Archive of Our Own

Skinner leaves the Thursday breakfast depressed. The other division heads and their deputies are avoiding him. He's carrion, now; only the coyotes and hyenas will approach, checking to see if he's weak enough to take down. No one has a favor to beg of the Criminal Investigative Division? He refuses to believe that. No doubt they prefer to approach his deputy and thus avoid being associated with him. Dead and putrefying, just too stupid to fall down.

Kimberly is at her desk, a wan smile for him. He nods, but doesn't speak. What could he say? She's loyal to him, he believes, but she must watch her own career. Good jobs aren't easy enough to come by that she can afford to go down with him. And why should she? He's not sure how willing he is.

At his desk. Work in his email, in his in-basket, in his briefcase. But it all seems so futile. Does anyone really read his reports? As a manager, he's expected to be concerned with outcomes and costs, not with the specifics of his agents' activities. He should have gone into accounting, not law enforcement. He boots up the computer and scrolls through his email. He flips through the in-basket; empties his briefcase.

"You know what, Walt?" he says to himself, to the hidden microphones he knows are present, to the Listeners and Watchers at the other end, "This is shit." He stands, undecided for a moment, then leaves his office through the door into the corridor, bypassing Kim. Down two flights of stairs to the National Security bullpen, where he finds Dana Scully staring into her computer monitor. Mulder isn't at his desk, so he taps Scully's shoulder. She jumps into a standing position: fight or flight. Her eyes widen but she says nothing. He turns and leaves, trusting that she'll follow.

Outside the Hoover, he slows and they fall into step.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asks cautiously.

"No." They say nothing more to each other until he's led her to a Starbucks, where they order lattes, and are seated. "No, Agent Scully, I am not all right. I'm so not all right that I may need you as a doctor as much as I do a friend." Her eyes widen at this. "Are you a friend, Agent Scully?"

Now she frowns. "How can you ask that?"

"You didn't used to trust me. Do you now?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely. After everything you've done -- "

"And friends trust each other?" he interrupts.

She takes a sip of her coffee, then sets down the cup. "I trust you. I believe you're my friend. I know that I'm your friend."

He closes his eyes, and feels her take his hand. He grips it firmly.

"Please, sir. What's wrong? What's happened?"

Opening his eyes, he says, "Please call me Walt. I'm no longer your supervisor. There's no need for formality between us anymore. The Bureau's seen to that."

"Walt." She smiles, and his heart kicks. What a smile -- it's incandescent.

"It's just that -- This is an impulse, Agent Scully, Dana," she nods at the change in address. "I couldn't bear one more minute of the prevarication, equivocation, quibbling, and outright lies that I'm drowning in. The -- the conspiracy that surrounds us is so powerful, I -- " but he can say no more. An articulate man, he hasn't the words for what he's slowly come to recognize. "I just needed a friend."

Scully understands. He can see by her face that she too knows that their allies are so few and so endangered. She nods her head again and whispers, "You must be careful, Walt. You know they're watching us. Waiting for their opportunity."

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't going to get you."

That cracks her up, and they laugh, but bitterly. A painful humor for painful truths. He takes a deep breath and consciously relaxes his shoulders. Looks carefully at the woman holding his hand, and tries to pull away. She clasps his hand more firmly in her own.

"No, no. This can be our cover. As you say, you're no longer my supervisor. We can pretend to have a -- have a relationship. I'm told people do. You know -- date."

He has to laugh again. "Yeah, I've heard that rumor, too. But I've also heard the rumor that you and Mulder are a couple."

She avoids answering his implied question. "We're partners; we already have an excuse to be together. You and I don't. Until now. And if my partner wants to hang with me and my boyfriend. . ."

Boyfriend. Skinner feels himself start to blush, and sees the color rise in Scully's face, too. "Okay," he says, trying to hide his confusion, "then have dinner with me tomorrow. I'll pick you up at seven. We can meet Mulder somewhere."

She smiles again. "Do you like being under cover again?" Then she realizes her unintentional double-entrendre and blushes even more. "Shit."

This makes him laugh more openly. "It's okay, Dana. Yeah, this could be fun." So they sit in the busy coffeehouse, holding hands and chatting, wondering who's watching and why. Skinner buys coffee and a chocolate biscotti for Kimberly, then, still holding hands, they stroll back to the Hoover.

"Tomorrow at seven," he reminds her in the lobby, then turns toward the elevators. He's stopped by a tug on his hand and turns back. She is clearly waiting for a kiss. He smiles with unalloyed pleasure --- no irony, no pain -- and bends to brush her cheek with his lips. "Thank you, my dear."

"Bye, Walt," she smiles back, and leaves him bemused but grinning. The horrors of the breakfast meeting seem centuries past, and he's able to return to work with a willing heart and eased conscience.

Mulder is a little shocked by Scully's revelation at lunch that day. As they often do, they've gone to the reflecting pool to talk; so much easier to avoid eavesdroppers, although they suppose directional microphones would still work. "You *kissed* him? In the *lobby*?" She laughs, and he has to grin, a little.

"It's our cover, Mulder. Besides, it isn't as though I'm dating anyone else." He pulls a rueful face but doesn't reply. He isn't sure what to say to that. Does she want to date him? Does he want to date her? Do people their age date, anyway? Interpersonal relationships are so confusing.

She shakes his shoulder. "Mulder? Helloooo?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just surprised. Isn't he old enough to be your dad?"

"No! He's only a little older than you, you know that. Besides, there's a long history of older men-younger women. I could be a trophy wife." Mulder rolls his eyes, but changes the subject.

"Did he say why he wants to meet us tomorrow?"

"No, not really. Just -- he said he couldn't take the lying. That he needed a friend. He's an honest man, Mulder; I think he's shocked by the depth and breadth of what we've discovered."

Mulder can appreciate that. He still has trouble believing where his search for his sister has taken him, what it's revealed to him.

"So. Walt'll pick me up at seven, and we'll do a little evasive maneuvering. Maybe we should pick you up at seven thirty or eight. But where?" They agree on a time and meeting place, and that Mulder will take a series of cabs to avoid being followed himself.

"He better take us someplace nice, make all this running around worthwhile."

As they walk back to the Hoover, Mulder quietly asks, "Are you sure it's wise to be so open with this relationship? Won't it put you and him in danger?"

"Maybe. But we're in danger anyway, Mulder. At least this gives us a reason to be together."

Be careful, Mulder wants to warn her, but careful of what he cannot say.

"Mulder would choose a Burger King as a rendezvous," Skinner grouses, but he's joking. They're in a rental he picked up at Dulles and parked in front of Scully's apartment, where he called her on his cell phone. No chance for a tail or bug to be planted yet. "What time is it?"

"Seven forty. Time to head back to DC if we're to be there by eight." He doubles back; no one following; at least this first night they'll be unobserved.

Scully looks beautiful to him. She's in jeans and a pale peach sweater, white running shoes, and tiny gold hoop earrings. She's focused on the traffic around them, a good agent on surveillance, but she's also a lovely, intelligent, charming woman. This is our *cover*, Skinner reminds himself sharply, and turns his eyes back to the road when she suddenly looks at him.

"Sir? Walt?"

"I'm okay, Dana. Just glad to be here with you. I thought we were going to lose you." He clears his throat. "That I would lose you. Probably I shouldn't tell you that."

"No. I want to know. I need to make up for all the time lost -- to my abduction, to cancer, to my doubts and fears. Knowing how you feel grounds me. Makes me feel -- " she stares out the window at the passing lights, and sighs.

"There it is." She points and Skinner sees the red and orange sign. He spots Mulder as soon as he pulls in, leaning against an outside pay phone and eating fries. Neat as a cat, he discards the container, wipes his hands, and lopes over to the waiting car.

"Hey, Mom, Dad, thanks for coming all this way to get me."

Scully rolls her eyes and looks at Skinner, who grins at being included. It feels good to be a part of something, even something as ludicrous as trying to thwart a global conspiracy.

"Where are we going?"

Scully hadn't asked him, Skinner realizes. She just trusts that it will be somewhere safe. "A restaurant in Baltimore, right on Fells Point. Great crabcakes."

Mulder purses his Botticelli lips but refrains from comment. He settles back into the seat, buckles up, and begins summarizing the most recent "Lone Gunman" newsletter. Skinner lets the warm tenor wash over him with pleasure. He watches Scully twist in her seat so she can see both men at once, catches her eye, and they smile.

The crabcakes are good, Mulder decides, starting on another. And the cheesebread, and even the salad that Scully insisted he get. So far the evening has just been three friends out on the town. He assumes he wouldn't have been invited along if this really were a date, but is loath to steer the conversation away from the absence of basketball, the Clinton presidency, or the latest Patricia Cornwell. He's finding that he likes Skinner -- Walt -- more and more. Better read than he would have assumed a Marine would be, with a slow, sly sense of humor and a soft Texas drawl emerging as he relaxes.

He treats Scully well, too. Attentive, gentle, pleased by her pleasure. He'd discovered what wine she likes and brought it with them, apparently happy to pay the, in Mulder's opinion, exorbitant corkage fee so she could sip it with her dinner. Mulder is a little jealous, he admits to himself. But he's always treated Scully like a kid sister, a frequently annoying kid sister, and that, he sees now, was a defense against her considerable appeal.

And maybe a mistake.

Finally, he leans back and observes his two companions. They are starting to look like a couple, he sees, exchanging glances, secret smiles. Scully even pokes at something on Skinner's plate with her fork. "Okay," he says suddenly. "Why are we here?"

A flash of annoyance crosses Skinner's face but disappears almost instantly. He too sits back, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and begins.

Looking first at Scully, Skinner says, "It was an impulse. Maybe a foolish one. But we've been set aside, made into noncombatants. I just -- Remember that poster in your old office, Mulder? 'I want to believe.' Well," but here Skinner stops and drops his eyes. Mulder watches him closely, and feels his mind kick into profiling mode.

He's nervous, he tells himself, and unsure. He's afraid we'll laugh at him, even though he knows we won't. He's experienced a paradigm shift and now his entire worldview has changed. He needs our validation. Mulder begins nodding encouragingly at Skinner, and sees Scully take his hand.

"I believe," he finally says. He looks straight into Mulder's eyes, but guilelessly, without challenge. Mulder nods again. At this slight encouragement, Skinner continues. "I do, I believe, you persuaded me, you and Scully's science. Not to mention the pressure that's been brought to bear on me and on others in the Bureau. I've just seen too much.

"So. I needed to tell you. You were right, Agent Mulder. Shall I put it in writing?" He's smiling wryly, almost sadly, and Mulder smiles back.

"I'll need it notarized, with a blood sample, wrapped in red tape." Not very funny, so he shakes his head. "Thank you, Walt. I don't hear those words very often. Thank you for dinner, thank you for telling me, and thank you for your courage." To Mulder's own surprise, he reaches across the table and takes Skinner's other hand. It's warm and dry, the fingertips callused. Skinner blushes slightly, but his hand tightens slightly on Mulder's. Mulder gently returns the pressure, and the three sit quietly for several moments.

Skinner is the first to withdraw his hands, from both Mulder's and Scully's. He is a little distressed by what's transpired. Although in his professional life he's had to learn to become articulate and persuasive, in his personal life he is reserved and somewhat shy. He knows this about himself. Sharon and time have taught him. So the impulse to meet with Scully, to confess to Mulder, has shaken him. He realizes how much he's changed, how much they've changed him. He doesn't much like it.

