Undivided Attention

by nightshade444

Scully's got something Krycek needs in order to save the entire human race from alien invasion. Can he convince her to join him in his quest? Can he do it without falling in love with her? Can she do it without betraying Mulder? There's a good amount of UST flying back and forth, as well as a fair amount of angst. Scully has a potty mouth and a dirty mind. Krycek is worse.

"Undivided Attention"

By Nightshade44

nightshade44

No big spoilers, but references to various characters and situations from seasons 1-6

R for profanity and sexual references

Scully/Krycek UST, angst, Krycek POV, Scully POV

Summary: Scully's got something Krycek needs in order to save the entire human race from alien invasion. Can he convince her to join him in his quest? Can he do it without falling in love with her? Can she do it without betraying Mulder? There's a good amount of UST flying back and forth, as well as a fair amount of angst. Beware: Scully has a potty mouth and a dirty mind. Krycek is worse.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Krycek needs two arms to save the world, so the friendly aliens have given it back to him. In my fevered brain Krycek's not only hotter than Mulder, but he's also got a deeper and broader perspective on the Syndicate's history, and because of that, he has reasons every bit as valid as Mulder's to do the things he does. If you don't like this idea, save yourself some pain by skipping this one.

DISCLAIMER: It's perfectly obvious that I do NOT own these characters, nor am I making any money from this nonsense. I'm merely scratching my Skipper itch.
All things X-files, including Scully, Krycek and Mulder, belong to Chris Carter, no matter how much consternation it causes me that he doesn't know what to do with them.

Undivided Attention

Part 1

"This isn't a good idea."

Her voice is even, but she looks frightened as she complies with my request, locking her fingers together behind her head.

"No. It's not," I whisper menacingly, enjoying the rush I always get from seeing that look. The look that tells me I have their undivided attention. I love playing the bad guy. Being perceived as a threat is exhilarating, and it's especially so with Scully because I know how strong she is. She's been through more horror, gore, and abject terror by simply being assigned to the X-files than most soldiers see in battle. After all that, she doesn't rattle easily.

So she stands her ground. She doesn't back up an inch when I take a step forward. She shifts her weight a little and stiffens as I stalk even closer, but she raises her chin defiantly and now her eyes are blazing up at me. She glares, breathing harder, her fear and anger almost palpable while trying to size me up, trying to figure out just how desperate, and therefore dangerous, this situation really is. But she's still planted firmly in place and her eyes are shooting daggers at me.

I've made stronger people than her cower and beg for their lives. I've brought grown men to tears with this gun and the look I'm giving her. I can't stop the slow smile that begins to emerge, admiring her fortitude.

Apparently she doesn't know a compliment when she sees one. "Is something funny?" She's just pissed off.

"Only my habit of continually underestimating you."

This seems to throw her a bit. There's a tiny shift in her countenance, as if she's trying to figure out whether I actually meant that. I silently congratulate myself for managing to compliment her while throwing in a hint of self-deprecation at the same time. Way to charm her, Alex.

"Unless you have a death wish, Krycek, I suggest you get the hell outta here."

That earns her a real smile. She's got a pretty good poker face, not to mention a gun, but I know she's bluffing, so I press my luck.

"I don't think so. Not till we've had a nice, little chat."

She half-snorts at the suggestion and cuts her eyes away from me. The huffiness of it indicates that maybe my charm worked a little too well. She shouldn't be enjoying such a level of comfort. She should be pissing her pants. I've got to get this little party back on track.

My smile's gone without a trace as I set my jaw. I switch the safety off and narrow my eyes.

The click certainly gets her attention. Her eyes are back on mine but the daggers are gone and they're wider than before. That's better. Much, much better.

"What do you want?"

"The disk. Where is it?"

The poor thing actually looks confused for a moment. I have no idea why she should be. She really should just assume she's being watched. As it dawns on her how I could have known about a zip disk Mulder handed over to her yesterday morning in their office, the pissed off look returns. Actually, no, she's more than pissy. She's fucking furious.

My gun is still holding steady, the barrel pointing at her chest. If it wasn't, I get the succinct feeling she would have flown through the air at me, ripping my throat out with her bare hands. She's practically squirming trying to hold it in.

To my utter surprise, I find myself watching her closely, and not just because I need to make sure she doesn't go for the gun at her hip. I realize that this is really starting to turn me on. No wonder Mulder's always pressing her buttons. This pent up rage and the electricity and scrutiny it's fueling is more than a little erotic. But this train of thought is distracting me from my work. I have a mission to accomplish, and Dana Scully is potentially dangerous, plus she's not my type anyway. Focus, Alex.

"I'd rather just take it and get out of here, but if you're going to stonewall me, I might as well pull the trigger."

"Mulder's on the way. He'll be here any minute."

"He'll be too late," I state flatly, taking another step and getting in her face. My lack of panic seems to trigger hers. Her eyes widen again and her jaw goes slack. She's beginning to realize I'm not fucking around.

"Where is it?"

She looks away and huffs, and then the tip of her pink tongue darts out, absentmindedly, nervously, dabbing at the corner of her lips.

My blood rushes south, but I try to ignore it. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut for just a second, and do not think about her mouth.

"It's safe."

I stare at her incredulously and wait for her to offer more. She doesn't.

"That's not what I asked, now is it? Do you have it on you?"

"No."

Again, I wait longer than I should for a more in-depth explanation, and again I get nothing.

"You're trying my patience, Agent Scully." I jab her none too gently in the ribs with the gun. "Turn around."

"Wha…?"

I interrupt her question. I'm the one asking questions around here, and if she's not providing answers of her own free will, then it's time for a little cohersion.

"I've searched your apartment. Now I'm searching you. Turn around, hands on the wall."

"Damn it, Krycek, I don't have it. It's not here."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you." The gun delivers another, sharper, jab this time and she winces. And then slowly starts turning away from me.

It's easier to maintain my concentration now, away from those intense eyes of hers, and I remember that I'm an assassin and that I really need that fucking disk. I push her roughly between her shoulder blades to remind her of the "hands against the wall" thing, and it catches her off guard. She twists her head to the right as far as it will go just before her nose would have smashed into the wall. I kick at her feet and she curses under her breath, but she spreads her legs, assuming the position.

I shift my gun to my left hand and reach around into her blazer to pull hers from her holster with my right. I put mine away now and decide I may as well use Scully's gun for this. It kind of adds a nice little spice to the sinister tone I'm trying to create, so I hold it to the small of her back as I pat her down one side and then the other. She doesn't give me the satisfaction of complaining when I linger a tiny bit longer than necessary.

When I've turned her pockets out and completely felt her up and there's no disk of any kind to be found, I lose it.

"Goddammit!"

I punch the wall next to her face and she flinches and gasps. And although I find her reaction rather satisfying, the pain in my knuckles and the cracked plaster just make me angrier. I should have punched her instead.

I grab her by her collar to jerk her straight back away from the wall, and she comes flying into me with a grunt. I pin her to my chest with my left arm and raise her own gun to her ribs once again. Her arms spring up reflexively, her hands claw at my wrist and try to pry my fingers away. She needs to start cooperating. Now.

"I'm not leaving without that disk, Scully." My lips just barely brush the top of her ear as I speak. I want to make sure she can feel my snarl.

"It's NOT here!," she nearly yells although I'm not sure where she found the air, since I'm squeezing her chest pretty mercilessly.

I constrict my arm tighter, bringing my elbow in closer to our bodies. My forearm is between her breasts and I grab tighter to her upper arm with my fingers, using considerable force to smash her, from rib cage to shoulder, against my chest. She grunts in pain and curls her fingers around me, both her hands on mine as she tries to find leverage. She's strong and fit, but she's also so tiny I could probably just crush her. No need for the gun. I prod her with it again anyway, just to emphasize my point.

"I'm going to ask you once more, and if you don't tell me, I'll kill you." I use every bit of my strength to pull her even tighter, and she yelps. This has got to be more than a little painful for her. "I'll fucking kill you, you understand?" I say it so convincingly that I almost believe it myself.

She nods enthusiastically. Well, enthusiastically for Scully anyway, and makes some small, mewling, rather desperate sound in the back of her throat.

I relax my fingers on her arm just a bit, pulling my hand away maybe an inch, relieving a little of the pressure on her. Her fingers try to pry me a little further away, still wrapped around my hand, but they're too sweaty to be effective.

"Now, where is it?"

"North...Carolina," she gasps out.

"Where?" I relax my upper arm some now, allowing my elbow to come out and to the side a little, to give her a couple inches of some much-needed breathing room.

She takes two or three rapid lungfuls of air, but still stammers a bit, "50 miles Southwest of Asheville."

"Goddamn it, you're lying!" I pull my arm around her tighter than ever and pull her right up off the floor.

"No! Aaahhhhh!" She groans. She's clawing desperately at my wrist and hand and shaking her head. Her legs flail, but don't make contact with mine, but her nails are scratching the hell out of my hand. I set her back down before she does any real damage and loosen my grip a little, let her have a little air again, and finally the scratching stops.

"So how did it find its way from DC to Asheville in less than 12 hours, Agent Scully? You weren't gone long enough yesterday to drive…"

She draws a deep breath before nearly finishing my sentence for me. "I didn't drive. I flew. I thought you'd know that from your little spy games." She spits that last sentence out like a schoolyard taunt.

I smirk at her tone while I consider the plausibility of her story. She's got balls. "Well, I can't watch both of you 24/7, now can I?" I guess I have to believe her. She's the last person I saw with it.

I release her suddenly, all at once, opening my arm wide and nearly flinging her back into the wall, managing to keep her gun trained on her. She stumbles but steadies herself, hands splayed, gulping in quick lungfuls of air before slowly pushing out from the wall and turning to face me again. Her face is flushed, her jaw is set and her eyes are fucking livid.

I half-believe that I've gotten an honest answer from her, that the disk really is waiting for me in North Carolina, plus, I really do love games of chance, so I guess that's why I allow myself to relax and enjoy this. I practically grin in response to her animosity, "Well, then, Agent Scully, it's time to pack your bags. I hear Asheville's beautiful this time of year."

She straightens herself up and smoothes her hair back into place, all the while giving me a classic, stony Scully frown. "I'll draw you a map. You'll obviously have no trouble getting past the alarm."

I nearly laugh out loud at that, but I think I managed to make it come out more like a cough, abrupt and stunted. Then I grow stern again, not wanting to allow her sense of humor to distract me. I step in closer, my face a mere foot from hers and hold her widening eyes with mine.

"No, you're taking me to it. You've got 5 minutes to get your things together and then we're going on a little road trip."

She stares at me for a moment, aghast, before she answers, "Then I guess you'll have to shoot me, Krycek, because I'm not going anywhere with you."

I love a challenge. This is so much fun. "You're going. And if this is some wild goose chase, I will shoot you. That disk better be exactly where you claim it is, or you're dead."

She draws herself up to her full height before she speaks and I can tell I've sent her over the edge. She's been angry since laying eyes on me, but for the first time tonight, she raises her voice. "No, Krycek, YOU'RE dead. When Mulder figures out where I am and who I'm with, he'll hunt you down and kill you with his bare hands."

