From marita@geocities.com Mon Mar 17 01:02:59 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: The Hand We Were Dealt 7/11 (NC-17 slash)
From: marita@geocities.com (Marita)
Date: Mon, 17 Mar 1997 07:02:59 GMT
--------
Rated NC17: No minors allowed.  Sexual content, explicit language.  
Slash.  This is a sequel to "The Same Everywhere."

As usual, the characters belong to Ten Thirteen; everything else 
is (c) Jane Mortimer.  Feedback may be sent to JaneMort@aol.com.   


                      The Hand We Were Dealt

                          by Jane Mortimer


Part 7

     The apartment was dark and silent when he got home.  Usually 
he =liked= it dark and silent, but he'd never noticed before just 
how much silence there was.  He didn't bother to boot up the 
computer, just plumped down on the couch and put his feet up, 
staring at the dark ceiling.  He set the computer printout he'd 
brought with him down carefully on the floor next to him.
     The process was starting.  He was losing the ability to 
concentrate on anything but the project at hand.  (Although since 
Krycek was part of the project, he could still concentrate on 
=him,= in fact he couldn't stop, which was good for Mulder's sex 
life, though damned exhausting.  There should be some kind of medal 
for obsessives, he thought.  ="In recognition of the gallons of 
lifeforce you have involuntarily poured into these black holes, a 
grateful populace awards you the... "  The what?  "The Conehead of 
Distinction.  Wear it so the rest of us can see you coming and duck 
for shelter...")
     =Alex should be home by now.=  It was a little hard to get 
past that thought.  He ought to pick up a book, put a tape in the 
VCR, check his e-mail.  He lay there and watched the ceiling.  
     The Voice of Reason had not entirely forsaken Mulder, even 
though he rarely paid it the least bit of attention.  Now it said 
to him, =Mulder, perhaps you should consider the fact that the 
person you -- and apparently your cock -- are waiting for 
threatened to shoot you and leave you in handcuffs the last time 
you saw him.=
     =Yeah, but he was only being considerate.=  The funny thing 
was, it was true.  Alex had worked hard to give him what he called 
"an interesting ride."
     =Maybe, but would the ride have been so interesting if you 
didn't know he was capable of doing it?=
     Mulder had no answer to that.
     He shifted on the couch, uneasily.  He =was= getting a little 
bit of a hard-on, thinking about Krycek.  But after all, this was 
just a temporary arrangement.  It wasn't a problem...
     =You asshole.=  Mulder was startled; the Voice of Reason 
usually didn't address him that way.  =You're lying on your 
chargeback forms -- =
     =That's just bureaucratic crap.=
     =-- you're lying to *Scully,* and you're experiencing very 
warm feelings just now toward a murderous psychopath because he 
put you in restraints last night and tortured you sexually.  Can we 
begin to agree that there is, indeed, a 'problem'?=
     He heard the front lock turning, and swung his feet down to 
the floor.  The door opened, and Krycek entered.  "Hey, Mulder, 
sorry I'm late.  Did you bring the analysis?"
     "Yes."  He stood up and approached Alex for a kiss.  Alex 
obliged immediately.  When they broke, he took the printout from 
Mulder and examined it.
       After a moment, he looked up.  "So, as far as we know, no 
pattern in the owners.  Or residents, though there's no way we can 
check all the people who live or work at these addresses."
     Mulder nodded.  "Bear in mind it's an incomplete listing.  We 
can get a lot of resident or business names by using a reverse 
phone and address directory, and owners of record are supposed to 
be on file in at least two government databases I know of.  But 
they're always incomplete.  I don't think we've got more than sixty 
percent here."
     "Well, there are any number of possibilities still to check -- 
maybe they all use the same cleaning service, the same bank.  Or 
their kids go to the same school."  He did not, however, say it as 
though he were hopeful.  "It would take a fully-staffed team to 
cover all the bases.  And a lot of time."  He glanced at Mulder.  
"But you have an idea," he said, with certainty.  
     "Yes.  We stop trying to hit as many of the sites as possible.  
Pick one and put it under surveillance."  He spoke with the 
confidence he always felt in running an analysis; he might not get 
the answers, but he knew how to attack a problem, how to best 
detach each petal from the stem until nothing was left but a heady 
scent and absolute essence.  Truth.  Or as close as he was likely 
to come.
     Alex looked up from the printout and smiled, a beautiful, 
wicked light in his eyes.  "I love you in this mode."
     Mulder's gut responded to that.  And yet he managed to 
maintain his focus on the problem; this was interesting -- it 
looked as though he were getting used to riding the rollercoaster.  
Which was disturbing in itself.  "I suggest the dry cleaner in 
Alexandria.  It'll be easier to monitor the entrances and exits 
than an office building or warehouse.  And we'll be less 
conspicuous parked in a business district than if we were outside 
someone's house."
     "I defer to your judgment," said Alex.  "You want to start 
now?  We're going to have to work shifts, but I can keep you 
company this evening."
     "Sure," he said.  He grabbed his jacket and followed Alex out 
into the night, with a lingering sense of something unfinished.
     =Mulder?= asked the Voice of Reason.  =Are you listening to 
me?=
     =Mulder?=

                              #
  
     Alex's hands were cold as he opened the car door.  He'd walked 
six blocks in the February night, from the all-night coffeeshop on 
Spring Street.
     "I brought you a danish with your coffee."  He set the paper 
bag on top of the dashboard.  
     "You're so good to me."
     He flashed Mulder an angelic smile.  "I know, but I have to 
keep you happy if I want to take advantage of you."
     Mulder gave him one of those sweet, wary looks, as though he 
thought there was too much truth in that statement.   The street 
outside was dark and quiet, lined with stores long since closed.  
Two blocks down, the dry cleaners stood, empty and innocent.  The 
car radio played softly in the silence, an old surveillance trick 
to keep awake.
     Staring out the window, Mulder said quietly, "Have you thought 
about what you're going to do if you can't pull this off?  If they 
still want to kill you?"
     Of course he'd thought about it.  He blew on his hands to warm 
them, then tucked them under his thighs.  "In that case, we become 
a transoceanic couple, Mulder.  You'll have to use some of that 
accumulated vacation when you want my body."
     "Well, that sounds attractive.  So any time we're going to 
have sex, I'll just book a flight, travel for thirteen hours, and 
disembark under an assumed name in someplace like Tokyo or 
Bangkok."
     "Oh, whine, whine, whine.  You know I'll make it worth your 
while."  He closed his eyes while saying it, and imagined that 
lovely heartstopping moment last night, when he'd been holding 
Mulder on the bed, just before he came.  The last sentence came out 
charged with arousal.  He opened his eyes and saw that Mulder had 
frozen, his hand half in the paper bag.  =Just one of the many 
reasons I support my local aliens,= thought Alex, smiling faintly 
in the darkness of the car.  
     Mulder cleared his throat and said, with only a trace of 
difficulty, "And jumping into a new identity doesn't bother you?"
     "Why should it?" he asked.  "I can be Alex Krycek for you this 
week.  I can be something else for someone else next week."
     "Don't do that," said Mulder.
     "Do what?"
     "Don't play with my head."
     "Your head," he assured him, not able to keep the grin out of 
his voice, "is the most erotic thing I've had to play with in 
ages."  =In fact, your head could be the Mattel Toy of the Year, 
but I suppose I'd better not say that out loud.  People can be so 
blind to their more attractive qualities...=
     Mulder said, stiffly, "Then your life must be devoid of 
amusement."
     "Well, that may be true, but don't sell yourself short.  You 
stack up against primetime television any time.  We could use it as 
a national rating system, in fact -- Poker, Tetris, cable TV, and 
at the top of the list, Fox Mulder."
     "Jesus, Krycek, do you have to -- "
     "Besides," Alex added, taking pity on him, "it doesn't always 
have to be the Far East.  The Grand Caymans are a lot closer to 
Washington."
     Mulder looked thoughtful.  "Planning on doing a little money-
laundering?"
     "Oh, do they really do that there?  I only heard about the 
beaches."
     Mulder made a disgusted sound and turned his attention 
pointedly to his danish and coffee.  Alex folded his arms and 
slumped down in the seat, grinning.  Considering that he was in 
constant danger of his life here, he was really having a delightful 
time.
     There were worse things in life than being a present.  
     And let's face it, he'd loved the idea the instant he'd 
realized what the alien wanted.  All it had to do was provide him 
with directions.  There'd been no need for discussion.  It knew 
Alex's reaction to this particular body.  It knew that once Alex 
had the keys, he'd take the first opportunity to drive Mulder off 
the lot, as it were.  =I've given you the tools,= the alien had let 
him know, with no great degree of respect.  =Whether you can apply 
them is another matter entirely.=
     Well, he =had= applied them, with enormous care and attention, 
and continued to do so; and as a result, Alex felt perfectly 
entitled to his satisfaction and pride.  Well, all right, his 
gloating; but it was entirely justified, and how could anyone =not= 
consider it a job well done -- look at Mulder there, he was as 
close to a work of art as a human being could get.  He was 
brilliant, responsive, graceful, and had an ass whose curves could 
only be described in Euclidean terms.  Not to mention a streak of 
beautiful neurosis and perversity, riches that Alex had seen hinted 
at but had never really expected to get.
     He watched as Mulder shrugged off his coat and reached for the 
cup of coffee on the dash.  Wonderful hands, long graceful fingers, 
and Alex no longer had to worry that, with the alien gone, he'd 
never feel those hands on him again.  He now had total access to 
Mulder's mental and physical resources.  A man who had every reason 
to shoot him.
     =Jimmy Stewart was right,= he thought.  =It's a wonderful 
life.=  For short periods of time, anyway; and he had every 
intention of enjoying this pleasure to the limit while it was in 
his custody.
       Speaking of which, it was too bad he hadn't somehow led 
things around last night to the oral Solitaire question -- in the 
state of mind he'd been in, Mulder would have done it without 
hesitation.  And it would satisfy the "passion" rule.
     Still, it wouldn't =entirely= have been his own idea.  And, 
Krycek thought, probably even incidents of minor psychological 
pressure ought not to be allowed.  (=Perfectionist.  Keep making 
the rules more strict, that way you'll never win.=)
     Well, never mind, Mulder's lesson last night had been far more 
useful.  And after all, Alex had not come to Washington for a game 
of Solitaire; that was simply a rewarding way of enhancing his 
downtime.  Besides, to be honest, having Mulder kneeling in his 
arms, naked but for an open shirt, had been... distracting.  He'd 
had his hands full, literally.
     =There you are.  Obviously you'll have to keep having sex with 
him till you get it right.=
     "What are you smiling about?" Mulder inquired.
     "Nothing."

