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xistential

by Ratadder

 

lex twisted his arm against the strange, featureless band of silver encircling his wrist, forcing himself not to scream in frustration. For the fifteenth, or the fiftieth, time it did absolutely nothing except make his arm tired. It didn't hurt so much as just immobilize him, keeping him bound to the chair. He could twist to the side because his prosthesis had been taken away and nothing bound his stump. But similar bands encircled his ankles, keeping his feet flat to the floor. He tipped his head back against the cushioned head rest and closed his eyes.

Granted, it was a comfortable chair. Even the restraints were comfortable, as far is it went. From inside of them, it felt as if invisible but gentle hands held him fast. Force fields, his mind whispered. Which means no getting out of them until they're damn good and ready to take them off.

The contrariness inside him refused to just sit and be comfortable and wait, as his captors had instructed. He assured himself it was just the contrariness, not the panic boiling up from deep in his gut. No, it was just that he hated being bound and he despised waiting when he didn't know what he was waiting for.

With a good reason? He could wait for hours, days, comfortable with just the conversation inside his head. Strap him down and tell him to "wait here" with no other explanation? He was stir crazy in seconds. Who wouldn't be?

Besides, there were things he needed to be taking care of. Billy Miles for one, or what used to be Billy Miles. Out there, running around, doing who knew what. And two, trying yet again to wake up Mulder and/or Skinner to the severity of the issues surrounding Scully's impending 'miracle'.

Scully's very imminent impending miracle. Christ, she'd looked ready to pop when he'd been getting her down to the parking garage and the relative safety of Reyes' car. Pregnant women made him nervous. Very nervous.

And he just wished, with every bone in his crippled body, that he could remember anything beyond that moment when he watched Reyes' drive off, and then turned to go back up into the Hoover... after Mulder and Skinner and whatever the hell was wearing Billy Miles' skin.

The panic flared, and boiled a little higher. Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck.

He slammed his head into the back of the chair. The softness of the cushion prevented any sound but a soft 'whush', which did nothing to improve his mood or soothe his ragged nerves. At the moment, he actually wanted the pain of slamming his head into something solid.

He forced his mind away from what he couldn't do. It was just making him crazy, and he wouldn't be able to do anything until the Rebels came back, so he might just as well stop.

Easier said than done. His fingers twitched and he had to breathe deeply to keep himself from wrenching against the silver band again.

At least he could be fairly certain the Consortium had nothing to do with his kidnapping, complete with noticeable lack of memory on how he'd been snagged. The bastards had thrown over the Rebels, without listening to Blandings' arguments at all. He clenched his teeth in old anger. As he'd come out of whatever state they'd had him in, the beings binding him into this chair had said they were Rebels, hence they were unlikely to be doing Consortium bidding. He believed them, as far as it went, because they hadn't hurt him unnecessarily, or smacked him around. If they'd been in with the new breed, the Billy-breed as he was thinking of them, they wouldn't have been any too careful about his condition while in captivity. These beings had done their business with a distant lack of concern that rung clearly alien, but they didn't purposely hurt or mishandle him.

Interestingly, they didn't have the facial mutilations he'd seen in the other Rebels he'd crossed paths with over the years while doing Blandings' bidding.

Twisting uselessly against the restraints, he spared another fresh spurt of anger for his old boss, immolated in the car bomb. How the hell had the man been so stupid as to let a car bomb get him? He'd known he was a marked man from the moment he started being so forward with his disagreements with the rest of the organization. Alex regretted the loss... he could use the old boy's input now, with the new breed issues cropping up right and left.

Hell, if Blandings had been more careful, stayed alive, maybe they'd all be somewhere else. Scully might not be about to give birth to who-knew-what. Mulder and Skinner might not be in very present danger from some homicidal unkillable mutant Oregonian deputy who liked long walks at the Hoover and being rundown with cars.

Alex rocked his head against the cushioned seat back and tried to calm down. Again. This was getting him absolutely nowhere.

Twenty minutes, or possibly seventeen seconds, ticked by and a door slid open behind him. He wondered vaguely if he was on a ship or in a building. Two of the Rebels came through the door, with a third shadow in a black coat walking between them. Two more Rebels followed, and took up positions on either side of his chair.

"Will you get me OUT of this thing? I keep telling you, I was in the middle of something important. I need to take care of this Billy Miles mess." Trying to keep them all within sight was impossible, and he gave up and focused on one of the ones standing in front of him. He blinked. It wore the face of a Jeremiah Smith. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you really Smith?"

"I am. And you can relax about the one referred to as Billy Miles. He is not an issue at the moment." True to his own advice, the alien charged on as if the matter of Billy was closed that easily. "You must understand, Mr. Krycek, we do this out of necessity only. We would not choose to force things this way, but we must. Time is coming short, and we need allies among the humans, that thus far have not been available to us. We have chosen you."

Krycek choked. "Me? You've chosen me as your ally." He laughed, harsh and unamused. "You really know how to pick 'em, Jerry."

Smith smiled, an odd calm expression that made Alex's skin crawl. It was so damn serene. He nodded. "Indeed. We do, Mr. Krycek. We do."

The creepy pause allowed the rest of Smith's words to percolate in Alex's brain. "What do you mean he's not an issue? Miles, I mean."

"That situation is stabilized at present."

"Stabilized? How? And what about Scully?"

"Our intelligence indicates that the remains of one Mr. Miles have been delivered to the coroner, after the gentleman in question was pushed off a roof by Mr. Mulder. Off a roof and into a... trash compactor, of sorts."

Alex huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "What?"

"Garbage truck? He was rather... pulverized."

"Je-sus Christ." Closing his eyes and slamming his head back against the chair cushion again, he expelled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Of all the lucky bastards, Mulder is fucking charmed or something."

Smith cocked his head to one side, then nodded. "As it happens, we share your opinion, and your surprise at this fact. However, as you are likely already aware, Mr. Miles will not remain pulverized bits and pieces for long."

Alex opened his eyes and met Smith's pale gaze. "No, I don't imagine he will."

Smith took one step to the left and gestured behind him, to the shadowy figure in black hovering in the corner. "Then if we may get on with things."

The figure stepped forward, and Alex sucked in a harsh gasp. "No. Fucking hell. Don't do this."

Smith's face took on a look of compassion, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Krycek. We all are. But it must be done. And time is of the essence, as I'm sure you realize." He turned to the figure. "Proceed."

The man stepped forward and squatted in front of Alex, who recoiled as much as possible while bound to a chair. Green eyes stared into green, past noses so identical they could have switched places. Every detail matched perfectly as Alex Krycek stared at Alex Krycek in horror.

"Relax," said the unearthly monotone of the Rebel wearing his face. "I just need some minor finishing details." He reached out and tilted Krycek's face this way and that, his own ears morphing slightly as he examined the bound man. The eyelashes lengthened and thickened even as Krycek watched. The Rebel then pulled a knife out of his pocket and cut calmly through Alex's long sleeved t-shirt, right up the center, and Alex found his voice.

"What the hell are you planning to do with another me?! I have things I need to do! NOW! Why are you doing this?"

The alien didn't speak, simply lifted the left side of the shirt back away from the stump, and studied it closely. Alex closed his eyes and turned his head to the right as he felt the thing's hands manipulate the stump. He shuddered in place, unable to move or prevent the invasion. His voice rose, harsh and strident. "Why are you doing this? Why now of all times? What in hell do you need my face for? What good is this going to do you?"

A hand came to rest on his right shoulder. He opened his eyes to see the empathetic face of Jeremiah Smith, and had to restrain an overwhelming urge to bite him. "Just another few moments," Smith said. "Matters are coming to a boiling point, and we feel this opportunity cannot be wasted."

The hands - his hands on another being and sure enough, one felt like a prosthetic - went to his jeans, undoing the belt, unbuttoning and unzipping, working the cloth open, hand reaching in and manipulating his genitals enough to get a good look.

"Whatever you're planning, I seriously doubt anybody's going to be trying to recognize my cock," Alex shouted angrily at the thing, whipping his face away from Jeremiah's frustrating gaze.

His own face looked up at him, unperturbed. "Everything must be as exact as possible for our purposes," he said, and now his voice had the husk and inflection of Alex's own, increasing the creep factor exponentially. "Close inspection of this form is an entirely possible eventuality. We do not go through this kind of effort to be undermined by such a small thing as this." He gripped Alex's cock and shook it.

Bright red flushed Alex's cheeks. "Well, these are hardly ideal circumstances to be modeling me! You want bigger, untie me, you fucking freaks!"

The other Alex looked momentarily confused, then suddenly laughed. Hearing his own laugh from outside of his head was so eerie Alex felt a chill snake up his spine. His double tucked him back into his jeans and did them up again. "Humans. You misunderstand. By 'small thing' I was speaking of circumcision, not impugning your endowments. Foreskins may be removed late in life, but it is our understanding that they do not grow back."

Alex stared up at himself and tried to ignore the cool air on his chest through the cut shirt. Tried to doubly ignore the feeling of dread welling up in him that the aliens were being so thorough as to ascertain his foreskin status. This could not be good. "God is in the details, eh?"

The Rebel smiled down on him, giving him pause. It wasn't an expression he saw a lot of in his own mirror. "It was an excellent idea to meet you in person," the Rebel rasped good naturedly, ignoring his question. "Although my performance need not be perfect, verisimilitude is all to the good."

Teeth clenched, Alex tried one last time. "What. Are. You. Planning."

"I'm afraid it won't be possible to elaborate at the moment, Mr. Krycek," Smith said, stepping forward. "While I'm sure we have you safely contained, I don't wish to provide you any additional incentive to part company with us before everything can be put in motion. You have the alarming ability to surprise everyone. But believe me when I say this is truly in your best interest. All will be clear soon enough." He glanced at his watch and nodded to the second Alex Krycek. "Time. Luck to you."

The double nodded. "Luck." He looked over Alex's way, and tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. "However, I believe our strategy will not require anything so capricious as human luck." With that, he turned and left the room.

Smith watched him go, then redirected his attention to the real Alex Krycek. "There will be another wait, Mr. Krycek. May we offer you some refreshment." Apparently it wasn't a question, because one of the other Rebels left the room immediately at the slightest flicker of Smith's attention. "Aranru will bring something along."

Alex sank back into the chair, realizing how futile further struggle would be. He would find out exactly what they wanted him to know, when they wanted him to know it. He drew a deep breath and stared at the ceiling, wondering how effectively he could ignore the omnipresent Mr. Smith.

Or if he should just give in and inquire about the continued safety of Mulder and Skinner.

Walter blinked his eyes open and winced at the pain shooting through his skull, throbbing in his forehead, traveling down his neck, pulsing through him with every noise and movement. It seemed decidedly unfair to be having the worst hangover of his life, and yet be unable to remember the drunk that preceded it. What was the point of that?

The room swam before him and he blinked again, shaking his head to try to clear his vision. The pain arced all through his head and neck again and he groaned, closing his eyes until lights stopped bursting across his vision like his own personal fireworks display. He tried to lift his hand to press it against his head, hold it steady, keep it from splitting in half, something... but the hand wouldn't move. What the...?

He blinked once more, and tried to focus past the pain. Slowly the room righted, and he realized someone was moving around to his left. He moved his head slowly and looked down at his hands only to find them tied to the arms of a chair he didn't recognize. An expensive, wooden chair, comfortable and soft against his back. The bizarre combination made him feel even dizzier.

"Awake, Assistant Director?" came a smooth voice beside him, with the trace of an accent he couldn't place. "Excellent. We were beginning to worry about you, what with your head injury." He turned his head to the left and found the anonymous person standing at his chair, holding out a water glass complete with a straw. The man looked vaguely familiar, with close cut black hair and an Arabic look to his skin tone and facial structure, but Skinner couldn't place him. Why was his brain so muddy? Was this someone he'd seen at the Bureau? Then why would he still be tied...

Screw it. One thing at a time. He dipped his head forward and drank from the offered glass. He stopped at a couple of sips, mindful of his immobilized position. "Where am I?"

"At an undisclosed location," the man answered promptly.

Skinner stared at him. Well, that just made all the difference.

"The others are on their way. I alerted them when I saw you stirring. They are just completing the arrangements, and will be arriving momentarily."

"Arrangements for what? And who are they? And why am I tied?"

His polite captor smiled. "Because it is imperative that you not be allowed to walk about anywhere until further notice. You must remain here until the Alex Krycek problem is fully resolved."

