Departure II

Sleek and black and gorgeous, V-Twin engine roaring and throbbing between my legs as I streak down the highway. What a machine.

The guy I stole it from must've loved this bike.

It's mine, now. That's how it goes: I take what I want.

Except when it takes me.

Damn it.

I crank the radio up, as loud as it will go. Grinding, pounding metal music: perfect for tearing full-speed down midnight highways, and just what I need right now.

If I could rip the memory out of my skull, I would.

But I can't, and it haunts me.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be a lark: nothing better to do with my time and hey, let's try this and see where it goes. I'm a cold, hard, soulless son-of-a-bitch, and he's not; this ought to be fun.

Mistake number one: Never try to mind-fuck a psychologist.

His specialty: digging into minds like mine and figuring out what makes them tick. And he did that, didn't he, Alex? Oh, yeah. He got you by the balls, and squeezed...

...and stroked, and licked, and made you scream...

Damn it!

Mistake number two: Don't ever fall for your victims.

Don't ever let them fall for you.

It stopped being a game and started being real, and I didn't have the sense to back off and leave it alone. I should have killed him. I should have just raped him and been done with it. I should have...

I should have never let him go.

And all of this races through my head in Russian, because who was it who said that Russian is the perfect language for thinking paranoid thoughts? Well, it's also the perfect language for being depressed in.

I can't afford to be depressed: it makes me sloppy, more prone to stupid mistakes. If I hadn't been depressed to begin with, I would have had better judgement; I would have stayed the hell away from him.

Instead...

Damn it.

Mountain on one side of me, steep drop on the other. One twist of the arms in either direction, and it'll be over: high-speed impact against solid rock, or an endless fall and then impact, putting me permanently out of my misery. But you can't do that, can you, Alex? You're a survivor; you always have been. Like a cockroach, always evading the sprays and the traps and the foot coming down hard to squash you, scuttling off into your hole to emerge another day. You can't help it; it's become reflex, now. Survival, no matter the cost.

You'll survive this, too. It'll wrench at your guts and twist you into knots with wanting him; you'll fall asleep into dreams of his body writhing against you, and wake up to the memory of his voice howling your name, and you'll never free yourself from wanting, from needing him... but you'll survive. You'll survive -- and you'll hate every moment of it.

Damn it.

If I could... if I could somehow rearrange reality, and be what I'd first allowed him to think I was, at the beginning... if I could be someone else, what would it be like between us?

If I could turn my back on everything I am, everything I've become... would I do it? For him?

The answer to that question scares the hell out of me.

And it's not possible, anyway.

I am what I am; there's no other choice, for me. My course in life was set when I was ten years old, when I snatched an old lady's purse so I could go out and buy comic books. It's been a steady progression from then until now, and there is no possibility of changing that. Even if I could buy myself a normal, proper, respectable identity -- I'd still be the same person I am now. It's too late for me: I can't turn back.

Damn him, for making me wish that I could.

What is he doing, now? Is he lying on that couch, watching one of his porno tapes and jerking off? Is he doing himself and thinking of me? Or is he hating me, despising me, planning how he'll kill me when next we meet?

It's inevitable, in any case. Sooner or later, he's going to kill me.

If I don't kill him first.

I know this, I know it down to my bones, and still I was stupid enough to...

Damn.

The music and the roar of the engine pound in my ears, but I can still hear it in my head: "Alex..." breathless and saturated with desire, wanting me... taking me inside him, taking me into his body and into his heart and holding me captive there, so that I will never, ever escape.

I wish that he had killed me.

In a way, he has killed me.

Because nothing is the same for me now. Nothing.

All right: enough of this pathetic sentimentality. Time to focus, time to lock everything away. I have a job to do: a contract that, once completed, will leave me with enough ready cash to keep me alive and reasonably prosperous for a little while. A good contract, for more reasons than just the money: the man I'll be executing is a particularly nasty specimen of so-called humanity.

Contrary to popular belief, I do have a conscience. I just don't let it get in the way of my survival.

It's a lesson he would do well to learn.

But then, if he did, he wouldn't be Mulder... would he?

Damn.

He is who he is, and I am who I am, 'and never the twain shall meet'.

If only that were true.

But I can't afford to think about that, now. I won't let myself.

I won't.

I gun the accelerator, watch as the speedometer needle pushes to the extreme right-hand limit of its range, feel the wind tearing at me -- clench my teeth, hard, and let the speed and the sound and the fury of the wind rip the troublesome thoughts from my brain. At least... for a little while.

And off to work I go.

I drive through morning traffic, horns blasting furiously in the streets, and none of it touches me. I find a parking space by pure reflex and move through the building like a spirit in the material world, insubstantial and unseen. I push open the door and walk into the office, my office, whose every scrap of paper and miscellaneous detritus has been crafted into a clutter so gloriously disorganized that it qualifies as a work of art -- and none of it is real.

Nothing is real.

I turn on the small radio, listen to the deejay announce the time and date, and marvel anew at the way time contracts and dilates with perception. Ten days ago, I left this office to take a week's vacation time, under protest and on the explicit orders of Assistant Director Skinner. Ten days ago, I left this office, knowing myself and my place in the world, and even if that place was an ever- shifting mystery of conspiracy and intrigue, it was still a place I knew.

In those ten days, everything has changed.

And no one has the slightest idea of what's happened.

Scully called last night. Asked me how my vacation had been. Chatted for a while; small talk, office gossip and so forth. I listened, made all the right noises at the right times. She asked me, once or twice, if I was feeling all right; I told her I was tired, and she seemed to accept that.

When I hung up, I went back to what I had been doing when she called: standing before the bathroom mirror, staring at the fingertip bruises on my arms. At the massive hickey on my neck.

By accident or design, the placement is rather good: at the juncture of neck and shoulder. In a suit and tie, it doesn't even show.

None of it shows.

The door opens. I draw a deep, deep breath, and manage to smile. "Hey, Scully." It amazes me that my voice sounds so normal. It amazes me that I can speak at all.

Her answering smile is warm and welcoming, and for a moment I lose myself in it: I sink into her smile, into her eyes, into all that is good and normal and right in my existence.

Then, the memory of different eyes. Darker eyes, opaque and transparent at once, revealing a wealth of emotion and hiding so much more, dark passionate eyes in a sweat-hazed face, devouring me with his gaze...

No. Not now. Not here.

"Mulder?" Damn it. She knows me too well. She knows how to tell when something's wrong with me, and how can I hide something this wrong from her?

If he had beaten and raped me, I could have told her everything, and we could have hunted him together. But now...

...now, if I go hunting for Krycek, what will I do when I find him?

Alex...

I arrange my face into a sheepish look. "I hate vacations," I tell her -- which, of course, she already knows. "Too much time alone in my own head." And this, too, is a truth. Only with truths can I hope to deceive her. My friend, my partner, who knows me better than anyone.

What would she think of me if she knew?

Better to never find out.

Her hand settles onto my shoulder, and I fight to banish the memory of other hands gripping me, pulling me closer with desperate strength -- I shove away the recollection as best I can, and strive to lose myself in the reality.

For a while, it works. We talk about trivial things, and I focus on her face, and while I am looking at her, talking with her, the memories fade. I am there, in the office with Scully, and the world is a familiar place.

Then we settle into routine paperwork, and it all comes back again.

I stare at files and forms and see his face, feel his hands upon me, searing kisses, the pressure and friction of his cock inside me... and hickeys don't hurt afterward, they never have, they never will, but I can feel the hidden mark on my neck throbbing in time with my pulse. I sift through expense reports and requisitions, unseeing, remembering the terror of being bound and helpless, thinking myself abandoned, and my frantic relief at his return. I try to make sense of stacks of credit card receipts, and hear the sound of his heartbeat as I rest my head against his chest...

My head jerks up, and I glance wildly around at the office, the clutter, Scully's bowed head as she scrutinizes her own stack of paperwork, and all of it is familiar, and none of it makes any sense.

Surrounded by the relative security of the world I've built for myself, I feel the sting of cold air on naked flesh, the warmth of a murderer's hands blistering heat along my skin and my soul, and ache inside for more of the same...

I make a hasty half-muttered excuse and escape the room as quickly as I can.

In the privacy of a bathroom stall, I rest my forehead against the cold steel partition and feel the world spinning, whirling crazily around me. Less than forty- eight hours ago, I was lying in his arms, bathed in sweat, passion ebbing and cresting within me in harsh, flooding waves, wanting nothing more from life but more of him. What happened to me? What's happening to me now?

All I have to do is close my eyes and it all comes back, so real and vivid that I can feel it...

And for a few luxurious moments, I let the memory take me - - because I can't hold it back any longer.

I sink into the memory of Alex Krycek, the jarring violence and tenderness of the passion and the hatred and the gut- wrenching need, pressing my hand into my crotch until it isn't enough anymore, unzipping my fly and pulling at myself with harsh, desperate strokes until my balls spasm and expel their contents, leaving me drained and numb.

The memory dissolves as the orgasm subsides, and suddenly I am so cold, inside and out, that I can't stop shaking.

You're going to miss me when I'm gone, he'd said.

And he was right.

It takes me awhile to rebuild my facade, tucking and zipping and wiping trails of semen from the toilet seat, splashing my face with cold water to remove the flush and smoothing my hair back into place, shoving emotion into neat compartments in my head so that none of it shows. It's a lengthy process, but finally it's done; I look in the mirror and see... myself.

For the moment, the memory has been banished, the need assuaged; I can feel -- pretend to feel -- normal.

Upon my return to the office, I discover that Scully has brought us both coffee; she moves to stand beside me, rests her hand on my forehead. "I think you're coming down with something," she pronounces her diagnosis, and I agree -- it's true, although my ailment is far more insidious and dangerous than a simple cold.

Then I bury myself in paperwork, not letting myself think about anything but the numbers and words, stark and orderly, staring up at me from the pages.

On my way home from work, I stop by the warehouse.

The rooms where I lay bound and helpless are empty. No furniture, no tell-tale stains, no sign that anyone ever inhabited these spaces. Even the gun I tossed into a corner of the warehouse is gone.

As if it was all a dream.

Was it all a dream? Did I somehow hallucinate a week's imprisonment and volcanic desire?

I go home, strip off my shirt and stare into the mirror, at the bruises and marks that prove to me that it was real.

