Deconstructing Judas

by Shadowfox

Rated: Mild T for language (sorry, Suze [g])

Spoilers: Everything through US-S7, E3 (Hungry) and the Millennium crossover ep hasn't happened yet

Summary: Mulder and Krycek come to a new understanding.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, belong to the Surfer Dude, the number 1013 and the Network Of Faithless Dealings. 'Nuff said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a second of your life
tell me that it's true;
I'm waiting for a sign,
that's all I want of you.
Your heart hides a secret,
the promise of what is;
of something more than this...
'More Than This' The Cure

Chapter 1: The End of The Beginning

Mulder:

It's a commonly accepted truth of Christianity: Judas betrayed Jesus forthirty pieces of silver; betrayed him to the Romans with a kiss. But everybody's gotten so hung up on that little piece of dogma over the centuries that they've lost sight of the peripheral details.

For instance, did you know that Judas hung himself after Christ's death? Not exactly the kind of thing a cold-blooded, evil person does, is it? I mean, if Judas was the kind of guy Christianity has made him out to be all these years, why would he even have *cared* if Jesus died hanging from a cross? You can give me any theory you want, but it won't mean anything unless you know the story *behind* the betrayal--the reason Judas felt he had to do what he did.

It's a simple reason, really. Judas did it for love. Love, one of the supreme equalizers of all humans great and small.

The way I understand it, the Romans were actively looking for Jesus and if they'd found him, they most certainly would have killed him. But Judas, poor misguided Judas, believed if he made a deal with them for Christ's life, that it would be honored; that if he did this reprehensible thing, God's son would be spared. And surely it was better for him, Judas, to make that kind of sacrifice for the life of the Son of God than to allow Christ to *die*, wasn't it? So in retrospect, the biggest mistake Judas made was not in betraying Jesus to the Romans, but in believing the lie in the first place.

Blasphemy, right? I'm going straight to hell with my head on a pike and all that other happy shit? Like a good Jewish atheist would care. Fire and brimstone would be a picnic after all the heartache I've had to deal with here. A freaking cakewalk. An eternity spent in the kind of hell depicted in the Bible could never compare with the one I'm living in right now, so the thought of going there doesn't bother me even with my fear of fire. I think it would be more of a relief, actually. Better the demons you know and all that jazz.

So we've established that Hell doesn't bother me. What *does* bother me is the story of Judas. I looked 'Judas' up in the dictionary once on a whim. The definition is: one who betrays another under the guise of friendship. You'd be surprised at the number of synonyms I found for the term. Some were to be expected.

Traitor. Betrayer. Defector. Collaborationist. Turncoat. *Rat.*

There were others, however, that I simply wasn't prepared for.

Supporter. Defender. Loyalist. Patriot.

I mean, aren't these supposed to be positive words? Someone who supports and defends is supposed to be a good person, right? To be loyal and patriotic is something to be admired, right? Intrigued by my findings, I looked up a word in the thesaurus list that I had little familiarity with. Under 'quisling' I found this: a traitor who serves as the puppet of the enemy occupying his or her country. And the thesaurus served up something even more interesting: the words 'loyalist' and 'patriot' are considered both antonym and synonym for this word. Talk about irony. My life is one great, ongoing experiment in it.

I've had a lot of time to think since I came home from the hospital. Maybe too much time. So much has happened, so much has been learned that I sometimes feel like my brain has grown two sizes too big for my skull. Is this what Gibson Praise feels like, I wonder; is this what he has to deal with every day of his life? If so, I pity him. Then again, the kid was born with full telepathic capability; so I guess all these things I'm finding so overwhelming right now he just considers normal.

That is a frightening prospect. To think that I could ever consider my current state as *normal*. It's not like I don't believe in ESP, psychic phenomena or the existence of alien life on Earth, I just never considered it to be something that could be applied to me. I never, not once, was arrogant enough to suppose that I would become proof positive of the Truth I 've been looking for all this time. Still, here I am; and not only has it come to pass, but I'm coming to terms with it as well. Slowly, but surely, this unexpected...infection is becoming a part of who I am and what I define myself by.

Scully has yet to deal with this fact; and as such, she's been handling the whole situation in her usual logical, scientific skeptic's way, something I alternately love and loathe her for. We haven't discussed my behavior on our latest case; and while it wasn't exactly...exceedingly abnormal for me, I can tell the way I chose to handle Rob Roberts was somehow disturbing to her in its own right. That I could know so much for certain, in a manner above even the ability of my admittedly superior profiling skills to explain...well, it just shakes up her neat, ordered, scientific world; because it is beyond the current capability of her science or her faith to explain. But she has seen the shape of things that have been and things yet to come; and she will, in her own time and fashion, come to believe, as she always does, in part if nothing else. That's only as it should be.