                              #
 Right, nothing.  that had been an extraordinarily wicked 
smile.  As a law-enforcement agent, Mulder should probably go out 
right now, locate whoever Krycek had been thinking of, and issue 
them a warning about the danger they were in.
     Alex was twisting the volume on the radio; he sang softly, 
along with the band, "I'm ready to cross that fine line."  He 
glanced at Mulder.  "I had a friend who was crazy about this song."
     =You had a friend?= Mulder thought.  

          "I'll learn to work the saxophone,
           And I'll play just what I feel.
           Drink scotch whiskey all night long,
           And die behind the w--"

     Mulder reached over and switched off the radio abruptly.  He 
did it as a reflex, without thinking, then felt embarrassment wash 
over him.  Krycek raised an eyebrow.
     "Lately I've started getting into heavy metal, " Mulder said 
coolly.  It came out in perfect smartass, I-don't- give-a-damn 
style, but Alex didn't respond in kind.
     He stared down the dark street, then turned to Mulder.  "It's 
bound to happen eventually."
     He'd spoken with eerie quietness.  For Mulder it was like 
getting punched in the stomach.
     They were both silent for a few minutes.  Then Alex said, "I'd 
better get some sleep if I'm going to take over in the morning."  
He opened the door.
     "How are you going to get home?  The buses aren't running 
now."
     Alex stepped out, then bent and addressed him through the open 
door.  "I can walk down to Braddock and find a cab.  You'll have to 
give me some more money, though."
     There was something endearing about Alex's unabashed dipping 
into his resources.  Mulder pulled out his wallet and handed Alex a 
fifty, saying, "I'm paying your cabfare, and we haven't even had 
sex tonight."
     "Just think of me as an expensive date.  You should see what I 
tip washroom attendants."
     Mulder reached into his pockets.  "Wait a minute."  He pulled 
out his favorite pair of gray Isotoners.  He'd bought them to 
handle that occasional pesky trail of inhuman slime, and only 
realized they were his favorites when he found himself taking them 
off and using his bare hands so as not to ruin the gloves.
"It has to be ten blocks to the nearest cab stand.  Better take 
these."
     "I'm okay, Mulder, I'm used to the cold."
     "I'll be in the car, I won't need them."
     "It's not necessar-- "
     "Will you =take= the fucking gloves?"  
     Alex stared at him, then burst out laughing.
     "=What?=" inquired Mulder, from between gritted teeth.
     "Nothing.  I can hardly refuse when you put it that way.  
Thank you, Mulder."
     Mulder watched him walk away in the rear view mirror.  =And 
die behind the wheel.=  It had been a shock, that Alex would be 
nursing that thought, that he would say it out loud.  Alex had 
always struck him as someone who had every intention of dying of 
old age.  =He has every intention of trying, anyway.= 

                              #

     "Mulder, are you getting enough sleep?" Scully asked the next 
morning.
     "I'm fine," he said, and went into the other room for some 
more coffee. 
     He did catch her looking at him a couple of times during the 
afternoon.  =God, let me be able to keep this up.=  ("That's what 
happens when you have things like friends," he could imagine Alex 
saying.  "They end up knowing too much about you.")
     Too bad Alex wasn't here now to coach him on lying to people 
who trust you.  If life continued the way it was going, it looked 
like he was going to learn all kinds of new skills.

                              #

     That was Tuesday.  On Wednesday Alex passed another couple of 
hours in the car with him when they changed shifts.  They ought to 
just switch places and let the first watcher go home; it would be a 
lot more sensible, sleep-wise.  But neither of them seemed willing 
to do it.  It was weird, Mulder thought, in the comfort level it 
seemed to provide; as though they really were partners.  =But we're 
only *acting* like partners.  And this time both of us know it.=
     "You know," Alex remarked, "two people aren't really enough to 
run surveillance.  Under the easiest circumstances you should have 
three, and if you really want to be discreet, eight.  And that's in 
the course of a single night."
     =Yeah, well, unless you've got six unemployed assassin friends-- =
     Alex added, "They used eight for the last maildrop on the 
Aldrich Ames case, though god only knows why they bothered.  The 
man was living in a dream world."
     Mulder frowned.  The FBI =had= used eight on the Ames pickup; 
he'd managed to get a look at the original report.  The media had 
never reported it that way, though.  "Krycek, how the hell do you 
know these things?"
     The other grinned that nasty grin that used to make Mulder 
ache to slap it off.  These days he ached to kiss it off and watch 
the face turn serious.  "Clairvoyance.  They come to me in dreams."  
Oh, lord.  "Every Thursday, skywriters leave notes for me over the 
Capitol Building."
     "All right -- "
     "Ancestral voices prophesy over the fillings in my teeth -- "
     "All =right,= I get the message.  It's open season on Mulder's 
Brain."
     Alex put on an expression of amazing earnestness.  "Is there 
ever a =closed= season on Mulder's Brain?"
     =This was sick.  Mental torture was beginning to seem homey 
and cheerful.  Like, if it were gone, he would miss it.=  Alex 
added, confusingly, "Damned stickshifts."
     "What?"
     "Nothing."  He could hear the quirk of grin in the voice.  
"Messing with your mind always gives me this overwhelming urge to 
mess with your body."
     =Uh-huh.=  Mulder glanced toward Alex's profile in the 
darkened car, ready to slap him down, and met two shadowed green 
eyes as they were turned on him.  =Jesus, he's serious.=   The heat 
was like the crackle of burning paper.  
     A flash of mental images:  Green, rain-forest eyes; from a 
place where there were too many creatures and things died all the 
time.  =Tiger, tiger, burning bright.=  Mercy would be superfluous, 
he thought, having no idea what he meant by that.
       Yeah, it's definitely hot in here, it occurred to him 
(=emeralds in a volcano=) as he turned quickly away, and he 
shrugged off his coat.  And then: =Damned stickshifts.=  
     =Snap out of this.  Alex Krycek is not your personal romantic 
fantasy, your goddamned gift, no matter what the alien decided.=  
(="And for ordering from our catalogue today, Mr. Mulder, we'd like 
to include a bonus with your delivery...just answer the following 
questions from the Kinsey sex preferences test...=")
     Jesus.  He took a breath -- the car seemed strangely devoid of 
oxygen -- and reviewed the situation.  Not that long ago he'd been 
working his regular caseload and fantasizing about shooting Krycek, 
as any sane person would.  Now here he was, out hunting with Shere 
Khan.  =I noticed some gazelles down at the watering hole, Mulder, 
and wondered if you'd join me for lunch.=  Right.  He has that same 
attentive, appraising look for the gazelles that he has for me.  
Hot and cold at the same time.  Like that absolute beam of 
attention a Siamese projects onto something they're about to kill.  
Or in my case --   =And after lunch, Mulder, maybe I'll tie you 
down and play with you.  I like to play with the things I -- =
     "Is he stopping?" Alex asked.
     A car was slowing down near the dry cleaners.  Mulder lifted 
the binoculars.  "He's looking at a map.  I think he's lost."
     Alex sighed and stretched.
     Not that Shere Khan was turning out to be a bad houseguest.  
There were no bodies in the shower, no mysterious phone calls.  Not 
even dirty dishes.  Now that Mulder thought of it, Alex squeezed 
the toothpaste tube from the bottom up, the way Mulder did; was 
that natural to him, or protective coloration, a detail he'd 
noticed?  How many other things had he noticed that Mulder was 
unaware of?
     "Just think," Alex remarked, "if we were normal people, we'd 
be asleep right now.  Maybe in a house in the country, with an 
apple tree and a swing set."
     You couldn't be sure if he were mocking or not; there was an 
edge in his tone, but there was nearly always an edge there.  
"Normality," said Mulder grimly, as he watched the car drive away 
through the binoculars, "was never an option."
     "You're telling me."
     When he wasn't working surveillance, Krycek tried to keep his 
appearances in the city to a minimum.  He did come home one day 
with a new Baretta, which Mulder did not remark on (=now I know 
where at least some of my money went=), but he appeared to spend 
most of his time in Mulder's apartment, running through his books 
and tapes.
     The books, especially, seemed to be a treat.  For a long time 
now, apparently, Krycek had only been reading what he bought or 
stole from airport racks and candy stores, and now that he had 
leisure and opportunity he ran indiscriminately through Mulder's 
hardcovers, paperbacks, comic books, and graphic novels.  He read 
=The Watchmen= and =The Dark Knight Returns,= =Naked Lunch= and 
=Balthazar.=  ("That one won't make sense without the other three," 
Mulder told him.  "Already started," Alex replied without even 
looking up from where he sprawled on the sofa.  "Can't stop now."  
Mulder could see the epitaph:  =He Read As He Lived.=)
     =What we need is a Fugitive Circulating Library,= he thought.  
=Pick up a book in Springfield, Illinois, and return it in Tampa.  
"What name will you be checking this out under, sir?"=
     The strongest response came from, of all things, =Northanger 
Abbey.=  "Fanfuckingtastic," pronounced Alex, closing the book with 
delight in his eyes.  "It's not the story, you know," he assured 
Mulder earnestly.  "It's the narration."
     "I know," said Mulder, bemused.  Alex Krycek: liar, killer, 
mercenary for hire.  Jane Austen fan.
     Now Alex opened the car door.  "I'm going to have to go home 
and think impure thoughts, or I'll never get to sleep."  He got out 
and began walking away.
     Mulder ran down his window.  "Alex!"
     Krycek walked around the side of the car.  "What?"
     "I got a copy of =Sense and Sensibility= for you.  It's on the 
shelves near the fish tank."
     A beautiful, solemn smile broke over his face.  "Really?"  His 
eyes lit up.  He stuck his head in the window, grasped the lapels 
on Mulder's jacket, twisting them in his hands, and kissed Mulder's 
lips, half sideways, pushing his tongue in with the enthusiasm of a 
religious convert.  When he drew back he said, with childlike 
pleasure, "Thanks, Mulder."  He turned and started down the street.
     Mulder leaned back in the seat.  =Jesus.  What would he have 
done for =Pride and Prejudice?=

                              #


Rated NC17: No minors allowed.  Sexual content, explicit language.  
Slash.  This is a sequel to "The Same Everywhere."

