Welcome To The Harem

Out Of The Box by M Sebasky
Summary: The world needs a rock and roll messiah. Alex Krycek is up for it. NC17.

TITLE: Out of the Box

AUTHOR: M. Sebasky

EMAIL: msebasky@yahoo.com

FEEDBACK: Iffin' you wanna.


KEYWORDS: Krycek, post-show slash, violence
and sex: sometimes together. One teensy character
death. Just one. That's not too bad.

SUMMARY: The world needs a rock and roll
messiah. Alex Krycek is up for it.

LINKS: Please ask first. I like to know where
I am at the end of the day.

DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter owns them. I kill them
or make them cry. I get no profit for it, only
pleasure; lots and lots of pleasure. The concept of
the Rock and Roll Messiah belongs to Sam Shepard and
I thank him for it.

Thanks/Notes at end.


Out of the Box by M. Sebasky


Alex Krycek comes out of the alley with a
newspaper in his hand. The headline reads,
"U.N. Embassy Bombed in Baghdad." He glances at
the paper and then throws it on the ground,
content to watch it drift away in the
light summer breeze.

Terrorism is the least of the world's troubles in the
years ahead and he's come back for the ride, two
arms where there once was one, dressed in black.
He looks up at the summer sky, overcast and gray,
feels hot air against his skin, his pores opening up,
the film of sweat starting to form on his forehead.
He's alive again and it feels grand. I'm the rock and
roll messiah, he thinks and it cracks him up.

It's time to get some things done, it's time to save
the world whether it wants to be saved or not. Lock
up your daughters and hide your guns, he's back,
resurrected from beyond. Maybe he and Mulder will
finally have something to talk about after all these
years. As he hears it, Mulder knows something
about being dead.

Glory, hallelujah. It's good to be back.


"I saw you die!"

"I'm not dead."

"But I saw---"

"Walter, Walter, Walter. You've got to get your
eyes checked."


"Dare to dream, Walter. Dare to dream."

The bruise under Skinner's right eye is starting to
come out. It is an Indian sunset of greens, reds and
purples. Krycek suppresses the urge to sing that
Canadian Mounties song that has the long, drawn
out "yoooo-hooo-hooo-hooo" and settles for a
roundhouse to Skinner's jaw instead. His newly
restored arm packs a fine punch, especially when
his knuckles are dressed in brass.

Skinner's head snaps back so hard that for a moment,
he thinks he may have gone too far. It won't do to
kill the money and Skinner is a living Wheel of
Information Fortune.

The A.D. is still part of the living. He groans then
slumps forward, blood dripping from his mouth,
spitting out parts of teeth.

"You. Bash---bashtard---"

"I think that's enough name calling for today, Walt."
He leans forward, putting his mouth against
Skinner's ear. He enjoys the way the big man
flinches at his touch, feels himself rise because of it.
Besides, Skinner's look of pain gives him an
intensity that is downright yummy. If Big W doesn't
stop looking all vulnerable here soon, he might just
have to leave some deliveries in the rear before this
is over.

He allows himself the brush of lips against
Skinner's earlobe. He'd really like to bite the ear
clean off, but he restrains himself for now.
Paybacks are only hell for for the payees. Those
delivering these precious moments should savor and

"Now Walter," he croons, "be a good boy. Just tell

Skinner is too weak to raise his head.
"Fuckin..bash...turd." he whispers.

Two things Krycek's certain of: Walter is sexy
when he's suffering and he loves to watch the A.D.
suffer. He lets out a long hot breath and watches in
delight as Skinner's earlobe turns bright red.

"Walter, are you going to tell me? Or am I going to
have to pound it out of you?"

Skinner doesn't answer. His labored breathing rasps
in and out in the quiet apartment.

Fine, Krycek thinks. If Skinner wants to play hard
ball, he'll get hard ball. He can work with that. He
checks the doubled wrapped wire he's used to
secure the A.D.'s hands and feet and then pushes the
big man out of the chair where he lies with his face
buried in the couch.

