Second Grace Book III
 Author: Logan <buddhaxds@hotmail.com>
 Rating: NC-17
 Genre: Mulder/Krycek slash, Adventure, Angst Keywords: Mulder Krycek
slash angst Krycek POV Archive: Please ask, and archive all three parts
together. Beta: Wildy, Shelba B.
 Disclaimer: No infringement meant to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, or
Fox. Alex Drake and Fox Mulder belong only to themselves. Authors Notes:
Translation for passage marked with  found at end of story. Thanks, love,
and appreciation to the following people, all of whom contributed in some
part of themselves to the story and my life: Wildy, Shelba, Patti
(Spooky), Marcia Elena, Satina, Shannon, David S., list sibs of
SlashingMulder, I Want To Believe, Maggie, everyone who sent feedback for
the first two stories. Last but not least, thank you Mr. Buckley and Mr.
Johnson.
 To Alex, Fox, Sean, and Wildy.
 To Sheri  

 So that is Fox Mulder at peace. I want to stay and drink in the sight,
but this reunion is not mine to witness. I don't need to see any more. The
look on his face will be with me the rest of my life. 

 I take a steadying breath and go to prepare lunch. 

 There is no sound from the living room for a long time. Curiosity gets
the best of me, and after I set the table I go to check on the two of
them. 

 Fox and Sean are sitting on the futon, their dark heads touching, eyes
closed, twin expressions of intense concentration on their faces. Fox's
hand rests on Sean's knee; Sean's much smaller hand covers it. The air
hums with energy as they explore a world that exists only for them. 

 I stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame, observing silently.
Fox's lips purse and his brow furrows. Lines of pain are forming around
his eyes and mouth; the grayish pallor of headache tinges his skin.
Whatever they're doing to each other, its hurting Fox. I have to stop
this. 

 "Hey," I say softly. 

 Simultaneously they jerk their heads and raise their eyes to me. Sean's
are moist with tears and Fox's are bloodshot and dilated. 

 "I made lunch," I continue. They are both trembling. Fox's free hand
squeezes convulsively into a fist against his thigh. He's hurting, all
right. 

 "Thanks, Alex. C'mon, Sean, let's have something to eat and then you can
get some rest. Go on into the kitchen while I talk to Alex for a minute,
okay?" Fox forces a smile. 

 "Yes sir," Sean replies. He reluctantly releases Fox's hand and stumbles
into the kitchen. 

 Once Sean is out of the room Fox winces and squeezes his eyes shut. "Can
you get my meds?" 

 I touch his hair lightly. My own hand is trembling. "Sure, I'll be right
back." 

 I go to the bathroom and scoop up the container of meds, then fill the
waterglass. I carry it all back to the living room, balancing the
container in the crook of my arm. 

 He's leaning forward on the futon, elbows on his knees, cradling his head
in his hands. I sit next to him and read through the directions for the
medication. How am I going to do this without having to go put on my
prosthesis? Finally I hold the vial upside down in my teeth and stab the
syringe through the rubber stopper to fill it. 

 "Okay, drop your linen." 

 He smiles weakly, then slowly stands and unbuckles his belt, letting his
pants fall to his knees. I hold out an alcohol swab to him. He rubs it
over his thigh then pinches up an area of skin between thumb and
forefinger. 

 "Remember, close only counts with horse shoes and hand grenades," he
admonishes. 

 "Don't be a baby. It's a small needle." 

 "Yeah, but it's still a needle." 

 The needle slides in. I depress the plunger, pushing the medication into
the muscle, then pull the needle out. 

 "All done. I like this doctor game. Maybe I can give you a prostate exam
next time." 

 He chuckles, then grimaces in pain. He pulls his pants up and sits down
again. I open bottles and pile up pills on the table. He scoops them up
and washes them down with the water. 

 He sits back heavily, resting his forehead on my shoulder. "We have to
call the police, and I've got to call Scully. I think Marita was holding
Sean somewhere in North Carolina. We've got to find the facility and get
the proof of what they did to him... before they vanish." 

 He's such an idealist. Does he really think justice is going to be served
here? That all we have to do is call the fibbies and they'll lock Marita
away? 

 And what sort of justice would that be, weighed against the years they've
carved from Sean's life? 

 "What makes you think North Carolina?" I ask. 

 "Sean and I... I could see and hear his thoughts... his memories. They
put him in an artificial womb of some sort, and accelerated his growth.
They wanted to mature the telepathic ability, find out if they could
control it... but they couldn't. 

 "On the way to the bus station they stopped at a restaurant and he saw a 

 Carolina Tarheels billboard, and he thinks he may have seen a sign that
said 

 Chapel Hill at the bus station. He's not sure though, they gave him some 

 drugs to make his memories hazy." 

 His hands dig into his thighs as he speaks. "Fuck, Alex, it hurts." 

 I run my fingertips across his forehead, down one temple. "Fox, if it
hurts this much you've got to stop it. I know the temptation to
communicate this intimately must be huge, but you can't make yourself ill
with it." 

 He looks at me. His eyes are glassy from pain and powerful drugs. "I
can't control it," he whispers. "I hear him constantly. I hear you too."
He runs a finger across my jaw. "I'm not leaving, Alex. Scully and I will
work something out. I'm not going anywhere. I belong with you." 

 He stands, running a hand through his hair. "C'mon, let's eat. Sean's in
there wondering if he should start without us. He's starving." 

 Sean is at the table, back rigid and hands in his lap, staring hungrily
at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich on his plate. His calm is eerie,
the stillness of his limbs unnatural. Bron and Dee's boys would have eaten
their food and half of mine too, had they been alone at the table. 

 Fox squeezes Sean's shoulder. "Go ahead, son, eat your lunch. You don't
have to ask permission to eat. We don't stand on ceremony around here." He
smiles lovingly at the boy and I see color rising in his cheeks as the
drugs take effect. 

 I'm trying to force my sandwich down when the telephone rings. I jump up
and grab it before Fox can react. 

 "Hello?" 

 "Alex, it's Scully. Walter and I are about to board the plane. We should
be there in a few hours. Has the situation changed? Do you have any more
information?" 

 "The situation is stable. I'll have someone meet you at the airport. Give
my your flight info." I grab a pen and scribble down the information as
she reads it off. "Okay, see you soon. Hang in there, Scully, everything
is going to be fine." I hang up. 

 Fox looks up from his food. "You called Scully already?" 

 "Yeah. Sean, your mother is getting on a plane right now. She'll be here
in just a few hours. She's bringing Walter with her. Do you remember him?"
I ask. 

 "I remember everything," he replies. "Walter has big warm hands and
called me 'Sport'." 

 Fox smiles at him; then at me. "Thanks for taking care of that. I owe you
one." 

 You owe me nothing. All you do is give and give and I suck it up like a
sponge. Or a leech. Or a vampire. 

 "You two finish your lunch," I tell them. "I'm gonna go change the linens
on Sean's bed and get his room set up for him." 

 I go into my bedroom and hunt in Fox's dresser drawers for his cell
phone, which he never carries anymore. I hit the speed dial for the Lone
Gunmen. 

 "Lone Gunmen Office," Langly answers. 

 "Langly, turn the surveillance off," I instruct. 

 He hesitates. "Who is this?" 

 "Dammit, Langly, look at your caller ID box!" I snap. "Now turn the tape
off." 

 "Okay, it's off. What's up, dude? Everything alright?" 

 "No. I need information. We've found Sean. He's alive, but they've
experimented on him. We think he was held somewhere in North Carolina.
Marita Covarrubias was involved. I need you to dig up anything you can
find on research facilities in North Carolina. Cross-reference every name
in Sean and Scully's medical records with any lab, research facility,
private clinic and military facility in both the Carolinas." 

 He whistles. "That's gonna take a while, man. Might be sometime tomorrow
before we've got anything for you." 

 Tomorrow? If they find anything by tomorrow, I'll buy them all lifetime
memberships to every porn site on the Net. 

 "That's fine, Langly. Call me back as soon as you have something." 

 "No problemo. Keep in touch. Tell Mulder we're glad the kid is okay." He
pauses. "He is okay, isn't he?" 

 "Seems to be. Scully's on her way here, I'm sure we'll know more after
she examines him." 

 I end the call, put the phone on vibrate, and stuff it in my pocket. Not
that any amount of subtlety will do much good with two mind-readers in the
house. 

 I go into the smaller bedroom and strip off the sheets and replace them,
then turn down the bed. 

 Yet another Mulder deposited on my doorstep with only the clothes on his
back. I'm not shopping for this one. Global conspiracy? No problem. The
children's department at Wal-Mart? Fuck that noise. I need to call Dee
again and see if any of Mason's clothes will fit Sean. Which brings me to
how we're going to introduce Sean to Baton Rouge society.... 

 My life shouldn't be this fucked up anymore. 

 Now my damned head hurts. I need to focus, just be grateful that the kid
is alive, let the Gunmen do their thing and then -- and then figure out
how I'm going to destroy Marita. 

 Time to tuck the Mulders into bed. First Sean, who protests that he's not
tired, but yawns and rubs his eyes when Fox pulls the blanket up under his
chin and kisses his forehead. Then Fox, who pouts and resists, feeling
right as rain now that he's snowed on six different pharmaceuticals. He
acquiesces when I agree to lie down with him for a while. 

 He strips down to his boxers and gets into bed, a small smile on his
lips. 

 "I can't believe he's here. It's such a miracle. I never thought I'd get
a second chance to be his father." 

 I pet his hair and kiss the corner of his mouth, wondering who exactly
contrived this miracle. "I'm happy for you, Fox. I know this isn't what
you imagined, but things are going to be alright now." 

 He pulls me close and burrows his face into my chest, his warm breath
ghosting across my skin. "I can't wait to tell Scully. She's going to be
so grateful that he's alive." 

 Or she's going to feel that she's been used and had her life destroyed
yet again. There's still a chance this is not going to end well. 

 "Rest now, okay? Scully will be here in a couple of hours and you're not
likely to get much sleep tonight." I kiss his temple and his eyes close. 

 He is asleep in minutes. I extract myself from his fierce embrace and
slip out of bed to tug my pants on. Next I strap on my prosthesis. At home
I prefer leaving it off. It's cumbersome and makes my shoulder and back
ache. 

 Today, it's a comfort. A shield. And a useful blunt weapon should one
need that sort of thing. 

 I go to the kitchen and grab the phone, for once wishing I had a cordless
in the house. Usually, I wish I didn't need a phone at all. Phone lines
are too easily tapped. I punch in Dee's number and this time she answers. 

 "Hey Al, I only have a minute. I have to go pick up the kids from school
soon," she says. 

 "This won't take long. I need a favor, Dee. I..." I hesitate, groping for
a likely lie, one more in a long string of them I've told those dearest to
me. 

 "Fox's son ran away from home and now he's here with nothing but the
clothes on his back. Can I borrow some of Mason's clothes for a few days?"


 "Fox's son? But you and he... I thought he was --" 

 "Gay? Queers can have babies too, Dee. It's called artificial
insemination." 

 She's silent for a moment, and I curse myself for speaking harshly to
her. She raised me better than that. I'd bet five dollars she's thinking
the same thing right now. We were raised to believe that poor manners were
a sign of ill-breeding. 

 "I'll get together some things for him. How old is he, Al? He must be
quite small if you think Mason's things will fit him." 

 "I don't know, I guess he's about ten." 

 "And he ran away all by himself?" She sounds incredulous. 

 I sigh wearily. "He's a very resourceful child." 

 "Al, are you and Fox prepared to take care of a child? Wouldn't you like
to let him stay with us? It wouldn't be any trouble." 

 "I appreciate it, Sis, but I don't think Fox is going to let Sean out of
his sight. We'll get by. Sean's taking a nap now; when he gets up I guess
we'll wing it." 

 "Wing it? Alex, this is a child we're talking about. A child who ran away
from home!" 

 Okay, conversation's over. "He's Fox's child, Delia. This is his home.
We'll manage." 

 She sighs. "You're impossible. But okay. I'll be over after I pick the
kids up from school." 

 After I hang up I pace around the kitchen. I'm jumping with pent-up
energy. Tension coils in my shoulders and ripples down my spine,
tightening my back. 

 I must find the people who did this. 

 I could try: Fox brought a laptop with him, it's stuffed in our bedroom
closet. But I'm not a computer expert -- better leave that to the Gunmen. 

 I should call Vince and tell him I won't be at work, but I can't stand
any more yapping on the phone. 

 I'm going to have a psychotic break. I keep getting close enough to a
normal life that I can taste and smell it, only to have it yanked away. It
was easier to live like this when I had no concept of -- and no desire for
-- normalcy. 

 I think of all the coeds who come into The Bayou; they get an education
so they can break free of this small town and have something better,
bigger, brighter. I've had that. Then I lost it. I've had the world at my
fingertips; I had my arm amputated with a hunting knife. I know how
precious small, normal and ordinary can be. There is nothing better or
brighter than living your life with some assurance of stability. 

 I go check on Sean and find him in a tight ball under the covers, his
eyelids twitching, a lush curl of lashes resting against his smooth, round
cheek. His face is solemn, young, and innocent. Fox must have looked like
this as a boy. 

 So much has been stolen from this child. First steps, first words. Ten
years of memories and experiences. How can he possibly recover from that? 

 So many strikes against him, before his life has even begun. 

 Fire burns in my gut. A fierce wave of emotion, swelling and breaking. 

 I don't let myself reach out to smooth the hair back from his forehead. 

 I never wanted children. I don't have it in me to nurture anyone. I don't
build. I destroy. 

 And this child already has two fathers -- Fox and Skinner. He does not
need me. He'll be terrified of me once he gets a good look in my head and
sees all the things I've done. 

 Nausea replaces the warmth in my stomach. 

 I don't like being so exposed. I've lived and survived by my ability to
keep secrets, and now I have none. It's hard enough when Fox looks at me
and I cannot hide my feelings. To know that this boy watches my mind like
a movie is... disconcerting. No, it's terrifying. But I'll have to learn
to live with it. 

 I check on Fox. He's sprawled across the bed, snoring softly. This never
fails to amuse me. After years of sleeping on a couch, he now hogs the
whole bed. One leg sticks out straight; one is at an angle, ankle hooked
behind the other knee; one arm is flung across my pillow, the other
resting on his abdomen. He sleeps the sleep of drugs. 

 He can't keep this up. This is a man who is well used to enduring pain
and illness and injury, anything from alien viruses to tobacco beetles in
his lungs; but this is crippling him. The man who hates pain medication is
now popping pills as if they were sunflower seeds. 

 At least Scully will be here soon. After he picks through her brain, she
will believe the truth of what is happening to him. 

 I close the bedroom door and go call Vince. 

 Dee arrives shortly after that, Mason and Drina in tow. She's burdened
with two large shopping bags decorated with grinning children. She sets
those down on the table. 

 "Dee, you didn't go out and buy him new stuff, did you?" 

 She smiles at me. "You don't know much about kids, Alex. You don't want
to borrow underwear or socks from an eleven-year-old. Trust me. I know." 

 I reach for my wallet. "How much do I owe you?" 

 "Your money's no good here, Alex. You're going to need every dime of
that; wait and find out about feeding a little boy." 

 She looks around. "Where is he? And where is Fox?" 

 "Yeah, dyadya Al, I want to meet him," Mason says. "Mama says he's kinda
my cousin, because you and Dyadya Fox are supposes." 

 Dee has the decency to blush. "That's spouses, Mason, not supposes." 

 I glare at her, heat rising in my own cheeks. "Mason, Mama is filling
your head with tales. Dyadya Fox and I are not spouses because we are not
married. Also, you should call Fox Uncle. Your mama shouldn't teach you
Russian as long as you're getting low marks on your English spelling." 

 If I were small enough, Delia would have me over her knee right now,
judging by the look in her clear green eyes. 

 Point, set, match. That'll teach her. Spouses. Yeah, right. 

 "Kids, go to the kitchen and start your homework while I talk to dyadya
Alex, please," she says. The children know that tone of voice as well as I
do. They scurry to obey. 

 "I wasn't trying to offend you, Alexander. I was trying as well as I can
to impart to the children that your relationship should be respected. I'm
sorry if I'm not politically correct enough for you." She shakes a finger
in my face and I feel twelve years old.  "E nie smiey reshatsia kritikovat
moih dietiey, shto onee govoriat po russkee. Papa e ty vmiestie so svoim
gurnym gdiezdeniem shto zivut v Amerikie nam nado na vsie otbiegat' ot
richatielno - kto my. Eto nashee nasledstvo, yedinstviennoye, shto mnie
ostalos po smierti matushkee. Eto nasledstvo ya tiepier mogu podorit'
svoim ditiam. Daze doma uze niet."  

 "Doma?" A chill runs down my spine. What does she know about that? 

 "Da, on sgoriel kogda tebia nie bylo. Policiya podozrievaiet, shto yego
podzigalee, no nikogo nie moglee schvatit' za ruku... Ya nie mogla
povierit kogda papa prodal dom; ya kupilaby vnov' u niego kogda by mogla.
Ya dumala shto ya budu vospitivat' tam moih dietiey. Tiepier yego niet." 

 I want to hold her close and beg her forgiveness for being a brute, but
before I can speak I hear a noise behind me. Sean is standing in the
doorway, bleary-eyed and yawning. 

 "Alex, where's my dad?" 

 He's so little, so vulnerable. This time I don't resist the urge to touch
him. I go and put my hand on his shoulder. "Your dad is asleep, Sean. Come
here; I'd like you to meet someone. This is my sister, Mrs. Harris." 

 Delia kneels down and puts out her hand. Sean solemnly reaches out and
places his in it. She smiles at him and he almost smiles back. "It's very
nice to meet you, Sean. You can call me tyotya Delia, if you would like." 

 Mason and Drina come bounding back into the room. Sean cowers a bit in
their presence, but he does smile at them. 

 "Dyadya Alex, can we go outside and play basketball?" Mason asks. 

 "No, Sean needs to stay inside. Fox's Gameboy is over there on the shelf
if you'd like to take turns playing with it." 

 Sean is ushered to the kitchen by the other children and Dee starts
pulling clothes from the bags, grilling me about sizes and color choices. 

 "I don't know what size he wears, Dee. I've never seen the boy before
today." 

 She looks exasperated. "Go look at the sizes on the clothes and shoes
he's wearing. Also, I assume his mother knows where he is?" 

 "Yes, she's on her way here now." 

 Fox appears in the doorway. He hastily tugs his shirt over his head when
he sees Delia. "Hi, Dee. Didn't mean to flash you." 

 "I've seen worse, Fox," she assures him with a wink. How come he is the
golden boy in my family and I'm still the black sheep? 

 "I brought some clothes over for Sean. He's a handsome child. Did he tell
you why he ran away?" 

 I curse myself when his face goes blank. "Ran away? Oh -- oh, no, I'm
waiting until his mother arrives to discuss things with her." 

 Good save. 

 The children are laughing in the kitchen. 

 "Is Sean in there?" Fox asks. 

 "Yeah, he's with Mason and Drina. I gave them your Gameboy." 

 The phone rings and Fox strides towards the kitchen. "It could be Scully.
I'll get it." 

 He reappears a few minutes later, Sean close at his side. "It was her.
She and Walt landed a little while ago. They're going to rent a car. I
gave her directions from the airport. We need to find them a hotel." 

 "Nonsense, Fox, they're welcome to stay with me and Paul," Dee replies. 

 "That's not a good idea, Dee, but thank you anyway," I hastily assure
her. 

 Sean pipes up: "Alex thinks my mother doesn't like him." 

 We definitely must give him a crash course on social skills. 

 "It's a delicate situation," I admit. 

 "And I think perhaps I'll stay out of it for now," Dee says, smiling
brightly at Sean. "Sean, it was very nice to meet you. Perhaps we'll see
you again soon." 

 After she rounds up the kids and is out the door I sink onto the futon.
I'm tired, my head hurts, I've fought with my sister and the day is young
-- Scully and Skinner are not even here yet. I'm so tempted to go to the
bar and leave the three of them to their reunion. 

 In the end, it's Fox who lets me off the hook. He sits down beside me and
rests his forehead on my shoulder. 

 "You're tired," he says softly. 

 "Nah, I'm fine." I don't even convince myself. 

 "I think Scully is going to need some time to adjust. Not that I'm
booting you out or anything, but why don't you go have dinner with Cori,
or go to work? You don't really want to be here." 

 I rest my cheek against his hair. "I want to be here. Besides, we don't
know that someone isn't going to come looking for Sean. He needs
protection." 

 "What, you think I can't protect my family? If anyone comes after my son,
they're going to be on the service end of the gun." He props his leg on
the coffee table and pulls up his pantsleg, revealing the .22 strapped to
his ankle. "I've got my Sig in the bedroom. I can handle things." 

 I forget that Fox has spilled blood in his own time, that he wouldn't
hesitate to use his weapon if he had to. Selective amnesia, I suppose,
since plenty of the blood was mine. I'm glad he thought ahead. But the
sane part of me hates that he has his piece on him with the kids around. 

 I lift his hand in mine, running my thumb across the knuckles. Strong,
elegant hands. I remember all the times these hands touched me in anger,
the many times they held a gun on me when Fox had every intention of using
it. If not for Scully, Fox would have killed me the night his father died.
Hell, he probably would have killed me in Hong Kong if he hadn't wanted
that damned tape so much. 

 He was sure the truths he sought were on that tape, and so was I; sure
enough to nearly die for the damned thing. How wrong we both were. The
truth is the little boy sitting in our kitchen; the truth is us, together
in this house. 

 "I'll admit I don't feel like Scully would give me an engraved invitation
to the party. I'll go to work. If you need anything, call me." 

 "Stop worrying, Alex. Sean is safe and Scully will be here soon. I have
the most important people in my life under the same roof. It's all good."
He lifts his head and smiles at me. His eyes are no longer hazed with
medication. I suppose it's safe to leave him for a while. 

 Skinner and Scully pull up as I'm walking out the door to get in the
truck. They block me in. I stand on the porch and watch them get out of
the car. Both are still dressed in their fibbie wear; they came straight
from the Hoover building. Scully rushes to me, her high heels clacking on
the porch stairs. 

 "What's going on, Krycek? What do you know about my son?" she demands.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes swollen and red. 

 I take her arm. Skinner comes up behind her, glaring. I remove my hand
and take a deep breath. 

 "Scully, Sean is alive. But they've done something to him. Accelerated
his growth drastically. He's not a baby -- he physically looks to be ten
years old or so," I say as gently as I can. Shock registers on her face,
and my heart sinks. 

 Her mouth opens, a small, silent "O," and tears well in her eyes. She
sobs, once, and asks, "Where is he?" 

 "He's inside the house with Fox --" 

 The front door swings open, and Fox stands there, a protective arm across
Sean's small chest. Sean's eyes are wide and wet with tears. His slight
body is trembling. 

 "Mommy?" he asks, his voice a cracked whisper. 

 Scully sinks to her knees, Skinner's hand on her elbow. Her smile is
radiant. She holds out her hand. Sean steps towards her, still clutching
Fox's hand over his heart. 

 Once within her reach, Sean dives and throws himself headlong into her
arms. He buries his face in her hair and cries "Mommy!" between sobs. 

 Maybe I'm glad I'm here to see this, after all. My emotions are tangling,
deep gratitude warring with pain at Sean's obvious terror. I reach for
Fox's hand. He laces his shaking fingers with mine, a dreamy smile on his
face. His eyes are shining. 

 I feel sorry for Skinner. He's shaking, his jaw hard and clenched, his
hands curled into tight balls at his sides. He spent months supporting
Scully emotionally and anticipating Sean's birth, suffered along with them
as they grieved for their loss, only to be left standing on the sidelines,
forgotten. 

 Fox releases my hand and moves to stand next to Scully. She runs her
hands over Sean's body, trying to familiarize herself with the boy who
once lived in her womb. Fox strokes her hair, and murmurs that everything
is going to be all right. 

 Finally Skinner steps onto the porch and asks, "Do you remember me, Sean?
My name is Walter." 

 Sean looks up at him, his face pale and blotchy, snot dripping from his
nose. "Yes. You sang to me, the song about the pretty ponies. You rubbed
my head when I cried." 

 Skinner smiles -- the warmest look I've ever seen on his face. He's got
dimples. I didn't know that. Not half-bad looking, for a bald guy. "Yes, I
sure did, sport. I'm glad you're home now." 

 "Is this my home? Alex and Daddy think you're going to take me away to
live somewhere else." 

 Scully looks up at me with a frown on her face. "There's no need to worry
about that right now, baby." She smiles at Sean again, smoothing back his
tousled hair. 

 "C'mon, let's go inside. You two must be exhausted," Fox says, gesturing
towards the open door. 

 As I walk in, I hear Scully mutter to Fox, "What's going on? How could he
know those things about Walter?" 

 "We'll talk later. He's fine, Scully," he assures her, patting her arm
and guiding her inside. 

 Fox and Scully talk at one another nonstop. Sean looks scared and
confused, but he's velcroed to Scully's hip. I slip out of the living room
and close the bedroom door behind me. I pull off my jacket and remove my
boots, then prop up against the headboard of the bed and get a book off
the nightstand. 

 I try to read for a while but soon give up. My mind is going in too many
directions for me to concentrate on the words. 

 I have to find the facility where they did this thing. I'm going to enjoy
destroying those sons of bitches. I hope I have time to do it slowly. 

