From: KassXF <kassxf@aol.com>
Date: 23 Mar 1999 17:03:34 GMT
Subject: NEW:  Shock the Monkey by Kassandra M/K 1a/8

Standard Disclaimer
Summary:  Angst, schmoop and conspiracy
Rating:  Probably R
Warning:  Carter may own 'em, but the concept here is mine.
Dedication:  To Alicia, better late than never, Happy Birthday

Shock the Monkey 1/8


'Cover me when I run,
 Cover me, through the fire,
 Something knocked me out o'the trees,
 Now, I'm on my knees
 Cover me, darling please'

	Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel


October 15th - and I'm somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, heaving my guts up.

I'm dying, Mulder.  That should make you happy, but I find myself wondering if
there is any room in your heart for regret or a sense of loss in that news. 
Will you be sorry at all, I wonder?  Even just the slightest bit, there in your
inner heart of darkness?  Any memory of a younger man in a cheap suit, who
claimed to admire you?  Or will there just be that brief burst of relief that
someone you hated is dead, that exultation that we swiftly learn to cover with
counterfeit, civilized regret?

Maybe I'll find out myself.  I'm hoping to.  But I'm pragmatic, Mulder, I come
to terms pretty ruthlessly about what needs to be done, what needs to be faced.
 Life is too short and too brutal, fuck lying to yourself.  And the only thing
I ever lied to myself about was you.  At least long term.

If I don't make it, I've got your name and address in the front of the
notebook, with instructions to send this and my other things to you.  In
English and Cyrillic, just in case.

Why, you ask bitterly, would you be interested in my things?  

DAT tapes, Mulder, lots and lots of DAT tapes.  Things that even now, with
everything over but the shouting, have value.  You have that kind of inquiring
mind, Mulder.  And inquiring minds want to know.

Besides, they still have their power structure intact.   They'll have to be
dealt with eventually.

Is this about revenge, I wonder, when I'm not puking my guts out in spite of
the very expensive meds I got in St. Petersburg.  

I don't think so.  I think it's about things from that past that don't ever set
us free.  You haunt me, Mulder, you always did, even though you drove me
fucking nuts, back when I was working with you.

You were a son of a bitch, Mulder, and you know it.  What a prick.  

Get him to trust you, they told me, and even now I have to wonder what the fuck
they were smoking besides Morleys.  You and your sane paranoia, you never did
trust me, you never trusted anyone but Scully.  And while I never had anything
personal against Scully, I still can't forget her territoriality the night I
met her.  I swear, the two of you deliberately let me walk up to that corpse to
see me turn green.  And she treated me like a wet behind the ears rookie. 
Which I wasn't, quite, but I admit I was a lot younger and more innocent than I
am now.

That bastard I worked for.....your smoking friend, Mulder, he got me right out
of the Academy.  Bright eyed, bushy-tailed, ambitious, and offered an
opportunity to make my mark.  They didn't suck me in, Mulder, I walked in under
my own power.  When it was too late to back out, I began to understand what I
was up to my neck in, way too late

Not that I wasn't ambitious.  I told you once I was a patriot.  I was then.   I
am now.  But my definition of patriotism has since extended,  believe it or
not.  Not that it matters much now, I guess.

I've seen so much, Mulder, that there isn't a corpse that would even draw a
second glance.

Let's see, I said I was dying, didn't I?  Yeah, I did.  The doctors in St.
Petersburg estimate that I took between 600 to 1000 rads of exposure.  Rads. 
Radiation sickness, old friend.  Old enemy.   

I'm personally inclined to think it was less, after the initial vomiting, my
stomach settled down.  At least until I was in this stinking cabin on this
stinking freighter in the middle of the goddamned Atlantic.  

And while I'm shedding rather dramatically-you hated my last haircut, Mulder,
you're going to love this one, I shaved it down to Marine recruit length-I've
certainly lasted longer than the week they predicted for me.  This is almost
two.  But I'm cutting it close, it took me that long to get things together in
St. Petersburg and find a ship out. 

How, you wonder, did I get radiation sickness?  I know you, Mulder, I know the
way your mind works, I can hear those wheels spinning already  and you haven't
even read this yet.

Well.  There's a story, Mulder.

Guess what?  I'm going to tell you.  Yeah, I'm sure you're thrilled, if only
because you have to know the Truth.  Guess what else, Mulder. Death is the only
real Truth.  Truth with an uppercase T.   

I've managed to slide past the really dangerous moments, including those with
you, Mulder, but there's no escape from this.  Can't run, can use a weapon
against something that you can't see or fight.  

I told you everything was over but the shouting.  Remember in War of the
Worlds, how the evil alien invaders were destroyed?  Did you have to read that
in school?  I think a lot about little things like that.  When I'm feeling too
wiped out to write.  Of course, this wasn't, an organism native to this world. 


Sorry, that didn't make sense.  The real danger is pretty much past.  I mean,
Jesus, you listen to those old men and you start thinking we have more aliens
on this planet than George Lucas had in that cantina on Tatooine or where it
was, at the first half of Star Wars.  

Turns out these were pretty much all related, species wise.  The same bug
killed them. Pretty damned quickly, too, once they were infected.  Or so it
would appear.  Interestingly, the hosts died too. 

I guess I'm pretty lucky the one that took me decided it liked its ship better.
 

While I know you're not inclined to be grateful, I'd like to point out that
what you got in Tunguska probably would have protected you if things had turned
out differently.  At least until they'd figured out how to beat it.  I know it
wasn't exactly high tech in terms of medical facilities--although after having
been punched at every other goddamned turn from the time *I* gave you that
information, Mulder, I confess there was something moderately satisfying in
seeing you suffer by that time.  But because of that, you got the 'vaccine'.  I
don't know why the hell they kept calling it that, but whatever.

Of course, I knew it wasn't going to endear me to you, but you know, I've
always had a soft spot for you, even when you were being a horse's ass. 

I didn't expect you to take such a novel method of getting out.  Or that you'd
be so successful.  Or that I'd lose my arm in the process.

I don't blame you for that.  Not really.  The whole thing was a crapshoot,
unscripted.  I wasn't sure you'd go for any of it from the start, and true to
form, you cut straight to the source, which was not what I expected you to do. 
You're so random at times, Mulder, despite your obsessions, I have to admit,
it's always amused me how you drove them crazy.  They'd get you to take one
step forward and then you'd zig to one side and they'd be tearing their hair
out.

It won't surprise you to know that you were one of many kids deliberately
created and programmed.  You don't have to take my word for it, the whole
project is documented on one of the DAT tapes.

You turned out a little differently, probably because of your bastard of a
father, but most of them--not all--most of them fulfilled their destiny just
fine, perfect little pawns.

Not Fox Mulder.  It might also have had something to do with your sister's
abduction.  Who knows.  Whatever the case, you manifestly screwed the pooch
with regard to the programming.

I've seen those records, Mulder.  For all your photographic memory, you don't
remember those sessions.  But they might figure in your nightmares, I think.  I
wonder.

I was even a good little pawn, even though I lacked the programming. Hell, I
was such a good little pawn--I didn't kill Scully's sister, Mulder.  I  was
there, but I didn't kill her.  

I killed your father.  They gave me a choice.  You or your father.  Even now,
you don't understand what you nearly unleashed with that tape.  So, I had a
choice of targets.  And I told you I was always soft on you.   

Besides, between you and me, Mulder, I'd seen every bit of surveillance they
had on your family, I knew about your father.  I knew about him blaming you for
your sister's disappearance.  I knew about your nightmares, I knew about his
drinking, I knew about the times he hit you with more than words.  And I didn't
like him.  I liked you.  It was easier to kill him, I was a patriot, preventing
the betrayal of secrets. 

There, I admitted it.  Now, with any luck, if I manage to get to you before I
die, you can kill me a lot quicker and less painfully than the radiation.

Yeah, with my luck, you'd just arrest me again.  Fine.  Whatever. 

I killed him because he was about to tell you the secrets he knew.  Which is
almost tragically funny, Mulder, because the only secrets he could have told
you were the ones on the first layer of this fucking onion.  Wasn't it Freud
that said something about people being like onions.  

This whole fucking conspiracy is like that.  Layers on layers, feints within
feints, the right hand never knowing what the fucking left hand was doing.   

That's what I've discovered.   The men in the shadowed rooms were only the
visible face of it, and they really believed they were making the decisions. 
But hidden behind them, Mulder, were darker shadows, and the men there were
content to be there, to make their moves in darkness, to pull the strings of
their puppets, quislings all.

The men in the darkness never for one single moment intended to give up.  For
all I know, your programming was exactly what they meant it to be.  That you
were supposed to be the loose cannon.

I don't think I was originally intended to be a part of it--I don't think they
gave a crap who I was, though, I think they decided I would be useful.  So they
gave orders to their puppets, who gave orders to me.

So, where was I? Oh, yeah.  Radiation.  How did I get it?

I delivered the bug, whatever it was. 

There I was in Calgary, walking back to my hotel after making a contact I
needed, probably more relaxed than I should have been.  Hell, definitely more
relaxed than I should have been.

They darted me.  Beats the fuck out of me what it was.  Sharp sting to my neck,
I put my hand up already knowing what it was and certain that if I wasn't dead,
I was going to wake up a very unhappy man.

Have you ever seen one of the rebels, Mulder?  They aren't quite faceless.  For
some strange reason, they keep human form, but they keep the eyes and nose and
mouth sealed shut.  And ears, for all I know, although I've never felt the
slightest desire to get an otoscope and check.  It beats the fuck out of me why
they bother to keep the humanoid form.

Whatever.  They're somewhat intimidating, especially to someone who's just
woken up with a blinding headache, his prosthetic arm removed, to find himself
pretty securely trussed up.

