Fowley, ever observant, sensed the tension in the room immediately. She remained at the door, rooted to the spot with her carton of cold drinks, waiting for some kind of cue.

Sauceda, however, plowed straight in, completely unconcerned, and headed for the table beyond the television. He was full of his usual bluster-- "Hey, kids, how's it going hope everyone is hungry man the traffic was a bitch"-- and dropped his box of styrofoam containers on the table, gesturing grandly. Not waiting for a response of any kind, he commenced to describe their impending meal with the air of a sideshow barker: its ingredients, its cost, and the infinite pains he'd gone through to acquire it-- without once seeming to come up for air. Fowley finally joined him at the table, her smile tentative, her steps grave with uncertainty.

Sauceda unpacked the meal as he lectured, disclosing a dozen waxed cartons and insulated containers of various denominations. The air was suddenly thick with the sticky sweet fragrance of oriental spice and Mulder found himself starved for a cigarette-- anything to dispel the smell. He liked Chinese and he was certainly hungry enough, but his stomach wasn't at all amused by the prospect of actual work.

There was a pack of Winstons on the coffee table and he caught Purdue's eye. The ASAC nodded at the unspoken request and surrendered his lighter with only the barest hint of hesitation. Mulder pretended not to notice and lit his cigarette, the tip burning orange to an angry red as he inhaled. He handed the lighter back without meeting Purdue's eyes. The ASAC accepted it in kind, and Mulder retreated to the depths of his chair, smoking grimly.

Purdue, perhaps unwilling to intrude further, rose to assist in the sorting process at the table. Mulder listened to the three-way conversation, marveling that it could be just over his shoulder and yet so far removed. Would the easy banter, he wondered, dissolve to silence if he chose to join in? He decided he'd rather not know the answer to that, and remained in his chair, mute.

"Come on," Sauceda insisted, sotto voce.

"What--" Mulder's question was mouthed with a puff of smoke. He had wedged himself low against his cushion, the tall back of his chair a wall between him and the voices at the table. Now he twisted awkwardly to eye his partner. Sauceda stood behind the chair, just far enough to the right to be able to lean around and reach Mulder's ear. It was a position also calculated to keep his back to the table and Purdue. Mulder noted the fact and his protest died on his lips.

"Just shut up and come on," Sauceda hissed. There was a panicked resolution on his face, completely incongruous with his effortless repartee at the table just seconds before. Mulder hesitated, his mind whirling, but Sauceda jerked his sleeve insistently, a plea too pathetic to deny. Mulder complied, rising from his chair with no real comprehension, certain only that resistance would be an act of treason.

"Problem, Sauceda?" Purdue's voice behind him stopped Sauceda short. The ASAC was watching them from the other side of the table, perfectly motionless, his brows knitted, one hand holding a bowl of wonton, the other holding the lid, steam making a foggy shadow across his chin.

Sauceda didn't turn immediately and Mulder observed the blood rush from the man's face, noted how his eyes widened: a conspirator caught at the gate, blinded before the searchlights. When it came to subterfuge, Sauceda was a sprinter, and he'd exhausted all his reserves with his performance at the table. It apparently just never dawned on the man that life might occasionally require a marathon.

Sauceda's mouth worked dully but no excuses seemed forthcoming. He turned to Purdue, a parody of slow motion, but duty-bound to face his accuser.

It was time, Mulder decided, for a professional. "So this thermometer," he demanded of his partner's profile, "is going in my *mouth* right?"

Sauceda turned back, blinking spasmodically. His jaw still worked, but it was more of a quivering rather than any effort to form actual words. Only surprise kept him from laughing in relief.

Mulder felt acid begin a slow boil in his esophagus. It was busy grinding at something resembling lead.

At the table Purdue scanned the assorted cartons of rough chopped vegetables and spiced meats and swore mournfully. "You going to be able to eat any of this, Mulder? I can get room service to send up something else if you're sick--"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Hot Sauce just wants to play doctor." Mulder shrugged and gave Sauceda a playful shove. "Fine with me." He put his cigarette in his mouth and spoke around it. "As long as I get to be on top."

Fowley raised an appreciative brow and Mulder found himself storing the response away for future reference without knowing exactly why. Sauceda swore gleefully, just a few notches short of hysterics. Mulder grabbed his arm, his grip gentle enough to provide Sauceda a lifeline, rough enough not to arouse suspicion. He was uncertain of just who was supposed to be leading this charade, but Sauceda needed to get somewhere else before Purdue's eyebrows became one dark line.

"Kid's runnin' a fever--" Sauceda offered as he and Mulder tugged one another to the bedroom. "Just need to check him out. It's nothing. Say-- nobody touch my egg roll. Okay?"

Purdue nodded, only half-listening and chewing the inside of his cheek. Mulder felt the ASAC's eyes burning through him, felt himself flush hot, then tremble like he was fighting a sudden chill. Hell, he probably *did* look ill. He certainly hoped so. For Sauceda's sake.

And then finally the bedroom door was closed, a barrier between them and the rest of humanity, blocking out the intrusive stares. Sauceda spun, planting his back against the door, more a motion of collapse than an attempt to thwart interruption.

"Len? What's going on?"

Sauceda held up his hand for silence, and whispered hoarsely, "What would you do, Marty, if you had a gun?"

The words caught Mulder like a slap across his jaw. He blinked, rolling his cigarette between fingertip and thumb, sounding out the landmine ticking beyond the question. Words. Simply words and suddenly Mulder felt he'd stepped back into one of his more horrific dreams. The room, unlit, was too dark, heavy with impending evil and Sauceda's face, wrapped in shadows, yielded nothing.

Mulder reached for the light switch. "Len, what are you up to here--?"

Sauceda grabbed Mulder's arm before he could get it half extended, pushing him backward, away from the switch, away from the door and deeper into the room. Mulder's back felt exposed suddenly, cold fingers of air whispering down the collar of his shirt. He was afraid and it angered him, this unnamed dread tickling the edges of his mind. He tried to shake Sauceda free but he'd underestimated the pathologist's determination. Sauceda tightened his grip, hissing as he walked, careful to keep his voice low.

Sauceda's eyes were perfectly level, fiercely determined. The drapes were partly opened and the ambered glow of streetlights through the sheers lent his features an artificial warmth. He looked battered, although Mulder could detect no bruises, and he held his body like a man in need of a few casts. His face was unnaturally calm, though, eyes reddened, garish against the deep blue-gray circles beneath them, cheeks and jaw still purpled with hints of razor rash. Mulder wondered momentarily if Sauceda had been dipping into the Valium. If he hadn't, then maybe he needed to.

Mulder chewed his lip a moment, trying to comprehend meanings, words spoken and words unspoken, lost within the difference between the two. "What's wrong?" he whispered. "Lenny, what's happened?"

"Christ, Marty--" Sauceda, disgusted, shoved him away and paced to the far wall. "I said, don't ask me-- anything. You understand? Don't ask me. I can't--" He stood a long minute, several heartbeats, his back to Mulder, a stubby column of black amongst the shadows. "Nothing's wrong," he said finally, his voice steadier, weighted by burdens Mulder couldn't guess at. "Just-- Just what we're doing to you. That's wrong."

