TITLE:   WORDS 7: AT A LOSS FOR WORDS
AUTHOR:  KAREN RASCH
E-MAIL:  krasch@delphi.com
RATING:  NC-17

***Introduction***

        Hi!  I've never done this before.  Well, actually I've
never done *many* things, but what I'm referring to specifically
is:  1)  Write a separate introduction; and 2)  Post something
before it was completed.  I do have reasons however for finally
indulging my urge to do both.
        First off, I'm putting all my disclaimer/acknowledgment
stuff in a separate post simply in the interest of space.  My first
chapter was edging closer and closer to 30K and I know that's
the magical number for many people's servers.  So, seeing as I
am rarely a woman of few words (please God, no pun intended)
I thought I better make this a chapter of its own.
        Secondly, I'm posting this baby before it's finished as
a means to keep me on the straight and narrow.  This particular
story has gotten away from me.  I expected it to run four chapters.
I'm currently at six and a half, with at least two, most likely four
chapters still to come.  This wouldn't be all that big a deal,
except that I've made a promise to a cyber-pal that another story
would be done by the magical October 4th premiere date.  (I
swear to God, I'm trying, MD.)  So, I need to move this effort
along.  I figure what better way to do that than post what I
have of this one so that I feel =compelled= somehow to put the
pedal to the metal.
        Now, I realize this approach is not everyone's cup of
tea.  I myself, being the impatient sort,  try to stay away from
incomplete stories.  Although sometimes I *do* get sucked in.
(Mary Ann--am I everevereverever going to see the end of
"When a Tree Falls" or do you plan on torturing me and the
rest of your fans for the rest of our natural lives? <vbg>)  All
I can tell you is that I have six completed chapters.  I plan to
post them one a day, while in the meantime, writing like mad.
        I promise I'll do my best. :)
        Enough yakking.  Let's get down to business.
        This is a continuation of the "Words" series.  (If you'd
like to know what other stories fall under that banner, please
e-mail me for titles.  I would be happy to help you out.)  It is most
definitely NC-17 in nature, and therefore carries with it all the
appropriate warnings.  Having said that, I hasten to add that
the story isn't *all* sex.  <A stunned silence falls over the
newsgroup>  It also has embedded in it a case file of sorts,
some character reflection, Mulderangst, and a touch or two
of humor.
        The title comes courtesy of Adina Ringler, a lovely
woman who suggested it in jest only to have me glom on to it
immediately.  It's not the "Scully Revenge" story, Adina.  But
I think the title works for this piece just the same.
        This story is dedicated to the wondrous Nicole Perry,
writer of the amazing "Road" series, and one of my dearest
cyber pals.  She's been after me for the longest time to do one
of these relationship tales with a file included.  This is that
effort.  Nic, I hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed
our friendship.  You're the best, Bert.
        Disclaimers?  You guys know!  These characters don't
belong to me (M & S that is).  They are the property of CC, 1013,
and Fox.  I'm merely having fun.  There are places in this tale that
actually exist.  I mean them no disrespect.  I added them simply
for authenticity and local color.  And rest assured, all of you, no
money is being made.  At least not by me.  Comments are appreciated
at the above address.  I may not be able to answer them immediately.
But I'll do my damnedest. Thanks for listening.  Onward to Chapter I.

Please check the intro for all the pertinent disclaimer info.
Enjoy.  Comments appreciated at the above address.  Thanks.


        Scully was late.
        Way late.
        Her plane had touched down over two hours before.
When it first appeared that she had been delayed, Mulder had
called the airline.  Had convinced the representative to check
the flight manifest.  And yet the perky young voice at the other
end of the telephone line had found nothing unusual to report.
His partner had boarded in Atlanta just as they had planned.
        So where the hell was she?
        God.  He should have known they would be unable to
carry this thing off.  Should have realized that their plan was a
pipe dream at best.  And yet, at the time, the undertaking had
seemed a reasonable enough risk.  They would leave
Washington on different planes, from two different airports,
both using assumed names.  Holding two sets of tickets apiece
to two different destinations, they would each make their
connections in Atlanta.  And from there, land in New Orleans,
Mulder several hours ahead of Scully.
        Well, he had arrived safely in the Crescent City.  Had
made it in without a hitch.
        And yet, he had no idea where she might be.
        That knowledge gnawing on his insides, he had earlier
attempted to contact her via her cell phone; but had only
succeeded in getting that annoying little recording informing
him that the cellular customer was unavailable.  He had then
thought to try paging her at New Orleans International Airport.
Yet, to do so would be akin to dropping a large neon arrow over
her head, thus shooting in the foot any hope of secrecy.  And
so, he had refrained, deciding instead to resort to that measure
only should the need prove dire enough.
        He glanced at his watch.  After eleven.
        Grimacing at the late hour, Mulder ran his hand through
his hair, and paced without purpose across the polished
hardwood floor at his feet.  Not even the sweet sensual scent
of jasmine wafting in through the room's open balcony doors
could distract him from the self-recriminations ringing in his head.
        He would never forgive himself.  Never.  Not if something
had happened to her on account of this.  On account of him.
        God.  It was all so unnecessary.  They would never even
have had to make this trek.  It was all his idea.  Like the majority
of their most harrowing misadventures.  They could be safe and
snug in D.C.  But, no.  He had to insist on their coming here.
Had to drag Scully into the midst of yet another fiasco.
        Perhaps he should just go ahead and make that call.
He could try having her paged under her assumed name rather
than her actual name.  It would still call attention to her, but
the misdirection might be enough to keep any interested parties
from getting overly suspicious.
        He crossed to the dresser and had just picked up his
cell phone from atop it when he heard the faint knock at the door.
        "Yes?"
        "Mulder?  It's me."
        Tossing the phone negligently so that it skittered across
the gleaming surface of the chest of drawers like a puck across
ice, he strode quickly to the door.  Taking a deep and what he
hoped would be calming breath, he pulled the portal open.
        And there stood his partner, as worry-free as could be.
Clad in a long flowing skirt, a lightweight cotton blouse with a
low rounded neckline and a pair of slip-on flats, she appeared
travel-weary, but completely unharmed.  She looked up at him,
one suitcase on a trolley at her feet, a lumpy tote bag hanging
from her shoulder.
        "Hi."
        "Where have you been?"
        Dana Scully raised a finely arched brow and considered
the man before her.  He stood in what she imagined must be the
remnants of one of his suits; the navy blue slacks, and matching
pinstriped shirt he wore contributing to that impression.  And yet,
his emotional state appeared to belie the apparent sophistication
of his dress.
        He seemed . . . well . . . frantic.
        His eyes peered at her a trifle wildly, a small frown of
annoyance, or possibly concern, running in a seam between
them.  His hair had obviously been most recently styled without
benefit of a comb.  And his posture was drawn so tightly that
she wondered if were she to run her finger across his back she
might actually coax from him a note of music.
        "I've been here," she replied dryly as she stepped into
the room, noting with appreciation its elegant layout and decor.
"It was my luggage that had trouble finding the place."
        "Excuse me?" Mulder asked with a frown as he reached
over and took her bag from her shoulder, then relieved her hand
of the suitcase she pulled behind her.
        "My luggage stayed in Atlanta when I changed planes
for New Orleans," she said with a wry smile as she closed the
door behind her.  "So, I thought I should hang out and wait for
it.  With all the precautions we took, it seemed silly to leave
an address behind for them to send the bags."
        Mulder turned from where he had settled her belongings,
his hands on his narrow hips, clearly not placated by her
explanation.  "Why didn't you call?"
        "I tried," she insisted, her hands outstretched towards
him.  "I've been calling on and off ever since I landed.  But the
number was always busy.  When I walked in just now, some girl
was on the phone downstairs with someone named Mark, and
she didn't sound happy.  I think she may be the culprit.  I got
the impression they had been at it awhile.  I just hope for the sake
of our hosts it's a local call."
        Her partner pursed his lips.  "You could have tried my
cell phone.  I tried reaching yours, but I couldn't get through."
        Scully shook her head at that, her expression amused.
"You brought your cell phone, Mulder?"
        His frown intensified; his eyes, by contrast, turned
faintly sheepish.  "Yeah.  Didn't you?"
        She slowly shook her head once more, her smile
broadening.  "No."  With that, she crossed to him, her eyes
twinkling at the disgruntled look he gave her, and said quietly,
"We're on vacation, remember?"
        His lips twisted.  "I know--"
        "I'll bet you brought your gun too, didn't you," she
asserted knowingly, her eyes alight with gentle humor.
        "Yes, but--"
        She sighed, the sound gusty and overdone, her smile
lingering still.  "Only you, Mulder, would lure a girl to the most
romantic city in the continental U.S., and then sleep with a .45
under your pillow."
        "Scully, we need to be careful," he reminded her
obstinately, his hands reaching out to grasp her arms tightly,
the set of his jaw belligerent.
        Her amusement lessened just a touch.  Mulder was right.
Despite the fact that they were thousands of miles away from their
enemies, they still had to watch themselves.  True, it appeared that
they had made their getaway with no one the wiser.  But, that sort
of thing could change at a moment's notice.  They had to remain
vigilant.  She knew that.  Accepted it as part of the bargain.  Part
of what went along with loving the man before her.
        The one who looked as if he had spent the better part
of the evening crawling the room's tastefully wallpapered walls
on her account.
        "I know," she told him softly, her hands resting lightly
now on his chest.  "I know we do.  And I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if
you were worried about me."
        He said nothing for a beat, and instead only looked at
her, his hazel eyes boring into her calm blue ones.  "And you're
all right?"
        "Yes, of course."
        "You're sure?" he asked yet again, his hands running up
and down her arms, smoothing along her skin.
        "Yes," she said a bit more emphatically, bemusement
creeping into her voice once more.  "I'm fine."
        "Well, I'm not," Mulder muttered as he brought his lips
to hers with a kind of barely controlled violence.  His mouth
crushed against hers, surprising her.  Blindly, she clung to his
arms for balance, while he kissed her as if he thought to mark
her in this way, stamp her as his own.
        "I think I've aged ten years in the last couple of hours,
Scully," he admitted ruefully, as his lips plundered her features,
pressing kisses on her mouth, her cheek, her brow; his aim erratic
at best.  "I know it's crazy . . . but I got it in my head that
something terrible had happened."
        "Nothing happened.  I'm fine.  I told you," she
whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as Mulder continued to
exorcise his demons by kissing her senseless.
        And a delightful form of exercise it was too.
        Well, it was official, Mulder thought wryly as he
reveled in the feel of Scully's soft skin beneath his mouth.
The tender bend of her jaw.  The lush fullness of her lips.  The
arrogant little arch of her nose.  He was insane.  Had finally
gone utterly and completely off the deep end.
        What the hell was wrong with him?
        After all, it wasn't as if he and Scully hadn't already
faced down stuff most people would only encounter in their
dreams.
        Strike that . . .
        Nightmares.
        For crying out loud, this woman had battled liver-eating
mutants, killer viruses, madmen with the power to literally climb
inside a person's mind.
        And yet the minute she was inexplicably out of his
sight for a couple of hours he fell apart like a house of cards in
a windstorm.
        Undone by the loss of a couple of suitcases.
        But, he had an excuse, he told himself as his mouth
made its way down the slim velvety line of her neck, her pleasure
vibrating against his lips as she hummed her enjoyment deep in
the back of her throat.  He had a reason for his sudden case of
the vapors where his partner's safety was concerned.
        Expectations.
        After all, in the midst of their daily routine, he steeled
himself for the worst.  Whether consciously or no, he recognized
that theirs was dangerous work.  They made their livelihood by
tracking down criminals, those who broke the law and, more often
than not, threatened lives.  So, he was ready for it.  Understood
that the status quo could at any time be altered.  That he might
at any moment be called upon to defend his life.
        And Scully's.
        But, tonight was different.  That evening he hadn't
been in his usual G-man mode.  He hadn't thought he would
need to be.  As the beautiful redhead in his arms had so
succinctly noted, they were on vacation.
        Christ.
        Who the hell went on vacation?
        Certainly not Spooky Mulder, the F.B.I.'s Most
Unwanted.
        And yet, to his never-ending delight, over the past
several months, the latter appellation had proven particularly
inappropriate.  Because as much as it was his nature to question
good fortune, even when it was staring him straight in the eye,
Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully had succeeded in convincing him
how very much she wanted him.
        Almost as much as he continually longed for her.
        And difficult as Fox Mulder found it to trust, he had
never doubted Scully.
        She said she loved him.  He believed her.
        And would do anything, absolutely anything, to make
certain that particular truth was in no way threatened.
        Unfortunately, nurturing a relationship wasn't as easy
for him as it was for the average guy in love.  It wasn't that Scully
was especially demanding or needy.  Not at all.  Lord knew she
put up with things that would have driven nearly any other
female on the planet to gnashing her teeth in vexation.
        But he was handcuffed by their predicament.  By the
roles they were forced to play in order to keep their professional
lives intact.
        God, it was hard.  Hard to pretend they were friends.
Good friends, certainly.  But nothing more.
        At times, he thought that one day he would finally just
snap and ravage her right there on his battered old desk.  Would
at long last shove all the papers, the files, the pens and pencils
to the floor with a sweep of his arm, and lay her there.  Her slim
body, soft and willing.  Her skirt sliding up her milky thigh.  Her
hair spread over the desktop like a rippling river of red.  Her eyes
watching him, smoky and unfocused.  Waiting for him.
Welcoming him.  Into her arms, her body.
        But as much as he longed to, he didn't step over that line.
Not once.  Nor did she.  Instead, while in the J. Edgar Hoover
Building and in the field, they comported themselves like the
seasoned agents they were.  They kept their feelings for each
other under wraps.  No mean feat, that.  After all, they were
alone together all the time.  All the time.  And yet, they always
managed to keep their conduct within proper Bureau standards.
When they worked together, they were the consummate
professionals.  Efficient, focused, thorough.  They each loved
their jobs, recognized the value of what they did.  The truths
they strove to uncover.  And, more importantly, they each
understood that any changes in behavior on their part, any
alterations from the established rhythms of their lives would be
noted.  They weren't certain by whom, or even why such
actions should really matter.  But they knew their lives were
constantly under scrutiny.
        And so they controlled themselves.
        And their urges.
        They had to.  One slip, and they revealed themselves.
        And that was an open invitation for heartache.
        So, they lived their love in the shadows.  Stole moments.
Interludes.  A lazy Saturday afternoon lounging in Scully's bed.  A
heated grappling in front of the TV on his living room floor.  The
sex was shattering.  It always had been.  The intimacy positively
devastating in its power, its tenderness.  But the other things, the
things most couples took for granted, were sorely lacking.  The
freedom to enjoy each other in the open.
        At first, the clandestine aspects of their relationship had
held a certain glamour, danger not being without allure.  But, they
had been living in such a manner for months.  And it was only a
matter of time before the issue came to a head.
        And that had occurred a little over three weeks ago.
        Scully had been trying to coax him to dinner and a movie.
        "Come on, Mulder," she had cajoled winningly.  "It's just
a movie.  Maybe a pizza beforehand.  We can get away with that.
I mean--it's not as if we've never done it before."
        But Mulder had shaken his head, his brow furrowed.
"Scully, we can't.  We shouldn't.  We were together on Tuesday
night.  Twice in one week is going to make them suspicious."
        She had pursed her lips a moment before her eyes had
slid from his sadly, her shoulders slumped.  "This is insane,
Mulder.  You know, I think I saw more of you before . . . before
this--us--than I do now."
        He couldn't have agreed more.  And yet, caution had
prevailed.  For that night anyway.  But, Scully's dissatisfaction
with the arrangement, with their lack of contact, had sparked
something in him.  And unwilling to let that dissatisfaction grow
into anything more unwieldy, he had set about to remedy the
situation.  A kind of fugitive long weekend in the Big Easy had
seemed the perfect solution.
        "So what do you think of the place?" Mulder asked as
his lips slid beneath a fall of her auburn hair to nip and lick at her
ear.
        She chuckled low, his teeth and tongue tickling her in
more ways than one.  "I haven't seen much of it yet, Mulder.
You keep . . . bothering me."
        He smiled against her skin, his hands running urgently
up and down her slender frame, sliding over the silky sweep of
her skirt.  "I *bother* you?"
        "Mmm," she purred in the affirmative, a smile still
teasing her lips.  "Constantly."
        Somehow he liked the idea of getting under the oh-so-
serious Agent Scully's skin.  And, on a whim, decided to prove
to her just how truly bothersome he could be.  Backing her
against the nearest wall, he caged her there with his hands
planted high, near her head, and pressed his hips against her.
Rocked against her.  Circled.  Until they both groaned, and her
small hands tightened on his buttocks in reaction, holding him
to her possessively.
        "Funny.  You seem to have the same effect on me," he
whispered hoarsely as she kneaded him through his trousers.
        She laughed once more, the sound throaty.  Her eyes
shut.  Her head tipped back slightly.  "Hmm.  And what do you
suppose we ought to do about that?"
        He nibbled down her neck, nuzzling her pale soft skin
with his lips, the bridge of his nose.  Grabbing hold of her skirt
and slip, he pulled the fabric slowly yet steadily up until his
fingertips were able to brush lightly against the outside of her
thigh, just above the knee.
        "You aren't wearing any stockings," he murmured with
a touch of surprise, his eyes staring heatedly down into hers.
With the realization, his groin hardened just another degree.
        In answer, she smiled that wicked little smile she
seemed to reserve only for him.
        Thank God.
        "No need," she breathed softly, her lips pressing gently
against his chin, his jaw.  "The skirt is long.  And besides, I
wanted to be comfortable.  And everyone knows how muggy
New Orleans can get this time of year."
        He slowly shook his head, his hand gliding with the
faintest of pressures up and down her thigh, a rather sensual
smile of his own shaping his lips.
        "Not muggy," he corrected quietly, a playful light
twinkling in his eyes.  "If tonight is anything to judge by, I'd
say instead that this place is . . . hot."
        "Humid," she countered in a husky voice, her arms
coming up to drape themselves around his neck.
        "Sultry," he whispered just before his mouth closed
over hers, his lips moving, rubbing slowly against her tender
mouth.
        Scully took a deep, shuddering breath as if to steady
herself when their lips parted a few moments later, and gazed
up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded.
        "Sultry?" she asked, the single word the very
personification of its meaning.
        Mulder looked down at the woman he loved standing
before him.  Her breasts teasing his chest with every breath she
took.  Her lips swollen and rosy from his kisses.  Her color high.
        "=Definitely= sultry," he assured her, as his hand
slipped up even higher beneath her skirt, grabbed hold of her
panties and pulled them down, his other hand delving beneath
her clothing as well to assist with the effort.
        Scully's breath caught.  Her eyes dipped demurely even
as the subtle curve of her lips told Mulder his action in no way
shocked her.  Silently, she stepped out of the silky bit of lingerie
and kicked it away.  His hands now ranged free under the cover
of her skirt and its slip, gliding over her hips, reaching around to
squeeze the smooth roundness of her bottom.
        Shivering slightly, her lids drooped again for a moment,
camouflaging her expression.  Then, moving with a sudden
urgency, she leaned forward on tiptoe and pressed her mouth
to the shallow indentation at the base of his throat, her tongue
slipping out to lap and tease.  Mulder moaned, rough and ragged,
his hands tightening in reaction around her hips.  Scully gasped.
Then, her fingers found his belt and deftly undid the strip of leather.
The zipper on his pants was soon to follow.  Within moments, her
gentle hands cupped him through his boxers.
        This time, his moan sounded desperate.  As if pain, not
pleasure, had prompted it.  Scully smiled, and continued her own
particular brand of torture.
        For a short while they were content with merely
fondling each other.  Each of them allowing their hands to run
over the other, stealing softly over the most sensitive portions of
their partner's anatomy.  The places that most yearned for that
contact, that caress.  Their touches were gentle.  Slow.  A marked
contrast to the reckless sort of neediness that had instigated the
encounter in the first place.
        And yet, that wasn't to say that their ardor had cooled.
        God, no.
        The fire between them built steadily.  The flames
inching higher and higher.  Until the passion that always
smoldered between them ignited into a full-fledged conflagration.
        Mulder stood it as long as he could.  After all, Scully's
hands felt so damned good against him.  Once she had found him,
she stroked him unceasingly.  Her fingers had glided down the
length of him and up again.  At first, just the back of her index
finger as it ran in a leisurely tease along him.  Then, gradually
more pressure, more speed was added as she gripped him
tightly through the fabric.  Until he knew he had to have more.
        Now.
        Gasping for control, he pushed his fingers into her, the
movement so sudden, so forceful, that her body thudded against
the wall as he slipped inside.  Mortified that he might have in
some way frightened or hurt her, Mulder anxiously sought Scully's
eyes, words of apology ready on his lips.
        Only to find they weren't at all necessary.  His partner
watched him languidly from where her head rested against the
wall, her lips parted and moist.  She smiled with reassurance.
        And then freed him from his boxers.
        Lord.  She loved the hot heavy weight of him in her hand,
his skin so soft, so responsive to her lightest caress.  She smoothed
her thumb in a circle over the tip of him.  His voice broke on a sob
of pleasure while his hand slid more deeply inside her as if in answer.
Until he cupped her, the heel of his hand pressing against her mons,
nudging her there.
        She whimpered high and helpless.
        Their eyes met.
        Their hands continued to softly move.
        "Do you trust me, Scully?" Mulder asked hoarsely, his
skin glistening now with sweat, the hand that had earlier rustled
free from beneath her skirt coming up to rest against her cheek.
        A glint of humor in her eyes, she nodded.
        He nodded back, pleased by her lack of hesitation.
And smiling a taut, almost pained looking smile, he gently
pulled his other hand from her.  Scully gasped with the withdrawal,
missing him immediately.  Then, before she could mourn the
loss too dearly, he slipped both his hands beneath her clothing
once more to cup her buttocks, and lifted her, bracing her against
the wall as he did so.  Startled, she let go of the long quivering
length of him, clutching at his shoulders instead.
        "Wrap your legs around me," he instructed in a
vaguely strained voice, the recklessness in his eyes beckoning
to her like a dare.  As her feet had been dangling against the
back of his thighs already, it took no more than a simple
adjustment on her part to do as he requested.  Once she had,
she could feel him intimately nestled in the vee of her legs, hard
and needy, as Mulder cradled her carefully to him.
        Without question, the man before her was aware of their
closeness as well.  And he groaned deeply, desperately, when
she molded herself to him, her head on his shoulder, her legs
locked around his waist.  Scully responded by kissing him, her
tongue tracing the shape of his mouth before sweeping inside it.
He welcomed her, his own tongue dancing against hers, stroking
along it, exploring her sweet mouth as completely as she did his.
        Her arousal racing through her veins like water down
a chute, Scully rocked her hips against his.  Arched her back.
Rubbed her breasts over him, dragging her nipples restlessly
across his chest, teasing them both unmercifully.  Mulder
staggered.
        "Hold on. . . .  Hold on," he panted beseechingly, a rueful
chuckle rumbling deep inside him.  "Just wait.  Wait just a minute."
And struggling for balance and restraint, he lifted the woman in
his arms ever so slightly before bringing her carefully down once
more.
        To sit tightly atop him.  Hot and wet.
        Gasping, Mulder leaned his head against the wall,
right beside hers, frantically seeking a modicum of control before
continuing.
        "Are you all right?" he whispered, his voice pulled tight,
like a catapult at the instant before release.
        Scully's words flowed over his senses with the
smoothness of decades old scotch.  Making him lightheaded.
Drunk with the moment.  With her.  "Hmm. . . .  You feel
wonderful. . . .  But, you fall, Mulder, and so help me God, I'll kill
you."
        Her slender arms were twined around his neck, her lips
pressed fervidly against his throat, just beneath his ear.  Her
thighs clung to him, trembling slightly with the effort, circling his
body.
        Mulder clasped his hands firmly around Scully's waist.
        Raised her.
        Then, let her slide slowly down him once more.
        The whole thing felt so positively amazing that he just
=had= to do it again.
        And again.
        Until he was surging into her relentlessly.  Her back
skidding against the wall with the force of his thrust, his rhythm.
His legs aching with the motion as he struggled to remain upright.
        Seeing as he didn't want to alarm the woman riding
him so trustfully, Mulder decided to refrain from mentioning
that he had never attempted anything like this before.  It wasn't
that he lacked invention as a lover, or feared trying something a
bit different.  On the contrary--he liked to consider himself a
reasonably daring guy.  On the other hand, he wasn't the
brawniest man in the world, and logistically this sort of thing
just plain didn't figure to work all that well with someone near
his own height.  Like so many of the women he had dated in the
past.
        But Scully was slim enough and small enough to make
the whole thing possible.  If not plausible.  And so, inspiration
had struck.  He had figured, what the hell?
        They were on vacation.
        Lips curving at just how giddy that notion was tempting
to make him, Mulder allowed his concentration to wander just a
touch.  Disaster threatened, and he wobbled slightly.
        Scully shrieked with a combination of laughter and alarm.
        "Oh great," Mulder murmured, his lips near her ear, humor
underlying his words.  "Here I am trying to move you to new
heights of passion, and all I get for my effort is a fit of the
giggles."
        "No . . .  No," Scully assured him breathlessly, her eyes
shimmering with heat, her mouth curled in a smile.  "I'm not
laughing . . . laughing at you."
        As if to punctuate that statement, Scully dug her heels in
with vigor to the small of his back, bringing her slamming down
against him.  While she succeeded in wringing a moan from his
mouth and a sigh from her own, her enthusiasm once again threw
off their precarious equilibrium.  They tottered, the pants riding
low on Mulder's hips not helping the enterprise one bit.
        A peal of feminine laughter poured forth once more.
        "You =are=, Scully," Mulder challenged, smiling now
himself, his breath uneven, rapid.  Yet even as they bantered
playfully, his hips kept on pumping, continuing to urge both
of them closer to that place where such things as gravity,
balance, and hardwood floors were beyond irrelevant.  "You
*are* laughing at me."
        "Not at you.  At us," she whispered with a smile and a
sigh, her teeth catching on her lip, her fingers winding through
his hair.
        "Doesn't matter," he told her, stopping all at once.  Then,
leaning his head against the wall as if for strength, he paused there
a moment, gathering himself.  Finally, he pulled back and gave
the woman he held a long, slow, deep kiss.  She whimpered when
their lips finally parted.
        "I can't have you laughing when I make love to you,
Scully," Mulder said softly, the light in his eyes telling her he was
in no way serious with his declaration.  "It's murder on a guy's ego."
        Her smile broadened.  Her gaze turned mischievous.
Pulling one hand away from where it clung to the back of his neck,
she trailed her index finger down the center of his face.  From his
forehead, down the bridge of his nose to his mouth.  Lightly,
she rubbed it against the curve of his lower lip.
        "Well then, Mulder," she murmured with a killer arch
of her brow.  "I guess it's up to you to stop me."
        Growling with a mixture of amusement and arousal,
Mulder dipped his head slightly, and captured Scully's finger with
his mouth, his tongue; then sucked on it.  Watching her with pure
challenge shining in his eyes, he waited until he saw her eyelids
flutter in surrender before he released her finger and pushed
away from the wall, weaving in the general direction of the room's
generously sized brass bed.
        Oh please God, keep me from breaking both our necks,
Mulder silently implored with the fervor of the converted as he
tripped first on a shoe that had slipped free from Scully's foot not
long after they had begun, then on the tangled wad of her panties.
        Somehow, he managed to find his way to the side of the
bed, life and limb intact.  Taking care to keep their bodies joined,
he eased Scully down with as much gentleness as he could muster,
then braced himself above her with his hands pressing against the
mattress, his feet planted firmly on the floor.  Beneath him, his
partner looked up, eyes cloudy with passion.  Waiting for him.
        Just like in his office fantasy.
        "Let me know if you have the urge to laugh," he said in a
low, rough voice.
        And pushed his hips forward.  Pressing her down into the
soft bedding.  Pressing himself into the impossibly soft, heated
depths of her body.
        "Don't think that will be a problem," Scully groaned, her
legs tightening around him once more.
        And strangely enough, it wasn't.

*************************************************

        While in a corner of the room, unseen, unsensed, a
presence watched.
        And considered.

*************************************************

        Dana Scully slowly awoke when she felt the mattress
dip beside her.  Scooting up a tad against the headboard and
stretching sinuously, she captured a yawn with the back of her
hand as she prepared to rouse.
        "Keep your eyes closed."
        She smiled upon hearing the low murmured words from
a voice that not only was well known to her, but much beloved.
With a small nod, she readily complied.
        "Open your mouth."
        Lying back against the piled pillows, she lifted her brows
with a blend of amusement and curiosity, and once again did as
she was told.
        And was rewarded.
        Something warm, sweet, and heavenly-smelling was
pressed to her lips.  She took a bite, and whatever it was she was
eating crumbled.  Giggling, she felt a light dusting of what she
assumed to be powdered sugar settle in the corner of her mouth,
then flutter down to dot her chin.  Seemingly discontent to remain
solely on her face, a few more adventuresome granules drifted
south to land on the slope of her breast where it rose above the
bedclothes she had draped across her in some inborn attempt at
modesty.  Although why she bothered, she couldn't say.  After
all, she might be naked beneath the cool cotton sheet, but it wasn't
as if Mulder wasn't already familiar with her body.
        Intimately familiar with it.
        "Ooh.  Hold still, Scully," instructed his voice as it, and
he, moved closer to her.  He placed his hands over her wrists
where her arms lay on the pillows, bent at the elbow so that her
hands rested palm up near her head, and carefully restrained her
there as he bent his head.  Delicately, like a cat lapping cream,
he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers and with his tongue
swept away the sweet residue the still unidentified treat had left
behind, then repeated the action against the curve of her chin.
Her partner was nothing if not thorough.  He took his time with
it.  Licking gently around her mouth, sucking softly on her jawbone.
        Scully's hips began to move slowly, slightly, against the
mattress; unable, as always, to fight the arousal this man could
induce merely by being in the same room with her, let alone
sitting on the same bed, his tongue exploring her face.
Keeping her eyes closed, she could feel the heat of his body as
it hovered over her.  Smell the freshly showered scent of his
skin, the tang of toothpaste on his breath.  And silently
grumbled that although Mulder might indeed find her
alluring lying there clad in nothing but her sparkling
personality, she wished that she too had been afforded the
opportunity to brush her teeth and run a comb through her
hair before indulging in this bit of closeness.
        "Hmm, what's this?" he queried in a light, teasing
voice when it appeared that he had at long last relieved her
face of all the stubborn powdered sugar sprinkled there.  She
opened her eyes.  His warm hazel ones shone down into hers
with boundless affection.  God, he looked good.  His jawline
newly shaven.  His hair a trifle mussed, falling down over his
forehead in a manner he didn't allow when on the job.  He smiled
at her.  It was a good morning sort of smile.  One of greeting.
And longing.
        He kissed her softly.  Then, let his eyes wander away
from hers to focus just below her shoulders.  Where he spied
still more powdery white stuff.
        "Don't move."
        Still holding her securely, he lowered his head to the
ivory expanse of her chest.  Mouth open against her skin, he
pressed his lips to her, his tongue slipping out from between
them to sweep across her, over her, warm and wet.
        "Hmm," she moaned, her eyes sliding shut once more,
her back arching just a touch, pressing her breasts against the
thin cloth hiding them from view.
        Mulder kept at it for a good long while, his hair tickling
her nose, her chin, as he bent over her, intent on stealing away
every last bit of sweetness to be found on her upper torso.
        "Mulder," she murmured as his mouth roamed her chest,
setting her afire.
        He pulled back to look at her, a similar flame echoing in
his own eyes.
        "You always destroy my best intentions," he told her
with a rueful smile.
        "What do you mean?"
        He kissed her brow, the corner of her eye.  "I had
thought to actually let you out of bed today."
        "Who told you to be so noble?" she asked him
with mock indignation as she stretched up to nibble on his chin.
        He chuckled, the sound little more than a rumble in his
chest.  Then, he covered her mouth with his own, and tenderly
lavished it with attention.  For a time, the only sound in the room
was the gentle whir of the ceiling fan overhead and the moist
whisper of their lips moving against each other.
        Finally, they came up for air, each gasping for it
greedily.  Their eyes clung, then Mulder's gaze tore away,
dropping instead to run the length of her body.
        Scully fought the urge to curl her toes with the intensity
of the look.  The way he had of claiming her in that way.  Of
silently calling to her from some little understood yet deeply
persuasive part of him.  Reminding her without words that she
belonged to him, and he to her.
        As if she would have it any other way.
        She returned his regard, noting with satisfaction that
Mulder seemed as swept away by their little early morning
tete-a-tete as she.  His chest rose and fell raggedly.  Rapidly.
And his cheeks were flushed.  As if he ran a fever.
        And perhaps he did.
        "I love you," he told her quietly, one hand
releasing a wrist to cup her cheek.
        "I love you too," she assured him as his thumb
smoothed over the satiny rise of her cheekbone.
        His lips opened.  Then, shut with a sigh.  As if he
thought to say more, but language proved inadequate to what
he felt he needed to express.  She understood.  Words had
never come easily for her either.  Luckily, that had never seemed
to matter with the two of them.  Some of their very best
communication had come without benefit of speech.
        Finally, he merely whispered, "Dana. . . ."
        And closed his lips over the tender tip of one breast.
        She cried out with it.  With the feel of his mouth tugging
on her through the sheet.  Suckling her.  Playing over her with
his teeth, his tongue.  Until she was ready to commit murder to
have that troublesome bit of bedding pulled away so she could
experience the hot moist sensation of his mouth on her skin
without encumbrance.  But his hands were holding her captive
once more.  And he made her wait for it.
        "Come back to bed, Mulder," she implored, her hips
twisting restlessly now, craving what the man beside her
promised with his caresses.  "New Orleans will still be there
when we're finished."
        Mulder raised his head once more, reluctantly
relinquishing her nipple as he did so.  His eyes searched her
face, a great deal more than sensual desire revealed with the
gaze.  "I don't think I'll ever be finished with you," he admitted
softly.  "Sometimes I doubt that there are enough minutes in
one lifetime for us."
        Scully feared for one horrified instant that she just might
burst into tears.  Good grief!  Here she had been musing over how
expressive Mulder could be at times without words, and then he
had to go and say something like that!
        "Then let's not waste a moment," she suggested in a
husky voice once she figured out a way to speak around the
lump in her throat.  "I want you, Mulder.  Right here.  Right now."
        He looked at her for a beat longer before nodding, then
sat up and pulled his shirt over his head.  Scully reached out and
ran her fingertips over his chest, stopping to trace the chain on
which dangled the cross she had given him.  He closed his eyes
for the span of a breath, seemingly giving in to her touch before
standing a bit unsteadily, and toeing off his shoes.
        "You've got me, Scully," he murmured as he swiftly undid
his jeans and, with his boxers, shoved them to the floor.  "Anytime.
Anywhere."
        "Now," she urged with slumberous eyes and a warm
sensual smile.
        He chuckled, bending down to skim his knuckles over the
curve of her jaw.  "Some people are so *demanding*."
        Shrugging without concern over his playful observation,
she then lay still once more as Mulder slowly drew the sheet down
and away from her body, revealing her slender form with heated
anticipation glittering in his eyes.
        "Looks like you've got a few demands of your own,
Agent Mulder," she noted dryly, her eyes glancing at the part
of his body that bobbed before him, betraying his interest.
        He smiled wryly at her quip and crawled carefully onto
the bed, lowering himself over her to rest in the cradle of her hips.
"What if I do?  Think you can keep up with me, Scully?"
        "Just try losing me," she challenged an instant before
kissing him.
        "Now why the hell would I want to do that?" he asked
with a growl as their lips met yet again.
        And a Friday morning in New Orleans slipped away.
************************************************
        Hours later, the two agents reclined in each other's arms
against a mound of pillows, happily munching on the now cooled
baked goods Mulder had brought back to the room just after dawn.
        "So these are beignets, huh?" Scully queried, licking her
fingers clean.  She and Mulder had discovered that if they each
broke off pieces of the pastries from inside the white paper bag in
which they had arrived, they had a better chance of actually
getting the treat to their lips without a thorough dusting of
powdered sugar raining down upon them both.
        Not that she had any complaints about the last time that
had occurred.
        "Mm-hmm," Mulder murmured around a mouthful of
beignet.  "From Cafe du Monde, no less."
        "Cafe du Monde?"
        "It's been around for over 100 years.  Our hosts
recommended it to me when I arrived."
        "Bill?  Tall guy, glasses, receding hairline?"
        He nodded.  "Yeah, that's him.  Apparently, when he's
not playing innkeeper he's a professor at Tulane.  And his wife,
Laura.  She's an artist."
        Scully shook her head.  "I didn't meet her.  But Bill let
me in last night.  He seems like a nice man."
        "He is," Mulder agreed, popping another bite of pastry
into his mouth.  "They both are.  Nice, that is.  We chatted a bit
when I first got here.  I wonder what makes your average college
professor want to run a place like 'La Maison de la Lune Argentine'."
        She smiled at the way the words tripped a tad awkwardly
off his tongue.  "Okay.  Spanish was always my foreign language
of choice, so help me out here."
        "The House of the Silver Moon," he translated with a
smile of his own.  "Didn't you notice the crescent on the front
door?"
        She nodded.  She had seen the decorative little slip of
a moon when she had arrived the night before.  "What's the
significance of the name?"
        Mulder shrugged.  "Don't know.  Guess we'll have to
ask Bill and Laura."  He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her ear
with his lips as he tightened his arms around her.  "If and when
we ever get out of this bed."
        She chuckled and tilted up her chin to grant him better
access.  "So how did you ever stumble across this place?"
        He stopped his investigation into whether her throat
could possibly be as soft as he remembered, and eyed her with
what he was certain Scully would be forced to label a distinctly
uneasy look.  "I read about it in the Post."
        She arched a brow.  "In the Post?  You never struck me
as a reader of the Travel section, Mulder."
        His lips twisted.  "I didn't find it in the Travel section,
Scully."
        "Where then?"
        "In Features."
        "Features?  How come?"
        He hesitated a moment, then murmured, "I was reading
a piece about haunted houses."
        Scully lifted her head from where it lay nestled in the
crook of his shoulder and stared at the man before her,
incredulous.  "=Tell me= you're joking."
        He slowly shook his head, a mixture of humor and chagrin
shining in his eyes.
        Of course, she mused wryly.  Why should she find this
revelation surprising?
        "So this is a 'busman's holiday' then, Mulder?" she asked
with a dry smile.
        "What?"  he countered innocently. "You don't like it here?"
        On the contrary, she thought fondly.  She loved it.
Who wouldn't?  La Lune Argentine was romantic in the extreme.
The inn itself was an attractive brick establishment covered with
ivy and accented with wrought iron railings and embellishments.
To compound its allure, the place was tucked away on one of the
French Quarter's more picturesque streets, its neighboring buildings
similar in architecture and Old World charm.  She didn't yet have
a feel for how big the inn was, having arrived too late the night
before for a proper investigation of its layout.  But she did know
from peering out their balcony window that the structure contained
at its center a flagstone courtyard complete with a small stone
fountain, and shaded by abundant magnolia and orange trees.
        And their room itself . . . .  It was exquisite.  Done up in
what she assumed was an attempt at recapturing the opulence of
the mid-nineteenth century, its cherry wood antiques echoed
beautifully the warmth of the chamber's burgundy, mauve, and
green wallpaper, and matching bedding.  If she chose to forget the
plane that had brought her south the night before, Scully could
almost convince herself while luxuriating in their lodgings that
she and Mulder had indeed taken a step back in time.  The
room had no television, no mini-bar.  Just wood, and porcelain,
and brass, and fabric, and glass.
        And a ceiling fan.  Thank God.
        She stared into the eyes of the man holding her.  He
seemed a wee bit anxious that she not be miffed over what had
drawn him to La Lune Argentine in the first place.
        "You done good, Mulder," she told him with a soft
kiss on his cheek.  "It's beautiful."
        Something in his eyes eased, and he nodded at her,
his lips curled in a smile.
        "So tell me about the ghost," she urged as she settled
comfortably against his chest once more and nibbled another bite
of beignet.
        "According to the story, she is a former owner of the
house," Mulder said softly as he smoothed his fingers over the
rumpled silk of her hair.  "A courtesan who was murdered by her
lover."
        "Hmm," Scully murmured as she chewed.  "That sounds
appropriately gruesome.  So what does she do?  Rattle her chains
or toss around breakables?"
        "Neither," Mulder assured her.  "She supposedly walks
the halls and cries.  The article said several of the house's previous
owners have heard her."
        "Poor ghost," Scully said with sympathy.
        "Spirits don't often have happy endings, Scully," Mulder
said reasonably from near her ear.  "That's what makes them spirits
to begin with."
        "Well then, if my life were to end this very minute I don't
imagine anyone would find me haunting them."
        "How's that?"
        She rolled over in his arms, and taking the bakery bag
from where it had rested atop his body, placed it instead on the
night stand beside the bed before pressing her lips to the
center of his chest.  "I'm entirely too content, Mulder," she
explained with shining eyes.  "Happy, actually.  Plain and simple."
        He regarded her silently for a time before saying in a low
gruff voice,  "I want to make you happy, Scully."
        "You do," she assured him softly.
        He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her with
every ounce of what he felt for her in the touch.  Every bit of
joy, every iota of thanks, every drop of reverence.  She
responded in kind.
        And it was well after 1:00 before they actually made it
out of the inn and on to the streets of New Orleans.
************************************************
        Scully discovered, with a touch of surprise, that she
enjoyed playing tourist with Mulder.  She hadn't known what
to expect, never having been in such a situation with her partner
before.  But, much to her delight, she and Mulder proved very
good at that sort of thing.  They both approached their
exploration of the city in the same manner, leaving themselves
open to wander freely.  To investigate a particularly interesting
street or promising shop should the spirit so move them.  They
kept no timetable, followed no map.  Instead, they simply walked
through the Quarter, alert for the unusual, attuned to the amusing.
        It went without saying that at least half of what made
the afternoon so entertaining was Mulder himself.  Lord!  He was
just like a little kid.  All boundless energy, and never-ending
curiosity.  Scully trailed after him at times, ferociously squelching
the urge to ruffle his hair fondly as one might an excitable boy
at the county fair.
        "Scully, this place is supposed to be the original 'House
of the Rising Sun'!" he urgently impressed upon her at one point.
        Her only comment was a murmured, "Why does it *not*
surprise me that you know that?"
        And . . .
        "Do you know they say that Jackson and Lafitte met in
this very bar to plot strategy for the Battle of New Orleans?"
        She, of course, felt it necessary to remind him, "Mulder,
there is no proof whatsoever that Jean Lafitte and Andrew
Jackson ever even *met*, let alone worked together during the
Battle of New Orleans."  He scowled at her lack of faith, but she
knew he had, in a way, expected it of her.  Given their relationship,
such observations were, after all, her job.
        She even let him drag her to the New Orleans Historic
Voodoo Museum.  And although the place brought back a
host of unwelcome memories regarding that frightening case in
North Carolina involving poor Chester and his fellow Haitian
refugees, she found she enjoyed the museum once she gave
herself the chance.  She doubted she would ever buy into the
whole idea of zombies and black magic, but from a purely scientific
standpoint, the religion was fascinating.  And browsing through
the assortment of powders, potions, and talismans she and
Mulder found so proudly displayed, she lost herself considering
the whys and wherefores of the herbal remedies in which voodoo
was grounded.  The beliefs that had been passed down through
generations of family practitioners and midwifes.  In fact, in the
end, it was Mulder who ended up hustling her out of the place,
and not vice-versa.  However, neither of them exited before leaving
behind an "offering" to Exu, the museum's resident spirit.  A
candy bar was suggested as an appropriate token of their esteem.
And so, Scully reluctantly gave up one of the sumptuous pralines
she had bought earlier that afternoon at a neighborhood
confectionery.
        "You're going to ruin your appetite, you know," Mulder
cautioned a while later as they strolled along one of the Quarter's
busy streets, Scully now nibbling on one of her precious pralines
herself.
        "You're just angling for a bite of my praline, Mulder,"
she retorted blithely, and then held out the sweet to her partner so
he could indeed sample it.  His hand closed over her wrist to
steady the offering, their eyes meeting over the brown sugar treat.
She flashed him a full-blown smile as his lips closed over the
candy.  Wide.  Guileless.  Her affection for him so plain in her
expression, so utterly and completely without limits or conditions,
that Mulder's heart did a back flip Mary Lou Retton would have
been proud to call her own.
        Without caring who the hell might see them, or what
the action might reveal to Scully or anyone else, Mulder slung
his arm around the shoulder of the auburn-haired woman beside
him and tucked her up against him as they resumed walking,
thinking to himself that he couldn't remember the last time he had
felt this good.
*************************************************
        "Get out of here, Mulder."
        "I think I'm hurt."
        "You will be if you don't get out of here and let me get
dressed."
        They had arrived back at their room a little over an hour
before, after a long, leisurely afternoon spent touring the French
Quarter.  He had just finished his shower and changed into a
pair of khakis and a simple white shirt when Scully had leaned
against the bathroom doorway clad in what Mulder almost
instantly determined to be perhaps *the* sexiest bit of silken
finery he had ever seen.  It was a robe.  Short.  Cinched at the
waist.  It's pattern, floral.  Tiger lilies, maybe, against a black
background.  He couldn't be sure.  He had never been any good
with flowers.  And anyway, what the damned thing looked like
was really beside the point, because what caught and held his
attention wasn't actually the lingerie at all.  But what it failed to
conceal.  Slim legs and shadowed cleavage.  Surprisingly deep
cleavage when one stopped to consider how petite the woman
before him was.
        And he, of all people, was definitely guilty of considering
Scully's physical make-up from time to time.
        "That new?" he asked with a nod to the garment she
had belted loosely around her.
        She smiled at him a trifle shyly.  "Yeah.  You like it?"
        He nodded slowly, his eyes going into more detail
regarding his feelings towards her recently purchased article of
clothing.
        "Good," she murmured with satisfaction.  "Now, why
don't you go ask Bill for some restaurant suggestions so I can
take it off, and finish getting ready."
        Mulder felt his heartbeat accelerate with the images
her playful instructions conjured, and dryly inquired of his
partner, "And you believe that bit of information will actually
work as an incentive to get me out of this room?"
        She tilted her head and pretended to consider the idea.
"Hmm.  No, I suppose not," she allowed in a low throaty voice.
"So maybe we ought to do this instead."
        Mulder arched a brow in an attempt to mimic his favorite
redhead.  "What did you have in mind?"
        Scully said nothing.  Instead, she curled her index finger
in a come-hither gesture as old as Eve and walked gracefully
away from him to the other side of the room, looking over her
shoulder as she did so as if to make certain she retained his
interest.
        She did.
        Mesmerized by the gentle sway of her hips, Mulder
followed as obediently as if she had him on a leash.  In fact, it
wasn't until she had the door open and him framed in front of
it that her intentions even registered.
        Only by then it was too late.
        She stepped nimbly behind him.
        Her small hands landed between his shoulder blades.
        And Mulder landed in the hall.
        "Go downstairs," Scully called through the door after
slamming it in his face and locking it.  "I'll be down soon.  I
promise I'll hurry."
        Shaking his head at just how ridiculously they were
both behaving, while at the same time grinning with the sheer
joy of it, he retorted calmly, "You are a cruel woman, Dana
Katherine Scully."
        And although only a few months earlier he would
have doubted the reserved, dignified woman he worked with
capable of such a thing, Mulder could =swear= he heard her
snickering on the side of that thick, unyielding, wooden door.
************************************************
        Glancing at her watch from where it lay on the bathroom
vanity top, Scully mentally calculated how long she had already
kept her partner waiting.  Not bad.  In the end, he wouldn't wind
up cooling his heels for too terribly long.  She had rushed through
her shower, and knew from experience that make-up usually didn't
take her very long.  She never wore much of the stuff anyway.  No.
She could breeze through that part of her preparations without too
much bother.
        That just left her hair and her dress.
        Hmm.  Her hair.
        Dana Scully had fought her entire life with hair that just
couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be wavy or straight.
Stylistically, she normally opted for a smooth, polished bob.  It
looked more professional.  And, when all was said and done, her
auburn tresses were more prone to lose a curl than hold one.
        Except when confronted with the kind of humidity New
Orleans was noted for.
        "'Sultry' my ear, Mulder," she murmured into the mirror as
she considered the mass of damp hair atop her head.  Well, armed
with a battery of styling aids, she guessed she could wage war
against Mother Nature and wrestle her do into a reasonable
facsimile of her usual everyday look.
        Or, she could run a little mousse through her hair, scrunch
it with her fingers, and call it a day.
        She knew which solution sounded better to her.
        Two down.  One to go.
        The dress.
        That was a no-brainer.  She had picked up her outfit
of choice during the same shopping spree which had resulted
in the robe that had so enticed Mulder earlier.  It had been a
long time since she had bought clothes with the specific
intention of impressing a man.  And yet, Scully recognized
without a doubt that when it came to these newest additions to
her wardrobe she was guilty as charged.  She supposed the
feminist in her should rail against this sudden urge to employ
her feminine wiles.  To don articles of clothing with the express
purpose of arousing a man.  After all, she liked to believe that
Mulder had fallen in love with the inside of her rather than the
outside.
        However, she had to admit that the look of frankly
masculine approval she would note in his eyes when she walked
into work in the morning dressed in a suit she knew hugged her
figure just right, or his whispered words of praise when their bodies
were moving together towards completion--telling her how beautiful
she was, what it felt like to lose himself inside her, how the way
she moved her hips threatened to steal his very soul--did
something to her self-esteem that no amount of advanced degrees
could.  And what was more, she liked this Dana Katherine Scully.
The woman Mulder saw her to be.  The person whose intelligence,
courage, and humor shared the stage equally with her sensuality,
her femininity.
        Mulder's equal?  Damn straight.
        But no less a woman for it.
        Smiling to herself at the random musings floating through
her consciousness, Scully stood before the cheval glass just
outside the bathroom door and critically considered her appearance
before heading downstairs.  Okay.  The hair was a bit more wild
than she was used to, but given the occasion, she thought it
would do.  And she had gotten a touch of color in her face from
their afternoon jaunt.  Not too much.  Just enough to give her the
suggestion of a tan across her cheeks and nose.  Of course, with
that blush came the inevitable freckles.  Ah well.  Maybe Mulder
wouldn't notice.
        Right.  And maybe the Cubs will finally win that pennant,
Dana.
        Eyebrows lifting as she imagined in advance Mulder's
teasing, she decided to ignore what she couldn't control and
instead focus on the really important issue.
        The dress had made the journey from D.C. to New Orleans
with nary a wrinkle.
        Saying a silent prayer of thanks, she smoothed her hand
over the outfit's skirt, and made ready to turn away from her
reflection in order to slip on her sandals and grab her purse.
        When she saw it.
        At first, she thought she had gotten something in her eye.
She didn't know how else to explain it.  That thing she noted in the
mirror.
        Shimmering there.
        Behind her.  Just to her left.
        For a moment, she simply stared, unsure what to make of
it.  Hell, she wasn't even positive what she was looking at.
Whatever had caught her eye didn't really have a shape.  And it
certainly didn't have substance.  She could see right through it.
What it most reminded her of was heat rising from a highway.
Those waves that often taunt drivers on hot summer afternoons.
        And yet, although the early evening was warm, it
was nowhere near hot enough to generate that kind of
phenomenon.
        Puzzled, she turned around.
        And saw nothing.
        Not a damn thing.
        Just the quiet elegant confines of their room.
        "I must be hungrier than I thought," she murmured
with a shake of her head.
        And thinking no more about it, she left to rejoin her
partner.

