the worst damned headache." I roll my eyes and kiss him, pulling away. "The honeymoon is definitely over if you're using the headache line on me," I tease, but fear starts to swell inside of me. His headaches are getting worse. I wonder if I should call Scully and talk to her about it. "Go lie down. Tea and Ibuprofen coming up." I go into the kitchen and sag against the counter, my energy drained. What the fuck just happened in there? Could I really have been that close to losing him and not seen it? When did I get so fucking stupid? No matter what he says, what he believes, I can't 'just forget' the past. God knows I've tried, but it's lurking in every corner, waiting to strike as soon as I relax and allow myself a moment of peace. For as long as his father is dead, those scars are on his face and his son missing, I'll never forget. I scrub my hand over my face and start the tea. When I'm done I find him in the living room on the futon, channel surfing on the tv that ended up in here despite my protests. He turns the tv off when I hand him the mug of tea. "Alex, would you close the blinds? It's too bright in here," he says, rubbing the heel of one hand over his closed eye. I hold out the ibuprofen tablets and drop them into his palm, eyeing him carefully. "Are you still taking the pills Scully gave you?" He swallows the pills without looking up at me. "Of course." He's lying. To hell with this, I'm calling Scully. I know he won't listen if I try to convince him he needs to see a doctor, and I'm really not up for another confrontation with him. Funny, how far we've come. A month ago, I'd have rather eaten my gun than call Dana Scully. I leave early for work, muttering something about some paperwork, leaving him to rest on the futon with a cold pack on his forehead. Sitting in the office at The Bayou, I hesitate for a long moment before picking up the phone and dialing the number for the X files office from memory. "Scully," she answers after a few rings. "Scully, this is Alex. Am I disturbing you?" She's obviously not expecting any social calls from me. "What is it, Krycek? Have you found out something about Sean?" she asks. "No, I'm sorry, that's not the reason I'm calling. I'm worried about Fox. Ever since we got home he's been having headaches, and they seem to be getting worse. I was hoping you could convince him to see a doctor." It gripes my ass to admit that she has more influence over him in some areas than I do, but right now I'm not above playing dirty. "Has he been wearing his glasses while he's on the computer? That's usually what causes them." "We don't have a computer, and he hasn't been reading much." I grab a pen and chew nervously on the cap. I haven't had a cigarette in five years, but suddenly I want one badly. "I don't think its eyestrain. He was complaining earlier that the light hurt his eyes. Would you just talk to him about it? And don't tell him I called you." "All right, I'll call him. Is he at home now?" "Yeah," I pause. "Are you doing okay, Scully?" She responds without missing a beat. "I'm fine, Krycek, thank you for asking. I'll go call Mulder now." "Okay, thanks. Well... goodbye." "Goodbye, Krycek." She severs the connection and I drop the phone into its cradle. That was only slightly worse than dental surgery. He seems fine the next day, and doesn't mention talking to Scully or going to the doctor. Stubborn bastard. I hate doctors, I don't trust them at all, but even I can admit that it's time to do something when you're half-blind with pain. Not him, though, Mr. 'If I'm still upright I'm fine' Mulder. I'm setting the table for breakfast when he comes into the kitchen and kisses my cheek, then drops a check for thirty-five thousand dollars on the counter next to me. "Fox--" "Not a damned word, Alex. Call it a loan if you want. Your first payment can be taking me to the Mardi Gras parade in Spanish Town." He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my jaw. The rasp of stubble abrades my cheek pleasantly and my blood pressure rises. "Mardi Gras is a tourist trap. Wild horses couldn't drag me there. Besides, why the hell do you want to go to the gay pride march of Mardi Gras parades? Why don't you go to South Downes instead?" His deft, elegant fingers slide down into my flannel pajama pants and wrap around my swelling dick. "Cause I want to go out in public with you and have people know we're not just really good friends. Please, Alex, I've never been to Mardi Gras. It'll be fun." He's whining now, but he's also stroking my erection and running his free hand under my t-shirt. I am so going to get him back for this. "Fine, you shameless hussy, if you get on your knees and open your mouth I'll think about it," I gasp as he squeezes me. He spins me around to face him and gives me a wide, triumphant grin as he sinks down, dragging my pajamas bottoms with him. Two days later I'm standing on the sidewalk in Spanish Town with every other queer in the city, being jostled and having cheap beer spilled on my boots. Loud, garishly decorated floats edge down the crowded streets, blaring tinny music and tossing strings of beads, doubloons and candy at the crowd. As the trinkets are flung from the floats people scramble to catch them, as if they were made of solid gold. Mother Nature has graced the city with her blessing on the celebration. The sky is a clear, nearly pure blue and the temperature is crisp but not cold. The cypress trees lining the street are tipped with small, vivid green buds as life emerges from the heavy sleep of winter. Small circles of green shoot up from the ground here and there, promising to grow into yellow Narcissus in the weeks to come. The camellia bushes bloom early with unabashed optimism, the waxy green leaves cradling large, deep pink blossoms. The stucco buildings that define this neighborhood are adorned with decorations. Masks, streamers, balloons and strings of lights, all in the traditional green, purple and gold of Mardi Gras. Between the floats, the buildings, and the promise of spring, the morning is a riot of color and sound. The air thrums with a pulse-like, infectious energy that even I am not immune to. Fox is like a kid in a candy store. His smile is brilliant; his