Besides, it's not like either of us has much choice in the matter. Ever since I laid eyes on that artifact rubbing and triggered whatever it was inside me that set us on this path, it has been a sort of inevitability; a juggernaut that can neither be turned nor stopped. One set in motion in no small way by Alex Krycek. My own personal Judas.

It's funny. Whenever I think of Krycek, my mind always goes back to that day in the VCU bullpen; when he walked up, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. I can remember being amazed and irritated by the sheer balls of that polyester suited, over-gelled, obviously green rookie as he calmly and forcefully told me that Augustus Cole was *his* case and he wasn't dropping it. Letting me know up front that he wouldn't kow-tow to me just because I was Spooky Mulder, one-time darling of the BSU, now wacked-out headcase searching for proof of little gray men. And he didn't. He called me to the carpet on every last nasty thing I did or said to him. That alone earned my grudging respect.

Add to that a seeming willingness to at least listen to my theories without an eye toward shooting them full of holes, with a little empathy and acceptance thrown in (the kind it took me at least six months to *start* to cultivate in Scully; that alone should have tipped me off), and you can see how that tiny portion of respect could turn into a small glimmer of trust. A trust that was shattered into a thousand million painful shards on Skyland Mountain, and has since come back to haunt me on every occasion that we happen to collide. My father's death (or maybe I should say my step-father's, since it seems like that too was another lie in a long list my parents told me), Hong Kong, Tunguska (although it would seem that Krycek got the shorter end of the stick on that deal), and now this latest turn of events that's left me in the unimaginable and unenviable position I currently find myself.

Yeah, I knew it was Krycek on the stairwell. How could I not? The man has an aura that even a deaf, blind and mute non-sensitive can feel; a sort of dangerous panther stalk that he could never completely hide, not even when he was supposed to be a snow-white, ingenuous neophyte. There was always a hint of darkness in that angel's face even then; and I guess that's why I wasn't too surprised to find those Morely butts in his car. But even the anticlimax of learning that Krycek was a Consortium spy never stopped me from beating the living hell out of him every chance I got. No sir, not one bit.

And considering that I was expecting the betrayal anyway, my penchant for extreme violence around Krycek is nothing short of disturbing to me. I mean, my partner had to *shoot me* to stop me from killing him once. Every time we meet, my hands develop a will of their own and I find myself hurting him before I know what I'm doing. The only exception to the dance is the deal with the rebel alien; and I'm now inclined to believe that I only got the upper hand all those other times because he let me, which is quite disturbing in its own right.

He's never laid a hand on me, never fought back once; and it has only now occured to me to wonder why. Alexander Krycek is a Consortium assassin (not to mention a real, live, rogue FBI agent--I had the Gunmen check his background and it turns out his credentials are legit--and they found some other top level, highly classified info attached to his file that even *they* can't break through), more than capable of protecting himself from the likes of me; so why didn't he? Why did he let me kick the shit out of him all those times with little more than a few pained grunts and some highly loaded double entendres as his defense?

That's the question rolling around in my head now; the one that's been up there nagging me since I almost killed him in a drug-induced haze all those years ago. Krycek has been a big mystery from day one; a self-contained black hole that sucks secrets in and never lets them out again, unless it's to his advantage. He is a walking, talking, human Bermuda Triangle packed into a six-one, 185 lb. frame with a face like a Botticelli and a body to match, despite the missing arm.

God, when did I start allowing myself to think of him that way? I mean, I always knew he was handsome (unlike most men, I have little problem with acknowledging beauty within my own gender); but I'd *never* thought of Krycek as anything other than a rat bastard, nor did I want to. Now, all I *can* think about is how strange it is that someone who looks the way he does has to endure the kind of life he leads. With that face--that body--he could have had anything or anyone he wanted, been anything he chose to be.

For that is another irrefutable truth: that the beautiful people, the ones blessed with the good fortune of being pleasing to the eyes of others are almost always set apart; a subconscious throwback to the days when our lives were ruled by the whim of the gods--creatures of beauty, perfection, and power whose very gaze could smite us down if we dared to offend them. As such, we are always more forgiving of those people; more willing to give them the opportunities and second chances we'd make our plainer, less-blessed cousins crawl on hands and knees for.