As usual, the characters belong to Ten Thirteen; everything else 
is (c) Jane Mortimer.  Feedback may be sent to JaneMort@aol.com.   


                      The Hand We Were Dealt

                          by Jane Mortimer


Part 8

     Scully pulled her chair over to Mulder's desk.  She put her 
arms down on top of his slide collection and fixed him with one of 
those patented Scully looks.
     He said, with faint nervousness, "I used a deodorant soap."
     "Mulder, tell me you haven't been running surveillance on 
those addresses."
     =Oops.=  Nine times out of ten, she could nail him.  If she'd 
sit still for it, he'd give her the Rhine telepathy test.
     "Um, not the addresses, exactly."
     "What, exactly?"
     "Well, not addresses, plural.  Just one address."
     "Just one address?  Like that makes it better?  Mulder, one 
person cannot run surveillance.  Especially when that person has 
another job they're supposed to be doing."
     He returned her gaze, not knowing what to say.  She had the 
goods on him, and there was no excuse he could give without 
bringing Alex into it.
     She sighed.  "You're going to keep on doing this, aren't you?"
     He nodded.
     "I'd give you a personality transplant if I could.  But 
barring that... I suppose I'll have to take a shift."
     He found that he wasn't surprised.  "You don't need to."
     "If I'm going to keep you from wandering around here on sleep-
dep, I'll need to.  Don't make a big deal out of it, Mulder, I've 
done surveillance before."
     He hesitated.  "Scully, I still have no clue what's going on.  
Which means it =could= be extremely dangerous."
     Her expression said, =And your point is?=
     =Shit.=  Ordinarily he was willing to the share the risk 
around, but this wasn't Scully's problem, and she had no way of 
knowing what she was getting into.  Finally he said, "Call in every 
hour."
     "I know procedure, Mulder."
     "If you have reason to believe you might be spotted, just 
leave."
     "Mulder, I will be the soul of discretion.  Will you listen to 
yourself?  Look who's giving advice to whom about unnecessary 
risk."
     He didn't return her smile.  "Make it every half hour."

                              #

     "I bless and revere her," said Alex.  "You know what this 
means, don't you?  We finally get more than a quick fuck."
     "Krycek, I don't know where all that sexual energy comes from 
-- I don't know if you have it beamed in by satellite or what -- 
but I was planning on sleeping a full six hours tonight."
     "Don't be silly, Mulder, you wouldn't know what to do with six 
hours.  And there are a few more things I think you need to learn 
in the realm of handcuffs."
     "Yeah?  Am I supposed to do you next?"
     "That's for the advanced class, Mulder.  You haven't graduated 
intermediate yet."
     Mulder looked thoughtful.  Finally he said, "She's going to be 
calling in every thirty minutes until two AM."
     Alex grinned.  "Should be interesting for you, then.  I'll be 
sure to hold the phone up to your ear if your hands are full."

                              #

     =Friday night, 2:15 am:=
     "Mulder, wake up."
     Mulder uncoiled gradually from his cramped position in the 
back seat.  Alex had told him to get some sleep, that he'd keep 
going for a few more hours, and somehow it had seemed more pleasant 
to zone out in the car with Krycek than to go home.
     Mulder's nights now revolved around surveillance and sleep, 
with the occasional otherworldly sidetrip for nineteenth-century 
literature or abnormal sex.  The change-of-shift hours in the car 
with Alex, on the other hand, felt like a strangely innocent, 
homespun activity -- like kids in a treehouse watching for 
invaders.   Weirdly, they were starting to turn into his favorite 
time of day.
     He pulled himself up.  "What is it?"
     Alex handed him the binoculars.
     There was a large van parked in front of the dry cleaners.  
Men were unloading cartons from the back and carrying them into the 
store, where a faint light shone through the window.  
     Mulder said, "The cartons are too small for dry cleaning.  
More like what you would carry books in, or something heavy."
     There were a dozen or so boxes, a few open, with 
indecipherable shapes sticking out of the top.  "Some kind of 
equipment?" Alex asked.
     "Can't tell."  Mulder watched as the van was closed and 
padlocked and the last of the men disappeared into the dry 
cleaners.  "They're pretty damn bold about this, whatever it is."
     "No patrolcars, Mulder.  How many hours have we been here?  
And I haven't seen a cop since the stores closed at six."
     "They've been told to keep away."  Mulder said it as though he 
were pleased.  Conspiracies, how nice -- now they were making 
progress.  He reached for the door handle.  "They're all inside.  
I'll see what I can make of the van."
     Alex reached out and grabbed his arm to hold him back.  "I can 
see why evildoers keep catching you and beating you up, Mulder."
     "What do you want?  We can't follow them when they leave -- 
there's no other traffic, we'd be too conspicuous."
     "You'll be fucking conspicuous trying to break into the van, 
too.  Christ."
     "You have a better idea?"
     "Yes.  We sit here like good surveillance ops and keep 
watching.  We determine how long these guys stay, whether or not 
they come back, what nights they are =not= likely to be here, and 
we break into the store then."
     "When they're not there.  When they've taken their toys and 
gone."
     "Uh-huh."
     "And the point of this exercise would be?"
     Alex grinned.  "You haven't participated in a lot of criminal 
activity, have you?"
     "I was going to add another hobby, but swimming and track take 
up too much time."
     "Look, they've been running this thing for a while -- months, 
maybe years for all we know.  On a street where no one bothers 
them, where no cops drive by.  No matter how careful they were told 
to be in the beginning, they're not careful now.  It's human 
nature.  I have never seen it fail.  By now, the crew leader of 
this little part of the operation has decided that he can bring his 
book of phone numbers with him, or that he doesn't have to sweep 
for bugs anymore.  Or there's some kind of equipment they need to 
do whatever they're doing, and instead of clearing it out when they 
leave, it'll just be so much more convenient to keep it on the 
premises."  Alex looked at him.  "Really, Mulder, people are 
incredibly unreliable.  They leave cigarette butts in ashtrays 
sometimes, too."
     Mulder said, slowly, "I don't believe that you would be any 
more careless in the second year of an operation than you were on 
the first day."
     "Well, true, but I'm outside the normal curve on that."
     =Just on that?=
     So they waited.  Three hours later two more vans showed up.  
The cartons were now brought out of the store, loaded onto the new 
vehicles, and the original van, now empty, drove away.
     They stayed until six.  The vans did not return.  Dawn crept 
gradually over the deserted street, and Alex stretched and grinned.  
"It was good for me, Mulder."
     Mulder muttered, started up the car, and took them home.

                              #

     Alex refused to allow them to break into the store for another 
ten days.  ("Let me remind you this is =my= present.  Not to 
mention, my life.")  The vans returned on Monday and again on 
Friday; it looked like a twice-a-week schedule.  The following 
Monday, when the visitors had come and gone, Mulder turned to 
Krycek.  "Put me in, Coach."
     "Yeah, I think our time has come."
     They broke in through the side window, after a slight pause 
for discussion.  "I was counting on you to disable the alarm 
system," Mulder said.
     "You have funny ideas about me, Mulder."  Alex looked the 
window up and down.  "Anyway, they probably don't have an alarm.  
They don't want to attract the attention of any legitimate police."
     They didn't.  Alex forced the window up and turned to Mulder 
with one of his more annoying smiles.
     "It could be a silent alarm."
     "Just go with the karma, Mulder."  Alex gestured for him to 
enter.
     Once inside, Mulder found himself standing behind a forest of 
suits and coats.  He heard Alex climb through behind him, and 
pushed his way through the material. 
     The wall of clothing on conveyors stopped halfway back in the 
room.  Beyond it was a long table, where used plastic cups, liters 
of soda, beer cans, and cigarette stubs littered the top and floor.  
"Yeah," said Krycek, picking up a cup, "I have a feeling they're 
not cleaning up the way they should."
     "Not very considerate.  Probably the shop owners have to come 
through here with brooms and paper towels every morning after they 
leave."  Mulder spotted something on the floor and squatted down.  
A tiny pile of white powder.  He touched a fingertip to it and 
said, "Cancerman's into coke-dealing?  That's kind of a come-down."
     Alex knelt beside him and rubbed the powder between two 
fingers.  Like Mulder, he chose not to taste it.  "Feels more like 
China White."
     "Heroin?  That's still a few streets down from his usual 
neighborhood."
     "Maybe this is a financial thing, like that drug-running the 
CIA did to pay for their insurgents?"
     "They never proved that," said Mulder, who despite his tangles 
with the alphabet agencies still had friends in the CIA.  Then he 
looked up and grinned.  Alex laughed.  "See if we can collect 
enough for an ounce."
     "Will you be able to get an analysis done, without a 
legitimate casenumber?"
     "Don't need to.  I know someone who'll do it for Redskin 
tickets."
  
                              #

To: Fox Mulder <f.mulder@wash.fbi.gov>
From: Karen Pawls <k.pawls@wash.hhs.gov>
Subject: What the hell???

I've got your analysis.  Heroin base, cut with a chemical 
compound I can't identify.  It's organic, which I know 
doesn't tell you much, but it's the best I can do -- 
infrared and NMR spectroscopy profiles both ID it as a 
chemical I've never seen before.  One part of the 
structure is vaguely similar to a family of neuro-
transmitter analogue drugs I know, but I couldn't 
even guess at the rest of it.

I have to figure it's a designer drug, created either 
illegally or by a pharmaceutical company.  I have no 
clue what it does, and I won't unless you can get me 
more and a whole lot of altruistic rats.

Speaking of which... there can be a lot of money 
associated with things like this.  Have you ever 
thought of going into the private sector, and how 
do you feel about partners?