That's when they aren't talking to you.  They don't 'talk', Mulder, they get
inside your head and Jesus, it's like that fucking oil creature, sliding around
in your brain, only a little different, because you can still see and hear and
smell and scream.

And I did.

I still can't believe you didn't know that I wasn't quite myself during the
entire flight from Hong Kong.  You want to know what I resent?  I resent the
fact that you were so fucking clueless that the aliens you were always
chasing--that one of them was sitting beside you in coach class, driving the
goddamned car, using my body like it was its private domain. 

It was no thrill to have it leave me for its goddamned ship, either, and I was
stuck in that silo with it and I wanted to die, I wished I was dead.

They left me there.  And the fucking creature in my skin gave the bastard back
his tape in trade for access to the ship.  I'll bet it's pissed now, bad trade,
the ship is still sitting in that fucking silo.

I still don't know who let me out.  That line I gave you about salvage was
bullshit, and you knew it.  What I don't know is how you knew I was there to
begin with.  

Maybe you'll tell me.  

I woke up one morning and instead of searching for cockroaches or rats to eat,
I found the door was slightly ajar.  

Needless to say, I ran for it.  Ran like hell and managed to find a place to
get cleaned up and make some calls.  

And I was back in the game.

I'm going to try and keep down some more of this expensive shit they gave me
and see if I can get a few hours of sleep.

See ya soon, Mulder.

I hope.


Standard Disclaimer
Summary:  Angst, schmoop and conspiracy
Rating:  Probably R
Warning:  Carter may own 'em, but the concept here is mine.
Dedication:  To Alicia, better late than never, Happy Birthday

Shock the Monkey 1b/8


'Cover me when I run,
 Cover me, through the fire,
 Something knocked me out o'the trees,
 Now, I'm on my knees
 Cover me, darling please'

	Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel


October 16th -

Well, well, well, another day, and here I am, still in the world.

Great.  On the bright side, I managed to keep down some of the swill the cook
calls soup.  And some water.  Dehydration.  I'm getting pressure bruises from
my bunk, but the rough weather is easing up, the captain tells me we'll make
port in about twenty four hours.

New York.  Then I just have to locate you before I go trotting down to DC.  I
don't have a lot of strength, and I don't feel like using it up chasing my
tail.

Last time I saw you, I kissed you.  I'll bet that confused you, Mulder, you had
this totally pole-axed look on your face.  I still don't know why I did it.  I
still don't know why I didn't kiss your mouth.

I've seen surveillance tapes, Mulder, that would probably make you apoplectic
with humiliation and rage.  You in front of your television, jerking off.  You
jerking off to telephone sex.  In hotel rooms.  Don't you ever get tired of
being alone, Mulder?

Even syndicate killers like myself get lonely.

I'll tell you something, Mulder, I had one helluva time working with you, all
that time back.  You were.....you were sexy as hell, rumpled and sarcastic and
snide to boot.  Secretive and paranoid, and so ripe for it, Christ, I still
can't believe I didn't make a pass at you. 

I suppose it was the triumph of ambition and what I thought was my duty.  

I kissed you, Mulder, because I wanted to.  I'd wanted to in the cell in
Tunguska, but I didn't really fancy being beaten to death.  You'd already used
me as a punching bag already, and I was getting pretty tired of it.  I was
afraid I'd lose my temper and really hurt you.

But I had the gun that night.  So I kissed you.  And then gave you the gun back
when you didn't immediately go ballistic. 

I knew you wouldn't shoot me.

Don't ask me how.  Maybe the fact that you caught your breath when I kissed
you.  That I could feel you go still, but not flinch.

I want to see you again, lisitsa.  Fox.  I just want to see you.  Give you my
death offering, and let you take them all down. 

I was telling you about the rebels.

They talked to me.  In my head.  Told me that they'd created something that
would kill the oil creatures.  All of them.  That would free them and humanity.
 That all they wanted to do was go home. 

Did I believe them?  Not really.  Oh, I believed them about the virus.   I
didn't really believe that all they wanted to do was go home.  But I figured
they might be easier to deal with, shapeshifting and all, than the oil
creatures.  Or their other servants.

So I took it.  It was an aerosol.  There are perhaps sixty people who have
actually had dealings with them.  Of those sixty, I know twenty-five, and one
of them is your old friend the smoker.

I sprayed the aerosol around whenever I visited one of them during the next two
months.

They contracted the bug, whatever it was, no worse than a common human cold. 
But it began to kill the others.  There's enough of a delay that it wasn't, I
gather, immediately associated with either the humans or the rebels.

But eventually, somebody figured it out.  Only it was a little too late. By
that time, it was spreading like wildfire.  I would imagine some of  the human
hosts ended up in CDC files written off to Ebola.   

Mysterious outbreaks that you regarded suspiciously as indicative of germ
warfare. 

Well, you were right.  But it wasn't the government.

I mean, get a clue, Mulder.  All that germ warfare shit you followed up, did
you really think it was meant for humans?  Half the mutations you ended up
investigating--I don't say all, mind you, Eugene Tooms and the carnival freak
were all your own--were deliberately cultivated.

A form of survival for the race, only they were the failures.  The accidents. 
The sports.  Why the hell do you think they let you follow these cases?  You
were their enforcer, Mulder.  Their way of erasing their mistakes.  

Layers on layers, feints within feints, Mulder.

You never realized it.  Or maybe you did, I don't mean to sell you short,
Mulder, but let's face it, you sat right next to me and never realized it
wasn't me.

Funny, that's the only real grudge I have against you, Mulder.  That's  the
only thing that really hurts.

But I was telling you about the radiation.

I got summoned to a meeting in Zurich, things were falling apart, the men in
the shadows were either panicking or feeling incredibly lucky.  I mean,
consider it, Mulder, fifty years of building and now they didn't have to worry
about sharing it.  Or dying.  Some of them were quietly ecstatic.  

Not all.  

And who the hell could tell why?

At any rate, there was a meeting, six or seven old men.  I'm not sure to this
day why they wanted me there, but I was sweating, let me tell you.  It wouldn't
have been impossible for them to start putting some suppositions about the
entire matter together.  Not good news for me.  But impossible to prove.  I
just had to talk faster than any of my accusers. 

So, as I was being led to the conference room in the back of the Zurich bank, I
was sweating.  Nervous as hell.

And somebody screamed.  Several somebodies.   The man who was my guide suddenly
began to run, pulled a gun from his jacket.  And someone, something came out of
the door.  It was human, but it was obviously dying.  Bloody and disheveled.  

Why does it kill the hosts when humans are immune to the disease?  Find that
one out, Mulder, it could be important.  It could be important further down the
road.  This isn't a nice race, having their colonization force wiped out isn't
going to stop anything.  Given the distances involved, I suspect we've got
another fifty years to come up with a defense of our own.

It was also glowing, flaring with a sickly yellow light.  I'm not completely
stupid, I remembered too well my own servitude to one of them.  Flung myself
down a side corridor, but the light faded and my guide screamed.  I had turned
my weapon over at the front desk, so I was cursing a blue streak, shit scared
and furious.  Poked my head around to see the dying man press his mouth over
the mouth of my guide, a sickening parody of a kiss.

And then the dying man collapsed.  The man who had once been my guide began to
turn and I'll admit, I ran like the hounds of hell were behind me.  

Hell, they were.  

But I couldn't run fast enough.  Never fast enough for radiation.  

I shed all my clothes, my watch-a good one, dammit-everything, and  showered
immediately, in between bouts of vomiting. 

I was sick for about an hour after, throwing up everything I'd eaten or drunk,
hiding out in a schloss that was a safe house of sorts.  I kept waiting for
blood to show up.  Waiting for bloody diarrhea.  Waiting to know that I was
going to die.  Burning would have been better, I remember thinking, lying on
the cold tile floor of the loo.  

But the nausea eased up.  I managed to get myself cleaned up and on a flight
for St. Petersburg.

Hospitalization in Switzerland was out of the question.  Medical care in
Switzerland was out of the question.  My Russian passport was going to cause
more questions than I cared to answer.  

One of our people brought me a leadlined bag to carry the watch in; I caught
the flight.

I could get help in St. Petersburg.  Assuming I wasn't dead already.    No
guarantees there at all, as I soon found, but they used the watch to estimate
the dosage I'd gotten.

Like I said, I think they fudged it.  But once I knew, I checked myself out of
the hospital-Against Medical Advice takes on an entirely new meaning in Russia,
Mulder.  I had enough time to pick up some things I'd stored in a rathole,
against some future disaster, and got on this fucking filthy ship.

I'm so tired, Mulder.  I keep trying to reread it to see if I've forgotten
anything important, and then I remember the DAT tapes.  

So this is all self-indulgence, but what the fuck.  Give a dying man a break,
Mulder, okay?

Did I tell you my dad was Russian?  KGB, defector.  Mom was Czech.  That's why
my name is Krycek, which is, of course, Czech.  Dad died when I was pretty
young.  To this day, despite all my digging, I don't know if they had him
killed or he killed himself or it was truly the unfortunate accident I'd always
been told.

Mom worked for them.  Imagine that.  I didn't know it until well after they'd
recruited me.  Otherwise, they never would have been able to lure me in.  I
hated the bastard my mother worked for.  We had to go and have dinner at his
house once a week, on Sunday.  

Nice house.  Wealthy house.   Lots of food.  You'd think a growing kid would
have liked that, been impressed with it.   

Not me.  We didn't live in the best neighborhood in Philly, Mulder.  I was
fairly streetwise by the time I was ten.  But being streetwise didn't save me,
I'm afraid.  Mom's boss, a fat man with bad teeth and a vaguely European
accent-hence the bad teeth-took a liking to me, Mulder.  That doesn't mean he
came to watch me play soccer and cheer me on. 