 I need a plan. There could be other children at the facility, and I want
them safe. I have a vague idea of what to do, but first I need time to
case the place and make sure it's feasible. This is going to be hard to
pull off by myself, but I am one motivated bastard. Sean must live his
life without being in further danger. It's all I have to give him. 

 I want to love him. I want to be a part of his life, and be at Fox's side
while he does all that fathers are supposed to do. I figure we'd be safe
just doing the opposite of what our fathers did. 

 But I don't fit into that nice little tableau in my living room. There's
no room for me in the boy's life. To be honest, I don't fit into Fox's
either. 

 I know Fox loves me. I finally understand that, and savor it like a
starving man. But he has a whole life waiting for him -- that woman, that
child, his friends, and perhaps a career where he can use his talents. I
don't fit in there anywhere. He'll see that soon enough. 

 He's going to leave, and I'm not going to stop him. I won't ask him to
choose between me and the rest of the world. Not because I'm generous; but
because I'm afraid of what his choice would be. 

 The one thing I can do is use my talent for death and destruction to
insure safety for him and his son. 

 We all have our place in the order of the universe. I have tried to fight
mine, to make for myself a life in this city, with an exceptional man, a
loving family and friends. But in the end, the people who work to destroy
it all must be destroyed in their turn, and I'm the only one sociopathic
enough to accomplish that. 

 I sit for a couple of hours and let these dark thoughts lap over me,
drowning me in depression. I want a drink and I want a cigarette, and by
God I'm going to have both. 

 In the living room I find Fox, Scully and Sean all sitting on the futon.
Sean is radiating unease, and judging by the look on Fox's face, it's
seeping into him as well. Scully, oblivious, is talking softly to Sean,
caressing his back. 

 "I'm going to go to The Bayou," I tell Fox, "I'll be home in a couple of
hours. Where's Skinner? I need him to move his car -- he's blocking the
truck in." 

 Damn him, damn his perceptive eyes and his mind, that can peel me open
and lay me bare. He gives me a curious, surveying look. "Are you okay?" 

 "Of course. I have some work to do, that's all." I give him a fake smile.
His eyebrow quirks. He is unconvinced. 

 "Skinner's on the porch. I told Scully and Skinner they could stay here.
Scully really wants to stay with Sean," he says, apologizing. 

 "Sure, of course. I'll let you decide the sleeping arrangements. I can
take the futon and Sean can sleep with you. Whatever you want to do." 

 I find Skinner on the porch, looking lost and tired. He's sitting on the
porch swing, staring out at the evening sky. 

 "I'm going to have a drink, Skinner. Looks like you could use one too.
Want to join me?" 

 What the hell am I doing? He's the last person I want to spend the
evening with. 

 He's quiet for a long moment before he nods. "Yeah, okay." 

 The only conversation in the car consists of me giving Skinner directions
and telling him where to park. We walk down Chime Street towards The
Bayou. Skinner looks uncomfortable when I greet people I know, or wave to
a group sitting on the patio at The Library. 

 When we get to The Bayou I pause for a moment, looking at the brass
plaque I had put on the door a few days ago. It reads "Established by
Joseph Morgan, 1968". I have to stop and read it every time I walk in, to
remind myself that Joe won't be there. 

 It's the day after Fat Tuesday so we're pretty slow; all the once-a-year 

 Catholics are trying to abstain for Lent. Most of them will be back by
next week. Greg is behind the bar reading a book. Jane, one of the new
waitresses, is in a booth studying. 

 I gesture for Skinner to sit and go behind the bar for our drinks. I grab
a pack of clove cigarettes off the shelf, slap them down on the oak bar,
and pour myself a shot of Stoli. 

 "Whatever you want to drink will have to be served neat; the ice machine
is broken." 

 He looks at me, amused. "You work here? You're a bartender now?" 

 Greg chuckles but doesn't look up. "Mr. Sunshine owns the place. Did you
call about the ice machine, Alex?" 

 "Yeah, the guy is coming out tomorrow to see if this one can be salvaged.
What are you drinking, Skinner?" 

 "Bourbon, neat." 

 Under the counter is a bottle of Johnny Walker that Joe saved for his vet
buddies and his priest. I grab it and pour Skinner a couple of fingers,
then sit on the stool next to him. 

 I peel the wrapper from the pack of cigarettes and open the box, inhaling
the spicy scent that wafts out. My mouth waters from the smell; I
anticipate the burn of the smoke in my mouth and lungs. 

 I haven't had a cigarette in years. I quit after Hong Kong. The oil, the
silo... I was terrified of getting cancer from the oil. I wasn't in good
shape anyway. I had started using crystal meth in Hong Kong, trying to
stay awake for days at a time so that I could stay alert and alive. After
I got out of the silo -- I never found out how -- after that I was scared.
I didn't want to die. I quit drugs, quit eating meat, quit smoking and
took up kickboxing. 

 "Greg, let me borrow your lighter." I hold my hand out. He passes me the
lighter and I pull out a brown-papered cigarette and light it. I inhale,
filling my mouth and nostrils with the dense, aromatic smoke. I suppress
the urge to cough, blink back tears, and blow out a bluish cloud. Oh yeah,
that's the ticket... 

 I feel dizzy already. 

 "Didn't know you smoked," Skinner comments, sipping his drink. 

 "Don't. Not anymore. Do now." I take another drag and down my shot. I
push the empty glass towards Greg. "Would you be so kind, barkeep?" 

 "No, get up and get it yourself." He still doesn't look up. 

 "C'mon, man, I'll stick around while you go get some dinner or
something," I plead. 

 He looks up, leans to grab the bottle and places it next to my glass.
"I'm not pouring it for you. And don't start that 'I only have one arm'
shit; you're a big boy now. I'm going to Denny's to get something to eat,
I'll be back in an hour." 

 After Greg leaves I get up to refill Skinner's glass, leaving the bottle
on the bar when I sit down. 

 "How did you come to own a bar? Did you have a double life the whole time
you were trying to take us down, Krycek?" 

 "Would you mind not calling me that?" 

 Alex Krycek, my murderous twin. I'll have to resurrect him all too soon.
I don't want him here tonight. Let him wait in the dark and plot his
revenge. 

 This is my home. Not his. 

 "I've worked here for a while. Joe, the owner, died recently. That's why
Fox and I left DC so quickly. I bought the bar from his wife," I explain. 

 Skinner nods. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.
He looks worn, tired. Lines of fatigue radiate from the corners of his
eyes. The fringe of hair around his head is almost completely silver now. 

 The last couple of months have aged us all. 

 We drink quietly while I enjoy my cigarette and the ethereal floating in
my head. Just before the silence grows uncomfortable, Skinner says: 

 "Do you think Mulder and Dana are going to leave?" 

 He's not looking at me. His words are terse, clipped. 

 "Yeah. We're going to be ditched like bad prom dates, and we're both
gonna let it happen. They belong together. They need each other and Sean
needs them both. Personal happiness doesn't factor in here." 

 The truth really fucking hurts. 

 "Sounds like you've given this a lot of thought." He takes a big gulp of
the amber liquid in his glass. 

 "Enough to know what's best for him. He can't walk away from that kid.
And maybe he doesn't desire Scully... but sometimes love is enough." 

 He sighs, removes his glasses and holds them up to the light before he
seats them back on his face. "I love her. I don't want to give her up. But
the two of them... they're a force of nature. I can't stand in the way of
the inevitable. They've fought so hard for so long -- I can't be another
problem in their life." 

 "Yeah. That about sums it up. Maybe they'll send us wedding photos." My
fears, now that I've voiced them to Skinner, are realer and undeniable. It
doesn't help that he agrees with me. 

 Part of me wants to fight. I do not give up. If I want something, I take
it, or steal it, or break it so no one else can have it. But I can't fight
this. Fox and Scully seem predestined. Heaven, hell or Alex Krycek can't
prevent it. And it's not just Fox I would hurt by clinging to him. Sean is
part of the picture now. 

 I think of my father and of Bill Mulder. Two cold, amoral men who
produced screwed-up, dysfunctional sons. Things could have been so
different... they still can be for Sean. I can't deprive him of that. Not
just because I want someone to warm my bed. Someone to warm me. Fox... 

 Skinner derails my thoughts. I'm glad. I didn't like where they were
headed. 

 "Are you just going to sit by and watch it happen, or are you going to
bow out?" 

 I pull another cigarette from the pack and light it. "Why are you asking
me? I'm not your buddy, and we're sure as hell not bonding." 

 "I'm enjoying the irony of this situation. Humor me," he replies,
reaching for the bottle again. When did this turn into a drinking contest?


 "No, I'm not going to walk. I'll be there for him until he doesn't need
me anymore. I may have the balls to let him go, but I can't send him
away." 

 Why the hell am I spilling to him? He doesn't give a rat's ass about me
-- he's only talking to me because there's no one else he can talk to. 

 A couple of shots later, I'm feeling no pain. The world is hazy and warm,
and even Skinner doesn't seem like such an anal-retentive bastard. He's
rolled up his shirtsleeves and done an impressive number on the bottle in
front of him. 

 When Greg returns he looks at the bottle of Stoli and shoots me a look. 

 "Alex, you can't hold your liquor for shit. If you get drunk and puke,
I'm mopping it up with your head." 

 "Thank you, Greg, I always knew I could count on you to kick me when I'm
down." I reach for the shot glass, misjudge the distance, and knock it
over instead. Greg stares at me and tosses me a dishtowel. 

 The phone behind the bar rings and Jane grabs it. 

 "Hi Fox, yeah, he's here with a big guy in glasses. I'll send him home,
if he's still fit to drive. Later, dude." She turns to us, "That was your
man, Al. Time to go home before you turn into a pumpkin." 

 I look at Skinner. His face is flushed and he's been belting down the
bourbon, but he seems pretty sober. 

 "Can you drive?" I ask. 

 He nods and slides from the stool. "I'm fine, let's go." 

 Fox and Scully are in the kitchen, surrounded by the skin and bones of a
pizza, scribbling furiously on yellow legal pads. 

 "You two okay?" Fox asks, looking up at me. His eyes are too bright. Pain
medication. Damn, I knew he was looking rough when I left. 

 "We're fine, we were bonding," I reply, glancing at Scully. If Fox looks
rough, Scully looks like she's been through hell and back. A lopsided halo
of tousled fire frames her blotchy face and puffy eyes. 

 "We've been discussing how to proceed. Sean needs an extensive medical
examination, and I'd like to see the results of the scans Mulder had
today. We're going to need the bureau's resources to get the medical
facilities to do all of this. This is going to be the most bizarre 302
we've ever written," she says, glancing at her notes. 

 "You can't make a case on this. Who would believe you?" I ask. 

 "I'll worry about getting the bureau approvals, you all decide what Sean
needs. Mulder, what sort of scans did you have?" Skinner asks, pulling out
a chair and sitting down. He's the sober AD again. 

 "Sean shows the same telepathic ability Gibson Praise had. Sean says
that's why they matured him. They wanted to see how strong the power was.
They wanted to keep him in a controlled environment and see if they could
in turn control the ability," Scully says. Her delivery is that of a
medical lecture. They are all slipping back into fibbie mode. Keeping
their emotions under wraps that way. 

 "But Sean seems to be more powerful and less in control than Gibson was,"
Fox adds. 

 "It doesn't make any sense. Why would they let him loose with this
ability? Also, he can expose them. It would have made more sense to
eliminate him," Skinner muses, oblivious to the look on Fox and Scully's
faces. 

 "Yes, it would have. That's something we need to think about. Mulder has
also been experiencing telepathic perception, much like when he was
exposed to the rubbings from the artifact in Africa. Only it's more
powerful this time. I think that the presence of another telepath is
amplifying the ability." 

 Skinner shakes his head in disbelief. "Medical experiments, telepathy...
I can't believe we're having this conversation." 

 "You would if you'd read half the reports that came across your desk from
our office," Fox shoots back. 

 Skinner's face reddens in chagrin. 

 "Look, it's been a fuck of a day and we're all exhausted. Let's go to bed
and pow-wow in the morning when we're all thinking clearly," I suggest.
Fox looks absolutely green. I don't want to call him to the carpet in
front of the others, but I'm going to drag his ass to bed if he doesn't
get some rest. 

 Scully reaches over and squeezes his hand. "You look tired, Mulder, go
get some sleep. We can't do anything until Walter makes some calls in the
morning." 

 We end up dealing with the logistics of fitting one little boy and four
adults, three of which are at least six feet tall, in two bedrooms with
only two beds. Scully ends up going to our bedroom to sleep with Sean in
the king-size -- the two smallest people in the biggest bed. Mulder and I
take the double bed we used to share, which leaves Skinner on the futon. 

 I lie awake for a long time, my head pillowed on Fox's chest, dreading
the uncertainty that the morning will bring us.  

 I wake to the smell of coffee. Pink-tinged, early morning light glows at
the windows. I'm warm and cozy in Fox's arms. I lie there enjoying the
rise and fall of his chest under my cheek until Fox shifts and murmurs in
his sleep. 

 "...in the pantry," he mumbles, burying his nose in my hair. He's weird
that way. I don't understand this thing he has about the smell of my hair.


 "What, doshyenka?" 

 "Scully, tell 'er the sugar's in the pantry," he yawns and resumes
snoring. 

 Fuck. I'm awake now. Nothing like a nice shot of reality to get you going
in the morning. I wriggle from his embrace and tug a sweatshirt over my
head before going to help Scully find the sugar. 

 The rest of the morning is quiet, in contrast to the chaos and confusion
of yesterday. Skinner spends most of it sequestered in the bedroom on his
cell phone. Fox and Scully hover around Sean. The boy is diffident with
his mother, but content to trail behind his father like a shadow. 

 Fox and Sean speak very little. They do not need words to communicate.
It's creepy. Scully seems to sense this too, and is as hesitant to
interfere as I am. Fox and Sean are in their own world, distant,
unreachable. 

 It's hard to tear myself away and go attend to mundane business matters,
but I manage to get the case of the dead icemaker squared away and get
home within a couple of hours. 

 I find them together, the man and the boy. Sean is a gangly heap of arms
and legs in his father's lap. Fox is reading to him from a set of Hardy
Boys books I've had since I was a kid. 

 Fox is content. He's finally got the family he always wanted. 

 Too bad for me that I'll not be a part of it. 

 Scully comes in, watches them for a moment, and then catches my gaze. She
knows. She sees that the two of them cannot be separated. She's won, but
there is no triumph in her eyes. She looks lost. 

 That makes two of us. 

 She and I, outsiders in the lives of the people we love the most. 

 I have come full circle. My adversaries, Scully and Skinner, are now the
people I most empathize with. We are bonded by loss. 

 We are the principals in a tragedy the world would dismiss as science
fiction. 

 Science fiction, my ass. The enemy has come and conquered, at least in my
life. The evidence sits in an ancient, overstuffed chair: a man and a boy
who should not be here, who soon won't be. I look at them. I hurt with the
need to protect them. 

 Later in the day, Fox and Scully escort Sean to the Women and Children's 

 Hospital for a battery of tests. I'm in no mood to spend the rest of the
day with a churlish fibbie, so I bid Skinner good day and take off for the
mall. 

 I hate shopping. I'd rather have my arm hacked off again than shop for
leisure, with the exceptions of a good bookshop and a record store that
still carries vinyl. But it's not right for a child Sean's age to have no
books or toys. I want to make up for the Christmas he spent in Neonatal
Intensive Care, and for all the Christmases and birthdays he was robbed
of. 

 My first stop is the bookstore. I pack the basket with the books I loved
when I was ten. 'The Chronicles of Narnia', 'A Wrinkle in Time', the
'Black Beauty' books, a big anthology of folklore. I add the Harry Potter
books. In the computer software section, I select an interactive CD ROM
encyclopedia and some math and science learning games. We can't enroll
Sean in school, be we can school him at home. Never mind that he's not
staying, that he and Fox will be leaving with Scully soon.... 

 They could be gone by the time I get home tonight.... 

 My credit card screams for mercy. I have none. Never did. I enter the toy
store anyway. 

 What do boys play with nowadays? I grab a cart and just start pitching
things in there. Legos complete with the motorized robot kit, a soccer
ball .... A kit to make model dinosaur skeletons. How cool is this? A
three-dimensional puzzle of a medieval castle! In the cart it goes.
Modeling clay, an art set.... What else would he enjoy? Some Matchbox
cars, the boy needs some cars. And at least one model plane. And -- 

 Well, the cart is full so I'll stop now. 

 I blanch at the three digits on the receipt. Then I think of how the
kid's face will look when he sees all of this, and I discover I don't give
a shit about the money. Maybe Sean and I can work on the castle puzzle
together. Anything to draw him out, to encourage him to use language. He
smiled at me several times today, warm, open smiles; but he said very
little. Speech seems to require a great deal of effort for him. He has no
instinct for it. That may change in time, what with the influence of his
motormouth father. 

 I get home from work to find Fox, Scully and Skinner in the kitchen.
They're 

 sitting at the table sipping coffee, reviewing test results from the
hospital. 

 "Find anything? How did Sean do, did he handle it okay?" 

 "He was nervous," Scully answers. "Who knows what he's been through
already? We gave him a mild sedative to help him relax. I hated to do this
to him, but we need some answers. Not that we got them; he tested healthy
and perfectly normal. Mulder's MRI and PET scans show the same temporal
lobe anomalies we saw before, but Sean doesn't have them." 

 My heart skips a beat. Drive the stake in, why don't you, Doctor Scully?
Are you always this casual telling people about their loved ones' abnormal
brain activity? It's a good thing you work with corpses and not live
people; your bedside manner fucking stinks. 

 "Do you think that Sean could have been born with this ability? Did his
brain evolve a whole neural network for processing this -- in utero? Could
telepathy be a natural function for him?" I ask. 

 She shrugs, then nods. "It's the most logical hypothesis. It doesn't help
Mulder and Sean to find a means to control it, but at least we don't have
any immediate concerns regarding Sean's health. His metabolic rate is
normal, which means the accelerated growth shouldn't continue." She
pauses. "We did find a discrepancy in his skeletal growth. It's more
advanced than I would have thought. If he'd had the benefit of sunshine,
exercise and better nutrition, his estimated age would be in the
twelve-to-fourteen-year range." 

 I make a mental note to go to the health food store tomorrow and get the
boy some protein shakes and dietary supplements. I'm also going to replace
that beaten-up basketball goal outside so he can go out and get some
exercise and fresh air. 

 I'd cut off my other arm if it would help that boy, if I could give him
back a fraction of what he's lost. But the only thing I can do for him is
let his father go; release Fox from what binds us together. Then he can
return to DC without guilt or trepidation and build a life with Scully and
their child. When the time comes, I will let go of him. Let go of
everything. And after I've done that... I won't care what happens next. 

 I'm very tired suddenly. 

 "I'm going to bed, I'm exhausted." I lean to kiss Fox, then hesitate and
back away. "G'night, Fox. I'll see you when you come to bed." 

 Fox blinks and frowns at me, but keeps his mouth shut. Then he sighs and
says, "I'll do that soon. Walt's going to check into a hotel; his back is
messed up after a night on the futon of death." 

 I look at Skinner, who averts his gaze. So he's going to step away now,
when Scully still needs him so much. Fucking pussy. Makes me wish I still
had the goddamn palm pilot. 

 I go to my bedroom to grab clean clothes for tomorrow, but forget all
about them when I hear Sean's voice. He is dreaming, struggling, whipping
his head from side to side. 

 "Marita, no...! Please... want my mommy..." he mutters and moans. My
heart slams in my chest. I want to scoop him up and rock him, I want to
promise him they'll never hurt him again. 

 I want to kill the bitch. 

 I crouch by the bed and smooth back his hair. "Rest easy, zolotka, you're
safe. You're safe," I whisper, and kiss his temple. 

 After a moment he relaxes, sighing my name and rolling over to flop on
his stomach. I don't think he even woke up. 

 I'm still awake when Fox comes to bed about an hour later. He tiptoes
into the room and whispers my name. I whisper back, "hey, babe." 

 He climbs into bed and lies stretched against me. Two grown men in a
double bed is an exercise in forced intimacy. I'm not complaining. I love
the soft, warm feel of his skin against mine, the strong arm holding my
waist, the puffs of gentle breath which tease the back of my neck when he
pulls me closer. His pubic hair tickles my naked buttocks. I squirm a bit
and he rubs against me. His dick hardens. 

 Mine responds in kind. Too much has happened over the past few days.
There has been too much pain, too much fear. I crave this connection to
him, this brief interlude of quiet safety. His hand wanders south and
curls lightly around my thickening cock. His teeth nip at my shoulder. A
hitched moan escapes my throat. 

 "Fox, we can't...not with Sean and Scully here." My body and mind war
with one another. I want him, need him so much... but the house is tiny
and the walls are thin. 

 "You'll just have to be very quiet," he says, running the tip of his
tongue along the curl of my ear. 

 He cradles me close, loving me, gentle and fierce. I whimper into my
pillow when he opens me, and bite my lower lip when the head of his cock
breaches me. We rock, spooned together. He pumps in and out of me. My head
falls back onto his shoulder and I give myself up to him. He fills me. I
am whole, and alive, and so in love. So thankful for this.... 

 He takes his slow time, thrusting. He runs a hand down my neck and across
my chest, pinches my nipples between thumb and forefinger. I need to moan,
I am going to... I. Must. Not. The silence I must maintain wells in my
throat and chokes me. He feels so good here with me. I am flying. He takes
me up, and we soar. I am alight, afire, we are the flame and the trembling
heat. We burn. 

 To be so taken, so deeply... it thrills and frightens me. Fox can sense
it. Our lovemaking itself is only a means to an end, a doorway into
emotion, into levels and levels of escalating need. His hand holds my
weeping cock, our bodies shake at one another's touch. I want him to
consume me, burn away my pain... burn my soul clean and bright. 

 Maybe I'm not such a monster if the bravest, strongest man there is loves
me this much. Or else his love testifies only to his own valor and
strength... and I am not worthy. 

 Fuck. I really don't want to know the truth here. I don't want to know. 

 It's going to hurt so fucking much to let him go. 

 "Stop thinking... Al, just let it go --" he whispers in my ear, "I've got
you... Let go -- let it all go... for me -- " 

 I come undone. I slam myself back onto his cock and he fills me, I push
myself into his hand and he holds me, and I enclose him, and he surrounds
me, and we close the circle. Completion breaks, roiling in me, tumbling
me, and I do as he wills and let go, surrendering my fire to his quenching
flood; the alchemy of orgasm washes over and through me, spilling into his
hand. He cries out and pulses and fills me with heat, his flood
surrendered to my fire. We are life. 

 We lie there, the harsh rasp of our breaths filling the air, our bodies
still connected. I am serene. At peace. It is his gift to me these days.
He gives me peace instead of confusion, faith instead of turmoil. 

 "It scares me, you know," he whispers haltingly. 

 "What does?" 

 "The way I feel about you. It's so intense, so big, I feel like I'll get
lost in it. I don't know what scares me more: that I've never felt like
this before, or that I want to get lost in it, want to just fall into you
and stay there forever." 

 He reaches for my right hand and twines our fingers together. 

 My eyes burn. There is a lump in my throat. 

 "I know." My voice catches on the words. 

 Jesus God, I know...  

 By late afternoon the gunmen still haven't called with the information.
I'm getting antsy. Marita, and whoever else was involved in this, will be
long gone before we find the facility. Destroying another empty building
is not going to satisfy me. 

 Let's not go there, Alex. What a hollow victory that was, destroying my
childhood home because I could not destroy my father. The act didn't
exorcise his demon from my life; it merely robbed my sisters of their last
tangible connection to our mother. Matushka, rocking in the chair in front
of the bay window, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach.... 

 So much for not going there. 

 Fox has another headache, one of the worst yet. Scully gave him some
Imitrex and sent him to bed with an icepack. She's in the kitchen now,
using her laptop to research possible pain medications on the Net. Earlier
this morning, she went to Skinner's hotel. She came back alone, quiet and
pensive. The ring is still on her finger, but I think it won't be long
now. 

 I sit in the living room, in the old wingback chair, pretending to read.
My mind wanders and the words blur on the page. I can't sustain this
forced idleness much longer. My whole life is going to hell, and I can
only sit with my thumb up my ass and wait? This is not how I operate. I
must find Marita. 

 I've wanted her dead since she came to get me out of Tunisia, since she
stood there watching me wash away prison grime and the stink of two dozen
other men. Her cold, assessing eyes on my wasted body made me feel like a
slave on the auction block. There was triumph in her voice when she called
me "pidar gnoinyja" and walked away. 

 "Jealous, Marita?" I called after her. "You're stuck balling the old man
because the rotten faggot would rather fuck another man than you? Trust
me, love, there's not enough Viagra in the world to make me have Spender's
sloppy seconds again." 

 She turned then, walked back to me and pinched my ass hard enough to
bruise it for a week. 

 How fragile the bones in her wrist felt when I grabbed her. How easy it
would have been to crush them in my hand. Her eyes flickered. 

 "You're his toy too, as much as I am and more," she said coldly. "Don't
ever forget that. He can spend your life like small change, or sell your
sorry ass down the road. Isn't that how you ended up here? Isn't it why
I'm bailing you out now? Mister Spender owns your ass, Alex, and as long
as I share his bed, I do, too." 

 She shook me off and stalked out. I stood in the blessedly cold spray,
knowing there was truth in her words. Perhaps I'd rather die in prison
than belong to the Smoking Man. Then again, once I got back on US soil I
could escape. And pay my dues. 