Walter stiffened and barely managed to keep from yanking at the ropes binding his arms to the chair. He'd already surreptitiously tested them and found them too tight and well-tied to do anything about. No sense hurting his arms. The mention of Krycek, however, made every muscle in his body tighten and prepare to spring out of the chair. "Alex KRYCEK? What in hell has that bastard got to do with all this?"

"Oh, everything. He's why you're here." The man stood at ease next to the comfortable chair, staring at Walter, unblinking.

Ignoring his guard, Walter felt his aching head explode with sudden memories, triggered by the name Alex Krycek. Krycek... bringing Mulder and Scully to his office, talking a blue streak about unstoppable aliens unlike any they'd seen. Confirming Mulder's tales of an indestructible Billy Miles. Mulder... pushing Scully at Krycek... at Krycek?... and following Skinner to go chase down Billy Miles. The roof... Billy... Mulder pushing him over the edge... the garbage truck.

Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct the very last thing he remembered. Getting Billy's shredded remains seen to, and taken to the coroner. Trying to determine if Scully and Reyes had gotten off safely. Wondering where Krycek had gotten to. Only to eventually return to his own office, to find Krycek and Doggett there, with an impossible tape of Billy Miles walking out of the morgue, whole and unscathed. He remembered exactly the gut-dropping sensation of seeing so much ground meat reassembled and walking around.

And the gut-roiling feeling of being left in charge of Krycek. The man sitting oddly silent on his office couch, sipping a soda and occasionally smirking. His sudden rise and wordless stride from the office, despite Skinner's shouts, and the equally sudden appearance of the reanimated Billy Miles.

Racing down the hall for the elevator, watching the door close, watching those green eyes through the narrowing gap, realizing no help was coming from that quarter, as if he'd actually expected...

Wondering why every time, the realization still had the power to hurt.

Forcing the door, getting in the elevator... the hand, impossible but there, coming through the metal door like an ax, striking... pain...

He drew a slow breath in through his nose and released it through his mouth. What... ? But that was all. Krycek and the elevator. And now... here, tied up and feeling like his head was about to explode, or fall off his shoulders, or both. He got a distinct mental image of his head rolling off his shoulders and exploding before it hit the floor.

He caught his own thought train before it could progress much further down that path, and wondered exactly how much head trauma was too much.

"Where is he," Walter snarled, forcing himself back on track. Not that he particularly wanted to see his own personal demon, but he'd learned by now that the best way to deal with Alex Krycek was to get to the point as quickly as possible. Krycek was the last person he remembered, therefore it stood to reason Krycek was responsible for this... whatever this was.

"We have no idea. But we have intelligence he will be making a visit to your Hoover Building presently. This is why you must not be at your office, or anywhere near that location. Or for that matter, at the hospital from which we removed you."

Walter blinked and began to truly wonder if his head injury was worse than he thought. He'd missed something, or misunderstood. He reviewed in his head what the man had said. Krycek was the reason he was here, he needed to stay here until the Krycek problem was resolved, but apparently Krycek wasn't the one keeping him here? "Whoa... wait. I'm not following. Is Krycek the one who kidnapped me or not?"

Another pleasant smile graced the neutral face. "Oh, I'd hardly call it kidnapping, Mr. Skinner. We are merely... detaining you for a short while. As your government so often does. I'm sure you understand." The dark eyes glittered with the first hint of expression, but it was shuttered so quickly Walter wasn't sure what he'd seen. "We removed you from the hospital, brought you to these more private accommodations. And no, to answer your question, Mr. Krycek is not the person detaining you, though he is indirectly responsible for your detainment. You see, Mr. Krycek has not been... fulfilling his obligations where you are concerned."

"Fulfilling his obligations?"

The smile faded. "You're still alive. Which I'm sure you've noticed." The utter chill settling over the man's face was broken as the door behind them opened. "Ah, here they are." He stepped away from Walter to greet the newcomers.

Walter's first clue was the familiar scent of cigarette smoke.

Scully.

Mulder came to on the chill table and tried to sit up. Scully! "Scully..." He needed to get to her... no... that was wrong.

No. He needed to stay away from her. Let her deliver safely. With Reyes. Somewhere that only Doggett knew. But... where the hell was he?

He tried to sit up again. Well, shit. He was strapped to a cold metal - or something - table, naked except for a sheet draped over him. He couldn't remember the last... well, he wasn't sure how long ago his last memory actually was. Still, he'd woken up in worse situations. Now if he could just be sure that Scully wasn't somewhere here as well.

He wasted a few moments trying to piece together how he might have come to be where he was. Wherever that was. Bizarre, really. He remembered... Skinner, injured. Head injury, mumbling something about Billy Miles, Krycek and an elevator. Doggett was there. He and Doggett were going to leave, go track down Doggett's 'friend' Knowle Rohrer. He stopped by the restroom on the way out of the hospital...

Then woke up on this table.

Nothing hurt. No beings, human or otherwise, had appeared on his wakening. He wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been unconscious. The room had no clock that he could see. The room didn't have much of anything, actually.

It felt oddly familiar, and he tried to block the cold feeling of dread that unfurled in his stomach.

Strange featureless rooms with devices, lights, stone dentist chairs, restraints, pain... pain... screaming endlessly... agony... formless, terrible pain, overwhelming...

He stopped the fleeting storm of freeze frame images, the fractured remains of the only bits and pieces he had from his time as an abductee. Something was ringing the bell of those memories, something about this place. When the door slid open and a bounty hunter walked in, he almost threw up.

The memories surged again but he suppressed them ruthlessly and stared wordlessly at the alien. It stared back at him, and just the sight of its thick face and blunt features provoked intense anger in him, his hands curling into fists. Finally, he broke the silence. "First run didn't provide enough data? Needed a return visit?" His attempt at scathing came out rather more shaky than he would have liked. He desperately wanted to scream for Scully, but he didn't want to give Chucklehead any ideas. If they were concentrating on him, maybe they were leaving her alone. He was relieved he'd told Doggett to keep the location from him. At least he could be assured it wouldn't be tortured out of him.

The bounty hunter smiled, and Mulder's stomach heaved again. He remembered that expression well. It shook its head. "No, no return visit. You're still on your own planet, and you're only here with us temporarily. We just needed to remove you from the equation for a brief time. Alex Krycek needs to die, and you seem to be remarkably unable to actually kill him, despite numerous provocations, opportunities, and means. We do not pretend to understand it, but we are now prepared to take steps to correct it. Matters have become too dangerous, too unstable."

Mulder frowned. Krycek needed to die? Well, he wasn't exactly one to argue except... his stomach did another acrobatic flip at the thought of Krycek dead. Except he did want to argue. He might say Krycek needed to die, and in fact he was pretty sure he'd told Krycek that to his face repeatedly, but who was this alien behemoth to decree death on his personal enemy? Krycek was... well, hell. Krycek was Krycek. He was a traitorous bastard of the highest order, but he was always there, popping up around this corner and then out from behind that tree. He always had something interesting to say, always knew more than he was saying, always had some strange hidden motivations that Mulder could never quite discern. If anyone ought to kill Krycek, it should be him, and it should be after the squirmy little rat answered all his questions. Not at the casual whim of some hulking alien with bad taste in faces, who wanted him dead for...

Mulder blinked. Why would the bounty hunter want Krycek dead? If the bounty hunters, traditionally in league with the oiliens and the Consortium, wanted Krycek dead, did that mean... Alex really was on the right side? Yeah, right. Please. Pull the other one. Krycek is on his own side, period, end of story.

Oblivious to, or simply uncaring of, the jumble of thoughts racing through Mulder's head, the bounty hunter walked the rest of the way into the room and switched on a bank of monitors to the left of Mulder's table. Mulder turned his head to the side and watched as a variety of scenes from the Hoover building appeared on screens. He realized instantly that he was seeing the various views of the security cameras installed throughout the building. Was he being held somewhere in the Hoover? He glanced around the room again, then winced. Obviously, given the access the Consortium had to the Hoover, the aliens could be anywhere and still be looped in on the FBI's security system.

Mulder watched as the alien scanned the screens, then tapped in a few commands on a keyboard. The views changed, suddenly replicating one scene, then shifting to different angles of the same scene... the parking garage.

Mulder startled as he saw what the bounty hunter was homing in on. Alex Krycek, seated in a car. With Knowle Rohrer. Anger started to bubble up. Okay, so maybe Krycek did need to die. What the hell was he doing with Doggett's "secret" source?

The bounty hunter continued to play at the screens, and Mulder realized he was focusing on a second car. "There," the bounty hunter said suddenly, satisfaction evident.

Time slowed, and twisted in on itself. The room seemed to tilt, and Mulder wondered why he didn't slide right off the table, before he remembered he was strapped down. He stared in sick fascination as the car that came into view of the cameras slowed and stopped, and the passengers became visible. Even before he could make out faces, he somehow knew exactly what he was going to see. John Doggett.

And Fox Mulder.

Another nameless Rebel wheeled in a cart covered in electronics, or at least they looked like electronics. On closer inspection, as much as Alex could see from his "seat", it was obviously alien technology. Jeremiah stood up and took the other side of the cart, moving it over so it sat directly in front of Alex, and with a touch a screen came to light.

Alex sat up straighter from his slump. He'd been counting off minutes in his head this time, as a method of ignoring Smith's attempts at genial conversation. He knew that much less time had elapsed than he'd first thought. He wondered if whatever they'd knocked him out with was fucking with his perception of time passing. He squinted as multiple scenes flashed across the large monitor. With the speed they were moving it was hard to be sure, but it appeared to be the Hoover. Possibly another location interspersed. Quite frankly he hoped it was the Hoover; maybe that would give him some sense of what was going on with the situation out of which he'd been yanked.

"It appears everything is in motion, Mr. Krycek. I have to say again, I apologize in advance for what I know is going to be a very difficult situation for you, but it's necessary. To be the most efficient, effective ally for us, you need to be 'off the radar' so to speak."

"Off the radar?" Alex stiffened. That sounded somehow ominous.

"Your former associates must believe you are completely out of the 'game', beyond reappearing such as you have over the years. In addition, even those who would be your, and our, allies are best served by believing you... gone."

"Gone?" A sense of heavy dread settled low in Alex's stomach.

Jeremiah stopped the flickering images on one scene, and Alex immediately recognized the Hoover parking garage, from years of skulking around in it. The scene widened, focused, and the feeling of dread swelled up into his chest and throat. He watched the being wearing his face and body get out of a car occupied by Knowle Rohrer. As the other him faded back into the shadows of the garage and Rohrer's car pulled away, Jeremiah flipped the scene again, and found another car, with another passenger.

Mulder.

Shit.

Spender walked slowly into Walter's line of sight. He took a drag off his cigarette, blew smoke into Walter's face, and smiled pleasantly. "Mr. Skinner. Good of you to join us. So glad you could make it. I hope my Tunisian compatriot has been making you comfortable."

Walter glowered, but said nothing. He could have been answering politely in fluent French for all the reaction from Spender. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his head in favor of concentrating on staying calm, and figuring out what the man wanted. Like Krycek, experience told him to get to the point fast with these people. Still, he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of asking about the reasons for his kidnapping.

Spender didn't seem to notice, or care. He continued, blasé. "As I'm sure you're aware, we have an operative," pause, long drag, exhale, "or should I say former operative, who has been nothing but a thorn in everyone's side. Including yours, I dare say." He glanced at one of the men who had followed him in, lifting his cigarette. The man immediately approached, withdrawing an ashtray from his coat. Spender ground out the cigarette, extracted his pack, and lit up again. After a full inhale and exhale, he continued, unhurried. "This former operative has had his uses, even while he was working to sabotage us, as in the situation with your continued survival despite repeated orders and punishments for failure to comply." He paused to draw in again on the fresh cigarette, an annoyed look flitting over his face. "You will find future representatives of our organization to be not half so... amenable as Mr. Krycek has been to your wishes and needs."

Walter kept his face as blank as possible. Amenable? If Krycek was amenable to my needs, he didn't want to see who they send next. And yet, there's that implication again. Guard dog hinted at it, and now here's Spender, acting like I've always known that Krycek disobeyed direct orders in keeping me alive. So Krycek had been ordered to kill, and he hadn't done so? He tried to make sense of it all in his aching head, without looking the least bit puzzled or surprised. Something must have reflected on his face though, because Spender started to speak then halted.

