Cherry Ripe: Part One

by Rachel Anton and Laura Blaurosen

"Just call me when you've found something.  Kay?"

'Kay?' is Mulder's way of saying, 'Yes, I am aware of the fact that I am blowing you off, and I suppose I'm kind of sorry for treating you like a minion, but please do it anyway.'  There might even be a thank you thrown in there somewhere as well.  Whatever combination of the above, it seems to justify the command for him, seems to makes him feel better about whatever he's doing at the moment.  I should refuse him, but I never do.  No, I'm a good girl, I press on and I do as I am told.  Please don't ask me why.  I'm still on the journey to figuring that out.

One time I told him no.  To this day I still laugh at the memory of the surprised look on his face, despite the situation I eventually found myself in.  How dare I refuse him?  the look said.  You always do what I need.  Why stop now?  Even though at the time it made me angry as hell, at least for one moment I had the simple satisfaction of refusing Fox Mulder.  It was liberating.  For a moment.  Until I got on the plane to Philadelphia, cursing him and myself the entire time.  Kind of like I'm doing now.

It is so fucking hot out today.  I don't think that the air in this car works very well anymore.  Not surprising since the odometer on this thing reads 95,000 miles.  I'm starting to wonder if I haven't put on at least twenty of those ninety myself.

Where the hell am I?  It seems like I just keep driving the same stretch of road over and over.  And it just keeps getting hotter and hotter.  "It'll be a nice drive.  Kay?"  "It can't be but ten miles out of town.  Kay?"  "I'll catch up with you.  Kay?"

No, Mulder, not 'kay'.  Shit.  I've now pulled off everything I can without getting completely naked or risking losing control of the car, which amounts to suit jacket and my shoes.  I suppose I could take the T-shirt off.  No, the last thing I need is to get apprehended by identity-less government thugs when I'm half naked.  "Uh, FBI."  as I fish around my bra for my badge.  No, I'm not that desperate.  Not yet.  Next intersection and I'll pull over and take of the hose.

No, next intersection and I'm turning around and going back to the hotel.  Why am I here?  There's nothing out here.  Nothing but nothing.  He insisted this was our last resort.  That if the location wasn't out here, it didn't exist, that it couldn't exist.  But he was certain it was.  Absolutely certain, he said.  Seems to me that last time he was absolutely certain I ended up in the middle of a desert.

I drive a little further and I'll be damned if I don't see an actual building in the distance.  Damn him.  I hit Mulder's number on my phone as I pull off the road and in front of it.  Antelope's?  Is that what the sign says?  Said.  It's deserted as anything around here.  Is THIS what he meant?  God, I hope so.

Looking for service.

Roaming.

Shit.

I don't want to, but I turn the car off and open the door.  It's not a sauna, it's not even an oven.  I think I've driven to bloody Mercury.  The air is so oppressive, I feel like I've had the wind knocked out of me.  And when I try to get up, a sinus headache overwhelms me like an atmospheric slap in the face.  Mulder's got my Advil.  Shit.  Well I guess I'll at least take off these stupid nylons before they've seared to my legs.

Shit.

This is not good.  This is very very bad.  What the fuck is she doing here?  I knew I was taking too long.  This chunk of metal has been burning a hole in my pocket for two days and I've been burning a hole in the floor of this dump for almost an hour now.  Sometimes poetry needs to be sacrificed for expediency.  I forget that once in awhile.

I've been trying to select the perfect place to leave it, see.  A place that I could never forget just in case I need it again.  A clever place.  An easily described yet hopelessly remote place.  A place no one would guess but that makes perfect sense.  A place other than my pocket.  I like my pocket and all, but I'm a little sick of being a moving target.  I need it off my person.  Now.

I picked Antelope's.  Well, that's not entirely true.  It might be more accurate to say that Antelope's picked me.  Or maybe most accurate to say that my car decided to overheat about two miles away and I wandered into this ghost town looking for a mechanic and a bite to eat and discovered that there is nothing here except for Antelope's.

I crawled in through the window and immediately decided that this had to be it.  The place.  I just had to find something to stuff it into.

Which brings me back to the current problem.  I've been standing here for an hour trying to imagine various hiding places and possible reactions to the discovery of said places.  See, I like to think that when people uncover a piece of my work they're shocked, awed at my craft.  The irony, the wit, the sheer brilliance, they say, scratching their heads and wondering where I learned this shit.  I like to think that I give the artist part of con artist true meaning.

