"Above Rubies," by Rachel Howard (14/19)



"You've got to be kidding me."

Scully's voice, pitched sharp with disbelief, wakes me out 
of a doze. We're still in the truck, my head was tipped 
back and I think I was drooling a little. It takes my eyes 
about twice as long as usual to focus, but when they do, I 
see her point.

We're at a motel, and it looks.......

"Krycek, you can't be serious."

"Listen, princess, you were the one who insisted on a rest 
stop so that your boyfriend could get his shit together. If 
you can find a better place to crash around here, feel free 
to take the wheel."

Actually, I feel better. After we finished gun-shopping, we 
picked up some sticky, hot drive-thru barbecue and while I 
Hoovered my portion, Scully announced that she wasn't 
letting me handle a firearm until the rest of the drugs 
cleared out of my system. Krycek bitched, but Scully 
handled him with the same dismissive certainty that she 
dishes out when some small-town yokel questions her autopsy 
findings on account of the fact that she has breasts. 

We're in the South Bronx, and the Cool Vue Motel is what 
put the incredulity in Scully's voice.  From the cab of the 
truck, I can see into the motel office, where it looks like 
two prostitutes are in the early stages of a nasty brawl.  
The man behind the desk is reading a newspaper. Somewhere 
down the two-story row of rooms, I can hear a boom box 
blasting some rap music where the dominant lyrics appear to 
be 'niggahs', 'ho's' and 'bitches.'

In all our trips into the field, I've never chosen any 
place quite this bad. I snicker out loud, thinking that I'm 
going to look like a hero the next time I book us into 
an AmericInn. Scully leans over and checks my pupils, 
frowns, then says, "Let me see if they have a couple of 
connecting rooms," making an about-face as smoothly as if 
she had suggested the dump in the first place.

"Connecting rooms. Kinky," Krycek murmurs as she climbs out 
of the cab, and I rouse myself enough to send a threatening 
look his way. He rolls his eyes at me, then leans forward 
so he can peer into the motel office.

An hour ago, Krycek and I bought two more Glocks and some 
ammunition from an individual who I am quite certain was 
not a licensed firearms dealer. It might just be the drugs 
-- Scully thinks they gave me ketamine -- but the whole 
situation worried me.

I'd bet my next paycheck that Krycek's 'business contact,' 
Raoul, does most of his deals with South Bronx gangbangers, 
but he spoke respectfully, almost obsequiously to Krycek, 
with only one or two glances out of the corner of his 
eye in Scully's direction. Krycek handled the entire 
transaction with the breezy aplomb of a very rich man 
buying a new watch.

Scully stood quietly next to me while Krycek brokered the 
deal, which worries me too, come to think of it. The 
hardest line for her to cross was teaming up with Krycek in 
the first place, to find me.  After that, the illegal gun 
purchase must have seemed like small potatoes, a hit off a 
joint after you've already done your first line of coke.

I know before I open my mouth that I'm going to regret the 
question, but I can't seem to stop myself. "How did you 
know where Scully was?"

"Christ. We could just talk about the weather. And aren't 
you two on a first name basis yet?"

Stung, I ask, "Why =wouldn't= I want to know that?"

Like a teacher explaining the fundamentals of geometry, he 
says, "You're watched. They always know where you are. 
Always." With a flicker of interest, he says, "You knew 
that, right?"

Yeah, I guess I did. Through the buzzing in my head, I try 
to come up with better questions. I promised myself a long 
time ago that if I ever got my hands on this bastard again, 
I'd get answers out of him. Somehow, though, I never 
imagined this particular scenario. 

I think about the trail of dead people this man has left in 
his wake. I close my eyes for a second and colored dots 
dance alarmingly under my lids until I open them again.

I wish to God that I could convince myself I'm only doing 
this to retrieve the VX gas, but I can only think of names: 
John Maxwell, Kate Krycek. Am I sitting in the cab of this 
truck because I want Maxwell dead or because I want Kate 
alive?

"Krycek, how did Maxwell get my cellphone number?"

He gives me what looks like a genuine smile. "I gotta hand 
it to you, Spooky, you're making progress. Good question. I 
don't know."

Scully climbs back into the cab, and says, "Units Nine and 
Ten."

Scully and I walk into Nine and she unlocks the connecting 
door. The rooms smell like mold and semen. It's nearly 
dawn; I want to get to sleep before daybreak so I don't 
have to look at the bed in better light. Krycek waltzes in 
and says, "No fucking in here.  Poor Fox needs his sleep."

"I have a gun now," I warn him. 

"We need to get that canister inside," Scully points out. 
"And it's not going in your room."

"Well, it sure as shit isn't going in yours," Krycek 
retorts.

"That's why I opened the door. We put it in the doorway, 
between the two rooms."

"Oh, and here I thought you had just gotten to like my 
company."

In the three seconds of silence that follow, I realize that 
what I just heard bothers me more than anything else about 
this whole deal: a hint of sincerity in Krycek's voice. 

I heave myself up out of the trench in the middle of the 
mattress, and tell him, "Let's get the canister out of the 
truck."

"Mulder, you shouldn't--"

"I'm fine," I tell her, sharply, and walk out of the room.

Krycek and I unload the canister of VX gas and carry it 
into the room, lowering it to the worn carpet as if it were 
full of eggs. Krycek asks Scully, "Six hours?"

She looks at me and says, "That should be enough. I'll set 
my watch alarm."

He disappears through the connecting door and finally I'm 
alone with Scully in this dingy room, and the wave of 
relief that washes over me is so strong I feel lightheaded 
again. We're here, we're alive. And then she's in my arms, 
and nothing exists but the feel of her body and the sweet 
scent of hotel shampoo blended with hints of sweat and 
cordite.

"Ah, Scully, shh," I murmur into her neck, feeling her take 
a hitching breath that resonates throughout her small 
frame.

She relaxes against me and begins whatever internal ritual 
she uses to calm herself. When she finally speaks, her 
voice is relatively steady. "I need to check that cut on 
your head."

"It'll keep for another minute," I tell her, rubbing slow 
circles on her back with my palms, reveling in the warm, 
solid feel of her through the t-shirt.

"I almost lost you," she says into my neck.

"I'm right here."

"It was too close."

She's right. If it had been her, I would be saying the same 
things. I stroke her back and brush my lips against her 
forehead and wait until I feel her begin to relax, loosen 
her grip on me.

When I let her slip out of my arms, she gives me a gentle 
push towards the bed. I sit down on the edge and let her 
tilt my head up toward her, watching as she examines the 
cut at my hairline. 

"We need to wash it. It could have used a couple of 
stitches but it's too late to get them now.  Let's get it 
cleaned out."

Scully and me showering together is something I've 
fantasized about many times, but I never pictured the dirty 
shower stall and thin drizzle of water in the bathroom of 
the Cool Vue Motel.  Scully strips down with businesslike 
efficiency, while I peel off my t-shirt slowly, not wanting 
to lose the opportunity to watch her undress even for the 
second it takes to pull my shirt over my head. She notices 
me dawdling and points sternly at my blood-stained pants, 
then slips out of her plain cotton panties, sets them on 
the toilet seat and steps into the shower.

When I climb in after her, she is working up a lather 
between her hands with the little bar of hotel soap. I 
watch a stream of water run between her breasts and 
down her belly to the thicket of dark curls there and I 
want to follow it with my tongue. When I look up at her 
face, she's trying to hide a smile. 

I close my eyes and let the thin drizzle wash away the 
worst of the leftover blood and dirt. I have to keep my 
eyes shut to keep the soap out of my eyes while Scully 
gently smooths lather over the cut. 

"Hurt?"

"Not too bad. Can I wash your back now?"

"We got in here to clean out your cut," she says, without 
much conviction. I take the warm, slippery bar of soap out 
of her hand and run it over the curve of her shoulder up to 
her neck until I can cup the back of her head in my palm 
and draw her in for a slow kiss, water running down our 
faces, tickling at our lips as they brush against each 
other.

There is no question of making love in this filthy shower 
stall, but I take a minute to explore her curves under the 
guise of washing her. The smooth planes of her back give 
way to the exquisite swell of her ass, and she gasps when I 
trace its roundness with soapy fingers. 

I pull her back against my chest, and she comes easily, a 
boneless weight. I wrap her arms loosely around my neck so 
that I can sleek my lathered hands down her arms and sides, 
circling back up to trace each breast with its stiffened 
nipple before I dip down her belly to the soft, liquid 
folds between her legs. She makes a low, hungry sound in 
her throat and I press my stiff cock harder into her back, 
letting her know what she's doing to me.

"Good?"

"Mmm." She's let her eyes slip shut, but she opens them and 
immediately wrinkles her nose. I follow her gaze -- there's 
black mold crusted around the showerhead and someone's 
initials are carved into the plastic wall.

"Let's get out," I murmur into her neck.

The bed is softer, and though worn, the sheets smell 
reassuringly of detergent. It dips under Scully's weight 
when she joins me, her hair wavy and damp from the shower. 
I roll towards her and pull her back gently into my chest. 
When I bend my head and apply my lips to the juncture of 
her shoulder and her neck, she wriggles in protest. 

"Mulder, we're not exactly alone here," she says in a low 
voice that does nothing to lessen my interest.

"I can be quiet."

"The door between our rooms is open."

"I can be =very= quiet," I tell her, circling one nipple 
lightly with the tip of one finger, clockwise, then 
counter-clockwise, until it stiffens, betraying her 
interest. 

"Mulder, you aren't up to this, even if you think you are. 
It'll keep."

"I'm up to this," I repeat, pushing my rigid cock into her 
back to make my point, grazing the rigid nipple with my 
palm before seeking the other breast, reveling in the 
simple pleasure of this moment. 

When she finally gives in with a low moan, I smile into her 
neck. Her hand reaches around and closes on my cock, 
caressing, and I grunt softly. She chuckles, the vibrations 
of her laughter traveling through her back, thrilling my 
skin.

We move against each other, trying to be quiet, to control 
our breathing, but my control is slipping rapidly. Scully 
turns over, her deft hands grip my cock, slide under my 
balls and stroke me. I shut my eyes and let her do it, heat 
rushing under my skin. I nudge her legs apart with my knee 
and begin sliding down her body, eager to taste her, but 
she puts her hands on my hips and pulls me back up, 
whispering, "Now."

When I sink into her, her eyes open wide and find mine. We 
make love that way too, familiar as conversation, while our 
bodies interlock and slide. I try to keep my eyes open, 
wait for her to be ready, but when I finally come I have to 
close them, sheer pleasure taking over, leaving me helpless 
in its wake.

My eyes open again and I find her watching me, smiling 
tenderly.  "I'm sorry, I couldn't wait."

"Shh, that's okay."

"Not for me." I slide off her carefully, and she stifles a 
giggle at my spent penis dragging a damp trail across her 
thigh. I fake a frown at her, and follow the liquid with my 
fingers, back to her heat, pulling her close with my free 
arm. She murmurs a brief protest, then sighs softly as my 
fingers find her clitoris.

Watching her face as I bring her to a silent, shuddering 
orgasm is like watching the sky while the weather changes. 
She turns and shifts infinitesimally, seeking the friction 
my fingers provide, her parted lips damp against mine. I 
watch her face and kiss her when she comes, eyes shut tight 
as the waves catch her. I hold her while her breathing 
slows back down, stroking the small hollow at the base 
of her spine.

"Fox," she whispers experimentally into the space under my 
chin, and I feel a clandestine thrill at hearing my given 
name on her lips. It's the first time since that stakeout 
where I lied to her and told her that no one called me 
that, not even my parents. 

I thought I was protecting her, keeping her at arm's 
length, but maybe I knew even then that I was really trying 
to protect myself. Not that fighting her off did me any 
good - Scully came into me like the tide, irresistible, 
exquisite in its measured progress. She stole my heart, but 
she kept it safe all this time.

"Do you want to call me Fox?"

She purses her lips as though she's tasting my name, and 
then whispers back, "Did you want me to? I guess I could 
try."

"No," I reply, rolling onto my side. "Not really."

She relaxes against my side for another minute, then 
suddenly props herself up onto one elbow and peers into my 
eyes.

"Your pupils are the same size." 

Ah, Doctor Scully's back on call. I can't stifle the grin. 
"I assume that's a good thing?"

She smiles back indulgently. "Yes, that's a good thing. I 
wasn't going to let you carry that Glock if you turned out 
to have another concussion on top of the drugs."

The Glock, the gun I bought with Krycek, while Scully 
watched. An illegal firearm purchase -- a felony, and she 
knows it.

"I understand why you agreed to work with him, Scully, but 
I don't want you in on this any more. I'll go with him 
tomorrow."

"If you start patronizing me, this isn't going to work," 
she says, gently, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

"What?"

"This." She waves her hand between the two of us. "Us."

I close my eyes. She's right, and I know it. I open them 
again, look into hers, and she accepts my unspoken apology 
by squeezing my hand again.

She glances into the darkness of the open doorway. "Is it 
bothering you at all that Alex Krycek knows 
we're.......together?"

"In what sense? I think he thought we were involved with 
each other a long time ago."

"You do? How long ago?"

"Even when I was partnered with him. He just assumed, 
Scully. Like Colton and those other assholes. Well, not 
quite like that," I amend. 

"But this is proof, not rumors from other people, not even 
his assumptions based on watching us work together."

"Okay, you're right, it is.  But what are the consequences 
of his knowing?  None, as far as I can tell. Who's going to 
care? They've known for a long time that all they need to 
do to hurt me is hurt you." A wave of bitterness sweeps 
through me. "And vice versa.  We prove it to them over and 
over again."

"We have to talk about how we're going to handle this after 
we're done with this case. Not tonight," she adds, when I 
open my mouth. "But soon."

"I know."

She snaps off the light next to the bed. I smile into the 
darkness and roll onto my side, seeking the silk of her 
skin. She edges back toward me, and we meet in the 
middle, her back to my front. 

