TITLE:   WORDS 9: WORDS TO LIVE BY
AUTHOR:  KAREN RASCH
E-MAIL:  krasch@delphi.com
RATING:  NC-17

While the actual intro to this piece can be found just prior to 
chapter one, I wanted to start things off with a brief note of 
explanation.

This has little, if anything to do with the story.  Please feel free
to skip it entirely if personal disclosure isn't your bag.  :-)

This has been a wacky year for me.  In addition to having a 
whole slew of life changes to muddle through, many of you 
know that I was also robbed in late June.  The thieves broke 
in when I was out of town and made off with many of my 
valuables, the most damaging of which being my computer.  
It wasn't just the hardware that I missed, but the first six pages 
of WTLB, chapter 16.  I had been struggling with that measly 
15K for months at that point, distracted by workplace angst 
and general writer's burnout.  

I was fortunate enough to be able to replace my stolen computer
within a month's time.  However, the new machine proved to
have a faulty modem.  So, while I was able to write, I couldn't
get on the web.  The computer was, of course, under warranty.
Unfortunately, to get it fixed I would have had to bundle the 
thing back into its original packaging and ship it off to the 
manufacturer.  Being without a car, such an arrangement was 
frankly more hassle than I could stand at that particular point 
in my life.  I decided I would simply wait until I moved (which 
I did last month), get a cable modem, and bypass the problem 
entirely.

So, here I am, many months later.  :-)  If you've written to me
and haven't received an answer, chances are, I haven't seen your
letter.  I haven't even attempted to open my in-box since mid-July.  
That's on this week's "To-Do" list.  <g>  I also hope to get caught 
up on my fanfic reading.  From time to time, I'd surf over to 
Ephemeral during my lunch hour and grab a story or two.  However, 
I know I've overlooked stuff along the way.  If there are any "don''t-
miss" stories you'd like to recommend, I'd appreciate the heads-up.  
Basically, I need to get re-acclimated to the community.  After all, 
we've only got a year left to go (I believe that to be the case despite 
the devastation that is Fox's fall line-up).  I want to enjoy this crazy 
online world while I can.

And finally, here's my contribution to said world.  Sorry for making 
all those who were reading it chapter-by-chapter wait so long for its 
conclusion.

Karen
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch
XXXXXXXXXXXXX

I've been talking about this story for quite awhile now.  I knew
the outline of it way back when I wrote "At a Loss", but before
I felt as if I could tackle it, I needed to fill in some of the gaps
for myself.  Hopefully, that mission has been accomplished.  I
guess you guys will be the judge.

Category:  MSRTA (honest!)

Spoilers:  Not really.  Like all the Words Universe, this is set
post-abduction and pre-cancer.  Expect no episode references
past Season Three.  You may want to read the other "Words"
stories to understand what has come before.

Summary:  The Smoker and his buddies are on to our heroes'
relationship.  In order to save Mulder, Scully must leave him.
But will she be strong enough to do either?

Chronology:  Sequentially, this comes after "At a Loss for
Words" and before "A Mother's Words."

Disclaimer:  While I like to think this universe is mine, the
characters who inhabit it are not.  Mulder, Scully, the Cigarette
Smoking Man, Skinner, and the rest are all the property of
Fox Television, 1013, and Chris Carter.

Side Note:  Please realize that while the cabin from "Coming
Back" and "The Calm After the Storm" makes its reappearance
here, those stories are not connected with any of the "Words"
tales.  It's just that I already know in my head what that structure
looks like.  So why reinvent the wheel?

***************************************************

Dana Scully was exhausted that early September evening when she
pulled up in front of her apartment building and maneuvered
her motor pool Taurus into a fortuitous, nearby space.  No
sooner had she lined up the Ford the way she wanted it than,
almost as if in greeting, the block's street lamps flickered
to life, glowing like a double column of oversized fireflies.
Was it that late already? she wearily wondered, killing the
ignition.  Good Lord.  She had been locked away in the
basement for so long she had nearly forgotten what daytime
looked like.  And with night falling earlier and earlier as summer
drew to a close, little was left of that particular Thursday to offer
her much in the way of clues.  The sun had long since set below
the surrounding rooftops, leaving behind only a fuchsia aura
as a reminder of its brilliance, the sky itself having turned
from cloud-free blue to dusky purple.

Pushing open the car door and sliding from behind the wheel,
she stood and arched her back, smiling with a kind of pained
pleasure when she heard three soft pops sound from the base
of her spine.

Boy.  A few more weeks like this one and all those thin, little
vertebrae were going to fuse together for good, she thought.  It
seemed inevitable what with all the hours she had spent lately
hunched before her computer, researching, or bent over one
form or another, filling in the blanks.  It was review time at
the J. Edgar Hoover Building--that yearly period when all
federal agents took stock not only of their accomplishments,
but also of the accomplishments of those directly under them.
It was a tedious process, one predicated upon an endless
succession of reports.  Scully tolerated it as best she could, but
her boredom was such she almost wished Mulder would dig
up a case requiring them to go traipsing through a nice, dense
forest somewhere trailing after Bigfoot's surlier younger
brother.

Almost.

However, seeing as a road trip to escape the paperwork blues
was by any measure unlikely, she decided instead to indulge
in a bath to buoy her mood.  A long, hot one.  Vanilla scented
bubbles.  Merlot on the side.

Paradise.

Smiling now in anticipation, she made her way down the
corridor towards her apartment, her mind drifting, her
step leisurely.  She unlocked her door and entered, juggling
her mail, briefcase, and keys.  Depositing her belongings on
the hall table, she shrugged out of her blazer, her back to the
living room.  With only the streetlights and faintest remnants
of day leaking through the blinds, she was operating more on
instinct than any real sense of sight.  Toeing off her heels, she
stretched out her hand for the wall switch, intending to remedy
the situation.

When all at once she realized she wasn't alone.

"Good evening, Agent Scully," intoned a man seated at her
kitchen table, alerting her to his presence.

Hearing the unfamiliar voice, she whirled, eyes wide with
bewilderment and shock.  An older man calmly looked back
at her, his hound dog face providing her with his identity in
a way his murmur had not.  The Smoker.  The man Mulder
claimed was responsible for ordering her abduction and the
death of his father.

"Make yourself comfortable," he continued, his tone silky
and low.  "After all, this is your home."

Her home.  The murdering bastard was sitting there, smug
as you please, after having obviously broken into her home.

Incensed at the idea, her hands flew to the small of her back,
struggling to free the gun she had holstered there.

"Let's keep it friendly, shall we?" suggested her visitor as he
withdrew a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.
"I only want to talk."

With that, another man stepped into her line of vision, emerging
from his hiding place in the shadows.  This intruder was larger
and younger than the other.  Dark, sleekly styled hair.  Broad
shoulders.  Thick neck.  Hired muscle, she grimly recognized.
Not all the expensive tailoring in the world could disguise the
banked power lurking beneath his Italian-cut finery.  The
bruiser hovered protectively behind the man seated at the table,
his meaty hands poised on his hips just inside his suit coat; his
right one inches from the automatic tucked into the waistband
of his pants.

In a quick draw contest, she wouldn't stand a chance.

"What do you want?" she asked without ceremony or fear, her
arms falling reluctantly to her sides.  She'd bide her time, she
decided.  Hear him out.  Wait for the proper moment to make
her move.  With a little luck, she might be able to get the two
of them on breaking and entering.

"Why don't you come here and sit down?" the first man offered
with just a touch of condescension, slipping a Morley between
his lips as he spoke.  "You've no doubt had a long day.  I'm sure
you'd like to unwind."

"I prefer to stand," Scully said, wishing she had left on her
shoes.  She felt far too vulnerable, small and girlish, opposing
these two men in her stocking feet.

If either male noticed her discomfiture, they chose not to
comment upon it.  The older one merely flicked his lighter
beneath the end of his cigarette, setting it ablaze.  Drawing
hard on his stick of tobacco, he pocketed the silver-cased
butane, his eyes never leaving hers.  Letting the smoke drool
like water from his lips, he leaned back in his seat and
shrugged.  "Suit yourself."

She nodded.

"But place your weapon on the table."

Her gaze shifted from The Smoker to his henchman.  The
big man's gun no longer rested idly at his waist.

It was instead gripped tightly in his hand.  And pointed
at her chest.

She hesitated only an instant.  Then, lips thinned, she did
as she was told.

"That's better," said the man seated opposite her.  Stretching
forward, he pulled her Sig Sauer to directly in front of him,
effectively putting it entirely out of her reach.  With practiced
skill, he removed the ammunition clip and laid it on the
tabletop beside the weapon.

Scully bit back her frustration and waited.

"I want you to listen to something," said her unwelcome guest,
pausing between sentences to take a drag off his cigarette.
"Something I think you'll find quite interesting."

With that, he gave his hulking cohort a nod.  The younger
man crossed away from the dining area and into her living
room.  Moving with a grace that belied his size, he strode
directly to her stereo, turned it on, and popped in a cassette
tape.  Looking over his shoulder at her, he pressed "Play."

At first, she heard only static.  White noise.  Nothingness.

Then, quietly, the sound muffled yet audible, a man and a
woman began to speak.

Mulder.

And her.

In glorious Dolby stereo.

<"So what do you say, Scully?">

<"I don't know.  I have to admit . . . I'm not exactly 'in the
mood.'  All this paperwork has given me the mother of all
headaches.">

She recognized those words.  Had spoken them less than a
week ago.  Last Saturday night.  After a day spent composing
their annual departmental review.

<"Ah!  A challenge.">

Mulder.  His tone whimsical, lighthearted.  Like a little boy
who after a long day at school was looking forward to the
playground.

<A sound.  Soft suction.  Mulder's kiss.>

His seduction underway.

Scully's eyes darted to The Smoker.  He looked back at her, the
slightest suggestion of a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

No.  They wouldn't.  Not even They would . . .

<"I don't want to disappoint you.">

<"So don't.  It's your choice, Scully.  I would never force you.">

Another kiss after that, she remembered.  The brush of his
lips against hers, too gentle for the microphone to pick up.
All that sounded was the faint rustle of their clothes, and the
hushed, heated murmur of their breath.  Trying to master her
embarrassment, she drew her eyes away from The Smoker's
knowing stare, choosing instead to focus on the floor, her
arms folded protectively around her middle.

<"I am not, however, above trying to persuade you.">

Oh God.

Mulder had been a gifted lobbyist that night, she recalled.
As persuasive as any of the professionals on Capitol Hill.
She had been tired and cranky after a Saturday spent pouring
over case files and arrest reports, trying to make an argument
for keeping the X-Files open for another year.  She hadn't
been lying; a thundering headache had begun pounding behind
her eyes shortly after dinner, its rhythm beating in time to her
heart.

<"It's just stress, Scully.  Your headache.  Stress and maybe
some eyestrain from trying to decipher my handwriting.  You
need to relax.  Let me help you relax.">

"That's enough," she said tightly, her gaze lifting from her
perusal of the baseboards to light on that of the man seated
before her, poised, in control, like a king surveying his court.
"Turn it off."

"Oh no," he said, his tone mild, his expression benign, the
perverse sort of light shining in his eyes inconsistent with his
apparent kindliness.  "I want you to hear all of it."

There was no need.  She knew exactly where this would end.
The memory was only days old, fresh and vivid in her mind.

They had been in her bedroom, Mulder and she, standing
between her bed and the small low-backed chair in the corner.
His hands moving slowly over her, his lips skimming along
her throat, her cheek, dipping from time to time to taste her
mouth, he had lazily stripped her of her clothing.

<"See what I mean?  Feel how tense you are?  You shouldn't
let yourself get worked up over this stuff, Scully.  It's not as
if Skinner is going to close down the X-Files just because we
forget to cross a few T's.">

<"You were the one who said we should put in some hours
on this over the weekend.">

<"A shameless ploy to get me into your bedroom.">

<"We were working in the living room.">

<"Yeah.  But look where we are now.">

She had chuckled at that, she recalled, hearing that laughter
now almost as if it were an echo of the memory.  And despite
the throbbing in her head, she had tried to return the favor, to
rid Mulder of his jeans and T-shirt while at the same time he
peeled away hers.

<"No.  Not yet.  Let me."  A sharp creak.  His knees as he knelt
before her.>

She had stood there, just a few nights past, already naked from
the waist up, the cool breeze seeping in through the raised
casement pleasurably tightening her nipples.  Fingers threaded
through his rumpled hair, she had allowed her partner to finish
undressing her.  Handling her carefully, he had eased her feet
free from the denim pooled around her ankles.  Her socks had
followed soon after.  Then finally her panties.

<"See.  Doesn't that feel better already?  Now there's nothing
to bind you.  Nothing to make you feel . . . restrained.">

At that, he had kissed her, just above the coarse nest of hair
that sprang from the joining of her legs, his fingertips trailing
lightly over the backs of her thighs, her buttocks.

<"Mulder. . . .">

Her voice sounded husky to her now reddened ears, entreaty
drenching the word, molasses sweet and thick.

Mulder must have recognized the plea as well; because he had
then guided her backwards towards the corner chair. . . .

<"Sit.  Now scoot down.  Yeah . . . that's it.>

Listening to the tape it was clear in a way it hadn't been at the
time that anticipation had begun to affect Mulder nearly as
strongly as it had affected her.  His voice had dropped to the
depths of his register, rumbling like a kettle drum.

<"Comfy?">

<"I suppose.">

Trembling now with a combination of mortification and rage,
Scully would have given absolutely anything to stop that
cassette, to run to the stereo, wrench it free and rip the slender
magnetized strip from its casing, shredding it to bits.

Because on that Saturday evening not so many days before,
Mulder had seated her in that bedroom chair, draped her
legs over its arms, and lowered his mouth to the tender area
between her thighs.  Licking and sucking and nibbling over
every sensitive inch, he feasted on her, intent on pleasing
her as only he could.

<"Relax.">

And she was going to have to relive every single intensely
private second of that encounter.

With The Smoker and his friend as an audience.

But they would not have the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

<"Oh, Mulder. . . .  God!">

Not to them, anyway.

She wanted to die.

Scully would later question how exactly she had managed to
live through the next several minutes of her life.  How she
had been able to survive the shame without breaking down
entirely.  Even though she knew the tape couldn't have lasted
as long as all that, while she had stood there, in the dark, alone,
it had felt as if her humiliation was without end.  As if she were
going to be trapped forever in that shadowy living room, a
place that had once served as her haven, her refuge from the
evil Mulder and she daily battled.

Only now, two representatives of that wickedness stood and
watched her reaction as together the three of them eavesdropped
on the sound of her partner's lips moving open and warm
over her swollen flesh while she writhed beneath him, mindlessly
urging him on.

<"Yeah.  There . . . there. . . .  Oh . . .">

Her frantic mewling was bad enough, but the soft, wet sounds
Mulder made as he coaxed from her those cries were far worse,
their wordless yet telling murmurs damning.

<"Mmm. . . oh . . .">

As she listened, she could see the two of them, Mulder and
she, plainly picture them.  She, naked and flushed, her eyes
squeezed shut, her face tipped towards the ceiling, her toes
curled, every particle of her being concentrated on nothing
but his mouth, straining towards it, asking for more.  Begging
him to end the ache.  He, still clothed, his tousled head bent
over her, bobbing, his nose nuzzling her curls.  His tongue
unerringly finding that perfect point, that exact spot, and then
massaging it, rubbing over it in small, tight circles.  His fingers
pressed against her soft, yielding thighs, holding her open,
defenseless against his onslaught, his own arousal heavy and
hard beneath his jeans.

And if she was envisioning the scene, screening it inside her
head like one of Mulder's videos, she had no doubt the men
standing there with her were similarly engaged.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked at last, angry tears held
just barely in check, her hands fisted now at her sides.

"Why does anyone do anything?" The Smoker countered
serenely, stubbing out his spent Morley in the houseplant
centered on her kitchen table  "Why do you and Mulder do
this?"

<A tortured sounding groan growled low and rough, torn
from her lips, seemingly against her will.>

"For pleasure, I expect," he continued, that same unholy
amusement yet twinkling in his eyes.  "But perhaps there's
another reason, something else you seek."

<"Mulder . . . oh . . yeah . . .">

"What would that be, Agent Scully?" he prodded, clasping his
hands together and leaning towards her as if hoping to capture
her confidence.  "Why is it you fuck your partner?"

<"Yeah. . . . =Oh!=">

And with that sharp, bitten off yelp, Scully's ordeal ended
as quickly as it had begun.  The woman on the tape moaned
in ecstasy, signaling her climax.  Waiting only a moment for
her voice to crack then shatter into a long, breathy exhale, The
Smoker nodded to his helper.  Immediately, the other man
stopped the cassette and, ejecting it from the player, pocketed
it again.

And for a moment, the three of them simply held their
positions in silence.  The men giving away nothing with
their stony countenances, Scully breathing rapid and hard,
trying desperately to keep from flying apart under the strain.

"As you can imagine, there are other tapes such as this one,"
the Smoker said after a time, his tone conversational.  "Several,
in fact.  Some recorded at his apartment, some at yours."

He paused, almost as if inviting commentary.  But for the life
of her, Scully couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"We've yet to stumble across anything . . . untoward taking
place while you've actually been on the job."  With that, he
smiled, toying with her now like a lazy tom with a confused,
overmatched mouse.  "I really must commend you two on your
professionalism."

"What difference does it make?" she gritted out, taking a step
towards The Cigarette Man, her backbone rigid.  "We're not
breaking any laws.  The FBI has no policy forbidding personal
relationships between employees."

"True," he admitted with a nod.  "Technically, your employers
have no say over your personal lives."

"Then why are you so interested in them?" she asked.

"Because I do."

At first, his bland proclamation took her so much by surprise
she could only blink her astonishment.  Then, a grunt of
humorless laughter forced its way past her lips.

"Oh really?"

Hearing Scully's softly spoken challenge, the second man
abandoned his post at her stereo, crossing instead towards
the pair at the table.  Seeing him stride closer, The Smoker
lifted his hand, staying The Henchman.  Like a show dog
demonstrating obedience, the big man stopped almost at
once, midway between his target and his starting place.

"I brought you this tape, Agent Scully, as proof," said The
Smoker, in contrast, apparently unruffled by her reaction.
"Evidence, if you will, to substantiate our claim."

Her brow arched dangerously.  "And what claim is that?"

"You're sleeping with your partner," her nemesis said
bluntly.

"I don't see what--"

"And that has got to stop."

"=What=?" she said, eyes wide, as she took a step nearer
to the man, her hands resting now on the back of one of
the table's chairs.  "What are you talking about?  Why
do you care what Mulder and I do?  We don't work for you."

"No, you don't," he agreed easily as he tapped another
Morley free of its pack.  "You work against me.  You
both do."

Scully shook her head in frustration.  "I don't understand."

He dug out his lighter from his coat pocket, worrying it
between his fingers while he spoke, the cigarette already
dangling between his lips.  "My colleagues and I made a
mistake when we first teamed you with Agent Mulder.
We had thought that giving him a partner--particularly
one who was skeptical of his work, his beliefs--would slow
him down.  Interfere with his investigations."

He paused to light up, pulling deeply on the Morley, his
cheeks hollowing with the effort.

"But that didn't happen," he continued, his face now shrouded
in smoke.  "Instead, his confidence grew, his solve rate soared."

He eyed her darkly, his cigarette pinched between his thumb
and forefinger, the effect oddly effeminate.  "The only time
that trend has reversed was when you were missing."

Her hands tightening around the chair's thick wooden back,
Scully wished she instead had them wrapped around his
throat.

"In the months since you two have gotten . . . closer, matters
have only worsened," he said, taking another puff.  "You
have brought a certain stability to the work, a methodology,
a maturity that despite his years, Mulder once lacked.  You
two complement each other in ways we had never considered.
Together, you are a threat to our work."

How strange, she thought.  How surreal to be standing there
with the man responsible for any of a number of atrocities
perpetrated against her and her partner, listening to him
list her accomplishments, praising her as if she were a prized
pupil.

"And that can't be allowed to continue.  Our mistake must be
remedied."

His pronouncement didn't frighten her.  It only made her
furious.

"I don't have to listen to this," she said coldly, pushing away
from the chair to stand, feet planted shoulder's width apart,
her stance clearly combative.  "Get out of my apartment."

The Smoker didn't move.  "I'm afraid you do need to listen,
Agent Scully.  That is . . . if you want to keep Agent Mulder
alive."

An icy tendril of fear began inching its way down her spine,
weakening her resolve.  "What do you mean?"

"I told you.  With you, Mulder has become more than a nuisance.
He has become a detriment to our work.  Someone we can no
longer ignore."

He pulled once more on the Morley.  "He needs to be taken
out of the picture.  Eliminated."

Her blood ran frigid and fast through her veins, her pulse
suddenly roaring in her ears.  "If you so much as lay a hand
on him, so help me God--"

"Oh, come now," The Smoker said, chuckling indulgently
at her outburst.  "Do you honestly believe you could stop us
if we chose to end your partner's life?"

Oh please, God.  Not that.  Not now.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Agent Scully?" he slyly asked,
almost as if he sensed her terror, and like any predator scenting
vulnerability, was moving in for the kill.

"Yes," she said softly, her mouth parched, her heart beating
wildly.

"It's easy, isn't it?" he asked, the question almost chummy.  "So
simple and so many ways to do it.  A bullet, a knife, a car crash,
a fall.  The human body isn't nearly as resilient as we like to
think.  Bones can be brittle.  Skin, paper thin."

"Why are you telling me this?" she queried hoarsely, fearing
she already knew the answer.

"Agent Mulder lives because I allow it," he replied, his
cigarette once more poised between his fingers.  "I protect
him."

"Why?" she asked again, knowing this was a question Mulder
himself asked from time to time.

The Smoker shrugged.  "Past alliances.  Debts which are
owed by me and by others.  A certain fondness for his family.
Call it a whim if you like."

He took one last puff then stubbed out this Morley like he
had the first.  "Unfortunately, the time for such indulgences
is at an end."

"I won't let you hurt him," she quietly swore, her words spoken
like the most sacred of oaths.

The Smoker smiled, unfazed.  "That won't be necessary if you
do your part."

"Which is?"

"Leave him.  Leave Mulder and the X-Files.  Walk away."

A kind of disbelieving laughter welled up inside of her, bubbling
from her lips in a series of wet-sounding chuckles, the sort that
threatened at any moment to turn into sobs.  "You want me to
quit the FBI?"

"Oh, I don't know if it needs to come to that," The Smoker said,
pursing his lips as if considering the scenario.  "I'm sure I could
arrange for a transfer to any office you like.  Any department you
like."

"If I resign as Mulder's partner," she said, her words a statement,
not a query.

"And as his lover," he murmured, watching her with hooded
eyes.

For a breath or two, Scully just stood there, shaking her head,
her expression incredulous.  "That's crazy.  Even if I agreed,
what makes you think Mulder would let me go without a fight?"

"Oh, I'm well aware of your partner's devotion to you, Agent
Scully," he assured her grimly.  "We've been closely monitoring
you these past few months.  I know how much he depends upon
you, both on the job and off."

Monitoring her for months.  Good Lord, exactly how many
tapes like that were there? she wondered in dismay.  Had
Mulder and she enjoyed even a moment's privacy since they
had consummated their relationship?

"He won't believe me," she said, desperately searching for
an argument to refuse his demands.  "I can't just end
what we have without a reason.  He'll be suspicious."

The Smoker's face was without sympathy or mercy.  "That's
your problem.  You have to find a way to make him believe.
It's either that, or I arrange for Agent Mulder to suffer an
unfortunate accident.  The choice is entirely up to you.  I
place his life in your hands."

"If he dies, I'll kill you," she whispered, her eyes filling with
fiery tears.  "I don't care what rock you hide under, I'll find
you."

"Agent Mulder stands to live a long and healthy life," he said
soothingly, his mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile.
"One without you, true.  But then . . . is laying between your
legs really worth dying for?"

Her cheeks burned with chagrin.  If she had been armed, she
would have happily pumped every last bullet into his smiling,
hateful face.

"It's simple, Agent Scully," he said briskly, the matter apparently
settled in his eyes.  "End your relationship with Mulder and the
X-Files.  Move on."

The Smoker then rose, his action acting as a signal to his
assistant.  The larger man saw it and crossed to stand beside
him once more.

"If you can't do that, if you can't bear to leave your partner
and the basement, you will leave me no choice but to find
another way of rendering him less . . . effective."

He paused there for a moment in her all but light-less
apartment, taller than she had first thought, all legs and arms,
studying her almost thoughtfully.   "It's not so much to ask,
when you think about it.  Couples break up everyday.  You
know what they say--all good things come to an end.  Yours
and Mulder's just came a bit sooner than you had anticipated."

Together, the men crossed past her for the door, The Henchman
quelling any heroic notions she might have entertained by
keeping his automatic pointed in her direction.

Scully watched them go, her mind whirring, franticly trying
to come up with something to turn it all around, to allow her
some small victory.  Something, at least, to work with.  A
chance to think. . . .

"I'll need time."

Her visitors turned to regard her, the older one with his hand
resting on her front doorknob.

"I can't just break it off with him," she said, clearing her throat.
"If you want me to convince him, I'll need to work up to it.  To
make it seem real."

The Smoker considered her request for a second or two.  "All
right.  You can have some time."

She breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"But know my patience is not without limits," he warned, his
voice ominous in the darkness.  "We will be watching you,
Agent Scully.  One word, spoken to Mulder or anyone else,
and his life is forfeited.  There will be no second chances.  Do
you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered with dread.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to save him," he told her quietly,
his shadow lean and menacing, staining the floor between them
like inky blood.  "To save you both.  Don't make me regret my
generosity."

And without another word, he and his companion slipped out
of her apartment and into the light.

While Scully stood motionless in the darkness, wondering if
this was a nightmare from which she would ever be allowed
to awaken.

***************************************************

9:38

At most, mid-morning.

Still, late nonetheless.

Standing at his office file cabinets in his shirtsleeves, Fox
Mulder glanced from the pages in his hand to his watch and
pursed his lips in concern.  Scully should have been there by
now.  What could be detaining her?  True, with the hours he
kept, she almost never beat him in the door.  Just the same,
she was usually at work by nine.

Did she have an appointment or something he had forgotten
to write down?

He had just crossed to his desk and picked up the phone,
thinking he would try her cell, when she breezed in the door,
her cheeks flushed, her hair wind-tousled, briefcase and an
extra large cup of coffee in her hands.

"Hey, Scully," he murmured casually, his eyes sweeping over
her, surreptitiously checking for clues as to the reason for her
tardiness, searching for signs of injury or distress.  On the
surface, all seemed to be well.  She appeared perfectly sound.
Pant-suit clad and ready for business.  A bit harried, perhaps,
her gaze shadowed with what looked to be annoyance or
anxiety.  But that was to be expected if she had rushed to
get downtown.

"Morning, Mulder.  Sorry I'm late."

"Traffic bad?" he queried as he perched his hip alongside his
computer monitor and watched her settle in for the morning.

"No," she mumbled, unpacking her briefcase, her eyes averted
from his.  "I overslept."

"Late night?" he asked, his tone light, his eyebrows raised.

"Long week," she answered, glancing up at him for just an
instant, a tight, almost embarrassed smile stretching her lips.

"Well, I don't know if this is any consolation," he said, pressing
to his feet and strolling to stand before her, his hands buried
deep in his trouser pockets.  "But, the worst of 'review week'
should be over.  When I got home last night, I keyed in those
last few edits we'd talked about.  Then, this morning, I ran
copies of all the support data we'd collected, put the two
together and dumped it all in Skinner's in-box."

"Great," she said absently, booting up her computer, her
focus on it rather than on him and his news.  "That's good
to hear."

Studying her, shadow painted by the office's fluorescents, the
tiniest glimmer of unease flickered at the edges of Mulder's
consciousness, its sparkle too quick and too faint for him to
fully grasp what was being revealed to him.

"You all right, Scully?" he asked at last, wishing he could be
more original, but unsure how else to voice his worry.

That brought her gaze to his.  "I'm fine," she said with
another small smile.  "It's just . . .  I'm really ready for the
weekend.  You know?"

Rather than returning her smile, he searched her eyes.
Ocean-blue, they regarded him mildly.  He thought he
spied the weariness to which she had alluded swimming
in their depths, clouding the water.

Otherwise, she looked okay.

Didn't she?

He couldn't decide.  So, in the end, he murmured only, "It's
been a long week."

She nodded and returned to her work.

Which left him standing there, staring stupidly at her profile,
unable to fully shake his disquiet.

Yet he couldn't just gape at her all day.

"Uh, listen, Scully," he said, clearing his throat and running
his hand distractedly through his hair.  "The guys in VC
wanted my opinion on that stalker they've been tracking in
Philly.  So, I think I'm gonna go up and--"

"Go ahead," she urged, pulling open her desk drawer and
rummaging around its contents.  "I've got stuff to do.  I'll see
you when you get back."

"All right then," he said evenly, trying not to feel as if he were
being summarily dismissed.  Which it sure as hell seemed as
if he were.  "Maybe if I get back in time, we can grab a sandwich
or something for lunch."

"Sounds good," she said brightly, shutting the drawer and
swiveling back to her computer, newly selected ballpoint and
legal pad in hand.

Hesitating for an instant, Mulder finally nodded.  Then,
retrieving his suit coat from the back of his chair, he slung it
over his shoulder and exited the office, his brow knit in thought.

Scully waited until she heard the elevator doors open and
close before she bent down and popped open her briefcase.
Withdrawing from it the evidence bag she had packed
that morning, she headed for the door, her prize clutched
tightly in her hand.  But rather than following her partner's
path, she turned away from the bank of elevators at the end
of the corridor, hurrying instead towards the stairs opposite
them.  Let Mulder ride inside that creaky old Otis.  Violent
Crimes was five floors up.

While the Identification Unit was only two flights away.

                        *****

"Who is it?"

"It's Scully, Frohike.  Open up."

At a few minutes after one, Dana Scully stood outside the
headquarters of the Lone Gunmen, impatient, exhausted,
and feeling more than a trifle guilty.

She had slept little the night before, only managing to fall
into an uneasy slumber just before dawn.  Despite her nagging
fatigue, she had been far too keyed up to snooze.  She hadn't
the time.

She needed to plan.

Locks clicked behind the thick, metal door, one after another,
like machinegun fire.  Once, such precautions would have
amused her.

Not anymore.

After the previous evening's confrontation, she recognized
them as necessary.

Which was why she had come to these three men when she
should have been having lunch with her partner.

Oh boy.  Mulder was not going to like that note she had left
on his desk.

<Had errands to run.  Don't know if I'll be back.  Have a good
weekend.>

I'll make it up to you, Mulder, she silently promised, her arms
folded tightly across her chest.  I swear I will.

"The lovely Agent Scully," murmured the diminutive man
framed in the now open doorway, a certain endearing eagerness
in his eyes.  "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I need your help," she said, stepping past him and into the
Gunmen's den, squinting as her eyes adjusted from mid-
afternoon sun to the near darkness within.

"Always happy to oblige," Melvin Frohike said, securing the
door behind them once more, the fringe on his suede vest
swinging lazily as he moved.  "What can we do for you?"

"Where's Mulder?" Langley asked before she could reply,
looking up from where he sat at a nearby counter, a sub
sandwich, chips, and soda spread before him, his mouth
half full when he spoke.

"Working," she said shortly.  "He doesn't know I'm here."

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Byers queried, crossing towards
her from a bank of computers on the far wall, his kind eyes
bright with curiosity.

"This doesn't concern him," Scully said, hoping against hope
she had built enough trust with these men over the years for
them to keep this visit from Mulder.  If not, she was in big
trouble.  As was her partner.  "This is about me and my
problem."

"And what problem would that be?" Frohike asked, sidling up
alongside of her.

"I think I'm being bugged," she told them, her expression grim.
"And I need you to tell me how to get rid of them."

                        *****

"Well, looks like your suspicions were right on," Langley
admitted, dropping four small silvery objects into her open
hand.  She gasped when their slight weight landed with a
silent thud against her palm.  "Bugs.  And I don't mean
cockroaches."

Swallowing hard, she gazed at them in disbelief.

Oh my God.

Scully didn't know why the sight of the listening devices
unnerved her so.  After all, The Smoker had been far from
subtle in providing her with proof of his treachery.  Still, it
was one thing to be told she was under surveillance and
quite another to hold the evidence in her grasp.  Shit.  She
half expected one of the tiny microphones to suddenly
develop teeth and take a bite out of her flesh.  They were
simply that menacing to her.

Surrounded by the Gunmen, like Snow White amongst the
dwarves, she stared at the bugs with a mixture of repulsion
and fascination, rolling them between her fingers like dice.
"Where did you find them?" she queried softly at last.

"Two were in the phones, the others we found in the living
room and bedroom," Byers said, standing opposite her, his
tone almost apologetic.  "Don't worry.  We've taken the
liberty of deactivating them.  They're nothing more than
scrap metal now."

"Is this all of them?" she asked, lifting her eyes from the
bits of circuitry to question the trio.

Hovering protectively on her right, Frohike shrugged, then
nodded for emphasis.  "Should be.  We've been over the
place three times."

Three times.  The Gunmen had been busy while she had
been out.

"But you should realize, Agent Scully, just because we've
gotten rid of these, that doesn't necessarily guarantee you
won't still be listened in on," Byers said.

"What do you mean?" she said with a frown, her insides
knotting with dread.

"There are other ways to get the job done," Langley said
bluntly, towering over her on the left.  "Remotes, satellites
even."

"Satellites?" she echoed, shaking her head in denial.  "Why
would . . . ?  I can't imagine anyone would consider me
important enough to aim a satellite at."

"You'd be surprised, Agent Scully," Frohike said gently.  "It's
easier than you'd think.  That kind of thing doesn't just happen
in techno-thrillers anymore."

Her life was turning into one big techno-thriller, she thought
with dismay, one written by Tom Clancy with an assist from
Stephen King.

"They could even keep it simple, come back and replant
devices similar to these," Langley said, gesturing to the objects
in her fist.  "If they got in once, they can do it again."

"Oh, that's reassuring," Frohike muttered, throwing his long-
haired cohort a scathing look.

"What?" Langley asked blankly.

"If you like, we could come back and sweep the place every
couple of days," Byers offered in a rush, seemingly also trying
to make amends for his associate's tactlessness.  "Till this is
over, I mean."

Smiling wistfully, Scully shook her head once more.  "No. . .
no.  Thanks.  But if what you've told me is true, I don't see
what good it would do."

Pivoting towards Frohike, she took his right hand in her left.
Turning it palm up, she placed the now dead bugs in its center
then pressed his fingers around them, sealing it shut.  "I'm
sorry I wasted your time."

"You . . . you didn't *waste*--," the little man began,
stammering at her touch.

"I do need one more favor though," she quietly confessed,
her hand still resting lightly on his.

"Name it," he said fervently, staring at her with unabashed
devotion.

"It's a long shot, but see if you can dig up anything on who
manufactured these things."

"Three guesses," Langley mumbled, his brows lifted behind his
thick black frames.

She nodded.  "I won't be surprised if it's a government vendor.
But I would like to know for sure."

She gave Frohike's hand a friendly little squeeze before releasing
it.  "In case."

"In case of what?" Byers asked cautiously.

She slicked her lips and took a deep breath.  "Hang on to these.
If anything happens to Mulder or me, I want you to take them
to Assistant Director Skinner.  Tell him about this.  All of this."

"All of what?" Byers demanded, his forehead wrinkled with
care, his hands lifting and lowering feebly at his sides.  "You
haven't told us what's going on."

"Why can't you tell Mulder?" Langley asked.

"Who is it you're afraid of?" Frohike chimed in.

But Scully only shook her head.  "I've told you too much
already.  Just please, =please= trust me on this.  You can't
say anything to Mulder.  His life will be in danger if you do."

"What about your life?" Frohike gravely queried, his voice
hesitant and low.

She smiled sadly at her pint-sized friend.  "Mine is mine to
worry about."

If asked, the three men standing with her would have told her
they shared in that concern.

                        *****

Less than an hour later, Dana Scully had stripped off her
power suit and slipped into her favorite terry cloth bathrobe.
Unfortunately, this beloved article of clothing didn't provide
quite the measure of comfort it usually did.

Yet the soft tap of rain against her living room windows did
in some way ease her soul.  Its gentle sound was soothing.
And unexpected.  She couldn't recall anyone mentioning it
would be a wet weekend.

Like your mind has been on anything as ordinary as the
weather, she thought with the tiniest hint of derision.

Cup of tea in hand, she sank down onto her living room
sofa and, placing her beverage on the end table, wearily
ran her hands over her pale cheeks.

What a hellish 24 hours.

Chuckling mirthlessly, she lowered her fingers from her face
and checked the clock on the mantel to confirm her math.

8:26.

Yep.  Almost exactly a day.

So why did it feel as if she had been undergoing this particular
ordeal for decades?

She should have known not to get her hopes up.  Her plan had
never had anything but the slightest chance for success.

Yet, even recognizing the odds, for a brief time she had allowed
herself to believe she might actually have a way to fight back.

She had sat up the previous night, mind spinning frantically,
struggling to come up with a means around The Smoker's
demands.  Several hours and countless cups of tea later, she
had decided that rather than play the victim, she was going
to go on the offensive.  Her nemesis apparently knew all her
secrets.  So maybe it was time she unearthed a few of his.

Starting with his identity.

And she had prayed the thumbprint she had lifted from her
front doorknob would provide that information.

She had been so proud of herself the evening before, rustling
her dusting kit out of the suitcase she kept packed on the floor
of her closet, the one she always had handy in case Mulder
called unexpectedly, airline tickets in hand.  Wielding her
brush with the care of DaVinci, she had dabbed graphite on
the brass, the overrun drifting like sooty snow to the newspaper
laid below.  Almost magically, the lines and whorls had
appeared beneath the powder.

Yes!

Smiling with a kind of muted delight, she had painstakingly
lifted the print with tape and transferred it to the latent.  She
had then tried the same trick on her cassette player, hoping
to also assign a name to The Henchman.  Unfortunately, the
stereo's plastic casing hadn't proved as cooperative as the
doorknob's slick surface.  She would have to be satisfied with
attempting to track down only one of her two visitors.

Still, one would have been enough.  If he had appeared in any
of the Bureau's numerous databases.

"You're sure there's no match?" she had asked Agent Willa
Monroe that afternoon, unable to keep the disappointment
from her voice.  The statuesque African-American had
been a pal since the Academy, and was currently one of the
Identification Unit's senior techs.  Having left the print with
Agent Monroe that morning for analysis, Scully had snuck
back into the lab after her meeting with the Gunmen, all the
while worried she might run into Mulder in the halls of the
Hoover Building.

"The guy doesn't have a record," the ebony-skinned agent had
told her, "if that's what you mean."

"What about the Bureau database?" she had asked, her urgency
scarcely held in check.

At that, her friend had turned from her computer to eye her
with the sort of skepticism Scully usually reserved for Mulder.
"You think someone from the Bureau broke into your car?"

In the absence of a case file to assign the inquiry to, she had
needed to come up with a reason to impose upon the FBI's
resources.

And Scully had decided to make it personal.

"It was parked in the Bureau garage," she had said with what
she hoped was a nonchalant shrug.  "Seems like we should
check and see if the thief is one of our own."

Seemingly doubtful of her logic, Monroe had held her gaze
for a second or two before eventually sighing and bowing to
her request.

Only to come up empty once more.

After that, Scully had spent the remainder of the afternoon
personally searching the military and governmental databases.

With the same result.  The Smoker didn't officially exist.

It was as if her intruder had been a figment of her imagination,
as insubstantial as the smoke that had drifted from between his
lips.

Defeated, she had finally driven home, her mind more on
her phantom persecutor than on the thick Friday night traffic.
By that time, the Gunmen had already been at her apartment
for hours, meticulously searching its confines per her request.
She supposed she should have been relieved by what they
had found, justified in the paranoia that had haunted her
throughout that long, hard day.

But in the end, she just felt overwhelmed, and confused as
to how she should proceed.

Sipping thoughtfully at her tea, her melancholic musings
were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Scully?"

Mulder.

Great.  Just what she needed.

For a moment or two, she simply sat there, wondering how
best to get rid of him.  Much as it pained her to hurt him,
she simply couldn't do this right now.  Couldn't maintain
the facade.  She was too tired and too frightened to pretend
all was right with the world.  Besides, on the off chance
The Smoker had other ways of monitoring her than the
listening devices they had destroyed, she had to toe the line.
Had to make him believe she was taking steps towards
dissolving the bond between Mulder and she.

Her partner's life might depend on it.

"Scully, you in there?"

If she waited much longer, he was bound to use his key.

Pushing to her feet, she padded to the door and peeked
through the peephole.  Mulder stared back at her, damp
and flushed.  Dressed in sweats and a ripped, worn
Frank Zappa T-shirt, he looked as if he had gotten caught
in the recent downpour.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

"Hey," he murmured, his eyes sliding down her slender
form, noting her attire.  "Did I wake you?"

"It's not even nine yet, Mulder."

"Then why are you dressed for bed?"

She tilted her head to the side, her arm braced against the
jamb, barring his entrance like a gate at a tollbooth.  "If you
must know, I was getting ready to take a bath."

She expected him to come back with an innuendo-laden
retort.  Instead, he merely nodded and asked a bit diffidently,
"Can I come in?"

She sighed.  It was so much harder to deny him when he
was acting more puppy than tiger.

