Disclaimers:  Fox and 1013 own them, not me.  The story is mine, set sometime after it's all over.
Rated:  R for implied m/m relationships.
Much thanks to Josan for the song lyrics, listed at the end, and the ones used for this story are marked with an asterisk.  This may be a series; it may not.  Who knows?

Balance Point

The soft click of the door latch sliding home again brought his head up from the computer screen.  Dark hair gone silver in thick streaks at the temples caught the light as he did, and his lack of expression could have been credited to a continued preoccupation with what he'd been typing.  Almost.

Instead Fox Mulder met the mocking hazel eyes of his visitor with a hard-won, bone-deep calm.  "Hello, Alex.  Soup's on.  Go hang up your coat and sit in front of the fire until you can quit shivering.  Didn't anyone tell you there's a blizzard going on?"

Krycek stared at him incredulously, snow already melting from his coat to slide down onto the floor in sodden white clumps.  "What?  No cries of 'ratbastard?'  No complaints that I killed your father?  Hell, not even a question about Scully?"

Mulder shrugged and told him, "Scully is fine, my father and my sperm donor are both dead, and right now you look like a drowned rat and know it, so what would be the point?  And you'll tell me soon enough why you're here. If it's to kill me, well, I've got nothing to lose if I speak my mind, do I?"

"I think you've already lost your mind," Krycek growled at him, but he hung up the coat anyway.  "I've been talking to the people you call your friends."

Mulder said calmly, "I am two points and probably three pages away from concluding this essay, Alex, and if you're not going to shoot me immediately, I'd just as soon not lose my train of thought.  Dry off, go stir the soup, and leave me alone until I quit typing."  And with that he went back to what he'd been doing, ignoring Alex as splendidly as if he'd never walked in out of a Colorado blizzard into a house no one was supposed to know existed.

Krycek didn't waste time in cursing or even threatening Mulder; he'd seen that kind of focus before, when the then-agent had been investigating cases.  Nothing short of a flying saucer crash-landing in his living room was going to distract Mulder from what he was doing.  So Krycek shrugged and turned his attention to more practical things, such as food and warmth and survival, not necessarily in that order.

~*~*~*~*~

One quick key combination saved the article; another started the printer running so that he could do the first rough proof and edit in the morning.  That done, Fox let his attention turn to Alex Krycek's arrival. He stood and stretched, abruptly aware of just how long he'd been hunched over keyboard and reference materials.

"Ratbastard, hmm?  Alex, why did you assume I was going to jump you the second you walked through the door?"

That ironic husky voice answered him from the depths of a corduroy-upholstered recliner that had been moved near the fire.  "Habit on your part?  I didn't know you'd gone spiritual on me, Mulder."

"Probably because I haven't," was the simple answer.  "And it's Fox.  Have you eaten?"

"No.  The soda bread's still cooking."  Alex cocked one eyebrow at him, waiting for the question.  When it didn't come he said bluntly, "Some time working with the IRA.  We'll have to see if it comes out as well as Harlan's."

"All right."  Mulder nodded, then absently finger-combed the long hair back from his face to fall behind his ears and around his shoulders.  "And Alex?  I've got better things to do than to jump you over shots from a war that's been over for five years now."

Alex watched him walk toward the kitchen, saw the slight limp that not even the best of conditioning after the best of physical therapy could prevent.  "Is it over, Mulder?  When we're all reminded of it every single day?"

"I don't know about you, Alex, but I don't care any more.  Not about the war, not about the wins, not about our losses.  We paid what we had to pay to get what we wanted."  Fox shrugged as he headed for the kitchen to check on the food.

Alex followed him down the hall, sock feet silent on dark brown tile floors covered with a cheerful, if slightly worn, runner of goldenrod carpet.  "And it's that easy for you?  You can just say you don't care and that's it?"

Fox pulled out two bowls, clearly handmade, whose glaze patterns didn't quite match and filled them with a thick barley and beef soup that should almost have been called a stew.  "We never played by the same rules, Alex.  I was trying to work from within the FBI, as much as I could.  You were playing outside any association or any safety net.  We both risked too much and we both paid too much."  Those clear hazel eyes flicked a pointed glance at Alex's arm, then his own leg.  And Mulder added quietly, "I never got to tell you:  I heard about your brother.  I'm sorry, Alex."

"Only you, Fox...."  Alex let the words trail off, either a supplication or an irritation.  "My brother died twenty years ago.  Unlike you, I never thought I'd find him.  I always knew he was dead... or wanted to be."  But saying it leached some of the bitterness from the memories, and Alex reached out to take his bowl of soup.

Fox  just shook his head in sympathy.  The constantly awake part of his brain that made him a profiler noticed one thing, however:  without realizing it, Alex had used his first name.  "I'm sorry anyway."  The timer went off and he turned to the oven to pull out the bread, which smelled entirely too good not to be ready.