Then again, he thinks, looking down at the pretty woman next to him, maybe this is better. Maybe it's okay to have friends, to speak the unspeakable. He looks across at Mulder. A handsome man, brilliant, stubborn, gentle. "Do you want to meet for some b-ball sometime, Mulder?" Another impulse, another slight blush.

Mulder grins like a child. "Yeah! Name the time and place. But I have to warn you, I'm good."

"I'll take my chances."

The rest of the night is spent in such small talk. Skinner can't remember a better evening, not since the three of them were in Haggerty, Washington, on a missing persons case. He drives Mulder back to his apartment -- no need to hide now -- and then Scully to hers. They sit in the rental for a few minutes; it's a warm spring night and neither too cold nor too hot to do so. She is, he thinks again, beautiful, and gathering all his considerable courage, he tells her so.

She sits quietly, parsing his meaning, then raises her eyes to his hesitant ones. "You know I love Mulder."

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart racing.

"But we've never . . . we're not, um," deep sigh, "we're not lovers." He nods again. "It's just that, um, that, I think, maybe, we waited so long. Maybe too long. Now we're more like brother and sister, or some alien kinship. We transcend relationships." She's looking straight into his heart or his brain with those laser-blue eyes. He can only nod yet again. "I could never hurt him, never leave him. But I can't name what he is to me. What he means to me."

She takes Skinner's hand again, with both of hers. Skinner softly traces a path on her palm with his thumb as she continues. "Walt, if having a relationship with you hurts Mulder in any way, I will stop. I'd rather have no one in my life than hurt him. But if he's okay . . . If he's okay, maybe we could, could not just pretend." Another sigh, and a rueful twist to her mouth.

Skinner knows he must speak. He must find the right words. He sits quietly, staring into space, absently soothing Scully's hands as he searches his heart for the truth. What he finds surprises and even embarrasses him, but he owes Scully the same absolute honesty she's shown him. "Mulder -- he's like this really bright, really annoying kid brother whom I'm responsible for but have no control over. The perfect existential dilemma." Now Scully grins. "And I won't do anything to hurt him, Dana. In my own way, I love him, too. If that means not trying for a relationship with you, well, I guess I'll adopt you instead. But first, let's try this." And with his free hand, he strokes her face, leans down, and kisses her softly.

She kisses him back, but quickly pulls away. Her face is flushed. "I have to think. To talk to him."

"That's okay. Maybe we both should."

They sit in silence and ponder what's taken place, then she leans in to kiss him. "Bye, Walt. Thank you." He walks with her to the door, and this time they really kiss. Her mouth opens under his and he swears he feels his blood pressure jump twenty points. He pushes her toward the door before he can do anything else.

What a night, he thinks, as he starts the long drive back to Dulles. Where will this take me?

Saturday afternoon, as he watches a hopeless baseball game, the phone rings. "Walter Skinner? I don't know if you remember me, but this is Emma Wakeman, from Snohomish State University. We met a few months ago."

"Of course I remember you, Emma. How are you? What can I do for you?"

"I'm fine, fine, and I hope you are, too. I'm sorry to call you at home, but I'm calling references for a job applicant who gave your name. He insisted I call you at home. He also had some other requirements. Specifically, I'm not to give you his name until you find a secure line. Does that mean anything to you, Walt?"

"Yes, it does. Emma, are you all right? Is there anyone in the room with you? Are you in physical danger?"

"No, nothing like that. A little puzzled, but okay. What do I need to do?"

"I'll do everything. It'll take me a couple days, so there's no reason to wait by the phone."

"Thank you. Please tell Dana and Fox I called, and that I said hello. Also, the job applicant says to tell Fox hello."

The call disturbs Skinner. It doesn't sound anything at all like the Emma he'd met a few months ago. He begins to plan how to return the call safely.

Monday noon finds Skinner at a pay phone on Pennsylvania Avenue, not far from the White House. He doesn't trust the secure lines inside the Bureau anymore, but this seems an acceptable substitute. Since a plane had recently buzzed the White House again, police and security are everywhere; he idly watches them as he calls the sheriff's office in Haggerty. "Deputy Wayne."

"Jack, it's Walt Skinner." They exchange the usual pleasantries, and then Skinner explains his reason for calling.

"Sure, I've seen that new guy around. Real good looking. Shame about his arm."

"His arm?" Skinner stops watching the various security personnel milling around and focuses on the voice four thousand miles away.

"He wears a prosthetic, but it's pretty obvious. His name --"

"No, no, don't say it. I know who you mean. Listen, can you get Emma on the line?" They discuss the logistics and, after dumping more change into the phone, and then more, he finally hears her voice.

"Emma, now listen carefully. I know who you're with, and he's a very dangerous person; people around him tend to die. Don't say anything too revealing over the phone. Are you sure he said to call me?"

"Yes, of course. Really, Walt, all this cloak and dagger nonsense. Was he your lover? You know I don't care about things like that."

"No, Jesus, Em." He sighs dramatically. "I'm sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff, but it really is necessary. Tell me why you called."

"He's applied for a part-time position in the Political Science/History department, teaching Russian history. He gave you as a reference, and asked me to call you at home on a weekend. He's charming, obviously intelligent, and his credentials check out. I just want to hire this guy to teach one crummy class in the fall, Walt; what's the big mystery?"

"He isn't who you think he is, Emma. I'm sure he's more than capable of teaching any number of classes, but he's a dangerous man. What else did he say?"

"He said to tell you that he's tired and that he wants to come out of the cold. That if you help him, he'll help you. That's why I thought you were lovers. That and his obvious affection for you and Fox."

Affection? But that was a thought for another time. "I'm going to come out there, Emma. Expect me in a couple days. Tell your job applicant to sit tight, if he knows what's good for him. And watch your back. I'm serious; he's a dangerous person. Tell Jack and Toddy I said so."

Sounding very subdued, Emma agrees. She volunteers to make reservations at the Night Owl for him, and to let the waiters at Tiny's know that he is returning.

When Skinner hangs up, he feels almost light headed. What the hell was going on? He makes reservations for a flight to SeaTac for the next morning, and then heads back to the Hoover. Straight to Scully.

She is engrossed in a file, comparing it with something on her computer monitor, when he gently touches her back. Brilliant smile of welcome, and he feels himself start to calm. He jerks his head toward the lobby, and she quickly rises to follow him.

In the parking garage, he whispers an explanation of what has happened. She takes his arm, and then hugs him, and kisses him deeply. He holds her and shuts his eyes.

"Something isn't right with this, Walt," she finally says. Her gaze is filled with affection and concern; he can barely look at her. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like that. At first he doesn't answer, just kisses her again.

"You know where I'll be. I'll call when I can. Use our hotmail accounts, too." She nods, and he walks her back, holding her hand. "Tell Mulder," he breathes into her ear as they part. Her eyes are somber and a little sad.

Mulder is furious. His anger spills out of him like water from a firehose as he slaps the basketball, again and again. He and Skinner are supposed to be playing, but they just stand in the empty court. The ball returns obediently to his hand after each vicious slap, the sound echoing off the buildings around them.

"You cannot go," he hisses at Skinner, who is clearly taken aback at his anger. "Call Sheriff Owens and have Krycek picked up. Hell, call that smoking bastard. But you cannot go."

"Mulder -- "

"No! Listen to me, goddammit. I know him in ways you can't begin to understand. I *know* him."

Skinner is obviously wondering what this means, but Mulder is too furious to do more than simply observe his confusion. He must find a way to persuade Skinner not to go. "He helped kidnap Scully. She's infertile because of him! He beat you up, for Christ's sake, and you're just going to fly out and say hello?"

"Mulder," Skinner keeps saying, "Mulder. Mulder, listen to me." But Mulder is on a tear.

"His loyalties shift with each breeze. I know he's changed sides at least three times since I met him. You cannot trust him!"

"Mulder." Skinner finally puts both hands on Mulder's shoulders and gently shakes him. Again, Mulder jerks away, but finally permits Skinner to speak. "Yes, Krycek changes sides with appalling regularity. Yes, he's betrayed all of us, and injured Scully. But Mulder, the fact that he's changed sides before gives credence to his desire to meet with me. This could be an enormous opportunity, Mulder. I have to go."

Mulder deliberately and aggressively moves into Skinner's personal space, so they stand only inches away from each other. He can feel the heat from Skinner's body, see his eyes behind his glasses, hear his breathing. His emotions have almost overpowered him, so he takes a deep breath and tries to slow his heart rate. He makes a conscious decision to invade Skinner's space even more, and slowly places his palm on Skinner's chest. He can feel springy chest hairs and a hardened nipple beneath the thin tee-shirt. They stare into each other's eyes for long seconds, before Mulder drops his, then drops his hand. Skinner catches it and holds it in his own.

Mulder feels defeated. He knows that he's failed to persuade his friend of the dangers Krycek represents, or at least that the dangers outweigh any possible advantages of meeting with Krycek. He feels a profound loss, as if Skinner were already gone, already injured or dead through Krycek's treachery. He stares down at their hands, clasped in friendship or enmity, he can no longer tell.

Skinner's heart is pounding and he's starting to sweat. He feels a terrible desire for Mulder, and it frightens him. I'm trying to start some kind of relationship with Scully, and here I stand holding Mulder's hand in the middle of a goddamn basketball court. What the fuck is wrong with me?

He remembers what he'd told Scully -- that he loved Mulder. Suddenly, that fraternal love seems dangerous, illicit. Mulder's anger and fear seem to have triggered powerful, heretofore unacknowledged, feelings for his former subordinate that he feels almost compelled to act on, except he doesn't know how.

Finally, he says, as calmly as he can, "You know I have to go, Mulder. If only because Emma asked me. If Krycek's that dangerous -- and I'm not saying he isn't -- then I need to be there for her. I'm leaving tomorrow at nine. Will you drive me to the airport?"

Mulder tries to pull his hand away, but Skinner hangs on. No you don't, he thinks, and steps closer, puts his other hand on Mulder's elbow. "Mulder? Will you help me?"

Mulder nods, eyes still downcast, shoulders slumped, silent. "Do you still want to play a little ball? No? Then let's go get something to eat." Skinner releases Mulder and jogs to the abandoned basketball, then back to Mulder. "Come on, buddy. I think you need a beer."

Mulder feels seduced by Skinner, by a new Skinner. A shape-shifter, he thinks idly, but he knows better. The adrenaline rush has left him a little weak, and the beer has relaxed him further. He's slightly embarrassed by the intensity of his earlier anger; he should have known that once Skinner makes a decision, nothing he could do would alter it. Why does he care so much?

He can't permit himself to remember touching Skinner's chest or holding his hand. The images float around him, simultaneously arousing and frightening him. What weird chemistry is at work tonight? He resolutely pushes away the thought and the images, and takes another sip of beer. He is an honest man, a man of great integrity, but his personal life bewilders him. He is, in fact, ashamed of his apparent inability to form traditional relationships with others. He's nearing forty and still unmarried. He is estranged from what little family he has left. His closest friends are as crazy as he is. The only way he's found to deal with these deep disappointments is by repressing any analysis of them. Mulder has profiled everybody but himself.