It's like a balky mule, he thinks, unbuckling his
pants, unzipping his fly, watching Skinner as he
starts struggling at the sounds. A mule doesn't want
to be cooperative. A mule wants to do what a mule
wants to do, like when it leaves a man handcuffed
to a balcony in the freezing cold.

He takes his stiffened cock in hand and presses a
knee in the center of Skinner's back, putting weight
against the vertebrae, just enough pressure to keep
him still and in pain. He reaches in a side pocket
and with a practiced flick, pulls out a small sharp
knife. It's so nice to have two arms again.

"Stay still, Walter dear," he murmurs, laughing
softly at the string of muffled curses Skinner yells
into the couch. Watching the knife slide under the
denim, watching it cut away the seat of the pants
only makes him harder. Yes, Walter Skinner is an
unrepentant mule and he'll ride this mule until it
breaks and brays out what he wants to know.

He reaches down and pulls Skinner's hips upwards,
positioning himself, finding the angle he wants
before he thrusts forward too fast, tearing, pushing
his way in, feeling Skinner resist every inch,
smiling as Skinner's screams rip the stillness to

"That'll---teach---you---to---kill---me---" he grunts,
each thrust more savage than the last.

Two hours later, he is on his way south. Walter
Skinner, if he was still breathing, would have felt
right at home in Tunisian prison and yes, he's been
sent back to help save the world, but some justice
had to be served. After all, the dude shot him in the

He turns the sports coupe onto the Beltway. Based
on Skinner's squealing, the first stop is south, south
of the Border, down the Mexico way.


It's hot down here, hot and sticky. The air is thick
with dust. No wind graces the little town of Los
Manos, not today. Today it hides between the
mountains and the desert; a place no one would
want to be and therefore a place no one would think
to look.

She's grown careless, Krycek thinks, watching the
surprise on her face when she answers the door,
watching her eyes grow wide, her mouth open to
yell or scream but there's no time because he's
clapped a hand over it before she can make a sound,
pushing forward and sideways, pinning her to the
wall inside the door.

A tear slips and wets his hand. His other hand
snakes down the front of her pants and grows wet

"Shhhh," he croons. "Daddy's home."

Another tear falls, and another. Marita's face is
streaked with them. He removes his hand from her
face and her mouth is on his with a force that
knocks him backwards.

They take each other like dogs; moving from the
spotless entryway to the hall to the floor of the
bedroom. She doesn't question why he's back,
doesn't want to know what happened, where he's
been. She doesn't even comment on his new arm.
She says nothing but his name, repeats it over and
over again, as she takes and is taken in return.

Afterwards, she lays her head on his chest. "I knew
that wasn't you under the bed," she says. "I knew
you were alive."

"Under the bed?"

"It's not important." She snuggles closer.

He looks sideways and lifts the dust ruffle that
hangs down from the bed. There is a white plastic
box snuggled up with several dust bunnies in the
space between the mattress slats and the floor.

"Wait a minute." He starts to sit up. "If that's me,
I'm supposed to be scattered over the ocean---"

She pushes him back to the floor, looks directly at
his face. "I'm sorry. I just---I couldn't." Her
fingertips run lightly over his cheeks. "Where have
you been?"

He smiles up past her at the adobe ceiling. "Under
the bed."

She smirks the way she always did when she
believed he was lying to her. He sighs. "Marita,
look at me."

She obliges and pushes herself up to get a better
view. This time, he sees it register. Slowly, her
fingers move to unbutton his shirt. Her hands are
visibly shaking by the time she pushes the fabric
back. She glances up at his face.

"There's no-- "

"I wanted to be scattered over the ocean. You
should have scattered me over the ocean."

She returns to the sleeve, hands shaking so badly
that she is only able to pull it in frantic tugs. He
raises his arm to accommodate her. The shirt sleeve
yanks off, exposing his arm, strong and whole.

Her face has turned a yellowish-green. She backs
away like a human spider, hitting the wall too hard.
Her mouth opens and closes. It reminds him of a
fun house door.

