TITLE:  Undertow

AUTHOR:  Kelly Keil

EMAIL:  klkeil@buckeye-express.com

WEBSITE:  http://grapefruithead.com/kellyfic/

ARCHIVE:  Anywhere, just keep my info attached.

FEEDBACK:  Is welcomed, read, and answered.  

SPOILERS:  Anything up through DeadAlive is fair 
game.  

RATING:  NC-17 

CLASSIFICATION:  S, A, Krycek POV, K/Sc, K/M, 
some slash

DISCLAIMER:  The X-files characters portrayed in this 
story belong to Fox, 1013, and Chris Carter.  I just 
fill in the plot holes, best as I can.

SUMMARY:  "I lose myself inside her.  I am she and she 
is me and Mulder's ghost is on the couch watching.  
It's all insane."

ACKNOWLEGEMENTS:  I'd like to thank my betas for 
their assistance:  Fialka and Livia Babalan for 
reading it in the first place and offering helpful 
suggestions, to Lysandra for going above and beyond 
the call of duty by doing beta despite a nasty case 
of bronchitis, and most of all to Spica.  You have no 
idea how helpful you were.  Thank you ever so much.

NOTE:  This story starts shortly after the events of
Requiem and concludes during DeadAlive, but there is 
a slight detour at En Ami. You may wish to buckle 
your seat belt in case of turbulence.  Additional 
notes at the end.

A definition of what a rusalka is can be found here:  
http://www.pantheon.org/mythica/articles/r/rusalka.html
______________________________________________

Undertow by Kelly Keil


We have lingered by the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
          
             -- T.S. Eliot
             "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"            


Of all the things I expect to see when I open the 
door to my apartment, she's dead last on the list.  
The Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol would 
have been less of a shock.

I'm carrying groceries, too.  It's very difficult to 
have any sort of upper hand when your one good arm is 
loaded down with plastic bags.  It's embarrassing to 
be found this way, as bad as if she'd burst in on me 
while I was sitting on the crapper, my pants around 
my ankles.  I know I'm a human being who has to go 
shopping, and to the dentist, and to the bathroom for 
that matter, but that doesn't mean I like that fact 
getting out.

She sits on my sofa, prissy as you please, her knees 
and ankles locked together, her hands in fists, one 
on each knee.  Sprouting from one of them is a piece 
of paper.  She looks mad as hell.  Lucky me.  Too bad 
for her, but whatever histrionics she has planned 
will have to wait.  My ice cream is about to melt.

"Scully.  What a surprise," and not a nice one, I 
think, as I head for the kitchen.  I don't want her 
here, bringing with her memories of Mulder.  I don't 
want to answer her questions, whatever they might be.  
I don't want to hear any revelations she might care 
to make.  But when it comes to Mulder and Scully, 
what I want doesn't amount to jack shit.

I start to put away the groceries, concentrating hard 
on ignoring her presence in the living room.  It works, 
but only for a minute or two, because when I close the 
freezer door there she is, her face just visible above 
the refrigerator door.  I never even heard her approach, 
and this scares me a little.  My reflexes are shot to 
hell.

"Is there something you want from me, Scully, or did 
you just come here to scowl at me?  And how the fuck 
did you find this place, anyway?"  

I close the fridge door, revealing the entire Ms. 
Scully.  She is looking good, I notice, despite 
Mulder's MIA status.  In an obscure way this pleases 
me.  Whenever Scully goes missing, Mulder turns into 
a sniveling wreck.  It's a pathetic sight, and I hope 
that Scully won't be treating me to that sort of 
spectacle.  It's been a long week and I'm not up to 
dealing with it.

Scully hands me the piece of paper she's been 
holding.  It's crumpled and slightly damp, which I 
find surprising.  She doesn't seem like the type to 
sweat much.  Maybe I make her nervous.  I can only 
hope.

I smooth out the paper and look at it.  It's a credit 
card receipt from a restaurant, one I've been to a 
few times, but I can't see anything incriminating 
there.  I flip it over and see my phone number, and 
above that, the letter A, written in Mulder's 
handwriting.  "Fuck," I say.  

"Sloppy.  I'd have expected more discretion from 
you," Scully says.  "I found it when I was going 
through --" here her facade cracks a little, and a 
hint of what may be anguish shines through for just 
an instant.  She blinks, and it's gone.  "When I was 
going through Mulder's things.  It was with his 
important documents:  his mother's will, his birth 
certificate, divorce papers...and this phone number."

And you just had to investigate it, didn't you, 
Scully?  Just had to know who was so damned important 
to your darling that his phone number was kept in 
such a safe place.  Are you jealous?  Of me?  This is 
funny on so many levels that I have a hard time 
keeping a straight face.

"It's an unlisted number," I say, as if it matters.

Scully gives me a disgusted look.  "Don't tell me 
you've forgotten where I work, Krycek," she says.  
"It wasn't exactly hard to track you down."

I walk past her, back into the living room.  "I 
told him to put the number somewhere safe."  My back 
is to Scully but I know she hears what I'm saying.  
"I guess he took me literally."

"What possible reason would Mulder have to keep your
number with his valuables?  What did you do to rate 
that sort of consideration?"  Scully asks, her voice
filled with suspicion and anxiety.  

She's trying to keep her tone even, but I'm not buying 
it.  When she walks over to me, her face is worried and 
unhappy.  She suspects something, but I can't tell how 
much she knows, and how much she's just guessing at.

I don't know how to answer her, or even whether I 
should.  It's none of her goddamned business.  If 
Mulder had wanted her to know, he'd have told her 
himself.  Then again, leaving my number in a place 
where Scully would find it is the sort of passive-
aggressive bullshit he loved.  Loves.  Whatever.  

"I want you to tell me," says Scully, and her voice 
is strained.  She's bared her neck to me and I could 
so easily go for the jugular.  

"Curiosity killed the cat, Scully."  Her need to 
know, regardless of the consequences, is foolish.  
There are some mysteries of the universe better left 
unrevealed.  No doubt Mulder has figured that out by 
now.  

I can tell by the look on her face that she's not 
going to let this go.  There's more here than her 
anxiety over an enigmatic slip of paper.  She 
suspects something, and while Mulder can dissemble 
with the best of them when he cares to put forth the 
effort, she's not stupid.  

"Are you lovers?" she asks in a no nonsense tone, 
refusing to leave well enough alone.  It comes out 
firm, without a quaver or slip.  I imagine she's 
rehearsed this question in her head, and out loud as 
well, since finding that damned piece of paper in 
Mulder's things.

I can't help but laugh.  It comes out harsh and 
biting.  "Not exactly.  What do you want to know, 
Scully?"  Her face is white, her lips tight.  She 
turns away from me, perhaps in disgust.  I was going 
to leave it at that, but something in me snaps.  This 
is her fault.  She's been pushing at me since I 
opened the door and found her trespassing butt on my 
couch.  "What do you want to hear?"  I grin at her,
knowing it's going to piss her off and not giving a 
damn.  "Fox Mulder gives wild head, and when I fuck 
him, he likes it rough.  I can go into detail if you 
want."  

