Odi Et Amo - Mia Munro

Odi Et Amo

by Mia Munro

Title: Odi et Amo
Author: Mia Munro
Genre: SKipper, AU, PWP, Post-Colonization
Keywords: SKipper, Krycek, Scully, Angst, AU, PWP, Post-Colonization.
Rating: Strong R, no violence. Sex and mild language.
Spoilers: None
Archiving: Anywhere as long as you tell me you've archived it and where.
Disclaimers: I own no one, since slavery went out of fashion some time ago. Nor do I have any money,
just debts, so it's no use suing. Win or lose, FOX would still end up having to pay their $300 an hour
lawyers. Can't get blood out of a stone.
Notes: This is a possible sequel to my earlier story 'Forgive Us Our Trespasses.' But you really don't
have to read it to understand. All that's necessary to know is that Scully and Krycek once had a
relationship. 'Odi et Amo' is not my usual stuff. It is my first tentative venture into smut and PWP
territory. I wrote it after I'd gone trawling the 'net for x-file stories and discovered post-
colonization fanfic over Christmas. Boy, was I hooked! And writing it was so much fun, I may write
some more in the same AU. My warmest thanks goes once again to Megan for such positive and instant
feedback! And to Kelly for taking the time and effort to beta when she has so many more important
things in her life.
Feedback: Please?
Summary: In the hell of post-colonization two people meet.

He waited silently in the shadows of a ruined city.

Leaning his shoulder against the fast decaying remains of a once proud, tall building, he melted into
the surrounding darkness. All around him the air was alive with the sounds of the night and the sudden
wind that ruffled his hair carried with it the metallic tang of fear, danger and despair.

Almost, he smiled at the shiver whispering through the back of his mind. A feeling of not-quite
anticipation, not-quite fear but something in between. There had been a time and not too long ago,
when it had been as familiar to him as breathing. A time when he lived his life in shadows and peril.

A mirthless smile stretched his mouth. That had been before the planet was swallowed by darkness.
Before he emerged into the world as one of the new rulers. In the here and now, he called the shots,
had power and riches of which, once, he'd only been able to dream.

The thought gave him little joy.

A line from some long-forgotten poem teased the edges of his mind. Something about a man gaining the
world and losing his soul.

He suddenly moved restlessly, faint unease prickling the back of his neck. Coldly, calmly, he wondered
if out there, in the night waiting to embrace him, there were eyes watching his every move.
Calculating how to bring him down. Silently, he contemplated the darkness, green eyes automatically
noting and filing away for future reference the areas of defense. Of weakness and strength.

Another too familiar feeling.

He had come alone, without bodyguards, without the usual flock of servants and aides that always
seemed to surround him. Without the people who catered to his every whim and jumped to obey his
commands. The people he ruled with a heavy hand and complete indifference in his heart.

Standing in his opulent bedroom earlier in the night, he had slowly rubbed the faded, rough denim in
his hands as he dressed. The well-worn jeans and simple cotton that yet felt more familiar than the
custom-made designer suits and silk shirts that he usually wore. Running his hands down his jeans, he
felt the fabric slide easily against his fingers. He lifted and inspected his fingertips and realized
he was losing his calluses. He tried to think of the last time he had picked up a gun; and couldn't
remember. But then, what need did he have of the skills honed during a lifetime on the edge? No need
at all, when there were bodyguards and slaves to die for him.

Staring at himself in the wall-length mirror as he shrugged into an old leather jacket he saw the
anticipatory glitter in narrowed green eyes. He stood in silence for a moment and contemplated his
reflection. And then he smiled a little twistedly, acknowledging that the hard-eyed, scruffy man in
the mirror was far more familiar than the polished, elegant, lord and master he usually saw there.

As he walked outside, swinging his leg over the ornate stone balustrade, he breathed out softly in
something close to contentment. The darkness of the night, of danger, whispered through his blood like
wildfire. Anticipation rose within him at the thought of roaming the shadows once again.

He slipped silently across the rails, landing lightly on the other side of the wall that surrounded
the vast, cold, palace he called home. And as he left the stone and mortar behind all he felt was
release from an intolerable burden.

Waiting in silence, his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He felt old instinctive habits return,
as he flowed into the ruins to avoid detection. Hearing the crunch of the rubble beneath his feet, a
faint chuckle broke from his throat. How the mighty had fallen indeed. He wondered if they knew, those
who had once worked in the debris of the building in which he was standing. Those who had believed in
truth, justice and the law.

The men and women who had lost a war before they had ever known there was a battle to be fought.

On the horizon, he smelled the smoke curling from the campfires that dotted the skyline. It was almost
inconceivable to think that the people of the western world would decline so far that they had to warm
themselves by a real fire. And yet they had. Not just the homeless and the outcasts, but everyone but
the new elite. The select few, the chosen ones; people like Alex Krycek come to take their revenge.

The other survivors huddled, blank-eyed and subjugated, in their miserable hovels striving to scratch
a living from the wreckage of their world. Dull from starvation and abuse, they had become the
apathetic slaves of an alien species and their human servants. Only a obstinate few refused to accept
defeat and desperately fought a war they could never win. Raising his head, he thought he could all
but taste the despair and hopelessness that enveloped the world. The bleak fog of alien domination and
Consortium rule that shrouded a once fair, green, planet.

In the distance there was a sudden thin wail of pain, abruptly cut off. The sound did not move him.
One thing at least had not changed, mankind was still divided into wolves and sheep; the one preying
on the other. He'd always been a wolf, or as Mulder would have it, a rat. The ultimate survivor.
Still, he'd never really expected to survive. He had always thought that sooner rather than later his
body would be found in some dark alley or float to shore. Yet here he was, while Mulder... He laughed
softly into the night. An irony to delight the gods, indeed.

Absently he pulled up a cigarette and lit it, took a drag, and then dropped it on the ground stubbing
it out with the heel of his shoe. A rarity these days, cigarettes. Most luxury goods were. But then,
there were also exceedingly fewer men to divide the spoils. He could afford to casually throw away
what would be thought a minor fortune by most. Oh yes, he had everything his heart desired. Wealth.
Women. Power. Everything but the one thing he really wanted...

He began to pace, too restless to stand still. Mind and body on edge. There was an icy cold freezing
his blood, and not from the chill of the air. Why now, when he had everything he had once coveted, did
his stomach clench in dread and horror? What caused him to wake up at night, in the enormous bed where
he slept alone, sweating and choking back screams of terror and panic?