When I wake up, it's hours later, and the room is hot and 
airless. The ratty drapes are doing a bad job of blocking 
out the mid-morning sun. I would be bothered by some of 
these facts but Scully's mouth is closing around my cock.

Hot, hot and slick and her hands are rubbing slow patterns 
on my thighs. I feel the sweat collecting on my chest and 
face, and try to push away the tangle of yellowed sheets.  
I lift my head and peer at my beautiful lover through the 
dusty air. She lets my cock slip out of her mouth long 
enough to press two fingers to her lips, glistening with 
her saliva, and she smiles wickedly at me. I get it -- keep 
quiet, Mulder, or I'll stop. I can see the sweat-sheen on 
her chest, too, between her exquisite little breasts. I 
want to touch her, run my hands over her, but she's taking 
me in her mouth again and it feels too good to stop her.

I flop back on the bed, close my eyes, let myself imagine 
her between my legs, red-gold hair brushing my thighs, 
strong hands stroking me. She lets me slip out of her mouth 
again and I almost protest -- no, Scully, I haven't made a 
sound, I swear -- until I feel her nuzzle my balls and 
gently take first one, then the other, in her mouth, her 
tongue swirling around them delicately. 

I reach for her, run a shaky hand through her hair. One-
handed, I bunch the pillow up beneath my head, and tilt my 
neck to see her. 

Her eyes are closed, but I know she knows I'm watching her 
by the slight tilt of her perfect lips. She wraps a hand 
firmly around the base of my cock and slips the shaft 
between her lips again, sucking harder, letting it slide 
deeper, setting up a hot, slow rhythm.

I only grunt softly when I come and she doesn't say a word, 
only lets me slide limp and glistening from her mouth so 
that she can clean me off with delicate swipes of her 
tongue.

She crawls back up the bed to lie next to me. I reach a 
hand down and stroke her thigh, but she pushes it away 
gently, whispering, "Later."

I put my mouth next to her ear, inhaling the sweet scent of 
her. "Why not now?"

"We need to get up in an hour. Go back to sleep. I'll take 
a rain check." 

I laugh softly, then louder when she pinches my ass 
disapprovingly. Finally, I settle down and draw her sweat-
damp body closer to mine, disregarding the heat. 

Scully falls asleep rapidly, a legacy of years of bedding 
down in motels across the country, the unsurprising feel of 
unfamiliar sheets nearly as expected as the smell of your 
own bed after a while. If she was next door, it was home to 
me.

I wait until her breathing is steady before I whisper, "I 
love you, Scully. More than anything." And then I let 
myself slip back into sleep.





I could have just given Maxwell the gas, I guess.

But fuck him.  There's a good market out there for this 
stuff, it's harder to steal than plutonium and I'll be 
goddamned if I'm going to hand it over to an asshole 
like Maxwell. I had earmarked it for one of my more....... 
influential customers. I went through the whole switch and 
bait with Maxwell and Ajiib strictly for the money.

How did he find Kate? 

It's been eating at me since I got the call.

John Maxwell's hatred of the Federal government is epic. 
He'd never go through official channels to get Mulder's 
number. 

Which means he got it from someone else.

My personal guess would be Spender the Human Chimney but it 
really doesn't matter. All that I need to know is that 
they're reminding me that I owe them. 

That they own me.

In case I had forgotten while I was out freelancing.

Sometime in the morning I wake up, the piss-sweat-dust 
smell stronger now that the day's heat is setting in. I 
hear a sigh, then the sound of sheets sliding against 
each other from the next room.

Goddamn it, it makes me sick that Spooky is getting some 
while I'm lying here alone with my morning hard-on. That 
sorry motherfucker just isn't worth her time. She should 
have figured that out years ago. He's such an unbelievable 
pussy, always feeling sorry for whatever scumbag he happens 
to take down in the course of doing his job. 

Of course, women like that. I kind of want to march in 
there and tell her that so-called sensitive men don't 
necessarily give the best head.

Instead, I jerk off quietly into the dirty sheets, shutting 
my eyes and inventing a dream-Dana who doesn't argue, just 
sucks me off with perfect blowjob lips. 

Not a great substitute for the real live woman. 

I liked her company. I liked having her tight little ass 
and shiny hair sitting next to me in the truck. Even having 
someone bitching at me was better than having nothing but 
the radio to make noise. 

I wanted to explore her, find out what's put that hard edge 
into her questions since the last time I met her face to 
face. I wanted to tell her that if I had had to kill her 
that day that it would have left a mark on me. 

And that almost nothing leaves marks on me anymore. 

I wanted someone to talk to.

The last time I had an argument with Kate, I was still at 
the Academy. It was Thanksgiving, and we were having dinner 
together at a nice Washington hotel, a mournful reminder 
that we no longer had anywhere else to be. 

She laid some Ivy League bullshit on me about civil 
liberties, protecting the integrity of the system. I told 
her that law was not a synonym for justice. 

That's about all I remember, that and drinking a lot of 
Stolichnaya with the turkey dinner. Maybe I was just as 
sentimental as she was.

She graduated with honors, and me, I graduated from the 
academy, began working at the FBI. Then my real education 
began. It got to the point where I couldn't field her 
questions any longer.

That Thanksgiving was the almost the last time we talked. 
When we spoke again, my end came from a cold phone booth on 
the way out of Washington.

"My assignment is top secret. I won't be able to give you a 
forwarding address or phone number. But I'll get in touch 
with you, I swear. When I can."

She was crying and trying not to let me hear it. The cold 
plastic of the payphone receiver bit into my hands; I 
didn't have any gloves, the call was almost an 
afterthought.

"Alex, what if something happened to you? You're 
all......." I heard her bite off a sob, and the rest of the 
words. We were alone now, and I was leaving her more alone.

I called her twice in the next three years. I didn't have 
answers to any of her questions. Last fall, I only left a 
message on an answering machine in Los Angeles.

Kate was the last person I could talk to; it was just 
everyday irony that we argued constantly.

I hear the thin hiss of whispering from the other room, 
then silence. 

I learned long ago not to whisper -- the sibilants carry 
too easily. The trick is to speak in a very low voice. 





"A sport ute would be better at this point. I didn't plan 
on hanging onto the pickup this long. I really don't like 
storing the damn thing under just a tarp," Krycek whines. 
"Give me half and hour and I can--"

"No." Mulder growls.

Krycek sighs, but he puts the truck in gear and peels out 
of the motel parking lot.

None of us could stand the fetid heat of the motel when we 
got up, so we agreed to get some food and talk through our 
plan. Mulder bristled the minute Krycek walked into our 
room, stepping lightly over the canister of gas; with the 
softening effect of the drugs out of his system, the 
atmosphere between them has changed, grown heavier.  

Or maybe it's just the heat. The radio said it's ninety-two 
today, with eighty-nine percent humidity, which means that 
Manhattan is enduring the same weather as the Amazon Basin. 
I'll bet the jungle smells better, too. West 131st Street 
quivers through the waves of heat coming up off the 
asphalt. The trashcan under the lamp-post with the "PICK UP 
AFTER YOUR DOG: $50 FINE FOR LITTERING!" sign is 
overflowing.

We drive downtown. When Krycek turns east onto 125th Street 
I ask him where we're going and he pauses, then says, "I 
know a place where they serve breakfast twenty-four hours a 
day."

"Why is it that you =never= tell me where we're going?" I 
snap at him. "A street address would be nice. Or even, 
'Dana, we're going to Denny's.' =Anything.="

Mulder looks oddly concerned after my outburst. Krycek 
glances at me, then says distantly, "East Ninety-Ninth, 
between First and Second.  I think the place is called 
Mamacita's but I'm not sure. They make decent huevos 
rancheros and nobody speaks English."

I sit on the front seat between the love of my life and our 
temporary ally the international terrorist, sweating and 
sticking to the upholstery. Everything is out of focus and 
I desperately need something ordinary to concentrate on -- 
picking out wallpaper, or cleaning a gun. But all I can 
think about is the careful sound of Alex Krycek's voice 
telling me where he's taking us; it blurs together with the 
memory of his black eyes staring back at me last night at 
the tollbooth, vulnerable and dangerous as a jaguar with a 
broken leg.

This is the man who killed Mulder's father. Who watched 
Luis Cardinale shoot Missy. Who would have shot me, if I'd 
been there, called it business and cleaned his Glock when 
he was through. 

Mulder's hand, hot and slightly damp, brushes over mine and 
suddenly everything comes back into focus, like surfacing 
from deep under the surface when you're at the end of your 
breath. 
 
Meeting his worried gaze, I murmur, "I'm fine," and even 
mean it.

End Chapter 14/19 of 'Above Rubies'




"Above Rubies," (15/19) by Rachel Howard    
    
See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information. 

   
    
Resnick shifts on the plastic chair, the soles of his shoes 
squeaking against the linoleum. "He isn't stupid."    
    
The silver-gray sheen of the one-way mirror washes out the 
lines in Santanda's face, disguises the bags under his 
eyes. From here, he looks relaxed and alert. He's handling 
the interview well, better than I expected. Resnick taps 
his empty coffee cup on the interview room table in an 
irregular rhythm. Santanda asks genially, "Want some more 
java? I know it ain't Starbucks, but......."    
    
Resnick smiles uneasily. "Ah, sure."    
    
Santanda stands up and reaches for the coffeepot.  "So you 
worked with this guy for a while."    
    
"I have an accounting degree, but they offered me a 
transfer to customer relations. Maxwell was one of the 
first clients I got to manage."     
    
"He paid cash, right? Did you have a lot of clients who did 
that?" Resnick eyes the fresh cup of steaming coffee that 
Santanda sets down in front of him and blows on it before 
taking a sip.    
    
Of course not -- no one pays cash for a two thousand dollar 
order for fertilizer, and Santanda knows it, but Resnick's 
shoulders are beginning to relax, and he's not twitching 
like a lab rabbit any more.    
    
"No, see, that was what bothered me. He did that right from 
the beginning -- I never even checked his bank references, 
you know, because he always showed up with the money. 
Always.  And weird things would get him upset. Like when 
we installed security cameras in the front lobby, and he 
would always walk sideways through the door after that, so 
the camera couldn't get his face clearly. He said the 
average American is captured on film at least twelve times 
a day and he wasn't going to be a statistic. Things like 
that." He pauses. "Are you guys after him for taxes?"    
    
Santanda shrugs. "We're concerned that he hasn't been 
completely. forthcoming about some of his purchases."    
    
Resnick seems satisfied. "I thought so. He had a big thing 
about taxes.  We were supposed to stay friendly with all 
the major customers, you know? Take them out for steak once 
in a while. He wasn't easy to make conversation with, if 
you know what I mean. He wouldn't sit down at a table 
without checking out the waiter first. A couple of times we 
left places without even ordering because he didn't like 
the looks of the staff. I only took him out a few times."    
    
Santanda asks, "Did he choose the restaurants? Maybe he 
wanted to be close to home?"    
    
Resnick shakes his head. "I don't think so. I got the 
impression that he doesn't live in New York full time. He 
said something once about just having gotten back from 
Texas."    
    
"Do you know where he lives, Mr. Resnick? It's important 
that we contact Mr. Maxwell."    
    
Resnick hesitates, then reaches for the briefcase at his 
feet.  He sets it on the table, snaps it open, then flips 
through a couple of manila folders before he pulls out a 
piece of paper.    
    
"This is the only address I have for him.  We had to 
deliver for him once. Usually, he picked up his orders, but 
I guess he was in a hurry that time."     
    
Santanda flatters Resnick out the door, shaking his hand.     
    
The address is on Crescent Avenue, in Astoria, Queens.    
    
Ledeller says, "Chiavelli wanted to talk to us. Says he has 
some background on Maxwell that might help." He leans 
overmy shoulder and reads the address Resnick gave us. 
"Astoria? Isn't that more of a, uh--"    
    
"Lotsa immigrants," Santanda breaks in. "Greeks, some of 
them. Pakistanis. Little bit of everything."    
    
"What's the Aryan Revival Army doing there?" Ledeller wants 
to know.    
    
Chiavelli, when we get him on speakerphone, doesn't have an 
answer for us. "Maxwell's not stupid -- he's held a 
professional job, college educated--"    
    
"Where?" I interrupt him.    
    
"Texas A&M. Dropped out or, more likely, got kicked out 
during his junior year. He got busted for illegal weapons 
possession and for carrying a concealed weapon without a 
permit while he was there -- got probation." Chiavelli 
grunts in disgust. "Jesus. He did quality assurance for a 
big agrochemical outfit for a while. The big event for him, 
it looks like, was Waco. He spent some time hanging out 
around David Koresh, and after Waco he went down, tried to 
convince the remaining Branch Davidians to go start a 
'model community' in Idaho with him in charge. Apparently 
he didn't get any takers. Then about six months went by 
where no one knew where he was, and he eventually turned up 
in Jersey."    
    
Santanda whistles softly. "Big change of scenery. Why?"    
    
"Don't know," Chiavelli admits.     
    
I read the address to him. "Got this location anywhere in 
his file?"    
    
After a minute, Chiavelli replies, "Nope. Nothing."    
    
"Got anything else on him?"    
    
"Got kicked out of ROTC for insubordination."    
    
For the ninetieth time, I curse Mulder for not being where 
he ought to be -- sitting at this table, profiling Maxwell, 
taking his mind apart like a broken watch. Instead, he's 
hared off again, and this time he took his lover with him.    
    
Not fair, Walter. The man was almost certainly kidnapped. 
You're holding him responsible because of circumstantial 
evidence you found in his hotel room. Because of her 
earrings on his bedside table. The cold whisper of the 
trained investigator's voice dissects my anger, brings me 
back into the present.    
    
"Okay. Thank you."    
    