 Sean touches my arm and I nearly jump out of the chair. 

 "Can I sit with you, Alex?" he stammers. "M-maybe if you read to me I can
stop thinking so much and hurting my daddy's head." 

 Sean is still a child. A child borrowing guilt for a crime that was
committed on him. Open, guileless, hungry for affection, and desperate to
know he's loved and accepted. His need calls out, and I cannot help but
answer. I reach out and scoop him into my lap. 

 "Why don't you read to me instead? It will focus your concentration. I'll
help you if there are any words you can't pronounce." I hand him 'A Wizard
of Earthsea'. He opens it at the first chapter. I was halfway through the
book, but what the hell; it's not like this is the first time I've read
it. In a high, hesitant voice, he begins to read. 

 Fox doesn't recover from his headache, just wakes up long enough to ask
for more Imitrex and swallow another handful of pills. He barely stirs
when I kiss him goodbye before I leave for work. 

 Around 8pm his cell phone rings in my pocket. I was so impatient, and now
I hesitate to answer it. I know what comes next, and I am torn. Part of me
screams for revenge; but mostly I want to stay here and take care of Fox.
If I don't go, maybe we can muddle our way through this, together.... 

 But there is no future for any of us if the threat isn't eliminated. The
consortium has owned and used my family for as long as I've lived. I'm
going to be the one to end it. 

 For my mother, who lived with a monster and never knew it. For Corinne,
who gave up her child to protect herself from them. For Fox, who has lost
everything and will not lose his child. 

 For Sean, who will not grow up in the evil shadow that warped the destiny
of so many. 

 "Hey. It's Frohike. We've got a hit. One of the doctors in Scully's OB
practice, Lewis Michaels. His old man, Lewis Sr., is a perinatologist in
private practice at Chapel Hill in North Carolina. They have a very
impressive lab, top notch all the way. And the father used to be a
researcher for the military back in the seventies." 

 "You think this lab might have done the research that let them do this to
Sean?" 

 "Oh, it's better than that. I think we have the facility itself. The
clinic also owns a warehouse about two miles away, and we managed to check
some of their invoices for medical supplies. They order from four
different companies, all of which also contract to the military. All of
the supplies go to this warehouse. I'm talking about enough supplies to
stock twenty clinics. We're thinking this is where they experimented on
Mulder and Scully's kid." 

 A name, an address. It's more than I dreamed of in my wettest dreams. "I
owe you big time, man. I'll be in touch." 

 "I assume that means you aren't planning on letting the bureau handle
this?" 

 "What you don't know can't be used against you in a court of law,
Frohike. Later, and thanks." I hang up and turn the phone off, stuffing it
in a drawer of my desk. 

 I jam the gun I keep in the office into the waistband of my pants, and go
outside to clear my head and smoke a cigarette. I can't tell Fox what I
have planned; I can't even go home. With two telepaths in the house I
could not get out before one of them realized my intentions. And Fox --
God, after everything they've done to him, the idealistic fucker still
believes in truth, justice, and the American way. He'd have the place
crawling with uniforms in no time flat. And they would just think that
Spooky Mulder was at it again, tilting at windmills and raving aloud. I
will not let that happen. I won't let them dismiss what was done to Sean
and have this end up buried in a cabinet in that basement office. 

 It ends now. 

 I have about a hundred bucks in cash and my credit cards. I've gotten by
on less. I grind out the cigarette and don't bother going back inside The
Bayou. I walk to a fast food restaurant and call a cab to take me to the
airport, which is the only place to rent a car this late in the evening. 

 I'm in for a fuck of a drive, but I can't risk purchasing a plane ticket
on my Michael A. Drake driver's license -- the only ID I have. I think
with a twinge of regret of the driver's licenses and passports in my lock
box at the bank. But I can't wait until morning before I leave. One look
at me, and Fox would know I was up to no good. I'll just have to
improvise. I can't have lost all of my edge in just a year's time. 

 I rent a car, figure out my route on the map and hit the road. I imagine
Fox's reaction to my disappearance. Will he think I just threw up my hands
and walked out on him? If my plan works, he might never want me again. 

 I must risk it. Better to have him safe and whole than with me and in
danger. Let the blood be on my hands; let him stay clean, so Sean can have
a decent, honorable father. Me, I'm just being what I've always been. No
one will be surprised that I've reverted to my former self. But I'll be
doing it for the right reasons for once. I can't give what they've lost
back to Fox and Scully, but I can make sure they lose nothing else to the
sick bastards. 

 I reach Mississippi in a few hours. I pull into a rest stop to steal the
license plates off an RV. I throw the original plates into the dumpster
behind the welcome center, then buy a cup of coffee and speed off into the
night. At dawn I stop in Alabama, repeat the process, then go to three
separate cash machines to get advances off my credit cards; though I hope
I'm done before anyone even looks my way, a cash trail will be harder to
follow, should anyone try. It should work, as long as Frohike doesn't get
an attack of conscience and blab to Fox. But if he was going to, he would
have given Fox the information in the first place. I hope. 

 I have to stop thinking so hard. I need to focus on the mission at hand.
Just get it over with and worry about the repercussions later. 

 I stop in Atlanta, Georgia, and have a four-hour nap for lunch. Then I
head to the part of town known as Little Five Points, and hook up with a
punk-ass teenager who sells me two Tech Nines out of the trunk of his car.
By late afternoon I'm on the road again. 

 Has Fox called the police by now? Does he think I was abducted off the
street in front of my own bar? He doesn't need the stress of wondering if
I'm alive or dead. And I know my sisters must worry. 

 I wonder if anyone saw me last night and will report that I just wandered
off, vanished into the night, leaving home and hearth in search of greener
pastures. My sisters would buy that. I have disappeared on them before,
without a letter or a phone call for years on end. They'll shrug, and coo
over Fox, and believe I'll turn up when I'm good and ready. 

 Stop it, asshole! You have a job to do. Concentrate before you fuck
everything up. It's too late to turn around and go home like nothing
happened. Do what you have to do and be done. 

 Maybe I can get them all this time, and never have to do it again.... 

 I arrive in Chapel Hill roughly twenty four hours after I left Baton
Rouge. I drive around, scouting out the area, before I find the clinic
Frohike gave me the address to. 

 It's a bright, cold building a few blocks from the University of North
Carolina campus. Lewis Michaels must be damned good at what he does, to
make money in the private sector mere miles from UNC, which has one of the
best genetics labs in the States. Either that, or the place is a cover for
a consortium lab, which is more likely. 

 My next stop is the warehouse on the outskirts of town. The whole block
is warehouses, and passes for the industrial section in such a small town.
I park the car at the end of the block and walk the area, gauging routes
and distances before I approach the building. 

 I walk the perimeter slowly, hugging the building, blending into the
shadows. I don't find any security cameras or motion-detecting devices on
the outside of the building, but keep my hand on my gun just in case. It
wouldn't do to be detected before tomorrow, when I can pull off my little
surprise on them. 

 The building tries hard to look abandoned, but there is a keypad lock on
the front door, all the door hinges look well-oiled, and the windows are
brand new and double-paned. I note entrances and exits, check over the
loading dock, and locate the power junction box and the gas main. I can't
find any phone lines. There must be fiberoptic cable going into the
building. A tad sophisticated for a warehouse, if you ask me. 

 By midnight, I'm so tired I'm about to drop. I grab dinner and find a
hotel. There I take a shower and put my dirty clothes back on, socks,
underwear and all. They are grimy and I am past exhausted, hovering on
that manic plane of adrenaline overload where every nerve in your body
vibrates. I cannot sleep. I lie on the double bed, fully dressed, staring
at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I see Fox's face. Not the
loving, caring face I'm used to seeing now, but the bitter, angry
expression he wore in the early days. Before his mother's death, before
the abduction. The closed-off mask with the glittering eyes, that told me
how much he hated himself for fucking me in spite of all I'd done. 

 Jesus, it hurts to remember. I was his slow suicide, the punishment he
inflicted on himself. He hated himself for failing. For not having the
strength to bring the consortium down. Taking me into his bed was ultimate
penance and humiliation both, self-fulfilling proof of his own
worthlessness. He was sleeping with the enemy. 

 What hurts even more is remembering that there was a time when I didn't
give a shit how he felt. As long as I had that beautiful mouth around my
cock and that hot body sweating beneath mine.... 

 Well, hell, I didn't have feelings of any kind back then. Maybe I'm
schizophrenic. 

 How did I ever look at the man and not love him? How was I ever that
cold-blooded creature? 

 In the morning, I have to be him again. The thought chills me to the
bone, and something inside dies of the cold. 

 I was so close. So fucking close. 

 Morning finds me raw, exhausted, on edge. Like a muscle stretched after
disuse, my mind screams at me to stop, turn around, go home. But I've
stepped over the cliff and I'm falling, flying on the fear and adrenaline,
high on the coppery taste of revenge. They have hurt me and mine, and they
will die for it. That's all. 

 It's quite easy to get hold of everything I will need. Radio Shack and
Home Depot provide me with some of it. I then case out the propane
company, watching the employees arrive, calculating how to get hold of a
loaded truck later that night. 

 Back at the hotel, I spread my tools out on the small desk and jury-rig a
detonator by means of rewiring my cellphone. I prefer simple, elegant
bombs. Going for a very large explosion would necessitate chemicals that
are difficult to obtain on short notice. For one lousy, corrugated metal
building, the propane truck should do. It will adequately reduce it to
nothing in no time. The only real challenge here will be, I must kill
enough security people that the truck doesn't have time to leave the
loading dock before I blow it up. 

 Of course, I could just pulverize the place without going inside it...
but that would be too easy. I want answers. I want to know why this was
done to Sean, and how many other children it's been done to. I want to
know how to help Sean and Fox either overcome the side effects of
telepathy, or get rid of it altogether. 

 Most of all, I want to watch the light bleed out of Marita's eyes as she
dies. If she's not there, everyone else who is will die, one by one,
slowly and painfully, until somebody tells me how to find her. 

 Really, Marita doesn't have it in her to mastermind something like this.
She's just a lackey, like me. But she's become the focal point of my hate.
She represents every evil committed by these people. Her fate was sealed
when Sean begged her for mercy in his sleep. "Marita, no...!" That's all I
needed to hear. The bitch is so dead she'll be dying for the rest of
eternity. 

 Darkness falls. I sit in the car across the street and watch the
employees leave the propane company. Once the building is empty and dark I
slip across the street with my bag of tricks and a pair of bolt cutters. I
make quick work of the chain on the gate to the parking lot, and duck
between a set of trucks. I work my way around reading the gauges until I
find a loaded vehicle. 

 The lock on the truck is a piece of cake. Within minutes the engine roars
to life and I pull out of the lot. I find a defunct car garage a few miles
away and spend a couple of hours rigging the truck to my liking. I set up
the timer and place the blasting caps and detonation cord. This baby is
gonna go up like the fourth of July. 

 After a final inspection of the building I retrieve the truck from where
I've parked. I roll it up to the loading dock with the lights off. I kill
the engine and step out of the cab, flicking the safety off one of the
guns. 

 Showtime. 

 Either these people are really stupid or they're not falling for the
bait. There's no action inside the building. Why aren't they coming after
me? What are they waiting for? Could they have already moved out? My
instincts tell me otherwise, but it's been so long... I don't know if I
can trust them anymore. 

 Minutes tick by, the seconds last an eternity. I jam the gun into my
pants, open my pocketknife, pry the facing off the keypad by the door and
go to work on the wires. The light turns green and the lock disengages. I
reach down and open the door. It's well-oiled, and slides smoothly. 

 It's pitch black inside. I pause to let my eyes adjust. Someone has been
quite busy here. Boxes and cartons are overturned everywhere. Shredded
papers are scattered on the floor. Pallets stacked with boxes of supplies
line the walls. I've either caught them mid-evacuation, or they've
abandoned what's still here. 

 There is a second structure inside this one, a building within a
building. It takes up two thirds of the floor space and about half the
height of the outer structure. It's maybe 15 feet high. Jackpot. Here's
the prize behind door number three! 

 It's a fortress. The doors are steel and have a retinal scan lock. I
punch the button and let the machine scan my eye. The light on the pad
flashes red. Alarms shriek and pulse. Maybe that'll get this party
started. 

 The door slides open and there's someone there, wearing a lab coat and
looking very scared. He should. I'm going to be the last thing he sees. 

 "Mr. Krycek. We've been expecting you." 

 "Were you expecting this as well?" I pull back the slide; useless with a
semi-auto, purely the stuff of Hollywood, but good for shock value. The
color drains from his face. 

 For some reason, I bash his temple with the butt of the gun instead of
shooting him. He crumples to the floor. 

 The building is too quiet. This must be the graveyard shift, or else a
skeleton crew is working to pack up and evacuate. I explore the maze of
abandoned corridors, examining each room off them. 

 Most are nondescript offices, all of them empty save for a single room
lined with filing cabinets. An island of tables in the middle of the room
is housing a bank of desktop computers. I grab files, computer disks,
anything that looks useful or relevant, and stuff it in my backpack. 

 I nearly jump out of my skin when a computerized voice announces "You
have mail!" 

 I turn back to the computer workstations. There is a laptop plugged into
a docking station at the end of the row. The mail icon is flashing. I snap
the lid shut, pull the computer loose and cram it into the pack. 

 Every nerve in my body is thrumming. All my mental bells and whistles
tell me I'm getting close. I had best press onwards to the end of the
yellow brick road. 

 The last door at the end of the hall is another heavy, metallic one, with
both a retinal and thumbprint scanner. I submit to both scans and the
alarms go off, but nothing else happens. I'm about to shoot the control
panel. Instead I almost shoot the young woman that comes barreling around
the corner, who shrieks in fear and drops her stack of files. 

 I grab her arm and yank her in front of the console. 

 I growl at her. "Open this fucking door." 

 "I can't," she pleads, blue eyes large and fearful. God, she's just a
kid. "I don't have access to that area." 

 "Is Marita Covarrubias in there? Behind that door?" 

 She nods shakily. "I think so. She was. Please don't hurt me. You can't
open that door now anyway; once the alarm has been tripped it can only be
opened from the inside." 

 I press the gun into her neck. She's crying. Why do I care? Before I have
to make a decision the door slides open and Marita appears, a look of mild
amusement on her face. 

 The fucking skanky bitch. She's dressed to the nines. Her hair is
perfect, her smile welcoming. I'm going to kill her. 

 "Alex. To do what do I owe the pleasure? Is the boy so annoying that
you've come to bring him back? What a pity. You and Agent Mulder seemed so
happy together. I thought maybe a little boy would complete the picture." 

 I shove the other girl away and lunge at Marita, pushing her head up with
the barrel of the gun. "Is this where you did it, Marita? Is this the
place where you fucking mutated this baby?" 

 She laughs. "Oh Alex... You always had a flair for the dramatic. 

 Come with me and I'll give you a tour of our facilities." 

 "You do that." I push her forward a bit, forcing her to stumble in her
high heels. 

 She leads me into a sophisticated lab through a set of plexiglass doors.
The half-dozen people within are busy packing medical equipment and files
into crates. They scatter when they see us. I hope that too many of them
don't get away. I'll have to get what I can from Marita and get the hell
out before they escape. 

 At the far end of the lab is another metal door. Marita stands still for
the retinal and thumbprint scans, then speaks into a microphone for voice
recognition. The door opens into another, smaller lab, in the middle of
which stands a large, transparent cylinder. I've seen these tanks before
-- they gestate the clones in them. 

 I shove Marita towards a desk at the back of the room and push her into
the chair. I hold the gun level with her face. 

 "Now tell me what you did to him." My voice is gravelly, dark. It sounds
unnatural in my ears. 

 "Isn't it obvious? Hasn't Agent Scully reached her own conclusions?" Her
eyes flare at me, her voice taunts. My finger twitches on the trigger. 

 "You tell me what I want to know, and I might let you die quickly. What
purpose did it serve to use the child? Whose purpose?" 

 "Alex, no one meant harm to the boy. He wasn't injured in any way. But
Agents Mulder and Scully were only genetic donors. They were never
intended to keep the child. Things would be much simpler if we could have
kept them out of the equation altogether, but the child needed a
genetically compatible host mother. That could only be Dana Scully. It
complicated matters, obviously. It got Mulder and Skinner involved. Not to
mention you." 

 "So Sean was an experiment from his conception?" 

 "Of course. We always had the means to restore Agent Scully's fertility.
No one else would have been able to do so." 

 "But why? What purpose does this telepathic ability serve? What use is it
to you? Surely you can find another way to play the stock market?" 

 Marita laughs, a high, nervous titter that betrays her cool countenance. 

 "The telepathic ability is only the emergent part of a larger set of
them. The telepaths can communicate with the alien ships themselves. We
hope to use them in order to track the ships and their actions, as well as
come to an understanding of their functioning and intent. The ships are a
lifeform of some kind, not machines as we understand the word." 

 "So... you're creating sentient tracking devices and using human children
to do so?" This is not what I expected. But it makes terrible sense. 

 "We can only use human children. Nothing else will work. You know what's
at stake here, Alex. We must be able to predict what those ships will do,
and keep track of them. We need every weapon in our arsenal to prevent
colonization. Mulder had the ability, but in him, it was too erratic to be
of use; and Gibson Praise lived with it for so long that he has programmed
a neural shield into his brain. He cut himself off from the ships'
emanations, and the change is hardwired into his neural pathways. He made
himself useless to us. We needed a test subject, a blank slate, and Sean
Scully was that." 

 "Why Mulder and Scully? Couldn't you have cloned Gibson Praise?" 

 "No, we discovered that the telepathy is strongest in the offspring of
subjects who have been vaccinated against the oil and abductees with
branched DNA. Mulder and Scully's genes were perfect for the experiments,
as if those two were destined to mate. Doesn't that amuse you? It does
me." 

 "Why did you let Sean go? Did you send him to spy on his father?" 

 She waves my gun down and leans to pick up a mug of oily-looking coffee
from the desk. She wrinkles her nose but takes a sip. Her hand is shaking
when she sets it down. 

 "The experiments were a failure. Although Sean was the subject who showed
the strongest ability of all, we were unable to control it. We matured him
hoping to gain gradual mastery of it as it progressed, but while it did
grow stronger, it also became more unpredictable. My employers wanted to
eliminate the child, but I had grown rather attached to him." 

 "That's bullshit, Marita. Reptiles don't have emotions," I say, leaning
close, trying to intimidate her. It pisses me off when it doesn't work. 

 "Neither do assassins, Alex, but you seem to quite enjoy the family life
down there in Louisiana, and you've come here to kill me for what we did
to Mulder's son. The lion protecting his pride," she says archly. "I can
help you. I can help them, if you'll let me. Having his son close by is
amplifying Mulder's ability, isn't it? His is an adult brain, unable to
process the input. He'll end up a vegetable, much as he did when he was
exposed to the artifact. We've seen this before, and we know how to
control it. I gave you the boy as a gesture of good faith, now let me
truly help you." 

 What if she's telling the truth? Can I risk Sean and Fox by not believing
her? "I don't believe you." I try to keep my hand and voice steady. 

 "I am not the one putting them at risk, Alex. My employers think the boy
escaped, and they're looking for him. I've gone to great pains to keep
your whereabouts a secret, but they've sent for another telepath, one of
the aliens, to track them. Without my help they'll never be safe. There's
nowhere for them to hide." 

 Her expression softens. 

 "Help me to help you, Alex. I genuinely don't want to see the boy come to
harm. Help me leave here undetected, and I'll take them to someone who can
protect them." 

 I push the barrel of the gun into the hollow of her throat. "Tell me who
can help them, Marita. Tell me now and I'll think about letting you live."


 She smiles again. Feral, perfect white teeth gleam behind her lips. 

 "Alex, you taught me better than that! If I divulge my sources, what
reason would you have to let me live?" 

 "I'll have many more than I do right now, if you cooperate." 

 She crosses her legs and raises her eyes to mine. "Insure my safety and
I'll give you the information you want. On the other hand, if you kill me,
your lover will end up a twitching bag of flesh with oatmeal for brains --
within a few months. Which do you want more, Alex? My death, or Agent
Mulder's life?" 

 She's playing me. She's lying. I can't take the risk that I'll be leading
her to Fox and Sean so she can finish the job. I came here to kill her,
and I can't rest until I do. 

 Can I? 

 I drop the gun on the desk. 

 Fear sparks in her eyes when I pull her from the chair by the throat. The
pulse in her neck races in my hand. She opens her mouth, desperate to
breathe. I squeeze. Just a little harder, and her larynx will cave under
my hand. 

 I can't stop the voice in my head. What if Marita is telling the truth? 

 She's unconscious, but still alive. When I let go she falls to the floor,
her head thudding against the desk on the way. Blood soaks her hair. I
push back from the desk and aim the gun at her head. The barrel is
shaking. I'm in a cold sweat. 

 I can't do this. Everything I've said and done in the last year means
shit if I murder an unconscious woman. If I kill her for what she did to
Sean, I should kill myself for what I did to Gibson Praise. 

 If I do this, I can never go home again. I have learned nothing. 

 The door opens on two guys in Kevlar aiming large rifles. I drop the
first with one shot and the second with two more. 

 I've got to get out of here. 

 There's more Keystone Kops in the hallway. A bullet whizzes past my
shoulder, another past my cheek. My jacket singes -- and my cheek. Ow. I
turn, shoot down the hallway, toss the gun... reach at the small of my
back for the next one. 

 By the time I reach the door to the outer facade, my breath is coming in
gasps and my legs are rubber. My knuckles are white where I grip the gun,
and sweat drips into my eyes. 

 I must quit smoking again, starting right now. 

 Shit! Someone has closed the door to the loading dock. I reach down and
yank on the handle, praying it's not locked. It rolls open easily, and
cool air hits my face. I take a deep breath. 

 Okay, plan A just went to shit, and I have no plan B. 

 A clatter of footfalls rises up behind me. I jump from the loading dock
and take off running. Bullets sing through the air around me. One misses
my left ear by a hair's breadth. 

 I run as fast as I can, away from that truck, before those morons hit it
trying to shoot me. Letting Marita live -- that's one thing, These
fuckers? If they blow their own sorry asses up, it's not my problem. They
aren't going to take me with them. 

 I run until I no longer hear gunfire. The only sounds are my feet
slapping against the pavement and the roar of blood in my ears. I duck
into an alley and lean against the rough brick, sucking air into my lungs.
I take off the backpack and dig out the remote, then toss it in the
dumpster next to me. 

 I walk a few more blocks, trying to clear my head. I find a payphone at a
closed service station and call 911, reporting a suspected robbery at the
warehouse. When I get back to the hotel I'll call the FBI and give them a
heads up on the situation. It would not be wise to call a taxi this close
to the crime scene, so I walk the three miles back to the hotel, falling
onto the bed when I reach my room. 

 I'm sweaty and I ache. I really need to get up and call the fibbies. 

 I close my eyes. I'll get up in a minute, take a shower, call the feds...
just need to lie here a minute or two...  

 Morning is clear and bright and colorful as only early spring can be.
Without even bothering to shower, I call a cab to take me to the airport. 

 From there I drop an anonymous tip to the fibbies about illegal medical
experiments at a warehouse in North Carolina, and suggest they get the
information to AD Skinner. By noon I am on a plane to DC. I'll pass the
computer and the disks to the Lone Gunmen. They can turn the information
over to Fox and Scully. 

 I'd like to tell Fox why I have to leave, to tell him how hard it is, but
I can't. He loves me -- he won't care what my reasons are, he'll only care
that I'm gone. That is, until he finds out what I did. I can't bear to
think about how he'll feel then. It's like sticking my finger in a bullet
wound. 

 I was determined to avenge Fox for the wrongs done to him and his son. I
failed. Marita should have died for touching Sean Scully. In the end, I
couldn't do it. I am not a killer anymore. I should be pouring bourbon and
shooting the shit with the locals, not trying to bring down a global
conspiracy 

 Ah, but it was I who drove Gibson Praise to the facility where they
peeled open his skull and poked at his brain. That led directly to what
they did to Sean. What about that? 

 The crimes I've committed are coming home to me. 

 I stumble down the narrow aisle and into the lavatory. I'm shaking and
nauseated, I can't breathe. I lean against the narrow sink and try not to
choke. I haven't fucking earned the right to a fucking panic attack. I'm
fifteen years late for that. Back then, it never occurred to me that one
day I wouldn't want to live with the things I did. 

 Hindsight is a real bitch. 

 I don't want this blood on my hands anymore... Lady MacBeth didn't get
her wish either. 

 The plane lands and I go to hail a cab, then realize I only have fifteen
bucks left in my wallet. I go back inside the concourse and find a pay
phone. 

 "Lone Gunmen office," Langly answers. 

 "It's Alex Krycek. I'm at Dulles. Can someone come pick me up?" 

 "Yeah, sure. Man, is Mulder gonna be glad to know where you are. He's
freaking out big time." 

 Fox, oh God. Of course he's worried. No matter what the hell I do to him,
he keeps believing in me. No more. I'm going to save that beautiful, naive
idiot from himself before I drag him down with me. 

 "You can't tell Mulder I'm here. If he calls, you haven't heard from me.
Just come get me, all right? I'll explain it all then." 