I expect her to turn and hit me.  I've been hoping for 
it, actually.  It might break the feeling of unreality 
that's stolen over me and give me the impetus to just 
chuck her out on her shapely little ass.  Which I'm not 
looking at.  No, sir.

Scully does swivel, lightning-quick.  I see her arm 
rise as if in slow motion even though this is all 
happening rapidly.  I could grab her at any time, 
crush her hand or break her wrist.  Instead I let the 
blow fall.  The familiar taste of copper fills my 
mouth.  

I think that it's all over now, that Scully has 
exorcised whatever demon infests her by beating on 
me, but apparently I have underestimated her.  She 
stands there for a few seconds, flexing her hand 
while I investigate my jaw.  It feels like she 
dislocated it, but appears to be in working order 
nevertheless.  I look away from her for an instant 
only, but that's all it takes.  She launches herself 
at me, biting, hitting, scratching, kicking, gouging.  

She's beautiful, and I think I understand why 
Mulder's fascinated with her, but there's no way in 
hell that I'm letting her beat the snot out of me.  
With one shove she's sprawled on the floor at my 
feet, looking up at me through her hair.  She starts 
to kick at my kneecaps and enough is enough.  I grab 
one of her ankles but the other's still free to kick 
me, which it does.  Repeatedly.  My prosthetic may be 
state of the art, but it was never meant to deal with 
this kind of shit, so I trap her with my body 
instead, falling onto her heavily.

I knock the wind out of her and for a few moments I 
have some peace.  I secure both of her tiny wrists in 
my right hand and do my best to balance on the 
prosthetic.  This is tricky at best, and in a minute 
it'll be too painful to keep up.  Scully's little 
temper tantrum has ceased to be cute.

"Stop it," I hiss at her, both out of breath and in 
pain.  "Just fucking stop it."

I have the feeling Scully doesn't like to admit that 
she's been beaten because she wriggles beneath me, 
trying to get free.  Not that she has a prayer -- I 
have a death grip on her -- but she's giving it her 
best shot.  To my horror, this is really turning me 
on.

Well, not horror, exactly.  Irritation would be a 
better word, and it's directed at both of us.  This 
isn't what I need right now and it sure as hell isn't 
what she needs, but there's nothing I can do about it 
and she won't fucking quit.

I groan because I can't help it and she must feel me 
hot and hard against her and Jesus, all I want to do 
is bury myself inside her, to find out for myself 
what it is about her that kept Mulder crawling back 
for more.  Scully stiffens and her eyes go from slits 
to saucers.  Thank God, she's snapped out of 
whatever fit she was having and realizes the peril of 
her situation.  Good.  I can see the thoughts on her 
face as they fly though her head:  'Sure, Krycek just 
admitted to fucking Mulder, but he never claimed to 
be particular and I don't think that's a pack of 
Doublemint Gum in his pocket.  I may be in over my 
head here.'

That, Scully, makes two of us.

She seems to be in shock, all the fight knocked out 
of her, and while this could be a mistake, I let go 
of her wrists.  I can't support my weight anymore 
without the help of my right arm.  You think your 
life sucks, Scully, try mine for a few days.  There 
isn't a chip to implant in my neck that cures 
armlessness.  

This thought actually helps.  I start remembering 
that I want Scully out of my apartment (don't let the 
door hit you on the way out) and not lying on my 
floor.  I back up a little, preparing to stand and 
help her to her feet and out of my life.  I would beg 
her pardon if I thought it would do any good, 
although all I've done was engage in a few sexual 
acts that I'm pretty sure are no longer illegal in 
the state of Virginia.  Granted, I did them with the 
love of her life, but that's hardly my fault.

I'm feeling good about things, am sure that I have 
everything under control, but yet again Scully 
surprises me.  One of her hands rises hesitantly, as 
if in a dream, to my mouth.  She reaches out with her 
thumb and runs it across my lip, then pulls her hand 
back.  She rubs her fingers together and I see they 
are covered with my blood.  I'd almost forgotten that 
she'd hit me.

Something about seeing my blood makes her crumple.  
Her eyes flicker to mine and the control I thought I 
had evaporates.  She is so plaintive, so lost, that 
I can't bear it.  I'm not sure why looking at my 
blood would make Scully, who has a stomach of steel 
according to Mulder, look like she wants to puke.  
Maybe it's because she doesn't want to see that 
monstrous or not, I'm human.  Or maybe she just 
doesn't like being reminded that she can lose her 
restraint in such a violent way.  

The sight of her at her triggers a memory from long 
ago: a story I was told of beautiful women who lure 
men to their deaths by dragging them under the surface 
of cold Russian waters.  Rusalki, wanting to be saved 
but doomed to kill whatever they touch.  

Without even thinking, I take her hand and draw it to 
my mouth.  I lick her fingers clean, wanting to erase 
my stain from them.  

Scully shudders as I suck on her fingers, one by one.  
She doesn't look outraged, merely puzzled -- and 
unless I'm mistaken, turned on.  Her face is flushed 
and her breathing has deepened.  "What are you 
doing?" she asks, curiosity in her voice.

I wish to God I knew.  I finish by licking the pad of 
her thumb clean then I let her hand drop as if it 
might burn me.  Scully looks at me with come-fuck-me 
eyes and I'm forced to admit the Mulder was right 
about that, too.  Her eyes, usually chips of ice, can 
melt.  That son of a bitch hadn't lied to me after 
all.

"Jesus, Scully," I say.  "This can't happen.  You 
don't want this."

"Don't tell me what I want and don't want," she says.  
She props herself on her elbows and her gaze rakes me 
up and down.  I can't help but think I'm being used 
and maneuvered, but for what purpose I can't guess 
and I'm not sure that I care.

"You're not my type," I say, but my body gives lie to 
the statement.

Scully raises an eyebrow.  Mulder told me about that, 
how it drove him mad.  I understand this now, too.  
I'm beginning to understand all sorts of things.  

"Why?" I can't help but ask.  "Thirty seconds ago you 
wanted to take my head off."  I sound like a whiny 
sack of shit.  Like Mulder, in fact, and maybe this 
is what she intends.  I am to be her Mulder-by-proxy, 
and like all life's compromises, I can never replace 
the real thing.  On the other hand, who am I to turn 
down a freely given fuck, even one as psychologically 
messed up as this?  

"Maybe I want to find out firsthand what Mulder sees 
in you," she says, and this is probably the most 
honest thing I will ever get out of her.  It's a 
creepy echo of my own thoughts, and it gives me 
pause, but she doesn't allow me time to dwell on it.