Anyhow, my mind works better, faster, in the cold.  Always has.  And it's hotter than hell in this deserted, broken down dump.  Too hot to think.

Point is, I've been standing here like an imbecile for too long.  Way too long.

How the hell did she find me?

When I heard the car I thought it was one of them.  Maybe even the old bastard himself.  Mulder didn't even cross my mind but it wouldn't have shocked me.  But her?  Is it possible that she's been following me?

I've been underestimated plenty of times.  I try to be careful about not doing the same thing to other people.  I know how dangerous it can be.  I try to keep careful track of my enemies, potential and realized.  Looks like I missed one.

It's not that I doubt the lady's intelligence.  Not at all.  In fact, truth be told, I think she's probably one of the smartest people I've ever met.  Smarter than Mulder even.  It's just that her subterfuge skills are fairly limited.  She doesn't have a sneaky bone in her body.  At least, I didn't think she did.  Sneaky enough to tail my sorry ass half way across the country unnoticed apparently.

Okay, time to take note of possible exits.  She pulled up to the front so I've gotta leave through the back.  Unless she's snuck around the place.  I take a peak between a couple of rotting wooden planks near the front door just to make sure.

She hasn't even gotten out of the freaking car yet.  She's sitting in the driver's seat with her legs hanging out the door, looking straight ahead.  Straight at me.  I don't think she knows I'm in here though.  If she knew surely she'd be heading towards the building, weapon in hand, not sitting there with a blasé expression on her face, fanning herself with a folded up newspaper and kicking her shoes onto the sidewalk.  Could it possibly be that her appearance here is coincidence?  She looks more like a disgruntled tourist than an FBI agent on a manhunt.

Maybe if I just wait here she'll go away.

No.  This cannot be coincidence.  How could the world possibly be that bizarre.  She's here for a reason.  Even if she doesn't know that I'm in this building she knows there's something here.  Don't ask me how but she must.

Okay, wait.  I think I missed a step.  I look away for two seconds and by the time I look back she's unbuttoning her pants.  This is absolutely, 100 percent weird.  Maybe it's a trap.  It's a perfect set up: She starts to strip, distracting me, and Mulder jumps out of the shadows and starts beating my face in.

God, she's really doing it.  She's taking off her goddamn pants.  Gotta be a trap.  Gotta be.

Or maybe she's just hot.  Watching her, I start to notice little details; the way her hair is matted and sticking to her forehead and her neck, the beads of sweat sliding over her chest, down the V-neck of her tight white T-shirt.  Man.

I really should be going now.

The dowdy tan pants pool around her ankles and she demurely lifts one foot and then the other.  She bends over and lifts the pants, shaking invisible dust out of them and drapes them over the passenger seat of her car.  Panty hose.  She's wearing panty hose.  I have never been able to understand how women could wear those things at all, never mind underneath a pair of pants.  And at 4 p.m. in the middle of an Oklahoma July, you'd have to be crazy to even consider it.  She seems to concur.  She reaches under the waist band of the wretched things and pulls them down over her thighs, calves and feet.  Once they're off she kicks them away and doesn't bother to pick them up.  Wise move.

She's just sitting there in a T-shirt and her freaking underwear.  Her silky, white underwear, damp with sweat.  She's sagging sideways against her seat and her legs are spread wide as fuck and she's just sitting there like that.

I no longer believe this to be a set up.  There's no way in hell Mulder would've let me get this much of a show.  And neither would she for that matter.  She must just really think she's alone in this shit hole.  Which is good for me in a way.  Very good.  I've got a hell of a chance of getting out of here without her spotting me at all.  If only I could stop looking.

This is stupid.  This is pathetic.  I'm not some desperate, horny loser.  I'm not Mulder.  I've got better things to do than sit here staring at a woman in her panties.  Scully's not even that good looking.

At least, I don't remember her being all that good-looking.  Of course I've only spent about fifteen minutes in her presence during the past five years.  And every time, she's been with Mulder.  God forbid I glance at Mulder's woman.  I've done my best to ignore her and it's been pretty easy so far.

I might have to start rethinking that policy.

She's running her palms over the insides of her thighs now, mopping up the moisture as her head rolls backwards on her neck.  There's always the possibility that this is just a massive hallucination.  It is very hot.  Sometimes the mind plays tricks…

She's taking her underwear off.