 Langly shows up about an hour later. I sink into the passenger seat of
the old VW van with the backpack at my feet, offering no explanation. He
gives me a long, sideways glance and pulls away from the curb, headed back
towards the warehouse the gunmen call home. 

 Frohike is waiting when we arrive. I hand over the backpack, trying to
still the trembling in my hand. "I don't know what's on any of this, but
it might help get some answers. I'll be leaving in the morning, so you'll
be responsible for getting any information to Mulder and Scully." 

 Frohike takes the backpack and places it on his workbench, his eyes
intent behind the thick glasses. Despite the fact that the man reminds me
of Bilbo Baggins, something in that gaze cuts me to the quick. Reminds me
of the look of Father Benedict's face when I was 14 and got caught
toilet-papering the rectory. 

 "A word, Krycek. In private," He gestures towards a storage room down the
hall. I follow him, and the door closing behind us sounds like the clank
of prison bars slamming shut. 

 "He's going nuts worrying about you." Feet planted, arms akimbo. Rising
anger on his face. Melvin Frohike suddenly looks dangerous. 

 "I know." Sigh. 

 "Did you kill her?" 

 "No!" I sigh again, shake my head. "No. All I got out of her was a bunch
of doublespeak that could have been a pack of lies. She says they're being
tracked by a telepathic bounty hunter." 

 "Then you need to get your ass home right now and protect them." 

 "Mulder can protect himself," I protest weakly. Yeah, right. Gun in one
hand and syringe full of pain meds in the other. 

 "You know damn well what happened last time, Krycek. Without a cure, it's
only going to get worse. Soon he won't be able to get out of bed, much
less protect himself and the kid." He takes a step towards me. He barely
comes up to my chin. His body is taut with anger. 

 "Going back isn't an option. I left evidence at the crime scene. There
could be a warrant out for me right now. Skinner would just fucking love
to arrest my in my own home. I fucked up, and I can't let that come back
on Fox and Sean. It's best for everyone if I disappear." 

 He looks up at me, reminiscent of the way one looks at a small child or
an especially stupid dog. "Did they take half your brain when you turned
in your double agent decoder ring? Do you think he's better off
defenseless? How is that best for him and the kid? This dark avenger
bullshit is for comic books; let Skinner and the FBI handle this. You go
home and take care of your family." 

 I scrub my hand over my face. I'm so fucking tired. I can't remember the
last time I ate, I need a shower, and I could swear I just heard Frohike
tell me to trust the FBI. I can't face this right now. "I'm leaving.
Period. End of story. Will you help me? A simple yes or no will suffice. I
don't need another lecture." 

 His arms drop and he walks towards the door. "You look like a damned
wreck, Krycek. Have something to eat and get some rest; we'll talk
tomorrow. And take a bath, for the love of Pete. You stink like propane." 

 After a shower, dinner, and in a clean sweatsuit of Byers', I feel almost
human again. The gunmen are all crowded around their workstations
decrypting the disks when I go to bed. 

 I toss and turn on the narrow twin bed in the windowless room, my mind
racing. 

 Frohike is disappointed in me? Why the hell should I care? I don't owe
him any explanations. I have a dozen reasons to leave, all of them
perfectly valid. If someone followed me from the lab, I could be leading
them to Fox and Sean. Skinner could be at my house right now, drinking my
coffee and waiting to bust me in front of my friends and family. Marita is
going to be out for my blood before long. She wouldn't hesitate to hurt
Fox or Sean to get at me. 

 I might have destroyed the one chance Fox and Sean had to be free of all
this. 

 I have probably destroyed what Fox and I worked so hard to build
together. 

 If I go back, I'll have to look Sean in the eye and let him see what I
did to Gibson Praise, and that boy in Russia. I'm better at harming
children than at protecting them. 

 Plenty of reasons to leave. 

 Two reasons to go back. 

 Is it even my choice to make anymore?	

 "Krycek, wake up. We've got something you need to see." 

 Byers is standing over me, shaking my shoulder. The room is still pitch
black, but the clock reads seven A.M. I kick away the blankets twisted
around my legs and rise, following him to the main room where Langly and
Frohike are hunched over the laptop I took from Marita. 

 Frohike looks up, pale blue light from the screen reflecting off his
glasses. "Does the name Strughold mean anything to you?" 

 "Fuck. Yeah. I thought that son of a bitch was dead." 

 "Apparently not. Marita was working for him, or at least that's what she
wanted him to believe," Byers says. 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "This laptop contains Marita Covarrubias's personal files. It looks like
she was working behind Strughold's back to help get the telepaths, about
fifty of them, to safety," Langly supplies. 

 "Why? What benefit was it to her?" 

 "She's been working with the rebels to help hide the telepaths. Strughold
wanted to hand them over to the aliens, to position himself as leader of
the consortium." 

 "Where are the rebels hiding the telepaths? Is there any indication that
they know how to control the telepathy? To prevent the effects it's having
on Fox?" 

 Langly shakes his head. "No, there's not much more here. I wish there
were. Just some encrypted e-mails between her and someone going by J.
Smith. This person helped her plan Sean's escape, whoever they are." 

 Jeremiah Smith. It makes sense now. The rebel healer is protecting the
telepaths. We've got to find them before Strughold does, which means I've
got to find Strughold and take him out of the picture. Marita I could not
kill, nor the employees at the lab. Strughold, however, I will kill with
glee. 

 "We've got to get a location on Strughold, and get Mulder and Sean into
hiding right away. The last location I have for Strughold is a base in
Tunisia, but that was years ago." My mind is ticking off possible bases of
operation. 

 "Krycek, you can't go after this guy by yourself. You've got to bring
Skinner in on this. Besides, if Mulder's doing the telepathy bit again,
maybe he can provide some information. Get him in the room with
Covarrubias and see what he can get out of her," Frohike replies. 

 "No fucking way! We are not gonna drag him through this -- he's sick
enough already! I don't need Skinner. We can't win this by playing by the
FBI's rules. They simply don't apply here." 

 "Yeah, like the law doesn't apply to you?" Frohike shoots back. I'm
really tempted to deck the guy, at the moment. 

 The phone rings and Langly answers it. He greets the caller then gives me
a long look. Shit. It's Fox. 

 "No dude, we haven't heard from him." Frohike and Byers turn to look at
him. He shrugs and points at me. 

 "Don't tell him I'm here," I growl. 

 Frohike reaches past Langly and hits a button on the phone. Fox's voice
comes from the tinny speaker. Instead of the comfort I usually find in it,
I feel panic rising. 

 "Guy, how's it going? Your head all right?" Frohike asks him as I turn to
leave the room. 

 "I'm fine. Put me on speaker phone and park Alex where he can listen,"
Fox instructs. 

 I freeze in my tracks. Fuck, is his spidey-sense working from this far
away? 

 "Alex, I know damned well you're there. Vince has the flu and Greg has
finals. I spent last night pouring drinks at your bar. And then the
funniest thing happened this morning. Walter got a call about a bomb at a
warehouse. Someone phoned in with some crazy story about illegal medical
experiments. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" 

 "Did the bomb detonate?" My voice is taut, like guitar strings tuned too
tightly. 

 "No, but whoever was occupying the building has left. There was evidence
of some sort of laboratory setup, but that's not strange: the warehouse
was owned by a medical clinic. Your prints are not on the truck, by the
way." 

 I groan. "Fox..." 

 "There's a plane ticket for you at the Delta Airlines counter. You get
your sorry ass on that plane, and Walter might consider not throwing you
in jail. You still get to answer to me, though. I hope your life insurance
is up to date. What the hell were you thinking, Alex?" 

 What the fuck is his problem? I did this to save his life and he acts as
if I went on a killing spree for shits and giggles. Ungrateful bastard.
Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. 

 "Fuck you too, you stupid bastard. I swear to God, Alexander Mikhail, if
I have to open that bar by myself tonight I'm gonna have an eighties dance
night and hang up a disco ball. Your choice, Alex. Come home and let me
kick you ass at my convenience, or make me hunt you down and kill you." 

 He sighs. His voice drops. I'm suddenly very cold. 

 "Sean said to remind you that you promised to build that castle puzzle
with him this weekend. Don't worry, I'm sure someone will make time to
help him with it." 

 It takes all the control I have not to flinch when he hangs up. 

 Frohike rubs his hands together. "Now that that's taken care of, does
anyone want breakfast?" 

 It's nearly midnight when I arrive in Baton Rouge. Fox is waiting for me
at the gate, wearing the cool, blank face I haven't seen in years. He
never kept that mask on for long. It always melted into anger, violence,
lust. Affection. It's jolting, how much the indifference hurts. 

 He turns towards the parking lot, not speaking. I walk next to him, close
enough that our shoulders are almost touching. 

 "How is Sean?" 

 He tosses me the keys to the truck. 

 "Fine. He's been sitting in your chair tearing through the bookshelves.
Walter is leaving tomorrow morning. He's got to run interference for your
little adventure in North Carolina, then he's closing the X-files and
helping Scully resign." 

 He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door. 

 They've sure been busy while I was gone. 

 "Fox, that's not a good idea. I know that Scully doesn't want to leave
Sean, and I don't blame her. God knows I wouldn't, in her shoes. But the
boy's being hunted. Both of you are." 

 He cocks an eyebrow, looking surprisingly unsurprised at the news. 

 "Consortium?" 

 "Bounty hunter. Telepathic bounty hunter." I swing the truck out of the
lot. 

 I tell him what we know, but don't mention how I came by the files. That
part is the white elephant in the room. I know that he knows. He knows
that I know that he knows. 

 We pull into the driveway by the time I'm done with the tale and our
conclusions. 

 "So, Scully has to go back. We have to keep up a pretense of business as
usual until we can find the rebel hideout and see what they can do to
protect Sean," Fox says. 

 "She's going to hate it, but it's the only way. Scully has no way to
explain who Sean is, or his presence in her life. He's safer here, for
now. DC is just too damned big. We know everyone here -- a stranger would
stick out like a sore thumb. Our cover story is easier to maintain here.
Until we can arrange for the three of you to go underground, this is
best," I agree. 

 I can tell by the look on his face, illuminated in the glow of the cab's
map light, that my last comment did not go unnoticed. He doesn't reply,
just opens the door and slides smoothly out of the seat. 

 The first thing I notice is that the house is dark. 

 "Where are Scully and Sean?" 

 "Staying with Delia and Paul tonight. I thought we needed to be alone."
He unlocks the door, flicks on the light switch. Turns towards me and pins
me with the eeriest gaze I've ever seen. 

 I'm vivisected by those eyes. He's in my goddamn head and I am not safe.
For the first time since he arrived on my doorstep last year, I'm afraid
of him. He doesn't need a gun; he's going to destroy me with those
glittering eyes. 

 "This is by far the stupidest thing you've done in your life," he says,
crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "I don't care what a
bad-ass criminal you used to be; now you're a bartender, and the Dirty
Harry routine is pathetic. All you managed to do is drive them
underground. Did it ever occur to you that Sean could have read Marita's
mind if we had taken her into custody?" 

 "I'll find Strughold, Mulder. I'll put an end to this once and for all." 

 His eyes narrow, and his face flushes. God, he's pissed now. 

 "You most certainly will not. I did not give ten years of my life to the
FBI so I could come here and play Bonnie and Clyde with you. The Bureau is
going to handle this, and if you so much as think about pulling this shit
again I will handcuff you and drag you to Angola myself." He pushes away
from the wall and paces. 

 "Christ, Alex, you're lucky that goddamn truck didn't blow up with you in
it! Haven't you figured out that things never work out for you when bombs
are involved?" 

 "What are you talking about? I had a great time on our trip to Russia.
The food, the weather." I hold up my left arm. "Look, they even fixed that
hangnail I had for free." 

 He whips around to face me. "I mean it, Alex. If you get involved in
this, I'll bust you to the FBI myself. And I won't sit here and pine away
for you. You can play drop-the-soap with some big bull queer named Bubba,
for all I care." 

 The cinders of anger catch fire in my gut, and I take a swing at him. He
sidesteps, grabs my arm and pulls it above my head. He holds me there for
a long time, pinning me with his body, before he bruises my mouth with
his. 

 I thrust and lick inside his mouth, loving the sharp taste of him. I'm
hard now. The kiss lasts until I'm dizzy. His eyes still burn when he
pulls away, but there is more than anger in them now, something equally
fierce and primal. 

 "You bastard," he says softly, nipping at my jaw. "You could have gotten
yourself killed. Never do this to me again." 

 I know he still wants to kick my ass, but that's heartening in a way. No
one in my adult life has ever been angry with me because they cared. It
was always because I fucked up. 

 I answer him by wrenching my arm free and threading my fingers through
his hair. I tug firmly on the soft strands and pull his mouth back to
mine. I need to be inside him. I want to consume him, take him into me and
let him pump through my body like blood in my veins. It's soul deep, this
need to possess him. 

 I moan softly when he rocks his hips into me. His hard heat matches my
own. Every nerve in my body wakes. He gasps and pulls away, his pupils
dilated, his hands everywhere on me. I lose myself in those fathomless
eyes, in the swirl of color and emotion. 

 My need is right there, mirrored back at me in gold and green and brown. 

 "Yes," he breathes, a hot puff against my lips. "Alex, please... " 

 We drag each other towards the bedroom, jackets and shirts falling on the
way. We drop onto the bed, wrapped together, kissing and growling and
biting. We nearly cause each other serious damage, removing shoes and
pants without loosening our desperate embrace. He's finally naked under
me, on his belly, his skin hot and spicy with sweat under my hand and
mouth. 

 He trembles as I push into him, breathily chanting "oh god yes please
Alex do it yes oh god do it...." I slide in halfway, pull back -- thrust
in to the root. 

 Oh Jesus God, he's so hot and tight, clenching around my cock and bearing
down on my backstroke. I want to howl, bay at the moon. I'm an animal
mating. 

 Predators mate for life. 

 My mate with fangs of his own, sweetly submissive at the moment, still
possessed of the power to tear out my heart. 

 He explodes as soon as I wrap my hand around his leaking cock. 

 I clamp my teeth into the nape of his neck, and hang on while he keens
and thrashes. I ride him to climax and cry out when I come. 

 Hot, sticky, beautiful man under me... trying to buck me off and
complaining that he can't breathe. I come down slowly, slide off him, roll
him over and pull him into an embrace. 

 "So, was this our hot, nasty makeup sex?" I ask, kissing his forehead,
his cheek. His sweat stings my lips, sensitive now from feasting on his
stubbly jaw. 

 "No, this is the hot, nasty, 'I'm still gonna kick your ass, but I'm glad
you're home' sex. I'll kick your ass as soon as I figure how to do it
without wrecking you as a sex toy." He buries his face against my chest,
sliding an arm around me. 

 "Who's working The Bayou tonight?" 

 "Corinne. She also plans to kick your ass. When we're done with you,
you're going to wish you had a clone to take your place." 

 "Are you still that pissed at me?" 

 He leans up on an elbow and looks down at me, his expression an odd mix
of emotions. "Yeah, I am. Angry, disappointed, hurt. I know your
intentions were good... but you really fucked this up. I'm disappointed
that you didn't trust Skinner to take the threat seriously. Most of all,
I'm hurt and pissed that you left me out of the loop. This is my fight,
Alex. My life, my son's life. I deserved the chance to defend that, but
you were selfish and turned it into a vendetta between you and Marita. You
had no right to do that." 

 He sighs. "Alex Krycek against the world again." 

 I stay silent. That's more truth than I can face tonight. I already have
enough to keep me busy for days. 

 "How about we save the ass-kicking for later? Tonight we can just enjoy
the fact that the house is empty and you don't have a headache." I cup the
back of his head and pull him down for a gentle kiss. He moans into my
mouth and his hands begin a lazy exploration of my body. 

 The truth is pushed from our bed for the night. Our time together may be
very short. Too short to waste on anger and harsh words, warranted or not.
 

 The next morning is thoroughly unpleasant. Scully is tersely polite, but
I see anger flashing in her blue eyes. If Sean weren't around, she'd
pistol-whip me. Skinner won't even look at me when we sit down to
breakfast. Neither will the boy. He doesn't smile at me now. 

 Does Sean know what danger my actions put him in? 

 After breakfast Mulder takes Scully into our bedroom and closes the door.
I see Sean flinch, then hear Scully shout, "No!" from the bedroom. Damn.
He's telling her she has to go back to DC and leave Sean here. 

 Sean's eyes glaze over. He sits mute and still. Fat tears flow down his
cheeks. I get up and sit next to him on the couch. I hesitate -- then put
my hand on his shoulder. 

 "Sean, everything is going to be alright." I try to sound confident.
Nothing is going to be all right. There is no happy ending to be had here.
No 'boy stays with boy and they raise little boy together and live happily
ever after.' 

 "Mommy's sad. D-Daddy and I have to go away soon. Where are we going,
Alex? I don't want to go," he sobs. The sound tears at me. 

 "Kiddo, it's not fair that things are like this. You and your dad didn't
do anything wrong, but there are bad people in the world, and we have to
protect you from them. No matter what happens, your dad is going to be
there to take care of you." 

 He looks up at me, eyes wet and round in his drawn, solemn face. "He
wants to stay here with you. I do too." 

 My heart breaks. 

 I sigh, slip my arm around his shoulders, and draw him close to my side.
"Sean, this will always be your home. One day when it's safe, you can come
back here if you want to. Even if your dad doesn't come back for some
reason, you are always welcome here." 

 Fox emerges from the bedroom, his eyes swollen, his face drawn and
pinched. "Sean, your mom and I need to talk to you for a little while." 

 Sean nods and slides off the futon, following Fox into the bedroom. 

 I get up and go to the kitchen to find the phone book. The next thing on
the agenda is to have a security system installed in the house. The gunmen
gave me the name of a guy in New Orleans who will sell me the basic
equipment, to customize to my liking. 

 Skinner's sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. He looks
up at me and gestures for me to sit. Judging by the looks on everyone's
face around here, you'd think we were a suicidal tendencies support group.


 Shit, I'm going to get it coming and going today. I sit down across from
him, and say: 

 "Whatever it is, I don't fucking want to hear it." 

 "That's too bad, because I'm only going to say it once. I'm going to
North 

 Carolina to clean up your mess. I won't go out of my way to implicate
you, but you'd better hope to God you didn't leave any evidence. I will
not protect you. 

 "The reasons I'm doing it now are that having you taken into custody
would leave Mulder and Sean alone, and give you into the hands of whoever
was running that lab." 

 I stare at him. He's too fucking kind. 

 "The obvious place to start is Lewis Michaels, Sr. He own the warehouse,
and his son was Scully's obstetrician, well, one of them. He's got to know
something." 

 "He's dead," Skinner says. "Found this morning. Self-inflicted gunshot
wound to the head." 

 "Shit." 

 "Basically," he sips his coffee, looks up at me, "I won't be compromised
by you again, Krycek. If there is any evidence to implicate you, over and
above what we here already know, I'll sign the arrest warrant myself." 

 "Fair enough." 

 Fox appears in the doorway. "You can have what's left of him when I'm
done, 

 Walter. I still owe him an ass whipping." 

 "Round two-fifty in the Mulder/Krycek fight club?" I ask sardonically. 

 Fox smiles, but still looks less than amused. "Something like that. Walt,
I'll drive you to the airport as soon as you're ready," he says as he
turns and walks out. 

 Skinner stands and straightens his jacket. He comes around to me, and I'm
not sure if I should shake his hand of brace myself for a blow. He pins me
with dark eyes, his face stony, unreadable. 

 "Take care of them," he says, "or I'll kill you myself." 

 I nod, and he turns and walks away. I stay in the kitchen and listen to
him say goodbye to Sean and Scully. I'm also digging out the phone book to
look up the security guy the gunmen referred me to. 

 I make arrangements to meet with the man the next day, then decide to get
out of the house so Scully can spend some time alone with Sean. I call
Bronwyn and make plans to meet her for lunch. Maybe I can talk her into
shopping for whatever necessities little boys need that I am unaware of. 

 Sean would probably be better off with Delia or Bron. Fox and I know
nothing about children. I have no clue how we're going to get through this
without screwing up that poor kid's head worse than it already has been. 

 Scully comes into the kitchen. She's tense; she radiates unease. For the
first time since it all began I don't resent her: I ache for her. 

 "Krycek -- Alex," she begins, moving to stand in front of me. She reaches
for my hand, capturing it between both of hers. Her delicate hands are
warm and soft. Her touch is actually comforting. 

 She raises her eyes to meet mine. There is no challenge in them, only a
silent plea. 

 "They are my life. Both of them. I -- I can't leave until you promise me
that you'll take care of them." 

 "They're my life too, Scully. Both of them." It's a painful admission,
and I struggle not to avert my eyes. "If anyone gets to them, it will be
because they've killed me first." 

 "I don't mean physically defending them. I mean caring for them. Sean is
a child. He needs affection, attention, guidance. And Mulder -- Mulder
often needs to be protected from himself as much as from any outside
force." 

 My throat tightens. "I'll take care of them. I've meant you harm in the
past, and I've hurt those you loved. But I swear that I am your ally now."


 She's weeping. "I know you hate me, but please don't take it out on my
son. Please. If any of this change in you is genuine, see him as an
individual, not an extension of your hatred for me. Even if you're lying,
faking it all," her voice cracks on a sob. 

 "Please, don't hurt him. He's just a baby." 

 Her words cut quick and deep, an obsidian knife in my chest. "Scully, I
don't hate you. I would never purposefully hurt Sean." 

 "I'm trying to believe that," she says, her eyes searching mine, "but
when I look at you, I see my sister dying in a hospital bed. You stood by
and let that man put a bullet in her brain. I'm trying to forgive you for
that, but it eats at me every time I see your face. Perhaps one day I'll
be able to see you for the man you are now, but until then...." 

 I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "That's good enough. I'm
sorry, Scully, sorry for all of it. At this point my choices are to live
with it or eat my gun. I live with it because Fox needs me." 

 She squeezes my hand. "Suicide is a sin, Alex, and not one you can ever
atone for. You can't bring Melissa back with your death." She pulls her
hand away and smoothes her hair back. Her Agent Scully mask slips back
into place. 

 After this I'm even more anxious to escape. I make a shopping list and
dress so I can meet Bronwyn for lunch. 

 The next morning I stay behind while Fox and Sean escort Scully to the
airport. This will be the last time I let both of them out of my sight. I
don't know how I'm going to manage it, but I've got to arrange something
so they aren't alone. Fox is fine most of the time, but when he's in the
grip of one of those damned headaches he's defenseless. 

 George Landry arrives shortly after they leave for the airport. He looks
like the type of guy the gunmen would associate with -- tall, lanky,
long-haired, and John Lennon glasses perched on the end of a beaky nose.
His truck contains an impressive array of surveillance equipment, as well
as the necessary cables to bring a T1 line into the house. He waves me off
when I try to discuss money with him, assuring me that "the guys took care
of everything". 

 In the midst of all this, Fox's doctor calls to remind Fox of his
appointment later that afternoon. I'm peeved that no one mentioned an
appointment to me, but the past few days have been rather chaotic. At
least now I can make sure Fox goes, instead of blowing it off. 

 I hear Landry running cable in the crawlspace under the house. I sit at
the kitchen table, having what probably is my tenth cup of coffee, in
spite of the burning in my empty stomach. I haven't had much of an
appetite these last days. None of us have. 

 I'm like a hamster in an exercise wheel, frantically running in place.
Sitting still and waiting for something to happen is not my MO, and it's
driving me crazy. 

 I'm the one who let Marita escape, out of some perverted feeling of
guilt: I should be the one tracking Strughold. If the gunmen don't find
him soon, I'm getting on a plane to Tunisia and find the bastard myself. 

 I startle when the phone rings. 

 "Hello?" 

 I hear sirens in the background on the other end of the line. Panic rises
in my gut, turning my heartburn into a stabbing pain in my chest. 

 "I'm trying to locate a friend or relative of Fox William Mulder. Is this
the correct telephone number?" a woman's voice asks. 

 "Yes, I'm his housemate. Is something wrong?" Of course something's
wrong, dipshit. Why else would a stranger be calling, looking for his next
of kin? 

 "Mr. Mulder is at Our Lady of the Lake Medical Center, in the emergency
room. We need a family member to come pick up his son and sign some
forms." 

 "Was he injured? Is the boy alright?" My blood pressure soars, my heart
pounds. 

 "Sir, I really can't release any information unless you're a family
member..." 

 "Look, lady, I'm his boyfriend, alright? I'm his only family." The words
come out as a snarl. "Now tell me what the hell is going on!" 

 "From what witnesses say, Mr. Mulder had a seizure at the airport. He was
transported here by ambulance. Does Mr. Mulder have a history of
seizures?" 

 I don't know whether to be terrified or relieved that it wasn't an
assassination attempt. Thank God he was in a public place. If he'd been
driving when it happened, alone in the truck with Sean.... 

 And then I stop thinking and let it hit me. Fox had a seizure. Fox in the
stairwell of that college, writhing in pain, his mind no longer his
own.... 

 I walked away and left him lying there. 

 "No, but he has migraines. He's on a lot of medication. He has an
appointment with a neurologist," I grab the notepad on the counter, "Dr.
Le Blanc, later this afternoon at the outpatient clinic." 

 "That will help us, thank you. Can you come get his son? This isn't the
place for a little boy. The kid is crying for his mother." 

 "I'll be there in half an hour. Tell Sean that Alex is coming to get him,
alright?" 