"Mulder, look," she began, her gaze focused somewhere
around his knees.  "It's been a long week.  I'm tired and out
of sorts and, quite frankly, not very good company right now."

"Did I do something?"

His softly voiced query dragged her eyes up to his.  He looked
back at her, his gaze steady yet troubled, his face near hers, its
bottom half shaded blue-black with stubble.  "What?"

"Did I leave the toilet seat up or run over the cat?" he asked,
his anxious expression belying his playful tone.

She couldn't believe it.  She was the one who had given him
the cold shoulder that morning, who had stonewalled his best
attempts at communication then ditched him without so much
as a backwards glance.

She ought to be the one apologizing.

Yet there stood Mulder, wholly contrite, like a child willingly
stretching out his hand to have his wrist slapped.

His readiness to take the blame made her insides cramp with
guilt.

"This isn't about you, Mulder," she said slowly and patiently,
wondering as she spoke if he could sense her control about to
fray.  "Not about you or anything you've done.  This is about
me.  About my needing a little time to myself.  That's all.
Can you give me that?"

Solemnly, he nodded.  Just as she knew he would.

Yet he made no move to leave.

They stood there, contemplating each other, for a second or
two.  Now that she got a good look at him, Mulder appeared to
be more drenched than damp.  His hair lay flat against his skull,
its rich brown shiny as a seal pelt.  The soft jersey of his ratty
old tee clung wantonly to his shoulders and chest, coating his
sleek muscles and knobby little nipples like faded red paint.
She could smell the rainwater on his skin.

"So, did you come all the way over here to ask me about my
nonexistent cat?" she queried, the words coming out husky
and velvet rough.

"I don't know why I came," Mulder quietly confessed.  "I was
running.  And before I realized it, I was here."

Her eyes grew wide.  "You didn't jog all the way from Virginia,
did you?"

"No," he said with a lopsided smile.  "I took off from the Hoover
Building.  I'd worked late and decided I needed to clear my
head before I went home."

Leaning against the door jamb, she chuckled ruefully.  "You
mean to tell me you ran, unarmed, at night, in the rain, through
the streets of downtown D.C.?"

"It wasn't raining when I started," he argued sheepishly, a self-
directed bemusement shining in his eyes.  "Besides, it's not all
that far to Georgetown.  It's basically a straight shot down
Pennsylvania."

"Did you give any thought as to how you were going to get
back?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and
arching her brow.

He shrugged.  "The way I came, I guess."

She shook her head.  "Uh-uh.  No way.  I'm not letting you
tempt fate a second time.  Give me a minute.  I'll change
clothes and give you a lift to your car."

Scully turned away towards the bedroom, but before she could
take more than a few steps, Mulder grabbed her arm, halting
her progress.

"Scully, don't worry about it," he said, his fingers curled
tightly around her wrist.  "I'll just hop a cab."

"On a Friday night, in the rain?" she queried in disbelief.
"Just how long do you plan on waiting for one?"

"Then I'll go on foot," he said with another lift of his shoulders.
"It's not like I can get much more wet."

"Mulder--" she began with a sigh.

"Scully, you were just about to get in the tub," he reminded
her, a gentle smile softening his mouth.

They stood in her living room, close, her robe sliding over
his legs, her forearm resting against his chest.  He still had
hold of her, his fingers circling her like a bracelet.  She looked
up into his eyes and saw there a fatigue that matched her own.
A care she had helped foster.  Lips pressed thin in regret, she
reached up with her free hand and pushed back a shock of hair
from his brow.  He shivered.  She wasn't certain of the cause.

It might have been the brisk September air.

She hoped it was her touch.

Fuck The Smoker.  Fuck 'em all.

"You look like you could use a nice hot bath yourself," she
murmured, her gaze lingering on his.

"Actually, I'm more a shower kind of guy," he mumbled,
his breath stirring her hair.

She drew away from him and crossed to the door.  Closing it,
she locked them in.  "Why don't you go take one then," she
suggested, tossing the words over her shoulder as casually
as she was able.  "I'll see if I can find you something to wear."

"I thought you wanted some time to yourself."

She turned to face him once more.  Poor Mulder.  He appeared
utterly confused.  She couldn't say she blamed him.  She knew
she was sending him contradictory signals.  It wasn't intentional,
just a byproduct of their situation.  She wanted to protect him,
would do absolutely anything to keep him from being harmed.
And yet, only a day into this charade, she was finding it
impossible to keep him physically safe without wounding him
emotionally.  She had seen the questions shining in his eyes.
What's going on?  Why are you acting so strangely?  Is it my
fault?

Damn it.

The man had literally run to be by her side.  She couldn't just
turn him away.

"I do," she said at last.  "I do need some time on my own.  But
I have the rest of the weekend for that."

He nodded a bit uncertainly.

"I don't need to be alone tonight."

Mulder dipped his head again, his eyes locked on hers.

"Go on," she instructed, unsettled a bit by his stare.  "Go on
and take your shower before you catch a chill."

Scully watched his back as, without another word, Mulder
retreated from the living room down the hallway towards
her bathroom.  Nibbling on the corner of her mouth, she
crossed to the stereo and turned on her CD player.  Instantly,
soft classical music filled the room.  She listened for a moment,
then bumped up the volume.

There.  That's better.

If she really was still under surveillance, there was no sense
in making it easy for them.

                        *****

Fox Mulder stood naked beneath the stream of soothing warm
water, closing his eyes as it sluiced over his head, rinsing the
shampoo from his hair.

Thank God, Scully didn't go in for all that flowery girly
stuff, he mused, rubbing his hands vigorously over his
face to help rid it of suds.  Rather than roses or lilies, the
woman he loved opted for subtler, greener scents when
choosing toiletries.  Shampoos and soaps that reminded
him of leafy vines and forests and newly mown grass.  Which
meant not only did she smell great, but he could borrow her
grooming supplies without fear of reeking like Rex Reed's
latest pool boy.

It felt good, the water raining down over him, washing away
his weariness, his sweat, the worry that had been plaguing
him since Scully had first sailed into their office that morning.
He couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't pin it down and neatly
label it.  But something was wrong.  He'd bet his life on it.

At first, he had feared it might be him, that he had somehow
done something to anger or annoy her.  While Scully wasn't a
game player, she sometimes had trouble addressing issues
between them.  Such a scenario might account for the tension
he thought he sensed crackling around her, hissing and snapping
like a field of static electricity.

Yet, if that were the case, he honestly couldn't recall what
would have set her off.  He had been mulling it over since
midday, since returning to the basement, eager to steal a
work-free hour with his favorite redhead only to find a terse
note in her stead.  Crushing the scrap of paper in frustration,
he had begun replaying the past week or so inside his head,
searching for clues.  And had come up with zero.

He had been a good boy lately.  On his very best behavior.

So, if it wasn't him, what was it?

The question had echoed endlessly between his ears as
he had pounded his way down D.C.'s darkened streets.
Aimlessly, he had run, examining the problem from every
angle, dissecting it, meditating on it.

Yet, ultimately, failing to achieve enlightenment.

With this present quandary monopolizing his thoughts, was
it any wonder he had ended up on her doorstep?  He hadn't
meant to bother her, hadn't planned on disturbing her solitude.
But something had summoned him that night, drawing him
to her in a way he couldn't entirely explain.  He had needed
reassurance, had wanted to make certain Scully was all right.
That, together, they were both all right.

Thankfully, it appeared they were.

After all, she was letting him spend the night.

Contemplating just what 'spending the night' might mean
in this particular instance, Mulder heard the bathroom door
open, then click shut.

"Scully?" he called, soaping his belly.  "What towel did you
want me to--?"

His question died when the shower curtain slid noisily on
its thin, metal rod, folding in on itself like an accordion.

To reveal Dana Scully, her hair piled winningly atop her
head, wearing not a stitch of clothing.

Smiling shyly at him, she stepped into the tub.  For a
moment, he could only stare.

"Wha-- . . . what are you doing?" he queried dumbly at last,
his shoulders pummeled now by spray.

"I'm conserving water," she said lightly, reaching out to
take the soap from his suddenly paralyzed hands.

"I thought you were looking forward to your bath," he
said, mesmerized by the way droplets of water bounced
from his body to hers, the manner in which they beaded
on her pale skin, clinging to her like fat, juicy gumdrops
of moisture.  He wanted to eat them off her, one by one.  To
lick and suck, to dry her with his tongue.

"I decided that you, in the shower, was more appealing than
me, alone, in the bath," she murmured, lathering her hands.
"Do you mind?"

Mind?  Why would he mind sharing a shower with a gorgeous
woman?

"No," he answered succinctly.

"Turn around," she directed, setting the soap back in its dish.
"I'll do your back."

Mulder did as he was told.  Facing the faucet, he stood so that
his chest was once more hit by spray.  Scully slowly ran her
hands down his body, gently spreading the suds with her palms,
rubbing it into his skin with her fingertips.  It was heavenly.
Bowing his head beneath the nozzle, he sighed with contentment.

"Feel good?" she asked quietly, her words muffled by the water
falling around them.

"Feels great," he assured her, his hands braced now against the
shower walls for balance.

Almost as if she had been awaiting such tacit permission, she
began smoothing over him a bit harder, rolling his muscles,
working out the kinks.  Without thinking, he tipped back his
head and let loose with a groan, the water running down his
cheeks like tears.

"Sore?" she queried.

"A little," he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.  A lot, if he were
to be honest with her.  Between the days spent putting together
their review for Skinner, the hours spent worrying over what
was going on with his partner, and the minutes spent running
over D.C's unforgiving pavement, his body was in knots.

Good thing Scully's fingers were so nimble.  And so strong.

Firmly, she kneaded the length of his back, starting at his
shoulders and working her way down.  Gripping and releasing,
she massaged his aching flesh, digging deep, stroking long.

Finally, she made her way to his behind, pressing against
the thick, heavy muscle there with the heel of her hand,
rotating against it in tight, hard circles.  Mulder was in
ecstasy, pushing back against her with his hips, his chin
tipped downwards so that it rested against his chest.

"Yeah . . . oooh, Scully.  Right there."

They stayed like that for a long while, with Scully giving
his ass more attention than it probably deserved.  Mulder
was just about to make a crack about her having missed
her true calling.  When, all at once, her hands strayed from
their task, trailing instead around the front of his body to
make their acquaintance with another part of his anatomy.

"Oh!" he gasped when her fingertips closed carefully
around his not-quite erection.

"Shh," she crooned, her arms twined tightly around him,
steadying him as she strained to reach her goal.  "It's okay."

It was more than okay.  It was fabulous.  Tenderly, Scully
slid her hand down his cock and back again, the way eased
by suds.  She handled him delicately, as if she feared hurting
him, the pressure exerted not tremendous.  Still, it was enough
to stiffen the muscle beneath her fingers, to thicken it.  To add
an inch.  Then, two.

"Oh, . . . Scully," he moaned, water pounding against his scalp,
flowing into his ears, his mouth.  "Oh, yeah . . ."

"I know," she whispered from his shoulder, her thumb circling
his tip before her hand slipped down to ever so gently jostle his
balls in her palm, moving them slowly from side to side.  "I
know."

She was draped over him like a blanket, her breasts flattened
against his shoulder blades, her ripened nipples nudging him
like impatient fingers.  As much as he was reveling in her
ministrations, part of him wanted to turn and pull her into his
embrace.  To caress her, kiss her, drive her as out of her mind
as she was making him.

But Scully wouldn't let him.  She held him fast and near,
her cheek plastered to his back, her hands slowly yet steadily
drawing him away from his torso, stretching him to his fullest.

Over and over she stroked, varying the speed and intensity
in what he assumed must be an effort to prolong his pleasure.
Much to his delight, her tactic was succeeding.  His hips
pumped with the rhythm she set, back and forth, the crisp
hair between her legs tickling his backside each time he
swayed into her.

Finally, he knew he couldn't take much more.  He could feel
his groin growing hotter, harder, tighter until . . . . .

He jerked in her hold, his head snapping back so the water
above him poured wildly into his mouth and nose.  Splattering
the tile before him with his release, he groaned and grunted,
thrusting against her still moving hand, wildfire blazing up
and down his spine.

And as he shuddered mindlessly beneath the now cooling spray
only one thing kept his joy from being complete.

The note of desperation he swore he heard woven through
Scully's words when she fiercely whispered, "I love you, Mulder.
Never forget I love you."

***************************************************

Mulder slept late the following morning, even though he and
the woman who shared with him her bed had retired early the
night before.

The retiring early part had been all Scully's idea.

After their bathroom encounter, she had pleaded exhaustion
which, while it wasn't entirely a lie, was a smoke screen.
Having judged the slap of water against tile and porcelain loud
enough to camouflage their activities, she hadn't worried about
being overheard when she had joined Mulder in the shower.
However, even with the stereo cranked, she hadn't been certain
they wouldn't be listened in on elsewhere in the apartment.

And no way was she adding to The Smoker's tape collection.

Luckily for her, Mulder had been as genuinely wiped as she
had claimed to be.  He had followed her lead without argument
or coercion.  Sweetly bidding each other goodnight, they had
nestled cozily beneath her comforter, lying close, their limbs
tangled like tree roots.

Yet, even sheltered in her lover's embrace, cradled against
him warm and secure, Scully had lain awake for hours, her
thoughts jumbled and all-consuming.

What to do. . . .  What to do. . . .

The question echoed still when she finally slipped from
bed, groggy with fatigue, shortly after dawn.  Tiptoeing
silently about the flat so as not to rouse her overnight guest,
she threw on black leggings and a long, bulky grey cable
knit, wanting to be dressed when he awoke.  She would have
preferred, of course, to have simply remained beneath the
covers, wrapped around Mulder, skin to skin, all morning
long.  But such indulgences were no longer an option.

You just never knew who might have their ear pressed
against the wall.

Pondering that disturbing new reality adjustment, Scully
stood at her kitchen counter, slicing in two a wheat germ
bagel, when she heard Mulder steal up behind her.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she murmured fondly as he
pressed a soft, damp kiss to the nape of her neck.  "Did
you sleep well?"

"Too well," he mumbled in reply, his arms looped heavily
around her middle, his nose burrowing now in her tousled
hair.  "I didn't hear you get up."

"You weren't supposed to," she retorted mildly, popping the
bagel into the toaster.  "I was trying to be quiet."

"But, Scully," he whispered from just behind her ear, his
voice morning gruff, his breath scorching her tender lobe.
"I like it when you're loud."

With that, he drew her yet more fully against him, her back
to his front, his groin pressed firmly against her buttocks.
Stealthily, his hands slipped beneath her sweater to stroke
along her suddenly ticklish midriff.

"Mulder," she sighed in breathy rebuke, her eyelids drooping,
her insides turning almost instantly to thick, bubbling syrup.

But rather than take note of the faint censure threading through
her voice, Mulder chose instead to focus on the arousal his
touch had so obviously stirred.  Skimming up her satiny skin,
he reached beneath her clothing to cup her breasts in his palms.
Lifting them slightly, his thumbs traced slow, bone-dissolving
circles around their crests.

"So whaddya say?" he murmured, punctuating the question
with a sharp nip just inside the neckline of her pullover.
Scully twitched and moaned as his teeth scraped her skin, her
fingers tightening their already fierce hold on the countertop's
edge.  "Wanna make a little noise?"

He couldn't have killed her desire any more thoroughly if he
had somehow morphed into The Smoker himself.

"Uh-uh," she grunted as she twisted gracelessly in his hold,
determined to face him.  To end his seduction before it could
begin.  "I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what?" he asked, his hands reluctantly sliding free
from her clothes.

His arms caged her now against the counter.  Thus positioned,
he loomed over her, standing so close their bare toes nudged.
Scully pressed back against the cabinets, trying to win a little
breathing room.  Yet, there was scant to be had.  Mulder was
purposely crowding her, urging her to be aware of him.  Of his
needs.  His intentions.

Message received, Sir.  Loud and clear.

Heart thumping with his nearness, she snuck a peek at his
face.  His hair feathered messily across his forehead, falling
forward as he stared down at her to mingle with her own.  His
breath slipped from between his parted lips, bathing her brow,
warm and vaguely minty.  He had taken the time to brush his
teeth.  The louse.  It was so unfair.  That she should be expected
to resist this.  Resist him.  Torture really, when she wanted it
as badly as he.  Sighing at the injustice, she bravely pulled
her eyes away from his tempting mouth, glancing downwards
instead as she sought to find an avenue for escape.  Bad decision.
Not the need to flee--the whole eyes below the waist thing.  She
had forgotten Mulder had gone to bed dressed in nothing but a
pair of plaid flannel boxers.  He was garbed in them still.  Well-
worn, they left little to the imagination.

"You're trying to seduce me so I won't kick you out," she
mumbled resolutely, determined to remain strong.

"I'm trying to seduce you for reasons other than that," he
assured her, bending down to nuzzle along her hairline.

"Maybe, but the result would still be the same," Scully argued
as, spying an opening, she swiftly ducked beneath Mulder's
arm and crossed away to the refrigerator.  Don't look at him.
Mustn't look at him.  "If I give you half a chance, you'll lure
me back to bed.  And before you know it, the day will be gone."

"Missing time," he murmured from somewhere behind her.
"We've got an entire file drawer dedicated to the phenomenon
back at the office.  You sure you don't want to investigate,
Agent Scully?"

Keeping her back to him, she pulled open her Frigidaire,
searching for the orange juice she had bought earlier in the
week.  "Not today, Mulder.  I have things I have to do."

At first, nothing was said as she rooted amongst the
perishables.  It wasn't until she had finally located the
elusive quart of Tropicana that Mulder mumbled . . .

"Things that don't include me."

Shit.  She had hurt him.  Again.

"I need this, Mulder," she muttered, hiding behind the
refrigerator door, the carton of orange juice clutched tightly
in her hand.  "It's a weekend.  That's all.  Don't turn it into
something it's not."

He made no reply.

So, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Scully closed
the gleaming white side-by-side and returned to the counter,
pretending as if the matter was closed.  Stretching up to seize
two glasses from the shelf overhead, she began to pour the juice.
Almost as if on cue, the bagel she had dropped in the toaster
seemingly hours before sprang from its fiery prison, announcing
its readiness.

Pity she had lost her appetite.

"If there was something wrong, you'd tell me.  Wouldn't you?"
he queried softly at last.

Briefly, she closed her eyes, guilt squeezing her heart like a
hurried housewife might wring a sponge.  Opening them once
more, she turned to steal a glance in his direction.  Mulder
stood with his fists on his hips, his head bowed.

"There isn't anything wrong.  How many times do I have to
tell you that?"

Gnawing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he met her eyes.
Studying her for a beat, he admitted, "Until I believe it."

"Mulder--," she sighed.

"Try to understand, Scully," he said quietly, taking a tentative
step towards her, his fingers raking restlessly through his hair.
"This thing we have . . . it's been going well between us.  For
a long time now.  Almost a year."

She nodded slightly, encouraging him.

"I've been . . . happy," he confessed with a sheepish shrug.
"And you . . . well, I haven't felt like I needed to hide sharp
objects from you or anything."

She thinly smiled, hoping the curving of her lips might
direct his attention away from the moisture gathering in her
eyes.

"I'm not used to that," he continued, seemingly oblivious to
the tempest raging inside her, unknowing of the shame his
simple disclosure stirred.  "Not used to getting the things I
want and then being allowed to keep them."

Grimacing, he shook his head and rubbed his palm over his
lips and jaw, almost as if he were somehow trying to scrub
clean his mouth, to erase what he had just said.  "You.  You're
what I want.  What I wanted for a very long time.  And
sometimes . . . sometimes I'm afraid it's all gonna go away.
That the proverbial other shoe is finally gonna drop."

Swallowing hard, she reached out and closed her fingers just
above his wrist, thinking to reassure him with her touch.
"Don't be afraid."

For the longest time, he stared down at the sight of her hand
on his arm, his brow scrunched tight in contemplation.  Finally,
shaking his head once more, he pulled from her grasp and turning
away, headed for the bedroom.  "I better go."

Chasing him across the kitchen floor, she grabbed him by the
shoulder, stopping him before he could leave the room.
"Wait . . ."

He rounded on her impatiently.  "Make up your mind, Scully.
Stay or go.  What do you want me to do?"

She wet her lips and shrugged a bit helplessly, feeling foolish.
"It's just . . . you don't have to take off right away.  Don't you
want some breakfast?"

"I'm not very hungry," he murmured, his breath ruffling her
hair.

She still had hold of him, her fingers digging into the firm,
pliable muscle atop his arm.  Yet even as she clung to him,
she asked herself why.  Why stop him from doing what she
had been hoping he would do since he had arrived?  Why try
and keep him there?

Better he should leave.

They might be listening.

"I'm sorry," Scully whispered, releasing him, her eyes unable
to meet his.

"Don't be sorry for telling me the truth," he said evenly.

Oh God, Mulder, she thought with a measure of desperation.
Twist the knife, why don't you?

"Maybe you're right," she mumbled dully, gesturing towards
him as if to say 'it's your call'.  "Maybe you should go."

Mulder hesitated for a moment.  Then, nodding sadly, he did
just that.

                        *****

Mulder hadn't been gone an hour before Scully tried calling
him.  She didn't know precisely what she was going to say,
how she was going to make amends for her behavior.  At
that moment, however, details were inconsequential.  She
needed to hear his voice, to attempt in some way to atone
for her sins.

Yet all she got was his answering machine.

She hung up without saying a word.

She had no more than returned her cordless to its charger
when she heard a muffled ringing from the entry hall.

Her cell phone.

Mulder?

Scarcely resisting the urge to run, she hurried to the front
door.  Fumbling in the side pocket of the briefcase she had
left leaning against the wall there, she retrieved the palm-
sized Nokia.

"Scully."

"That was foolish, Agent Scully."

The Smoker.

She froze in the foyer, her mouth turning drought dry, her
heart plunging to the soles of her feet.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, careful to keep her
tone even and low.

"The objects you and your three friends found.  I told you
no one was to know of our discussion."

"They don't know," she said quickly, her pulse thudding so
loudly at her temples she almost couldn't hear herself.  "I
didn't tell them about that, only that I was being bugged."

"Even if what you're saying is true, their discoveries
are bound to make them . . . . suspicious.  It puts our
arrangement at risk."

She had to chew on her bottom lip to keep from laughing,
afraid once she started, she'd never stop.  "I don't think you
have to worry.  Finding those bugs isn't going to make the
Gunmen anymore suspicious than usual."

For a moment, he was silent on the other end of the line,
seemingly mulling over her words.  His reticence frightened
her.  What if this small transgression was enough to make
him strike out at Mulder?

"I trust them," she said calmly, hoping her fears in no way
seeped through her voice.  "They're my friends.  I have asked
them to keep this a secret.  From everyone.  Even Mulder.
They won't betray me."

"They had better not," he finally murmured.  "Betrayal will
not go unpunished, Agent Scully."

She breathed slow and deep, trying to quell the nausea
churning sluggishly in the pit of her stomach.

"See that you remember that," he warned.

"I will," she assured him quietly.

For an instant, neither of them said anything.  Scully wondered
if she had permission to hang up.  Then the man on the other
end of the line spoke once more.

"On a more pleasant note, I must congratulate you on your
handling of the situation this morning."

"What situation this morning?" she queried with a frown.

"Getting Mulder out of your apartment," he said, his knowledge
of the incident destroying any hopes she still harbored regarding
her home's surveillance.  Or lack thereof.  "I was concerned, of
course, when I learned he had spent the night.  But I'm
beginning to see the benefit to doing things your way."

"My way?" she echoed warily.  "What exactly do you mean by
'my way'?"

"This 'taking your time'," he explained.  "Working up to it
bit by bit.  The more I think about it, the more I approve.  After
all, how can Mulder help but believe you no longer want him
once you give him incident upon incident illustrating that very
thing?"

Bastard.  As if she didn't already know her role in this farce.

"Go to hell," she snarled into the handset and, punching a
button, severed their connection.

Yet, even though she had silenced his voice, Scully swore she
could hear The Smoker still, chuckling softly, mockingly,
inside her head.

                        *****

Fox Mulder felt like 34 going on 100.

Damn basketball hustlers.

He had been jogging by the university, leaving Scully's
neighborhood in the same fashion in which he had arrived,
when he had happened upon a pick-up game on one of the
school's outdoor courts.

He had watched for a moment or two, gaze drawn, as always,
to any sort of athletic activity.  To his critical eye, the pair
who had captured his attention had seemed evenly matched;
neither was more than six feet tall, one stockier, more muscular
than the other, but at the same time clumsier, less sure on his
feet.  They were pretty good ball handlers, possessing no great
speed, but decent jump shots.  They would have been even
more formidable if they had dared to take it to the hoop.
Instead, they each seemed to prefer playing the perimeter.

When the two saw him watching their game, peering almost
wistfully through the rusting chain linked fence, they had
invited him to join them.

"Come on, man.  You up for a little two-on-one?  Twenty
bucks to the winner, just to make it interesting.  We'll even
spot you five points to even up the odds."

Feeling as if he could do with an outlet for all the emotional
gunk swimming around his system, he had shrugged in
acceptance and strolled through the gate.  He could take these
guys, he had judged with a confidence that bordered on swagger.
He could take them and maybe teach them a little something
while he was at it.

Yet, as it turned out, he was the one who was taught a lesson
that morning.

If asked, Mulder would have liked to have been able to say
his b-ball opponents were better actors than they were players.

But that would have been a lie.

They were damned good players.

Once they had him in their grasp, their tentative, low-keyed
styles vanished.  True natures revealed, they showed no mercy,
darting and passing and shooting like they had somehow
suddenly gotten hold of John Thompson's play book.  Up
and down the cracked slab of concrete they ran him, their
game fast and physical, their accuracy with the basketball
humbling in the extreme.

*Swish*

*Swish*

*Swish*

It wasn't long before Mulder's wallet was $20 lighter and his
limbs felt about 20 pounds heavier each.

"Hey, no hard feelings.  You know?" the skinnier shyster said
when it was over, pocketing the only cash Mulder had been
carrying.  "I mean . . .you don't play too bad for an old guy."

Oh.  So that was what was meant by 'damning with faint praise'.

"Thanks, sonny," the ancient one mumbled between gasps.

Sigh.

Was he really that big a patsy?  Did he have the word
"Sucker" tattooed across his forehead?

It sure felt like it these days, Mulder silently fumed as he
sat hunched forward on a court-side bench, trying to capture
his fugitive breath.  God.  First, Scully . . . then his two Nike
wearing con-men. . . .

Wincing, he felt the sting of conscience's whip.  That's out
of line, he thought with a shake of his head, wordlessly
reprimanding himself.  How ridiculously unfair to lump the
woman he loved in with the pair of would-be Hoyas.  She
asked you for a weekend, Mulder, and you label her a Jezebel.
Try not to be anymore pathetic than you have to be, okay?

It wasn't the weekend, he silently argued, pushing to
his feet and taking a few weak-kneed steps towards the
street.  He could handle being on his own.  After all, it
wasn't as if Scully and he had ever been joined at the hip.
They spent plenty of time apart.  Caution dictated they do
so.

It wasn't that she supposedly needed time to herself.

It was that she was lying to him.

He was positive of that now.  The warning bells had begun
clanging the previous morning and had only gotten louder
and more vehement as the day had progressed.  He imagined
most guys wouldn't get so bent out of shape by a bit of simple
secret-keeping.  So, she doesn't tell you everything.  Big deal.
Everyone has stuff they want to keep to themselves.  A little
mystery is good for a relationship.  It keeps you from
becoming complacent, from taking your partner for granted.

However, Scully and he had never operated that way.  Not
since Chicago.  Oh sure, she would dodge his inquiries every
now again.  Claim she was "fine" when he knew damned well
she was anything but.  Yet she had never been able to keep up
the charade for any length of time.  If he called her on it,
demanded her honesty, she would come clean.  Reluctantly,
but thoroughly.

Not this time though.  Something was going on.  Something
she was hiding from him.

In the beginning, he had thought it might be him.  That Scully
was angry with him or tired of their whole cloak and dagger
love affair.

The notion had terrified him as few things had the power to.

But after the previous night, that theory had all at once become
far less compelling.

She wouldn't have been able to give him that truly exquisite
hand-job unless things were right between them.

Would she?

She wouldn't have held him like that, her arms slim yet
strong, told him she loved him while his body quaked in her
embrace, helpless with the force of his passion for her.

No.  Scully wasn't capable of that kind of deceit.

And never in a million years would she have invited him into
her bed, melting against him all soft and yielding.  Not if she
had truly wanted him gone.

Then again . . . she hadn't let him make love to her.

Mulder grimaced as he slowly made his way up one of
Georgetown's busier thoroughfare, hobbling as if he were a
suffering from the gout.  Jesus.  He must have pulled something.

He could do with another of Dr. Scully's patented shower
massages.

Eat your heart out, WaterPik.

Yet it wasn't likely he would see one of those again in the near
future.

Not when the woman was running so hot and cold.

Ba-boom ching.

A little shower humor, folks.

Good grief.  Did one of those guys elbow him in the head when
they were scrambling for the ball?

Nope, he ruefully yet silently replied.  The pain in his noggin
was all about tension, not body checks.

He needed to find a cab.

Stepping gingerly to the curb, Mulder shielded his eyes against
the noonday sun, searching for a taxi.  He desperately tried to
keep his focus on that simple task.  Look for and find a car with
that nifty little emblem atop it, he wordlessly directed himself.
Go home.  Shower . . .

Oh God.  We're back to that again.

Yet, in reality, it wasn't actually the shower he kept returning to,
it was what had happened after the water had been shut off.

When he had come back to himself, secure still in Scully's
arms.  They had kissed then, standing beneath the spray, her
face cradled in his hands, her palms running lightly along
his sides.  Her lips had met his, soft and warm, and willing.
Mulder was absolutely certain she had been willing.

Which was why he had been so surprised when later, beneath
the sheets, she had nixed the idea of their lovemaking.

"I'm tired," she had mumbled into the crook of his neck, her
fingers weaving through his hair.  "So tired.  Would you hold
me?  Just hold me."

Of course, he would.  Gladly.

And yet . . .

There, in the distance, he spied a taxicab.  Waving his arm
like a castaway trying to signal a rescue plane, he flagged
down the battered sedan.  Moving slowly and carefully,
Mulder popped open the passenger side door and folded
himself into the back seat.

"Where to?" said the driver, checking out his fare in the rear
view mirror.  He was young, with wildly curly black hair and
a goatee.

"Downtown," Mulder said shortly.  "The Hoover Building."

With a nod, the cabbie spun the wheel, slicing away from
the curb and into traffic.

Staring moodily out the window as the taxi sped down streets
packed with Saturday shoppers, Mulder recalled what bothered
him most about his night in Scully's bed.

He had dozed off first.

For all her supposed weariness, Scully had been the one to
hold him while he had slept.  Not vice versa.  Now, granted,
he too had been tired, most especially after enjoying his
partner's bathtub ministrations.  Still, he had fought off
slumber as long as he could, hoping Scully and he might
perhaps be able to have a bit of serious conversation before
calling it a night.

Hoping Scully might change her mind about the "just hold me"
thing.

But it hadn't happened.  She had held tough, escaping his
questioning, dodging his attempts at intimacy.

They may have spent the night together.

But, looking back, it seemed to him as if miles had separated
them.

"Hey, pal.  Here you go," said Mulder's scruffy chauffeur,
pulling over to the corner of Pennsylvania and Tenth.
"Hoover Building.  Sixteen bucks."

Mind still elsewhere, Mulder absently dug in his pocket for
his wallet.

It felt rather thin between his fingertips.

Shit.

He hated weekends.

"Listen," he began hesitantly, patting himself down as if he
might magically have an extra twenty pinned somewhere on
his person, like the milk money of old.  "I . . uh . . don't
suppose you take plastic."

The cabbie's eyes narrowed.  "Cash, my man.  And cash only."

Mulder sighed.  "In that case, I need you to drive just a little
bit further."

His driver was not amused.  "Oh yeah?  Where'd you have in
mind?"

Mulder shrugged, an embarrassed smile on his face.  "A bank,
an ATM, a drunk you think I can roll.  Right about now--I
don't care.  I just need to get some money."

His friend in the front seat only glared.

For some reason, his expression made Mulder laugh.

His friend glared harder.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said, snickering still.  "I'm sorry.  I know
this isn't cool.  It's just . . . with the day I've had so far, I gotta
tell ya--sixteen bucks is no big deal."

The cabbie looked him over as if trying to judge whether his
passenger was giving it to him straight.  Eventually, he came to
a decision.

"All right," he said, nodding reluctantly.  "We'll go find your
drunk.  But don't plan on rolling him for sixteen.  Better make
it thirty.  I figure you're gonna owe me a nice, big tip."

Thirty dollars for a sixteen dollar ride!?  Mulder silently railed.
The little thief.  That made it twice in one day he had been
robbed.  This was getting ridiculous.  He was supposed to be
in law enforcement.

"Twenty," Mulder countered swiftly.

"The longer I sit here talking to you, the more fares I lose,"
said his savvy cabbie, seemingly getting into the negotiations.
"That's money, my friend.  Outta my pocket.  Twenty-five."

Mulder shook his head, surrendering.  "Fine.  Twenty-five.
Whatever.  Let's just go."

Satisfied, the driver set off for points unknown.

While Mulder slouched tiredly behind him, realizing that
when you got right down to it, twenty-five dollars wasn't a
whole heck of a lot of money.  Would that all his woes could
be solved so cheaply.

**************************************************

Every Friday afternoon, Walter Skinner promised himself he
wasn't going to do this.

Yet, seemingly, every time Sunday night rolled around he had
invariably broken his oath.

The weekends were supposed to be about rest and rejuvenation.
So why in the world couldn't he make it through one without
logging a few hours at the Hoover Building?

You almost made it this time, though.  Didn't you, Walt? he
silently razzed as he scooped up his leather jacket from the
arm of his office sofa and slipped it on over his navy T-shirt.
You very nearly lasted until Monday morning without
succumbing to the urge.

Well . . . at least this week you waited until after "Sixty
Minutes" before dragging your sorry ass into D.C.

Shaking his head with disgust, he snapped shut his briefcase,
tucked it and a few stray file folders under his arm, and
crossed towards the door, hitting the lights on his way out.

The halls were nearly empty this late, with only a few hardy
souls manning the graveyard shift.  Skinner checked his watch,
frowning at the information it imparted.  After midnight?  Jesus,
what had he been thinking?  For a man who hadn't originally
planned on making an appearance at all, he had certainly put
in more than his share of face time.

And yet, what the hell else did you have to do? he wordlessly
asked himself as his boot heels click-clacked on the high-
gloss linoleum.  It's not as if your social calendar has been
jam packed the past few months.  Ever since Sharon had
walked out, weekends had been more things to endure than
any sort of respite or reward.  Days when his apartment
echoed in its silence.  Hours filled by the necessities of life
rather than by its pleasures.  The running of errands, the
laundry and the oil changes, the occasional trip to the gym.

Chores.

Performed alone.  Always alone.

You lead a solitary existence, you son of a bitch.

And you have no one to blame for it but yourself.

Wincing at the turn his thoughts had taken, he opted for
the stairs rather than the elevator.  It was better that way,
he thought, nodding politely at a freckle-faced agent whose
name floated just beyond his grasp.  Too many times he had
been trapped beside some overeager rookie looking to score
points with such inspired conversation starters as, "So, sir
. . . you're here late.  Big case?"

He wasn't that lonely.

Besides, after sitting on his behind for the past however many
hours, he could use a little exercise.

Slipping into the stairwell like a phantom, he began trotting
lightly down the steps.

Actually, when you stop to consider, it hadn't been such a bad
evening's work, he mused, trying to bolster his spirits.  He had
taken care of some private correspondence, the paying of bills
and the like.  But more importantly, he had managed to plow
through a half dozen reviews, jotting notes in the margins, and
checking the math on the corresponding budgetary figures.
He had plenty more to analyze, of course, stacks of pages,
double-spaced and boring as hell.  But at least he had made a
dent in it.  The rest he could get to as the week progressed.

He somehow had the feeling he would have the time.

Second floor.  One stop to make before hoofing it to the car.

Skinner shouldered open the stairwell's door.  Like the floors
above it, this one held little traffic.  Turning to his right, he
swiftly flipped through the manila folders in his hands, head
bowed, searching for the one marked "Personal."  There it was.
Inside lay folded the form he needed to deliver.

The request to take Sharon off his insurance.

Sighing, he paused before the entrance to Human Resources,
one of the few Bureau departments that actually kept business
hours.  The office was dark.  He tried the doorknob.  Locked.
No one was working at quarter after twelve on a Sunday night.
He should have realized that.  God.  What had he been thinking?
Glaring down at the offending paperwork, he weighed his
options.  He could simply return to his desk, stick the damned
thing in an interoffice envelope and let it wind its way to its
destination the following day, courtesy of the mailroom.

But given all the times he had argued with Sharon over this
decision, the phone calls he had made pleading with her to
reconsider, the dread with which he had even approached
asking for the stupid form in the first place. . .

No.  He just wanted it over with.  To get it out of his hands
once and for all.  To never have to see this Goddamned
piece of official Bureau b.s. ever again.

Not when it represented written proof that his marriage was
at long last over, this document, turned over to the powers-
that-be before the divorce papers themselves had even been
filed.  Neatly submitted.  In triplicate.  Signed by his hand.

Shit.

Squatting, he angrily shoved the paperwork under the door,
his hand catching and scraping against the portal, rattling
it violently in its jamb.

"Easy, Walt," a husky female voice urged.  "I don't know
what beef you have with HR, but I'll bet that poor door had
nothing to do with it."

Grimacing, Skinner peered up through his wire-rims, and
spied a familiar face.  One surrounded by a cap of wavy
blond hair and featuring a pair of intelligent green eyes.

"Hey, Chris," he murmured sheepishly, standing once more,
his gaze lowered, contemplating his skinned knuckles rather
than Agent Christine Chauncy's obvious amusement.  "What
are you doing here so late?"

"I could ask the same of you," she countered, her arms folded
tightly across her ample bosom.

That brought his eyes back to hers.  The expression he saw
there made him shake his head in wry recognition.  "You
could ask.  But you won't.  You'll just sweat it out of me with
that gorgon stare of yours."

"Are you insinuating my middle name should be Medusa?"
she queried, her voice as arch as her brow.

"Never," he said, genuine affection warming his tone.
"With a middle name like Sergei, I know better than to
cast aspersions."

With that, her mock affront melted, leaving behind only a
smile.

Skinner returned it, his pique momentarily soothed.

He liked Chauncy.  They were friends.  Once, their
relationship had gone deeper than that.  They had gotten
involved with the Bureau within months of each other, and
involved with each other not long after that.  It had never
amounted to much, a few drinks, a few dates, a few evenings
spent thrusting into her strong, soft body, her arms twined
tightly around his shoulders, her legs wrapped just as fiercely
about his hips.  They had been young and ambitious, and more
interested in a commitment-free good time than anything
lasting.  Things had inevitably changed, of course.  He had
met Sharon and Chris had met . . . Howard, was it?  She had
kept her maiden name when she had gotten married and he
had a mental block about her husband's identity.  Anyway . . .
they had parted, friendly, with few regrets. A computer
specialist, she had swiftly moved up the ranks in MIS.  He
ran into her from time to time.

"I was getting some paperwork out of the way," he said, strolling
away from Human Resources and back the way he had come,
faintly embarrassed this particular woman had found him on
his knees, taking out his aggression on a defenseless door, and
wanting to get away from the scene of the crime as smoothly
and as quickly as possible.  "Reviews.  You know.  What's your
excuse?"

"The flu bug," Chris said with a growl of annoyance, falling
into step alongside him, her long legs matching his, stride for
stride.  "Half my team is out with it.  I needed someone to fill
in for the overnight."

"And you're the lucky girl?" he teased.

"The only healthy girl, apparently," she retorted dryly, a low
chuckle rumbling beneath her words.  "I called everyone on
my staff list and came up empty."

"Sorry to hear that," he said, stopping before the stairwell.

"Not as sorry as I am," she assured him with another curving
of her lips, this one coaxing out of hiding the smallest hint
of a dimple, a tiny crescent moon curling around the right-
hand corner of her mouth.

Chris had dimples.  He had forgotten that.

He had also failed to recall how attractive she was, Skinner
admitted to himself, the insight unexpected.  Chauncy's
roundish face might have been marked with a few spidery
lines, and her middle softened by an extra pound or two.  But
the same could be said of him. Could be said of them all.  She
looked good.  He wondered if Howard and she were happy.  Or,
if instead, she might every so often see his name on a report or
catch a glimpse of him prowling the halls and stop to wonder
what might have been.

The same way he did sometimes.

"Hey, do me a favor before you go, will you?" she asked,
interrupting his reverie.

"Sure," he said, trying his best to shake off the melancholy.
"What?"

She glanced over her shoulder, and shook her head.  "Listen . . .
I know you live this job twenty-four/seven.  But I gotta tell
you--that kind of lifestyle doesn't work for everyone.  Some
Bureau employees are mere mortals.  They need things like . . .
oh . . . I don't know . . . =sleep=."

Skinner's brow wrinkled in confusion.  "What are you
talking about?"

"I've got one of your agents in my I.D. lab," Chris said,
gesturing vaguely down the corridor.  "Dead to the world.
According to the kid I relieved, she'd been there through
most of his shift.  Apparently, he'd tried making small
talk with her when he noticed she was fading, suggested
she might want to call it a night.  But she didn't want to
hear it."

"Which agent?" he queried.

