It was only Wednesday, and Mulder was so tired he could hardly drag himself up the stairs to his apartment. It hadn’t been a hard day so much as a boring one. Like the one before, and the one before that.... Hell, like the last several weeks. It was not a new tactic—bury the bothersome agent with so many trivial little cases and so much routine psych evaluation crap that he would never have the time to stick his nose into things they didn’t want him to.

Well, it had been tried before. It hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now. Sooner or later, he’d get a whiff of something—something out of the ordinary, something that smelled of a cover-up, and he’d go after it come hell or high water. He knew what was going on here, and he wouldn’t let them stonewall him. He was only playing it their way at all because he hadn’t seen his chance yet. Because he wanted to lull them into a false sense of security. Because he was tired.

He was drained in a way that had nothing to do with physical fatigue—it was a mental exhaustion, an all-too-familiar depression. He knew it would pass in time... he just had to hold up until it did. It would have helped if the cases he’d been given had required some amount of effort, but no such luck.

Still, it would pass. He reminded himself of the fact that it would—that it always did—at least a dozen times an hour. It would pass as it always passed, to return worse than ever when something occurred to trigger it again—a case, a nightmare, a stray thought he couldn’t suppress in time....

And each time he grew more and more fearful of the inevitable day the depression would refuse to lift. He knew that it would come... but this was not it. It was important to believe that this was not yet the time.

There was a small girl in a shapeless grey jumpsuit standing in the corridor in front of his apartment—she couldn't have been older than nine or ten. Her mousy hair was cut short in a no-nonsense way and she wore a very calm, almost tranquil expression that looked peculiar on her young features. She was waiting.

Mulder found himself wanting to reach for his gun. He didn't have time to feel ridiculous before the girl spoke. "Special Agent Fox William Mulder. Please confirm this identification. The area is secure."

His eyes narrowed and he stopped where he stood, dropping the briefcase with a muffled thump. Keeping his hand from his weapon was now a conscious effort.

"I'm Mulder," he said cautiously. "Who are you?"

"I have no designation in your aural communication," the girl informed him.

Unless this was some kind of sick joke, the thing that looked like a girl was no girl—at least not in any usual sense of the word. And while there were a number of people Mulder thought fully capable of setting him up like this, it felt real. It was real, he was sure of it.

The knot of fear in his stomach was all but forgotten as the familiar thrill of fascination ran through him, tempting him to forget caution. He resisted... for the moment.

"What do you want?" he asked with characteristic rudeness.

His lack of social skills didn't seem to bother aliens much, at least not nearly as much as it tended to bother humans. That was the advantage of completely incompatible politeness systems—you didn't think anything of rudeness when chances were you wouldn't recognize the other's politeness anyway. Very probably Mulder was being polite, by someone's standards.

This alien, at least, took Mulder's lack of small talk in stride. Perhaps it had reflected on variations in social customs. "We wish to initiate negotiations for a limited agreement of trade," it said.

It stood completely straight, hands at its sides, unmoving except for the minimal motions required for breathing and talking. It hadn't moved in any other way since Mulder had come around the corner from the staircase.

"We are not associated with the others with whom you have had contact. We require information. We offer information in return. Is this acceptable as a basis for further negotiation?"

"What kind of information are we talking about?" Mulder asked suspiciously. "How do I know you're telling the truth—that you haven't been sent by the Consortium to trick me?"

"We require information about the association you mentioned. It would not be profitable for us to trade for something we already possess."

Mulder snorted. "Why are you here if that's the kind of information you're looking for? I don't know anything to speak of on that." Or on anything. But he wouldn't say that. He wouldn't even have thought that if he could have helped it.

The head of the girl-alien made an odd bobbing motion. A nod, Mulder realized. "Affirmative. The information we offer in trade will enable you to obtain the information we require. We have chosen you as primary associate in order to guard against suspicion of our involvement, in the event that a breach of security is noted. Your motive would not be a matter of conjecture. We would not be implicated."

He pretended to think it over, though he didn't really need to. Whatever information these aliens were after, it was certain he'd also want it. It was an insane idea, but it was completely irresistible. And the aliens must have known it would be. Maybe they'd read his personal file. Or maybe they'd just hung out in the FBI cafeteria and listened to the gossip about old Spooky for ten minutes or so.

"I need to know more before I decide," Mulder lied.

Another pseudo-nod. "Can negotiation over terms be considered initiated?"

He hesitated for a moment before throwing caution to the winds. "Yes. Now what exactly—"

"We will resume negotiation at a later period. It is traditional with our people that, when negotiations have been agreed upon, the approached party accept a gift from the initiators as a token of good will. We have deposited our gift in your dwelling. Please indicate if it is acceptable."

She—no, it—or whatever—still didn't move. Mulder advanced cautiously; when he was about to bump into her, she stepped back. She moved almost like a normal girl, but not quite. There was something in the rigid posture of her body, the spare employment of muscles....

The door was unlocked. Why was he not surprised? At least they hadn't broken it down or melted the lock—demolishing doors was probably considered rude by alien standards, at least when you were trying to establish business relations with the owner.

The exchange or one-sided dispensing of gifts under these circumstances wasn't that alien a concept—or, to be precise, it was an alien concept shared by many human cultures. In medieval Europe, the giving of a gift by the host to the guest had been a legally binding gesture that—

Alex Krycek was sitting on his sofa.

Mulder dropped to the floor and rolled for the cover of the nearby easy chair, gun in hand. How could he have been so credulous! All it took was a girl who recited some phrases she'd been taught by a master manipulator and liar and Mulder was ready to drop everything, sign on the dotted line in his own blood, and go UFO-watching.

Krycek hadn't moved a muscle when Mulder came up and propped his arms on a scuffed arm-rest, aiming the gun squarely between the bastard's eyes.

There was something odd about this. Krycek looked as though he were on drugs—he was collapsed into a corner of the sofa, staring off at the ceiling behind Mulder, his face slack and his breathing shallow.

Mulder straightened slowly and reached up to snap on the light. Krycek didn't react.

Keeping the gun trained unwaveringly on the spot just above the root of his enemy's nose, Mulder moved closer until he was standing directly in front of the other man. Krycek was wearing the remains of what might have been a very expensive suit once—it was hard to be certain since it was little more than a crumpled mass of wrinkles and stains now.

His eyes didn't focus—not on Mulder, not on the gun, not on anything. They were all pupil, seeming huge and much too dark in the pallid face. His features were covered by a thin, unhealthy-looking sheen of sweat.

"Please indicate if it is acceptable," the girl said from two yards away.

"This is the gift?" Mulder couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "Krycek is the gift?"

"The gift of an enemy is considered acceptable by our people."

The gift of an enemy.... Christ. "Where the hell did you find him?"

"It called the location Berlin."

"But—how? Why Krycek? What's the matter with him?"

"Its genetic pattern was available. It betrayed you, making it your worst personal enemy. Its current state is caused by the interference of my associate with its control over its voluntary systems. This method made transport feasible and renders it unable to withhold information. If you wish to terminate, state your intention so that my associate may vacate."

Mulder moved closer to the slumped figure on the sofa, the gun almost forgotten in his hand. "He's—possessed? And you—the girl? That's not your body?"

"No," the alien said calmly, making the young girl's voice sound anything but young. "This body was unoccupied."

"Unoccupied?"

"It was in a state of coma."

How about that—aliens who acquired unoccupied bodies. A question of ethics? Doubtful, considering how easily they talked of termination. It was probably easier to handle a body when no one was at home. The girl certainly looked to be in a better state than Krycek. Must be more comfortable for the alien, too.

"But you're not one of the oily ones." That had looked different... strange that it always seemed to show in the eyes.

The girl blinked in an almost human gesture, then shook her head in a jerky way that ruined the effect. "No. We are not of that kind."

"Thought not," Mulder muttered, holstering the gun and hesitantly reaching out to touch Krycek's face. The skin felt cold. "Can he hear me?"

"Yes," Krycek's voice said inflectionlessly. Mulder jumped slightly before he could catch himself. "It is aware. It can be made unaware if you prefer."

"No—no, that's fine. Can he answer questions?"

"I can answer. Its memories are accessible."

There was a pause while Mulder studied the pallid features. Alien take-overs seemed to happen to Krycek the way fender benders happened to other people. Not that it wasn't a nice body in its way, but when there were so many nice bodies around to choose from, it did make you wonder. Some kind of karma? Cosmic radiation? Subconscious psychic signals?

"It is fighting harder against my control," the alien inside Krycek said. "It believes it knows the question you will ask."

"Really." Mulder felt the familiar burn of rage rise and swallowed convulsively, stepping back to prevent himself from doing anything rash. "Imagine. I guess this time you'll have no choice but to tell me, won't you, Krycek—must be a frightening experience for you to be unable to lie. So tell me—did you kill my father?"

There was no change in the body, no tensing, not a hint of expression. Krycek looked like a breathing corpse.

"No," the alien said, moving the rubbery lips. "It killed William Mulder, whom it does not believe to have been your father. It has concluded that Michael James Hunt is your father."

Mulder gaped, too stunned to feel the rush of hate and fury that should have followed the announcement of what he had always known—that this was the man responsible for his father's murder. William Mulder's—his father's!—murder. "Michael James Hunt? Who the hell is Michael Hunt?"

"It knows other designations but believes this to be the most probably genuine one. The Cancerman is your preferred one."

"WHAT?? Krycek, you—!" Mulder stopped just short of accusing the miserable rat of being a liar. It was true enough, but he wasn't talking with him at the moment, and strangely enough, he believed the alien was telling him the truth—that is, the truth as found in Krycek's mind.... Whatever twisted delusions the bastard sold to himself as truth.

It was obvious that Krycek was not only a slimy, murdering, low-life traitor but also a very confused individual.

He shied away from the knowledge that not once in the time they'd been partners, or after, had there been cause to doubt that a very sharp and anything-but-confused brain lurked behind those green eyes. It was just about the only thing he hadn't had cause to doubt where the double-crossing son of a bitch was concerned—God knew nothing that had ever come out of his mouth had been the truth.

"I knew it," he said doggedly. "I always knew it! He killed my father—Bill Mulder, my father! And Melissa Scully?"

"No. It was there, but its orders were to search for a data carrier. It was shocked and displeased when its accomplice shot Melissa Scully."

"But he killed my father." Mulder was talking to himself now. Neither of the aliens commented.

He whispered it again, believing it, drowning out the burst of confused panic Krycek's weird theory about his parentage had conjured. The expected fury was finally beginning to rise, burning away the uncertainty and blessedly blotting out the pain and guilt and helplessness, if only for a few brief moments.

"It wishes me to elaborate," the Krycek-alien said suddenly, its voice pitched slightly higher than before. In a human, Mulder would have put it down to surprise. "Do you wish to hear its reasons?"

"Reasons?" It was too much—Mulder exploded. He lunged for Krycek and seized him by the throat with his left hand, hauling him forward in preparation for landing a right hook on his cheekbone, just where it would be the most painful—

Almost immediately, he released him again and recoiled, trying to forget the feel of clammy skin beneath his fingers, the limp, boneless way the head had flopped back. Krycek felt like a corpse.

The shock damped his anger and he realized that he did want to hear what Krycek thought could justify a murder—any murder, but especially this one.

It was the kind of thing that had always fascinated Mulder. He could look into most killers' minds with almost uncanny precision; in fact, it sometimes disturbed him how well he understood the twisted logic of insanity. He could walk the warped paths of mental sickness so surely when he was in search of his quarry... too surely for his own peace of mind.

It hadn't worked that way with Krycek, though. Mulder had never had any idea of how his mind worked.

"Go ahead," he said tightly, hugging himself as though he were cold.

"It hated William Mulder," the Krycek-alien stated. "It was glad when the order came. But it wouldn't have killed William Mulder if it hadn't known it was about to kill you."

"It—what—don't call him it! What do you mean, he was about to kill me? That's absurd, he was going to tell me...," he trailed off into uncertainty. "It's preposterous."

He was trying to convince himself—and what was worse, he knew it. This was one gift he could have lived without.... Maybe he should have just shot Krycek immediately—maybe he should shoot him now, before he had a chance to reveal any more impossible truths, more wild theories that would haunt Mulder's days and nights for the remainder of his life.

He considered it, but it was too late. He might have done it in the flash of startled shock after coming in to find Krycek on the sofa, or in the instant of bright, clean anger when the bastard had wanted to give Mulder reasons for murdering his father. Not now. Not like this.

It was one thing to shoot Alex Krycek when he was alive and kicking—or even to beat him up when he was handcuffed and unable to defend himself. But strangely enough, it was another thing entirely to kill him when he was sitting slack-jawed and glassy-eyed on Mulder's sofa, full of intriguing and horrifying knowledge, possessed by an alien who wanted to give Mulder a gift.

Sometimes his life was too strange even for him to believe.

"Go on," he said quietly, dreading what the alien would say, but needing to hear it all the same.

"It—William Mulder—he—had petitioned your death because he believed you were becoming too dangerous. The petition had been turned down. This one was not supposed to know, but it—he—sought such information. When the command to kill William Mulder came, he knew it was because he was preparing to go over the heads of the other leaders."

"No," Mulder whispered. This wasn't true. This couldn't be true.

"He hated William Mulder because he was his testing supervisor," the Krycek-alien went on. "He does not want me to reveal this. Am I correct that this means the information is of special interest?"

"What? I mean, yes—I think. What?"

"William Mulder was testing supervisor—in charge of all early experiments, testing and training conducted on this one, up to his transferal to advanced conditioning. This one believes he enjoyed his job."

What? This was becoming more like something from the Twilight Zone every second! Krycek was the perpetrator here—Krycek hadn't been abducted, experimented on, victimized....

"You're telling me Krycek was one of the children—" he couldn't go on.

"His parents were given the instruction to choose one of their children for participation in Consortium testing," the alien said calmly. "He believes all members of the highest levels of the association were expected to participate in the project, thereby proving their dedication, providing hostages, and perhaps fulfilling the needs of a project involving genetics that he has yet to form a firm theory on."

"And his parents chose him."

"His father informed him, ‘there's not much choice, you're the toughest of the lot and always gave us the most trouble, you're nowhere near as bright or promising as Misha, it would kill your mother to let Andrei or Tasha go, and Raisa is just a baby.'"

"Jesus." Mulder felt chilled in spite of himself. He'd never been able to imagine any parent could make such a choice... but—this meant Samantha was still alive. If Krycek had survived, why not Sam? It couldn't have been so bad. It had been the children of the Consortium leaders, after all, the children of the people doing the testing—it had been a token more than anything else. Right? And now he had a real chance of finding Sam!

"Samantha?" Mulder hardly recognized his voice.

"He attempted to access that information when he was assigned to you, but it proved inaccessible."

Mulder fell into the easy chair and said nothing while waiting for the random, unconnected thoughts and emotions buzzing through his mind to settle. It was an unaccustomed feeling, this mental chaos—he had a very well-ordered mind in the usual run of events.

"Tell me what they did with the children," he instructed the alien at last.

"The files on the other subjects have proven inaccessible. This one was transferred to a distant branch of the organization and there subjected to varied physical and psychological testing programs interspersed with medical treatments including implantation, genetic resequencing, chemical readjustment of neuro-transmitter balance—"

"Genetic resequencing?"

"The technique was unsuccessful."

"How many different testing programs did they run, for God's sake? Why—what were they trying to do? Did any of it succeed?"

"The exact number is not certain due to self- and other-imposed memory lapses. The intended results are not certain due to lack of data. This one is contemplating several theories. He does not believe permanent physical changes were wrought, though this is an unsubstantiated thesis based on potentially faulty facts."

Mulder was relieved—because of Samantha, but also because the concept of a loss of self like the one implied by something like genetic resequencing was too horrible to contemplate, no matter who experienced it.

"You said he was transferred to a distant branch of the organization?"

"Correct. He believes the cause to be the danger of conflict of interest. His father's base of activity is called Moskva, and it is likely a number of local members of the association are acquainted with him and possibly his family."

So—the distant branch of the organization was the one in the US. All a matter of perspective.

"At the age of fifteen, he was rescheduled for training in suburban teenage existence. Training in arms, unarmed combat, languages, and computers was accelerated. At the age of sixteen, he was introduced into a suburban community with two operatives continuing training under the guise of parents. After graduation, he proceeded to be trained at Quantico."

Samantha. Something like this had happened to Sam. It wasn't so bad. If a bastard like Krycek had survived, why shouldn't Sam? She was out there right now, maybe in Russia, or in Europe or New Zealand, in a normal job, living a normal life, maybe married, with children... God, no. No children, Sam.

Mulder distracted himself by asking the alien question after question about the Consortium, the experiments run on young Krycek, and anything else he could think of. After two hours, he was astonished by how much classified information the man had been able to snatch out from right beneath his employers' noses. He didn't know whether to be impressed or repelled. Was there no one the man hadn't betrayed, spied on, or stolen from?

"Let's go back to the second year of testing, test run four alpha. On the second run, did they change the order of the individual units or—"

"This one is slipping from me," the Krycek-alien announced. "Further knowledge pulled from his memory will be unreliable."

"What do you mean? He's fighting you?"

"No. He is approaching termination."

"What!" Mulder sat up with a jerk. "What are you doing? Don't kill him! I—there's still so much I have to know!"

"Then I must vacate and return later," the alien announced. "Damage should be reversible at this stage. We can negotiate further extraction of information."

"Yes," Mulder agreed. "Now get out of there. You might have told me it would kill him if you were in there too long!"

"I did tell you," the alien pointed out with perfect logic.

The girl-alien, who had been standing near the door in her inhumanly still way, walked over to the couch with her equally inhuman gait and stopped directly in front of Krycek's limp form, staring at him measuringly. After a moment, she reached out to grip his shoulders and hauled him upright without the slightest sign of effort.

There was a moment of peculiar intensity as she bent and studied Krycek's face. What was she looking for? Something in his eyes? It seemed highly doubtful aliens perceived the world in the same way humans did, of course.... Maybe what she was "looking" for was a characteristic change of skin temperature, an electromagnetic signal, pheromones....

Suddenly, the alien leaned forward and brought her smooth forehead against Krycek's. Mulder stared, fascinated, and moved closer, hardly conscious of his own motion.

The flash of light was so intense it blinded him for a crucial second. When his vision finally cleared, there was nothing left to see. The girl-alien had retreated and was facing Mulder, motionless as ever. And Krycek was once again collapsed on the couch.

Damn it! Aliens without physical bodies? Radiation, magnetic fields, sub-atomic matter clouds? Maybe he could ask them to do it again—maybe if he got sunglasses this time he'd get a better view. Have to check the spectrum of that flash, set up recording equipment, why are human eyes so inefficient....

Krycek jerked once, convulsively, his body arching up from the cushions. He took a harsh, gasping breath as his previously limp form began to shake.

Aftereffects of alien possession. Muscle tremors, caused by the as yet incompletely reestablished control of the brain over voluntary systems? Sounded good.... Had to check with Scully, see if she thought it flew....

Krycek's head snapped up; he glanced at Mulder, but his gaze slipped past him and fastened on the girl. He was back to looking like Krycek instead of a corpse. It was reassuring somehow, even though the expression in his eyes was anything but—it looked a lot like murderous rage held in check by blind panic.

Mulder realized with a sudden jolt of horror that he hadn't thought to search Krycek for weapons. He couldn't allow him to hurt the aliens! And even if he didn't dare attack them—a man with an expression like that on his face and a weapon within reach was a good candidate for the next supermarket massacre.

"It is not a threat in this condition," the girl-alien—now sharing a body with the alien that had arrived in Krycek—announced. It seemed that it could read human facial expressions quite well. Mulder wondered whether it had plucked the knowledge from the mind of the comatose girl, had had it passed on from some other host or the Krycek-alien, or had been on earth long enough to learn to read human body language for itself.

There would be a fitting occasion to ask all of these questions. He promised himself that there would be, knowing there probably wouldn't, because he couldn't bear the thought of not knowing.

"It's a threat in any condition," he said instead, his voice dry.

Krycek ignored him, staring at the alien and shaking.

"Incorrect. It will not be able to exert sufficient muscular force for independent locomotion for several hours." The two aliens moved towards the door. "We will return to negotiate. Please affirm your acceptance of the gift and your agreement to negotiate."

"Yes—I accept the gift and I will negotiate. I'm not saying I'll enter into an agreement with you, but I'm willing to negotiate."

The girl's slim form slipped out of the door without further ado and she shut it quietly behind herself. Itself. Itselves.

Mulder locked the door behind her and went to get his handcuffs.

Krycek was obviously aware of his presence, but other than some very weak and half-hearted moves to fend Mulder off when he frisked him for weapons—coming up empty, which meant the alien had dumped his usual arsenal before bringing him in, maybe for the sake of politeness—he put up no resistance as Mulder dragged him into a more or less sitting position and locked his hands together in front of his body.

Of course, he didn't have much choice about not putting up any resistance. He was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering audibly.

After a moment of thought, Mulder hauled him around and pushed him back until he was lying down on the sofa, long legs dangling over the armrest at one side. He fetched the blanket crumpled in a nearby corner of the room and tucked it around him. Krycek's skin was chill and damp to the touch, but he didn't feel like a corpse anymore.

After watching Krycek shake for several more minutes, Mulder decided that he probably wasn't going to die within the next hour and wandered into the kitchen to throw together a sandwich from the remains of yesterday's Chinese take-out and some bread he couldn't remember buying. It looked edible, so he'd eat it. If the Consortium had planted drugged bread in his fridge, well, it was bound to be more wholesome than any of the other stuff in there.

He brewed up a pot of coffee and, as an afterthought, poured some for Krycek, adding large amounts of sugar and cream before taking it out to the enemy who was sweating and shivering on his sofa, courtesy of a couple of polite business-aliens.

"Krycek. Pull yourself together and drink this."

He fully expected a biting remark like so you're into poisoning now or a sarcastic how kind, Mulder, I always knew you cared, but Krycek said nothing. He chattered with his teeth instead.

"Very well then, have it your way," Mulder told him and set down the mug on the coffee table. He wondered if he should begin to worry—Krycek incapable of a snappy comeback had to be in dire straits, indeed. And there were so many things he still needed to know, so many things Krycek knew about the Consortium, the testing, alien possession.... "All right. Here, I'll hold it for you. Just swallow. You can do that, can't you?"

He could, though about half of the coffee ran out of the side of his mouth and onto the couch before they managed to coordinate the mug-tilting and swallowing. After the first few swallows had gone down, Krycek started coughing and retching and Mulder had to turn him over and pound on his back, feeling utterly ridiculous.

He left Krycek lying on his stomach and went to get some case files from his briefcase, which was when he remembered that he'd left it in the hallway where he'd dropped it on realizing there was an alien waiting for him outside his apartment. Skinner would have throttled him for leaving classified material out like that—but then, Mulder's apartment could be considered just as public as the hallway in front of it, considering how often people broke in. Maybe he should always keep his more confidential files outside. No one had stolen them from there, which was more than could be said of what happened to them inside most of the time.

"Mulder," Krycek rasped after quite a while.

Mulder looked up. His enemy was still sprawled across the couch in the same position, more or less motionless except for the occasional shiver.

He got up and walked around to the end of the couch where Krycek could see him. Well, see his shoes, at any rate. "What? Want some more coffee?"

"Bath."

Great—now he was imagining things. "What?"

Oh—of course. Mulder, you can be so stupid sometimes—you actually thought he wanted to take a bath. Yep, right, FBI supermind. "You need to go to the bathroom." Turning into a damn nurse, and for that bastard Krycek of all people....

"No. Bath. I want—need—"

"You want to take a bath?"

"Yeah."

Mulder gave an incredulous bark of laughter. "What did that alien do to your brain—scramble what little sense you had completely? You're lying there on my couch half-dead, too weak to so much as lift a hand, and you're telling me you want to take a bath? Why not go for a shower? Why not jog down to the bar at the corner and get some peanuts? You want to play some squash, maybe? Go kill the Korean karate champion?"

Nothing for a moment. Then, doggedly, "bath."

"You are out of your fucking mind!" Mulder shouted. "There is no way that you are having a bath! When you can get up and walk to the tub is when you get to take a fucking bath! Or—wait, this is my tub, you're not setting foot inside my tub—not ever, not even if you were able to do handstands on the shower rod! Is that clear enough, Krycek?"

Another pause. And then, Krycek gave something like a very low, very weak little growl and said, "Mulder. Please. I need to take a bath."

He had already opened his mouth to call him an idiot in terms even Krycek couldn't misunderstand when the "please" penetrated the fog of incredulity shrouding his mind. Had that been a note of desperation in his voice, woven in with the weakness? But why, for heaven's sake, when he was talking about a bath?

Oh.

Spooky Mulder. Bloody Stupid Mulder would have been a more fitting choice. And he was supposed to be such a hot-shot psychologist....

No, he was. He was good, and he knew it. It was just that somehow, all of his expertise went flying out the window whenever he ran into Krycek, together with every last shred of professional detachment. It was difficult to see past the fact that this was the man who had betrayed him. Mulder had grown to trust Krycek, begun to like him almost against his will, rely on him, see him as a friend—and he had been betrayed by him. It had hurt.... It still hurt, and every time Mulder saw Krycek, the wound broke open anew.

It was understandable that he had trouble disengaging his personal feelings when it came to Krycek. Still—perhaps he should try harder.

Krycek had been possessed by an alien for the second time that Mulder knew of. Neither occasion could have been pleasant. The first time, the ‘oilien' had used him as a data bank, a convenient means of transport, and a murder weapon and then left him to come back to himself in an abandoned missile silo—together with the being that had misused him and its ship, and without any real hope of ever getting out.

This time, an alien had picked him up as a present for a man he had betrayed, dug around in his memory for interesting bits of information to hand to said enemy, swatted down his resistance, and drawn it out until he'd almost died.

Now he wanted to take a bath. It was perfectly logical, to be expected, even—alien possession was analogous to rape in many ways. It was a fundamental, traumatic violation of the individual's control over the body—and in this case, even the mind.

The rape of the mind could not be cleaned away with soap and water, and in the purely physical sense, the alien had lodged somewhere inside Krycek. Neither touch could be erased by a simple bath. But then, the trauma of sexual assault couldn't be touched—let alone dispelled—by such means, either. It was always merely symbolic—the attempted washing away of the memory of forced possession.

He debated whether to tell Krycek that it would make no difference, that no matter how long he soaked, it wouldn't make the experience any less horrifying, the violation any less real.

Damn.

"I'll go run the water," he mumbled, feeling like an idiot.

In the end he had to half carry, half drag Krycek through his apartment to get him to the bathroom, where he sat him on the toilet, unlocked the handcuffs, and pinned him against the wall with one hand to strip him with the other. It didn't work very well—Mulder hadn't had a lot of practice at undressing pale and slightly trembling traitors and hit-men barely this side of consciousness in order to wrestle them into a bathtub—but after a lot of cursing, tugging, and tearing, he managed to hoist a naked Krycek over the rim with a splash, soaking himself from head to toe in the process.

"Jeesh—the things you drag me into, Krycek. You're lucky I even have a tub. Do you realize that a good sixty percent of people who live alone don't own bathtubs? And twenty percent of those who do only take showers, anyway."

Krycek seemed to be asleep now. Great.

Mulder moved around carefully to reach for the soap, holding Krycek's head above water and marveling at how young and helpless he looked. With his short hair black with moisture and the long lashes spiky against pale cheeks, he was the picture of innocence. Krycek. Asleep in his bathtub.

Alex Krycek was asleep in Mulder's bathtub. No one would believe him if he told this story. Scully would think he'd finally flipped his lid. The alien part, she might buy. This? Not in a million years.

It was odd, somehow, to think of Krycek as someone human enough to develop such a common neurosis in response to trauma. It was even more odd to realize that he had never expected Krycek to react like a normal human being. Briefly, before he could turn off his mind, Mulder considered what this said about himself. That he'd dehumanized his enemy because he couldn't bear the thought of being outsmarted by a mere human? That he'd turned him into a creature that could be hated and hunted down without the need for mercy or remorse?

He came down on his train of thought at that point, concentrated on scrubbing the sleeping Krycek clean, and hoisted him out of the tub again. He'd lost a lot of weight since Mulder had seen him last, but he was still much too heavy for something like this.

Mulder dragged the dripping Krycek to the bedroom, where he unceremoniously dumped him on the rug in front of the bed while he cleared the heavy cartons he kept some of his books in from the bedspread. Nobody had slept in this bed for years; Mulder preferred to sleep on the couch, and he didn't get a lot of overnight visitors. He didn't get a lot of visitors of any kind—except uninvited ones, that was.

He returned to the bathroom to get a towel and proceeded to dry Krycek off. It wouldn't do for his newly available source of information to catch pneumonia and die before Mulder had utilized it fully.

Krycek was sporting several scars that looked pretty new—seemed like he'd had several narrow escapes lately. An angry red scar from a gun graze traced over the outside of the left hip, and there was a long, slightly older knife scar over the lower ribs on the right side. And what was that mass of scar tissue high on his left arm? That looked wicked—must have hurt like hell. It looked as though someone had tried to take his arm off right below the joint with a blunt knife—

The memory of a one-armed man offering to cut his own arm off slammed into Mulder.

He hurriedly dried those parts of Krycek he hadn't reached yet and struggled to get the man into an old pair of sweatpants before hoisting him up to the bed and beneath the covers. By the time he'd finally achieved the task, he was panting, his arms were aching, and he was the one shivering and in danger of catching pneumonia from running around in wet clothes.

Before he went off to change, he re-cuffed Krycek's wrists and fastened the chain to the bedpost with a second pair of cuffs. His gift might be weaker than a half-drowned kitten at the moment, but Mulder wasn't about to take any chances.

Alex woke to the sound of low sobbing and realized it was his own just before the familiar jolt of panic hit him with blinding, nauseating force.

A burst of pure, dazzling white light unfolded across his vision, hitting him in the face like a slap and bringing him back to himself so abruptly that for a frozen, eternal moment, he entirely failed to recognize the man standing in the doorway with one hand at the light-switch, the other aiming a gun at his face.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the man asked sharply, his voice tight with suspicion and dislike.

The tone cut through Alex like a knife and for a moment he thought he was falling, falling back into that bleak, featureless void of gut-wrenching, frenzied terror.

His body jerked and the sudden fire in his wrists recalled him to himself. He looked down and discovered that he was half-kneeling, half-standing on a bed, braced against the wall, both wrists locked in handcuffs attached to a very solid bedpost by another pair of cuffs. Apparently, he had been trying to wrench the post from the bed.

Unfortunately, both post and cuffs seemed much sturdier than his wrists.

Jesus. What a mess.

"Sorry," he said, or tried to. After clearing his throat several times, he began again. "Sorry about that, Mulder. Try cold water and a lot of soap. Hey, the sheets probably needed washing anyway."

Mulder advanced into the room wearing the black-eyed, laser-focused expression Alex remembered so well. Don't make me laugh, Mulder—here I am, cuffed and weak and shaking and bleeding all over your bed, and you behave like I'm about to do the Houdini. Do I really look like much of a threat?

He was staring at Alex's face. "Christ, Krycek. Do you always have bad dreams or was this a special feature in honor of alien possession?"

"Anyone ever tell you your soothing small talk stinks, Mulder?"

He reached out and Alex recoiled violently, almost falling off the bed. The cuffs bit into his wrists viciously, a new trickle of blood slicking his hands.

Mulder held his gaze steadily and bent forward, touching Alex's cheek. His fingers came away wet.

"Crying?" His voice was not quite as icy now—it had thawed to only a shade or two beyond chilly.

"What do you think?" Alex snapped. "You getting enough of a kick out of this yet, Mulder? Maybe you want to beat me up a little to make it worth your while?"

Mulder's mouth thinned, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Alex steeled himself for a blow that never fell.

Mulder backed away as though removing himself from temptation. "You're a bastard, Krycek," he said coldly, stating a fact of nature.

"Yeah, and you're repeating yourself, Mulder," he shot back. "You got anything new to say? Otherwise how about you get the fuck out and let me and my neuroses commune in peace?"

He hesitated for a moment. And then, to Alex's surprise and relief, he left.

Alex slid down into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard and trying to arrange his arms across it in a way that would take the weight off his maltreated wrists. Okay, Alex. You have to get out of here before the aliens come back. How can you get Mulder to uncuff you?

He considered several strategies before admitting to himself that escaping wasn't really an option unless he could make sure he wouldn't just be rounded up again like a stray head of cattle whenever the aliens were ready to carry on their overtures of friendship to Mulder.

He then spent several heartbeats fighting off the panic that threatened to overwhelm him at the memory of coming out of the house to find that thing waiting for him, pretending to be a child, reaching out to him—don't think of that, you idiot! Not yet, it's too soon, not yet, wait for it, it will fade with time....

When he looked up, Mulder was standing in the door again, staring at him with an unreadable expression on that beautiful face.

He came forward and dumped a handful of tubes and bandages on the bed. "You get panic attacks?"

"Mulder, that's amazing. I'm impressed. Must be that Oxford education of yours."

The expressive mouth tightened again and Mulder reached out to grip Alex's wrist. Alex resigned himself to some kind of painful and inventive twisting of joints, or maybe just the old-fashioned crushing grip. What he got was Mulder unlocking the cuff.

Before he could stop himself, he asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Mulder's voice was somewhere in the middle between annoyance and weariness.

It looked like he was cleaning the abrasions and cuts left by the sharp metal, putting some kind of salve on them, and wrapping the wrist in a bandage before snapping on the cuff again. Then it looked like he was doing the same thing to the other wrist.

Whatever had brought this on, Alex thought it was an amazingly good thing. He held completely still, not even flinching at the sharp sting of the salve against the open flesh, and kept utterly quiet. He didn't want Mulder to rethink his reasons for doing this, whatever they were. Probably wanted to save his mattress.

"It's really very typical," Mulder said absent-mindedly, stepping back after refastening the second cuff over the pristine white bandage. "All of the mouthing off, the goading towards violence, the taunts—verbal aggression to cover up perceived vulnerability. Even being beaten is acceptable as a result because it happens as a result of your actions, ergo your will, and is subject to your control in a way, thus reducing vulnerability. Control is very important to you, isn't it, Krycek? That must make it even worse to lose all control to an entity—"

"All right, I get the point," Alex snapped. "You're a great psychologist and I'm impressed as hell. Now if you're not going to hit me and put me in control, get out."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but you're really not in a position to give orders at the moment," Mulder shot back, his voice once again hardening into anger. "I never thought you were stupid, Krycek. Why are you behaving like this when I'm your only chance to avoid a repeat of yesterday's incident?"

Hope flared to life inside Alex, though he was careful to keep all sign of it from his face. Mulder was willing to bargain?

Alex looked away, staring at the cartons stacked against the wall and feigning obstinacy.

"So tell me, Krycek. In the second year of testing, in the second run of test four alpha, did they change the order of the individual units?"

Alex turned his head back and met Mulder's steady dark gaze. "Random variation of units in every test sequence, blocking of simultaneously running test sequences rescheduled weekly."

There was a long moment of silence.

"What makes you think the smoking bastard is—" He couldn't say it; the words seemed to stick in his throat.

The pain was so open in Mulder's expression that Alex wished it weren't too late to lie. He'd never meant for Mulder to find out. He'd known he would take it hard—the man took everything hard. And there hadn't been any reason for him to know. It would only make everything worse for him.

Damn you, Mulder. When will you stop prying into things that are better left alone?

He knew the answer to that, of course. Never. Mulder's idiot courage in the search for The Truth was part of what made him Mulder.

Alex looked down briefly, forcing his face into a cool mask before raising his head with a brisk confidence he was very far from feeling. "Listen, Mulder. You don't know when those aliens will return—maybe tomorrow, maybe next month, or in a couple of years for all you can tell. Aliens don't work on a human time scale. So waiting for them to come and dig through my mind for you isn't the most certain way of gaining knowledge. I can tell you the things you want to know right now—but I want something in return. I'm prepared to be reasonable because I can't deny that you've got me by the balls, but you know how it is, in this world you don't get something for nothing. What do you say?"

Mulder startled him by choking out a laugh. "Nice to know you're feeling better, Krycek."

That's it, Mulder, that's the spirit. Who cares who your father is? You're you.

"Nice to know you care," Alex returned coldly. "So. You want information. I want to get out of here alive, in one piece, and without being taken over by one of those fuckers again. How about it—we have a deal?"

"How do I know you'd tell me the truth?"

"You have my word of honor, Mulder. If that's not good enough for you, well—is the alien's word any better than mine?"

"At least I don't know it's a liar. At least there's the chance it might be telling the truth."

Alex suppressed a sigh. "I've told you the truth plenty of times, Mulder. You just never believed me."

Mulder said nothing.

After a moment, Alex forced himself to go on. "All right, how's this. I tell you the truth, and when the aliens get back, you tell them that all you want to know is whether or not I've been lying to you. It can just go in and right out again. No lingering, no digging around. Okay?"

Breathe. That's it. Breathe and think of how delectable Mulder looks when he's casting around in search of the loophole he knows must be there somewhere. Eyes intense and oh-so-slightly narrowed, head tilted just a bit to one side, mouth set in a suspicious line....

"Okay," Mulder agreed at last, still looking suspicious, but not having found the loophole. There was none, but Alex was still relieved. Mulder in a suspicious frame of mind—that is, always—could find conspiracies everywhere.

Alex braced himself for the new question about Mulder's father. At least there had been some change—none of that boring old "did you kill my father" nonsense anymore. He could probably look forward to about ten years' worth of "who is my father" now.

Mulder was silent for a long time.

"What was your assignment?"

Surprised, Alex blinked. "What?"

"Your assignment, Krycek. When you were assigned to me."

"Oh, that." Shit. Wasn't that just like Mulder—sneak up and get you from behind just when you'd stopped expecting it.

He could still pull it off, though. Leaving something out was not not telling the truth, after all. "I was supposed to keep you from learning anything at all concerning the Consortium, I was supposed to inform them of anything interesting you stumbled across, and I was supposed to keep you safe. Physically safe—messing with your mind was encouraged."

He nodded slightly and Alex allowed himself to relax. "About what stood to be expected. Nothing else?"

Mulder and his damned thoroughness....

Alex shrugged casually and grinned for good measure. "Just one more thing. I was supposed to seduce you, too."

Mulder gaped. He looked completely floored. So much for pulling this off casually—he obviously hadn't been expecting this.

Poor, naive Mulder. It was such an obvious lever—how could the Consortium not have tried it?

Alex watched Mulder swallow back the first several questions that popped into his mind. He could hear them as clearly as though the other man had shouted them out. Seduce me? you? why would they want that? and what made them think I could be seduced by you, by any man?

He didn't ask any of those questions, though. There was no real need—the answers were obvious, after all. Mulder hadn't had much of a sex life for a while now, and he'd always kept to women except for once or twice in his early twenties, but the Consortium knew their business.

Another woman would have been too obvious coming right after Scully. So... Alex.

"Why didn't you?" Mulder asked at last, quietly.

Alex shrugged again. "I tried, in the beginning—then I told them it wasn't working. I stopped trying. They didn't want me to try too hard. The idea was for you to trust me and feel comfortable around me, not to think you'd be dragged off and pawed any minute."

Mulder looked at him oddly. "That's amazing, Krycek. I'm impressed. Nice bit of verbal quickstep. And now tell it the way it was."

"Mulder, what's the problem here? You wish I'd tried harder? Is that it? Hey, sorry, but in spite of what you may think, there are people who don't find you completely irresistible. And it's not as though you gave me a whole lot of encouragement. If I'd known you were that desperate it could have been a different story. Now that I think back, I guess your little swimming session should have clued me in."

Mulder didn't take the bait. He didn't get angry. He was on the scent now, and he wouldn't be shaken. The man was like a bloodhound.

"You backing out of the deal, Krycek? I can ask the alien this question if you'd prefer not to answer."

"What question? I answered your question. I tried for a while and then stopped. What more do you want to hear—it's not like they had a course on it. Maybe they should have—Mulder Seduction 101. I bet the flunking would be brutal."

Incredibly, Mulder grinned. There was a glimmer of real humor in his eyes. "You're really good at this, aren't you. Well, so am I. Tell me why you didn't seduce me, and try to remember I was there when you edit the truth. We were at the part where you tried in the beginning. What then?"

He wasn't going to get out of this.

All right, Mulder.... "I tried for a while. I wasn't entirely certain you were interested, but it seemed like a good bet. I started to like you, though. They wanted to use me to break you. It's the oldest trick in the book, and one of the most effective—be betrayed by someone you love, in just the right way, at just the right time, and you'll never trust anyone again. You'd never have allowed anyone close after that—not Scully, not the Gunmen, no one. You wouldn't have lasted long. So I decided not to go through with it."

Mulder looked stunned again. Alex guessed it was the idea that a treacherous little low-life like him would have something as human as scruples, let alone honest-to-God affections.

Then Mulder did it again. Had he become telepathic all of a sudden? "And that was the only reason—that you liked me and didn't want to break me?"

"It happens to be a very good reason, and if you want to think I'm incapable of anything like normal human sentiments, that's your problem, not mine!"

"Just answer the question."

Alex closed his eyes briefly. This wasn't happening. Fox Mulder, so brilliant and insightful, had never been able to read him before. What had changed? He needed time to think—he needed time to find out what he was doing to give himself away, to change it and regain the upper hand.

Mulder was watching him with the same odd look when he opened his eyes. Yeah, Mulder, you really are good at this.... You take away choices so well you ought to go work for the Consortium. Very well, then....

"The Consortium runs every operative of my level through a very careful, precisely designed training and conditioning program. It's supposed to turn out competent, versatile, efficient, and completely dispassionate agents. The perfect multi-purpose tool. I made them think that's what I was, but I wasn't. I cheated them at their own game. And the result was that I was too soft to break you, Mulder. Too soft to want to, and too soft to do it without being broken myself in the process."

The silence was so long that he began to hope Mulder would be willing to leave it at that. It was a vain hope, of course.

"Tell me," he demanded.

So Alex told him.

Her name had been Julie, or at least that had been the name she'd been using when he met her. He'd known she was a plant from the first time he saw her—she was perfect for him. Not too pretty, not too plain, intelligent, a few strange quirks, not too popular but warm-hearted in a laid-back kind of way... at least that's the impression she'd been giving when he met her, and she'd been doing a very good job.

The Consortium had been underestimating him for some time. For years he'd pretended to be just a little bit dumber, a little bit slower on the uptake, a little less lethal in combat—needing that extra minute longer in taking the situation in and calculating a course of action.

The gap had been widening slowly but steadily. He'd known he had to keep something back, or he would be completely at their mercy for the rest of his life—and that might very well be brief indeed. He needed an edge to protect himself. He'd never be theirs—never. He belonged to no one. He just had to make them believe he did if he wanted to survive.

He never even considered open defiance. His primary goal had to be survival. All other goals were secondary.

They had trained him in the art of survival, and they'd done a good job... better than they knew. They'd wanted to be able to drop him into any situation, no matter how hopeless, tangled, or desperate; have him twist, fall on his feet, and, if necessary, carve a trail of fire, carnage and deceit to come out alive and bring them whatever bauble they'd sent him in for.

He could do all that—he had done all that. But he could do it better than they'd meant for him to do. He could do it so well he gave himself a fighting chance to twist out of their own snare and come alive through the firewall of destruction they'd trace around him on that inevitable day when they decided that he'd become too dangerous.

They'd taught him the rules, and he was going to play by them, play so well that he would win a game that had never been intended to be won. He could do it. He knew he could. He would survive. He would triumph.

Julie had been the last test—a test, a lesson, and a graduation. They designed her for him to fall in love with, and so that's what he did. They taught her how to break his heart and teach him not to trust anyone, and so that's what he let her do.

He was a step ahead of them all the way. It was transparent to him after all this time—the obvious choices they'd put in his way to be found out, the off-beat ones to be found out as well. Julie, seeming to be his own choice. Not ordinary or special enough to be suspicious.

As obvious as the nose on her face.

He told her no real secrets, but far more than he was allowed to tell. It would not have been believable if he hadn't. An affection-starved, hopelessly infatuated boy who desperately needed to be understood, to have his first and only friend ever look at him and see him, not just someone he was pretending to be—who had to be loved as himself, not through some proxy that would render it all a lie and not meant for him at all....

He broke it off twice, both times protesting tearfully that he couldn't do it, couldn't ruin her life like that, that he was poison and she shouldn't touch him. He crawled back to her both times, broken up and almost wild with the need for affection, to be accepted with anger and tears and forgiveness. It was like a dance.... But she didn't know that he knew the steps as well, even better, than she did.

Finally, his superiors pulled him in and revealed her duplicity. They'd cooked up a good story, not that he'd expected anything else. They'd given her a father with a terminal disease for which there was a revolutionary and prohibitively expensive new treatment. There was no way her family could scratch together the necessary cash, and they'd all but resigned themselves to his death when Julie decided that the mysterious organization her boyfriend had told her about might pay to learn of his breach of silence.

Alex put on an appropriate show of disbelief, scorn, and finally, when confronted with the irrefutable proof of Julie accepting a check from a Consortium courier, desolation, heartbreak, and mindless rage. It was very easy to act the part because he felt it almost as much as he pretended to. That was the secret of lying well—you didn't. You merely twisted the truth.

They offered him a chance to kill her, and he accepted. He killed her. It was the kind of non-choice they always offered; she'd been given the same "chance," and it hadn't been a choice for her, either. To decline the ultimate test of allegiance would have been to fail it, and failure meant only one thing in their world.

Julie was good, but he was better, and so she was the one who flunked out of the Consortium's course. Something had died in him when he stood over her motionless body, hard-eyed and remorseless, but it hadn't been his heart.

And so years later, when he met FBI Agent Fox William Mulder, Alex found out what it would have felt like if he hadn't cheated on his Consortium graduation. Because Fox Mulder was perfect for him in a way Julie never had been. He was everything she had pretended to be... and more.

He was brilliant. Intense. Passionate. Focused. Dedicated. Uncompromising. Courageous beyond reason. Bull-headed and exasperating. Willfully blind. Ridiculously credulous and yet deeply suspicious. Misanthropic. Paranoid. Childishly enthusiastic. Dangerously volatile, completely unpredictable, haunted by inner demons, and torn apart by his own impossible demands on himself. Demanding the same impossible standards of others. Intolerant of human failings, most of all his own. Explosively violent. Heart-breakingly beautiful.

Alex could never have him, but he wouldn't be the instrument for breaking him.

Mulder listened with an intense concentration that gave away nothing of what he was feeling. Alex only gave him the bare bones of the story, but he knew that Mulder could fill in the blanks perfectly well on his own, and he wasn't very happy with giving away this much of himself.

Still, there were some things that never seemed to occur to Mulder. For example, left to himself, he would never in a thousand years have considered the notion Alex might have been one of the children the Consortium had demanded as blood offerings—and this in a man who saw alien abductions everywhere and who probably inspected the pizza-delivery boy he'd known for years for tell-tale notches behind the ears or signs of unusual mannerisms before opening the door.

It made perfect sense for the Consortium to start up a training program of elite agents. It should also have been pretty obvious that Alex wasn't just a hired thug off the streets—they'd never have entrusted the Mulder case to someone they didn't have confidence in.

So Alex guessed he was safe enough. If Mulder hadn't caught on to that, he certainly wasn't likely to jump to the conclusion that the so-called "liking" his ex-partner had developed for him was actually more along the lines of unreasoning, soul-consuming infatuation.

"I don't think I wanted to know that," Mulder said, somewhat shakily.

Alex frowned. "What the hell are you talking about now?"

"Samantha. What if they did this to Samantha? She could be dead...."

Alex could see the idea flare to life in Mulder's eyes in the same instant he realized he'd made a mistake. Oh shit. Oh no.

Mulder brought up the gun slowly, almost thoughtfully, his eyes dark with pain and rage. "It could have been Sam. It could have been Sam you killed. My sister, Krycek! My SISTER!"

"If it was your sister she fucking almost killed me!" Alex shouted at him, suddenly insanely angry. "She was like me, a trained killer, Mulder! I don't know who the fuck she was and it doesn't make a difference! You act as though it was all my idea! You think I enjoyed scheming and lying and fighting to stay alive every single day of my life—you think I wouldn't rather have been on the swim team and dated cheerleaders and worked in the grocery store to save money for a car? Grow up, Mulder! I'm not responsible for all the evil in the universe—in fact I've been on the receiving end of a lot of shit and all things considered I've done a very good job!"

He only stopped because he was out of breath, and once he'd gulped in a mouthful of air he decided to shut up before he lost his train of thought altogether. Mulder could be such a sanctimonious prick.

Mulder was giving him that look again—the one that made you feel like something slimy and disgusting stuck to a lab slide.

"A good job?" he said at last, his voice dangerously low. "A GOOD JOB? Do you even know how many people you've killed, how many lives you've destroyed? Have you ever stopped to think what—"

"Shut the fuck up, Mulder! I'm not taking this shit from you anymore!"

To Alex's considerable surprise, Mulder actually did shut up.

"I didn't choose to be a test subject for the Consortium any more than your sister did. So don't go all righteous on me over what I was forced to do to stay alive! You don't know anything, Mulder. You know nothing at all. You have no right to judge me. None."

God, Alex, how eloquent. How convincing. Jesus, you're such a bastard.

He closed his eyes and let his head sag back against the headboard. He was so tired of this... every time he saw Mulder it was the same. His stomach cramped at the man's beauty and he wanted to hug him close and keep him safe and kill all his enemies for him. And then Mulder opened his mouth or slugged him with his gun or tossed him into a wall.

The worst part was that he preferred the beatings to the insults. He had it bad. Shit.

"All right," Mulder said at last, his voice perfectly calm. "Tell me, then."

Great—he'd had another one of his mood swings. Now he was pulling up a chair to the bed and lounging back on it with gun still in hand, stretching out his long legs with that little half-smile on his face. What the hell had brought this on?

Alex watched him warily. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me what made you what you are."

He snorted in disgust. "Right, Mulder. Get real. You tell me what made you who you are—what made anyone what they are. Besides, what do you want to know this stuff for, anyway? I thought you were interested in what I know about the Consortium—names, places, activities, that kind of thing."

"I am," Mulder said serenely. "We'll come to that. For now I want to know what makes you tick, Krycek."

"The time bomb under your bed?"

Mulder actually smiled. "Smart-ass. No, it's not the time bomb. Yet." He considered briefly. "Tell me what it was like to kill for the first time."

"Great, now we get the profiler. I've always wanted to know what the evaluation routine for homicidal maniacs was like."

"Now, now, Krycek, we don't know if you're a maniac yet. That remains to be determined."

Alex stared at him for a long moment, wondering whether Mulder would have been trying this if he'd known how many psychological tests Alex had been put through at the Consortium's hands. Alex knew all the twists that could be used to look into the workings of someone's mind. He could run rings around any evaluation ever designed.

"Alex," Mulder said softly. "Are you going to tell me now or will I ask the alien?"

"You fight dirty for such a righteous crusader," Alex snapped.

"It's the only way to get anywhere with you. Now, are you willing to go through with this or not?"

"Mulder, contrary to what you seem to believe, I do not enjoy being beaten while wearing handcuffs, not even when I'm in your bed. I just know you'll go into one of your moral indignation highs if I give you half a chance, and your moral indignation tends to be very painful for someone. Me, most of the time. I'm not so sure I wouldn't be better off with the alien."

He still had that serene look on his face, giving Alex a slow, cool smile. "You're slipping, Krycek. That was a lie. Careful, the next one will be one too many."

"You're a morbid little shit, Mulder. All right. You want to know what it was like to kill for the first time? You want to know how I felt? I felt thirsty."

A small surge of triumph raced through Alex at the flash of surprise in Mulder's eyes.

"You trying to tell me you'll turn into a pile of dust come dawn? Or are you a special day-resistant kind of vampire?"

"What an imagination you have. I never said I was thirsty for blood, did I? You just jump to conclusions. That's a real bad habit in an investigative officer, Mulder."

Mulder opened his mouth.

"Hey, keep your shirt on. You want to hear Alex Krycek tell all—well, that's what you'll get, then."

And so Alex told Mulder about the Consortium's training program. They'd started out simple. People who were already as good as dead—fatally injured, in the last stages of terminal illness, in a coma on one occasion. Their method of approach was blunt and straight-forward, but effective. Lock the subject in a room with the prospective victim, and without food or water. Kill him, you get out—don't, you don't. Extremely simple.

After the first time, Alex had killed them immediately. The first time, though, he'd waited to see if they would really let him die if he refused to play—and to see if they would bring him a new victim if this one died on his own. It seemed likely the man would succumb to dehydration much sooner than Alex, who was fit and healthy where the other man was gaunt and feverish and only marginally conscious.

The Consortium had thought of this problem and sent in medics every few hours to give the man an infusion. The order for Alex to stand in the far side of the room would come through the intercom, and a pane of bulletproof glass would come down to seal him away from the medics as they worked.

He waited long enough to confirm his conviction that yes indeed, they would let him die. Then he picked up the gun that had thoughtfully been provided for him and shot the shivering, feverish man in the head. He'd had just enough strength left to do it. He'd very nearly cut it too close.

From then on, he made it a point to leave a margin for error in his calculations.

The level of difficulty rose steadily. The same set-up, but with someone awake and aware of what was happening, and Alex armed with a knife instead of a gun. Then, someone strong and obviously combat-trained—and Alex without a weapon. After that, two victims at the same time, all three of them unarmed. Then, two thugs armed with knives, but Alex still without a weapon—and so forth. They got up to four, all armed, before they decided he was good enough.

He survived the last test by playing on his opponents' belief that a single boy couldn't possibly be a threat, instead making them view him as a pleasant diversion they could play with for a while and dispatch at their leisure. He'd played his cards so well that one had been taken out by another in a fight over Alex, and one of those left had hesitated just that extra second when it finally came to the crunch.

"Jesus."

"Weak stomach, Mulder?" Alex sneered. "Heard enough already, have we? You wouldn't have lasted a week, I'll bet."

He bristled slightly, but not enough.

"Or maybe you want to hear the details? I bet you'd like that. I bet—"

The phone rang. Mulder jumped, bringing up the gun forgotten in his hand and half-aiming it towards the doorway. Alex twisted off the bed in an instinctive dive for cover.

"Phone," Mulder muttered, got up, and left the room with an air of relief.

Alex began to laugh. He couldn't help himself. He stopped before Mulder answered the phone, though. Who knew who'd be listening in.

"What?" Mulder snapped. "For heaven's sake, Scully, it's the middle of the night!" Pause. "Oh. Well, what do you want?" Longer pause. "This makes no sense. Why do they want me out of town? Yeah, I know what you said! But it's just a pretext. And you know how far they've been keeping me from anything resembling an X-File lately. Obviously they want to get me—" Pause, slightly irritated. Alex could picture the dark little frown Mulder would be wearing as clearly—more clearly—than the lock of the handcuff he was actually inspecting. "You never said anything about a seminar. And why'd they have you call if you aren't even on the case?" Suspicious now. "And you tell me this isn't a conspiracy? Come on, Scully!" Pause. "Yeah, yeah. I'll call Skinner and have the file faxed over so I can leave directly from here—there's something I have to take care of before I do. Not now, Scully!"

With a paperclip or something similar, Alex would be able to get out of the cuffs in half a minute, tops.

Mulder stormed back into the room, gun now tucked away again, his expression dark. "I don't believe this! They're sending me off on a wild-goose chase to some hick burg in the middle of nowhere and sticking Scully into some bloody seminar—something's going on here, they've got something planned—" He broke off suddenly and glared at Alex. "Why am I telling you this? You're probably right in the middle of it!"

"Oh, please, Mulder! If I wanted to get you out of the way I think I could come up with a plan that didn't involve being kidnapped by an alien!"

The two men stared at each other, both more exasperated than angry. After a long moment, Mulder shifted his stance, pulling himself back and twisting his mouth the way that meant he was about to be forced into something against his better judgment.

"Right, Krycek. You're coming with me to Weimar."

"Weimar? What is it with you, do you have some kind of compulsion to drag me around the earth or something? What the hell do you want in Europe?" He didn't bother to keep the suspicion from his voice. What twisted idea was Mulder hatching now?

Mulder gave him an odd look. "Weimar, Pennsylvania. Never heard of it? Well, you know what they say, traveling broadens the mind. I can't leave you here. Who knows who'd turn up to trash my apartment while offing you, and I hate putting up wall-paper. There's no way I'm going to let them catch you in here."

"I'm touched, Mulder. So instead of endangering your lovely interior decorating job, you're going to drag me behind you in cuffs, like a dog on a leash, is that your bright idea? You're going to give the FBI a real interesting rep up in ol' Weimar—not to mention make a couple of people sit up and take notice at your sudden interest in public bondage games. I bet my former employers would be most intrigued."

But Mulder had hit upon a course of action and that was that. Once the man set his mind on something.... Alex just wished he'd get into the habit of using some common sense before he activated that infamous stubbornness. There were a million reasons why having Alex Krycek trailing around behind Fox Mulder was an idiot notion, not least of these being that if the wrong person recognized him, Mulder would be right there in the line of fire—and not everyone who wanted Alex dead cared whether Mulder lived or died.

Granted, it wasn't likely someone in Weimar, Pennsylvania, would recognize him. Even so, there'd be questions asked later. At the very least, Mulder would catch some serious heat from his superiors in the FBI. And of course that was almost synonymous with catching heat from the Consortium....

"I don't have to cuff you," Mulder reasoned, caught up in the happy world of one-track thinking. "You can't run away. If you do, I'll just send the aliens to drag you back. And before you get any bright ideas about pulling me into a dark alley, I bet the aliens wouldn't be pleased to find you'd offed their prospective business partner. So I guess I won't have to keep you on a leash—you'll have to dog around behind me anyway."

That's right, but you completely missed the point, Agent Fox. And since when have you been relying on aliens like this? A bit foolhardy, isn't it? A little trusting? Alex suppressed a sigh and wiggled his eyebrows. "Pulling you into a dark alley? Little Freudian slip there, I'd say."

Mulder flushed angrily and fought himself for a moment, finally choosing to treat the remark with silent scorn.

He looked utterly delectable.

Alex sighed to himself again and held still while Mulder uncuffed him. His arms were stiff and he slid to sit on the edge of the bed, stretching carefully to get the kinks out of his muscles. His back hurt. Scratch that, everything hurt. He'd have to do something about his cramped muscles before he set foot out of this building or he'd be dead the first time someone took a shot at him.

Alien possession agreed with him less each time he tried it. Got to break this habit, Alex. Going to kill you one of these days... but not today. Another morning, and you're still alive. Good morning, Alex, have a lovely day, you charming rascal, you.

He got to his feet gingerly, testing his legs. Yup, every bit as bad as he'd thought, thank you, you alien mother-fuckers. Which was when he noticed Mulder was watching him.

He froze. There was a slightly absent-minded look on Mulder's face. It looked as though he were trying to figure something out.

"What?" Alex snapped after a moment.

Mulder blinked, surprised. "What?"

"Yeah, that's what I asked. What are you ogling me for, Mulder? You want to cop a feel or have I just grown antennae?"

Mulder gave this serious consideration. "I'll let you know," he said, and turned to walk out.

It was no problem securing another ticket for Krycek—the plane was half empty and his fake ID in the name of Kevin Alexander was as good as the real thing. For all Mulder knew, it might have been.

The clothes Krycek had been wearing when the alien kidnapped him were completely ruined, so he was wearing a suit Mulder had had in the back of his closet for years—an unremarkable charcoal grey thing that had never really fit him. It had been one of the purchases he made sometimes that puzzled and worried him a day later when he couldn't figure out what had possessed him to buy whatever it was.

When he'd confessed this particular quirk to Scully, she'd assured him it happened to everyone. She'd had to show him the half-length neon-blue raincoat hidden in the back of her closet before he believed her.

This purchase had turned out not to be so nonsensical after all. The charcoal suit fit Krycek almost as though it had been intended for him—it even looked good, certainly much better than the awful polyester outfits he'd turned up in during his time as an FBI traitor. Even with that boring tie he'd insisted on wearing, he looked... good. Well, no wonder. Mulder didn't buy cheap suits, not even when he was buying one that didn't really fit him.

The strangest thing about it was that Krycek seemed more at home in the suit now than he had during his stint as Mulder's partner. He'd always had that slightly awkward air about him then, like a kid trying to play grown-up games. Doing it very well, too, but just a little self-conscious. Mulder had often wondered whether Krycek was that good an actor or whether he actually had been uncertain, afraid of being found out. He could ask him now, and Krycek would have to tell him the truth.

Mulder considered it.

It seemed Krycek didn't like airports. No surprise there—too many travelers meant too many chances of being spotted by that one traveler who would feel compelled to do something about it—something quick and violent and ending in Krycek's death. Or maybe it was a more recent development? Mulder was almost certain that the oil-alien that had possessed the French diver had snatched Krycek in the airport rest room....

Mulder filed this question away to be considered as well.

In an airport restaurant, Krycek stuffed himself with two portions of scrambled eggs and sausage and one stack of pancakes drenched in maple syrup. As soon as they'd boarded the plane, he fell asleep and didn't wake until they had to get off.

He still moved with a subtle effort nowhere close to his usual cat-like grace. He was exhausted, though he was trying hard not to let on how much the alien had taken out of him.

In the rental car driving out to the town of Weimar, Krycek dozing in the seat beside him, Mulder finally decided it was time to ask another question.

"Krycek," he said, his voice exploding into the silence.

When he turned his head, the younger man was wide awake and watching him with a wary expression. His eyes were even darker than usual in the pale face, but there was no hint of anything but alertness about him, when an instant before he'd been all but asleep. Even so obviously drained, there was a coiled-spring tenseness to him that boded ill for anyone trying to catch him offguard.

"Aren't you going to ask me what this case is about?"

The wary look turned into suspicion. "What's this case about?"

Mulder paused while trying to ascertain his own reasons for asking this question instead of one of the several dozen sensible ones neatly lined up in his mind, waiting to be answered.

"Witches," he said at last, not having come to a satisfactory conclusion. "You believe in witches, Krycek?"

The other man gave a sarcastic laugh. "I've spent days in the company of a spaceship and a glob of oil that liked to fry people through my eyes. I've been deposited on your couch as a gift from an alien that ambushed me posing as a little girl. Hell, I've even shot a man threatening you with a Bible. Just give me the data, Mulder. Let's see if it will fly."

Mulder wanted to ask whether Krycek had really seen a gun or whether he'd known that he was shooting an unarmed man. Whether he'd been tying up the Consortium's loose threads. Seizing an opportunity and making up a plausible explanation on the basis of the facts of the case....

There was a long pause while Mulder tried to understand why there was part of him that didn't want to know the answer. It was an unaccustomed feeling—he always wanted to know. He needed to know, to make sense out of madness. This was nonsense.

"Did you see a gun?" he asked before he could change his mind.

Krycek shot him a hard look. He didn't pretend not to understand the question.

"Yes," he said at last, his eyes cold. "I suspected he might be messing with my mind, but what I saw was a gun."

Absurdly, Mulder was relieved.

"I would also have shot him if I'd seen the Bible," Krycek added, his voice sharp and precise as ice.

Mulder felt the coldness only briefly before the familiar anger surged up, making him seize the steering wheel in a savage grip to prevent himself from reaching over and slamming the murderer's pretty, empty face into the dashboard. "And are you going to reveal why you see fit to tell me this?"

There was a long pause before Krycek answered, his tone still arctic. "You might not have asked, and you had to know."

Mulder saw the sign pointing out the turnoff to Weimar just as they hurtled past.

He stepped on the brakes violently and felt a sharp stab of disappointment when Krycek caught himself in time to prevent him from slamming into the seatbelt. The car swerved around in a rain of gravel from the roadside and Mulder could see Krycek's mouth thin with disapproval.

"I should give Skinner an anonymous tip-off that one of his agents is endangering public safety by flagrant disregard of traffic regu—"

"I bet you'd have made a great boy scout, Krycek. Too bad you got your priorities mixed up. Safe driving is not a moral imperative—preserving human life is."

"It figures you don't think the two could possibly have any connection to each other."

It angered Mulder that he was engaging in an argument over his driving with this bastard—this was just the kind of ridiculous situation that invariably arose when the man turned up. "Shut up, Krycek!"

There was no further comment.

When Mulder had turned onto the proper road and shot a glance at his passenger, his face was closed into stony immobility. For some reason, this irritated the hell out of Mulder.

It was Krycek who broke the renewed silence, his voice cool, remote, and not very interested. "You going to tell me about the alleged witches any time this year?"

"Read the damned file," Mulder growled.

Without another word, Krycek turned to snag the briefcase from the back seat and settled down to scan the flimsy fax printout.

Mulder ran the information through his own mind again.

The first document was a listing of the unsolved cases of missing persons filed in Weimar, stretching back over a period of over thirty years.

Of course, such things were never truly conclusive. Any number of factors could play into a statistic and make it seem as though it proved something which it actually had nothing whatsoever to do with. There was no denying, however, that compared to the national average and what stood to be expected from a town the size and description of Weimar, there were too many. More than six times what would have been considered normal.

A discreet and long-lived murderer? A stifling community that had made teenagers flee to the city in droves? A ring of white slavers? Alien abduction?

According to Deputy Maureen Kathryn Riley, who had asked the FBI for assistance—in unconcerned disregard of the fact that the sheriff should have been the one to do so—none of the above. Her theory was that a family of witches had been kidnapping people and keeping them as pets, as slaves, or simply for amusement.

Deputy Riley had not been in Weimar long—she'd transferred there from New York not a year ago because she'd been fed up with organized crime and big city life. The first hint she'd gotten that all was not right in her serene rural idyll was the cameo appearance of Ms. Margaret Ritter in Weimar on a Sunday a little over a month ago.

Around mid-day on the quiet Sunday in question, a woman in her middle years had wandered into town and sat on a porch, where she proceeded to sob quietly. The owner of the porch in question hadn't been able to get anything out of her, let alone convince her to leave, and had finally called the police in desperation. The police, unable to find any identification on her or move her to any action other than sobbing into their uniform-fronts, had brought her to the hospital in the usual attempt to shift responsibility.

An attempt which, this time, had paid off. From the hospital's files, the woman had been identified as Margaret Ritter, who'd had a tonsillectomy there at the age of sixteen—half a year before she'd disappeared, never to be heard of again.

Ms. Ritter was no help in determining where she'd been and what she had been doing in the thirty-two intervening years; she seemed to have complete amnesia. She was healthy and in good shape, and it seemed she had borne a child at some point of her life, but other than that, nothing could be learned about her.

Margaret's parents were tracked down in Maine and asked to come take their daughter away. By the time the old couple had arrived in Weimar, however, their daughter had once again disappeared.

Deputy Riley had gotten the case. Her questioning of the hospital's personnel revealed that a young man had been seen walking out to the woods in the company of the erstwhile patient, who'd gone along with every appearance of free will. No one had seen the man enter the hospital, let alone the patient's room, which was supposedly watched twenty-four hours a day to prevent the confused woman from wandering off. No one could explain how the pair had gotten out without being seen.

When asked why they hadn't followed Margaret Ritter and her mysterious companion, the hospital personnel hedged and stalled and said nothing using a great many words. The most lucid comment came from an out-of-town nurse who'd wanted to run after the pair, only to be forcibly restrained by two of her colleagues, who would give her no explanation other than "that's one of the Lawrence's, you don't mess with them, not if you know what's good for you."

The colleagues in question, when asked to clarify this remark, denied ever having made it. According to them, they'd really said something along the lines of "oh good, that's one of the Lawrences, well if they're going to take care of Ms. Ritter she'll be just fine and we don't have to worry."

The Lawrences lived some miles out from town. Strangely enough, Deputy Riley's very reasonable wish to pay them a call and look around for the missing Ms. Ritter was vetoed by the sheriff, who failed to give a satisfactory reason for either this or the fact that he took the Deputy off the case as soon as she'd reported her findings.

A week later, the mayor's neighbors called in to say that the mayor's son could be heard screaming bloody murder somewhere in the house. The police, namely Deputy Riley and her partner, had paid a visit, confirmed the neighbors' report, and knocked on the door to be admitted into the living room and served tea and homemade cookies by a worried mother while Junior's howls reverberated through the house.

The mayor joined his wife shortly and told the two officers that he had caught his boy seeing one of the Lawrence girls. He had, of course, promptly taken the only possible recourse, namely that of locking him in his room until it passed. The conversation was conducted to the disturbing backdrop of the mayor's son demanding to be let out, screaming phrases such as "I'll die if I can't see her again" and "I've got to, don't you see, I've got to go, she's calling me." What truly disturbed Riley was the occasionally recurring harsh shout "It hurts, let me out or I'll die, it hurts!"

The enraged Deputy Riley, all set to file charges for child abuse and set the youngster free to pursue the course of true love, had then been dragged back to the station by her very insistent partner and ordered not to take further action by her superior.

She'd put this down to small-town politics and decided to go over her superior's head to prevent a tragedy from taking place. Reasoning that the best place to gain support would be at the girl's house—and apparently thinking to herself that while there she'd take a look around and form an opinion on how likely it was that these people had Ms. Ritter stashed away in the cellar—she drove out to the Lawrence's place after her shift.