He looks over the remains of a pizza at Skinner, who is sitting quietly nursing his own beer. Calm, placid exterior; clever, analytic mind -- a body and mind to envy. Maybe to love.

That thought startles Mulder and he makes some small movement that draws Skinner's eyes to him. He smiles. "You okay, Mulder? I don't want to leave you angry at me."

"It's okay. I overreacted," but Skinner is shaking his head, a slight smile on his face.

"No, no, you didn't. It really is nuts to go out there. But I still have to go."

Mulder cracks up -- somehow Skinner admitting to doing something nuts makes him laugh. Hell, Skinner using the word "nuts" makes him laugh.

"Okay, we're both right. You shouldn't go, but you have to. Yeah, I'll take you to the airport tomorrow. What time should I pick up you? And when do you get back?"

"Pick me up at seven. I don't have a flight back; I thought I should wait and see what I find out there first. I'll keep in touch." Mulder nods. He likes the thought of being in touch with Skinner.

"Hey, finally, you have to report in to *me*!" He laughs again. Skinner raises his eyebrows in response.

Emma Wakeman looks delighted to see me, Skinner thinks as he steps out of the Crown Vic he rented at SeaTac. She is standing in front of the sheriff's office, beaming. Todd Owens, the county sheriff, stands next to her, smiling. Skinner tries to shake their hands, but they each pull him into a hug, Todd thumping his back in pleasure. This town makes him feel so welcome and relaxed. And the prospect of another dinner at Tiny's certainly cheers him.

When they walk into the sheriff's office, though, Skinner's happiness evaporates. Alex Krycek stands talking quietly to Jack Wayne, one of Todd's deputies. Both men look up at Skinner's entrance; Krycek looks guardedly pleased to see him. He looks to Emma.

Skinner follows his eyes. Emma is smiling back at Krycek, and turns to Skinner. "You know Tom, I think."

"Tom?" Krycek has an enormous smile now, and is approaching Skinner with increasing confidence.

"Tom Pynchon," he says, as if reminding Skinner of something he should know well, and then reaches out with his right arm to embrace Skinner. His left hangs stiffly at his side.

Skinner is so stunned that he permits Krycek to envelop him in a one-armed hug him and step back before he can speak. "What the hell are you doing here? What's going on?"

"Let's go for a walk. I'll tell you everything." Krycek's sensual lips are twisted into a barely repressed grin. He looks at Emma. "We meet at Tiny's at six-thirty, right?" She nods, and with his right hand he takes Skinner's left elbow and leads him out of the sheriff's office.

"Tom Pynchon? What kind of joke is this?" Skinner demands, once they're out of earshot of Emma, Todd, and Jack.

Krycek laughs. "Yeah, I thought it was funny. I'm not trying to pass myself off as *the* Thomas Pynchon; just somebody with the same name. Besides, I like being a 'Tom.' So all-American. Tom Hanks. Tom Sawyer. Tom Jefferson." Skinner shakes his head in disbelief but doesn't speak. "Thanks for coming out here. I bet Mulder had a hissy fit."

Skinner looks sharply at Krycek, deeply interested in this comment. "What happened between you and Mulder?"

Krycek shakes his head and purses his lips. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. It's all in Mulder's head, anyway. Listen to me, Skinner. I want this job. I want this life. I can help you, but not if I'm still in the Consortium.

"I want you to help me fake my death, so I can be Tom Pynchon. I'll be a continent away so you won't have to deal with me, and I'll be with people you know and trust. They'll let you know if something's wrong."

"They're also people I like. I've noticed that people around you end up dead."

Krycek nods, unperturbed. "Yeah. That's why I want out. I'm almost forty, Skinner. I want a life. I want *my* life. Can you understand that? And in return, I'll tell you what I know about the Consortium: who's in it, what its goals are, what the timeline is. I can't tell you everything, because I don't know everything, but I'll tell you what I do know. Is that a fair deal?"

Skinner doesn't answer. They'd been walking along the main road; Skinner now turns into a side street, and Krycek follows. They remain silent as they walk, scuffling the fragrant pine needles. Finally, Skinner says, "Look, Krycek. You're out of the loop, so you couldn't know. Mulder and Scully aren't in my division anymore. And I don't know how much longer I have in the Bureau. I got a little too helpful, a little too close. I've been -- set aside." He tries to say this without bitterness; it's just a fact.

Krycek knows. He's nodding his head, and says quickly, "Yeah, but that's why you'd be perfect. No one will suspect. Hardly anyone's watching you anymore. You're on the sidelines, impotent."

That hurts. Skinner actually must stop to catch his breath at the pain this revelation has brought him. He closes his eyes and bows his head.

Krycek gently touches his left arm. "Skinner. I know what's happened. Some of it I can see through, some I can't, but what I know about what's going on in the Consortium and in the FBI, I'll tell you. I can help you expose these people. I can help you either get back in the game, or get out entirely. Help me help you."

"Mulder says you're a liar. Why should I believe you?"

"You can't. But you can observe me. Get me a job here, and have your friends keep their eyes on me. If this isn't real, the real will turn up sooner or later. No one can pretend forever."

Skinner feels as though Krycek were speaking directly to his heart, to his conflicted and damaged heart. He resumes walking, more slowly now. "Let me think. Give me information I can take back and do something with. Persuade me." Krycek nods and they walk in silence.

Skinner suddenly thinks of something. "If you're using a different name, why'd you tell Emma not to use it over an unsecured line?"

Krycek laughs. "Jesus, Walt, what would you have thought if she said Tom Pynchon was using you as a reference? I had to get your suspicions up somehow."

Skinner grudgingly twists his mouth into what might be a smile, but doesn't answer.

Mulder slouches back on his couch, puzzling over an email from the Gunmen. He should go see them, but he's too tired -- emotionally exhausted. He'd taken Skinner to the airport that morning and said a peculiar farewell, simultaneously angry and forlorn. Skinner had hugged him, but Mulder had been too surprised and shy to return the gesture. Scully had been subdued at work, too; no doubt equally distressed by this turn of events. Mulder knows he needs to examine his feelings about Skinner, but as usual, refuses. Relationships are just so fraught, he thinks. Everybody dies or disappears.

In spite of his resolve, the images of Skinner and Krycek keep returning to him. Less than a year ago he'd been in San Francisco, investigating an x-file, and had experienced a series of hallucinations involving Krycek. They had forced him to recognize feelings for his former partner that both frightened and aroused him. He feels overwhelmed at the prospect of another encounter with Krycek. Spiritually bruised, he isn't sure he possesses the stamina it would require.

He lies down on the couch and drapes an arm over his eyes. So tired. So alone.

Skinner sits in Krycek's rented home, sipping an Italian chardonnay. He is bemused at the man's charm; at dinner, he and Emma had laughed at Krycek's anecdotes and stories about long-dead Russian aristocrats. He'd never have guessed there was anything amusing about Russian history, and wishes he'd had Krycek as a professor. The students will be lucky.

Skinner realizes he has decided to accede to Krycek's request. He's never helped plan a death before, but there's enough data in the Bureau's files that he should be able to learn from others' mistakes and come up with something foolproof. He's almost looking forward to the prospect. This change has been very liberating -- from being a by-the-book assistant director to a free-lancer, and all because the Bureau itself decided to set him aside. Unbeknownst to them, to set him free.

He realizes that Krycek has been silently watching him for the last few minutes. He sighs. "You've probably figured out that I'm going to agree to help you. At least until you fuck up." Krycek nods.

"I thought so. How are you going to explain your decision to Mulder?"

"Look, I told you, we no longer work together."

"Skinner, I *know* Mulder, and I know you. Part of my assignment was to study you. The fact that you're no longer his supervisor is only going to make your life more difficult. He never obeyed your orders when you had the entire FBI to back you up; why should he go along with you now?"

"Because he's my friend?" That silences Krycek. He actually looks hurt for a instant. He's smart enough to stay quiet, though. Skinner continues. "I'll go back to DC and talk to him. We'll figure out some way to make the world believe you're dead. Do you have any family who'll be asked to identify a body? If there's a body?" Krycek shakes his head. "Stay here, Krycek. I'm going to ask Todd and Wayne to keep a close eye on you, so behave yourself. You only get one chance. I'll kill you myself, and I'll enjoy doing it." He stares intently at Krycek, who only nods in acknowledgment. Obviously, he expected nothing less. "There are no happy endings, Krycek. Only endings."

Skinner, Scully, and Mulder are huddled together in yet another restaurant, The Inn on the Square in New Oxford, Pennsylvania, about a hundred miles north of DC. Each get-together is as carefully planned as the first: rental cars left at hotels, taxis grabbed off streets, long hikes through public parks. It's exhausting but necessary. Skinner's brought them there to examine information Krycek has offered as part of their deal.

He has sent, via encrypted email, information about the Consortium's plan to corrupt and use for their own purposes a new, personal computer-generated stamp product. He's also sent, via snail-mail, a sample of the new stamp. His choice of Tom Pynchon as a nom de guerre has become understandable, and reveals a certain sense of humor Mulder isn't sure he wants to appreciate.

As in the real Pynchon's novel, it's the stamps. And who looks at stamps? Scully had purchased the special breast cancer stamps at forty cents each; Mulder had bought sheets of the AIDS awareness stamp when it was available, but neither had actually looked very carefully at them. For all they knew, those might have been Consortium stamps as well.

The stamps under their gaze now are computer-generated, called "Information Based Indicia." They look like bar codes, not like paper or postage meter stamps. Mulder pulls Scully's hand, holding a magnifying glass, into position so he can peer through the glass at the indicia, while Skinner complains.

"I still don't get it. Are there words in the stamp? What's wrong with them? They look like any other bar code."

Scully pulls out a copy of _The Crying of Lot 49_ from her briefcase, and turns to a dog-eared page. Trust Scully to have done the research, Mulder thinks with some amusement, but refrains from comment. When Scully lifts an eyebrow at him, though, he knows she's already guessed at his amusement. He sees Skinner glance back and forth at them, and appreciates his growing awareness of his and Scully's ability to communicate wordlessly. He feels a bit smug, and wonders if their ability makes Skinner jealous. But that's an unkind thought, and he turns his attention back to Scully.

"Toward the end of the book, the main character, Oedipa, summarizes what she's discovered. She decides she has four choices: either she's stumbled on a secret means of written communication, the Tristero, that's been in existence for hundreds of years; she's hallucinating; it's all a plot, probably instigated and created by her late lover; or she's insane." Scully looks at the two men. "I'd say we have the same four choices.

"Either Krycek is telling us the truth, and the Consortium is going to do something with this new technology; we're hallucinating; it's untrue, just a plot to throw us off something else that's going on, instigated and created by Krycek and maybe the Consortium; or we're all insane." The two men glance at each other at the last choice, but say nothing.

"Later on, Oedipa decides," and she thumbs through the paperback to another down-turned page, "here, I'll read it to you:

"'For there either was some Tristero beyond the appearance of the legacy America, or there was just America and if there was just America then it seemed the only way she could continue, and manage to be at all relevant to it, was as an alien, unfurrowed, assumed full circle into some paranoia.'"

She carefully places the book on the table at which they sit. The three of them observe it as if it were a rattlesnake at rest.