"Scully.  The girl from the basement."

He nodded ruefully, grunting with a small, humorless chuckle.
That poor junior tech.  He was probably smarting still.  After
all, in Skinner's experience, Special Agent Dana Scully did
not take kindly to being told what to do, no matter how well
meaning the sentiment.

"I was just gonna grab some coffee before trying to kick her
out myself," Chris finished with a shrug.  "But seeing as
you're her direct superior, I'm thinking you might have better
luck chasing her home."

"Where is she?" he asked.

"This way," she replied.

When they got to the doorway of the lab, Chris reached out
and laid her hand on his shoulder.  "There she is," she
murmured, leaning in to direct his eyes towards the back of
the room.  "The only die-hard in the place.  Third carrel on
your left."

>From where he stood, Skinner couldn't see anything but the
top third of what had to be Scully's machine.  A twisting,
turning, multi-colored screensaver danced with abandon on
its black backdrop.

He started to move away towards his agent, but Chris' fingers
tightened, holding him in place.

"Hey . . . um, I'm gonna get that coffee now," she said quietly,
almost as if she were trying to keep from waking Scully, half
a room away.  "You'll probably be gone when I get back, so
I just wanted to say . . . "

But, rather than complete her thought, Chris trailed off, her
gaze wandering as well.  Skinner was bemused and more than
a little surprised; he had never known Chris Chauncy to be
anything less than forthright.  It was one of the things he liked
most about her.

"What?" he prodded.

She moistened her lips with her tongue.  "Look . . . I know this
is none of my business.  That I forfeited that right a long time
ago . . ."

"You're worrying me, Chauncy," he muttered, his words spoken
not entirely in jest.

"Yeah, well . . . then the feeling is mutual," she muttered back.

"What . . .?"

"All I'm trying to say is . . . you may want to stop making a
habit of these late nights yourself."

He shrugged, utterly befuddled.  "I have no idea what you're
talking about."

She smiled with gentle affection.  "No.  I don't suppose you
do."

She slid her hand down his arm and enfolding his fingers
with her own, gave them a quick, soft squeeze.  "You look
tired, Walt."

Christ.

If he wasn't careful, the kindness he heard underlying her
words was going to be his undoing. It had been so long since
anyone had spoken to him like that.  Like they were looking
out for him, without any ulterior motive.  His throat suddenly
felt full, blocked by some entirely unwanted emotion.  "Chris,
I'm fine--"

"I know," she murmured, letting go and backing away.  "You're
a tough guy.  I knew that about you from the start."

She paused with her hands buried in her pockets, looking at
him with a shrewdly yet warmly.  "But even tough guys need 
friends.  So, don't forget you have at least one.  Okay?"

Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded.

"Good," she said, nodding in reply, a small smile stretching
her lips.  "Now go see if you can get your agent out of here
and home in one piece.  I think she's drooling on one of my
keyboards."

He chuckled at that.  "Thanks, Chris."

"Don't mention it," she said quietly, and turning away,
sashayed out of sight.

Skinner watched her go, considering, if only for an instant,
choices made.  Then, deciding he couldn't change the past,
he set off to do what he could about the present.

Namely, find out what the heck was going on with Scully.

He crossed noiselessly to stand just behind her chair, careful
not to rouse her.  Not yet.  He knew the minute she was
awake she would be full of apologies and explanations.
She would no doubt smooth her hair and adjust her clothes,
and go from flustered to fabulous in under thirty seconds
flat.  All that was fine.  He expected nothing less.

But, just once, he wanted a moment between them without
all the usual Scully armor in place.

And when she lay there before him, crumpled over on the
desktop, her cheek pillowed on her arm, her glasses resting
crookedly on her nose, her hair rumpled, sliding forward to 
tickle her parted lips, there wasn't a codpiece or breastplate 
in sight.

Jesus, Scully looked like just a kid.  Like a coed who had
crashed while trying to cram for finals.  Amazing, he mused.
Who would have guessed this woman would appear so young
and innocent, so remarkably vulnerable in repose?  He could
detect no trace of the firebrand who had once stared defiantly
at him down the barrel of gun, ordering him to drop his weapon
or suffer the consequences.  Asleep like this, she looked incapable
of such theatrics, unlikely to be involved in anything more
dangerous than a campus sit-in.

Ha!  That just goes to prove--looks can be deceiving.

And enjoyable, he noted almost absently.  Quite enjoyable.
Because in addition to all her other laudable attributes,
intangibles such as loyalty, strength, and courage, Dana
Scully had something else to recommend her.

She was very, very pretty.

Sighing, he wearily shook his head.  Sick, Walt, he silently
chided as his eyes swept over his slumbering charge.  This is
sick.  This is nothing more than a form of voyeurism.  You
know it as well as anyone.  What the hell is wrong with you?
First Chauncy, now Scully.  Why don't you just stop by the
convenience store on your way home, buy something with
a centerfold in it, and relieve yourself of a little of this . . .
tension?  God.  If this kept up, one of these days he was
going to find himself accused of sexual harassment.

Lips thin with annoyance, he stretched out his hand and
jostled Scully's slender shoulder, putting an abrupt end to the
interlude.  "Scully?  Come on, wake up."

Instantly, she bolted upright, her glasses tumbling from her
nose to her lap as she roused.  At first, she seemed disoriented,
frightened and confused as to her surroundings.  Gradually,
however, her eyes found his and, blinking, widened with
chagrin.

"Sir?" she murmured, clearing her throat, her fingers pushing
hurriedly through her tousled hair.

"Agent Scully," he answered mildly.  "You want to tell me
what you're doing here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm . . . um . . . ," she began, pausing to grab her spectacles
before they could complete their journey to the floor, her focus
on her rescue of the eyewear rather than on him.  "I was just
trying to get caught up on some work."

"What work?" he asked bewilderedly, attempting to get a better
look at her face.  The glimpses he caught didn't tell him much.
Her cheek was pink and creased by the weave of her sweater.
Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, accentuating the
shadows there, and her lipstick had seemingly been entirely
eaten away.  All evidence pointed to Scully having put in a
very long day with little in the way of breathers.  Yet he still
didn't know why.  "Neither you nor Agent Mulder have recently
filed a 302."

"No, sir," she agreed, capturing a yawn.  "It's, um . . . research
for a case currently under review."

"Research?" he echoed in disbelief, crossing his arms firmly
against his chest.  "Research is what has you spending an
entire Sunday combing Bureau databases?"

She took a moment to once more don her glasses, to tuck her
hair behind her ear and ever so slightly stiffen her spine.

"Are you checking up on me, sir?" she queried at last, calmly
gathering her belongings as she spoke, flipping closed her
legal pad and capping her pens, all the while averting her
gaze from his.

He sighed in exasperation, looking heavenward for a second
or two, searching for patience.  "No, I am not checking up
on you," he assured her, his tone measured and deliberate.
"I'm just curious as to what would draw you to the office on
your day off and then keep you here past midnight."

Scully looked at him then, her blue eyes hazed with fatigue,
her jaw set.  "I would imagine, sir, that what draws me here
isn't much different than what draws you."

He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to
justify the reasons for his own late night stint at the Hoover
Building.

So, looking for something to fill the void, he reached out and
jiggled the mouse laying midway between Scully's hand and
his.  The monitor before them instantly crackled to life.  On it
was a page of pictures.  All of them were of men in their late
twenties or early thirties, all with dark hair, all possessing
criminal records.  Skinner wondered at this, curious as to why
the female half of the X-Files would be studying anything so
mundane as petty felons.  But before he could spend much
time contemplating the puzzle, Scully leaned past him, loosed
the mouse from his grasp and, clicking, exited the program.

"You're right, sir," she said, continuing to shut down the
computer, her eyes again trained pointedly away from his.
"It's late, and I should be getting home."

He stood there for a moment, stunned by her uncharacteristic
high-handedness, yet unsure what to say in protest.  After
all, she was under no specific obligation to disclose the
purpose of her research.  She had said it was in relation to a
case she hoped to pursue, and he should respect that.  But he
couldn't escape the notion that something else was going on
here, something Agent Scully very much wanted kept secret.

"Scully, is there anything you'd like to share with me?"
he asked, struggling to keep the query from becoming an
accusation.

"No, sir," she said, her expression giving away nothing.

Frustrated both with her and with himself, Skinner tried
again, not sure why he felt compelled to push, but somehow
believing it necessary just the same.  "You know that you
can come to me. . . . that if you have a problem . . . I can be
a resource for you."

He had expected another brusque reply, another brush-off
or evasion.  But this time, Scully surprised him.  She kept
her gaze locked on his face, her eyes seemingly searching
for something in his.  Not for the first time, he wondered
what she saw when she looked at him, if what she regarded
inspired confidence or disdain.  Finally, she nodded as if a
question had been answered, the action slow and slight.  He
would have given anything to know what conclusion had
been reached.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered then, her voice scratchy,
like an over-played forty-five.  "I appreciate that."

Faced with her apparent approval, Skinner all at once felt
oddly ill at ease.   Shrugging, he mumbled, "Don't thank me.
That's the way it's supposed to work."

Eyeing him still, she smiled a trifle sadly and stood, bending
to collect her things.  "Maybe.  But we all know what's supposed
to happen isn't always what does.  You can't count on life
working out the way you plan."

He could feel the undercurrents swirling beneath her simple
statement, could sense the meaning, like a language he had
once known but had since forgotten.  And even though the
actual words were lost to him, he knew what was required in
response.

Reassurance.  For what, he was not certain.

"I don't deny that sometimes life tosses you a curve," he said
awkwardly, taking a half step towards her.  "But I meant what
I said before, Scully.  You can count on me.  You and Mulder,
both.  That's a promise."

"I hope it won't come to that, sir," she said softly, her eyes
flickering to his.  And for just an instant, her mask slipped,
revealing a burden that made Skinner's own shoulders ache
with the weight.  "I hope that's one promise you never need to
keep."

And all at once, he questioned just what the hell he might
have pledged his support to.

**************************************************

Over the next several days, Dana Scully's life fell into a kind
of routine, a pattern which she loathed as much as upheld.

She arrived at their basement office on time.  Strictly on time.
Impeccably dressed.  Hair coifed, make-up perfectly applied.
Must keep up appearances.  Wouldn't do to make Mulder
anymore concerned than he was already.

Once there, she worked like a woman possessed.  She got
caught up on all her case notes, filed her expense report,
answered the basket full of correspondence she had been
putting off.  She consulted on autopsies, researched leads
on several of the investigations Mulder and she had been
considering pursuing. . . .

Busy.  She had to keep busy.  No time for lunch or breaks or
talk.

Definitely no time for talk.

After all, if her home was bugged, she was damned well
certain their office was also under surveillance.  Which meant,
in effect, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn't.

Talk, that is.

If she said the sorts of things The Smoker wanted to hear,
she would again hurt Mulder, wounding him as she had
at her apartment that past weekend; yet, if she shared with
her partner the discussion she had had with their cigarette
sucking friend, thinking perhaps to include him in her plans,
she would most likely be signing his death sentence.

And that was unacceptable.  To put it mildly.

No.

Avoid.  Deny.  Keep searching for a way around this, her
conscience urged.  A means to save both Mulder and your
relationship.

I'm trying, she would meekly reply, hoping such assurances
might silence that nagging little voice.  Honestly.  I =am=
trying.

Indeed, she was.  The Sunday before, when she had been
so rudely awakened by Skinner, her boss rousing her from
sleep with all the delicacy of a rooster on steroids, she had
spent the day plowing her way through the FBI's criminal
database.  Her quest for The Smoker had amounted to zilch,
but perhaps his henchman's identity wasn't so well guarded,
she had thought, her optimism fragile, but alive.

In the days to follow, she snuck out when she could, stayed
late, came in early, dashing to the I.D. lab to steal an hour or
two before retiring to their cubby below.  Yet, all her efforts
were for naught.  It took her until Wednesday night at 11:48
p.m. to make it through the pictures of every single white male
between the ages of 25 and 35 who possessed not only brown
hair and brown eyes, but a criminal record.

The Smoker's sidekick was not among them.

Her failing optimism instantly flat-lined.

Frustrated, exhausted, frightened in spite of herself, it was
all she could do not to break down right there in front of the
computer terminal.

Instead, she went home and collapsed onto her unmade bed,
not even bothering to get undressed first.  Now what? she
asked herself, staring up at her shadowed ceiling, her eyes
burning, her back throbbing.  What could she do?  Where
could she turn?  If she went public, ran to Mulder or even
Skinner and confessed all, she had no doubt of the outcome.
The Smoker would never be caught, never stand trial.  He
would only slink back to his hidey-hole, disappear like a grain
of sand in the desert, watching and waiting.  Lurking until he
spied an opportunity to see both her partner and she punished.
Sure, they might be able to protect Mulder at first, assign him
guards or tuck him away in a safe house somewhere.  But he
couldn't live out the rest of his life that way.  Sooner or later,
he would rebel, or would relax, grow less cautious.  And The
Smoker would be there.  To pay her back for her betrayal.

Then leave him, Dana, said that insistent inner voice.  Do
as the nicotine fiend instructed, and walk away.

I can't do that, she argued back, scrubbing her cheeks with
her palms, her eyes squeezed shut as if to hold back tears.
It would break Mulder's heart.

And mine.

That was the real irony of the situation.  The thing that made
her want to laugh even as her throat tightened in misery.
When The Smoker had first broached with her the dissolution
of the relationship Mulder and she shared, he had spoken only
of what it would do to Mulder.  How it would distract him,
make him less effective, take away the stability and focus her
presence had seemingly granted.

But nothing had been said regarding what Mulder had given
her.

Was that common? she wondered now, twisting on to her
side and drawing the bedclothes up over her.  Did outsiders
believe the give and take between Mulder and she was
utterly one-sided?  The Smoker had told her he knew Mulder
depended upon her.  Yet, wasn't he aware she relied on her
partner just as fiercely?  She loved him, for heaven's sake.
More than anything or anyone.  More than her life.  He was
so deeply a part of her now that to lose him would be like
lopping off a limb, tearing from her a kidney or a lung.  The
Smoker might have thought she would approach this logically,
would look at the situation in rational terms, realize she had
no options, and then, resigned, bow to his will.

But her vaunted reason grew strangely mute when it came
to what Mulder and she had being threatened.  In its stead,
pure emotion swept through her, its surge as powerful and
as bracing as the tide.  She had made Mulder a promise on
that night so many months before, when he had tried to
warn her something like this might occur, that their enemies
might one day attempt to use their feelings against them.
She had sat there in his darkened apartment on that cold
November eve and listened to his admonitions, solemnly
acknowledging the truth in his words.  Then, she had looked
her partner in the eye and calmly denied The Smoker and his
henchmen that kind of sway.  "No," she had told Mulder.
"They can't have this."

And you still can't, you son of a bitch, she now silently vowed.
You can try and take it from me--from us both --but I won't go
down without a fight.

Her resolve stiffened, she lay cocooned beneath her comforter,
thinking, her woolen pantsuit and silk blouse both sorry
excuses for pajamas, her body too leaden with fatigue to even
contemplate slipping from beneath the covers to change.
Slowly, painstakingly, one final gambit began to take shape
inside her weary head, the strategy risky, yet too tempting
to disregard.

One that required an accomplice of sorts, if not in deed then
in the sharing of information.

Tomorrow, she would be paying a visit to Assistant Director
Skinner's office.  She had feared she might eventually be forced
to take him up on his offer of assistance.  Yet, she was certain
neither of them had thought the day would come quite so soon.

Please, God, she prayed as she watched the tree outside her
window thrash helplessly against the bullying wind.  Please
let Walter Skinner be a man of his word.

                        *****

A.D. Skinner's Thursday had been progressing fairly typically.
A meeting with the other Washington A.D.s to discuss
staffing and budget for the coming year, a postmortem on an
investigation one of his teams had recently closed, an hour
of tedious yet necessary phone calls, and lunch at his desk--
corned beef on rye and a bag of chips.  His calendar that
afternoon was open, free of commitments or demands.  Maybe
I can get some more work done on those damned reviews, he
thought, lips pursed as he considered the rest of his day.  His
recommendations were due on his superior's desk by the
following Wednesday.  And while his social life was admittedly
pathetic, he hoped to do *something* that weekend besides sit
round-shouldered and bleary-eyed over paperwork.

Yet, he had scarcely gotten more than a page into his reading
when he heard the soft rap of knuckles on wood.

"Yes?" he called, not bothering to look up.

The office entryway cracked open and a small, sharp-featured
face peered inside.  "Sir?"

Scully?

Surprised by the identity of his visitor, he set the report aside.
"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?"

She stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind
her.  "I'm sorry, sir . . . Kimberly wasn't at her desk . . ."

He shook his head, dismissing her apology.  "Don't worry
about it.  She's at lunch."

"Good," Scully said with a nod.  "I didn't want to intrude."

"You're not," he assured her.  "What's on your mind?"

She hesitated for a moment, seemingly torn as to how she
should proceed.  In her hand was a small, folded piece of
paper.  Her thumb rubbed slow little circles over the back
of it, the gesture seemingly performed without conscious
thought.   "I have the documentation you requested, sir, on
that 302."

He blinked at her in confusion, unable to recall when he had
asked for such information.  "What 302 was that?"

Her expression screaming silent words of warning, she
crossed the additional few steps to his desk.  Laying flat the
scrap of paper she had been worrying only moments before,
she pointed to the message written on it.

<I need to talk to you.  Outside.>

Their eyes met over the desk and held for a moment.  Then,
Scully deliberately drew hers away, letting her gaze sweep
instead over the room's paneled walls.

They have ears, she seemed to be telling him.

This, he well knew.  Or at least suspected.  Scully apparently
shared in his belief.

"Well, as it happens, I was just about to head out for a cup
of coffee," he said evenly, pushing up from his chair to
stand before her in his shirtsleeves.  "Don't suppose you'd
care to join me?  We can talk on the way."

Her face visibly brightened.  "I'd love a cup of coffee."

"So, let's go."

Together, they left his office and walked side by side down
the length of the hall.

Skinner slowed only slightly as they strode towards the
floor's break room.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression you weren't
really in need of a caffeine fix," he mumbled beneath his breath.

"No sir," Scully replied, eyes straight ahead.

"This way then."

Stepping quickly, he continued past the vending machines and
the coffeemaker.  Scully followed wordlessly on his right.  When
he reached the end of the corridor, he turned left and ducked
through the stairwell door with Scully at his heels.  They said
nothing as they descended, exiting the shaft once they reached
the parking garage.

For a moment, they paused just inside the concrete chamber,
their footsteps echoing hollowly off its cement walls.  Skinner
stood just a half step in front of his companion, his eyes
narrowed as he scanned the area, looking for anyone who
might later call into question this clandestine conference.
In the distance, he could faintly hear the sound of traffic, yet
directly before them the place looked empty.  The out-to-lunch
crowd must all be back at their desks by now, he absently
thought.

"Sir, I--," Scully began softly.

"Not here," he muttered, indicating the surveillance camera
perched on a nearby corner's molding.  Slowly, it scanned,
electronically searching for those engaged in activities of a
dubious nature.   Much to his chagrin, Skinner feared that
description fit what Scully and he were up to.

"Come on," he murmured, and grabbing the woman beside
his just above the elbow, pulled her behind one of the structure's
thick support pillars.  She went with him willingly enough,
but not without throwing him a look ripe with annoyance.
Agent Scully apparently didn't like being manhandled.

"All right, Scully.  You wanted to talk," he said quietly, his
shoulder braced against the column, his body close to hers.
"So talk.  There's no guarantee how long we'll be left alone
down here."

She gazed up at him, her face pale in the shadows cast by
mortar and by him, her blue eyes wide and troubled.  "I need
your help."

Scully admitting need?  Alone?  Skinner frowned in confusion
and concern.  "Does Mulder know you're talking to me?"

"No."  Her answer was quick and cutting, and it roused his
suspicions as violently as might the sudden, unexplained
appearance on this woman of a black eye or a swollen lip.

"Did he do something?  Is he the reason you're coming to me?"
he asked, his tone turning harsh.

"No, sir," she said quickly, astonishment contorting her features.
"Mulder has done nothing.  This isn't about him.  This is about
me."

Skinner took a deep breath.  Calm down, Walt, he told himself.
Get that knight-in-shining-armor impulse under control here.
"What about you?"

She slicked her lips with her tongue, her eyes drifting away
from his.  "You told me . . . a few nights ago . . . you said
that if I had a problem, I could come to you," she murmured,
her voice husky and low.  "That I . . . that =Mulder= and I
could count on your support."

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were tickling him,
standing upright, pricking his skin in warning.  It was an
unconscious physical phenomenon, a throwback to the days
when man was more ape than human, when he walked
hunched and hirsute.  Skinner ruefully rubbed his bald pate
and sighed.  Thousands of years out of Africa and a guy could
still instinctively recognize trouble in the form of a woman.
"My support for what exactly, Scully?"

"I need you to tell me where he lives."

He pulled away ever so slightly to get a better look at her
expression.  She stared back at him, as maddeningly
composed as a Raphael Madonna.   "Where who lives?" he
asked cautiously.

"The Smoker."

Stunned by her request, Skinner pushed away from the pillar
to stand squarely before her, his hands on his hips, his words
shoved from between his gritted teeth like meat squeezed from
a grinder.  "Are you out of your mind?"

She took a step towards him and thrust out her chin, clearly not
cowed by his reaction.  "I'd ask you for his name.  But I don't
believe that has any meaning anymore.  Not now.  Not for him.
I need to find him.  And you're the only one I can think of who
can help me."

He shook his head.  "Even if I had that information--"

She ruthlessly silenced his lies.  "I =know= you have that
information, sir.  Or you did at one time."

There was only one person who could have let that particular
cat out of the bag.  "What did Mulder tell you?"

She shrugged, the gesture conveying not a lack of care, but
the withholding of knowledge.  "That when I came back . . .
after Duane Barry, he needed . . . answers."

Answers, Agent Mulder? Skinner wordlessly asked his
absent subordinate.  Is that what you're calling it these days?

"That you took a chance and gave him the Cigarette Man's
address."

"Did he tell you what happened then?" he queried, that
question having long haunted him.  It had all turned out right
in the end, Scully's return.  But he had often wondered what
had occurred when Mulder had confronted his nemesis, if
perhaps their meeting was, in fact, the reason for Scully's
miraculous recovery.

"Not entirely," she hedged, her slight glance away confessing
she knew more about the incident than she was willing to
share.  "But I do know the information you gave him was
correct."

"That was more than a year ago, Agent Scully," he said,
attempting a little hedging of his own.  "I'm certain The
Smoker has moved on by now."

"Not far enough," she muttered, her arms folded tightly
across her chest.

He would have laughed at that, at the utterly disgruntled
tone of her voice, if what they were discussing wasn't so
absurdly dangerous.

"Sir, you once trusted Agent Mulder with that knowledge,"
she continued, her gaze again fastened on his.  "And I
would hope that you would extend to me the same level of
professional courtesy and respect."

That did it.  "Oh, for crying out loud, Scully.  This has nothing
to do with 'professional courtesy' and you know it!" he snapped,
losing his cool.

"But it has everything to do with trust, sir!" she countered,
matching him in volume and in attitude.  "With trust and with
you being willing to back up your agents."

"Back up my agents?" he parroted, the words disbelieving and
loud.  "On what?  A suicide mission?  Or have you turned
vigilante on me, Scully?  Are you looking for a little payback
here, a little getting even?"

Her eyes dropped from his, training now on the floor.  Seeing
her tacit admission of guilt, Skinner wondered exactly what
nerve he had struck.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt, sir," she said quietly, speaking
to his shoes.  "That's why I need to meet with him."

He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and bent down
to try and steal a look at her face.  "Why would anyone be in a
position to be hurt, Scully?  Has that bastard threatened you?"

With what appeared to be great reluctance, she lifted her gaze
to his, her eyes looked bruised in the half-light, their color
more black than blue.  "No, sir.  I'm not in any danger."

He studied her hard, searching for clues in her expression.
But that afternoon, Scully seemed to him little more than a
cipher.  She gave away nothing.

Yet demanded from him so much more.

"I know you know, sir," she whispered, standing straight and
strong in his hold.  "And I ask you now to trust me as you did
Mulder.  To believe me when I tell you I wouldn't ask you for
this if I thought there was any other way around it."

"Around what, Scully?" he muttered, the urge to shake her
almost unbearable, his fingers twitching to do the deed.  "You're
asking me for information any of a dozen men would kill to
have.  And yet, you give me no solid reason why you should
even need such knowledge."

Her lips tightened, flattening long and thin, then releasing on
a sigh.  "I am trying to keep a very bad situation from turning
worse."

He dropped his hands away from her and, slipping off his
glasses, wearily rubbed the back of his hand between his
eyes.  "And that's all you're going to say?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm afraid it is."

He shook his head, needing time to think, to consider the
ramifications of such a betrayal.

And what could happen to Scully and her partner if, instead,
he refrained from turning traitor.

"Please, sir.  Lives may depend on this."

Skinner looked at her then, surprised to see the vulnerability
he had witnessed the other night once more softening her
features.  With some women, he would have deemed the shift
in expression calculated, designed to bend a man to their will.

But not with Scully.

In fact, he felt certain, were he to point out to her the way in
which such sincerity, such honest need made her seem smaller,
more delicate and easy to wound, she would cringe in disgust.
Scully wasn't enamored of that sort of weakness.  He had seen
her in action, had watched as she had stubbornly clung to
control, often in the face of nearly insurmountable odds.  Dana
Scully could be a formidable foe.

But could anyone take on The Smoker single-handedly?

"I need to think about this," he told her at last, deciding to
end their discussion by telling her the truth, feeling he owed
this woman that small kindness at least.

"I understand," she said with a nod.

"Am I right in believing I should mention this conversation
to no one?" he queried sardonically, his hands buried deep in
his trouser pockets.

"Yes, sir.  That's correct."

"Not even Mulder?"

She hesitated no more than an instant.  "Not even Mulder."

"All right then, Scully," he muttered.  "You have my word.
I'll get back with you on the other."

And saying nothing more, Skinner turned and walked away,
leaving her alone in the garage.

He didn't make her wait long.

Friday morning, Scully awoke to find a plain brown envelope
shoved under her door.

In it was a slip of paper with an address typewritten on it.

She committed the string of numbers and letters to memory,
then burned the piece of paper in her sink.

Her body quivering with excitement and dread, she took her
shower, began getting ready for work.

But as she stood beneath the water, her mind wasn't on the J.
Edgar Hoover Building or even Fox Mulder.

Rather, Dana Scully was planning her Friday night.

                        *****

Scully stood outside the red brick apartment building and
looked up at the darkened second floor windows.  Her breath 
puffed white and fluffy in the cold, black night, its mist
reminding her of ghosts, of spirits haunting the earth in
search of rest and redemption.

Like Selene and Jack.

In New Orleans.  With Mulder.

Stop that, she said, giving herself a small mental shake.  This
is no time to turn fanciful.  She needed her wits about her if
she hoped to come away from this with anything resembling a
victory.

Victory.  God.  Mulder and she could win this.

But not without an assist from Skinner.  Thank God for the
big guy.  She still couldn't entirely believe he had come through
for her.  The day before, he had seemed so dead set against the
idea of her coming here that she had feared her pleading had
fallen on deaf ears.  But, apparently her boss wasn't in need of
a hearing aid after all.  Because here she stood outside the home
of the infamous Smoker.

Ding-dong, Avon calling.

Moving swiftly and silently, she slipped into the building's
vestibule.  Pulling from her jacket pocket her Bureau-issued
lock gun, she grappled with the inner door.  As solid as the
rest of this Cold War era structure, it resisted her attempts
at first.  Yet, after a minute or two, its lock at last fell victim to
modern technology.  With a final whir of the bit and a twist of
her wrist, it clicked open.

She was in.

Running into no one, she tread lightly up the stairs, her
jeans, black turtleneck and leather coat blending in with
the hallway's murk.  She could hear the muted tones of
televisions--the late news and sitcom reruns--and conversation.
>From above, a baby cried.  But no one opened their apartment
door to take out the garbage or visit a neighbor.

Good.  Perfect.

Once she reached the second floor, she searched for #2N.  The
"N" standing for "north" according to the building information
she had tracked down that afternoon.  She had ditched poor
Mulder late morning, and had hightailed it down to City Hall.
There, she had studied the necessary blueprints, memorizing
things like fire exits and apartment layouts.

It paid to be prepared, she reasoned.

There.  At the end of the hall.  Her destination.

Cautiously, she approached, listening with the intensity of a
doe on the opening day of hunting season.  Yet, try though
she might, she couldn't hear anything on the other side of
the door.  She bent down and peered beneath it.  No light.
Consistent with what she had seen from the outside.

Satisfied, she withdrew once more the tool she had used
downstairs.  This door proved easier than the first, its tumblers
yielding without putting up much of a fight.  What she wouldn't
give to have The Smoker be this big a pushover, she mused.

Fat chance.

Her Sig Sauer in her hand, Scully inched open the door.
When the archway didn't light up with gunfire, she grew
bold.  Stepping between the door and jamb, she entered her
enemy's lair.

It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The glow from the street lamps outside provided some
illumination, enough to keep her from running into furniture.
But it was still tough to see.  Briefly, she considered turning
on a light, only to decide against it.  She didn't know where the
apartment's tenant was or when he might return home.  No
sense in warning him of her presence.  She would have to do
her scouting in the shadows.

Fitting, really.  When she stopped to think about it.

Moving carefully through the place, she looked for clues as
to The Smoker's true identity--personal items, correspondence,
photographs, anything that might give him away.

Yet, there was next to nothing for her to analyze.  The flat
was small, typical for this part of D.C., with a single bedroom
and a narrow galley kitchen.    The furnishings were simple
and nondescript.  Functional rather than fashionable.  A plaid,
overstuffed sofa with a coordinating solid colored chair in the
living room.  End tables, cocktail table.  Television.  A desk,
but no computer.  Table and chairs in the dinette area.  The
sleeping quarters had a double bed, matching night stands and
dresser.  She tiptoed to the closet and peeked inside.  A row of
suits and shirts, a rack of decidedly sedate ties, all smelling
faintly of cigarette smoke.

Nothing unexpected there.

A well-perused TV guide lay curled and creased atop the
one of the two end tables.  Otherwise, she found no papers or
magazines, no mail or bills.  She looked inside his refrigerator,
taking care to keep the light dimmed by pressing in the door
release with one gloved finger.  Milk, orange juice, a can of
Folgers, beer, some eggs and lunch meat.  Typical bachelor fare,
she judged with a rueful half-smile.  Nothing special there
either.

Fine, she thought, shutting the side-by-side.  His dwelling
might not tell her anything.

But the man himself damned well would when she was through
with him.  Now all she had to do was wait.

A phone rang.

Startled, her hands flew to her jacket, thinking it might be her
cell.  No, of course not, she realized, her heart pounding at fast
forward speed.  She had left her Nokia blocks away in the car
with her purse.

Someone was calling Him.

Her head swiveled in the direction of the noise.  There.  The
phone.  Tucked away on the corner of the desk.  She hadn't
seen it at first.  Oh good God. . . .  He had an answering
machine!

What luck.

Walking slowly towards it, as if she feared it might all of a
sudden go into attack mode, Scully neared the phone and its
mechanical secretary.  Neither was anymore remarkable than
anything else in the place.  Studying the answering machine,
she found the volume control and eased the level up,
wanting to be sure and catch every word that was said, not
knowing what might prove useful.

On the fourth ring, the machine picked up.

The Smoker had no message greeting callers.

Why was she not surprised?

"Good evening, Agent Scully."

The amazement that had been lacking only moments before
slammed into her with all the force of a baseball bat.

Shit.  He was calling his own number.

Knowing he would reach her.

"Sorry I wasn't there to greet you.  But then . . . I didn't know
you were coming, did I?"

She backed away from the desk in horror.  All her hopes
shriveling away to nothing.  Turning to dust and settling
in her mouth, the powdery residue choked her.

"Did you really believe you could successfully steal into my
home unannounced?  Did you think I wouldn't know about
your pitiful little plan?"

She could only shake her head, unable to answer.

"I assure you, Agent Scully.  I know.  We always know."

Christ.

"What did you think you would do once you got there?  Put
a gun to my head?"

What had she planned on doing, she now asked herself.
Reason with him?  Blackmail him?  Shoot him through the
forehead as if she were some kind of contract killer?

"Agent Mulder tried that once, you know.  It didn't work
for him either."

Mulder.  Oh my God, Mulder.

"Such presumption can't be overlooked, Agent Scully.  I
forgave you for talking to your friends, but now you've
gone too far."

She had to get out of there.

"You have no one to blame for this but yourself, you know."

Blame?  Blame for what? she longed to ask.

"No one but yourself."

And with a noisy click, the line went dead.

As soon as the room fell silent, she lunged for the phone.
Mulder.  She had to warn him.  What did it matter if the
line was bugged?  They were already on to her.

She tried his apartment first.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four rings.

Answering machine.  "This is Fox Mulder, please leave a
message. "

"Mulder, pick up.  It's me."

Nothing.

"Pick up," she urged again.

Still nothing.

Hanging up, she tried his cell.

By now, her hand was shaking so badly, she had to punch
in the number twice before she got it right.

It rang. . . .

Please, Mulder.

And rang. . . .

Please answer.

And rang. . . .

I'm begging you.

And rang. . . .

Oh God, I'll never forgive myself.

And by the time the recorded voice at last announced the
cellular customer was unavailable, Dana Scully had already
dropped the handset.

Burst through the apartment door.

And stumbling, pounded down the stairs.

Mulder.  I have to get to Mulder, she thought wildly, breaking
into a run when she reached the outside.

I have to get to him before it's too late.

If it wasn't already.

**************************************************

Fox Mulder bit back a groan as his body crashed noisily to the
floor, knee first.

"Ow!"

Lying prone, he twisted awkwardly, a hand cradling his
wounded joint, trying to catch a glimpse of the ones responsible
for his injury.  They stood there just inside the entrance to his
apartment, unmoving, impassive, heedless of the damage they
had caused, the pain they had inflicted. . . .

When had he left his gym shoes by the door?

He blinked at them in annoyance and surprise, staring at the
offending Nikes as if he expected an answer to his unspoken
query.

The tennies remained, however, typically mute.

Stupid shoes.  A guy could break an ankle tripping over stuff
like that.

Or litter his living room with what had been only moments
before his newly laundered, carefully folded clothes.

Actually, he mused, absently rubbing his knee, his socks and
shorts might still qualify as fresh out of the dryer.  But the
whole carefully folded thing had gone to hell in a laundry
basket.  Now his wash lay twisted and balled, draped on
furniture, wadded on his faded Indian rug.

"Crap," he murmured softly and, hands braced against
the hardwood, began to push up from the entryway floor,
intending to go retrieve the aforementioned basket and
collect his scattered articles of clothing.  But the sudden
relative change in altitude made his head spin and his arms
buckle.  With a graceless "Oomph," he collapsed once more,
his cheek cushioned by his forearm as he ruefully chuckled
over his predicament.

"Shoulda never finished that tequila."

And he wouldn't have.  If the six pack of Sam Adams he had
picked up to wash down his pizza had given him the buzz he
had been looking for.

"Stupid beer," he mumbled, trying again, and this time
succeeding in levering himself to a sitting position, his legs
splayed, his back propped now beside the archway to his
living room.  Pleased with his progress, he just sat there for
a moment, dreamily contemplating the shadowy vestibule,
taking in the view.  It's not so bad down here, he decided
after a time, kinda dark and peaceful.  The floor wasn't even
all that uncomfortable once you got used to it, a little chilly . . .

. . . his door was open.  That wasn't good.  Not with him
sitting there on his ass.  Anyone could just waltz right in . . .

Better fix that.

He stretched to his left, reaching for the half-opened
portal.  Unfortunately, his lean threw off his precarious
balance and, resembling nothing so much as a defective
Weeble, he tipped over, landing on his side.

But not before his fingers snagged on the edge of the door,
allowing him to thrust forward with his shoulder and slam
the slab of wood into its frame, shimmying it against the
jamb.

It must be true, he thought woozily, looking up at the world
from his crooked fetal position.  God really does have a soft
spot for drunks.

No.  Not drunk, he amended only seconds later, the revision
accompanied by no small measure of affront.  Tipsy, maybe.
But not drunk.  If he were drunk, would he have been able to
wash, dry and put away not one, not two, but =three= loads
of laundry?

I think not!

True, the chore had grown noticeably more difficult as the
night had dragged on, that last load taking an eternity to
make it from the dryer to the table to his basket.  And he
hadn't actually "put away" the final batch, unless you
counted toting it from the basement to his apartment . . .

. . . which was a triumph of a sorts, 'cause there for a
minute, in the elevator coming up, he had forgotten what
floor he lived on. . . .

"Apartment 42," he now said aloud to no one in particular,
rolling over onto his back to study with profound concentration
the ceiling overhead.

And the meaning behind the mysterious 42.

"Number four-two," he repeated, the words spoken slowly
and with spectacular diction.

Weird . . .

. . . if he squinted really hard, that crack in the plaster up
there reminded him a whole lot of Alfred Hitchcock.

"Four plus two equals six," he recited dutifully, eyes
narrowed as he sought to bring into focus the image of the
man responsible for "Psycho."

Not the remake, the original.

What had he been mumbling about again?  Oh yeah . . .

"Sixth floor."

No . . . wait a minute. . . . that wasn't it.

God.  He'd always hated math!  Numbers were tricky things.
Willful and mischievous.  Like cats, only with greater
attention spans.

Just look at his checkbook.

Better stick with words. . . .

. . . Here come some now.

"Gotta clean up."

Indeed he did he did indeed.  After all, that's what he had
stayed home for.  To get cleaned up.  Well . . . his clothes
anyway.  He coulda gone out.  It was Friday.  Stuff was going
on.  =He'd had offers.=  The guys had invited him to sit in on
their weekly poker game.  Hernandez up in Violent Crimes
had said something about a happy hour when he had stopped
by that afternoon . . .

Happy . . . happyhappyhappy.  He was happy.  Goddamn it.
Why wouldn't he be happy?  His life was just fine.  Not a single
complaint.  Not a one.

Lie.

Liar.

Lying.

I'm lying, Mulder wordlessly admitted, the confession coupled
with a woeful sigh.  I'm lying while lying . . .

. . . on the floor.

I've got to get off the floor.

Carefulcarefulcareful . . . .

Success!  He stands.  He walks.

He wobbles. . . .

But he does *not* fall down.

Things were looking up.

If only the same could be said of the "thing" between Scully
and him.

Now, cut that out! he urged as, hanging on to the arm of the
sofa, he bent down with all the agility of an arthritic pensioner
to grab his overturned laundry basket.  The whole reason he
had indulged in this alcohol induced stupor in the first place
was so he wouldn't have to think about a certain auburn-haired
special agent.  He had wanted a night, just one night, where he
wasn't stretched out on his couch pretending to watch television
or staring at a printed page until the words blurred and ran,
becoming as meaningless to his untutored eye as Sanskrit.  He
had hoped to win a few hours respite, some time away from the
worry and frustration that had haunted him now for days.

And it had worked.

More or less.

Up till now. . . .

Time for another drink.

No, no, no.

Bad Mulder.

Besides, with the beer and tequila gone, the only alcohol he
had in the house was in his medicine cabinet.

And he was way too *tipsy* to try driving to the liquor store
for more.

"Just pick up your underwear and go to bed," he muttered to
himself as he scooped up a wrinkled scrap of black silk and
tossed it into the basket with its less slinky brethren.

Yeah.  Bed.  Bed was good.  Sleep was good.  Or so he'd
heard.  He really couldn't speak to the subject himself.  Not
lately.  Christ.  He hadn't really enjoyed a good night's sleep
since that evening spent in Scully's bed, which was ironic,
seeing as that was where his troubles had seemingly begun.

Of course, Mulder had lived with insomnia his entire life.
Sometimes, if they were on a case or if he was in the midst
of some particularly fascinating bit of research, he would go
days without shut-eye, subsisting on nothing more substantial
than caffeine and sugar.

Scully wasn't like that though.  She liked her eight hours.
Even so, she hadn't been getting it that past week, he was
almost certain.  Unless he missed his guess, something was
weighing heavily on her soul.  Something that robbed her
not only of slumber but of serenity.  Oh, the signs weren't
overt.  They never were where she was concerned.  Still, he
had noted them just the same.

He was a bona fide expert when it came to Scully-watching.

And yet, even with all his supposed expertise, he found it
tough to actually pinpoint what had tipped him off, hard to
articulate either verbally or inside his head.

Doubly difficult, right at that moment, given the amount of
alcohol he had imbibed.

He supposed it was a hardening of sorts he had spied, a
shutting down.  Without being snide or cruel, without
erupting in anger or in tears, Scully seemed to him to be
retreating inside herself these days, shielding all the soft,
vulnerable bits, tucking them safely away and then steeling
the rest of herself against the world.

Against him?

Or against some imagined danger.

But whatwhatwhat could that be?

He had asked her.  Repeatedly.

Only to have her politely, and repeatedly, dodge his inquiries.

With a smile and an assurance and a turning away.

Turning . . .

Lately, she carried herself differently.  That's something else
he had noticed.  Her movements were less fluid, her posture
more stiff.  That taut quality persisted in her expression.
Her face appeared drawn, set as if carved from marble, its
only color courtesy of Lancome.

And her eyes.

They were . . .

. . . sad.

He realized the word was vague, the sort used by children,
broad in scope, obscure in meaning.