He turned. Mulder stood very still, watching him. Sauceda seemed to have difficulty swallowing, finding his voice again only with an effort. "You remember what you told me in the gym, Marty? That you were sorry for being so rough on me?" He spoke the words like they would choke him. Mulder nodded numbly. "Well, kid, you weren't half as rough as you should have been."

"But--"

"I deserve every bit of hell you ever dished out." Sauceda's eyes glinted in the darkness, unblinking. "More, even. You remember that. And don't you ever believe otherwise. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Len." Mulder's voice was small in the stillness and he didn't care, his mind swimming, damned near drowning with half-finished thoughts and theories, none of which made much sense at the moment. He watched Sauceda lick his lips.

"That's good, kid. You just *keep* remembering that. Deal?"

Mulder nodded again, wary as Sauceda fished in his coat pocket and closed the distance between them.

"Here." Sauceda's hand clamped around Mulder's wrist and the profiler felt the warmth of a pistol grip slide into his palm. His fingers closed on the polished wood, operating on reflex, instantly locating their respective places on the unfamiliar weapon. His index finger slid along the trigger guard, hesitant, and suddenly he was trembling again.

He shook his head. "Len, you can't do this. Purdue--"

"You can't tell Purdue, Marty. You know that, right?"

"Jeezus Christ, will you--"

Sauceda's grip tightened, panicked as his eyes flickered to the door. Mulder lowered his volume to a boiling hiss.

"Will you just tell me what the *hell* is going on?"

"I'm leaving, Marty." The words poured from Sauceda quickly, like he couldn't rid himself of them fast enough, like they would scald his tongue if he held them too long. He stepped back, staring, horrified by his decision. "You're on your own, now," he whispered, voice no longer quite steady.

It was not an excuse for the weapon and Mulder wanted to tell him so, but he couldn't quite get the argument out. Instead, he felt his knees buckle, overcome by an unexpected grief. He sat down on the end of the bed, dead weight just managing to remain upright. He had no clue why this should be such a shock. Hell, he'd told Sauceda to leave just this morning, right? What was wrong with him now? Wasn't this what he'd wanted? Hadn't he known this was coming?

Sauceda moved to the window, staring at the drapes like they were the most interesting view he'd seen in years. Mulder glanced down at his hands as they dangled between his knees, his forearms propped across his thighs. His left hand still clung to the remains of his cigarette. It was quietly smoking itself to ash. In his right was a snub-nosed .38 Smith and Wesson. A single action with a smooth combat trigger. Sauceda's secondary service revolver. It was the only weapon Lenny had ever fired off a range. Sauceda had told Mulder the story the first day they'd met: Sauceda and three other agents had tracked a kidnapping suspect across four states, finally cornering him in a railroad yard in Albany. The suspect engaged them in a gunfight and Sauceda, the only agent with a clear shot, had aimed his .38 over the hood of a brand new 1957 Buick convertible.

And he'd missed. Sauceda had admitted the fact to Mulder with some measure of pride. His smile was shy as he awaited the derision that usually followed such confessions, but he was also too obviously pleased. And in that moment, Mulder had felt he understood the man: Leonardo Sauceda was a doctor not just in profession, but in his heart. He was proud of the fact that he'd never managed to take a life. Mulder had respected that. Admired it. Perhaps even envied it. And in the span of two heartbeats, Mulder had admitted his new partner within the charmed circle reserved for genuine friendship. It mattered little what Sauceda's reputation was otherwise, or what he would do behind Mulder's back-- Mulder had seen the man's true face and would stand beside him, his decision to do so already settled.

The silence between them now was deafening, and had begun to compete with the roar in Mulder's head. He spun the chamber of the weapon. The room echoed with the solid *click, click, click* of a full load. Five live rounds.

So full of portent and promise. And prophesy, perhaps--

"Marty?"

"When's your flight?" Mulder didn't look up, his voice a harsh rasp. His eyes ached with the effort to focus in the muted light. He cleared his throat and flexed his shoulders, trying to relieve himself of the weight that had dragged him down to the bed. He was desperate for his cigarette but couldn't manage to raise the appropriate hand.

Sauceda watched him fidget, trying to comprehend the random twitching in his partner's arms. A column of cigarette ash glowed comet-like as it rained down on the carpet.

"Ahm, morning," he said. "At seven. Look, Marty, I'm sorry to dump this on you like this--"

"It's okay, Len. I told you should have gone. Remember? You don't owe me anything."

Sauceda glanced away again, Adam's apple bobbing desperately. "Don't you believe it, kid." He turned back, pinning Mulder with his glare. "Don't ever believe any of it."

"Believe any of what?" Sauceda didn't answer and Mulder slammed the side of his fist against the bed, oblivious to the possible harm to his cigarette. "Goddammit, Len, you're not making any sense--" It was another hiss. Damn Purdue for being just beyond the door. Mulder wanted to roar, to shake some sense into Sauceda, to shake himself free of this unnamable ache.

Sauceda flinched, but didn't move otherwise, a dark shape against the backdrop of the drape, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. Mulder swore again, feeling ridiculous-- sitting in a darkened bedroom with another man, playing with guns--

He dropped the weapon on the bed beside him. It felt good to be free of it, its weight, its potential for misery, and after a moment's consideration, he leaned forward and pushed it across the mattress, leaving it just beyond the reach of his arm. He resumed his place at the other edge of the bed and took a steadying puff from what was left of his cigarette.

"Look, Len, you're obviously in some kind of trouble. Let me help you sort--"

"Shit!" Sauceda thundered across the room and snatched up the revolver. "You can't even help yourse-- Shit! Shit! Shit!" Sauceda stood a moment, rocking on his heels like he didn't know whether to run or collapse onto the mattress himself. He put his free hand on his hip and gestured with the weapon without managing to point it at Mulder. "Look," he lectured, "sometimes a man just has to make some decisions, okay? And this one-- this one's mine, Marty. 'S got nothing to do with you."

"Uh huh. So that's why you're trusting me with a gun all of a sudden? What's next? A belt? A shoelace, maybe?"

Sauceda didn't answer immediately, and Mulder realized finally that the man was panting, dark curls plastered to his forehead despite the too-cold blast of the a/c. Sauceda's mouth worked again, but it took a few tries before words began to form.

"Don't you do me like that, Marty. Don't you go kill yourself and leave me with the guilt for the rest of my life. You son of a bitch! Don't you *do* me like that--"

Mulder's face twisted, a combination of sarcasm and the bitter taste in his mouth. "Ah, come on, Len. Don't tell me you haven't fantasized about having my body on your gurney--"

Sauceda took two rapid steps, the gun swinging up, butt-end first, ready to slap some sense into his partner's head. He stopped before Mulder could react, however, and stood there, gasping in horror, words quite beyond him.

Mulder's head was pounding like he'd already received the blow. He didn't rise, though. He couldn't. He pressed the heel of his left hand against his eye, needing his right hand on the mattress to keep him vertical. "I'm not," he answered carefully, "going to kill myself." Sauceda was too quiet and Mulder glanced at him. Sauceda, red-faced, looked far from convinced. Mulder resisted the urge to grit his teeth. "Jeezus Christ, Lenny, if that was what I really wanted, don't you think I'd've done it by now? I swear to God--"

"We both know you and God aren't exactly on speaking terms, Marty," Sauceda seemed to be enjoying his anger. "I swear, you'd lie to *Him* faster than you would to me, even."