Or rather, she tried. When she topped the small hill that marked the beginning of their property, her car stalled.

It now became fully obvious that Deputy Riley had a stubborn streak. She got out and walked, determined to hike the remaining fifteen miles rather than enduring another obstruction of justice through something so mundane as engine failure.

She'd hardly walked half a mile when—according to her rigidly matter-of-fact report—a young man suddenly stood right in front of her ("estimated distance two yards maximum. As I had not previously noted him and the road runs through an open field at this spot, I was startled. It is not feasible to conjecture he followed me since I had regularly ascertained I was not being followed, due to a naturally suspicious nature enhanced by five years in the NYPD").

The young man had ignored her exclamation and questions and stared at her for a while. Then he'd grinned, informed her he liked the look of her too well to let her become the pet of one of his siblings, and told her to go home, he'd think about paying her a visit one of these days.

At this point Deputy Riley's report degenerated into staccato statements. "I then turned and walked back to my car. It was not my intention to do so. I was fully aware of not wishing to do so. I did so nevertheless. I got in my car. It started immediately. I turned and drove back. It was not my wish to do this either. I wished to look back and see if the suspect was still present. I was unable to look away from the road in front of me. I drove back home and got out of my car. At this point, I discovered that I was able to govern my own actions again. I got back into my car, intending to drive back out to the Lawrence residence, and drove past the turn-off sixteen times before determining the futility of this course of action."

Informed of her adventure, her horrified partner begged her to swear that she'd never set foot near any of the Lawrences again because, as she quoted, "you're much too fine an officer and just generally much too nice to end up in their collection."

After a lot of futile seething and some not much more useful brooding, both implied in her report, Deputy Riley had decided that there was a real chance that people were being held by the Lawrence family against their will, for purposes unknown, by means unknown. And since no one in Weimar appeared in the least willing to do anything about it—and since she found herself unexpectedly and disturbingly unable to take effective action herself—she'd taken it upon herself to call in the Feds, a move which might very well spell the end of her career in this little part of the world.

Mulder watched Krycek skim rapidly through the report and waited for the scathing remark that this case had nothing to do with witches—that it was a conglomeration of child abuse, an unfortunate, disturbed woman who needed mental care, and an officer who'd cracked under the strain of five years of fighting crime in New York.

Krycek turned cold eyes on Mulder and smiled thinly. "Well, someone had a bright idea. This is the perfect set-up. I can see it now. You'll interview a couple of people in town and then rush out to the Lawrences full of moral indignation and scientific curiosity, incidentally putting yourself at their mercy and probably being nabbed for a body servant, if not killed. You know what this is? It's not a distraction, Mulder. It's a trap, and if you had any sense of self-preservation at all you wouldn't touch this case with a ten-foot pole."

This was so far from the reaction Mulder had anticipated that he was momentarily at a loss for a reply.

His ex-partner tucked the file back into the briefcase, tossed the briefcase over his shoulder to the back seat, and leaned back to close his eyes.

"Might just be pushers, like that Modell bastard," he murmured just before he went to sleep.

Mulder spent the rest of the trip wondering whether he wanted to know how Krycek knew about Modell.

Weimar was a fair-sized town—larger than Mulder had anticipated and without the sleepy provincial feel he'd expected. There was no sign of beat-up pickup trucks, nostalgic farm-style architecture, or locals lolling about on benches.

Instead, what they saw as they circled through the town center looking for a parking space was an elegant European-style city built almost entirely in stone. Even the roads and sidewalks had a different feel—narrower, and cobbled in the town center.

Mulder finally found a parking space in a small lot tucked to the side of an imposing building in tan stone. A small fountain surrounded by willows stood nearby on a plot of emerald grass.

"Nice," Krycek remarked as he levered himself out of the car. "Not very witchy, though. Ghosts, yes. Vampires even. But witches? Witches go with little villages out in the wilds somewhere—you know, where they can run around in rags and cackle their heads off without having to be embarrassed about it. Maybe they'll leave if we tell them they've got the wrong place."

Mulder decided that the best way to get Krycek to shut up was to ignore him. If this didn't work, he could always try the good old gut-punch.

"So, how're you going to play this, Special Agent Mulder?" Krycek inquired, stretching to get the kinks out of his muscles.

He was still hanging on to the open door. It looked casual, but Mulder wondered.

"Any ideas about how to convince the local police not to whack you over the head and claim it was a hit-and-run? And what about me—you want me to go see the sights while you work or would you rather have me tag along and pretend to be your partner, thereby arousing instant suspicion back in DC when the police here whine to them about how they don't want any agents—plural—snooping around and the request was invalid anyway and—"

It was a valid question. In fact, they both were, and it irritated Mulder that Krycek had to ask them before he'd come up with equally valid answers.

The gut-punch option was beginning to look very good, indeed.

"Under no circumstances are you to imply that you might be a federal agent," Mulder snarled instead, keeping his voice down but making up for lost volume by sheer venom. "Is that understood?"

Krycek sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mulder, your pronunciation is pretty good and I don't need a hearing aid. I get the general idea. How about this, then—I go buy some clothes and a toothbrush while you talk to the cops. The aliens thoughtlessly neglected to pack a suitcase for me, and so did you."

"You don't have any money," Mulder said accusingly. Upon inspection back at Mulder's apartment, Krycek's ruined suit had yielded precisely seven deutschmarks, thirty pfennigs, and one dollar forty-seven in American change. Mulder hadn't bothered to confiscate the paltry sum.

"No, but you have a credit card," he said, and smiled.

Mulder should never have bought breakfast for him—it had set a bad precedent. He should have let him starve.

He could see he'd have to teach this man a lesson again sometime soon. Too bad this was such a public place.... Several people had already walked by, and while they hadn't seemed interested in the two suited men arguing next to their car, a beating of the kind Mulder was itching to bestow on the smirking bastard in front of him would surely draw unwelcome attention.

"Make up your mind," Krycek said, the smile fading into an expression that looked more tired than anything else. "Either you make me your bodyguard or something or I'll meet you again here in a couple of hours. I'm not staying in the car for who knows how long—"

Mulder snorted. "Bodyguard. Right. No—your brother went missing here last month. Got it?"

Krycek smiled again, a different smile this time, a real smile that reached his eyes.

Mulder was momentarily startled into staring. It was astonishing how that particular smile could still make him look boyish and green and innocent when Mulder knew exactly how far he was from being any of those things.

"Got it," he said softly. "Lay on, Macduff."

"That particular quote casts you as Macbeth, Krycek. Fitting, don't you think?"

No answer. The smile faded, too.

Unaccountably, Mulder felt as though he'd just kicked a puppy. It was that damned wet-behind-the-ears, softly-admiring look that Krycek had always done so well. The man probably practiced it in front of a mirror. But why the hell was he bothering with it now? He had to know that Mulder wasn't stupid enough to fall for it again—not now, when he knew he was standing in front of a cold-blooded killer with about as much genuine feeling in him as a shark.

Mulder shook his head in disgust and started off down the street, heading for the police station they'd passed several blocks back.

Before following, Krycek searched through his pockets for a quarter and fed it to the parking meter.

The sheriff was not pleased to see them. No surprise there.

"I don't know what that Riley was thinking of," the grey-haired man growled, his bushy eyebrows drawn together forebodingly. He was a big man in his fifties—just beginning to go to fat, but with shoulders that were still broader than his gut. The muscular forearms visible where he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves made him look fully capable of stopping a medium-sized brawl without any back-up. Mulder wouldn't have wanted to take Sheriff Warren on in a fist-fight.

"That gal's been nothing but trouble ever since she transferred here," Warren rasped on, casting a sour look at a lanky young man with a straw-colored thatch of hair going through a filing cabinet at the other side of the squad room. "That's the problem with big-city cops, they always think they know better than us know-nothing country rubes. Didn't want to take her on—shouldn't have—wouldn't have, except her Lieutenant made her sound like the salt of the earth or something. Hah. Probably laughed his ass off as soon as he got off the phone. Glad to get rid of her, I bet—"

Deciding he'd had enough, Mulder narrowed his eyes and cut in impatiently. "Tell me about the Lawrence family."

Derailed, Warren glared and shifted his stance, hooking his thumbs into his belt like the Hollywood parody of a police sergeant. "Nothing much to tell about them. Good, law-abiding citizens, never had any trouble with any of them. Live out of town about twenty miles, hardly ever come into Weimar. Old man Lawrence was one of the town's founders back in the beginning. All this nonsense about kidnapping is just that—nonsense."

"The statistics—"

"Statistics can prove anything or nothing," Warren cut in, dismissively waving a large hand. "Runaways for the most part, and people just passing through who happened to be seen here last. Sure, it's a higher than average number, but average is just that—average. Doesn't have to mean anything when you go higher."

Mulder leaned forward over the desk, sorting through the stacks of case files that had been brought out from the archive at his insistence. The one for Margaret Ritter was almost at the bottom, but he located it immediately and pulled it out.

"What about her?"

There were two pictures in the file—one a school portrait of a freckled teenager with frizzy auburn hair and a big smile, the other unmistakably taken by a police photographer. There was always something clinical and cold about police shots.

The toothy girl of the earlier picture had turned into a pale-faced woman with wide, frightened eyes and an otherwise completely blank expression. She was recognizable as the same person—her cheekbones showed the same high prominence, her nose was still narrow and tilted, her chin pert. There were lines radiating out from the corners of her eyes, rendered in stark relief by the photographer. Her hair was different—straight and caught back in a ponytail, now presumably a dark shade of chestnut that looked flat on the photograph, but might well be beautiful in real life.

Sheriff Warren grimaced and found a chair on which to deposit his bulk. "A runaway, obviously. Not unusual, not even that she turned up again. Didn't find her parents—that was the house she went to, you know, her parents' house, her house. So don't give me any crap on how she lost her memory. She found her house well enough, and after a while she went off again. What can you expect from someone who runs off at sixteen to have a baby and—"

"This is all very well, sheriff," Krycek said quietly, startling Mulder almost as much as Warren. He'd kept so quiet that Mulder had all but forgotten about his presence after introducing him. Apparently, so had Warren. "And I grant that it is possible that neither the statistical evidence nor the case of Margaret Ritter would hold up in court, but I think we can drop the pretense here and admit that it is highly unlikely this is mere coincidence. My brother is not a runaway teenager—he is an upstanding citizen and successful corporate lawyer, a partner in the firm of Cheldon and Alexander, as I am myself. I trust you are not suggesting he decided to start anew and chose your town as a convenient place to lose his tracks."

Mulder tried not to stare at the new face Krycek had put on, but it was not easy. There was no trace of the young, eager, and wide-eyed acolyte or the stony-faced, sneering killer. This was a sleekly confident, coolly sophisticated corporate lawyer who was accustomed to holding everyone's undivided attention when he spoke—and who spoke with such natural assurance that there seemed to be no question of doubting his words.

It was clear that the sheriff, at least, was impressed—and he was not the kind of man easily impressed, especially not by someone younger, less brawny, and better dressed than he was.

"Mr.... Alexander? I can assure you of one thing—whatever may have happened to your brother, it had nothing to do with the Lawrences. They're fine people and I won't have them bothered. We'll do everything in our power to find your brother, of course." His eyes turned hard again. "We would have much preferred to hear of this right away. Why was I not informed until now?"

Mulder opened his mouth, but Krycek was faster, though he talked so calmly and smoothly he made it seem as though he'd taken all the time in the world to compose his answer. "Sheriff, I'm sure you will understand that there are other matters to be considered here, which is why I would appreciate it if you kept not only my brother's temporary absence, but also my presence in Weimar in strict confidence. The firm is understandably reluctant to risk broadcasting the... displacement of one of our top attorneys. Our clients would grow nervous, and a nervous client is often not long a client. At the moment, my brother's caseload is being handled by other competent members of the firm, but we would prefer to maintain the illusion that he is, in fact, personally available at any time."

Sheriff Warren blinked and frowned. "Well," he said slowly, "This is—"

"I need to speak to Deputy Riley," Mulder interrupted. "I also want to talk to the Ritters. Where are they staying?"

The frown etched itself deeper into Warren's face and he turned to bark a name across the room. The straw-haired man he'd been frowning at earlier hurried up, face carefully devoid of expression as he looked over the two strangers invading his police station.

"Dahl," the sheriff rapped out, "this is Agent Mulder, FBI. Go bring him to Riley and show him the Bellevue Hotel—he'd like to have a word with the Ritters. And show him anything else he might want to see. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Dahl said smartly. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Mulder. Riley's not been feeling too well, she's at home. But she'll be glad to talk to you, I'm sure. We can take my car."

Warren looked surprised when Krycek strode out in the wake of his officer and the FBI agent, but there was such an air of matter-of-fact confidence about the man that he didn't attempt to call him back to provide some of the sorely lacking information on his missing brother.

Maureen Riley was a plain, raw-boned woman with short brown hair and a square jaw. Her piercing grey eyes were her best feature.

"Riley," Dahl breathed when she opened the door in worn jeans and an NYPD tee-shirt. A smile broke over his face like the sun. It was clear the young officer was besotted. "Hey, how you doing? This is Agent Mulder, FBI. And this—uhm, well, I have no idea who this is, but the agent wants to talk to you."

Riley stuck out her hand and gripped Mulder's firmly. Her gaze slid over Krycek with alert interest as he introduced himself; she shook his hand, as well.

An all but unnoticeable widening of her eyes had Mulder following her gaze downward. Krycek's sleeve had ridden up slightly as he shook the policewoman's hand, revealing a neatly bandaged wrist. Wonderful... Mulder had entirely failed to consider what this particular detail of Krycek's appearance would look like. Just wonderful.

Krycek gave Riley a slightly rueful smile, quirking an eyebrow in an invitation to share the joke. "Too much enthusiasm, too little technique, I'm afraid. Do you play tennis, deputy?"

After a moment of silent appraisal, the policewoman smiled minimally and shook her head, turning to lead them into a comfortable but plainly furnished living room. Either she had bought Krycek's lie or she was polite enough to pretend she had.

It was difficult for Mulder to see Krycek as he would appear to someone meeting him for the first time—his knowledge of the man's murderous and treacherous nature burned too violently in his soul to be tuned out effectively. Still, considering that the bastard had had Mulder believing in his guise of awkwardness and inexperience—a deception that had to be regarded as nothing short of colossal—Mulder supposed it wasn't surprising that he could pass off what should have looked like a failed suicide attempt as a sports injury.

Deputy Riley told the story Mulder already knew from the file with little variation or additional information, and her calm, matter-of-fact manner left no doubt in his mind that she was as reliable a witness as he'd ever come across.

"You're going to see the Lawrence place?" she asked when she had finished her tale. "I don't know that that's going to be more successful than my attempt. Still, I don't have any other suggestions. In fact I have no idea of how to deal with this situation. Frankly, I don't think I would believe anyone who tried to tell me such a tale, and if I weren't still unable to turn into the road to the Lawrence house, I'd think I'd been running a fever and imagined the entire thing."

"Have you tried letting someone else drive?" Mulder asked.

A grimace crossed her features. "I considered it, but you try finding someone in this town who's willing to go there. Not even a taxi will."

Dahl, who had been alternately pacing around the room and sitting on the edge of a chair pulled up next to Riley's, jumped up again and paced across to the window and back. "Riley, you can't blame them. It's not done. Those people—"

Mulder focused on the man with complete concentration. "Please go on, Mr. Dahl."

He let out his breath in a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, there's nothing I can tell you. We in Weimar don't mess with the Lawrences. We stay away, we don't bother them, we don't even talk about them with—behind their backs. And they leave us alone for the most part, if we don't approach them first. It's a—it's kind of a deal."

Mulder had the distinct impression that the young policeman had originally been going to say "pact," but changed his mind at the last moment.

"If you don't approach them?"

"Yeah, well...." He looked at Riley. She was watching him narrowly and he gave a frustrated little laugh. "Riley, even this is—oh, what the hell. They're not supposed to take anyone from Weimar. They only ever do if you're... initially willing. They're all supposed to be very beautiful, you know? And if you grow foolhardy and get involved with them, well, then they can take you, if they want. It's their right. And Riley, you're not from here—I worry about you. Don't go near that place again, please, and if you see that man again, shoot him on sight!"

"By getting involved, I assume you mean having sex?" Mulder inquired.

Dahl seemed a little taken aback at the blunt phrasing, but shrugged. "That's what I heard, at least. Of course I'm not certain it isn't just a local legend to keep teenagers in line. Don't sleep with strangers or you'll come to a bad end, something like that."

"And they prefer to take people from out of town—visitors?"

Dahl shrugged again, not looking away from Riley. There was a hard edge to her expression that seemed to worry him.

"What do they do with these people once they have them?" Krycek asked, voice and face devoid of expression.

Dahl's eyes darted briefly to Krycek before returning to plead with his partner. "Who knows? They never come back. Margaret Ritter was the first, as far as I know."

"You never tried to stop this?" Riley's tone was low and disbelieving. "It has been going on for—how long?"

"I don't know. I'm—listen, Riley, it's the way it is! There's nothing anyone could have done! What the hell do you suggest we should have done?"

Riley turned her head away and Dahl looked stricken.

"Riley, you don't understand!"

"Oh, I understand," she said calmly. "I've seen many like you, like this town. They watch and tell themselves they can do nothing. They never even try."

Mulder chose that moment to rise and excuse himself, eliciting a nod from Riley and no reaction at all from the agitated Dahl.

Krycek followed Mulder outside, silent as a shadow. "Poor kid."

Mulder shot him a narrow glance. "What, Dahl? Why? She's right."

How long was Dahl going to stay in there and fawn over Deputy Riley? Maybe Mulder should go back and drag him out by the ear. Though if he waited another half minute, he'd probably be thrown out anyway. Riley didn't seem the sort to suffer fools gladly.

A tight little smile played over Krycek's lips. "Maybe. Maybe not. You're like her, Mulder. Soulmates."

That made Mulder take notice. He liked Riley, but the idea that they were similar had never crossed his mind. She was solid, sensible, steady... all properties he knew only too well he had no right to claim. "What do you mean?"

"You both have to see everything in black and white. You can't allow yourselves to see anything else. That's what's wrong with you, Mulder. You're too smart to miss all the grey, and you can't bear it, especially when you see it in yourself."

Mulder still hadn't thought of a suitably scathing way to frame his reply when Dahl, looking dejected, emerged at last to drive them to the Bellevue Hotel, where Margaret Ritter's parents were waiting.

Mulder had been dreading this interview since the first time he'd read the case file. He wasn't up to this. Depression had been eroding his defenses for weeks, then there was Krycek... and now this.

It turned out to be even worse than he had anticipated. Both of the elderly Ritters were plainly at the end of their rope, and probably had been for years. Ever since that day when their little daughter had disappeared without a trace.... Until a day over thirty-two years later. They'd come rushing to her, horrified of what they would find, elated to have their child back at last, afraid of the future almost as much as the past... only to find her gone once more, leaving nothing but uncertainty for them. The same uncertainty they'd been living with for so long, but worse now—even worse than before.

Their lives had never continued after the disappearance of their child. It was worse than the death of a loved one in many ways, this uncertainty... it was impossible to put behind, impossible to deal with, impossible to accept. It was not over. It was never over.

Mulder knew how it felt—oh yes, he knew it much too well. He knew the look in the Ritters' eyes. It was the same look that greeted him every time he looked in a mirror.

Krycek had not said a word during the entire interview. Not that it took that long—there was nothing the elderly couple could contribute to the case and no reason to draw out what was an intensely painful experience for everyone involved.

Mulder had all but forgotten about the other man's presence when—just as he was striding through the hotel lobby in the grip of a sudden, frantic need to get some fresh air—Krycek touched his arm.

All of the pain, frustration, fear, and desperation exploded into a white-hot blaze of violence. His fist came up and he swung it with all his strength, straight at Kycek's face.

Something flashed briefly in Krycek's eyes and was gone. Mulder saw the other man begin to react instinctively—begin to duck, block and counter-attack in a single, instinctive flow of motion that drifted through his body as smoothly and naturally as a ripple across a pond.

Then Mulder saw him check himself and straighten into the blow. Sprawl onto the marble floor with the force of impact.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" As soon as Mulder realized that the voice apologizing was his own, he stopped. He had hit Krycek, so why was he apologizing? Granted, he had no idea why he had hit him at this particular moment, but when hitting Krycek, there was never a reason to apologize. Was there?

With a distant, rapidly fading sense of worry, he remembered where they were and swept a look around the lobby.

Everyone was gaping at him in the wide-eyed, slack-jawed way of people who couldn't believe their eyes. The Bellevue was not the kind of establishment where brawling in the lobby was part of the expected behaviour from guests.

But Mulder was beyond caring now. His mind was empty of thought, frozen into glacial impassivity.

"Mulder. Mulder? Come on, Mulder." Krycek was blocking his field of vision. "All right now? Okay? I think we should leave now, don't you? We can get a room somewhere where our reputation is a little less interesting. Okay? Come on, Mulder, talk to me!"

Some distant murmuring that failed to crystallize into meaning in Mulder's ice-numbed mind.

"No, thank you," the familiar voice answered. "There's no need. It was merely a misunderstanding. Yes, quite certain, thank you—I appreciate it."

He was taken firmly by the arm, and this time he allowed himself to be led tamely out of the building into a cool wind. A vaguely familiar young man in uniform came up to them and asked something he didn't bother to listen to.

He watched several brightly colored leaves tear loose from a tree nearby and blow away on the breeze. It was the most heart-breaking thing he'd ever seen and his throat clogged up so badly that he was afraid he might start to cry.

"I think we'll call it a day. Perhaps you could recommend another hotel around these parts, officer? This one is a bit too—shall I say, ostentatious?"

Mulder continued to impersonate a statue. Alex was growing more worried by the minute.

The agent didn't even put up a token protest when Alex had Dahl drop them off by the rental car, pulled the keys from his pocket, and relegated him to the passenger seat.

Except for the things he could no more not notice than he could stop breathing—such as the location of windows, stairs, entrances and exits, and the basic floor layout—Alex didn't notice a thing about the hotel Dahl had pointed him to. His attention was entirely occupied by Fox Mulder, who was behaving strangely even for him—completely mute, completely passive, a frightening lack of expression on his normally expressive face.

He walked when Alex took his arm and propelled him in the appropriate direction. He stopped when Alex stopped. He stood motionless while Alex unlocked the door to their room, and if Alex hadn't pulled him inside, he might well have remained standing in the hall indefinitely.

Hurriedly, Alex got Mulder's suitcase, shut and locked the door, and made a quick turn around the room to note possible routes of escape or attack and assure himself there was nothing suspiciously out of the ordinary. Then he walked Mulder to one of the beds. Mulder sat when Alex put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down.

This was not good. In the normal run of events, Mulder would certainly have socked him in the jaw for manhandling him like that.

"Fox," Alex told him gently. "This isn't the time to break down. You're not home. I'm not Scully. I can't handle this, please, don't do this. Come on, you hit me, hey, no big deal. Yeah, I know that's not what this is about, but—Fox. Come on. Don't do this."

Mulder looked almost the way he looked when he was so deeply absorbed in some problem that all of his energy was focused inward, except that never before had that inner flame seemed close to being extinguished.

Even in this state, he was unbearably beautiful.

"It's a ridiculous thing to crack over," Alex told him more forcefully. "After all you've been through, you can't crack over talking to two nice old people! Fox, listen to me. Samantha is still out there somewhere, are you going to let her down? Hey, Fox, I killed Bill Mulder, I killed your father! Fox, damn it, look at me!"

He did not. He looked as though he had never in his life cared a fig about whether Alex had or had not killed anyone by the name of Mulder.

A short, mad moment had Alex teetering on the brink of admitting to killing Samantha. It seemed that if anything would snap Mulder out of it, that would—but the down side was that Alex would very probably not survive long enough to convince Mulder it was not true.

Which reminded him of something. "Listen, Fox. It would be a good idea for me to take away your guns. I'm not going to do anything with them, okay? I'm just putting them somewhere out of reach."

There was no protest and Mulder allowed Alex to slide a hand inside his jacket and pull the Sig Sauer from the holster. As Alex had suspected, he wore a second gun strapped to his ankle; Alex took that one as well.

Damn. Mulder had to be very far gone if he was allowing Alex, Alex of all people, to disarm him.

"Mulder," he whispered, kneeling in front of him and staring into the eerily calm face. "What am I going to do? You can't do this, Fox, please."

Nothing.

Alex slapped him, hard. He fell back across the bed and immediately turned over onto his stomach, hiding his face in the covers. Alex, who'd tensed needlessly when Mulder began to move, cursed silently. While any kind of voluntary motion was better than none, this seemed like nothing so much as an attempt to disappear.

After several eternal moments, he went around to the other side of the bed and touched the back of Fox's head. He couldn't help but notice how soft his hair was—like a baby's. He'd always wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through it gently, cupping the elegant curve of skull....

"Fox!"

Nothing.

Alex took hold of one of Mulder's shoulders and rolled him to his side. There was no resistance. His eyes were closed now, his cheeks wet with tears. His face was empty. He made no sound.

In truth, though, there was nothing he could do. Mulder wouldn't respond to anything he said or did—maybe if he'd been here with Scully instead of Alex it would have been a different story, maybe he'd have reacted to her presence, responded to her touch.

He should call DC, tell them to send her, and then get out fast. No—better, he should get out, call DC, and get further away fast. What he did was shrug out of his jacket and kick off his shoes to crawl onto the bed next to Fox and gently, carefully, pull him into his arms.

He held him very lightly at first, wondering why he was giving in to this insane urge. Sure, Mulder could probably use physical contact as an anchor right now, but how likely was it he would welcome it coming from Alex?

With a sudden, convulsive motion, Mulder buried his face in Alex's chest. Alex could feel tears soak through the fabric of his shirt. He hugged Fox closer and tried to ignore the helpless desperation gnawing at him.

It was simple, really. Alex would do this, and do it right, because if he didn't, Fox would pay for it, and that outcome was not acceptable.

"I think you're supposed to talk a lot of nonsense about your childhood in a situation like this," he told Fox softly, keeping his voice as soothing and reassuring as he could. "Just your luck to be trapped with a guy whose stories wouldn't do very well in this context.... I could always make something up, something about apple pie and Halloween costumes and tree houses and all that, but I doubt you'd like that. You only want to hear the truth, don't you, Fox? It's one of your most endearingly stupid quirks."

He considered the situation for a while and then tried to draw back.

Mulder made a small, distressed sound that cut straight to Alex's heart. How do you do it, Mulder, before I met you there wasn't even a heart to cut through to....

"It's okay," Alex lied gently. "I'm only going to take off your shoes and jacket—yeah, and the holster, too. I won't put out the light. Unless you want me to? You'll have to speak up if you do. I'll leave it on if you don't—darkness makes it worse for me."

Now why had he said that? So Mulder was out for the count and probably wouldn't remember any of this even if he did recover.... That was still no reason to go blabbing out information that Mulder would be only too happy to use against him.

He sighed and got the blanket from the other bed. Lying back down, he pulled it over both of them and turned to draw Mulder into a gentle embrace.

It was one of the longest nights of Alex's life, and that was saying something. Mulder never spoke, never made a sound, never moved beyond an occasional violent, convulsive jerk whenever he had just begun to drift off into sleep.

Alex couldn't remember ever having been this terrified. Short—or not so short—moments of intense fear for his life were nothing compared to the bone-deep, soul-deep, helpless dread that Fox Mulder might very well have broken at last.

Once he'd noticed his voice seemed to relax Mulder somewhat, he talked continuously, growing increasingly hoarse. He didn't talk about himself. He talked about books he'd read, movies he'd seen, even—with careful editing—places he'd been. He informed an unresponsive Fox what he thought about every actor, writer, politician, or other famous person that occurred to him, alive or dead.

Some time in the early hours of the new day, he thought Mulder sank into a light sleep; at least his breathing evened out and some of the tension left his body.

He kept talking, willing himself not to drift off, keeping his own demons at bay with the threat of what would happen to Mulder if he failed.

Close to dawn, dizzy with fatigue and numb with fear, Alex suddenly found himself talking about himself after all.

"It doesn't have to be this bad for you, Fox," he whispered to the man in his arms. "There's no reason to tear yourself up like this. Not everyone does. You have to stop, it's killing you. And now that you know she's still alive—it wasn't her, if it had been, I couldn't have killed her, not your sister, I know I could never have killed anyone like you. She's probably out there worrying because she knows you're tearing yourself up like this—she can't come to you, you know—she would if she could, but they're watching you and it might mean both of your deaths. Hers, for certain, and maybe a mind-wipe for you, if you're lucky. She's smart, it's a smart decision not to come to you, she's smarter than you, and smarter than me, too. I did go, you know—when they'd cut me loose, tried to kill me. I knew where they lived, I'd broken into the files years ago. Not the ones they kept for me to break into, or the back-up fakes in case I saw through that. The real ones."

Alex paused to pull Mulder closer. He was tired—too tired, and much too cold and empty inside to think about why he was telling this story—it didn't matter. Mulder would never remember. Hell, he wasn't even awake.

"They're all still alive, Fox. Every one. My parents still live in the same house. But I didn't want to see them. I went to my brother—my older brother Mikhail. Misha. He was—he'd always been—perfect. Brilliant, charming, popular—he could do anything he turned his mind to, never had to expend much effort. Everyone loved him. I certainly did. I used to follow him around like a dog, and he never even tried to get rid of me. I loved him, Fox. I had to go see him. I knew it was a bad idea, that they'd be bound to be watching him, but I did it anyway. I was careful, and I didn't get caught, but it was still a stupid risk to take—maybe they didn't think I'd be that dumb. Maybe that's the reason I'm still alive."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the top of Mulder's head. "He's a judge. I knew he'd be something like that. Andy's a dentist, I'll admit that did take me by surprise. Don't know why anyone would want to poke around in other people's bad teeth, do you, Fox? Tascha's a biologist. Specializing in genetics. Not very wise, it's much too close to my father's job. But as far as I can tell they haven't pulled her in yet. And Raisa—she's an actress. Must have driven my father crazy. I went to see Mikhail in his office, after hours. He didn't know me at first—I think he thought I was some ex-con he'd put behind bars who'd come back for revenge. He wasn't truly afraid, though. He's got some of that idiot moral courage of yours. Not as beautiful, not as pure, but then no one can hope to match you there."

Alex would never forget the look of utter shock and disbelief in his brother's eyes when he told him who he was. Nor the slowly dawning belief... the fear, and the cold stiffness poorly hidden beneath the thin veneer of polite welcome.

"When he realized who I was—that was when he began to be afraid," he went on softly. "He told me he was glad I was alive and well, but why had I come to see him? He was married, had two children. He had nothing to do with the organization. Which is not true, Fox—he does small things for them, not often, but every couple of years or so they want someone set free or some documents to disappear.... He just does it and tries to forget, apparently. I think he more than half believes he has nothing to do with them himself, so I didn't tell him I knew better. Anyway, Mikhail told me about the others, that they were all fine and happy and that I should keep away from them so it would stay that way. He asked me how much I wanted to make me keep away from his family, from his wife and kids and sisters and brother Andrei. His family. And he's right, you know. It's not mine anymore."

Misha used to toss Alex into the air and catch him again. He'd never been afraid of being dropped—not even after Misha had dropped him once or twice. He'd still wanted to be tossed, but Misha had refused, saying he was getting too heavy, that he wouldn't risk Alex getting hurt.

Alex had taken the money from him. He hadn't come for it, but he had needed it desperately. So he'd taken it and ignored the expression in his brother's eyes, the disgust at what he thought had been blackmail.

The thought had not previously occurred to Alex, but he filed it away for possible future reference. It was survival. He would do whatever it took to survive. It was what he'd been shaped for. He had been made into a weapon that would preserve itself at all costs... but there was a flaw in him, and he could blame only himself for it. It was lying in his arms right now. The one price Alex would not pay. Not for survival. Not for anything.

"He's right, Fox," he repeated. "I shouldn't have come. And he was right to forget. There was nothing he could do. It's what you should have done, Fox. Forget. It's the only possible way. Imagine how Sam feels when she sees you torture yourself over her—and she can't get to you, can't do anything to help you, she has to watch you tear yourself apart. You have to stop this, Fox. You have to find some way to stop."

Fox Mulder lay huddled in his arms and made no sound. At least he hadn't been crying anymore in the last hours. At least he'd stopped waking violently from the brink of sleep. He was asleep now, asleep and healing. Please, Fox, be healing.

Alex talked some more about Russia, some more about literature, and then, just before consciousness finally slipped from his grasp, he talked about the way Fox smelled and felt and what he imagined he would taste like. Or perhaps he was already asleep and only dreamt he talked about that—he was never entirely sure afterwards.

Mulder awoke wrapped in the arms of his worst enemy, his left cheek pressed against the man's throat and a light weight resting on his head that could only be a hand.

He stiffened instinctively. Immediately, there was a subtle change in the body pressed along his—nothing as obvious as his own abrupt movement, but enough to be noticed at this immediate range. Krycek was awake, too.

The chest against Mulder's side heaved as a small sigh gusted against the back of his head.

"Thought we were past that...."

The voice was rough and scratchy, as though Krycek had a bad cold.

"All right. Let's see, Gogol. I've only ever seen one play by him, so I can't really judge, but that was very funny. You would have liked it, it was mean and ironic, full of biting wit and cutting sarcasm. You like that kind of thing, don't you, Fox? It was about a small town in Russia under some Tsar or other—"

"Don't call me Fox," he snapped automatically, his voice muffled by Krycek's shoulder.

Krycek did stiffen now. The hand was removed from Mulder's head and the body wrapped almost protectively around his withdrew.

Mulder rolled over and glared at a rumpled, drawn Krycek, who was regarding him warily from where he stood beside the bed. He looked like death warmed over, eyes bloodshot, face stubbly and almost translucently pale except for the deep smudges under his eyes and the purplish bruise marking his left cheekbone, but the familiar alertness gleamed in his eyes.

"Mulder," he said slowly, almost as though testing the waters. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am," he snarled and sat up. This was all wrong. Where was he, and how in hell had he ended up in bed with Krycek?

Mulder searched his memory for some kind of explanation, but came up empty. He'd been in the police station, talking to the sheriff. How had he gone from talking to the sheriff to... this?

This was ridiculous. Mulder did not wake up in unfamiliar beds with no recollection of how he'd gotten there—and Christ, certainly not with Krycek. It was all wrong.... Thank God Mulder was still wearing his clothes, at least. It was bad enough suddenly finding himself in a strange bed, being clutched by Alex Krycek. Mulder didn't even want to think about—

But... wait. His gun. Where the hell was his gun?

Krycek noticed his panicked expression, correctly surmised the cause, and nodded towards the table at the far side of the room, his face closed into cool impassivity. "Over there."

He slid out of bed on the side across from Krycek and went to retrieve his gun. Gun, singular.

"Where the hell is the other one?"

Krycek looked about as innocent as a man splattered with blood, caught with a knife and half a dozen still-warm bodies.

"Krycek, where the fuck is my second gun!"

The other man's expression turned from feigned innocence to stone. "You don't need two, Mulder. I need a weapon. I didn't shoot you while you slept, did I? You can relax, I don't need it for you."

Mulder's first instinct was to smash the bastard's face with the gun he did have and force him to reveal the hiding place of the missing one. He'd even moved a step closer when his mind suddenly registered the bruise on the other man's face.

Events clicked into place with an almost audible snap. Interrogating the Ritters. Taking a swing at Krycek, who saw it coming and stood still. Krycek bringing him out of the hotel. Krycek steering him into Dahl's car, into his own rented car, and finally into this hotel, this room, this bed.

Krycek holding him while he screamed inside. Krycek's voice talking to him.

Mulder dropped the gun back on the table and fled into the bathroom.

How could he have allowed this to happen? This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to him. It was completely impermissible; Mulder refused to be betrayed by his own mind. He had depressions, but he did not lapse into catatonic states. He was fucked up, but he wasn't that fucked up—this was the first time anything like this had taken place, and it was going to be the last. He could not—and would not—let it happen again. No way in hell. Definitely not.

And of all the rotten timing.... If Mulder had been asked to make a list of the people he least wanted to see him in such a vulnerable state, Alex Krycek would certainly have been among the top five.

Of course, it was strangely typical that the man's response to Mulder's lapse should be so completely unlike anything Mulder would have expected. He had always possessed a disturbing talent for catching Mulder off guard.

In a way, it made sense that Krycek had stepped in to take charge so smoothly that Mulder's state had apparently passed unnoticed by anyone but him—after all, Mulder's hospitalization would have been likely to draw the immediate attention of people whose interest would have endangered Krycek. What he had done after they'd arrived at the hotel, however....

Every word Krycek had said was burned into Mulder's memory. He knew from experience that he would never be able to forget it, not even if he tried. It was unusual for him to remember aural impressions so clearly—his eidetic memory was primarily visual. But he could run every word Krycek had said, complete with inflection, tone, every nuance of expression, past his mind, and while he brushed his teeth, shaved, and showered, he did.

Most of it was nonsense, much of it one-sided discussions about books Mulder would never have suspected Krycek of reading. He used the name "Fox" constantly. Sound psychological practice when dealing with a disturbed person. Mostly it was uninteresting in itself, if fascinating for the fact that Krycek had bothered talking himself hoarse at all.

There were several very interesting portions of the monologue, though. The very beginning, when he'd still been trying to get a reaction out of Mulder. That passage near the end where he'd been talking about his family and his visit to his brother... and the very end, when his voice had been heavy with exhaustion and dark from talking too long.

"You're like a silver blade," the memory of Krycek murmured in Mulder's mind, his voice low and rough. "Sharp and precise and bright and beautiful. It burns my soul to look at you."

Briefly, Mulder entertained the thought that it was a phrase from one of the books Krycek had been talking about earlier. Part of a poem, perhaps.

It was possible, but he didn't believe it for a single moment.

When he returned to the room, Krycek was curled up in the other bed, sound asleep. Mulder silently walked around the foot of the bed so he could see the other man's face. Innocent and exhausted, much the way he'd looked in Mulder's bathtub, though the livid bruise made him look even paler now.

He was the one who was beautiful. There was nothing feminine about him, but his features were somehow too finely drawn to be called handsome. And then, of course, there were those ridiculously long lashes. And the nose. A pert nose. A cute nose. Cold-blooded killers shouldn't have noses like that.

Why did the man have to look like that? It made everything much more difficult.

But then, that was why they'd chosen him in the first place. Krycek had been telling the truth in one respect, at least—he hadn't really been trying to seduce Mulder, at least not after the very beginning of their partnership. If he had, he would have succeeded.

Even at the time, Mulder had been slightly dismayed at the sharp disappointment he'd felt when it seemed young, eager Agent Krycek had changed his mind and decided it would be better to keep their relationship on a purely professional level—maybe build up a friendship, but leave it at that. Of course, this was the only sensible thing to do, but still....

Mulder had wondered if it had been his peculiarities that had caused Krycek's change of heart. He knew most people considered him too strange to associate with, let alone take to bed. It didn't usually bother him—after all, he himself considered most people too unintelligent, narrow-minded, and tedious to associate with... let alone take to bed. But Krycek hadn't seemed unintelligent, only inexperienced. And not at all narrow-minded or tedious.

After some brooding, Mulder had settled on the more palatable alternative that Krycek hadn't been aware of the signals he'd been sending. In a society which still frowned on homosexual relationships, many people suppressed such urges automatically and never grew consciously aware of their attraction to another person of the same gender. It had seemed plausible at the time.

Only later, once Krycek's true colors had been revealed, had Mulder become completely confused. Of course it was still possible Krycek hadn't known what he was doing—moving into Mulder's personal space, sitting too close, touching his arm, his shoulder. Giving him that slow, inviting smile. Looking at him with that intense, fascinated expression in his eyes.

Possible, but not damn likely.

It had seemed equally unlikely that Krycek had simply wanted to avoid emotional involvement. The man was hardly the type who'd have to worry about becoming attached to someone merely because he slept with them.

And now it had turned out the reason Krycek hadn't finished what he'd started was that he'd liked Mulder. He'd liked him, and so he'd lied to him, stolen from him, betrayed him, killed his father—but hadn't seduced him.

Bizarre, perhaps, but perfectly logical in its way. So why hadn't Mulder been able to see it? He was a profiler—usually, he could read hidden motives with almost uncanny precision, even when he had next to no information to work with. What was it about Krycek that got in the way of all his instincts?

Whatever it was, it had been there from the first time they'd met, when Mulder had looked up from the stupendously boring and frustratingly pointless work they'd dumped on him to keep him safely out of the way.

Krycek. Alex Krycek. Standing there like a kid who'd wandered in by mistake. Looking like a complete idiot with his hand stuck out, wearing that ridiculous wide-eyed, hopeful little-boy smile.

Wasn't an idiot though, as it turned out. Just a cold-blooded killer who even then had probably had more lives on his non-existent conscience than the rest of the people in that office put together. Mulder should have been wary, uneasy, skeptical.... He should have sensed that something about his new partner didn't ring quite true, that he was too green and awkward at some times, too sharp and alert at others. How could he have missed the way those soft, admiring eyes turned hard and cold as green ice when he was angry, when he concentrated?

Mulder stared down at the sleeping young murderer for several more heartbeats before shaking his head and going to get dressed.

Interviewing the mayor's wife was like trying to hold an eel. The woman had probably started out as her husband's publicity manager. She was amazing. She'd doubtless be able to hold speeches two or three hours long without allowing a single statement with meaning to escape her lips.

"Rick was never a difficult child though. Most children are difficult at one stage or another—I don't know if you have children, Agent Mulder? No? Well, perhaps you will one day, and I assure you there will be times when you will despair of ever bringing the task of child-rearing to a satisfactory close. Now, it is true that due to my husband's position, we were sometimes forced to be absent rather more than we liked—"

"Mrs. Lowborough."

She stopped, a polite smile pasted onto her perfectly made-up lips. She looked like a character from a daily soap—the perfect, energetic wife and mother who worked half-days at some sober, serious, responsible job, took an active interest in every charity in the vicinity, and turned up with a cake saying "Get Well Soon" whenever one of the neighbors sprained an ankle.

Ten minutes after setting foot in her house, Mulder had come to the conclusion that she and Mayor Lowborough had found out years ago that they hated each other and were now staying together out of a sense of responsibility for their son, because she liked being the mayor's wife, because he knew she was good for votes, and, of course, for tax reasons.

"I'd like to speak to your son now."

She frowned slightly. "He is very distressed about this incident, Agent Mulder. I don't want him reminded of these unfortunate happenings. My husband and I have been letting him stay home from school in order to give him time to recover without being questioned on events he should put behind him as soon as possible. I'm certain I can provide you with any information you may require."

Mulder stood halfway into her delivery, but waited her out before speaking. "I have to speak to your son in person. Regulations."

He'd pushed the right button. Regulations—the magic word.

"Oh I suppose there's no help for it then," she murmured in a long-suffering tone. The reflexive little pat she gave her hair had a martyred quality. "I'll have Anita call him down. Please do be careful how you talk with him, Agent Mulder. Are you quite certain you wouldn't prefer me to remain in the room? Well, I'll be right around the corner in the kitchen—if you want anything, you need only call."

Mulder nodded distractedly, wondering whether her husband had shouted at her about the hair-patting mannerism yet. It was bound to figure in the divorce papers in a couple of years' time. "Certainly."

She sniffed daintily and hovered for a beat or two before she took herself off in a cloud of expensive perfume.

It took longer than it should have for Lowborough Junior to make his appearance. Mulder didn't mind the wait—he wandered around the room and inspected the pictures standing on the mantel. A picture of Mrs. Lowborough as a younger and blonder woman, already very polished, already wearing the same practiced smile. A completely bald baby, looking confused and lying on a fluffy rug in front of the photographer's mock fireplace. A distinguished-looking man on a golf course, beaming into the camera benevolently, obviously suffering from a terminal case of campaign-poster-posing face-rictus.

He hummed to himself as he strolled over to the window and looked out over the carefully tended lawn. The garden had been landscaped to death—it looked so artificial it might as well have belonged to a doll-house.

Mulder was in top form. With yesterday's crisis, the depression had blown over. He refused to dwell on the form the crisis in question had taken—after all, what mattered was that he was all there again, set and ready to fathom the unfathomable.

During the drive over, he'd decided that Krycek's confused talk of silver blades wasn't anything he needed to attach special significance to. The strange choice of words could no doubt be accounted for by nothing more remarkable than severe exhaustion, the after-effects of having an alien rummage through his memories, and a complete lack of anything more intelligent to say.

Silver blade, indeed. Maybe it was an idiom directly translated from the Russian—perhaps Krycek had been saying something like "My, but you're a sick weirdo aren't you, it gives me heartburn just to look at someone as fucked up as you."

"Agent Molder?"

Mulder turned to face the teenager who slouched in the doorway to the living room with a mulish set to his jaw. Frederick Johann Cristoph Lowborough, the mayor's son, was a case straight from the textbooks—permanent rebellious frown, long hair loose down his back, torn black jeans, torn black tee-shirt, small silver earrings.... The fact that his hair was golden and curled into ringlets remarkably like those of a Christmas angel must cause him no end of chagrin. He'd probably dye it black sooner or later.

"The name's Mulder, Mr. Lowbrow."

The return shot went right over his head. "Mulder, Molder, whatever," Frederick Johann Cristoph muttered, flopping down in an easy chair and giving the older man a look along the sides of a nose several sizes too large for the rest of his face. "Is your name really Fox?"

How about that—it seemed the mayor's son had a little problem with figures of authority.

"That's right," Mulder said evenly. "Is your name really Frederick Johann Cristoph?"

He bristled defensively. "Hey, that wasn't my idea. Just call me Rick, okay?"

"Very well. I'm sure you already know why I'm here, Rick."

There was a drawn-out pause.

"Yeah," Frederick Johann Cristoph mumbled at last, tugging at a long golden curl and avoiding Mulder's eyes. "'Cause of Emma. Emma Lawrence."

"That's right," Mulder prodded when nothing further seemed forthcoming. "Tell me about Emma, Rick. When did you first meet her?"

"Oh, I don't know," he muttered indistinctly and shot a longing glance at the door. "About three months ago I guess; in the summer, anyway."

Mulder waited out the silence that followed and finally the kid gave up, heaving a heavy sigh and resigning himself to the inevitable.

"There's really nothing much to tell. She's—just like a girl. I mean, she is a girl, I suppose, but—it all seems so strange, she seemed so normal. Well, no, not exactly normal, she was too beautiful for that. And I could really talk with her—she was very interested in my writing. I write, you know, I'm going to be a screenwriter. I told her about the script I was working on then, she even helped me with some bits. It's about a man who comes home in disguise after years of being a terrorist, and he discovers his brother's convinced their father, who's a very important man in the local government, that the ex-terrorist was plotting against him, and so now he's disinherited and his father thinks he's his enemy, even though they really always got along very well before, and the ex-terrorist was fighting for a good cause, at least in the beginning, but his men got away from him and now he's disillusioned, and his brother's also tried to marry his girlfriend, but she threatened to commit suicide...."

Mulder sighed very loudly. Frederick glanced at him and shrugged, the animation fading from his features. "Anyway, I thought she was really special. Emma, I mean. Most girls are so strange."

"Hmm," Mulder said noncommittally.

"But she never giggled or said stupid things like ‘you big silly you.'"

"Oh?"

"No. And so I asked her out a couple times—I met her in the library, you know."

"Really?" Mulder asked, noting an instant too late that the word would doubtless be interpreted as conveying surprise at the information that Rick spent time in libraries when, in fact it had been meant to express interest in Emma Lawrence's presence there.

Fortunately, Frederick Johann Cristoph was too caught up in his narrative to take offense. "I saw her several times, we went to the movies and, you know, we went, well, walking, in the woods." The aspiring screenwriter turned beet red. "You know?"

Mulder thought back to Dahl's specification of when the Lawrence's were entitled to snag locals. "I believe I do. And she was then entitled to you under the terms of the Lawrence pact with the town of Weimar."

Frederick's head snapped up. "What?"

Mulder looked at him thoughtfully. "Never mind. What happened then?"

The teenager sighed and lowered his eyes again, nervously picking at the razor slashes in his jeans. "Dad caught wind of it. I think one of his cronies saw us together. He made a big scene and locked me up. He actually locked the door! I didn't even know there was a key—he locked me in, just like that! And I had a date with her the next day." With a small shudder, he slouched down further in the chair. "It hurt. It really hurt. For a long time."

"Can you explain in what way it hurt?"

"Not really. It was—well, like I was about to throw up and burst something, some internal organ, at the same time. I can't describe it. It was really horrible. Anyway, I knew it was because I wasn't going to her. And I had to. I thought I was going to die. I had to see her, I couldn't live unless I did." A dissatisfied frown appeared on his face as he thought his words over. "No, that doesn't sound right—that makes it sound as though it was some kind of romantic thing—but it wasn't that at all, I mean, I did think I was in love with her at one point, but.... Well. You know."

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "No, Rick, I don't. You no longer think you are in love with her?"

Rick stared at him with a very peculiar look on his face. "I don't love anyone who does that kind of thing to me. She hurt me. She did it on purpose. Would you love anyone who hurt you like that on purpose?"

After a brief, startled moment, Mulder decided the question had been purely rhetorical and could be ignored. "You think the pain was caused by her in some way?"

"It was. I knew it. I could feel it. She was trying to force me to come to her. And I would have, only I couldn't, and that's why it hurt. She hurt me. She really hurt me. And it went on for a long time—it took a couple of days, at least my parents say so. I don't really remember—it just seems like a really long time. And then, it—the pain—dissolved in me—like—like an ice-cube. It—went apart and drained out, somehow, and the pull—the pain stopped and I couldn't feel her trying to force me anymore and I was so afraid it would come back but it hasn't."

"Did she introduce you to other members of her family? Talk about them? Were you ever at her house?"

He shook his head without looking up. "Nah. She never talked about family and things like that. I didn't either."

"You knew she was a Lawrence?"

Reluctant nod.

"She told you?"

"The librarian did, she was trying to warn me off. And of course I knew all of the Lawrence ghost stories, but I didn't think there was anything to them." He gave a bitter laugh. "Guess there's truth in every fable."

More a question of the truth in an old wives' tale.... This was definitely an X-File.

He spent several hours interviewing hospital personnel about Margaret Ritter, tracking down people who'd known her as a girl—no one knew anything about an involvement with any of the Lawrences—and trying to form some kind of impression of the Lawrence family from public records.

There wasn't much to go on. There were no criminal records, and if the Lawrences married, died, or gave birth, then they did it in private and with no one the wiser. The family employed private tutors—private tutors from out of town who lived with them and about whom nothing was known—so there were no school records at all. There was no indication that any Lawrence had ever held down a job; Mulder had put in a request for the Lawrences' tax records, but at this point, he'd be very surprised if there was any useful information to be garnered from them. Still, the state's property tax records should at least shed light on the question of who the titular owner of the family's land—and therefore the nominal head of the family—was.

He recruited Riley to help him and spent the rest of the day hunched over a microfiche reader in the Weimar Daily's archive, going through fifty years' worth of newspaper reports about missing persons. The Lawrences were only mentioned a handful of times, and never in connection with any of the disappearances. There was something about a speech given by one Graham T. Lawrence on an anniversary of the town's founding by his ancestor Terence G. Lawrence, something on a track award won by Celia Lawrence, and other such uninformative things.

Going by the evidence on file here—the lack of evidence, rather—no one could possibly have suspected that anything out-of-the-ordinary was going on in Weimar.

"I'm about to toss this thing through the window," Riley announced at last. "Blast it, these people can't be that clean. No one is that clean. Seems like none of them ever even got a parking ticket. But then no one knows whether they even have cars." She snorted in disgust. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but the way that guy popped up out of nowhere—I don't know what they'd need cars for."

Mulder smiled at the expression on her face—she was plainly aghast at hearing herself say something so manifestly ridiculous. "It's okay," he told her and swung around in his chair, snapping the reader off. "You'll get used to it."

She looked horrified. "Good God, I hope not. This is madness. Are you trying to tell me you're used to this kind of thing?"

He felt his smile turn wry. "Yes. But then I never really had much trouble crediting out of the ordinary explanations for out of the ordinary phenomena. Quite often, the so-called sensible conjectures arrived at to provide a conventional solution are extremely far-fetched and illogical, and yet they are preferred to more viable alternatives merely because the association of certain ideas with the impossible is so deeply ingrained in the human mind. It's completely arbitrary."

Riley got up with a small groan and stretched, rubbing her back with one hand. "I have to put something in my stomach while I think about that. There's a pretty good spaghetti joint round the corner—care to join me?"

He considered briefly before shaking his head. "Not tonight. Tomorrow?"

She regarded him for a moment and then nodded decisively. "It's a date, Agent Mulder."

When they got out of the newspaper's archive building, Dahl was lurking in the petunias and promptly attached himself to Riley, who bore it stoically.

Mulder picked up a sandwich from a deli at the corner and drove to the hotel to see what Krycek had been up to.

The first clue was the empty room-service trays stacked in the corridor. The second was the boxes and bags neatly arranged next to the door inside the room. On inspection, they proved to contain several shirts and ties, two tasteful and obviously quite expensive suits, a pair of jeans, tee-shirts, a sweater, a pair of shoes, underwear, and a duffel bag.

Krycek himself was in bed, pointing a very familiar-looking gun at Mulder's head.

"Oh, it's you," he said. Tucking the gun under his pillow, he turned over and gave every appearance of immediately going back to sleep.

Mulder briefly struggled with the urge to rush to the bed and retrieve his gun, maybe preparatory to clouting Krycek on the head with it.

"Krycek."

A subtle tension in the still form announced he was listening.

Mulder paused while he wondered what to say. What do you think this is, a shopping trip? Killed anyone while I was out? What does silver blade mean in Russian?

Are you really nude beneath that sheet or does it just look like it from where I'm standing?

"Have you been sleeping all day?"

He turned over to look at Mulder again, exposing a bare shoulder and part of a broad chest. His face was stony, his voice hard and cold. "Not quite, Mulder—I had to go down to the police station to fill in some of the blanks on my missing brother, if you remember him. Apart from that and the time I spent on the phone ordering up food and clothes, however, I've been lolling about in bed all day. So sorry to offend your work ethics."

Mulder hadn't meant to make an accusation out of the question. It was no wonder Krycek was exhausted. In fact, it was surprising he'd held up as well as he had. The night before last, immediately following near death through alien possession, he'd gotten four or five hours of sleep at most.... And judging from his wild-eyed and frantic appearance when Mulder had rushed in, it hadn't been particularly restful sleep, either. The naps he'd taken on the plane and in the car on the way to Weimar couldn't have helped all that much, and last night—well. Even now, his voice was still huskier than usual.

Mulder decided to postpone the subject of who was supposed to pay for Krycek's little shopping spree.

"There are witches in Weimar," he announced instead.

Krycek's expression changed, eased. He watched Mulder for a moment before sitting up and sliding back to lean comfortably against the headboard, the sheet draped about his waist.

He did seem to be nude. Mulder pretended not to notice.

"By witches, I mean beings with unusual abilities. Perhaps aliens or even pushers, perhaps something else entirely. The mayor's son was almost taken by one of them, Emma Lawrence, who looks and acts more or less like a normal girl. He took her to the movies, slept with her, and was put in agony by her through some kind of psychic connection when he didn't show up for a date because his father'd locked him in. After several days, the contact dissolved and hasn't been re-established. Apparently this was what the father expected—he told Riley he was locking his son up until it passed. Emma hadn't gotten a permanent hold yet, there was still something missing, which was why she hadn't taken him away yet. She was still in the process of binding him to her."

He paused to consider, going on slowly. "Interesting that the locals have to sleep with them to be eligible for being taken. Perhaps intercourse is a technical necessity rather than a legal prerequisite for taking Weimarians. Quite a number of cultures associate the sexual act with supernatural rituals or ascribe special karmic or spiritual energy to it. In fact—in Medieval Europe, it was accepted doctrine that when communing with their master, the devil, witches had sexual intercourse with him. This Lawrence phenomenon may very well be the basis for the connection of the practice of witchcraft to sex."

"Or maybe it's just that human beings tend to connect more or less everything to sex?" Krycek said dryly.

"But it fits!" Mulder insisted, beginning to pace and gesture while he spoke. "This may also be the basis for the numerous legends about demonic seductresses—mostly seductresses, patriarchal cultures tend to favor myths tailored to men—that crop up in almost all cultures. They go back for millennia—the old Babylonians describe a seductress sent to estrange Enkidu from the animals and bring him to Gilgamesh—and that epic goes back to almost two thousand years BC."

Krycek's mouth quirked with something that was not quite a smile. "Your theory about the sexual component of the binding practices of the Weimar witches is plausible, considering the evidence at hand. However, I don't think your attempt to claim the Gilgamesh epos as corroborative evidence is very promising."

It wasn't often that one of Mulder's theories was accepted with grace—most often, even irrefutable proof didn't make people believe. Even when they had forced their conscious mind to accept what they knew must be true, as Deputy Riley was doing in the case of the Weimar witches, they still couldn't bring themselves to believe. Not in the true, instinctive, real sense.

And they never stopped looking at him in that particular half mocking, half disbelieving way because he made it so clear that yes, he did believe.

Mulder was accustomed to fighting other people's resistance to any idea that fell outside the narrow boundaries of their fixed, limited little worldviews. He hardly noticed the constant strain it put him under anymore... except in the rare moments when the strain eased. Moments that felt like a deep, clean draught of air after years of struggling for breath.

Moments like the one brought on by the calm, matter-of-fact acceptance in Krycek's tone. In Krycek's, his enemy's, tone.

With a small shock, Mulder realized he was reminding himself of the fact Krycek was his enemy. When had that become necessary?

"So," Krycek said easily. "What exactly have you found out so far?"

Mulder hesitated for a long moment, torn between the need to pour out his thoughts, ordering them while he spoke, and the reluctance to tell this man anything at all, let alone something that might imply they were working on the case together.

When they had still been working together—when Mulder had still been fool enough to believe they were working together—he'd begun to see Krycek's take on a case as an at least potentially valuable contribution towards solving it. Worth listening to, in any event. Even worth asking for.

Alex Krycek listened attentively and with unfeigned interest as Mulder recounted his day's findings—or rather, the lack of findings. It was the same open, receptive look he'd so often worn as Mulder's partner. After brief initial distrust, Mulder had taken it at surface value then; he'd taken it to mean that Krycek would not discount any theory Mulder threw out—no matter how bizarre it might seem at first—without thinking it through. He'd taken it to mean that if Krycek did not find solid arguments against it—arguments not involving reasoning like "that's simply absurd" or "I don't believe in that kind of thing"—then he wouldn't reject it.

Had that receptiveness been real or had it merely been part of the pretense? Had any of Krycek's seeming hero-worship, his respect and even admiration for Mulder's work, been real?

Mulder considered asking this question.

He looked at Krycek and found he was afraid of the answer—afraid of the truth.

How ironic that the man who had betrayed him was the only person who had ever seemed ready—even eager—to believe in him. And how ironic that even after all that had passed between them, something in Mulder still turned over with hopeless longing at that particular look in a pair of dark green eyes.

No, ironic was the wrong word. Damned stupid, that's what it was. Because the man was a murderer and a traitor and nothing could change that. Not the fact that other people had made the choices that had shaped him. Not that he had resisted forces Mulder could only vaguely imagine to retain part of himself. Not the amazing inner strength that had enabled him to survive with his spirit unbroken.

Not the quick intelligence, the edged, sharp, self-deprecating wit. Not the strange willingness to help that had led him to hold Mulder and talk him through a crisis that might well have been much more severe but for his efforts.

Not that, sitting in bed wearing nothing except the bandages on his wrists—with tousled dark hair, moss-green eyes, stubbly cheeks, a bruise on his cheek, and his perfectly sculpted chest bare—he was the most alluring thing Mulder had ever seen.

"I'm tired," Mulder announced decisively. He didn't want to think too much about Krycek and his betrayal. Not when he'd just begun to feel human again. And besides, he was tired.

In the morning, Mulder stood next to his ex-partner's bed and watched him sleep while he tied the knot of his tie.

Krycek was curled on his right side like a cat, his arm tucked beneath the pillow. Touching the gun. Holding it, maybe.

There were not many people Mulder believed capable of using a loaded gun as a security blanket without running the risk of accidentally shooting someone, most probably themselves. Alex Krycek, for all of his nightmares and panic attacks, was one of them. Guns seemed to melt into his hand when he held them. Just another part of him.

He looked much better now—the unnaturally pale cast to his skin had faded, leaving him with an almost golden complexion marred only by the bruise he would be carrying for a while yet.

Mulder felt a twinge of remorse. But he hadn't been in control of himself at the time—and Krycek could have ducked, had started to, in fact. Why the hell hadn't he? It was his own fault.

It was a gift, this innocence in repose. Krycek was always attractive, but most of the time it was possible to forget, or at least ignore, the fact. But when he was asleep, there was a stillness about him.... For want of a better word, a purity.... A strange immaculateness.

A lie. But it brought out the perfect, elegant bone-structure, the long dark lashes, the small, slightly up-tilted nose.... The sensual line of the mouth....

Mulder swept his gaze downwards. The sheet had slipped to Krycek's waist again, revealing a well-muscled but not bulky arm, an equally well-formed chest. His gaze wandered along the elegant curve of collarbone to the hollow of the throat, the smooth sweep of the neck, the perfect line of the jaw....

The watchful, forest-green eyes.

"Well, do I get the Mulder seal of approval?" Krycek asked sharply. Aggressively. On the defensive?

Mulder allowed his gaze to sweep over Krycek again and the other man shifted, uncurling and scooting back slightly. Yes—definitely on the defensive.

Did he get the Mulder seal of approval? Yes. Definitely yes.

"You haven't grown antennae," he said.

He waited for comprehension to widen Krycek's eyes before reaching out.

"Mulder," Krycek said, his voice low and full of warning.

Mulder slowly ran his hand up the exposed arm, enjoying the feel of sleep-warm, smooth skin over firm muscle. Skimmed over the scar tissue near the shoulder and trailed his fingers lightly but firmly along the collarbone to the base of the throat.

Krycek, already tense, tensed up further and drew a slightly shuddery breath.

Mulder ran his hand up the side of the neck, carefully avoided the bruise while skimming over the cheek. He brushed the lips lightly with his thumb. Soft as silk. Slightly warmer than the rest of him.

They opened under his touch. Krycek was breathing hard and there was a wild look in his eyes. "Mulder, stop."

"Not just yet," he said absently and gently touched his hand to Krycek's chin, cupping it in the palm of his hand and stroking down the elegant line of the throat.

Krycek arched his neck. It looked like an all but involuntary movement. Mulder repeated the caress and the other man tipped his head further back, exposing his throat. Looking strangely vulnerable.... Lips slightly parted, eyes very dark. Pupils distended.

"You're beautiful," Mulder said softly, wonderingly.

Down, along the tense muscles of the chest, the abdomen. So beautiful....

"Mulder. This is a bad idea."

Two days ago—one day ago—Mulder would have agreed. Now, with Krycek nude and warm and enticing beneath his hand.... Now, he knew better.

"Why?" he murmured, stroking firm muscles that fluttered beneath his touch.

"Because I say so," Krycek said, his voice harsh and not at all steady. "You know the song and dance about the right to a choice, I'm not about to go into that."

"Completely unnecessary," Mulder agreed and leaned in to brush his lips against Krycek's.

Krycek tried to move back, but Mulder slipped his left hand around the nape of his neck and held him steady while he traced the sensual lips with his tongue. Gently at first, then more insistently as the desire heating his blood rose to consume his reason. When the mouth failed to open, he drew the lower lip between his teeth and nibbled gently.

The breathless little gasp Krycek gave made Mulder's stomach clench with pure lust. He began to slide the hand lying on the other man's stomach lower, but Krycek grabbed his wrist.

"Don't—"

The left hand, then. He was lovely.... Body solid with muscle, but lithe and slender. Eyes wide and oh-so-green. Breath coming in harsh gasps. He felt so right....

Krycek gave a strangled, helpless-sounding growl as Mulder brushed aside the sheet and gently curled his fingers around an already erect cock.

He tightened his grip slightly, experimentally. Satiny skin and heat.... Alex.

It took a long moment for Mulder's desire-fogged mind to alert him to the fact that the quiet little snick had been the sound of a safety coming off.

A pair of arctic-green eyes bored into his.

"Mulder," Krycek said, his voice rough with desire. "If you don't take your hands off me right now, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."

Mulder froze. The body beneath his hands shuddered slightly, chest rising and falling rapidly, but the muzzle of the gun aimed at his head was rock-steady.

"Would you really shoot me?" Mulder asked after a moment.

Krycek began to speak. Stopped. Hesitated.

After a long moment, he closed his eyes. The hand holding the gun sank to his side. Turning his face sideways into the pillow, he said, "No."

Mulder looked down at the lovely body now sprawled out in surrender, considered the erection, the flushed skin, the accelerated breathing. The strangely forlorn expression on his face.

"Damn you," he growled and forced himself to let go, step back—stop touching him. It was almost impossible. It felt so right....

Mulder turned and fled while he still had the necessary willpower. He was distantly aware that the overwhelming sense of rightness he felt when touching Krycek should have been worrying him, would inevitably worry him later. At the moment, though, all Mulder knew was frustrated desire singing in his blood and confusion over where this almost irresistible urge to touch, to taste, to have, to own had come from. He was even too aroused to be dismayed at the discovery that all he truly wanted at this moment was to make Alex Krycek scream when he came.

They were both trying to pretend nothing had happened. It wasn't working, of course. Alex might have pulled it off—probably was pulling it off—but it was hopeless when Mulder was acting the way he was.

Mulder was really bad at this kind of thing. He kept flashing Alex nervous little glances of disbelief and a kind of low-grade horror that gave him away from miles off.

Thank God Alex had managed to stop him. If Mulder was acting this way over a grope.... Granted, a pretty extended and thorough grope, but still just a grope. And Alex had never even laid a finger on Mulder.

Maybe he should have. It had probably been the only chance he'd ever get to touch him without being back-handed into a wall or kicked in the ribs. And he'd let it slip past. What harm would it have done? Mulder couldn't exactly have given him trouble about coming on to him. Though knowing Mulder.... Really, even now he might decide it had all been Alex's idea.

He could picture it now, Mulder standing over him disheveled and furious, gun in hand, knuckles bleeding. Shouting, Krycek, you little shit, you killed my father, you shot Scully's sister, you lay there and made me grab you....

Unfulfilled desire was one thing—no fun, but he could handle it. Infinitely preferable to making love to Fox Mulder and seeing the revulsion and self-hatred in the man's eyes once the rush of lust receded. To say nothing of living with the knowledge that while he'd been making love to Fox Mulder, Fox Mulder had been rutting with a nicely shaped, convenient, and willing body.

And what if Alex hadn't been able to control himself—if he'd said something, done something to hand Mulder the ultimate power over him? Alex had no way of knowing what his reaction to the experience would have been. He'd never made love before. He'd only had sex, and while he'd never had any problems retaining control during sex, no matter how frenzied the encounter, he had a nasty suspicion that it would be different with Fox.

Wrong tense. He had a suspicion that it would have been different. He'd never find out because it wasn't going to happen. He knew better than to take incalculable risks.

He tried to spear a bite of pancake and discovered that he'd finished the stack without tasting a thing. Mulder flashed him a hunted look.

"Stop looking at me like that," Alex snapped. "You're behaving as though I was Jack the Ripper. The only thing I did was tell you to stop."

Mulder flushed and looked tortured.

Dear God. He was gorgeous when he flushed. Alex felt his mouth go dry and the blood rush to his groin and hastily grabbed the sugar, adding a liberal dash to his coffee and stirring it with earnest attention. Coffee plantations, coffee production, exploitation of the workers....

There was a very long pause. Alex added some cream to his cup and swirled milky patterns in the coffee, concentrating fiercely. Merits of local coffee in two dozen countries. Poisons whose taste would be masked by the bitter tang—almost all, really, coffee was ideal provided the poison was stable enough to withstand the heat with the active component unharmed. And of course you had to make certain there would be no unwanted interactions with the caffeine—

"I know," Mulder said quietly, his voice subdued.

Bolstered by thoughts of coffee, Alex looked up almost casually. He managed to hold on to his detached assessment of the other man for over ten seconds—no mean achievement.

Mulder stared at Alex uncertainly, huffed slightly, looked to the side and back to Alex. Frowning. Uncomfortable, confused, and unhappy, but determined.

Alex knew what that look meant. Mulder had fought one of his bloody inner battles and lost. He had defeated himself into admitting that there was a truth to be hunted down in his own mind, and he had set out to bring it down, pin it to the wall, strip it naked, and turn it every which way in the harsh and brutal light of unrelenting intellect.

He'd interrogated his truth exhaustively and marched it off to the holding cell. And now was the time to bring it to the attention of the world. Mulder was gearing up for coming out with an Uncomfortable Personal Truth That Had To Be Faced.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said slowly and distinctly, looking straight at Alex. Unflinching.

Alex's eyes widened in sheer astonishment. All remaining thoughts of coffee fled.