They sit in puzzled silence for a few moments more, passing the crumpled envelope around to study the bar code. Finally, Skinner says, "Look, Mulder, I hate to suggest this, but I think you should take this information to those weird friends of yours I keep meeting when you're hospitalized."

"You should have brought Skinner, Mulder; we think he's cool," Frohike suggests.

"Yeah, he's old enough to appreciate my tee shirts," Langly agrees, while Byers studies the envelope Mulder handed him with his usual earnest care. He lightly strokes a finger across the indicia, sniffs it, and slides it under a microscope.

While studying it, he says, "There are a number of tests we should run on this, Mulder, but it'll take a while. Why don't you have Frohike make a pot of coffee and stay a while?" Byers is always the grown up among the kids. Even Mulder feels like a kid in his presence, which can be annoying, but mostly he enjoys the release from responsibility. But he does think Frohike has a point; he should have brought Skinner. He amuses himself imagining him here among these gnomes of technology, drinking coffee and eating junk food.

Skinner and Scully accept the news about the electronic postmark with remarkable equanimity, Mulder thinks, considering how they poked and prodded it over dinner. Of course, it could be shock, he supposes. Scully recovers first.

"So the virus --"

Skinner interrupts. "Let step through this methodically. The bar codes, the electronic stamps, are composed of tiny spheres that can be manipulated electronically to change the black and white stripes of the code. Electronic ink. I've never heard of it before."

"The guys say the bar code postmark we showed them is old technology -- which to them means a few years old. There are at the moment three different companies that have passed the post office's criteria for electronic stamps, with more on the way. Even Intel and Microsoft have invested in the technology. Electronic ink is newer, but not brand new stuff. Using it in the indicia means the bar code can be changed, changing the information contained in it."

Scully adds, "And of course, inserting chemicals into crushable spheres isn't new at all. When we touched that envelope, if the black cancer had been in those spheres, we'd all be infected. We'd all be dead. As would the Gunmen, and everybody in the restaurant."

Well, Mulder thinks, that's the crux of it. We could all be dead. He looks at his more-than-friends. They're holding hands; he's getting used to that -- it is, after all, their cover, although he thinks it's progressed a bit beyond simple cover. Their own consortium or alliance, struggling Davids against the nameless Goliath that seems to be bartering away humankind's future for temporal power and monetary gain. Three of them, six if you count the Gunmen, which he does. Seven, if you count Krycek, which he doesn't.

"So, what's next?"

"You think there should be a next?" Scully asks.

"You don't?"

She looks at Skinner, who drops his head conspiratorially, and almost whispers, "Krycek said there's a plant in South Bend, Indiana, that makes the hardware that interfaces with the computer and printer to generate the electronic stamp. He wants to meet us there."

"Jesus, it's hot." Mulder pulls his suit jacket and tie off and begins rolling up his dress shirt's sleeves. Skinner settles for loosening his tie. Scully wears a battered straw hat she brought back from a case in San Francisco.

"Hotter'n a two-dollar pistol," Skinner agrees as they make their way to the car they rented. It's early May in South Bend; the sky is bleached white by the bright sun and images waver in the distance from the heat refracted by the asphalt. "What a place to vacation."

For that is what the Bureau thinks they're doing, taking vacations. Each has left a different number for emergencies. Mulder's supposed to be at the Vineyard, Skinner in Austin, and Scully in San Diego. Instead, they're checking in under assumed names at the Inn at Saint Mary's. Krycek will be joining them tomorrow.

"How did the monks who settled this place stand the summer, wearing those wool robes?" Scully wonders idly, waving the hat in front of her in a fruitless attempt to generate a breeze. The men pile the luggage into the trunk of the Cadillac they've rented using a credit card with a false name. For this trip, Mulder and Skinner are brothers, Walt and William Carter, and Scully is Donna Lee. Thanks to the Gunmen, they have driver's licenses and credit cards to match. Ideally, Scully should have rented her own car and pretended not to know the brothers. Ideally.

There's a lot about this trip that isn't ideal, to Mulder's way of thinking. The fact that he'll have to see Krycek tomorrow is just one more. Just one more. Not the most important. Not at all. Mulder knows he's in serious denial here, but carefully pushes the thought away. Skinner gently touches his shoulder in concern, and he sees Scully looking at him, too. His friends are worried about him. He closes his eyes briefly and then nods his head. They climb into the enormous car and, as Skinner starts the engine, Mulder leans over the front seat to crank up the air conditioning. "Off on another adventure," he says sarcastically, but the other two refrain from comment. He has the sense of being better known than he would like to be.

Sharing a room with Skinner is weird, Mulder decides. He takes everything out of his suitcase and places it tidily in drawers or hangs it in the closet. He reads the brochures the hotel has left out, checks the balcony, bathroom, fire escape instructions, and door locks. It's obvious that he's performed these rituals many times before, and Mulder has a sudden vision of Skinner as a young agent in the field, organizing himself before an investigation or sting.

Mulder has tossed his duffel in a corner and made no attempt to unpack. He sits with his feet on the bed, sipping a soft drink that's sweating as much as he is. The Inn is very nice, nicer than most of the places he and Scully have had to stay in over the years. He closes his eyes and rubs the cold aluminum can across his forehead. He feels the bed under his feet dip and opens his eyes to find Skinner sitting in front of him, watching him carefully.

"Are you okay?" He nods. "Listen, Mulder, I know this is difficult for you."

"No, you don't." His voice sounds harsher than he'd intended. "No, Walt, you don't," he repeats more gently. "I -- there are things about Krycek -- we, um, I mean. . . ."

Skinner is smiling. "That's a little incoherent even for you, buddy. Let it go. I don't understand, but that's okay. Don't let it get in the way of why we're here. That's all I ask." Mulder nods, relieved at finding a measure of compassion where he had feared anger. Skinner surprises him further by leaning forward and taking his hand, gently stroking it with his thumb. He's seen him make this gesture with Scully and had interpreted it as one of affection and seduction. Now he's not sure what it means. Comfort, maybe. The two men sit quietly, the air conditioning the only noise in the room until Scully knocks at the adjoining door, which they have forgotten to unlock.

Mulder sees Krycek first, and feels a surge of some powerful emotion shake his autonomic nervous system like a drug. His heart speeds up, his respiration increases, he begins to sweat, and his hands and feet feel cold. His eyesight seems to narrow until all he can see is Krycek through a dark tunnel. The object of his vision, of his life. He takes a step forward and stops suddenly, which draws Skinner's and Scully's attention to him, and then to Krycek. The four conspirators stand frozen for a few seconds. Then Skinner strides to Krycek and takes him by his right arm, leading him back to where the two agents stand, then past them, walking quickly. Mulder and Scully turn and follow.

They are on the campus of the University of Notre Dame. Krycek had told them to meet him in front of the administration building, the Golden Dome. Skinner walks him behind the Dome, following a narrow winding road. Mulder can't tell if they are talking. He feels Scully take his hand, but he keeps his eyes on the two men ahead of him. His heart feels as though it is about to jump out of his chest. If Scully realized what state he was in, she'd probably sedate him.

They follow Skinner and Krycek around to a shrine of some sort, a stone wall with several pairs of crutches hung on it, and hundreds of candles, many of them lit. Skinner and Krycek stand near a gate in a waist-high black railing; Scully walks past them, right up to the wall. She puts a bill into a container and lights a candle, then kneels in prayer. Mulder feels so protective of her at that moment; he wants to believe in a god who can keep her safe and make her happy. He would pay anything, perform any ritual, undergo any penance, if only he could believe.

He walks up to Skinner and Krycek, to hear Krycek murmur, "It's called the Grotto. There are stories of real miracles; I think it's based on Lourdes, but mostly it's college kids praying to pass a final they never studied for. Hoping some god will save their asses instead of doing something about it themselves." Skinner and Krycek are watching Scully in prayer, but Mulder can't take his eyes off Krycek. He's valiantly trying to understand his feelings for the man, but they are too powerful and conflicted for him to dissect, standing there in the heat of the sun.

Finally, Scully crosses herself and rises, and walks back to the men. She looks coldly at Krycek. "You piece of shit," she says calmly. "Why are we here?"

Krycek's face is red, from embarrassment or the sun, Mulder isn't sure. Krycek stares at the ground and swallows, makes an aborted gesture with his right hand. When he does raise his eyes, they're red, too. "Scully, I'm trying to get out of hell. You turn from prayer to abuse so easily -- why don't you pray for me?"

"There is no god for people like you," she responds easily and with confidence. "Deal with it -- you're in hell now and you'll be in hell for all eternity. You have no reason to help us because we can't help you. Why are we here?"

Skinner is staring at her in what looks to Mulder like dismay; Mulder, too, feels concern at her icy countenance. Maybe it was a mistake to include her. Neither man, however, speaks; she and Krycek are in the midst of their own Jacobean revenge drama and they are simply the audience watching in horror.

"I'm infertile because of you," she tells him with that same frightening calm. "What man will want me knowing that? My sister is dead because of you. Mulder's father is dead because of you. Walt nearly died because of you. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you here, on holy ground. What god would condemn me? Wouldn't you find it a release?"

Mulder is appalled, his stomach roiling in distress at these words. He's said them himself, yet coming from Scully they sound insane. He harbors no doubt that Scully would kill Krycek if she saw the logic of doing so. Krycek's face tells him that he knows this, too; from red, it has drained to white, he's trembling, big rings of sweat have blossomed under his arms. He takes a small step sideways and back toward Mulder, as if in appeal to him. Mulder jerks away in fear, as if Scully's anger will ricochet off Krycek onto him. He shivers in spite of the heat.

Scully moves into Krycek's personal space, staring into his eyes. "Why are we here?" she repeats. "Tell me, so I can kill you."

This isn't Scully, Mulder thinks in confusion. She's suffering from heat-stroke. It's so hot, he can't think what to do, what to say. Skinner seems equally stricken by surprise at her behavior. Finally, he places his enormous hand over her tiny one. "That's enough," he tells her in his AD's voice. They stand joined by her anger for a moment more, then she releases Krycek from her glare. He staggers back, his right hand pulling at the neck of his tee. Skinner keeps Scully's hand in his and steps between her and Krycek.

"Answer her." Krycek takes yet another step back and crashes into Mulder, who unconsciously grabs at him to keep his balance. At his touch, Krycek falls away from him, toward Skinner, who puts his arms out. Now both Mulder and Skinner hold Krycek, who is sweating and trembling like a beaten dog. Scully did this to him, Mulder thinks. He's trembling himself as he strokes Krycek's back, soothing him. At that moment a family of six or seven kids comes laughing around the corner, right up to them. The smaller kids are staring at them, the older ones snickering. Their parents follow more slowly, pushing a stroller. Skinner takes Krycek's right arm and starts walking down the hill again, toward a wide lake. Krycek stumbles along behind him, twisting back to look at Mulder.

He feels Scully's hand on his elbow and looks down at her. "Don't you feel sorry for him," she tells him firmly. "I know how you feel about him, Mulder. I *know* you, better than you know yourself. I know what you want, what you want to do. Wait until he's proven himself." After these cryptic words, she stalks off after the two men. Mulder wants to kneel at the wall of candles himself, to petition for help, but obediently follows the others.