She curls her hand around the base of my neck, drawing 
my head down to hers.  Her fingers are wet and sticky 
against my skin.  I expect her to savage my mouth like 
she tried to savage my body, to hurt me because Mulder 
left her and I am still here.  I don't mind -- I half 
think that I deserve it because I let him go -- but her 
lips are soft beneath mine and the kiss is slow and 
thorough.   She is tasting me, learning me, and in her 
arms I begin to drown.

Scully is a rusalka and I rush toward her, eager for 
her embrace, heedless of the water closing in over my 
head or the undertow dragging me down.  I am drowning 
and I don't give a damn.  Let oblivion come -- it 
will be a relief.  I surrender to Scully and my lips 
kiss her back.

I need to touch the skin under her blouse.  I manage 
to unbutton some of her buttons but others are 
fatalities to my haste and clumsiness, and go rolling 
across the wooden floor.  She doesn't seem to mind.  
Her shirt is discarded somehow but I don't see it 
removed -- I'm occupied by the feel of my lips on 
hers and my hand along her skin.  I try to remove her 
bra (black lace that I doubt is for my benefit) but 
find it to be an exercise in frustration.  Scully 
rescues me by pulling away so she can do it herself.

I sit back on my heels and watch her.  For her the 
motion is so practiced as to be mindless but I'm 
enthralled by the arch of her back, the line of 
muscle as she flexes her arms, the spill of hair as 
her head falls forward.  I imagine Mulder lounging on 
my couch, watching it all as he drinks whatever 
yuppie beer he's entranced with this week.  'See, 
Alex?' he says.  'See, I told you that I couldn't 
help myself and now you know why.  And even though I 
enjoy having my dick in your mouth, it's her I'm 
going back to.  Can you blame me?'

No, I can't.  Not any more.  Damn her. 

If we are going to do this -- and right now the only 
thing that would stop us would be Mulder walking 
though my front door -- I don't want to do it on the 
floor.  My first thought is of the couch, but Mulder 
and couches are inexorably wound together and right 
now there is too much Mulder between us to add this 
to it.  Besides, his ghost would be there the whole 
time, drinking that goddamned beer and making 
comments on my performance.  

That leaves only the bed.  

Mulder doesn't like beds much and he never deigned to 
lie on mine.  It used to irritate me that he 
preferred anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable, to 
my bed, but since his abduction my bedroom has been a 
refuge.  There are no ghosts there, which is a 
blessing.  I don't want Mulder looking over my 
shoulder and giving color commentary while Scully and 
I fuck, not even a Mulder conjured by my imagination.   

I stand and look down at Scully.  She finishes her 
Houdini-like act and sits on the floor with the bra 
dangling from one finger.  She's dressed only in 
black slacks and three inch black pumps.  She thrusts 
her small breasts forward, and from the couch, Mulder 
gives me an exaggerated wink before taking another 
swig of beer.  

That's it for me.  I reach down and haul Scully to 
her feet, an easy enough thing to do as she weighs 
next to nothing.  "Not on the floor," I say, and she 
only nods her head as her bra falls from her finger, 
forgotten.  It's possible that she has her own Mulder 
ghost she wishes to escape.  It's also possible that 
fucking me is part of that and I find that I don't 
mind.  Fucking Scully may do some exorcising for me 
as well.

I pull her into my bedroom, not bothering to switch 
on the light.  The bed isn't made and the blankets 
are twisted in mute evidence of how little I've been 
sleeping lately.  One sock and yesterday's underwear 
are on the floor.  Romantic it's not, but that's too 
damn bad.  Mulder was the romantic one and I always 
let him wallow in it, but it isn't in me.  Besides, 
somehow the mess seems appropriate for what Scully 
and I are about to do.

Scully's hand reaches into her pocket and pulls out a 
small packet.  She places it with emphasis on my 
nightstand and glares up at me, looking for me to 
challenge her.

I wouldn't dream of it.  "You came prepared," is all 
I say, my voice neutral.  

"I'm always prepared," she says, as if it is 
commonplace to keep a condom in her pocket.  

Hit me then kiss me, Scully?  You must have learned 
that from Mulder.  You came here meaning to have me, 
didn't you?  I never even had a chance.

'Nope,' calls out the ghost Mulder from the other 
room, laughing.  I shut the door to the bedroom with 
a bang.

When I turn back, Scully is kicking off her shoes and 
shrugging out of her pants.  Perhaps she's afraid 
that she'll change her mind if she pauses to think 
for a moment.  Her panties match the bra that is 
lying on my living room floor.  Very nice, and I 
can't help but think that maybe these scraps of black 
lace were meant for me after all.  What a flattering 
thought.

As I watch Scully sweep the blankets out of her way 
before lying down on my bed, I unbutton my shirt but 
don't take it off.  There are some things that Scully 
can't see yet, may never see.  My jeans and shorts 
come off next and I am as naked as I'm going to get.  
More naked than I was the first time with Mulder.  

I try to shake off the memory but it persists.  
Scully had been abducted and Mulder came looking 
for me -- to kill me or try to get her back, I'm 
still not sure which -- but in the end I'd gotten 
down on my knees before him as he leaned up against 
his car, both of us hidden by deep shadows cast by 
the nearly full moon.  

"Krycek?" Scully asks, breaking into my thoughts.

When did I get nominated to be solace to Mulder and 
Scully when either of them goes missing?  Never mind.  
There are worse jobs on this earth and God knows I've 
done my fair share of them.

I get on the bed and kneel over Scully.  She reaches 
up to run her hands over my chest and tries to push 
off my shirt but I stop her.  "No."

She settles back onto the pillow, a half-petulant 
expression on her face that clearly says: fine, 
whatever.  I bend over her, my lips touching hers 
first, then sliding down to her neck.  Her hand 
fumbles over my thigh and finds my cock.  She knows 
just what to do, knows the right rhythm and how much 
pressure to use.  I imagine Mulder taught her this.  
It is almost like him touching me, but not.  Her hand 
is smoother, smaller.  Either way, it's better than 
my own hand in the darkness.

"Oh God, yes," I say against her throat and she sighs 
in response.  Scully takes her hand off of me and 
pushes me so that our positions are reversed with me 
on my back and her leaning above me.  

"You are a beautiful man," says Scully, and it 
doesn't sound like a compliment.  She straddles my 
body, her ass brushing against my cock.  My hips rise 
under her and I want to be inside her.  Her finger 
traces over the planes of my face, across my 
eyebrows, ending at my lips.  "Mulder has taste.  
I'll give him that."

Stupid of me to think that closing the door would get 
rid of Mulder.  Scully's Mulder ghost is here, even 
if mine is still out in the living room.  I think 
about telling Scully to send her Mulder out of the 
room to keep mine company and I can't help but smile.

I run my hand along the side of her body from breast 
to hip then back again.  Her skin is softer than I 
would have thought, and so warm.  I'd always somehow 
thought she'd feel like cold marble, but I should 
have known better.  No wonder Mulder couldn't resist 
her. 