************************************************

        "Ah!  I believe this is the person you've been waiting
for."
        "Hey, Scully, guess what?  I just found out how La
Lune Argentine got its name.  It's the--"
        Whatever Mulder had thought to share with his
partner fizzled inside his brain like a couple of Alka-Seltzer
tablets hitting water.  Dissolving away into nothing.
Disappearing without a trace.  The sensation certainly proved
an unexpected one for a man with his mental prowess and gift
for gab.
        But how the hell was he supposed to hang on to
thoughts, retain the function of speech, when Dana Scully
sauntered into view wearing something like *that*?
        Mulder didn't know whether to throw a jacket over
her or rip the damn dress from her body in a fit of pure
unadulterated lust.
        And what in God's name was up with her hair?
        The woman who walked slowly yet steadily towards
him across the shade dappled courtyard wearing a pair of
strappy black heels and smiling a small knowing smile, looked
nothing at all like the agent he had for the past three years worked
beside.  True, that woman shared this one's intrinsic grace, her
obvious sophistication, intelligence, and beauty.  But the
government employee he normally called 'Scully' usually had about
her a kind of restraint, a finely constructed barrier between the
person she really was and the world around her.  Oh, Mulder liked
to pat himself on the back over the way he had managed to rip
down a few of those shields since they had partnered together.
To congratulate himself on astutely knowing that beneath the
professional mask Dana Scully considered a necessary
component of her workaday wardrobe lie a sweet simmering
sensuality hot enough to melt through more than a couple
layers of his own reserve.  His own well developed means
of self-protection.
        But *this*. . . this side of the enigmatic Dr. Scully
threatened to burn away all of his pretensions towards
civility, and certainly any hope he might that evening entertain
of behaving like a proper gentleman.
        Sweet God in heaven.  How did the woman expect
him to make it through an entire night without succumbing
to the nearly primal desire to ravage her?
        She was dressed in black, a color he had often in the
past appreciated on her.  He had always admired the way the
darkness contrasted with her skin's creamy complexion; the
way it seemed to bring the richness of her hair into sharper relief.
Besides, the hue was almost archetypally erotic.  Seeing the
woman he loved clothed in such a fashion seemed to signal to
him all sorts of . . . extreme possibilities.
        But the dress had more going for it than simply its color.
It was made of a fabric he couldn't identify, but one that swirled
and floated around Scully like mist.  And yet, that wasn't to say
that the garment was shapeless.  Oh God, no.  Its waist was marked
by a wide belt made of the same cloth as the rest of the dress.
When coupled with the slight flare of its skirt, it made Scully's
middle appear impossibly small.  So tiny that Mulder mused he
could easily span it with his two hands should the urge arise.
The skirt itself hit somewhere an inch or two above her knee.
So he couldn't in all good faith accuse the outfit's length of being
overtly provocative.  And yet, every time she moved, its bottom
half seemed to cling lovingly to a hip . . . a thigh . . . the curve of
her buttocks . . . then flow free once more.  The whole thing, one
great big perpetual tease.
        And the bodice . . . Or, more to the point--what there
*was* of a bodice. . . .
        First off, the dress had no back.
        None.
        Zip.
        Nada.
        And what it had as a front was . . . well . . . overtly
provocative.
        The damn thing was a halter.  It closed around the back
of Scully's slender throat, held in place by a single black button.
And what were held so securely by that fastening were two wide
shirred swathes of fabric that neatly ran up either side of her torso.
Her breasts were covered, true.  There was even a bit of overlap
down near where those strips of cloth met the waistband, which
lent the dress the appearance of respectability, arguably even,
restraint.
        But there was nothing whatsoever restrained about
Mulder's reaction to the sight of Scully's breasts quivering
freely, gently, beneath that halter as she glided towards him;
the whisper of her stockings, the soft click of her heels against
the flagstone, serving as soundtrack for the scene.
        She knew, he thought with self-directed amusement.
Scully knew the reaction she was drawing from him with her attire,
the emotions she was evoking.  The physical need she stirred.
She had to.  He was way past the point of feigning nonchalance.
And she had always been able to pick up on his moods, the
serpentine manner in which his mind often ordered his thoughts.
Yeah, she recognized she had him right where she wanted him.
The sparkle of pure devilry shining in her eyes nearly blinded him.
        Not to mention the way it turned him on.
        Breathe, Mulder, breathe, he instructed himself
wordlessly.
        Oh boy.
        Oh my God, look at his face, Scully thought with a touch
of giddy humor and the smallest measure of self-satisfaction.
Mulder's expression was priceless.  As far as she could tell, at that
precise instant her partner seemed utterly incapable of  moving.
Instead, he stared at her, his eyes wide and a trifle
uncomprehending, their color a mossy green.  Even simple
conversation seemed more than he could muster.  His mouth
hung open mid-word, parted in a manner that made her think
of long slow kisses, and how well, how beautifully those lips
fit against hers.  No doubt about it--Mulder appeared positively
dumbstruck.  Speechless.  Quite a change from the usual glib
ease with which he normally conducted himself.
        Score one for the Irish.
        "What were you saying, Mulder?" she asked innocently
once she had reached his side, her hand stretching up to push a
thick wavy fall of hair out of her eyes.  Mulder found himself
longing to bury his own fingers in her tousled curls.  Or better
still, to see that wonderfully rumpled head of hair spread on a
pillow.  His pillow.  "You found out how La Lune Argentine got
its name?"
        Scully was standing close, inches away, her lips curved,
glistening in the courtyard's shadows in a way that promised all
manner of pleasure if he just gave in to the impulse, the need that
rose in him like a rocket leaving Cape Kennedy bound for distant
worlds.  To kiss her.  To grab her and meld his lips to hers.  To fuse
them.  To weld the two of them together so that Scully and he
would be locked in a never-ending embrace.  An eternal kiss.
        Yeah.  As if that would be long enough.
        Her body was turned towards his so that her left breast
bobbed only a hair's breadth away from his right arm.  Mulder
wondered for one crazy moment if were he to brush that arm
against her sweet curve right there in front of Bill, some-time
innkeeper, full-time college professor, he might possibly feel her
nipple rise up to meet him through the dress.
        The temptation was almost too much to bear.
        His groin thickened merely with the notion.
        His arm twitched in readiness. . . .
        "So, are you going to enlighten me, Mulder?  Or do I
have to guess?"
        Mulder snapped out of his reverie as abruptly if
someone had dashed ice water in his face, and reluctantly took
a half step away from Scully in hopes of avoiding any future
calamity like the one he had been contemplating only seconds
before.  Shifting his gaze, he took in his partner's thoroughly
amused expression.  And, as absurd as he knew the idea to be,
felt alarmingly certain that somewhere along the way the auburn-
haired woman on his right had turned clairvoyant.
        "Why don't you ask Bill to tell you the story?" he
suggested dryly as he tried by sheer force of will to hold back
the color he could feel rising up to tint his cheeks.  "I'm sure he'll
do a better job of it than I would."
        Especially right at this particular moment, he added
silently in chagrin.
        "Be happy to," Bill offered smoothly, apparently
unaware of the currents flowing not at all subtly between the
two people before him.   Or perhaps choosing simply not to
acknowledge them.  "It's pretty simple really.  The place was
named for its best known owner."
        Scully curiously arched a brow.  "And who would that
be?"
        "Selene Broussard."
        Scully smiled and shook her head.  "I'm afraid the name
doesn't ring a bell."
        Bill smiled back at her.  "It wouldn't.  Not anymore.
But in her day, Selene was one of New Orleans' most famous
citizens."
        "Famous for what?" she inquired.
        "Her beauty.  Her wit," Bill said as if ticking off items on
a grocery list.  "Her *temper*.  Selene was a courtesan.  According
to local legend, one of her lovers built this house specifically for
her.  Tragically, he supposedly later killed her here as well."
        "The ghost!" Scully exclaimed with a look at Mulder
for confirmation.
        Bill chuckled.  "Aha!  So you've heard about our resident
spook."
        "I may have mentioned it," Mulder murmured.
        Bill nodded.  "At first Laura and I worried that rumors
about the place being haunted would be bad for business.  But
surprisingly, the opposite has proven true.  People love the idea.
I had one lady call up and ask if she could rent out the entire
place to do a seance."
        Scully's lips curled.  "And what did you tell her?"
        Bill ruefully shook his head.  "'No thank you.'  The last
thing I need is a house full of Ghostbusters on my hands.  One
sad little spirit seems a much better bargain."
        "I was just getting ready to ask you before . . . before I
got distracted," Mulder said with a self-deprecating smile and a
sideways glance at Scully.  "Have you ever seen or heard her
yourself?"
        "Me?" Bill inquired.  "No.  I never have.  But, Laura
thinks she's heard something.  The sound of footsteps and a
muffled sort of crying.  I don't know if I buy it, to tell you the
truth.  But, the folks we bought from said that they had heard
Selene on several occasions.  And, after all, we've only been in
the house for a little over a year.  Maybe she and I have just
never crossed paths."
        "Well, you and your wife have done a wonderful job
with the place," Scully assured him warmly.  "It's absolutely
beautiful."
        "Thanks," Bill said, beaming.  "We're pretty proud of
it. "
        "So, I understand the 'moon' part of the name--Selene
obviously being a moon goddess," Scully said thoughtfully.
"But how exactly does 'silver' enter into it?"
        "Her eyes," Bill answered simply.  "By all accounts,
they were her most striking feature.  They were gray apparently.
A very light gray.  Somewhere along the line someone referred to
them as silver.  And that, coupled with her first name gave Selene
the nickname  'The Silver Moon'.  I suppose it was the same sort of
thing as with Dumas' 'La Dame aux Camellias'."
        "I suppose," Scully murmured with a nod.
        "She really was lovely," Bill enthused, obviously
an admirer of the woman in question.  "At least--if her portrait is
anything to go by."
        "Her portrait?" Mulder queried.
        "Yeah," Bill confirmed with a grin.  "It was a real find.
We discovered it tucked away under the eaves when we moved
in.  You'd have thought someone would have donated it to a
museum or something.  But it didn't happen.  Of course, the poor
thing is understandably a bit worse for wear.  Hell, it had probably
been sitting upstairs for God only knows how long.  Laura has
made restoring it a pet project of hers.  Although with as busy
as we've been with the inn I can't say that she's really had the
time to get very far with it."
        Pausing for a moment, the tall slender bespectacled
man self-consciously ran a hand through his thinning blond
hair.  "Speaking of time, if I don't shut up, you two aren't going
to have enough of it to go get something to eat."
         "Don't be silly," Mulder told him with a smile.  "We
appreciate your taking the time to answer our questions."
        "My pleasure."
        "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask one more,"
Scully quickly said.
        "Shoot."
        "I understand that Selene was killed by her lover,"
she began with a wry smile.  "But how did the whole thing
come about?  What exactly happened?"
        "He strangled her," Bill said succinctly.  "In a fit of
passion.  He came home and found her in bed with another
man."
        "How awful!" Scully mumbled softly.
        "Oh, it gets better," Bill assured her.  "Or worse, as the
case may be.  In the end the guy was overcome with guilt.  He
wound up hanging himself.  Over the bed in which he had ended
Selene's life."
************************************************
        At one point early in the evening, Mulder had mused
that the blood-thirsty topic of conversation he and Scully had
discussed with Bill before leaving the inn should, by all rights,
have put them both off their appetites.  But then again, the
woman with whom he was dining that particular Friday night
spent a hefty percentage of her time cutting up corpses.  So he
guessed, in the end, one long ago crime of passion probably
didn't do much in the way of unsettling her stomach.
        For his part, Mulder knew it would take more than
hearing the details regarding a violent lovers' spat for him to
pass up the chance at fresh seafood.  Growing up on the
Vineyard had spoiled him when it came to fish.  As blasé as
he was about most of the rest of his diet, if something with
fins or a shell hadn't been caught that day, he just wasn't
interested in eating it.  No problem in the Big Easy.  Especially
not at the quiet little back street restaurant Bill had suggested.
The innkeeper had told Mulder it wasn't anything flashy.
        "You won't get a souvenir bib or a drink that lets you
keep the glass as a momento of the experience," Bill had said
with a smile.  "But, if you're looking for the best seafood in town,
all I can say is--this is where the locals go."
        And wise people they were too.  Because the food was
amazing.  Shrimp as big as his hand.  Gumbo that managed to be
spicy but not overpowering.  Bread that made him want to rail at
the injustice involved in allowing that tasteless white stuff he
always seemed to find on sale for under a buck to go by the same
name.  And wine that had Mulder wishing he knew enough about
things like 'vintage' and 'bouquet' to fully appreciate the bottle
Scully and he were sharing.
        The restaurant itself was hushed, subdued, despite the
fact that every table was filled.  Candlelight provided most of the
establishment's illumination.  White linen and fresh flowers adorned
the tables, all of which were far enough apart to promote the illusion
of intimacy.  Many of the patrons seemed to know each other, and
they nodded and smiled at acquaintances as they wound their
way through a decor composed more of wood than anything else.
The service wasn't quite as vigorous as what Mulder was used
to in some of the places he frequented near the Beltway.  But,
that was all right by him.  He wasn't opposed to lingering.
        After all--he couldn't fault the scenery.
        "What?"
        Mulder was sitting back in his chair, his long legs
crossed at the ankles, and eyeing with unabashed appreciation
the woman across from him.
        "Nothing," he murmured with a shake of his head and a
quirk of a smile just before he took another sip of his wine.
        On the opposite side of the table, a brow arched in silent
reproach.  Although Scully's answering smile took away any sting
the look might have provoked.  "Oh, I don't know, Mulder.  It
didn't look like 'nothing' to me."
        He dipped his head, acquiescing.  "I was just thinking
that it's a good thing Frohike can't see you in that dress."
        "Oh, and why is that?"
        "'Cause then I'd have to kill him."
        Knowing just how fond her partner was of the Lone
Gunmen's oldest and shortest member, Scully wasn't too terribly
alarmed by this pronouncement.  "You know, it isn't as if my
dress is the equivalent of that DAT tape, Mulder," she drawled
mildly as she rested her elbows on the table and steepled her
fingers before her lips.  "Seems to me that even if Frohike did
happen to catch a glimpse of my outfit, he should probably still
be allowed to live."
        "No, you don't understand," Mulder told her as he leaned
forward in his seat and drew closer to his dinner companion.  "I
mean . . . Frohike has already elevated you to goddess status.  You
walk into a room, and the poor guy gets so flustered he starts
speaking in tongues."
        Scully chuckled, remembering the late night conversation
she and Frohike had shared when they had each thought Mulder
was dead and that the X-Files were no more.  Much to her surprise,
her would-be worshipper had proven a good friend that night, and
a source of some much needed support.
        Even if his turning up on her doorstep had added another
item to her recycling bin.
        "But if he *ever* saw you in that dress," Mulder continued,
his gaze warm, a slight smile still tugging on his lips.  "Well, I'm
afraid it would be the equivalent of a holy war.  An all or nothing
kind of thing, you know?  He'd want you all to himself.  I know I do."
        Scully ducked her head a bit shyly, a suggestion of a
smile softening her mouth.  "I wouldn't worry.  For all his quirks,
Frohike is a bright guy.  I don't think it would take much for him to
realize that he was outmatched."
        "I don't know, Scully.  Maybe we shouldn't underestimate
him.  After all, it's surprising sometimes just what exactly a man
in love is capable of."
        "Ah . . . ," Scully playfully said with a lift of her brows.
"And who are we talking about now, Agent Mulder?"
        The dark-haired man with the sleepy hazel eyes merely
shrugged.
        "Mulder, at this point in our relationship there is very
little you could do that would surprise me," she purred with
deliberate provocation.
        His lashes lowered indulgently for an instant.  "Hmm . . .
That sounds suspiciously like a dare, Agent Scully.  Do you
really believe that I'm incapable of shocking you?"
        She moistened her lips.  "I really believe that I would
like to see you try."
        Mulder slowly nodded.
        And signaled for the check.
***********************************************
        Yet, in the end, the two agents didn't wind up running
back to their accommodations.  Trying to flag a taxi didn't even
occur to them.  Experience had taught them the piquant
sweetness of anticipation.
        So instead, they walked.  Why not?  The night was
lovely.  Mild for spring in New Orleans, with a light wind off
the river to help slice through the humidity.  They strolled side
by side, Mulder taking care to match his stride to his partner's.
Each remained surprisingly silent, almost as if they feared
shattering the mood, the circle of privacy they could feel
encapsulating them, fragile and beautiful as a soap bubble.
Shielding them, setting them apart, as they walked amidst a
sea of similar couples.  Similar men and women.  Visitors and
natives alike.
        It was uncanny, really, the manner in which they could
sense their bodies being drawn to one another.  At times it
seemed as if the pull existed without they themselves being
able to control it.  To rein it in.  They would find their arms
brushing against each other as they walked.  Or from time to
time, Mulder's hand would magically end up caressing the
smooth warm slope of Scully's back, guiding her as they turned
a corner or maneuvered through pockets of other pedestrians
out enjoying the evening.  Even Scully's dress conspired to
ensnare the man walking beside her.  Its skirt would flutter with
the breeze, the draft created by passerbys, and slip between
Mulder's legs or slap lightly against his thigh.  Like a
reminder.
        As if he needed one.
        And so, it actually came as little surprise when their
fingers ended up woven together.  At first, just a couple of them.
Entwined lightly.  Tentatively.  Then, without either of them
knowing who instigated it, their hands slid more firmly together.
To clasp.  Wholly, completely.  Palm to palm.
        Forming a bond.
        They traveled that way for a time.  Neither taking
particular note of what had occurred.  Until, at last, almost as
an afterthought, Mulder glanced down at their hands.  He
considered for a moment.  Then he smiled, his eyes raising to
find Scully's.  She had followed his gaze with her own, and smiled
back, the pleasure she received from the evening, from his touch,
shimmering in her eyes like sunlight off still water.  Mulder
basked in the warmth of that look, then nodded.
        Who knew that a simple thing like the sensation of her
small hand resting in his larger one could signify so much more,
he thought with a touch of amazement.
        And that the act of acknowledging that connection
on a public street would feel like a kind of promise.
        A vow.
        No less holy for being spoken without words under a
lazy star-lit Louisiana sky rather than beneath a church's vaulted
ceiling.
************************************************
        "Dance with me, Mulder."
        They had returned to their room.  The inn was still.  Its
other guests either out or asleep for the night.  In the darkness,
Scully stood beside Mulder framed in the balcony's wide archway,
breathing in the night's scented air.  In the distance, they could
faintly hear a saxophone moaning with a lonely sort of longing,
piercing with its melody the city's muffled undertones of
automobiles and fragmented conversations.
        "I'm not much of a dancer, Scully," he murmured from
right above her ear, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder.
        For just a quarter second, she flashed back to another
time, another dance, another woman, and a certain hotel hallway.
        Oh Mulder, I seem to remember you doing just fine
with Phoebe, Scully thought with rueful humor.  And then, just
as quickly, she dismissed the memory.  Ancient history.  That
scene had nothing to do with the present.  With them.
        "I'll teach you," she whispered, and turned into his arms.
        He welcomed her there as if there was nowhere else on
earth that she should be.  And indeed, that was how it felt to her.
To them both.  Sighing with the homecoming, she wrapped a
slender arm up and around the back of Mulder's neck.  He
curved his around her waist.  Their remaining two hands linked,
his covering hers protectively, and settled against his chest.
        Scully nestled her cheek just below Mulder's shoulder,
reveling in the subtle ebb and flow of his muscles shifting against
her delicate frame as they slowly turned and swayed to the faraway
music.  Her partner had nothing to fear, she mused fondly.  He
may not be their generation's Fred Astaire, but he was a natural at
holding her.  And wasn't that what this sort of dancing was, after
all?  Merely an excuse to be close.  A reason to rest their bodies
against each other.  An opportunity to touch and be touched.  She
closed her eyes for a instant, sinking in to the sensation, giving
herself over to the moment.  To him.  She didn't want this to end.
This sweet interlude.  This strange yet wonderful sense of oneness
she felt enfolded in Mulder's embrace.
        He smelled so good.  Soap and sweat and man all
blending together to form a mix a girl just couldn't buy over the
counter.  Although, Scully had to admit that if someone did figure
out a way to bottle the fragrance, she would undoubtedly be the
new cologne's number one customer.
        She honestly couldn't get enough of him.  Not that night.
Not ever.  Everything about him aroused her both mentally and
physically.  Even the sound of his heartbeat charmed her.  The
steady thud of it beneath her ear, its even rhythm, serving as a
kind of pulmonary percussion section to the phantom saxophone
serenading them still.
        "I can hear your heart," she told him quietly as she
combed her fingers through the silky hair grazing his collar.
        "I'm not surprised," he replied just as softly, the words
vibrating with a rumble in his chest.  "It's had a lot to say the past
couple of days."
        "Does that bother you?" she asked, pulling back to look
into his eyes, knowing that even obscured by the room's shadows
they would reveal to her his answer long before his words would.
        "That I feel more these days?" he inquired with a gentle
lopsided smile.  "No, Scully.  I don't mind when my heart decides
it needs to chat.  Not when you're the topic of conversation."
        She smiled at him, tenderness for this man filling her,
pushing aside all other thoughts, all other considerations.
"You've always 'felt', Mulder.  Sometimes too much."
        "Not enough to do anything about it," he reminded her
 ruefully, his lips nuzzling her hair.  "Not when it came to us."
        No, Scully thought as she and Mulder continued to slowly
move to the music filtering in through the balcony's French doors.
Neither of them had dared act upon their feelings for each other, the
love they had each kept hidden like a pirate's treasure.  Buried for
what seemed an eternity.  Not until a madman had driven them to it;
forced them to recognize what had been staring them brazenly in the
face for so very long.  That the person with whom they worked had
somehow, some way, become the single most important individual
in their lives.  The one without whom they were something less
than whole.
        After all, wasn't that what she had felt when she had
come home from New Mexico alone and disheartened.  When she
had understood with the most terrible sort of self-knowledge that
part of her had remained beneath the hard packed earth so many
thousands of miles away.  Buried there under a blazing sun
whose heat was challenged only by the fire that for awhile she
had believed had ended Mulder's life.  That separation had ached
like a mortal wound.  The kind that would never heal, never close.
That no amount of doctoring or time could cure.
        And yet, they had been lucky, hadn't they?
        Mulder had been given another chance.  As had she
before him.  Not all the players in the little drama she and Mulder
called their lives had been that fortunate, Scully acknowledged as
Melissa's gentle face drifted bittersweet into her mind's eye.  But
she and Mulder had thus far survived.  And in some respects,
thrived.
        The happiness she felt singing through her blood
supplied for her all the proof that last statement required.
        And, as she tightened her arms around her lean, lanky
dance partner, Scully realized with a rush of resolve, that such
triumphs had to be celebrated.  Had to be relished.  Life was too
fragile, time too fleeting, to do otherwise.
        "I know what I want to do, Mulder," she whispered in a
low husky voice.
        "And what is that?"
        She tilted back her head to look at him, the hand she had
around his neck coming forward to trace his hairline.  "I want to
make love to you."
        Mulder returned her gaze, his eyes warm and liquid in the
half-light, his smile tender.  "Scully, I always knew that you were
the real brains of the operation."
        They stilled their movement, and remaining in the circle
of Mulder's arms, Scully stretched up to kiss him.  He sighed with
pleasure.  And she smiled slightly against his mouth, surprised as
always by just how soft his lips were.  How utterly he could
seduce her merely by moving them gently against her own.
        She had almost succumbed to his ministrations, had almost
gotten lost in his kiss just as she had so many times before, when
she pulled back, and instead ran the backs of her fingers down the
slope of his cheek.
        "Do you trust me, Mulder?" she asked a tad mischievously,
consciously echoing the question he had asked her just twenty-four
hours before.
        "You know I do," he answered quietly, a faint quizzical
smile tilting his lips.
        "With you heart?"
        He nodded solemnly.
        "With your body?" she queried lightly, her hand still
caressing his face.
        "With my soul."
        Scully felt her insides suddenly constrict, her eyes well.
        "Then let me," she whispered, as her fingers drifted down
to the top button of his shirt and slipped it free.  Another slipped
loose.  And another yet again.  "Trust me."  She strung a string of
kisses down the center of his torso.  Slow moist kisses that ran in
a line from the base of his throat to directly between his nipples,
ending just above the cross around his neck.  He gasped as her
mouth descended.
        She paused at that, and looked up at him, her blue eyes
nearly black in the faint light leaking into the chamber from outside.
"I'm going to seduce you, Mulder," she told him with a suggestion
of a smile and a challenging arch of her brow.
        He chuckled, the sound a bit wobbly.  Then, his hands
flexed on her slender waist, giving her middle a squeeze.  "I've
got news for you, Scully.  You already have."
        She shook her head, her fingertips running faintly over
the planes of his chest.  "No, not yet.  I need you to do something
for me first."
        "Anything."
        Now, it was her turn to chuckle.  "Don't stop me."
        He cocked a brow and a smile.  "And why ever would I
do that?"
        She tugged his shirt free from his pants, a playful smile
gracing her own lips.  "Well, . . . perhaps  'stop' is the wrong word.
What about 'distract'?  Or maybe, just plain 'help'."
        "You don't want me to help you seduce me?"
        She laughed softly once more, and brushed her lips
against his.  "What I want is for this to be about you.  Only you."
        Something flared a bit wildly in his hazel eyes, only to
at once be ruthlessly brought under control.  When he spoke, his
lightly teasing words echoed this restraint.  "I see.  And where
will you be?"
        "Right where I belong."
        With that she kissed him again.  More deeply this time,
her tongue rubbing slowly, provocatively, against his.  Her arms
twined tightly around his neck, her breasts pressed heavy against
his chest.
        "Let me," she implored breathlessly as she sprinkled a
deluge of tiny soft kisses on his face.  "Let me give this to you,
Mulder.  Please.  I want to.  And I have a feeling that it wouldn't
take much for you to want it too."
        His hands came up and framed her face, trembling slightly
against her cheeks as they did so.  He held her still for a moment
while their eyes carried on a silent conversation.  But, before she
was willing to let it go, Scully had one more thing she had to say
out loud.
        "I promise, I'll take good care of you."
        With that, Mulder shook his head, a touch of wonder in
his expression.
        "I'd have to be as nuts as everyone claims I am to say
no," he murmured wryly, his thumbs smoothing over her
cheekbones.  "All right, Scully.  We'll do it your way.  As of
right now, I place myself in your very capable hands."
        "You won't be sorry."
        "I'm counting on it."
        Their eyes clung for a moment.  Then, her hands returned
to the remaining buttons on his shirt, and smoothly freed them
from their holes.  In a matter of seconds, the white cotton shirt
hung open from his shoulders.  Scully could see the strong lines
of his chest, his stomach's tender skin.  Lightly she ran her palms
beneath the shirt, skimmed her fingertips over his warm torso.
        "Have I ever mentioned how much I like your body,
Mulder?"
        He laughed softly, shortly.  "Maybe from time to time."
        She smiled up at him, then kissed him right where she
judged his heart to be.  "Ah, well--I didn't want to overdo it.  I
wouldn't want you to think me shallow."
        She slid her hands up to his shoulders and pushed his
shirt to the floor.  He stood before her, his hands at his sides, his
chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven manner.  Watching and
waiting, as she had requested that he do.  He was beautiful, she
thought, her admiration for him glowing plainly in her eyes.  He
had a swimmer's body; all long muscles, and loose-limbed grace.
Like most athletes in that sport, his waist was slim, his shoulders
broad.
        Lightly, almost experimentally, she drew her fingertips
across his skin, using them like an artist's brush, tracing muscle.
With a gentle touch, she painted her own variety of abstract art;
her canvas, his chest.
        "But perhaps I've been remiss, Mulder," she murmured as
her mouth lowered to one of his small brown nipples.  She closed
her lips tenderly around it, and flicked her tongue over the nubbin.
Mulder groaned.  She smiled at the sound.  "Perhaps I should tell
you just what exactly I think of you."
        "Go ahead," he whispered with a shaky smile, his eyes
sliding shut as Scully's mouth turned its attention to his other
nipple.
        She waited, choosing instead to tantalize the man before
her with her tongue, her teeth.  Carefully, she even suckled at his
breast.  Mulder responded by hissing in a quick lung full of air,
and throwing back his head as if in agony.
        She knew better.
        Finally, she released him and looked up, her eyes
sparkling.  Mulder met her gaze, his dark and fathomless.  She
reached up and outlined the shape of his mouth with her index
finger.  "You're perfect."
        Despite his arousal, the man before her chuckled
ruefully.  "Uh-oh, Scully.  It sounds as if all those blows to the
head you've suffered over the years have finally impaired your
judgment."
        She grinned, and wrapped her arms around his neck,
tugging down his head for a long lazy kiss.  "You are, Agent
Mulder," she told him when their mouths parted company.  "To
me, you are.  You're everything I want."
        He moistened his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Then that's all that matters."
        She nodded, and kissed him again, her mouth open and
hungry against his.  Mulder returned the kiss, greedily slanting
his lips over hers.  And yet, he continued to allow her to take the
lead.  Instead, he merely held her.  One hand splayed against her
silky back, the other buried in the soft cloud of her hair.
        Scully ran her hands over her partner's naked skin.  The
smooth sculpted breadth of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his
waist.  She could sense how her touch excited him, could feel the
evidence pressed hard and impatient against her belly.  His need
fed her own desire, her own physical demands.  And yet, she
refused to hurry.  She wanted this to last.  For the man in her arms
to be the recipient of every weapon in her feminine arsenal.  Hell,
let's be honest, Dana--you want Mulder to be screaming for you
when he comes, she acknowledged dryly.
        After all, she owed him.
        Finally tearing her lips from his, she trailed them down
the line of his throat, lapping and sucking her way along while her
hands found his belt buckle and deftly unfastened it.
        "What's your greatest fantasy, Mulder?" she asked him
in a low throaty voice, her fingers fluttering lightly along his
waistband.
        "You," he answered without hesitation.
        She chuckled.  "I'm not a fantasy.  I'm real."
        "Exactly," he told her quietly, his eyes glittering down
into hers like diamonds.  "Why would I need make-believe, when
I finally have the real thing?"
        She kissed him on the sensitive patch of skin just behind
his ear.  "I don't know, Mulder.  There's something to be said for
imagination.  If nothing else, the women you create in your head
never give you any lip."
        "I love your lips," he protested with a growl and a
wolfish smile.
        She captured his lower one with her teeth and carefully
nibbled on it while her fingers grabbed hold of the zipper on his
pants and lowered it.  "And I love yours," she whispered, kissing
the object of her affection tenderly upon releasing it.  "But that
still doesn't take care of the problem."
        "We don't have any problems.  At least not in that
regard."
        She knelt before him like a geisha and freed his shoes
from his feet.  His socks were gently removed as well.  She then
stood once more, and eased her hands inside his slacks, slipping
them between boxers and skin, her breasts brushing like a tease
against his middle.  "Maybe it's my problem then.  My concern.
You see, I've always been very competitive.  When I do
something, I like to do it well."
        "You do," he assured her as he nuzzled her brow, the
subject of their cryptic conversation never in doubt.
        "Thanks, Mulder," she said with a small smile as she bent
to remove his trousers and shorts so that he finally stood before
her naked.  "But there are always ways to improve."
        Mulder hummed non-committally as she stood again and
circled him, her hands smoothing over his heated skin with a kind
of purely carnal enjoyment.  He was hers, she thought with a surge
of nearly painful satisfaction.  This brilliant, beautiful, gentle,
insane man belonged to her.  He proved it to her every day with his
devotion, his loyalty, his love.  And now, he had made himself
absolutely vulnerable to her, standing there unmoving, his eyes
half closed, trusting that she would keep her promise.  That she
would cherish him as much as she knew he did her.
        The idea aroused her more than the most fervent caress
ever could.
        She stepped around behind him, not quite ready to let
him look into her eyes right at that moment.  Not certain she could
maintain control if he did.  She pressed her cheek against the
powerful sweep of his upper back, nuzzling him there.  Sighing, she
clasped her arms around his waist, one hand coming to rest, fingers
spread, on his chest; the other, just below his navel.
        "You're so strong, Mulder," Scully whispered against his
skin, her breath hot and moist.  "Do you even realize sometimes
how strong you are?  I feel so safe with you.  Like nothing can
touch us as long as we're together."
        Mulder didn't feel strong.  Not one bit.  In fact, he
ruefully mused, right at that moment a particularly husky
preschooler could probably take him.  Effortlessly tumble him
right over on his ass with a push of the little one's tiny hand.
God, it was taking all of his concentration, all of his supposed
might, merely to remain standing.  Because for all his calm
forbearance, Scully was reducing him to a pale quivering
imitation of a man with her touch.  Her heatedly spoken words
of praise.  The frank look of approval in her eyes.
        "Do I make you feel that way, Mulder?" she inquired
quietly as her lips began inching their way down his spine.  She
went slowly, her mouth open as she pressed one soft kiss after
another down the length of his back.  At the same time, her hands
moved just as gently over him, sweeping across his chest, his
shoulders, his upper arms, his waist.  "Do I make you feel safe?"
        Now?!-- he wanted to whimper.  =Right now=?  No, Scully.
Not safe.  Anything but safe, he wanted to confess.  You make me
hot and weak and nervous and reckless and happy--so blessedly
happy that if his life ended right then and there he knew he would
be unable to muster a complaint.  After all, he had been allowed
this.  Amidst all the pain and the fear and the failure that had
dogged his days, he had been given a gift.  Her.  Some merciful
deity somewhere had looked down on him and granted him Dana
Katherine Scully.  Mulder didn't know what he had done to
deserve such a prize.  He had no idea what act had finally
convinced the powers-that-be to grace him with a woman like her.
But, he meant to make certain that she never regretted their
relationship.  Never wondered if perhaps the whole thing wasn't
some sort of terrible mistake.
        That kind of resolve, that sort of responsibility, weighed
heavily at times.  Hell, some days it seemed as if the odds against
him, against them, were frighteningly astronomical.  First, Scully
and he had to battle all the silly foolish little things all couples had
to face.  The jealousies.  The annoying little habits and peccadilloes
that when two people were just getting to know each other were
seen as endearing, only to later become the source of immeasurable
irritation.  And, to make matters worse, they had to put up with
all the petty vexations while virtually living in each other's pockets.
They saw more of each other than did many married couples.  And
yet they failed to enjoy the freedom such a relationship should,
by all rights, have entailed.  No.  The subterfuge and care that went
into maintaining the platonic myth of their partnership had made
restraint second nature.  And control, the touchstone by which
they lived their lives.
        So, at times like this, when Scully asked him to
disregard that control, to let loose, to fully open himself up to
her, Mulder wondered sometimes if he could bear it.  If he could
actually give her the truly honest response she sought.
        Then, he remembered his vow, his promise to make the
woman he loved as happy as she made him.
        And suddenly it all came a good deal easier.
        "Safe isn't a word I would use when it comes to you,
Scully," he muttered hoarsely, his head tipped back slightly, his
eyes tightly shut.
        Her tongue touched first one dimple on the small of his
back, then the other.  Mulder bit back a moan.  Scully didn't
acknowledge his effort.  Instead, she continued to tease him, her
lips grazing his side, the back of his thighs, his buttocks, her
hands resting lightly on his hips, kneading him there.  "What
word would you prefer?"
        Mulder was beginning to sway, not certain how much
longer his legs would support him.  Not against the onslaught
Scully was inflicting upon his senses.  "I don't know . . ."
        "Tell me," she urged, nibbling on the curve of his behind,
her soft hair tickling his painfully sensitized skin.  "Try."
        He attempted a chuckle that came out more like a groan,
his mind whirring like a radial on slush.  Finally, in desperation he
mumbled, "Maddening."
        Her caresses abruptly stopped, although her hands
remained poised on his hips.  "Maddening?"
        Whoops.
        Mulder couldn't judge how Scully was taking his little
confession, but decided to see it through to the end.  "Yes,
. . . maddening."
        With that, the tip of one slim index finger began to
run up the back of his thigh, from the slight indentation of his
knee to his derriere  "And would that word describe the way
you always think of me, or just the way you feel right now?"
        This time, the short pained sound coming from his
throat more closely resembled the laugh it strove to be, and yet
the attempt was still shaky at best.  "Scully, at this moment, I
can't think much past right now."
        For a time, she said nothing.  Mulder stood facing away
from her, waiting.  Bravely trying to gather himself, his breath,
his badly-taxed control.  Without warning, her hands abandoned
him.  He heard a rustle of fabric.  Something grazed the back of
his calves.  Then, he heard Scully whisper, "Turn around."
        Had she murmured, "Set yourself on fire" he would
have been just as powerless to disobey.  But as her actual
instruction sounded far more promising, he moved to comply
as quickly as he was able.
        God.
        Not only was her sweet soft mouth inches away from a
portion of his anatomy that was straining towards her, almost
frantically seeking her attention, but she had taken off that twice
bedamned dress.  The one that had been wreaking havoc with his
sanity all night long.
        And hidden beneath it like a secret had been, what was
to him, the most beloved occupant of Scully's lingerie drawer.
        Her garter belt.  Black with tiny pink roses.  Holding up a
pair of slinky ebony hose.
        She knelt at his feet wearing those, a lacy pair of matching
panties, and her black high-heeled sandals.
        And nothing else.
        Battling a sudden wave of light-headedness, Mulder
wondered if Scully would think him any less a man if he swooned.
        As it was, he flinched with a degree of violence when
she raised her small hand and lightly traced the length of him.
Outlined him.  Smiling her very best Mona Lisa smile as she
contentedly watched him jump beneath the caress.
        "You know, I'm not certain that I should be flattered
by hearing I drive you *mad*, Mulder," she murmured in a
low husky voice, her thumb rubbing now over his very tip.
        "You should," he gritted out, his hands fisting at his
sides, the muscles in his neck cording.  "You should."
        Her smile broadened.  "I see.  So, then your going a bit
insane, . . . your loss of control is a *good* thing?"
        No doubt about it.  The woman was clairvoyant.
        "Yes," he hissed as her gentle hands now cupped the
heavy sac of nerves at his base and lifted it, jostling it slightly in
her palm.  His eyes slid tightly shut in reaction.  "Oh God, . . . yes."
        "Well, you know what they say, Mulder," she said softly
as she smoothed her thumb over the vein that ran up the underside
of him, her eyes smoky and full of promise.  "You can never have
too much of a good thing."
        Mulder had run out of words.  He could only watch her,
the blood pounding at his temples, the sweat trickling down his
hairline.
        "So, let's see what exactly it takes to drive you insane,
shall we, Agent Mulder?" she said lowly, the mock menace in
her voice tempered by her smile.  "Only I want to be sure I
do it right.  If I'm to be your fantasy, I have to make certain
that I please you."
        Oh God, any more pleasure would kill him.  "You do," he
whispered fervently.
        "Remember Mulder--there's always room for improvement."
        And with that, she licked her lips.
        And Mulder felt quite confident that he was going to lose
it right then and there.  That he was going to spiral up and away,
exploding like a fireball, before Scully ever even did what he knew
she was about to do and wanted her to do more than he wanted
the earth to continue spinning. . . . .
        Then, she lowered her head.
        And he was lost.
        A tortured inarticulate sound was ripped from the back
of his throat as her soft hot mouth closed around him, taking the
head of him between her lips and slowly running her tongue over
him.
        Oh God.  Oh sweet Jesus.
        She played with him that way, her mouth locked firmly over
him.  Over and under and around, her tongue lapped.  At times, just
the tip of it, flicking.  Then, she would flatten it and lave the hard
rounded length of him.  Pressing against him, driving him on.
Coaxing.  Urging.  Until he thought he would weep when after a
while, an all too short while, she pulled her mouth up and
away from him.
        "Did you like that, Mulder?"
        He wanted to tell her.  To share with her the raw, piercing
sort of ecstasy her caresses had shown him.  But ordering words
into a sentence was really too Herculean a task at present.  So,
instead, he kept it simple.
        He whimpered.
        She smiled.
        Wickedly.
        "Or perhaps you'd prefer this."
        Her bright tousled head bent and she drew him once more
into the hot wet confines of her mouth.  Deeper.  And deeper still.
Slowly.  Until Mulder could feel her nose pushed flush against his
body.  Her fingers dug into the resilient flesh of his buttocks, her
short nails nipping at his skin.  She just held him there for a moment.
Unmoving.  Then, lightly, so lightly that at first he thought he
might be imagining it, her tongue began its playful lapping once
more.
        His hands flew to her hair.  His hips pressed beseechingly
forward.
        Finally, Scully's head began to leisurely move.
        To bob up and down.
        And Mulder began to understand the true meaning of
insanity.
        As a psychologist, he had, of course, run across
definitions in the past.  Phrases meant to break the condition apart.
Ground it in something recognizable.  Parallels that rendered the
state of being safe.
        Safe.  There's that word again, he mused a tad
incoherently.  But safe was the furthest thing from what he felt.
        Not safe.
        Alive, yes.
        Aroused, certainly.
        His entire being vibrating with the violence of his need,
obviously.
        Christ, she was driving him nuts.
        Scully was pushing him right over the edge with her
fullsofthotwetdeeptight mouth.  Could a man die from this, he
wondered as she slowly picked up speed, gradually increased
the pressure, the suction her lips had created around the rigid
length of him.  He wasn't certain.  But, right about now he was
willing to make the sacrifice.
        Then, she stopped once more.
        And far less pleasant ways to die skittered across his
consciousness.
        "So, how am I doing, Mulder?" she inquired innocently.
 One hand holding firmly around the base of him, the other gliding
lightly up and down the hard, heavy ridge of muscle throbbing
between them.  "Any suggestions?  Or did you like it just the
way it was?"
        He opened his eyes and gazed down at her.  She rested
gracefully at his feet.  Her pale body gleaming in the room's
shadows like a slim flame.  He could see the firm round twin
curves of her breasts, their pink rigid peaks.  The fine mist of
sweat dewing her skin.  The way her swollen moist lips
glistened up at him, parted as if waiting and willing to pull him
back inside.
        To salvation.
        Still, she held back.  She was as turned on by this
whole thing as he, and yet she was taking her time.  Making him
suffer.  So much so, he half suspected that his picture had just
been added to the latest edition of Websters.  Right next to the
word "desperate".
        Haven't you ever heard, Mulder, asked a mocking little
voice inside his head.  Paybacks are a bitch.
        "Well . . . did you?  Like it, I mean," she queried quietly,
her fingers gliding over him feather light.
        "Yes," he murmured, the single word almost more than
he could manage.
        "Anything you'd like me to change?"  She kissed him
softly, right at his root.
        He trembled.  "No."
        "Good."  She smiled, her lips moving slowly up him,
gentle and warm.  "Shall I continue?"
        He was panting now.  Every pore on his body open and
receptive to whatever the woman before him might choose to do.
Poised on the edge of never-never.  Anxious for it.  Ready to kill
to have it.  And yet it was out of his control.  He had promised to
let her run the show.  What he needed, what he had to have,
rested entirely in her hands.
        Quite literally.
        "Do you want me to beg, Scully?" The words came out
low and hoarse.  Little more than a rumble.  And yet, she instantly
understood.
        "Would you?"
        "Yes."
        Her lashes lowered with that.  And she kissed him again.
Moist and soothing on the hot turgid tip of him.
        "Don't say a word, Mulder."
        Then, she lowered her mouth over him once more.
        And, in the end, he followed her instructions.  Except for
one minor deviation.  The broken sounding whisper of her name,
murmured over and over again as he, shuddering, found release.
*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *
        Mulder didn't know how long he stood there.  Neck
arched.  Mouth open.  Hips thrust forward.  Body quivering
helplessly.  His hands clenching and unclenching mindlessly
in Scully's hair.  Time had ceased its relevance.  Nothing existed
any longer but Scully and him.  Nothing else counted.  Nothing
else was real.
        Then at last, he could feel his heart slowing, the sweat
on his skin cooling, his muscles growing heavy and slack.  Finally,
he became aware of the soft cheek resting against his abdomen,
the gentle glide of fingertips along his hips, his torso, his sides.
Battling against the sudden weightiness of his eyelids, he
looked down and saw Scully smiling up at him. Her eyes shining,
her mouth curved sweetly.  Not at all convinced he had the
strength necessary to complete the maneuver, he leaned down a
bit unsteadily, and pulled her up and into his embrace.  The move
proved rough, but successful.  And they held each other silently,
almost reverently.
        After a time, Scully nuzzled her face against Mulder's
chest and kissed his salt slicked skin.
        "Hi," she whispered a trifle shyly.
        "Hi yourself," he murmured, his arms tightening around
her.
        "How do you feel?"
        He chuckled.  "How do you think I feel?  I may never
recover."
        She hugged him close for a moment, then pulled back
and gazed up at him, her brow arched.  "Never is a long time,
Mulder."
        He just looked at her for a moment, at the beautiful
woman in his arms.  The one with the pale soft skin and the
tumble of auburn hair.  The one whose azure eyes glistened
up at him full of warmth, intelligence, and desire.  Whose full
swollen lips even now inspired in him scenes that threatened
to make him, the subscriber to "Celebrity Skin," blush.  Whose
slim silky body held surprises he knew he would never tire of
discovering.  The one who cradled his badly bruised heart in her
hands like a robin's egg.  Precious and fragile.  The way he often
thought to hold her.  The woman he would do anything for.
        Anything.
        He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently.
"Never is an *awfully* long time when one of us isn't satisfied."
        She dipped her gaze and said, a tad disgruntled, "I'm not
keeping score, you know, Mulder.  This isn't 'one for you and one
for me'."
        "Ah, but maybe it should be, Scully," he countered
quietly, his mouth now tracing its way along her hairline.  "We're
partners, after all.  Doesn't that suggest a certain equality?"
        She smiled in spite of herself, her eyes sliding shut as
Mulder gently explored her face with his lips.  "Yes, it does.  But
don't you see--what we just did was as much for me as it was for
you.  Remember, I wanted it.  It was my idea."
        "And a lovely idea it was too," he assured her.  "But
somehow my reaction to it and yours were . . . oh, I don't know--
subtly different?"
        She chuckled, her eyes opening once more, her hands
flexing on his back.  He smiled down into her upturned face, and
spoke again.
        "So, call it my sense of fair play--or maybe it's simply my
inability to keep my hands off you.  But I feel the need to
reciprocate."
        Scully knew herself to be warming to the notion, melting
under the deep soft tenor of his words, the tender sweep of his
hands over her back, her arms.  Yet, she felt compelled to point
out the obvious.
        "Mulder, I hate to burst your bubble.  But your body
probably won't be up to . . .  reciprocating . . . for awhile yet."
        Mulder lifted his brows a trifle smugly.  And eyes
flickering away from hers for a moment to a point just beyond
her shoulder, he turned Scully gently in his arms so that her back
rested against his chest.  "Scully, I would have thought that you
of all people would appreciate just how very resourceful I can
be."
        Before she was even quite certain how she had gotten
there, Scully found herself staring straight into the cheval glass
half a room away.
        "Look," he urged.
        She did.
        Oh dear God.
        "Look at yourself, Scully," Mulder whispered heatedly,
his hands moving slowly over her body, gliding powerfully along
her torso, massaging her skin while his mouth hovered inches from
her ear.  "You told me what I look like to you.  How you see me.
Well, this is what I see when I make love to you."
        The image before her was almost painfully erotic.  Her
slender body rested nearly boneless against Mulder's larger
frame.  The ebony hose and shoes calling attention to her
lower body while the upper half gleamed in the room's shadows
like ivory against black velvet.  Mesmerized, she watched as
Mulder's hands continued their leisurely inventory of her curves,
her hands having somehow found their way to the nape of his
neck, tangling in his hair so that her back arched, pushing her
breasts forward, lifting them as if she hoped to tempt the man
standing behind her with their fullness.
        "Do you see how beautiful you are?" he asked her softly.
His mouth now teased her ear, sucking on it, nipping at it through
her hair.  "Do see how perfectly you fit against me?  How these . . ."
He cupped her breasts carefully in his palms.  " . . . are exactly the
right size for my hands?  Do you see that?"
        She moistened her lips, her breath now coming in quick
little jerks, not even certain what question she was answering.
"Yes."
        His hands began gently kneading the soft mounds of
flesh he held, clenching and releasing with an easy steady rhythm.
She ground her hips against him in reaction.
        He chuckled, the sound dark and low, and nibbled on the
elegant bend of her neck.  "But if you want to see something truly
amazing, something that never fails to take my breath away, let me
show you this."
        One hand eased away from her breast to trail instead down
the front of her.  Utterly in Mulder's thrall, Scully watched his hand
slide past her waist, the slight curve of her belly, to the waistband
of her panties, and beyond.  Coming to a stop only when it found
the hot moist core of her.
        And slipped inside.
        She moaned and started in his arms.  Her eyelids fluttered.
        "No.  No, Scully," Mulder chided tenderly as his fingers
moved slowly over her, tracing the slick engorged folds guarding
the opening to her body, circling over the sensitive little knot of
nerves hidden there.  "Keep your eyes open and watch us.  Watch
yourself.  Because believe me, Scully, there is nothing more
beautiful in this world than you.  Like this."
        She whimpered and strove to do as he instructed.  But it
was hard.  She felt vulnerable in a way she never had before, meeting
Mulder's eyes in the mirror while he played her body with the same
skill that Perlman brought to a Stradivarius.  His hand moved like a
thief beneath the lacy triangle of her panties, stealing her control,
her strength, her senses themselves.  His other hand continued
toying with her breast, rolling its swollen peak between his thumb
and forefinger, pulling lightly on it, tracing its center with his
fingertips.  Her chest heaved.  Her knees threatened to buckle.
        "Mulder . . ." she whispered, her mouth twisted into a
grimace of pleasure, desperate to make him understand just what
precisely he was doing to her.  How ferociously her arousal had
descended upon her.
        He knew.
        "I love you," he muttered against her temple, his voice
rough and low, his eyes glowing fiercely in the mirror, their fire
seemingly fueled by her need.  "I love you, Scully.  Let go.  Let
go for me.  Let me see you.  Let me see you come."
        And she did.  Trembling and bucking as if trying to
throw off chains when at last she flew apart in his arms.
        Powerless to do anything else.

