CATEGORIES:  MSR, S/K, not an x-file, not an action-
adventure, just something in between.  Call it "story"  
RATINGS:  NC-17 and NC-FOJF (Followers of Jerry Falwell -- 
not that they'd want to visit)  
ARCHIVAL:  here, for the time being.  Had to add this bit 
or it'd mess up the acronym.  
SPOILERS:  None which matter.  
FEEDBACK:  alanna@alanna.net

SUMMARY:  If things weren't Wrong before, they're about to 
get worse.  
 
 
Landing Gear  
by alanna  
 
+++++  
 
When I was in third grade, my friends and I would sit 
around on the school playground and count body orifices.  
 
And yes, it was as sordid as it sounds.  
 
Two nostrils, one mouth, two ears, two eyes, then after 
the big debate over whether to count our belly buttons, we 
had two "down there".  
 
I guess that prepubescent bodily exploration planted the 
seeds of my later becoming a doctor.  But not until just 
recently did I learn the true potential of the holes "down 
there".  
 
Right now, I'm watching two men explore their potential in 
great detail.  This is the first time anyone has -- pardon 
the vulgar expression -- assfucked Mulder.  He told me 
once that it just held no real appeal to him.  I can tell 
you from his face that he sees the appeal now.  My God, 
does he ever.  When Krycek first entered him, Mulder 
grimaced, which is to be understood.  But now…  now he has 
this look of awe mixed with something darker.  Something 
he can't completely comprehend just yet.  
 
The most interesting thing to watch, though, is Krycek's 
face as he thrusts into Mulder.  I would have expected him 
to go at it with wild abandon, but he's not.  The boy 
looks almost tender.  Enraptured.  God, he's got it bad.  
Their backs are turned to the foot of the bed so that they 
are facing the large mirror in our hotel room, though 
neither is looking into it.  
 
I am.  
 
I'm seated in the chair such that they are nearly aligned 
with their image in the mirror.  A double-vision of 
absolute beauty.  
 
Lest it seem like I'm just sitting here watching them, 
that's not the case.  I'm naked, slouched back on the 
chair, my legs akimbo and one hand buried between them as 
the other moves along my breasts.  The image of them on 
the mirror implants itself on my body.  I can feel their 
skin against mine, despite the distance between us.  It 
inflames me.  
 
I'm caught in this bizarre, unholy inferno and I want -- 
NEED -- the fire on my skin.  
 
My fingers move along my clit, oval nails biting into wet, 
fleshy lips.  Hips move against damask silk upholstery, 
smoothly, so smoothly, then faster, craving friction.  
Needing it.  Instinct demands I close my eyes, to give 
myself over to the sensations and let them control me.  
But closing my eyes would mean that I couldn't see them.  
And I need to see them more than I need to be overtaken by 
feeling.  
 
They are everything in this moment, and I am the voyeur, 
seizing pleasure from the sight of them.  Of Krycek's cock 
slipping in and out of Mulder.  Of my lover's hand 
stroking himself.  Of their faces.  They are more than 
caught by passion, they are imprisoned by it -- the 
creases of the grimaces on their faces like bars holding 
them inside.  
 
I have control over my climax, but they do not.  I can see 
Krycek building toward that moment, his muscles tensing on 
the climb in anticipation of the peak.  Mulder continues 
to grasp his cock, short strokes mixing with long ones, 
fingernails biting into flesh just as mine are on myself.  
And Mulder -- my lover -- is overcome by the sensations.  
His free hand grasps at the bedsheets, then finally gives 
up.  With a swoosh, a thud, he collapses on the bed, his 
face pressing into the mattress.  Krycek is momentarily 
stunned by the loss and slips out of Mulder.  
 
In the half-light of the hotel room I see his cock 
distended from his abdomen, a chromatic sheen on it borne 
of lubricant.  I can't begin to imagine where he draws the 
lucidity needed for his actions, but he collapses down on 
Mulder, his hand tilting the other man's hips up to meet 
Krycek's cock and quickly re-entering Mulder -- who jerks 
upward again with the invasion.  I can tell Mulder doesn't 
have the presence of mind to continue jerking himself off, 
so instead he rubs against the bedsheets, bringing himself 
off that way.  
 
They are control, and they are abandon.  
 
And I continue to stroke myself, bringing myself close but 
pulling away when I'm too close, not wanting to beat them 
to the punch.  I want to watch.  I want to be lucid when 
they come, not lost in a post-orgasmic haze.  
 
I don't have long to wait.  
 
Their mutual climax isn't one pinprick-point, but rather 
one long slide of oil against glass.  
 
I absorb the sight of its beauty, imprinting it on my 
mind.  
 
And then I let myself go.  
 
Oil on glass, flame on ice, salt in honey.  
 
When I come back to myself, I look down at my body and can 
see their images painted up on it.  
 
+++++  
 
The bed is so large, larger than I'd ever imagined a bed 
could be.  And cold.  
 
Daylight is on its way, but not quite yet.  I roll over in 
the bed and let the covers settle over my naked body.  
Then I see them, like some ridiculous Lifetime movie -- 
"Dana and Fox: Together at Last."  
 
They're sitting on the enormous plush armchair -- a 
loveseat, really.  Correction:  he's sitting.  She's 
straddling his legs, the light hitting her naked ass above 
his darker shins.  Her face is buried in the crook of his 
neck and his eyes are closed, his lips murmuring something 
into her ear softly, lest they wake up ol' Alex.  I shift 
on the bed and feign sleep, but situate myself so that I 
can easily see them.  He whispers something and she throws 
her head back and silently laughs -- gently, not the 
cutting, macabre laughter I expect from her.  The laugh 
she once had but my past actions helped to take away.  
Mulder catches her off-guard and begins to kiss along the 
slope of her neck, barely touching her.  
 
The two of them are Hallmark cards and the Sunday New York 
Times in bed.  I have a vision of them together like this 
in twenty years, graying hair tossed over her shoulder 
instead of red.  It's love.  It's everything I will never 
have from either of them.  It's everything I never knew I 
wanted.  
 
It's something I can never want.  
 
She pulls her head back from his shoulder and leans in to 
kiss him.  Through the pre-dawn haze, I can see the way 
the skin of their cheeks expands and contracts as tongues 
move within.  It's not the rough devouring I know from the 
way they kiss me, but something more tender and soft.  The 
emotions are not dark and possessive, but rather cool and 
liquid.  Emotional.  Almost loving, as if I knew quite 
what that is.  Actually, I do know, but it's never been 
like this for me.  I'm not even sure it's what I want -- 
but watching it is fascinating.  
 
They kiss like that for several minutes, the light slowly 
washing over them.  I watch her hands play over his chest 
and arms, the pads of her fingertips stealing over his 
skin rather than the nails which have marked my skin 
several times in the past.  He throws his head back and 
moans softly as she shifts in his lap, but they remain 
quiet.  My first thought is that they're trying not to 
wake me -- but then I realize that it's tenderness, not 
subterfuge.  
 