Oh.

God.

She's taking her fucking underwear off.  She loops her fingers in the waistband, seems to hesitate for a minute, looks around furtively, shrugs and yanks.  Once the scrap of fabric is away from her skin she curls it up into a ball and shoves it in the glove compartment, giving me an even better view of the damp, peachy curls between her legs as she leans back.  I can almost smell her from here, pungent and heady from the temperature.

This would qualify as a very bad thing.  I've got a hard-on for Dana Scully.  It's almost a suffocating presence.  I almost feel like stripping myself.

Then just as suddenly as it began, the red head review is over.  She grabs her pants and pulls them back on over her bare flesh, steps into her shoes and starts walking right towards the bar.

Dammit!  What the hell is my problem.  I must be seriously slipping.  It's too late to escape unseen.  Thanks to my voyeurism, I'm stuck here.  I've only got a couple of options left.  I've got to let her capture me, let her think she's winning and talk my way out or I've got to hurt her.  It takes less than a half a second for me to decide.

Roaming…

No Service.

Fuck.

I suppose since I drove all this way, I ought to at least check the place out.  As soon as I don't, this will have been the spot.  And if after tomorrow it's gone, Mulder would never get over it.

There I go again.  Concerning myself with his opinion.  Maybe there's some kind of twelve-step program I can enroll myself in.

The glass on the front door having long ago been smashed in, so I step in through the space left behind, not without catching my pant leg on a jagged piece at the bottom and scratching my ankle a bit.  Bottle of Advil, new pantsuit, antibiotics for the infection I'll probably get.  The list is growing, Mulder.

I can see through the inside screen door to the sad remains of someone's means of income and perhaps pride and joy.  There are a few remaining chairs and booths with their tables missing.  On the wall there is spray-painted in red, "Danny loves Carrie 4-ever."  Next to the declaration, "smoke weed."

As soon as I am inside, I feel uneasy, like I'm not entirely alone.  It's difficult to see in here, as it's nearing dusk and there's only small, stained-glass windows on the two walls that I am able to see.  The afternoon sun makes it through two broken windows, shining thick rays on the dusty, dirty floor, but not lending anything to visibility.

Before I am even aware of it, I'm reaching for my gun.  And just as quickly, I am immobilized, my arm twisted and pinned behind me.

"Nice show."

There is hot, heavy breath on my neck and the hardness of an erection pushing at my back.  My mouth dries.  I feel faint.  I can't move.  I'm going to get raped.

But the instinct to flee fades as quickly as it came over me and I take the opportunity my assailant seems to have given me to swing around and lay one into him.  As he yelps in surprise, I waste no time and take my foot to the protrusion below his waist.

He doubles over in well-deserved pain and drops to his knees.

"AH!  FFFFuck!  Bitch!"

I take a moment to let my eyes focus on him.  He's a young man, perhaps thirty and in apparently good physical condition.  Relatively speaking, anyway.

"Shut up!  Show me your face."

Slowly he reveals his pained face to me.  Oh God.  I should have known…

"Come here often?"  the bastard groans out.  "Or is this a working night for you?"

I'm still attempting to catch my breath.  "Wha…?"  I pant.

His contemptible look nauseates me.  "Business must be really bad back in the D.C.  area if you're selling your stuff out here."

"Wha…what the hell are you talking about, Krycek?  Selling what stuff?"

"Your secret life as a stripper.  Does Mulder know?  'Cause that was quite a show.  I'll bet he'd love to see."

I stare him down in a way that makes most men run screaming.  But his smug look remains.

"Here," he says with a wink,  "I gotta quarter in my pocket for ya."

Unable to help myself, I take my gun and smack his face with it.

"Ow!!  Jesus, woman, what the hell?"

"Get up!"

"Oh, I get it," he says in a pained voice.  "This is one of those kind of places.  Not usually my style, but I'll try anything at least once."

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.  Again, Mulder, thank you.  I grab Krycek by the arm and pull him upward as forcefully as I can manage.  My grip barely makes its way around his thick, muscular bicep.

"Are we gonna dance now?"

"GET UP!!"  I scream and push the barrel of my gun into his neck.

He obliges me and stands up with obvious difficulty.  Apparently kicking him in the groin was not the best thing for his erection.  That's too bad.