I disconnect, and the three of us stare at the phone for a 
minute, processing what we heard.  Finally, I say, "Let's 
go to Astoria."    
    
Santanda drives like he works -- accurate, careful, 
signaling when appropriate, making the occasional quick 
lane change. He's a good agent, experienced. But Ledeller, 
sitting next to me, reviewing his notes ffrom his initial 
conversationwith Chiavelli, will be even better. From time 
to time I see flashes in Ledeller of what Mulder has hidden 
away under his bad attitude and talent for pissing off his 
peers -- pure, animal instinct, knife-sharp.    
    
And most of the time, Scully keeps Mulder in line. But not 
this time.     
    
I sigh in irritation, cracking the knuckles of my left hand 
sequentially. Ledeller glances over at me, instantly 
curious, but too smart to pry.    
    
Sharon once told me that real pearls are gritty against 
your teeth, not smooth. We were in bed, and she took the 
slim strand that she had not bothered to remove from her 
lovely throat when we tumbled there together, brushed the 
creamy pearls over my lips with a sly smile. I refused the 
bait and went after the silk of her mouth instead.    
    
I have no doubt that Scully's pearls would have rasped 
gritty against my teeth.    
    
She's far too beautiful for it never to have crossed my 
mind. But I have never let myself lapse into fantasies 
about her -- my best agent, my subordinate. She's so 
obviously unavailable.    
    
I think I can absolve myself of jealousy. I am not jealous 
of Mulder. But envy of what they share, of the searing 
connection between them -- of that, I am guilty, and have 
been for a long time.     
    
"Sir?"    
    
Ledeller has a peculiar look on his face; abstracted and 
intense at the same time. "Sir, why do you think Maxwell 
came out here? To the east coast?"    
    
"I don't know," I admit. "Do you have a theory?"    
    
He shakes his head, turning to peer out the window again. I 
follow his gaze. White row houses interspersed with small 
businesses bearing names like "Meccariello's Pizzeria," 
"Farooqi Funeral Home", "Ghouri and Son Hardware."     
    
Santanda turns onto Crescent Avenue, maneuvering us around 
a double-parked truck.     
    

  
    
The salty ocean smell here is mixed with the usual stink of 
dead fish, but with a weird twist -- roasting peanuts and 
beer.    
    
"Are you sure that this is the place he meant?" Scully has 
the same look on her face that she got when we drove up to 
the motel.    
    
"I told you he was a weird motherfucker." I'm on autopilot, 
scanning the boardwalk for Kate, knowing I won't see her, 
but unable to stop myself. He'll have her inside the bar.
        
Mulder looks up and down the boardwalk. "This is where 
Maxwell was planning to use the gas, wasn't it? Coney 
Island." A faint rattle and thin screams come from the 
direction of the roller coaster, farther into the amusement 
park. "Not many white faces here, are there? Lots of 
families with little kids. Easy enough to get out of here, 
on a powerboat maybe. Lots of places to dock nearby, and 
then he could get in a car, get out of the borough quickly. 
Or switch to the subway, even. There's a stop just a few 
blocks away." His eyes are distant, mapping Maxwell's 
moves. "Close to the airport."    
    
He tugs his shirt up to wipe sweat off his face, shifting 
the backpack with our spare ammo to his left shoulder, 
leaving a dark streak where the strap pressed into him. 
There's a hot breeze and the afternoon sun is pounding 
down.    
    
Scully checks her watch. "Two o' clock."    
    
Mulder looks at me, squinting against the afternoon 
sunshine. "How did he hook up with Ajiib?"    
    
"You tell me, profiler boy." I feel a thin pang of envy.    
    
His eyes get distant again. "The enemy of my enemy."    
    
Scully looks up at him. "Do you think it's that simple?"    
    
"It's the only explanation. The only common thread is their 
hatred for the government. Somehow, they agreed to 
cooperate to pull off a terrorist attack. And they had 
enough manpower individually, I think, so it must have been 
to raise cash." His eyes lose their glaze and he looks at 
me. "To buy the gas. How much did you get out of them?"    
    
I grin crookedly at him. "Just call me Alex Krycek, public 
servant."    
    
Scully turns away from me, blank-faced.    
    
"They don't have it, do they? And I have the cash. It's a 
win-win situation." I look across the street. "That's where 
he is."    
    
The sign over the door reads 'Carnival Bar'. The windows 
are filmed with grime. The heat rising off the pavement 
makes the storefront waver and twist. A funhouse illusion, 
like the rest of this place.     
    
I shut my eyes and remember Kate's face, the way she waves 
her hands around when she argues, the sound of her voice. 
If he hurt my sister, I'm going to make sure he dies 
slowly.     
    
I repeat what I told them this morning, for my sake as well 
as theirs. "He'll be in the back. There's an office behind 
the bar. Door straight back at the end of the room leads to 
the office, sign says 'Employees Only'."     
    
They nod in unison.    
    
I saw Mulder examine the canister of gas when we got out of 
the truck, a long, thoughtful look back that told me about 
his doubts, as if I hadn't guessed already.    
    
Scully asks, "What does Kate look like?"    
    
"Five-six, brown hair, brown eyes. Slight build. Hair's 
probably shoulder-length, unless she's changed it lately. 
She looks a lot like me. Same nose."     
    
Mulder breaks in. "When was the last time you saw her?"    
    
Fuck you. "Three years ago." His upper lip twitches; 
Scully's expression doesn't change. "She thinks I work for 
the CIA. I'd like to keep it that way." I loathe the 
pleading undertone in my voice. To regain my equilibrium, I 
ask Scully, "You ready?"    
    
Scully tugs uneasily at her t-shirt. I smother a grin as I 
look her over, remembering which one of us is currently 
armed. In the name of protective coloring, we picked up a 
few things on our way out here.     
    
Scully's now wearing a pink midriff top that exposes her 
lovely, flat belly all the way to her delicately cupped 
navel. She's wearing dark circles of eyeliner and sticky 
pink lipstick that makes me want to run my thumb over her 
mouth, find out if it tastes like cotton candy. Her jeans 
are incongruous in the heat, but they cover her ankle 
holster.     
    
I try to focus on Scully's skin, forget the twisting fear 
for Kate. I feel naked without my weapon, but I know quite 
well that Maxwell will have me frisked. Scully fingers the 
shirt again and says, "Okay."    
    
I work up a smirk for Mulder; this is the part of the plan 
that I really like. I reach over and take Scully's hand, 
and say, "Come on, sweetheart." For the fun of it, I slip 
my arm around her slim waist and add, loud enough for him 
to hear, "I've got plans for the two of us." She doesn't 
answer, just flicks one glance back over her shoulder as we 
walk toward the dingy bar.    
    

  
    
    
10524 Crescent Avenue is a brick rowhouse like all the 
rest, American flag hanging limp in the hot air, planted 
solidly in the front yard.    
    
A woman answers the door. She's young, blonde, and her eyes 
flicker nervously between the badges hanging from our 
raised hands. "FBI?" she says under her breath. Without 
waiting for us to ask, she blurts out, "He's not here. John 
left early this morning. I'm the only one here right now, 
so I can't help you."    
    
"How did you know we were looking for John? You're 
referring to John Maxwell, right?" I ask her.    
    
She reddens immediately.    
    
"May we come in, miss.......?"    
    
"I don't have to let you in," she replies, staring at my 
collar, ignoring the implicit question.    
    
"No, of course you don't," I reassure her. "We just want to 
ask you a couple of questions."     
    
The rote words seem to frighten her instead of putting her 
at ease. "I don't own this place, you know. He does."    
    
Her accent is mild and I can't place it. "Have you lived 
here long?"    
    
Her blue eyes shift up to mine and I add, "I'm sorry, I'm 
Walter Skinner." I hear Ledeller shift next to me when I 
say my first name. "You are?"    
    
"Leah Webb," she says, almost inaudibly. "I guess you can 
come in."    
    
The front room is small and nearly bare, with only a coffee 
table and a few dented folding chairs; Ledeller, Santanda 
and I stand in an uncomfortable semi-circle in front of 
Leah. Her feet are bare, and I watch her stubby toes twitch 
against the faded weave of the carpet. "Miss Webb, it's 
very important that we speak with Mr. Maxwell. Do you know 
where we might be able to find him?"    
    
It's a long time before she answers. I watch her cornflower 
blue eyes inventory the few furnishings in the room. When 
she raises her eyes to mine, there is some weighty decision 
behind them, in which we have unwittingly altered the 
balance. "I don't want to be here any more. If I tell you 
where to find him, will you help me get out of here? Get 
back home?"     
    
"Where's home?" Ledeller interjects.    
    
She flinches, and I wish he hadn't said anything. She 
doesn't take her eyes off me while she replies. "Idaho. I 
looked at a Greyhound map. I can take a bus there. To 
Boise, anyway. If I tell you, will you give me the money 
for a bus ticket? I could get there through Chicago."    
    
"Yes," I tell her. "As long as you give us some way to 
contact you at your final destination. We'll see that you 
get home." LaGuardia Airport is not far from here. Leah 
Webb looks lost in this urban living room, an Indian 
paintbrush struggling to grow in a terrarium.     
    
She takes a deep breath and says in a rush, "He left about 
six. I knew there was somethin' goin' on, he said they were 
going to that bar, the one they bought from the niggers, 
but who goes to a bar at six in the morning?  And they took 
that woman with them. She didn't say anything but I took 
her up some dinner last night, and after they left, I 
checked, and she didn't eat none of it."    
    
"What woman?" My voice is sharper than I meant it to be, 
and she shrinks a little under my gaze.    
    
"I don't know her name. She got here yesterday, and he 
carried her upstairs, said she was sick. But she didn't 
look sick when they left today. Just scared."    
    
Maxwell has a hostage. Suddenly, this whole mess looks that 
much worse.    
    
Leah Webb brushes her hair from her face. Her nails are 
short, neat, and the backs of her hands are freckled. For 
the first time I notice how young she looks. Nineteen, 
maybe.    
    
"It's called Carnival Bar. The place where he's at. I drove 
there once or twice -- I can tell you how to get there. But 
I want my bus ticket first."    
    
I stare at her until she gets uncomfortable. "Leah, why 
here? Why New York?"    
    
Without pausing she answers, "Because this is where the 
problem is." She drops into a near monotone, and I think 
she's mocking Maxwell until I realize that she's simply 
reciting a lesson. "This is where it started. The problem. 
White people here need to wake up. New York is ours but 
right now it's all Jews and niggers. It needs cleaning up." 
Her eyes clear a little when she adds, "Only I don't want 
to live here no more. I want to go home."    
    
It's the answer Ledeller was reaching for in the car on the 
way over, but it's unfamiliar. Maxwell has somehow 
reinvented the white power message, put it to a new tune. 
Urban uprising. But Leah Webb looks so lost here.     
    
I reach into my pockets and come out with my cellphone and 
a reporter's pad. "Write it down, Leah. The address of the 
bar, and the address and phone number where we can reach 
you in Idaho. Are you afraid of flying?"    
    
She shakes her head no. I look at Santanda, who is eyeing 
her with the same kind of wary disgust he would give a 
rattlesnake half-crushed under the wheels of a car. "Get on 
the phone, get her a ticket to Boise. Charge it to the 
Bureau. And have them send someone over to drive her to 
LaGuardia."    
    
I look at what Leah is writing on the pad.    
    
Carnival Bar is on Coney Island.     
    
I struggle to remember what I know about Coney Island. 
Amusement park, aquarium. A place lots of families visit, 
for fun.    
    
When Ledeller and I step back into the baking sunshine, I 
call for a SWAT team.    
    
End 15/19 of "Above Rubies"    




"Above Rubies," (16/19)

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


Krycek's hand settles into the curve of my waist. The 
sensation unsettles me more than when he cuffed me to the 
bed and frisked me with the same hand; the difference is 
familiarity. I turn and look over my shoulder at Mulder. 
He's running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. In 
spite of the sun's glare, his pupils are dilated. 

I know I've seen him look this way before, but now intimate 
knowledge lets me recognize it: Mulder is aroused. Maybe 
it's a holdover from his years as a porn voyeur, maybe not, 
but I'm instinctively sure that seeing Krycek's hand on my 
bare skin is what has given Mulder the instant erection 
pushing at his jeans. And with that one glance at his 
hardness, I feel an answering surge of desire, warm 
heat rising within me. Our eyes meet, and I want nothing 
more than to walk back to him, slip my arms around his 
waist, feel him answer me with his embrace. I pause for a 
half-step, try to tell him so with my eyes. Whatever he 
sees in my face makes him smile. He gives my torso a 
lingering look, then inclines his chin. 

Go on.

We'll have time later.

Knowing what he's thinking isn't new, but now there's an 
intimate undercurrent that circles my awareness of him, 
warm and reassuring.
 
Krycek's arm tightens around me for a half-second, and then 
his hand drops to the small of my back as he nudges me into 
step beside him. The gesture is so much like Mulder's it 
startles me back to reality.

I wish I weren't wearing jeans. I needed to wear pants to 
cover the ankle holster I'm wearing, but I'm hot and 
they're making me sweat. The perspiration inching down the 
inside of my hipbone itches, but I am too conscious of 
Krycek's hand on my back to scratch. Another trail of 
perspiration is starting between my breasts, in spite of 
the fact that the idiotic top I'm wearing leaves my entire 
belly naked. We had to stop and buy a few things to replace 
our bloodstained clothes. 

Mulder pulled this top off the rack in the dimestore, 
arguing that it was good camouflage. I let him get away 
with it, enjoying the way he eyeballed me after I put it 
on. I must have forgotten I'd have to wear the thing in 
public.

Krycek surveys the street as we walk, his eyes flickering 
from side to side without any movement of his head, a 
mechanical gesture that must be habit for him. He drops his 
head to glance down at me, and I see perspiration beaded 
lightly along his upper lip. His hand moves up, hovers 
around my shoulderblades, and finally he seems to come to 
some decision, settling his hand lightly on my shoulder, 
his arm encircling me.