I smile genuinely this time. It's a self-satisfied, smug smile that I feel crinkling the corners of my eyes. I'm charmed by her reluctance to give up the charade, but it's time to play my ace. I lean in to whisper in her ear, "Mulder's in California, Agent Scully. He called you from LAX not 20 minutes before you walked in here, to inform you that his little hike through the redwoods this weekend is going to render his cell phone useless."

I linger there, my nose nearly touching her ear, her hair soft against my temple, for just an extra couple of seconds to let my words sink in, and then pull away to study her face. I guess I knocked the wind out of her sails. She looks deflated.

"Spy games," I spit out sarcastically. "Now, get your shit together and let's go."

I take two quick steps to the left and fling open the closet door, grab her weekend bag and toss it four feet onto her bed, then look over to find her glaring at me. She can't actually be surprised that I know where her things are-I just told her I had searched her place. "You want me to pack your undies for you?" I take a couple brisk steps to stand almost directly beside her and pull the top left drawer open before she steps up between me and the dresser, and reaches out to hold my arm back. I could overwhelm her if I wanted to but I allow her a modicum of dignity by NOT reaching into the drawer for her panties.

I pull my arm back to my side and she withdraws hers. "You have no right to treat me this way, to invade my privacy like this. How can you possibly justify surveilling me? Listening to my private conversations? Who gave you the authority to…"

"I gave myself the authority," I growl, getting in her face again, "the second I discovered that you and Mulder were wrong. The moment I realized that in this particular case, the end DOES justify the means."

She turns away from me, unwilling to hear my version of her precious "Truth", but I circle her, forcing her with a hand around her bicep to look me in the eye before I continue. "I've seen the big picture, Scully, not just the tiny bits and pieces you've glimpsed. You think we're on opposite sides, like this is a game of chess or something. Good against evil. It's not. It's a lot more complicated than that: there are a lot of shades of gray."

I let go of her arm but I've got her attention again. She keeps staring at me. "And you and I aren't quite as different as you'd like to think." I can see in her eyes that she might actually believe me. And that she's not comfortable with the implications of that. Oh, well, that's her problem to struggle with, not mine. I won that battle with my conscience a long time ago. Maybe this little project we're now teamed up on will give her the ammunition she needs to win her own battle.

"Now, I need that disk. And you don't know it yet, but you need it, too. If it falls into the wrong hands we're all as good as dead."

Scully closes her eyes with a long sigh and brings her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, like she's got a headache. She doesn't move, doesn't bother to look up when she speaks. "It's not encrypted...but it IS coded. It's not just random Air Force files."

"Now you're catching on."

"And you can decode it?"

"Yes."

She squints, her eyes squeezed tight and she slides her fingers up from her nose to rub out the creases in her forehead. She shifts her weight and twists away from me a little more. She's seen enough to know what I'm alluding to, even if she doesn't fully understand the connections and consequences. She's tired and getting restless, but she knows I wouldn't shake her down like this if it was innocuous. She lets out another long sigh as she resigns herself to her fate.

"Okay."

Her eyes open and she glances in my direction, but avoids eye contact this time. She rolls her head back on her shoulders and I hear her neck pop softly.

"Okay," she repeats. Sounds like she's still trying to convince herself. But she turns to the bed for her bag and without another word, takes it into the bathroom. I watch her toss miscellaneous items into it before returning to the bedroom to select some clothes.

It takes 2 minutes at most and then she pulls an extra pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt out. "I'm going to change." I let her pull the bathroom door closed this time as she switches out her work clothes for something more comfortable for the long car ride. I know there are razors in there, but not separate razor blades. There were no other items that could pose a serious threat, so I don't worry too much about any possible treachery on her part. But I don't trust her either, so I start to second guess myself. I did a pretty thorough job of searching her place, but she's, well, she's Scully. It's possible I could have missed a hidden panel. Maybe one concealing a gun or knife?

I feel my brain meandering down a paranoid path when she emerges from the bathroom. She was only in there for a couple minutes. But I watch her with renewed suspicion as she zips up her bag and pulls on a jacket. She shakes off my scrutiny with no further indignant outbursts about her lack of privacy, and then we're on our way.

Undivided Attention

Part 2

There's a coded set of military files on a zip disk somewhere Southwest of Asheville, NC. The information contained in those files is probably known by fewer than a dozen human beings on this planet. Since it was stolen from me before I even got to lay my hands on it, I've been quite anxious to recover it. I paid good money to a conspiracy-obsessed hacker for it and then his conscience led him to turn it over to Mulder instead. That man's godlike stature among the freaks and malcontents never ceases to amaze me. What really got under my skin, though, was the utter lack of regret on his face even as I pulled the trigger.

Since Spender and I fell out of each other's good graces, I've had to take it upon myself to glean whatever sparse information is to be gathered on the the progress of this not-quite-dead syndicate to try to envision the steps they're taking towards the coming apocalypse. Nearly all the original members are dead now, leaving a gaping hole that the likes of myself, Diana Fowley, and Marita Covarrubius are all eager to fill ourselves. If we don't all kill each other first, fighting like dogs over the scraps that fall from the table.

Because I haven't actually seen the files on that disk yet, I can't be sure that they hold any useful information at all. I worked with the hacker for weeks, feeding him tiny hints, directing him, pointing him in what I thought was the right direction. He did some digging, and released a single page of a document here, part of an email exchange there...it was tantalizingly close to something that felt substantial. I told him where to look, what to download, based on those scraps. And then I transferred one hundred and fifty grand into an offshore account in his name, only to find him packing to leave the country and forcing him at gunpoint into telling me that he had turned the disk over to Mulder because he had been compelled to assuage his guilt. I did him the favor of assuaging everything. I could have used that money for other pursuits. Fucking hackers.

So by now I'm sure Smokey's aware that security's been breached, and seeing as I'm on the top of his shit list, I was well on my way far from DC when I remembered to tune in to the Mulder and Scully show. I watched him hand her the disk, informing her that the hacker had been found floating in the Anacostia with a bullet in his brain. Mulder had apparently opened it and glanced through the contents, but didn't see anything interesting, but they agreed that they needed a safe hiding place for it until they could dive more deeply into it. Scully said she'd take care of it and Mulder seemed so completely satisfied with just her word that he didn't even ask her to elaborate. He just gave her a little nod and they did that creepy, wordless stare thing they do when they seem to be reading each other's minds. It's annoying as all hell.

They left the office together then, it was around lunch time, and an hour later Mulder returned alone. She was absent for the remainder of the day, but according to the cameras in her apartment, she had gone to sleep at around 11pm in her own bed that night. It had seemed unlikely she'd flown out of town and back in those short hours. Unlikely, but not impossible. So I turned right back around, despite the danger, determined to shake her down.

As I drive, Scully asks question after question. I have to ignore or deflect most of them but I allow myself to give her some scraps. I'm not ready to give too much away, so most of what I do is simply confirm or deny her already existing theories. Some of them, anyway. She's somewhat unnerving me with her detached, analytical approach. She asks about things that point to the upcoming alien invasion but she doesn't know yet that that's where they're pointing. I don't help her draw many lines or steer her there, but it's disquieting that she's as close as she is to seeing it. Moreover, as soon as I answer, or shoot her the look that means I refuse to answer, she asks another question. Her brain's like that damned disk, storing information as fast as it's heard. There's something surreal about this. About me driving for hours with this woman. If she was cuffed and gagged in the back it would seem more normal to me. It might seem more normal to her, too.

I guess I'm just not used to dealing with Scully without her usual entourage of either Mulder or Skinner, and having to endure her intensity on my own, having to look her in the eye with no distractions except for the road, well...it's just much easier dealing with Mulder. He's a black belt level pain in the ass, and a violent one at that, but he's also transparent. For all his alleged "spookiness", he's completely lacking in mystery. Utterly predictable.

Unlike his partner.

When I first hatched this plan, if you can call this scheme that dawned on me in the middle of Scully's apartment a "plan," I didn't really consider that she would accompany me so freely. I strong-armed her because I expected a fight. I half expected to have to cuff and gag her. But she's here and she's engaged. Maybe I should have given her more credit. I should have realized that her natural intelligence and inquisitiveness, not to mention her sense of duty, would win out. After all, this is not just my quest, it's not just Mulder's. It's become her's as well. She wants the disk, too; wants to decode it and figure out a way to stop the Syndicate. She doesn't know yet that the Syndicate is the best hope we have of saving any portion of humanity at all. But I'm not going to explain that, either. It's enough for now that she sees her own higher purpose in this.

But, after a couple of tense hours of Q and A, she's worn herself out and nodded off and now that I have some time alone I realize that this is all making me exceedingly nervous. I have the sense that this time spent with her is going to change both of us. It feels more momentous than I ever would have imagined. It scares the shit out of me.

I think we both understand the other's reasons for being here, but it still doesn't mean I trust her. She shifts a little and I glance at her. I can't see her face, she's turned sideways, head resting against the window, and her hair is covering most of her face. But I smell her. The whole car smells like her now. A feminine mixture of perfumy, powdery shampoo, deodorant, lotion, and god knows what else. I am again hyper aware of the fact that she is a woman. It puts me on edge.

I need some fresh air, a chance to get myself together, and I need to get out of this car to do it, so I pull into the next rest stop.

The sudden deceleration rouses Sleeping Beauty and I watch her wearily, hoping she can't see the nervousness in my face. She just stretches a little and calmly looks around, quietly taking in her surroundings before turning to face me, remembering why she's here. She doesn't say anything, just looks at me as if she's waiting for permission to move or something. I have the almost overwhelming urge touch her face. I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her for about an hour. Instead, I clench my jaw until I can will myself to behave like the dangerous spy she takes me for.

"I've gotta pee." I explain, and get out of the car. Not exactly my smoothest line, but I'm tired as hell. I hear her door open and close behind me and then the crush of gravel under her shoes. I look over at her as I approach the men's side of the bathrooms and she holds my gaze until we both disappear from the other's view.

I let out a sigh of relief upon entering the big, cold, empty facility. Being out of her presence for the first time in nearly three hours, I can finally start to get my head together. My first conscious thought is, "God, I'm exhausted." We've got at least four more hours to go. I wish we could have flown, but I don't have any new alias ID's to travel under, and I certainly don't have one for Scully. Smokey always monitors the airports, so it's just too risky.

Of course, driving comes with its own risks, but I'm pretty damn sure I haven't been followed. And we've switched rental cars once already. We'll switch again in the morning. Right now, my biggest risk is Scully. I took her gun and phone, of course. Her badge, wallet, and everything she packed are all safely in the trunk. But, it's been about 5 minutes now, I should go check on her. Make sure she's not convincing some chivalrous truck driver to beat the shit out of me, make sure she hasn't found a pay phone and spilled everything to Skinner. Make sure she hasn't just darted off on foot to find either or both of those things.

It was a nice 5 minutes, but now I walk quickly out of the bathroom and around to the women's side. I don't see her there or standing by the car. She's not at the vending machines or sitting at a picnic table or bench. I open the door to the women's room, finding it as empty as the other side, and just as quiet. Panic starts to creep in.

"Scully?"