Still, it was fitting where Scully was concerned, he now
thought to himself, weaving a tad unsteadily, yet somehow
managing to remain upright as he made his way about the
apartment.  Sorrow seemed to pour from those baby blues,
its intensity suggesting a cause far more serious than your
average bad hair day.

Of course, that was when she would actually condescend to
=meet= his gaze, he silently groused, snatching a sock from
where it dangled on the edge of his coffee table.  Such instances
had been few.  She had spent the better part of the week avoiding
his eyes.

And all other parts of his anatomy.

Damn.

Talk about frustrating.  Despite sharing an office with the
woman, he had hardly seen her the past several days.  She had
always had somewhere to go, something to do.  He would have
thought she was angry with him, miffed over some imagined
or all too real slight.  Only she had never fought with him
outright, never cut him with word or deed.  Instead, it was as
if she had simply removed herself from the situation, as if her
life were taking place on a plane not far from his. . . .

Yet separate, nonetheless.

And he hated that separation.  Hated being patient.  Being
understanding. . . .

But he didn't hate Scully.  Couldn't hate her.  Not even if he
tried.

He loved her.

And missed her.  Desperately.

Shit. . . .

Why did he have to wait till he was three sheets to the wind
to remember he was a maudlin drunk?

"Enough," he muttered, tossing the now heaped basket onto
his couch and then plopping down beside it.  He had tracked
down most of his strewn laundry.  He could find the rest in
the morning.

When he was hungover.

And if that wasn't a reason to greet the new day with a smile,
he didn't know what was.

Sighing once more, he leaned back against the sofa's cool,
black leather and closed his eyes.  This was nice, he decided
after a minute or two.  Comfortable.  Just sitting still.  Breathing
slowly and evenly.  Feeling the room roll gently beneath him,
lazily rocking, like the pitch of a boat on a calm summer lake.
Oh yeah.  Nice. . . .  Slowly, his body began to unwind, sinking
deep into the cushions, limbs heavy like sandbags.  One by one,
his bones softened, then dissolved.  Sleep beckoned enticingly,
promising to cradle him tenderly in its sheltering arms . . .

*BANG BANG BANG*

Which was why the vicious pounding at his door startled
him so.

"Agent Mulder?  Agent Mulder, would you please open the
door, sir?"

"What?" he croaked, jerking painfully awake.  Ouch!  His
neck . . .  Anybody know a good chiropractor?

"Sir, it's the Alexandria Police.  Can we talk to you for a
minute?"

The police?  What were =they= doing here?

"Sir, are you okay in there?"

"Yeah," he assured the voice on the other side of the door,
trying to figure out the best way to escape the sofa's clutches.
Why wouldn't his arms work in coordination with his legs?  
He knew they could do it.  He had seen them collaborate before.

"Sir?"

"Coming," he called hoarsely as, swaying, he at last fumbled
gracelessly to his feet.  "I'm coming."

A few rambling steps later, he was opening the door.  Two
of the boys in blue were waiting for him, both young, both
trying to peer past him and into his apartment.

"Can I help you?" Mulder asked politely, his shoulder propped
against the jamb for support, thrilled he had somehow managed
to utter the question with nary a slur.

The taller of his two visitors, the one with the name "Larson"
pinned to his shirt pocket, spoke first.  "Sir, we got a report of
an incident."

"Incident?" Mulder echoed in confusion, his brow furrowed.

"Yes, sir," said the other officer, a man named Pucinski.  "We
got a call saying you needed assistance."

Assistance with what? Mulder wondered in dismay.  With
gathering up his laundry?

No.  That couldn't be . . .

Oh, God.  Had one of his neighbors heard his tumble to the
floor?  Great.  The place gets ransacked and nobody says a
word.  He stumbles over his sneakers and old Mrs. McCreary
down the hall sends in the National Guard.

"Look . . . officers . . . I think there's been a mistake," he began
haltingly, ducking his head and running a hand over his unruly
after-hours hair.

"Mulder!"

A husky female voice lured his eyes from their perusal of his
stocking feet.

Scully?

She stood at the end of the corridor, down near the stairs.
Why would she have climbed all those steps when there
was a perfectly good elevator nearby? he asked himself.
And not only had she apparently taken the stairs, but judging
by the way her chest pumped and her forehead shone, she
had done so in a hurry.

"Who's that?" Pucinski asked, turning to curiously regard the
newcomer.

"That's my . . . my partner," Mulder mumbled, watching her
swift approach.  If Scully was surprised to see a pair of
policemen at his door she hid it well.  All her focus was on
him, her blue eyes burning into his as she marched the length
of the passageway, her pace just shy of a run.

"Are you all right?" she asked when she reached his side,
looking for a moment like she might reach out and touch
him, as if she somehow thought to gauge his wellbeing by
tactile means.  In the end, however, she refrained.  Dizzy
with standing, Mulder frowned, wondering if perhaps he had
only imagined her aborted caress.

"Yeah," he muttered, looking from her to the cops and back
again, still trying to make sense of it all.  "I'm fine.  Why does
everyone keep askin' if I'm okay?"

"You weren't the one who placed a 911 call to the Alexandria
P.D.?" Larson asked, his patience clearly being tested.

"No," Mulder began, shaking his head.  "I don't--"

"That would have been me," Scully quietly yet firmly confessed,
neatly slicing in two his befuddled disavowal.

Scully had called the police?  Why?  As far as he knew, Nikes
were exempt from the law.

"Ma'am, may I remind you of the consequences for unnecessarily
contacting an emergency operator?"

Uh-oh.  It sounded like Pucinski was getting pissed off now too.

Watch it, Scully, Mulder silently warned.  You were the one
who used to lecture me about playing nice with local law
enforcement.

But he needn't have worried.  Scully proved unfazed by the
policeman's hostility.

"Officers, may I have a word with you both?" she asked calmly.

Bowing a trifle reluctantly to her request, the pair followed
Scully a step or two from the door.  Mulder yearned to tag after
them, eager to discover the reason for his partner's phone call.
But he feared what might occur should he lose the door frame's
brace.  Almost as if sensing his dilemma, Scully looked his
way.

"Give me just a minute, Mulder," she said softly.  "I'll be
right there."

Scully would be right there.  With him, in his apartment.  On
a lonely, lonely Friday night. And suddenly it didn't matter
why she had made her way to Hegel Place.  What did he care?
As long as she was there.

Now, if only his breath didn't stink like a bar rag.

He couldn't hear what Scully had to say.  She spoke quietly,
forcing her two-man audience to stand close so as to catch
her words.  They listened attentively, nodding from time to
time, adding their two cents only when she was finished.

"Thanks," Mulder heard his partner murmur as she wrapped
things up.  "I really appreciate it."

"It's no trouble," Larson said as he turned towards the
elevator, his good humor seemingly restored.  "We don't
mind checking back."

"If anything happens tonight, tell the dispatcher to patch
you through directly to us," Pucinski instructed, handing
her his card.  "We can be here in a matter of minutes."

"I will.  Thanks," Scully said, pocketing the small piece of
paper.  "That's good to know."

"Good night, Agent Scully," Pucinski then said with a small
nod of farewell.  "Agent Mulder, sorry to have bothered you."

"No bother," Mulder mumbled, more confused than ever.

Larson smiled and ambled after his partner.  Within seconds,
the two policemen disappeared into the elevator.

Leaving Mulder and Scully alone together.

At first, neither said anything.  They just looked at each other
for a beat or more, Mulder scarcely resisting the urge to squirm
under his partner's scrutiny.  Christ, he silently huffed, glancing
away from her penetrating gaze.  If he had known he was going
to have company he would have changed into something besides
this ugly yellow T-shirt.  The ribbing around the neck had
pulled loose in two or three places, and . . . oh man . . . he
had a smear of pizza sauce down near the bottom there.  Lips
twisted in chagrin, he tugged at the shirt's hem, bowing his
head to try to get a better look at the stain, when the simple
shift in position shot his equilibrium all to hell.  With a small
sound of surprise, he began to list sideways.

But Scully caught him before he could do himself more harm,
her small hands clinging tightly to his arm, restoring his
balance.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, her forehead
wrinkled with concern, her body close to his.  She smelled
of the outdoors, of wind and chill and winter yet to come.

Like a muzzled dog, the alcohol in his system strained
against its leash and, bursting free, succeeded in gnawing
the edges off his words.  "I tol' ya I'm fine."

Scully pulled back just a touch, her lips pursed in consideration.
Delicately, she sniffed the air between them.  "Have you been
drinking, Mulder?"

Busted.

Grimacing, he turned away and began trekking slowly and
carefully towards the sofa.  Absolute mortification took a
lot out of a guy.  He needed to sit down before he fell down.

Again.

"Who wants to know?" he mumbled, only just managing to
avoid taking a chunk out of his shin with the coffee table.

"I do," she replied from somewhere behind him.

Ah!  Here we go.  Rich Corinthian leather.  My friend.  My
bed.  My couch.  Sit.

Comfortably ensconced, he looked her way.  Scully was
standing, watching him from the apartment's entrance,
her arms crisscrossed against her chest.  Stop staring at me!
he longed to shout.  I know I'm drunk.

Maybe if he closed his eyes she would go away.

Bye-bye, Scully.

"Mulder?"

Damn.  That almost never worked.

"Why are you here, Scully?" he grumbled under his breath,
his lashes still stubbornly lowered.

He heard her shut the door, listened to the whisper of the
chain sliding through its metal channel, the grunt of the
dead bolt, the click of the lock as it engaged.

Apparently, not only was his guest still there, but she planned
on staying.

"I came to talk," she murmured as she crossed towards
him, her voice coming nearer, her heels sounding softly
against the throw rug.

"'Bout what?" he asked, his lips feeling thick and clumsy
on his face, their girth getting in the way of his speech.

She didn't answer immediately.  Instead, she walked past
him to the window where, with a rattle and a swoosh, she
drew closed the blinds.

"It doesn't matter now.  It can wait till morning."

When she said nothing more, he raised his lids.  What he
saw surprised him.  Scully was leaning against his desk,
massaging the area between her closed eyes.  Her shoulders
sagged wearily, her hair all but hiding her face from view.

"S'okay," he said soothingly, his worry dulled, but not entirely
drowned by alcohol.  "You can talk if you want.  I'm listenin'."

Like runaway window shades, her lashes snapped towards
her brows.  Standing upright once more, she took a step
his way.  "Mulder, look at you," she urged with a frustrated
sigh, gesturing in his direction as if she feared he might not
know to whom she was referring.  "You're . . . you're barely
conscious."

"Not true," he argued back, pulling himself forward to perch
on the sofa's edge.  "Look at my laundry."

Wait. . . . that wasn't what he'd meant to say.  He had meant
to tell her that he couldn't be that far gone, not when he had
gotten so much done that night.  That he could stay awake.
That he would listen to her recite from the Yellow Pages if
she wanted.  He was up for anything.

But that explanation required too many words arranged in
far too complicated a pattern.  So, instead, he just pointed
emphatically at the basket of clothes as if that would explain
everything.

And even though some part of him, some teeny-tiny, itty-bitty
bit of him recognized the pantomime as idiotic, as the action
of a man who with Cuervo Gold had tragically pickled untold
brain cells, another larger part of him all at once was proud.

Because, without warning, Scully smiled at him.  Slowly
shaking her head, her expression turned tender, a gentle
affection shining unmistakably in her gaze.

"Just how much have you had to drink?" she quietly asked,
the curving of her lips lingering.

He rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, trying
to decide exactly what he should divulge.  "Dunno.  A little
of this, a little of that."

"How little?"

Sighing, he surrendered.  What was the use?  "Bottles are in
the kitchen."

She nodded, but didn't speak.

"So's pizza," he added helpfully.  "Couple slices left if you
want'em."

"No thanks."

This time he nodded.  Then yawned.

"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get some sleep,"
Scully said, taking a couple of steps in his direction.

"I'm tired," he admitted, a tad apologetically.

"Why don't you lie down here," she suggested, crossing to
move his laundry basket from beside him to the floor nearby.
"Just lie down and close your eyes."

Mmmm.  Close his eyes.  That sounded really good. . . .

. . . and so easy to do.  His lids drooped in anticipation.  But
first . . .

"You gonna stay?" he asked as she guided him down onto the
cushions.

"Yeah," she murmured, reaching past him to grab the blanket
off the back of the couch and shake it open before settling it
over him.  "I'll stay.  I'll be here when you wake up."

"And then we'll talk?" he queried sleepily as he snuggled
beneath the covers.

"Then we'll talk," she echoed in a whisper, her hand trailing
lightly over his hair.

That felt so wonderful, the brush of her fingertips against his
temple.  So remarkable, that he gave up even the pretense of
trying to stay awake.  With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Fox Mulder
slipped into the Sandman's realm, falling asleep so quickly
he never felt Dana Scully's lips press warm and soft against
his brow, bidding him sweet dreams.

And never remembered to ask just what it was the two of
them so grievously needed to discuss.

                        *****

Scully didn't nod off until dawn had nearly broken, sickly
and pale, from behind night's clouds.  She had spent the wee
hours on sentry duty, her Sig Sauer by her side, guarding her
partner from those she feared sought to harm him, watching
over him while he slumbered unawares.

At first, it had been easy to stay alert.  Emotions raw and
close to the surface, she had been all but a bundle of nerves.
Tearing over the bridge from D.C. to Virginia, she had
frantically called 911, telling the operator a federal agent
had been threatened and was in need of assistance, well aware
the local P.D. would be able to get to Mulder's place far faster
than she.  That done, all she could do was pray, pray and
flatten the accelerator to the floor.  Zipping through traffic,
she had darted between cars like a hummingbird in a flowerbed,
intent on one thing, and one thing only--getting to Mulder
before The Smoker did.

Arriving to see the squad car parked outside her partner's
building had done little to allay her fears.  Unwilling to
wait for the elevator, she had run up the stairs to his floor,
all the while imagining an endless array of Technicolor
horrors.  Pulse pounding in rhythm with her step, she had
pictured Mulder twisted on the rug in agony.  Bleeding from
a bullet hole, a puncture wound.  Or worse.

So, when she had seen him, unharmed, swaying drunkenly
in his apartment's doorway, she hadn't known whether to
laugh or to sob.  Her body had felt torn with indecision.  For
a moment, she hadn't even been able to move from her place
at the top of the stairs.  Instead, she had stood rooted to the
spot, trembling as if with fever.

He's all right, she had kept repeating inside her head.  He's
okay.  He's fine.

God.  At that moment, she would have given anything to have
been able to just let loose.  To yell or scream or run to Mulder
and throw her arms around him in thanksgiving.

But the police were there.  And she needed them on their
side, to serve as back-up if required.  She couldn't alienate
them with fantastic stories or melodramatic displays of
emotion.

She had to keep cool, remain in control.

With that in mind, she had calmly yet ruthlessly squelched all
her unseemly urges.  Adopting her most professional demeanor,
she had told the two officers she had received a threatening
phone call that evening, one that had promised harm to the man
with whom she worked.  Fellow law enforcement professionals,
they had immediately sympathized with the situation, and
pledged their support.  It's no doubt a crank, they had told her
in an attempt to reassure.  Just the same, we'll check back
throughout the night.  If anything funny happens, give us a
call and we'll be here in no time.

Good to know, she had thought.

Especially as, for the present, Mulder was in no condition to
champion his own cause.

Good grief, Mulder, she had scolded as he had slept.  What
had you been thinking?  You don't get drunk.  I've never seen
you drunk.  Yet there he had been in all his bleary-eyed glory.

And with him in such a state, how could she confess her
recklessness might cost him his life?

No.  She couldn't tell Mulder what had happened, couldn't
detail for him all The Smoker had said and done.  Not when
the man couldn't even focus his eyes.

In the morning, she had decided.  When Mulder was sober
once more, she would tell him everything, as she should
have from the start.  She would share with him what their
enemy had threatened and together they would figure out a
way out to defend themselves and their partnership.

The matter settled, she had moved restlessly about Mulder's
apartment, impatient now to simply get it all over with.
Looking for something to pass the time, she had quietly
tidied up about the place, picking up stray articles of wash,
drying the dinner dishes, and throwing out the empties in
the kitchen.  Beer =and= tequila, Mulder? she had silently
queried as she had wrapped up the leftover pizza.  You are
going to regret this come morning.

That thought sounding still inside her head, she hadn't been
overly surprised to have been roused from a light doze by the
sound of Mulder retching in the bathroom.  She glanced at
her watch.  6:02.  Great.  Exhausted, she had dropped into
the chair sometime around 4:30, thinking perhaps she might
read.  Not such a terrific idea.  It hadn't taken long before
she had realized that, as tired as she was, reading would
inevitably lead to sleeping.  However, the night had been
quiet and, despite the paranoia that had become her constant
companion of late, she felt reasonably secure with neighbors
close by and police patrolling the perimeter.  It should be
safe to give in to her fatigue, she had decided.  If only for
an hour or two.

But judging by the pained gasps coming from down the hall,
her hour or two was up.  Time to get Mulder ready to face the
world.  Poor guy.  She was certain he felt awful; the mornings
after were never kind.  Still, he would have to get past the
discomfort.  They were going to have to be at the top of their
game if they hoped to have a chance against The Smoker.

"Mulder?" she called, knocking on the bathroom door.  "Do
you need help?"

"Scu--, . . . Scully?" he murmured weakly from within.

That sounded like a 'yes', she mused with a touch of wry
humor.  Pushing open the portal, she slipped into doctor
mode, determined not to lecture or condescend.  No matter
how sorely she might be tempted.

But the minute she laid eyes on Mulder, all thoughts of
teasing evaporated.  He lay on the floor, wedged on his side
between the toilet and the sink, twitching.  The commode was
splashed brown with bile, spots of it dotting the seat and tile
as well.  He breathed raggedly from his mouth, his face sheened
with sweat.

"Mulder?" she whispered, falling to her knees beside him and
turning him over onto his back, cradling his head in her hands
to protect him from further injury.

Initially, he didn't answer, though his eyes found hers and
clung, fear shining darkly in their glassy depths.

"Mulder what's the matter?" she asked, hands running over
him, searching for a pulse.  She found it fluttering beneath
her fingertips, beating like sparrow wings.  "Can you talk to
me?  Can you tell me what hurts?"

He tried; his lips moved, but no sound came forth.  God.
His strange silence terrified her.  She had seen her share of
hangovers in her day, some of the ones in med school fairly
severe.  But she had never seen a sufferer in this condition.

"Mulder, I'm going to call an ambulance," she told him,
smoothing his hair away from his face as she began to stand.
"Just rest here.  I'll be right back."

"Scully?" he mumbled faintly, his gaze struggling to maintain
its hold on hers.

"Yeah?" she prompted, bending down once more, palm pressed
to his too cool cheek.  "What is it?"

"Somethin' . . . somethin's not right."

Saying nothing more, he blinked, then slowly closed his eyes.
And with one long, rattling breath, his head lolled to the 
side . . .

 . . . as Fox Mulder slipped into unconsciousness.


***************************************************

Walter Skinner got the call shortly after ten.  Weekend
traffic and rain-slicked roads slowed his progress.  Still, he
made it to Memorial Medical Center before noon.  A few
well-placed questions and he quickly found his way to the
seventh floor.  To Fox Mulder's bedside.

Not surprisingly, the X-Files' senior agent already had
company.

"Agent Scully," Skinner said in greeting as he stood in the
doorway, surveying Mulder's accommodations.  The room
was a single.  Small, it smelled of disinfectant and disease.
Although it was nearly midday, scant outside light dribbled
in through the blinds.  A goose-necked lamp clipped to the
bed's headboard did what it could to combat the dreariness.
Sadly, its feeble glow hadn't the firepower to provide the
chamber with anything approximating cheer.  "How is he?"

The small auburn-haired woman turned her head listlessly
in his direction.  One glimpse of her face and it was all
Skinner could do not to gasp at her appearance.  He had
known Scully had been the one to find Mulder, that she
had supposedly gone to his apartment that morning and
discovered him all but unconscious on his bathroom floor.
Still, Skinner hadn't been prepared for the toll such a
discovery might exact.  Christ.  Scully looked nearly as ill
as the man over whom she sat watch.  Shoulders stooped in
grief, she regarded him with lifeless blue eyes, her complexion
wan, her lips pinched with misery.

"He's stabilized now," she murmured dully, her voice sounding
raw and overused.  "They pumped his stomach when he was
first brought in and put him on the respirator . . ."

Her shuttered gaze drifted away from that of her superior,
returning instead to the man who lay between them, unmoving,
save for the steady, mechanical pumping of his chest.

"He couldn't breathe," she whispered, almost to herself,
the slight wrinkling of her brow the only overt sign of her
agitation.  "In the ER.  Could barely swallow."

Sighing, Skinner took a step towards her, cursing himself for
feeling so ill at ease in these sorts of situations.  "Scully--"

"I was afraid he was going to choke to death on his own vomit,"
she confessed brokenly, her hands clenched in her lap white-
knuckle tight.

"But you said he's better now," Skinner reminded quietly from
the opposite side of the bed, at a loss as how best to comfort
this woman.

Yet knowing, at that moment, she desperately needed some
form of solace.

Even one as awkwardly bestowed as his.

Mulder had been injured before, had spent more time during
his tenure with the X-Files being poked and prodded by doctors
than most men did in a lifetime.

And through nearly every office call, hospital stay and
quarantine, Scully had been by his side, oftentimes even
serving as his physician.

But never had Skinner seen her react this strongly to Mulder's
suffering.  Never had she seemed so perilously close to falling
apart over it.

"Yes, he's better," she absently agreed, all her attention on the
man whose condition they were discussing.  "The respirator is
doing his breathing for him, and the anti-toxin should soon
rid his system of the bacteria.  As long as no complications
set in, he should be out of the woods in a couple of days."

"That's good, then," Skinner said gruffly, punctuating the
statement with another bob of his head.  "He's going to be all
right."

At first, Scully said nothing.  She simply kept her gaze locked
on Mulder, her eyes avidly following the rhythmic expansion
and deflation of his lungs, her stare so intent it almost appeared
as if she were consciously willing his body to take in and expel
oxygen.  Then, in a small, fierce voice, she muttered, "Yes.
Yes, he is," the words seemingly a vow.

Glancing down at the room's lone patient, Skinner wished he
could share Scully's certainty.

Jesus.

Bluntly put, Mulder looked like shit. Lips closed around the
respirator's mouthpiece, his skin was ashen, the stubble on
his chin and jaw only accentuating his pallor.  His eyes
seemed sunken in his head, his cheeks hollowed, as if his
illness had already somehow lay waste to the flesh beneath.
A feeding tube had been run up through his right nostril; an
IV bag supplied the rest of his body's needs, its line attached
to the back of his hand.

Grimacing in sympathy, Skinner shook his head.  "I don't get
it.  Botulism?  Where the hell did Mulder eat last night?"

"At home," Scully replied, stretching out her hand to rest
it gently on her partner's forearm, taking care not to jostle
any of the many wires and tubes connected to his insensate
form.  "He ordered pizza."

"Pizza?" Skinner echoed.

She wearily nodded.  "Sausage pizza.  From Tony's.  It's a
little mom and pop place not far from his apartment.  He
orders from there all the time."

"Are you sure that's what did it?" Skinner asked.  "Couldn't
it have been something else, something he ate for lunch
maybe?"

"I wasn't sure at first," she admitted quietly.  "After I called
911, I grabbed the leftover slices, thinking I would bring them
in with me.  That the techs could analyze them, check them
for anything unusual."

Scully then paused for a second or two, saying nothing while
her thumb rubbed slowly and soothingly over the pale inside
of Mulder's arm, tracing the fine network of veins laying just
below the surface of his skin.

"But in the end, it didn't really matter," she whispered after
a time.

Skinner blinked at her from behind his wire-rims.  "What do
you mean?"

"The doctors had no problem diagnosing his condition or
pinpointing its cause."

Although he yearned to urge Scully forward with her narrative,
Skinner resisted the impulse long enough for her to finish her
story on her own.

"Over a dozen people have been brought in since early this
morning, all suffering from a particularly virulent strain of
the toxin.  The cause is believed to be tainted pizza sauce.
One of the victims, a little girl named Caitlin Marie Lindsey,
died less than an hour ago.  She was four years old."

"God," Skinner muttered, once more shaking his head.

"God had very little to do with this," Scully corrected huskily.

Not knowing what to say in response, Skinner opted to remain
mute.  Feeling hopelessly inept, he stood there, watching Scully
watch Mulder, until at last he shattered the deafening silence by
querying, "How long are you planning on staying here?"

"Until he wakes up."

Why did he even bother asking?

"Chances are Mulder will be out for some time yet," he said,
trying to approach the situation delicately, yet all the while
feeling as if he were wearing combat boots at a tea party.
"Why don't you go home?  Get some rest yourself."

"I'd rather not," she said, not even bothering to turn his way.

Skinner sighed, his patience beginning to fray.  "Scully,
you're obviously exhausted.  Go home.  There's nothing you
can do here."

"I can be here when he wakes up," she said simply.

"That may not be for days," Skinner countered, purposely
gentling his voice, hoping to coax rather than browbeat.
"Go home and get some sleep.  I'll sit here with him.  He
won't wake up alone."

"Thank you, sir," she said politely, her tone arch yet firm.
"But that won't be necessary.  I can sleep here just as easily
as I can at home."

Her insistence, while not entirely unexpected, niggled at
Skinner nonetheless.  "Is there some reason you're afraid to
leave Mulder here alone?" he asked, his nameless suspicions
lending the question an edge he regretted.  "Something having
to do with our conversation the other day perhaps?"

That brought Scully's eyes around to his.

"No, sir," she said calmly, the words sounding automatic
to his ears, machine-generated, like widgets off an assembly
line.

Skinner thinned his lips, trying to judge whether she was
telling the truth.

And failing to reach any sort of verdict.

"Did you see him, Scully?" he queried finally, testing her.

"See who, sir?" she asked, her lashes lowering and lifting like
a camera shutter.

"Don't be coy with me," he growled, his frustration sparking
his temper.  "The man you were looking for.  Did you get
what you needed?"

The corner of her mouth raised infinitesimally, yet her
expression suggested anything but amusement.  Dipping her
head, she tucked a few strands of flyaway auburn hair behind
her ear.  "No.  I didn't see him.  I don't plan to either."

Skinner frowned.  "Why not?"

Scully hesitated for a moment.  Then, bringing her other hand
atop Mulder's arm to rest beside the first, she spoke, her gaze
sliding from that of her boss to grow distant and unfocused.
"I don't need to anymore.  The issue has been resolved."

Skinner didn't like the sound of that.  "Resolved =how=
exactly?"

She pursed her lips, staring now unseeing at the bedclothes.
"There had been a decision I had needed to make.  Some
questions I had hoped to have answered so I would know
best how to proceed."

When she paused again, Skinner prodded her along, forgetting
to be circumspect in his urgency.  "And you got those answers
without talking to The Smoker?"

"Yes, I did," she murmured, directing those vacant eyes his
way again.  "I know now what I need to do."

Skinner looked at her long and hard, noting her haggard
expression, the disturbing emptiness of her gaze.  Something
was wrong here, his instincts warned.  Very, very wrong.

"Are you planning on sharing that information any time
soon, Agent Scully?" he queried, already fearing her reply.

Yet, as it happened, it wasn't quite time for dread.

Not just then.

"Soon, sir," Scully said with a little nod of her head.  "Believe
me.  You'll know soon enough."

                        *****

The night nurses were infinitely more tolerant than those
who worked the nine to five shift, Scully decided, sliding
down a bit lower in the vinyl bedside chair, trying to find a
position that would relieve the stabbing ache between her
shoulder blades.  Seemingly sympathetic to her plight, they
had brought her coffee and a sandwich, and had found her
a spare blanket to help ward off the evening's chill.  Their
efforts had been gratefully acknowledged, even if she had
only been able to muster a quiet "thank you" in appreciation.
Yet, despite her reticence, they had appeared to understand,
to make allowances for her fatigue and her concern.  Pity she
hadn't hit it off quite as well with the day crew, she now mused.
She couldn't be certain, but by dinnertime she had thought
perhaps her presence had begun to unnerve them.

She hadn't meant to give offense, but with Mulder's present
vulnerability, she had been forced to be even more vigilant than
usual in supervising his care.  Watching like a hawk, she had
stood at one nurse's elbow then another as they had checked
his vitals, making sure nothing was amiss.  She had grilled his
doctors, questioning their diagnoses, their treatment strategy,
even their qualifications.  Still not satisfied, she had spent the
afternoon studying Mulder's chart, examining it as if were
written in hieroglyphics and she were an archaeologist intent
on unlocking the mysteries of the pyramids.  In reality, she was
checking and rechecking the staff's findings, searching for any
potential hazards the good doctors might have overlooked.  So
far, she had come up empty.

One thing was for certain, however--contrary to popular belief,
Tony's poor patrons had not been felled by a dented can of
Contadina's.  She didn't know how The Smoker's people had
managed to introduce the bacteria into the pizzeria's kitchen,
but she was positive the poisonings were far from accidental.

Oh God . . . . that poor little girl, Scully silently mourned,
lips pressed tight as if to hold back a sob.  Their enemies had
murdered that innocent child in cold blood.

And for what?

To cover up their attempt at killing Mulder.

To punish her for her disobedience.

No.  No, I am not to blame for this, she told herself, doing
all within her power to keep that inner voice firm and resolute.
I am not the one responsible for Caitlin Lindsey's death.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, keep repeating the words
over and over again inside my head, chanting them like a
mantra . . .

. . . maybe one day I'll actually believe them.

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Scully kicked off her shoes
and tucked her legs beneath her, settling in for the night.  But
try though she might, she just couldn't get comfortable.  Her
jeans felt like chain mail against her skin, heavy and rough,
binding her limbs like a corset would her middle.  What she
wouldn't give for a change of clothes or even just a shower.
She was still wearing the turtleneck and denim she had
donned for her visit to The Smoker's den.  And although she
knew it was impossible, she could swear she smelled a telltale
hint of cigarette smoke clinging to her person, marking her
as surely as the letter "A" had Hester.

Like a souvenir of her failed raid the night before, the phantom
odor kept reminding her of her mistakes.  You are to blame for
this, it told her, ruthlessly silencing the reason trying so hard
to convince her otherwise.  All of this.  Your pride put Mulder
in this hospital bed.  Your foolishness killed that little girl. . . .

I feel so dirty, she lamented, closing her eyes as she shoved
her fingers roughly through the rumpled mess of her hair, and
not only because I'm wearing yesterday's make-up.  Rather,
she felt soiled within, her very soul tainted in some way by
the events of the past twenty-four hours.

She had fought her fall every inch of the way, grasping for
alternatives the same way a climber might grab wildly for
handholds when the earth beneath her feet crumbled to dust,
and yet she had still been pulled down into The Smoker's plot,
made an accomplice to his crimes.  She had sworn she wouldn't
give in to his demands, had promised herself she would struggle
until her last dying breath. . . .

But what about Mulder's?

What right did she have to take chances with his life?

Because that's what she had done when she had contacted
Skinner, demanding information.  She knew that now, the
transgression so great, no amount of Hail Marys would ever
truly absolve her of the guilt.  She had played fast and loose
with Mulder's wellbeing, flaunting her rebellion, all but daring
The Smoker to strike out in retaliation.

To strike out at Mulder.

She couldn't pretend it had been anything other than her
arrogance that had led to her partner lying in that hospital
bed, his breath controlled by the pressers manipulating his
lungs.

And why?

Because she had believed he couldn't live without her, nor
she without him.

God . . .

"I'm sorry," she whispered, pushing aside the blanket and
pressing to her feet.  Her legs wobbly beneath her, she padded
the few steps to Mulder's bedside.  Reaching out, she threaded
her fingers through the hair on his brow.  "I'm so sorry."

Quietly, the sound muffled as if it came from several rooms
away, she heard the trilling of her cell phone.  Startled by
the noise, Scully turned, searching for her purse.  She found
it resting against the side of the night stand.  Quickly, she
crossed to the bag and, rummaging through it, retrieved her
Nokia.  Stabbing the Talk button, she mumbled, "Scully."

"How's the patient?"

The Smoker.

Her heart began pounding almost painfully in her chest, its
thump so powerful, she imagined she could feel the vibrations
setting her ribs aquiver.  Arm outstretched, she grabbed hold
of the back of the chair, closing her fingers round it vise-like
for support.

"You bastard," she hissed, her eyes suddenly filling with
tears, the salty liquid hot and corrosive, searing like acid.
"You fucking, =fucking= bastard."

"Now, now," he murmured indulgently.  "I don't think that's
quite fair.  Do you?  After all, I gave you plenty of warning."

Don't you put this on me, she mutely railed, fighting his
influence and her own inclinations.  Don't you try and make
me the guilty party here.  "You murdered a helpless little
girl."

He took his time before answering.  In the silence, she could
hear him take a drag off his cigarette, the small wet sound
of his lips closing around the stick of tobacco then releasing
once more threatening to upend her stomach.  "Innocents
are often caught in the crossfire, Agent Scully.  You know
that as well as anyone."

Yes, she did.

"How do you sleep at night?" she whispered, her tears now
branding her cheeks.

"Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself this
evening?" countered the person on the other end of the line.

"My conscience is clear," she said, wishing she could inject
the statement with more conviction.

"Is it?" he taunted knowingly.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said nothing in reply.
How could she?  They both knew her arguments were lies.
Instead, she turned to look at the man she loved.  The hour
was late, the room almost completely dark.  The only light
came from the lamp clipped above him.  Yet, she could see
Mulder clearly, his drawn, dear face amply illuminated by
the bulb's glow.

"For some reason, Agent Scully, you seem determined to cast
Agent Mulder and yourself as a pair of star-crossed lovers, a
couple torn apart by cruel fate, the FBI's answer to Romeo and
Juliet."

Listening almost dreamily to The Smoker's voice, she walked
slowly towards the bed, her stocking feet noiseless against the
tile.  Funny . . .  For as many times as she had seen him like
this, lying unconscious in one hospital or another, she could
never get over how strange it all was, what an odd image he
presented.  Awake, Mulder always seemed more alive than
anyone she had ever known.  His mind more breathtakingly
agile, his body strong and lithe, nearly pulsing with energy,
with drive, that passion appearing ready at any moment to
burst right through his skin.

"I wonder where the urge for such self-dramatization comes
from.  Why you have such a difficult time taking responsibility
for your own actions."

Yet, like this, dwarfed by the machines monitoring his condition,
all Mulder's potent vitality was missing, vanished as utterly as
his wry, lop-sided grin.  In its place was this . . . this stillness.
And the silence that accompanied it.  Neither ever really seemed
to belong to him.  Rather, it was as if an imposter was in his
stead, a pretender with his face.

Is that really you, Mulder?

Why don't you open up your eyes and tell me so.

"It seems to me this tendency is a form of vanity.  Don't you
think?  Ego.  After all, you and Mulder are adults, not starry-
eyed children.  You know the way the game is played."

"This is not a game," she said quietly, drawing up alongside
Mulder and stretching out her hand to caress his cheek, to
slide her fingertips from the center of his forehead to his
temple, to trace the shape of his brows.

"That's my point," said The Smoker, murmuring like an
imp in her ear.  "This is real, Agent Scully.  Real life."

Look at those eyelashes, she thought, her musing dim and
ill-formed.  Long and lush, they lay nestled in the bruised
hollows of his eyes, curled like a beauty queen's.  And that
nose . . .  What a perfectly ridiculous nose.  Mulder, only
you could be this handsome saddled with a nose like that.

"In real life, people like Mulder and you don't live happily
ever after.  You don't marry, move to the suburbs, and have
children.  You don't coach little league or drive a minivan."

Children, she repeated silently, the word ringing inside her
head, its meaning obscure for some reason, hard to grasp.
She didn't think much about children.  Hadn't for several
years.  They had no place in the life she led, the path she
had chosen for herself.  The one she shared with Mulder.

Well, what do you know?  The Smoker and she were in accord.

"That future isn't an option for you.  You're the sort who live
hard and fast.  You burn, your flame incandescent, until one
day that candle is snuffed out."

The way he was echoing her musings frightened her, making
her feel as if his surveillance had extended beyond her home,
her office, her car.  That now, her very thoughts were being
monitored, her emotions recorded, then cataloged for further
reference.

"I don't want him to die," she whispered, not sure anymore to
whom exactly the words were directed.  "I want him alive."

"I can give you that," The Smoker promised, crooning like a
lover.  "It's not too late.  I can see that he lives.  But first you
must give me what I want."

Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard against the sudden
thickness in her throat, swaying with the loss of vision.

"It's simple," he told her.  "All you have to do is say goodbye."

Goodbye . . .

"Come now, Agent Scully," the Smoker coaxed, his tone silky
and insinuating.  "It's time to end this . . ."

She lifted her lashes.  It was harder than it should have been;
her lids stubbornly resisted her efforts.

I'm so tired.  So very, very tired . . .

" . . . we both know that."

Brows drawn tightly together, she stared unblinking at Mulder,
her gaze fierce and clinging.

"It's for the best."

This is for the best, Mulder . . .

"Don't make me hurt him again."

No.  Not again.  Never, ever, again.

And letting loose a long, slow, deep breath, she surrendered.
"All right."

Rather than gloating, The Smoker sucked noisily on his
cigarette once more.  "Excellent," he finally said, the word
tobacco-charred.  "You've made a wise decision."

Turning away from the bed, Scully pressed her hand firmly
over her mouth, trying to squelch her impending hysteria.
Decision?  That implied Choice, didn't it?

"I'll expect your request for transfer to be on Skinner's desk
by the time Mulder is ready to be discharged from the hospital,"
The Smoker instructed.  "I don't want to wait any longer.  I'm
sure you can understand why."

"He'll have my resignation in plenty of time," she assured him
as she wandered towards the window, her thoughts and words
fluttering now at the edges of her consciousness, rent and worn
like a weathered flag.  She felt cold suddenly, her extremities
numb.  While, in contrast, her head tingled hot and fuzzy as if
with fever.

Shock.  I think I'm in shock.

The notion neither surprised nor alarmed her.

"Resignation?" The Smoker queried.  "I thought I had told you
that wasn't necessary."

Coming to a halt at the window, Scully propped her shoulder
against its frame.  Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, she
clumsily twisted open the blinds.  Mulder's room looked out
on the entrance to the hospital.  Even though it was the middle
of the night, cars motored past, their headlights glowing eerily,
reflecting off the oil smeared puddles dotting the asphalt.  A
man dressed in a navy blue windbreaker waited on the corner
for a bus.  Another, garbed in a red flannel shirt, leaned against
an ambulance, talking to a woman dressed in scrubs and a
sweater, a cup of coffee in her hand.  Something she said made
her companion laugh.  How amazing, Scully thought, peering
through the slats.  How remarkable, really, that the rest of life
should so blithely carry on . . .

. . . when hers was coming to an end.

"I don't think I have the stomach for this kind of work," she
told the man on the other end of the line.  "Not anymore."

"Yes.  I suppose that's understandable," he said agreeably,
his reply quick and smooth, as if he had expected such a thing.
"No need to punish yourself, after all.  You're a young woman,
a doctor.  You should get on with your life.  It won't be as
bad as all that.  You'll see.  One day, you'll forget all about
the X-Files. . . ."

Unable to stand a minute more of his blathering, Scully hit
the End button, wordlessly bidding The Smoker adieu.  Setting
the phone on the sill, she turned so that she stood with her
back against the wall, her arms wrapped protectively around
her middle.  Her teeth snagged on her bottom lip, she tipped
back her head so it rested against the plaster and closed her
eyes.

Forget? she echoed mockingly inside her head.  You stupid
monster of a man.  You believe someday I'll forget Fox Mulder
and the way I betrayed him?

Never.

I couldn't possibly live that long.

**************************************************

Fox Mulder dreamt he was dining on broken glass.  Jagged
pieces sat before his dream self, heaped in a bowl, glittering in 
a myriad of jewel-toned hues, brilliant, like fragments from a 
shattered church window.  In this odd otherplace, he felt no 
surprise, no fear at being offered such a repast.  Rather, he 
dug into it enthusiastically, scooping up the shards like they 
were corn flakes.  

It wasn't until after that first bite, until the spoon was pulled 
from between his lips that the pain began.  Like razors, the 
wickedly sharp edges shredded the tender inside of his mouth, 
sliced bloody furrows down the length of his gullet.  The 
coppery taste of blood on his tongue, his stomach rebelled 
against the noxious fare, cramping and roiling in an effort to
expel it.  But it hurt . . . 

Oh God, it hurthurthurt . . .  Burned.  Like those vicious bits 
of glass had never left the kiln.  They scorched and stabbed . . .

And choked.  

Choking . . .

Something was lodged in his throat.  Something hard and
wide that bruised the spongy lining of his esophagus.  He 
couldn't breathe. . . .  

Drowning, I'm drowning . . . and I can't even close my mouth 
to hold back the waves. . . .

"Mulder . . . =Mulder= . . . ssh.  Ssh, now.  It's okay.  Don't
fight. . . . don't fight.  Just relax.  Relax.  It's the respirator
. . . the respirator you feel.  Give us a minute and we'll get 
you off that thing.  You're going to be fine."

He couldn't open his eyes.  He wanted to, but the lids wouldn't
lift for him.  He didn't have the energy or the strength.  Still, 
he didn't need his vision to identify that the voice.  He knew it 
well.  And trusted the speaker.  Absolutely.

Scully.

