MJ

Dana Scully reached into her purse, withdrew several envelopes, mostly given to her by Frohike, and passed them to her "late" partner. "Mulder, are you really sure this is necessary?" Mulder began examining the contents of the packets as he propped his feet up on her coffee table. "Yeah, I'm sure. If I want them to think I'm dead, this is the best way to go. I know I'll be able to find cover. They're really tight-lipped with outsiders, and they're not going to let one of their own get burned. Besides, from what Frohike tells me, if anything starts going down they'll be able to get me out of the country pretty easily. Next thing you know, you'll be getting postcards from South Africa."

"South Africa?" Scully stared in amazement. "You're joking."

"'Fraid not, Scully. They've got contacts in Johannesburg. They have people in Tel Aviv, too, and I wouldn't be surprised if they've got connections in Moscow or Saint Petersburg now. My suitcases will have a great sticker collection if I have to make a run for it."

"Be careful, Mulder. Frohike told me to remind you about the Mafia issue there, too. I don't get it; I don't like to stereotype, but there's not an Italian name on the list."

"Remember, we're talking Russian Mob here, Scully. These people aren't in it themselves, but they'll have some connections there. So does Frohike—the Russians are big into computer crime. Don't forget." Mulder grinned. " I've got a connection or two there myself, you know. The federal prosecutor's office won't ever let me forget it. And neither will *he*."

"You're sure about Amtrak? You really want to take the train?"

"Yeah. I don't want to drive by myself, I don't want to risk anyone else, and unless I want to flash a badge I can't get my gun on a plane."

"All right. Just one more question, Mulder."

"Yeah?"

"What on earth is Rabbi Chasen's Talmudic Academy of Mulberry Street?"

"It was a school on the Lower East Side. It's closed now, but some of the Rabbi's students opened a new school in Flatbush about five years after the Rabbi died. They've moved to a better neighborhood but they're still in Brooklyn."

"What's the interest? You're going to disguise yourself as a rabbi?"

"Nope. I won't need a disguise. All I'll have to do is be me."

"Now I'm really lost, Mulder."

"I'm afraid I'll be a bit of a hero to a few of the people I'm contacting. The late Rabbi Fox Chasen is still a legend in some circles…" Mulder drawled. Scully's eyes widened. "My great-grandfather," Mulder smirked.

***

Mulder stepped out of the cab on 14th Avenue and adjusted the blue embroidered yarmulke that Frohike had gotten for him. It felt odd; he hadn't even worn one for his Bar Mitzvah. His mother was loosely Reform at best; completely non-observant would have been a more accurate description. His Bar Mitzvah had been a formality to placate a few of the other intermittently observant relatives to whom his parents spoke who wanted a social event. His grandfather had been the family rebel and walked out on the Chasen rabbinic dynasty; it was actually surprising that he hadn't converted out, as far away from it as he'd hoped to get.

Mulder reached into his suit's breast pocket and pulled out one of the envelopes. No point getting lost around Brooklyn, he figured, checking the address scribbled on a slip of paper in Frohike's inimitable, and illegible, scrawl. Okay, down there at the corner by 41st Street—Moshe Goldfarb, Sofer, Mezuzot Checked, and there, down beside it, the 14th Avenue Yeshiva Reb Chasen. Mulder crossed 14th, looking around; in his dark Armani suit and a yarmulke, he looked, as he had figured, rather like a Modern Orthodox visitor in a more observant Orthodox and Chasidic neighborhood, not terribly out of place. Several drivers on the street and a number of businessmen looked very much like him, all in dark suits and yarmulkes. "No one's afraid of the Men in Black here," he chuckled to himself. "It's the guys in brown or tan they're gonna duck." He rang the doorbell on the front steps of the Yeshiva. A buzzer sounded, and he opened the door, entering into a small lobby and office area.

"Shalom aleichem," a cheerful young man at a computer greeted him. The young man, apparently a student or recent graduate, wore a long, dark coat, a white shirt with fringe hanging at his sides, a black tie, and a black yarmulke on top of curly dark hair. "Are you the gentleman from Kineret Publishing? Reb Moshe's at his office next door, but I can get him."

"Sorry," Mulder apologized gently, then, reaching back into Hebrew school memory, replying, "And aleichem shalom to you. I'm not from the publisher. I came to speak to the principal, Reb Aryeh. Is he available?"

"He should be," the student replied. "Here, have a seat. He's usually preparing a d'var Torah around now, but he can be disturbed. The young boys do it all the time, and at least he won't have to lecture you on the spitball as a manifestation of the yetzer hara." Okay, Mulder, he thought quickly, Hebrew school, third grade. Duh. Oh. Okay. Evil inclination. Right? Yeah, something like that. Made sense in the context, anyway. "May I ask who needs the Rebbe?"

Mulder debated. How to answer? Say FBI, and risk attention? Mention family, and do the same? "My name's Fox Mulder. I work for the government, but I'm here to see Reb Aryeh on a personal matter." It was personal, true enough; hey, cousin, can I crash at your place with the Chasidim and hide from half the government, Cancerman, any of his cronies that Alex and the Federal Prosecutor's office didn't nail, and most of the known world, while everyone thinks I'm dead, so I can wait for the game to advance a few moves? And while I'm at it, do you mind if your cousin scrounges through the Russian Mafia in Brighton Beach to try to contact a double or maybe triple agent who's his lover? Delighted to see you too, Cousin Aryeh. Do you mind if Alex and I spend the weekends fornicating in your guest room? And don't get upset if somebody tries shooting at us or attempts to torch the house, just hand me a ticket to Johannesburg so I can sneak into the Chasidic circles there; by the time that happens my hair should have grown out and I'll have enough Yiddish idiom and Hebrew down to fake it superficially. Fox Mulder, Lubavitcher in training. I ought to send a note to Mom about it—hey Mom, I found our cousins and got religion. Alex and I will be studying together at a Talmudic academy in Jerusalem next year. They can't tell we're queer because the guys all kiss each other and dance together anyway.

"Sure." The student ducked through a large doorway, returning a moment later with a tall man, about Mulder's height, with slightly stooped shoulders. He was dressed similarly to the student, although his clothes were obviously better quality, and he wore a wide-brimmed black hat. He looked to be about forty-five. Hmmm. High forehead; quirky, angular nose; hazel eyes that looked straight through you, full lips, especially the lower lip—except for the darker, curling hair and the indoor pallor, Mulder could have been looking into a mirror. He hadn't realized that there was going to be such an enormous family resemblance. The Rebbe was staring, politely, apparently noticing the similarity himself.

"Shalom aleichem, Mr. Mulder. It seems that I should know you. You look extremely familiar; I think I may know why you've called. Please, come back into my study." The Rebbe led Mulder through the doorway into a walnut-paneled office. There were several framed Marc Chagall lithographs on the walls; heavy, solid furniture, apparently many years old but carefully used; photographs of graduating classes from the Yeshiva; a very expensive chronograph; framed diplomas and certificates. Mulder peered at the certificates, pulling out his reading glasses; there were Reb Aryeh's smicha, certifying his ordination as a rabbi, a diploma from Yeshiva University, and, unexpectedly, an ornate diploma indicating a master's degree in religion from the Sorbonne hanging beside framed Hebrew certificates presumably attesting to Aryeh Chasen Kohlberg's learning, wisdom, and character. A beautifully tooled leather-bound Shakespeare was wedged on the shelves between books with Hebrew printing on their spines, and a few paperbacks of French philosophers, plus a treatise of Kant's, vied for space with some current non-fiction paperbacks on Jewish themes and on, of all things, the New York Yankees. The Rebbe ushered Mulder into a wingbacked chair near his desk that was far more comfortable than it looked. The Rebbe donned his own glasses, and leaned forward, surveying Mulder's face. "No, don't say anything, Mr. Mulder. Let me see. You must be Shlomo's grandson. I'm Reuben's grandson. Shlomo and Reuben were identical twins, in case you don't know much about the family. If you're Shlomo's grandson, you probably don't. I'm delighted to finally meet someone from Shlomo's family; I don't think anyone on our side's spoken to any of you in at least a generation. But don't let me do all the talking. Am I right?"

