From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 2 Jan 2004 14:26:48 -0000
Subject: The Boy Scout - 1 of 1 by Xact
Source: direct

Reply To: xactthat@hotmail.com


TITLE: The Boyscout 
RATING: R (language) 
CLASSIFICATION: S A  
DATE: Jan 2004 
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer. 
AUTHOR: Xact - xactthat@hotmail.com

LEGALLY:
1013, Fox - you name it, they own the characters. This story is 
mine.

SUMMARY:
Post episode for Wetwired. Mulder has just witnessed X kill the 
people who'd been working on the Wetwired project. 

X: I used to be you. I was where you are now. But you're not me, 
Mulder. I don't think you have the heart. Walk away. Grieve for 
Scully and then never look back. You will be able to live with 
yourself, Mulder... on the day you die. - (One Breath) 

Skinner: What about their killer? 
Mulder: He remains an unknown subject. - (Wetwired) 

-------------

Paul Harrison Jameson was a survivor. At least that was what he 
had always told himself. Whereas Fox Mulder seemed to lack even 
the instinct for survival. 

He sniffed at his now empty glass, and tried to remember when the 
lies had become so deep that he'd forgotten how to tell the truth, 
even to himself. Mulder was the natural born survivor in this 
equation. Probably a genetic thing. Which would be appropriate.

The barman replaced the glass with a fresh one, without waiting 
for the request, without making any comment. At least some people 
were well trained. 

"Hi." 

Fucking hell shit! What had he just said about Mulder and 
survival? The guy had a death wish. Jameson reined back his 
reaction; spoke softly, delivering as much quiet authority as he 
could muster. "Look around yourself, Agent Mulder. You're in the 
wrong bar." 

The under belly of the city. A bar full of dead eyes - damp
with drugs, gray with tiredness and defeat. Women who'd been
beautiful once, but who would never be beautiful again.

Their eyes met in the bleary orange glow of the bar's mirror, 
neither of them shifting an inch. The smoke from cigarettes, 
melding with the haze of the lights to turn the image into a 
dreamscape. Waking first from the trance, it was Jameson who 
blinked and turned to face the flesh and blood version of the man. 

Mulder slipped onto the next bar stool along, and ordered a beer, 
turning in his seat to face the man he knew only by the call sign 
of X. "Right bar. I came to see you." 

"You're in the wrong part of town." 

Mulder shrugged, a knowing smile played on his lips. "I'd tell you 
I was armed but I don't think anyone here would be impressed." 

A shock of golden hair appeared at Mulder's side, and a happy alto 
voice struggled to get his attention. "What's a nice boy like you 
doing in a place like this?" 

Mulder turned, his head almost colliding with the harsh, angular 
peaks of an overstuffed bra bursting out from a cloud of 
shimmering gold. He eased back in his chair, let his eyes swim 
over the full length of the interloper's body, analyzed the satin 
olive flesh and the chocolate eyes studying him through their 
artificially heavy lashes. "I could ask you the same question." 

The tall blond in the lycra dress swiveled on impossibly high 
stiletto heels to face X's brooding figure. "Hi Paul. Aren't you 
going to introduce your friend?" 

"He's Vice Squad - now fuck off back to your hole." 

Mulder smiled into his beer, waited for the blond bombshell to 
hobble away. "Say Paul, why'd you have to do a thing like that? 
You could get me hurt, blowing my cover that way." 

"You could get me dead, showing up here." 

X shoved a twenty and a ten on the bar, waved a greeting at the 
barman and closed a fist around Mulder's wrist. Looking Mulder 
square in the eye, he stated the obvious. "We're just leaving." 

Mulder blinked as the frosty air hit his face. 

Jameson shook his head. "How many bars have you been in tonight?" 

"Ten. But who's counting?" 

Ten bars meant at least ten more drinks than Jameson guessed was 
typical fare for Mulder. He studied the agent's face and saw the 
bubble of laughter being so carefully suppressed. 