 "I will--" 

 I hang up and snatch my keys off the counter. I'm in Scully's rental car
thirty seconds later. I don't bother to tell the guy under my house that
I'm leaving. 

 Sean must have sensed me approaching. He's waiting for me, his face
pressed against the glass of the emergency room door. A harried-looking
nurse hovers behind him. I could collapse from relief when I see with my
own eyes that he's safe. He throws his slight weight into my arms and I
scoop him up, his arms around my neck and his face tucked against my
collarbone. 

 "Where is Fox?" I ask. 

 "He's having an MRI right now. You can wait over there." The nurse
gestures to the waiting area. "But you can't bring the boy back to the
patient rooms. Someone needs to take him home; this isn't the place for a
child." 

 "No!" Sean protests, his skinny arms tightening into a death grip. "Papa
Alex, don't make me leave! I -- I want to stay with you and Daddy!" 

 Papa Alex. I never thought I would hear someone call me that. A shiver of
joy runs through me. Blood ties or no, this child is mine. 

 Sean has claimed me. I'll proudly claim him in return. 

 "I'll call tyotya Corinne to sit here with you. You don't have to leave,
alright?" I whisper into his ear, bracing my prosthesis under his butt to
hold him against me, so I can run my good hand down his back. 

 "Okay," he agrees, sniffling and wiping his nose on my shirt. 

 Who ever thought a kid snotting on my neck could make me so damned happy?


 "Okay, have a seat and I'll have someone come get you when Mr. Mulder is
back down here. Dr. Leblanc should be down soon to see about getting him
admitted." 

 I need to see Fox so much I can taste him. He must be terrified,
confused. I know I am, and it didn't happen to me. I keep thinking of
those surveillance tapes of him in the hospital, practically comatose,
tortured by the voices in his mind. 

 They never found any answers about what was done to him. Spender did
something to his brain, and he recovered from a condition that was
supposed to kill him. But did he recover because of the butchery committed
on him, or in spite of it? 

 Shit. More questions I should have asked Marita. Sean could have pulled
the answers from her mind if I had played by the book and let Skinner
bring her in. There is no end to the levels on which I fucked up that
operation. 

 Anticipation gnaws at my gut while Sean dozes uneasily in my lap. I draw
strength from his small, warm presence in my arms. Knowing I must stay
calm and in control for him is the only thing stopping me from throwing a
raging fit and demanding to see Fox. 

 What twist of circumstance brought me to this place? From spy and
assassin to lover and father. And I don't even know how the hell I got
here. When did I become so responsible? 

 Dr. Leblanc comes out shortly after Cori's arrival. 

 "Mr. Drake, Mr. Mulder is awake and would like you to join us while we
discuss his test results," he says with a congenial smile. 

 I stand up, hand Sean to Cori who flashes me a quick, reassuring smile,
and follow the doctor through the double doors into the patient area. 

 My first glimpse of Fox turns my knees to jelly and drops my heart into
my stomach. His closed eyes are ringed with dark, bluish-purple shadows.
His skin is ashen. There is a huge bruise across his left cheekbone, and a
cut above his eye. 

 He opens his eyes and gives me a stoned grin. His eyes are bloodshot, the
pupils contracted to pinpricks. The left one is almost solid red. I gape
helplessly. Shit. He looks worse than I used to after he beat the hell out
of me. 

 He laughs. It sounds painful. "Nah, you always looked good, even after I
beat you." 

 Oh, this is all we need. God knows what secrets he'll spill next. Fox
blabs like a moron when he's on pain meds. I look up to the doctor's
questioning gaze. I shrug. 

 "Mulder, are you coherent enough to do this now? I can admit you now and
we can discuss it in the morning," the doctor says. 

 Fox shakes his head. "I have the sneaking suspicion there is something
badly wrong with me. You might as well lay it on me now. Al, sit down
before you pace a hole in the floor. It's getting on my last nerve." 

 I stop and stand by the bed, resisting the need to run my fingers through
his hair. 

 "I've reviewed your previous medical records as well as the results of
all the tests we've done recently," Leblanc says. " Mr. Mulder, we needed
a panel today to discuss our findings. They are... unusual. I believe that
the night terrors and the headaches you experienced for the last several
months are what we call atypical seizures. They usually are an event unto
themselves, not an indicator of any larger disorder. We must however
reassess that in your case, since you have now suffered a grand mal
seizure." 

 "Could we get this in layman's terms, please? All I know about medicine
is how to take the top off a bottle of aspirin," I say, trying to bite
back my impatience and rising panic. He's stalling because he doesn't want
to get to the really bad parts. 

 Leblanc smiles again, which further pisses me off. "Unfortunately, these
are layman's terms. Mr. Mulder is experiencing something very unusual.
Normally, when one has a seizure, a flood of a chemical called glutamate
is released into the bloodstream. It can cause brain damage in high enough
concentrations, although this is not usually an issue. The initial count
is very high but the level declines rapidly after the event runs its
course." 

 "You keep saying 'usually,' but you sound like what's happening to me
isn't. Usual, that is," says Fox. 

 Leblanc shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid it's not. In your case, the
seizure event is uninterrupted. Your temporal lobe just shifts from one
type of seizure to another, and this causes continuous glutamate release
into your system. According to your symptoms, you're experiencing half a
dozen different types of seizure activity in the temporal lobe of your
brain." 

 "And this glutamate causes brain damage?" I feel my nails digging into
the palm of my hand. My heart thumps against my breastbone and I can't
draw enough air into my lungs. 

 He nods. "Yes, and in Mr. Mulder's case we're seeing a very accelerated
rate of damage. Extreme enough damage for you to suffer a rapid decline in
health and cognition, Mr. Mulder. I wish I could give you better news...
but your prognosis includes dementia, amnesia, mood swings, and violent
outbursts. You will, over the course of time, be unable to feed, dress, or
care for yourself." 

 I don't know I've grabbed Fox's hand until I feel him violently squeezing
my fingers. Terror flashes in his eyes. I'm lightheaded with nausea. This
can't happen. It just can't. I cannot -- will not -- lose him now. 

 His creative, razor-sharp mind cannot die. To look into his eyes and see
no love, no recognition... 

 Bile rises in my throat. 

 "I assume this will eventually be fatal," Fox says, his voice barely more
than a whisper. 

 My chest clenches. I can't breathe. If Fox dies, they might as well bury
me with him. 

 "Not in and of itself, no, but there exist many possible
complications.... But we're not giving up on you, Mr. Mulder. Don't give
up on yourself. You are young and healthy. This works in our favor. Now,
the preferred method of treatment for this would be a temporal lobectomy;
but your records indicate that one was attempted in 1999, and was
unsuccessful due to the size and placement of the lesions on your brain.
But there are many anti-convulsant drugs available, and we'll keep trying
until we find the right combination. There is also a ketogenic diet that
was successful in controlling to an extent the severity of the seizures --
" 

 I don't hear the rest. His voice drones in my ears. I only want to climb
into bed with Fox and wrap my arms around him. This is fucking cruel. 

 Fox is everything to me. Watching him die will be worse than dying
myself. Much worse. Losing him now... it's unthinkable. 

 "I want all those tests run again," I insist. "Don't trust any of the '99
records. The doctors involved were not working in his best interests. They
maybe lied about the surgery." There must be something they can do. The
aliens could just grow a new Fox Mulder in a tank and human doctors can't
do shit? I refuse to accept that. 

 "No," Fox says emphatically. "I will not have a lobotomy, or a lobectomy,
or any other sort of brain surgery. We'll try anything non-invasive that's
available, but I'm not having my skull drilled again." His voice is firm.
His mind is made up, no matter what that means for the future. Goddamn
him. How can he lie there and just... accept this? 

 "Fox, if it can cure, or even help you --" 

 "We both know that it won't. We know what's happening here, Alex, and
nothing we do is going to stop it. What if they fuck up and leave me a
vegetable? I won't risk losing what time I have left with you and Sean. I
want to play baseball with my kid at least once." He looks up at me, his
eyes wide with fear, pleading for understanding. 

 The longing in his voice pulls at me. When I think of all the things
he'll never be able to do with Sean -- I'll pray to whatever gods exist
every day for the rest of my life if they'll just give Fox some more time.


 "Alex," he says softly, his fingers stroking the back of my hand, "don't
count me out of the game. I'm like the Atlanta Braves, babe. I always make
a comeback." 

 I try to force a smile. This is too big to face, so we'll joke our way
through it. What manly men we are. "If you're talking about the '91 World
Series, that was a fluke." 

 He laughs half-heartedly. "A fluke? Steve Avery pitched sixteen
consecutive scoreless innings and Mark Lemke batted an average of 417.
Fluke my ass." 

 He can't be sick. Would he be laughing and arguing with me about fucking
baseball if he were sick? 

 He can't be sick.  

 It's dark when we return home. Fox is drugged and sleepy; Sean is
exhausted. I think he's in shock. 

 Cori helps me get Fox tucked into bed, then Sean fed and bathed. While
Cori reads him a bedtime story, I sit in the kitchen to decompress. I'm
afraid to go near the boy right now. The things he'd see in my mind would
fuel his nightmares for weeks. 

 Something touches my hair, and I jump. I look up. Cori is standing behind
me. 

 "Al, you look terrible. You need to eat and get some rest. How can you
take care of them if you don't take care of yourself?" Soft voice, soft
fingers in my hair. I want to melt at her touch. 

 How, indeed? How the hell am I going to take care of them? I don't know
how to take care of a living being who isn't me. I've only ever taken care
of myself. 

 "Why couldn't he have pulled this shit before Scully left? She's good at
putting him back together. I should have made him stay in the hospital. I
can't take care of him." 

 I'm whining. God help me. And if he won't help, fuck God. He owes me. 

 Cori sits. "What did the doctor say, Alex? How are they planning to treat
him?" 

 The answer runs through my mind like wildfire, consuming me on the way
out, leaving the taste of ash in my mouth. 

 "They can't treat him, Cori. They don't know what's wrong with him. This
has happened to him before. The treatment was very unorthodox." How do I
explain brain surgery at the hands of the consortium? 

 Maybe if I don't tell her the rest, it won't really be happening... 

 "He could die." 

 The words stick in my throat like soot, choking me. 

 Cori reaches for me. I bury my face in her soft hair, clinging to her.
She's trembling. Her tears spill hot against my neck. 

 I want to scream and break things and demand answers of a god I don't
believe in. I want to cry, too, but if I start I will never stop. 

 Around dawn I convince Cori to leave, then lock up the house and check on
Sean. He's moaning and thrashing in his sleep, his face streaked with
tears. He needs comfort... I have none to give him. 

 I've already broken my promise to Scully. 

 I scoop him up, carry him to my room, and put him to bed with Fox. They
snuggle without waking, and Sean takes one deep breath and is peaceful
again. 

 Moonlight spills through the window, painting silver across Fox's cheek,
catching in Sean's hair. They are so beautiful. Angels together, too
beautiful for human eyes to look upon. 

 Too beautiful for human lives to hold. 

 I strip to my boxers and slide into bed next to Fox, pressing my front to
his back. I bury my face against his neck. I want to memorize his scent,
his touch. The way the fine hairs at his nape tickle my lips. 

 Please, God. Too beautiful to lose.  

 All seems well for the next few days. Fox claims he's fine: no headaches,
no seizures, just a little tiredness. I hope that means the new cocktail
of medications is working. 

 I am not okay. 

 I am scared shitless and don't even try to hide it. I hover, I nag; I do
my best Dana Scully impression. Part of my mind demands I cut the shit and
treat Fox with respect and dignity, but the shrieking harpy in me won't
listen. 

 I doubt he'll die the minute I stop staring at him. 

 I'm still not going to take the chance. 

 I'm sitting in the wingback chair stewing in misery when Fox comes out of
the bedroom. He's dressed in loose shorts and a tank top, his basketball
under his arm. Sean looks at him, excitement in his eyes, and Fox grins. 

 "C'mon, big guy, let's go shoot some hoops," he says, offering Sean his
hand. "Go get your jacket and change into your gym shoes." 

 Sean runs to his room. I look up at Fox. "Do I get an invitation?" 

 "Only if you're gonna play ball and stop trying to take my temperature
every five minutes," he replies, his tone light and cored with steel. 

 "I'll leave the thermometer here, scout's honor." I smile. He can't
possibly be sick. A little bruised, but not sick. What the hell do doctors
know, anyway? 

 The three of us pile into the truck. Fox babbles happily to Sean,
explaining the rules and regulations of the game. Sean listens as if Fox
were unraveling the secrets of the universe. 

 It's a beautiful day. The sun is warm, the light breeze is crisp and not
thick yet with delta humidity. The air smells rich and tart with freshly
mown grass. I fall in love with my home town all over again on days like
today. 

 A little boy, a one-armed man and a retired FBI agent aren't much of a
basketball team. We goof around, sinking baskets and playing some
half-hearted keep-away. 

 Sean tries very hard to find his game, but the poor kid is really clumsy,
despite Fox's attention and utter patience. Fox finally lifts him high
enough to sink a basket after a dozen failed attempts, then gives him a
spinning hug, sets him on his feet and high-fives him. I stand back and
watch the two of them play and glow with mutual adoration. 

 I didn't think I had it in me to take care of a child. Even one I loved.
I didn't think Fox was capable of it, either. 

 I'm glad I was wrong. 

 Sean wanders off towards the swings and I continue to dribble the ball.
Fox pounces, wicked glee on his face. He gropes my ass -- he's halfway
down the court with the ball. I didn't know he could move this fast! 

 "Hey!" I protest. "The rule about molesting members of the opposite team
says I get a free throw for that." 

 He grins and comes towards me, still dribbling the ball, moving like a
big, graceful cat. I bide my time until he's within reach, then dive for
the ball. 

 He tries to sidestep me at the last minute, but doesn't move fast enough.
I end up slammed against a tree, our bodies pressed close together. Ball?
What ball? 

 I smile, and a surge of lust ripples along my nerve endings. His eyes
darken with desire and he wets his lips. 

 Oh boy. 

 He looks around, making sure we're alone before he leans forward and
licks a long, wet trail up my neck. My cock twitches. I gasp when his
teeth clamp down and tug on the small silver hoop in my earlobe. I slide
my hand up the back of a sweaty thigh, up the leg of his shorts, to cup
one firm, smooth buttock. 

 He moans and rubs his groin against me, our cocks grinding together
through the layers of fabric. I want to turn him around and do him right
here. 

 He's so horny, so hard, so warm and alive in my hands. He can't be sick. 

 "I think it's time for Sean to go home and take a long nap." His voice
rasps, his fingers skim along the waistband of my sweats. 

 I groan. I need this. I need to touch him, to make sure he is whole and
safe. I need him in our bed, writhing in lust. 

 I wrench myself from him. I take deep breaths and wait for my heart to
slow and my hard-on to subside. He grins at me -- happy, sexy, looking
kinda feral with those full lips and gleaming white teeth.... Oh my... the
better to eat you with, my dear.... 

 I can barely focus enough to drive back to the house. I take a quick
shower, while Fox feeds Sean his lunch and settles him in his room with a
book. I turn off the water and hear the bathroom door open and close. 

 Fox pulls back the shower curtain and stands in front of the tub, holding
a towel open for me. I step into his arms, letting him chafe the towel
across my back and chest. 

 He whispers my name, once, twice. His lips pressed against my neck, and
the sound, make me shiver. His tongue snakes out and rasps on my jaw, his
fingers dance down my ribs and skim my buttocks. One slides in to tease my
cleft. 

 I'm dizzy with need. He drops to his knees before me, his hands gripping
the backs of my thighs. 

 "So fucking hot," he murmurs, then sucks the head of my cock into his
mouth. 

 His tongue wraps the head, teases at the slit. My legs are shaking. His
soft hair tickles my stomach as he slowly leans in, slowly takes me in,
his big, warm hand caressing my balls. 

 Oh Christ, so good. 

 I growl and thrust, burying my dick in his mouth. He moans and his eyes
close. He's so beautiful... He hums, and the vibrations start shockwaves
of pleasure in my groin. 

 He pulls back, exiling me. 

 "Nuuuh..." 

 No way that was me. I do not whimper during sex. 

 "Let's go to bed. I want you." He stands and tugs at my hand. 

 I undress him quickly. I slide my hand across his chest, along his sides,
down his hip and across his flank. He shivers and rocks his hips, his cock
thick and hard in the cradle of tight curls. 

 I lean over him to plunder his mouth and grunt when he grabs my ass to
rub our groins together. 

 Fucking him is my life's mission now. 

 "Alex, c'mon...." It's a command, a plea. It is his gift to me. 

 I fit my body to his. Two halves of a world, whole now. He hisses happily
when I push into him. So hot, so very beautiful. Long limbs and soft skin
and gripping heat. Focal point of the universe. 

 "Harder, god, please Alex, harder..." 

 Strong, hot as hell, pleading to be fucked through the mattress.... 

 He can't be sick. 

 So damned good between us... it always is. 

 Need builds in me, body and soul, raw, white-hot lust. I exist to rut
with this man. 

 Mindful of the child down the hall, we muffle our cries against pillows
and flesh. No more shouting the roof down but it's so fucking good to feel
his muscles clenching around me. I thrust into him, chanting a litany of
happy noises. 

 He fists himself while I lunge, short, stabbing movements punctuated by
long, deep strokes. He tautens, cries out, comes. His muscles tighten with
the beat of his heart, massaging my cock, and I come and come, blind and
deaf and drunk on sex. 

 I collapse on him, panting. The air smells of sweat and sex, our bodies
are debauched and sticky with come. I lie on top of him for a long time,
clinging to the moment, to him... for as long as I can. 

 Fox struggles under me, so I roll onto my back. He sits up next to me and
strokes the small patch of skin between my brows. 

 "That worry line is going to become permanent," he says softly. "Alex,
you've got to stop obsessing over my health. We can't fix this. Can't fix
me. Maybe we'll find Marita or Strughold and they can lead us to Jeremiah
Smith. But if that doesn't happen... I have to accept it." 

 "How can you just roll over and wait to die, Fox? Don't you care
anymore?" 

 He laughs darkly. "Fuck yes, I care. I'm not exactly picking out my
coffin. I'm not giving up. But what are my choices? I could run around
waving my gun and demanding answers I'll never get, like I used to, or I
can enjoy my life, and you and Sean and Scully in it. They did this to me
-- to us. If I waste the time I have, then they win. I won't give them
that. I won't waste time chasing my own tail. It never did me any good." 

 His fingers massage my scalp. "It's ironic, isn't it? So many times I've
almost died and never cared one way or the other. And now that I have
everything to live for, it's really going to happen." 

 There's nothing I can say. I pull him to me and wrap my arm around him,
burying my face in his neck. 

 We must win. We have so much to lose.	

 The seizure Fox has on Thursday is a spectacular event to behold. 

 I'm at the kitchen table with Sean, doing some math worksheets we got off
the Net, when Fox comes in, swaying unsteadily, and leans against the
counter. His face is pinched with pain and he's clutching his left arm. 

 His left arm -- oh, fuck -- the doctor never said anything about a heart
attack. 

 I get up and go to him. His eyes are feverish, frightened. 

 "Fox, you need your meds. Let's get you in bed." I put my arm around him,
but he holds himself rigid. 

 Fuck this noise -- I'm calling 911. 

 His face contorts. "Your arm," he gasps out, "your arm -- they tore --
they tore it off. Hurts -- goddamn -- can't stand it." 

 My blood curdles. 

 My phantom arm has ached the last few nights. Last night it was bad
enough that I stole one of Fox's Lortab so I could get some sleep. 

 No one else should have to live with that memory. The wet crunch when my
bone snapped. The scent of blood and vomit and loamy earth that choked me
while I screamed and screamed. The frozen chill of the ground seeping into
my bones as I begged God to let me die. 

 The pain -- searing ripping tearing -- hurts so much I want to die --
please oh God no, don't do this, oh please dear God no... 

 When they were done, they threw my arm on the fire so it wouldn't attract
scavengers. I fainted. The smell of roasting flesh -- 

 He screams and crumples to the floor, his body jerking and twisting. 

 I drop down beside him, unbutton his shirt and roll him on his side. 

 "I'm here, Fox, you're safe. You're going to be fine... I'm here..." I
say it over and over again. A mantra, a prayer. You're going to be fine...


 It goes on. Why won't it stop? I wipe frothy saliva from his lips and
watch in horror a wet stain spread across his groin. 

 "Sean, get your dad a pillow and a towel, okay?" I ask, finally looking
over my shoulder at him. 

 God, poor Sean. He's as pale as a ghost, tears running down his cheeks.
He's frozen in his seat. Is it fear, or is he sharing this with Fox? 

 "Sean! Son, can you hear me?" 

 He jerks to attention and nods, then scrambles from the chair. He returns
a minute later with a towel and a throw pillow from the couch. I ease the
pillow under Fox's head and drape the towel across his crotch. 

 Almost four minutes after the seizure began, Fox's body goes slack. I
roll him onto his back and he moans. His eyes open just enough for me to
see how glazed and bloodshot they are. 

 "You're -- Fox. You had a seizure. Lie still while I turn down the bed,
and then you can rest." 

 He nods and tries to speak, then gives up and falls asleep. 

 "Sean, sit with him while I get the bed ready. If he needs help, just
yell." 

 Sean nods solemnly and sits down on the floor, taking Fox's hand. 

 It takes a while to get Fox stripped, clean, medicated and into bed. When
I'm done I pull Sean into my lap and let him sob in my arms until he is
exhausted and in need of a nap. I'm exhausted and in need of a drink and a
smoke. 

 I slip Sean out of my lap and arrange him on the futon, then go out to
the porch to smoke a cigarette. It's really stupid of me to get such a
nasty habit again after all these years, but I don't give a shit right
now. 

 I have seen horrible things, but none compare to watching someone I love
suffer this way. How did Fox survive, watching Scully fight for her life
after her abduction? 

 I'm the one who recommended her abduction to Spender and my father. I was
so stupid then. I could have suggested they ship her ass off to some field
office in Wyoming, but I wanted to prove to Papa that his queer son was as
strong and ruthless as he was. 

 It's only fair that I should suffer now as Fox did then. 

 I want my mother. I want her to put her arms around me and sing to me and
tell me it's going to be okay. 

 Matushka, can you hear me? I'm in love with this extraordinary man and
now I'm going to lose him and the son I never thought I'd have. Please
hold me and make it all better. I want to cry and scream and kick the
furniture. I don't want to be an adult anymore. 

 I want God to understand what a terrible mistake he's making. 

 A car door slams. I jerk my head up. I didn't even hear the car pull up.
Father Benedict is standing there, looking more like a farmer than a
priest in his plaid shirt and faded overalls, carrying a bushel-sized
basket full of vegetables. 

 I hurry down the stairs to take the basket from him. "Father, what are
you doing here? I mean, not that I'm not happy to see you--" 

 "I was getting ready to till the garden for spring planting, so I pulled
the last of the winter crop. Nothing exotic, but I seem to remember you
having a liking for turnip greens and black-eye peas as a boy. There's a
box of canned goods in the trunk. Matushka Beatrice always canned so much
pickled okra and chutney that we never could eat it all. I thought you all
might enjoy them." 

 I'd rather black oil again than pickled okra, but the sentiment is
touching. 

 "Thank you, Father. Are you sure you wouldn't rather take the canned
goods to the homeless shelter?" 

 He smiles, his blue eyes warm. No pity, thank god, just compassion. He
squeezes my shoulder. "Corinne told me about Fox, Alexander. I thought you
might be too busy to get to the market. The ladies at the church would
like to bring you some meals, but I wanted to check with you first." 

 "Please, come inside and let me make you a cup of tea," I say, and he
follows me into the house. I put the basket on the kitchen table and go
fill the kettle. 

 "Alexander, sit," he instructs, making me feel about eight years old. 

 He goes to the cabinet and takes out the mugs, tea, and honey. A few
minutes later he places a steaming mug of chai in front of me. 

 "It's not easy to admit that you need help, is it?" he asks, sipping his
tea. He doesn't seem to expect an answer; so I don't answer. 

 "Son, you'll be doing the ladies a favor by letting them cook for you.
They loved your matushka, and only wish to honor her memory by taking care
of her children. They watched you grow up, and they want to support you." 

 I guess that's what communities are supposed to do. They circle the
wagons and take care of their own in times of need. But I can't embrace a
community I'm not really a part of. 

 Besides, taking their help would be admitting that I need it. That Fox
needs it. 

 "I appreciate it, Father, but Fox really isn't that sick. We have things
under control. Your kindness means a lot to me, but I have to do this on
my own. They are my family. I have to take care of them." 

 Father Benedict sighs and shakes his head. "Alexander, your pride
outweighs your common sense sometimes. I learned something when Matushka
Beatrice died -- you cannot waste the time you have together by wearing
yourself out. Let others do the unpleasant tasks so you and Fox and Sean
can enjoy one another. Anyone can cook dinner or run the errands, but Fox
needs you to have the energy and stamina to be at his side. You are his
lover, not his nurse." 

 "I'll remember that, I promise. But it's really not that bad right now.
He just had three days when he felt fine. We just need to hang on to
normal for a while longer. And I'm not the only one in this house with an
abundance of pride -- Fox isn't going to want help unless he's ill enough
to have no say in the matter." I have to put an end to this conversation.
I can't think about what's coming, or I'll lose my mind. I have to
concentrate on the here and now. 

