Any Weapon, an X Files story by Glacis. Rated NC-17. This story follows So Many Monsters, but can stand alone (although as convoluted as the conspiracy has become, I recommend reading it to understand my version of the Truth). No copyright infringement intended. Spoilers for the sixth season ender including quoted dialogue as well as other episodes.

When had Out There become Here?

Too quickly.

Seven years too late.

Thirty years in the waiting.

He was unique. It was his salvation. It was also the mark that shone from him, drawing his enemies as quickly as his allies.

Stepping into the circle of light, he smiled faintly as his brothers and sisters smiled at him. Walter Skinner's voice faded into the background. He turned, and stilled, looking up at the circle of lights above him, washing them all in purest white. Motion rippled through the people beside him. A space opened, and a man stepped into it.

He knew that face.

Knew those eyes.

They were calm. Staring back at him. Serene blue watching him from a face that could have been hewn from granite but in actuality had the facility of ceramic slip, free to reconfigure itself into any form required.

Mulder didn't smile, but inside, something began to hum. The residual effect of the black oil alien, perhaps, or his own unique hybrid blood. Something recognized the being in front of him in a way nothing else could.

Part of that something wanted to kill the bounty hunter. Called to him, implored him, shrieked at him. Another part wanted to join the bounty hunter. Go home, rest, surrender. It whispered to him, cajoled, crooned at him.

He fought them both down. Kept his face expressionless, an even better mask than the alien could manage. He nodded, a bare acknowledgement, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, preparing himself as best he was able to begin the next phase of the operation. As the group ascended to the ship, the single thought speared him before he could stifle it.

He was in.

Nine days earlier, Forj Siti Toui, Tunisia

A filthy hand insinuated itself against his ass, and he twisted, catching the thumb in his right hand and dislocating it. The owner screamed and pulled away, completing the move Krycek had begun. Behind him he heard a babble of Turkish, Greek and Egyptian. Someone was explaining to the new guy.

Don't mess with the Russian.

Yeah, he only had one arm, and he wasn't real tall, or bulky, but anyone who'd been around for more than a few days knew the basics. He slept lightly, when he slept at all. Didn't seem to need much. Was possessed of a demon that shone from his eyes, and bad things happened to men who tried to take him. The newcomer was lucky he had gotten away with a mere broken hand.

He could have become a pile of bones.

Krycek glanced over his shoulder. Lisando, a smuggler from Malaga, was speaking rapidly into the new man's ear. The man's face was white with shock and pain, but his eyes weren't promising retribution.

They were seeing Hell.

Krycek turned back to the knot of men gathering at the bars. The Commandant of the prison fort was bringing in a visitor, and from the sound of the jeers, it was a woman. A foreign woman. He ducked into the crowd, angling to see without being seen.

He nearly broke cover when he saw the bright blonde hair of the visitor. The last time he'd seen Marita Covarrubias, she'd looked like a ghoul, a walking corpse. He'd left her there to die.

At least he hadn't actually finished her off.

She was looking much better. Fine enough for the inmates to be howling like dogs in heat. He remembered fucking her.

Dogs in heat was an apt description. Perhaps wolves would be closer, but wolves were much too ... noble for the likes of the two of them.

Hyenas, perhaps.

He smiled, internally, at the joke, then pushed his way forward as she called out, in English, that his release had been arranged. He stared at her.

"Last time I saw you," he rasped, "I left you for dead."

She almost smiled at him. He could see it in the minute tightening of the muscles around her eyes. They were blue again, not the black, sunken pits they'd been. She'd been so close to death. But then, she'd always been a survivor. Another thing they had in common.

"If it was strictly up to me," she answered readily enough, "I'd leave you here to rot, too."

He didn't doubt it.

The guard beat the other inmates back as he ducked out of the narrow opening of the door. He nearly got the edge of his shirt caught as it clanged shut. They didn't speak as they walked down the short hall to the shower. He stripped, completely unselfconscious in his nudity, and made careful note of her expression. She was dispassionate as always, but her eyes lingered on the scars at the base of his stump. She'd had a fascination with it whenever they'd had sex, intrigued by the sensitivity of the shiny tissues. He stepped under the spray and gasped as the cold water poured over his head. It felt obscenely good to wash away at least the top layer of grime from the last year.

Catching his breath, still raspy, he demanded, "Who sent you?" As if he didn't know. He awaited her confirmation, and got it.

"The smoking man."

He choked off a laugh before it could develop. One hand taketh, the other giveth, casting the old bastard as God. If Krycek's conception of God included Hell as His domain.

Not surprisingly, it did.

Her voice broke into his ironic thoughts. "He's dying."

That brought his head up. What of the shape-shifters? And the hybridization experiments that had killed Diane and nearly killed Mulder? How could the old man have gone downhill so fast? The experiments must have failed. He felt a savage satisfaction at the thought.

The bastard couldn't die fast enough.

Toweling off with the rags the guard threw at him, he dressed in the clothes Marita had brought him. It felt strange not to feel bugs crawling in the folds of the material. His crotch itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch. Get the fuck out of Tunisia, get into a real shower and delouse himself.

Then he'd see to the cigarette smoking son of a bitch.

Three days later, FBI Headquarters, Washington DC

The bean counter was serious. Mulder stared at the man, sitting in his bland suit with his bland expression and his bland eyes behind his bland glasses, and seriously considered throttling him with his bland necktie.

Did the idiot seriously think that the Truth was to be found in a cubicle at NASA? Wading through SETI printouts? Barely restraining himself from leaning over the desk and force-feeding the accountant his own cost analysis sheets, Mulder practically levitated from the chair and stomped out of the office.