"You okay?"

I think he's asking for permission to touch me, an 
unexpected courtesy from him, particularly since it's just 
to keep us in character -- I am posing as his girlfriend to 
get into Maxwell's lair. I nod yes, and he settles into a 
relaxed, loose half-embrace.

We cross the next street, go around the corner. Carnival 
Bar squats in the middle of a string of little bodegas and 
head shops. The signs above the shops only reflect a dim 
gleam from the sun overhead, their paint and glass dulled 
by years of dust.

Krycek shifts his hand down to the small of my back, and 
pushes the door open with his opposite shoulder.

The bar is no better inside. There's sawdust on the floor, 
but it doesn't soak up the smell of cheap beer and 
cigarettes. There's a ceiling fan turning lazily somewhere 
above us that does nothing to circulate the hot, still air.

I look around and mark the locations of several male 
patrons who are staring at us. This makes me nervous until 
I realize that their attention seems to be uniformly fixed 
on my exposed navel. Well, it's a good thing that they're 
here, anyhow: Mulder's part of the plan depends on having 
other people in the bar. They're all white, which is 
clearly not the norm for Coney Island.

The skinny bartender is making a small tower of glass 
ashtrays. He reaches out and fingers a free ashtray sitting 
on the countertop, then cautiously adds it to the stack. It 
doesn't topple. He watches it for a few seconds, then 
reaches for another ashtray without looking, eyeing the 
stack. His shaved head glistens with sweat in the bad 
light. Krycek saunters over to him and says without 
preamble, "Tell him I'm here."

The ashtray in the bartender's hand gets a long, regretful 
look. Finally, he examines Krycek, spares a glance at me, 
then a second glance, lower, and nods. "Siddown."


We don't sit. Krycek leans back against the bar, his 
posture indolent, but his dark eyes are tracking the 
bartender's retreating back. Across the room, a bearded 
man wearing a baseball cap that reads "Schlitz - They'll Do 
It Every Time" is checking us out. It's unclear whether 
it's my ridiculous shirt or Krycek's plastic arm that's 
gotten his attention. I rest against the bar, copying 
Krycek, and feel his breath sigh against the side of my 
face. I turn my head and he's right there, inside my space, 
his green-black eyes daring me to do something about it. 

I flex my foot lightly, feeling the warm pressure of the 
ankle holster against moving bones and ligaments. The buzz 
of arousal from Mulder's heated gaze is still tracing 
through me like an echo. Instead of moving away, I play my 
part, leaning closer to Alex and blowing lightly across the 
soft spot on his neck, where the shadow of his jugular lies 
under the skin.

Instantly, Alex lowers his chin and looks directly into my 
eyes, and I watch his pupils flare, a jaguar sighting its 
intended mate, dilating as quickly as Mulder's did. His 
lips part and I get a shadowed glimpse of his tongue, feel 
his breath wash over my exposed throat. I imagine him 
baring his teeth, preparing to taste the back of my neck. 
Then a door slams at the far end of the bar and there's a 
nearly audible click as Krycek changes gears, from sex to 
contained violence so quickly I almost don't believe I saw 
that flare of animal lust. 

The man approaching us is not the bartender. This guy is 
much bigger, and equally bald, with eyes so bloodshot he's 
either seriously stoned or suffering from an ocular 
disease. He gives Krycek the same visual once-over, but his 
glance at me is longer, more appraising. When he addresses 
us, his eyes don't reach north of my breasts. "If y'all 
could come with me?"

The accent is pure Texas twang, seriously displaced. Krycek 
says, "Let's go, babe," and follows him, his eyes moving 
again, across the man's broad back, calculating. 

Right before we go through the door at the back of the bar, 
I hear the front door jingle and Mulder's voice carrying 
across the room, "Hey, I don't think so, buddy. Not a 
chance, not for you...Hey, wanna beer!"

The bartender pushes past us as we walk through the door 
and I slow down for a second, to be sure Mulder can see 
where we're going. I hope his drunken act looks more 
convincing than it sounded. Mulder's not much of an actor.

I follow Krycek into a narrow hallway. 

"So, who the fuck are you?" Krycek's tone is 
conversational, relaxed. 

Our guide replies, "I'm Brady. Mr. Maxwell is expecting 
you." He pauses dramatically like he's expecting someone to 
yell, "Cut!" -- clearly, Brady has seen one too many Mafia 
movies.

For effect, I whine, "Hey, I thought we were getting a 
beer."

"Shut up," Krycek answers, indulgently.

Brady nods sagely as though this is simply part of his 
script and announces, "Mr. Maxwell is very particular about 
his company. He has asked me to be certain that y'all 
aren't carrying." He lifts an expectant eyebrow at Krycek, 
who growls, "Get on with it, Monkeyboy."

Apparently this is also in Brady's script, because he 
ignores the insult and gets to work patting Krycek down. I 
manufacture a vapid giggle when he runs his hands up 
Krycek's legs, noting that he's too inexperienced to get a 
good grip on the ankles. Damn; if we'd known in advance, we 
could both be carrying. Krycek looks bored. 

Brady spends quite a bit more time frisking me than he did 
on Krycek. His hands linger on the exposed flesh of my back 
before he goes in for the kill, stroking my ass through the 
tight jeans as if there's a chance I've concealed a deadly 
weapon in my panties. Krycek bares his teeth again and this 
time it looks deadly. Brady's hands are gone, ripped away 
as Krycek slams him up against the wall hard enough that 
the floor trembles.

Brady's eyes are wide, and he's gasping like a fish as 
Krycek's shoulder digs the air out of his lungs. Seems that 
getting buffaloed by a guy half his size wasn't in his 
script. "The next time you put even one hand on her ass, 
you lose them both," Krycek grinds out, shoving his 
prosthesis in the big man's face for emphasis. Now Brady's 
eyes are bulging, and a mottled flush is spreading over his 
face. 

A door further down the hallway opens and someone says 
calmly, "Let go of him." 

This man's head is not shaved, but the military cut doesn't 
do much for his thin, angular face, either. I hear Brady 
take a rattling gasp of air as Krycek releases him. 
Crewcut's eyes flicker over me once, dismissively. "What's 
the problem?"

"The problem is that dickless here doesn't know the 
difference between checking a lady for weapons and copping 
a feel." 

He glances at me again, then says to Krycek, "I apologize. 
Perhaps your lady friend would be more comfortable waiting 
for you at the bar."

"With the rest of the assholes who hang out here? Fuck, no. 
She stays with me. Get her a beer," he tells Brady, who is 
breathing more or less normally by now. Brady looks at 
Crewcut for affirmation, then disappears.

"Fine. Come in and have a seat." The thin man holds the 
door open and waves me in. This must be John Maxwell, and 
he's not reading from Brady's script; he doesn't even 
glance at me again as I brush past him. Krycek doesn't 
introduce me -- in this world, women aren't players and 
manners don't count.

The office isn't big. There's a long desk, with a couple of 
framed photos on top and a few binders. An enormous Nazi 
flag dominates the wall behind the desk, one corner 
drooping where the duct tape holding it up has peeled off. 
The decorating effort seems to have stopped there; the few 
orange plastic chairs lined up in front of the desk don't 
add much to the atmosphere. There's another thin man with a 
shaved head sitting against the wall, who stops picking at 
his cuticles when we come in. He's got a Saturday night 
special lying casually in his lap like a party favor.

No sign of Krycek's sister. 

Krycek deadpans, "Nice place you've got here. How do you 
keep the niggers and spics out of the bar?"

Maxwell answers serenely, "We piss in their beer."

Krycek barks out an abbreviated laugh, and I add an 
uncertain giggle. Maxwell moves around to sit behind the 
desk. He brushes imaginary dust from the blotter in front 
of him, never taking his gaze from Krycek. His eyes are 
blue and clear; his lean frame looks strong and healthy. 
When his foot soldiers pass the bong around, I doubt he 
indulges.  

No one asks my name. 

Krycek settles himself into the hard plastic like it's a 
leather wing chair in a gentlemen's club, and reaches over 
to rest his hand on my leg with a proprietary air. "Sure is 
hot here. Bet you'd get more customers if you put in 
central A/C."

"I believe you're in possession of some of my property," 
Maxwell says in the same measured tone.

"I could say the same."

"I need that property back," Maxwell continues, as if 
Krycek hasn't spoken. "I have an immediate need for it, in 
fact."

"You know, I owe you an apology." Krycek waits until 
Maxwell begins to relax into his chair, then continues, "I 
killed a buddy of yours this morning. Mohammad al Ajiib. 
Didn't know you enjoyed hanging out with sand niggers, 
John."

Maxwell's expression doesn't change at all, but he no 
longer looks relaxed. I watch a muscle in his forearm 
twitch, jumping under the skin. 

Krycek is playing to Maxwell deliberately. What has he told 
these men about himself, his connections? Or was his 
ability to get his hands on chemical weapons the only thing 
that mattered to them?

Brady comes in with a dripping beer bottle, and twists the 
cap off before he sets it down in front of me. I smile at 
Maxwell, who ignores me, and I take a medium-sized sip. 
Brady hovers uncertainly, but Maxwell is still studying 
Krycek. After an awkward minute, Brady leaves. After the 
door shuts behind us, I hear him clear his throat 
officiously from the hallway just outside the room.

Krycek looks over at the thin man with the Sig, and 
inquires, "Who's the new guy?" 

Maxwell licks his lips and dusts the blotter again. His 
hands are small but heavily callused. "Steve's from around 
here." He raises his head and looks in the direction of the 
man sitting against the wall. Steve looks up and nods. 
"Steve got tired of seeing his sister date niggers on 
Saturday nights. Now he's ready to do something about it." 
Steve nods again, his head bobbing like a puppet's. There's 
a tattoo under the line of his jaw, and when his head comes 
up, I can see it clearly -- it's a strand of barbed wire 
that climbs up behind his ear.

Like a preacher, Maxwell intones, "People are the same 
everywhere. White people need to wake up. Period. Doesn't 
matter if they live in Idaho. Doesn't matter if they live 
in Texas. Doesn't matter if they live in Jew York." Steve 
is still nodding, rhythmically, keeping time with Maxwell. 
"White people need to wake up, take back their own. You let 
a nigger put their hands on a clean Aryan woman, you're 
part of the problem." His eyes flicker in my direction 
again, then away. "Stop him, and you're part of the 
solution. I need that gas," he finishes abruptly. "We have 
plans, and I need it. Now."

I reach over and pick up the beer, feeling the cool, narrow 
bottleneck in my hand.

"Where's my sister?" Krycek asks, suddenly. 

"Where's my merchandise?" Maxwell growls back.

Steve sits up and looks alert for the first time since we 
walked in. 

Krycek's eyes burn holes into Maxwell. "You don't have her, 
do you? This was a bluff. That was a mistake, buddy. A big 
one."

Maxwell smirks at him, regains his balance. "Nice looking 
woman. 'Bout five-four, brown hair, brown eyes, got a mole 
on her earlobe right where the earring goes in. Wouldn't 
have noticed it except she had pretty little diamonds in 
her ears and I took 'em out to give 'em to my lady." 

"You could have gotten that off a picture. Or Spender could 
have told you what she looked like." 

What does this have to do with Jeffery Spender? And how 
does he know Krycek's sister? I can feel his tension level 
rising, as tangible as the bottle in my hand. 

Maxwell ignores the bait. "She's safe. And she'll stay 
safe, just so long's I get my merchandise."

"Did he bother telling you his name?" Maxwell looks back 
impassively, and after a pause, Krycek keeps talking, an 
undercurrent of real anger in his voice. "Or did he just 
light a fresh cigarette and say he was a friend of the 
Aryan Nation? You stupid redneck, you actually think that 
sonofabitch is on =your= side?"

That one went home; Maxwell twitches again, the muscle in 
his forearm jumping wildly. But he leans towards Krycek and 
repeats, "Where's my merchandise?"

"You know what, Maxwell? You're a dumb sonofabitch. Those 
guys have weapons that make VX gas look like air freshener, 
and they could care less about you. They're using you to 
get to me, and when they're done, you'll be a dead man."

And then we hear a crash from the bar, and a shout. 

Mulder's timing isn't usually this good.


End "Above Rubies", (16/19)





Above Rubies, chapter 17 of 19

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


I stifle a wild urge to laugh. The skinny bartender 
is staring with numb horror at the pile of broken 
ashtrays I just sent crashing to the floor, as though 
I'd just pushed his car off a cliff. 

I expected it to be easy to pick a fight in here, but 
all the patrons were too drunk to get angry when I 
started getting into their faces. Or maybe I'm not 
good at starting bar fights. Finally, I just got sick 
of watching the tower of ashtrays grow and started 
hassling this guy. He ignored me, too. 

Not any more. He roars with indignation and reaches 
for me from across the bar, which is exactly the 
excuse I need to toss my beer bottle at the 
mirrored wall behind him and duck down behind a table. 
The mirror cracks with a satisfying snap and I pop up 
in time to see the skinny bald guy rounding the corner 
of the bar. 

He's faster than I expect for a half-wit, Nazi 
stoner. Around behind one of the tables, and even the 
guy with the Schlitz cap is looking up from his beer 
by now. I plant my feet, ready for the bartender, and 
see a couple of men who were sitting close to the 
door are making their way out onto the street, no 
doubt in search of cold beer, hold the excitement. 
Then the bartender's swinging at me, missing, and I 
land one half-assed punch in the vicinity of his ribs, 
not hard enough to knock him down. He does stagger 
back a half step, enough for me to see another bald 
guy emerge from the door at the far end of the bar. 
He's big, really big, and he's carrying a baseball 
bat.

Time to up the ante. I pull my gun and shout, "FBI! 
Drop your weapon!"