 Sean comes in, eyes bleary and hair askew. He looks so much like his
father when he wakes up. The full mouth, promising to be as sensual as
Fox's in a few years, the dark hair hanging in his eyes. He needs a
haircut. 

 His hair is not the only thing that has grown. Fresh air and healthy food
and human contact are working their magic on him. He is blossoming from a
pale, fey-looking child into a gangly but handsome boy. He reminds me of a
puppy with those big hands and feet. If he grows into them, he'll be close
to his father's height. 

 "Sean, you're just the person I came here to see!" Father exclaims. "I
need some help in my garden this afternoon. Do you think your father and
papa Alex would object?" 

 "Can I, Papa? It sounds like fun!" His eyes glow. Sean took to Father
Benedict the moment he met him. It must be a relief for him to spend time
with someone whose mind is calm and peaceful, not full of pain and
nightmarish memories. 

 I hate letting him out of my sight, but how can I tell him 'no' when he
pouts at me like this? What is it with the Mulder men and that lower lip?
I can't deny either of them when they look at me like that. 

 "Alright, go ahead. Stay out of trouble and do as Father Benedict says.
Go get your jacket." 

 I get a quick, tight hug and he bounds off. Father Benedict stands and
puts his hand on my shoulder. 

 "Get some rest, Alexander. I'll bring him back before you leave for work
tonight." 

 Shit, I forgot about work. I can't leave Fox alone with Sean tonight.
Hell, Cori is never going to graduate if she has to use all her study time
dealing with my crap. 

 Tonight I'll promote Vince to manager and put The Bayou on the back
burner. There's no more avoiding it. I also need to call Scully and tell
her what's happened. She called twice to talk to Sean, but both times I
warned him not to tell his mother. I hated censoring his conversations
with her, but Fox claims he's not ready to let her know yet. I think he
just doesn't want her fussing over him, or risking exposure by flying back
down here so soon. 

 A couple of hours later Fox stumbles into the living room, dizzy and
disoriented. 

 "How are you feeling?" I rise to help him, but he brushes me off. 

 "Like the consortium drugged my water again," he replies dryly. "I'm
starving. I want pizza." 

 "Fox, you can't have that on the diet Dr. Leblanc put you on, it's got
too many carbohydrates. Tomorrow I'll make you pizza with flax meal crust,
that should be okay." 

 "Screw Leblanc, and screw the diet. If I have to live like this, I'm
going to have pizza and soda when I want it." 

 He's not going out of his way to evoke sympathy. Same surly bastard as
always. Thank god. 

 "You know where the phone is. If you're not going to listen to the
doctor, then you can call and order pizza your damned self. You've
probably got the number memorized anyway." 

 He gives me a dark look. "As a matter of fact, I do." He goes to the
kitchen. A moment later I hear him on the phone. 

 "Theresa, it's Mulder. Just the usual this afternoon. See ya in half an
hour." 

 He comes back out, his face smug. It's a comical juxtaposition, with the
boxer shorts and bed head. 

 "You order pizza often enough that they know your order? Do you eat that
crap every night while I'm at work?" 

 He shrugs. "Mostly, yeah. And then for breakfast while you're still
asleep. That way I don't have to wash any dishes. Where's Sean?" 

 "At the rectory, planting the garden with Father Benedict." 

 "Ah, so that's where the giant basket of rabbit food came from," he says,
coming over to sit beside me. "I'm sorry you had to deal with that, Alex.
I know that I should probably let Scully come take care of things so you
don't have to, but I'm not ready to deal with that. If she comes, she
won't leave until..." 

 He gulps. 

 "Hey, don't be sorry." I grope for the right words. "I'll understand if
you want Scully here. I don't want you to think you need to lighten the
load on me. I want to do this. I don't want anyone else to take care of
you. You're mine." 

 His eyes light up. "Yours?" 

 I trace the fading bruise on his cheek. "Yeah, mine." 

 His expression is hard to read. Is that relief or sadness? He seems
reluctant to speak. 

 "I -- I really needed to hear that. You do so much for me and Sean, and
you never complain or ask for anything for yourself. I think you're happy,
I suppose, but I wonder if you do it as some kind of penance." 

 "Christ, Fox, no!" God, how can he think that? Can't he look inside of me
and see how I feel about him? "I do it because you're my family. Isn't
this what families do? Take care of each other?" 

 "That wasn't the reason at first." 

 No use lying to him, I suppose. He's doing me a courtesy: if he wanted he
could read my mind. 

 "No, not at first. When you first came back, I guess it was a sort of
penance. And lust. I didn't know how to quantify what I felt for you. I
had nothing to compare it to. But you can't tell me that you came down
here because you were in love with me and saw us with a picket fence and a
house in the 'burbs." 

 He chuckles. "I don't see us as Ozzie and Harriet, no. Maybe Felix and
Oscar. Honestly, Alex, I came here last year because I was fucked up, and
you're the only person I know who's as whacked as I am. I knew I could be
myself and you wouldn't judge or criticize me. I needed that more than
anything in the world," He pauses, and runs his thumb across my lips. "It
grew into so much more than that, though." 

 I laugh, trying to unravel the knot of emotion growing in my chest.
"That's pretty screwed up, you know that?" 

 He smiles tenderly, brilliantly. It warms me. 

 "Yeah, it is. I love you, Alex. No matter what happens, I hope you know
that." 

 It amazes me, the effect those three words can have. 

 "I like hearing it," I confess. "I love you too." 

 This is the first I've said this to him without stammering or hesitating.
There's no time for cowardice or emotional reticence now. We must savor
every moment we have.  

 "Alex, sweetie, you look so tired. Please go get some rest. Dana won't be
here for hours still, and Fox is out cold." Bronwyn speaks softly in
Russian, stroking my hair. 

 I turn my face into the warmth of her soft, delicate hand. I am tired.
Bone-weary, tired down to my soul. My eyes are gritty with exhaustion, but
there's so much adrenaline and caffeine in my system that I couldn't
possibly rest. I can't remember the last time I slept six hours straight,
or the last meal I ate. 

 It's been two weeks since the first seizure at the airport. Now, the days
flow together. Time is measured by Fox's medication schedule. 

 There have been a few days with no seizures at all, and a couple of days
like today. He's just had his third grand mal in nine hours. The night
terrors, or absence seizures as Leblanc calls them, keep him trapped
between wakefulness and sleep most nights. 

 "I'm fine, Bron. I've got things to do before Dana gets here. While
you're here to stay with Fox and Sean, I've got to go to the market and
the pharmacy, and I've got a list of books that Sean wants, and Fox needs
some more videos. His eyesight is so messed up that he can't read now, and
he gets bored." I'm babbling, but I can't shut up. Just thinking of
everything I have to do makes me tired. 

 She leans down, her long, dark hair brushing against my cheek as she
kisses my forehead. "Alex, you're one of the strongest, bravest people I
know. I'm proud to be your sister." 

 I cling to her, grateful for her quiet, resolute warmth. "I love you,
Bron." 

 "I know, baby. Go run your errands. I'll have dinner ready when Dana
arrives." 

 I open the front door, and the sunlight momentarily blinds me. We have to
keep the house dark; Fox's eyes have become painfully light-sensitive. 

 I go about my errands on auto-pilot, too weary to appreciate the respite
from Fox's misery and Sean's eyes, pleading at me to make it all better. 

 I didn't imagine things would get so bad so quickly. I can't fathom how
much worse it could possibly get. 

 Well, yeah, I can. I could be doing all of this and not even get a smile
in return. He could be violent and combative, instead of sweet and pouty
and still wielding that mocking, self-deprecating sense of humor. 

 Fuck yeah, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Eventually, it will be much
worse. How will I cope when it happens? I'm unraveling at the seams
already. 

 I'm relieved that Scully is arriving this evening. I never thought the
day would come that I'd admit this, but I need her. Sean needs more
attention than I can give him, and Fox needs to have time with her...
while they can still enjoy it. While he still remembers all the things he
needs to say to her. 

 His late night confessions have been painful. Painful enough that I have
redecorated the laundry room with my fists. He talks incessantly, until
the words run together and make no sense. The things he says, the truths
he reveals... they hurt. It hurts like a motherfucker, but for some reason
he thinks I need to hear it. So I lie next to him in the dark and listen
until sleep or seizure come for him again, leaving me alone to ruminate
over the bloody ruins I left in the wake of Alex Krycek. 

 My last stop is the pharmacy, to pick up Fox's newest regimen of meds.
According to Leblanc, this is our last hope. Leblanc has changed Fox's
medications three or four times. Each time it seems to work for a couple
of days, then we're back to more of the same. After this, Fox's only
choice is to go into the hospital. 

 I don't want him in the hospital. I want him at home, comfortable in our
bed, where I can sleep next to him and wander around in my underwear if it
pleases me. I want every moment with him that I can grab from this life,
because it's going to end far too soon. 

 It's dusk when I get home. Scully is sitting on the porch, the faint
evening light behind her casting her in shadow. Her body is bowed, her
face buried in her hands. I see her shoulders heaving as I get out of the
truck. She freezes when I slam the door, and hastily brushes at her eyes. 

 "How was your flight?" I ask, coming up the stairs with the sacks of
groceries. 

 "Fine, thank you. How are you, Kry -- Alex?" she asks. 

 "I'm okay. How's Fox? Anything happen while I was gone?" 

 She sighs. "Bronwyn says he had another seizure right after you left, but
it was over quickly. How many is that today?" 

 I groan. God, how long can he keep going like this? "I lost count. I
think that makes four." 

 She opens the door for me and I dump the groceries by the door, taking
the bag of medication with me to the bedroom. 

 Fox is sleeping, his face slack, his skin ashen. Pain clamps around my
heart. It's not fair. It's not right. He's so goddamned beautiful and full
of life... but that elemental spark grows dimmer each day. It's just not
fucking fair. 

 He clears his throat and speaks, not opening his eyes. "Alex." 

 "Hey, babe," I reply softly. I sit on the edge of the bed and lean down
to kiss his cheek. I feel Scully's eyes on us, but we're past the point of
discretion. I won't give up a single kiss or touch. "I've got your new
meds. Dr. Leblanc hopes this is going to do the trick." 

 He opens his eyes. They are dulled by drugs and the storm ravaging his
brain. "Hope so. Wanna spend a day out of this goddamn bed." 

 I turn to look at Scully. She stands at the foot of the bed. Her face is
full of raw pain. She loves him so much, and she stood by and watched him
die so many times. She's strong as steel, but how many times can she let
him go? 

 "Scully, would you bring him a glass of Gatorade so he can take his
pills?" 

 She nods and leaves the room. Fox holds my hand in a weak grip. 

 "If this doesn't work, Alex, I want it to be over. I can't live like
this. It's worse than dying." His voice is rusty, but fierce and
determined. 

 The words are a sword in my gut. "Don't say that, Fox, we'll find a
way..." 

 I can't let him go. I need him, Sean needs him. He can't leave us. 

 It can't end this way. 

 "Sometimes it's not worth fighting just for the sake of fighting, Alex. I
can still win by refusing to play the game. You, of all people, have to
understand that." 

 He quiets when Scully returns with his drink. She stares at my hand
shaking as I open the bottles, stares at the pills piling up and up on the
nightstand. 

 "Christ," she breathes. "What is all of that?" 

 "Lamictil, Neurontin, Topamax, and Ativan." I rake the pills into my palm
to hand them to Fox. 

 She bites her lip. I know. I did some reading. This is heavy-duty shit. 

 He swallows the handful of pills, choking and sputtering up blue
Gatorade. Without comment, I hand him a tissue and let him mop himself up.
He started having trouble swallowing in a reclined position a couple of
days ago. 

 He falls back onto the pillows and I brush a lock of hair from his face,
kiss his temple, then rise and pull the blanket up under his chin. He
gives me a small, bleary smile. 

 "I'll leave the two of you alone to catch up. If you need anything just
yell," I say as I leave the room. 

 The groceries have been moved from the living room floor. I go to the
kitchen and find Bronwyn putting them away. Sean is sitting at the kitchen
table with one of his lesson books, sporting hair much shorter than it was
when I left the house a few hours ago. 

 "What did you do to him?" I ask my sister. 

 "I cut his hair, Al. The poor kid couldn't see. I think he looks very
handsome," she says, smiling fondly at Sean. 

 "You look like a Marine. Don't let tyotya Bron come near you with the
clippers again, son." 

 Sean beams. "Dyadya Walter was a Marine." 

 "Yes, and now you're nearly as bald as dyadya Walter. Imitation is not
always the sincerest form of flattery," I reply, smiling. 

 Just being near the kid makes me happy. It's going to tear me in two when
Scully takes him away. 

 Either the medication works, or Fox's body is too tired to stage another
seizure. He does well the rest of the evening. He spends a couple of hours
on the unfolded futon, bolstered on a pile of pillows, Sean under one arm,
Scully under the other. A bowl of popcorn rests on his stomach as the
three of them of them giggle and talk while watching Toy Story. 

 He looks happy, fulfilled. Jealousy eats at me, but I stomp it down
viciously. Scully is his family, too. He needs her as much as he needs me.
This isn't about me. It's about what he needs, and he has earned this.
After all they've been through, one night to parent their child together
is not so much to ask. 

 I shouldn't even resent her for it. She's been kind to me; more so than I
would have been in her position. She loves him fiercely, and in another
time and place they would have had the kind of love affair that poets
write sonnets about. 

 I pull on my shoes and grab my keys and wallet. "I'm gonna go check on
things at The Bayou. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Dana, his med
chart is on the refrigerator." 

 Fox gives me a strange look, then smiles. His eyes acknowledge what he
sees in my mind: I'm trying to grant them some privacy. "Love you," he
mouths over Scully's head. 

 "You too, doshyenka," I reply softly, then flash Sean a smile and walk
out the door. 

 I relax a bit for the first time in weeks, knowing that he's safe with
Scully. I slide into "my" booth and light a cigarette. Miranda comes up,
smiling. 

 "Al, it's so good to see you! How is Fox?" she asks as she places a shot
of vodka and a beer in front of me. 

 I down the shot, relishing the burn of icy cold vodka down my throat. 

 "He's worse. Barring a miracle, it won't be long." 

 The words tear like razor blades. I take a hefty gulp of the stout beer
to wash the bloody taste of them away. 

 She sits beside me and reaches for my left hand, doing a double take when
her hand makes contact with the hard plastic. She moves her hand to rest
it on my thigh. 

 "Al, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? You know we're all here
for you. We care a lot about both of you." 

 "Thanks, Miranda. Just keep being my friend," I say huskily, not trusting
my voice. My mind starts shutting down, refusing to accept the inevitable
conclusion to this chapter of my life. 

 The next wake we have at The Bayou will be for Fox William Mulder. 

 It's a little after midnight when I return home. Scully is perched on the
swing, just as she was earlier. She doesn't look up when I climb the
stairs. When I get closer, I hear that she is crying softly. 

 "This is the second time I've found you crying on the porch in one day,"
I say, sitting down beside her. "Want to talk about it?" 

 "We had a talk, after Sean went to bed. I guess I wasn't ready to hear
everything he needed to say," she replies as she blots her eyes with a
tissue. 

 "Let me guess -- he told you that he's always loved you, and that if he
weren't gay he would have wanted to have a life with you." 

 She nods without looking up at me. 

 It sliced me to the quick to hear him tell me that in our bed. But the
fact is, he lost the scant number of women in his life because he always
screwed around with men on the side. He knows that love isn't enough to
make a marriage. He respects Scully too much to offer her anything less. 

 "He meant it, Scully. He wanted to be with you. A part of him probably
still does. He didn't want to shortchange you and be the kind of husband
who could only offer love without passion. But he would have denied his
sexuality and never touched another man if he'd thought he could make you
happy." 

 "I wouldn't have let him do that," she replies, sniffling. "He always
thought I didn't know, but I knew why Diana left him. She told me. After
that, I looked for signs that it was true, but I never saw him with a man.
I suppose that's because he was with you. But, I never would have asked
him to change for me. I love him for who he is. He never would have been
happy being anything less than that." She turns to face me. 

 "He's happy with you." 

 I nod and blink back tears. "It's mutual. C'mon, let's go inside. You've
had a long day, and he doesn't sleep well. He can't be left alone for very
long."	

 When I wake the next morning there is a warm weight sprawled across my
chest. Sean is lying half on top of me, his head tucked under my chin,
snoring softly and drooling on my t-shirt. I put my arm around him and rub
my cheek over his head. His shorn hair rasps like velvet against my skin.
I look over and see that Fox's side of the bed is empty. 

 I nudge Sean in the ribs. "Get up, slugger." 

 He grunts and rolls to his side without waking. This kid sleeps like the
dead sometimes. I kiss his temple and slide out of bed, pulling the covers
over him. 

 Fox is in the kitchen, sitting at the table while Scully stands at the
stove, dipping bread into a bowl of batter. 

 "French toast?" I ask, sniffing the cinnamon that wafts from the frying
pan. 

 "Yeah. I made it with regular French bread, but I'll make you some eggs
or something if you'd like," she says. 

 "S'okay, I'll eat it," I reply. I'm afraid to look at Fox, to believe
that he's well enough to be sitting up in the sunlit kitchen. 

 He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back
to fit against his chest. I tilt my head back to rest against his shoulder
and nip lightly at his earlobe. He's freshly shaved and showered, smelling
of soap and spicy aftershave. 

 For a few moments, all is right in the world. 

 "Sean still asleep?" he asks, his smoky voice strong again. "He climbed
into bed with us around five." 

 "Yeah, he's out like a light. Want me to wake him for breakfast?" 

 He shakes his head. "Nah, let him sleep. I have things to do today.
Scully and Sean are going to do some mother and son bonding." 

 "What do you need to do? Are you sure you're feeling up to getting out of
the house?" I ask. It's too good to have him up and about; I don't want
him to expend energy on anything but me, Sean, and Scully. 

 "While you were gone last night, Scully, Sean and I discussed the need to
create an identity for Sean. He understands why he can't be Sean Scully,
at least on paper. I can't include him in my will as such." He turns me in
his arms, his eyes blazing with warmth. "He would like to go by Sean
Drake, if you are okay with that. Then the gunmen can make him a birth
certificate and cook him up some school and medical records, and I can add
him to my will." He skims his fingers across my cheekbone. 

 "Don't look at me like that, Al. It has to be done. I have to make sure
my son will be provided for." 

 My voice won't work properly. "I'd like that. Scully, are you really okay
with this?" 

 She nods. "Yes. Mulder is right. We cannot pass Sean off as our own
child, there would be too many questions. The gunmen can create
documentation proving that I adopted Sean, so no one questions his birth
origins. It makes me sick not to be able to claim my own child, but this
is the only way. If we leave any possibility for anyone to find out what
was done to Sean, he'd be treated like a lab rat instead of a human
being." 

 Pain is raging in her eyes, and I hear the words she won't say. 

 Sean would be treated just as Emily Sim was. 

 For a moment I am utterly desolate. Is there nothing left for us but pain
and loss? 

 "I'm honored. Truly. I'll be proud to share my name with Sean." I smile,
trying to inject some levity into the moment. "Besides, it wasn't my name
in the first place. I stole it from Nick Drake." 

 Fox snorts, then kisses my cheek and releases me. I go to the cabinet to
get the dishes and start setting the table.  

 Fox does well the rest of the day. I don't know how much time the new
rotation of medications will buy us, but I'm grateful for every moment of
it. After breakfast he calls my attorney, who agrees to see him that
afternoon. Sean and Scully leave to meet Bron and the twins at the
children's museum, and Fox and I leave for the attorney's office. 

 I pull up in front of the office building, kill the engine and take a
deep breath. 

 "I love it when you do that," he says, reaching for my hand. His smile is
gentle, teasing. 

 "Do what? Have a nervous breakdown?" 

 "No, I love the way you sigh. You close your eyes, take in a deep breath,
and blow it out before you open your eyes again. I've always thought it
was sexy. I remember the first time I saw you do it; we were in the car on
the way to Skyland Mountain. My knees turned to water and my dick turned
to stone." 

 "Jeez, Fox, do you remember everything?" 

 "The important stuff, yeah." 

 I give him a long look. "I don't want to do this. It's too real." 

 He grins. "Stop the world, Ma, I want to get off." His smile gentles, and
he caresses my knuckles with his thumb. "This isn't real, Al. It's just a
piece of paper. It's an hour of our life, and then we'll go do something
fun." 

 It's an hour of my life I'm not willing to waste. 

 He won't let me go into the office with him. I sit in the waiting room,
fidgeting like an irritable child, while he bequeaths his worldly
possessions in the next room. 

 The rest of the afternoon is idyllic. We have lunch at the Factory, then
sit outside at Highland Coffee, sipping lattes and basking in the sun.
When a strong gust of wind brings a flurry of dogwood and apple blossoms
showering down onto our heads and the pavement, Fox laughs, his eyes
glowing, his face relaxed. It's the first genuine laugh I've heard from
him in weeks. It's the music of the angels. 

 We return home around three, and Fox lies down for a nap. I go to the
kitchen to empty the dishwasher, and notice the voice mail light flashing
on the new cordless phone. Miranda's voice informs me that I need to call
The Bayou right away. 

 I groan, imagining health department violations or random visits from the
beverage control board. 

 "Miranda, it's Alex. What are you doing there at this time of day?" I ask
when she answers. 

 "None of your beeswax, Alex. You only own the place. How is Mulder today?
I saw Cori on campus earlier and she said the new meds are working." 

 "Yeah, he's having a really good day. No seizures since yesterday
afternoon. Is something wrong over there? Go ahead and hit me with it." 

 "No, no, everything's fine," she replies hastily. "If Mulder is still
feeling well, do you think you two could stop by around seven? We have a
surprise for you." 

 "I don't like surprises, Miranda. I don't think I'm up for being
surprised right now." 

 She sighs. "You are such a spoilsport, Alex. This is for Mulder too, so
indulge us, alright? Please?" 

 God, I'm such an ass. They've all been great about covering in my
absence. Even Greg has been nice to me. As greedy as I am for Fox's time,
I shouldn't be such a bastard to them. 

 "Sure, as long as Fox feels okay. He's napping now. Just don't be
disappointed if we don't make it, alright?" 

 "Of course, I don't want him to push himself. Hope you can make it." 

 "Thanks Miranda, if we can't come I'll try to call." 

 "Okay, Al, later dude." She hangs up. 

 Fox wakes up at about the same time Scully and Sean get home. He looks
better than he has in weeks. His color is good, the lines of pain on his
face smoothed out. Suddenly I can breathe a bit easier. 

 Maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe the last few weeks have been a long,
horrid nightmare and everything is fine now. 

 He seems excited when I mention going out. We both shower, and change
into something else than jeans and t-shirts for the first time in ages. I
splash on cologne, comb my hair, and give myself a once-over in the
mirror. 

 I'm definitely not a boy anymore. There are lines radiating from the
corners of my eyes, and Fox was right about that wrinkle between my
eyebrows becoming permanent. I notice a few gray hairs at my temples. I
guess I'm not bad-looking, overall, but the mileage on this body is
starting to show. 

 Fox comes out of the bedroom. Oh, baby... he looks downright edible. He's
wearing a black silk shirt -- too loose on his thin frame -- and baggy
black trousers. His hair, longer than he's ever worn it, curls softly
around his ears and falls over his forehead. 

 He gives me a long, appraising look and a wolf whistle. 

 "Damn, Alex. You look... stunning." 

 Heat creeps up my cheeks. "Fox...." 

 His smile is so tender, I could melt. He leans in and kisses me softly.
"C'mon, let's go." 

 When we pull up to The Bayou, I see there are no cars in the parking lot.
Taped to the front door is a small cardboard sign that reads, "Closed for
private party." 

 "What the hell?" I try the door and find it unlocked. 

 The Bayou is illuminated by soft golden light from dozens of candles. All
the tables except one are pushed towards the walls, and crowded with
vanilla-scented candles. The lone table in the middle of the room holds a
silver wine bucket and a spread of chocolates, fruit, and bread. Jeff
Buckley's smoky, seductive drawl wafts from the jukebox. 

 "Oh gosh," Fox says softly. 

 I can only nod in agreement. It's absolutely beautiful. I can't believe
they did this for us. 

 Miranda comes out of the back room, grinning. "You like?" 

 "Miranda, it's amazing," I say, my voice rough. 

 She stands on her tiptoes to kiss Fox on the cheek, then does the same to
me. 

 "Just lock up when you're done. I'll clean up in the morning. See ya
later, Boss Man," she says as she slips out the door. 

 "This... it's perfect," Fox says, going to the table to examine the
goodies. "Would you like a glass of non-alcoholic cider?" 

 "Yeah." I go to him and put my arm around his waist, moving my hips
against him. His silk shirt whispers on my skin. The heat of his body
thaws something frozen and fearful inside of me. I trace the tip of my
tongue along the top of his spine, where his hair begins. He shivers
against me. 

 "Alex, what are you doing?" 

 Something is off in his voice. 

 God, no, please... just one night with no seizures. Please, let us have
this one night.... 

 "Music, candlelight... seems to me the appropriate actions are to dance
or make love," I whisper into his ear. 

 A barely discernible tension in his shoulders sends a jolt of fear
through my chest. 

 Last night, he told Scully how he truly felt about her. Maybe... maybe
he's sorry now that he never acted on it. He's spent a lot of time
reflecting on his life lately. Does he regret being with me now? I release
him, gathering all the strength I can to keep my expression calm. 