************************************************
        Fox Mulder slept the sleep of the innocent.
        Not that his psyche had suddenly been washed clean.
Unsullied.  No longer tainted by the guilt, the fear, the righteous
anger that had for so long added shadows to the shape of his
soul.
        Rather, he was exhausted.
        Scully might be small, but she had the endurance of a
triathlete.
        Not that he was complaining.
        Lord, no.
        Instead, he had recently begun considering whether
perhaps he should start running a bit more frequently.  Maybe
don with more regularity that red  Speedo.  Build up his cardio-
vascular fitness.
        After all, a certain sexy little redhead was, in a
manner of speaking, her very own Olympic event.
        And he definitely wanted to be atop the podium.
        In a manner of speaking.
        Yet, for all his performance anxiety, Mulder had been
able that night to feel that he had at least held his own.  Because
when all had been said and done, the Energizer Bunny known
as Dana Scully had been the one to fall asleep first.
        And while he hadn't received a medal of any sort for
that achievement, the occasion had granted him a kind of bounty.
        He had been allowed to look at her.
        Unhindered.  Without interruption.
        Sappy as he recognized it was, Mulder could never
get enough of watching his partner at rest.  He supposed the
attraction was due, at least in part, to the very novelty of the act.
Hell, they spent so damn few nights together.  And the hours
they did manage to finagle always seemed to the two of them far
too precious to waste on petty things like shut-eye.  But he
suspected the real delight to be had in observing Scully slumber
came from the way in which sleep released her.  Freed her from
the constraints she habitually imposed upon herself.  In her
continuing pursuit of perfection.
        Mulder wondered sometimes whether the woman he
loved even realized that she behaved in such a manner.   That
she set for herself such high standards.  Such strict codes of
behavior and conduct.  In the end, the point was moot.
Because cognizant or no, Scully quite simply accepted nothing
less than excellence from herself.  Always.  And that was tough.
Especially on her.  Such a goal required constant vigilance on
her part.  It never mattered where they were, what the hour was,
or what the situation.  In her mind, she had to be on top of it.
Without fail.
        On the flip side, from where Mulder was standing,
it seemed as if no matter how closely he paid attention, how
carefully he observed, catching Scully with her guard down
was about as easy as getting a good look at old Nessie.
        And yet, he did manage it from time to time.  When
they made love, of course.  And he caught glimpses of it on
those occasions when she would look him in the eye and softly
tell him something true, something intimate, spoken without fear
of misunderstanding or consequences.
        But those scant moments only made him crave more.
Instances of Scully without her defenses in place were as
addictive as the purest heroin.  And Mulder had ruefully
discovered that for this particular high he had become the
most pathetic of junkies.  He couldn't help himself.  Couldn't
conquer the desire to know all there was to know about this
woman.  Not only her strengths, which were obvious and far
too numerous to count.  But the aspects of her personality that
weren't so readily accessible.  The things about herself that she
was loath to share.  Her vulnerabilities.  Her weaknesses.
        And sleep allowed him to indulge that craving.
        When she lie next to him, small and warm and utterly
relaxed, Mulder knew that this was Dana Scully in her purest form.
        Woman as an elemental being.
        He had held her that night until she had nodded off,
softly stroking her hair in that slow lazy rhythm he knew she
liked.  Once he had felt her body slacken in his arms and her
breathing grow deep and even, he had carefully slipped free
from beneath her, rolling her slight form gently onto the mattress
beside him.  Propping his head on his hand, and his elbow on
the pillow, Mulder had then looked down at his partner with a
tender smile, his eyes leisurely sweeping over the smooth perfect
oval of her face.
        Scully's lashes had curled like lush little ladies' fans over
the faint crescents beneath her eyes.  The sort of fashion accessories
that had been used in Jane Austen's day and before as a means to
both attract and repel a man.  Struck by this insight, Mulder had
stifled the urge to chuckle.  He had never before made the
connection.  His metaphor had an unexpectedly circular logic
embedded in it.  After all, a woman could easily choose to use her
eyes in the same manner, for the same purpose, as Emma, Elizabeth
and all the rest of the Regency period's most famous heroines had
utilized the language of the fan.  She could bat her lashes to entice.
Snap her eyes away from a man's admiring gaze in an effort to
dissuade.  The game was as old as civilization.
        But not his Scully.  No game player there.  She didn't get
off on the power such ploys inevitably spawned.  The rush to be
had by dangling the promise of intimacy, the hope of affection
before a man only to all at once deny him.  She didn't have it in
her to make a guy jump through hoops just to see if the fool
would do it.
        Unlike Phoebe.
        No, he had thought fondly, his fingers stealing lightly
once more through the strands of her fiery hair.  Scully was
too true, too kind, too good, for that sort of cruelty.
        Praise God.
        It never ceased to amaze him that such a gentle soul
was shielded by such a fierce intellect, a ferocious spirit.  For
despite the fact that in her present state she more closely
resembled 'kitten', Mulder had always thought of Scully as more
'lioness' than anything else.  The real leader of the pride.  Huntress.
Protectress.  All regal power and calm fortitude.  Brave when she
had to be.  Tender with those with whose care she was charged.
Not afraid to give the guy with the shaggy mane a quick swipe
of her paw across his nose when he deserved it.
        Why had he suddenly felt the urge to get a haircut?
        Fearing that his zoological imagery was getting the best
of him, Mulder had banished it from his head and had focused
instead on the reality of the woman before him.  The simple
incontrovertible actuality of who she was.
        Petite.
        Hardly a revelation, that.  And yet there were times
when the knowledge made a certain powerful impact on him.
Although throughout much of her Bureau career Scully had
managed to avoid physical confrontations, there was no
escaping the fact that her size made her vulnerable.  That despite
her training and intelligence, there was simply no way she was
a match for a person with twice her bulk.  And that, quite frankly,
frightened the hell out of Mulder.
        He had supposed that this fear might be seen by some
as a bit of a slap in the face to his partner's capabilities.
Especially given that in the course of their joint careers, he had been 
far more likely to be on the receiving end of a butt-whupping than she.
And yet, his concern was in no way due to some perceived
deficiency on Scully's part.  On the contrary, he knew that the
woman with whom he worked had routinely recognized her physical
limitations and had adjusted accordingly.  To minimize her risk,
she approached danger with utmost caution.  Unlike his leap-first-
ask-questions-later mentality, she carefully considered all the
potential hazards to be found in a situation before diving in, and
then reacted as needed.   This, of course, wasn't to say that she
lacked bravery.  Mulder felt quite certain that he would never
meet anyone possessing the sort of courage Dana Scully did.
She just fought smart.  Period.  She maximized the odds.
        And yet, odds implied luck.
        And no one's luck held out forever.
        Some variables couldn't be foreseen or controlled.
        Watching Scully softly sleep, Mulder had thought back
to what she had looked like during that nightmarish stand-off on
Old Memorial Bridge.  The one where he had thought he had
watched his baby sister plunge to an icy death.  The one where
something not of this earth had succeeded in stealing his partner
away from him, only to barter her back like some trinket at a
bazaar.  He had recalled seeing the blood on her face when she
had been dragged from the automobile that had brought her to
the exchange point.  Her nose running red.  An ugly looking gash
oozing the same colored stuff through her hairline.  He had
remembered the manner in which her legs had shaken when she
had stumbled back to him, to safety.  And the way her empty
motel room had earlier that night silently testified to the brutality
of the battle waged there.
        The one that she had lost.
        Those memories swirling around inside his mind like
cyanide gas, Mulder had sadly shaken his head, his brow
darkening.  God, how tenuous life was.  How easily snuffed out.
He had been considering all life he had supposed, but Scully's
life in particular.  She had been through so much.  How the hell
had she managed to survive, he had wondered with a touch of
awe.  How had they both?
        Better still, how had she kept herself from hating him
for the sort of sorrow their partnership had shown her?
        His eyes had skimmed down her slender body where
it tented the sheet beneath which she slumbered, his gaze
lingering on silly things like the smallness of her foot, the sharp
narrowing of her waist, the easy rise and fall of her breasts as
she softly breathed, oblivious to his scrutiny.  Lips pursed in
thought, he had taken his index finger and with gossamer force,
ran the back of it from the pale slope of her shoulder, down her
arm, to her hand where it rested heavily on her stomach atop the
bedclothes.
        Fragile, had screamed his brain.  Breakable.
        Mortal.
        Precious.
        Sighing, he had collapsed the arm supporting him and
laid his head on the pillow beside Scully's, his resting just above
hers so that his chin was even with her temple.  His stomach flush
against her side, he had settled his arm across her middle, holding
her to him.  She had murmured in her sleep, but had not awakened.
Instead, she had instinctively turned her face so that her nose
nuzzled Mulder's throat.  At the same time, her hands had found
their way to his forearm where they lightly gripped.
        A ferocious need to protect the woman in his arms had
risen up inside Mulder quite unexpectedly.  A desire he knew
was outdated and would most certainly go unappreciated by
the person in question.  But one of which he couldn't rid himself
just the same.  Pressing an almost furtive kiss to her hair, he had
ruefully recognized the notion as far from noble.  Instead, he had
been painfully aware that his motivation was wholly and entirely
selfish.
        Because he simply didn't know what he would do if he
ever lost her.
**************************************************
        Some time later--he wasn't sure exactly how long--Mulder
was awakened by a slight shift of the mattress.  Scully was slipping
silently out from under the covers.
        "You okay?" he queried softly.
        He had assumed that she was merely getting up to use
the facilities and had actually only asked the question as a
courtesy.  But, when she didn't immediately answer, he became a
bit concerned.
        "Scully?"
        Still no reply.  Instead, she had gracefully gotten out of
bed and, after a moment, walked slowly to a small needlepoint chair
across the room.  There she retrieved her robe and pulled it on
over the black silk camisole and tap pants she had worn to bed.
        Mulder sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, and
impatiently rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  Running his hand
through his hair, he watched nonplused as Scully gently glided
across the floor.  Something wasn't right.  True, she was moving
easily, maneuvering through the room's darkness with the sureness
of a cat.  But the motion looked unnatural somehow.  Her steps,
too even.  Her gait, too smooth.
        "What are you doing?" he inquired softly, attempting
once more to gain her attention.
        She continued voiceless.  Mulder's fear escalated.
Then, she crossed through a shaft of moonlight filtering
in through the balcony door.  And he caught his breath in
surprise.
        Scully's eyes were open.  Not all the way; her lashes
drooped at half mast.  But what he could see of her gaze revealed
nothing.  No awareness.  No intelligence.  No spark.
        She was still asleep.
        His mind raced.  Scully, a sleepwalker?  He had never
noted that about her before.  Not once in all the nights they
had spent together on the road had the problem arisen.  She
herself had never mentioned it.  Surely if she was aware of the
condition she would have called his attention to it.  Wouldn't
she?  Or perhaps she had been too embarrassed to do so.  On the
other hand, if this was something new--why now?  What would
have been the impetus for this behavior?
        These questions and others jostling inside his head,
begging answers, Mulder continued to watch Scully make her
leisurely way around the room, bending and swaying as she
moved like a poplar caressed by a spring breeze.  Half mesmerized
by the sight, he woefully realized he had no idea what to do.  He
knew the basics, of course.  That you weren't supposed to try and
rouse a person in this state.  That instead they should be allowed
to come out of it on their own, the shock of being forced awake
having potentially lethal consequences.  And the last thing
he wanted to do was throw Scully into some sort of panic attack.
So he waited, sitting there clad only in his silk boxers, his
heart pounding wildly in his chest, his hands fisting the sheet
in frustration.
        For her part, Scully appeared oblivious to his concern.
She seemed in no hurry, to have no specific destination in mind.
Rather, she wandered.  Floating with an eerie sort of calm across
the shadowed chamber.  Taking a moment to run her fingers along
a bureau top, to inspect a hairbrush, to pause before a mirror.
Most disturbing to Mulder's piece of mind,  her hands returned
time and again to the slick softness of her robe, where they
fondled the fabric with distinctly sensual pleasure.
        Finally, after a time, she stopped.  And stood absolutely
still as if scenting the air.  Then, without warning, she turned
suddenly and began heading slowly, yet steadily, towards the
door.
        "Shit," Mulder mumbled hoarsely.
        Scully had gotten past the bed and him before he had
realized her intentions.  Short of teleporting, he wasn't going to
be able to stop her from opening the door, and if he was going to
follow her out into the hall he figured he damn well better put some
clothes on first.  Fumbling around in the dark, he finally found his
pants wadded up near the foot of the bed.  With the speed of a
fireman answering an alarm, he shoved his legs roughly into them,
yanked the zipper up, and followed his partner into the corridor.
        As it turned out, he needn't have hurried.  When he got
to the doorway, he found Scully standing just outside it, head
turning slowly from side to side as if unsure which way to proceed.
He stayed back, not wanting to crowd her, concerned that such a
sensation might in some way agitate her.  At last, as if coming to a
decision, she turned to her left, down the longest part of the
passageway.
        Their room was situated at the end of what Mulder thought
of as the second floor's main hallway.  He regarded it in this fashion
because their corridor ran the front of the house, and had at its
middle the massive central staircase linking La Lune Argentine's
three stories.  The entire building was designed in a simple hollow
square with the courtyard at its center.  Consequently, each of the
building's three floors was made up of four hallways, one
connecting to another at ninety degree angles.  The inn's guests
all stayed on the first and second floors, the third floor's apartments
being left to Bill and Laura.  Mulder didn't know how many of the
inn's rooms were occupied that night, but he hoped they
encountered no one else up and about at that late hour.  As it
was, he wordlessly said a prayer of thanks that the dainty little
wall sconces had been left on to allow the corridor some small
degree of illumination.
        Trailing behind Scully like a wraith, he once again kept
his distance, hanging back to see what she would do.  He was
concerned that she might try and enter one of the other rooms
along the corridor, and vaguely hoped that those others staying
on their floor had locked their doors before turning in.  Otherwise,
he was going to have a lot of explaining to do.  But that wasn't the
case.  She didn't even seem to consider the notion.  Instead, she
continued to walk slowly down the center of the hallway, looking
from right to left as if examining it, regarding the silent wallpapered
passageway as if it were a mysterious cavern and she, an intrepid
explorer.
        They got to the small narrow galley kitchen that had been
tucked away for the guests' convenience next to a linen closet.
Scully appeared puzzled by this.  Confused by the gleaming white
refrigerator, countertop and cabinets, the spotless stainless steel
sink.  She paused for a moment and turned in to the area.  Head
cocked, she ran her small hands over the appliances as if unsure
just what exactly they were.  Mulder was supremely thankful at
that moment that the little alcove had only a microwave and not
a stovetop.  All they would need would be for Scully to curiously
turn on a burner and have the sleeves of her robe catch fire.  The
mere thought sent a shudder through him.
        Finally, she grew tired of her investigation of the kitchen
and returned to her silent patrol of the halls.  She seemed fascinated
by the art on the walls--the reproductions of scenes painted over a
century before, antique silhouettes and other assorted odds and
ends appropriate to the period--and studied these bits of
decoration intently.
        However, what particularly arrested her attention was the
painting hanging at the top of the wide cherry wood staircase.  It
was an oil of La Lune Argentine as it must have looked during its
heyday.  Mulder was no art historian.  He couldn't tell if the painting
dated from the mid-nineteenth century, or if some modern day artist
had merely managed to capture with his imagination how the
structure must have looked when Selene Broussard had held court
in the building's salon.  But the picture transported its viewer back
to a time of gas powered street lights and horse drawn carriages.
Of ladies dressed in corsets and layers of fabric, and men sporting
top hats and ebony walking sticks.
        Scully came to an abrupt halt before it, her head tilting
back to take it all in.  Mulder thought he might have heard her gasp,
but he couldn't be sure.  Trembling slightly, the small red-haired
woman reached out and lightly ran her fingertips over the painting,
over the thick swirls of pigment, almost as if she hoped to better
see the picture by touch rather than by sight.  For the longest time
she stood there, her eyes still hazed with that unnerving lack of
awareness, her lips parted, her feet bare, her diminutive frame
stretched to allow her hands to caress the picture like a lover.
Mulder folded his arms across his naked chest, and slouched
against the wall some ways from her, lulled into a false sense of
security by her apparent rapt interest in a painting she had, as
far as he knew, done nothing more than glance at previously.
        That complacency was nearly his undoing.  Or, more to
the point, hers.  Mulder would later wonder how he could have
been so careless.  How he could have stood there and almost let
the unthinkable occur.  As with the other things that had held her
for a time in thrall, Scully's enchantment with the large, ornately
framed painting ended abruptly.  Her arms dropped to her sides
and she turned to face the steep flight of stairs.  But, in pivoting,
her toe caught on the edge of the runner extending the length of
the hallway and beyond.
        Her balance faltered.
        She stumbled.
        And began to plunge head first down the staircase's
yawning mouth.
        Biting back a cry of terror, Mulder lunged from his place
against the wall.  Certain that he was going to be too late.  Sure
that her bright head would crack unmercifully against the edge of
first one hardwood step than another.  Her small body twisting and
tumbling, bouncing against the railings like a gymnast out of control.
        But providence was with him that night, and he managed
to snag his fingers on the slippery collar of her robe.  And pull.
        Hard.
        Yanking her away from the precipice.
        And into his arms.
        When she slammed boneless against his chest, he felt
her awaken.  Her body went rigid.  She sucked in air in preparation
for crying out.  Hurriedly, Mulder pressed his palm over her mouth,
his other arm locked around her waist as he staggered back, finally
sinking to his knees on the floor.
        "Ssh.  Easy now," he crooned softly into her ear, rocking
her slightly, his pulse pounding in his head like thunder.  "Quiet
 . . . quiet.  I've got you. . . .  I've got you.  You're all right.
You're okay."
        They sat, huddled in a heap, Scully on his lap, Mulder's
back resting against the wall upon which the oil painting of La Lune
Argentine hung.  Once he was certain she wouldn't unwittingly
sound an alarm, he gently removed his hand from her lips.  He
held on to her tightly, afraid for her even though the danger of
her taking a header down the stairs had ended.  No, now he was
worried about her less than kindly transition from sleep to
awareness.  Her body was nearly convulsing against him with
the strength of her shudders.  Smooth, Mulder, he mentally
chided himself.  Real smooth.  People have been known to die
from waking too abruptly out of a somnambulistic state.  And
you rouse the woman by virtually shaking her by the scruff of her
neck.
        "M-Mulder?"  The word was whispered, its edges blurred
as if she was drunk.  She had turned in his arms slightly so that
her cheek rested against his collarbone.
        "I'm here," he assured her quietly, rocking her still, his
lips buried in her hair.
        "What . . .?" She sounded lost, out of it.  Her trembling
continued unabated.  "How . . . ?"
        "Give yourself some time, Scully," he instructed softly,
pressing gentle kisses to her hairline.  "You're not even awake
yet.  Just rest.  It's okay.  You're safe.  I wouldn't let anything
happen to you."
        Nodding a bit jerkily against his chin, she seemed to
accede to his wishes.  Saying nothing more for the moment,
she burrowed against him, her arms locked around her middle
as if trying to physically hold herself together, her head
tucked beneath his chin.
        They rested that way a long while, Mulder's hand
combing lightly through her hair.  He continued to hold her
to him fiercely, using the time as Scully did, to rein in his body's
reaction to the near tragedy.
        Finally, it appeared that they had both succeeded with
their quest.  His heartbeat was no longer like that of a hummingbird's,
and she at last sat still in his arms.  Softly, her fingers found his
jawline.
        "Where are we?" she whispered.
        "In the hall," he answered just as softly, still not wanting
to wake any of the other guests.  "Are you all right?"
        She ignored his question, clearly still a bit befuddled.
"I . . . I was dreaming.  It was so vivid, Mulder.  I was here.  At
the inn.  Only it wasn't here.  The inn didn't look like it does now.
It was different."
        "Different how?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.
        She shook her head, but didn't look at him just yet.  "I
don't know.  The furniture . . . it was changed somehow.  Things
were moved.  The colors had been altered.  It's . . . weird.  I don't
know how to explain it."
        "Don't worry about it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to
her hair in comfort.  "It was just a dream."
        "Why are we here?" she queried a tad unsteadily after
a time, her voice sounding like that of a little girl's.
        "You don't remember?"
        She shook her head once more.
        Mulder sighed, not certain the best way to broach this.
"Scully, you wandered out here."
        She sat up straight so she could look him in the eye, her
brow furrowed in confusion.  "Why?"
        He shrugged a bit helplessly.  "I don't know.  You were
sleepwalking.  You got out of bed and you came out here."
        Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly.  Finally, she
sputtered out, "But . . . I don't sleepwalk, Mulder!"
        Her thoroughly disgruntled tone lightened his heart
immeasurably.  Now she was sounding like the Scully he knew.
"Well . . . maybe not before.  But believe me--that's exactly what
you did tonight."
        Impatiently, she pushed her fingers through her tousled
hair.  "But . . . how can that be?  I never . . . .  Why would I
suddenly start doing something like that?  What would cause it?"
        "I don't know," Mulder admitted softly, his hands
smoothing gently over her back.  "Could be a lot of things.  Maybe
the unfamiliar setting, the new bed . . ."
        "Mulder, I spend half my life in motel rooms," she
interrupted dryly, her voice getting stronger by the minute.  "I'm
in 'new' beds more than I'm in my old one."
        Mulder smiled.  Scully would be all right.  She was bouncing
back already.  "What can I tell you?  I'm at a loss."  He lightly kissed
her forehead.  "Although I do have *one* more theory."
        "And what is that?"
        "Maybe it wasn't the bed at all.  Maybe instead it was
your bed =partner=."
        Her lips quirked at that.  "Are you worried that for some
reason I felt subconsciously compelled to get away from you,
Mulder?"
        His eyes warmed.  "If I was hogging the covers, Scully,
all you had to do was say something.  You didn't need to get out
of bed altogether."
        She kissed him, her eyes twinkling back at him.  "Are you
crazy?  After all the trouble it took to get you into bed in the first
place, do you honestly believe I'd be so quick to leave myself?"
        "Well, I had *hoped* not . . .," he drawled quietly.
        She kissed him again, softly and sweetly, to banish all
his doubts.
        "So what did I do?" she asked when their lips had parted,
and her head was once more nestled beneath Mulder's chin.  He
quickly filled her in on the details regarding her late night stroll.
        Glancing over her shoulder at the staircase when he was
finished, she slowly shook her head.  "Wow.  That's one hell of a
first step."
        "Don't remind me," he muttered ruefully.  "I'm half
tempted to see if we can be moved to a first floor room tomorrow."
        She yawned then.  "It's tomorrow already."
        "Come on," he said, carefully setting her on the floor and
rising to his feet.  "I don't know about you, but if we keep this up,
I'm going to need a vacation from my vacation.  We need to get
some sleep."
        "I am kind of tired," she admitted, as her fingers again
combed wearily through her hair.
        Reaching down, Mulder grasped Scully's hands and
tugged her gently to her feet.  She wobbled when she stood,
her legs still a trifle unsteady.  He caught her, and before she
could offer protest, swept her up in his arms so that her head
rested on his shoulder.  She eyed him with a mixture of fondness
and exasperation.
        "You know, Mulder," she told him softly, her arms
twined around his neck.  "As nice as this is, I *am* capable of
walking."
        "Your walking is what got us into this mess in the first
place," he reminded her dryly.
        She arched a brow, her lips turning up in a reluctant smile.
        Mulder just stood there for a moment in the hallway,
holding Scully's warm, supple body in his arms.   So ridiculously
thankful that they had made it through yet another potential
disaster unscathed.  Bending his head, he placed his lips on hers
and kissed her tenderly, his mouth moving gently over hers.
Rubbing.  Nuzzling.  Coaxing.  Until finally her tongue slipped
out to meet his, and they lazily explored each other.
        "Indulge me," he whispered against her mouth.
        Scully wasn't certain whether Mulder's entreaty was
in regard to his fit of chivalry or something a good deal less
noble--and yet, no less pleasurable.  Not that it mattered at that
instant.  She could deny him nothing.  Not when he cradled her
to him so carefully, his arms strong, his skin hot against hers.
His hazel eyes shining down into her blue ones like twin lanterns,
offering with that gaze safety and sanctuary, the way a lighthouse
beacon promises the same to a battered ship.  So, raising no more
protest, she pressed a small kiss to the bend of his neck and
settled in for the ride.
        "Mulder, what will we do if this happens again?"
        "If what happens?"
        "My sleepwalking.  How do we know that this is a one
time thing?"
        "We don't.  I guess to be on the safe side I should tie
you to the bed."
        "Promises, promises, Mulder.  Promises, promises."
*************************************************
        Oh, she had forgotten what it was like to have form.
Eyes with which to see.  Legs upon which to travel.  Fingers
with which to grasp.  To take hold of silk.  Of wood.  She had
missed that.  The solidity of life.
        She would not be satisfied with only a single taste of it.

************************************************
	The two agents slept in the following morning.  Later 
than either of them had ever expected they would.  Scully awoke 
first, the transition gradual.  She lie on her side, Mulder spooned 
behind her, his arm thrown over her slender body, his breath 
rustling her hair.  For a time she merely rested there in her lover's 
arms, content with the world and her place in it.  Finally however, 
unable to escape the uncanny sense that under normal 
circumstances she would have been up hours ago, she blinked 
away slumber and glanced at the clock on the night stand.  Oh 
boy, she thought in some dismay, the morning was nearly over.  
They may be on vacation, but she still had things she wanted 
to do in the Crescent City.  And not *all* of them involved that 
bed.  Stretching languorously, she turned her head and pressed 
a kiss to Mulder's shoulder.  He stirred at her touch and pulled her 
closer.
	"Hey," she whispered in a voice still cloaked in sleep.  
"Come on.  Time to get up."
	He made a soft wordless sound of protest, then rolled, 
tugging her with him so that without quite knowing how they 
managed it, she wound up draped over his supine body, her 
chest to his.  Throughout the maneuver, Mulder's eyes had 
remained closed, almost giving the impression that this was his 
very own quirky sort of "sleepwalking".  Scully smiled at that 
thought, and with her hands trailing lightly over his skin, softly 
kissed her way up the strong column of his throat.  
	"Hmm," he murmured quietly, his head tilting back to 
encourage her attention, his hands finding their way beneath 
her camisole to smooth gently up and down her graceful back.  
"You make the nicest alarm clock, Scully."
	She chuckled, and nuzzled the corner of his jaw with 
her lips.  "I'm not so sure how good I am at it, though.  You 
aren't exactly 'rising and shining'."
	His warm hands dipped beneath her short silk pants 
and cupped her buttocks.  Gripping, then releasing.  His eyes 
still stayed tightly shut.  "Haven't you ever heard of the 'snooze', 
Scully?"
	"Are you saying I actually *put* you to sleep, Mulder?" 
she asked playfully, her teeth closing over his earlobe just as her 
hips rocked against his groin.
	His breath caught, then expelled on a soft rough groan.
	Scully smiled slyly against his ear.  "I take back what I 
said before.  Something is definitely 'rising' now."
	"You don't have to sound so damn smug about it," he 
growled with mock ferocity as he framed her head with his hands 
and pulled her back so he could meet her gaze, his hazel eyes open 
at last and smiling up at her.
	Her lips answered his look with a subtly teasing smile of
their own that belied the bland recitation of her words.  "I wouldn't 
dream of being smug, Mulder.  I'm a physician, don't forget.  So I, 
of all people, know that this . . . ." She tilted her pelvis against his 
ever-increasing erection with as much detachment as she could 
muster.  And circled.  Once.  Then, because it felt so good--their 
bodies grinding slowly against each other, separated by nothing 
more than two fragile layers of silk--she did it again.   
	And tried not to moan.
	She was more successful with the effort than Mulder.
	His ragged sounding breath played like the sweetest 
music in her head, urging her on.
	"This . . .," Scully began once more in a low voice, her 
hips rolling constantly now over his in a never-ending yet never 
forceful sort of seduction, her lips pressing tiny kisses to his 
face in between her words, "is merely a man's biological 
reaction to waking.  Almost a reflex action, if you will.  The same 
kind of thing as a person's eyes narrowing when they look into 
the sun.  That's all."
	She kissed him then, her full soft mouth warm and open 
against his.
	"Why would I get any satisfaction out of that?" she 
asked ingenuously when the kiss had ended, a brow arched to 
undercut the innocence.
	Mulder's arms had snaked tightly around her waist during 
her calm discourse, the lower half of his body throbbing at a steady 
maddening pace.  Eyes glittering, the corner of his mouth pulled up 
in a rueful grin, he swiftly turned once more, pinning Scully beneath 
him.  She squealed softly in surprise when she found herself on her 
back, Mulder resting heavy and hard between her legs.  He looked 
down at her flushed face, his expression sulky with arousal.
	"So, Dr. Scully," he muttered heatedly, his hands clasped 
in hers and drawn high on the pillow above her head so that her 
back was arched slightly.  "Are you saying that my reaction to 
certain . . . stimuli . . is purely involuntary, nothing more than a 
kind of primitive animal instinct?"
	Her eyes sparkled up at him, her pupils large, her lashes 
lowered just a bit.  "I'd say there's a touch of the animal in you, 
Agent Mulder.  Yes."
	"Ah, but what about you?"
	"What about me?"
	His brows lifted as if in speculation, his smile broadening 
by a fraction.  "I can't help but wonder if there aren't ways in which 
your body . . . behaves . . . that one might term 'instinctive'."
	Watching with satisfaction as Scully's gaze grew a tad 
unfocused with anticipation, Mulder bent his head, and with his 
teeth, gently pulled on the low vee neckline of her camisole, 
tugging it lower still until one smooth, round breast peeked over 
the edge, its nipple already swollen and hard.  He just looked at 
her pale softness for a breath or two, admiring it, and mused that 
the bud crowning the creamy mound looked ripe.  Like a berry
just begging to be picked.  
	The notion made him suddenly ravenous.	
	"Take, for example, this," he murmured, nudging her 
nipple with his nose.  Taking his time, he circled around the 
aureole slowly, battling the urge to chuckle when he felt Scully's 
hips shift restlessly beneath him in reaction, almost as if there 
were some invisible cord directly connecting the top half of her 
body and the bottom portion.  Next, licking his lips, he lowered 
his mouth over the peak, slipping hot and wet over it, covering 
the tip completely then lazily lifting once more, leaving her breast 
glistening, and its nipple tighter than it had been only moments 
before.  "If  moisture is applied, you can see that a change almost 
immediately takes place."
	Looking up at him, Scully watched as with a devilish 
smile Mulder then blew lightly on the nubbin.  She started in his 
arms, undulated softly beneath him, a low breathy moan escaping 
her lips, her eyes sliding shut.  The pale pink tip puckered still 
more, lengthened.  "A change in temperature will also have a 
similar effect," he said in a way that made her feel as if the man 
above her was lecturing to a classroom full of invisible students 
and she had somehow been pressed into service as a kind of 
erotic audio-visual aid.
	"As for pressure . . ." he whispered, his voice ragged 
at the seams.  Almost, Scully thought, as if his body was 
being teased as beautifully as he was teasing hers.  "Well, . . . 
there are two kinds."
	He kissed her tenderly on her breast's sensitive point.  
"Direct."  Then his lips and teeth and tongue began a dizzying 
sort of assault.  He lapped at her nipple.  Stabbed at it with his 
tongue.  Made biting little kisses around its edge.  Carefully 
nibbled it.  Ran his lips up its length.  The man's invention was 
endless.  It was heavenly.  She helplessly listened as a string of
small mewling sounds escaped while she breathed, her head 
twisting feverishly on the pillow.
	Finally, he pulled away from her nipple, lavishing one 
last kiss on it before reluctantly letting it slip from his mouth.  
Oh God, Scully thought, her chest now heaving with the force 
of her excitement, sweat beading at her hairline.  She was 
beginning to understand how some women could actually orgasm 
merely by having their breasts stimulated.  It had never before 
happened to her.  But that morning she wondered if there really 
wasn't a first time for everything.
	Mulder released her hands, and balancing himself on 
his elbows, reached down to cup the objection of his attention.  
"Direct is good," he mumbled, his seduction seemingly beginning
to have its effect on him as well, his hips now rocking against hers 
in a steady, increasingly urgent manner.  "The effect of prolonged 
stimulation is still more pronounced."  He lifted her breast gently, 
plumping it in his hand, and studied it with anything but the 
detachment he was still trying to exhibit in his speech.  "But you 
know something, Scully?  I think I like indirect pressure best."
	With that, he bent his head once more, pulling her into 
his mouth, and suckled.  Easy at first, tenderly.  Then harder, his 
cheeks hollowing with the effort.
	While beneath him Dana Scully went just a little bit nuts.  
The fierce sort of tugging on her sensitized nipple almost sent 
her into sensory overload.  She screamed, a lovely muffled sort 
of cry.  She called out Mulder's name, the word rough and throaty.  
She even invoked a few phrases that would have shocked the 
nuns who had done their best to guide her through childhood.  
But she really couldn't help it.  She was beyond all manner of 
decorum at that point.  She had suspected Mulder might be 
building to this.  Had hoped he was, in fact.  But, nothing had 
quite prepared her for the reality of it.  The way her nerve 
endings felt as if they were being seared by the pull of his lips.  
She couldn't hold still.  Her legs thrashed against the mattress, 
then finally, with a sort of desperation, locked around his hips.  
Her back bowed.  Her fingers tunneled their way into the tangled 
brown silk of his hair, holding him to her, encouraging him
	At long last, the suction eased.  He pressed a trio of 
soft, sweet kisses to her breast.  Then, raised his head.  "I think 
you like indirect pressure best too, Scully," he told her quietly, 
his tone low and hoarse, his eyes shining down into hers with a 
look of distinctly male pride.
	"Now who's smug?" she murmured with an arch of her 
brow and a tiny smile, surprised what with the way her heart was 
racing that she was able to speak at all.
	"Not true," he protested lightly, his fingers gliding over 
her cheek.  "After all, this was merely an experiment, remember?  
An investigation into whether your body was as . . . . prone to 
involuntary responses as mine."
	He kissed her, his mouth urgent and hot against hers.  
Then, pressed his groin heatedly against her mons.  Her legs 
tightened around his middle in response, urging him still more 
firmly against her.
	"So what do you say, Dr. Scully?" Mulder asked with 
deceptive casualness, the majority of his upper body weight 
resting on his forearms, the majority of his lower body resting 
squarely on her.  "Is the female of the species as susceptible to 
her body's more basic biological urges as the male?"
	Smiling more with her eyes than with her mouth, Scully 
shook her head slightly,  "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder.  But I can't 
answer that just yet."
	His gaze bore down into hers, the force of his arousal 
shooting what felt almost like sparks of static electricity into the 
air between them.  "Why not?"
	Her fingertips trailed down the strong line of his jaw.  
"The experiment is inconclusive."
	He managed a smile, but she could see the effort cost 
him.  "How so?"
	"Even the most remedial science class teaches that a 
proper conclusion can never be reached after only one test of a 
hypothesis."
	Mulder cocked his head, his look questioning.
	Scully lowered her lashes for a heartbeat, searching 
for control.  Then, with trembling fingers, she fumbled for the 
hem of her camisole, and lifting slightly, pulled the garment 
over her head and on to the floor, leaving her naked from the 
waist up.
	She languidly raised her arms to frame her head on the 
pillow, the move almost lethally sensual, the posture one that 
clearly called attention to her chest.  Mulder's eyes darkened.  
She smiled.  "Further investigation is necessary," she drawled, 
honey sweet.
	With a small nod of agreement, he curled his hand 
carefully around her previously clothed breast, and bent his head 
once more.
	"We'll make a scientist out of you yet, Mulder," Scully 
whispered as her eyes slowly closed and her hands again burrowed
their way into her partner's hair.
************************************************
	Mulder and Scully wound up finding their way out of 
the inn just after twelve.  Their plan was much the same as the 
previous day's.  Which was to say, of course, that they had no 
plan at all.  They were simply bumming.  With one small 
exception.
	"I'd like to look for a present for my mom," Scully had 
explained to Mulder soon after their trek had begun.  "She's 
never been to New Orleans, and she's watering my plants 
while I'm away.  So, I'd like to bring her something.  You know--
just to show that I was thinking of her."
	"Sure," Mulder had agreed without hesitation.
	So with that objective in mind, they found themselves 
that afternoon drawn particularly to retail establishments as they 
strolled.  Scully was amazed yet again at what a good sport 
Mulder was being about the whole thing.  Most guys would  
rather give blood than go gift shopping.  But not him.  He 
never once raised a protest or gave a long suffering sigh as 
she turned into yet another store featuring unusual art or jewelry, 
those being the sorts of things she thought her mother might 
enjoy.  In fact, he seemed to be as interested in the merchandise 
the various shops had to offer as she.  Still, for much of the 
afternoon neither of them bought anything.  Instead, they 
contented themselves with merely browsing, waiting for that 
one item that would strike a chord.
	And yet, the day wasn't only about finding a gift for
Maggie Scully.  About midway through their excursion, Mulder 
convinced Scully to have her tea leaves read.  
	"Tea leaves, Mulder?" she inquired dryly.
	He shrugged blithely.  "Seems as likely a means of 
prognostication as any.  Come on, Scully.  Aren't you curious?"
	As a matter of fact, she was.  Not that she put any stock 
in that sort of thing.  Not at all.  Still, the idea struck her as a lark, 
especially given where they were:  New Orleans--home of voodoo, 
vampires, and all things mystical.  Having a soothsayer look into 
a china cup and pronounce the future seemed to her to be on a 
level with the sorts of things little girls did at slumber parties; right 
up there with Ouija boards and seances.  What harm could there 
be in that?  And besides, Mulder's eyes were dancing at the very 
notion.  Her saying no would be like denying a little boy a puppy 
at Christmas.
	"What the hell.  I'm thirsty anyway," she said with a small 
subtle smile.  "All right, Mulder.  But if our gypsy fortune-teller 
informs me that I'm going to meet a tall dark stranger I'm going to 
have to tell her I've already met one."
	"No one stranger than me," he murmured with wry good 
humor as he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back and 
ushered her inside the Bottom of the Cup Tearoom.
	The establishment was more than a place to grab a quick 
cup of Earl Gray, hot.  In addition to serving beverages, it also 
sold fortune-telling supplies, books on the occult, and several 
ominous looking types of charms.  In the back, a number of 
curtained booths were set up in what Scully assumed was an 
attempt at providing privacy for the variety of readings taking 
place.  Mulder shepherded her in that direction and soon they 
were both ensconced in one of the room's cozy cubbyholes.
	Their tasseographer's name was Rachel.  She was a tall 
exotic looking African-American woman of indeterminate age, with 
a head full of long jet braids and a deep melodious voice.  After 
pouring her two customers their cups of tea, she explained a bit 
regarding what they were about to experience, her nearly black 
almond shaped eyes glowing with a blend of intelligence and 
humor.
	"It is not all about the leaves, you know," she murmured 
softly; a faint difficult to pinpoint accent lacing her words.  "They 
are merely a means to an end."
	"In what way?" Mulder asked intently, clearly fascinated.
	She shrugged lightly.  "They suggest.  They do not tell."
	Scully glanced doubtfully at Mulder over the rim of her 
teacup.  He smiled at her with encouragement.  She lifted her brows 
in silent reply, then turned to address the woman across from her.  
"I'm not sure I'm following you," the petite redhead confessed.
	Rachel sipped her tea.  "The leaves are like the tarot.  
They are a way for the seer to focus.  To clear the mind and open 
the gateway to the other place.  They do not dictate.  They only 
guide."
	"What other place?" Scully queried, a tad impatient with 
all the otherworldly mumbo-jumbo.
	For a moment, the woman with the braids said nothing, 
her eyes merely narrowed in consideration.  Finally, she slowly 
shook her head, her full lips quirking in a smile.  "I do not need to 
tell you, I think.  You have been there, after all.  You both have."
	Scully felt a shiver trickle through her, and her enthusiasm 
for the venture all but instantly shriveled.  Almost as if sensing 
this, Mulder placed a comforting hand on her forearm, and calmly 
asked, "What *can* you tell us, then?"
	Rachel dipped her head as if silently agreeing to proceed, 
and laid her hands on both their now empty cups of tea.  She 
closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep unhurried breath.  
Slowly, her lashes lifted once more.  
	"You are not married."
	Oh, great opener, Scully thought with a touch of derision.  
No mighty leap, there.  Neither she nor Mulder were wearing rings.  
And despite the change in their relationship from professional to 
personal, she somehow doubted that either of them gave the 
impression that they were in any way domesticated.
	"No," Mulder confirmed evenly.
	Rachel pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "And yet you 
are . . . together."
	Mulder's gaze slid to Scully's.  He smiled tenderly.  She 
strove not to blush.  "Yes, we are," he said quietly.
	Rachel smiled for a moment in understanding.  Then, to
Scully's way of thinking, the African-American woman's expression 
changed.  Shifted subtly.  Her eyes grew suddenly keen, urgent.  
All at once, her stare seemed as if it might somehow pull the two 
people sitting across from her inside of her to a place of shadows 
and specters, of mysteries and truths not meant to be known.  
Scully found the sensation patently unnerving.
	"Together you are stronger than either of you are 
alone."  Rachel spoke the words in a hushed, low voice.  "You 
must always remember that.  No matter what occurs; turn to 
each other, not away."
	Scully was =really= beginning to regret this little tea 
break.  The things Rachel was pronouncing, while in no way 
earth-shattering, none the less disturbed her greatly.  She couldn't 
escape the notion that the woman seated on the other side of the 
table was in some unknowable way privy to parts of her life Scully 
was more than unwilling to share.  However, before she could 
offer protest, call a halt to the whole thing, the fortune-teller 
continued.  And Scully felt like one of those people who stares 
at car crashes as they drive by on the interstate.  Appalled, yet 
fascinated.  
	Saying nothing more, Rachel picked up Scully's cup with 
two hands.  Closed her eyes.  Swirled the vessel three times in a 
clock-wise fashion.  And peered inside.  Her dark, bottomless eyes 
studied Scully over the rim.
	"You are in danger," Rachel said softly, the words spoken 
in an oddly calm manner.  Then, her lips curled ever so slightly in a 
smile.  "But, this is not so strange, I think."
	Scully arched a brow in Mulder's direction.  He wouldn't
meet her gaze.  Instead, lips pressed thin, he tightened his hand 
on her arm.  But whether the gesture was meant to offer comfort
or to reassure himself that she was still seated beside him, Scully
couldn't say.
	The ebony-skinned woman squinted into the dainty cup 
cradled in her hands as if trying to read some particularly fine print.  
"However, this time is different.  The enemy is one you least expect.  
You must be on your guard.  But do not fight him.  For he is as 
much friend as foe."
	Scully had to stifle the urge to roll her eyes in amusement.  
Oh for crying out loud, could the woman be any more melodramatic?  
Some of the dangerous mood that had only moments before made 
her stomach turn traitor melted away.  Despite the fact that Rachel 
was imparting to her a warning, she really had to shake her head in 
bemused dismay.  The words the woman used, the dark foreboding 
tone with which she spoke, reminded Scully of nothing so much as 
fortune cookie messages read aloud.  How could she fret over 
something that inane?  Smiling at the notion, the red-haired agent 
whimsically wondered if the whole exercise would end with she and 
Mulder being told their lucky numbers.
	Scully chanced another glance at Mulder.  He didn't seem 
to be taking Rachel's words with quite the same cavalier attitude 
as she.  He still wouldn't meet her eyes.  Instead, he stared at the 
woman who claimed she could see the future, his brow furrowed, 
his teeth absent-mindedly gnawing on the corner of his lip.  Scully 
wanted to shake him.  To urge him to get in on the joke.  But, after 
seeing the look on his face, she somehow doubted that he viewed 
Rachel's declarations as the least bit funny.  And so, Scully merely 
watched in silence as Rachel repeated her simple little ritual with 
Mulder's empty tea cup in preparation for telling his fortune.
	"As for you," Rachel murmured after a moment, her 
attention now focused on the leaves at the bottom of Mulder's 
cup.  "You are a believer.  A believer in all things except that in 
which you most desperately *need* to believe."
	She raised her eyes, and pinned Mulder with them.  
Scully felt him shift a bit uneasily next to her under the woman's 
unblinking scrutiny. 
	"Yourself."
	Setting down the cup, Rachel continued to look at him 
pointedly, her gaze old and wise.
	"What do you mean?" Mulder mumbled after a beat.
	Rachel sadly shook her head, her smile gentle.  "You 
don't trust yourself.  You never have.  You doubt your strength.  
Your resolve."
	Now it was Scully's turn to offer comfort.  Rachel's words 
were getting to Mulder.  Her comments were hitting a little too 
closely to home.  Scully could feel him tensing beside her.  Softly, 
she laid her hand atop his.  His grasped it gratefully.
	"Others know what kind of man you are.  You must know 
it yourself," Rachel instructed quietly as she folded her hands 
upon the table.  "Everything depends upon it.  Everything you 
value.  Everything you love hinges upon this.  Be strong.  Soon 
you will need to be for both of you."
	Scully could feel a cleansing sort of anger bubble up 
inside of her, burning away the remnants of the disquiet that had 
troubled her earlier.  She didn't know who in the world this woman 
was, but she sure as hell had an awful lot of nerve laying that sort 
of burden upon Mulder.  Good God, there couldn't be a man on the 
planet who was any harder on himself than Fox William Mulder, 
and the warning that 'everything depended upon him being 
strong' was certainly not going to make things any easier.  They 
had to get out of there.  Now.
	"Well, thank you for your time," Scully said with 
excessive politeness as she abruptly stood, tugging Mulder to 
his feet as well with a strength that belied her size.  "We appreciate 
it."
	Rachel just looked at the pair of them a moment before 
chuckling, the sound low and musical.  "No.  You do not.  But 
you will.  Remember what I told you.  Both of you."
	Scully was halfway out the curtained alcove when she 
turned to see Mulder lingering.  Taking a beat, he nodded his 
good-bye to Rachel who was still seated behind the rickety old 
table, her dark eyes fastened on him.
	"The one thing you can trust is each other," the serene 
looking woman at the table said softly, her brow arched in a 
meaningful fashion.  "That is everything."
	"Yes, it is," Scully heard Mulder quietly agree.
	And then he pushed past her and out of the shop.  
*************************************************
	"Well that was interesting," Scully ventured with a grim 
smile after they had walked nearly two blocks in total silence.
	"That's not quite the word I would use," Mulder mumbled 
at her side.
	God, he still hadn't gotten his pulse rate under control.  
Great way to spend an afternoon, Mulder, he silently chided.  
Fabulous idea.  Spend money to have someone tell you that the 
life of the woman you love is in danger and you--a person whose 
neuroses are obvious enough for a stranger to pick up on at first 
glance--are going to have to be strong enough to see her to safety.
	Oh yeah.  He knew how to have a good time.
	"You know, if I had known you were going to do this to 
yourself, I would have clubbed you over the head and bodily 
dragged you from that place before subjecting you to that woman's 
shtick."
	Hearing the vehement tone of voice the woman beside 
him was using, Mulder stopped and turned to her.  "What's that 
supposed to mean?"
	Scully glared up at him, hands on her hips.  "Mulder stop 
torturing yourself."
	"I'm not--"
	"You =are=!  =Why=, I don't know.  Rachel whatever-her-
name-was did nothing more than whisper the kind of nonsense
those guys on Mystery Science Theater make fun of."
	He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, knowing 
his fears were out of proportion to the threat, but unable to stifle 
them just the same.  "Scully, she said your life was in danger."
	Scully rolled her eyes.  "Yes.  And then even *she* 
admitted that the problem wasn't anything out of the ordinary.  
It means nothing, Mulder."
	"It does to me."
	Mulder could see his softly spoken confession took 
some of the starch out of Scully's sails.  While that was not his 
intention, he was still pleased to see her anger ebb.  The last 
thing he wanted to do right at that moment was fight.
	Her eyes shone up at his softly.  "I'm fine, Mulder.  
Finer than I've been in quite awhile, if truth be known."  She 
reached up then and touched his cheek gently with her 
fingertips.  "You're the one I'm worried about."
	He stood there on a busy French Quarter street, 
unmoving, utterly beguiled by the delicate stroke of her fingers 
along the curve of his face, and fighting like crazy not to 
stammer like a schoolboy.  "What are you talking about?"
	She smiled with just a hint of sympathy.  "No one 
likes to have people play amateur psychologist with them.  
Least of all a professional one."
	He smiled wryly after a second or two.  "You noticed 
that, did you?"
	"I could hardly =not= notice.  All that stuff about 
believing in yourself was awfully heavy-handed.  She 
sounded like a motivational speaker on speed."
	That forced a reluctant chuckle out of him.  Then 
Mulder sobered once more, his expression tinged with self-
deprecation.  "She wasn't far off the mark, Scully."
	She shrugged.  "So, she got lucky.  That doesn't 
make her omniscient.  Despite what you may think, you're 
not that hard to read, you know.  The minute the woman 
started talking your face gave you away."
	Mulder's lips twisted, his eyes still clouded with 
doubt.
	"Mulder, she was consulting tea leaves,"  Scully 
said in a voice dripping with disdain, her gaze one of profound 
disbelief and scarcely contained laughter.  "=Tea leaves=!"
	Finally, his sense of the ridiculous kicked in and he 
grinned down at her upturned face.  "Kinda crazy, huh?"
	"Absurd," she assured him with a smile.
	"All right," he said resolutely.  "Let's forget about it 
then."

*************************************************

	And so they did.
	Until they returned to La Lune Argentine that evening.