He squinted at Skinner. Finally, after a long silent moment, he asked simply, "Are you in pain? The hospital gave you medication before we... released you from their care, but I have no doubt it's worn off by now. We can give you something to make you more comfortable."

Walter blinked, and unclenched his teeth. "Of course. I'd certainly take anything you offered me," he drawled sarcastically.

Spender shrugged, the cigarette rising and falling in a careless gesture that sprinkled ash on the carpet. "It's neither here nor there to me. You are our guest for the moment and will remain so until this matter is all sorted out. So there's no need for you to be uncomfortable, but it's entirely your choice."

Walter glanced down pointedly at his bound wrists.

Spender smiled. "Ah, apologies, Assistant Director, but that can't be helped. Should you decide you'd prefer a painkiller, please don't hesitate to let us know."

"So I can be feeling better for when you kill me? Thanks, but no thanks. With this headache, I'll just welcome the death a little quicker. Got to look on the positive side of things, you know?"

Spender's smile widened, the thin-lipped expression of condescending amusement to which Walter was so accustomed. "Oh, you're not marked for death any longer, Mr. Skinner. Not at the moment anyway. Alex may have completely undermined our nanocyte plans for you, but with this latest turn of events, you just may become useful again. You'll certainly be useful to our purposes today, and then after today, you will find yourself quite a bit less useful to other parties. Which suits our purposes very well." Satisfaction fairly rolled off the man in waves, and Walter could feel his skin itching in reaction. He wondered idly if antihistamines would work against Spender-induced skin crawling, but the thought just made him ponder the extent of his head injury again.

"But that is neither here nor there, today. As I was saying," Spender continued, "dear Alex has had his uses, even when he wasn't... directly... under our control but-"

Walter snorted. "Was he ever under your control?" he jeered.

Spender's lips thinned, the smile disappearing. His eyes narrowed. He continued as if Skinner hadn't spoken. "However, Alex has outlived his uses. He thinks he is so very clever, but we are perfectly aware he has thrown in with the Rebels, and this the organization will not stand for. Our alien associates are quite displeased. He can attempt to unite the Rebels with a human resistance all he wants... Blandings tried the same and look where it got him." The smile reappeared. "Dead. As Mr. Krycek will soon be. In a bit of poetic justice, in fact. Dead by the very hands for which he betrayed the organization. Oh yes, Mr. Skinner, don't think for one moment that we don't know that he's been passing information to you and Mr. Mulder, and watching out for the good doctor's blessed event."

Walter caught his breath. What the hell? Watching out for Scully and the baby? Krycek had tried to force Walter to choose between Mulder's life and the baby's! What kind of delusion was Spender functioning under? And... passing information? Who the hell was Blandings? Krycek... working with the Rebels? No doubt about it, Spender was obviously under the impression he knew more than he did, and at the moment he didn't see any reason to dissuade him from that belief.

"All that's over now; don't expect anymore assistance from that avenue. It's time for a permanent solution... a little something to deal with the Alex Krycek Problem and sabotage the most promising human/Rebel alliance at the same time. The organization is no longer content to have him out causing chaos, constantly upsetting the playing field, endangering our relations with our associates. When the decision was made, I was only too happy to take charge of the project. If I'd had my way, a permanent solution would have been enacted years ago."

"I was given to understand you tried... more than once," Walter interjected casually. "And failed. Repeatedly."

Spender's face went cold as he sucked on his cigarette for a long moment. Finally, he spoke again. "Don't push it, Assistant Director."

Skinner smiled. "Like the proverbial bad penny, isn't he?"

"This penny is about to be removed from circulation." He snapped his fingers and the man who had provided him with an ashtray walked quickly across the room and started working at a row of screens.

As he turned them each on, Walter watched scenes pop up from the various Hoover security cameras. He blinked, seeing himself on one screen. What the... "So you're taping me? What else is new."

Spender laughed. "Look closer, Mr. Skinner, this isn't a tape, and it's not on playback." He paused and waited while Walter squinted at the screen, at the date and time stamp in the upper left corner. "This is live feed."

"But I'm... what..."

Suddenly, everything clicked. The insistence that he not be anywhere near the Hoover, or out walking around anywhere. The comments about a permanent solution for Krycek, and from the hands they believed he'd betrayed them for.

"You bastards. You're framing me for murder. Again."

"Relax. I'm sure any court of law would consider a plea from you of ridding the world of a dangerous criminal. Who knows, perhaps it will even be in self-defense. One never knows with our Alex." Spender seated himself in a chair brought to him by another of the flunkies.

Walter stared as he watched himself walking through the Hoover garage. "How-"

Spender laughed. "Amazing, isn't it? Don't worry, we haven't had you cloned. That, my friend, is one of our associates... what Mr. Mulder refers to as the 'bounty hunter'. He's told you of them, I believe?"

Walter swallowed hard. The bounty hunters... able to assume any image at will, perfectly. Everyone coming into contact would believe this thing to be him. And Krycek... slowly, all the implications sank in.

Alex would die, believing Walter had killed him.

"You want me to kill him," Mulder managed faintly. "You've got... you... one of those..." He stared at the mirror image of himself on the screen. Obviously, another bounty hunter. He did remember, very well, that there was more than one. That instant, as his abduction first began, was burned into his brain.

A bounty hunter, wearing his face, talking to Doggett. Shit. Please, please let Doggett be smart enough to refuse if this thing asked him for Scully's location. Please, let the aliens not know that Doggett was the only one who knew where she was. Please let the thing just kill Krycek and then disappear so Mulder could take back his life.

The thought felt like a punch to the gut, the minute he thought it. Fuck. Let the thing kill Krycek. Something shrieked long and loud in Mulder's head. Krycek wasn't supposed to die.

Why the fuck not? He'd certainly killed enough others, inflicted enough misery, betrayed enough people, committed enough crimes...

It didn't matter. Mulder watched as he and Doggett split up, and felt as if he was watching a car crash in slow motion. He could play the internal debate with himself from here until doomsday... it just didn't matter. He would never convince himself.

Alex Krycek should not die. He... he was necessary. Something deep inside Mulder knew it, knew it with the kind of certainty that had kept him from killing the man even in a drugged stupor. Scully had shot him to prevent it, and he'd never told her that she didn't even need to. He'd never actually pulled it out into the light of day and looked at it, but it had been there all along, some underlying conviction about Alex.

Needed.

His breathing started to pick up as he watched Krycek come to the car window, brandishing a gun. No. Fuck, no Alex, just go away. Run away. Use your superhuman sixth sense for survival and get the fuck away from me. Don't let them do this, don't let them use us against each other this way. PLEASE. He tried to project his thoughts into the man, even as he watched Krycek point the gun at the bounty hunter wearing his face. Or that's fine too... shoot the bastard. I don't care.

Something twinged in Mulder... okay, I do care, because it would mean you actually could kill me, and I honestly didn't think you would, but... He watched himself and Alex argue, and realized the bounty hunter present with him was turning up the sound. He heard the thing wearing his face use his voice to call Krycek a string of insults that, he had to admit, sounded like they were right out of his own brain. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was no way Krycek would realize this wasn't him. Shoot the fucker. I'll get over it. I'll kick your ass later for shooting me.

He could hear Alex now, that rough, scratchy voice, emotional and... disjointed. Mulder's forehead wrinkled as he heard Alex's words. What the hell was he rambling on about? No, no Alex... whatever I've felt for you, it hasn't been brotherly. Trust me on that one. He could hear enough to know that Alex didn't want to shoot, and the aching scream welled up inside him again. The hesitation would be Alex's death knell... the bounty hunter would step from the car, use its superior strength, or just knock the gun from Alex's hand and keep the Mulder guise.

Of course. Mulder felt the realization hit with lightening bolt force. Of course he would keep the Mulder guise. If it was here on screen for them... it was being taped. Someone needed proof. They needed proof that Alex Krycek was dead, and that Fox Mulder killed him.

And why not? Given Alex's almost preternatural ability to stay alive, contrasted with his and Alex's history, the aliens probably realized that Mulder would be the only person who could kill Alex as easily and effectively as they needed. They knew Alex would get up close and personal with Mulder, like he always did. They knew a Mulder substitute could take him out, just as a Mulder substitute had gotten to Scully all those years ago.

And Alex would die. And he would die, believing Mulder would actually kill him.

"RUN, YOU STUPID FUCK!" Mulder heard himself scream at the monitors. He felt every limb pulling futilely against the bonds holding him down. This couldn't be happening.

The bounty hunter glanced over at him and shook his head. "We do not understand this need you humans have to keep your enemies alive. Surely you realize it is counter-productive."

"Oh, shut up," Mulder screamed at the alien, still fighting the table straps. "What the hell good does this do?!"

The alien shrugged. "Obviously, it removes the Alex Krycek from the equation. A necessary step. And having you kill him, on camera, is quite effective as well." He didn't elaborate any further, but ducked his head and studied the interaction on screen. "You do not think he will shoot my colleague before my colleague can get the upper hand, do you?"

Mulder groaned and slammed his head back into the table. The pain was welcome, and he did it again. "No. Fuck no, the stupid bastard won't shoot me. He's never even been able to throw a goddamn punch at me." He bounced his head on the table and clenched his teeth to keep from screaming again, then turned to watch the screen. As horror-struck as he was, he couldn't keep from staring.

After all, it was the last time he'd see Alex Krycek.

Alex stared at the scene unfolding, nausea welling up in him. Smith and the others had gone silent. All eyes were on the monitor.

"Mulder won't kill him," Alex whispered, and he hardly recognized his own voice. "Me, I mean. Mulder won't kill me. This won't work."

Smith looked away from the screen and focused on Alex. Alex could read the outright pity in the man's eyes and he wanted to punch him. What did he know of Mulder? Mulder wouldn't kill him.

Smith cleared his throat, and spoke in a gentle voice. "I do understand how difficult this is, Mr. Krycek. If there was another way..." he trailed off. "However, this must be done, in just this manner. Given how closely the Colonists and the Consortium follow Mr. Mulder, we can be assured that him killing you, on tape, will get the proof of your death into all the right hands. You must be officially dead to all concerned. It is necessary for you to be effective in our efforts. To remove a chess piece from play, and yet to be able to miraculously reintroduce it at just the right time... you must see the benefit. Particularly when that piece is a knight, well known for his unpredictable movements."

"Mulder. Won't. Kill me." Alex heard the stubborn, childish note in his own voice, but something in him refused to believe it. Even as he watched the false him on screen wave a gun in Mulder's face. "It's not in him. He's not like... like me. He doesn't just kill."

"I understand. That is the assignment of... your replacement. To goad Mr. Mulder sufficiently."

Alex snorted, ignoring the desperation that raised his pitch an octave. "Mulder won't believe I'd kill him, either. Try again."

Smith just nodded. "If all else fails... your replacement has orders to move things along."

Alex tore his eyes away from the screen and stared at Smith. "Move things along?"

"A suicide by Alex Krycek, in front of Fox Mulder, on tape... while not ideal, will in the long run serve the same purposes."

Alex let loose a scream of pure frustration. "You assholes! I wouldn't kill myself! After what I've gone through to stay alive?! What kind of an idiot-" He broke off, refocusing on the screen as the words the other him was saying began to make their way into his brain. "What the fuck did you tell him to say? What is he going on about! I sound like a fucking retard!"

Smith had the grace to look chagrined as he redirected his own attention to the screen. "Ahem. Yes. We know. We were... pressed for time. We heard of the plans to kil-" He stopped short, glanced at Alex, began again. "We were working in constricted circumstances, and did not have a great deal of you on tape. We knew holding you for an extended period of time was not likely to be feasible, and we knew that we could not presume that you would cooperate by helping our operative to... learn his lines, so to speak. He was forced to... improvise."

Alex listened in horror as the second Alex babbled some nonsense about Mulder knowing too much, about the corruption going all the way to the top of the FBI. "Oh yeah! That makes him way too dangerous. Fuck, he's only known it for how many fucking years now?! Yeah, you guys are smooth."

Smith winced. "I believe he may be nervous."

The onscreen Alex spoke again. "BROTHER?" Alex snorted so hard he ended up in a coughing fit. The last thing he thought of Mulder as was a brother.

Smith waved an annoyed hand at Alex. "He's doing the best he can under the circumstances."