For some reason, that one hurt. Perhaps it was just a cumulative effect, but for Mulder, it was all finally far too much. Sauceda's face fell, anger subsiding back to anxiety, as something in Mulder's eyes registered for him. Mulder wasn't in the mood for apologies right now, however. And he'd be damned if he'd take part in some emotional striptease just to validate his own sanity.

"So," Mulder hissed, "I won't swear. And you take your fucking gun and go to hell."

Sauceda's shoulders slumped and he dropped his eyes, chewing his lip. The revolver slapped against his thigh softly. After a deep breath, Sauceda slapped it again, an unconscious gesture, apparently just needing to feel something solid and real on the end of his arm while he came to a decision. He nodded without glancing up.

"Okay, then, Marty."

Mulder watched him move to the headboard and pull back the bedspread. Sauceda walked as though through water and it took several grabs before he located the sheet. He tossed the corner of it aside, then took a moment punching the pillow back into shape, dully pounding out the impression Mulder's head had left on it. The pillow endured the assault patiently, Mulder watching in fascination. Satisfied at last, Sauceda shoved the weapon beneath the pillow, then stood, staring at it.

"Len--?"

Mulder didn't complete the sentence. Sauceda had pounced at the pillow again, holding it pressed down tightly with both hands. Mulder was struck with the idea of Sauceda trying to smother his own revolver. Somehow, though, it just wasn't very funny.

Sauceda regarded him over his shoulder. "Our secret. Right, kid?"

Mulder blinked, lost in this impetuous maze. His conscious mind said he was a fool. Said that Sauceda was an even bigger one. That one of them was obviously having a nervous breakdown. Mulder's unconscious mind, however, was ominously still, conspicuous by its silence.

Sauceda straightened, still watching Mulder, and chewing his lip again. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, scrubbing like something had soiled his palms. Mulder was reminded, oddly enough, of a picture he'd seen once during a rare trip to a friend's Sunday school class: Pilate drying his hands before the screaming mob. It had fascinated him all those years ago and he saw it again in dreams occasionally even now: the too-vibrant colors, the flat, empty faces portrayed by the artist. Pilate's hands crumpling that crimson cloth.

Sauceda managed a hollow smile, despite the fact that Mulder hadn't answered. "Right then," he chirped. "That's, uhm-- that." He said it like some business had been settled, and like he was glad of it without knowing exactly what business it was he had settled. Damned if Mulder could tell him. "Come on, kid--" Sauceda waved an arm awkwardly and Mulder thought at first he was going to be slapped. Or hugged, God forbid. "Let's go eat--"

"I'm not hungry." Mulder growled the words, fighting for the anger that had so insulated him of late. It was a familiar shield, a well-worn armor, and slipped easily into place now. It lent a straightness to his spine, steadiness to his limbs and he stood. The motion was abrupt, electric, and Sauceda stepped back, wary and suddenly anxious. It was Mulder's turn to cross to the window. He tugged the sheers aside and stared out without really seeing. DC at night was like most any other city, anyway.

He felt Sauceda watching him and shoved his cigarette into his mouth just to have something to be doing. There wasn't much of it left now and Mulder heard some area of his brain musing over the fact that there wasn't a great deal left of a lot of things in his life. He didn't follow the thought very far though.

"Marty?"

"I'm gonna take a nap. I'll eat later." He didn't turn to regard the man.

"Marty, you just took a nap--"

"So I'll take another. Or is the Bureau rationing sleep now?"

He took a deep drag off the cigarette without enjoying it. Sauceda was right. He needed to give the damned things up. Behind him, Sauceda shuffled, approaching, paused as Mulder stiffened. The same shoes shuffled back again, restoring the distance uncertainly.

"I didn't mean to upset you with the gun, Marty. I just wanted you to be safe, is all. We can't-- Purdue can't protect you from everything." The final sentence was whispered with such pain Mulder felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

"You're not going to tell me what this is about are you?" Mulder's own voice was soft, kinder than he felt. He didn't turn, giving Sauceda the privacy he might need to reconsider. It was Sauceda's decision, and the idea of forcing the old man to violate it just made his gut burn.

There was no response for a few minutes, although he thought he heard Sauceda moan just the slightest bit, a kind of pitiful little half-choked noise like a kitten might make--

Mulder lowered his head and swore silently.

Sauceda whispered behind him. "I can't Marty. I'm sorry."

The answer echoed in the room and Mulder's mind echoed Purdue's voice right behind it: *Sauceda's tired, Mulder. You scare him. You know that?*

"You're gonna do okay, though, kid. Right? Purdue'll keep your back covered. And Fowley won't be such a bad partner once you set her straight. Besides, she's got better legs than me."

Even with his back turned, Mulder could hear the smile, forced as it was. He nodded, ignoring the invitation to provide information on his emotional state. He just didn't have any at the moment. He knew only that he couldn't step out that door and pretend anymore. Not for a while anyway.

"I'm okay, Len. I'm just tired." Mulder wondered how many times he'd spoken that lie. Wondered how many times Sauceda had told similar lies to him. Wondered how often those lies had become the truth. Like now. Suddenly, Mulder felt he could sleep forever. He leaned his hand against the window, felt the glass yield-- oh so slightly-- with the pressure of his palm. A few more heartbeats in silence and he sensed, more than heard Sauceda's slow shuffle to the door. Felt it when he turned back.

"Marty. I-- I'll call you. You know, to keep in touch. Okay? Will that be okay?"

Mulder nodded, again. "Sure, Len." He was grateful for the window there steadying him, grateful for something to hold him up against the weariness. "That'd be great."

Across the room, Sauceda seemed to be weighing his sincerity. Or maybe he'd just lost the ability to walk. Which ever, it was a temporary problem, and he moved again after a long moment, Mulder certain of every step he took even without seeing it. There was a soft *click* as the door opened slightly, Sauceda taking one final look, at war with himself and losing. Then the door closed, finally, another soft, solid *click.*

And even with the door between them, Mulder knew what Sauceda was thinking: he had made, without doubt, the biggest mistake of his life.

"Fox?"

There was a hand on his face. The touch was as tentative as a new lover's, an intimate partner not yet familiar with the details of his flesh, and uncertain of welcome. The hand pressed whisper soft, trailing hesitantly across his brow, lingering, fingers ruffling his hair. Another reticent stroke, down toward his neck this time, and as the palm passed his cheek, there was the faintest scent of lavender soap. The brush of manicured nails on the pressure-points of his throat set up a vague warmth in his groin, then the fingers were in his hair again, gentle and concerned, lovingly tangling his mind around too many images: Phoebe giggling at him over the edge of a book, Rachel asleep on his arm, Kay settling her body across his to receive a kiss--

Passion, wrapped in various disguises, stirred, trying to free him from the paralyzing fever of his dream, the pounding of his heart seeking a more comfortable rhythm. The nightmare, however, would not be ignored. It retaliated viciously, dragging Kay down in its fathomless haze, engulfing Rachel in blood and grabbing Phoebe by the throat. Mulder struggled against the images, but could not escape the battlefield that lay between sleep and consciousness, held hostage on the front lines of his own psyche. Memories of what was real and what was merely imagined whirled like a Mobius strip, twisting round and round and round until he lost all sense of time and place, until he could no long distinguish between wakefulness and sleep.

