Part 4

November 11

Washington, DC

It's 4:12pm. It's Friday. And it's been a hell of a long week but I'm shutting down my computer. I have just finished the report that's due on Skinner's desk on Monday morning, and as I pull my glasses off, I let my arms stretch out, arch my back, and allow a long, soft sigh to signal the beginning of the weekend.

My partner's been engrossed with online research for hours and barely looks up when I deposit the report on his desk. "All you need to do is sign, Mulder. I'll see you Monday."

His reply is short and mumbled and he may have wished me a good weekend, but I couldn't swear by it. His attention is elsewhere, and although he's being rather annoyingly cavalier, I'm grateful I don't have to engage in any small talk and can just get out of the office. The sooner I step into my bathtub, and away from the tension his presence brings, the happier I'll be.

The parking garage is busy with all the other G-men who had the same idea and opportunity to sneak out a little early, so I don't pay any special attention to any of the three people who come into view from the far left of my peripheral vision. At least not until I see that one of them has stopped right beside my car. I halt in my tracks, about 80 feet away, and note the man's black hair and conspicuously non-FBI-like mode of dress. As I begin to think that maybe I recognize the leather jacket he's wearing, the way the collar of it is turned up against the wind, he turns to face me. My mouth goes dry.

I haven't seen him since our trip to North Carolina, over a month ago. I haven't even heard from him in two weeks, but I was wondering when he'd pop up again, seeking my help. There's an odd, unfamiliar nervousness settling over me. It dawns on me that maybe I'm a little relieved to see him. To know that he's ok. I also realize that I'm curious about the medical information he mentioned in our last conversation and I'm hoping he's got it with him so I can finally see it.

I start walking again, even picking up the pace a bit. Now he's leaning back against the driver's side door and as I raise my eyes to his, he flashes me a wide, brilliant smile. I've never seen Krycek smile like that before. It's...Jesus...it's maybe the deadliest weapon in his extensive arsonal. It makes me want to turn and run far, far away from here as fast as I can. It also makes me want to run straight ahead into his arms again as fast as I can. I've got to slow down and think. I've got to figure out where the happy medium lies.

Mephistopheles, I remind myself.

I focus on the weight of the gun at my hip, hoping desperately that he doesn't force me to draw it on him.

I have to stop for the two cars that drive slowly past on their way out, and as I hurry across in their wake, he's nowhere to be seen. I now stand in the spot he just occupied and turn in a complete circle, craning and squinting and finding nothing. I shake my head and give another cursory glance around as I settle into the seat and shut the door, locking it immediately.

Just as I'm wondering what his appearance was for-why would he show himself in broad daylight in the Hoover Building garage when it's crawling with agents? Is he just trying to show off?-I start the engine and then I notice it. I step out to retrieve the note pinned under the windshield wiper and feel a little thrill shoot through me like it did when he sent his last note, weeks ago.

Locking myself inside again, I ignore the slight shaking in my hands and unfold the paper. "If you're still willing to help: Renato's, 8:30. Dinner's on me."

My eyes scan the garage again and, finding him just as absent as before, I re-read the note and then put the car in gear. As I pull out of the parking space and make my way out, I realize, much to my chagrin, that my heart is pounding and I'm smiling. I'm grinning like a dope, and I can't seem to will my own muscles to relax to get rid of it. I begin to wonder what the hell is wrong with me, when I get a sudden and crystal clear flash of memory.

I'm turning around slowly when the toe of my shoe catches on the lip of the old wooden trunk I'm standing on and I'm suddenly in free fall. Before I can contemplate the best way to brace for impact, I'm in his arms. Krycek has dropped the flashlight, sinking us into darkness as he sinks with me to the floor. And then I'm surrounded by him, being cradled by him, his legs under me, his arms around me protectively, his cheek resting on the top of my head, his breath stirring my hair. And the craziest part is that I put my arms around him, too, and buried my face in that same black leather jacket I just saw him wearing. And for about 90 seconds...90 whole, glorious, seconds...I allowed myself to stop thinking and simply relax and breathe.