"Yeah, maybe he'll annoy Mulder into killing me." At this rate, Alex figured the damn alien was going to have to go for the suicide shot, which would really piss him off. Lovely last impression to leave with Mulder.

Fuck. Mulder.

He blinked at the screen, staring at Mulder. Mulder was going to believe he was dead. If things went as Smith intended, Mulder was going to believe he'd killed Alex. His own mind shied again. He didn't want to think... didn't want to believe that Mulder would do it. But even if the alien gave up and turned the gun on himself, Mulder would think he was dead.

As if he really cares? a little voice inside his head whispered. He's probably believed you dead about three times so far. But this time... this time he'd have the proof of his own eyes.

Alex was trying to digest this, when the shot from the completely wrong direction spun his onscreen self, and took them all by surprise.

Walter's jaw clenched tighter... tight enough that he thought he could hear a tooth crack. He'd just shot Alex Krycek. Jesus Christ. He'd shot Alex.

He watched Krycek stagger and turn toward him, spouting more nonsense about shooting Mulder. As if he'd actually do it. Walter groaned inwardly. This was going all too well for the Consortium. Of course it looked like a perfectly reasonable shooting... Alex was threatening Mulder, Walter was shooting in defense of his agent. No one but Walter would know, looking at the tape, that Krycek never would have gone through with it. Walter would stake his own life on Krycek's inability to kill Mulder.

Until Spender's comments just now, he wouldn't have assumed Krycek would have the same problem killing him, but perhaps...

To top it off, Krycek was babbling like a madman, looking like the proverbial loose canon everyone assumed him to be. Walter had heard a lot from the man over the years, but he'd never heard him sound so disjointed, so... bizarre. Was he sick? He looked a little off, and hell, for him to be threatening Mulder, for whatever reason-

And so soon after helping them with Scully's getaway... it just didn't make sense.

His thoughts stopped as the man on screen shot Alex again... in the leg. Krycek fell to his knees. Walter's hands curled on the chair arms, gripping them so tightly his palms would hurt, if he could spare the attention to notice them. Mulder stood and stared at the proceedings, oddly silent, totally expressionless. What was up with him? This was so wrong... all so wrong.

Come on, Mulder! Step in, do something, anything! You know this isn't like me... how can you think this is me? I know you don't want him dead anymore than he wants you dead... no matter what you say. Don't just STAND there. You've always got some totally unpredictable stupid move up your sleeve... now is the time if there ever was one. DO SOMETHING.

He watched his doppelganger walk closer with a closed expression that he couldn't even say didn't look like him. He'd seen it on his own face. He knew what it felt like from the inside to let that hard, cold mask slip down. Sharon used to hate it. She would just throw up her hands and leave the room. He used that expression with Krycek a lot, actually.

Yes, Alex would most definitely believe this was him.

The gun wasn't wavering. The roaring in Walter's ears drowned out whatever was being said in the garage. He was actually going to do it. And Alex would simply believe he'd finally pushed too hard, pressed the nano-button one too many times, causing Skinner to snap. He would die believing Walter Skinner could shoot him, like this, not in self defense, but in cold, premeditated murder.

Walter felt something in his chest break as the Skinner on screen shot a third time, shot a wounded, fallen man who was obviously no longer a threat, square in the forehead. He closed his eyes, unable to watch anymore. The words were back, he could hear again... he heard his own voice telling Mulder that he would take care of the body.

The body.

The body.

Alex Krycek's body. Lifeless, murdered body. He wondered where his double would take it. How he would dispose of it. Wondered if it would be too telling if he asked where he could find it. Wondered if Spender would even bother to tell him, if he did ask. Wondered why he even wanted to know.

He heard a completely emotionless Mulder get back in his car and leave. He finally opened his eyes, but couldn't make himself focus on the screen. Why was Mulder so nonreactive, so flat and absent? Did he approve, despite what Walter thought? Was he just shocked that Walter Skinner could... would... shoot a man, even Alex Krycek who had given them all provocation at one time or another, in cold blood? Why hadn't Mulder done something to stop him... after the first shot? The second? How had Mulder let this happen...

How had he let this happen.

Why the hell was he so upset by it? He should be focusing on keeping Scully safe. Checking in on the status of the regenerating Billy Miles and keeping the freak far away from Scully and her baby. That's what was important.

Not one dead ex-Consortium assassin. Not one murdered double-crossing triple agent.

Not one beautiful young man Walter had always wanted to save, and wondered to this day if he could have helped, should have helped, back when it still counted. When it mattered.

No, Alex Krycek and his ignominious death just weren't important.

Except to the man who would be haunted for the rest of his life by the image of shooting him.

Mulder could barely breathe. Skinner's appearance had shifted the balance unpredictably, and suddenly it wasn't about whether the bounty hunter wearing his face would kill Alex. Suddenly it looked to be about who would kill Alex first.

Who was this man? When Skinner first shot, and wounded Alex, Mulder had felt a thrill of hope. How could the fake Mulder kill Alex now, with his boss standing there having disabled the man? Surely Alex would be arrested, or something... surely the fake Mulder would need to play it cool, back off, wait for another opportunity. Which gave him time to think, time to plan, time to get out of here... wherever here was.

But when Skinner shot again, Mulder felt a pain in his chest as if the bullet hit him instead. He watched Alex fall to his knees, watched the fake Mulder just stand there like a useless lump, not even responding.

He'd known Walter Skinner had been pushed about as far as a man could be pushed. He knew about the compromised position Skinner was in, knew about Krycek's little black box. And yet, as he watched Skinner sight down that final shot, he felt as if he knew nothing at all. Certainly didn't know Skinner.

Who was this man...

Mulder tried to force his lungs to work, but it was as if his body had gone into a state of shock. His brain denied everything it was seeing... Skinner did not kill Alex. Skinner did not just shoot Alex in the head. Skinner didn't... wouldn't do that.

He wouldn't.

Except he did.

And the hyperventilation started again.

Krycek. Dead. Skinner, telling that fake Mulder to go, he'd take care of the body. He heard the words and watched himself get back in the car and just. Couldn't. Breathe.

"That was interesting," the bounty hunter in the room murmured, eyes still on the screen. "Unexpected. Still, effective." He watched until the car drove away, then switched off the screen and walked to the table Mulder lay on, staring down at him dispassionately. "When our operative arrives back here, you will be released. We have no further need of you and we do not wish to arouse suspicion by having our operative function as you any longer than necessary."

Mulder stared up at the bounty hunter and wondered if the thing could see that he was dying of hypoxia. Figured it wouldn't care, even if it did recognize the signs. Wondered when he'd become so fixated on the idea that Alex Krycek needed to be alive and well and functioning somewhere in the subterranean world he inhabited. When had Alex Krycek's survival come to outweigh his own trust and concern for Walter Skinner, a man who had proved himself an ally and supporter numerous times over the years.

How could he be lying here never wanting to lay eyes on Skinner again, because the man had KILLED Alex Krycek.

Killed. Alex. His brain still tried to reject the words, but they were sinking in, slowly. Repetition alone made it harder to deny. Alex was dead. He would never again show up to mutter half-understood hints. He would never again slip from the shadows and threaten Mulder with a gun he'd never actually use. Never again turn up when least expected, to make Mulder's adrenaline pump and heart race and... emotions swirl and tumble and go berserk.

Gone. Dead and gone. At Walter Skinner's hand.

The bounty hunter walked to the door and left. He'd continued to speak, but Mulder realized as he left that he'd tuned the alien out completely, and had no idea what he'd said after the 'you're no longer needed'. He realized he must be breathing if he was still conscious.

Still. It felt as though no air was getting through to his lungs. His chest felt paralyzed. His heart, heavy and solid, as if it had stopped pumping and just lay there, curling in on itself and going dormant.

Something... somewhere inside... died. He couldn't define it, couldn't even fully conceptualize it.

All he knew was that it was gone.

Alex stared silently at the still screen. He hadn't taken his eyes away once. Hadn't blinked, hadn't responded, hadn't reacted in any way.

Not since the first shot from Walter Skinner's gun.

He'd watched with increasing detachment as the bullets hit. As Mulder stood by and watched, totally emotionless. As Skinner killed him.

Walter Skinner. Killed him.

Well, you killed him. This makes you even, I suppose. The hysterical thought bubbled through his brain, but didn't make it even close to his tongue. In fact, everything was growing quieter, stiller. His breathing. His thoughts.

After all, he was a dead man.

Killed. By Walter Skinner. While Mulder stood there and watched. The two of them, talking about taking care of the body like they were rolling up a dirty rug. Removing a piece of broken office furniture.

Taking out the trash.

The screen had long ago stopped flickering. Smith and the others were silent. In fact, he realized, Smith was the only one still present. He stared at the blue screen and ignored the man.

He shouldn't be surprised, he tried to reason with himself. After all, Walter certainly had reason. He didn't know all the ins and outs of how Alex had twisted and contorted himself to keep Skinner alive... he only knew what he saw. Only knew that Alex held the power of life and death, agony or relief, in the palm of his hand.

Surely enough reason to kill him. In cold blood. Three... fucking... shots. Two to wound, the third killing shot completely unnecessary from a law enforcement perspective. But hey, this was Alex Krycek, scum of the earth, all around scapegoat and bad guy. Let's just rid the world and do everyone a favor.

Surely, he couldn't blame Skinner for thinking that.

"Alex."

And why would Mulder care, why would Mulder show any reaction to his death... to his murder. After all, he was just the man who'd made Mulder's life miserable... betrayed him, killed his father, helped with the Scully abduction... saved his fucking life when all Scully could do for him was give him worthless Earth antivirals.

Neither one of them knew him at all. How could they be blamed for wanting him dead. For taking the matter into their own hands. For not mourning his passing. For shooting him down like a rabid animal.

They didn't kill me. They didn't. I'm sitting right here. I'm alive, and they didn't kill me. I'm not dead. The words had no power though, no power against that blank look on Mulder's face as he'd watched what he must have believed to be Alex Krycek die. No power against that hate and cold precision in Walter Skinner's eyes, as he shot to kill the being he believed to be Alex Krycek.

He wasn't dead. But they did kill him.

"Alex?"

Somehow he'd always believed he'd have the time, the opportunity, to explain. To tell them why he'd done what he'd done, the way he'd done it. Had hoped he'd be able to buy their willingness to listen with real help, real cooperation, against the Colonists and the Consortium together. He couldn't just leap over to their side... how could he continue to function effectively? Those who operated within the law were so... constrained. He couldn't be constrained, not in this fight.

But eventually... eventually he'd believed he could try to get them to understand. He'd always known it was likely a lost cause, but he'd thought that preventing Colonization might offer some real wiggle room. So they'd never be friends. So he'd never have the... friendship of either of them. To say nothing of anything else. He told himself repeatedly that was alright, because they were different kinds of people, and it would be enough to just see the disintegration of the ever-present hate, the disdain, the disgust. It would be enough.

And no, it wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough, but it was a pretty lie he could tell himself and mostly believe, and it got him through some bad times and some long nights and now it was gone. Just... gone.

They'd killed him. Walter Skinner fired the gun, and Mulder stood there and watched. Dead. Dead dead dead. He was well and truly dead.

"Alex. Please."

A hand touched his arm, and he stared at it, uncomprehending. It brought him back into his body and he didn't want to be there. His throat felt blocked, his chest hurt, his eyes itched, his jaw was sore... every muscle was tense and his very bones ached with the knowledge coursing through him. Someone was touching him and he wasn't bound to the chair, which seemed odd for some reason. He could move his arm, his legs.

He shifted, but didn't rise.

"Alex, please believe me. If there were any other way."

His whole chest burned. Every breath in and out, every beat of his heart. His ribcage felt like it was being sawed open.

"We would not have done anything so drastic as provoking this, were it not essential for the Rebellion. We must have you solidly on our side, and we must have all others believing you completely out of the way and beyond reach. This provides you with a great deal more safety. We do not want you to come to harm."

A laugh bubbled in his chest, hysterical and out of control. No harm? No harm. It died before it gained breath, and he stared at the man speaking earnestly at him. Even as he heard the words, he could feel the familiar distance kicking in, feel the numbing fog spreading. The rising hysteria must have sent out the emergency signal.

Move forward, at all cost. Keep breathing, and make it through. If survival meant moving past whatever life threw at him, he supposed the same could be said for death.