Her husky alto whispered to him like rainwater on moss, 
dousing the fire in his gut, soothing his aching throat.  Scully
would make it better.  She would make the pain go away.

She always did.

He could feel her fingertips skimming delicately atop his 
hair, combing through the strands, her touch reassuring.  
She was murmuring to him still, though he couldn't 
understand all she was saying.  Just crumbs, particles 
floating through his consciousness like motes wafting 
before his eyes.

<Hospital.>

<Quiet.>

<Okay . . . okay . . . >

<I'm here.>

She was there.  He could relax.  That's what he needed to 
do . . . relax.  He would be all right.  Scully would take care 
of everything. . . .

And secure in that knowledge, Mulder promptly fell back
to sleep.

When he next awoke, it was to dazzling beams of sunlight, 
their radiance powerful enough to bleed right through his
lowered lids.  Realizing his only escape was still more sleep, 
he chose the opposite instead and opened his eyes.  Morning, 
he absently decided, squinting against the almost blinding 
brightness.  But which one?  Turning his head away from 
the painful evidence of day, he protested his discomfort with 
a low, breathy moan.

"Fox?"

That wasn't Scully. . . .  

Though he did recognize the voice.

His mouth felt as if it were lined with construction paper, 
his throat, like it had been the route for the annual Macy's 
Thanksgiving Day parade.  Damn, those marching bands 
were murder. . . .  Still, he thought he could muster at least 
some semblance of speech.  Swiping his lips with his tongue, 
he gave it his best shot.

"Mom?" he croaked.

Almost as if he had somehow conjured her, she stepped into 
view.  Wearing a mint green cardigan and shell, pearl earrings, 
and a chic silk scarf tied around her neck, Teena Mulder looked 
as impeccably groomed as ever.  That's the one thing he could 
always count on when it came to his mother.  Whether she 
was lunching with the ladies or playing nursemaid to him, the 
attractive matron invariably came prepared with manicured 
nails, a dab of Chanel No. 5, and just the right sweater set.

"There, there, dear.  Lie still," she murmured, reaching out
to gently press him back against the pillows, her hands cool
and white.

Surprised yet pleased to see her, he gave the whole talking 
thing another try.  "W-water?"

With a small smile, she reached behind her to the bedside 
table.  Lifting the pitcher positioned there, she poured some 
of its contents into a clear plastic cup and offered it to him.  
A striped, elbowed straw peeked gaily over the side of the 
tumbler.  Mulder grimaced, but sucked on the plastic tube 
anyway.  Terrific, he mutely grumbled as the H2O dribbled 
down his parched throat, not only do I feel weak as a newborn, 
but within minutes of waking, I get to nurse on a sippy straw.

While my mom holds the damned thing to my lips.

This could have deep, unfortunate, psychological consequences.

"There," Mrs. Mulder said quietly after he had swallowed a 
few mouthfuls.  "Is that better?"

He nodded ever so slightly and wearily sighed.  God, he felt 
like shit.  What the hell had happened?  One minute he was 
happily snoozing on the couch and the next he was bent over 
the toilet spewing up the contents of his stomach.  Hmm.  He 
could remember that, but not how he had wound up here. . . .  
Had he somehow crawled to the phone and called 911?  No. . . .  
No, Scully had been there.

"Sc . . Scully?" he queried now, craning his neck to look for 
her, straining to lift his head.

Lips thinned in concern, Teena Mulder pushed him flat with
the hand not still holding the cup.  "Your partner?  She's not 
here, dear."

Nothing like pointing out the obvious, Mom.  So, if she's not 
here--*where is she*?

"Wh--wh-where?" he began, the simple word taking as much 
effort to shape as Quonochontaug once did when he was a child.  

"Where is this?" his mother queried helpfully, turning away 
to replace the glass on the night stand.  

No, no, no.  He shook his head.  

His mother didn't see.

"Memorial Medical Center," she said, unaware her response 
was not the information he sought.  

"Wh-wh?" he stubbornly mumbled, determined to get an answer 
to his question. 

"I got the call late yesterday and came down as soon as I could,"
she said, misinterpreting him yet again as she straightened his 
blankets, tucking him in as if she had just finished reading him 
a bedtime story.  "I got in a couple of hours ago.  What I don't 
understand is why your partner waited until Monday before 
letting me know you were ill.  Had I been aware of the situation, 
I would have been here sooner."

Monday?

Then . . . that would make this . . .

"=T-Tuesday=?" he all but groaned, his eyes going wide in 
their sockets.

"Yes, dear," his mother said, her hand resting on his shoulder.  
"You've been very sick.  We were worried."

"Sc-Sc . . .?" he sputtered one last time, appalled that his 
language skills had tragically deteriorated to those of a toddler.

Yet, somehow, some way, his mother understood.  "Agent 
Scully?  She went home to get some sleep.  And not a moment 
too soon, if you ask me.  She looked awfully tired."

Good.  She was okay.

If tired.

Sleep.

What a good idea.

His eyelids drooped.

His mother took notice.

"You should get some rest too, you know," she advised in a 
voice he remembered well from childhood.  The one that 
reminded him to mind his manners, do his homework, and 
quit picking on his sister.  "You're going to need your energy 
to face all those doctors.  You gave us quite a scare, Fox.  
Don't think they aren't going to want to check you over but 
good."

Mulder knew of only one doctor he wanted giving him the
once-over.

Sadly, she wasn't around at present.

But surely she would be there when he awoke.

"Go to sleep," his mother urged him softly before kissing 
his brow.  "Go on.  Close your eyes."

"Mmm," he murmured, meaning the sound to be a kind of 
thank-you, yet fearing it didn't express all he had intended.  
He didn't want to seem ungrateful.  Honestly, he didn't.  He 
appreciated his mom coming all the way down from 
Connecticut, especially as under normal circumstances 
their relationship wasn't exactly what he would term 'close'.  
It was nice she had gone to the trouble, that she was willing 
to sit in that small, sterile room for no other reason than he 
was in it too.

But she wasn't the one he had wanted to wake to.

He wanted Scully.

Sighing at the injustice of it all, he nuzzled his cheek into
the bleach-scented pillow and closed his eyes.

Patience, Mulder, he told himself as he rapidly descended
into dreamland.  She'll be here.  Just get some sleep.

She's sure to be back soon.

                        *****

But Scully wasn't there when next he roused.

This time, when Mulder opened his eyes, it was dark outside.
And within.  In apparent deference to his slumber, no lamp
had been lit.  However, the door to his room was ajar.  A sharp- 
edged triangle of florescence spilled onto the floor from the 
hallway, spotlighting the heel marks scuffing the tile.  By the 
glow of this vivid yet limited light, he realized he was alone.  
One of the New York Times' hottest best-sellers lay on his 
bedside table, spine up.  Beside it balanced his mother's reading 
glasses.  She was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Surprised by the unknown voice, Mulder swiveled his head
on the pillow, turning his attention away from the room's 
empty chair and back towards its entrance.  A wiry Hispanic
man peered around the door, the sculpted planes of his long, 
narrow face softened by a pair of sympathetic brown eyes and 
a mouth that looked prone to smile.  His lab coat and stethoscope 
marked him as a doctor.   

Great.  The fun begins.

Yet, as it turned out, Dr. Gilbert Marquez was a cut above the 
usual quacks who looked after him.  True, he was no Scully.
But he didn't condescend or treat Mulder like a piece of meat.
He performed his examination with care and explained the 
situation in simple, straight-forward terms, outlining for 
Mulder what lay ahead on the road to recovery.

"Overall," Marquez assured him, strolling to the foot of the
bed to retrieve Mulder's chart, "you seem to be responding
quite well to the anti-toxin.  I'm sure you feel weak, and that
your coordination is in some ways lacking.  But that's to be
expected.  The toxin attacks the nervous system.  It's probably
going to take awhile for you to feel one hundred percent."

Mulder nodded in regretful agreement.  One hundred percent?  
He'd give his left kidney to be at fifty.

"For right now, rest," Marquez kindly advised, eyes first on 
the machines circling the bed, then dropping to his clipboard
where he jotted down some notes.  "Tomorrow, if you're up 
for it, we'll start you off on some solids."

Mulder grimaced.  As cavernous as his stomach currently felt, 
the thought of chewing and swallowing actual food took his 
insides on the roller coaster ride from hell.

"Do you have any questions?" Marquez queried, capping his
pen and slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

"Where . . . ?" Mulder asked, gesturing weakly with his chin
in the direction of the bedside chair, amazed he was already
tiring.

"Your mother?" Marquez said, trying to fill in the blanks.
"She went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat.  
Don't worry.  She said she'd be by to say goodnight before 
she headed to the hotel."

"No, . . . no," Mulder mumbled, shaking his head restlessly. 
He couldn't take another game of Guess What the Invalid is
Grunting.  He just couldn't.  Somebody give him a goddamned 
piece of scratch paper already.  "Sc-Scully."

"Dr. Scully?"

No.  Rabbi Scully.

"Yeah," he murmured instead, behaving himself.

Marquez's lips lifted at the corners, wry amusement all at once
evident in his gaze.  "She's your partner, right?"

Mulder nodded, wondering at the doctor's curious expression.

"I'll bet she's a handful," Marquez stated flatly, a kind of rueful
admiration in his voice.

Well, Mulder fondly mused, sounds like somebody made quite 
an impression.

"What?" he queried hoarsely a moment later, the question 
rumbling deep in his ruined throat.

Marquez shrugged, his small smile lingering.  "Nothing 
really.  It's just . . . she is one formidable woman"

Mulder chuckled at that vast understatement. 

"Wish I had more information for you.  But as far as I know, 
she's still wherever it was she went to when she left here," 
Marquez said with a nimbleness of tongue that made Mulder 
want to howl with inarticulate envy.  "Once your mom arrived, 
she took off."

Mulder nodded again.  Scully had left that morning utterly
exhausted.  He knew that.  He knew she had kept watch in 
that horridly uncomfortable-looking chair for days on end
with nothing more stimulating to do than watch him sleep.  
He knew that too.  It wasn't that he begrudged her the time 
away.  And yet . . . 

"I can check with the staff and see if she's called in," Marquez
offered, taking a step towards the corridor and the nurses' desk
beyond.

"No, no," Mulder mumbled hurriedly, not wanting to appear 
anymore needy than was absolutely necessary.  The doctor 
smiled his reassurance.

"You're lucky to have her on your side, Mr. Mulder," Marquez
said, his hand on the door.  "Now get some sleep.  If Dr. Scully 
comes back tomorrow and your condition isn't to her liking, I 
=know= who's going to hear about it."

Unable to argue with that, Mulder simply closed his eyes once
more.

After all, the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he'd wake up.

And with any luck, Scully would be there waiting for him.

                        *****

Only she wasn't there.  She didn't come.  Not that following 
morning, afternoon, or evening.

Instead, Mulder had his mother for company.  She tried to
distract him, to tell him amusing anecdotes about her friends,
to catch him up on all the family gossip.  They watched TV
together--seventies sitcom reruns and cable news.  She went 
down to the gift store and brought him back a stack of 
magazines.  She even offered to play cards with him.

By nightfall, he was all but begging her to return to Connecticut.

His foul mood did not go unnoticed by the woman who was its
undeserving target.

"When your partner called and said you were in the hospital, I 
told her what an awful patient you could be," she said after an 
increasingly strained afternoon, her lips pulled tight in a little 
moue of hurt.  "It wasn't that I wasn't willing to come down.  I 
told her that more as a warning, so that she would know what to 
expect.  After all, I certainly nursed you through enough bouts 
of the flu when you were growing up.  I know how restless you 
can get."

God, Mom, Mulder silently groused.  It isn't as if Scully doesn't
know what a pain in the ass I can be.  Ask her sometime about
the retro-virus I came in contact with in the Arctic, or when 
they drugged my water . . . or better yet--if you want to swap 
war stories--have her tell you about the time she shot me and 
then dragged me cross-country while I bled all over the inside 
of her car.  That oughta be good for a few laughs. 

"Maybe she took my words to heart," Teena Mulder continued,
choosing to leaf through one of the magazines she had purchased 
rather than look at him, her pointed avoidance unmistakable  
as punishment.  "Maybe that's why she hasn't stopped by."

"She'll be here," Mulder muttered, rolling onto his side and 
away from his obviously miffed mother.  He knew he was largely 
to blame for the tension between them, but he didn't have it in 
him to apologize.  Not just then.  He still ached all over, his 
throat and stomach raw, anxiety over Scully's whereabouts 
driving him just this side of homicidal.  Even under the best of 
circumstances, he hated being idle.  But this . . . this forced 
inactivity was making him =buggy=.  He wanted to know where 
his partner was.  He wanted to climb out of that hospital bed, 
track her down . . . and drag her back under the covers with 
him.

Where they would lie, twined around each other for all eternity.

What a lovely, lovely dream. . . .

Exhausted still in the wake of his illness, he fell helplessly 
back asleep, much to his mother's relief, dozing off before 
primetime got underway.

But Scully never popped in to kiss him good-night.

By late Thursday morning, Mulder was fast succumbing to 
panic.  This wasn't like Scully.  Not at all.  She hadn't visited, 
hadn't called.  Fearing the worst, he had tried her at home, 
then on her cell.  Nothing.  Recordings, but no Scully.  Christ.  
What if something had happened?  What if she needed him 
and he was stuck in that damned hospital, lying around in a 
powder blue smock with his ass hanging out?

Weak, yet resolute, he demanded to speak to Dr. Marquez 
who, when he heard his patient intended to check himself out, 
threatened to sedate him instead.  Overhearing this exchange, 
his mother informed him in no uncertain terms he was out of 
his mind.  Then, throwing up her hands in disgust, she walked
out, telling him if he came to his senses she would be at the 
hotel.

Left alone to plot and stew, Mulder had just about decided he
was willing to chance the good doctor and his fiendish needle 
when there was a knock on the door.

"I'm still here, Marquez," he called darkly from where he sat
brooding, propped against a stack of pillows, his voice scratchy 
but far easier to produce than it had been a few days previous.  
"No need to stick me just yet."

"Stick you with what?" queried Assistant Director Skinner
as he entered without invitation, his trench coat fluttering, 
his jaw set.

"Wouldja  believe 'the check'?" Mulder parried sheepishly,
wondering what the hell he had done to merit a visit from 
the boss during business hours.

"No," Skinner said shortly, coming to a halt beside the bed,
his hands fisted in his pockets.  "I wouldn't.  I just talked to 
your doctor on the way in.  He informs me you've been 
making his life difficult."

Mulder shrugged, a trifle embarrassed at being called by
Skinner on his bad behavior, but determined to stay the 
course.  "I gotta be me."

Skinner nodded.  "That's what I told him.  Not surprisingly, 
the man found it little comfort."

"I'm ready to get out of here," Mulder said stubbornly.  "That's
all."

Skinner looked at his agent appraisingly, his eyes narrowed 
behind his wire-rims.  "Can you even keep down solid food?"

"I'm a wiz with toast and Jell-O," Mulder assured him with a
sardonic lift of his brows.  

"What does your doctor say?" Skinner queried, seemingly 
unconvinced by the younger man's bravado.

"He says I've probably got another day or two of bed rest here,"
Mulder muttered, folding his arms as he leaned back against 
the headboard.  "Then he'll see about releasing me."

Skinner nodded, gnawing thoughtfully on the corner of his 
mouth.

"=I= say I have a bed at home," Mulder finished with a scowl.
"Or at least a couch."

"You're in that big a hurry to get out of here?" Skinner queried.

"I don't call a week's hospital stay rushing things, sir," Mulder
said sullenly, regretting he sounded like a petulant teen, but 
unable to help himself nonetheless.  "I just don't see how my 
lying around here for another day or two is going to make any 
difference in my recovery.  I have things I have to take care of."

"I don't suppose any of these 'things' would include Agent
Scully, would they?"

Something in his voice shot adrenaline through Mulder's veins,
drugging him in a way opposite to what Marquez had promised, 
setting his blood to tingle as it flowed.  "What are you talking 
about?"

Saying nothing at first, Skinner reached inside his trench and
withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope.  "This was waiting
for me on my desk this morning," he said, tossing the white 
rectangle onto Mulder's blanket draped lap.

Firing the other man a quick, questioning glance, Mulder 
slipped his fingers beneath the paper flap and pulled from the 
pouch its contents.

"I thought maybe you could tell me just what the hell it all 
means."

Distracted for a second by Skinner's ominous tone, Mulder 
at last folded flat the single sheet of stationery.  It was a letter.  
Typewritten.  Short, to the point.

And utterly devastating.

<Assistant Director Skinner>

<Effective immediately>

<I tender my resignation as Special Agent with the Federal
Bureau of Investigation>

<Thank you for the opportunity>

<It has been an honor>

<Sincerely>

<Dana Scully>

"What is this?" Mulder demanded in a hiss, his voice low 
and terrible, his face colorless save for the two bright spots 
of red high on his cheeks.

"I don't know," Skinner retorted with a grim shake of his
head.  "As soon as I finished reading it, I called her in.  We 
talked. . . . Or rather, I did."

"What did she say?" Mulder asked, an awful, gaping emptiness
beginning to hollow out the center of his chest.

"That she had reevaluated her priorities and, as it stood, the
Bureau was no longer among them," Skinner said as if repeating
the words by rote.

Reevaluated her priorities? Mulder echoed inside his head, 
the very notion refusing to gel, to make any sense at all.  No, 
that wasn't possible.  Scully would never turn her back on the 
work, would never grow bored or disillusioned.  Would never 
even contemplate leaving the X-Files.

Or him.

Would she?

"Well, you have to stop her," he blurted out to his superior, 
heartily embarrassed the minute the words left his lips.  Still,
swallowing his pride, he forged on.  "You have to talk to her, 
get her to reconsider."

Skinner sighed.  "Mulder, that's what I'm trying to tell you--
we had that talk.  I did what I could.  I told her to think about 
it, to take some time.  I tried to convince her that it would be
wiser not to jump into anything.  Hell, I had her in my office 
for close to two hours."

"And?" Mulder urged, lunging forward from his comfortable 
berth, a hand stretched beseechingly towards Skinner.

"And . . . she wouldn't budge," the A.D. finished with another 
slow shake of his head.

At first, neither man said anything, Mulder only able to stare 
blindly at the foot of the bed, his brain having a difficult time 
wrapping itself around this particular calamity.

"I had considered simply ripping this to pieces," Skinner
murmured after a time, his focus on the floor at his feet.
"After all, it had worked with you."

Blinking as if waking from a dream, Mulder turned his 
attention once more to the man standing beside him, regret
carved into the lines of his face.

"But I don't think it would have made a difference with 
Scully," Skinner said quietly, the muscle in the corner of his 
jaw jumping as if zapped by electricity.  "Her mind was made 
up."

That was what Mulder was having trouble grasping.  How 
Scully could have decided this, could have opted to upend
their professional lives without ever saying anything, 
anything at all, to him.  Not when their private lives were
so closely bound to the same.

But had she really been that silent? queried a venomous 
little voice inside his head.  Had there been no warning 
signs for you to read?   No cautions, no alarms?  Are you 
certain she never told you, never showed you, she was 
drifting away?

Did you ever take the time to look?

"I need to talk to her," Mulder mumbled at last as he pushed 
aside the covers and made ready to stand.  But before he could 
do more than scoot to the mattress' edge, Skinner's hand clamped
on his shoulder to keep him from rising.

"I know you want to talk to her," the older man said, bending
down to speak the words directly into Mulder's face.  "I think
you should.  If there's one person who can talk some sense into
her it's you."

Swallowing hard, Mulder nodded, but said nothing, sensing 
there was still more Skinner had to impart.

"But there's something else you should know.  Something you
should be aware of before you go trying to drag Scully back to
the basement by her hair."

The image of himself as Neanderthal did little to lighten 
Mulder's mood.  "What?"

Skinner straightened once more, then took a step away.  
Running a hand over the smooth slope of his head, he 
spoke.  "About a week ago, Scully came to me to ask for 
a favor."

"A favor?" Mulder echoed warily.  "What kind of favor?"

Skinner hesitated, clearly torn as to whether he wanted to 
continue.  Grimacing, he finally did just that.  "She needed 
information.  Information she knew I had but would be 
reluctant to share."

Mulder perched on the side of the bed, mute, waiting for the
A.D. to finish, his impatience eating at him.

"She wanted the address of The Smoker."

A cascade of ice and dread shimmered through Mulder's
system, chilling him from head to toe.  "=What=?"

"She wanted to know where she could find him," Skinner
said, turning away to pace along the length of the bed, his 
eyes unable to meet those of his agent.  "She said she had 
questions she needed answered."

"And you gave her that information?" Mulder seethed as he 
pushed shakily to his feet.  "You sent her to him =alone=?"

Mulder's rage seemingly fueling a similar response in him,
Skinner rounded on the younger man, his color high, "I gave
her a way to contact him, Mulder.  That's it.  I did the same
for you once.  Don't you remember?"

"That was different--," Mulder began, taking a slow, unsteady
step his way.

"Why?" Skinner challenged.  "Because Scully's a woman?"

"No!" Mulder protested, vehemently shaking his head.  
"Because . . . because . . ."

Because she's Scully.

And if anything were ever to happen to her because he wasn't
there to watch her back . . .

"I've gotta talk to her," he muttered rather than finishing his 
earlier argument and, pushing past Skinner, he lurched away, 
his path wavering.  His destination:  the room's tiny closet. 

"For what it's worth, she told me she didn't go through with
it," Skinner mumbled from somewhere behind him.

Mulder pivoted to face him, his hand braced against the far 
wall for support, exhausted by a journey of a half a dozen steps.  
"Go through with what?"

"Seeing the Smoker.  She said she wound up deciding she
didn't need to."

Mulder hung his head, feeling as if the world were spinning
just a little too fast for his comfort.  Jesus.  Scully choosing 
not to see The Smoker made even less sense than her asking 
for his address in the first place.  Why would she have refrained
from confronting him when she had had information like that 
handed to her?

"And you believed her?" he quietly asked Skinner. 

Lips pressed flat, the A.D. shrugged.  "I'm not sure," he 
admitted.  "I can't tell.  I don't know what Scully looks like 
when she lies."

Slowly, Mulder nodded, wondering if, when the time came, he 
would be any more insightful.

Fearful of the answer to that question, he opened the closet 
door.  While he had been taking one of his many naps, his 
mother had been kind enough to visit his apartment and pack 
him a suitcase, a collection of personal items for when he was 
sent home.  Hanging on the rack before him were some of the 
contents of that tote:  a pair of his favorite jeans and a pressed 
white oxford.  Above them, on the shelf, was his shaving kit.  
He reached up to grab the small leather bag and almost groaned 
aloud at what the stretch did to his middle.

"You sure you're up to this?" Skinner queried from across the
room, obviously having witnessed his discomfort.

Was he sure?

His vision was fuzzy at the edges, pixilated like a painting
by Seurat.  His head felt as if it were filled with helium, 
weightless, so that it seemed to hover above his shoulder, 
airy and cold.  His knees shook, his hands quaked.  And 
he was certain that sometime during his convalescence 
his insides had mysteriously taken on the texture of an 
emery board.

But the woman he loved had just signed away their life
together.

"I'm up to it," Mulder solemnly told his superior, his clothes 
bunched in his hands.

I can take the walking out of here, I can face down Marquez, 
I can endure it all without complaint.

I'm not afraid of leaving this hospital.

It's what's beyond these walls I fear I won't survive.

***************************************************

How strange it was that years of work, of blood and sorrow, of
laughter and love, could fit quite neatly into a simple banker's
box.

She hadn't realized folded cardboard could so easily hold
something she herself hadn't even fully grasped.

Sighing, Dana Scully leaned over the carton, pushed upright
a collection of sagging file folders and wedged against them a
stained ceramic coffee mug.  Cobalt blue with hints of copper
spidering through its glaze, the oversized cup was a favorite, a
holdover from her days at the Academy.  She remembered when
she had first decided to bring it to the office, opting to do so
even though she feared her new partner would regard her desire
for the familiar as too girlish or sentimental.  That the man for
whom personalizing a workspace meant wallpapering it with
photos of the macabre and unexplained might deem her need
for such creature comforts a sign of weakness or immaturity.

Funny how, right from the start, Mulder's opinion had
mattered to her.  Had preyed upon her confidence, weighed
on her peace of mind.

The knowledge was not something about which she was proud;
Scully had spent long hours analyzing this need she had to
prove herself, to win acceptance and praise from those in
authority.  She had tried to pinpoint exactly when such
recognition had become something she craved.  Yet no
childhood trauma came readily to mind, no seminal event ripe
with meaning burned in her memory.  She recognized she was
a competitive person, someone driven to succeed.  But she
couldn't honestly say why she apparently required such success
be measured against a marker other than her own.  Resigned to
the situation, she had come to accept this tendency as merely a
part of whom she was.  Everyone has quirks to their personality,
she reasoned.  It's no big deal.  Hell, it could be worse.  Rather
than looking to others for validation, she could instead be
torturing small animals for kicks.

Once, that rationalization would have brought a certain measure 
of solace.

However, now, with what she was being forced to do to
Mulder, Scully feared tormenting the innocent had proven
a pastime not all that far removed.

"Christ," she muttered under her breath, still bent over the
box, shaking her head from side to side in weary denial.

What grieved her most about this ongoing travesty was that
through their closeness, Mulder had unwittingly handed her
the means for his destruction, had shown her where specifically
to wound, precisely how deep to plunge the knife.  Normally
the most intensely private of individuals, he had let down his
guard where she was concerned.  Not all at once, but gradually,
concessions won by trials jointly overcome, by confidences 
shared, then kept.  Shedding layer after layer of protection, 
peeling them away like the most erotic of stripteases, he had 
laid himself bare before her, childlike in his faith, his trust.  
Convinced that she, more so than any other, was incorruptible.

Foolish man.

When the price was his safety, she could be bought.

Just like any other whore.

Like any other fallen woman.

Angrily shoving her address book in with the rest, Scully
chuckled mirthlessly at such an absurd notion, at the idea
that she was some sort of modern day Mary Magdalene to
Mulder's Christ.

Jesus.

Might as well cast them as Adam and Eve, she silently huffed,
as two blithe souls living in a world made only of themselves,
a pair who reigned happily in their private realm, needing
nothing but each other.  Until one day, betrayed by her own
willfulness, the woman made a deal with a serpent.  And 
suddenly, nothing was as it had been.  The couple's life together 
was torn apart.  They were cast out, set adrift.

Banished from paradise.

All at once, her scornful contemplation took on a bittersweet
tone.  Eyes stinging, she looked around the shadowy office,
taking note of the worn, second-hand furniture, the dusty
corners and crannies, the stacks of documents and photos,
files and books, all piled willy-nilly, looking as if at any
moment they might transform into an avalanche of paper.

She would miss this place.

Who had known a kind of Eden could be created in a cold,
damp basement cell?

Lost for a moment in her reverie, she heard through the office
entrance the elevator doors sweep open, then footsteps on tile,
slow and deliberate, drawing nearer with each stride.

Straightening, Scully turned in the direction of the sound.
Skinner, she determined, pursing her lips.  It could be no one
else.  If she were to be honest, she wasn't all that surprised
by his impromptu visit.  She knew her superior had grave
suspicions as to the real reason behind her leaving the Bureau,
doubts as to what had truly occurred once he had given her
the whereabouts of The Smoker.  Upon learning of her
resignation, he had called her into his office.  There, he had
lectured her like the sternest Father Confessor imaginable.
To his credit, he had advised her well.  This is so sudden,
he had said.  So unexpected.  Think about your decision.
You don't have to rush into anything.

Oh, but I do, she had mutely corrected.  I have a schedule to
keep, a bargain to uphold.

So, despite his concern and her own traitorous heart, she had
held firm.  She had sat, posture impeccable, clad in her most
severely tailored suit, her expression solemn, and had listened 
to his pleas.

Only to remain unmoved.

She hadn't crumbled, hadn't cracked.  Hadn't even so much
as flinched.

Not even when, thwarted by her stubbornness, the Assistant
Director had heatedly grilled her on her dealings with The
Smoker.

That's what this is about, she now determined, listening to her
would-be guest approach.  Skinner wasn't yet convinced she
had refrained from using the information with which he had
so generously supplied her.

She couldn't say she blamed him for doubting her word.  If
their situations were reversed, she knew she would now be
marching down that basement corridor herself.

Still, she reflected, in the end it didn't matter whether 
Skinner believed her.  He couldn't prove anything; and even 
if he could, he couldn't stop her from turning in her badge.

His hands were tied.

Just like hers.

Heartened by that realization, Scully stood behind her desk,
her fingertips pressed lightly against the blotter as if for
balance.  Her features arranged into a suitably neutral cast,
she took a deep, cleansing breath, bracing herself for the
confrontation to follow.

I can do this, she told herself, that inner voice as reassuring 
as she could make it.  All I have to do is hold it together, keep
my emotions under control, and everything will be fine.

And everything would have.

If indeed it had been Skinner who had come to call.

But when the man who stepped across that office threshold
turned out to be younger, slimmer, and blessed with infinitely
more hair than the Assistant Director, Scully couldn't keep
her heart from surging upwards to plop heavily on her tongue,
gagging her like the bitterest of pills.

Mulder.

Oh my God.  Mulder.

Her first impulse was to smile, even though he looked absolutely
dreadful.  He faced her, one hand braced, shoulder high, against
the jamb, the other wrapped tightly around the doorknob, as if
he needed its support to stay on his feet.  His clothes seemed
to hang on him; although she fancied that observation was more
a response to the gaunt, gray quality of his complexion than
any dramatic wasting of his form.  His hair appearing as if it
had been combed via Cuisinart, he stared at her from below a 
furrowed brow, his eyes reddened yet intent.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked almost
automatically, praying her question sounded to him more
disapproving than shrill.  He should never have been
discharged so soon, she mutely railed.  Look at him!
He can't even stand without propping himself up.

"What are you doing cleaning out your desk?" he countered,
his voice an appealing combination of rasp and husk.

He didn't seem surprised, she noticed.  Just enraged.  He must
have known about her resignation before he had come.  Which,
of course, made sense.  Why else would he have left the hospital
so soon?

"Is that why you're here?" she queried softly, doing her best
to appear unflustered, even while she could feel her pulse
butting fast and hard against her temples, straining against
the fragile skin there like a battering ram.

"Answer my question, Scully," he muttered, pushing away
from the door to weave towards her, swaying a bit unsteadily
when he came to a halt, only the desk and a few feet of floor
separating them.

Sighing, she bowed her head to study her hands, her fingers
spread wide, their pads just barely resting atop the ancient
Steelcase.  What do you know? she mused.  The tremors she
could feel creeping their way down her arms straight through
to her nails were all but invisible to the naked eye.  "I was
going to tell you . . . ," she began quietly.

"Tell me what?" Mulder ruthlessly interrupted.  "That you
were too busy writing your resignation letter to visit me in
the hospital?"

"I called to check up on you," she said, her gaze once more
drawn towards his.  "I stayed in touch."

"I'm deeply moved by your concern," he mockingly assured
her.

She had nothing she could say to that, no defense of her
actions, no explanation she could share.  Hollowly, the room
rang with her silence, while Mulder stood, waiting, daring
her to reveal her motive.  Slowly, the echo turned hostile.
Unable to endure another minute of it, Scully finally nodded--
a quick, short, little bob--and looked away, wordlessly
accepting his rebuke. 

The point apparently resolved to his satisfaction, Mulder
forged on.  "So, I hear I should be jealous."

Startled out of her brief contemplation of the linoleum, she
stole a glance in her partner's direction.  He was fidgeting
now, shifting restlessly from hip to hip, his arms at his sides.
She didn't know where he was finding the energy.

"What?" she murmured with a frown, distracted by the thin
layer of sweat coating his forehead, the nervous clenching
and unclenching of his hands.  God, Mulder.  You have no
business being out of bed.

"Rumor has it you've been seeing another guy behind my back,"
he said with feigned nonchalance, his wounded expression
belying his casual tone.  "I hadn't realized you had a thing
for older men."

If her heart beat any faster its motion would soon be nothing
but a blur.  "What are you talking about?"

"I know about Cancerman, Scully," he said, prowling towards 
her, his stride powerful, yet stilted somehow, his gait reminding 
her of a jungle cat with a wounded paw.  "I know you asked 
Skinner how you could find him."

Shit.  She had wondered if in the wake of her resignation,
Skinner might renege on his word.   Apparently, she had her
answer.

"Why did you need to see him?" Mulder growled.  "What
did that son of a bitch do that you went to Skinner for
help?"

"Mulder . . . ," she mumbled softly, turning so she stood in
profile to him, her head bowed as if trying to escape his glare.
This wasn't how she had thought this would go.  Not at all.

But before she could retreat further, before she could draw
inside herself or even try to walk away, Mulder rounded the
corner of the desk, his movement clumsy yet swift.  Grabbing
her by her upper arms, he pulled her back to face him.

"What did he want, Scully?" he asked again, holding her
close.  "Did he threaten you?  Is that why you handed in your
resignation?"

"No, no," she lied.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

Scully looked up at her partner, trapped between the desk and
him, her forearms resting against his chest, his hands locked
around her biceps.  He was trembling.  She could feel the
shivers trickling through him and into her.  Yet, despite his
apparent weakness, there was no mistaking his resolve.  His
eyes keenly scrutinized hers, like twin flashlights carefully
scanning a darkened room, searching for anything, anything
at all, that might provide him with a clue, a way to solve this
latest mystery.

But this was one puzzle she couldn't allow him to make whole,
one riddle she didn't dare let him answer.

Not if she wanted to keep him alive.

Time to play her part.  All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for
my close-up.

"Mulder," she began quietly, her voice roughened by his
nearness.  "You've got it wrong."

"You didn't go to Skinner?" he challenged.

"I did," she admitted sharply.  "Of course, I did.  But it
wasn't because of something The Smoker said or did, it was
because of =me=.  Because of a decision I needed to make.
I had wanted his assurance he wouldn't try and interfere.
But then I realized that with a man like him, assurances are
meaningless."

He pulled back a touch, narrowing his eyes in confusion.
"What are you talking about?"

She lowered her gaze, taking a moment to prepare herself.
"Mulder . . . I've been thinking lately . . . about us."

"What about us?" he queried warily, his fingers flexing
around her arms as if he hoped to improve his grip.

She slicked her lips with her tongue.  "This thing we have,
this  . . . relationship,  . . . I . . . =we've= tried really 
hard.  To keep it separate from the job, to make time for each
other."

He nodded cautiously, obviously uncertain as to where she
was going with this.  Scully wished with everything she had
she didn't need to show him the way.  "Yeah, . . . so?"

She looked up at him once more.  He stood, waiting.  Pale
and sick, and utterly at her mercy.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she denied him.

Her compassion.

Her love.

Their tomorrow.

"I don't think it's working."

At first, Mulder stood motionless, still, save for his hooded lids.
They blinked at her.  Up, down.  Slowly, as if trying to clear
his vision.  Then, his mouth began to move, to open and close,
to gape like a baffled goldfish.  At last, his hands fell away,
releasing her from his hold.  Staggering back a step, he shook
his head and whispered dazedly, "What?"

Scully swallowed hard, striving to control the bile she could
feel rising in her gullet, burning and bubbling like witches'
brew.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.  But I just can't do this anymore."

And still he stood there, shaking his head.  "I don't understand.
You can't do what . . . us?"

She nodded, her chin bobbing madly.

Yet more color siphoning from his face, he spread his hands
before him, the simple gesture speaking more eloquently than
words ever could.  Screaming to her of his bewilderment, his
amazement, his surrender.  "But . . . but what happened?
What did I do?" 

I will not cry, she silently swore.  I will not, =will not= cry.
"You didn't do anything.  This isn't your fault.  It's me.  It's
what I need."

She took a step towards him then and laid her hand on his
arm.  The muscles beneath her fingers jumped when they
connected, as if her touch pained him in some way, shocked
him like charged metal.  Look him in the eye, Dana.  Make
him believe.

"It's what you can't give me," she said, her tone gentle, almost
apologetic.  "No matter how badly you might want to."

Yet her tenderness failed to soothe him.  Instead, Mulder's
jaw clenched viciously, his mouth grew hard.  "Try me."

Sighing, she again turned away, only able to hold his gaze
for so long.  Lips pressed flat, she crossed around the far
side of the desk, struggling to remain focused, to somehow
insulate herself against his suffering.  Yet she was fighting
a losing battle.  How could she hurt the man she loved,
deliberately subject him to what she knew numbered among
his worst nightmares when her every instinct urged her
instead to comfort him, to draw him into her arms and relieve
him of the sorrow she had so heartlessly engendered?

"Mulder, there isn't anything to try," she told him, wandering
as she spoke, her arms wrapped around her middle, her back
pointed his way.  "This isn't about some annoying habit, or
your forgetting my birthday."

When he didn't say anything, she continued, finding it easier
now that she had put some distance between them.

"This is about who and what we are.  It's about our situation
and the things we can't change."

She stood now at their work table in the back corner of the
office.  Its surface was covered by a scattering of slides, some
project of Mulder's, begun, then forgotten.  Pictures of crop
circles mostly, their designs intricate and beautiful, like Celtic
knot work.  Almost reverently, she traced the hard plastic
frame surrounding one of the images, running her fingertip
over it as if to memorize its texture.  To record what it had 
been like to pursue this sort of work, to chase after the 
fantastical with Mulder by her side.

"You're a good man," she murmured, the sound hushed and
aching.  "And you've tried very hard to make me happy.  But
there's no life for us together, no future.  This is all we'll
ever have.  And 'this' isn't enough for me anymore."

She didn't hear him move until he stood directly behind her,
towering over her smaller form, but not touching her.  Not
yet.

"Tell me what you want," he entreated, his voice broken and
raw.  "Tell me what would be enough.  And I'll give it to you.
I'll find some way.  You'll see."

"Mulder, it isn't as simple as all that," she whispered, woefully
shaking her head.

"Then =explain= it to me, Scully," he hissed, his hands
landing on her shoulders to spin her around.  Thrown off
balance by his action, she grabbed hold of the table behind
her to steady herself and looked up into his face.  Mulder
stared back at her, no attempt made to hide his misery or his
rage.  "Explain to me how it all got so =fucking= complicated."

But rather than speaking, she remained mute, struck dumb at
seeing the depth of his despair.

And knowing she was its cause.

"Nothing you've said makes any sense to me," he confessed
hoarsely, panic now glittering in his eyes, his hands slipping
down, returning to their former positions on her arms.  "I don't
know what any of it means or where it's all coming from."

"This isn't something new," she told him quietly, her gaze
sliding away to focus somewhere around his chin.  "It's been
building for a long time."

"But what is ='this'=?" he cried, ducking his head in an attempt
to recapture her eyes.  "You talk about how I've failed you,
about how you need something I can't give you.  And yet, you
won't even tell me what that something is."

"It's not some sort of secret, Mulder," she said, scowling
as she pulled free of his grasp and rubbed her palms over the
tender patches where his hands had gripped.  "We've discussed
it before."

"Remind me of our conversation, then," he snarled, shoving
his fists in the pockets of his jeans, almost as if to stop
himself from grabbing her again.  "Because I seem to have
forgotten something I swear to God I never knew."

"Our conversation would have had something to do with
'normal life'," she told him, her voice taking on an edge it
had been lacking to that point.  "About living like the rest
of the world does."  This was good, she thought, the two
of them squaring off as adversaries rather than teammates.
Vulnerable and grieving, Mulder threatened her resolve.
But, while it blistered and burned, his anger was something
she could combat, something she could push back against.

Something she could match with her own.

"'Normal life'?" he parroted scornfully.  "Normal for whom?
In case you haven't noticed, Scully, the world doesn't run
under a specific code of conduct.  Everyone has their own
way of doing things."

"I know that," she said with an emphatic nod.  "I realize that
'normal' is a relative term.  But I also know what it means to
me, what I have to have to feel . . . happy, to feel 'right'."

"Fine," he retorted, swaying again, only this time she
couldn't judge whether fury or exhaustion was its cause.
"So, I'm asking you again--what do you need?"

"I need to be in a relationship I can be open about," she
said, her voice raised, her tone high, all the emotion she
had so savagely been repressing, holding in check since
that first confrontation with The Smoker, starting to seep
out from beneath the barriers she had erected, like water
escaping from a dam.

"Open with whom?" Mulder queried with a derisive shrug.
"What does it matter who knows about us and who doesn't?
You've never cared before what people think."

"I still don't," she swiftly replied.  "This isn't about other
people.  This is about my having to watch everything I say,
everything I do.  It's about worrying that a simple dinner date
is going to bring my world crashing down around me."

When he refrained from commentary, she continued, the
words beginning to flow a bit easier now.

"It's about having to space out the evenings we spend together
so that we won't draw suspicion to ourselves," she told him.
"About having to check in my rear view mirror when I'm
driving home from your place to see if I'm being followed."

Breath coming quicker, examples suddenly springing up like
weeds, she paced, and kept on talking.  "It's needing to be
careful not to be too familiar with you in front of others,
about being afraid to touch you, to smile at you, to laugh
at your stupid jokes."

Shoulders hunched, Mulder stood, watching her, chewing on
his lower lip, still saying nothing.

"It's about never having any place I can go where I can get away
from this job," she said with a sweep of her arm, indicating
their workspace and all it represented.  "I mean . . . most people
can escape the office when they go home, can spend time with 
the ones they love and forget all about it."

She pivoted to face him then, to look him in the eye, knowing
that this like all that had come before it, was in its way true.