"I had no right to do that," Mulder went on after a brief pause. Tortured, but gathering confidence. He was doing The Right Thing, and the knowledge gave him strength. "To... touch you without your consent."

Alex shook his head, giving him a twisted smile. "Hey, Mulder, you've beaten the shit out of me without my consent and never given it a moment's thought."

He brushed the remark aside with an irritated wave of the hand. "That's different. This was wrong. And—" His face was still and composed, but there was something wild, almost trapped in his eyes that Alex didn't like at all. "I didn't want to stop just because you asked me to. I considered going on in spite of what you said you wanted. Because of your physical reaction."

Alex shot a quick glance around the breakfast room to make sure no one was sitting too close. Trust Mulder to burst out with the truth without regard for such mundane considerations as fitting surroundings and potential embarrassment.

"Well, that's understandable, Mulder," he said slowly, feeling his way. This was almost surreal. He was actually sitting here comforting Mulder because Mulder had felt him up and couldn't handle it. Thanks a lot, Mulder. Must have been quite a traumatic experience.

Mulder shook his head emphatically. "No. No, it's not understandable. It was—it would have been rape. I almost—"

"Bullshit! Come on, snap out of it."

He couldn't believe this conversation. He'd expected Mulder to be angry and disgusted, both at himself and at Alex. He'd been more than half afraid Mulder would decide to give Alex a good beating to flush some of the anger and desire and frustration out of his system. And, of course, to punish Alex for making Mulder want him. But this.... Even coming from Mulder, this was bizarre.

"It would have been," Mulder insisted doggedly. "Physical arousal is no more than a reflex, an instinct, in many respects. It can—and often does—result even from stimulation perceived as unpleasant—it doesn't mean that it isn't rape—"

"Mulder, it was just a case of crossed wires. It happens—the body goes one way and the mind goes the other. It's no big deal—at least not if you live through it, and that wasn't even a question in this case. It's got nothing to do with rape. I can tell the difference. And if it makes you feel better—if it had been even close, you'd be very cold and stiff now and I'd be three states away with a new name."

An ugly note had crept into his voice and Alex stopped briefly to take a sip of coffee. His control was shot to hell—ever since he'd come back to himself on Fox Mulder's couch, he'd been slipping up like this constantly. This would never do. He had to get a hold of himself.

"I'm not a victim, Mulder," he continued after a moment, his tone back to bland and conversational. "No one does that to me and survives." No one. Not even you.

A thoughtful pause. A searching look. A slow nod.

"I see." Mulder looked relieved. "I'm glad. Well, that's all right then."

Mulder looked down at his by now no doubt very cold breakfast with a distracted frown, almost as though he couldn't imagine where the plate of scrambled eggs had come from all of a sudden and why he was poking around in it with a fork.

With an air of brisk determination, he laid down the fork, waved the waitress over, and ordered a fresh plate of scrambled eggs, which he proceeded to put away with methodical precision, advancing from left to right. It was fascinating to watch—he'd even wipe down a cleared area of porcelain with a piece of toast before moving on to the next sector.

Judging from the look of remote concentration on his face, he was thinking about the case.

Amazing. Mulder really was a nutcase.

If they need to sleep with someone in order to gain power over them, then how come the Lawrence guy that Riley ran into could make her do things? Do you think she's leaving something out of her story?"

Mulder frowned at a traffic light that had the audacity to be red. "Something being that she slept with him? Get real, Krycek. He was obstructing justice."

"Got a point," Alex admitted cheerfully. "So, do you think they can do minor influence without sex? Is sex specific to the servant binding? Or is sex only necessary with locals? Maybe because they're distant relatives and harder to control because of genetic similarity?"

The light had turned green while he spoke and Mulder hit the accelerator.

"Mulder! Look at the street when you drive!"

Mulder glanced at the street once, distractedly, before returning his attention to Alex. "That's a very interesting theory—"

"Mulder!"

Extended honking caused Mulder to yell some very inventive curses at the drivers unfortunate enough to be sharing the road with him. Fortunately, the window was rolled up. Would have made interesting headlines. FBI agent fined for gross insult. Indecent gestures, too.

Alex started laughing. When he was in no immediate danger, but under a lot of stress, he often found small things hysterically funny—it was a safe way of letting off some of the tension, he supposed. Certainly better than most of the methods he'd come across in others. And what with the aliens, the Consortium, and Mulder, Alex was wound tight as a spring.

"What's so funny?" Mulder growled.

He shook his head and tried to stifle the laughter, but he was still snorting when Mulder pulled into the deserted parking lot behind the municipal building. It seemed the mayor was the only one who liked to come in to work on Saturdays.

Mulder stopped the motor and turned in his seat, facing Alex, his expression carefully neutral. Probably about to slam a fist in Alex's stomach. He'd better control himself before—

Mulder's hand shot out and Alex stiffened, flinching away slightly.

"Alex."

The tone was cool, no-nonsense, impatient. Alex was so astonished at hearing his name from Mulder that he didn't move when the other man reached over to take his chin in a firm grip, regarded him thoughtfully for a second or so, and then leaned across the space between them to kiss him.

He smelled of aftershave and soap and Mulder. His lips were soft, but determined, sliding firmly against Alex's.

Alex turned his face away and managed to summon enough presence of mind for coherent speech. "Mulder—"

Stupid mistake. Mulder's hand still held his chin; a firm pull, a quick swoop of the head, and suddenly Mulder's tongue was in Alex's mouth.

Alex held very still for one stunned moment that stretched into eternity. Fox Mulder played with his tongue, stroked the roof of Alex's mouth, and drew back slightly to nibble at his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth.

Something snapped. With a low, dangerous growl, Alex surged forward, pushing a surprised Fox back into his seat. In a movement as smooth as though he'd been practicing for years, Alex twisted up and around, vaulting across the gearshift to straddle Fox. He didn't think about what he was doing; he didn't even notice that the way he was half kneeling on the seat with Fox, half crouching against the door on the driver's side should have pulled several muscles.

He didn't care anymore why Fox was doing this. He wasn't even thinking coherently enough to wonder. Fox Mulder was pressed against him, a startled expression on his face. Fox Mulder readily opened his mouth to Alex. Fox Mulder's arms came around him in a crushing grip to pull him closer, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He tasted very faintly of coffee and scrambled eggs and toast. His tongue twined around Alex's and Alex drew it into his mouth, sucked on it, bit down gently, released it. Did it again. Slanted his mouth over Fox's and melted into him, caressing him, tasting him, tongue stroking and teeth nipping....

A hand twined into the hair at the back of Alex's head and yanked him back firmly. Breathing heavily, Alex looked down to discover a small, smug smile on Fox's face.

"Well, then," Fox said calmly. "Shall we go and talk to the mayor?"

But there was still time to salvage the situation—Alex could still disguise his dangerous lapse as a calculated move, part of a convoluted power game. Make him angry. Embarrass him. Make him think he knows the answers and he won't ask the wrong questions.

Alex leaned back and raked his gaze assessingly up and down Fox's body, lingering at his groin and looking back up with an oh-so-slight smirk.

Fox reacted beautifully, eyes narrowing dangerously, face closing. Alex could hear his thoughts as clearly as though he'd shouted them out: ‘You may have just had your tongue down my throat, you little rat-bastard, but how dare you presume on that?'

"Whatever you want, Fox," Alex drawled, giving him a cool, mocking smile. "Just let me know."

With an intense rush of relief, he saw the uncertainty flicker to life—almost but not quite concealed by the growing anger. Thank God for those expressive features.

He widened the smile into an evil grin and reached out to ruffle Fox's hair. Fox was the one who flinched back now.

"That was very promising, Mulder," he purred. "If you work on your technique a bit, you'll have a whole new weapon in your arsenal there. I've always found sex very useful. Ask me to give you some pointers one of these days."

Anger flared in hazel eyes and Alex hurriedly scrambled back to the passenger's side and out of the car.

Jesus. Talk about close calls.

Cheldon and Alexander?" Mayor Lowborough leaned back in his green leather chair and looked up at the ceiling in concentration. "Cheldon and Alexander, Cheldon and Alexander...."

Mulder glanced at Krycek. The bastard was coolly lounging in his own green leather chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, casually holding a snifter of brandy in his left hand. It looked as though he were chatting with Lowborough at some exclusive club. The bruise struck an off note, but then, to judge by the mayor's small, sympathetic wince and smile when they'd first come in, attorneys fresh from fist-fights dropped by his office every day. Not even the bandages on this particular attorney's wrists had seemed to strike the mayor as odd.

Alex Krycek was lying again. Lying with every little gesture, every calm nod, every cultured smile that shouted well-bred polish. And Weimar's mayor was swallowing the lie hook, line, and sinker. Falling for the falsehood of New England aristocracy. Believing in an over-bred, bloodless young scion reeking of country club and old-boy network where there was nothing but a calculated performance given by a thug—a gun-wielding, ice-eyed assassin.

A sliver of shock sliced through Mulder as it struck him once again that not half an hour earlier, he'd had this ice-eyed assassin's tongue down his throat. And not only had Mulder enjoyed every second, he'd even thought it had been his own idea.

Right until he'd seen that delighted little glitter in Krycek's eyes—the one that said: Look, the Fox who thought he was so smart has run straight into my trap.

Again.

How many times was he going to fall for one of Krycek's twisted little ploys? He had no excuses for his credulousness anymore—he knew what Krycek was, had known for a long time. A liar. A traitor. A murderer. It wasn't as though Mulder didn't know he'd be royally screwed over whenever the bastard made one of his appearances. He always made so sure to guard every front—but somehow, he never suspected the direction the blow would actually be coming from.

The humiliating thing was that Krycek was right—Mulder had been trying to use sex as a lever, trying to gain an advantage, to put the other man in his place. Mulder hadn't been aware of it until Krycek had bested him at the game, but—yes. He'd been trying, and it wasn't his style at all. Krycek was pulling him down to his level. Damn the bastard. This was all his fault.

Mulder knew Krycek was pulling a fast one on him somehow, but he couldn't figure out what it was. On the surface, Mulder seemed to be holding all the cards. Krycek was the one who'd been dumped on his couch as a gift, and on the power of that fact, Mulder held complete control over him. The threat of the aliens would bring Krycek to do almost anything—he'd seen it in his eyes. It would even force him to tell the truth.

But Mulder had lost the brief insight he'd gained into the other man's thinking and couldn't figure out what the missing factor in the equation was. He was still groping in the dark where Krycek was concerned, and he shouldn't have been. Not when he now had so much to work with.

He was overlooking something basic, something crucial. He needed to sit Krycek down and ask him some pointed questions.

Unfortunately, just to make the chaos complete, Mulder's libido had chosen this moment to break loose with a vengeance, with the result that what little judgment he'd ever been able to lay claim to where Krycek was concerned now had to be considered additionally impaired.

It was even affecting his calling—here he was, brooding about that wretched Krycek when he had an X-File to investigate.

He shook himself mentally and sat up straighter, shooting Krycek a hostile glare and turning to the still ruminating mayor ensconced behind the huge walnut desk.

"Mayor Lowborough—" Mulder began impatiently.

Lowborough held up a commanding hand and swung his chair upright with a triumphant smile. "Ah yes! Cheldon and Alexander, founded by Gregory Cheldon and Morris Drake Alexander the Third."

Krycek swung the brandy around gently in the glass, brought it to his lips, and took a languid sip. "The Second, actually," he said lazily.

Was he actually toasting the mayor? What the hell did Krycek think this was, a cocktail party?

"The third Morris Drake was the one who expanded into criminal law. I'm impressed, your honor—you have a fine memory. Are you perhaps acquainted with Sid Cheldon?"

When Krycek had thrown out the name of his alias's law firm, Mulder had assumed he'd made something up on the spur of the moment. He'd even thought it an idiotic thing to do. Seemed he'd underestimated the deviousness of the rat once again. How many well-researched alternate identities did the man carry about with him?

Mulder made a mental note to call up the Gunmen and have them run a check on Kevin Alexander. Should have done that much earlier.

What kind of life would it be to live like that—wearing one alias after the other, shrugging in and out of identities like other people shrugged in and out of their clothes....

Damn. Bad metaphor. Change tracks, Mulder.

Who was the real Krycek? What was the truth in and behind the disguises, what merely a lie? Because there was truth in every good disguise—it was only a question of knowing where to look.

Mulder narrowed his eyes at the ambitious, well-schooled young scion next to him and vowed to find this particular truth. You're not getting away, not this time. You're mine now, whoever you are. You arrived on my sofa as a gift, I accepted, and that's that.

Krycek chose that moment to glance at him with an odd expression in his eyes. Mulder smiled at him dangerously. That's right, you cold, murderous, pretty little bastard. Worry.

For a moment, he thought he did see a flash of worry in the sea-green depths of the other's gaze, but then it was gone, replaced by the polite amusement of a stranger. "Special Agent Mulder, I believe you wanted to ask the mayor some questions?"

"That's right." He fixed his attention on the mayor, who smiled genially and folded his hands on his desk. "Mayor Lowborough, you locked your son into his room to break the hold that Emma Lawrence had gained over him. How did you know this measure would be effective?"

The smile slipped off the mayor's lips as quickly and completely as though Mulder had slapped him. Perhaps he had, by the older man's standards—there were some people who simply could not deal with his brand of directness.

"I don't know what hold you are talking about. I caught him cavorting with an unfitting young woman and decided to put an end to the relationship."

Mulder shook his head. "No, Your Honor, it's too late for smoke-screening. I'd much prefer to work hand in hand with the local police department and the populace of Weimar, and I am hoping for your willingness to cooperate, but if you decide to hinder my work, you're hurting yourself more than me. You won't make me go away. I know what you have here. I'm here to investigate the Lawrence witches and that's what I'll do."

The mayor looked astounded, almost—but not quite—as though this were a completely new concept to him. "Special Agent Mulder—"

Dahl had made it clear that native Weimarians were safe from the witches unless they slept with one or broke the agreement that existed between the town and the Lawrences... by talking about them with outsiders, for example. Lowborough's show of ignorance reflected this aspect of the pact as eloquently as the sheriff's earlier refusal to admit that there was anything noteworthy about the Lawrences.

In the mayor's case, of course, there was a very effective lever that Mulder could use to make the man reconsider his priorities.

"Emma Lawrence may not be willing to give up her quarry as easily as you seem to believe. Are you prepared to sacrifice your son to Weimar's conspiracy of silence?"

For a long moment, Lowborough said nothing. Then he sighed and seemed to collapse in on himself. The practiced facade of good humor and benevolent bustle faded, leaving only a tired, worried man. "Of course not, Agent Mulder," he said quietly. None of the resonance of the practiced public speaker remained to conceal the bleakness in his voice. "The question is whether I will have any choice in the matter. The Lawrences are the real power in Weimar—Hal Warren and I cannot hope to stand against them. And where could we look for assistance?"

A small, humorless smile twisted his lips. He gave Krycek a brief glance before raising an ironic eyebrow at Mulder. "Somehow, Agent Mulder, I have trouble believing your superiors will be quick to agree with your assessment of the nature of Weimar's problem."

Mulder narrowed his eyes slightly. "Since I am the one presently in Weimar to handle the case, not my superiors, I fail to see why it should concern you, Mayor Lowborough. And the unusual circumstances of the case make it all the more advisable for you to assist me any way that you can—precisely because I do understand the true nature of the problem."

It was clear the mayor was not much reassured by the fact that a single FBI agent had professed himself willing to believe in and deal with the plague of witches infesting his town. He looked down at the leather surface of his desk for a long moment and then snatched up the brandy he'd poured out for himself, drained it in one swallow, poured himself another, and downed that one every bit as quickly.

As an afterthought, he swung the cut-glass decanter at his guests. "Gentlemen...?"

"Thank you—it is excellent. Very mellow. Perhaps later," Krycek said.

Mulder shot him a look. Krycek actually looked as though smarmy politeness were his natural state.

"What do you think of all this, Mr. Alexander?" the mayor asked after a brief silence. He tried for a smile. "This must sound like complete nonsense to you...."

Krycek regarded the glass he held, turning it thoughtfully.

"I admit the notion of witches did catch me somewhat offguard when Agent Mulder first put it forward in my presence," he mused at last, meeting Lowborough's gaze and speaking slowly and gravely. "However, I must say that the theory does seem to fit the facts of the case better than any alternative explanation. Mayor Lowborough, the truth is that for all our science, we know next to nothing about the world we live in. I, for one, am not willing to discard a theory merely on the grounds that my knowledge of the world is comprehensive—which I know full well is simply not the case. I have therefore made it clear to Agent Mulder that I am prepared to render my full support to any action he considers necessary."

He smiled wryly and quirked a conspiratorial eyebrow. "Although I dare say I will not be quite as open as I might be when I call the main office to inform them of my progress."

For some reason, Mayor Lowborough found the weak crack funny. He gave a full-throated chuckle that no doubt carried excellently at receptions.

"Be that as it may," Krycek went on in a brisk tone. "I believe it would not be a mistake on your part to support Agent Mulder in his work in Weimar. My impression is that he is quite competent."

Quite competent! His impression was that he was quite competent?

Mulder clenched his jaw shut and forced himself to look straight at the mayor. It would not make a good impression on the mayor if he slugged a seeming law-firm partner in the stomach while said seeming law-firm partner was sitting in front of Lowborough's desk sipping the mayor's brandy.

There was a long pause while the mayor considered his options. Since the Lawrences would have to be aware that an infraction of the agreement had taken place before they took action against the transgressor, Lowborough would in all likelihood be perfectly safe even if he did talk about the witches with Mulder; still, the secrecy their treaty with the witches imposed on the Weimarians was obviously very deeply ingrained.

At last, the mayor sighed. "For my son," he said, giving Mulder a tortured look. "I'll do it for my son."

Apologizing for breaking the pact. Interesting—perhaps long observance had lent a mild ethical dimension to the terms of the treaty.

The tax records that had arrived by special courier just after breakfast had yielded only one bit of pertinent information; Mulder decided it would make a good starting point. "The Lawrences' estate is officially the property of the town of Weimar. I take it they are not required to pay rent?"

Lowborough drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly, managing an only slightly forced smile. "That is correct. It is... an agreement that has been in effect ever since the very beginnings of Weimar."

"No member of the Lawrence family pays taxes for gainful employment or inherited wealth. Perhaps you could shed some light on how they support themselves?"

It was plain to see that the subject discomfited the mayor, but he did not hesitate to answer. He had made his choice. "There is an agreement about that, as well. It is unofficial, but... it is understood by everyone that the town is to be billed for any charges a member of the Lawrence family incurs." He paused briefly before going on. "It might seem as though this system is wide open to abuse, but that is not the case. Only one store owner ever attempted to better his finances by charging the town for articles the Lawrences had not actually acquired, and after Celia Lawrence had a word with him, he tendered a very sincere public apology. His family has been donating considerable amounts of money to the community ever since."

"Tell me about the Lawrences themselves," Mulder suggested.

Lowborough ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed again. "I wish there were something useful to tell you, Agent Mulder.... We don't even know how many members of the family live on the estate now. Our only way of arriving at a number is counting those who come into town on occasion and allow themselves to be identified as Lawrences, but there may be any number that don't leave their land. To the best of my knowledge, however, there are four Lawrences around my age and five or six younger ones. There used to be at least five Lawrences in my father's generation, but none of them have been seen in town for decades, so we assume they—died."

He hesitated over the word and gave a small, embarrassed laugh. With a quick smile at Krycek, he poured himself another drink. "Excuse my indulgence. I just caught myself wondering whether they ever died, but of course they must, or we would be knee-deep in the brood by now. Anyhow. Miranda Lawrence wasn't born here—she's Ferdinand's wife, or so I believe, and the mother of some of the younger ones. Theresa is the mother of the others, but she and Harry hardly ever come to Weimar. Of the younger ones, Gabriel and Emma are seen relatively often."

With a small, nervous glance in the direction of the door, he went on, lowering his voice. "And Max. He has a very bad reputation. He's tried to provoke people to fights several times.... He succeeded once. Since then, people have known better, but he keeps trying."

The silence stretched for several heartbeats. Then, Krycek leaned forward and held out his glass for a refill. Lowborough gave him an almost relieved smile and busied himself with the decanter.

"I take it that people who attack a Lawrence lose their immunity?" Mulder asked.

"Immunity? Ah, yes, I see—you could call it that. Yes, they do."

"What happened?"

"Max took away the man who tried to strike him. He—made him do some things first, nothing truly horrible, you understand, merely humiliating.... It was in a bar, you see, and Max told him to pour his beer on the floor and lick it up. That's the kind of joke that man enjoys." Grimly, Lowborough shook his head. "He's an infantile, uncontrolled delinquent. Unfortunately, he's also a Lawrence, or he would have been sent to a correctional institution long ago. He's the worst of the lot, though—the others are not truly...." He gave an uneasy laugh. "Well. Evil."

"Have they ever killed anyone outright?" Mulder's voice was flat.

"Not that I know of, but since no one knows what fate befalls their... uhm...."

"Victims."

"Yes, victims—of course there's no way to be certain." Lowborough ran his hand through his hair again. Mulder was beginning to think his wife and he deserved each other. "Well. There was another one, Clara, but she left years ago. She never seemed to be looking for people to take away, though she came into town quite a bit. I always thought she might have been trying to mingle."

Mulder impaled him with a steady gaze. "Where did she go?"

The mayor looked startled at the question. "Why, I have no idea. Is it important?"

"It might be." Mulder considered for a moment. "Is there anyone who might know where she went? A friend? An acquaintance?"

"She was a Lawrence, Agent Mulder. An unusually friendly Lawrence perhaps, but that didn't change what she was. She had no friends or acquaintances in Weimar."

"The taxi driver," Krycek said.

Lowborough and Mulder stared at him.

He lifted his eyebrows. "She may have taken a taxi to the airport. Of course, she may also have teleported or taken her broomstick for all I know. But if she was trying to escape from her family and start a normal existence.... And a girl who has no friends and is in the process of leaving her family behind might—"

"Yes!" Mulder said fiercely. "Good idea. Mayor, is there an empty office I can use for half an hour or so? I need to make several phone calls."

"Certainly. I'll show you to my assistant's office down the hall."

Mulder was so absorbed in the planning of his next move that he didn't notice the completely shell-shocked expression on Krycek's face until he brushed past him on his way to the door. If this was what it took to unsettle the man, he'd have to compliment him more often.

Several phone calls later, he had the information he needed. Clara Lawrence had been heading for Harvard when she left Weimar—she'd wanted to study law. Which was interesting in itself.

Mulder gave Skinner a call to inform him of the progress he'd made, down-playing the Lawrences' extraordinary powers and emphasizing their habit of kidnapping and terrorizing citizens. It seemed Mulder managed to sound fairly rational, since Skinner agreed to put someone to work on tracing Clara Lawrence.

After considering briefly, Mulder called Scully on her cell phone to see how she was.

"Mulder. Stop worrying. I am at a seminar with over three hundred doctors from all over the United States in attendance. What do you think is going to happen to me?"

"I'm not worrying," he lied. "Just checking to see if you've found out why they wanted you out of the way. Let me know if you discover something."

A drawn-out, exasperated silence. "Mulder. No one wanted me out of the way."

"Yeah, right, happens all the time that you get sent to medical seminars without prior notice, and of course it's mere coincidence that I happen to be sent away on a case at the same time—a case that not only isn't properly submitted but doesn't fit the bill for what they've been trying to do to me for the last couple of months, namely to make me die of boredom—"

"How are you doing?"

"Fine." It came out rather more snappishly than he'd intended, and he softened his voice to a conciliatory tone when he went on. "Look, Scully, it's no big deal. I've handled missing person cases before."

The silence was deafening.

"Actually, I was asking whether you are making progress on the case," she said at last, her voice carefully neutral.

"Oh." Mulder could have kicked himself. "Yeah, it's witches, Scully. I'll get back to you."

He cut the connection quickly to prevent her from starting in on a lengthy explanation of why he needed his head examined.

His cell phone beeped just as he reached the door to the mayor's office. Mulder allowed himself a small, irritated sigh when he flipped it open. Apparently Scully was not to be deterred from informing him that witches didn't exist.

"Mulder," he said darkly.

"I'm at Riley's house, I saw him go in, and I'm going after him," a frantic, completely un-Scullyish voice blurted into his ear. "I've been watching her house, a Lawrence went in and I'm going in after him. Agent Mulder—I thought I'd tell you—and now I'm going in."

Mulder pushed open the door violently and gave Krycek a commanding wave, completely ignoring the startled mayor. "Dahl, stay where you are and keep watching the house. That's an order. I'm on my way, and until I get there you stay where you are, you don't go in, you don't do anything at all. Is that clear?"

A second or two of breathing. Then, a click. Shit.

Krycek was already past him, halfway down the corridor to the exit.

"Agent Mulder, what—"

"Later," he told the mayor, turning to jog after Krycek and punching in the number of the local police station while he ran. He was ordering the officer doing phone duty to get him the sheriff now when he reached the car.

Krycek stood by the driver's side, raising an enquiring eyebrow and looking questioningly at the phone pressed to Mulder's ear.

Mulder hesitated for only the briefest of moments before scooping the keys from his pocket and tossing them to the other man.

By the time Alex screeched to a halt in front of Riley's house, Mulder was ready to jump from the rolling vehicle in his eagerness to get his first look at a genuine Weimar witch. He would have, if Alex had taken an instant longer to stop the car.

"We should wait for back-up," Alex said, speaking purely rhetorically.

Mulder was already out of the car and halfway across the street.

Too late, it occurred to Alex that an accident on the way here could have made sure Mulder wouldn't arrive in time to do anything stupid, such as getting himself killed. As he hurried to catch up, Alex reflected that it was just as well he hadn't thought of it before. Getting between Mulder and his witches would not have been a survival-oriented move ("You bastard, you killed my father, you shot Scully's sister, you lay there and made me grab you, and now you made me miss my date with the witch!"). Given the choice, Alex preferred not to be beaten half to death and thrown to the aliens.

Soundlessly, he followed Mulder through Riley's open front door into the deserted living room.

"Stop! I told you to stop!" Dahl's voice, high with tension and fear. All but hysterical.

Gun in hand, Mulder hugged the wall and went up the staircase. He hadn't acknowledged Alex's presence in any way after tossing him the keys. Hadn't even looked at him, let alone asked him to come along. Still, he was quite obviously expecting him to cover.

Alex covered.

The sensible, rational, regulation thing to do would have been to wait for the police to arrive. Of course Mulder never thought in a sensible, rational, let alone regulation kind of way.

"I told you to stop right there! I mean it, you take one more step and I'll—"

Apparently Dahl wasn't thinking that way either, whether he usually did or not. He was in love.

Mulder moved into position next to the door to the left of the stairs, putting a hand on the handle and catching Alex's eye. Alex nodded.

Mulder slammed the door open and went in low. Alex lunged after him, wheeling to cover the other side of the room. It seemed to be a combination office and work-out room. Dahl was holding a shooting stance in front of a rowing machine, threatening a tall young man standing near the window. Riley stood crowded against the rowing machine by her partner, frowning fiercely at his back.

The presumable Lawrence witch turned in obvious surprise at Mulder's and Alex's sudden entrance. He wore jeans, jogging shoes, and a burgundy sweater and looked completely normal. Wavy blond hair, classically cut features, and a perfect build combined to make him unusually handsome, but beyond that, there was nothing remarkable about him.

Fierce intensity burning in his eyes, Mulder stepped away from the wall, lowering his gun slightly but not relaxing his guard. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. Who are you and what are you doing in Deputy Riley's house?"

The stranger gave Mulder an utterly incredulous look, apparently undecided whether to be amused or angry.

Dahl didn't suffer from that particular problem. "Agent Mulder!" the policeman shouted in a parade-ground bellow all but deafening in these close confines. "This Lawrence has broken and entered my partner Deputy Riley's house and—illegally influenced her and refuses to let her go. She—"

Without warning, Riley braced herself against the metal frame of the workout machine and shoved against Dahl's back with both hands. He lost his balance and stumbled forward, gun wavering.

Alex found himself knocking Mulder into the wall.

Nothing happened. Dahl caught himself almost immediately and backed away from both the blond man and Riley, ending up all but on top of Alex and Mulder. The room just wasn't large enough for something like this. If someone started shooting in here... Alex had to make sure Mulder stayed close to the door so he could drag him out quickly.

"Do you mind?" Mulder's lowest, most dangerously calm voice said directly into Alex's ear.

Alex stepped aside and Mulder pushed past, giving him a brief narrow glance before his attention gravitated back to the presumed witch.

It seemed the Lawrence was enjoying himself. He waited for a beat to make sure every eye was on him and then turned to Riley, moving slowly and deliberately as he reached out a hand. Great—a show-off.

"Come now, my dear. Let us go." Nothing remarkable in the voice, either—it was a pleasantly cultured, unexceptional baritone.

The policewoman smiled and moved towards him.

"No!" Dahl shouted. "Stop, Riley!"

She ignored her partner and took the proffered hand, gazing admiringly at the blond stranger. If she'd had a choice, Deputy Riley wouldn't have been caught dead with such an expression on her face. The insipid look she was wearing was obviously the Lawrence's idea, not her own.

Alex noticed that he was beginning to hyperventilate.

He flexed his fingers on the gun, concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, and shot a glance at Mulder. Come on, Mulder, get on with it....

Mulder took another slow step closer to the Lawrence witch, who regarded him with a look of faintly surprised interest. It was the kind of look a cat might have given a mouse boldly walking up to it.

Alex focused on the witch and breathed, deliberately relaxing in preparation for violence. Try it, you bastard. One wrong move and your witching days are over.

"You can't control more than one person at a time, can you?" Mulder asked in a tone of fascinated discovery. "If you could, you would have suborned Dahl or me by now.... That means you're never going to get Riley out of here."

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," the Lawrence said, handsome features tightening in irritation. "I begin to find this fuss somewhat tedious. Maureen is no longer your concern—if you must put on a display of hysterical screaming over it, at least wait until I'm gone."

Mulder took a deep breath. Alex couldn't see his face from where he was standing, but the tensing of his shoulders and the way his head came back spoke volumes about the kind of thing he was likely to throw at the witch's head.

The truth, of course.

"You're Max, aren't you?" Alex blurted out. Stood to reason, with Mulder's luck. Any Lawrence he ran into was bound to be the known sadist.

The Lawrence glanced at Alex and considered for a moment before turning to Riley. He flashed a dazzling grin at her and lifted her hand to his lips before letting it go. "Maureen, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce your friends to me?"

From one second to the next, his mood had shifted. He was enjoying himself again. Not good—he'd explode into violence with no warning. Alex had met his type before. Hell, there was another of the type standing right in front of him. Found another soulmate for you, Mulder.

"Please permit me to introduce you to Gerrit Dahl, my partner, FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder, and attorney Kevin Alexander of Cheldon and Alexander," Deputy Riley said, directing what could only be termed a simper at the blond witch. "Everyone, meet Maximilian Harold Lawrence."

Maximilian Harold Lawrence bowed deeply, sweeping his right arm out and around in front of his body in a flourish obviously meant to imitate a courtly gesture. In spite of his modern clothes, he carried it off rather well.

"So—you're the agent everyone has been talking about." Max sauntered over to Mulder, inspected his face closely, and walked all the way around him to get the complete view. The gesture was unpleasantly reminiscent of a prospective buyer looking over a horse.

Mulder stiffened, his grip on his gun tightening. "Everyone?" he asked quietly.

The witch waved a negligent hand. "That's right—the whole town. The birds. The spirits. Whatever you'd like to believe. So, Agent Mulder, what exactly are your plans?"

"I will find Margaret Ritter," Mulder said evenly. "I will ascertain no one is being held against their will by you or any member of your family—or if that does prove to be the case, I will take action against it. And I will prevent further abductions from taking place."

"Really?" Max seemed amused. "That's a rather tall order, Fox.... Especially the last bit."

Before Mulder could tell him not to call him Fox, the Lawrence turned to Alex. Alex breathed deeply and evenly and returned the regard wearing his best bland expression.

"How interesting. An attorney who bursts through doors with an FBI agent. I do believe you have a certain talent—it looked just like it does in the films. Of course, I'm not really a judge. Maureen, my dear, what do you think?"

Riley tore her adoring gaze from Max's face long enough to give Alex a cool stare. Her eyes raked over his stance carefully, missing nothing.

"He's had training."

"Of course I had training," Alex blustered, putting a note of affronted hauteur into his voice. "It's tradition. Ever since the first Kevin Alexander led the charge against the British troops at—"

"What's this I hear, Agent Mulder—you're sharing a room with him? And fighting in public, too." Max looked back at Mulder over his shoulder and gave him a grin. "How sweet. I didn't know the FBI approved of these things."

Mulder narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How did you hear of—"

The Lawrence reached out a hand for Alex. Slowly. Deliberately. Alex would have shot him then and there if the sudden cold wash of dread hadn't held him immobile for a crucial split second. Don't touch me I'll kill you don't you dare—

The wave of panic crested and broke quickly, foaming away to leave Alex free and breathing easily. Yes. Now, Alex.

He took a deep, mercifully unforced lungful of air and eased his too-tight grip on Mulder's second gun, shifting subtly.

"Don't," Mulder snapped, his voice as hard and cold as Alex had ever heard it.

God, Mulder. Ask me to fly next.... But he knew that note of warning in Mulder's voice—it was the same note that was there when he was about to slam a rifle butt into someone's gut. The note that meant he'd really like to inflict serious damage and was looking for an excuse. Any excuse. Better let the witch live a bit longer.... Alex had almost gotten used to not being beaten up by Mulder.

Alex forced himself to hold still as the witch put a finger beneath his chin and tilted it up. It was not easy.

"Nice," Max said appreciatively. "Remarkable eyes."

If the witch didn't leave him alone soon, Alex would start to panic. The memory of the alien was too fresh in his mind—he couldn't distance himself from his body, couldn't reach the calm detachment that he needed for this. It was too soon—the turmoil of helpless rage and abject terror was still raging in him, crushed down but not yet settled, ready to boil up again at the slightest provocation.

And this was too close to what the alien had done. Alex knew that the Lawrence was capable of reaching inside him and tearing his body away, forcing him down and under and scrabbling through his mind, taking his thoughts away from him, reaching into his soul—

The Lawrence tugged Alex's chin to one side, a wicked grin beginning to spread over his face, dark eyes glinting with joyful malice. "And such spirit, too. Fairly spitting green fire. No wonder you have to beat him from time to time."

No air. There was not enough air. Alex could feel himself slipping away, beginning the long, spiraling decent into sheer, mindless terror. Where the fuck is your control, Alex—come on, breathe—no it's too soon I can't not now not so soon—

"Mulder," Alex said, forcing his voice to convey the warning while he fought to hold fast to the shreds of his fast disintegrating control. Mulder, I'm going to kill him if you don't get him away from me.

And then Mulder was standing right next to the witch, the muzzle of his gun pressed to the Lawrence's temple. "I told you not to touch him," he snarled. "Get—away—NOW."

"My, how forceful," the witch said lightly, amused. "He must be quite special. Ah well, some other time."

The hand was pulled back and the bastard witch walked away. Alex closed his eyes briefly and tore them open again at the combined surge of vertigo and nausea. Okay now, come on, breathe, breathe and don't make more of a fool of yourself than you have already. Jesus, he barely touched you and you all but flipped. Breathe, you fucking idiot.

"All right?"

It took Alex a long moment to realize that Mulder was talking to him.

"What?" he blurted.

Mulder gave him a peculiar look. "Alex. Are you going to be all right?"

"Sure," Alex said, taken aback. Mulder hesitated for a brief instant before nodding and turning to face the Lawrence once again.

Back in the middle of the room, Max offered his arm to Riley, flashing a sunny smile at the other men. "Gentlemen, perhaps you'll excuse us now. I—"

Dahl, who'd been suspiciously quiet, stepped in front of the open door and leveled his gun squarely at the Lawrence's chest. "She's staying."

"Don't be ridiculous," Max said, irritation once more taking over. "Get out of my way." He walked towards the door with Riley on his arm, ignoring the man blocking his path completely.

There was a muted click as Dahl pulled the trigger. Max reached out to push the policeman aside and Dahl moved away smoothly, flicking out his left wrist. Silver metal flashed into being; Riley gave a choked gasp as her partner drove the switchblade deep into her arm. Nice move—there was more to the kid than met the eye.

In a sudden, convulsive movement, Riley jerked her hand from Max Lawrence's sleeve and began to back away, her expression passing through several intense emotions before locking into rage. "You bastard," she grated, her voice harsh. "You bastard!"

"Riley—" Dahl followed and reached for her injured arm, apparently forgetting he was holding a gun in one hand and a bloodied knife in the other.

"You," Max said in a disbelieving tone of voice. "How dare you!"

"Lawrence," Mulder said firmly, moving towards the confusion. No one paid attention to him.

"You have robbed me of mine—you have broken the treaty," the witch said, sounding amazed rather than angry.

Dahl's entire body stiffened; then, within the space of a second, all tension drained from him.

"Gerrit. What a silly name. I'll have to think of a better one." The Lawrence witch held out a hand to the young policeman, who dropped his gun and turned away from Riley to reveal a face as calm and serenely collected as that of a Tibetan mystic. It was a strangely unsettling sight—Mulder could carry off an expression like that, but Dahl wasn't the type for mystic serenity.

Max turned slightly to reach for the knife Dahl was now holding out hilt first, providing Alex with the brief distraction he'd been waiting for. As he'd expected, the gun jammed—bothersome, but hardly a surprise. Alex hurled it at the witch's temple to put it to some use, releasing himself into a precise, practiced flow of motion and controlled violence in the same instant.

The Lawrence reached up and plucked the gun from the air, his motions blurring in Alex's vision. No one should have been able to move like that. Shit—belay that action, Alex—

Alex had already begun to abort his attack when an impossible shift in the center of his gravity made him lose his balance. He crashed inelegantly to the ground, landing on his butt, looking and feeling like a complete klutz. What the fuck—

He'd been shoved. The fucking witch had shoved him. And now the bastard was laughing. "I commend you on your excellent taste, Agent Mulder. Perhaps I'll come back for him some time."

Dahl turned and walked out briskly, apparently not even aware of Riley's angry shout. In the doorway, Max bowed and grinned. "It's been extremely entertaining. I hope to meet you all again."

The witch slammed the door in Mulder's face as he charged, Riley at his heels. They both crashed into the wood as Mulder tugged at the handle to no avail. By the time Mulder had broken the door down, the Lawrence and his newest victim were nowhere to be seen.

That was a damn fool thing to do," Mulder informed Krycek tightly while Warren and his men piled back into their cars and pulled away from the curb in front of Riley's house, having missed all the excitement.

Krycek was leaning against the hood of Mulder's car, watching them clear out with a distracted look on his face. At Mulder's words, he looked up to raise a cool eyebrow. "What're you talking about?"

"Attacking the witch. You didn't know anything about his abilities—"

"Oh please, Mulder." Krycek looked disgusted.

Mulder frowned darkly. He couldn't very well deny that, coming from him, the reproach for recklessly plunging into the unknown had certain comic overtones, but that didn't change the fact that it had been a damn fool thing to do.

"You're lucky you slipped," he went on, trying to ignore Krycek's incredulous stare. "Who knows what he would have—"

"I didn't slip, Mulder. I never slip. The telekinetic little shit pushed me."

Pausing midway through searching his pockets for the car keys, Mulder looked up. "The guns can't have been telekinesis—not three at the same time, not while he was controlling Riley and then Dahl. He can only hold one person at a time. Why should it be easier with objects? Shouldn't be a question of size. And splitting his concentration six ways? No. He would at least have been nervous. You're sure?"

"Yes, Mulder, I am sure. Stand away from the car and I'll gladly demonstrate that I know how to do a high kick without falling on my ass."

That's right, Krycek had had extensive training in unarmed combat. Had gone through that endless, inhuman torture the Consortium had devised to turn out lethal, remorseless, conscienceless killers whose only consideration was survival. Mulder felt ill thinking about it. What kind of people would put a young boy into a room with four armed killers and wait to see if he would come out alive—

Mulder shook his head and frowned, irritated at his digressing thoughts. "Okay, he pushed you. That means telekinesis, preternaturally fast reflexes of course, telepathic or empathic hold over a maximum of one person at a time, and undefined abilities regarding the control of inanimate mechanical objects like locks, guns, and cars. It's possible Riley's car, the door, and the guns were also influenced by means of telekinesis, but considering how many different ways Max would have had to split the talent just now, it's not likely. The telepathic hold is a purely external one at first, not supported by internal and permanent factors like implants, but there may be a more permanent bond, perhaps established in part through physical intimacy. The interference effect caused by the pain could be chemical. Hormones, adrenaline, neurotransmitters, something similar. That would be easy to replicate. Or it could be mechanical. Some manner of neural overload."

No response. Krycek was staring off down the street, clearly not paying attention.

A surge of affronted anger rose in Mulder. "Apparently you have this all figured out, Krycek? If you think you don't have anything to do with this investigation you'd better think again after what—"

"When are you going to drive out to the Lawrence's, Mulder?"

Mulder glared at him. "What's this about? You afraid of being snatched by another alien influence?"

Krycek flinched, very slightly, but noticeably.

With perfect clarity, the picture of the witch and Krycek flashed into Mulder's mind. The way Krycek had stood clutching his gun, face white, eyes wide and almost black. How he'd briefly closed his eyes once the Lawrence had moved off, looking dazed and frightened... breathing with obvious concentration, the way people trying to stave off a panic attack often did.

Shit. Mulder felt like a brute.

"Look, Krycek, you held up pretty well in there. It must have been—"

"Next time a Lawrence witch gets that close to me, Mulder, I'm going to kill the bastard," Krycek said without looking at Mulder, his voice hard and flat. "You want to keep them alive, you keep them the hell away from me."

There was something odd in the way he said that.... On a hunch, Mulder called up the memory of the moment Maximilian Lawrence had reached out for Krycek. There had been a brief instant when Krycek's body had seemed to freeze into complete immobility. Then, still before the witch's leisurely gesture had been completed, he'd relaxed and shifted his stance. Moving in preparation for violence. He'd been about to attack then, before the Lawrence had ever touched him. Why hadn't he?

Mulder considered the memory and came up with only one plausible explanation. "You thought I was talking to you."

Krycek glanced at Mulder and, for the first time, seemed to notice that the other man was standing next to the driver's door, ready to get in the car. "Oh, you need the keys. I have them here somewhere—"

"You didn't attack the witch because you thought I had told you not to."

"Well, we both know how you get when you don't have everything your way, Mulder. I'm not in the mood for pain. Here, catch."

Mulder fielded the keys one-handedly and jiggled them in his palm, regarding the other man thoughtfully. "I didn't realize you'd be stupid enough to try and kill him for chucking you under the chin."

The younger man gave him a brief, hard glare and straightened away from the hood, wrenching the passenger's door open with more force than necessary. "Do me a favor and shut the fuck up, Mulder."

The automatic assumption, Mulder had been ordering Krycek, not the witch, to cease and desist. The way he'd said Mulder's name—not as though he were asking for help, but as though he were announcing something. Announcing that he wasn't going to be able to follow—orders? Yes. Orders. File that away for later consideration. The closed look on his face when the witch had moved off. Trying to lock the panic away before anyone saw it—before anyone realized he was vulnerable. The incomprehension when Mulder asked if he was all right.

Several more pieces of evidence to be fit into the pattern that was Krycek.... Pieces that fit nicely into the picture of a man raised for the purpose of being the perfect tool and weapon—a man who was, perhaps, even more alone within his own soul than Mulder was. A man who had demons locked in there with him that would give Mulder's a run for their money.

The pattern was not complete, but then no human pattern ever was, or could be. Mulder had a lot to work with where Krycek was concerned. If only he could remember to work with it.

Mulder got into the car, but didn't start the motor. After several moments, Krycek turned his head, giving him a coldly suspicious glance.

"I was talking to Max Lawrence," Mulder told him. "When I said ‘don't,' which you apparently interpreted as ‘don't be a stupid asshole and try to blow the guy's head off because you don't like being chucked under the chin,' what I was actually saying was ‘don't chuck my—lawyer—under the chin because he won't like it and may be a stupid asshole and try to blow your head off.'"

Krycek shrugged and turned away to stare out of the window on his side of the car. "Crossbows," he said after a moment. "Pistol crossbows—or maybe that's already too complex, they might be able to jam the mechanism. Tournament or hunting longbows, though the projectiles have a much lower velocity. Maybe they'd be able to dodge, or catch them telekinetically. Knives, of course. Fencing foils with the safeties off and the tips sharpened. No poison—who knows what their body chemistry is like. Explosives should work, though. Telekinesis isn't much use against chemical reactions, I'd guess."

"Krycek."

"Well, someone has to think of the practical little details, Mulder. If you don't have enough sense to leave this alone, at least go in prepared."

"Krycek, what did you tell the soldiers at Tunguska?"

His head whipped around, eyes wide and incredulous.

Mulder firmly squashed his own surprise. He hadn't known he was going to ask just that question—but then, he'd been meaning to ask it for days. Somehow he'd never quite gotten around to it. He'd been waiting for a fitting moment, which had apparently arrived. He'd asked—it was obvious that something about the moment had to be fitting.

His own motivations were once again unsatisfactorily murky in his mind, as they always seemed to be when Krycek was involved. Mulder resolved not to think about that now, though. He was tired of trying to dig up the twisted roots of his own impulses.

It didn't take Krycek long to gather himself; the familiar shuttered expression slipped across his features as the mask came down once more. Correction—one of the masks. The mask of the cool and cynical killer. Was it a mask? How much of it was true? How could Mulder make Krycek give him that particular bit of information?

"You have the weirdest sense of timing, Mulder," Krycek said, sounding irritated and incidentally echoing Mulder's own thoughts on the subject. "Very well, back to playing twenty questions. I told them I was a KGB agent by the name of Arntzen sent to check up on the gulag. I told them you were an important American idiot I'd found useful in the past—that I still had uses for you, so they should let you escape and not chase you too energetically. Amazing how you managed to fuck that up so completely. I told you a million times that your shitty driving is going to get you—"

"You expect me to believe that?" Mulder asked in a dangerously low tone. "You expect me to believe you were responsible for the fact I got out of there alive? When I was being exposed to the black cancer while you were drinking vodka with the supervisors—"

Krycek's lips thinned. "Believe what you want, Mulder, I can't help you there. I can't do more than tell you the truth. And—I tried to stop them from experimenting on you. I couldn't risk pushing too hard, and it wouldn't have helped anyway since they didn't believe me yet at that point. I couldn't even be sure that invoking the KGB would make them help me at all. It might just as well have made them promote me to favorite test subject and punching bag. You never really know in Russia these days."

Mulder got out of the car. After circling it twice, he had managed to calm himself enough to get back in, ready for the next question. Or, more precisely, the next answer. He hoped. "And are you a KGB agent?"

Krycek shrugged. "Yes and no—the same way I was an FBI agent. The KGB's internal organization made it possible to establish me with relatively few appearances and cases. The right people made sure my name cropped up in the right places, and I went and put in some work on my US holidays. Had sick relatives a couple of times when something important came up. Even did weekends, sometimes. That made for mean jet-lag—almost got me killed once or twice." He shrugged again. "The Consortium might have turned Arntzen into a trap for me after I defected, but when it seemed the only choice left, I tried. And as it turned out, the Consortium's lost what's left of the KGB. That's why we're both here now, because the really big players don't do anarchy well."

After another minute of silence, Mulder decided he'd wait to ask what kind of work Krycek had done for the KGB. What kind of a case took only part of a weekend? No investigation could be counted on to be over that quickly, certainly no surveillance or data gathering mission. The only real possibility—

No, he'd ask some other time. Back to the case. It wouldn't do Dahl any good if Mulder charged in unprepared and managed to become the latest addition to the Lawrence menagerie.... He'd wait a day or two to give DC a chance to trace Clara Lawrence, and he'd put the time to good use. He still needed to talk with the mayor at more length. He'd ask around for anecdotes, legends—information of any kind on the phenomenon of the Weimar witches. He'd find maps of the Lawrence property, do some scouting, get some of the things Krycek had suggested.

Poison was an assassin's weapon. It would never have occurred to Mulder, but Krycek had considered it automatically—casually—before judging it unfit for this particular purpose. Fencing foils with the safeties off. Improvising with the ease of long practice, finding suitable weapons wherever he could. Whatever it took—as natural as breathing. For Krycek, survival was synonymous with violence. Give him space and he might run, but you knew he'd be back, slipping from the shadows to slit your throat, insuring survival. Corner him and he would lie, cheat, fight his way out any way that he could, do whatever it took—to others, to himself. Whatever it took. It was survival. It was violence. The permanent violence of life.

"Hey Mulder, I saw a bakery just around the corner. Since we're apparently going to be sitting here all day, how about you give me some money for donuts."

It should have been all there was. It was what the Consortium had been aiming for. Untempered violence, contained by cold intellect. A tool, a weapon, nothing more. But there was more.

Mulder caught himself wondering what the man would have been like if his parents hadn't chosen him. All of the strength, the endurance, the courage.... What would it have been like to meet Krycek the way he might have been, maybe a judge or a biologist or dentist—no, not a dentist, he wouldn't have liked that—maybe looking for his brother or sister....

Krycek was staring at him. Mulder shook himself from his musings and started the car, turning it to head back to the hotel.

There was no help for it—before he could deal with the Lawrence witches effectively, he had to do something about Krycek. It couldn't go on like this. The man was distracting him from the case. Mulder hardly ever had to expend effort on concentrating all of his energies on a case—not if it was one like this, an X-File, a hidden truth waiting to be found out. That might be the problem, that Krycek was just as much an enigma as the Lawrence witches in his way.

Whatever it was, the Krycek problem had to be solved, and the sooner the better. It was unfortunate that Mulder had no real idea of how to go about it, but he couldn't let that stop him. He would just have to improvise.

As soon as the hotel room's door fell shut, Mulder hit Krycek in a full-body check, slamming him into the wall and pinning his wrists next to his head.

The move was more reflex than anything else, and once he'd gotten this far, Mulder wasn't certain how to proceed. His usual course of action would have been to beat Krycek up. But that wasn't it—he no longer wanted to see the other man in pain, no longer felt the urge to make him feel some physical approximation of the agonizing betrayal Mulder felt whenever he caught sight of him.

Because—as Mulder realized with some surprise—the pain of betrayal had receded, giving way to a confused tangle of other emotions.... And releasing the desire that had been lurking in the background from the violence he'd masked it with. Was that it, then; was this the root of the Krycek problem?

If it was, then it made everything very simple. Mulder would merely have to flush his irrational preoccupation with the man from his system. Obvious. Should have thought of that before.

By now, the expression on Krycek's face had passed from brief startlement into cool mockery tinged with bitterness. "Having another violent spell, Mulder? You should really see someone about the little mood problem you've got there...."

Yes, it was all extremely simple. Mulder saw that now. Years ago, he'd subconsciously chosen an object to direct his sexual urges towards, and by the time it became apparent the object in question was not suitable, the fixation had been well established and it had been too late to redirect his impulses. Over the years, the sexual tension had built up steadily, partially venting itself in violence and gradually accumulating to a level where it could no longer be suppressed or even sublimated effectively. The result was that the secondary aggression was giving way to uncontrolled bursts of the primary effect, sexual desire.... As witnessed by Mulder's irrepressible response to a naked Krycek only that morning. It had been inevitable, really.

To solve the problem, Mulder merely had to release the tension. Once he had, he would not only be able to see Krycek objectively, without his repressed and partially sublimated sexuality getting in the way, but he would also be able to choose a more fitting object of desire.

It had been an error to fixate on this man, he reflected, shifting his grip on the captive wrists absently in order to avoid putting pressure on the healing wounds. It had been an error, yes, but it had been a very natural error. It was an indisputable fact that Krycek—Alex—was more than attractive, whatever else could be said about him. And the allure went beyond the obvious things, the bone structure, the coloration of hair and irises, the muscle configuration... Mulder didn't completely understand it, but there was more to it than that. It was, somehow, everything.

For example, it was the way Alex was now looking off to the side briefly, pressing his lips together. Drawing attention to the lips. Displaying the long lashes and perfect profile. The line of the neck. And the way he looked back. Narrowing those amazing eyes. Flaring his nostrils slightly.

Mulder pressed closer, watching green eyes widen as Alex felt the other man's erection pushing into him. Something sparked in the emerald depths; Mulder thrust his hips forward, rubbing against Alex and watching the spark flare, the pupils widen. Feeling the answering hardness grow against his body.

The effort required to pull back again, even slightly, worried Mulder. He wanted this too much—he wanted Alex more than he could recall ever having wanted anyone. Had desire really always been this kind of wild, all-consuming, and unreasoning craving? He couldn't remember, but it must have been. It really had been too long if he couldn't even remember anymore....

The pause stretched, but Mulder forced himself to wait, to leave the next move up to the other man. If he was going to do this, and he desperately hoped he was, Mulder was going to do it properly. It was obvious the body pressed against his was willing, but he wasn't about to be fobbed off with just a body, no matter how desirable. There was more to Alex, and Mulder wanted it all. He didn't understand it, but he wanted it. The whole truth. The entire Alex.

Calm green eyes held his as Alex twisted his wrists and slipped them from Mulder's loosened grasp.

The thought of not being able to touch, to taste, to have.... Why did you stop—why did you have to try for the impossible and break your idiot neck, when will you learn to settle for the realistically attainable....

But it was too late for Mulder to change his mind now. He'd step away in just a moment—he'd have done so already except that he couldn't quite bring himself to end the contact with Alex yet. It felt so right! Why did he have to lust after this man of all people?

And then Alex leaned forward, rubbing his entire body against Mulder slowly, sensuously, like a cat. Mulder froze as he felt the other man's breath on his neck. Lips, then teeth, found the base of his throat; Alex nipped him, tugged gently at a fold of the sensitive skin, released it, and then bit down with enough force to hurt. Mulder's cock surged in reaction and before he realized he was moving, he'd slammed the other man back into the wall, pulsing his groin against him convulsively.

Alex gave a breathless little laugh. "I guess that means we're going to skip the part where you show me your ufology collection."

An intoxicating rush of fierce triumph, blinding relief, and pure, unadulterated desire surged through Mulder, sweeping away the last vestiges of rational thought. He released his hold on it willingly, surrendering himself to the sensations flooding him. Alex shuddered against him as Mulder pressed his mouth against his, forcing it open with a swift thrust of the tongue and claiming it aggressively. As he pushed his hips against Alex's, the body sandwiched between him and the wall shifted, and suddenly there was a thigh between his, rubbing up against his genitals. Mulder thrust against the thigh once, twice, before he could tear himself away and step back.

Breathing heavily, Alex leaned against the wall, lips slightly opened, eyes fixed on Mulder with undisguised hunger. He was still dressed as the polished young professional—in that expensive, conservative suit, with that look on his face and the bulge in the front of his pants, he looked like a debauched senator's son indulging himself with a quick fuck before returning to the reception held in the next room. There was certainly no sign of that strange innocence about him now.... But God, he looked young. Young and strangely reckless—giving himself up to the moment.

He was Alex. The most arousing sight Mulder had ever seen.

Alex straightened away from the wall slowly and began to stalk towards Mulder, moving like a predator... a sleek, lithe, green-eyed jungle creature. Feral, beautiful, and dangerous.

Shouldn't touch it. Might take your hand off. But if it didn't....

Mulder seized Alex and stripped off his jacket, briefly fumbling with his tie before managing to get rid of it and discard the shirt and tee-shirt. Too many clothes....

When Mulder slid his hands down the other man's now-bare skin to his belt, Alex reached back and was suddenly holding a police-issue, large-caliber gun. He'd apparently had Dahl's gun tucked in the waistband at his back. Alex hesitated briefly before bending to put the weapon on the ground, a wary look passing across his features. Mulder hardly took note of the very deliberate disarming gesture; at this moment, it wouldn't have mattered to him if he'd caught Alex carrying a string of hand grenades and a sub-machine gun.

He jerked his chin towards the closer bed. After another brief hesitation and an unreadable look, Alex slipped out of his remaining clothes with feline grace, never looking away from Mulder's face. Mulder was still struggling with his pants when Alex turned and walked towards the bed.

The man was a work of art. Every part fit together perfectly—long legs elegantly muscled, firm buttocks perfectly shaped, athletic back and shoulders, soft dark hair falling over the nape of the neck.... Golden skin and rippling muscle. Controlled power and fierce male beauty.

Deep green eyes. Finely drawn, almost delicate features.... The straight line of the shoulders, the unconsciously graceful way he held himself. Well-muscled arms, the beautifully molded, smooth chest marred only by the scars tracing across the skin. Slim hips and flat stomach.... A line of dark hair beginning low on his abdomen, widening to where the erect cock stood away from the body.

"I take it I do get the Mulder seal of approval, then," Alex said, his voice huskier than Mulder had ever heard it. The voice alone would have been enough to drive Mulder insane.

"I'll write you a certificate," Mulder rasped, surprised to find he could still talk.

A small grin appeared, sparkling in those incredible eyes. "Great. You never know when you might need a reference like that."

"You talk too much," Mulder growled. Where was the suitcase—he was sure he'd put condoms and lubricant in there in an overly optimistic mood a year or two ago.... Yes, there they were, and they hadn't even expired. Sometimes a photographic memory did come in handy.

Mulder shoved Alex down to sprawl across the bed on his back, following immediately to cover him full-length with his own body. The feeling of heated skin against skin and the delicious friction when Alex writhed beneath him were almost enough to make him come then and there, and he closed his eyes against the sight of the man stretched flushed and panting beneath him, giving himself a moment to regain some measure of control.

There was an odd expression in Alex's eyes when he looked at him again; in a distant, rational part of his mind, a spark of curiosity flared. Mulder ignored it, following the irresistible impulse to bend down and bite his former nemesis in the side of his neck, right below the curve of the jaw. Hard.

The body beneath his arched up into his own. Alex gave a stifled gasp.

Mulder caught an earlobe with his teeth, nipped it, drew it into his mouth. Nipped again, to be rewarded by a rough, dark little moan that went straight to his cock.

This was going too fast. If Mulder didn't slow down, it would be over almost before it had started. He wasn't the type for quick tumbles—he liked drawn-out foreplay, a slow and torturous build up of passion, to be released in a blinding flash all the more intense for having been postponed. But Alex was so responsive. Did the man have to make those little growling sounds, how the hell was Mulder supposed to last....

Alex reached to the side and suddenly held the condom Mulder had thrown on the bed next to him. When Mulder moved back, Alex began to sit up, to reach for him, and he quickly put a hand on the younger man's chest to push him down again. Alex fell back without protest and watched while Mulder unrolled the condom over himself. It would have been more enjoyable to let Alex do it, but there was no way he could let the other man touch him now. In fact, he'd better wait for a moment or two before—

"Mulder," Alex said, his tone low and hungry.

The last vestiges of restraint splintered. Mulder lunged for him, shoving a hand in Alex's hair and dragging his head around to take his mouth with his own, to plunge his tongue in as deeply as he could, devouring, scouring, claiming as his own. His free hand fumbled for the lubricant and he could have screamed in frustration when he had to let Alex go again and use both hands to unscrew the tube.

He made the best of the time by rubbing his erection against Alex's and biting his shoulder, his throat, nibbling along the line of the jaw to an ear. The top of the tube finally came off, just as Alex shuddered and moaned in a way that made Mulder's vision blur into a red haze of lust. He was certain he was going to die before he could come. He had never in his life been this hard. There was no way he was going to survive—but what a way to go.

Alex shifted beneath him, spreading his legs and lifting his knees so Mulder was lying between them. His eyes were almost black, his breathing coming in short, harsh pants.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Mulder whispered roughly. "It's inhuman."

For a moment he thought Alex was going to laugh. Then, he pushed a lubricated finger into Alex's body and watched his eyes grow larger still, darker still, as he arched up off the bed once more, pushing his erection into Mulder's stomach and pressing every inch of heated, satin skin to the other man's.

Mulder added a second finger and moved both carefully, stretching Alex, reminding himself to go slowly, not to hurt him. Alex felt like hot, wet silk inside.... Perfect. He was perfect. The way he looked, the sounds he made. What he felt like. How he reacted to Mulder's touch.... How he shifted and pushed slightly against Mulder's hand, head thrown back, eyes drifting closed. How could anyone be so incredibly lovely....

The sight of Alex in the throes of passion was too much to risk when Mulder's control was already shredded, when only the merest remains of thought remained to warn him to prepare the other man for him, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. There was an unearthly fascination to Alex like this, naked and flushed with arousal and writhing beneath Mulder's touch, helpless with lust, all of his cool self-possession burned away in the rush of desire.

The fiercely triumphant sense of power that came over Mulder almost burst his heart. You are mine now, Alex Krycek, I want you, I claim you—

A third finger slid into the unresisting body. Mulder leaned forward and nibbled on Alex's temptingly full lower lip, sucked it into his mouth, kissed him deeply. His fingers found the spot he'd been searching for and Alex jerked against him, crying out, the sound muffled by Mulder's mouth.

Mulder sought out the spot again, rubbing over it firmly. Pressing Alex's body into the bed with his own as the younger man thrust forward convulsively. Catching the full-throated scream, tasting it, claiming the irresistible mouth with deep strokes of the tongue.

He was drunk on sex and the dark thrill of possession. He could do this to Alex. He was doing this to Alex. Making him scream and thrash and pant and gasp and arch into Mulder's touch, craving it, needing it. Making him lose control.

He had to have him. Now. Mulder drew his hand away, reaching blindly towards the head of the bed and managing to grab a pillow without once looking away from the man beneath him. Alex lifted his hips to allow Mulder to slide the cushion beneath him, pulling his knees up and enabling Mulder to enter him with a firm, swift stroke.

Alex growled deep in his throat, moving to push against him. His eyes opened and fastened on Mulder's face, impossibly dilated, incredibly lovely. Mulder knew that he was moving too fast—that he should be giving Alex time to adjust, that he was thrusting too quickly, too roughly, maybe hurting the man beneath him—but he could not hold back any longer. He had no strength left to resist the sight of Alex, the sounds he made.... The way he felt, hot and tight and, oh God, so right....

He thrust deep and Alex moved to meet him, giving a breathless, husky little moan. From somewhere in Mulder's lust-clouded mind came a faint feeling of wonder and delight that Alex was this vocal. He wouldn't have thought it of him—for some reason, he'd expected him to make love quietly.

Mulder quickly settled into a hard, rapid, almost violent rhythm, all but lifting Alex off the bed with the force of each penetration. Alex pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust and giving that same low, lovely, breathy moan every time Mulder buried himself in him.

Just before Mulder's world caught fire to flash and burn in a burst of white-hot, blindingly violent pleasure, Alex gasped something in a language Mulder didn't understand—something that included his name.

Alex had known it all along. This had been a bad idea. A very bad idea. He had no idea how long it would take him to recover the ground he'd lost. It was not a good thing to go all soft and dewy-eyed around Mulder. Mulder was going to have him for breakfast, and not in a sexual sense.... That wouldn't have been a problem. He had to do something, do something quickly....

Play up the toughness. Be seriously obnoxious. Make Mulder beat him. Make Mulder hate him. Convince Mulder he'd been set up for a major fall—maybe Alex could do the blackmail thing, threaten to spread this around the Bureau. Mulder was so credulous in some ways, Alex could claim he'd made a video and Mulder would buy it, he'd never even think about it at all....

Mulder collapsed forward onto Alex's chest, driving the air from his lungs. Now's the time, do it, Alex, get him while he's vulnerable—

"Definitely," Mulder mumbled indistinctly. "Pick another Russian."

He struggled to draw a breath against the weight of the man pressing him into the mattress. Strange how you never noticed how heavy someone was until after you'd come. "What are you talking about?" he wheezed.

After another moment, Mulder drew himself up and sat back. Alex could feel him slide from his body and refused to feel regret. He wasn't going to be stupid about the man any longer. This had gone far enough. Hell, no—letting Fox fuck Alex's brains out had definitely been going too far.

Mulder was wearing a demented, crooked, idiot grin that Alex had never seen before. He looked like a raving lunatic. He was mind-blowingly beautiful.

"Russian is the perfect language for sex," Fox announced in slightly slurred tones of happy discovery. "It's something in the consonants. All those voiced affricates and palatal approximants and dark laterals...."

"Pervert," Alex muttered, watching Mulder pull off the used condom and unconcernedly drop it over the side of the bed. What a slob. Alex, you're not going to be an idiot about this neurotic slob. You know what he's going to do to you if you let him.... Tear you apart. Break you. Finish what the Consortium started and couldn't pull through. This is survival.

Mulder sat on his heels and regarded Alex for a second or two. The weird grin was still there, the accompanying sparkle lighting up his eyes. He looked happy.

It hurt to look at him. He was wearing his inner beauty on the outside and it was almost more than Alex could bear. This man can hurt you. This man can break you. You must do something!

But it was too late. Alex already knew he wouldn't be able to do this—not now. Maybe in a little while, but not now. It would hurt too much. He couldn't bear seeing the familiar loathing and hate and disgust flow back into those expressive eyes. And what would Fox do to himself—all of the tortured pain, the half-crazed self-hatred that he seemed to have forgotten for a moment would come back with reinforcements. He'd never be able to forgive himself for being fooled so completely, betrayed so terribly. And maybe he wouldn't be able to bear it this time, maybe it was too much, he'd only just had a breakdown....

Something that had been nagging at the back of Alex's mind finally penetrated. Voiced affricates. Dark laterals. Russian is the perfect language for sex. Mulder had said that Russian was the perfect language for sex.

Shit. How did he phrase this?

"What did I say?" Oh Alex, no, not like that—any way but that—God, you have to pull yourself together—

The wacky grin splitting Fox's face grew even broader, an achievement which had seemed all but impossible before. "No wonder the Consortium ditched you. Talking in Russian during sex and forgetting all about it afterwards doesn't strike me as the most career-advancing habit in a triple agent."

Alex clamped his mouth shut just in time to prevent himself from blurting out that it wasn't a habit, that he'd never done it before. Another close call.

A second delayed bit of information trickled through his sluggish thought processes. Aliens. Deal with Mulder. Telling the truth. Yet another close call, and how close this time.... If he hadn't been too soft to pull off the blackmail scam the aliens would have caught him in the lie, reported it to Mulder, and turned him inside out again for their business partner's benefit.

Fox cocked his head slightly to one side, the manic grin fading slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Alex mumbled, feeling nauseous. Breathing slowly and carefully.

"It's not the sex, you know. It's the pact," Fox said. "The sex has nothing to do with it except as a clause in the pact."

Oh God, he was going to start talking about the fucking Lawrence witches. "Not now, Mulder," Alex snapped, reaching for calm and finding only turmoil. He quickly summoned the memory of what it had felt like to have Fox inside of him, to see his face transformed by rapture, open, aroused, starkly beautiful, more intensely Fox than ever before. Used the recollection of Fox making love to him as a weapon against the darkness.... Determinedly not remembering which part of the recollection was a lie.

The demented glow receded from Mulder's face. A long pause followed, and by the time Alex had regained control several heartbeats later, Fox's expression had closed down to his usual guarded reserve. It was painful to watch. But why did the idiot have to start in on the bastard witches just then.... Alex hadn't gotten his barriers up again yet, he couldn't deal with this shit now.

After regarding Alex for a while with a small, earnest frown, Fox nodded and seemed to come to a decision. Moving with careful concentration, he pulled the pillow out from beneath Alex, tossed it over his shoulder, straightened Alex's legs, tugged the bedspread from the floor by the corner still attached to the bed's foot end, and gave Alex's chest and stomach a few swipes with it. After patting his own front dry, he dropped the bedspread back to the floor and slowly and carefully stretched out on top of Alex, tucking his chin into the curve where Alex's neck met his shoulder.

He wriggled slightly and sighed into Alex's ear, sounding contented. He hadn't gotten any lighter in the last two minutes. Whatever the hell this was supposed to be, it was extremely uncomfortable. "Mulder."

"Shut up," Fox said pleasantly, his breath stirring the hair at Alex's nape.

It didn't take Fox long to relax, breathing settling into an even, slow rhythm. This was such a typically twisted Mulder idea. It had nothing to do with snuggling—he was using Alex as a mattress. Lying there, balanced rather precariously, just as though this were the way he always slept. How did he do it? Alex certainly wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep this way. Not that he was tired anyway—it wasn't even mid-afternoon and he'd more than caught up on sleep the previous day.

Mulder's legs threatened to slip from their precarious perch on Alex's and Alex caught himself trying to shift in order to keep them where they were. Which was when he realized that he was quickly developing cramped muscles from the stiff, motionless way he was lying in an effort not to dislodge Mulder.

Feeling a twinge of something not unlike fear, Alex shoved Mulder off him and vaulted from the bed. Mulder was under so deep that even this rough treatment didn't wake him; he snuffled into the pillow where Alex's head had been and slept on.

Alex turned away quickly. There was no way in hell that he was going to stare at a sleeping Mulder. He was done with this idiocy. So he'd slept with Mulder. So what. It might have been a bad idea, but it was water under the bridge. He'd done it, fine. It changed nothing. He'd get his act back together now. End of story.