Mulder nodded, and exhaled a deep breath he had been holding during the Rebbe's quick recitation. Some parts of this were going to be much easier than he had feared. Reb Aryeh had taken care of establishing the family connection himself, and he was clearly well-spoken and educated in at least a few matters outside of Orthodox Judaism. "Absolutely. And I was actually named for great-grandfather, although no one in my family admits it. Shlomo studied business at CCNY—well, you know that—and then won that scholarship to the Wharton School of Business. He changed the name to Seth Chase, moved up to Newport, and took up commercial banking there. Considering he was trying to pass as a New England WASP most of the time, he surprisingly married a Jewish girl named Rebecca Silver—although they had a civil wedding performed by the Mayor of Newport, so his gentile banking friends wouldn't be offended. Legend has it they served shrimp cocktail, oysters, and glazed ham at the wedding reception at the Vanderbilt estate."

Reb Aryeh blanched. "Gevalt. I know Shlomo hated being Jewish, but I didn't know it was that bad. Surprising Shlomo didn't convert."

"Apparently he couldn't bear to go that far. There is, or was, a story among some of my cousins that Shlomo had fallen in love with a Catholic girl when he was at CCNY, and Great-grandfather put his foot down about it. Grandpa—Shlomo—figured that he'd just take his head for business out of the family and never speak to anyone again. I'm told—not by my parents, who were even less Jewish than Shlomo—that your grandfather, his twin brother, was supposed to have made some kind of crude remark about Isaac, Jacob, and Esau to him, although no one seems to know just what it was."

The Rebbe turned to a small refrigerator hidden in a credenza. "Care for a seltzer?" Mulder nodded, and Aryeh poured two glasses, handing one to Mulder. "I'm afraid I do know what my grandfather—Shlomo's twin—said. It was pretty rude. I don't blame Shlomo for not talking to him again. He told your grandfather that seeing Maureen Houlihan—that was her name—was tantamount to selling his birthright for pottage, and that if Shlomo didn't mind terribly, he, like Jacob, was going to claim it. Shlomo wouldn't need it, Reuben said, since he'd sold his soul to the goyim already by going to some Catholic Youth Association dances with her. In this community, there are still a lot of us who would believe that."

"May I gather that you don't?" Mulder asked, setting his glass on a coaster on the Rebbe's desk.

"Officially? Unofficially? I can't say I approve of intermarriage. Interfaith dating only enhances the likelihood that intermarriage will happen. As for selling out to the devil, I've used a few similar lines in public, and with my boys here, to get them focused on being matched up with Jewish girls. Some of their marriages have been arranged already anyway. Do I really believe that line? A Jew can make teshuvah any time. No matter what we do, nothing is so bad that we can't come back to our people or to God. Hashem wants us to come back to Him. He's a very patient father; certainly more patient than mine was. Nothing you or I can do will make Him forsake us. If Shlomo had said, 'Yes, I dated a shiksa and engaged in mixed dancing with her in a Christian establishment, but so much for that,' then Hashem would have said, 'Shlomo, sit down, eat, have a schnapps, good to see you here.' If he'd married Maureen Houlihan and then said the same thing, God would say the same thing to him. All children think they have to rebel in some way, but when they come home, any parent should say 'welcome home; I love you.' Some of my family had a fit when I went to study in Paris. They were sure I was gone for good from the fold. You know, I even kept kosher the whole time. We don't have to let our exposure to the world turn us into what we see in the world. Do you have children, Cousin Fox?"

"No," Mulder said, shaking his head. "I've never been married. Among other matters," which was putting the matter very mildly, and Mulder prayed his cousin wouldn't inquire, "I've been with the FBI as a Special Agent. It's a job with high widow and orphan potential."

"However," Aryeh replied, folding his hands, "it's work that has to be done, and I confess to a certain pride in knowing that there are landsmen doing it. I would think you've probably helped a fair number of widows and orphans, or prevented some women and children from becoming them. It's admirable."

"By the way, I noticed the Sorbonne diploma. I was at Oxford."

"Really? It seems that our generation has traveled. My sister Sheina lives in Johannesburg, and teaches in a girls' yeshiva there." Mulder nodded. Frohike had noted that for him. Besides, there was a large Jewish community in South Africa, with a goodly number of Orthodox and Chasidic groups represented in it. No surprise at all. "Our cousin David, a grandson of our great-aunt Miriam, runs a yeshiva in Jerusalem. I won't bother counting, of course, how many elders we have who are overrunning Florida, but we have a couple of retired cousins who have moved, of all places, to Mexico City. I can't imagine it. In case you didn't notice, should Hashem never bless you with children, our family is in no immediate danger of dying out."

"So I see," Mulder chuckled. He frowned afterwards. "Good that someone is having the kids. My parents had two of us. I'm the only one left. My sister, Samantha, is gone. She was eight."

"Baruch Hashem, may he give her soul peace."

Mulder sighed and folded his hands in his lap. "I hope not. We don't know that she's dead. She was abducted, and there's been no trace of her since. I've spent years looking around, hoping to find something out."

"Then she may still be alive? Kine a hora. You know, we have a great deal of mishpocheh all over, and among the Jewish communities here and in a number of other places, a good many friends. I know several rebbes who work with orphanages, children's homes, and the like; some have done it for years. We should have been told about this. Your family may have left us, but they're still family. Why weren't we told? Perhaps we could have had our friends look out for her. If there's anything we can do, yet, please tell me." He was gripping the corners of his desk; his knuckles were white with the tension.

Mulder nodded sadly. "My parents…uh, well, that's a story in itself. I have reason to think my parents wouldn't have wanted you to know. I know my father would have refused the help." Best not to say why.

"Oy. You'll have to tell me, you know. You'll come to dinner tonight? Let me call my wife, Datchya. She'll be thrilled. How long are you in town?"

Here it comes. "I don't know. In fact, I may need to talk to you about that. I've taken, shall I say, a very extended leave from my work. I can't discuss FBI matters, you'll understand, and I know it's a bit theatrical, but I've made a few enemies."

"Better a criminal for an enemy than for a friend."

If only people knew. But you can't tell them who the real criminals are. Who'd believe it? The family was making him welcome; no point in blowing it. "That's very true. It seems that a few of them have tried to kill me recently. As it happens, they think I'm dead. I am on leave while we wait to see if their thinking that they succeeded makes them careless, so that they come out where we can get them." Close enough to the truth, leave it there. "So I've potentially a fair chunk of time. My father's gone now, and my mother has her own problems. I thought," Mulder said, dissembling only slightly, "that it was time, without their being with me to carry on the family feud, to look up the rest of the clan. I'm glad to hear you're all doing so well." That part was true.

"So you've no plans for a while? Where are you staying?"

No begging. It wouldn't be needed anyway, not with this man. "I just got to town today. I haven't even gotten that far. If you know of a good place—"

"What better place than my house? Since my son Saul went off to yeshiva in Israel, we've an empty room. You'll stay as long as you like. You'll fill us in on Shlomo's side of the family. Sightsee. Have a good time. I have season Yankees tickets. I can get you Knicks tickets anytime. Stay a year and you'll see every game in town."

"Hey, I'm visiting, not moving in." "So? You want to move up? They don't have FBI offices up here? What if these people who tried to kill you don't get found for a year? You'll want Giants tickets too, then. Please tell me you're into sports. My wife and daughter don't understand. And don't give me grief, you'll stay as long as you like, or you need to."

"I think we've found another family resemblance, Cousin Aryeh. I live for basketball."

"Baruch Hashem, I have an identical twin cousin."

"Identical twin cousins?" Mulder chuckled. "That sitcom's been filmed."

"Yes, and it was set just over in Brooklyn Heights," Aryeh laughed. "I wasn't supposed to watch it, but I did. I remember Patty Duke. I had a crush on her for all of three weeks."