I remember other things: the way he smelled, the way he sighed with genuine relief when he pulled me tight against his chest. The oceanic depth and color of his eyes when he looked me up and down like he wanted to devour me. The smokey tone of his voice when he tried to intoxicate me with lavish compliments. The vulnerability he allowed me to see when he showed me the photo of his sisters, and later, the next day when he was in my arms and we talked and wept together over our loses and the craziness of the world we're both caught up in. He made me forget for a brief few hours that I was an FBI agent and when we talked like that I just felt raw and human; stripped of pretense and preconceived notions.

It felt authentic.

Rare.

Elemental.

It was a real and deep connection. And try as I might to erase its significance, to reason it away as another part of his double agent agenda, I can't. I know Krycek. My eyes are wide open-I knew him before he broke into my apartment and talked me into driving across 4 states with him. My eyes and ears were wide open the entire time. I know full well who I'm dealing with. And I understand him better now. I get his motives and position now. I abhor a lot of the things he's done-and he admitted to more horrible things than I ever knew of before-and I do not condone them. But I understand the bigger picture now. And I know that despite all the horror he's brought into my own life, and into Mulder's, and Skinner's, and to so many others, we're working towards the same ultimate goal. And like me and Mulder and Skinner, he's one of the few people who understands what's coming. One of the very few who has both the knowledge and the stomach to try to stop it.

I can't turn my back on that or deny that it's changed me. Not even for Mulder's sake. No...FOR Mulder's sake. He can refuse to believe Krycek as a matter of principle, or just out of pure spite, but that doesn't mean it's not in his best interest to listen.

Before I know it, I'm walking into my apartment and I don't even remember driving home. I'm still lost in thought and as I start to shed my work clothes and try to find a more appropriate outfit for dinner my thoughts shift from the recent past to the near future. Should I shower first? Should I dress up? What is he expecting? What is he hoping for?

This isn't a date, Dana. This is business.

A business dinner.

A business dinner with a drop-dead gorgeous man who could pass for a Calvin Klein model. A man who called you "prepossessing" and "fascinating". And "beautiful." A man who you had wrapped in your arms while you both cried. A man who just flashed you a smile of seemingly pure delight the moment you looked at him.

Jesus Christ.

I walk into the bathroom wearing only my underwear and stare at my reflection. I'm pink. I'm flushed from my hairline to my chest, and I'm nervous as hell. And I don't know what I'm going to do to get my sensible, logical brain to reel in my shaky, treasonous body.

"How the hell am I going to get through the rest of the evening without making a complete fool of myself?"

My reflection tells me, "He ditched you at the cabin, stole the disk, and now he's doling out bits and pieces of information whenever the whim strikes him. He's used you from the beginning and he's trying to use you tonight. He wants you to do his work for him and all he's going to give you in return is dinner."

"He's also driving a wedge between you and Mulder, and if Mulder finds out you're meeting with him again-and of your own free will-he'll likely murder both of you."

I stare hard in the mirror and begin to sober up. I love Mulder. I may even be IN love with Mulder. Hurting him is the last thing I'd ever want to do. I don't want to betray his trust or give him any reason to withdraw his from me.

And, yet, I feel my bra and panties fall to the floor and I step out of them and into a steamy shower. I select a dress appropriate for the upscale restaurant, and just maybe a little bit out of line for a business meeting. I curl my hair just a little more than I usually do for the office, and go easy on the makeup.

In the living room I pull my gun from the holster and put it in my purse. Well, I'm not completely insane.

It's 8pm when I climb into my car, and as I crank up the engine I feel another surge of adrenaline. I pull out from the curb and remind myself, "Just keep breathing, Dana."

Both my blush and my smile have returned in full force. I'm still 30 minutes away...I need a distraction.

I turn the radio on and the words that immediately greet me could not be more appropriate:

"And I was thinkin' to myself, this could be heaven or this could be hell…"

I think I'm prepared for both.

My smile widens and my foot presses down a little more forcefully on the accellerator.