Tenderness.  
 
And still the morning light grows, painting them in soft-
focus.  She moves until he's inside her, and once the 
movement is completed, they just sit there, staring at one 
another.  And they don't move.  God, I could jerk myself 
off in the time it takes for either of them to move at 
all.  Are they enacting one of those Kama Sutra moves?  I 
always thought the whole notion was ridiculous, but they 
sure as hell seem to be into it.  The whole scene just 
seems really… odd.  
 
And then I realize why it's odd:  they're making love.  
 
Now it all makes sense:  with me, it's fucking.  With 
them, it's some big emotional thing.  Ridiculous, really.  
 
Or maybe I'm just jealous.  Shit.  
 
And, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is why I will ultimately 
never be anything more to them than a plaything.  The 
truth hurts.  The old part of me is screaming for revenge.  
But I can't.  Well, maybe I can.  But not until I fully 
process this.  
 
His hands on her hips raise and lower her on him, and just 
as I can tell they're about to come, she grasps his face 
in her hands and kisses him -- probably trying to keep me 
from hearing them.  Too late, kids.  Their muscles tense 
then soften, and they sort-of melt into one another.  Aw, 
how sweet.  
 
Damn.  
 
I turn over in the bed so that I'm no longer facing them, 
and bury my face in the pillow.  I'm not crying -- GOD, no 
-- but I just have no desire to watch this tender little 
scene any longer.  
 
I have to figure this out.  
 
+++++  
 
I held Scully close to me for a long time before we made 
our way back over to the bed, and now we're lying there 
together, trying to catch some sleep before our flight 
leaves at 2 PM.  I roll over in the bed -- careful not to 
wake her -- and glance at the clock.  It reads 9:13.  We 
still have another three hours before we need to head to 
the airport.   Then, as I turn back over to go back to 
sleep, I notice that Krycek's not in the bed.  
 
I'm soon leaning up on one elbow, scanning the room for 
his presence.  Nothing.  Slipping out of the bed, I walk 
around the room, but he's nowhere to be found.  Can't say 
I'm especially surprised -- he does have a tendency to 
disappear.  He says it maintains his enigma, but I figure 
he's just going off to sulk.  
 
Then again, I've been guilty of the same thing in the 
past.  
 
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  
 
Wait, I'd best rephrase that -- get rid of those paternal 
tones.  Eh, screw it.  I'm tired, my ass is sore, and I'm 
not really in the mood to psychoanalyze Krycek, despite my 
proximity to the place where I earned that psychoanalysis 
degree.  
 
My ass hurts.  God.  Damn near forgot about that.  What 
was really VERY pleasant last night is suddenly 
excruciating.  I'm hobbling around the hotel room in a 
highly unattractive fashion when Scully wakes up.  
 
And what would her first words be, but "Need some ointment 
for that, Mulder?"  
 
"Fuck you," is my eloquent reply.  
 
"Already done that."  She sits up in the bed, with that 
incredibly adorable mussed-hair-and-flushed-face look she 
does so well.  "Where is he?"  
 
I start to sit down on the edge of the bed, but my 
extremely sore ass negates that option.  "He's definitely 
not here."  Reaching for my pants, I weigh my options:  
boxers vs. hanging free.  Boxers it is -- they might take 
the edge of the chafing.  I guess that's the problem with 
male-on-male sex:  it feels incredibly good, but the 
repurcussions are decidedly NOT pleasant.  Hmm… maybe with 
some practice it could get better.  Then again, hadn't I 
resolved last night to do this one last time and then 
break things off with Krycek?  
 
The problem with goodbye fucks is that they invariably 
lead to more problems than they create.  
 
Well, at least I can now say that I've been fucked.  Hang 
a medal around my neck.  
 
I decide to forgo the dressing option and instead just 
pace a little bit, trying to get rid of the soreness.  
Scully crawls out of bed and stretches.  I love her, I 
really do, but as she walks toward me some of her morning 
beauty disappears.  She just looks exhausted.  I can see 
the circles under her eyes and the faint red creases on 
her cheek, left by the pillow.  To be fair, though, I 
probably look like hell too.  Nothing that a long shower 
won't cure.  As we walk toward the bathroom, she rises up 
on her toes and kisses my cheek, and though I'd never 
refuse a Scully kiss, her breath isn't the best in the 
world.  
 
"Scully, brush your teeth first, okay?"  
 
That very clever comment earns me a slap on the ass.  "OW!  
Not there!"  
 
"Serves you right, you bastard."  But she says it with a 
quirk of a smile.  "You're supposed to shower a woman with 
compliments, not tell her she smells bad."  
 
I easily outdistance her stride, making it to the bathroom 
first.  "Well, you do tell me that I should be honest with 
you…."  
 
I don't manage to shut the door before she slips inside.  
 
We take a long shower, soaping and rinsing one another but 
not bothering to have sex.  I need time to recuperate -- I 
think our early morning session in the chair must have 
been an abberation.  Or maybe the nerve endings in my ass 
hadn't had time to wake up yet.  Or D. All of the Above.  
 
I'm already dressed when she finally emerges from her 
morning toilette.  Heaven forbid Scully should do without 
makeup, but this morning she hasn't bothered to blow-dry 
and spritz her hair into submission.  It's a good look on 
her.  
 
Spending eight hours on a plane is not conducive to high 
fashion;  we're both wearing jeans and sweaters when we 
lock the door behind us and head down the elevator to hunt 
down some breakfast.  As posh as it may be, the restaurant 
at the Ritz doesn't hold much attraction this morning.  I 
just want to walk.  After about a block of walking, we 
find a Starbucks.  God, the conspiracy to beat the world 
into subservience via caffeine has reached this far.  I'm 
tempted to keep walking, but Scully does love her Sumatra 
Blend.   So we go inside.  
 
Does this make me whipped?  
 
Coffees and muffins in hand, we settle down at a table.  I 
let her take a few sips before I speak.  
 
"You think he'll make the flight?"  
 
"I stopped trying to figure out what he'd do a long time 
ago."  
 
She doesn't answer.  We sit there, eating and drinking in 
silence, until the food and coffee is gone and the morning 
customers have mostly disappeared, leaving us alone in the 
warmly-lit café.  
 
"That was a goodbye fuck, wasn't it?"  
 
Yet again, Scully knows how to call a spade a spade.  I 
nod.  
 
"Why?"  
 
"Why?  This is Krycek, Scully.  And this has to be the 
most singularly bizarre situation we've been in."  
 
Her gaze is steady on me.  "But why now?  What brought 
this on?"  
 
How do I explain all this to her?  How do I explain that I 
realized last night that I can't share her with anyone 
else, or fuck someone else when I'm in love with her?  
 
Simple:  just say the words.  
 
The coffee is cold but I lift the cup to my lips, 
searching for one more sip.  None is there, so I speak 
instead.  "Last night, while you two were napping after 
that… after the three of us nearly broke that bed, I did 
some thinking."  
 