There is a half-depleted six-pack of beer in my fridge, and I crack open a can and drink, remembering the taste of stale coffee flowing over parched, cracked lips. I lie down on my sofa and remember a hard, uncomfortable mattress, and my arms stretched painfully over my head. My cock starts to throb as I remember the agonizing, tantalizing feather-strokes of fingers striving to undermine my resolve with a pleasure so sweet that its lack of culmination was a torture beyond measure...

I can't go on this way.

Digging through a drawer, I locate one of my favorite videotapes and pop it into the VCR, sit and watch the action depicted therein. Lusty ladies panting and groaning theatrically... it's all right, I suppose, but it can't compete with the slide-show of memory flickering behind my eyes.

Reality can't compete with those memories; what made me think that a videotape could?

Eventually, I turn off the TV, because it is only distracting me from the power of my thoughts.

Where is he, now? Where has he gone? Off to wreak more havoc in my life, to take his part in the conspiracy that struggles to suppress my quest for the truth? Is he, at this very moment, killing someone? What the hell does he do, when he's not messing with my head?

Is he thinking of me?

Is he struggling to ignore a growing erection, fighting to stave off the memory of what we shared?

Is he running trembling fingertips over the marks I left on his flesh, thinking of the lips and hands that placed them there?

Is he as possessed by his memories as I am by mine?

I lie there, unmoving, feeling the pressure pulsing in my loins and holding back, holding back. I am rock-hard without ever having touched myself, purely from the memory of him touching me. The need tears at me, my hands twitch at my sides, yet I hold myself rigidly still until I can bear it no longer -- one hard squeeze and it's all over; I clutch at myself as the semen spurts from my cock, soaking into the fabric of my clothing.

It's not enough. It's not enough.

Nothing but him could be enough.

As I tiredly struggle out of the remainder of my clothes, I wonder whether the dry-cleaner will be able to do anything about that stain, or whether I have just ruined an expensive pair of dress pants. I make a note to remind myself to remove my working clothes first, the next time it happens.

Because I know, now, that it will happen again.

This is an obsession I cannot escape.

And do I even really want to?

...All I want is him. Near me, with me, in my arms, buried deep within me and staring down into my eyes as I cry out his name...

A steaming hot shower washes away the traces of my lapse of good taste, evokes a new round of memories; my hands work at my flesh, independent of my mind's commands, until the last remnants of semen are wrung from my balls in another quick shudder of orgasm. A pale shadow of what I felt with him: but when it is finished, I am exhausted enough for sleep to be a viable option.

I lie down on my couch again, and wait for the darkness to bring him to me in dreams.

I am lost.

And I hate him for that, now, as I could not hate him at the moment of my surrender: I hate him, and I want him, until my tired mind can withstand no more of the emotional upheaval, and drags me down into a mercifully oblivious slumber.

Days pass, tumbling one after another, building to form weeks: a month's worth of time, now, behind me.

I can breathe, now. I can get through a workday without jerking off in the bathroom. Without seeing his face behind my closed eyelids, beckoning me into the madness of recollection. I can trade barbs and laugh with Scully, and the office feels like home again; my life is once again my own.

During the day, I'm all right.

But at night...

In the privacy of my apartment, I fall headlong into the pit of darkness, utterly subservient to my memories. I have taken to using lubricant when I masturbate, because the frequency and ferocity of my midnight exertions would leave my penis sore and scarred with friction burns if I didn't -- and because the smell and consistency of the gel is a tangible reminder of the hellish ecstasy I so crave.

From the moment I leave my apartment in the morning until I return to its confines at night, my life belongs to me.

The rest of the time, I belong to him.

He doesn't know it, but he owns me: my private thoughts, my deepest needs. I try to exorcise the demon, and I can't: I read innocuous books, hour after hour, until my eyes are blurring into double-images; run miles and miles until the muscles of my legs are cramped and twisted into knots; do anything and everything I can to tire myself out so that I can sleep at night...

...and still I lie there, flat on my back on my couch, feeling my cock harden and my body shudder in time with the phantom touch of hands trailing along my skin, resisting the need with clenched teeth and swollen balls until I can't, until I just can't stand it anymore.

I hate him. I hate him.

I need him. I want him.

God help me, I miss him.

I've tried to stop the cycle. Went over to Scully's one night, to work on some drastically overdue reports; dawdled and dithered until it was too late to sensibly drive home, and wangled an invitation to spend the night on her couch. Bad mistake. The moment the lights dimmed, the memories and the need sliced into my brain just as always -- but I couldn't bring myself to give in to them, not there on Scully's couch, or in her bathroom. I had to lie there and endure it, sleepless hour after sleepless hour, until it was early enough to justify a long cold shower. Getting through the next workday was one of the most difficult things I've ever done, and I sprained my wrist jerking off that night when I got home.

For years, I've daydreamed and wet-dreamed about my partner, about taking her into my arms and my bed, smothering her with kisses from head to toe -- but that night, lying on her couch only yards away from her satin- clad body, all I could think about was Krycek.

Damn it. Damn him. What he's done to me...

...or maybe, what I've done to myself.

I could have fought him. I could have struggled, could have resisted him, could have made it necessary for him to beat me, rape me, kill me...

...but I surrendered. To him. To myself. To something bigger than both of us.

And now I am lost, hopelessly lost, and there are no maps, no guideposts, to help me find my way out of the darkness. Not even the faintest distant glimmering of light.

Maybe I'm just not looking hard enough.

Maybe I don't want to look.

Because the darkness is more compelling than any light I've ever known.

I live most of my life in darkness, anyway: ruled by memory, and trauma, and the memories of trauma. Now trauma has become ecstasy, and vice versa. The darkness, rising to suck me under. In a perverse way, there is a comfort in the darkness, as it spreads its velvety touch across my soul and claims me.

I only wish that he was here. To touch me. To claim me.

Another night lies in wait before me. Not him, but the memory of him -- the next-best thing to reality, and the only fragment of reality that gives me any satisfaction anymore.

I recline on my couch, and wait for the darkness to take me.

I awaken, choking.

Hands on my throat, clenching. Strangling me. I fight for breath, gasping, arms going up to break the hold...

...and a face looms over me, face of a cherub with the eyes of a demon, hovering just out of reach.

A moan rises from my chest, and I grab his shoulders and wrench him down, into the darkness with me.

His lips seize mine with crushing force as his body lands heavily atop me, muscles and sinews and a raging hard-on pressing me into the couch, and I arch up into him, moaning -- and shatter, into a white-fire orgasm.

Oh, God. I've needed this. Needed him. And never mind why he's here, or whether he decides to kill me as he leaves... never mind the price: having him here with me, for any length of time, is worth the cost.

"That was quick," he observes, as my body shakes with the aftermath; his voice is mocking, but his eyes approve.

"Shut up," I growl, and attempt to pull him down again.

He evades my grasp, slithering sinuously to his feet to gaze down at me contemptuously -- but the expression doesn't reach his eyes, and I know suddenly that he has spent this last month as locked into his own private hell as I have been imprisoned in mine. I look up into his face, then let my eyes drift lower, appreciating from close view how good he looks in leather.

"On your knees," he says, in a voice softer than silk; and I all but sprain something in my rush to comply.

His hands fondle the swell of his crotch for a moment, while I resist the urge to lick that bulge -- the hell with it, and I give in, leaning forward to place my lips against the smooth leather, savoring the throbbing just under that supple encasement. He makes a sound -- that incredible strangled, sobbing sound; and I feel myself hardening again as it fills my ears -- his hands grab the back of my head as his hips thrust against me, and I suck on the curve of his restrained erection, feeling it swell against my tongue, aroused beyond belief at the knowledge that he is as desperate for me as I am for him.

My arms coil around his thighs, and I find myself attempting something I've only ever seen on videotape; I grasp the tab of his zipper between my teeth and tug it down -- I nearly catch my tongue in his fly, but it evokes that sound from him again, which makes it all worthwhile -- his cock springs free from the tight confines of his pants without needing to be coaxed, and the scent of him fills my nostrils as I purse my lips around the swollen head and suck him into my mouth.

I'm choking again, and I don't care: I want him inside me, any way I can get him. I fight the gag reflex and struggle to take as much of him as I can -- not too damned much; I'm not at all used to this -- and try to remember all the things that have ever made me go crazy, when they've been done to me. Hell of a time for a memory test... I rub my tongue against the underside of his cock, and get to hear him make that sound again, as his hips try to force his hard-on deeper down my throat.

My hands slide up the backs of his thighs to his ass, smoothing along the cheeks, feeling the muscles clench as I pull him closer, and there's that little choked cry again, as his knees tremble... I think that it is this that arouses him so, far more than my clumsy attempt to give head: the evident fact that I want him, all of him, anything and everything he will give me. Whatever is doing it for him, it's effective; he shudders, makes that sound again, and climaxes.

Reflexively, I try to swallow, but the sensation of his juice hitting the back of my throat gives me a case of the heaves, and the taste of it makes it worse; it's all I can do to keep my jaw from clenching shut on his cock as semen dribbles past my lips and drips down my chin. I work at suppressing my reactions and not ruining it for him, as the spasms wrench through him and finally die down, until he finally sighs and pulls away.

Despite the gagging and the taste and my chagrin at my own ineptitude with the whole thing, I feel a pang of loss when he withdraws.

He crouches in front of me, reaches sideways to grab a tissue from the box I keep by the couch for when I jerk off, wipes the semen from my face with gentle fingers. "You can't suck dick for shit," he comments, his voice amused and almost affectionate.

I gaze into his eyes, seeing the Krycek-equivalent of lazy afterglow there. A thousand different comebacks race through my head, but I don't have the heart for banter at the moment. Instead, "Teach me how," I murmur suggestively.

Something flares bright and hot in his eyes; he leans forward and kisses me deeply.

He struggles to his feet, pulling me with him, never breaking the kiss; my arms wrap around him, holding him against me -- until the moment when he breaks my grip and takes a step backward, surveying me closely. I am naked except for my stained, sticky boxers, sweating and trembling and panting for more -- from the look on his face, it's a sight he enjoys.

"Take off my clothes," he says, in that honey-velvet voice, so soft that his words barely sound like the command that they are.

"And if I don't?" I say, testing.