And maybe that's the most disturbing thing of all to me; that *I'm* willing to believe just the tiniest bit, give the smallest sliver of the benefit of doubt over when Alex Krycek appears on the scene simply because he asks me to. It's happened time and again; Hong Kong, Tunguska--hell, if Scully hadn't shot me, he probably would have been able to talk his way out of that night in front of my apartment in spite of the fact that I was higher than a kite, crazy as a loon and thirsting for his blood. I wouldn't put it beyond his ability to talk himself out of a one-way ticket to Hell if he had to. It seems to be a particular gift of his.

Which could explain why I'm sitting here in the dark, waiting, at the behest of a few words on my computer screen; words I'd heard whispered before--in my head--on a stairwell, through a maelstrom of other meaningless and painful mental chatter.

*The Truth is at hand for those who wish to see.*

Eleven small, simple words that, had they come from anyone else at any other time, would have had me dashing headlong into danger without a second thought; my faith unshakable in the belief that Saint Scully--patron of foolish, partner-ditching Fibbies everywhere--would be there when I needed her with her trusty gun and oversized med kit. But not this time. This time, there wasn't any need; the answers (or *some* of them, at any rate, if my dark angel is to be believed) are coming to me. He promised me. He promised me and this time, I'm inclined to believe him. Not because he asked me to, but because I knew I could. Because I could see everything inside him; see it, feel it, *experience* it, just the way he has/does/ever will, and it has changed the way I see him forever. I wonder if he's realized that yet.

I also wonder if he's realized that you can't lie to someone in your mind.

Krycek: I've been standing here in this doorway for over an hour in the cold, watching his window and wondering for the umpteenth time just what the fuck I think I'm doing.

Never mind the fact that the Cancerstick ordered me here in the first place after all of Mulder's bugs had a meltdown and gave the surveillance techs fits, just because Fox blew out six different sets in the two-week period after he got out of the hospital--over ten thousand dollars worth of highly sensitive electronic equipment, by the way. The look on the head geek's face when he realized that the last set--the ultra-expensive, specially shielded, indestructible Black-Ops set--took a crap was probably the best laugh I've had in six years.

But I'm not laughing right now; because even though I'm pretty sure the old man can't hear or see me once I'm in there, the move I'm contemplating tonight is beyond dangerous. This is the kind of shit that could get me killed no matter how careful I am about it. I'm caught between Mulder's irresistible force and the Consortium's immovable object, just knowing that one or the other of them (probably both, if I'm honest with myself) is going to be the death of me. And it's making the rat-like survivor inside my soul scream bloody murder. Every instinct I have is telling me to walk away and forget about this; just walk away and let it be.

The problem is I can't, no matter how much I want to. Something keeps drawing me back to Fox Mulder over and over again. Kismet, fate, karma, destiny...call it what you will, but that old bitch just keeps throwing the two of us together and I can't say I like it much. I always seem to come out on the losing end. Except for the deal with the rebel; that one turned out okay. In fact, it turned out pretty fucking good as far as I'm concerned--not only did I get a bit of my own back physically, I got to mess with Mulder's head a little. Which wasn't my intention, you understand, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity when it fell into my lap; it just isn't in my nature.

Besides, I promised him I'd come. When he was laying there on that stairwell, writhing in pain, I promised him I'd come to him and give him as many of the answers as I could. Not in so many words and definitely not out loud, but it doesn't matter. I know he heard me; the same way I knew that I 'd eventually wind up in Mulder's orbit again anyway, no matter how much I tried to put it off. It's just the way it is between us: ineluctable pain and betrayal and lies and blood and bruises and hatred and just...*evil* that keeps perpetuating itself and festering like some hidden abscess that needs to be lanced before the poison spreads and kills us both.

Jesus, I'm rambling. I'd laugh at the idea, but I think once I started I wouldn't be able to stop; not even when the men in white coats came to drag me away. Not even after my 'associates' put a bullet in my skull to silence the laughter. If I started laughing now, really laughing, I know I'd spend an eternity in Purgatory doing nothing but and I really don't want to go out that way.

I want to go out fighting. Hell, I don't want to go out at all if I can help it. But I'm not naive enough to believe I can have that now, so I take every bit of life I can beg, borrow or steal whenever I get the chance and leave the rest for another day. At this point, it's all I can do, and I always know that what I really want, what I wish for in the deepest, darkest, most secret part of my heart, can never be mine.

Trust, respect, faith, love; these are concepts foreign to the men who live their lives in shadows. Foreign, but certainly not unheard of; and not so far out of the realm of experience that they are unwanted by most of those same men, even as they testify that such things are for rubes and fools--the innocent, unwashed masses tripping blithely along in their ignorance. The ironic truth is that those concepts they must by necessity shun are probably the ones they want--no, *need*--most of all. I know I do.