eyes alight with child-like pleasure. He's dressed in snug black jeans and a black thermal top, his neck adorned with a dozen ropes of rainbow-colored beads. He jumps up to snatch the thrown offerings out of the air and undulates his hips to a Bee Gees song that booms from the float sponsored by the Gay and Lesbian Alliance. I wouldn't admit it for love or money, but the look on his face is worth swallowing my disdain for an afternoon. Perhaps I'm jaded to the mysteries of Mardi Gras, but through is eyes I'm finding a renewed appreciation for the festivities. He has a gift for taking the mundane and making it seem fantastical. I used to think it was foolhardy idealism that would one day get him killed. Now I see that it's pure, innocent wonder and that it keeps him alive. How remarkable; that after all he's been through, he can still hold onto that. I throw back my head and let laughter bubble from my chest. Only Fox Mulder could have me standing in the middle of Queer Nation during Mardi Gras, having the time of my life. "Queer Nation, indeed. You'd better not let the president of the neighborhood association hear you say that," he chides. I didn't say that out loud. I know I didn't. The artifact. Africa. Dr. Barnes and Michael Kritschgau and Fox writhing in pain in that stairwell... oh holy fucking Christ.... I'm losing my goddamn mind. I've had too many beers, that's all. Of course I said it out loud. I refuse to ruin this day for him with my paranoia. The last float turns the corner and the street begins filling with people. Fox grabs my hand and starts pulling me into the fray. "C'mon, Alex, dance with me." There is laughter in his eyes, a coy, sexy smile on his full lips. I let him draw me close and we sway to the music, some awful techno-rhythm song. I try to push away the fear closing in around me. Everything's fine. Everything has to be fine. ///////////////////////////////// "Sean? I hear you! Where are you?" I wake when a bedside lamp crashes to the floor. Fox screams, "Sean!" as he springs from the bed, eyes wide and desperate and wild in the darkness. He squints when I turn on the lamp on my side of the bed, then blinks, dashes across the room to jerk the closet door open, yelling for Sean again. I grab his shoulder and try to pull him back as he yanks the clothes from the hangers. He seems possessed by an unnatural strength. He brushes past me and stumbles into the hall. "Fox, he's not here. You're having a nightmare, baby, wake up," I say softly as I grasp his arm, shaking him slightly. His eyes dart nervously, his pupils dilated and glazed. "I hear him Alex. He's screaming for me. He's scared -- I have to find him." He careens into the second bedroom and drops to his knees to look under the bed. I stand there, scared out of my fucking mind, as he tears the room upside down, crying out for his son. This is out of control. The headaches, the nightmares, that thing he's been doing. I've got to share my suspicions with Scully and Skinner. I need to get him back to DC and get him some help. He gives up in the bedroom and goes into the living room. I tackle him to the floor, wincing at the sound of his head connecting with the hardwood floor. I straddle him, his face down, my elbow planted between his shoulder blades. "Listen to me, Fox. Sean is not here. Sean is gone, do you remember? Dammit, Fox, you've got to wake up," I plead. What the hell am I going to do if I can't rouse him from his nightmare world? His body is slick with perspiration and it's a struggle to keep him pinned to the floor. He bucks and screams in indignation. "You bastard -- let go of me! I hear him, don't you understand? He needs me!" A sickening, horrible thought overwhelms me. I nearly lose my grip on him. What if he's right? What if Sean is alive somewhere and Fox really can hear him? I'm on my own last reserves of strength by the time he ceases to fight and goes lax under me. One moment he's cursing and crying and trying to buck me off of him, the next he's deeply asleep. I lean down and let my forehead rest against the back of his neck, shedding my own tears. Time folds in on itself and the memory of him curled up in a stairwell, his mind plagued with the sounds of a thousand voices, crashes down on me. There is no other explanation for his behavior. He's out cold. I can't rouse him to move back to the bedroom, and I don't have the strength to drag or carry him back. I check his feet, relieved to find no shards of glass in them from the broken lamp, then bring the bedding into the living room and put his pillow under his head. I wrap the comforter around him before going to clean up the mess. When the sun comes up he's still out, but I've yet to go back to sleep. I don't know how to help him. Kritschgau helped him before, but he's dead and no help to anyone. I would know -- I'm the one who killed him. Fox is sleeping peacefully now, one arm thrown over his head and the other resting on his bare stomach. I kneel down next to him and brush a lock of gray hair from his forehead. He's so beautiful. So dear to me. I can't bear the thought of him being in pain. It's time to swallow my pride and let Scully and Skinner help him. I go into the bathroom and splash some water on my face. My eyes feel gritty and raw, and my back aches from holding my lover pinned to the floor. I don't even have the energy to take a shower. I trudge into the kitchen to make coffee, praying that Scully will have some idea of how to help Fox. This time I don't hesitate to pick up the telephone and punch in Dana Scully's number. I cradle the phone awkwardly between my chin and left shoulder, leaving my right hand free to hold onto my coffee mug. She answers, yawning as she says her name. "Scully, it's Alex. Something's happening to Fox and I need your help." "What's going on? Is he okay?" Her voice is infused with alarm. "No, he's not okay. He's in pretty bad shape. The artifact from the ship -- the effect it had on him -- it's happening again." I fight to quell my rising panic. I saw the videotapes of him in the hospital. He was so out of his mind that he attacked Skinner and caused himself no small amount of injury. I'm so goddamn scared of what's going to happen when he