"I'll be out in a minute, Krycek. I'm not going anywhere." My panic subsides. She must be in one of the far stalls. She sounds too tired to try escaping. Not that she's completely being held against her will or anything. It's more like she has an uninvited guest that she can't shake, and, from the tone of her voice, an impatient one.

I glance around and note that there are two doors, both on the same long wall, but no windows except some skylights, at least 15 feet up. I don't think she'll be hoisting herself up and smashing one anytime soon, so I walk out and position myself between the two doors. Just in case.

Two more minutes pass and I begin to get fidgety. The cinder block walls are too thick to hear anything through them, so I pace for a few more seconds and when I can't take the silence anymore, I go back in, throwing the door open, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of her shoes disappearing through a skylight. I've got a hand on my gun, and I'm just about to draw it when I see her at a sink on the far end of the room.

"Jesus, Krycek!" there's alarm in her eyes again, and she holds her soapy hands out towards me, palms forward, in a gesture of appeasement. "I'm just washing my hands, OK? Calm down."

"Sorry." I let go of my gun, hold my hands up to mirror hers, and take a few slow steps towards her, cautiously. She relaxes a little and turns back to the sink. She pushes a button beside one of the spigots and the water rushes full force for two seconds, then stops completely when the button is released. I watch her alternate, pushing one button then the other, struggling to get both hands under the water at the same time. "I hate these things," she complains under her breath.

I'm a bundle of nervous energy, so I might as well try to help. "Here," I say as I step up beside her, "it's a two man job." I reach over, keeping my arms up and away from the water as much as possible as I hold both buttons down at the same time, offering her a steady stream of a more comfortable temperature, but I'm still kind of in her way. Who designed these obnoxious things? She leans in and the foamy soap finally disappears from her skin. Her shoulder is nudging my ribcage, and then as she finishes and starts to move away, her hip just barely brushes mine.

It's nothing. It's absolutely nothing. And I don't care that while I'm leaning over her this way I can see down her v-neck t-shirt. It's nothing. Just cleavage. Who cares.

"Thanks."

Her voice brings me back to earth. I jerk up away from the sink and she's already drying her hands. She tosses the paper towel into the trash can and looks at me strangely. Sizing me up. I feel like I've just been busted. She turns towards the door and there's a hint of a smirk on her lips that comes and goes so quickly I'm not sure I actually saw it. I watch her walk to the door without following her, my eyes raking over her from head to toe and settling on her ass. She pushes the door open, then hesitates and chances a look back at me. She seems confused as to why I'm just standing there.

"You ready?"

I can't stop myself. "I was born ready."

She rolls her eyes at my macho cliche and doesn't bother holding the door open for me. I breathe deeply and then spring for the door, flinging it open and taking long strides to catch up to her.

This was such a bad idea.

Undivided Attention

Part 3

"Scully…" I interrupt her before she can get the next question out.

"Yeah?"

"I've got to get some sleep."

"I'll drive."

I actually consider it for a minute, but my deep-rooted paranoia rules it out. "No, we're stopping for the night. It's 2:30, you could use some rest, too."

"I'm fine, Krycek, I can…"

"It's not open to debate, Scully. Save your breath." My tone is serious, and I throw in my patented "I'm not fucking around here" look for good measure. It's dark, but if she can't see it, she at least senses it because she gives in.

"Suit yourself." Another resigned sigh. She knows who has the gun.

Twenty minutes later I pull into a dumpy old motel somewhere in the Smoky Mountains. I think we're in Tennessee. The motel has a mid-century starburst neon sign in front and "vacancy" is actually flashing above the office door. Quaint. And cheap. And not likely to ask too many questions.

"Let's go."

She looks at me oddly, but doesn't bother telling me I can trust her in the car alone for 5 minutes. She just reaches for the door handle.

The clerk is watching us as we get out of the car and walk up to the office. I lean in to her before we get there, "We're from Cincinnati. We're driving to Charlotte for a family wedding." She nods as I open the door and let her walk in first.

"How you folks doin'?" the thin 20-something man drawls in a thick accent.

"Tired. Been driving all day. You got a room for us?"

"Sure, you can have #14. It's on the end and it's quiet. King okay for you?"

Scully wakes up at that. "We'd prefer two doubles, please."

The clerk looks almost disappointed.

"Yes, ma'am. You can have #11 instead. It's got two Queens."

"Thank you." She sounds profoundly relieved, and for some reason that kinda pisses me off. I'm exhausted and I don't even want her here in the first place. I was supposed to get the disk and drive away on my own. I don't need this shit. So my sleep-deprived, pissy brain decides it might as well have a little fun at her expense.

"She tosses and turns like crazy," I explain to the clerk. "She's nearly kicked me right out of bed a couple of times." He smiles knowingly at me.

I can feel the red-hot laser beams shooting out of Scully's eyes, boring into the side of my face. I turn toward the source of the heat and reach out, grabbing her arm gently and tugging her up against me. I wrap my arm around her shoulder as I sign the form with a name I forget as soon as it's written down. I give her a little squeeze and she forces a tight smile. The apologetic kind she gives her colleagues after Mulder's just said something "funny" and insulted everyone at the table. The kind that signifies she's going to chew his ass out as soon as they're alone. It dawns on me that I'm likely going to face a similar wrath. Oh, well. It was worth it.

"Well, here's the key. That'll be $45 even. Check-out's at noon."

I have to let go of Scully in order to pay the nice man, and before I even pull the bills from my wallet she's out the door.

"G'night. Ya'll sleep well. Hope she don't kick you outta bed tonight."

"That makes two of us."

She doesn't have the keys so she's just leaning against the car when I walk out of the office. I'm somewhat relieved that she didn't just bolt, but I'm not reading her utter stillness as a good sign. Fuck it. If she wants a fight, I'll give her one. Maybe she needs to be reminded that I'm not her pussy-whipped partner.

"Don't touch me again," she orders sternly as soon as I'm within earshot.

"Lighten up, Scully…"

"LISTEN to me, Krycek. You touch me again or make one more suggestive allusion and I'll break your arm. I'm not here for my health."

All the tension between us is back with a vengeance. I stand straight and puff my chest out a bit, and my hands rest on my hips. I'm too tired and road-weary to put up with her shit. If she wants me to drop my sense of humor, I'll be only too happy to oblige. I lean in, not quite getting in her space, but close enough to see signs of weariness appear across her face. She begins to open her mouth and I cut her off.

"Actually, that's exactly why you're here. For your health and for everyone else's."

She closes her mouth, considering my point for a moment, cutting her eyes to the side to dart haphazardly behind my left shoulder. Then she does that thing with her tongue again. It darts out to the corner of her lips and disappears. Goddamn it, woman. You're not making this easy for me.

"Just back off. Don't touch me again."

My lizard brain is back in control after that whole tongue thing stomped my primate brain dead. I grin at her wickedly, though she's still not looking at me, and then, slowly, in my best English accent: "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

That did it. She glares at me through narrow slits and folds her arms defiantly over her chest, daring me to say one more word. She was wrong. Mulder's not going to kill me, he doesn't stand a chance. She's going to rip me limb from bloody limb herself.

I decide not to push her any farther and just move out of her way, trying to look as smug and confident as I can manage as I walk past her towards the back of the car and start to gather our bags from the trunk.

We're in the room a couple minutes later. She's in the bathroom and I've simply collapsed onto my bed. I didn't even bother to take off my jacket. I close my eyes and focus on the sound of running water, the flush of the toilet, the little clicks and thuds coming from behind the door. The thought of her changing clothes in there is distracting. Why are the hot ones always such a pain in the ass? I guess she's my type after all. Smart is sexy. Trouble's even sexier. She's got both in spades.

The motel clerk probably thinks we're having sex right now, making up after our little spat. The happy little couple. This is such an absurd idea that I snort with laughter. I picture me and Scully holding hands in a movie theater, going grocery shopping together, cooking dinner at her place. It's all so funny.

I'm cackling softly to myself and nearly tearing up in my absurdist delirium when she emerges from the bathroom. She shoots me a quizzical, uneasy look. I can't blame her. I'm not normally one given to spontaneous fits of laughter. Maybe I'm going mad. Or maybe I just haven't slept in nearly 48 hours.

She's wearing boring grey sweats and her hair is pinned back with barrettes. Her face is freshly scrubbed and practically glowing. She's so pale. There's the sexiest mole on her upper lip.

"Krycek?" Her voice startles me, though it's barely pitched above a whisper.

I blink slowly, trying to focus. "Hmm?"

"Stop staring at me."

I'm awake now. I'm pretty sick of her demands and lack of humor. Slowly, I roll to my side and stand up, not more than arm's length from her, and she looks at me with growing apprehension. I look down into her eyes and the energy I get from her fear recharges me. She's barefoot and, although I've untied and loosened the laces, I'm still in my boots, and I love the feeling of power and strength that comes from those extra few inches I have on her. I peel my jacket off and toss it onto the back of the lone chair without breaking eye contact with her. She swallows hard. I toe my boots off and hold her gaze as I unbutton my shirt at the same time, pull the hem from my jeans, and toss the shirt over my jacket. I'm wearing a t-shirt underneath, but I still suddenly feel rather exposed. She looks conflicted: angry, frightened, and something else I really hope I'm reading correctly. I take a small step closer, smile like the proverbial fox in the hen house, and her eyes go even wider. Her lips part, preparing to reiterate her "hands off" policy, no doubt.

So I step around her then, satisfied that I've still got her attention, and when I step just inside the bathroom, I look back at her. She's watching me, and she looks a little flustered. Her chest is rising and falling a little too quickly. I think maybe she enjoyed watching me get undressed. I shoot her another slow smile, telepathically telling her that I recognize the signals her body is putting out, and when I see her face and neck begin to bloom pink, I shut the door.

I close my eyes and try to steady my heart rate. My head is a mess, my nerves are shot and I'm insanely pleased with myself that I just made Dr. Scully blush like a schoolgirl. I think I might just be developing an honest to goodness crush. I look at my rumpled, exhausted reflection and ask it, "How the hell did you let this happen?" Jesus, I don't need this shit.

When I've finally settled down and gathered enough courage and resolve to leave the comforting seclusion of the bathroom, I find her curled up on her bed, facing the wall. I briefly wonder what she'd do if I just crawled in behind her and spooned up. She told you what she'd do, you idiot. She'll break your fucking arm. I don't doubt her sincerity or her ability for a second. So I keep walking.

I stand beside my bed and take stock of the room again. No windows that open, just one door. My paranoia surfaces and I picture her sneaking out of the room while I sleep. She hasn't left yet, she needs me on this after all, but I don't want to risk her changing her mind and deciding it's not worth it. I pull the car keys out of my jacket and put them under the pillow, along with my gun. Then I use every ounce of strength my weary body can muster to pull my bed away from the wall until it's half-way blocking the door. Hotel furniture, even at a fleabag place like this, is heavy. Scully turns briefly as I'm tugging it into place to see what the racket is about, but then settles back as she was without a word. She doesn't look confused or angry now. She seems to understand completely. She doesn't expect me to trust her anymore that she trusts me.

I walk over to the lamp and switch it off.

"Goodnight, Scully," I whisper.

"Goodnight." I barely hear her.