She immediately gives me her standard 'Oh, Lord, he's been 
thinking again' look.  I ignore it.  
 
"I went for a walk, to clear my head.  I realized how 
different we've become.  Hell, I've hardly recognized the 
two of us the past few months.   This isn't us, Scully."  
 
A long look from her, and I can't begin to guess what 
she's thinking.  Once upon a time, I was able to discern 
her every mood, even if her face was a blank mask.  Now… 
well, now her face is simply a mask.  
 
"And you think we should just cast off Krycek, then?"  
 
Of course, she's always been able to read me much better.  
 
The nod of my head is my answer.  
 
"Why?"  I get the feeling this question isn't so much an 
honest request for an elucidation of my motives, but 
rather her way of trying to get me to convince her.  And I 
don't think I like that she wants to be convinced.  The 
small, hopelessly romantic streak I've sublimated for so 
long that I'd forgotten it existed says that she shouldn't 
even need to be convinced to give him up -- that she 
should be more than happy to return to the way things 
were.  Just the two of us, making love whenever the fancy 
struck, consuming one another with only our work as a 
distraction.  
 
And I'm not sure I like that she's suggesting I'm making 
her choose.  
 
Him or me, Scully?  Which will it be?  
 
"If he's in our lives, it invariably revolves around him 
no matter how many times you and I sneak off in the middle 
of the night for some 'quality time' together.  If I'm 
fucking you and you're sucking him off, it ceases to be 
what we once had.  It becomes all about getting off, and 
that's not why I made love to you that first night in your 
apartment.  If I wanted to fuck, I would have done that a 
long time ago."  
 
My hands are shaking and my pulse is quickening, and it's 
not because of the caffeine.  
 
Her face is still a mask, and I don't like it at all.  She 
says, "Look, Mulder, cut him off, then, if you want to.  
Be my guest.  You'll have to face the consequences alone, 
and knowing Krycek, they won't be pretty."  
 
I know I should just leave it at that, but then I've never 
been one to back down from a debate -- much to my past and 
future detriment.  "Okay, then, Scully, what's YOUR stake 
in all this?"  And then I say the thing I know will haunt 
me for quite some time:  "Other than having two dicks 
instead of one ready and waiting whenever you get horny?"  
 
She doesn't even bother to stare me down before she rises 
from her chair and walks out of the café.  
 
I don't turn around to watch her leave.  
 
Congratulations, Fox William Mulder.  You may have just 
kissed goodbye all chances of present and future 
happiness.  
 
+++++  
 
The last place Mulder would probably expect to find me is 
back in our hotel room, taking a long bath after having 
packed up all our things for our imminent flight back to 
the States.  Which is exactly why I came back here.  
 
I've always been good at intellectualizing my emotions, 
rather than just experiencing them.  Of course, this is no 
exception.  My mind is already halfway down my mental T-
chart, weighing the situation.  Logic tells me that I 
should NOT be feeling logical right now, at all.  Logic 
tells me I should either be a) throwing things, b) 
sticking pins in the crotch of my personal Mulder voodoo 
doll, or c) writing him a "Dear Fox" letter and then 
disappearing for a good long while.  Instead, I am -- of 
course -- diagramming his words and the situation at hand.  
 
I hate being logical.  
 
The thing is, I want to be doing any and all of those 
things.  Yet, I'm soaking in a rapidly-cooling tub of 
water, trying to figure out that bastard for the 1,459th 
time.  And the problem is that I know what he meant.  I 
know that he didn't mean to be so cruel with those last 
words of his.  Mulder is nothing if not impulsive.  But 
that doesn't change the fact that they were cruel, and 
they hurt.  
 
A lot.  
 
But I'm still not mad at him.  Well, not REALLY mad.  I've 
been furious with Mulder before, and this is not like 
that.  He's right -- that's the problem.  I fell in love 
with Mulder so long ago that I can't even remember when it 
happened.  I didn't fall in love with Krycek.  Granted, I 
have very strong feelings for Alex -- he matters to me 
more than I care to admit -- but I'm not in love with him.  
My happiness and sanity don't depend on his presence.  
 
But that doesn't mean that I'm going to just toss aside 
whatever feelings I do have for Krycek in order to run 
away with Mulder and live a life of bliss.  Not that we'll 
ever have a 'life of bliss', but that's not the point.  I 
suppose I should be immensely flattered by Mulder's 
decision:  I know he's been enjoying the hell out of this 
whole three-way thing we've got going, and it's been more 
than pleasurable for me, and not just because of the "two 
dicks ready and waiting".  I think part of it was 
initially the thrill of the unknown, of letting go.  Of 
being the girl my mother pitied and the nuns in grade 
school said "Hail Mary"s for, praying for their souls' 
salvation.  Aside from a few so-called youthful 
indiscretions, I've always been so goddamned perfect, at 
least on the outside.  The first time the three of us were 
in bed together, I realized I was no longer perfect, and I 
can't begin to describe how incredible a physical and 
mental aphrodisiac that was.  It still is one, to a 
certain extent.  
 
That doesn't change the fact that I'm in love with Mulder, 
and that he's right when he says this bizarre love 
triangle is a corrosive rather than a salve.  
 
And I'm not sure I still want to have nuns saying "Hail 
Mary"s for my soul.  
 
I hear the door of the hotel room open and I just know 
without looking that it's Mulder.  His footfalls on the 
carpet tick like a metronome.  I don't have the energy to 
stay still, hoping he won't notice me, so I don't bother 
to tense my muscles or hold my breath against the sound of 
water splashing on the sides of the tub.  Sure enough, he 
soon appears in the doorway of the bathroom, and I turn my 
face to meet his gaze.  
 
He asks a question without words, and I nod my head, 
giving him clearance to come inside and sit down on the 
lowered lid of the toilet.  
 
"I'm sorry," he says in that whipped-puppy contrition 
voice of his.  Well, not really a puppy -- more of a 
mastiff.  He's too strong a person to be weak.  
 
"Apology accepted for the fact that you fucked up big 
time."  He looks away from me, staring at a point on the 
wall opposite him, and I continue.  "Though I have to 
admit you weren't entirely off-base."  
 
Neither of us continue the thought aloud, knowing that 
arguing the point won't accomplish anything.  
 
Or, at least, I thought that's what he meant, until he 
says, "I'm sorry baby, we'll do what you want."  
 
Normally I wince when he uses that endearment, but I don't 
really pay much attention to it right now.  My sigh begins 
as exasperation and ends somewhere near fatigue.  "What I 
want?  Dammit, Mulder, don't do what I want.  Do what is 
best for all of us.  Don't just sublimate what you feel in 
order to placate me.  I've been there before and I don't 
want to be there again."  
 
He leans back against the toilet tank and closes his eyes.  
"The problem is, I don't think I'm suitably qualified to 
judge what's best for all of us."  
 