Mr. Schlitz goggles at me. The skinny bartender 
goggles at me, then raises his hands into the air, 
his hands making a shaky path upwards. Bald Guy with 
Bat shouts back, "You got no right!"

"=Drop= it!" 

Bat man doesn't move. Someone else charges through 
the door, and I see the dull gleam of metal in his 
hand. "Both of you, drop your weapons NOW!"

The hand with the bat begins to descend towards the 
floor; I only see it with my peripheral vision, 
because my eyes are watching the hand with the gun 
waver, then begin to track up, not down.

My shot goes high and wide; his shatters glass 
somewhere behind me. The bat clatters to the floor 
and its owner is combat-crawling his way to cover 
behind the bar. 

I get off my next shot. CRACK and the gunman goes down. 

My back presses into the wall next to the door, 
watching for signs that the bald guy might be 
interested. The downed man is still moving slowly. 
Fake wood paneling behind me, and I don't know where 
the bartender is. Fuck.

I nudge the door further open with my foot and 
accidentally trip the man charging through the 
doorway as I do. A perfect Marx brothers gag, he 
bellows and goes flying facedown towards the floor. 

Mr. Schlitz is still sitting at a table, holding onto 
his beer bottle for dear life, eyes like saucers. 





"Krycek!"

He's already half-way into the cellar, not listening 
to me.

"=Krycek!= Damn it!"

He's disappearing down the darkness of the cellar 
stairs. I hear Maxwell stumble and curse. Krycek 
stops and quite deliberately plows Maxwell's face 
into the concrete wall, once, twice. The single bulb 
dangling over the stairwell picks out the bloody mark 
on the wall. Then Krycek pushes Maxwell ahead and 
they go down into darkness. 

Go after him, or go back for Mulder? 

Steve's Sig is warm and heavy in my hand. Steve 
is dead now. Krycek shot him neatly in the center 
of his forehead with the gun hidden in my ankle 
holster while I drove my bottle of beer squarely into 
John Maxwell's jaw. 

There was a crash and shouts from the bar. I had just 
enough time to wonder what Mulder had done to get 
things going before Maxwell stood up, and Krycek's 
hand, resting casually on my leg, closed around my 
ankle holster. 

One tug, the gun is free and I'm up, using my momentum to 
hit Maxwell hard with the bottle, smoothly as if we'd 
rehearsed it.

Gunshots from the bar, and a blast of gunfire too 
close to my ears

he fired over my head

Maxwell's face, reeling back, furious.

Then Krycek had him against the wall, forearm across 
Maxwell's throat, and it had been about four breaths 
since I heard the commotion begin.

In the same conversational tone he used to discuss 
the air conditioning, Krycek asked Maxwell, "Where's 
my sister?"

The eyes above Maxwell's bloodied chin blazed rage at 
Krycek. "In about fifteen seconds one of my soldiers 
will be in here with a weapon. You might live if you 
let go of me."

The gun dangling from Krycek's hand twitched, then 
stilled. Maxwell's eyes widened as Krycek's face got 
closer, closer, then lunged forward as he sank his 
teeth into the slick white skin between the man's 
eyes.

Maxwell's head slammed into the wall behind him and I 
heard him trying for a breath. I looked over at 
Steve for help, but he was dead, half his brains spread 
over the wall.

The scream that finally escaped Maxwell's compressed 
windpipe didn't cover the sound of Krycek spitting a 
hunk of meat and blood at the wall. He hawked and 
spat again, on the floor. "You taste like raw shit. 
Where is she?"

Maxwell groaned, tears of blood running down the sides 
of his nose. "Downstairs."

I followed them as far as the top of the stairs; for a 
long moment, I stared at the bloodstain that Maxwell's 
face left on the wall. 

Now I am running for the door that leads to the front 
of the bar, towards Mulder, away from the blood around 
Krycek's mouth, the incipient homicide in his eyes.




There are four men on the floor, and two of them 
won't be getting up again. Over the sound of my own 
breathing, I hear chair legs scrape against the wooden 
floor. Mr. Schlitz is on his feet. He looks confused. 
I watch him track between the dead skinheads and the 
gun in my hand. "Sir, this is not a safe place for 
you to be right now. Please exit as quickly as you 
can, through the front door."

"You a cop?" he asks, concentrating on the words.

"Mulder!" Scully shouts from the other side of the 
door. "Where are you?" 

"Here! All clear!" I reach for the door just as she 
charges through it and narrowly miss getting whacked 
in the face. 

She's here, sweaty and delicious in that little tank 
top, and I can hear sirens somewhere in the 
neighborhood. Then I see her face. 

"You all right?"

She nods, out of breath.

"You sure?" She doesn't look all right. 

"Need to get downstairs, now," she gets out between 
breaths. "One man down in the office; Krycek's got 
Maxwell."

She follows me into the hall and we both break into a 
run when we hear a scream from somewhere below us. 

The light in the stairwell picks out a bloodstain 
on the wall. Scully calls, "Alex?"

"Come down and join the party," a nearly unrecognizable 
voice answers. It's him, and something is wrong. I see 
Scully's throat work as she swallows, but she heads down 
the stairs, and I follow her.

Before my eyes have adjusted to the half-light, I 
smell blood. Krycek is crouching over a still figure 
on a mattress on the floor with a bloody knife in his 
hand. Someone else is lying on the dirty concrete. The 
low light gleams off of metal tables and boxes, and I 
pick up other scents: metal and gunpowder. 

"Katya, Katya, it's me. Can you hear me?" His voice 
softens into a low rumble and he says something in 
Russian, and I understand that this is his sister. 
The reflection off the knife blade makes everything 
else look dim. She has dark hair and she's not much 
bigger than Scully. Then I finally see where all the 
blood is coming from -- the man on the floor, who seems 
to be unconscious. There's fresh blood staining the 
cuffs of his pants and his face is a mess. 

This must be John Maxwell, and I think we've found 
his arsenal. Long racks line the walls, and a 
cornucopia of deadly weapons fill those racks: 
semiautomatics, revolvers, long-bladed hunting 
knives. Maxwell's right foot twitches, jumping in an 
uneven jitterbug. Krycek did something to him. 

I look at Maxwell's body, halfway to the stairs, and 
I make an educated guess. His Achilles tendons, I think, 
with dull revulsion. Krycek hobbled him so that Maxwell 
couldn't get away while he tended to his sister. A hot, 
sick feeling gathers inside my chest.

Krycek rubs Katya's wrist with his thumb, the handle 
of the bloody knife curled loosely into his palm. "I 
think she's just sedated, but could you take a look?" 
Scully doesn't answer him, but she goes over to Katya 
and gets down on her knees on the filthy floor. 

I hear the sirens again, and if I can hear them down 
here, they're close. Krycek head comes up, alert, and I 
ask him, "This is Maxwell, isn't it?"

He looks up the stairs, gauging the time he needs. "I 
have to get out of here." He looks at Scully and she 
tells him, "I think she'll be all right. Her breathing 
is normal."

Krycek smooths his sister's hair off her face and 
says something else in Russian, and then he's 
clattering up the stairs, taking them three at a 
time. He bumps into the light bulb and it dances on 
its long cord, sending wild shadows around the room. 
The knife lies beside the mattress, where he dropped 
it. 

Scully takes a deep breath and says, "That's John 
Maxwell. The face wound should be superficial, but I 
don't know where the rest of this blood is coming 
from." I hear noise and footsteps above us, and shout 
up the stairs that we're in the basement, all clear 
downstairs.

By the time Skinner makes it down here, weapon in 
hand, Scully is giving first aid to Maxwell, and I 
have figured out our story, more or less.





This is a stinking crock of shit.

Mulder looks as innocent as a twelve-year old caught 
jacking off to Hustler. Gee, Dad, I thought I had locked 
the door. There are three dead men still inside the 
building. The gory mess who was introduced to me as John 
Maxwell was conscious but incoherent when I found them, 
and is currently being strapped onto a stretcher. The two 
remaining living suspects are both unconscious. Katya aka 
Kate Krycek is also unconscious, and Alex Krycek is gone. 

I lean in toward them, and have the satisfaction of 
seeing his eyes widen slightly, although Scully 
doesn't even blink. "Agent Mulder, you will give me 
a thorough account of exactly how the =fuck= you two 
trained FBI agents allegedly managed to be kidnapped by a 
one-armed man when you write your report. And regardless 
of what brand of bullshit you attempt to package into that 
report, I want a full and complete account of the events 
that transpired starting with your illegal search of the 
Elizabeth facility, on Monday morning, at eight AM, in my 
office." I glare at Scully to make this point, but she 
still isn't blinking. For a moment, I consider asking her 
if she makes a habit of leaving her pearl earrings on Mulder's 
bedside table, but that's gratuitous cruelty and this isn't 
the time or place.

Screw this. I'd feel better if there was someone I 
could shoot.

Ledeller materializes and hovers uncertainly. I'm 
getting tired of his Radar O'Riley act. "What?"

"Sir, they've found the truck with the missing 
canister."

Mulder and Scully's heads swivel around in unison, 
and finally Scully's poker face is gone; they're 
wearing identical looks of surprise, like they didn't 
expect it to be at the location they gave us. 

"The remaining suspect was not on the scene."

No surprise this time; they obviously expected Krycek 
to get away. Mulder looks a little relieved, and it 
makes me want to find a excuse to break his nose. 

On a metal table down in the basement, we found a 
car-sized bomb, only a few wires away from 
completion. Put it in a vehicle, maybe a maintenance 
truck - it couldn't be too difficult to infiltrate 
Coney Island, not unless the Mafia had a problem with 
you. Park your maintenance truck near the Cyclone 
roller coaster and most of Brooklyn dies in agony 
from the VX gas you've spread throughout the air when
the bomb goes off. 

Ledeller is trying not to stare at Mulder and Scully. 
The cops milling around the bar are just trying not 
to stare at Scully, who is now wearing a regulation 
jacket over her tank top.

"Get out of here, both of you. Go do your debriefing 
and get the hell back to Washington."

They glance at me, then at each other. Something 
travels between them at lightspeed -- his nose 
wrinkles, she shrugs slightly -- and then they turn 
and begin to walk away.

God damn it.

"Monday, eight AM," I repeat, then grind my teeth for 
repeating myself.

The earrings, the earrings. Real pearls, gritty 
against my teeth while Sharon laughed.

I have until Monday, at least, and it's a good thing, 
because I am not ready for their answers. I'm not 
sure I even have the right questions.


End Ch. 17/19




Above Rubies, by Rachel Howard (18/19) 



"Well, I think we might be fucked this time," Mulder 
announces. He shoves the hotel room door viciously but the 
hydraulic stop keeps it from slamming shut. 

A grateful NYPD detective had given us a ride back to our 
hotel. Every time I moved, my sweaty exposed lower back 
stuck to the vinyl seat, leaving me uncomfortably aware of 
the fact that I was still wearing the ridiculous tank top. 
I had a nasty case of adrenaline-and-coffee jitters and all 
I wanted was an hour alone with Mulder.

Oblivious, he's kicking off his shoes, tossing his keycard 
in the direction of the oak bureau, still grumbling about 
Skinner and the report and how the fuck Krycek managed to 
get off Coney Island without getting caught. 

I sigh and grab his shirtfront to get his attention. 

"What?" He looks distracted and annoyed.

I show him what by going up on tip-toes and fastening my 
lips to his. 

"Oh," he mumbles into my mouth. He slides his arms around 
my waist and plunges one hand down the seat of my jeans, 
the other up under the tank top. 

That's better. For the first time since I watched Krycek 
sink his teeth into Maxwell's face, the buzzing in my head 
begins to subside, replaced by a rush of desire. I back up, 
pulling him with me. "I want it here, against the wall." 

He draws back for a moment and eyes my front. "I really 
like that top," he says smugly, reaching out and rubbing 
his thumb against one of my nipples, which are stiff with a 
combination of air conditioning and lust. Then he yanks the 
tank top over my head. The shock of refrigerated air on my 
sweat-damp breasts makes me gasp. Mulder is watching me 
carefully.

I reach out for his shirt, but he pushes my hands away. 
Looking up at him, I see an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes. 
He shakes his head slightly and says, "Take your jeans 
off."

I hesitate, trying to read his expression. 

"Take them off, Scully."

Fumbling a little with the zipper, I get them down to my 
ankles before I remember the holster under the cuff on my 
left ankle. I feel myself blush when I have to sit down on 
the floor to kick off my shoes and struggle out of the 
holster and the jeans. Mulder makes no move to take off any 
of his clothes, just watches me with a slight smirk. 

"Nice underwear. Take 'em off." 

I stand up and push the elastic off my hips. The bulge of 
Mulder's erection is visible through his jeans, but he is 
still fully dressed. I shiver.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Cold?"

"No," I lie, suddenly irritable. "What are you doing, 
Mulder? Get undressed."

"Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"No," I lie again. I hadn't been aware that I was until he 
said it. Now I can feel the dampness at the nape of my neck 
and the warm slick of arousal between my legs. He just 
stares, and I feel real anger welling inside me. "Stop 
trying to get into my head, Mulder. I don't know why you're 
doing it, but I don't like it."

"You want me to quit talking and just fuck you, is that 
it?" His eyes are dangerous. 

"I want--" I stop, suddenly unsure of what to say, of what 
I am doing. Mulder's leaning in, closer, unsettling me.

"Lie down on the bed, Scully."

I back up. The edge of the box spring presses into my knees 
and I ease myself onto the mattress slowly, one leg at a 
time, watching Mulder. He lets his eyes travel up and down 
my body as I settle back on the bed, and the way he looks 
at me brings back, with stunning clarity, his expression 
when I walked towards the bar with Krycek's arm around my 
waist.

Hunger. And something more complicated. 

Then he walks away, toward the door. 

"Mulder, where are you going?"