wakes up. "Alex, that's simply not possible. Is he taking the medication I prescribed for him? Has he seen a doctor about his headaches yet?" In the background I hear her murmur for someone to go back to sleep. Skinner must be there. "No, he's not taking the pills. He won't see a doctor. You know how he is. Scully, he's hearing things. Not delusional type things -- he's hearing stuff that I'm thinking. Last night he--" I pause, deciding not to tell her about Fox's adamant belief that Sean is alive. "He screamed and yelled for over an hour. He trashed the house. Now he's passed out in the living room and I can't wake him up." She sighs. "He was like that when he was first found in November," she admits softly, "that's why we fought and he left town. The first night he was out of the hospital, he tore up my apartment looking for Samantha. I didn't want to send him away, but he frightened me. I couldn't risk that he might accidentally hurt me or the baby. I wanted to take him to stay with the gunmen, but he wanted to go to a hotel. The next day he left town, apparently to go be with you." Ah, there's another piece of that puzzle in place. Funny how I suddenly don't care about that anymore. "Whatever is causing this, it's only getting worse and I don't know what to do. Look, you know I wouldn't call you if it weren't serious. He needs you, Scully. This is out of my league. He needs to be in the hospital and you're the only person who's going to convince him of that. Besides, you have his medical power of attorney, don't you?" Any other time that fact would piss me off to no end. It's amazing how bad things have to be before I can cut the bullshit and just do the right thing. "What do you want me to do? Would you like me to fly down this weekend?" I close my eyes and listen to the phantom sound of my pride sounding its death knell. "Yes, if you can." I hear the sound of Skinner's voice in the background, asking her what's going on, and her muffled reply that she'll explain later. "Okay, I'll call you back as soon as I have a flight. I'll call in a prescription for some medication to keep him calm. Will you see that he takes it?" "Yes, I will. Scully, thank you--" "I'm doing this for him. Now give me the telephone number of your pharmacy." Her tone broaches no room for further conversation. "I'll see you on Saturday." I hang up and return to the living room. Fox opens his eyes, blinking rapidly then letting them flutter down to narrow slits. He pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches up for my coffee cup. I hand it to him and he drinks thirstily. "You killed Kritschgau? I always wondered about that," he says conversationally, rising to his feet. He sways before finding his balance, then lurches to the futon and sits down heavily, massaging his temples. "Would you get me some Ibuprofen? My head is killing me." Holy shit... he knows about Kritschgau. I do not like this, Sam I am. I do not like having my mind peeled open like a fucking grape. What else is he seeing in my mind? God.... "Sure, no problem," I reply, going to retrieve the bottle of pills from the bathroom. After he takes them I usher him back into the bedroom and tuck him into bed, running my hand is long sweeps down his back to relax him as he falls asleep again. He's so warm and his skin is so soft. My limbs grow heavy with exhaustion and sleep tugs at my senses. I spoon up behind him and close my eyes, planning to take a short nap until Scully calls. I awake a couple of hours later to find Fox's side of the bed empty. I hear his voice coming from somewhere in the house, so I get up and go to find him. He's in the kitchen on the telephone, showered and dressed and looking entirely too normal and healthy to be the scared, wounded man whom I spent the night with last night. "Scully, Alex just worries about me. I'm fine, really. There's no reason for you to come down here. I'll take my pills and I'll go to the doctor and I'll get my eyes checked out." He smiles into the phone, twisting the cord around his long, slender fingers, "Alright, Doctor, I'll call you and let you know that I have a clean bill of health. Yes, I seem to recall them teaching me something about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at university. I'll see about getting a referral to a therapist." His face softens from false cheer to tenderness. "I miss you too, partner. Take care, and tell Walter I said hello." He hangs up the telephone and turns to the refrigerator. "Hey, I was just about to find something for breakfast. One of us really needs to go to the grocery store; the cupboards are damn near bare." You know, it really is possible to be so angry that you see red. "No, you're going to do what you just told Scully you would do and call the doctor. I'll see who Delia or Bron uses and you'll make an appointment now." He sets the bowl of eggs on the counter. "You're making too much of this, Alex. It was just a night terror. Yes, it was a really damned bad one and I'm sorry I put you through that. I'll take my medication. I've learned my lesson." "A bad one? How would you know, you were off in La-La Land! The headaches, the night terrors, which by the way was not really a night terror, cause you never remember those, are all connected. You are going to the goddamn doctor if I have to gag you and cuff you and carry you there on my back!" He pulls me into his arms, but I hold myself stiff and refuse to be pacified. He kisses my temple. "I love it when you're all alpha male. If it means that much to you, I'll go to the doctor and waste my money and time so he can tell me that there's nothing wrong with me that he can fix." "Thank you. I appreciate your benevolence in taking five minutes to give a shit about your own health." He snorts. "Asshole. Go on and get the doctor's number before I change my mind." Delia takes pity on me, and makes the arrangements for Fox to see her family doctor the next day. While he's in the shower I call Scully again and she agrees to fax his medical records to the doctor's office. I'm so tired and drained. I feel hollow inside. There is something horrible looming on the horizon and I don't know how to prevent it; like I'm trying to beat back the tide