I feel the water growing cold around me, but don't bother 
to pull out the drain stopper with my toes.  The water's 
like some corny metaphor for our argument, and I realize 
I'm not entirely ready to put an end to it just yet.  "You 
have the noblest of intentions, but you're forgetting 
something important."  
 
I sense the question, "Which is…?" hangs on his tongue, 
but he doesn't speak.  
 
"This isn't just about you and me.  There are three of us 
involved, and as much as we like to pretend Krycek's just 
our plaything, he's a human being and he deserves more 
respect than we're according him."  
 
"And you think we should wait and discuss this with him?"  
 
"Yes."  
 
He chuckles, but it isn't especially mirthful.  "You 
honestly believe that we can sit down and have a rational 
discussion with Alex Krycek?"  
 
"Probably not, no, but I'd be betraying myself if I didn't 
at least try.  You too, Mulder."  
 
"Wait and see, then?"  He turns to look at me.  
 
"Wait and see.  But first, we have a plane to catch."  
 
I pull the tub stopper with my toes, ending the 
discussion.  
 
+++++  
 
Three days later, and I'm at 24,000 feet again.  Unlike 
that flight, I'm not feeling particularly horny;  in fact, 
a sandbag-lassitude has settled over my body, leaving me 
barely more than a lump of clay in my seat.  Mulder is 
sitting beside me.  Krycek's seat is empty.  No real 
surprise, there.  
 
The thing is, I miss Alex.  I love Mulder, but I miss 
Alex.  My intellectual, rational side hates him, but we've 
forged this bizarre, completely illogical bond.  He makes 
me laugh.  He turns me on – God, does he ever.  But 
there's something else about him which refuses to leave me 
alone.  He has taken up residence in the back of my mind.  
Whenever I think of him, I feel a dark, honey-like thrill.  
It's not love, it's not forever.  But it's there, and I'm 
honest enough to admit it.  
 
Whereas the flight over was buried in darkness, we return 
to D.C. in daylight – eight hours of it.  Many of the 
other passengers in first class have lowered the shades 
over their windows.  The one next to Mulder is still open, 
but he's asleep, oblivious to the light.  I push on the 
button which reclines my seat, then settle the airline-
provided blanket over my legs.  Long flights such as these 
are always near-unbearable, so I usually force sleep;  
today, however, I have no sleep in me.  My mind's too 
damned busy thinking.  
 
I wonder where he is.  He's probably still in London, 
doing – God only knows what he's doing.  If this were 
Mulder, I'd be on the phone every ten minutes, trying to 
get in touch with him.  I know better than to try to call 
Krycek.  He was really only part of our triad when we were 
in bed.  Out of it, the confusion and wariness were always 
there.  
 
My eyes close but it doesn't help.  I reach into the 
pocket beside the seat and pull out the headphones, 
plugging them into the armrest.  British Airways boasts 
twelve channels of "in-flight musical entertainment", but 
as I turn the knob, none of them sound particularly 
enticing.  Usually I just let classical music lull me into 
submission.  Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a big fan 
of that ethereal wispy "chick music".  It tries my 
patience.  Classical is great because it requires no 
thought and provides no distraction.  It just lets me be.  
Unfortunately, in this case, their offering of "Rhapsody 
in Blue" does not much in the way of soothing – too many 
crescendos and fortissimos.  I'm not sure what possesses 
me to turn to the "Pop Hits of the '90s" station, but 
something does.  
 
And I'm not sure why the whiny British singer of this band 
makes me sleepy, but his screechy voice does.  I drift off 
to the sound of him imploring me to be "free to be 
whatever I want, whatever I choose and I'll sing the blues 
if I want."  
 
Whatever.  
 
I'm too tired to care.  
 
+++++  
 
I saw them this morning.  
 
It wasn't them specifically, just metaphorically.  I 
walked down Piccadilly all the way to Leicester Square, 
passing the cinema clerks updating marquees and homeless 
women and men attempting to eke out a few more hours of 
sleep on unforgiving benches.  The air was cool and 
oilpaper-crisp, and though I'd remembered to bring my 
coat, I ended up shedding it, wanting to conjure 
goosepimples on my good arm.  I wished I could be wearing 
short sleeves to get the full effect, but I'm vain enough 
not to want to call attention to my prosthesis.  
 
The Square itself always amuses me;  developers are trying 
to make it upscale, much as the New Yorkers did to Times 
Square.  Jacking up rent couldn't get rid of some things, 
though, and I passed by a sex shop I used to frequent back 
when I briefly lived here years ago.  Of course it was 
open, but I didn't go in.  Sometimes it's best to remember 
things nostalgically rather than realize in later years 
that it wasn't everything it seemed to be back in the 
days.  Next to it was a new French-style café which 
attempted to look chic but only seemed seedy, given the 
just-off-the-square corner where it was located.  I went 
inside and paid for a sandwich using some coins I found in 
my pocket, then continued to walk.  Long Acre to Covent 
Garden – it was all familiar and strange.  People were 
already up, getting their shops and restaurants ready for 
the noontime influx, carrying on with normal lives.  
 
Normal lives.  
 
My mind flashed back to seeing Scully and Mulder in that 
chair early this morning, making love.  None of us are 
normal, but they are more so than am I.  Normal in that 
they have what they want, and are able to enjoy it, to 
explore its boundaries – such as fucking me – but also 
with the security of returning to just the two of them 
whenever they choose.  The closest I come to tragedy is 
knowing that I have nothing "normal" to anchor me, to 
return to when things become too much for me.  Or maybe my 
anchor is this – being alone, living on the fringes of 
society but never able to just throw it all aside and 
become absorbed into it.  
 
I never realized how lonely that is.  
 
I finally bored of walking at Covent Garden so I walked 
into the tube station and bought a one-day Travelcard and 
passed through the turnstiles.  I had no real idea where I 
wanted to go, but I remembered my old friend Marcus, who 
lives in town.  I dug another few coins out of my pocket 
and called him, dialing his number from memory.  He gave 
me the address of his new home and I gauged the travel 
route on the map on the wall.  Covent Garden's station is 
unlike most of the newer ones in London – it has a set of 
stairs to take you down to the trains rather than fancy 
chrome escalators;  I took to the stairs with a vengeance, 
needing the feel of my bones jarring against the steel and 
cement steps, the vibrations shifting through my body and 
clinking against the prosthesis hanging from my left 
shoulder.  
 
I didn't have to wait long for a Piccadilly line train to 
West Kensington.  Marcus has certainly moved up in the 
world since I last saw him.  Can't say I'm not used to 
"moving up in the world";  contrary to popular belief, I 
don't live in squalor.  In fact, my apartment in New York 
is really quite nice.  It's amazing what a hired fill-in-
the-blank can make these days.  The scruffy appearance I 
often adopt is all for image, of course.  Look closer and 
you'll see the leather jacket is Eddie Bauer, the white t-
shirts Calvin Klein, the so-called "stupid-ass haircut" 
from any number of salons in SoHo.  I seldom go to the 
same one twice, lest my face become too familiar.  I do 
have to practice subterfuge even in personal grooming.  
 