When Paul laughed in response, Mulder looked almost startled. 
Really, this was madness, something worse than insanity, but time 
was running out and it was right. There were things that Mulder 
needed to know. He couldn't just deliver a couple of meaningless 
threats and send the Agent home. He pointed in the general 
direction of a row of parked cars. 

Mulder obeyed the unspoken instruction in an instant, which meant 
that it was Jameson's turn to look surprised. They walked at a 
purposeful, even pace, until Mulder broke the silence. "I bet it's 
the black sedan." 

Paul hit the button on his key-ring and the black sedan's lights 
flashed a welcome. "Looks like you just got lucky." 

Mulder risked a chuckle in his reply. "Well, maybe if I'd spent 
another five minutes in that bar I would have." 

Of all the places for Mulder to find him. Jameson took a shaky 
lungful of air. Ten bars, huh? So few. Pretty impressive for a man 
who had no idea who he was dealing with. 

Mulder had stopped smiling, his expression was at best pensive, at 
worst maybe - what? Guilty? Sad?

The efficiency of the search was understandable really. Mulder 
was, after all, a highly skilled profiler. He would know better 
than most, that men like X didn't have families, didn't have 
friends. That relationships were things they heard about on TV. 
Alien concepts. X's reality meant human contact was in short 
supply. 

Mulder would understand the need to take comfort where you could 
find it. 

No words were exchanged once they loaded themselves into the car. 
Jameson was gratified that Mulder had taken his cue without the need 
for explanation. "Sealed," he'd said, pointing once towards his 
lips, just before he opened the car door. Mulder had simply nodded. 

The vehicle might or might not be bugged tonight, but there was no 
point in making it too easy for anyone listening in. 

Mulder's eyes were firmly on the road ahead, but Jameson could see 
that his passenger's mind was traveling faster. He knew the 
feeling well. Mulder was running on empty, but not willing to slow 
down. Scully had wanted to kill him. A shock enough there, even 
though she'd not been in control of her responses. 

And as for X himself, he'd been so sure that Mulder would put an 
information source above the law that he'd cheerfully killed his 
unnecessary colleagues even with the Fed actually in the house. 
Maybe Mulder was worried that Scully's vision of him, as a 
potential collaborator, hadn't been so far from the truth. 

Jameson checked his passenger again, noted that he'd turned his 
face from the road ahead to fix instead on the gray pattern of 
buildings flying past the side window.

As the building density fell, Jameson sensed Mulder's nervousness 
rise. Until, at last, a sudden change in the man's demeanor, an 
apparent lessening of tension, had given the game away. In the end 
Mulder had been forced to block everything, tune himself 
completely out so that the view from the car was just another 
piece of abstract art. 

Paul felt his breath catch, understanding the man in the passenger 
seat a little too well. How often had he switched himself out of a 
situation like that? How often had he just stared into the gray of 
the night and seen no meaning? How often had he held a gun to the 
head of someone whose only crime had been a little bit of greed, 
or someone who'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time? 

Of course, Mulder had never had to do that. His Boy Scout 
credentials remained intact. Almost intact. He was, after all, now 
cast as a co-conspirator in a cover up. And not for the first time 
either. 

X glanced at his silent companion and marveled. Silence. He had 
never imagined that it was something Mulder knew. He examined the 
calm dissociation in Mulder's eyes as they watched the scenery fly 
past. That a man could at once be so passionate and so cold. Maybe 
Mulder would find his way to the truth. Maybe he did have the 
heart. 

He almost gagged at the thought. Finding the truth was one thing - 
living with it was a different matter. 

He swung the car to a halt in front of his grandmother's house. 

Mulder suddenly came alert, as if he'd just remembered that he was 
a Federal Agent and perhaps even that he was currently conspiring 
with his traveling companion to subvert the course of justice. 
Scrub that, Mulder was well on his way to being an accessory in a 
multiple homicide. Not only doing so despite being a Fed, he was 
doing it despite his supposed desire to reveal the truth, his 
claim to be a man with a mission. 

X watched, fascinated, as Mulder tried to work it out. 