He shrugs. "I'll zip it up and leave."

That will take some work, I notice; his cock is no longer dangling from his open fly, it's at half-mast and rising steadily, and leather pants that tight can't be too forgiving of such things. But I can tell that he's prepared to do just that: tuck himself in and zip up his fly and walk away, out of my life, leaving me to wallow in my feverish need alone...

Bastard.

I should let him. I should let him walk away, and see how long it takes before he comes crawling back on his belly for more of what I can give him... what only I can give him. I may be a lousy cocksucker, but that's not what draws him to me -- or else, why is he here?

He'll walk away. And eventually, he'll come back. And he will never, ever forgive me for that.

He's testing, too.

Intuition again, swift and certain.

He's going crazy from wanting me, and he needs to know that I feel it too...

How much had it cost him to come here tonight, to be with me?

How much will it cost me to give in to his command, by comparison?

And more to the point: can I really let him walk away from me now?

I take a step forward, my eyes never leaving his, and reach for the first button of his shirt.

Silk shirt, carefully tailored, expensive. My fingers are shaking so badly that I pop the first two buttons I try to open. Yet he doesn't complain; he simply watches me fumble at the buttons, with an expression halfway between triumph and tenderness plastered across his face.

He's won this round, or so he believes -- I don't think he realizes, yet, that we're both on the same side of this game.

Maybe it's better if he doesn't know.

He reaches up and runs his hands along my upper arms as I unbutton his shirt; when I'm finished, he lets his arms drop to his sides as I push the shirt off his shoulders so that it falls to the floor. I unfasten the button of his pants, then have to peel them off, inside-out, down to the tops of his boots -- weird closures, neither laces nor buckles; I have to fumble with them for a bit before I finally figure out how to undo them in the near-total darkness.

With that feral, pantherlike grace of his, he steps out of the boots and the pants in the same motion -- a neat trick, that -- and I gaze up at his naked body.

Nice view.

He extends his arms to me, and I grasp his hands, and he pulls me to my feet; I shove down my stained shorts and kick them off, and now I am as naked as he is.

A moment later, I am in his arms, and the feel of his skin against mine is overwhelming.

His lips and teeth close on my neck, in the same spot where he left that massive hickey last time around, and I twist my head a little to return the favor. Primitive, atavistic, the need to leave one's mark on one's property - - apparently, neither of us has evolved past that desire.

I want to know that when this is over, he will remember what we've shared every time he looks into the mirror... just as I will. With or without the mirror.

And I want to just... stand here, and feel his body pressed against mine... for as long as I can make this moment last.

I know that we won't -- can't -- have much time together, and I want every bit of him that I can get. I'll need these memories, when I'm alone again, to get me through the nights.

I know that sooner or later, no matter what I say or do, he will leave; and the thought hurts... so I cling to him, chewing and sucking on his neck, tasting him and smelling him and feeling him against me, and trying my hardest to permanently sear those sensations into my memory.

He makes a sound, the smallest breath of a plaintive cry as his teeth dig into my flesh, and I wonder if he is doing the same thing I am.

Too soon, his lips release me, and he tilts his head back to admire his handiwork. I take a look at mine -- even in the near-darkness, I can see the ragged outline of the hickey, large and dark enough to linger for a long time. A token of my... what? Esteem? Obsession? Affection? Lust? All or none of the above?

Who knows?

Who cares?

Not me.

I kiss him, he kisses me, our tongues battle briefly for dominance before settling into a rhythm of caresses; his hands slide down my sides to my ass, and just the thought of what he has in mind sets off a chain reaction within me that I am barely able to stop in time. "Yes," I groan.

"Say it." A ragged whisper in my ear.

"Alex, make love to me..." I don't have to finish the sentence. It isn't necessary for me to plead. Not now.

Still kissing, unable to quite let go of each other, we maneuver back toward the couch. He places one hand in the middle of my chest, pushes lightly; I allow myself to fall backwards and sideways onto it. "On the end table, in the drawer," I tell him, as he grabs the sofa cushion I use as a pillow and slides it under my butt, as I raise my hips to make it easier for him.

His eyebrows rise. "You're ready for me," he says.

"Did you think I wouldn't be?" A wealth of meanings in that comeback: I watch his expression shift subtly as he sorts through them all.

"It's hard to be sure, with you," he says finally, cryptically, as he squeezes some of the gel from the tube and begins stroking himself with it.

I watch, hypnotized by the slow, steady motion of his hand against his cock, with mingled anticipation and apprehension. "And you," I reply.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment -- the briefest instant -- we understand each other perfectly.

He kneels between my spread legs, reaches between them with greased fingers; the other hand rests on my abdomen, just above my groin, in a smooth caress. "Relax, Mulder," he murmurs. "Just relax."

Then his free hand shifts position, wraps around my erection, as one fingertip begins its slow entry inside me.

So slow. So careful. So gentle. So incredibly incongruous with the leashed violence of the man. Even our kisses are fury mixed with desire -- but in this, he is patience and tenderness personified. Despite the fact that I am literally aching to feel him inside me, it takes awhile before I can relax into the sensation of being probed -- and he gives me all the time I need, until I am physically comfortable.

Finally, his finger reaches that magic spot inside me, and a shudder races through me at the contact.

Easier to relax, with his fingers massaging my penis and prostate at once; shortly there are two fingers dilating me, then three, until finally he judges that I am ready -- carefully, his fingers withdraw; and I brace my feet against the sofa and raise my hips to make it easier for him to enter me. The first moment, as his cockhead pushes past my anus, is bad -- his hand strokes my hard-on more firmly, offering pleasure to offset the pain -- then we are past that hurdle, and he is sliding deeper into me, until I am filled.

Indescribable, that feeling.

"You okay, Mulder?" Concern in his eyes, honest-to-God concern. I drink in the sight of it, savor it, treasure it.

I try to reply, but all I can manage is a trembling moan. It seems to reassure him, nevertheless; he smiles -- a breathtakingly sweet and innocent smile -- and I treasure that, as well.

Then he moves, and there is nothing but the feeling.

So careful. Slow, small strokes as I grow accustomed to it. Then swifter, deeper, more forceful. Always making certain to hit the pleasure spot, even though it takes some careful positioning to make it happen. Watching my face, his eyes never wavering from mine, gauging how it feels for me and how far along I am -- and I struggle to keep my eyes open and trained on his, because I want to see the heat rising there, the sweat sparkling on his face, as the effort of bringing me pleasure brings him ever closer to his own. I stroke my cock in time with his thrusts, keeping myself from going too close to the edge, wanting to wait for him -- not wanting it to end. Not wanting it to be over.

His head tilts back, and that sound emerges from his parted lips, and I know that he's getting close.

Close enough that it's all he can do to keep from pounding me into the sofa; I watch him tremble, utilizing incredible restraint to keep his strokes slow and steady, and he is beautiful, simply fucking gorgeous, as he fucks me. I paint a portrait of him in my mind, and know that this image will fuel my fantasies for a long, long time.

I stroke myself faster, harder, to bring myself closer, so that he won't have to wait; and a little half-smile crosses his face as he notices.

Our eyes lock as we gradually fall into the same rhythm: pleasure becomes ecstasy becomes torment as we hover at the edge of completion together, both of us holding back until it becomes impossible, until the last possible moment -- then he makes that sound again, and I shiver; my muscles clench around him, and he shudders; another stroke, one more hard thrust, and we climax together.

In the endless moment between intensity and peace, his hand reaches out toward me, and I catch it and enfold it in my own -- and we gaze into each other's eyes as the last dying spasms quiver through us, holding hands.

Then he withdraws, with a slow sigh, and stretches out on top of me.

"You're heavy," I murmur.

"You like it," he says lazily, and buries his face in my neck.

I don't bother to dispute it; I just reach up and settle my hand against the base of his skull to hold him there.

And I am content.

I'm lying on my couch embracing a wanted criminal, very probably the same man who killed my father, covered with his sweat and other things, and I am more at peace than I have ever been in my life.

I am lost.

And it feels so damn good that I could cry.

"I have to leave," he says, without stirring; and my arms reflexively tighten around him.

"No," I say. Not yet...

"Soon." He shifts a little, head turning sideways, and I feel his lips brush against my cheek. "Very soon."

Too soon.

"You took your sweet time getting here," I chide him, hoping desperately that I'm not saying too much.

He is silent for several moments, considering what I have said, and how best to respond. "You missed me?" he says finally, in a tone that almost makes it sound like mockery.

Never mind the truth. The best thing for me to do in this situation is tell him what he wants to hear. If only I can figure out what that is...

"Yeah," I whisper finally. When all else fails, go with the truth.

Another long silence. "Yeah," he says finally. "Well, I was kind of busy."

Which is as good as an admission in kind.

Carefully, I do not ask what he has been busy with.

"Sorry I'm late," he adds, as an afterthought.

Surprised, I laugh.

He laughs with me.

For one precious moment, there are no walls of circumstance separating us, no history of hostility: just two naked bodies pressed together warm and sweaty, and our laughter.

I can't bear for this to end.

The laughter dissolves, comes to a natural end, and then it is just the two of us, breathing.

"It's dangerous for me to be here," he says. His voice is low and soft, intimate. "Dangerous for both of us."

"I know," I whisper. My arms tighten around him: I know -- but don't leave.

Insanity. He can't stay here. I know it. We both do.

Yet he doesn't move to rise from my couch, to escape from my embrace.

"Let me go, Mulder." Again, that soft voice.

I draw a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't," I admit.

Loaded words. From both of us. So many things, we say, in so few words... It's better when we don't talk at all.

If conversation was something as simple for us as sex, what would I say to him? Alex, I need you. It's insane, it makes no sense, but I need you: I need to be as close to you as I can possibly be. I need to own you, to be owned by you. And I need you all the time, but if all I can have of you are isolated incidents, I'll take what I can get and be thankful; and when you're gone, I'll spend my lonely nights replaying every memory I have of you, and waiting for the next time you return. I know you have to leave me, but I'll cling to you until the last possible moment, because I can't let go: I need you, Alex. I want you. And I really don't give a damn how insane that might be.

But I don't need to say a word of it; he already knows. Everything that has transpired between us tonight has said that to him, in a language that he understands.

Just as his actions have told me... so much. So much.

Everything that I have told him without words, and more.