He sits up, pulls his shirt the rest of the way off for
effect. He can't resist. "Ta da!" He turns the arm
over and flexes his hand.

"You're dead," she croaks.

"Not any more."

She's struggling with it. He can see how much she
wants this to be true. "I cremated you," she says.

"That part you got right."

She's crying again. "Is it you? Is it?"

He moves towards her, slow and careful in his
approach. "It's me."


Finally, the question he's been waiting for. He
continues inching forward, careful, so careful not to
spook her. "In a nutshell: hyper-accelerated cloning.
They can get your memories back if you've been
infected with the black oil. They had me from
before, knew who I was up to a certain point and the
rest was no more than a simple history lesson."

She looks at him with the eyes of a child who wants
so much to believe in Santa Claus but has seen with
their own eyes their parents sneaking out with gifts
in the middle of the night---

From another room a real child starts to cry.

They both freeze. Marita's eyes dart towards the
sound. Before he can register it, she is on her feet,
fastening her pants, smoothing her shirt, moving
towards the door. "Excuse me," she mutters and is

He hears her feet move down the hall and a door
snick open. "Well, look who woke up!" she says,
false cheer ringing like a bell before the door clicks
closed again.

He reaches over and picks up his shirt, puts it on.
The house is clean but the grit from the outside air
has finely coated his exposed body. He sits on the
floor, propped up on his hands, staring into the air,
listening for a moment before getting to his feet.

He leaves the room, walks down the hall, away
from the muted voices and finds a tasteful living
room across from the entryway. He sits down on the
striped chintz sofa, places his chin on his tented
hands, demoted from lover to guest in a matter of
seconds. In light of what he thinks is coming, he's
okay with that.

The voices come closer. "You want some juice?"


"Yes what?"

"Yeth plee, Mommy."

Sitting in the living room, still sticky from fucking
"Mommy", he can't help it; he starts to laugh. Alien
history 101 was supposed to prepare him for
everything. Nothing was supposed to surprise him
any more. How refreshing it feels to be surprised.

He leans back and runs the tip of his tongue over
the smooth ridge of his teeth. As the little blonde
boy comes charging in the room, bottle of juice in
hand and stops cold at the sight of the stranger
sitting on the couch, he gives the child a smile a
shark would envy and thinks how good it is to be alive.


It's a long way from Mexico to where he's going but
there's time for side trips and always room for beer.
Besides, if a man's got to do what a man's got to do,
it also holds true that when a man's got to go, a
man's got to go.

The site is nothing but ruins now, jagged pieces of
stone that put him in a fanciful mood. Krycek sits
on top of one of the slabs of rock and thinks the
great stones blasted out of the cliff face by the
missile's impact look like Goliath's teeth; dental
remnants of a giant slain by a lesser but smarter

Well, he thought that when he first sat down about
three hours ago. He doesn't really think that now.
What he thinks now is, "Those are some teethy
lookin' rocks." It makes him laugh a lot.

He cracks open another beer. He is, by all
definitions of the word, about as drunk as a man can
get, certainly as drunk as he has ever been. He looks
westward towards the setting sun and thinks about
howling. He decides against it. It is too predictable
and he prefers the quiet. Besides he's not completely
sure he won't throw up.

She had a kid she swears isn't his but he knows that
she knows that he knows she's lying. The kid is his
and her story about "how many men she was
sleeping with at the time" and how "his father was
some guy she picked up at a bar because she was
lonely and missed him so much" is just a lotta
horseshit. He told her that he didn't care, he was
flattered, he didn't come back to hurt her, she could
keep the money and...he told her something else
something about...anyway, it made sense when he
was sober. Not so much now---oh look! A coyote!

The animal trots along the valley floor below him,
no more than fifty yards away. It's a perfect target.
"Fuckin' coyote," he mumbles, reaching in his
jacket for his SIG. He'd asked for a SIG. It's what he
was used to. They used them at the academy; they
train you to love a SIG. And really, what wasn't to
love? It was such a nice weapon, sleek and powerful
and caught on the lining of his jacket--

He pulls too hard and there's a ripping sound.
"SHIT," he yells and the word echoes off the canyons
in the still night air. He yanks the gun loose along with
some fabric that looks to be a distant cousin to satin.
Damn gun ripped his coat. Damn gun.