And my friends aren't all from the Merry Cadre of 
Assassins.  Marcus Keane is someone I know from way back 
when.  I was normal once… normal in the sense that I'd 
recently finished college, was scouting for a job, and 
trying to sort through all the pseudo-existential angst 
that transition to Adulthood brings.  Of course, the "job" 
I got ended up severing all notions of traditional apple 
pie American normalcy I might have ever had.  And I don't 
regret one bit of it.  I love the power, the fact that I 
can basically do whatever I want… and get away with it.  
 
But back to Marcus.  When I first met him, he was my 
sister's lover.  Okay, like any other male, the idea of my 
baby sister having a lover was unnerving for a while, but 
I got used to it – especially when I decided I wouldn't 
mind him becoming my lover too.  And so I had him.  It was 
an interesting seduction.  I had no real idea what I was 
doing, but I improvised well, and Marcus was worth it.  
The kind of face and body which seem destined for sin.  
Stacy (yes, I have a sister named "Stacy", short for 
Anastasia) didn't mind, which rather surprised me at the 
time.  Then again, I don't think she and Marcus were 
especially close, and she broke up with him soon after 
learning he and I were involved.  He was the first man I 
ever fucked, though he'd already been with several.  We 
had a good time together, but it was really nothing more 
than a "good time".  Now, seven years later, he's married 
with a young daughter of his own.  His wife, Sophie, is 
lovely and I honestly like her, though I'm not sure she 
reciprocates the emotions.  Not that it matters right now 
– she's off visiting her parents in Derbyshire with their 
kid in tow.  
 
And now, having made the journey from Covent Garden to 
West Kensington, I'm sitting on the couch in his study, 
listening to him call into work and explain why he won't 
be coming in today.  God, I've left Scully and Mulder and 
entered yuppie hell.  How very amusing.  
 
I hear Marcus disconnect the phone, then he turns in his 
swivel chair and looks at me.  
 
"So what the hell brings you here, Alex?"  
 
His British accent always was quite charming.  Too bad I 
have no attraction whatsoever to him right now.  I could 
probably quite easily lure him into bed, but I have more 
pressing matters on my mind, and for once, I'm just not in 
the mood.  I told him when I showed up on his doorstep 
that I was in the midst of a "situation" but now I don't 
really feel like talking about it, and I tell him as much.  
He shrugs his shoulders and says that's fine with him, 
that he'll go out for the morning papers and a day off of 
work is always welcome.  A few minutes later I'm left 
alone in his flat.  
 
Great, just what I need:  to be left alone with my 
thoughts.  
 
By now, the Terrible Twosome are probably on the flight 
back to D.C.  Just as well I'm not with them:  I'm not 
sure I even want to see them right now.  It's not that I'm 
embittered towards Scully and Mulder, well, not yet.  They 
didn't DO anything to me, but I still feel that strange 
sense of rejection all the same.  No, rejection is not a 
new feeling for me to experience – I'm not a Super 
Lothario irresistible to one and all.  The real problem is 
that I'm taking this harder than I should be.  I didn't 
realize that those two had such power over my emotions.  
And I don't like it.  
 
This begs the magical question:  What do I do about it?  
 
Had this happened to me a year ago, I would have already 
been plotting my revenge.  But I don't have vengeance in 
me now.  Not with these two people.  What really frightens 
me is that I don't think I was kidding when I told myself 
I was falling in love with them.  I think I fell in love 
with Scully more so than I did Mulder.  She was always the 
bigger challenge.  Both of them have their reasons to hate 
me, but although my transgressions against Mulder 
technically outweigh the ones I'd committed against her, 
she takes them much more personally. She is less able to 
overcome hard feelings than is he. Winning her over was a 
challenge I set myself, just to see if I could.  
 
I won her over, but I had no idea she would win ME over.  
 
+++++  
 
Marcus takes me out for drinks and dinner later in the 
day.  We end up at a too-trendy-for-its-own-good café near 
his place.  I know that it's trendy because I've been to a 
dozen just like it in New York.  I'm reminded of back when 
he and I were fucking each other.  Neither of us had any 
money then.  Our nights out would usually consist of pizza 
or tandoori, or after he moved to London, pints at 
anonymous pubs.  Now we get to live the high life.  Joy of 
joys.  
 
I never loved him and I'm pretty sure he never loved me.  
We had fun, though.  I look at him as he flirts with the 
waitress taking our orders.  Overall, we've done quite 
well for ourselves:  he's a marketing director at some 
hotshit financial firm, and I'm an all-star international 
assassin and jack of all trades (some would say "jerkoff 
of all trades", and they're probably right).  We're a 
million miles away from who we once were, though.  I 
remember lying on his bed one night after we'd had some 
pretty incredible sex.  We lay side-by-side, just talking 
about what we wanted out of life.  All the traditional 
desires of the young:  money, fame, the ability to do 
whatever the hell we wanted whenever the hell we wanted to 
do it.  That night we started talking about love, and what 
it meant.  He was so sure of himself.  He knew that one 
day he'd get married, settle down, have kids.  Four years 
later, he was.  And me?  I was so jaded, even then.  I 
didn't have time for love.  It was a fallacy which I 
mocked.  Caused too many problems and ultimately wrecked 
what I wanted in life.  
 
He'd turned his head and looked at me.  "Eh, you say that 
now, Alex, but I can definitely see you with some hot 
woman—"  
 
"Or man," I interrupted.  
 
"Or man, jetting around the world, getting fucked in 
airplanes and postponing a meeting with some big foreign 
dignitary so that you can go to your kid's piano recital."  
 
"Promise me, Keane," I leaned up on my elbow and glared at 
him, "that you'll plant a bullet in my brain before that 
happens."  
 
He grinned.  "You say that now, but I know you."  
 
"You don't know me at all, bastard."  
 
He laughed himself to sleep.  
 
And now here I am.  I do have a personal fortune nearing 
eight digits squirreled away in a half-dozen Swiss 
accounts.  I'm pretty damned famous, at least in the 
circles I inhabit.  I do jet all over the goddamned world.  
Unfortunately, I've managed to fall in love with the woman 
fucking me on airplanes.  I'm half-tempted to ask him if 
he has that bullet ready for my brain.  
 
Marcus sips at his martini.  Sometimes I think he covets 
my whole James Bond existence.  Sometimes I find myself 
envying his quiet, preternaturally happy one – and I 
loathe myself when I do.  "So, tell me all about him, 
Alex."  
 
I lean back in my chair and purse my lips.  "What makes 
you think it's a 'him'?"  
 
"Fine, asshole, tell me about her."  
 
I've never been one to talk about my personal life.  Hell, 
it's too damned personal.  But, taking a page from an 
Oprah transcript – which, I hasten to add, I have NEVER 
seen – talking about my personal life might actually be 
cathartic.  And it's not like Marcus is going to go out 
and tell my business associates that I've become a pussy-
and-dick-whipped soft shell.  
 