I sit on the edge of my bed and take off my socks, then stand and remove my belt and wallet. After a moment of consideration I decide to leave my jeans on. I lie on my side and study Scully's small, dark form from across the room, focusing on her until my lids droop and finally close, drifting off into a few hours of delicious, indulgent sleep.

Undivided Attention

Part 4

I awake with a start and the digital clock on a radio I don't recognize tells me it's 10:26am. I blink and frown, trying to figure out where I am and why I would have slept so late. The sound of not-quite snoring a few feet behind me reminds me at once and makes me stiffen. I really don't want to be here. Is it too much to ask for one weekend of peace?

I feel the need to lay here and just stew in my own juices for a minute or two. All of the what ifs and accusations and grand attempts at self-pity seem a necessary balm against this fiasco, but in the practical sense, what I really need is a shower and some coffee. I get up slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, hoping to have some time to think before Krycek wakes up.

I'm not prepared in any way for what I see when I finally sit up and turn to face him. He's on his back, lying on top of the comforter, one hand resting on the middle of his chest. His head is turned towards me a bit and his expression, even in his sleep, is tense. The dark stubble peppered across his jaw and upper lip makes him look older, gruffer, and well, sexier. I literally missed his attractiveness at first. For years I pictured him in my head as a misshapen monster. And he is a monster, make no mistake about that. It's just that he's not, in the light of objective reality, ugly at all. At least he wouldn't be to those who don't know who he really is, what he's done, and what he's capable of. I've recently come to think of him as the devil himself, appearing as a handsome, clever man who tempts you with every answer to every question you've ever pondered. Krycek would make a wonderful Mephistopheles. I do believe he's playing that part with me now. He's every cliche there is about every kind of sleek, beautiful, deadly feline. I take in his muscular arms, his bare feet, his gorgeous face, and I briefly entertain a vision of him in a cage, sleeping like he is now, and being able to watch him in safety from afar.

I shake my head. Snap out of it, Dana. Shouldn't I be planning my getaway? Aren't I supposed to be figuring out a way to get my gun and badge back? Why am I reverting to the mentality of a hormone-soaked 15 year old just because he smells like sweat and leather? And why am I staring at his crotch like I've never seen a morning erection before? Jesus, his jeans are halfway unbuttoned and it looks like that thing is going to try to break free. His t-shirt has ridden up just enough to reveal a tiny sliver of his pale, flat stomach. I'm trapped in a cheap hotel room with Krycek and his penis, and I'm trying to be appalled, or at least angered by that, but God help me, he's absolutely stunning. He's laid out on the bed looking like some kind of GQ model. I can't think straight. I've got to get away from him. But I just stare, drinking in the sight of him, until I see a slight movement in his brow, followed by a shift in his hand. The sudden disturbance in the tableau encourages me to abandon my surveillance in case it signals his awakening.

I make a dash for the bathroom, holding my breath until I close and lock the door behind me. Once I'm safely inside, I begin my new mantra: "this is not good, this is not good, this is not good…" I turn on the shower and step inside. "This is not good, this is not good, this is not good…" I linger under the water in an attempt to delay having to face him again. "This is not good, this is not good, this is not good…" I brush my teeth, apply my makeup, style my hair, and try to make myself appear beautiful, confident, and ALMOST untouchable. This is definitely not good.

My hand hesitates, not quite touching the knob, and I take a deep breath before unlocking the door and facing Mephistopheles. But Mephistopheles is nowhere to be seen. The bed he moved against the door last night is back in place and his boots, jacket, and every other trace of him is gone. If he ditched me, I swear to God I'll kill him. I don't care how pretty he is. I open the door to the parking lot and the sun nearly blinds me. My hand comes up to block the light, and it takes several seconds to focus well enough to see that the car is missing. I walk to the corner of the building, turn towards the office to make sure he's not in front, then stalk back clenching my hands into fists. I slam the door behind me and begin to gather my things. I wonder if the hotel clerk would let me call Mulder-shit, Mulder's unreachable-I'll have to call Skinner. Skinner will be angry about me taking off with Krycek, but not nearly as angry as Mulder. It probably a good thing he's incommunicado. Skinner could wire me some money, a plane ticket, and get me the hell out of here. Goddamn it, Krycek has my badge, my gun, my wallet...everything. My fury builds and I'm about to either punch the wall or scream in frustration-maybe both- when I notice something on my bed. A small scrap of paper, folded in half with "Scully" written on it. I approach it as if I half-expect it to bite me. I unfold it and it reads, "Went for breakfast, be back soon."

Went for breakfast? This mundane sentence is so out of context. I was wrestling with the demons of betrayal, subterfuge, and double-crosses, and Krycek is out picking up donuts?

Before my brain can fully process this complete shift in perception, I hear the car pull up and the engine stop. As I turn towards the door, Krycek comes through it with several bags and a half-eaten bagel in his teeth.

He brushes past me to drop everything on the table, then pulls a coffee cup out of a carrier and offers it to me. His left hand pulls the bagel out of his mouth as the right extends the cup out, nearly placing it in my hand, which is still holding that scrap of paper. "Ah, good, you got my note. Mocha latte? It's lowfat." How the hell does he know my Starbucks order?

I should be incensed again, and I am, somewhat, but I'm also very hungry and the coffee smells so good that I let it go and just take the cup. The first sip is like heaven.

He's pulling bagels, fruit and yogurt out of the bags, then orange juice and tomato juice and two enormous muffins. "Do you want the apple walnut or the blueberry?"

I realize I've just been standing there, staring. Staring at that stubble on his face. Staring at his Adam's apple as he tilts his head way back to drain the last mouthful of coffee from his cup. He swallows the bagel he's been chewing, and then, catching me staring, almost meekly says, "Sorry, I'm just really hungry." He smiles and shrugs like a shy little boy before reaching for the carton of tomato juice and pouring some for both of us.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed by him. In 6 years and dozens of crappy little hotels, Mulder has never once offered me anything akin to this impromptu breakfast. I can't remember the last time anyone other than my mother walked through my door with coffee and food. It's such a small thing, but it feels so intimate. This simple kindness, and his meekness over expressing it, is making him even sexier. He didn't need to be any sexier. It was already almost cartoonish how sexy he is. It's damned distracting.

I force myself to pull my eyes away from him and focus on my hands. I begin spreading cream cheese on a bagel and try to ignore what his general proximity to me is doing. Am I really going to get back in the car with him? What am I going to do if he touches me again?

What the hell will I do if he doesn't?

"Penny for your thoughts." I look up to see him watching me intently. He looks...concerned? Suspicious? I most certainly cannot reveal my thoughts to him, so I remain quiet. Luckily, my hesitation seems to have been interpreted as unease about our overall situation rather than the unease I'm feeling around him specifically.

"Scully, Mulder will understand why you came with me. Once you have the decoded files, there'll be nothing to argue about."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Yeah, well...maybe he'll never have to know. Maybe you tell him you broke the code on your own. It's certainly not outside the realm of possibility."

"Not that Mulder's familiar with that particular realm."

There's a loud, truncated snort of laughter that grabs my attention and I look up into Krycek's surprised face. He's giving me an almost admiring look, as though he didn't think I had it in me. So now it's my turn to smile and shrug shyly. I didn't mean to say that out loud, so I'm kind of embarrassed. But secretly, I'm also kind of thrilled to have someone to share the joke with, and I'm stuffing a piece of cantaloupe in my mouth to keep from smiling again.

We eat in companionable silence until he clears his throat and announces that he's going to get cleaned up. I finish the last few bites of yogurt and fruit, drink the last drop of my coffee, and start throwing out the crumbs and napkins from our little feast. It gives me something to think about other than the sound of the water in the next room and his wet, naked body under the shower spray.

Undivided Attention

Part 5

According to Scully we've only got about 45 minutes to go, now that we've driven through Asheville and emerged on the other side. It's been a gorgeous day and we had a great lunch in the city. The trees are displaying all their autumn glory which makes the mountains almost glow in gold and red and orange. The sun, the crisp fall air, the colors of the trees, the excellent restaurant...it's been a much more pleasant experience to be driving with Scully today than it was last night. Luckily the atmosphere and the much-needed sleep have done wonders for our general attitudes. I've discovered that Scully has a wicked sense of humor. She's snide, dry, sarcastic, sardonic. I had seen traces of it, but it was almost always aimed at me. Seems it's not just me that brings that out in her. That brain of hers has been providing me with entertainment all day, even when she doesn't necessarily mean for it to.

Something changed, literally overnight, and now it almost feels like we're friends. Well, maybe that's too strong a word. Maybe "comrades" is a better word. Yeah, we're like comrades. We're working towards the same goal, and as such there's a little bit of trust being built. I'm even considering giving her her badge and wallet back. But I think I'll hold onto her gun a bit longer.

"Make the next right," she directs.

We're weaving around a narrow mountain path that doesn't seem wide enough for two way traffic. We climb up and up and neither see nor hear any other cars even after 15 minutes.

"Are you sure this is right?"

"Yes, Krycek. This is our driveway."

"Your driveway is 20 miles long?"

She just smirks at that. And I keep weaving.

Finally a large, handsome log cabin comes into view, the Scully summer home, I've been told, but the treacherous road demands another several minutes of driving time before reaching it.

Scully sits still, seemingly uninterested in getting out of the car once we're parked. There's a shift in her and I'm wondering if things are going to start getting unpleasant again.

We exchange an uncomfortable glance, but no words. Finally, I break the eye contact, get out and pull my laptop and some other things out of the trunk. As I take a step towards her side of the car and wonder whether I'm going to have to slip back into my headspace from the night before and start implementing one or two of my persuasion techniques, she steps out of the car and begins walking to the house. In addition to my computer, I also grabbed her purse, and now I hand it over so she can retrieve her keys and let us in. An alarm sounds, which she quickly neutralizes, and then I step in after her.

I take a look around but keep flitting my eyes back to her, trying to gage her mood. She's deep in thought and neither of us wants to speak first. The house is large and open, but cozy with a huge stone fireplace, leather furniture and various antlers and animal heads stuffed and mounted to the walls. It feels like a turn of the century hunting cabin and based on the sheer size and circumference of the logs, it may just be that old.

It would be a great weekend retreat if I didn't have more important business to attend to. Our sunny, almost carefree day is over now. As eager as I am to get my hands and eyes on that disk, I feel bereft. I wish we lived in a world where I could simply hang out here with Scully and laugh at her offhand remarks about how obstinate Mulder is.

"There's a bathroom there if you need it," she gestures to our left and I see it just across the foyer. "I'll get the disk," she tells me and walks into the living room and starts climbing the stairs to the second floor. There's no way I'm letting her out of my sight.

"I'll go with you." I'm feeling the familiar old paranoia again. Good. I've let my guard down far too much in the past several hours. I'm not about to let her pull a switcheroo on me and hand over a blank disk, or let her use a telephone or go online up there. There are probably guns hidden in every room. If I were her I'd be trying to figure out the best way to get my hands on them. I absentmindedly crook my arm, bring my elbow in against my hip, and feel the reassuring weight and cold hardness of her FBI issue Glock there. I don't want to have to use it, but it's comforting to know it's in my possession, not hers.