He reaches out for the thermostat on the wall, looks over 
his shoulder at me and says, in a flat tone, "It's too cold 
in here."

The air conditioner clicks off, leaving noticeable silence. 
Mulder walks back toward me and rests a knee on the edge of 
the bed, only inches away. He reaches out and runs a finger 
down the center of my chest, not touching my breasts, 
pressing hard enough to leave a white streak behind. His 
finger travels deliberately down my sternum, inches down my 
belly, stabs into my navel, stops there. "I want you do 
something for me, Scully."

I look up at him through a fog of arousal. 

Without waiting for an answer, he picks up my hand and 
places it on my right breast. 

"You want to watch me touch myself? That's what the head 
game's about?" False bravado, and he knows it. My voice is 
steady, but I feel shaky inside. His eyes drill into me. 
Mulder likes to watch. Of course he does, the profiler 
inside me whispers. You knew that already, Dana, didn't 
you? All those videos? And some of them are nasty. 

I circle my nipple with one finger, slowly, watching his 
face. His expression doesn't change when I pinch the nipple 
and tug at it. Sharp pleasure settles into my belly, and 
lower. Finally, I get a little bolder, stroking both 
nipples, reaching up to lick my thumb and forefinger, then 
touching my nipples again. He swallows when I do that. 

Pleased, I slide one hand down my belly and watch his face 
for changes. His breathing quickens slightly when I run my 
fingers through my pubic hair. I feel an answering rush of 
heat between my legs. 

"Keep going," he husks.

I reach down with the other hand and slide two fingers 
through slippery folds, to the right spot. He shifts on the 
bed, and his eyes flicker down to my moving hands. 

"Good?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. 

"More," he says, and I let my fingers speed up. I can hear 
myself panting a little. The pleasure ratchets up a notch, 
like a roller coaster cranking towards the first big drop. 

"Is this how you do it?"

I nod again, knowing what he means. This is how I touch 
myself when I'm alone. 

"What do you think about when you're alone, touching 
yourself?"

I falter, my fingers slowing down, slipping damply. You, I 
think about you. I used to imagine you, doing this for me, 
touching me with your hands and your mouth. Used to picture 
you looking down at me hungrily, wanting me, getting ready 
to make love to me. 

"Tell me."

I close my eyes, turn my head to the side, let my hands 
speed up again. "You. Touching me."

"Keep them open." His hand, on my face, pulling it back to 
center. "I want to  see you. Know what you're thinking. 
Tell me how I touch you. When you think about it."

I lick my lips, find a breath. "You, ah, you want to fuck 
me. From behind. So you reach around, and touch me."

He grabs my busy hand, stilling it. I moan with 
disappointment. "Not like that. Tell me everything. Where 
are we?"

"In a hotel room."

"This one?"

"No. It's dirty. Ugly. Like the motels we always stay at 
when we're on the road."

He chuffs softly. "Are we on the bed in the motel room? 
We're not, are we Scully?" 

I squirm, wanting to touch myself again, and he grabs both 
of my wrists so suddenly I gasp. His eyes are dark, the 
dangerous look is etched into the lines of his face so 
deeply he almost looks like another man. He looms over me, 
reaching up to pin both of my hands above my head. "Shut 
your eyes, Scully, and keep fucking talking. Where are we 
in the motel room?"

With my eyes closed, I can see it more clearly -- the dingy 
drapes, the polyester bedspread. "How did you know we 
weren't on the bed?"

This time it's only a growl. "Tell me."

"In front of the window," I whisper. "It looks out onto the 
parking lot. It's dark outside. The curtains are mostly 
closed but I can see through the crack between them. 
I...ahh--"

Mulder has changed his grip so he is holding me down with 
just his left hand, his knees between my spread thighs. 
With his right hand, he reaches down and his hand sinks 
between my legs, picking up where I left off. He mimics my 
technique exactly, finding the rhythm I like, not pressing 
too hard, circling the delicate knot of tissue and nerves 
with two slick fingers.

"I, I'm holding onto the windowsill. I have a suit jacket 
and skirt on--"

"Which suit?"

"The black suit, with the wide lapels. But no pantyhose. I 
took them off, and my shoes, when I got back to my room."

"Because you wanted me to come to your room and fuck you, 
from behind?" His fingers speed up, flickering over my clit 
with smooth accuracy, wildfires starting where he touches 
me.

"Yeah," I gasp. 

His fingers dip inside me, gathering more wetness, then 
resume circling. "You know someone could see into your 
room, don't you? Through the crack in the curtains?"

I don't answer him. I can feel myself getting close, my 
hips bucking towards his fingers, needing this.

"You know what I think, Scully? I think you screwed up. I'm 
not the only one who watched you today. Saw you and wanted 
your pretty little ass naked against his thighs. For all 
you know I could be out the in parking lot watching you get 
fucked by some other man." I gasp again, his words 
crackling across my skin. So close I am so close

"It might be me, Scully. Taking you, thrusting into you. Or 
it could be someone else. Someone else who got hard 
watching your nipples through that tank top. All you know 
is that you needed it. Needed it bad enough to take off a 
few pieces of clothing and just bend over for it."

Stars flickering across the insides of my eyelids, I am 
coming, thrusting uncontrollably into his hand, crying out 
something incoherent. Mulder's voice, but I can't 
understand the words, everything cartwheeling into the hot 
blur of orgasm.

I open my eyes, find Mulder tearing at his pants. "Turn 
over," he orders. 

He pushes into me hard and hot, filling me to the edge of 
discomfort, and I shudder against him, backing into his 
thrusts. His pants chafe against the delicate skin on the 
back of my thighs. "Like this, Scully? You like it this 
way?"

"Ahh-Mulder. Yeah." He is doing it just the way I described 
it in the motel room, fucking me hard from behind. I can't 
see him through the curtain of hair hanging into my face, 
warm damp air scented with our sweat filling my lungs in 
gasps. I only feel his hot hardness taking me, possessing 
me.

His breath is coming in gulps now, his hands clamped tight 
around my hips, pulling me back into him. "Yeah, I thought 
so. You thought about fucking him, didn't you Scully? 
Fucking Krycek?"

His hand on the back of my neck, pressing my shoulders down 
towards the mattress. My head buried in my arms. 
blur everything is a blur, hot 
hot friction as his cock pumps into me

"You thought about it. What it would feel like having him 
fuck you. Answer me, Scully."

"Ye-yes-" The hot embarrassment can't overtake the new rush 
of dark excitement I feel, admitting it. Mulder's hands 
squeeze my hips hard enough to hurt, and he growls again. I 
can't tell whether the growl means anger or approval. 

Mulder thought about it. Like a lightning flash against the 
insides of my eyelids, I see Mulder, watching Krycek take 
me into the bar, wishing daggers into his throat, imagining 
him touching me, fucking me. Mulder, watching. He likes to 
watch, Dana. Remember? He hates Krycek. He likes to watch.

"He wanted to fuck you, Scully. Like this. Like I'm fucking 
you now."

He hammers into me, quick thrusts filling me, and I feel 
him shake, groan once as he comes into me, flooding me with 
his heat. 

"God," he gasps. He shudders against me once more, then 
pulls back, slipping out of me. He tugs gently on my hip 
and I lever myself up on shaky arms to press back against 
him, feeling his arms circle my body, his breath hot on my 
neck. "God, Scully." I reach back and pull his head towards 
me. He buries his face against my shoulder, his hot breath 
washing across my neck. "God."

Eventually I get enough breath back to mumble, "Gotta lie 
down."

He grunts in the affirmative and we both collapse onto the 
mattress, Mulder's pants tangling between us. He swears 
under his breath and struggles to kick them off. I draw my 
still-shaking arms into my body, feel him pull me more 
tightly against his torso. This close, I can feel his pulse 
drumming steadily against my back. The room is hot again, 
so hot. Our sweat mingling, gilding us. Mulder's hand 
creeping up to my belly, sketching light circles on my 
skin. 

When we are both breathing easily he murmurs, "Turn over." I 
wriggle in his arms until I'm facing him. His eyes are dark 
and full of doubts. I can almost feel Mulder's inner demons 
starting to get a toehold, and it washes a rush of love for 
him through my body.

"Don't, Mulder. Please? I loved it, I would have said 
something if I hadn't." 

Cautious relief in his eyes, but he says, "It's hard to be 
sure with you, Scully."

I kiss his chest, then lay my cheek against it, listen to 
his heartbeat for a while. Finally, I prop myself up on one 
elbow. "That facial wound on Maxwell," I tell Mulder's 
sternum, "that was from Krycek. He =bit= him. Bit a chunk 
of his face off."

Mulder doesn't say anything, just slowly runs his hand up 
and down my back. When I look up he is wearing a serious 
smile. "Is that all I needed to do to get you to open up to 
me? Go to bed with you?" Without waiting for an answer, he 
adds, "That wasn't something you would have expected from 
him?"

"I guess not. He -- Maxwell said something about his 
sister, about Katya, and he -- I don't know. Maybe that 
wasn't it, maybe he's really...that far gone."

I can feel Mulder thinking, his pulse thrumming steadily 
under my fingertips as I stroke his chest. "Someone told 
Maxwell about her. Judging from what we saw, I'm pretty 
damn sure it wasn't Krycek. So someone else told Maxwell, 
told him where to find her, and told him that was how to 
get to Krycek."

His expression doesn't change but I can almost hear the 
wheels spinning in his head. He adds, "It has to be a 
pretty short list, don't you think? We could check FBI 
records but I doubt we'll find her name under his old 
personnel record."

"Where would...Oh, right. Next of kin, or beneficiary of 
his pension, something like that."

"Assuming that his records haven't been conveniently wiped 
out of the FBI's database," he adds, bitterly. "But I think 
we wouldn't find her name there. Or anywhere connected to 
him. Which means someone who knew him very well, from a 
long time ago, told Maxwell about Kate."

"How much do you think she knows, Mulder?"

"About Krycek?" He thinks it over. "Not much, I'll bet."

I think about the dark-haired woman I saw on the bridge, 
with the bounty hunter's weapon held at her throat. About 
the blank despair on Mulder's face as he stared down into 
the dark water, searching for a woman he believed was his 
sister. 

What do you do when love takes all your reason away? 

Krycek's sister, Mulder's sister. I wonder if either of 
them thought of it.

"I want us to talk to her first," I tell him.

He reaches for my lips again, slower this time, brushing 
them with his own, then slipping the tip of his tongue into 
his mouth, flicking it against my teeth. When he'd done, he 
says, "Okay. But have we had that talk about ratios yet?"

"Ratios?" 

Mulder is wearing his I'm-pulling-your-leg-and-here-comes-
the-punch-line grin. He begins to lecture, "As you know, 
women are capable of multiple orgasms where men are 
well..." he pauses for dramatic effect, "less capable. But 
what you may not know, Scully, is that studies have shown 
that the reason most women don't fall asleep after sex the 
way men do is..." he pauses again and nibbles the side of 
my breast, and I stifle a laugh, "that one orgasm doesn't 
fully satisfy most women."

"Mulder, you made that part up. I read all the Kinsey 
reports-"

"I'll bet you do."

"-and I've never seen any study that even came close to 
explaining why men pass out after sex and women don't, let 
alone the orgasm thing." My concentration slips, probably 
due to the fact that Mulder is worrying my nipple with his 
tongue.

When he stops, I get a falsely innocent look. "Agent 
Scully, I'm not convinced that you've done enough research 
in this area." I have to bite my lip this time to keep from 
laughing.

"Very important to keep the proper ratios. Very," he 
punctuates the word with a kiss to my throat, "very 
important. What we're looking for is a good, solid two-to-
one." I give in and chuckle; he kisses my breast and gives 
me a stern look. "Very important." He plants another, 
lingering kiss on my breast and then another, lower. "Let 
me show you what I'm talking about." 

Two to one it is.





Scully had the foresight to check and make sure it was her 
cellphone that was ringing before she answered, something I 
doubt I would have remembered to do after waking up from a 
sound sleep. While she talked, I padded over and pulled the 
curtain back an inch. Night-time. The windowpane feels warm 
against my palm.

"That was St. Mary's. Kate Krycek is awake and she wants to 
talk to someone."

"Us?"

"After you passed out," she gives me a meaningful, playful 
glare, "I called and asked them to make sure that we got 
the call when she came to. " 

Kate is sitting up in bed when we get there, channel-
surfing restlessly. Other than a slight bruise on her left 
cheek, she looks okay. Her eyes are wide and slightly 
almond-shaped, but the nose is exactly like Krycek's, and 
something about her reminds me of her brother - the way she 
scrutinizes us, the set of her mouth. "You're the FBI 
agents?"

Scully pulls out her ID, and I do the same. Kate reads each 
one closely while Scully introduces us. 

"The nurse said you'd be coming. Where's my brother?" 
There's no rudeness to her tone, only urgency.

"Honestly, we don't know, and neither does anyone else 
involved in this operation."

"What =operation?= Those men," and I hear her slight intake 
of breath, "who took me, they knew him. They knew--" and 
she stops. With a visible effort at remaining calm, she 
asks, "Is he safe?"

"To the best of our knowledge, he is," Scully tells her. "I 
saw him leave the bar where you were being held hostage and 
all the...remaining members of the terrorist group holding 
you were taken into custody."

"Remaining?" Kate's eyes narrow slightly. "Do you mean 
'remaining' as in 'not dead'?"

"Right," Scully affirms, but doesn't offer anything else. 

Calmly, but with quiet force, Kate says, "I would really, 
really like to know exactly what the hell happened. My 
guess is that those guys kidnapped me to get my brother to 
do something for them, but I want to know why he was 
involved with them in the first place. They were Americans, 
weren't they? I heard them talking about their Aryan 
brotherhood, all that bullshit. Why would a CIA operative 
get involved in a domestic terrorism case? And if my 
brother is okay, why haven't you heard from him? Is he 
still undercover?"