I also know that I'll never find them in the apartment hidden behind the dark window I'm still staring at. Yet here I am once more, in a bitterly cold Alexandria winter, drawn to this place to wait anew; for what I don't know. I only know that whatever it is, it's important and I can only find it here. The Holy Grail, maybe? Wouldn't surprise me at all. Nothing involving Mulder does anymore. If God himself came down tomorrow and told me the answer for the meaning of life was Mulder's apartment, I'd simply smile and nod and go on my merry way; content in the awareness that I knew it all along.

Well, enough introspection for now. It's time to get going. I have promises to keep, and I always keep my promises, no matter what. Besides, I have to satisfy the old man's parental urges, don't I?

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

Mulder smiled to himself when he sensed the presence in the doorway across the street. He'd been practicing with his newfound abilities since waking up to find himself in the hospital yet again and had finally started learning how to filter the chaos battering his mind until he could pick what he wanted out of the information stream and leave the rest--most of the time, anyway.

It had been a source of delight and horror to discover himself eavesdropping on his partner's random mental musings when they were gathering the evidence at the burger joint in their latest case; delight because he got to see the intricate workings of her mind when she was on a case, and horror because he 'd invaded her privacy so absolutely and without any conscious effort. He decided he'd have to watch that very carefully from then on and made a big deal of finding a bit of brain matter that turned out to be ground beef to cover the slip and distract himself. Scully was still freaked out by this last curveball as it was; he hadn't wanted to add to it with an accidental revelation that he'd been subconsciously using his telepathic powers on her.

So for the rest of the case, he'd confined himself to Rob Roberts and doing his job; gently testing his ability--and his control over it--on the young man (and for all his genetic mutation he *was* still human) and trying to conceal the true depth of his knowledge from his partner. It worked, to a certain extent. Things were still strained between them but getting better, and he knew that it would be all right as long as he didn't try to practice on *her*. Scully was far too sharp for him to get away with it for long and he needed her to keep him grounded, especially now that this...infection had taken hold of him. So the unspoken rule was that he ruthlessly kept his extrasensories to himself around her.

But now that Mulder was home and on his own, he could practice to his heart' s content with no one the wiser and refine the control over his mind. His goal was to find out exactly what kinds of extrasensories he had and at what range, then establish a control so complete that it was second nature; although he did notice that the more he worked with his ability, the ,ore instinctual the control became. He would cast his mind out around him like a net every night, then one by one tune out the other minds pressing in on his until all he could hear was his own thoughts. As he did so, he tried to gauge how far his reach extended by fixing a map of his neighborhood in his mind; it had startled him when he first realized he had over a two-mile range as the crow flies, and it kept getting progressively wider. He was currently just under the three-mile mark. If this kept progressing at the same pace, he estimated he'd be able to reach all the way to the JEH by the end of spring.

So every night he was home, the program was the same: cast out as far as he could and slowly reel himself back in; then run through his mental list of extrasensories and test himself for the ability, trusting his instinct to tell him whether or not he had it. It was a ritual he'd engaged in ever since waking up in the hospital after whatever his so-called *father* had done to him; it kept him focused, kept him sane and kept his head from exploding into a million pieces because it taught him to handle the pressure of channeling all that mental energy. And like an atrophied muscle, the more Mulder used the ability, the stronger it got and the easier it became to control. The practice also served to build up a barrier, a kind of callus that kept the pain he'd experienced when his ability first manifested itself at bay.

He now understood that was the reason he'd been in so much pain in the first place; because he had no protection against the energy whipping around him. Simple really. Now that the barrier was in place, Mulder no longer had to deal with excruciating pain; but migraines were the norm if he pushed himself too hard. So he usually just kept himself to his routine, casually observing and taking note of the people in his building whose mental signatures he recognized. There were more than he'd expected there to be, and that was something of a surprise as well--until Mulder realized that a lot of them were usually gathered in the hall when there was something going on at his place. It figured. Tonight, however, had been different. Tonight, he wasn't interested in sniffing out the all the voyeurs who'd ever sought a guilty thrill at his expense.

Tonight Mulder had been actively searching for a *specific* mental energy, one that was dark, rich and bittersweet and that he'd know anywhere. It was, to his mind, sort of like chocolate, but was as thick and dark and syrupy as Black-strap molasses; and so sweetly seductive it made his mind and body hum, a very dangerous thing indeed. He could drown in a presence like that and not care at all, even when it was too late to saved, and that was a Scary Thing; still, he'd searched on and decided to deal with the ramifications later--like after he had found who he was looking for.