I'm paranoid enough to allow her to walk up several steps ahead of me so she can't reach me if she decides to kick out to send me flying backwards down the stairs. Her posture is tense and I wonder if she's planning something like that to break my neck, or if she's just picking up on my dark thoughts and reacting to my mood.

At the top of the steps there's a long hall with three doors. She leads me past the first bedroom, which seems to be suited to little girls, with two pastel-covered twin beds. She turns to look into it as if she almost expects to see someone there. Then there's a bathroom and then she pauses briefly in front of the last bedroom door before walking into it. This one is slightly smaller and looks like a boy's room and there are bunk beds against the wall to the right.

I'm starting to get antsy. The disk must be in this room and in a manner of minutes I'm going to be able to examine it. But she's just standing there, not moving. It worries me and stokes my impatience.

"Where is it, Scully?" I ask the back of her head.

She turns her head to the left, glancing over her shoulder at me just briefly before facing ahead again and letting out a sigh.

"What are you going to do with it, Krycek?" She turns towards me slowly, with her whole body this time.

I cock my head at her and feel my brow knit in confusion. What the hell does she mean by that? Haven't I made my plans crystal clear to her?

"What am I going to do with it?"

"I want to know. And I want to know what you're going to do with me."

She thinks I'm going to kill her. And that realization almost breaks my heart.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Scully. Not unless you make me." That earns me an eye roll and an indignant little huff, but I go on, "I'm going to examine the files on that disk, I'm going to determine which key will decode it, and I'm going to go through every inch of it with a fine-toothed comb."

"Where?"

"What?"

"WHERE are you going to do all this work, all this decoding, all this reading?"

"Uh…" I hadn't actually thought it through. I figured there would only be about 20 seconds between holding it in my hand and the moment I shoved it into my computer. I start to wonder how safe I am here, if I need to find another dumpy, anonymous hotel to work from.

"We could stay here tonight, if you want. We could work on it together."

I try to capture her eyes with mine, I want to determine if there are any hidden meanings in those two short sentences. But I can't read her eyes because she's staring down at my shoes.

"How secluded is this place? Who's going to be able to see that someone's here?"

Now she looks up and cocks her head at me. "In case you didn't notice the utter lack of civilization on the way up here, we're very secluded. There's one house on an overlooking mountainside who would be able to see smoke coming from the treetops. If we built a fire and they thought to look for smoke, that is. But until winter, when the trees are completely bare, they won't be able to see the house, the drive, or any lights here at all."

I consider this information along with my eagerness to get started without further delay. I also consider that Scully may be lying or may have hatched some kind of scheme and by staying here I'm giving her the home field advantage. I think it would be safer in the short term to take off with the disk and strand Scully here in the middle nowhere making sure her phone and internet lines are cut. But in the long term, if she's sincere, then it would be hugely advantageous to have her on my side. I want to trust her. I want to allow myself that kind of exquisite luxury. God, we could be so damn good together.

I look into those cold blue eyes of hers and she's staring at me so closely I wonder if she can read my thoughts.

"What do you want out of this, Scully?"

"I want answers."

I nod my understanding. And I need hers. "I want to trust you." I say it as clearly and simply as I can, and I look her steadily in the eyes as I say it.

"I...I want to trust you, too." I think my confession surprised her. Hers has definitely surprised me.

A silence stretches out between us. There's harsh, but dappled light streaming through the blinds. The sun's going to set soon. The house is unbearably silent other than a soft click, click, click of a clock somewhere. My mouth is dry and I suddenly feel a chill. I can't decide which path to walk right now. The tried and true is much safer, but it's also exhausting working alone, trusting no one, depending on no one. I'm getting tired. I need a comrade. Yeah, Alex, ask Trotsky how that whole comrade thing worked out for him. I frown. This train of thought is not helpful.

I guess Scully can sense my ambivalence because she turns away from me again and walks to the closet. She opens the door and flips the light switch. She gropes for something behind the line of clothes obscuring the view, and my hand goes to the gun on my hip. She pulls a step ladder out and unfolds it, then reaches up blindly above her head to a high shelf and I unsnap the holster strap and grasp the Glock's handle. It's just a flashlight she brings down from that shelf. As I step closer and peer inside the closet, I see there's a square panel cut out of the ceiling just above the ladder. She's pushed it up and moved it out of the way before I can suggest that I go first, and then she takes one more step up to the top rung of the ladder and hoists herself up into what must be an attic space.

I pull the gun out now and pray she doesn't have one up there about to get trained on me. But, some chances just have to be taken, so with the safety still on, I follow her lead into the darkness and then I'm temporarily blinded when she shines the light directly in my eyes. "Jesus!"

"Sorry. I was trying to help."

Now the beam of light bounces from place to place as she slowly and carefully makes her way to the far end of the long room. The attic is unfinished and raw, with lots of nails sticking down from the roof and a good portion of the floor is just beams of wood sticking out between rolls of pink insulation. I need to watch my step and my head.

There are boxes everywhere, some marked "Xmas" and "Halloween", some unmarked. There are clear plastic storage containers with rolls of wrapping paper, there're about a dozen fishing poles and an old, wooden hobby horse that looks antique. There's a sewing machine and wooden trunks, luggage and god knows what else.

"Hold this." She hands me the flashlight and I train it on the pile of boxes in front of her. She takes two large, heavy boxes off of a very large wooden trunk and sets them both to the side. There's a pile of what looks like old scrap books remaining, and she sweeps those up in her arms and places them on one of the boxes she just moved. They slowly start to slide away and she catches them just in time and straightens them again so they stay put. Then she grabs the handle on the trunk and pulls...and the brittle, old, leather strap breaks right in two. "Shit."

I chuckle at that and she admonishes me, "Are you going to help or are you just going to laugh at me?"

"I'm laughing WITH you, Scully."

Her grin didn't last long, but it was enough to tell me that she believes me.

I set the flashlight down so it's generally pointing in the right direction and then put the gun back in the holster. I grab the other side of the trunk and pull. It comes forward a few inches, and she bends down to undo the latch and opens it.

My heart is pounding and I grab the flashlight so I can point it down inside the box, which is bursting with old clothes. The disk must be under them. I lean down beside her and run the light over every inch. I'm about to reach for the clothes to pull them away so I can get to it, but the overwhelming scent of mothballs and dust hits me hard and I stand and twist away as it makes me sneeze. Twice.

"Bless you." I think there was sincere care in that whisper.

When I reopen my eyes, Scully's holding an antique clothes hanger that's wooden with a thick wire rod at the bottom and a thinner wire hook at the top. As I watch, she begins to unscrew the hook part and then pulls it off entirely.

"Give me the flashlight."

I hand it over, wondering what the hell she's going to do with that hook and where the hell the damned disk is. I'm about to ask when she stands up straight again.

She aims the flashlight at the ceiling above us and then brings it back to the trunk. She tosses the unwanted part of the old clothes hanger back inside, closes the lid and fastens the latch. "We need to pull it out about a foot more."

We manage to scoot it forward a few inches, then a few inches more. Her flashlight darts back up to the ceiling again. "One more time ought to do it."

We grunt and I sneeze again, but we move it another 4 or 5 inches and she hands me the flashlight.

The crate is tall enough to come up to the tops of her thighs, so she turns away from it, facing me, and jumps up and back enough to land, sitting on top of it like a bar stool or something. "Give me your hand." I see she's asking for leverage to help her make it up onto her feet, so I shift the flashlight to my left hand and hold out my stronger right one to her, palm up. She places her hand on mine and pushes down hard as I push up, pulling her legs in under her and planting her feet.

Once she's up she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the wire hook, and uses the flattened end of the wire as a flathead screwdriver, twisting the round hook part around and around until the three screws holding a metal vent cover attached to the roof are removed and placed into her pocket. She wriggles the metal plate free and hands it down to me. Taped inside, enclosed in a heavy plastic case, is a zip disc.

"You're a fucking genius." I grin up at her in amazement. No one could have found it in a million years. Tell them it's in the attic and they would tear through every box, crate, bag and piece of insulation. It would take a Scully to think of hiding it in a spot that's essentially on the fucking roof.

She returns my awe with a quirky smile that's part "aw, shucks" and a slightly larger part that's "yeah, no shit."

I rip the case free of the tape and hand the metal plate back to her, and as she screws it back into place, I pop the plastic case open and finally, FINALLY hold that zip disk between my fingers. It doesn't feel as good as I thought it would. The end of the road rarely does, though. I begin anew to conjure up all the dark threats that it might contain.

Scully clears her throat and brings me back to the present. "Yeah," I reply, acknowledging that I need to help her down. I put the disk in its case and then tuck it into the inside breast pocket of my jacket.

I begin to reach up for her hand when she lets out a cry of distress. She's lost her footing and starts to fall towards me. I drop the flashlight, which goes out as soon as it hits the floor, and extend both arms out under her body and scoop her up like Lois Lane being rescued by Superman.

Although, Superman wouldn't have made the loud grunting noise I did, and he wouldn't have crumpled to the floor, tailbone smacking down hard on a wooden plank. That's going to leave quite a bruise. And then that stack of family albums goes sliding and there's a messy, sad sound as each one falls and its contents are scattered hither and yon.

But none of this really registers because I'm cradling Scully in my arms and listening to her breathe and all I care about right now is her. She's quiet and still.

"Are you ok?"

"Ankle's twisted a little, but it's not broken. I'm fine."

I close my eyes and let out a sigh of relief. And then I pull her in against my chest and rest my head on top of hers. I know I shouldn't, but it's a reflex, it's automatic. And I don't want to stop myself even if I could. She's soft and solid and warm in my arms and she's been making me completely crazy. I just have to hold her. I have to inhale the scent of her hair and rub my hand up and down her back and make sure she's all in one piece. She seems to be, but she also seems stiff and tense.

"Krycek? ...You ok?" She sounds a bit hesitant, a bit concerned. Concerned for which one of us, I don't know.

All I can do is nod my head against hers. "Yeah."

We just sit and breathe together for a long moment. And then slowly I feel her relaxing. Then she takes my breath away by wrapping one arm around my back, placing her other hand flat against my chest, turning her face into me, and letting me hold her.

Undivided Attention

Part 6

I think I'm dreaming, and I'm starting to wonder if what feels like a very, very good dream is going to turn into a nightmare. My face is pressed into the cool leather of Krycek's jacket and his large, warm hand is rubbing my back, up between my shoulder blades and down to my waist, and it's gentle, but firm and so very comforting. And I'm sitting in his lap with my legs hooked over his other arm, being cradled like a baby. And it seems like alarms should be going off in my head, but it's completely disarming. I'm sinking into him. Losing myself in it. I want to fall asleep for long hours and wake up right here. I want to die here.

"You COULD die here, Dana, if you don't snap out of it." My higher brain kicks in with that delayed alarm system and my eyes open wide. The attic is almost completely dark without the flashlight. There's a glow at the other end of the room, coming up from the closet. I have to extract myself right now and get back over to that light. I've got to do it without spooking Krycek.

I won't be able to extract myself without his cooperation. So, after a few more seconds of savoring the strange comfort of the situation, I clear my throat and break the spell.

"I need to get up."