with a broom. I'm half dead from lack of sleep when Cori arrives that evening. Fox protested that he didn't need a babysitter, but I absolutely was not going to leave him alone while I was gone. It makes me sick to admit it, but I'm concerned about leaving him alone with Cori. She won't be able to subdue him if he should get lost in his dream world, and while I know he would never hurt her on purpose... not to mention him doing that goddamn thing in front of her. That thing I'm afraid to even name. Mind reading, telepathy, remote viewing... whatever. Wasn't it just last week that it seemed we were finally going to be all right? Fuck, as if we'd even know the difference anymore. He and Cori are awake when I get home from work, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and playing Hearts. They both seem to be in good spirits and I'm relieved that he didn't fall asleep while he was alone with her. I lean down to kiss him and run my fingers through his thick, soft hair. The charcoal and cocoa-colored strands slide between my fingers like silk. There are dark circles under his eyes and the scars on his face are standing out in vivid contrast to his pale complexion. "How's your head?" I ask. "As hard as ever," he says, smiling softly. "I'm fine, Alex. Stop being such a mother-hen." Cori stands up and puts her coat on. "You're scaring me with this nervous Nelly routine, Al. It doesn't suit you," she grins, patting my shoulder. "I'll see you guys later. Fox, Dee is going to pick you up at nine for your appointment, so go get some rest. You could have slept while I was here. You didn't have to stay up half the night to keep me company." He grabs her wrist playfully and turns his face up for her to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. "You wouldn't have been up half the night if Papa Bear hadn't sent you to babysit me. Besides, I missed the hell out of you while we were gone." She smiles at him, touching his face. "I missed you too." Another kiss, this one on his forehead. "G'night, Fox." "Hey, that's my man, go get your own!" I protest jokingly, then kiss her cheek and ruffle her hair. "Drive safely, sis." After Cori leaves, Fox rises from his chair and drapes his arms around my shoulders. "How about taking your man to bed?" he whispers into my ear, his hips moving against mine. "Take your pills first." He makes a face, but pulls away to get the medicine bottles on the counter. "You're a killjoy." "Damn straight, I'm not spending another night like last night." He tosses the pills into his mouth and chases them with a glass of water. "You didn't enjoy wrestling naked on the living room floor?" I give him a dark look. "You are not funny. Now go get your ass in bed." I give said ass a firm smack for good measure as he walks past me. //////////////////////////// It's a historical event, and not a good one, when I'm too tired for sex the next morning. I surface momentarily from sleep when Fox's alarm clock goes off. His morning erection is pressed between my buttocks and his lips rove over neck. Instead of rolling over and screwing him blind, I grouch incoherently until he gives up and gets out of bed. I burrow into my pillow and let slumber reclaim me. It's nearly noon when I wake again. Why isn't Fox home yet? He would call if something was wrong, wouldn't he? What if the admitted him to the hospital? He was so pissed that I bullied him into going to the doctor in the first place that he probably wouldn't call me if there were a problem. I putter around the house for about an hour before I've worked myself into a state of nervous agitation, certain he's been admitted to the hospital and hasn't bothered to let me know. I have the stereo up extremely loud and am singing along to "Kick Out the Jams" at the top of my lungs as I mop the kitchen floor, so I don't realize he's come in until he speaks. "Hot, sweet, and tight, indeed. Don't give up your day job to be a rock star, Alex." I spin around and nearly overturn the mop bucket. "Dammit, Fox, you scared the shit out of me! Is everything alright? Why did they keep you so long at the doctor's office?" "I told you I was fine," he says. "Dr. Leonard couldn't find anything wrong with me. He's sending me for an MRI and PET scan tomorrow just to be safe, since someone sent him my medical records and he saw how many times I've been held in the psych unit." I don't feel any better having heard this. He is not fine. I was hoping there would be an organic explanation for his problems so I didn't have to face the other possibilities. "It took them all day to figure this out?" "No, Dad, Delia and I went to lunch afterwards. I brought you back some of that vegetarian chili from The Factory, if you can stop bitching at me long enough to eat it." He places the brown paper bag on the counter and walks out. I sigh and set the mop aside, then turn to follow him. He's in the living room pulling various bottles and a box of syringes out of a bag from the pharmacy. "I'm sorry, okay? I just don't do worried very well. Does it matter at all that I'm being an ass because I care about you?" I ask, softening my words with a smile. He tries to scowl, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He raises an eyebrow in a decidedly Scullyish gesture. "I suppose it matters a little," he concedes, "but cut it the hell out, okay? I'm 39 years old, I can take care of myself." I sit down beside him. There are a lot of pill bottles coming out of that bag, lining up like soldiers in a neat row on the coffee table. "What are the syringes for?" I ask. "Imitrex. It's for migraines. Good thing you're not squeamish at the site of blood, you might have to shoot me up if I get too bad," he quirks a smile at me, trying to be nonchalant. "All of this for a guy who has nothing wrong with him?" Don't push, Alex, or you're just going to piss him off again. "It's all preventative. And after those tests tomorrow I probably won't have to take any of it at all." He leans over and kisses me, his full lips soft and pliant against mine. "Stop worrying, Alex. You've got that little wrinkle between your eyebrows that you get when you're upset. I really am fine." He kisses me again, moving down to my jaw. "Why don't we