It still amazed him that mental signatures could *be* so complex, that they could be experienced with all of the senses, and that the people closest to him--specifically his partner and his boss--had ones that he instantly recognized. Scully, for instance, gave an overall impression of cinnamon (which made him laugh because of her red hair) and warmth, tempered with something cool and soothing that he hadn't figured out yet, sort of like mint but not quite.

Skinner, on the other hand, gave an impression of cool deep water; something powerful that was to be alternately admired and feared, and given the kind of respect a sailor gives the sea. Both had a strength that he usually found very comforting. But tonight, he'd needed something dangerous and unsettling, something cat-like, something dark and feral with teeth and claws and muscle; a proud, breath-taking predator that had been barely tamed by abuse, and was still wild and unpredictable beneath a thin veneer of so-called civilization.

Tonight, Mulder had been searching for Alex Krycek; and when he found the younger man, huddled in the doorway across the street shivering violently in the cold, he calmly got up, walked into the kitchen and started coffee. He then pulled out three big cans of beef stew, opened them, dumped them into a pot and started heating them. After a moment's thought, he decided to make sandwiches too. Alex was hungry; he had the same kind of low-level hum Rob had before he'd died, one that gave the impression of the body feeding on itself. Mulder had instinctively recognized it as hunger and then realized something else about himself: he'd always had this ability, and it was this ability that had made him the profiling genius he was. Surprise, surprise. By the time Alex finished picking his joke of a lock and let himself in, Mulder had returned to the couch with the coffee and food. "Make yourself at home," he said calmly, and picked up his spoon and began to eat.

Alex just stood and stared, clearly bewildered and unsure of what to do. Well, *that* was a first. "It's getting cold," Mulder continued in that same calm voice, a soothing, curiously flat monotone that put the younger man more on edge than any cruel fist could ever have. Mulder smiled just a bit then, seeing the dilemma. "I'm not up for the usual dance, Krycek; I thought I'd try a different approach this time. Sorry. Next time, I'll make sure and rest up so I can come out with fists flying," /and if I'd known that all it took to rattle you was a little courtesy and kindness, I'd have done it years ago./

Alex shook himself then, the gentle rebuke and a chuckle echoing in his brain. He'd known, of course; but it was a different matter altogether to be subjected to the reality. A realization blossomed when the echoes faded and made him blush: "Mulder, stay out of my head, please. One mind-rape in a lifetime is enough, thank you." To Alex's surprise, Mulder blushed himself. "Sorry; didn't mean to. I'm still learning control," was the sheepish response, all the more surprising for its blunt honesty. He would never have expected such an admission of weakness from the other man, and was once again struck by the depth of strength revealed by the action.

As he moved to the other bowl of food and settled himself on the floor in front of the coffee table, he realized he was starving. It didn't surprise him, though. He'd gotten used to the feeling over the years; it kept him sharp and alert, something he needed now more than ever. Even with his improved standing within the Consortium ranks and the supposed power it brought, Alex was still treated like little more than a common thug by the Cancerstick and his cronies. Which was no skin off his nose; but meant that, as usual, he was scrabbling for every scrap of power and/or information he could beg, borrow or steal and for what? Next to nothing.

He didn't yet have the kind of pull that would bring the fence-sitters over to his side, and the Dandy's supporters had dwindled down to almost non-existence after his untimely death. The message had been received and understood: because of his alliances and his past transgressions, Alex would now have to work twice as hard and twice as long to prove himself again; and that was something CGB Spender would *never* let come to pass. Alex had too much on him and was far too dangerous for that to be allowed to happen and Spender relished every chance he got to knock Krycek down another peg or two and remind him of that fact.

The younger man cursed himself every day for whatever rookie mistake he'd made all those years ago that had gotten Spender sniffing around him in the first place. Nothing had been found yet, his true employers were far too careful for that to worry him much, but it had made his assignment and his life infinitely harder over the years; dangling by the merest thread on the fringes of legitimacy as a free agent definitely did not agree with him.

Now Alex was always tired and strung out; and the phantom pains in his arm were sometimes so bad that he didn't want to do anything but curl into a ball of misery and sob, which was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had to keep moving, ducking and weaving; creating mistrust and discord among those who would engineer the destruction of the human race without getting caught. He was the only one who could--the only one who was in *any* kind of position to--but it was harder than anyone had ever told him it would be; and goddamn it, he was *so* very, very tired.

Because of that, Old Man Spender had won this round. Alex had tried so hard to take care of every loose end, cut off every source of information the Cancerstick could have found, stay one step ahead of him to no avail. Spender had gotten to Mulder first, taken what he wanted and was now virtually omnipotent.