Nightmare drew the hand on his face-- soft and feminine-- within its world, and Mulder recalled the events of his dream, living them again in one tremendous rush: a child's giggle, a gasp. The explosion of a hollow point in his chest, the weight of his body falling backward, sprawling onto the bed. His sweat was blood suddenly, and it boiled like lava across his ribs, soaking into the tangled sheet beneath him.

And the hands themselves-- the hands, so tender, running over his body, taking their fill of him before she would fill him with the blade--

Fingers, no longer simply dreamt, but felt, slid from his neck onto his chest, a gentling gesture that inflamed his every instinct and ignited adrenaline into a frenzied panic. The nightmare was no match for his desperation, for his will to live, and it fled, releasing muscles from the paralysis of sleep. Mulder grabbed for the woman before he even got his eyes open, clutching her with both hands, his chest screaming for air he couldn't draw in, would have no need for if he failed to stop her. She squealed, too surprised for a full-throated scream, caught completely off guard. He should be dead after all, shouldn't he? Shot through the heart. He shouldn't be capable--

-- Of feeling her knee in his gut as he wrestled her down onto the bed with him-- Of feeling her gasping, calling his name, pleading-- His mind had no time for such considerations, however. There was only one thing necessary. Where was the knife? Where was the fucking knife? Which hand--

Mulder straddled the struggling body in the darkness, running his palms up her arms savagely, crushing silk and bruising flesh, seeking her fists and the weapon that she surely must have ready for him. Within seconds he held both her hands in his-- empty! He pressed her deep into the mattress as she continued to resist.

"Goddammit, where is it? Where's the goddam knife? I'll kill you right now, bitch!--"

"Fox!"

The voice was wholly, completely terrified. And horrifyingly familiar. Mulder forced his eyes to focus in the gloom.

"Diana?"

Fowley, held tight between his knees, stopped her struggling, wide-eyed, pupils dilated with fear. She nodded, too busy panting to manage words.

Mulder swore, releasing her abruptly. He scrambled against the rumpled bedclothes, getting himself free of her, of the bed. Standing was difficult, walking impossible, but he tried it anyway, stumbling as he backed away to the door. He was shivering, suddenly and uncontrollably. It possessed him like angry spirits. He was furious. With himself. With Fowley. With Sisyphus for not being here. For not letting him finally settle this--

Fowley, slowly realizing that Death had found her blissfully unworthy of attention, struggled to sit upright. One hand, guilty and shamed, fluttered to her throat, grasping a small chain of gold to steady herself.

"I'm--" she flushed pure scarlet. "I was just checking on you, Fox. I didn't mean to startle you. I'm sorry...."

The apology and its sincerity almost strangled him.

The doorframe was near at hand and he leaned against it, unable to walk the short distance to the sitting room, unwilling to abandon a victim. *His* victim.

"I'm sorry." He surprised himself that speech was possible.

Fowley blinked at him from the center of the bed, registering he knew not what. She suddenly seemed aware that her skirt was way too far up her hips, though. Mulder turned his head as she jerked at the fabric, making a valiant effort to back out of the bed and right her clothing at the same time.

Mulder kept his eyes down. He had problems of his own. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Icy liquid ran down his body, saturating his waistband and slicking his hips and thighs. His jeans felt like they'd been glued in place. His trembling rose and fell with each breath and he tried to tell himself it was just the combination of the a/c and the sweat. More lies.

Mulder propped himself against the door and called into the sitting room. "Lenny!"

"He's not here, Fox."

Mulder glanced back, surprised by the steadiness of Fowley's voice, grateful for it. She was almost herself again: her blouse wrinkled but tucked, her skirt down to a slightly more modest level. She was busy smoothing her hair into place, using her fingers like a comb.

"So where is he?" Mulder demanded. His throat burned, leaving his voice a harsh rasp. He hated being scared like this, emotions still locked somewhere in dreams, coloring everything that should now be reality. Light and shadow didn't fall quite right, either. Vague impressions of people not actually present still clung to the corners of his mind, whispering just outside his peripheral vision. "Why isn't Lenny here?"

Fowley frowned at his injured voice. She shook her head, rounding the bed, but taking each step slowly, afraid of startling him again. Mulder felt himself blush and hated that, too.

"He was next door," she tilted her head, indicating the wall and the suite beyond it. "He wasn't feeling well and decided to get some rest before his flight. But Purdue was called out a couple of hours ago. I think he may have taken Sauceda with him."

"Called out? Called out where?"

She smiled, actually smiled at him, delighted to have something of value to him at last. The war on the bed was forgotten, apparently.

"Detective Harris," she explained, "called a few hours ago. He'd been searching old medical records looking for those miscarriages you mentioned. In your profile." She paused, frowning again as Mulder nodded, trying to hurry her past ancient knowledge. She obviously didn't realize the problems he was having just standing.

She studied him, fingering her chain of gold again. "Anyway, Harris said one of the names rang a bell and he kept going back to it. Then it dawned on him. Cecile Fuche. Sisy-phus." She said the word slowly, like she feared he wouldn't note the similarities without such assistance. He nodded again, irritably, the motion painful, his head raging. Her smile broadened with his acknowledgement, too caught up in her personal triumph to note his impatience. "So Harris tracked her down. She fit your profile to a T, Fox. Full-time housewife. Husband dead about a year. No kids. She'd lived in Columbus but had been making regular trips to Wheeling since the murders there began. Her credit cards put her in DC now. In the Embassy *Square* Suites on N Street."

Which was, what? A half block up, maybe two blocks over? Fowley didn't bother saying the words. They echoed loudly enough on their own.

"Shit!" Mulder fled, anger lending him strength. The room tilted a bit as he stepped through the door, and he caught the doorframe to right it again, willed himself into the sitting room. He just couldn't watch Fowley play with her little chain any longer. The television played softly, another movie no one was watching, Woody Allen droning endlessly. He felt Fowley moving up behind him, close but not touching, giving him a measure of personal space.

"Fox? Are you all right? I--"

"They've found her, then. It's over." His voice was hollow in his own ears, grating, and it hurt to speak. Silence, however, was impossible. "Fuck Purdue. *I'm* the primary agent on this case and he leaves me napping like some damned old man while he goes out to make the collar. All that bullshit about trusting him--"

"No, Fox. It isn't like that--"

Mulder had reached the table and turned to squint at her, both hands squeezing the back of a chair for support as the room took another dive. "The hell you say--" Purdue's actions were not standard operating procedure. Hell, they weren't even common courtesy.

"Sisyphus checked out of her room this afternoon, Fox." Fowley's tone was patient but not condescending. "Purdue didn't want to create a SWAT situation and called the hotel management to put them on alert. They confirmed that she'd check out at 3:30 this afternoon." She waited for some sign of surprise or disappointment, shrugged when none seemed forthcoming. "Evidence techs are going over her hotel room, and meanwhile we've got an APB out for every cab, bus, plane and rental car company in three states. We'll find her, Fox. And you'll be there. It's still your case."