It's a soft, raspy whisper, but it conveys a plea. At the sound of my voice his hand stops rubbing, and now just rests in the middle of my back. His head moves up away from mine, and he pulls his arm out from under my legs and pulls it up to rest across my thighs, his hand not quite cupping my hip, allowing me to sit up fully if I would just unwrap my arm from around him...any day now. Slowly, with equal parts relief and regret, I withdraw my arms. And as I sit up more fully into his lap, I brace my own hand on his shoulder so I can push myself up to stand.

He helps me up to my feet, but he grunts in pain when I put my weight down on his shoulder.

"You're hurt." I can't really hide the concern in my voice.

"It's just a bruise."

"Are you sure there's nothing broken?"

"Yeah, yeah, just a bruise."

"Can you stand?"

"I think so...but, uh, I might need some help."

"Take my hand." My eyes are adjusting a bit to the dark, I can just make out the shapes of the boxes and other things strewn around, so I'm not sure if he'll be able to see me, so instead of merely holding my hand out to him, I place it on his shoulder...much more gently this time. He reaches up and slides his palm against me until he can wrap his fingers around my wrist. I clasp his wrist in turn and then I begin to pull him up.

The strained cry that he makes as he stands indicates to my physician's ears that he's suffering from more than a bruise. I reach out and bracket my hands on either side of his ribcage and run them lightly over him, searching for any bumps that shouldn't be there. His hands are heavy on my shoulders now, bracing himself, and he's a bit hunched. His head is hanging and his bangs tickle my forehead. His breath is a bit irregular. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to get him out of this attic. I give him a minute to adjust and listen for signs of more distress. He hisses a bit as my hands reach up almost to his armpits.

"You might have a broken rib."

"Nothing's broken, Doc. Will you leave me alone?"

"OK. Fine. Can you walk?" I feel his weight shift off of my shoulders and onto his legs as he straightens himself up and then removes his hands completely.

"Yeah...yeah, I'm ok. Really."

"You don't sound ok."

What he actually says in response is: "I'm fine." What his tone says is: "Drop it."

He prys each of my hands away from him and pushes them away with annoyance. I take the hint.

"Let's get out of here, then. I think the path is mostly clear."

I turn towards that light that's been beaconing to us since the flashlight died, and start slowly and gingerly making my way to it. I'm relieved when I hear him shuffling his feet closely behind. Our progress is slow but steady and he winces a bit as he lowers himself down into the closet, but within a few minutes we've made it all the way back down to the living room.

Krycek moves quickly to his computer bag and pulls the laptop out. He grabs the power cord next and scans the walls to find an outlet. He appears to have forgotten his injury, and I guess he's content with staying here tonight, and I'm happy for it. I drop down onto one of the couches, suddenly feeling drained and wishing I could just lay back and take a nap. There's a lot of data that needs to be assessed, a lot of work needs to be done, and I'm eager to know if there are any answers at all on that disk, but now that it's in Krycek's hands I feel like I can finally relax a little. I don't know if he really would have killed me if I hadn't been able to produce it, but I did and I don't feel like I'm in mortal danger any longer because of that. I watch him as he becomes totally absorbed in his computer screen.

"Krycek?" I want to ask him if I can help. He doesn't hear me, though, and I let the moment stretch out as I weigh my curiosity against my exhaustion. Curiosity wins.

"Kry…"

"Leave me alone, Scully. I've got to decode it. It'll take a while." His voice is loud, impatient, and sharp. Angry. He doesn't even bother to look up. It's as though he's addressing a petulant child. It takes me aback. It's not the tone I heard in the attic at all, well, at least not until I started examining him for injuries. I shudder at the memory and can't reconcile that he was holding me in his arms not half an hour ago. Obviously he misunderstands my motive. I just want to help.

"Can I help with anyth…"

His head doesn't move, but his eyes jump up to fix on mine. The lamplight reveals sea green and gold, framed in dark mink lashes that highlight the depth of those waters. I snap my lips closed as I realize that my train of thought has evaporated. Wasn't I saying something? Isn't there something important, something significant, that I should be concentrating on? I can't remember. I can't concentrate on anything at all when there's a taut black panther who is telling me through deep, ancient eyes that if I make one false move it's going to pounce. It's going to eviscerate me.

I'm frozen. Too terrified to move or even breathe. He's still got my gun.

He blinks slowly, just once, and as his eyes open they bring his head up with them just an inch and l swallow hard. I note the minute shift, the smallest hint of crinkling skin at the outer edges. He's smelled my fear and it makes him smirk. Son of a bitch.

My anger rises and whispers a reminder to me that panthers are not the only creatures with claws and fangs. My body reacts subconsciously to bring these facts into focus: I draw the tips of my fingernails over the pads of my thumbs and the tip of my tongue shifts up and over, pressing hard on one of my canines and enjoying, almost savoring, the sharpness of its point. If he does pounce, he's going to get a fight. Gun or no gun.

I ask him the same question I did last night in my apartment. I don't like this pattern. "What's so fucking funny, Krycek?"

The smirk blooms into a small, secretive smile as he raises his head fully but drops his eyes to my feet, then slowly drags them up my body until they stop, narrowing just a bit, to examine my mouth.

His tongue rolls out over his bottom lip, lapping at it and curling it into his mouth to be worried between his teeth. In slow motion that juicy, glistening flesh is released and springs back into a thoughtful pout before he answers, face and voice now very serious, "You are, Scully. You're funny as hell."

Undivided Attention

Part 7

She's taken up residence on the couch across the room, fidgeting and chewing on her lip and she won't stop watching me. She's wearing those tight jeans and the baby blue cashmere sweater is just fucking...distracting. How can anyone so small have all those damn curves? And how am I supposed to work on these files and potentially save the entirety of the human race when she keeps doing that thing with her tongue? And how can she be so absolutely clueless about the effect that has on every single man in her presence? She's also ditched her boots and socks and she's twitching her toes. Her bare feet, with their pink toenails, are taunting me.

I wish she would go away. I don't have time for this testosterone-induced fog. I need to fucking concentrate.

But she's anchored there, leaning back in the pillows. At least go to sleep, Scully. Just leave me alone.

I redouble my attempt to analyse the data in front of me. There are about a dozen different translation keys, but their differences are subtle. You have to know what to look for. You have to recognize the nuances. It's painstaking work and it requires the careful reading of dozens of these seemly mundane reports and memos and emails before I can narrow the code down to the correct key. Once I figure out which one it is, the contents of the files will read like a book. But if I've selected the wrong key, the book will be just as readable, but completely false. I have to get it right. I have to concentrate.

"Krycek?"

Her soft, small voice stirs me and I steel myself against it, refusing to answer. Maybe if I ignore her she'll take the hint.

I bring my eyes back to the beginning of the paragraph and start reading, start looking for the pattern again. I get to the end of the sentence and realize I don't recall a single word. I start again.

"Kry…"

"Leave me alone, Scully. I've got to decode it. It'll take a while." I cringe a bit when I hear the harshness in my voice. I didn't mean to come across quite so angry. But she's stopped, so at least it seems to have worked.

I start reading the damn sentence once more and…

"Can I help with anyth…"

I glare up at her but don't say a word. My eyes narrow and I just stare into hers with all the fury and frustration and longing that bursts through the surface and spills out through the light waves that travel from my pupils to hers.

Her mouth snaps shut and then I watch that goddamned tongue dart out one more time. And that's when I give up. I understand that she's won. There will be no work accomplished tonight. I am livid. With her, with myself. I have work to do. Vitally important work. I had it all laid out. I don't need this shit.

"Actually," some small voice in my head corrects me, "You DO need it, and you want it badly." The desire has made me delirious, and now that she's won I'm not going to even try to hold it in check anymore. She has won and now everything is exceedingly simple from here on out. I feel calm, clear, free. I feel...elated, like taking my hands off the metal bar and just accepting that the roller coaster is going to have its way with you. Whatever comes of this resignation, whatever my traitorous mind and body might conspire to do now, and whatever her reaction might be to it, it's going to be fucking spectacular.

"What's so damned funny, Krycek?"

What the hell is she talking about now? I'm not laughing at her, although I guess I am smirking. And then I recognize it: she's terrified of me, and she's furious at herself for it. I look down at those pink toes and drink her in from bottom to top. Those lips of hers make me absolutely desperate. How can she not know what's really on my filthy, delinquent mind?

It would be adorable if she was some meek housewife, some virginal teenage girl, but she's far from either of those. On her, the seasoned investigator, the ball-busting special agent, the gun-toting, cadaver-slicing, globe-trotting FBI badass, this obliviousness is, well, it's hysterical, really.

"You are, Scully. You're funny as hell."

Flames spring to life behind her irises when she registers my words and I fear I may be consumed by them. Oh, yeah, I was right. She's spectacular already, and, lucky me, I have a front row seat to her terrifying, unpredictable show. I feel a bit lightheaded, a little giddy. The wheels are in motion and I'm dying to see how this all plays out.

Hell hath no fury like an Agent Scully scorned. She rises from the couch and walks towards me slowly, deliberately, purposefully. There are waves of scorchingly hot energy rolling off of her and I swear I see the air ripple as she moves, like a desert mirage. The room, the disk, the entire world, disappears. There is nothing but her-no sights, no sounds, no thoughts. Nothing except her. Time has slowed to the point that allows me to easily observe the movements of every finger, every individual strand of fiery hair, every molecule of air she exhales, all at once. It's heart-stoppingly terrifying. And utterly glorious. And I have never seen anything so stunningly beautiful and intoxicatingly alluring in my life. It is a sacred moment, full of wonder and awe, and the presence of the divine.

I am literally shaking in my boots. The goddess Kali has taken human form and I must decide to run screaming from Her judgement, or stand in Her shadow and be devoured. Without conscious thought, I sweep the computer, with that precious and now forgotten disk in it, from my lap, removing the only object between us. My instincts urge me to run, but Her power is nearly tangible. It makes my bones feel heavy as lead and I know I will never be able to run fast enough. I am resigned: I have been running for too long. I am ready to be judged if it means an end to my constant flight. I know She will judge me fairly. Far more fairly than I probably deserve.

Her feral eyes pin me in place as She approaches with Her garland of skulls that chills my blood. I can't stand. I can't move. I can't even blink. I am hypnotized.

And She is upon me, towering over me as I sit, Her breath rapid, Her face a grimace of righteous indignation. Her hands are balled into fists which flex against Her hips.

I have never wanted anything in this entire wide world as much as I want her. I am absolutely aching to touch her. My hands are sweating and shaking in anticipation.

Let Her call me out, let Her condemn me. Let Her innumerate my sins one by one and demand my shame and remorse. Let Her then absolve me.

She says nothing. Just searches my face, dares me to speak, to defy Her. But I will defy Her no more. I have been laid bare and She will get nothing from me but confession. This battle will be bloody and brutal, as is always the case when unadulterated Truth is the chosen weapon. Kali demands, and deserves, nothing less. I will be Her willing and humble supplicant. I will absolutely revel in doing so.

Undivided Attention

Part 8

She is still silent, but the wheels are turning in her head as she stares down at me. I should feel frightened, threatened, even though I still have her gun on my hip. I know I won't use it, though. I know I will never harm her again. And I am strangely at peace as I recognize my weakness, my disadvantage. It's all strangely exhilarating. So unpredictable.