"Yeah," Alex muttered.  "Fine.  Sympathy noted.  Pass the damn bread, would you?  And don't hog the butter."

They devoured the soda bread, excusing their gluttony with the rationale that it was never as good the second day, and went through two bowls of stew apiece.  Fox knew he was starving from skipping at least one meal that day; he suspected that battling the blizzard had roused Alex's hunger.  He also fully expected the hostilities to recommence after the impromptu truce of dinner.

To his surprise, though, Alex simply cleared away their dishes and waved him towards the leftover soup as if kitchen routines had become as normal a fact of his existence as assassination had once been.  "Put that up, Fox.  We need to talk."

"About what?  The fact that you've got someone?  Or the fact that I don't?"  Some of his anger seared through that shell of control.  Oddly, Alex just smiled.

"Now you sound like yourself.  I'm not used to you being so damn calm."

"Why not?"  Even to himself, Fox sounded petulant and he shook his head at that.  A long, deep breath pulled some of his quietude back and he added more casually, "We always did trade off.  Some law of conservation, you think, that only one of us gets to be calm at once?"

"Doubt it," Alex admitted.  "Look.  I didn't come here--  Actually, I came here to talk to you."

"Well, I doubted you came for the weather."  Fox finished shifting the soup to a microwavable bowl and stuck it into the fridge, then put the butter up.  "All right, Alex, what was worth tracking me down?  And how did you do it?"

Alex shrugged at that.  "I asked the Gunmen."  When Fox gave him a stare that wavered between horrified and furious, he said hastily, "Nicely.  Mostly.  No one got hurt."

"How did you get them to tell you where I was?" Fox grated out, arms folded and his hands locked on the opposite elbows rather than lash out.

"I didn't.  My new address did."  Alex walked back to the recliner he'd claimed before.  "Look, you've been out here for more than a year, Fox.  Are you that attached to it?"

"The house, the seclusion, the peace of mind, what?  Why, Alex?  Going to make me a better offer?  And how long do I have to put up with you stalling?"

"Oh, not much longer.  And yeah, I am.  Unless you just like being alone."

Fox shook his head slowly.  "Alex--  Never mind.  Just... make your offer, okay?"

"So you can turn it down without thinking about it?"  Alex smiled sardonically.  "I don't think so.  Go to bed, Fox.  We'll do this in the morning."

"What, so I'll get over my pissy mood?" Fox sniped.

"Nope.  So I can catch you in a weakened state before you wake up, of course."  The smile spread into a grin and Alex waved his hand at the hallway.  "Go on, Fox.  We'll talk in the morning."

"You seriously expect me to go to sleep after that?"

"Yup.  Sleep well."  Alex began scavenging blankets and afghans off chairs and couches, only to feel a hand on his shoulder.

"Look... I've got a futon in the library.  Come on, I'll pull out some comforters for you."

"Damn."  Alex gaze became a slow, lingering appraisal that heated Fox's blood.  "That wasn't quite what I was hoping for."

"Alex.  For you, you're downright domesticated.  I'm not going to help you cheat."

Alex laughed softly, clearly amused.  "You always did notice the damnedest things.  I don't think I'll ask what gave me away, though.  Look, Fox, I can sleep with you without upsetting my partner, I promise."

"Yeah, well, you might upset me."  Mulder turned away and called over his shoulder, "You can sleep in the library, thanks."

~*~*~*~*~

He woke to the feel of a warm body molding itself against his back; the shape and smell convinced Fox's slow-rousing mind that it was definitely a man, which told him who it had to be.  "Alex?  What?"

"What do you want for breakfast?"  The purring tone slid through his blood, burning without waking him.

Fox rubbed his eyes with one hand, then pulled the covers back over an exposed shoulder.  He didn't want to get out of bed yet; he didn't even want to wake up yet.  "Are you supposed to make breakfast?"

"Mm-hmm."  Alex added, "And then you're coming home with me."

"I what?"  He tried to wake up, but it didn't work.  "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Who is he, Alex, and why am I supposed to go home with you?"

"Because we want you to."  Alex breathed the words into his ear, good arm wrapped over Fox's waist.  "Because you want to."  He tugged the blankets up around both of them, then, and settled more comfortably against Fox's back, before adding gently, "And because we miss you."

"We?" Fox asked fuzzily, reaching for the calm he'd learned in the long quiet nights and finding it just beyond his grasp.  "Who?"

"Walter."

"You're with...."  The sheer implausibility of the combination pulled him farther awake but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made to Fox.  Both of them tightly controlled until they weren't -- Alex's flaring temper under anything but the worst of a crisis; Skinner's grating, controlled anger that only erupted when it could be safely unleashed....  Alex who flaunted his sensuality to distract people from the sharp-edges of his mind, and Walter who played his down to focus attention on his authority....