The four of them slowly map the perimeter of the lake, two by two. Krycek asks that they call him Tom, which Skinner and Scully do; Mulder doesn't speak at all. The heat is literally breathtaking, the humidity suffocating. Mulder feels as though he were breathing through a hot, wet, wool blanket; his hair has flattened to his head, and his tee shirt clings to his body, damp with sweat. The others look just as miserable; Scully's hair has frizzed and she keeps swiping it behind her ears. Skinner's scalp is pink from incipient sunburn.

Krycek -- Tom -- doesn't have that much more to share with them. He explains that there are several plans for altering the e-stamp by using electronic ink. Information linking senders and receivers could be useful to the Consortium by permitting them to track not only material but people. Vast amounts of money could be diverted from the Post Office by altering the indicia. But of greater concern to them is that the tiny spheres can be filled with material other than electronic ink. Variola virus, for example, that's been genetically altered. The black cancer.

But what to do with this information? They are stymied. They walk in silence to a small dock, where they find some shade to sit in and brainstorm. Finally, Skinner says, "We can't investigate this ourselves. Mulder and Dana are in domestic terrorism now; it falls under my purview. I'll pass the information on to my deputy and let her assign it to one of the sections. I can monitor the investigation that way, yet not draw attention to my interest in it."

"Bullshit!" Mulder shouts, startling the ducks paddling nearby in hopes of tidbits. "Bullshit, Walt. This is our case, no one else's. Anyway, it could be domestic terrorism. You can't give it away."

"Mulder, I have to. An assistant director doesn't investigate cases; you know that. It's potentially a plan to defraud the US Postal Service. And you'll get thrown out of the Bureau if you go off on your own."

Scully takes Mulder's hand and squeezes it. He's so angry he barely notices the gesture. "I don't care if I'm thrown out. Shit, Kersh has told me to quit. I'll go."

Krycek leans forward intently. "No, Mulder. Don't be an idiot and don't be a goddamn martyr. Let Skinner handle this. It'll get investigated, word will get out, their plans will have to change. And you will still be on the inside, with all the power and authority of the FBI behind you. Please, listen to Skinner and Scully, if you won't listen to me."

The two men stare into each other's eyes. Scully tugs harder on Mulder's hand, until he turns to her. She's shaking her head, her hair sticking to her face in the humidity. He reaches up with his other hand and gently slides the strands away from her eyes and mouth. "Mulder, I can't believe I'm saying this, but Krycek's right. Sabotaging your career won't help us. We need you on the inside -- I need you as my partner."

He turns back to Krycek, drawn by the other man's presence. Mulder feels distressed by the simple fact that the four of them are sitting down having a conversation in the shade, as if discussing a movie they'd seen, when in fact they're plotting to subvert what might be the most secret and powerful organization the world has known. He's also distressed by his feelings about Krycek, feelings he still refuses to categorize. He drops his eyes, closing them against the shimmer of the sun on the lake. His head is pounding.

Skinner worries about Mulder. He worries that he doesn't eat enough, doesn't sleep regularly, doesn't take care of himself, doesn't follow Bureau protocol, doesn't pay attention to his partner -- hell, he worries more about Mulder than he does about himself. Right now, he's worried about Mulder's state of mind. He's obviously upset, and Skinner believes it's due in great part to Krycek's presence.

Last summer, when Mulder and Dana still worked under him, Skinner had rushed to San Francisco to help search for them when they'd gone missing on a case. While under the influence of a mysterious drug, never identified, he'd hallucinated Mulder and Krycek together, as a couple. Kissing rather passionately, he recalls. He sees them now, in his mind's eye, their arms around each other, staring at each other, just as they had here a moment ago.

Skinner feels a sensation, a prodrome or foreboding of something unknown about to reveal itself to him. He wonders if this is how epileptics feel just prior to a seizure, or migrainers just prior to a headache. He wonders if he's suffering a stroke from the heat and stress. His skin feels sunburned, he can't catch his breath, and his heart seems to stutter in his chest. His vision blurs, and the light darkens. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, the blow falls and he suddenly comprehends a new truth -- a paradigm shift, Mulder would name it.

What he sees, as clearly as he sees the light on the water and the sun filtering through the leaves, is that Mulder and Krycek must forgive each other. He feels, as concretely as he feels the rough wood planking of the dock beneath him, that they too are on the verge of this discovery. He knows, as surely as he knows his name, that his world has changed. Suddenly Krycek transmutes into Tom Pynchon, a friend and ally who loves Mulder and who seeks forgiveness and restitution. Suddenly Mulder is revealed as a lonely, isolated man who needs to forgive himself for wanting to love and be loved. Tears fill his eyes, his head throbs, his nose stuffs up, and he starts to laugh in embarrassed confusion at this response to his discovery. At Scully's concerned look, he shakes his head and whispers, "Nothing, nothing."

After a moment, without another word, the four rise and start walking back to their initial meeting place. Mulder finally asks Krycek where he's staying.

"Nowhere. I have to be in Toronto tonight." No one asks him why. Skinner resolves to find a way to get Krycek out of the Consortium and into his new life. Maybe into Mulder's life.

At Krycek's recommendation, the three FBI agents have dinner at Macri's Italian delicatessen. It's a quiet meal, punctuated only by the comings and goings of their server, attentively refilling Scully's iced tea and successfully tempting Mulder and Skinner to try the cappuccino cheesecake. Mulder buys a box of Baci, but even he's too full to eat more and can only play with the wrappers as they sit in their booth, away from the noise of the televised baseball game. Finally, he sighs.

"Scully," he begins, but she drops her head. "Scully, please."

Skinner watches them carefully, trying to observe how they communicate so wordlessly. Clearly something has passed between them. He's noticed how often they speak each other's names, and half believes that they communicate tonally. "Scully" said in one way translates to "I've got your back"; said in another translates to "I refuse to acknowledge what you've just told me." Said in the way Mulder has just pronounced, it seems to translate to "We need to discuss what happened even though you don't want to and even though Skinner is here." Maybe I can learn this language, he thinks with a slight smile, until he sees Scully's red face beneath her red hair.

"Hey," he says softly, and takes her hand. She looks up at him from behind her hair, her blue eyes luminous with unshed tears. "What is it?"

She looks at Mulder, silent, and Skinner follows her glance. He watches the woman he loves look at the man he loves. There is suddenly too much communication; the booth feels crowded with unspoken words, unexpressed passion, uncomforted pain.

"Please, Scully," Mulder repeats, his brows knitted together.

Scully shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "I was angry," she finally says. Skinner realizes they're discussing what happened at the Grotto today, when Scully had threatened Krycek. He feels two steps behind these two, intellectually and emotionally slow.

"You must know --" Mulder begins, but Scully cuts him off.

"Of course I know. I'm not stupid, Mulder," she says sharply. Skinner is too embarrassed to admit that *he* doesn't know, and remains silent.

"They why? And why *now*?"

Scully shakes her head again, and they sit in stony silence. Skinner tries to think of some way to enter this odd conversation, but Mulder uncharacteristically decides to try again.

"No, Scully. Please. Don't pull away now. Don't go into that cold, unforgiving mode." She shoots him as hostile a look as Skinner has ever seen from her, as cold as the one she gave Krycek. Suddenly, he can see her relent.

"Goddammit," she says, and sighs gustily. "Goddammit, Mulder," more softly, almost an endearment. "I just need some time to get used to the idea." Mulder nods at this. Skinner wishes he knew what the hell they were talking about.

"Yeah, I do, too. No, that's not true. I've always known, but other things got in the way. Your abduction," and to Skinner's increasing bewilderment, both laugh at this.

"Jesus, Mulder. I guess I'm flattered."

"You're flattered," he says with enormous confidence and, smiling, takes her hand. They sit across the table, back in each other's good graces.

Skinner decides to intervene, but modulates his voice carefully. He isn't entering this conversation as their supervisor, but as a friend. "Mulder, Dana, what's going on?"

Scully rolls her eyes and Mulder laughs. They give each other another look, apparently deciding who will talk, because Scully explains. "This afternoon, when I was so angry with Krycek. Um, well, really it was with Mulder." Mulder smiles a crooked grin. "I know how, um, well. . . . "

"Yeah, Scully, what do you know?" She gives Mulder another look, the kind Skinner's mother had given him when she wanted him to knock-it-off-buster but they were in public and she didn't feel free to tell him directly. Then Mulder turns his attention to Skinner. "Scully figured out that I, um, was," he's blushing now, "um, that I liked Krycek. Back when he was my partner and she was at Quantico." Skinner nods to indicate he remembers. "Since then we've, I mean Krycek and I, we haven't, um." He completely stops and looks at Scully, who takes up the thread.

"Mulder and Krycek like each other, Walt; do you know what I mean?" Well, duh, Skinner thinks, but simply nods his head. "I don't approve. I mean," now she's blushing, "I mean I *don't* mean because they're both men --"

"Thanks for noticing, Scully," Mulder interjects, but she ignores him.

"-- but because of who Krycek is. Was. What he'd done to us. But that was then. Now. . . . Well, now. . . ." And she stops.

Skinner realizes he isn't going to get any more cogent discussion on the topic, at least not tonight, so he nods again and takes a sip of his Sam Adams. He does understand. Their conversation is a bit cryptic and sometimes too cute for him, but he understands completely.

He decides he really doesn't want to be able to communicate with anyone as easily as these two do. It would be as intimate as telepathy, no secrets allowed, never an escape. Maybe that's why Mulder ditches Scully, he muses, and why Scully retreats into her silences.

Mulder lies in his queen-sized bed, staring into the dark, listening to Skinner's soft breaths in the next bed. The air conditioner hums continuously, and he can smell its damp metal tang. He can't sleep. Whatever sleep disorder he suffers from has him fully in its sway tonight, and he knows he'll watch the hours tick off without grace. Finally, he sits up and tries to straighten the sheets twisted around his legs. Skinner turns and murmurs something, then slowly wakes. He lies on his side and watches Mulder, who whispers, "Go back to sleep. It's all right." The two men stare at each other in the faint light of the streetlamps outside their curtained window. Skinner sighs heavily, and rolls away.

Mulder sighs, too, not sure if he's relieved or disappointed. He remains sitting in his bed, stuffing a pillow behind him to lean on. He wonders if he could bother Scully, or wake Skinner again, or go for a walk, or read, or watch tv in the lobby, or *anything* except sit here in a dark, quiet room, listening to his own obsessive thoughts. He can barely permit himself to think of what's happened today: seeing Krycek, talking to him, agreeing to work with him; of Scully's anger at Krycek, and at him, of her comprehension of his feelings; of Skinner's presence in his bedroom.

The night is so fucking quiet, he thinks, as he does almost every night. Skinner's regular breaths, not quite snores, are more company than he's had in years, in some ways better than television, but not as good as a late-night conversation with Scully. She's never once not answered her phone, even though she must know with complete confidence that it's him calling. He smiles in the night, remembering past conversations, long silences, intimate in the dark.

Finally, as he knew it would, an image of Alex Krycek returns to him, one he almost fears. They are in some alternate San Francisco and Krycek possesses both arms. He closes his eyes and remembers the feel of those hands on his body, stroking him, pulling him closer. He remembers kissing him, the taste of his mouth and throat, the sensation of Krycek's tongue in his mouth. He rolls his head back against the wall and touches his own lips, stroking the lower one that Krycek had sucked and gently bitten. He skims his hand down the length of his body, under the sheets, and rests it on his stirring penis. He won't jerk off with Skinner in the next bed, but he does stroke himself, once, twice.