Or so the old fossil thought. Alex *had* taken out every last scrap of readily available information, and he still had an ace up his sleeve; something he hadn't revealed to anyone, especially his erstwhile partner Diana Fowley. He'd told *her* very little--just enough to keep her off-balance; preferring to keep his own council while he filled her head with seeds of doubt about Spender's reasons and motives. Like Jeffrey Spender before her, Diana soon started questioning those motives, as well as the promises of power and the assertion that what they were doing was for Fox's sake as well as the rest of humankind; and like the younger Spender before her, she earned a few bullets for her trouble.

Alex couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for her; Fowley had sold herself out and then couldn't play the game once she got in. It was only to be expected. Her one redeeming grace was that she had realigned herself with Mulder before her death. With that thought, Alex had the sensation of Mulder's gaze burning a hole into the top of his bowed head and snapped his own up to glare at the other man.

"Hey, I didn't hear very much," the object of his wrath said defensively, "you have a really strong natural shield." Mulder fiddled nervously with his spoon; the anger was coming off the younger man in waves, and mixed into it was a healthy dose of fear and confusion. The confusion he could understand somewhat, but *fear?* What in the hell could *Alex Krycek* have to be afraid of?

He felt himself *reaching* as he stared into those clear emerald eyes and hastily dropped his own before he could give in to the impulse. Alex had promised him answers and he would give them in his own time--as long as Mulder was patient.

"Yeah? Well just how much *did* you hear?" Alex snarled. He had felt Mulder's tentative probe against his shields and despite the other man's reassurances of their strength, he knew they would never hold up against a full onslaught if Mulder's indefinite control slipped, and there were things inside his head that he *never* wanted Mulder to see.

"Something about Diana. And Cancerman. That was it. I *swear*," Mulder insisted when the glare didn't fade, "you asked me not to and I'm trying to honor that. I can't help it if your emotions allow some of it to leak." He gestured to the empty bowl with his spoon, which was now bent beyond all recognition: "You want more? I made plenty. Sandwiches too," if the idea of Mulder cooking for him surprised the younger man, he certainly hadn't let it show yet. Mulder had figured that his inexpertise in the kitchen would be the stuff of legend in the Consortium ranks by now.

Alex, for his part, only stared at the spoon and swallowed. Mulder had mutilated it without any conscious thought with just a few gentle strokes of his fingers. The thought of it made him go hot and weak inside, a feelinghe tried to ruthlessly squash without success. "No, I'm good," he rasped, "maybe later."

Mulder noticed Krycek's awed stare and looked down at the twisted metal in his hands. Damn, matter manipulation. Another one to add to the list, along with telepathy, empathic ability and telekinesis. He sighed heavily, picked up the dishes and trucked them back to the kitchen. He had originally planned to set them soaking and return to his 'guest', but Krycek had come into the room and sat down at the table as the sink was filling so he decided to wash them now instead.

"Need some help with that?"

"No. This won't take me long," Mulder could feel the confusion deepen; could tell that whatever Alex had come here to say was becoming lost in the struggle for a place to begin. They were both silent for a long time and Mulder found himself drifting contentedly in the dark, sweet thickness of Alex's unique mental energy. He couldn't help it; there was something about Alex that just kept bringing him back, and kept bringing Alex back to him and Mulder had finally figured out why. /Oh, Alex.../

Suddenly, he felt that presence just behind him and his whole body flared to life. "I'm sorry," the smoky rasp whispered, "this isn't turning out the way I expected. Things just keep getting in the way. I'm gonna go; I'll send the information to those friends of yours," he sounded as unsure and off-balance as Mulder felt, and a sudden burst of emotion had the words *a mistake to come here* ringing through his mind as well as a profound sadness and something like...longing?

"Don't," Mulder whispered just as quietly, seriously trying not to *reach* into the younger man and force him to stay. His control was a hairsbreadth away from snapping at this point.

"Why?" One word, a carefully hidden wealth of hurt, mistrust and hope behind it.

"Because if you do, I'll never see you again. I know I won't," he silenced the obvious question by speaking the answer before the words could be voiced, "and I can't let you go like this. I need to make this last. Sincerely need it...," Mulder's voice trailed off helplessly.

Alex blinked slowly; his heart hammering in his chest. "Why?" It was the age-old question between them. But instead of giving him an answer, Mulder simply turned around and locked gazes with him. Alex panicked as he felt himself falling into those dark, dark eyes and then heard Mulder's voice; that strangely soothing monotone that had set him so on edge earlier.

Shhhhh, I promised you I wouldn't pry, baby; just trust me.

Mulder? What the hell are you doing to me? *Stop it*...

