A/N: Well, here's an unexpected oneshot that wrote itself throughout the course of the day! It's one I'd been wanting to write for a few months now, but never had the drive to.

In part, I wanted to write this because I wanted to write a scene where Alex Krycek comforts Mulder—as obtuse as that sounds. And I knew the only way to achieve that would be before he reveals himself to be a mole in the FBI. In addition, I wanted to get this oneshot on paper (or computer document) because I've wanted to try at writing Krycek, so hopefully I did justice to his character as he's presented in Season 2.

And a final note: I am still working on The Meaning of Christmas and Keeping Grounded if you're at all reading those two multi-chapter stories. I just felt like publishing another oneshot for the meantime.

Mulder stared at the stark, white silhouette bolstered by a single sheet of cardboard. It wavered as it hit the end of the rail, the bottom edge flapping as it bumped up against the back wall. The routine was fairly commonplace, even droll, but it was numbing, and that's what Mulder needed right then. Just focused in on competently completing a single action and letting instinct take over as he aimed at the ambiguous figure and felt the recoil of the pistol in his hands. The moment his body rocked back, he steadied himself again and resumed his professionally-trained stance.

The world around him didn't exist as isolated and cut-off from everything as he was. He was jammed into a little cubicle of sorts, thickened walls on either side of him blocking his view from any other prospective shooters that might join him, and the only direction he had to look was forward. He had the range all to himself at the moment, so there was even less there to distract him.

The large, plastic earmuffs he wore stifled every sound. He could make out the loud bang of each gunshot as a muffled pop, but beyond that he was surrounded by silence.

He was reminded of The Allegory of the Cave by Plato. The story of captive individuals who were imprisoned in a darkened cave, and all they knew of life resulted from what they saw in that cave. They couldn't move; even their heads were immobile, and they were forced to stare at the cave wall where a light shone, but they were unable to see the source of the light behind them. Shadows played across the wall, and that was the whole extent of their grasp on reality. The world only amounted to those shadows; there was nothing more to be gained in life.

Mulder kind of felt like one of those captives; even worse, he wished he were one of them. There was too much to fear outside the safe realm of the cave, or in his case, the shooting range. Life was much simpler when his sole objective was to shoot a stationary, paper target.

But he knew he wouldn't be able to reside in that cave forever. He would eventually have to undo his shackles and leave to explore the surface. He certainly wasn't the brave captive that willingly wandered out into the world to behold the wonders of reality: sunlight, colors, life all around. Mulder had witnessed that, of course, but he had also seen the dangers and tragedies that existed in life. While he normally sought to embrace all that happened day-to-day whether good or ill, and while he normally sought to destroy the misleading illusions that existed in life, this time he just wanted to return to the safety of the cave and delude himself with such a fictionalized but comforting reality.

But such moments wouldn't last. He was waiting for that one brave, experienced wanderer to come fetch him and force him to confront the truth of reality. For the first time in his life, it was a truth he did not want to reveal.

Mulder replaced the magazine in his pistol, tossing the spent one into the plain wastebin beside him. A few more empty cartridges littered the bottom of the bin. Without a second thought, he resumed his shooting.

In between firing off rounds, he thought he heard a dulled shout. The fact that it was a human voice only registered because he picked up the distinct staccato quality of someone sharply shouting an expletive; more specifically, he thought he heard, "Damn!"

Mulder turned to look behind him. Krycek walked up to him scowling, the jacket of his thin suit swinging out behind him as he marched over. He held a file to his side as he placed the second sound-proof cup of the earmuffs against his ear. Mulder tugged off his own set and set his gun down on the little, retractable table in front of him.

"Is there any news on Scully?" he asked rapidly. Krycek looked at him in exasperation before removing his ear protection again, holding them loosely in his other hand.

"Okay, so now you take them off…. Damn, Mulder, my ears are ringing from those last shots."

"Krycek!" Mulder prompted sharply. Krycek sighed and shook his head.

"No. There's nothing new on her." Mulder couldn't look at the younger man. He had been hoping she'd been rescued or at least spotted. An APB had gone out regarding her abduction, and it included an in-depth description of Duane Barry on Mulder's insistence. But Mulder had no idea what Barry might have done to her or where he would have taken her. The former FBI agent was either a bonafide abductee or a stark raving madman, and he was impossible to anticipate.

Mulder turned back to the shooting range and punched a button on a panel, causing the target to lurch forward along the rail and back toward him. He rechecked the cartridge of 9mm bullets in his weapon. He had spent just over half the magazine, and discharged the ammo, setting it on the table beside the pistol. The mechanical whir of the wheels and belt on the pulley buzzed as the bullet-riddled target returned to him.

"What are you doing here, Krycek?" Mulder asked distantly, glancing over to the man.

"I wanted to make sure you were alright," Krycek replied, looking for all the world like a dutiful schoolboy. "Skinner ordered that you go home and get some sleep. Of course, he told me to see you home, and I didn't exactly see that order through, but I'm beginning to agree with him."