Just keep breathing. Even if it meant feeling like he was breathing broken glass.

"There were already plans in motion to remove you permanently. We saw this as an opportunity. An opportunity for both you, and us. A mutually beneficial arrangement. You maintain your life, your role in the fight. You attain your goal of preventing Colonization, and everyone believes you dead so they stop attempting to kill you. You become more effective. We gain an experienced operative of the highest caliber, with more insight on the human portion of our enemy than we could ever hope to have. You will be able to pass information to Mr. Mulder and Mr. Skinner without them suspecting it comes from you, so it will be more readily received and acted upon. Anyone knowing of your 'death' will not for one moment suspect that even if you somehow survived, you would ever cooperate with these men. It is an ideal arrangement. You may now operate effectively invisible, and the Rebels are ready, finally, to accept active human alliance. Your former mentor wished this, before he was killed and the Rebels were scared off of human alliance. You will be continuing his work. The work he wished you to do."

Blandings used to talk about how Alex and Mulder-

Mulder stood there and watched him shoot me.

-together would be a force to be reckoned with, and he used to strategize how to bridge the gap between them. So much for that aspect of the plan. The glass crystals in his lungs burned and tore. One breath in, one breath out.

"Alex, I know you are hurting, and I know you likely blame us. I am counting on your ability to understand your former associates and know that your life was in immediate danger. Counting on your ability to see the larger picture, to see clearly and look to the long term. I am also counting on your well-known ability to sacrifice for the larger goal."

Of course. Sacrifice. He knew from sacrifice. So what else was new. At the moment he was sacrificing his lung tissue with every intake of air, but he kept doing it, didn't he?

"Will you work with us, to defeat the Consortium, to defeat the Colonists? They, who are the true enemy, the ones at true fault for the travesty you witnessed today. Will you help us destroy them?"

Destruction... yes, destruction sounded good. And the old boy did in fact have a point. Alex laid the entire debacle that was his 'relationship' with both Mulder and Skinner-

Walter Skinner shot me.

-at the feet of the fucking organization that had birthed him. When all else failed, there was always destruction.

And it could definitely be said that today was a big fucking exercise in watching all else fail.

"Will you?"

Alex met Jeremiah's eyes and nodded. "Why not." He heard the flat, dead edge in his own voice, saw the flash of worry in Jeremiah's face. A dead voice for a dead man. What could be more appropriate?

Jeremiah's hand squeezed on his forearm, and his answering voice was passionate. "You will not regret this, Alex Krycek."

Alex's eyes flickered back to the blue screen. He took one more lung-shredding breath before speaking. "Lead on, Mr. Smith. I have more important things to regret than helping prevent an alien invasion."

 

Seven Months Later

ulder shifted Will to his other arm and rocked him gently, using his right hand to swipe the levitating rattle out of midair. He winced as Will let out another wail. "C'mon baby, I know I'm not your first choice, but mommy's only gone for a couple hours. She and Uncle John will be back before you know it." Dangling the colorful plastic keys in Will's face, he sighed as the baby zeroed in on them and they skyrocketed out of his hand.

"Well. I can see it's going to be private school for you, mister." Lifting the baby with both hands under the little arms, long fingers curling up toward the back of the fragile head, Mulder lifted him until they were eye to eye. "Somehow, I just don't see us slipping you past the average first grade teacher, if you're constantly making the chalk fly across the room. They'll have you in for an exorcism before we can say 'alien genetic material'."

Baby Will stared down at his father, lower lip quivering as if about to let loose with another loud protest against the unfairness of a world that took his mother out of his sight for a two hour period of time. Mulder heard something fall behind him, with the ominous crash of breaking glass. He knew the fits of levitation got worse, or more pronounced, rather, whenever Will got upset. If he wanted Scully's house to be anywhere near in one piece when she got back, he had to get the kid calmed down some.

The shrill of his cell phone didn't help, and sure enough the crying started again. Resting Will against his shoulder and reaching out with a mad grab for the stuffed purple bunny flying off the couch and at his head, he juggled it for a moment, then dropped it to answer the phone on the eighth ring.

"Yeah, Mulder," he managed, jouncing the baby slightly as he'd seen Scully do numerous times, with miraculous results. Hell, even Doggett seemed to be able to quiet the kid with a little rocking. It was just Mulder who never got anything but more shrieks for his trouble.

"Mulder? Everything... okay, there?" Skinner's voice sounded dubious in his ear.

"Uh, yeah, fine."

"Is that Will with you?"

"Yes, I'm at Scully's place, watching the kid. She and Doggett are out to dinner."

"Ah ha. Good, good." And Skinner did sound pleased. Mulder knew he'd had no little to do with urging Doggett to get off his ass and do something about his infatuation with Scully. While Mulder had tried to remain completely out of the romantic loop, he knew Skinner had been actively playing Cupid, finding ways to assign Scully and Doggett to spend more time together, and working on Doggett almost nonstop.

"Yeah, great," Mulder enthused sarcastically, flopping onto the couch and wincing again as Will shrieked even louder. Shifting the baby to rest in the curve of his arm, he stared down at the squirming little bundle that looked for all the world like he was trying to buck himself right out of Mulder's grip and fly off across the room like the keys and the bunny... and the weird little squeaking weasel-thing that had been an anonymous present from his new source, and that was now winging straight for them from its previous hiding place under the coffee table.

Ducking the projectile weasel, which hit the wall over the couch with a loud SQUEAK!, Mulder tried to concentrate on Skinner's voice.

"You're not jealous, surely? You both have said often enough that it's not like that between you-"

"No, I'm not jealous," Mulder snapped, although truthfully there was some level of jealousy involved, since a Doggett-enamored Scully spent more time riding around in the man's pickup truck than working with Mulder. Jealous in the way a teenage boy felt jealousy for his best female friend, who was suddenly entering that strange and confusing world of 'romance' while he himself was still happily playing baseball and video games. He sighed, wondering what that said about himself.

Anyway, of course he was happy if Scully was happy. And Doggett... hell, she could do a lot worse. He gentled his voice when he spoke again. "No, of course not. I'm just... well, when Scully goes out she's got this idea now that she needs to be making sure Will is getting bonding time with me." He looked down at the squalling baby in confusion. "I think she's getting concerned about the way he screams every time I enter the room."

"I see. So, she goes on a date, and you have an evening with the baby. I think I understand."

The thinly disguised amusement in Skinner's tone broadcast loud and clear, and was not appreciated. Mulder's eyes narrowed. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked coolly.

"Oh, right. Sorry... I just got another mysterious package and I knew you'd want a look at it immediately. I didn't realize you had the boy though. It can wait."

Mulder sat up straight on the couch, alert and focused. Will went quiet, as if startled by the movement. "No, no... I'd like to see the material immediately. If you don't mind if I bring him, I can be there in..." he glanced at his watch. Get together the diaper bag, deal with the parental torture device known as the car seat... drive time. "Half an hour?"

"Ah, I don't know if that's a good idea, Mulder. Would Scully want you to be driving Will out on a work call?"

"You and I will both be there. He's safer with us than anywhere else."

"True, but... still. I'd feel better if I came there." He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "If that's... alright?"

Mulder understood the hesitation. Things had been strained between them for the past seven months, five days, and counting. Ever since that night, in the parking garage. Mulder swallowed. He preferred to meet with Skinner with the buffering presence of someone else. Scully, Doggett, anyone. He looked down at the oddly quiet baby. You'll have to do, kiddo. "Sure. Sure, it's fine. Come on over as soon as you can get here." He hung up without saying goodbye.

Settling back into the couch, he cradled Will against his chest. A tiny baby hand whacked at his chin. He dropped his head forward and kissed the little fist, meeting the baby's eyes. "Life sucks sometimes, kid. Sorry to have to break that to you, but better you know upfront, I think."

Will batted at his chin again, and something soft thumped him in the side of the head, landing half on Will and half on his lap. He glanced at it and saw the weasel thing. Lifting it up, he nuzzled it next to Will. "Want your weasel? You like that thing, don't you. Weird baby toy if you ask me." He squeaked it once and smiled at the intent baby. One thing could be said for the little bugger... he was a hell of a distraction. "You have got the weirdest eyes, kid. I wonder if I looked like that as a baby. No wonder I freaked my parents out."

Will pressed closer, squeezing the weasel between his body and his father's.

alter lifted his hand, then hesitated. Oh for Christ's sake, this is asinine. He brought his hand down in a sharp, rapping knock. He wasn't going to stand out here on the porch like he was scared to go talk to one of his own agents. He absolutely wasn't. That was absurd.

Just because they'd never talked about the night he'd ostensibly killed Alex Krycek. Just because every interaction since that time had been tense and uneasy, stilted, with little eye contact.

They were both avoiding the subject. Using other people to avoid being in a position where it might come up. Acting as though nothing happened. It was stupid. They should just talk about it, and Skinner could explain that it hadn't been him. Except... Mulder hadn't exactly done anything to stop the alien, and as much as he himself questioned Mulder's cold behavior that night, the last thing Mulder needed was more guilt for another death he could have? Should have? Didn't? prevent.

And then there was the other eventuality. That Mulder would just stare at him and say something like "why do you care that the bastard ended up dead?"

That was a conversation Walter really didn't want to have, and especially did not want to have with Mulder. He had it with himself in his dreams every night.

He heard the healthy cry of Will coming closer and closer to the door, then it opened and a tired, frazzled Mulder waved him inside.

"Hey. Bring it on. Sorry about the noise. He quieted down for a while at the end of your call, but he started right up again. He really doesn't like to be away from mom."

Walter forced a smile and didn't say the obvious... that while it was true, Will didn't like to be without Scully, he usually settled down with other watchers. John, Maggie Scully, Walter himself. Only Mulder seemed unable to calm or quiet his own son. Walter waved the fat parcel at Mulder and held out his hands. "Want to trade? I'll take him for a few minutes and you can get a look at this."

Mulder looked only too relieved at the offer. He eased Will over to Skinner, and fell on the parcel greedily, turning and striding to the living room with it. Walter cradled the baby like a pro, and Will gave one more snuffling sob, then looked up at Walter with big eyes. Mulder-eyes.

Walter sighed. They may not have all the answers, and Scully would only consent to a certain amount of testing on her son, but it was obvious he was genetically Mulder's. If the eyes and the weird, focused way he had of staring at everything didn't give it away, the flying objects would have. Scully had full custody and as far as Mulder was concerned, Will was hers through and through, but you couldn't look at the kid and not see the Mulder in him. Which made the constant squalling in Mulder's presence even odder.

He checked the boy's diaper - Mulder had a disconcerting tendency to forget the basics in life - then moved into the living room. Mulder already had his glasses on and was pouring over the documents and maps. He'd flipped open his laptop and was making notes on it while he read. "This is great," he said, without even looking up.

"I agree. And I only skimmed it. Still no sense of who this Xealot guy... or woman... is?"

"None." This pulled Mulder's attention away from the papers, and he looked up with a vexed expression. "I've tried everything. I've still got the Gunmen on it. Nothing. He's got the Rebels helping him cloak his identity for sure. I've pushed Jeremiah every way I can think of... nothing. He won't budge. And when I push on Xealot directly, he just keeps saying it's too dangerous to be in real contact, or to give us any more information on him. I do believe it's a man though... just something about him, about the way he communicates. Maybe it's the old profiling kicking in, although he's not giving us much to profile. His screen name... the tone of his communications." Mulder gave a frustrated sigh and forced his hands back through his hair. "Spelling zealot with an 'X'... could be an indication of a connection with my old source X. There was definitely a connection between Deep Throat and X." He pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Or possibly-"

"Or possibly it's a connection to the X Files, and he's another loyal follower of yours. Or maybe he just spends too much time on the internet." Walter sighed and shrugged, mindful of Will in his arms. "I suppose it doesn't matter in the end, as long as the information is good. And everything has proved out so far. He's obviously in a dangerous position between the Consortium and the Rebels. Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd-" He stopped himself just in time. An awkward silence descended on the room. He could have kicked himself. Apparently, his subconscious still thought bringing the issue up was a good idea. But it wasn't.

Because unfortunately, he did know better. The man who would have been the obvious choice for this 'source' was dead. Dead and buried. Or incinerated, or something. The alien had taken care of the body disposal before returning, before Spender had released Skinner with the smooth promise of "we'll be in touch."