By the time he got to the basement, he could breathe again without that strange whistling sound as the air compressed through his teeth. As he walked into the office and faced Scully, he could actually unclench his jaw far enough to talk. It was a close thing.

He made a joke about assaulting the accountant, seeing complete understanding in Scully's big blue eyes. Before they could launch into creative ways of padding the expenses that would make a traditional X File look, well, traditional, the telephone rang.

Billy Miles' voice took him back. Seven years, to the beginning of his partnership with Scully, in fact. Billy's voice was shaking. They both responded with instinctive support. Scully sounded positively motherly. A distinct change from her initial reaction to their first Oregon adventure.

But then, they'd both been through a lot in the ensuing seven years.

When Billy cut the connection abruptly, Mulder's trouble-radar pinged in four part harmony. He was gathering his coat and heading for the door as he spoke. "More alien abductions, Scully."

She moved in sync with him. "I don't know how we could possibly justify the expense."

He carefully controlled his smile at her dry tone. "We'd probably turn up nothing." He held the door for her.

"Let's go waste some money," she declared as she sailed through the door.

He was behind her all the way.

One day later, Washington DC

The flight in to Dulles was uneventful. Krycek hung back and watched as Marita handled all the details, taking care of their rental car, passing them through customs. He shifted his left shoulder, settling his new prosthetic arm more firmly in place. It felt good, better than the crap he'd had foisted off on him in Moscow. The cup under his stump had decent padding, and the straps were wider and better adjusted so they didn't cut into his skin. It felt almost like a shoulder holster. Looked, almost, like a real hand.

His balance was a little off after a year with only one arm, and the new one was damned heavy, but he adapted quickly. He always had. By the time they were climbing the stairs to the Cancerman's apartment, he was moving with his old lethal grace. Marita noticed. She always did. She didn't mention it.

He didn't, either.

His first glimpse of the old man was a shocker. She'd said he was dying, but he looked like he'd already died. He had a trachea tube stuck in the base of his throat, and his voice was the barest whisper. He sounded like a snake. It suited him better than the soothing tones he used to have.

"I was worried about you, Alex." False concern gleamed in those rheumy eyes.

"Cut the crap, old man." It was hard to keep the bile between his teeth, but Krycek didn't say everything he wanted to say. If he had, he'd've killed the old man, and he wanted to hear what the bastard had to say for himself before he snuffed him.

"I heard about your," the old man paused to gasp in breath, "incarceration."

Krycek nearly ripped the remnants of the old man's lungs out. "You had me thrown in that hell hole!"

"You were trying to sell something that was mine, were you not?"

He lost the thread of the conversation as he stifled several possible answers to that question. He was owed. He'd more than sacrificed, and he was owed. Besides, while the old man was never to know it, there'd been a deeper purpose behind that attempted sale. He was in a fight for his life, in a fight for the continuance of the entire human species. He'd made some strange allies, and he was, as usual, in such deep cover he'd never see the light of day. But his motives were his own, and none of the old man's fucking business. So Krycek kept his tongue still and listened.

The old man was hissing something about putting the past behind them and moving forward. Fine. He was all for that. Then he said something that made the fine hair on the nape of Krycek's neck stand up.

Revive the Project? Rebuild the collaboration with the aliens who were planning to use Earth as a nesting place, and the human race as nursery food for their larvae? His mind began to race. He listened, and he appeared to agree, but plans were building, even as he nodded, even as he played his part.

An accident ... an opportunity. Now, to find a way to make the most of it. Alex Krycek was a past expert at making the most of next to nothing, and from the sound of it, this could be a fucking gold mine.

The next day, Bellefleur, Oregon Police Department

Billy Miles hadn't really changed all that much since the last time Mulder had seen him. Filled out a little, heavier beard shadow, gold ring on the thin third finger of his left hand. More ghosts in his eyes. He didn't quite know how to phrase the question, but eventually he got it out.

The response he received wasn't encouraging. He shrugged one shoulder, a tiny gesture, support and understanding radiating from him. He'd been where the kid was, himself, too often. He knew.

"You find the UFO and he won't be able to deny the truth." He did his best to reassure the kid. Though God knew, evidence hadn't helped Mulder a hell of a lot in the past. Still, hope sprang eternal. Billy didn't look convinced. If anything, he looked even more upset.

"I hope that's all it is."

Detective Miles came up behind them then, and Billy quieted down. Mulder looked from one to the other. There was something not quite right about the detective. Mulder's spidey sense was tingling. It could just be the return to one of the most important cases from his past.

Or it could be something darker.

They piled into their rental sedan and followed the blue and white out along the road. When they got to the scene where the deputy had disappeared, it was disturbingly familiar. Mulder parked along the shoulder and stepped out.

Directly onto a very familiar orange X marked on the pavement.

"Deja vu all over again," he muttered. He had the weird suspicion that his life was caught in some kind of loop, and he was doomed to chase the same old ghosts for the rest of his career. Short as that might be by the time the bean counters got done with him.

His father was as unhelpful as Billy had hinted he'd be. There was definitely something shady going on. By the fourth or fifth brush-off, Mulder was getting pissed off. Trailing the detective to the other side of the road where Scully knelt, picking up shell casings, he overheard Miles ask, "What was he shooting at?"

"Probably nothing." He couldn't help himself. Miles glared at him.

"Nothin'?"

He really couldn't help himself. "Nothing's all you seem to find out here, detective." If the guy shot him, he could shoot back ... and if he bled green, Mulder'd know what was wrong. Of course, if he bled red, the bean counters wouldn't need to close him down. Billy'd do it for them.