I push him toward the bar at the other end of the room, gun at his back.  What the hell do I do with him?  He's gonna bolt if I don't restrain him.  But where?

"Oh, you want me to dance?  I could get up on the bar, maybe they've got "It's Raining Men" on the jukebox."

"Just shut up!"

Ah, wonderful.  There's a foot bar at the bottom.  "Sit down."

"On the floor?  It's kinda dirty."

Oh, listen to Mr.  "you gotta learn to live the rats" worrying about getting his ass dirty.  I look up at him, straight into his piercing dark eyes.  I can feel his breath on my face, I'm so close.  "You have a problem with dirt?"

"Depends.  Some dirt's good, some's just disgusting."

"Well I think you'll be right at home.  Now SIT DOWN!!"

"That's pretty tough talk coming from a lady with no underpants."

I give him a good shove to the floor and he lands harder than I would have expected.  He continues to laugh, leering at me the entire time I'm cuffing his right hand.

"Um, have I committed a crime?"

I look up quickly and am face to face with his lips.  Heat creeps up through my neck and I look away quickly.

"Maybe," I hiss out.

"I'm just standing here, you're the one indecently exposing herself.  If anything, I should be making a citizen's arrest!"

I roll my eyes and sigh at him.  When I reach for his left arm, I can't control my blatant gasp.

"Oops, think fast, agent."

Mulder's voice echoes in my memory, telling me once how nice it was to be able to put both of his arms around me after his return from Russia.  Krycek…?

I let go of his arm quickly and attach the cuffs to the bar.

"Decent solution," he can't help but praise me.  "This is kinda tight, though"

"I thought I told you to shut up."  I frisk him for a weapon somewhat reluctantly and look up only to be greeted with a repulsive sneer.

"That was awhile ago," he says and leans back on his elbow with a horribly macho grunt.  "Thought maybe I'd charmed you into changing your mind by now."

I rise and turn my back to him, suddenly unable to get past the notion that Alex Krycek saw me naked, that he knows that there's nothing underneath these pants but me.  A Sweaty, grimy me at that, too.  I know I should care less, but I'm finding it extremely difficult to keep a hard-line attitude aware that my suspect knows all my secrets.

"Now," I say as I turn around.  "I need to know some things…and you're going to tell me these things.  Are we clear on that?"

He is still leering at me.  I wait for a sick feeling in my stomach, but it doesn't come.  Instead my eyes are fixated on the rise and fall of his chest and feel my stomach jump.

"I got no problem with that, he says through a stifled grin.  "As long as I have the answers."

Oh, you'll have the answers, all right.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for a drink.  A mechanic, maybe some lunch.  Big mistake.  HUGE mistake.  He stops and laughs.  This place is a freaking hell on earth.  Although now that you've shown up, things might just turn around.  I keep hoping that one of the times you open your mouth, the place will frost over or something."

Son of a Bitch.

"Cut the crap, Krycek.  I want a straight answer."

"It's the truth," he insists pleadingly.  "Hey, I'm not gonna make shit up to please you.  What about you?  What are YOU doing here?  Where's Mulder?  I thought the guy couldn't go more than an hour without you in sight before he started convulsing."

Oh, God.  What am I doing here?  I don't have the desire, inclination, or energy to do this.  The headache that I had earlier has returned with a nasty vengeance.  It's now at the stage where its getting difficult to focus clearly.  I need to shut my eyes, just for a second.

I wipe the dripping sweat from my brow and let out a long, slow breath.  "Where is it," I ask through closed eyes.

"It?"

"Yes, it.  And don't try to snow me, Krycek.  We both know what I'm talking about."

"Don't say snow," he pleads and I almost feel guilty.  "It's so freaking hot."

"Where is it?"

He remains still and continues to leer.  I have no idea why it's making me feel so uneasy.  It's only Alex Krycek.  I sigh and grunt a bit in frustration.  In the distance, I hear the culprit of my headache approaching us.

"You know, you probably should be going."

"What?  What are you talking about?"

"Don't want to get stuck in a place like this with a bad, bad man in the middle of a storm, do you?  Who knows what might happen."

Goddamn that sneer!  If he thinks he's gonna wear me down, he's got another think coming.

"We're not going anywhere.  We're not going anywhere until you tell me where it is."

"That's funny," he says and scoots his body lower to the ground.  "I was really hoping you'd tell me."