Interesting, that they hadn't been in touch in the one way Walter most expected. No nanocyte attacks had occurred since Krycek's death. And Mulder and company were stirring up enough dust and dirtdevils that if it had been an option, Walter was quite sure it would have been exercised. Had Krycek been the only one who could control Walter's nanos? Had Spender known that when he'd had Alex killed?

Walter allowed himself the internal pleasure of hoping Spender had no idea, and only found out afterward. It was small, but seemed a fitting way to get a little back for Alex.

"Anyway," he finally said roughly, "doesn't matter. He's got good information."

"Yeah," Mulder finally replied, though his eyes were fixed firmly back on the papers and blue prints. "I just wish we had some firmer sense of whether or not we could offer protection of some sort. He's taking a lot of risk, and if he oversteps, goes too far... that's it for him. I've watched too many informants die."

The words fell like lead sinkers into the room. Given the events with Deep Throat and X, Walter didn't know that Mulder even included Alex in that category. But the very fact that he could be on the list, that Mulder had watched him die, that they both were thinking it... And would the invisible elephant in the black leather jacket PLEASE exit the room anytime now?

"Anyway," Mulder used Walter's method of breaking the tense silence, "I'm just not sure how comfortable I feel about the fact that he sends Scully baby presents along with all this information." Mulder's eyes followed the stuffed weasel that was again taking to the air.

Walter lowered himself into a chair and settled William on his lap. He caught the levitating squeaky weasel and handed it to the baby, who proceeded to bounce his fist off of it and make gurgling noises. "I've told you before. I think... maybe he's trying to indicate he can be trusted."

"Mmm." Mulder made another entry into his computer, then suddenly looked up and focused on Will. His lips pulled tight and his jaw jutted mulishly. "And how the hell do you do that?" Walter raised an eyebrow. "He's... quiet."

"Oh... ah...," Walter searched his mind frantically for an escape, an excuse. "I don't... I'm not..."

"Forget it," Mulder snapped, averting his eyes again and picking up the documents in front of him with enough force that one of them ripped. "Scully and John get the same landed-fish look whenever they rescue him from me, too. I don't know why Scully is so dead-set on torturing the poor kid when he obviously can't stand being around me."

Walter struggled to find an appropriate response, despite Mulder's affected unconcern. He knew it hurt Mulder more than he let on that his son had such a strange reaction to him. Walter's own paternal instincts, by no means absent despite his lack of biological children, came out in spades around Will. He responded to him with the natural tenderness and care of a born father. He knew how hard it was for him to watch Mulder try to be with the child... he could only imagine how difficult it was for Scully. Suddenly, her idea of having Mulder spend time with him while she was out made a lot more sense.

"Mulder, it's not... sometimes kids are funny that way. I can't explain it, I don't know that anyone can. It might be something as simple as you get slightly nervous around Will, and he senses that."

Mulder looked up long enough to send a piercing glare his way. "He responds better to Langly than he does to me. And you've seen how nervous Langly is around him. Let's just drop it. You know, the way I'm reading this, there's some basic information here that needs to be acted on sooner rather than later. We need to put a plan in place, get the details back to our source and see if the Rebels will provide the usual back up and assistance." He dove back into the papers with the tenacity that was taking the Consortium apart bit by bit, and tripping up the Colonists everywhere they tried to expand their plans.

Walter debated, then finally spoke softly. "For what it's worth, Mulder, I think Scully has the right idea. Keep spending time with him, keep trying. He just needs to get used to you. Look at it this way... Dana, me, John... he was hearing all of us in the womb. You didn't have that opportunity. Give it time."

"Absolutely." Mulder nodded, but Walter wondered if he even heard a word he said. "For now, though, let's talk about time tables. If we can put together a basic strike force in the next two days, we could get back to them and propose full on attack. Actually go in and take this place out. With Rebel back up, we could be talking about a major hit."

Walter sat silently for a moment, but as the minutes ticked by and Mulder didn't even look up, he gave up. With the way things have been between you for the past seven months, why the hell would you expect him to want to talk to you about his son. "You realize what you're talking about is going to take things to the next level. The very public next level."

Mulder nodded, still without looking at Walter. "It's time. They think so too, or they wouldn't be giving us information this complete."

Walter had thought the same thing when he'd skimmed over the latest delivery. "Let's talk to Dana and John when they get back." He hoped they'd either arrive very soon, or that Mulder would remain engrossed in the documents until they did. He was perfectly happy to quiet Will and avoid the minefield of communication with Mulder.

Somehow, he suspected Mulder would oblige him in his efforts to avoid conversation.

ou were correct. They want to move on a full attack, just as we were going to ask of them."

Alex snorted as he turned in his chair. "Why am I not surprised. Mulder is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. You get a lot further with him letting him think it's his idea than you do by asking, or worse - ordering - him to do something. Give him enough info, and he'll make the case himself, and think he's coming to you guys to convince you to do what you already wanted to do in the first place."

"I know I've said it before, and I will undoubtedly say it again. You've been an invaluable help with your knowledge of human motivations and eccentricities. Especially the particular eccentricities of these select humans." Jeremiah gave him that quiet smile of approval that made Alex's solar plexus feel warm, even though he studiously ignored the feeling every time it happened.

He swung his chair back to face his computer, shrugging. "It was my job to know these particular humans inside and out. So they're trusting the Rebels fully now?"

Jeremiah nodded in satisfaction. "They are. I believe between us we have done an admirable job of helping the Rebels to trust the correct humans, and your humans to trust in the Rebels' intentions."

"They are not my humans."

Jeremiah nodded immediately, face going serious. "Of course. I apologize."

Alex sighed and waved his hand. "Whatever." He kept his eyes on the laptop as he logged in the last few facilities targeted in the latest package delivered from Xealot into the waiting hands of the FBI. Well, into the waiting hands of the FBI crusaders, to be exact. He clicked through the menus and in seconds had a full screen overlay of the target locations, highlighted in green, on top of a world map. Already logged in red were the sites previously hit or dismantled. Black indicated the Colonists still functioning at full strength. Blue marked a site noted for a strategic weakness, next up for analysis of best approach.

He smiled grimly. For the first time, the green outnumbered the black. Coupled with the blue, it was easily a two to one ratio. "This could definitely be it." He pressed a few more keys and waited while the clusters regrouped, the colors now flagging which arm of the Consortium controlled a given project or location. If this all went as planned, the Spanish arm of the organization would be finished off completely, the Tunisian operations severely crippled, and the US holdings decimated. His grin got wider, and harder.

He started as Jeremiah's hand descended on his left shoulder. Even with the new arm they'd gifted him - as either a bribe, a form of gratitude, or perhaps just an effort to jolt him out of the funk he'd been in following his 'death' - he still didn't particularly like people touching his left side. "What?"

"You should take a break. When did you last sleep?"

Alex shrugged, still not looking away from the screen. "What need do the dead have of sleep," he murmured, though he couldn't even remember what he was quoting from or if he had the words in the right order. "Don't worry. I'm almost done. I just want to run a few numbers, see if I can work up some estimates of what sort of assets they've still got at their disposal."

He felt Jeremiah's calm presence behind him for long moments, but he didn't turn, and kept his mind carefully focused on his maps and his figures. Finally, he felt the presence recede as Jeremiah left the room. As the door shut with a quiet click, Alex's shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted from the screen to the desk his computer sat on... then to the wall. He needed to stay busy. Busy was good.

This whole Rebel Alliance thing was turning out to be alright. Destruction on a massive scale, enough to satisfy even his expansive needs. And all with rock solid backup. Once they'd managed to convince the Rebels to stop torching abductees, and instead start assisting the poor schmucks with the medical fallout of what the Colonists' had done to them, everything else had fallen into place fairly smoothly.

He just needed to stay busy. And there was more than enough work to do. He was doing better than ever, actually. Feeling good, feeling in control, in a position of power, making a real difference, pulling Their strings instead of playing the puppet. Destroying things right and left. Including the lives of anyone who'd ever made his life miserable.

Except for two of them. Their lives weren't marked for destruction, and for the most part that was fine because frankly he just preferred not to think about them at all.

Just needed to stay busy.

Stay busy, and stop buying Will Scully fucking baby presents.

Two Years Later
Early December
Thursday

lex stamped the snow off his boots and pushed his shoulder against the door as the key caught. Clutching his stack of mail to his chest with one hand and the leash and keys with his other, he ducked in out of the cold wind fraught with flurries. To his relief, the house still radiated warmth. He hadn't been gone long, just a quick run to the post office and then to campus to pick up his school mail that had been piling up all week since he'd come down with the flu. But with wood heat, it didn't take long to chill down even a small place like his.

Sheldon barked happily, darting into the room past his feet, and he released the leash to struggle with the door. Finally getting it shut against the persistent wind, he carried the bills and notices from the school into the kitchen and dropped them on the table, then went to chase the dog and get the leash back. Already gnawing on a rawhide bone, Sheldon looked up at the summons from his human and bounced back to Alex. Removing the leash, he tousled the puppy's head and ears, then rose to check the fire and add wood. Sheldon followed, dancing around his legs and pawing at his boots.

When he was sure the new log had caught, he eased off his leather jacket and hung it up on his way back to the kitchen. Recovering from this bug had left him getting cold way too easily. Mary had tried to convince him to stay out a few more days when he'd walked by her office to the faculty mailboxes, but he'd just shaken his head and smiled. One week out sick was more than long enough. He'd been out since the previous Wednesday, and seven days was sufficient to knock out a stupid flu.

He ignored the fine trembling in his muscles as he sank down into the chair at the kitchen table to sort through the pile of mail. Sheldon flopped at his feet and rested his chin on top of one boot.

Besides, tonight was dinner with the students. It was hardly going to be strenuous, he'd be getting better food than he made for himself at home, and he wasn't contagious anymore. And... well yes, the international dinners were one of his favorite parts about his job. From the time they sat down in the old barn that was now the dining hall, until they stood up after dessert, only Russian would be spoken. It was... fun.

He was surprised how much speaking the old language comforted him. He wouldn't have thought much about Russian would seem comforting at all, given his experiences. But for whatever reason, relaxing into conversational Russian around a dinner table with eight to ten college students was one of the highlights of his life these days.

Of course, he'd never have thought he'd be teaching college language tutorials and independent studies at a tiny little college in the hills of Vermont that claimed an entire student body of less than 240. Marlboro College had a smaller student population than the local high school's senior class. Which wasn't saying much, considering it was a Vermont high school.

There were no urban areas in Vermont. The entire state qualified as rural on the US census. He'd lived in single cities that had a higher population than this state.

Which, to his own surprise, suited him just fine. He loved the lack of people. He loved all the hills and the thick trees and the quiet. Especially when it snowed. It soothed something that was still broken and jagged inside his chest.

Up until this stupid cold-flu-bug from hell-whatever it was, he'd even loved the cold. Cold never bothered him much, although nowadays it did tend to catch up with the old aches. The new arm was a perfect copy, but it still ached right down to the bone sometimes. But apparently Russian blood would out. The aches would follow him anywhere... wet weather brought them out too, no matter the temperature. For the most part he could shake it off, and the cold felt... right. There was an edge of home to it. All the seasons here had their own pleasures and annoyances, but he loved the variety of the seasons, the distinctness of it all, along with the occasional indistinctness... the way they blended and blurred at the edges.

He'd never spent much time thinking about the outdoors and nature and the general beauty of it all. 'Nature' had always been just one more entry on a long list of impediments to be survived at one time or another. But it was almost impossible to live in Vermont and not think about it. You came face to face with it every time you walked out the door, every corner you turned. It just became part of you, like the air you breathed. He wouldn't have guessed, back in DC and New York and Hong Kong and all the other bustling city centers he'd lived in, that rural living would have any appeal at all.

Surprise, surprise.

Mostly though, he appreciated the alone-ness. The people who were around suited him, as well as how easy it was to avoid them. Rural New Englanders ran the gamut from talkers who could be counted on to pigeon-hole you at the hardware store and chew your ear off nonstop about the latest drill bits they'd bought, to the recalcitrant folks who nodded pleasantly enough but only worked up to a "hello" over the course of a couple of months. Every type of personality in between could be found somewhere, even in as small a place as Marlboro, or more accurately in Brattleboro, the 'population center' closest to the tiny town holding the tinier college.