When the police had stalked off, Billy much more hesitantly than his father, Mulder and Scully headed off to interview the deputy's wife. Scully didn't say much, but she was pale. He knew it couldn't have been easy coming back here. The little pit of slag that used to be pavement next to the bullets brought back too many harsh memories for both of them.

Especially for her.

A wisecrack wouldn't work this time, and he couldn't think of anything serious to say that wouldn't sound hopelessly sappy, so he did what he did best -- he kept his mouth shut and one eye on his partner. By the time they got to the deputy's home, she was looking a little better.

A slim, dark-haired woman opened the door, and Mulder didn't hear Scully introducing them to her. He knew the woman. Recognized her, at any rate. "Theresa? Theresa Hoese?"

The world just kept getting smaller and smaller.

It was a short interview. She didn't know much, but she had a history they all shared to one extent or another. Mulder watched her place her infant on Scully's lap while she went to fetch pictures of her missing husband. Mulder watched Scully.

With the child.

It hit him again, with the force of a fist to his solar plexus. Scully was the closest thing he had to family left alive. In many ways, she was closer than any family he'd had when they were still alive. Seeing her with the child she couldn't have, and wanted so much, made his heart hurt. She deserved better than this.

They all did.

He was quiet the rest of the day. She didn't say much, either. She still looked tired.

Trying his best to concentrate on the case, Mulder lay in bed that night, staring at photographs. Lots of photographs. The man had been through hell, that much was obvious. The markings on his neck, arms, back, legs, and torso were plain, and brutal. His memory flashed back to scenes from his own past he'd just as soon forget : strapped to a slab in a Russian gulag, while sentient black oil seeped into his eyes, nose and mouth; fighting an assassin that shifted form and face with a thought; bright lights and helplessness; mental acceleration and psychological deconstruction out of his worst nightmares; micro-organisms in his blood that made him something more, and something less, than he had once been. The thought struck him that he wasn't completely human anymore.

He wasn't quite sure what he was.

For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to think of the ones he missed. Not his father, really, or his mother, though he did regret the missed opportunities to connect. Missed by both of them. But he did miss Samantha. Dead, or so he truly believed. Deep Throat, who'd manipulated him and used him, and one of the few whom he'd actually trusted. Scully, as she had been, when faith and humor allied with fierce intellect hadn't yet been worn down by so many losses. Diane, who'd believed, and used him as well, and paid with her life to save his.

Krycek. One person he didn't know if he wanted to hold onto or kill. The man had come to him over a year ago and offered a wild version of Truth, with the evidence to back it up, and proposed an alliance. One Mulder had worked hard to pull off, and dragged his partner and his boss into as well. Then the rat bastard had disappeared off the face of the Earth. Mulder didn't know if the rebellion between the shifting aliens and the oil aliens was still ongoing, or if the oil aliens had won, or if the death of the conspirators en masse had been the final strike for the humans in the equation. He didn't know a fucking thing, except that Krycek had dropped out of sight again, and pulled the rug out from under Mulder's feet when he did.

Again.

A knock at the door interrupted his meandering thoughts, and he hauled himself out of bed and opened it to find Scully shivering on his doorstep. She looked awful.

"What's wrong, Scully? You look sick." She looked ready to keel over at any minute, was what she looked like. She was so pale her freckles stood out like beacon lights against her skin.

"I don't know what's wrong." Like the doctor she was, she recited symptoms. Vertigo, chills, the inability to get warm.

Mulder tucked her into bed, scattering photographs everywhere, uncaring of the evidence. Molding the comforter around her, he curled up behind her, adding his body heat to the insulation from the thin covers. She was so small against him, shaking, her head tucked against her chest like a bird trying to keep warm in a high wind.

She reminded him so strongly of Samantha. As Sam would have been, given the chance to be.

His thoughts sighed out of his mouth. "It's not worth it, Scully."

"What?" Her voice was as thin as the shoulders under his hand.

"I want you to go home." I want you far away from this. I want you safe.

"No, Mulder, I'm going to be fine."

"No, no." Neither one of them were fine. They hadn't been for a long time. "I've been thinking about it." Not as much as I should have. "Looking at you today, holding that baby. Knowing everything that's been taken away from you." Because of me. "The chance for motherhood, your health, and that baby." He kissed her softly, comforting himself as much as her. "You know, maybe they're right."

She was warming up, not shaking as much as she had been. She cuddled back against him, trusting as a child. Safe. For now.

"Who's right?" she asked, her voice a little stronger.

"The FBI. Maybe what they say is true." It was a hell of a concession, coming from him. "But for all the wrong reasons," he continued. "It's the personal costs that are too high. There's so much more you need to do in your life." And you can't do it with me. "There's so much more than this." He lifted a hand and brushed the bangs off her face. Her skin was warm to his touch. Whatever it had been that had chilled her to the bone was gradually wearing off. "There has to be an end, Scully." He kissed her gently again, feeling the slender blade of her shoulder beneath his lips, grieving at the evidence of her frailty. There had to be an end to it. Or it would be the end of her. And he didn't think he could stand that particular loss.

He wouldn't fail her the way he'd failed Samantha. Wouldn't wait for a ghost to tell him Scully had died, too.

Krycek stared at the light burning from the single cabin where Scully had just joined Mulder. For an instant, hatred surged through him. She had no right. Mulder was his.

Then sanity washed back. Mulder loved Scully, there was no doubt of that. But he'd never been in love with her. The proof, if any had been needed, was staring right back at him through the high powered binoculars he had trained on Mulder's bed. No man who loved a woman would tuck her into bed fully clothed, then lay on the outside of the blanket to snuggle up with her. That was the action of a brother with a sister. Not a man with a woman he wanted.