He jerks the jacket off and it gets caught on the SIG
and now he looks like an asshole, standing there
with the jacket caught on his weapon which yes, by
god, is still in his hand because no, he doesn't drop
his gun, that's pansy-assed Mulder's trick, the
motherfucker is always dropping his goddamn gun
and yes, he had been tempted to buy some
superglue when they were partners and try to attach
the thing in the guy's hand but they were partners
and the word "partners" mean people that were
supposed to support each other and Mulder wouldn't
know support if you handed him a jock strap and a
push up bra and now, now the goddamn coyote is
staring at him.

The coyote stands so still it seems made of one of
the stones that surround it but oh yes, it's alive all
right. It's alive and it's baiting him, just like the old
man used to do. The old man loved to bait him,
thrived on it. He was the old man's personal trout
bitch, he got baited so much. And that was the
reason he was here today, wasn't it? He's here
because of the old man. This, according to Miss
was where the old man finally bought it. He's come
to see it for himself because he had to see. He had
to see because you had to be careful when you were
dealing with old men and coyotes.

"I see you," he says as he sits back down, trying not
to wobble. He can't wobble in front of the coyote.
It's important. He can't remember the exact reason
why, but he knows it's important.

Oh yes. The old man. The old man had eyes like the
coyote, eyes that drilled into you. Eyes that didn't
care what they did or who they gutted. He and Miss
Lying-Pants pushed the old man down a flight of
stairs and he'd be happy to push the coyote down
the stairs given the chance.

He steadies himself and untangles his weapon. Say
hello to Mr. SIG, coyote. Too bad you're not the old
man. It would be fun to kill him again.

Slowly he raises the gun, takes aim and fires. The
bullet misses the coyote by inches. His aim's not
bad considering how drunk he is. He impresses

He fires again. The bullet whizzes past the animal.
He fires and misses again and again until the
chamber is empty and even then he keeps firing,
enjoying the click of the hammer. What this
situation needs is a pickup and a gun rack, he thinks
and collapses in laughter. When he looks up, wiping
his streaming eyes, the coyote is still there. It has
flattened itself to the ground and is slowly creeping
backwards, the way it came. It is regarding him as a
dangerous lunatic. The coyote is smart. The coyote
wants to live.

Watching the coyote try to escape he thinks about
how careful you have to be with old men and
coyotes. They were wily, living on the outside of
things, walking on the fringe of life, never in the
middle. Nothing and no one wanted old men and
coyotes. The only fit place for them was out
in the desert where they could go about their
business without prying eyes, without anyone
knowing what was in their hearts. They were
perpetual outsiders; not belonging, never having,
just surviving. He understands them better than
anyone because he's one of them: he is an old man

The gun sags in his hand. He *is* an old man
coyote. It's never been clearer in his drunken
regenerated life. That coyote, the old man, they are
his unwanted family. They know him, they alone
understand what it's like to be alone, to do the
things that have to be done to survive, to just get
through another day. That's why the old man could
always bait him. That's why he'll let the coyote live.

Something tightens in his chest. It could be tears,
but it might be liquor. In any case, he fights against
it. Old men coyotes don't sit on cliffs and cry or
puke about their outcast state. It's not their
mysterious way.

Down below, the coyote is still beating its slow
retreat, still trying to save its mangy skin. He sees it
and waves the gun in the air. "Go," he yells. "Get
out of here before I change my mind!"

The coyote leaps to its feet and speeds off, around
the rocks, back out into the desert. That's an old
man coyote for you: always taking the deal. It's
their nature.

Suddenly, he thinks back on the little blonde boy
with the startling green eyes and feels very alone.