Fox found himself wondering what their fights were like and yanked his mind away from considering what their love-making must be like.  He knew Alex could feel his reactions, his immediate, unthinking arousal, and he said hastily, "Alex, I'm glad you're happy.  But--"

"Are you happy?"  Alex hesitated before he went on, "Damn it, Fox, did it never occur to you that people would miss you when you vanished?"

"Did it ever occur to you that everything hurt so much I couldn't think of anything else to do?"  Fox twisted around under his arm to face Alex's eyes, barely visible in the dim light from the hallway.  "You holed up when you lost your arm, Alex.  We both know it.  Jesus, I lost my mother, got the confirmation of my sister's death, and went through those bullshit sealed Senate hearings, all in four damn months--"

"And nearly died when the Smoker's last few operatives tried to kill you to stop your testimony," Alex added grimly.  "I'm amazed you can walk.  The surgeons did a helluva job on your leg."

"Yes."  Fox's hand drifted down to rub at muscle and scar tissue which didn't hurt now but had for so long that the motion had become automatic.  Alex's hand slid along his arm and took over the massage for him.

"You finished the article," Alex suggested at last.  "Come stay with us for a month, Fox.  See if you want--"

"What?  To hurt for something I can't have?  To destroy what you two have the way every other thing in my life has blown up if I didn't leave it alone?"  The bitterness in his voice shocked even Fox; he'd thought he'd come farther than this.  More softly he said, "Alex.  I'm still... I can't do this.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.  Go home.  Go take care of Walter."

"What, you don't think he takes care of me?" Alex asked ironically.

"No.  I know he does.  You're... calmer now, ready to believe you're walking on the ground instead of a tightrope."

"And you think you're walking through wreckage."  Alex said it softly, no irony in it.  He'd undoubtedly worked his way through the ruined buildings left behind when the aliens fled, learned the painstaking care needed on shattered concrete foundations, the eternal readiness to jump for the safety rope when the ground gave way or a window frame finally buckled and fell.  "Damn it, Fox.  You took your name back from them.  When are you going to take your life back?"

"When I can, Alex.  When I can."

Alex nodded at that, the silk of his hair a shockingly intimate caress against the nape of Fox's neck.  "All right.  Go back to sleep, Fox.  We don't want... we want you to be happy, too."

Fox could almost hear the unspoken, 'You paid enough for it, just like we did.'

Alex slid his hand back up from the now relaxed thigh muscle to stroke lightly, soothingly across Fox's forehead and temple.  "Go back to sleep, Fox.  Rest."  And that was all he'd say, comforting Fox with the nearness of another friendly body, the warmth of human contact, and the addictive feel of human kindness.  Fox slid down into a deep, dreamless sleep as easily as a bat dropping from its perch, trusting that his wings would spread in time to catch him safely before he hit the ground.

~*~*~*~*~

He woke to an empty bed and covers tucked carefully around him.  The kitchen had been cleaned up, and half a pot of coffee waited in a carafe for him, a mug next to it on top of a folded piece of paper.  Fox unfolded it gingerly with one hand while he poured out the coffee with the other.  The rich scent called up old memories.  Even pretending to be a green young agent, Alex had always been able to make barely passable coffee taste superb.  Some people had the touch; Fox never had.

"And I'm stalling," he muttered, speaking aloud from the habit of months, now.  He hated the complete silence of his house in winter.  Even the storms were preferable.  Then there was the hiss and rattle of snow along the roof, the walls, the windows, the sound of the wind piling and rearranging snow drifts in its own odd patterns....

The note was simple, Fox saw.

Fox, when you're ready, or when you can, call us.  Or just show up. 

Alex. 

Phone numbers underneath, and the address.  That surprised him.  He'd expected Texas, maybe, since Skinner had grown up there, or maybe D.C. or NYC.  Portsmouth, New Hampshire, bare hours from Massachusetts or Maine, didn't seem to fit.

"Did they stumble through and decide they liked it?  Or is this a means to an end?  Did they move there looking for me?  Or waiting for me?"  In the back of his mind, he reheard Scully's derisive comment that 'not everything is about you, Mulder.'  But that was a name he hadn't identified himself with in months now, not since he'd gotten free of the hospital and free of a family that was dead and gone.

"But are they family?  And am I free?"  Fox sipped his coffee, absently pushing back the sleeve of the dark blue sweatshirt he'd pulled on after his shower.  "Do I want to be free?"

He couldn't bring himself to remove the note from the table and the simple piece of paper haunted him for the rest of the day, as did the questions it prompted, and still Fox Mulder had no idea of which way he ought to go, wanted to go... or would go.  One thing he knew, with the aching certainty that had been his companion on too many profiling jobs:  one last piece of data or shift in point of view would give him his answer, tell him to stay or to go.

But he didn't have it yet.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

"I Don't Care Anymore"
Phil Collins, from Hello I Must Be Going

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