*************************************************

        "So what do you think, Mulder--is it me?"
        "Only in some of my kinkier fantasies, Scully."
        "You know--you keep that up and there is *no way*
I'm going to be able to give this to my mother."
        Having done her best to make the last statement as
prohibitive as possible, Dana Scully pulled the delicate papier-
mache mask she had been modeling from her face to see
whether her partner appeared the least bit abashed at her
censure.
        He didn't.
        Instead, he sat sprawled across from her on the floor
of their room, grinning unrepentantly, his weight resting on his
elbows, his denim-clad legs stretched out before him.  Between
them the remnants of their recently completed picnic dinner lay
scattered on the towel that served as a sort of makeshift
tablecloth for their feast.  A nearly empty bottle of red wine sat
there surrounded by a variety of cheeses, a few leftover slices of
ham, half a loaf of French bread, a bag containing a handful of
grapes and a single peach, and a paper plate upon which remained
one last bite of a sinfully decadent napoleon that neither of the
pair would give in and eat.  Everything on the menu had been
purchased at the French Market that afternoon.  True, their meal
hadn't possessed the same sort of flair as that of the previous
evening.  But it had been casual, intimate, and most important, tasty.
They simply hadn't felt the urge to go out that night, the weather
having undoubtedly contributed to their mood.  Through the open
balcony door, the soothing patter of a misty spring rain tapped
against the roof and railings in the twilight, the sound hushed.
Lulling.
        Giving up on trying to make Mulder behave, Scully
studied the mask in her hands, her head tilted in consideration,
her lips pursed.  She really did hope her mother liked it.  She
thought she would.  Even if Maggie Scully owned nothing even
remotely like it.  She had found the gift at the kind of place at
which her sister would once have frequented, a cozy tucked
away little store that had been lit more by candlelight it had
seemed than by any sort of bulb.  The pungent scent of patchouli
had mingled sweetly in the air with that of melting wax as she and
Mulder had silently browsed.  They had taken their time.  They
had needed to.  Although the establishment had been small,
it had been crammed floor to ceiling with an eclectic assortment
of odds and ends.  Whimsical paintings, hand blown glass,
pottery of all shapes and sizes, ornately carved bits of wood,
and jewelry sparkling with a blinding array of stones had all vied
for their attention.
        But what had drawn Scully into the shop in the first place
had been the item in her hands.  Light as the peacock feather that
adorned it, the dainty little mask covered only its wearer's eyes and
nose.  Tiny rhinestones glittered along its ocular cutaways.  Ribbons
trailed from its sides.  Teal and hunter green and indigo and black
swirled in a dizzying pattern that seemed to suggest a contour map
of the human face.  Streaks of deep burnished gold accented those
hills and valleys, giving the disguise a movement and a flow that
dazzled the viewer, intimating the fantastic while merely spotlighting
the mundane.  She had spied the mask in the store window as they
had strolled by.
        "You know, Melissa would have loved that place today,"
she murmured a tad wistfully after a time, watching with apparent
rapt fascination as her fingers ran between them the long wispy
feather attached exactly midway between the mask's two painted
brows. "All that stuff is . . . was . . right up her alley."
        Mulder drew in his legs and looped his arms around his
knees, his shift in position bringing him closer to her.  "It seemed
like there was plenty there that you liked too."
        "Oh, there was," she hurried to agree, not wanting her
sudden spell of melancholy to put a damper on the evening.
"They had some beautiful things."
        He nodded.  Then, with a small smile, he rose fluidly
from the floor, and crossed to the bureau behind her.
        "I thought so too," he said conversationally as he
opened one of the dresser drawers and rummaged around inside
it as if searching for something.  "I had a chance to look
around a bit myself while you were shopping for your mom.
They had some really unique pieces."
        Scully chuckled as she bent her head and carefully
returned the mask to the tissue lined box in which it had been
packed.  "I didn't know you were so into shopping."
        He tsked with mock disapproval as he brought his
foraging through the bureau to an end, and gently slid the
drawer shut once more.  "Those gender stereotypes will
trip you up every time, Scully."
        She glanced over her shoulder at him as she too stood,
and with her newly rewrapped present in one hand and her glass
of wine in the other, crossed to the closet to put the former away.
"Sorry, Mulder.  I should have realized that you're a tough one to
type."
        "Part of my charm," he retorted dryly, his arms crossed
against his chest as he watched her.
        She smiled, the twinge of sadness she had felt when she
had earlier thought of her older sister forgotten for the time being.
Chatting about everything and nothing, she and Mulder cleaned
up their dinner leavings, ultimately making use of the sink and
refrigerator housed in the hallway kitchen with which Scully
had been so intrigued the night before.  By the time they were
finished, the rain had increased in power.  Gone was the gentle
April shower that had underscored their meal.  In its place
was the beginnings of a storm.  Thunder could be heard in the
distance like the faraway boom of an angel's bass drum.
        "Hmm.  Looks like we made the right decision in staying
in," Scully murmured thoughtfully as she stood in the balcony
doorway watching the rain bounce off the inn as if the drops
were made of rubber, oblivious to the light mist that drifted in
through the portal to dot her face, to sprinkle ever so faintly her
khaki walking shorts and plum colored cotton T-shirt.
        Mulder came to stand behind her, his arms folded heavily
across her collarbone to pull her close.  "You're sure?" he asked
quietly in her ear, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her temple.  "It's
still early.  We could grab a taxi.  Go to a club, listen to some
music."
        With a small smile, she shook her head.  "No, let's just
stay here tonight.  Okay?  I don't really feel like getting dressed to
go out, you know?  I don't want to fight the crowds.  I'd much rather
stand here watching the rain with you."
        And relaxing against each other, they did just that.  They
stood, chest to back, chin to hair and watched the sky unload its
burden.  It was turning into quite a show.  Thunder now peppered
the rain's steady thrum, building in both power and frequency.
Jagged bolts of lightning added to the festivities, criss-crossing
the flint grey sky like silvery veins.
        "I've always loved the rain," Scully murmured after a time,
her voice velvety low.  "When I was little, maybe six or seven, the
house we were living in at the time had this enclosed back porch.
No walls to speak of really, just screened in windows all the way
around.  At night, when it would rain, Missy and I would get up
sometimes while the rest of the family was sleeping and sneak
downstairs to sit on the porch and watch the storm."  She paused
for a moment, smiling bittersweet at the memory.  Mulder tightened
his arms around her almost imperceptibly.  "The thing was that
because of all the windows, the least little bit of wind would bring
the rain pouring in.  But we didn't care.  Not Missy and me.  We'd
sit there, side by side, slowly getting soaked to the skin, watching
the rain like most kids watch tv.  It drove my mom nuts.  I know
she thought that one day we'd both end up catching pneumonia."
        "And did you?"
        She shook her head, her soft smile lingering still, sadness
dulling its glow.  "No."
        Saying nothing, Mulder nuzzled her hair in comfort.
        Scully sighed, wondering at her mood.  Where were all
these thoughts of Melissa coming from, she silently questioned.
        Why now?  Why tonight?
        It wasn't that she was depressed.  Not at all.  Why, in
many ways she felt more content than she could ever remember.
How else could she feel?  After all, she was cloistered away in the
lap of luxury with the man she loved.  She had just been fed, stuffed
full to the brim with their simple yet hardy meal.  Was as mellow
as a cat napping in the sun as a result of the wine she had drunk
and the feel of Mulder's strong body pillowing her back.  Hell,
she was so relaxed she was almost drowsy with it.
        In fact, she was beginning to have to resist the urge to
let her eyelids slide shut.  Funny.  The compulsion had hit her
awfully hard all of a sudden.  Maybe it was the wine.  She had
never been much of a drinker.  And yet, she was *really* turning
into a lightweight if she couldn't handle the couple of glasses she
had enjoyed with her meal.
        Still, if she couldn't blame it on the alcohol she was
hard pressed to come up with an explanation for the numbing
sort of torpor currently washing over her like the rain sluicing
down the inn's gutters.  Even her blood was starting to feel
as if it was flowing sluggishly through her veins.  The sensation
was beyond odd.  Her whole body felt muffled somehow, almost
as if it was swaddled in flannel.  Even her breathing seemed to
be slowing.  Deepening.
        Giving in to the urge, she closed her eyes for a moment,
relaxing totally against Mulder.  He supported her easily, while
appearing seemingly oblivious to her plight.  Not that she blamed
him.  After all, they had been standing there quietly for the last
however many minutes, leaning against each other, speaking only
in spurts.  How was Mulder to know that her condition had in any
way changed?
        And changed it had.  No doubt about that.  For much
to her dismay, with her eyes shut, her disturbing sense of
unreality worsened.  She could see things in her mind's eye,
hear them, smell them--images, people, places that she recognized
without a doubt were wholly foreign and yet which beckoned to
her with shards of memory attached, poking at her, pricking her
to recall their significance.
        But, how could she know them, she wanted so desperately
to ask.
        They weren't from her life, but from another's.
        <That ivory handled brush is the one that Jack gave you.
The one he traded for with that African slave runner.  When he
stands behind you, slowly pulling it through your hair, it's all you
can do to keep from groaning aloud.>
        <Our bed.  Our haven from the world.  Silken sheets,
ivory duvet, crocheted canopy, and  mounds and mounds of
feather pillows.  I may never rise again.>
        <Stupid man!  Bete!!  To risk our being found out--
at the theater of all places.  What could he have been thinking?>
        Seeking to banish these unnerving bits of psychic debris,
Scully opened her eyes once more.
        Only to find that the view had changed.
        True, the rain still poured down.  So much so, it seemed
to affect her very vision.  For some reason, she couldn't see as
clearly as she had been able to only moments before.  The sky
looked darker, more ominous.  Throwing shadows.  Making it
difficult to pick out shapes.  Edges were blurred.  Outlines hazy.
Everything felt skewed somehow, tilted on its side the way a
sidewalk square might buckle after an earthquake.
        The building itself appeared to have inexplicably altered.
Where had all that ivy on the walls come from?  And those windows
across the courtyard--they hadn't been covered by shutters, had
they?  What about that weather vane?  There, sitting squarely
atop La Lune Argentine's green tiled roof.  Had she noted it
before?  The cast iron one, in the shape of a mermaid.
        A mermaid named Calypso.
        How could she know that?
        And that smell . . .
        Overpowering.  Too sweet by half.
        Lilies.  Purest white.  Like her skin, he had told her.
        Who?  Who had told her?
        Becoming well and truly frightened now, Scully trembled
suddenly, violently, in Mulder's arms.
        Breaking the chimera's hold on her.
        "Scully?"
        Saying nothing, she turned in Mulder's embrace and
buried her head against the navy blue cotton knit of his shirt,
her arms locked tightly around his waist, hugging him.  In
response, his hands smoothed gently up and down her arms,
the motion hesitant and filled with questions.
        "What's wrong?  Hey, you're shaking.  What--did you
catch a chill?" he queried softly, his voice gruff with concern.
"Come here."
        Arm draped around her slender shoulders, he walked
her away from the open doorway to the burgundy wing chair in
the far corner of the room.  Sitting first himself, he then tugged
her down on to his lap and wrapped his arms protectively
around her.
        "You okay?"  he asked while he tried to rub some warmth
into her upper arms, her back.
        "Yeah.  I'm fine," she murmured, her head nestled on his
shoulder.  "It's just . . . .  It was weird."
        "What was?"
        She hesitated.  How could she explain the sensations that
had so unexpectedly swamped her?  She herself had no idea what
had prompted them.  No explanation for what exactly they were.
        Her imagination?
        Possibly.
        *Probably*, when one considered the influence of the
wine.  After all, the inn was nothing if not atmospheric.  And,
her mood had already been reflective.  The way in which memories
of Melissa kept drifting through her consciousness was proof
enough of that.  Add both the depressive and intoxicating
properties of those two glasses of merlot, and voila!  Fantasies
of a time long ago and far away.  That had to be it.  The innocent
combination of mood, fancy, and alcohol had no doubt led to her
musings.  Simple as that.
        So why bother telling Mulder about it?
        She shook her head, her palm resting lightly on his chest.
"Oh, it was nothing.  I was just kind of daydreaming, you know?
Imagining what this place must have been like when it was first
built."
        "When Selene Broussard ruled the roost?"
        She smiled.  "Yeah.  'La Lune Argentine' herself."
        Mulder chuckled, then shifted beneath her ever so
slightly.  "Sit up a minute."
        Scully did as he requested, figuring that he hadn't
gotten himself situated comfortably when he had first settled
them both on the chair's roomy seat.  Thus, she was surprised
when instead of adjusting his position, Mulder merely brought
his hands forward to in front of her throat and fastened around
it a long silver chain.
        "What's this?" she asked with an arched brow, her
fingers running lightly over the shiny links encircling her neck.
        "La Lune Argentine."
        Smiling with surprise and appreciation, she looked
down at the delicately formed charm dangling from the necklace,
and held it up for closer inspection.  Rendered in silver as well,
it was a crescent moon, etched with the face of a man in profile,
his hooked nose pointing skyward.  And sitting astride this
curved perch, facing the whimsical man-in-the-moon was a
woman.  Head tipped back as if in ecstasy, she braced her arms
against the heavenly body that served as her throne, her lips
curled in a smile, her legs trailing naked from beneath the
loosely flowing dress she wore.
        "Oh, Mulder . . . " she whispered, the pendant cradled
in her hand as she studied it in the room's muted lamplight.
Outside, the soft rumble of thunder continued as the rain did,
unabated.
        Mulder shrugged as if the gift was no big deal, and yet
she thought she detected more than a hint of pleasure over her
reaction to it.  "I saw it, and I thought of you . . . of this place.  I
thought you might like a memento.  You know . . . of the trip.
Besides, you need one.  A necklace, I mean."  He reached into
his shirt and touched the slender gold chain upon which was
suspended the cross that had once belonged to her, but had for
the past several months hung around his neck instead.  "Some
guy is wearing the one you used to wear."
        "Thank you," she told him with a gentle smile as she
kissed him tenderly on the cheek.  "It's absolutely beautiful.  I
love it."
        He smiled back at her, his eyes warm.  "Good.  I'm glad."
Then his gaze turned intent, and he studied her face for a moment.
"You're sure you're okay, Scully?" he asked quietly, his hand
cupping her cheek.   "You seemed kind of distant before . . .
like maybe something was bothering you."
        She thought to deny it.  And yet, after a beat, she
nodded, her lips twisted.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know what's wrong
with me."
        "What do you mean?"
        She shook her head, not willing to go into the details,
all of which seemed far too fantastical to her way of thinking.
"It's nothing.  Honest.  I'm just kind of in a weird mood, you
know?  I can't explain it.  I . . . I don't know.  Maybe with my sleep
getting interrupted last night, and all the walking today, then the
wine, the rain--it all just got to me for a minute.  It's no big deal
though, Mulder.  So don't worry.  Okay?  I'm fine."
         He looked at her for another second or two.  "And
you're sure you're not concerned over what Rachel had to say
this afternoon?"
        "About you or me?" Scully queried dryly, a brow
arched to accentuate her point.
        He grimaced, then shrugged.  "Take your pick."
        "All right," she said softly, deciding to answer the
challenge.  "In regard to what she said about me--I'm still taking
it with a grain of salt.  I mean--first of all, I *don't* believe that
anyone can catch a glimpse of my future by examining my dirty
dishes.  And secondly, when all is said and done, I don't see how
I can be in any more danger here than I would be at home.  I think
it's far more likely that her *warning* was all part of the 'act'.
You know--something mysterious to tell a customer, something
theatrical, so that I'd feel I was getting my money's worth."
        As reasonable as she was sure all that sounded, Mulder
didn't look the least bit convinced.  Knowing that the next part
was going to be even tougher on him, she turned on his lap to
face him more fully, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
A flash of lightning momentarily threw the face of the man before
her into harsh relief.  Despite her reassurances, he still looked
concerned.
        "As for what she said about you," she began slowly.
"Well, I'm not really inclined to believe that any more than I do
the rest of it.  And yet, I'm not so sure that what I believe really
matters when all is said and done."
        "What do you mean?" Mulder asked, his brow furrowed.
        "Because =you= believe it, Mulder," she told him softly,
her fingertips reaching up to smooth the crease between his
hazel eyes.  "Whether you think she got it from looking at a bunch
of soggy tea leaves, or instead that she's simply a good judge of
character, Rachel's assessment of you struck a nerve."
        His eyes dipped from hers guiltily.  His hands tightened
slightly on her waist.
        "I wish you'd tell me why."
        Their gaze met once more.  And for a moment Scully
could see in Mulder's expression the boy that had witnessed his
sister being snatched away before his own terrified eyes so many
years before.  Waiting to see if he would respond, she said
nothing for a time.  Instead, she combed gently through his hair,
and waited.  In the end, he remained silent.
        "Why are you so hard on yourself, Mulder?" she
inquired finally when she was certain that indeed he would not
speak on his own, a tender smile tugging on her lips.  "Why is it
that you're willing to forgive me for putting a bullet in your
shoulder, and yet you refuse to cut yourself even the tiniest bit
of slack?"
        She could feel him tense beneath her.  Coil, as if in
preparation for movement.  Could sense the way in which his
breath had become less even, more choppy.  His eyes flickered
away from hers, darting instead to land on random objects around
the dimly lit room, the action nearly furtive, almost as if he was
looking for an escape route.
        Or someplace he could hide.
        "Scully, I'm . . .  I mean . . hell--I'm not very good at--"
        "Shh," she crooned, kissing him first on the forehead,
then on the cheek.  "I know.  I know.  And the last thing I want
to do is put you on the spot.  But, Mulder, you have to know
something."
        She cradled his face in her hands, and looked at him,
some of the fog that had settled over her that night lifting
as she focused on him and his needs.  His fears.
        "None of us is perfect, Mulder," she said quietly,
her eyes burning, glowing like twin candles.  "None.  But, I'll
tell you something.  I think you strive harder to be than anyone
I've ever known."
        "Scully . . ." he muttered, clearly embarrassed.
        "It's true," she insisted, pushing back his hair from his
forehead as a mother might caress an over-excited child.  "You
push and you push and you push.  It may not make you popular,
but it gets the job done."
        "It does?" he challenged with thick irony.
        She tilted her head at his question, her smile almost
whimsical.
        "Maybe not all at once," she allowed.  "Maybe not
even every 'job'.  But you never stop trying, Mulder.  No matter
what.  You just don't know when to quit."
        She kissed him then, softly on the mouth.  When their
lips parted, the smile she gave him eclipsed in brilliance the
lightning that pulsed behind her in the balcony doorway.  "And
that tenacity somehow manages to be both your most endearing
and your most infuriating character trait."
        Even he had to chuckle at that.
        They merely smiled at each other for a moment, listening
to the thunder and the sting of the rain against brick.
        Then, Scully turned serious once more.
        "But, I admire it.  And you . . . more than I can say."
        He frowned at her disclosure and shook his head.
The gesture silently speaking of his disbelief, his astonishment,
his extreme discomfort, at her praise.
        "I wouldn't lie to you, Mulder," she promised, her eyes
solemn yet warm.
        He nodded slowly, a rueful smile tilting his lips.  "I know.
I know you wouldn't.  It's just . . . the funny thing is, Scully, I'd
been thinking the same thing about you."
        "What?"
        His hands were moving again, smoothing over her arms.
"That you were the one who was always striving for perfection.
The one who was always so hard on herself."
        "Me?" she asked in surprise.
        He nodded once more.
        Scully chuckled.  "Mulder, next to you, I'm a rank
amateur."
        His lips quirked.  Then, his fingertips traced the curve
of her cheek.
        "Thank you," he murmured, his eyelids drooping, his
gaze focused on her mouth.
        "For what?" she queried softly, leaning in to rest her
head on his shoulder.
        "You know," he whispered as, bending his head, their
lips met.
        She did know.  And sighed, giving herself over to him,
to his gentle kiss.
        Yet, as she did, the strange lethargy that had plagued
her that night on and off washed over her again unexpectedly.
She started with it, stiffened for a moment in his arms, even
though the sensation itself was anything but painful.  Instead,
it was not unlike being slowly filled with warm heavy liquid.  It
started in her head, behind her eyes, and then slowly flooded
her body.  Until, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes,
she felt a potent sort of languor weighing her down.  Making
both her mind and body sluggish.  Hazy.  As if she were viewing
the world through a lens smeared with Vaseline.
        Mulder must have sensed the moment that the change
hit her, because he hesitated for just an instant as his lips moved
over hers.  Pulled away so she could feel the soft puffs of his
breath against her mouth.  Then, almost as if there were no
questions to be asked, no doubts that had been raised, he
continued, the pressure of his lips more needy, the sweep of
his hands over her arms, her back, her waist, more forceful.
        Finally, he tore his mouth from hers and instead
pressed kisses down the length of her throat, his hands now
cradling the back of her head, maneuvering her easily, bending
her this way and that so that his lips could touch her at will.
        "You are so lovely."
        The words were spoken hoarsely.  Low.  Rough.
Coming from just beneath her ear.  They sounded like Mulder.
And yet, it was as if there was something overlaying his voice.
Filtering it.  Something unknown.  Coarser somehow than her
partner's usual wry tone.
        She felt a shiver trickle down her back.
        And far, far away, so distant as to almost convince her
that the sound was solely a product of her imagination, Scully
heard the faint muffled sound of a woman crying.
        She opened her eyes.
        Draped across Mulder's lap, her arms around his neck,
her lips swollen from his kisses, she looked up into his eyes.
        And saw a stranger gazing down at her.
        <He was taller than Mulder.  Burlier.  Broader chest.
Thicker neck.  His hair was the color of raven's wings, and fell in
untidy waves down nearly to his shoulders.  His nose was long
and crooked, as if it might once have been broken and reset
improperly.  His skin looked like fine leather, butter soft yet
tanned.  And his eyes shone deep brown with flecks of gold
around the pupil.>
        The color that Mulder's eyes sometimes turned.
        And with that thought, it was suddenly her partner
whose befuddled gaze met hers.
        But only for an instant.
        Then, Mulder was gone once more.  Leaving Scully to
battle the stranger on her own.
        Questions careening through her head, she stiffened,
and tried to push away from whoever the hell it was who shared
the chair with her.  But he held her fast.  His arms locked around
her.
        What in God's name was going on, she wanted to rail.
Who was this man?  What had happened to Mulder?
        And why was it so ridiculously difficult for her to get
her bearings?  She was having trouble focusing once more.
Everything seemed blurred.  Hazy.  Things that shouldn't have
been visible shimmered on the edges of her awareness, tempting
her to acknowledge them.  A midnight blue ball gown trimmed in
ebony lace hanging against the closet door.  A cut glass bottle
filled with amber liquid sparkling on the bureau top.
        However, as much as these images disturbed her, she
got no attendant boost of adrenaline.  Instead, the lethargy that
had been stealing her will since she and Mulder had stood in each
other's embrace watching the rainstorm confused her, dulled her
desire to flee, even as she knew without a doubt that escape was
her best option.
        The man who held her trailed his hand along the line of
her jaw, his eyes following its path, his expression an unsettling
mixture of passion and disdain.  "So lovely," he repeated in a
hoarse whisper.  "And so false."
        Hearing that, she struggled more vehemently in his
arms, not understanding to what exactly he was referring, but
knowing instinctively that trouble loomed on the horizon.  The
battle was not for naught, and she managed to finally sit upright.
And yet, he didn't release her entirely.  His hands held her upper
arms like a pair of vises, his fingers digging into her muscles with
a force she knew would leave bruises.
        "I gave you everything," he told her softly, fiercely, his
voice accusing, his face only inches from hers.  "Everything I was.
Everything I owned, I handed over to you.  Like some boy wet
behind the ears would do for a miss fresh from the schoolroom.
But I should have known better, shouldn't I?  After all, it was no
secret what you were."
        She twisted there, on his lap, but it was difficult to get
any leverage.  Her feet didn't entirely reach the floor, and despite
the fact that she continued to press against his chest with all her
might, she still couldn't break free from his hold.
        To complicate matters, part of her didn't really want to
get away.  A portion of her desired nothing more than to sit there
for all eternity and just look at him, drink in the harsh unforgiving
planes of his face, the strong line of his brow.  To run her hands
over his cheeks, through his hair.  To feel his eyelashes flutter
against her fingertips.  To burrow against him and absorb his
strength, his warmth.  She had been so cold.  And so alone.  So
terribly alone.  All she had wanted for all those years, decades
upon decades condemned to wander through the twilight world
on her own, was him.  Only him.
        "Jack."  The word slipped from Scully's lips unbidden.
        The eyes of the man before her darkened dangerously
at the sound.
        "You whisper that so sweetly," he murmured, his brow
furrowed.  "But then, you always did.  Calling out my name when
I was between your legs.  There was a wonder in it, wasn't there,
my love?  An innocence that almost allowed me to forget just
what a whore you really were."
        He stood then, this man Scully knew but didn't, dragging
her with him as if she weighed nothing more than the clothes she
wore.  She wanted to fight him, to break free from his punishing
hands, to scream, to run.  But defense of any sort was denied her.
She felt like a puppet, a prisoner in her own body.  True, she
resisted.  But it was mostly flailing.  Ineffectual.  Useless.  Try
though she might, she wasn't able to bring into play any of her
training, any of the hand-to-hand technique that had been drilled
into her at the Academy.  Despite her best efforts, her limbs just
wouldn't respond.  Instead, in some bizarre way it seemed that
she had been cast as both audience member and star in a melodrama
that threatened at any moment to turn lurid.
        "Did you scream Antoine's name when he was here,
Selene, in our bed?  Did he make you tremble the way I do?  Did
he take it long and slow the way you like?"  He was backing her
towards the bed now, his step measured and filled with menace.
        "No, I would never . . . .  I didn't betray you, Jack."  The
words tumbled from her lips, her voice sounding strange to her
ears, hushed and throaty, rising and falling with an unrecognizable
lilt.  "Please . . . you must believe me . . . ."
        Her denial only infuriated him more, his ire reminding
Scully of the thunder claps still echoing beyond their window as
the storm outside gradually wound down in power.  "Don't you
lie to me, you bitch!  I =saw= you.  I saw you with my own two
eyes.  Lying here naked, that bastard's hands all over you."
        The backs of her knees were flush against the edge of
the mattress.  And suddenly she knew what he intended, what
this man who should have been Mulder but was not wanted from
her.
        And that, she could not let him have.
        "I loved you," he said in anguish, the words little more
than a moan.  "I loved you more than my own life.  And all the
while you and Antoine were laughing at me behind my back."
        "No," Scully protested automatically, the word spoken
not by her but by another as she herself looked left and right,
trying to judge whether she could slip past him to safety.  If her
body would even allow her to try.
        "Stop lying!" he commanded as he pushed her roughly
to the bed.  "Just stop it!  =Stop it=."
        And then, the moment her back hit the mattress the
presence that had for a time shared her head vanished.
        Instantly.
        Without a trace.
        She didn't know whether it was her own fear of what
was about to occur that pushed the entity she recognized must
be Selene Broussard from her head, or whether the long dead
woman left of her own accord.  But, Dana Scully was once
again her own person.
        And faced with a man intent on raping her.
        Who, ironically enough, happened to be the man she
loved.
        Now that she no longer viewed the world through
Selene's eyes, she could see Mulder plainly.  Could witness the
way in which his face was contorted with the rage of another
man.  A man who held her partner prisoner just as she had been
held only moments before.
        His face dark with a combination of anger and lust,
Mulder reached out for the waistband of shorts.  "Come here."
        She turned away from him on the bed, rolling, her legs
coming up to kick at his mid-section.  But she was off balance
when she tried, and the attempt was paltry at best.  He blocked
the blows easily.
        The man in Mulder's body chuckled.  "Oh, so you
want to play rough, Selene?  Well, I'm more than happy to oblige."
        He grabbed hold of her T-shirt and tossed her down on to
the comforter.  Bouncing, she scrambled on to her knees once
more.  But before she could crawl off the other side of the bed to
freedom, Mulder reached out, seized a fistful of her shirt, and
with his other hand struck her hard, his palm to her cheek, the slap
catching the edge of her mouth as well.  She reeled, falling back
as much in amazement as by the force of the blow itself.  Her eyes
watered.  Her face stung as if it had been set upon by a hive of
bees.  Touching her tongue to the corner of her mouth, she tasted
blood.
        "Why do you fight me?" he demanded heatedly as he
loomed over her, his hands planted just above her shoulders on
the mattress.  "You always liked what we did here well enough
before.  And I know damn well that you didn't try to discourage
Antoine."
        Think, Dana, think, a little voice inside her head urged.
What was her best plan of action?  Physical strength appeared
most definitely to favor the man above her.  He moved with
Mulder's quickness and struck with a power far outreaching
anything she had ever before seen from her partner.  Although
she might indeed manage to somehow make it off the bed, she
doubted that he would allow her to get to the door.
        The gun.
        Oh, God, not that.  Anything but that.
        She had put a bullet into Mulder once before and had
sworn as she had struggled not only to heal him, but to transport
his battered body to safety that she would never again take that
kind of chance.  Not with him.  She couldn't.  She just couldn't.
And besides, she wasn't even certain where Mulder had stored
his weapon.  Searching for it would take valuable time.  And
even if she did manage to locate it, she still had no guarantee
that in the midst of a fray the firearm wouldn't be turned on her.
No.  As it stood right now, that thing in Mulder's body had no
idea that a gun lay tucked away somewhere in a dresser drawer.
        And she had no intention of enlightening him.
        So what should she do?  She supposed she could scream.
After all, the inn was full of people.  But crying out for help would
put poor Mulder in an untenable situation.  How could she
explain their predicament to any would-be rescuers?
        <Please, don't hurt him.  It's not what you think.  He's
just possessed.  Taken over by the man who murdered Selene
Broussard.  If we give him time, I think he'll snap out of it.  After
all, I did.>
        No.  The circumstances were entirely too gothic for
her to successfully clarify for anyone else.  Even with this being
New Orleans.  For the sake of Mulder and their partnership she
was going to have to extricate herself from this dilemma on her
own.
        And yet, how the hell was she going to do that?
        What about psychology?  That's a ploy Mulder would
have been sure to attempt were he in her shoes.  Why not try
appealing to the entity who was at present running his hands
over her torso as he stared moodily down into her frightened
blue eyes, defilement on his mind.  But what could she say to
him?  What did he want?
        Selene.
        Well, she couldn't help him there.
        And yet, maybe that was the key.
        Perhaps it was time for Jack to be made aware of just
who exactly he was dealing with.
        Deciding to risk it, she reached up to tentatively touch
Mulder's chin, lightly, soothingly.  As if she hoped to gentle
a wild beast.  "I'm not who you think I am.  You don't want me.
I'm not Selene."
        His eyes narrowed, the intelligence shining from them
regarding her intently.  Something flickered deep inside him, and
she thought for one breathless moment that she might actually
have gotten through.  Then, he blinked, and the doubt that she
thought she had seen in his eyes disappeared.  Saying nothing,
he tugged on her shirt, nearly pulling it free from the waistline
of her shorts.  Fabric bunched in his hands, he raised her to a
sitting position, his nose brushing against her own, his breath
hot and hurried against her face, his eyes glittering down into
hers.  "I don't know what game you're playing here, Selene.  But
I'd know you in the dark.  And if you know me even a little bit,
you know better than to try and tell me what I do and do not
want."
        "You're confused," Scully insisted a bit more strongly,
trying reason one more time, even as she feared the tactic might
prove unwise.  "My name is Dana Scully.  You were made to
believe that I was Selene.  I don't know how.  I don't know what
happened.  But, I think that in some way she called to you.  Lured
you here--"
        "SHUT UP!" he roared, as with his hands still clinging
to the front of her shirt, he shook her back and forth like a dog
with an ill used toy.
        Her hands covering his, Scully closed her eyes against
the onslaught, certain that her brain was in the process of being
churned with his manhandling, altered somehow, like cream
being agitated into butter.  Her ears were ringing.  The ache in
her head that had begun with the slap to her cheek now screamed
with intensity.  Points of light pulsed behind her lowered lids.
        Definite miscalculation, Dana, she silently chided herself.
        Big time.
        Seeking in some way to recover what she had lost, she
thrashed her legs between them both, her bare feet windmilling
as she wildly sought to make contact, to score some sort of
point in their terribly one-sided battle.  Finally, whether it was
as a result of Irish stubbornness or just pure dumb luck, she
connected.  Her small hard heel slammed into the side of Mulder's
hip with a force powerful enough for her to feel the blow vibrate
up the entire length of her leg.  Muttering an ear-singeing curse,
he threw her from him, the combination of pain and fury fueling
his motion.  She flew through the air, awkwardly, like a nestling
testing her wings for the first time.  In the end, however, her
flight was short, coming to an abrupt halt when her head cracked
against the brass headboard and her side was pierced by the
corner of the night stand.
        OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
        That hurt.
        That really hurt.
        That did some damage.
        While she didn't believe that she had broken any ribs
when she had collided fast and furiously against the spear sharp
edge of the small yet sturdy table beside the bed, she felt certain
that the tissue around the area of impact was bruised.  Badly.
        Oh dear Lord.
        She was having trouble catching her breath, taking in
more than a sip of air was utter agony at that moment.  Her eyes
welled from it.  From the awful blinding pain searing her middle.
At the same time, her poor head suddenly felt in danger of spilling
her brains onto the mattress beside her.  Her skull seemingly too
battered, her skin too thin to contain them.  One of the bed's brass
knobs had caught her squarely on the temple when she had landed,
the result being a slender jagged gash and a doozy of a headache.
With a degree of calm that amazed even her, Scully wondered
dispassionately if she might just pass out from her injuries.
        But that was not to be.
        Although a trifle muddy, she stayed awake when the
man she loved took her by the hair and pulled her upright once
more.  When she sat before him, hunched in pain, he let go of
the fall of her auburn hair he had used to lift her.
        And instead closed his hands around her neck.
        "I'm going to kill you," he muttered hoarsely, his tone
low and matter of fact, his eyes little more than slits.
        And with that, his fingers tightened around the pale
soft arch of her throat.
        Scully twisted her head, trying to find a position that
would allow her to steal oxygen despite her assailant's attempt
to deny her.  But, it was tough.  He was strong.  So very strong.
And had no compunction about using that strength against her.
        She heard a roaring in her ears, like surf pounding against
the beach.  She could feel the necklace that Mulder had just that
night given her digging into the tender flesh around the base of
her throat, abrading the skin there.  With a terrible sort of certainty
she knew that unless she did something, and did something
quickly, she would soon be unconscious.
        And utterly helpless.
        Searching for and finding reserves of determination
she hadn't known she owned, she methodically worked to pry his
fingers loose.  But, despite her best efforts, they barely budged.
Still, anytime she felt a momentary lessening of pressure she
sucked in what air she could, knowing she would need every last
gasp of it if she hoped to survive.
        "Mulder, don't," she whispered finally, her voice reedy,
her legs twitching beneath her.
        At first, he appeared not to listen to her, not to hear his
name stumble past her drawn lips.  Instead he seemed unaware that
he was slowly choking the life from her, reenacting a murder that
had taken place in that very house so many years ago.  Then, Scully
thought she spied something in his hazel eyes.  An awareness.  A
fear.
        Mulder himself.
        Heartened, she tried again, her raspy voice pure torture
to produce.  "Mulder, please . . stop . . . ."
        The confusion in his gaze intensified in a way that made
Scully's heart ache in sympathy for him.  =Damn you=, she silently
cursed at the spirit she knew only as Jack.  How can you do this
to us?  How can you do this to him?
        Despite her pain, despite her fear, she was livid.
Absolutely beside herself with rage at the way in which Mulder
and she had been manipulated into playing hosts for these two
dead parasites.  Why them?  Why after all these years spent as
nothing more than a sort of ghostly tourist attraction had Selene
Broussard suddenly decided she needed to turn corporeal once
more?  What did she hope to gain?  How and why had she
summoned her murderer back to the scene of his crime?
        And what in the world would Mulder ever do, Scully
wondered, if through no fault of his own he somehow wound up
being responsible for her death?
        No, she vowed, even as her vision began to dissolve
into tiny black dots.  She would not let that happen.  To either of
them.
        Summoning every last bit of oxygen available to her, she
locked her watery blue eyes on Mulder's.  Reaching up with
trembling hands, she placed them gently on his cheeks and
whispered as clearly as she could, "Mulder, I need you . . . to
stop.  Mulder, . . .you're hurting me."
        He stared at her.  His pupils large, his eyes
uncomprehending.  His mouth agape.
        The pressure around her throat as fierce as ever.
        Oh God, it didn't work, she silently moaned after a
heartbeat or two, her hands falling lifelessly away from his face.
Mulder still hadn't released her.  The steady rumbling in her head
grew deafening.  The only thing still visible to her were her
partner's wide unseeing eyes.  Scully had run out of time.
        And air.
        Then, like a wall crumbling inwards against a wrecking
ball, she saw the change occur.  His expression shifted.  Grew
softer.  More vulnerable.  Familiar.
        And Mulder came crashing through.
**************************************************
        Fox Mulder's head felt as if someone had drop kicked it
through the uprights.
        Thirty or forty times.
        Ow.  What the hell had happened?  How had he wound
up on the bed?  Had he managed to somehow hurt himself again,
he wondered in bewilderment as he raised himself carefully on to
his elbows, his head pointing towards the foot of the bed.
Wouldn't be the first time, of course, he admitted to himself in
silent chagrin.  Hell, all the evidence seemed to point in that
direction.  Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been replaced
with high tension wire.  His hands ached.  And a spot high on
his hip throbbed like a son of a gun.
        Not to mention his head.
        Maybe the wine was to blame.
        That, at least, would explain the sore noggin and the
reason why his memory was so fuzzy.
        Yet, drinker or no, surely he wouldn't have passed out
from what little alcohol he had imbibed with dinner.
        Still, he had no other solution that satisfied the queries
swimming around inside his brain.
        He couldn't even really recall much of anything that had
happened after giving Scully that necklace.
        Scully.
        Where was she?
        Then, before he could ponder that question in any
greater detail, the answer was provided for him.
        In horrifying fashion.
        Mulder heard a faint rattle of a moan from just over
his shoulder.  Scrambling awkwardly to view its cause, he came
face to face with the object of his inquiry.
        Only she wasn't looking at him.
        Scully was curled on her side, facing away from him and
towards the edge of the bed.  Her tangled hair obscured her face
and neck.  And yet, through the tousled strands he spied the
small trickle of blood smeared in the corner of her mouth, and
the swollen split lip beside it.  Her clothes were wrinkled badly,
hanging awry on her slender frame, with her shirt pulled free
entirely from her shorts and riding up on her back, exposing its
tender slope.  She had her arms wrapped protectively around
her middle, and her eyes shut.  Her breath appeared rapid and
uneven.
        "Scully?"
        Her body stiffened.  Then slowly, with great effort, she
rolled over to face him more fully.
        "Oh God. . . ."
        The words slipped mindlessly from his mouth before
he could edit himself.  She was hurt.  His Scully was hurt.  Beaten,
it appeared.  Not only had she suffered a blow to the mouth, but
her temple was bloodied and bruised as well.
        And her throat. . . . .
        Mulder felt as though all at once Mike Tyson had
landed a solid right to his solar plexus.  Sweet God in heaven,
what had happened here?  Who had done this?  Why the hell
couldn't he remember?
        It was beyond awful.  Scully had ghastly purple and
blue and red marks all up and down the length of her neck.  They
weren't large, perhaps only an inch or two in length and even
narrower in width.  Still, despite their comparatively small size,
they stood out like blood on snow.  Their presence, an atrocity.
A crime against all things good.  Against sanity itself.
        Struggling to her elbows, she met his eyes, her own
gaze wary.
        "Mulder?" she asked softly as if for identification, her
voice demolished.
        He swallowed hard and nodded, reaching for her.
Intending to pull her into his arms, to comfort her.
        But the sight of those hands--his hands--stretching
towards Scully's shoulders, her neck, brought it all hurtling back.
        <Whore . . . bitch . . . >
        <The crack of his hand against her tender cheek.>
        <The sight of her head snapping back against the
ornate brass headboard.  Her eyes sliding shut in agony.>
        <The feel of the muscles in her neck constricting,
shifting beneath his hands.  Her fingers clawing at his, begging
him for air, pleading with him for release.>
        <Mulder . . . you're hurting me.>
        And suddenly it was only through sheer force of will
that Mulder didn't lose the contents of his stomach right then
and there atop the bed's beautiful quilted comforter.
        "No," he muttered, the word little more than as grunt.
Shaking his head in horrified disbelief, he pulled his hands back
suddenly as if the simple touch of her skin would burn him
somehow.  As if she had the capacity to wound him in ways far
more devastating than he had hurt her previously.  His eyes went
wide with fear and revulsion, their expression more than a bit
wild.
        "Mulder . . ." Scully whispered as, grimacing, she leaned
forward, her hand outstretched to lightly touch his arm, to attempt
in some small way to calm him with the gentle caress.
        "No," he repeated, shaking his head now more vehemently,
almost as if he thought the side to side motion would somehow
erase what had happened only moments before.  Wipe the slate
clean.  "Scully, I . . I wouldn't . . . .  I could never . . . ."
        She refused to let him continue, apparently not needing
to hear what she already knew.  "It wasn't you."
        Still he inched away from her on the bed, shrinking from
her hand, not feeling fit to even look at her.  Not after what he had
done.
        No way could he crush her to him the way he longed to.
Not for an instant could he cradle her in his arms, rocking her
while he murmured his apologies, his pleas for forgiveness in
her ear.
        No.
        The man he had been that afternoon, the man he had
been the night before, a week before, a lifetime before--that man
might have been worthy to offer this woman solace.  But not him.
Not now.
        Oh God.
        At that moment, Mulder quite happily would have gone
to the bureau drawer, retrieved his service revolver, stuck it in
his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
        Only he suspected the display would only distress
Scully.
        He was an expert at guilt, an aficionado of self-loathing.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda, Mulder, continually whispered the
insidious little voice that lived inside his head.
        <If you had only been braver, stronger, your sister
would never have been taken.>
        <If you had only been a better judge of character, a
little more careful, you would never have trusted Alex Krycek.>
        <If you had only been faster, put the pieces together
more quickly, the woman you love wouldn't have lost three
months of her life, wouldn't have been subjected to God only
knows what sort of horrors.>
        But never, never in his entire life had he ever so
thoroughly despised himself as he did at that instant.
        When her eyes clung to his, wide and moist in her
pale battered face, seeking reassurance.  Her body trembling,
the set of her slender shoulders rigid with pain and leftover fear.
        And he knew without question, without excuse, that
he was the cause of her suffering.
        "Dana . . . I--," he began haltingly, licking his lips, his
hands clenching and unclenching without conscious thought
on the bed beside him, like an echo of the violence that had
occurred.  "I'm just . . ."
        Then, not waiting for him to finish, Scully moved.
The shift wasn't smooth.  Her speed was only a fraction of
what she would normally muster.  In the end, the change
could probably best be described as half crawl, half fall.
But, regardless of how her motion might have been catalogued,
it was her destination that ultimately proved important.
        She ended up in Mulder's arms.
        Scully threw herself into them, her breath hitching
in pain as she did so, the way she favored her side telling
him that she had still more wounds than those he had
already noted.  Seemingly ignoring these injuries herself,
she tucked her head beneath his chin, and wrapped her arms
tightly around his middle.
        "I never believed it was you, Mulder," she said
softly, the effort to speak clearly costing her.  "Never.  You've
got to know that."
        He closed his eyes and buried his face in her sweetly
scented hair, his voice tight and hushed.  "Scully, those marks
on your throat might as well be my fingerprints."
        "No," she whispered hoarsely, her fingers tracing the
line of his jaw, his cheek.  "No.  You saved me."
        With as much gentleness as he had in him, Mulder
pulled back with anguished eyes to look at her.  "I nearly
killed you."
        Scully was having none of it.  "You didn't.  Jack did."
        He merely shook his head, unable at that point to
trust his voice.
        She smiled at him tenderly.  "He wanted Selene dead.
He wanted me dead.  But you wouldn't let him win."
        Still not willing to let himself off the hook, Mulder looked
away.  But Scully captured his chin with her hand and pulled
it back so that their eyes met once more.  Her gaze was soft and
as warm as a cottage hearth on a blustery autumn day.  "I called
to you for help, Mulder.  And you answered.  Just like the cavalry.
I  want to thank you, not blame you."
        "You don't have to blame me," he told her bleakly.  "I
blame myself."
        Sighing, she pressed against him once more, hugging
him with a fierceness that surprised him, her words muffled by
the fabric of his shirt and her own exhaustion.  "Don't, Mulder.
Okay?  Please.  Don't take this on yourself."
        "Scully, I can't promise you--"
        "No promises.  No vows," she murmured, her voice
more croak now than anything else as she sagged against him,
her resources apparently running down.  "None except this.  I love
you.  And we will get through this.  Together.  Just like always."
        Slowly, he nodded, his hair sliding against hers, and
held her to him as tightly as he dared.
        All the while wondering if he didn't hear a ghostly
voice or two laughing with malicious mockery at the surety of
Scully's words.