And, therefore, more likely to ring with conviction.  To sound
most damning to Mulder's ears.

"But not me," she said, her voice subdued.  "Not us.  With you
and me, it's all the same.  Here, at home, everywhere.  And it 
always will be."

"You don't know that," Mulder muttered, crossing towards her,
pulling his hands free of his pockets as he moved.  "You don't
know that we can't change things."

"Change things =how=?" she demanded, meeting the challenge
in his hazel eyes.  "As long as you're working on the X-Files,
the same dangers are going to exist.  You can't alter that."

"Actually, I can," Mulder said shortly, coming to a stop
before her and folding his arms across his chest.  "You're not
the only one who can turn in a resignation letter, you know."

Now it was Scully's turn to gape and gasp, her turn to stare
incomprehensibly.  Good Lord.  Mulder was offering to give
up the X-Files for her.  He was proposing to turn his back on
what was for all intents and purposes his life's work, if she
would only agree to stay with him.

Oh my God.

I'm honored, Mulder, she longed to tell him as moisture filled 
her eyes.  Truly.  But I am completely undeserving of such a 
sacrifice.  Don't renounce your dreams for someone like me.

Her gaze flitting between Mulder and the floor, she cleared her
throat and strove to speak around the tears.  "You don't want to
quit the Bureau, Mulder.  You'd cut yourself off from the access
and the resources you've come to depend on in your work."

"There are always other ways, Scully," he murmured with a
shrug.  "You know that as well as I do."

"Maybe," she allowed.  "But I think you'd come to miss 
the things you've always taken for granted--the additional 
manpower, the labs, the databases, the financial support."

He shook his head, denying her claims.

"You may not think so now," she said. "But after awhile,
you'd begin to weigh all those things, all those advantages
you'd given up against what you got in return.  And when
you realized that all you had was me, you'd begin to resent 
me for what I'd made you do.  For what we'd become."

Mulder grimaced in disbelief and disdain, his hands raking
through his hair.  "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're wrong, Mulder," Scully shot back, her eyes again 
trained on him.  "I know you better than you know yourself."

"It's a =job=, Scully," he insisted, his volume rising.

"It's your =life=!" she shouted, topping him in decibels.

For a moment, neither said anything more.  They simply stood,
inches apart, both breathing hard, their gazes locked on each
other.

"These files, this work . . . it's your life," she repeated after
a time, her voice measurably softer than before, regret evident
in its timbre.  "And for a little while, you've let me share it
with you.  Thank you for that."

She could feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble, her nose
pricked, her eyes burned.  If she didn't hurry, she would soon
be sobbing like an over-tired child.

It was finally time to say goodbye.

Stretching out her hand, she stroked her fingertips along his
jaw, lightly caressing his warm, smooth skin.  "I need to go, 
Mulder.  I need to make a clean break, to start fresh somewhere,
far away from flukes and UFOs and nameless, faceless villains.
I =have= to do this."

He didn't say anything, he just stared down at her, slowly
shaking his head.

"And you . . . you have got to let me."

With that, Scully let her hand drift away from his face, to
instead fall heavily to her side.  Mulder remained silent, wraith-
like before her with his white shirt and pallor, his eyes telling
tales written by Poe.

"I'm sorry I've hurt you," she said quietly, her contrition not
at all contrived.  "That was never my intent."

Nodding, he folded his arms once more, then shrugged, an
ugly smile twisting his mouth out of shape.  "Yeah.  Well . . .
best laid plans and all that."

Ah.  Flippancy.  The classic Mulder defense mechanism.
The one he employed when he was taking punishment
rather than doling it out.

Taking it.

Accepting it.

Accepting her lie.

Oh God, he believed her. 

This was the end.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed past him to the desk.
Gathering the last of her things, she spoke briskly, her focus
on the cardboard box heaped with her belongings rather than
on him, needing now to simply get out of there.  "I . . . um . . .
I basically have everything.  There wasn't all that much to
pack.  I'm going to take some time  . . . some time for myself.
So, I won't be around for the next week or two.  But if you need
anything, have a question or whatever, you can leave a message
on my answering machine and I'll call you back."

"Fine," he mumbled, his eyes aimed now at the floor, his
body turned in profile to her.

Well, that was that.

Sighing, she grabbed her trench from the back of her chair
and pulled it on.  Sliding the strap from her briefcase over
her shoulder, she hefted the carton in her arms and stole one
last look at the man who used to be her partner.

The reckless sort of energy that had propelled him earlier had
apparently been burned away, leaving behind only a slender
shell of a man, strangely delicate for one so tall and fit.  He
stood very still, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his head
bowed, as if he feared movement of any kind might somehow
betray him, the same way prey cowers before the hunter.

Alone, Scully wordlessly lamented.  He seems so awfully alone.

But he'll be safe that way, a little voice reminded her.

Besides, do you really believe you're indispensable?  That he
won't learn to do without you?

Anyone can be replaced.

Some partings are merely more painful than others.

"Take care of yourself, Mulder," she murmured, tucking her
box beneath her arm and heading for the door.

"Scully?"

Hearing his quiet call, she stopped, but did not turn around.

"Don't do this."  He whispered his plea, the words coming
out all mottled with grief.

Closing her eyes, she choked back a sob, careful not to make
a sound. 

Slowly, she took a deep, quavering breath.

And another.

And still one more.

Then, eyes open, shoulders squared, she walked out of the
basement office, her step quick and light, leaving behind
Fox Mulder and the life they had once shared.

**************************************************

In the days that followed his release from the hospital,
those who came in contact with Fox Mulder, spoke to him
on the phone or caught a glimpse of his lean, rumpled form,
noticed little amiss.  True, his strength was still lacking,
his appetite not quite up to snuff.  He may have looked a
trifle thinner than usual, seemed somewhat distracted, his 
attention on something other than what lay directly before him.  
But these subtle abnormalities caused no alarm.  Such behavior 
was to be expected from a man recovering from a serious 
illness, reasoned his mother, Dr. Marquez, the clerk at the 
market near his home.

Inside, however, Mulder was dying by inches.

Dying, but not yet dead, he grimly acknowledged from where
he lay on his couch, idly channel surfing.

No.  Not dead.

The dearly departed couldn't possibly ache this much.

Chuckling mirthlessly at his melodramatic musings, he 
stabbed at the button on his remote, dully watching the 
TV images change before his eyes, randomly shifting,
like patterns in a kaleidoscope.

Hundreds of channels and not a damned thing on.

Still . . . what else did he have to do?

Nearly a week had passed since Scully had left him.  Six
days to sleep, to slowly reintroduce his stomach to solid
foods, to mourn all he had lost.  At first, he had wished he 
could simply return to work, could bury himself in his files 
in the hopes of distracting himself from his grief.  Yet, from
the beginning, that option had been denied him.  Under pain
of permanent dismissal, Skinner had banned him from the 
Hoover Building, saying he didn't want to see Mulder 
anywhere near the place until at least the end of the month.  
The agent knew his boss meant the edict as a kindness, that 
he was, in his way, looking out for his willful underling.

What Skinner couldn't have known, however, was how 
dearly Mulder had longed for the solace of his office, how 
much he had yearned to return to that musty place, missing 
it like a newborn craves the womb.  There, he was in his 
element . . .

. . . or had been.

Before.

And all at once it had hit him, sucker-punched him, only
days into his convalescence.

The X-Files weren't a haven for him.  Not anymore.
After all, the room where they were housed was now 
more teeming than ever with memories. 

Not all of them pleasant.

These days it was empty.  Ringing with silence.  Cold and 
vacant.  Not unlike the terrible emptiness that had begun gnawing 
out his chest soon after he had learned of Scully's resignation.  
Even as he recuperated, the creeping void continued its slow, 
steady excavation of his insides, heading south through his 
body.  From his breast to his ribs, stomach and beyond, it 
spread, leaving a path of nothingness in its wake.

At this rate, I'll soon disappear all together, he absently
noted.  One day, there won't be anything left of the man I
used to be, not even a shadow to mark my presence.

He wished he could say such a thing surprised him, that he
was shocked to discover losing Scully threatened to jeopardize 
his very identity.

He wished even more he could summon up the energy to 
care.

He should have had a plan at the ready, a PS contingency.
Life Post-Scully.  He had always feared, dreaded with a
kind of fatalistic certainty, this eventuality would one day 
come to pass.

It wasn't that he doubted Scully's avowals of love, questioned
her integrity or fealty.  But he knew his worth, recognized
with ruthless honesty what exactly he had to give her.

And how much more she could expect were she to look 
elsewhere for affection.

Oh, Mulder didn't entirely sell himself short.  No one would
ever, ever love her more.  This, he believed without ego or
shame.  But she was right about all the rest--the dangers, the
secrecy, the sense that together they were doomed to do nothing
but tread water, praying the seas remained calm, yet all the
while fearing something might surge from the depths below 
to pull them under.  None of that was going to change.  He 
had no future he could promise.  No assurances at all, really, 
save he would die to protect her.

Yet, while that sort of thing was attractive in a romantic sense, 
the kind of devotion immortalized by poets and playwrights,
its appeal was harder to define when it came to the everyday.

Can't hold hands with you at a movie, Scully.  But you need
someone to take a bullet for you, and I'm your guy.

Only she didn't want that.  Didn't want him.  Not anymore.

She loved him.

Just not enough to stay with him.

What had changed?  That was the question he most wanted
answered.  After all, these things she said she now valued--
this normal life she had told him she desired--from the very
beginning they had known that as a couple they would never
enjoy such an existence.  At least, not as long as they worked
on the X-Files.  But Scully had always assured him she didn't
care about such things, didn't aspire to be Donna Reed or even
Mary Beth Lacey.  Ironically, he had been the one who had 
suffered misgivings, who had feared he wasn't going to be able 
to provide her with all she required.  How many times had they 
argued the point, with Scully invariably taking the side of love 
conquering all, of seizing the day and to hell with all The 
Smoker and his kind threatened?

So, what happened, Scully? he mutely asked his barren living
room, the shadowed walls mocking in their answering silence.

Did I wear you down?  Piss you off?  Are you really so mired
in the rational you're able to objectively analyze what we have,
assign it a value, then decide whether it's worth hanging onto?
Can you quantify your feelings for me, measure them like 
rainfall?

I love you, Mulder.  But only this much.  Enough to care 
whether you live or die, but not enough to stick around to 
see which it will be.

No.  That was so utterly counter to everything he knew of 
her, so foreign to an understanding it had taken him years to 
cultivate, he couldn't even fathom the notion.  Dana Scully 
was many things.  But she wasn't cruel, wasn't fickle or cold.  
She wasn't the kind of woman who gave her love lightly or 
toyed with the emotions of others.

So, logically, something must have occurred, some catalyst, to
make her change her mind, to compel her to long for something
she had steadfastly sworn to him she didn't want.

Yet, no matter how many times he reviewed the last several
weeks, how many different ways he considered the moments
leading up to their fateful conversation, he couldn't come up 
with what might have been the impetus, the reason for her 
walking away.  Their lives had been almost scarily normal 
for the past month or more, lots of regular hours and 
paperwork, little in the way of drama.

Except for his sojourn in Intensive Care.

He wished he could better remember the night before his
ride in the ambulance, the hours when he had not only
poisoned himself with pizza, but drank himself into a
stupor, with Scully a witness to his idiocy.

Why had she decided to come over that night?  Had she been 
planning to leave him even then?  She had said something 
about needing to speak with him.  That, he recalled.  But she 
had never come right out and said why that need existed.  And 
what the hell had the police been doing there?  Scully had 
smoothed things over with them--which was fortunate, as
he had been in no state to mend fences on his own.  But, try 
though he might, he couldn't recall why they had visited him 
to begin with.

God.  He was missing something, he thought as he punched 
the power button on his remote and plunged his living room 
into total darkness.  Something critical, and no doubt obvious.  
He just couldn't figure out what that something was.  Normally, 
he would have considered Scully's conversation with Skinner to 
be significant, her demanding The Smoker's whereabouts to be 
of utmost importance.  Yet, she insisted she never met with the 
black-lunged son of a bitch, never took advantage of Skinner's 
generosity.  Such restraint seemed decidedly out of character--
Scully never being one to shy away from confronting their 
enemies.  But why would she lie about such a thing?

In the end, it came down to a matter of trust, Mulder ruefully 
decided, his head propped on the arm of the sofa, his eyes 
staring now, unseeing in the night.  Did he believe what Scully 
had told him, accept her words as true?  His immediate reaction 
was to say, 'Of course.'  After all, this was Scully he was 
considering here, the most honest individual he had ever 
known.  But all these questions . . .

His telephone's anxious ring jarred him from his ruminations.
For half a second, he contemplated letting the machine get it,
unsure as to whether he was up for conversation, polite or
otherwise.  But, having been on his own since his mother had
returned home that past weekend, he was sick to death of his 
own company.  Maybe his caller was a telemarketer, some poor
minimum wage sap he could torture.  What the hell.  With the 
mood he was in, he felt like spreading the joy.

"Mulder," he growled, grabbing the handset.

"Mulder?" a familiar voice echoed.  "Frohike here."

Oh.  Damn.  Someone he actually knew.  Guess he'd have to 
behave himself.  If he didn't, he was well aware the little 
gnome had the means to see he was audited by the IRS well 
into the twenty-first century.

"Frohike," he murmured, trying to infuse his voice with some
semblance of enthusiasm, all the while fearing the effort fell 
far short.  "What can I do for you?"

"Ah . . . well, that depends," said the man on the other end of
the line.  "How you feeling?" 

"All right, I suppose," Mulder said with a shrug.  "Though I'm
not exactly planning on attempting any stomach crunches  
anytime soon."

"Glad to hear it," the hacker assured him.  "You had us worried."

"Sorry," Mulder said with a wry smile.  "Believe me when I
say it wasn't intentional."

"I sure hope not," Frohike muttered under his breath.

Mulder frowned into the phone.  "What's that supposed to 
mean?"

But the smallest Lone Gunmen ignored his query.  "Mulder, 
I'm calling with a question about your partner."

His partner, Mulder repeated sadly inside his head.  Not 
anymore.  "What about her?"

"I tried getting hold of her earlier this evening at the Hoover 
Building, called her direct line, but all I got was a message 
saying the extension was no longer in service."

Oh no.  The last thing he wanted right now was to relate the 
whole sorry tale to Frohike.  The little guy idolized Scully.  
Once he heard she had quit the Bureau, he'd no doubt declare 
a national day of mourning.  "Leave her a message at home," 
Mulder advised, trying to sidestep the matter entirely.

"I did," Frohike told him, a certain impatience evident in his
tone.  "I didn't know what else to do after the switchboard had
told me she was no longer with the FBI."

Ah.  So the president of Scully's fan club had already been 
apprised of the situation.

"Did you know about this, Mulder?" Frohike queried after 
the agent had failed to comment.

"I knew," Mulder confirmed shortly.

"And do you even care she's gone?"  The question was voiced
quietly, yet the Gunman's disapproval rang out loud and clear.

What the fuck?!  Just what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Bastard.  "What do you =think=, Frohike?" Mulder hissed in
reply.

At first, his friend said nothing, perhaps considering whether
he had overstepped his bounds.  Finally, however, he answered,
his words grave and to the point.  "I think there's some funky
shit going down.  Get over here, Mulder.  We've got something
you should see."

			*****

"You found these in Scully's apartment?"

The hour was minutes shy of midnight.  Mulder stood 
surrounded by Frohike, Byers, and Langley, the four men 
huddled over a countertop at the Gunmen's headquarters.  
Glittering atop the Formica were four tiny bits of metal.  
Bugs, listening devices. 

Proof that something was very, very wrong.

"Yeah," Langley said, tapping the bridge of his glasses with 
his middle finger to realign the frames atop his nose.  "Pulled 
'em from her phones, the living room, and bedroom."

"Agent Scully came to us a few weeks ago," Byers explained,
tweed-clad, even at this late hour, "saying she suspected she 
was under surveillance.  We swept the place and came up with 
these."

Mulder shook his head as he lightly fingered the tiny specks of 
circuitry.  "But what made Scully think someone was bugging 
her apartment?"

"Don't know," Langley admitted with a shrug.  "She was pretty
close-mouthed about the whole thing."

"She didn't want us to tell you," Byers confessed a trifle 
apologetically.  "Said that if you found out, your life might 
be in danger."

"Why would my life be in danger if she was the one being 
bugged?" Mulder queried, utterly befuddled.

"Why don't you ask her that?" Frohike advised, his earlier
ire seemingly cooled.

"I plan to," Mulder muttered as he turned away, his hand
running distractedly through his hair.

"Mulder," Frohike called, stopping the agent before he could 
reach the door.

"What?" Mulder asked from across the room.

"When we found these things, Scully asked us to look into
whether they were made by a government vendor," Frohike 
said, taking a step or two in Mulder's direction.  "She was
looking for proof, Mulder.  Proof as to who was responsible
for this."

"And?" Mulder queried impatiently, the urge to run out of 
there in search of his once and future partner all but impossible
to quell.

"And the bugs were made by a company called AGB 
Technologies," Frohike murmured with a sideways glance at 
his fellow Gunmen.  "You don't hear a lot about them in the 
press.  But those 'in the know' claim AGB has been supplying 
electronics such as these to the military since the Gulf War."

Mulder nodded, then turned once more to leave.

"Mulder," said Langley from somewhere behind him.  "Realize
who you're up against, man."

"I do," the agent assured his blond friend.  "For the first time
in a long time, I think I finally do."

			*****

Idiot.  Dumb fuck.  Pathetic excuse for a human being.  Total
waste of DNA.

Driving away from the Gunmen's office, Mulder berated 
himself up one side and down the other.  How could he have
been so stupid, so completely and utterly self-absorbed?  How
could he have allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for days,
without ever questioning what had brought him to that sorry
state to begin with. 

He had known something was fishy about Scully's resignation
from the onset, had sensed there were facts being kept from 
him, secrets out there, cleverly hidden from view.  Had he been 
working a case and such misgivings taunted him, he would have 
been relentless in his pursuit of the truth, would have denied 
himself food and sleep, relaxation and entertainment, until he 
had flushed out those responsible for setting his Spooky Sense 
a-tingle.

But the minute Scully had told him it was over between them,
he had shut down, had lost all objectivity.

Had instead been operating in panic mode.

As he had confessed to Scully weeks before, he had always 
been dreading the moment when she would say goodbye, 
shrank from it like a frightened child might from the mythical
boogey man.  Yet, at the same time, he had in a sense been 
waiting for it, figuring that sooner or later it was bound to 
happen.

After all, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to break it
off.

And everything has a beginning and an end.

But maybe this wasn't their end, he now thought, buzzing
down one deserted street after another on his way to DC.
Maybe he had been given a reprieve, another chance.  Perhaps
Scully's decision hadn't really been hers to make.  Evidence
pointed to =something= strange going on.  Of course, he had 
no way of truly knowing.  Not until he talked to her again.  
But, for now, he could hope.

And that was more than he had been able to do since she had
left him, carrying with her not only a box of her belongings, 
but a piece of his soul.

			*****

Dawn was spreading its fingers across the horizon when 
Mulder pulled up outside his apartment.  Wearily, he climbed 
from his Ford and made his way towards the building.

Jesus, you'd think with all the sleep he'd been getting lately 
he'd be better able to handle an all-nighter, he thought as he 
flipped through his key ring, searching for the one that would 
open his front door.  He supposed he could have simply stayed 
at Scully's, caught a few winks on her couch.  But he hadn't
wanted to remain at her place any longer than was absolutely 
necessary.  Not when he felt so guilty about intruding on her 
privacy, about stealing into her home and searching through 
her things like she was a suspect in an investigation.

And yet, in a way, she was.  Wasn't she?

He had gone to Georgetown looking for her, thinking perhaps
her self-imposed exile might have, by this time, come to an end, 
that rather secreting herself away in some shadowy nook, she 
was instead hiding in plain sight, sitting at home, screening 
her calls and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her 
life.

Only it hadn't been that easy.

Moving stealthily as a thief, he had let himself into her 
place, fingers crossed, optimism high, his biggest concern
being that Scully might mistake him for a burglar and use
him for target practice.  But, in the end, he hadn't wound
up feeling as if he had a bull's eye painted on his chest.

The apartment had been empty.  She was gone.  

Just as she had said she would be.  Disappointed, he had 
consoled himself by scouting around, hunting for clues as to 
where she was holed up.  But the only things he had been 
able to discern were that her smaller Pullman was missing 
from the hall closet, she had taken with her mostly casual 
clothes, and it looked as if she had followed through on her 
promise to check her machine.  The little red light was 
blinking.  But it announced only one message.  That was 
probably Frohike, he thought.  After all, the Gunman had
said he had called earlier that evening.  Yet surely she would 
have received more calls than just his during the time she 
had been away.  She must be doing remote retrieval.

That being the case, he planned on going ahead and leaving 
a message himself.  Depending how frequently Scully was
calling in, the direct approach might well be the best way to
get hold of her.  But, just to play it safe, he was also going to 
talk to Mrs. Scully.  He knew his partner.  No way would she 
go out of town without first telling her mother where she could 
be reached in case of emergency.    

Of course, Maggie might not exactly be eager to share that
information with him, Mulder now silently admitted as he 
exited the elevator and headed towards his apartment.  She 
might feel that to do so would be betraying her daughter's 
confidence.  Fine.  He didn't have to call Scully; she could 
call him.  It didn't really make any difference to him.  He
just needed to speak with her.  He didn't think Scully's life 
was in danger, not now that she had left him.  But he couldn't 
be certain, not of anything really, until he knew what exactly 
they were up against.  And he wouldn't know that until they
talked.

I'll catch a couple of hours sleep, he decided, sliding his key
into the lock.  Get up early.  Call Mrs. Scully, and then, 
hopefully, track down her daughter.

Feeling more alive than he had in over a week, Mulder twisted
his wrist to the right, the same direction he always turned it
when unlocking his front door.

Only, much to his surprise, he found he didn't need to unlock 
it.

It was already open.

Shit.

Drawing his gun from his hip holster, he cautiously inched 
open the portal.  

And discovered his home a complete shambles.

"What the hell?" he mumbled in astonishment, standing 
dumbstruck in the doorway, taking it all in.

The place looked like the Jets and the Falcons had played a 
set of downs in his living room.  Furniture was overturned,
drawers emptied, clothes strewn everywhere.

Had he been robbed?  At first glance, that didn't appear to be
the case.  His television was still there, as was his computer
and VCR.  But if robbery hadn't been the motive, what in
God's name had been?  This didn't look to be a professional 
job, not with the mess that had been left behind.  But why 
would some amateur target him?  And if it had indeed been 
some random attack, why would the person have ventured to 
the building's fourth floor?  How would they have known for 
certain he was even out at that hour?  He had left the light on.  
Carefully, he entered, then closed the door behind him.

Pulling from his pocket his cell phone, Mulder dialed 911.

"Yes.  Hello.  This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the 
Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I'd like to report a break-
in."

			*****

"Looks to me like I'm only pulling one set of prints here,
Agent Mulder, and I'd lay odds they're yours."

Mulder looked up from where he sat on his leather sofa, 
wearily watching the evidence technician go about her
work.

"I don't doubt it," he mumbled.

"You think they wore gloves?" the pretty young tech queried,
looking over her shoulder at him.

"I didn't at first," he admitted, scrubbing his face with his
palms.  "But the more I think about it, the more likely it
seems."

"Looks like they jimmied the front door," said the tall, balding
cop named Mannheim.  "Nothing fancy really.  They used 
maybe a screwdriver or a knife."

"You still haven't figured out if anything's missing?" queried 
Mannheim's partner, an equally tall African-American officer 
named Churchill.

"No," Mulder said with a shake of his head.  "All my electronic
equipment is still here.  They even left behind some cash I'd 
stashed in my desk drawer."

"Weird," said Mannheim with a frown.  "It's almost as if the
son-of-a-bitch was sending you a warning."

"A warning?" Mulder echoed.

Mannheim crossed to stand before him, jotting down notes
as he spoke.  "Well, what else would you call it?  Why would 
someone go to all this trouble, risk getting caught for a crime 
that netted them nothing?"

"Maybe this is connected to that phone call your partner got."

That casual remark came courtesy of Officer Churchill.

"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked as he slowly 
pushed to his feet.  "What call?  How do you know my partner?"

Churchill looked a trifle taken aback at the tone Mulder used.
"I don't.  But a friend of mine does."

"Who?" Mulder demanded, as he marched right up to Churchill
and got in his face.

The policeman wasn't impressed.  He folded his arms and
calmly regarded the belligerent agent. "When the call came 
over the radio, telling us to get over here, one of my buddies 
got on the horn and said he recognized the address.   He told 
us he had been here with his partner a week or so ago, 
answering a 911."

Mulder backed down a step or two.  This could be the 
information he had been looking for.  "Yeah.  Um . . . Friday
before last."

"Right," Churchill said with a nod.  "Something about a
crank . . . threats directed at you. . . he didn't have time to give 
me the details, not over the radio.  But Larson did say your 
partner was the one who had gotten the call.  Apparently, she 
met the officers on the scene; they checked it out.  Nothing ever 
came of it."

So, that's why Scully had come that night.  She had feared for
his safety.

The pieces were slowly falling into place.

"That could be connected to this," Mannheim agreed with a
shrug.  "Not that much time has passed.  Of course, it's hard
to tell what the hell the motive was without first finding out
if anything's been taken."

Love to help you, gentlemen, Mulder mused as he surveyed 
with disgruntlement his ravaged apartment.  But it's not going
to be that simple.  "Let me put some stuff away," he murmured, 
wondering even where to begin.  "I'm sure it will be easier for 
me to tell if anything's missing once I get some order restored."

"Well, I'm finished," said the tech with way too much perk for
this early in the morning.  "So don't be afraid to touch anything
here.  Sorry about the graphite."

"Don't worry about it," Mulder mumbled, backing up to clear 
a path so she could make it to the door without having to scale 
the small mountain of videotapes heaped alongside the coffee 
table.

"Here's my card," Mannheim said, handing him the article
in question.  "Let us know if anything's been stolen.  We'll be 
in touch on our end."

"I appreciate it," Mulder assured him, collecting both 
Mannheim's business card and that of his partner.

With a few further words of farewell, the officers left him, 
standing by himself in the ruins.

God, what a mess.  The place looked even worse than it had
the last time his world had teetered on the brink of oblivion.  
When Scully had laid dying in a lonely hospital bed and he 
had bartered back his soul by spending the night at her side.

Well.  Not surprisingly, that particular memory did nothing 
to raise his spirits.

Shit.

He would have preferred to just turn around and walk out, to
begin his search for Scully and forget all about the junkyard
that was once his living room.

Only it wasn't even six o'clock.

He couldn't call Mrs. Scully at this hour, no matter how badly
he might want to get hold of her daughter.  Just bite the bullet
and get it over with, he told himself.  Try to put at least some
of this stuff away.  Sighing, Mulder decided to listen to the
nagging little voice inside his head.  Moving slowly yet steadily,
he righted furniture and stacked the scattered papers and files,
books and videos littering his apartment, gradually uncovering 
the floor beneath the debris.

Some time later, he took an armload of clothes to his bedroom.  
Why the hell his late night visitor had seen fit to throw his 
shirts and ties everywhere, he didn't know.  Christ.  His dry 
cleaning bill would be through the roof this month.  Oh well, 
for now he might as well hang up what he could.  He would 
decide later what to take in and what he would try to wash 
himself.

His arms laden with linen, he shuffled into the darkened closet.
Damn it.  Where was that blasted light switch?  Scrabbling for 
it with his right hand, he tripped over something on the floor, 
something mixed in with his shoes.  

Ouch.

Something hard.  Metal, by the sound of it. 

What the hell was that?

He flipped on the light.

A strongbox.  Open and laying bottom side up amidst his 
oxfords.

The strongbox where he kept his extra gun and clips.

Oh my God.

Dumping the clothes he held onto the floor, Mulder quickly 
knelt down and pulled the box closer to him.  At that point, 
he wasn't even worried about disturbing evidence.  If whoever 
had done this had come looking specifically for his spare 
firearm, they weren't going to be stupid enough to leave prints 
behind.

Sure enough.  The box was empty, the lock apparently forced.  
His back-up automatic was nowhere in sight.

Well, at least he now knew what they had been after.

If only he knew why.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and checked his watch.  7:43.

He had to talk to Scully.  

Frohike was right.  There was some funky shit going down.  
And he no idea how he or his partner fit into any of it.

First, he tried her number.  Both of them.  Her cell was turned 
off.  Shit.  He called her home and, as expected, got her 
machine.

"Scully, it's me.  Call me.  It's important."

Okay.  One down.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully, he silently apologized.  I know it's early.  
But this can't wait any longer.

Dana's life might be at stake.

He didn't know where the hell his address book was in the
midst of all this.  So, he called information, then punched
in the number.

And got Maggie Scully's machine, just as he had her daughter's
moments before.

Damn it.  Doesn't anyone just answer the phone anymore?  
Maybe she was in the shower.

"Mrs. Scully, it's Fox Mulder," he said, trying to keep the
worry from his voice.  "Listen, I've got a situation here I 
need to talk with your daughter about.  Could you please
call me and let me know how to get in touch with her? 
Well, that was lame, he sheepishly thought as he hung up 
the phone.  Still, he didn't know what else to do.  He didn't 
want to alarm the woman unnecessarily.  

Now all he could do was wait.  

Not something he did particularly well.  

Still, somehow he managed it, passing the time by continuing 
to set his apartment to rights.  

However, an hour passed without Mulder hearing anything 
from either of the Scully women.

So, he tried again.

"Mrs. Scully, it's very important that I speak with Dana.  
Please, either call me with where she can be reached, or
have her call me herself."

It had been harder to mask his disquiet this time around.

And yet, his urgency yielded him nothing.  Another hour 
ticked away without a return call.

So, he tried one more time.

"Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be such a pest.  But I =have= to 
talk to Dana.  Please, please tell me how I can reach her."

Still, his phone remained mute.

At 10:00, he called the Gunmen.

Byers picked up the line.

"I need a favor," Mulder said without preamble.  "I've gotta
find out where Scully is.  I need you guys to see if her credit 
card has been used in the last week or so.  Can you do that?"

"Sure," Byers replied.  "But it may take awhile."

"Hurry," Mulder urged.  "And while you're at it, run a 
check on her mother as well.  I've been calling her to find 
out where Scully is, but she's not answering her phone."

"We'll get right on it," the bearded Gunman promised.

Forty minutes later, Mulder had his information.

"We didn't find out much on Scully," Frohike reported.
"But what we did learn was interesting.  She's only used 
her credit card twice this past week, both times were on
the same day.  Last Friday, she got gas at a station here 
in town.  Then she fueled up again, later that afternoon. 
Only this time, she was midway between New York City 
and Albany."

New York City and Albany? Mulder repeated inside his 
head.  What the hell was in New York State?

"Is that it?" he queried, his mind spinning furiously.

"On the daughter, yes," Frohike said.  "But we have better 
news where Mama is concerned."

"Let me have it," Mulder commanded.  

"The reason she hasn't been returning your calls is 
because she's in Florida."

"Florida?" he murmured with discouragement.  God.  If
she was staying with friends, they might never find her.

"The Sunshine State," Frohike confirmed.  "But not for 
long."

"What do you mean?"

"She's due back today," the Gunman said.  "On a United 
flight scheduled to arrive at National at 12:05 this afternoon."

12:05.  Okay, that would work.  That was only a few hours
away.

"Frohike, I could kiss you," Mulder said after he had 
scribbled down the necessary information.

"Thanks.  But I'm saving myself for your comely partner," 
the little man sniffed with mock disdain.

"Get in line, my friend," Mulder murmured in reply.  "Get 
in line."

***************************************************

It's pretty out here, Dana Scully thought not for the first time
as she stepped out onto the cabin's planked porch and looked 
up at the stars.  A multitude shone overhead, twinkling back 
at her, though their brilliance was muted ever so slightly by 
day's stubborn leavings.  Sweeping swathes of crimson and 
violet colored high, raggedy clouds, their rich shades bravely 
defying night's influence.  The freshly tinted shapes were 
messy, ill-defined, like a childish deity had somehow gotten 
hold of a box of equally divine crayons, the little one's fingers 
too clumsy to contain his scribbling within nature's lines.  

Beautiful.  

Yet even as she watched, a cup of hot tea cradled in her hands, 
her chin tipped towards the heavens, the vibrant hues that so 
delighted her began to slowly fade, to bleed and shrink, to dim, 
then die.  Before her very eyes, the cloud canvases were washed 
clean, first bleached by night's blackness, then gradually 
swallowed by it, secreted away as if the young god's mother 
had tidied up after him, stowed his playthings when it was time 
for bed.   Soon, all hints of day were banished, exiled till dawn. . . .

. . . And all at once, she stood, slender and small, beneath an 
vast, inky canopy, her world lit only by the glittering firmament 
above.  Faintly--far, far away--she could hear the choked cries 
of night hunting birds; closer by, crickets and their insect 
brethren chirped and hummed companionably, busily 
conversing in a language only they understood.

The setting should have struck her as magical--a starlit sky, 
towering trees gilded with orange and gold, the hushed 
tranquility of the mountains, majestic and pristine.  She 
should have found it peaceful, at least.  Serene.

But all she really felt was lonely.  Friendless and abandoned.  
The very air around her threatening to suffocate her with its
emptiness.

Good Lord, she mused with a lift of her brows as she lowered
herself down onto the porch's top step, and set the cup of now
tepid tea aside.  There was just no pleasing some people.  After
all, wasn't this what she had said she wanted?  Hadn't she told 
herself she needed some time away, some space, some distance 
so she could decide what to do, where to go now that she could 
no longer continue on as she had?

Be careful what you wish for, Dana, she silently advised, her
mouth twisted in a mirthless smile.  Because you never know
when that wish just might come true.

Boy, she thought with a sigh, her elbows balanced on her knees, 
her face buried now in her hands.  She had accomplished next 
to nothing since coming to the mountains.  She had been there 
a week, supposedly recharging her badly depleted emotional 
battery, preparing herself for the many challenges that lie ahead.  
Each morning, she had tromped miles through the surrounding 
woods, exercising her body, striving mightily to clear her mind.  
In the afternoons she would read or drive to town.  There, she 
would browse the quaint little tourist shops, stopping perhaps 
on the way home at one roadside stand or another.  

She had taken it easy.  Pampered herself.

But this vacation hadn't only been meant to be about rest and 
relaxation.  She had certain questions to answer for herself, 
plans she needed outlined, then seen through.  It was easy 
to forget, hundreds of miles away from home, but she was 
currently unemployed.  And her meager savings wouldn't be 
enough to finance much more than her move out of Georgetown 
and into new digs.

But where should she go?  And how exactly could she hope 
to pay her rent?

In an attempt to address these issues, she had dropped by her 
favorite newsstand before hitting the road and grabbed the 
latest out-of-town papers.  Adding these to the stack of 
professional journals she had already packed, she had felt 
more than ready to tackle the problem, to find herself a new 
position far away from D.C and the bittersweet memories the 
capitol held.  Spreading out her periodicals on the cabin's 
hardwood floor, she had pored over them, circling job postings 
and jotting down notes beside promising apartment listings.

Yet all the while she had done so, all she had heard was 
Mulder's voice, murmuring warmly and wryly in her ear.

If she were the type to readily believe in ghosts, she would 
have said he was haunting her.  Not a bad trick for the living.

<Florida, Scully?  Move down there and you won't be cutting
open anything but coronary victims and drug hits.>

<You don't want to teach.  Not anymore.  You hated it when 
they reassigned you to Quantico.  Remember?>

<Ooh.  Alaska.  If memory serves, the ratio of manly men in
the prime of manhood to sweet young things such as yourself
is like a million to one.  You're going to make some oil rig
operator one very happy fellow.>

Leave me alone, Mulder, she had yearned to shout.  Just let 
me go!

Yet she feared she was the one who wasn't willing to cut the 
ties, the sorry soul who was grasping at what used to be rather 
than facing what was to come.

But I don't want to move on, she would confess late at night,
huddled beneath the covers, restless and lost.  I don't want to
forget him.

I don't want anyone else.

Fine.  Then be alone, whispered an unseen imp, his soft, 
sibilant words murmuring from the menacing shadows of 
her darkened bedroom.

Because you can't have Mulder.

That's finished.  You killed it.

So he would live.  Remember?

Remember.  

Oh God, she now sighed, pressing the heels of her hands 
against her lowered lids and turning her head wearily from 
side to side.  Of course, I remember.

Though I'd give almost anything to be able to forget.

Trying to shake off the almost crushing weight of memory, 
she stood, her mug in hand, and stretched, breathing deeply 
of the pine spiced air.  She could see the Milky Way now, 
the Big Dipper and Bootes, the plowman.  She had been 
lucky since arriving in the Adirondacks.  With the exception 
of last night's thunderstorm, the weather had been remarkably 
fine, sunny and mild, the afternoons temperate enough for her 
to comfortably wear shorts with her sweaters and hiking boots.  
Even now, hours after sundown, the air was only chilly enough 
to set her skin tingling, the kind of evening when a roaring fire 
was more a mood enhancement than a way to keep warm. 

Actually, building a fire didn't sound like such a bad idea, she 
decided, pulling open the screen door and entering the cabin.  
She'd take a nice, hot bath, relax.  Take her mind off things.  
Then, she'd load up the logs and sit down with a glass of 
cabernet to enjoy the blaze.

But first, she wanted to call her machine.

She had tried earlier, but the line had been down.  Not that
she was surprised, not with all the wind and rain the night 
before.  With her uncle's cabin having been built nearly half 
a century ago, the structure's wiring bordered on antique.  It 
seemed anytime a storm rolled through, either the electricity 
or phone turned temperamental.  It had been that way for as 
long as she could remember, way back to the days when her 
family had spent vacations up here with her Uncle Jim, Aunt 
Sally and their two children.

Crossing to the kitchen, she deposited her cup in the sink and
reached for the phone.  Damn.  Still nothing.  She'd go ahead
and use her cell, but she knew from experience the reception 
up here was lousy.  She had tried calling out on her Nokia not 
long after arriving and had nearly been deafened by static.

Oh well, it wasn't like she was expecting anything all that
exciting.  She supposed her mother might have left her a 
message or one of the boys could have called to say hello.  
It was just that she had promised Mulder she would be 
available, in case he had a question or perhaps wondered 
where some bit of paperwork might have gotten to.  After 
all she had put him through, she hated to renege on her word.  
If he needed something, she wanted to be able to respond as 
quickly as possible.

To help him out.

Not because she yearned for the sound of his voice.

Oh no.  Of course not.

Liar, she silently chided as she hung up the phone.  You have
got to get a grip.  Keep this up and you'll soon be rooting 
through Mulder's garbage, searching for mementos.

Shaking her head in disgust, she had just exited the dining 
area, heading towards the bathroom, when she saw it.  A glow
moving through the trees surrounding the cabin, two round,
eerie eyes staring back at her in the darkness.  Headlights.
A car.

Who the hell was visiting at this late hour?

Quickly, Scully trotted to the bedroom and pulled her spare 
Sig from the dresser's top drawer.  She may have had to turn 
in her service automatic to Skinner along with her badge, 
but that she didn't mean she was defenseless.  Following 
Mulder's example, she had bought this second gun months 
ago, wanting a back-up should the need arise.  

And at that moment, she was feeling far needier than she 
would have liked.

Returning to the living room, she hit the light switch,
killing the lamp beside the couch.  Closing her eyes for a 
moment to help them adjust to the sudden blackness, she 
crept carefully to the window, the Sig's safety disengaged.

Peering between the drapes, she watched as her uninvited
guest approached.  It was difficult for her to clearly see the
car, catching only glimpses of it as it wove through the trees. 
But she judged it was a newer model, a sedan most likely, 
her guess based on the position of the headlights and the 
engine's low, smooth purr.  Whoever was behind the wheel 
was making his way cautiously down the gravel drive.  Not 
a bad idea, as the path was narrow, and riddled with rocks 
and ruts.

It wasn't until she saw the car pull into the grassy area 
surrounding the cabin that she began to suspect the identity 
of her caller.  Up until then she had thought perhaps someone
had chosen this particular property in error, believing they
were dropping in on someone they knew.  

But that was before she got a good look at the vehicle parked
just at the foot of her stairs.  Noticed it was, indeed, a late 
model four-door, a Ford, like hers.  Saw that it had District 
of Columbia plates.  Recognized the familiar face of the man 
who had driven it there.  Felt her stomach yo-yo down to her
toes, then back again.

Mulder.

Oh God.  What now?

"Scully!" he called anxiously as he eased free of the sedan.

For one crazy half-second, she toyed with pretending she
wasn't at home, considered dashing inside a closet or under
a bed to hide like a frightened child.

Then reality slapped her like a hard, heavy palm.  She had
never backed down from this man before.  She certainly 
wasn't going to start doing so now.

And sliding her safety back into position, she slipped her 
gun into the waistband of her shorts, so its butt rested just
above hers.  Then, flipping on the porch light, she pushed 
open the front screen door.

All the while wondering if, from where he stood, Mulder 
could see her knees knocking, trembling as if she had
run all the way from D.C. to these distant mountains in an
ill-fated attempt to elude him.

Impossible, perhaps.  But at that moment, she felt nearly that 
desperate to escape him once more.

			*****

"Scully?" he called, stumbling as he sidestepped around the
driver's side door, then slammed it shut after him.  "Scully!"