I know that Krycek will return.

And I know why.

"Mulder," he says, "let me go." A long, long pause. Then, in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it: "Please."

My eyes squeeze tightly shut, and I inhale deeply, savoring the scent and the feel of him for one last, lingering moment.

Then, resolutely, I release him from my arms.

Swift, silent, graceful, he rises from the couch. Retrieves his clothing and slides into it, into the snug leather pants that reveal every plane and curve of his lower body, into the expensive silk shirt whose top buttons are lying forgotten somewhere on my floor.

He steps into the boots, bends over to fasten them, and as my eyes travel along the curve of his ass, I find myself wondering irrelevantly how he can wear those boots without socks and not have masses of blisters on his feet.

And as the clothing falls into place on his body, the mask slips into place on his face, with a near-audible click: he turns to face me, and he is once again opaque, unreadable. This is the face of the man I have loathed, the man who no sane being would want to meet in a dark alley. This is the face of Alex Krycek.

But the eyes... are another story.

He strides back toward me, bends over the couch, captures my face between his hands and delivers a scalding, blistering kiss that sizzles through my central nervous system like a bolt of lightning.

Then he moves, like a cat, across my apartment to the window, opening it and stepping through it and onto the fire escape and drawing it shut behind him: and he is gone, without ever once looking back.

For a few minutes, I stare at the window, hoping hopelessly to see the shadow of his form through the dirty glass, returning.

A futile hope, and I know it; yet cannot turn my eyes away.

Then I slump back, onto the couch. The scent of him still lingers, hovering around me like a cloud; I inhale it deeply.

You're going to miss me, when I'm gone, he'd said.

Always, Alex. Yes.

But he has been here; and I know that somehow, despite the dangers, he will be back.

It's enough.

It has to be enough.

I breathe in the last traces of his living presence, drifting in the stale air; I close my eyes, and sleep.

It has been seventeen weeks, now, since I was held captive in that dismal warehouse.

Since then, I have seen Alex Krycek seven times.

He drops in every two weeks or so, and it has become interesting to try to predict what the next visit will be like. On his second visit, he showed up wearing an only slightly rumpled business suit; we watched half a ball game together, between orgasms, and rooted for opposite teams. His third visit, I came home from an evening of paperwork-and-pizza at Scully's to find him lying on my couch, freshly showered and wearing my bathrobe, eating Doritos and looking as if he owned the place.

It was raining cats-and-dogs when he came to see me the fourth time; he crawled through the window soaked to the skin, jeans and t-shirt dripping rain all over my floor. I rubbed him down with a towel, then with my hands, and didn't let him up for air until dawn.

When it came time for the fifth visit, Scully and I were on a field assignment in Louisiana, adjoining rooms in a real dump of a motel; I was in a pissy mood, knowing that I wasn't going to get my Krycek-fix any time soon -- until he picked the lock of my motel-room door with a credit card, nearly earning a bullet in the chest for his troubles. Paper-thin walls, and Scully on the other side of them... I bit down on his forearm instead of screaming, as I shot my load inside him; and afterwards, I cleaned and bandaged the bloody wound before he disappeared into the night.

By the sixth visit, back at my apartment, the teethmarks had healed into a neat double-crescent. "Look at what you do to me," he murmured into my ear, and I kissed the scar fervently, then dropped to my knees before him to kiss something else -- afterward, he grudgingly allowed that my technique was improving, as we began the second-time-around with a long hot soak in my shower.

The seventh visit, the most recent, was noteworthy in that it actually took us almost a half-hour before we got around to ripping each other's clothes off. Instead, we talked -- small talk, about sports teams and the weather and the traffic on the Beltway -- and eased into lovemaking with all the familiarity of a long-time couple. We're becoming more comfortable with each other, with our intermittent liaisons. Knowing that I'm going to see him again lessens the urgency of needing him... at least, until he appears before me in my apartment or motel room, and the desire sweeps over me with the subtlety of a speeding freight train.

I still haven't come any closer to figuring out why I feel this compulsion... but maybe that's because I've stopped trying.

It's the best of both worlds for me. During the day, I have my X-Files, my Scully, my world, whole and complete. At night, I have my memories of that searing passion -- and the rare precious moments when I have him, real and tangible, beside me and beneath me and inside me.

I am content. Possibly even happy.

Another week or so, and I will see him again. In the meantime, there is work to be done.

A type of work that requires all of my attention focused on the job: the New York field office has been working on this operation for a long, long time. Drug trafficking ring, operating all along the East Coast, and they're about to bust the ring wide open... not our usual work, but the SAC in New York was in 'Nam with Skinner; he asked his old buddy for a favor, a short loan of his best agents, so here we are.

To be truthful, I love this sort of thing. The adrenaline rush of impending danger is almost as addicting as... as Krycek. But Scully is here, too, which prevents me from enjoying myself as much as I otherwise would. She's tougher than I am, in so many ways: my mind knows that, but my heart persists in seeing her as small and fragile and in need of protection. A protection I can't provide, once we storm this warehouse.

The irony of it is vaguely amusing: how many times have I sent her blithely off into danger, knowing that she could handle it? I have no problem working with her within the scope of the X-Files; I rely on her absolutely to guard my back, without ever questioning her ability to do so, and there is no one I would rather have at my side in a dangerous situation...

...but seeing her in body armor does something to me: makes me want to engage Knight-On-White-Charger mode and sweep her up and away and out of the line of fire.

Someday, maybe, I'll tell her that. From a safe distance, so she won't have the chance to break both of my arms for the presumption. She would, too; my Scully is like that. ...Or maybe she'd take me into her arms and kiss me. Whatever -- I'm not ready for either of those possibilities.

The truck pulls up: the signal we have been waiting for -- and there is an audible crackle of tension in the air, as two dozen agents ready themselves.

Megaphone: "Federal Agents! Lay down your arms and surrender!"

And the battle begins.

...Time is subjective. Fueled by adrenaline and fear and determination, gunfire bursting all around you, there is no room for thought, only reflex reaction. I aim, I shoot, people go down, and I don't think about it -- although there is a part of me that tracks Scully's presence and status without thinking about it: she's my partner, and that's what partners do. Reflex, like the rest.

It seems to go quickly -- at least, that is my perception. Before long, we're down to cleanup: tending to our wounded -- only a few, and only superficial damage, thankfully -- and several dozen handcuffed, sullen men are being herded to the waiting vans. Scully and I are among the agents who search the surrounding areas, for any suspects who might have escaped the building.

We move carefully down the dark space between the warehouse and the next building, alert, wary. One wrong move will be our last... We reach a juncture: a look, and a nod, and we split up, each of us taking a different direction.

I try to make my footsteps soundless, avoiding broken bottles and assorted trash that will betray my presence. This part of the bust, I could live without... the tension is unbearable.

Then, "Mulder!" I hear, distantly: the sharp Scully-sound that means I need backup, and I'm turning and running before my mind is consciously aware that my feet are moving.

I round the corner, and skid to an abrupt halt...

"Look what I found," Scully says, with grim satisfaction.

Oh, God.

Her rifle is aimed squarely at a man's chest; one squeeze of her finger on the trigger, and she'll blow a hole straight through him.

Krycek.

Alex.

No, damn it, no...

Not this. Anything but this.

"Cuff him, Mulder," she says.

Slowly, his head turns; his eyes meet mine.

He doesn't try to talk his way out of it, he doesn't say a word; he just looks at me, and there is neither anger nor pleading in his eyes. Instead, only... resignation. The weary, dejected look of a grim prophecy fulfilled. As if he has been waiting for this day -- as if he'd expected it.

And suddenly, I know that he has.

While I have been drifting in a blissed-out haze of passion, he has known all along that this moment would come. That someday it would be him against us -- against me -- and that our fragile bubble of togetherness would burst, as we take our respective places on opposite sides of the law: a chasm too great to be bridged or mended.

I have held this man in my arms and kissed him with desire and tenderness and longing, and now it is up to me to see that he is imprisoned and brought to justice for his crimes -- which will probably mean his death: he has been running, for a long time, from more than the law. And he has known from the beginning that this would happen: the consequences of our disparate lives and selves, conflicting and colliding, leading to this inevitable sundering.

"Mulder!" I have not moved, and while Scully will not take her eyes off him long enough to spare me even a quick sidelong glance, she knows that something is wrong. She knows that something is wrong because I have not yet cuffed him, haven't moved from where I stand rooted to the spot, gazing bleakly into those eyes, those eyes, and the prospect of everything that has come to matter to me irrevocably shattered: she knows nothing of the conflict roiling within me, only my inaction, and in the space of the two syllables of my name phrases a sharp question: what the hell is wrong with you??

And Krycek sighs, barely perceptibly; and very, very slowly so as not to draw Scully's fire, lowers his arms and extends them, wrists together, waiting for me to slap on the handcuffs.

We have come full circle, now. Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, I stood before him in the same position, giving him my submission and myself as a means of bringing us closer together. Now... he stands before me, his posture and his expression telling me that he will not resist, nor even condemn me for what I must do, as he waits for the moment that will drive us apart forever.

His eyes. God, his eyes.

I tear my gaze away from him, knowing that there is no way I can go through with this if I look at him; and I hear another small sigh emerge from his lips.

I take one step toward him, then another, my hands fiddling with the cuffs I carry.

"Let him go," I hear myself say, as if from a very great distance.

"Mulder!" and there is shock in my partner's voice, disbelief and worry and fury chasing each other in frantic circles behind the sound of my name.

I cannot bring myself to look at her. Instead, I look at him -- at the eyes, wide with astonishment and with something else that I cannot, will not define.

I take another step forward, a step that places me between my partner and my addiction, effectively blocking her line of fire. "Let him go, Scully," I say, and my eyes never leave his.

He doesn't say a word. One long moment, staring at me; then he whirls around and flees, faster than thought, disappearing around a corner in the space of a breath.

The handcuffs drop from my numb fingers, and I realize that I am shaking.

"Mulder, what have you done?" furious and frightened and outraged, and her words echo in my ears: What have I done?

Oh, hell, what have I done?

And I cannot move, even when I feel her hand clamp down on my arm -- such strength in such small hands -- pulling me around and down to face her, to gaze into eyes that burn with anger and concern and unanswered questions.