"Mine lasted four weeks. I was in love with Cathy."

"I'm calling my wife. Come on."

The Rebbe's—Cousin Aryeh's—house was a detached yellow brick three-story home on 43rd Street, in walking distance from the yeshiva. It was not luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable, and it smelled wonderful inside; Datchya had apparently decided to outdo herself, on short notice, at the news that a cousin was in town. She was completely unfazed by his sudden presence, the news that he might be staying for an extended period, or that he only had one small carryon suitcase and a gym bag with him. She explained cheerfully as she poured him tea in the kitchen, that she and Aryeh had housed newly returned baalei teshuvot—Jews returning to their religious heritage—for various periods when they arrived to study, that she'd housed Jewish outreach workers sent to different parts of the country, and overseas, who occasionally arrived on short notice, that they had sheltered two newly arrived Russian Jewish families, including children, and that if they could do all of that for people they didn't know, how much easier it was for them to do the same for their own cousin.

To listen to Datchya, Mulder was led to believe that nothing more wonderful than his appearance could have been imagined in the history of the Jewish people. "And she's not far off from thinking that, if I know her," Aryeh explained. "We'd be thrilled to have you under any circumstances, you understand. But the possibility, however remote, that living in this environment with us, you might decide to make teshuvah yourself, will have Datchya excited all by itself for weeks."

"You should forgive me, Aryeh," Mulder sighed over his tea and pastry, "but that's so remote I can't even imagine it. I was raised in a religious vacuum, and at this point in my life I've filled it pretty heavily with what I've come to believe in my work. I'm trained as a psychologist, and I've seen some pretty horrible things. I can't imagine having the level of faith in anything that you have. I'm not inclined to trust anyone or anything anymore."

"I don't know what you've been through," Aryeh replied. "I'm not sure I could imagine it if I tried. I don't know much psychology, and law enforcement means nothing to me, but I appreciate that it can be very dangerous. I've met some Israeli soldiers who were through some of the wars, and I know that they saw horrible things. Some of them may have done horrible things, as well. That I don't know, and I don't choose to know. I want to think the best of everyone. And then, there was the Holocaust. Whenever I hear of the atrocities, I shudder. And then I pray for the souls of anyone capable of doing such things to another living being. The Holocaust shook the faith of many of our people. The work I do, I hope, brings some of that faith back to some of us. Really, cousin, tell me. Don't you want to believe in something? You do want to believe, don't you?" The latter comments, delivered over the pouring of another cup of tea, were not made as questions. Rather, they were direct statements. Aryeh eyed Mulder carefully.

Mulder took another bite of Datchya's coffee cake, which they were eating at her insistence while she bustled about with dinner preparations. This stay was going to be a waist-killing experience, from what Mulder could see. Datchya was possessed the moment she stepped within range of any cooking device or implement. And if the smells and the cake meant anything, she was clearly a fantastic cook. Maybe he could take notes. But, to the question at hand, Mulder looked back at Aryeh and raised an eyebrow. "And you say you don't know much psychology? All I've ever wanted is to believe. But I don't know what it is I'm looking for to believe in."

Aryeh drank and nodded. "We're all there at some point in our lives. Even those yeshiva bookers you see at my school, who look as if no doubt has ever entered their minds, will have a crisis of faith someday. They just won't admit it because it looks bad. That isn't psychology; I've just been around a lot of people. It's nothing I've studied, it's something I've learned from watching them. Hang on long enough, and be willing to believe. If you're willing to believe, belief will come."

"Belief in anything?"

"Anything."

"Okay. I'm serious here—how about flying saucers and space aliens?"

"If the Holy One wants life to exist elsewhere in the Universe, who am I to say it can't? If we went from horses to the Moon in a less than a century, who is to say that He hasn't given someone else other ideas of how to travel? The Pesach haggadah reminds us that we were strangers in a land not our own once; who is to say that someone, somewhere, is not a stranger on a strange planet? Is there other life out there? Perhaps. It's not given to me to know right now. Maybe to someone else it is. Until I know it's true, my life doesn't change. Even if I knew it were, should everything change? No. But our writings don't say it's impossible, and whatever the Holy One does not make impossible must be possible, nu? It may or may not happen. But it's possible." Aryeh finished his coffee cake. "Datchya, my beloved, you are still the best baker in this city."

"Go on, Aryeh, I'll believe you when your cousin agrees."

Mulder grinned. "You're going to call your husband the Rebbe a liar? If your cake is any indication, I'm going to gain so much weight it won't be funny." Datchya beamed at him. Her husband's cousin was obviously going to be a pleasure to have in her house. And he looked as if he could use a few of those pounds she could arrange to put on him.

***

After a few weeks, Mulder found himself slightly amazed at how he had adapted to life with his cousins. He had maintained his morning running schedule, making the concessions to modesty that the Orthodox required, which meant that he was wearing running suits. He hated them, but it was a small price. He did, however, wonder what the effect of continuous yarmulke wear would be on his hair. Were yarmulkes responsible for all of the old, balding Jewish men he'd seen? He shuddered thinking of the awful possibilities. However, he had to admit he was having fun. He was more relaxed than he had been in ages, and certainly better fed; Scully would gasp if she could see him dutifully eating three of Datchya's meals a day. He missed bacon cheeseburgers, but again, that was a small price. And helping Aryeh and Datchya's two remaining children, Aaron and Sydonie, with secular homework was amusing. He hadn't really used algebra in years, had he? Aaron kept having problems in English class, so Mulder traded him English review for Aaron Kohlberg's crash course in Yiddish as he knew it, with a few Hebrew lessons on the side. Mulder was shocked to discover that he actually had retained a small portion of what he'd stayed awake for back in Hebrew school. He wouldn't pass for anyone who really knew the language, but the mental challenge of relearning parts of it was rewarding. Aaron, after much consideration, informed his father and Mulder that Mulder's Hebrew name was plainly Yaacov ben Avram.

"And how do you get that?" Aryeh challenged Aaron over dessert one evening. "Simple." Aaron beamed. "My big cousin here is named 'Fox.' In folklore, the fox is a trickster. In the Torah, who of our forefathers is the champion of tricks and deceit? Our patriarch Yaacov, who covered his arms with fur to disguise himself. As for 'ben Avram,' well, his father's name is William, which I think I saw on the 'Net has a German origin. Not much to do there. But all Jews are children of Abraham, so there. Unless you wanted to reclaim Great-uncle Shlomo's name. But Seth is a Hebrew name, too, whether Great-uncle knew it or not." Aaron nodded triumphantly at his own cleverness. "So may I have some more dessert?"

That night, Mulder made a few notes, and a few carefully screened telephone calls. If Scully was amazed by his note to her that he was eating regular meals, a message to her to address him as Yaacov would really knock her flat. He wished he could see her face. "Yaacov" sounded better than "Fox," anyway. He liked it. If the only additional Yiddishkeit he acquired was his Hebrew name, at least it had a good use. It wasn't clear yet how long he might be staying here; it could be for quite some time yet, and it would be easier to got out in public occasionally with the new name. He told Aryeh and Datchya that he'd thought about Aaron's suggestion, and he thought he would use it. Datchya beamed as she poured drinks. Maybe Aryeh's very nice but insufficiently observant cousin had hope for him yet. After all, he was already studying Hebrew. She tried not to get herself too excited by the possibilities, but what a mitzvah if someone from Shlomo's side of the family came back into the fold.

Now that Mulder had learned his way around the area, and now that he'd figured out the best ways to handle public transportation there, he decided to go a little higher-profile. Since almost every adult man in the Jewish neighborhoods his family frequented had beards, he'd quit shaving, and the facial hair helped make him slightly less immediately identifiable to people who had known him. He hadn't been to the Brooklyn Museum in years, so he decided to visit the Egyptian rooms there again. There was a second purpose to his setting out for the Museum. The Museum was near Park Slope, which he understood from his checking was a fairly popular gay neighborhood. If he wore regular casual wear and shed the yarmulke, he could go out to visit the stores and perhaps a bar or two. His haircut and facial hair didn't specifically scream "Orthodox" if you looked at him, so he wasn't afraid of looking like a fish out of water in a gay neighborhood—not that he'd ever gone in for an overtly "gay" look anyway.