Christ.  His ass was numb, his legs stiff as proverbial boards 
after that hellish drive.  Everything from the waist down was 
pins and needles.  All except his right calf.  That had started
cramping just outside of Glens Falls. 

Seven hours.  

Two stops.

One traffic citation.

Luckily, he had brought his badge.

That State Police escort he had received had nearly made up
the time he had lost when Mrs. Scully's plane had gotten in 
late.

Still, all of the bullshit had been worth it.  All the endless miles 
of hard, hypnotic asphalt, the sun that had reflected off the rear
view mirror at exactly the right angle to steal his vision, the
sadistic interstate trucker he had trailed through most of New
Jersey, the one who had somehow always managed to drift 
over the dividing line every time he had tried to maneuver
his Taurus around the far larger vehicle.  Because, despite his 
terror when he couldn't raise her on the phone, couldn't call 
to tell her he was coming, to warn her that whatever her plan 
had been, it had gone seriously awry,  Scully was there, in one 
piece, looking at him . . .

. . . like he had oozing, open sores dotting his complexion.

"I tried to call," he finally said, thinking that was as good a 
conversation starter as any.  "But your phone is out."

"It rained last night," she said, standing above him on the
porch, clad in khaki walking shorts, a white T-shirt and navy
blue cardigan.  "The lines are down."

He nodded a trifle skeptically.  "Are you sure the rain was
to blame?"

A flicker of disquiet skittered across her countenance before 
she replied.  "What else would it have been?"

He shrugged, letting his silence speak for him.

"What are you doing here, Mulder?" she asked after a moment
or two, apparently dismissing both his conjecture and his attempt 
at small talk. 

He shrugged again, feigning nonchalance, nervous now that he 
had her in his sights, even though he had been practicing what 
he planned on saying ever since pulling out of National.  "Nice 
night for a drive."

She frowned at that, and folded her arms across her chest.
"Cut the crap, Mulder.  How did you even find me?"

He strolled around the front of the car, his hands in his jacket
pockets.  "Your mother.  She had a terrific time in Boca, by
the way.  Ray and Terry send their regards."

Her eyes widened.  "My mother told you where I was?"

Mulder nodded, wishing he could better see her.  The bare
bulb overhead lit her hair and shoulders well.  But not her
face.  Her eyes in particular were masked by shadow.

"What did you tell her?" she demanded, anger seemingly 
creeping in to lend her words some bite.

He drew closer.  "The truth."

"What truth?" she asked heatedly, her arms falling to her
sides.  "My mother knew why I came up here.  She knew I 
needed some time.  She would never have helped you find 
me.  Not unless you scared her or--"

"Did you tell her about us, Scully?" he asked, standing now
at the bottom of the stairs, his voice hushed, his foot resting 
on the first step.  "Does she know what we are to each other?  
I wasn't sure."

"=Were= to each other, Mulder," she corrected quietly, her 
gaze focused down and away.  "Were."

"That's what you keep telling me," he agreed, leaning back 
against railing leading up to where she stood, her shoulders 
bowed, her hand dragging slowly through her hair.  "You've 
made it very clear you no longer want any part of me."

She tilted her chin to look at him, one brow arched.  "Then 
why are you here?"

He smiled slightly at that, the corners of his mouth softening,
his expression gentle.  He had been waiting for this, had 
been looking forward to it for what felt like eternity.  Here
was what he should have said in their office, the words he
ought to have spoken when Scully had so tenderly lay waste
to his world.

"I don't believe you."

At first, she didn't move.  She just stood there, staring at him.

"You what?" she finally asked, her brow wrinkled in 
consternation.

"I don't believe you," he repeated calmly.

"You don't believe I'm unhappy?" she asked, her query 
dripping with disdain and disbelief.  "Isn't that a bit 
presumptuous, Mulder, even for you?

"I never said you weren't unhappy," he murmured, climbing
up a step.  "If your week has been anything like mine, I'm 
sure you feel miserable right about now."

"I don't deny this has been difficult," she allowed, her posture
wary, her voice tempered and low, "for both of us.  And I'm 
sorry you made the drive all the way up here for nothing.  
But I've said all I have to say, Mulder.  It's over.  You, me, 
the Bureau--all of it.  And the sooner you learn to live with 
that, the better."

With that, she turned as if planning to reenter the cabin.  
Urging his travel-sore legs into action, Mulder bounded up 
the remaining steps and grabbed hold of her wrist, stopping 
her.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, rounding on
him.  Now that he stood beside her, he could see her eyes
more clearly.  Anger sparkled in their blueness, certainly, 
and annoyance at his unexpected reappearance in her life.  
But fear shone there too, its gleam eclipsing all other emotion. 
"Let go of me!"

"You expect me to believe you told me everything that day,
Scully?" he asked, stubbornly hanging on to her.  "That the
reason you turned your back on everything we had, everything
you =are=, is that you suddenly want to live like the other half
does?"

"Yes!" she insisted, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming 
now fast and hard.  "Why does that surprise you, Mulder?  
You're the one who always said it was crazy for us to try to 
make a life together."

"Yeah?" he challenged mockingly, capturing her other arm
as he had the first.  "And you're the one who's spent the last 
year or so convincing me otherwise."

She said nothing to that.  Instead, she merely stood, unmoving 
in his hold, her eyes struggling to remain on his. 

"Weird, huh?  The way things turn out sometimes," he said
softly, his mouth inches from her temple.

"I don't want to hurt you, Mulder," she said as finally her 
gaze strayed, drifting to somewhere near his left shoulder.  
"But you will leave me no choice unless you get back in 
that car and go home to D.C."

"I don't think you can hurt me," he murmured, only just
barely resisting the desire to press his lips to the vulnerable 
line of skin where her hair parted.  "Not anymore.  Not with
what I know now."

With what looked to be great reluctance, her eyes again found
his.  "What do you think you know?" she whispered. 

"I know you've recently had a bug problem," he wryly said.
"A nasty infestation.  The kind those roach motels can't cure."

"I . . . I don't--" she sputtered, the pink slowly fading from her 
cheeks.

"Save your breath, Scully," he drawled.  "The guys told me
everything.  I've even seen the little beasties myself."

"So you know about the bugs," she muttered, yanking her
arms free, then backing away, rubbing her palms over 
her reddened wrists.  "So what?  It means nothing, Mulder.  
That was simply the last straw, the thing that made me realize 
I couldn't live this way anymore."

"You know, there was a time I might have believed that," he 
said, prowling towards her, his eyes narrowed, his gaze intent.  
Scully compensated by continuing her retreat, edging away, 
doing what she could to keep some space between them.  "When 
I might have thought your apartment being under surveillance 
would be reason enough for you to call it quits."

With a bump and a grimace, Scully's shoulder collided with
one of the porch's supports.  Mulder quickly closed the gap
between them.

"But not now," he told her, leaning in, one hand braced against
the post, crowding her without remorse.  "Not with the things I 
know."

"You know nothing," she bit out, looking up at him with 
tear-bright eyes, panic now flickering in their depths as well,
shiny-hard, like light reflecting off a blade.  "Nothing.  If you
did, you wouldn't have come up here, using my family to track 
me down like I'm some criminal you have a warrant for.  You 
. . . you wouldn't try and bully your way back into my life, 
Mulder.  You would respect me and my decision, instead of 
treating me like a child who's too stupid to know what she 
really wants." 

"What do you really want, Scully?" he asked, his voice rumbling 
out, low and intimate, its timbre a reaction to her nearness, to 
the longing that had all but consumed him these past seven 
days and more.

"I want you to let me be," she whispered, desperation seemingly 
feathering her words, stealing from them weight and mass.  "I
want you to turn around and leave here.  To get the hell away 
from me."

"What about me?" he murmured, surrendering at last to 
temptation and nuzzling her silky hair with his nose.  She 
raised her arms and flattened her palms against his chest.  
But she didn't try to push him away.  "Don't you want me?"

"Mulder . . . don't," she pleaded, closing her eyes and turning
her face away.  She was trembling now, almost shuddering
against him.  He could feel her small, soft body shivering 
delicately in his embrace.

"Not even a little, Scully?" he wheedled against her skin,
kissing his way along her cheek's smooth curve, his lips
warm and tender against her face.  "Don't you want me 
just a little?"

"Please, Mulder," she muttered, a tear slipping free from 
beneath her lowered lid to run like molten quicksilver down 
her pale, cool flesh.  ". . . please."

"I know about the threats," he told her, gently wiping away 
the tiny rivulet of salt water with his fingertips.  "I know you 
were the one who called the police that night, that you told 
the guys to keep quiet about the bugs or my life might be in 
danger."  At that, she opened up her eyes to look at him, her 
lashes spiky and damp.

"Is that why you wanted to see Cancerman, Scully?" he 
queried, his hand cupping her jaw in his palm, his thumb
massaging the baby-soft skin just below her ear.  "Were you 
trying to strike a bargain, my life for the end of your career?"  

All at once, Scully sighed in surrender and, swallowing 
hard, curled her fingers around his wrist, holding him to her.  
"He's going to kill you, Mulder," she mumbled, her voice 
clogged with tears.  "He's had enough of your interference.  
He wants you stopped."

Mulder knew it was absurd, that news of his impending death
ought to alarm him or at least give pause.  But all he wanted 
to do was laugh.  To rejoice.  To howl at the moon.

Yes!

Scully was talking to him again.

And this time, he believed her.

They were back.  Mulder and Scully, FBI.  On the case.

"Ah, but doesn't ol' Emphysema Breath know?" he teased as 
he leaned his forehead against that of his partner and smiled 
what felt to him like the world's goofiest grin.  "I can't be 
stopped.  I'm like the Energizer Bunny.  I just keep going and 
going--"

"This isn't funny, Mulder!" Scully growled as she shoved him
squarely in the chest, then stalked away to pace before the 
cabin's darkened doorway, back and forth, like a duck in a 
shooting gallery.  "He's been watching you.  Been watching
both of us probably.  Once he finds out we've spoken, that 
you know what's going on, your life isn't going to be worth 
shit."

"That's nothing new," he said with an indifferent shrug.

Scully stopped her measured step to glare at him from beneath 
the porch light, her hands planted now on her hips.

"Scuh-lee," he cajoled, his lips still curved in that same cocky 
smile.  "This isn't the first time that bastard has wanted me 
dead and it probably won't be the last."

"Mulder," she muttered in exasperation, shaking her head as 
she turned from him and began to cross away, out of the circle 
of light.  "For God's sake. . . . you don't understand!" 

"Fine.  Then make me," he said, chasing after her.  "Tell me 
what's been going--"

But before he could reach her, could wrap his fingers around
her wrist and draw her to him, pain exploded in the back of 
his head, tearing at his skin, obliterating his vision.

"MULDER!"

Oh God, it hurt!  Burned.  Like someone had taken a two-by-
four and slammed it against his skull.  Distantly, he felt 
something hot and wet matting his hair, trickling down the 
back of his neck to stain his collar.  Blood? he wondered as 
he staggered drunkenly, his hand going to his head and 
coming away covered in the stuff.  How had that gotten there?

"=MULDER!="

Scully?

He couldn't find her.  Didn't know where she had gone to.  
He thought he sensed movement somewhere off to the left, 
imagined he could feel the boards beneath his feet bouncing
as if someone were on the porch beside him.  But he couldn't
keep his eyes open to see who it might be as the ground 
rushed up to meet him . . .

No, not the ground.  

The stairs.

Crumpling gracelessly, he tumbled down the wooden steps, 
his head colliding with first railing, then riser, his right leg 
twisting painfully beneath him as he toppled.

Scully, he wordlessly cried, his cheek pressed now to the cool, 
moist dirt, his body leaden, unable to move.  

Scully.

But she didn't answer.  No one did.  No voices.  No words.  
Just noise, coming from above him.  Cracking and popping.
One after another.  Sharp and piercing, as if rockets were 
going off.

Fireworks. . . .  Sparklers and Roman Candles. . . . Sooty 
confetti raining down upon him from on high. . . .

And as he lay there, consciousness slipping painfully away, 
he questioned what might be the occasion, wondered why 
someone felt the need to light up the night sky.  Were the 
unseen revelers celebrating Scully's and his reunion?

Or were they instead joyously feting his imminent demise?

**************************************************

A single gunshot tore through the fabric of that starry 
September sky.

Then . . .

"MULDER!" Scully screamed as he convulsed before her,
blood spraying like Satan's own fountain from the back of his 
head.  Only he didn't answer her call, didn't even meet her 
horrified gaze.  Instead, he teetered, his knees turning soft, his 
expression slackening.  Slowly, dreamily, he lifted his hand to 
his hair and petted the strands there, his fingers hidden from 
her view.

While she watched him.  Shocked, amazed, and utterly 
transfixed.

Even when Mulder dropped his arm.

And she saw his palm was painted with dark, rich red.

"=MULDER!="

It wasn't until his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his legs
buckled beneath him that she was able to break free from her 
stasis.  

She surged towards him from where she stood, scarcely more 
than an arm's length away, reaching out for him.  But he fell 
before she could grab hold, his lanky frame folding in on itself,
collapsing like a sail cut loose from its rigging.

She started down the stairs after him, wincing as his body 
bounced first one way then another against the punishing 
wood.  But before she had gotten little more than a step, gunfire 
erupted once more, bullets flying at her head like a swarm of 
angry hornets.  Cursing beneath her breath, Scully ducked, 
then dove behind the nearest newel, fumbling to free her Sig 
from its makeshift holster.  The minute she had it in her hand, 
she pointed it at the bulb dangling over her, and let loose with 
a shot.  The fragile globe of glass shattered into a million
glittering shards, and the night was once more lit only by
the heavens.

The instant the bulb was destroyed and darkness again reigned
supreme, Scully's assailant stopped firing.  No doubt taking
a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, she thought as
she huddled behind the post, trembling with a dizzying mix 
of terror and outrage, her lashes lowered as she strove to 
accomplish the exact same thing.  In the sudden silence, she 
strained, listening for anything, anything at all that might 
lend her an advantage.  But other than the hushed night sounds 
pouring into the vacuum left behind by the recent salvo, she 
didn't hear a thing, no rustle of brush, no footfalls, no creaking 
of bones nor swish of cloth.

And nothing from Mulder, who lay twisted and unmoving at 
the bottom of the steps.

Oh God, she wordlessly anguished.  Mulder.  Please be all 
right.

Please.

Please, Mulder.

Please, God.

I can't lose him now.  Not after everything that's happened.

In the midst of her mute yet fervent plea, gunfire began again, 
the shots popping around her like a bag of Orville Redenbacher's 
finest, the bullets pounding holes in wood and glass.  She 
scrunched herself into the smallest shape possible, waited for a 
break in the barrage, then returned fire.  Yet even as her finger 
tightened on the trigger, Scully knew her shots were doomed.  
She couldn't get a bead on the shooter's location, not with the 
way she was being forced to cower.  And if she didn't know for 
certain where he was, all she was going to do was aim blindly, 
wasting precious ammunition.  

She couldn't stay where she was, she decided, her arms 
wrapped protectively around her head as another clip was 
emptied into her uncle's beleaguered cabin.  As much as she 
wanted to remain close to her fallen partner, cover on the 
porch was next to nil.  She had to get inside.  There, she 
could set up a position at the window, and have access to 
her extra clips.  The door wasn't far, little more than a body's
length away.  She would only need to be out in the open for 
an instant. 

Surely, the gunman couldn't be that fine a shot.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she drew her knees up 
against her belly, pressed her back flat against the newel, 
and slowly stood, her gun clasped tightly in both hands.  
She stood there for a moment or two, preparing herself, 
doing everything within her power to merge with the 
shadows.

Still more gunshots rang out as if trying to distract her, to
lure away her concentration.

But Scully didn't let it rattle her.  She stood perfectly still.  
And waited.

Let him fire.  Let him exhaust another magazine.  I'll wait 
until he needs to reload, then . . .

Striking like a snake, she bent low and sprinted for the door.

One.

Two.

Three steps.
 
Grabbing hold of the handle, she threw the portal open and 
herself inside.

More shots flew.  But none hit their mark.

She'd made it.

Yet had no time to celebrate.

As soon as Scully cleared the threshold, she reached back 
and slammed shut the interior door, flipping the lock to 
secure it.  Keeping close to the ground, she dashed to the 
bedroom and frantically rooted through the same dresser 
drawer that had held her gun, hunting for her extra clips. 

There they were, buried beneath that stack of panties.  Two 
magazines of ten bullets each, which when coupled with the 
six she still had loaded in her Sig . . .

Gave her twenty-six shots.  

Not exactly an arsenal. 

Not if the siege lasted for any extended period of time.  

That seemed unlikely, though, she mused, her stockpile in 
hand as she made her way quickly yet cautiously back to the 
living room.  Surely someone should have heard the gunfire, 
most especially with the way sound carried up there.  Alerted 
by the racket, they would have undoubtedly worried something 
was amiss, would have called the authorities and asked them 
to check it out.  Why, with any luck, the county sheriff was 
on his way there right now, sirens blaring, his deputies not 
far behind . . .

. . . and yet, the cabin was surrounded by government land, 
acre after acre of national forest.  Her uncle had purchased the 
lot for exactly that reason.  The location was secluded, isolated.  
The nearest home was miles away, and she couldn't even say 
with any certainty whether it was occupied this time of year.  
Chances were good no one had heard a thing, or if they had, 
they had ascribed it to some sort of crazy, late-night target 
practice, the kind of activity usually instigated by boredom 
and way too many beers.

She couldn't count on the cavalry riding in to save the day.

Odds were she was on her own here.

Without even Mulder to rely on.

Dear Lord.

Creeping around the perimeter of the room, being careful
to keep to the shadows, she made her way to the wall of
windows looking out onto the porch.  Broken glass crunched
beneath her feet, the cracking and grinding for some reason
putting her in mind of bones being crushed to powder.  Inching 
her way forward, she used the starlight's pale glow to guide her, 
its faint luminescence streaming in from outside, enabling her 
to maneuver, to successfully skirt furniture and electrical cords.

When she reached her destination, her shoulder edging the
window frame, she peered behind the drape, her eyes 
surveying the cabin's front yard.

From her vantage, she spied Mulder.  He lay on his side, his
legs sprawled half on the stairs, half off.  One arm was pinned
beneath him, but the other was flung wide, his palm up, his
fingers curled.  With the way he had landed, she couldn't
see his face, couldn't tell if he was breathing.  Couldn't even
judge if the bullet that had wounded him had penetrated or 
instead merely nicked the surface.

I'm coming, Mulder, she whispered to him inside her head.
As soon as I can, I'll be there.  We'll get out of this.  You'll 
see.  You just have to hang on for me, okay?  Just hang on 
a little while longer.  I'll do the rest.  I'll get that son of a 
bitch.  I'll protect you.  I swear it.

Or die trying.

Almost as if answering her unspoken challenge, she glimpsed 
movement in the woods rimming the cabin's raggedy lawn.
It wasn't much.  Just a shadow that changed shape when there 
had been no breeze to set it in motion.  She spotted the telltale 
shift in a particularly dense grove of pines, just the other side 
of the road leading to the property.  Old trees, their trunks were 
as long and as narrow as the needles clinging to their branches.

So that's where you set up shop.

You fucking bastard.

Opening and closing her fingers around the grip of her gun in 
an effort to release some of the tension tightening her hand, 
she crawled to the center of the window, looking for the best 
possible position.  Staying low, she peered up through the 
glass, heedless of the shards below pricking her knees.  The 
shot wouldn't be easy.  A fair distance separated them, even 
from here.  The angle sucked, and the thick ground cover 
served the gunman well as camouflage.  No matter how long 
or how hard she stared, she couldn't tell for certain where he 
ended and mere foliage began.  That was a problem.  She was 
only going to get one chance to surprise him.  She had to take 
advantage of it, had to be sure and hit him, not the bush he 
was crouched behind.

Work with what you've got, Dana.  Work with what you've 
got.

Placing the barrel of her automatic into one of the holes
already blasted through the living room panes, she braced
her left arm on the sill and her right arm on top of that.
Staring down the Sig's sight, she took a deep breath, trying
to gather herself for the shot to come.

When, before she could pull the trigger, she noticed the dark, 
thick shape she had taken for her attacker split.

Half sinking even lower in the brush.

Half stepping back to melt deeper into the woods.

Shit.

There were two of them.

The realization startled her, making her pause for the slightest
measure of time to reevaluate her plan.  And before she could 
take out the shooter she had first targeted, he opened fire once 
more.

She ducked, grimacing as she heard still more glass shatter 
above her, the pieces falling on her like deadly diamonds.  
Instinctively, she scuttled to the corner of the window frame, 
and punched out a new hole with the butt of her gun.  Searching
for her assailant in the trees, she returned fire, cursing her
hesitation. 

Damn it.  Now she was back to square one.  She might have
a more secure stronghold inside, but her ammunition was still
limited, and her chances of taking out either of her attackers, 
long-range, with a handgun, were limited at best.  Whoever 
the hell these guys were, they could no doubt wait her out, let 
her expend her meager supply of bullets, and then swoop in
for the kill.

If they didn't try to get her pinned in the middle of a crossfire 
first.  

Which was why she feared they had separated to begin with.

After all, if she were the one directing this assault, that's the 
sort of tactic she would use.

She glanced over her shoulder while bullets continued to sand 
blast the front porch.  The cabin was structured so that the
kitchen, dinette and living room were all one large area, a 
breakfast bar, but no walls, helping to delineate space.  With 
this open floor plan, the kitchen was situated behind her.  Over 
the sink were three windows, all fairly narrow and fairly high, 
and directly opposite her current location.

If anyone did make their way around the back of the cabin 
and peered through those panes, she would be a sitting duck.

What if she could catch sight of Thug #2 before he actually
made it to those windows? she pondered, chewing thoughtfully
on her lip.  Perhaps she could take him unawares.

To the bedroom. 

Easing herself away from her present position, she fired a 
couple of shots as cover, then swiftly retraced her steps to 
the room in which she had slept since arriving.  As she 
returned to the back of the house, she reloaded, the current 
magazine empty.

One clip down, two to go.

Once she had made her way to the rear bedroom, she flattened 
herself next to the side window, and carefully eased away 
the curtain.  She didn't see anything, not just then.  But, if her 
assailant did indeed plan to try and outflank her, he would 
probably pass this way.  To go around the other side would 
mean he would have to cross the road leading into the property, 
which would expose him to possible gunfire.  And besides, the 
vegetation on that side was rougher, more difficult to navigate, 
while on this side it was sparse, more trees than reeds and brush.  
If he was hoping to take the easy way around, he should be 
headed directly for her.

And she would be waiting.

This could turn out to be a kind of advantage, she mused,
squinting against the darkness, her heart pounding out
"Flight of the Bumblebee" inside her chest, her mouth cottony
dry.  After all, she had been worried she wouldn't have the 
opportunity to directly engage her attackers, wouldn't be able 
to get close enough to them to do any real damage.

Well, if she had guessed correctly, that son-of-bitch should 
pass within inches of her.

And she didn't intend for his invasion of her personal space
to go unpunished.

Out front, she could hear intermittent shots still being fired. 
But the space between bullets had lengthened since she had 
left the living room.  The first shooter was testing her, she
grimly realized, seeing if she was still willing to take him on.  
Damn it.  If she stayed back here much longer, her silence was 
going to goad them into making some sort of move.  Either 
they would figure out she had abandoned her position in the 
living room, or they would instead no doubt surmise she was 
out of ammunition, thus hastening their entry of the cabin.  
And she needed to keep Thug #1 where he was if she hoped to 
take out Thug #2 on her own. . . .

Come on, she chanted to herself.  Come on, come on, come
on.  What did you do?  Get lost out there?

Then suddenly, her patience paid off.  Faintly, its origin 
probably no more than a stone's throw from the cabin, came 
a sound.  A crack and a flurry, like someone had stumbled 
over a stick and needed to shuffle quickly to maintain their 
balance.  Another evening and she might have attributed the 
noise to a raccoon or possum.  

But tonight she had a feeling bigger game was afoot.

Staring unblinking from behind the curtain, she waited until
she saw movement in the trees, witnessed the gentle sway of 
a low-hanging branch.

There you are, she mused, her blood beginning to surge now
more heavily through her veins.  Are you the one who shot
Mulder?

No matter.

You're going to pay just the same.

Letting the drapery fall softly back into place, she reentered 
the cabin's great room.  Dropping to her knees, she crawled
quickly yet quietly to the kitchen area.  Huddled there, 
surrounded on three sides by cabinets, she waited.  She 
wasn't sure what Thug #2 would do.  If she had still been in 
sight, at her position overlooking the porch, she thought he 
would probably try taking her out through the kitchen windows.  

However, as she was now almost directly beneath those
windows, hidden from view, she thought instead perhaps he
might try forcing his way in through the back door.  It lay 
just the other side of the breakfast bar, separated from her 
by the cupboards supporting the long, narrow eating area.

If he came through the door, she should be able to get the
drop on him.

Shouldn't she?

Scully knelt there on the rag rug marking the kitchen's
imaginary walls, trying to ignore the tremors coursing 
through her body, the odd weakness in her limbs.  It's just 
nerves, she told herself.  No, not even.  Her symptoms 
actually pointed to adrenaline as the culprit, the M.D. 
within her diagnosed.  Epinephrine.  The 'colorless 
crystalline feebly basic sympathomimetic adrenal hormone 
which is used medicinally, especially as a heart stimulant, 
a vasoconstrictor, and a muscle relaxant.'

Hear that--muscle relaxant.  So =chill=, she instructed herself,
the slightest touch of giddiness beginning to undercut her 
anxiety.

God.  The things you'll think about at a time like this.
  
All at once, the shooting up front stopped entirely.  Shit.  That 
wasn't good.  If her back door friend didn't hurry, she was 
going to be stuck facing him and his associate simultaneously; 
she knew it.

What was that?

The window right above her shifted in its frame as if the wind
had jostled it.

Or someone had touched it.

That's right, you son-of-a-bitch, she coaxed silently.  I'm not
here.  You can't see me.  Where did I go?

Why don't you come on through that door and find out?

She waited perhaps another second or two more.  Then, as 
if her still unseen attacker were responding to her invitation, 
the door burst inward, announcing his arrival.

Popping up like a pistol-packing jack-in-the-box, she sprang 
from her position, her gun clasped tightly in both hands.  In 
one smooth motion, she planted her feet wide and began firing, 
bullets pumping into her intruder's chest so quickly he had no 
time to pull the trigger himself.  Spasming before her like a 
victim of Saint Vitus's dance, he shuddered, blood pouring from 
his wounds, dribbling from his mouth, until at last he collapsed, 
his weapon tumbling from his fingers.

Her automatic still held firmly before her, Scully came around 
the breakfast bar to retrieve his gun and see who the hell she
had just killed.  He lay on his back, face up, making it easy
for her to identify him, even given the cabin's limited light.

The Henchman.  The man who had accompanied The Smoker
to her apartment that night.

"Oh, Agent Scully?"

Her head whipped around in the direction of the sound.  

Fuck.

Thug #1.

"Agent Scully, be a good girl and come out now, won't you?"

Bending down, she snatched The Henchman's weapon from
the floor.  Both pistols held before her like the gunslingers of
old, she sped back to the window.

Oh God.  Please don't let him have gotten to Mulder.

"Come on, Agent Scully.  Don't waste my time.  You've 
fought a good fight, but enough is enough."

Stationed just to the side of the window, she peeked out, 
careful not to get sloppy now, to inadvertently show herself 
and wind up with a bullet between the eyes.  But from where 
she stood, all she could see was that Mulder was no longer at 
the foot of the stairs.

Where was he?  What had they done with him?

"Come out unarmed and I promise I won't take out my 
annoyance with you on poor Agent Mulder here."

Take out his annoyance . . .

Was Mulder still alive?

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she could feel tears of relief 
pricking at the backs of her eyes. 

Rather ironic given the circumstances.

Oh thank God.  Thank you, God.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" she called, 
scanning her limited field of vision for the whereabouts of 
both her partner and his captor.  Shit.  She couldn't see a 
damned thing.  "That you'll keep your promise."

"You don't," replied a light, taunting voice.  "But if you don't
do as I say I am going to put a bullet in Agent Mulder.  That
is also a promise."

Think, Dana.  Think.

"How do I know he's not already dead?" she shouted.

"Mulder?" queried the voice with dry amusement.  "The man
with more lives than the entire Broadway production of 'Cats'
combined?  No.  He's still alive, if not kicking.  He may have 
blundered his way in front of a bullet meant for you, but it didn't 
do anymore than break the skin."

A bullet meant for her . . . ?

"Unfortunately, my former associate had a bit of trouble timing
his shot."

The Smoker sent these men up here to kill =her=?  But why 
now?  She had been alone and vulnerable for a week.  Why wait 
until Mulder ventured on the scene to complicate matters?

"I assure you, however, I won't have any problem hitting =my= 
target, not from this range."  

Whoever the man was, he sounded as if he were losing 
patience.

Which could only spell disaster for Mulder.

"I'm coming out!" she cried.

"Delightful," the voice said with approval, sounding as pleased 
as if she had instead announced she was throwing a party in his 
honor.  "Leave all weapons on the floor there, please, and keep 
your hands in the air."

Delightful?

Please?

He had to be the most polite assassin she had ever had the 
misfortune to meet.

Doing as she was told, she carefully set both her gun and that 
of The Henchman just inside the cabin's entrance.  She then 
unlocked the interior door, opened it, and pushed her way 
through the screen door as well.

"So nice of you to join us at last," said the voice.  "I hated to
rush you, but to tell you the truth, Agent Mulder here is rather 
heavy."

Turning slightly to her right, Scully was surprised to find the 
man responsible for her current plight was standing just the 
other side of Mulder's car, using her unconscious partner as 
a shield.  The sight wouldn't have been all that unusual except 
that Mulder so overwhelmingly dwarfed the slender man 
supporting him that even now, with only a few yards separating
them, she found it difficult to get a good look at her tormentor.

"Agent Scully, would you be so kind as to turn for me, please.  
Slowly.  That's right . . . all the way around.  Keep your hands 
in the air.  I want to make certain I have no surprises awaiting 
me.  I'm sure you understand."

Frowning, she did as she was bid.

"Very good.  Now come down the steps.  All the way to the 
bottom."

Again, she followed his instructions and slowly descended 
the stairs, her hands still held high craning her neck to try
and see past Mulder's bowed and bloody head to the face of 
the man holding the gun.

"Excellent," he said approvingly, shifting Mulder in his 
embrace.  "Well . . . I don't believe I need your partner any 
longer. . . ."

What?

"No!" she screamed, lunging towards the duo.

But rather than ridding himself of Mulder for good, Thug #1 
merely let go of his unconscious burden, allowing the wounded 
agent to fall once more in a heap on the ground.

"Stay right there, Agent Scully.  There's no need for that sort
of outburst.  Not just yet."

Freezing in place, Scully stopped, hands now at her sides, 
and studied the man with the gun.

He was Asian.  Young, she thought.  Surely no older than
either Mulder or herself.  Standing perhaps two or three inches
taller than she, he was delicately built, with bright, expressive
eyes and a full sensual mouth.  He was dressed casually, just 
as The Henchman had been.  Jeans, cotton shirt, windbreaker, 
leather gloves and boots.  Anyone who might see him on the 
highway or meet him in town would peg him for a tourist, a 
yuppie looking for a quiet weekend away from the big, bad 
city.

Of course, those people wouldn't have gotten a look at him
holding a gun in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" Scully queried softly, looking to 
buy time.  "I did as The Smoker asked."

"Meaning what exactly?" The Asian asked pleasantly.  "You 
quit your job?  Did you really think that was going to make 
any difference?"

"That's what I was told to do," she said calmly, trying to gauge 
who was closer to Mulder's wilted form, her or the man with
the automatic.  "I was told to break off my relationship with 
Mulder and leave the X-Files.  I held up my end of the bargain."

"Agent Scully, your naivete is quite refreshing," said The 
Asian with a smile.  "Truly.  Now, I need you to step over 
here to the car, please, and assume the position.  Quickly now.
I don't know how much time we're going to have to finish this."

When she hesitated, he gestured with his gun, an eyebrow
raised as if in challenge.  Grimly, she crossed to the trunk
of Mulder's Taurus and placed her hands atop it, her stance
wide.

"Why did you say that?" she mumbled as he patted her 
down, his gun pressed hard at the base of her skull.  Keep 
him talking.  She needed to keep him talking.  If she could 
engage him in conversation, he might lose focus, make a 
mistake.  "Why do you consider me naive?"

He chuckled indulgently, his breath dancing against her
hair.  "Many reasons, actually."

"Name me one," she said as his hand ran up the inside of
her leg, his touch firm but impersonal.

"You believe that people mean what they say."

"I know you and your kind lie," she assured him lowly,
her head bent she endured his touch.  "I'm not exactly 
surprised The Smoker decided to back out of our deal."

"I hate to tell you this, but there never was a deal," he 
said affably, changing his gun hand and starting down
her other side.

"What do you mean there was no deal?" she queried, 
wishing he would move that gun away, even for an instant.  
She would try attacking his shin or throwing an elbow to 
his midsection if she thought she could do so without 
getting a guaranteed bullet to the brain.

"It's just that no one has ever cared who you fucked," he 
murmured, pulling her upright once more, so that she stood, 
facing away from him, her hands at her sides.  "Put your 
hands behind your back, please."

But rather than continuing to play the model prisoner, Scully
angrily whirled on him, frightened, frustrated, and willing
to take a chance.  "Then what the hell was--" 

Her gamble didn't pay off.  Moving so fast she literally 
didn't see the blows coming, he drove his fist into her
stomach, then glanced his pistol off her chin.  Folding first
in half, then violently arching, she bit her lip to hold back 
a groan, and finally doubled over onto her knees, gasping for 
breath.

"'The hell is' you behave yourself," replied The Asian mildly.  
"Or you're going to be sorry."

"I think I already am," she muttered, her eyes watering as 
she gingerly massaged her tender jaw.

"Get up."

"Tell me what you meant first," she entreated, looking up at 
him, one hand pointed towards him, palm out.

"Agent Scully, you're trying my patience," he blandly warned, 
his gun inches now from her head.

"Just tell me what the hell you're talking about!" she
demanded, her insistence at odds with her submissive
posture.  "What do you mean The Smoker didn't care about
Mulder and me?  Why did he confront me with it then?  Why
did he tell me splitting us up would work to his advantage?"

The Asian leaned down and buried the muzzle of his automatic 
in the soft fleshy area just beneath her chin.  Using it as a kind
of lever, he raised his arm, slowly forcing Scully to her feet.

"The man I work for only really cares about one thing where
you and Agent Mulder are concerned," he said quietly as he
leaned in close, with her face balanced atop his gun.  "Closing 
down the X-Files."

"Why not just kill us then?" she asked, the words hoarse and
hushed.

"Agent Mulder has a certain notoriety," he told her, his eyes
alight with cruel humor.  "Name recognition, if you will.  His
murder would throw unwanted attention on our work.  And 
yours."

"If that's the case, then why did your boss poison him?" she 
harshly queried.

"Mulder was never in any danger of dying from that," The 
Asian said mockingly, easing the pressure of the gun against 
her skin a touch.  "Not really. You were there to save him.  
Just as we knew you would."

Scully could only stare at him, shaking her head in denial. 

"Pity your partner is currently unable to return the favor," he
murmured with a sly smile.

She glanced sideways at Mulder, who lay only a few feet away.
She could see his chest rising and falling now beneath his navy
T-shirt.  But aside from that, he still didn't move.

"Turn around, Agent Scully, with your hands behind your back,
please," the Asian instructed briskly, their question and answer
period apparently at an end.  "I'm not going to ask you again."

Sighing, she did as he asked.

Almost instantly, a pair of cuffs were snapped tightly around 
her wrists.  As soon as her arms were secured, a thick cotton
gag was then looped over her head and forced between her 
lips.  

"Now, please lay on the ground here.  On your stomach.  
And don't move.  If you fail to follow my directions, I will 
be forced to do something very damaging to your partner.  
You don't want to test my creativity now, do you?"

Her brow wrinkled, she shook her head once more.

"I didn't think so."

She lay on the cool, moist dirt for probably ten minutes or
more.  From her position, behind Mulder's car and possibly 
a half dozen yards from the foot of the stairs, it was difficult 
for her to really see what was going on.  Upon obtaining her
compliance, the Asian had slung Mulder over his shoulder in 
a fireman's carry, the move accomplished with almost 
frightening ease, and carried him back inside.  He had then 
quickly returned, humming softly under his breath, his former 
associate now draped across his back.  After dumping The 
Henchman on the ground a few feet from her, he went back 
into the cabin one more time.  This trip, he returned holding a 
bucket and what looked to be a length of plastic tubing.  Some 
kind of hose, she thought.  He brought both these items to the 
passenger side of Mulder's Taurus.  She lifted her head to try 
and see what he was doing.  The Asian felt her eyes on him, 
looked up from his mysterious task, and smiled.

"You realize, of course, that Agent Mulder's unfortunate 
'accident' ruined months of careful planning.  He wasn't 
supposed to be the one shot with his own gun.  You were.  
And we can't very well make a case for suicide when the 
man got nicked in the back of the head."

Suddenly, she heard liquid draining into the plastic pail
The Asian had appropriated.

He was siphoning gasoline from the tank.

"No one is that poor a shot.  Not even Agent Mulder."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she tried to ask, 
the fabric wedged between her teeth wholly thwarting her 
attempt.

"For everything to work as it's supposed to, I need you dead 
and your partner's bullet wound erased," he murmured, ignoring
her badly muffled query, his head bent over his chore.  "And I 
think I've figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone."

He paused at that, and peeked up at her again, his sloe-eyed 
gaze almost playful.  "So to speak."

Bastard.

Sweet Jesus.

If what he said was true, she could think of only one thing 
for which he might need that gasoline.  

As an accelerator.

"Now, if you would just remain here, please, I will return
for you in a moment."

And with a cordial nod, he climbed the stairs back to the
cabin, the pail hanging heavy in one hand, the tubing 
dangling from the other.

The minute he stepped through the front door, Scully 
disregarded his request.  Rolling sharply, she managed to 
awkwardly maneuver herself onto her knees.  Okay.  From 
here, she could easily get to her feet, she knew she could.  
And although her arms were lost to her, there was certainly 
nothing wrong with her legs.  Yet she didn't know where the 
hell she could run, to whom she could turn for help.  The 
nearest neighbor was too far and the woods too dark and 
treacherous.  At best, she might be able to postpone what 
The Asian had planned, but she was in no position to stop 
him altogether.  

And more importantly--if she were to try and escape, what 
might he do to Mulder in retaliation?

"Agent Scully," The Asian called unseen from behind the 
screen door, startling her from her mournful contemplation.  
"Are you going somewhere?"

She knelt alone beneath a night sky, looking up at him from 
below, bound and gagged, her eyes saucer-shaped in her pale, 
bruised face.  Slowly, she shook her head.  

"That's right," he said as he pushed open the screen with his
gun and stepped out onto the porch, speaking to her as if she 
were a very dull child indeed.  "You most certainly are not."

His step light and graceful, he trotted down the steps and 
crossed to her.  Bending down, he grabbed her by the arm, 
and hoisted her to her feet.

"You know, I have to tell you--you played right into the old 
man's hands," he whispered as he led her up the stairs.  "All 
he had to do was tell you Mulder's life was in danger, and you 
gave up without a fight."

That's not true, she silently argued.  I tried to resist.  I don't 
know what else I could have done.

Unaware of her wordless reply, he pushed her across the 
threshold, then closed the screen door behind them.  "You 
two are so predictable that way."

She stumbled her way inside and stole a quick look around,
trying to confirm her suspicions as to her fate.  The mess left 
behind by The Henchman had been cleaned up, all traces of 
blood seemingly having vanished.  Otherwise, everything
appeared to be untouched.  Only the oily smell of gasoline
was new.  It permeated the air, thick and cloying, and faintly 
nauseating.  

Mulder had been laid in front of the fireplace.  Unlike her, 
his hands were free. . . .

And moving . . .

She thought.

She hoped.

She tried not to stare, tried to refrain from drawing attention 
to the event.  But it appeared his fingers were twitching the 
tiniest little bit, like he were fingering a saxophone in his 
sleep.

Or had she only imagined it?

"He told you he wanted Mulder out of the picture," The Asian 
continued from somewhere behind her.  "But you were the
one he was after all along." 

He moved to just behind her, then spun her around to face 
him, Their heights nearly equal, they looked at each other 
for a moment, his eyes lingering on her face, his gaze 
strangely fond.  Then, he took his hands, and shoved her 
forcibly in the center of her chest, sending her sprawling to 
land alongside Mulder.

"All he ever wanted Agent Mulder to do was be charged with 
your murder."

Scully hit the floor hard, most of her weight pressing heavily 
on her bound arms.  Wincing, she rolled immediately onto her 
side.  She could smell the gasoline more strongly now, its 
fumes pungent and sharp, burning the lining of her nose.  He 
must have poured it on the floor nearby, she thought.

"With this change in plans, it doesn't look as if Mulder will 
be doing any jail time."

She glanced up over her shoulder and saw the barrel of the
Asian's automatic staring back at her.  The man holding
the gun was smiling.

"But that doesn't mean you still don't need to die."

She knew what he intended, realized it instantly, and did
the only thing she could.  She twisted swiftly to her right,
trying to get out of the line of fire.

Only she wasn't nearly fast enough.

