Walk In Darkness, Not In Light *R*
Deslea R. Judd
Copyright 2001

DISCLAIMER: Characters not mine.  Interpretation 
mine.
ARCHIVE: Yes, just keep my name and headers.
RATING:  R for sexual situations.
SPOILERS/TIMEFRAME: One Son post-ep.  I suppose 
spoilers to Requiem, if you consider CSM living 
in the Watergate a spoiler.
CATEGORY/KEYWORDS: Vignette, Angst, 
Krycek/Diana, Krycek/Marita, Mulder/Diana.
SUMMARY:  Sometimes, when the world is upside 
down, you've got to take whatever comfort you 
can get.
DEDICATION:  For the Harem Of X Files Other 
Women Defenders.  You ladies rock!
MORE FIC: http://fiction.deslea.com
FEEDBACK: Love the stuff.  deslea@deslea.com

Watergate.

How fucking funny that I should live in the 
Watergate.

The irony was unintentional.  It just so 
happened that when I returned to DC, the Smoking 
Man was looking to move as well, and he wanted 
me close at hand.  The first two apartments we 
found in the same building were in the 
Watergate, just an elevator trip apart.

Looking at my damaged doorframe, though, I have 
to laugh.  Three intruders in one night.  Only 
at the Watergate.

I draw my weapon, but I hold it without any 
great conviction.  My latest intruder has made 
no attempt to conceal his presence.  He isn't 
here to hurt me.  That narrows the field of 
identities considerably.  Alex?  Jeffrey, 
perhaps?  One of my several informants?

I open the door.

He is outlined against the streetlights, shining 
in the window.  His back is to me, his frame in 
shadow.  One arm hangs limply down his side, 
inanimate, lifeless.

"Don't turn on the light."

Frowning, I close the door behind me and put the 
chain in its place.  I put my keys and the gun 
on the dresser.  It's still a mess where Fox was 
searching it earlier.  Searching for what he 
wanted from me so he could use it to save his 
goddamn redhead.  Damn you to hell, Fox.

"What are you doing here, Alex?"

He sighs, and his shoulders droop a little.  It 
makes his bad arm hang at an angle.  I can't 
drag my eyes away from it.  It's not often I get 
to look at him like this, unobserved.  Alex 
Krycek isn't the sort of man to turn his back on 
anyone - not even an ally.  And you don't stare 
at an amputee when he knows you're watching.  
Especially not Alex Krycek.

At last, he admits, "I didn't know where else to 
go."

For the second time in the space of days, I have 
become the last resort for a man I'd thought 
would never need one.  The Smoking Man's 
confidence was calculated...manipulative.  But 
Alex...I don't know what to make of Alex.  He's 
too lost, too bereft to be consciously 
calculating right now.  I can hear the raw 
undertone in his voice, and I'm suddenly, 
absolutely sure that there are tears on his 
face.  I can think of no other reason that he 
would let me have his back.  He could be scarred 
by acid and he still wouldn't let me have his 
back.  He's spent too long playing both ends 
against the middle for that.  The survival 
instinct is too ingrained.

"Why weren't you at El Rico?" I ask at last.

"I went to Fort Marlene.  I tried to stop it.  I 
tried to get Cassandra back."

Well, that figures.  He was furious that we were 
going to hand her over.  Alex may be a killer, 
but he isn't a killer on a mass scale.  And like 
it or not, what we tried to do tonight, had it 
gone to plan, would have been exactly that.

"For what it's worth, you did the right thing."

He snorts, a harsh sound of laughter through his 
nose.  "You're only saying that because it all 
went to hell."

"No, I'm not.  You're a better man than any of 
us, Alex."  Including Fox, I realise with some 
dismay. He disappointed me tonight, in a 
thousand ways.  Fox and Alex are like two sides 
of the one coin, and tonight, the dark twin 
proved the better of the two.  You know the 
world has gone to hell when Alex Krycek is the 
best man of the lot.  You know the world has 
gone to hell when you still want the one who 
proved to be less.

"I'm glad you made it out, Diana.  You and 
Mulder, too."

"I notice you didn't include the Smoking Man in 
that statement."

The snort of laughter that follows is a little 
less harsh, a little less wounded than the one 
before it.  I'm glad.  "I just knew that fucker 
was going to make it out.  My luck isn't that 
good."

I laugh too.  "Mine, either."

"What happened with Mulder?" he asks.  "I heard 
him on the scanners.  He's out there with the 
FBI hacks.  I thought he'd be with you."