His first trip out to the Museum and Park Slope was reassuring. It felt good, after total immersion in the confinement of the Jewish neighborhoods, to get into more familiar kinds of social territory. He found two shirts and a sweater in one of the Park Slope boutiques that would work in both sets of neighborhoods, since the more modern Orthodox didn't object to a bit of wardrobe style, and he stopped at a conspicuously gay restaurant nearby, which had been recommended by the shop's clerk, for lunch. Over lunch and a copy of "Out" magazine, which he knew he'd have to ditch before getting back to Aryeh's or else have to stash fairly carefully, he found himself flirting with his waiter, the bartender, and a solitary patron across the room who was really giving him a thorough looking-over.

It was enough just then to know that the hormones were working and that he could still get attention if he wanted it; that was all the ego-boost he needed at the moment. The other patron's dropping a napkin with a phone number on his table as he walked out the door helped, too. For a brief moment, Mulder allowed his paranoia to resurface. What if he'd been spotted? What if he'd been followed? What if the patron was a contact, or this was a setup? No, Mulder decided. That was asking for a little too much drama, even for him. After all, he was "dead". They wouldn't be sending a tail after a dead man. Once again, Mulder relaxed. However, his mind was still at work. The hormone rush had reminded him that he'd been remiss in not getting a message to Alex.

When Mulder returned home, Sydonie and Datchya reviewed his clothing purchases, and Sydonie declared herself suitably impressed. Sydonie was a seventeen-year old fashion plate, at least as much of one as Orthodox modesty permitted. She was definitely not a frumpy girl. If she approved, Datchya assured him, he could consider himself properly dressed. Sydonie declared Cousin Yaacov an exemplary specimen of male dress, nudging her fifteen-year-old brother hard with her elbow. "In fact, Aaron, you could take a hint. Not that you won't have an arranged marriage anyway," Sydonie proclaimed, "but does a wife want to see a husband that looks like he's wearing a potato sack? Some girl who sees you today may be looking at you for a shidduch someday. You want them to remember how you look now when your name comes up? No, you should look at Cousin Yaacov."

"Hey, Cousin Yaacov isn't married."

"That's not your concern," Datchya reminded him. "He has a job that makes it difficult for him, which is none of your business. He also has lovely manners and a good education, and he wasn't raised with matchmaking. Marriages work a little differently out there, as you'll learn when you're older. I'm sure if Yaacov wanted to, he'd be married in a minute, and no smart girl would say no, except that he could use a bit more…well, religious study, but it's not his fault he didn't get it. You should be more like Yaacov; he's a good man, even if he isn't frum. You, young man, could take a few pointers from him on some things besides clothing."

***

Across Brooklyn, in Brighton Beach, lights flickered in an old second-floor office full of computer parts of questionable origin. Two young Russians sat in front of a computer monitor glowing dimly in the half-light. One was reading the day's e-mail to the other as they sat at the work table. The other swilled from a can of cola. A few notes had been sent to them from the anonymous correspondent, who seemed to be an "L. G.", what or whoever an L. G. might be, that occasionally sent them dreadfully odd notes that they were instructed to pass on to another operative. "Oh, God," the reader moaned. "What's the matter?"

"Feodor Petrovich is not going to be happy. There's a message here, and it's at least as odd as ever. It's another L. G. message. They seem to mean something to him when they get sent, though I haven't seen one in a long time."

"What does this one say?"

"It's very strange. It says, 'Tell Feodor Petrovich. He is a rabbit, alone in a clearing. When the rabbit sits exposed, the fox will seek it out. Tell Feodor Petrovich to study the fox. It is said that the fox mates for life.' What on earth is this?"

"Simple, Georgi, you dolt. Feodor Petrovich has one passion I know of—chess. It is the move in a chess match. There are two sides here—fox and rabbit, or black and white. The one side, the fox, whichever color that is, has moved into position to check and mate the other's king, which is alone—there are no other pieces around it at the moment. Poor Feodor will be upset. He hates to lose at chess."

The chess message was printed and hand-carried by Georgi to Feodor Petrovich, who, to Georgi's surprise, did not have a chess board out to record the moves. Georgi was impressed; Feodor Petrovich was an intelligent man, to be sure, but to play chess in his head was outstanding. Even more surprising to Georgi was the reaction Feodor Petrovich had to the news of his chess match. "It was astounding," he relayed back to his companion. "Feodor Petrovich laughed. He tipped me twenty dollars, poured us both vodka, and brought out his good cigars—the Cuban ones he gets smuggled in. And then he said, 'I suppose it's much harder to kill foxes than anyone thinks. A good thing, too. Their mates hate to be left behind. ' I swear, Ilya, for a man who hates to lose I have never seen Feodor Petrovich so happy."

"Very strange," Ilya mused as he manhandled the motherboard of a newly arrived computer. "He has been very unhappy these past few months. You would think he had lost his best friend since he settled in up here. But a happy Feodor Petrovich is an easy Feodor Petrovich to work with. I suppose he may be as strange as he likes if he's cheering back up."

Feodor Petrovich, at his own computer, many vodkas along, sent a message through an anonymous remailer to a friend of a friend. "A message for L. G.: Tell him that Feodor Petrovich has studied the fox, and rejoices that the fox, like the cat, has nine lives. The rabbit remains in the clearing, awaiting the hunt. The light shines in the rabbit's eyes, keeping him from moving." Difficult to type with only one hand. Usually Georgi did such things for him these days. He relit his Partegas cigar. Life was definitely looking up.

***

Mulder had ditched the yarmulke and was in his new, Sydonie-approved sweater. He was in an Italian restaurant in Carroll Gardens, not all that far from the Kings County courthouse and public buildings, working his way through an order of antipasto with fried calamari. There was a certain thrill to realizing that not a single thing he was ordering was kosher. Squid, cappicola, sausage in the lasagne, the works. The human system needed a certain percentage of food that was bad for you—spiritually if not physically. Mulder hadn't been eating enough physically detrimental foods since Datchya had been feeding him, so he needed to make up for it with a non-kosher blowout. Scully sat across from him, amused. Frohike was too busily working his way through his order of mussels to pay attention to anything else. That satisfied Scully, who had been the recipient of far too much attention of Frohike's for her liking on the way up from D.C. "So," she teased Mulder, "how's it feel to be a Chasid?"

"I am not a Chasid, Scully," Mulder retorted with an air of severely wounded dignity. "We may be a bit too Orthodox for your satisfaction in my family, but we are *not* Chasids. If we were, you wouldn't be seeing me here. And if you saw me, I would be wearing particularly offensive headgear and all that. My great-grandfather—may he rest in peace—would roll over in his grave if one of his offspring went Satmar."

"God, you are getting Jewish, Mulder," Scully teased as she swiped a few of his fried calamari in marinara.

"Watch it, Scully, the name's Yaacov."

"Like I said, buddy."

Frohike's head emerged from facing his plate. "Oh, by the way. Important personal message."

"Alex?" Mulder asked expectantly. Scully grinned. The boy was still in love, huh? Too bad he was the gay one; if he were straight and Frohike were gay, being a lust object wouldn't be nearly so intolerable as it was right now. She didn't begrudge her erstwhile partner his love for the Russian, but couldn't Frohike please find someone else to obsess about? Life was so unfair.

"Yep," Frohike confirmed. "He mailed to me directly this time. Basically translates as 'Thank God you're alive' and 'Where the hell are you, get over here.' Word I've gotten is he's running his end of the operation through some younger Russians who do hot computer parts and assembly. He's fronting as a Mob boss, pretty much. His guys don't realize that half of their work is espionage, not Mob work; and as long as the police don't figure it out, they're safer that way if they get busted, too. Really, Mul—uh, Yaacov, couldn't you get him into a cleaner line of work?"