Alex, relax...you can do a hell of a lot more damage to me here than I can to you.

What the fuck is *that* supposed to mean?

Look around you.

Alex did. He was even more confused for a minute...and then he got it. Why? It seemed like he was asking that question an awful lot lately.

Because I've been asking you for truth and haven't been willing to give it. Because I want you to know you can trust me...because I want it to be different between us and this is the only way I can see to make that happen.

What if it *can't* be different between us, Mulder? What then?

I think you underestimate yourself, Alex.

*I* think you overestimate me. How do you know I haven't been playing you, setting you up again so that you expose yourself to me--which is exactly what you're doing right now, by the way... How do you know that I'm not just trying to find your weak spots and exploit them?

Have you? Are you?

Alex didn't answer. He desperately wanted to say 'maybe' at least and keep Mulder off-balance, but he couldn't form the thought. It was as if he was frozen; that if he couldn't speak the truth, then he couldn't speak at all. /Now do you understand?/

He did. That still doesn't mean you can trust me. I have a job to do and I'll do whatever I have to--use whoever and whatever I have to--to get it done.

I know. Such calm acceptance in that tone.

Goddamn it, Mulder! Listen to me...you need to stop this...please, suddenly, a wave of fear and emotion overwhelmed Alex and he felt himself start to tremble. Please, Mulder; you have to stop doing this to me...I can't...can't do this...

Yes you can, baby. It's easy; all you have to do is let go and trust me to catch you. I will, you know. You don't have to be alone anymore.

No...godpleaseno...

Shhhhh...

Mulder--Fox...don't...

Have to...sorry, baby; so sorry...my beautiful dark angel...we've wasted too much time already...trust...me, and then Mulder's life was flashing before Alex's eyes, all of it--even the parts that long been locked away and thought forgotten--and it was amazing, terrifying and humbling. Mulder's experiences were becoming a part of Alex, even as Alex's were already a part of Mulder, and it was almost enough to make him cry out with the shame of it. Mulder knew; he already knew everything and had brought Alex here to humiliate him before he took his final revenge...

There wasn't enough time, never enough to say how sorry he was for all the pain he'd caused...

No, Alex...no more pain between us...never again..., and as he reassured the younger man, they stopped in front of a beautiful golden door, /only this, if you want it./

What is this? Krycek was understandably wary.

My truth for you; if you want to see it.

Was that a hint of challenge Alex detected? I once told you there was no truth, he reminded Mulder evenly.

You were wrong. This is a truth; one I've been running from for a long time now.

So why don't you open it and show me already?

Because this door can only be opened by you.

That was definitely a challenge. Still, Alex hesitated. Then he gave the knob a savage twist and threw it open; figuring if he was going to die, he might as well go out like a man.

He stopped short at the sight before him: Mulder and himself, making love to each other in myriad positions and settings. Alex got a sudden vision of Mulder lounging on his couch, skin flick playing forgotten in the background as the older man brought himself to soul-shattering release watching only the pictures in his head and looked over at him for confirmation with a raised eyebrow.

You catch on quickly, Two dogs, Mulder snickered, it's been like this almost from the beginning for me.

The admission was staggering. But there was a corner of Alex's mind where it made perfect sense. /Jesus, talk about sublimation, Mulder./

I know. I'm sorry, baby, and he was sincere about it too. Alex could feel the emotion wrapping itself around him and soothing all the old pain away even as Mulder's arms embraced him.

It was more than Alex ever expected to get in his life and it was a godsend, but he knew that to take it would be a Very Bad Thing; the timing just wasn' t right. That didn't mean he didn't earnestly want to. /I...I can't accept this right now,/ Alex stammered apologetically, /but I will be back for it. You can count on that, lisitsa./

I know. And I'm gonna be waiting for you; so don't go getting yourself killed or I'm gonna kick the shit out of you.

Alex could feel the smile in Mulder's voice and answered with one of his own. Yes, sir. Mulder?

Yeah?

Ditto.

Mulder chuckled again, not unkindly, and kissed Alex thoroughly; after all this was going to have to last both of them for a long while yet. Alex was every bit as sweet and smoky and a ddictive as Mulder had known he would be, and it was so hard to let go; but they eventually did, after which they mentally separated by mutual agreement.

Alex was startled to find himself back in his own body, in the same position he'd been in, and glanced down at his watch. Barely a moment had passed. He cleared his throat before speaking again. "I have to go, Mulder. I'll be in touch."

"Sure, Krycek," the words sounded sarcastic and defeated, but Alex could feel the soothing nuzzle of the other's mind against his; a final farewell before they both had to slip back into their assigned roles. For now.