He inhales sharply and opens his eyes to see that Skinner is still asleep, ignorant of Mulder's behavior. He squeezes his balls once, roughly, as punishment as well as reward, and pulls his hand away. He knows what he wants, who he wants. Scully was right today; she knew it before he did. Goddammit. Fear and desire have always been so closely entwined for him; his fear propels him toward that which he desires; his desire propels him toward that which he fears. Fuck. Just fuck.

He scoots down into the bed and rolls onto his stomach, but that's a mistake; the pressure of the mattress against his dick makes him push into it, seeking the friction, so he twists onto his back again, gripping the sheets to keep his hands away from himself. He thinks he's going crazy.

Suddenly, a light clicks on and through its glare he can see Skinner sitting on the edge of his bed, putting on his glasses. He's wearing a tee shirt and white jockeys but seems completely unselfconscious. "Mulder."

Busted, Mulder thinks, and groans and turns his head away from Skinner and the light, but his former supervisor is implacable. "Mulder, talk to me."

"I'm sorry, sir." The honorific comes out of long habit and his feeling of shame. "I can't sleep. Usually I watch tv or read or talk to Scully. I just can't lie here like this."

"Well, that's a problem we can solve. But that's not what I meant."

Mulder wonders whether crying or shouting would be the better diversionary tactic, but he knows Skinner wouldn't accept either. He sits up again, but refuses to answer or look at his friend. They remain in silence for almost a minute before Skinner speaks.

"How long?"

Play dumb, the cautious voice in his head tells him, but it's too late for that. "Since we met."

"You ever, um, *act* on these feelings?"

"No! I didn't even really know about them. Understand them." Shit.

More silence. He glances over at Skinner and is surprised to see compassion and even pain on his face. He's hurting for Mulder, and that triggers his deep guilt. "It's okay, really. I'm okay."

"Fuck that, Mulder. None of us is okay and you know it. But if Krycek can make you a little more okay, you're an ass if you don't try."

Scully had once told Mulder that he just kept unfolding like a flower, but Skinner was the one who kept surprising him. If he'd heard correctly, a former Marine had just told him to attempt a relationship with a known felon who had caused himself, Mulder, and Scully grave physical and emotional damage. Mulder finally looks at Skinner, into his eyes. "Just try, Mulder. Have a little faith in the power of forgiveness. Forgive him, and forgive yourself. My mother would remind you what Jesus told Paul, when he asked how often to forgive someone who sinned against him. Do you know the answer?" Mulder shakes his head. "Until seventy times seven."

Skinner gets out of bed and pulls a book from his briefcase on the table; Frances Mayes's _Under the Tuscan Sun_. "It won't bother me if you want to read for a while." He turns on Mulder's bedside light and hands him the book.

Without another word, Skinner climbs back into bed and turns off his light. Mulder again lies down, cautiously considering Skinner's advice, and opens the book.

Skinner runs. He had woken before dawn from one of those heart-stopping, dry-mouthed nightmares he occasionally has. He never remembers the specifics, but he knows something awful has happened, something he can neither prevent nor escape. Mulder had been sprawled bonelessly across his bed, finally asleep in the air-conditioned cool of the early morning, so Skinner had quietly pulled on shorts, running shoes, and a tee and left. Now he's running along the St. Joseph River, sweating in the dense humidity, thinking about Mulder and Krycek.

Only a blind man or a fool could have missed the chemistry between the two men. They are both beautiful, as dark and dangerous as blades. Intelligent, careful investigators, they'd made a good team in Scully's absence. If Krycek hadn't been a pawn of the Consortium, if he hadn't aided in Scully's abduction, who knows what would have happened between them. But here he is, begging forgiveness, asking for a second chance, from the very people who couldn't be expected to respond.

But I am responding, Skinner admits, we all are. He liked Krycek; he'd liked him from the first. That's no doubt why he was so angry when he had realized whom Kyrcek had been working for. Now, after everything that's happened, everything that Krycek's done, he's being asked, not to forget, but to forgive. It's what he advised Mulder last night. Can he do less?

He pounds along the narrow path, dodging branches heavy with dew, then reaches a point overlooking the river far below. He stops, breathing heavily, and wipes his face with the hem of his tee. He's run too far, he knows, and will have to walk back in the powerful heat of a midwestern morning. But it's beautiful, as green as Oz. He stares across the river and thinks of the French and British who'd stolen this land, fought over it, found it worth fighting for. Of Lafayette and his men who'd lost so much simply trying to cross this river. But all thoughts lead back to Mulder and Krycek: of how much they've lost. How much they stand to gain.

In his honesty, Skinner also considers his own relationship with Mulder, his feelings for him and how confused they are. He remembers touching Mulder, laughing with him, yelling at him, worrying about him, wanting him. He is, he forces himself to admit, jealous of Mulder's attraction and attention to Krycek. He is ashamed to make this admission. The years of denial, of choking back every feeling, of focusing only on duty, have taught him not to want and certainly not to act on his wants, a long, difficult, and painful schooling.

But he does want. He wants Scully and he wants Mulder, and he wants them to want him. This is impossible, intolerable. How did this happen? He remembers last night, watching Mulder masturbate to the memory of Krycek. He'd spent a sleepless night afterwards, listening to the pages of his book being turned by those hands, hands wanting someone else. He wasn't wanted. He wasn't wanted.

Mulder was right, Skinner thinks a few weeks later, reading a rather poorly written report on the on-going investigation of the electronic stamp and electronic ink; this case should have been his. He and Scully would have done a better job, investigated more thoroughly. But they have to work in the shadows now. He scribbles a few notes on the file for his deputy to pass on to the SAC; so many rungs down the ladder, he has little confidence the messages will be relayed or obeyed. But at least he's trying.

Mulder isn't doing well. In the weekly meetings, he hears Kersh's unkind jokes about Mr. and Mrs. Spooky, accepts congratulations on having divested his division of them, and swallows his ire. Most believe that he has a relationship with Scully and that he sees Mulder socially, but there's no longer a need to pander to AD Skinner. He's on his way out; Kersh is on his way up. They probably call me Spooky now, too, he thinks every Thursday morning, trying to digest the breakfast that sits so heavily on his stomach. Or Loser.

Skinner isn't doing well, either, he admits to himself. He feels patronized by the other ADs and even their deputies. Some of his department heads have started arguing with him in a way he hasn't had to counter in years. One has even refused an order, but Skinner is too tired to confront the man. It simply doesn't seem worth it.

Work may be going poorly, but his personal life has never been richer. He lives for the evenings and weekends with Scully and Mulder. Sometimes he visits the Lone Gunmen; he especially likes Frohike and his weird sense of humor, not to mention his loyalty to Mulder. He talks to Tom Pynchon almost once a week; phone calls with no content, just chit chat about the weather, Tom's preparations for his class in the fall, their mutual friends in Haggerty. He also spends a lot of time on the Internet, researching various obscure topics, like stamps, variola, and mothmen, sometimes just lurking in chatrooms or perusing a newsgroup. It's a much different life than he'd lived even a year ago. Not a bad life; just different. He comforts himself with the thought that, as Molly Ivins wrote, freedom fighters may not always win, but they're always right.

He, Mulder, and Scully have come up with a plan to dispose of Krycek so he can truly become Tom Pynchon. He still has to run errands for the Consortium, although his benefactor was killed or killed himself last summer, right before Mulder's eyes. The errands are, Skinner gathers, extremely unpleasant and illegal. He doesn't want to know too much about them.

They've decided he should die in a car accident, where the car plunges into running water that pulls the body from it. They spend hours pouring over maps looking for suitable conjunctions of road and river; so far, with little luck. Mulder had suggested Chappequiddick, but both Skinner and Scully vetoed that. Too well known, too much of a coincidence, too tacky. It will happen on his way back from an assignment, one that is completed successfully. No one has said this, but it should be a particularly horrific assignment. A murder would be best, of course, but Skinner still works for the Department of Justice, and even if the DOJ has been entirely subverted by aliens, he doesn't want to know about a murder, either before or after the fact. He just trusts that Krycek is smart enough to figure that out for himself.

It's another Thursday afternoon. Skinner really, really hates Thursdays. He pushes the papers on his desk away and puts his head down, eyes closed. Oh god, let this cup pass from me. He doesn't see Scully until Saturday morning; they're going to an auction together and will meet Mulder for a late lunch afterwards. It feels as though Saturday will never arrive.

Impulsively, he logs into one of his anonymous email accounts and sends Scully a message. "I miss you so much," he types. "What can I do to make you feel this?" Before he can change his mind, he clicks "send," and the message begins its journey through cyberspace to Scully's hotmail account. Of course, she probably won't check it until tonight, he thinks, and puts his head back down on his desk. Then, even more impulsively, he sends another letter, to Mulder.

"I miss you," he types, then pauses. Well, he can't send the same message to both, even if it is true, so he backspaces that out and writes, "I used to complain bitterly about having you in my division, but now that you're gone, I realize what a brilliant agent you were. A major, unqualified pain in the ass, but also a thorough investigator who wrote entertaining if not entirely believable reports. Take care of yourself." Even more quickly than with Scully's email, he clicks "send."

To his surprise, in only a few moments he has a response from Mulder. "I can't tell you how much that means to me. I respect you, I've always respected you, even when I thought *you* were the biggest pain in the ass in the agency. Thank you."

Okay, he thinks, smiling. That takes a little weight off my back. Plus he has Scully's reply to look forward to. That will make the evening a bit more attractive.

Almost five months after meeting Krycek in South Bend, the case is closed. The agents in charge did a good job -- not great, but good -- and turned their findings over to the Postal Service investigators. Skinner's name, of course, was never mentioned; he made sure his deputy received what little credit arose from the situation. All in all, he's pleased; they've made a tiny dent in the Consortium's plans, although what the plans or that dent consist of, he isn't really sure. But over the past few years, Skinner has grown accustomed to and even comfortable with ambiguity, and to a lack of closure. So much of his work, what he now considers his real work, is done in the dark: unknown sources, unknown results.

Suddenly: "Did you hear?" Kimberly has opened the door without waiting for a response to her quick knock. "Remember that Alex Krycek, who was Mulder's partner when Scully disappeared? He's been killed in a horrible accident."

Skinner is stunned that Kimberly has heard, although she hears everything. "Where did you learn this?"

"It's all over the agency. His body was found in a burnt-out building in Pittsburgh. The police had fired tear gas into it and it exploded. Seventeen people were killed." Kimberly is a decent person and looks appropriately shocked at the news she's relaying, although clearly relishing it. "They identified him by his fingerprints."

This was *not* the way Krycek was to die. Skinner's stomach twists in fear and dismay. "So it's really him?" Kimberly nods. He thanks her and she goes back, probably to call others in the division. He wonders whether he should call Mulder and Scully, but decides they'll hear soon enough. Then he realizes that he doesn't want Mulder to learn about this death through the grapevine. It's only ten; too early for lunch. He feels agitated and can't think, can't come up with an excuse to go down to their bullpen and tell him. He can't call them; regardless of how sidelined he is, he's convinced that the phones are still bugged. He decides to send an email, using an anonymous remailer, without any names or specific information. Then he must wait. He sends a prayer to a god he no longer believes in that Mulder will be all right, then tries to focus his attention on all the paperwork awaiting him.

