Forgive Us Our Trespasses

by Mia Munro

Years later, Dana Scully would always marvel at how normal everything seemed.  There had been no sign of the coming upheaval.  Nothing but the normal rush and harassment of life as a Special Agent, assigned to the smallest, though most notorious department at the FBI, the X-Files, open for business once again.

The day had started bad and gone straight downhill from there.  It began when her alarm didn't go off, so she was late.  She could just imagine Mulder's not-so-disguised hints about late evenings; the man really needed to get a life so he wouldn't be so morbidly interested in hers.  Then the toaster exploded, so she'd had to grab a very suspicious looking bagel on the way to work, which was doing the most peculiar things to her insides.  Finally to crown it all, someone had jostled her so she'd spilled coffee all over her new mocha pumps.  Life was just wonderful, Scully thought sourly, sipping the lukewarm coffee, and grimacing faintly.  Given the legend that the Feds were supposed to live on the stuff, it was strange they still couldn't brew up a decent cup.  What was that old joke Mulder used to tell her?  Ah, yes, how is FBI coffee like making love in a canoe?  Answer: it's fucking close to water.  The first time he'd told her she had nearly spit coffee all over her keyboard.

Scully sat down at her desk and opened her briefcase to take out some case notes she'd taken home last night to review.  On top of the folder were four letters she had just grabbed on the run this morning.  Glancing around for the man who was both her partner and her best friend, she suddenly remembered that he was off arguing with AD Skinner about his expenses again.  With an inner smile, Scully wondered what Skinner would say to the $600 lightsabre, the $800 life-sized Yoda figure who would say, 'May the Force be with you' when you pressed a remote, and the illegal 'director's-cut' Matrix DVD copy, selling for a mere $200 (not including shipping).  All items, Mulder claimed were vital to keep the Lone Gunmen working smoothly and well on whatever weird business Mulder employed them.  Scully had asked reasonably if a cash bonus wouldn't be better, but that had been vigorously denied.

But no, according to her partner, the 'personal touch' was needed to make the three scruffy men feel properly appreciated; she wondered what Skinner would say to that brilliant argument.  Just imagining the face of the Assistant Director had her holding back another smile.  She could just see his pained expression at Mulder's earnest rationale, and she wondered if the solemn AD would ever catch on to the fact that half the time Mulder was doctoring his expense sheet with outrageous items just to watch their boss' reaction.

Scully absently reached for a paper knife and started to open her mail, neatly folding each envelope.  The first letter she opened was from her insurance company, raising her rates again. She thought sourly that having cancer was a killer in more ways than one.  One was from Bill, who still preferred the mail, bless his old-fashioned heart.  The third informed her of the fabulous prizes (including an all expenses paid vacation to the Bahamas, a brand new BMW, or $10,000 in cash) she could win if she just filled in her name and returned the coupon.  Scully sighed, dropping it in the waste-paper basket.  Well at least with the current FBI recycling program, it would not be entirely wasted.  The last envelope was thicker than the others, padded; with a small frown she noted the lack of a stamp or postmark.  Strange…

The envelope opened easily.  Scully shook it and a small photo slipped out.  Curiously, she picked it up and turned it over.  She froze, heart hammering.  Melissa Scully smiled up at her.  Missy was cuddling a kitten half-hidden by her long red hair and smiling into the camera, her other hand holding a newspaper.  It was Melissa looking exactly like she did when she was teasing her sober younger sister.  The same impish smile, the mischievous eyes.  Scully dropped the photo as though it burned, staring at the image of her older sister.  She buried her head in her hands, but through her fingers she still saw the smile that broke her heart.

It must have been at least five minutes before she even noticed the small note clipped to the photo.  Five minutes of trying to cope with a tidal wave of guilt and grief and shock.  She had thought she'd dealt with Melissa's death, all those long talks with her psychiatrist, the shared grief with the others in her family, and now the mere sight of a photo had her shaking.

The small hand-written note accompanying the photo said simply, "Take a look at the date of the newspaper."  No signature, no hint of who had sent it.

It was a hoax, a cruel joke, it had to be.  For a moment she wanted to kill whoever was responsible.  But her eyes never left the newspaper her sister, her dead sister, was holding.  The newspaper was dated two weeks ago.  It was an impossibility but it was there, nonetheless, in colour in front of her eyes.  Turning the note over with hands that shook, she saw the scrawl on the other side.  "Meet me at the Hotel Dorada at ten tonight, room 305.  Alone…."

Trembling, Scully picked up the phone and punched in a number.  "Davis?"  she was vaguely surprised at how steady and normal her voice sounded.  "Hi, this is Dana Scully, look could you do me a favour?  …  Great!  I need you to check a photo for me ASAP!  I need to know if it's been manipulated at all….  When?  Today!  Yes, I know, but I'd really owe you one Davis …  You will?  Thanks!  I'll send it down to you now."  She put the phone down, and taking a blank envelope from her desk carefully unclipped the note, realizing as she was doing it that she may have destroyed any previous fingerprints and swearing at her own idiocy.

Personally taking the photo to the lab, and a little judicious persuasion, although not flirting - as Mulder had once accused her - had the results back in hours rather than days.  It never ceased to amaze her how eager for recognition, and a friendly chat, the people buried deep in the forensic labs were.  It was something she had never been able to teach Mulder; the simple fact that most people reacted better to calm courtsey than being shouted at.  Or, to be more correct, he understood, he just didn't have the patience for it.  Which was why he usually let her deal with the technical experts when they were on a case.

Afterwards Scully always wondered how much would have been different if Mulder had been there when she opened the envelope.  For a moment she considered waiting for him.  But some deep-seated instinct, and an impatience she didn't even try to contain, had her heading for the FBI lab and Davis.  By the time she returned from the lab, Mulder was gone again.  Off to interview a 78-year old woman who claimed that Louis XVI visited her every night because he wanted her to build a new Versailles in Brooklyn.  Or so he informed her in his vile scrawl.  At any other time she would have smiled, but not today.

Dana Scully sat for a long time in the empty office and stared blankly at the result, setting out in dry, scientific fact, an impossibility.  No fake, no manipulation, nothing except her dead sister being alive and well, months after her death.  The old absurd saying of Mark Twain's, 'the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,' kept running like a thread through her mind.  Could it be?  Could it actually be the truth?  Touching her ear-ring, a nervous habit she had when thinking, Scully acknowledged this might be trap, or a hoax.  It didn't matter.  Absolutely nothing would prevent her from keeping this appointment.

Driving slowly downtown that night Scully reflected a little nervously on the fact that all secret meetings seemed to take place in seedy back-street places.  Once, just once she would have liked a clandestine rendezvous with an informant to be held in a nice clean office, rather than an underground garage or squalid motel.  Mulder thrived on the atmosphere, but it mostly left his partner with the desire for a bath to clean the real, and metaphorical, dirt off.  Finding a spot nearby and, wonder of wonders, under a working streetlight giving her at least a faint hope to find her car unharmed when she got back, Scully parked.

Locking her car carefully and glancing around her at the dark, deserted streets, Scully supressed a shiver as she walked to the garish pink neon sign over the battered door.  Not exactly the best parts of Washington she thought wryly, her hand going almost instinctively to the gun strapped at her back.  The touch of the smooth metal gave her an indefinite sense of security, and unconciously her mouth trembled into an almost-smile remembering one of Mulder's lectures on the phallic symbolism of guns.

Pushing open the door Scully stepped inside.  In the light of a single dim lightbulb swaying slowly from the ceiling she saw a unshaven, surly man behind a desk in the opposite end of the lobby.  He completely ignored her, absorbed by something which probably had a triple x-rating on the small black and white TV propped up on the desk.  Crossing the faded, torn carpet, Scully thought with another small shiver, that it was the perfect place for an anonymous meeting.  Having to choose between an ancient creaking elevator and some rickety stairs, she decided on the stairs as marginally safer.

Reaching the third floor and glancing up and down the dim corridor with its dark patches of mould and other things, Scully heard the faint noises of the all-night cable TV, the smell of hotplates, souring milk and beer.  The stench of the people who lived here, on the outskirts of society.  The losers, the alcoholics, the drug addicts.  She should be used to it by now, but the sheer hopelessness and misery still made her faintly depressed.

Conciously clearing her head of all extraneous thoughts to concentrate on the mission at hand, she located room 305 and hesitated briefly before knocking sharply.  There was no answer, but when she gingerly tried the handle it opened easily and the door swung inwards, revealing a dark room.

Scully stepped through the door.  Every nerve tense, heart beating hard, gun ready.

"Hello?  Is there anyone here?"  her voice floated into the darkness, more hesitant than she'd wanted, and she firmed it to its usual crispness.  "You said you had some information about my sister.  I want to know how you got hold of that photo."

The door swung shut behind her, and she swiveled with a curse, gun raised.  A sharp click and suddenly the room was lit by a small lamp by the window.

The light illuminated a bed with broken creaky springs, a basin, the enamel cracked and broken, the taps rusty.  A tattered armchair, the stuffing peeping out, and sitting in it a tall shadow blending perfectly into the darkness.

"Agent Scully, please put away your gun, you won't need it here."

Frowning, recognizing but not able to place the voice, Scully took one more step forward, not lowering the gun.  "Who are you?  How did you get that photo?"  she demanded.

He shifted slightly and the light fell across his face.

Dana Scully gasped a single word.  "You!?"

Alex Krycek said softly, "Hello, Scully."

She opened her mouth but no sound emerged.  Rooted to the floor she could do nothing for a minute but gaze at him in utter shock.  Stare at the last man she would have expected.  The man ultimately responsible for the death of her sister.  The man who had killed Mulder's father, the man behind her abduction, and only God knew how many murders.  Alex Krycek, professional assassin, Consortium infiltrator, traitor…  A brief mocking smile touched his face telling her he knew exactly what she was thinking as well as his amusement.  And she knew she was in the presence of a man without conscience, without mercy.  Quite possibly the most dangerous man she had ever met.

"How, what…"  her voice trailed away and she shook her head.  She should have known, but it had never occurred to her it was Krycek who had sent the note and picture.  A foolish and stupid oversight, Scully thought in self-disgust.  If anyone knew anything about her sister, it was the man who had killed her.

Krycek simply waited.  Silent.  Unmoving.  He was good at that, Mulder had told her once.  He possessed the art of silence, of using it as a shield to protect and deflect attention from himself.  Her eyes narrowed, trying to discern why he was here and what it meant.  Finally lowering the gun and holstering it, she sat down on the only other furniture in the room, the bed, facing him.  Irresistibly her eyes were drawn to the place where his missing arm should be, and she experienced an unexpected flash of sympathy, and….  sadness?  Sorrow for the loss of something she could appreciate and regret even in an enemy; a physical beauty maimed and destroyed.

He followed her glance.  "Not pretty is it?"  he asked softly, daring her to pity him.

She matched him stare for stare, "Nothing less than you deserve, Krycek."

He laughed with little real amusement.  "Hard as nails Special Agent Dana Scully.  You and Mulder suit each other.  Neither of you would spit in my face if it was on fire."