That means he got me alone in his study and whipped my ass raw and fucked me. 
I was twelve.

I was careful after that, very careful never to get within arm's length of him.
 But he very coolly told me he'd kill me if I told my mother, and I believed
him.  

For good reason, as it turns out.

He's a stone cold killer, Mulder, only he seldom dirties his hands.  He orders
the smoker around, that may tell you something.  Watch your back. 

My hands still shake remembering and it's been more than twenty years since
that happened.  Imagine Alex Krycek being shook up about anything. There's a
laugh, hey?

Watch him, Mulder, he's one of the most dangerous.  

Hell, without that experience, I'm not sure they could have recruited me the
way they did.  Who knows. 

Oh, hell, I can whine and whine about all the traumas I've been through, like
finding my father dead in his den, his own gun on the floor, or what that fat
bastard did to me at twelve, but the fact is, aside from those events, my life
wasn't bad.  Sure, there were bullies at school, there were times my mother's
indifference hurt, but you know, it wasn't that bad.  

Hell, I think you had worse, Mulder.  

So maybe it wouldn't have made any difference after all.  I try to imagine an
Alex Krycek who hadn't had those things happen to him and I'm not sure the
basic core of my personality at twenty-something wouldn't have been the same. 
Ambitious.  Proud.  Wanting to be a blue flamer.

Whatever.  Kind of pointless now to worry about it.

I did what I did, and there are things I'm not proud of, things I have trouble
living with, things that make it hard to look at myself in the mirror.  And I'm
not just talking about my arm, Mulder.

Water under the bridge, as the saying goes.  

I'm so tired, Mulder.  At least the meds are working, I'm not going to throw up
what little I've gotten down.

Twenty-four more hours.  Less.  Maybe twenty.  

I miss myself.  I miss the me that existed before I crossed over the line,
before I took the thirty pieces of silver.  You were a prick all right, but I
still betrayed you.  Funny, the things you think about when you're shuffling
off the mortal coil.  I'm not afraid of dying, I don't believe in God or hell
or any of that shit the nuns tried to teach me.  I think we just go out, like
an extinguished candle, so that's not why I'm thinking about these things. 
It's more a question of what do I regret.  I regret not kissing you before that
night in your apartment.  I regret not taking a chance and jumping on you while
you were depressed as hell over the X files shutdown.

I regret taking the job offer from the smoker.  What a bastard.  That asshole
would sell his own grandmother to the others, believe me.  Hell. He's sold his
own flesh and blood before.  But you know that, I'm sure.

I never had a sister.  I had a little brother, but he died of pneumonia, even
in the enlightened sixties, because my mother had a grave suspicion of doctors
and didn't take him to the hospital until his lungs had filled.  I barely
remember him, I think I was three or four.

My father-I found my father in the den, shot in the side of the head. They told
my mother it was suicide, it was his gun lying on the floor. He had a cleaning
kit out, so she insisted it was simply a terrible accident. 

But you and I know how they work, Mulder, and you and I know that it could just
as easily been murder.  He sold them secrets, that's why they gave my mother a
job after he died.  To keep her mouth shut.  To keep her lulled. 

Believe it or not, Mulder, I was a good student.  I got scholarships right and
left during high school.  I was burning to get out of my parents' life.  To get
ahead.  To be somebody.

Ironic, isn't it?


Standard Disclaimer
Summary:  Angst, schmoop and conspiracy
Rating:  Probably R
Warning:  Carter may own 'em, but the concept here is mine.
Dedication:  To Alicia, better late than never, Happy Birthday

Shock the Monkey 2/8


'Fox the fox,
 Rat on the rat,
 You can ape the ape,
 I know about that
 There is one thing you must be sure of
 I can't take any more-.'

	Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel


October 17th  - New York, New York-hell, I don't remember the song.   

I'm here, though and just got word that you're up in Massachusetts.  I have
mixed feelings about that.  The cold is really getting to me, and DC is warmer.
 But DC is farther, and I don't think I'd better take a plane, I'm really
starting to look sick, I don't think they'd let me on.  I might get away with
the train.  Or a bus, but that takes longer than the train, and believe me,
these days I'm starting to wonder how much time I have left.

If it didn't feel so goddamned lousy, dying wouldn't be bad.  I look like I'm
suffering from one helluva burn, or that I did, I look like I'm molting now. 
Eyebrows, eyelashes.  I didn't know I was vain until I started looking so
fucking awful.

I think I made a mistake here, I'm staying on the move.  I'll see you
tomorrow, Mulder. 


October 18th 

I'm on the ferry.  I'm pretty sure I fucked up somehow in New York.  Made the
wrong call, got seen by the wrong person.  I can feel eyes on the back of my
head.  

But I'm still armed and I'm coming ahead, Mulder.  If I have to break in and
stick 'em in your desk, you're getting these tapes before I croak.  Use them
wisely.  Use them safely.

The ocean is grey today.  I don't see anyone on the ferry, but if they know
where I was headed.  This probably isn't smart, Mulder, but I don't know how
else to do it.  

I need to see you.

Sorry.


October, but I don't know what the hell day it is, and Mulder doesn't keep a
calendar in the bedroom.

I don't know why, but I feel the need to write this down.  Because some it's
already fading and I'm starting to get scared.  What did the goddamned morph do
to me?

What I do remember.

I was sick by the time I got off the ferry.  I took a cab to Mulder's father's
house.  Mulder's house.  

Mulder wasn't there.  And it was cold.  I vaguely recall trying to pick the
lock, but I couldn't focus enough, I had to sit down on the porch.  

I might have passed out.  I'm not sure.  But suddenly, the door was open and I
was inside, inside the livingroom, lying on the couch.  

Dizzy and hot and sick.  And standing above me, one of the rebels.  In broad
daylight, in Martha's Vineyard.  

It was standing there, looking off to one side, expression oddly intent for
something so featureless.  And then, before I could get my breath, it bent, put
its hands on me.

Oh, Christ, I'm sweating again, just remembering the pain.  

I know I passed out.  I didn't have much choice.  I figured I was dead already
anyway, why the hell was it hurting me.

I think I came to in the bathtub.  I could still hear and I heard Mulder
swearing at me.

Or I thought I did.  I passed out, woke up under water, or thought I did.

Panicked and fought and finally could breath again and I heard Mulder's voice.

"Easy, easy, dammit, you've got to stop fighting me, Krycek."

I tried to breathe in, but terror and water combined, I couldn't get a breath
and things greyed out.

When I came back, I was half-sitting on cold tile, shivering, with Mulder
swearing at me again.  He got me on my feet, but I couldn't seem to make my
legs work.  He more or less dragged me through darkness, and then there was
something behind my legs, something under me, warmth around me.  

And I went out.

It wasn't pain that woke me up.  It was panic.  Something out of the dreams,
something that chased me up and gave me such a terrible fright that I fell out
of Mulder's bed and onto the hard wooden floor, keening like a goddamned
Banshee.

He was sleeping on the other side of the bed and he looked as ragged as I felt,
but I didn't notice that until I'd calmed down.

"Easy," he kept saying and came around the other side of the bed, I pushed back
against the wall, I couldn't seem to get my legs under me or get them to work,
I was freezing and terrified and I had two arms.

Two.

The prosthesis was in Switzerland, disposed of along with everything I'd been
wearing that day in the corridor.  I had two arms.

That scared me worse than anything else.

I finally realized that it was me making that noise and managed to stop,
breathing in little pants while I watched Mulder approach me as if I were a
dangerous dog. 

"Easy," he said again and held out a bottle of--of all things--some kind of
sports quencher.

Thirsty.  I was thirsty, definitely, but I wasn't in my right mind and I wasn't
sure I could trust him.  I remember *that* feeling very definitely.

"Alex," he murmured, "Are you thirsty?  I've brought you something to drink."

I backed into the wall again.  Tried to hold up my hand to take it, but I was
shaking too badly.  I had to let him hold it to my mouth, took a cautious sip. 
Drank more until he yanked it away.  Bastard.

Swallowed and gasped.  Eyed him.

He eyed me back.  "Not too much at first," he cautioned, waving the bottle. 
"It'll make you sick."

I blinked, glanced down and found the reason I was cold was that I was naked. 
And that arm, Christ.  I folded it against my chest.   Shivered.  "Don't hurt
me any more," I blurted and shivered.  "If you wanna kill me, Mulder, just get
it over with, don't fucking drown me."  

He looked taken aback and guilty at the same time.  "I'm not going to kill
you."

I shivered some more.  There didn't seem to be anything to say to that.  In my
current condition, I figured I couldn't do anything if he *did* want to kill
me, and I'd made the point.

But he just sat there for a moment, looking as if he felt guilty.  Reached out
and touched my left arm.  "Do you remember the morph."

I had to lock my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.  Managed to nod.  Felt
that panic want to grab me by the balls again and fought it.

"Do you remember what he did?"  Cautious tone, as if he was afraid I was going
to go batshit on him.

It calmed me down a little.  "Yes--no.  It hurt."

His fingertips brushed my left arm again and I shuddered.  Curled the fingers
in that hand into a fist.  Who knew if it was even me, even human.  It gave me
the creeps.  I should have been happy, but it made my flesh crawl.  

"Jesus, you're freezing."  He got up suddenly, went to the dresser I was backed
into, tugged open a drawer and rummaged.

Soft fleece, a long sleeved thermal shirt and I couldn't put them on, he had to
help me unknot muscles and get the clothes on

I still couldn't stand.