The fuckin' old man did this, brought this on. The
world's going to end, all of humanity including the
blonde boy will be reduced to ashes just as the old
man is right now; his pulverized bones are mixed
with the sand and the dirt Krycek's heels dig into.
Somewhere, the old man is still laughing.

The old man needs to settle down and die already,
like he should have when he went flying down the
stairs. The old man needs to be shown that when the
dust settles, humanity's going to remain thanks to
one Mr. Alex Krycek, back from beyond. He'll get
the job done where everyone else fails. That's the
old man coyote way.

He stands up, swaying and unzips his fly. This old
man coyote knows the best way to settle dust is to
spray it down.

"Rest in pee, old man" he says. His bladder releases
for what seems like an eternity. He turns his face up
towards the crescent moon, facing south, back
towards Mexico.


In Wyoming, the smell of Armageddon lives in the
wind coming off the plains. The air is dry, tinged
with smoke and pine, replete with fertilizer.

Scully is playing with her coffee cup across the
diner table. She looks bad with short hair, sort of
like a concentration camp survivor. She's entirely
too thin for that sort of dyke cut and bad dye job.
Mulder, however, looks the same with the exception
of the beard.

"Why?" he asks for the twelve hundredth time in
the past half hour. "Why this?"

Krycek leans his head to the right, enjoying the
crack of his neck vertebrae. Mulder has bored him
to a stupor with his uninspired litany of questions
and concerns. He bends his neck the other way but
nothing gives on the left side, there is no satisfying
snap of bone and cartilage to keep him momentarily
amused. He looks over at Scully, watches the way
her finger runs lightly over the lip of the mug and
suddenly he sees her, hair back to red and longer
than it is now, bent over his dick, mouth slightly
parted, moving forward, wrapping her lips around
the head of his cock, swirling her tongue first to the
right and then left, nicking the ridge around the
head ever so lightly with her teeth-

"Answer me, dammit!"

His eyes unglaze and he shifts against the stiffening
in his jeans. Mulder is glaring at him. Apparently
he's missed something Mulder thinks is important.
Of course, nothing Mulder thinks is very important;
he'll hear him out just so Mulder will eventually
shut up. He may need Mulder in this. He might as
well play nice for now.

Mulder is still ranting. Mulder's beard actually
bristles when he's angry.

"You still haven't answered the question. You come
here, tell us we can trust you based on a story about

Krycek sighs. "Tch, tch, Mulder. You of all people
should appreciate the irony in this. What do you
need me to do? Get Scully to put on a robe and yell,
'Lazaruses, awake' in our general direction?"

Scully mouth makes a little moue at the joke and
once again, he sees her, this time naked, legs wide
open, spread eagled on the bed. He swallows hard
thinking of what it would be like to bury his face in
her snatch, hear her call, then scream his name.

He shifts again. The hard-on is making him

Scully's hands clutch the coffee cup like a life
preserver. "They told us this was over," she says.

Her tone is factual but in the back of those ice-
wrecked eyes, Krycek can see despair dancing a
mad tango with hope. She wants this. She wants this
as much as Mulder ever wanted his "truth";
probably more. He wants to go across the table and
put his arms around her, comfort her, tell her it's
going to be okay and then fuck her stupid.

The vision of his cock buried up to the balls in Dana
Scully is a mite too distracting. He must focus. "It's
never over, " he says, then shifts again. "And they

Mulder starts to say something, but Scully lays a
hand on Mulder's arm to stop him. Krycek is glad to
see it. If he has to sit through another Mulder-rant,
he's going to have to eat Spooky's beloved instead
of ordering pumpkin pie.

"I know they lie," Scully mutters. "I was told he
would never be safe if they knew where he was, so I
gave him up." Her face twists and she looks down at
the table. "I came here to watch; to make sure he
was safe."

The hard-on requires another shift. "How did you
find him?""

Her smile is bitter. "Money and a lot of breaking
and entering."

"If you found him so easily, what makes you think
others couldn't?"

She looks up, defiant. "We destroyed the paper trail.
So far, it's worked. He's fine."