The general level of friendliness and respect was high, though, and the level of intrusiveness, low. Despite the myriad personal quirks, he found across the board a kind of quiet deference to privacy that suited him very well. The talkers, the silent nodders, the open-minded church ladies, the aging peace activists, the loggers, the artists, the surprisingly few farmers, the predictable bevy of mechanics, the growing crop of rural intellectuals... they all steered clear of personal subjects unless you brought them up and gave a clear green light that it was an open topic.

Since Alex never brought up anything personal, and his light never moved further south than caution yellow, the unspoken New England system worked extremely well for him. With the instincts of a lifelong intelligence agent, he knew shortly after settling in here that he wasn't the only person around with A Past, and that others were taking advantage of the live-and-let-live atmosphere of Yankee politeness. He could certainly understand. Vermont was the perfect place to just up and start over. Recreate yourself, or at least the pieces of yourself that you cared about recreating.

After he'd done as requested and helped the Rebels couple up with an increasingly organized human resistance to short out the Colonist invasion, he'd found he didn't care that much about returning 'to life'. There was no one who had missed his presence, no one falsely mourning his passing, no one to be comforted by his reappearance. The only distant family he still had back in Russia had assumed him dead long before it became 'official' and he wasn't of a mind to disabuse them. He was hardly going to come back to life to serve time for old crimes still on someone's books.

So the Rebels had offered to place him, and assist him with a new beginning. He'd burned through a fair amount of his own stolen resources during the war, and other holdings had been lost to the red tape of seized Consortium property and frozen accounts. He found himself unwilling to expose his continued existence for the slim chances of laying claim to ill-gotten gains. That cut off retiring to his own private island. He needed some level of financial support, and that meant taking on a job. He considered pursuing the island thing anyway, and becoming a bartender now that he had both arms. But the thought of dealing with drunk people all night every night made him slightly ill.

Besides, the tropical sun wasn't really his thing. He burned. For a vacation, sitting around with a strong, sweet drink with an umbrella in it? Absolutely. To live? Maybe when he was in his sixties, now that it looked like he might actually make it that far.

He spent a month or two floundering, ticking through increasingly improbable job options in his head. He hung about on a space ship or slept on Jeremiah's couch, trying to figure out what he could do, which of those skills might actually be legal, and how they might apply to a form of work that wouldn't make him crazy inside two months. In the end, he finally consented to sitting down to a career analysis with the placid alien who never treated him like what he was - the houseguest from hell.

It wasn't as horrible as he'd expected, and afterward he was a little embarrassed he'd resisted it so long. Jeremiah asked him a number of straightforward, basic questions, then suggested an even broader number of options. Equally embarrassing was the realization that he could have done it all for himself... it was just that his brain felt shell-shocked and unable to figure out where to realistically start. But Smith was remarkably nonjudgmental and it turned out that having been in the Social Security administration as long as he had meant that he was also an expert forger of all sorts of documents.

Aleksander Karalov was soon applying for an adjunct language position at World Learning, also known by its older title of the School for International Training, in sleepy little Brattleboro, Vermont. The Masters degree institution attracted high-level international students for a variety of short-term programs and fellowships, and graduated their own students with degrees in international business, non-governmental organizational management, and foreign policy. Lastly, they also collaborated with an unusual little liberal arts school - Marlboro College - on their undergraduate World Studies Program. Students could access classes at both institutions, rely on World Learning's connections to secure semesters abroad and well-placed international internships, and earn their Bachelor's from Marlboro in the process. His work at World Learning brought him into contact with students at both institutions, teaching language and translation skills, sometimes with Russian and Eastern European students of all ages on English, and sometimes with US students on Russian and a few of the more esoteric languages he knew well enough to teach the basics.

Before the year was out Alex had unexpectedly found a home in the smaller, more eccentric Marlboro College, where the average laid-back student spent five years attaining a Bachelor's, rather than racing through a Master's program in ten months with the rest of the high-powered and driven international students at World Learning. On the whole, the Marlboro students were younger and dreamier. They were a thoughtful, often artistic, and sometimes downright bizarre bunch. Not to mention highly politicized and socially conscious. It was an odd but enticing atmosphere that Alex found equal parts amusingly naïve and surprisingly well-connected with the broader world of movers and shakers in world politics and the environmental and artistic fields.

More so, something about the pace, the setting - and admittedly, that eccentricity - of the school reached out and caught him, and without even realizing it he was "collecting" Marlboro students from both in and outside the World Studies Program circles, and unknowingly luring them to Russian studies. Only afterward did he find out from grinning colleagues that adjunct faculty at Marlboro often came about in that exact manner... their personalities or their specialties made them popular, word got around, and suddenly there was increasing "demand" for their classes among the students, leading the administration to offer them more hours and longer term appointments. Whereby they met more students, and became even more popular, increasing demand further... and the cycle continued.

Worked for him. He still did an occasional class or independent study with World Learning, acted as translator/tutor for occasional groups of Eastern European professionals, and did the occasional lecture on Russia and the politics and societies of Eastern Europe. But now Marlboro College signed his paycheck, and he did the lion's share of his work for Marlboro, with small groups of students or individuals on specific, tailored projects, as the Marlboro degree program required.

It was the least amount of work he'd ever done to make a living, and the most enjoyable. He got paid, granted not much but enough, for hanging out with intelligent people, speaking his native tongue, exercising his natural facility for languages, and talking about topics that interested him and that he knew inside and out. On the side, he was getting a chance to brush up on his own Chinese and learn... of all things... pottery.

And he didn't even have to kill anyone. Major benefit.

Vermont worked for him. Speaking Russian, playing with clay, walking in the Vermont woods all worked for him. Living in a little log house with wood stoves worked for him. He felt calmer, more focused, and if he still had nightmares... well, didn't everyone? Settled. Content. It was a new and different feeling and slowly, over the months, it grew on him. Grew on him enough that when he heard the local Humane Society had a surfeit of puppies suddenly come in, he'd actually dropped by.

You didn't get a dog unless you were settled.

He hadn't even realized he'd made the decision to stop. One minute he was driving up Route 30 to visit the gourmet chocolate shop, the next he was almost a mile past the chocolate shop, parked in the Humane Society lot. He sat in the car for too long, then finally got out and went in. Hell, he was already there. Might as well look at the puppies.

Famous. Last. Words.

All in all, Sheldon had been a damn good idea. He wasn't sure how the puppy felt about being named after a totally psycho CIA agent, but Alex had enjoyed the movie and found the character too damn amusing to resist, and Sheldon did have black fur, after all.

He sneezed as he sliced open the various envelopes in his mail, and cursed under his breath, hoping it didn't herald a resurgence of the bug that wouldn't die. Maybe Mary was right and he should take another day or two. He could call her, and she would get word to the students. He smiled as he opened his cable bill. Interesting how that cost was always so low and yet he got such perfect reception for such a wide variety of channels.

Upon finding him a secluded new home in the hills, the Rebels had made a few... technological improvements to his facilities that would ensure his comfort. He had the only cell phone for miles around that actually got reception in Marlboro, and even more amazing, out on Route 30. He knew the luxuries came with a silent price tag... they allowed the Rebels a direct line to him. But in two years they'd only contacted him three times, not counting Jeremiah's occasional visits, and he couldn't say he really minded.

Occasionally it was kind of nice to talk with beings who knew something of his past life, his experiences.

Not that he was lonely or anything.

Shuffling the bills into a pile he noted that, as usual, they made up the only actual correspondence he received. Well, that and the statements on his investments. He sighed and stifled another sneeze before it could explode. What do you want, letters from old friends? Too late. They're all dead. And they weren't friends anyway. Inevitably his thoughts turned briefly to Blandings, but he forced his mind away from the man and rifled through the contents of his school mailbox.

Announcements and more announcements. More pleas from the business office and the registrar to actually turn materials in on time, especially as the fall semester was coming to a close in a few days time. Good luck, sweeties. The poor people in the administration end of things paid the price for the laid-back atmosphere the college enjoyed. A couple notes from students found their way in among the memos. He smiled as he slit open a final envelope and found a get well card. Lara... he could tell by the handwriting, before he even got to the signature.

Well, that was just... sweet. He found his cheeks heating with embarrassment at his own pleasure. But his hand wouldn't... quite... let the card drop into the pile of trash that would become fodder for the wood stove. He gave up and stood it on the table, where the bright, cheery cartoon sun and little bear in sunglasses smiled at him.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he picked up the last of his mail - the Brattleboro Reformer. Sliding the rubber band off the rolled newspaper, he glanced at the visible part - the top half of the front page. And felt an unforgiving fist slam into his stomach.

Mulder stared back from a large photo, above the fold.

He winced and closed his eyes. Deep breath. One... two... three. Again. Sheldon woofed from the floor at his feet, suddenly alert. The puppy was nothing if not tuned in to Alex's emotional state.

He'd followed the news religiously for about a month after things had exploded, but then he'd had to stop. It just made him crazy, constantly reading about Mulder, and sometimes Skinner. Staying in contact with them for the aliens had been bad enough, but he'd at least had the distraction of keeping his identity completely cloaked, and picking and choosing what information should go where, at what time. The distraction of constantly needing to utilize his knowledge of both their personalities and psychological quirks and motivations, and finagling how those factors would fit with the psychology of the Rebels. It was a weird balancing act, and he often ended up feeling like some demented puppeteer, he and Jeremiah both. Manipulating all the parties, telling each side what they needed to hear in order to work effectively with the other.

It was enough to get him through. Hell, sometimes it was even borderline enjoyable. Manipulation was fun, and God knew he was good at it, if he could close himself off enough and just play the game.

But then it took off on its own, came to the logical successful conclusion, and that was that. He was done, and the distractions were gone. And he was left with newspapers and television shows and websites all carrying Mulder's face and Mulder's name and Mulder's quotes and occasional mentions of Skinner and interviews with both of them and on and on. Nonstop. He had to shut it down.

Besides, he got any information he really needed from the aliens. Jeremiah understood his sudden avoidance of all news outlets, and silently helped him steer clear of it all, making sure he got regular updates that were more... general in tone.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the paper. Sheldon made a soft whining noise. He did his best, but occasionally this happened. The paper would unfold and one of their faces would leer up at him and he was right back to that fucking chair, tied down and watching himself die, while they stood around and made it happen. These days he'd finally gotten himself back to the point where he would sometimes actually skim the article.

Today... he just couldn't deal.

"MULDER'S PLANS CHANGE" shouted the large headline right under the picture, the bottom of the letters almost cut off by the fold. Alex's traitorous brain noted that Mulder was wearing his glasses in the shot... and that his hair was a little long, and falling over his forehead and...

Christ. This would have to happen right now, when he was recovering from this stupid flu and already feeling sub-par. Making an instant decision, he took the entire first section of the newspaper, all the world news, and carried it to the next room, to the wood stove. Sheldon barked and jumped to his feet, following loyally. Taking hold of the hooked handle, he lifted out one of the circular covers, and shoved the paper through the hole and directly into the hungry flames eating away at the logs.

Immediately it caught and flared. He slammed the cover back on, and stalked back to the kitchen table to read the local section. Sheldon barked at the offending paper inside the wood stove a few more times, telling it in no uncertain terms to leave his human alone, then trotted back to Alex's feet and settled in again, leaning warmly up against his leg.

At the table, Alex sat and skritched his puppy's head, and lost himself in reading about the various art exhibits opening up this weekend, and the music playing at the local venues. Inside the stove, the flames curled up around the newsprint, and licked their way through the subhead on the article, in smaller type that fell below the fold. The line Alex had missed completely by not opening the paper the rest of the way.

"Visits Vermont Before Embarking on Five College Speaking Tour."

ulder shifted Will to his other hip and tried to manage the car seat one-handed. He hated these things with a passion that hadn't decreased over 32 months of dealing with them. No matter how careful he was getting Will out of it, the 18 zillion straps always seemed to be irrevocably tangled when he needed to get him back into it. "Daddy's going to make a fortune one day by inventing the first ever self-contained, parent-friendly car seat."

Will giggled and thumped his daddy on the shoulder. He'd taken to doing that lately, and Mulder hadn't quite figured out why yet. Probably just his latest nonverbal way of saying 'dad, you're such a nerd'.

"Snow!" he shrieked happily. "No seat... SNOW!"