He ceased his pacing and exhaled softly in self-disgust, running a hand through his hair. Shit, it
wasn't as if he had anything to fear. Of those few above him in power, none were really interested in
his doings. For the first time ever there was no one after his tail. No one who wanted to kill him.
Hell, even if the Resistance by a miracle prevailed, he'd be celebrated a hero. Once again, he'd
managed to play both sides with a skill second to none.

He pulled up another cigarette, but it was left to dangle, forgotten from his fingers, as his mind
began to wander again. In all honesty he hadn't thought he could still be afraid. That he had that
much emotion left in him. He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or angry that he was wrong. For a
moment, he wasn't even sure what he was doing. Why he would risk everything, including his life, and
for what? A distant memory of everything warm. Everything good.

Dana.

Her name flooded his mind like a mantra. Perhaps he whispered it, perhaps he shouted it defiantly into
the listening night... Dana. Beautiful Dana. His Dana.

No, not his. Not any more. Not since the beginning of the apocalypse. Not since he had chosen survival
before destruction. Service before resistance.

He started, tensing, and then relaxed again, slowly unclenching his jaw. No, it was not her, not yet.
He still had a few moments alone. A few moments to come up with a reason that would make her
understand, if not forgive.

A reason for her not to look at him with an ice that cut deeper into the soul than any blade of steel.
If he could only think of a single reason... He laughed, the sound bitter, acrid. He had thought of
little else during the past two years, yet so far he'd not even been able to persuade himself.

There were times he could just as easily have hated her. Hate her for judging him, however justified.
Hate her for making him feel, when he would rather be numb. Ah, hell, there were times when he did
hate her for being what she was. So true, so proud, so.... free. For being everything he wasn't. For
showing him just how far he had fallen.

***

Despite his vigilance, she surprised him. One moment he was alone, the next she was standing in front
of him, studying him carefully, warily. The top of her head just reached his shoulder. For some reason
it never ceased to surprise him how petite she was. Perhaps because her spirit burned so brightly. She
looked delicate. Dainty.

Deadly.

As always, now, she was dressed in black and a knitted cap covered the blazing red of her hair. Feet
encased in boots. She was wearing the color as naturally as he'd once worn it, and with the same
faintly defiant pride. Over her shoulder, she'd slung her automatic rifle. She made his heart bleed.

Watching her; calmly competent, perpetually scanning the surroundings, her every move graceful and
controlled, he accepted that everything nonessential in her had been burned away in the fire that had
consumed the world.

Only the diamond-hard core remained.

She was a finely honed blade. Dedicated to the taking of life, where once she had been a healer.
Perhaps that was the greatest crime of all; that her very purpose in life, her soul, had been warped
and perverted by her struggle to survive.

If he'd had any tears left, he would have cried for her.

He looked at her and saw steel and ice where once she had been light and warmth. To survive she had
become more dangerous than the men hunting her. A prey turned hunter.

"Krycek." Her voice was cool, neutral. An eternity ago she had called him Alex, and his name on her
lips had been a caress, an endearment of love. Strange that after everything that had happened, what
hurt most was her refusal to say his name. As if in denying him that, she denied everything that had
once been between them.

"Dana," he refused to play the game. Besides, he couldn't call her Scully. The name brought up too
many painful memories, summoned too many uneasy ghosts. Some who weren't even dead yet. "How are you?
You look - "

"I look like hell," she cut him off curtly. "What have you got for me?"

He had begged enough for ten lifetimes, but still he spoke in a soft, pleading murmur. "It can surely
wait for a few moments. We haven't seen each other for two months," ... one week, three days, four
hours and forty-eight minutes.

"Not long enough for me, Krycek." No, she would not give an inch. He'd been a fool to ever think she
would. "Talk to me." Implicit in the coldness was her command not to vaste her time, since she had
none to spare. Unlike him.

He surrendered, as he always would before this woman. "There is going to be a raid next week.
Intelligence has discovered the Montana supply depot. You've got a leak in the North America command.
Nothing too serious as of yet." He heard her quiet curse, "It might not even be a traitor, just
someone with a loose tongue."

"You know better than that," she said coldly.

And they both knew that soon, next week, next month, there would be an anonymous body - perhaps more
than one - discovered in a back-alley, all identification carefully stripped away. And he also knew
there was a good chance it would be the hand of the tiny fragile woman before him, who held the gun or
knife that took its life.

And still he felt a crazy need to protect her. This woman who needed no one. Certainly not a former
lover turned enemy, turned traitor.

Calmly, without emotion, he spoke, betraying everything he served. Giving her whatever information he
had been able to scrounge.

Finally, he had told her everything he knew, and given her the documents that would mean his immediate
execution if they were ever discovered. His voice ran out into silence and died. He watched as she
paused, gathered her thoughts.

He knew what she would ask next, and braced himself.

Voice suddenly softer and failing to hide her fear of his answer, she questioned, "What of Mulder?"

He had to turn away from the naked hope blazing across her face, the first real emotion since she
came. "The old man himself has got him. He's trying to turn Mulder." He added with a flash of sardonic
amusement. "But you know Mulder, he could out-stubborn ten mules. So far the smoker's been trying the
carrot rather than the stick, but I don't know how long that will last."

"You can't get him out?"

He shook his head. "I've tried, Dana. I may be high up the food chain, but Spender's the top dog, you
know that. Whatever the old man wants, he gets, and he wants Mulder. Christ, does he ever want
Mulder!"

She stared at him, a new, unforeseen, horror dawning in her eyes. "You're not saying that he *wants*
Mulder?"

Initially he didn't understand, but the sudden flush - he had not thought she could flush any more -
clued him into her suspicions, and a genuine smile softened the grimness of his face.

"What a dirty little mind you've got, Dana." Despite himself, he couldn't help tease her. The even
fiercer blush, the way she ducked her head, made him ache for everything that once had been.

Everything he'd lost.

He would have liked to string her along a little, to tease. But there was real fear in her, and even
now, he could not stand the thought of her distress. So in the end he simply answered.

"No, it's nothing like that. He wants Mulder to work for him. Strangely enough, he seems to really
care for the idiot." He hesitated briefly but decided not to tell her the real reason. A reason he had
stumbled across only a few weeks past while doing a computer search. The one, simple, explanation to
the old bastard's continued benevolence and patience with Fox Mulder. In a rare gesture of generosity,
he decided to let Mulder's secret remain Mulder's to tell.

She gave a single nod. Once again all business she stood up to leave. "Very well, you know where to
contact us again if there is anything else."