Mulder shook his head, regretting the motion when the room whirled a bit faster. This time it showed no sign of slowing. He swore, blinking hard, trying to clear the doubled vision just behind his eyes. The nightmare was far from being done with him, but the impressions it had left him were too confused to be easily categorized and dealt with. Too many of the images just held no connection to the others: a motel room, a suburban sidewalk, a child's scream, a body across a bed. A wooded lot, trees and roots that tripped and tore. A gunshot, a strangulation-- his Adam's apple still throbbing from the pressure of the hands around his neck--

Not Sisyphus' hands, either. Too strong, too large. A man's hands. Besides, Sisyphus wouldn't kill with her bare hands. A gun, a silk tie she could hold by the very ends-- these were close enough for her. She enjoyed the feel of death but was still too squeamish to thrill to the sensation of the actual dying. Such intimacy embarrassed her.

Tonight there had been more than one dream, then. More than one murder. And more than one murderer, with separate crimes having nothing to do with one another, nothing in common. Except that Mulder was privy to them both, tripping over them tangled together in the darkness, defenseless in his sleep. Two against one.

Had they caught that bastard in Fredericksburg? Damn them--

Caught in the emotional upheaval of other people's destructions, Mulder tried concentrating on his breathing, something rational and normal, something he could control. Fowley took a step forward and he jerked away, moving into the room, refusing to look at her further.

"Call Purdue," he demanded.

"Fox, he swore he'd call before they made an arrest--"

"No, dammit, *call* him. Tell him to search her hotel. The other rooms. There's a body there somewhere." He licked his lips. "I'll lay money on it."

He didn't need a dream to tell him the truth of it. The similarities in the names of the hotels were enough: Sisyphus knew where he was. There had been no error on her part. She was simply teasing again, playing with Purdue and his best-laid plans. And that meant she had plans all her own. Purdue would have guessed that much, though.

Fowley was searching his face. He realized the fact but refused to return the regard, focusing instead on the not-quite empty air just above her head. She didn't stare long, however, and she didn't argue. The phone was in her hand in a minute. She dialed without hesitation.

"Do you want to speak to him?" she asked as she waited for the line to answer.

Mulder gave a brief twist of his head in response. He felt far too ill, suddenly, the room too close, too warm, surreal within his epidemic lack of clarity. His skin crawled with the sensation of touch, the careful, proficient hands of Sisyphus-- no, Cecile Fuche. Beautiful name. As she had been beautiful once. Too many years ago now, she would say. And how did he know that she would say so? He wondered at his certainty, wondered why such things should be so important now.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

Her voice, Fowley's voice, startled him with its proximity, and he realized that some minutes must have passed: the phone was back in its cradle and she was watching him. She maintained a respectful distance, certainly, but those eyes would not release him, concerned and expectant, her body turned slightly away in an attempt not to be too invasive, fingers tense on her necklace, a private talisman. Mulder squinted, trying to determine if there was some small charm attached to the chain, an amulet, perhaps, a cross. There was nothing.

"Fox?"

"What?" He asked the question, but slowly, wanting no answer, wanting no one to be there to need an answer. He wanted to be alone. He really *needed* to be alone--

"I've read your other cases, Fox." Her voice was careful, but intent as if the words were being dragged from her. "You're a fine investigator. But some of it..." she bit her lip against his silence, his refusal to look directly at her. "After a while," she insisted, "you know who the next one is, don't you? Not a name or enough to pick them out of an entire city, but you can describe them, know how they're going to die--"

"Like shit." The room was closing in, the violence of his dreams catching up with him, and Mulder trembled against the inevitable. There was a Doppler shift in the light beyond Fowley's head, a subtle alteration in the color of the wall in just that particular spot. Air, taking shape--

Fowley stared at him, not bothering to hide her frustration. "You're denying it? Police and sheriffs in over a dozen counties have falsified reports regarding your work?"

Mulder's arms flinched up across his chest, fingers digging into his arms, talons to hold himself still, to protect himself from the explosion building within. Fowley's voice echoed in his head and he saw Kay, her face bruised, one eye puffy. *He'd* done that. He could do it again. When the visions overcame him like this, he was capable of anything--

"Or is it shit because you wish you hadn't told them?" Fowley demanded, oblivious to the roar in his head, the fear making his heart skip. "Because it did no good: they still didn't find them in time and you came so close to being labeled psychotic yourself? You know what I think?" she plowed on, ignoring his grunt. "I think you know more than you're telling even now. Not enough to stop the killings, you're not that cold-blooded, but things that they'd put you away for just for knowing--"

"What will it take?" he pleaded. He shouldn't be pleading, dammit, but he was lost and losing more ground with every second. "For five minutes alone? What do I have to do?" He backed away from her, moving slowly, cautious in spite of his terror, not trusting his eyes to see the truth of things, the location of things. The figures were moving, slipping in and out of his peripheral vision, walking along the walls and whispering. Soon he'd be able to hear only them if he wasn't careful--

Fowley, however, didn't see them. "Fox. I... Paterson showed me your journal. The one he took from you in Shreveport."

Mulder froze, the shadows dancing now.

"I only read a few pages," Fowley continued, biting her lip against the intensity of his face. "On the third victim. Jenny Weidenfield."

Mulder turned back to glance at her, remained there, caught in some kind of spell. His eyes were hypnotic as she made her confession, and Fowley was unable to hold the words back, charmed by the cobra's gaze as Mulder focused on the wall just beyond her shoulder, squinting like the light hurt his eyes.

"You wrote what you couldn't tell the sheriff," she said and her voice quavered slightly. "How she'd believed this was happening to her because she'd stolen her brother's X-Man comics and hid them under her bed. That she was so sorry for having done it, but the killer just told her to shut up when he... before he silenced her. You were angry that... that no one would ever know how sorry she was or how much she liked cherry ice cream. That her favorite color was yellow and that she had a crush on Ernie, that little muppet on Sesame Street. And you couldn't tell them for her. Because that just wasn't done. That was certifiable insanity."

She bit her lip again and Mulder blinked as one of the shadows stepped from the wall beside her and walked unperceived across her face. Mulder's eyes followed the fleeing specter. The shadow turned to regard him, the rapt face of a child, and he turned away abruptly.

"I'm going to take a shower," he rasped. Hide behind the wall of water where they wouldn't come.... Maybe, too, it would wake him up from this nightmare, wash it all away... And if it didn't, well, Fowley wouldn't be so close when it all went to hell--

Fowley followed him into the bedroom, silent, watchful, allowing him several lengths of distance. He walked faster, retreating before her advance but unable to run. He stumbled, tugging off his shirt as he reached the bed. He was shaking, and it was from fear. Fear because the tide was turning, the spook was rearing up to take control and the sea of madness was not so far behind him now. Fear because Fowley was here, an unknown quantity, would be here when the wave hit, and he had no guarantees that he could spare her from it, how it would react to her presence. He turned, a final effort.

"Diana, you need to leave me alone." His voice was a rasp, viciousness forced but unwavering. There was a thinly-veiled threat in his posture, in his tone, that froze her where she stood. No, this-- this wasn't right. He shouldn't be panicking her. He should be reassuring her that all was well-- God, he really wasn't handling this very well-- Mulder decided to try to recover the situation, tried exuding reassurance he didn't have.

"I just want to take a shower," he repeated rationally.

"I'm not stopping you, Fox." She blinked twice, body stiff, quite still, voice carefully patient. She was good. He'd give her that much.

"I'm not leaving the damned door open. Understand?"