This was where you took a shower. You had sex, you took a shower, you left a friendly note not mentioning your phone number, you went out the door. You didn't look back. Okay, so Alex had to change it a bit to make allowances for the situation. You had sex, you took a shower, you forgot about the note—which Alex had never bothered with anyway—you went out the door to go for a stroll through the town and buy some crossbows and switchblades. You didn't look back.

Sounded good.

Of course it would have been too much to ask for Fox to sleep through it all. Alex had just finished putting Dahl's gun back together after cleaning and examining it when the other man rolled over to watch him.

"No permanent damage as far as I can tell," Alex said after a moment, trying to fill the silence. Realizing that that was what he was doing an instant too late to stop himself.

No response. Fox fished for the sheet and wrapped it around his waist. How cute—

"Little late for modesty, wouldn't you say?" Alex snarled, jamming the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back.

Fox blinked, completely taken aback. For a brief moment, before the familiar cool distance slipped back over his features, he looked genuinely hurt. "Are you always in such a foul temper after sex?"

"Is this an official alien question? Well then I'll have no choice but to dish up the statistics on my post-coital mood, won't I? Let's see, we'll need some parameters—how about a scale of—"

"Is that what this is all about?" His eyes had narrowed, but not in anger. He was being analytical. Great, just what Alex didn't need. "I made sure that—Alex, we both know that this was an entirely free decision for both of us. It has nothing to do with what you were forced into by the aliens. It's not surprising that you feel resentment, but you have to keep that separate from—"

"Sure, Mulder, you have nothing to do with my alien problem."

He bristled slightly and Alex shook his head in disgust, turning away to shrug into his suit jacket. "Look, I didn't mean—I've been a little on edge lately. Must be the weather or something."

Alex had to find some peace and quiet and get his balance back. He had to get out of here.

But now Fox was out of the bed and blocking the door. He was holding the sheet in place around his middle with one hand and looked like a half-undressed Greek statue.

Alex felt his mouth go dry and his heart seize up with hopeless longing and couldn't believe how deeply he'd gotten himself into this mess.

"Wait," Fox said. "I have to get this right first. It didn't work the first time."

Talking to Fox Mulder frequently left the inexperienced with the impression that they were losing time. Alex had grown used to the lightning-quick jumps from one subject to another during his stint as the man's partner, but there were some occasions when it was impossible to know what turn his quirky mind had taken during the last micro-second.

Alex sighed. "I don't have the slightest clue what you're talking about now. I want to have a look at the shops in the town center before—"

With a small, self-conscious lift of the chin, Fox looked straight at Alex. "I haven't fully released the tension yet, and it's vital that I do. I am not certain what the result would be if it were left partially unresolved. I don't want to risk cementing the fixation."

Several seconds passed while the words settled into meaning in Alex's mind, neatly falling into place among a multitude of previously unconnected facts that now clustered around the new point of reference, crystallizing into a clear and comprehensive shape. The shape of Mulder's reason for allowing himself to take an enemy to bed. Alex had been deliberately not thinking about the question of what had made Mulder decide to follow through on his aberrant impulses. He'd been well aware that it would be something he'd be better off not knowing, and unlike Mulder, Alex had never felt the urge to burden himself with unnecessary truths when the necessary ones were more than enough to deal with.

Peculiar, though, that the knowledge felt like this. Like a punch in the stomach. Like the sudden, bone-chilling wash of frozen awareness he had felt when the girl stepping in front of him had looked up and he had realized that this was no girl, that this was something else entirely and that his life and future were suddenly and irrevocably no longer his own.

How ridiculous that Alex was comparing that obscene moment to this predictable and inconsequential little revelation. This shouldn't have felt like some kind of shock. It wasn't. It was exactly what had stood to be expected. In fact, it was not nearly as bad as it might have been. There was no hate, no revenge, no assertion of dominance. Just a release of tension to get rid of a bothersome fixation—a needless and annoying distraction. Logical, calculated, coldly clinical. Admirable. Enviable.

"Sorry, Mulder," Alex told the man blocking his way, noting without surprise that he sounded calm, even disinterested. Consortium conditioning ran deep. "I'm not your therapy surrogate. Go find a psychiatrist."

Exasperation flickered briefly across expressive features. Then, Fox's mouth quirked slightly, curving into the beginnings of a smile that never appeared. It looked as though it would have been a rueful smile—conciliatory, even? Hell, no wonder the man only gave in to his sexual urges when his hormones were coming out of his ears. Why, he was acting like a good-humored, even-tempered person. It was obvious he was not well. If there'd been a Lawrence in the room, Alex would have been certain they'd gotten to Mulder.

Fox stepped forward, still clutching that ridiculous sheet. Staring at Alex's mouth.

Dread surged through Alex at the realization that the tightness in his throat was the longing to give in, to give up, to take whatever Fox Mulder was prepared to give and damn the consequences. To trade something that was not even the illusion of closeness, something intensely painful all by itself, for every last shred of safety and control.

But before Fox Mulder, Alex had never suspected he was capable of feeling something like this—an emotion burning bright and clear and tangled with a wild and desperate yearning. He hadn't been prepared for feeling anything like this when they'd assigned him to the interfering, meddling agent they didn't want dead for reasons never disclosed. He hadn't been prepared for feeling anything, and by the time he'd realized something peculiar was happening, it had been too late.

Whatever this was, it was too intense to be anything but painful, and yet he wasn't certain whether he wished he could stop feeling it. He certainly should be wishing it, but.... The only thing Alex was certain of was that he was not equipped to deal with this. He never had been, and it was much worse now that Mulder had stopped being any help at all in suppressing the infatuation.

Alex was scared. He needed time to regain control. He couldn't afford to stay because he didn't want to leave. He couldn't afford to sleep with Fox again because he wanted it too much—or rather, because he wanted the wrong thing, and because Fox Mulder wasn't stupid. Extremely focused, yes, but very far from stupid. And quite frighteningly perceptive once he wrenched his mind from whatever track he'd set it on and turned it loose.... He was locked on his own needs at the moment, but if he surfaced—when he surfaced—

Fox's gaze flicked down, raking over Alex's body quickly before coming back up to his face. His expression was still very far from the customary, guarded look of faint suspicion. This looked more like intense concentration underlaid by a distinct hint of fascinated wonder. It made him look—

Didn't matter. Could not be allowed to matter. It was high time to put this show on the road, to lay down the false tracks that would keep Mulder from the truth. And to do it without lying.

Alex exhaled slowly, collecting himself before giving a low, mocking laugh. "You don't have any idea of how to handle this kind of thing, do you? Well, let me introduce you to rule number one. Never tell them the truth. Never. Nothing ruins the mood like the truth. What you should have done is grab me and drag me back to bed swearing that you've never wanted anyone like this, that you don't know what's happening to you, that it's completely unlike you, that you never thought anything like this could happen to you, and so forth. And the sheet—get real, Mulder, on some shy little virgin maybe, but on me? On someone like me, you use the brutal and straightforward method. You were right on target earlier, a little violence is good with a certain type of—"

"Don't," Fox interrupted, looking uncomfortable. "I—that was—you're not—"

The sharp pang that the sudden uncertainty in the hazel eyes sent through Alex alarmed him; he deliberately turned it towards feeding his resolve. "How would you know? Face it, you were just stumbling through on instinct. Instinct is nice, but it's not reliable—it has to be harnessed, consciously deployed."

Fox flushed, but still not in anger. "You seemed to have no objections to my unreliable instinct earlier."

Embarrassment was good, confusion even better, but it was anger that Alex wanted. Have to turn it up another notch.... "It's a wonderful thing to be undiscriminating." The barb earned him a flinch and a look of hurt reproach, but still no anger. What the hell was wrong with Mulder?

Alex braced himself to go on. This was no time to grow squeamish. He had never been squeamish and he didn't care what Fox Mulder thought—or rather, he did. Anger and disgust were what he was aiming for here. "It's vital, in fact. Have you ever met the wife of the former US ambassador to the Soviet—"

"I don't want to hear this, Alex!"

He almost told Fox not to call him Alex. He caught himself just in time, turning the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in him into a sarcastic chuckle. "What! Fox Mulder doesn't want to hear the truth? Unthinkable! It's quite a fascinating story, you might learn something new about your precious verity. Because strictly speaking, rule number one is not true. You can tell them the truth if you know what you're doing. Truth can be the most devastating weapon of all. I told it to Debbie, you know—confessed that I was KGB and she was my assignment. You wouldn't believe the things she did so I could keep my superiors happy until she'd managed to arrange for me to be smuggled out of the country and given a new identity under some kind of witness protection or—"

"This is beside the point!" Mulder took another step closer, almost stumbling over his sheet. He dragged it up with an impatient jerk, but while the look he gave Alex now definitely held irritation, there was still no real anger. This had been an even bigger mistake than Alex had thought. Getting Mulder angry had never been a problem before.

One more try—if this didn't work, he'd have to find some new way to make Mulder lose his cool. Toss him around a little, maybe? Carefully, though. With the witches around, the last thing Mulder needed was broken bones.

"Well, since you're so eager, Fox.... What's your offer?"

Fox blinked. "What?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Alex snorted derisively. "It's not that difficult a concept to grasp. Let's see... I don't need money at the moment. We can alter the alien deal. Forget about the lie-detecting check and you can resolve your fixation all you want. I'm open to other suggestions. Know any incriminating secrets? I could use some more leverage in the US."

For a moment it seemed Alex had hit on the right method—exactly the mixture of anger and disgust he'd been trying for crossed Mulder's face. Unfortunately, it was almost immediately replaced by suspicion. "You know I wouldn't agree to something like that."

"Well, can't blame me for trying. Now if you're done hitting on me—"

Fox's features smoothed into comprehension. "You're offended. I—well, I guess I did put it a bit—"

"This discussion sucks. I'm leaving now. Either get out of my way or be put out of it. Your choice."

"Alex, I didn't mean—"

"Does sex always turn you into such a wet towel, Mulder?"

"Wet towel?" Mulder's mouth twitched. It looked as though he were trying not to laugh. This was not going well.

Time for plan B. Mulder didn't seem even remotely prepared—he put up no struggle at all as Alex spun him around and slammed him face-first against the wall with carefully restrained force, twisting his right arm painfully behind his back.

He was still clutching the sheet in his left hand. Alex was helpless to prevent a choked laugh from escaping. This entire thing was ridiculous. "You need to take some self-defense classes, Mulder," he said, tugging the captive arm upwards. Mulder growled. Thank God, something was getting to him at last. "I believe I'll be going now. Anything you need from town? Some sunflower seeds, perhaps?"

Before Mulder could spit out the venomous answer that Alex hoped was on the tip of his tongue, someone rapped on the door. The sudden sound startled Alex and Fox yelped as his grip on the other man's arm tightened.

Instantly releasing his hold, Alex stepped back quickly in order to avoid elbows to the stomach or other such reprisals. Nothing. Fox turned around slowly, leaned back against the wall and held up his sheet. It was probably some kind of mental condition. The Sheet Syndrome.

"Agent Mulder? Are you all right?" Riley's voice was hardly muffled by the door and Alex spared a second to think back on how much noise he and Fox had made. Not too much, as far as he remembered—but hell, when he couldn't even remember what he'd said—

"Agent Mulder!" She sounded alarmed now.

Fox didn't move, looking at Alex with an indecipherable expression on his face. "Stubbed my toe," he said loudly. "I was about to take a shower—can it wait for ten minutes or so?"

Impatient grumbling could be heard through the thin wood. After a brief pause, Riley sighed loudly. "I'll wait in the bar downstairs."

"I'll be right there," he called back.

Ordinarily, Alex would have given her several minutes to move off, but now, he waited for no more than the bare minimum of time necessary to get to the elevator. He could take the stairs. He would have used the fire escape before spending any more time in here with a sheet-clad Fox Mulder who was still staring at him.

Alex was already in the corridor, shutting the door behind himself, when Fox said, quietly, "Don't do anything stupid."

There was something very wrong here.

Once in the lobby, with most of the hotel separating him from Mulder, Alex reconsidered, turning back and searching out the hotel bar in order to have a few words with Maureen Riley himself. At this hour of the day, the bar was completely empty except for Riley, who was perched on a stool at the counter with both hands wrapped around a tall glass of something that looked as though it should have been served in a considerably smaller dosage.

She shot Alex a brief glance when he came in, but didn't turn her head or acknowledge his presence by even so much as a nod. The expression on her face was deliberately blank, though tension was evident in every line of her body; in the slight edge to her movements, the sharp glitter in her eyes, the thin, compressed line of her lips.... No doubt about it. Riley was being consumed by carefully contained rage.

This kind of anger was dangerous—for the one being eaten alive by it, for the object of the fury, and for everyone caught in the vicinity when the delayed explosion finally occurred. If Max Lawrence had any sense, he would not be coming back for Maureen Riley. If Fox Mulder had any sense, he would not work with this woman.

Damn.

"It's good to see you looking so well," Alex told her seriously, glancing at the loose sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Your arm is not giving you any trouble, I hope?"

"Fuck my arm," she snapped, taking a swig of whatever it was she was drinking.

Alex schooled his face into startled reproach. "I regret that my inquiry after your health offends you, Deputy."

Riley gave him an indifferent look and a grim twitch of the mouth that might conceivably have passed for a smile. "My arm's fine, it's just a flesh wound." She paused to take another swallow from her glass. When she spoke again after a brief pause, her voice had turned even harsher and her gaze was locked to her own reflection in the mirror behind the counter. She was no longer speaking to Alex. "That idiot kid—if—when I see him again I'm going to break his jaw. What a stupid thing to
do—"

"He seemed quite competent to me," Alex said calmly. "What is it you're having? I wouldn't be averse to a glass of something alcoholic myself."

"Help yourself. He's a fool. Wet behind the ears. Idiotic stunt to pull."

Alex slipped behind the counter, poured himself a small shot of bourbon, and rummaged around between bottle openers and various containers of paper umbrellas and flamingos. "Surely there's a list somewhere for us to put down what we drink? They can't just—"

"The girl in the lobby said she'd send someone to tend the bar," Riley interrupted impatiently. "I just didn't feel like waiting."

"Oh." He edged out from behind the counter again, looking towards the entrance in a display of vague discomfort at the minor infraction. "Well.... About Officer Dahl, I must say that I can't agree with your assessment. I was rather impressed by his accurate grasp of the situation and his
competent—"

"He was kidnapped by the Lawrence," she snarled, briefly meeting Alex's gaze in the mirror. The name sounded like a curse from her lips. "I hardly regard that a sign of competence. Or do you consider that an acceptable outcome?"

Clearly, no one who valued his life would consider that an acceptable outcome around Deputy Riley.

Alex lifted his eyebrows haughtily, turning to study the policewoman's stony profile with vague disapproval. "The relevant question is whether Officer Dahl considered his abduction an acceptable outcome, and that question must be answered in the affirmative."

"What!"

"Certainly. From what I observed, he decided that the outcome he brought about, while far from desirable in itself, was more acceptable than the alternative of allowing you to be abducted by Maximilian Lawrence."

She said nothing, choosing to drain her glass instead. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she slid off her stool and set about mixing herself another drink. The dollop of orange juice she added was clearly an afterthought.

"Special Agent Mulder has informed me of his intention to fall back on—ah—more traditional methods of self-defense," Alex said when it became clear that if it were left to Riley, the silence would stretch indefinitely. "Of course, it seems rather unlikely that the malfunction of Officer Dahl's and my own weapon was caused by some sort of interference on the part of Mr. Lawrence. However, Agent Mulder appears to feel that—"

"Unlikely," Riley cut in, her voice hard and flat. "Yes. It does seem unlikely, doesn't it. It also seems unlikely that for a while there I was convinced that that bastard was the most wonderful person ever to walk the earth."

"You didn't feel coerced while you were under his influence?"

Riley slanted a narrow glance at him, a brief flare of interest igniting in her eyes before being crushed beneath the weight of her fury. The question seemed to hold her interest, though; she sipped at her drink while she turned it over in her mind.

Either the Lawrence witches felt nothing like aliens—like either of the kinds of aliens Alex had had a close acquaintance with—or Maureen Riley boasted a disquieting degree of self-control and mental stability. Even if it hadn't been for the physical aftereffects of alien possession, Alex doubted that he, or anyone, could have sat there thinking about the experience so calmly no more than—what, two or three hours after the event?

"Only in the beginning," Riley said at last, choosing her words carefully. "Just after he appeared in my study, he asked me what my first name was and told me to put the gun away and sit back down, and I did, even though I had no intention of doing so. It was like the first time I ran into him, when I was driving out to the Lawrence place. My body simply did what he told it to independently of my will. But that only lasted a couple of moments. After that—" She slashed the edge of her hand through the air in a motion curiously unconnected to her words. "Until the pain cleared my head, I belonged to him body and soul, from what felt like my own free will. I worshipped him."

Definitely not like the aliens, though perhaps no better in the long run.... Perhaps even worse. At least Alex had known he hated those alien bastards, had known it during every second of what they did to him. He'd retained that much of himself—his emotions hadn't betrayed him. His body, yes, and his mind, but not his emotions.

He drank the bourbon down in one swallow and focused on the burn in his throat, shutting out the numb horror clawing at the edges of his thoughts. "I imagine that must have been very disturbing, Deputy Riley. Perhaps—yes, considering that Maximilian Lawrence as much as threatened my person, and considering that my brother may very well be in the same position as Officer Dahl, I believe it would not be unwise to follow Agent Mulder's advice and obtain some means of defense which will be able to withstand any attempt at, uhm, tampering. What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean, Mr. Alexander." Riley cast a glance at the door, obviously impatient for Mulder to show. "Try Frenzel Sporting Supplies in Charlotte Street."

He asked for directions and had begun to leave when she suddenly twisted on her stool, looking at him squarely for the first time since he'd come in. "The Lawrence bastard did have a point. You really don't find many lawyers who trail around after FBI agents and have had that kind of training."

Alex smiled smugly. "You don't, do you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You arrived together, you follow him around, you are sharing one room. You carry a gun and know how to use it. You may not be very steady on your feet, but you have also had some training in martial arts."

He waited for a moment and then smiled again, this time with careful politeness. "Yes?"

"He called you Alex."

"Everyone calls me Alex. My father's name is also Kevin, so it cuts down on the confusion." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't quite know where you're headed with this line of inquiry, Deputy Riley."

There was a long pause; then she shook her head and turned her attention back to her drink. "Never mind."

Easy for her to say. It wasn't her cover going down the drain. Kevin Alexander had cost Alex a lot of time and effort, not to mention immense amounts of money, and thanks to the alien body snatchers he would have to set up an entire new cover. Time, effort, and money were not resources he could afford to spend lightly. Add to that the possible set-backs in his plans—and of course he'd have to relocate, which not only brought its own host of risks and dangers, but was a set-back in itself. Berlin had been ideal, and now he'd have to settle for a less well suited base merely because some off-planet bastards had decided that flowers, a bottle of wine or a donation to a Swiss bank account was not original enough.

The aliens themselves were a problem Alex wasn't allowing himself to dwell on. It would do no good to brood over what they'd do once they decided they'd let Mulder dangle long enough. There was no way to predict their actions, and no way to prepare for or defend against them, either. Alex would simply have to deal with it when the time came.

Damn Mulder, anyway. He had to be the only person on the face of this planet deranged and brilliant enough to make an ideal business partner for enterprising aliens.

Alex briefly attempted to feel anger at the man for getting Alex into this untenable situation, for dragging him into bed and then calmly standing there announcing it hadn't worked, for being so twisted and volatile and unpredictable and irresistible.... It was hard to fault Mulder for being Mulder, though. Besides, if Alex hadn't made himself vulnerable by refusing to learn the Consortium's final lesson—if he hadn't been foolish enough to commit the unbelievable idiocy of falling for his assignment—chances were that at this very moment, Fox would be either dead by his own hand or locked into a padded cell, and Alex would be going about his business unmolested by aliens or witches and completely safe from his own dangerous yearnings.

When you put it that way.... There were worse things than being forced to construct a new identity.

Agent Mulder?" Mulder turned to find the girl behind the reception counter smiling at him. "Someone called for you a minute ago—you must just have left your room. The caller left a message."

She handed him an envelope, camouflaging her arrested stare with another bright smile. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he had a bite mark on his neck. He'd checked very carefully, though, so it must be the unparalleled excitement of not only having a genuine, real live FBI agent in the hotel, but actually having taken down a message for him.

Mulder tore the envelope open, distractedly composing a list of people who would try to reach him through the hotel rather than calling him on his cell phone. People who knew he was in Weimar but had no access to his phone number. Sloppy people who had lost his phone number. People checking up on the receptionist's message-taking abilities. People who felt that cellular phones were an invention of the devil or constantly monitored by the FBI—although since they were calling an FBI agent, the latter scenario only worked if they also believed the FBI was infiltrated by a multi-national corporation that involved itself in alien abductions, covered up everything, and ran the world. Nah. More likely, the caller thought it was the CIA or the KGB listening in. A not unreasonable suspicion, really. Mulder had never trusted the CIA, and Alex might have been there when Mulder took the call.

He unfolded the sheet of hotel stationary in order to solve the mystery. Printed neatly beneath the hotel's logo was the message "Call Rick as soon as possible", underlined twice with a ruler. Ah. People who had rebelliously thrown Mulder's phone number in the trash and now couldn't find it underneath the potato peels and tea leaves.

The number carefully centered on the sheet was boxed in with precise, ruler-drawn lines. Mulder could not prevent himself from casting a quick look at the receptionist, who was still watching him. Maybe he should tell her to monitor her tendency towards compulsive order so she could seek professional help if it got worse.

Or maybe he should concentrate on his own compulsive disorders. Yes, that would definitely be a good idea, considering that no more than a quarter of an hour ago he had done everything but hit Alex Krycek over the head to drag him back to bed. Mulder's attempt to resolve this fixation by a simple release of tension was a spectacular failure, and now that a cold shower had cleared his head somewhat, he was not surprised in the least. The conclusion that the solution was to be found in self-indulgence had clearly not been reasoned out in the part of his anatomy originally designed for thinking.

He found a quiet corner and punched Rick's number into his cell phone. Where had Alex gone? After his own performance just now, the only thing that gave Mulder the certainty that Alex would come back was that he had no choice. With the threat of the aliens hanging over his head, Alex had to stick close. Had to ensure Mulder's continued good will.... It hadn't been Mulder's intention to blackmail Alex into giving in to his advances, but was that the way it had seemed? A chilling thought—and one that raised another, no less chilling question. How much of Alex's passion had been real? Oh, certainly he'd been aroused on some level, but when he himself calmly admitted to being trained for this kind of... deceit....

The first ring wasn't even completed before Rick's breathless voice burst into Mulder's ear. "Yes?"

"Rick, it's Mulder," Mulder said absently. He was beginning to feel slightly ill, for more than one reason. If he ever got to the people responsible for doing this to—to who knew how many innocent children—he would not be held accountable for his actions. He had to talk with Alex. If only he hadn't run off like that—

"Agent Mulder!" A curious mixture of relief and excitement tinged Rick's voice. "Emma's at the library! Mrs. Markham called me, that's the librarian, she warned me to stay away. Of course she really wanted to talk to my parents, but they weren't there. Anyway, you want to talk to her, don't you? To Emma, I mean? I want to come. I have to talk to her."

Could this be a coincidence? Were the Lawrences always so busy about town? "Is she usually at the library at this time on Saturdays?"

"I don't know. She spends a lot of time there, but not that regularly as far as I know... Agent Mulder, what are you going to do? You're going to talk to her, aren't you. I know that you—"

"Where are you now?"

After a momentary silence, Rick gave a slightly sheepish laugh. Mulder closed his eyes. Was it something in the air of this town? "Rick. Please do not be an idiot. Stay away from Emma Lawrence. Do you understand me? I have just watched one of Emma's relatives take away a new victim without being able to do anything to stop him, and believe me, I do not want to explain how I could let the same thing happen twice in one day."

"Hey, Emma's in the library and I'm in the café across the street. She has no reason to come looking for me here, and I can watch the entrance to see whether she comes out. It's perfectly safe. I promise to wait like a good boy until you get here."

Unfortunately, past experience did not give Mulder much confidence in his own ability to stop Emma Lawrence from taking Rick away if she was so inclined. He quickly ran several possible courses of action through his mind and settled on calling the mayor, letting him know where to find his wayward son, and waiting until Rick had been safely locked into his room before going to talk to the witch.

"Agent Mulder?" Rick sounded almost pleading. "Listen, I've been thinking. She could have come for me by now. It's not as though she couldn't have gotten to me—Nita would let her in, she's never met Emma, she'd just think she was in my class or something. But I think she can't put a new hold on me now, and that's why she hasn't been around. Right now it's probably safer for me to talk to her than it is for you. You know that they say people from out of town are basically fair game, don't you? And I know Emma. That could be useful. I do know her. I think she's basically the girl I know, only—also something else. But just because she kept that part of herself from me doesn't mean it was all faked. You know? It makes more sense this way."

"Yes," Mulder said slowly. "I do know. The only question is whether it makes sense because your assessment of the situation is correct or merely because you want to believe it."

In the silence that followed, the faint jingling of chimes in the background announced that a customer was entering or leaving the café near the library. "I see what you mean," Rick said at last. "But that's always the way it is. If I went around asking myself that all the time, I'd end up doubting everything I see and think I know and be afraid of doing anything at all. I'll just stick with what I think I know until something other than my own doubts gives me reason to think again."

The phrasing might be tangled, but the point was valid. Mulder frowned slightly and listened to the faint murmurs of distant conversation that drifted through from Rick's end of the connection, trying to make his misgivings solidify into a counter-argument. After a long moment, he gave up and shook his head. "You're a strange kid, Frederick."

"Thanks. Does that mean you're coming?"

Mulder sighed. "If you set one foot outside of the café before I get there, I'll shoot you in the leg."

"Yeah, whatever. Just hurry up."

First, though, Mulder had to see what Riley had come to talk about—as though he couldn't guess. He'd have to keep it short. Maybe he could take her along. Yes, that would be a good idea for more than one reason. An advantage in numbers was clearly called for when dealing with the Lawrence family.

Deputy Riley was the only person in the hotel bar when Mulder came in. He studied her as unobtrusively as possible while he crossed the room to her; his conclusions, while far from surprising, were not at all satisfactory. The policewoman appeared calm, but her collected demeanor had a rigid quality to it that spoke clearly of the effort she put into maintaining it. Even if Mulder hadn't been familiar with the situation, he could not have missed the strain suffusing her, hinting at intense emotions roiling beneath the stonily impassive surface—emotions liable to erupt at any provocation.

Inevitable, considering the circumstances of Dahl's abduction. She was blaming herself. Mulder wished he had the time to sit down and bring her to talk about it. It would have to wait, though. Dahl was already gone and Riley would survive—Rick took precedence.

"I've paid a visit to Katja Dahl," Riley announced without preamble. "Her other children will be meeting at her house for dinner, and I told her we'd be there as well. Some time between six and seven. If you can't make it that early, that's okay, too—she's an old police wife, she'll make something that will keep."

Mulder was about to bridle at Riley's easy disposition of his time when he remembered that he'd already agreed to have dinner with her today. Had it been only yesterday? It seemed like years ago. So much had happened since then—so much had changed. Mulder had met a witch, Dahl had been kidnapped, there'd been Alex....

Dragging his mind back to the policewoman in front of him, Mulder raised his brows slightly. "I don't want this to turn into a vendetta, Deputy, and I'm certain you realize that bringing civilians into this is not—"

"I'm not the one who brought Dahl's family into this!" she snapped. "Max Lawrence is the one who walked off with the idiot kid—the National Guard couldn't keep the Dahl clan out of it at this point. You can't even put them into protective custody because half of the police force is related to them. They'd just forget to lock the cell."

"Deputy—"

Riley slid off her barstool to face Mulder, determination burning in hard grey eyes. "I'm sorry for my short temper, but my partner was kidnapped because of me—he was trying to protect me from a threat I didn't take seriously, a threat he'd been warning me about all along. I cannot and will not sit back and fold my hands in my lap like the other people in this town. Neither will Katja and the rest of the Dahls. We're not going to let that bastard get away with this. It's not a vendetta. It's called loyalty, Agent Mulder. It's called justice."

Asking Maureen Riley to accompany Mulder to the library for his interview with Emma Lawrence was definitely not an option. Confronting her with any member of the Lawrence family at this moment would be asking far too much of her self-control.

"I'll be there," Mulder said at last.

The set lines of her expression eased and softened instantly, her face relaxing into a smile. "I'm very glad to hear it. Katja Dahl knows everything there is to know about Weimar—she should be able to provide us with valuable information on the Lawrences. And she's a very good cook, too."

Mulder had given the right answer. He was once again classed as part of Riley's "us." Either with us or against us. Two diametrically opposed sides with a clear-cut boundary between them. Was this what Alex had meant when he'd said she was like Mulder? But Mulder didn't class people like that. He was a psychologist—he knew how complex human beings were, how tangled their motivations.... But then Riley knew that, as well. You didn't have to be a psychologist to know about such a basic fact of human nature.

"Bring Alex," Riley said.

Caught off guard, Mulder brought his head up too quickly. He knew his quickly assumed casual expression was an abject failure when he saw the grin spread across Riley's face.

"Shouldn't call casual acquaintances by their special nicknames, Agent Mulder. Shouldn't share hotel rooms with them, either."

"Uhm," Mulder said, hoping that no more intelligent answer was required. It appeared that he had achieved a status equivalent to "police buddy", thus becoming eligible for teasing.

"He has a right to be in on this," she went on, sobering quickly. "One of the bastards has his brother. And as long as we can keep him from going overboard and trying any fancy karate moves, or whatever that was supposed to be, he should be able to take care of himself if it comes to a fight."

"Uhm. Yes. I believe so. It's a family tradition. The training, that is." He was lying for Alex Krycek. Scully was right, he did need to get his head examined. Or perhaps some other body parts.

Riley shrugged, uncaring. She seemed more sanguine now, bolstered by the knowledge that the strike force she was assembling was growing apace.

Damn. Mulder's most dedicated ally in Weimar had turned wrathful avenger, rendering her useless to him in the present situation. There would be no help from the rest of the police, either. The reluctance to move against a Lawrence had been heavy in the sheriff's voice even when Max had broken into a house and was threatening two police officers—nothing short of mind-altering drugs would induce the man to let any of his people bother one of the model citizens while she was peacefully going about her business in the public library. Where the hell was Alex when you—when he would have come in useful?

Mulder parted company with Riley in front of the hotel. She announced that she was going to pay a visit to the police station, obviously in order to enlist as many of Dahl's friends for her cause as she could by means of rational argumentation, emotional appeals, intimidation, and sheer bullying.

On his lone drive to the library, Mulder pondered the best method of pointing out to the deputy that obliterating all trace of the Lawrences' existence from the face of the earth was not actually what he was trying to accomplish.

Weimar's public library was designed along the lines of a villa and built from stone in a warm shade of beige that contrasted pleasantly with the autumnal tones of the trees scattered across the grounds with picturesque irregularity. Mulder spared the building no more than a brief glance before crossing the street to the small corner coffee shop where, he hoped, Rick would be waiting.

He was. As soon as Mulder walked in, Rick bounced up from a window seat where he had been crouching behind a large, leafy plant. His clothes were not torn today, but he was still dressed entirely in black; his hair was pulled back into a ponytail and blue-tinted, mirror-finished shades rode low on his hawkish nose. Mulder detested mirrored shades.

"Take those off," he commanded tersely. "Is she still inside?"

Rick lifted an index finger and slid the glasses up the bridge of his nose with provocative slowness. "Unless she's jumped out a window in the back, yeah."

Oh, very well then. The sunglasses weren't worth putting up the boy's hackles about—if Rick could gain confidence by hiding behind two small pieces of tinted glass, there was no reason to deny him the extra measure of assurance. He would probably need it.

"I'll try to steer Emma into a corner where we can talk in peace while staying within sight of as many people as possible," Mulder began. "It will probably reduce the risk of her taking offensive action—"

"The copy room. That's sectioned off from the newspaper room by a glass partition. I bet Emma's in the newspaper room, anyway. She likes to read the papers, she usually does that first."

"First?"

"She's pretty predictable. After that.... Well, usually she'll find something she wants to know more about, get back issues or go to the reference section or get some books on the subject. And then she'll pick up some stuff to read on the side. Novels, that kind of thing. Plays, sometimes."

"Does she do research on anything in particular? Are there subjects she's especially interested in?"

Rick shrugged. "Not really. She's interested in lots of things. She didn't use to be, but it was just because she'd never gotten into the habit. The stuff she used to read was just the normal fluff—you know, thrillers and horror novels and romances and so forth."

"And you changed that?"

"Can't really understand anything without a view of the big picture. Everything fits in somewhere else." Rick looked to the library across the street, his mouth twisting into an expression probably intended as a wry smile. The shades did nothing to conceal his pain. "She really seemed interested in what I think about things. Not many people are. I don't believe it was just a pretense. Not all of it."

"What's wrong with the normal fluff?" The hint of derision in the boy's voice when he'd said that term had woken Mulder's curiosity.

A snort flared Rick's nostrils. "It's not that there's anything wrong with it, at least not with all of it. It's the same with movies. There's good stuff there, it's just that most people don't know how to tell. How can they—no one teaches them, or they're taught wrong. When they think something's boring, they think it's because there's not enough action, when really it's that there's no depth, you know? There's lots of stuff that's nothing but convoluted plot, completely on the surface. And mostly, when someone does decide to say something, it gets really awful. They kind of bash you over the head with a moral until you're ready to throw up. That's the worst. What's important is characterization and how it all fits together. You have to show people about others, let them see how it all works. Make them understand about themselves."

"You think books and movies should show people the truth?" There was something strange here, and it wasn't that Rick Lowborough didn't fit his carefully cultivated image. Or was it? Mulder couldn't quite put his finger on it....

Rick threw Mulder a glance rendered unreadable by the glasses. "What's the truth? Look, we can talk about this later. Let's go find Emma now, okay?"

The teenager brushed past him and set off, chimes jingling in his wake. Before Mulder could follow, the hovering waiter informed him that the young gentleman had not paid for the three coffees and two chocolate nut twists he'd had.

Between settling Rick's bill and being delayed by several inopportune cars, Mulder lost the opportunity to ask additional questions. He caught up with the peculiar teen in the main room of the library and had just reached out to take his arm into a firm grip when a striking, raven-haired woman who was passing by with an armful of books glanced over. Dark eyes widened in shocked disbelief as her head snapped around in a classic double-take; then she dropped the books unceremoniously and changed direction in mid-stride, almost running down a startled older gentleman who had the misfortune to be in her way.

This woman was too old to fit Mulder's mental picture of the witch they had come to find, and a quick glance at his companion confirmed the impression that there was no cause for alarm. It was highly unlikely that the emotions the sight of Emma Lawrence would evoke in Rick were resignation and contrition.

"Rick!" the dark-haired woman hissed in a low, but penetrating whisper that immediately identified her as a librarian. She took the teenager's free arm and tried to steer him back out, completely ignoring Mulder. Rick resisted, setting his jaw into the mulish expression Mulder was already very familiar with.

"Get out of here!" she commanded fiercely. "Why do you think I called? I wanted to help you! How can you be so foolish and selfish
and—"

"It's all right, Helen." Rick had decided to abandon sullenness in favor of hopeful entreaty. "Hey, Helen—this is Agent Mulder, FBI. He's the one who's here to talk to her. I'm just tagging along. There won't be any trouble, and we'll be real quiet, too. Really."

She glanced at Mulder, who gave her his best reassuring smile while rifling through his memories of the phone conversation with Rick for the name of the concerned librarian. "Mrs. Markham?"

Helen Markham nodded and Mulder held out a hand. She automatically released Rick's arm to take it. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name, Agent...?"

"Special Agent Fox Mulder. I am investigating the disappearances haunting Weimar and hope Emma Lawrence will be able to cast light on the involvement of several members of her family."

The librarian's lips had compressed into a thin white line. She said not a word, but the accusing glare she leveled at Rick was enough to make him defend himself. "Well, it's not as though it makes any difference for me at this point, is it? Emma already tried to snatch me, keeping quiet so they'll leave me alone seems kind of pointless. And besides, I'm not the one who told him. He already knew about the Lawrences when he came to talk to me."

A long moment passed while Helen Markham stared at both of the malefactors, face set in a mask of stern disapproval. "Well, Frederick, this is a public library, so I can hardly prevent you from coming in. However, I must say that I expected you, of all people, to show better judgment. And as for you, Agent Mulder... I certainly hope you know what you are doing."

She turned smoothly on one heel and strode off, disappearing around a corner with the energetic gait of a woman with a purpose.

"Great. Now she's going to call everyone and set the town on its ear until she finds my father." Rick sighed, sounding resigned. "We'd better hurry before he sends someone for me. Here, to the left."

The short corridor to the left led to an airy room with windows opening onto a large, well-tended courtyard. Outside, a small fountain stood centered on a plot of emerald grass encircled by a walk and several cast-iron benches; inside, rows of small tables ran along shelves displaying newspapers and magazines.

"Emma," Rick said flatly.

A girl sitting near the door stiffened and turned so quickly that she almost fell from her seat. Mulder noted that her movements definitely exceeded what could be considered normal speed.

The young witch's features displayed a more delicate, entirely feminine version of Max's classic, even-featured good looks; the resemblance was marked enough that Mulder would have been able to identify her as a Lawrence from appearance alone. She wore designer jeans, suede pumps, and an expensive blazer over a cashmere sweater in shades of tan and chocolate, and small pearl earrings showed when she lifted her head abruptly, making the perfectly groomed sides of her gleaming, chin-length bob swing back from her ears. She was not older than Rick, but she was trying hard.

Emma Lawrence was going for mature, sober and conservative with no holds barred. An extremely difficult stand to take with someone like Max around—to him, this kind of studied sobriety would be like a red cloth to a bull. Which was probably at least partly the reason she had turned out this way in the first place, but which made her choice of Rick as a prospective—pet? plaything? servant?—even more peculiar.

"Rick." Her voice was deep, almost throaty, and would have been pleasant if it hadn't practically frozen in the air. "What do you want?"

A flush crept up Rick's neck as he straightened to his full height, dragging Mulder forward half a step. The sudden tension in his bearing did not bode well.

"I think we should continue this conversation in the copy room." Mulder released Rick's arm in order to step between him and the witch.

"I have nothing to say to him," Emma snapped, raising her chin by another degree and compressing her mouth into a priggish line.

"But I have a great deal to say to her," Rick spat back.

"Then you should have come when I called you!"

The sudden shout echoed in the utter silence. Mulder's hand crept to his gun as he backed up, herding Rick away from the girl. The library's other patrons were staring at the spectacle, several already on their feet and edging towards the door. Locals, thank God. At least Mulder wouldn't have to worry about ill-advised attempts at interference or belligerent demands for silence.

"I should have come?" Rick exploded, yelling directly into Mulder's ear. Mulder winced and put out an arm to detain the boy when he surged forward.

After a brief struggle, Rick subsided, contenting himself with raising his voice even further in order to make sure that Emma could hear him clearly from where she sat three yards away. "How dare you say that! How can you even look at me after what you did! How dare you sit there looking prim and proper and righteous! I'm glad my father locked me up! It was worth the pain to find out what you really are—I never would have believed you capable of such a thing if I hadn't lived through it. I can't believe I actually thought I cared for you—how stupid of me, how much you hurt me—"

"You didn't come when I called! It was your fault!" Emma sprang up, her chair clattering to the floor. The witch didn't attempt to match her ex-boyfriend's volume, but more than compensated for the lack through sheer hostility.

Mulder backed up another step, dragging Rick with him. While it was a question of considerable interest whether all Lawrences shared Max's ability to incapacitate sidearms, Mulder preferred to guide this confrontation in such a way that he would not come closer to an answer just yet.

Rick twisted from Mulder's restraining grip to turn and stare blindly at the nearest rack of magazines. For someone of his age, he succeeded remarkably quickly in reining in his anger; he let out his breath very slowly, consciously relaxing his stance, and turned back after no more than a moment, the sharp planes and angles of his face now set into stern, immobile lines.

The tense silence lay in the room so heavily that when Rick calmly took off the shades and folded them together, the small sound of plastic against plastic burst through the stillness with the force of an explosion.

"I was wrong." Rick's voice was low and even, resonating with a note of quiet authority. It was the voice of a much older, very self-assured man, and it went well with the pale, serious cast of his features. "I thought you understood the things we talked about. You believe it was your right to command me, to own me, to inflict pain to punish me? That I loved you gave you no such right. Nothing could have given you such a right. Even if you had succeeded in forcing me to do your will, I would not have belonged to you. If you had asked me to come, I would have found a way to do so because I wanted to—because I am prepared to do a great many things for the happiness of someone I love. But you did not ask, you commanded, as though I owed you obedience. I do not love you now. I know better now. I will never be yours, and what's more, I never was. If you find a way to force me to return to you, nothing will change."

After studying Emma for an instant longer, he seemed to dismiss her from his thoughts and inclined his head to Mulder with composed dignity. "Thank you for taking me along. It has been very helpful. I have seen what I came to see."

Without taking any more note of his former girlfriend, Rick Lowborough walked out. Emma's eyes were wide and incredulous; she seemed almost stunned and made no move to follow or to prevent him from leaving.

The feeling that Mulder was missing something nagged at him with renewed strength.

"I almost think he meant that." Emma sounded strained. "He always goes all grand and pompous when he means it.... He won't be back, will he?"

"Not of his own will," Mulder said, watching her closely as she whirled to stare out into the courtyard, her face set in a grim frown. She was deeply upset and almost beyond trying to hide it. It was the ideal moment to run some assumptions past her and see how accurate they were. "He suspected you wouldn't be able to reassert your influence over him."

A slight hunching of the girl's shoulders declared not only that this was indeed the case, but also that she was too distraught to check her instinctive responses before Mulder could see them. Very promising. Perhaps Mulder should make a practice of having ex-lovers harangue recalcitrant witnesses prior to questioning.

"Emma, you were almost ready to take him home with you, weren't you? If he had come when you called, you would not have let him return." Mulder gave in to the impulse to step a little closer, telling himself that one or two yards hardly made a difference—not to someone with the kind of speed Max had demonstrated. "You would have liked to take him away earlier. You couldn't, though, because it wasn't enough to sleep with him. That only removed the protection afforded by the treaty."

Mulder paused while he put his thoughts into the right order, carefully watching the witch's profile. Emma was pretending not to pay attention, but she was listening quite closely.... And she was uncomfortable, uncertain of how to react. Mulder was on the right track.

"You needed time to bind him to you—to do it properly," he went on slowly. Dahl's expressionless face flashed past his mind, superimposed on the adoration that had been written so plainly in Riley's countenance. Max, who would show off at every opportunity, had merely shut Dahl down into impassivity. Riley, on the other hand—the hold he'd established over the policewoman had been completely unlike the superficial one he'd put on her at the occasion of their first encounter... unlike the one over Dahl. Riley was simple. Dahl was not. Distant relatives? Similarity in genetic make-up? "It's hard with someone born here, isn't it? Not like taking people from out of town."

"It's not fair," Emma blurted suddenly. "I did everything right. I was so careful! He should be mine! I wanted to keep him. He's different, he feels... special. It's just not fair!"

If her speed had been that of a normal human, Mulder might have shot her by reflex. Her movements were far too rapid for his brain to track, though. By the time he had grown aware of the fact that she had moved, she was already clinging to him, her face buried in his shirtfront. "It always works for the others! I only wanted one! It's not fair!"

Mulder looked over the top of her head to find a growing clutch of spectators gathered behind the window on the opposite side of the courtyard. He could pick out the straight figure of Helen Markham in the background, standing with her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

The witch twisted Mulder's lapels in her fists and sobbed once, her entire body heaving. The Lawrences were clearly suffering from the all-too-human, all-too-common problem of incomplete socialization—given the conditions they lived under, it would have been surprising if they had not. Max was a classic case: A sociopath who was unable to connect or empathize with anyone and so drew pleasure from others' pain and fear instead, who knew his own worth only through the power he exerted. This girl was at least dimly aware that she lacked something—she felt loneliness and was desperately trying to connect in the only way she knew. However, while this indicated a certain measure of emotional competence, it was not necessarily a good sign. Emma's behavior and attitude proved that she might grow to resemble Max in more than appearance, in which case her greater awareness of her own pain would in all likelihood make her even more unpredictable and dangerous.

But at this moment, she could still be reached, perhaps reasoned with.... Certainly led.

Mulder patted the witch's back consolingly and waited until her grip on his Armani suit loosened. "You love Rick, don't you?"

She lifted her face to glare at him from reddened eyes, revealing a blotchy face framed by disheveled hair. No trace of polish or sophistication remained. She looked exactly like the miserable teenager she was. "I don't see what business it is of yours!"

Mulder dug out a handkerchief and dangled it in front of her. She stopped mangling his jacket, snatching the offered square of cloth instead.

"You did seriously crumple my very expensive suit over it," he said reasonably after she'd blown her nose. "Rick gave me his point of view of your relationship. Perhaps if you give me yours, it will become clear what went wrong." Besides the fact that you are a witch, that you caused your hapless boyfriend an amount of pain that would have driven a less stable individual permanently round the bend, and, of course, that you just now declared that he deserved it for failing to appear when whistled for.

"What did he say?" gasped Emma, her left hand shooting out to reclaim one already severely wrinkled lapel.

He pretended to consider. "I don't think I should tell you—Rick probably wouldn't want me to pass on something he recounted in confidence."

"Of course you will tell me!" she shouted. "I am Emma Lawrence!"

Mulder freed his jacket with a sharp tug and perched on a nearby table. "Pleased to meet you, Emma. I want to understand what kind of relationship you and Rick had before I decide how much to tell you of his view of the matter. Since it is this important for you to know how he feels, why don't you tell me how you feel? The only other option to obtain the information from me would involve breaking the treaty. Are you willing to go that far, Emma?" Of course, she would not be breaking the treaty by exerting undue influence over Mulder, but he was reasonably certain that—unless the witches were amusing themselves passing around pictures of the FBI agent—she'd have no way of knowing that.

With the high-pitched, frustrated shriek of a child throwing a tantrum, Emma smashed her fist down on the surface of the table she'd been sitting at earlier, her arm moving so fast not even a blur could be seen. The wooden top splintered and broke nearly in two, causing the table to sag inwards drunkenly.

Not necessarily revealing, except in regard to her mental state.... Some humans could break bricks with the edge of their hand. Supposedly, it was a matter of concentration rather than strength.

"The answer is no, then." Mulder nodded briskly. "Good. You said that this is not fair. Exactly what about the situation isn't fair, Emma?"

"He's the only one I ever wanted!" Emma sagged down on the nearest chair, hugging herself tightly. "It's not fair, I never took anyone before, I never even tried, and—and now when I want to I can't, just because he didn't come when I called. I was so careful—I know I did everything right. And he even told me he loved me! He's mine! It's not fair!"

"Three days," Mulder guessed, following his intuition. "When someone refuses the call for three days, they're free. That's why you can't have him now. You lost your chance."

She wadded up the handkerchief with both hands and stared down at it. "I was completely exhausted. I sat there calling and calling and he never showed.... It's his fault. He was the one who stood me up, it's all his fault, my whole life is ruined and it's his fault!"

Defensive, needing to convince herself. Well, now.... This was interesting. She knew she was in the right, knew it with the deep conviction born of society and upbringing.... But a small element of doubt had been introduced into the settled worldview in which Non-Lawrences existed only to come when called. It had not even occurred to Emma to ask Mulder who he was or why he was here. It didn't signify, just as he himself didn't signify. And yet, she was feeling guilt over what she had done to Rick. Within three months, Rick Lowborough had managed to erode the foundations of Emma's world.

Mulder revised his opinion of the mayor's son upwards yet again.

"You didn't tell Rick who you are, Emma."

Emma's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the wad of cloth. The quick, hard look she shot at Mulder set off a lightning chain of conclusions in his mind.

"You broke the treaty," he stated softly.

"Telling you who we are isn't part of the treaty." She was a terrible liar. Even if Mulder hadn't been keeping company with Alex Krycek for the last couple of days, thus perforce honing his skills at detecting misinformation and evasion, this falsehood was so blatantly obvious he would have had no trouble at all in catching it.

Far more interesting than the lie itself was the fact that Emma was not at all worried. She was confident that she would be believed.

The people of Weimar were not expected to know all the terms of the treaty. The Lawrences had been deliberately obscuring clauses that had originally been common knowledge. And even though these clauses had been forgotten by one party involved, the other party remembered them, told their children about them. Pointless, risky even—unless the need to observe them was still given. There was no risk of the unsuspecting Weimarians crying breach of contract. So, was there a third, impartial party or power involved to police the terms of the treaty? But that didn't quite fit either....

Mulder had yet to learn of any written record of the treaty and its terms. He had assumed this was part and parcel of the silence imposed on Weimar. But even if the Weimarians believed this to be the case, it was not necessarily true. What if the records had been purposely destroyed? For what purpose, if the Lawrences had to stick to the clauses even if the Weimarians weren't aware of them?

For the purpose of making the pact between Weimar and the Lawrences look like something other than what it was. To listen to the Weimarians, they'd gotten the short end of the stick—in exchange for a tenuous promise of safety from the witches, a promise apparently enforced by nothing but tradition and good will, said witches were free to roam the town and do as they pleased. The Lawrences were protected from discovery and persecution, demanded and received submission and obedience, indulged themselves to the fullest, gave in to every whim and fancy.... If they saw something they wanted, they took it and let the town carry the cost. If they saw someone they wanted, they had the right to at least attempt taking them, as well. Could that truly have been the way the treaty had been set up? Could a small clan of witches force a much larger group of settlers to enter into such a pact?

Why not simply move on, or gang up on the freaks? Violence was, after all, the traditional method of dealing with the unknown. What was unfamiliar and inexplicable was almost inevitably met with fear and hate, emotions that, in their turn, inevitably led to the urge to destroy, to eliminate the perceived threat. Burn the witch. Surround her cottage and set fire to it. Bring her down in the fields when she tries to flee. Let her stop one member of the lynch mob with her powers, let her kill others through sheer speed—in the end, she stands no chance.

"You broke the terms of the treaty," Mulder repeated, not entirely certain where he was headed but willing to follow his instincts. "Do you know what will happen to you when this comes out, Emma?"

Fear, quickly covered by returning anger, but unmistakable. She knew—or if she didn't, she suspected.

Emma stood abruptly. "No wonder you and Rick get along so well. You talk just as much nonsense as he does. Tell him to go to hell. I'm glad he didn't come. I'm glad I don't have to bother with him for the rest of his miserable life!"

Mulder didn't attempt to stop her when she rushed out. She was angry, afraid, and confused—it would not have been a good idea to get in her way.

The spectators scattered slowly, Helen Markham lingering longest. No one came to join Mulder in the newspaper room, though, and that suited him very well. He needed some time alone to consider what he had learned.

The situation in Weimar was far more complex than him seemed at first glance. The town's present dilemma was not merely the result of a family of beings with unusual powers preying on the populace.... There was the long shared history of the Lawrences and Weimar to consider, a close and apparently increasingly tangled association that went back all the way to the town's beginnings. The witches were not a foreign element that had descended on the community from the outside, they had been part of the community from the start, allocated a definite place within it. An agreement had been reached. Rules had been set.

And now, no one in Weimar seemed to have a grasp of what the rules were anymore, and the witches were cheating. No wonder things were going wrong.

It was beginning to grow dark when Mulder returned to the hotel, and Alex was there. Mulder knew this as soon as he stepped off the elevator, and the conviction increased with every step that brought him closer to the room he shared with the other man.

Of course Mulder was perfectly aware that the impression of being able to sense Alex's presence was nothing but the latest, most outlandish symptom of what would at this point have to be classified as an obsession. Unfortunately, knowing this did nothing to change the fact that he could feel the other man's proximity—that it tugged at him, called to him, enticed him....

Sleeping with Alex had only made things worse.

"We have to talk," Alex said flatly from where he sat against the headboard of the second bed. He seemed to like sitting like that, with his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He never sat on chairs when there was a bed in the room to be sat on instead. It was highly unlikely he cultivated the preference in order to wake the kind of associations that were flitting through Mulder's mind at the sight, of course.

Mulder sighed, sagging back against the closed door. The leaden exhaustion that had invaded his bones at some point between the elevator and the hotel room's door made him decide against sitting down—he wasn't certain he'd be able to summon the necessary energy for standing up again. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a comfortable chair and not move a finger while he examined and evaluated the events of the past day, but that was a luxury he would not be granted yet. The day was not over—he had a dinner appointment to keep. No choice about that. Not only did Mulder want to talk to Katja Dahl, he also had to keep an eye on Riley, who was probably breaking out the assault rifles right now.

Besides, nothing could possibly be more of a strain than sitting still and trying to keep his mind on the case when he was alone with Alex. Alone with Alex and a bed—Alex sitting on a bed.

Giving himself a mental shake, Mulder glared at the other man. "So now you think we have to talk, do you? You're the one who couldn't wait to run out."

Alex was right, of course. They did have to talk. In fact, Mulder distinctly remembered that not too long ago, he'd had every intention of having this kind of talk with Alex as soon as possible. He'd changed his mind, though—he needed to think things through first. He had to sort out what had happened, to understand why it had happened.... The only thing he was sure of at the moment was that it hadn't been anything as simple or straightforward as sex brought on by a sudden reciprocal attack of desire or an old fixation reaching flashpoint. Nothing was ever simple or straightforward where Alex Krycek was concerned, least of all Mulder's feelings.

Sexual attraction was only a part of the Krycek problem, though certainly not one that Mulder could afford to trivialize. It had been getting in the way of Mulder's judgment ever since he'd first decided that Agent Krycek was not nearly as uninteresting as his awkward manner and ingratiating eagerness made it seem at first, that he was evidently rather intelligent and also quite attractive, in spite of the ill-fitting suits and gooped-up hair. Even when Mulder had made himself believe that the only things he felt for the treacherous murderer were hatred and disgust, he'd been aware of Krycek's physical appeal at some level—looking back, it was obvious that the uncontrollable rage that had risen in him every time he caught sight of Krycek had been at least partly due to the desire Mulder felt, a desire completely unacceptable to his conscious mind.

It was certainly not wrong to feel a certain measure of sympathy for Krycek, to marvel at the fact he had resisted and survived as much as he had, to respect his strength of will and character, to regret the loss of potential. It was even permissible to feel sorrow for the man he might have been. But all things considered, it had to stop there. Krycek was not and could never be the man he might have been—and the man he was killed as easily as he breathed, knew no cause except his own survival, would do anything and believed in nothing. Mulder knew there was more to him, but nevertheless the fact remained that Alex Krycek was and always would be an amoral killer.

The fact also remained that Mulder wanted to feel this particular amoral killer's naked body stretched out beneath his again, flushed and heated and panting with arousal. He wanted—needed—to taste Alex's mouth, the erratic pulse at the base of his throat—to feel the slide of silken skin against his, the flex of powerful muscles.... To listen to Alex moan and growl and husk out breathless, throaty words in Russian, and to know that it was Mulder causing this, Mulder's touch he craved. Oh God, yes... Mulder wanted that. Wanted Alex.

That he desired Alex should not have been as disturbing to Mulder as it was—not anymore, not now. Mulder couldn't expect to get away with ignoring his body's demands indefinitely, after all, and he certainly couldn't expect his body to conform to his mind's ideas of a fitting sexual partner. But the form his desire for Alex took—this unreasoning, almost desperate need to possess—

"It wasn't the right moment."

Mulder's thoughts had wandered so far that it took him several seconds to put Alex's remark into the proper context. Looking away from the cool green gaze, Mulder noted for the first time that the other bed had been straightened up—the last time he'd seen it, it had been in a state of almost total dissolution. And come to think of it, the room must have been aired, as well.... There was no lingering smell of sex at all.

"How domestic," he said, irritation over the twinge of regret that shot through him lending an edge to his voice.

Alex raised a slightly mocking brow. "No need to shock the maid more than necessary, though my reputation is probably beyond saving anyway. There's not much to be done about the sheets, or the carpet for that matter. Really, Mulder, didn't your mother teach you anything?"

The conversation hadn't even started yet and was already getting on Mulder's nerves. "Out with it," he said brusquely. "Let's not beat around the bush. We're invited for dinner with Dahl's family."

"I'll be brief." Alex's face was devoid of expression. "If you are determined to have sex with me, Mulder, I can't stop you. I'd sleep with the entire Lawrence family if it would keep the aliens off my back. If that's how it's going to be, I'll have to deal with it. But if that's how it's going to be, then tell me now. Some things are easier if you know to expect them."

The world ground to a halt as Alex's words sank into Mulder's mind, chilling him to the core. No. Not possible. That wasn't what had happened between them—that wasn't what it had been about. Alex had not slept with him because of the aliens. It could not be. Never mind that Mulder himself had wondered—had asked himself whether it was possible—no. It was not. It was unthinkable, unacceptable. Impossible.

Mulder almost gasped as the frail defense of his denial shattered and reality closed around him with crushing force, stealing the air from his lungs. He struggled to draw a breath, air rasping painfully in his throat.

Oh, yes, it was possible. More than possible. Somehow, Mulder had always known that this—something like this—would happen. He'd known it couldn't be as right as it had felt, that Alex couldn't be as right as he felt.... Deep down, Mulder had known all along.

Leave Alex a route of escape and he'd run. Back him into a corner and he'd lie, deceive, or fight his way out.... Whatever it took. So when Mulder had had Alex pinned against the wall, when he couldn't run anymore, he'd started lying. He had accepted the necessity of giving in and had put on a good show. When someone held a knife to your throat, you gave him your money. When someone held the threat of aliens over your head, you spread your legs and came for him, if that was what he wanted.

Nothing had been real, none of the passion, none of the responsiveness. Mulder had been sleeping with someone who didn't exist, believing in him—trusting the ultimate deceiver. When would he learn....

Had Mulder really thought Krycek had lost control, even for an instant? Laughable. The only time that man was not in complete control of himself was when he'd been taken over by an alien life-form. Sex couldn't even scratch his armor. It was merely a tool for him, a set of instincts to be harnessed and consciously deployed—and he was good at doing that, horribly good.... He had been exactly what Mulder wanted when Mulder himself hadn't had any clear concept of what that was. Hell, Mulder still didn't, and he was the one who was supposed to be the great psychologist. No wonder the Consortium ruled the world. With a dozen, half a dozen operatives like this....

Mulder was afraid he might be sick. He wished he'd sat down after all—no, that wasn't what he wished, he wished he'd never touched him, never wanted him, never laid eyes on him in his life! How could someone so breathtaking be so hollow—how did he do it, where did he get the passion, the sincerity, the depth? How could he seem so right, so alive.... Was there nothing there at all, nothing to conceal? Was that why Mulder believed in the performance again and again—because at any given moment, the mask Krycek wore was all there was of him?

It wasn't even possible to hate Krycek anymore. The man couldn't help being what he was. He'd only been following the imperative that had been ingrained into him at a level deeper than any instinct—surrendering to the necessity. If it was necessary, he did it. Alex Krycek was someone who survived. Everything else had been burned out of him long ago.

And now he was watching Mulder with teal-green eyes, calm, collected, waiting to be told whether he would be required to repeat his performance. And even now, even when he knew all of this, Mulder could not help but find him desirable. What was happening to him? This wasn't him, Mulder had never lusted after anyone for no other reason than that they inhabited an attractive body, he couldn't still want this man, not now, not ever, never again....

Mulder slammed the back of his head against the door, welcoming the bright explosion of physical pain. Clean, pure, unequivocal... drowning out the deeper, darker, twisted torment. His vision sparked briefly, pinpricks of light playing across his corneas, and he smelled the harsh, coppery tang of blood. Sensory illusions—like Alex.

"So tell me," Mulder whispered raggedly, "What was it you said? Did they teach you how to design something fitting, depending on what the audience wants to hear? What did you say, Krycek? I liked it, the way it sounded—you're good, you're really good...."

The silence held. Krycek sat motionless, not moving a muscle, as still as though he weren't there at all. Which, in a sense, he wasn't. There was nothing there but an empty husk trained to adapt, kill, and survive. A clever, efficient, aesthetically pleasing machine.

"Tell me!" Mulder shouted, surging forward. "What did you say? Come on, Krycek, tell me! I want to know—we have a deal, tell me or I'll have the aliens drag it out of you, that and every other miserable, sordid little episode of your existence!"

The head came up fractionally, the body stiffening. Mulder realized that he'd clenched his fists—that he'd reached the bed and was now towering over the other man threateningly. He made himself back off several steps and crossed his arms, hugging them close. There was no point in trying to make Krycek feel anything. That creature could feel nothing. Nothing at all.

"If it means that much to you." Krycek's voice was completely impassive, but the trace of a sneer curled his lip. "It was nothing very inspired—everyone wants to hear more or less the same thing. But if I know you, you'll want the exact phrasing.... Well, you're the one with perfect recall, Mulder, not me. Let's hear it."

Instantly, unbidden, the memory surfaced. The roughened voice gasping something slurred with passion, dark with emotion. The way he'd looked afterwards, wide-eyed and startled, when he'd asked what he'd said. Alex. Oh God, Alex....

How fitting that Spooky Mulder should suffer from the loss of someone who had never existed—that he should want a phantom, a fiction constructed of wishful thinking and deception. No truth here for you, Spooky, just you and your delusions....

None?

Not so. There was something. A common denominator between truth and lie. A discrepancy between theory and fact. What did I say? You're the one with perfect recall. The glimpse of an underlying truth, a new and unsuspected pattern.

"You don't remember," Mulder stated, his mind rapidly sifting through the accumulated stockpile of memory for other discrepancies to support the new theory. Assuming that he had been looking at the problem from the wrong side.... Assuming that it was not the Alex who responded to Mulder's touch who was the lie. What would the resulting pattern be? Could it integrate the facts the previous theory had left unexplained?

Yes. It could—it did. Looked at from this angle, it made sense. Mulder couldn't believe he almost hadn't seen it.

Alex was giving a faint, ironic shrug. "Believe it or not, it was not the only thing on my mind at the time. Only you would expect me to remember every unimportant detail."

Weak with relief, Mulder sank down on the edge of the bed. Of course—it was the soulless survivalist who was the lie. Alex was projecting him as a cover to hide behind, to protect himself, to shield his weaknesses. Projecting a tough exterior, the most common defense mechanism of all. Essential in any criminal organization, or any other close-knit, inherently competitive hierarchical community. Mulder knew that, and yet he'd fallen for it—fallen like a ton of lead for the cheapest of tricks.

Granted, Krycek's impression of an unemotional sociopath was chillingly authentic. He wouldn't be alive today if it were less convincing—he'd had to fool the Consortium for years. But Mulder had bought into it so often.... And he knew Alex was not a callous killing machine. Why was Mulder so eager to believe this particular falsehood? What was he afraid of—what could possibly be so horrible that his subconscious considered this kind of emotional agony the better alternative? It was so typical... Alex Krycek sent every single emotional disorder and anxiety Mulder possessed into overdrive, messed with his mind at every turn, played him like a harp—and Mulder let him do it. Why?

Mulder sighed and massaged his temples. He wasn't going to find that answer today, and it was probably a good thing.

"What's wrong, Mulder—cat got your tongue? What happened to your fabled memory?"

Mulder looked up, meeting and holding the mocking gaze. "You know, if I'd been aware you were quite this accomplished at twisting the truth into knots, I'd have thought twice about entering into an agreement with you. It's beginning to feel like the kind of pact I should have signed in my own blood."

Alex frowned, a wary look entering his expression. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that I am sick and tired of being forced to play your twisted little mind-games!" A sharp stab of pain shot through Mulder's skull and he winced. After gingerly probing the back of his head, he decided that a couple of aspirin would solve the problem and went on in a lower voice, making a valiant effort to be annoyed. Annoyance was clearly called for. Relief was inappropriate. "I'm trying to solve a case here, Krycek! Can't you at least stow your devious plots and manipulations until the witches are taken care of?"

An eyebrow arched sardonically. "And exactly what devious plots and manipulations would you be referring to? Come on, give me a hint—it's not easy keeping track of them all."

Mulder gave up on the annoyance. It was too much of an effort. "Quit pretending the aliens made you do it. And don't try that soulless sociopath routine on me again. I don't like it, and I won't fall for it anyway."

Alex's mouth tightened. "Your thoughts are jumping all over the place. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Do you make a habit of hitting your head against the wall? Explains a lot of things."

"It was the door, not the wall—it's important to be accurate when describing psychopathological symptoms. Now. I have come to the conclusion that the Lawrence witches have been obscuring the actual terms of the treaty. Their purpose can only be conjectured at this point, but I believe that the treaty was originally conceived as something much more even-handed, benefiting both parties equally."

Mulder had not expected to get this far without being interrupted; he paused briefly and looked at the other man, receiving only a hard green stare. The chill, empty facade was up at full force—it was impossible to tell what was going on behind the frozen surface of Alex's calm.

After a moment, Mulder shrugged and went on. "It is interesting that Emma Lawrence, who broke a term not known to the Weimarians anymore by not revealing her identity to her potential victim, has obviously been warned against committing infractions against even those—"

"You met Emma Lawrence?"

"She turned up at the library. Nothing has happened to her yet, so there is no impartial third power involved unless it has to be invoked by one or the other of the primary parties to the treaty. What happens to a Lawrence who breaks the treaty? The Weimarians lose their immunity. Do the Lawrences lose theirs? Are they then free game for the community—to be hunted down, burned at stake—perhaps even with the active collaboration of the others—"

Alex slid off the side of the bed across from Mulder and walked to the closet. The door opened onto an assortment of new cartons and packages.

Mulder's train of thought derailed. "Do you realize that compulsive shopping is a serious mental—"

The smile Alex wore when he turned was one of the rare, genuine ones. It was so unexpected that Mulder needed a moment to realize he'd stopped speaking in mid-sentence; he cleared his throat hastily and went on. "It's no laughing matter, it's a compulsion not unlike kleptomania or—"

"Here, catch."

Automatically, Mulder reached out to catch the object Alex had tossed to him, giving it a cursory glance and then a longer, incredulous stare. It suddenly became clear what kind of shopping trip Alex had been on. "My God. What have you—"

"It's just a butterfly knife, Mulder. Surely you've seen one before."

"It's not the knife, it's those other things! Krycek, if there are explosives in that closet—"

Alex laughed. "I'm flattered—I think. As it happens, though, I have been strangely unable to obtain explosives, bio-chemical weapons, or nuclear warheads. Too bad, I hate leaving home without them."

Mulder supposed he'd been asking for that. He restricted himself to a censorious frown and pocketed the knife without further thought. "All right, we've talked enough. Let's go have dinner."

Which was the cue for Alex to produce something he called a pistol crossbow that he insisted be stowed under a seat in the car. The thing looked like a cross between a gun, a slingshot, and something straight out of the Middle Ages. It might have appeared more like a toy than a weapon, but if Alex thought it would stop a witch, Mulder had little doubt that it would.

He didn't even ask what anachronistic but lethal weapon lurked in the long, slim bundle Alex deposited on the back seat. If he was lucky, he'd never find out whether his guess was accurate.

Katja Dahl's house was near the town center, not far from the hotel and in very close proximity to the police station. Mulder did not think this location was a coincidence, and he grew even more certain when the door was opened by a diminutive young woman with a tight coil of coal-black hair on top of her head and what was either the blood of a Lawrence or tomato sauce staining the shirt of her uniform.

Since the likelihood Riley's army had gone into action already was relatively small, Mulder decided that the policewoman had been helping in the kitchen. "Fox Mulder, FBI."

She gave him a penetrating stare from cool, almost electric blue eyes and gripped his outstretched hand briefly. "Wynne Erlental, Weimar Police Department."

Alex took the cue to step forward and introduce himself, giving Erlental an engaging, subtly interested smile of which she seemed to take no notice whatsoever. Smart woman. Either that or she needed glasses.

"Agent Mulder." Riley appeared behind Erlental. "Mr. Alexander. I'm glad you could make it. Please come in—let me introduce you to the others."

The gathering may have been taking place in Mrs. Dahl's house, but there was no mistaking that this was Maureen Riley's show. She herded the new arrivals into the living room and introduced them to three Dahl brothers, two Dahl sisters, one Dahl husband, two Dahl wives, one Dahl fiancée—Erlental—and a nervous young man proclaimed to be Gerrit Dahl's best friend. Three of the Dahl siblings—two brothers and one of the sisters—were also police officers, as were the husband and one of the wives. Erlental was the only one in uniform—she had just come off shift—but she did not seem in the least out of place.

Conversation was sparse; what there was of it had a forced, strained tenor and was conducted in almost hushed tones. It was classic. Unbearable tension, harrowing uncertainty, terrible helplessness combined with the inability to grieve, the inability to hope, the inability to act, to do anything to relieve the feeling of powerlessness and inadequacy.... With nothing that could be done, the rage and anguish and guilt turned inwards to eat away at every certainty, every purpose, every meaning....