And I was beginning to let paranoia take over, I was starting to wonder if this
was really Mulder, he hadn't punched me once, and he was very patient about
helping me back to bed.

The truth is, I'm still not absolutely sure, but who else would he be?  he cut
himself shaving the other morning, he had that faint bloody spot on his throat
when he came into the bedroom.  He's not bleeding green, which would argue that
he is Mulder.

He looks like Mulder.  He sounds like Mulder.  He bleeds like Mulder.  He even
smells like Mulder.

Or at least, as much as I can remember.

He told me I'd slept or been unconscious for two days.  That he was going to
fix me something to eat.

The idea of eating made my stomach turn and my mouth flood with saliva.  I
tucked myself under the blankets, trying not to moan.

It didn't take him long.  Mostly because he fixed instant oatmeal with more
sugar in it than I'd seen in ages.  I couldn't hold the spoon, God, he had to
feed me, and I can't tell which one of us was most mortified.

I crashed then, sugar or not, sank back into sleep practically between one
breath and another.  He didn't seem to be inclined to keep me awake.

I found out today why.  He went through my bag, found the tapes.  He's been
systematically going through them.  No wonder he looks ragged.

I think I'll take a nap again, I'm still about as weak as a newborn kitten.

October--whenever

I think I only slept a couple of hours, but the day is winding down, it's
getting dark outside.  Mulder was making noises in the other room, I thought it
might be the kitchen.

I think my wits are returning, my mental map of this place is pretty accurate
when I remember where I am.

Anyway, I was writing down what happened.  

I woke up again later that night, the second or third or whatever it was.  It
was dark and I couldn't figure out where the hell I was, was trying to get out
of bed to keep from throwing up where I was.

Nasty scene.  Well, not nasty.  I nearly had stroke in the dark when he took
hold of me.  I told him I was sick, somehow, we made it to the bathroom.

Imagine Fox Mulder taking care of me when I'm sick.  That boggles the mind.  I
swear to god that in ten years of seeing bizarre things, this was the *most*
bizarre.

Maybe he just didn't want me vomiting on his bedroom floor.  Or the bathroom
floor, for that matter.

He even brought me a glass of water to rinse my mouth, let me take a stab at
brushing my teeth.  With my own toothbrush.  What a nice surprise to find that
my gums weren't bleeding any more.

He was so close to me I could feel the heat of his skin.  It felt comforting, I
caught myself leaning against him and he didn't shove me away.

Instead, he helped me up again and got me back to the bed.  That was when I
realized he'd crashed beside me.

Didn't bother me.

He made me some soup, I could hear him rattling around in the kitchen as I
started sinking under, but he made me wake up again.  I managed to drink it, he
didn't have to feed it to me.

But he sat on the edge of the bed, watching me drink it, which made me nervous
again.  "Why are you helping me?"  I finally asked him.

He blinked.  Scratched the side of his head.  Bad case of bed hair, and I was
envious.

Really envious.  Even though I still have some, I know what I look like.

Like Death warmed over.

"Why not?" Mulder finally asked.

There wasn't any answer to that, either.  I finished the soup and crashed
again.

I got him to bring me my back in the morning.  He was very low key about it,
admitted he had the tapes and was going through them.  

Hell, that's what I brought them for.

So I tucked back up in bed after another lavish meal of chicken noodle soup and
crackers and crashed for a while.  Woke up in a panic and he came to the door.

"You okay?" 

I blinked at him and finally figured out what woke me up.  "Bathroom," I
muttered and made it out of bed under my own power, but then nearly collapsed
in the middle of the floor.

He was pretty laid back about it, caught me and steadied me and walked me to
the bathroom.

I had to sit down to take a piss.  But what really floored me is that I
suddenly--I was circumcised as a baby, but I suddenly had a foreskin.

I think I goggled at myself for a couple of minutes before the brain kicked in
again.  Logical enough.  I mean, how do they heal anyway?  Specific body parts,
or do they wake up the DNA and fast forward it?

Beats the hell out of me.

Mulder, thankfully, vanished during this bit of self-discovery.  It was
unexpectedly decent of him.  

I still don't quite know what to think of this calm, non-violent, helpful
Mulder.  It worries me a little.

He helped me back to bed.  I don't understand why I feel so weak, except that I
tossed almost everything I ate on the freighter and god knows, his sweats are
hanging off me.

He thinks he knows, he told me, bringing me yet another lavish meal of soup,
this time tomato.  He makes it with milk, which sounds disgusting, but which
was really, really good.

Another bizarre item.  Mulder actually knows how to cook.  Well, that may be
optimistic, he's only given me soup, so far.

And the instant oatmeal.  I forgot about that, I had such a brief acquaintance
with it.

Mulder just poked his head in and asked me if I thought I might be up to a
little solid food.  I sounded myself and nodded and he vanished.

This is almost surreal.  Why hasn't he tried to kill me?  Or punch me out?  Or
have me arrested?  For god's sake, the least he could do is behave normally.

If I still didn't feel so goddamned woozy, I'd be out of here.  I can't even
make it to the bathroom by myself.  My left arm is all but useless, muscles
like rubber bands.  I've been trying to do pretty simple exercises.  I guess
re-growing it is one thing, re-growing it toned is another.

I wish I knew what the hell was going on in Mulder's head.

I got soup and grilled cheese.  I have to say this, it was good.  My stomach
liked it very well.

I have to hand it to Mulder, he leaves me alone.  He doesn't act angry.  He
acts like it's perfectly normal for me to be in his bedroom, sleeping off
whatever happened with the morph.

No wonder they called him Spooky at Quantico.

I made it to the bathroom by myself this time.  Not easily, it was mortifying,
but I did it.

Of course, I would have had to crawl back if he hadn't shown up. 

Asshole.

I was sitting down on the bed when the thought occurred to me.  "Mulder, did
you read my journal?"

He looked up from fixing the bedclothes.  "Krcyek, I may be a lot of things,
but I wouldn't read your journal unless you were dead."  Mild tone.  Bland
expression.

Oh, right.  I didn't say anything, but I felt very....exposed, I guess.  I feel
very exposed.  And I wrote about the surveillance on him.  I could have
mentioned the tapes of him in the bathroom, taking a shit, but somehow, I think
he'd find that less unsettling than what I did write.

Maybe he's planning to poison me.  Or something slow and unpleasant.

He's taken to sleeping on the couch instead of in here.  I can't decide if I
feel relieved or disturbed by that.

I took the courses, but he doesn't appear to be objectifying me.  He's even
called me Alex a few times.  

Either I've gone completely off my mental rails or he has.  And I can't figure
out which.


October whatever

Big day today, I made it out to the livingroom.  Watched American television
again.  Very strange.

Mulder was muttering incantations at his computer.

I eventually went to sleep on the couch, and except for taking a goddamned
shower by myself--with Mulder hovering in the hallway, I swear--that's about
the sum total of excitement for Alyosha today.

You know, it's not that bad.


October 25th

I found out the date by looking over Mulder's shoulder at his computer.

Scully arrived today.

I'm not happy about it.  Neither is she.  I woke up to the sound of voices, a
man's and a woman's.  At first, I thought that Mulder had turned the television
up.  No such luck.

She came in looking like she was in a well-controlled temper, carrying what
looked too much like a medical kit.

"Krycek."  Stopped in the middle of the room, and Mulder, hot on her heels,
bumped into her.

She looked back up at him, then at me.  "Krycek."  Less irritably.  "You look
like you've been ill."

Mulder's eyes were bright.  "I told you, Scully--"

"I know, Mulder." Patient voice.

It suddenly hit me, then, I was his fucking X file.  One armed Krycek shows up,
a morph shows up, Krycek has an arm--I was one of his fucking files and I blew
up.  "What the fuck is this?"

Mulder hardly looked at me.

Scully did.  "I'm here to get bloodwork," she told me bluntly.  "And cell
samples.  And to make sure you aren't going to die on Mulder."  She tilted a
grim look back at Mulder.  "Although I'm inclined to simply have you arrested."

"Scully."  Patiently.

"Fine," I snarled at her, "Do it.  Just fucking do it."

She looked taken aback by that, I think, I'm not sure.  I was so fucking angry.

There was more, I was trying to get out of bed to my bag, Mulder was trying to
keep me in bed, and Scully was starting to wonder what the fuck was going on.

We ended up grappling a little, before I sat down on the bed with a thump.  

I hate being weak.  I'm going to punch *his* lights out when I'm back to my
normal self.  Repeatedly.

Scully got her goddamned blood samples and cell samples and pronounced me fit,
although evidently malnourished.  Took Mulder back out into the livingroom
where they had another argument.

Where they're still having that argument.  I did get out of bed once they left
me alone and I managed to get dressed in my own clothes.  I'm now so exhausted
I'd like to die, but I'm dressed.

At least I know what the fuck's been up with him.  He never could resist an X
file.  Bastard.

I'm going to rest a while, and then I'm getting out of here.  Somehow.


October 26th 

Of course, I went to sleep last night, and this morning, Scully was gone.  

That's the good news.  The bad news is that I'm now in protected custody. 
Whether I like it or not.  

Goddamned Mulder sat on the foot of his bed this morning, as rumpled and rosy
as a little kid, blandly telling me the facts of life.

They don't even much care if I testify, that's a formality, if I testify, I get
immunity from prosecution, if I don't, I do not pass go, I do not collect $200,
I go directly to jail.

I should have killed Mulder instead of his father.

The son of a bitch is happy.  I can see it in his eyes.  He's got the
fulfillment of his obsession, he really doesn't give a rat's ass about me. 

Scully's pissed.  She knows, don't ask me how or why, that I was involved with
Cardinale, that I was there when Cardinale hit the wrong woman.  I can deal
with Scully.   Honest hate is something I'm used to.