His hand reached out for her, almost unconciously. "Don't go yet Dana." Abruptly his tone turned
sarcastic. "Surely you can sacrifice a few minutes to the highest placed source of information you've
got? The man who's saved not only yours but the Resistance's collective ass more than once."

She hesitated, silently acknowledging the fairness of what he'd said. But infinitely more important
was the knowledge that if he refused to cooperate their work would become immeasurably more difficult
and dangerous. Perhaps impossible.

There had been a time and a place when she had not had to consider everything so practically. A time
when she'd had the luxury of following her feelings, of being honest. Here and now however, her pride,
her emotions counted for little or nothing. Not compared to what Krycek could give them.

*Do what you must.*

The words echoed in her ears. It was the last thing her superior officer had told her, before she left
for her rendezvous. Looking into Walter Skinner's grim eyes, she had known he had never forgiven her
for what she had done. She knew that this was her punishment.

For once loving Alex Krycek.

Yet, by some supreme irony, today that love was all that stood between humanity and destruction. And
so, for now, it was acceptable, if not forgotten. But if they were ever to survive, then a day of
reckoning would come.

It was strange, but not until humanity had lost everything, even their planet, had she realized that
Walter Skinner regarded her as more than a competent agent and subordinate. That he'd wanted her as a
man wants a woman. And that in loving Krycek she had betrayed more than her oath as a FBI officer to
uphold the law. She had betrayed Skinner in the most basic way a woman can betray a man.

Of them all, the hard-eyed men who were humankind's last hope, only Skinner knew why Krycek had turned
on his masters. Why the man refused to deal with anyone but Dana Scully.

Perhaps, he alone also understood, why Alex Krycek one of the most powerful men in the New World Order
was ready to sacrifice everything to help the Human Resistance.

She sat down on the ruins, perching the rifle on her knees. Once upon a time it would have horrified
her; the unconscious skill with which she handled her weapon. The way her hands smoothed across the
sleek metal, like the caress of a lover.

***

When she worked for law and order in a time when the world still had hope, she'd disliked guns. Oh,
even then she had been a competent shot, and had had no qualms pulling the trigger if necessary, but
that didn't mean she liked it. Now, she sometimes thought it was all that kept her alive. She wanted
to tell Mulder, to share the joke with him. Surely he would appreciate the irony, that she lived only
to kill. But Mulder was gone from her, most likely forever, and only this man, watching her with
hungry, wary eyes remained. The man she hated, but needed desperately.

"What do you want to talk about, Krycek?"

"You used to call me Alex," he said softly. He looked as if he wanted to sit down beside her, but
didn't quite dare as he hovered uncertainly. The hesitant expression sat oddly on the arrogant
features used to instant obedience.

The thought almost made her smile.

Alex Krycek was one of the most powerful men in the world. Thousands lived and died at his whim, and
Dana Scully was a hunted resistance fighter with a price on her head.

But in the here and now, they both knew who held the upper hand.

"That was in another world," she said, not angrily, but honestly. "At a time when I still thought you
had some good in you. A core of decency and honor."

He closed his eyes, "I didn't plan it, Dana. You have to believe that. I fought the colonization with
everything I could."

"Evidently not hard enough." The scathing contempt and the judgement was implacable and absolute. "And
you've certainly lost nothing by your resistance." A corner of her mouth quirked mirthlessly. "Ironic
don't you think, that those who once skulked in the shadows, you, and the Smoking Man and the rest of
the Consortium are now the masters of the world. While the rest of us lurk in darkness, fighting to
save what is left of the human race. The inmates have taken over the madhouse."

He was unexpectedly angry. The cold derision in her eyes acting like a goad "You'd have preferred me a
dead hero, thrown into some unmarked grave?"

"Yes."

The word hung between them in the stillness of the night.

He didn't flinch at the sudden pain like corrosive acid dripping into an open wound. "That's the
difference between us then, Dana. Because I believe you and the world are better off, with me alive
and here to help you."

She crossed her arms. "That is indeed the difference between us, Krycek." There was neither mercy, nor
absolution in the dispassionate voice. "There are some things worth dying for. Just as there are some
things you die before doing. Collaborating with the aliens who have come here to conquer and subdue
our planet, is at the top of that list. How does it feel, Alex, to have earned your thirty pieces of
silver?"

Even as he winced away from the biting disdain, his heart leaped at the sound of his name on her lips.
"The important thing is that I'm still alive to be haunted by regrets. I believe in *survival.*"

"Pity you don't extend that belief to anyone but yourself. Is there anything you'd be willing to die
for, Krycek? Anyone or anything you've ever been faithful to?"

He met and caught her eyes. "One thing... You. I'd die for you, Dana," he whispered.

And they both knew it was no more, nor less than the truth.

She swallowed, mesmerized by the brilliant green of his eyes, slicing through her like a delicate and
deadly laser beam. "Then that's another difference between us, Krycek. Because I would sacrifice you,
me and Mulder in a heartbeat if it meant the end of alien domination."

He looked away. "There was a time when you loved me, Dana. When we loved each other. Would it be so
very hard to love me again?" Despite himself, he sounded faintly wistful.

She shook her head, feeling tired. She had neither time nor strength for this. "Don't, Alex. Love has
no place in this brave new world your masters have wrought."

"Even in hell, there are moments of tenderness," he said quietly.

Her smile was a travesty of itself. "I think hell would be a step up from here."

"You're wrong. There are still small oases of beauty and tranquillity if you know where to look." He
wanted to tell her of the white clapboard house he owned, just outside Nantucket. The large airy rooms
with their broad, scrubbed floorboards. The walls painted a cheerful warm yellow and white, sea shells
on the windowsills. White curtains billowing in the sea breeze, the sunlight blazing through the high
windows. Large comfortable armchairs and an enormous open fireplace for rainy days. It was a place
where the waves roared against the shores, and you could walk along the endless beach. Just you and
the sand and the sea. No sounds but the distant plaintive cries of seagulls as they circled endlessly
high above your head. He thought of bringing her there, and smoothing away the shadows of anguish and
memory from her face. And he knew it for the impossible dream it was.

"Deceptions built on the bones of innocents," she countered. "Don't you understand yet what you've
done, Krycek? The magnitude of your crime?"