She touches my cheek, and I realize that my face is wet with tears.

Her eyes search mine, scrutinizing, probing, with the same deft skill with which she wields a scalpel. "We have to talk," she says, in a voice that is pure steel.

I am lost.

Then she bends to pick up the handcuffs I have dropped, and -- because I still can't coordinate my thoughts well enough to motivate myself to move -- guides me back to the staging area, with that one hand holding my arm with enough force to leave bruises.

"Why, Mulder?"

She covered for me at the debriefing. Never said a word about our encounter with Krycek. Now we are alone, sitting side by side on the bed in my hotel room. She is staring at me, trying to meet my eyes -- and I can't look at her.

I feel ashamed.

"Why?" she presses, taking my hand. Her anger has passed; now she is merely concerned -- and that shames me more than anything. "Mulder, what's wrong?"

How can I tell her?

Well, y'see, Scully, I had to let him go, because I like the way he shoves his cock up my ass...

Oh, God.

And I have to give her some kind of explanation, and I can't tell her the truth -- but I have to. How can I lie to Scully, about something so vitally important??

"I don't get it, Mulder," she says. "You've wanted his ass in a sling for longer than I have..."

I have to laugh at that; it comes out as a pathetic, feeble sound. "Interesting choice of words," I mutter.

"Why did you let him go?" Her voice is a hammer, pounding into my skull. "We had him, Mulder, we had the son-of-a- bitch; how could you let him go?"

"I..." I have to tell her. I can't tell her. My stomach hurts.

I feel it clenching, violently; I jump up and scramble for the bathroom, but before I can get there, I'm falling to my knees and puking up bile on the carpet.

Her hands settle on my shoulders, holding me as I shudder, rubbing my back soothingly. When the spasms subside, she brings me a tissue to wipe my mouth, and a glass of water to wash away the taste; she helps me back to the bed, makes me lie down. I find myself curling into a fetal position, hunched into myself. As if by withdrawing, I can somehow avoid the situation. Unfortunately, I know that isn't going to happen.

I still can't look at her, but I feel her hands stroking my hair -- and I want to tell her, just to have it out in the open, have this nightmare be over with already -- but what will she think of me, when she knows?

"Mulder," she says, very softly, "tell me what's going on with you and Krycek."

So I draw a deep breath, and start to tell her the story, from the beginning.

She doesn't interrupt; she lets me tell it, quietly and patiently. I can't bring myself to look at her face, to see her reactions, but her hands keep stroking my hair, never faltering.

I pause at the part where he told me that someday I would ask him to make love to me -- and I can't take it any more, I have to look at her, see her face and what's happening there...

...tears, streaming silently down her cheeks. "Mulder," she murmurs, "I'm so sorry."

Shit. "It wasn't your fault," I hasten to reassure her, sitting up, sliding my arm around her shoulders.

"You said you were going away, to get away from it all... I tried to call you once or twice on your cellphone, and when I didn't get an answer, I just assumed... I should have known, I should have known something was wrong..."

"Scully, no..." I can't stand it. I can't bear the idea of her feeling guilty over this. "Listen, there's... there's more."

And I tell her the rest of the story; and again, she listens, without interrupting, without flinching away from my touch.

Even when I tell her about the first time he fucked me.

Even when I tell her how much I liked it.

Even when I tell her about how I turned away from freedom, and went back for more.

I tell her all of it, even though there are times when I have to force the words out of my mouth -- it feels so strange, so wrong, to be confessing this to her. But she needs to know; she has the right to know -- I tell her all of it, up to the point where I walked back to my apartment: and I pause and wait for her verdict.

It takes her a moment to reply. "Mulder," she says very softly, very gently, "it's not unusual for someone in your position to feel... sympathy, even affection..."

"I know all about Stockholm Syndrome," I interrupt her, "believe me, it was the first thing I thought of, and I kept clinging to that, the whole time... but it, it's... there's more to it than that."

And then I tell her the rest of it.

About my passion for him, about the desire that claws at me and gnaws at me, the literal physical need I feel for him. About his visits, and how they define my life. About the way he looks at me, and the way it makes me feel when he looks at me that way. All of it, spilling forth in a torrent of words, all the things I have never dared to tell anyone.

Even Scully.

Especially Scully.

When the stream of words finally slows to a trickle, I sit there, hunched over on the edge of the bed, and wait for her indictment.

I can almost feel her collecting her thoughts, searching for words. "I never knew," she says finally, tentatively, "that you were... bisexual."

A small, bitter burst of laughter escapes me; I shake my head. "I never have been, before. I don't know that I am now. I just... I just want him."

"Why?" she asks me, with honest curiosity.

"I don't know," I sigh.

"Are you in love with him?"

Her question brings me up short. "Love... is not a word I've ever used, or even considered."

"But it's more than sex, for you," she presses. "You've made that very clear."

"I don't know what it is, Scully. I don't know. I just know... dammit!" as a sudden realization strikes me. "What if he doesn't come back, what if I never see him again?" and this thought, combined with the stress of having to tell her the story, brings me almost to tears. All at once, all I can think of is how bleak my life will be, how empty, without his irregular visits.

"What will you do then, Mulder?" Her voice is quiet... clinical. The voice of the doctor, examining me.

"I don't know. I don't know." I glance at her quickly, afraid to meet her eyes. "Don't look at me that way. You don't understand."

"Help me understand, Mulder. Help me understand why you're sexually obsessed with Alex Krycek. The man who you believe murdered your father. The man who helped to abduct me, and who may have been involved in the murder of my sister. How could you get so involved with this man?"

Her words, her tone of voice, make me cringe. "Dammit, Scully..." I can't sit still anymore, I have to move; I rise from the bed and start pacing nervously, wishing that I could just leave the room, go out, go anywhere, start running and never come back. Anything to get away from this. "I knew this would happen," I hear myself muttering.

"Knew what would happen?"

"This! You." I manage to summon enough anger through my shame to glare at her. "Your disapproval. Your disgust."

"Mulder, I..." She rises, comes to stand before me, grabs my arms so that I can't evade her. "What do you expect me to feel? You let Krycek just walk away from a crime scene, and now you're telling me that you did it because you're having sex with him... how am I supposed to feel about that? And how am I supposed to trust you now?"

Oh, God.

If there's one thing we've always had between us, right from the start, it's been trust...

"You can trust me, Scully." It hurts to have to say that to her. To have to convince her of that.

"How can I know that?" Her words cut into me like a rusty blade, slicing into my heart, hemorrhaging pain throughout me. And from the sound of her voice, saying it is hurting her as badly as it's hurting me to hear it.

"You know me, Scully!" But it occurs to me as I say it that she really doesn't anymore. That my revelation has caused her to question everything she thought she knew about me.

My world is falling apart; I can feel it crumbling, and desperately I scramble to hold on to whatever fragments I can.

"Mulder, what if Krycek had had the gun?"

Damn... Good question, Scully.

"He wouldn't have hurt you." Or would he?

"How can you know that?" Her voice is shaking; she seems on the verge of tears. "Do you really think that whatever he feels for you is strong enough to interfere with whatever other agenda he might have?"

"Yes, I do." The words are reflexive, an instinctive reaction. I've seen the look in his eyes when he comes to my apartment, the look in his eyes when he has to leave... But am I right?

Or am I just deluding myself?

"And am I supposed to stake my life on your trust in him? In him? Alex Krycek?" She's yelling, now. I have so rarely seen her lose her cool... the sound of her shouting frightens me. Chills me to the bone.

I can't lose her. Not Scully. I can't. Krycek is my addiction; but damn it, Scully is my one certainty...

"I would kill anyone who hurt you." As I say the words, I know that they are true.

"Even Krycek?"

"Yes. And he knows it." Of course he knows that. From the moment he entered my life to spy on me, it was the first thing he picked up on: the bond between Scully and me. He's got to know that if he ever so much as harmed a hair on her head, I'd kill him with my bare hands, without hesitation.

He knows that I would.

Wouldn't I?

Scully gazes up at me, and I can see that she wants to believe in me, in us. That the uncommon bond we share hasn't been broken. And silently, I will her to believe: to trust me...

Finally, she speaks. "I'm sorry, Mulder, but that isn't enough for me." Her voice is heartbroken -- but quiet and determined, the tone that signifies she's reached a decision she will not waver from. "I don't know where your loyalties lie anymore -- and I don't think you know, either."

"No," I hear myself whisper. "Scully, don't..."

She continues as if she hasn't heard my plea. "I think... I think you need to consider seeking professional help. I think you need to figure out what's motivating you, what's compelling you toward him, before anything worse happens. You're already in over your head. Mulder, what if everything you think you know about his feelings is another of his lies? What if this is all a... a ruse of some kind, to gain your confidence and set you up for the kill? What happens to you then?" More softly: "What happens to me?"

I shake my head, slowly -- it can't be true. It can't be. She doesn't know what it's like, when we're together. She doesn't understand...

...what if it's me who doesn't understand? What if Scully's right?

No. I couldn't be that wrong about him, about what he feels, about what we have shared. I couldn't.

Could I?

"And I think..." Her voice catches in her throat. "Until you work out what's happening inside your head, I... I don't think we should be working together."

"Scully..." No. Not this.

"I don't share your faith in him, and I won't place myself in jeopardy because of your misplaced loyalty to Alex Krycek." She is crying, now; tears streaming down her face; and I'm shaking so hard that I can't move, can barely breathe. "Damn it, Mulder... if it were anyone else, I'd be so happy for you. But this isn't 'anyone else' you're sleeping with -- and I cannot continue to work with you, knowing that the minute Krycek steps into the picture, I can't depend on you..."

"Scully, you can!" I have to stop this, somehow...

"The same way I could tonight?" And her words stop me cold.

She's right.

About everything.

She can't trust me, because I can't trust myself where Krycek is concerned.

Damn it, she's right.

And I'm losing her.

"I'll... I'll request a temporary transfer. I'll find an excuse, something I can tell Skinner... I'll tell him that I want to be close to my brother on the coast. I'll find something to tell him. Maybe... if you can sort this out, maybe..."

It's goodbye. She's saying goodbye.

No, oh please, no...

She's still trying to talk, but the words won't come out; and instinctively, I take a step forward, reaching out to comfort her...