Scully leans forward, pushes my shirt aside, and her 
tongue flicks out to lick my nipple.  I shudder at 
the contact and bring my hand up to touch her hair, 
then move my hand down her back to her thigh. She 
feels like silk, not at all like Mulder, and for a 
second my hand hesitates.  This is Scully.  Scully.  
But then she leans down, her mouth leaving a trail of 
bites and kisses down my chest and stomach, and any 
remaining philosophical objections I might have had 
evaporate.

Scully kneels between my spread legs and we both know 
what she's going to do but still she makes me beg.  
This is something else she learned from Mulder.

"Do you want this?" she asks and in my memory I hear 
Mulder saying the very same thing.  We'd been sitting 
on his couch and like Scully, he'd already known what 
my answer would be but he'd wanted to hear me say it, 
and say it I had.

"Yes."  It comes out as a moan.

Scully's mouth hovers a bare half-inch above my dick, 
her breath making it twitch with need.  Oh please oh 
please oh please.  "Yes, what?" she asks, and her 
tongue just barely touches me.

"Fuck you, Scully," I say.  I don't need this shit, 
tempting as she is.  I still have some pride.

Her soft laughter falls on my skin and her hair tickles 
me for a few seconds before her mouth engulfs me.  Oh, 
fuck, yes.  One of her hands wraps around the base of my 
cock and the other cups my balls.  Her lips grip me 
tightly as she moves her head up and down, up and down.  
Her teeth graze me, teasing me with what is almost pain 
but mostly pleasure.

"Please," I say, and Scully has won.  Or maybe I 
have.  I can't tell.  It's hard to make 
rationalizations while receiving a blowjob.  

I am near to coming in Scully's mouth and she must 
realize it because she draws back.  I reach out 
blindly to the nightstand, seeking the condom.  I 
find it and toss it to Scully.  She catches it in one 
hand, opens the package, and puts it on me with 
clinical efficiency.  Such a practical woman.

Her body is a tight sheath that encloses me as she 
slides herself down onto me.  Her eyes are closed.  
I can make a rough guess as to whose face she's 
seeing behind her eyelids, and it isn't mine.  I 
thrust my hips up, deepening the penetration, and 
Scully's head falls back.  Her hands rest on her 
thighs, restless fingers trailing over her skin.  
She wants to touch herself, I'm sure of it.  While 
she can fuck me with no problem, she can't go this 
extra step towards intimacy.  We all have our hang-
ups -- I'm still wearing my shirt, after all -- 
so I decide to help her out.

I move my hand between her legs, my thumb stroking 
her clit.  She moans, "Oh, please," and this time I 
have won.  Or she has.  Again, it's hard to tell.  I 
increase the friction and she moves her body slowly 
up and down on mine, mindless to everything but what is 
happening between her legs.  When she comes, she 
collapses forward, her forehead resting on my chest, 
breath coming in short gasps.  She pushes my hand 
away, no longer interested in that.  

After a moment she starts thrusting against me again, 
increasing the rhythm, and now I am mindless as well.  
We move together, one being for a few short minutes, 
then I come, and she comes again, and it is over.

Scully lies beside me for a short time and I marvel 
at it.  This is something Mulder never did and it's 
a nice contrast.  I like it.  I'm surprised that I 
like it.

"Did you get what you wanted?" I ask her.

She is silent, considering, then says, "Yes.  No."  
She sounds wistful.  "He's still gone."  

I want to tell her that no, Mulder is sitting on my 
couch and drinking fag beer, but I don't think she'd 
understand.  On the other hand, she might.  We all 
have our ghosts.

"I should go," she says, and before I know it, she's 
dressed, ready to leave my apartment, and presumably 
my life.  

I stand in the living room, still wearing only my 
unbuttoned shirt, and watch her go.  As she closes 
the door, she doesn't look back.  Sitting on the 
couch, Mulder tips his beer my way.  'I told you she 
was a choice piece of ass,' he says.

"Fuck off, Mulder," I say to the empty room.

~#~#~#~

Three is the number of months Mulder has been gone.  

In the stories of my childhood, three was a magical 
number, a number of possibilities.  Scully, and me, 
and Mulder makes three.

Three is the number of times I've walked into my 
apartment to find Scully there waiting for me.  "Same 
shit, different day?" I ask her as I throw my jacket 
over a chair.  I won't let on that my pulse has 
sped up.  Nothing phases me.  Not even Scully, 
standing by my shaded window with dark yellow light 
falling across her skin.  It seems as if she is 
looking at me from underwater.  

She makes a face.  "I'm fine, everything is fine."  

What a little liar you are, I think.  If everything 
is fine, then why are you here?  Besides, I know 
better.  I've been watching you and your new partner, 
waiting for you to make any progress at all.  Why 
have you stopped looking for Mulder?  Don't tell me 
you've given up hope of being able to find him.

Even Skinner, uptight, ass-kissing Walter Skinner, is 
making more headway toward finding Mulder than you.  
Considering how useless I find Skinner when I'm not 
making him dance the nanobot jitterbug, this is 
saying a lot.  

What game are you playing at, Scully?

I wonder why she's been chasing man-bats and bizarre 
cultists, but don't comment on it.  At least one of 
us is still looking for Mulder, and really, I'm in a 
better position to do that than she is.  Her new 
partner isn't a complete fuckwit, but he'll never 
find Mulder by sniffing the ground for clues.  

Mulder needs someone who can sniff the air.

I've spent most of the day studying astronomical data 
and I have one fucker of a headache.  I doubt Scully 
cares.  She's come for her pound of flesh and by God 
she'll get it, one way or another.

"I'm getting a drink," I say.  "You want anything?"

She shakes her head.  She's yet to take anything from 
me but sex.  I'm good enough to fuck, but my 
hospitality is unacceptable.  I find this amusing.

I open the fridge to peer inside and reject the idea 
of beer.  Vodka is what I need, oh yes.  Vodka and 
Excedrin -- good for what ails you.  Three is the 
number of pills that I swallow.

I walk back to the living room, drink in hand, and 
nearly spill it.  Scully is lying naked on the couch.  
Damn, but she moves fast.  She must be in a mood 
tonight.  Mulder's ghost is leering at her in 
appreciation.  I hear him whistle.  "You're trying to 
kill me, right?" I say.

"Not today," she says.  "Not yet, anyway."  The hint 
of a smile flutters across her face.  She might have 
a sense of humor in there, buried deep.

'What a way to go,' says the ghost Mulder.  I ignore 
him and take another large swallow of vodka.

"It's not like I had any other plans," I say, setting 
my drink on an end table and kneeling in front of the 
couch.

"Good," Scully says as she pulls my head to hers, her 
tongue running across my lips then pushing into my 
mouth.  She pulls away, licking her lips.  She *is* 
trying to kill me.  "I'd hate to waste your precious 
time."

Three is the number of stitches she has in her neck.  
I notice them as I pull her hair aside to taste her 
skin.  "You're becoming careless in your old age," I 
say.  "What would Mulder say?"