"I know what I've done," he said softly. "Trust me, I know." He suddenly laughed quietly, without
humor. "Want to know something funny? I actually dream of the days when I was an fugitive on the run.
When I was hunted by the Consortium and the FBI. Now, I've got riches and power beyond my wildest
imagination. And I'd trade them all to wake up at your side. To go down to the little bakery on the
corner and return with two freshly baked bagels with cream cheese. Put them on a tray with some Earl
Grey tea, and walk into our bedroom and see you open your eyes and smile at me."

His voice deepened, grew husky. "I wake up at night, thinking you're beside me. That all I have to do
is stretch out my hand and you will come into my arms."

"Poor little Alex, aren't the rewards for betraying your race quite as tasteful as you expected?" she
mocked to hide just how hard her heart was beating. Oh God, it had been too long... Too long since
she'd ever used her body for anything but to take life. To kill, without mercy, without feeling.

She pushed away the sudden mad temptation and stood up. "We're finished."

There was a split moment, when he could have let her go. But something in the scorn she bestowed so
freely, goaded him beyond sanity. And with a sudden profanity, he moved, swift as a cobra, and grabbed
her arm, shaking her hard.

"Damn you Dana Scully! Damn you to hell! You have no right to condemn me!" It was not often he lost
his temper. He had found, ages past, that it was too dangerous. But here and now he allowed himself
the luxury.

She met his anger fearlessly. Dana had never had the common sense to know when she should run, he
thought. And then, he watched as her temper lit to match his own. "Who better?!" she almost spat into
his face. "The same memories you recall so fondly make me *sick*! When I think I once allowed you to
touch me I want vomit!" Her laugh was a jarring, shrill thing of hatred.

He grabbed her shoulders. Hands crushed her flesh in a merciless iron grip that left deep purple
bruises. She cursed herself for forgetting, again, that one of the rewards of collaboration had been
the re-growth of his right arm. She had been too used to his missing limb, and even now, it continued
to surprise her. Before she could wrench away, he pushed her against the cracked mortar and bricks.
She stumbled, and would have fallen if he hadn't caught her, lifting her off her feet. She hung in the
air, helpless.

"Let me go you fucker!" she snarled trying to kick him.

He was so close she could feel his warm sweet breath on her face. Smell the crisp, clean scent that
was Alex Krycek. "I make you sick do I?" he asked roughly. Anger, and something even darker glittered
in his eyes. For the first time she felt a frisson of fear. Staring into his face she silently
catalogued the changes time had wrought.

He still looked too boyish for his age. Still too pretty to take seriously. But there was a new
weariness, a deadness at the back of his eyes. Those beautiful, cursed eyes. Something had carved deep
shadows under his eyes and beside his mouth. There were even faint traces of silver among the raven
black that he shook back impatiently. And suddenly she recalled last week's broadcast; Krycek standing
on a balcony watching the selections for the mines. He must have known that anyone chosen would be
dead within three months, yet not a muscle moved in his face as he watched thousands march to their
deaths. He looked, if anything, faintly bored by the procedure. Indifferent, removed from the hatred
and terror that surrounded him like a black roaring sea. Poised there, so arrogant and supercilious,
he was the perfect symbol of Consortium dominance and rule.

A deep, snarling laugh in his throat, brought her back to reality. "What are you going to do, Dana?
Scream? No one will help you."

"I don't need help to handle you, you piece of shit!" she spat back, still struggling to free herself.
"Besides, if anyone comes, you'll be in more trouble than I! Those documents are enough to condemn you
out of hand."

He smiled unpleasantly. "You think you've got everything worked out?" He let her tire herself out with
her useless struggles, until she hung gasping in his hands. And then he moved until her entire body
was pressed against his, and she could feel through the layers of clothes that separated them just how
much her struggles had excited him. He whispered into her ear, "Shall I tell you what I'll say, if
anyone discovers us?" Firm, warm lips brushed her skin, and she shivered at the sensation.

Without waiting for a reply he continued, "I'll say that I discovered one of my household was a
traitor. That I followed him to you, and that I was just waiting to capture a noted resistance leader.
Of course, I won't let them kill you."

His eyes swept over her body, their cold contemptuous lust, goading the red into her burning face, and
causing an unwilling pool of heat at the pit of her stomach. "I'll just wait until they sell you at
auction. You won't bring much, I'll get you cheaply. Hell, I may even have you 'adjusted' to be
properly docile."

She caught her breath at the venom in his voice. She had seen those who had been 'adjusted' and she
knew she would rather die than become an empty-eyed zombie. She said as much aloud and he laughed
unpleasantly.

"Who says you'd have a choice, pet?"

She sobbed once, white-faced, despairing how they could have come to this. "God damn your rotten soul,
Alex Krycek!"

She was painfully thin. He could feel the fragility of her bones in his hands as he gripped her wrists
in a merciless grasp wrenching them over her head, and pinning her against the wall.

It was a fierce, bitter struggle, fought in panting, heated silence and it ended as they both had
known it would, with her defeat. The past two years might have taught her to kill and kill well. But
she remained no match for Krycek's skill. She tried desperately to reach the knife she wore on her
hip, and he twisted her arm until she had to bite her lip to stop from screaming aloud. The knife fell
on the ground with a clatter, as he easily evaded the kick she aimed at his groin and brutally pushed
her against the ruins of the building.

Watching with hard, merciless eyes, he simply waited until she was exhausted, breathing in soft heavy
gasps. And then he bent his head and took her mouth in an assault as brutal as a rape, and with enough
force to tear the soft, sensitive, flesh. She winced at the sudden stinging pain.

She started fighting again. A wild cat caught in a net. "Let me go you bastard!" she panted, kicking
and twisting in his hard grip. "Or does rape turn you on nowadays?"

His mouth twisted in a caustic, satanic, smile. "I've never had to rape you before, have I?"

God how it hurt. Exactly as he meant it to. She tried to swallow, her throat going suddenly dry.
"Animal instincts, that's all it is, Krycek. Nerve endings rubbing against each other to facilitate
the procreation of the species."

He stared at her, and she steeled herself for his assault. But abruptly he threw back his head and
laughed, his face looking unexpectedly younger, as lines smoothed out. His eyes changed from dark
emeralds to sunlight slanting through a spring forest. Gone was the look of blind lust that had
terrified her. She slowly relaxed, releasing her pent-up breath. Despite everything there were
memories she had treasured in the depth of her heart. Memories carried with her through fire and
destruction. And she knew that a part of her soul would have been forever desecrated if he had not
ceased this violation of everything they had once been to each other.