She favored him with that appreciative brow again, so oblivious to the whispers in his head, unconcerned that several people had just stepped through her, fanning out through the bedroom to take their positions. "Not *every* woman on this planet is hot for your body, Agent Mulder," she quipped. "Don't give me a reason to come in there and I won't."

Mulder didn't answer, couldn't think clearly enough to speak. He stumbled for the dresser, amazed that he could recall that he would actually need clothes-- froze to find a little figure between him and the dresser. She smiled at him. She had two front teeth missing, and a memory he could not possibly possess, recalled itself to Mulder suddenly: a bedroom done up in pink wallpaper and Barbie sheets. The little girl's excitement as she'd slipped the teeth beneath her pillow. Last week. Just last week, she'd placed two tiny teeth under her pillow. Just last week she'd knelt down to say her prayers and said an extra one for the Tooth Fairy, requesting safety for her journey.

She giggled at him now, teeth still missing, standing there a foot away from him, knowing his thoughts. *You didn't pray for yourself, though, did you?* he wanted to scream at her. She shook her head, the smile never dimming, and stepped aside to let him pass.

Mulder grabbed the dresser to keep from falling down, fumbling for the knob only on instinct. It took concentration just to convince himself he was still sane.

Fowley watched his choices: jeans, T-shirt, socks--

"No, Fox," she commanded imperiously. "Just underwear while you're in the bathroom. You can wrap up in a towel and change when you're back in the bedroom. Sauceda's orders."

"Screw Sauceda," Mulder hissed, slamming the drawer and yanking open another. He wasn't certain he could walk just yet, anyway.

Fowley's voice was caustic with sarcasm. "You screw Sauceda, sir. Just underwea--"

"Goddammit--"

"Look. You want an argument? Fine. We'll stand here and argue. I can do that in spades. And I'll win." She crossed her arms as he spun around to face her, but she took a step back. Just one step before she caught herself. Her voice was steady. "I'm under orders, sir. You're not taking anything but your jockeys in there with you. Argue with me and you'll be streaking."

Mulder's clothes twisted in his fists. Shadows, flung at light speed, splattered across the wall, turning slowly, peeping out at him from around the framed prints and the drapery. Were they retreating? Or regrouping? There was a horrifying pressure in his chest that he was supremely grateful for. It helped him to concentrate.

"I-am-not-going-to-hurt-myself." His voice was hard. He wondered why he should find it so important for her to believe him.

"I'm glad to hear it," she answered reasonably. "Then you'll have no objections to the order."

Mulder hurled his collection of clothes onto the bed. "First you're reading my journal, now you're telling me what I can't wear--"

She took a deep steadying breath. "I'm sorry, Fox. I had no more right to read it than Patterson had to steal it. But I didn't know you then. I apologize--"

"Fuck you. You don't know me *now.* Don't you patronize me. Don't you *ever* patronize me. I'm taking this shower. You understand? And I'm locking the door." If Mulder's eyes got any darker, they'd be bleeding.

Fowley licked her lips. She formed the words carefully. "The locks, sir, have been removed. Purdue's orders."

He stared at her. She temporarily stopped breathing and her eyes changed to Kay's again. Kay standing shivering in a motel room with a maniac three steps away-- Mulder slammed against the dresser in his panic to be free of her, to have her at a safe distance. She stepped back as he passed her-- several steps this time, body tense-- but Mulder didn't notice, intent on his new mission. He stumbled to the bathroom door and checked the lock. There wasn't one. *Jeezus god, Jeezus god--*

Terror overcame him. He was trembling again and it had nothing to do with locks. Locks were suddenly, however, his only frame of reference, the most important things on earth. He scrambled back to the bedroom, Fowley wide-eyed and open mouthed as she watched him from a safe distance. No lock on the bedroom door and he slammed it into the wall. He spun to flick on the light switch and scan the room. All the exposed electrical sockets had been sealed. The bedroom phone had been removed to avoid any nasty entanglements with the goddam twisted little cords--

Mulder paced back through the suite, ignoring the shadows dancing after him: the little hall to the bedroom, the cramped, empty bathroom, the sitting room with its half-assed kitchenette. The bar was locked. The glasses on the shelf above it were soft plastic. He slapped at them, jerking a drawer open: cheap plastic utensils and no knives. There was a stained ring in the Formica where the Mister Coffee should have been--

The entire suite had been politely and efficiently childproofed, probably before they'd even allowed Mulder into the hotel. And except for the bathroom mirror, he hadn't even noticed. They must have been laughing their asses off--

"Shit!" Didn't they see? Didn't they understand? If he'd wanted to kill himself, all he'd had to do was stay home and wait for Sisyphus to do it for him-- or just use Lenny's gun. "Fucking hell!"

And Fowley had followed him again. Still giving him distance, but following, silent as he slammed cabinet doors and overturned chairs, using every word of profanity he'd ever learned.

Adrenaline poured off him with the sweat. He was lost now, completely unable to turn the tide of mania threatening to engulf him. He could feel it, a hot breath rasping against the back of his neck, and there was no place to hide from it, no place he could run--

He spun around anyway, fleeing back the way he'd come. Fowley flinched as he passed her, and he stopped, frozen with the sudden realization of how truly vulnerable she was--

Facts ran helter-skelter with the fear now as he stared at her: she was a woman, not exactly dressed for a fight. He outweighed her by a good fifty pounds and he'd had just as much training as she had, maybe more. Some twisted part of his mind rolled over with the comforting thought that she'd hesitate to use a gun on him even if she had one. It was the same set of warped brain cells that made him equally conscious of the fact that he was only half dressed and she was breathing too hard.

*God damn Purdue.*

Mulder backed away, putting a additional yard of space between himself and his soft-eyed warden. Fowley was pale, breathing through her mouth.

"Do you want me to call Sauceda?" she asked softly, apparently not knowing anything else to say.

*It's too late, it's toolate, it'stoolate...*

"I don't need Sauceda," he rasped, a plea he scarcely had words for. "I just need to be alone right now."

"Fox," she caught herself pleading, and choked on the words, regaining her composure with supreme effort. "I can't trust you alone. Purdue's orders."

Mulder bit back more profanity, jerking with it anyway.

"Just ten minutes," he managed finally. "Diana. Just ten minutes. You stand outside the door. In the hall. And then I'll let you back in."

"Fox, would you like something to calm you down--"

"It's too late for drugs. Help me, Diana. Please. Just ten minutes. Not a second longer. I promise. I'll be okay. I swear."

She trembled against the sweat making her blouse stick. He licked his lips at the sight of her, panicked and trembling and wrapped in softly revealing silk. He closed his eyes against the image, shocked that his mind could still go there even now. Marveled that her voice could be so steady.

"I know you need to feel in control of your life," she was reasoning aloud, the psychobabble he'd used too many times in similar circumstances. "I know you need the time to yourself, I just can't give it to you right--"

"You don't know shit," he hissed. "Don't tell me what I need."

"Then what the hell does ten minutes buy you?" She was shouting finally, the fear and confusion too much. "What is it you need to do in ten minutes that I have to be outside the damned door--"

Her loss of control was all Mulder needed to slip headfirst into chaos. It all snapped suddenly. He closed the distance between them, stalking, eyes hard, beyond reason. He watched her flinch but kept walking. He pronounced his words deliberately, desperately. "I'm not going to *do* anything. I just need the time. I need to be alone. I need you to leave me alone." It was a mantra now and even he wasn't hearing it.