Karen


     Alex looked up from the screen as Mulder walked in.  "You 
should password your e-mail," he said.
     "I do password my e-mail."  He pulled off his coat and hung it 
up, then walked over to join Alex at the desk.
     "You know, I only looked at the FBI stuff.  I didn't even try 
to call up your AOL account."
     "Because in the world of Alex Krycek, national security is up 
for grabs, but you're trying to respect my personal life."
     "Well, yeah.  And I figure, we're still at that beginning 
stage of a relationship where you'll find my doing this kind of 
thing charming, as opposed to later, when you'd shoot me if I tried 
it."
     Mulder gazed at him silently.  Alex said, unabashed, "You want 
to hear about the lab analysis?"
     "Is it in?"  Mulder took the keyboard away from him and 
started tapping.  He stared at the screen, completely motionless, 
for thirty seconds.  Then he turned to Alex, "An unidentifiable 
organic substance."
     "Together with China White.  They're going for the caviar-of-
heroin crowd.  This is definitely a joint operation, Mulder -- the 
government's using organized crime for their distribution network."  
He laughed.  "They really are practicing corporate outsourcing."
     Mulder's mind was not on their organizational structure.  "A 
neurotransmitter analogue.  God.  It could do anything, it could be 
anything.  For all we know, it's..."
     "Not of this earth?"  Alex smiled. 
     Mulder started to pace.  "Another damned experiment."  He 
stopped, looked out the window, and turned back to Alex.  "To 
accomplish what?"
     Krycek shrugged.  "Who knows?  The people running this may not 
even know.  They've always been more enthusiastic than rigorous 
about their clinical trials."  He caught Mulder's glance and said, 
"I'm only reporting gossip."
     "You think they'd unleash wholesale chemical changes into an 
entire segment of the population without knowing exactly what it 
does?"
     "You don't?"
     Mulder sat down on the couch.  How many heroin users were in 
the greater Washington area?  And how did they know this thing 
wasn't national in scope?  Jesus, even international?
     Alex was still following his own thoughts.  "And if the 
experiment turns out to be too destructive, well, it's not like 
they're risking the flower of American citizenry.  Unless... no."
     Mulder looked up.  "What?"
     "You get the feeling of long-range, mass planning from these 
men, don't you?  It occurred to me that they might =want= this 
experiment to be destructive.  Maybe their brave new world doesn't 
have room for street addicts; Cancerman always struck me as one of 
those old-fashioned, disciplinary types.  Nothing like cleaning out 
the gene pool in one fell swoop."  He shrugged again.  "But it was 
just a passing thought -- you can see right away that it wouldn't 
be likely."
     "Why not?"
     He looked startled.  "If I were a leader, I wouldn't try to 
breed addictive behavior out of a population.  They're more 
controllable with it in."
     =You would think of that, wouldn't you?=
     Alex started to pace thoughtfully.  That look of joyful 
excitement was coming back into his face, a look Mulder hadn't seen 
in full throttle since the night Alex seduced him.  He was marking 
out a potential area for exploitation and getting ready to attack 
it. 
     "We need to approach the criminal side of the organization," 
he stated.
     "They're all criminals."
     "Well, yeah, but you know what I mean.  As long as they're 
approached the right way, organized crime is bolder about making a 
deal and continuing their op than any government power is.  After 
all, they do it all the time.  The governmental way is to go 
straight for termination, because it's safer and they get nervous 
easily."  He grinned.  "Having a respectable life and a house in 
Chevy Chase can do that to you."
     =Not a problem you're likely to ever face, Krycek.=
     Here Alex was, walking back and forth, talking about his deal, 
when a few seconds ago he'd been calmly advancing the theory that 
this stuff could wipe out an entire section of the population.  But 
then, Alex had made it clear from the beginning that he lived in a 
world where his survival was the number-one priority.
     "This is it," Alex said, still glowing.  "All we need are the 
names.  I can negotiate with this."  He finally took note of 
Mulder's face and paused.  "Relax, Mulder, they've been doing this 
for months, maybe years, and we haven't heard anything in the news, 
have we?  Besides, these people like to keep a low profile.  
Whatever the compound is, it's probably not destructive.  Or if it 
is, not =very= destructive."
     "Not ='very'= destructive?" he repeated, disbelievingly.
     "Cigarettes are destructive, Mulder.  Alcohol.  Overeating.  
Some prescription drugs.  These are addicts, Mulder, they're not 
treating their bodies like a temple to begin with.  Hell, I've 
probably put worse things into my system than whatever this stuff 
is."
     =He really expects me to let this go.  He really expects it.=
     That thought revolved through his mind for the rest of the 
evening.  He watched Alex call out for pizza and get them both 
beers from the refrigerator.  He watched as Alex lay face-down on 
the bed, reading.  He saw Alex's expression, the expression of a 
hopeful kid, when he asked if Mulder had a library card he could 
borrow.  And he watched, as if from a distance, when Alex finally 
took him in his arms and kissed him, with the solemn confidence of 
a still-new lover.
     =Maybe... maybe it would be okay.  Alex seemed to recognize 
the way these men's minds worked, and he thought it was unlikely 
the replacement drug was too destructive.  Maybe, Mulder thought, 
he should just let it go...=
     =What are you *thinking*?=
     "What is it?"  Alex's voice was gentle, his hands sweetly 
possessive on Mulder's face.  "You looked upset for a second."
     "Nothing."  He took hold of Alex's wrist and placed a soft 
kiss on the inside.  Looking straight into those indecipherable 
green eyes, he said firmly, "I don't want to go there.  In fact, I 
want to forget about it as soon as possible."
     All he had to do was say it; it was like flicking a switch.  
The eyes lit with their old mockery and a sort of aware delight at 
this opportunity.  =He must know about forgetting things,= Mulder 
said to himself, then lost that thought as Alex pushed him back 
toward the bed.  "We're here to cooperate," he stated, nipping 
Mulder's ear as he maneuvered him backwards, "in any way we can."  
They fell over onto the mattress.  "Just let us know if we're not 
doing our job."  
     He was pulling off Mulder's clothes as he spoke, nibbling his 
ear, biting his neck and shoulders.  The alternating pain and 
pleasure set off a tripwire through his nervous system, lighting 
matches everywhere; a tripwire that called for more of everything -
- more fire, more pain, more force.  This one was going to be on 
the rough side, that was clear to him right off, and the unexpected 
relief he felt was intense.  God, he needed this, he needed it 
right now, he was going to die if -- he made a frustrated, 
impatient sound.
     Alex paused, his arms braced on Mulder's shoulder's, examining 
his face.  "What now?"
     "Nothing.  Momentary lust overdose."
     He grinned.  "Let's see if we can get it back."

                              #
     
     He was all right as long as they were actually having sex, and 
for an hour or so afterwards, but even his currently obsessive 
libido was not up to the challenge of keeping this out of his mind.
     Though he tried.  Two days later he was standing naked in 
Alex's arms, in the afternoon, his body already melting from the 
touch and dizzy from the soft voice in his ear.  =Yeah, keep going, 
Alex, let's drop this "reality" thing for a while.=  By the time 
they were on the bed it felt as though his body had vanished 
entirely and these rolling shocks of pleasure were breaking 
directly on his brain and nervous system.  It was exactly what he 
wanted; to not be there, although he was.
     Afterwards, Alex raised himself on one arm and pushed the hair 
back from Mulder's forehead.  They were both damp with sweat, and 
still breathing hard.  "How many times do you want to do it, 
Mulder?" Alex asked.  "Not that I have any objection... still, it's 
a little disheartening to think you're not responding to my charms, 
but to some weird music of your own."
     "I'm all right," he said. 
     Alex regarded him without expression for what seemed like a 
long time.  "Yeah," he said.

                              #


Rated NC17: No minors allowed.  Sexual content, explicit language.  
Slash.  This is a sequel to "The Same Everywhere."

As usual, the characters belong to Ten Thirteen; everything else 
is (c) Jane Mortimer.  Feedback may be sent to JaneMort@aol.com.   