"Jesus fucking Christ, I'd almost forgotten how quick you are." His hands swept up to her face, their
touch suddenly as gentle as it had been brutal before. "Dear heart, don't think, just feel," he
whispered, as so many times before, nuzzling her skin. And to her horror she felt her body answer him.
She felt it spring into glorious, terrible life after all the long, long months of ice. Anguished, she
wondered why it had to be this man, of all men, whose touch made her dissolve. Why it was him she
dreamed of in her darkest nightmares. What black magic did he possess, that he could make her forget
everything he was, everything he had done? Everything, but his hands and mouth and body.

She could have withstood his anger, even his lust, but as always it was the gentleness that defeated
her. The tenderness and those accursed memories. With a broken moan, she surrendered. He could feel
her go limp and boneless against him, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down,
and kissing him back hungrily. "Bastard," she sobbed softly, "you black-hearted, slimy son of a
bitch."

He tasted her blood as their mouths devoured each other. Afraid that if he gave her time to think
she'd regain her sanity, he let go of her wrists, and pulled up her shirt, fingers sliding over her
warm skin. She moaned softly, shivering, goosebumps springing up whenever he touched her, hands
running through his thick springy hair, enjoying the soft guttural sound that broke from him.

Her head fell forward onto his shoulder. She hid her face in the soft, clean fabric of his denim
shirt. Dizzily she felt his hands spanning her waist, sliding up her back to unhook her bra. And she
felt a moment's regret remembering the delicate lace and satin she'd once owned, rather than the
utilitarian cotton that was all she wore now.

Closing her eyes, she allowed the hot red wave of lust and want and need to carry her along. "It's
been so long, Alex," she whispered into the hollow of his throat, "oh God, so long."

"I know, my love," his voice caught on a half-laugh, as they slid slowly to the ground, his strong
arms supporting and encircling her. Carefully he spread his jacket and gently laid her down on it. He
pulled her shirt over her head, supporting her back with his other hand, and then she was in his arms,
naked to the waist. His breath whistled out, as he watched her, so slim and white against the black
leather, blue eyes dark with passion and want. Almost reverently, he bent to kiss her, his hands
moving up her body, thumbs flicking over already stiff nipples.

Their grimy skin clung where it met, and she felt a flash of shame. How could he ever want her? She
was so dirty and thin.

"Don't look at me!" she begged, trying to shield her body. "I'm so ugly."

He gently pulled her hands away. Bending over her, he worshipped her body with his eyes and hands.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he vowed softly, kissing her with a desperate
intensity.

And looking into the burning heat and passion darkening his eyes to verdant green, the tension
gripping his body, she couldn't help but believe him. How long had it been since she'd felt beautiful?
Not since... She bit her lip, shying away from the memory.

He was whispering, soft murmurs that made no sense to her, and finally she asked, "What are you
saying?"

He laughed a little, nibbling at her bottom lip before moving on to her jaw. "I'm weaving an
enchantment."

She felt a chuckle bubble up to meet his whimsy. "What kind of enchantment?"

His eyes darkened and he whispered, "To stop time, dousha. To freeze this moment for all eternity."

The laughter died from her face. "If only we could, Alex." There was no concealing the longing or the
despair in her voice.

"My love, let me try, for a short time at least," he murmured, hands framing her face, caressing the
fine hot skin and tangling in the silk of her hair. With long, exquisitely sensitive fingers, firm,
sensuous lips, and all the need in his heart, he wove an enchantment around them. A spell of passion
and need.

Though her mind screamed its rejection of everything he was, her wounded, bleeding soul was healed by
the power of his words, the hunger that trembled through his body and heated his eyes. She had
forgotten what it was to want, to feel anything but a weary numbness. He smelled so good and clean,
crisp, springy hair newly washed. When she ran her tongue over his skin she tasted the sweetness of
him. Oh God, sometimes she thought she could kill for a bath.

When had she last been clean? Really clean in body and soul? When had she last eaten a real meal, not
a few mouthfuls snatched on the run? And here he was, so tall and straight and smelling so good. Oh so
good. She wanted to burrow her nose into his body, and just lie there and breathe in his clean, fresh
scent. For the moment she'd forgotten that even the clothes on his back had been bought with the
betrayal of his own kind. That the legacy of his survival had been the holocaust of the world.

He shifted on the ground so she was on top if him. His hands brushed away her hair, thumbs sliding
along her cheekbones, enveloping her in warmth and safety. "You're so slender, I'm afraid you'll
shatter if I touch you too hard."

She laid her head on his chest, rubbing her chin against his shirt. "I'm tougher than I look."

There was pain in his smile. "And don't I know it. But you could hardly be less. Dana, my darling.
Your eyes are as brilliant as ever, but what are these new shadows beneath?" he touched them, lightly.

She said bitterly, "We all carry reminders of the past two years. I'm one of the lucky ones, I'm
alive." His tenderness gave her time to regain a little of her sanity and she made a motion to get
away from him, suddenly remembering who he was.

But his arms tightened around her. "Don't move, love," he ordered softly, pulling down her head for
another kiss, his fingers slowly, thoroughly searching out all the secrets of her body, making her
bite her lip and writhe against him, moaning softly.

He closed his eyes. "If this is a dream I don't ever want to wake up," he murmured and it sounded like
a prayer. He rolled over, so she was once again lying on the ground, with him above her.

Again and again he kissed her. Gentle strokes of his tongue alternating with a fierce passion, taking
her mouth, demanding everything. His lips teased her mouth open, tongue stroking and soothing the torn
flesh; the result of his earlier violence. "Ah, Dana, you're so exquisite, you make my bones melt," he
muttered. Then his mouth slid lower, fastened hungrily on the white slimness of her throat.

She tilted her head to give him easier access, laughing low in her throat. The sound drove him mad, as
she arched her back, rubbing herself against the length of him.

With a deep sigh of surrender, she lifted her hands and tore his shirt open. He was exactly as she
remembered, all smooth, warm, satin over steel. He carried more weight on his tall frame now than when
she'd first known him, but it was hard muscle, not flabby fat. Her fingers flowed over his arms,
rediscovering once familiar territory. And she purred her satisfaction that she remembered exactly
where to touch to drive him beyond madness.

Biting into his shoulder, listening to his gasps, she laughed softly, the sound unfamiliar and strange
to her own ears. When had she last laughed, without bitterness, without anger at a fate that had let
her live to see the destruction of all she held dear? To laugh in simple joy at the sensations that
flooded her. She laughed again at the strangled groan he didn't realize he made. One of her hands came
up, fingers splayed over his chest, fingers delicately playing and teasing suddenly hard nipple, and
then moving lower, lightly stroking over rock-hard muscles as he caught his breath. Reaching for his
belt, she was rewarded by another unconscious moan as his hips jerked, pressing into her. She smiled,
a slumberous, satisfied smile, dark cobalt eyes slanted like a cat's.