Right now, I have one goddamned resolution.  I'm going to get my strength back
and then I'm going to beat the fuck out of Mulder and then I'm getting myself
out of here.

If I have to shoot every Feeb sent up here from the Boston office.

He's perfectly happy to have me here in this house, I've brought him the
fucking Grail.   The MJ tape was old news, more or less.  This, now, this is
the real thing.   He has that hyperactive, edgy glint in his eyes, that bounce
that says Mulder is on a mission.  That he's heard the word, boys and girls,
he's got the secret handshake, and he's by God going to show them.

This afternoon, he came in here and started asking me questions he'd written
down on a yellow legal pad.

I just stared at him.  "It's all on the tapes, tovarisch," I finally told him,
not pleasantly.  "And I'm not your pet monkey, I don't do tricks."

Long look.  "You showed up on my doorstep, Krcyek, don't give me any shit."

"So ship me off to a nice, cozy jail cell," I snarled back.  "For some reason,
I thought it was important you had the information."

"Since you were dying and well out of it," he snapped back.  "Or maybe you just
wanted to give me another kiss goodbye."

I don't know why, I suddenly knew he had read my journal and adrenaline got me
upright and on my feet.  Around the foot of the bed, and there's nothing wrong
with my right arm, I was inside his reach faster than he could drop the pad and
I gave him a very satisfying punch to the belly.

The effort nearly made me throw up, but he dropped the pen and the pad and
doubled over, breathless and undoubtedly furious, but not in any shape to
return the favor.

I sat down on the bed with a thump and leaned down, grabbed his hair.  "You
read my fucking journal, you bastard, and lied to me about it!"

He was too busy trying to breathe to argue with that statement, but I have to
hand it to him, he managed to straighten, knock me backwards and we were
grappling like stupid little kids who didn't know how to throw a punch.

And fell off the bed.  With him on top of me, so I was trying to breathe and
rack him a good one in the balls and his hands were around my throat.

That grey around the edges of my vision, and the sort of fuzzy sensation that
comes from no air and pain in my throat and I brought my knee hard, adrenaline
or panic, I don't know, but he rolled off me making very pained sounds and
cursing in between them, holding himself.

I finally got a breath in.  "You want answers, you asshole, I'll give you an
answer.  Your file is on one of those tapes.  Experimental subjects.  Subject
A3458EV."  Rubbed my throat, decided he hadn't done me any permanent damage,
aside from the croak.

He called me some names, still holding himself.  Even if my aim had been off,
I'd nailed him pretty good, he was this pale grey shade, still gasping.

I've been there.  It ain't pretty.

"And while I'm at it, Mulder, I'm sure the surveillance reports are on one of
those tapes.  Too bad they didn't include any of the film, you've got a really
pretty cock."

"Motherfucker."  He was still suffering, his voice was a rasp.

"Nope, never did."   I managed to sit up, pushed myself back against the bed,
out of his reach.  "Asshole.  You had no right."

"Fuck you, Krycek."

"Anytime, anywhere, Mulder." 

That pissed him off enough he sat up carefully.  "Right.  You show up on my
doorstep and I'm supposed to leave your goddamned journal inviolate.  Like you
would have, if the situation was reversed."

"Asshole."  But I wasn't sure he didn't have a point.  I don't think I would
have, not if he were sick or dying or even miraculously alive.  I might have. 
He drives me fucking crazy most of the time, I might have.

It doesn't make me feel any better about him reading mine.

Or any sorrier about hitting him.

"You ever do that again, you sonofabitch, and I'll fucking blow your head off."

"Take your best shot."  

I started shaking after that, not because of the threat, Mulder's so goddamned
pure of heart, he might *want* to shoot me, but he wouldn't.

Pistol whip me maybe.  

I don't know why I was shaking, and I don't know why he didn't hit me when he
got up.  

I sat there and shook and he left the room.  A few minutes later, he brought in
a glass of orange juice and a mug of hot, sweet tea.

Insisted I drink the juice first.  

And the light bulb finally went on in my goddamned thick Russian-Czech head.  

In spite of still looking a lot pissed, Mulder sank back on his heels.  "Think
about the energy required to replace the mass of your arm, Krycek."

I was.  Finally.  Christ, no wonder I was weak and exhausted.   I drank the
juice, holding the glass with both hands.  He took it from me, put the mug in
my hands instead.

I drank.  The heat and the sugar and the fruit juice and the shaking started to
ease.  

Mulder scowled at me.  "I'll get you something to eat."

He wasn't kidding.  Bacon and eggs and toast and I all but wolfed it, sitting
on the floor, still thinking.

I'd just exerted myself a fair amount.  Not a lot.  And burned up one helluva
lot of energy, evidently, if I'd given myself the shakes.

Which is a scary thought.  How long is going to take me to get back to normal? 
Christ, they never do anything that doesn't suit them, why the fuck did they
heal me?  Give me back my arm?

Everyone lies.  Everyone has their own agenda.  I've learned that if I've
learned nothing else.

And that includes alien life forms from other worlds.


Standard Disclaimer
Summary:  Angst, schmoop and conspiracy
Rating:  Probably R
Warning:  Carter may own 'em, but the concept here is mine.
Dedication:  To Alicia, better late than never, Happy Birthday

Shock the Monkey 3/8


'Wheels keep turning
 Something's burning
 Don't like it but I guess I'm learning-'

	Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel

October 31

Mulder is clueless, truly clueless.

The only reason the little yard apes on this part of the island have anything
at all for their Halloween trudging is because of yours truly.

Do I care about rugrats?  I do not.  But the clueless bastard obviously doesn't
realize that having twenty gazillion of the little bastards around is going to
be insurance against covert action.  

How the hell he got to be an FBI agent--no, that's not fair.  90% of the Bureau
couldn't handle that.   I had a different education, that's all. Post graduate
work.

And naturally, I can't answer the door.  So Mulder is cursing under his breath,
going down the hall to the front door.  I do believe if he didn't know I was
right, he'd punch me out.  Or try.

I'm getting healthier.  I'm also eating my weight, which necessitates
dispatching Mulder to the grocery store while I sit around with a couple of
very grim guys from the Boston Bureau office.  

Fortunately, Mulder got smart and stocked up this last time.

When he got the candy.

There goes the doorbell again and there goes Mulder.

I have to admit, I find Mulder as candy-supplier pretty goddamned funny.

I'm getting healthy again, I'm even noticing how he looks in the jeans and that
sweater.  I really have lost my mind, he's got me trapped here and instead of
concentrating on getting the fuck out here, I'm admiring his ass when he stalks
angrily down the hallway.

I think I'll just have to think of that as a sign of health.  If my dick can
sit up and take notice, I'm on the mend.

I just have to make sure it doesn't think it's the boss.

Skinner came up today.   And the US Attorney.  What the fuck, I told them I'd
testify.  Why not.

Skinner gruffly said that there's no reason to suppose I'm in any danger. 
Mulder countered that with flattering speed. They went off in the next room to
argue that one out while I played solitaire on Mulder's computer. I wish I'd
been able to bring my laptop out. 

Screw regrets, I was lucky to bring out what I did.  

Anyway, they finally came back and Mulder's face had that cat that ate the
canary look, so I guess they decided that I'm a lot more worthwhile than
Skinner thought I was.

So we went over what I knew, what was on the tapes, yadda yadda.

When I convinced the US attorney that I knew what the fuck I was talking about,
which took most of the day, they left.

Thankfully.  I was starving.  

Mulder must have recognized the deranged look in my eyes, I ended up eating my
way through four roast beef sandwiches.

The man does have good taste in groceries, even if his ties suck.

There goes the doorbell again.  Mulder really does have an inventive
vocabulary, but there's something somehow lame about only being able to curse
in English.  I'll have to teach him some Russian.


November 2

Today was interesting.  Yesterday, I asked Mulder if he had any hand weights
anywhere.

He went downstairs and got me a dusty box full of them, left them in the
bedroom without a word and went back to his computer.

So I dusted them off and started working my left arm again.  I mean, baby
fucking steps, let me tell you, and today I'm stiff as hell. The whole arm.  

Anyway, today, I was working out the stiffness.  In the livingroom, watching
some demented talk show where twin sisters were telling their one boyfriend
that they'd played switch games with him, as well as getting it on with each
other.  They were pretty, in a tawdry sort of way, and the guy was freaking out
pretty spectacularly on television.  Mulder turned from his desk to watch this
with a smirk on his face.

The guy eventually went berserk and they had to get the stage crew to haul him
off.  I couldn't decide if it was staged or if it had been real, and was
betting on the former when Mulder turned the television off with the remote.

He wheeled around in the chair to study me.  "You're feel better."  Grudgingly.

"Yeah."  I kept up the curls even though I was using a fucking three pound
weight.  It felt like thirty pounds.

"Skinner wants to move you to Washington."  Mulder's face was expressionless,
hard to read what the meant.

I'm still not sure.

"Okay."  I shrugged.  I'd agreed, after all, they were giving me immunity from
prosecution for a variety of items, I was making a fair deal.  "When?"

"Tomorrow."  Mulder's mouth crimped.  "I'm assigned to your protection until
the trial."

I laughed shortly.  "Boy, that's ironic, Mulder."

He only nodded.   "What I'd like to have is an accurate assessment of security
needs on this, do you think you can tell the truth for once?"

I put the weight down.  "You mean, how many people are interested in killing me
besides you?  Probably a moderate number.  Varying factions.  Varying
nationalities.  The Russians are understandably pissed I skipped on them before
they could considerately help me die earlier.  And I don't think they've ever
completely forgiven me for bringing their version of the vaccine to the Brit. 
You remember the Brit, Mulder, he went boom in front of you, from what I hear."