Putting himself in Mulder's shoes, Jameson attempted to perform 
the same dispassionate analysis. They were about halfway between 
Atlantic City and DC. No lights were on in the house. No sign of 
any people nearby. Too far to bring him for anything so mundane as 
an execution. Too far to bring him for anything that made sense. 
Where the hell were they? 

Finding himself vaguely amused by Mulder's obvious dilemma, X was 
out of the car and pawing restlessly at the ground by the time his 
passenger undid his seat belt and joined him on the driveway. 

"You surprise me, Agent Mulder. Didn't your mom ever warn you 
about getting into cars with strange men?" 

"Didn't your dad ever warn you about frequenting bars where the 
guys use more make-up than the girls?" 

"Subject never came up." 

Jameson led the way into the house, flicking on lights and 
offering warnings about worn carpets and uneven floors as he 
walked. 

Mulder followed, apparently mindful of the warnings only in as 
much as they allowed his eyes more time to concentrate on taking 
in the rest of the information about the house. His gaze wandered 
unfettered across the display of family photographs that lined the 
hallway. 

Jameson paused at the entrance to the kitchen to give Mulder time 
to catch up again. 

"Your grandmother's house?" questioned Mulder. 

"How do you know?" 

Mulder shrugged, waved vaguely at the pictures. "A dynasty. A 
matriarchy." His eyes drifted over the rest of the hallway again. 
"The paint colors. The furniture." 

His host smiled slightly, tilting his head to encourage further 
commentary. 

Mulder obliged. "She lived here alone for a long time. Lots of 
visitors. But they were always visitors, even when they were 
living here and caring for her. It was always her house." 

"Was?" 

"Otherwise you wouldn't have brought me here." Mulder scanned the 
pictures again, uncertain, puzzled, as if something else was 
tugging at his thoughts. A mismatch between generations and 
genders, perhaps. "Not your grandmother. Great Aunt? You lived 
with her for a while, as a kid? Her favorite. She wanted to leave 
the place to you, but you made her put it in your grandmother's 
name. But she meant it for you." 

"You're good." 

"So I'm told." 

Despite the fact that no one lived here, Jameson made sure that 
the kitchen was always well enough stocked to cope. "Coffee?" 
Mulder nodded, so his host added a, "You eaten?" 

Mulder didn't bother to answer, stayed with his own agenda. "How 
much time do you spend here?" 

"Not enough." Jameson set to work, pulling mugs from cupboards, 
pausing to sniff the aroma as he broke the seal on the jar and 
ladled out the coffee. 

The fridge door proved irresistible to Mulder, he studied it, 
looking for permission from his host, who supplied it with a "do 
what you like" shrug. Mulder worked through the supplies of wine, 
beer, soda and juice, the chocolate and cookies, the ready to bake 
bread and the vacuum packed bacon, clearly admiring the fact that 
everything was still within its datestamp. "It's better stocked 
than mine." 

Jameson stared, fascinated by the glimpse of a Mulder, inhibitions 
softened by alcohol and adrenaline, operating somewhere not quite 
at work, not quite at play. "See anything you like?" 

"Sounds like a line from a porn movie." Even as Mulder said it, he 
turned his head away, looking suddenly guilty, he pretended to be 
totally absorbed in checking out the contents of the icebox. "That 
bar," he finally attempted, stumbling over the words. "Why there?" 

"No chance of bumping into anyone from the office." 

Mulder looked away, sheepish again. "What do your bosses think?" 

"If it itches - scratch." 

"Want a doctor's opinion on that?" 

"Dr Scully's?" X's voice was disdainful and more than a little 
amused. "Want my opinion? Only a masochist doesn't scratch." 

Mulder shrugged and hauled out a frozen pepperoni pizza as a 
diversion. 

Jameson loaded it into the oven without comment. 

It was hard to avoid talking, and the absence of a TV made it 
almost impossible. Jameson was already regretting the impulse that 
had led to him bringing Mulder back to this escape of his. 

Apparently it puzzled Mulder just as much. "Why did you bring me 
here?" 

"Why did you come looking for me?" 

Mulder shrugged. 