There was another long silence, and then Scully broke it saying abruptly.  "I'm here, Krycek, now tell me why you sent me the photo."

Still he didn't move.  Only his eyes, a translucent green, glowing in the darkness like a cat's stalked her silently.  They moved over her body so intimately it felt like a physical touch.  And gleaming in their depth was a strange hunger.

Scully shifted restlessly, angry with him, and angrier with herself for letting him get to her.  Finally she snapped, "Stop it!  You wanted to talk.  Then talk!"

He shook his head with a hint of mock-disapproval, "Still so impatient Scully.  ..  All business in that strict little outfit of yours, designed to neutralize the fact that you're a woman."  The mockery deepened.  "What an exemplary little Fed you are."

She bit her lip, forcing back the hot reply.  She couldn't afford to lose her temper, not until she'd gotten out of the bastard the truth about the photo.  "The people at the lab said the photo was genuine."

He raised an eyebrow, "I am disappointed, Scully, did you really think I'd send you a faked photograph?"

"How the hell do I know what you'd do?"  she asked exasperated.  "You and Mulder like to play mind-games, but I don't operate that way."  It made her feel like a traitor, equating her partner with his worst enemy, but she couldn't help herself.  At times the comparison was unavoidable.

Cat-soft, "And how do you operate, Special Agent Scully?"

She stared at him, repulsion darkening blue eyes, "Honestly, Krycek.  Unfamiliar as you may be with the concept."

He laughed, and she was disconcerted.  "Ah yes, that delightful wit of yours.  No wonder Mulder was so desperate to get you back."  Slyly, "did he ever tell you the price he paid for your return?"

She suddenly felt very tired, hating the memory of the months she'd been gone.  She thought of her desperate attempts to remember, and the soul-shattering fear that she would.

"What do you want in exchange for the truth about the photo?  Is that my sister?  Is she alive?"  Disgust and loathing for this man who played with her life hardened and iced her voice.

Krycek leaned back, leather creaking softly as he shifted, stretching out long legs.  "So many questions, my dear Scully.  Of course, the question is, will you believe what I tell you?"  He smiled blandly, "I am you will remember, the rat bastard who betrayed Mulder."  His eyes taunted her wariness.  "Who arranged the murder of his father and your sister, and who is responsible for every dastardly act ever committed, including the Greenhouse Effect."

She could have hit him then, fingers curling to stop her clawing at his grinning lying face.  "Dammit Krycek!  This is my sister we're talking about!  Tell me!"

Unmoved by her outburst he said very calmly, "First things first.  What are you prepared to pay for the information?"

"Anything," she replied automatically, honestly.  And too late she realized the trap she'd fallen into as his smile widened.  She muttered a curse under her breath and brushed back her hair determined to sass it out.  Back unconsciously straightened as she faced him squarely.  "So now you know."  Very crisply.  "I repeat, what do you want?  A deal?  Immunity?  Money?"

He shook his head, "None of the above.  I don't need FBI immunity," reminding her subtly of his strange and unknown protectors.  "Nor do I need money, though I admit that's hard to believe seeing my present surroundings."  A wry twist of the mouth, "but they do have the advantage of anonymity, you'll agree.  Actually, I probably net about ten times your salary, Scully."

She looked as disgusted as she felt.  "Why does that not surprise me?"

He slowly stood up, stretching and suddenly looming over her.  And she had to repress a sudden instinct to scoot back, or grab her gun.

"Because, truth, justice, liberty and the American way don't exactly pay well.  You should try it on the other side for a while.  Trust me, the fringe benefits are much better, not to mention the dental health-care plan."

"When hell freezes over," she retorted caustically.  "Some of us have standards and something called morals, Krycek.  Not that I would expect you would know anything about that." She stiffened her spine, refusing to be intimidated.  Still, she had to admit to being just a little unnerved by his closeness and the way his shadow fell across her.  She crossed and recrossed her legs, realized his eyes followed the motion and flushed.

She cleared her throat, trying to recapture the initiative, voice curt and businesslike, "So if it's not money or my help with the FBI, why are you here?  Why did you send me that photo?  To torture me?"  A sudden thought struck her, "or is this some kind of sick revenge on Mulder?  Another twist of the knife?"

Krycek cocked his head curiously.  "Why would I want to do that?"

She stared at him, "Because you and Mulder have unfinished business."  Because you have made it your goal in life to torture Mulder, she thought.  It was hard to look at Krycek and not see Mulder's pain, as he detailed all the ways Alex Krycek had betrayed him.

He laughed softly, "Wrong.  Mulder has unfinished business with me, not the other way around."  He shrugged, unconcerned.  "Besides, have you even told Mulder about the photo?"  She ducked her head, and her silence told him everything he needed to know.  "That's what I thought, for two partners who are reputedly closer than Siamese twins you hide a lot from each other."

Scully bit her lip, not answering, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in his words.

The mattress creaked and shifted, dipping under his weight as he sat down beside her on the bed.  He sat close enough to make her very uneasy, but not quite touching.  Silently she acknowledged his cleverness.  If she moved now she would be admitting he made her nervous.

Sternly she suppressed her first instinct, which was to jump up and out of reach; she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.  Damn but she hated these games of subtle psychological and physical domination.  This was Mulder's area of expertise, not hers.  She dealt in realities and hard facts.  If it had been her partner sitting here, facing the former agent, no doubt he would have soon beaten Krycek at his own game and enjoyed doing so.

Still, she had learned a thing or two watching Mulder in action.  And she knew that the biggest mistake one could make was to show any kind of weakness.  So when she half-turned, facing him calmly, there was no hint of insecurity or doubt in her voice.  Eyes cool and unreadable she was every inch the professional FBI agent.

"Talk to me Krycek, is my sister alive?  I saw her body with my own eyes."

"No," he corrected, appreciation at her attempt to maintain a professional distance between them glimmering in his eyes.  "Actually what you saw was a body.  Scully, you've hung around Mulder and the X-files long enough to know that there are, ah, alternatives and that the dead do not always stay dead."

"My God," she breathed, eyes abruptly widening, leaning slightly forward.  "Are you talking about the clones?  The shapechangers?  But that's impossible, there was an autopsy done and they would have discovered anything suspicious.  That's standard with any homicide victim."

He was visibly amused, pity for her naiveté colouring his voice.  "How thoroughly did you study the autopsy report, Scully?"

Silently she shook her head.  She'd been at the scene, there was nothing it could tell her that she hadn't already known.  She had only skimmed it once to check that there were no glaring irregularities.  Furthermore, Scully acknowledged silently, it hurt too much to read about Melissa in the cold clinical terms of the coroner's report.

"Unfortunately, you won't have another chance to read it.  Since it's been, ah, mislaid."  A slash of white teeth, "but of course, I could be lying.  That photo could just as well be of a clone.  You have no way of knowing.  Or I could have found a doppelganger for Melissa."  The name of her sister fell from his lips with the ease of familiarity.  She wondered just how well he knew Missy.  At least it resolved some of her doubts over the authenticity of his story.

He continued smoothly.  "With the resources of the Consortium that wouldn't have been too difficult.  Or I could have access to some kind of new technology making it impossible for the FBI lab to distinguish between a manipulated photo and a genuine one."

Scully bit her lip.  Hard.  Jesus but the bastard was clever.  Every alternative she'd thought of, every doubt she had articulated to herself, he'd anticipated and used to taunt her.

"I assume you're not going to tell me."  Some of the defeat reflected in her voice, notwithstanding her attempts to hide it.

There was no pity, no compassion in the wolfish glance he gave her.  "And destroy my reputation?"

He moved a shade closer, their shoulders suddenly touching, and instinctively she shifted away from him.  He didn't follow but a strange unknown emotion darkened his eyes for a moment suddenly making her very nervous.  She had to wait for a moment before she could say in a steady voice, "So, I'm asking you again, what do you want?"

A breath of silence, and then silkily, "You, Scully.  You're the prize."

She gaped at him.  "I, what, I don't understand," she said faintly, sure she hadn't heard correctly.

He chuckled, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.  "I think you heard the first time, Scully."  He slid his hand up her thigh, and she jumped.

She sat still as a statue, trying her best to ignore the touch of his fingers on her leg.  "You're insane," she finally breathed.  "Stark raving mad.  For God's sake, Krycek, you can't be serious!"

He laughed, sending a shiver down her spine, "I'm surprised you have so little confidence in your looks, Dana."  His hand slid higher and she felt it burn through the thin protective covering of nylon.  Silently she cursed her decision to wear a skirt rather than pants to work today.  "Why don't you believe I simply want you?"

Staring at Krycek the vulnerability of her situation made Scully extremely uneasy.  Alone in a hotel room with a known assassin, she was suddenly all too aware she could expect no help, no backup.  Especially since no one knew where she was.  Facing him, half-turned, balancing on the softness of a mattress, she couldn't even reach for the gun digging into her back.  And somehow she doubted she could physically overcome Alex Krycek, even a Krycek with only one arm.  The body beneath the leather and denim was hard and muscular and she was all too aware he was a far more ruthless and proficient killer than she'd ever be, or want to for that matter.  If that was what he was after, the man she was facing could kill her and no one would ever be the wiser.

After all the times she'd chewed Mulder out for going off on his own and almost getting his behind shot off, she was following in his footsteps.  Who said bad influence didn't corrupt?

Ignoring his use of her first name she said reasonably, in the voice you use to humour a madman, "Because you wouldn't go to all this effort and expense just to umm…"  she hesitated and he finished, amusement lacing his voice.

"…  get in your pants?"

"Crude but succinctly put," she muttered, cursing the pale skin that blushed so easily.  "Besides, umm," not quite believing she was having this discussion with Krycek of all people, "I thought you and Mulder were, uh, involved.  That you weren't," she flushed even harder, feeling like an idiot, "ah, interested in women."

Another soft chuckle slid over her skin, making the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand straight up.  "So Mulder has spilled the beans?  Quite true, we did fuck.  The Consortium, and my boss, wanted to establish an emotional hold on him, and that seemed the easiest way since they knew he played both sides of the street."

She lifted her head, and looked him straight in the eyes, not backing down, "And you do as well?"

A half-shrug, "Not really, although I can.  Which is damn convenient in my line of work."  He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting her mouth slowly, with a lazy satisfaction.  For a moment, she was too astonished to voice a protest.

Scully froze.  This can't be happening! she thought with .the blankness of shock.  She opened her mouth to tell him to back off, but he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss.  His tongue thrust into her mouth making her gag, and gasp for air.

"Get away from me!"  Psychological advantage be damned!  That did not include being mauled by Alex Krycek.  She leaped from the bed as if scalded, her mouth twisting in disgust.  She almost spat on the floor to rid her mouth of the taste of him.  "How dare you?!"  She was genuinely angry and more than a little frightened.

She pulled her gun and aimed at it him uncocking the safety.  "You son of a bitch!"