got to bed and I can show you how fine I am?" One hand slides up my chest, rubbing in a circle around my nipple through the fabric of my shirt. A shiver races up my spine and I turn my head to give him better access to my neck. His teeth scrape along my throat and his warm, wet tongue slides across my skin, leaving a trail of ignited nerves in its wake. I card my fingers through his hair and cradle his head in my hand, drawing his mouth back to mine. I nip at his lower lip before deepening the kiss. His tongue mates with mine and I drink him in, luxuriating in the faint taste of coffee and that spicy flavor that is unique to him alone. He sighs breathily as he pulls back, his skin flushed and his eyes glimmering in shades of green, brown and gold. His eyes remind me of the forest, of sunlight on oak leaves and loamy earth. Fey, mercurial eyes that reflect perfectly the deep, complex man inside. He stands and tugs on my hand. I follow him silently to our bedroom, working loose the buttons and zippers on my clothing as I go. In our bedroom I wrap myself around him, my shirt hanging open and my unbuttoned jeans sliding down my hips. His arms go around my waist and his hands slide inside my boxers to cup my buttocks. "This is a really good look for you, Al. You look like a stripper or a model," he says as he rocks his groin against my growing erection. I give a quick laugh. "You know many one-armed male strippers?" His expression grows serious. "You're perfect. Your arm doesn't bother me at all. I hope you know that." "Yeah, but it keeps us from doing some of those cool Kama Sutra moves in bed," I say wryly. "Oh, I have no complaints about your moves in bed." He kisses me, possessing me utterly, beguiling me with those wonderful hands and captivating me with the single-minded focus of his touch. Clever fingers, the silky slide of skin against skin, the rasp of stubble against sensitive flesh, breathy promises of pleasure and before long my desire is a swelling, dizzying wave washing through my body and carrying me outside of myself. Our clothes vanish, or somehow end up on the floor, and we're writhing together on the bed. His teeth nip at my inner thigh and the offended area throbs sweetly as he moves up to bestow attention on the seam where hip meets groin. The sensations are so amazing that I'm totally lost, drifting warm and fuzzy on a hazy cloud of desire. I'm so caught up in the feelings he's evoking in me that it takes me a while to realize he's hesitating, holding back. "You want me to top you?" I ask softly, reaching down to cup his cheek and run my thumb over those sensual lips. He sucks my thumb into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue and biting softly into the pad. The innocent bite runs through me like a lightning bolt. My thumb slides wetly from his mouth. "Yeah, that okay with you?" Instead of answering, I pull him up to me and roll him over onto his back, draping my body over his. Okay with me? Good God yes. Being inside of him is one of the greatest marvels in the world. One of those unexpected joys that make me think perhaps there is a higher power after all. I turn my attention to his slim, supple body, teasing and stroking until he's making those utterly beautiful noises in the back of his throat, half-sobbing and thrusting his hips upwards as I prepare him with my fingers. His body quivers so deliciously under my hand and mouth as I stroke him from within, twisting my fingers to glide across the pleasure center deep inside him. "Alex, oh God, Please!" he cries out as I gently remove my fingers, wiping them on my discarded underwear. "Roll over, babe," I instruct him, patting his hip. He rolls onto his stomach and I fit a pillow under his hips the fit my body to his. I bury my face in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, filling my senses with the raw animal smell of passion and maleness that permeates his skin. I position myself and thrust gently, beginning that slow descent into bliss. I pause, fully buried inside of him, enjoying the feel of his skin against mine and the tight pulsating heat of his body surrounding my cock. He bears down and opens further, letting me slide that last crucial inch inside of him. It's nearly more than I can bear, and I begin to thrust almost against my will. "Can't wait, I'm sorry," I apologize in his ear as I pull back and slide back in, moaning as I do. "Don't... Alex, Christ, just do it," he gasps, raising his ass to meet my thrusts, "harder, c'mon, do me..." There is nothing in the world like hearing him beg to be fucked. My ego swells along with selected parts of my anatomy and I quickly establish a rough, fast rhythm, pulling out almost all the way and slamming back into him with a twist of my hips. He howls joyously beneath me, the muscles in his back taut as he pushes back onto me. It's too much, he feels so sweet and tight and I'm not going to last very long. I bite down on the salty flesh of his shoulder and cry out his name, the tight, roiling beginnings of orgasm awakening inside of me. He grabs his cock, fisting it in earnest. "Hold on, not yet...." he voice is tight, strained, his breath coming out in harsh gasps. He might as well ask me to stop an avalanche. I try to bank the fire burning within me, but I'm gone, flying apart and screaming as I empty into him. He's still cranking himself, whimpering in frustration. I pull out and push him over onto his back again, pulling his hand away and lowering my mouth onto his leaking cock. The taste of semen and musk spills across my tongue and I hollow my cheeks and slide my mouth down his length, taking him in as far as I can. His fingers twist into my hair and he thrusts up, keening. "Oh Fuck, Oh Christ, Alex...." my name comes out as a soft hiss as he shoots down my throat and sags into the bed. I bathe his softening cock with my tongue, delighting in the small aftershocks that run through his body. When I'm done I stretch out beside him and rest my head in the cradle of his shoulder. "I need a nap now," he sighs happily. "Go ahead. I think I'll take one too." I pull the blankets up around my shoulders and close my eyes. I love you, please be okay, I love you and I'm so fucking scared of