 He hands me a champagne flute full of cider and picks up his own. 

 "A toast would be hokey," he says, "but I want you to hear this, Alex. No
regrets. I have none. What I have with Scully is right. It's what it
should be. But you and I... that's everything to me. No less perfect for
being different. Let's not waste tonight being afraid, alright?" 

 I would be angry that my thoughts are no longer private, but I'm too
damned relieved at the moment. I nod. "Okay. I get stupid sometimes; don't
expect this to be the last time." 

 He smiles, then lifts the glass and drinks. Cider beads on his lips, and
I swoop in to lick it away. He moans against my mouth and pulls me close
for a fierce kiss. When he lets go, he picks up a strawberry and takes a
bite. 

 I was washing strawberries that day in December, the first time we truly
made love. 

 "You're stunning," he said to me that afternoon, a lifetime ago. 

 Oh Christ, stop it! Don't let those memories in right now. Concentrate on
tonight. 

 "...my kingdom for a kiss upon your shoulder 

 It's never over, all my riches for your smiles when I sleep so soft
against you 

 It's never over, all my blood for the sweetness of your laughter..." 

 This song was playing the first time we danced together. 

 I can't take this. It hurts too much. 

 Fox squeezes my shoulder. "Hey, don't make me kick your ass, now. Have a
bite." 

 He holds the fruit up to my lips. I take a bite, sweetness blooms on my
tongue. He kisses me again; all of my fear falls away, a cloak dropped to
the ground. 

 We spend a long time like this, kissing and touching, swaying together to
the music. 

 "You're just the torch to be the flame to all my guilt and shame 

 And I rise like an ember in your name..." 

 We dance in lazy circles as the jukebox serenades us, my head on his
shoulder, his arms around my waist. I take his mouth, a long, languid
kiss, desire flowing warm and golden through my veins. 

 I'm drunk on these kisses, on his mouth, sweet and needy against mine. I
dream that an innocent Alex met a Fox Mulder who never lost his sister,
and they are dancing in this room without a care in the world, the
terrifying, unmerciful world waiting on the other side of the door. 

 "But that wouldn't be us, Alex," he murmurs. "And we're good, just as we
are." 

 He is my world. If I had the courage, I would tell him so. I would tell
him that he makes my heart sing, my blood boil, and that he and Sean are
the best things ever to happen to me. 

 My whole life is in the moment, dancing with him while Jeff Buckley sings
of coffee kisses and lilac skin. I'm filled with peace. He is here in my
arms. 

 There was a void inside of me that I never knew existed until he filled
it. He knows all my dark secrets, yet still touches me with affection
instead of hatred, passion instead of disgust. Caresses instead of fists.
I see the good in me reflected in his eyes. I cannot be beyond redemption
if he can love me. 

 We end up in one of the booths, kissing and stroking, whispering words we
would normally never dare, making out like teenagers in the back seat of a
car. It's so sweet and perfect; pure bright passion, untainted by the past
or the future. Just two men, two bodies answering each other, soft skin
and eager mouths and Christ... it's so good, so right. 

 I didn't realize it could be this simple. 

 I fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Finally they're released, and I
am rewarded with soft skin, dark nipples that harden under my fingers. His
mouth tastes of cider and berries. I drink him in as he cards his fingers
through my hair. I want to take him inside of me and keep him there
forever. I want to hide him from the world of sickness and grief, loss and
pain. 

 I reach down to unfasten his belt. He takes my wrist and brings it to his
mouth, kissing the spot where my pulse flutters close to the bone. 

 He looks at me, his eyes a brilliant dance of green and gold. "Alex,"
voice like bourbon, rich and smooth, "I want to make love -- but all the
medication -- it's having an effect on certain -- functions. Can we go
home and make love? I want to feel you inside of me so much. Do you...
still want to, even though --" 

 I swallow past the lump in my throat. No wonder he shied away when I
touched him earlier. "I'll always want you." My voice is low and fierce.
"Never doubt that." 

 He smiles, and it breaks my heart. He really does. Love me. 

 We blow out the candles and I set the alarm. We walk to the truck with
our arms around each other. 

 The house is silent. I lead Fox into the bedroom and turn on the light. I
don't want to hide in the dark tonight. 

 My hand trembles when I unbutton his shirt. I draw the black silk down,
sweeping my hand down his shoulder, his arm. He takes off his shoes and
pants and stands before me -- in the black silk boxers he gave me for
Christmas last year. 

 "You're wearing my underwear," I say, smiling 

 "Yes. Come get them if you want them back," he challenges. His eyes are
dark. He wants me. I can't breathe. 

 I undress, but leave the prosthesis on. I need it to prop myself, so I
can have him on his back. I nudge him onto the bed, and he pulls me on top
of him and cradles me between his legs. 

 Our lovemaking is tender, unhurried. I use my hand and mouth on him,
hoping to coax an erection. He groans and shudders, murmuring happily, but
his cock won't respond. 

 I feed off his mouth as I enter him carefully, his legs around my waist,
his arms around my neck. I pause to kiss his eyelids, the scars on his
cheeks, the tip of his nose. 

 He explores my body with his hands and mouth as I move within him. His
clever fingers dance across my face and down my neck, his hands skim down
my sides to rest on the small of my back and he arches beneath me. 

 Should we never touch again, tonight would be enough. 

 "I love you, Alex. Love you so much..." he whispers. 

 His gaze intent, wanting to look at me, forever at me. 

 I fly apart, gasping out words of love as I fill him. 

 I lie awake until the sky grows light, watching him sleep, willing his
heart to keep beating. I gaze at his slightly parted lips. What will
happen to me when I can't kiss them again? How will I live without the way
he smiles when he's with Sean? It lights up the world. 

 Birds awaken and begin to chirp. I hear the rumble of a truck in the
distance. 

 Fox opens his eyes. They are black with fear. 

 "Baby?" I ask softly, my voice deep with dread. 

 "I'm scared, Alex." His voice cracks. "I don't want to die. How can I
leave Sean? How can I find any peace with this, knowing all that I'm
leaving behind? It's not fair. I've tried to be a good person. I fought my
whole life to be what everyone wanted me to be. I tried to find my sister,
I tried to protect Scully and Sean. Why is this happening to me?" 

 All I can do is hold him, absorbing his hot, bitter tears into my skin
while he cries.  

 I stare at the piece of paper on the table in front of me, willing it to
burst into flame. No such luck. Here, in black and white, is the advance
directive of Fox William Mulder, awaiting my signature as a witness. He
had it drawn up at the attorney's office yesterday, and presented it to me
and Scully at breakfast this morning. 

 Why does he do this shit to me at breakfast? Is he trying to give me an
ulcer? 

 The document is succinct, brutally so. No tubes, no CPR, no heroic
measures. We're to stand by and allow him to starve and dehydrate, waste
away and die. I want to jump up and slap him around. 

 He's not the one who will live with the memory of watching his lover
wither away. 

 Scully was so damned calm. She read the paper carefully, looked up at him
and softly asked: "Are you certain, Mulder?" 

 He nodded in reply, and she reached out a shaking hand to pluck the pen
from his fingers, then signed her name below his and pushed the paper to
me. 

 Now I'm holding the pen in a death grip, and I want to jam it into his
carotid artery. Why is he so willing to give up and die? 

 "Alex," Scully says, "would you like me to explain any of this to you?
What the physiological process will be?" 

 "No." I scribble my signature, pressing the pen into the paper so hard
that it punctures. "It's his life. If this is how he wants it, I guess I
don't get a say so." 

 "No, you don't," he says. His voice is low and even. "You're right, Alex,
this is my life. It's a decision I had to make for myself. If you were
thinking rationally, you would realize that it makes sense." 

 "None of it makes any goddamn sense," I mutter, pushing my chair back and
grabbing my coffee cup and the pack of cigarettes on the counter. That
should piss him off right royally. He's bitched about my breath a few
times lately. I've started carrying a tin of Altoids in my pocket. 

 I sit on the porch, sucking the acrid smoke into my lungs, anger
simmering in my gut. For a man who claims to be so afraid of Death, he
sure is inviting the son of a bitch into our home. 

 Damn him, and damn God, and damn the whole stinking, shitty, cesspool of
a world that let this happen to him. 

 I'm still sitting there almost an hour later when Cori arrives. We're
supposed to take Sean to an LSU Tigers training game at lunchtime. I
should stay home; the mood I'm in, I'll just ruin it for everyone. 

 Cori wrinkles her nose as she approaches, so I snub out my cigarette. She
sits down on the step beside me, looping her arm around mine. 

 "Ruining your own health isn't going to make Fox better, Al." 

 I shrug. "Save it for someone who cares. I don't give a rat's ass right
now." 

 "C'mon, Alex, shake it off. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining,
your man is feeling good. Let's go watch some baseball and have a good
time." 

 "No, I'm gonna stay here. I'm not in the mood to try and be all
cheerful." I'd really like to pitch a drunk and kick the shit out of
something. 

 "Bullshit. I'll kick your ass from here to Denham Springs if you ruin
this for Fox and Sean. Now put a smile on your goddamn pathetic face and
let's go." 

 I give her a look. "You take communion in that mouth, Sis?" 

 She grins crookedly. "Damn straight. Father Benedict books an extra
thirty minutes in the confessional every week just for me." She stands and
grabs my ear, pulls hard. "Now get up, you whiny, self-pitying asshole." 

 "Ow! Alright, fine, just stop yanking on me, wench!"  

 "Mulder, I'd really like to keep you overnight and run some more tests,"
Leblanc looks every bit as frustrated as I feel. 

 Fox yanks his pants up and buttons them. "Nope, I'm going home. But
thanks for the invitation." 

 "I really would like to run some more tests on you, another PET scan..." 

 Fox peers at him with bloodshot eyes. "Are these tests going to change my
prognosis?" 

 "No, but -- " 

 "Then I'm going home." 

 Leblanc sighs and looks at me. I shoot him a look that says 'he doesn't
listen to me either', and toss Fox his shirt. 

 The baseball game was fantastic. Sean was so excited he could barely hold
still, and after a brief conversation with one of the players, Cori got
Sean a signed baseball and a cap. Scully and Fox shared some private
memory about "slapping horsehide with a piece of ash," and a good time was
had by all. 

 Our late lunch at Dairy Queen was not a success. Fox had a seizure in the
restaurant. Before we could get him out to the car, someone called 911. 

 So here were are, back at the hospital, and Fox is having none of it. 

 He signs the forms the nurse brings, smiling charmingly at her. Bastard.
I've never met anyone quite so cheerful about dying in my entire life.
Only Fox Mulder can have a seizure in a Dairy Queen and ask the EMT to
grab his order before they shove him into the ambulance. 

 It's early evening before Scully and I get home and get Fox settled in
bed, then feed and bathe Sean and plunk him in front of the television. I
make coffee and we sit down together at the kitchen table. 

 Scully looks exhausted. I think that this is taking as much out of her as
it does out of Fox. She runs her slender fingers through her hair, then
looks at me, her eyes troubled. "There aren't any options left where
medication is concerned, Alex." 

 I stare at a knot in the wooden table. "I know." 

 "After Mulder is... after this is over, I shall have to take Sean away
from here. I know how close you and he have become, Alex. I don't want you
thinking that I am taking the child away in order to hurt you. When it's
safe again, we will organize visitation rights of some sort." 

 Go on, Scully, shove the knife in a little further. Remind me that I'm
not only losing Fox; I'm losing everything. 

 "S'okay, Scully. Sean's safety is the first priority. Walter will be a
good role model for him. You deserve to finally be free of me." 

 The look on her face... kindness? Friendship? 

 "I don't feel that way about you anymore, Alex." 

 I nod. "Thank you." Barely a whisper. "I'm going to check on Fox." 

 He's lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, his splayed fingers
drumming on his ribs. 

 "You bored?" I ask softly. "I could go rent some videos." 

 "That would be nice. Why don't you take Sean to spend the night at Dee's
house so he can play with Mason and Drina? You could rent us a couple of
gory horror flicks and we could have a nice, quiet, adult evening." He
reaches out and takes my hand. 

 I'm immediately suspicious. Not once has he said that he wanted time away
from Sean. Sean's spent the night out a couple of times, but always with
grudging permission from his father, not eagerness for "adult time". I
wonder what new and unpleasant revelations he has in store for us tonight.


 "I think that can be arranged. Want some ice cream or something?" 

 He grins crookedly. He looks tired. "That would be great." 

 "Okay, I'll go coordinate with Scully." 

 I find her in the living-room, her clothes soaked and dripping. I
snicker. She gives me a withering look. 

 "Had an argument with the garden hose, Scully?" 

 "Very funny. I tried to use the washing machine, the feeder hose in the
back of it burst and the laundry room floor is inundated. I found a wrench
and turned the water off but you can mop the floor yourself, Krycek. My
shoes are ruined." 

 Shit. The hose was dry-rotted and I've been meaning to replace it. I've
not had a lot of free time lately. 

 "Damn, I'm sorry. I've got a new hose in the shed. I'll fix it. Look, Fox
wants to rent videos and have an adult evening. I think he's worried about
Sean being exposed to all the stress. Why don't you take the kid to
Delia's house for the evening and stop by Blockbuster on the way back?" 

 Her smile is amused. Yeah, I'm catering to him like he's the queen of
England. So sue me. What Fox wants, he gets. Period. End of discussion. 

 "Sure, let me change and get Sean's things together." 

 I mop the laundry room floor and drain the remaining water so I can move
the washer away from the wall. By the time Scully and Sean leave I'm still
working, soaking wet and thoroughly pissed. 

 I check on Fox before I go out to the shed. He's on his side, facing away
from me, sleeping soundly. 

 What should be a simple repair job turns into a comedy of errors. First,
the damned padlock is rusted on the door to the shed. Then I cannot find
the hose I distinctly remember buying a few weeks ago. I come out of the
shed to hear tires in the gravel on the driveway... and then Scully
screams my name. 

 I round the corner of the house. The front door is standing open. Sean is
sitting in the car looking terrified. I run inside, my heart pounding, and
find Scully fly-kicking my bedroom door. 

 "Alex, he's going to kill himself! Sean saw it. He's locked himself in
there with all his pills!" Her eyes are wild, and she kicks the door
again. "Mulder, open the goddamn door!" 

 Her third kick does it. The cheap door flies open. 

 Fox is sitting on the edge of the bed. There's a double handful of pills
on the nightstand and a bottle of vodka in his hand. I smack the bottle
out of his hand. He flinches when it shatters against the wall. 

 "What the fuck are you doing!" I scream, my voice raw and high. "Did you
take any of the fucking pills?" 

 He looks at us blankly. My heart stops beating. At long last, he shakes
his head. I hear Scully, behind me, release the breath she was holding. 

 "No, I didn't have time. I had to wait until you went outside before I
got the vodka, and then Scully pulled up. I knew that she knew, and there
wouldn't have been time." 

 My knees give, and I sink to the floor in front of him. "Fox, what the
hell were you thinking?" 

 "I don't want to end up drooling and wetting myself like a fucking
vegetable! I don't want you two or Sean to see me like that, to have to
take care of me. This way, It would be painless. I can die in my own bed,
on my own terms." 

 His voice is rough with tears. 

 "You'd do the same thing in my position, Alex." 

 "I might. But I don't have a kid to consider. Do you remember how you
felt when your mother killed herself? And you were a grown man. Do you
want Sean to live with that? Never knowing if you might have recovered,
because you chose to end your life instead? People whispering that Spooky
Mulder finally checked out?" 

 I sound cruel even to myself, but he must hear me. He can't do this. I'm
not ready to let him go. 

 I can't believe he was going to do this, just leave his body here for me
to find, without even saying goodbye. I wonder if his faculties are
already more damaged than we thought. 

 "You don't understand." His voice is the ghost of a sound. "I'm more
afraid of losing my mind, losing touch with my surroundings, than I am of
dying. I want to die with some dignity. I have a feeling this will be the
last time anything in my life is under my control." 

 Blood pulses hard and fast through my veins. I lean my forehead on his
knee to stop the dizziness. 

 "Fox, please, don't give up. Marita and Strughold are out there, and
we'll make them help you. I'll go to Tunisia and find Strughold myself." 

 "No. You'd damned well better stay here with me. I can't do this without
you, Alex." His eyes are bloodshot and glazing fast. I watch, horrified,
as they lose focus. 

 No, no, oh no oh no.... 

 The seizure rips through him, an evil spirit possessing his body,
twisting his face into a rictus. 

 Scully helps me turn him, petting his hair, cooing softly. We work
together, to make him comfortable. 

 "Go ahead and take Sean to Delia's. We have to make sure he doesn't get
the opportunity to do this again," I say. "I must talk to him alone. " 

 She nods, her lips pressed firmly together, her eyes full of tears. Shit,
Scully, go ahead and cry. Cry for both of us. I don't have the strength. 

 I sit next to him, rubbing his back until his body stills and he breathes
again. 

 Why the hell did he do this? Well, I know why he did it, but why pills?
It's not his style. If he really wanted to die, we have lots of guns in
the closet. 

 Was it just a cry for help? 

 What the fuck am I supposed to do? I cannot help him. I already sold my
soul to the devil once. 

 "Messy." He murmurs. 

 "What?" 

 "Gun too messy. Too loud. Wanna die quietly, leave a nice corpse." Faint
smile. His eyelids droop shut, and he sleeps.  

 Sean sits cross-legged on the bed next to his father, reading 'Bridge to
Terabithia' in his soft, melodious voice. Scully is sitting in a bedside
chair holding Fox's hand. I rise, stiff and tired, from the chair at the
foot of the bed, to answer the door. 

 "Alexander," says Mrs. Evans. She comes in, casserole dish in hand. "How
is Fox today?" 

 "The same as yesterday. He's been unconscious for a while now. He didn't
even wake up for the last three seizures." I follow her into the kitchen
and open the refrigerator, shuffling the other casserole dishes to make
room for the latest one. 

 "I'm so sorry to hear that, my dear. We've all been praying for him. I'll
stop by again tomorrow. If you need anything, just let Father Benedict
know." 

 "I will, Mrs. Evans. Thank you," I reply as she shuffles out the door. 

 Three days of little old ladies, who coo and cluck and try to comfort
with casseroles. 

 Three days of seizures and Fox unaware of his surroundings, of us. 

 Three long, miserable days of soiled sheets, because he has no bladder
control. Now we worry because the fucker hasn't pissed in 24 hours. We
can't get any fluids into him. 

 Leblanc came over yesterday. I didn't think a neurologist would make a
house call, even in Baton Rouge. Leblanc did. He checked on Fox, and then
called me into the kitchen. 

 "Are you prepared for what happens next, Alex? I can call an ambulance
right now and have him brought to the hospital." 

 I shook my head. "No. He belongs here. Just... what do I do after it
happens? Who do I call? I have to have his -- him transported to Raleigh.
He has a family plot there." 

 Leblanc gave me his home phone number and left. Since then we've been
waiting. I've been waiting. Waiting for him to get out of bed, give us a
shit-eating grin and demand pizza and ice cream. 

 Waiting. 

 Waiting for him to pull me into his arms and whisper "Gotcha." 

 Waiting for him to die. 

 I almost wish we had let him take the pills the other day. Anything would
be better than this. Better than watching the fire die, watching him sleep
hour after hour, wondering if he'll ever wake up. 

 Bile rises in my throat, a sensation I'm becoming used to. I rush to the
bathroom and reach the toilet just in time. There's blood in my vomit.
Scully says I'm probably getting a stress ulcer. 

 Maybe the damned thing will perforate and I'll die. They can bury us
together. 

 Scully follows me into the bathroom. "Are you all right?" 

 I wave her off and splash water on my face. Stubble rasps against my
palms. I look in the mirror at my sunken eyes and wild hair. Reminds me of
my stint as a junkie in Hong Kong. When was the last time I showered? 

 "Alex... his pulse is thready and rapid. I don't know how long he can
last now." 

 She won't meet my eyes. I want to vomit again. 

 "Should we find a rabbi?" My voice is weary. Defeated. 

 "No, Mulder hasn't been to temple in 20 years. Maybe your priest? Mulder
likes him." 

 "Yeah, I'll call him, if he doesn't come around with more food this
afternoon." 

 Sean's voice rings out. 

 "Mommy, Papa, Daddy's awake!" 

 Scully and I nearly knock each other down scrambling for the bedroom. 

 Fox's eyes are open to glittering slits. He makes an exhausted attempt at
a smile when we enter the room. 

 "Scully, the book... in the drawer. I promised Sean we'd finish." 

 Scully opens the bedside drawer. Her smile is pure grief. 

 "So this is where my copy of 'Moby Dick' went. Mulder, why did you take
mine? There is a copy on the bookshelf in your living room." 

 "Sean needed to read this copy," he says in a thick and rusty voice. 

 I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "Fox, baby, you
need to eat and drink something. Will you try for me, please?" 

 He nods, a barely perceptible tilt of his head. "I'm thirsty. Can I have
iced tea?" 

 We're out of damned tea bags. How could I forget? It's his favorite. 

 "I'll get you some." 

 Sean closes his book and Scully begins to read from 'Moby Dick,' holding
the aged hardcover with reverence. Her gentle, sing-song voice caresses
Fox lovingly. Sean snuggles in next to him. 

 I go to the kitchen and pace. What the fuck should I do? I don't want to
leave him long enough to go to the store. I don't want to call and disturb
anyone this early. I pick up the phone, call information, and dial
Highland Coffee. 

 The manager, a little goth chick who goes by Absinthe, answers the phone.


 "Hey, Abs, it's Alex from The Bayou." 

 "Oh, hi Alex. How's your boyfriend doing?" 

 Does everyone in this damned city know my business? 

 "Not well. He wants iced tea, and we don't have any. I'll give you five
hundred dollars to send someone to my house with some tea. He hasn't had
anything to eat or drink for days --" I can't finish. 

 "Calm down, Alex. Give me your address. I'll send Peter over right now." 

 I give her the address and thank her profusely, then go back to sit at
the foot of the bed while Scully reads to Fox and Sean. 

 Peter arrives a few minutes later with a jug of tea and a large basket of
muffins, along with my usual soy chai latte. He refuses to take my money. 

 Maybe it's not so bad having everyone in town know your business. They're
all trying to be compassionate and supportive. It's my failing that these
concepts are so alien to me. 

 I take a glass of tea to the bedroom, and Scully and I get Fox propped up
in bed. I put the straw between his parched lips and he takes a small sip,
swishing the tea around his mouth before swallowing it. 

 "Oh, that's good," he murmurs. "See, Scully. Root beer and tea. Fate and
love. It makes sense now." 

 I have no clue what he's talking about, but apparently Scully does.
That's good; at least he's not delirious. She shakes her head and
chuckles. 

 "Mulder... only you. You remember everything, don't you?" 

 He smiles faintly. "The important stuff." 

 So much "important stuff" between them, so many good memories for them to
share. What do he and I have to share? Hey, Fox, remember that time we
vacationed in the Russian gulag? Yeah, right. 

 Before I can maneuver the straw for him to drink again, I see the
now-familiar jump of muscles in his jaw. I just have time to put down the
glass and scoot Sean off the bed before the seizure blooms into hideous
glory.	

 "Alex, guy, you don't need to do it this way," Paul says, concern in his
eyes. 

 "Let us stay, alright? You and Dana don't need to be alone. We'll pitch a
tent in the back yard if you want some privacy, but you don't have to do
this alone." 

 "Paul, it's two o'clock in the morning. You guys go home. Dana doesn't
think we have much time. Rest while you can; I'll need you tomorrow," I
reply, rubbing my hand over my stinging eyes. My head throbs, echoing
between my temples with every heartbeat. 

 He gives me a reticent guy-hug and looks me over. "Get some rest, Alex.
We'll call in the morning." 

 I lock the door behind him. Rest. Yeah -- right. I have no idea what that
is anymore. 

 Fox hasn't been conscious for over twenty-four hours now. Scully and I
are afraid to sleep; afraid that if we don't stand over him, willing him
to breathe, that we'll awake to find him gone. 

 I go check on Sean. He's quiet and withdrawn. He can't "hear" Fox
anymore. It scares him. It scares us all. Sean is bereft without his
father's presence in his mind. I understand the feeling. I feel hollow
without Fox's warmth, his affection, his obnoxious banter and his arms
around me in the middle of the night. 

 In my bedroom Scully is checking Fox's vitals. She looks up at me and
removes the stethoscope. Terror bleeds the light from her eyes. 

 "How long?" I ask, my voice low and gruff. 

 She shakes her head. "Not long. Maybe another day. We should have Leblanc
come look at him again in the morning." 

 "Scully... I need to be alone with him tonight." 

 When he dies, it will be in my arms. My voice will be the last thing he
hears. It's all I can do and I will do it. 

 "Of course. I understand. I could use some rest. Don't hesitate to wake
me if he needs anything." She leans forward, and I think she's going to
kiss my cheek, but she steps back and pats my arm. I gently pull her to
me. She melts into me and sighs deeply. Which of us needs the comfort
more? I hesitate, then rest my cheek on the top of her head. We stay that
way for a long moment before she pulls away. 

 "Goodnight, Alex," she says softly, then turns and goes to her room,
closing the door. 

 I go back to the bedroom, take off my clothes and turn off the light. I
get into bed with Fox and gently arrange him against me: his head pillowed
on my right shoulder and my arm around him, stroking his back. I bury my
nose in his sour-smelling hair and inhale deeply. 