Looking up and seeing her smile, his face was suddenly, heartbreakingly young and beautiful, as he
smiled back at her. "Dana?" he said softly, a sudden hint of uncertainty deepening his voice.

She shook her head, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't speak, Alex. Just love me, please?"

***

He wanted to protest, but something in her eyes made him swallow the words. Instead, his lips fastened
hungrily on one rosy-tipped breast, sucking hard. Head flung back, arms wound around his neck, she
abandoned herself to her need. With her eyes closed, she could pretend this was another time, another
place... another man. Her mind, if not her body, able to lie to itself.

Deft, skillful hands everywhere, he molded and shaped her willing, pliant body into an object for his
pleasure alone.

They made love in silence, no sounds but soft moans and gasps. Sweat-soaked skin gliding against skin.
Hands teasing and stroking. Tongues and lips licking, biting, sucking, producing wild wordless cries
of need.

A small, detached part of her mind insisted in reminding her that this was a natural instinct of those
who live on the edge. It was well known that in times of war, people also loved with more intensity.

But then Alex nipped at her ear, and she lost the ability to think coherently again. Her entire body
exploded with pleasure long-denied. Head tossing from side to side, she moaned again, feeling his
mouth burn a path down her stomach.

He slid lower, unfastened her pants and gently pulled them down her hips, pausing to plant a kiss on
her hip-bone. She lifted herself to help him, and then he stopped breathing for a moment as she lay
before him, revealed in all her glory. The living fire at the junction of her legs beckoned him
irresistibly. Moving between slender white thighs, he bent his head and closed his eyes breathing in
deeply, rediscovering the once-familiar taste and scent of her. The sweet spiciness he knew he would
go to his grave remembering.

Hands splayed across her hips, he held her steady as she moved restlessly. Delicately licking and
lapping, he tasted the sudden flood of moisture on his lips and tongue, heard her soft moans, as her
hands tangled in his hair, pressed him even closer. He laughed, the sound reverberating through her
body, as he fastened on the core of her need.

At the same time, his fingers slid in and out her, in a counter-rhythm. Soon, he could feel her entire
body, tensing, lifting itself even higher in an attempt to take him even deeper into her body. But it
was not his intention to let her reach satisfaction so easily.

Abruptly he pulled away, despite her attempts to stop him and slid back up her body. "Look at me,
Dana," he ordered. She opened huge, dazed eyes to stare at him in confusion.

"I want you to touch me, take me into your body," he explained softly. "I want to see your face when
you climax. I want you to remember who is here with you. Who is inside you."

She looked confused for a moment, and then flushed. He laughed gently, reaching down to slowly rub his
thumb against her nub, her hips twitched, moved hungrily. But then he withdrew again, watching her
carefully.

The sudden awareness of what he desired made her stiffen and instinctively begin to shift away from
him. This was too much reality. If she did what he wanted she would not be able to dismiss it as a
dream, an anonymous fantasy. Always she would carry with her the knowledge of who had given her
fulfillment, who had made her body sing.

"You ask too much, Alex!" she exclaimed in sudden anger.

His smile was equal parts irony, pain and passion. "No more than I offer, Dana, love," he ran his
fingers lightly down her flanks, and smiled in satisfaction at her restless movement, at the way her
body pushed up to meet his hands.

She closed her eyes, needing time to regain her sanity. But he gave her none. Moving over and against
her, his body mimicked the act of possession. He knew, oh God, how well he knew where to touch, to
bring her to the brink of satisfaction, only to refuse her the ultimate bliss, again and again.

In the end, instead of telling him to go to hell, she reached down and grasped him, slender small
hands, lightly encircling and caressing the hardness. Listening to his groans, she made a soft
satisfied noise deep in her throat, rubbing down the length and was rewarded with another groan. At
another time, she would have lingered more, enjoying his wordless responses, but her own need was too
urgent.

Guiding him, she wrapped her legs around his back, not even feeling the rubble digging into her skin
in her urgency to feel him inside her. A single twist of his hips and he was buried into her as deep
as he could. She uttered a single deep gasp of pure enjoyment, and laughed up into his face, dark-blue
eyes blazing. He steadied himself on his elbows on either side of her face. Even in the urgency of
passion, she realized he was careful not to crush her.

"Dana, is it really you?" she thought she heard him whisper. And then he bent his head to kiss her
deeply, tongues tangling and moving in perfect harmony with the actions of their bodies. He whispered
something in Russian, and that too was familiar enough to make her smile. She had always loved
listening to the dark voice, telling her of his need and love, in that beautiful, musical, language.

Krycek shuddered with the force of his need. All he could think was that this was *Dana*. In the past
two years, there had been too many women. Women he'd bought and used to drive her memory from his
mind. Women the opposite of her. Tall, voluptuous, blondes and brunettes. Women who looked exactly
like her, petite, fiery, red-heads. But no one had been Dana Scully, and ultimately he had sent them
all away in disgust. He had driven them from his room with harsh words and curses thrown at their
heads. He had screamed at their frightened faces to leave him alone. Alone with his memories. But this
was no memory, no day-dream, or even nightmare.

This was reality.

He looked down into her flushed face, eyes half-closed and marveled at the hold she had on him. Since
the first time he'd seen her, she had held his heart and soul in her slender hands.

He set a slow steady rhythm, her body lifting and meeting him as she moaned in pleasure, her arms
around his neck, pulling him deeper, and deeper. But they were both too hungry for it to last long,
and soon his breathing became erratic, his thrusts irregular.

And then, just as she felt her innards coil, ready to explode, his fingers tightened on her shoulders.
"Look at met Dana!" he demanded with an abrupt urgency.

She stared up into his face.

"Say my name!" he demanded.

"Alex," she whispered. "Alex, Alex..."

"Yes, Alex," he growled, and then he groaned. "Dana, Christ, Dana!"

She felt her own body's need arching out of control and with a gasp and a moan she exploded, realizing
that as she did so, she was calling his name again and again. And only moments later Alex sank down
over her, his breathing harsh in her ear.

Hiding his face in her neck, his entire body shuddered with the after-shocks of pleasure that still
ran through his frame like tiny currents of electricity. It was with an unbearable sense of loss that
he felt himself slipping away from her; one flesh separating into two once more. And he knew it to be
a premonition of the times to come, when she would be gone and his soul would shrivel and die far from
hers.