losing you.... I think it over and over again as his warmth suffuses me. "...me too..." he murmurs sleepily, turning his face to rest his cheek on the top of my head. Icy needles of fear prick at my skin, and instantly I am wide awake again. I'm a bear at work that night. I can't help it; I'm on edge like I've never been before in my life. When the ice machine stops working, for the sixth time in the last six months, I kick it a few times and curse it in every language I can remember. Vince grabs my shoulder and yanks me away. "Go home, Alex, before I lock you in the storage room. I had a long day at school and I'm not in the mood for one of your homicidal temper tantrums," he says, pointing at the door. "Now get out." The employees really don't give a damn that I own the place now. They still refuse to take my bullshit. Vince always calls me to the carpet when I'm being a little too me for public consumption. I scowl at him and snatch my jacket off the hook. "Fine, go to The Library and ask Tom for ice. I'll call tomorrow and buy a new icemaker." Fox is sleeping soundly when I get home, snowed on Seconal and Klonopin and fuck knows what else the doctor prescribed him. This is not his normal sleep, and it's disturbing to see him drugged to the gills. I tuck the covers around his shoulders and refill his water glass before closing the bedroom door. Cori is sleeping on the couch, snoring softly with a statistics textbook open across her chest. I smile down at her as I carefully move the book and cover her with the throw blanket. Corinne is the sword at my side, ardently defending and protecting me with everything she has. That's the miracle of family; they're there for you even when you don't deserve it. I kiss her soft, smooth cheek and inhale the scent of her flowery perfume before turning off the lights and padding into the kitchen. I pour milk and carob powder into a saucepan and wait for it to heat, then pour it into a mug and sit down at the table. I have to convince Scully and Skinner that I'm right. Something is going on with Fox that's beyond medical science. I don't know how Scully has managed to quantify and scientifically explain what happened to Fox, after he came in contact with the rubbing from the artifact of that ship. She's going to have to look somewhere besides her petri dish and see the truth, before it's too late to help him. I'll call her again after his test results come back and find a way to convince her. If I have to bring her here at gunpoint, I will. I go to bed dejected; praying to whatever God may exist for the wisdom to find a way to help Fox before things spiral out of control. Cori wakes me around dawn with a kiss on my cheek. "I'm leaving, Al. Go back to sleep. I'll see you later." I mutter a sleepy goodbye and roll over to drape an arm across Fox's waist. He doesn't wake, just laces his fingers through mine. From anyone else I would not allow such a gesture -- having my one hand effectively trapped, rendering me helpless. But with him, I have to concede those gestures of trust that I'm capable of. He seems to need them so badly from me. His alarm clock goes off a couple of hours later, blaring a Concrete Blonde song on KLSU. I have to nudge him awake to turn it off. He yawns sleepily and stretches, grousing for more sleep. This is not the disgustingly chipper man I know. He usually wakes right up and rolls out of bed as perky as a chipmunk, making me want to slug him. I get up and make coffee, then carry it back to the bedroom and yank the covers off of him. He whines and groans, but opens one eye. "Time izzit?" "It's nearly 9, and you have to be at the hospital at ten. You want breakfast?" "No, just coffee." He sits up and takes the cup from my hand, cradling it gingerly in his hands and blowing at the steam rising from it. "It's cold in here. Is the furnace finally dying?" The furnace, the ice machine... my lover. Is there anything in my life that isn't broken? "Dunno. Get up or you're going to be late. I'll drop you off and you can call me when you're done." "No, I'll drive myself unless you need the truck." He looks up at me, waiting for a reaction. "Fox--" "You said you wouldn't do this," his voice is firm, final. I-don't-need-you-Alex-so-fuck-off. "Fine. Whatever." I turn and go into the living room, turning the stereo up loud. I can't take this shit anymore. After all his railing and yelling and threatening to leave because he thought I didn't trust him, he's giving it back to me in spades now. If it had been Scully cooing over him he would have smiled and given her puppy-dog eyes and let her make it all better. Me? I'm not even allowed the honor of playing chauffer. He comes out half an hour later, showered and dressed in khaki chinos and my green flannel shirt. He looks better today, the dark shadows absent under his eyes for the first time in many days. At least the drugs did some good. Without speaking he retrieves the keys from their hook and slips his sports jacket on, then moves to the front door. I intercept him and kiss him apologetically. "I guess you don't need me to say good luck, since you're fine and all," I say, smiling. He returns the smile and squeezes my hand. "I'll be home in a few hours. I'll probably stop at the bookstore on the way home, so don't freak on me." "No freaking, I swear. See you later," I pause, hesitate. "You will call if there's a problem... won't you?" "Alex..." It's almost a growl. "Alright, go." I kiss him again and he walks out the door. I hear the truck start and pull out of the driveway. I sigh, resign myself to another morning of waiting and worrying, and go get Joe's old rolodex to call the company he bought The Bayou's ice machine from. I'm on the phone for nearly an hour with the sale representative before we make an appointment to meet the next day. The Bayou really is my responsibility now. It's a weighty feeling, but also a good one. I own a house, I own a business. I have Fox to share them with. It's all so normal and beautiful. This can't really be my life. Alex Gray-Krycek-Drake has a normal life. A life he can be proud of. I'll be damned. A knock at the front door interrupts my reverie. I push back my chair from the kitchen table and go to