There was a brief moment when Mulder was certain that he wouldn't be able to bear it, when he'd just shaken the last hand and the silence in the room was complete. It seemed that every eye in the room was fixed on him, every gaze heavy with the weight of helpless anger and the bitter, silent struggle against despair. He could almost imagine he heard them raging at him to do something, anything, don't just stand there, go out and do something, find him, get him back, there must be something you can do....

A light touch at the small of his back brought him back to the present. Alex gave him a brief, unreadable glance as he moved past, following one of the Dahl sisters over to a sideboard bearing several bottles. The prettier one—the unmarried policewoman. Like a silver blade, the memory of his roughened voice whispered to Mulder, woven through and drowning out the more unwelcome memories that wanted to surface. It burns my soul to look at you.

"And now I'd like to introduce you to Katja Dahl, the head of the Dahl clan," Riley announced, steering Mulder back out of the room, past the front door and into a large, modern kitchen.

"Agent Mulder." Mrs. Dahl did not wait to be told his name; she was already moving towards him when he entered the kitchen, reaching out to take his hand in a very firm grip. She was not a particularly tall woman, but the way she held herself made it seem as though she were. Her features were not remarkable in any way, but the way she wore them lent her both attraction and distinction, and the look she leveled at Mulder through eyes an unmemorable shade somewhere between brown and grey was one of the most piercing he'd ever been subjected to.

A closer inspection revealed that she had been crying—the skin around her eyes was still slightly swollen. Only determination and relentless purpose showed in her features now, though. "My son's partner says that you are willing to help us.... That you understand what we are dealing with here."

The last remnants of the frozen numbness that had briefly enveloped Mulder dissipated. He nodded decisively, his purpose restored. "Deputy Riley no doubt told you that I witnessed your son's abduction by Maximilian Lawrence, an incident that laid to rest any remaining doubts I may have had concerning the nature of the Lawrence family. I do understand the situation, and I will do everything in my power to end the witches' reign over Weimar and free your son."

"Yes." Her gaze slid away, her mouth setting into a bitter line. After a second, she turned away, pretending to check something about the setting of the stove. "Everything in your power."

The remark had not really been addressed to Mulder, but it was a good opening. "You don't believe it is possible to stand against the Lawrences?"

She straightened to lock a hard, uncompromising gaze on him. Steel showed in every line of her bearing. "I have no way of knowing, Agent Mulder. I hope they can be defeated, but it may well not be possible. I don't know. In a way, it doesn't matter. They took my son. I will try. I have to. There is no choice—none. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dahl. I can understand that very well."

A flash of surprise passed through her expression, tears starting in her eyes. She blinked sharply, shook her head, and reached out for his hand again, giving it a quick, almost compassionate squeeze before releasing it. "Yes... I think you can. Now. Let me just get dinner on the table and we can talk about the Lawrences. Dirk has always been interested in them—between the two of us, we can provide you with enough wild stories and unlikely rumors to fill a library."

Her claim was not an idle one. Mulder lost track of the time as Katja and her oldest son recounted tale after tale of the Lawrences, some of them mere anecdotes, others highly detailed stories of considerable length. There was even a genealogical listing, which Mulder had both Katja and Dirk recite twice in order to be certain there were no discrepancies.

Some of the tales about the Lawrence witches were clearly exaggerated, and Mulder believed several to have been fabricated from whole cloth. Nothing he had seen so far inclined him to believe that the abilities of the Lawrences extended to causing animals to talk or turning lead into gold—he wouldn't have gone so far as to pronounce it impossible, but he did consider it extremely unlikely. However, there was a solid core of fact discernible behind most of the stories. There were recurring tendencies in the description of their abilities and behavioral patterns that were consistent with Mulder's conclusions—with the help of these legends and tales, Mulder should be able to work out a comprehensive theory on the general potential of the average Weimar witch.

Unfortunately, information on the terms and origins of the pact was scarce and far sketchier than that on the witches' deeds and powers. While there were dozens of versions of the legend describing how Weimar's treaty with the witches had come about, none of them had anything truly useful to say. The only reliable data to be gleaned from them was the fact that the instigators of the agreement had been a married Lawrence couple and half a dozen non-Lawrences. Accounts of the exact conditions of the treaty did not seem to exist even in local legend.

"Although... there is this one story I heard," Dirk Dahl said slowly, absently crumbling a roll in one hand. Fragments of crust rained down on the congealed mass of cheese, lasagna noodles, and tomato sauce still sitting on the table in front of him.

Riley had not been exaggerating when she said that Katja was a very good cook, but predictably, no one had had much of an appetite. A glance at his own plate revealed that Mulder had silently declared his fellowship with the Dahls by hardly touching his food, although in his case, it had been a simple oversight—concentrating on the Lawrence legends, he'd completely lost sight of the fact that he was sitting in front of something he was expected to eat.

A piece of crust fell to the table and Dirk looked at the mangled roll in his hand with a faintly puzzled expression, finally putting the sad remains down to sit back and rub his forehead in the manner of someone feeling a major headache coming on. "It wasn't about the treaty, exactly, but now that I think of it.... What was the woman's name—Maria something or other, can't remember. Anyway, it seems that sometime back in the thirties, this Maria had been seen with Graham Lawrence, so when she disappeared, everyone knew she'd been taken away by him. Now one day not long after this, old Terence comes into Weimar for the first time in decades. He's all wrinkled and tottery and he goes up to Maria's house and asks to talk to her father and says is it true that your daughter Maria had a fiancé? And the father says yes, she was about to get married when she met that no-good bastard Graham, or something to that effect. And then old Terence gets very pale and kind of wheezes for a bit and leaves, and a day or two later, Maria turns up again swearing she's been off to see the world but decided after wandering around in a big city for a day or two that she's seen enough, thank you very much. And that's the story she stuck to right to the day she died, which she only did after marrying her fiancé and having children and living a completely ordinary life. What do you think, Agent Mulder—could that have been about an unknown term of the treaty?"

"It might have been. People involved in a serious relationship are not eligible for being taken. An existing prior claim." Mulder frowned. It was possible, likely even, but there was something about it that didn't feel quite right.

There was something he was overlooking about the entire set-up of the Weimarians' immunity and the circumstances under which the immunity lapsed. Attacking a witch, stealing from a witch, having sex with a witch... unless you were involved with someone else prior to and parallel to your sexual relationship with the witch?

Elizabeth, the Dahl sister not in the police force—Mulder recalled that she had opted to become a graphic designer instead—cleared her throat. The sound seemed very loud in the subdued silence and she flushed slightly as she pushed back her chair and stood, instantly becoming the sole focus of attention. "Ah, I think I'll clear the table a bit. Anyone for brownies? Wynne drove by Mehlig's on her way here."

Several other Dahls jumped up to assist Elizabeth, proclaiming an enthusiasm for Mehlig's brownies that was entirely out of keeping with their earlier lack of appetite. Attempting to find reassurance in the mundane, every-day normality of known patterns such as clearing the table and bringing in dessert. Bonding through the shared task.

The blonder policeman brother—Thomas, Mulder's memory supplied automatically—picked up a basket half filled with rolls, began to head for the kitchen, paused, and then hurled the basket into the wall with such force that crazily spinning rolls ricocheted off in several directions.

Mulder checked his instinctive grab for his gun and shot a quick glance around the room, discovering that at least four other people in the room were armed and extremely nervous. Make that five—Erlental had appeared in the doorway soundlessly, eyes alert and hand hovering over her side holster.

Make that six. Alex was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his jacket. It looked like an utterly innocuous habitual motion, but Mulder knew better.

"Honey?" Concerned now, Erlental came up behind the distressed Thomas and slipped her arms around his middle. He turned immediately, catching her in a hug that almost lifted her off her feet.

"It's so typical," he said in a choked voice. "That dumb sap—I should have known he'd do something like this sooner or later. He was always falling from trees rescuing kittens that could climb a hell of a lot better than he could."

Riley's head came up sharply, a mixture of guilt and angry defensiveness written plainly across her face. The reaction passed unnoticed by everyone but Mulder; she went back to gathering up plates almost immediately, her mouth set into an even grimmer line than before.

"I don't know why you want to make him out as some kind of helpless idiot," Dirk snapped at his brother. "He's not—he knew what he was doing and he did it well. Would you have thought of stabbing Riley? He's tougher than he looks. We'll get him out in a little while, he can manage till then. He'll be just fine."

"Dirk's right." The police sister walked over to put a slightly awkward hand on Thomas' shoulder. "And Gerrit knows we won't let them have him for long. He knows we're coming to get him out of there...." She trailed off a little helplessly and looked to Dirk for assistance.

The Dahls drifted closer together, everyone gravitating towards the still embracing Thomas and Erlental. Mulder had observed telltale signs of old quarrels and traces of sibling rivalry earlier, but beneath the stress of Gerrit's abduction, such trivial differences were melting away. The family was drawing together, closing ranks against the rest of the world.

"We'll get him back. We won't let them do this to him—we'll show them they can't do this to us." Katja was pulling Dirk and the police sister—Angelika?—closer to Thomas and Erlental so she could hug all of them at the same time. "They can't have one of my children. I don't care who they are or what they can do. They're not taking any of you."

The remaining Dahls were still drawing closer to the communal hug, obviously intending to join in what seemed to be a family tradition in times of duress.

Riley appeared next to Mulder, touching his shoulder to get his attention. The strain in her expression had eased, even though her jaw was still set in a harsh line; in response to Mulder's questioning look, she jerked her chin towards the door. "I think you'd better go see what your lawyer's up to, Agent Mulder. He looked a bit upset."

Startled, Mulder looked around to find Alex's chair empty. You couldn't let him out of your sight for a single moment. What now?

"Thank you, Deputy," Mulder said, rising to track down his... ex-partner? Betrayer? Ex-enemy? Unusual gift and useful source of information—temporary, unwilling ally.... Sexual obsession.... What the hell was Alex Krycek to him?

He shook his head and relegated those questions back to their drawer unanswered once more.

Mulder found Alex just outside of the living room, looking out at the night through the thin, vertical strip of glass set into the front door's frame. He did not seem upset in the least—quite the contrary, he looked impassive, completely collected, and hard.

It was an instant give-away; the sight sent an icy sliver of shock stabbing through Mulder. This was the cynical killer, not Kevin Alexander. Alex was wearing the wrong mask, and it was a kind of mistake that he simply did not make.

A bit upset? He was considerably more than upset. To make this sort of glaring, uncharacteristic error, he had to be completely off balance. Falling back on the persona without feelings, the one that afforded the most protection from emotional trauma.

How could Mulder not have seen this coming? It was so obvious—if it had been anyone else—if anyone but Alex Krycek had been working on a case with such obvious parallels to their personal history, Mulder would have been watching them, watching for telltale signs warning that the case was no longer a case—that it was transmuting into the shape of old, terribly familiar, personal demons. It had happened to Mulder.... And Mulder knew that many of Alex's demons wore faces like those of Mulder's own—mirror images, the same horrors seen from the other side. When this was getting to Mulder, how could Alex be expected to shrug it off easily, indifferently, like a creature devoid of human sentiment, beyond affection, beyond pain....

There was an acrid taste in Mulder's mouth and he tried to swallow on a dry throat. This was not acceptable. It had to stop. It would stop, here and now. Mulder would never find the reality of the man if he couldn't bring himself to see Alex instead of the flat and distorted image Mulder had once created for his own peace of mind. Why was this so difficult? Mulder didn't hate him anymore—he wanted—needed to see the person behind the lies—

"Are you planning on staying long, Mulder?" Alex asked abruptly, sounding frosty and faintly derisive. "Getting a bit melodramatic for my taste."

Mulder regarded Alex's stiff posture and replayed the remark several times, taking note of the revealing aggression, finding and weighing the subtle strain in the smooth dark voice. Subtle, maybe, but obvious.... Much too obvious.

Firmly suppressing the inner voice that demanded to know what the hell he was doing, why he was doing it, and why he wasn't bothering to think through the implications and consequences, Mulder surrendered to impulse. He walked up behind Alex and wrapped both arms around him. It worked for the Dahls—and while Mulder had never been comfortable with casual physical contact, it was different with Alex. It didn't feel awkward to touch him like this; his proximity didn't register as an invasion of Mulder's personal space. It felt right.

Alex stood as stiffly as though he were carved from wood. After a moment, Mulder tightened his grip, curving one arm over the broad chest and the other around the waist and drawing Alex back against him.

"Mulder. What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm holding you," Mulder said calmly, bending his head to nibble at the soft, exposed skin behind Alex's right ear. Alex jerked in surprise. "And I'm biting you. And since the Dahls probably wouldn't appreciate it if I put the other ideas floating around my head into practice at this time, that's all I'm doing."

Several heartbeats passed. Mulder was almost certain Alex would draw away; the rush of emotion that overcame him when the warm, solid body in his arms relaxed into his embrace took him almost as much by surprise as Alex's silent concession that he would allow himself to be comforted.

The gun in Alex's waistband dug into Mulder's stomach as the other man leaned back against him. Mulder dismissed the minor pain as irrelevant, molding the now pliant body against his as closely as possible with so many layers of fabric in the way. Breathing in the scent of Alex, Mulder closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against the other man's. Alex turned his head slightly to facilitate the contact.

Yes.... This was the way it was supposed to be. Alex in his arms. Alex surrendering to his touch. Alex melting back against Mulder without resistance, without barriers, without pretense. Just Alex.

"It wasn't you," Mulder murmured after a while. "It was nothing you did or failed to do. It was not your failure."

The deep breath Alex took was slightly unsteady, and Mulder gathered him even closer, fighting down a sudden, fierce surge of rage. What kind of man would tell his child that it was not really a choice—practically tell him that he deserved what was going to happen to him, that it was due to his own lack of talent, of lovableness.... What kind of brother would not look for him, would let him go with a handful of money when he risked his life to come back....

Mulder would have to keep Alex close from now on. He'd have to keep him safe. Not let anyone hurt him again. Not let him hurt anyone again. There would be no more killing, no more lies, no more betrayal. Mulder would—

What? Reform him? Redeem him? Claim him? Keep him? What the hell am I thinking?

The sound of a throat being rather indelicately cleared alerted Mulder to Deputy Riley's presence; he released Alex with reluctance. The quick glance Mulder shot at the other man showed that he had donned a slightly flustered, vaguely guilty expression. Thank God—Kevin was back.

"Ahem. Agent Mulder, Katja has thought of another account of a kidnapping that you might be interested in, and we still need to establish a course of action." There was a faint frown on Riley's face when she looked at Alex. The vestiges of a conservative upbringing making themselves felt? She hadn't shown any such signs earlier, though, and none of the disapproval was directed at Mulder. "Mr. Alexander, if you're ready?"

A faint hint of color was rising into Alex's face. Mulder wondered how he did that. Blushing on command implied a degree of control over the body's reflexive responses almost too disquieting to contemplate.

"Ah, yes, that is, no. I was—in the process of leaving." Alex straightened his jacket self-consciously, assuming an air of excessive formality. "I find myself somewhat fatigued. I believe I will give my regards to Mrs. Dahl and then return to the hotel on foot to leave Agent Mulder with the car. I really should look into acquiring a rented vehicle of my own. Be that as it may. Deputy?"

She took his outstretched hand soberly. "Sweet dreams, Mr. Alexander."

Definitely not the vestiges of a conservative upbringing. The only one who seemed to be suffering from that problem was Kevin Alexander, who gave Riley an almost hunted look as he brushed past her to take his leave of the Dahls.

Riley shook her head. "He's crumbling, isn't he. I've seen it happen with some of the rookies—they're cool as corpses while the heat's on, but then come apart completely a couple hours later, or days, sometimes. I guess now we'll see what he's made of.... Better watch him, Agent Mulder. It may be we'd be better advised to leave him out of this, after all."

Mulder forbore to comment as he followed her back into the living room. Something about the situation had called forth a vague but definite feeling of unease in him. It was probably no more than the general tension making itself felt, but he made a mental note to analyze it further as soon as he found the time.

There was no sound, so it must have been movement that drew Alex's attention. There was nothing as clear and unambiguous as a motion seen out of the corner of an eye or a shadow falling where none should be, though. All Alex knew was that one moment, he was walking down a deserted Weimar street beneath the intermittent light cast by decorative cast-iron street lamps, silent as a ghost, silent as the night surrounding him—and the next instant, he was whirling in a defensive crouch, hand hovering above a gun he'd only barely stopped himself from drawing.

Max Lawrence leaned against the post of the lamp Alex had just passed, no more than four yards away. Both of his hands were stuffed negligently into the pockets of the long coat he wore; his grin was mocking, insolent, and definitely predatory.

"Kevin," he said, his voice smooth and low. "You really are lovely. I'm so glad you're not from here."

A jolt of sheer panic sliced through Alex and he ground it out viciously, reaching for the cold, detached focus he needed. He moved to shift his stance, testing his control over his own body without being obvious about it. So far, it seemed the witch had not made his move.

If defiance was what this Lawrence wanted, it would be a mistake to give it to him.... Not yet, at any rate. "Lawrence," Alex said in a slightly unsteady voice, pausing to clear his throat. "What—where's Officer Dahl? Is he—have you hurt him?"

"Oh, Gerrit's fine. I'm quite happy with him. After his little performance at Maureen's house, it's clear he's much more entertaining than he appears at first glance." The witch widened his grin. Teeth flashed in the yellow light of the street lamp. "He's not what I'm in the mood for this evening, though. I suppose some would find him handsome enough, but having seen you and your lover...."

He straightened, beginning to prowl forward. There was no other word for what he was doing—he was stalking prey. Playing with the mouse before he pounced. Whetting his appetite.

Alex backed away, retreating no faster than the Lawrence advanced. No need to speed this up. If Max wanted to draw out the kill, that was fine with Alex.

"It's a pity Gabe is such a stick-in-the-mud. It would have been such fun to have both you and your... Fox. But then, perhaps it's better this way. Miranda said we should not provoke the FBI, and she has quite a temper on her. I'm afraid you won't like her, Kevin." The gleam in the witch's eyes was brighter now, his features lit with anticipation. "I like the way you move, little one. I like your voice. I am looking forward to hearing you scream."

Alex's hand closed over the grip of the gun before he knew that he had moved. He forced himself to let go. This weapon would do him no good—he would not make this if he did not keep his head.

"You can't do this," he gasped, the note of fear in his voice not requiring the slightest effort. "I'm a partner! You can't expect to get away with this!"

Irritation narrowed Max's eyes and he picked up his pace. The long shadows cast by the uneven lighting cut across his face in harsh angles, distorting his handsome features into an almost demonic mask.

Walking backwards put Alex at a disadvantage, and he certainly wasn't about to turn his back on the witch. Instead of speeding up his retreat, Alex stumbled and came up hard against the post of the next street lamp.

"Don't be such a tiresome idiot," Max growled, his face already lightening into malicious amusement again at the sight of his prey cowering against the obstacle. "Well, well. Stopped running, have we?"

He stopped where he was, still several steps away from Alex, and regarded him for a while, hands once again buried in the pockets of his coat. His stance was casual and relaxed, but the look in his eyes was not. Alex knew that look. Max Lawrence was savoring his victim's fear. It excited him.

Good. If fear was what he was after, if he wanted his prey to struggle, he wouldn't be in a hurry to get a mental hold over Alex. And this kind of hang-up was a weakness—it made him predictable. It was exploitable.

"Come here," Max said after a while. His tone was soft, almost coaxing.

"Go away!" Alex snapped back. He didn't feel a compulsion to obey—there was no pull, physical or otherwise. The witch was still playing. Alex would have liked to get closer to him while this state of affairs lasted, but he couldn't go to him. Max had to be the one to draw closer—he was the one calling the shots. If he felt he was losing control over the situation, the game would be over.

The Lawrence chuckled. "I think not." He stepped closer, the unnatural light bleaching his hair to the pale, dull yellow of old bone. "Kevin. Come here."

Something brushed against Alex's mind. For a moment, he thought it was the vanguard of another wave of unreasoning fear and wrapped himself into purpose and control.... Then he walked forward, almost into the Lawrence's arms. And he hadn't wanted to do it.

Ice-cold panic closed around Alex, too brutal, too sudden—impossible to resist. He knew it would be futile to try; he forced himself to let it wash over him instead, letting it seize him and steal his thoughts from him, swallowing his soul, erasing him—allowing the wild, mindless terror to fill his existence. The fear must have been plain to see in Alex's expression when Max turned him so that his face was in the light, but at that moment, the fact was meaningless. There was no meaning or purpose or intent left, and Max was no more than a pale outline, completely insignificant in the face of the raging, sourceless torrent of terror that consumed Alex's world.

But by the time the witch leaned in close, his breath warm on Alex's cheek, Alex was aware again. The wave of mindless panic had drained away and Alex had thrown up every bit of resistance he could muster against the next onslaught, locking down his defenses, settling back into purpose. Not now. Not yet. Wait for it.... He'll want you to fight at some point. Wait for it.

Max blew into Alex's ear playfully. "Does your agent make you scream, Kevin?"

The question seemed to require no answer—either that or even the witch's compulsion wasn't enough to make Alex figure out the right one. He isn't mine? My name's not Kevin? I don't think so?

Alex turned his attention inwards as a light touch brushed over the fading bruise on his cheek where Mulder had hit him. There was no sign of any alien presence in his mind, no difference in the way he perceived his body. He merely could not move, and he stopped trying immediately when the attempt threatened to recall the unreasoning fear. For now, he was caught. He would wait for his moment.

The witch's touch firmed, moving along the line of his jaw and down his neck. A hand wrapped around his throat for a moment, squeezing lightly. Trying to frighten him. Not satisfied with the reaction you're getting, witch? Alex waited while Max gripped his head and kissed him; when the witch's tongue demanded entry, he opened his mouth without attempting to resist, not entirely certain whether he himself or the witch had orchestrated the movement. Didn't matter. Not yet, Alex....

Max drew back to scowl darkly at Alex, obviously dissatisfied. "Kevin." The sharp edge of annoyance in his voice found an echo in the angry glitter of dark eyes. "You're not paying attention. I don't like being ignored."

To his surprise, Alex discovered that he could laugh. He'd assumed Max's hold on him would preclude any voluntary action not approved by the witch, and the short, hard bark of laughter startled him almost as much as the Lawrence.

Alex didn't like the look of interested speculation that followed the brief astonishment in the other man's eyes. An experimental attempt to flex his fingers failed; experimenting further, however, Alex found that speech was possible. "Do you realize what kind of problems you are—"

"Quiet." There was no compulsion behind the command, but Alex snapped his mouth shut immediately, cowering a little as Max stepped away. That he was able to cringe led Alex to conduct another subtle test of how far his control over his own body extended; it seemed that the witch had now released him completely. The mouse had done something interesting. The game was on again.

"You followed your agent into Maureen's study like someone who knew what he was doing," the Lawrence said, his tone once again low and warm with anticipation, the joy of the hunt glittering in his eyes. "You spat defiance at me without saying a word, and you tried to attack me because you thought your Fox might if you didn't. But when I track you down alone, do you stand and fight? No, you back away from me and talk nonsense like a coward.... And now, now I find that you lock yourself away easily when I touch you, and laugh at my displeasure. There's something wrong there somewhere, wouldn't you say?" The witch paused to tip his head slightly to one side in a curiously studied gesture.

"What's your name?"

The words whipped out like a lash, tearing the answer from Alex before he had even understood the question. "Alexander," he heard himself rasp. His throat spasmed and he choked briefly, fighting to draw breath. Come on, Alex, breathe!

"Hmm." Max began to move, circling Alex once and completing a second, slower circuit while he spoke. The witch was doing this on purpose—trying to wake associations of predators, of cats playing with their prey—reveling in the role of the hunter. Damn show-off. "Perhaps I watch too much television. Still, something doesn't fit about you, Kevin Alexander.... But I won't pry your secrets from you tonight. Let us wait for a better time—I have other plans for this night."

He stopped in front of his intended victim and studied Alex with a slow, almost lazy smile. "But none of those plans include having you hide from me—I will not let you ignore my touch. And you don't want to, do you? You are mine now."

With a wrenching, sickening twist, Alex's awareness shattered and reformed, shattered again and blew away in a sudden maelstrom of fragmented thoughts and perceptions that refused to form any comprehensible shape. His vision blurred and he thought he fell to his knees, or screamed, or clutched his head, but he didn't know, he couldn't know when there was nothing to hold on to, no familiar pattern to any perception, no perception even, no concept....

The nothingness receded slightly and perception returned, ordered itself. His sight cleared to reveal the Lawrence standing in front of him, still wearing the same smile. Alex himself was still on his feet, arms hanging loosely by his sides, exactly in the same spot he had been in—when? A heartbeat—five minutes, an hour before?

And then the heart of the void that filled his mind dissolved, leaving—leaving....

"Kevin," Max coaxed, stepping forward. "To whom do you belong?"

Leaving Max.

Time ground to a halt as the shock of what he was feeling raced through Alex, stunning him. He remembered this—he had felt something like this before. No.... not quite. This was different, but.... He remembered something like this. This painless, fearless knowledge of belonging, being known, being loved and loving in return—this soul-deep, absolute, unquestioning, unconditional certainty of—of—Alex knew this, he remembered this. It belonged with the tall, quiet woman with dark hair and green eyes, who listened to him with a smile when he was happy and held him when he was sad and whose hand was cool on his forehead when he was sick. It was bound up with the memory of the broad-shouldered man with the laughing voice and the tousled fair hair, who would call his name and swing him up into strong arms when he ran to meet him, who would bake cookies and let Alex steal some of the almonds—it was the emotion that went with the boy who taught him how to ride a bicycle, who shouted at him when he ran across the street without looking for cars, who tossed him into the air and caught him again until he grew too heavy—

Oh God, he remembered, he knew what this meant—he remembered what this was. It was not the same, but it was close enough. He knew the meaning of this, he remembered enough—remembered the look in the woman's eyes as she ran from him and shut the door in his face when he tried to follow and ask what was wrong. The hard tenseness in the voice that told him it was not much of a choice, no choice at all. Not bright enough, not promising enough—too much trouble—not loved enough—they survived, they could survive without him, didn't need him. How much to make you stay away, how much to keep you away from my family, mine, not yours, you are dead, you have been dead all these years and you will remain dead because we chose you to die, we never looked for you, we didn't wait for you, we don't want you, it was our choice—we are happy without you, stay away, we want you to stay away—

"Kevin?"

"I belong to you, Max," Alex said quietly, knowing it for the truth.

Max smiled.

There was no gradual accumulation, no slow build-up of emotion. Quietly, easily, in the space of one breath, Alex's world expanded and stilled into the familiar wide-open, clear-edged, echoingly empty, razor-sharp focus of extreme rage. His mind cleared into emptiness. Clarity. Control. At last.

Alex relaxed into the cold, cleansing fury, surrendering all of the pain and confusion, feeling secure for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. He knew this place inside his own soul. It was haven. It was safety. It was the part of him that had blanked out the pain and terror and despair and sometimes even the memories when he could bear no more, when he thought that the sight of one more needle, one more operating table, one more harshly lit white room filled with unfamiliar stainless steel equipment would make him start screaming and never let him stop.

It was this part of him that had looked up at Bill Mulder when he stood above Alex with the report in his hand, saying, I see you're hardly above the required value in muscle coordination, now we both know you can do better than this Alexander, I will schedule you for testing in a new fiber tone recalibration technique, maybe that will get you off your ass. It was this part of Alex that had smiled an invisible, silent, predatory smile and whispered, I will wait. I know who you are. I will find you, there is no hurry, I can wait because I will survive and I know the time will come.

It was this part of him that had stepped back and watched and waited while his body was being fought over by men who were already dead, even if they didn't know it yet. This part of him had wiped the blade clean on Julie's jeans.

This part of him looked on Maximilian Lawrence, whom he loved without thought or reserve—to whom he belonged, body and soul—and knew neither doubt nor fear. His path lay clear before him.

"Come here," Max invited, opening his arms. Alex stepped into the embrace and pulled the other man close, relaxing into the caress when the witch stroked down Alex's spine to the small of his back and drew him tightly against his body. Waiting while Max paused on encountering the gun and laughed softly into Alex's ear. "Another one? For me? You shouldn't have." Max's stance shifted as he pushed closer. His hands were on Alex's buttocks now, pressing him tight against his erection. "I wonder what you will taste like with me on your tongue...."

Alex tucked his chin down, nuzzling the witch's throat to cover the motion while he ran one hand firmly over Max's back, feeling only faint contours of shoulderblade and spine beneath several layers of fabric; the sweater Max wore beneath the trenchcoat was too thick, preventing Alex from feeling ribs. Alex slid his hand up over the other man's nape, curling his fingers into the soft hair at the back of his head and gently tightening his grip. The hilt of the blade from his forearm sheath was cool and reassuringly solid in his palm; in a smooth, powerful motion, he forced the tip between two vertebrae and plunged it deep, twisting it forward and sideways to slice neatly through the bundle of nerves.

The knife snagged, grating on bone when he pulled it out again. Alex pressed the witch's head firmly into his shoulder, still keeping his own chin tucked against his chest to protect his throat. Who knew whether the Lawrence witches' physiology was comparable to that of normal humans.... But Max made no sound, put up no struggle; he sagged limply against Alex, shuddering once before collapsing into dead weight.

Alex waited, keeping completely still, alert for any sign of motion in the body along his own—a lifting of the chest, no matter how slight—a shift in the balance, a twitch.... But there was nothing. When Alex finally twisted to the left, releasing his grip in the same instant that he leapt back, the witch's body crumpled gracelessly to the ground, skull impacting on cobbles with a dull thud.

The sound exploded into bright fragments in Alex's mind; consciousness splintered and swirled, dissolving and reforming once again, this time into a familiar, comfortable shape.

Alex knelt cautiously to roll the witch onto his back. One arm flopped loosely across his chest; no pulse beat in his throat, and his dark eyes were open wide, giving him a faintly startled expression that the rest of his face failed to emulate. Death had relaxed Max's features into slack expressionlessness, wiping them clear of malice or amusement. He looked younger than he had in life—younger, even more handsome, and absolutely harmless.

"Bet you wish you'd stuck to the shiny happy ones, you dumb bastard," Alex told him quietly, looking around for a place to deposit the body temporarily. "I guess you won't be making that mistake again."

Unlike the house Alex had bought in a suburb of Berlin, the hotel had an unlimited supply of hot water. Alex took advantage of the fact by staying in the shower for twice as long as he usually did and then getting right back in again when he hadn't even dried himself off yet.

It was irrational behavior. He reminded himself firmly that there was no reason to stay in the shower anymore—that he was as clean as he was ever going to get, that this wasn't doing the healing abrasions on his wrists any good, and that his skin was beginning to wrinkle. Shriveled fingertips probably reduced sensitivity, which—he told himself reasonably—might well be dangerous. Would someone with wrinkled fingertips be able to handle a gun as efficiently as someone with unwrinkled ones? A pistol crossbow? A knife? So. It was definitely time to get out of the water.

Alex managed to dry himself completely this time; then he succumbed to the urge to run a bath. He could keep his hands out of the water.

God, he was getting to be as bad as Mulder. It would soon be a neck-and-neck race to decide which one of them had the greatest variety of compulsions, phobias, and assorted other behavioral disorders. Absurd. This was completely absurd. It was irrational and illogical and Alex knew it perfectly well. He should be able to overcome it.

He bent over the tub and reached for the plug. Maybe if he soaked for just a minute or two, though. Showering hadn't helped to rid him of the unreasonable feeling that he was somehow sullied, that Max's touch was imprinted on him, had sunk into Alex's mind and body and polluted him like a particularly nasty smear of noxious substances. Idiotic. Still, maybe a bath—he could get out again right away if it didn't work.

He shouldn't have been going on like this even if there had been considerably more to the encounter with Max. He'd dealt with worse without half the fuss. Max Lawrence hadn't had a chance to do anything but kiss Alex, for heaven's sake. It had been nothing. Nothing at all. This exaggerated reaction was entirely out of place. Ridiculous. Pathetic.

And of course it wasn't just Max. It was those alien bastards, too.

The bright flicker, the burning in his sinuses, the fire searing along every single nerve in his body, and then the pressure against his mind, the presence of something—something stronger than Alex, something that probed into and through him, questingly at first, searching, and then when it had found him, striking. Seizing and scrabbling at his consciousness, turning him inwards, away, down, under, twisting him from himself.... Down, under, but still aware, helpless to do anything but struggle helplessly and rage and hate and panic and swear no you can't do this to me not to me don't touch me let me go let me up I swear I'll kill you (knowing it wasn't true) trying to scream without a voice.... While it settled into his body and sent out probes of fire into his memories, exploring, ripping and tearing—

The oily thing, different, not burning, not bright. Quenching, heavy, dark—harsh and painful against his half-stifled awareness, seeping in everywhere, filling his body, his consciousness, his memories, taking Alex away from himself, turning him into a thing to be used and then discarded, not even important enough to kill.... It had left oily residue everywhere, Alex had been covered in the stuff, the stench and taste of it everywhere, his entire body slick with it, his eyes and nose and mouth and mind—he hadn't been able to get rid of it, not ever, he could taste it even now, feel it against his skin, stifling him, inside and out, everywhere. Don't leave me in here with that thing, let me out of here, help me, let me out—

Alex emptied several more of the small scented bottles of bubble bath the hotel provided for its guests into the filled tub and sank into the water, inhaling deeply, letting the slightly cloying flowery fragrance drown out the memory of the stale, bitter, harsh smell of the oily alien son of a bitch.

The water was almost scalding, hot enough to sting Alex's skin like pinpricks, almost hot enough to drown out the assortment of sensory memories that always rushed back in at an opportunity like this when his defenses were worn low. He submerged completely for as long as he could hold his breath.

He'd been right about the Lawrence witches' method of possession—it was not as intensely traumatic as the alien experiences. It brought up the memories, though, and in its own way, it was equally unpleasant. The witch had turned Alex's own emotions against him—and that other method of control, that actually had been close to alien possession, though thankfully without a real sense of invasive presence to trigger the hopeless struggle for the upper hand, full consciousness, regained control....

The steamy air seemed to clog Alex's lungs and he gasped for breath, silently cursing himself for a sap. He'd survived. It was over. He was alive and not even injured and—

The door opened. Alex almost inhaled a mouthful of bath water in his panicked dive for the weapon by the side of the tub.

A wave of chilly air swept in and Fox Mulder froze in the open doorway, looking surprised. His gaze fastened briefly on the pistol crossbow Alex had aimed at his throat, slid over the knife balanced in the soap-dish and the fencing foil propped against the side of the tub, and went on to take in the completely steamed-up interior, lingering briefly on the beads of moisture that were running down the mirror before returning to Alex.

Alex put down the weapon carefully. "You're letting all the warmth out."

After another moment, Mulder came in the rest of the way and shut the door. The surprise in his expression had been replaced by something strangely like fear. "Alex... are you all right?" His tone was soft, almost soothing. It was the voice Mulder used on witnesses who seemed likely to begin sobbing or screaming hysterically any second.

To his astonishment, Alex discovered that he rather liked to hear Mulder address him in that voice. Not that Alex was about to start sobbing or screaming, of course. He might panic and drown, but he'd do it in dignified silence.

"I'm fine, Mulder." He caught himself wondering whether that counted as a lie and hastily turned his thoughts from the subject.

Now. How could he tell Mulder he'd killed Max Lawrence without being drowned, throttled, shot, or beaten? There was no predicting how Mulder would take the news. He was touchy on the subject of killing, specifically killing done by Alex, and it was not unthinkable that he would take it into his head Alex had murdered one of the fascinating witches without due cause. If he did.... Alex didn't even want to think about it. It was next to impossible to shake Fox Mulder loose from a notion once he'd gotten hold of it. Worse than a pit bull terrier.

"Alex?" Mulder advanced a slow step. "Did you meet any of the Lawrences?"

"Look, Mulder, it was like this." Alex inspected a heap of bubbles near the end of the tub in order to avoid meeting Mulder's eyes. "I was minding my own business, walking back here, when Max Lawrence turned up out of thin air. Maybe he was watching Katja Dahl's house. I didn't see him or hear him approach, he was just there suddenly, like Riley said. He came looking for me. I certainly wasn't anxious to run into him again. It seems Max decided that Dahl was not his type and had gone out to find someone more to his taste. You think it's my aftershave or something?" Alex realized he was beginning to babble and stopped. When he glanced at Mulder, he was startled to find that the touch of worry in the other man's expression had turned into full-fledged horror.

"Alex, I'm so sorry." He sounded guilt-stricken. "It's my fault, I shouldn't have let you leave alone, he'd as much as said he'd—I knew, I should have known—"

Jesus. Alex tried to laugh, but managed only a slightly choked sound. His throat hurt. His chest hurt, too. He was really losing it now. Maybe he would start sobbing or screaming, after all. "No, Mulder, it's—really, I'm fine. The thing is that I—Max—" Alex sank lower in the tub, avoiding Mulder's tortured gaze again while he tried to find the correct way to phrase this.

"Max subjugated you the way he did Riley and Dahl? Alex, look at me. He did, didn't he?"

Why did he have to be so earnest and sympathetic? Alex wasn't prepared for gentleness and understanding from Fox Mulder. He had no idea how to react. It confused him. He felt worse now than when Mulder had come in. What little self-possession he'd still been holding on to was crumbling away even now.... It chilled Alex to be the recipient of that horrified, worried, almost caring look. He was beginning to shiver in spite of the heat of the water. He wished.... He wished Fox would leave.

"Yes, he did," Alex said. "And I—did Riley tell you they have two distinct forms of control? One disconnects the control of mind over body—transfers it to the witch somehow—and one—twists emotions into the shape the witch wants them to take. They're not imposed emotions as such, they're genuine, originating within the subject but taken out of their natural context and—"

"Alex, don't depersonalize it. It wasn't a witch and a subject. It was Max Lawrence and you. I'm—look at me, Alex. I know you don't want to talk about this now, or even think of it, but you won't be able to forget it. I know it's not easy, but you have to face it. It will be better if you do it now. Tell me what happened, Alex, please."

"I'm trying! You keep interrupting me!" Alex thought he'd managed to put an appropriate amount of irritation in his voice, but he couldn't feel it. He was too numb to feel anything but general wretchedness, shot through with bright sparks of the panic trying to edge past his weakened defenses. Better get it over with and give Mulder the whole story before he broke down completely. "What happened was that he stalked me for a while and put me under the merely physical influence when he got bored with that. Then he decided he'd prefer active and unforced cooperation and... adjusted my emotions to make me love him. I did—I adored him, worshipped him. He wanted to own me, and it worked, too—though certainly not the way he—anyway. Then—"

Mulder exploded into motion with shocking suddenness, whirling to smash a fist against the mirror above the sink. Glass cracked, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. Alex's fingers had already closed around the crossbow by the time his mind caught up with his reflexes, and it took a conscious exercise of willpower to release the weapon again.

"I'll kill him." Mulder's voice was low and steady, forming a complete contrast to the shudders that racked his body. "I swear I'll kill the bastard!"

Alex had to clear his throat. "You're too late, Mulder."

He turned slowly, dark hair falling into wide, almost wild eyes. "You killed him? But—you said that he forced you to feel love for him."

"Yeah, bad mistake." Alex tried to smile. Judging by Mulder's odd expression, he didn't succeed very well. "It was the wrong kind—too open, naive—I didn't even really remember that. There's no way I can feel that. It was unreasoning, unquestioning, unconditional—holding nothing back—that—it just isn't in me anymore. But he—dug it up somewhere, and it must have shorted out something, I don't know. The last time—I think it must have happened that way because the last time I felt that for anyone, they sold me to the Consortium."

Mulder quickly crossed to the side of the bathtub and crouched down to bring his face on a level with Alex's. His movements were stiff with rage and agitation and Alex shied away reflexively before realizing that, amazingly enough, none of the anger seemed to be directed at him.

"My God, Alex." There was no trace of suspicion or even reproach in Mulder's eyes... none at all. He looked even more horrified than before, but the worry and compassion and anguish were still there, as well. It felt—very peculiar.

"That son of a bitch. I'm so sorry, Alex, I should have known he would try something like this, he even said as much, and I let you leave and walk back alone.... You know that you had no choice, it's a good thing that you had that reaction to what he was trying to do." Mulder's tone darkened and acquired a cold note of menace that, as Alex knew from first-hand experience, was completely genuine. "I'm glad you killed the bastard."

The pain lumped in Alex's throat grew all but unbearable. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what was happening—nothing was familiar anymore. And now Fox Mulder was acting as though he wanted to fight Alex's battles for him, was looking at Alex as though it mattered to him what happened to Alex, as though Alex mattered.... It was not the right moment for this, Alex couldn't make sense of it now. He was too confused and miserable and afraid to understand anything at all—he only knew that that look on Fox's face, that expression in his eyes, hurt far worse than any beating the man had ever bestowed on him. He didn't know how to deal with this kind of pain. He didn't even know where it was coming from.

"Alex," Fox said, his tone gentle. "Can I touch your cheek? I promise I won't do anything else. You look confused and unhappy and lonely and I—I want to touch you, to show you that I'm here. Is that all right?"

Alex nodded without thinking. He didn't care that he was showing weakness. He didn't mind that Mulder was practicing post-traumatic therapy on him and that Alex was experiencing all the predictable responses. At this moment, he was perfectly content to let Mulder pull his strings. It was too much effort to fight and he didn't want to fight Fox, had never wanted to. He just wished it would stop hurting so much.

Very slowly, Fox reached out and cupped a hand against Alex's cheek. Alex stared into the intense, earnest blue-grey gaze and turned his face into the touch.

Fox's hand was cool against Alex's skin. He held it perfectly still along the side of Alex's face. It was ridiculous that it felt so reassuring. There was nothing safe about Fox Mulder, and yet his touch suddenly seemed to be the only element of safety in Alex's world, the only remaining hold on reality.

"I'd like to hug you," Fox said after a while. "Would that be all right, Alex? I'll let go immediately if you want me to. I just want to hold you, and I won't hold you tightly. Do you think you can do that?"

Alex hastily scrambled to his knees in the bathtub, splashing water over the rim, and allowed Fox to gather him into a careful, loose embrace, the side of the tub separating them. Alex's cheek rested against the side of the other man's neck. When he breathed in, he breathed in the scent of Fox Mulder's skin, of Fox Mulder's hair. It felt too safe. It felt.... Alex was falling for a very dangerous illusion, succumbing to his most serious weakness. He had to push Mulder away and get out of this tub and find a place to be alone and pull himself together. In a minute, he would. He couldn't let go of Fox yet, though. He tried. It wasn't possible.

"I'm getting your Armani wet," Alex mumbled, forcing the words out past the pain in his throat.

Fox tightened his grip slightly. "I don't give a damn."

Alex laughed and was surprised at how thin and shaky it sounded. He was falling apart. "Who are you and what have you done with Mulder?"

The arms around him tightened another fraction. "He won't be back." Fox's voice was rough and barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Alex."

"I'm not. You smell good, whoever you are." He closed his eyes and shifted closer, leaning into the reassuringly solid body, allowing one hand to creep to the back of Fox's head to thread into his hair. It was just as soft as he remembered.

Alex was so tired.... He didn't want to fight anymore. Not himself—not anyone—and especially not Fox. He couldn't bear fighting him, it kept getting harder, every time he saw him, every time he dreamt of impossible things, every single time....

Just for now, for a minute, the space of a breath or two, Alex wanted to pretend that there was no need to fight. For just this instant, he wanted to not only feel that he was safe, but believe it—believe that there was no more need to kill and lie and scheme, no more need to struggle for the next day, the next hour, the next instant of existence.

What a pity he couldn't make himself believe the lie, not even for a single moment.

"You're shivering," Fox murmured. Alex could feel the subtle vibration of his voice against his body. "We've got to get you out of the water and dry you off. How long have you been in here, Alex? You must be as shriveled as a prune."

"It's real, you know." Alex exhaled against the sensitive skin of Fox's neck and watched him shiver slightly. "The name. It's my real name. Alexander. Alex."

"I know—it suits you. And now get out of the water." Fox pulled back, forcing Alex to release him.

Alex got to his feet and stepped out of the tub, beginning to run through a quick, undemanding stretching routine to reassure himself his body was still taking orders the way it should. He didn't even think about what he was doing until he saw the arrested way Fox was watching him.

Their eyes met and held briefly before Fox turned away. He snagged a towel from the rack in passing and tossed it to Alex without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Fox?" Oh, Alex.... Wrong name. Wrong tone. Wrong everything.

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, looking back after a noticeable hesitation. His eyes flicked over Alex's body quickly before fastening on his face.

After an awkward pause, Fox gave a crooked, self-mocking smile. "It's okay, Alex, I'll be right outside. And—Alex. Don't call me Fox unless we're alone."

Alex's eyes widened in shock. "Okay," he whispered to the closing door.

When Alex emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe that was damp with condensed moisture, Fox was sitting on the far bed, the case file spread out in front of him. He looked up at Alex's entrance, frowning slightly at the collection of weapons Alex deposited on the floor within easy reach of both beds.

"Don't worry, it won't warp," Alex said, pretending to misunderstand the look the other man gave him. "It's all steel and plastic these days."

No answer. Fox began to gather the papers back together, finally slipping the file back into the briefcase. The untypical, slow meticulousness of his motions announced that he was buying time.

Alex sat on the edge of the free bed and watched, waiting. After a moment, he drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. It went against every instinct he possessed to lapse into telling body language, but it would have been pointless to pretend to unaffected detachment at this point. Even if it hadn't been for the scene in the bathroom, Alex had no illusions about his ability to keep up a dispassionate facade right now.

He would have liked to be hugged again. He'd discovered that he liked being embraced in a non-sexual context, at least by Fox Mulder. To go by Fox's demeanor, however, the time for hugging was past. Just as well, really. Alex couldn't allow himself to become used to a compassionate and understanding Mulder.

"It's okay, I won't freak on you," he said when Fox made no move to open the conversation even after he'd closed and put away the briefcase. "Go ahead and ask."

That earned him a searching look, but nothing else. Several moments of silence passed and Fox made no attempt to ask any of the questions that must be burning on his tongue.

Alex sighed and rubbed his itching wrists lightly through the pristine cloth of the newly applied dressing. Fortunately, the bandages had been antiseptically sealed in waterproof plastic, or they would have been as damp as everything else in the bathroom. At this point in the healing process, it would have been preferable to leave the healing wounds open to the air and allow them to scab over, but bandages were a lot more inconspicuous than wrists that had obviously been abraded by restraints.

When several moments had passed and Fox still gave no signs of planning to break the silence any time soon, Alex decided to go ahead with the debriefing. The situation was already complicated enough. He wasn't up to playing waiting games, or whatever this was supposed to be. "I severed his spine with a knife. He was dead immediately. No signs of unusual—"

"You severed his spine with a knife." Mulder's voice was utterly inflectionless. Wonderful—the interrogation voice. Mulder had refined the unpredictable mood swing to an art form. He packed more moods into one hour than half a dozen pubescent teens did into a week.

"That's right." Alex tried for an equally neutral delivery, but the tired note in his tone was unmistakable. "It had to be instantly lethal. Stabbing him in the heart wasn't an option when I couldn't be certain I wouldn't hit a rib first. With a normal human, it wouldn't have mattered, but as it was, I couldn't risk giving him even an instant of time to react."

"How the hell do you sever someone's spine with a knife without giving them even an instant of time to react? It sounds like a—a rather brutal method."

"Not at all. You slip the tip of the knife in where the cartilage meets the bone—ideally, you feel out the vertebrae first to find the right spot. Takes a little strength, but mostly it's the angle of entry and the right twist. It's all in the wrist. No mess, no fuss. Don't look so shocked. What did you think I did, challenge him to an honorable duel?" Breathe, Alex, you are in control. This is a positive development. You need him at a safe distance.

Mulder shook his head, disquieted. "It's just—Alex, it's so—"

"Professional?" Alex closed his eyes and tightened his hold around his knees. "Yes. It is. Can we continue?"

"Alex, that's not—it's just that—to feel for the right spot, to come that close to him...."

"Don't worry about it. He didn't get anywhere before he met his untimely fate. You'll want to take a look at the body. If you want, I can dump it in the river at a convenient spot where it'll be found by a jogger or dog-owner so you can have an autopsy made. I'll have to get rid of the outer layer of his clothes.... Fiber samples are a bitch. But it's not as though it can be made to look like an accident, in any case. And I forgot to tell you, I had the rental company charge the Mercedes to you."

He was babbling again. Alex shut up as soon as he realized it, but by that time he'd already gone on for far too long. He should have known better than to talk without thinking.... But then again, what the hell. Mulder already knew he was a killer—no need to play at being an amateur.

"The Mercedes?"

Opening his eyes, Alex found Mulder regarding him with a slight frown, but no apparent disgust. "Hey, you can hardly expect Kevin to make do with a Ford. I'd have taken the Porsche, but Max was a tall son of a bitch. He wouldn't have fit in the trunk."

Mulder was silent for a long moment. "Let me see if I got this straight. After you were—after you killed Max, you stashed him in a garbage container or other convenient place of storage, found a taxi to take you to a still-open car rental agency, found Kevin a representative car with a sufficiently large trunk, and drove back to pick up the body. Then, you parked out front and flirted with the receptionist while filling out the form allowing you to take up garage space. You then brought car and dead witch into the hotel garage, where Max presently resides, wrapped in plastic bags, in the trunk of a Mercedes rented in your—Kevin's—name. And once you had double-checked that you had locked the car, then you came up here and decided to have a bath."

"Yep." Alex smiled, a bit crookedly. "I didn't double-check the car, though. They have surveillance cameras down there, you don't want to seem like you have a reason to be nervous. Still.... Pretty good. Haven't lost your touch."

Mulder exhaled explosively, shaking his head. "Alex, this isn't what I wanted to talk about. Not now. You have to tell me about what happened between Max and you."

Of course he was interested—Max had been a witch, and here was information about his general worldview and modus operandi, both of his domination techniques, and—as an added bonus—his sex life, all wrapped into one. Irresistible. But Alex had already told him what had happened. What more did he want to know, for God's sake?

"I don't know what else you want to hear," Alex said, a touch of harshness creeping into his voice. "He appeared, he forced me to love him, I killed him. What else is there?"

Mulder stood up and paced to the closet, opened it idly and closed it again, crossed over to the bathroom door—which he looked at speculatively, but didn't open—and finally came over to stand directly in front of Alex. Alex refused to look up, staring straight ahead at the glimpse of rumpled shirt visible through his opened jacket.

After a moment, Mulder went to his haunches and Alex found himself caught by an earnest, intense hazel gaze. Fox's soft dark hair was tousled and fell over his forehead, his face open with concern, devoid of threat or coldness. He was searching for something in Alex's expression. Alex knew that he should be figuring out what it was so that he could show it to the other man, but he didn't have the energy at this moment.

Fox was beautiful when there was no hate written in his face. Hate was not a good look on him. Alex suspected that it tortured him to be capable of feeling something so ugly, to be forced into acknowledging the darkness in his own soul. Fox was too intense and pure and brilliant for his own good, unable to accept the injustice and untruth and imperfection he saw all around him, and worse, reflected in him... unable to escape his need for fighting it, for calling down the torment of guilt and inevitable failure as a penance for the evil of the world.

"Fox," Alex murmured softly, experimentally.

In spite of the unexpected permission he'd been given, Alex expected Fox to snap at him. There was no protest, though; a pained look crossed his face briefly, followed by a rueful half-smile that made Alex long to tell Fox how much he liked the name, how well it suited him. Alexanders were a dime a dozen, but there was only one Fox. You couldn't expect to get by without attracting notice as Fox. The name was exceptional, different—not smooth and simple and uncomplicated, but unique, remarkable, peculiar. Perfect for him.

Perfect, like him.

Oh, it was possible to discover seeming flaws in Fox by looking at individual features. The long, drop-shaped nose, the sensuously full lower lip that was peculiarly mismatched with the ascetically spare upper one, the manias, the uncontrolled bursts of violence and even cruelty, the wildly veering thoughts, the more than mercurial moods.... Alex recognized these apparent imperfections for what they were, though—part of a perfect whole.

The purely physical appeal combined with the sheer radiance of soul caught Alex off guard time after time, igniting the by now almost familiar rush of wrenching delight, scalding desire and pure fear. The mix of emotions was too volatile to be effectively suppressed—he didn't even entirely understand what he felt, just that it was fierce and wild and gentle and agonizing....

Alex caught himself beginning to lean forward and hastily shifted into a cross-legged posture to cover the movement. Fox's nearness hummed through him with increasing urgency, the awareness of the warm and solid body so close to his beginning to spark vivid memories of fevered touches, the taste of Fox's mouth, the scent of his heated skin—his weight pressing Alex down while he moved deep within him.

Alex swallowed on a dry throat and looked away, struggling for composure. He had to get out of here. Right now. Get dressed, get out, and arrange for a separate room. If he stayed he was going to end up screwed in the truest meaning of the word... in every meaning of the word. This was ridiculous! He knew how dangerous this was. Alex had to get himself back in line.

"Alex," Fox said, his voice gentle. "Tell me what you felt when Max Lawrence came after you, when he took your control over your body from you, when he forced you to feel love for him. Don't try to hide from it. Tell me what you felt when you killed him—tell me what you feel now. You can't lock it away, Alex. You know that."

What he felt now. Well, that was simple. Alex felt that he wished Fox would shut up about the son-of-a-bitch Lawrence. He didn't want to talk about Max. He didn't even want to think about the bastard. He was dead, that was all. Alex didn't want to think of the witches, or the aliens, or the men stinking of blood and fear and sweat and lust—the witch, the oily thing—the nauseating, burning pain of possession—they were dead, they were all dead, it didn't matter and he didn't want to think about it!

The air was growing too thin. Alex shook off the invading memories with a surge of something like anger, glaring at Mulder. "There's nothing to tell you. It's no—" He broke off before he could complete the phrase that had automatically sprung to his lips. Saying that it was no big deal would definitely be a lie.

Of course Mulder knew it too—and, being Mulder, it went without saying that he was unable to leave it alone. "I know better than that, and so do you, Alex. I know you want to believe there's nothing to talk about, that you can simply shrug the incident off and forget it. I know how difficult it is to face what you feel."

The dark surge of resentment rose in Alex with stunning suddenness, burning in his throat like fire and blanketing his mind in an unfamiliar haze of rancor. Mulder did not know anything. He had no idea. Where did he get off treating Alex as though he were some kind of helpless, hurt little innocent? He wasn't helpless, he wasn't hurt, and he was certainly no innocent. He didn't need Fox Mulder's sympathy. He'd survived far worse than this without being granted his oh-so-generous compassion! What the hell was this all about—Alex had killed the bastard witch and there was an end to it. Why should he have to blather on and on about it—and who did Mulder think he was, anyway, badgering Alex about things he didn't want to think about!

"You carry too much around with you already," Mulder was saying. "You can't keep going indefinitely, Alex. You're strong—very much so—but you've been pushing your limits for most of your life. No one is that strong. You're going to snap if you keep this up, you can't ask it of yourself—"

"You're one to talk." The viciousness in his own voice shocked Alex into silence before he could bring out the rest of the attack; he bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted blood, trying to center himself on the pain to prevent himself from losing focus. He didn't want to hurt Mulder. Mulder harbored too much pain already, and he was only trying to help Alex. There was no reason to lash out at him. There was no reason for this insane anger.

Alex closed his eyes briefly, struggling for control. "Quit it, Mulder." His tone was still cutting, but most of the venom had gone out of it. "If I wanted therapy, I'd pay for it. I know how to deal with it, okay? Let's stick to the case."

"You know how to deal with it?" Mulder's earnest gaze was still locked on his face, and the steady regard was making him increasingly uncomfortable. "Alex, I've seen you fight off countless panic attacks over the course of the last days. It's impossible to miss that there are many things you haven't been able to deal with. Just remember what happens every time you think of aliens, every time you recall what it's like to be possessed by—"

Alex twisted away from Mulder and came to his feet on the far side of the bed. "What the fuck do you want from me?" He was shouting now and couldn't seem to stop. "What do you want, Mulder? Leave me alone! Just leave me the fuck alone! This is hard enough already! What are you trying to do to me, what the hell do you want, why don't you just leave me the hell alone!"

There was no immediate answer, which wasn't really surprising, considering that Alex hadn't posed a single rational question. Christ.

Alex took a deep breath and carefully unclenched his fists, trying to rein in the explosive turmoil of emotions seething inside of him. Damn, damn, damn—

"I want to help you, Alex," Mulder said quietly, a trace of pain evident in the words. "I know that must be hard to believe, coming from me, but it's true. I should have asked myself why you did the things you did. I should have asked you instead of beating you up whenever we met, but I was too hurt to think clearly—too hurt to even want to think clearly. I know now, though. I don't want anything from you, Alex, I only want to help."

Alex took two smooth, rapid steps closer to Mulder, who looked up at him calmly, waiting for his response. He didn't seem worried. In fact, he didn't seem even the slightest bit wary. Not one bit. Was Mulder that confident of his hold on Alex—was he so certain that he could control him?

"Don't lie to me, Mulder." It came out very low, sounding dangerous. "I know what you want. You want to get laid. Or should I say you wish to resolve your fixation? Same thing. You finally got some, it felt good, and now you just want to fuck me again." Stop this, stop it now, why are you so angry, he's trying to help you— "What's the matter, you figuring I won't be much fun to screw unless you patch me up a little first? Well, you can stuff the altruistic psychobabble where the sun don't shine. I can recite that shit backwards in my sleep. I don't need your help. I never needed your help. I got along fine before you kindly decided to accept me into your good graces. I've done this before. This is nothing, Mulder. He barely touched me. What do you think I am, a sheltered little blue-eyed boy like you? It's no big—it's—not—it's just a little soon after the alien, I can deal with it, I—just need a little time, that's all!"

Mulder said nothing.

Alex tried to go on, but his voice failed him. Which was when he noticed that his face was wet. When had that happened—and why, why was he crying, why was he attacking Mulder like this when he hadn't done anything, when he'd only been trying to help....

No, wait, this was a good thing, it meant that Alex was safe. Fox wouldn't try to make love—sleep with him again, there would be no more danger of giving himself away. Excellent, this was very good... oh God....

Hadn't he been in an almost murderous rage only a moment ago? Where had the pain come from all of a sudden—what had happened to the rage, why couldn't he keep himself in check, how could he stop this....

Briefly, he considered slamming his fist into a wall, but he'd never gone in for voluntary pain and he wasn't about to start now. It must be Mulder's company. The guy was beginning to rub off on Alex. It was high time to get away from him, to regain his balance, rebuild his defenses. Fuck those alien bastards, he had to get away now, he couldn't do this—

"It's not going to work, Alex." Mulder straightened out of his crouch to sit on the edge of the bed. "I'm not getting angry. I'm not going to beat you. And I'm not leaving."

Serious hazel eyes locked on Alex's face. There was no anger or hate in his expression, no resentment.... Nothing but that peculiar almost-concern. They weren't kidding when they said Mulder was a great shrink. He made it look real. Hell, he probably believed it himself. "Listen to me, Alex. It's true that I desire you. It's a problem in this situation. I shouldn't be the one talking to you about this. But there is no one else, and you need to face what happened."

There was no more rage to lend Alex the illusion of strength; it had burned itself out in a single, brief flare of white-hot violence, leaving him feeling hollow and hopeless.

"Mulder, please." Alex wasn't certain what he was asking for. Leave me alone, don't leave me, stop this, stop the pain, don't hate me, please don't hate me....

"It's all right, Alex." The distressed witness voice again—and there was the smile to match as Fox stretched out an arm and gave the bed a little pat at what statistics no doubt indicated was the ideal distance for the therapist to keep from a sobbing and screaming witch victim. "Come over here?"

Alex closed the space between them so fast that he couldn't remember crossing it at all. Suddenly, he was crouching awkwardly on the bed next to Fox, both arms wrapped around the other man's middle, face buried against his chest. Definitely not the prescribed distance for therapy, but it didn't seem to matter—Fox didn't pull away.

"It's all right," he repeated instead, his tone a soft caress. His arms came up around Alex and held him. Lightly, Alex noted. Much too lightly. "It's okay to let go, Alex. I'm here."

By the time Fox pulled him back to lie across the bed, Alex was clutching him so tightly he was almost afraid he'd crack Fox's ribs, sobbing uncontrollably. Not loudly, which was something to be thankful for, but no matter how he tried, Alex couldn't suppress the shudders that wracked his body. After a while, he stopped trying. There was no point anymore.

Fox was saying something. Calm, quiet, even slightly concerned. "Alex, you're cold. Let's get you under the covers, okay?"

The words took a while to filter through, but when they finally did, Alex realized that he'd stopped crying. He was lying on his side curled against Fox Mulder's warm body, both arms around him and his cheek crushed uncomfortably against the knot of a predominantly yellow and green tie. He didn't want to move. He never wanted to move again. Fox was pushing gently at his shoulders, though, so there was no choice.

Alex released his death-grip on the other man and rolled to his back, watching Fox pull himself up to sit on his heels in the middle of the bed.

He'd been sitting like that just after pulling out of Alex's body—minus the clothes, of course. Watching him run an impatient hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, was enough to make Alex's mouth go dry. Fox wasn't doing it on purpose. He only wanted to get the hair out of his face. Alex had never seen Fox do anything with the purpose of being seductive. Even when he'd wanted to get Alex into bed, he'd chosen the characteristically blunt and straightforward method, bare of anything but the basic facts. I want you, let's have sex.

Of course, if there was anyone who had absolutely no need of resorting to seduction, it was Fox Mulder. He only had to sit there looking sober and concerned, dark hair in complete disarray, suit hopelessly crumpled....

Alex had spent a lot of time imagining what Mulder would be like in bed, but he'd never dreamt up anything half as incredible as the reality. With his defenses at an all-time low, this was the worst possible moment to expose his self-control to such a strain. He knew it with perfect, objective clarity, he just couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Fox." The need that had throbbed to life in Alex turned his voice husky and he thought he saw a brief flash of alarm cross Fox's features.

Alex was close enough to Mulder to touch him, so he did, reaching out to put a hand flat against his stomach. Fox looked startled. He was unbelievably alluring with that slightly puzzled, almost annoyed look on his face, trying to work a new piece of data into a theory that suddenly seemed ever-so-slightly off.

Alex found a button and worked it loose, slipping his hand through the gap only to encounter more fabric. But the warmth of Fox's body was more immediate, and when he stroked over Fox's abdomen, the muscles beneath the thin cotton tightened with gratifying immediacy.

Fox didn't draw back. He looked as though he might bolt at any second like a nervous race-horse, but he didn't draw back. "Alex, do you know why you're doing this?"

Alex was doing this because he would die if he couldn't feel him, taste him, get closer to him. He was doing this because nothing was important except seeing Fox look at him with desire in his eyes. Alex had to get closer to him. As close as physically possible. Closer than that. Much closer. The imperative that wrenched at Alex's soul every time he looked at Fox had taken over. He had nothing left to fight it with. He had forgotten why he needed to.

"I want you," Alex murmured. He allowed his gaze to linger on the clean, elegant lines of throat and jaw, the sensuous mouth, the near perfection of the features. This was the real thing... beauty of soul mirrored in beauty of form.

"This is a very bad idea," Fox said. He still made no move to get up, though. His eyes were fixed on Alex's face with peculiar, almost desperate concentration.

Alex glanced down to discover that his bathrobe had fallen open, revealing a broad expanse of chest. What luck. Couldn't have done it better if you'd planned it, Alex.

"That's my line." Alex rolled to his side, allowing the robe to fall open below the belt and reveal a glimpse of thigh, but no more. A man who would wrap himself into a sheet to preserve his modesty in front of the same person he'd been devouring alive not half an hour earlier needed to be coaxed along subtly and carefully. Well, as subtly as circumstances allowed.

How typically Fox... he was always swinging between extremes. Subtlety hadn't featured in Fox's approach to getting Alex into bed, and he certainly hadn't needed to be coaxed into flattening Alex against the wall, throwing him down, and screwing him through the mattress. And now this shyness—Alex couldn't help it, he found himself completely charmed by the sudden diffidence in a man who could be so uninhibitedly and aggressively sexual.

"You're doing this to prove that you can," Fox rationalized, his tone the embodiment of scientific detachment. Alex would have been worried if the other man's breathing hadn't been accelerating markedly. "It's the wrong thing to do. You can't cover up the memories of Max this easily. Sleeping with me, or anyone, is not going to help. In fact, it might—"

Alex tugged upwards on the undershirt separating his questing hand from Fox. Fox stopped speaking as the fabric slid against his skin.

"You're wrong." Alex's hand found warm, bare skin. Fox gulped for air, but still didn't move away. "This has nothing to do with Max. I'm not trying to prove anything. I just want you."

There was a trapped look in Fox's eyes... he was watching his body betray him. He didn't want to do this.

Alex pulled his hand away and sat up, suddenly feeling chilled. "Forget it. What a pair we make—we've really got to work on our timing."

What had made him so certain Mulder would want him? It had never been in doubt that once Mulder recovered from the hormone rush that had overwhelmed him earlier, he'd regret taking Alex to bed. He certainly wouldn't be in a hurry to compound the mistake. Alex was not even remotely suitable. He was an embarrassing side-note in the far from voluminous, but very select annals of Fox Mulder's sex life. A bothersome fixation. A temporary aberration due to the prolonged suppression of primal instincts.

With savage motions, Alex re-wrapped the bathrobe around himself tightly, making sure every inch of skin it would cover was covered, tightening the belt until he could hardly breathe. It was useless trying to tell himself that it was better this way. It was, but that didn't make the rejection any easier to bear. It's no more than what you deserve, you stupid bastard. That'll teach you to think—to hope—

"Wait. I didn't mean—"

"Spare me. What's the matter, afraid you won't respect yourself in the morning? Well, it's your loss, Mulder. I'll live."

Alex was almost off the bed when he found himself yanked back by one shoulder. Before he knew it, he was stretched out on his back again with Mulder crouching over him. "That wasn't what I was afraid of," he said, his voice low and matter-of fact. "And you're right, it would be my loss. I want you. Never doubt it, Alex."

Alex was still trying to read the odd expression in his eyes when Fox lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly against Alex's. Alex opened his mouth immediately, pushing himself up on his elbows to deepen the kiss. The soft contact firmed, the tip of a tongue flicking against the inside of Alex's lips teasingly before allowing itself to be drawn in. This kiss had nothing in common with the way Fox had devoured him earlier that day; he stroked Alex's tongue gently, explored his mouth thoroughly but without urgency.

Nice... too nice. Alex slipped his arms around the other man's waist and tried to pull him down. Fox resisted, and for an eternal moment, Alex's heart constricted with the knowledge that he'd misunderstood, that Fox had only been trying to comfort him. Then Fox settled on the bed along Alex's side, set a hand next to Alex's shoulder, and propped himself up carefully while leaning over to resume the kiss.

It dawned on Alex what Fox was doing. He was keeping his weight off Alex as much as possible, trying not to confine him... going slow, being gentle, reassuring Alex. Fox was trying not to spook the rape victim.

The tangle of disbelief, amazement, and fierce longing that welled up in Alex was almost indistinguishable from pain. For a second or two, he was certain he was going to burst into tears again, which confused him even further. Fox was being nice to him, which was strange, but certainly no reason to cry. That Alex didn't know what the hell was going on was no reason not to enjoy it while it lasted.

Alex pushed the last thought to the back of his mind and ignored it, concentrating on the pressure of the warm mouth against his, the leisurely slide of the tongue twining with his. Time to make Fox forget about solicitude and other such nonsense.

Fox shifted closer when Alex nibbled at his lip, slid closer still when Alex took the initiative and deepened the gentle kiss into a considerably more demanding one. Soon, he had edged almost entirely on top of Alex, perhaps without fully realizing it. Alex could taste Fox's rising passion in the increasing heat of the kiss; by the time Alex rolled him over to crush him into the bed, he was fairly certain caution and holding back were the last things on the other man's mind.

Better, but Alex was still not close enough to him. Not close enough by far.

Alex had just begun to draw back in order to get rid of the unspeakable tie when Fox licked his chin, surprising him into motionlessness. He'd never thought of his chin as an erogenous zone before, but now, when Fox Mulder licked it again and bit down lightly—

"I love that," Fox said huskily. "Do that again, Alex."

Alex tipped his head back further and tried to concentrate. All but impossible when bright sparks of sheer sensation were shooting through him from where Fox nipped at the skin just below his chin, moved slowly down his throat.... "Do—what—"

"Yes, growl for me," Fox murmured against the hollow of Alex's throat. The warmth of his breath made Alex shiver.

Something shifted and Alex was turned to lie beneath a warm body that pressed him down only briefly before lifting away. Opening his eyes, he found the other man sitting back, sensual mouth curved into a soft half-smile. Fox held Alex's gaze with his while pulling the loosened tie over his head and tossing it to the floor. Jacket and holster—with gun—followed in short order, the latter making a muffled thump as it hit the ground. Shirt and tee-shirt were bunched up and tossed unceremoniously over Fox's shoulder, his eyes never leaving Alex's. The glow was back... the slightly demented, radiant happiness that lit his features into transcendent beauty, announcing that for one moment, Fox Mulder had let go of the pain. Alex's breath caught at the sight, a strange ache lodging in his chest.