Krycek leans forward, elbows on the table and
lowers his voice. "You've been lucky. That's all. As
he gets older, he'll get harder to miss. He's what?
Almost three?"

She shakes her head. "Four. He'll be four."

"Scully--" Mulder hisses.

She sighs and runs a hand through her spiky dark
hair. "What choice do we have, Mulder? He's right,
we have been lucky."

"For starters, we don't have to believe this."

Scully looks across the table and smiles. Despite the
bad haircut and the unstylish clothes, she is still
beautiful. "Mulder," she says, "this time I get to

Mulder turns and puts an arm around her. "Scully,
he's asking us to-"

"I know what he's asking." She shuts her eyes for a
brief moment, then continues. "If it's true, if he's
still that important to the outcome, we have two
choices. We can let go forever or we can--take care
of this." Her breath shakes on the way in. "I can't let
go. Not forever. I couldn't live with that."

Mulder leans in. His voice is barely audible. "Two
innocent people are going to die. You could live
with those consequences?"

Her mouth crumples. For a moment, Krycek is sure
she's going to cry. "Not right now," she whispers.
"But I'll learn to."

As she takes Mulder's hand in hers, Alex Krycek is
one hundred percent sure his former partner at the
Federal Bureau of Investigation will never
appreciate the woman sitting next to him. But then
again, maybe he's wrong because a moment later,
Mulder squeezes Scully's hand, then leans over to
place his forehead against her temple.

"All right," he whispers. "All right."

When she looks back Krycek's way, she's all



She starts. "So soon? We need time-"

Krycek rolls his eyes. "Time for what? You've been
here almost three years, hiding and watching and I
didn't come back from the dead just to sit around."

He throws Mulder a significant glance before he
pushes a piece of paper across the table. "I'll meet
you here eight hours from when I leave the diner.
Do you know where that is?"

Scully take the paper, studies it and then nods.
"We'll be there," she says.

He takes the note from her with a smile. "Let's
take no chances. I'll burn it after I leave."

Ignoring Mulder's scowl, he throws a twenty on the table
to cover all three of them. "See you later," he says
then heads for the door.

Setting match to paper in the parking lot, he
watches them through the diner window. They sit
motionless in the booth, the way he left them.
Mulder leans against her, eyes closed; Scully eyes
are focused at some point far, far away. Their
fingers stay entwine on the table's surface as the
coffee grows cold. They remind him of an older Hansel
and Gretel, lost in the woods.

I guess that would make me the witch, he thinks,
watching them as the paper ignites and curls and
burns at his feet. When it has been consumed, he
stamps it out, scuffs a boot heel over the remains
to scatter the char.

As he drives out towards the ranch, he thinks back
on his Grimm Brothers. It makes him smile to
remember it wasn't the witch drove Hansel and
Gretel into exile and danger.

It was their family.


Alex Krycek looks back towards the east. The smell
of burning is strong on the early morning breeze.

Tears roll down Scully's cheeks unnoticed. She
shifts the sleeping child in her arms. "He's gotten so
big..." she whispers and then she's sobbing, crying
her heart out, clutching the boy through the blankets
like she means to meld his flesh into hers.

Mulder, a six foot plus study in awkward, steps over
and pats her arm. "You'll wake him," he says.

Krycek shakes his head. "Not a chance. He'll be out
for at least another three hours."

Scully looks over the child's head. "He didn't see-"

"He won't remember anything."

Mulder's hand is on her arm. "We have to go."

Krycek nods. "You do. Keep moving. Don't stay in
one place too long."

"We know the drill," Mulder snaps.

Krycek snorts with laughter. "Prove it this time
instead of sitting on your ass for three years."

As he turns away, he sees the look of hatred on
Mulder's face. He seen it before, knows what it
forecasts. This time, Alex Krycek is ready.

"You bastard," Mulder snarls and leaps. Krycek's
fingers curl together; his bicep flexes as his arm
comes up and back. His fist makes contact with the
sweet spot on Mulder's jaw and there is a smacking
sound closely akin to a cue ball hitting the cement
floor of a pool hall.