the living room, sliding the chain from the door and opening it. The boy standing on my porch is young enough to still have that faintly androgynous appearance of early adolescence. I don't know much about children, but I'd guess he is somewhere between ten and twelve years old, with a thick unruly shock of dark, coppery brown hair and big, wide hazel eyes. Small, slight and pale, he stands there in jeans and a sweatshirt, nervously clutching a white envelope to his chest. "May I help you?" I croak out, my throat suddenly dry. There's something about this child -- the jaw, the lips, the delicate curve of his brow.... "M-M-Mr. Drake? I have a letter for you," he stutters softly, something about the timbre of his voice chilling me to the core. He holds out the envelope, his hands shaking. "Come in, it's cold out here," I instruct him, opening the door further and allowing him to walk in ahead of me, my brain refusing to process the information right in front of me. "What's your name?" I ask him, quickly surmising that he is just a messenger and no threat in and of himself. "I'm not 'sposed to say anything until you read the letter, Sir." He looks up at me with guileless eyes framed by long, cinnamon colored lashes. I shake the envelope and hold it up against the light to check for explosives. It looks clean, so I tear it open with my mouth and fit the envelope under the stump of my left arm to slide the single sheet of paper out. Plain white bond paper, typed on an old fashioned typewriter, single spaced. "Dear Alex, As you can see, I have returned Agent Mulder's son to you unharmed. Our experiments did not produce the results we anticipated and the boy is of no use to us. I took the liberty of using the funds in your Cayman Islands bank account to pay for his expenses. Fondly, Marita" The paper flutters from my numb fingers to the floor. I'm going to kill that fucking bitch. "Sean?" I whisper, incredulous. Jesus Christ, what have they done? He blushes slightly, a rosy glow tinting his round, babyish cheeks. "M-Marita says my daddy is here. I-I heard him the other night, calling for me. I saw you in his mind, trying to make him feel better." Oh God, it all makes sense. The telepathy, Fox's surety that Sean was alive and trying to communicate with him, the experiments.... Sean Scully is another Gibson Praise. Think fast, Alex, think fast.... I kneel in front of him. "Sean, your dad isn't home right now. He'll be here soon. Can you tell me how you got here? Did Marita bring you?" I am such a heartless bastard. This petrified, vulnerable child -- Fox's son -- is standing in my living room and all I can think about is getting my hands on Marita Covarrubias and strangling the life from her. So much for the kinder, gentler Alex Drake. "No. She helped me get on a bus, then a man in a yellow car picked me up at the bus depot." His voice trembles, high and reedy and plaintive. "Can you read? Did the car say cab or taxi on it?" Alex, SHUT UP. This boy -- this child -- is just a baby. Stop scaring him, stop worrying about where the fuck he came from and just take care of him. Oh fucking Christ, I wish Fox were here, he'd know what to do. Or Scully, damn, I need to call Scully.... I have to have answers. I need to get Fox home as quickly as possible and go find the cab driver who brought him here, maybe he can tell me what bus Sean was on and I can figure out where he came here from.... "Y-Yes Sir, I can read. The car said Yellow Cab on it and had a number, 3637, on the side of it. I'm thirsty, Mr. Drake." "You don't have to call me that," I say, and mentally kick myself when the boy cringes. I shove my anger and fear down then try again, speaking softly this time. "Your dad calls me Alex. You can call me that too. Would you like a glass of milk, Sean? Are you hungry? I can make you some lunch." When in doubt, fall back on those impeccable manners Matushka, and then Delia, drilled into me as a child. "Milk please, S-Sir. Alex. Thank you," he says, looking at me with dark, imploring eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Don't be nervous, Sean. This is your dad's home, so it's your home too. I'll get you a glass of milk, then you can watch television while I call your mother. Do you remember your mother, Sean?" He looks wistful. "She had pretty red hair, and she smelled nice. She thinks I died." I swallow past the lump in my throat. What the hell am I going to do, alone with this boy? "Yes, we did think that. She's going to be very happy to know it's not true. Why don't you sit on the couch and I'll call her, okay?" I settle him on the futon and find the Cartoon Network on the television. Either he's developed his father's fascination with cartoons, or he's never seen a television before. He's immediately glued to the idiot box, so I go into the kitchen and pour him a glass of milk and put a handful of Fox's Oreos on a plate. I carry them back to him and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile before heading back into the kitchen. I call Delia's number and curse softly when she doesn't answer. I try Bron next, and am relieved when she answers. "Bron, it's Alex. I need you to go over to Our Lady of the Lake and bring Fox home," I tell her hastily. "Alex, what's wrong?" "I-I can't say right now. He was having an MRI this morning, but I need him to come home right now. It's an emergency. Just tell him it has something to do with an impending investigation from his old job and I need him immediately. Can you go get him, please?" "Sure, I'll head over right now. Are you alright, Alex? You sound spooked." "I'm fine. Just go get him." Fuck, no, I'm not alright. I've never been so scared in my life. I don't know how Fox is going to react. I know he'll be glad that Sean is alive, but how much more can he take? There's so much we don't know, and those questions will eat Fox alive. He's not strong enough right now to go through something of this magnitude. And just because Sean is here, alive and seemingly well, does not make it so. This rapid growth could have been caused by outside influences or something implanted into his genetic makeup. He could continue to age and grow, and at this rate he would be an old man inside of a