Mulder tends to check his email compulsively. So many leads come in that way, and it makes him feel connected, part of something. He has several accounts, both official and unofficial. The Gunmen have set him up with accounts he uses at various cybercafes in town, plus he has some anonymous accounts for personal use, primarily Scully and Skinner. Just before lunch, he checks the ones he receives on his computer at work, and finds the message from Skinner. He is so shocked by its contents that he half falls out of his chair, pulling some papers off his desk. He hears Scully ask him what's wrong, but he can't answer, can't take his eyes off his monitor. She comes up behind him, picking up the papers, and then reads over his shoulder. "Oh, my god," she murmurs.

She tugs at his arm. "Let's get out of here," she whispers, "now, Mulder." He allows himself to be led away.

At the reflecting pool, where they usually go to talk, however, he stops. "Scully, I'm sorry, but I have to be alone, I have to think." He walks briskly away, leaving her behind. He can feel her eyes on his back, but keeps walking, as if he had someplace to be.

All he can think is that Krycek is dead, Krycek is dead. His stomach is upset, he feels hot and cold at the same time, he's trembling. He remembers Skinner's advice, to forgive Krycek and to forgive himself. But when he does think of Krycek, he thinks only of his anger at him. I am, he muses as he blindly follows another sidewalk, really in touch with my anger. I'm hostile and defensive and unforgiving. He puts a hand to his forehead and wipes away the cold sweat. Goddammit, Krycek is dead; now I'll never have a chance to --

To what? What chance does he want? He finds a bench and seats himself, dropping so heavily onto the concrete that he jolts his spine, and leans forward, putting his face in his hands. This is it, he tells himself. Everyone says you're brilliant. You're a well-educated psychologist, a well-trained investigator, and an all-round sensitive, nineties kind of guy. For Christ's sake, think. For Christ's sake, be honest with yourself.

He's reviewed the damage Krycek has done to his life so often it's like a Catholic reciting the rosary; no thought is needed for it. He must do more. The recrudesence of his feelings for Krycek frightens him. He admits to that, to being frightened. He admits to having complicated and conflicted feelings about Krycek. For Krycek. He rubs his face and the back of his neck, sighing deeply.

I have feelings for Krycek, he repeats to himself. I'm angry at him. I feel betrayed by him. I hate him. I desire him.

He can feel his heart beating steadily in his chest, hear a slight whistle as the air enters his nose as he breathes, smell fresh-cut grass, taste his sour saliva. All these sensations offer evidence that he is alive, while Krycek is dead, burnt to death. Dead and therefore beyond recriminations, beyond salvation, beyond redemption. Beyond anyone's love.

Mulder wants to weep, for himself, for Krycek, for the lost possibilities that Krycek's presence in his life meant. He feels someone sit down next to him, and gently touch his shoulder. He knows it's Scully. He keeps his head down and eyes closed for a moment more, collecting himself, and then turns to look at her.

To his immense surprise, she is crying. Her patented Scully tears, that leak silently from her eyes without reddening her nose but turn her blue eyes even bluer. She is very beautiful. Mourning becomes Scully; it always has. But why is she crying for Krycek? A few months ago, he heard her threaten to kill him. He takes her hand.

"Oh, Mulder," she whispers, "I am so sorry. I am so sorry."

"Scully, I don't understand. You *hated* Krycek; why are you crying for him?"

"I'm not. I'm crying for you. Now you'll never have the chance to forgive him. You'll never be able to --" but her throat constricts and she can say no more. She pulls his hand up to her lips and kisses it, then rests her head against it.

Mulder closes his eyes, in grief and regret, and they sit, holding hands, until Scully can stop crying. Without discussing it, they decide to remain out of the office for the rest of the day. There's always some shit errand that needs to be run.

That weekend, Skinner takes Mulder to a ballgame. They exchange only a few dozen words, but drink warm beer and comment in approving grunts or disappointed moans as Baltimore loses to Boston. In the languor of the autumn sun, Skinner relaxes into the bleachers, sprawling his long legs over the back of the empty seat in front of him. He's wearing a Forty-Niners cap to protect his scalp from the sun, and sunglasses he paid far too much for.

From behind the expensive shades, he shoots quick glimpses at Mulder, munching sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into an empty beer cup. It's a boring game, but he seems to be focused on it.

After the game, wandering through the maze-like parking lot looking for his car, Skinner feels compelled to say something to Mulder. Something like, "I'm sorry about your friend's death." Or "Are you okay about Krycek?" Or maybe "How long have you been gay?" But every word seems awkward, uncouth, and unkind. Locating the car, he unlocks the passenger side to let Mulder in. When he turns, Mulder catches his arm. "Thanks," he says simply. Skinner impulsively hugs him, embarrassed at his own actions. This is *so* un-Texan, un-FBI, un-Skinner-like. But he's tired of all the shit, of his own hypocrisy. He likes Mulder -- no, goddammit, he can't even tell himself the truth. He loves Mulder, and his friend is in pain, and there isn't anything he can do except take him to a fucking ballgame and buy him a beer.

"Jesus, Mulder," he says, his voice thick with emotion. The two men stand in the darkening parking lot, embracing among the debris and lost cars. He feels Mulder's tears, warm on his shoulder, and tightens his clasp, slowly rubbing Mulder's back in comforting circles. He slides his hand up to Mulder's neck and spreads his fingers. The muscles beneath his hand are taut, and he gently massages them. Mulder's head rocks slightly beneath his ministrations and he can feel Mulder's breath on his own neck. "I'm so sorry," Skinner finally says.

Mulder sniffs vigorously, and sighs. For a moment more the two men stand together, and Skinner feels what might be a kiss on his shoulder blade. Then Mulder pulls back, wiping his face. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he apologizes, but Skinner pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to him.

"'S okay," he replies, a little uncertainly. Mulder climbs into the passenger seat, and that seems to be that. Skinner wipes his own eyes, and gets into the car.

Several weeks after learning about Krycek's death, Skinner is at home, alone, reading budget reports, when his cell phone rings. Pulling it out of his jacket pocket, a familiar husky voice says, "Hi, Walt; it's me."

"Jesus Christ, where have you been? What have you done? Who the hell died?"

Krycek is laughing at the bombardment of questions. "Did you worry about me? What a long, strange trip this has been. I can't tell you much over the phone, but I'm okay. It's all okay." He laughs again, slightly hysterically, Skinner thinks, who's starting to laugh himself. "It just came together. I was one lucky bastard."

Skinner wants to ask about the fingerprints, but he fears that his phone is bugged. Besides, he's already figured it out -- someone else's had been substituted for Krycek's in the electronic files. Well, at least he won't have to help fake a death. He can't think what to say that won't give Tom's identity away to the Listeners he must assume are there. He sits in silence, rubbing his head, until Krycek finally says, "Walt? You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just don't know what to say."

"Well, nothing, really. I'm sorry to have worried you, but like I said, everything just came together really quickly. I had to move then, and I'm glad I did. I have a *lot* of news for you.

"Listen, Walt. Why don't you come out here for a visit? Maybe spend a week. You can stay with me; I have a couple spare rooms. Do you like to fish? Jack Wayne tells me there's great trout fishing nearby." He pauses for a second, and then adds, "Maybe ask Fox if he would come, too."

Skinner sits in his living room shaking his head. A murderer and traitor has just asked him to go fishing. After a long, slightly uncomfortable silence, he agrees. A little ungraciously, in his gruff AD manner, but he agrees. They choose a date before hanging up, and Skinner remains in a slight daze, trying to figure out who he has become. Who Krycek has become.

Then he realizes he has to tell Mulder right away. Shit, Mulder's apartment is buggy as a roach motel. He'll have to drive over, hope he's there.

Mulder is there. He can see light from under the door and hear the faint sounds of the television. Jerry Springer, it sounds like. When Mulder opens at his knock, he gestures to follow him. Mulder leaves the television on, just locks the door and walks out. They walk in silence for several blocks until they come to a crowded restaurant and bar. Skinner leads the way into the bar, orders beer for them both, and finds them a booth. In all this time, neither says a word to the other.

In the smoky, noisy atmosphere of the bar, they lean across the table. Mulder looks concerned and curious, his eyes wide and pupils dilated in the dim light. He has to tilt his head up a little to look into Skinner's face. Skinner doesn't know how to start. After his epiphany at Notre Dame, he realizes how important Krycek is to Mulder. He and Scully have, somewhat disloyally, discussed the two men's relationship, speculated on it, even made a few jokes about it. He moistens his mouth with the Sam Adams and takes a deep breath.

"I just got off the phone with Tom," he finally says. The penny drops instantly, as he knew it would. Mulder's eyes widen and his mouth opens almost comically in shock; then he frowns.

"No fucking way, Walt. We both read the report; we saw the fingerprints. The Consortium is fucking with you." But Skinner is shaking his head.

"It was Tom, Fox. I know his voice. I talk to him almost every week. He said that an opportunity arose and he took it."

Now Mulder is shaking his head; he looks as though he doesn't want to believe the news. No, he looks as though he *can't* believe the news, Skinner corrects himself. Before he can speak again, Skinner puts his hand on one of Mulder's. "Listen to me, Mulder. Tom is alive. He wants to meet with us. He wants to go fishing with us." At this, Skinner finally starts to laugh. Definitely hysterical, he thinks, but laughs until tears come. "Jesus, *fishing*."

"Go fishing?" Mulder still looks astonished, but his anger appears to have lifted from him. He starts to smile, maybe in response to Skinner's laughter, but maybe with pleasure that Krycek is still alive. Old enemies, Skinner thinks; sometimes they're as painful to lose as old friends.

Mulder walks Skinner back to his car and watches him drive off. Then he starts walking until he can find a cab. He needs to see Scully.

She's expecting him, of course. Wrapped in a pretty flowered robe he recognizes from other late night visits he's made, she welcomes him wordlessly, and he follows her to the kitchen. Always good coffee at Scully's.

"Walt call you?" He asks, and she nods as she pours him a cup. For the moment, she's retreated into one of her silences, but it's one of the friendly ones. A comforting silence in which he can expand if he wishes. He nods his head and takes a sip.

"So, Mulder," he asks, "how do you feel? Well, Scully, I'm glad you asked." She smiles and sits at the table with him. "I'm in shock, of course; but gosh darn it, I'm strong. I'll recover in no time." She's laughing now, shaking her head. "Yes, I'm a survivor, I can roll with the punches."

"All right! All right! Come on, how are you?"

"How do you think?"

She lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip of coffee, and then sets the cup down in an almost frighteningly decisive manner. "I think, Mulder, that you need to see him. I think this is a step you need to take."

"Thank you for sharing."

"You jerk," she says mildly. "You come over here in the middle of the night, drink my coffee, and then abuse my hospitality."

"So what else is new?"

She puts a hand on his and squeezes gently. "What else is new is that we're going to deal with this. . . this *issue*. We're actually going to discuss your *feelings*."

He groans. "Oh my god, you've been reading those self-help books again, haven't you."

"Shut up. Listen to me. I saw you in San Francisco, do you remember that?" He stops laughing, remembering with a chill the Krycek he'd imagined for comfort. "You're a psychologist, Mulder; what's the significance of Krycek in your hallucination?"