Mulder smiled at Will's excitement over the drifts of snow covering the gas station lot and the landscape beyond. It was pretty. If it weren't so damned cold, he might even go along with letting the kid play in it a little, run off some energy. They had time. He wasn't due for his dinner at Marlboro College until 6pm. But the temperature was less inviting than the puffy white banks, and the huge flakes were getting smaller in size and picking up in speed. He knew Skinner would prefer to get to the college early rather than risk worsening driving conditions.

Once, he wouldn't have worried about it much, himself. Now... he looked at the little round face with its unfortunate nose and gleaming hazel eyes. Now, he could see Skinner's logic a lot more clearly. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Will's forehead before swinging him up and into the latest contraption John and Scully had invested in for ultimate safety.

"NO! No seat! SNOW!" Will tried again, trying to defeat Mulder's fingers in their attempts to buckle him in with the newly untangled straps.

"Yep, snow. You'll get to see more than enough of it this trip, little man. But right now we need to get on the road. You can play when we get to the school." As he spoke, he carefully crafted a strong mental image of himself and Will walking through the snow, kicking and touching it. "Soon," he reassured.

Will's wide round eyes fastened on his father's face and stared intently. Mulder kept the picture in his head and repeated "soon". After a moment Will nodded once, and settled into his seat, humming to himself.

Mulder stood up and closed the back door of the four wheel drive SUV, then got himself into the front passenger seat with much less difficulty. He couldn't help feeling vaguely smug at the ease with which small disagreements could be settled with Will... especially when he watched other parents with their toddlers in grocery stores. He shuddered and flipped on the radio. He'd just found a station when Skinner emerged from the gas station and rejoined them.

"It's getting worse. We should probably drive straight on through so we get up there before it gets too bad."

Mulder smiled and nodded. "Yep."

Skinner glanced at him as he started the rental. "What?"

"Nothing. I just knew you were going to say that."

"Ah. You know me so well."

The smile melted slowly as Mulder stared out the tinted window. Not so much, really. Their relationship had never fully recovered from the stilted distance following... everything. He didn't avoid Skinner, exactly. They'd worked together on the rebellion, and stayed friendly but... well, 'distant' covered it best. Following the defeat of the Colonists and the public exposure, a more concentrated drift set in. Mulder's life had changed radically, and they saw even less of each other. He did as much speaking and research outside of the Bureau as he did Bureau work these days, making him twice as busy. And he ran a department. Which he hated.

Not the department. He loved the fact that the X Files were out of the basement and actually had more than two agents assigned. What he hated was running it. Being the boss. Administration. Not his forte, and everyone knew it. He was only doing it because Scully had turned it down. She was hesitant about increasing her workload while Will was still so young. He'd tried spinning it to Doggett, with absolutely no luck. John and Scully managed the whole working together/romantic relationship thing very well, but Doggett refused outright to become her supervisor. That would be breaking too many rules, to him.

Mulder sighed. He kept his thoughts quiet and segregated, in deference to Will's presence in the backseat. His son's sensitivity had necessitated a lot of changes in the way he dealt with his own thought-patterns. Without letting himself get wrapped up in the anxiety or too hung up on the potential outcome, he decided that maybe he'd try again when he returned from this trip. John would be ideal. And Mulder simply hated going back into the office after being away on a speaking tour or a research jaunt... catching up on all the stupidity that came with being a manager. It wasn't as if he hadn't been working with the rest of the department long enough now... one of them ought to be ready soon if John kept resisting.

Then he could decide... stay in as any kind of Bureau investigator at all, or go solo full time. Do the writing, research, speaking gigs. He was liking it better than he'd expected. He liked traveling with Will. Taking him new places, spending full days and nights with him. He couldn't take Will on cases, but he could take him on all kinds of speaking tours. And he was really starting to get into the idea of writing a book. His articles had been well received. He played with the idea for a few miles, until he heard Skinner flipping the station to news.

Skinner glanced over at him. "Weather update."

Mulder nodded, and suddenly he was speaking, without really meaning to. "I wish you hadn't felt like you had to come along. I know you've got a lot on your plate." Skinner had been promoted, too, in the fallout, and while Mulder didn't report to him anymore, enough other people did these days.

Skinner shrugged. "I think Dana has the right idea. I think two of us traveling anytime Will is along is for the best."

Mulder glanced back at his son and smiled. "Yeah, I know... the safety concerns are valid. I just think I could engage some professional protection, and then it wouldn't always have to be you or John or Scully. Or Monica."

Skinner shrugged again. "I don't mind, actually. I like spending time with him." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Don't I, buddy?" Will's musical laugh came from the back seat, and Skinner grinned. As he refocused on the road he sighed, an echo of Mulder's discontent in the sound. "And I really don't mind getting away from the office for awhile."

Mulder nodded and fell silent again. Usually, if Skinner was the only person available to play the other half of the dynamic traveling duo, he just chose not to try to bring Will along and that solved the problem. But this time, he was going to be gone longer than usual and he liked the idea of bringing Will to New England in the wintertime. He'd tried to convince Scully to let him just engage a couple of professional bodyguards, but she still resisted. Especially since Skinner was available. She couldn't see the problem. Will loved his Uncle Walter.

Will might love him, but Daddy could do without long stretches of time hanging out with Uncle Walter. But how to explain that to Scully without going down roads he really didn't want to travel. He could hear the exchange now. 'He shot Alex Krycek, Scully. Murdered him.' He could just see her eyebrow arch. 'And what, Mulder... you're upset that he didn't let you do it?'

Scully hadn't expressed a great deal of curiosity about Alex Krycek's disappearance. She'd been pretty busy going into labor. Over all she'd taken it in stride, seeing it as just one more in a long series of Krycek encounters that ended in questionable circumstances with no real resolution. Mulder had told her he was positive the new source wasn't Alex, and she'd accepted that... assuming that he was so sure because all the information received checked out so readily as accurate, honest, and helpful.

Doggett was a little more tenacious. He'd pressed a bit about where Alex got off to after they'd seen him with Roher, and occasionally wondered why Krycek hadn't shown up again at any of the various raids and purges over the following months. Mulder knew John smelled something, so he did his best to just avoid the topic whenever possible. He had no idea if John was also pressing Skinner, and if he was, what Skinner might be telling him. Mulder just pleaded flat ignorance and shrugged it off as 'good riddance'.

Doggett seemed to buy it.

Mulder shifted restlessly in the padded seat and tugged on his seat belt. This was why he hated traveling with Skinner. Or spending extended time with him. It got him thinking about Krycek again, and all the... all the things never said, never done, never resolved. That now never would be resolved. About truncated lives that weren't supposed to end the way they did.

Too much thinking. It never failed to depress him.

He needed to shake it off. For one thing, Will was along. No depressive jags around Will. For another, he loved talking to college crowds. Students were more fun than scientists and the stuffier side of 'academia'. He was glad he'd accepted the last minute invitation to the tiny little school on a hill in Vermont. It only meant leaving a few days earlier, and didn't require him to actually change any of his speaking dates with the five college area in Massachusetts. And the Marlboro students who contacted him were so earnest and so excited. Apparently a number of them had been arranging to attend one or more of his events just over the border in Massachusetts, when it occurred to someone that they could invite him to their own school as a 'tag on' to his tour.

Despite the suddenness of the request, something had drawn Mulder to it. The school sounded different... the students sounded different. He'd looked the college up on the web after the initial contact, and been intrigued. It was hardly more than an hour out of his way. Dinner and then an informal evening with students and faculty. Hell, if the entire school population came it would still be a smaller crowd than usual for him, with a group of extremely interested fans... er, followers... no, that was even worse... enthusiasts? Mulder groped for the right word, then finally gave up. They'd called themselves fans, and he was as susceptible to ego as the next guy.

Watching the snow through the steady swish of the windshield wipers, Mulder left his wandering thoughts and tuned his attention to the news when he heard the radio announcer start listing cancellations for the Brattleboro area. "We that close? This a Brattleboro station?"

"Yes. I'd say we're about ten minutes out of Brattleboro, so maybe half an hour or so to Marlboro."

Mulder nodded and listened to the rest of the broadcast, which ended with a prediction of anywhere from 12 to 18 inches of total snowfall, with the possibility of more. He whistled. "Good thing I'm talking to a captive audience that's already trapped up on a hill. Don't think anyone would be coming out to see me tonight. I hope the place they've got me booked at is close to the school."

"If it isn't, I'm sure they can find something for us right there on campus."

Mulder snorted. "No way am I sleeping in some kid's dorm room. I am very over that experience." He turned to check on Will, only to find he'd nodded off. He was snuggled up in his car seat with his trusty squeaky weasel tucked under one arm. Which probably explained why there had been nary a peep out of him, despite Mulder's downward spiraling thoughts. "Oh great. He's asleep, which means he'll be wired for dinner time. Oh well... hope they knew what they were getting into when they said 'sure, bring your son.' At least it sounds small and friendly."

"Why'd you agree to do this one again?"

I was hoping it would mean you wouldn't be able to come. "Something about the invitation just appealed to me." He'd really hoped moving up the departure and adding on days, and more out-of-the-way driving, would cause Skinner to back out. No such luck. He kept his gaze trained out the window. "It's an interesting school, and they sounded so... excited. I get a lot of invitations, but very few of them are quite this... earnest. Besides, I was in the neighborhood."

"So to speak," Skinner murmured, with a half smile.

Mulder nodded in acknowledgement. "Yeah, well, it wasn't too far out of the way. At least it wasn't Maine or something." He peered out at the swirling snow and the dim gray afternoon light. "Of course, I didn't know we'd be getting a storm just in time for the drive."

"Mm. Not your fault. Some things, you just can't help."

Mulder wondered at the odd melancholy tone in Skinner's voice, but he agreed whole-heartedly with the sentiment.

Walter concentrated on the road as he navigated the big black vehicle through Brattleboro and up the steep grade that would take them into Marlboro. Looked like a pretty little town, and he hoped the weather might be a little better on the way back through so they could stop. He admitted, at least to himself, that at the moment he was glad of the excuse of the bad weather so he could focus on the driving and not try to make small talk. Over the years, his and Mulder's relationship had continued to deteriorate, to the point where he really had to wonder why he'd offered to come along on this trip.

Because you couldn't wait to get out of the office. Because anything sounded better than more meetings, more administrative tasks, more work work work. A soft snore emanated from the back seat. Oh. And that. He glanced in the rearview mirror compulsively, smiling at the boy sleeping soundly in the car seat, his head leaned against the cushioned neck pad, his mouth open, drooling on his weasel. He loved the opportunity to spend time with Will. He found himself regretting never having had children himself. He knew it hadn't been possible at the time, and never a good idea with the Consortium around, but... damn. He envied the experience and appreciated how much time Dana let him spend with Will. Of course, he preferred playing body guard when Dana was traveling, but in this instance he was just too ready to get out of DC for a few weeks.

And if that wasn't an indication that accepting the promotion had been a mistake, he didn't know what was. Hell, to agree to travel with Mulder for a stretch of days... it spoke to his desperation.

He sent up another silent thank you that they'd finally figured out the problem with Will and Mulder. He couldn't imagine traveling with the pair of them if Will still cried up a storm every time he was with his father. Of course, if that had happened, he doubted Dana would have allowed Will to travel with Mulder. Hell, he doubted Mulder would have even suggested it. Mulder had been getting depressed enough about it, Walter wouldn't have been surprised if he'd just given up completely, though Dana probably wouldn't have allowed that, either.

It had taken most of a year and a lot of frustration, mostly on Mulder's part, and finally alien intervention, for them to realize that Will's difficulty with Mulder was all mental. Or, more accurately, emotional.

They knew Will was different. Had known since day one. The flying objects were a really good clue. His incredibly early ability to focus, and to respond to adults through action and gesture, also hinted at more than precociousness. His aptitudes could have been written off to Mulder's genius and Dana's obvious high intelligence as well, but coupled with everything else, it was clear there was more going on in his brain than the average baby's. Even the average baby genius.

They didn't know exactly how much Will picked up from the adults around him on a telepathic level. Mulder had described in great detail what his experiences had been like when the artifacts had activated his own alien genetics. They assumed Will's experiences couldn't possibly be that overwhelming, or the poor kid would have been truly nuts by now, and probably unable to tolerate human presence. But they knew there were some similarities, based on the results of brain activity studies that demonstrated striking similarities with the results of brain scans Mulder had undergone. At the same time, they knew Will's brain activity also exceeded Mulder's in some ways, as Mulder hadn't experienced telekinesis.