*************************************************

	Mulder listened to the soft steady drip of the rain as it quietly fell 
from the awning outside the first floor window where he stood to the 
flagstone below.
	Plip.
	Plop.
	Plip.
	Plop.
	Concentrating on that sound, and that sound only, he wearily 
closed his eyes and rested his head against the window's cool pane.  His 
body ached with fatigue, his eyes burned.  Yet, despite the fact that hours 
had passed, that the new day was nearly upon him, his mind still refused to 
grant him rest.  To allow the events of the previous evening to mercifully 
dull in remembrance.
	Instead, his near epic battle with Scully replayed endlessly inside 
his head, every particular, every detail, vividly intact; like those tapes that 
play in department stores hawking the latest fad.  The kind that run the 
same five minute infommercial over and over again in a continuous loop.
	The storm itself had ended long ago.  Had petered off even before 
he had left their room soon after midnight and sequestered himself in the 
inn's cozy book-lined library.
	He had needed to get out of there.  Out of what had been, up until 
that evening, Scully's and his own private sanctuary from the madness that 
was their lives.  The chamber in which they had enjoyed a temporary 
respite from all the shadowy conspiracies and things that go bump in the 
night.  The room that, under normal circumstances, should have been the 
last place in the world he would ever want to leave.  But as of last night, 
that peace, that sense of safety, was no more.  It had been shattered as 
thoroughly as a sledgehammer pounding plate glass.  He just couldn't stay 
after what had happened, couldn't blithely lie down next to Scully, and 
drop off to sleep, worry-free.
	Because he had no way of knowing whether Jack would return.
	To finish off what he had started.
	Using Mulder's hands, Mulder's strength, to do his dirty work.
	Of course, Scully hadn't quite looked at the situation in the same 
manner as he.
	"Mulder, I know this sounds crazy.  But, I think it's over.  For 
tonight anyway," she had whispered raggedly as she lie beneath the crisp 
cotton sheet, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion.  "Stay.  Stay here with 
me."
	Saying nothing, he had reached out and tenderly threaded her 
hair through his fingertips, smoothing it from her forehead.
	But in the end, he had left her in their bed.  Alone.
	Oh, he had been tempted.  Sorely tempted.  Part of him didn't want 
to let her out of his sight.  Ever.  Afraid that when all was said and done her 
injuries would prove more dire than they had first believed.  Scully kept 
insisting that all she had were a few bumps and bruises, nothing that some 
time and a couple of Advil wouldn't cure.  But despite her reassurances, he 
couldn't help but wonder whether she wasn't simply putting up a brave 
front for his benefit.   She had to be in pain.  The wound at her temple had 
already turned livid; purple, blue and black smudged the area surrounding 
the red hairline cut in her skin.  The swollen patch around her mouth wasn't 
much better.  Although not quite as colorful as the expanse above her eye, 
her upper lip had gone puffy and red where it had split, distorting the 
shape of her beautiful mouth.
	Yet that damage, awful and disturbing as it was, didn't worry him 
nearly as much as her throat and her ribs.  He must have asked her a half 
dozen times if she was certain that her ability to swallow hadn't been 
impaired.
	"It's okay, Mulder," she had murmured softly, her brow creased 
with impatience.  "Just sore."
	Mulder didn't buy it.  Scully could barely speak.  The marks on her 
neck had darkened like the bruise on her temple, their color the same as 
midnight.  And he had grimly noted the difficulty with which she choked 
down saliva.
	So, what exactly does it take to crush an esophagus, Mulder, he 
had ruthlessly asked himself.  Just how much more pressure would you 
have needed to exert before her windpipe had collapsed entirely?
	He had pondered these questions as he had sat on the edge of 
the bed, his throbbing head cradled in his hands, and waited for Scully to 
emerge from the bathroom.  After pulling herself together as best she 
could, she had arisen stiffly from the bed, waving off his attempt to assist 
her, and walked slowly and carefully to the other room, ostensibly to clean 
up and dress her wounds.  However, Mulder suspected that the real reason 
for her leaving the room and the reach of his interested eyes was that she 
was unwilling to share with him the full extent of her injuries. He knew 
damn well that something was wrong with her ribs.  She was carrying 
herself funny, keeping one arm wrapped at all times around her waist as a 
sort of protective shield.  And yet, she wouldn't even discuss going to the 
hospital to have them checked out.
	"No way, Mulder," she had gritted out, her voice raw. "I'd have to 
explain how I got like this.  Too many questions.  They'll be fine.  Don't 
worry about it."
	Don't worry about it.
	Okay.  Sure.  I'll just put it out of my mind, he had wanted to 
sarcastically retort.
	And yet he couldn't.
	He didn't have that right.
	Not anymore.
	So, he had let her go behind closed doors.  Had let her pretend 
that nothing between them had changed.  That it was perfectly normal for 
she to stand battered and bruised before the bathroom mirror, unable to 
stand upright for the pain.  All because he, a man doubly sworn to protect 
her--first as her partner, secondly as her lover--had not only failed in his 
duty, but had actually been the one responsible for her injuries.
	Yet, he had unequivocally refused to allow her to retire for the 
night defenseless.
	"Take this," he had said to her when she had finally shuffled out 
of the bathroom clad in the same garb she had worn the night before, the 
black silk camisole, tap pants, and robe that he had seen her hang on the 
back of the door that morning.
	She had stared in horror at the gun he had placed heavily in her 
hands, shaking her head slightly in disbelief.
	"Mulder, you must be out of your mind," she had mumbled.
	"Not right now I'm not, Scully," he had told her fiercely.  "You 
keep this.  Under your pillow.  Beside the bed.  In a drawer.  I don't care.  
Just don't tell me where it is.  And if I try anything . . . anything at all like 
what happened before . . . use it."
	She had looked up at him, her eyes moist, yet stormy.  "I ought to 
shoot you for coming up with such a ridiculous idea," she had whispered.
	And with that, she had turned from him, and limping, crossed to 
the balcony, slipped out the ammunition clip, and tossed it over the railing.  
In the distance, he had heard it clatter softly onto the courtyard below.
	"Scully!" he had muttered with exasperation
	She had merely walked haltingly back to him, pressed the now 
unarmed weapon back into his hands, and said in a low voice, "If I would 
do the same for Hodge and Da Silva, I would certainly do no less for you, 
Mulder."
	He had known to what she had referred.  Even though he had 
been locked away in a storeroom at Icy Cape, he had later learned how she 
had thrown the clips from both their guns out into the frigid sub-zero air.  
How she had given away her only advantage in order to placate the two 
remaining members of the research team with whom they had traveled 
north.
	It had comforted him not one bit to remember that particular case.
	"Then at least lock the door after me," he had implored her, his 
hand pushing distractedly through his hair, his gaze focused on the carpet 
at his feet.
	Scully had stood before him, small and vulnerable looking with 
her pale naked legs and mass of rumpled auburn hair, the erotic appeal of 
her attire completely lost on him at that point in time.  Resolutely, she had 
shaken her head.
	"No."
	Mulder had simply looked at her for a moment, trying to figure out 
how the hell to make her see reason.
	And then had ruefully realized that attempting to apply reason to 
their particular situation was a futile exercise at best.
	So instead, he had sighed, taken her by the arm and settled her 
into bed with as much gentleness as he possessed.  Pressing his lips to her 
forehead, he had then crossed to the door, and paused with his hand on 
the knob, his body only partly turned towards her.
	"I'll be downstairs if you need me," he had promised her quietly, 
his eyes flickering away from the sight of her damaged face turned on the 
pillow to face him, questions he had felt far too inadequate to answer 
shining in her bleary blue eyes.  "Try to get some rest."
	She had nodded ever so slightly.  Then, let her lashes fall.
	His gaze lingering on the woman in the bed a moment longer, 
Mulder had finally slipped into the hall.  But not before drawing the old 
skeleton key out of its hole on the interior side of the door.  Once he had 
pulled the portal closed, he had swiftly locked it, and scooted the key back 
under it.
	"Don't open up, Scully, unless you're sure it's safe," he had called 
softly through the thick wooden barrier.
	And then, without another word, he had hurried away towards the 
stairs, trying to ignore the pain radiating through his body.  Its starting 
point, his heart.
	Even now, as he stood inside the shadowed library, staring 
moodily out the window at the first tendrils of dawn snaking their way 
through night's blackness, he still couldn't figure out what the hell had 
happened.  How he and Scully had gone from two people in love, sitting in 
each other's arms, to victim and assailant.  Try though he might, he was 
having difficulty pinpointing the moment in which the change had 
occurred.  When precisely the being known simply as Jack had suddenly 
decided to introduce himself into Mulder's body.
	And yet, although he wasn't positive, he thought that his psyche 
had probably first been invaded when Scully and he had been kissing.  He 
remembered holding her, his lips tenderly nuzzling hers, when he had felt a 
fine trembling overtake her, a shiver pass the length of her spine.  The 
slight but violent movement had concerned him, he recalled.  He had pulled 
away from her soft mouth, and was just about to ask her if she was all right 
when a rush of light-headedness had stolen over him unexpectedly.  It had 
happened all at once.  Without warning.
	And with that, it hadn't mattered what might be wrong with the 
woman he embraced.  He had found he didn't care if she was cold or ill or 
even frightened.  Hell, he hadn't even been entirely certain *what* woman 
was before him.  All he knew was that she aroused him.  Aroused =in= him 
passion and anger.  For him, the two emotions had somehow become twisted 
around each other like strands of wire painstakingly entwined in order to 
strengthen them.  Increase their power.  Wound so tightly that it was impossible 
to separate either from the other.  They had become irrevocably linked.
	But none of that had been important to him at that moment.  None 
of the analysis had even registered.  His mind had not been as keen as it 
usually was.  Everything had seemed far too difficult to process.  Tough to 
make sense of.  But, if his mind hadn't been working up to snuff, his body 
certainly had.  God, he had felt good.  Alive.  Gloriously alive.  Virile. 
Strong.  Potent.
	And all that potency had needed an outlet.
	The most likely candidate having been the woman in his arms.
	Selene Broussard.
	For despite the fact that he had never before seen her, he had 
recognized her immediately.
	She had been tall.  Far taller than Scully.  And possessed of a long 
willowy build.  She had thick inky hair that had tumbled down her 
shoulders and back like an ebony waterfall.  Her skin had been alabaster 
tinged with pink.  Her nose, long and aquiline.  Her cheekbones, high.  Her 
mouth, soft and full; eminently kissable.
	But it was her eyes that had arrested his attention. They had 
looked up at him from beneath gracefully arched brows, large and solemn, 
and the most unusual shade of gray he had ever seen.  They were the hue 
of mist over a field at sunrise.
	No.
	That was too placid.  Too tame.
	More like the color of lightning.  Of steel.  Of sparks.
	Silver.
	La Lune Argentine.
	And yet, even as he had marveled at the beauty the woman before 
him possessed.  Even as his groin had hardened painfully; his body 
longing without reason for her.  Part of him had wanted to punish her.  Had 
wanted to see her cry.  To force her to beg.  To make her suffer for the way 
she had wrenched his heart from his chest.  Had unmanned him.  Had turned 
him into a boy again.  Had stripped him of the defenses he had spent nearly 
a lifetime developing.
	All by telling him that she loved him
	By making him believe it.
	And then by stabbing him in the back at the first opportunity.
	Mulder had felt these contradictory drives, these warring 
compulsions, churning inside him; whirling with a force that made him 
dizzy.  They had been his feelings, his memories, his needs.  And yet they 
hadn't been.  He had shared them.  Had felt the pain.  Had understood the 
motivations, the desires.  And yet, part of him had remained separate from 
them.  A chunk of him had viewed the proceedings from outside of it, of 
him.
	And this was the portion that had eventually come to Scully's 
rescue.
	He had been watching how the situation had escalated.  And yet, 
even as he had sensed how Jack's frustration with Selene, with her 
stubborn resistance to his overtures, was growing into something far more 
dangerous, he had been powerless to intercede.  Hell, he hadn't even been 
certain he had wanted to.  After all, it hadn't seemed real.  More like a 
dream.  A fascinating violent dream, chock full of erotic undertones.  He 
had been mesmerized.
	Then, he had thought he had heard the woman on the bed, the 
one he had identified as Selene, say the impossible.
	<My name is Dana Scully.>
	Wow.  Talk about your bizarre dreams.  She had looked nothing 
like Scully, this woman who had stared up at him with terrified eyes.  What 
was the significance of this little twist in the tale, he had wondered.  This 
wasn't the first time that the woman he loved had popped up in one of his 
nocturnal fantasies.  But, it was certainly the first time she had appeared in 
this form.  Had guest-starred as a long dead courtesan.  A nineteenth 
century rendition of a high-priced call girl.
	God.  Scully would have his head if she knew.
	And so, he had thought little of it.  Had instead only continued to 
watch the increasingly violent battle unfold before him.  The rational part 
of him more and more disturbed by the manner in which his dream was 
edging into the area of snuff.
	Then, it had happened again.
	<Mulder, don't.>
	This was too weird, he had thought.  Too distasteful.  Too 
spooky, even for him.  Hearing his name spoken by the struggling woman 
before him had threatened to make his stomach roil.  He had wanted no part 
of it.  Any of it.  It had to stop.  Now.  Desperately, he had tried to discover 
a way out of the dream.
	Only to find himself trapped.
	<Mulder, please . . stop. . . .>
	No matter how hard he had fought.  How passionately he had 
resisted the manner in which this shadow self was behaving, he had been 
unable to bring the spectacle to an end.  Had found himself incapable of 
freeing the trashing woman beneath him.
	Then, his nightmare had turned unspeakably vile.
	<Mulder, I need you . . . to stop.>
	Because the tall slender ebony-haired woman on the bed had 
metamorphosed before his horrified eyes into a much smaller auburn-haired 
woman.  A woman who was intimately familiar to him.  One whom he loved 
more than life itself.
	And one whose own life was being steadily choked into oblivion 
by his very own two hands. . . .
	<Mulder, . . . you're hurting me.>
	A chilling sort of sweat broke out on Mulder's skin as he 
remembered the look in Scully's eyes when he had come back to himself.  
The way her gaze had silently pleaded with him for help, her expression full 
of fear, of pain.  But not of accusation. Never that.
	Christ.  How could she forgive him when he would never be able 
to forgive himself.
	Taking a deep breath, Mulder turned quickly away from the library 
window, and buried his face in his hands once more.  Shit, if he kept this up 
he'd soon be ready for a padded cell.  And yet, he didn't know how to stop 
it.  How to make the memories go away.
	He needed to see Scully.
	He pushed wearily away from his place against the wall, and took 
a few stiff-legged steps before he stopped dead in his tracks.
	Look at your watch, Mulder, instructed a calm little voice inside 
his head.
	God.  Not yet six.  Far too early to wake her.  The least he could do 
for her, the very least, was to allow her to get some sleep.  Much as he 
longed to slip into bed beside her and pull her into his arms, that option 
was denied him.  After all, he had no way of gaining access to the room.  
Not without her unlocking the door first.  And besides, even if by some 
miracle the room was indeed open to him, even if he ignored his fear of 
injuring her once more, of allowing Jack to gain control as he had the night 
before, Mulder still felt dirty somehow.  Unclean.  Unworthy.
	What could he say to her?
	How would they go on?
	Suddenly, he felt old.  So terribly old.  Aged in both body and 
soul.  All at once, mere standing was more than he felt equipped to handle.  
With a soft wordless groan, he sunk into the overstuffed armchair facing 
the room's wall of windows.  Leaning his head against the seat's rounded 
back, he closed his eyes, his hands hanging limply from the chair's rolled 
arms.
	"Trouble in paradise?"
	The quietly spoken query brought Mulder's head upright and his 
eyes open once more.  Before him stood a faintly embarrassed Bill.  Hair 
mussed, jaw unshaved, the innkeeper looked down inquisitively through 
his wire-rimmed glasses, his gaze kind.  Taking in the sweatpants, Tulane T-
shirt, and tennis shoes the other man wore, Mulder judged that his host 
was about to head out for an early morning run.  Suddenly, he wanted more 
than anything to join him, thinking that it would do him a world of good to 
run off some of the pent-up emotions he still had raging through him like a 
firestorm.
	Trouble in paradise?  The man had no idea.
	"No," Mulder lied smoothly, his expression mild.  "I just couldn't 
sleep.  Decided to come down here so I wouldn't wake Dana."
	Bill nodded sagely.  "I know.  I get like that sometimes. It's weird.  
Laura and I have completely different internal clocks. I'm very much the 
'early to bed, early to rise' type while she is most definitely a night owl.  It's 
a wonder, what with her slipping into bed late and me slipping out of bed 
early, that either of us get any sleep."
	Mulder smiled wryly, not really feeling like talking and yet not 
really wanting to be alone either.  At least when he was making 
conversation with Bill he felt like himself, like a normal human being.  Well, 
normal for him anyway.  Not like the monster he feared himself to be when 
he thought of the previous night.
	"It's tough," he ventured at last with a small nod, unable at that 
moment to come up with anything more insightful.
	"Yeah," Bill agreed, his lips curved slightly.  "So . . , did you at 
least find something to read?"
	Mulder wanted to chuckle.  All those hours spent sitting there 
with nothing to do and no company but his own, and yet he hadn't even 
begun to browse through the selection of reading material surrounding 
him.  How unlike him.  A man who was a voracious reader.
	He must have had other things on his mind.
	"Too many choices," Mulder said with chagrined smile, thinking 
that at least this particular lie was a variation on the truth.  "You've got a 
nice collection here.  I just couldn't make up my mind."
	"Ah," Bill said with a quick nod and a lift of his eyebrows. He 
then walked to the wall on the far side of the room, talking to Mulder over 
his shoulder as he moved.  "Well then, if you don't mind a suggestion . . . "
	He swiftly found a thin burgundy colored volume tucked away in 
the corner of the uppermost shelf.  Turning, he crossed back to Mulder, a 
self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Now, before you say anything, I want 
you to know that this is in no way a feeble attempt at self-promotion."
	Mulder scanned the book's spine and saw that its author was 
indeed the man before him.  Well, what do you know, he thought with a 
glint of humor.  Bill was a triple threat-- professor, innkeeper, and author.  
But, before he could playfully comment on that observation, he spied the 
book's title.  And his heart kicked into overdrive.
	"'Under a Silvery Moon':  The Life and Tragic Death of Selene 
Broussard," Mulder murmured, his brow tightly furrowed.
	Bill shrugged sheepishly.  "Yeah.  I was going to tell you about it 
night before last, when we were talking.  But . . . I kind of lost my nerve.  
Proud as I am of it, I usually hesitate before pulling the book out in front of 
guests.  I don't know.  It just always seems like the worst kind of touristy 
scam.  You know?  Hear the ghost!  Read the book!"
	"No, no," Mulder assured him, his voice vaguely distracted as he 
began leafing through the slender volume. "This is great.  Really.  Um . . . 
so where did you get your information?"
	Bill sighed.  "It wasn't easy.  My field is history.  My interest, local 
folklore.  So, with our living in Selene's old house, the subject was a 
natural.  But, there wasn't much to go on.  Unfortunately, she wasn't the 
sort to keep a diary.  In the end, I wound up digging around mostly in the 
newspapers of the time.  Periodicals.  That sort of thing."
	"Any luck?" Mulder asked.
	Bill twisted his lips.  "Some.  Oh, Selene made the society columns 
often enough.  But, that's mostly gossip, you know?  Hearsay.  Her life 
already reads like one of those books with Fabio on the cover.  I was trying 
to do a little more with it.  Raise the whole thing a step above your average 
dime store novel."
	"And did you succeed?" Mulder queried with a small smile.
	Bill grinned.  "What, are you crazy?  I was shown the error of my 
ways.  Sex sells.  Or so my editor kept telling me.  Of course, that's the same 
guy who wanted to put her picture on the cover."
	"Her picture?" Mulder echoed, his throat suddenly going dry, his 
grip on the book tightening.
	"Yeah," Bill confirmed.  "I've got about a half dozen black and 
white plates in there.  Pictures of Selene--well, her portrait anyway.  The 
house.  Heck, I even got my hands on a charcoal sketch that's supposed to 
be of Jacques LeFevre."
	"Who's that?" Mulder asked quietly, even though he felt certain 
he already knew the answer.
	"Selene's lover," Bill said simply.  "The man who killed her." 
************************************************	
	Scully was growing horribly restless.  She had only been able to 
sleep until nine, her body unwilling to allow her longer escape from the 
aches and pains assailing it.  Stifling a moan, she had rolled with ungainly 
grace from bed and padded into the shower where she had contented 
herself by allowing a steady stream of nearly scorching hot water to 
pummel her stiff muscles into submission.
	She really did feel better, she thought.  Certainly more human than 
she had the night before.  True, her throat was still raw.  Sore, like a bad 
case of strep.  And the tenderness around her ribs seriously restricted her 
movement, making her feel as if the eighty year old widow who lived across 
the hall from her back home was spry by comparison.  Still, the piercing 
pain in her temple had dulled to a steady throb.  And emotionally she felt 
more fit, more able to deal with the aftermath of what had occurred.
	And she knew that there would be no eluding the fallout.  Not for 
her.  And especially not for Mulder.
	Lord, she had wanted to scream at him last night. Had yearned to 
grab hold of his sloped shoulders and shake him into awareness.  I need 
you now, Mulder, she had longed to tell him.  I need you to snap out of 
this state you've put yourself into, this prison of guilt and self-recrimination, 
and be there for me.  I know that none of this was your fault.  So why is it 
so damned difficult for you to have faith in your own innocence?
	But she couldn't ask that of him, couldn't rub his nose in the way 
he was feeling.  Because she recognized that despite her own impatience 
with him, Mulder's emotions were genuine.  There was no wallowing in 
angst for angst's sake.  No fashionable melancholy donned like a costume 
in order to gain attention.  Not at all.  He truly believed that he had in some 
unthinkable manner failed her.  That he was the sole cause of her injuries.
	What a bunch of bullshit.
	Shaking her head in frustration, she checked the time.  Five till 
eleven.  Where could he be?   She would go downstairs and look for him 
herself, but she feared running into anyone.  More than anything, she 
wished that her wounds weren't so highly visible.  Scully recognized that 
she looked for all the world like a stereotypical battered woman.  Many at 
La Lune Argentine knew that she and Mulder had spent the night in.  If she 
had entered the room with Mulder the night before, whole and unmarked, 
only to exit it the following morning with cuts and bruises, it didn't exactly 
take an Einstein to figure out who had inflicted them upon her.
	And there was no way in hell that she was going to subject 
Mulder to those sorts of suspicions.
	So she was stuck.  A captive bird in a beautifully appointed cage.
	Sighing, she wandered over to the cheval glass, and checked her 
appearance.  Not bad.  Well . . . not =good=.  The mottled colors marring 
her face and neck were plainly obvious.  She didn't imagine that even a 
double layer of make-up would disguise the damage.  Still, she didn't think 
she looked too fragile.  Too waif-like.  Too likely to drive Mulder shuddering 
from the room once more, his over-active conscience flagellating his soul 
like a crazed monk.
             Smiling ruefully at the image, she rolled up more tightly the 
sleeves on the over-sized shirt she wore.  The garment didn't belong to her.  
It was Mulder's.  She had chosen it in a fit of pique.  If he was going to 
leave her alone in their room while he went off brooding over imagined 
transgressions, then she was going to damn well keep him with her in 
whatever small way she could.  And if that meant wearing his clothes 
because they retained his scent, and because the knowledge that the fabric 
that currently caressed her skin had not so long ago done the same to his, 
then so be it.  A girl had to find her comfort where she could.
	Besides, she liked the way his pin-striped dress shirt looked with 
her black knit shorts.
	"Scully?  You awake?"
	If she could have skipped to the door she would have.
	As it was, she crossed to it as quickly as she was able, and turned 
the key.
	"Hi," she said softly, the smile she started to give him pulling 
painfully on her swollen lip.
	He stood framed in the doorway, exhaustion evident in the slight 
bow of his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes.  In his hands were two 
white paper bags.
	"I brought you a present," he told her quietly as he stepped into 
their room, and handed her one of the bags.
	She closed the door behind him, then peered inside the sack.  "Ice 
cream!"
	He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Chocolate.  I thought 
it might feel good on your throat."
	Her eyes sparkled up at him.  "I bet it will.  Thanks, Mulder."
	He nodded once more, his stance diffident, his eyes locked on her 
face.
	"Looks better on you than it does on me," he murmured after a 
beat, a dip of his head indicating her borrowed article of clothing.
	"I missed you," she whispered back, as if that was explanation 
enough for her outfit.  Perhaps it was.
	"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, his gaze burning down 
into hers.
	"I'm okay," she assured him.
	He only nodded yet again.
	"So what's in there?" she questioned him finally when it appeared 
that they would both stand there, just inside their room, staring at each 
other for the rest of the day.
	He started at her question, almost as if he had forgotten he still 
carried another package.
	"Oh.  Coffee.  One for me and one for you.  After all, you 
shouldn't be having dessert without eating breakfast first."
	Her eyebrows lifted in amusement at his quip, and taking the 
paper carton and plastic spoon from the first bag, she climbed awkwardly 
on to the bed where she sat cross-legged against the pillows.  Mulder put 
her cup of coffee on the night stand, and then sat in the chair across from 
her with his.
	"Get comfortable, Scully.  I'm going to tell you a story."
	She arched a brow as she slowly swallowed a spoonful of the ice 
cream.  Oh Lord, that felt good.  Just what the doctor ordered.
	"What kind?" she asked.
	Mulder crossed his ankle over his knee and took a sip of his 
coffee.  "A ghost story.  Believe it or not, I think I may actually understand 
what happened here last night." 
	Scully thoughtfully nibbled on her spoon a moment 
before murmuring.  "Well, don't keep me in suspense, Mulder.  
Spill it."
	Mulder hesitated an instant himself.  Then, leaning 
forward in his chair, he reached behind him and pulled something 
from the waistband of his jeans.  It was a small hard cover book.  
He must have tucked it there in the back of his pants while trying 
to successfully maneuver it and the two white paper bags into 
their room, Scully realized with a touch of bemusement.  From 
where she sat, she couldn't clearly see the title on its spine, but 
the restrained burgundy, black, and white book jacket clearly 
identified the tome as a step above Jackie Collins.  No splashy 
artwork, no full size photo of the writer, adorned either of the two 
covers.  Instead, on the front, she noted only some spidery white 
script which apparently heralded the book's name and author.  
While beneath the words, she thought she spied a gracefully 
rendered line drawing of a crescent moon.
	Her brow creased.  "What's that?"
	"A little bomb that got dropped on my head early this 
morning, courtesy of Bill," Mulder said with a wry smile as he 
glanced down at the volume in his hands, his gaze almost rueful.  
"It seems that the guy was holding out on us, Scully."
	"In what way?" she asked suspiciously.
	He smiled reassuringly.  "Oh, don't worry.  Our mild-
mannered host isn't a fiend in disguise.  However, he does 
possess certain hidden talents."
	"Such as?" she inquired before swallowing another 
spoonful of ice cream.
	"He's a writer.  And this is his latest effort."  Watching 
her face closely, he reached across and handed her the book.
	Scully took one look at it and gasped.  "Oh."
	"Yeah," Mulder said with a nod and a sardonic twist to 
his lips.   "Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some."
	Good Lord, she thought, her heart leaping past her 
battered throat and straight into her mouth.  Bill had actually 
recorded for posterity the life and times of La Lune Argentine's 
best known resident.  No wonder he was so knowledgeable 
about the subject when they had spoken the other night.  Selene
Broussard wasn't so much a hobby for him as a vocation.  Nearly 
shaking with anticipation, she deposited her half eaten dish of 
ice cream next to her coffee on the night stand.  And, taking a 
deep breath, she cracked open the book.  
	"Have you read it?" she queried huskily, her eyes 
skimming over text as she flipped slowly through the volume.
	"Cover to cover," Mulder said after taking a sip of his 
coffee.  "I had some time to kill."
	She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes before 
bowing her head once more.
	"First things first though, Scully," he said softly, his 
voice sounding tight all of a sudden, as if perhaps his coffee 
had somehow burned his mouth, numbed his lips and tongue, 
making speech a struggle.  "Turn to page 82.  See anything that 
looks familiar?"
	She regarded him quizzically.  Just what in the world 
was this all about, she silently wondered.  Mulder sat there, 
waiting, his gaze intent.  Clearly expecting that whatever the hell 
was on page 82 would indeed have some impact on her.  Precisely 
what *sort* of impact, however, she couldn't venture to say.  
And yet, she didn't like the look in his eyes.  Without knowing 
why, she suspected that she would soon regret locating the 
page in question.  Still, fingers suddenly clumsy, she did as 
he instructed.
	And upon flipping to the proper page, felt all the air in 
her lungs expel in a rush.	
	"Oh, my God." she murmured fervently, like a prayer.
	"Do you recognize him, Scully?" Mulder asked quietly 
as he perched literally on the edge of his seat, his elbows braced 
on his knees.
	She slowly nodded.
	There, in coarsely drawn profile, was the face of the 
man who had attacked her the night before.
	"Jack?" she asked, her bewildered gaze seeking 
Mulder's for confirmation, not even thinking to look at the 
caption beneath the picture first for the information she sought.
	His expression bleak, Mulder dipped his head.  "You'd 
be the one to know," he said in a soft rough voice.  "Remember, 
I've never seen him."
	A gurgle of hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up 
from inside of her, bursting to the surface like champagne popping 
a cork.  Of course, Mulder wouldn't know what Jack looked like.  
After all, the man in the drawing had taken up residence *inside* 
the man sitting across from her.
	"However, there's someone else in there that I believe I 
*do* recognize," Mulder muttered.  His expression shuttered, 
he rose from his chair and crossed to sit before her on the bed.  
Saying nothing, he gently removed the book from her hands and 
deftly turned to its frontispiece.  "This is the woman I saw last 
night."
	Scully peered at the small black and white photograph 
her partner held out for her perusal.  The picture featured a 
detail of what looked to be an oil painting; its subject, a young 
woman with pale skin, jet black hair, and eyes that were almost 
eerie in their intensity and lightness of color.  She gasped once 
more.
	"Selene Broussard?"
	Mulder nodded grimly.  "Yes." 
	She shook her head skeptically, an eyebrow arched to 
underscore the sentiment.  "Good Lord."
	So this was the woman who had been sharing her body.
	The one with the ivory handled hairbrush.
	The one who wanted nothing more than to spend her 
days lounging in the lush comfort of her bed.
	With the man she loved.
	The man who wanted her dead.
	"This woman was in our room last night, Scully" Mulder 
said in a hushed voice, his gaze falling away from hers to study 
his hands.  "I saw her.  Heard her.  I don't know how, but she was 
the one I saw attacked.  The one . . . I . . hurt.  Not you."
	Never you.	
	Scully had been contemplating the picture before her, 
her lips pursed in speculation, her fingertips resting lightly on 
the page, when Mulder spoke.   She immediately identified the 
shame in his voice, heard in her head his unspoken addendum.  
And her eyes lifted to meet his.
	"You didn't hurt anyone, Mulder," she told him firmly, 
knowing that for the foreseeable future she would undoubtedly 
be repeating that statement ad infinitum.
	He just looked at her for a beat, the haggard lines etched 
in his face paining her sharply at that moment, tormenting her far 
more grievously than her ribs.  Finally, his gaze dropped away 
once more.
	"You know what I mean," he mumbled, his brow 
furrowed.
	Staring at his bowed head, Scully sighed softly with 
frustration, wishing that she could miraculously come up with 
the words that would ease his soul.  Could somehow wave a 
magic wand and cleanse him of the guilt burning holes in his 
heart.  And yet, she recognized that in reality nothing she said 
or did would free him from his suffering.  Ultimately, the only one 
who could do that was Mulder himself.  He was the one who had 
to forgive himself.  She had never blamed him to begin with.  
	Well, what do you know, she grimly mused.  
	Rachel was right, after all.  
	Unwilling to mull over the ramifications of that little 
revelation, she closed the book with a snap, and scooting carefully 
into place, leaned once more against the pillows at her back.  "So 
tell me everything."
	He raised his head, the corner of his mouth quirking in a 
smile.  "Don't you want to read it yourself?"
	"Later," she said in a rough voice as she once again 
picked up her dish of ice cream, noting with a small smile of pleasure 
that the frozen treat hadn't yet turned entirely to soup.  Good.  She 
could use something soothing against her throat.  All this talking 
was murder.  "Give me the Reader's Digest version."
	Smiling his acquiescence, Mulder stepped away from the 
bed for a moment, retrieved his coffee from the small table beside 
the chair where he had sat, and returned to settle himself before 
her.
	"Okay.  Well, to begin at the beginning," he murmured 
before taking a sip of the beverage in his hand.  "Selene, as you 
may have guessed, came from the wrong side of the tracks.  Not 
to mention, the wrong side of the blanket."
	"Illegitimate?" Scully queried.
	Mulder nodded.  "Apparently.  Bill was able to track 
down a birth certificate for her, but no marriage license for 
Selene's mother, Lucille Byrne, and one, Jefferson Matthias, the 
man listed on the certificate as her father."
	"Did her mother ever marry at all?" she asked as she 
stirred her melting ice cream.
	"Nope," Mulder said shortly.  "But then it was tough 
for a woman in her position to meet the right kind of guy."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Let's just say that Selene entered the family business."
	Scully's eyebrows crawled towards her hairline.  
"Her mother was a prostitute?"
	He nodded once more.  "That's right.  And from what 
Bill was able to dig up, it appears that poor Lucy was of a much 
more common variety than Selene.  She worked at a cathouse 
not far from the river.  It must have been one hell of a life.  She 
was dead before Selene's fourteenth birthday."
	"God," Scully murmured darkly as she shook her head.
	Mulder sipped his coffee, his puckish shadow of a smile 
telling her that more was yet to come on this particular subject.  
He didn't make her wait long for it.  "However, before she died 
she did manage to assure that her daughter was settled 
comfortably."
	"How?"
	"By selling her at the age of thirteen to an elderly 
plantation owner by the name of John Reginald Smith."
	Scully nearly choked on her ice cream.  "She =sold= 
her?!"
	"I know," Mulder agreed with a grimace.  "Pretty harsh.  
Yet, in the end, it was probably the best thing Lucy could have 
done for her.  Smith was filthy rich, and obviously not afraid to 
spend a little money.  His home just northwest of the city was 
supposedly a palace.  He gave Selene a taste for the finer things 
in life.  And surprisingly enough, he treated her well.  Like family."
	He chuckled humorlessly and took another swallow of 
coffee.  "In fact, he used to introduce her to people as his niece.  
Although, I don't imagine that designation particularly *fooled* 
anybody.   Still, like I said, he was good to her.  Generous.  
Clothes.  Jewelry.  Servants.  He even hired a tutor for her; made 
sure she knew how to read and write; taught her how to go 
about in polite society.  He basically molded her into what she 
would become.  She was with him for nearly six years."
	"So, why did she leave?" Scully queried softly.  
	Mulder smiled dryly.  "She didn't.  He did.  Smith passed 
away just before Selene's nineteenth birthday.  According to Bill, 
the old man left everything to her--plantation and all.  But, his 
remaining relatives contested the will.  Selene got bounced out on 
her ear.  So, she took stock of her assets, and went in search of 
another protector."
	She nodded thoughtfully.  "And she ran into Jack?"
	He shook his head.  "Not yet.  First she latched onto 
Henri Antoine."
	<Did you scream Antoine's name when he was here,
Selene, in our bed?>
	"Antoine?" she croaked, her eyes going wide.
	"Yeah," he confirmed with a nod.  "Selene became his 
mis--"
	"He was the man Jack found her with," she muttered 
with absolute surety, her gaze lowered, her blue eyes gleaming 
in their intensity.
	Taken aback, Mulder hesitated before speaking.  "That's 
right, . . . but how did you--?"
	"Last night," she explained, her gaze locked on his once 
more.  "Jack talked about Antoine.  He taunted Selene with it.  
With him."
	He nodded slowly.  "I had forgotten."
	"Who was he?" she prodded.
	His lips pulled up in a rueful smile.  "A guy who lived 
his life just this side of the law.  He owned a string of gambling 
halls up and down the river in addition to having his hand in 
any number of equally shady enterprises in New Orleans itself.  
However, despite the questionable nature of his trade, Antoine 
preferred to consider himself simply a businessman.  Most 
people were too afraid of him to argue semantics."
	Scully's brow creased.  "Did he have a record?"
	"No," he said with a shake of his head.  "Antoine 
wasn't a thug.  Just powerful.  In a dangerous sort of way.  
He never got his own hands dirty.  He was too smart for that. 
As a matter of fact, he and Selene were welcome in many of 
New Orleans' better homes.  People looked the other way.  
After all, Selene was beautiful, charming.  And Antoine's 
money could buy them both a lot of acceptance."
	"Sounds like Selene chose her protector well."
	He shrugged.  "To a point.  They were together nearly 
three years.  And yet from what Bill was able to find out, they 
fought almost constantly.  Antoine was older than Selene.  
Old enough to be her father.  And extremely possessive.  She, 
unfortunately, liked attention.  Particularly from the opposite 
sex.  Not a good mix.  Still, Antoine had a genius for smoothing 
her feathers.  Usually with an expensive piece of jewelry.  So, 
she stayed with him."
	"Until Jack came along," Scully murmured softly as she 
set her now empty dish of ice cream to the side.
	"Yeah," Mulder agreed quietly.  "Until Captain Jacques
LeFevre sailed into port."
	"=Captain=?"
	The corner of Mulder's mouth lifted at her tone of voice.  
"Hmm-mm.  *Jack* was a sailor.  Or more to the point, a privateer.  
At least, that's what people suspected.  No one was ever able to 
prove that he or his men carried illegal cargo.  But, one way or 
another, he made his money on the water.  He was handsome, 
successful, a bit wild, and a hell of a lot closer in age to Selene 
than either of her other two lovers.  She fell hard." 
	"And she left Antoine for him?"
	His smile broadened.  "Not right away.  Selene knew that 
Antoine wouldn't be happy about losing her.  She feared what he 
might do.  So, Jack and she apparently snuck around at first."
	"It probably seemed romantic to her," Scully said dryly,
a brow lifted just a tad.  "The danger."
	After all, Dana, a little voice inside her whispered, isn't 
that part of what makes the idea of you and Mulder as a couple 
so exciting?  The thing that gives your relationship that extra 
little kick, that spark, that zest that your earlier liaisons had 
always lacked.  The knowledge that when you get right down 
to it, you and he are breaking rules.  Hell, you two are defying 
everything--the mandates of your job, the stricture of your 
superiors, the censure of your co-workers, the threat your 
enemies could pose should they learn of your feelings for each 
other--all to be together.  
	She looked at Mulder then.  At this man she had 
chosen.  Or had choice ever even entered into it, she mused 
wryly.  Sometimes, their union seemed far more like destiny 
than anything else.  Like something that had been set into 
motion long before she had walked into his basement office 
for the first time, and even now continued to snowball with 
increasing momentum.  Gaining in power, in intensity, with 
every long look, every shared secret, every furtive caress.  
Until there were moments, instants, when her world, her entire 
universe got distilled down to just the two of them.  At times,
her family, her friends, her career, all faded away into nothingness 
when viewed beside the nova brilliance that was Fox Mulder.  
	And yet, it wasn't only his surface dazzle that drew her 
in.  His wickedly nimble mind and pensive good looks.  There 
was more to their bond than the physical.  Than the thrill to be
had merely by their daring to be together.  Had it been that way 
for Selene and Jack?  Had they felt the same soul deep connection 
that she felt with Mulder, Scully mused.  When they had been 
apart, had either of them felt as if some intrinsic hunk of themselves 
was missing?  If pressed, had they been unable to come up with 
another single person in their lives to whom they had longed to 
unburden their hearts?  Had Selene discovered one day, quite 
accidentally, that it was impossible anymore to view the world 
except through the filter of her lover's eyes?  Had she found 
herself talking to a person or seeing a situation unfold, and 
automatically formed Jack's opinion of the moment as she had 
formed her own?  Had they been that fused together, that 
complete?
	If not, why had she sought him out, defying death and 
time to find him once more?
	And yet, if so, why had their association ended with 
betrayal and murder?
	"Selene might have enjoyed the danger a relationship 
with Jack offered," Mulder allowed quietly after a time.  "After 
all, for all her sophistication, she was still young, still inclined 
to be taken in by that sort of thing.  Me--I'd have to say that 
danger is highly overrated."
	"Sounds as if she must have eventually come to the 
same conclusion," she offered as she reached for her coffee, 
the twisting motion the effort required sending a shooting pain 
through her mid-section.  She froze, hoping Mulder hadn't 
caught her sudden wince.
	He had.
	Refusing to dwell on her discomfort or the look in his 
eyes, she resolutely continued, "She =did= leave Antoine, didn't 
she?"
	After a beat, he nodded.  "Yeah.  She did.  Although 
I'm not sure that the phrase 'leave Antoine' is necessarily 
accurate."
	"What do you mean?"
	The corner of his mouth pulled up.  "It's just that she 
didn't exactly leave him.  He lost her in a poker game."
	A small smile of disbelief flirted with her lips.  "Excuse 
me?"
	His smile widened.  "Jack maneuvered Antoine into 
a poker game.  They were playing for big money, and Jack was 
on a roll.  When Antoine ran out of chips, Jack suggested that 
they make the game a bit more interesting."
	Scully's eyebrows lifted.  "By wagering a human being?"
	Mulder chuckled.  "Now before you let yourself get 
all indignant over this.  There is something you should know."
	"Such as?" she asked dryly.
	"Such as," he echoed.  "The whole thing was Selene's 
idea to begin with.  At least, according to Bill."
	She frowned in confusion.  "I don't understand."
	"Jack and Antoine were playing with a marked deck.  
One marked by Selene to allow Jack a distinct advantage.  She 
knew all along that she was going to end up in the pot.  And 
she wanted to make sure that she wound up going home with 
the right guy."
	Scully shook her head ever so slightly.  "That's insane."
	Mulder shrugged.  "It is a bit extreme.  But, when you 
stop to think about it, the whole thing *does* make a warped 
sort of sense."
	She merely looked at him.
	He grinned.  "It =does=!  Selene knew that her leaving 
Antoine for Jack could have dire consequences.  So, she had to 
make certain that it looked as if she had no choice in the matter.  
As if Antoine had no one else to blame but himself for the 
outcome."
	"So what--you're saying that when Antoine decided 
that he'd accept Jack's dare, that he'd wager his mistress, Selene 
acted as if she was appalled by the idea?"
	He nodded.  "I don't know.  Probably.  Given what 
she did for a living, Selene had to have had a bit of the actress 
in her.  So, I suppose she was probably able to feign outrage 
when it appeared her future was being decided by a couple of 
hands of cards."
	Scully tried to visualize the scenario in her head.  "How 
was she able to manage marking the cards?"
	"Don't forget, Antoine was really little more than a 
gambler made good," Mulder reminded her after taking a final 
sip of his coffee.  "He played cards often and well.  But, he wasn't 
the most trusting of men.  He was known for never entering a 
game unless it was agreed in advance that his own deck of cards 
would be used."
	She smiled in reluctant admiration.  "So, Selene got to 
that deck, marked it--possibly even doing so in a way in which 
Antoine himself had shown her--"
	"Possibly," he agreed with a small smile.
	"And then she simply sat back and watched their 
plan unfold," she finished, noting that her voice was getting 
progressively rougher the longer their discussion continued.  
And yet, she had absolutely no intention of cutting it short.  
Finally, she was getting a sense of who Selene Broussard had 
been, this woman who had seen virtually every aspect of her life 
controlled from an early age by those who viewed her as little 
more than property.  A toy.  An amusement.  Beautiful, certainly.  
Expensive, without a doubt.  And yet, something to be owned.  
Kept.  Not a person.  Not really.
	Not until Jack.
	"They should have lived happily ever after," she 
murmured wistfully at last.
	"I had no idea you were such a romantic, Scully,"
Mulder teased gently.  She looked up and saw his warm hazel
eyes resting lovingly on her face.  She smiled, feeling a bit
silly at getting caught musing in such a manner over the events 
in question.
	Shaking her head as if trying to clear it, she said wryly, 
"So, after going to all that trouble to get away from Antoine, why 
did Selene decide to go back to him?"
	Mulder gnawed on the inside of his bottom lip for a 
moment, his gaze turning speculative.  "Here is where our tale 
turns interesting.  You see, Bill doesn't believe she went back to 
him.  He doesn't even think that they slept together.  He states in 
his book that the whole thing was a set-up."
 	Her brow wrinkled in confusion.  "What kind of a set-up?"
	"According to him, Antoine found out that he had been
had.  I don't know how.  Maybe the cards.  Maybe Selene told
someone and it got back to him.  I don't know.  But, one way or 
another he learned the truth."
	"So, you're saying that he decided to get his revenge?"
	Mulder nodded.  "That's what Bill says.  Antoine waited 
for a night when he knew Jack would be gone.  Although this was
technically Selene's home, Jack lived here with her when he was in 
town.  They had been together nearly a year at this point.  Things 
were going well.  Selene had even told some of her acquaintances 
that Jack had proposed marriage.  So anyway, Antoine comes over, 
says he needs to speak with her.  At first, Selene puts him off.  
Tells him that it's over between them, and that Jack wouldn't 
approve of her seeing him.  But, Antoine keeps after her.  He 
explains that Jack is the reason he needs to talk to her.  He tells 
her that he overheard something at one of his clubs that could 
put Jack and his operation at risk."
	Scully looked at him with a touch of doubt.  "And she
fell for that?"
	He shrugged.  "Don't forget, she had no reason to 
believe that Antoine was any the wiser.  Besides, time had 
passed.  Antoine had even taken a new mistress.  Selene 
probably figured that he had no reason to lie to her about this, 
nothing to gain.  Regardless, she let him in.  They talked.  And 
somewhere along the way, he slipped her a mickey."
	"He =drugged= her?"
	He nodded once more.  "That's what Bill hypothesizes."
	The whole thing was all getting a bit too Southern Gothic 
for her taste.  "I don't get it.  Just where did he come up with all 
this?"
	Mulder's eyes twinkled at her blunt demand.  "Put
the blame on modern technology."
	He took the book from her once more and quickly
leafed to the back, and its bibliography.  "Bill was having a tough 
time with his book.  He had originally wanted to use Selene's
life as a case study of sorts to point up the inequities women 
had faced in the last century.  You know--the absence of 
opportunities for young women without family or money, their 
lack of stature in the eyes of the law, their dependency upon men.  
That type of thing."
	She nodded.
	"But it wasn't coming together for him.  Selene
just wasn't *typical* enough.  Her life was too unusual.  Too
'out there'.  So, in a kind of desperation, he put out a call on the 
Internet asking if anyone who was doing similar research on the 
period had run across any information that he might find useful."
	"And he hit it lucky," Scully surmised with a smile.
	"Bingo," Mulder confirmed, pointing to the citation in
question.  "A Dr. Susan Archer from LSU wrote to him with a 
anecdote she had uncovered while doing research on slaves 
who had stayed with their former masters after the Emancipation."
	"Selene kept slaves?"
	"No," he said shortly.  "Antoine did."
	"I don't understand."
	"Antoine had a servant, a man named Nathaniel 
Walker.  He had been bought when he was little more than a 
boy and stayed with Antoine even after he was freed," Mulder 
explained, his eye glowing now with excitement as his tale 
reached its climax.  "In fact, he was the one who was with 
Antoine on the night he died."
	"How did he die?" Scully asked.
	"Nothing dramatic," he assured her.  "His body just 
gave out.  He lived to be almost eighty.  But, he couldn't meet 
his maker without confessing his sins."
	"And what he did to Jack and Selene was one of them?" 
she guessed quietly.
	"Right.  Antoine told Walker the whole thing.  How he 
had drugged Selene, took her upstairs, got her undressed and 
then waited for a very drunk Jack to return home."
	"Drunk?"
	He nodded.  "Antoine hadn't left anything to chance.  
He had arranged to have one of his men, one Jack would be certain 
not to know,  befriend the guy for the evening, buy him a few 
drinks.  He had known about a bar down near the waterfront 
where LeFevre tended to go with his men after a run.  Apparently, 
the man was an ugly drunk.  He had a fairly ferocious temper to 
begin with.  And alcohol only made it worse.  Antoine had 
wanted to stir up trouble.  And he certainly knew how to go 
about it."
	Scully was silent for a moment, considering all that she 
had learned.  "Had he planned on Selene dying?"
	Mulder shook his head.  "No.  Absolutely not.  He
was adamant about that when he told the story to Walker.  He
had hoped to break Selene and Jack up.  Or at the very least, to
cause them to doubt each other.  But murder had never been
part of his scheme."
	She nodded solemnly.  Then, she asked him the 
question that had been on her mind since they had begun.  
"So what does any of this have to do with us?  With what 
happened last night?"
	He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took
her hand.  Her eyes burned for an instant with tears.  It was the
first time he had touched her that morning.  As he spoke, he
kept his gaze averted from hers.
	"I believe that Selene is trying to reach out to Jack,"
he said softly.  "That she is trying to convince him that she
didn't betray him.  That what he saw when he walked into their
bedroom that night wasn't what it appeared to be."
	Scully's mind reeled.  She had been going along with 
everything up to this point.  Much as it was wholly and entirely 
against her nature to believe in ghosts, she knew what she had 
experienced the previous night.  Had seen its effect on Mulder.  
It hadn't been their imaginations at work, or too much wine.  
Nor were Mulder and she delusional.  Their psyches were, 
for the most part, intact.  No.  Rather, other forces had been at 
work.  Something foreign had insinuated itself into them both.  
Something--some =things=--had taken up residence inside them.  
She believed that.  She didn't want to.  But she had to.  She had 
no other explanation.  However, to hear Mulder baldly come up 
with a theory as to why it had occurred disturbed her nevertheless.  
Made the whole thing too unspeakably real.
	"But why =us=?" she asked, her voice gravel low.  
"How do we fit into all this?"
	Mulder grimaced.  "I'm not sure.  But, I think that
Selene thought to use us as a kind of buffer."
	"You've lost me."
	"Think about it, Scully," he urged, his grip on her hand 
tightening.  "As strong as Selene was, she was unable to get 
Jack to listen to any of her explanations.  Hell, she probably 
didn't even have a chance to utter a single word in her defense."
	"Well, don't forget, if Bill's information is correct she
was probably still out of it when Jack burst on the scene," she
murmured reasonably.
	"I know," he agreed quickly.  "But, I'll tell you 
something, Scully.  I've had that guy inside me.  Or I've been 
inside him.  Last night I couldn't tell the difference.  And the pain
 . . . the rage . . . he carries around with him. . . .  What he saw 
when he walked into that room was a scene from his greatest 
nightmare.  It pushed him right over the edge.  Even if Selene had 
been clear-headed I doubt that she could have gotten through 
to him."
	She slowly nodded.  "So, if I was supposed to lend 
Selene my strength, you were supposed to share with Jack your
 . . . calm?"
	Mulder shrugged, plainly embarrassed.  "I don't know.
If that was the case, it appears the joke is on him."  He smiled dryly,
the look failing to convey humor.  "Maybe it wasn't any particular 
facet of our personalities that drew Selene to us.  Perhaps instead 
it's our relationship as a whole that attracted her.  Maybe she 
thought that the trust we share would be enough for her and 
Jack to discover a little of it between themselves."
	She looked at him for a beat, her eyes narrowed in 
consideration.  
	"It's flattering if you think about it, Scully," he quipped
at last.
	That coaxed a small smile out of her.  "So what do we do 
now?"
	Mulder's expression hardened into resolve.  "We get out 
of here.  Today.  I refuse to spend another night under this roof."