Mulder's expression was disgusted.  "Yeah, I remember."

"Nice to know you remember the people who helped you."

"Or who betrayed me."

Nice jab, I have to hand it to me, sometimes he has perfect timing.

"You don't begin to understand what I've done to help you, Mulder."  

"I don't know, Krycek, I read your journal, remember?"

Ouch.  

But he was just warming up.  "Let's see, you killed my father instead of me,
according to your version of reality, kindly got me the vaccine, brought me all
these tapes.  You're a real humanitarian, Krycek."

I picked the weight up again, started doing more curls.  "You have a real
attitude problem, Mulder."

He shook his head, smiling thinly.  "Revisionist."

"Your father was in this up to his neck, Mulder.  He was going to tell you
things that would have insured your murder.  Nice father.  By the way, did you
look up any of the other stuff he let them do to you?"

He went a lot paler, I could tell that he had.  "Fuck you, Krycek."

"Anytime, anywhere, Mulder, I've always liked your ass."

He stood up so rapidly that I thought he was going to go for me, but instead,
he left the room.  A few minutes later, I heard the front door open and slam
shut.

Looked out the window to see him set off at a steady jog and shook my head.

He can't run away from it, either.  And I don't mean me.  I mean from the fact
that his memories and his view of reality have been specifically tailored.

I think he's smart enough to eventually come to grips with it.

But in the meantime, I'm going to work on getting stronger.  Just in case.


November 5

I was reading this afternoon when Mulder came in, really pissed off.  "Is any
of this stuff real, Krycek?"

I looked up.  "All of it, so far as I know.  I can't judge all of it, Mulder, I
never had an inside seat in their councils."

And then I knew.  He'd hit the material about his sister.  He was pale, but his
cheeks had this hectic, almost feverish color.  Fists clenched.  

I swung my legs off the bed and stood up carefully, dropping the book on the
bed.  "Why?"

I'm not sure he was completely rational.  He took a few steps forward, to stand
face to face with me, and I braced and positioned myself.  Waiting. 

"My sister," he said and that was all.  Eyes bright and bitter.

"Your sister's dead.  You've got probably fifty pseudo-sisters here and there
and everywhere, Mulder, but your sister is dead.  They took her apart for her
components and recreated her in hybrid image to keep that much of her alive."

"That's not true."

"It is true.  Didn't the Brit tell you?"  Half a step forward to get inside his
reach, he was coming to a boil.

He swung at me, then, and I blocked it, shoved him back against the wall. 
"Reality, Mulder.  It bites, but it's all we've got and lying to yourself and
blaming me for all of it ain't gonna work.  I'm a Johnny come lately, dammit,
just trying to survive."

"You bastard!"  Grunted.  He tried to get his arm up, I slammed him against the
wall.

"Don't hit me again, Mulder.  Especially not because you can't take the news." 


We were both panting.  Well, I was panting more, despite exercising, I'm still
embarrassingly out of shape and weak.  

I don't know what made me do it.  I really don't.  I kissed him, hard and
hungry, a hand on each side of his head, my body pressing him against the wall.
 On the mouth.  Hell, I practically stuck my tongue down his throat.

He didn't resist it.  He didn't bite me.  He didn't hit me.  

For maybe a minute or two, he even kissed me back.

And then he shoved me away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  "You
bastard."  Voice thick with disgust.  Turned and walked out.

But, he did kiss me back.  I'm not the delusional one in this house.  

I can't figure out what it means, or even if it means anything.

Maybe it just means the silly bastard has been so driven for so long, he's
forgotten what human contact meant and responded without thinking about it.

Maybe it means that all that punching on me was a substitute for something
else.  I'm damned well going to yank his chain about it.

Nobody ever said I was shy.


November 8

I guess I should note that we're in DC now.  Well, Alexandria, actually, a safe
house outside the actual city.  Dull as dishwater.

Mulder has been morose for days.  And steering very clear of me.  Which ain't
easy in this hole in the wall house.

Skinner really doesn't like me.  Doesn't like dealing with me.  

I wonder how Mulder would like hearing why.  

Skinner fucking me wasn't part of the job, back when.  He must have had a
fucking stroke when he found out that I was a mole.  

It was never sweetness and light, it was about fucking, and he was hot.  God,
was he hot.  

Closeted and conflicted as hell, but Jesus--I must be feeling better to travel
down memory lane over this.

Mulder might be interested to know just why Skinner hates me so goddamned much.
 Aside from my kicking his ass over that tape.

I think I'll just mention it.  

God, I'm bored, that's why I'm stirring the pot.  Get this, Alyosha, this isn't
about nailing Mulder, it's about taking care of the last of the bastards who
sucked you in.

They tried to kill me a few times before the Brit took me under his wing.  That
fucking smoker.  I can't wait to see him in court.


November 12

Boredom got the best of me.  Now Mulder stares at Skinner as though he thinks
Skinner's a shapechanger.  Oh, he said he didn't believe me, he said I wouldn't
know the truth if during the Second Coming, Jesus Christ gave it to me.

Which is funny, Mulder being the least religious person I know except for
myself.

Well, except for the bastards I used to work for.

Anyway, now, every time Skinner drops by with the US attorney, strictly to go
over more of my upcoming testimony, Mulder keeps looking at him in this
assessing way.

If he keeps it up, Skinner's going to pat *his* ass. 

Now that I'd pay to see.

I'd pay a *lot*.

Hey, any amusement that can be had in this place is probably worthwhile. 
Imagining what's going on in Mulder's head is one helluva lot more fun than
waiting for lunch.

Those Mulder eyes, watching carefully any interaction that Skinner and I have,
trying to figure out if I lied to him.

Heh.  I admit, it's the most fun I've had since Switzerland, which ain't saying
a lot, but there you are.  I'm bored.

I wonder what would happen if I gave Skinner a soulful look next time he was
over here, and reminded him of all we'd shared.

Jesus, Alyosha, that's fucking suicidal, but I have to admit, I laughed to
myself for ten minutes after writing it.  Mulder came down the hall and looked
in at me suspiciously.

I really am bored.  


November 18th

Oh, joy.  Thanksgiving is going to be spent with Mulder.  My only consolation
is that he's as bored as I am.  Short of temper.  Still walking wide around me.
 

Scully has joined us in our little haven.  

I've been watching their interaction with growing interest.

You know, she's really a pretty woman, but she's evidently worried about
getting older, she's taken to lots and lots of makeup.  Subtly done, I admit,
it's not like she's going for the showgirl look.

And she's getting these lines around her mouth and eyes from dealing with
Mulder.  I've categorized several different Scully expressions.

Long suffering:  Looks up from under her hair, her lips not quite pursed, not
quite a thin line.  Her expression at these times reminds me of my third grade
teacher who, when faced with outrageous behavior, would take on that same look.
 Of course, she was a nun, and those looks were generally followed by a quick
rap on the skull with the chalk holder she used.

Impatient Mom:  Looks up from under her hair, a sigh and "Mulder," said in a
tone that reminds me of my mother's "Alexander Ivanovitch Krycek" when I was
about to get it.

Patient Mom:  Similar to the above, but there's this line between her eyebrows
and her tone is more like my mother's "Alyosha, be sensible".

Nurturing Mom:  Much warmer, pursed lips, worried eyes, gentle tone.  Like my
mother's when she comforted me when I was small.

Somehow, I'm not sure that's what she expected from her sojourn at the Bureau.

She's been cool, but decent to me.  I have to admit, she even asked how I was
feeling, approved of the exercising and chewed Mulder out for the grocery list.
 In the impatient Mom mode.  Lots of protein and carbs, she told me, and
somehow wangled one of those damned Soloflex things so I could, indeed,
exercise effectively.

In the basement.

The first time, I wondered if she was going to lock me down there to keep me
away from Mulder.

He came down as I was finishing, eyed me with something I interpreted as
dislike, waited until I was done, and settled down to work out himself.

Turned out Scully thought it was a bad idea for him to go running.

Too much exposure.

We're for Christ's sake nearly out in the country, so I guess I see her point. 
Nobody would notice him in the city.  

I admit, I'm feeling pretty irritable these days myself, so I sat down on the
basement steps and watched him.

He didn't even complain about it.  Of course, he ignored me.

And it was a bad idea.  Watching him move pushed the right buttons in me, I
went up and took a shower and jerked off, thinking about him.

Ah, well.

The unattainable object of my desire.  I don't even fucking know why I want
him, he's such a prick, self-deluded, obsessed and bad-tempered.

There's a question.  And it isn't all about his body, or that soulful look he
gives people.  He didn't trust me from the get-go.  He was too fucking smart to
trust me.  Sometimes I wonder if half the reason for the experiments was to
create someone smarter than the Syndicate that was trying to run him.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich and reading when he came
up.  He'd stripped down to running shorts from the sweats, and he was sleek
with sweat.  

I couldn't help admiring that for a moment before going back to my book. 

He sat down next to me.  The bastard.  Reached out and took a potato chip from
my plate.

I eyed him.  Thinking about doing something that would probably incite him to
riot.  "Yeah?"

Innocent look.  "Nothing."

Asshole.  So I reached out and tweaked his nipple.

He leapt up as if his ass was on fire, scowling at me.  "Keep your hands to
yourself, Krycek."

"Quit stealing my lunch," I told him and went back to my book, trying so
fucking hard not to laugh.

He glowered for a few moments more and left the kitchen.

Scully came in, gave me a curious look.  "What happened?"

"Nothing," I told her, flicked her a grin.  "Just working each others nerves,
Scully."

Prim look.  "I wouldn't advise that, Krycek.  In these quarters, Mulder's
liable to snap."