"Like what? Prostitution? Drugs? Running a kiddie porn ring? Skinner may want my head examined, but I really think hot computer equipment, pirated software, and an occasional round of post-Cold War spying is comparatively clean next to those."

"Yeah. But I was thinking more along the lines of vacuum cleaner sales or something. Or hawking men's ties at Macy's. You know, legit."

"Frohike, you know as well as I do that Alex wouldn't know legit if it came up and bit him in the ass. Besides, three guys I know are making good money off of Alex's racket, and one of them is sitting here biting the hand that feeds his junk food habit." Mulder reached for the grated Parmesan. "Gimme that."

"Psst," Scully snorted. Mulder leaned his head in towards her ear. "Hey, handsome, I thought biting Alex's ass was your department," she whispered.

"Bitch."

***

Datchya Kohlberg poured herself a glass of Sabra liqueur and sat down with her needlepoint. She was thinking, an act which Aryeh usually described as "dangerous, very dangerous." She was happy with her thoughts. The world needed righting, and she was in a position to do something about it. True, Cousin Yaacov was a wonderful young man. True, he had made himself busy helping with the house, which had needed some repairs for which Aryeh had no time, and he was doing an excellent job. True, Aaron's English grades were improving steadily, as was his computer skill. Yaacov had obtained computer equipment from the funny little man who had come up from Washington, and when he had time he was showing Aaron how to use the Internet more effectively.

Of course, Datchya also understood that much of Yaacov's time at the computer was spent in doing some kind of work on a government project. And he went out at least once a week to visit the Museum and, apparently, some friends he must have made there, for he would let her know at those times that he would not be home for dinner. Once or twice he had come back late in the night from these expeditions; either these were very good friends, or it was something for his project, perhaps. But for all the work that Yaacov had around him, for all of his success with her children, the neighbors, and a few of the older yeshiva bookers, Yaacov seemed unhappy. It was clear to her that Yaacov was lonely. After all, there he was in his thirties, unmarried, and not dating. Maybe it was time to invite the Grunewalds to dinner? Their daughter Rachel was just back from Israel, and was preparing to begin studying for her Masters in Hebrew Letters when she returned to Jerusalem. She was twenty-three, still single, intelligent, and not bad-looking. She cleared her throat. "Aryeh, dear?"

Aryeh looked up, shuddering inside. Whenever he heard Datchya say those words, in just that tone of voice, there was something going on. He put down the notes for his planned lecture on Rabbi Chasen's letter on the Slaying of the First-Born. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"I was thinking, maybe we should invite Isaac and Sophie over to dinner. We haven't had them here in ages, and their daughter Rachel's home for a couple of months. You know Sydonie's always looked up to her; it might be nice."

Maybe Datchya wasn't scheming? "Of course, dear. She'd be a good role model for Sydonie. And I know how well you and Sophie get along when you're trading recipes; you two put the shul cookbook together, after all."

"I thought you'd like the idea." Datchya sipped at her drink. "Rachel hasn't had a shidduch, from what I understand."

Where did that come from? Aryeh wondered. "No. Isaac told me she wants to finish her master's degree first. I don't blame her. A very bright girl. When she's ready, she'll settle down. I shouldn't think she'd have a problem getting a good match."

"Just what I thought," Datchya said confidently. "I'm sure Yaacov will enjoy meeting her at dinner."

Aryeh shoved all his papers to a corner of the table where he sat. "Datchya, you're matchmaking again."

"And why shouldn't I? Yaacov's perfectly lovely, maybe a little moody at times, but look at what he's been through with his job. No wonder he's on leave," which was how Datchya had been told the matter. "So he's not frum, but he'd make a wonderful husband, and he's so good with children. And Rachel's the type who would be good for him. A frum career woman could show him you can go to work out in the world and still keep mitzvot. Besides, it's the wife's responsibility for keeping a frum home anyway, and I'm not certain that a few or more of the husbands I know wouldn't be in the dark about religious matters if their wives didn't ride herd on them."

"I hope you don't include me in that category, dear," Aryeh laughed. "But are you sure Yaacov would want anything like that? After all, he's used to the way such matters are conducted out there, and I don't know that he'd appreciate the way we do things when it comes to such personal matters."

"Do you deny Yaacov's probably lonely?"

"It's possible he may be," Aryeh admitted.

"And what's wrong with bringing friends over for dinner?"

"Nothing. But don't make it obvious if you do it. Yaacov hasn't said much to me, but I think he misses a few of his friends back where he's from, and not just the computer maven he's had up to visit a couple of times. I'm not sure, but I think he may have left someone behind. I don't know for sure, but he's sounded like it a few times when he's gone with me on my Shabbos walks. And I know his partner on his job is a lady. A doctor, at that."

"So? She's Jewish?"

"I think he said her name is Scully. That's an Irish-sounding last name; she's probably Catholic." Aryeh frowned. "Look, Datchya, we'd both like to see Yaacov meet a nice Jewish girl. But he's my cousin, not our son, all right? Invite the Grunewalds over. Bring Rachel. But no matchmaking!"

***

Brooklyn Discount Computer Warehouse stood in a dingy section of Brighton Beach. Young Russian toughs strolled down the street outside, some playing cards, some drinking beers, others moving more aimlessly. Cars occasionally pulled up and better-dressed businessmen of various descriptions would enter the store, ignoring the street entertainment. They came to the store for different reasons, though most came because they had been told that the staff there, mostly Russian emigres, would fix up their offices with almost any computer system or software package desired at an absurdly low cost. None of the customers asked about the provenance of the equipment; most weren't interested, and all knew that they really didn't want to know.

Georgi Kraskin leaned against a counter in the front, in a slightly too-shiny suit. He had just been in the shop in back, upgrading the memory of a regular client's computer with memory chips that had cost next to nothing. Considering that his coworker Ivan had cleared out an entire computer warehouse in New Jersey to stock the shop, it was possible to sell memory so cheaply these days. Before the upgrade, a few men had come in to discuss selling the store's management some used equipment that they had obtained quite cheaply. Cash had been transferred, and no questions had been asked. He had helped Feodor Petrovich send some odd information in an e-mail to someone in Russia; probably a member of the gang there, Georgi figured. He did as little figuring as possible, except about computers. He was paid well to fix and sell computers, do Feodor Petrovich's clerical tasks, and take care of an occasional shakedown. Beyond that, thinking was not in the job description, and Georgi never did any work he didn't have to do.

The shop buzzer rang as a potential new customer walked in. One of the Jews. Not neighborhood. Not a Chasid; that was a relief. Georgi had taken part in a few run-ins with Chasids. He didn't enjoy dealing with any Chasid he could avoid. Not neighborhood, either. Pretty well-dressed; nice shirt and sweater, good shoes, fairly stylish. Facial hair, but short, and a yarmulke, not a black hat; an Orthodox office guy on his day off, probably looking for a cheap computer for the kids. Probably a credit-card type, no cash to skim a few bucks from. But Georgi could get him to spend; he was good with the home-use types. "Shalom, sir. May we help you today? We have several very nice specials you might be interested in. Home or office use?"

"Neither," the customer replied in—what?—American-accented Yiddish, that was it. Not a native Yiddish speaker. Georgi could follow Yiddish if he paid attention closely. "I am looking for a manager of yours, possibly an owner."

"Yes?" Georgi responded politely.

"I have a message for Feodor Petrovich."

"Feodor Petrovich does not see visitors. May I give him the message?"

"Yes," came the reply, again in Yiddish. "Tell Feodor Petrovich that I have a message for his ears only. He will wish to see me. Ask him if the rabbit is waiting for the fox to follow it."