Passion spent, he gathered her into his arms, moving with infinite tenderness, until she was resting
against him, and he spooned his body around hers, protecting her from the night wind that chilled and
gradually dried the sweat their mutual passion had sleeked her skin in.

Carefully he brushed the hair from her face, smiling down into her sated, dazed face. He kissed her
gently, her lips pliant beneath his, parting easily. "I love you," he told her softly. And watched in
resigned regret and sorrow, as her eyes lost their slumberous satisfaction and darkened in horrified
recognition of where she was and what she had just done.

Slowly, he ran his hands down her pale, slender body. He seemed unable to stop touching, stop holding
her. It was as if he needed constant reassurance that she was there and she was real, not a figment of
his imagination. She could feel his breath at her neck, as he nuzzled the sensitive skin, scattering
small kisses at her neck.

She shivered, not from the cold but from the realization of what she had done. Oh God, what had she
done?

It wasn't until he lifted his head and caught the moisture with his finger, that she realized she was
crying. But once she'd started, she found she couldn't stop. Finally with a strangled gasp, she gave
up the uneven struggle, and turning her face into his shoulder, she let the tears flow.

Oddly he seemed to know it was what she needed right now. It was an added shock to remember just how
well he knew her. It was a knowledge she had suppressed to the depths of her soul. Yet she couldn't
deny that no one but Fox Mulder and this man had ever been able to reach beyond her walls to touch the
real Dana Scully.

He said nothing, just rocked her gently, murmuring soft nothings into her hair. And despite everything
he was, everything he had done, the large, solid presence of him was strangely comforting. Finally,
she withdrew a little, rubbing her eyes.

"High Command should see me now," she half-grimaced, tucking her hair back, in the old familiar
gesture, curling away from him. Reluctantly he let her go. "All their old prejudices about women being
too emotional would be reinforced."

He hurt at her half-shamed tone, wanting badly to pull her back into his arms. To tell her that if
only she would stay with him, he would protect her forever. Would never let anything or anyone hurt
her ever again. But all he said softly, was, "I think everyone, man or woman needs to cry at times. I
doubt anyone would think lesser of you for giving in just this once."

"Then you don't know the old bastards who command." Her voice was heavy with a weary, bitter, sarcasm.
"They'd much rather I was safely buried in a lab than leading raids."

She didn't tell him of her refusal to enter a research lab. The fact that since it all began; the end
of the world she had known, she had not picked up a scalpel or looked into a microscope. That woman,
who once did those things, was as dead as the rest of her family. All that remained was an empty
shell, good for nothing but killing and, eventually, dying.

It had been a long time since she had feared death. A long time since thinking of the day when she
could finally lay down her weapon and forget, had given her anything but pleasure.

His stomach knotted thinking of Dana risking her life. He had seen grainy surveillance tapes of
resistance raids and had marveled at the mad risks they took; pitting automatic guns and human bravery
against the high-tech equipment guarding the depots and compounds of the Consortium and their alien
masters.

Would the day come when he would have to look down at her dead body left behind after yet another
pointless raid? If only he still believed in a god, he would have prayed not to let him live to see
that day. "Will you kill me if I say I agree with them?"

She gave him a sudden bitter look as she remembered who he was. Slowly she inched further away,
distancing herself. She should have looked vulnerable and fragile, perched naked on the jacket he'd
put on the ground for them to lie on. Instead she seemed hauntingly remote, like a sculpture made of
marble. Perfect. Cold. It was an impossibility that this was the woman who had only moments before
lain beneath him, moaning his name.

"I could never kill you, you're far too valuable to us."

He winced. There was no one like Dana to accurately thrust home the knife in his heart. "Was that why
you fucked me just now? As a reward for my valuable contribution?" he felt horror and a bitter
satisfaction watching her pale. At the dark, wounded blue of her eyes.

He couldn't stop the caustic words spilling from his lips. Not when she sat beside him, still nude,
and so beautiful she made his body and heart tremble. He could reach out his hand and touch her. Yet
she had never seemed more distant. More unattainable. And so he took out his pain on her.

"You bastard," she whispered between stiff lips. "No, Krycek, it was lust." She paused, a vulnerable,
wounded expression shadowing her face. "Although I have no doubt if that was your price, High Command
would gladly pay it."

His eyes fell before hers. "I know."

She watched him with a sudden intensity. "So why don't you? You know that important as I am, I pale
next to you. High Command would give you anything you wanted to keep you satisfied," she looked away,
absently playing with the zipper of his jacket. "And so would I."

He reached across her for his jeans ignoring her flinch away from him as he pulled up a packet of
cigarettes out of the back pocket. Lighting, one he repeated, "I know," taking a long drag. "But
that's not the way I want you." A soft, humorless laugh. "We've already been down that route once
before, remember."

He shook his head, leaning his elbow on one drawn-up knee, wearily pushing a hand through thick,
black, disheveled hair. With sudden despair he knew that the flames of their mutual passion had died
and turned into the acrid ashes of regret and bitterness.

"No, Dana, if, when, you come back to me, you're not going to have any excuse. You're going to have to
admit that you love me." He watched her through long dark lashes.

The complete incredulity on her face made the faint hope he hadn't even recognized he carried, wither
and fade, leaving his soul desolate.

"Love you? You must be joking. I admit I wanted you, or that I wanted *someone,* more correctly, but
that's as far as it goes."

She said very calmly, "Words cannot describe the loathing and the disgust I feel for you and what you
have done. But unfortunately my body has other memories." Her mouth twisted dryly. "Much as I want to
deny it, you always were a good fuck, Krycek."

"So why don't you listen to your body instead?" he suggested quietly, refusing to let her words hurt
him. He knew why she tried to denigrate the memory of what they had once been to each other.

To live with herself.

Just as he needed the memory of the sweet purity of their love to survive. "Times are, you think too
much, Dana."

She caught her breath, hearing the echo of another time and place when he'd told her the same thing. A
time of laughter and love. "Oh God, Alex," she moved jerkily to look for her clothes, pulling on her
underwear and snapping on her bra. "Please, don't remind me." She didn't think she could stand being
reminded of a time when she'd been happy, when she had looked forward to waking up.

He tossed away the cigarette with a sudden, violent motion. It glowed briefly on the barren ground
before going out. She watched it, there one moment, then gone. And she thought it was as good a symbol
as any of the future of Homo Sapiens.