Mulder spins sideways and lands face down in the
dirt. Watching the trickle of blood ooze out of the
corner of Fox Mulder's mouth, Alex Krycek is at
peace with the world at last.

He moves in quickly, draws his foot back to put a
cherry on this particular sundae. He aims carefully
at Mulder's gluteus maximus and gets ready to drive
his boot toe clean out of Mulder's mouth when the
sound of a gun hammer freezes him in place. He
does not need to glance at the sedan to know that
Scully is pointing her SIG with one hand, holding
the sleeping child with the other, but he looks
anyway. Yes, that's the size of it.

"That's enough," she orders. "Move away from

Krycek takes a step back. His foot itches to finish
the kick, but he puts his hands in his pockets instead.
"Hey, I didn't start this."

Scully sighs. "It doesn't matter, we're not
schoolchildren. Just...stop."

She holsters her gun then leans through the open car
door and lays the child on the backseat of the sedan.
She looks back where Mulder is laying on the
ground. "Just great. Guess I'm driving," she mutters.

Krycek is pleased to note Mulder is having trouble
sitting up. By the time Scully reaches his side, he
has managed to prop himself up on his elbows. He
leans sideways and spits blood onto the ground.
"Fuckin' asshole--" he slurs.

"That's enough." Scully sounds pissed. She pulls a
penlight out of her shirt pocket and examines
Mulder's face. "Your jaw's not broken, but you
probably have a concussion."

She helps Mulder to his feet. He staggers on the
way up, barely able to stand. "I'm fine," he slurs
again, looking over Krycek's way.

"Shut up," Scully snaps and to Krycek's surprise,
Mulder obeys. She steers Mulder towards the
passenger side of the sedan, then props him up
against the car while she opens the door. "Get in,"
she orders. "I'll just be a minute."

Mulder half falls into the passenger seat. Once
Scully slams the door, he slumps against the
window. From the look of it, he's so angry it's a
miracle the windows don't steam up.

The sight of Mulder, beaten and sulking fills
Krycek with unutterable joy. He rocks back and
forth on his heels, hands still in his pockets, throws
his head back to the sky and laughs softly. "I am the
greatest," he tells the morning stars. "Float like a
butterfly, sting like a bee."

Scully strides toward him, annoyance oozing from
every pore. He gives her what he hopes is a
disarming grin. "What about it, Agent Scully?
Wanna go ten rounds with the champ?"

The Scully he knew before would have pulled out
her SIG and pistol whipped him for a crack like that,
but the woman in front of cracks only a reluctant smile.
"Dammit, Krycek--"

Sirens start in the distance. Both of them look
towards the east. The Van De Kamp place wasn't
near town. The call must have just now come in.
The trucks are on the way.

Scully stares off into the distant morning, hugging
herself. Krycek is certain it's not the chill that
makes her shiver. He sees her steal a glance back at
the sedan, then shut her eyes. "What have we
done?" she whispers.

"What had to be done."

She looks at him, draws a hand over her eyes.
"They'll be looking for us."

Krycek shakes his head. "Not right away. Maybe
not at all."


"There are remains. They'll match William's DNA."

He can see how much it scares her. Normally he'd
take pleasure in bringing that sort of fear to
someone's eyes, but this time it just makes him feel
sad. He looks towards the car, where the little boy is
deep in drugged dreams before continuing. "It's
from a failed cloning attempt. The sample was from
when he was taken."

"Are there more? Attempts?"


She looks at him for a long moment, then looks
down at the ground. He can't tell if she believes him.
The truth is, he doesn't really care.

Finally, she looks back up. Behind her, the first pink
streaks of dawn appear in the sky. "What about
you?" she asks, looking past his shoulder, back in
the direction of night.

"What about me?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm--not sure yet."

Scully considers his answer, then heads back to the
car. "Wait here a minute," she orders. When she
returns, she holds out a key ring and a piece of
paper with an address on it. "Here."