"I'm better here," Mulder retorted weakly, ripping down the target as it stopped in front of him. He barely noticed the perfectly placed holes peppering its center. Without much thought, he crumpled the sheet, tossed it in the bin, and crossed to the back of the room behind him where a box of fresh targets awaited use. "I-I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. Not when I know Scully's out there."

"You'd be better at home, Mulder," Krycek countered. "Whether you're here or there, they'll call you the moment something comes in. Hell, if you want, I'll call you personally."

"I'd rather just stay here," Mulder said again with finality. He placed the fresh sheet against the cardboard backing and jammed the button to send the entire hanging gadget wheeling backwards again.

"What's the point of this?" Krycek suddenly asked. Mulder looked over to him. There was a boyish eagerness to the younger man, a determination to constantly move forward and complete tasks. He didn't know hot to handle such a horrifying event as an agent going missing. He didn't know whether he ought to be angry or morose or something entirely different. He settled for resolved and confused. "What's this going to achieve?" He gestured to the gun range.

"It lets me forget for a bit," Mulder replied numbly. "And it helps me perfect my aim in case there's a need." The dark joke was grimly said; he smiled with a distinct lack of compassion. He slotted the partially spent weapon cartridge back into the butt of his pistol, then set it down again. "You know, Krycek," he murmured, refraining from looking at the man. "All I keep thinking is that I should have listened to Kazdin and followed her rules of engagement for a hostage situation. I shouldn't have tried to relate to Barry; I shouldn't have turned myself over to him. If I'd followed protocol, Scully wouldn't be in this situation." Krycek was silent for a moment.

"And risk four other lives in the process?" he replied quietly. "Mulder, if you hadn't done what you did, those hostages might not have made it. Barry might have killed them all."

Mulder hated himself for the first thought that came to mind. It was unsuitable for a man of his position, and even more horrid for one human being to think of another. Those lives weren't equal to Scully. Who was he to play God? To decide that one life have greater worth over another? He really shouldn't have such heinous thoughts, but he wished for anything that he could have Scully back safe and sound. Each hour ticking away with no sign of her greatly diminished those chances, though.

"If he's hurt her..." he breathed heavily, simultaneously disgusted at himself and furious at Barry's course of action.

"Don't say that, Mulder," Krycek quickly cut him off, taking away the chance for him to finish his threat. But he hadn't planned on finishing it in the first place. "We can't go around delivering our own brand of justice."

"You don't get it, Krycek," Mulder said more sharply than he'd intended. Lack of sleep and his foul mood was rapidly catching up with him. "I let this happen...because I believed him! Whether he fed me a load of bs or not, I believed the guy! And whatever he was planning to do to that doctor, that's what's in store for Scully!"

"I know, Mulder," Krycek said, raising his hands defensively and brandishing the file like a flimsy, paper shield. "I know what's at stake. And I want to get her back as much as you do." Mulder chuckled darkly.

"You know, I'm not entirely sure what to believe anymore," he admitted slowly. "Whether Barry's mental state and symptoms are as a result of abduction or that he's a sociopath and a pathological liar because of that bullet to the head."

"I thought you subscribed to the abduction theory because you questioned how Barry could have found Dana?" Krycek ventured questioningly. His eyes registered curiosity and confusion.

"I do," Mulder nodded. "I don't know how he found her otherwise. But in the event that's not true, I don't want to think of the alternative. Scully with that sort of deranged madman…." His voice wandered off.

He considered the paranoid, frightened Duane Barry he had walked in on the night before. The man brandishing a gun with an itchy trigger finger and unable to comprehend the consequences of firing a bullet into another person's chest. He had been willing to admit the paramedics to see to the one travel agent he had injured, but other than that, he didn't seem concerned with whether he lived or died. Mulder didn't sense that a psychopathic killer lurked beneath the fidgety, nervous demeanor that Duane Barry presented, but had that just been part of the act? Like Scully had warned him? In that moment—while a voluntary hostage in the travel agency—Mulder didn't want to believe that. He wanted to believe that Duane Barry was another sad victim of government conspiracy and extraterrestrial intervention, a man at the end of his rope who only craved acceptance and required a listening ear. But in the event of Scully's kidnapping, he had to consider the possibility that he had completely misjudged Duane Barry.

Maybe that's why Barry had targeted Scully. He saw Mulder as an easy mark, a gullible idiot that he could easily feed a fantastical and illogical story to, and Mulder would just lap it up. And what was the best way to hurt someone like Mulder? Hurt those closest to him. Barry's history in the FBI suddenly hit Mulder with newfound force: perhaps he still had contacts or illicit means to access the FBI database. Hell, Mulder had the Gunmen for all his illegal, conspiracy-based needs. What if Barry had his own version of that oddball trio? And if that were true, Barry could easily have found Mulder's file and his Bureau history, as well as information on his year-long partnership with Scully. Granted, that would be difficult to do in a matter of hours. It still wasn't determined exactly how Barry had escaped the hospital he had been admitted to following his incapacitation, but he somehow fled there and ended up at Scully's doorstep.