Georgi stared in astonishment. He knew the Chasids were into rackets sometimes, but he hadn't seen any yuppie frummies, as someone had called them, getting involved. Obviously, Ilya had been wrong. The fox and rabbit messages weren't chess-related at all; Feodor Petrovich was doing business with the Jewish gangs. Whew; Georgi thought, better Feodor Petrovich than me. L. G.—Louis Goldfarb? Something like that? Hmmm, for once Feodor Petrovich just might see a visitor. If this was L. G., there was clearly important business to discuss. Why didn't such an important man have a bodyguard? Georgi idly wondered what the Jews would pay for him to work as a bodyguard for one of their gang leaders. "Please, wait right here, sir. I will see Feodor Petrovich immediately. Yes, I am sure he will see you. Wait—I will be right back."

Mulder laughed to himself. So this was one of Alex's flunkies? Really, Alex could do better. Of course, he might want a dumb tough guy in the front of this operation. The clerk clearly wasn't Alex's lover; he would have known that even if he didn't suspect that Alex might have been faithful at least since discovering that Mulder was alive. The boy just wasn't Alex's type.

"The boy," as Mulder thought of him, was running into Feodor Petrovich's office-cum-den with enough speed to wind him. "Feodor Petrovich!" he yelped breathlessly. "He is here! Downstairs in the store!"

"Who is?" Alex Krycek asked his panting subordinate. "The federal prosecutor? The mayor's chief rackets investigator? Why else should you be so alarmed, Georgi Karlovich?"

"It is him, Feodor Petrovich. You know—L. G., the one who sends the messages. Himself, downstairs."

Shit. What was Frohike doing downstairs unless there was a crisis? And Mulder was alive, so what could be wrong? Admittedly, having set the Lone Gunmen up as silent partners in running this computer scam was the silliest notion since someone had dreamed up "My Mother, the Car," so anything was possible.

"A short man, bald, with glasses?" Krycek inquired mildly. Frohike better not do anything to ruin his image as the great Russian crime boss while he was downstairs. He hoped that Frohike wasn't running loose and rewiring everything, saying, "Don't worry, the boss won't mind."

"No, he is tall. Thin. He has whiskers. Well-dressed."

What the hell was Byers doing here? Byers looked like a walking federal bureaucrat. Wouldn't it be hell for business if the customers saw him. "And why has he come, did he say, Georgi Karlovich?"

"He wants to speak with you, Feodor Petrovich, and he uses the words from the messages he has sent. He asks if the rabbit is waiting for the fox. And he asks to see you."

Krycek swallowed. Thank God. It had been months, or it seemed so, since Frohike had called him with the news of his lover's death. Krycek had rarely cried in his life—not when his father beat him as a child; not in the gulag, when his arm had been sawed off without anesthetic; not when he had first worked with, and fallen in love with, Fox Mulder despite his orders from his former employers. Hearing that his lover had supposedly swallowed his gun while Krycek was setting up operations in New York, unable to be with him, had devastated Krycek. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried before that. Then, when Frohike had sent the news that Mulder and Scully had faked Mulder's demise, he had cried again when Georgi left the room. Since then, however, he had been sent the occasional message by Frohike that Mulder loved him and was thinking of him, but Mulder himself had remained steadfastly underground. Krycek had appeared patient on the surface, but he had been agonizing while waiting for the message that Mulder would be surfacing. "Send him up, Georgi, and leave us." Krycek poured himself a celebratory vodka. It would be good to hear Byers' news.

After Georgi's thunderous descent down the stairs, there was a brief pause before another set of footsteps proceeded up the steps more quietly. Krycek heard a hand on the doorknob; but though the knob turned, the door was opened only a crack. What was this—a setup? Then he heard a voice through the door, speaking quietly in Yiddish, "It seems the fox has found the rabbit in its warren, Alexei Stefanovich. Perhaps the fox should pounce."

Krycek shook his head, trying to process several thoughts at once. He heard Yiddish. *Translate the Yiddish. Byers doesn't know Yiddish, does he? Not Byers' voice anyway—hell, that's Mulder. Mulder doesn't speak Yiddish. Shit, Mulder's speaking Yiddish, isn't he?*

A fleeting thought of a smartaleck comeback. Not worth it. Krycek lunged at the office door and pulled it open, jerking the knob out of Mulder's hand. "My God, it's you. It really is you. You look like a damn Yid, but it's you." Fuck, crying again. Noiselessly, but crying. This was getting to be a bad habit. He slammed the door and grabbed Mulder about the waist with his right arm. The left was his prosthetic, pointless except for appearance.

Mulder pressed the length of his body against Krycek and seized Krycek's head in both hands, pulling the younger man's mouth to his. Krycek's lips were already parted when they met Mulder's, waiting for the older man's tongue to invade his mouth. His own tongue slid forward to meet his lover's as their hands began to explore each other's body. Krycek felt his own nearly immediate erection pressing against Mulder's through their clothing as he slid his hand under Mulder's sweater, and laid it against Mulder's chest, squeezing at the muscle he felt under the shirt. They broke from the kiss as Mulder took a breath. "Dead, huh," Krycek spluttered. "I could kill you myself. Frohike told me you were dead. Then he told me you were alive, but you were supposed to be dead. I don't get a word from you for months. So now you show up here on my doorstep and I'm supposed to be thrilled to see you," he cursed with a grin.

"Well, Alex, that's not a gun in your pocket, is it?" Mulder teased as he began unbuttoning his lover's shirt. "I figure you do have one on you, but that's not a gun there." He pressed his leg gently into Krycek's erection and began rubbing against it. Krycek groaned softly as Mulder slid the shirt down off of Krycek's shoulders and began running a trail of kisses gently down Krycek's neck and chest. He stopped his travels briefly at the base of the other man's neck as he began sucking and biting at one of Krycek's most sensitive spots.

"God, Mulder, how am I going to explain a hickey to my staff?" Krycek sighed as he reached through the fabric of Mulder's trousers to begin stroking Mulder's equally hard shaft.

"You're their boss, you don't have to tell them anything," Mulder growled. It was the last intelligible comment either made for the next hour.

Afterwards, Krycek ruminatively surveyed the damage to the room from his vantage point on the couch, his head resting on Mulder's chest. Most of their clothes had been shed between the door and his desk; there were shoes scattered between the desk and a chair. Mulder's sweater was balled on top of Krycek's walnut and cedar humidor, which his business associates kept filled with smuggled Havanas for him. Papers had been knocked off of the desk and a table. When the cyclone swept Dorothy and Toto away, the remains of Kansas must have looked much like this room. No actual damage done, though. He shifted position slightly against Mulder to snuggle in more tightly. "You know, I never thought that one of the benefits of losing my arm would be that we'd never have to worry about one of us getting in that position in bed where your circulation gets cut off when you're snuggling."

"Ghoul," Mulder murmured, trailing a hand along Krycek's side.

"And you still have to tell me why the hell you didn't contact me yourself. Among other things. Like when you're going to lose that beard. Ugh. Where have you been hiding and why do you look like the new rabbi in the neighborhood? At least you took the beanie off before we started making love. I don't think I could have handled it if that stayed on. What gives?" Krycek traced a finger idly along Mulder's chest over to a very sensitive nipple, flicking against the dark pink nub, watching it, and Mulder, react to him.

Mulder took a deep breath, shivering with pleasure at Krycek's touch. "It's a very long story within a very short distance. I've been here in Brooklyn almost the whole time. Frohike helped me set up shop to monitor the enemy, as it were, from the basement of a yeshiva on 14th Avenue."

Krycek's brow furrowed. Mulder couldn't tell if his lover was amused or furious at him. "You've been in town this whole time and you didn't have the decency to call? Or come in? Or e-mail? I've been running coded love letters through Frohike on line while you've been camping with the Chasids in the next neighbohhood?" Krycek frowned with mock indignance. "There. I knew I should kill you myself."

"It wouldn't have been a good idea for me to show up suddenly. Honestly," Mulder sighed. He paused briefly to nibble at Krycek's earlobe, feeling Krycek wriggling even more firmly into Mulder's body. "Growing the damn beard makes me a little less immediately identifiable—not much, but some, and I blend into the Jewish neighborhoods. And you should talk; look how long you disappeared on me before you resurfaced to negotiate with the federal prosecutor. For all I knew, the black-lunged bastard had arranged to have you killed so you couldn't turn over those tapes on the assassinations."