"He's not that brittle."  I took another bite of my sandwich.  I have to admit,
I'm starting to really appreciate having my arm back.  If not the method used
to give it to me.

"You might be surprised."  She refilled her coffee mug.

I thought about that for a minute.  "Scully, considering what he's had to deal
with in his life, he's surprisingly non-brittle.  I don't think you give him
enough credit."

Arched eyebrow.  Ah, I forgot to list the skeptical Scully look the other day. 
"And you know him better than I do?"

"I don't think either of us knows him at all," I told her drily.  "But of the
two of us--yeah, I think I do.  You only know what you think you see.  You
don't give him enough credit, you never did."

That pissed her off.  She walked back out of the kitchen, highly inflamed.

And I went back to my book.

Why do I think she doesn't know him?  Because somewhere along the line, I think
the partner who kept him grounded turned into a boat anchor.  And maybe what
happened to her did it.  Or maybe they wiped her memories and put something in
place of her memories.

That idea gives me a chill.  It really does.  I wasn't important enough to
meddle with, so far as I know, but I don't have any guarantee.  And once you
start questioning what you think you know about yourself or what you remember,
the whole universe takes on some pretty scary shadows.

I wonder what they implanted in Scully besides that little metal chip?


Standard Disclaimer
Summary:  Angst, schmoop and conspiracy
Rating:  Probably R
Warning:  Carter may own 'em, but the concept here is mine.
Dedication:  To Alicia, better late than never, Happy Birthday

Shock the Monkey 4/8


'Cover me when I sleep
 Cover me, when I breathe
 You throw your pearls before the swine
 Make the monkey blind
 Cover me, darling please-.'

	Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel

November 24

Grand jury stuff.  Charming.  

They actually got me a suit, although Skinner handed me the bill personally.  

Cracked me up to reach into my wallet and hand him the hundreds to pay for it.

The US attorney, a woman hard enough to match Skinner, seemed amused, actually
wrote me out a receipt.

But that was before today.

I did my trained monkey act, very sincere, very young Alex Krycek.  Of course,
no matter which way you cut it, I still come off sounding like a shit, an
amoral opportunist.  So the eyes on me weren't particularly friendly.  

They left out the alien shit, of course, I was working for a shadow government
within the structure of the real government, yadda yadda, conspired in the
abduction of a federal agent, yadda yadda.

The people behind the unfriendly eyes might not have liked me, but they
believed me.  Times have changed.  They were willing to believe me.  Those old
men came up in different times, even knowing that the people don't trust their
own government, it's probably hard for them to believe they'd ever have to give
an accounting of their actions.

There's a bi-partisan Congressional committee taking interest in this.  I can't
wait to see the look on their faces when I strip away the masks.  

No matter what happens, it's going to be very satisfying.

Hey, I was dead already.  It's peculiar, because I've always been a survivor,
but I'm not even worrying about what steps they're going to take to get me.

They will get me, I'm sure.  Fingers in too many pies.  But not before I bring
a few castles in the air crashing down.

I'm tired now.  Two more days and I'll be done, they tell me.  Geraldine
Sinclair, that's the US Attorney's office drone I'm working with.  

Hard, but not unattractive.  I've seen her look at Skinner a few times as if
she wouldn't mind fitting him for silk pajamas.

Can't say as I blame her.  Boredom and exercise, testosterone and nothing to do
but remember, and I'm about ready to jump in his lap myself.

And then there's Mulder.

But I'm tired and it's late and I'm not going there now.


November 30

I didn't write about Thanksgiving.  Well, not that there was much to write
about, mind you.

Mulder hates turkey, he insisted that Scully take the holiday weekend to be
with her family, so he and I had roast beef.

Fine with me.  I'm not exactly an All American boy.

So we had a normal day.  In other words, quiet, boring as hell, avoiding each
other.

The roast beef was good, though.

I must be depressed, I don't even feel like jerking his chain these days.

I keep looking around the house, scoping out weak spots, wondering when they'll
hit us.  Wondering if they'll bother to let Mulder live, which I confess is an
unsettling thought.

I tried to talk to Scully about that today.  I told her I needed to talk to
her, she went into the kitchen with me, and we sat down over cups of coffee.

I told her they were probably going to come after me, that there might end up
being a firefight and that she needed to watch Mulder's ass.

"They don't know where you are, Krycek."  Pursed lips.

"Yes, they do.  Or if they don't, they will soon, Scully.  Don't underestimate
them, just because they don't have quite the same agenda.  It's still about
power, and they aren't going to want to give theirs up."

She considered that.  "I'll talk to Skinner.  They aren't going to get you,
Krycek, don't worry about it."

"This isn't about my ass, Scully, it's about his.  He's not useful to them any
more, they aren't going to hold back.  Don't you get it?  It's over now. 
Kritschgau spun you a lovely web of lies, but he was right about one thing. 
They created him, they shaped him,. and he's no longer of any use to them. 
Worse, he's walking evidence, whether he accepts that or not.  They'd blow him
away without a second thought."

Skeptical Scully again.  "I'll talk to Skinner," she repeated.  And got up and
went back out to talk to Mulder.

God knows what she said to him.  He's been eyeing me like I'm a hungry
crocodile and he's bait since then.

I'm going to bed.


December 2nd

I'm happy to say that Scully evidently did talk to Skinner.  There's no other
explanation.

As I'd expected, there was an attempt made.  Pretty straightforward, cat
burglar type stuff.

I'm damned glad I've been working out, that's all I can say.  And that I've
been sleeping lightly.  Too wound up to do anything else.

So when I heard the creak on the hallway floor, I didn't assume it was Mulder
sneaking down the hall to play.

Of course, the fucker had my gun, so this was all hand to hand.  And this time,
I had two.

By the time Scully and Mulder had racketed out, guns up and ready, I had the
bastard disarmed and down on the floor.  There was gunfire coming from the
front of the house.  Scully got the bastard cuffed--you know, she might be
irritatingly rigid, but she's one tough puppy, I have to admit, I was
impressed.

Skinner had additional men outside.  It went down quickly and it was done in
less time than it's taken to write.

We're at Quantico now, of all places.  Skinner is understandably ballistic
about it going more public, but the powers that be have decided this is a safe
place.

Right.  On a military reservation.

Give me a break.  I badgered Mulder privately until he gave me back my gun, but
he told me if I killed anyone, he was hanging me out to dry.

Not a problem.

If I kill anyone, it's going to be him.  We're sharing a fucking barracks room.

December 5th

More court.  They've got the smoker, not easily.  He nearly slipped the net,
evidently.  And he has a high powered attorney that I recognize from meetings.

If looks could kill, I'd be bleeding on the floor.

Business as usual.  Who knew being a protected witness was this dull?

Even Mulder is bored.

I can't go anywhere outside the room without my sullen escort.  So, I irritate
the hell out of him by flirting with every female Bureau candidate.  Not that
there are that many this session, and the ones that are here are surprisingly
pretty.

Tough, too.  More junior Scullys.  

She may be a pain at times, but by God, she was at Mulder's back the other
night.  Watching like a hawk.

Complicated woman.

I've been trying to figure out their partnership.  Mulder never shows much
annoyance when she's doing her various Mom things.  Stays low key, cool about
it.

Tries to convince her when she's being Skeptic Scully.

Doesn't take offense at things that would send me up the wall.

It's apparent that she cares a lot about him.  Maybe they couldn't wipe that
out when they had her.  I wonder.

It's apparent that he cares a lot about her.  But their body language gets
weird sometimes, like--they wonder if they should be lovers, but no one's quite
moved in that direction.

I think he's a little relieved to be at Quantico where they're not in such
close quarters.

I could be kidding myself, but I don't think so.  But it made me think about
his sexual behavior.  Occasional one night stands and a lot of substitutes. 

And his body language with Skinner.  They used to have this alpha male face off
thing going, and now he's deferential as hell.  Skinner and he go off and talk
quietly in corners and the whole dynamic is changed.

Whatever happened after Skinner told the smoker to fuck himself--it's evident
that there's a certain level of trust there.  And he used to hate Skinner.

I think I'm a little envious.

I hate thinking about this shit, but what else is there for me to do here,
besides yank Mulder's chain and walk around in my underwear.

Yeah, I'm that petty.

And he tries desperately not to notice.

God, I need something to do besides yank my willie over Mulder and fucking
write in this journal.  I'm going to see if someone will let me have a laptop.


December 8th

Great.  I get a laptop, but no modem.  I guess they're afraid I'll be surfing
the Net and looking at dirty pictures.  Or hacking sites.  However, Mulder
talked to Scully and we now actually have something to read.  A lot to read.  A
fucking cardboard box full of paperbacks to read.

I think she went to Borders or Barnes & Noble and just went shelf by shelf,
picking covers she liked.  All in all, it's not a bad selection.  Brides of
Blood is pretty fucking funny.  Mulder keeps looking over at me, trying to
figure out why I'm laughing with a title like that.  She got something by the
same author called Practical Demon-Keeping, which I'm hitting next.

At least we can use the gym.  I'm working up to a full fledged case of cabin
fever.  I'm either going to go berserk and shoot Mulder, or wait until he's
asleep and jump him.

Handcuff the bastard and just do him.

There's a twisted erotic charge to that fantasy, but in the fantasy, of course,
he enjoys it.  Real life doesn't quite promise the same thing.

Although now that I'm thinking about it, that scene in the safe house kitchen
was peculiarly-flirtatious.

He's not banging Skinner, I think I could tell.  

But I'm starting to get worried about him, I think this stuff is finally going
off in his head like a delayed charge.  He broods.  Hell, he always broods,
unless he's got the Word and the secret handshake.  But there's something about
the quality of his brooding that worries me.