...and she moves away. Shakes her head slightly, as the tears roll down her cheeks. I can't comfort her: I am the source of her pain.

"I can help you find someone to talk to," she manages to choke out. "If you want... I want to help you, Mulder. You... you're..."

"Don't leave me!" I'm begging, now. Pleading. "Scully, don't leave me..."

"I can't stay." Her eyes close, her face contorting into an expression of agony. "I can't."

"No..." One hand stretches out toward her, a drowning man reaching for the lifeboat, pleading for salvation from the killing sea.

A sob shudders through her as the last of her restraint melts away; she turns away from me and flees, through the connecting door into her own room, shuts it behind her.

No.

Please, God, no.

This can't be happening. This can't...

Through the thin door, I can hear her sobbing -- wailing, as I have never in my life heard her cry before; and my soul shatters and falls to the floor in crystal shards.

I've lost Scully.

I've lost everything.

I am lost.

And I can't stop shaking, and my legs won't hold me anymore; and I fall to the floor and stay there, too dazed and aching to move.

I wake up there, on the floor, and for the briefest moment, I wonder why.

Then I remember: it sweeps over me in a great wave of agony and despair.

After a quick visit to the bathroom, I knock on the connecting door. Maybe we can talk this out, figure out some other resolution... No answer, so I head out into the hall. The door of her room is open, the maid is vacuuming, and oh, sorry, sir, but the person in this room checked out hours ago...

I wander back into my own room, check my front-desk voicemail messages, and hear her voice on the tape: she's caught an early flight back to D.C., she'll see me when I get back. Riiiiight.

I feel so cold. So cold, all over. I just can't stop shaking.

I shower and I pack and I take myself down to the Metroliner shuttle and spend the next few hours staring out the train's window as the swamps of Jersey speed by. Eventually, I debark in our fine nation's capital, and catch a cab back to my apartment.

My mind is a whirl of thought, yet I cannot manage to string any two ideas together to form a coherent plan. Emotion tears at me, yet I feel curiously numb.

I open the door of my apartment, step inside -- and everything rises up, all of the doubt and the fear and the pain, and smacks me in the face like a fist, at the sight of the black-clad figure standing by the window.

And in a sudden blaze of fury, I lunge at him, ready to smash his face in, to tear him to shreds with my hands. "This is your fault!" I roar at him.

He catches my arms, holds me away from himself; his face is inches from mine, and I can feel his breath on my skin when he speaks. "What the hell were you doing there?" in a tone as furious as my own.

"Me?! What about you? Smuggling drugs, for chrissake...!"

"Is that what you think?" Honest surprise, for a moment; then, "You shouldn't have been there, Mulder. Do you know how much of an effort I've made to stay out of your way?"

"Why the hell should you care? You're not paying the price..."

"I expected to," he flings back at me. "I never dreamed you'd let me go."

His eyes... "You son of a bitch," I fling at him miserably.

"Mulder," he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

I could kill him.

I could kiss him.

Damn it, I don't want to do either.

I wrench myself free of his grip, retreat to the couch, curl up at the end of it, hugging my knees. He doesn't move. "Tell me what happened," he says softly, bleakly, in a tone that suggests he's already inferred the salient points. So I sketch it out for him -- for the second time in twenty-four hours, relating a part of my life that I really don't want to consider.

He doesn't say anything for a long time afterwards.

Then I feel him move, sense him as he kneels on the floor beside me. "So what happens now, Mulder?" he inquires.

"I don't know." I am a mass of pain, everything in me is pain, breathing and moving and thinking and feeling is all a giant blur of pain. I can't begin to figure out what to do next. I just want the pain to end.

I hear him swallow, hard. "Say the word," he murmurs, "just say the word, and I'm gone."

Shit.

"I'll get up and walk out of here, and you will never see me again. I'll see to that." Suddenly he's sitting on the edge of the sofa, facing me, grasping my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. "You can put your life back together, mend things with your partner, it'll be as if it never happened. Just say the word, Mulder." His eyes, his eyes are desperate. "Just say the word."

And here it is, the one thing I'd hoped would never happen: the choice.

Choose, Mulder: which will it be? The darkness, or the light? The person you trust above all others, or... the man you don't even dare to consider that you might love?

Choose, Mulder. You can't have both. One or the other. Choose.

Oh, God.

"I..." I don't know what I want. I can't choose. "I just want the pain to stop. I just want to forget." My hands dart out and grab his arms. "I just want to forget it all, for a little while."

He can do that: the way he always does. The scent and feel of his body, the passion... "Make me forget," I whisper. "Please."

His eyes search my face for a long, long moment... then he leans in, draws me close, and I fall -- throw myself -- willingly into the abyss.

I need him to be rough with me, now; instead, he is gentle. Deep, tender kisses... and after a few moments I realize that he knows me better than I know myself, in this. Violence will not banish the pain, only make it harsher -- but his tenderness soothes me, calms me, brings me slowly to an inner stillness.

He undresses me. His fingers turn the unbuttoning of a shirt into a long caress. He eases the fabric from my skin so smoothly that I barely notice the transition, then removes his own clothes swiftly. By unspoken consent, we settle down on the rug, to have more room to move than the couch can offer; his arms enfold me, his legs entwine with mine, and we kiss...

We make out, like a couple of teenagers -- but without the urgency: there is no question of where our kisses will lead, it's just a matter of time. After a while, I forget that time is something we have precious little of. Time stretches like taffy, soft and pliant, as we kiss and caress and fondle each other; every so often, my eyes open and find his, just to see the haze of desire that lingers there. Slowly, slowly, our arousal builds; as if we have all the time in the world.

When arousal swells into need, we fall into position as if we've been doing it forever; I'm conditioned to the routine, and lifting my hips as he slides the pillow under my butt is an intense turn-on. With the same uncommon gentleness, he prepares me -- it doesn't take as much preparation, nowadays: I've gotten used to it.

I've gotten used to him.

And the more familiar he becomes to me, the more I want him.

I feel the pressure as he moves to enter me, and instead of tensing against him, my body's reflex is to relax and let him in.

Then he's inside me, and time slows to a molasses crawl.

He takes his time, more so than usual. I reach for myself, but he deflects my attempt, wraps his hand around my cock and strokes me -- slowly, so slowly that the buildup is maddening.

And I relax into it: into the luxury of not having to do anything but lie there and be fucked and stroked. I don't have to concentrate on position or tempo or any of the logistical necessities of intercourse, I don't have to do anything except feel. The sensation builds to that edge, toward that sudden tightening that precedes climax -- and just as I'm on the verge, his fingers apply that odd pressure at the base of my cock and pull me back. He keeps me there, dancing on the edge of the cliff, that sweet pulsing ecstasy that I always wish could last forever... and it does: it goes on and on and on, until there is no room for thought in me, no room for pain, no room for anything but the feeling surging through me. Moans, cries, whimpers of pleasure are wrung from my throat; I hear myself make the sounds, but don't feel it, don't feel anything except him inside me and surrounding me, giving me this exquisite stimulation, giving and giving and giving, filling me with the sensation, with himself, prolonging it far beyond anything I've ever known...

...and just at the point when the pleasure is so severe it's almost pain, when I can't stand any more and need to come, he brings me up and over and into orgasm, and draws that out, too -- endless intense waves, washing over me, filling me and draining me and leaving me at peace.

Afterwards, he holds me, and I snuggle against him, not thinking, just feeling.

Until slowly, slowly, the anguish and the despair and the knowledge of the choice I must make creeps back into my consciousness.

I look at him, into his eyes... his eyes... "What do you want me to do, Mulder?" he whispers.

And I don't know.

His arms tighten around me swiftly, convulsively, so that for a moment I cannot breathe -- then release me. "You have to choose," he says softly. "You can't do it with me here."

He rises to his feet, dresses quickly; and I can't speak, not even to plead with him to stay.

"I'll be back," and his hand smoothes my hair, caressing me just for a moment. "You can tell me then."

He cups my face in his hands, kisses me deeply, and departs.

I lie on the floor, naked, cold and aching.

I am alone.

I am alone, and I hurt. I have a choice to make, a choice that will destroy me no matter what I decide, and I cannot think clearly enough to make it: all I know is that I am alone, and I hurt.

And I'm thirsty.

I rise to my feet -- with difficulty; I'm dizzy, drained -- stagger to my refrigerator. There's nothing there except the bottles of beer I bought a couple of weeks back... Krycek's brand, the type he likes best. I find an opener, pop one open, drink from the bottle. And make a face -- how does he drink this crap?

You'd better learn how to drink it, Mulder, speaks up a little voice within my head, because he won't be here to drink it anymore.

In a sudden burst of rage, I fling the half-full bottle into the sink, where it smashes into fragments.

Damn. That was stupid.

For some reason, the sight of the broken glass in the sink makes me want to cry. I begin to collect the shards -- and wince, as one of them cuts into my palm. Somehow, the pain soothes me: the superficial ache eases the much harsher pain within me.

I watch the blood flow from the gash, watch it drip onto the white porcelain. With my other hand, I reach for the faucet, move my hand under the cold water, and gaze hypnotized as the red fluid mixes with the clear and spills down the drain.

It's all strangely comforting: the throbbing in my hand, the blood mingling with the water, splashing over the porcelain and the fragments of glass.

As if in a dream, I watch myself pick up one of the larger shards, the one that cut me -- still edged crimson with my blood -- study my hand with interest as it places the sharpest side against my skin and extends the wound, slicing into the heel of my hand, down to the wrist.

What are you doing? says a quiet little voice in my head.

I pay no attention, concentrating instead on the pain of the skin parting against the glass. It hurts. It hurts. A solid, tangible pain. A pain I can control. Deeper, the glass penetrates, spreading the gash wider; and now the blood is flowing strongly, staining the water as it rushes into the sink.

And I watch myself bleed: finally, I can watch myself hemorrhaging. Not like the other wound, which I can only feel. This is a good wound -- a good pain. It takes me away from the agony which I cannot tolerate.

What are you doing? repeats the little voice, more insistently now.

There still isn't enough blood.

So I switch hands -- funny, how the bleeding one doesn't want to grip the glass -- and begin carving an identical gash into my right hand. It disturbs me that this slice isn't as clean and straight as the one on the other side... for a moment. Then I feel a tugging, and I pull -- and oh, the blood is flowing nicely, now.