Come on, Alex, live a little.  Get in touch with your 
feminine side.  
 
"The short version:  I'm in one seriously fucked-up 
situation right now.  I somehow got involved with this man 
and woman who are completely wrong for me to be involved 
with, for so many reasons.  Now I'm trying to figure out 
how the hell to get myself out of this situation, but the 
really fucked-up part of it is that I don't even think I 
want to get out of it."  
 
"You're in love with them, right?"  
 
"No."  
 
Yes.  
 
"No," he repeats.  "Of course not.  Alex doesn't fall in 
love."  
 
"Damn straight."  I take a long draught of my beer.   "I'm 
just trying to figure out what to do about it."  I look at 
Marcus.  He's a good person.  I don't know many people 
like that, but I know him well enough to know that he's a 
genuinely good person.  I wish I knew more people like 
him, but I'm glad I don't.  Good people unnerve me, 
because they show me how damn flawed I am.  And I'm never 
going to get any better.  
 
He asks, "Where are they now?"  
 
"I don't know.  Probably back in D.C.  I was supposed to 
fly back there with them today."  But instead I landed on 
his doorstep like some abandoned baby.  God, am I that 
pathetic?  
 
He finishes his martini then catches the waitress' eye for 
another.  Turning back to me, he says, "Look, Alex, I'm 
not going to give you any advice because you hate that and 
you wouldn't listen to it anyway.  You've got to figure 
out on your own what you're going to do."  
 
I look away from him, glancing at all the other people in 
this restaurant. All the normal people.  And what's the 
opposite of normal?  Abnormal.  That would be me.  Alex 
Abnormal Krycek.  
 
I have to figure out what is my best course of action.  I 
already know, though, what I want.  
 
I want to see them again.  
 
I need to see them again.  
 
+++++  
 
I don't spend much time in D.C., I think as the cab pulls 
away from the airport, and thank god for that.  If I 
wanted to live in a swamp, I'd move to Louisiana.  Of 
course, it's December so the swamp metaphor doesn't really 
apply, but it's all the same damn thing.  
 
The organization has several surveillance facilities in 
the city, one of them practically dedicated to our 
favorite Special Agents.  I have the cab pull up in front 
of one and I go in, barely acknowledging the man guarding 
the entrance.  He's seen me before, so my being there is 
no real surprise.  God knows I used to be there far more 
often than was healthy back before I made my move on 
Scully and Mulder.  As I head up to the so-called "viewing 
room", I pass a few more people.  They look afraid of me, 
refusing to acknowledge my presence.  I like it that way – 
power is, of course, the greatest drug known to humanity.  
 
I don't know the young guy who is playing watchguard 
tonight.  In my best "You WILL obey" tone of voice, I tell 
him to get the hell out of the room, checking out his ass 
as he leaves.  Were I not otherwise preoccupied, I might 
find him an amusing plaything.  
 
Then I realize I'd be doing the same thing to him as 
Mulder and Scully did to me.  
 
Once inside, I lock the door behind me and turn off the 
lights.  I always prefer to watch them in the dark – no 
glare on the video screens, no light to betray the 
essential blackness of the circumstances.  Just me and the 
audio and images and, sometimes, my dick.  Quite simple, 
really.  
 
Granted, I could have asked the guy who was just in here 
where the two of them are right now, but that would be too 
easy.  Unfortunately, the thrill of the hunt is gone as I 
DO find them, very easily.  Scully's at her desk in the 
Hoover building – I almost feel bad for them, having lost 
their basement hovel – and just as I'm scanning the 
screens to look for Mulder, I hear the telltale ring of a 
phone on one of the audio surveillance machines, and I see 
that he's calling her via his cell.  Because both their 
phones are monitored, the conversation creates a strange 
but not unpleasant stereo effect.  
 
"Scully," she answers in that bored voice.  
 
"Hey Scully," is his reply.  His voice is breathless and 
far too sexy for its own good.  "I'm down at the gym.  Got 
conned into a pickup game.  My favorite kind of one-on-
one, besides sex, of course."  
 
I watch her settle back in her chair, a sarcastically 
indulgent smile on her face.  "How much money is 
involved?"  
 
"Oh, I won't lose."  
 
"Last time you said that, you had to have me transfer you 
a huge chunk of funds from your savings."  I can clearly 
see her rolling her eyes.  
 
He's apparently not in any mood to argue, probably knowing 
that she's right.  Hell knows he'd never admit it, though.  
"Look, I'm going to be here late, and I'll just go back to 
my place tonight.  See you tomorrow."  He hangs up before 
she can return the closing.  
 
She just looks at the phone for a second then puts it 
away.  He doesn't treat her right – he never has.  Doesn't 
pay her the attention or respect that she deserves.  I 
might could give that to her, not that she'd ever accept 
it.  One-sided affection sucks.  It sucks the marrow from 
your bones, leaving you unable to do anything but want – 
want with a need bordering on pain.  
 
Processing the information, I realize that it means she'll 
be alone tonight.  I have enough balls to show up at her 
place alone, to speak to her alone, to see what happens.  
I wonder if she would reject me?  Granted, technically 
neither of them has actively rejected me yet – but you 
never know.  
 
I stay there in front of the screen for a while longer, 
watching her gather her things and shut down her computer.  
She is so at home there, so at ease.  To the Bureau born, 
so to speak.  This is her life, not mine.  This is her 
life with Mulder.  And I will always be the observer.  
 
+++++  
 
One last time, I tell myself.  For closure's sake, of 
course.  
 
Of course.  
 
I've sat outside her apartment for nearly an hour, 
listening via remote surveillance to her doing her 
ordinary getting-ready-for-bed routine.  She's alone 
tonight, which is how I want it.  Mulder is the one who 
originally drew me into this trio.  My passion for him led 
me to her bed, needing to win her over before I could ever 
have him.  I never suspected that she'd be the one who won 
ME over.  Strange that I find myself able to live without 
a goodbye from him, but one last time with her suddenly 
means the world to me.   Just one last time to touch her 
skin, to kiss her, to feel her near me, and then I can 
leave them.  
 
Strange how life works out that way – the one you think 
matters most to you ends up becoming a sideline to the one 
who becomes your true focus.  
 
I'm glad I remembered to disable the surveillance of her 
apartment before I left the offices.  My colleagues will 
never know the difference – I've made sure of that – but I 
can't have them watching tonight.  I finally leave the car 
and walk up to her building, opening the door to the foyer 
then letting myself into her apartment.  She never gave me 
a key but I had one made anyway.  She noticed but never 
said anything.  Maybe that's what she wanted, or maybe she 
saw the futility of arguing with me.  I never suspected I 
had that kind of hold over her.  Then again, I probably 
don't – it's all an illusion I've created for myself so 
that I can assure myself of her complicity in this strange 
affair of ours.  
 