" Yeah. I had a reason to lay low. The remaining Consortium bastards probably would have killed me if they'd found me first. And besides, you couldn't afford to be saddled with my baggage until I did negotiate with Jeffries and the guys in the wing-tips. That would have been all you needed. Headline—FBI Agent's Fag Triple Agent Lover Asks, 'Why Can't My Boyfriend Get A Promotion?' If we'd stayed together before I sold out to the Federal Prosecutor's office, your career would have been over for good and the Consortium would have gotten exactly what it wanted." Krycek made the mock indignance face again. "Now, as for you—half the world and every UFO fanatic in the country thinks you're dead. No one knows you're alive, so what's your excuse for staying away from me? Shit, you don't think my guys know how to keep someone underground? You could have been living with me out on the Island in peace and quiet for the past few months, and not driving me crazy with worry."

"Well, I said it was a long story…" Mulder maneuvered Krycek beneath him on the couch and glued his lips firmly to the younger man's mouth. He'd get around to explaining the whole thing, he was sure, but Krycek would forgive him equally if he never went into it. They'd both spent enough years learning the need to keep secrets for the two to have developed a tacit "no prying; you'll tell me if I need to know" rule in their relationship. Meanwhile, they'd been separated for far too long…

***

Aryeh and Yaacov were taking an early-evening walk around the neighborhood after dinner. Both, individually, had decided there was need for a serious chat without Datchya or Aryeh's children around. They strolled companionably around the neighborhood as Aryeh puffed contentedly at a pipe. It was a beautiful evening. Several young boys, apparently all young yeshiva bookers at Aryeh's yeshiva, ran up to Aryeh to say hello as they walked along. A few others bicycled up and down the residential streets. A few motor bikes with Hebrew lettering puttered by on the street; they were an independent Jewish neighborhood police unit of some kind, from what Yaacov could tell. Jewish "Guardian Angel"-type vigilantes, but rather better controlled than the well-known subway patrollers. Aryeh stopped and leaned against a wrought-iron fence, pausing to relight his pipe. Yaacov stretched his arms quickly and turned to examine a fine piece of landscaping in the small front yard behind the fence. "So, Yaacov, " Aryeh said after getting his pipe working once again. "I feel it's my duty to warn you of something."

Yaacov raised an eyebrow at his cousin. Warnings usually came late at night in parking garages from guys in suits and overcoats who handed him thick manila envelopes of classified information which would wind up being stolen from him during the ensuing investigation. What was this? "Oh? Of what?"

"Datchya. She has an idea. She's decided that you're secretly terribly lonely and that she'll save you by a piece of her inspired matchmaking. She's already decided she knows the right girl. The Grunewalds are old friends of ours so we'd have them over for dinner anyway, but I know Datchya has designs on you and their daughter." Aryeh saw Yaacov hit his forehead with the palm of his hand and groan. It was the universal male indicator for "save me from some female's brilliant idea." Aryeh nodded and puffed at his pipe to keep it going. "Now, she's a nice girl and all that, and I don't think she knows she's being set up either. I think she'd kill Datchya if she knew, because she's starting her master's degree work shortly and she won't be in town herself then. You'll enjoy her company at dinner. I can guarantee that. But duck if you see Datchya trying to maneuver the two of you around, because she will do it. I've seen this before."

"Thanks for the warning. I needed that. I appreciate Datchya's fussing over me, but I'm not in the market for a wife. Or a girlfriend." They began strolling again, Aryeh waving to a young woman with a baby at her hip and two toddlers and a puppy at her feet.

"I thought you might say that. Not just because of your work. I don't mean to pry, Cousin. However, I'm under the impression there's somebody out there that you miss. Possibly the lady you work with, the doctor?"

"Scully? Yeah, I do miss her a lot—but she's come up here with Frohike, my computer geek friend, so I have seen her. And she's good about sending e-mail. But I don't miss her in quite the way you're thinking. She's my very best friend, and I love her a lot, but not quite like that. It's more like she's the sister I lost when I was a kid. I told you about Samantha." He reached into a pocket of the khakis he was wearing and extracted a handful of sunflower seeds. Thank God they were kosher, or he'd have died by now. A few seeds went into his mouth. The two men strolled again in silence for a few minutes. A couple of happy dog walkers passed them.

"But there is somebody, isn't there?" Aryeh finally said, in his best "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you" voice. "It doesn't matter, you know, that people are supposed to think you might be dead. You have a responsibility to anyone you're that close to not to hurt them. And you shouldn't be hurting yourself. Have you even spoken to them since you took this leave?"

"My computer friend, Frohike, has sent a few messages to my friend for me. And I did just see my friend yesterday."

"She's up here?" Aryeh asked. "If she's been up here all this time, why didn't you go see her? Or did she just come into town?"

"No, my friend lives up here," Yaacov/Mulder sighed, ignoring Aryeh's pronoun. "But I met my friend while working on some matters involving the nice people who tried to kill me, and I was afraid to take the chance that some of them might be floating around. Things were a bit safer now."

"Could you have invited her to travel here safely?" Aryeh asked.

"Very possibly. But it would have been an imposition on you that I wasn't willing to make."

"That's silly, Yaacov. You know Datchya loves having company over. Why should we have minded?"

"It wasn't the physical imposition I was thinking of," Yaacov replied, popping a few more sunflower seeds. "I was thinking more of the moral one—or should I say the religious one."

"Oh." Aryeh worked at his pipe for a moment as they turned the corner. "Of course. She's not Jewish. Too much to hope, I suppose, you being from out there. I knew your partner wasn't Jewish, anyhow—she's Catholic, I imagine? Yes, I imagine we'd have had a bit of a problem. We certainly entertain gentile visitors occasionally, of course, but I do think I'd have a problem harboring interfaith dating under my own roof. Thank you for thinking about that."

It was time, wasn't it? Even if it wasn't, it needed to be done—for the sake of being honest if for no other reason. He lived around too many lies in his life already. Aryeh wasn't going to like it one bit. At least, if there was a problem—and he was fairly sure there would be one—he knew that he could count on Alex at this point; in fact, he'd probably have been able to surface to Alex at least a few weeks before, but he had felt paranoia to be a virtue in trying to play dead. "Aryeh, I hate to tell you, but that wasn't what I'd been thinking about in regard to keeping my friend away."

"Oh?" They continued down the block. The sun was starting to fade more quickly than it had earlier; they would be turning back towards home in a few minutes.

"I have a great deal of respect for your intelligence—though I'm rather afraid you're about to lose any respect you've been harboring for the family black sheep. Think on this, Aryeh—in this conversation, you're the only one who's assigned my friend a gender pronoun."

Aryeh stopped, blinked, shook his head. "Oh." He looked at his cousin more closely, rather as if he thought that the features might have changed in the last few seconds. "Really? You know, I would never have believed it. You're not joking?"

"Not one bit, I'm afraid. His name is Alex, and we've been together—well, mostly long-distance, and with a couple of interesting separations caused by crazed killers, federal prosecutors, witness protection, and things like that—for nearly two years."

"Really?" Aryeh asked. "I hate to sound stupid…but do the people you work for know? I'd think the FBI would have some problems with that. After all, the military does."

"The FBI is the original old boys' club. It's not cool to be female, or black, or anything else there, either. They won't admit it, but it's true. They can't fire me for it, though, and as you just noticed, I'm, well, not exactly obvious about it. My boss knows, though, and he knows Alex. He's okay about it, except that he thinks I'm nuts anyway. Gay he doesn't mind. Paranoid and mildly psychotic, on the other hand, are problems for him. My partner knows, but she just thinks we're cute."

Aryeh shrugged. "That's women for you," he sighed. "I do need to ask you this. You said something a moment ago. Am I correct that you were expecting a negative reaction from me?"