A soft mocking laugh ripe with lazy sensuous satisfaction answered her.  "Ah, the universal cry of an outraged woman.  I dare, Scully," his eyes suddenly hardened, and he seemed completely unfazed by the fact that she was aiming a gun at him.  "Because without me you'll never know the truth about your sister.  You can shoot me, I'm unarmed," he held up his hands, the real and the prosthetic, "or you can haul me in to the Feds, but that means you'll lose your only chance of ever knowing the truth about Melissa.  Want to risk it?"

That stopped her, as he knew it would.  She lowered her gun, poised to run, but still undecided.  "So what you're saying is that if, if, I…"

His grin was smug enough to make her long to hit him.  "What's the matter, Scully dear, having a hard time getting the word out?"

"Fuck you, Krycek!"  she blazed.  Training the gun on him once again.

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"  he mocked.

She shook her head, a strand of red hair falling across her face, the weight and solidness of the gun giving her back some of her confidence.  "I don't understand, Krycek.  Why me?  God knows I'm no raving beauty.  As you said yourself, you're well-off.  There must be hundreds of beautiful women you can have, willing women," she clarified pointedly.  Women willing to overlook your little drawbacks such as being a murderer, a traitor and a thief, she added silently, acidly.

Krycek shrugged, kicking off his shoes and swinging his legs up on the bed, back resting against the headboard, moving a little awkwardly.  "True, but I don't want them, I want you."

"But why?"  she asked again, almost plaintively.  "This is ridiculous, Krycek, you never do anything for just one reason."  A sudden thought struck her.  "Is this a Consortium plot?  If he ever finds out I slept with you, his enemy it would shatter him."

There was no need to say his name.  They both knew who she was talking about.  The third person in this little drama.  Not physically present but nevertheless hovering there between them like the ghost of Christmas Past.

Green eyes narrowed and hardened a little.  "I was wondering when your partner was going to get dragged into this conversation again."

Enraged she hissed, "Mulder doesn't trust easily, but me, he would trust with his life and more!"  An odd expression rippled across Krycek's still face, "and if he was ever to find out, to see you and I - " she stopped abruptly and then said grimly.  "Let me guess, there'll be little cameras hidden in the ceiling and walls, and once you've got it on tape you'll send it to Mulder, destroying him, unless I rein him in whenever you want."

His response more than startled her.  He burst out laughing in genuine amusement.  "I didn't know paranoia was contagious.  Sorry, you're just not that important, trust me.  Nor is your precious Mulder to be frank.  No, Dana," he gave her a glance hot enough to scorch from long lashed emerald eyes, "Mulder was an assignment, company business if you will; you, on the other hand, will be all pleasure…"

The soft, sensuous voice scraped against her raw nerves.  "Jesus Christ, Krycek!  Do you really want to sleep with a woman who hates you?!"

A large yawn, the tip of his pink tongue curling, he sprawled loose-limbed across the bed.  "Who said anything about sleeping?"  She flushed hotly."  And yes, since it's just about the only way I'll ever have you, absolutely.  So it's your choice, Dana, you can storm out of here in righteous indignation, or you can stay and give me what I want, in return for what you want."

She wondered at the odd bitterness pervading his voice when he added softly, "Everyone has their price, my beautiful little Fed, even you.  Even Mulder…"

She stared at him, the anger and fear slowly replaced with a thoughtful calculation.  "So what you're saying is, if I," She hesitated briefly, searching for the right word.  She had already tried sleeping, and been mocked.  She could hardly think of a less appropriate phrase than 'making love' so that left either the clinical medical terms, or the more vulgar ones.  And whichever she used, he was sure to pounce on it.  In the end she finished lamely, "uh, accommodate you, you'll give me information about Melissa?"

One dark eyebrow lifted.  "That depends on how accommodating you're planning on being."

"Oh stop it!"  she snapped, allowing herself the luxury of losing her temper.  "You're being childish!  Look," she continued briskly, "personally I can't think of anything more off-putting than going to bed with someone who not only doesn't want me, but hates my guts.  Still, if that's how you get your kicks…"  She shrugged.  "However, before I do anything, I want more evidence than one picture."

He nodded, unsurprised.  "I expected as much, knowing you, Scully.  Look by the window."

She had to restrain the impulse to tell him to go to hell.  Or to show the unease she felt at the thought of something, someone behind her back.  Slowly, she holstered her gun and turned to the window.  But the only thing there was a brown manila folder.  She walked over picking it up.

Scully opened it and read it by the faint light of the lamp.  There were more photographs; Melissa in the garden…  Melissa in the kitchen pouring coffee…  Melissa in the living room dancing to herself…  And she felt the tears prickle in her eyes.  Then she turned her attention to the papers.  There were surveillance reports, and at the back three letters in Missy's characteristic loopy handwriting.  Handwriting can be forged, but the style, the character of the writer is harder.  And this was Melissa to a T.  Her scatty mind wandering from thought to thought, little careless references to her family, to old boyfriends, to her eternal search for the Whyness of the Wherefore.  When she finally closed the folder, Scully remained very still for a long moment.  Finally she slowly turned to the man watching her.

"All right, you've convinced me," she said simply.  "I don't know how the hell you got this, or how Melissa can still be alive after I saw her body with my own eyes.  But, I'll pay any price for this information."   Unbidden, the image of Melissa rose before her.  Her sister who's only crime was being related to Dana Scully.  Missy who had died for her sister, or had she?  Staring at Krycek, eyes wide, unblinking she remembered Margaret Scully's terrible anguish.  Her own unending guilt and grief.  How many times had she dreamed of turning the clock back?  Of somehow making it all right.  If Krycek was telling the truth…  she bit her lip.

Trying hard to still her beating heart, she walked over to the bed, looking down at him.  "What do you want me to do?"  she asked trying to mask her unease.

Special Agent Dana Scully, fabled for always keeping her cool and composure, was suddenly feeling very awkward.  Yet a flash of the errant humor that cropped up at the most inappropriate moments wondered how the hell you ever trained for this kind of situation.  'How to go to bed with your partner's mortal enemy offering valuable information 101.'

He held out his hand, and after a visible moment of hesitation, she slowly took it, feeling the warm strength of the fingers closing around hers.  "Sit down," he said softly, levering himself up until his back rested against the headboard.  He moved over, making room for her to sit down beside him.

Stiffly, she obeyed.

"Relax," he murmured quietly, reaching up to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand.  "I'm not about to eat you."  The quirk of one black eyebrow acknowledged the unintentional pun.  "Or at least not yet," he corrected himself.

She shook her head, having to fight down a slight smile, as his humour unconsciously relaxed her a little.  Suddenly curious, she studied his face.  Since the first time she had seen him, Alex Krycek had been in the shadow of Mulder.  Certainly whenever she'd thought of him, it was in relation to Fox Mulder.  In some ways, he had not possessed any real substance except in connection to her partner and best friend.

It had been easy to dismiss him back when he was first assigned as Mulder's partner as too young, too pretty, too worshipful to take seriously.  Then too, he and Mulder had not been together long, when she was abducted and even before that she had consciously avoided them.  Hers and Mulder's separation had been too painful, without the constant reminders of all they had lost.

Most of the other agents and employees stationed at FBI HQ had only seen Mulder's aversion to his new partner.  The way he had treated the young, adoring puppyish agent with ill-disguised contempt and even open dislike.  But Dana Scully knew her Mulder, and during her convalescence after waking from the coma, she had managed to ease the truth from him.  If Fox Mulder was the only person with the key to Dana Scully's soul, then the opposite was true as well.  And she had known from the first time he spoke of Krycek when she lay in that damned hospital bed, that there was more to the dark, bitter rage when he mentioned his former partner, than he first wanted to admit.  Patient, gentle persuasion with a hint of nagging now and then, soon had him admitting everything.  And she had listened in silence without condemning, without judging, as he haltingly told her of Krycek's betrayal.  As an enemy agent, and….  more.

Krycek met her eyes, returning the look steadily.  His green eyes calm, a little amused.  But deep inside them was a steady unflickering flame.  "God, you're beautiful," he murmured, almost reverently.  His body had relaxed, a barely noticeable tension released from his shoulders.  A tension she hadn't been aware of until it was gone.  Almost as if, she thought in a sudden flash, he hadn't been quite as confident of himself as he'd seemed.

Gently, he grasped her waist and tugged until she was half-lying down, pressed against him.  They lay in silence for a long time, Scully's heart beating so hard it echoed in her ears.  She had been afraid, when facing mysterious lake monsters, Mexican Aztec demons and telepathic homicidal maniacs, but at least then, it had been work, she had known what to do.  This time she felt woefully out of control and suddenly uncertain; it was not an emotion she relished.  She felt his arm go around her, and a hand tilted her face up.

She had been prepared for anything from a brutal assault to selfish lust.  Everything but the soft, gentle touch of his mouth on her lips, lazily stroking them apart.

"Wha..  what are you doing?"  she finally managed to say.  It emerged in a breathless whisper.

"Shh…"  he murmured against her mouth.  "Don't think, Dana, feel."  His tongue invaded, exploring slowly, thoroughly.  Opening her eyes wide, she wondered if she looked as bewildered as she felt.

"No, don't be afraid," he murmured, seeing confusion and dawning fear reflected in wide, deep-blue eyes.  She wanted to snort and tell him she wasn't afraid of him.  Only of the feelings inside her.  He kissed them closed, a sudden gentleness that could almost be called tender softening his voice.  "I'm not going to hurt you."

She didn't encourage or resist him, just lay there passively.  And then she felt his hand slip under her jacket, tugging up the blouse she wore underneath.  The first touch of his fingers on her bare skin made her gasp and stiffen, flinching away instinctively.

She suddenly started shaking, more than a little afraid, again, not of him, but of the turmoil inside her.  She had to get away, to think.  To gather herself.

"Please, Krycek," and suddenly she didn't care she was begging.  "Please don't do this.  Don't make me do this."  She shuddered.  "I can't, I'll," she thought wildly of anything, everything she could give him instead, "I'll pay any amount of money you want!"

Too late she realized the mistake she'd made.  That strange disconcerting gentleness abruptly wiped away as his eyes hardened, narrowed.  The smile he gave her was a mere baring of the teeth.  And when she looked at him, all emotion had been leached from slitted brilliant green irises.  With another shiver she realised they reminded her of a wolf's stalking its prey.

"I'm hurt, Scully," he told her with a deadly softness.  "But if that's how you feel, no need to drag it out, eh?"  He rolled away from her abruptly.  "Strip," he ordered.  And smiled grimly.  "Oh, and Dana, don't forget to make it worth my while.  I do want value for money."

She leaped from the bed, already opening her mouth to tell him to go to hell.  When she swung around, staring at him with icy blue eyes, she was ready to scream her hatred of this man who played with her life.  But before she could say anything, he asked her silkily.

"Does this mean you want to renege on our agreement?  Poor Melissa, I'm sure she won't appreciate hearing her sister wasn't even prepared to, ah," a caustic smile, "what is the saying?  'Lay back and think of England.'"

Scully went still and pale as a marble statue.  "You've seen Melissa?  She's alive?"  she whispered, arrested by his words.  "You've spoken to her?"

Krycek shrugged, "Perhaps, but I thought you were leaving?"