The main problem, I realize, is that she doesn't know about my change of heart. How could she? I've only now discovered it myself. Now that I know, I have to let her know.

I reach for her gun slowly, unsnap the holster, and draw it out.

She watches my hand close around the handle, bring it up between our bodies, but she doesn't flinch. The old me would have been incensed by that. The new me sees it for the small victory it is. Maybe she does understand that I pose no danger to her now.

I turn it in my palm, laying it flat with the barrel pointed at my chest, then lift it up and out to return it to her.

She only hesitates for a second. Then, in one smooth, graceful arc, she raises it from my hand and aims it at my head. She switches the safety off.

She swallows and then says, in the softest whisper, "I have a hundred reasons to shoot you."

I don't bother to contradict her. She's right. She does and she should. So I merely nod and keep my mouth shut. If this is her final judgement, I will accept it without argument.

The seconds tick by and neither of us seems to even breathe. And then there's a flicker in her eyes, a sigh of resignation, and then she lowers the gun and puts the safety back on, sweeps it behind her and tucks it into the waistband of her jeans.

Kali has made Her decision, and She has chosen compassion. The verdict announced, She vaporizes, breaking the spell.

"I'm sorry." My apology feels ridiculously inadequate. From her expression, it would seem that she agrees with me on that point.

"You're sorry." Her voice is still quiet, but it somehow only amplifies her indignance. The tone is more than justified.

"Yes, I am. I should have approached this...situation...in a different way. I forgot that, although you are his partner, you are not him. You are a scientist. You are willing to listen to reason. I should have tried explaining things better from the beginning."

"Yes. Yes, you should have."

"I'm sorry I strong armed you, threatened you. I'm sorry I hurt you. I know now that I won't do it again."

This seems to have taken her aback. She doesn't believe me. But I think she wants to. I think that's a good sign.

"I...I don't know what to make of you, Krycek. You're...complicated."

I take that as a compliment and smile at her. "You're one to talk, Agent Scully."

She huffs and shakes her head...there's a trace of a smile on her lips, too.

I finally stand up, and she takes a step back, realizing suddenly just how close she's been standing to me. She seems uncomfortable again. On guard. It can't be fun to consistently find yourself so much shorter than everyone around you. Especially when you know that, intellectually at least, you tower over them.

"I want to know what's on that disk, Krycek. I just want to help you with it."

"I know. But until I find the right key, it's a one-man job."

She answers with a long, resigned sigh. "Okay. I will leave you alone. I'll...I'll go find us something to eat." She turns towards the kitchen. I can't let her go.

"I don't think I'll be able to decode it tonight."

She turns back to me. "You think it will take longer than a few hours?"

"No. It just won't be these next few hours."

She cocks her head, not having a clue as to what I'm talking about.

"I can't focus on the files, Agent Scully. Not tonight. I've read the same words, the same paragraphs over and over again and I can't make anything out of them. Not with you here."

My meaning starts to dawn on her, but I see her pushing that train of thought away. She's so reticent.

"Why are you so reluctant to believe that I could find you attractive?"

I seem to have rendered her speechless. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that she doesn't know what to say. It's not like anyone in the Hoover building is ever going to have the balls to make an overture to her. Her persona is strictly business. It's intimidating even without her bat shit crazy and overbearing partner.

But I don't work in the Hoover building anymore. And I'm sick as all hell of Fox Mulder. And whether it works to my benefit or not, it seems urgently important that I tell her just exactly what I think of her.

"You have to know, Scully. I mean, you must know how...prepossessing...you are. How brilliant, and fascinating. How utterly beautiful you..."

"Krycek, I don't know what your angle is here, or what the hell you expect me to say…" Why should she sound so angry?

"There's no angle, Scully. It's not some form of subterfuge or manipulation. It's the simplest thing in the world."

She's still looking at me like she's incensed.

"Do you always react with hostility when someone tells you you're beautiful?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it when she can't find the words.

"Doesn't Mulder tell you, every fucking day?"

"He's my partner." Her emphasis on the word "partner" stresses the logical conclusion of the unspoken thought...he's NOT her lover. And I've never witnessed any behaviour to the contrary, but I also assumed that they were just being extremely careful about hiding a romantic relationship. This revelation both thrills and kind of angers me.

"He's an idiot. And I don't know how he gets anything accomplished at all."

"You need to drop this, Krycek. It's irrelevant. And it's completely inappropriate."

God, she's funny. I actually laugh out loud.

"I'm not Mulder, Scully. I'm not Skinner, either. I'm not any one of the hundreds of other men in your orbit who could be slapped with a lawsuit for 'inappropriate behavior'. But, then, I'm guessing that's what's really making you uncomfortable about this, isn't it?"

"'Uncomfortable?!' I'm not 'uncomfortable." Her voice is suddenly very loud, and gets louder as she goes on, "Damn it, Krycek! You break into my apartment, kidnap me at gunpoint, take my weapon and my badge, drive me hundreds of miles to my own family's home, where you are now telling me that the whole reason for doing all these things has suddenly been sidetracked because you're distracted by my great beauty?" She's glorious when she's angry.

"Well, yes. I guess that's pretty accurate."

She clenches her eyes tightly shut and shakes her head in frustration, or maybe disbelief, then raises her voice again, "Enough, Krycek. If you want the disk for yourself, if you've decided you don't want to share the information, then just take it and go. I don't know why you have to play mind games. Just get the hell out of here."

I intentionally soften my voice in order to contrast as much as possible with hers, "I'm very, very good at mind games, but I'm not playing them now. I WANT to share the information with you, Scully, I'm...eager to."

Another question mark face.

"I'm tired. I'm so tired of working solo. It's exhausting. I need...I need to trust someone. I need a mind like yours to help me…" I wave my hand toward my discarded laptop, "...unravel all this...all this...shit. I need another perspective. Someone else to help me sort it all out. There's too much at stake, Scully. It's too much for me alone. It's too much for anyone alone. I need you."

Her mouth is a rigid, straight line as she considers and processes my words. "You don't know what you need, Krycek. You're all over the map. I think maybe what you DO need right now is sleep. You'll be able to think more clearly after you've gotten some rest."

"I'm being perfectly cogent."

I take a small step towards her. "I want to trust you, Scully. More than that, I want to prove to you that any trust you give me will not be misplaced. Or taken for granted. I want to decode these files, I want to face their contents, any revelations they might provide, with you. I want to see how that amazing mind of yours processes it, what it determines to be the best next step. And I want to be able to take those steps forward with you at my side."

"You're looking for a partner in crime."

"If you define 'crime' as doing whatever it takes to save the human race."

She shakes her head at me. "You're a liar, Krycek. And a murderer. And a double crosser and an all-around snake in the grass. The only human being you want to save is yourself."

Her words sting me now as they never have before. I'm guilty of a lot of horrible shit, and I live with regret on a daily basis, but I've done the best I've known how to do. Somehow I've got to convince her of that. So I do something I've never done before. I pull my wallet out and open it, find the photo I carry with me at all times, and place it in her hand.

"These are my sisters."

She examines the three children standing in front of a huge tree trunk, squinting in the sun, the two youngest smiling widely at the camera. A 10 year old Alex holds the hand of a 6 year old girl with long, dark hair and a taller, teenage girl with much lighter brown hair stands on the other side of the little one, looking much less excited about being in the picture. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her expression is so typical of teen angst and rebellion.

"Everything I've ever done, however heinous, however abhorrent you may think it was, was done for them. To protect them, and to protect their children. I AM a liar. And a murderer. And every life truncated, every twisted plan hatched, was for them."

She seems almost moved for a moment, then hands the picture back. "So my sister's life was sacrificed in place of your sister's." It's not a question. It's a statement of fact that, I assume, is a necessary step in her coming to terms with it.

"In a way, yes...of course it wasn't supposed to be your sister who died."

She hangs her head suddenly.

"I regret that she died, and that you had to suffer the inevitable guilt from knowing you were the target. But I don't regret the mistake. I'll never regret that you were spared."

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears when she looks up at me. She has suffered so much, and I have been directly and indirectly responsible for so much of it. Maybe I can help soften her pain by explaining my work, my life, my motives to her. Maybe she will actually listen, and by playing the roll of my confessor, she'll help ease some of my pain, too. The story begins to tumble from my lips before I can reconsider how wise it is to reveal everything to the FBI. I'm weak and tired and I want human contact. Real connection. I know she is noble. I know she will give me a fighting chance.

"There was a member of the Syndicate who knew my father. He was a drunk and a gambler. The photo I showed you was taken one year before my mother died, two years before my father turned me over to them in order to absolve his debts. I was clever and attractive, the two qualities they value most, so I was potentially very useful to them. In only six weeks I proved myself to be smart and responsive enough to warrant their investment and at that point I officially disappeared. I was taken to New York and never saw my family again."

Her gasp of shock, coupled with her wet eyes unnerves me for a moment. I didn't mean to cause this reaction.

"I'm not looking for sympathy, Scully. I was treated well and received the best education money could buy. I traveled the world and was given an important purpose. I gained a life of opportunity not afforded to many. I just need to tell you these things because it's important to me that you understand that I come from a completely different world, with a completely different perspective, but my motivations and goals are not far from your own."

I pause and sit down, prompting her to sit as well.

"I was given private tutors and military training. I spent my summers on submarines, doing research in the archives of the British Museum, learning to fly small airplanes and helicopters, deep sea diving. I speak 11 languages - 6 or 7 of them fluently - and I can pretty accurately read 3 dead ones. I can read two alien languages. I've met with Syndicate leaders on every continent, I've seen their secret facilities, learned about their research, their tests, their struggles and successes. I've met with aliens, worked with clones and hybrids. I've helped shape policies and strategies. In short, I've been groomed to become one of them. One of the next generation."

Scully is leaning forward, hanging on my every word.

"By about 15 or 16 I learned more and more about what all these things I'd seen really meant. They slowly explained the connections to me and I came to understand the weight and import of my position. I was one of the elite. Mulder has met one other elites, Marita Covarrubias."

"But my training and knowledge are a liability for them now. As are Marita's. We came to disagree with the decisions made over 40 years ago and the subsequent actions taken. Our generation has seen the rebel alien race rise and gain strength. We see hope in resistance but the first generation, Mulder's father's generation, or what's left of them, is too afraid to even consider it. Mulder thinks I murdered his father, but he's wrong. I learned of their plan to kill him and went there to try to protect him. Bill Mulder was the one, single dissenting voice. The only one willing to point towards resistance as an option. And he was there from the beginning. His perspective and knowledge were respected and we wanted to learn from him and count him as an ally. But I got there 10 seconds too late. I watched him go down and I knew the shot was fatal, so I fled in fear that if they saw me there they'd kill me, too."

My story unfolds and she listens intently. I go on for hours, long into the night and the early morning hours. I recall all the questions she asked me on our drive down here, all the ones I avoided or answered in only the briefest of sentences, and finally give her the full answers she wanted. She asks for clarification from time to time, but overall she remains silent and just listens. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she absorbs it all and the dots slowly get connected.

There is a long silence that lingers after my concluding words. There is a frustration inherent in it, born of overstimulated neurons, a sense of urgency and desperation to step up to the plate and DO something to mitigate the problem, coupled with empty stomachs and lack of sleep. Our brains want to continue but our muscles and bones demand quiet and rest, and nourishment.

