PROLOGUE:
 

We had known we were playing a dangerous game.  We knew, but we didn't care.
After the time clock of our lives struck five and the sun set-it was only us.
The FBI didn't matter.
The Agency didn't matter.
The only thing that did matter was the two of us-at least after dark...
The Angel and the Badman.
The Bobbysoxer and the Leader of the Pack.
The Special Agent Doctor and the...
We were absolute opposites, she and I:  Fire and Ice.  And, we loved each other.
Unequivocally.
Therefore, when she died, I did the only thing I could...
I became the Rebel Without a Cause; with the exception of one:  Hunting down-and killing without mercy-the one who had murdered her.
I wanted vengeance.
Needed vengeance.
Vengeance for her death.
For taking away the only person on this Godforsaken planet who ever truly loved me.
Vengeance for taking away the only person whom I ever truly loved.
Yet, I also wanted forgiveness.
Ached for forgiveness.
From her.
Forgiveness for my inexcusable failure at watching her back.
 

~~~

August 14, 2001
Saint Mary's Catholic Cemetery
2121 Lincoln Rd NE
Washington, DC
10:24 a.m.

If the sun were shining brightly-as it had the previous day and would again on the next-one would have been able to catch a glimpse of the shadow of a man.  A man-some believed-wanted for treason.

Though I love my country.

A man-some believed-wanted for murder.

Though I had not pulled the trigger.

A man who wanted nothing more, than to throw myself into the pit of the freshly dug grave I could only gaze at from afar, as the ceremony took place.  The funeral; to bury the only woman whom I have ever truly loved.

The lone woman who had ever truly loved me.

As the drizzle of the morn continues to permeate my clothing, I make her a promise:

"I will avenge you, My Sweet Katya.  I will avenge you.  I will again make you proud.  And then think of you often from the Pits of Hell."

After taking one final glance at her ivory casket through my binoculars-and my saturated lashes-I turn away;  to face my changed destiny.

~~~
Apartment of Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D.
2906 Dumbarton St., Unit #5
Georgetown, DC
11:02 a.m.

Knowing I will not have a chance like this for a long while, I arrive from the graveyard and quietly let myself into Dana Scully's apartment.  With my key.  Taking careful advantage of the fact that no one will arrive for at least a couple of hours, as they are all expected to attend a gathering following her burial.

After quickly locking the door, more out of habit than a fear of being caught by anyone-than of being caught in the home of a murdered FBI Agent-I move toward the interior of the living room; desperately trying to keep my emotions under control.

I want to lash out.  To break something.  To scream at the top of my lungs over the injustice of it all.  But, I refuse to give in.

Not here.

This was her home.

My haven.

Our one refuge from the ways of life in which we had found ourselves.

Instead, I walk through the too-quiet living room, and stand in front of her bookcase.  Solid knotted-pine.  Very beautiful, but also, almost as empty as I feel.

I gaze about the room; ruthlessly fighting the despair that threatens to eat me alive.

Her mother has started the task of going through her daughter's affects.  She had wanted to retrieve as much as she could; after the Bureau took most of what it had wanted, and placed it in non-descript boxes marked 'Evidence'.  Only by knowing her daughter's boss on a personal level has she been allowed the luxury, especially so soon after the crime scene had been cleared.

Having once been a Special Agent myself, I am familiar with the process-hence my being here-yet I still cannot bring myself to fully believe that it will be her things they will be analyzing for clues.  For anything that would be able to suggest who had dared enter the home of the beautiful government agent who specialized in Forensic Pathology.

Only to kill her, as she dressed for work.

However, I know who has dared-and I crave blood.  But I need help.

I have tried, on more than one occasion in the past six days since her death, to get a message to Special Agent Fox Mulder.

Nevertheless, my efforts have failed.

Like me, Mulder is too wrapped up in his feelings of grief-and guilt-to check his e-mail.  In fact, based on his haggard appearance while standing beside Melissa at Saint Mary's, Mulder looked like he has not done much of anything on a personal level since he learned of the news.

And this is personal.

This is so fucking personal that I feel ready to kill someone, just for the hell of it.  Something I would have probably done too, if I were the person most believed I am.

But I am not.

At least, I was not.

Now...

I know the very path of my thoughts would have horrified her.  My Katya.

Our Scully.

Killed by two hollow-point .9mm bullets.

To her back.

"Fucking coward!"  I suddenly scream to the ceiling inside of the apartment.  Void of life, now that the owner is gone.  Void, in more ways than one.

"Only a cowardly cocksucker would shoot an unarmed, pregnant woman!  Especially in the fucking back!"  I cry out; to no one in particular.

Barely able to-but knowing instinctively I must-I check my feelings, and pick up the picture frame that I thank God her mother has not yet packed.

It is a 5x7 frame made of dark plastic, and it holds a photo of her sister, Melissa.  This, however, is not the image I am after-for it is a trick frame.  Pulling a hidden lever located in the side, the picture changes, revealing what I desire most to keep.

A photograph of us-together-from a year ago; on one of our rare outings in the daylight hours.  We had gone to a carnival.  One of those once a year Renaissance types.  Where the turkey legs are huge, and the atmosphere can make a couple in love feel indestructible.

Jesus, we were so wrong.

I had just won her a small, stuffed Pomeranian puppy by shooting targets of paper with a trusty .22, and she had reached up to kiss me.  Believing we were the cutest couple she had ever seen, outside of her own relationship, Melissa had taken this snapshot.

Katya had been so touched when her sister had presented her with the photo and frame during the past Christmas season.

Our last Christmas together.