                      The Hand We Were Dealt

                          by Jane Mortimer


Part 9


     Monday, more surveillance, the vans now a routine sight.  "How 
are we going to find out who's running this by just watching them?" 
Mulder asked.  "We still can't follow the damned vans, and they're 
not wearing name tags."
     "How the fuck do I know?" Alex responded.
     This did nothing for Mulder's prickly awareness of the truth -- 
that he was glad they didn't have that last piece of information.  
It meant that nobody had to make any decisions.
     Friday, back in the car, watching the same show.  =We could 
keep doing this forever,= Mulder thought.  And then: =Would that 
be so bad?=
     Even if Alex succeeded in this, and even if Mulder were 
willing to go along with it, where would that leave him?  Krycek 
would vanish back into the secret world, and assuming he even 
wanted to see Mulder again, any continuance of their relationship 
would be more dangerous than ever.
     ="For the time being," Krycek had said, when they made their 
deal, "and until it all goes to hell."=  That was no way to live a 
life and retain your sanity.
     And then, as they watched, a car pulled up across the street 
from the vans as they were being loaded.  A man got out and walked 
over.
     "I know that guy," Alex said, handing Mulder the binoculars.  
"I don't know his name, but I saw him back when I was trying to 
convince the organization what a good lackey I was.  He helped 
clean up a little... unpleasantness, one day.  I don't think he'd 
recognize =me,= though."
     "I know him too," Mulder said.  "He works at the Bureau.  
Sadowski, in White-Collar Crime."
     They looked at each other.  "This is all getting incestuous," 
Alex said.  With a certain pleasure in his voice.
     Sadowski was in his early forties, sandy-haired and ruddy-
faced.  He wore a tan raincoat.  When he reached the van he began 
talking with the man who was directing the loading; after a minute, 
the man waved to his crew to put down their boxes.  They did.  
Sadowski walked back and forth among them, then pointed at a 
particular box.  It was opened, and he removed something from it -- 
a brick of heroin, it looked like, neatly encased in its plastic 
bag.
     Alex turned to Mulder and grinned.  "I think Quality Control 
is on the scene."  He hummed a bar of cheerful music, then added, 
"=Him= we can follow."
     Mulder was surprised.  "We'll still be conspicuous."
     "Doesn't matter.  We're going to stop him before he reaches 
his destination anyway."
     "We are?"
     "Mulder, we cannot spend our lives in this friggin' car.  
Sadowski's not part of the criminal side, and we won't offend 
anybody by questioning him."
     "...Questioning him."
     The words came out absolutely devoid of tone, and Alex 
laughed.  "Trust me, Mulder, it's time you crossed that fine line."
     Mulder was silent.  Alex said, "We do want to know where he 
goes, don't we?"
     "That's not the part I'm disputing."
     "Whoops, heads up -- he's pulling out."
     =So are you hunting gazelles with Shere Khan tonight or not?  
And if not, what was the purpose of all this surveillance?=  Mulder 
started the ignition, quietly backed the car to the last corner, 
turned and followed their quarry.
     The streets were dark and quiet, with very little traffic all 
the way to downtown Washington.  "I guess white-collar specialists 
aren't used to being followed," Alex commented.
     "Alex, do you really think it's wise to confront him?  I mean, 
aren't you trying to keep your presence here a secret?"
     "Yeah, but I have to take some kind of action sooner or later.  
And the odds are with me on this number -- I'm pretty sure he 
doesn't know my name, and besides, if he answers our questions, 
he'll never report the conversation.  You never, ever report it 
when you talk; that's rule number one."
     "Maybe they didn't issue him the same book of criminal 
etiquette you got," said Mulder, adding, "I don't believe this."  
Sadowski was turning off into the entrance to the Bureau parking 
garage.
     Alex laughed.  "Perfect.  I couldn't have written this 
better."
     Mulder looked at him disbelievingly.  "=Perfect?="  =Insanity 
must run in the Krycek family.=  They paused at the guardpost and 
Mulder had Alex signed in as a guest.  "What name did you write?" 
Mulder asked, as they drove on down the ramp.
     "Henry Tilney, if anyone asks."
     "Alex, is it enough that we're following a shadow operative 
into the goddamned FBI parking garage?  Do you have to use aliases 
from Jane Austen, too?"
     "Come on, Mulder, at most they'll think it's a coincidence.  
You worry too much."  He grinned sweetly.  "Hasn't anyone told you 
it takes more energy to frown than it does to smile?"
     Mulder took a sharp right turn, following the taillights in 
the distance, and muttered, "You're lucky I don't have a gun in my 
hand right now."
     Sadowski parked not far from the elevators.  They got out of 
the car and Mulder quickened his pace to overtake him.   
"Sadowski?" he called, when they'd almost reached the doors.
     The man turned.  "Mulder?  It's a little early in the morning 
for you, isn't -- "
     Alex barrelled into him, shoving him against the wall.  Before 
Sadowski could recover, or even take it in, Krycek's gun was out 
and leveled at him.  Alex took a step away and said, "Mulder, grab 
his arms, =now.=  I wouldn't want him to do anything stupid."
     Mulder, who would also prefer not to explain a body in the 
parking garage, locked onto Sadowski from behind.  It was not how 
he'd planned to spend his evening, but things had slipped from 
control the second the Baretta came out.  
     Except the Baretta had just vanished, somehow, and Mulder 
watched in disbelief as his gray Isotoner, on Alex's right fist, 
slammed into Sadowski's abdomen.  Alex's left fist connected with 
the jaw.  Startled, Mulder let go.  The man staggered and bent in 
half.  Alex glared over Sadowski's head at Mulder with pure white 
anger.  "I =need= you," he said.  And Mulder could hear, clear as a 
line of precisely breaking icicles, the words that followed with 
it:  =*Now.*  We can discuss your fucking sense of ethics later.=
     Outside of the occasional struggle for his life, Mulder had 
never hit somebody he didn't have a personal connection with.  He'd 
never hit anybody with any intention but that of causing them pain.  
When he was violent, there was never room for a secondary agenda. 
     Alex could apparently enter whole-heartedly into causing pain 
with no personal connection at all.  Nor was he distant from the 
event; a quick look at his face was enough to tell you that.
     "=Mulder.=" said Alex.  "Is this worth doing, or not?"
     And a dozen complicated thoughts ran through his mind, fast as 
a light switch, but beyond them all he could see the answer.  It 
was worth doing.  Whether it hurt or not.
     He took hold of Sadowski's arms as the man tried to straighten 
up.  Mulder said, "Alex, I don't -- "
     Sadowski peered up at Krycek.  "'Alex'?" he slurred, with 
faint puzzlement.  Then, "Alex =Krycek=?"
     "=Fuck,=" said Alex, and he slammed his fist into the man 
again.
     Sadowski saw it coming and tried as well as he could to avoid 
the blow; his raincoat swung around as he moved, and Alex's 
knuckles connected with his target by way of the right coat pocket.  
There was a popping sound and a cloud of white powder exploded, 
rising up softly to cover the right side of Sadowski's coat and 
face.  He panicked as though someone had touched a match to him. 
     "Get it off me, get it off me!" he screamed, managing to pull 
his arms out of Mulder's grasp.  He slapped at his cheek and hair, 
trying to clear them of the stuff. 
     =Probably not destructive, eh, Alex?= Mulder thought.
     Krycek had his gun out again, and he'd pushed Sadowski against 
the cement wall.  "It's off," he told him, loudly.  "It's off, you 
got it off, you're okay.  It's off.  It's off."  He repeated it 
until Sadowski calmed enough to stand still.  They could hear his 
gasps for air.  Alex pushed the barrel of his gun up against his 
chin, gave him a second to grasp what was happening, and said 
clearly, "This will kill you tonight a lot quicker than anything 
else will."
     Sadowski became abolutely motionless.  Krycek watched him for 
a second, then said, "Come on, Mulder, let's continue this in your 
office."
     =In my *what*?=
     Alex pressed the elevator button with his left hand.  He took 
a quick glance at Mulder's face.  "Think about it," he said.
     As the doors closed on them, Mulder did think about it.  They 
were already past the guardpost.  They would be getting off on the 
basement level, one flight up.  The odds on meeting anyone there, 
at this hour of the morning, were virtually nil.  And the walls 
here were damned thick, reinforced against terrorist incident -- 
certainly thicker than his apartment at home, where if the 
neighbors heard anyone screaming (wait, but that wasn't going to 
happen, was it?), they'd call the police.
     Clearly Alex made a habit of considering the best places to 
beat people up.
     The elevator opened and they hustled Sadowski down the 
corridor.  Mulder unlocked the door to his office with shaking 
hands and it wasn't until he gulped for air in the darkened room 
that he realized he hadn't been breathing.  He hit the light switch 
and the office sprang into existence around him, familiar and used, 
strewn with his belongings, his projects, his posters, his notes on 
the bulletin board.  Right now the very familiarity of it was 
bizarre, like something out of a fever dream.
     Krycek glanced around.  =That's right, he was never down here.  
I guess if it wasn't part of my goddamned sex life, the alien 
didn't give it to him.=  Alex nodded toward what looked like a long 
supply closet, open at both ends.  "Does that go anywhere?"
     "There used to be a room for messengers, back when they kept 
the copier here.  Now the hall's a supply closet.  They put a 
restroom in at the other end."
     "Is there another exit there?"
     "Yeah, but nobody uses it."
     Alex nudged Sadowski with the gun.  "This way."
     And the three of them walked down the hall.  For Mulder it was 
one of those unreal moments he'd been experiencing ever since 
Krycek showed up on the scene.  Here they were, passing rack upon 
rack of paperclips, binders, copy paper.  Boxes of Christmas 
decorations.  ("You don't mind if we store them here, do you, 
Mulder?  They'll be out of the way, down there in the basement with 
you.")  Green plastic garlands, gold tinsel, stacks of old forty-
fives with Irving Berlin tunes and even an ancient phonograph to 
play them.  There was the forty-five of "Rudolph" he'd left on the 
floor in the hope that someone would step on it on the way to the 
bathroom.  But no; Mulder had cracked more often than that 
goddamned record had.
     He couldn't seem to focus on what they were doing.
     It was probably just as well, he thought, that Krycek hadn't 
shown up two months ago.  Ordinarily Mulder would buy a Christmas 
present for someone he was sleeping with, but the etiquette in 
dealing with your father's killer was a little complicated.  If he 
ever gave Alex a wallet or something, it was entirely possible a 
chorus of the Greek Furies would appear on his doorstep and demand 
an accounting.
     Alex pushed open the bathroom door.
     The sex, on the other hand, they might accept.  The Greeks had 
seemed to understand that when lightning struck it was involuntary.  
Not that he'd planned on bringing a world-view from three thousand 
years ago into Washington, D.C., but he'd grasp for any defense he 
could.
     "This should do.  Mulder, could you get the light?  And the 
handcuffs."
     There was only one toilet, but the room was built to 
handicapped specs; there was plenty of space for three people.  
Sadowski took the seat.  He looked up at them nervously.  
     Mulder said, "Hands behind your back."  He moved to the side 
and behind their prisoner, and cuffed him with the same automatic 
movements he would have used on anybody else.  Anybody else that 
he'd be reading their rights to...  =If you would like a lawyer and 
cannot afford one, one will be provided for you...= 
      =He was standing in a toilet helping Alex Krycek cuff a guy 
they'd just beaten up.=  
     He'd broken plenty of rules before; he'd just never broken 
them in cold blood like this.  It was... alien.  
     Alex stood back and examined the scene before him like a 
landscape painter deciding whether to go for the sky or the water 
first.  "All right.  What's his first name?"
     "Jim."
     "Jim.  Hello.  I know you've had a busy night, so we'll try 
not to keep you."  He leaned back against the wall, maintaining the 
Baretta on a direct line with the heart.  "You've been hanging out 
with bad company, Jim."
     Sadowski looked back at him warily, but said nothing.
     Mulder had been worried that Krycek was going to start 
pummeling their guest again, but no; apparently what happened in 
the garage had been by way of introduction, an opening montage, 
like a filmmaker setting the tone for a movie; and Sadowski was 
both victim and audience.
     Alex said, "Do you really think an FBI agent should be selling 
heroin, Jim?  Not to mention the other stuff mixed with it."
     "I don't know anything about what's in it," Sadowski said, 
shooting the words out as though they were a reflex.  He took a 
deep breath, licked his lips, and added, "I've been undercover, 
trying to gather evidence.  You've interrupted a very delicate, 
secret operation that's none of your business.  I'm going to have 
you on report, Mulder, and as for your friend, I'm sure my A.D. 
will be glad to learn he's back in the Bureau.  I don't think 
anybody's heard the news yet -- "
     Alex hit him.  He used the hand with the gun; he must have 
been putting the safety on while Sadowski talked.  The effect of 
flesh, bone, and steel was vicious, and Mulder couldn't control a 
wince.
      Krycek said, "You're in White-Collar Crime, but you're 
undercover with a drug ring.  You don't know what's in it, but you 
wet your pants if you get any of it on you.  Do you think a real 
undercover fed would do that, Jim?  Do you think he'd get 
hysterical because his skin touched a little product?  And just 
when did you join the DEA, anyway?"  When Sadowski didn't answer, 
he said, "Try to keep within a few miles of reality when you lie, 
it's less annoying to the people asking you questions."
     Sadowski's nose had started to bleed.  In addition to the 
general fear and discomfort he was projecting, his expression took 
on the miserable look of someone who feels blood running down his 
face and can't do anything about it.
     Mulder watched from several worlds away.  =Voice of Reason?  
Are you out there?=
     "Hand me a paper towel."
     =Apparently not.=
     He handed Krycek a paper towel, and Alex bent and wiped the 
blood from Sadowski's face.  "There.  We don't =want= to hurt you; 
you're only making things complicated.  So just think about it, 
would you?  You know that anybody can be broken, with feet and 
fists alone, in less than half an hour.  It's not a matter of will, 
it's simple physical law.  Now, why go through that?  And if you do 
go through it, you know, everyone's going to assume you talked 
anyway."  He wet the paper towel at the sink and wiped the last of 
the blood.  Sadowski's nose was still running, but more slowly.  
"So why don't you just drop a few names?  We don't want your 
bosses, we just want the heroin side of things.  And nobody's ever 
going to know."
     =It's just sex, Mulder, nobody's ever going to know.=  Krycek 
was about six inches from Sadowski.  His voice was reasonable and 
quiet.
     "I don't have any names.  Really!" he added, as he saw Alex's 
hand raised.  "I just run errands.  I pick up things, I deliver 
things, I watch Mulder when I can..."
     Krycek looked up at Mulder.  "Jeez, Mulder, babysitting you 
must be some kind of constantly open entry-level position.  Like 
making fries at McDonalds."  He turned back to the prisoner.  "I 
don't believe you."  He put the gun away, and now Mulder and 
Sadowski both knew what this was a prelude to.
         "All right!"  Sadowski looked at them both, then said, loudly 
-- as though volume would compensate for the fear under his voice -- 
"You assholes.  Well, why shouldn't I tell you?  You think you're 
so damned smart?  We've been watching you for two weeks now.  Where 
did you learn surveillance, in the boy scouts?  We were going to 
pick you up =tonight,= you poor dumb shits!"  He turned to Mulder.  
"It's nearly five-thirty.  They've probably already got Scully by 
now."