She swallowed hard, looking up at him, his face inches from her own. She took a deep breath. And braced herself.

"No," she whispered.

He grabbed her upper arms-- more gently than she would have given him credit for-- but firm enough to lift her from the floor. She knew, somehow, that his intention was simply to get her out the door. It didn't make her fight any less desperate, however, as he carried her across the room. They had the same training but he had size and desperation on his side of the balance sheet. And this was one argument he was determined to win.

She struggled wildly, twisted in his hands. Mulder held her upper arms pinned to her body, however, and her nails scratched uselessly at his elbows, trying to claw at his bare chest. She twisted her hips, legs flailing to trip him up. He held her too close to knee him effectively, but he jerked anyway, twisting her to his left side. Her heels slammed hard into the wall, and then suddenly she was kicking at the door, pushing with everything she had, trying to keep him from the doorknob.

Christ, wasn't there anyone out there to hear--

But no. No one was expecting attack from the inside. Not on the third floor.

Fowley braced herself to scream, to make herself heard by the agents in the lobby three floors down. One final kick, however, and Mulder had finally lost his grip. She slipped from his grasp, feet still flailing, her shout nothing more than a surprised "Oh!"

Mulder grabbed her up on instinct, trying to protect her from the fall even as he struggled against his own overwhelming demons. His hands found her waist, the small of her back, and he had a clear vision suddenly of a wall in a diner, a petite brunette stumbling, laughing as he caught her--

Fowley wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, instinctively allowing him to gather her up, and they stumbled together until her back was against the door. Mulder was panting, certain he would faint from lack of oxygen, longing for the event. Still, Fowley refused to yield her ground.

"By God," she gasped, "if I'm going out the door you're coming with me--"

Mulder gulped air, trembling, his cheek against her ear, her hair plastered to his face, the silk of her blouse stuck tight against his chest.

Her breathing was just as frantic as his own. "You can't do this to me, Fox Mulder." He could have sworn she was crying. "You can't. I'm staying. I'mstayingI'lmstayingI'msta-"

He shut his eyes against her voice, against her breath, hot and sweet as feather kisses on his chest. His body was braced no longer against her struggle, but against his own approaching defeat. He shook with the effort to choke back the tide but it was hopeless. He couldn't spare her. The wave broke over him in a flash of blinding agony, his head exploding with the force. It tore down his neck and slammed into his chest and his body clenched with the sudden impact.

Fowley cried out in terror at the convulsive transformation. Mulder registered her panic and released her abruptly, slamming both fists into the solid door to either side of her, seeking pain-- anything that would drive the horror away. Fowley cringed against the violence but refused to let go her grip.

The howl that escaped him was pure animal, absolute pain.

He swore all the way down to the floor as he collapsed, swore because he was collapsing, swore because she was here to see. Fowley held him tight, crumpling down with him. He didn't resist her, pulled her to him instinctively as the sobs shook him.

This was no cry of release, no washing of shame. It was hard and violent and harrowing. It made her body ache as it rattled though his chest and into her own. Her bones screamed in echo against the onslaught.

She said not a word. No soft cooing noises, no sighs of reassurance. She had none. Nothing was adequate for this. Nothing in her experience could have equipped her for it. All the pain Mulder had feared to lash out with, he turned resolutely in upon himself.

In his last vestige of conscious reason, he released her, throwing his arms wide across the floor. Fowley refused to let him go, however. She feared him as much in that moment as she had when he'd raised his fists, but she clung all the tighter. Draped across his chest, her legs wrapped across his hips, she held him fast and he was powerless to prevent her. Her hands on his neck were cool, motionless. Her breath was warm on his chest. Her lips touched him occasionally, moved to the hollow of his sternum in what might have been a caress had he been conscious enough to comprehend.

She waited with him for the grief to concede. Not abate, not dissipate, just surrender to exhaustion. It was a long wait, it felt like hours. And still she held him, her hair fanned across his chest, and he allowed it, words and motion beyond him.

Alex Krycek, however, was most decidedly not into that kind of thing.

What he was into, at the moment, was a quiet bit of search and seizure. Nothing too obvious, of course, nothing that would be missed or couldn't be explained. An incriminating letter, perhaps. A list of lucrative telephone numbers. Or -- dared he hope? -- a journal, like the one he'd found in New Mexico, filled with formulas and scientific tables. And some very interesting notes. After three years, Krycek's cache was small, certainly, but carefully hoarded: a tiny phone book in a safe deposit box in Evanston, Illinois, three cryptic letters strewn from Akron to Portland. The journal bided its time in a coffin buried in a quiet Houston cemetery -- a kind of secret insurance policy, the cash value yet to be determined.

The light, such as it was, followed him, bathed him, licking tormented flames across his back, painting the soft leather of his jacket with a reddish gore. The glow threw his shadow before him and it stretched, unnoticed, climbing the wall, lumbering and alien. Krycek continued his advance, and the shadow twisted its head and shoulders flat across the ceiling, paused, hunched, sighed.

He pulled the first drawer open and blinked down into the well of darkness. His orders had been precise: nothing was to be disturbed except the target. The words rolled over in his head, reverberating in that clipped British tone that too often grated down his spine. It was all so cloak and dagger, so dark, he'd often wondered if he'd hired himself into some old B-movie crew, a badly scripted film noir, its characters moving only in shades of gray: pitch black against charcoal against slate against ash against blinding white.

"The presentation of the target," he was reminded, "is essential." Well, wasn't it always? "No deviation from your explicit orders will be tolerated. You have no personal agenda here. Understood?"

No matter how absurd it got, Krycek never laughed. There was a knife-edge to the old Brit's voice, a less-than-subtle reminder of the dagger that lay ready, always ready, even beneath the old man's most casual conversations. He had no doubt that the Brit would cut him in half as soon as look at him. And probably would, someday.

Krycek's response had been calculatedly indifferent: "Of course," the slight elevation of one eyebrow simply repeating the words. It was a pro forma response, nerveless, the bravado of the terminally criminal. Sometimes Krycek wondered why they let him live. The possible answers to that question made him sweat in spite of the cold.

He explored the recesses of the drawer with his gloved palm, probing to assure himself that it was indeed empty and not merely a trick of shadows. The second drawer held someone's sweater. Krycek patted it down, motions careful but quick, the activity a reflex, skillfully honed. Again, nothing.

He moved on to the third drawer, a fourth, his reflection in the mirror mimicking his movements. The face in the mirror was young, impossibly so, ashen in the shadows, blood-red when he turned just a bit, catching the light. Krycek was twenty-three going on thirteen, face smooth as a mannequin, scrubbed and ready for the back-to-school sales, inoffensive as Mary's lamb. His eyes glittered in the ambered light, green flecked with crimson and orange, feral.

Krycek failed to notice this reflection. And what of it? They say only the mad truly see their own face, after all. A man -- a sane man -- will steal and lie, stab his colleague in the back, then excuse himself to the men's room to wash the blood from his hands. He'll glance up into the mirror then, adjust his tie or pat down his hair. And the glass will give back only a preordained reflection, the barest statistics of what is viewed. The simple truth is: the soul has no two-way mirrors, no observation portal into the interrogation room where the truth awaits, wringing its hands, eager to speak and be done. Truth is a prisoner relegated, without trial, to the darkest recesses of the spirit. Truth is an abomination and the mind cannot abide it. It is a horror that the heart refuses even to consider.