He'd done some background checking on his favorite target as soon as he'd had a half hour alone and access to his intelligence web. Mulder'd been okay, if withdrawn, over the past year. Scully had had some strange moments, including an unscheduled field trip with the cigarette smoking bastard and flirtations with Buddhism and New Age crap. There'd even been an over-nighter at Mulder's apartment, with inconclusive results. If they had slept together, it hadn't made much of an impression on either of them. They'd had an outing to Hollywood, and kept separate suites. Going by the results his moles gave him, Mulder showed more signs of having an affair with Skinner than Scully. Krycek grinned.

Shaking off his usual preoccupation with Mulder, he lowered his binoculars and picked up his cell phone. Punching in numbers from memory, he waited for the caretaker to give the telephone to his nominal boss. When the breathy rasp came over the line, he growled at it.

"In spite of a great deal of effort," he fucking hated the woods, they brought back too many memories of bloodthirsty Siberian peasants, "no one seems to be able to find this UFO of yours." If it exists outside your diseased imagination, he implied.

"Of course they can't," the old man wheezed. Krycek nearly cursed him, but forced himself to reply calmly.

"You know why? 'Cause it's not here." Heavy sarcasm laced the words.

"It's there, Alex. I'm certain of it." The words were clearly a struggle to get out. Krycek sincerely wished the bastard would choke to death. "Hidden in plain sight."

Bullshit. "You listen to me. If you're gonna play games, the two of them, Mulder and Scully, they're gonna beat me to it." If it actually existed, Mulder would find it. And Scully would authenticate the damned thing.

"Are you saying that Mulder and Scully are looking for the UFO?"

No shit, Sherlock. Krycek closed his eyes briefly. Dealing with the old man was like trying to hold fog, only instead of it dissolving in his hand, it would dissolve his hand. "They're looking for a missing deputy."

"Well, they're looking for the right thing, but in the wrong place."

"You sent me looking for a ship." Krycek was fed up with the old man's games.

"Find the deputy, find the ship."

Before Krycek could tell the old bastard precisely what he thought of him, a click sounded and he found himself listening to a dial tone. It was just as well. A year in the pestilence of that prison had shortened his patience, and he needed to regain it if he was going to survive this. He had an alliance to rebuild, if it was at all possible. For the future of the goddamned planet, not to mention saving his own sorry ass, he'd do his best to make sure it was possible.

He sat in the darkness, watching as Scully fell asleep, watching Mulder tucked up behind her, staring off into the distance. Mulder didn't need a lot of sleep, either. Maybe it was a side effect of being inhabited by the oil alien.

Maybe it was one too many nightmares.

Eventually he decided against approaching Mulder directly. For one thing, Scully was there, and she'd get in the way of progress, especially with Mulder getting all mother-hen over her. For another, there were too many explanations, and there wasn't time enough for any of them. For a third, if he saw Mulder and didn't rip his clothes off and fuck him through the floor, the frustration just might have them at one another's throats. And he somehow couldn't see Scully standing by patiently while Krycek fucked the madness from his system long enough to be able to put together a coherent sentence.

No. Much better plan would be to use his trump card.

The next afternoon, he let himself into Walter Skinner's office through the back door.

The ex-marine nearly attacked him. He was prepared for it. His right hand raised just far enough for Skinner to see the small, shiny box clutched in his fingers, his thumb directly over the sliding lever on the front. Skinner froze.

"I don't want to hurt you. I can. You know that. Will you listen?"

Skinner stared at the control box for the nano-technology that could take over his blood in a matter of moments. Krycek could see him mentally measuring the distance between them. He almost smiled.

"By the time you get it away from me, I'll have pushed the dead man's switch. You know what that is, Skinner? That's the little button under my index finger. Once I push it, the nanos start building, and they can't be stopped. You don't want that." He stared intently at Mulder's boss. "Neither do I."

"What do you want, Krycek?" Skinner ground out.

"To renew our alliance."

Skinner looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "It's been a year. Why now?"

"Long story," Krycek wouldn't get into it, either. "I've been out of commission. But I'm back now, and time is critical." One eyebrow raised at him. He nodded. "I need you to get me to Mulder." Krycek leaned back against the wall. "Marita," he invited. His other ally stepped into the room behind him.

"We have a proposition," she said quietly. Skinner slowly sat back down behind his desk. Marita moved forward, taking a seat across from him. Krycek remained where he was, safely out of reach of any sudden moves. As she began to talk, he could see Skinner calming, thinking, understanding.

He was in.

The next morning, Mulder shook Scully awake. She gave him a sheepish look and he offered her his toothbrush. They hit the road to Theresa's house to interview her further. Nothing more was said of Scully's symptoms the previous night, but she caught him visually inspecting her one too many times.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she told him forcefully.

"Okay," he agreed mildly. She didn't look fine.

"Just a little tired."

Uh-huh. He didn't push it. She'd tell him when she wanted to, and not before. The scene that met them at the house distracted him completely.

A crowd had gathered, complete with police cars with flashing sirens, a bunch of curious looky-lous, an ambulance, and an officer carrying a crying child out of the house. Theresa's child. Mulder's eyes narrowed and he shouldered his way through the clump of busy bodies into the house. Through the signs of struggle in the living room, along the stairs. Into the nursery.

"Scully," he called out. It was there, on the carpet. Burn marks like those they'd found on the pavement. "The floor. What do you see? The same thing as out on the road." She knelt to poke at it, and he continued more quietly, "You've seen it before."

"We both have," she agreed.

Mulder sighed and turned back, going out to the car. Slumping into the driver's seat, he stared moodily out at the bystanders. They'd been there. They'd taken her, as they'd taken so many others. Peripherally he was aware of Scully coming up to the car, but someone else had caught his eye. A boy. Staring at the house as if he was seeing a nightmare made flesh. Mulder was out of the car and moving before he was aware of making the decision. That kid knew something.