'I'd tell her to stay the fuck out of danger,' growls 
the ghost Mulder.

"I don't know," says Scully.  "I don't seem to know 
anything anymore.  Just fuck me.  That's what I need 
you to do."  But what she means is 'just for a few 
minutes, make me forget.'  That's what she needs me 
to do.

If I could make anyone forget, it would be me.  There 
are so many things that I don't want to remember.  
Like, for instance, that I'm supposed to dislike the 
woman lying on my couch.  I'm not supposed to feel 
this desire that crashes through me.  On the other 
hand, I wasn't supposed to want Mulder, either, and 
look where that got me -- on my knees in front of him 
with warm night air pressing all around and the 
sounds of traffic in the distance. 

I want Scully on her knees.  It seems only fair, and 
part of me needs to know how much she will take.  I 
pull her down to the floor, knowing the wood is cold 
and hard under her hands and knees.  She turns her 
head and gives me an annoyed look.  If you don't like 
it, you can damn well move, I think -- but I'm 
willing to bet the discomfort is a welcome distraction 
for her.

I lay my hand on the small of her back for balance as 
I push myself inside her body.  It is good, maybe too 
good.  When we fuck, the line between us begins to 
blur and I can't tell where she ends and I begin.

I lose myself inside her.  I am she and she is me and 
Mulder's ghost is on the couch watching.  It's all 
insane.

Three is the number of times I try to make her 
forget.

Zero is the number of times it works.

~#~#~#~
(end part 1/2)

See disclaimers in Part 1

~#~#~#~

(Ripples of light flow around her making it seem as 
if we are under the waves of a dark, silent ocean.  

My hand travels over her icy skin.  "I'm cold," she 
says.

I know, my rusalka.  Take me down with you, take me 
down.  It is time to forget.  There is so much I need 
to forget.

"Not for long," I say, and cover her body with mine.

"He was dying," she says.  "He never told me he was 
dying."

"I know," I say softly into her ear, the soothing 
noises easy for me to make.  I did know, had known.  

"You don't know anything."

I move my body within her and she throws her head 
back.  A cry escapes her lips.  

"I know how to do this," I say, and she doesn't 
argue.)

* * *

The night he told me, I was sitting on his couch, my 
shirt unbuttoned and my jeans only half-fastened, 
watching the sunrise.

He walked out of his bathroom, freshly showered, his 
hair standing up in wet spikes on his head.  He was 
naked except for a towel draped around his shoulders.  
Seeing him like that, backlit by the morning sun, I 
wanted him again, even as tired as I was.  I watched 
his towel fall to the floor as he began to get 
dressed.

"I need to tell you something," he said, pulling a 
shirt over his head.  His voice was muffled.

"What?" I asked, my voice a rasp of anxiety.  I 
didn't like his tone.  It was full of endings.

"I'm dying," he said.

How melodramatic, I thought.  How very theatrical you 
are.  What a perfect Russian you would have been, my 
friend.

"You're not dying, Mulder."  I wondered what the hell 
he was getting at.  Was this his roundabout way of 
announcing that this all had to end?  There was a 
small flutter of panic in my chest.  It was always 
between me and Scully for him, and I'd never asked 
him to choose, but maybe now he had.  I knew if it 
had come to that, I could never be the victor.

Mulder sat down beside me and lay his head back on 
the top of the couch, gazing up at the dark, 
indistinct ceiling.  When he started to speak, I 
realized that my first impression had been wrong, 
so totally off the mark as to be almost comical.  
I'd gotten us confused.  I am the one who never 
says what I mean.  

"Shortly after my mother died," he said, his voice 
heavy, "Scully wanted me to see a doctor to get a 
checkup.  Because of her cancer, you know, she 
worries about these things.  She kept at me and at me 
and at me..."

"I know," I said automatically, although I really 
didn't know what it was like to receive that sort 
of all consuming concern, and not at all sure how 
I would react if I ever did.  

Mulder constantly spoke of Scully and I let him, 
often not listening to the words.  It wasn't like he 
ever required my opinion -- I could have been the 
wall for all it mattered -- but now I made myself 
concentrate on what he was saying.  This time it was 
important, and not just his lovesick musings on the 
goddess that was his Scully.

"I gave in and went.  They did all sorts of tests."  
Mulder smiled, and it was tight and hard on his face.  
"I have good insurance and Scully is a madwoman."

"I know," I repeated, and that time I wasn't just 
playing along.

"They found a tumor and did more tests.  I made 
them keep everything confidential, and I told 
Scully they gave me a clean bill of health.  She 
doesn't know any of this."

"Where...where is the tumor?" I asked, afraid I knew 
the answer already.  The old man was behind this, 
that goddamned son of a bitch and all his plans.  I 
remembered Mulder strapped down on the table, 
catatonic, the men Spender called doctors fucking 
with his brain.  It had been very hard to look at him, 
lying there helpless, and remain impassive.  

Sympathy is a luxury I can't afford, and yet Mulder 
keeps making me pay, and pay, and pay.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Krycek," said Mulder.  
"Don't fuck with me.  Not now."

"When are you telling Scully?"  I knew that this was 
what the conversation was all about.  It was Scully's 
feelings he was concerned about, how Scully would 
react to the news.

"Never, I hope.  Not if I can help it," he said.  
"Not while there's still hope that I can fix it."  He 
was lying to himself.  I could hear it in his voice.  
He would never tell Scully that he was dying.

"But--" I started to protest, then stopped, knowing 
it would be useless to argue with him.   

She's bound to notice when you're dead, you asshole, 
I thought, when it's too late for her to prepare, too 
late for her to say good-bye.  My God, he could be
such a shit.  I didn't even like Scully but I was 
nevertheless furious with Mulder on her behalf.  

"I want you to help me," Mulder said.  "I need you to 
help me."

"Help you do what?" I asked.  Sitting there, in the 
dark, none of it felt real.  Nothing was ever real in 
the dark.  Dawn would come and I would wake up, and 
it would all be a bad dream.  Only the light that 
filtered through Mulder's windows was getting 
brighter by the minute, and I wasn't waking up.

"I haven't given up yet.  I have...options left, 
avenues to explore.  But if you happen to stumble 
across a cure...  You're a resourceful man," said 
Mulder.  "You know people, you've seen things.  
There's got to be something --" I could hear the 
desperation in his voice, even though he was trying 
to hide it.
  
Plans began to formulate in my head:  how I could 
find something to save him, some forgotten vial lying 
in cold storage.  I pictured myself as conquering 
hero, returning to save Mulder's life in the nick 
of time.  I imagined his gratitude, his love.  
Stupid, meaningless fantasies.  

"It's getting harder to keep the headaches from 
Scully," he said.

Of course.  Scully.  It always came back to her.

He lifted his head to look at me.  The entreaty in 
his eyes made me feel small.  What was it about 
Mulder that always made me feel as if I'd come up 
short, lacking on some deep, fundamental level?  
How had Scully survived as long as she had with him?  