Jameson threw back his head, snorting in an angry breath, finally 
losing patience with the cat and mouse game they'd been playing. 
He got enough of that shit at work. "You want to know how I live 
with myself?" 

Mulder's eyes blinked closed for just a little too long. 

Jameson turned the volume up a notch. "Same as anyone else - one 
day at a time." 

"Those men at the house...." 

"I did my job. Like you do yours." 

"I've never... It was always self-defense." 

"Sure! And you think I wouldn't be dead by now if I hadn't shot 
them?" 

The brief nod of agreement from Mulder was almost involuntary, as 
was the slow single shake of the head that followed. "I could 
never." 

"You've just never had the right incentive." 

Mulder flexed his fingers, studied them where they rested on the 
arm of the chair. "I've killed, but..." 

Jameson spluttered his response, "But it wasn't easy? You lay 
awake nights after, trying to see how you could have played it 
better?" 

The agent sighed, sinking a little further back in the chair, 
trying to make himself invisible. 

X growled in irritation. "You arrogant piece of shit. What do you 
think it's like for the rest of us?" 

"I don't know." 

"You called ME a coward." 

Mulder glanced up at him but said nothing before swallowing and 
letting his gaze fall back to the floor. 

X was scowling now, throat as dry as sandpaper. He felt the bubble 
of anger that had been growing inside, start to simmer, threaten 
to explode. "In that house, I shot those men. I did my job. You 
didn't do yours." 

Mulder's voice was pale, as if even saying the words was too much. 
"You wanted me to arrest you?" 

"Right! You believe in the American justice system. What the fuck 
was your problem?" 

Mulder simply shook his head. 

X's temper rose in direct proportion to Mulder's silence. He 
sprung from his chair, prowling the room, halting at last in front 
of his target, towering over the agent who was sitting so 
impassively in the large armchair. 

"What? You don't think I deserve an answer?" Reaching forward, he 
pressed strong fingers into Mulder's hair, forcing his head back. 

Mulder finally looked up at him. Old eyes, dark with exhaustion, 
damp with emotion. "You were right. I need you." 

"Bastard!" X screamed, emphasizing the point by slamming Mulder's 
head against the chair back. 

Mulder said nothing, and the tense stillness of his limbs made it 
obvious that he wasn't going to even try to fight back. Not yet 
anyway. Not until he was in a better position to do something that 
might have a chance of success. 

Which left Jameson with a lot of anger, and with nowhere for it to 
go. Hauling back his fist, he filled it with the excess energy and 
swung, crunching his weight hard into the upholstery just a few 
inches from Mulder's ear. 

Turning away, he nursed his fingers, and tried to still his 
breathing. Well aware that his next blow would do permanent 
damage, if not to Mulder then to himself. 

The heat gradually dissipated, but he still didn't dare look at 
Mulder. He tried words instead. "Why did you come here?" 

"Where else was I going to go?" 

Jameson nodded, understanding Mulder even though he didn't really 
want to. "This is about her, isn't it?" 

"No. Yeah. Indirectly." 

"They gave you a dead body to identify?" 

"Huh, huh." 

Jameson continued to push, unable to resist the temptation to 
understand more, to know the man who had already cost so many 
lives. "She wanted to kill you. You were lucky." 

Mulder breathed out heavily, a cluck of joyless laughter in his 
voice. "She thought I'd switched sides, betrayed her. I was her 
worst nightmare." 

"And your own?" 

"And my own. 

"If it's any consolation, at that house - you would have had to 
kill me. I wasn't going to let you arrest me. I still won't." 

Mulder waved a hand, dismissing the comment as if he already knew 
all that and confirming that no, it wasn't any consolation 

They waited in silence, neither one willing to break the mood with 
idle chatter and neither ready to go further until they knew 
exactly what they wanted to say. 

X let his mind drift back over the events of the previous days. 
Mulder had responded to the information fed to him with disdain 
but had acted on it just as he'd anticipated, pulling in allies as 
he went. Scully, her mother, the Gunmen, even Skinner had been 
approached, with an expectation not merely of backup, but of 
unquestioning support. 