The glass falls from my hand, which is inexplicably shaking, and I hold both wrists close together under the brightly sparkling gush of water, and now there is enough blood to turn the runoff deep red.

A good color for water. A good pain.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? says the voice in my head, in a rushing roar like tree limbs shuddering in a fierce wind.

I think I'm trying to kill myself.

Kill myself? No, that isn't right... that isn't me, and suicide is for the weak. Who told me that? I don't remember. Yet I remember hearing it... It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. My hands, my wrists, my arms, are one giant mass of throbbing, stinging pain: and in the grip of that pain, I feel nothing else.

I feel nothing.

Is that what it means to be dead?

You are trying to kill yourself, says the small, detached voice of logic in my head.

Yes, I think I am.

What else is there for me? Lose one, and I can't function; lose the other, and I can't survive. Lose both, and I'm an empty shell of a human being, soulless and mindless with nothing but the pain to cling to. How can I choose? How can I avoid the choice?

This is how.

This is the only way.

And it looks so... so pretty: the blood and the water and the sparkling glass.

So pretty. Sparkling. Everything's sparkling. Like the world on the morning after a rainy night, glistening with tiny raindrops.

I'm falling. But I've been falling for so long that I can hardly tell the difference. No, not yet... I'm not finished yet...

I feel everything tilt sideways, as the world goes black.

It's a white room. Very white. Nearly blinding. And soft: no sharp edges anywhere.

There's a window in the door, and anyone walking by can look in at any time, to see what I'm doing, whether I'm sleeping or pacing or taking a shit... It amuses me, to think that Krycek was more considerate.

I guess that's why they call it 'observation'.

Every morning, someone comes to change the bandages that cover most of my hands and almost all of my lower arms. Every evening, someone comes to change the sheets on my bed. Three times a day, someone brings me a meal that I have to try to eat with a spoon. And every day, I am taken to a pale blue room with a desk and a chair, and a concerned-looking gentleman who wants to know: why did I do it?

And I can't tell him.

I guess I could -- but why should I?

No matter what I tell him or don't tell him, no matter what I do, I'm screwed.

Scully comes to visit every day after work. She flashes her badge and exerts her authority, and takes me outside, to the neatly manicured garden. We sit there on a bench, and we talk -- sometimes; other times we merely sit there in silence -- for the forty-five minutes of visiting time that is permitted; and then I am returned to the too-white room.

They were medicating me for awhile, and that was good, because I didn't care; but now they've cut back the dosage, and it's beginning to hurt again.

"Why won't you talk to the doctors, Mulder?" Scully asked me, stroking the back of my hand soothingly as we sat together on the bench under the apple tree. Yesterday, I think -- or it could have been last week; it's hard to tell, in this timeless place.

I shrugged. "What's the point?"

"You could get out of here," she murmured.

"You think so? If I tell them the truth, that I let a suspect in a Federal drug case walk, the best thing I can hope for is that a board of inquiry buys the insanity defense."

"Well, then, just tell them..." and she stopped suddenly.

"Anything?" I finished for her. "If I lie to them, give them a story they can believe... what happens if and when I go back to work, Scully? Are you going to be there? Are you going to work with me, knowing how I feel, and what I've done?"

A long, long silence.

"That's what I thought," I said, softly.

"Mulder, I'm really afraid for you," she said, her voice unsteady and aching. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I don't know what to do to help you, and I..."

"You can't," I found myself whispering. "You can't help me now, Scully."

She shot me a sharp glance. "And he can?"

I didn't answer. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't make her feel worse.

But at night, every night, I lie awake and think of that last time he and I spent together. How it felt. How I felt. How I never wanted it to end, and how I would give anything, everything, to be with him again... I think of him until I'm so hard it hurts; yet I can't do anything about it, because one of the night staff might walk by and see me. Some things are too personal to share.

"Somebody called 911," Scully told me, once. "By the time the ambulance got there, someone had already bound your wrists to stop the bleeding," and fell silent, gazing at me, perhaps hoping I'd supply the answer. But I'd been too doped up then to comprehend her words -- only later did it occur to me what they meant.

I just miss him.

"Does the possibility of losing him really hurt you that much?" she asked me, during another visit.

I remember emitting a harsh laugh. "I've already lost him," I told her. "With this sort of scrutiny on me, he's not going to risk another visit. He's a survivor, he... he'll do what he has to do to survive."

"You know this about him," she persisted, "and still you feel so strongly? How can you care so much, knowing that he'll desert you in a moment if his involvement with you runs contrary to his own best interests?"

Even through the haze of the drugs, I found her words astonishing. "You did," I pointed out.

Then I apologized, because the look of agony that crossed her face was more than I could bear. But I was right, and we both knew it.

Somehow, I've managed to betray them both.

Today, Scully brought a chocolate bar, and we shared it underneath the apple tree. After an eternity of bland institutional food, it was a real treat. And when we'd finished every last crumb, she asked me again if there was anything she could do, any way she could help me.

I told her no, that there was nothing she could do. It's the truth: if I were to ask her for the type of help I really need, it would destroy her to supply it to me. If she assented -- and most likely she'd refuse; and that would destroy me.

I'd already decided, by then, what I am going to do. And while a part of me wanted to tell her, a much greater part knew that she would only act to prevent me from doing it -- and that mustn't happen, not this time.

The story's all worked out in my mind: the tale of mild yet justifiable depression that I'm going to spin for the doctors. I'll tell them, and I'll keep telling them, and eventually they'll buy it -- I've studied psychology, I know how to sell it to them -- and they'll let me out of here with a prescription and a series of appointments with a shrink.

Scully will be harder to shake. She'll be suspicious, and protective. But if I'm placid enough, or simply manage to piss her off enough, eventually she'll leave me alone for awhile. For a little while, at least.

And then... If I know Scully, she'll have gone through my things and confiscated the spare gun I keep hidden away for emergencies. Possibly even the knives in my kitchen. But there are any number of good, quick, certain ways to die; I've seen them all, in my years with the VCS. I have a half-dozen in mind.

Maybe I'll strangle myself. Maybe I'll think of Alex and jerk off while I do it. That would be suitably ironic: to make Mr. Bruckman's half-prediction come true.

But whether I choose that route, or another... I've decided.

I can't go on this way any longer. This pain has to stop.

The lock clicks, the sound of the orderly coming to change the sheets, and wearily I drag myself up off the bed and settle myself into the single plastic chair, staring at my bandaged wrists as I do. The half-healed wounds throb and itch, reminding me of my actions, and my plans... After this will be another of the bland, textureless meals, and then I can lie down and try to sleep. I can think of Alex, curled up facing away from the door so that no passersby can see my hard-on, and live in the dubious comfort of my memories until the time comes when I can sink into oblivion permanently.

Tearing my attention away from my bandages, I absently watch the orderly as he begins stripping the bed. He must be new at the job; most of them have the task done in a few quick flicks of the wrist, well accustomed to the repetitive motion. New at the job -- and yet he's familiar: something about the posture, the stance, the haircut...

Then he half-turns, darts a quick glance in my direction, and I see his face.

I wrap my arms across my chest, hugging myself, rocking back and forth slightly, in a desperate attempt to keep myself from jumping up and flinging myself at him. There is no privacy here: someone might see me.

"How are you doing?" he asks me, trying hard to simulate the bored, overly-friendly tone that health-care professionals so often use toward patients whose welfare they really don't give a damn about.

I shake my head slightly in reply, unable to tear my gaze away from him. His eyes...

"That's what I thought." He's so worried. His hushed voice, his expression, the way his hands clutch the sheets...

He's worried about me; he found a way to sneak into this place to see me, to find out how I am, because he's worried about me -- I thought I'd never see him again, yet here he is...

I never dreamed you'd let me go, he'd said to me.

Oh, Alex. I never dreamed you wouldn't let me go.

"What can I do to help you?" he asks me, struggling to smooth the flat sheet over the mattress and tuck it into 'hospital corners', a job made harder by the fact that his hands... his whole body is trembling.

Only a short while earlier, I'd considered asking Scully to bring me a knife, a blade, something with which I could make another try... but suddenly I have no wish to die.

Suddenly, there is hope: something, someone to cling to, and a reason to continue living.

My hand darts out, clutches his wrist, even though the movement tugs at the healing wound painfully. "Get me out of here," I hiss at him urgently, desperately.

For the barest instant, he hesitates, and my heart clenches into a knot -- he's going to refuse, he's not going to do it, he doesn't really care -- then there is a short, curt, nearly imperceptible nod of his head; and I am awash in a tidal wave of relief.

He tugs his arm free from my grasp, trails his fingertips lightly over the back of my hand in a quick caress. "Wait for me," he murmurs in a prison-yard whisper, gathers up the dirty sheets and moves quickly out of the room.

The door swings shut and locks behind him.

I shut my eyelids very tightly, to keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks.

Then I drag myself out of the chair and stretch out on the badly-made bed, to wait for my meal. To wait for lights-out.

To wait for Alex to return.

To wait.

My room is dark, but I can see the light from the hallway outside shining through the window in the door through my half-closed eyes. I cannot, dare not sleep. He could be here at any time.

Once upon a time, he imprisoned me, and now he's coming to release me...

What will Scully say, when they tell her I'm gone? Will she somehow surmise what has happened? Will she come after me -- after us -- believing the worst? Will she rage? Will she grieve? Will she fear for my safety?

I wish I could leave her a note. Maybe, somehow, I'll be able to let her know I'm all right...

I wonder if she'll believe me.

All at once, the hallway lights go out: and a quiver races through me.

He's here. He's near. He's coming to get me.

For a second, the sheer unreality of it overwhelms me. Alex Krycek has gone from being my personal demon to my savior. Unimaginable and yet wonderful.

The click of the lock: of the door, opening. A figure barely silhouetted by the emergency lighting.

If I hadn't already known who it was, I still would have known him a mile away; I've learned to know that silent silhouette, outlined a half-dozen times against my apartment window...

My apartment. Will I ever see it again? Funny, it never really felt like home, but now I miss it already.

It occurs to me to wonder: once he gets me out of here... where are we going to go?

Will it be 'we' -- or will he just leave me somewhere to fend for myself?

Sudden fear seizes me, makes me shiver.