Mulder's such a hard man, inflexible as diamond.  
Impossible.  Brilliant.  

I am only glass, and he cuts right through me.

"Will you do this for me?" he asked, leaning over to 
me and kissing first one cheek and then the other.  
It was the ghost of an embrace I'd given him a 
lifetime ago.  

I wondered when Mulder had figured it out.  How 
better to defeat your enemy than to make him love 
you?

Mulder cupped my face and kissed me, his tongue 
filling my mouth so that all I could taste was him.  
"Please," he said as he pulled back, remaining close 
enough that I could feel his breath on my skin.

"Yes," I said, but by then, he'd already known what 
my answer would be.

The irony, of course, was that he wanted me to save 
him for Scully.  Not that it mattered.  I'd gotten 
used to sharing him by then.

No, I told myself.  Don't think about that.  Just 
touch him and remember the way he feels.  Lick his 
skin and remember the way it tastes.

If I've learned anything in my life, it's to take 
what you can while you can.

"I don't want to talk anymore," I said, reaching for 
Mulder.  

We fucked on his couch, his favorite spot in the 
whole world, and when he came, he sighed my name, 
"Alex," into its cushions.

It was enough.

* * *

(My hands rest on her slight, hard belly.  She thinks 
I don't know, and doesn't like me to touch her there.  

We don't talk much, and when we do, it's Mulder we 
discuss.  The child has never been mentioned, as if 
ignoring it will make it go away.  

She moves my hands higher, to cup her breasts.  
They've grown, I've noticed.  Not a lot, but I can 
still tell.  I draw her down, bringing her nipple to 
my lips.  She sighs, and rests her head against mine. 

Between us, the child dreams watery dreams.  Like its 
mother, the child is also a rusalka.  It will emerge 
from the water to drown us all.  Unless something is 
done.

But not yet.  Not yet.)  

* * *

I knew about Scully's baby before she did.

When I arrived at the old man's summer house, he told 
me there was something he needed to show me.  He said 
nothing further as we walked through underground 
passages cut into Pennsylvania stone.  The hallways 
were brightly lit, and we could have been in a 
hospital, or in the Pentagon, for all I knew.  
Spender halted before a door wide enough to allow the 
passage of a gurney.  

"This is it," he said.  He stubbed out his cigarette 
in a nearby ashtray.  Then we draped ourselves in 
surgical scrubs and masks before entering the room.

Who is it this time? I wondered, not prepared for the 
answer.

It was Scully who lay unconscious on a surgical 
table, her legs pulled up into metal stirrups, 
revealing everything to the whole room.  I felt 
distaste directed at her body lying there mute 
like a slab of meat on a butcher's table.  I resented 
having every private detail of the body that Mulder 
worshiped thrust into my face.  I was annoyed by her 
virtuous blamelessness.  

I didn't want to care that it was her lying there, 
but all the same, I did.  There was a part of me, 
ever so small and tight, that saw this third 
violation of Scully as some sort of final straw.  It 
wanted to make me rush in, cover her nakedness, and 
save her as if I were some sort of fucking knight 
errant.  But that part of me was buried deep under 
layers of denial and jealousy and self-preservation.  
She was Scully.  She could take care of her own damn 
self.  She was nothing to me.

But that tiny bit of me still cared.

"So, you've decided to include her with the other 
test subjects," I said.

"Of course," said Spender.  "But I need your help 
with her, Alex, in light of your relationship with 
her partner.  My son," he added, just in case I might 
have forgotten.  More likely, he was making a point.  
He liked to make points, and then to drive them home 
like carefully honed spears.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what his point 
was this time, but I wasn't sure how he could have 
known about Mulder and me.  I had been so careful, 
I'd thought.  So much for that theory.

"You've put me in an awkward position, my boy.  I had 
wanted grandchildren.  Special grandchildren.  But 
you've demonstrated more than adequately that that 
will never happen.  Thanks to your special 
relationship with Mulder."  

Spender's voice caressed the word 'special' and I 
flinched.  I couldn't help it.

My fault?  How could it be my fault?  I wasn't the 
one who made Scully sterile.  I wasn't to blame for 
Spender's lack of grandchildren, special or otherwise.  
Then it hit me.  Somehow, some way, Mulder had kept 
at least one secret from the old man.  

I knew that Mulder and Scully were lovers, had known 
for years, but Spender didn't.  It was suddenly 
obvious.  Me.  I was the reason.  My relationship 
with Mulder, such as it was, had never been secret.  
It had been camouflage.  

Resentment began to roil in the pit of my stomach.  
The part of me that had burned to rescue Scully 
fizzled and died under the cold weight of my anger.

All this time, during all those stolen moments when 
I'd thought no one had seen us, Mulder had been using 
me for cover to protect Scully.  Spender didn't know 
they were lovers because of me.  I was the only one 
who knew.  Besides them, of course.

The three of us, sharing a secret between us, and I 
was still the outsider.  Fuck them both.

"What do you need me to do?"  I asked.  My fists, 
both real and artificial, were clenched.  Behind his 
mask, I had no doubt that Spender was smiling.

"Remind Mulder of the ova he stole from me.  They 
were useless, but it doesn't matter.  Convince him 
that they aren't useless.  Make him believe.  That 
shouldn't be too difficult."

"If you're doing the insemination now, won't they 
wonder when their baby comes to term months early?"  
I asked.

"We've discovered that the gestation periods are much 
longer for the hybrids.  It should give you all the 
time you need."

"And if I can't convince Mulder?  And what if Scully 
doesn't want to have a baby?"

"I wouldn't worry about that.  I don't think it will 
take much convincing on your part.  But if either 
doesn't go along, Agent Scully will have an 
immaculate conception.  I imagine that sort of thing 
would appeal to my son."

Yes, it would.  Not that it would matter.  How 
difficult could it be to convince a dying man to give 
the woman he loved the thing she most wished for?  I 
hadn't found anything to save Mulder's life, but 
weren't children a form of immortality?  

"I don't think it'll come to that," I said.

I didn't bother to ask Spender what sort of monster 
he was giving Scully.  At the time, it hadn't seemed 
to matter.

* * *

(I flip Scully over so she is lying on her back on 
the floor.  She shivers and her nipples draw into 
tight peaks.  

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask.

She shakes her head. 

"What do you want, then?"

She looks at me, confused for a moment, and then 
says, "I want your mouth on me."  By this time she is 
not afraid to touch herself.  She opens herself to me 
in invitation.

For an instant I see the doctors clustered around 
her, the metal holding her in place.  I know the only 
way to make the image in my head go away is to 
replace it, so I lean down and do what she wants.

I am unsurprised to find she tastes like the sea.)

* * *

It was my fault Mulder was taken by the aliens.