Suddenly she wondered if it was all a cruel game.  The photo, his demands.  With Krycek and the Consortium anything was possible and usually the truth exceeded even Mulder's paranoia.  But Dana Scully knew she could never take the chance that he was telling the truth.  For the chance, however slim, to have her sister back, alive, she would do much worse than sell her body to slime like Krycek.  Besides, she had to stifle a nervous half-giggle, more than one female FBI agent might have been willing to change places with her.  At least judging from gossip making the rounds of the FBI HQ corridors.

"Are you really so hard up for a woman you need to rape one?"  she asked between stiff lips.  Praying that would at least make him stop and think.

He shook his head.  A strange, cold, pitying smile transformed his eyes into an enigmatic dark-green.  "Oh no, Dana.  I won't rape you."

Taking her by surprise, he too rose and from behind the bed, pulled out a gun.  How typical Krycek, she had the time to think in almost-amusement.  And to wonder how many guns he had hidden in the room.  "If I was to point this," he trained it on her, cocking it.  "At your head and tell you to strip and spread your legs, that would be rape."  The safety clicked on again.  "Or if I were to bash you over the head with the barrel, handcuff you," he reached under the bed for a pair of handcuffs," and take you, that would be rape."  He carefully placed the gun and the handcuffs on the small bedside table.  "I'm not going to do either."  He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

"There is the door.  You're free to leave, no one is stopping you."  He gave her a long, taunting look from under the long black lashes fanning out across tanned skin.  "And if you stay, that's your choice as well."

"You bastard!"  she hissed, almost relieved when anger blotted out the earlier confusion.  "Fine!  If that's what it takes!"  She marched over to the bed, already unbuttoning her blouse, slender fingers, tearing angrily at the small mother-of-pearl buttons.

She stripped in silent defiance, neatly folding her skirt and blouse, tucking the pantyhose into one shoe.  But by the time she was naked some of the anger had faded away and been replaced by crawling unease.  Still, she turned and faced him, head up, chin defiantly raised.

He looked at her for a long time, while her discomfiture grew and she had to consciously stop her hands from covering her body or shifting from foot to foot.  She felt, she thought bitterly, like a slave-girl about to be auctioned.  Dana Scully had never been attracted to the romance of 'days past' or ever entertained any BDSM fantasies.  Personally she much preferred equal rights under the law, her independence and paying her own taxes.  And if she'd ever had any desire to experiment, this certainly cured her of it.  She felt only disgust, with herself and him.

When he finally spoke it was to say, a little huskily.  "I've imagined this more times than you'll ever know.  But none of my fantasies ever did justice to reality."  His sweeping glance drove the colour onto her cheeks, "I'm glad to see you are a natural redhead, not that I ever really doubted.  Now, I want you to undress me."

She opened her mouth to refuse.  It wasn't that she hadn't undressed a lover before.  But this time was different.  Of course it was!  she thought half-hysterically.  This time there was no soft candle-light, romantic music or good food.  And most importantly, no man she liked and respected.  A man she had agreed to share pleasure with.  No, this was a bargain struck with possibly the most evil man she had ever come across.  Her hatred and disgust made her feel nauseous.  My God how she hated him for what he had done to her family, her country and her partner.

His eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting to dark points as he watched the expressions chase each other across her face.  "Now, what's up in that contrary little mind of yours?"  he asked silkily.

She replied without thinking, "I was thinking that you're the most disgusting person I'm ever likely to meet.  And that includes Tooms, who - "

She didn't get any further as he grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise.

"Are you trying to make me angry?"  he asked levelly.

"No.  You asked me what I was thinking and I answered," she replied, incurably honest.

He stared at her for a moment, and then a wry smile turned up the corners of his mouth making him far too attractive for her peace of mind.  "Christ, Dana, I'm surprised no one hasn't tried to strangle you by now."  His hand slid slowly up her shoulder, lightly circling her slender throat.  He slowly shook his head.  "I don't know where you get your guts from.  Most men not only outweigh you by fifty pounds or more, they're also taller and stronger."

"You'd be surprised," she said tartly, his words hitting a sensitive spot.  "I may be small, but you know what they say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"Undress me," he repeated softly, cupping her jaw, fingers slowly shifting along her neck.

"Do what?"  She stared at him.

"You heard me, undress me.  I want to feel your hands on me," he explained politely, still smiling, but his breathing was coming a little more rapidly.

He was watching her, obviously expecting her to refuse, but taking her bottom lip firmly between her teeth, and reminding herself grimly of Melissa she obeyed.

It was beyond her power, or her desire, to make it the teasing, sensual experience it usually was.  And yet, there was something almost unbearably intimate in their positions.  In standing mere inches from him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders.  Then reaching for his jeans.  The zipper made a faint, scraping sound as it slid down easily.  They fell to his feet as he stepped out of them and kicked them away.

Scully slowly ran her hands along his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin T-shirt that was all he wore.  Whatever else he was, she could not deny he was an uncommonly attractive man.  Another time, another place; another man, and she might even have enjoyed herself.  The human body was no mystery to her, in her professional capacity, or on a personal level.  She reached down to remove the thin layer of cotton, and unconsciously her thumb and index finger formed a circle, her other fingers curling into a loose fist.  She could almost hear the calm voice of the professor lecturing the class.  'You cut straight through here…' he jerked lightly as she unconsciously pressed her fingers into his skin.

How many bodies had she handled over the years?  Cut into without fear or hesitation.  Dissembled to understand what had caused their deaths.  Why should she feel awkward just because this one was alive?  She bent her head to hide the sudden uneasy smile.  And she wondered how he would react if she asked if he could please kill himself to make her feel more comfortable.

She pulled at his T-shirt lifting it over his head.  The prosthetic arm gave her a moment's problem and she had to stand on tip-toe to pull it over his head.  The action forced them into very close proximity, and she almost jerked back as his lips closed over her breast.

A sudden flood of warmth pooled in the pit of her stomach, her body suddenly feeling flushed and hot, her other nipple puckering and hardening.  She heard his soft satisfied chuckle, and closed her eyes in shame.  She suddenly remembered his earlier words, and silently she acknowledged that in some ways, rape would have been easier to deal with than this.

Dana Scully had honestly believed that she would never, under any circumstances, have been attracted to a man like Alex Krycek.  And that paying him off with her body would entail some discomfort, even perhaps, some slight pain.  But pain had never frightened her.  After all, it couldn't be worse than the cancer treatment.  Or the agony of standing by Melissa's grave hearing her mother's quiet sobbing and knowing it was her fault Missy was dead.

Uncannily Krycek seemed to read her thoughts.  "That would make it too easy, Dana," he murmured, sliding his arm around her waist, long sensitive fingers splayed across her hip, exploring the soft fine skin, in a caress that made her catch her breath and then shudder deeply.  "If I raped you, that would just reinforce your thoughts of me as a slimy bastard, not fit enough to wipe your shoes on!  You and Mulder," a sudden harsh bitterness deepened his voice.  "I know what you think of me.  I've seen your looks.  Watched you sweep past everyone in the corridor, so intent with each other you don't even notice anyone else."

She bit her lip.  Mulder, always Mulder.  Bill Scully had once accused his sister of being 'unhealthy obsessed with Fox Mulder.' Unfortunately, it seemed she was not the only one with that problem.

His hand moved lower, cupping her mound, and then smiling in satisfaction at her small gasp, and the sudden wetness dampening his fingers.  "Yes, Dana, you're hungry," he murmured roughly.  "Mulder may be many things, but you're not lovers, are you?  You're his Goddess, his Madonna, not to be defiled by common hands."

"No, you don't understand, Krycek," she said weakly, closing her eyes hating the betrayal of her own body.  "Neither Mulder or I ever thought that!"

And she thought bitterly that once again she was caught up in a maelstrom created by her partner.  She made one last futile attempt to make him understand.

"Whatever is between you and Mulder, it has nothing to do with me!  Why do you have to drag me into it?!"

He shook his head, clicking his tongue, "Foolish Dana, did it never occur to you that it was you I wanted, not Mulder?"

Her eyes widened.  "I, I don't understand," she stammered.

He bent his head, feathering kisses along her jaw, licking and tasting the taut arch of her throat.  "That's painfully obviously," a mirthless smile.  "I doubt you were even aware of me as an individual, much less a man, Dana."  His grip around her waist tightened as he slowly moved backwards towards the bed.  He turned so she was standing between him and the bed.  His hand moved to cup her neck and tangle in her hair.  Holding her still as he looked down at her, his eyes lit from within by a strange light.

"You can be so infuriatingly blind at times.  You hated me because I was where you wanted to be; at Mulder's side.  And therefore you never saw me."  He gave her an odd smile.  "Truth is, neither of us were we wanted to be back then."

Scully fought to bring order to her thoughts.  Was he right?  She wasn't sure.  She had listened, and smiled, at the ribald cafeteria gossip about him.  And she had never denied he was one of the most good-looking men she had ever seen.  But he was right that to her the fact that he was Mulder's partner had overshadowed any other emotion.  Ever since the first time she'd seen Krycek all she had been aware of was an intense jealousy that he was Fox Mulder's partner.  Mulder's partner was her.

Her eyes widened as she tried to absorb the knowledge that Krycek had wanted her, not Mulder.  A knowledge that was not only profoundly shocking, but deep, deep down in some dark, hidden place in her soul, lit a tiny flare of something uncomfortably close to satisfaction.  But, she only said, "I honestly didn't even think you saw me as anything but a nuisance."

"A nuisance?"  he raised one dark eyebrow, rolling the word thoughtfully around his mouth.  "That's a strange choice of words.  I would call you many things, Dana.  Beautiful…  Exquisite…  Brilliant…   but definitely not a nuisance.  A dangerous distraction perhaps?"

He leaned into her a little harder forcing her back, as she slowly sank to the bed.  He followed, muscles flexing under his skin as he knelt between her legs.  Hot green eyes focused on her body, silently detailing each inch of ivory-pale skin, each delicate curve and hollow.  She wanted to tell him to stop looking at her.  To stop looking as if what they were going to do could indeed be called 'making love.'

"I know what you thought."  He told her as his mouth softened into a gentle smile.  "You're not a very good liar.  And perhaps I should have let you know how I felt back then, but Mulder was my assignment, and I am a professional, Dana.  But trust me, we are definitely not entwined.  As for the rest," he half-shrugged, "I don't really care.  The assignment is over, and therefore my interest, bodily or otherwise with Fox Mulder."

"I don't believe you," she said flatly.  "Whatever happens, the two of you will always be linked.  You slept with him, Krycek, and then you killed his father.  His father for God's sake!  Don't you understand what you've done to him?"

Warm breath brushed across her skin, and then she almost jumped as he gently bit her ear, his one good hand closed gently around her breast, thumb flipping over the already sensitive and erect nipple.  Her back arched instinctively, fine shivers running down her skin.

Krycek said calmly, "Mulder hated his father.  Actually I did him a favour offing the old son of a bitch.  He was dirty as hell.  Why do you think they took Mulder's sister, hmm?"

Shadowed blue eyes reflected the pain she felt for her partner.  "You don't understand," she whispered, hands clenching.  "I know how Mulder felt about his father, and that's exactly why he can never forgive what you did."