"He left me before it began," I tell him.  "He 
left me -" I falter for a moment, and then I 
start again.  "He left me to get Scully."  I 
like the way my voice sounds.  Strong.  Matter-
of-fact.

"Oh, Jesus, Diana, I'm sorry."

"Don't be idiotic," I say briskly.  God damn it, 
I will *not* cry.  Especially not with Alex 
Krycek.  "I didn't want her to die.  I'm not 
that petty."

"Still hurts, though."

Well, he's got me there.  "Yeah."  The sigh that 
follows is ragged to my own ears.  Dammit, I 
have really got to change the subject, or I'm 
going to cry, Alex be damned.  "What happened at 
the Fort?"

"The rebels stole the embryo.  Killed some of 
the scientists.  Destroyed the vaccine stocks.  
It's a mess out there."

"The vaccine is gone?"

"No, there are more stocks.  Some at NASA 
Goddard, some at the Pentagon.  We can rebuild - 
but it's going to take time."

"What about the test subjects?" I wonder.  
"It'll be hard to rebuild without those."

"Dead," he says.  "All but one.  She was 
somewhere she shouldn't have been, with someone 
she shouldn't have been with.  So they didn't 
get her."

"What did you do with her?"

"I left her there," he says.  "We need her to 
rebuild the program.  If I hadn't - if I'd 
gotten her out - it all would have been over.  
You can't save one and sacrifice the world."  
Something is badly off-kilter about his words - 
as off-kilter as his bad arm.  I puzzle over it 
for a moment, and then it comes to me.  He's 
justifying himself.  Defending his actions.

He's never done that before.

"What aren't you telling me?" I wonder, walking 
to him.  I walk slowly, allowing my footsteps to 
make themselves known.  Alex may be subdued, but 
his survival instincts can't be underestimated.  
If I caught him unawares, he could kill me on 
reflex before he knew what he'd done.  
Especially now, when instinct is all he has 
left.

"I thought she was dead," he says, voice low and 
raw.  "They told me she was dead."

Jesus Christ.

"What are you telling me, Alex?" I ask, and I 
brave a tentative hand on his shoulder, because 
I have a pretty good idea of the answer already.  
No one could hurt him like this.  No one but-

"It was Marita," he rasps.  "Jesus, Diana, it 
was Marita."  I'm close enough to see the 
tendons in his neck, tense, hard, flickering in 
the light of the street.  I tighten my hand on 
his shoulder, and the fact that he doesn't pull 
away speaks volumes.  "She was so - white - and 
so - sick - and I couldn't get her out," he 
whispers.  "I couldn't get her out."

"No, you couldn't," I murmur, and I marvel at 
the warped heroism of the man.  A killer at 
heart, and yet he can sacrifice himself and the 
woman he loves to save the world, while the good 
guys run around trying to save themselves.  
Madness.  It's all madness.  Bad is good and 
good is bad and the devil is the martyr and the 
angels are pale imitations of the devil's dark 
light.  Madness.

If I had any sense, I'd want him.  I'd want him 
instead of wanting Fox.  But then, if I wanted 
him, I'd be as mad as the rest of the world 
seems to be tonight.  We gravitate to light.  
That's how we're made.  It's a rare woman who 
can love the darkness - a woman like the one he 
mourns right now.  

But what happens when the world is turned upside 
down?  When light is dark and dark is light?  
What then?

Then...I guess you find comfort however you can.

I kiss him.

My mouth finds the back of his neck, and I fix 
on the hard line of muscle there, sucking it.  
His hand flies to mine, still on his shoulder, 
and holds it.  I stay very still for a long 
moment.  Wondering whether he will tighten his 
hand over mine, or push it away.  One would be a 
comfort.  The other would be a relief.

"You're not touching me," he says without 
rancour.  "You're touching him."

"Yes," I admit.  He may be the light tonight, 
but I only want him because he mirrors the other 
light.  My light.  The light who has become the 
darkness.  

I tease my hand up through his hair, and it 
isn't Fox, but it's soft and suddenly I 
understand how Marita could do this, how she 
could hold him and love him.  Because beneath it 
all, he's just another wounded man.  He moans.  
"It's been so long," he whispers.  "So long."  
His hand tightens over mine.

"I can be her.  If you let me.  If it's dark."

He shudders a little, his shoulders vibrating 
in a hitching sigh.  He turns, and his face is 
in shadow, but his eyes are gleaming.  Not with 
desire.  With tears.  It's all tears.  In a 
fucked-up way, that makes it better.  This isn't 
about me for him any more than it's about him 
for me.