He studies the offering with no small degree of
suspicion. "What's this?"

"It's a key to my brother's cabin. He won't be there.
He's in the Persian Gulf."

"Where is it?"

"Colorado. They gave me a key a long time ago. I
don't even know if it works." She shrugs. "To
someone with your experience, it wouldn't be hard
to break in to."

He gives her a wry smile. "Thanks for that vote of

She shrugs again. "It's a place to go, to recoup. We
can't use it. You could, though."

He looks away from the gift and studies the horizon
instead. Scully is offering him a safe house. My my,
how the world has changed.

"Infinite life, infinite possibilities," he snorts, then
shakes his head. "No thanks. I want to keep moving

Scully nods. "All right. I thought I'd offer." The
keys and paper disappear into her shirt pocket. She
looks over her shoulder, back towards the east.
"This isn't over."

Krycek is not sure what she's talking about: the
apocalypse, the fight with Mulder or something else
altogether so he just shakes his head. No. None of it

"We can help."

Ah, she's talking about the apocalypse. He takes a
step closer, smiles down at her. "No you can't. Not
with what comes next."

She raises a cautious hand, then to his astonishment,
lays it on his arm. "I wanted--" She stops and clears
her throat. "I wanted to say thank you." She looks
back at the car. "For--"

"I know what for."

She takes her hand off his arm. They stand face to
face. All he would have to do is lean over, just a
tiny bit. He knows exactly how it would be: her face
would tilt to meet his, his hands would rise to cup
her jawline, he would be so tender--

The sedan's horn blares behind them, and they both
jump backwards. Mulder has returned from his
vacation in Smacked Stupid land. When they turn to
face each other again, Krycek clicks his tongue
against his teeth. "Almost, Agent Scully," he
murmurs. "So close, but yet so far."

Scully laugh rings out in the dawn. "Don't flatter
yourself, Krycek. Not only were you not in the right
ballpark, you've never played this game."

The wind has picked up. He turns his collar up and
inhales through his nose, breathing deep, savoring
the scent of smoke, suppressing the urge to punch
her stupid as he did Mulder. Instead he settles on a
carnivorous smile. "Let me tell you something, too,
Agent Scully. I'm giving you a chance here. Keep wee Willie
safe and out of sight. If I think his location's been
compromised, I'll pay you a visit. That time, there won't
be a happy ending."

In the distance, the sound of sirens grows louder.
"There are no happy endings," Scully says. "Not for
this world."

"Maybe not. But there's life." He turns and starts
to walk back to the truck. "It's a beautiful thing."

"If you need to reach us, contact Skinner," Scully

He can't help it. He throws back his head and laughs.
"Give him my best," he calls back.

As he drives away, still snickering, he thinks about
what he said about life. Down in Mexico, there's a
little boy he should get to know and who knows?
Maybe someday, he'll teach the kid how to pitch a
curve ball. Maybe someday there will be time for
picnics and family outings where he and the boy
careen down roller coasters together or give cheesy
grins for the camera, both wearing mouse ears, arms
and faces pink with sunburns.

He turns the truck north towards Canada. He thinks
about Mulder, lying in the dirt. He thinks about
Scully's hand on his arm, her choked and bitter
gratitude. His smile broadens. The wheels are in
motion that will save the world and this time he's
the one who's going to drive this zamboni all over
alien ice.

Yeah, maybe someday there will be a place for
home and hearth in his new life. The one thing he's
sure of is that day is not today.

Thank god, it's not today.




Thanks: to S. E. Parsons, Livia Balaban, CageyKlio
and the Kirbyfest for the amazing LJ beta. Special
thanks to Parsons for the title and for putting up
with the phone calls and snippets during work.
She's a patient woman.

Notes: At 1:45 p.m. about a month ago Krycek showed up
in my cube. He was alive and all he wanted to do
with drink, fuck and raise hell. So, I let him. He's
back to save the world. Who am I to stop him?

Oh and uh---sorry Kim. Love you.

Like it? Hate it? Let's talk.