Fox's expression shifted to serious concentration as he reached for the belt of Alex's bathrobe and untied it with careful deliberation, holding it in place with a hand on Alex's stomach and pulling the loosened belt free to drop it on the floor. Still moving very slowly, he slid one hand beneath the robe's lapel, stroking along Alex's collarbone. Alex had to remind himself not to stop breathing as the firm caress moved over his chest and along his side to his hip, curving around to smooth over a curve of buttock and along the outside of Alex's leg.

When he reached Alex's knee, Mulder leaned back to regard him thoughtfully. After a moment, his hand began to draw idle, lazy patterns on the inside of Alex's thigh. The tantalizing touch seared through Alex, making his entire body pulse with pleasure.

After several heartbeats, Fox nodded in agreement to an inner voice and took hold of the left side of the bathrobe, folding it back as neatly as possible with Alex's arm still in the sleeve. His gaze raked down over the newly exposed expanse of skin, his face set into a small frown of concentration. By the time he laid the second half of the robe back with equal care, Mulder's intense regard was registering on Alex's passion-drugged body almost like a physical touch; he fought to lie still, but when the other man's gaze reached his groin, a surge of heat rushed through him and he heard himself groan as he lifted his hips off the bed, pushing into the intangible caress.

A frantic voice was raging at Alex from the back of his mind. He shut it out as well as he could, refusing to listen ...the man isn't even touching you, you know how dangerous this is, you know that you're showing him how easy it is for him to do this to you—how simple it would be for him to break you, control you.... No, Alex wasn't listening. He was too caught up in watching Fox Mulder look at him.

"Alex." Fox's eyes smoldered into Alex's, glittering with arousal and a hint of exultant triumph. "Definitely."

Alex didn't know what he meant and didn't care. He'd reached his limit. He lunged for Mulder and caught him around the waist, flipping him over onto his back. Fox didn't seem to mind; when Alex nudged a knee between his legs, he parted them readily, and when Alex pushed close to rub his thigh against the heated bulge trapped in the other man's pants, Fox thrust against him. Alex brushed his mouth over the other man's, pulling back when Fox tried to deepen the kiss. Instead, he nipped at the full lower lip, caught it between his teeth, released it with a brief tug and licked at it teasingly. Mulder turned his head to capture the elusive mouth, but Alex pulled back further, earning an irritated little huffing sound that was so quintessentially Fox that it made Alex's mouth go dry with need.

A sudden tug at the back of Alex's neck made him lose his balance and crash forward onto the other man's chest. His head was pulled firmly to the side and teeth sank into his neck, finding exactly the right spot below his ear. Sharp pleasure stabbed through Alex, all but immobilizing him; he sprawled limply on top of Fox as the other man nipped along the tender skin at the underside of his jaw. Only the irritating feel of fabric separating skin from skin lent Alex the strength to gather himself and pull back.

With remarkably steady hands, Alex slid Mulder's belt open, pushing his pants and boxers down. Fox moaned as his erection was freed; he arched his back and opened his legs as far as he could with the clothes still tangled around his knees. "Alex...."

He had dreamt of Fox Mulder saying his name like this. He had dreamt of it without hope of ever seeing his dreams come true.

The words that had been gathering deep within Alex pressed forward, carried by a rush of fevered yearning. Brilliant, bright Fox of truth and dreams... tell me the names of your enemies. Tell me the shape of your desires. Tell me what you want. Whatever you want... tell me....

He swallowed and leaned in to taste the skin at Fox's throat, alternating licks and nibbles with firmer bites. Fox made small, pleased sounds as Alex worked his way along the elegant sweep of his collarbone and down the solid curve of chest. The sprinkling of dark hair was soft as down under Alex's stroking fingers; it felt even softer against his cheek, and when he lapped at a nipple, Mulder sighed, twining both hands into Alex's hair. Gentle nibbling made him tighten his grip and begin to move restlessly, pressing himself rhythmically against Alex's thigh.

Fox was devastating with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his parted lips curved into an almost-smile of complete, unselfconscious sensual abandon. His body was neither wiry nor muscular, the ideal compromise between solid muscle and elegant slimness. Alex longed to tell him how beautiful he was, but he didn't dare. It was better not to say anything at all, even if it meant he couldn't tell Fox how intoxicating it was to touch him like this, how sleek and graceful and wonderfully himself he was, how much Alex wanted him, needed him....

Alex ran a hand up the inside of one thigh, watching Fox's face. Firm muscles tightened beneath his touch and Fox gasped when Alex cupped the heated weight of his testicles, lifting them in his palm, fondling the velvet skin. The rapture was so open in his face, his expression so unguarded... he wouldn't be giving himself up to sensation like this unless he trusted Alex to some extent. Mulder wouldn't let Alex see him like this if what he felt was lust for the body of someone he loathed. He wouldn't make himself this vulnerable to an enemy... would he?

Alex's fingers curled around Fox's erection and he waited for the small, breathless sound of approval before stroking it lightly, firming his touch slightly on the second stroke. Fox purred and stretched, leaning into Alex's touch like a cat.

When Alex shifted, beginning to slide down along the other man's body, Mulder gripped him by the shoulders and turned him to lie on his back once more. "No," Fox murmured against his mouth, biting Alex's lip. "Not now."

A firm hand on his abdomen indicated that Alex was to lie still while Fox kicked off his pants completely and pulled off his socks. Alex managed to shrug out of the sleeves of the bathrobe and pull it out from underneath himself without dislodging Mulder's hand.

Stretching across the other man, Mulder pulled open the bedside table's top drawer, pulling out lube and a condom without even the briefest rummaging. How about that.... Alex wondered whether he ought to be irritated. Not that he could manage irritation right now, but he didn't care for the thought that Mulder had been so confident he'd get Alex into bed again. Still, the assumption certainly hadn't been false....

"Growl," Fox instructed gruffly. His mouth fastened over the pulse at the side of Alex's neck at the same time an assured hand slid across Alex's hip to settle between his legs. Alex gasped as a touch like fire seared along his perineum, over his testicles, along the underside of his erection.

Vision blurred as Fox's hand closed around him, fingertips pressing gently into the bundle of nerves beneath the head of his cock. The desire burning in Alex's veins ignited into a blue-white blaze that flashed through him with obliterating force; his body arched off the bed, the last vestiges of rational thought drowning in the torrent of pleasure that tore through him like agony. Frantic need spiraled outwards from Fox's touch, transfixing him. Pleasure or pain, he couldn't tell—both, neither, it didn't matter—he only knew that he ached with it, that every nerve in his body was screaming and it was not enough, not nearly enough. Oh God, now, Fox, right now—

"Yes," Fox hissed, his voice fierce. "The sounds you make—the way you feel—I want you. I want you."

The kiss began open-mouthed and ravenous and immediately escalated completely out of control. Alex devoured the other man's mouth with almost savage ferocity, twining himself around Fox and pressing as close as he could, thrusting against the frustratingly slow motions of the other's hand. He hooked one leg over Fox's and pulled him closer still, so close that the heated flesh of the other man's erection pressed into the juncture of his thighs. The shift in position made Fox lose his balance and he let go of Alex to support himself with both hands.

No, not close enough, not nearly close enough.... Alex wriggled until he'd found the right position, grabbed Fox's wrists, and pulled his arms out from under him, making him collapse forward. Better.... The pressure and friction on Alex's erection where it was trapped between their bodies and the incredible feeling of Fox's cock stroking along his testicles when he arched up against the other man was almost enough. Almost—not quite—not yet—

"Alex," Fox rasped. "You—that's—Alex. Stop!"

The bed shifted as Fox pulled from Alex's loosened grasp and pushed his thighs together to straddle them. A small frown creased his brow as he groped around in the rumpled sheets for a second before coming up with the condom and lube.

Success sparked a triumphant smile that turned into a playful leer as he turned back to Alex. By means of a major effort, Alex lay motionless while Mulder unrolled the condom over him. Fox's eyes glittered as he knelt over Alex's hips, planting his hands next to the other man's shoulders; he'd left the lube lying right next to Alex's hand.

Alex reached between opened thighs and ran light fingertips down the crease between tensed buttocks, brushing briefly over the puckered opening before stroking onwards, caressing the sensitive skin of the balls and following the lines of Mulder's body to stroke his cock. Silken heat, incredibly soft skin....

A quiet moan made Alex look up. Fox's head was tipped back, exposing a long line of throat; his eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. His entire body followed Alex's touch when he ran his free hand along Mulder's side. When Fox stretched back a little and dipped one shoulder, lifting the other, Alex stroked down over his chest to rub both nipples in turn, feeling inordinately pleased with himself for reading the other man's body correctly when Fox shuddered at his touch.

His hands were not steady anymore, but he managed to open the tube of lubricant very quickly, anyway. When he pushed a finger into Fox, the other man jerked slightly, but when Alex froze, he pushed his hips back demandingly, grumbling with impatience. It seemed Alex hadn't hurt him, after all.

Adding another finger, Alex stretched him carefully, finding the small bump of the other man's prostate and stroking it. Fox's entire body tensed. He was so lovely, so perfect, he was Fox....

"Yes," he gasped as Alex repeated the caress. "Oh. Yes. Now, Alex."

His hands slid down Alex's arms, gripping both of his bandaged wrists and pulling them up to pin them to the sheets above his head. Fox's face was flushed, his eyes black with desire, but his commanding look was the same as always; Alex lay still obediently, keeping his wrists where Fox had put them even when the other man released him.

Fox's gaze never left Alex's face as he reached back to guide the other man's erection into himself, sinking down slowly, impaling himself on Alex. The sensation of Fox's body pushing against him, relaxing to surround the tip of his erection, pushing down oh so slowly—it was excruciating, beyond enduring....

If Alex had had any air in his lungs, he would have screamed, or perhaps cursed, but he had forgotten to breathe and could not spare the concentration for anything other than not moving. He had to lie still, had to let Fox do this in his own time, in his own way. This was what Fox wanted.... This was Fox, it was Fox kneeling above him, his pale skin flushed with passion, his eyes glittering darkly, fixed on Alex's face. It was Fox sinking down on him... it would be so easy to let go, forget everything, lose everything in the incredible sensation of the body that gripped his full length now, holding him tightly, surrounding him with Fox's heat.

Somehow, Alex summoned enough presence of mind to close his eyes. Fox....

"Look at me." Fingers threaded themselves into Alex's, pushing his hands firmly against the mattress. The shift in their bodies' position tugged at Alex, sending a mindless, annihilating pulse of pleasure racing outwards from where he was joined to Fox. He wasn't certain, but he thought he gasped, or cried out—

"Alex, look at me." Fox was staring at him, his expression hungry. "Do that again."

Fox's hips shifted purposefully and raw sensation jolted through Alex, bursting into every nerve ending with lightning force. He heard himself moan as he lost the fight to his need and thrust upwards against the body enveloping him. Fox waited until he sank back against the sheets and then lifted, eyes and body inviting Alex to follow. The force of the joining as Fox drove himself into Alex's thrust echoed and vibrated through him in a flood of liquid fire.

"Mine, Alex. Mine!"

The words held no meaning as Alex arched up helplessly, following the lead of Fox's body. Fox, bright, beautiful Fox....

Just when Alex thought he could stand no more, Fox picked up the pace. His face was alight with passion and lucid with the intensity of his concentration; Alex could see every nuance of his own building arousal mirrored in the other man's expression. He longed to touch him, but Fox's hold on his hands remained firm, and soon Alex forgot about the wish—forgot everything but the rhythm he and Fox set between them, the shifting and rippling of Fox's inner muscles, the tight heat and excruciating friction of the body stroking his.

Pressure built, fire gathered, flowing restlessly along every nerve, burning ever brighter with hunger and need, reaching out, reaching—

"Alex," Fox said clearly and convulsed against him, throwing back his head with his mouth opening in a silent scream. His body closed around Alex, bringing Alex off the bed in the clutch of an explosion of sheer pleasure that tore through him, obliterating his body and mind in a conflagration of wild, agonizing delight.

He wasn't certain how long it took him to regain a measure of awareness. At some point, the heavy body sprawled bonelessly on top of him shifted, sighing happily, and Alex opened his eyes to the sight of Fox Mulder's lunatically exultant smile. It seemed even more radiant than he remembered and it effortlessly transformed a disheveled, sweaty man with wildly tousled dark hair into a creature of transcendent luminance. Dazzling.... Almost too overwhelming to look at.

Alex clenched his jaw shut so hard that it ached. I love you. I can't help it. You're all I see.

"Hm," Fox murmured, eyes glowing. "Wonder if the people in the room down the hall speak Russian."

The insistent beeping of a cell phone wound its way into Mulder's consciousness. After a moment of languid indifference, he recalled that he was required to do something about it.

Orienting himself, he found that he was lying on something warm, solid and breathing. The quiet thrum of contentment and rightness radiating outwards from where the other's bare skin lay against Mulder's immediately identified him as Alex.

Mulder lifted his head and looked down at the man sprawled beneath him. He was awake and regarding him with an indecipherable expression.

"You going to get the phone?" Alex asked after a moment, his voice dark with sleep.

The wary look in his eyes surprised Mulder only briefly. It was all but inevitable, really—Alex had to think that Mulder had been overwhelmed by purely physical desire, and considering the blind rage and uncontrolled violence he'd subjected Alex to so often, it was no wonder the man was apprehensive. There were a bundle of comparatively minor factors that were likely to be contributing to Alex's wariness, as well. For example, it had become obvious last night that Alex was uneasy because he didn't understand what Mulder wanted from him—and knowing what others wanted from you was, Mulder deduced, imperative for survival. Mulder had to be sure to let Alex know as soon as he'd figured it out himself.

The main problem was that the events of the previous day had torn down Alex's defenses and left him vulnerable to the resurgence of traumatic memories and deep-seated insecurities such as the conviction that no one who knew him as himself, not a created persona, would want him. What's the matter, afraid you won't respect yourself in the morning? Mulder was certain Alex had been unaware of the flash of pain that had passed over his face as it closed down to flinty, slightly angry immobility. He was usually too controlled for such a telling emotion to escape him.

"Mulder."

The phone. Right.

Another moment of thought provided the information that he'd left the phone within easy reach by the side of the bed, lying on top of his briefcase. Mulder slid sideways a bit to reach down over the bed's frame, closing his fingers around the phone without relinquishing his position on top of Alex.

He propped himself up on one elbow so he could watch the other man while he spoke. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, this is Arthur Lowborough." The mayor's voice was heavy with import. The expectant pause he made after announcing his name proclaimed that he was waiting for a reaction.

"Yes?" Mulder prompted.

The heavy silence was allowed to weigh down a bit longer before Lowborough spoke again. "It has been brought to my attention that you accompanied my son Frederick to the library yesterday and that a confrontation between my son Frederick and Emma Lawrence took place there. In your presence, Agent Mulder."

Of course, it was this call. Mulder had been expecting this call. He must have gotten distracted. "That is correct, Mayor Lowborough," Mulder said calmly.

Alex didn't move or tense in any obvious way, but Mulder could feel his attention turn swiftly and completely to a new focus. Green eyes narrowed and Mulder studied the other man's expression while the mayor indulged in another portentous pause. It was plain to see Mulder wasn't working this case alone anymore. Perhaps he hadn't been from the beginning.

The man really had the most amazing eyes. Lashes like a courtesan, pert nose, sensual mouth, strong but strangely delicate features, a body long-legged, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered... all powerful, lethal grace. The voice, of course. The voice didn't help. That kind of voice automatically made you wonder what he would sound like when he came. Too pretty for his own good. A disaster waiting to happen. There were entirely too many people out there who would not be able to pass up an invitation like this if their lives depended on it. Which it very likely did, if they but knew it.

Max, for one, hadn't suspected until it was too late.... Max. Mulder didn't want the autopsy on the witch to be done by a Weimarian. Scully could do it, that stupid seminar was just a diversion anyway. Of course, Scully would not be happy to find Alex here. The likelihood that she would believe he'd been an alien gift—one that Mulder, in all politeness, could hardly have refused—was exceedingly small. The likelihood that she would be thrilled Mulder had stopped beating Alex up and was now sleeping with him was even smaller. No.... Scully was not an option, she'd be certain to hear too much about Kevin Alexander even if Mulder could keep Alex out of her sight.

Perhaps it would be better to let Max stay missing for now. The situation in Weimar was volatile and Mulder could not be certain how a murdered witch would impact on it. How typically Max. The man had been a plague on anything he touched in life and was managing to be a nuisance even in death.

Mulder's memory threw out the image of the tall, handsome witch leaning in with his hand on Alex's chin, mouth curved into a lazy, cruel, proprietary smile. Nice. And such spirit, too. No wonder you have to beat him....

He didn't feel his face change, but he saw the reflection of the change in the expression of the man watching him. Only the briefest flicker of emotion crossed the younger man's features; Alex's eyes widened fractionally in what might have been surprise or apprehension, immediately chilling into hard impassivity.

Mulder forced himself to choke back the impotent fury directed almost equally at the dead witch and himself. It was over. The damage was done. It was too late now—too late to spare Alex yet another violation. Too late to prevent another dark and violent memory from joining those that haunted Alex's nights and woke him fighting phantoms.

Reaching out very slowly, Mulder smoothed a gentle hand over the warm, golden chest of the man lying completely still beneath him. He wasn't certain whether he was trying to reassure himself or Alex. Both, probably.

"Agent Mulder. My son Frederick is very young and very confused. I can hardly credit that you would allow him to expose himself to such a danger as that of Emma Lawrence when you were completely aware of their prior history and the risk that she would attempt to regain her power over him! My son Frederick is an impressionable individual, Agent Mulder, he—"

"Your son Frederick is young, but by no means confused or impressionable," Mulder interrupted, stroking Alex's chest soothingly. "Tell me, Mayor Lowborough, have you ever considered calling him Rick?"

"I beg your pardon? I think you have failed to understand that I—"

"I understand that you are worried and that the fact you are unable to protect your son from this particular threat makes you feel helpless, inadequate, and guilty. That is not my fault, Mayor Lowborough. Rick is safe from Emma and it is my belief that yesterday's encounter will have a very positive effect on his processing of the incident."

Mulder's fingertips brushed a nipple and the body underneath him tensed. "Nice" was completely inadequate. Stunning... enthralling. Magnificent.

"You knowingly exposed my son Frederick to immense danger, Agent Mulder."

"The likelihood that Emma was no longer able to act on her wish to claim Rick was high, and as you yourself indicated earlier, your son chose to expose himself to the danger. His confrontation with Emma was inevitable—I merely allowed him to choose the moment." Mulder ran a slow hand down Alex's side. "Every citizen of Weimar is exposed to the danger of the Lawrences every day of their life, Mayor Lowborough. By raising your son here, you have brought him into contact with danger—you must allow him to learn how to handle it. Rick did very well yesterday. He displays an amazing amount of strength and good sense."

The mayor was silent. Mulder's hand brushed his own thigh where it lay against Alex's hip and he shifted to the side, out of the way.

"Agent—"

Without warning, Alex exploded into motion. Mulder was spilled to his back and had a prime view of the display of restrained power and deadly grace Alex gave as he rolled off the edge of the bed. He landed in a feline crouch and straightened and pivoted in the same controlled movement, heading for the bathroom with a crossbow and a knife held casually in one hand.

Oh no, not that again. If Mulder was going to have to go through this kind of thing every time he got Alex into bed....

"Agent Mulder?"

"Sorry, dropped the phone. You were saying?"

He was saying nothing with a great many words and Mulder let him ramble on, listening with half an ear. Alex was afraid—not of Mulder himself, but of something connected to having sex with Mulder. Was he afraid because it was dangerous to want anyone too much, to care for anyone too much—because he screamed in Russian and couldn't remember what he'd said—because he was terrified of losing control?

If Mulder asked Alex for the reasons behind his fear, he would have to answer. He'd produce a lot of irrelevant and misleading static, of course, but eventually, he would answer. Alex was already scared, though, and he hated revealing anything about himself. For him, it was synonymous with making himself vulnerable. His life had taught him that any chink in the armor was a mortal threat—he'd only survived because he'd learned that lesson so well. Mulder did not want Alex to feel threatened.

One of the words flowing past his ear snagged his attention and wrenched Mulder back to Mayor Lowborough's impromptu little speech. "...responsibility to this town. My father, and my father's father—"

"Hold on a moment," he interrupted the mayor, straining for the idea beginning to take recognizable shape. He rewound the thread of sound quickly and found the relevant section. "...though as an outsider, of course it may seem so to you. Allow me to make absolutely clear then, Agent Mulder, spell it out, so to speak, that to me, to all of us who have been born and bred here...."

"It's obvious," Mulder said as the realization finally crystallized. "I have been operating under preconceived notions of improbability."

Mayor Lowborough sounded puzzled and faintly suspicious, apparently preparing to be offended should the need arise. "I beg your pardon?"

"The treaty is not a treaty. It's a spell."

It was impressive how the mayor managed to imbue silence with such meaning. He was almost as good at the disbelief-proclaiming non-comment as Scully.

"Treaties must be enforced. What better way to make certain that the Lawrences do not intimidate the Weimarians so much that it is impossible to enforce the treaty? Simply turn the treaty itself into an imperative. Not an absolute one, Emma is proof of that, but if it weren't a spell binding the Lawrences and the Weimarians, the witches would have no reason not to break those terms that have passed from public remembrance. I thought it might be a third power, but it's simpler this way."

"Agent Mulder, I don't quite grasp the significance of—"

"It even explains the guns."

"The guns?" Lowborough sounded completely lost now.

"Simultaneously controlling three automatic weapons by means of telekinesis while exerting psychic control over one individual, carrying on a conversation, and engaging in a physical confrontation—not to mention exerting a brief, definitely telekinetic force in addition to the afore-mentioned activities—would be completely outside the bounds of any telekinetic talent ever recorded, only excepting such incidents that should properly be attributed to different causes. However, the ability to cast spells—constructions that require no further attention once they have been put into effect—can account for the phenomenon very well. By casting a spell stipulating that no automatic weapons shall function within a certain radius, it is entirely possible to—"

"Agent Mulder, I don't think—"

Evidently not. "I'll call you back."

Mulder briefly stared into space while the data he had accumulated, the questions it had raised, and the conjectures and partial theories he had formed sorted and arranged themselves in his brain. He couldn't sit still with the new knowledge expanding in his mind. Jumping up and pacing didn't help either, so Mulder burst into the bathroom, hardly noticing the crossbow leveled at his chest. He had to impart this unfolding, complete, and beautiful truth to someone who would be able to see it.

"They use spells, Alex. A system of ritualized signs and symbols with the purpose of controlling and channeling energies commonly referred to as magic, whether entirely internal in origin or partially external—perhaps in the form of magnetic fields or karmic energy, or perhaps a general haze of life-force exhuded by all living creatures, psychic or otherwise, which is a concept quite often found in popular modern culture. Most probably, only the higher sentiences channel into the local pool of power, namely the people of Weimar. Which explains why the Weimarians are harder to control even when the treaty has been broken—by treaty, I refer to the terms stipulated by and bound into the spell. It's because they are themselves bound into the source of the Lawrences' power. Many cultures theorize that being born in a particular place links a person to the natural power of that particular location."

"You think the pact is a spell?" Alex's hair was damp; he was wearing a towel and his face was covered in foam. Mulder absently noted that he had either contracted an insidious alien virus or been in the middle of shaving.

"The Lawrence family and the other settlers reached an agreement to build a community together and negotiated a mutually beneficial list of terms. The witches cast the spell working together with the Weimarians, binding them into the fabric of the casting. No party could be allowed the ability to set and define, influence, or alter the spell without the other. As for the terms, the Weimarians were to protect the Lawrences from outsiders—from discovery and death at the hands of witch-hunters and frightened ignorants. The Lawrences agreed to use their talents for the town's benefit in some way. The treaty doesn't protect the Weimarians, it protects the Lawrences—the humans aren't the ones in danger, they're in the majority and they can call in outside help. I assume the Lawrences have to be called upon to fulfill their duties, and since no one knows to ask anymore, they are effectively freeloading. As for the entire business of taking away slaves, or pets, that is clearly a distortion of the original terms."

Alex stared at Mulder for a long moment before he put the crossbow down on the lowered toilet seat and fished the razor out of the sink.

"Okay." Alex inspected his face in the cracked mirror. "So now you think you have an idea of what the original terms were like—how it all came about and how it was supposed to work. How it did work before the Lawrences twisted the treaty to suit themselves. It sounds good." He scraped a swathe of foam and stubble off one cheek. "Two things. One, do you have any evidence at all to support this theory?"

Mulder shook his head once, dismissively. "I don't need evidence. It's the only logical explanation."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Another stripe of rosy skin was exposed along the side of Alex's face. "Two. As far as I can tell, the only reason you have for supposing that the treaty is something in the nature of a spell is that it's the only thing you can think of to explain why the Lawrences still keep to terms the Weimarians don't know anymore. I agree that they do appear to be afraid of a reprisal. Very afraid, to keep a bastard like Max in line. However, you did say Emma Lawrence broke the treaty, and nothing at all happened to her."

"I'm working on that." Mulder stared at Alex's reflection, trying to find a sign of derision or ridicule. Nothing showed, but then the man was a first-rate actor and liar even when his face wasn't half obscured by shaving cream.

At least Alex hadn't given Mulder one of the looks Scully and the other sane, rational folk liked to reserve for the strange one. He'd never enjoyed being regarded as though he were a cross between a medical curiosity—quite fascinating actually, if your tastes ran to the morbid—and an incipient threat to the public. Better watch him, people, one of these days he's going to come in to work with a meat cleaver.

The silence was unbroken by anything but the minute rasp of razor-blade against stubble. Alex leaned forward a bit to scrape along his upper lip and all of a sudden, Mulder realized that he was standing mother-naked next to Alex Krycek, watching him shave.

The moment burst on Mulder with brutal force, abruptly dropping him out of his own life to see it as something unfamiliar and incomprehensible, transfiguring it into a harsh parody constructed of strange, threatening settings and actions.

Mulder's stomach lurched and a wave of disorientation rolled over him. He couldn't grasp the logic in the chain of events that had led up to this moment, to Mulder standing here, to Mulder feeling that it was a natural and appropriate action to walk in on a towel-clad Krycek and blather about spells and witches. He knew that it had seemed to make sense a moment ago, but he could no longer see it. He was too disconnected from the scene in front of him to be able to understand what would now be appropriate—what he should do to spin out the incomprehensible thread of events he found himself trapped in—

"Okay," Alex said again, rinsing the razor carefully. "Wouldn't make sense to build in a delayed reaction. How's this. Additional conditions have to be fulfilled. Graham Lawrence also broke the treaty, and Terence made him give the girl back because he was afraid something might happen to Graham. If it's a ritual thing, the spell may have to be invoked. People don't know about it anymore, but maybe it could happen by accident. Through a curse, maybe. You know, ‘you bastard, you took my daughter, may you suffer eternal damnation.'"

The moment snapped back into focus with a brief twist of vertigo and Mulder sagged against the towel rack, catching an odd sideways glance from Alex. Mulder didn't care—his reality was the familiar one again, and he wasn't going to think beyond that. Alex understood after all.

Relief quickly gave way to elated triumph. "That's possible. A ritual declaration. Max's words to Dahl did have something of that quality—you have robbed me of mine, you have broken the treaty...." Mulder paused. "But I told Emma that she had broken the treaty. I'm not entitled to draw on the power invested in the spell, but she had no way of knowing that."

"How did she react?"

"She wasn't worried in the least."

"Maybe she wasn't aware of the danger."

"She knew about the terms. More likely, invoking the prescribed punishment requires the participation of more than one person. It makes sense to build in a safeguard when the punishment that will be administered is severe and irreversible." Mulder caught a glimpse of his reflection and noticed that he was grinning like an idiot. This was the best gift he'd ever gotten—nice to look at, useful, incredible in bed.... "Tell me who you're working for these days and I'll write you a commendation."

Alex didn't react in any way, but Mulder knew he'd made a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. Hell. Bloody Stupid Mulder strikes again—leave it to him to instinctively and unerringly seek out the most certain way to ruin the moment.

"I'll give myself a raise." His voice was flat and unemotional as he blotted the remaining shaving cream from his face and met Mulder's eyes in the shattered mirror. "What about Max?"

What the hell had he been doing in Berlin? Why hadn't Mulder asked earlier? He couldn't possibly ask now; Alex was too vulnerable. He'd close up completely and retreat so far behind his masks that Mulder would be treated to the exclusive company of the emotionless killer until hell froze over. Completely unacceptable—Mulder couldn't imagine the killer would make those delightful little growling noises in bed.

The coolly questioning look directed his way recalled Mulder to the conversation. Max—right. "This is a bad time for a dead Lawrence to surface, but we'll have to risk it. I want to know what he's made of."

The acknowledging nod was no more than a minute dip of the chin.

Mulder wanted to explain that he'd meant to pay Alex a compliment—to show his appreciation for his open-mindedness and swiftness of thought—but he didn't dare open his mouth for fear of putting his foot in it even further. Physical overtures would probably go over even worse. Talk about high maintenance....

He'd have bought Alex flowers, but he doubted that would help. A nice, new .45 Heckler and Koch P9S would be far more likely to cut some ice. Taking an assassin as your lover was not one of the most intelligent things you have ever done, Spooky old boy....

Lover? Hardly that. Sleeping with someone twice did not make them your lover, not unless there was some kind of relationship building. True, Mulder did want to repeat the experience, but that was just because of the way Alex was, because it felt right—extremely good—to touch him. That didn't mean—

Out in the bedroom, the cell phone beeped.

Thank God.

"Agent Mulder? Agent Annabella Wilmot, calling from Washington. You requested a trace on one Clara Lawrence, last known residence in Weimar, Pennsylvania, which she left with the presumed destination of Harvard."

Annabella Wilmot. A quick rifle through Mulder's mental files failed to provide a face—or any other data—to go with the name. Of course, that was not suspicious in itself. Mulder didn't know all of the agents in Washington. It was by no means surprising to be called by one he'd never heard of. Besides, if the Consortium was behind this call, Wilmot would be genuine—a genuine FBI mole like Alex had been.

"Did you find her?" Of course they had found her, there was no other reason for Wilmot to call. Why was she making him ask? Hoping for further information?

"Yes." The unknown agent shuffled some paper. "She did study law, going on to hold several positions of rather brief duration in established law firms in the greater New York area."

Alex had emerged from the bathroom and crossed over to the closet, where he proceeded to shed his towel and shrug into his clothes with an assured economy of motion that made it seem as though he were taking all the time in the world. Mulder was not deceived.

"Two years ago, she founded a firm of her own, together with three acquaintances—one friend from university days, and two colleagues from her last place of employment. The firm is based in Manhattan, where Clara Lawrence presently resides. I have the full file in front of me—would you like me to fax it to the Weimar police department?"

"No." Mulder could imagine Warren's opinion on invading a Lawrence's privacy, even an emigrated Lawrence's. "I'll send someone down to hotel reception to find out the fax number and stand over the machine while you send the file. What's your extension?"

Already fully dressed except for his jacket and tie, Alex turned, giving Mulder an unfamiliar, politely attentive look. Smooth and sleek and every inch the distinguished lawyer.... The difference between Alex, nude and stubbly and well-nigh irresistible, and groomed, spit-and-polish Kevin Alexander, every bit as irresistible, was astounding. If the talent ran in the family, it might make Alex's little sister rather easy to find. Mulder would have the Gunmen run a check on up-and-coming young Russian actresses and compare their family background with Alex's.

Wilmot recited a number and Mulder repeated it aloud, holding the inquiring green gaze with his. A brief look of surprise flitted across the other man's face, followed by—

Agent Wilmot's voice was still sounding in his ear, but registered as nothing more than meaningless noise as Mulder stared at the soft, almost shy little smile Alex was giving him. That was Agent Krycek's smile. What the hell was it doing here?

The smile was still warming Kevin's eyes when he gave Mulder a sober, serious nod and vanished out the door. He even moved differently, Mulder noted—the strangely sensual, perfectly controlled glide of trained muscles was transmuted into the slightly hard-edged, though confident and energetic, movements of a much less physical man.

"I didn't have anyone contact her, of course. The file I was given failed to specify whether you wanted someone to interview her and if—"

"No!" Mulder's tone was too sharp and he caught himself short. "I'll do that myself." God only knew what damage someone who didn't know what the hell they were dealing with would do—they probably wouldn't even believe the facts of the case, let alone grasp what was important in talking to Clara Lawrence.

Mulder was weighing the near-impossibility of absenting himself from Weimar at this point against the complete impossibility of sending anyone else to the newly found witch, a list of the disadvantages of interviews conducted over the phone running by in the back of his head, when Agent Wilmot spoke again. "Agent Mulder, I have taken a closer look at some of the cases Ms. Lawrence and her partners have taken on in the last year and it's really quite amazing. She's a criminal defense lawyer and her strategies.... Her success rate is extremely high; she wins cases everyone else has given up on."

It did not require any encouragement on Mulder's part to make Wilmot launch into a detailed account of several things that had struck her as peculiar. While it was entirely possible Clara Lawrence utilized her powers to render witnesses more cooperative or even manipulate the evidence, at the moment Mulder was more interested to note that the details Wilmot had picked out would only have seemed remarkable to someone specifically looking for something out of kilter.

"Now I'm no expert," Wilmot finished at last, "But it seems to me that using such methods.... Stipulating a connection to organized crime seems farfetched for most of the clients in question."

Perhaps this case had not been a diversion after all. Perhaps this was some kind of test, or a show-and-tell of something the Consortium wanted him to know for some twisted reason of their own. Perhaps Alex had been right and this was their way to dispose of the bothersome agent once and for all, possibly even without killing him.

"May I ask what Clara Lawrence's connection is to the case you are working?"

"This is an ongoing investigation, Agent Wilmot," Mulder snapped. The woman was almost too clumsy to be a Consortium agent. Mulder could hardly believe they'd consider him gullible enough to fall for this untalented clod, especially when he'd rated Alex before. Quite a come-down. But maybe that was the trick. Make him think that she couldn't be working for them, not as stupid and clumsy as she appeared to be. He was going to have to take a good look at her file as soon as he got back to DC. Let the Gunmen do some digging on her, as well.

"I was aware of that, Agent Mulder," the clod informed him in frosty tones. "It was certainly not my intention to compromise your investigation."

A telephone was ringing at Wilmot's side of the connection. "Wilmot. Yes, please go ahead—yes, I've got it. I'll send it out right away. Thank you, Miss Schneider. Agent Mulder? I'm sending the file now. Was there anything else?"

The impression he'd left with Wilmot the possible Consortium agent was obviously not entirely favorable. He wouldn't be losing sleep over it. "No."

Miss Schneider was the receptionist with the tendency towards compulsive order. Alex must have persuaded her to call and give Agent Wilmot the hotel's fax number because he'd thought his voice might be recognized, either by Wilmot herself or by someone listening in on the conversation. It pleased Mulder that Alex was being so careful. A reasonable amount of paranoia was an excellent survival trait.

You going to finish that?"

Mulder glanced up from his second perusal of Clara Lawrence's file. "Didn't you read it before you brought it to me?"

Alex grinned. "Sure I did. Aren't you going to ask me what I did with the missing pages?"

"No," Mulder said absently, returning his attention to a brief biographical outline of Clara's partners. Whatever Annabella Wilmot was, she had done good work on this file.

"Mulder?"

Something in the tone of Alex's voice caught Mulder's attention and he looked up again. Alex was wearing an earnest, slightly uncertain frown that, strangely enough, reminded Mulder of Agent Krycek's puppy-dog smile.

"You—aren't going to finish that, are you?" Definitely not what he'd set out to say. Alex was too easy to read this morning... he still wasn't feeling very well. Small wonder.

Recalling his mind to the conversation, Mulder followed the other man's gesture down to the plate of waffles sitting next to the fax sheets. "You want them?"

"I could order a helping of my own, but since you're going to be paying for everything anyway, I thought I'd give you the chance to keep the price down."

Mulder pushed the plate across the table, holding on to the rim when Alex reached out for it. Inquiring green eyes lifted to his.

"You're an expensive man to keep, Alexander." The remark fell from his lips as though it were the most natural thing in the world to indulge in lightly suggestive banter with Alex over breakfast. The inappropriateness of what Mulder was saying hit home in the same instant the other man lifted his eyebrows slightly, evidently uncertain of how to react.

Damn it, Mulder knew that he had to handle Alex carefully if he wanted to get him into bed again; the man was discomfited by some aspect of having sex with Mulder, which meant that any kind of teasing that touched on the matter was a bad idea. And worse—what had possessed Mulder to use the name Alexander? He hadn't yet come to a conclusion concerning the exact significance of the fact that Alex had given him his real name, but he knew that it was not a casual matter—even for people who didn't spend most of their lives pretending to be someone else, names were important. If Alex hadn't been completely distraught, he would never voluntarily have surrendered his true name. Mulder would be lucky if he didn't freeze up again over this.

Luck was with Mulder for once. An unreadable, though decidedly dark expression crossed Alex's features, but he did not retreat behind the killer persona; instead, he shook off his first reaction and quirked his mouth into an only slightly sardonic smile. "Well, you know what they say, Mulder. Quality has its price."

"Of course. Perhaps you'd like to go shopping after breakfast?" It slipped out before Mulder could stop himself. What the hell was this—he knew how liable Alex was to spook! And how had he ended up trying to flirt with the man, anyway? This was simply too much. Mulder had to draw a line somewhere, and he was not going to start flirting with murderers, not even when he was sleeping with them.

Instead of replying, Alex glanced to the side, ostensibly checking whether anyone was listening in on the conversation. No one was, of course. The table Alex had steered Mulder towards was in the corner of the breakfast room furthest from the window, tucked in next to the linen cabinet and right in front of the short corridor leading to the fire escape. Not surprisingly, no one else had shown a predilection for this particular spot.

The silence lengthened while Alex ate one of Mulder's waffles. "So, Mulder. What's today's plan of action?" he asked finally.

"I'll give Clara a call," Mulder said, gathering her file together absently. "But first, I'm going to have a look at the Lawrence place."

A bite of waffle halted in mid-air. Alex's face closed down in a way that reminded Mulder of vaults slamming shut. "You're going to have a look at the Lawrence place."

"That's right." Mulder felt inexplicably defensive. "I have to go before I call Clara in case she's on better terms with her family than Lowborough thinks. If she tells them that I contacted her, they'll be likely to be more alert." Why was he justifying himself? "You will stay here, of course. You can find Riley and see that she doesn't do—"

"Like hell, Mulder. I'm not a baby-sitter and she's convinced Kevin wouldn't be able to find his ass with both hands." Alex put down the fork and leaned back in his chair, still staring at Mulder. "Tell me something. Why is it that whenever your personal safety is involved, you act as though you had the IQ of a particularly dense ameba?"

"I don't—"

"Oh no, Mulder, you would never do something as idiotic and suicidal as climbing on top of a tram car without bothering to put on a safety harness. You would never go haring off to Siberia to break into a top-secret military installation. Why don't you just shoot yourself if you hate life that much? Do you honestly expect to drive up to the Lawrence residence without being stopped on the way? And do you really think you'll ever come back?"

Mulder bit back the sharp retort that rose to his tongue. To Alex, who had such an overwhelming desire to live, Mulder must seem like a completely alien creature. A complete wreck, to be precise... a real silver blade.

"Alex," he began, uncertain of what he was going to say. How could he explain away tendencies that were all too real and that Alex had watched him indulge on more than one occasion? "This is not like—"

"We have a deal, Mulder. You're going to keep those alien bastards away from me. How do you think you're going to do that if you're shackled to some Lawrence's bed?"

He hated discussions like this—it was difficult to win an argument when every rational consideration supported your opponent's side. The best thing to do in such a situation was not to argue at all. "I'm going to have a look at the Lawrence place. Any further questions?"

The other man's lip curled in what Mulder took to be disgust. "How about this one. You ever heard of aerial surveillance? I know this is a small town, but there's bound to be a helicopter around somewhere. You could have one brought in if there isn't."

"So that the Lawrences can stop the motor?"

"But they wouldn't do that, would they? Not unless they were certain there were no Weimarians inside. They'll stop a car, sure, but they can't stop a chopper without breaking the treaty. Unless they really do use broomsticks, they probably won't be able to get to the people inside, either. Or do you think they can teleport into a small moving space? Seems a bit risky to me."

It was a good idea. In fact, it was an excellent idea. Mulder began to gather the fax sheets on Clara Lawrence. "Okay. I'll take a chopper. Happy?"

"How about you let someone else take the chopper. There are such things as cameras."

"No."

"Mulder—"

"No. I can't ask anyone to take a risk that I won't take myself."

Alex sighed. "That's the whole definition of command hierarchy, Mulder."

"You would think that." Mulder shook his head and stood up. "All right, I'm going to talk to the sheriff. You either go bother Riley or hang around the Dahl house, just as long as you have an eye on the self-proclaimed witch hunters and keep them out of trouble."

Without further ado, Alex rose, tugged his jacket into place and gave Mulder a polite nod before leaving.

Working together with Alex had never been difficult, even back when he'd pretended to exaggerated respect for regulations and committed the occasional minor blunder in order to lend Agent Krycek credibility. It had been surprisingly easy for Mulder to adjust to Alex as his partner then, and he found that working with him now was even easier to get used to. The man was good. He was open-minded, sharp, resourceful—and he knew when to stop arguing and follow orders.

Mulder had cause to revise the last part of his analysis of Alex's character when he arrived at the police station to find Alex already there, reclining on one of the molded plastic chairs for visitors.

"What are you doing here?" Mulder hissed, pausing as a policeman walked by carrying a large fern. He caught himself wondering whether the plant was evidence of some kind or whether the man was merely trying to upgrade his working environment and nipped the inconsequential thought in the bud, his irritation increasing. "I told you to watch Riley for me."

"I am watching Riley. She's in with the sheriff, he wanted to have a private word with her."

"You had no time to find out she was here. You headed here right away."

Alex gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look.

Sheriff Warren emerged from his office before Mulder could give Alex a proper dressing-down, Riley following a step behind her superior. She was in uniform again, Mulder noted; he was not at all certain whether that was to be regarded as a positive development.

"Agent Mulder." Warren walked over and shook his hand. "I think you may be interested in hearing that... there's been a rather unexpected turn of events."

Looking over the sheriff's shoulder, Mulder met Riley's eyes. The air of rigidly locked-down rage that had been seething around her yesterday had faded, making way for a subtle but definite glint of satisfaction.

"We received a phone call half an hour ago," Warren went on, speaking slowly. He glanced towards Alex and pulled Mulder deeper into the room, lowering his voice so the civilian wouldn't overhear. "The witness now giving his statement in room two—a teacher of excellent repute—habitually takes morning runs along the Ilm on weekends. Today, he found a body washed up against one of the supporting pillars of the south bridge. The crime scene team isn't finished yet, but I've been down myself to have a look. It's Maximilian Lawrence, and it was not an accident."

Mulder's surprise was genuine, even if the reason behind it was not the one the sheriff and Riley would read into his reaction. Alex must have brought Max away after taking the fax from DC—Mulder wouldn't have thought he'd had enough time before he'd met him in the breakfast room. The man had certainly moved quickly... much too quickly for Mulder's peace of mind. The thought that disposing of bodies was such a routine operation for Alex was not a pleasant one. "He was murdered?"

The sheriff scowled. "Definitely, and the whole thing just doesn't scan. First, he's a Lawrence. This is the first time a Lawrence has ever been killed, to our knowledge, that is. Hell, it's the first time any dead Lawrence has ever been seen."

He stopped, his scowl deepening, and hooked his thumbs into his belt, pushing his chest and gut forward. Mulder was rather surprised that Warren had said as much as he had; the facts of the case couldn't very well have been kept from Mulder permanently, but Warren had not only volunteered the information, but even gone on to add personal impressions. After his earlier behavior, Mulder would have thought him more likely to hold the knowledge of the murder back as long as possible and impede any attempt on Mulder's part to involve himself in the investigation.

After a long hesitation, the sheriff took a deep breath and blew it out in disgust. "This is very bad news, Agent Mulder. Very bad news indeed."

So that was it. Warren was afraid of the consequences Max's death would have for Weimar and had decided that he needed allies. Max was not completely useless, after all.

"There's no telling what the other witches will do," Mulder agreed, reminding the sheriff that he was already well aware of the Lawrences' nature. Talking to Mulder about things he already knew would probably not count as a breach of the treaty. "I take it you haven't notified the Lawrence family yet?"

The sheriff bristled slightly. "We have no means of contacting the Lawrences, Agent Mulder. As soon as one of them is seen in town, we will inform them of Maximilian's demise, but until then.... I can hardly ask any of my people to drive out to the Lawrence estate for such a reason."

"Of course not," Mulder agreed quickly. "It's probably better this way, in any event. Do you know how he was killed yet? Is there an estimate of the time of death?"

"Must have been dead several hours, probably happened some time last night, but we have to wait for the autopsy." Warren looked decidedly uncomfortable at the idea, but he had apparently decided to stick to the usual routine of a murder investigation for now. "He wasn't in the water for any length of time. Now, cause of death is the other thing that doesn't feel right. At this point, assumed cause of death is a spinal injury caused by a blade. A blade in the neck. Now I don't want to give you the wrong impression, Agent Mulder. We don't get many professional hits in Weimar. None, actually. Still, even if I don't have experience in the field—if he'd been shot or strangled, if his neck had been broken, yes, then I'd say it was pretty obvious. But this? It wasn't a lucky stab, that much is for sure, he sure as hell wasn't killed in anger or self-defense, but it doesn't really look professional, either. The whole thing is off."

"A ritual killing?" Mulder mused, trying for the sort of thing he usually said at this point. "Maybe the witches did it themselves? But would they leave him to be found?" He was deliberately trying to mislead the police on a murder investigation. He had no choice and Max had certainly deserved to die, but it was a very bad feeling all the same.

"Definitely not." The sheriff shifted and narrowed his eyes to give Riley a long, penetrating stare. She looked back at him calmly, waiting for something.

After a second penetrating stare, this one directed at Mulder, Warren folded his arms in front of his broad chest and frowned. "Deputy Riley tells me you want to do some flying over the Lawrence estate."

Mulder glanced over his shoulder at Alex, who was watching them. "Yes, I do."

"All things considered, Agent Mulder, I believe you will find the helicopter we employ to monitor the traffic well suited for your needs. Deputy Riley will accompany you."

Look at that. A little scare and suddenly the man was all cooperation and helpfulness.

"Thank you, sheriff," Mulder said. "I'd like to leave as soon as possible. Taking the latest developments into account—"

"Yes," Warren interrupted brusquely, obviously not very happy with what he was doing. "Riley can bring you to the landing field. I'll give Wilpert a call, he'll be ready to go by the time you arrive."

Mulder nodded and turned to Riley. "Let's go."

Alex intercepted Mulder and Riley on their way to the door and followed them outside, sliding into the back seat of Riley's patrol car as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Mulder got into the passenger seat and turned to stare at him, receiving a bland look in return that gave absolutely nothing away.

"I know I shouldn't say this, but if ever anyone deserved such an end, that bastard did," Riley said as she got in on the driver's side. "Wonder who got to him. There's certainly enough people with motive."

Mulder ignored her, still looking at Alex. "You don't want to come."

"Oh? I think I do."

"Very well. You will not come. Get out of the car."

"My brother is somewhere in there, Agent Mulder." He gave the title a very subtle edge, just enough to lend the remark the feel of an old and sore topic. He was deliberately making Mulder sound like an overprotective lover.

"I'll find him. Now get out."

Supercilious haughtiness was not a good expression on Alex. It made Mulder want to hit him. "I believe this is my decision."

"Actually—"

"Agent Mulder," Riley said softly, "I think you should let him come along."

"Not a chance," Mulder growled.

Coming up on a building now," Wilpert's filtered voice announced needlessly in Mulder's ear.

"I see it," Mulder replied equally needlessly. He'd learned within minutes of meeting their pilot that unless the man received an acknowledgment of everything he said, no matter how trivial, he would assume he hadn't been understood properly and repeat the remark until he did get some response.

Riley crowded closer from the left, apparently trying to crawl into the largest of the monitors set against one side of the chopper. Much of the space in the helicopter was taken up by bulkheads concealing the computers, cables, and who knew what else necessary to control the cameras that were at this moment feeding six different high-resolution views of the Lawrence estate into the small wall of monitors. The crowded and uncomfortable ambiance reminded Mulder forcibly of electronic surveillance vans. It seemed there was a rule that surveillance of any kind, even aerial traffic control, was to be done by cramped and ill-tempered people.

"Okay, I'm zooming in on it," Hoffmann announced glumly, the undertone of doom swinging in the words clearly audible even over the headset. Wilpert's partner had one of the most expressive voices Mulder had ever heard—he hadn't said anything but "I see" when Mulder had explained what he wanted to do, but he'd made it completely clear that he meant "I see that you are an idiot who has no idea of what the hell he's getting us into."

"You're recording all of this," Mulder stated, not turning to look at the man seated at a bank of instruments directly behind him. On the central monitor, the Lawrence family home—still concealed behind a fringe of trees—grew dramatically larger, remaining in perfect focus.

"Of course," Hoffmann replied, sounding deeply offended. "You said you wanted everything from all cameras recorded and that's what you're getting." The tone of his voice added that Hoffmann knew his duty and was perfectly prepared to do what the FBI agent told him in spite of the fact that he knew it to be not only dangerous, but utter nonsense.

The building was a large villa that reminded Mulder of Weimar's public library. It was surrounded by a large, well-tended garden and looked like the home of a wealthy, but otherwise completely ordinary, family.

"There's a satellite dish in the garden," Alex said softly.

Mulder flicked his gaze to a monitor disclosing an overview of the park-like grounds and located the dish, discreetly tucked into a remote corner.

"Modern witches," Riley muttered. "At least in some ways. No garage, no cars, it seems."

"I need a close-up of the dish," Mulder commanded. From the corner of his eye, he caught Riley giving him a curious glance.

The dish expanded to fill the smaller monitor, every detail crystal clear. This equipment was extremely high quality. Weimar was a remarkably prosperous town, and Mulder did not believe it was a coincidence.

"Looks like an ordinary television model to me." Mulder glanced over at Alex and received a very small shrug to indicate that the other man had no further information to offer. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, of course."

Riley turned to him and began to ask something, but changed her mind, shaking her head minutely and returning her attention to the pictures of the house and grounds being transmitted. "Seems they're not eager to be seen. You know, it always makes me suspicious when people hide in their houses when they hear someone coming."

"There's some other buildings further north," Wilpert's voice broke in from the cockpit.

"Then take us there," Mulder replied as patiently as possible.

The floor of the cabin tilted ever so slightly as the Lawrence villa blinked out of the main monitor, reappearing in the upper left-hand one in place of a view of the park. The largest screen now depicted a rapid sweep over well-tended flower-beds, trimmed shrubbery, and tastefully arranged groups of trees and stretches of lawn.

"Somehow I have trouble imagining Max's family working in the garden," Riley growled.

Mulder agreed—garden work, cleaning, and maintenance were likely to be tasks the witch's victims were forced to carry out. No more than the use of a conveniently available source of labor, though. This wasn't the main function of the people taken away. The main function was bound up with the idea that voluntarily having sex with a witch made someone eligible for the role, that witches were forbidden from taking someone involved in a serious relationship.

Beyond a brook lined by trees and spanned by several elegantly arched bridges, a small cluster of houses came into sight. Seven single-family-sized buildings in the usual Weimarian style were scattered loosely in the vicinity of a circular, cobbled space shadowed by birches and lined by benches. There was a well in the middle of it, complete with an old-fashioned cranking rig. The village square, obviously.

"They've got antennas on the rooftops," Riley muttered. "They must have plumbing. That well's just scenery."

The small village was probably intended for the Lawrences' victims. There was no sign of life here, either.

Cobbled paths connected the individual houses with the square and wound back to the bridges leading to the Lawrence villa. A large rectangular space surrounded by hedges was set midway between the small village and the brook separating it from the main estate.

Mulder suspected what this was even before Wilpert brought them closer and Hoffmann zoomed in close enough for the viewers in the helicopter to be able to make out benches, a sandbox, an elaborate arrangement of climbing frames and ropes, a large slide, swings, see-saws, and assorted other features. They were looking at an extremely spacious and very superior playground.

"So much for the genealogical listing of Weimarian legend," Mulder said.

Riley gave him a narrow stare. "Perhaps you could be a little more—"

The door of one of the houses opened and Hoffmann immediately threw the relevant picture on the main screen, zooming in on the blond man who stepped outside and looked up, straight into the camera.

Riley made a quiet sound of mingled disappointment and anger as the magnification reached a level where the man's frown could be made out as clearly as the fact that he was a Lawrence. If his face had been less narrow, his mouth and nose a little different, and the set of his eyes just an idea farther apart, he would have been a dead ringer for Max.

Mulder was relieved it wasn't Dahl. There was no telling what it would have done to Riley to see her partner now, to be so close and yet unable to pull off an immediate rescue. The strain was obvious in her features even as it was.

"We're out of here," Wilpert announced decisively, for once not waiting to be acknowledged before swinging the helicopter around and heading back to Weimar at high speed.

"Hybrids."

"What?" Some of the suppressed rage had seeped back into Riley's form and was lending a sharp edge of irritation to her voice.

Alex cleared his throat. "Agent Mulder, when do you think—"

"Hybrids are often completely sterile," Mulder explained, ignoring Alex's diversionary tactic. "Those hybrids that are able to produce offspring can seldom do so among themselves. More often it is only possible for them to successfully breed with a member of one of the original species. Highly dominant genes would ensure the prevention of a gradual return of the hybrid breed to the original species it chooses as breeding partners. Alternating between the two original species would be ideal, of course. However, since the hybrids have been around for quite a number of centuries and have been forced to live under much less than ideal circumstances for most of that time, it seems likely that the second parent species has either never taken an interest in the hybrids or lost their original interest long ago. Quite probably, they are no longer even in the vicinity."

Sheer astonishment overcame the stony immobility Riley's features had begun to assume. The look of horrified amazement and disbelief she directed at Mulder was very familiar and he almost sighed as she gathered herself for the inevitable response. "Are you trying to tell me that—you don't honestly expect me to believe—what exactly are you expecting me to believe? Who is the second parent species?"

Well, at least she was quick on the uptake. She'd run through all the requisite stages of incredulity in one. "The most likely candidate would be an extraterrestrial life-form."

By now, her eyes were taking up most of her face. "You have got to be kidding me."

Mulder suppressed a sigh. "It's hardly logical to assume that in a virtually infinite space holding a finite but incalculably high number of planets, the conditions for the evolution of intelligent life should only have been given on a single one."

She turned to Alex almost desperately, looking for support in the attempt to preserve a semblance of the familiar order of her world. It never ceased to amaze and irritate Mulder how tenaciously most people held onto their beliefs even when they had already proven to be far too limited. "He is kidding, isn't he."

Alex regarded Mulder soberly for a moment and then gave Riley an open, slightly rueful smile. "I am not quite certain," he lied. "To be frank, Deputy, at this point I am no longer prepared to discard any theory that accounts for the existence of the Lawrence witches. That parallel evolution or random genetic mutation should have produced such an unlikely end product seems barely plausible.... Though of course I do not mean to imply that I believe in extraterrestrial life. I merely meant to express my conviction that in this situation, we should not be hasty in discounting any thesis, no matter how unusual, without further evidence."

The policewoman gave Kevin Alexander a vaguely disgusted look and turned back to the monitors, shooting Mulder a sideways glance that accused him of bullying his wimpy lover into supporting his ridiculous theories.

They were now passing over a larger river that separated carefully tended parkland from the dense, multi-colored trees of the Weimar forest.

"We've reached the Ilm," Wilpert announced. "It forms the border of the Lawrence estate according to my map."

"Take us back the long way," Mulder instructed. "There's no need to provoke them more than necessary."

The chopper swept into a leisurely arc, treetops in varying shades of green, gold, and copper meshing into a blur of autumn hues on the monitors.

"You know," Mulder said to no one in particular, "the origin of the hybrid breed may well lie so far in the past of our world that the circumstances surrounding it can be considered the basis for a number of religions—the deities of the classical Greek pantheon, for example, were beings with incomprehensible powers who were physically compatible with humans and took a strong sexual interest in their subjects, producing offspring with powers that far surpassed the capacities of normal humans. Possible traces are also to be found in Christian legend. Genesis 6:1 and following state: And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. 6:4 goes on to claim: There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old men of renown. It seems that—"

"Agent Mulder—"

"What's that?" Riley interrupted both Mulder and Alex, leaning towards a monitor on the lower left-hand side. "Hoffmann, magnify number 5."

Hoffmann obligingly magnified the view in question and put it on the main monitor. It gave a view of the receding stretch of woods they'd flown over and showed nothing out of the ordinary as far as Mulder could tell.

"Wilpert, bring us back a bit."

The helicopter went into a tight semi-circle, barely—if at all—reducing speed and making Mulder fall against Alex, his stomach lurching. Riley was glued to the monitors and didn't seem to notice the cavalier flying style Wilpert had suddenly adopted. It appeared their pilot wanted to get back home as quickly and possible and was protesting the delay.

"There!"

A wildly waving figure was scrambling over rocks at the riverside, obviously trying to get their attention. As soon as the unidentified man realized that the chopper was coming back, he stopped running and redoubled his efforts at waving his arms in the air.

"That's my partner," Riley said even before Hoffmann had zoomed in to reveal a severely disheveled and widely grinning Gerrit Dahl. "He got away!"

"We can't land anywhere around here," Wilpert commented. "We'll have to do this the hard way."

Everyone in the cabin had to buckle up—Mulder caught a meaningful look from Alex that he chose to ignore—and Wilpert maneuvered the helicopter down over the river. Hoffmann opened the door and had an automated cable winch let a harness down to Dahl. The monitors offered an excellent view of the young policeman as he leaned out too far in his attempt to reach the harness, fell into the Ilm, drifted several yards downstream, and splashed about in the shallows a bit before managing to snag the line and strap himself in to be pulled up.

When he was finally pulled into the cabin by Hoffmann and Riley, Gerrit Dahl was wearing a smile so bright that it completely eclipsed his appearance, making him look like a conquering hero returning to claim his prize. The black jeans and sweater he wore were torn, soaking wet, and adorned with streaks of mud and something green and slimy that Mulder sincerely hoped was moss or algae; he was visibly exhausted, pallid, red-eyed, and stubbly, but he laughed up at Riley as though he'd just single-handedly saved the town from ruin.

The instant Hoffmann had closed the door, the chopper gained altitude drastically and shot off towards Weimar. Riley dragged her partner to his feet and crushed him in a bear-hug that looked almost painful.

"Hey," Dahl protested breathlessly.

"You idiot!" Riley shouted, pushing him away with enough force to make him fall back against the bank of instruments behind him. "What the hell did you think you were doing! What did that bastard do to you? Are you hurt? We thought we were never going to see you again!"

"Hi, Riley. Nice to see you, too."

Hoffmann clapped a friendly hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Gave us quite a scare, Ger. Now put this on and stop dripping on the zoom levers, why don't you."

Dahl laughed and took the offered head-set, turning to nod at Mulder as he complied. "Agent Mulder... Mr. Alexander. How did you—"

"You're the one who needs to answer some questions," Riley growled, somehow managing to loom over her partner in spite of the fact that he was taller than her. "What happened? How did you get away?"

Her fierce expression hadn't daunted Dahl in the least, but his wide smile faded at the questions, leaving only exhaustion and remembered fear. Riley immediately grabbed his arm and made him sit down, taking a blanket Hoffmann had produced from somewhere to wrap her partner into it briskly, completely ignoring his half-hearted protest.

"Jeez, Riley, you act like my mother or something. I'm not cold, I've been running for a while. What happened.... Well, actually I'm not sure. Max brought me to a house back there—this is the Lawrence estate, right? The thing is, I don't actually remember how.... We walked the last bit, that much I do know." Dahl looked down. "For a while there I thought—that guy... he scared the hell out of me, just for the heck of it. I really thought.... He didn't hurt me, he just—played, made me put on about fifty different sets of clothes, asked me all kinds of stuff, made me show him how to handle a gun... and whenever he thought I wasn't terrified enough he turned menacing. He's very good at that."

He paused for a moment, collecting himself, before lifting his head to speak on in a firmer voice. "Max left after a while, said he had a date. Had a real nasty smirk on his face. I tried to get out then, but I couldn't—I just stood there in front of the door or the window and couldn't even try to open it. I didn't know what to do, so I just kept trying. I fell asleep for a bit and when I woke up I tried again first thing and suddenly it worked—I could open the door and walk out. I did, I got out of there as fast as I could. I know I should have taken the others with me—there were some other houses there—I tried, but the doors wouldn't open and I didn't dare make a racket or hang around too long.... At first I was sure it was only a game, anyway, and Max would catch up with me and laugh himself sick any second. He didn't, though. I found the river and swam across and followed it back in the direction of Weimar for a time. And then you turned up."

"Death breaks all bonds," Mulder remarked.

Gerrit blinked at him. "Sorry?"

Riley filled her partner in on Max's murder and then scolded him all the way back to Weimar. He stopped listening almost immediately, watching her with a soft, happy smile.

Mulder remembered what it had felt like to be the recipient of a similarly glowing smile. It still hurt to remember how real Alex had made it look, certainly no less real than Dahl's admiration for Riley.... Mulder had been suspicious, but he'd wanted—needed—to believe that it was not merely empty flattery. For all of his consciously maintained paranoia, Mulder had been an easy mark.

With a small start of surprise, it suddenly came to Mulder that he'd missed something terribly obvious—once again, he'd been looking at the Krycek problem from the wrong side. Alex had known how defenseless Mulder would be against admiration; he'd set out to use Mulder's weaknesses against him ruthlessly, without remorse or pity. The open admiration Agent Krycek had shown Mulder had been pure deception, true, but Alex had paid Mulder a much higher and completely genuine compliment. Alex had decided that Mulder was worth deceiving his masters for.

Hoffmann was intent on his instruments, Riley completely focused on venting her relief at Dahl's safe recovery in tirades about his foolishness, and Dahl was oblivious to anyone but Riley. It wasn't necessary to think about it; Mulder casually put out a hand and laid it on Alex's thigh, brushing over smooth wool and hard muscle and squeezing gently before letting go.

Alex directed a narrow stare at him and Mulder caught himself calling up the memory of green eyes glazed with desire, the elegant line of throat exposed when Alex arched his neck, lips parting ever so slightly....

Mulder could feel his body begin to respond to the tempting images crowding his mind and hastily turned away from the other man. How was this possible? He'd been entirely focused on the case just a minute ago! How had thoughts of making love to Alex slipped in like that?

The problem was that Mulder had gone without sex for too long—that, and that Alex was more passionate and more skilled than any of Mulder's previous bed-partners. This was a temporary condition. It would pass once the sheer intensity of sensation lost its novelty. Yes, that made sense.

The case, Mulder, he reminded himself grimly. You are thinking about the case!

Amazingly enough, Mulder hadn't been doing too badly so far, even if Alex's proximity had had him riding a constant hormone high. The only one who had been killed had more than deserved his fate, the citizens of Weimar had been growing increasingly cooperative, and the latest kidnapping victim had been recovered, apparently none the worse for wear. Mulder knew what the witches were and what their proper role in the town's community should be; he even had hopes of salvaging the lost symbiosis between the Lawrences and the other Weimarians.

If he could stop lusting after Alex for long enough, he might actually stand a chance of pulling this off.

Lawrence." She spoke very briskly, sounding assured and slightly preoccupied. Mulder could hear the clatter of a computer keyboard in the background.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The typing stopped. The preoccupation was gone from Clara Lawrence's voice when she spoke again, but the confident assurance was unshaken. "How may I help you, Agent Mulder?"

She was careful to avoid making false assumptions—she was handling a case Violent Crimes was involved in, but she did not jump to the conclusion that Mulder's call was connected to it.

"Ms. Lawrence, have you been in contact with any member of your family during the last eight years?"

Her hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was there. "May I ask what purpose your inquiry serves, Agent Mulder?" A slight accentuation of the title and name conveyed doubt that he was who he claimed to be. Without seeing her, Mulder could not be certain whether Clara was truly suspicious or whether she only meant to put him at a disadvantage. This was exactly why he disliked conducting this kind of interview over the phone.

"Perhaps you would prefer to call me back after assuring yourself of my identity."

A longer pause followed this suggestion. "That won't be necessary, Agent Mulder. I would, however, like to be informed of the reason for your call before I consider answering any questions."

Possibly she had means of ascertaining he was a genuine FBI agent that did not involve data bases, phone calls to DC, or any conventional identity check.... Perhaps there was a spell for this kind of thing.

Of course there was also the possibility that she was simply not as cautious as Mulder would have been in her place. "I am presently investigating the disappearance of Margaret Ritter in Weimar, Ms. Lawrence."

"Indeed," the black sheep of the Lawrence family remarked in cool tones. She said nothing further, waiting for Mulder to get to the point.

"Have you returned to Weimar at any time since your departure eight years ago?"

"Agent Mulder, am I a suspect in this case?"

"Margaret Ritter disappeared before your birth, Ms. Lawrence." As you are fully aware. "No, you are not a suspect. However, at least two members of your family have demonstrably made themselves guilty of related transgressions."

"I see. In that case, allow me to inform you that not only have I not returned to the city of my birth at any time since my departure eight years ago, but that I have not been in contact of any kind with any member of my family since that day."

"You do not seem surprised that several of your relatives are suspected of having committed serious crimes."

She still did not ask for the names of the offenders. Consciously maintained detachment or the attempt to give away as little as possible? Damn this—Mulder wished someone would hurry up and bring vidphones on the market.

Time to get to the point. "Perhaps it will surprise you that at least one of your relatives has gone so far as to break the treaty."

It did. The betraying pause was not long and Clara's voice was still calm when she spoke again, but the hint of tension in her now carefully measured voice was unmistakable. "Are you from Weimar?"

"I am aware of the agreement between the Lawrence family and the town of Weimar."

"So it would appear. Which brings me back to my original question. How may I help you?"

"Would you?"

"I make it a rule never to fill out blank checks, Agent Mulder."

Excellent... it seemed she would help, given the right inducement. "You are aware of the conditions the people of your town have been forced to live under through the willful distortion of an originally mutually beneficial agreement. By all accounts, you are a very good lawyer, Ms. Lawrence—beyond that, I have formed the impression that the high percentage of difficult and unprofitable cases you take on reveals a personal interest in upholding what you consider equity."

"Thank you for a flattering analysis of my character, Agent Mulder. Dare I ask what your point is?"

"I believe you know exactly what my point is. Disengaging from a tightly knit, closely allied group that regards everything outside of the community as inimical takes considerable strength and courage, Ms. Lawrence. At the time, it was impossible for you to do more than leave. Now, that has changed."

For the first time, the silence stretched. Mulder hoped that this was a sign he had hit reasonably close to the mark.

"You are asking me to betray my family."

This was going much more smoothly than Mulder had dared hope. She had not denied knowledge of the abductions, the treaty, or the conditions in Weimar, and she had acknowledged that she was at odds with her family and disagreed with their policy. She wanted to be convinced. "No, that is not at all what I am asking. The present state of affairs is as harmful to your relatives as it is to the Weimarians, maybe more so. Ms. Lawrence, do you recall Maximilian?"

Clara made a peculiar, choked sound that was probably intended as a snort. "If you have met him you must know the answer to that question, Agent Mulder. I cannot believe he has changed that much."

"Consider what he might have been like under different circumstances. Intelligent, talented, handsome, charming, enthusiastic—"

"He's an unbalanced blackguard," Clara hissed, openly revealing emotion for the first time. Mulder had to admire her elegant phrasing of sick bastard.

"My point exactly," he agreed. "He is the product of his environment. Would it be betrayal on your part to assist in bringing about a renewed equality between the Lawrences and the Weimarians, forcing them to re-integrate themselves into the community? Do you remember Emma?"

Clara was silent for a long moment. "You're good at this, Agent Mulder."

"Thank you," he said, waiting.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand the situation, though. I don't know what you hope to achieve, but whatever it is, there is nothing I could do to help you even if I were willing to do so. I am nowhere near as talented as Max. In fact, I was barely stronger than little Emma when I left, and she was not even into puberty yet."

Mulder reminded himself to keep his voice neutral. She hadn't yet realized she'd made up her mind—if he pushed her too hard now, she might still shy away. "I would not ask you to take direct action against your family, Ms. Lawrence. It is my intention to bring about a fair agreement that will ultimately benefit everyone, and I am confident I will be able to achieve this without resorting to violence."

Clara Lawrence snorted. "You are an optimist, Agent Mulder."

"I am someone who understands the workings of the treaty better than your relatives might wish." It wasn't even a lie, only a slight exaggeration.

Another lengthy pause followed. Mulder could practically hear the rogue witch thinking. "What kind of agreement would be a fair one in your estimation?"