 "Mine," Fox murmurs fuzzily. 

 Hope surges through me. It dies when the seizure raves through him again.


 "Fox," I whisper desperately, holding fast to his quaking form. "If it's
time for you to go, don't hold on anymore. Go see what's out there waiting
for you. You don't have to hurt, or be afraid. I'll be right here with
you. Go if you have to." 

 I half expect him to stop breathing as soon as the words leave my mouth,
but the seizures stops as suddenly as it began and his breathing evens
out.  

 At some point I must have slept, because I am jarred awake when Scully
bursts into the bedroom. The triangle of light spilling in from the
hallway blinds me. 

 "Alex, come out here," she commands. 

 I jump out of bed and struggle into my pants, then stumble to the living
room. 

 Marita Covarrubias is here. Standing next to her is an older man, with
gray hair and steely blue eyes. Gibson Praise kneels on the floor in front
of Sean. 

 Sean and Gibson are absorbed in one another, lost to the world. I grab
Sean up and clutch him to me. My heart is pounding, my mind is flying in a
thousand directions. 

 The stranger addresses me in careful, measured tones. 

 "Mr. Drake, my name is Jeremiah Smith. I've come to heal Mr. Mulder." 

 "Papa, he's telling the truth, he's gonna make Daddy better. He's an
alien," Sean whispers in my ear. 

 Marita is dressed in jeans and a sweater. She looks young and vulnerable.
"Alex, the alien telepath is coming. He's close. He'll find Sean and
Mulder if you don't allow Jeremiah to help." 

 "Can you heal him?" Scully asks, her voice hopeful and frightened. 

 Smith nods. "I can heal the damage even though I cannot stop it from
happening again. Mr. Mulder is an adult, and his brain is no longer
capable of building new pathways to process information. He cannot
interpret the telepathic information the way the children can, which
causes the seizures. He must be taught how to process the telepathy, which
is far more than I can do in one night... but I can keep him alive." 

 "Do it," I grate out, "but stay the hell away from Sean. He's just a
baby, not a fucking science project." 

 "Mr. Drake," Gibson replies, "no one is going to hurt Sean. He knows
we're telling the truth." 

 Gibson is still short, though sturdily built, but he's no longer a child.
His eyes are haunted with dark wisdom. It's the look I've seen too often
in Sean's eyes. 

 Sean squirms in my embrace and I set him on his feet. 

 "Take me to Mr. Mulder, please," Smith asks. 

 I step back and gesture towards the hall. 

 "Scully, stay with Sean," I order. "My gun is in that box on top of the
bookshelf. If Marita gives you any cause for alarm or even suspicion, kill
her." 

 She nods. "Go, Alex." 

 I lead Smith to my bedroom and turn on the light. Fox's eyes are sunken
and his skin is dusky, tinged blue around the lips. His breath is shallow
and rapid. If Smith cannot help him, he will be gone by morning. 

 Smith turns down the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, placing his
palms on either side of Fox's head. I expect Smith to start glowing or
something, but there is only silence. 

 The air in the room crackles with gradual tension. 

 Nothing happens. My heart sinks. 

 Fox takes a long, shuddering breath and opens his eyes. 

 "I thought I was about to check out," he says, his voice gravelly. 

 Gravelly, rough, sweeter than Gabriel's horn. 

 "You were, babe. If Smith had been an hour late, it would have been too
late," I say, reaching for his hand. 

 His eyes widen in recognition. 

 "Jeremiah?" 

 Smith smiles. "Mr. Mulder, we have much to discuss. I have healed what I
can, for now, but it is only a stopgap measure. It will last about thirty
six hours, and by then we must have a plan. Take some time to get moving
around again, then we'll all sit down and talk." 

 Fox's eyes narrow. "I can read you, just as clearly as I can Sean. Why is
that?" 

 "I'm shielding you. Acting as a filter, so that the background noise is
gone. You will be able to read whoever is physically close to you clearly,
without any static from minds further away. We'll discuss it some more
after you've had something to eat. I imagine Ms. Scully and Mr. Drake will
want to hear it all," he says, then turns and closes the bedroom door
behind him. 

 I fall to my knees beside the bed. 

 I believe. 

 Fox rests his hand on top of my head. 

 "Oh God, Fox... " 

 His hand strokes my hair for a moment, then he sits up. 

 "I could drink a barrel of tea," he says, smiling. He still looks awful,
but he's sitting up and lucid and this just has to be okay.... 

 "I'll go fix you something to eat and drink. Do you want to take a
shower? Do you need some help?" 

 He shakes his head. "No, I feel really good. Better than I have in weeks.
Just hungry." He smiles brightly. "I really wanna kiss you, but I don't
know when the last time I brushed my teeth was." 

 I lean over and kiss him hungrily. His breath tastes like something died
in his mouth. I don't give a damn. 

 The moment ends when Sean and Scully burst in, unable to contain
themselves anymore. They rush into Fox's arms. He laughs and pulls them
both to him. 

 "Mulder, must you and Sean really leave with them? Is there no other
way?" Her tone is urgent, pleading. 

 Fear knots in my gut. 

 Smith and Marita want to take them away. 

 Why am I surprised? There's always a price to pay. The plan has always
been to get them into hiding, I can't balk now. I've been given the gift
of Fox's life; what more could I ask for? 

 I want to keep them with me. 

 I back away to go check on our uninvited house guests. 

 Marita is seated on the futon with Gibson next to her. 

 "How is he?" she asks. 

 "Hungry and thirsty. I have to get him something to eat." I pause,
flashing on the memory of her blood pooling on the lab's floor in North
Carolina. "You were telling the truth, weren't you?" 

 "Yes. Jeremiah can save Mulder's life. With his protection, he and Sean
can be somewhat safe. But we must act quickly. We need to get them out of
here as soon as Mulder is well enough to travel." 

 My throat goes dry. "Not tonight." 

 "No, not tonight. But soon," Smith answers from his seat in my favorite
chair. "What I did for Mr. Mulder won't last long. The seizures will begin
again. My capabilities do not extend far enough to cure this condition. I
and those like me have only a limited effect on the telepathy. He must
learn how to control it, and the process is very intensive. It's not
something that can be done overnight, or in an environment such as this." 

 "Such as this?" I echo, not understanding. 

 Smith stands and looks at me, his expression kind. "Mr. Drake, you and
Ms. Scully have no control over your thoughts and emotions. You overwhelm
him and the child. They need to be in a calm environment while they
develop this ability. You cannot shield them from the power of your
feelings." 

 "You'll teach me how?" I ask. No pride left. 

 Please let me stay with them. 

 "No," he says gently. So gently. It flays me alive. 

 "Only the boy and Mr. Mulder will come with me. You and Ms. Scully
cannot. There are others like them, and we cannot risk their safety should
one of the telepathic hunters sense you. I do not have the strength to
spare to protect those who can do so for themselves." 

 "Then why her?" I point at Marita. "She helped them do this to Sean! Why
does she get to be with them and I don't?" 

 "I don't, Alex," she replies. "I meet Jeremiah at a set location, and I
have no idea where the telepaths are. I only came to get Mulder and Sean
out of here. They are the last two." 

 "The methods employed by Ms. Covarrubias and her associates are
distasteful, Mr. Drake, but we must realize the necessity of them. When
the time comes, the telepaths will be the ones to stand against the aliens
and prevent colonization. With proper training, they will be able to turn
the aliens' own ships against them," Smith says. 

 So that's their angle. He saves Fox's life, and they get to use my lover
and child as weapons in their war. 

 There is no choice to be made. Fox must live. 

 Before I can reply, Scully and Sean appear. The pipes rumble under the
house when Fox turns the shower on. 

 "I don't like this," Scully says. Long pause, deep breath. "But Sean and
Mulder are certain they will be safe with you. If anything happens to
either of them, I swear to God --" 

 God himself will not be safe if Fox and Sean come to harm. 

 "Gibson, you wanna see my computer?" Sean asks. 

 "Sure," the older boy agrees. The two of them disappear into Sean's room.


 Fox comes out of the shower a few minutes later. He's still far too thin
and pale, but his eyes are clear and bright. I fix him an omelet, cottage
fries, and toast. He takes a few bites and pushes the food away, saying
that his stomach's not up to par yet. 

 After he's finished, we all crowd around the table and talk until the sun
rises. Scully and I are falling asleep in our coffee cups when we are
done. The boys are sleeping, Sean in his bed and Gibson on the futon, as
we discuss their futures. 

 When Marita and Jeremiah rise to leave, our fates have been decided. They
will return the next morning to take Fox and Sean away until Fox is well
enough to survive without of Jeremiah's protection. 

 It makes perfect sense, and I hate it with all of my being. 

 Marita, Jeremiah and Gibson have left. I curse my aging, exhausted body
and slump on the futon. My life is falling to pieces once more, and I
haven't the energy to even fret about it -- or to keep my eyes open. 

 One of Fox's large hands caresses my cheek. I relax into the simple
touch. 

 "C'mon, Alex. You need sleep. I'll lie down with you." His voice is a
rough rumble. I could listen to the sound of his voice forever. I've been
hungry for it. I thought I would never hear it again. 

 I nod and struggle to my feet, then put my arm around his waist. "Where's
Scully?" 

 "She went back to bed with Sean. We'll worry about everything in a few
hours, when the two of you aren't dead on your feet," he replies. 

 We undress and get into bed, my arm around him and his head on my
shoulder. He makes contented little noises in the back of his throat,
holding me tightly. 

 He feels incredible. Skin warm and sweet-smelling and soft. The arm
around my waist is a welcome, comforting weight. 

 I ache. Soon, I'm going to lose this. Too soon. 

 Forever would be too soon. 

 "Sleep. Relax. I'll be right here when you wake up," he murmurs, kissing
my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my eye. 

 I don't want to sleep. I want to be with him. Soon, too soon, the
comforting warmth of his body lulls me under.  

 When I wake up he is still holding me. He's still sleeping. Healing,
restorative sleep, for the first time in so long. 

 I lie there and watch the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips
purse as he exhales, the shadow of his lashes against his cheeks. 

 He's everything. Warmth, comfort, affection, sex, fun, in a marvelous
package of long limbs and wicked, fey smile. 

 I'll find a way to live with this. As long as he and Sean are safe, I'll
survive. 

 He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side, smiling softly. He cups my
cheeks and kisses me, feathery soft against my lips. I sigh. Tiny kisses
rain on my face, my jaw, my neck, while his hands slide along my body. 

 The kisses grow deeper, evolving into languid fusion. I explore every
inch of his body, every hard line and soft curve. I want to remember every
shadow and angle, contour and nuance of him. Our cocks brush together,
stay soft. This journey has no destination. We are content. 

 We lie in bed a while longer, talking and kissing, before Scully taps on
the door. 

 "Guys, are you awake? It's nearly noon," she calls softly. 

 "We're awake. We'll be out soon," Fox responds, then kisses me once more
and throws the covers back. 

 "C'mon, we have to get up sometime. I'd like to spend a little time alone
with Scully this afternoon, if you don't mind." 

 "No, of course not," I reply. Of course I mind. I want every minute I can
have with him. But I now have adequate proof that the universe does not
revolve around my wishes. 

 I spend the next couple of hours on the telephone, fielding calls from
half the city. It takes all my acting skills to convince my sisters that
I'm exhausted and need a break from their constant vigil. 

 It makes me sick to lie to them. I don't know how I'm going to maintain
the cover story after Fox is gone. 

 Fox is still weak. Scully coaxes a small lunch of toast and soup into
him, then we tuck him in for another nap. While he sleeps, Scully and I
move around the house packing his and Sean's things. We go about our tasks
silently. We are too close now to hide our pain, yet not close enough to
share it. 

 Skinner calls, and is upset that there's no time for him to come say
goodbye. He speaks to Fox and Sean on the phone for a while, then with
Scully at length. Fox is wistful after hanging up the telephone. 

 "Are you alright?" I ask, hugging him from behind. He lays his cheek on
top of my head, and inhales deeply, indulging his little quirk of sniffing
my hair. 

 "If it were just me, I wouldn't leave," he confesses. "Living on the run,
just for the sake of staying alive, wouldn't be worth it. But Sean..." 

 "I know. He comes first, as he should. I wouldn't want it any other way."
I look into his eyes and the sadness there matches my own. 

 "You're an amazing father, Fox. I think about my own father... what my
life could have been like... Sean has a chance you and I didn't have. He
will not be someone's pawn." 

 "We're doing okay with this parenting thing. Who'd have thought?" 

 I turn away, my eyes stinging. 

 "It's okay for you to love him, Alex. He knows that you would never hurt
him. I know it. You just have to learn to trust yourself." 

 I don't answer. In less than twenty four hours it will be a moot point.  

 Fox and Scully go outside to sit in the back yard and talk. I sit in my
chair and try to read, but the book might as well be written in Mandarin.
I cannot concentrate. I toss the book, and it skitters across the coffee
table and hits the floor. Fuck it. 

 Sean comes in, a frown creasing his brows. He stands beside me but does
not speak. 

 "What's wrong, slugger?" Other than the ten thousand obvious answers,
that is. 

 "Papa, Father Benedict wanted to baptize me. Do we have time to do that
before Daddy and I have to leave?" 

 I sigh. "No, I'm afraid there's no time for that. When you come home,
we'll have you baptized, if you would like. We need to discuss it with
your parents first." 

 "Okay. Can I sit in your lap, Papa?" 

 He's so small and vulnerable. I cannot protect him. That will be my
undoing. It is my ultimate failure. 

 I've got this parental guilt thing down pat. 

 I pick him up and snuggle him against me. He smells like fresh air and
sunshine. He's nearly too big for my lap, all long legs and skinny arms
and wide hazel eyes. He's too old for such indignities, but I cannot
resist nuzzling his head and tickling him until he squeals. 

 "I'm hungry," Sean says when we are calm again. 

 "You just had lunch! You're going to grow into a giant if you keep eating
like this." One day he will be as achingly handsome as his father. 

 "Pizza. Can we go to Mr. Gatti's? Will there be a pizza place where Daddy
and I are going?" 

 I laugh. Like father, like son. In so many ways. Christ, how this hurts. 

 "Sure. Whatever you want, slugger. Let me go get my car keys."  

 Half an hour later Sean and I are walking down Chime Street. We stop
first at Highland Coffee for Italian Ice for him and a latte for me, then
stroll down the street. I was hesitant to leave, but I'm glad to have the
time alone with Sean. We've never had a day out together, just the two of
us. I wonder how many memories we can cram into the next few hours. 

 Not nearly enough. 

 Sean stops in front of a shop called the Tiger Lily to admire the stained
glass sun catchers on display in the window. 

 "They're really pretty," he says. 

 "Yeah, they're nice." 

 He turns to look at me. "Can we get one for Mommy? To make her not be so
sad?" 

 I swallow past the lump in my throat. "Sure. Whatever you want." 

 We go inside and Sean chooses a diamond shaped sun catcher with a
sunflower in the middle. When I place it on the counter to pay for it, a
black velvet tray of jewelry catches my eye. 

 In the center of the tray is a plain, wide silver band. A wedding ring.
It would look perfect on Fox's slender, elegant finger. Just perfect when
that large, warm hand caresses my chest, slides down my stomach... 

 My heart speeds up and a warm flush runs through me. 

 "Lin, can you engrave this on the fly?" I ask, running my finger across
the ring's smooth surface. I try it on. It's a little loose, so it should
fit Fox just right. 

 "Sure. It'll take me about half an hour." Her expression is sad. "For
Fox?" 

 "Yeah." 

 I take the paper and pen she hands me and pause for a moment. I write the
single word carefully and hand her the paper. 

 "Oh boy. Couldn't be something easy, huh? What's it say?" 

 Forever. The only promise I have left to make. 

 "It's private. We'll be back in a little while. Thanks, Lin." 

 Sean and I order the pizza and play pinball while we wait for it. Once
our order is ready, we go back to Tiger Lily and I pick up the small box
that Lin has gift wrapped for me. She refuses my money when I try to pay
her. 

 "It's for Fox. A gift. You can buy me a beer sometime," she says,
smiling. 

 Back at home, Sean sits at the table and eats his pizza, momentarily at
peace. Scully is on the phone with her mother, and Fox is on the net
instant messaging with the gunmen, saying goodbye. 

 How many more goodbyes can we live with? 

 I decide to take my nervous energy out on the laundry. Fox needs his gray
Adidas sweats to take with him. They're his favorites. And that green
shirt of mine that he likes so much. Sean's Harry Potter t-shirt is buried
somewhere at the bottom of the hamper, he can't leave without it. 

 I start the laundry and go to our bedroom. The army of pill bottles sits
on the nightstand, waiting for the next battle. I sweep them into the
waste basket. 

 I strip the stale, sweaty sheets from the bed, but not the pillowcase on
Fox's pillow. I hold it up to my nose and inhale. It must be the pungent
smell of death that makes my eyes water and my throat close up. 

 Something is different about the dresser. 

 Oh. 

 The pewter frame with the picture of Sean is gone. The whole room is
wrong now. 

 I open the closet door to get clean linens. There are too many empty
hangers. 

 I close the door quickly. 

 Bile rises in my throat. Goddamn heartburn. I go to the bathroom to get
the charcoal capsules from the medicine cabinet. 

 Mine is the only toothbrush in the cup on the basin. I turn around and
walk out. 

 Later in the evening Scully brings out her camera. It's nearly more than
I can stand. This is too real. Stop the world, Ma, I wanna get off. 

 He likes the way I sigh. 

 I'm dying inside. 

 The three of them sit together on the porch steps, cast in the reddish
gold shades of sunset. It catches in Scully's hair, Sean's lashes, Fox's
eyes. They glow. 

 I'm dying inside. 

 My hand shakes when I snap the picture. I take Scully's place on the step
next to Fox. I smile, my arm around his shoulders, and try not to think
about how soon these pictures will be all we have left. 

 I'm dying inside. 

 Fox and I go through the motions of preparing dinner. No one is hungry,
but there is comfort in the familiar routine. I chop celery, he peels
shrimp. I make the roux, he makes the rice. An hour later there are
steaming bowls of gumbo on the table. Thirty minutes later it's in the
trash. 

 Side by side, we move in practiced concert. He rinses, I load the
dishwasher. He cleans the counters, I sweep the floor. 

 There's nothing else we can do. 

 Scully takes Sean and changes him into his pajamas, then we settle into
"our" chair to read a bedtime story. I stroke his hair and breathe in his
sweaty, little-boy smell. 

 I read slowly, but still we reach the last page of the book. The End. No.
NO. Please, no.... 

 "Time for bed, slugger." 

 "Don't be sad, Papa. Daddy and I will be home soon," Sean replies,
looking up at me with sleepy, guileless hazel eyes. I beat back the
impulse to crush him to me, settling for little kisses on his cheeks, his
brow. 

 "I love you, zolotka. Sleep well." 

 Fox and Scully carry him to bed, and close the door behind them to say
their private goodbyes. I turn out the lights and lock the doors, then go
to my room. Fox comes in and we silently make the bed, moving in tandem,
in perfect rapport. 

 As easy and unnoticed as breathing. 

 We fought so hard for this. 

 He looks at me intently. "Penny for your thoughts." 

 I laugh. "Thoughts are cheap when you live with a telepath." 

 He snorts, smiling. "Alex... " 

 I go to the dresser, not looking at the empty basket where he usually
dumps his keys and watch and pocket change before going to bed. I open the
top drawer and bring out the small, gold foil-wrapped box. 

 My heart flutters against my ribcage. Something sweet and scary bubbles
up inside of me. Why the hell do I feel like a kid offering some girl his
class ring? 

 I don't do shy very well. My face burns and my fingers are numb. 

 He's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing only his
boxers. The really ugly lime green ones with the black spaceships. 

 He's the most precious thing I've ever seen. And the sexiest. I lick my
lips. 

 "Is that for me?" He asks, pointing to the box in my hand. 

 My motor skills return. I sit on the edge of the bed and hand him the
box. 

 He grins, somehow looking obscenely young despite his graying hair and
the scars on his face. He tears the paper away, and opens the box. His
eyes widen slightly and he exhales slowly. He lifts the ring out and
examines it closely. 

 "What does the inscription say? I don't read Cyrillic." Gentle, teasing
voice. 

 "It says 'Made in China'. Just put it on, okay?" I smile, teasing back.
I'm ridiculously pleased by the look on his face. 

 He purses his lips and quirks a brow at me. "Left hand or right?" 

 "Left. Definitely left." I take the ring from him and slip it on his
finger. I was right. It's perfect. I rub my thumb over the cool metal, the
warm skin. 

 Absolutely perfect. 

 "Does this make it official?" he asks, twisting the ring on his finger. 

 "As official as it's going to get." I reply, smiling. "Unless you're
planning to brainwash me and drag me down the aisle of some Unitarian
church in Vermont with us in matching Armani tuxedos." 

 He laughs, thinks about it for a moment, and laughs even harder. 

 "Asshole," affectionate. Loving. He tips me back on the bed, glomming
onto the sweet spot behind my ear. 

 I groan. He feels so good. I need him inside of me. 

 "Do you feel married yet?" he teases, his lips traveling to the tendon in
my neck. 

 "I dunno. Maybe after the honeymoon," I reply, desire burning along my
nerves, baptizing me in heat. 

 Our loving is layered with joy and grief and fear. I kiss and touch him
over and over again, treasuring every sigh and murmur, every tremor in his
body and expression on his face. 

 Finally, both of us half-mad with need, I push him onto his back and
lower myself onto him. I take him into my body inch by inch until he is
fully sheathed inside me, hot and hard, pulsing against my inner walls. 

 My head falls back and I rise, then slowly, slowly descend on him again,
steadying myself with my hand on his chest. His hands on my hips guide me,
easing me up, then pulling me back down to him, the tide rushing to
reunite with the shore. 

 I look down at his beatific face. I want to cry out in pleasure and keen
with grief all at once. 

 His eyes fly open, wide and bright with joy. "Alex, oh God... " he
breathes, wonder in his voice, "I feel it... I feel it all." 

 "What?" I ask, stroking his chest. 

 His eyes are gold and green and full of promise. Full of me. 

 "Everything you've never said, Alex... It's all right here." He taps my
chest, over my heart. 

 For once, I'm grateful for this accursed gift that has forever changed
our lives. All that I am, every thought and feeling are laid as an
offering at his feet. No more walls, no more dark corners to hide in. He
sees me, knows me. Believes in me. 

 My heart pounds, and I move again. I concentrate on pouring it all out to
him, offering him the color and shape of my soul, in all its shadow and
light. My love for him, the future I hope to have with him. I project it
out as vividly as I can until the needs of my body take command. Orgasm
pulls my senses apart, splintering the images into a thousand points of
starlight. 

 Caught in the thrall of completion, I throw my head back and laugh in
pure, unadulterated joy. All of my fighting, struggling against my own
feelings... it was all for naught. I am utterly free. 

 He feels it, and laughs breathlessly with me. When I fall forward into
his arms he clasps me to him. 

 "Gee, and all it took was a universal conspiracy, an alien brain disease,
and really hot sex. This was easier than I thought it would be." 

 I slap his thigh weakly. It sends us into a fit of giddy laughter. I lie
there in his arms, sad and happy and loved and in love. 

 Somehow, all of this is going to be okay. 

 We lie there throughout the night, unwilling to sacrifice a moment for
sleep. We talk until our voices are tired and faint, making promises and
plans, speaking of the past and the future. 

 We make love again. I whisper in Russian, claiming him with the word
'spouse' as I claim his body with my own. We stay entwined afterwards,
sharing everything in silence.	

 I hear Jeremiah calling Fox's name. Fox rises from the bed and dresses,
then goes to the living room. He opens the front door and lets Smith in. 

 No! Don't leave without saying goodbye! 

 I cannot wake up. I'm trapped in my sleeping body, and I cannot go to
him, cannot touch him. Cannot kiss him one last time. 

 Here he comes, back into the bedroom. Thank God, thank God. Oh please,
Fox, don't go. Not yet. We were supposed to have more time. We paid our
dues -- your sister. Your father. My father. My arm. All those years of
Sean's life.... It was supposed to be our time now. 

 My mother left, and never came home. Please don't leave. People don't
come back when they leave. 

 My heart is pounding in my throat and my eyes are burning and it HURTS.
Hurts for real. Stay! Stay! I'm so fucking sorry for all of it Fox, I am,
I am, I'd do anything to take it back, just don't leave... 

 Mama, please! Make him stay! 

 Shit. Fuck. Oh God. I'm never going to wake up. I'm dying. I'm dead. Oh
god oh god oh god... 

 He sits on the edge of the bed, touches my face. His eyes are so sad.
Resigned. Gilded with golden pain. So gentle, so tender. All for me. Tears
like rain, like heaven, mine and his, on my face, on his. 

 Soft, soft lips, wings against my lips. Goodbye, goodbye... 

 It doesn't hurt anymore.  

 Translation: 

 "And don't you dare reprimand my children for speaking Russian. You and
Papa, with you stupid notions that being in America means we have to deny
who we are! It's our heritage, the only thing of Matushka's that I can
give to my children. Even the house is gone now." 

 "The house?" A chill creeps up my neck. What does she know about that? 

 "Yes, it burned while you were away. The police suspect arson, but they
never caught anyone.... I couldn't believe it when Papa sold that house; I
would have bought it back if I could. I grew up thinking I would raise my
own family there. Now it's gone."  

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