An unpleasant smile twisted his face.  "Quite the little psychologist aren't we?"  His eyes hardened, "and I'd appreciate it if you would shut up about Fox Mulder!  There are much more interesting topics, like last week's weather in Timbuktu."

It was her turn to feel a hint of smugness, at his sudden show of temper.  "You're the one who brought him up," she pointed out irrefutably.

She opened her eyes wide, to stare up at him with all the hatred, the contempt and anger she felt.  She had suddenly realised where all the soft little smiles, the gentle caresses were leading her.  Why the hell did he have to be such an accomplished seducer?  Well, it might have worked with Mulder, but she'd be damned if it was going to work with her!

Speaking in a deliberately bored, weary voice, she said, "Well, if you're in that much of a hurry, get on with it.  I've got more important things to do."  And although she had never felt less sleepy, she yawned.

He stiffened.  "You little bitch," he said slowly.  But then his eyes lost their anger and changed to a cold speculation.  "Ah, I see."  He murmured, "what, did you think you could just lie there, passively?  Like a living inflatable doll?"

She raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.  "Did you think it would be any differently Krycek?  You want lies?  Someone to tell you what a fabulous lover you are?  Go find a whore like yourself!  I'm here, because of my sister.  There was nothing said about pretending, and I'm not going to lie."

She said flatly, "You're scum.  A traitor, a killer and a common thief.  I'm not expecting to get anything out of this but information about Melissa.  As I said, if your price is a few moments of meaningless friction, then that's your choice."  She affected a shrug, looking nonchalant.  Not an easy thing to do when you're naked on your back, with a furious, nude and aroused man leaning down over you.  So she was rather proud of herself as she continued coolly, "and if you're after a power-kick, blackmailing a FBI agent.  Well, trust me, I already feel degraded enough just being here with you."

There was a moment of absolute stillness, and she felt a sudden panic at the expression on his face.  The frozen rage in his eyes.

But all he said was, a little too calmly, a little too evenly, "You have no idea what true degradation means, Dana.  But you will.  Before you leave this room, I promise you will."

Everyone needs to keep some illusions about themselves.  Dana Scully no less than anyone else.

Control, over herself, and her environment had always mattered to her.  Too much, according to Mulder.  And in a few devastating moments Krycek showed her what true powerlessness meant.  He was far too skilled and clever to use violence or pain to drive home his point.  Instead, he stripped her of most of her remaining illusions.  As well as her self-respect and honor.

She paid, and paid dearly for her impetuous, contemptuous words as she learned what it meant to have her body turned against her.  To have her body used to punish, and yet pleasure.  Until the two mingled and pain became the ultimate expression of desire.

He swooped, a bruising, almost violent kiss, pushing her back into the pillow, cutting off her breath.  Scully closed her eyes, drifting.  Her whole body felt curiously alive, but brittle as if made of glass.  She was sure if he pressed just a little harder she'd shatter into a thousand shards.  Her emotions were too raw, the sensations of her body too overwhelming.  All she could do was submit to them.

Again Krycek seemed to read her mind, and at another time and place that might have alarmed her.  "Don't think, Dana," he whispered against her skin.  And she couldn't even dredge up any anger at his use of her first name.

Warm lips burned a path down her body, soft little kisses scattered across the plane of her stomach and then a lightning bolt of pleasure knifed through her.  She gasped and then moaned as his tongue traced the cleft that divided her mound, delving deeper.

"Ahh!"  she shuddered softly, "please!"  she exclaimed, yet not sure if she was protesting or asking him to continue.  Wave upon wave of sensation drowned her in pure pleasure!  His mouth and hands had her feeling things she didn't want to feel.  A complete sense of helplessness overwhelmed her, and wide, blue eyes widened in panic at the realization that this diabolical man knew her own body far better than she did.  That no matter how much she hated him she was helpless to prevent him taking her over.

He ignored her soft pleas, merely laughing, and the feeling of his warm breath against her, inside her, was almost more than she could handle.  Hips thrusting, head flung back, she was moaning, clutching at his hair not sure if it was to pull him closer or to push him away.  But as his lips fastened on the small erect, throbbing flesh, sucking hard, all she was able to do was to ride the emotions to its ultimate end, sobbing loudly, head thrashing, until with a high desperate scream she went over the edge into the abyss.

It took a long time to float down again.  Too tired to even move, Scully was vaguely aware of the picture she must make, legs sprawled wide, breasts still heaving as she tried to catch her breath, skin damp and flushing.  Krycek pulled himself up, looking down at her with hooded, gleaming eyes, smiling in satisfaction.  "Did you enjoy that, Dana?"  he asked softly.

She flushed, turning her head away, refusing to answer, conscious now that she could think again, of intense shame and humiliation.

"Look at me, Dana," he demanded still in that silky soft voice, and slowly, unwillingly she turned her head facing him.  "Before the night is over, you'll be begging me to take you."

"Never!"  she told him.  The hatred, and self-loathing contrasted oddly with the sated, slumberous blue of her eyes.

His answer was a cruel, fierce smile.  "It's so easy to forget, isn't it?  You may hate me, but your body betrays you every time I touch it."  His hand slipped between her legs, just a quick casual touch but it still made her move restlessly, hips pushing against his fingers.  Oh God, she thought, I wish I were dead.  Too weary to move even a muscle, her only escape was to close her eyes against the knowing, mocking smile of Alex Krycek.  But that only made her more aware of the touch of his fingers, the slow slide of skin against skin.

"Yes," he murmured, voice husky and rough.  "You're one hot little bitch.  Does Mulder know, I wonder?"

Her voice a mere breath of sound, Scully answered tiredly, "Why don't you ask him the next time you meet.  That'll be sure to get your head blown off."

He laughed, "He does put you on a pedestal, doesn't he.  But I think it might be fun, just to see his reaction.  However, in the meantime, you still owe me."  Scully shivered, suddenly very, very cold.

"Cold?  No matter, I'll soon have you all warm again."  She wanted to tell him that it wasn't cold that made her shiver, or not only cold.  She was feeling desolate and stupidly had to hold back the tears that burned against her eyelids.  Tears at the loss of her illusions, her integrity, herself.

He leaned over her, "Crying, Dana?"  If she hadn't known better she could have sworn there was a brief glimpse of…  something in the shadows of his eyes, before he blinked and they were once again shards of green crystal.  "Can't have that now, can we?"  the soft smooth voice reminded her of a leopard about to pounce.

When he moved again she wanted to flee but a terrible lassitude had invaded the very marrow of her being.  So she just lay with closed eyes, tremors racking her body as he started again to weave his spell.  But this time he wasn't content with simply letting her feel, this time he demanded something more, as he bent his head, lips tasting each inch of her hot damp skin.  Dizzily Scully wondered how it was that a one-armed man seemed to have a thousand fingers to tease and linger exactly where he knew she would writhe and moan.  Panting, body afire, Scully had long since lost all coherent thought, everything but the pleasure riding her body, a pleasure so fierce she thought she was going to die.

Again and again he drove her right to the brink, but never giving her release.  In the end she was clinging to him, slavishly following his commands, doing things that had her flush even days later when she thought about what he'd made her do, what he'd done to her.  And then he did indeed make her beg.

Nails digging into his back, Dana opened her legs and arched into his body.  She shuddered at the feel of him pressed against every inch of her body.  His lips moved over skin made violently sensitive from repeated touching, from white hard teeth nibbling at it.  She vibrated at his slightest touch, at a whisper of breath brushing against her.  And once again she felt her body dissolving under his experienced hands.  But then he suddenly stopped.  Slowly she opened her eyes, confusion reflecting in their depths.

He was watching her intently.  "Feels good, doesn't it, Dana?"  He murmured, and laughed at her expression.  "Tell me, Dana, beg me to take you," he murmured, bending his head and pressing small, hard kisses along her throat.

"Go to hell," she said weakly closing her eyes again, hating him.

He didn't say anything, just brushed his fingertips across her stomach, and lower.  Her hips thrust up, thighs opening even wider.  And then he went still, waiting.  He knew each trick, knew exactly when to linger, where to tease, until she was near mindless, moaning wordlessly, lost in the sensations he invoked with a single touch, a slow lazy lick of his tongue, Scully was vibrating like a finely tuned instrument.  Again and again he slowly drove her higher and higher, until she could feel herself ready to explode.  And then he ceased at precisely the right moment, waiting while she moaned her frustration and need.  Watched as she almost went mad from what he was doing and the frustration racking her body.

And so, to her own eternal shame in the end she heard her own voice, soft, faltering, give him the satisfaction he wanted.

"Please," she whispered, eyes still tightly closed as she reached for him with shaking hands, body rubbing up against his.  "Please, I want you Krycek.  I want you."  She had to force down the tears clogging her throat.  And she had never hated herself more than at this moment.  "Is that what you want to hear?"  she demanded brokenly.

"Yes, Dana," he murmured softly, as he finally moved, sliding into her in one clean thrust.  "That's all I wanted to hear.  And she heard herself moaning in time to his every powerful movement, "please, please, please…"  Then, finally he gave her the release she craved, only this time she was not the only one.   As if illuminated in a strobe light, once when she opened her eyes, she saw him, eyes wide open watching her with a hungry desperation.  Dimly she thought he looked as if he wanted to burn her image into his memory forever.

She had not lived like a nun, although the past years had given her little time for a social life.  There had been lovers, not too many perhaps, just the normal amount of men she had shared a bed and pleasure with.  But her previous lovers had been polite civilized men, men she liked and respected.  And not one of them had ever touched the core of her being like the killer and thief who took her body with a brutal passion that allowed no holding back.

She never knew whether she imagined it or not.  But once, as she lost all control in his arms, he slid his hand along her thigh murmuring with an emotion, which in anyone but him she would have called pain, "Well, at least I can always give you this…"  And when she looked up at him with huge, dazed eyes, blinking the sweat from long, heavy eyelashes, she caught on the beautiful face leaning down over her, a fleeting expression of…  pain?  But then he bent his head, and she lost all ability to think coherently.

All through that night they, not loved.  No never that.  Fucked was what they did.  There was a leashed violence that hovered on the brink of cruelty in the way he wrung every last ounce of feeling, of pleasure from her body until she was too exhausted to do anything but sleep.  Deeply, dreamlessly almost a coma, in the only escape from him, that was possible for her.

When Dana Scully finally woke again it was morning.  Opening her eyes slowly, blinking against the light, she realized she was alone in the crumpled bed.  Moving brought a faint moan to her lips, as muscles strained by last night's activities protested.

Krycek stood by the window looking out, already dressed in black jeans, T-shirt and sneakers.  Hearing the bed move, he turned around.  "Ah, awake at last, good."  He nodded towards the small table beside him and the envelope lying on it.  "There's your payment."

Scully flushed hotly, realizing the kind of picture she must make, naked in a strange, disheveled bed, tousled hair and with faint bruises in some very unusual places.  Shifting, she was aware of the tenderness between her legs.  She repressed a wince.  If he had wanted to make her feel like a whore, he had succeeded in spades.