"One which your family and the citizens of Weimar can both agree to. The details will have to be worked out by the parties involved—I am merely a mediator in this conflict, Ms. Lawrence. You, on the other hand, might play a more active role to ensure everyone's interests are served."

"Indeed?"

"The town of Weimar would benefit greatly from your services in the capacity of advisor and liaison to the Lawrences. There is no doubt that Mayor Lowborough will offer you a more than acceptable recompense." More importantly for her, though, the position would enable her to work towards righting the wrongs that had driven her from Weimar. She would at last have a chance to gain the place she'd longed for among the people of her home town—and maybe, in time, she would be able to regain at least part of her family.

"If you hope to use me as a source of inside information, you will be sorely disappointed." Clara's voice had become very hard. This was the last condition to her surrender, and it was clearly one on which she was not prepared to compromise. "I will not reveal any information pertaining to my family's more unusual characteristics. None at all. If that is not agreeable to you, then I suggest you find another advisor for the mayor."

"That won't be necessary, Ms. Lawrence. There is only one piece of information that I require, and I don't think that will be a problem."

This was taking too long. When he'd gotten Mulder to agree to their deal, he hadn't really thought it would take the aliens this long to get back to their prospective business partner. After all, they were after the Consortium—at the very least they were attempting to use the Consortium's knowledge or resources for their own ends—and you never knew what previously unsuspected rabbit that bunch would suddenly pull out of their hat. Alex knew that the aliens were aware of the importance of moving swiftly where the Consortium was concerned—they'd spent long enough going through everything he knew about it. They'd even put some possibilities to him, made him come up with conjectures of likely reactions on the part of certain people... in the case of... given that—

Fortunately, Mulder was looking at the street for a change, which gave Alex the chance to turn what began as a gasp for breath into a more or less controlled intake of oxygen. All right, so you can't remember. What did you expect, that they'd leave you a ten-point manifesto? Big deal, Alex. Get over it, it's not as though it's the first time your memory's been dabbled with.

He firmly steered himself away from the topic, preferring to muse on the question of whether anything the Consortium did could actually pose a threat to the alien bastards. Perhaps not, but it would certainly throw a bothersome wrench into their plans if their interest was noted and the Consortium put damage control measures into effect. Alex had been part of the odd clean-up operation in his time and was willing to bet that not even the most advanced technology would be able to extract information from a former Consortium employee or facility that had been terminated for security reasons.

What the hell did those sons of bitches want, anyway? Information about the oily aliens? It was possible they were enemies and were going to slug it out on neutral ground. If that was the case, the best strategy would be to just lie low until it became apparent who the victor would be and then help them. Maybe they were only sizing up the competition at this stage, though—or maybe they were after something else entirely. Control of the planet? The knowledge necessary to take over the Consortium and step comfortably into an existing power network?

Well, there was no use speculating about it. Alex wasn't going to hit upon the answer by brooding—he needed further information.

At this moment, though, what he truly needed was to get out of this town, get rid of Kevin Alexander, and get the hell away from Mulder. Every second that passed with Alex still in Weimar was one second too many. Every second that passed with him still walking around as a lawyer looking for his brother, still trailing around after Mulder like a well-trained dog, still falling into the man's bed whenever he crooked a finger... and Mulder hadn't even had to crook a finger the second time.

Alex was taking an insupportable number of risks—the situation was bound to explode in his face. It was a miracle it hadn't done so already. The risk that his cover would crumble completely was bad enough, coupled as it was with the risk that the Consortium would find him. Add to that the risk that Mulder would realize Alex had handed him the chance to take over where the Consortium left off....

That was the risk that worried Alex the most. He knew that he was no longer able to do anything in order to stay alive. He hadn't been able to for a while now, and he'd thought he'd gotten used to it; he'd even tried to tell himself that as long as Mulder was on the other side of the earth and no one knew of Alex's weakness—least of all Mulder himself—it didn't matter that much. He'd never been able to make himself believe it, though. Alex was a miserable liar when it came to lying to himself. Self-deception was too dangerous; hidden motivations and subconscious desires were liable to trip you up at the worst possible moment.

And yet, even fully aware of what was happening, Alex had been unable to stop himself from ensnaring himself deeper and deeper in his insane infatuation. Every touch Mulder bestowed on him made it worse. Every look... every time Mulder said something to him about the case, acting as though it were the most natural thing in the world to have Alex working it together with him, an ally, not an enemy. Every time Mulder acted as though he was worried about Alex's well-being for no other reason than that he didn't want him to be hurt.

The sound of the car's door slamming recalled Alex to the present. He shook himself from his thoughts to find that Mulder had parked in a clearly marked no-parking zone and was purposefully striding towards the front door of a stately house, to all appearances oblivious to the fact that Alex was not following.

Alex hastened to get out of the car and caught up with Mulder just as he rang the bell. Mulder stared at the door, ignoring Alex, his brow creased in thought.

It was not the icy disregard allotted to enemies or the casual cold shoulder given to anyone who rubbed Mulder the wrong way. This was the comfortable inattention he slipped into when he was working together with someone. He was acting as though they were still partners.

Apparently Alex had discovered the quickest and easiest method of gaining Mulder's trust. It was a good thing that the man led such a monkish life if anyone who got into his pants got past his defenses. Alex wouldn't have thought Mulder would be foolish enough to equate sex with trust... it was a very dangerous tendency, one that Alex had often exploited in others.

Someone wasn't as comfortable around him as they should be? If he gave them a sufficiently good time in bed, the only thing that bothered them about having him around when they made phone calls was that his presence distracted them. They didn't really like him all that much? If they liked what he made them feel well enough, they would change their minds. They didn't want to talk about their work, didn't want to do some little thing for him? That's okay, it's completely unimportant, here, let me show you what a good lay I am and then we'll snuggle a little and I'll tell you some pleasant lies and in the morning you will be eager to show me how much you appreciate me....

"You might want to put Kevin on," Mulder said, still not looking at Alex. "I'm certain the Lowboroughs will prefer him to the hardened criminal."

Alex's head snapped around before he could stop himself. Even while he was raising a sardonic brow for the other man's benefit, he cursed himself in half a dozen languages for letting such a telling reaction escape. Where had this sudden perceptiveness on Mulder's part come from? He sounded so certain that he'd gained some kind of significant insight into Alex's character—and very possibly, he had. Shit, Alex had to do something to trip him up, confuse him, throw him off the scent....

Before Alex could think of something suitably misleading, the door opened, revealing a very small woman with short dark hair that was beginning to turn silver at the temples. She looked up at them with a polite smile and he automatically smiled back, burying the cold wash of fear Mulder's remark had triggered beneath Kevin Alexander's self-confident stance.

"I'm here to talk to the mayor," Mulder informed her, holding out his hand. He had to stoop slightly so she could take it without reaching up. "Agent Mulder, FBI."

The woman's dark eyes narrowed, her lips thinning in obvious disapproval. "Mayor Lowborough is expecting you," she said frostily, stepping aside.

Mulder seemed unsurprised at her sudden hostility, though it was always possible that he simply didn't care. Alex followed him and the unnamed woman down a hall into a large, airy study filled with exceedingly expensive and relatively tasteful furniture in dark wood and leather. Much like Lowborough's office, this room seemed to have been furnished with the sole thought of what a mayor's study ought to look like.

Mayor Lowborough rose from behind his desk and came forward to shake their hands, smiling a polite welcome. Not many people could occupy a room like this without seeming out of place, but he carried it off quite well. "Agent Mulder. Mr. Alexander. Thank you, Anita."

Anita slipped out, shutting the door rather more firmly than necessary. Alex smiled and shook the mayor's hand, noting that his grip was perfectly calculated to be decisively firm, but not crushing—much like Kevin's, in fact. Alex suspected that the effect was as much a result of deliberation on Lowborough's part as on his own.

"Please, have a seat." The mayor made an expansive gesture towards the chairs pulled up in front of his desk. "Before we get down to business, perhaps you will allow me to offer you a drink? Mr. Alexander, I am certain that you would appreciate my personal favorite—a French brandy I discovered some years back that is without equal in my experience."

Alex accepted the offer graciously and sank into a burgundy leather chair that, except for its color, was identical with the one he had occupied in the mayor's office. He exchanged several inconsequential remarks about trivialities with the mayor while the man made his way to a small table by the window and poured out three drinks.

Mulder was being suspiciously quiet. When Alex glanced over at him, he found himself being subjected to an analytical, speculative stare that he didn't care for at all. He deflected it safely with a look of mild inquiry and a bland smile.

At least he'd thought he'd deflected it safely, but the brief, minute curving of Mulder's lips made him uneasy. Why was Mulder smirking as though he knew something Alex didn't? It was just Kevin. Mulder could analyze Kevin until the cows came home and not be any wiser. More than that, the man would be history as soon as Alex got out of this town. Kevin Alexander was going to suffer a fatal accident sooner than soon—he had grown much too dangerous.

Much too dangerous, in fact, to be sitting here in Lowborough's study with Fox Mulder, of all people—a man who was to aliens, witches, freaks, lunatics of all descriptions, and, most pertinently, assorted Consortium rabble like a magnet to iron filings. If this dragged on much longer, Alex was going to have to reconsider. Being presented to Mulder again by the aliens when they felt like continuing their little chat might not be a pleasant prospect, but at least he'd probably survive the experience. Maybe they wouldn't even come for him—maybe Mulder was expected to hang on to his gift on his own and they wouldn't be rounding him up at all. It wasn't a risk Alex wanted to take, but there was not much choice. Too much more of hanging around Mulder, and the wrong people were bound to take notice.

Too much more of hanging around Mulder, and Mulder himself would inevitably come to see too deeply into Alex's soul. He saw too deeply even now, and every minute Alex spent in his company gave the FBI's former star profiler more material to add to his store of knowledge.

No... there was no choice at all. Staying any longer was simply too dangerous.

Alex purposefully wrapped himself in Kevin, refusing to acknowledge the memories and the first, all too familiar stirrings of cold dread that had begun to rise in him. This is getting real old, Alex. You're going to have to do something about this idiotic phobia or whatever the hell it is. It will get you killed if you go on like this.

The mayor's return provided a welcome distraction; Alex took the proffered glass gratefully, uttering the required polite phrase automatically.

"Thank you," Mulder said, accepting his own glass with an almost-smile. At least someone was in a good mood. "Mayor Lowborough, we have traced Clara Lawrence and she has agreed to enter the town's employ in the capacity of an advisor and liaison to her family. Considering how little reliable data on the Lawrences is available, her assistance will prove invaluable. She has also informed me of the best method of contacting the current head of the Lawrence clan in order to initiate the negotiations for a new treaty."

What was it with the man? It wouldn't have been difficult to present Lowborough with the opportunity of acquiring an allied witch instead of informing him of the fact that he now had one. Mulder was perfectly aware that by padding the basic facts with some polite phrasing, he could have avoided throwing the fact that he had bypassed the mayor's authority into the older man's face. His stubborn refusal to make use of his assets was not only pointless, but damaging—if there had been more time, Alex would have been tempted to set up a little scenario that would make Mulder realize what an idiot he was being.

Fortunately, Lowborough did not seem offended. He did draw his brows together, but the gesture was obviously due more to disbelief than disgruntlement. "Do I understand correctly that you mean to attempt to contact the Lawrence family directly in order to propose an alteration in the terms of the treaty?"

"That is precisely what I mean to do," Mulder agreed, ignoring the skepticism written in the mayor's features.

"Agent Mulder." Weimar's mayor leaned back in his chair and took a moment to inspect the ceiling, rubbing his temples with one hand.

Mulder did not wait for Lowborough to come out with his objections, going ahead to unfold his theory of the nature and history of the pact instead. Thankfully, he did not go into his theory regarding the nature and history of the Lawrences themselves, restricting himself to a cursory mention of the witches' need to find human sexual partners. Telling the mayor that his town had been subjugated by a bunch of alien hybrids seeking to procreate would have been a bit much, regardless of whether or not it was true. Alex hadn't bothered to form an opinion on the likelihood of this particular aspect of Mulder's theory. The witches were here now; where they had come from was completely secondary. The important question was how they could be dealt with.

The mayor listened to Mulder enthuse on the terms of the pact, natural forces, electromagnetic fields, spells, rituals and shamanic traditions without interrupting him once. The faint light of calculation that had awakened in his eyes was kindling into open speculation. It seemed that Mulder had found another believer... a considerably more pragmatic one, though, if Alex was any judge. The man had the look of someone sensing a golden opportunity for personal gain.

"I fail to comprehend why the Lawrences would be willing to negotiate when they are in an undeniable position of superior power," Lowborough said when Mulder had wound down, not wasting time with expressions of incredulity. "They are unlikely to wish for changes in the present arrangement."

This was Mulder's town. After generations of living in close proximity with Max and his no doubt equally obtrusive and un-endearing forebears and relatives, the Weimarians were probably about as open to extreme possibilities as it was possible for any sane person to get. Which did not make them a match for Mulder, of course.

Mulder dismissed the mayor's concern with an impatient wave of a hand. "They have no choice. They have been breaking terms and showing malicious intent for decades—you have enough grounds for dissolving the agreement altogether, which, while it might be unpleasant for the inhabitants of Weimar, would certainly be even less pleasant for the Lawrences."

Alex sipped at his brandy, watching the mayor think through the consequences of a sudden absence of the pact. Fear, hate, and the desire for revenge made for an explosive and unpredictable emotional cocktail, and the sudden tightening of Lowborough's expression announced that he could imagine the consequences Mulder had alluded to and didn't much care for the picture.

"Would you happen to have Clara Lawrence's number with you?" Lowborough asked after a long pause.

Mulder pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket and handed it over without comment. The mayor took a moment to unfold it and inspect the address and telephone number, finally putting the note down and taking up his snifter to idly swirl the amber liquid around the bowl.

"I believe I will call her and offer her a position on my personal staff," he said at last. They all knew that Mulder had already done so, of course, but Lowborough seemed willing to let the matter rest with this small reminder of just who was in charge of Weimar.

There was a brief pause while the mayor inspected his imported brandy as though it would provide him with all the answers if he stared at it hard enough. Finally, he leaned forward, shifting his earnest gaze to Alex. "Mr. Alexander, I hope you will not take it amiss if I ask to speak to Agent Mulder in private for a moment."

"Of course not," Alex said smoothly, rising to his feet. "I quite understand, Mayor Lowborough."

The mayor escorted him to the door to point him towards a room across the corridor. "If you could step into the library for a minute—it will only be a moment. It is a private matter; I'm certain you understand."

Alex once again assured Lowborough that he comprehended perfectly and left him and Mulder to their private discussion. The mayor probably wanted to squeeze Mulder for details about his son's confrontation with Emma Lawrence and considered the subject of his offspring's misjudgments and disobedience too embarrassing to let anyone listen in.

Like the study, the library was furnished in dark wood and burgundy leather in a slightly too contrived manner. After wandering aimlessly through the room and looking out of both windows, Alex took a closer look at some of the mayor's bookcases and tried to decide which books had been bought for show and which had actually been read. Making accurate judgments on peoples' reading matter was often more difficult than it seemed, but Alex was relatively certain that the mayor did not care for eighteenth-century French drama. The leather-bound set went nicely with the overall theme of country club, though.

Glancing over the titles of the books distracted him only briefly, and he was too edgy to even attempt reading. He hated to be left waiting while others conferred in a different room. He knew that Mulder and Lowborough were not talking about him, but his nerves were shot to hell and the situation was calling up unfortunate associations. Many people Alex had worked for had liked playing these games. Hunt had had a particular penchant for them—so much so that they'd become predictable. The fact that the smoking bastard had stopped playing elaborate mind-games with Alex had been one of the signals that Alex's time was running out.

Alex was quite good at playing power games. The problem was that Mulder was, as well.

It seemed his thoughts were continually revolving around Mulder now... around Mulder and the threat he posed, wittingly or not. It was entirely possible that Mulder was not as oblivious as he pretended to be, that he knew perfectly well what he was doing when he treated Alex like an ally, when he talked to him—teased him, even—without wielding his words like weapons. When he looked at him at odd moments with something like rapt fascination in his eyes... when he slept with him. It was the oldest trick in the book.

Alex had tried to make himself suspect this before, but he hadn't been able to make himself believe it. He didn't believe it now. It was possible, though. Mulder might be using the weapon Alex had handed him—gentling him to his touch and accustoming him to his command. Mulder could be extremely subtle and devious if he chose, and he might have decided that Alex would be a useful tool in his fight for truth, justice, and the Fox Mulder way. Of course he would not be likely to ask Alex to take out his enemies, but he could squeeze him for information, employ him to gather new data, have him cover his back... and on a more personal level, he would have someone who wouldn't dismiss his theories out of hand, someone who would be happy to roll over for him, and maybe even someone to gaze adoringly at him.

Alex would have liked to believe it would never get that far, but he could hardly deny that the danger was there—not when he'd spent half the night lying awake in order to hug a sleeping Mulder and stare at his shadowy features. He had spent the better part of an hour doing nothing but burning the small, self-satisfied smirk Fox had been wearing into his memory. Once the faint smile had faded, Alex had concentrated on studying the unfamiliar openness that Fox's features assumed when sleep and satiation mellowed the tight lines of suspicion and pain. The way his breath rasped in his throat every once in a while as though he were about to begin snoring... the way his eyelids jumped and his brow creased when he began to dream, and the way he relaxed into peaceful quiescence again when Alex murmured his name and stroked a light hand along his back.

To say that things were looking very grim indeed would have been an understatement of criminal proportions. Alex had to get away right now, he couldn't let this happen—if he stayed here, if he stayed anywhere close to Mulder, he would never be in control of his own destiny again, never—

There was a quiet sound from the door. Alex stepped quickly to the side, leaning against a bookcase with one of the ever-present leather-upholstered chairs in front of him and one elbow propped on the shelf behind him. It probably looked like a studied pose, but it couldn't be helped—that was the problem with carrying a weapon at the small of your back.

The opening door blocked this part of the room from the sight of anyone entering, which gave Alex a crucial split-second advantage. The teenager who breezed in had obviously never dwelled on the matter, though; he kicked the door shut without so much as looking around the library first. Even so, his attempt to look surprised when he caught sight of Alex was less than successful.

"Oh, sorry," the intruder said, shifting the stack of books he carried into one arm. "I didn't know my father had visitors."

Right.

"The mayor is talking with Agent Mulder at the moment," Alex said obligingly, taking the unsubtly offered bait. The kid needed a lot of practice. "I'm Kevin Alexander. And you are?"

"Rick Lowborough." After taking a moment to balance the books cradled in the crook of his left arm, the younger Lowborough crossed over to Alex and extended his free hand. He did somber politeness much better than surprised innocence. In fact, considering that he was hampered by a faded black tee-shirt, washed-out black jeans, and a ponytail that fell halfway down his back, he did somber politeness amazingly well.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Alexander." Rick's grip was no less decisive than his father's.

Alex smiled politely. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lowborough."

"Rick," the kid corrected automatically. "I was going to look something up. You know Agent Mulder?"

"I do."

When no further information was forthcoming, Rick fidgeted slightly, obviously wondering how best to broach the subject of what exactly his father and the FBI agent were talking about. After a moment, he decided to buy some time and turned to walk to a table beneath one of the windows, giving Alex a quick, apologetic glance over one shoulder. "I'll just—put these down and, well, if you don't mind I'll just—look something up. Won't take long."

Alex inclined his head and watched the boy carefully transfer the books from his arm to the table, busying himself with the task for as long as he could before turning to the bookcase between the windows. The encyclopedia was on the top shelves; Rick stretched up to look for the volume he wanted, wearing a minute frown.

The light from outside slanted over the planes and angles of his features, momentarily obscuring the details of youth to leave only the essential bone structure and an expression of earnest concentration. A jolt of recognition raced through Alex. That partial profile was familiar—the strongly defined features, the high cheekbones and stubborn, slightly cleft chin, the large, hooked nose—even the long, wavy hair tied at his nape.

For the bare fraction of a second, Alex knew that he had seen this man before. Then the moment was gone.

Alex blinked and watched the mayor's son take down a volume of the encyclopedia and leaf through to the entry he was looking for, the small frown still on his face. He'd seemed much older for a moment—older and stunningly familiar—but now, he was back to being a teenager Alex had never seen before in his life.

"Did you know that people used to think that certain areas of witches' bodies were insensitive to pain and didn't bleed?" Rick asked suddenly, looking up.

Recalling himself to Kevin Alexander, Alex raised his brows slightly, regarding the teenager with an expression of polite disinterest. "Oh?"

"Yeah." The kid clapped the encyclopedia shut and balanced it on top of the other books on the table next to him. "They had these trick retractable pins and knives that they would stick into suspects, and even if they were smart enough to pretend to feel pain, of course they wouldn't bleed, so they'd be proven to be witches. Then they'd be arrested and all of their property would go to the church, and the witch finder would be paid a fee."

After a moment of silence, Alex unbent slightly. "I gather that method produced a rather large number of witches."

"Have you ever met a witch?" Rick Lowborough's interrogation technique definitely needed work. He'd begun speaking before Alex had quite finished his comment, and his eyes were practically glued to Alex's face.

"I've met Maximilian Lawrence," Alex allowed, his cool tone not inviting further inquiry.

The discouragement passed Rick by completely. "Really? What's he like?"

Alex allowed a hint of disapproval at being questioned like this to enter his expression. "Have you ever met a witch?"

The boy's face tightened. "Yeah," he said after a brief pause. "Emma Lawrence. But of course you know that already."

"What makes you say that?"

Rick laughed without humor. "Hey, everyone knows. Gossip like that is better than television. Besides, Nita told me you arrived with Agent Mulder, and he even talked to Emma. You're with him, he must have told you."

It was a measure of how much the entire situation was getting to Alex that for a moment he actually wondered whether the kid was implying that he knew Alex was sleeping with Mulder. Or maybe it was just an indication of what Alex's subconscious was dwelling on.

"I am not a member of the FBI," Alex explained loftily. "I am a partner in the law firm of Cheldon and Alexander. My brother appears to have been abducted by an as yet unidentified member of the Lawrence family, which is why Agent Mulder is allowing me to witness and take part in his investigation into the doings of the same. However, as I am not directly involved in the investigation, he does not feel the need to report every detail of the case or his progress to me."

Rick looked disappointed. "So you don't—I thought—uhm, do you think Agent Mulder and my father will be talking much longer? I was hoping to speak to him myself. To Agent Mulder, I mean."

"No, I do not know what Agent Mulder and your father are talking about," Alex said.

The teenager's eyes widened slightly. "Hey, I was only—"

"Going to look something up."

"Yeah, right."

After several seconds of inspecting the older man in silence, Rick came to a decision and straightened slightly, his features firming into determination. "Well, in case you really don't know, Emma Lawrence was my girlfriend and she tried to take me away, the way whoever it was took your brother. I have a right to be involved in this Lawrence thing. I just want—if Agent Mulder does something, if he goes to see them or something like that, I want to be there. I want to go along, to know what happens. I'm part of it, after all. I'll be part of it until it's over."

"Rick, I was under the impression that I had already made it clear I have no influence over the course of the—"

"But you're here!" Rick burst out. "I'm here because this happens to be where I live, but you're here because you're being told at least part of what's going on. I'm already involved, and I probably know as much about the witches, or at least one witch, as anyone. If you think I should just be grateful I don't have to have anything more to do with the whole Lawrence thing, then you don't understand how this works. It's not over yet, and I can't just leave it. It's too late for that, I'm part of it! So I'm younger than you, but that's no reason why I shouldn't be allowed to tag along the way you're doing. If I were ten years older, no one would think about trying to keep me locked up and in the dark!"

"Locked up and in the dark?" Alex looked at him pointedly. "I believe that's something of an—"

"Just tell him, okay?"

He shook his head in exasperation. "I understand that you are anxious to take part in this, and I will tell Agent Mulder how strongly you feel, but—"

"That's all I want. Okay? Just tell him. He'll understand. I just want to know what happens. I have to know."

Mulder would understand, all right.

Before Alex could reply, the door opened and Mayor Lowborough stepped in. To judge by the careful neutrality his expression assumed as soon as his eyes fell on Rick, he was displeased, but not surprised, to find his son conversing with his guest. He wasn't about to give vent to his displeasure in front of Alex, though. With such a speaking look in his eye, there was no real need.

The sight of his parent made Rick draw himself up to his full height, eyes narrowing and chin firming.

"Frederick!" Mayor Lowborough stepped into the room and gave Alex an apologetic smile before bestowing a glance composed in equal parts of exasperation and sorely tried patience on his progeny. "What are you doing here? Your mother has been looking for you."

"I came down to look something up," Rick announced in a rebellious tone of voice. "Mr. Alexander was alone and seemed glad of the company."

Lowborough's lips thinned noticeably as he turned back to Alex; it was clear the implication he'd been neglecting a guest had not missed its mark. "Mr. Alexander, I must apologize if my son has been imposing on your patience."

"Not in the least," Alex assured the older Lowborough. "It was a pleasure talking to him."

"Frederick, if you would?"

A long moment passed while Rick glared at the mayor and the mayor returned his son's regard calmly and steadily, only the faintest hint of steel showing in his eyes. It had the feel of an old, familiar scene; it was evidently understood by both of them that the delay before the teenager reacted to his father's order was no more than a symbolic show of defiance.

The scene played itself out and Rick turned on the heel of one scuffed sneaker, heading for the door without further protest. No verbal protest, at any rate, although Alex had never before seen anyone pull off such a successful slouch while in motion. The junior Lowborough's entire body had turned into a single signal of sullen protest; he didn't actually drag his feet, but it looked as though it was a very close thing.

Just before he left the room, Rick froze in his tracks and stood framed in the doorway for a moment, standing motionless for an instant before straightening. The slouch dropped from him like a discarded cloak; in the space of a second, his entire posture changed. By the time he turned back to face Alex and his father, calm assurance had settled over him, transforming his features completely.

With a small shock of complete, stunned certainty, Alex remembered when he had seen that particular face before. He'd had to wait for the man he was meeting for two hours that day, and he'd spent a good portion of that time pretending to take a picture of the statue in front of the largest theater in Weimar, a statue depicting two of the greatest poets of classic German literature.

The kid standing in front of him now bore a striking resemblance to Friedrich Schiller.

"Good day, Mr. Alexander," Frederick Lowborough said loftily. It did not sound incongruous in the least to hear him use such a lofty phrase.

This was clearly yet another sign that Alex had been around Mulder for far too long. Extreme possibilities were beginning to pop out of the woodwork whichever way Alex turned... and the worst thing was that that was the least of his problems.

Enough was enough. Alex had to leave, aliens or no aliens, come witches, Consortium, or sullen teenage copies of dead poets. He'd stay just long enough to make sure Mulder didn't get himself killed, but as soon as this witch business showed the first signs of winding to a close, Alex was out of here. It exposed him to the risk of the aliens again, but that couldn't be helped. He had to get away from Mulder while his sanity was still more or less intact.

Agent Mulder."

As people who'd grown up in a place where witches were a more or less normal part of the townscape, the Weimarians were being fairly reasonable about this. Deputy Riley, however, was quite another story.

"Yes, Deputy?" Mulder asked patiently, not pausing in his circuit around the perimeter of the outer circle he had drawn on the marble floor of the municipal building's entrance hall. It was fortunate that the town was so prosperous—it would have been much harder to achieve a closed and unbroken line on a less mirror-smooth surface. The prescribed mixture of chalk dust, ochre, salt and lemon juice did not really lend itself to its purpose very well.

"Are you aware that we are in the process of forever disowning every last shred of a claim to sanity?"

Of course, the town's prosperity was very likely part of the treaty, and it was possible the extremely spacious entrance hall of this building had been designed with this particular purpose in mind.

Riley fidgeted and he realized she wanted to be reassured in some way.

"We are proceeding along perfectly logical premises," Mulder said absently. "Refusing to accept proven facts because of previously established habits of thought is hardly proof of superior mental stability."

Riley subsided into silence. None of the Weimarians Mulder had asked for help had seemed to consider him deranged—the problem hadn't been convincing them that this was neither a practical joke nor simply ludicrous, but persuading them that it was not a suicidally stupid thing to do. Even Sheriff Warren's adamant objections had not touched upon the fact that staging a magic ritual was ridiculous. That privilege had been relegated solely to Deputy Riley.

Warren had given in very quickly once the mayor made it clear that he wanted to go through with the summoning. It was an unusual feeling to be backed by a prominent, distinguished and reasonable man like the mayor. Lowborough had allowed himself to be persuaded to confront the Lawrences with remarkable celerity; it was clear that he had immediately seen the possibilities success would open for Weimar. An asset like the Lawrences, properly under control, was priceless. If this worked out, the witches' days of lazy debauchery were over.

As he concluded the last check of the lines and stood back to regard his handiwork, Mulder reflected that while this measure made perfect sense considering the context, it was inevitable that someone like Riley would be distressed by the paraphernalia. He'd tried to explain why they were necessary, but she had appeared unable to accept that even if the symbols were powerless in themselves, their representative value gave them import. They were elements within an established system of ritualistic code and, as such, had to be observed in the prescribed form, no matter how archaic and superstitious their use might appear.

Personally, Mulder found the sight of the pentagram centered in a double circle rather appealing. The mere action of tracing out the design in the presence of a mayor, a sheriff, and assorted other upstanding members of the community had induced a rare feeling of elation in him. He felt almost giddy.

The citizens of this town would make a fascinating subject for a psychological study. Would Weimarians adapt to any given situation more rapidly—would they be more inclined to believe in other unusual phenomena such as aliens? Though strictly speaking, of course, aliens were not truly a different phenomenon at all....

Mulder swept a quick, assessing glance over the other participants in the summoning. Katja Dahl and Wynne Erlental stood together beyond the lower left-hand corner of the pentagram, Katja looking almost deliriously happy in spite of her red and swollen eyes. The mayor and the sheriff were standing a bit to the side, conferring in lowered voices, and Helen Markham was not far off, watching Mulder closely. Alex and Rick were prowling the hall, the former doing an only marginally better job of concealing his nervous tension than the latter. Mulder wasn't certain how much of it was an act in Alex's case, but at least some of it had to be real.

"You know, they had this other ritual in England a couple years ago, I read up on it just the other day," Rick announced, interrupting his restless wandering not far from Mulder and beginning to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet. "It was a big event. They enacted a summoning of the devil. They got a goat, you know, it was much weirder than this, they needed a lot of strange and disgusting stuff, some dirt from a cemetery and the blood of a virgin and a needle that had been used to sew shut a body bag and—"

"Body bags aren't sewn shut," Riley snapped. Having failed to pretend she was here by mere coincidence, she seemed thankful for the chance to assert and uphold the natural order of things, even if only on the point of the proper procedure for securing a particular type of evidence.

"They used to be," retorted Rick with the air of an expert. "The old-fashioned ones. Shrouds. Maybe if it had been a modern ritual they'd have had to use a zipper. I guess they made an exception to get the needle. Anyway, they also needed grass that had grown under a gallows tree—they must have found an old one, I really doubt they'd have gotten permission to hang someone specially. And they got a murderer's hair and fingernail clippings and other things like that, too. And then they waited for the new moon and dressed up a Latin scholar in robes with runes and things embroidered on it in real gold and silver and drew up circles and pentagrams a little like this and burned lots of incense with lots of other stuff and chanted and sacrificed the goat and drew some more runes and circles and pentagrams with the blood—"

"And I used to think we lived in civilized times." Riley sounded disgusted.

Rick leveled an even stare at her. "Oh, we do. They were doing it to prove that nothing would happen. They were reasonable and rational people who knew better than to believe in things like the devil and magic and witches and other such nonsense."

The deputy's glare did not faze the mayor's son in the slightest; he grinned and sauntered off, shooting a quick glance at his father. Checking to see whether his parent was annoyed with him yet or whether further misbehavior was required.

Alex walked up, raising his eyebrows in inquiry at Mulder's smile.

"Just wondering what they would have done if they'd been successful," Mulder explained.

A corner of Alex's mouth quirked up. "Why, Agent Mulder, you seem so certain that he didn't show."

"I consider it highly unlikely that the personal appearance in England of the Judeo-Christian personification of death and destruction wouldn't have made the evening news."

"Must have been covered up."

Riley drew nearer and Mulder swallowed the comeback that had sprung to the tip of his tongue. He surveyed the set-up one last time, frowning slightly at a smeared bit of the outer circle. Still, as long as the line wasn't broken, it didn't matter.

"We're all set." Mulder waved the other participants into position. "Mayor Lowborough, Sheriff Warren, you have to come inside the inner circle with me. Mrs. Dahl, you , Ms. Erlental and Mrs. Markham step over into the space between the circles, and Deputy Riley, Rick, and Mr. Alexander will stay outside."

Mulder stepped across two curves to stand between the tips of the pentagram, suppressing a grin at the incongruous sight of Sheriff Warren carefully tiptoeing across the pinkish lines. The mayor, the sheriff and the person in charge of the summoning in the center, representatives of three of the founding families of Weimar in the perimeter, and three involved witnesses beyond the outer circle... the lines were unbroken. Everyone was looking at Mulder with various degrees of determination, worry and doubt written in their expressions. The stage was set.

Fortunately the ritual didn't require any ridiculous pontification—it was a free-style summoning. As long as everyone announced their presence and Mulder stated the reason they were there, they were in business. "The purpose of this gathering is to summon the head of the Lawrence family to this location immediately. I am not a member of the treaty, but I will lead the talks with the Lawrence family at this time. Do you all agree to this and request the presence of the person I have named?"

"I am the mayor of Weimar, Arthur Lowborough," the mayor declared in a rich, carrying voice that echoed slightly through the hall. He did not seem embarrassed in the least—in fact, it appeared he was enjoying himself. "I agree and request the presence of the head of the Lawrence family."

"I am the sheriff of Weimar, Harold Warren," Warren said, speaking clearly but with considerably less enthusiasm than his predecessor. "I do, too."

Mulder stared at him. When Lowborough did, as well, the sheriff scowled and surrendered. "I agree and request the presence of the head of the Lawrence family."

The women in the outer circle announced their names—Helen Markham using her maiden name of Kramer—and declared their wish to talk with the responsible Lawrence witch. Then they waited.

And waited some more. Mayor Lowborough was staring at the pentagram so hard that his eyeballs would become seriously dehydrated unless the witch made an appearance fairly soon.

Riley had been shifting about restlessly for some time when there was a faint sound from the direction of the front entrance. Weimar's municipal building boasted a two-winged portal carved from dark oak that fit the grandeur of the hall; the wood was too sturdy to let whoever was outside rattle at the door, but after a brief pause, they found the bronze dragon-head knocker that Mulder had taken to be purely ornamental and proved it to be very much functional.

"It's Sunday," the mayor said in annoyed tones, his words almost drowned out by the racket. "Really, what hours do these people expect us to work?"

The deputy had launched into motion at the first sound and opened one side of the portal, allowing a woman with short, greying blond hair that curled softly around a sharp-boned face to peer into the hall. Her face creased in annoyance as she surveyed the group inside over the rims of her reading glasses; after a prolonged inspection of every individual present, she stepped in, brushing past Riley as though the younger woman didn't exist.

The new arrival walked up to the pentagram and circles and regarded the scene in silence for a moment, taking off the reading glasses to tuck them into a pocket of her neat, navy-blue linen dress. Her features were too sharp to give her a claim to the kind of beauty the other Lawrences Mulder had met owned, but she was nevertheless a striking woman, and the family resemblance—while not marked—was there.

"Mayor Lowborough." Her voice was deep, almost sultry, and completely at odds with her appearance. "Perhaps you would like to explain the meaning of this?"

Mulder faced her without leaving the circle. No use spurning tradition, even if the summoned witch had refused to conform by appearing in the pentagram in a flash of light, preferably accompanied by the smell of combustive chemicals. "I am Special Agent Fox Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I presume I am talking with the head of the Lawrence family?"

She raised both eyebrows and took a long moment to look him up and down, her manner faintly reminiscent of Max. "Agent Mulder—I have heard of you. I am Miranda Lawrence. I dare say I would be pleased to make your acquaintance if our meeting were not taking place under these circumstances."

Mulder nodded at her. "Mrs. Lawrence. You are here in the matter of the long-standing abuse of the rights granted to your family by the treaty with the citizens of Weimar."

Miranda's lips curved into a completely humorless smile while her eyes slid to the side and fixed on the mayor. Mayor Lowborough became very still and then gathered himself, drawing up to his full height and meeting the witch's gaze steadily.

"Mayor," Miranda said very quietly. "How is it this outsider knows of the treaty?"

The mayor drew breath to speak, but Mulder waved him into silence. "I may be an outsider, but I have been affirmed in my position by all present. I am the one who has called you."

"Very well, then." Her attention returned to Mulder. "Who has told you so much of—"

"Max did," Mulder cut in impatiently, causing her eyes to widen in astonishment. "I was present when Maximilian abducted Gerrit Dahl in the place of Deputy Riley. We had quite an interesting conversation, with the result that I know as much as I need to about what generations of Lawrences have been doing. The treaty has been broken outright by several members of your family, and all Lawrences have conspired to obscure the original terms and purpose of said treaty."

The blood had drained from her face, making her eyes look almost black by contrast. As Mulder had hoped, she knew Max well enough to realize that it was entirely possible he would betray his family if he thought it would be good for some quality entertainment.

"The abductions and assorted other transgressions against the citizens of Weimar must stop," Mulder went on. "Every victim, Weimarian or not, must be returned unharmed. The original terms of the pact will be reinstated. It will also be necessary to make some alterations, if only to prevent further abuse of the kind your family has been practicing."

By the time Mulder finished speaking, Miranda had regained color. In fact, she had passed the point where her face was only lightly pink some time ago and was now heading for a very unhealthy-looking shade of puce. "You are insane." Her voice was still quiet, but the throaty tones had gained a definite touch of venom.

Mulder preferred not to speculate on that particular topic in public. "In the event that the Lawrence family finds itself unwilling to accept the terms I have stated—"

"You have stated nothing but complete and utter drivel!" Miranda broke in scornfully. "Your prattle of abuse of the treaty and transgressions against the citizens of Weimar is—drivel! Victims? There are no victims! No one is forced to enter into a bond! This entire thing is completely laughable."

Riley had left her place by the door to advance on the witch. There was a dark, predatory gleam in her eye as she stalked closer, her lips compressed into a white line; the rage that had hung about her so palpably yesterday was settling around her again, rendering her movements stiff with barely contained violence. The deputy was oblivious to anything except the Lawrence in front of her—she never even glanced in Mulder's direction.

If Riley succumbed to her rage now, the results would almost certainly be disastrous. Without thinking, Mulder searched out Alex's gaze and commandingly jerked his head towards the deputy. He would have preferred to handle this himself, but he didn't want to leave his place in the summoning diagram—it was supposed to grant every participant in the ritual a measure of protection as long as they stayed put.

"I saw Margaret Ritter when she had escaped from you and wandered into this town, completely traumatized," Riley said, almost on top of Miranda. The witch cast a brief, derisive look at the other woman over one shoulder, but did not deign to turn around completely.

"I heard Rick Lowborough when he was screaming in agony because of one of you." The deputy's voice was very quiet, but she made no attempt to conceal the fury fueling her words. "I watched my partner being abducted by one of you! If you expect me—if you expect us—to stand aside and watch while you use human beings as playthings and breeding machines, then let me tell you that you are very much mistaken. Lying won't help you now, but go right ahead—blow the chance you've been given. This world will be a better place without you and your family in it."

Miranda was looking at Mulder again, ignoring Riley completely. It would have been difficult to find a more effective means of adding fuel to the flames of the deputy's already blazing anger. Mulder suspected that it was deliberately done—perhaps the witch was provoking the policewoman into attacking and giving up her immunity. None of the Lawrences had shown an instinctive knowledge of who was and who wasn't a Weimarian.

"No matter what you call it, Mrs. Lawrence, you have been practicing seizure and imprisonment," Mulder said sharply, reclaiming the leading role in the conversation with Miranda as much for Riley's benefit as for the witch's. Out of the corner of an eye, he could see the deputy glaring at him, but he didn't release the witch's gaze. He didn't think Riley would attack someone who wasn't looking at her, no matter how enraged she was.

"Even those of you who seduced your victims according to the word of the treaty trespassed against its spirit," he went on. "The so-called bonds have been based on deceit ever since the knowledge of what becoming involved with a Lawrence truly means was eradicated by your ancestors. Furthermore, you have deliberately misinterpreted the fact that the pact only encompasses the natives of Weimar—a fact that was never meant to imply you are entitled to do whatever you please with anyone from out of town."

From the periphery of his vision, Mulder watched Alex reach Riley and murmur something to her. The searing look she gave him should have struck him dead where he stood, but after a moment of hesitation, she gathered herself and drew back a little, casting an unreadable glance first at Mulder, then to Mulder's left, where the sheriff had no doubt been glaring an order to cease and desist at her ever since she first interfered.

She hesitated only very briefly before retreating reluctantly, every move still rigid with rage.

Relieved, Mulder returned his full attention to the witch, who was staring at him narrowly. "There is no question at all that things must change. If you refuse to re-negotiate the treaty, the town of Weimar will dissolve it altogether."

Miranda laughed. "If you are trying to threaten me, you have missed a very pertinent fact, Agent Mulder. The treaty is a gesture of our good will towards the people of this town, nothing more."

"If that is so, Mrs. Lawrence, we have nothing more to talk about," Mulder told her evenly. "We shall see how well your family does when the people of Weimar no longer feel the protection of the treaty. What do you think their reaction will be when there is nothing to stand between them and the threat you have proven yourself to be?"

"I think the people of Weimar are wiser than you assume." Her eyes flashed with challenge. "Do you truly believe powerless people can pose any kind of a threat to us? We have nothing to fear from you."

Mulder waited, watching her. She knew her assertion was not true, and Mulder had already made it clear that the Weimarians were no longer ready to play the role of docile underlings. If she had any sense at all, Miranda would realize that her family's predicament was serious and inescapable. It was always best to allow people to reach such conclusions themselves.

"Mrs. Lawrence," Warren said into the silence. "I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news." He did not sound sorry in the least—in fact, the edge to his words was pronounced enough to make Miranda look at him with open surprise.

The sheriff paused briefly before going on, assuming the impersonally sympathetic expression every policeman donned in moments such as this one. "I regret to inform you that we have this day retrieved the body of Maximilian Harold Lawrence from the Ilm."

The witch was the only one for whom this was news, but the silence that followed the announcement was complete. For a long moment, Miranda looked completely blank; then stunned disbelief swept over her features. "The body? What do you mean?"

Warren lifted heavy brows. "I mean that he is dead and we fished him out of the river, Mrs. Lawrence. A jogger running along the promenade saw something he suspected might be a body pressed against the support column of the south bridge by the current. We retrieved it and identified it as Maximilian Lawrence. Death through natural causes, accident, or misadventure can be ruled out."

Miranda stared at the sheriff, shock rendering her face devoid of any expression. "This can't be—there must be some mistake. You've confused someone else for Max. You must know how ridiculous what you're saying is. How would anyone kill Max?"

Both Clara's and Miranda's comments had indicated that Max had been a particularly powerful witch. Mulder filed that fact away together with the unsurprising revelation that it didn't even occur to Miranda to question why someone would kill her younger relative.

"At this point in the investigation, that information must be kept strictly confidential," Warren was telling the witch. "However, there is no doubt of identity. If you wish, one of my people can bring you to the morgue to view the body."

"Later," Mulder cut in. "First, we will finish this conversation. Mrs. Lawrence, you have not—"

"And I will not!" The witch was quickly losing ground in the struggle to preserve a calm demeanor; her voice was rising in both pitch and volume. "Your accusations are preposterous, your conditions unacceptable. You say that we have broken the treaty, but it is clearly only a meaningless phrase. You—"

"Allow me to substantiate my accusations. We will call Emma."

Miranda's eyes grew wide. "Emma? What does she have to do with this?"

"She broke the treaty."

The laugh the witch gave was scoffing, but she was visibly flustered and clearly on the defensive. She obviously had no idea of how she had lost control over the situation, let alone how to regain it.

Mulder was just turning to the others to begin repeating the summoning for Emma when Miranda whirled, facing Riley, who had taken up a position squarely in front of the portal with her arms crossed over her chest, not even pretending to be doing anything but blocking the exit.

"You," the witch commanded. "Open the door."

There was a long, ugly moment in which Riley narrowed her eyes and stared at Miranda stonily.

"Deputy Riley," Mulder said quietly. "Please open the door. I don't think Mrs. Lawrence wishes to leave at this time—if she does, we can always call her back."

Riley flashed an extremely unpleasant smile and obligingly opened the portal. It seemed she'd expanded her horizons far enough to decide that a method that got results could be allowed to get away with a pentagram or two.

"Emma!" the witch bellowed in the direction of the now-open door.

Nothing happened.

"Emma, I know you're out there. Did you think I wouldn't notice you following me? I advise you to come in right now, young lady!"

After the briefest of delays, Emma shuffled in, her eyes glued to the floor. She looked pale and subdued, her formal and conservative grey power suit making her look even younger than she was. Her gaze darted to Rick as soon as she came in; when he returned the regard with cool indifference, she flinched away, resuming her inspection of the polished marble beneath her feet with dull spots of red forming high on her cheeks.

A tall, slender man with silver hair appeared in the doorway just as Riley was about to close it again. It was difficult to say exactly how old he was, although he was definitely past his seventies. His face had been pared down by the decades, crinkled skin stretching taut over strong facial bones that still showed the typical Lawrence beauty. Unlike the eyes of the other Lawrences Mulder had seen, this man's eyes were not dark—instead, they gleamed in a bright, almost silvery shade of blue-grey.

He walked into the hall lightly, his motions completely unburdened by age. Standing next to Emma in jeans and a loose sweater, he made it look as though nature had made a mistake and attached old age to the wrong person.

The first thought that flashed through Mulder's mind was that this man was dangerous. Glancing to the side, he found Alex shifting slightly and searching out Mulder's gaze in order to relay a subtle warning. Damn.

"Graham." Mulder's attention snapped back to Miranda, who looked wary and furious in almost equal measures. "What are you doing here?"

"Miranda, m'dear." The old man nodded gallantly. "Noticed you were in trouble. Glad to help."

It was obvious that Miranda was not in the least glad to be helped. How interesting... rivalries among the witches. Mulder's supposition that the Lawrence family dynamics very likely bore the hallmarks of a classic pack mentality was being substantiated.

The witches couldn't produce offspring together, but all of the legends agreed that they formed stable pairs—most of the Lawrences were accorded a marriage partner in local lore, and after a certain age, the child of a witch and an abducted human would doubtless be raised by the witch parent and their partner. Miranda was being challenged, and her partner Ferdinand was not at her side... which either meant that he was in the opposing camp or that he was in no camp at all any longer, that his absence was, in fact, the reason for this infighting. The remaining alpha witches were scrambling to fill the power vacuum.

"Ferdinand is dead," Mulder said aloud, instantly regaining everyone's attention. "That is how Margaret Ritter escaped. She was Ferdinand's victim and his death released her. No one thought about her in the—"

"You are Fox Mulder, I take it," Graham broke in smoothly, striding forward to the edge of the outer circle and extending his hand. Mulder made no move to surrender his position in the inner circle, giving the witch a brisk nod instead of a handshake. If this was the Graham who had taken away a girl engaged to be married to someone else, it opened up a multitude of fascinating possibilities.

A smile tugged at the corners of the old man's blade-thin lips. "The circle is nonsense, you know. It does not afford any protection, it is merely a prop, like a stage magician's wand."

"Then it would be a pity not to use it to best effect," Mulder returned.

"Indeed. And may I ask how you have hit upon this method of gaining poor Miranda's attention? It seems like something that went out of fashion long before your time, young man."

Mulder raised his brows slightly. "The pursuit of ritualistic magic has never gone out of fashion. We were discussing the fact that the people of Weimar will no longer allow your family to prey upon them. The treaty will have to be either re-negotiated or dissolved."

He laughed easily. "Nonsense, Fox. The people of Weimar know that—"

"Don't call me that," Mulder snarled with more than the usual measure of venom, deriving a small spark of vicious satisfaction from the startled widening of Graham's silver-blue eyes. For a moment there, the man had sounded just like his rapist bastard of a relative.

Arching one silvery eyebrow, Graham laughed again. His eyes had hardened, but he still sounded genuinely amused. "As I was saying: Nonsense. The people of Weimar are aware that maintaining the covenant is in their best interest. It is meant to protect them, after all."

"The treaty is meant to protect the witches," Mulder corrected sharply. Everything about this man was rubbing him the wrong way. "You have been exploiting the good will these people's ancestors showed yours for far too long. As I have already stated, the entire treaty must be made common knowledge once more and changed to fit the times and prevent any further abuse of the system. All victims of past transgressions of your family will be released."

Graham's smile was frosty. "How droll. Your enthusiasm is charming, Agent Mulder, but you quite obviously have no idea of what you are talking about. I fear you are sadly out of your depths, my boy."

His voice had lowered to the point where it was soft as velvet, sounding almost like a purr. The contrast with the chill eyes and arctic smile was disturbing and completely deliberate. Mulder returned the coldly threatening regard levelly, not bothering to conceal his dislike of the man. "I have a very good idea of what I am talking about. The Lawrences were never granted the right to treat the citizens of Weimar as subjects, let alone turn them into slaves or pets. They were granted a place in the community and safety from persecution, in return being forbidden to harm citizens of Weimar in any way, and expected to render a number of public services and further the town's prosperity. To enable them to continue their line, they were granted the opportunity to court citizens of Weimar with no prior attachments. If the attraction was mutual, the Weimarian could agree to enter a bond with the Lawrence and produce offspring."

The old witch had assumed an air of mocking attentiveness while Mulder spoke; Miranda, who seemed surprisingly willing to let Graham take the lead, was tapping one suede pump against the marble floor, concealing whatever else she might have been feeling behind the deliberate show of impatient temper. Emma had not been paying much attention at all, being entirely occupied with surreptitiously watching Rick.

"The bond was never meant to be an unequal one," Mulder continued, certainty firming his tone. "I do not even believe it was necessarily permanent, and it did not require the Weimarian in question to leave friends, family and the life they had known behind."

Graham's face remained frozen in derision. "And I suppose we are meant to understand that you are an authority on covenants such as the one between Weimar and my family?"

"As a matter of fact, my good man, he is."

The completely unexpected interjection caught both Mulder and the witch off guard, though the latter recovered instantly to cast a hard glance at Alex, who was stepping closer. The sheer unlikelihood of Alex deliberately bringing himself to the attention of a Lawrence stunned Mulder. What the hell did he think he was doing?

Ignoring Mulder's glare, Alex raised both eyebrows at the Lawrence witch, a world of condescension suffusing the gesture. "In better circles, Special Agent Mulder is quite well known for his expertise in regard to paranormal phenomena of all kinds. He is too modest to put himself forward, and as you can hardly be expected to have heard of him, you will have to accept my word for it."

Graham's lip curled; without a word, he took a step sideways, turning his back on Alex. Contemptuous dismissal seemed to be a typical Lawrence reaction.

Comprehension brought a slight chill to Mulder. By making himself look like a pretentious ass, Alex had gotten closer to the witch without seeming like a threat—he had even caused the old man to turn away from him. This was not a display of competence Mulder had wanted to see... and the most disturbing thing about it was that he could not deny the sight of Alex standing behind the old witch, looking annoyed and ineffectual, actually caused an easing of the tension in Mulder's gut. Not only was Mulder sleeping with a felon and misleading the police to prevent them from solving a case of murder, but he was actively profiting from the professional skills of an assassin. This was not a good trend.

"Far be it from me to belittle your grasp of the state of affairs, Agent Mulder," Graham drawled sarcastically, entirely ignorant of the fact that he had just presented his back to the most dangerous creature in the room. "You are to be applauded for the effort, at least. I understand we are here because some particulars of the agreement have fallen into obscurity among the town community. That is regrettable, but I fail to see how you can claim that it is due to deliberate actions on the part of any of my relatives, alive or dead. We have always observed the pact scrupulously—"

"That is a lie," Mulder cut in sharply. It was time to stop fooling around—if he could manage to put a good scare into this arrogant old witch in the process, then so much the better. "More than one witch has broken the treaty in the last decades."

Graham began to glance over at Miranda, who was watching the exchange in silence, but checked himself immediately.

Oh yes, this was indeed the Graham who had taken away an engaged woman. Mulder smiled, allowing an edge to enter his voice. "I think that on reflection, you will agree that the terms I have stated earlier are more than reasonable and will work to everyone's benefit in the long run."

Something glacial flashed in the silvery depths of old eyes. For a moment, Graham's true age showed in the complexity of emotion layered in his gaze—cynical amusement, cold calculation, and detached assessment stood beside a multitude of shades of wariness and anger, all of these temporary sentiments flowing easily over the bedrock of an unconditional awareness of being the only thing of true value or importance in the universe, simply because everything else was not Graham.

A chill ran up Mulder's spine and the reasons for his instant antipathy towards the old witch suddenly became clearer. This was exactly what Max Lawrence's eyes would have expressed, had he lived to acquire the subtlety and polish Graham could boast. Refined style was all that separated this genteel old witch from his vicious relative.

"How interesting that you should make such an assumption." Graham's expression was hard and implacable. He had understood the threat behind Mulder's words, but it failed to do more than spark his anger. A different person might have been worn down by decades of living with the fear of discovery, but getting away with a flagrant violation of the treaty had only reinforced Graham's knowledge that he had no equal—that nothing and no one could vanquish him. Intellectually, he knew that he was not invulnerable, but he had forgotten the taste of fear.

"I am tired of this idiocy." Miranda stepped forward abruptly, obviously intending to shove Graham aside bodily. Since Graham didn't budge, the result was that the two witches ended up shoulder to shoulder, both of them facing Mulder across the lines of the summoning pentagram.

After a brief but hostile glare at Graham, the female witch spoke on, her voice slowly rising in volume. "You have been making accusations for which you have no proof whatsoever, and you cannot possibly expect us to agree with your ridiculous and uninformed notions of what the idea behind the covenant was. I refuse to listen to any more of your unfounded—"

"Very well," Mulder interrupted tersely. "I trust that proof my accusations are anything but unfounded will increase your willingness to cooperate?"

"Nonsense." Graham's tone was cool and faintly derisive, his confidence still untouched. "You have absolutely no proof for—"

"I said that already, Graham," Miranda snapped. "Don't be tiresome! You don't even know what Agent Mulder is talking about. Of course he has no proof to support his ridiculous allegation that little Emma has stepped off the straight and narrow."

Little Emma's head whipped around faster than it should have been able to, her attention fully caught by something other than Rick for the first time since she'd come in.

Graham raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Mulder. "And what horrible deed could our sensible Emma have committed, I pray?"

"She tried to take away a young man she had not informed of the fact that she was a Lawrence," he said, locking his gaze with Graham's.

Both of the elder witches turned to Emma, who had shrunk in on herself and was radiating guilt and terror like a beacon; both of them traced the girl's desperate, pleading gaze to Rick. Graham's spine stiffened in unmistakable shock. Mulder couldn't see his face, but Miranda, who could, pivoted back to take another, more thorough look at the object of the young witch's affections. Almost immediately, startled recognition flashed across her features, quickly giving way to appalled comprehension.

"My God," she breathed. "Emma. Tell me this is not the young man you have been mooning over."

"That's Rick," Emma said in a very subdued voice.

Up to now, Rick had been returning the witches' regard nervously, shooting occasional glances at Mulder and his father. At Emma's mention of his name, he gathered himself, took a deep breath and straightened, lifting his chin in defiance. His face settled into sternly ascetic lines as he met the Lawrences' scrutiny with almost cold-blooded poise, nostrils flaring derisively.

"Emma Lawrence," Graham said, his tone cutting. "Can it be that you are truly so stupid? Don't you have the slightest bit of sense, girl! You cannot possibly have failed to notice—"

"Mr. Lawrence, I will not have you insulting my son," Mayor Lowborough boomed, almost drowning out the sharp "Graham!" that Miranda rapped out.

Ignoring his fellow witch, Graham turned and frowned at the mayor. "I am not insulting your son, Mayor Lowborough. Nothing of the kind. In fact," he turned to face Rick, "I would like to apologize. Please pardon my descendant's actions against you. She is young and foolish and I assure you that we will do what we can to—"

There was a loud crack as Miranda slapped Emma with such force that the girl's head snapped back and she almost lost her balance. With a squeal of surprise and outrage, the younger witch retreated several steps. "Mother!"

"I have never been so ashamed in my life. How any daughter of mine can show such appalling judgment—"

"He's mine!" Emma screamed, goaded beyond shame. "He should be mine! I want him! He's special!"

"Get out before I lose my temper!" Miranda screamed back at full volume. "Special! I don't believe this! You little idiot, what the hell were you thinking? You never even stood a chance of keeping him, and the risk—I warn you, Emma Christine, get out right now or I will turn you around and march you out myself!"

"Emma will stay a while yet," Mulder said flatly. The young witch looked from her mother to Graham, from Graham to Mulder, from Mulder to Rick, and finally back to her mother. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing. By the time Mulder spoke on, the entire atmosphere in the hall had changed; the tension was almost thick enough to slice. "Emma Lawrence, you did not tell Frederick Lowborough your name, but you tried to put him under the influence of your power. You have broken the treaty."

Terror widened the girl's eyes even further. Miranda and Graham stepped back from her as though she had contracted a contagious disease, turning in near complete tandem to stare at the people gathered inside the circle.

They were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mulder's earlier supposition had been correct—more than one person was needed to call the spell into action against a Lawrence guilty of breach of contract.

Mulder's searching gaze caught and held Helen Markham's. Understanding flared in the woman's eyes and she whirled to point at Emma like a vengeful Goddess. "Emma Christine Lawrence, you have broken the treaty."

As Mulder had suspected, three ritual declarations were necessary to invoke the spell. Even though he'd been able to take part in the summoning, Mulder was evidently not entitled to participate in this ritual; nothing happened until both Erlental and Katja Dahl had added their accusation to Helen's. Once three Weimarians had spoken, however, the spell took immediately, beginning to manifest itself before Katja had even closed her mouth.

It started out in a very unspectacular manner. The slight haze of mist that coalesced in the air around Emma was barely noticeable, making the reaction it got from the two other Lawrences seem completely out of proportion. Graham whirled and streaked for the far side of the hall as though the Spanish inquisition were hot on his heels, moving too fast to be visible as anything but a smudged blur of motion; Miranda hesitated for only the briefest of moments before following his example.

"That was locked," Mayor Lowborough muttered as Graham slammed into a room leading off the hall, the door falling shut behind Miranda an instant later.

"Agent Mulder...."

Mulder didn't even glance at Alex, entirely focused on what was happening in front of him. He was only peripherally aware that the Weimarians were drawing back from the young witch uneasily, alarmed by the older Lawrences' obvious fear.

Emma was white as a sheet, her eyes wide and staring blankly into space. Her entire body was stiff with terror.

The mist heightened in density, though it remained translucent. It shimmered into luminescence, wavering a little and casting a dim, opalescent glow over the young witch occupying its center. Slowly, almost lazily, it swirled outwards, twisting and unfurling tendrils until the haze extended about two yards outwards to every side. The spiraling motion halted suddenly, leaving shadowy, pearly tendrils of fog hanging immobile in the air. For a long moment of unnatural quiet, nothing happened. Then, Emma gasped.

As though the small, strangled sound had been the signal the spell had been waiting for, the insubstantial tendrils solidified into almost material strands of milky white and billowed outwards, forming into an intricate, closely woven web centered on Emma. The net shimmered as it flexed in mid-air and snapped back in to close tightly around the young witch.

The instant the strands came into contact with the girl's body, a brilliant ivory flare flashed through the hall. Emma stiffened convulsively; the web was absorbed into her body and faded to leave her standing in plain sight, nothing appearing out of the ordinary except the expression on her face.

"Mulder!"

The explosion was completely silent. It ripped outwards from Emma's immobile form in a wave that swept through the hall like a hurricane, tearing Mulder off his feet. The flashes of light began when he was tumbling head over heels across smooth marble that impacted painfully with random parts of his anatomy; he caught flashes of flailing limbs and confused angles of walls and floor and ceiling, the visual impressions too disjointed and fragmented to allow him to note more than the fact that the light came in irregular intervals and at differing intensities. There even seemed to be different hues to the blindingly bright flares.

To Mulder's frustration, he couldn't get himself sorted out sufficiently to be able to form a better impression, let alone stop his uncontrolled tumbling in order to get a good look at what was happening. He didn't even know which way was up anymore. He just hoped he'd fetch up against a wall before he missed the entire phenomenon.

A searing blaze of reddish white exploded painfully against Mulder's corneas and he scrambled for a surface he'd impacted with, hoping it was a wall. He was torn about, his side crashing into something flat and solid occupying the space that he'd been positive was up. This was the point at which he realized that he heard nothing. Not only was there no howling or rushing of wind, but there was no sound at all as he—and a couple of others he'd caught random glimpses of—tumbled about the room like leaves scattered before an autumn gale. Not a single exclamation of pain was to be heard, not even a grunt.

Mulder tested his observation unintentionally when his elbow impacted painfully with something very solid. He was certain he yelped at the sudden pain, but he heard nothing.

A flash of blue-green brilliance, a headlong tangle of confused arms and legs, and Mulder came up hard against a plane that drove what little breath he'd been able to force into his lungs out of him. There was a moment filled with the numb certainty of imminent death as Mulder suddenly found himself squashed between two surfaces; the roof must have collapsed and he was going to be crushed in the next micro-second—

Mulder had time to reflect that being flattened by falling masonry was a humiliatingly mundane kind of death and he would have much preferred to be crushed by a landing UFO before something slammed into his chin. Couldn't be the roof, though, because he was still alive enough to note that the back of his head hurt. It felt as though someone were quite viciously pulling his hair.

In the greyish afterimages of a pure white blaze of incandescence, Mulder caught a brief glimpse of short dark hair and wild green eyes.

He went limp with relief and realized a moment later that he was lying spread-eagled on the floor, his left cheek pressed to the cold marble and Alex sprawled next to and partially on top of him, forcing him to lie as flat as a flounder. Well, yes, of course—that was the intelligent thing to do.

He lay still for a while and waited for his senses to come back on-line and tell him that yes, the surface in front of his body was, indeed, the floor—that is, down—and that the space behind him must therefore be up. Another moment of concentration revealed that in spite of innumerable small aches and pains, nothing seemed seriously hurt.

The soundless storm was still raging and Mulder's head was pressed to the marble, facing the wrong way. He could see absolutely nothing of what was happening. He needed to turn around in order to catch a view of Emma. If he slid sideways he should be able to—

His wrist was crushed in a painful grip and the hand at the back of his head was trying to tear all of his hair out at the roots. Mulder yelled Alex's name indignantly, banging his cheekbone against the floor in the process, but no sound was to be heard.

Mulder had just rejected the idea of trying to break free of Alex's hold—he really didn't need any more bruises than he had already—when the magical storm ended as abruptly as it had begun, one final flare of blue-tinged light illuminating the hall to painful brilliance before fading away.

The silence lifted to the sound of crying. The hold on Mulder's wrist and hair was released and he managed to get his arms and legs sorted out, sitting up to watch Alex clamber to his feet. Once Alex had shot a quick glance around the hall and surreptitiously checked that his gun was still there—covering the motion with the nervous little grooming tuck at the jacket—he offered Mulder a hand up.

"Wow," Rick said rather weakly from where he lay sprawled a few steps to the side.

That did seem to sum it up.

Emma Lawrence sat hunched over in the middle of the floor, shaking with the force of the huge, gulping sobs wracking her body. The storm appeared to have passed her by completely.

In fact, the storm appeared to have passed by most of the others—even though all of the Weimarians were obviously rattled, only Rick, Riley and Erlental were shaken and bedraggled enough to have been subjected to the kind of tossing Mulder had endured. Erlental was clutching her arm to her side in pain, but like Mulder, the other two seemed to have come through the spell with nothing more serious than minor cuts, bruises, and abrasions.

"I'd estimate the radius was about five yards," Alex said, his voice very cold. Mulder ignored him.

A pink smear on the front of Rick's black sweatshirt made Mulder check the floor. Sure enough, the summoning pentagram was completely smudged.

The door to the room the older witches had taken refuge in opened cautiously, admitting Miranda and Graham back into the hall.

"I'd say that was rather convincing," Mulder told the elder Lawrences calmly, straightening his suit. "I consider this ample evidence of the fact that Emma is guilty as charged."

Even though at first glance, the young witch seemed to have gotten off more lightly than the other people caught in the storm, there was definitely something very wrong—she was crying as though her world had come to an end. It wasn't pain, contrition, or even fear... it was sheer, hopeless heartbreak.

"She lost her power," Mulder said aloud. It was the only thing that made sense, and the expression on the older Lawrences' faces was confirmation enough. Neither of them was giving much away, but the dazed look in their eyes could not be hidden completely—Mulder had seen that look too often not to recognize it, no matter how toned down by conscious control. It was the unmistakable, haunted stare of someone who had come face-to-face with their worst nightmare and found it to be very much a reality.

Graham's confidence was gone. There was no trace of either ice or steel left in his eyes; his expression was almost completely blank, but the crinkled skin stretched tautly across the bones of his face and the tight, tense line of his mouth gave him away. The arrogance born of a lifetime of effortless dominance had cracked. Graham Lawrence knew fear.

Mulder had just opened his mouth to follow up his advantage when the portal opened and an older version of Emma stepped inside, wearing an expensive sky-blue suit and carrying a laptop and briefcase.

"Excuse my tardiness," the newcomer said in cultured tones, looking nervous.

"Clara!" Emma wailed, scrambling off the floor and throwing herself into her older copy's arms. "C-Clara, I m-missed you, everyone h-hates me, take me with you, please...."

"You!" Miranda rapped out harshly. "What are you doing here?"

"I believe I can answer that question, Mrs. Lawrence." Mayor Lowborough stepped forward and extended a hand to the newcomer, who switched laptop, briefcase, and hysterically weeping sister to her left arm to grasp it firmly. "Allow me to introduce you to Clara Lawrence, my advisor and aide in the upcoming negotiations. Ms. Lawrence, welcome home."

"Now you return?" Miranda hissed. "For this you return? To betray your family?"

"No," Clara said softly, hugging her sister closer. "I'm not betraying you, mother, I'm helping you—us—out of the hole we have dug for ourselves in this town."

Miranda's nostrils flared and she vented a scoffing laugh. "How kind of you. What a pity you did not see fit to come to honor your father's memory when he died. How sad that you have arrived too late to prevent the girl clinging to you from throwing away her heritage. How very unfortunate that you were not there for your cousin as you should have been—with a woman to exert a moderating influence over him, Max might never have—"

Firmly setting Emma aside and her luggage down, Clara raised her chin and looked her mother in the eye. "You know perfectly well how ridiculous that is. No one can exert influence over Max—if you think he needs a woman's touch, I suggest you try administering it yourself. And how can you say something so cruel about Emma! She always tried to be the perfect daughter for you and you repay her by—"

"She lost her power!" Miranda screamed, the echoes of her voice reverberating through the hall like a tangible extension of her rage. "She can no longer be my daughter—she is no longer one of us! And it is only her own foolishness that is at fault!"

Clara's eyes had become round with shock and she spun to stare at Emma, who was cowering against the wall.

"I'm s-sorry," the girl choked miserably. "I just—he's special. I thought he might not want to be my boyfriend if I told him—"

"Oh, Emma.... Don't worry, Emmie, you'll be fine." Clara pulled her sister into another hug. "I'll take you to New York with me when this is all over. You can live with me, it's—"

"Oh no, girl," Miranda interrupted, stepping closer to her daughters. "Emma can go where she pleases, but you, my dear, are staying here. Three of us have been lost to the family in far too short a space of time. You may be weak yourself, but that doesn't mean your children won't be strong."

Mulder hurriedly interposed himself between Miranda and her daughters. "Clara is under the protection of the community, Mrs. Lawrence," he said sharply. "Harming her in any way would be an infraction of the treaty."

"It would not. There is no such clause." Miranda was facing him, but it was as though she were quite literally seeing through him; when she spoke again, the dark drag of compulsion woven through her voice threaded into Mulder's mind and made the hair at the back of his neck rise. "Clara. Daughter, little girl, I know you. I have always known that in your heart, you want to be a dutiful child. You do, you know it, too—"

For an endless moment, Mulder was overwhelmed by the intense desire to gain Miranda Lawrence's approval by surrendering everything to her idea of what he ought to do with his life. Then the diffuse longing for maternal approbation sharpened focus; he could feel the witch's power sift through him, searching for something that wasn't there, and suddenly, he was released. The sudden absence of emotion made him stagger slightly. Memories of his mother crowded into his mind with shocking suddenness and he lost another moment grappling them into submission. That was all he needed, being forced to deal with his own messed-up psyche in the middle of a duel between witches....

Not much of a duel, though. Even while stuffing the recollections of all of the times he had bitterly disappointed his mother back into the mental drawer they'd escaped from, Mulder whirled to face the real target of Miranda's attack. One glance was enough to show that Clara was no match for her parent—the losing struggle was clearly reflected in her grey-tinged features, distorting them into a grimace of pain... or perhaps guilt.