She has to hear me coming into her apartment, but she does 
not come out to greet me.  I hear the sound of water 
running in her kitchen sink and follow the sound.  She's 
standing there, rinsing dishes in nothing more than satin 
tap pants and a matching nightshirt.  Without her heels, 
pantyhose and the bindings of hairspray and a brassiere, 
she looks small and incredibly feminine.  I never desired 
this in a woman before.  I yearn for it in her.  
 
I wonder if, by the time this night is over, I'll have the 
strength to let her go.  
 
I haven't lived through attempted assassinations given and 
received, limb removal without amputation, and the danger 
of double-crosses without building up an immunity to loss.  
The problem is – this is emotional torture, not physical.  
A new animal for me to tame.  
 
She turns around and faces me, her face flushed but 
composed.  Her hands are braced on the countertop behind 
her, and I briefly envy her her left arm.  I'm a survivor 
and have managed quite well the past two years without 
mine;  I can survive this too.  
 
But God, why does it hurt so fucking much?  
 
"Alyosha," she says.  I shiver at the word.  It is a 
diminutive of my name about which I once told her, but 
this is the first time I have heard it spoken in her 
voice.  The Russian word rolls off her tongue with ease.  
Does she practice saying it, or is it just good linguistic 
ability?  
 
"Scully," I reply.  I want to shift on my feet, to show 
her the weakness I feel at this moment, but I don't.  I 
still have some pride.  
 
She pushes away from the counter then takes a step toward 
me.  She doesn't ask what I'm doing here;  I wouldn't 
answer her if she did.  In her typical roundabout way, she 
does address the issue.  "When did you get back from 
London?"  
 
"This afternoon."  A faint smile plays along the corners 
of my mouth, but doesn't break through my facade of calm.  
 
Curiosity finally gets the better of her. "What did you do 
after you left us?"  
 
My voice is nonchalant, bemused.  "Oh, just kicked back, 
had a few beers with an old friend."  
 
"You expect me to believe that?"  I expect her to raise an 
eyebrow, but she doesn't.  I know that she doesn't believe 
the truth I've told her – even to me, the idea of my 
simply 'hanging out' is bizarre, to say the least.  I 
suppose I always give the impression of having something 
urgent to take care of – betrayal to engineer, back to 
stab, and so on.  The idea of my experiencing normalcy for 
even an afternoon must sound beyond strange.  Hell, it 
sounds strange to me.  I flirt with the idea of giving her 
a business card for one of my favorite stylists in SoHo, 
but reject the idea.  Too bizarre, even for her.  
 
Finally, I respond, "Believe what you want, Scully."  
 
You always do.  The words hang between us.  
 
She walks around me, toward her living room.  I watch her 
as she passes.  She's so fucking beautiful – long legs on 
a small body, honey-pale skin, tiny but perfect feet.  
I've always found feet absurd to look at, but hers are 
beautiful against the cool tile of the floor.  
 
I follow her into the living room, where I find her 
standing in front of her fireplace.  It's a fascinating 
sight, the brick and wood of the mantle like an altar 
constructed for her worship.  I could easily paint her as 
a goddess, but that would deny the flaws I have grown to 
admire in her.  She's closed-minded, she's skeptical to a 
fault, she chooses to see in others only what she wants to 
see.  I wonder what she sees in me.  I wonder if it's what 
she wants to see, if it's what I want her to see.  
 
What do I want her to see in me?  A lover?  Perhaps one 
day I did.  Perhaps I still do.  Unfortunately, that wish 
can only last tonight.  Tomorrow, the "lover" aspect must 
be gone.  
 
Tonight, I will make love to her like I have no tomorrow.  
 
Tonight, she will fuck me.  
 
That's all we can have.  
 
I walk over to her and stand before her, the supplicant 
offering himself to his goddess.  But I don't comport 
myself as a supplicant.  We will never be equals – she 
will always be better than me – but I can't let her see 
herself as superior.  Not tonight.  
 
"I know what happened in London, Scully."  
 
She doesn't respond.  
 
"I know this is the end of us."  I feel strange saying 
"us", knowing that it's too strong of a pronoun for what 
we truly are.  It is "them and me", never "us".  But just 
for now, I want to have that sense of belonging in the 
relationship.  Just for now.  The funny thing is that the 
third half of us isn't even here.  I'm glad.  He's given 
me his goodbye fuck.  Now I need one from her.  
 
I need to show her everything she is to me.  I don't 
expect her to respond in kind, but I still need to show 
her.  
 
"When I walk out of this apartment, Scully, I will leave 
you.  I won't be back."  I almost add, 'not unless you 
want me to', but I know better than to force that option.  
"But I want tonight with you."  It is a command, not a 
request, and I see in her face that she knows it.  A 
request can be denied.  A command cannot.  
 
"I need to make love to you, Scully."  
 
She can't help but start at my words, but I don't give her 
a chance to retort.  To dash my emotions to the ground.  
 
God, now I really AM pleading.  Oh, to hell with it.  I've 
lain my heart on the line, and some reckless part of me 
knows she won't deny it me.  
 
She shifts forward on the balls of her feet, but remains 
planted in place.  I approach her in two easy steps.  My 
right hand raises to her cheek and traces the angle of her 
jaw.  She doesn't flinch, and I nearly weep from relief.  
My psyche can't handle her rejection right now.  My voice 
drops to a whisper I didn't know it possessed, and I 
murmur, "Just let me kiss you, Scully."  
 
Her lips part but she remains still.  I make my move.  
 
She tastes of tea, of honey sweetener.  Of the ambrosia 
and nectar the ancient Gods sipped but never deigned to 
let mere mortals experience.  Her lips don't part for me, 
but I press my tongue against them anyway, pushing inside.  
After a moment where I can almost taste her indecision, 
she parts them and then her tongue is against mine and oh 
GOD it's good, so good.  
 
Goodbye has never been so sweet, so sour.  
 
I want to carry her in my arms to her bed, but biology and 
a group of Russian peasants have denied me that option.  I 
want to hold her close to me, supporting her entirely with 
my body.  Once upon a time I could have done so, but not 
now.  It's fitting, in a way.  I could never carry her.  
She would never let me.  
 
But she does let me lead her to her bedroom.  I take her 
hand as she walks a step ahead.  My fingers try to lace 
with hers, but her own remain tightly clasped, not letting 
me lace them with mine.  Were this not such an intensely 
sexual situation, it could be the professional clasp of a 
handshake, sealing a deal.  Maybe she sees this as a 
business transaction of sorts, but if she does, I don't 
want to know.  I want to maintain my illusions, just for 
one night.  I want to pretend she's making love to me as 
much as I am to her. 
 
I know the untruth of that statement.  
 
My life is a lie, and one more won't hurt… even if that 
lie is the basis of my entire emotional foundation right 
now.  
 
We stand in her darkened bedroom.  I pull my hand from 
hers long enough to turn on the light.  In the past we've 
fucked one another in the near-darkness, or at least 
without artificial light.  Tonight, I need to see her, to 
brand her image on my skin like photographs being 
developed in a reddened darkroom.  That is the memory 
which will keep me for as long as it will take to get over 
her, and I want it to be full of light.  
 