They were losing and they all knew it deep inside. No matter how hard some tried to deny the truth.
Another generation, perhaps two, and then nothing would remain of the once-rulers of planet Earth.
Gone the way of the dinosaurs, she thought with a flash of morbid humor, and it didn't even take a
meteor to extinguish them. All it needed was another intelligent species and a handful of human
traitors.

Krycek, watching her, wondered what she was smiling over. He took a deep breath. He knew what her
answer would be, but still need drove him to say it. "Come with me, Dana. You can work as well,
better, inside. You'll have all the resources you need. A fully equipped lab, anything you want..."

She froze in the process of dressing and stared at him for a moment. And then she laughed. A scornful,
brittle sound that drove the blood into his face. "You're joking!" she studied him more carefully.
"No, you're not I see. Tell me, Krycek, what exactly are you offering? Your dubious protection, in
return for neutralizing one more resistance cell?"

He said softly, "No. All I want is you, on any terms you offer."

"Still singing that old tune, Krycek?" she queried caustically. "Don't you ever get tired of lying? Or
have you done it for so long you're actually beginning to believe in your lies?"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "I never lied to you." There was frustration, and anger, perhaps even
anguish in the even voice. "And certainly not about wanting you. Ever since the first time I saw you,
you've been all I've ever wanted. I've got the most beautiful women in the world if I so please, but
all I can think of at nights is you."

"Should I feel flattered?" she raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head tiredly, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on. He shivered slightly, suddenly
feeling the chill of the night. He buttoned it saying calmly, "Why should you? God knows I've tried to
stop. But for better or worse, you're the only woman I've ever loved."

And despite herself, she experienced a dangerous surge of warmth. "I only wish I could believe you,
Alex."

He stood up in one smooth movement, pulling on his pants, zipping them, tucking his shirt in. "What
the hell do you want from me, Dana?!" he demanded in frustration.

She knelt at his feet, looking up at him. "Mulder. Get Mulder free, and I'll believe you," she said
abruptly, breathlessly.

He stared at her for a moment. "Do you really mean that?"

Her eyes never left him. "Yes, I do."

"You know if I get caught, I'll be executed," he said, watching her closely.

She didn't flinch. "I know."

He looked at her searchingly. And then laughed bitterly seeing the truth written in her clear eyes.
Dana Scully never could lie for shit, and he felt an obscure relief that some things at least had not
changed. "Don't, Dana. No one, not even your precious Mulder deserves that kind of sacrifice." He
picked up his jacket, putting it on, inhaling her fragrance. He knew he would keep it in some secret,
private, place, until the last faint trace of her on the fabric had disappeared.

She rose lithely, chin raised defiantly. Only her lips trembled slightly. The only sign of her
vulnerability, her desperation. And for a moment an indefinable emotion moved in his eyes. But then he
said calmly, "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I don't want any virgin sacrifices."

Slowly, as if he couldn't help himself, he reached out and cupped her jaw, thumb sliding across her
bottom lip. "I had the real thing once, Dana, so don't offer me counterfeit now. You could never love
me again, could you?"

She wanted to deny it. For Mulder's sake and hers. But his honesty demanded hers, and she couldn't
lie. "No, no, you're right," she murmured.

At times she wondered if she could love, could even feel anything for anyone ever again. Somewhere
along the road, she had lost her ability to experience emotion. Perhaps it was when she'd had to leave
her mother to die in the flames of her house. Perhaps when she'd seen the bodies of Tara and her
children, contorted in the last agony of death. Perhaps when Skinner had told her Bill had been caught
by the Consortium and been tortured to death, simply because he was her brother. Perhaps when she'd
had to watch helplessly while thousands suffered and died in pain and misery. It had been a doctor's
worst nightmare, and despite her best attempts, she had not been able to wake from it.

She had not as much as bandaged a broken finger since then.

She raised her head and told him steadily, "No, I don't love you. But, Krycek, I still want you, we
proved that tonight. Nothing more, nothing less."

He hesitated, "Is that what you offer then? You, in exchange for Mulder?"

"If that's what you want."

A long silence. Then he sighed heavily, wearily. "You tempt me, Dana, you really do. And maybe in the
dark of the night, I could close my eyes and pretend that you still love me. But you've never
understood."

"Understood what?"

"The reason I want you, is that I love you. You once accused me of being a whore, Dana, and so I am,
so I was. Only with you was it different. What you're offering now is a whore's bargain, and to be
honest, I'd rather have my memories than that."

She had to swallow the sudden tears that ached at the back of her throat. She should have felt relief
at his refusal. Yet the emotion she experienced was closer to loss. The loss of something infinitely
precious and beautiful. On some primary, fundamental level he had just rejected her. And his denial
left her foolishly, irrationally, desolate.

"I understand," was all she said. All, perhaps, that she could say. "I'll see you here again, once
you've got something more."

He nodded. "I'll contact you." He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His tall silhouette cast
a long dancing, twisted, shadow across the ground. And when he turned his head she saw that his eyes
had gone an opaque dark-green. He had gone away from her into that strange country of the mind to
which no one can follow. His face was a thing of austere beauty. Yet, she thought that if she was to
touch him now, her hand would encounter cold, hard, granite, not warm living flesh.

In a soft, flat, dead, voice he said, "I wish to God or the Devil that I had never met you, Dana
Katherine Scully."

Slowly, deliberately, he turned away so he would not see her leave.

She stared at his back for a moment. Briefly she hesitated, but, in the end, all she whispered was,
"I'm sorry, Alex."

A quiet rustle, and she was gone, leaving him alone. Always alone.

He remained where he was as night turned into the pale, pearly grey of dawn. All his muscles clenched
against the pain that consumed him. And yet he was unwilling to leave the only place that had offered
a pale imitation of the happiness he had once known.

As the first of the false dawn flowed across the earth, in the distance there was the sound, not of
cars and people rushing to work, but of birds singing, joyfully greeting the new day. They sang, in
blissful ignorance of the hell beneath them.

The sun, all red-gold and dawn-tinted, rose to witness a strange sight. A tall, dark, man, arrogant
head bent in supplication knelt amongst the rubble of a world in ruins, and in an insane passion,
kissed the ground wherever her hand or foot had touched.

Once there was a man, Alex Krycek and a woman, Dana Scully. They were lovers, happy, in love... once
upon a time.

THE END

Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris,
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior

I hate and I love. You may ask why I do so.
I do not know, but I feel it and am in torment.

Catullus

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