Mulder looked around the hall wildly and caught sight of Graham, who was watching the uneven struggle from a short distance away. He launched into motion without the need for a conscious decision, turning his fear and the all-too-familiar anguished failure Miranda had awoken outwards in the shape of a pure white blaze of rage. "If Clara comes to harm because she has agreed to help the cause of Weimar, there will be no more peace for the rest of you," he snarled at the aged witch, hardly recognizing his own voice. "If it means nothing that she has been granted the town's protection, there is no chance of recovering a rapport between the Lawrences and the people of Weimar. You realize how important a satisfactory resolution of this situation is for you personally, don't you, Mr. Lawrence?"

Ice-blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "Can it be that you are threatening me, Agent Mulder?"

"Leave her alone!" Emma shrieked in the background.

"Damn straight," Mulder snapped. Graham had had several moments to compose himself and regain a semblance of his earlier confidence, but it was only a pale imitation of the real thing and Mulder knew it for what it was—a hollow shell that he could pierce without even trying. "Your people have found more safety and acceptance in Weimar than you can hope to find anywhere else—more than your ancestors ever had before the advent of the treaty. If you really want to go back to being hunted like animals, then do it. It's your choice. Just bear in mind that when I'm through with you, Graham Lawrence, you will be a whole lot easier to catch than the rest of your family."

Graham's expression was inscrutable, but Mulder knew what he was feeling. This man had spent a lifetime walking the world in the knowledge that he had a right to everything he saw by virtue of his power to take it. His power was the essence of who he was—its loss would be the ultimate loss of self. Death would be far more merciful.

Mulder took one more step, closing up the remaining distance between them and ending up nose to nose with the taller man. "How did it feel to witness Emma's power being ripped from her?" he grated, his voice harsh. "You couldn't hear it, of course, but you must have felt it. I imagine she felt it, too. Right until she was ripped apart. She won't ever feel anything that way again. Never again."

He could see the heavy shadow that fear cast over Graham's face and felt a tight, cruel smile tug at his own lips in response. "Your choice. I'd prefer Clara's safety and a new treaty, but don't think I won't enjoy watching the show if you choose to put pride before common sense. I would."

The old witch stared at him for long seconds, unreadable emotions swirling behind his light eyes. Mulder was not surprised when Graham yielded, giving a curt nod of assent. He was surprised at what accompanied the surrender, though—he'd expected anger, hatred, perhaps oaths of vengeance, but what he got was vaguely mocking amusement, underlaid by a definite glint of something different. "How fierce you are, little Fox... so passionate. I think I am beginning to like you. Ah, that I were a younger man—"

Graham's laugh was deep and resonant and flashed quite a number of teeth. He nodded again and spun around abruptly, bringing himself very suddenly face-to-face with Alex.

Both of them froze briefly, looking startled; then Alex started in on an apology that Graham cut off with a commanding wave of one hand. Alex immediately fell silent and took a step to the side, getting out of the old man's way.

Instead of walking past, Graham turned to face him. "How long have you been standing behind me, boy?"

Mulder's fury abated, stifled by the unease that tightened his stomach at the sight of the sudden impassivity sliding over Alex's face, shutting it down into unreadable hardness. Alex was not ready for this... all it took was one look from a witch and Kevin fell away. Why hadn't the idiot stayed out of Graham's way?

"I am not a boy," Alex said, his tone too flat. "I am a partner in a very prestigious law firm and I find your overbearing attitude highly offensive. I very distinctly heard Agent Mulder tell you not to call him by his first name."

The tension did not leave Graham's body, but part of the suspicion in his expression drained away. After the witch had stared at the younger man for a moment longer, he turned to head for Miranda, throwing Mulder a cool glance as he went. "Train your pup or put him on a leash, Fox. He's a nuisance—someone will take the trouble to kick him one of these days."

Pup? The man was a full-grown wolf... kick him and you'd be missing a foot.

Mulder directed a warning glower at Alex in passing, wordlessly commanding him to stay back. He got no reaction at all and could only hope the man would show sense enough to keep out of the witches' line of fire from now on. This was too early for him to even be thinking of taking on another Lawrence. And what if Graham or Miranda took a liking to him? It didn't bear thinking of—

"Miranda, m'dear," Graham drawled, stepping directly in front of his fellow witch, Max's lazily amused smile curving his lips. "I think you'd better leave the mayor's new advisor alone. It seems that we are left with the choice between striving for a more cordial relationship with the people of Weimar or the lifting of the covenant. I understand that Emma's fate has upset you, especially when it was so closely followed by the sudden appearance of your previous failure, but you must try to keep your head."

Clara's rigid form relaxed suddenly; she sagged heavily onto her sister's supportive shoulder as Miranda turned her attention to the older witch.

"Graham." Miranda's rich voice was low, but by no means soft. "I believe you arrived too late to hear that Max was murdered last night."

The old witch froze completely, all motion bleeding from his lean form to leave him standing as still and lifeless as a statue. The moment of shocked paralysis stretched until it seemed as though the old witch's stillness had taken tangible shape, creeping outwards from his motionless body to shroud the hall in a cold, numbing pall of nothingness.

"By whom?" Graham's harsh voice ripped through the deadened atmosphere with grating force, tearing and dispelling it. Mulder gulped down a lungful of air and glanced around at the others, who looked as shaken as he felt.

The memory of a covetous hand reaching for Alex burned through Mulder's mind... of dark eyes flashing with cruelty, lust, and anticipation. The fact that the man was dead did nothing to alleviate the consuming fury that rose in Mulder. He could not sympathize with Graham's apparent grief—as far as he was concerned, the only thing that stood to be regretted about Max's death was that his end hadn't arrived sooner, before the bastard had ever dreamed of getting his hands and mind on Alex.

Miranda tipped her head slightly to one side, the girlish gesture incongruous in the context. "I don't think they will be able to find the murderer," she said, still speaking in the same low tone. "Knowing Max, it could have been almost anyone. He was undisciplined. He was wild and heedless and addicted to dark pleasures... a wolf, Graham. There is one in every generation, even if Max is the first to pay for his viciousness with his life."

Something Mulder couldn't define shifted in the tableau in front of him. Miranda drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin; Graham took a deep breath and straightened. Within seconds, the unnatural stiffness that had invaded the older witch's lean frame dissolved, giving way to his previous self-confident poise and the vibrant energy belying his advanced age.

"Do you know, Graham, I find I am actually rather grateful for this little event." The powerful subharmonics of Miranda's voice flowed into Mulder's perception, insinuating themselves deeply to grate against his consciousness. On the other side of the two witches, Lowborough and Katja Dahl had clapped their hands to their ears; knowing that it would do no good, Mulder resisted the impulse.

"This summoning has settled one thing. You followed me, Graham. I was called."

"You do not seem to realize that we are experiencing a transitional period, as such characterized by vacillating and volatile public opinion and instability of government. There are no certainties in such times, girl." Graham's eyes were heating to a metallic, silvery blue, the challenge they held unmistakable. His voice, however, was just a voice.

Miranda smiled a predatory smile and had just begun to open her mouth when presence unfolded outwards from the older witch, an unnaturally intense personal magnetism settling around him. From one instant to the next, he transformed from man to elemental power—the sheer incarnation of authority, charisma, and dominance.

Stunned silence fell over the hall. Ensnared by Graham's inhuman pull, Mulder could not bring himself to tear his eyes from the old man for long enough to cast even the most cursory glance at Miranda. It was almost as though the rest of the world had ceased to matter—or, more accurately, as though it had slipped into a lesser plane of existence, leaving Graham as the only thing of true substance, irresistibly compelling in a setting of pale and inconsequential drabness.

"Change has become inevitable." The voice was still an ordinary voice, but combined with the newly gained force of the witch's charisma, it held its listeners in absolute thrall. Mulder found himself holding his breath until Graham finished speaking so as not to miss one nuance of his words. "You are too inexperienced to lead the family safely through such an important transition."

Time passed. Mulder did not know how much, or what happened other than that Graham did not move. By now, he lacked not only the power of will, but the actual capacity to perceive anything but the witch. It could have been a second, a minute, even an hour—there was nothing in Mulder's world anymore that could mark the passing of time, or the lack of it. There was only an increasingly blurred smudge of grey, a backdrop of irrelevant perception that melted before the reality of Graham.

There was pain, but that, too, faded into the background.

"You are hurting them, Graham." The words cut through even the pall of irrelevance, throbbing with power... tasting of victory.

And with a jolt, reality returned. The sound of harsh, unsteady breathing, a loud rushing ebbing and waning... the scent and taste of blood. Pain... in the head, the knees, the hands. Mulder was on his hands and knees.

Because he could not see anything, Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep, trembling breath, opening them to the sight of Graham, who was standing exactly where he'd been standing before—whenever that had been. Now, though, he was once again merely an old Lawrence witch with hard eyes.

The younger witch facing him was glowing with triumph. The fierce exultation on Miranda's face was daunting to behold; it was the look of a warrior standing over a vanquished foe with her sword at his throat. "You are the wolf of your generation, Graham. You are no leader. There is no difference between you and your son. He is dead, and so shall you be before I will allow my family to follow you. It is over. Follow me or walk alone."

Fury burned in Graham's ice-blue eyes, drawing the skin over his aristocratic skull so tight that it resembled a death's head. "I don't—we must re-negotiate the treaty!"

"No, Graham. I must re-negotiate the treaty. Will you follow?"

The rush of blood in Mulder's ears had faded, and the sharp, stabbing pain in his temples had mellowed to an almost unnoticeable ache that melted away even as he focused on it. By the time Graham answered, only the state of Mulder's knees remained to remind him of the toll the witch's spell—or whatever the hell that stunt he'd pulled had been—had taken on him.

"I will follow," Graham Lawrence grated. His words were raw with disbelief, helpless, horrible rage, and an emotion very close to grief.

The old witch's bid for power was over. He had broken the treaty again—now his only hope to avoid sharing Emma's fate would be that the Weimarians who'd witnessed his transgression either did not realize what he had done or were content to let the matter rest.

Mulder was among the first to pick themselves up; watching the others get to their feet, he decided that no one had taken serious harm. In fact, Warren and Helen Markham did not even seem to have fallen down—Mulder made a mental note to find some time to have everyone describe their exact experiences during Graham's ill-judged little display.

He threw a quick glance at Alex over one shoulder, started, and turned around fully to take a better look. Alex looked like hell. He was almost grey and breathing far too shallowly... he looked as though he'd keel over if someone blew on him. Mulder had known something like this would happen, he'd just known it! But had Alex listened? No, he'd had to come along and prove to himself that he could face down witches by the dozen and not break a sweat. What kind of a survival characteristic was that?

Mulder grasped the other man's arm and began to steer him towards the exit. The bloody-minded fool promptly resisted.

"Come on, Alex," Mulder coaxed. "It's not far. You need to go outside. Come on!"

"No!" Alex snapped aggressively, breaking free. "I'm staying. I'll be fine in a moment."

This was untypical behavior. Wasn't it? To think that Mulder hadn't gotten a proper handle on the man even now.... "You're sure?"

A hard green glare bored into him. "Don't be an idiot. Just do your job so we can get the hell out of here."

Alex did seem to be regaining some color, and his breathing was settling into a more unforced pattern. Briefly, Mulder considered trying to drag him out against his will, but since it seemed likely the only thing that would achieve was to earn him some additional bruises, he refrained from the attempt. He watched Alex a second longer instead and then spun to walk back to where the two Lawrences were standing, careful to stay between the other man and the witches.

Graham did not look at Mulder. He did not appear to be looking at anything; unless he was watching something mere human senses were unable to perceive, he was staring holes in the air above Miranda's head. Shock, perhaps?

Determined to keep this as brief as possible, Mulder turned to the newly confirmed head of the Lawrence family. "I hope that I have correctly interpreted your remark just now to mean that you agree to the conditions I stated earlier?"

"It seems unavoidable," Miranda agreed, giving Mulder a slightly sour glance. The victory over her rival had apparently taken most of the sting from the concession, though. "It is not as though we don't appreciate Weimar, after all. I am certain we can all be reasonable about this."

Without saying a word, Graham turned and walked towards the exit. He glanced neither right or left; his back was ramrod straight, but his form and movements lacked a large part of the energy that had lent him the appearance of youth. It appeared his loss of hope for supreme power had hit him considerably harder than news of his son's death. Of course it was always possible this was a delayed reaction, but somehow, Mulder doubted it.

Silence reigned until the portal fell shut behind the departing witch, the sound echoing loudly in the stillness. Then, as though it had been a signal, the Weimarians exploded into action. Several voices started up at the same time, the mayor's resonant boom lifting effortlessly above the rest; it seemed as though everyone set into motion at once, several people converging on Miranda Lawrence, who watched their approach with a careful indifference that was completely unable to conceal her unease.

Mulder had only made it halfway back to Alex when he was waylaid by Rick. "What was that—you know, the storm thing? Do you think the light and wind was the form her power took when it was siphoned off? How do you think that works? And what did you tell the old guy? I didn't think anything would—"

Emma arrived from the opposite direction and would have bumped into Mulder if he hadn't moved aside in time. Her grab for her ex-boyfriend's sleeve was as uncoordinated as her approach; it looked as though she were unaccustomed to the way her body moved. In all likelihood, that was exactly what the problem was. "Rick!"

The accosted teenager jumped and jerked his arm away violently before recollecting himself, drawing himself up, and bestowing a glare of stern rebuke on the distressed girl.

"Rick, I can't feel you anymore, it's horrible." Her face contorted, fresh tears springing into already reddened eyes. "I don't know what to do! Clara says I can go with her but.... I can't live like this! How can you live like this? It's awful! I don't want to—I can't!"

Rick's expression wavered briefly at the misery written in his former girlfriend's face, but when she tried to throw herself into his arms, he dodged her and stepped back to fold his arms tightly across his chest. "Give it time—I'm sure you'll adjust to being a lower order of being," he said coldly. "As long as you stay away from witches who want to trick you and take you away so they can own you like some object, you'll be fine."

The hectic color receded from Emma's features, leaving her deathly pale. "I'm s-sorry, Rick, I just—I wanted... I wanted to be with you! I still do. I love you, you can't just—"

"You wanted to own me," Rick corrected evenly, already turning away. "You still do."

"You can't just walk away from me! You said you loved me!"

Mulder reached out and held the girl back, preventing her from following Rick. "It's not the right time, Emma. Not for either of you."

"But I want—"

He put both hands on her shoulders and gave her a small shake to get her attention. "Listen to me, Emma. Go to New York with your sister. In a couple of years, when you have adjusted to your new circumstances, come back here, find Rick, and try again—if you still want to. In case you do, I'd advise you to get into the habit of thinking about what he wants from time to time."

Emma stared at him for a moment, anger and misery struggling for dominance in her expression. When she finally broke away, Rick had just slipped outside; after briefly staring at the portal in indecision, the girl spotted Clara and Lowborough heading in the direction of the mayor's office and set off after them at an awkward run. Perhaps Clara would be able to effect a transformation for the better in her sister. Having been irrevocably separated from her family, her previous life, and even part of herself, Emma would inevitably go through radical changes; hopefully, at least some of them would be for the better.

"All right," Mulder told Alex sternly. "Here's what we'll do. I make certain the mayor gets off to the right start with Miranda. You ask after your brother. Then we're out of here. Got it?"

Alex smiled. He still looked pale, and Mulder decided to hurry Lowborough and the witch along as much as possible. "Yeah, I got it. We need to talk, Mulder."

Well. That sounded ominous.

As he set out across the hall to join Warren in his attempt at conversing civilly with the witch, Mulder decided that once he'd gotten Alex back to the hotel, he'd make sure they never got around to talking.

It was a sunny autumn Sunday in a beautiful town. The natives were friendly and willing to stand in pentagrams and speak after Mulder, the local witches, otherwise known as stranded alien hybrids, were willing to re-negotiate the spell binding them to the community to everyone's benefit, and the remaining witch abductees were to be returned later in the day.

The last thought dampened Mulder's mood somewhat. Returning to any kind of a normal life would be difficult, if not impossible, for by far the larger part of the witch victims. Dahl would be fine, of course, and very likely, the two people who hadn't been missing longer than several months would be, as well. The long-term abductees, though.... Most of them even had children that were witches, binding them even more inextricably to the family that had stolen their life from them.

Mulder found himself shying away from the thought of how Margaret Ritter and her parents would cope with the altered situation and deliberately forced himself to think it through. He was responsible, after all—he was the one who had brought this soon-to-take-place reunion about. What if it only made things worse for them? Maybe Margaret was no longer capable of maintaining higher cerebral functions without the support of a Lawrence. It was conceivable that long-term exposure caused permanent brain damage, and she certainly hadn't been in good shape after Ferdinand's death... what if she was unable to form even an emotional bond to her parents? Maybe he'd done the Ritters no favor at all—maybe the daughter that returned to them would not even recognize them, maybe she would spend her life crying, unable to understand what had happened and why she was so terribly alone inside her own mind.

Perhaps it would have been kinder to leave Margaret Ritter and the other abductees who'd been living with the Lawrences for the larger part of their lives in the care of the witches... but that wasn't a tolerable solution, either.

But maybe... maybe Mulder could make sure that after a certain stretch of time had passed, Margaret and the others were asked whether they would prefer to return to the Lawrences, voluntarily this time. The Weimarians could start up a program that arranged meetings between witches who wanted to become caretakers and the families of the former abductees, for example between Margaret's son Gabriel Lawrence and his grandparents—they could work out some kind of supervised custodial arrangement—go on joint vacations, things like that....

The idea pleased Mulder; his mood lifted again as he planned out the details and made a mental note to call the mayor or Clara as soon as possible.

Yes, it was a lovely day in a beautiful town filled with people well accustomed to weirdness who failed to look askance at Mulder when he unfolded his theories. The trouble with witches was on its way to being solved permanently, leaving a unique and fascinating interactive community that merited further study. And Mulder was sitting in a car with an assassin and former triple agent who was not only intelligent, attractive, and intriguing, but who screamed in Russian at all the right moments.

Only one question remained. How could Mulder get said assassin into bed and keep him there for the rest of the day with a minimum of fuss?

"What did you say the mayor's son's full name is?"

The off-topic question merited a dark frown from Mulder that entirely failed to impress Alex. "Frederick Johann Cristoph Lowborough. Not your type, Alex."

No answer. Brows drew together in thought. Mulder stepped on the gas to squeeze through an intersection on a yellow light—very dark orange, actually—and Alex said nothing.

Must be something serious. "All right, out with it."

There was a brief pause.

"Didn't you think it was very odd—the way the witches reacted to him?"

As a matter of fact, Mulder had thought so—he still did. He'd briefly considered the possibility Rick was a member of the Lawrence family, but had discounted the thought with reference to the character of Mrs. Lowborough, who would never risk her position over a fling with a witch and would not carry the child of a rape to term. Of course it was not inconceivable that the Lawrence responsible had made her forget about their sexual encounter, but Mulder didn't think so. That scenario failed to fit Graham's and Miranda's reaction.

Politeness, almost deference. No chance of keeping him, Miranda had scolded her foolhardy daughter. And the risk....

"It was kind of odd, wasn't it," he said neutrally, curious which way Alex would take this.

Alex snorted. "Yeah, like you didn't notice. You don't fool me, Mulder. You'll stand in the middle of an exploding spell like someone glued your feet to the floor and wired a vidcam to your eyeballs and never notice that it might be a fucking stupid thing to do, but you would never miss slightly odd behavior on the part of a witch."

"You trying to tell me something, Alex?"

"Hell no, Mulder. It's not like you could be expected to keep a safe distance or something. You keep on being fascinated out of your mind in the middle of combat zones. See how long you live."

"I don't seem to be missing any pertinent parts so far."

"You mean except for your common sense?"

"Now whatever would I do with one of those?"

That earned Mulder a small quirk of the mouth. "Good point. You wouldn't know common sense if it bit you in the ass."

Mulder considered inviting Alex to play common sense for him, but decided that sexual innuendo would be too risky at this point. Considering the man's tendency to work himself into a state of nervous self-denial if given half a chance, Mulder decided he had better get him closer to a convenient horizontal or vertical surface before signaling his intentions quite so loudly.

"Doesn't he look familiar to you?"

Mulder frowned again. "Who?"

Alex blew out a breath in exasperation. "The man with the machine gun running out of the bank we just passed. Christ, Mulder, who the hell do you think? Frederick Johann Cristoph."

"Sure he does. He didn't when I first met him, though."

Alex stared out at the passing townscape. "That's really a very distinctive nose he's got."

"I'm sure he'll grow into it. Besides, representative surveys have shown that many people of both sexes find large noses extremely attractive." Mulder paused, but Alex wasn't playing. After a moment, he sighed and gave up. "What are you driving at, that he's a Consortium spy?"

"If he were, they'd have gotten rid of that nose first thing."

Mulder inspected Alex's nose from the side.

"Mine's nature's version. As far as I know." Alex still wasn't looking at him. "Tell me, Mulder, what's the latest word on reincarnation?"

"Reincarnation?"

This traffic light was red, but since there was no traffic, there was really no reason for Alex to clutch at the dashboard like that. He probably did it just to annoy Mulder.

"Jesus! Stop the car, Mulder! I'd rather walk!"

"No you wouldn't. You'd rather tell me about the reason for your sudden interest in being born again. Are you planning your comeback?"

"I'm planning on not dying for a very long time yet." Another silence. "You ever been in Weimar?"

Mulder wrinkled his brow and pretended to concentrate fiercely. "Well, let me think. I believe it must have been shortly after I left Washington on Thursday. Now that I think of it—"

"It's just that Rick reminds me of someone."

Alex's remarks finally clicked together in Mulder's mind. "He reminds you of someone who's dead, so you think he's been reincarnated?"

Incredulity was heavy in Mulder's tone, causing the younger man to shoot him a disgusted look. "No, Mulder, he does not remind me of someone. He looks exactly like him. And his first name... names. They're the same, too. Plus they both lived in a town named Weimar. That's one hell of a coincidence."

"Most hypothesises concerning reincarnation assume that the essence of a person—the soul, if you will—is reborn in a new form, a different body.... A change of gender is practically obligatory with many of the new age believers. And of course, taking into account the astounding instances of multiple and parallel reincarnation that are to be found in the cases of Napoleon and Cleopatra, to name only two of the more popular recurrent souls, it seems that particularly interesting souls are even liable to split into—"

"Look, Mulder, it was just a thought, okay? Forget I said anything." Alex shook his head and stared out of the window, the stiff set of his shoulders and jaw betraying tension. "At least now you know how people feel when you hit them with one of your weird theories."

"My theories are completely reasonable," Mulder muttered. "Who is this person Rick reminds you of?"

To all appearances, the younger man was engrossed in the picturesque, but far from riveting, view of Weimarian streets on a Sunday afternoon; when he answered, his voice sounded casual, almost disinterested. "Friedrich Schiller, a dead playwright and poet. It's probably just a coincidence."

Could it be he was actually embarrassed by having voiced a silly theory?

Mulder suppressed a smile as he turned Alex's discovery over in his mind, wondering whether it would fit into one of his own theories on the subject of the witch's peculiar reaction to the mayor's son. Earlier, he'd considered and rejected the possibilities that Rick was an alien—perhaps a full-blood member of the missing second parent species of the witch hybrid—possessed by an alien, a pusher, a natural telepath, a clone, or a Consortium plant. None of these theories had seemed satisfactory before, but perhaps now, with this new bit of data to add to the equation....

Alex had turned back from the window, raising one eyebrow into a sardonic arch. "Well, then, Mulder—let's hear your oh-so-reasonable theory."

"Maybe the witches were just trying to irritate us by their behavior towards Rick in order to distract us from something else."

"That's your definition of reasonable? Anyway, I know better than to think you believe that."

"I don't," Mulder admitted. "Okay.... We never established exactly where the Lawrences came from originally. They were with the original settlers who founded and named this town. It's possible the entire group of settlers, including the witches, came from the original Weimar—alternatively, it's possible only the Lawrences did. Either way, our Frederick could be descended from Friedrich. In itself that shouldn't make him of particular interest to the Lawrences, but perhaps the man was a Lawrence himself. Or perhaps he was an alien masquerading as human." Possibly the second parent species hadn't lost interest in the hybrids, after all.... "It might be interesting to look into the Lawrences' genealogy and the possible historical connections between the two Weimars."

Alex grinned crookedly. "Somehow I have a hard time imagining an alien masquerading as a human writing poetry."

"I see you've never heard of cultural exchange programs."

This crack was not dignified with an answer.

They were pulling into the hotel's parking garage now, and Alex straightened slightly in his seat, glancing sideways at Mulder. "So, Mulder. What happens next?"

Mulder pulled into his rented space and killed the motor, turning to Alex with his best innocent expression. "What do you mean?"

Suspicion glinted in lucent green eyes. "What do you think? The second you hand in your report, Max's corpse is going to vanish mysteriously, along with the odd living witch or three. I'd rather not accompany them, if you don't mind."

The notion caught Mulder off guard, which immediately made him feel extremely stupid. He should have seen this—how could he not have seen this! Alex was right, it was inevitable, of course the Consortium would want the whole story on the witches—they'd want to know what made them different, how they could be controlled, used, exploited.... They'd probably stick half of the next generation of Lawrences in the training course they'd made Alex go through and cut most of the other half into very small pieces, together with everyone too old for reproduction....

What had he done? How could he stop this from happening, this was his responsibility, his fault—

"Mulder?"

"Alex, we have to tell them to clear out right away. They'll have to start over somewhere else. With Miranda's original family, she has to have come from somewhere...."

He looked over just in time to see Alex smooth the remains of an unidentifiable emotion from his face. "It's not that bad, Mulder. All you have to do is falsify your report. Edit out the witch part and tell the Lawrences to take care of the Consortium operative they'll send in after you. With warning, they'll be able to smell him a mile against the wind, and they have the whole town on their side—they can watch him from a distance and revise his memories if he finds out anything. You know, the way old Terence did with Graham's girl."

Falsify his report? Edit out the witch part? "Alex, there is nothing to report except the witch part!"

Alex's thoughts had already moved on, his expression darkening. He looked up with an almost distracted frown. "You're smart, you'll think of something. Use your imagination."

"But I can't just—" Mulder broke off as Alex's earlier remark made it through to his conscious mind. "So they do send someone after me wherever I go. I knew that."

"Sure you did, Mulder."

"Just one?"

"You sound insulted. Yeah, just one—one's enough. They'll send someone good. Still, the Lawrences will be able to deal with it—just make sure they send him or her back with a report that fits your edited version." His tone was too flat, his face too hard. "On the other hand, if the clean-up squad turns up, the witches had better lie low. Shouldn't be a problem, though. Those guys don't look at the scenery much."

"The clean-up squad. Looking for you?"

"I'm kind of popular in some parts, Mulder. Which brings me back to my original question. This hasn't exactly been a low-profile operation. If I'd had the chance to build up a good cover for this it wouldn't have been a problem, but Kevin didn't fit the situation too well—he's acquired holes you can fly a broomstick through."

He was saying he couldn't afford to stay in Weimar any longer. That wasn't a problem in itself—Mulder would have liked to stay and keep an eye on the negotiations, but he also wanted to get back to DC and find out why he'd been sent away in the first place. However, Kevin had been established as Mulder's personal friend in Weimar. As far as Mulder knew, Riley was the only one who suspected them of being lovers, and she wasn't the kind to spread rumors, but any association between the two of them would make the Consortium hunt for Alex in Mulder's vicinity. Not to mention that sticking close to Mulder would not be a good idea for Alex under any circumstances—Mulder was always being watched.

But he couldn't go. Mulder wanted to keep him, to learn everything of his truth.

The thought of being without Alex chilled Mulder to the core. "Alex," he said. When he tried to go on, he discovered that he'd only wanted to say his name.

Alex was sweeping a careful, practiced gaze across empty lots and parked cars, his set face cast into unnatural colors and angles by the dim, yellow lighting of the underground garage.

Desire hit Mulder with the impact of a brick wall, stunning him, annihilating him. He went up like tinder, barely able to hear his own gasp of surprise over the roaring of the blood in his ears. His pants were too tight, his sudden erection chafing against the constricting fabric. Alex couldn't leave. Mulder needed to keep him. He needed to have him, now, always, now, right now—

"Come up to the room with me," Mulder rasped, incapable of greater subtlety with the ravening need to possess Alex consuming his reason.

Alex's head snapped around at the unveiled proposition, his eyes wide with a multitude of emotions, first among them a fear he was too late in masking.

"Yes." His voice was low and very husky, almost raw. Before Mulder could process the fact that Alex was not running, the younger man had launched himself from the car, slammed the door so hard Mulder thought the window might break, and was sprinting across the concrete floor towards the elevator.

Mulder didn't think he slammed the door—he didn't recall closing it at all. He didn't recall opening it, for that matter, but he must have, because when Alex reached the call button and slammed it down with the heel of his hand, Mulder was right behind him, catching him and whirling him around to crush him against the wall.

He didn't know how long it took for the elevator to arrive. When the doors opened, Mulder and Alex made it inside without relinquishing so much as an inch of body contact; Alex unwound an arm from around Mulder to push the button for their floor, displaying an amount of unimpaired intellect and coordinated movement that Mulder could only admire.

"Fox," Alex husked into his ear, panting with need. "I—Fox, oh God, Fox—"

The elevator doors slid aside and they nearly fell out into the corridor when Mulder tripped over Alex's leg. Alex caught at the frame of the door and they stumbled into a potted plant, groping each other with the unchecked urgency of randy teenagers.

Mulder was laughing against Alex's throat and gathering himself for the dash to their room when every muscle in Alex's body went rigid. The hardness that had been pressing into Mulder's thigh shrank, and when Mulder pushed back a little to look into the other man's face, he noticed that there was a gun in Alex's hand. Mulder hadn't even seen him move—hell, he hadn't felt him move, and he was all but wrapped around him.

"Special Agent Fox William Mulder," an unfamiliar voice behind him said calmly.

He could feel his face begin to flame even as he whipped around. Being caught engaging in public foreplay with a wanted criminal—a wanted male criminal, not to mention professional assassin and nominal KGB agent—hell, there were enough grounds there for the dismissal of an entire task force, let alone a single agent.

The man standing in front of Mulder's hotel room was considerably below average in stature, his thin shoulders and lean build combining with his lack of height to give him an incongruously youthful form that failed to be seconded by his features and the receding line of his medium-blond hair. He wore baggy jeans, a plain grey sweatshirt, and a scuffed leather jacket. The mustache hiding his upper lip failed to make him look more respectable, although it did lend him a notable resemblance to a walrus; his overall appearance was scruffy, faintly disreputable, and anything but trustworthy.

Mulder carefully positioned himself between the scrawny man and Alex, not bothering to conceal his readiness to draw his weapon. The elevator was behind him, as were the stairs—if this deceptively harmless-looking man was the Consortium's clean-up detail, Mulder could stop him long enough to let Alex get away.

But Alex was making no move to attack or flee. Mulder didn't want to take his eyes off the mustachioed man long enough to look around, but he could tell that Alex wasn't budging from the spot.

Whoever the small guy was, prime blackmail material had just been handed to him on a silver platter. Mulder would have expected at least a smirk, perhaps even a leer—alternatively disgust, moral outrage, embarrassment, or polite obliviousness.

Nothing except calm patience showed in this man's features. He stood very straight and completely still... unnaturally still.

"My God," Mulder breathed, forgetting all about the Bureau's unofficial policy on sexual orientation and the Consortium's hired thugs. His body's frustrated throbbing receded from his awareness as his brain kicked into high gear, bringing the familiar fascination and clarity of thought. "It's you."

"The area is secure," the alien announced.

"What happened to the girl?"

"Information pertaining to my people's nature, requirements, and preferred behavioral patterns can, within limits, be made subject to future trade."

They certainly knew which buttons to push. It couldn't be a coincidence that they'd picked Mulder as a likely business partner, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist, and then handled him just right, dangling tantalizing knowledge in front of his nose to coax him along step by step. They had to have a very comprehensive grasp of human psychology on an individual level.

"You're the same—person I spoke with before." Even while he spoke, Mulder realized he was taking too much for granted. He was assuming these aliens had singular identities like humans when they might equally well be a group consciousness, comparable to the hive communities of many species of insect....

The blond man's head bobbed in the same stiff, awkward imitation of a nod hat the alien had already employed in its previous incarnation as a girl.

It had previously indicated that it had a designation of some kind, though one that could not be expressed in sound, but a designation was not necessarily a name—it could be a functional identifier, a collective descriptive identifier, a term identifying a particular conglomerate of autonomous identities, a number or caste identifier, or any number of other possibilities too alien for Mulder to conceive of. Still, in his first conversation with the alien, Mulder had formed the distinct impression that it had an awareness of individual identity....

"Was this body unoccupied, as well?"

The alien regarded him in silence for a moment, the familiar serene expression sitting even more strangely on its present host's sharp, thin face than it had on the too-young features of the girl. "Affirmative. This one experienced the simultaneous collapse of all cardiovascular functions, induced by self-administered toxins. I wish to carry on the previously initiated negotiations on the limited agreement of trade I have proposed. Please confirm you are free of immediately pressing engagements at this time."

"Yes," Mulder confirmed absently. Self-administered toxins... the alien had apparently been able to cleanse the host's system of drugs before the body died. Was it maintaining damaged organs artificially, like an animate life-support system? Whatever it was doing, it was doing an excellent job—the man was scruffy, but he seemed to be in remarkable health. Mulder would never have suspected him of being a drug addict. Perhaps it had been suicide?

"Are you alone? How many of you can occupy one body at the same time?" Was there a reason why this body was small, as well? Perhaps it was easier to control a body not only when the original inhabitant was not present, but also when the body itself was lighter. That way, a smaller amount of muscle tissue had to be controlled, and there would be a lower volume of blood if the alien had to make changes in a host's blood chemistry in order to be comfortable....

"As previously indicated, such information will not be revealed without an adequate return in trade. Should further proof of our good will be required, we are willing to expand upon our earlier gift prior to the resumption of negotiations. Since this area will not remain secure above fifteen minutes forward from the immediate present, a relocation is necessary."

They were willing to expand on their earlier gift—

Oh no.

He whirled just in time to beat Alex's hand to one side; the raised gun slipped from his grasp and fell to the carpeted floor. Mulder had never seen Alex drop a weapon before. He doubted the alien had been in real danger—it seemed unlikely Alex would have been able to pull the trigger.

"Alex, it's okay. Breathe, Alex, come on, I'm not going to let them hurt you. You're okay, Alex. Everything's going to be fine."

Mulder wasn't certain Alex heard him. He was slumped against the wall limply, gulping air in rapid, far-too-shallow gasps without making a sound. His pupils were so dilated that the panic-dazed eyes looked shockingly black in the paper-white face. It was obvious that Alex saw nothing of what was in front of him—if he saw anything at all, it would be horrors his subconscious conjured up out of the recesses of his past, memories and fears he had hidden away from himself because he could neither face nor forget them.

He was going to lose consciousness any second. In fact, it was surprising he hadn't done so already.

Grabbing Alex's shoulders, Mulder slammed the other man back against the wall. "Breathe, damn you!"

"Fox." The hint of sound was too low to be called a whisper. Mulder thought he'd only imagined it until he realized that the irregular rhythm of Alex's breathing had changed and he was trying to focus on Mulder's face.

"That's right, it's me, I'm here, it's okay, no one's going to hurt you. Alex, you need to breathe deeply, slowly and deeply, come on, concentrate, I know you can do it...."

Mulder realized that he was leaning so close he was practically nuzzling Alex's cheek and made himself draw back, carefully keeping the fear out of his voice as he murmured reassurances and watched Alex fight for control.

If Mulder hadn't been too focused on the alien to notice that Alex was breaking down within touching distance, he would never have had to go through this. This reaction had been inevitable. It should have been the first thought on Mulder's mind.

"I'm so sorry, Alex," he murmured. "I'm here now. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here."

Alex was rising out of the panic by sheer strength of will, his eyes now fixed firmly on Mulder's face. His breathing was evening out rapidly, still fast and unsteady, but controlled. To come back this quickly when he'd been lost so deeply within the most intense terrors his mind could conceive of... so much courage, so much strength—such determination, such power of purpose....

"You're amazing," Mulder whispered, feeling something very much like awe thread through the fierce protectiveness in his heart. "You're—" No, don't tell him he's beautiful, not now! How stupid can you get.... "I—Alex, I think I—"

"Please clarify the cause of the excessive level of your agitation," the alien said calmly from behind Mulder. "The temporary loss of consciousness due to hysteria is not permanently damaging."

"That's not the reason," Mulder said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. "He needs to be in control." And I can't bear to see him like this.

"Fuck," Alex rasped very distinctly. "Tell them about it, why don't you."

Relief flooded Mulder with blinding force. "It's okay," he said softly, "I'll keep you safe. They won't hurt you."

"Christ, Fox." Alex's voice was not much above a rough whisper and he was still unnaturally sallow, but he was there with Mulder again, aware and in command of himself. "You're such an idiot sometimes."

Which was when Mulder noticed that his fingertips had crept up to stroke Alex's cheek.

"Among my people, it is considered an indicator of a high likelihood that a mutually beneficent business agreement will be reached when the token given to the approached party meets with particular approval," the alien commented. "Therefore, I am gratified to find that our gift has proven pleasurable as well as useful."

Mulder snatched his hand away and turned back to the scruffy blond alien, looking over his shoulder to make sure Alex wasn't going to have a relapse in the immediate future. "We must clarify something. The fact that you have gifted me with this man means that you have acknowledged that I am entitled to decide what is to happen to him. Please affirm."

"Affirmed," the alien agreed.

"Then take note. I do not want you, any other member of your species, or anyone affiliated with you or any other member of your species to harm him or interfere with his control over himself again in any way, however minor or temporary. You have given me the right to determine this."

There was a small pause. Then the corners of the blade-sharp lips of the man currently holding the alien moved upwards in a stiff grimace that was obviously modeled on a smile. The being hadn't attempted copying human facial expressions before—its previous host, the girl, had shrugged and nodded, but there had been no attempt at smiling. The alien had been practicing.

These beings were highly intelligent and able to adapt rapidly to an alien environment, mentality, and society. They were acquiring knowledge of human behavior as an active behavioral repertoire. Mulder wondered whether they were motivated by politeness and business acumen—trying to show respect for their human associates by demonstrating respect for local customs—or whether they were simply attempting to promote their business dealings through an understanding of the culture of their partners. Of course, they might also be working towards being able to pass as human for far less benevolent reasons.

"Confirmed, Special Agent Fox William Mulder."

Perceptive and very quick on the uptake. Very well informed—knowledgeable about human physiology and psychology, body language, sexual behavior....

Alex straightened away from the wall determinedly, stepping forward to pick up his gun with somewhat less than his usual grace. He was careful not to look at the alien as he tucked the weapon back into his waistband and straightened his jacket, but every line of his body was stiff with tension, betraying his intense awareness of the being's closeness. "Mulder—"

"Wait out here," Mulder interrupted. "I'm not certain how long...."

His voice trailed off as he realized what he'd been about to demand. Mulder didn't want to let Alex go, but how could he justify forcing him to delay his departure when every minute he spent here increased the risk he would be hunted down and killed—when the only real reason Mulder had for making him stay was that he desperately needed to have him again?

He couldn't. It was that simple.

"If you—the things you bought don't fit me," Mulder blurted out quickly, trying not to think about what he was saying. "I can bring them out if you think you have to leave."

"We had a deal, Mulder. You trying to back out of the fucking deal?"

It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to penetrate. Mulder stared at Alex in disbelief, noting the angry glitter in cold green eyes as well as the extremely careful breathing, the flared nostrils and thinned lips, the pallid hue of skin that should be golden....

"Alex, I'm not letting those—no one is going to—do that to you again, not if I have—"

"Yeah, right," Alex bit out. "Today you're getting a kick out of feeling noble and heroic, but I know you, Mulder. Tomorrow it'll be a different story. Sometime next week you'll have a crisis of conscience and decide that everything I ever told you was one big lie and that I was working for the enemy of your choice all along. Well, fuck that. We're going through with this the way we planned it. You're not going to get away with giving me any more shit on how I never told you the truth."

Astonishment silenced Mulder for a long moment, his brain scrambling in vain for something reasonably intelligent to say.

"There's no reason for you to go through this," he tried at last, settling for stating the obvious. "I know you've been telling me the truth, Alex, I don't want—"

Alex punched him in the stomach, hard enough to make the breath whoosh from Mulder's lungs in surprise, but not hard enough to hurt.

"Ow," he said reproachfully, trying to look as though he were in pain. He could tell Alex wasn't buying it. "What was that for?"

"I've never given you any reason to trust me," Alex gritted. "You're nothing but a damn idiot. Don't ever trust people like me."

Mulder stared at him while an idea so strange and frightening and wonderful began to form in his mind that he was unable to speak for a long moment. Memories crowded together and sorted themselves out. Memories of Alex's voice.

"Tell me the truth," Mulder said at last, speaking very softly. "Would you hurt me?"

"Yes," Alex said coldly, without thinking. "Make no mistakes about me, Mulder. I know you want me to be someone you can fuck without guilt—"

"Let me rephrase. Would you hurt me or allow me to be hurt for any reason other than to ensure your own survival or to protect me from coming to worse harm?"

Alex's gaze was steady. He didn't hesitate. "Wouldn't be cheap," he said evenly. "For the right offer? Yes."

He was lying.

Mulder smiled. "Alex, you would never have said that if it were true."

The smile he got in return was slow and dangerous. "Maybe not. Or maybe I'm simply more devious than you suspected, Mulder. Have you considered that? You will, you know. Oh, you certainly will."

That did it. Mulder's patience snapped. "Alex, you are not doing this!" he shouted. "There is no way in hell that you are doing this, and that is the last word on the subject!"

"We had a deal, Mulder!"

It was grotesque—Alex insisting on being subjected to his worst nightmare certainly hadn't featured on the list of things Mulder had considered likely to happen. But then, it was becoming clear that alien possession was not truly his worst nightmare. There was something worse. Mulder believing that Alex had never told him the truth. Mulder hating him.

It was a good thing the alien wouldn't agree to this now that Mulder had made his opinion on the subject clear. Mulder never wanted to see Alex in that state again. The mere memory of the look of terror and hate and blinding, helpless, hopeless rage in his eyes was enough to make Mulder's blood run cold.

Alex straightened and squared his shoulders, his chin coming up a notch, his breathing deepening. He walked past before Mulder could catch more than a glimpse of the look on his face, but that brief look was enough to make Mulder's marrow freeze in his bones. Glacial, adamantine ruthlessness.

No, God no—

Mulder fumbled his weapon from his holster and then stood there with the gun in his hand, not knowing what the hell to do with it. Shoot Alex, shoot the alien, both, neither, what the fuck was going on here anyway—

The mustachioed alien tranquilly watched Alex walk up to it, waiting in inhuman motionlessness. Alex stopped within touching distance of it, his back to Mulder, his entire body screaming tension. "You heard," he said, his tone flat and impassive. "There is a prior agreement that touches upon his dealings with you between him and me. We both agreed to the terms. He can't go back on it now. His word must stand."

Jesus. "Alex!"

"Affirmative," the alien acknowledged, the lack of inflection in its tone matching Alex's. "Elaborate the nature of the existing prior agreement."

"I agreed to tell him the truth from the time of the agreement forward until you returned, whenever that might be. He agreed to ask you to expand your gift in a certain way." Alex paused for a couple of seconds, and Mulder could hear the breath rasp in his lungs. When he spoke on, his voice was still completely expressionless. "To ascertain that I had been telling him the truth. By checking. And immediately leaving. Without—looking at anything else or losing any time in leaving."

The blond head bobbed in the characteristic alien nod. "Special Agent Fox William Mulder's motivation in attempting to void his agreement to the stated terms is purely emotional and contractually inconsequential. Accompany me into the room allotted to you."

And Alex did.

It was worse than a nightmare. Mulder burst through the—unlocked—door in the wake of the alien and the damned idiot and froze just inside the room, still helplessly clutching the gun.

"Close the door, Mulder," Alex said tightly.

Mulder closed the door, swallowing back bile. He felt as though he were about to witness a rape—and he was, he was letting it happen. Worse, he was watching it happen as a direct result of his own actions. He was the one responsible for this. He was the one subjecting Alex to this torture, and he could think of absolutely no way of preventing it from taking place.

"Please," he whispered. "Alex, please."

"Knock it off," Alex said, not looking at him. "If you're going to have one of your guilt trips over this I swear I'll throw up."

He couldn't shoot Alex. It probably wasn't possible to harm the alien with a bullet—it hadn't seemed solid enough for that, Mulder would only hit the mustachioed man, and that would make everything even worse, because then the alien would need a new host.

Alex sat in a chair and stared up at the alien, eyes narrowed and jaw set. The alien walked over to stand in front of him and bent forward slightly, staring into his face searchingly just as it had the last time.

Mulder made himself watch as the alien put the scrawny man's hands on Alex's shoulders and leaned down, touching foreheads.

In the instant before the bright flash of light dazzled Mulder, he saw the muscles in Alex's jaw jump. Alex's body jerked once in a small convulsive motion that settled into a subliminal tremor exactly like a minor epileptic seizure. The first alien held Alex down until the tremor passed, only then releasing his shoulders to step back. Mulder wondered whether these beings always traveled in groups or whether they'd come prepared for another interrogation of their gift.

"Hurry up," Mulder snarled. "What are you waiting for! Just tell me he's been telling the truth and get the hell out!"

Alex's eyes were glazed, his pupils distended, but he didn't look nearly as bad as he had the last time this had happened. Of course, the other possession had lasted much longer—the color was draining from his skin even now, his body slumping back against the chair in unnatural limpness.

"Motor control has been established," the alien occupying the mustachioed man said evenly. "Memory access is not yet sufficiently advanced to allow for unrestricted analysis of the stored data."

How could it tell? Were they in constant communication even when housed in different hosts or was there some kind of physical indication of how far possession had progressed about Alex—something Mulder's human senses were unable to perceive?

Mulder tasted blood and realized he'd bitten through the inside of his lip. How could he be wondering about such things now....

"It is resisting access," Alex's voice announced flatly.

The standing alien regarded Mulder calmly. "Please confirm. Am I correct in concluding that the resistance my associate is encountering is to be accounted for by the entity's imperative necessity for control and the circumstance that said necessity overrides its conscious volition?"

"His name is Alex." Mulder had meant the remark to be a snarl, but his throat was too tight and it came out as no more than an aggressive whisper. "Just get it over with."

"Full memory access has been established," the alien in Alex's body announced. "Alex is uncertain whether an inaccurate statement regarding his state of being is to be regarded a lie."

"What?"

"Within the time frame specified by the agreement, there were several instances of inaccurate statements concerning his state of being. Foremost in his recollection is the statement ‘I'm fine' in response to your query ‘Alex, are you all right.'"

"That's not—" Mulder cut himself off quickly, clamping his teeth onto his bleeding lip. He didn't want to prolong this ordeal.

"Furthermore, while attempting to rouse you from a temporary catatonic state he claimed Bill Mulder was your father and that he had killed your father. Both of these assertions are untrue. He claimed that everything would be fine, which was likewise untrue. Other than that, Alex believes that within the time frame as set, he has been adequately successful in misleading and diverting you while keeping to the letter of the agreement, avoiding outright untruths."

Avoiding outright untruths. Misleading and diverting....

Just one question.... One would be enough. If Mulder knew what Alex felt for him, why he was afraid.... Whether he had been lying just now, whether there was a price that would make Alex hurt Mulder and what it was.

The coppery tang of blood clogged Mulder's sinuses, the biting sweetness of its taste filled his mouth. He swallowed and breathed deeply, trying without success to rid himself of the smell. The stench of blood. Betrayal. Death. Alex.

Alex had gained his trust, won his affection, made Mulder want him—and then he had betrayed him. Now, he had regained a grudging measure of the trust Mulder had thought irrevocably shattered, redeemed an affection that had turned to agonized hate in Mulder's heart, made Mulder desire him beyond thought or reason.

There was part of Mulder that knew the only result of this could be another betrayal, more severe than the first. The part of Mulder that would always know Alexander, called Alex, as Alex Krycek the liar, traitor, and murderer knew that the only possible outcome of any involvement with him was pain. More pain than Mulder could bear.

Mulder wanted to believe, but he would not be able to survive another betrayal. If he let himself believe in Alex again only to find that he had been deceived, again.... It had been agony the first time, when Mulder had not really known him, had never really touched him, hadn't felt this mad craving to possess him, all of him....

One question, and Mulder would know.

But Alex—if he existed—was every bit as afraid as Mulder. He needed to be in control, needed it so badly that he was helpless to prevent himself from fighting a hopeless struggle against an alien he had invited into his body and mind himself. He dared not show the truth of himself because he knew with absolute certainty that it would be used against him. His life had taught him lessons even harsher than those Mulder had had to learn. Alex could not allow himself to trust Mulder, even if he wanted to.

If Mulder could not trust Alex, he could ask the alien. He could have certainty. But by asking, he would forfeit any chance he might have had of gaining Alex's trust. Forever.

And Mulder knew, didn't he... even if he couldn't allow himself to believe, Mulder knew.

Alex had killed an armed Consortium courier while cuffed half-frozen to a balcony, had killed Max while under the witch's strongest coercion—had overcome four armed thugs while no more than a boy. And yet, Alex had never truly fought back when Mulder had beaten him up. Alex, who was capable of rising from a full-fledged panic attack through the force of his will and then walking up to the reason for the attack and demanding to be subjected to his worst fear—Alex had repeatedly run from Mulder.

Pragmatic Alex had called Mulder a silver blade, had told him he burned his soul, had held him and talked until he was too exhausted to know what he was saying. Alex who knew only survival had shielded him with his body in Riley's study, had attacked a witch for no apparent reason, had come through the spell-storm to hold Mulder down. Controlled Alex had screamed when his body arched into Mulder's.

"Get out," Mulder snarled at the alien. "Get out. Right now. Now!"

The mustachioed alien moved with precisely the same smooth, inhuman economy of motion as before, but it felt as though it was taking it forever to walk back to Alex. The second alien lifted Alex's head and the two stared at each other briefly before repeating the transfer. Mulder looked to the side when the scrawny body the aliens had arrived in bent down; he didn't want to look into the flash of transfer and lose the seconds it would take his vision to recover.

The instant the brilliant flare of light that whitened the edge of his vision passed, Mulder jumped forward. The small man's body moved aside barely in time to prevent Mulder from shoving it out of the way. "Alex?"

He looked as though he had fallen asleep, sprawled back over the chair bonelessly, eyes closed, breathing even. Pale, yes, a faint shimmer of sweat on the forehead, but other than that.... He didn't look anything like the waxy, breathing corpse he'd been when he'd been handed over to Mulder. It seemed the relative brevity of this possession had spared him at least physically.

Mulder touched a hesitant hand to the side of Alex's neck, trying to reassure himself by the steady pulse and the warmth of the skin. He should be waking up by now. Mulder couldn't remember that it had taken him this long the last time. What if there was some kind of cumulative effect to this kind of alien's possession—what if—

He cut off the thought in mid-notion and leaned down to gather Alex's limp body into a firm embrace. "Come on, Alex," he murmured into his ear. "Wake up, you have to wake up—"

The sudden spasm stiffened the slack body, whipped the spine into a taut arch and hardened every previously relaxed muscle into granite rigidity. It would have toppled over the chair and sent both Alex and Mulder to the floor if Mulder hadn't watched this happen once before; as it was he had been prepared for this and held the rigid body down, tightening his grip as abrupt relaxation gave way to convulsive shivering.

An ache of agony and helpless, undirected rage constricted Mulder's throat and he had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Don't ever do that again."

The shaking was considerably less severe than it had been the first time; Mulder felt the shudders lessen almost immediately. "Just... a habit," Alex gasped out, sounding weak and breathless. "Can stop... any time I want."

Mulder laughed, his voice almost as shaky as Alex's. "Yeah, that's what they all say."

"Exposure of this duration will result only in temporary and minor impairment of voluntary muscular control. Please signal your readiness to proceed to the negotiation of the terms of our prospective agreement of trade."

Mulder did no such thing. He was too busy burying his nose in soft dark hair and breathing in his lover's scent. Alex tried to push him away, but there was no urgency or fear to his movements and Mulder didn't let him go.

Alex was still weak and gave up after a moment, relaxing into Mulder's arms. He didn't return the embrace, but Mulder could feel him leaning into the contact, and he was almost certain that the soft puff of breath that caressed his neck, making him shiver in tandem with the younger man, was the product of deliberate calculation.

"How temporary?" Alex asked finally, his voice almost back to normal.

There was a pause before the alien answered. "No longer than ten minutes."

Mulder wondered whether the delay had been due to the need to convert whatever scale of temporal measurement it used into the earth standard or whether it had been considering if this particular creature merited a response.

"Mulder," Alex growled. "I'm fine, okay? Let me go, I have to get my things together."

The thought that they were back to inaccurate statements concerning Alex's state of being momentarily prevented the second remark from penetrating. When it finally did, Mulder released Alex and stepped back quickly, trying for a neutral expression. "Yes, of course."

Alex sat up and stretched carefully. The shivering was no more than a barely noticeable tremor now, but it had not been the physical damage Mulder had been most worried about, anyway.

"Alex, it would be better if you stayed. I swear I won't touch you. Stay until tomorrow morning—you'll feel better then and—"

"I feel fine now," Alex said impassively, looking down at his hands and flexing his fingers like a pianist preparing for a concert. His sable lashes looked very dark against skin still far from its accustomed golden hue.

"Right. That's why you're breathing so carefully."

"Shut up, Mulder."

Mulder shut up. Briefly. "Don't be stupid, Alex. I'll get another room. If the Consortium's people find you while you're like this—"

"No. Now that your friends have arrived, there's no need for me to stay any longer, and I need every bit of head start I can get." He stood up, the motion smooth and effortless as always as far as Mulder could tell. The last remaining tremors had vanished; Alex turned his back to the alien, who was standing completely immobile not far away, and went into several of the liquid, unbearably sensual dips and stretches he liked to do—dips and stretches that Mulder knew perfectly well were meant to loosen stiff muscles, not to entice him.

The knowledge didn't do much to dispel the images of that body moving against Mulder's, though.... Back arching, yes, just like that—dipping into Mulder's touch, stretching under his caresses, growling, rising from the sheets with just this kind of powerful grace, rising against Mulder, into Mulder....

Alex's eyes burned into Mulder's, clear and deep and green as the sea. "You know, I'd really like to postpone my departure for an hour or two," he said, his voice dark enough to make Mulder's mouth go dry. "I sincerely doubt your buddies over there have that high a tolerance for the biological quirks of solid species, though."

Actually, the aliens' demonstrably voluminous store of knowledge on human behavior and their obvious interest in the factors governing it made Mulder suspect they might not have been at all averse to a demonstration of one or the other biological quirk. Alex would feel better not knowing that, though.

"It's been real, Mulder. Got any cash on you?"

Mulder told himself that it was just as well he was leaving—he doubted he could have afforded Alex on a regular basis. Luxurious hotels, expensive clothes, food by the ton, weapons by the closet-full, representative cars... escape money....

His wallet held exactly forty-six dollars and fifteen cents.

Alex pocketed the money with a put-upon sigh. "Oh well. I suppose I can always hold up a store on my way out of town."

"I wasn't really expecting to finance your getaway," Mulder said defensively. "Give me some notice next time."

He didn't realize what he'd implied until he saw Alex's face change, and he wasn't certain just what he'd seen before the impassive mask of the assassin came up at full force.

"What about him?" Alex said, jerking his head towards the alien without taking his eyes off Mulder.

Mulder raised his brows. "The alien?"

"The small guy with the furry lip. He looks as though he's still wearing the original outfit. Either he's got about two dimes and a quarter, or six gold watches and a wad of bills an inch thick. Assuming he didn't blow his entire day's take on whatever it was that made him bite the bullet, of course."

Mulder stared at the alien's host. "What makes you think he's a thief?"

"Instinct." Alex shrugged and grinned. "Think about it, Mulder. If you need some cash quick, what's the best way to get it?"

"You steal it?" Mulder guessed, feeling transported into a different dimension. Welcome to the world of the ruthless survivor. Please check your scruples at the entrance, and take note that we can't guarantee your safety if you have morals to weigh you down.

"Close. Why take risks when you can let someone else do it for you, though? You find a thief, Mulder. A good one at the end of a long and successful working day."

"Of course," Mulder said numbly. "Might have thought of that."

"I propose a limited agreement of trade, Alexander," the suspected thief's voice announced.

No last name, Mulder noted. It called Mulder by title and complete name, but Alex got only the first name. A matter of courtesy—not revealing what Alex regarded classified information? Or an indication that it considered Alex to be of inferior status? But then, Alex didn't have a last name. Of course he knew his parents' name—from the files, if nothing else—but he wouldn't think of himself as part of the family that had betrayed him and cast him out of their midst as a sacrifice to keep the others safe.

"Elaborate," Alex said, his voice every bit as flat as the alien's. He didn't turn around.

"I propose a trade of pertinent information on your motivation in leading the conversation in the demonstrated manner in return for the four hundred and fifty-four dollars that were in possession of this one and are now in mine."

The alien was actively studying human psychology. Mulder also noted that it spoke in the singular, indicating that one alien was very clearly in charge, the other or others merely along for the ride.

"Not acceptable."

Stunned, Mulder stared at Alex. Alex quirked his eyebrows at him before heading for the closet, pulling the duffel out from underneath boxes of crossbow bolts and assorted other weaponry.

Not acceptable? It had sounded like an excellent deal to Mulder. "Alex—"

He tossed the jeans and tee-shirt he'd bought and never worn on the bed and began packing the rest of his clothes with quick efficiency. "They've dug around in my psyche enough, thanks."

That was understandable... but there was something more. Mulder would think about it later; right now, there were other things on his mind.

Mulder wanted Alex to stay, but he was right—the sooner he left, the farther he was from Mulder when the Consortium began to wonder about Kevin Alexander, the better his chances were. Not to mention that Mulder had no idea of how the alien situation would develop, and making Alex stay in the same general vicinity with them would be more than cruel.

The thought of letting Alex walk out of this room and out of Mulder's life was unbearable, but there was no viable alternative. Mulder knew it. He hated it, but he knew it.

He watched Alex with complete concentration, studying the lines of the body beneath the well-cut suit, the perfect angle of his jaw, the dark curve of eyebrow, the way his lashes swept down when he sorted through a small collection of knives, apparently looking for one in particular. The lithe movements, not betraying aftereffects of alien possession anymore. The delicate upwards tilt of the nose that was only visible in profile.

The memories of four days could not possibly be enough to last a lifetime, but it seemed Mulder was not going to be given the choice. He would have to make the most of the time that remained.

Alex grabbed the clothes from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Mulder experienced a bitter pang of regret that he would lose these memories because Alex didn't want to change in front of the alien. Maybe if he followed him, Alex would let him watch.... Maybe he'd let him touch, as well, let Mulder store up some more memories of emerald eyes smoldering with passion, the feel of Alex against him....

Then again, maybe it wasn't the alien that Alex didn't want to see him change.

Mulder turned around aimlessly and his eyes fell on the thief standing in the corner in unnatural motionlessness, his body holding at least two aliens patiently waiting to do business.

"I'll pay you back," Mulder burst out, the idea flashing into his mind full-fledged. "If you give me your—his—the host's money, I'll pay you five hundred dollars even tomorrow." They were unlikely to need money, of course, but the fact that these aliens were very business-oriented might lead them to appreciate a good offer even if they had no actual use for what was being bartered.

The alien considered briefly before bobbing its head in the affirmative. It didn't look down as it slid the scruffy man's hand into an inside pocket of the leather jacket and extracted a packet of bills; not a single muscle except those of the arm executing the motion moved. It was the most inhuman action Mulder had seen the alien perform so far, in this or the previous body. It obviously hadn't practiced this motion.

Mulder accepted the money and walked over to where Alex's duffel waited on the bed, beginning to tuck the bills on top of an expensive cream-colored shirt. A tightly rolled tie stuffed into an edge of the bag shifted, revealing a familiar pattern.

Staring at the bright yellow and green pattern of his favorite tie, Mulder knew that he was once again attempting the impossible. He could not let Alex go. It was inconceivable.

"Mulder?"

"Here." Mulder turned and thrust the alien's money at the man who'd come up behind him without making a sound. "I can't have you ruining the local economy by robbing stores."

Alex's gaze darted towards the duffel and back to Mulder, a wary look passing over his features. Brushing past Mulder briskly, he stowed the shirt and suit pants he'd been wearing on top of his other clothes and shrugged back into the jacket to conceal the gun in his waistband and the knives strapped to his forearms. He'd doubtless have taken a crossbow if he could have figured out how to carry one concealed.

"Thanks," he said then, taking the money.

He was still wearing the bandages. It was conspicuous, but it couldn't be avoided—revealing half-healed wounds that looked precisely like what they were, namely injuries caused by sharp-edged restraints, would be sure to attract even more attention. Alex would have to pass the injury off as a sports accident again, or maybe attempted suicide....

"So. Who's the new persona?"

"This one?" Alex looked down at himself. "He's no one. An anonymous traveler."

Mulder nodded, cleared his throat, and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"Christ, Mulder, quit acting like your hamster died," Alex snapped. "You've got a steady income you're not afraid to spend, nice taste in clothes, good instincts.... You don't exactly crack mirrors, either, except when you smash them manually. Get over yourself, it won't be that hard to find some other pretty boy to bend over for you."

"Alex."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Well, find someone with a high tolerance for pain and send them to a foreign language course. You'll see, as soon as you get them in handcuffs and shove them around a little you'll be all set."

He was trying to push Mulder away again. It was a good sign—if Alex needed to push Mulder away, it meant that he'd gotten close in some way. "You're asking me to go to a lot of trouble, Alex. I think I'll just keep you, you're already broken in."

A brief flash of mingled pain and anger passed across the younger man's features. He pressed his lips together and looked to the side, fighting for impassivity.

He felt something. He might not want to, but he felt this connection, too, and that was why he had been running. He had been fleeing his own reaction to Mulder.

Determination surged through Mulder, bringing a familiar clarity of purpose. He straightened unconsciously, narrowing his eyes. Moping wasn't what this situation called for. Mulder had staked his claim on Alex—now it was time to follow through. Alex had to be kept as safe as possible, but he could not be allowed to get away. He had to be given some line, allowed to exert control, feel secure.... But he could not be allowed to get away. Not ever again.

"All right," he said, quiet danger swinging in his tone. "This is what you'll do. You'll leave now. You'll make sure those bastards can't find you. And when you get where you're going, you'll let me know you're still breathing. Got it?"

"Sure, Mulder. Why don't I send you my forwarding address so you can pass it on to all your friends and relatives."

Mulder resolutely pushed the thoughts invading his mind and threatening to distract him aside. There would be a time for this, as well, but it was not now. This was the time to concentrate solely on the man in front of him.

In reference to the man in front of him, the remark was telling. Alex had tried to conceal this truth from Mulder—or rather, what he believed to be the truth in this particular instance. Left to himself, he had never before alluded to Mulder's parentage in any way. It was a topic he avoided scrupulously. He had to be feeling extremely pressured in order to use it to gain an advantage over Mulder.

"It's not open for discussion, Alexander." A strange expression flitted over Alex's face at the use of the long form of his name. Mulder filed it away for later consideration. "I don't care how you do it. I want to know. You're going to let me know you're all right or I will have to look for you myself, and chances are if I find you—when I find you—there are going to be a lot of other people right behind me. Your choice."

"Jesus, sex really messes with your brain chemistry, doesn't it?"

Mulder ignored the sneer curling Alex's lip; it was only another mask he was trying to hide behind. "As soon as it's safe, I want to see you."

Green eyes widened in unfeigned astonishment. "The head witch was right, you are insane."

"That's my favorite tie you've got in your luggage. If you think I'm going to let you keep it indefinitely, you're in for a rude awakening."

Alex was much too close to the end of his rope—it made his emotions almost easy to read. Shock. Anger. Fear... and a trace of something that Mulder decided to believe was longing.

After a long moment, Alex's gaze slid sideways, brushing past the alien quickly. When he looked back to Mulder, a small, ironic twist turned up the corners of his mouth; his voice was strangely tired, almost defeated. "You ever been to the other Weimar, Fox?"

Mulder shook his head thoughtfully. "Nice place?"

"Yeah." He smiled, a shadow of his ironic grin with a hint of warmth showing in the eyes. It was a good try—a very good try—but it was wasted on Mulder. Mulder knew that Alex was lying through his teeth. "Maybe you'd like to see it sometime.... See the sights, do some research on poets and cultural exchange programs, things like that. You know, it really is scandalous how lax the airlines are about customer confidentiality these days—I bet anyone could hack in and look for distinctive names on the passenger lists."

"Alex." Mulder searched his expression carefully. "I don't want to do this if it's going to get you killed. If I am followed everywhere by the Consortium—"

"Oh, that.... No, Fox. No problem." This smile was slow and dangerous. "Believe me. No problem."

This part was no lie, and seeing the dark glitter in Alex's eyes made Mulder extremely uneasy. What had Alex been up to before the aliens had snatched him? No good, that much was certain.... The idea of Alex engaged in legal and unobjectionable activities was contradictory in itself.

Still, Mulder had known exactly what he was getting into. This time, he'd known what Alex was when he'd decided he wanted him. There was darkness there—ruthlessness and violence, expert lies, and purposefully deployed viciousness. There was no moral code, no higher aim, no belief in truth or justice. No conscience. No scruples. He did what had to be done, and he never looked back.

But that was not all there was. There was also courage, strength, and passion, gentleness, protectiveness, vulnerability... innumerable qualities that Mulder would probably never truly understand. He understood enough, though. Mulder no longer regretted the fact that Alex was not the man he might have been. He did not want a hypothetical Alex, a smooth and comfortable fiction with all of the scars, darkness and violence removed and all of the power and spirit, all of the things that made him Alex, remaining. Such a thing was not even conceivable—the qualities that attracted Mulder had been forged in the same furnace that had brought forth the darkness. No, Mulder wanted the Alex he knew, damaged, dangerous and incomprehensible as he was.

Mulder never stopped to ponder rationality or calculate risks when he knew that what he was doing was right. Nothing had ever felt as right as Alex.

Alex broke eye contact and looked down, seeming almost surprised to find that he was holding over four hundred dollars in small, used bills. He tucked the money into an inside pocket of Kevin's jacket and smoothed a hand through his short hair from back to front, making it stand on end. The slightly ruffled look, the impish little grin he suddenly wore and the energetic, enthusiastic bounce in his step as he went to the bed and snatched up the duffel, draping it over his shoulder negligently, made him look about ten years younger. Cute, in an utterly harmless kind of way. Just a kid going to see a little of the world before marrying his girlfriend and settling down into a nice, respectable job and a nice, respectable life.

The decision had been made. This man was Mulder's. He was not getting away—no way in hell. He thought he was walking out of the door and out of Mulder's life, but he was sorely mistaken. It was too late for that. He was never getting away.

"Bye, Fox," the teen breathed close to Mulder's mouth, leaf-green eyes sparkling mischievously.

Mulder caught him by the nape of the neck and pulled him close to brush his lips with his own, holding him near long enough to smell the scent of his skin. He flicked the tip of his tongue over Alex's mouth once, tasting him.

He'd find him again. He was Mulder's.

For a moment, Mulder thought Alex would lean forward the last fraction of an inch and kiss him. Long lashes swept down as Alex's gaze darted to Mulder's mouth, came up again to reveal a new tone of green, an almost aqua shade Mulder immediately stored away with the other memories of Alex that he planned to take out and look at in the nights that would pass before he caught his elusive lover again.

The moment broke. Alex pulled back, collected himself briefly, and then disappeared, slipping from sight behind the face of a jaunty, carefree, and easygoing boy who knew that life was good because experience had shown that all of the cheerleaders and a good many members of the football team would be only too glad to go out with him.

"Have fun," the beautiful stranger admonished Mulder with a cocky, unfamiliar grin, giving the alien a wide berth without seeming to do so as he bounded to the door. It was the first time Mulder had ever known Alex to slam a door.

Mulder only hoped Alex knew what he was doing. For his part, he didn't think there was any chance of anyone forgetting this so-called anonymous traveler. The kid would be propositioned every time he turned around.

"You may be interested to note that among my people, the gift of a mate is considered to be of superior value to the gift of an enemy," the alien commented inflectionlessly.

Mulder would no doubt be very interested in this as soon as he could bring himself to stop worrying that Alex was in no shape to attempt slipping through the Consortium's fingers right now, that he was too close to the edge, too tired, too vulnerable.

"Tell me something." Mulder turned to study the alien narrowly. "Can a being whose genetic pattern is on file be located without alerting anyone, including himself, to the fact?"

Washed-out blue eyes blinked owlishly; the alien considered the question for a moment and then bobbed its head, turning the thief's thin lips up at the corners. "The procedure you suggest is feasible."

Whatever the outcome of Mulder's negotiations with the aliens would be, one thing was certain. Mulder was keeping the introductory gift.