Rated NC17: No minors allowed.  Sexual content, explicit language.  
Slash.  This is a sequel to "The Same Everywhere."

As usual, the characters belong to Ten Thirteen; everything else 
is (c) Jane Mortimer.  Feedback may be sent to JaneMort@aol.com.   


                      The Hand We Were Dealt

                          by Jane Mortimer


Part 10

     Mulder felt his stomach drop out.  Sadowski said, "Don't make 
this any harder than it is.  Let the operation go, let me go.  If 
you make it clear you're not going to be a danger, she could still 
have a chance."
     Krycek's voice was sharp and urgent.  "He's lying, Mulder.  No 
one spotted us.  He knows it takes three people to run 
surveillance, he knows who your partner is.  He's attacking you at 
your weak point.  It's a lie."
     "Yeah?" said Sadowski.  "Why don't you call her?  I bet she's 
not home."
     Mulder looked at Alex, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his 
ears.  He turned and walked back through the hall to his office.  
Behind him he heard the crack of a loud slap.  "Say that again, you 
fucker, and you'll wish I did kill you."
     Feeling dreamlike, he picked up the phone at Scully's desk and 
dialed her number.  It rang three times, then the machine kicked 
in.  "Scully?  Are you home?  Pick up, it's me.  It's important, 
Scully, pick up."  He waited in silence till the tape ran out, then 
hung up.
     When he walked back into the restroom, Alex took one look at 
his eyes and said, "Mulder, it's a Friday night, on a holiday 
weekend.  He figured odds were good that she wasn't home.  I know 
the way these things work, Mulder, they would never take her in, 
not in a case like this.  If they thought we were onto them, they'd 
scatter and regroup elsewhere.  It would not be worth the 
attention.  Mulder, you have to listen to me."
     Alex was using his name the way you talk to people in trauma.  
Mulder's eyes moved slowly toward Krycek's face.  What he was 
saying made sense.  But Alex had made it clear that they couldn't 
let Sadowski go, not without making him talk, and especially not 
now that he knew Krycek was here.
     And for Alex, his own survival had always been priority number 
one.  He would work to convince Mulder to go along with him now, 
regardless of what he thought the truth was.  He liked Mulder, he 
had nothing against Scully; but in a crisis, they went out the 
window with the rest of the baggage.
     It made sense, though.  It made sense.  It made sense.
     "If she's in any danger..."  Mulder's voice trailed off.
     "Then what?"
     He felt as though he were about to step off a cliff, and 
couldn't stop himself, and didn't care.  "Then I'll kill you, you 
son of a bitch."
     Alex regarded him without expression.  "How quickly we revert 
to type, when it comes to Scully."  Then he turned to the prisoner, 
and with businesslike efficiency, struck him twice, left and right.  
Sadowski's head dangled loosely from his neck and his eyes 
fluttered.  Alex stepped back and took a deep breath in the 
silence. 
     There was a sound outside the restroom.  The door to the 
office, opening and closing.  
     They looked at each other and froze.
     More sounds from outside.  Someone moving around.  Finally, a 
voice.  "Agent Mulder?"
     Krycek was right behind Mulder now, pressed against his back 
as though they were in bed.  "Skinner," he said, his voice breathy 
in Mulder's ear.  "You know something?  I don't think we're gonna 
let him play in our little reindeer games."
     He moved back to position himself beside Sadowski, who was 
slumped over the toilet, barely conscious, blood dripping again 
from his nose and mouth.  Mulder watched as Krycek took out a knife 
and held it against Sadowski's throat, in cold anticipation of any 
noise.  And waited.
     Mulder stared at this tableau, frozen.  On the other side of 
the door, the sound of footsteps formed out of the background 
noise.  Coming closer.
     Pausing at the door.  Another minute.  Then a knock.
     Krycek looked up at him.  Alex didn't have to say anything.  
Obviously Skinner couldn't hear =his= voice coming from the room, 
and Sadowski was in no shape to answer. 
     "Are you all right in there?" 
     There was no choice.  But he couldn't quite bring himself to --
     The doorknob rattled.  "I'm okay!" Mulder called.  "I'm gonna 
be a few minutes."
     "You sure you're all right?"
     "I'm fine, I just need a few minutes."  He forced some humor 
into his voice.  "Come on, don't make me go into detail."
     "Okay, sorry."  Footsteps walking away.  Mulder felt sick to 
his stomach.  He'd never lied to Skinner quite so irrevocably 
before.
     Krycek put his lips against Mulder's ear and whispered, the 
way he did in bed when he was telling Mulder what he was going to 
do to him.  "Go deal with your life, Mulder.  And get rid of him."
     "How the hell am I going to do that?"
     "I don't care if you offer to fuck him in his office, just get 
him out of here."
     Mulder started for the door.  Alex reached over and pulled 
Mulder's shirt out of his jeans as he left.  Mulder closed the door 
and walked back through the supply hall; he could see Skinner 
sitting in the chair at Scully's desk.
     "Toilet's backed up," he said, tucking in his shirt as he 
walked in.  "I'll have to call after nine o'clock."
     Skinner glanced toward the hall briefly, and for a second 
Mulder feared that damned take-charge attitude was going to get the 
better of him, and he'd actually pick up a plunger or something and 
check it out; but fortunately the moment passed.  "I figured it was 
you," Skinner said.  "I called Scully's number to leave a message, 
and the phone only rang once, the way it does when someone's using 
the line."
     "And you assumed it was me?"
     "At five-thirty on a Saturday morning?  Who else would it be?  
You were here all night, weren't you?"
     Mulder forced a sheepish look.  He hoped his smile wasn't as 
weak as it felt.  "Yeah.  You know how it goes.  Um, is there 
something I can help you with, sir?"
     Skinner, however, did not leave the subject alone.  "I didn't 
think the Donleavy case interested you this much, Mulder.  I had 
the impression from your reports that you were putting in the 
absolutely necessary effort on this, and no more.  That it had not 
engaged your attention."
     "Oh, no, sir.  It engaged my attention immediately.  I'm sorry 
if I gave you the wrong impression."
     Skinner regarded him silently.  "You stated in your original 
memo that you considered it inappropriate for the X-files."
     "I changed my mind."  =But please, please don't ask me why.=
     "I see."
     Desperate for another change of subject, Mulder said, "You're 
in a little early yourself, sir."
     "Yes.  I stopped on my way to the gym to get a file off my 
computer.  I also have reports to write, Agent Mulder, and the Cady 
one is due on Tuesday."  He paused.  "In fact, that's why I came 
down.  I realize it's Saturday, and you'd probably like to go home, 
but since Scully isn't here, I wonder if you could answer a few 
questions about the final report she turned in."
     "Of course, sir."  He'd been too busy to look at Scully's 
report; he'd simply added his acknowledgements and sent it 
upstairs.
     "It's in my office.  Would you mind coming back up with me?"
     It was phrased as a request, but it was an order, and Mulder 
thanked god for it.  "Yes, sir."  He followed Skinner to the door, 
wondering just what he was leaving behind in the bathroom.  
Whatever it was, it felt like as much of a monster as anything he'd 
ever had to deal with.
     Skinner conversed with him politely in the hall as they headed 
for the elevators, and Mulder answered him back, still with that 
sense of distance, of operating through cotton wool, that he'd been 
under for the last hour.  He could lie to Skinner because the man 
trusted him.  It gave him a creepy feeling.  Was this how Krycek 
felt when he'd -- no, he doubted this was how Krycek had ever felt.  
He seemed to think this kind of thing was what life was all about 
and you were an idiot to expect it to be otherwise.
     Jesus.  He tried not to think about what was happening to 
Sadowski.