But Mulder left his dark angel with a precious gift; a mental shield that could withstand even the most expert of probes. And Alex knew he was going to need it. He could feel the Cancerstick waiting for him outside through the feedback from Mulder. Your master awaits, came the quiet monotone in his head, filled with fierce love and fear for him, time to go back to work.

Alex didn't want to, and knew he had no choice. There were other lives besides his own to consider. Stay with me until I get to the car?

I'll stay with you always. Mulder tapped Alex's temple gently. As long as you're out there, I'll be with you. It was all Alex needed to be able to walk out the door and get into the waiting car; and still it wasn't nearly enough. Nothing would be until they could be together without the threat hanging over the whole of humanity between them.

"How is Mulder doing?" Spender oozed false sincerity and concern for the son he'd almost destroyed in his quest for power. The only son he had left now, and one that understandably hated him. No matter; he had everything he needed now, anyway. Besides, there was no going back and changing the battle lines, even if he'd wanted to; there was only room at the top for one.

"As well as can be expected," the answer was noncommittal and vaguely, accusingly sullen in the same turn; but, as always, Alex had glossed his tone with mild disinterest. "He looks healthy enough."

Spender wasn't fooled for an instant. The boy's need for revenge was almost palaptable. "Good, good. Any sign of his abilities trying to manifest themselves?"

There was a wicked snicker deep in his mind as Alex remembered the spoon, and he said, "some minor matter manipulation. It seems that he's now able to bend spoons."

The snicker turned into a chortle when Spender said, 'Interesting,' in a way that clearly conveyed annoyance and disappointment. He might just as well have said, 'my son, the spoon-bender...how quaint' in that condescending tone rich, powerful people reserved to describe their poorer, happier relations and it set Alex's teeth to grinding. Easy, baby, came the quiet whisper in his head, and he reluctantly settled down.

Spender gave the order to return to the penthouse and sat considering the beautiful young man beside him. Alex had only been in Mulder's apartment for a short while, but something had definitely changed within that time span. The boy was stronger somehow. He tried to probe that quick, agile mind for the answer and slammed up against a shield so thick and strong that it actually caused him a twinge of pain.

Damn. This was unexpected. He tried again, a bit more cautiously, and realized that the shield was the result of Alex's time as an alien host and that somewhere along the way it had been refined and strengthened so that even he couldn't get past it. This was not good. It made Krycek even more dangerous than he had been in the past. Spender resolved to rid himself of Alex Krycek once and for all as soon as the younger man outgrew his usefulness. What he couldn't know was that Alex, and Mulder, were already two steps ahead of him.

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

Mulder:

The more I think about it, the more I realize that, yes, Judas was a puppet for the Romans. And like all puppets, someone else was pulling the strings. But if Judas had only known, would it have turned out the same way? The logical answer is no. But there is no logic in this game Alex and I are playing with the man who calls himself my father; there is only instinct and survival.

My dark angel is gone now, speeding away from me into the night with only his considerable wits and my love to protect him in this battle he has to wage behind enemy lines. And even though I know those things should be more than enough to help him--help *us*--win this war; in the bottom of my atheistic heart, I'm praying that they will be enough to bring him back to me. It's taken so long for us to find each other; and now that we have, I don't know if I can go on alone anymore if they are not.

I say alone because even though Scully is in this right alongside me, she works toward her own result. She's earned the right to, and I can't begrudge her that after all she's suffered and lost over the past seven years. It may be the only thing she has left when this is all over. But it means that, until now, I have had no one who truly understands what's at stake here; and I have to admit, sometimes even I haven't gotten the whole picture. But Alex does, and he is what I need now; as much as I need--and have ever needed--Scully.

If by some twist of fate, his luck doesn't hold out; I know, in one fashion or another, I'll be right behind him.

Krycek: I can't describe what I'm feeling, there are no words to convey it. The closest I can come to it is 'alive.' I feel alive again and I refuse to waste that priceless gift my lisitsa has given me. The Cancerstick is plotting against me, I can feel it, but I'm ready for him--no, *we're* ready for him. For the first time in six years, I can truly say that we are in this together. And together, we are unstoppable. Bet on it.

This is the endgame--I know it and it's time for me to buckle down and get to work so I can finish it. My Fox is waiting for me. So it's time to snatch two double fistfuls of life off the top of the barrel and seize the day, and *this time*, I won't stop until it's done. And no atter what happens, I *will* find my way back to him; if I have to crawl on hands and knees to get there. After all, I have a promise to keep, and I *always*keep my promises, don't I?

This time, old man, you will lose. There's no place for you to hide anymore.

End

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

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