"Thank you," she whispered, avoiding his face carefully.  "I, uh - "

"Don't thank me too soon," he told her abruptly, walking over to the bed to stand looking down at her with hooded, watchful eyes.  His mouth thinned sardonically as he noted her averted face, the hands clutching the sheet around her breasts, the rising flush.

"What do you mean?"  she asked, uncertainly.

He sat down beside her, his arm brushing against her breast.  He ignored her instinctive flinch away from him.  "I mean, Dana, that this is not the end but the beginning.  What you've got there is more evidence of your sister if you chose to believe it.  But if you really want to know, then I guess you'll have to come running the next time I whistle."

Shock betrayed her into looking at him.  "You can't be serious!  I paid last night, I did what you wanted!"

He laughed, bending down to kiss her shoulder, and despite herself, she shivered at the touch of his lips on her skin.  "And very nicely too."  The soft mockery had her clenching her teeth.  "You're so naive, Scully.  Last night was payment for what you had already received.  If you want anything else, then you'll have to give me something in return."

Looking into implacable, coolly feline eyes, her shoulders slumped.  If she had thought it would help, she would have pleaded and begged.  But searching his face there was no hint of compassion or mercy, just grim determination and a strange hunger that had grown worse rather than sated.

Half-choking, she finally got out.  "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

He chuckled, "You don't.  All you can do is hope."  Straightening he stood up, "I'll be in touch."  Grabbing his leather jacket, he stopped with his hand on the door handle, giving her a last lingering look, "and if you continue to please me as you did last night, then who knows?  I may even be persuaded to let you meet your sister…"  a pause, "and then again, maybe not."

The door slammed behind him, and she was alone.

Scully pulled her knees up wrapping her arms around them and for the first time since she was told she had recovered from her cancer her eyes filled with tears and she started to cry helplessly….

Exactly as he had promised, or rather threatened, it was just the beginning.  The beginning of a nightmare - and something more.

In darkened rooms where neon lights flooded the bed in blinking garish fluorescent pinks and blues, Krycek taught her about lust.  About a craving fierce need that had nothing to do with liking or respect.  She hated him with every fiber of her being yet the sound of his voice on her answering machine, made her tremble, a liquid heat spreading from the pit of her stomach.  He had become a drug she loathed and craved simultaneously.  She hated him, God how she hated him, yet one touch of those devilish long fingers, and she melted.

A week later he simply phoned, told her the place and time and hung up again before she had the time to say anything.  She wasn't going.  Of course she wasn't going, she would be mad to do so.  She would tell Mulder and Skinner and they would help her get the truth from the slimy bastard.  But even as she told herself this and a thousand other things, she was getting into her car, driving to the small motel just outside town, knocking on the door to the room.

The door opened, Krycek glanced beyond her, to the left and right, and apparently satisfied that she hadn't been followed he pulled her inside and kicked the door shut.

"You took your time!"  he growled.

"I wasn't going to come," she admitted.

"Well, now that you are here, let's get on with it," he snapped at her.

"You're such a romantic, Krycek," Scully couldn't resist telling him dryly.  She almost smiled, despite knowing what he was going to do, she felt vaguely amused.

It was the last time she felt like smiling for a long time.

In silence they undressed and in silence they slid between the cool sheets.  Sneaking a quick peak at him, she saw that his face was carved into harsh, distant lines, eyes cool and impenetrable.  She had the sudden odd feeling that he wasn't really there but lost in some private hell of his own.

Closing her eyes, Scully shivered as the bed beside her dipped under his weight.  She wanted badly to run, to scream her disgust and hatred of this man and the cold, soulless bargain he'd forced on her.  But then it was too late, as he reached for her.  And her mouth closed on the words of rage and opened in a soft moan of lust as his hand and mouth slid over her skin.

Staring up into the ceiling, over his shoulder, listening to the harsh rasp of his breathing in her ear, Scully had to blink away sudden tears, feeling icy cold despite the heat of the wiry, lithe body covering hers and the sweat-slicked , damp skin clinging to hers in a sensation somehow even more intimate than the invasion of her body.  Krycek bent his head, and to her own mortification, she heard herself breath out in a soft sigh of pleasure.

He was, not brutal exactly, just uncaring, using her body for his own pleasure.  Not that he hurt her, far from it.  Yet she cold not shake the feeling that he never really saw her.  That it could have been any woman giving him the same kind of responses.

As soon as he was finished, he abruptly rolled away left the bed, grabbed his clothes, and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him

Sitting on the bed in the tawdry motel room, naked and cold, Scully had never felt so used and dirty.  She wasn't sure who she despised more right now: Him for degrading her, or herself for letting him.  Slowly she gathered her clothes, and dressed, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers.  Once dressed, however, she hesitated, should she knock on the bathroom door?  She never wanted to see Krycek again in her life but she must not forget why she was here.  Melissa, she reminded herself.  Remember Melissa.  A quick glance around the room had already informed her there was no file, no papers.

Dana Scully had never lacked guts, not when she was ten and playing baseball and a clean hit took out the living room window of Rear Admiral Jake "Thunder" Connors, Ret, the fear of all the neighbor kids.  Dana alone had not run away, but faced him, head up, so pale you could see the band of freckles across her nose, red pigtails bobbing.  The adult Dana Scully would not run either.

Standing up, she walked over and knocked on the door, "Krycek?"

He opened it, dressed as well.  "What the hell do you want?"

"My payment," she said as steadily as she could, trying to keep down the blush.

He laughed, an unpleasant jeering sound.  "You're kidding!  I said you'd get it, and you will, when I decide.  Now get the hell out of here, unless you want some more?"  he leered at her, making her palm itch to slap him.

Without a word, holding on to whatever shreds of dignity remained, she turned on her heel and left him and the motel behind.  It wasn't until she was driving home, she realized there were tears slowly sliding down her face.

Dana Katherine Scully, MD, had never had much time or even patience for passion.  Her relationships had been built on mutual regard, shared interests, friendship and respect with sex a minor, all right, a very minor part at times.  Her companions had all been civilized, polite men.  All of them able to discuss Camus and the latest Senate Bill.  To chose the perfect white wine to go with the fish.  To ski and play golf.  To keep up a witty, intelligent conversation.  And in the bedroom each person did what they needed to in privacy and without undue emotion.

Alex Krycek was not something she had ever imagined she'd encounter.  There was a darkness,  a rage in him that found its outlet not in violence, but in the mockery of passion, that was their bargain.  To her, what he seemed to enjoy most was not his own release, but her subjugation.   More than once, while she went mad in his arms, she would catch that strange, hungry look in his eyes.   There was no shame, no inhibition in him, and just thinking of what he did to her, what he made her do had her silently writhing, not in passion but with shame, when she was alone and sane once again.

Again and again his mocking laughter echoed in her ears.  He seemed to enjoy the shock she couldn't quite hide at what he demanded from her, the response he wrung from her body and soul.  She had never met a man like him, and she prayed she never would again.  She found in herself a capacity to hate that startled and frightened her.   She hated the way he made her feel, the way he made her beg.

Yet all the while she knew just  how easy it would be to drown in the dark, sweet poison of his lust.

Scully had often smiled in mingled amazement and pity when her female friends admitted to losing their heads over some handsome hunk that they knew was completely wrong for them.

"I couldn't help myself, Dana," her friend Anne once told her.  "We have nothing in common, I mean I hate everything he stands for.  He's a racist, the kind of reactionary idiot who thinks women are only good for one thing.  He never reads anything but the sports pages and maybe the comic strips.  His idea of entertainment is mud wrestling.  But Dana, when he touches me I just forget everything."  At the time, she had shaken her head, not understanding why Anne just didn't finish with the creep, but now….

Chewing her pen absently, Scully almost bit through the top in her frustration for once profoundly grateful for Mulder's absence.  Her partner for all his fabled kookiness at times saw far too clearly for comfort.

It was an added strain to the whole mess that for the first time since they became partners, she had to lie to Mulder.  Dana Scully had always hated lying and despised liars.  She had told Krycek nothing less than the truth; there was little she prized above Mulder's trust in her.  He never doubted that she would tell him the truth, even when he didn't want to hear it she thought with a tiny smile.  Perhaps because she was the only person in his life who didn't lie to him on a regular basis.  Or, hadn't.

Still she could see no other alternative since she knew only too well how he would react.  Just the thought of Mulder finding out had her stomach in knots.  He would go completely mad.  For all his seeming carelessness, there was a deep streak of protectiveness in Mulder's makeup.  Especially after her abduction and cancer, she had noticed him keeping an eye on her.  If he ever found out about the bargain she and Krycek had struck….  Scully shuddered.

It hurt, she acknowledged.  Every time he gave her that special Mulder grin - the one he reserved for her alone - of unsuspecting trust and faith, she felt a stab of regret and guilt.  There were times when she had already opened her mouth to tell him the truth before sanity prevailed.  Part of the problem was that in the years since they had first become partners she had become so accustomed to sharing her problems, all the little ups and downs of life,.  To discuss with him everything from the best way of unblocking drains to dealing with car mechanics demanding half her monthly net wage for changing the oil.  And in turn, she listened patiently through endless conspiracy theories, complaints on the few takeout places open at four in the morning, and lately, rants over slimy traitorous ex-partners, who slept with people and then betrayed them…  Mulder would always get a certain hungry look when he mentioned Krycek, but whether it was because he wanted to see the 'rat bastard' dead, or because of certain intimate memories of the former FBI agent, Scully never quite figured out.

Mulder's partner never mentioned that she, too, knew, from personal experience, the kind of hunger Alex Krycek could generate.  Sometimes a week or two would go by and with mingled fear and frustration she would wonder if he had tired of the game and decided to leave her hanging, always wondering over Melissa.  Then a file would arrive in the mail or be left on her doorstep, there would be a scrawled note or an abrupt message on her answering machine and the dance would begin again.

"It doesn't bother you?"  she asked once, as they were in bed staring up into a sagging ceiling with dark mould patches and peeling paint.  He had rolled away from her, and was lying on his back, arm flung over his eyes, what little of his face she could see, blank and aloof.

Krycek glanced at her, "What?"

"That I hate you.  That this," she gestured vaguely at the bed, "is all you'll ever have."

He did not, as she expected, reply that it was all he ever wanted.  Instead, he slowly shook his head.  "Nope, because if I didn't have," a strange half-smile, "this, as you so eloquently put it, I'd have nothing.  Better half a cake…"  His voice died away and he shrugged, eyes sliding shut, clearly not interested in saying anything else.

She sat up and looked around for her clothes, flung off in the, though she wouldn't admit it even to herself, mutual haste.  Slowly she started to dress, trying to blank out the man watching her with indolent, deceptively sleepy eyes.  Pulling up the zipper of her skirt, she muttered, "I'll never understand you, Krycek."

A strange smile played on his lips.  "I know, that's what I'm counting on.  I, on the other hand, understand you very well…"

Red hair fell across her face like a curtain, hiding her expression as Scully buttoned her blouse.  "What do you understand?"