Undercover?

The silence is a half-second too long. I'm glad Kate is 
looking at Scully, not me, because Scully's poker face is a 
lot better than mine. 

Clearly, Krycek told his sister that he works for the CIA. 
As cover stories go, I guess it's the best he could do. 
Probably easier than telling your sister you're an 
assassin-for-hire.  

"Ms. Krycek, there's a lot about your brother and what he 
does that I can't tell you," Scully begins carefully. "If 
could tell you his whereabouts, I wouldn't, because it 
could jeopardize his safety and possibly yours." You go, 
girl, I think. Scully would have made a fantastic diplomat. 
Kate still looks wary, but she's listening. "What I can 
tell you is that he risked a great deal in order to make 
sure that you were safe."

"I know about the VX gas," Kate offers. 

Scully's eyes narrow and she asks, "What did you hear about 
the gas?"

Kate's mouth turns down at the corners, and suddenly she 
looks a lot more like her brother. "I know they thought my 
brother had it, and that it belonged to them. It's a 
chemical weapon, isn't it?" She looks at me. "I thought so. 
But these guys were all Americans. Neo-Nazis, right? So how 
did the CIA get involved?"

I tell her, "I'm sorry, but we can't tell you anything 
about the CIA." There - an answer any spin doctor would be 
proud of. "Did Maxwell or any of his colleagues tell you 
why they had kidnapped you?" 

Kate throws the remote down on the bed; it lands with a 
soft thump. "Dammit, all I want is to know is what Alex has 
been doing for the last four years! I've called the CIA and 
all they tell me is that they can't confirm that he's on 
their payroll - which is exactly what he told me they would 
say - but whatever he =is= doing, I think I at least 
deserve an explanation since I nearly got killed because of 
it!" One of her hands balls into a fist, and the other 
clutches at the sheets. Suddenly, I feel a lot more 
sympathy for her. 

Scully must, too, because she sits on the edge of the bed. 
"Ms. Krycek-"

"Kate."

"Your brother calls you Katya when he talks about you, did 
you know that?"

The change that comes over Kate's face is remarkable, like 
snow melting. I can see she wants to ask what else he said, 
but she finally replies, "I hate that name, did he tell 
you?"

"Sort of. He said you changed it," Scully tells her. 
"Look...a lot of what your brother is involved with 
is...classified. But what I just told you is true. The only 
reason he went into that bar today was to get you out of 
there. He risked his life to do it. And I was with him when 
Maxwell called him and told him that they had you. He was 
enraged, I think he would have done literally anything to 
make sure you were safe. And I think," Scully takes a deep 
breath, "I think that's why he took off the way he did. I 
think he's going to make sure nothing like this happens to 
you again."

Scully is taking a long leap of faith here, but my gut 
tells me she's right. I don't think Krycek is going to let 
this one go. 

Kate says wistfully, "I haven't seen him in years. Since he 
went underground. We weren't really close -- but he's the 
only family I have left, and I just...I hate this cloak and 
dagger bullshit. All I wanted was to do, you know, 
Thanksgiving dinner with him every year." She sniffs. "A 
phone call on our birthdays. Something."

Neither Scully nor I can think of any response to that. 
Finally, Scully says, "Kate, you're going to have to answer 
a lot of questions about what happened to you. You should 
know that not everyone knows what...what your brother 
really does. Just answer their questions and remember, 
whatever they tell you, I was there, and so was Agent 
Mulder. Your brother only wanted one thing, and that was to 
make sure you were safe."

Kate says, "Thank you for telling me that." She smooths the 
pastel blanket. "I'd really like to get out of here as soon 
as possible. The nurse told me that some television 
reporters have been trying to find out which room I'm 
in...and I don't want to deal with that."

"That's smart," I tell her. "Somebody from the DA's office 
is going to interview you before you go, ask you a bunch of 
questions to begin making the case against Maxwell, and 
we'll talk to them about making sure you can leave here 
through a side exit."

She gives me another searching look and said, "You were 
Alex's partner at the FBI, weren't you?"

"Uh, yeah. For a little while."

Kate knows. On some level she knows that there are truths 
about her brother that she doesn't want to hear, and that's 
why she isn't asking us any more questions.

She nodded. "I remembered. From your ID. He said you were a 
great profiler." She doesn't look at me when she tells me 
that. 

Surprised, I answer, "Ah, thanks, I guess." I should say 
something about how I enjoyed working with her brother but 
it would be a complete pile of shit so I don't say 
anything. Before the silence gets really uncomfortable, 
Scully tells Kate we're going to get out of her room so she 
can rest, and we're turning to go.

"Agents? Thank you for -- for telling me what you did. 
About Alex." 

Scully smiles at her. "You're welcome."

I hail a taxi for us outside the hospital, let Scully climb 
in first. After ten blocks of silence, she says, "I don't 
think Kate will be spending Thanksgiving with him this 
year."

End 18/19




Above Rubies, (19/19) by Rachel Howard

Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price 
is far above rubies.
Proverbs 31:10-12


"This might be the shoddiest work you've ever done, 
Agents." I toss the file folder containing their report 
down on my desk. Neither of them flinches, which pisses me 
off. "And that's no small achievement considering the 
outright bullshit that you've managed to pass off as 
reports in the past. Let me make something perfectly clear: 
This time, I =care.= I WANT to know what really happened. 
Because there's an enormous hole in this report. It fails 
to answer the central question, as far as I'm concerned."

Mulder shifts in his chair. "Sir, I described the number of 
canisters of VX gas retrieved, on page 11, towards the 
bottom of the page. First Lt. Dickson confirmed..."

"I read it," I tell him, my voice rising above his. "I know 
the Army is satisfied. They're very pleased that you got 
all the gas back. What I want to know is, where the =hell= 
is Alex Krycek?"

This time Scully flinches.

Neither of them answers.

"Agent Scully?"

She takes a breath. "Sir, two of the SWAT team members 
reported intercepting Krycek a few blocks from the bar 
where the terrorists had been found, as he was attempting 
to start the engine of a truck which had the remaining..."

"That part was =in= the report, Agent Scully! As is the 
information that one SWAT team member was wounded, possibly 
fatally considering the man is still in the ICU at Beth 
Israel Hospital. It took them seven hours to patch him up." 
She flinches again. "What I want to know is what happened 
and why the hell Krycek isn't in Federal custody right 
now?"

Neither one of them answers.

"Would you prefer to begin by explaining who Kate Krycek 
is?"

This time Mulder shifts slightly in his chair. "She's Alex 
Krycek's sister, sir." 

"His =sister?="

"That was more or less my reaction. She doesn't show up on 
any of his personnel records."

"How do you know she's his sister?"

Mulder hesitates just long enough to let me envision him 
delivering the words, 'because he told me so,' then says, 
"Strong family resemblance, plus he seemed to be genuinely 
interested in her welfare."

"Well, that's definitive," I tell him, letting the sarcasm 
drip. "You spent enough time with Krycek to determine the 
strength of his familial relationships? At any point did it 
occur to either one of you to handcuff the bastard while 
you chatted?"

A look flickers between them, the kind that annoys the hell 
out of me because I can't figure out what it means. Scully 
offers, "Sir, Krycek had previously dealt with the Aryan 
Resistance and we felt that appearing to cooperate with him 
would gain us access to the group's facilities."

"In order to retrieve the VX gas?"

Scully directs her gaze just underneath my eyes. "We knew 
the Aryan Resistance was interested in using the gas to 
promote terror."

I lean forward, slapping both palms against the polished 
wood of my desktop loud enough to make both of them twitch 
this time. "Scully, don't lay that crap on me. Why did the 
Aryan Resistance take Kate Krycek hostage in the first 
place? Did you think to ask her brother that question? No, 
don't bother," I tell her, finally getting to the topic 
that has slowly been driving me crazy since I got their 
report in the first place. "Just tell me how, after 
everything Krycek has done to you and your =family=" -- I 
stress the last word and her lips tighten - "how you could 
pass up the opportunity to arrest him. Or shoot the 
bastard."

This time her clear blue gaze locks onto mine. "He knew 
where Mulder was, sir."

"When Ajiib had taken Mulder hostage?"

"Yes, sir."

Mulder interjects, "It was an exchange. His help getting me 
out of the house in New Jersey in return for our assistance 
getting his sister back from the Aryan Resistance." 

I don't take my eyes off Scully. "You felt that teaming up 
with a known traitor was the best way to rescue your 
partner, is that it?"

"No, sir, I felt it was the =only= way to retrieve my 
partner." There's no hint of apology in her voice.

This is more or less what I expected from Scully, but it 
doesn't make it any easier. "What bothers me most about the 
incident, Scully, isn't the obvious breach of protocol. 
It's the fact that neither one of you stops to think twice 
about taking illogical and unnecessary risks on behalf of 
the other. That's a habit that will eventually get one of 
you killed." I stop and look down at my hands. 

"In this instance, you should have called for backup before 
you entered the house where Agent Mulder was being held. 
The delay would have been an incidental risk compared to 
the benefit of having adequate manpower to stage the 
assault that you made with one other individual. Someone 
who could easily have decided to simply leave you to your 
fate if the infiltration of the house had gone badly." 
Neither of them makes a sound but I feel Mulder visualizing 
it, Scully bleeding into the grass in Ajiib's backyard 
while Krycek runs. He probably handed Scully her head the 
first chance he got. "You need to think about that more 
often. What you're willing to risk." 

Scully's voice, telling me her partner was gone, hostage of 
a man who had excavated his own wife's heart from her 
chest. The hollow sound of Mulder asking for a 302 to 
investigate Skyland Mountain for the fourth time in two 
months. Has she ever read that file, the whole numbing list 
of dead ends that Mulder ran down while she was missing?

Something gleams behind my eyelids. Warm lamplight on 
pearls.

I sit back down. A memory floats at me from nowhere; Sharon 
curled under a sheet, butterscotch-colored lamplight 
painting her sleeping face.

"There's.....another matter that I need to discuss with 
you."

Mulder shifts in his chair again. Without looking up, I can 
picture his expression, resigned and slightly bored, as he 
waits to get harangued about their expense reports again. 

I take a deep breath. "The Bureau neither forbids nor 
encourages personal relationships between partners." 

When I raise my eyes, I find that I have their full 
attention. Both of them. 

"But there is an obvious risk involved in such 
relationships -- the risk that the professional judgement 
exhibited by one or both of the partners could be 
compromised, under the circumstances." I take a deep 
breath, and let it out slowly. Neither of them moves, but a 
rosy flush is spreading across Scully's face. 

"In your case, you've been exhibiting what most 
supervisors, myself included, would characterize as an 
extreme willingness to risk yourselves on behalf of the 
other for years..."

"Sir..."

"Let me finish, Agent Mulder. You've got one thing going 
for you. In your case, there's no evidence that a personal 
relationship," I choose my tense carefully, "would change 
anything. Would alter your behavior. But if I were you I 
would think about what you'll do the first time one of you 
forgets to duck."

They are both utterly still. Mulder's pallor complements 
Scully's flush. Her eyes glitter with some suppressed 
emotion. 

"What I want from you right now is the assurance that the 
next time you see Alex Krycek, you will do everything 
possible to place him in Federal custody."

Scully stares into the distance beyond the walls of the 
Hoover building. Mulder raises stunned eyes to mine and 
says, "You have my word on that, sir."

"Dismissed, Agents."





Two weeks to the day after Mulder and I filed our report on 
the Aryan Resistance case, I come home carrying a bag of 
angel hair pasta and overpriced hydroponically grown 
tomatoes to find a manila envelope on my doorstep. There's 
no name on the outside.

I put away the groceries before opening the envelope. 
Inside, I find a folded piece of paper and what looks like 
a microfiche document. I unfold the paper and smooth it out 
on the table. The page is ragged along one edge - it's 
clearly been torn from a book. 

From a Bible. 

It's a page from Proverbs, one verse circled in heavy black 
pencil:

"Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above 
rubies."

I stare at the words on the page for a long time before I 
call Mulder.

"That's it? There's nothing written on the other side of 
the page?" I can hear him rattling around in his bathroom, 
closing the creaky door on his medicine cabinet.

I turn over the page. "Nothing. It looks like it might have 
been torn from a hotel Bible. I want to go back in to the 
office and look at this microfiche now and see what's on 
it." I hold it up to the light, but the print is too tiny 
to read.

"Usually I'm the one getting unmarked packages from 
mysterious admirers." There's a hint of seriousness 
underlying the teasing note in his voice. "Did you see 
anyone leaving your building?"

"No. If I'd seen any of the minions of darkness lurking in 
the bushes outside I would have called you." I feel a 
twinge of irritation at his protectiveness, try to shake it 
off. "Mulder, I'm going to the office to read this."

"I'll meet you there." The irritation evaporates as I 
hurriedly put away the groceries. I am supposed to be 
cooking dinner for him tonight, the antidote to last 
night's meal, an experiment Mulder conducted with a recipe 
for some Brazilian dish he had clipped out of the Sunday 
food section. I hope the microfiche turns out to be a short 
distraction, not the beginnings of a long night.

It turns out to be a copy of a smll-town Ohio newspaper 
clipping dated June 17, 1983. I pull it up on the Bureau's 
machine and the somber headline pops up immediately.


REMAINS OF UNIDENTIFED TEEN LAID TO REST

"Hey," Mulder's voice greets me, from the doorway to the 
library workroom. I tilt my head toward him in greeting 
while I keep reading.

Goshen, Oh. -- In a brief ceremony, the Rev. Cal Marks 
asked God's blessing for an unknown teenaged girl who was 
buried in Crown Haven cemetary after a police investigation 
failed to produce any leads regarding the child's identity.

On May 28, local workmen discovered the remains of a girl 
on the edge of a field while surveying for a proposed 
residential development near CR417. 