When he tried to run, that just proved it.

Billy Miles came up beside him, and between them they cornered the kid. The boy was distraught.

"They took Gary! He was just gone!"

Son of a bitch. A witness. Mulder latched on to him, watching Billy take off after his father, but needing to find out what the boy Richie had seen. He hustled the kid into the car along with Scully and they drove back to the mountain. Richie talked all the way, nearly babbling about how Mr. Miles had told them there wasn't any crash, but Gary'd just known there was something there, and they'd gone back to check it out, and he'd been nervous, but they'd stuck together, then he'd seen something and yelled for Gary but Gary wasn't there. Mulder listened to the stream of words and pulled out the salient facts.

Walking down the slope toward where the boys had been searching, Mulder questioned him further. Richie was eager to help. He was clearly terrified for his friend.

"I was shining my flashlight in the dark," he said, "looking for the UFO. The beam hit this spot in space, like it bent the light."

A shield of some kind? Mulder prodded him. "Then what happened?"

"I called for Gary." Richie's voice started to shake slightly. "Flashlight got hot."

He'd dropped it when it hurt his hand. He led Mulder over to where he thought he'd dropped it and they found a burnt out casing of melted plastic and twisted metal. Mulder took a deep breath. Something sure as hell was going on around here, and it certainly looked like aliens. Detective Miles' behavior was looking more and more suspicious all the time.

"Scully!" he called.

She didn't answer. He wheeled around and headed instinctively for the last place he'd seen her. "Scully? Scully!" She was lying on the pine needles. For an instant, he thought she was dead. She was so pale. So still. Then her lips parted, and she gasped for breath. He was kneeling beside her, holding her head up, holding her against him, as quickly as he could move. "Want some water?"

Richie's voice floated down to him. "What happened to her?"

Mulder didn't look away from his partner. "Can you just get her some water?" And stop asking me stupid questions I can't answer? He looked questioningly at Scully.

"I just ... hit the ground." She looked dazed.

"Lie still." His eyes roved over her, looking for signs of injury. Nothing was obvious.

"Why is this happening to me?" Her voice sounded like a little girl's. "What the hell's going on?" With a grown-up Scully's temper.

"I don't know." But there was one thing he did know. "These aren't just random abductions, Scully. We've got to warn Billy Miles of that."

She wasn't following him. "Warn him of what?"

He looked down at her solemnly. "These abductees aren't just systematically being taken. They're not coming back."

He had to get her out of there.

She struggled to her feet, her concern showing on her face. He helped her up the slope, waving Richie off as they headed for the road. Mulder looked at the scavenged Dixie cup half filled with water, a twig floating in the top of it, that Richie tentatively offered him for Scully. Couldn't say the kid hadn't tried. He smiled weakly, shook his head on Scully's behalf, and hustled both of them into the car.

They let Richie off a few blocks from Billy's home. There was no telling what they'd find when they got there, and Bellefleur had lost too many of its young people already. Letting themselves in through the front door, already ajar, he listened to the silence and called out Billy's name. Scully repeated the call, more strongly.

Nothing but silence.

The aliens had claimed another abductee.

With all leads cold, Mulder and Scully packed it in and headed home.

Two days later, FBI Headquarters, Washington DC

Krycek heard the thump of the basketball rebounding off the ceiling before they rounded the corner. Sounded like Mulder was taking the latest fiasco with his usual insouciance. He gestured for Marita to hang back, and nodded Skinner ahead of him. The A.D. paused in the doorway. Krycek kept him in sight as he talked to Mulder. He was almost certain Skinner wouldn't double-cross them, but he wouldn't give him the chance to warn the agent. It was too important. It would be a waste to have to kill Skinner so early in the game.

Besides, it might make Mulder even more recalcitrant than usual if his boss was twepped in front of him.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner began softly. The basketball thumped on the desk.

"What's our punishment this time? Thumbscrews or forty lashes?"

Krycek smiled in spite of himself at the wry humor in Mulder's tone. The man sounded more relaxed, or perhaps resigned, than he had since Krycek had first met him. Skinner shrugged, and Mulder continued.

"C'mon in, Walter."

Krycek's brows lifted. Maybe there was something to the Hollywood rumor after all. Perhaps he'd be terminating Skinner sooner rather than later.

"Sit a spell. This could be the last time you take a trip down to these offices."

Skinner didn't move. "You went to Oregon." It didn't sound accusatory. Mulder sounded like he took it as lightly as it was given.

"Guilty as charged." His voice deepened. "And if they're coming down on you for that, I'm sorry. I truly am." The basketball stopped thumping.

"Fortunately, they think that I make a contribution to the Bureau."

Oh, cold. But then, Skinner did have a rep for the incisive put-down. Not to mention the ability to be stone cold. Krycek had the handcuff scar on his wrist to prove it. One more little score to settle, when their common enemy was defeated. If they didn't all get wiped off the face of the Earth first. Or get turned into kibble for alien larvae.

"Oh, yeah, stick to a budget and they say you're making a contribution. But push the limits of your profession and they say you're out of control." The light tone didn't quite mask the bitterness beneath.

Skinner gave him another harsh truth in response. "You could bring home a flying saucer and have an alien shake hands with the President. What it comes down to, Agent Mulder, is ..." he actually sounded regretful, "they don't like you."

Newsflash, anyone? Krycek's own pitch black sense of humor was kicking in. So was the edge he always got directly before any confrontation with Mulder.

"Well, we didn't bring home a flying saucer. Or an alien," Mulder admitted.