Krycek sat up, and she did her best to ignore the way the sheet rode low across his hips.  Taut sinews and muscles moved beneath tawny skin she knew from personal experience had the texture and softness of satin as he took a deep breath.

"You despise and scorn me for what, who I am.  But what kind of woman are you, Dana, who can lie in the arms of a murderer and moan in ecstasy?"  He stretched, and hypnotized, her eyes followed the movement.  He caught her helpless glance and laughed softly, tauntingly.  "All I have to do is look at you, and you want me, Dana, what does that say about you, hmmm?"

She swallowed, "I wish to God I knew," she whispered harshly, "I don't know what you do to me, but I hate it!"

His mocking laugh followed her outside, ringing in her ears….

The weeks since she and Krycek had made their bargain had taught Scully one painful truth.  Unlike most whores, and whore was exactly what she called herself in the darkness of the night, she was unable to separate mind and body.  She knew deep inside that the degrading transaction he had forced on her was destroying her soul.  Feeling more and more desperate and afraid,  Scully frantically pursued all the leads for which she paid such a high price.  Each time she prayed that this would be the one leading to the truth about her sister.

But to her frustration, and growing suspicion that Krycek was playing games, each trail lead her exactly - nowhere!  It wasn't that the information she got was false.  Just that it all seemed to lead to dead ends, to people who had moved away twenty years ago, to gravestones and dusty yellowing obituaries.  And sometimes to even greater mysteries….

"Oh yes, I remember her.  A lovely woman," the old man said.  He was a neighbour of the house where Melissa had supposedly lived, according to the file Krycek had sent her.  The man peered at Scully.  "You look quite a lot like her," he gave a cackle, "always did like a feisty redhead."

Scully bit back the hasty reply and instead asked as calmly as she could, "And when was the last time you saw her?"

He thought for a long time.  "Hmm, let me see, it must have been last month.  No, wait, I paid the bill on Tuesday, and UPS came on Thursday, or was it the other way around?"  he scratched his head.  "Beats me, but the daffodils were blooming so it can't have been too long ago.  I remember 'cause I thought how pretty they were against her red hair."

Scully kept her rather fixed smile.  "Thank you sir, and if you remember anything else, please call me immediately."  She handed him her card.

He took it, but gazed at it in a vague fashion before stuffing it into an already bulging pocket.  She repressed a sigh, knowing the likelihood of him ever phoning was slim to none.  However as she was unlocking the car door, she heard steps behind her, and turning saw the old man tottering towards her.

"Miss, miss, I remembered something!"  he looked very proud.

"Yes?"  She gave him an encouraging smile.

"There was a fella who used to visit her, and once or twice we talked."

She tamped down her excitement.  "Can you describe him to me?"

The old man nodded eagerly, "I sure can, he was a young feller."

She caught her breath.  "Young?  Was he dark?  Green eyes, only one arm?"

He absently scratched himself, "Nah, this 'un had two arms, smoked like a damn chimney.  I told him it would kill him, and he started laughing an' coughing, like I'd said something real funny."

He didn't notice the sudden paleness of the woman who thanked him rather automatically before getting into her car.

Driving back to Washington, Scully raged in helpless frustration, wondering what game Krycek was playing, if the information she paid so dearly for were all subtle lies and deceptions.  But he was all she had, and as long as there was the smallest chance that he would eventually lead her to Melissa, she knew she would never give up, would always let him pull her strings.

Perhaps what disconcerted Scully most were the abrupt changes in him.  The feeling that she never knew what to expect.  It left her constantly on edge, trying to second guess his actions, his behaviour - she didn't even want to hazard a guess as to his motives.  It forced her to think of him far too often for comfort.  Once or twice she wondered if that was his intent.  He was certainly devious enough to plan it that way.

At times, he would use her body in silence, saying nothing as he took her quickly and almost indifferently.  It left her feeling shamed and degraded.  Yet she still preferred those encounters to when his expertise forced from her a slavish, helpless response.  And then, once or twice, he startled her with a gentleness that bordered on tenderness.  A look, a gesture that frightened her more than the most studied brutality.

For some reason she didn't want to think of Alex Krycek as human.  As a man like any other with emotions and weaknesses.  As long as he remained a monster she was safe.  Scully never reflected on why it was so important for her peace of mind to think of him as nothing but a ruthless fiend.

Yet as time passed it became harder and harder to maintain the mental detachment, to keep herself psychologically disconnected.  The odd flashes of humanity that bewildered and taunted her with the hints of another Krycek did not help her cause.  The first crack in the wall came a month after their first meeting.  Like he always did, he'd just phoned and told her the time and place.  This time, however, it was more than usually inconvenient.

He was waiting for her outside the motel, leaning against the wall, reflecting sunglasses keeping the world out and giving the rest of his face a diffuse and distant look.  As soon as he saw her, he straightened and although his eyes weren't visible, she thought he must have given her a sudden sharp look.

Scully was only too well aware of how she looked.  Not even careful makeup had been able to successfully conceal her ashen complexion and strained expression.  However, she walked toward him briskly, chin lifted defiantly, determined to conceal at all costs just how miserable she was feeling.

And although she could feel him examine her, to her relief he said nothing, just gave her a nod before turning and opening the door and waiting for her to proceed him inside.  Scully bit her lip.  So, he was in one of his silent moods.  She wasn't sure if that was an advantage or not.

As soon as the door closed behind them she turned around, hands twisting nervously for a moment, before she put them in the pockets of her jacket.

"I can't sleep with you today," she said bluntly feeling a fierce blush rising on her cheeks.  "I  mean, umm…"   her voice started to fade into silence and suddenly she wouldn't look him in the eyes, instead studying the dusty brown carpet at her feet with intense interest.

He came closer, eyes narrowed as he frowned.  The hard, wiry and graceful body she was coming to know as well as her own was suddenly taut with anger.  "Are you reneging on our deal, Dana?"  Krycek demanded harshly.

She shook her head quickly, "No, no, I'm not.  I'm, it's just that -" her face felt like it was on fire, and she was incensed with herself for her inability to just tell him the truth.  She was a modern, professional woman for heaven's sake!

"Then what is it?"  he gripped her chin, tipping her head up so he could look into her eyes.  "Are you playing games with me?  Don't do that, Dana," he warned silkily, "trust me you wouldn't like the way I play."

Flustered, in the end she simply shouted at him, "I've got my period, you idiot!"  And then her teeth clenched as she waited for the inevitable mockery.  Waited for him to humiliate her as only Krycek knew how.

He stared at her for a moment, a very strange look in his eyes before he started laughing.  But the mockery, if mockery there was, was self-directed.  When his laugh had settled down to soft chuckles, he shocked her, by gathering her into his arms.  "Poor Dana, I'm sorry I laughed."  His hand moved over her stomach, long fingers slowly stroked over the knotted muscles, soothing them and dissolving some of the tension.  Despite herself, Scully relaxed into his arms, restraining the impulse to purr like a cat.   He murmured into her ear, "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head automatically  but then nodded once, quickly, and admitted haltingly, "A little, sometimes.  I would have told you, if you'd given me a chance."  She looked up at him, unconsciously pleading, "I swear I'm not trying to cheat but, but…"  she couldn't finish.

"Shhh," he said quietly, "I believe you."

She almost sighed in relief, "Then I can leave?"

Krycek shook his head, and she bit her lip.  No, of course he wouldn't let it go so easily.  There were still things she could do, ways to satisfy him.  Feeling suddenly very tired, she closed her eyes for a moment.  "I see."  Her hands started to move down his body, thinking that if she was lucky he'd be easily pleased and she'd be able to go back to her bed and collapse in an hour or so.

But he caught them, grasping her slender wrists in his hand.  "No, don't, Dana," he smiled a little at the confusion his refusal caused.  "That's not what I meant."  He carefully smoothed away the furrow between her eyebrows put there by the pain she did her best to hide.  "You know it's not necessary to always be Superwoman, Special Agent Scully," he said, almost gently.  "Why don't you admit to a hint of weakness now and then?  It's not going to make anyone think the less of you.  On the contrary, it just makes you human like the rest of us."

"What do you want Krycek?"  she asked harshly, not eager to think about the fact that he was just human.  She was suddenly frightened, and therefore angry, at the surprising temptation to dissolve into his arms, seeking comfort and support.  She much preferred him acrimonious and mocking to the faint caressing note in his voice, the emotion that bordered on softness warming his eyes.  If she ever gave in to fantasies like that it would be far too easy to forget the real reason of what brought her to a succession of tacky motels and dingy rooms.  Scully made her body go stiff and unyielding, moving away from the inviting warmth of his closeness.

But this he wouldn't allow, arms tightening around her instead."  At the moment?  Nothing at all."  He frowned, "How bad are your cramps?"

"None of your business!"  she snapped, feeling horribly embarrassed to be discussing this with Krycek of all people.  And although she would rather have died than admit it, she hated the fact that he was seeing her like this, bloated and puffy, her skin pale, clammy and having to fight down waves of nausea.

He almost sighed before he caught himself.  "No, because you're determined not to make it my business."  He took a step back, arms falling to his sides, leaving her prey to an unexpected feeling of loss.

"As you're obviously of no use to me, or to yourself…"  he continued, with the malicious mockery she'd expected before, but which felt like a slap in the face after his earlier unexpected kindness.  "You're quite free to leave, I'm not going to force you to stay.  Despite what you may think of me, Dana, I don't particularly want someone distracted by cramps."  He gave her a glittering look, "A little pain can be a great aphrodisiac at times you know," she flushed, "but not when it's inflicted by your own body.  Run home, Dana, go to bed with a hot-water bottle, and dream of me," he laughed at the sparkling look she sent him, "or at least of what I can give you…"  he finished with soft, decidedly double-edged, insinuation.

She bit her lip, once again, to restrain the hot, angry, words spilling out.  Yet, not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, she mumbled an awkward thank you, fiercely resenting the fact that she had to thank the son of a bitch, and for what?  Simple human decency?  And then she quickly scurried out the door.  She didn't need his taunting voice behind her to know she resembled a rabbit running for cover.  But by then she'd already lost whatever remained of her dignity, and she desperately wanted to leave before he had a chance to change his mind.

Much later, however, burrowing under the duvet in her bed and clutching the hot-water bottle Krycek had recommended, her thoughts returned to him.  She had to wonder why he had let her go so easily; it wasn't what she'd have expected from Alex Krycek.  She would have thought that he'd have liked to rub her nose in her body's weakness.  Instead he…  she couldn't help but remember the odd look on his face when he massaged her tense, strained, stomach muscles.

Still, often she was sure the supposed gentleness was just another kind of subtle domination, that one time aside.  Krycek's way of proving to her time after time just how easily her body became his.  She caught herself wondering about his past life, where he had acquired such a thorough knowledge of a woman's body and needs.

Standing by the window in the cheap motel watching the sun rise wearing nothing but a satin slip she felt Krycek come up behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder.  She didn't try and shrug it off.  She knew better by now than to offer open provocation.  So she remained still, even when long skillful fingers slowly explored the sensitive skin of her nape.

"What are you thinking about?"  warm breath ruffled her hair.