Lying to Skinner, about the killer who'd executed the cable 
engineer and the doctor who had become liabilities to the project, 
would not have come easily to Mulder. 

But then, no matter what the agent might think, the job of 
assassin had never come easily to Jameson. Death was close now, he 
could feel its shadow tracking his every step. Killing the poor 
dummy who'd tried to earn easy money by passing on secrets to 
Mulder had reminded him of his own easy expendability. Not that 
he'd needed the reminder. Lying to the Smoker about Mulder's 
informant had seemed almost redundant. The man would find out soon 
enough. 

It would soon be over. Soon there would be no more itches to 
scratch. He rested his weight against the heavy table that 
dominated the dining area, and that still reminded him of fried 
chicken, pumpkin pies, lemonade and sunny days. 

Mulder cleared his throat before speaking. "You told me, that you 
were once like me." A ghost of a smile formed on Mulder's lips and 
evaporated in an instant. "A boy scout." 

Jameson looked at Mulder and wondered if there was an answer to 
the question he saw in the other man's eyes. He decided to go for 
something a little less ambitious. His response was lighthearted 
in tone, mocking, despite its seriousness. "You want to know what 
went wrong?" 

Mulder rolled his head against the chair back, stretching the 
muscles as he moved, his voice contained an apology. "Too many 
compromises? Or did something happen?" 

Where to begin? All of his defenses told him not to begin at all. 
But he had to. Mulder needed to know. X had been Mulder once. "My 
wife." The shock in Mulder's eyes made Jameson smile. The speed 
with which Mulder schooled his expression back to unperturbed 
reminded him of why the man was worth talking to. "She died. Our 
extraterrestrial friends took her once too often." 

Jameson slowly shook his head, dismissing the doubt he saw in 
Mulder's eyes. "They didn't kill her. She killed herself." 

Mulder nodded, blinked against the suddenly too strong light in 
the room. 

"It was my fault," added Jameson unnecessarily, his tone had 
surely already told Mulder that much. "She started to remember the 
abductions, the tests." 

"You stopped her from taking the drugs that made her forget?" 

Jameson nodded, rubbed a hand across mouth and chin, trying to 
ease the tension in his jaw, and waited for Mulder to speak again. 

"So what you're telling me is that a little knowledge is a 
dangerous thing?" 

Hell no! That was the last thing he wanted to tell Mulder. "You 
don't have any idea, do you?" 

"Enlighten me." 

Jameson shook his head, exasperated by the need for explanation. 
"The people who've died for you. My predecessor, the man you 
called Deep Throat. Your father. Even Skinner took a bullet for 
you. Scully... People die for you. They've killed for you. Don't 
you get it?" 

Mulder looked too confused to get anything. 

X shook his head, the anger surging again, this time more from 
frustration than anything else, dismayed that he was having to lay 
his soul on the line to get through to Mulder. "The world needs 
boy scouts. People like me, we need to know that there are people 
like you." 

"So you can feed me half truths and useless information to salve 
your conscience?" 

Fucker! Now, the anger was back full force and with it the sudden 
light of cold clarity. "What do you want? You want me to recruit 
you? Or would an execution suit you better?" X illustrated the 
offer by pulling his gun from its holster and pointing it urgently 
at Mulder's head. 

The stand-off lasted for seconds that could easily have been 
hours. 

Again it was Mulder's passivity that undercut Jameson's anger. It 
dissipated in a furious roar as he slid the weapon to rest on the 
table top. "I've saved your fucking miserable life, Agent Mulder. 
And not just once. Don't you think you owe me something?" 

"Such as?" 

"The benefit of the doubt!" 

Mulder gave a single acknowledging nod, and Jameson closed his 
eyes. 

He felt Mulder's approach rather than heard it. He could sense 
Mulder's presence, knew that he could be only a few inches away. 
knew that Mulder would hear even the lightest of whispers, so he 
tried to explain. "You've killed men. Tell me, what did you do the 
night after?" 