"He was in your hallucination, too, Scully."

"Yes, and I'll tell you the significance of that: I unconsciously recognized, long before I could admit it to myself, that he is important to you. That you are attracted to him. That all those beatings and kisses had meaning beyond what we'd ever assigned them."

"What about Walt?"

"What about him?"

"Well, he, um. I thought that we might, that we were. . ."

"Mulder. Walt is a rock. He's not going anywhere and he'll never stop loving you. You need to settle this other matter."

"You have the authority to speak for Walt."

"Mulder!"

"I mean it, Scully; have you guys talked about me?" She blushes slightly, which he interprets as an affirmative response. He sighs, and rolls his head back. Shit.

"Okay, okay; the other matter. You mean Krycek." She's giving him that laser look again, one that always slightly intimidates him.

"Yes, I mean Krycek." She sighs and takes another sip of her cooling coffee, never taking her eyes off him. "Shall I go on?"

"No."

"Too bad. Drink my coffee, listen to me preach. This is it, Mulder; isn't that what Krycek told you in the hallucination? Well, he was right. This is it. It's time."

"Time for what, Dr. Scully? What do you prescribe?"

"A fishing trip to Haggerty, Washington."

Mulder doesn't feel well. He draws his long legs more closely under him and hunches forward, riding in the back seat of another rental. Skinner's driving, but has adjusted the rear-view mirror to keep an eye him. Scully keeps glancing back, her face creased in concern. He'd finally had to ask Skinner to stop a few miles back, so he could rush to a restroom. Afterwards, he'd pulled Scully aside and confessed his ailment. Behind the gas station had been a battered picnic table, and she had walked him over to it, sitting him carefully on its splintered bench, and quietly taken his pulse and peered into his eyes and down his throat.

"It's probably just nerves," she finally said, "but wait here, I have something for your stomach." He'd watched her until she started talking to Skinner, then shut his eyes in embarrassment. She'd brought back bottled water and two Imodium A-D tablets. After another visit to the dirty men's room, they get back on the road.

The cramps are abating, he thinks, just as another one rolls over him. He moans and shuts his eyes again, almost weeping in embarrassment and discomfort. He can hear Scully and Skinner talking, but the words are meaningless. When he finally opens his eyes, they've pulled up to another gas station, one with a mom-and-pop convenience store attached. Skinner is watching him, and when he catches his eye says, "Dana's gone to get something for you, Mulder."

"Jesus, Walt. This is humiliating."

"Hey, this is nothing. I caught typhoid fever in Nam. Didn't do anything but shit for a week. Now that was embarrassing." Mulder drops his head. Skinner's kindness and matter-of-fact acceptance of his malady is almost as painful as the cramping. The door opens and Scully hands Mulder a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He groans, but obediently takes a long swallow, grimacing.

"Another one," she instructs, and he complies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now lie down, Mulder. Here, use my sweater as a pillow."

"How much farther?" he asks as he arranges himself.

"Another thirty, forty minutes," Skinner replies as he pulls back onto the highway. "Take a nap, Mulder. We'll wake you."

But Mulder doesn't sleep. He thinks about what's coming. Where they're going, and why. He acknowledges to himself that Scully's probably right; his physical ailment is psychological in origin. And no wonder: he's going to try to make some kind of peace with a man he holds responsible for many, many wrongs in his life. He refuses to list those wrongs; that's a bad habit he's trying to change.

Maybe that's what my body is doing, he speculates; maybe it's trying to shed all those old unhappy patterns of behavior. Maybe I'm literally expelling some idiopathic poison of anger and hate that's been accruing in me these past five years. He sits up abruptly, clutching his lower abdomen. "Oh, Christ, Walt, stop *right now*." His friends kindly avert their faces as he rushes into the firs, looking for a suitable hiding place. He fumbles with his jeans, wishing he'd worn something more loose fitting, and collapses against an enormous fallen cedar, its fragrant sawdust unable to compete with his body's expellations. Now he does weep, in humiliation and pain and self-loathing.

Skinner parks in front of Krycek's home. Although only a few blocks from the state university where he teaches, it's in a semi-rural area: large lots with overgrown vegetable gardens, enormous woodpiles, the obligatory battered pick-up missing three tires and two wheels. The house itself, although maybe thirty years old, is handsome: cedar planking with large windows, a deep ochre double-wide front door, and flowerbeds of petunias along the walk. An older, three-speed bicycle with two baskets in back and one in front leans against the porch's railing.

He's apprehensive about this visit. It seems surreal to visit a felon, to plan dinners together, to anticipate a fishing trip. With a sigh, he turns off the engine and pops the trunk. "How you doing, Mulder?"

Even at a glance, he can tell that Mulder is better. His color has improved and the sheen of sweat has disappeared. Scully looks happier, too, always a good indicator of Mulder's well-being. He helps Mulder from the car, even though it's obvious he doesn't need any now, but he wants to touch his friend's shoulder, pat him encouragingly on the back, before they enter this next phase of the journey.

But Mulder doesn't answer him, doesn't appear to notice his touch. He's staring at the house. Skinner hears a door open and follows Mulder's gaze to see Krycek standing hesitantly on the front porch.

For perhaps a minute, no one moves. Then, surprisingly, Scully walks up the stone path and steps onto the porch. Krycek must see something in her face, because his body relaxes and he puts out his hand. Scully gravely shakes it, then turns to face the other two.

Skinner stares at Krycek. He's wearing low-cut boots, jeans, and a bulky bright blue sweater, but no prosthetic. The sweater's left sleeve is tucked neatly into his jeans. His hair is longer, almost shaggy, and he looks quietly pleased. He follows Scully back down to the still-ticking car. "Hey, Walt." They shake, but both men are looking at Mulder.

For long seconds, there is only silence. Then Mulder slowly puts out his right hand. Krycek grasps it firmly, but more holding than shaking it. He steps closer to Mulder, then another step, until he's leaning against him. They stand together, then Mulder releases him and steps away, Mulder turns to the trunk, picking up Scully's overnight case and his own duffel.

"Where do you want us?"

Skinner steps out of the bathroom at the end of the hall and sees Scully standing at her bedroom door, staring at him intently. She steps inside the room, still watching him. Curious, he follows her. She shuts the door behind him, takes his hand, and walks him to the double bed. They stand, hand in hand, looking at the bed.

He can't breathe. He realizes what this means. He briefly closes his eyes, but cups her hands in his and pulls her around so she's in front of him. She backs up and sits on the bed again; he kneels before her so their eyes can meet. She leans forward and kisses him, softly at first. His mouth opens hungrily and she kisses him harder, her tongue stroking his lips and teeth. In that moment, he discovers that she will be the dominant one in their lovemaking, and feels something relax inside him. Some final rule has been broken, yet the world remains stable on its axis. He's hers. It could have been Mulder here, in this bed, in his arms, it might one day be. It might even have been Krycek, but she chose for him; she chose him. Mulder and Krycek will have to make their own discoveries. His already-erect penis twitches at the thought, then he focuses his attention on this gift. He's waited so long, so patiently, for her decision.

Mulder stands in the hallway. Scully and Skinner have disappeared, deserting him. Probably have their ears pressed to the wall, listening for gunshots. He swallows. Finally he walks down the hall and into a kitchen. Krycek is standing at the sink, looking out the window. He turns.

Mulder feels his fists clench; it's almost Pavlovian, this desire to hit Krycek. The two men stare at each other, then Krycek turns back to the window. After a moment, he says, "There's a squirrel out back that sounds just like a chicken."

Mulder starts to laugh. He can't believe his ears. "What? What?"

"A chicken. It makes this clucking sound. I kept thinking there was a chicken out back, but it turned out to be a big grey squirrel." Mulder can't figure out what to do or say.

"A chicken."

"Yeah, you know. Clucking."

He stares at Krycek, who again turns from the window. Who the hell is this guy? He's a cipher, an enigma. He's played so many roles that Mulder can't begin to guess which is the truth. Krycek had once told him that there was no truth; that people just make it up. A part of Mulder longs to be that fluid, to be able to adapt that easily, instead of digging in his heels and never budging. It's hard work, not changing.

"Why are you here?"

"Why are *you* here?

Mulder sighs and shrugs. "I, I don't know. Scully insisted. You asked me. I wanted to see you again." Krycek nods thoughtfully.

"Scully insisted."

"Yeah. She says -- she says you're an issue I have to resolve."

"A wound you have to heal."

"No!" They glare.

"Maybe that's me. You're my wound." Mulder can't help but look at Krycek's shoulder when he says that. He *is* Krycek's wound; he'd still have his arm if it weren't for him. There's a lengthy silence. He sighs again, more heavily.

"I never wanted that to happen to you. I wanted to kill you, not -- not have you tortured."

Krycek shrugs, and turns back to the window. "Redemption," he says. Mulder is puzzled and steps nearer, cautiously approaching him.

"Redemption?"

"Yeah. Atonement. Expiation."

"And what are you atoning for?"

No answer. Mulder finally stands next to him. He looks out the window and sees a large black squirrel sitting on a collapsing wood-stake fence, nibbling at something held in his paws. "Alex? What are you atoning for?"

"Jesus, Mulder, you're like a dog with a bone. What do you think? Scully. Your father. Skinner. You. The entire human race."

They seem to have run out of words. They stand together at the sink, like a couple, like friends, but Mulder doesn't know what they are. They just are. Like his relationship with Scully, his relationship with Krycek doesn't have a name. He's standing to Krycek's left and is aware of the absence of that arm. He steps closer to his right, until their shoulders touch, then steps away. Krycek glances at him curiously.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggests, surprising Mulder yet again. "There's a private lake at the end of the road; it's pretty there."

Why not. Why not.

Outdoors is the same fresh, rather spicy scent he remembers from his last time in Haggerty. The sky is grey with heavy, low clouds; rain seems imminent. The two men walk silently down the unpaved road lined with thick stands of grasses. The road grows narrower and trees press closer, fir or pine, Mulder doesn't know the difference. Big cones lie scattered on the ground.

And there's the lake. Not very big, a pond, really. But Krycek's right; it is pretty. Completely still, it reflects the enormity of the sky above it. The two men stand together again.

Krycek sighs. "What's next, Mulder? You can beat me up here; no one will see or hear you."

Mulder flushes and drops his head. Krycek's words anger him, but he restrains himself. Krycek's purpose in his life appears to be to teach him restraint, a characteristic he's never much admired or been admired for. Maybe it's time to learn.

"I have some atoning of my own," he replies softly. Another long silence, and then, to Mulder's surprise, Krycek leans against him. Almost automatically, Mulder lightly touches the small of Krycek's back.

"A soft word turneth away wrath," Krycek tells him, staring out at the lake. Mulder nods. It does indeed.

Mulder feels as though he has walked into some looking-glass world he never would have predicted or believed in or found by himself. What will he find now that he's wandered here? True love and eternal happiness? He's old enough not to believe in such things. He can hope for forgiveness, though, and for redemption. For atonement. He can hope for companionship in his middle years, and for kindness, and for the appearance of affection. For respect. He can, simply, hope.

He chooses hope.

Notes: The technology mentioned in this story, the electronic ink and the Information Based Indicia (electronic stamps), is all real.

First Posted: November 9, 2000