"Yes," he says at last.  "Yes."

Then his mouth is on mine, and he tastes of salt 
and tears, and that makes it better too, because 
I can't tell the difference between them.  Every 
man tastes different, but tears taste the same 
no matter whose they are.  

He keeps his bad arm back, away from me, not 
brushing me with it; and I slip out of my shoes 
so I'm not so tall.  I accommodate his fragile 
fantasy, and he accommodates mine.  His 
consideration hurts me, because it's so long 
since any man has considered what I need; but 
more than anything, it makes me warm.

The sex is unremarkable, a fumbled effort to 
touch and hold without breaking the tenuous 
threads that bind us.  He holds me so close, 
plunging into me without breaking the contact 
between us.  Between fragments of my own 
gossamer-thin fantasy, I wonder whether he does 
that so that it's all flesh, so he can't make 
out the differences between my body and hers; or 
whether he holds her and envelopes her this way 
all the time.  But then waves of warmth and need 
wash over me, and the memories come flooding 
back, and I'm a decade younger and a decade 
dumber again, and I don't care anymore.  

The sounds are inarticulate, gasping breaths 
and sighs, and only once does he slip, rasping, 
"Oh, God, Mar-" and then he sinks his teeth into 
my shoulder, quelling the rest of her name.  By 
then I've come, and I'm just waiting for him, so 
I stroke his hair, tears of pity stinging my 
eyes.  We've both lost, but mine is alive while 
his might as well be dead.

I feel the slight pulse within myself when he 
comes, and I feel the fullness subside, but he 
doesn't leave me.  He just stays there, his head 
dipped to my shoulder, and I can feel the 
creases where his eyes are shut tight.  I don't 
know if the moisture is sweat or tears.  "I'm 
sorry," he whispers.  "I'm so fucking sorry."  I 
don't know whether he's saying it to me or to 
her.

"Don't," I whisper.  I cradle his head there.  
"Don't."

He comes to himself at last, and he slides out 
of me.  I should rise, I should wash, but it's 
been so long since I've felt full and warm like 
this that I can't bring myself to do it.  So I 
stay there, and he draws me close, not worrying 
about whether his arm touches me anymore, and he 
kisses my forehead.  "Oh, Diana," he sighs.

"Dear Alex," I say, and I kiss his cheek.

"I wish I could stay," he says, and God, I wish 
he could too, because it's been even longer 
since I've been held in my sleep, but he can't.  
For a thousand reasons, he can't.

"It's better this way," I tell him.  "It would 
be different.  In the light of day."

"Yeah."

He rises off me, and in the dim light of the 
street I see him button his shirt.  I suddenly 
realise he didn't take it off...because of his 
arm, I suppose.  With Marita, he would have 
removed the shirt, and probably the arm as well.  
No fantasy is ever complete, I realise.  Reality 
always shines through, just a little.  No, he 
definitely can't stay.  For both our sakes.

"I don't know where to go from here," he says as 
he buttons his jeans.

"Neither do I," I tell him.  "But I believe we 
can both find a way forward."  I watch him as he 
goes to the lounge and picks up the coverlet.  
"I have to believe that."

He comes and drapes it over me.  I'm touched by 
the gesture - and a little floored.  "I believe 
that, too," he says, in a stronger voice than 
I've heard from him all night.  "You made me 
believe that."  He strokes back my hair.  "Thank 
you, Diana.  Thank you for being a friend."

It's so fucking weird, such a weird thing to say 
after what we just did, but somehow it's the 
right thing.  Maybe the only right thing he 
could have said.  "You too," I say, taking his 
hand.

He squeezes it, then lets go.  "Goodnight, 
Diana."

"Goodnight, Alex."

He leaves me then, closing the door gently 
behind him.  I should get up and chain it, but I 
don't.  When the world is upside down, sometimes 
it's better to let the darkness in than to keep 
it out.  So I leave it, and the last thing I 
hear before I drift off to sleep is the soft 
whisper of his footsteps fading away.

I don't feel peace.  I don't feel joy.  But I 
feel strong enough to go on.

And sometimes, that has to be enough.

END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Harem Of X Files Other Women
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people who like the "Other" women of XF - Marita,
Diana, Samantha, Susanne, Kim, Holly, Sharon, and
more.  If you're interested in friendly 
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http://harem.deslea.com