I should have never told Mulder about the ship.  He 
was fascinated with it, sure it was his last hope.  
I'd had had the same thought, in the beginning, but 
later I wasn't so sure.  I wasn't as convinced as 
Mulder that the aliens would save his life, but I 
was fresh out of ideas.  

I found him in his apartment, packing for his trip 
into the great beyond.  He was leaving with Skinner 
as his babysitter, as if Walter Skinner had any power 
to manipulate fate.  I envied Skinner, knowing he 
might be the last one to see Mulder, and I felt sorry 
for him, too.  I think that Skinner also knows what 
it's like to feel odd man out when it comes to Mulder 
and Scully.  It's a damned uncomfortable place to be, 
but so hard to escape at the same time.

I couldn't seem to make myself believe that Mulder 
was going away, maybe forever.  Even in his weakest 
moments, I'd always seen him as indestructible.

"Don't forget your bug spray," I said.

He looked up at me and didn't smile in greeting.  
"Bug spray is the least of my worries, Krycek."

So we were back to my last name.  Maybe that was for 
the best.  "I just wanted to make sure you still 
wanted to go through with this.  You know you don't 
have to."

Mulder's features twisted into a snarl.   "You want 
them to take Scully, don't you?  That would make 
things so easy for you, wouldn't it?"  

"You wouldn't be making your glorious self-sacrifice 
if it weren't for me, Mulder," I reminded him, stung 
by the accusation in his tone.  "I was the one who 
told you the aliens would be willing to make a 
trade."  But he was right.  I would have rather they 
took Scully.  He could always read me so well.

"I have to go.  I couldn't save her before, but I 
won't let them hurt her again, not if I can help it.  
Besides," and he looked at me with imploring eyes, 
his anger gone, willing me to understand, "there is 
the possibility..." He couldn't say the rest out 
loud, superstitious that articulating the thought 
would negate it.  

"They're aliens, Mulder, not magical fucking elves.  
They don't have your welfare at heart.  For that 
matter, I don't think they have hearts."

"And you'd be willing to hand Scully over to them."

"No," I said.  I ran a hand through my hair.  "It 
doesn't have to be like that.  Neither of you has to 
be in Oregon.  You could let it go, Mulder."

"You're not that naive, Alex.  You and I both know it 
doesn't work like that.  And there is the chance."

The chance.  A very slim chance.  Yes.

Mulder stood up and walked across the room to me.  
His hand went to my neck and pulled me close.  His 
lips brushed across mine.  "When you were gone all 
that time, was it for me?"

The change of subject caught me off guard.  I thought 
of the long nights in the Tunisian prison, my 
memories alone keeping me sane.  I thought of how I'd 
come home and followed Mulder to Oregon, only to find 
his hotel room empty.  I thought of how I'd looked 
through the crack of light left by the curtains in 
Scully's room and seen them together on her bed, 
wrapped in each other's arms.

"Not everything is about you, Mulder," I said.  But 
it had been, all the same.

Mulder leaned forward, his lips touching my ear.  
"Not everything is about you, Alex.  Let me go."

And I had.  He had never been mine in the first 
place.  My arms dropped to my sides.

"Good bye," I said, and left.

* * *

("Oh, God yes," she cries into my mouth as I thrust 
inside her.  "Oh, God, please, faster, harder, 
please."

Mulder, what would you think if you saw how she is 
now, her lips swollen, her hair falling in her eyes, 
her skin wet with sweat, and it's for me, all for me?

Would you hate me or envy me or stare at her in awe?)

~#~#~#~

I've never seen Dana Scully asleep before.  It's an 
intimacy she's never shared with me, but this time 
I'm the intruder, and she doesn't know I'm taking 
this liberty.  

She looks like a child, lost and alone, wearing 
pajamas three sizes too large for her.  I'm not sure 
why I came here, for her benefit or mine, but 
something in me compels me forward.  I lay down 
behind her on her bed and draw her to me.

"Mulder?" she murmurs, her voice thickened by sleep.

"No.  Not Mulder."

She wakes then, and turns around.  "I don't want you 
here," she says.  For a moment, moonlight illuminates 
her face and I see the streaks left by dried tears.

I didn't know rusalki could cry.

"I just heard," I say, and bury my face in her hair.

"I don't need your comfort," she says.

Maybe I need yours, I think, but fucked if I'm saying 
that out loud.  "No, you don't," I agree.

"You shouldn't be here, Krycek."

"No, I shouldn't."

"I want you to leave," she says, but I'm not 
convinced of her sincerity.

"Not yet."  I can't go back home tonight.  Mulder's 
ghost is waiting for me, and this time it might be 
real.  "Let me stay here tonight."

"I can't..." she lets the sentence trail, but I 
know what she means.  "We can't do this anymore.  Do 
you understand?"

"Yeah."  Tonight all I want is to sleep in a place 
free of ghosts.  If I never touch Scully again, then 
what have I lost?  It's not like she was ever mine, 
not any more than Mulder was.

Always I am the interloper, but tonight I pretend to 
belong.  Scully and I hold each other, keeping the 
ghosts at bay.  She sleeps, but I lie awake, watching 
for Mulder to appear.

In the morning I go home and there is no ghost to 
greet me.  I watch the sunrise alone and fall asleep 
on my couch.  I wake when a hand touches my arm.

"Mulder?" I say, before I open my eyes and see it's 
Scully there, sitting beside me.  

"No," she says.  "Do you want me to leave?"

Behind her hovers a ghostly Mulder.  He looks lost 
and confused.

I'm sorry, I think, but you're gone and she's here.  

'I never asked you for lifelong devotion.  You were 
nothing but a quick fuck in the dark.  I never asked 
you to love me.'

Yes, you did.  You demanded it with everything you 
ever did.  

He shrugs.  'Maybe I did.  Take what you can, while 
you can.  Isn't that what you always say?  Nothing 
lasts forever.  We both know that.'

Then why are you still here, haunting me?

"Krycek?  Maybe I shouldn't have come."  Scully 
starts to rise but I pull her down.

"No.  No, stay."

"We shouldn't do this," she says, turning her head to 
kiss me.

But we do it anyway, because it keeps the ghosts 
away, and that's all that really matters in the end.

~#~#~#~

Time passes.  It's the one thing you can always 
count on.  Life does go on, as trite as that sounds.  
Days come and go and blend together with their 
sameness.  Memories begin to blur.  

Then something comes out of the blue and hits you 
between the eyes with the brute force of 
inevitability, telling you things are about to 
change.  This sweet, unreal interlude is about to 
end, but who could blame me for wanting to make it 
last as long as I can?

("Krycek, it's Marita.  I need to talk to you.")

Mulder could blame me.  There is that.  But don't 
think of him right now.  Time enough for that later.

I have to see Scully, must see her, and I go to her 
home to wait for her.  I know this is the last time, 
and everything I see seems to have a sad sort of 
significance -- from the MUFON reports she has 
stashed away on the remotest corner of her dining 
room table to her small but growing collection of 
baby things.  