"Listen, Mulder," Krycek said, respectfully giving the veteran agent his space and time to think, "we're not going to stop looking for her. But I really think you should get some sleep. This—" he gestured down the shooting range, "won't do you any good in a sleep deprived state."

"This is keeping me out of a sleep deprived state," Mulder countered with the slightest hint of his customary swagger, but his heart wasn't in it. "It's pretty difficult to fall asleep when a gun keeps kicking back into your face." Krycek sighed frustratedly, but tried again.

"Even if you don't go home, why don't you crash in the lounge for a few hours? People hardly go in there, and there's the couch." Mulder hardly considered the notion; no matter what, he wasn't about to go to sleep. He picked up his gun again. "I think it would do you some good," Krycek pressed. "It'll let you look at the case with fresh eyes. You're no good to Dana like this." He wasn't sure why, but Krycek's last statement struck a cord. He thumped down the gun and stared at his diminutive partner. As far as Mulder was concerned, he was giving his all to ensure Scully's safe return—and if that wasn't enough, nothing else was going to help. Least of all a couple hours sleep.

And he wasn't doing it just for himself or the sake of the Bureau. He thought back to meeting Scully's petite mother in the early hours of the morning. Scully had only mentioned her mother a few times in passing, especially following her father's death the year before. For some reason, he hadn't expected Mrs. Scully to look as she had: small with frizzy, black hair, soulful eyes, and an ironclad resolve. He could definitely see where Scully got some of her personality traits, but there was more of a natural compassion to Mrs. Scully. He suspected that was a result of motherhood, but it very well could have just been in her character.

She had been clearly upset by her daughter's abduction, but had not fallen into hysterics. She was coherent and relatively composed when speaking to him. Mulder was surprised at the level of fortitude she exhibited given the circumstances. She was handling it all almost better than he was; he could barely speak, wrapped up in his own thoughts and haunted by Scully's cries for help in the answering machine message he had received. The repeated, long wailings of, "Mulder!" She had needed him, and he hadn't been there for her.

He had set her up for failure; in believing Duane Barry as he did and giving him the benefit of the doubt—as all believers were wont to do—he unwittingly arranged her abduction. And both she and Mrs. Scully were paying the price for his folly.

No woman—no mother when it came down to it—deserved to lose a loved one to abduction. Such an event could completely destroy a life; he and his family were proof of that. He didn't want to abandon Scully and her family to a similar fate—not when there was anything he could do about it.

He was about to voice the thought to Krycek when a phone rang. Mulder looked over to the table to the back of the room where he had unceremoniously tossed his suit jacket, but the sound wasn't coming from that direction. Krycek raised a finger and reached into his pocket, pulling out a blocky, black cell phone. He tugged at the antenna, punched a button, and put the phone to his ear.

"Krycek," he said automatically. He was silent for a moment, his eyes widening in alarm. "Someone will be over in a few minutes." He dropped the phone and shoved the antenna down.

"What is it?" Mulder asked hurriedly, his mind whirring at the possibilities. Had Scully been found? Was she alive? Was he being asked to identify a body? His heart practically stopped as a sense of dread washed over him.

"A patrolman was killed on Route 229 outside Rixeyville, Virginia this morning. He'd been conducting a routine traffic stop when the driver opened fire." He paused for a moment, as if preparing himself for the weight of his next words. "It's Dana's car," he said softly, sounding afraid that Mulder would launch into a tirade at the sudden revelation. "The Video Production Team is overviewing the dashcam footage now."

Mulder's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock. They might have found her.

He snatched up his gun, discharged the half-spent clip, and slapped both ammo and weapon on the table once more. He shoved his earmuffs into Krycek's hands.

"Can you return these to where they belong?" he asked hurriedly, jogging over to the nearby table to snatch up his suit jacket before Krycek had a chance to reply.

"Mulder," he stammered, flustered at the request. "You need to check these items in and sign yourself out of the range," he reminded him. "I don't have clearance to sign out for other agents." Mulder looked at his partner as he pulled his jacket on.

"Tell them this was a matter of life or death. I need to get over to the VPT immediately. Scully may be on that tape!" He tugged his shirt collar over the fringe of his jacket and sped toward the exit.

He had been right. He knew someone was going to wander into his cave and demand he return to the surface and the world he was drastically trying to avoid. But—in a twist he hadn't been expecting—he had the initiative to walk himself out. He might have stumbled upon the break in the case he needed: a clue that would lead him to Scully. And even while he was loathe to face a world where she might be direly injured or dead, he had to take the chance to find her. He refused to be deluded by shadows any longer.