Then he crosses the tiny space in a couple of long quick strides, grabs me as I am sliding out of bed to stand, pulls me to my feet and into his arms, into an embrace so fierce that it squeezes the breath out of me... and the fear melts like butter and slides away.

It's all right. Everything's going to be all right.

He shoves a bundle of clothing at me, and I strip off the stupid loose pajamas that are barely one step up from a hospital gown and dress as fast as I can -- black jeans, black shirt, black on black like his own clothes: perfect for skulking in shadows. It seems to take forever to get the shoelaces tied on the sneakers; and then we are off and moving, out of the little room, through the corridor.

The lights go back on just as we are slipping through the fire door, and I stiffen -- he grabs my arm and pulls me along. No visible alarms yet; maybe they don't know I'm missing... but my heart is pounding: they can't catch us now. Not now.

It'll break my heart to be separated from him now. It'll break me.

Out of the building, into the garden, keeping to the shadows, heading toward the high gate... almost there now, almost...

"Excuse me," says a voice. A too-familiar voice.

We both turn at the sound of it, and there she is, black-clad as we are and armed, her weapon trained on Krycek... he takes a half-step in front of me, reaching for his gun no oh no oh please no for the barest second before his arm relaxes.

And for a timeless interval, we stand there, the three of us, staring at each other.

Her aim never wavers from his chest, but it is me who she speaks to. "Is this really what you want?" in a low voice roughened by emotion.

What do I want? Him. Both of them. My life, the way it was before the shit hit the fan: Scully filling my days and Krycek filling my nights and myself, whole and complete. But that is something I'll never recapture. It's far too late for that.

When all else fails, I think, go with the truth.

"I had decided to try again," I tell her, bleakly. "I didn't see any other choice for me. But now I have a choice, Scully. A chance for a life I can live with."

It isn't really an answer to her question. And yet, in another way, it's the only answer.

And she accepts it. I can see it, in her eyes: in the pain and the guilt and the resignation there.

She tears her gaze away from me, fixes a laser-beam glare on him. "If anything happens to him," she says, her voice trembling with intensity, "you're a dead man."

Almost, he laughs: just the slightest breath of a sound, both sardonic and rueful. "Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

Another endless moment of silence -- and then the muzzle of the gun twitches, gestures sideways: go on, get out of here.

Krycek moves, and instinctively I follow him; but as he does something to the gate's lock, I look back at her.

Standing there alone, such a small figure -- gazing after me. I can't see her eyes, but then, I don't need to. I know what she's feeling. I feel it, too.

Scully...

I may never see her again.

"Mulder..." The gate is open, now. I glance back at him, see the electric tension in his eyes -- and the fear, as he wonders if I will change my mind and go to her instead.

For a moment, I almost do.

Then I turn around, turn my back on her -- on my partner, my life, my world -- and follow Krycek, through the gate and into the night.

He has been gone, now, for nearly two weeks.

Caged in this secret place, I wait for him, with something less than patience.

It is an exceptionally comfortable lair, I'll grant you that. Stunned me, when he first brought me here. The decrepit cabin camouflaging the entrance is barely habitable, but this place -- hidden by a trap door and a tunnel and a series of ever-more-complex locking portals -- is virtually palatial. When the Rat goes to ground, he does so in style.

Living here has taught me a wealth of lessons about him. Everything is textures, visual or tactile: leather and silk and satin and the softest fur, finely-grained wood and smooth burnished metal. The few pieces of art that hang on the wall are abstracts, from the framed paintings to the ancient, lovingly-preserved concert posters from the old Fillmore. Nothing too ostentatious, but quality, straight through. Taken separately, the furnishings are chaotic, mismatched; somehow, the disparate elements combine to form a harmonious, if complex, effect.

He owns the most impressive entertainment system I have ever seen. Broadcast and cable television are naturally out of the question, but his collection of videotapes is comprehensive, ranging from Gone With The Wind to the Indiana Jones trilogy to taped-from-the-BBC British comedies to a selection of pornography whose range and scope includes some variations of copulation that I had never even heard of before. His array of CDs and cassette tapes is even more vast, and unique in its diversity: the hard rock I'd expected, the classical music falls within the realm of possibility, but the Celine Dion and the original Broadway recording of 'Annie' had me scratching my head in disbelief for quite some time.

Yet they have to be his, because I know -- without him having to tell me -- that I am the first person he has ever brought to this secret place.

His bookshelves are equally impressive in their contents, and I have spent many hours poring through old favorites and stories I've never read before. The cupboards and walk-in freezer contain a variety and quantity of food sufficient to feed a crowd for years. The medicine cabinets hold a drugstore's worth of medications, and enough supplies to treat almost any injury or illness that I can imagine. The tub in the bathroom is jacuzzi-sized, all padded surfaces instead of hard fiberglass, large and comfortable enough to host a fair-sized orgy.

He will not tell me how he happened across this place, or how the little details of electricity and plumbing are handled, here in this secluded, desolate patch of wilderness. I know better than to try to pry out the answers: when pressed for information he does not want to reveal, he folds into himself, into an inscrutable, impenetrable creature, so impervious to persuasion that not even the promise of sexual delights will budge his resolve.

Sensible, I suppose, in his line of work, where capture and torture are ever-present possibilities.

Dear lord, when did I begin to think of his actions as nothing more than a career choice?

But I do not want to think about what he does when he is away from me, or about capture or torture. The thought of what he is doing with his time is... disquieting, to say the least; the thought that he might be in danger chills me to the bone.

I want him here, with me.

I just want him to come home.

A soft, melodious chime sounds throughout the place, and I freeze -- then, very deliberately, force myself to relax. We've developed a routine, he and I, and that routine does not include my waiting anxiously for him at the door like a panting dog eager for his master's voice.

I dash across the room and fling myself onto the sofa, hastily pick up the book I'd been reading, leaf idly through the pages while I catch my breath, and ostentatiously ignore the opening of the portal. "Oh," I say, "you're back," casually, carelessly, as if I hadn't been desperately praying for that very occurrence.

"Yeah," he says, just as nonchalantly, as he locks the sturdy door behind himself.

I glance up over the book, trying not to look as if I am devouring the very sight of him. He's dressed like a yuppie businessman out for a day on the links, looking oh so proper and presentable, and my fingers twitch with wanting to divest him of the polo shirt and the frustratingly baggy pants.

"How did it go?" I ask him, wrenching my eyes back to the book with a supreme effort.

"You don't want to know," he answers, bending down to remove his shoes before treading on the lush, velvety carpeting that covers most of the floor.

He's right; I don't. I don't want to hear that he's been washing his hands in the blood of the innocent and the guilty. I especially don't want to hear that he's been off doing something that might cause danger to the ones I love. We had one long conversation, not long after he brought me here... he knows how I feel about what he does, and I know that he will do what he judges to be necessary; and that there's not a damn thing I can do about it, in his bed or out of it.

Accordingly, there is only one restriction that I impose upon him: that he continue to bring himself home after these ventures, alive and reasonably whole.

Again, I glance up at him, while he is too preoccupied with fumbling at shoelaces to notice; my eyes travel over his body and find no evidence of injury, and I breathe a swift, silent sigh of relief.

"This place is a mess. When was the last time you vacuumed?" he inquires, in a tone so innocent that I know it is a deliberate taunt.

"What am I, your housekeeper?" I retort, in the same vein.

"No," he parries, "you're not that useful."

"Bastard," I fling back at him, without rancor.

His grin goes straight to my cock, swelling it with a desire too long unfulfilled. "Bitch," he says, just because he knows I hate it when he calls me that.

Then he pads barefoot over to the edge of the couch, reaches down and plucks the paperback from my fingers, dropping it carelessly to the floor; and the pretense of nonchalance slides away from us both like smoke dissolving in the wind.

I reach up to him, and he reaches back, and I pull him down on top of me; his lips cover mine, hard and hungry with desire, yet lacking that edge of violence that always lets me know when one of his ventures has gone wrong -- no barely-leashed rage in him, no need to plunder and conquer -- only the urgency that tells me, eloquently, what he will not say in words: I missed you.

My arms wrap around him, locking him to me fiercely, giving him the message he needs to know: I missed you, too -- spoken in the language we share, that needs no words to transmit thoughts with crystal clarity.

We move through seduction and foreplay in the space of a few brief kisses and hurried caresses as we tear at each other's clothes; it's always like this, when he comes home. I've always spent the interval worrying about him, and he... he... I don't know what goes through his mind when we're apart: but whatever it is, it leaves him all but desperate to make love to me.

Being fucked is the most intense pleasure I've ever felt. I've wondered, sometimes, how I managed to go through half my life without ever knowing this pleasure. But of course, it would have meant having sex with another male, and that was never on my mental map...

Alex Krycek was never on my map, except maybe somewhere in that big grey area marked 'DANGER' in bright red text. Squarely in uncharted territory, I am lost...

...and have never enjoyed the journey more.

After a delightful, tumultuous interval spent rolling around on the couch and the floor and eventually -- when we gather enough of our wits to think of moving to a more comfortable locale -- on the king-sized bed that dominates the Ratcave, we lie sweaty and sated in each other's arms. Satin sheets are a pain in the ass to have sex on, especially something like anal sex that requires a fair amount of precision in positioning and movement... but it feels heavenly against flushed skin afterwards.

Exhausted and intoxicated by the afterglow, his face softens; he looks very young, almost innocent. I reach up to touch his cheek -- and he wraps his hand around my wrist, turns my arm to reveal the ugly scar that runs from the middle of my palm down my inner arm, and kisses the ropy ridge of skin.

The touch of his lips there is electric; I shiver.

"Cold?" he asks me, and I make a small negative noise; he pulls me closer anyway, reaches around me to snag the satin quilt and draw it over our naked bodies.

Nestled together in a cocoon of warmth, we are a world unto ourselves, and nothing else exists. I can forget the world outside this sheltered place. I can forget about what he does when he's away from me. I can forget that I was once an embittered federal agent ensnared in a web of conspiracy and intrigue, and I can forget -- almost -- a brilliant, incisive mind behind a mane of flame-red hair and a pair of bright blue eyes that were once as much a part of me as my own flesh and blood and breath.

I can forget, and know nothing but the sweetness of the moment, of his arms around me, and the lazy satisfaction of our joining.

Life is good. I am content.

For the moment.

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