Negative? He'd expected to be either shot or asked to remove himself from the house immediately if not sooner. "Uh, in a word—yes. I'm aware that being gay isn't exactly welcome in the Orthodox community."

Aryeh winced. "Don't go getting all of us confused with the Chasidim again. They aren't even sure it really exists. Surely you've noticed that we Orthodox are a very mixed bag. I'm a rabbi. If you ask me, I'll tell you it's a sin. Of course, there are 613 commandments and I've yet to meet anyone who's never broken any of them, including me. Our beloved great-grandfather, may he rest in peace, was prone to say that the greater the man, the greater the sins, and that if his pupils insisted he was a saint, then he was a greater sinner than any of them could hope to be. Besides, I didn't live in Paris for four years at the end of the Sixties without getting an education about a lot of things I wasn't supposed to learn, if you know what I mean. And don't tell Datchya because she thinks I was a virgin." He grinned. Both men laughed.

"Are you saying I don't have to move out of your house for fear I'll corrupt Aaron permanently?"

"If you could continue to corrupt him the way you've been doing, you may need to stay for a couple more years to keep the boy on the right track about school. We may be a bit isolated from most of the news of the world here, but I do know that homosexuals aren't child molesters. Besides," Aaron said to him, "I imagine your mother never did keep up with family events. You're certainly not the only one in the family. You didn't wonder why my brother moved to San Francisco? I told you about Joshua moving there."

"Aryeh, people move to San Francisco all the time. You don't have to be gay to live there."

"Maybe not, but Joshua says that it helps," Aryeh chuckled. "He's a bit more secular, I suppose; he belongs to Young Israel out there, which is Orthodox but not exactly frum by our standards. He teaches at one of the state universities. He's a biochemist, does a lot of research. He was back visiting last summer; he taught Aaron how to read the periodic table and how to do a few experiments in the kitchen that Datchya tells me still haven't been completely eradicated."

"You haven't checked lately. She just made me replace the tiling to the side of the stove last week. I gather the scorching was part of the aftermath of Kitchen Chemistry 101." A few more sunflower seeds. They were turning back in the general direction of the house. The sun was sinking rapidly; it was a few degrees cooler than when the walk had begun. Datchya would have an apple strudel and a large pot of tea awaiting them when they returned.

"You've really been a tremendous help to us. Hashem knows I'm no home repair expert. And Joshua is, if you'll pardon my pun, a home wrecker." No point in razzing Aryeh for that one; he was booing himself. A grimace would do, and then a few more sunflower seeds. They picked up the pace of their stroll, both eager to avoid a chill. "And the children adore you. It's a shame, you know; you'd make a wonderful father. You're not too old, either, as far as that goes. I don't suppose there's a chance there?"

"Of course there's a chance. You're the one that keeps telling me that if God didn't make something impossible in the Torah, then it's perfectly possible. However, the likelihood is up there with pigs flying."

"Not with aliens landing?" Aryeh laughed.

"No. They're here already. I told you that last week. And I love kids. The thing is, of course I could get married. I'd probably be perfectly able to do the biologically required routine. But I don't really enjoy it, and I'd never be able to give a fair deal to any woman I'd marry. Besides, I love Alex. If I did something like that, I'd only wind up making at least three people miserable. It's not worth it just to have kids, Aryeh. I'm destined to be a permanent uncle; sorry."

"Oh, well, may Hashem put it on the record that I did check. I've done my official religious duty. But if you ever decide you've been mistaken, just remember that Datchya is always there to make sure you're safely fixed up. She could find a wife for the Pope. If your aliens are looking for nice girls who can cook, she could probably even fix them up. What's that movie you told me about—'Mars Needs Women'? If that's true, they need to talk to Datchya."

"I can't believe it. I'm afraid I may be having more of an impact on the Jewish community here than it's been having on me. I can't imagine sci-fi film marathons every Purim at the shul." The last sunflower seeds were gone. The house, and tea and pastry, were in sight. Aryeh was tucking his pipe into his pocket.

"Some of the younger boys at the yeshiva will almost certainly request it. David Hurwitz painted a little green man on his one yarmulke last week, you know. And I'm almost positive Datchya used green apples in this strudel. I fear we're hopelessly corrupted now."

***

Mulder lay in bed with Krycek at Krycek's apartment, a comfortable and obviously expensive rental. He still wasn't used to the idea that being alone with his lover meant that there were two toughs outside in the living room and on the balcony. He really didn't want to know what those boys were thinking about their boss and his friend. This afternoon, one of the thugs was Georgi, and he questioned whether Georgi could think in the first place. Krycek was dozing lightly in Mulder's arms; Mulder had thought of going to the bathroom, but decided that it could wait. They had spent the better part of the past few weeks together; despite being uncomfortable with the retinue Krycek felt it necessary to keep around him, Mulder was becoming all too comfortable with their routine. Unfortunately, the messages he'd received in the past couple of days from Scully and from Frohike meant that it had been too good to last. He didn't want to tell Alex, but he was going to have to.

Krycek shifted position in his nap; his eyelids fluttered slightly. He appeared to be waking up. Mulder leaned over and began trailing kisses behind Krycek's ear, down along the line of his jaw. "Mmmmmmm. Keep that up long enough…"

"And what?" Mulder returned to his task of discovering whether another human could be kissed to death.

"And I'll think of something," Krycek sighed drowsily. "I love you, Fox."

"I love you, too. But we have to talk."

"I hate those words. They're usually bad news. What is it?"

"Bad news. Good news, actually, but bad news. I'm going to have to go back to D.C. in a week or so. Things are starting to get complicated—as if they weren't already—and I'm going to have to make like this other Jewish guy did back when and come back to life in front of everybody."

"So you're leaving. I just get you back, and you're leaving."

"I'm leaving town, Alex. I'm not leaving you."

"I know, but does 'so when will I see you again' sound too much like a line from a bad movie?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure what's going to be happening. I wish I could tell you."

"Do you ever think we'll have a halfway normal life? Both living at least in the same town for once, if not the same place? Maybe getting to see each other for more than a couple days at a time?"

"Not unless I quit the Bureau or you decide to go straight, gorgeous. And I don't think either of us really knows how to do anything other than what we do. I don't know how not to go tilting at windmills, and you don't know how not to pull off deals. We both get way too much of an adrenaline rush out of living way too dangerously for our own good. Besides, if you came back to D.C. with me, there's no way you could stay under wraps. Not that Jeffries wouldn't want you to, but you're too well known. Feodor Petrovich doesn't have a chance inside the Beltway. Too many people know you."

"Think we've got any chance of keeping a commuter marriage going?"

"Only if you call it something else. Call it that and Cousin Aryeh may give you a lecture."

"I'm not afraid of your cousin Aryeh, so there. I called him up, by the way. We're having lunch next week."

"You're kidding."

"No. You were right about him. He seemed to be a pretty decent guy."

"He is. He and Datchya are sweethearts, even if she did try to fix me up with their neighbors' daughter until Aryeh broke her the news."

"How did she take it?"

"She was wrecked. Not that I was gay, just that I was already taken. I ruined her whole plan. Besides…you're not Jewish."

"She'll forgive you when she sees how wonderful I am. Think she'll be able to handle someone with my work credentials as an in-law?"

"Alex, I don't think anyone's ready to handle you."

"Don't know about that…by the looks of things, I'd say you look pretty damn ready…get over here, you."

= = 30 = =

Notes on usage: It was easier not to translate the Yiddish back and forth all the way through. A few of the terms may be familiar. The best source for all explanation is Leo Rosten's The Joy of Yiddish. Briefly, "Baruch Hashem" is "praise God"; "shalom aleichem" is a standard greeting meaning "hello, friends"; the correct response is "aleichem shalom". "Frum" means that a person is a religiously observant Orthodox Jew. Fox Mulder is NOT frum.

The title is taken from the passage of the Passover Haggadah, which narrates the history of the Jewish people and the Exodus, beginning, "My father was a wandering Aramean." The "father" alluded to is the Patriarch Jacob (Yaacov), who took his family into the land of Egypt.