"Don't play this game with me, Krycek!  I know why you're out here.  Now tell me where it is."

"Game?"  he laughs.  "You think this is a game?  This is deadly serious, Agent Scully, and I really think you oughtta let me go."

"No," I demand in compensation for the unease I'm feeling.  "Tell me."

"I don't have any idea."

"Oh come on, Krycek!"  I yell in frustration, trying not to sound like I'm whining.  "Why the hell else would you be out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"I told you.  My car broke down.  About two miles north of here."

"What are you doing in Oklahoma?"

"That's a very good question."

God, did he say something to me just now?  It just keeps getting hotter and hotter.  My head won't quit pounding and the nausea has set in now.  I can't see.

"Are you all right, Agent Scully?"  I think I hear him ask.  "You seem a little peaked."

"Fine.  I'm fine."

I've gotta get out and get some air.  I also need to call Mulder.  He needs to get here and take care of his garbage.

"Hey!  Where the hell are you going?"

I pull open the squeaky screen door and look back at him.  My God, he almost seems frantic.

"Out."

"You better not leave me here, bitch!  I swear to God, you'll regret it!"

Well well.  Isn't this a strange and sudden turn around?

"Are you feeling all right, Krycek?  You look a little peaked."

"DON'T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME HERE!"

Bitch.  Stupid, thoughtless bitch.

What is it with these people.  Mulder, Skinner, now her.  Is this part of FBI training?  Maybe I missed that day.  Cuff your suspect to the furniture and then leave him there to rot 101.

There is nothing, abso-fucking-lutely nothing I despise more than being trapped.  I've been pretty nice about it so far, letting her cuff me and all.  Hell, it was kind of exciting in a way.  She sure is something else when she gets all riled up like that.  I'm willing to forgive the groin kick and the pistol whipping.  But this…this is not exciting, amusing or endearing.

"COME BACK HERE BITCH!"  I holler after her, pulling at my restraint furiously.  The metal rod runs along the bottom of the bar and I follow the expanse down to the end where the two are joined.  The wood of the bar is rotting.  I might be able to get the rod out and extricate myself.  I take a deep breath, an attempt to calm down a bit, wrap both hands around the bar and start shaking and pulling at it.  The prosthetic isn't much use and the real one is somewhat limited because of the cuffs but after a minute or so the bar starts wobbling a bit.

God, I've gotta get out of here.  So fucking hot.  I will not be stuck here.  Alone.  Not alone.  Goddammit.  Stupid bitch.  Next time I see her, she's a dead woman.  No one does this shit to me and gets away with it.  Not anymore.

Goddamn this stupid plastic arm.  I would have been able to pull this bar out and bend it into a pretzel a few years ago.  Fuck fuck fuck.

I take another deep breath, trying to calm the bubbling panic in my chest.  This is so fucking stupid.  Stupid stupid phobias and memories.  It's actually gotten so bad that I thought about going to therapy.  Can you imagine?  I'd love to see the look on that particular shrink's face.  See doc, I got locked in this claustrophobic, hot, empty missile silo and spewed black oil from every bodily orifice for about a week and now  I have this strange fear…  I don't know if they've got seminars for that kind of shit or what.  Maybe I should ask Scully who she goes to for her post-alien abduction trauma.

I would except that Scully's NOT HERE…

Okay, relax.  I still haven't heard her start her car.

"SCULLY!"  I call out again as loud as I can.  My voice is already raw from yelling so damn much and the fucking heat.  I wonder if she'd let me go if I just gave her the damn key.  I'm almost tempted.

"SCULLY!  GET BACK IN HE…"

Thank God.  She's back.  I never thought I'd be so happy to see that fucking face.  She stands in the door silently for a second and I let out a deep breath and relax against the bar, trying not to show how completely relieved I am.  She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side, regarding me strangely and I realize that I'm soaked with sweat.  I lift my fake arm and wipe my face along the sleeve of my shirt, leaving a trail of moisture on the fabric, and try to regain control of my breathing.  She continues to stare blankly and it's actually making me a bit uncomfortable.  What the hell is she staring at?

"You're still here," I say stupidly, needing to fill in the empty space.  She lets out her own breath, looking like a wet, deflated balloon.

"Yes, I'm still here."

She doesn't sound all too happy about that fact.  She runs her fingers through her hair and squeezes her eyes shut tightly.  I think she feels as crappy as I do.  Maybe even worse.