                              #

     Twenty-five minutes later, he returned to the office.  Nobody.  
He walked to the door of the restroom.  "It's me," he said uncertainly.
     "It's open."
     Mulder pushed on the door.  The toilet was unoccupied and he 
found Krycek cleaning a spot from the floor with a wet paper towel.  
The room was pristine.
     "Hey, Mulder."  The voice was perfectly calm and friendly.
     "What did you do with Sadowski?"
     "I slapped him till he woke up, cleaned off his face, and sent 
him on his way.  It's not as though he'll be telling anybody."
     Mulder was silent.  If Alex =had= cut the man's throat, he'd 
wasted no time cleaning up the spillage.  "I'm not going to move a 
file cabinet or something and have him tumble out, am I?"
     "Don't be silly," Krycek said, "I wouldn't have killed him.  
And leave the body in your toilet?"
     "You're so considerate of me," said Mulder, not moving.
     Alex flushed the paper towel and wiped his wet hands on his 
jeans.   "Anybody on the stairs when you came down?  Or did you 
take the elevator?"
     "No.  There was no one on the stairs."
     Krycek headed out through the office, into the main corridor, 
as easily as if he were still working here and leaving for the 
evening.  Mulder followed.  Halfway down the hall, the unreality of 
it all caught up to him again.  He stopped.  
     Alex glanced at him and gave a brief, sideways smile.  "Look 
what I got from him."  He held out the empty plastic bag from 
Sadowski's pocket.  It was tagged with a logo in blue ink -- an 
asteroid on fire, hurtling through a starry sky.  "It's the logo 
for Blue Comet heroin."
     Mulder looked at him.  "You know the current logos for the 
brands of heroin being sold in DC?"
     "I =was= in the FBI, Mulder."
     Mulder could have disputed that, but simply said, "Not the 
DEA.  And you were never on any drug-related case; I checked your 
record."
     Krycek smiled; a wide, charming smile that made him look like 
a fourteen-year-old considering a game of stickball after school.  
"I read a lot," he said.
     The hell with this.  Mulder was in no mood to deal with the 
Cryptogram That Was Alex Krycek.  He started walking away, quickly, 
leaving him behind.  "Fuck you," he said.  If Alex wanted to talk 
to him again, Alex could meet up with him at home.  Or in another 
life.
     He heard a chuckle over his shoulder.  "Profanity?  Mulder, 
I'm shocked.  You're picking up all my bad habits."
     He pushed open the door to the stairwell and continued down 
toward the garage.  A muffled voice came from above: "They say 
people who sleep together start looking like each other, too."

                              #


     He was home by six-thirty.  Alex came in an hour later.  
Neither of them spoke; Alex carried a bag of bagels into the 
kitchen, along with two cups of coffee, and ate while reading the 
paper.  Mulder ignored the food.
     At quarter after eight, the phone rang.  He picked it up.
     "Mulder?  I just got your message.  What's the emergency?"
     He let out a long breath.  "Where have you been?  Are you 
okay?"
     "Why wouldn't I be okay?  And why do I have to tell you where 
I've been?  If I got lucky last night, should I have called in to 
report?"
     "Look, I didn't -- "
     "As it happens, I am at my mother's for the weekend.  What the 
hell is going on, Mulder?  Why the urgency?"
     "I... I made a mistake.  It wasn't urgent after all.  Sorry to 
bother you.  Give my regards to your mother."  He hung up quickly, 
knowing he would have to pay for this on Monday.  He would be very 
happy to pay for it on Monday.
     He looked up from the phone and saw Alex standing in the 
doorway.  =He knows who that was,= Mulder thought.  He felt that 
familiar gray tide of guilt sweeping over him, getting ready to 
choke his thought processes -- =but no,= he thought, a little 
desperately, =this time it's not my fault!=  
     "Dammit," he said, hitting the table with the palm of his 
hand.  "How =can= I believe you?  How can I ever know?"
     He stood up, faced him, and waited.  For an answer, for Alex 
to light into him.
     "You can't," Alex said quietly.
     =But I *want* to believe.  Say anything you need to.  Come on, 
Alex, you're good at that -- *make* me believe you.  Lie to me if 
you have to.=
     He couldn't ask to be lied to, not out loud.  If he ever 
uttered heretical words like that, they would strangle him and he'd 
die on the spot.
      Alex was looking at him with something strangely like 
compassion.  He repeated, softly, "You can't.  You can't."  He 
walked over to Mulder, kissed his throat, his cheek, his eyes.  
Alex's voice was hoarse.  "You can't.  I'm sorry, you can't."
     He didn't say it like an apology; he said it like a refusal.  
=I'm sorry, Mulder, I can't give you this.=  He put his arms around 
Mulder and held him tightly.  And it was funny, considering what 
Alex had just told him, but just at that moment Mulder needed him 
desperately, and was incapable of letting him go.
     They were very gentle with each other that morning, as though 
the physical act could somehow offer comfort for the fact no 
comfort was possible.  Mulder =had= stepped off a cliff when he'd 
said what he'd said; he'd stepped off into a terrible void, and it 
was the void where Alex Krycek lived.
      And all he could think of while Alex gave him what pleasure 
he could, was: =How can you stand it?=

                              #


Rated NC17: No minors allowed.  Sexual content, explicit language.  
Slash.  This is a sequel to "The Same Everywhere."

As usual, the characters belong to Ten Thirteen; everything else 
is (c) Jane Mortimer.  Feedback may be sent to JaneMort@aol.com.   


                      The Hand We Were Dealt

                          by Jane Mortimer



Part 11 (Final)

     Later, lying on the bed with the sun coming through the 
window, Alex said, "Mulder, listen.  I know what's bothering you.  
Let's make a new deal."
     "A new deal?"
     "Yeah.  I know in the back of your mind you're wondering if 
the junkie population of DC is going to start turning into green 
reptiles or something.  Let me give you a trade that'll make your 
anxiety level worthwhile."
     Mulder was lying on his back, his head resting on Alex's arm.  
He looked at the ceiling.  Finally he said, "What?"
     "What about the inoculation files?  I heard about them, 
Mulder.  That would affect a lot more people than this experiment 
would, if you want to be humanitarian about it.  And then there are 
the other things you want to know that are... closer to your 
heart."
     He didn't want to talk about this stuff with Krycek.  "You 
don't have that information."  =Do you?=
     "Not now.  But I'm easing myself back into play.  If I'm 
successful, I'll be in a much better position than you are to find 
these things out."
     =Easing myself back into play.=  That was the way Alex lived.  
In filthy rooms where people got hurt.  In airports and bathrooms 
and interrogation cells and cheap hotels.  Places where the people 
you hunted with one day tried to blow you up the next.
     "Mulder?" he said.
     "I'll think about it."

                              #

     It was a quiet day.  Unnaturally quiet, like the aftermath of 
a hurricane.  Neither of them left the apartment.  Mulder finally 
dozed off sometime after midnight, only to wake at four AM, cold 
and sweating, with what felt like a virus.  Careful not to wake 
Alex, he padded into the bathroom and sat down on the old black-
and-white tiles, waiting to throw up.
     =Is this a metaphor for your life, or are you just an overly 
analytical son of a bitch incapable of not dwelling on every bad 
thing that happens to you?=
     He couldn't even hear Alex breathing in the next room.  Not 
really a surprise; Alex didn't make noise when he slept, or when he 
walked, or when he ate.  When he pulled a bunch of keys out of his 
pocket he held them still with his other hand so they didn't jangle 
as he inserted one into the lock.  All in all, Alex seemed to feel 
there was some universal radar in the sky that would zero in and 
torpedo you if you showed up on its screen.
     =What am I going to tell him?  We can't stay in limbo 
forever.=
     Hell, here it came.  He got on his knees and started to 
convulse, again and again and again, but they were just dry heaves, 
as though he were trying to expel something that wasn't there.
     Finally he fell back against the wall and sat there, knees 
bent, sweating and spent.  
     He looked up and saw Alex in the doorway.  Well, naturally he 
hadn't heard any footsteps.  Alex fetched the washcloth and wiped 
the sweat off Mulder's forehead with cool water, then handed him a 
towel, all without a word.  Mulder dried himself, replaced the 
towel on the rack, and followed him back into the bedroom.
     He lay on the bed, exhausted, and finally started to drop off 
again.  Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard Alex's voice 
say calmly, "Eventually, you know, it won't even bother you."

                              #

     Mulder woke up on Sunday to find Alex gone.  His knapsack was 
still there, but the Baretta was missing.  Mulder cut open one of 
the bagels Alex had bought yesterday, made some coffee, retrieved 
his paper from the hallway.  When Alex still hadn't shown up by 
noon, he switched on the computer and started working through his 
backlog of e-mail.  
     Shortly after one o'clock he heard the door open and close.
     Wait a minute.  Mulder looked up from the computer, startled; 
Alex had made =noise= closing that door.  For him it was the 
equivalent of slamming things and breaking windows.  Then he saw 
Alex's face, his movements as he turned.
     He was angry.  His body was taut with it; you could 
practically see it like some white-hot aura, all around him.  
Mulder stared at him.  "What happened?"
     "What happened?" Alex repeated, in a voice of utter calm 
reason.  If you didn't know him, you might almost think he meant 
it.  "Put on fucking CNN."
     Mulder picked up the remote and powered on the set.  CNN was 
talking about eastern Europe.  Mulder glanced back to Krycek; 
somehow he had a feeling Alex's concern wasn't for world peace.  
Alex threw himself onto the couch.  "I don't believe it.  I don't 
fucking believe it."  His gaze went to Mulder.  "I visited an old 
friend.  Sort of an old friend.  Someone who could tell me who's 
handling distribution for Blue Comet."
     "Yeah?" Mulder said, cautiously, so as not to interrupt the 
flow of information.
     "There =is= no Blue Comet, as of nine AM today.  Last night 
the feds helicoptered into the Columbian production center like 
they were taking Saigon.  The American distributors are under 
arrest -- well, supposedly they're under arrest -- I'm sure 
somebody's been arrested, anyway.  But Blue Comet is no more."
     "Sadowski?"
     Alex let out a long breath.  His voice became more even.  "No.  
No, I don't believe that."  A pause.  "At least, I don't believe 
that he talked."
     "Someone spotted us, then."
     "I don't know.  ...No, I think it may have been Sadowski, but 
not the way we were thinking.  Imagine this, Mulder:  You're 
heading for FBI Headquarters with a brick of heroin in your pocket.  
You start to wonder if you're being followed.  And if you're a 
total schmuck who doesn't care what impression you make on your 
boss, then rather than getting the license and losing them -- "
     "You pick up your cellphone."
     "Bingo."
     Mulder thought it over.  "They might not have had time to get 
someone there, to figure out who we were, but they'd know someone 
was watching."
     "Oh, there's no way they'd have time.  Sadowski must have 
called practically as he was turning into the garage; otherwise 
they'd have told him to go somewhere else."
     "Of course," said Mulder, after a minute, "we have no way of 
knowing that's what happened."
     "No."  Alex's voice was heavy with bitterness.  "We have no 
fucking way of knowing =anything.="  He was bent over, elbows on 
his knees, hands supporting his forehead, like someone who's been 
hit by the pitcher in a few too many games.  He looked up at 
Mulder.  "Why did it tell me this shit?  Why couldn't it just spell 
out what was going on?  When I think of all the time we wasted -- "
     =The alien.=  Alex went on, "Was this its idea of a joke?  Its 
personal set of ethics?  What?  If it didn't want to give me 
information from a previous host, why give me =any= of it?  Did it 
think that would make the game *fair*?"
     Mulder had wondered about that, himself.  He'd thought a lot 
about it.
     "So I'm still up for grabs.  Still marked.  What the hell use 
can I be to anybody like this?"
     He said, quietly, "Life doesn't always depend on being useful, 
you know."
     "Yeah, Mulder?"  Alex looked back at him tiredly.  "Would you 
be helping me if I weren't fucking you?"
     Mulder had no answer to that question.  Up till now he'd only 
been thinking of this relationship as Krycek using =him=; here was 
a unique perspective.
     The television was saying, "Authorities today reported the 
shut-down of one of the largest drug operations in the United 
States.  Speaking for the DEA -- "  Mulder hit the remote and made 
the voice and pictures go away.  Then he touched Alex's cheek 
gently and left him on the couch.  Mulder remained in the living 
room with him, but there wasn't a lot to say.