************************************************

	Scully felt flooded by a rush of profound affection as 
she watched Mulder laying sprawled on his back on their bed.  
Breathing slowly and deeply.  Eyes shut.  Lips parted.  He rested, 
cheek turned on the pillow so that his hair fell in messy ripples 
across his forehead, softening his features.  She smiled at the 
sight.  Even though he hadn't admitted it, she knew with absolute 
certainty that her partner hadn't so much as closed his eyes the 
night before.  Add to that the manner in which their slumber had 
been interrupted by her nocturnal ramblings two nights previously, 
and the man before her was owed several hours of shut-eye.  
	Thus, treading lightly across the room's hardwood floor, 
she made as little noise as possible as she silently packed her 
belongings in preparation for leaving La Lune Argentine.  She 
and Mulder had only one more night planned in New Orleans.  
And it now appeared that they would be spending it at a Holiday 
Inn not far from the airport.  
	Mulder had apologized, saying that it was the best he 
could do under the circumstances.  She didn't mind the step 
down in accommodations.  Not at all.  Lord knew that they had 
stayed at worse.  What she did regret, however, was the way 
in which their time together in the Big Easy had gone from 
'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous' to 'Tales From the Crypt'.  
	Lips curving ruefully at the thought, she stopped and 
fingered the delicate silver chain around her neck.  Reaching 
down, she cupped the crescent moon dangling from the chain in 
her hand, lifting it so she could study it more carefully.  You were 
supposed to be a memento of this trip, she silently told the tiny 
woman clinging to the delicate little slip of a moon.  A souvenir
of a special time, a joyous time.  You were meant to be a reminder 
whose significance only Mulder and I would fully understand.  
Brow furrowed, she closed her hand around the pendant, feeling 
it press, edges sharp, against her palm.  Why is it that at this 
moment that you remind me more of those charms we saw at 
The Bottom of the Cup, she mused grimly.  The ones that can 
be used to conjure up all manner of mischief.
	Shaking her head, she let the necklace drop once more.  
You don't believe in that stuff, Dana, she wordlessly chided 
herself.  Remember?  And yet, she was finding it increasingly 
difficult these days to keep from buying into voodoo, ghosts 
and rest of it.  After all, she had seen things, experienced things 
firsthand for which she had no other logical explanation.  Even 
her skepticism only stretched so far.
	Sighing, she began to fold the pile of clothes she had 
quietly pulled from the dresser drawer.  
	Damn it.  
	She had no intention of feeling sorry for herself.  Only it 
was just that she couldn't help but be disappointed over the turn 
events had taken.  And angry.  Mostly angry.  She hated that 
they were being forced out of La Lune Argentine.  Fleeing for 
their lives like islanders trying to outrun a hurricane. 
	Not exactly the way she had thought she'd be ending her 
much needed vacation.
	Vacation.
	Ha.
	Hell, she'd need to take a couple additional days when 
they got back just to let some of her bruises subside. 
	Grimacing as she considered that unhappy prospect, 
Scully wandered into the bathroom for a moment and flicked on 
the lights.  Yeah.  No doubt about it.  Her face was bound to get 
noticed.  And not in a good way either.  Hmm.  She thought 
perhaps that the wounds at her temple and lip would probably be 
the first to fade and the easiest to explain.  Well, maybe 'easiest' 
was overly optimistic, she allowed with a glum smile as she studied 
her reflection in the mirror.  But, at least she should be able to 
come up with a halfway decent story as to how she had gotten 
them.  Car accident.  Mugging.  Sheer clumsiness.
	But the marks on her throat were a different matter.
	Because even to the untrained eye they looked exactly 
like what they were.
	The telltale imprints of fingers.
	And just how was she supposed to come up with a 
reasonable justification as to how they had gotten there?
	Mulling over that little quandary, she shook a couple of
Advil free from the bottle on the sink and swallowed them with 
a swig of water.  Her headache still thudded as relentlessly as a
metronome.  But, it was manageable.  Not blinding.  The pills 
seemed to help.  She wished that they would do something for 
her ribs as well.  However, that apparently was asking too much.  
Her mid-section remained tender and stiff.  Breathing likewise 
proved tricky.  She had to be careful not to pull in too much air 
too quickly.  Any type of sudden exertion and the area just below 
her lungs burned with the sting of a whiplash.  A sharp, sudden 
sort of pain would assail her with a force that instantly sapped 
her strength.  It was the kind of hurt that made her want to curl up 
in a little ball somewhere soft and warm and just wait out the storm. 
	Lord, she hated this.
	Stubbornly ignoring the ache that was her body, she 
turned off the lights, and walked slowly into their chamber once 
more, stifling a yawn as she did so.
	Man, that bed looked inviting.
	She didn't really know why, but she was feeling sort of 
sleepy all of a sudden.
	At that moment, she would have liked nothing more 
than to crawl up beside Mulder, nestle into his arms, and catch
forty winks.
	Yet, she had promised him that she wouldn't nod off.
	In the end, it had been the only way to get him to agree 
to take a nap himself.
	"I'm not tired, Scully," he had insisted even as he had 
been literally swaying on his feet before her when their discussion 
of Bill's book had finally come to an end.  Glowering down at her 
from where they stood facing each other at the room's center, 
his eyes had been shadowed with fatigue, his jaw dark with 
stubble.  "Let's just get our things together and get out of here 
while the getting is good."
	But, she had resolutely shaken her head, and taking his 
hand in hers had drawn him instead to the side of the bed.  "Like 
hell you're not, Mulder," she had told him softly.  "Just lay down 
for a little while.  You're beat.  I had a chance to sleep.  You didn't.  
So, why don't you catch some z's, and I'll get started on the 
packing."
	However, despite her calmly spoken words and his 
obvious exhaustion, he hadn't acquiesced immediately.  "Scully, 
this room isn't safe."
	She had touched his cheek, stroked it gently, feeling 
the faint rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips as she did
so.  "I promise to be on the lookout, okay?  If anything starts 
going weird, I'll get out of here.  But I honestly don't think we 
have to worry.  Not yet."
	He had smiled quizzically at that.  "Why not?"
	She had shrugged, surprised herself that she was 
setting forth such reasonable arguments regarding such a 
totally unreasonable subject.  "Haven't you noticed that 
nothing has ever happened to us during the daytime hours?"
	"What do you mean?"
	"Think about it," she had instructed, her voice low.  
"Last night, my sleepwalking, that little blur of energy I told 
you about seeing in the mirror--even the reports visitors have 
made of hearing Selene walking the halls--all of those things 
have occurred from dusk on." 
	His tired eyes had narrowed in thought.  "So, you're 
saying that you think that somehow Selene's 'reach' into this 
world is more powerful at night?"
	She had smiled sheepishly.  "Sounds crazy, I know."
	But he had shaken his head.  "No.  No, not really.  It 
makes sense.  After all, the human mind is more vulnerable the 
closer it is to total relaxation, to sleep.  And darkness encourages 
that state of mind.  We equate night with sleep.  It makes us more 
susceptible to things.  Things we wouldn't normally be open to 
in the bright light of day."
	"Like ghosts?" she had inquired dryly.
	Mulder had merely lifted his brows.
	"Get some rest," she had told him, pushing him lightly 
down on to the mattress.  "It'll be all right.  I'm sure of it."
	He had looked up at her as he had kicked off his shoes, 
still not entirely convinced.  "I don't know, Scully.  Seems like 
you should be the one getting some rest, not me."
	"Why, Mulder?" she had teased as she had stood 
between his legs, her hands smoothing back his hair from his 
brow.  "Did you pick up a new extra strength variety of No-Doze 
when you were out getting our breakfast?"
	"Scully--"
	"You're tired.  I'm not.  End of story," she had said firmly.
"Now go to sleep.  I can't argue with you anymore.  All this talk
is killing my throat."
	That had shut him up.
	It hadn't exactly been fighting fair.  But, she had figured
that in this case the end had fully justified the means.
	"Just don't let me sleep past four, Scully," he had told 
her as he had laid down, his hand tight around her wrist, his eyes 
already struggling to remain open.  "I want to be out of here 
before sunset."
	"I promise."
	"And just leave the packing.  I'll do it when I get up."
	She had nodded, but had no intention of following 
through with that little directive.  After all, it wasn't as if she had 
never packed a suitcase before.  Hell, with the amount of time 
they spent on the road, she had the whole procedure down to a 
science.
	Which was why at merely 2:00 in the afternoon, she had 
already finished up with her chore.	Great.  Time to get a look for 
herself at Bill's book, she thought with a small smile.  Grabbing 
the narrow volume, she crossed to the wing chair on the far side 
of the room, and settled in.
	Opening the book at its beginning, she hesitated for a 
moment before flipping to the text itself, and instead stared 
gravely down at the small picture of Selene Broussard.  The 
photograph only captured a portion of the portrait.  Its focus 
was from the chest up.  Selene was dressed in a ball gown.  
Without any jewelry or adornments.  Almost as if the painter 
had recognized that frills of any sort would only detract from 
his subject's own inherent beauty.  As the picture was in black 
and white, Scully couldn't be certain of the dress' color, but she 
judged it to be dark.  A rich blue perhaps.  Or maybe a deep 
purple.  The gown's neckline was plunging, its bodice without 
sleeves; thus, leaving a good deal of milky white skin exposed.  
Her hair was upswept as well, baring her throat, emphasizing its 
elegant line.  Her neck appeared ridiculously slender to Scully's 
eyes.  Swan-like.  Vulnerable.  An expanse of muscle and skin 
and bone that looked as if it could so easily be crushed.  
	Which, of course, had in fact proven to be the case.
	I'm sorry, Selene, she silently told the woman with the
extraordinary eyes.  I'm sorry that I can't help you.  But, helping
you would put him at risk.
	Her eyes stole once more to Mulder's slumbering form.
His face was turned away from her at this angle, and she focused
instead on the soothing gentle rise and fall of his chest, the
sight of his hand laying, fingers relaxed, on the sheet covering 
his middle.
	Scully let her gaze linger for a time. Then, without cause,
she felt her eyes well even as her lips curved in a tender smile.
	She loved this man.  Loved him beyond all sense.  
Beyond the reason with which she governed all other aspects 
of her life.
	And despite the odd sympathy she felt for the soul of
a woman she had never met and yet knew intimately, she
recognized that she had no choice but to walk away from Selene's 
plight.
	Because nothing and no one was worth taking a chance
on Mulder's life.
	Not a single thing, Scully acknowledged with the calm 
acceptance of one who had long ago come to terms with certain 
truths.  
	Not even her own survival.
************************************************
	"I'm really sorry you and Dana have to take off early."
	Mulder had to remind himself to stop from cringing.  
For a man who hated lying, it sure as hell felt as if he had been 
doing an awful lot of it lately.  Most particularly to Bill.  But, it 
was certainly simpler for him to tell their host that Scully and he 
had been unexpectedly called back to D.C. than it was for him to 
say that they were taking off due to their run-in with La Lune 
Argentine's resident ghost.  
	A part of him wondered if perhaps they weren't
behaving a tad irresponsibly in failing to alert Bill and Laura to
the danger living under their roof.  And yet, Scully and he had
talked it over and, in the end, judged it to be safe.  After all, to 
the best of their knowledge, Selene had rested over a hundred 
years before reaching out to them.  The threat seemed to be 
specific to their personalities, their essences, and not a general 
menace.
	"Yeah.  Well, we're sorry too," he said evenly.  "But you
know how it is.  Plans change."
	Bill nodded.  "I understand.  Well, Laura is going to be
sorry she missed you.  Did you already call for a taxi?"
	"Yeah," Mulder confirmed shortly.  "It should be here
any minute."
	"Great.  Then, let me help you--"
	"No, that's okay," Mulder said with perhaps a touch
more vehemence than the situation warranted.  "Dana and I
travel light.  I can manage it."
	Bill seemed a bit confused by Mulder's insistence, 
but adjusted as best he could.  "All right.  If you're sure--"
	"Um, excuse me, Bill?" came a hesitant voice from 
the doorway of the inn's office.  "But there seems to be 
something wrong with the lights in my room.  I think I may have
blown a fuse."
	Bill looked past Mulder at the small elderly woman
framed in the room's entrance.
	"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper," he said quickly.  "I'll
be right there."
	Saved by the bell, Mulder thought with a jolt of
giddy humor.  Now he wouldn't have to come up with a plausible
excuse as to why he didn't need Bill's help.  He could have kissed 
the petite little gray-haired lady peering at him shyly.  Assuring 
his host one last time that he could indeed manage without any 
assistance, Mulder urged him to look to the needs of his other 
guests.  And with a firm handshake and warm wishes, bid Bill 
farewell.
	Phew.  That was a close one, Mulder thought as he 
watched Bill trail after Mrs. Cooper.  After all, what would he 
have said to the man if he had insisted on coming upstairs.
	<Well, you see, Bill--I really wish you wouldn't.  Dana's 
face and neck are a mess.  I beat up on her last night.  Damn near 
killed her.  And I'd rather you didn't see that.  It's a long story, 
and I don't want to get into it just now.  Hope you don't mind.>
	No.  The fewer people who got a look at her condition, 
the better.
	Mentally chastising himself for his cowardice, Mulder 
peered out the entry hall window as he crossed to head upstairs.
Terrific.  It appeared that their recent run of good luck was 
holding.  The sky was overcast.  A light rain had begun to fall.  
Great.  Bad weather meant even worse visibility.  Maybe Scully 
and he really could make it out of La Lune Argentine with no one 
the wiser.  Keeping that thought in mind, he bounded up the stairs
with renewed enthusiasm.
	"You about ready?" he asked as he briskly entered
their room once more, recognizing as he did so that the nearer 
he and Scully got to leaving the inn, the better he felt.
	Then, he took one look at his partner, and his spirits
plummeted.
	"Scully?"
	She sat, hunched as if for warmth in the wing chair in
the corner of the room, the small afghan that had been draped 
over the chair's back laying across her lap.  Her head was tilted
back at an awkward angle and her eyes were closed. 
	Upon hearing his voice, she stirred, and slowly raised
her lashes.
	"Hmm?" she murmured, her voice husky and low, her
eyelids appearing unutterably heavy.
	He crossed to kneel before her, his heart thumping a
mile a minute as a dozen alarming reasons for her lethargy
flashed through his mind one after another like one of those 
hyper-kinetic videos on MTV.  "Are you okay?"
	She smiled sleepily.  "Yeah.  I'm just a little more tired 
than I thought."
	He brushed the back of his fingertips along the curve 
of her cheek.  She felt cool.  Not like she was running a fever or 
anything.  But she looked awfully pale to his worried eyes.  
"You sure?"
	She nodded and turned to press a kiss to his palm.
His concern lessened by a whisper.  "Mmm-hm.  Just sleepy.  I 
knew I should have crawled into bed beside you this afternoon."
	His brow darkened.  "And *I* knew that you should 
have been the one to take a nap in the first place."
	She frowned at him, the mock ferocity of the look ruined 
by the softness in her eyes.  "Don't get started, Mulder."
	He sighed.  "I'm not.  I'm not.  Come on.  Let's get out
of here."
	Extending his hands, he pulled her gently up from the 
chair.  She swayed ever so slightly, yet remained standing.  
Mulder gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed and intent, ready 
to steady her if need be.  Yet in the end, she didn't require his 
assistance.  Her balance stabilized.  And, with a small embarrassed 
smile she pushed a hand through her hair, her brow creased in 
consternation.
	"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said quietly,
stretching gingerly to relieve some of the kinks she had picked up 
slumbering in the chair.  "I was fine all afternoon."
	"Call me crazy--but I think I know what the problem is," 
Mulder grumbled, as he leaned down and grabbed his suitcase and 
her duffel.  "I mean, it's not exactly as if you're one hundred percent, 
Scully."
	"But, I don't feel that bad," she argued in a small rough 
voice.  Then, almost as if to prove her point, she turned and 
walked to where her suitcase stood alongside the bureau, and 
grabbed hold of its handle.  Muttering an obscenity under his 
breath, Mulder dropped the luggage he had just picked up, and 
crossing swiftly to her side, stopped her before the bag in her 
hand left the ground.
	"Will you just please . . . =please= . . let me get that?" he 
implored harshly, doing his damnedest to rein in the impulse to yell.  
He knew what she was doing.  Understood that she was trying to 
go about as if everything was as it should be.  As if she were 
absolutely fine, and there was no need in the world for him to hover.  
Like he felt he ought.  What he would like to know, however, was 
how the *hell* Scully had thought she was going to drag that 
suitcase to the front door with the way her ribs were paining her.  
But somehow it didn't seem like the appropriate time to bring up 
little things like that.  His emotions were entirely too close to the 
surface.  And the last thing he wanted to do was take out his 
frustrations on her.  "Just let me get these downstairs, okay?  
And then I'll come up for the rest of it.  And you."
	She stood with her arms crossed against her chest, 
considering him.  She had exchanged the shorts she had worn 
earlier in the day for jeans, he noted.  Probably not a bad idea what 
with the way the temperature had dropped with the rain.  But she 
still wore his shirt.  Sleeves folded neatly to just below the elbow, 
shirt tails tied at the waist.  Primitive though he had to admit it 
was, Mulder found that he liked the idea of her wearing his clothes.  
Liked the way that her doing so in some way marked her as his.
Part of his team, so to speak.  His clan.  
	Finally, the corner of her mouth raised, and he gratefully 
recognized that she too preferred not to argue.  "Lumping me in 
with the luggage now, are we, Mulder?"
	His lips quirked in an answering smile.  "How can you 
say that, Scully?  You know I'd never consider you a bag."
	She dropped her head, her smile widening.
	"Anyone ever tell you what a pain in the ass you are,
Mulder?" she asked him dryly, her eyes sparkling up at him
through her lashes.
	"Sure," he replied blithely, his hand reaching out to 
finger the soft fringe of hair fluttering around her face.  "You.
About once a week or so."
	She chuckled.  "Go downstairs.  The taxi is probably
here by now."
	He nodded.  "Okay.  Let me make sure the coast is
clear before you come down, all right?  It'll be easier all the
way 'round."
	"Fine."
	Yes, Mulder thought as he turned towards the door.
Everything would indeed be fine.
	The minute La Lune Argentine was just a blur in the
taxi's rear view mirror.
**********************************************
	For awhile, Mulder had felt quite certain that rather than 
drive them to their new lodgings, Sam, their very polite, very 
large cab driver was instead going to take he and Scully to the 
nearest police station.  Standing well over six feet tall and tipping 
the scales at a minimum of two-twenty, the imposing looking
ebony-skinned man who was temporarily their chauffeur had 
noted the marks on Scully's face and neck the moment she had 
exited the inn.
	And had come to the same disturbing conclusion 
Mulder knew he would have had he been in the same position.
	They had actually made it to the taxi without a problem.  
La Lune Argentine's first floor had been almost eerily empty when 
Scully had made her way haltingly down the inn's imposing flight 
of stairs.  However, once the two of them were settled comfortably 
in the cab's back seat, Mulder couldn't help but notice how 
frequently Sam's eyes drifted to his rear view mirror to focus with 
concern on Scully.  Great, Mulder had thought dryly.  We would get 
a driver who not only looked as if he played offensive lineman for 
the Saints, but had a protective streak when it came to petite redheads.  
	Absolutely terrific.
	Things only got worse when he told the massive cabbie
where they were headed.
	"Holiday Inn?" Sam had inquired in surprise, his voice
little more than a rumble.  "Isn't =this= place a motel?"
	Mulder tried not to grimace.  "Yeah.  It's just that we . . .
um, wanted to be closer to the airport."
	Okay.  He knew that was lame.  But did the guy in the
front seat have to glare at him quite so threateningly?
	"We've got an early flight tomorrow," Scully said softly,
speaking for the first time since entering the cab.  "And we figured
it would be easier to already be out that way rather than having to 
deal with rush hour traffic in the morning."
	Sam met her eyes in the mirror.  Holding her gaze for a 
moment, he searched her expression as if looking for any signs of 
hurt or distress.  Scully only smiled at him gently.  Seemingly 
satisfied at last, he nodded, and started the ignition.
	"Thanks," Mulder whispered into her hair as the taxi 
pulled away from the curb.
	"What for?" she inquired, her voice at the same volume.
	"Your new protector up there was getting ready to kick 
my ass," he murmured quietly, his tone wry with humor.  "If for 
no other reason than my taking you away from La Lune Argentine 
and making you spend the night at an airport Holiday Inn."
	She chuckled.  "Aw, you didn't need me, Mulder.  You 
coulda taken him."
	"You really *do* need a nap," he murmured tenderly
as he stretched his arm across the back of the seat, and tucked
her slender frame up alongside his own.  She nestled her cheek 
in the crook of his shoulder, and sighing, refrained from answering 
his quip.
	Mulder didn't particularly feel like talking much himself.
Instead, he was content simply to be free of the inn and its phantom
tenants.  Pulling Scully's small soft weight more firmly against him,
he sat back and watched the city go by as the taxi made its way 
through the rainy Sunday night.  Headlights shone in through the 
car's windows, diffused by the steadily falling rain so that they 
glowed, pinwheeling with bits of color embedded, dazzling the eye.
	Traffic wasn't bad.  And the soft wet sounds of the cab's
wheels rolling over pavement proved lulling, so the trip out to the
airport ended up being not nearly as long as Mulder had thought
it would be.  In no time at all it seemed, they were pulling up in the 
Holiday Inn's lot.
	"Would you mind waiting here until I go in and register?"
Mulder asked Sam politely.  "What with the weather and all, I'd
rather she didn't walk any more than she had to."
	While he knew he was playing upon their driver's
inherent chivalry, Mulder had made the request in earnest.  
Scully had fallen asleep again on the drive out.  And although 
she was awake once more, blinking up at him in a decidedly 
muzzy fashion, he really didn't want her to tax her strength 
unnecessarily.
	Not surprisingly, Sam agreed.
	Pressing a quick kiss to Scully's hair, Mulder dashed 
through the rain and into the motel's lobby.  Within minutes, 
they were registered and driven around to their first floor room 
on the far end of the building.  Mulder gave Sam an outrageous 
tip for his trouble.  The big man took the money, and left.  But not
before telling Mulder, "You take care of her now."
	"I will," Mulder assured him quietly.  And with that,
he closed and locked the door behind him.
	"You want something to eat?" Mulder asked as Scully 
and he got themselves settled into their new room.  Ambiance-
wise the place couldn't compare to the accommodations they had 
so recently left.  Still, it was clean and quiet.  And it had a 
television.  Maybe they could just sack out on the bed and 
watch the boob tube, Mulder thought with a degree of mild 
anticipation.  "I could go pick something up."
	Scully stopped rummaging through her suitcase to 
consider the question.  His heart went out to her.  She looked 
utterly exhausted.  Her lashes were drooping.  Her hair was rumpled
and damp.  Even the simple act of standing seemed to be more than 
she could presently manage, as she sat heavily beside her open 
piece of luggage on the bed.  He knew she was ready to hit the hay.  
And yet, other than nibbling on some of the leftovers from their 
picnic the night before, he didn't think that she had eaten anything 
besides the ice cream he had brought her that morning.  He hoped 
she would agree to at least a light meal before turning in.
	"Soup would be good," she said with a small weary smile.  
"Do you think it's on the menu at the coffee shop?"
	"I'll go check," he offered immediately.  "You want anything 
else?"
	"Surprise me," she told him lightly as she zippered up her 
bag once more, and pressed a tad unsteadily to her feet.
	"It's my mission in life," he said dryly before giving her a
soft kiss on the cheek and heading for the door.  "Be right back."
	The rain had begun to let up a bit, and although a light
mist continued to fall, Mulder didn't become too overly soaked
as he made his way to and from the brightly lit motel coffee shop.
The place wasn't terribly busy on a Sunday night, and true to his
word, he wasn't gone any more than fifteen minutes before he 
returned to their room with their meal.
	"Hey Scully, how do you feel about chicken and rice?"
he queried as he shouldered open the door.  "It was all they had--"
	Whatever else he had thought to say died on his lips.
	"Oh my God . . . ."
	Scully lay face down on the floor near the foot of the bed,
her one hand stretched out in the direction of the door as if she
were reaching for it.  For him.
	"Scully?"
	He got no reply.
	The bags containing their dinner were deposited without
conscious thought on the table near the door.  Trembling, Mulder
crossed to her side, and supporting her head, rolled her gently
over onto her back.  Pressing an unsteady hand to her throat, he
searched for a pulse.
	And was rewarded.
	Thank you.  Oh God, thank you, he silently chanted as
he ran his hands lightly over her, trying to rouse her.  
	And having no success.
	"Scully?' he tried once more, bending over her, his
heart racing with a rhythm that pounded in his temples.  One hand 
combed softly through her hair, the other stroked tenderly along 
her cool pale cheek.  "Come on, Dana . . . please, don't do this . . ."
	Her heartbeat seemed strong, her breathing unimpeded.
And yet, she remained unconscious.  What had happened?  Had
she fainted?  Why?  Surely not just because she was tired.  After 
all, she had slept the night before.  No.  It had to be her injuries.  
Damn it!  He had known he should have gotten her to a hospital.  
	Well, he was sure as hell going to remedy that little
error in judgment this minute.
	Surging to his feet, he headed towards the phone beside
the bed.
	Only to be stopped by a faint rustle of sound.
	"Dana?" he whispered as he dropped to his knees beside
her once more, his hand clutching at hers almost convulsively.
	Her eyelids were fluttering, her lips moving.  And yet
no sound issued forth.  Finally, after what felt like the better part
of eternity, she opened her eyes, their blue depths cloudy and
confused.
	"Mulder?" she whispered.
	"Yeah," he confirmed shortly, his voice rough and
low.  "It's all right.  I'm getting you to a hospital."
	With that, her eyes rolled horrifying back in her head,
causing Mulder's stomach to clench and his skin to go cold.
	Then Scully looked at him once more.
	And all at once, he understood what real fear was.
	Because the woman he loved looked up at him with
eyes that were not hers and spoke to him calmly in a voice that 
rang with the hollow aching echo of the grave.
	"Take her back."
	And Mulder knew without a doubt that it wasn't Dana
Scully who was speaking.
	But the one and only Selene Broussard.
	Mulder carefully pulled the small auburn-haired woman 
on the floor into his arms, and in a voice roughened by fear and 
grief, asked the question whose answer he most dreaded.
	"Is that you, Selene?"
	At first, the woman who should have been Dana Scully
said nothing.  Instead, she only regarded him solemnly, her head
cushioned by his arm, her eyes unblinking, her pupils enormous.  
Then, at last she spoke.  The words soft and vaguely slurred.
	"Take her back."
	With that, her eyes slid slowly shut again, as if she were 
gradually, irrevocably, slipping into unconsciousness.  Yet, as 
they did so, she twisted slightly in his embrace.  Stirred.  Her head 
turned restlessly from side to side.  Her brow wrinkled.  All at once, 
her lashes fluttered open once more.  
	And to his profound relief, Mulder saw Scully gazing 
up at him in bewilderment.
	"Mul--?"
	But, before he could respond, before she could even
finish saying his name, Scully's eyes rolled upwards as before.
Her body tensed, then shook.  Her back arched.  Her small hands 
fisted tightly as if she were getting ready to step into the ring.
Mulder could only continue to hold her, watching her silent 
struggle with a mind numbing sense of foreboding, unsure 
what else to do.  Fearful that at any moment she might launch 
into some sort of seizure, the tremors rocking her slight form 
suggesting just such a cataclysm.
	Finally, her face contorted into a grimace.  Perhaps of
pain.  Or maybe of anger.  Her throat was working furiously, 
her muscles clenching and rolling beneath the bruises.  And
yet, despite her efforts, Mulder couldn't decide whether Scully 
was trying to produce sound or merely attempting to swallow.
	Ultimately the debate was settled.
	"=NO!=" ripped from her lips, its tone awful and jagged.
	And Mulder realized that the voice issuing forth wasn't
Dana Scully's.
	But, it wasn't that of Selene Broussard either.
	Rather it was a mingling of the two.
	As each resisted the influence of the other while locked 
in a fierce battle whose loser had only oblivion to look forward to.
	Finally, her slender frame pulled woefully tight, Scully's 
eyes shut one last time.
	Then, with a harsh rattle of a sigh, she went limp and 
lifeless in his arms.
	And Mulder knew with chilling certainty just which
female had emerged victorious from the struggle waged in his
embrace.
	Still, he whispered to the woman he loved, clutching 
her fast to his chest, rocking her gently as he hid his face in 
her hair.  "Scully?  Dana, come on . . . please. . ."
	Nothing.
	Oh God.  Oh sweet Lord in heaven.  
	For the span of several minutes, he sat paralyzed.  
Utterly and completely unable to move from his awkward 
crouch on the nice neutral beige carpeting of his motel room 
floor.
	Selene had her, he thought with a mixture of horror and
amazement.  She had latched on to Scully like a pit bull with a steak,
and she wasn't going to let go until he caved in and took the
woman in her thrall back to La Maison de la Lune Argentine.
	Where he and his partner would once again be coerced
into taking part in a dangerous communion with the dead.
	Striving with everything he had to stave off panic, Mulder 
pushed himself up clumsily from the floor, taking care to cradle
the woman in his arms with utmost care.  With legs the consistency
of Play-Doh, he found his way to the room's queen-sized bed and 
gently laid Scully atop it, her head upon the pillow.
	Selene wouldn't really hurt her, would she, he pondered
as he leaned over Scully's delicate frame, straightening her arms 
and legs, and tenderly pushing a few errant tendrils of auburn hair 
from her cool brow.  After all, Selene needed Scully, didn't she?  
Needed her assistance, her strength, if she hoped to successfully 
reach Jack.  So, she wouldn't do anything that would in anyway 
permanently harm her.
	Right?
	Then what was this, he despaired as he sank down 
beside her on the bed, even with her hip.  This state.  This deep
and ominous slumber.  He checked her pulse again.  Watched her
chest as it rhythmically rose and fell.  Yet, those two indicators 
gave him no real clue as to her health.  They seemed to suggest 
that nothing was wrong.  That, in fact, everything was completely 
normal.  She appeared to rest easy; her lips open just a whisper, 
her body relaxed, her limbs heavy.  If he had returned to their room 
to find her like this, on the bed, her eyes closed, he wouldn't have 
given her condition another moment's thought.  He would have 
believed her asleep.  That's all.
	But, he hadn't come back to find her resting peacefully.
She had been sprawled on the floor, crumpled there like a flower
wilted by the summer heat.  Her repose wasn't natural.  Far from
it.  Instead, her body was being compelled to act as a prison.  
Caging her spirit, her intellect, her soul.  Separating her from the 
world.
	Keeping her from him.
	And he hadn't any idea at all how to help her break 
free.
	Mulder's hand strayed once more to Scully's face.  
Despite her lack of response, he had an almost desperate urge 
to touch her.  A compulsive, besetting sort of need.  He found 
immeasurable comfort in the sensation of her skin's soft 
suppleness beneath his fingertips.  Silly though it undoubtedly
was, it seemed that if he could at least share this scant physical 
contact with her, then she wasn't really gone.  Wasn't actually 
being held for ransom by a selfishly willful ghost.
	Gently, he ran his knuckles over the ivory curve of her 
cheek, indulging his desire.  She felt so cold.  No, not cold exactly.  
Her body temperature just seemed a degree or two cooler than it 
should have been.  Almost as if in some inexplicable manner her 
life force was being suppressed.  Tamped down.  Controlled.
	God damn you, Selene.
	Standing a bit unsteadily, he shifted Scully just enough 
to pull the bedclothes free from beneath her.  Well, he didn't care
what the mastermind of this little catastrophe demanded.  They
weren't going anywhere tonight.  Despite the awful worry he felt, 
Mulder recognized that Scully didn't appear to be in any immediate 
danger.  Not for that night anyway.  And there was no way he was 
going to just blindly run back to La Lune Argentine, to Selene's 
very lair, without considering every other option first.  After all, 
Scully had been the one to point out that the dead courtesan's 
"power", so to speak, seemed to manifest most strongly at night.  
Perhaps once the sun rose, her hold on Scully would lessen.  
Maybe even disappear.
	Yet what would they do the following night?
	Shaking his head with a kind of weary wretchedness,
he ran his hand mindlessly through his hair, and reached over 
to gently remove Scully's shoes.
	First things first, Mulder, he mentally chided himself.
Get the two of you through one night of hell on earth before 
you begin trying to plan for a lifetime of it.  If Selene wanted
Scully to sleep, then sleep she would.  She needed to anyway.
But he was going to make damn sure that in doing so, she was 
as comfortable as possible.
	To that end, he began by unknotting the shirt tails at 
her waist.  Scully hadn't pulled any night wear from her bag 
when she had searched through it earlier.  And he simply didn't
have the heart to go through her things on his own.  So, he 
figured that she could just as easily sleep in his shirt.  After all,
it was big enough and soft enough to serve as pajamas.  But, 
she would want to lose the jeans.  They were too stiff, too 
confining to leave on overnight.  Eyes shadowed with concern,
he unfastened her pants and tugged them gently down her 
slim hips, all the while achingly aware that his getting Scully
ready for bed in this manner reminded him of nothing so much
as undressing a life-sized doll.
	He left her socks on, reasoning that with the room's
air conditioning and her own lack of body heat she might
need the extra bit of warmth on her extremities.  He started
to adjust her upon the mattress in preparation for pulling the 
covers up over her, when his hand landed quite by accident 
on her bra strap.
	Should he just leave that on, he mused.  She probably
wouldn't be in any great discomfort were she to sleep in her
brassiere.  And yet, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought
with a touch of wry humor.  He had wanted to settle her as best
he could for the night.  So, he might as well do it up right.
	Brow creased with a combination of worry and
chagrin, his hands moved to the buttons running up the front
of the pin-striped shirt.  Swiftly and smoothly, he undid them,
and spread open the garment.
	"Oh Jesus, Scully," he murmured harshly all at once, 
his hands suddenly unable to touch her for their trembling.
	This had been what she hadn't wanted him to see.
Just below her left breast, directly over her rib cage was an ugly 
looking gouge approximately an inch long.  The cut itself wasn't
all that bad.  It had bled, undoubtedly.  But, Mulder could tell 
that thankfully the skin hadn't been deeply sliced through.
	The bruise around the gash was another matter.
	It radiated from the shallow puncture, perhaps a half
an inch in all directions.  Not pink in color.  Not red.  Not blue.
	But black.  Pure ebony.  Like a blot of ink upon the 
porcelain perfection of her torso.
	And for some unfathomable reason this, out of all
she had suffered, made Mulder most want to weep.  He didn't 
know whether the effect was cumulative.  Whether the sight 
of this last angry wound was finally the straw that broke the 
camel's back.  He suspected that might be part of it.  But more 
likely, he thought, it was instead the certainty that this had 
been something that Scully had felt she had to keep from him.  
Had believed she needed to bear on her own.  Such a decision 
on her part indicated that the pain she labored under was severe.  
	And yet again, he was the one responsible for it.
	Heart heavy, he quickly yet gently stripped her of her
bra, then clothed her once more in the shirt she had borrowed 
from him, and pulled the covers up to just below her chin.
	Pushing up from the bed, he walked a bit shakily over
to the bags of food he had brought back to the room ages ago.  
The rich, slightly oily smell of Scully's soup threatened to upend 
his stomach.  His now cold, hard hamburger promised no better.  
Christ.  No way could he eat.  Instead he dug through the bag's 
contents and found the iced tea he had purchased for himself.  
It had sat there forgotten for so long that the ice in the cup had 
melted, watering down the drink.
	He didn't care.  He was beyond tasting anything right
then, anyway.  All five of his senses were focused on one thing
and one thing only.  The small figure of the woman who rested
silently on the bed behind him.  As for the rest of existence, he 
was operating on auto-pilot.  
	Trudging slowly back to the edge of the bed, he pulled 
over a chair and dropped heavily into it, his beverage in his hand.  
Carefully, he stretched out his legs and rested his feet alongside 
Scully's calves.  She wasn't moving, aside from the deep regular 
rhythm of her chest.  Not at all.  Surely that would wind up being 
uncomfortable, wouldn't it?  To spend an entire night in one 
position.
	Don't think about it, Mulder, he instructed himself coldly.
Don't let yourself get distracted by the details.  If need be, you'll
move her.  That's all.  That sort of problem is simple, easily taken 
care of.  So stop dwelling on the minutiae of the situation and focus 
your energies instead on how the hell you're going to get out of 
this.  Figure out a way to wake Scully up before she has to rely 
on IVs and saline in order to keep her body fed and hydrated.
	Sighing, he tilted back his weary head and closing his
eyes, fiercely pinched the bridge of his nose.  Oh God, please,
he silently implored a deity in which he wasn't even certain he 
believed.  I can't do this, all right?  I just don't think I can bear 
another bedside vigil.
	And the fear that went along with it.
	The helplessness.
	It was going to be a long night.
*************************************************
	Mulder waited until nearly 10:00 the following morning
before he bowed to inevitable.  At that point, Scully had been
unconscious for well over twelve hours.  And despite the fact
that Monday morning had long since dawned bright and cheerful,
she had never once stirred after he had laid her so carefully upon
the motel room bed.
	He paced, consumed, despite his own lack of rest, by a
ferocious sort of nervous energy.  There just wasn't any way out
of their predicament that he could see.  No way to rouse Scully
that didn't involve a return trip to the inn.  
	Oh, he had spent one of the most endless nights of his 
entire life considering the alternatives.   Weighing and discarding 
options with the speed and finesse with which Henri Antoine 
and Jacques LeFevre had undoubtedly once dealt hands of cards.
	He had, of course, hoped most fervently that simply 
waiting would do the trick.  That with the return of day, Scully
would also come back to him.  
	No dice.
	Then, he had thought to just leave New Orleans as 
scheduled.  To simply trundle her on to a 747 and let sheer 
mileage take care of the problem.  
	But what if that didn't work?  What if he got all the way
home only to discover that no change had occurred in her 
condition?  Would he then have to turn right around with a still 
unconscious Scully and head back to New Orleans?  And how 
the hell was he going to explain to the nice folks at United the 
reason why his traveling companion was comatose?
	No.  Too risky.
	Of course, the rational thing to do would be to take
Scully to a hospital.  To view her condition as a medical problem.
To look at the situation from a scientific standpoint.
	And yet, once he had gotten her into a hospital, and the 
good doctors had hooked her up to their machines and run their 
battery of tests, if they didn't find a medical explanation for her 
lack of consciousness, there was no way that he was going to be 
able to smuggle her back out again.  And there wasn't a doctor in 
the world who would agree to release a patient into the hands of a 
man, F.B.I. agent or no, who believed that taking her to an inn in 
the French Quarter might somehow cure her.
	Well, maybe *one* doctor might have considered his 
theory plausible.
	But she lie pale and still on an airport Holiday Inn bed.
	No.  Although he had no solid proof to back up his 
hypothesis, Mulder felt certain that conventional medicine would
be unable to help Scully.  That taking her to a hospital would only
condemn her to spend the rest of her assuredly shortened life
chained to life support.
	That left exorcism.
	God, he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry when 
offering up the banishing of demons as a possible treatment.
While on the one hand, images of Linda Blair and pea soup 
danced through his head, on the other hand, he had been present 
at an actual rite performed by the Calusari.  Saw the toll it took
on the victim.  Could he subject Scully to that?  Would it be 
successful?  Could he even find anyone who would take Scully's
plight seriously?  He somehow doubted that reputable exorcists
advertised like exterminators.
	No.  No matter how he looked at it, how many different
angles he examined, it always seemed to come around to the
inn once more.
	He was going to have to take her back.
	Having finally come to a decision, he looked down at
his soundly slumbering partner.
	"Oh, Scully," he whispered as he bent down to take her
hand in his.  "I hope I'm doing the right thing."
	And giving her fingers a little squeeze, he reluctantly 
released her once more.
	He had some phone calls he needed to make.
************************************************
	A little over an hour later, Mulder was pulling up in 
front of La Lune Argentine.  Lady Luck seemed to be with him 
once more as he spied a parking place only a few car lengths 
away from the inn's front door.
	Man, he hoped renting this car wasn't a mistake.  He
had needed to give his credit card number in order to obtain it.
That meant that anyone who was seriously interested in his 
whereabouts could now track him.  He had sidestepped that
little problem the night before when he had found them a room
at the Holiday Inn.  When he had called for a reservation, the 
helpful night clerk had informed him that a variety of rooms
were available.  So, he had taken his chances and secured
accommodations simply by paying cash when they had arrived.
	Unfortunately, Mulder had known that the same sort 
of arrangement would be impossible to finagle with Hertz or one
of their competitors.  Aware of the danger, he had mulled over 
the problem for the longest time before finally pulling out the 
phone book to look up rental agencies.  He had considered 
simply calling for a cab.  But with Scully in the condition she was, 
he didn't judge that to be the wisest route to take.  Any cabbie 
was bound to inquire as to her state of health.  And he just didn't 
believe that a trumped up story involving a case of the flu or a 
headache was going to fool many of them for any length of time.  
Not after the undoubtedly wary driver got a look at her battered 
face.  And certainly not after hearing that their destination was an 
inn and not the emergency room of a local hospital.  The previous 
night's experience with Sam had made him sensitive to the potential 
hazards a simple cab ride posed.  So instead, he had contacted 
one of the car rental places that promised to deliver an automobile 
to the customer's door.  Within a half an hour, a navy blue four 
door had pulled up in the Holiday Inn's parking lot.
	In the interim, Mulder had called La Lune Argentine
and gotten Laura on the line.
	"Laura, I know this is going to sound nuts," he had
begun hesitantly.  "But is our old room available?"
	"I thought Bill said that you and Dana had flown
out last night," she had countered in surprise.
	Mulder had grimaced into the receiver.  "That had
been our plan, but Dana isn't feeling all that well, and we
decided to postpone our return instead.  We spent the night 
out by the airport.  But we'd both really prefer to stay at your 
place."
	Laura had hummed a bit uncertainly, and for a breathless
minute Mulder had wondered whether perhaps he had blown the 
whole thing by mentioning a supposed illness.  Yet, in the end, 
she had merely said, "Well, I guess that would be all right.  I don't 
have anyone scheduled for your room until Thursday.  Do you 
think you'll be ready to head home by then?"
	"Yes," he had flatly said.  "By Thursday we should be 
long gone."
	Please God.
	He glanced over into the back seat.  Scully rested on her
side, one hand curled beside her cheek, the lightweight cotton 
blanket he had pinched from the motel draped over her hips.
Despite the fact that they had done as Selene had instructed and
returned to the inn, he noted no change in her condition.  She 
slept silently.  Just as before.
	Lips thinning as he gravely regarded the small still figure
before him, Mulder quickly exited the car, locking the doors behind
him and strode to La Lune Argentine's entrance.  Taking a deep
breath, he rang the bell.  Laura answered.
	"Oh, Mr. Mulder," she said with a shy smile, her big
brown eyes glowing up at him in a kindly fashion, her waist length
mink brown hair pulled back in a long loose braid.  "I just finished
pulling together your room.  Where is Dana?"
	"She's in the car," he said, taking pains to meet her eyes,
even though his impulse was to do anything but.  "She,  . . . um . .
she fell asleep on the drive over.  I hate to wake her.  She had 
kind of a rough night.  Do you suppose you could hold the door 
for me while I go get her?"
	Laura's brow wrinkled in concern.  "Oh.  Of course."
	Okay, here comes the tricky part, Mulder mused ruefully,
as he turned and jogged back to the car.  Opening the rear door,
he carefully tugged Scully into a sitting position.  Wrapping the 
blanket around her, he lifted her into his arms, taking care to
shield the left side of her face against his shoulder in a manner 
that hid from view the worst of her injuries.  Pulling the soft
covering up so that only her nose peeked over the top, he kicked 
closed the car door and returned to La Lune Argentine.
	"What exactly is wrong with her?" Laura whispered
as she led Mulder smoothly up the inn's central staircase.
	"Migraine," he said just as quietly, looking down to 
confirm that all but the top of Scully's head remained securely 
enveloped by the cotton throw in which he had swaddled her.  
"She gets some doozies every once in awhile.  They really knock 
her out.  That's why I didn't want her on the plane last night.  
The change in pressure would have been murder on her."
	He mentally replayed his lie back in his head.
	Yes.  That story sounded plausible.
	Laura bought it.  Hook, line, and sinker.  Moving easily
before him as they turned and headed down the second floor
corridor, her long broomstick skirt swishing in time to her steps,
she only murmured, "Poor thing."
   	"Yeah," he agreed heartily as at long last, they stood 
outside the doorway of the room that had housed Scully and
him only two nights previous.  "But, she'll be all right.  She just 
needs some rest."
	Lie.  Lie.  Lie.
	All she really needs is to wake up.
	"Oh, don't worry," Laura assured him as she opened 
the room's door and stepped aside so Mulder could precede her
in.  "We're only at about half capacity until the weekend.
Nobody will disturb her."
	"Good," Mulder said softly as he lowered Scully
gently on to the familiar brass bed, taking care to keep her 
injuries covered.  "That's what I was hoping to hear.  Thanks 
again for letting us return on such short notice."
	"My pleasure," Laura said, smiling warmly.  "You
were absolutely right to bring her back here.  Now, if you need
anything else, you be sure to let me know."
	"I will," he promised as he followed after her to retrieve
the luggage, closing the door behind him to shield Scully from
any prying eyes.
	And yet he knew that the one thing he truly needed was
beyond Laura's scope.
	He needed Scully awake once more.
	More than he had ever needed anything in his life.
*************************************************
	However, an hour later, she still had not opened her
eyes.
	And he was becoming desperate.  
	She had been unconscious for over eighteen hours.  
How long could a body go without taking in liquids, he 
wondered, panic creeping into his thoughts like a slug.  Could 
this stasis that Selene had induced somehow take into account 
the physical demands of Scully's body?  Would such things as 
nourishment be without meaning in such a state?
	Pacing aimlessly as he had ever since returning to the
room with their suitcases, he took his fist and, with every last 
drop of frustration coursing through his body, pounded it into 
the back of needlepoint chair that stood in the corner beside the 
balcony door.  The dainty Queen Anne style piece of furniture 
clattered over the hardwood floor to bang against the wall in a
most satisfying fashion.  His knuckles throbbed as a result of 
his little outburst.  But, Mulder felt ever so slightly better.
	God.  He had been so fucking naive to believe that
merely walking out the inn's front door would be enough to stop
an entity like Selene.  True, according to everything he had 
read on the subject, ghosts tend to haunt locations not people.
But still, he should have known.  Should have realized that she
was stronger than that.  Even Scully had been surprised by his 
intended course of action.
	"You want us to go?" she had inquired as she had sat
upon the bed, her cup of coffee in her hand.
	"Yes," he had answered emphatically.  "The sooner
the better.  Why do you find that so odd?"
	She had hesitated.  "I don't know . . .  It's just that this--
Selene, the opportunity to investigate a real paranormal 
phenomenon--. . . is the sort of thing you live for--"
	"You are the sort of thing I live for, Scully," he had
interrupted quietly.  "And nothing and no one is going to put
you at risk.  Least of all me.  We're getting out of here.  Today."
	Great job, Mulder, he told himself silently.  Good call.
Trying to remember a time when he had ever felt so utterly
drained in both body and soul, he wandered out on to the
balcony and with unseeing eyes surveyed the courtyard.  The
day was cooler than it had been since they had arrived.  The 
rain the night before having apparently brought with it a drop in 
temperature.  Sighing, he braced his hands on the wrought iron 
railing, and bowed his head as if in prayer.
	They were running out of options.  Out of time itself.
If Selene had decided for some unknown reason not to release
Scully, he would have no choice.  He would have to go to
outside sources for help.  God, what a mess that would turn out 
to be.  He cringed just imagining all the questions that would 
be fired at him; not only regarding Scully's injuries and her 
current lack of consciousness, but also about what the two 
of them were doing together in New Orleans in the first place.
	Even if by some miracle Scully did later manage to 
awaken, their world would, for all intents and purposes, be
brought crashing down around them.
	Please, Selene, he implored without words, his eyes
closing wearily.  Please don't do this.  Don't do to the two of
us what was done to you and Jack.  Don't rip us apart simply
because you can.
	Please.
	He just stood there for a time, almost clinging to the
railing for support.  Finally, he pushed himself upright once 
more.  And leaning in the balcony doorway, he looked in
at his partner.
	He had undressed her as before, leaving her clothed
merely in his shirt and her panties.  She rested beneath the 
covers, her bright hair spread in glossy waves upon the pillow.  
>From where he stood he couldn't make out the marks on her throat, 
not with the collar on the shirt standing with enviable crispness, 
blocking the view.  And yet, even with the bruises marring her 
lip and temple, she seemed so lovely to him.
	"Sleeping Beauty, Scully," he murmured gruffly as he
folded his arms against his chest.  "Only I sure as hell am not any
Prince Charming."
	Then, almost as if in answer to this whimsical 
observation, Mulder thought he spied something.  Something he
had despaired of ever seeing again.  Something that was as 
welcome and as wished for as the sun valiantly breaking through
a cloud bank.
	Her fingers twitched.
	On the comforter.
	Just the tiniest amount.
	And Mulder felt as if someone had poured pure undiluted 
joy through an opening in the top of his head.  That was the only
way he could think of to describe the sensation.  It seemed to him
as if an almost painfully powerful happiness trickled down inside 
of him from head to toe.  Filling him.  Flooding him.  Until the 
sweet, hot liquid overflowed.
	In the form of tears.
	"Scully?" he whispered as he cautiously approached,
impatiently wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands.
	She shifted just a touch.  Her lips quirked.  Her breath 
changed its cadence; caught, then released on a sigh.
	"Dana?" he queried softly as he settled slowly onto the
bed, even with her waist.  Taking her hand in his, he reached 
out with his other hand, and with the back of his index finger 
stroked her cheek.  "You gonna wake up for me now?"
	She made a small humming noise in the back of her 
throat, and Mulder's mouth split into a shaky grin.  Yes.  Yes,
she was.  Oh thank God.  Lifting their clasped hands, he 
pressed a kiss to the back of hers, wondering as he did so 
whether Scully could sense the manner in which he had begun
to tremble.
	"Come on, sweetheart," he urged quietly, musing 
with a touch of self-deprecation over his peculiar use of the 
endearment.  Scully and he had never gone in for that sort of 
thing, pet names and the like.  Such cooing had always seemed 
to him so . . .well . . . grossly sentimental.  Like the worst kind 
of Hallmark cards.
	  And yet, at that moment in time, he found himself
overcome with the desire to call her that and any of a dozen 
such others.
	Angel.
	Darling.
	Love.
	Must be the lack of sleep.
	"Open your eyes for me now," he entreated in a whisper,
his hand straying to her hair to comb lightly through the silky
strands surrounding her face.  "You can do it."
	And almost to prove him right, her eyelashes
blinked.  Then raised.
	"Mulder?" she queried, her voice husky and low.
	"Yeah," he confirmed softly, her hand still held in his
and now pressed to his chest.
	She smiled slightly and stretched with care beneath 
the covers.
	"I don't suppose you brought me any beignets, did 
you?" she murmured wryly, her free hand coming up to capture
a lusty yawn.  "I'm starved."