Mulder sighed, and Jameson responded with a brief gasp of surprise 
as he felt Mulder's hand come to rest on his shoulder. The agent 
spoke softly, but business-like, curiously matter of fact, as if 
he'd been asked which tie to wear with what shirt. "I lay on my 
couch, with a cold beer to my head, and wondered why the fuck I 
was doing this job." 

"And then?" 

"And then I needed somebody close." 

"Ever gone looking for a warm body?" 

"It's been a while." 

"Ahh. So these days you'd go to Scully?" 

"Yeah, but that's different - it's not the same if they know how 
dirty you feel." 

"Is that how you feel now - dirty?" 

Mulder shrugged as he replied. "Sure. Don't you?" 

"I told you. Whatever you think, I do what I've got to do." 

"You haven't answered my question." 

"I feel like shit. OK?" 

Mulder removed his hand from Jameson's shoulder but didn't move 
away. "I'm sorry," he offered. 

Jameson finally opened his eyes, frowning. "What about?" 

"Tracking you down. I had no right. I've put you in jeopardy." 

"Doesn't matter." 

Mulder snorted at that, almost laughed, despite or maybe because 
of, the solemnity of the moment. "What? Every life, every day is 
in danger," he suggested, a mockery of a quote. 

"Who said that?" 

"Skinner." 

"Figures." 

"Another one of my victims?" 

"Another one who needs you." 

A single cluck of amusement and dismay. "How nice to be so highly 
regarded." 

"I told you, Mulder - you don't have the heart to do my job. And, 
I don't have the heart to do yours. Nor does Skinner. Not even 
Scully." 

"Scully's different. She's..." 

"Pure? That's why she's dangerous at your side. But she could 
never take your place." 

Mulder swallowed, agitated and maybe even a little angry at the 
change of focus. 

Jameson didn't back down. "Ask her about it some time. Ask her why 
she got abducted. Ask her why things will keep being done to her. 
Ask her why she wanted to kill you. Why she'd die for you." He 
laughed, a sudden bark that rose and fell in an instant, startled 
by the depth of this need to convince the other man of his 
ordained role in the great game. 

He backed away from the moment, horrified by a kind of sincerity 
that was making his stomach churn. "Another drink?" he suggested, 
pointing at the fridge with its ample supplies. 

Mulder nodded, accepting the beer, just as Jameson knew he would 
accept anything so long as the discussion stopped there. But 
having come this far, he wasn't going to let him off the hook so 
easily. He handed him the can. "You sway in the wind, Mulder." 

"And Scully doesn't?" 

Jameson ignored the obviously rhetorical question. If Mulder 
didn't know that Scully was his anchor, then he wasn't so smart as 
everyone imagined - and X didn't believe that. "Take this last 
case - I give you something tangible to chase. Evidence of what 
these people do. I gave it to you." 

"But I went looking for Scully." 

"And you always will. 

"I should let her go." 

"You already have. That's why she's till there." 

Mulder laughed, quiet and uncertain, as if the emotion was too 
close to pain not to hurt, his eyes closing against the image. 

And X recalled an earlier gesture, a mark of comfort and 
connection, reciprocated the move by placing his hand on Mulder's 
shoulder. 

The day had been unremarkable. What was another execution in a 
world of death? Another pawn of a player taken out. How could that 
matter when so many innocents died at the scratch of a pen? 

Paul shook his head at that - couldn't dwell on the innocents 
either. What mattered were the living. The dead stayed dead. 

Mulder's breathing was an audible reminder of life. The only 
reminder he'd seen in a while. CGB Spender, or whatever he was 
calling himself these days, reeked of death. 

As for Paul Jameson himself, he'd almost come to terms with his 
role. Dead man walking. 

If the day had been unremarkable, the night had not. 

Why the fuck had Mulder come hunting for him? Didn't he know the 
rules? Of course not, this was Mulder he was dealing with. A man 
blessed with the nine lives of a cat, the balance of a tightrope 
walker and the common-sense of a toad in heat. 