I don't know how she manages to walk, but Scully gets up and goes to the kitchen. My eyes close as I slump back on the couch, but I am awakened by the noise of plastic wrappers. She is opening a package of crackers, places a slice of cheese on top, and shoves it greedily into her mouth. I reach for the can of tuna, use my fingers to scoop the meat out and onto a cracker, and begin to gorge myself as she is doing. There are no fresh foods here, we didn't bring anything with us. But there are bags of dried fruit, peanut butter, all manor of snacks. It seems an appropriate spread given the level of desperation we're feeling. We eat quickly, perfunctorally, and we fall asleep in place without any attempt to clean up after our feast.

Undivided Attention

Part 9

I wake with the urgent and painful need to empty my bladder. I almost can't move without fear of pissing myself.

But I manage to make it to the bathroom just in time and my creaky, still-exhausted body rewards with me with a shiver of pleasure as the pressure is relieved. My head hangs, eyes barely open, as I focus just enough to insure that the urine ends up in the toilet and nowhere else. On my way back, I walk right past Scully's sleeping form, which is curled up on the couch opposite the one I crashed on last night, walk into the downstairs bedroom and fall face-first onto the soft layers of blankets on the king bed that obviously belongs to Scully's parents. I am so happy to have found myself here, in this bed, with bladder now empty and stomach still somewhat full, and Scully my comfortable, alluring, complicated companion in the next room, that I find that I'm actually smiling against the comforter. I am slumbering happily again in a matter of seconds, although it doesn't last very long this time.

I come awake just as an amazing dream begins. In the dream Scully joins me in this big, comfortable bed and spoons up against me, wrapping an arm around my waist. I feel her soft, warm breath against the back of my neck and smell her all around me. I clench my eyes tight, not wanting to wake yet, trying to hold on to this simple, delicious feeling.

But consciousness drives the sleep away, despite my best efforts. I yawn and stretch...and still feel her against me. She's actually there and she stirs as I shift, wanting to turn around and face her, but her arm clenches at me tightly, and she snuggles against me, holding me in place. I try to steady my breathing, my pulse, but she's arousing me with her breasts pressed against me, her thighs warm against my ass. Please tell me you've come here to seduce me, Scully. Or, better, yet, just move your hand up under my shirt...

"Scully?" My voice is gentle and soft, but I can't hide the happy surprise in it.

"How much of what you've told me is true, Alex?"

Alex? Hearing my first name coming from her lips is almost enough to distract me from answering her question. When her words fully register, I quickly reply.

"All of it. I haven't lied to you you, Scully...not this time. Not ever again."

"I have questions." Of course she does. There is hesitancy and caution in her tone.

"Ask them." I'm dying to tell her more, gain more of her trust, twist around in her arms and bring this situation to its logical conclusion.

"You said you needed me, or someone like me, to help you. But even after hearing about this work you've been doing all these years, the consortium's work across the globe for over 50 years, I'm not sure how you anticipate that I could fit into it. Despite your details, it still seems abstract. I mean, do you expect me to stay inside the FBI and assume a double life? Do you expect me to resign and disappear like you did, to work in the shadows? Or is there some other scenario I haven't considered yet?"

"Honestly, I don't know. I haven't had time to consider the details, to think about what will work best for us."

She clears her throat upon hearing that last word. And again, she strikes me as so funny. She's crawled into bed with me and has practically wrapped herself around me, but it's my pronoun usage that's made her feel that I'M the one being presumptuous.

"What I CAN tell you is that it's absolutely true that I need you. Not someone like you, but YOU, Dana Scully. I need your brain. I need your medical and investigative expertise, your experience and perspective. We have a chance to turn the tide. We could be so powerful together."

She is quiet and still. I wish I could see her face, read her thoughts and emotions as they play over her features. I wish she would say something. Instead, I simply savor her warmth and try to memorize the feel of her against me, just as I did in the attic when she fell right into my arms. This time she's the one doing the holding, and I try to decide which I love more.

"I don't know why I believe you, but I do."

I can find no adequate words to describe the joy that is expanding in my chest, but I'm grinning like a little kid. It's time to kiss her. I try again to turn, my restlessness forcing me to move, but again she holds me in place and lets me fidget, but doesn't allow more. I'm done strong arming her, so I let her have her way.

"Are you ever going to let me turn around?" My frustration drips from every word.

She chuckles. She knows exactly what she's doing to me. "No, not yet. I want to talk first, and this is easier for me."

Fine. I know how patience can reap enormous rewards. She's more than worth the wait. But that doesn't mean I have to be completely passive. I bring my arm up to lie on top of the one she still holds around my waist, and rub the back of her hand with my fingers before boldly entwining them with hers. She not only doesn't jerk away from me, she actually splays her fingers, allowing me to fully take her hand in mine. She's full of delightful surprises this morning.

"You know, of course, that I'm not at all sure that I can, or even want to help you. I admit I'm intrigued, but I'm going to need more information and much more convincing." Her tone is more serious now, but still playful enough to fill me with hope. I give her hand a small squeeze.

"Talk to me, Dana." Her name sounds strange as it leaves my mouth, but the level of intimacy created by our joined hands, our general proximity in this bed, especially after the intense couple of days we've had together, and our lengthy and revealing discussion last night, precludes my calling her Agent anything at the moment.

She relaxes a bit, and I swear I feel her smile against my back. The testosterone surges again, clouding my mind, lowering my voice, urging me to choose my words carefully, to use them to convince her of all manner of things.

And then we talk.

We talk about the consortium's work, and what I've been able to direct in the last couple of years, and her possible role in it. I answer about a half-million questions, and fill her in on every single detail I know. We talk about all the interactions we've had together and why I helped Duane Barry abduct her. Why the smoker wanted her dead and why he saved her life. We talk about her daughter, Emily, and I tell her what I know about the other children her eggs were used to create. I hold nothing back, even when I know my revelations are going to cause her more tears and more heartache. I have to tell her. She deserves to know. We talk about Cassandra Spender and what her hybridization success meant to the Syndicate. We talk about Tunguska and the vaccine and what I tried to accomplish there before Mulder fucked it all up with his little stunt that resulted in my arm being savagely cut off. I explain my experience with the alien doctors who regrew my arm in a matter of hours, and tell her about the other medical wonders I've seen, like the spontaneous healing that the shapeshifter race can do. I tell her about how I worked with the hacker to get the information on the disk that has brought the two of us here.

We talk and talk and talk...and talk. And then we get to the final topic. The elephant in the room. The crux of what's causing her lingering hesitation. I had been hoping to avoid it. To avoid him.

Her voice grows soft and hesitant, as if she's breaking bad news to me. "Alex, I have to tell Mulder. You know that I do."

Of course I do. And she knows it. And she knows I don't like it. So I don't bother with a reply. She goes on.

"What you've told me...it affects him as much as it does me. It reveals so much of what he's been searching for all of his life. I can't keep any of this from him."

Again, she and I are both fully aware of this, and fully aware of her loyalty to him, so there's no point in my confirming it.

"Alex?"

Apparently she disagrees. Maybe she just needs some reassurance.

"I know. I know you don't keep secrets from him. I would never expect you to." As much as I don't want it to be true, it is. I wonder if a day will ever come when she will view me in a similar light. When I have earned her respect and admiration on par with what she awards Spooky.

She is quiet and still as she ponders my words. We're both quiet and still. In the silence that is almost tangible around us, I again consider the absolutely surreal situation I've found myself in. We may be fully clothed, but I am in bed with Dana Scully and desperately trying to talk her into jumping into the deep end with me. She's lying against me, her arm still draped over me, and we've spent more time talking together in the past 36 hours than I may have spent talking with anyone in my entire life. And I suddenly realize that if she decides to walk away from me, she's going to break my heart.

Yet, I have to let her go back to Mulder and tell him everything. I have to let him tear my words apart and try to convince her that everything I've said and done this weekend has been about him, not her, and that I'm lying to her to serve my own selfish cause. I have to let her weigh my words against his. And I know, in my heart of hearts, that I can't win. He would sooner see her dead than watch her loyalty waiver. He'll use every tool in his toolbox to twist these last revealing, cathartic hours that Scully and I have spent together into betrayal on her part and evil on mine.

I feel a wet spot on my pillow and realize I've begun to cry.

"He won't believe a word of this. You know it as well as I do." My voice is surprisingly steady as my hopes and dreams for myself and for all of humanity come unraveled.

"I think you underestimate him."

I snort incredulously. Did I mention how hysterically funny this woman is?

"And we've established that you continue to underestimate me."

I've had enough of this. At long last I pull her arm away from me and refuse to allow her further control. I roll away from her, onto my stomach and push myself up quickly to sit facing her. She doesn't move from her spot, but props her head up on her elbow, and I finally get to see her achingly beautiful face for the first time since she crawled into this room with me a couple of hours ago.

Like me, she has tear tracks that have dried all down her face. Her eyes are the same color as the sweater she's still wearing from yesterday, but they're red and puffy and she looks so tired.

"I wanted you to know everything so you would understand how important this work is, so you would want to join me. But I've only succeeded in hurting you even more than you already were. And then I thought that I could help ease your pain by providing some perspective as to why these things have happened to you. But in the matter of a few days you'll dismiss me as a liar, you'll come to doubt my sincerity and motivation, and your pain and loss will remain in tact. There's no level of earnestness or vulnerability I can expose to you that will sufficiently cancel out one single contradictory word from him."

She purses her lips and furrows her brow, and looks at me with such sadness, but she doesn't bother to correct me. I search her eyes, imploring them to show me that I'm wrong. She meets me with only regret.

Her silence tells me everything I need to know. I have allowed myself fantasies I've no right to. I have embarrassed myself, exposed my secrets, and I have wasted my time and hers.

I can't face her now. It's too humiliating. It's too dangerous, this wealth of ammunition I've turned over to her. And I'm too close to weeping. It feels like I've lost her, even though I never had her in the first place. I twist myself away and let my legs hang over the side of the bed. I drop my chin down to my chest as the shame washes over me, filling my mouth with a harsh, bitter taste, and I catch a glimpse of her feet, with their pink toenails, so close to me. "I'm leaving," I say to them, as I blink and will the tears to stay where they are.

I walk out of the bedroom and gather my things as quickly as possible. I pull on my boots, snatch up the laptop and check the drive for the zip disk. At least I'll finally get my chance to evaluate it now, far from this distraction. I pull her wallet, badge and phone from another of my jacket pockets and set them on the coffee table that's still littered with the remains of our late night impromptu dinner.

She stands just a couple paces outside of the bedroom door, arms hanging limply at her sides, gun in hand, finger on the trigger, as she watches me pull the car keys out of my jacket.

I stop and take a long look at her, searching her face and silently begging her forgiveness for this entire fiasco. She makes no move to step forward or speak. There are storm clouds in her eyes. Seeing them, I realize that this really couldn't have ended any other way.

"I wanted things to be different. I'm sorry, Scully." I won't be calling her Dana again. My hand reaches for the knob and pulls the door open. "You were right. This wasn't a good idea."

End

"Undivided Attention" by Nightshade44

nightshade44