"Yeah, so I've been told," Skinner answered. Krycek took a step forward. Skinner responded to the cue.

Krycek's eyes locked with Mulder. For a second, he saw what he hadn't thought he'd ever see again -- a flash of pure unadulterated heat. In that instant, the heat transmuted into rage, and by the time Mulder got around the corner of his desk it took all of Skinner's considerable muscle to keep him from attacking Krycek.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. There was a perverse thrill to be gained from having the shit kicked out of him by Mulder. It was matched only by the thrill of fucking the sense out of the man. When he couldn't have the latter, he'd take the former. He'd never claimed to be sane. Tuning into the conversation, wrenching his brain out of his balls, he heard Skinner trying to get through the red haze that was practically visible around Mulder's head.

"Agent Mulder! I think you should listen to him."

Yeah, Mulder. Listen. Or I really will off your boss right now. Krycek swallowed the threat and concentrated on his mission. He stared hard at Mulder, holding his attention. Willing him to pay attention. Understand. Agree.

"You've got every reason to want to see me dead." Among other things. "But you've got to listen to me now. You have a singular opportunity." Don't fuck it up, Mulder, he urged with his eyes.

"Here, or you wanna step outside?"

The temptation was almost unbearable. Krycek swallowed the sheer lust rising in him and forced his voice back to steadiness. Before he could answer, Marita stepped in.

"Agent Mulder. Cancerman is dying." Mulder stilled and stared at her, then glanced back at Krycek, an involuntary request for confirmation. He gave the tiniest nod.

"His last wish is to rebuild his project, to have us revive the Conspiracy," she continued. "It all begins in Oregon."

"The ship that collided with that Navy plane," Krycek put in, finally able to control his voice. "It's in those woods."

Mulder looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. Again. "There's no ship in those woods."

"Yeah, it's there," Krycek contradicted him. "Cloaked in an energy field. While he mops up the evidence."

The struggle between distrust and belief was painted across Mulder's face. "Who?" he spat.

"The alien bounty hunter," Krycek returned swiftly. "Billy Miles. Theresa Hoese. Her husband. He's eliminating proof of all the tests." He kept to himself the other common thread between the people who were disappearing. That would be for later, when he had time alone with Mulder. He knew just how he was going to play it. Mulder had given him the key when he'd played big brother to his partner in that cabin in Oregon. "We were asking ourselves ... we're asking ourselves, where are they? They're right there," he answered his own question. "They're right under our noses. I'm giving you the chance to change that. To hold the proof."

"Why me?" Mulder cut to the heart of the matter. "And why now?"

Krycek gave him one truth, one he could believe. "I want to damn the soul of that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch."

He could see by the light in Mulder's eyes that he'd bought it. He didn't have to add the other compelling reason.

Because I want you.

"Mulder?"

Scully's voice broke into the odd paralysis between them. He glanced over at the doorway and saw her. She was looking at him, at them all, as if demons from Hell had risen when she wasn't looking and invaded her partner's office.

From there, the pace accelerated. Mulder called her in. Skinner started explaining. Mulder called the Lone Gunmen. Marita added her two cents. Mulder explained some more, when he got done cryptically inviting Frohicke and the gang to drop by with everything they had on the Bellefleur incident.

Krycek stayed in the background, and watched.

Too much time passed as the conspiracy theorists and the agents quibbled over geek-speak. Finally, he had to bring them back to the point.

"Listen, it's not going to be there forever."

Marita must have been feeling the same urgency, because she immediately backed him up. "As we stand here talking, it's rebuilding itself."

He felt absolutely no surprise when Scully suddenly wheeled and walked out of the room. He'd expected it before now. He watched Mulder trail after her, and took a deep breath. When they came back in, he'd know if he was going to be able to pull off the second part of his plan. The technobabble from the geeks faded into the background as he stared at the door.

A few minutes later, Mulder walked back in, Scully behind him, a mulish look on her face. Mulder came to a stop beside Skinner.

"So, sir, up for a little walk in the woods?"

Triumph welled up in Krycek. This was going to work. He could practically taste it.

Two hours later, finally finished at the Bureau, he followed Mulder home. The flight he and Skinner were booked on left at nine the next morning. This was the best chance Krycek would have to get the man alone and finalize the rest of his plan. He didn't bother knocking, just slipped the lock with a wire and let himself in. His host was waiting for him.

At least this time Mulder greeted with an opened bottle of beer instead of the business end of a loaded Glock with the safety off.

"Long time no see," he greeted Krycek, absolutely deadpan.

"Too long," Krycek agreed.

"One good reason not to kill you would be one more than I've got right now," Mulder told him, handing him the beer. Krycek stared down into the liquid, wondering if it was poisoned. Shrugging, figuring if he'd survived the food at the Tunisian prison for a year nothing Mulder threw at him would kill him, he swallowed half the bottle before taking a breath.

Then he set the bottle down on the table behind him, hooked a finger in Mulder's collar right behind the knot of his tie, and pulled him forward into a kiss. His chances were fifty-fifty that Mulder would hit him or kiss him back. He'd take either one.

Mulder punched him in the stomach.

He folded with the force of the blow, all his breath coming out into Mulder's mouth. Before he could regain it, Mulder had him pinned to the side of the couch and was kissing him as if his life depended on it. Krycek could relate.

He was dizzy and nearly blacking out from lack of oxygen before Mulder finally let him catch a breath. No doubt that was the plan. Mulder was speaking, words running together in a furious hiss under his breath, as he pulled and tugged at Krycek's clothing. Words like killer, and fool, and goddamned son of a bitch, and two timing traitorous rat bastard all ran together, muffled by the press of that mouth he'd missed so much against his skin.