"Are you okay Scully?  Seriously.  You look sick."

She points her gun at me and walks completely inside the bar until she's standing directly in front of me, about ten feet away.

"I'm fine.  Agent Mulder's on his way."

She's lying.  On both counts.  It's so obvious it's pathetic.  Like I said, not a sneaky bone.

"Oh boy.  A party," I say, more to humor her in her delusions than anything else.  I just wonder why he's not coming.  She couldn't reach him?  Or maybe he just didn't feel like dragging himself over here.  No, he'd never miss an opportunity to smack me around.

"Now I want some answers," she tries to growl, tries to intimidate.  She's wilting though.

"Why don't we wait till Mulder gets here before we start the interrogation.  He's much better at it than you."

She chews on her bottom lip and rubs her nose.  She is SO lying.  It's funny.

"Tell me where it is."

Wonder if she'd come fish it out if I told her.  Might be worth it.

"What's in it for me if I do?"

"I won't shoot you."

"That's a given."

"You think so?  Don't be so sure.  I wouldn't have any qualms about putting a bullet in your head Krycek and there's not a jury in the world that would convict me.  Probably not a soul that would miss you either."

Okay, I'll give her the jury and the missing me thing but she's full of crap about the rest.  She'd never shoot an unarmed, handcuffed man just because he won't give her what she wants.  She's not as psychotic as Mulder.

"Stop, you're gonna make me cry."

"Don't try me Krycek.  Tell me why you're here."

"I told you.  For a drink.  And the ambiance."

I've got to admit, when she fires a round into the bar, about a foot from my head, I almost jump.

It looks like the sound was worse for her than for me though.  She closes her eyes for a long moment and rubs her temples with her free hand.  Not a good idea to make big boom-booms when you've got a big headache.

"Tell me," she tries again.  She's got to tire of this soon.  It's getting stupid.

"So, where's Mulder?  How long have we got before he joins us?"  I can't resist teasing her.  She's too easy.

"Not long enough for you I'm sure.  Now you can tell me now or you can wait for him to beat it out of you."

"Well, we wouldn't want to deprive him of his one joy in life.  I know how much he gets off on hitting me when I can't defend myself properly."

Not that I usually try to stop him but that's a whole other can of worms.  Not one I feel like opening with Scully right now.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you or something?"

"Hell no.  I'm not asking for sympathy.  I just wonder what's in him that makes him act that way.  What kind of twisted psyche he must have…"

She laughs shortly and shakes her head.  Her tongue darts out to moisten her dry, chapped lips and she swallows.  All this in a sort of slow motion as if any movement whatsoever made her ache.

"You're one to talk about twisted psyches Krycek.  You're a liar.  And a murderer."

"I do what I have to.  Doesn't mean I enjoy it.  I'm not a sadist Scully.  I don't get pleasure from hurting people."

"And you're saying Mulder does?"  she asks disdainfully.  God forbid someone think such a thing about her precious Mulder.

"Maybe not people in general but me, yeah."

She opens her mouth, wanting to defend him, and sighs, resigned to the fact that on this one small point, she really can't.

"It doesn't really matter.  I just wonder why…"

"Shut up Krycek."

"What?"

"SHUT.  UP."

She stretches her neck out and starts rubbing the side close to her shoulder.  Then she sits down, cross legged, on the dirty, disgusting floor with a sigh.  There's a rumble in the distance.  The storm's getting closer.  Maybe that's why she's got a headache.  Like a kitty cat.

"Are you sure you're okay Scully?  You need a massage?"

She gives me a disgusted look like I'm making some kind of lewd suggestion.  I guess to a woman who hasn't gotten laid in a decade a massage is pretty damn lewd.

"The only thing I want from you is for you to tell me where it is.  If you're not gonna do that keep your damn mouth shut."

"Is it a migraine?"  I ask, as quietly as possible.

"What?"

"Your headache.  Migraine?"

"No it's sinus.  God.  What's it to you?"

Pissy pissy.  If I hadn't seen her naked from the waist down I'd think she was on the rag or something.

"I get migraines.  There's a place on your hand where if you squeeze it it helps with headaches.  I could show you if you want."

"I just want you to be quiet.  Please."