Forensics determined the girl had been about fourteen at 
the time of her death, and that her remains had laid 
undisturbed for years. Searches of dental records failed to 
find any matches. The Center for Missing and Exploited 
Children assisted with the investigation.

"May God provide a home in Heaven for this child who found 
no rest on Earth," Reverend Marks prayed. "For the angels 
know her name."

I turn and look over my shoulder, watch Mulder finish 
reading the story. His eyes are troubled, and he doesn't 
say anything when he finishes, although his eyes stop 
moving across the page. Instead, his pupils contract.

"I think we should go home and try that pasta thing you 
were going to make, and let this wait until morning," he 
says, finally. 

I must look surprised, because he adds, "It smells bad, 
Scully. I just want to deal with it on a decent night's 
sleep."

We carpool back to my place, and I make the angel hair 
dish. While I slice the garlic, I hear him on the phone, 
booking flights to Cleveland for the following morning. 

That night I dream something dark and scattered, about 
crumbling leaves and shovels full of damp earth. Krycek is 
at the edge of the woods, head hung low, with sadness or 
remorse I cannot tell, a lion driven from the pride. I wake 
and realize I was in Pennsylvania, helping Mulder dig for 
John Lee Roche's last small victim. I turn on my side and 
find Mulder awake, staring at the ceiling.

When he realizes I'm awake, too, he reaches to pull me into 
a loose embrace. I can't sleep if I'm too close to another 
person. Mulder knows just how to hold me, far enough away 
that I can feel the cool air moving between us, but still 
touching. When I go back to sleep it is like submerging, 
sliding under the surface of a dark, quiet sea.





I knew all along.

All right, that's not true, but I should have known.

I should have felt it the minute she died.

The truth is a cruel joke at my expense: Samantha was dead 
before I ever started looking for her. 

When I joined VICAP, she was already dead. When I opened 
the X-Files, I remember thinking that finally there was 
nothing keeping me from finding her. I had the resources I 
needed, the ability to conduct accurate research, a badge 
to clear the path -- there were no more obstacles. 

What a joke.

The door to the coroner's office opens with a soft click 
and Scully comes in. She winds her way around haphazard 
towers of filing cabinets until she makes her way to where 
I'm sitting on the floor, wedged with my back against one 
set of cabinets and the soles of my shoes against another. 
She drags a chair closer and sits down. 

"The DNA tests won't be back for another two days, Mulder. 
It could--"

"It's her, Scully."

She doesn't argue with me. On some level I think she knows 
it's Samantha's body, too. Even though there was hardly 
anything left but ragged flesh clinging to smooth white 
bone, brushed clean of the dirt and clinging leaves they 
found her under when they put her into a plain pine coffin 
and buried her under the name Jane Doe. 

There was a poorly healed break in her collarbone. A 
damning bit of metal lodged between two vertebrae in her 
neck. C1 and C2, Scully explained, smoothing the skin on 
the back of my hand with her thumb. She dropped the chip 
into a test tube for the trip home. This is one implant 
that won't disappear, won't be ruined by sloppy lab work. 
It's going straight to the Lone Gunmen who will by God find 
out what secret messages the MIB's plugged into the hole in 
the back of my sister's neck.

"Mulder?"

I look up through the haze of regret and anger and find 
Scully watching me with patience and love. 

"There was nothing you could have done, Mulder. Nothing."

"She didn't die until she was about fourteen. Where was she 
all that time?"

"There's no way-"

"Do you think they just popped the implant in there and 
sent her on her way? Because I don't. She was probably a 
test subject. Like you. Like the others."

"You don't know that, Mulder." The pain written in Scully's 
expression reminds me of her cancer face. "She was your 
father's daughter. That must have counted for something."

"She was his sacrifice to the Project."

"There was nothing you could have done." She rocks forward 
on her chair, pinning me with her eyes like a butterfly on 
a card. "Nothing."

I open my mouth to reply but only a sob comes out. It 
sounds foreign, like it came from someone else. Then a 
second follows it. Scully slides off the chair, down to her 
knees on the dusty floor, hot little hands on my shoulders. 
I begin to cry in earnest, and the pressed shoulder of her 
black gabardine suit slowly softens, releasing the scent of 
dry cleaning fluid and wool. I rock forward and wrap my 
arms around her, as incapable of stopping as I am of 
letting go of her. 

She doesn't say anything, just clutches my back in a fierce 
hold until I am done, until my stomach muscles ache from 
crying and my eyes burn.

"Let's go home."

I avoid the pitying gaze of the coroner and the prying pen 
of the Goshen Gazetteer reporter by simply going down to 
our rental car and sitting there with the windows up. I 
picture my partner upstairs, doing the diplomacy thing as I 
make my getaway. Scully handles situations like these with 
the deft skill of a fine pianist playing a tricky passage. 

We make the trip back to D.C. in blessed silence. Scully 
knows better than to ask me if I'm okay. Of course I'm not. 
She waves away the airplane food and gets us club soda. I 
spend most of the flight watching little bubbles rise to 
the top of the plastic cup.  

I drive her home through the late afternoon traffic, dimly 
aware of mild relief at being back in our own city. When we 
pull up at her building, she tells me, "Mulder, you have to 
try not to blame yourself for this. You did everything for 
her that could possibly have been done. Everything."

"Scully, all I want to do right now is crash out on my 
couch and be alone for awhile."

She doesn't look surprised. "I want you to call me before 
you go to sleep tonight, okay? I know you need some time, 
but I just want to know that you're all right." 

I tell her I will, and head back to my apartment.

I lie on the couch for an undetermined amount of missing 
time, spinning a basketball until the tip of my index 
finger is sore. When I put the ball down and my hands 
finally fall loose into my lap, I drift into sleep. My last 
conscious thought is that my lumpy, sticky couch, where I 
spent most of my nights for the last five years until 
getting acquainted with Scully's soft bed, is not really a 
good place to sleep. 

The sound of a key in my lock wakes me up. 

Shit, I didn't call Scully last night. 

I hear her pause in the hall when she sees me on the couch, 
then her footsteps coming into the living room. 

"I'm sorry, I just passed out cold last night," I tell her, 
rolling over and blinking at her in the dawn light.

She looks mildly annoyed but relieved. She sits on the edge 
of the coffee table and looks down at me expectantly.

I turn on my side and poke at the lump under my right 
shoulder. "I should have gotten this thing reupholstered 
years ago," I mutter.

"Or you could just sleep on your bed," she points out.

"Plus, this blanket is itchy as hell," I continue. "And my 
face sticks to the leather when I fall asleep on my side. 
Which is the most comfortable position on a couch. If you 
sleep on your back you get a stiff neck."

Scully's expression doesn't change.

"Why am I thinking about the couch at a time like this?" I 
sit up and kick back the scratchy blanket with disgust. 

Scully doesn't answer at first. Finally she says, "You know 
the old medical school joke, right? That doctors go in for 
specialities that complement their needs? Jocks become knee 
surgeons, womanizers become gynecologists, and so on?"

I have heard that joke, but it was actually funny before. 
Scully could massacre a knock-knock joke if she tried. "You 
left out the part about weirdos becoming psychologists."

She purses her lips and I can tell she left that part out 
on purpose. "I'll cut to the chase. Dr. Mulder, why are you 
thinking about your couch?"

"Self analysis is a really boring habit, Scully."

"Mulder, please just think about this for a second." The 
sincerity in her voice rattles me. I stand up and go into 
the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker while I compose my 
answer. "A couch. Well, the couch is where a visitor, a 
transient, might sleep. Choosing to sleep on it instead of 
a bed might represent a choice not to settle in, not to 
commit."

She drifts into the kitchen after me, leans against the  
doorframe. "Pretty good, Doctor. What else?"

I measure out the grounds, pour in the water, then lean 
over the sink to drink a mouthful of water out of my cupped 
hands while the machine begins to gurgle. "Exile, banished 
from the comforts of home," I tell her, dripping water from 
my chin.

"So you banished yourself to the couch," she says, softly. 
"Why would you do that?"

I know the textbook answer but I don't feel like playing 
Dr. Mulder any more. I busy myself getting a couple of mugs 
out of the cupboard. "I would offer you tea but I don't 
have any. There's some milk in the fridge for the coffee, 
though."

"I think maybe you did it because you were punishing 
yourself for losing Samantha. You blamed yourself, you 
didn't want to let yourself be comfortable while she was 
gone, probably suffering."

I force a smile. "Didn't I tell you that you should have 
gone to work for VICAP?"

"I just want you to consider that maybe you're thinking 
about your couch because it's related." She reaches for one 
of the mugs and turns to get the milk out of the fridge, 
tacitly letting me off the hook.

Surprising myself, I don't let her. "The weight of not 
knowing what happened to her was heavier than the proof of 
her death," I admit, slowly. "It feels wrong, but it's 
true."

"And now you feel guilty about that, too." 

"I do, but not the way I would have four or five years 
ago." I shrug, not sure how to continue. The discovery is 
still too raw. I change the subject. "Scully, who do you 
think left you that package?"

She answers with no surprise at all, as if she had been 
waiting for me to get around to this. "Krycek," she says, 
calmly.

"Why would he bother?"

"I think it was his way of paying us back. For helping him 
help his sister. We gave him his sister back, he gave us 
yours." She reaches for the coffee, fills our mugs, and 
hands me mine.

I set it down and wrap my thumb and index finger around her 
china-pale wrist instead. My fingers effortlessly swallow 
her bones, blue-veined flesh and all. She flexes her 
fingers softly, not trying to get away, just acknowledging 
the contact. 

I thought the torn page with the Bible verse was a clue of 
some kind, meant to help explain the newspaper article. 

I was wrong. The newspaper article stood alone. The verse 
was an homage to Scully. And maybe a reminder for me, to 
count my blessings while I catalogue my losses.

Not that it matters.

I draw her into my arms and feel her sigh relief as she 
presses into my chest. I lean into the silky sweep of her 
hair, breathing her in, and feel her forehead brush against 
my lips. Her wrist slips out from the circle of my fingers 
as she turns her palm to lay against mine. "He gave the 
copy of the story to you, you know," I murmur against her 
skin. 

I feel her forehead quirk slightly. "It doesn't matter."

"No," I agree. 

She lifts her head and brushes her lips against mine, just 
once, then lowers it again. 

"'I am my beloved's; my beloved is mine,'" I say quietly.

Her startled eyes rise to my face.

"I read that somewhere once," I explain.

"You probably saw it on a ketubah, a Jewish marriage 
contract," she tells me, going into a mild version of her 
usual I-know-this-because-I-know-damn-near-everything 
lecture. "It's a traditional inclusion; the words are from 
the 'Song of Songs.'"

"Shh," I tell her, as I let my lips find hers. 

The Bible verse is a substitute for the words I can't find 
for myself yet. Eventually, I will find a way to tell her 
what Sam's death would have meant to me if I hadn't had 
someone else in my life who cared for me the way Scully 
does. For now, a Bible verse will have to do. 

I kiss her, dreaming of the months and years to come.




The man on the dark pavement is trying to say something, 
but the thin breath bubbling through his lips carries no 
sound, only the shapes of words. 

"I don't care, Erik," I tell him. "I'm not going to listen 
to any deathbed confessions. You helped that bastard sell 
my sister's name to the devil. And that's where you're 
going."

I walk away, into the steaming filth of the Cairo slum I 
tracked him into. I toss the blade carelessly into a heap 
of garbage. Whichever ragpicker finds it will think it's 
sheep's blood, most likely. There is a feast going on this 
weekend and the throats of many animals are being cut to 
begin preparations for lamb stews and roasts. 

Erik was an animal, too, and I feel no more for him than I 
would feel for a sheep.

He didn't sell her name and location to John Maxwell by 
himself. He was too far down in the ranks to have access to 
that kind of information. But his death will warn the rest 
of them of what's coming. 

I walk past mausoleums of creamy stone, relics of far older 
crimes, towards better neighborhoods, someplace I can call 
a taxi. Cairo is like that, one street separating a 
wretched slum from dusty middle-class apartment buildings. 
I turn the corner, stripping bloody gloves from my hands, 
and let them fall to the gutter. The taxi stand is just 
ahead, in front of an older hotel. 

A woman is climbing into a luxury car in front of the 
hotel. She wears a headscarf, in the manner of Muslim 
women, and it is only an accident when our eyes meet. But 
for one long second my breath stops in my throat.

Her eyes are blue, blue.

Then she steps into the car.

Shaking my head, I try to clear the vision. She was tall, 
ungainly. But the eyes were close, so close.

I will not do this. I will not spend the coming months and 
years stumbling over glimpses of blue eyes, of redgold hair 
and small hands.

I have places to go. Erik had accomplices.

And I have nothing but time.



End Above Rubies, 19/19



Many thanks are due to everyone who helped with this story. 
I have patient and wonderful readers, some of whom made 
real contributions to the story. Thanks to RhymePhile for 
championing Darren Ledeller, everyone who asked for more 
Skinner, and all the people from Utah and Jersey et al who 
chimed in with the details that I needed.

Then there are the usual suspects. Jintian, for moral 
support; Dawson, for knowing how much VX gas it takes to 
kill a bunny rabbit and Khyber, for talking me out of the 
Sudan and into Afghanistan, plus gory details about the gas 
(my spellchecker REALLY didnít like ěfascisculations.î)

Most of all, my editors, for taking a good story and 
turning it into.....well, a better story. Thank you Jen, 
for faithfully archiving, editing and stalking; Dasha, for 
editing and general cheerleading, and Scott, who Dawson 
once called 'our secret weapon'. For all the times I 
shuddered when presented with a set of Scott's comments 
that meant I was going to have to eviscerate a drafted 
chapter, the payoff was worth it. You're a great secret 
weapon, and a whole lot more. Thanks for your tireless 
editing, digging me out of plot holes, and all the rest.