"Not bad, Krycek," said Mulder, tossing the agent's report across the desk, "but trichophagia is spelled with an "h" not a "k". You might also want to use the proper medical term for "hairball"."

"Which is. . . ?"

"Bezoar."

"I thought that was a planet in the Reticulan system."

"Just an odd coincidence, I'm sure. I doubt it has any bearing on the case."

"Why am I vaguely disturbed and yet unsurprised that you know the proper medical term for a hairball?"

"You think the terminology of obsessive-compulsive disorders is a bit far afield for a psychologist?"

"Oh yeah, for some reason I'm always forgetting that you're a mental-health professional, not a professional mental health hazard."

Mulder almost smiled. "Then again, I could just have a lot of experience with hairballs."

"Are you trying to say something about my haircut, Mulder? Because I've been noticing you looking at it all day."

"It's not my place to comment on your. . .thing."

"My thing? God, you aren't a Freudian, are you? Cause if you are I'm sure that means something significant."

"Infidel."

But Mulder's cheeks had turned slightly pinkish, Krycek noticed with interest.

"Anyway, I just like to look professional."

"Professional wrestler?"

"Okay, you wanna play it that way? What look are you going for this week, Mulder? If it's the retro, early-eighties, Flock of Seagulls meets John Boy look, I hope you tipped your stylist well."

Mulder's mouth hung open slightly. "Wow. Scully was right. You really are the Antichrist."

Krycek ducked his head, wincing. "God, she really does hate me, doesn't she?"

"Um, I don't think it's a personal kind of hatred."

"I feel like I stole her man and done her wrong."

Mulder carefully didn't look at the other agent, staring instead at his computer screen. "Oh, I'm not that beloved," he said mildly. "Actually, I think it has more to do with your spilling coffee on the Tkachenko protocol."

"Hey, this is the computer age, Mulder. It's not like some poor myopic typist spent her weekend finger-whittling that copy."

Rather dreamily, Mulder leaned back and stared off into space. "Funny, isn't it. Just think how far we've come, Krycek. Fifty years ago, all over the country, cases were being documented just like that, typed up single copy by hunt-and-peck sargents-- thousands of evidence reports filed away in dusty cabinets, prey to fire, loss, theft."

Krycek frowned at the stacks of papers massed in front of him, all relating to the multiple homicide investigation they were writing up. "What's your point? You think Lucas may have "misplaced" some evidence? You like him for obstruction of justice? I heard you badgering him about unnecessary force. I can't say I'd be surprised."

Mulder shook his head, smiling dryly. "Down, boy scout. Good instincts, but I wasn't thinking about the case. It was just mental doodling. Maybe you should take a break, grab a smoke--"

"I don't smoke."

"Go pound the vending machines then. See if you can make them cough up some chocolate. Tell them they owe me about twenty dollars worth of Hershey bars and I haven't forgotten what's due me."

"That should scare them. . .are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Well, it's just that Scully's coming by. . ."

Krycek stood up, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. "Want anything?"

"Mmm--"

"Chocolate. Got it."

"Telepathy. I like that in a man."

Krycek, at the door, paused, turned, and leaned against the jamb a moment, looking back over his shoulder at Mulder. When Mulder glanced up, he saw the younger man gazing at him thoughtfully and somewhat dangerously from under long lashes. "Hey, Mulder, can you read this thought?" he said in a low, throaty voice.

Mulder's face colored, and Krycek left, evil chuckles trailing him down the hallway.