"Well, don't come begging for it later…"

She kicks off her shoes and puts her gun down next to her.  She rubs her hands over her face, wiping some of the sweat off, and then down her neck again.  Her head rolls around on her shoulders and she makes a very small sound similar to a whimper.  I take another good look at her and notice the tear and small blood stain on her pant leg.  She must have cut herself on the way in.

"Your pants are ripped," I tell her.  I'm usually a better conversationalist but, ya know, the heat.

"Wow, you must have been an honor student."

Little snot.  I'll bet she was a prissy little tattle tale when she was a kid.  Probably one of those girls who make you chase them around the playground for a kiss and then when you catch them they call the teacher.  One of those pretty, smart girls who think they're better than everybody.  Who think you're a pile of worthless shit if you don't have the right sneakers or your father's poor.  Maybe she's right about my own twisted psyche though cause I feel the same deranged need to impress her as I would have felt when we were children.

"Yeah I was actually."

She looks at me skeptically and I feel compelled to continue.  I wish I had my old report cards, my degrees, diplomas, awards, everything with me so I could shove them all in her face.

"Even got myself a Ph.D.."

This back and forth nonsense with him has been nothing resembling anything of an interrogation.   It's more like a game of matching wits.  Or a childish playground argument.  "My mom's smarter than yours."  The pathetic part of it all is, even though I should know better, even though I am well over thirty years old, I find myself needing desperately to win.  If I were a stranger walking by, I'm sure I'd be wondering when they were just going to get it over with and get a room.  Again, thank you, Mulder.

A Ph.D., though.  Huh.

"What?  You think I'm some kind of mental defect or something?  I'm not just a pretty face, you know."

"I didn't say anything."

"Well you looked pretty damn surprised."

He wants me to ask him in what.  I can just feel it.  He's got an equally desperate need to impress me, too I think.  All right, I'll bite.

I ask, but not without a heavy sigh.  "In what?"

"Why don't you guess?"

"Guess…"  I repeat to myself and rub my eyes.  Have I damned Mulder in the last few minutes?

"Come on, it'll be fun.  It's not like we've got anything else to do now, is it?"

"Krycek, right now ALL I want to know from you is where the hell it is.  You tell me that and I'm outta here."  Suddenly I remember what just may be my only leverage with this man at this moment.  "I just may even uncuff you," I add.

"Not good enough," he counters, unaffected.  "Anyway I told you, I don't know where it is."

"You don't really want Mulder to get here to find out you've told me nothing.  Do you?"  Oh good one, Dana.

"Oh, I think he'd be happier that way.  Then he'd get to be the big man and try to pummel it out of me.  I think he'll feel emasculated if you get it first."

I stare down his incessant leer, but again, the bastard is unaffected.  He swallows as though he's trying not to laugh at me.

"When is he going to get here anyway…?"

"He'll be here any minute," I say as authoritatively as I can muster.

"Well then calm yourself."

I nearly tell him to fuck himself, but refrain.  Who knows what weird-assed things that would provoke from him.

For the first time since I got here, I notice that there is a staircase on the one wall.  A staircase leading to nowhere.  While I ponder it's peculiarity, a strong wind whips past the building, seeming to cause it to sway on its foundation.  The building must have been two floors.

With a frustrated grunt, I get up off the floor to examine the odd staircase and the entire place more closely.  Maybe I'll be able to find it on my own.  Find the treasure AND capture the villain.  Gosh, he'd be so proud.

Apparently the upper rooms have been missing for a while, as there is a patch over the space at the top of the staircase.  The way the wind is whipping through this place, I wouldn't be surprised if that's how they lost the other floor.  Or maybe those were rooms where the working girls took their customers and some church basement women's club came in with fiery demands that the devil's floor be removed.

Holy God, I can almost hear them, see them.  The groups of temperance movement women, never before having set foot near such places, now invading the lairs of the beast seeking to rid the world of the vile substance that they knew as alcohol.  Those who came in peacefully as well as those with much more ferocious intent, spilling kegs and breaking bottles.  Screaming and laughing and yelling…

God, how could they stand wearing all of those clothes in a summer heat like this?

"I wonder what this place was like in its day."

I jump and shiver a bit at his voice.  I was really fading away there.

"I'll bet it was one of those cowboy saloons with shoot-outs and showgirls and poker."

I believe he's right.

"I wonder how many people have gotten killed in here."

I run my hand over two bullet holes in the wall and peer closely.  I'd be willing to bet there's still blood there, permanently stained in the wall.  I shiver again.