It was worse than awkward trying to undress and be undressed with his right arm stuck in the couch cushions, but Mulder didn't help, or wait until he could right himself. Anger and need combined to turn all of Mulder's admirable determination to one object -- getting Krycek naked and opened as soon as humanly possible. Not that Krycek was objecting.

The world swung on its axis and he found himself draped over the arm of the couch, his jeans tangled around his boots, his prosthetic arm caught between the padded cushion and his stomach, his right hand clutching at the back of the couch to keep himself from being pitched over the side with Mulder's enthusiasm. His jacket and shirt lay halfway on the other side of the room where Mulder had tossed them. His knees were sinking into the couch seat and he couldn't move to save his life.

He didn't want to move. Then he'd wake up, and he'd been dreaming of precisely this for too damned long to want it to end so soon.

Mulder's fingers were in him, slick with spit, then Mulder's tongue, and he muffled a scream against his biceps as Mulder's cock followed. It had been a long time since he'd been fucked, and it hurt like hell. His ass clenched instinctively and his breath hitched in his lungs. His legs tensed and his toes curled. His spine arched and his throat tightened.

It was perfect.

Long fingers were digging into his shoulders, holding him in place as strong hips pistoned against him, slamming him into the hard plastic of his prosthetic arm, trapping his erection painfully between his own pelvic bone and the unyielding limb. Mulder pumped into him hard, not giving him a chance to breathe, or move, or do anything but take it and like it.

Love it.

For the first time since the last time he'd been with Mulder, Krycek stopped thinking. About anything. His universe and all the complexities of his life disappeared into the white-hot pleasure-pain of the man plowing into him, the hot breath on the back of his neck, the teeth in his shoulder, the hands bruising his chest. He lowered his face against the soft cushion and screamed, low, continuously, and let himself drift away into the connection between their bodies until it was the only thing that existed.

It was over too soon. Mulder's hands dropped from his nipples to his hips, clamping down on them and drawing him back until Krycek's back was plastered against Mulder's chest. Mulder shoved into him and came, and the unexpected freedom his own cock found in the space now available for it between his hips and the arm of the couch was his undoing. He spasmed in response, coming hard, thrusting himself back as strongly as Mulder was pushing forward. There was a hoarse cry behind him, and Krycek thought it sounded like his name.

Or a prayer.

Maybe both.

Mulder pulled out as fast as he'd pushed in, and Krycek couldn't contain a whimper at the burn of the flesh disconnecting. A hand brushed against his buttock, surprisingly gentle as it touched his crease, then it was gone. The air was cold against him.

He struggled to turn, and Mulder reached over matter-of-factly and righted him. Krycek lay there, jeans still puddled around his ankles, limbs akimbo, sticky cock flopping against the side of his thigh, mouth open to draw panting breaths, and stared up at Mulder.

Brown hair stuck up at all angles. His cheeks and throat were flushed, and his mouth was swollen. His eyes looked sleepy. A surge of blood made its way to Krycek's cock. Mulder noted the twitch of interest and shook his head.

"Fucking insatiable," he commented, sprawled in his own corner of the couch.

"Been a long, dry year," Krycek allowed.

"Tell me about it." It was more command than request. Krycek actually considered it, then sighed and gave him the Reader's Digest Condensed version. They didn't have time for the full litany of horrors.

"Cancerman caught me passing technical information to the Resistance. I covered by saying they were businessmen interested in advanced technology and I was selling it to them. He didn't like that, said it was his information, not mine to sell, and he had me thrown into a hell hole of a prison in Tunisia." Mulder stared hard at him. Krycek glanced at him, then resolutely stared off into the distance. He didn't trust himself to look directly at Mulder when he told him about this. Mulder was too good at reading his eyes.

"I stayed alive the best I could for the past year, then Marita Covarrubias showed up with the news that he was dying and my release had been arranged. We went to see him, and he spun his story about the alien ship crashing, how it was Roswell and Corona all over, and this was our chance to start the whole mess up again."

"He didn't catch on that you were working with the Resistance?" Mulder pressed him. Krycek shook his head.

"He's pretty hard to read, but no, he didn't. He's a collaborator through and through. He had no idea I was working for the Resistance. He had no trouble believing that I just got greedy."

There was silence for awhile, and Krycek could feel Mulder watching him. It turned him on, and he took a deep breath, fighting the need to touch him again. Forcing his mind onto more important, if not more urgent, matters, he shifted. Caught his balls between his thighs and pressed hard. Pain arced through them and his erection subsided.

Beside him, Mulder's breath quickened.

Krycek started to talk before he could get caught back up in the cycle of arousal. "There's another reason the alien bounty hunter is picking those specific abductees, Mulder." He glanced over. Mulder's eyes had lifted from his crotch to his face. Progress, of a sort.

"What? And why didn't you mention it when everyone was gathered at Headquarters?"

"They don't know all the details, and it's safer for them if they don't. All the abductees taken in Oregon have suffered electro-encephalitic trauma. Their brains have been readied, primed, so to speak."

"Primed for what?" Mulder was leaning toward him now, as turned on by the facts surrounding the aliens as he had been by Krycek's body. It was an amusing and disturbing fact.

"Primed to be able to communicate with the aliens."

"Like me," Mulder thought aloud.

"Not like Scully," Krycek continued for him. Mulder shot him an interrogatory look. "They're not after breeders, Mulder." Mulder's look melted into a glare, but Krycek continued to feed him the truth. "They're after information. And collaborators. The oil aliens need help fighting the rebellious shape shifters. They're planning on using humans not only as cannon fodder in their little civil war, and breakfast food for their nurseries, but spies against the Resistance. You want to keep Scully safe."

Mulder nodded, still staring at him. "Yeah?"