I begin to unbutton my shirt with one hand, but she stops 
me.  I avert my gaze, not wanting to see what emotions her 
eyes hold.  I doubt it's pity, but I can't take that 
chance.  She undresses me quickly, taking off my jeans and 
shoes before she makes her way back up my body to my 
shirt.  With a smooth motion she slips my shirt off, 
letting it pool on the floor.  Her precise doctor's hands 
unbuckle the straps of my prosthesis, which hits the floor 
with a thud like a bomb imploding.  
 
As the cliché goes, I'm entirely at her mercy.  
 
She begins to shed her own clothes, but with a step 
forward I still her hands.  If this is to be it, it has to 
be more.  The satin of her nightclothes is soft against my 
fingertips.  I'd forgotten anything could be this soft.  
I've been fucked into oblivion before, but never with this 
softness.  If all she's going to do tonight is fuck me, I 
can live with it so long as I can feel her skin this way.  
 
And then she's naked before me.  I can't help but lapse 
into cliché again.  She's so goddamned beautiful.  
Describing the details will never do justice to the 
overall impression she gives me.  I touch her and it's 
good, so fucking good.  It's everything I need to feel 
before I say goodbye.  
 
She leads me to the bed and I follow, her lackey.  I wish 
I could be everything she wants tonight, but I know that's 
impossible.  Everything she wants is Mulder.  But for some 
strange, incomprehensible reason, she's giving me this.  I 
take it greedily.  When you're as bereft of, well, 
everything, as I am, you take what you can get.  
 
Lying on her bed, the cool white cotton of her sheets 
framing her body, I'm dying to hear her whisper, "Make 
love to me, Alex."  I know I'll never hear it from her, 
but I choose to do it anyway.  My mouth, my hand is all 
over her, drinking her in so deeply that I imagine I'll 
never be thirsty again.  But I know that's wrong – I'll 
always be thirsty for her, for the man who is not with us 
but whose presence remains a careful observer in the room.  
 
Her body shivers slightly as I sip at her breasts.  I wish 
I could tell myself it's due to overwhelming love for me, 
but I know better than to lie to myself.  I can lie to 
others, but my mind knows the truth.  In the past, with 
both men and women, I've been the aggressor, dictating the 
moves so that they bring out the most extreme pleasure in 
my body.  And even if I'm not telling them what to do, the 
power I hold over them assures both of us that the 
experience will be for me, not for them.  I guess it's a 
mark of how obsessed I am with the two of them that when 
I've made love to them – both that night when I fucked 
Mulder as Scully watched, and tonight as I kiss her body – 
it has become all about them, about giving them the 
extreme pleasure which is the only thing that could make 
me feel content.  
 
And then I will walk away.  
 
Right, Alex?  
 
I move down her body so that I can taste the flesh between 
her legs.  I've done this before, to other women, to her – 
but this time it's different.  Maybe it's because before, 
I was doing it to assert my power.  Now, I'm doing it to 
make her happy, to make her scream.  To show her 
everything I feel for her, even if those feelings will 
never be reciprocated.  
 
Enough dwelling on these macabre apocalyptic feelings, 
Alex, I tell myself.  Just live in the moment.  
 
She comes under me, quietly, smoothly.  I wonder what this 
means.  Have I pleased her?  I glance up at her face in 
wonder, but it is blank and dazed.  At this moment, I 
simply accept it.  I can't want more.  
 
I give her this moment of stillness, even as I'm nearly in 
pain from the hardness between my legs.  It gives me a 
moment of reflection on the absolute strangeness of this 
night.  Me, Alex Krycek, laying above a naked Dana Scully.  
How absolutely bizarre.  I don't give myself time to get 
used to the idea, instead just clearing my mind of the 
strange image and letting myself simply exist.  
 
Her hands move from her sides and come to rest on my 
shoulders.  I can feel her fingertips play along the skin 
there, her right hand touching the rough, nerveless skin 
where an arm once was.  It's a symbol of loss, just as 
much as she is underneath me.  
 
If she has been passive before, she is all action now.  
Her hips press up into my face and I shiver.  For the 
first time in what seems like ages, she speaks.  
 
"Now."  
 
It is only one word, but it's the one I need to hear.  
Moving up her body, I kiss her skin in ways I've never 
kissed it before.  It's not about possession, it's about 
remembrance.  And this is a memory which will last.  
 
As I take myself in hand and push my cock into the space 
between her legs, I'm reminded of what Marcus said to me.  
He asked me if I'd fallen in love with her, with them.  I 
told him no.  I meant yes.  
 
I summon all the composure I can manage, and begin to 
thrust inside of her.  This kind of fucking is really all 
about the man, not the woman, but in this case it's a 
combination of both.  It's about me needing to feel her 
surrounding me, and needing her to feel me making love to 
her, even if she doesn't reciprocate the emotion.  
 
My thrusts take on the rhythm of a heartbeat – the 
heartbeat I feel as I press my chest against hers.  Even 
though I want this to last forever, for it never to end, I 
can't stop myself from the physical sensations of ecstasy 
overtaking my body.  That body has never cooperated with 
me, nor does it do so now.  
 
I come inside her, in long pulses of a forever which will 
last only this one night.  
 
I finally collapse on top of her, then roll off her, 
gathering her body close to me.  It is small, but 
overwhelmingly large, encompassing my world tonight.  In 
the bright light of the overhead lamp, I see her close her 
eyes, but I can tell she's not asleep.  
 
No matter. I can wait all night if I need to, but I'll be 
gone in the morning.  
 
Much later, she is asleep.  Her breathing is long and 
slow, and she hasn't moved in hours.  I can't sleep.  I 
have to absorb this, to keep the memory of it for when I'm 
gone from their lives.  
 
Yet I can't help but whisper without sound to the air 
surrounding us in her apartment, "Do you know how much I 
love you, Scully?  Do you even care?"  
 
She couldn't possibly hear the words, their having no 
sound.  Still, I'm almost glad that she is asleep.  It 
makes the leaving easier to bear.  Pressing a few quiet 
kisses to her face, I brand my skin with her, then I 
extricate myself from her somnolent hold.  
 
Dressing takes on a new bittersweetness in the predawn 
light.  It is difficult, but it must be done.  Minutes 
later, I'm back to my old self – a leather jacket my coat 
of armor, a slowly hardening heart my protection.  
 
I turn and look at her one last time, then leave her life.     
 
END.     
 
I owe the world to Kirsten for the "anasthesia" comment, 
Rachel for letting me swipe a quote from her e-mail, Dasha 
for "Alyosha" <g>, and Sue just for listening.  I'd also 
like to thank Liz for a few comments last night which 
basically saved this story, and which ended up planting 
the seeds for an upcoming third (and probably final) part.  
 
PLEASE send any feedback to alanna.  You don't know how 
much I'd love to hear from you!