Melissa, being clever enough to buy the trick frame, had made it appear-in front of their family, and Mulder-as though the image it held was merely that of herself.  Yet, after escorting her sister home to join me for a little Christmas of our own, Melissa had shown her the secret lever.  To our delight the picture had changed; revealing our kiss.
 

'Look!  Isn't this cute?'

I wince at the memory of her overjoyed face.

She had been so enchanted with the frame, and had cried at the sweetness of her sister.
 

'Thank you, Missy!  It is beautiful!'

Holding back my tears, I carefully remove the cherished reflection of my lover, and then replace the frame in its spot in the bookcase, leaving Melissa smiling.

A smile, I know, that will take a long time in returning.

Much like my own.

The only time I am able to smile-now-is when the images of the torturous work I will perform on her killer flits through my grief-stricken mind.  I know who has done this horrendous act.  Oh yes, I know.  Yet, as tempted as I am to go after the perpetrator myself, I understand I will have to include one other.

The one who hates my guts, but whom also loved my Katya, almost as much as I did.

Do.

All I need to do now is convince Mulder that I am not his enemy, but his ally.  I also understand, as much as it will pain the Special Agent, Mulder will come to believe.  Once he sees the evidence of our love; right in front of his eyes.

I move swiftly, yet carefully, through the room; around the boxes her mother has already set aside to take home.  I walk passed the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes averted and focused in front of me, lest I spot the table, and remember our last meal together.  My body betrays me, however, and I find my head turning anyway.
 

 'Sashka?  Would you like some fried eggs and bacon?'

I hurriedly walk on, and enter the bedroom.

I am almost knocked to my knees by the scent of her emanating from within, and I lean against the doorjamb, while putting my prized photo into an interior pocket of my black leather jacket.  I then place my face in my hands, willing myself to remember the tasks at hand that must be done.

I quickly wipe my tears from my eyes, steeling my nerves as I stand, and walk toward the knotted-pine chest of drawers that sets just to the right of the picture window in the corner.

Clenching my teeth together to stave off more tears, I squat down, and achingly open the bottom drawer.

At the sight of the beautiful delicates I had bought for her, as nothing gave me more pleasure than presenting her with what her heart desired; well...almost nothing, I allow my tears to flow freely.  Unable to fight off my recollections of her in them.

Of her prancing around, seductively, in the lovely black lace of one.  How it showed up, strikingly, against her pale, perfect skin.

Or, of her sensuously dancing in the pale blue satin of another.  Bringing out the beauty of her eyes, captivatingly.

Then there was the red one.

Dangerous.

Lace, mesh, satin, and bows.

The red one has it all, and when she wore it-on special occasions-it had allowed the feral sides of us both to make an appearance.

The Bad Boy and the Vixen.
 

'You know I love wearing these for you, don't you, Sashka?  Only you?'

I slam the drawer shut, admonishing myself for opening it in the first place, as it was the incorrect one, and my subconscious mind had known that-even if my heart would not admit to it.

I slowly, almost regrettably, raise my hands to the knobs of the middle drawer, and pull it out; revealing little stacks of conservative pairs of black socks, nude knee highs, pantyhose, and white panties.  Yet, even these are enough to keep the dagger of pain twisting in my heart.

I reach inside, move my hand toward the back, and retrieve the video tape.

Another gift.

This one from Monica Doggett.

All the proof I need to persuade Mulder.

I hope.

Upon returning the drawer to its former state-and placing the tape into my jacket to join my priceless photograph-I hear a click.

The front door.

The dead bolt.

Someone else, with a key to my beloved's home.

Fearing it may be Mulder-and for once not wishing to cause a scene with the man-I quietly walk across the floor, and enter the bathroom, only to again be assaulted by the smell of her sweet perfume.

Roses.
 

 'I know how much you love roses, Sashka.'

I feel nauseous, but manage to clutch at the faux marble countertop, before I would otherwise hit the floor.  I sit on the toilet seat; taking in not only her scent, but also the view of her personal toiletries lying about the sink.

Moisturizers.
 

'You do not need those, Katya.'

Hairspray.
 

'Your hair is always perfect, even when windblown.'

Perfume.
 

'You smell like my dreams.'

And now...my nightmares.

It takes an extreme amount of willpower for me not to cry like a baby.
 

'We're having a baby, Sashka!'

When my eye catches something shining from around the stem of her silver, rose shaped ring holder; setting near the faucet of the sink.

I blink, wondering if my eyes deceive me.

It is her heart-shaped, one carat diamond engagement ring.
 

'I place it in the holder for safe keeping while I am away at work, and then upon my return I put it back on my finger.  I don't want to get it dirty with blood, Sashka.'

Confused as to how her mother could have possibly missed seeing it-as it sets in plain view-cradled upon the silver, I shift to pick it up.

Still very aware, whoever is in the apartment is getting closer.

I gracefully remove my Glock18C from its holster behind my back with my right hand, while taking the ring from its holder, with my left.  I concentrate on the soft noises coming through the bedroom door; from the living room, while looking down through tear-filled eyes at the precious piece of jewelry I hold between my thumb and index finger.

I stand; stealing a glance at myself in the mirror.  I am very tempted to simply slip the ring onto my pinky, and then pull the trigger of my gun, thereby allowing a bullet to penetrate my skull and end my razor-sharp pain.

But I will not do that.

No matter how much my aching heart screams to join her, I know one thing is for certain; I must first finish what was started when my betrothed exhaled her final breath.

Backing up against the wall, across from the doorway, I slip my finger against the trigger, and raise my hand in preperation to shoot whomever has felt the need to violate my love's home, again, as the bathroom door begins to open.

"Alex?"