couple of years. Fox already lost him once and it was nearly his undoing, I don't think he could cope with it again. I don't know if I have the strength to make this next telephone call. I momentarily consider waiting and letting Fox break the news to Scully, but I need her on a plane as soon as possible. I pick up the phone again and dial her number. "Sc--" I cut her off before she can get her name out. "Scully, it's Alex. I've found information about Sean. You need to leave for the airport right now and get on the next plane to Baton Rouge." She inhales sharply. "What kind of information? Why can't you tell me over the phone?" Her voice rises in alarm. "Has his body been found?" "No, Scully, I think that Sean is very likely alive. I will not tell you anything else on the phone. Call me back from the airport; just get down here now." "Alright, I'm leaving. I'll bring Walter with me if I can. I'll call you back soon. Do you think he's okay? Does Mulder know?" "If my sources are correct, he's safe. Fox is at the hospital but I've sent someone to pick him up. Put down the phone and leave; we'll be waiting for you to arrive." I hang up the phone and sag against the counter. I hear the shuffle of small feet in the doorway and look up. Sean is standing there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Everything okay, Sean?" I strive for a normal tone of voice, hoping he can't sense the tension radiating from every pore of my body. "I-I have to use the bathroom, Mr. Drake." The cadence of his speech is unnatural, as though he's reading from some internal teleprompter with no real fluency of the language. There are so many questions I want to ask him, so much I need to know, but I'm worried about spooking him. "Sure, let me show you where the bathroom is, then I'll show you your room." I turn and lead him to the bathroom, tensing when he hesitates at the door. "You can use the bathroom by yourself, can't you?" I ask, wracking my brain to remember what I can about my nephews' toileting habits. "Yes, Sir, But I don't like the dark. W-Would you turn the light on please?" "Yeah, sure, no problem." I flip on the light and smile down at him. He's a handsome child. Too pale, too thin, his movements awkward and uncoordinated, he reminds me of a newborn colt. But he has Fox's full lips and strong jaw paired with Scully's nose and cheekbones. I back away as he enters the bathroom. Am I supposed to wait in case he needs help? Mason... Mason's eleven now, he doesn't need help in the bathroom, does he? Damn I wish Delia were home so she could come over and help me. Christ, how the hell are we going to explain Fox's long lost son to everyone? Not that it will matter -- I'm pretty sure Scully will have the kid on a plane back to DC in no time flat. And that, too, is going to tear Fox apart. If I don't buck up, pack his bags, and send him back with them where he belongs. That would be the right thing to do; the honorable and noble thing to do. And it will be my break me. I sigh. First things first -- find Covarrubias and put an end to her miserable existence. Everything else will just have to wait. I hear the toilet flush and the water run in the sink, then Sean emerges from the bathroom. We should take him to the hospital and have him checked over. I don't trust Marita any further than I could throw her -- this boy's blood could be as green as Emily Sim's was... "I'm normal, Mr. Drake. Marita and the doctors made me sleep and gave me medicine to help me grow. My blood isn't green," he says softly. I don't like the idea that my thoughts are no longer safe. I've been here before, when the oil possessed me and I felt like my brain was being filleted and dissected. Being laid open like a book for this child to read is unnerving. "Can you hear everything I'm thinking, Sean, or just some of it? Is it something you can control?" I ask him. "I-I don't know if it's everything. It never stops. Sometimes I can almost stop listening, and if there's too much it's just noise that doesn't make any sense. But it never stops," he shivers involuntarily. "You think really loud, Mr. Drake. I hear you clearly. You're afraid my daddy is going to take me and go away, and you think that I'm gonna die like Emily and that my daddy will be too sad to keep living," his eyes glaze over a bit, go out of focus and his pupils dilate, "Dad can hear you calling for him. It's making his head hurt. He's thinking he should have let Delia drive him home." I draw him back to the futon and sit down next to him, holding one of his small, soft hands in my own. "Sean, can you tell me how to stop making your father's head hurt? I don't want to hurt him. Does your dad hear everything like you do?" His brow furrows and his eyes close. "No, daddy doesn't know how to stop listening so that the voices don't hurt. He doesn't hear everything, just bits and pieces here and there. Mostly he hears you, because he loves you and he's always wondering what you're thinking." Tires spin on gravel driveway, then footsteps pound up the stairs to the porch. The front door is thrown open and Fox fills the doorway with his broad frame, his eyes wide and frantic. I stand quickly and pull him inside, closing the door behind him. He and Sean lock gazes. I can only imagine what medium of communication they are using. Fox's eyes light up and he crumples to his knees, one hand over his mouth. Sean walks carefully over to his father and hesitantly places a small hand on his shoulder. They gaze deeply into the other's eyes for a long, silent moment before Fox brings his hands up to tentatively run them over the delicate features. "Sean..." he breathes, his eyes dancing. Finally he pulls the boy into his arms, tears coursing down his face. He looks at me over the child's shoulder, and the expression on his face can only be described as Christmas, his birthday, and finding Samantha all rolled into one. It's the face of pure, unadulterated joy. So that is Fox Mulder at peace. I want to stay and drink in the sight, but this reunion is not mine to witness. I don't need to see any more. The look on his face will be with me the rest of my life. I take a steadying breath and go to prepare lunch. END SECOND GRACE PART II ***