Today was worse than usual.  I couldn't even get him to snap at me by standing
naked in the bathroom door, which usually irritates the shit out of him.  He
didn't even look up today, he hasn't even turned the television on.  I'm going
to have to have a talk with him.

If he's just feeling flattened because it *is* nearly over, there's not much I
can do about that.  Mulder's going to have to find something else to do with
his life.  If he's freaking out because of what his parents did, what they
agreed to, what they let those bastards do to him and his sister-I can at least
listen.

But if he thinks he's going to punch me out again, he's got another think
coming.


December 12th

They got the fat bastard with the bad teeth.  I saw him on the news, tragic
accident which decapitated both his driver and the fat man.  Mulder must have
thought I was being more of an asshole than usual until I snarled that my
mother had worked for the bastard.

I wish he hadn't read my journal.  It's not like it's any big deal, after
everything else, but it's not exactly the kind of thing you want people knowing
about, I can't stand being pitied.

Poor little twelve year old Alex.  Please.  Spare me.  

Scully's noticed that Mulder's brooding or depressed or whatever the hell it
is.  She's doing the Comforting Mom thing to which he patiently submits without
snapping, but which doesn't exactly seem to bring a smile to his face.  In
point of fact, very little brings a smile to his face lately.  And he's been
having nightmares.  Nothing baroque, he doesn't wake up shrieking in eldritch
horror, he just makes unpleasant sounds for a few minutes, wakes up, pads to
the bathroom to take a piss and wash his face, and then goes back to bed.

He does it quietly and in the dark, presumably not wanting my pity any more
than I want his.  I find that somehow reassuring.  If he were really coming
unglued, he wouldn't give a fuck whether or not I feel sorry for him.

At least I hope that's true.

Hell, besides that, I have my own nightmares, ask me where to start listing
them.  The fat man is occasionally featured in a few, but more often than not,
it's Mulder, about to get shot by Augustus Cole.  Mulder on top of that
goddamned tram, the lunatic.  Mulder in his father's house.  So hyped on what
they'd fed into his water that he was all but bouncing off the walls.  Feverish
as hell from it.  I'm surprised he wasn't hallucinating, but no one wanted to
take chances on that, no one wanted to assume that he wouldn't remember
anything his dad told him.

So I followed orders, and frankly, I still don't regret it.  That sanctimonious
bastard, "I've always admire you, Fox," or whatever the hell he said.  Bastard.

My father might have betrayed me by dying, but he never sold his own flesh and
blood.  My mother, now, that's another story.

More testimony today, this time in front of the Senate subcommittee.   Boy,
faces turned pale when I came in, I had to bite back the desire to laugh.  I'm
sure, though, that I had a weird smile on my face.

Senator Matheson didn't turn pale, he's one tough bastard.  Now there's another
question, why the fuck did Mulder ever trust a Senator?  I have no fucking
clue.  Senator Matheson is far from the dirtiest, but he sure as hell knew more
than he ever told Mulder.  What, he thought Mulder was going to bring this all
out?

This time, I'm using printouts from the tapes, key events that correlate with
information provided by the CIA.  And they believe, God, do they believe.  I
wonder how many of them have pissed themselves listening to me talk until  my
voice is hoarse, listening to the survivors of tests that Mulder has rounded up
and located.

Listening to the suddenly pure at heart Pentagon boys stumbling over themselves
to explain what they were doing.

And that's only the tip of the iceberg.

Mulder looks tired and unhappy.  And there's not a damned thing I can do to
help him.


December 20

I don't know why, I really don't, but I've been thinking of the first Christmas
I can remember.  My father got us a little Christmas tree, and I remember
watching him try to figure out how to put the lights on it.  I must have been,
what, three or four?  No little brother yet, so it had to be around then.  My
mother baked for a week before Christmas, there was sweet bread with currants
and something I think she called kolaches, poppyseed and apricot and cherry. 
Not a lot of presents, we weren't well to do, but I got a sled, one of the old
fashioned kind, with my name in English and in Cyrillic.  Looking back, I think
it was used, I think my father cleaned it and revarnished it and then
painstakingly painted my name on it. 

I think my mother got rid of it after he died, I looked for it that winter,
never mind I was nearly too big to use it, but couldn't find it.  I didn't say
anything to her, but I was so goddamned angry I cried myself to sleep.

Nine years old, too big for that, but I did it.

The Christmas before he died was a lot more lavish than the first one I can
recall.  More gifts, and my father drank a bit more than he usually did.  My
mother got an expensive watch, a new coat, and some things for the house.  

I can't recall everything I got, but I remember there were books-I loved to
read, when I wasn't outside.  Soccer shoes, a new soccer ball, clothes....and a
photograph of his parents in a frame.  You know, I still have that, Mulder
probably saw it when he went through my bag and found the tapes.

I got it out this afternoon.  They look tired and grave, in this picture. My
father was thirty-four when I was born.  He was born in 1930.  Stalin was in
power.  The war was on the way.

The picture was taken after the war was over.  My father is a gangly kid of
fifteen.  Skinny as hell, wartime rationing.  At least they weren't in
Leningrad.  They were in Moscow.

And my grandfather's nerves weren't good any more, he was a schoolteacher, not
an important Party member, but with Stalin, who knew where the ax would fall.

He died when my father was seventeen.

I don't know how my father was recruited for the KGB.  He was stationed in
Czechoslovakia, obviously, that's how he met my mother.  Then, after they were
married, he was sent to East Germany.  He was actually rising pretty fast under
Kruschev.  Privy to important information about Russian counter espionage. 
Some CIA mole recruited him again, he defected four years before I was born.

So, he and my mother came to the States.  The CIA debriefed him pretty
extensively.  Then, as was their wont, they shuffled him off, he had police
training, espionage training, but none of it was exactly welcome in the Cold
War era.

So he joined a private security firm.  He was essentially the head watchman at
one of the ironworks in Pittsburgh.

Quite a comedown for an educated man, but he wasn't bitter about it.  And he
ended up making decent money, even if it wasn't lavish.  The benefits were
decent, overall, and he was union.

I don't know when the Syndicate recruited him.  I think it was after 1970.

I'm only guessing, because we moved out of the apartment and got a house.  A
small house, to be sure, but a house.  My mother was so proud of it.  

She wasn't the warmest woman, my mother, but she was good to me.  She was a
decent mother, overall, at least until my father died.  I think she got
ambitious for him, frankly.  But all that's speculation.  I haven't seen her
since I left for college, I had a certain amount of bitterness over her friend,
the fat man.  

And her drinking.

After my father died, she began slowly, but it escalated.  Hell, maybe she knew
more than I gave her credit for.  Maybe she felt guilt.  Who knows.

I haven't thought about Christmas in years.  God, it's been years since I've
celebrated.  But even in an environment as severe as Quantico, there are
Christmas touches.

And Scully brought us a goddamned potted Norfolk pine with some of the world's
stupidest ornaments.  

I'm embarrassed to note that I actually got her and Mulder a stupid gift
downstairs.  Nothing exciting, just a sweatshirt for each of them.

I can't imagine what the hell is wrong with me.

December 21st

I had the dream again about the silo.  Unlike Mulder, I woke up making a lot of
noise and found Mulder sitting on the bed, gently shaking my shoulder.

"Easy," he told me softly.  "Just a dream."  His fingers were warm on my
shoulder.  "Want a drink of water?"

Yeah, I did, I was parched.  He brought it, sat down on the bed again.  "Must
have been a bad one."  Clinical voice.

I winced.  "The silo," I growled and drank.  I was parched, God knows what I'd
been doing in my sleep.

"Jesus."  Softly.

"Yeah."  I put the glass on the table between the beds.  "Thanks."

I could almost see the shrug in the dark.  "No problem."  The weight on the
mattress lifted and he returned to his own bed.

It was a very unMulder sort of thing to do. 

"Mulder, you okay?"  I leaned up on one elbow. 

"Yeah.  I was awake, that's all."  

And that was that.

Maybe we're both depressed.


December 24th

Well, Scully's off to spend Christmas with her family.  I have to admit, it was
fun to give her the goddamned gift box and have her stare at it as if she
expected it to blow up.

Mulder narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously, so I handed his over, too. 
"Nothing big," I told them both, shrugging.  "Not many shopping opportunities
here."  And had to bite my lip to keep from cracking up.  

I don't know if it's boredom or being locked up in the heart of Quantico that's
making me nuts.

After she left, Mulder and I went down to eat, nothing fancy, although they
were promising us turkey and ham for Christmas day.  My heart is all a-twitter.

I challenged him to a game of cards when we went back up to our room, but he
declined.  "I'm not good at cards."

"So?"  I briefly considered gibing at him by offering strip poker, but decided
against it.  "Unless we're playing for money, big deal."

Long look.  "I'm not good at cards."  Quellingly.  

So much for that.  I should have suggested strip poker, I guess.  Instead, I
settled down with a few books and read until I fell asleep.  

The light and the television were still on when I woke up, tasting sweet bread
on my tongue.  Dreaming of that Christmas again.   My face was wet.

Mulder's asleep, I guess I'm glad he didn't wake up to see me crying.  I woke
up with that sensation of yearning you have with really sweet dreams.

Jesus, at my age, yearning for the past is a stupid and dangerous thing to do. 


So I got up and took a shower before going back to bed.

I have to get used to this new world where I'm not an agent with no known
loyalties except to other human beings.  Where I don't have to kill people to
survive.

On the other hand, while I've never known revenge to be a strong Syndicate
interest, I might still be on their list.  So I shouldn't get too focused on
that latter notion.

I'm going back to bed.