"Keep her away from this. She's not strong enough to handle it."

After a long moment, Mulder nodded his agreement. He'd obviously been thinking the same thing, very recently.

"You have a plan in that cesspool passing for a mind of yours," Mulder informed him. Krycek smiled sweetly at him. Mulder blinked.

"Always. Turnabout's fair play, or in this case, what goes around, comes around."

"You want me to go in." It was a statement, not a question.

"We have our own eyes and ears among the shape-shifters, undercover on some of the ships. But we need a human, one with no illusions about what he's facing, to go deep. Find out what the oil aliens are planning. Pass that information back to us here on Earth so we can counter it."

"You want to set up a sting."

The man was brilliant. There was no doubt about that. Krycek grinned at him again. Mulder blinked again, and unconsciously moved closer.

"You up for the job, Agent Mulder? The undercover role of a lifetime." His voice lowered to a whisper as Mulder moved closer, until they were barely touching from knee to chest.

"I'm in the game," Mulder answered, the moment before his mouth covered Krycek's again.

He pulled the warm weight over the top of him with his good arm, tried his damnedest not to whack Mulder over the head with his prosthetic arm, and let himself go for the ride. Tomorrow was soon enough for reality. He'd take the dream as long as he could get it.

The next day, Krycek tied up the last loose end. As he stepped over the broken body of the old man crumpled at the base of the stairway, his eyes were firmly fixed on the future.

Ascension day, Bellefleur, Oregon

Skinner wasn't the most talkative travelling companion Mulder had ever known, but that was a good thing. He had too much on his mind, and the older man was too intuitive, to risk too much conversation. As they flew across the country then drove through the mountains to the crash site, he concentrated on what lie ahead.

And what had gone down the night before.

Pulling over by the big orange X on the pavement was a relief. He didn't know how much longer he could scare himself back out of an incipient erection by reminding himself that Walter Skinner was extremely observant. He knew his rep at the Bureau -- Spooky got turned on by little green men. He didn't want to give any credence to the false rumor.

Krycek had never been green in his life, and not even his worst enemies could truthfully label the body parts under consideration 'little.'

Shaking off the thought, forcing his mind to concentrate on what was to come instead of what already had, he walked around to the trunk and began to pull out equipment. Skinner, to his surprise, actually grumbled.

"This is starting to feel like the snipe hunt I was afraid of."

Mulder tossed him an innocent look. "No such thing as a snipe, sir." Skinner didn't appreciate the attempt at levity.

"Hey, you know, my ass is on the line here too, Agent Mulder."

Not in the same league of risk at all, Walter, Mulder thought. Aloud, he reassured his boss, "I know that." You have no idea, do you? No. Of course you don't. At least I hope to God you don't.

Having reassured himself as well, he set out to assemble the laser web with which the Gunmen had equipped him. Taking out the control box after the beams were in place, he fiddled with it, trying to remember everything Byers and Langley had thrown at him about its use.

"How's it supposed to work?" Skinner asked, peering intently at the red lights shining in the darkness between the trees.

"Not exactly sure, sir," Mulder answered him honestly enough. "But, uhm, budgetarily, I'd say we're looking pretty good." He wondered how much a veteran agent went for these days, and if Skinner's pay would be docked for losing him when he got back. Given his general popularity, his boss would probably get a commendation in his record.

Concentrating fiercely on the necessity of what he was about to do, regretting the need to hurt Scully, as he knew it would, and deceive Skinner, as he was about to do, he took a deep breath. Undercover always sucked. This would, too. The stakes were just higher.

The highest.

Following the beams into the darkest shadows, he saw a point where they all seemed to stop, pooling at the end in little bulbs of laser light. That had to be it, the place where Richie said the light had bent. The place where Gary had disappeared.

The place where he would disappear.

Licking his lips, he deliberately blanked his mind to his motivations, and concentrated on the here and now. Pushing his hand into the air beyond the lights, he felt the energy take hold of him, shaking his arm, sucking him in. It was a little like walking through a thunderstorm with no rain. Every hair on his body stood up for a moment, then he was through the barrier.

They were standing there. Looking at him.

He went toward the light.

Skinner's voice faded into the background. He turned, and stilled, looking up at the circle of lights above him, washing them all in purest white. Motion rippled through the people beside him. A space opened, and a man stepped into it.

He knew that face.

Knew those eyes.

Calm washed through him. They wouldn't know. But he would find out. With the knowledge he gained, he would find a way to help the Resistance reclaim Earth's future.

There was motion, as time froze. He opened his eyes to find more light, and voices inside his head. Time untwined, then sped up, and he understood. Separated the voices into the hive mind and the workers. Separated the workers. Heard the voice he was waiting to hear.

He smiled.

He was in.

An old woman approached Krycek then walked past him, blind eyes staring through him. Her clawed hand held a small paper bag, and he followed her into an alley. He caught up with her easily. She passed him the bag. He made no sign, simply allowed his eyes to pass over her. Then he picked up the pace. Turned the corner and took up position across the street.

Ten minutes later a handsome blond man wearing dark glasses, lips compressed in a thin line, walked from the alley. He gave no sign of recognition as he passed Krycek. It wasn't necessary.

Krycek could see the tiny threads between the barely parted lips. He knew what to look for. He turned away and headed for a ratty apartment further into the city.

Langley let him in, with a scowl on his face. Krycek ignored him as usual and walked to the computer Frohicke had set up for him. The encryption programs installed on it were literally unearthly. Krycek popped the silver disk into the drive and waited patiently for the results. Lines of data began to fill the screen. Several minutes passed.

"Good stuff?" Byers finally asked from behind him. Krycek nodded once.

"He's in."

FIN