************************************************

	Scully really hadn't intended for Mulder to go dashing 
out to Cafe du Monde.
	Honestly, she hadn't.
	However, if she were to be totally truthful, she had to 
admit she was rather glad that he had decided on his own to 
make the trek.  After all, she had awakened to find herself 
absolutely ravenous, so the pastries he had gone to purchase 
would indeed be welcome.  But, more importantly, his taking 
off on a beignet run had allowed her to slip into the shower 
and change without him hovering.
	And he had been hovering.
	Like a helicopter.
	Circling endlessly.  And yet, never quite touching 
down.
	Hell.  Never touching, period.  
	Well, that wasn't entirely true.  He had held her hand.
	But only when she had first awakened.  Aside from 
that, after she had roused, slightly befuddled, but actually 
feeling rather well, Mulder had taken a giant step back, both 
literally and figuratively.
	Of course, that wasn't to say that he had ignored her.  
On the contrary.  As they had sat on the bed exchanging 
comforting words of greeting, he had gravely studied every 
change in her expression, every nuance, as if her innocent little 
shifts and frowns were a new and terribly complicated language 
to which he had just been introduced.
	And yet, while doing so, his reticence, his restraint 
had been almost palpable.  A living, breathing thing sitting atop 
the immense brass bed with them.
	Oh, Mulder, she silently sighed as she vigorously 
rubbed a towel over her damp, tousled hair.  I had thought we 
had gotten past the whole guilt thing.  The night before, when 
they had been preparing to leave La Lune Argentine, he had 
seemed more like his usual affectionate self.  True, he hadn't done 
more than kiss her on the head.  But he had been willing to hold 
her to him, to touch her hair, her cheek.
	But in the aftermath of her little enforced beauty rest, 
they were back to being awkward around each other.  No.  Not 
they.  He.  =Him=.  Mulder had reverted to treating her like some 
porcelain figurine.  Precious, certainly.  But fragile.  The sort of 
thing you love to look at, but don't dare handle.
	The very idea galled her.  Of any man she had ever
been with, Mulder had always been the touchy type.  Even
before their relationship had taken a turn towards the personal.  
And now, when she most urgently needed that physical support, 
he denied her it.  It was all she could do not to stamp her foot 
in vexation.
	But on the one hand, she couldn't really blame him, 
she supposed.  She understood, even without him precisely
saying so, the pain and the anxiety Mulder must have suffered 
while she had been under Selene's sway.  They hadn't discussed 
the night before in any great detail.  Not yet.  Mulder hadn't 
seemed quite ready for that little chat right at the moment that 
she had opened her eyes.  So, she had opted to be patient.  For 
the moment.
	She herself couldn't even really remember much about it.  
She recalled feeling tired.  Desperately so.  She had been moving 
about the motel room, trying to unpack the few things she would 
need for the night, when all at once a ferocious wave of fatigue 
had washed over her.  The compulsion to sleep had ultimately 
proven impossible to ignore.  And yet, even as she had turned 
and crossed for the bed, her head swimming, her limbs leaden 
with weariness, somehow, some way she had sensed that the 
urge assailing her was far from natural.
	Selene.
	Scully had no inkling how she had known the dead
courtesan was responsible.  But, in some inexplicable manner, 
the revelation had seared her like a brand.  And once she had 
been assured as to the real reason for her exhaustion, she had
struggled.  With every means at her disposal.  However, with 
the toll her wounds had already taken upon her body, she had 
been no match for the ghost's will.  Her vitality had been sapped 
by the events of the night before.  She just hadn't been able to 
put up much resistance.
	Until Mulder had returned.  She had sensed him near.
Had somehow felt his touch on her skin.  And she had known--
dear God, she had known--what seeing her like that would do
to him.  So, she had fought like a wildcat to reach him.  Clawed
and scrambled her way towards consciousness.
	And had succeeded.
	For an instant.
	No more.
	Selene was just too strong.
	And thus, after another aborted attempt to ward off 
the spirit's control of her body, Scully had reluctantly dropped 
off into a deep and not unpleasant sleep.  She hadn't dreamed.  
Not that she remembered.  Just floated, like a fallen leaf atop a 
gently running stream.
	Until, she had drifted free from the current and swum 
her way back to shore.  And into the big brass bed at La Maison 
de la Lune Argentine.
	"Didn't know if you'd prefer coffee or orange juice, so
I got you both."
	She neatly hung her towel on the rack beside the
bathtub, and peered out into the bed chamber.  Mulder was
shouldering his way into the room, precariously balancing two
white paper bags and a cardboard cup carrier with all four slots
filled.
	"Let me help you with that," she murmured with a smile
as she took a step forward.
	"No, that's okay.  I've got it," he said firmly as he gently
kicked closed the door and deftly maneuvered past her to the
other side of the room.  There, he set their meal on the night stand, 
and turned to look at her expectantly.
	He must be running on pure adrenaline, she judged
with a certain rueful fondness.  Despite the energy he currently
displayed, the man before her looked positively =wiped=.  He
was still wearing the same jeans and black cotton pullover he 
had donned after rousing from his nap the afternoon before.  A 
day's worth of stubble darkened his jaw while a night's worth of 
shadows did the same for under his eyes.  But most disturbing 
to Scully's way of thinking was the brittleness she sensed about 
him.  The aura which suggested that if one knew precisely just 
where to tap, Mulder's hard won composure would shatter like 
flawed crystal. 
	"So how many dozens of those things did you buy?"
she queried with a gentle smile as she padded barefoot out of 
the bathroom in her gray sweat shorts and white cotton 
T-shirt.  Absent-mindedly combing her fingers through her 
thoroughly mussed hair, she crossed over to the bed and crawled 
slowly up onto it.
	He grinned at her in a way that made the lines etched 
around his eyes and mouth only that much more pronounced.  
The unabashed happiness shining in his gaze contrasted 
harshly with the misery still lingering like a stain upon his 
features.  Noting this, Scully yearned all the more to share with 
him an embrace.  After all, she knew with utter surety that he 
needed it as badly as she.  But at the same time, she also 
sensed that he wouldn't allow it.  Not just yet.
	"Only a half dozen," he retorted mildly.  "But I also 
picked up some fruit at the market.  I figured you hadn't eaten 
in awhile, so you might like something a little more substantial."
	You better watch it, Mulder, she longed to tease him.
A girl could get used to all this pampering.  And yet, given his 
present state of mind, the man would probably take her at her 
word; the result being breakfast in bed for the rest of her natural 
life. 
	And even she could only stand so much of a good thing.
	So instead, as she peered into one of the bags and 
pulled out a still warm beignet, she simply said,  "Thanks, Mulder.  
That sounds good.  But you know something?"
	"What?"
	"It looks to me as if you could use a decent meal even 
more than I could."
	He merely shrugged and reached for one of the steaming
styrofoam cups of coffee before settling himself on the chair near
the head of the bed.  A safe distance away from her.
	She regarded him silently for a moment, trying to decide
how best to approach him when he was in this mood.  Then, she 
realized something.  Something to which she felt certain Mulder 
was utterly oblivious.  Their positions were identical to those 
they had shared when he had returned to their room after 
spending the night beating up on himself in the library.  She, 
with her back cushioned by a mound of pillows piled against 
the bed's headboard.  He, sitting a tad formally in the rather 
uncomfortable looking cane-seated chair against the wall.  An 
unexpectedly poignant thought occurred to her.
	Mulder had just placed himself in the punishment chair.
	When she had been in first grade, Sister Mary Catherine, 
an aged gentle soul, had one seat in her classroom that while it 
*looked* like all the rest, was, in fact, markedly different. 
	It had been a simple straight back wooden chair at the
front of the room, right next to the little nun's desk.  And anytime
a boy or girl misbehaved, they were made to come and sit in that 
chair to consider their sin, and face the pity and amusement of 
their classmates.
	Apart from the other pupils.
	Alone.
	Just like Mulder.
	He sat sipping his coffee, totally unaware of her whimsy, 
and watched her, almost as if to make certain that she was indeed 
eating, his eyes intent over the rim of his cup.  "How's the throat?"
	"Better," she mumbled around a bite of baked good, 
thankful that this time around, Mulder had remembered napkins.  
"My headache is completely gone."
	"Yeah?"
	"Yeah."
	"That's good."
	And they say the art of conversation is dead, Scully
mused dryly when it became evident that neither she nor Mulder 
could come up with a way to fill the void that had ensued after 
their admittedly feeble initial exchange.  
	Nope.
	Not a quip.
	Not a quibble.
	Not even a question.
	Nothing.
	Instead, it appeared that all they could do was look at 
each other, their eyes apparently hungrier at that moment than 
their stomachs.
	However, as fond as she was of the shape of Mulder's
face, there came a time when merely regarding it wasn't enough.
	"So, what's the plan?" Scully asked mildly after she 
had finished one beignet and started in on a brightly polished
apple.
	Mulder stiffened, his eyes dropping away from hers to 
study instead his own half eaten pastry.  "I don't know.  I had 
wanted to wait and talk it over with you."
	She nodded, chewing slowly, and considering.  "Okay.
Well, I think it's safe to assume that Selene won't let me leave 
without trying at least one last time to make contact with Jack."
	He nodded as well.  Once.  The motion more a jerk
than anything else.  "I know.  I've kind of come to the same
conclusion myself."
	"But you know, . . . you may be able to go, Mulder," 
she said quietly, her eyes also finding other things to focus on 
than the person seated across from her.  "From what we've 
witnessed, Selene's influence appears to extend only to me.  For 
some reason, she seems to think that she needs my help with 
Jack.  But, we don't know for certain that you have to be present 
as a counterpart for him.  I might be able to do this on my own."
	He lifted his head once more, his gaze rueful yet warm.
"Selene may be many things, but she isn't stupid, Scully.  
Although it's true that she hasn't had me walking the floor at
night as she has you, that doesn't necessarily mean that she 
couldn't if she put her mind to it."
	"So then why hasn't she, do you think?" Scully asked 
as she took another bite of apple.
	"I don't know why Selene has chosen to focus solely 
on you," he admitted with a shake of his head.  "But my guess 
is that when you get right down to it, it's fairly simple.  She's 
recognized that she doesn't need to directly influence my 
behavior to get me to stay."
	"How's that?" Scully queried softly.
	"Because she knows I'd never leave without you," he 
said with a small shrug and an even smaller smile.	
	She felt something blossom inside her chest.  "So then--
we're in this together, Mulder?"
	He hesitated for just a sliver of time before quietly
assuring her, "Yes."
	She cocked her head, unable to hold her tongue a 
moment longer.  And putting aside what remained of her
apple, she wiped her fingertips with a napkin before speaking,
feigning nonchalance.
	"Then why don't I *feel* very together?" 
	Mulder looked at her in confusion.  "What do you 
mean?"
	"I mean that I've never felt so lonely when I was with 
you as I do right now," she explained as gently as she could. 
	"Scully--"
	"Mulder, you've tried to shut me out physically in the 
past," she murmured as she watched her fingers neatly fold the 
napkin in her hands into a series of narrow little pleats.  "I can't
even count the times that you've run off on your own when 
you've thought that a situation was particularly strange or 
dangerous.  And even though it's always made me crazy, I 
understood that you did what you did because you were trying 
to protect me."
	Mulder said nothing.  He merely sat, gravely regarding 
her, his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup now cradled in his 
hands.
	"But there have been other times--times like this--
when you've managed to separate yourself from me while 
standing less than an arm's length away."
	She lifted her gaze in time to catch his head dropping
guiltily.  Damn it.  The last thing she wanted to do was add to
the man's burden.  But, he had to made aware of this.  Made to 
know what his actions were doing to her.  And to himself.
	Taking a deep breath, she plunged on.  "And those
times have hurt, Mulder.  Not only me.  But you too."
	"I don't want to hurt you, Scully," he murmured 
hoarsely as he set his drink on the table beside his chair, and
pushed his hand wearily through his hair, his eyes still skittering
away from hers.  "You've got to believe me.  Not ever."
	"I know," she said, her voice hushed and intimate as 
she leaned towards him on the bed.  "I do." 
	He frowned then, his lips tightening in a grimace of
frustration made weightier by sorrow.  When he spoke, she had 
to strain to hear him.
	"But that's all I ever seem to do."
	The self-loathing she heard saturating his words made 
her heart break, and if she believed that he wouldn't thrust her 
away from him in a kind of panic, she would have somehow 
sprouted wings and flown into his arms.  As it was, she scooted 
ponderously forward to perch on the edge of the bed, facing 
him, taking care not to move too abruptly for fear of aggravating 
the area around her ribs.  Mulder's head was bowed once more, 
his elbows still braced on his knees, his fingers furrowed in his 
hair.
	"No," she whispered fiercely, scarcely resisting the 
almost compulsive urge to comb her own fingertips through his
crisp brown locks.  She was close enough now to make such 
things possible.  But she refrained.  "No, that's not true."
	He looked at her again, a horrible semblance of a chuckle
escaping his lips.  "Isn't it?"
	"No," she insisted calmly, resolutely, shaking her head
to emphasize her point.  "That is the furthest thing from the truth."
	"Oh come on, Scully.  Look at us," he muttered, a 
desperate sort of rage oozing through the cracks in his facade.  
"Look at our relationship."
	"What is it that you want me to see?" she asked evenly.
	Casting her a disbelieving stare, he surged to his feet.  
His words spewing now like venom.  "=Us=.  The two of us
together.  I mean--what do we have =really=?  What can I even 
offer you?"
	"Mulder, you don't--"  
	"I'll tell you," he said quickly, cutting her off before she
could even attempt to diffuse the suddenly armed bomb ticking 
away before her.  "The answer is *nothing*, Scully.  Nothing at 
all."
	"That's crazy, Mulder," she told him, her voice low and
steady.  "Relationships aren't like business deals.  You don't
decide to be with someone based on what they have to =offer=
you.  You know that."
	"No," he countered as he paced away from her, his stride
uneven, his hands gesturing with an alarming lack of specificity. 
The restless energy that had impelled him through the ordeal 
of the previous night back again in full force.  "No, I don't.  I 
don't know that."
	Then, he swung back on her all at once, his hands now
coming to rest reluctantly on his waist, his weight shifting 
nervously from hip to hip as he fidgeted before her.
	"But I'll tell you what I do know."
	Scully looked up at him from her seat on the bed.  
She saw the ferocious control he was exerting over himself.
Recognized just how close he was to flying apart.  This man
who regarded her with eyes like a winter sky, bleak and
barren. 
	"What?" she whispered, dreading to hear what she 
understood he needed so desperately to say.
	He merely stood there for a seemingly endless span
of time, gazing down at her, an awful tension rolling off of him, 
stealing the very air from the room.  Like some gross parody of 
the murder that had brought them to this point in the first place.
	"When it comes to you and me, Scully, . . . I might as 
well be poison."
	The idea was so absurd, so utterly without merit, that
Scully had to struggle not to laugh.  But, at the same time, she 
was painfully aware just how far from humorous this all appeared 
to Mulder.  So instead, she only shook her head once more, the
motion slow and sure.  "No."
	He advanced on her, his eyes feverish, his hands
fisted.
	"Think about it," Mulder urged, bending down so 
that his face hovered just above hers, invading her space 
as he had so often in the past.  "Think about what being with 
me has done to you.  Done to your career, your family, your 
health."
	Gently, she stretched out her hand and laid it on
his forearm.  He started at her touch, but didn't pull away.
Still, she could feel his muscles bunched rock hard beneath 
her fingertips, like he was readying himself for flight.  Looking 
up at him, her gaze soft, she assured him, "Nothing that has 
happened to me over the past three years has been your 
fault, Mulder.  Not a single thing."
	That did make him retreat.  He staggered back a
couple of steps.
	"Bullshit," he told her succinctly.  And he turned
from her once more, his hands coming up to cover his face
while he stood swaying from a combination of emotion and
fatigue.  
	Scully rose carefully from the bed to stand behind 
Mulder, studying his back, wishing as she did so that their 
areas of expertise would somehow magically flip-flop.  That 
her partner would suddenly become the forensic pathologist and 
she would be the one who had earned the degree in psychology 
from Oxford.  She just wasn't sure how to proceed; how best to 
help him.  She knew that he was in pain.  That he was dying to 
lash out, and yet had no target but her, the one person he 
absolutely refused to use in that fashion.  However, if he didn't 
let off a little steam one of these minutes, he was going to burst.  
Gnawing on the uninjured half of her lower lip, she considered.  
Hmm.  Perhaps Mulder himself could lead her in the proper 
direction.
	With that in mind, she cautiously asked him, "So what 
do you want to do?"
	She heard him draw in a shaky breath.  "Scully, you
know that I love you . . . more than . . . more than anything.  But
I'm not sure that's enough."
	"Enough for what?" she inquired, already ruing the 
decision to let Mulder dictate the way their confrontation 
should resolve.
	At last, he turned to face her, his arms hanging 
limply at his sides, his expression utterly desolate.  "Enough 
for us to go on like this."
	"What are you saying?" she demanded, her voice 
quiet, yet strong.
	He licked his lips, and took a deep ragged lung full of
air.  "Scully, I can't . . . we can't keep tempting fate.  Every time 
we cheat death we only succeed in loading the odds against 
us for the next time.  Sooner or later,  it's all going to catch up
with one of us.  And I sure as hell don't want it to be you."
	She nodded slowly, pleased to feel a bracing sort of
anger boil at her center, bubbling up.  Spreading out from her 
core to suffuse her through and through.  Its heat potent 
enough to burn away the ache that had been curling throughout 
her body like fog.  The pain that had come from bearing mute 
witness to the sorrow in Mulder's eyes.  "I see.  Seems like you've 
given this a lot of thought, Mulder."
	He only shrugged, his gaze falling away.
	"So I ask you again--have you decided what you 
want to do?" she asked calmly, as if they were talking about the
weather, and not the possible destruction of everything that
defined them.
	"I don't =want= . . ." he began, then hesitated.  She
could see the frustration literally throbbing inside him, seeking
a way to vent, an outlet.  Thrumming and pulsing within him, 
its relentless pressure akin to that of the blood pumping into 
and out of his heart.  "But we can't go on like--"
	"Like what, Mulder?" she challenged swiftly, taking
a step towards him, her eyes flashing.  "Are you saying you 
want us to stop working together?"
	"No!  I mean . . . I don't--"
	"Or do you simply want to stop sleeping with me?"
she inquired softly.
	His mouth opened as if he were going to answer her.  
Then, his eyes awash with misery, his lips squeezed shut once
more, unable to say the words.
	And Scully knew that she had found his weakness.
	Not to mention, a possible way to get them past this.
	"Can you tell me that you don't want me, Mulder?"
	His gaze flickered away from hers again.
	She pressed her advantage.
	"Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you
wouldn't care if we never made love again?" she asked him 
in a whisper, watching his face closely.  "That you wouldn't 
miss me.  Miss what we have."
	He didn't answer her.  Instead, he seemed to sink
further and further into himself.  Shrink.  Almost as if he were 
running from her without ever leaving the room.
	"Would you be able to live the rest of your life
without my touching you again?"
	Gently, almost as if she feared startling him, as if she
thought he might shy like an unbroken horse, she reached out
and ran the back of her hand down the slope of his cheek.  He
shuddered beneath the caress, quivering like a plucked bow 
string, his gaze locked on hers.
	"Do you want to give this up, Mulder?" she queried
softly, a small tender smile on her lips, her anger banished in
the face of his fear.  "Do you want to be the one to kill what we 
have?  Not Selene, not Jack, not the even the Cancerman--but 
you."
	He shook his head, regret shimmering in his hazel
eyes.  "No."
	"Because if you do decide to, you should know 
something.
	"What?"
	"I will fight you," Scully promised him, a brow arching 
to underline her point, her fingertips stealing through his 
tousled hair.  "Tooth and nail, Mulder.  You're not going to get
rid of me easily.  Not if I know that you love me."
	"I do," he whispered, as if the simple statement was
the most damning of confessions.
	Her smile broadened.  Her hand rested against his 
cheek.  "And I love you."
	Stretching up to tiptoe, she kissed him tenderly on 
the corner of his mouth.
	"So why are we having this conversation?" she
asked him whimsically as her hand softly drifted down from his
face to rest instead on his chest.
	Mulder looked down at her, his hands at his sides,
his eyes wide and moist, their expression more than a trifle lost.  
"I don't know what to do."
	Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his middle and 
rested her cheek upon his breast.  She could still feel him 
trembling in her embrace.  "Touch me," she breathed.
	As if in answer to her entreaty, his hands found their
way to her waist.  Yet his hold on her was tentative at best.
	Recognizing this, she said in a husky voice.  "I won't
break, Mulder.  Don't be afraid.  You'd be surprised what I can 
take."
	He chuckled sadly, his hands flexing lightly just above
her hips.  "No.  No, I wouldn't."
	She pressed her lips to the vee of skin exposed by
the neckline of his shirt.  "I want you to feel that you can
turn to me when you're hurting, Mulder," she whispered,
her hands now moving slowly, soothingly over his tense
back and shoulders, her nose nuzzling gently at the base
of his throat.
	His breath escaping on a sigh, Mulder's eyes slid 
shut, his head tilting back just a touch in surrender.  "You're 
hurting too," he reminded her, his voice low.  Hoarse.
	"Not like you," she murmured as her lips trailed
softly up the strong yet vulnerable column of his throat.
"My wounds may be more visible.  But I think yours are more
severe."
	He was calming beneath her tender ministrations.
Not all at once.  But gradually.  Relaxing.  She could feel his 
body unbending ever so slightly as her hands and mouth 
roamed over him, spreading warmth.  "Is that your 
professional opinion, Doctor?" he asked quietly, his eyes
still closed, gripping her waist with a tad more confidence.
	She smiled against his skin as she dotted the line of
his jaw with her kisses.  "Absolutely.  And I know just the
treatment.  For us both."
	"What?"
	"You remember what Rachel said, Mulder," she 
said lightly, her lips still grazing his face, his throat.  "Turn
to each other, not away."
	"You believe in tea leaves now, Scully?"
	"I believe we need to heal each other.  That we're the
only ones who can."
	His lips quirked in a reluctant smile.  He looked down 
at her intently, as if seeking to confirm what her playful tone 
suggested.  "And how do you propose we do that?"
	Scully took a small step back, her eyes never leaving
his.  Mulder stood completely still, waiting to see what she
would do.  Saying nothing, she turned and without sparing
him another glance, walked slowly towards the bed.  Carefully,
she settled herself atop the comforter.
	And looked at him once more.
	The invitation clear.
	"Come here," she requested softly as she reclined
against the pillows, her lashes lowered, her hand outstretched.
	Yet even as she plainly saw the yearning in his eyes,
Mulder hesitated.
	"Scully, . . . I . . .um--," he mumbled, his hands slipping
into his jeans pockets as he stirred with indecision.  "With your
ribs . . . I don't . . ."
	Ah.  So the cat's out of the bag, is it, Mulder, she
silently mused.  Well.  It appeared that sometime during the 
night, the man she loved had gotten a look at the worst of her 
injuries.
	Big deal.
	Time to put things in perspective.
	"It's ugly, isn't it?" she admitted mildly, raising her 
T-shirt to take a peek at the livid bruise, almost as if she herself
had forgotten what it looked like.
	"It isn't--" he began with a frown.
	Scully sighed theatrically, cutting off his protest.  
"You're right.  It is.  I know.  And with that, and . . . these . . ."  
She gestured to her face and neck.  "I can understand why you 
might find it difficult to . . . shall we say--get in the mood."
	Gingerly sitting up, she eyed him pointedly before 
grabbing hold of the hem of her shirt and tugging the garment 
up over her head.
	She wasn't wearing a bra.
	It somehow seemed like the ideal moment to bring that 
fact to Mulder's attention.
	"But even though I may not look my best, Mulder,
I'll make you a promise," she said in a throaty voice, laying back
once more, her hands drifting lazily now over her upper body, the
gesture uncompromisingly sensual.  "You meet me halfway, and
I'll make you forget every bump and bruise."
	"That a fact?" Mulder whispered hoarsely, his fingers
twitching at his sides.
	You've almost got him, Dana, she thought ruefully.
Might as well go for broke.
	Slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts,
she lifted her hips from the bed, and tugged the rest of her
clothes off and away.
	She couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw 
Mulder gulp.
	Lying before him, languidly naked atop the covers,
she murmured with sleepy eyes,  "No, Mulder.  I told you--
that's a promise."
	Taking a deep breath, he inclined his head as if accepting
her bargain.  
	And joined her on the bed.
	Slipping off his shoes, Mulder eased himself onto the 
bed's soft flowered comforter and contemplated the far softer 
skin of the woman lying beside him.  Naked, save for the dainty
little silver necklace with which he had gifted her seemingly ages 
ago.  Her gaze was locked on his, deepest blue, and dreamy with 
anticipation. 
	God.  It was as if he were suddenly, inexplicably 16
again.
	Horny as hell, but at a loss as to just what exactly 
he should do about it.
	Oh, he understood the mechanics of the situation.
	It was the subtleties that eluded him.  
	How he could even bring himself to touch her when, 
despite her encouragement, he still wasn't entirely convinced that 
he deserved her?  How, with her collection of injuries, could he
ever hope to make love to her without ultimately hurting her 
still more in the process?
	Scully seemed to sense his dilemma.  She looked up
at him with bemused eyes, her vibrant auburn hair spread
with messy abandon on the pillow beneath her head.
	"You might want to start by kissing me," she suggested
dryly, a tiny smile curving her lips.
	He smiled back at her, his expression tender.  Propping
himself on his side, his chin balanced on the heel of his hand, he 
lightly traced the shape of her mouth with the forefinger of his 
free hand.  His eyes focused darkly on his task, he lingered on 
the narrow split in her lower lip, still swollen, but thankfully on 
its way to healing.
	"I'd love to," he murmured as he ever so softly 
brushed from side to side over the wound.  "But, *this* has me
concerned."
	"Don't be," she whispered, turning her head and
pressing a kiss to his caressing finger.  "It'll be all right.  I 
trust you.  You're always gentle with me."
	Resolutely ignoring the little voice inside his head that 
gleefully reminded him just how untrue his partner's calm 
reassurances were, Mulder shifted so that his upper body was 
supported by his elbows.  Taking his time, he lowered his face to 
hers; near enough to feel Scully's breath puffing lightly against 
his cheek, warm and soft.  Just that scant contact was sufficient to 
start his body quickening.  And he found, much to his chagrin, 
that he needed to take a deep breath to steady himself.  Yet despite 
his desire to do far more, in the end, he merely rested his lips 
against her forehead, his hand coming up to cradle the curve of 
her jaw in his palm.  She sighed and wrapped one arm languidly 
around his shoulder, her hand almost surreptitiously massaging 
the back of his neck.  For a moment neither moved.
	"So gentle," she repeated in a hushed voice, her eyes
closing.
	Trying his damnedest to live up to her estimation of him, 
Mulder delicately let his lips drift from her brow, over to her 
uninjured temple, across both eyelids, and down to first one, then 
the other cheek.  Her fingers burrowed in his hair, Scully hummed 
her pleasure a bit unsteadily, her legs beginning to slide restlessly 
upon the comforter.
	"Kiss me," she finally pleaded in a whisper, her lashes
still lowered.
	Now, when all was said and done, Mulder was only human.  
No way could he hold out against the sort of breathless entreaty the
woman beside him had let slip like a siren's song from her absurdly 
inviting lips.  Not when he recognized with a kind of rueful self-
knowledge that at that moment he would willingly hand over a 
decade or two of his life just to feel that sweet mouth melt longingly 
against his once more.
	And so he gave in.
	"Let me know if it's too much," he softly said as he pulled
back slightly to study her flushed face, his lips hovering just a hair's 
breadth above her own.
	"What if I told you I was into excess?" she murmured 
as her eyes flickered open once more to engage his.
	"Then I'd say I'm the luckiest man alive," he replied quietly.  
And slowly, almost chastely, he touched his mouth to hers.
	Eyes closed now as well, he focused every last bit of his 
attention on the woman beneath him, on her reaction to the soft 
moist caress of his lips against hers.  The kiss didn't seem to pain 
her.  Her mouth was warm against his, her lips pliant.  He nuzzled 
her tenderly, carefully, while his fingertips stroked feather light 
along the edges of her face.  For the longest time, they allowed 
themselves to simply explore each other in this fashion.  The 
intimacy compelling, and yet the physicality of the caress no more 
than what might be shared by two nervous virgins.
	At long last, seemingly intent on taking the initiative, 
Scully let her tongue slip out to stroke along his lips seeking entrance.  
Touching gently.  Lapping playfully.  In response, Mulder felt a 
shiver begin somewhere south of his waist and explode up his spine.  
	Oh Christ, Scully.  Cut it out, he silently implored.  
	Not that he wasn't interested.  
	He was.  
	God.  
	He wanted nothing more than to deepen the kiss.  To 
sweep inside her luscious mouth and trace its contours with his 
tongue.  To crush his lips to hers.  But, at the same time, he was 
afraid.  Worried that if he got caught up in the moment, if he allowed
himself to get lost in the passion this woman so effortlessly inspired, 
he wouldn't be able to judge the exact limits of her tolerance.  At 
that instant, he feared nothing more than the sight of her shrinking 
from him in pain.  To see those lovely eyes shadow with reproach 
or mistrust.
	No.  That was a sight guaranteed to impel him across
the flagstone courtyard on his hands and knees in search of his 
ammunition clip, self-destruction on his mind.
	So, rather than chance it and pursue what had been up 
to that point an exquisite if tentative seduction, he pulled away.
	Only to find that Scully wouldn't let him go.
	"Don't tease me, Mulder," she chided in a soft voice as 
her arms locked steadfastly around the back of his neck.
	"I'm not--"
	"You are," she murmured, her eyes gazing up at him
calmly, but not coolly.  "And I had expected more from you 
somehow."
	Despite the whimsical lilt to her voice, Mulder still
felt his heart clench almost reflexively with concern.  "What do
you mean?"
	She stretched up and nibbled on his chin as she answered. 
Light teasing little bites.  Her hands smoothed firmly across his 
shoulders, down his upper arms.  "You know what you do to me.  
How much I want you . . . want this.  And yet you refuse to give 
it to me."
	The sharp yet gentle nip of her teeth against his skin
zapped him like a quiver full of tiny lightning bolts, shooting 
small sparks of electricity through his blood stream, their effect 
ultimately extending to his groin.  Making him jump.  Harden.  
Yearn.  Gradually, very nearly without him noticing at all, he could 
sense his worries ebbing as his need increased.
	"That right?" he whispered, his voice husky, his eyes
sliding shut.
	"Yes, that's right," she rejoined with mock tartness as 
her lips found a particularly sensitive area on the underside 
of his chin and brushed against it, her tongue slipping forth once 
more to taste his skin.  "And I think it's completely unfair.  You're 
taking advantage of me."
	"If you didn't want me to take advantage of you, you
probably shouldn't have treated me to that little striptease earlier."
	"I thought you liked that," she murmured against his throat.
	"I *loved* that," he corrected with a growl, as his hands 
tightened unthinkingly in her hair.  "But a man can only take so 
much."
	"And I do so love testing your limits, Agent Mulder."
	"You do indeed, Agent Scully.  You do indeed."
	Sighing, Mulder arched his neck as Scully's mouth 
now trailed down from his jaw to press a series of tender kisses 
on the slope leading to his shoulder.  His hands threaded their way 
through her hair, sifting the silky strands through his fingertips.
	"Don't be afraid to test mine, Mulder," she whispered after
a time, the words spoken just before she nuzzled the slight indentation
at the base of his throat with her nose.
	"What?" 
	She looked up at him with a smile in her eyes, her fingers 
lightly tracing the firm line of his jaw.  "I said 'don't be afraid'.  After 
all, when you stop to think about it, so little of me is really even hurt."
	"Ah, but Scully--there is so little of you to begin with."
	She slugged him.
	He chuckled, slowly but surely feeling better.
	"I'll have you know that I could point out to you any 
number of places on my body that can take anything you have to
dish out."
	"Anything?"
	"Try me."
	Mulder arched a brow.  "Okay.  Maybe I will."
	The corners of her mouth tilted upwards.
	"But just to be on the safe side, why don't you go ahead 
and show me the places you have in mind," he suggested, heat 
shimmering beneath the surface of his mildly spoken words.
	Scully pursed her lips thoughtfully.  Then, she stretched
with care atop the covers; the move sinuous, vaguely feline, 
amusement glowing in her eyes.
	"Well . . . *here* for example," she murmured, turning
her chin and reaching up to push aside a fall of auburn hair,
baring her ear.
	"Right here?" Mulder asked quietly, tracing the delicate
little whorls, the velvety lobe with a gentle finger.
	"Ohhh. . . . Yeah.  There."
	"Let's see."  And bending his head, he nibbled his way 
around the curve of her ear.  His lips and tongue traced the path 
as well, soothing away any sting his teeth might have provoked.  
Scully squirmed beneath him, her hands tightening on his biceps.
	"Okay?" he inquired after he had coaxed a soft rough 
groan from the lips of the woman beside him, his voice low and 
husky.
	"Hmm . . . Better than okay."
	And he smiled, his face buried in her hair, thinking that
he just might survive their vacation after all.
	"Where else?" he asked, pulling back to look at her, a
shock of hair falling forward onto his forehead.
	Scully gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy with passion, and
wordlessly offered him the inside of her forearm.  Mulder lightly
ran his index finger up the smooth pale flesh.  Goosebumps rose
in its wake.  For some reason, her obvious sensitivity to him, to his 
touch, pleased him beyond all reason.
	Bringing her hand to the side of his head, he slowly kissed
his way along the tender ivory skin.  Dragging his lips over her, open 
and warm.  Breathing in her scent.  The subtle clean blend of soap
and skin he had come to associate solely with her.  The smell he knew 
without question would somehow only become diluted, more common
perhaps, were it to be enhanced by one of those department store
perfumes.
	Flicking out his tongue to lave the bend of her elbow,
Mulder stole a glance at Scully.  She was watching him.  Her eyes
huge and luminous.  Her gaze strangely solemn, despite the small
tilt of her lips.
	"What?" he queried.
	She lifted the hand he had raised in his own, and softly 
caressed the curve of his face.  Glided it slowly from his temple 
down to his chin, her eyes never leaving his.
	"I love you," she told him, the stark simplicity of the 
statement failing to rob it of any of its power.
	God.
	It was at times such as these that Mulder most felt like a
gawky adolescent.  Most like the terribly shy boy he once had been.
The outcast.  The supposedly self-sufficient loner he had 
metamorphosed into with the onset of adulthood.  Ironic really 
that he should flashback to those personas, those solitary existences, 
at those moments when he was most assured that he was, in fact, no 
longer alone.
	That he had her.
	That she loved him without reservation.  Without 
restriction.  That she would continue to love him when he
screwed up.  When  he was selfish.  Or merely obtuse.  That
she placed him first.  Above all else.
	Even herself.
	And that, in the end, was what so unmanned him.
	After all, when weighed against Dana Katherine Scully, 
who the hell was he?
	Yet he couldn't express that to her just then.  Not with 
the pitiful tangle his emotions were in.  Not when he had so much 
to say to her already.  Words of apology and need and praise, and 
yes--of love. 
	So instead, he knew, with more than a touch of regret, 
that once more he was going to have to rely on actions.
	Trusting that Scully would astutely fill in the blanks.
	Just like always.
	Bowing his head, his lips claimed hers, moving over
them with a force, an urgency he had not previously shown.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, smoothing over her
teeth, rubbing along her own tongue almost feverishly now.
His former reticence fading into memory.
	"Where else, Scully?" he muttered after finally pulling 
away from the kiss, choosing instead to nuzzle her cheek, her 
brow.  "Tell me.  I want to please you.  Where else do you 
want me to touch you?"
	"You know," she whispered, her eyes sliding shut, her
hands delving beneath his shirt to run up the length of his back.
Her fingers kneading his muscles, flexing and releasing mindlessly.
	"What do I know?"
	"How to touch me," she breathed into his ear.  "You've
always known, Mulder.  Since the very first time."
	"But with--"
	"No," she said softly, her eyes fluttering open once more, 
her gaze pinning him.  "Now is no different from any other time.  
It's the same.  I'm the same."
	She was wrong.  Things had changed.  They were always
changing.  And no amount of wishful thinking could alter the course.  
Could freeze that one perfect moment, preserving it like a butterfly 
in a bell jar.
	Mulder knew all about change.  All about the manner in 
which existence could turn on its side like a carnival ride, prompting 
the same sort of squeals, the same type of fearful exhilaration.  
	The same stomach clenching nausea.
	Hell.  That had been the sensation he had suffered when 
his sister had been taken.  Stolen away like an unsuspecting tourist's 
wallet.  When his family had disintegrated around him, his parents' 
stony silence ringing in his ears.  Deafening him.  The same response
that had arisen in him like bile on that final day when Phoebe had, 
without explanation or cause, turned and walked away.  Leaving him 
with only a crater where his heart used to be, an emptiness to which 
he had gradually become resigned.
	After all, he had his work.  His quest.  And if that journey 
was sometimes lonely, if he felt occasionally abandoned or forsaken. . .
	Well, there were worse things.
	Weren't there?	
	And yet he had learned, kicking and screaming his way
through the lesson, that change didn't necessarily have to be 
bad.
	Sometimes, when you least expected it, change could prove 
to be your salvation.  A woman could wander into your life, no more 
suspecting of what was to occur than you.  And . . . *WHAM*.  
Nothing was as it once had been.  You could find that, despite a 
boat load of differences --your points of views, your habits--you 
meshed seamlessly.  You could discover that regardless of how 
many times she stuck a pin in that oddly over-inflated ego of 
yours, you still came back to her.  Bringing for her perusal, her 
judgment, theory after implausible theory, daring her to prove you 
wrong.  Willing her to take you on, not only for the challenge, the 
sheer intellectual thrill to be had; but because in so doing, in 
sharing that with her, she made you better, sharper, wiser.  More 
like the kind of agent--the kind of man--you had always wanted to 
be.
	The kind of man he swore he was going to be for her.
	Now.  This very minute.
	"So you're telling me that you're the same woman who 
wore that wicked garter belt the other night?" he questioned softly, 
his lips brushing with infinite care over the livid assortment of 
bruises dotting her throat.
	Scully chuckled weakly, her hands caressing his back in
long uneven strokes.  "Yeah.  That was me."
	"She was pretty hot."
	"You think so?"
	"I know so," he murmured, sliding down her body to
take one tight pink nipple into his mouth.  Slipping his tongue over
the nubbin, nibbling gently on it.  Suckling lightly, teasingly.  
His fingers lightly rolling the other swollen peak.  Rubbing it 
between his thumb and forefinger.  All the while, sharply attuned 
to the shifts and sighs of the woman beneath him.  Delighting, 
when he felt her hook one leg over his hip, almost as if she were 
trying to crawl inside him.
	"Did you want me to touch you there, Scully?" he asked
when he had lavished both breasts with the same sort of attention.
Even as he spoke, his hand still trailing over them, his fingertips 
gliding over her softness, her roundness.
  	"Yes," she whispered, her hands now cupping his behind,
squeezing it.  
	"What about here?"  His lips kissed a slow path down her 
middle, skirting the lurid puncture marring the pale even spacing 
of her ribs, his weight balanced carefully over her so as not to put 
any undue pressure on her injuries.
	She shifted with a kind of erotic agitation, her breath
echoing her disquiet.
	"Mulder . . ."
	"Hmm?" he hummed, his tongue dipping into the tiny
indentation of her navel, his hand stroking with urgency along 
her now quivering thigh.
	"No . . . wait . . ."
	"Wait?" he echoed, gliding his nose back and forth, just 
below the slight curve of her belly.  That exquisitely tender patch 
of skin where the smallest caress can make a woman jump, twitch.
	Whimper.
	Surrender.
	"But Scully, you told me that you didn't want to have to 
wait,"  he reminded her between soft damp kisses aimed just above 
the nest of curls guarding the most sensitive, most private portion 
of her anatomy.
	"I know . . . but . . ."  Her voice was high and small, her
eyes scrunched shut, her fingers clamped tightly on his shoulders.
	"You said you didn't want to be teased," he murmured 
with a small smile as settled himself between her legs, sensing 
with satisfaction the need slowly consuming the woman beneath 
him.  Swallowing her whole.  "You asked me not to."
	"Yes . . . yes.  But, Mulder . . ."  Her head was tilted 
back upon the pillow so that her neck was curved and vulnerable.
Her breath escaping in a shaky series of tiny little gasps, she wound
her fingers through his hair.
	"Of course, if you've changed your mind, I'd be happy 
to oblige," he told her quietly as he slid his arms beneath her
knees.  "After all, I've always enjoyed . . . keeping you on
edge."
	And curling his arms around her thighs, he spread her
open with his thumbs.
	And lowered his mouth to her.  Open.  Hot.  Wet.
	Scully cried out, sobbing inarticulate sounds of longing,
and arched up off the bed.  For a moment, Mulder feared that she 
might have injured herself with the sudden whiplash motion.  But 
when, after a time, she did no more than moan with the feel of his
tongue sweeping slowly over that keenly sensitive bundle of nerves
hidden in the folds of her body, he reasoned that she had thankfully
managed to keep herself from harm.
	"Is this what you want, Scully?" he muttered against her
core, his voice so low, so roughened by his own rapidly escalating
desire that he feared she might not be able to understand him.  To
make sense of his words.  "Should I make it last?  Take it nice and 
slow.  Or do you want it now?  Do you want me to see just how 
quickly I can take you over the edge?"
	Not waiting for her reply, he bent his head once more, his
lips finding her and holding her captive.  Sucking on the tiny swollen
bud like a nipple.
	She screamed, the sound not one of pain, and thrashed upon
the mattress, tightening her legs around his shoulders.
	"Tell me what you want, Scully," he whispered once more,
his teeth testing the resilient flesh of her inner thigh.  "Tell me, and
I'll give it to you.  I swear it."
	Even as his tongue stroked over her once more, he 
wondered if perhaps he had driven her past the point of speech.  
Had urged her into a place of pure sensation, where language 
had ceased to exist.  To that point, his queries, his coaxing had 
earned him nothing but still more ragged moans, more breathy 
little mewls.
	Not that they were unwelcome.
	There were days when he could sit at his desk at the J. Edgar
Hoover building and bring himself to painful readiness merely by
thinking about the sounds torn from the ever so reserved Agent Scully 
as she twisted in the grip of passion.
	However, in this particular instance, they just didn't give 
him much direction.
	Then, all at once, he realized that the hushed murmurs 
emanating from her lips were actually words.  Three, to be exact.  
Spoken over and over again.  The order sometimes jumbled, but 
the meaning unmistakable.
	"You.  I want you . . .you . . . I want . . . I want . . ."
	Raising himself onto his elbows, he peered up at her.  "What?
What do you want from me?"
	She looked back at him, her gaze nearly feverish, her hands
reaching for him.  He met her halfway, and twined his fingers with
hers, holding on tight.  Panting as if she had just finished a marathon, 
Scully licked her lips, then spoke.  Her whisper like skin sliding over 
silken sheets.
	"I want you naked, Mulder.  I want you naked . . . beneath me
 . . . inside me . . . I want to feel you moving.  Pushing and stroking, 
harder and faster, . . . sobbing with it, groaning . . . until you can't 
take anymore . . . until neither of us can . . ."
	Shit, if you keep talking like that, Scully, that 'can't take 
anymore' part is going to come real soon-far too soon, he thought 
with an almost torturous rush of arousal.
	Oh Christ.
	"Are you sure?" he queried when he was certain he could
speak without his voice cracking.  "Are you sure you're not going to
hurt yourself?"
	She slowly nodded.
	Well.  If she was sure . . .
	His eyes holding hers for a beat longer, he nodded as well.
	And sat back on his heels to remove first his shirt.  Scully's 
legs were sprawled on either side of him as she watched him disrobe, 
the heat of her stare very nearly convincing him that his skin had 
suddenly turned flammable.
	Within minutes, the rest of his clothes were shed as well, 
puddled on the floor beside the bed.   That done, Mulder found his
way up to the headboard, alongside where Scully rested against 
the pillows.  And wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck, 
he pulled her to him for a long slow deep kiss.
	"I love you," he said, his forehead flush against hers, his
hand still curled around the back of her neck.  "And I'm yours for
whatever you want, whatever you need.  Take it from me.  I want 
you to have it."
	Upon hearing that, it appeared for just a second that her 
eyes misted, grew softer.  Then, her lips curved.  And she whimsically 
questioned him, her voice husky in the extreme.  "Are you telling 
me that you're my Boy Toy, Mulder?"
	"I'm your slave."
	"No, you're not."
	"Try me."
	She smiled still more at hearing her own words volleyed
back at her.  And as Mulder had suspected she would, apparently 
decided that two could play at that game.
	"Okay.  Maybe I will."
	With that, she gently pushed him down onto his back, so
that he rested atop the pillows which had previously cushioned her,
and carefully scooted to just even with his hip.  Stretching out her
hand, she lightly drew her fingertips up his now pulsing erection.
	Mulder moaned helplessly, his face closing on a grimace 
of pleasure, his hips lifting to meet her caress.
	Pleading for it.
	"So what exactly are a slave's duties?" she murmured as 
she played with him.  Grasping him in her small hand.  Squeezing.
Stroking along his hardness.  Swirling her index finger over his
tip, smearing in a tight little circle the moisture that had escaped 
from him unbidden.
	Stop, stop, stop, he wanted to scream.  God, it was all he 
could do not to grab her hands.  To push them away from him with
a kind of frantic desperation.  Not that he really wanted her to stop.  
Not at any time within the next millennium.  But, if she didn't, there
was no way in hell he was going to be able to hang on.  Never.  Not 
with the best will in the world.
	"I think . . ." he began, then paused when his train of thought
derailed.  "Um . . . I think . . that's your decision."
	"Mine?" she queried innocently as she at long last ceased
her torment and cautiously straddled his lean hips.  
	"Yeah," Mulder nearly groaned as he felt her descend over 
him.  Not taking him in.  Not yet.  Just flowing over him.  Hot and 
sweet and wet.  Oh God, . . . so wet.  So ready for him.  "Yours."
	"Oh, that's right," she whispered as she leaned forward and
balanced herself with her hands against his chest.  Lifting up just a 
touch, she rubbed over him.  Root to tip.  Slowly.  Slick as butter 
and hot as flame itself.  
	Oh Jesus.
	He didn't know about the rest of her, but there was certainly
nothing wrong with the small of her back.  It undulated over his 
rigid length with all the flexibility of a slinky. 
	She smiled at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lush lashes
hiding her expression.  "This is all about me, right?"
	Well, it was supposed to be.  But at that moment, when 
the woman he loved was moving that round little bottom of hers
in a steady wicked rhythm, her breasts bobbing in time, Mulder 
wondered if indeed that sort of thing was written in stone.
	But, in the end, he answered her as he thought he ought.
	"Yes."
	To his surprise, Scully shook her head.
	"You're wrong."
	And with that, she raised up onto her knees and gently
guided him inside her.  
	Slowly
		Slowly
			Slowly 
				Slowly 
					Slowly she sunk
down on top of him, her lower lip seized by her teeth as if to
hold back still more of those lovely little sounds he had come to
crave.
	For his part, Mulder had no such self-control.  He could 
only moan his ecstasy, his eyes drooping shut, his mouth pulled 
tight in a rictus of pleasure.
	For a moment, neither moved.  Scully sat absolutely still
atop him, like a rider getting used to an unaccustomed mount.
Her fingertips lazily drew patterns on his midriff while her eyes 
bored down into his.
	"You're wrong," she repeated softly after a time.  Her words
not triumphant or challenging, merely a statement of fact.  "Regardless 
of what position we try or what game we play, *this* is never about 
only one or the other of us."
	"I . . ."
	 "Mulder, you and I are bound together in ways I won't even
pretend to understand," she told him, her gaze almost unnervingly 
tender.  "I could no more 'take' this from you, than you could from
me."
	Still sheathing him tightly within her slender body, she 
carefully leaned forward and kissed him gently upon the lips.
	"This should never be about making amends, Mulder," she
said, eerily picking up on his errant musings, his secret motivations.
Her eyes so soft now as they regarded him, so blue.  "This should 
be about making love.  Always."
	A terribly unwelcome lump was forming in his throat.
One that blocked all those words, all those things Mulder swore he 
would one day say.  Even if it took him a lifetime.
	So instead, he nodded.  The gesture feeling to him horribly
inadequate.
	Scully didn't seem to mind.  She smiled her most beautiful
smile at him, the split in her lip not hindering her one bit.
	"Together, Mulder?"
	"Together."
	And keeping her eyes trained on his, Scully began to move.
Up until he nearly slid free from her body.  Then, down once more.  
	The pace she set was leisurely.  Due in part, Mulder was 
certain, to her injuries.  And yet, he also got the sense as their hands 
found each other, and fingers woven, held on tight, that the tempo 
Scully maintained had nothing at all to do with the speed at which 
she hoped to reach gratification.
	Instead, it appeared to him that she simply didn't want 
their union to end.  That this particular coupling seemed to 
symbolize so much more--passion certainly, but forgiveness, and 
acceptance, and trust, and sacrifice, and celebration, and dozens 
of other components that had all somehow gotten drawn into the 
mix.
	He felt it too.  And knew, as their breath grew more 
belabored and sweat oozed forth to dot their brows, that the 
outcome would be devastating.
	In the best possible way.
	So he stayed with her.  Focused on her.  Breathed with
her.  Their hands locked.  Their bodies straining.  Scully's lovely
breasts gently bouncing and swaying, her necklace swinging 
between them.  The mere sight begging him to release her small 
hands and capture those soft mounds of flesh instead.  But he 
refrained.
	Or at least, compromised.
	Stretching forward, he sucked one hard pointed nipple 
into his mouth and tantalized it.  His lips and teeth and tongue intent 
on wringing more of those voluptuous sounds from the woman sitting 
astride him, rising and falling like a piston.  He succeeded.  And a 
stream of breathy entreaties poured from her lips, drenching him
like a gentle spring rain.
	At long last he let her slip free.  He couldn't concentrate
anymore.  Not enough to make it good for her.  Not when everything 
he had was fixated on the hot moist slide of their lower bodies.  On the 
ever-increasing friction.  The speed.  The angle.  The way in which
he was positive he was going to split apart.  To helplessly rip in two 
inside her; he felt that hard, that swollen, that out of control.  
	Leaning forward now so that their linked hands were 
braced upon his chest, Scully increased the rhythm, her hips pumping 
over his with escalating urgency.  Her hair falling forward like a 
silken drapery, hiding her from view.
	But Mulder wanted to see her.  To witness the expression
on her face at the moment of her release.  So, finally untangling 
their fingers, he cradled her face in his hands and pulled it close to
his own.
	Sweat slicking their bodies now, he studied her eyes, 
sapphire blue, and so sweetly unfocused.  She looked right back at
him, her gaze unwavering, her body drawing tight.  Arching and 
releasing almost mindlessly, readying itself for climax.
	Just like his.
	Mulder surged his hips up to meet hers, all caution 
forgotten as slap after slap their groins met, then parted.
	"Scully?" he queried hoarsely, no more words necessary.
	"Yeah," she panted breathlessly.  "Yeah."
	And rocking fast, furiously, desperately, he drove into her.
Until finally he stiffened, the part of his body buried inside her
leaping with its surrender, ripping apart perception, sundering
his senses.  The shout that issued from his mouth to mark the 
moment starting gravelly low, as if strangled somehow.  Ending,
by contrast, with a whimper, a weak, needy sort of sound he had 
never before heard coming from his lips.
	For her part, Scully suddenly arched like a slender ivory
bow, her head tipped back so that her chin pointed skywards, her
hair flying, her eyes shut like fringed curtains.  Her small frame 
quivered as if shock waves were rippling through it.  Her faint 
languorous cries like watercolors made aural.  And Mulder
could feel the flutter of her soft inner muscles pulsing against
that part of him embedded in her still.  Milking him.  Draining
him, even as their union filled him with something entirely new
and far more precious.
	And in that moment it seemed as if creation itself were 
holding its breath.  As if the image of Scully drawn taut in ecstasy 
above him, the curve of her back equal in sheer artistry to 
anything the Louvre might have to offer, was suspended there for
all time.
	Still, mesmerized as Mulder was by the sight of her before 
him, flushed and unspeakably lovely in her arousal, after a breath
or two, he unexpectedly found his eyes lured to the shiny silver charm
dangling from her neck.  Swaying.  Glinting in the light leaking
into the chamber from outside.
	The tiny woman riding the moon, her arms braced against 
it; her eyes lifted to the stars, her lips curled in a smile.  A look of
near rapture transforming her features.
	La Lune Argentine.
	And in that instant, she reminded him of Scully.
	Yet, oddly enough, the notion didn't frighten him.  Mulder
hadn't once thought of Selene Broussard and her captain since
joining Scully on the big brass bed.  And now, now that Scully
had gracefully folded over onto his chest, her slight limp weight 
nestled against him in total surrender, utter trust, he found
himself musing that perhaps their crafty ghost did not, in fact, 
have the upper hand as he had once believed.
	True, she and her kind might possess the ability to 
manipulate him and the woman cradled in his arms.
	But not control them.  Not completely.
	Because to do that, she and Jack would have to cleave 
the bond he and Scully shared.  Shred it.
	Scully sighed against his throat, her body laying lax
against his, her cheek settled in the space between his ear and
shoulder.
	"I love you, Mulder," she whispered, too tired at that
point to even lift her head and look him in the eye.
	He kissed her brow.
	"Every minute of every day, Scully," he murmured with 
his eyes closed, his head resting against hers, their hair entwined.  
"With every breath, every heartbeat."
	He felt her press a soft kiss to his throat, and tightened
his arms around her. 
	Poor Selene, he mused, rocking Scully gently in his 
embrace.  She had no idea what she was up against.