                                   #  


     Darkness filled the room.  Alex stayed in his position on the 
couch, wishing he could claim that he was doing his usual tapdance, 
examining the possibilties, choosing options.  The truth was, there 
was a general fog in his brain.  Maybe if he sat here long enough 
it would start to lift, and he could begin to make out objects.
     He became aware that Mulder was standing beside the couch.  He 
sat down next to Alex, kissed him, and said, "I know it's small 
consolation, but we can still have cheap thrills."  
     Alex allowed himself a brief smile. 
     "You're no worse off than you were before you came," Mulder 
continued.  "And look at the bright side -- you've still managed to 
corrupt an FBI agent.  I know you like thinking about that."  He 
unbuttoned Alex's collar and kissed the nape of his neck.  "I mean, 
consider it.  Here we have somebody with every reason to blow your 
head off, and you've been staying in his apartment, putting take-
out on his credit card, and using him for evil sexual purposes.  
How can that not be a plus?"
     "Mulder, you're very sweet, " he began, hearing the awakening 
of arousal in his voice.  "But -- "
     Mulder placed a finger over Alex's lips, a trick he had 
apparently borrowed from the Alex Krycek school of sexual 
technique.  He moved around to Alex's front, kissed those lips, 
then sank slowly down to his knees and unzipped Alex's jeans.
     "Come on," he said, "you can watch me do a lousy job of this, 
and laugh at me."  He looked up at Alex with darkened eyes, and 
Alex felt a choking sound in his throat.
     Mulder reached in and released Alex's cock from its prison.  
He stroked it gently, then leaned over, and with great seriousness, 
kissed it, and ran his tongue once down the length.       
     He looked up.  "I keep visualizing an ice cream cone, you 
know."
     Alex's laugh came out with that choked sound.  His chest felt 
strangely heavy.
     Mulder's hand palmed his balls for a moment and he traced a 
finger around them, all with a thoughtful look, as though figuring 
his next move.  Then he gave the attention of his lips and tongue 
back to the member in question, which was already responding 
mindlessly to the effort.
     How could he not respond? Alex thought.  It felt good, it felt 
damned good, so why did he have this feeling, lingering underneath 
everything like gas in a coal mine, that it was a bad idea?  That 
he didn't want this to happen after all?  That it was, god knew 
why, =dangerous=?
     Mulder was nowhere as bad as he thought he was.  What he 
lacked in technique he made up in sheer generosity of effort.  He 
didn't want to miss anything that might give Alex pleasure; he 
watched for every sign of preference, and licked and teased and 
tongued before he finally worked his way up to taking the more-
than-ready object into his mouth and sucking, twirling, and 
generally making it impossible not to come.
     Alex felt himself thrusting into that warmth, his eyes closed, 
darkness and pleasure everywhere.  But his chest felt as though it 
would explode.  He heard a soft sound come from his lips, almost 
like a whimper, and it seemed to relieve the pressure somewhat; he 
had to force himself not to do it again.
     Then it was over.  Alex didn't know what etiquette Mulder 
followed for handling come; Alex's eyes were still closed, and his 
head was resting back on the couch.    He could feel moisture on 
his face.
     =Fuck.=
     He heard Mulder getting to his feet.  =Don't wipe away tears.  
It only calls attention to them.=
     Then Mulder was sitting beside him on the couch, his voice 
concerned:  "Alex?"
     =Fuck, fuck, fuck.= 
     "Alex?  What's wrong?  I want to help."
     It was that terrible, damning note of concern and affection, 
that was totally lethal.  He felt another whimper break out, and 
then he was crying in earnest, his chest heaving.  He leaned 
forward and put his face in his hands.
     He felt Mulder's hand on his shoulder, and it was amazing how 
much information could be transmitted in a touch.  Alex thrust him 
away angrily.  That fucking, blind, innocent idiot; he was only 
making it worse.
       Even through the sobs, he knew what was happening.  He 
recognized the phenomenon.  He'd seen it.  It was one of the oldest 
tricks around: You took someone who was under prolonged pressure, 
in psychological or physical pain (one usually led to the other 
anyway), someone who'd learned to brace themselves for the next 
series of blows life was about to deliver -- and then you treated 
them with kindness.  The right words, the right tone, and they'd 
fall apart. 
     It didn't make any sense in his case.  He wasn't under 
prolonged pressure, he wasn't in pain; he was just living his life.  
Yes, this failure had been a disappointment.  It wasn't as though 
it were the first disappointment he'd ever had.  And why should he 
care if Mulder --
     Why did Mulder have to be so fucking =sincere,= anyway?
     =It's what you liked about him.=
     Time passed.  Finally the sobs eased off.  He could still feel 
tears, but the fit was letting him go.  He could hear Mulder moving 
around on the periphery, pretending to do something else, trying to 
give him space.
     Alex hadn't cried for a good ten years.  =Maybe it was okay; 
maybe there's just some quota of tears that gets stored up and has 
to come out, and this was just his time.  It didn't have to mean 
anything.  Everything could go back to the way it was.=
     And through the drained emptiness, for some reason, he 
thought:  =You know something, Alex?  Solitaire is a game for 
people who don't have anybody else to play with.=

                              #

     Eventually Alex looked up at Mulder.  "Sorry about that," he 
said, and from his voice you would never have known what happened.  
His delicate, perfect face was flushed and ravaged-looking, but his 
expression was that of someone absolutely back in control.
     "You know something?" Mulder said.  "That first night?  You 
mentioned Cuervo Gold?  I bought some.  I think we could both use a 
shot."  And he fetched a couple of glasses and opened the cabinet.  
"I never had it before," he added.  "I wanted to know what the fuck 
it had to do with the taste of my nipples."
     A faint snort from Alex at that.  Good.
     It took him a minute to wrestle the top off, which was also 
good, because it gave him a chance to figure out how to put his 
theory to Alex.  The fact of the matter was, he didn't believe that 
negotiating a deal with Cancerman had been the reason the alien 
gave Krycek a project that would ensure his coming to Washington 
and encourage them both to work together for several weeks.  =I 
think it did try to give us what we want or need.  It's just, you 
know, Alex, you're too damned focused on day-to-day survival to see 
what you need.=
     But motivations like that never occurred to Alex; he was 
beautiful and sharp and knew every trick that would get him past 
the rough spots -- but he had no real clue about life.
     =There were ninety-year-old ladies in European villages who 
would have figured this one out a long time ago.  But I guess the 
matchmaking tradition is intergalactic.=
     Mulder sighed.  He poured a shot of the Cuervo, and said, 
"Alex, don't you see -- it =did= leave you a gift -- "
     He turned.  Alex was gone.

                              #

       Four hours later he was on a flight out of Dulles, crossing 
over West Virginia.  The few passengers on board were asleep, or 
trying to be; the window seat next to him was empty, and he could 
crane his head and see a scattering of lights on the darkly 
carpeted world beneath.  There would be a plane change in St. 
Louis, and one in LA, and one in Honolulu.  It was a good thing, he 
thought, that he didn't carry a lot of baggage through life.  When 
you traveled the way he did, it was bound to get screwed up 
somewhere along the way.
     The flight was courtesy of Mulder's credit card.  He knew 
Mulder wouldn't mind.  Well, he wouldn't mind the money, anyway.  
And Mulder would be able to trace him through the card, but only as 
far as his gateway city, and that wouldn't tell him nearly enough.  
Alex had money sources overseas that he could tap to repay Mulder 
for the flight; but maybe he shouldn't concern himself with that.  
Mulder had never said it out loud, but it was clear he liked it 
when Alex spent his money -- he liked the decadence of it, he took 
a childlike enjoyment in being corrupted.  Not that he had any idea 
of what that really meant.  Sex was the most innocent thing on 
earth.
     Alex knew he couldn't take the Baretta through Customs, so he 
left that for Mulder.  He'd paid for it, after all, and a guy who 
lost his weapons as often as Mulder did could never have too many.
     =Mulder.=  It was time to stop thinking about Mulder, and 
Washington, and Alex's parody of a life there.
     =Business mode,= he ordered silently.  But this time the 
carnival of thoughts and images did not pack up obediently and put 
themselves away; he could hear them skittering noisily through his 
brain, ignoring him.
     Fuck it, he told himself, after wrestling with them for an 
unprecedented half hour. 
     =One more thing to get used to.=
     He settled down into his seat and closed his eyes, and let the 
hum of the engine guide him through the darkness.



END