Mulder was Mulder, which was all the excuse Mulder needed. What 
was inexplicable to Jameson was his own conduct. He was X, mystery 
informant and user, who walked into seedy bars on dirty nights and 
took what he needed and nothing more. 

Nobody ever came here. Nobody. Ever. 

"Mulder," he mumbled, not sure if the word was a question or a 
plea. 

Mulder took it as face value, kept the connection open. "What?" 

Dark brown met stormy hazel, found acceptance there, which made it 
hard to run but harder still to stay. 

This was too personal now. How could it fail to be? A man whose 
life he'd both gambled with and saved. Jameson might have signed 
his own death warrant a time ago, and this last case might have 
sealed it, but it was Mulder whose fingerprints appeared on every 
page, whose murmured words supplied the subtext. 

It was both impossible and inevitable. "Why did I bring you here? 
Why are we talking?" 

Mulder shrugged. "It can't hurt." 

Jameson shook his head. It already was hurting. 

His employers had scripted and manipulated so much of Fox Mulder's 
life. From hypnotic regression, through arranging for the wrong 
files to find their way to his inbox, to making sure he was always 
supplied with the ideal partner. 

Yet, since Scully's arrival. the scripts had become unraveled. 
She'd become neither a lover nor an enemy, nor had Mulder 
destroyed himself when she'd been taken. Predictably 
unpredictable. 

And Jameson's thoughts slid towards that other detour, Spender's 
gamble on Mulder's unpredictability. A gamble, that so many of his 
colleagues had considered inspired before the event, and then 
regarded as so inept afterwards - the Krycek experiment. Supply 
Mulder with an acolyte and see how he would respond. Jameson felt 
laughter build low in his chest. "Alex Krycek?" 

Jameson didn't need to say anything more. Bizarrely in tune, 
Mulder responded instantly. "Did you see how they dressed him?" 

And Paul still suppressed the laugh, answered in a dark rumble. 
"He was supposed to be green." 

"And I was supposed to be a rabbit?" 

Which left the laughter to roll on unhindered, until the laughter 
turned to something more like pain, and finally to desperation. 
Laughing himself to a standstill with Fox Mulder in his Aunt's old 
house was neither anticipated, nor welcome. It was merely 
unavoidable. It was certainly not simple. 

Locking eyes again with Mulder, finding himself startled by the 
intensity he saw there, he gave himself permission to study the 
rest of the man, saw a body built for speed and resilience, saw 
elegant perfection marred by mundane reality in the long, shapely 
fingers ending in nails battered by life. Tried not to smile at 
the glib metaphor for the man. 

The boy scout needed to be returned to his troop. 

"Mulder," he said softly, not really wanting a response. 

"Time to go?" questioned Mulder. 

"Bastard," grumbled Paul, irritated to find that his companion had 
already read the writing on the wall. "I'll drop you near a bus 
station." 

"I've had some cheap dates in my time..." 

Paul gave a grunt of disgust and headed towards the kitchen. 
"Coffee?" 

"Give me five to get cleaned up." 

When Mulder returned, Jameson surveyed him quickly from head to 
foot. From leather jacket to Nike's, he seemed prepared. Just to 
be on the safe side, Jameson checked anyway. "You've got enough 
cash? For the bus back?" 

His voice trailed off as Mulder looked up at him, acknowledging 
the silliness of the question and offering only a single slow 
blink as a reply. 

The precautions were too late and undoubtedly redundant. Yet 
still, it would be wrong to assume that the game was up. Or at 
least to admit that it was. No more confessions.

"I'll tell them that you came to the bar," pronounced X. 

Mulder nodded, sipping the coffee, breathing in the steam. 

"And that I took you for a ride but you wouldn't talk." 

Mulder smiled at the almost truth in the statement. 

"Dropped you at the edge of town about midnight," finished 
Jameson. 

They drank their coffees in silence. 

Mulder swallowed the last of the liquid, staring at the mug as if 
daring it to move or willing it to become full again. 

Jameson took a slow breath and hoped that Mulder wouldn't make 
things any harder. "Ready?"

"Paul?" 

"Go be a boyscout, Mulder." 





END