I pick up one of the items at random as Scully 
unlocks her door and steps into the room.

"Fairy tales?" I ask, studying the book in my hands. 

"It was a gift from my mother," Scully says.  "For 
the baby."  Scully has stopped trying to pretend 
she's not pregnant because it's too obvious now that 
she is.  

I put the book down and start toward her.

"I'm too tired to throw you out, Krycek," she says.  

"That's convenient, Scully, because I don't want to 
go."

"What do you want?" she asks, and I can hear the 
weariness in her voice, but there is another 
undercurrent as well.  Is she pleased to see me?  
Or is that my imagination?  

"You," I say, "for now."

She laughs.  Her laugh is becoming more and more 
frequent.  Her mourning is ending and she is getting 
on with her life.  I wonder if I'm doing the right 
thing, and whether I'm doing it for me, or for her.

Take what you can, while you can.

I stroke her cheek with my thumb.  "Are you going to 
say no?"

"No," she says and I don't care if it's affirmation 
or denial.  I kiss her and she kisses me back.  

"I'm going to hate myself in the morning," she says 
as she draws me to her bedroom.   She leaves the light 
off so I can't see her, but by now I know every inch 
of her by touch alone.  

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," I say as I lie 
down beside her.

Afterward she dozes beside me, too tired to get up, 
too tired to make me leave.  I'm glad.  Knowing where 
I'm headed in the morning, I have no desire yet to go.  

"Mulder liked fairy tales," she says.  

Mulder has been on my mind all day, which is 
something of a change of pace.  His ghost has been 
blurring around the edges, and often doesn't bother 
to show up at all.  My apartment has been empty 
lately, except for me, and sometimes Scully.  
Mulder's been fading from my life, inch by ephemeral 
inch, and I hadn't noticed until today, when Marita 
called.

("He's not really dead, Krycek.  There are others.  I 
can prove it.")

"He would," I reply, tucking Scully's head beneath my 
chin.

Could Mulder be Lazarus?

"What about you?" she asks.

Me?  Is Scully asking my opinion about something that 
has nothing to do with Mulder?  I'm startled, and 
blurt out an answer before thinking it over.

"My grandmother used to tell me stories," I say.

"Really?" Scully asks, and she sounds interested.  
"It's hard to imagine you as a child."

It's hard to remember, too.  I close my eyes and 
picture my grandmother, sitting in her chair by the 
radiator, lace like cobwebs falling from the needles 
in her cramped hands.  She spoke always in her 
native tongue, refusing to speak English, and told 
me story after story, uncaring if I listened or not.  
The stories would follow me around the cramped 
apartment, her aged voice carrying somehow through 
magic that she must have gleaned from her tales.  She 
swore they were all true, every magical bear and 
drowned hero.  

("He's not really dead, Krycek...")

I never believed in my grandmother's tales, tried not 
to listen, but her words were insidious, worming into 
my head until I knew the stories, knew them all.  My 
grandmother claimed the stories would teach me 
everything I needed to know about life.  Perhaps she 
was right.

I should have known better than to love a rusalka.  
There is no happy ending there.  There is no happy 
ending at all.  

But in Grandmother's tales, a rusalka could be saved.  
If a hero sets right the wrong done to her, she is 
freed from her watery prison.  I'm no hero, but I'll 
have to do.

("He's not really dead...not really dead...")

"I have to go," I say, disentangling myself from 
Scully's arms.  My hand makes a last sweep over her 
belly and I wonder what is there -- child or monster 
-- but I can only try and set one thing right at a 
time.  

"I'll see you later," Scully says, yawning.  She is 
becoming used to me.  

No, you won't, I think.  

I could let this go on.  It still isn't too late.  
Take what you can while you can.  But Mulder's ghost 
is back and glaring at me.  'She'll never be yours 
and I'll never be yours.  You should know that by 
now.'

I walk away, a villain off to rescue the hero for the 
princess.

I am such a fucking fool, but the plane ticket to 
Moscow has already been purchased, and it is first 
class.

~#~#~#~

I come back from Russia the possessor of a very 
expensive vial of liquid, and find that events have 
raced ahead without me.

Billy Miles has been found and Mulder has been 
unearthed.  This isn't how I had planned for things 
to go.  You'd think I'd have learned by now that when 
dealing with Mulder or Scully, my plans aren't worth 
shit.  

He is dying, which is fucking hilarious, because he's 
already dead, and it's Skinner and Scully who are 
killing him.  If I had gotten back a few days later, 
he'd have made the transformation, and wouldn't that 
have been a kick in the teeth?  

It's funny, in a sick sort of way, but I've gone 
through a lot for this vial, and I'd hate to have it 
go to waste.  It's so rare that I do anything noble.  
And God help me, I don't want to kill Mulder.  Not 
even an alien that looks like him.

I hold the needle to his skin and hesitate only for a 
second.  I picture the reunion between Mulder and 
Scully and my hand wavers.  I want him so badly, want 
her so badly, but even more, I want what they are 
together.  

Nothing I do or don't do, can give me that.  Nothing.  
With a sigh, I inject the vaccine into Mulder.  There 
is a blip on his monitors, a momentary spasm of his 
muscles, then nothing.

I've done what I came to do:  I've saved the hero,
disenchanted the rusalka, and made right all that was
wrong; but still I linger.
 
I have an urge, ridiculous but compelling, to kiss 
Mulder's lips and bring him back to life like this is 
a demented version of Sleeping Beauty.  I lean 
forward, wanting a last embrace, but Skinner bursts 
into the room and I fall back, denied even that 
frivolous desire. 

Something about Walter Skinner always brings out the 
worst in me.

He's so uptight, so sure of his righteousness, but 
he's always been someone's puppet.  For now he's 
my puppet, and I like to pull his strings.

It's one of the few amusements I have left.

Besides, he's useful.  People who are easy to 
manipulate always are.

I ask him to choose between Mulder's life and 
Scully's baby mostly because it doesn't matter and I 
like fucking with him, but his response surprises me.  
I see in his eyes that he knows Scully's child is 
special, as Spender had promised all those months 
ago.  

I feel a foreboding.  The child.  I can't forget it, 
not my role in its conception, nor that its 
destruction may fall onto my shoulders.  I want to 
stop and question Skinner but now isn't the time.  It 
won't be long before Mulder wakes from the alien- 
induced stupor and I want to be very far away when it 
happens.

Asking me for a happy ending is one thing.  Making me 
stay and witness the aftermath is another.  

I walk out of Mulder's room, leaving Skinner to wreak 
whatever havoc he wants.  The vaccine has already 
started to work no matter what he does.  I think of 
my promise to find something to save Mulder's life.  
I've done it, and the dreams I'd had of earning his 
gratitude or love are nothing but dust.  

I can't help but remember his last words to me: "Not 
everything is about you, Alex.  Let me go."  

Let him go, let Scully go, let them both go.  Don't 
look back.  

This isn't my story.  It never was.


end


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