"Many," I say out loud unintentionally.  Fortunately my ridiculous comment is covered up by a crack of thunder.  The storm is getting closer.

"Lots of ghosts, I'll bet."  I look out of the corner of my eye at him.  Good.  I think he didn't hear me.

"Sounds like the storm's coming.  Maybe we should tell creepy stories.  I've got a good one about a guy with a hook for a hand…oh wait, that's my life."

I don't acknowledge him, but continue my roaming.  Then I see it.  Through the occasional flashes of lightening, I notice for the first time the portrait painted into the wall behind the bar.  My God, I'm surprised it's even here still.

It is a woman, pale-skinned and bare, lying across a red velvet couch.  She has long, curly golden-blonde hair that drapes across her shoulders and the couch, yet does not cover her perfectly-shaped breasts.  She is long-legged and not too skinny, most likely in accordance with what was at the time considered by society to be the ideal body shape for a woman.  And although it is painted directly onto the wood panels, it has the appearance of, if touched, you could feel the soft, smoothness of the woman's skin, the silkiness of her hair.  She appears to be looking straight at me, too.  Watching me.  I'm almost glad that it's getting darker.

"She's certainly…endowed."  Krycek has noticed her too.

"You know, I always wonder if those are ever real people."

"Probably somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"It was probably the artist's girlfriend.  She was probably some scrawny, butt-ugly little thing but he saw her the way she's painted there."

I turn and stare at him.  Who is this guy?

"So, she was real but not really the way she is there."

Again, I believe he is right.  But why?

"What?"  he asks me.  Apparently I'm still gaping.

"Sociology."

He laughs quietly at my guess.  "Are you a detective or something?"

Then he starts something that nearly makes me pee my pants.

"A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her and all in vain
So she was come through wind and rain…"

He's reciting poetry.  He's fucking reciting poetry.  Porphyria's lover?  Is that what it is?  Oh my God, I really did wander into the Twilight Zone.

"…Be sure I looked into her eyes
Happy and proud at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
made my heart swell and still it grew…"

I keep my back to him, completely at a loss as to what to say to that.  Was that some kind of clue to where it is?  Or just one for his asinine guessing game?  Or is he really trying to impress me?

I hope it's my headache, because I don't think I've ever felt so confused in my life.

"God, its hot as hell in here," he says pointlessly.  "You think the ceiling fans still work?"

So much for impressing me with his intelligence.

"Well it definitely wasn't electrical engineering…"

"Ouch," he feigns.

He is right, though.  It is fucking hot in here, even with the sun fading fast.  I think I might just going to melt into the floor in a minute.

"Maybe you should try to open another one of the windows.  Or break one."

"I'm sorry if the temperature isn't to sir's liking."  For some reason I want him to suffer, even though I am doing the same.  "So I break all of the windows and then you can complain about the rain coming in on you."

"Mmmm," he says, closing his eyes.  "That would feel…so good."

I have no idea why, but I'm staring at him again, watching him lay there, his dark navy shirt even darker from being drenched in his sweat, sticking to his muscular form.  One hundred and ten f-ing degrees and he's wearing long sleeves.  It surprises me for some reason.  For all of the things I'm sure this man has probably done in the name of survival, he'll suffer in extreme temperatures for the sake of concealing his artificial limb.  I guiltily sneak a look at that arm, trying to determine where the prosthetic begins.  It's getting too dark in here anymore to see any kind of detail, though.

He's trying to control his breathing, I can tell, perhaps to keep from getting any warmer.  His chest rises and falls at a slow steady rate, and his mouth is open.  He certainly has "grown" since I last saw him, despite the absurdity he's been displaying here.  He looks much older, though.  I suppose having your arm hacked and learning to deal with that while keeping the lifestyle which he keeps will do that to a person.

Finally he opens his eyes and I look away quickly.  Maybe I should break another window.

"Think the rain's keeping Mulder?"

I jump at his question.  "Huh…?  Oh."  I walk toward the back door.  "He'll be here."

I drag a three-legged chair to the door and prop it open.  A magnificent gust of wind blows into the room.

"Oh…God, that feels so fucking good…"  he moans.

I swallow hard and feel my cheeks tingle at the sound of his voice.  I blame my headache for my shallow breath.

"Hey, do you have any food in your car?"

End Part One
Continued in Part Two

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