**************************************************

	"Scully, I want you to tie me up."
	"*Now?*"
	Dana Scully crossed from the bathroom doorway where
she stood framed, and strolled to where her partner was seated 
on the edge of the bed, clad in a pair of black jeans and a faded blue
T-shirt, his brow furrowed with intensity.
	"But, Mulder," she murmured with a smile as she came
to a halt between his splayed legs, her fingertips reaching out to 
drift lazily through his hair.  "I don't think we have enough time 
to do it *properly*."
	Mulder gazed up at her, a reluctant smile of his own
tugging at his mouth, his hands finding their way to the swell of 
her hip.  He flexed them there lightly against the soft gray fabric of 
her sweat shorts, seemingly enjoying the firm yet pliant feel of her 
body flowing beneath his fingertips.
	"And there are some things I absolutely refuse to rush," 
she teased just before pressing her lips to his forehead.
	"You know, until recently I had always thought of you as 
such a good girl," he commented with dry humor as his palms slid 
slowly up and down her sides.
	"Disappointed?" she drawled, her hands resting on his
shoulders.
	"What, are you nuts?" he growled as he gently pulled down
her head for a long leisurely kiss.
	"Don't start something you can't finish, Mulder," she
whispered breathlessly when their lips had parted.
	His eyes glinted with a hint of the devil.  "What time is 
it?"
	She checked her watch and cocked a brow.  "Nearly 
six."
	He grimaced, then sighed his disappointment.
	She chuckled.
	Sorry, Mulder, Scully thought wryly.  But, time does tend
to fly when you're having . . . fun.  
	Her silent use of that woefully inadequate word brought 
a bemused twist to her lips.  *Fun*, Dana, she wordlessly challenged 
herself.  True, she had more than enjoyed the past several hours.  The 
resulting collection of aches and pains currently  filtering through 
her already battered body served as a testament to the enthusiasm with 
which she had thrown herself into the afternoon's activities.  Yet to 
look at what she and Mulder had shared as mere recreation seemed 
to her way of thinking almost a kind of blasphemy.
	After all, there was sex.
	And then, there was making love.
	But as lovely as the experience had been, as much as she
longed to return to lying contentedly in the arms of the man before 
her.  Sheltered there, secure and drowsy and utterly replete.  The two 
of them had other considerations.
	Because the sun had begun its slow yet inevitable slide towards
the horizon, night falling right along with it.  Soon, Selene would be 
venturing forth once more, in search of her captain.
	And the two people she planned to use to that end needed to 
prepare.
	"I'm serious, you know," Mulder said quietly, holding Scully
in place before him when she started to cross away.
	"About my tying you up?" she queried, her hands smoothing
over his upper arms as if to soothe him.
	"Yes," he said, tugging her down beside him on the bed.
When she started to voice her protest, he stopped her before she
could utter a word.  "Listen to me, Scully.  It makes sense."
	Very little about this entire experience makes sense,
Mulder, she yearned to retort.  Yet, they didn't have time to argue.  
If they had ever needed to present a united front, this was certainly it. 
Resolutely pressing her lips together, Scully held her peace and let 
her partner continue.
	"Selene wants the two of us together," he said, his voice 
calm and controlled, his hand setting lightly on her thigh.  "We know 
that.  She believes that she needs us to communicate with Jack.  But 
there's nothing that says that any sort of physical contact needs to 
take place.  Nothing that dictates that we have to in any way be 
touching for this plan of hers to succeed."
	"So you want me to restrain you so we don't have a repeat
of the other night," Scully surmised softly.
	Mulder nodded, his expression darkening.  "Scully, much 
as I hate to say this--I just don't trust myself to be strong enough to 
do it on my own."
	"Mulder--"
	"And I don't know what I would do if something like that
happened again."
	Scully had an inkling.  And it wasn't pretty.
	Thus, much as it pained her to resort to something as
extreme as lashing the man she loved to a piece of furniture, she 
reluctantly agreed that in this instance it was perhaps the wisest thing 
to do.
	"All right, Mulder.  If you're sure," she murmured with a 
quick nod.  "We'll play it your way.  So, where do you want be for 
this?"
	He shrugged and looked around the room for inspiration.
"I don't know.  We should probably secure me to something I can't 
drag around.  Um . . . Well, . . I suppose the *bed* is our best bet."
	She had to chew on the inside of her cheek to keep from 
smiling at the direction in which their conversation seemed intent on
heading.  Hmm, interesting how they had first discussed this topic
with her being the one fixed in place atop a mattress.
	Ah, well.  Either arrangement held promise.
	"You want me to tie you to the bed?"
	"Not exactly standard Bureau procedure, is it?" Mulder said 
with a grin, his brows lifting a tad sheepishly.  "But can you think of 
a better idea?"
	"Yeah, but I'm not sure this is the time," she offered with
a suggestive arch of her own brow.
	"Oh, don't hold back now, Agent Scully," he urged in a low
rough voice.  One intimate enough and arousing enough to very
nearly make her forget the rather serious topic that had started their 
discussion in the first place.  "You know how much I value your 
opinion."
	"Let's just say that the next time I tie you to a bed, I promise
it won't have anything at all to do with ghostbusting," she murmured
in a husky voice.
	"Who you gonna call, Scully?" Mulder countered softly, his
eyes twinkling at her.
	"My name, Mulder," she purred, her hand stretching forth 
to caress the side of his face.  "My name."
	For a moment, they just sat smiling at each other.  This 
is absurd, Scully thought with a touch of bemusement.  We shouldn't 
be behaving like this.  After all, the past few days had been difficult.  
Fraught with danger and mishap.  She had almost died.  That 
tragedy nearly having come at the hands of the man beside her.
	And yet, despite such knowledge, she just simply couldn't 
muster the appropriate fear, the proper sort of dread.
	Strangely enough, Mulder's mood seemed to reflect her 
own.
	"Does this seem at all odd to you?" she finally queried
softly.
	"What?" he parried with a quirk of his lips.  "Our being 
on vacation?  Our getting ready to do battle with a ghost?  Or
our looking at my being tied to a bed as a viable defense against
things that go bump in the night?"
	Scully smiled, then shook her head.  "None of it.  All of
it.  I don't know. . . . It's just . . . it seems that given what we've 
been through lately, I should be more worried about this than I am."
	"You're not afraid?" Mulder asked her quietly.
	She considered for a moment, then smiled once more.
"No.  Isn't that weird?"
	He laughed shortly, the sound more a grunt than a chuckle.  
"No more than anything else, I suppose."
	Her smile continued.
	"But, I know you mean," he ventured after a instant.  "I kind
of feel the same way.  And I'm not sure why."
	His eyes dropping from hers, Mulder reached out and 
took Scully's hand in his, cradling it carefully.  "I've been so crazy 
the last couple of days.  Feeling . . . out of control.  What with you, 
and my own . . . problems, I got . . . lost.  You know?  Off balance."
	She looked at him, her gaze gentle with understanding.
"I know."
	He shrugged and took a deep breath.  "But I think maybe 
that's past.  At least . . . I hope it is."	
	Scully tightened her fingers around his.  "Me too."
	Mulder just studied the woman sitting next to him for 
a moment, his affection for her naked in his regard.  "But you know 
what I find really weird, Scully?"
	"What?"
	"Your accepting this whole thing.  I mean . . . ghosts,
possession--does all this mean that we're going to have to find a new
skeptic to balance out all *our* crazy theories?"
	She narrowed her eyes at him.  "Three's a crowd, Mulder."
	He grinned.
	"No," she said an instant later, dropping her playful facade 
of annoyance, and searching for the words that would best explain to
her partner her reasons for suddenly believing in the unbelievable.  
"No, don't worry.  I'm not jumping over to your side of the fence just 
yet.  But, I can't and I =won't= deny hard evidence.  And even though 
you and I may not have anything tangible to hold on to with all this, we 
do have our own experiences, our own memories of what went on inside 
our heads.  Now, I don't know about you.  But, I =know= that I didn't
imagine all those things I told you about.  The images, the emotions--"
	He nodded, his eyes grave.  "I know.  Neither did I."
	She smiled, bittersweet.  "I don't doubt it."
	"So if we concede the reality of those experiences," she 
continued, "then what do we look to as an explanation for them?  
How do we rationalize my seeing you as Jacques LeFevre before I
had ever even known what the man had looked like?"
	"Or my recognizing the mystery woman I mistook you for
as Selene Broussard," Mulder murmured quietly, his focus now on 
their clasped hands.
	Scully nodded.  "Exactly."
	They sat quietly for a moment.
	"So, you're okay with this?" he queried after a time, his 
fingertips lightly caressing her palm.
	She chuckled ruefully.  "Oh, I don't know.  'Okay' may be a 
bit overly optimistic."
	He smiled, his hand tightening over hers once more.
	"But I'll survive," she assured him softly.
	"Yes, you will," he said in a low, certain voice.
	The words a promise.
	And with that, and a quick hard kiss on the forehead of
the woman beside him, Mulder rose from the bed in search of 
something with which to bind his wrists.
***************************************************
	"You know, Scully--I had actually =liked= this tie."
	"Think of it as having been sacrificed for a good cause."
	"All right.  But what about this other one?"
	"*That*, Mulder, is more like a mercy killing."
	Fox Mulder glared up at the petite auburn-haired woman
before him with mock aggravation, and attempted for perhaps the
tenth time to free himself from the restraints securing him to the 
headboard of the room's wide brass bed.
	The restraints formerly known as two of his silk neckties.
	He wasn't really interested in pulling free.  Rather his goal
was to make certain that such escape was impossible.  He planned on
taking no chances.
	Not with the life of the woman looking down at him, concern 
creasing her brow.
	"Are you sure you're okay?" she queried softly as she 
crossed to sit on the bed, even with his waist, her hand stretching 
out to rest gently on his chest.  "Are you comfortable?  Do you
need anything?"
	He smiled up at her from where he rested against an
impressively plump mound of pillows, and let his arms fall again
to frame his head.  "I told you, Scully.  I'm fine.  I was just making
sure.  That's all."
	"Well, cut it out," she chided without any real heat, her 
fingertips combing through the strands of hair on his forehead.  
"You keep up that straining and your wrists are going to have 
bruises that rival mine."
	"How are *you* feeling?" Mulder questioned swiftly,
mentally chastising himself for not having asked earlier.  Since
her awakening, Scully had seemed so much like her old self that 
despite the discoloration on her face and neck, he had almost 
forgotten that she was still recovering from her injuries.
	His partner didn't seem to take offense at his lapse.
	"I'm good," she said with a small smile before she 
carefully leaned over and touched her lips to his.  "Really.  I am."
	He regarded her gravely for a moment, searching her
eyes as if wondering whether she might be attempting in some
way to spare him.
	"But I do think I'm going to have to sit out a few days
from work when we get back," she said dryly.  "I intimated as
much when I called in to Skinner while you were in the shower."
	"What story did you give him?" Mulder queried, knowing
that in addition to having to make new travel arrangements for 
their return to D.C., Scully and he were also going to have to 
coordinate fictions to explain their unexpectedly extended absences.  
No one would believe that each of the pair had taken extra time off 
work without notifying the other of their decision to do so.
	Scully grimaced.  "I decided to go with 'auto accident' as an
explanation for the mess on my face.  It seemed a reasonable enough
excuse, and as I made myself a passenger in the imaginary car rather 
than the driver, it should be tougher for anyone to disprove."
	He nodded.  "And Skinner bought it?"
	She grinned slyly.  "I didn't talk to him.  I talked to Kimberly."
	"Ooh," he murmured with a half-smile.  "Some people have 
all the luck."
	"Why--what did Skinner say when you talked to him?"
	"Haven't done it yet," he admitted wryly.  "I figured that I'd
wait till tonight and leave it on his voice mail."
	"Coward," Scully teased without heat, her brow lifting to 
further lighten the statement.
	"Pragmatist," Mulder corrected, his smile widening.
	They looked at each other as the seconds ticked away, 
Scully's hand gently stroking his chest.
	Then, Mulder sighed.
	"So, now what do we do?" he asked in a put-upon voice.
	She shrugged, amusement at his impatience shining in her
eyes, and crossed away from him to glance out the window.  "Wait, 
I guess.  It shouldn't be too long.  The sun has already fallen beyond 
the roof line."
	He glanced out the open balcony doors, and saw that
she was right.  Although the transition to night was in no way 
wholly complete, the courtyard below had been cloaked entirely in 
shade.  Their room itself was murky with shadows.  Soon, they would
be unable to maneuver freely without the assistance of lamplight.
	"You know, I'm going to feel pretty silly if Selene decides
to bother someone else tonight," he muttered, looking with 
vexation at the silken ties binding him to the bedposts.
	"This was your idea, Mulder," Scully reminded him softly 
as she turned to face him once more.  "Just say the word and I'll 
untie you."
	"No!" Mulder said quickly, his tone sharp.  "No, whatever
you do, do =not= release me, Scully.  Not until you know for sure
that it's safe."
	She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then nodded.
	And as Scully crossed to the wing chair, and turned on
the floor lamp beside it, the two agents settled in to wait.
	It wasn't all that difficult.  After all, the two of them were
used to stakeouts.  To cross country flights.  To hours spent behind
the wheel of one rented automobile or another.  They knew how to
fill the minutes between them.
	And besides, it wasn't as if either of them viewed sitting alone 
together as a kind of punishment or chore.  Whatever private time they 
managed to steal was cherished.  Valued.
	And almost always put to good use.
	Yet, this time they couldn't escape the pall that hung over
the room.  The nagging frustration that came with knowing that while 
something *should* happen, something unpleasant, they had no idea 
when, or what, or how.  Still, they had to keep on alert.  In that 
respect, their present waiting period was not unlike that aforementioned 
staple of modern crime-fighting, the stakeout.  Unfortunately, the only 
difference was that unlike all those nights spent as a team, sitting side 
by side in a parked car, they were not truly a unit fighting an external 
foe.  Although their current battle did indeed feature an antagonist, her 
weapon was ironically enough the agents themselves.  As much as they 
longed to cling to one another for support, they couldn't turn a blind 
eye to the threat such a proposition offered.
	So, they sat--or rather, Mulder laid--making small talk, and
watched the room slowly dim.  
	As time stretched on, Mulder found himself perversely 
wishing that something =would= finally break.  Although the manner
in which Scully had tied him allowed him some small mobility--he
could scoot up and down against the pillows--his arms were growing 
weary of being bent at the elbow.  He longed to stretch, to move around.
	But he had no intention of sharing his desires with Scully.
	Because she would see that they were fulfilled.
	And there was no way in hell he would ever let that happen.
	Thus, he continued his half of the vigil with the mute 
forbearance of a saint, breathing deeply, and willing himself to 
remain relaxed.  It seemed to be working.  Scully and he had at long 
last fallen silent for a time, each content to simply be; Scully curled in
the big chair in the corner, he flat on his back.  The quiet was lulling. 
Mulder felt as if he were drifting, edging ever so slowly towards 
sleep.  Not that he should find such a journey all that unexpected.
	God.
	When was the last time he had slept?
	Could it really have been just the previous afternoon?
Granted that still meant that he had remained awake for more
than 24 hours.  Yet, with as heavy as his eyelids presently felt, it
seemed far more likely that his last slumber had occurred sometime 
during the Reagan era.
	But then again, Mulder had always equated the former
President with shut-eye.
	Both as an actor and as a politician.
	His lips tilting in a smile at the musings winding through
his head, the bound agent vaguely found himself wondering just 
when it had been that his eyes had drooped shut.
	Then he thought he heard something.
	"What was that?"
	Had Scully spoken or had he?
	His lashes snapped open.  When had it gotten so dark?
The room's only source of illumination came from the lamp in 
the corner, its brightness muted by its own fringed burgundy shade.
The chamber's corners were nearly black with shadow.  Mulder 
couldn't even clearly see his partner's face from where she now 
stood at the balcony door.  By contrast, the white of her T-shirt 
seemed to catch what little light was present, eerily suggesting 
that in fact she was actually the ghost for whom they waited.
	"Did you hear that?" she asked finally as she peered
out through the French doors, almost as if she thought the 
answer lie outside the room rather than inside, her voice hushed.
	Mulder licked his lips.  "I'd thought I'd heard something."
	She nodded, still not looking at him.   "So did I.  A voice
maybe . . . Not . . words, really.  But a sound--"
 	Then, before Scully could finish her thought, her knees
buckled.  A small whimper trickled from her lips.  She staggered, her 
hands stretching out blindly as if searching for a means with which 
to steady herself.
	"=Scully!=" Mulder cried from the bed, his body arching up
off the mattress, his heels digging into the comforter, the muscles 
in his arms cording as he strained to reach the stricken woman
before him.
	But she didn't fall.  Somehow, her small hands found the
corner of the dresser at the foot of the bed, and clung to it, her 
knuckles white with the effort, her head bowed.
	"Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked worriedly, his
former pleasantly drowsy state a thing of the past.
	"Yeah . . ," she mumbled, her countenance still hidden
by a silken wall of auburn hair.
	Then, Mulder heard it.
	The soft low sound of a woman sobbing as if her heart
would cleave in two.
             With that, Scully shuddered, tremors coursing through her
slender frame.
	Try though he might, Mulder couldn't tell if her reaction 
had been born of fear.
	He was just getting ready to speak once more, to perhaps ask
her just such a question or maybe instead to inquire again as to her to
her well being.  All he knew was that he needed to say something to 
his partner.  To make that connection.  But before he could come up 
with the words, Scully pushed upright as before, her arms shaking
with the effort, and slowly turned to face him.
	Her complexion pale.
	Her eyes not her own.
	And for just a moment, Mulder almost believed that
their sea blue depths had somehow been inexplicably lightened to 
the coolest, palest shade of gray he had ever seen.
	Pearl gray.
	Silver.
	The woman standing at the foot of the bed stared at him
solemnly for a handful of seconds, her expression tender.  Slowly,
a sad smile curved the corners of her mouth.
	"Jack," she whispered, the word sounding to Mulder's ears
frighteningly like an invocation.
	He soon rued the insight.
	Because all at once, a rush of what felt like adrenaline 
poured through his veins, firing his body even as his head tingled
as if touched by frost.  He felt light-headed, like someone or something
had conspired to deny oxygen to his brain.  
	Oh God, it was happening.  Against his will, the change 
was taking place.  
	Knowing now, in a way he had not previously, what would 
inevitably occur, what these physical sensations boded for him 
emotionally and even psychically, Mulder struggled in Selene's hold.  
Fought the intrusion of the entity known as Jack. 
	And like Scully before him, failed.
	Shimmering like a curtain of rippling water, his vision 
slowly, irrevocably blurred.  He laid there for the span of a heartbeat
or two.  Blind, like an old man with cataracts.  His body rigid as he
stubbornly battled for control.  Finally, his eyesight returned.  
Gradually, like steam being wiped from a window.
	And the sight that greeted Mulder made the skin on the back 
of his neck prickle.
	For now, the woman staring down at him so intently, longing
vivid in her expressive eyes, was no longer petite with hair the color 
of autumn leaves.
	Instead, she stood nearly as tall as he, her inky hair tumbling
about her shoulders and down her back, thick and wavy, and 
ridiculously erotic.
	"Selene," he hissed, unsure whether the emotion coloring
the word came from Jack or from himself.
	It didn't matter.  She appeared not to notice the venom in
his voice.  Instead, her eyes glistened upon hearing her name snake 
from his lips.
	Mulder felt his groin harden merely from the sight of her.
	And violence creep into his heart and mind, crackling and 
bubbling upon his insides like a slow steady drip of acid.
	Still he resisted with steely determination the impulses that
had begun surging through him.  The need to wound, to conquer.  
But, it was like trying to rein in a runaway horse.  The spirit sharing 
his body burned with a whirlwind of pain.  Anger, yes.  But, guilt 
and remorse.  Need and hurt.  The molotov cocktail of emotions 
swirling inside Mulder confused him, made his brain ache just from 
trying to make sense of it all.  
	Lord, had LeFevre's psyche always been this tormented, 
Mulder wondered.  Had he always been this confused, this twisted 
in knots where Selene was concerned?  The captain's anguished 
uncertainty made Mulder's own demons appear mere imps by 
comparison.  
	And yet, perhaps a century or more of solitary wandering, of 
living for eternity with the knowledge that you were responsible for the 
death of the one person you had loved above all others would do that 
to a soul.  Mulder prayed to God that he himself never had to learn if
such speculation was true.
	However, despite his misgivings, his own instinctive distaste
for LeFevre's crime, Mulder felt a certain sympathy rise inside him 
like the tide, a wave of pity for a man who had tragically fallen victim 
to all the wrong sorts of passion.  How wisely Antoine had chosen his 
revenge, the agent mused.  How clever, and ultimately how cruel he 
had been to twist his rival's greatest joy into his greatest fear.  And 
ironically, if what Mulder could sense rolling around inside him was 
anything to go by, how easy the plan must have been to carry out.  
After all, everything suggested that LeFevre had been a man who 
had felt things deeply.  One prone to act, then consider.  One ruled 
by his heart rather than his head.
	Much like Mulder himself. 
	The dead man's agony made it next to impossible to think.
To reason.   And when the woman Mulder knew to be Scully yet
looked for all the world to be Selene stepped around the corner of the
bed to draw closer to his side, he had no clue, no idea what he should
do to make this confrontation come out right.
	To keep Scully safe.
	But, he had no time to ponder the problem.  Because, without 
conscious thought, words overflowed his lips.  "What do you want,
Selene?" he asked in a low ragged version of his own voice.  "Why do
you torture me?  Why will you not leave me?  Just leave me alone."
	A lone tear trickled down the smooth pale cheek of the woman
standing before him clad in a gown the color of sapphires.  Its hue 
nearly as beautiful as Scully's eyes.  
	"I can't leave you," she whispered, the words a husky rumble 
of sound.  "I've had decades to try, and yet I couldn't master the skill."
	Mulder felt his features contort into a sneer.  "You lie.  Just
like always.  The words trip prettily off your tongue, my love.  But
their worth is as weighty as smoke."
	"I tell you nothing but the truth, Jack."
	"AND I SAY AGAIN, YOU LIE!" Mulder roared, his throat
aching with the effort.  "You can't =leave= me?  Funny, you looked 
damn ready to leave me when I burst in on you and Antoine."
	"No--" she began, shaking her head, her composure slipping.
	"Or perhaps I'm wrong," he interrupted with all the slashing
violence of a knife stroke.  "Perhaps you weren't going to walk out
after all.  Maybe instead you thought you could have us both.  Live 
in my house, take my name, and yet cuckold me with your lover."
	"Antoine was not my lover!" the woman with the now 
swimming eyes insisted.  "Not after I had met you.  He drugged me.  
Forced me--"
	"Lies again!" Mulder spat, his hands fisted in their 
confinement, his blood pounding thunderously at his temples, the fury 
LeFevre had sent racing through his body threatening to make him 
nauseous.  "I begged you for =months= to leave Antoine!  Months of 
watching you two together.  Of living with the knowledge that while 
I lay in my bed alone at night, dying for you, Antoine was happily 
rutting between your legs."
	"It wasn't like that--"
	"Wasn't it?" he goaded, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
"Would you lie to me, Selene, and claim that you managed to keep 
Antoine from your bed while you were sneaking around with me?
That you lived like a nun in that bastard's grand house.  You, a 
woman who at the theater let me take you against a wall during the 
interval, and then calmly returned to your box to watch the rest of the 
show with the man who owned you."
	Mulder saw the woman living inside Scully's body blush
crimson with her lover's insult, and yet despite the slight tremor
that shook her graceful form, she stood firm.  Instead of crumpling, 
she merely regarded him, her lips pressed tight, and lifted her chin
as if daring him to strike her there.  The move was so signature
Scully that for a moment he felt his own eyes water in recognition.  
And he knew without question that Selene had begun borrowing a 
little of his partner's courage.
	"No, I won't lie to you, Jack," she told him softly as she took
a step still closer to the bed.  "During those months, Antoine shared 
my bed."
	"I thought as much," retorted the man on the mattress a trifle 
smugly, although his expression suggested that he got little pleasure
from being proven right.
	"But he was not my lover."
	Mulder thought that Jack in his disbelief would make his
eyes literally spring from their sockets.  "What are you talking about?"
	Selene crossed to perch on the bed, her hip snug against his
waist.  "He only had my body."
	"What--"
	"You were the keeper of my heart."
	Mulder felt the pain begin to roil once more.  "No--"
	"My soul," she murmured, her hand floating out of nowhere
to rest on his chest.
	"=Stop it=," he said, shaking his head until he thought his 
brains were in danger of careening from side to side inside his skull
like bumper cars.  "I don't believe you."
	She smiled down at him, the look gentle and marbled with
sadness.  "But you do.  At least part of you does."
	"=No=," he insisted, the word gritted out from between his 
teeth.
	"If not, why did you end your life?" she queried, her eyes
liquid now.  "Why kill yourself, Jack, over a common whore?"
	To Mulder's profound relief, he could sense her words making
an impact.  He didn't know if the calm wisdom flowing from Selene's
lips came from her or from Scully, but he could feel some of the 
bitterness clinging to LeFevre's soul easing.
	"I don't . . . know," he muttered, pulling with frustration on 
the bits of fabric holding him in place.  "I can't . . . remember.  Can't 
think."
	"Ssh," she crooned, her fingers lacing themselves through
his hair as she strove to calm him.  Mulder went absolutely still
beneath her touch, almost as if he thought that the caress might 
somehow wound him.  Or that the sweet contact was ultimately too 
much to bear.  "It's all right.  It'll be all right.  Trust me, my love."
	Then, suddenly, Jack found a defense against her tenderness.
	"=Trust!=," he bellowed, the word strangled as he leaned 
forward, straining against his confinement.  "You want me to trust a 
woman who would tie me down like an animal?!"
	Hey pal--if you want to talk about trust you may want to
consider how very *little* of it the lady should have for you, Mulder 
longed to lecture the man renting space within him.  
	But what Scully/Selene did next froze the words inside his
brain.  She just looked at him, her regard unblinking, then nodded.
	And standing once more, stretched across his body to
free his right hand.
	"=NO!=" Mulder screamed, knowing without question that 
this most recent outburst belonged to him and him alone.
	Yet the woman above him ignored his cry, and just as
smoothly and as calmly untied his other hand.
	For a moment, Mulder did nothing.  He laid with his arms
drawn up tight against his chest, his hands fisted, like a pugilist on
the defensive.  But slowly, as if beset by a force of nature, he could 
feel his will wearing away.
	"No.  Please . . no," he quietly pled, not certain to whom
the entreaty was addressed, his eyes screwed shut, his chest heaving.  
"Please . . . ."
	But his body betrayed him.  And striking with a speed he
hadn't known he possessed, he reached up like a flash, grabbed hold
of the woman standing beside the bed, and tugged her down onto
the mattress.  With a quick spin and a grunt, he wrestled her beneath
him so that he rested squarely atop her, his hands locked around her 
wrists, her body anchored to the bed.   He looked down at her, 
breathing hard, the part of his anatomy that had stiffened when Selene 
had first been made manifest reacting with glee to the fact that it was 
now nestled in the cradle of her hips.  Mulder burned with shame, and 
did his damnedest to keep the bulk of his weight off Scully's ribs.
	And yet, the woman he crushed to the comforter returned
his regard, if not calmly, at least with resolve.
	"Do you trust =me=, Selene?" he muttered through thinned
lips, mocking her apparent naivete , clearly believing that he already 
knew her reply.
	But instead, she surprised him.
	"Yes," she whispered, her eyes shining up at him like 
twin moonstones.  "I do.  Of course, I do."
	And before Mulder's stunned countenance, Scully's beloved 
face reappeared, her familiar gaze shimmering with the same sort
of emotion he had witnessed there so often in the past when they had
been in these positions.  Him looming over her, his hardness pressed
to her softness, his body caging hers.
	He clung to her.  To her presence.  Her strength.  But, it
was so hard.  Jack was fighting him.  Struggling against his control.
Against Mulder's own needs.  He could feel himself slipping away
once more.
	But Scully pulled him back from the edge.
	"Do you trust me?" she asked him quietly, the question
loaded with all the resonance that particular word held for the two
of them.  All the meaning they had managed to cram into those five
simple little letters over the years.
	Trust.
	Knowing that this person valued you.
	Respected you.
	Had faith in you.
              Shared with you.
	Would kill for you.
	Die for you.
	Would willingly place their life in your hands, secure in the
belief that there was no safer place on earth for it.
	"Yes," he told her, wondering if Jack spoke the words with
him or if he and Scully really were in this all alone.  He couldn't be
sure.  LeFevre had gone strangely quiet inside his head.
	Such serenity was a blessing.
	Beneath him, Scully smiled, the curve of her lips reminding
him of sunshine.
	And without knowing precisely why, whether the idea was
Jack's or his own, Mulder bent his head and touched his lips to Scully's.
They were warm and yielding.  Trembling from the contact, he 
released her wrists and plunged his fingers into her tousled hair.  She
welcomed the shift in position, winding her newly freed arms tightly 
around his back, sealing their bodies' bond.  And Mulder felt as if he 
would gladly stay in just this pose for all eternity, locked in his
lover's embrace, resting heavily against her softness.
	But before the kiss could turn into anything other than pure,
he sensed a change taking place inside him, a turbulence, a churning
that felt different than all that LeFevre had unleashed in him up to that
point.  Dizziness assailed him.  And Mulder found himself sincerely
grateful that his eyes were already closed.  Unable to concentrate on
the kiss he had been enjoying only moments before, he instead buried 
his head in the curve of Scully's neck, seeking comfort like a child with 
a nightmare, and waited out the storm.
	Images assaulted him.  Formed in his mind's eye.  Slapped 
against his psyche like angry hands.
	<Antoine at Selene's door, a bottle of port in his hands,
apology shining in his beady eyes.>
	<A civilized chat in the library.  Antoine every inch the
gentleman.  Pouring her drinks.  Sharing his concern.  Yet, something
wasn't right.  Her mouth tingled strangely.>
	<Head hot.  Like a fever.  Limbs heavy.  Vision blurred.
Antoine offering his assistance.  Insisting upon it.  Waving away the
servants.  Sweeping her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing
more than air.>
	<Her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  He set her down.  Dazed.
Awake, but not.  Antoine's fingers at the fastening of her gown.
Undressing her as if she were a child.  Swiftly.  Mercilessly.
Stopping only when she lay naked before him on the bed.  His
eyes glinting cruelly.  His cold clammy hand reaching out to stroke
along her tender skin.>
	Mulder couldn't stand it any longer.  He felt certain he was
going to be physically ill.  His eyes ached with unshed tears.  Every
muscle in his body throbbed with tension.  Somehow raising his head,
he peered down at the woman beneath him.  Thankfully, he saw Scully's
eyes softly gazing up at him.  His hands shaking as if weak from 
sickness, he cradled her face in his palms.
	"I never knew," he whispered as finally one tear poured forth 
to run unchecked down his cheek.  "I swear to heaven I didn't."
	She nodded gravely, her eyes glowing with forgiveness, her
hands glancing over his face, tracing the line of his brow, his cheek.  
"I didn't betray you."
	"No," he agreed with infinite sorrow, the word barely audible.
	"I loved you," she said, her voice at the same volume as his,
her fingertips continuing their restless trek across his features, as if
she were trying to store up tactile memories of his face.  "Always."
	He shut his eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead, the
corner of her eye, her temple, her cheek. The need and the love
fueling the caresses overwhelming him.
	Scully lay beneath him, her lids lowered as well, her 
breathing slow and regular.  Finally, needing to see her once more, 
desiring to assure himself as to her condition, Mulder opened his eyes, 
and saw her gazing up at him, a smile filled with longing curving her
lips.
	"I've missed you," she said softly, then let her lashes droop
shut once more.
	And with that, Mulder felt the room spin.  Low buzzing
filled his ears, and his arms were no longer able to support his upper
body.   With a degree of desperation, he heaved himself to the side
so that he lay beside Scully on the bed, curled around her smaller body,
and yet a safe distance from her injured ribs.
	"Scully?" he queried weakly, his hand flailing until 
it found hers.  Finally latching hold, he clung to her fingers as if 
he feared she might be torn from him.
	"It's okay," she mumbled from somewhere near his ear.  
"S'okay. . . ."
	And with that, Fox Mulder passed out.

***************************************************

	"The bags are in the car."
	Dana Scully looked away from her last minute perusal of
the bathroom cabinet, and smiled at her partner.  In truth, she really 
hadn't thought that she had left anything behind.  But she had wanted 
to be certain.  After all, she didn't imagine that they would be venturing
back to New Orleans anytime soon.
	Mores the pity.
	"Great," she said with a smile as she crossed to Mulder
and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  "I guess that means that we're
just about ready to head out."
	He nodded.  "As soon as we make that visit upstairs."	
	She cocked her head and considered his expression.  He
didn't look too pained over what was to come.  Still, she needed to
be sure.  Because when all was said and done, this last minute
change in their schedule had been her idea.
	"If you don't want to do this, Mulder, I'll understand,"
she murmured as she hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of 
her jeans and regarded the man standing before her.  He was garbed
in a similar fashion.  Snug fitting denim on his bottom half, a plain
white oxford clothing his top.  She had opted instead for a soft peach 
colored cotton sweater.
	"No.  It's okay," he insisted.  "I want to."
	She arched a brow.  "It could be awkward.  It's bad enough
the sorts of looks we're going to get at the airport.  But Laura knows
you.  Knows that I was supposedly 'ill' when we returned.  She may ask
questions.  I'll do my best to allay her suspicions.  But, it may not be
enough."
	He smiled ever so slightly.  "It's all right, Scully.  I can
handle it."
	She nodded, still not entirely convinced, and wished that she 
could better explain to the man she loved what exactly was motivating 
her.  "It's just . . . I want to see her portrait." 
	"I understand," Mulder said quietly, drawing her into his arms.
	Nestling there, burrowed against his warmth, Scully looked 
back with a touch of amazement over the events of the previous night.  
It had been nearly midnight when they had finally awakened, Mulder 
first; her moments later, urged to consciousness by his soft entreaties, 
and realized that at long last it appeared their ordeal was at an end.
	Because neither of them had sensed the lingering presence 
of either Selene Broussard or Jacques LeFevre.
	"Do you think they're really gone?" she whispered from her
resting place in his embrace, her words muffled by his shirt.
	He considered for a moment, then answered, his arms 
tightening around her slender back.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  I mean . . .
why would they stay?  Selene has finally gotten what she wanted."
	"Jack?" she queried.
	"Yeah," he grunted in reply, his breath rippling her hair.  
"Although why she bothered I still don't entirely understand."
	Scully pulled back to look at him.  "Why do you say that?"
	Mulder grimaced.  "Come on, Scully.  You can't exactly call
what those two had a 'healthy relationship'."
	"Oh, so now you're Dr. Ruth?" she teased, merriment dancing
in her eyes.
	He chuckled ruefully and ducked his gaze.  "=No=.  It's just . . .
the woman haunted this house for over a century. . . haunted =us=, 
nearly killing you in the process, all for the love of a man who 
=murdered= her.  Who didn't care enough, didn't trust her enough
to listen to her side of an admittedly incriminating situation.  It just 
seems to me that no matter how you look at it, Selene got the raw end 
of the deal."
	She pondered his words for a moment, then shrugged.  "I 
don't know, Mulder.  Much as I suppose this statement is going to 
contradict a significant portion of my world view, I really don't think 
that you can logically explain the human heart.  We don't always fall 
in love with the one it appears to others would be best for us, you 
know?  The whole process is more mysterious than simply picking the 
person who seems most compatible or is considered best looking."
	"Yeah," he muttered, his eyes hooded, his lips twisting with
wry humor.  "I'd have to agree that certain pairings *are* a mystery."
	Scully didn't pretend to misunderstand him.
	"Ah.  But there is =no= mystery to our relationship, Mulder," 
she murmured before pressing a kiss to the pulse beating steadily 
at the base of his throat.
	"You think not?"
	"Uh-uh.  It's simple really when you stop to think about it."
	His gaze turned tender.  "Oh, that explains it then--I've never
been any good at simple.  Maybe you ought to just spell it out for me."
	"But, I don't need to," she said laughingly.  "You just hit 
the nail on the head.  Simple doesn't apply to you and I."
	"What do you mean?"
	"I mean that you're a challenge.  Everything about you keeps 
me on my toes."
	"Excuse me?"
	Scully laid her hand upon his cheek. "You, Agent Mulder, 
are many things.  But you are never, =ever= dull.  I've had to work 
hard to keep up with you.  Both in the field, and . . . elsewhere.  
You don't cut me much slack, you know."
	Mulder silently mulled her statement over for a time, his lips
pursed thoughtfully.  "So you're saying that you love me precisely 
because I'm not an easy man to love."
	Her eyebrow quirked again.  "Hmm.  Well, I probably wouldn't
have phrased it quite that way.  But, I suppose that, overall, that 
statement is reasonably accurate."
	He gazed down at her, slowly shaking his head.  Whether 
the subtle side to side motion was meant to signal disagreement or 
amazement she couldn't judge.  Ultimately, the point was moot.  
Because he laughed.  Shortly.
	"Whatever, Scully," he murmured softly as he folded her to 
his chest once more, and rocked her gently in his arms.  "Just do me a 
favor, okay?"
	"What?"
	"Don't stop," he whispered into her hair.  "Don't ever stop 
loving me.  No matter how difficult I may become.  Or how crazy all 
of this may get."
	"Don't worry, Mulder," she said in a husky voice as she 
nuzzled her cheek against the pocket of his shirt, wishing that the thin 
cotton barrier might somehow be magically removed and the two of 
them would once again be skin to skin.  "I took a vow somewhere along 
the line.  I don't even remember exactly when.  But, it's a promise I take
every bit as seriously as my Hippocratic oath."
	"And what promise would that be?"
	"To love you in spite of everything," she told him.  "In spite
of whatever obstacles Cancerman may throw at us or whatever monsters-- 
human and/or otherwise--get in our way."
	Mulder softly kissed the top of her head.
	"And even in spite of you, Mulder," she said quietly, gently.
"In spite of all the things that make this . . . what we have, so
difficult for you sometimes."
	He went still suddenly in her arms, his body not even pulling
in oxygen.  Then, Mulder did the unexpected.
	He chuckled.
	"You've got your work cut out for you," he told her dryly.
	Scully smiled against his warm solid frame.  "Yeah.  Well . . .
it's a good thing I don't scare easy."
	Laughter rumbled in his chest yet again.
	"=That=, Agent Scully is without a doubt the understatement 
of the century."
***************************************************
	"Anybody home?"
	Fox Mulder pushed open the heavy wooden door leading
to Laura's studio, and after ushering Scully inside, closed the portal
behind him once more.
	At first, no one answered his call.  And yet, the boom box
by the door was on, mellow classical piano the music of choice,
thus suggesting that indeed someone was in residence.  Hmm.
Perhaps their hostess had needed to step out for a moment.  This 
might not be such a bad thing.  Although Mulder recognized that he 
and Scully couldn't linger overlong, Laura's absence did allow the two
of them to take a curious look about the place, free of any scrutiny.  
              It was basically what he had expected.  Paintings, some 
little more than brushstroke sketches stood on easels scattered about 
the room, several more works in progress piled against other surfaces
as well.  A sturdy table standing on the side wall was neatly arranged 
with a variety of pigments, brushes, palettes, and other artist's tools.  
The chamber itself was enormous with ceilings made to look all that 
much taller by the skylights that for all intents and purposes had 
replaced the roof above their heads.  Consequently, the studio was 
flooded with the day's mid-afternoon sunlight.  It formed even rows of 
neat golden rectangles strung end to end across the room's hardwood 
floor, the effect suggesting that the shapes had been pressed in that 
fashion by an enormous cookie cutter.
	Then, after a moment, Mulder thought he heard something in 
the room's far corner, coming from behind what looked to be a muslin 
screen.  Water, it sounded like, barely audible beneath the music.  
Splashing a tad irregularly as if something were blocking its flow, 
moving beneath its stream.  Scully noted the faint noise as well, and 
after a quick glance in her partner's direction called out, "Hello?"
	This time, they were heard.  The water ceased its murmur, 
and Laura walked into view, her hair pulled back in a bun, her 
rounded form clad in a tie-dyed T-shirt and overalls that had 
somewhere along the way been liberally anointed with spatterings 
of paint.
	"Oh, hi!" she said with a friendly smile as she crossed towards
the couple, wiping her hands on a frayed piece of toweling.  "I'm sorry
if I ignored you.  I couldn't hear, what with the sink and Chopin."
	"That's okay," Mulder assured her with a smile of his own.
"We don't mean to bother you.  It's just that we're getting ready to go,
and we wanted to stop by before leaving.  Um . . . Laura, this is Dana 
Scully."
	Inwardly wincing, he watched as Laura's eyes settled on the
woman beside him.  They widened upon taking in the bruises on Scully's
face and neck, then narrowed, not unkindly, in speculation.  "Hello, 
Dana.  It's nice to finally meet you."
	"Likewise," Scully said, a faint hint of humor which no doubt 
came as a result of Laura's scrutiny underlying her tone.
	Laura nodded thoughtfully before pinning Mulder with her
gaze.  He met it unflinchingly, feeling a momentary sense of triumph
as he managed to do so.  "I thought that Bill had said that you had 
settled your tab with him this morning," she murmured a tad coolly.
	Seemingly aware of just where Laura's thought processes 
were headed, Scully protectively sidled up alongside Mulder.  And 
wrapping her arm around his waist, leaned her slight weight against 
him in a silent display of affection.  Her partner felt his throat thicken
in response.
	"We did," Scully said, her voice calm and firm.  "We're
all checked out.  But we wanted to do one last thing before we left."
	"What?" Laura queried, her concerns diminished by Scully's 
actions, but still not entirely gone.
	"We'd like to see Selene's portrait," Scully said.
	Laura's brows lifted.  "Selene's?  How did you even know about
that?"
	"Bill told us about it," Mulder explained, his arm draped now
across Scully's shoulders.  "He had loaned me his book, and told us that
you were working on restoring her picture."
	Laura frowned, her eyes a bit sheepish.  "Well . . . I am.  But, 
it's not finished yet.  Restoration is painstaking work, and to be honest,
I've been putting in the hours on my own stuff instead."
	Scully smiled soothingly.  "We understand.  And believe me,
neither of us are art critics.  We just . . . we'd like to see her. That's all."
	Laura regarded the couple before her intently, in a way that
made Mulder wonder just what she made of their motives.  Finally, 
however, she nodded.  A kind of understanding in her eyes.
	"Okay.  If you want to," she said softly.  "She's over here."
	Trailing behind the pretty young woman with the big brown
eyes, the two agents followed her to a muslin draped easel on the far
side of the room.  Upon it looked to be an enormous canvas, nearly as
high as Scully was tall.  Grabbing hold of the drapery, Laura tugged it
from the painting with all the panache of Houdini himself.  Scully
gasped upon seeing what lay beneath.
	"Oh my God," she murmured from Mulder's side, her words
like a prayer.
	Mulder understood the sentiment.  It was one thing to see a
black and white photograph of their apparition.  A picture where her 
face was only as big as his thumbnail.  But, this . . . this was almost 
life-sized.  All the colors, all the shadings faithfully rendered.  Mulder
didn't know who the artist had been.  But he or she had been 
exceedingly talented.  The oil was almost photographic in its accuracy.  
	And after all, he would know.
              He had seen the model first-hand.
	"Is this . . .?" Scully queried softly as she took a step closer
to the portrait.
	"Yes," he confirmed as he crossed to in back of her and 
wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind so that she rested 
against him, her back to his chest.
	Slowly, she shook her head, a few stray strands of hair tickling 
his nose.  "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"
	"Yes," he whispered again.  "Yes, she was."
	"You've heard her, haven't you?" Laura suddenly asked with
quiet surety.  Her question cutting through their rapt study of the 
painting, slicing their shared reverie in two.  "You've heard Selene."
	Scully glanced up over her shoulder at Mulder.  He shrugged,
leaving the decision in her hands.  "Yes," the auburn-haired agent told 
the woman before her.  "Yes, we have."
	Excitement glowed in Laura's eyes.  "I knew it!  I knew there
had to be a reason why you wanted to see this.  What was she like?"
	Mulder smiled over her reaction, always pleased to find a 
fellow believer.  And checking with Scully for permission, decided to
let their artistic friend in on still more of the story.  "Like that. 
Like her picture."
	"You mean you've =seen= her too!?" Laura asked, her voice
sliding up the scale until it squeaked.
	Mulder could only chuckle and nod.  And although with the 
way they were standing, he couldn't see her face, he felt certain Scully 
was smiling as well.
	"Oh, my God.  You're so =lucky=!" Laura enthused, all her 
reservations about the pair before her now forgotten in the face of 
their revelation.  "I told Bill I'd thought I'd heard her.  But he only
laughed at me.  He doesn't believe in that stuff, you know?"
	Mulder bent his head to steal a look at his partner.  She
poked him in the ribs.
	"But =I= do!" Laura continued happily, oblivious to the 
byplay going on in front of her.  "I've always known she was real.  
Well, what do you know?  Wow.  Hey, maybe I'll catch a glimpse of her 
one of these nights myself."
	"I wouldn't count on that," Mulder cautioned with a smile.
	"Why do you say that?" Laura asked, her brow creased.
	He shrugged.  "I don't know.  I just get the feeling that
Selene may not feel the need to wander these halls any longer."
	"What did you do?" Laura teased, her thrill over the event
her guests had shared proving difficult to dim.  "Perform an exorcism?"
	Scully stepped away from Mulder's arms, but reached out
and took hold of his hand, almost as if she regretted breaking the
embrace they had shared.  "No, I don't think that either of us is quite
qualified for something like that."
	Laura tilted her head.  "Then why do you think Selene
is through with this place?"
	"There isn't anything she needs here anymore," Scully
explained a tad wistfully, her gaze drifting over to Mulder's and
staying there.  "Somebody told me once that only unhappy souls
feel the need to haunt."
	Laura nodded.  "Well, I guess that's true.  I mean . . . that's
what you always see in all those old horror movies."
	Scully smiled.  "Well, I think what Mulder here was trying
to say is that we have reason to believe that Selene is no longer quite
so . . . troubled.  And that's a good thing, isn't it?"
	Laura considered, her gaze flitting back and forth between
the pair holding hands before her as if trying to determine the full
scope of their knowledge.  They looked back at her, their eyes friendly
and yet utterly without the information she sought.  Sighing, she 
finally nodded once more, the action executed a tad reluctantly.  "I 
suppose so."
	"Believe me, it is," Mulder assured the brunette, and with a 
quick peek at the woman beside him for confirmation, crossed to 
Laura to offer her his hand.  "And now we really do have to go."
	Laura grasped his hand warmly, her smile genuine.
"Thank you for staying at La Lune Argentine, Mr. Mulder, Dana.
Bill and I hope to see you again sometime."
	"We'd like that," Scully said, offering her hand as well.
"And thanks.  For everything."
	"My pleasure," Laura murmured as she watched her former
guests walk away from her and towards the door, her hands absent-
mindedly twisting the towel in her hands as she pondered all that 
they had said.
              And all that they had not.
              The couple had almost reached the room's entryway before 
she spoke one last time.
	"Dana!" the woman in the overalls called on a hunch.
	The pair by the door turned at the sound of her voice, 
Mulder's hand on the small of Scully's back.
	"You got those bruises staying here, didn't you?" Laura asked,
her tone of voice clearly suggesting she would brook no prevarication.
	Still, Scully glanced at Mulder before answering.  He did
little more than shrug.  But it was enough for her to recognize that her 
partner had left it up to her.  "Yes, I did."
	Laura slowly nodded.  "Should I be worried?"
	"No," Scully said softly, her gaze steady and reassuring.  "No.  
We don't think so."
	Laura let out a great sigh of relief.  "Thank you."
	The couple before her smiled again.
	And exited her studio.
***************************************************
	"Are we there yet, Mom?"
	Scully smiled and squeezed the hand of the man sitting next
to her, his long legs folded like an accordion into the narrow space
between their pair of airplane seats and the seats in front of them.
	"Almost," she murmured, knowing that the flight attendant's 
announcement instructing them to ready themselves for landing had 
undoubtedly been what had awakened Mulder.  She too had been 
dozing, her head resting on his shoulder, prior to the crackle and pop 
of the intercom.
	"You know, I have to admit, this is nice," she commented
softly.
	"What is?"
	"Our traveling like this," she replied.  "Together, rather 
than playing James and Jane Bond."
	"What?" Mulder asked with a sleepy chuckle.  "You didn't
like our earlier Spy vs. Spy mode of transportation?" 
	Her lips tilted in a wry half-smile.  "Mulder, between all
the changing of planes and my luggage taking a hike, what should 
have been a three hour flight took nearly twice that long."
	"Yeah.  Well . . . much as I'm enjoying this too, I still wish 
that we had been able to find separate flights, Scully," Mulder said, 
his tone suddenly turning a tad more serious.
	"It couldn't be helped," she said philosophically.  "Nothing
else was available.  Not until tomorrow.  Besides--do you actually 
think that we're in any danger?"
	He shrugged.  "I don't know.  We did use assumed names,
after all.  And I paid for the tickets in cash.  Still, it could be that I 
had already blown it days ago with the rental car.  I mean . . . if 
anyone had *really* wanted to find us, all they would have had to 
do is track my credit card.  But, who knows?  Maybe we got lucky.  
Maybe nobody is watching."
	Scully considered his words for a moment, then sighed.  
"You know, our being together isn't a crime."
	He turned in his seat to face her more fully, his lips close
to her cheek.  "No, it isn't.  But, it could have consequences."
	"I know," she said with a tiny nod, her voice hushed.  "I
know the rules, Mulder.  It's just that not having to live by them
the past few days has made me less tolerant of them.  That's all."
	His eyes searched her face, his gaze a trifle concerned.  
"No regrets, Scully?"
	She smiled warmly, and spoke without hesitation.  "No 
regrets."
	His lips curving as well, Mulder raised her hand to his 
mouth, and pressed a quick kiss to its back.
	Just then, the gentle floating motion their aircraft had
settled into as it landed altered, coming to an end as the wheels
touched down on the tarmac with a bump and a bounce.
	"Welcome home, Scully," Mulder whispered near her ear.
	And Scully knew that as long as she was by his side, home
was exactly where she would be.
***************************************************
	The man in the trench coat studied the young couple as they
embarked from the gate area.  Walking close.  Talking softly.  The 
woman so much shorter than her companion.  Both of them rumpled 
from their journey.  Tired, it appeared.  But happy.  He could see that 
from across the crowded airport corridor where he sat, hidden in the 
shadows of one of Dulles' several bars.
	The man swallowed the last of his watered down scotch 
and pulled from his pocket his cell phone, knowing as he did so that 
he looked to any curious passer-by like any other business traveler.  
Medium height, medium age, medium build.  Nothing to distinguish 
him from the crowd.  Nothing to set him apart.
	That would only have defeated his purpose.
	And despite the fact that he would not, indeed, be climbing
aboard a plane that evening bound for distant lands, his trip to the 
airport did in the end have its purpose.  
              He was there to watch.
	And report.
	"They've arrived," he murmured into his phone.  "Just as we 
had believed they would."
	The voice on the other end was pleased.  And asked him the
question he had been expecting.  The one he had been sent to confirm.
	But before he answered, his eyes wandered back to the subjects 
of his mission once more.  The couple was laughing as they struggled 
to control the trolley on which the petite auburn-haired woman was 
pulling her carry-on bag.  Despite their best efforts, the apparatus 
wouldn't cooperate.  And when she tried to quickly lean down to grab 
her bag before it tumbled to the floor entirely, she winced.  The 
movement sharp, and painful looking.  The tall dark-haired man 
gently cupped his hand around her elbow and guided her upright once 
more, his head bent to ear, his expression tender.  He asked the woman 
something.  She nodded.  Then, his brow still furrowed with concern, 
the man combed his fingers through the hair at the woman's temple, 
lightly pushing the shiny strands away from her face.  His hand 
lingering for just a moment on the curve of her cheek.
	The man at the bar smiled.
	"Yes, sir.  I'd say that your information is correct.  From what
I have been able to gather, Agents Mulder and Scully have chosen to 
move their relationship to a decidedly non-professional level."
	The voice at the other end was silent for a moment before
softly murmuring a single word.
	Good.
	"How would you like me to proceed, sir?" asked the man in
the trench coat, a certain eagerness in his tone.
	 But the voice told him to go home.  To get a good night's 
sleep.
	After all, they didn't need to act on this information 
immediately.
	They had all the time in the world.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END

Heh . . . heh.

Evil, I know.  I can't help myself.  It's all those hours staring at a 
computer screen.  It'll *warp* ya, I tell ya!!

I may not get to this for awhile.  Other stories are demanding my 
attention.  But, I promise you.  I =will= deal with this new twist in 
the tale.

Eventually.  ;)

Peace