Scully kept her eyes on the rising sun, needing to keep at least a part of herself private and aloof.  Still he seemed to expect an answer, and finally she said, weariness dulling her voice.

"Does it matter?"

Silence descended between them, and then he snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her against him.   "To you, perhaps not, put it down to morbid curiosity."  He bent his head, lips sliding along a slender white shoulder, and despite herself she shuddered, body unconsciously relaxing as she tilted her head to give him more access.  "Do you still hate me, Dana?"

"You know I do," there was no hesitation, no ambiguity in the calm voice.  "More and more if that's possible."

His arm tightened around her ribcage in a subtle punishment.  "Who do you hate more, me or yourself?"  he asked silkily.

She shuddered.  "Both."

He spun her around so she was facing him, anger and something else darkening emerald eyes.  "I know what you're doing," he told her in the silky tone she had grown to know and fear.

"What are you talking about?"  she asked, more uncertainly than she'd have liked.  In this mood, although she would rather die than admit it, he scared her.

He laughed harshly.  "Don't lie, Dana.  Last night, I heard you call his name.  His name on your lips, when you were in my arms.  What were you doing?  Pretending it was Fox Mulder inside you?  Mulder taking you?"

A enigmatic smile shaped her mouth.  "Perhaps."  She met his eyes calmly, not hiding her satisfaction that Krycek knew she had pretended.  That she had closed her eyes and imagined that the man above her, had brown hair not black.  Warm, loving golden-brown eyes, instead of a hard wary green.

His face twisted in rage, but deep in his eyes, and, too briefly for her to be sure, there was an emotion closer to anguish than anger.

"Yes, I was thinking of Mulder, are there not times when you do the same?"

An breath of absolute silence.  "You honestly think I'm dreaming of Mulder when you're with me?!"

Not even if she could have put it into words, would Scully have told him the truth: that she had never felt so naked or vulnerable with anyone.  Not with Mulder, not when trying to remember the lost months of her life.  Striking back however she could, she used the pitiful weapons she had left, chief among them Krycek's strange obsession with her and Mulder.

She almost shrugged, "Don't tell me there aren't times you compare us."

He suddenly laughed, pinning her against the window, bruising her lips in a kiss hard enough that she could taste her own blood.  "Trust me, there is no comparison."

Outside the window a car backfired and Scully jumped at the sound, abruptly brought back to reality.  She glanced around instinctively, to make sure no one had caught the betraying red that ran along her cheekbones.

Reassured she was alone in the office she relaxed slightly but didn't make any attempt to resume her typing.  Scully moved a little restlessly on her chair.  God how she hated the rising heat deep inside even the thought of him caused.  How she loathed the passion he had wakened, nurtured and fed so carefully.  Staring blindly at the computer screen, she once again found herself reliving their last meeting….

He was standing by the door, on his way out, when he suddenly returned to the bed where she was still sitting too spent emotionally to get up, knees drawn up to her chest, hands loosely clasped around them.  Krycek looked down at her and for a moment, she caught an odd look crossing his face.

"Sulking, Dana?"  he asked pleasantly.

She shook her head, too weary and dejected to lie.  "I can't do this any longer, Krycek, please, let me go," she closed her eyes, feeling numb, deadly tired.  "I know you hate me, but…"  she had to stop for a moment before she could continue.  "Right now I would rather you just put a bullet through my heart."  She didn't care if she made him angry.  "I'll do anything you want, bankrupt myself, steal FBI secrets, just, just not this."  Even to herself, Scully was unable to articulate her strange fear.

A fear of losing herself, who she was, in his arms.

He reacted strangely to the pleading, the mute appeal in her eyes.  And not with the anger she had expected.  Instead, he just leaned down and pressed a kiss on trembling lips.  Tasted the saltiness of a single tear slowly rolling down her face.  Catching it on the tip of his tounge, he slowly licked it dry.   And despite herself she shivered at the warm wetness on her skin.

"Hate?  I don't hate you, Dana, far from it…"  he murmured enigmatically, "and only you can set yourself free."

She looked at him puzzled, "You're speaking in riddles."

He smiled, his one good hand tilting her face in a small quick caress.  "Let me know when you've figured it out."  He straightened and left her staring after him wondering what exactly he had meant.

It was strange, she no longer even noticed the missing arm, it was as much a part of him as the leather jacket he wore; the tall, lean body that never lost its tan, even in the middle of a Washington winter, the long-lashed verdant eyes that could turn warm as a summer's meadow or cold as ice.  The pretty face with its almost delicate boyish features that made it so easy to underestimate him until it was too late.  He was a drug, a drug that like the alien black oil crept deep inside your soul and used your own weakness to wreak havoc and destruction.

"Come on, Scully!"  She started, as Mulder bounced into the room, rudely interrupting her thoughts.  "Skinner wants us upstairs ASAP, there is something big going down."

Rising immediately, she smoothed down her skirt and tried to calm her racing heart.  "Coming, let me just save this first."  She pushed the key on her keyboard.

Mulder frowned at her, and as they waited for the elevator, he asked casually.  "You all right, Scully?  You've seemed a little worn and distracted lately."

Scully suddenly wondered what he would say if she told him.  'I sleep with your former lover and mortal enemy, Alex Krycek.  I hate him, but he turns my brain to mush every time he touches me.' She almost smiled, answering aloud, "Just a lack of sleep.  It's been a bit hectic lately, burning too many candles I guess.  Not," she added with a sideways glance, "that it's any of your business."

"Hey, cut me some slack, Scully, you're the only person who can stand me more than a week.  I'd hate to have to break in a new partner."

She didn't want to remind him of the other partner he'd had.  Instead she just shook her head at him, as they exited and went into the conference room, where there were already ten or more people, seated around a horseshoe shaped table, and talking quietly.  They found two empty chairs at the end of the table, and then Skinner walked in carrying a thick folder.  He was looking very grim.  Two more agents followed behind him.  Scully recognized one of them and her eyebrow went up.

"That's Elliot Carstairs, Bill Patterson's replacement as head of the BSU out at Quantico," she murmured to Mulder.  "This really must be big."

Although Skinner couldn't have caught her words, he glanced at her with disapproval, and she felt a slight flush rise.  She could feel Mulder grinning beside her, making her long to kick him under the table, and then any desire for levity disappeared as Skinner started speaking.

"Okay, heads up people, we've got a case and its bad, very bad."  He nodded, the lights dimmed, and the projector showed the first picture.  A pretty, dark-haired elfin girl, grinning into the camera, showing one missing front tooth, her hair in pigtails and arms around a big Labrador.

"This is victim number one, Rebecca Branson, age eight, living in Charleston, West Virginia with her parents and two older siblings.  Snatched three months ago."  Another nod and the projector changed with a click.  Scully had to fight a soft gasp and beside her, she could feel Mulder suddenly tense.  The next picture bore no relation whatsoever to the first, it showed a body, and as used as Scully was to bodies, mutilated, decomposing pieces of flesh, as she'd learned to think of them, this was, as Skinner said, very bad.  It had been crudely mutilated, nose, lips, eyes carved out, fingers and toes burned.

"Her body was recovered two weeks later.  The markings on legs and torso was made by battery acid," Skinner said matter of fact.  "The forensic team is of the opinion that it was done while the girl was still alive.  Prior to her death she was also sexually assaulted, sodomized and, from the remains of semen found in her throat, we suspect she was forced toperform fellatio on a number of occasions.  Unfortunately, she was not the last one."  Skinner took off his glasses cleaning them carefully, before putting them on again.

"So far there have been eleven victims, all in the ages between six and ten.  All girls, five Caucasians, two Asians, four African-Americans.  All from different social backgrounds.  Three were from single mothers living on welfare.  Rebecca," he nodded at the screen, "was well-off middle class.  Father works for a multinational company as a mid-level executive, mother stays at home.  One of the others is the daughter of a local millionaire.  There is no pattern or connection between the choice of victims, it seems almost elaborately random."

"The MO is always the same, the girls are snatched in the morning on the way to school, a message goes to the school that the girl is sick, by the time the family becomes worried, the perpetrator already has hours of head start.  No one ever sees the girls being taken.  No contact is ever made by the kidnapper and the bodies are found in the vicinity of the next victim's kidnapping.  We were handed this yesterday and it is to receive top priority."

Skinner paused and gave a nod in the direction of the tall blond man standing beside him.  "For those of you who don't know him, this is Elliot Carstairs, head of the Behavioral Science Unit out at Quantico.  He is going to be helping with this case.  He is setting up a special task force to try to profile the perp.  The rest of us are dividing into smaller groups, we'll meet here once a day to report progress and exchange ideas."  He glanced around the room.

"Let's crack this one people."  There were mutters of agreements and grim looks around the room.  They might be FBI agents, but they were also human and there was hardly anyone around the table who couldn't easily imagine a sister, niece or daughter as one of the victims.

"Mulder?"  Scully was more shaken than she wanted to admit by the pictures, and so was Mulder she was betting, feeling the tension radiating from him.  "You okay?"

Mulder looked faintly irritated, "Why shouldn't I be?"

She held back a sigh.  He could be so prickly at times, and before she had time to say anything else, the man walking in with Skinner came over to them.

"Fox Mulder?  I'm Elliot Carstairs, we've never met, but Bill Patterson told me a lot about you."

Mulder ignored the outstretched hand.  "Plus some of the others I'm sure."  He added with an acid irony.  "'Spooky' Mulder.  The madman who believes in little green men and UFOs."

Not offended by Mulder's surliness, Elliot said calmly, "Actually, at the moment I am less interested in Spooky Mulder, than in the man whom everyone, Bill Patterson, included, claim is the most brilliant profiler ever to come out of Quantico.  Look, we don't have to like each other, and frankly I don't care if you believe in God, Buddha, ET or Mickey Mouse, but right now we need you, Agent Mulder, or there will be more dead girls.  Can you live with that knowledge?"

Mulder shook his head, a grim smile twisting his mouth, "You're very persuasive, and you'realso right, I couldn't.  So why don't you give me all the material you have?"

Elliot nodded, "When you're ready, I've got some of the best talent from the BSU downstairs."  He stood up and strode away briskly.

"Charming man," Scully murmured.

"I like him," Mulder replied almost in surprise.  "A hell of an improvement over Patterson."

Scully glanced at the other people leaving the room.  "Good.  Look, I'm going to go talk to the forensic guys, I'll see you later?"

He nodded rather absently, not even seeing her as he started to jot down notes on the pad in front of him.  Scully left him after a last thoughtful glance.  Whatever he said, this case was bound to remind him of Samantha Mulder's disappearance.  Which meant they were all in for a rough ride.  Mulder was always stubborn and contrary, but when it touched his sister….Scully repressed a shudder.

When she gave her partner a last look just before going out the door, he was writing rapidly, head bent, glancing up occasionally at the picture of what had once been Rebecca Branson.  She had noticed before when he started a new case everything else disappeared.  When they were first partnered it had bothered her, but by now it was so much a part of Mulder that she hardly noticed.

End Part 1
Continued in Part 2

Like what you've read?  Send feedback

Main Page