Krycek -- and his shadow brooding above -- hesitated as a thought crossed his frontal lobe. A small twitch of vision, a tightening of the skin along one cheek. A blink and you missed it.

Done with the drawers, Krycek moved to check the back of the dresser itself. He pressed his shoulder to the wall, his shadow collapsing down upon itself, close as his breath. He stretched to pat down the back of the dresser mirror. Nothing taped to the rough wood, nothing clinging to the papered backing of the glass. This assignment would be a dry run, then. He didn't allow himself the luxury of disappointment; most of the time, he walked away with nothing. At least this time he'd had time to look.

"Theirs not to reason why," Krycek chanted softly in the gloom. "Theirs but to do or--" He failed to complete the quote. It was bad luck to speak of one's own death and he had enough to answer for tonight without brokering Fate face to face. He glanced back at the man in the bed: the tousled curls, dark beneath the light, one arm flung in careless repose above his head.

Krycek froze as a voice penetrated the wall next to his ear: a gravelly tenor, not quite distinct enough to be translated. He listened, cheekbone tight against the wallpaper. A door slammed somewhere and there was the slightest answer in the reverberation of the wall against his jaw. It vibrated his teeth softly. Again the voice, oh, so brief. A private dispute, surely; nothing that would concern him. Back, then, to the business at hand.

He turned, noting the dark shadow of a suitcase next to the chair. Possible treasure? One last look and then he'd be gone. He scooped up the battered old case and dropped it onto the bed. It bounced once, dangerously close to the foot peeking out from the rumpled blanket. The foot failed to note its peril, but Krycek slid the suitcase over a few inches, anyway, mindful of the blood soaking out across the sheet.

He'd been given a .22 Ruger for this assignment, untraceable, naturally-- standard issue for an assassin unless the client wanted something truly messy. The death itself was to be clean, he'd been told, the mess to be made afterward. Krycek had recognized the MO from local newspaper reports but hadn't commented. He'd parroted any number of crimes in the past few years. The ballistics wouldn't match, of course. The details wouldn't be exact. But then, they didn't have to be. They just needed to be close enough for law enforcement to dismiss the crime as a copycat. Business dispatched, a threat eliminated, and no nasty questions left to answer. Again, for Krycek, it was all routine.

The first part of the night's business had been accomplished easily enough. Entry hadn't been difficult. He was slender and athletically inclined, and the ventilation system was more spacious than most. Besides, his tool kit would make a CIA operative blush with envy. Krycek had popped the screws and shimmied through the one-by-two grate in the ceiling of the bathroom, lowering his long frame carefully, and dropping soundlessly to the tile. His shoes were still in the airshaft, awaiting his return.

It had been a nice clear shot, too. The man in the bed had already been dead to the world, so to speak, sound asleep, a soft snore greeting Krycek's arrival. The silencer had muffled enough of the blast for neighbors to mistake it for a sound effect on a television program; meanwhile, the old man had never known what hit him. He lay exactly as he had when Krycek had entered: flat on his back, mouth open, the hand above his head resting against the headboard, palm up, the other hand tangled in the blanket. The eyes were open now, though -- a reflex just before the heart had failed -- but the face was still pleasantly serene.

Krycek frowned into the suitcase. The old boy's mother would have been proud: a dozen pairs of clean underwear gleamed at him in bleached cotton splendor. Some files had been slipped between the boxers and the rumpled collection of shirts: autopsy protocols, mostly, and a manila envelope filled with Poloroids. Krycek shuffled through them without interest. There was nothing important here, nothing not attainable from other sources. The phone book, black and well-thumbed, was an enticement he couldn't resist, however. Krycek scanned it eagerly, the pages tinted pink by the light: various first names written in an orderly hand, probably just friends and family, a bank, a dentist, dry cleaner and pharmacy. Krycek pocketed the book for later investigation, but without much hope of finding anything useful.  He took a moment to scan the contents of the shaving kit: an electric shaver, nail clippers, deodorant, toothbrush, Dentu-Creme--

He dropped the kit abruptly as something slammed into the wall behind the dresser. Tubes and toiletries thumped across the carpet. Krycek slid his weapon free of his belt with the speed and grace of a gunfighter. The noise, surely made by something small and solid, repeated itself once more, just a few feet farther to his left. There was the muted echo of a grunt.

Okay. Krycek nodded in the dark, his shadow on the wall repeating the gesture. They were either moving furniture next door or *someone* was getting some pretty intense sex.

Either that, or someone was having a pretty tough time dying.

As yet, however, it was none of his concern. He had a job to finish and he'd wasted enough time as it was. He'd need to get his butt in gear before the bunch next door started arousing someone else's interest. Krycek squatted, collecting the debris at his feet, then paused again as a long low animal howl echoed, rumbling through the wall.

*Hell.* These guys just got more interesting by the minute.

Krycek swore again, poking the kit into the suitcase. He stood, then froze as a flash of pale peach caught his eye. The barest corner of a sheet of paper peeked out at him from the edge of the suitcase's lining. A page of white copy paper, tinted all nice and rosy by the lamp shade.

Krycek grinned. Well, well. Something hidden was always something worthwhile. Perhaps Fate was not as forbidding a lady as he'd imagined.

But it wasn't just a single paper. Instead, the lining yielded up an entire stack, Xeroxed copies of both typed and hand-written notes, tucked like padding beneath the quilted satin. A report of some kind. Or at least the foundation for one. Krycek stepped closer to the lamp, hunching down to decipher the scrawl. The old man's empty eyes watched him as he read.

A psychological analysis, patient sessions. All concerning one Fox Mulder. The tickling on Krycek's neck intensified. He knew the name, had heard it alternately cursed and revered. From what little leaked through the impassive faces of his cancerous mentor and the Brit, Mulder -- the whole clan of them -- was a kind of personal treasure, beyond approach. And beyond control. From what Krycek had noted, he -- this Fox, specifically -- was nothing short of sacred, a cache against some imminent holocaust.

Krycek fanned the papers carefully, considering. It might change his life tomorrow or it might not be useful for years. It might be nothing at all. Or it could be the fucking Holy Grail--

*Note!* The word caught his eye as the page flipped past and he scrambled to recover it: page eleven, a cramped scrawl of ink along the narrow margin. Krycek squinted, trying to decipher the quick, angular scribble. His own handwriting was just as bad, fortunately, and he had a vested interest in comprehending the words:

Krycek folded the sheaf of papers in half and shoved them into the waistband of his pants, next to his weapon. There'd be time to contemplate the error of his ways later. Right now, it was his hide that needed saving. He restored the suitcase to its former location, not concerning himself with the state of the lining. The case was old. No one would consider it important, anyway.

The old man's eyes regarded him passively as he stepped back to the bed. They were black, jet black, void. Even the garish shade would not reflect in them. Krycek shook his head. Sometimes this job just required more overkill than he had the grace to appreciate.

The room next door remained silent. Krycek took a deep breath, unsheathed the hunting knife and set to work.