The bullet tore into her side, searing a path through flesh
and muscle, the pain making her scream into the gag, 
making her writhe and moan, her strength ebbing almost
as quickly as the blood flowed from her wound. 

"Nice to have met you, Agent Scully," The Asian said cheerily 
as he placed the automatic near Mulder's hand and withdrew
from his pocket an enameled butane lighter.  Flicking his
thumb over its toothy wheel, he carefully lit one of the kitchen 
towels.  The bit of fabric caught fire at once.  He must've dipped 
it in gasoline first, she woozily mused from her place before the 
hearth.

"I know this isn't probably how you envisioned ending it all,"
he admitted as he quickly strode through the great room 
spreading the fire to drapes and furnishings.  The hungry blaze 
gobbled all in its path, as if eager to be fed.  When the towel 
itself became consumed by flames, he simply dropped it where 
he stood, and glanced around in satisfaction.

"But look at it this way," he said with a shrug as he crossed past 
her back to the door.  "At least you and Agent Mulder are going
together."

Together, she echoed inside her head as her blood pooled beneath
her and fire filled her horizon.

Now, why didn't she find that notion any comfort whatsoever?

**************************************************

Funny. . .

. . . the way her own spilled blood scalded her skin.

Ridiculous.  That out of all the sensations currently assailing
her battered body, it was the slow, hot trickle tickling her 
belly which most commanded her attention.

Dana Scully lay on her side, her knees bent, her arms pinioned
behind her, bruised and aching, her surroundings inked in 
lurid Halloween hues.

Black and orange.

Smoke and flame.

Dying.

I'm dying, she thought to herself with some small measure of 
regret, her head lolling on the hardwood, her eyes, battling 
both the room's haze and their own heavy lids, valiantly 
struggling to remain open.  I think I must be.  Because if the 
bullet doesn't kill me, the fire probably will.

Oh God. . . .  That fucking bullet.

Getting shot hurt.  

I'm sorry, she murmured fuzzily inside her head.  I'm sorry, 
Mulder.  I'm sorry I ever shot you.  I would never have done 
it if I'd known how much it hurt.

She should have known, she supposed.  Should have guessed.  
After all, she was both a doctor and an officer of the law.  She 
had certainly been around enough gunshot victims to have 
witnessed the consequences firsthand.

Consequences . . .

Truth or consequences . . .

Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but . . .

No!

Focus.  Focus, Dana.

Screwing tight her brow, she tried.  Tried to think.  Tried to 
move.  Tried to figure out a way to relieve some of the awful 
tension knotting her shoulders and numbing her arms.  To 
that end, she twisted . . .

Shit.

Oh, . . .  

Shit. 

Without warning, a white hot bolt of agony rocketed through 
her body, lancing muscle, scraping bone, shearing nerve 
endings.

Christ.

Wordlessly, she moaned behind the gag and curled inward
on herself, quivering in misery.  Tears overflowing, she 
panted through the pain, breathing as hard and as fast as if 
she were in labor, anxiously waiting for it to fade. 

Gradually, it did.

Though an echo of it yet remained, like the morning-after 
memory of a nightmare.

Oh.

Oh.  God.  I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.  But I don't think I can do this, she wearily admitted 
to whomever might be listening, the confession spoken without 
words, without pride.  I don't think I can be the strong one this 
time.  I really don't. 

I'm so sorry.  Forgive me, Mulder.

Mulder . . .

<"All he had to do was tell you Mulder's life was in danger, 
and you gave up without a fight.">

That's right . . .

Mulder's life was in danger.  Again.  And again and again
and again.  It was exhausting, all that danger.

Maybe if she just closed her eyes . . .

No.

=No=!

She was the reason they were here.  The reason they had both 
been shot, the reason her uncle's cabin had been set ablaze, 
pressed into service as a kind of makeshift funeral pyre.  Alone, 
she might have granted herself the luxury of cowardice, might 
have allowed her lashes to droop and slipped blithely into 
unconsciousness, a prayer for deliverance shaping her lips. 

But not when she was Mulder's sole hope of salvation, when
she was the one and only thing standing between him and 
Death's chilling embrace.

How could she do nothing when he was depending on her?

That would be unconscionable.

To surrender Mulder's life.  Without a fight.

Groaning, Scully raised her head, only managing to hoist it 
a few meager inches, searching for her partner in the smoke-
filled night.  There he was.  Behind her, perhaps a yard or two 
away.  Blearily, her narrowed gaze drifted from Mulder's still 
form to survey the room.  She saw fire licking greedily at the 
curtains, at the kitchen's rag rug, the blaze devouring the nearby 
couch and chair with such relish she almost imagined she could 
hear its fleshy lips smacking in satisfaction.

They didn't have much time.

Light-headed, she first tried to get her knees beneath her, to 
sit upright in preparation to perhaps stand or crawl.  Only,
once again, her middle couldn't stand the strain.  Before she 
could do anything other than lift her shoulders from the floor, 
the nightmare echo of that earlier pain flared to its original, 
dreadful majesty.  Stiffening with hurt, she sobbed into the 
gag, its nubbly white weight flattening her tongue, muffling 
her cries.  Silently, she writhed while blood pulsed thickly 
from her wound, flowing black and shiny in the firelight, her 
legs flailing, like those of a June bug flipped on its back.  

Wretched, she could hear the inferno laughing at her now, 
crackling and popping as it snickered, mocking her and her 
feeble attempts to evade it.  

There is no escape, Dana, it crooned, chuckling malevolently 
as it crept closer still, crawling towards her like a spider
nearing its web-trapped prey.  You're mine now.  You and 
Mulder, both.  What tasty morsels you are, tender and juicy.  
How delicious it will be to suck you dry.

Stubbornly, she began shaking her head, her sweaty hair 
flopping into her eyes to steal her sight.

No. . . .

No. 

Mulder.

Almost as if somehow hearing her mutely call his name, the 
man behind her moaned, the sound wrenching and low.
Somewhere, just over her shoulder, she sensed movement,
a shudder or a twitch.

Oh, thank God.

Finally.  Finally, he was returning to her.

I'm here, Mulder.  I'm still here.

Without forethought or plan, Scully drew up her knees as far 
as they would go, digging the soles of her boots into the cabin's
oak planking.  Straightening her legs once more, she began 
to propel herself across the floor, slowly and painfully, 
squirming and wriggling, slithering like a slug, blood trailing 
after her instead of ooze.

It took forever, the expanse was endless, as wide as oceans, 
as vast as the galaxy itself.  Backing towards Mulder, Scully 
couldn't judge how much further she had to go, approaching 
him blindly as she was.  Drenched in perspiration and trembling 
with exertion, she at one point feared perhaps she had overshot 
her mark, had passed him right by.  But, at last, her head 
butted his side.  Giving one final push, she wedged herself 
against him so her shoulder fit snugly between his arm and 
torso, her bound hands touching his hip, her cheek resting 
against his collarbone.  Lashes lowered now in total exhaustion, 
she began to push against his chin with the top of her head.  
Rhythmically.  Like a needy feline begging for attention. 

Please, Mulder.  Wake up.  You have to wake up, now.  Please.

But, utterly oblivious to her urgency, Mulder merely mumbled, 
and shifted position as if to make himself more comfortable.

Damn it.  Damn it all to hell.

Scully didn't know how long she tried to rouse him, couldn't 
accurately judge the passage of time.  All she was sure of was
the room was growing hotter, brighter, and she was fading, bit
by excruciating bit.  Blood, breathe, warmth, and life were all 
slowly, yet steadily, ebbing.  Yet still she rocked against him, 
still she chanted inside her head.

Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup . . .

Still she prayed, not only for herself, but for the man who
unwittingly pillowed her weary, aching body with his own.

Their lives hinging on one thing, and one thing only.  

That he open his eyes.

And realize he was awakening in hell.

			*****

His head thick, his body sore, Fox Mulder reluctantly woke, 
feeling as if he were in danger of being smothered.  The room 
was just too damned stuffy.  He really should have opened a 
window before lying down for a nap.  And there was an 
unexpected weight propped upon his chest, as if he had fallen 
asleep while reading and the book had remained balanced atop 
him, right where he had left it.  Yet, strangely, this would-be 
tome didn't smell of the printed page, didn't seem to have either 
binding or corners.  He moved beneath it, rolled his shoulder, 
half expecting it would fall away, would tumble dully to the 
carpet.  But instead it stayed put, soft and faintly fragrant . . .

. . . and moving.  It was moving, bumping firmly against 
his jaw with a slow, methodical insistence.  Annoyed at the 
continual jostling, he raised his hand to push the mysterious 
weight away, to shove it aside and return to his snooze . . .

. . . only, to his surprise, his fingers landed not on paper but 
on tangled hair, on silky strands matted by sweat and heat.  
The instant his palm settled upon the too-warm scalp, the 
weight stilled, then fell limp, pressing his shoulder blade 
uncomfortably against the floor.

The floor . . .

What the hell?

Cautiously, he opened his eyes and tried to take a look around. 
But before he could do much more than squint against the
darkness, a sharp whiplash of pain exploded across the back 
of his head.

Fuck!  What was that?

Groaning, he carefully probed the area with his fingertips.
They came away wet.  Bleeding.  He was bleeding.  But . . .
how?  He couldn't remember being wounded.  Couldn't 
remember much of anything, really.  He had been standing 
there, talking to Scully . . .

Scully?

Scowling, Mulder battled mightily to gain his bearings, to 
somehow ignore the vicious ache girding his skull like an 
over-cinched belt, the thin, dry air that pinched instead of 
fed his hungry lungs.  His vision was blurred, doubled and 
trebled like a reflection in a fun house mirror, ringed with 
dizzying halos of fire.

Fire . . .

Oh.  My.  God.  Where the =fuck= was he?!  

He lay surrounded by flame, tongues of it stretching towards 
the ceiling, climbing the walls like untended ivy, inching its
way across the floor and countertops, gobbling all that stood 
in its path.

And beside him, her head nestled cozily on his shoulder, 
seemingly unaware of their shared peril, lay Scully.

Her eyes closed, her jaw bruised.

Bound.

Gagged.

And bleeding.

Oh, Jesus.  There was so much blood.

So much blood.

Horrified, he quickly eased himself from beneath her, his 
hands shaking as they skimmed along her slender frame, 
stupidly unable to comprehend what lay before him.

"Scully?" he croaked as he bent over her, wrestling with the 
knot holding the swathe of fabric secure between her lips.  
Fuck!  He couldn't get his fingers to work, they slipped and 
fumbled, granting him all the coordination of a kindergartner 
trying to tie his shoes for the very first time.  God.  He couldn't 
see the tangled ends beneath her hair, couldn't reason his way
around the impasse, could scarcely even breathe for panic.  
"Scully, can you hear me?"

And unless he pulled it all together, they were going to die 
because of his incompetence.

At last, his patience waning, Mulder gave up on the idea of
getting rid of the gag completely, settling instead on merely 
loosening it enough to draw it from her mouth.  The minute it 
hung free, dangling around her neck like a bandit's kerchief, 
Scully moistened her lips with her tongue and, lashes lifting 
drowsily, murmured, "Mulder?"

"Yeah," he answered, gently smoothing back her hair with one 
hand while digging in his jacket pockets with the other.  "Yeah, 
it's me.  It's me.  Just hang on, okay?  I'm gonna . . . gonna . . . "

Keys. . .

Keys. . .

Where the hell were his Goddamned keys?

Ah, there.  Good.  

His head bowed, his brow knit fierce in concentration, Mulder 
swiftly flipped through the ring in his hand, searching for the 
smallest member of his collection.

There it was.

The key to his own set of handcuffs.

Blinking madly in a vain attempt to clear his vision, he 
awkwardly fit the small silver opener to the lock holding 
Scully's arms pinned behind her.  A quick twist of his fist 
and the first cuff sprang wide.  A moment later, both her 
wrists were free.  But rather than celebrating her newfound 
liberty, Scully instead merely moaned and rolled ponderously
onto her back, her arms hanging limp now at her sides.  There, 
she looked up at him with glassy, pain-filled eyes.

"Mulder . . . ," she whispered hoarsely, her tongue slipping
out to again wet her lips.  "We . . .  go . . . we have to go."

"Yeah, I know," he muttered distractedly, shoving the keys 
back in his pocket, and edging closer to her still, desperately 
trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get her out
of there without hurting her further.  "I know."

But before he could even begin to try and lift her, she laid her 
hand softly on his chest, stopping him.  Pointing somewhere 
behind him, she said in a hush, "The gun.  Take the gun."

Confused, Mulder looked over his shoulder, peering through
the smoke in the direction she indicated.  At first, he saw 
nothing.  But then, captured in the fire's glow, he caught sight 
of a sleek automatic.  A Smith and Wesson, he thought.

Not unlike his own.

Pivoting on his knees, he stretched for it.  And, checking to 
see the safety was engaged, stowed it roughly in his pocket.  

"Okay," he murmured, turning back to her, "do you think . . . ?"

. . . only to see flames casting ghoulish shadows on Scully's 
pale countenance, flickering shapes that danced across her 
cheeks and brow, like fiendishly merry goblins rejoicing over 
their predicament.  While she lie beneath the shifting darkness, 
her eyes closed, her lips parted, gore dripping from her side.  

Unmoving.

And, to his frantic, disbelieving gaze, no longer drawing breath.

"SCULLY?" he bellowed, crawling wildly to her, scuttling
across the floor like a deranged crab, his terror all but choking 
him.

As if in answer, her lashes fluttered open once more, her eyes 
rolling restlessly beneath their lids as she sought to focus on 
him.

"Wh--what?" she mumbled, unseeing.

Fuck this, Mulder thought, touching her cheek, her hair, 
reassuring her as well as himself.  

Fuck all of it.

"Just try and hang on to me," he grimly instructed as he
painstakingly slid his arms beneath her knees and shoulders, 
and readied himself to stand.

Reaching up, she did as directed and grabbed hold of his jacket 
collar, pulling it taut against the back of his neck.  "'kay."  

Nodding encouragement, he gathered her against him and 
shakily struggled to gain his feet.  But despite his care, the 
moment he moved, Scully writhed in his embrace, her neck 
arching, her mouth gaping wide.  Seemingly against her 
will, she screamed, the sound ripping from somewhere deep 
within, then burrowed against him, her lips closing on his 
throat, biting down as if she hoped to muffle her cries against
his flesh.  

"I'm sorry," Mulder muttered fervently, his face buried in her
hair, oblivious to the nip, his injuries, the stifling heat, to 
everything but her anguish.  "Oh God, Scully . . . I'm sorry."

Holding herself perfectly still, Scully said nothing, the bridge 
of her nose pressed just behind his ear, her breath hot and harsh 
against his lobe, only a faint shuddering betraying her distress.

Stumbling, Mulder staggered drunkenly towards the door,
his right ankle stubbornly refusing to take the full measure 
of their weight, long-forgotten snippets of prayers ringing 
hollowly inside his head.

<Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy 
great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.>

<Good Lord, deliver us.>

<Deliver us from evil.>

Dodging falling bits of burning debris, stinging cinder and
blinding ash, he pulled up short of the door.  It stood just
barely ajar, inches separating it from the jamb.  Saying a 
quick, silent apology to the woman in his arms, Mulder 
angled his body so his shoulder fit through the gap.  Pushing 
back, he wedged himself between the inner door and the 
screen, then, turning, used his hip to shove them through 
that final barrier and out into the cool, black night.

"We made it, Scully," he murmured as he hobbled down the
front stairs, careful not to trip, careful not to fall. 

Onesteponesteponesteponsteponestep.

In reply, Scully whimpered quietly against his skin, the small, 
soft sound shattering what remained of his heart.

"Shhh. . . . it's okay.  It's almost over.  I swear.  This is the 
easy part now."

Limping, Mulder made his way to the middle of the cabin's 
grassy front yard, his partner clutched tightly in his embrace,
anxious to get them both a safe distance away.  God, he thought
as he tramped past their cars.  He would give anything to be 
able to just pick up his cell phone and call 911, or better still, 
lay Scully in the back seat of his Taurus and get them to the 
nearest emergency room on his own.  But his cell had become 
worthless not long after he had begun winding through the 
Adirondacks, and with whatever had happened to the back of 
his head, he could barely see to walk, let alone drive.  In his 
condition, getting behind the wheel would be tantamount to 
suicide.  

Not to mention murder.

No.  They would have to wait, wait for help to come to them.

Moving in slow motion, he sunk awkwardly to his knees and 
laid Scully on the ground.  Eyes still closed, she moaned as her
back touched dirt, and reached out blindly for him, his name
slipping softly, helplessly, from between her lips.  Grimacing
in sympathy, Mulder captured her hand between his, and 
raised it to his mouth.

"I'm here," he assured her quietly as he pressed a kiss to her 
palm.  "I'm here"

Almost as if doubting him, her lashes bounced, then lifted,
revealing blue eyes befuddled by pain.  "Mulder?"

"Yeah?" he queried gruffly, bending over her as he released
her hand and began tending to her wound.

"I killed one of them," she mumbled, her gaze clinging to his.

"Good," he retorted harshly as he eased her T-shirt free 
from her shorts, then popped the button holding the khakis 
closed.

"But there were two," she said urgently, reaching out once 
more to grab hold of his sleeve and tug on it as if for emphasis.  
"Two men."

Two, huh? he mused, lifting his head to scan the horizon.

Yet, he saw nothing but trees, brush, and shadow, the scenery
twisted and unfocused, shrouded by night, lit by flame. 

A landscape painted by Rousseau.

If he had been a Surrealist.

"He's probably long gone," he murmured, still searching the 
darkness, wishing he could infuse his voice with more surety.

"No," she said, apparently sharing his doubts, her tone hushed 
and hoarse.  "No."

Jesus, Scully.  For all the times we've argued, I've never been
more hopeful you were wrong.

"It's okay.  If he is still here, I'll be ready for him," he soothed, 
cradling the corner of her jaw with his palm and stroking his 
thumb tenderly along her cheek.  

Eyes yet locked on his, Scully nodded.

Mulder smiled in reply. 

Brave words, asshole.

So just how the hell do you propose to 'prepare yourself'?

How do you plan on taking out the bad guy when you don't
even know for certain he's there?

First things first.

Sitting upright, he slid his hand into his pocket, took the
gun he had rescued, released its safety, and slipped it into 
the waistband of his jeans.  Then, once again checking the 
perimeter for movement, he shrugged his jacket off his 
shoulders and draped it over Scully's naked legs.

"I'm going to see if I can stop the bleeding," he murmured, 
trying one last time to untie the damned gag from around her 
neck.  "Or slow it down, at least."  The thick piece of toweling 
was as clean as anything else he had handy, and they were 
desperately in need of a bandage.  

"All right," she breathed, her eyes sliding shut, her hands 
curling tight, her body tensing, seemingly readying itself for 
the pain to come.

Whether he had somehow loosened the knot during his first
attempt, or had instead merely gained better control over his 
motor functions, this time he succeeded where earlier he had 
failed, and quickly folded the wrinkled fabric into a lumpy, 
uneven square.  Gently pushing aside Scully's clothes, Mulder 
leaned down to take a closer look at her wound.  The bullet 
had entered above and to the left of her navel.  With both the 
darkness and the blood obscuring his view, it was difficult to 
judge the extent of the damage.  One thing was for certain,
however--the tattered hole still leaked.

"I don't know, Scully," he mumbled, his brow furrowed, his
stomach roiling.  "I can see where you were hit, but I don't see 
where the bullet came out."

"Doesn't matter," she whispered, eyes still closed, her stoic
acceptance of what was to come, her seeming willingness to
endure yet more agony, disturbing him in ways he would 
never be able to fully articulate.  "Press down."

Lips squeezed flat, he nodded, and centering the pad atop the 
wound, bore down with both hands.  Blood seeped from
beneath the bandage, hot and sticky, staining his fingers.

The moment he applied pressure, Scully's shoulders and knees 
lifted from the ground, her body contorting into a small, human 
W.  Mewling brokenly, the sound vibrating inside her throat,
she clenched her jaw as if refusing to set the moan free, and 
pounded her fists feebly against the earth in a kind of mute
protest against such treatment.

"Scully?" Mulder queried fearfully, alarmed by her reaction.  
"I'm sorry, I--"

Hearing her name, she opened her eyes.  Dazed, they lit on
his for an instant, then drifted to a point just above his right
shoulder.  Seemingly catching sight of something there, they
widened, the fog lifting suddenly from her gaze.  Swallowing 
hard, once, then again, she frantically rasped out, "M-Mulder,
 . . . behind you."

Reacting on instinct and his absolute faith in his partner, 
Mulder whirled, then rolled, pulling the automatic loose from 
his jeans as he tumbled.  Landing hard on his behind, inches 
from Scully, he drew the gun level and fired three shots in 
quick succession, not certain where their enemy was.

Just knowing without a doubt that Scully had seen him.

He was rewarded for his trust with a low, choked cry of pain
and the sound of a body dropping heavily to the ground.  Still
having trouble with his vision, Mulder squinted from where
he lie, trying to make out who his attacker was and whether 
he had been disarmed.  Yet his efforts availed him little.  All 
he could see was a small, crumpled form silhouetted against 
the burning cabin.  He couldn't tell if his attacker had lived
or died.  He couldn't even discern if the bastard still had his 
weapon.  Rising stiffly to his feet, the agent cautiously 
approached, his gun held out before him.  

He hadn't taken more than a step or two before the wounded 
man stirred.

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded, advancing slowly, his
eyes panning for the other man's weapon.

But he didn't see it.  Could barely even see the man himself.

"Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch!" Mulder shouted when his
query went ignored, his gait hitched as he neared the assassin.  
"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" 

The question was echoed softly, the utterance thready, yet
somehow mocking.

Mulder stopped.

The other man moved, lifted his head. 

His arm.

His gun.

Mulder fired.

And the night exploded with sound.

Violent.

Deafening.

Then it fell silent again.

As silent as a tomb.

"Mulder . . .?"

He didn't answer her at first.  He couldn't.  He could only
stare down at the ravaged body at his feet, broken and 
bleeding, flecks of brain where its left eye should have been.  
Mulder didn't know how many bullets he had pumped into his 
attacker.  But at least one had struck the other man's face, 
obliterating his features.  The shaken agent couldn't tell what 
his assailant had once looked like, only that he had been slight, 
with dark hair and pale skin.

Once.  When he had been something more than a nameless 
corpse.

"M-Mulder . . . ?"

Startled from his grim contemplation, Mulder turned in the
direction of Scully's voice.  She lie behind him, perhaps ten
feet away, wincing as she struggled to sit up, to seemingly
try to discover the reason for his reticence.  Good one, Mulder.  
You idiot.  Sighing in self-directed disgust, he hurried to her 
side.

"It's okay.  He's dead," he murmured, his hand reaching 
beneath her head to cradle it, to gently lower her once more 
to the ground.  "Lie down.  Sssh. . . . lie down."  Trembling 
now, the last vestiges of her energy seemingly channeled into 
the small, fierce shudders, her eyes swam beneath their lashes, 
cloudy and unfocused.  "Take it easy, Scully.  Okay?  Help 
will be here soon."

"You okay?" she whispered as he stroked her hair back
from her face, as he again pulled away her T-shirt and shorts 
to see that blood yet seeped from her wound.  How could she 
still be bleeding?  How could any one person have that much 
blood inside them?  

"I'm fine," he mumbled, biting back panic as he searched 
for the discarded bit of toweling he had earlier used to help
staunch the flow.  Shit.  The damned bandage was already 
soaked.  Maybe he should use his coat instead.

"You s-sure?" she queried softly, oblivious to his concerns, her 
breath shallow, her voice breaking.

"Yeah," he said shortly.  Fuck.  Not only was it drenched, but
the cloth now also had bits of grass, crushed leaves and twigs 
clinging to it.  No way was he going to grind that filth against
an open wound.  

"Thank God," Scully murmured dreamily, trailing her hand 
lightly up his arm, her fingertips chilling against his skin.  
"Thank God."

Compelled by the faint, distant quality of her voice, Mulder 
glanced down at her.  Scully's skin appeared shockingly pale 
now, her face almost ghostly in the starlight.  Sweat beaded
on her brow, her lips were colorless and cracked.  Christ.  She 
was literally fading before his eyes, her life force draining 
away, drop by precious drop, watering the ground beneath her
with its plump, red tears.

Where the hell were the fire trucks?  Where were the 
ambulances?

How could no one have noticed the sky was ablaze?

Pulling free from beneath her touch, Mulder grabbed his jacket 
from Scully's legs.  Turning it inside out, he wadded it roughly 
into a ball and thrust it desperately against her side.  She groaned
in misery and slid closed her eyes. 

"Stay with me here, Scully," he harshly implored as he loomed 
over her, holding the ruined coat in place.  "Stay focused."

"Trying," she told him breathlessly, blinking hard, her eyes 
glazed, like a window in winter.  "I'm trying."

"Not hard enough," he goaded, hoping to spark her anger, her
pride, hoping to spark something that would inspire her to 
fight, to hang on just a little while longer.  "Come on, Goddamn 
it.  I need you here with me."

"I . . . I'm sorry, Mulder," she mumbled, her head turning
listlessly in the grass, moving languidly from side to side.

"No, you're not," he swiftly countered, utterly terrified by how 
much her words sounded like farewell.  "I don't want to hear 
that kind of talk."

I don't want to say goodbye.

"Don't be mad . . . ," she entreated softly, her gaze finding 
his, ". . . at me.  'kay?  Don't be angry."

"I'm not," he whispered hoarsely, his throat clogging with tears.  
How could she think that?  How could she believe for even a 
second that he was angry with her?  "I'm not mad."

"I was so stupid, Mulder," she confessed, bravely fighting to 
keep her eyes on his.  "So naive."

"No," he told her, shaking his head, unable to say anything 
more, unable to think past that word. "No."

"I told you I wasn't afraid," she murmured, reaching out to 
graze his jaw with her fingertips, to trace its strong, straight
line, then fall away.  "'member?  Th-that I didn't care what The 
Smoker might do."

"It's okay to be afraid, Scully," he mumbled, wishing he could
hold her, that he could pull her into his embrace and comfort
them both.  But instead he kept his hands where they were, 
squarely atop her wound.  "If it's any consolation, I've spent
the past year or so scared shitless."

Only she didn't seem to notice his regret, didn't even seem to 
hear his reassurance.  "I lied."

Bewilderedly, he frowned and leaned in closer, having to 
strain now to catch her words.  "What do you mean?"

"When I said I wasn't afraid . . . I-I meant for me."

This was important.  Mulder knew this was important.  But 
he had no idea what the fuck she was trying to say.  "I don't
understand."

Scully nodded as if sympathetic to his confusion.  Then, 
laying her hand upon his, its weight slight, her palm cold
and clammy, she continued.  "I never thought he'd go after 
you, Mulder."

Go after him?  She was the one with a bullet in her.

"You see . . . ," she began with an almost sheepish little lift
of her brows, ". . . I always thought I'd be the one to die."

=What=?

But before he could voice his query, before his scrambled,
aching brain could even wrap itself around the concept, Scully
sighed, her eyes drifting shut.  Then slowly, as if guided by
some phantom force, her hand slipped off his to land softly on 
the grass, her palm up, her fingers curled.

"Scully?!" he cried in horror, bending down to shout her name 
inches from her face.

She was still breathing; he could feel the gentle puffs of 
air kissing his cheek.  But she didn't open her eyes.

Not even when she spoke, her words mumbled and slurred.

"M-Mulder?  Whazzat noise?"

At first, Mulder feared Scully was listening to something only 
she could hear, some fucking heavenly choir of seraphim 
coming to serenade the faithful home.

Then, all at once, he heard it too. 

Sirens.  In the distance, wailing like a band of presumptuous 
banshees

Thank God.  Oh, thank God.

Help was finally here.

And not a blessed moment too soon.

**************************************************

It was over.  Finally.

All the lies.

The vicious battle for Mulder's very existence.

The X-Files.

Mulder and her.

Their lives, as they had known them, both together and apart.

Everything.  Done, finished.

Kaput.

Part of Dana Scully was glad--indescribably glad Mulder had 
survived, of course--but happy, too, the whole wretched mess 
was at last out in the open, that the world now knew not only 
of the peril she and her partner had faced, but also of the 
deeper relationship that had developed between them months 
before.  While she had long understood the need for subterfuge, 
it had never come easily to her.  She wouldn't miss the 
pretending, the secrets, the danger she had almost begun to 
take for granted.

Yet even with such small happiness had come a price.  An 
awful, unspeakable price.

Mulder hated her now.

Hated her for her well-meaning lies, her unwanted protection.

He wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even touch her.

These days, he could scarcely stand to look at her.

Which was difficult on them both, as for weeks now there 
hadn't been much else to draw his eye.

They were in hiding, Mulder and she, in a safe house on what
Scully thought might be the Chesapeake Bay.  As they had been 
moved while she had been well and truly out of it, half-asleep 
and addled with pain medication, she couldn't be certain of the 
location.  But the coast seemed familiar, and the drive from the 
capital to this unnamed place had been more of a jaunt than a 
journey.  She had inquired as to their whereabouts soon after 
arriving, had blearily questioned one of their many minders, 
their many keepers, as he had overseen her transfer.  "Where 
are we?" she had softly asked from her sickbed.

Only they were a close-lipped lot, their protectors, the small 
army of professionals who guarded this supposed haven 
with the same steely vigilance with which they had once 
patrolled outside her hospital room in D.C.  For them, 
actions  had always spoken far more eloquently than words, 
with information given out on a strict need-to-know basis.

And despite the dire circumstances surrounding her 
convalescence, her attendant had seemingly not been at 
all convinced as to the depth of her need.

"Don't worry about that, ma'am," she had politely been told 
by a man she had come to know simply as Rolph.  "We've 
got it under control."

Under control.

Ironic . . . 

She had once believed she knew what that phrase meant.

She didn't anymore.

She wondered sometimes if she ever would again.

Still, even as Scully acknowledged in herself this particular 
ignorance, she found the very idea to be an anathema.  She 
railed against the notion that through her actions she had 
become something akin to flotsam, that her life had been 
turned into nothing more than metaphoric wreckage rolling 
helplessly atop equally metaphoric waves, floating there until 
the elements at last drove it under, sinking it without a trace.  
It had been bad enough when The Smoker had manipulated 
her into destroying her relationship with Mulder.  But matters 
had only deteriorated since she had been shot.

She couldn't remember much after Mulder had killed the Asian.
Lying there on the grass as her uncle's cabin went up in flames, 
she had been half out of her mind with pain.  The desire to let 
go had nearly overwhelmed her resolve, the urge to simply close 
her eyes and let darkness take her where it would being all but
impossible to resist.

Yet, she had fought the impulse as best she could, had 
struggled against it as violently as she would a human foe.  
She had done everything possible to stay awake and alert, 
not only because of clinical concerns like shock and coma, 
but because she had decided if she were indeed going to die, 
were going to bleed out beneath a star-bright September sky, 
she was first going to make her peace with Mulder.

She was going to apologize, and in so doing, ask for his 
forgiveness.

She was going to seek absolution.

And so Scully had confessed, had tried to explain why she 
had done what she had done.  She couldn't remember now 
what words she had used, what arguments she had made.  
She couldn't even recall Mulder's reaction to her unburdening.  
All she could recollect with any clarity was the high, mournful 
cry of sirens, their song eerie as it echoed through the trees.

Salvation, she had absently reflected.  If not for her, then at 
least for Mulder.

After that, it was all a mishmash.  Sound and movement,
dizzying in its noise, its scope, its energy.  

Hands had pulled and tugged at her clothes, ripping them, 
probing her wound, swabbing it clean.  

Oh.  Dear God.  Pain.  Always, always pain.  

All around her, men and women had yelled instructions, 
the words garbled and loud, like the roar of a jet leaving its 
runway, straining towards the atmosphere.  

<Sir, you need to step away.>

<Christ.  Get these people back.  Those cars could catch at 
any minute.>

<I am a federal officer!  This woman is my partner.>

<Sir, I don't care if you are Napoleon and this is the Empress
Josephine.  You are in my way.>

Lifting, jostling.  Something had been fitted snugly over her 
mouth and nose.  Moments later, air, cool and faintly stale, 
had poured into her lungs.  Without warning, something sharp 
had been jabbed into her arm, plunged beneath her skin.

Then . . .

. . . peace.

Or some facsimile thereof.

With a single prick of a needle, soothing heat had begun 
flowing slowly and sweetly through her veins.  Morphine, 
she had identified at once.  Glorious, glorious morphine.

And somewhere, on the edges of all this, his presence as
constant as had been her suffering, had stood Mulder.  Scully 
may have lost actual physical contact with her partner soon 
after help had arrived, but somehow she had still been aware 
of his nearness.  She had dimly heard his voice muttering 
mindless words of comfort, had sensed his eyes on her, his 
gaze anxious and unwavering.  Pushed past the point of all 
endurance, she had taken solace in his immediacy and trusting 
he was there amidst the chaos, keeping watch, had allowed 
herself at last to surrender.  Sighing, she had relaxed into the
starched white softness beneath her . . .

. . . and had awakened two days later in an upstate New York
trauma center.

Mulder had been there too when she had opened her eyes, 
dressed in what had looked to be borrowed pajamas and a thin, 
grey pin-striped robe.  Unshaven, his face lined with fatigue 
and care, he had been bending over her, his hand outstretched,
when her eyelids had fluttered open. 

"Mulder," she had weakly mumbled, the single word almost
instantly depleting her resources.

Yet rather than answering her simple greeting, he had instead
grimaced, his forehead wrinkling, his jaw clenched like a 
prizefighter's fist, and remained mute, his arm falling to his
side.  Scully had wondered at that, even in her muddled state, 
had pondered why Mulder, a man who could converse for 
hours on any of a number of arcane topics would be struck 
dumb at such a time.

But her ruminations hadn't lasted long.  After only a second 
or two of wakefulness, she had slipped once more into oblivion.

When next she had swum her way back to consciousness, 
her sleepy gaze had landed on Assistant Director Skinner.  
The big man had stood beside her bed, his hands hidden in 
his trench coat pockets, his expression grave.

"Agent Scully, good to see you awake," he had murmured,
taking a step closer, his voice not without a certain warmth.  
"Your doctors tell me you're doing well.  With any luck, you'll 
be on your feet in no time."

"Hmm," she had hummed, her lashes hanging low, her throat 
so dry she had feared her words might snag there, like fabric 
catching on a hangnail.  "Where . . . M-Mulder?"

"I took the liberty of flying the two of you back to D.C.," 
Skinner had told her.  "After all that's happened, I wanted to 
be able to keep a close eye on you both."

With that, Mulder had limped shakily into view, dressed 
again in pajamas and robe.  Hovering just behind their boss, 
he had said nothing, choosing instead to simply watch her, 
his face a study in contrast.

Taken at a glance, it would have seemed his features had been 
arranged into a decidedly neutral cast--his lips relaxed, his 
brow smooth.  Yet even with her drug induced stupor, it hadn't 
taken Scully long to note the tempest in her partner's eyes.  
Some strong emotion had turned his gaze stormy, all 
thunderclaps and lightning strikes and gallon upon gallon of 
sheeting rain.

"I don't want you to worry about anything," Skinner had said, 
seemingly unaware Hurricane Mulder roiled threateningly 
only an arm's length away.  "All precautions have been taken.  
You two were admitted here in secret, under assumed names.  
Your doctors have been hand-picked.  I have men stationed 
outside your rooms, and two more teams monitoring the 
perimeter."

Three teams of two agents each.  Six men.  Six mortal men, 
she had mused.  Would such a puny force be enough to repel 
the devil himself?

"Your mother has been notified as well," Skinner had
continued.  "While sparing her certain details, Agent Mulder
and I explained that you and he would be going underground 
for a period of time."

Scully had frowned at that bit of news, wishing she had been
the one to explain things to her mother, and worried over what 
the poor woman must be thinking as a result.  "What did she 
say?"

"She wasn't happy about it," Skinner had admitted wryly.
"About any of it.  In the end, however, I think she understood."

Scully had nodded, not entirely convinced.

"But none of that matters now," Skinner had said, pulling his 
hand free from his coat to lay it warmly on her arm.  "All that's
important is for you to get well.  Focus on gaining your strength
back, Scully.  Let us take care of the rest."

Exhausted by their brief discussion, she had tried her best to 
smile for him.  "Thank you."

Lips lifting in response, Skinner had tightened his grip on her 
arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.  Her eyes had drifted shut . . .

. . . and she had dozed off before either of her two guests had 
even left her room.

In the days that had followed, a similar pattern had emerged. 
Sleep had taken up the majority of Scully's time, her hours 
having been measured by naps, her slumber itself divided 
only by examinations and meals.  She had been lucky.  The
bullet had missed all major organs.  Still, with the blood loss
she had suffered and the surgery to remove the slug, simply
watching television had been enough to tire her.  The tedium 
of it all would have no doubt irked her if she had possessed 
sufficient energy for annoyance.

She had had no way of knowing if Mulder had been similarly 
engaged, if he had been snoozing away the afternoons or had 
instead been wearing out the buttons on his TV's remote 
control.

Her partner's room may have been right next door.

Yet Scully had seen more of her good friend, Rolph, than 
she had of Mulder.

At first, she had tried to tell herself it was simply happenstance,
nothing more than rotten timing which had kept Mulder from 
her side.  Okay.  So, he hadn't been there when she had awoke.
No big deal.  He's probably in his own bed right now, catching
a few z's.  What did she expect--that he would forego sleep, 
food, and comfort just for the privilege of watching her drool?
After all, he too had been injured.  He needed his rest just as 
badly as she.

And surely his pillow was more appealing for that sort of thing 
than her bedside. 

As days had passed, Scully had clung stubbornly to that belief, 
had assured herself Mulder's absence was in no way intentional.  
But as time had dragged on, and her partner had remained as 
elusive as a yeti, her rationalizations had grown increasingly 
less likely. 

Finally, one Tuesday afternoon, slightly more than a week 
into their hospital stay, the illusion had shattered completely.  
Unannounced, Mulder had shuffled past the guard and into 
her room, his shoulders bowed, his jaw peppered with stubble, 
his attire upgraded to black sweatpants and a wine-colored 
Henley.  Plopping himself down in the chair to her right, he 
had combed his hands roughly through his hair, then clasped 
them before him.  Sitting there, hunched forward so that his 
elbows were balanced on his knees, he had looked at her for 
a moment, his eyes shadowed, before dropping his gaze to the 
floor.

"Tell me," he had demanded hoarsely.

Scully didn't even pretend to misunderstand him.

Propped against the pillows, she had quietly outlined for him
her dealings with The Smoker.  Starting with the night their 
nemesis had been waiting for her at her apartment, she had 
spared neither her partner nor herself, at last confiding every 
threat, every lie, every error in judgment.

When she had finished, the effort taxing her more than she 
had cared to admit, Mulder had pushed slowly to his feet.  
His arms folded now across his chest, he had regarded her 
solemnly, chewing on the corner of his mouth for a second 
or two before murmuring, "Thank you."

Then he had turned to go.

"Mulder," she had softly called, stopping him before he could
escape.

"What?"

Mulder had stood in profile, framed in the doorway, his hand 
braced against the jamb, his posture weary.  His pose had 
so reminded Scully of that day in their office, of the hellish 
conversation that had resulted in her walking out, abandoning
both the X-Files and him, her words had dissolved before she 
could utter them.

Swallowing hard, she had merely shook her head, dismissing
him.

Hesitating just one breath more, he had nodded, then continued 
on his way.

Leaving her alone.

As she was to this day.

Or as alone as anyone could be sharing a cozy beach house
with not only Mulder, but with two more agents a floor below.

Truth be told, Scully rather liked their hideaway.  It wasn't 
anything fancy, its decor more summer cottage than luxury 
condo.  The furniture was mismatched, the pieces comfortable,
yet faded and worn.  The carpeting was indoor-outdoor, gray 
with flecks of green and black.  A bookcase full of paperbacks, 
their spines lined and cracked, took up one wall while an 
entertainment center packed with TV, VCR, and an impressive 
array of videotapes loomed opposite the sofa.  A small kitchen 
and dining area ran along the back of the apartment, with a 
hallway off to the right leading to the sleeping chambers and 
bath.  The entrance to the unit connected via an enclosed 
stairwell to a similar residence downstairs.  In deference to 
their privacy, the door had been kept locked since they had 
arrived.  Even so, she had faith that one pair of fibbies or 
another were always just a floor away, ready to break down 
that locked door, if necessary, should danger threaten. 

Whether it was because the place reminded her of childhood
vacations with her family, or because it was wired with an 
alarm system sophisticated enough to please even the Lone 
Gunmen, Scully felt safe there.

That security especially welcome after the past couple of
months.

Sighing at the thought, she crossed to the kitchen to begin 
cleaning up the dishes from lunch, her loose-fitting black knit
pants and over-sized flannel shirt as comfortable as pajamas.  
Having eaten alone, she hadn't much to set to rights.  While 
she had munched on a sandwich, Mulder had cloistered 
himself away in his room to ride the exercise bike.  Again.  
She could hear him at it still, the soft whir of the stationary 
wheels vaguely soothing.  Despite the problems they currently 
shared between them, she sympathized with her partner's 
restlessness.  She knew how difficult it was for him to be 
cooped up in any fashion.  With his injuries having been far 
less serious than hers, she had thought she had sensed him 
growing antsy before they had even left the hospital.  Now, 
weeks later, he was beginning to remind her of a hamster 
deprived of his wheel.  The man had way too much energy 
for his own good.

And hers.

It was unsettling.

To live so intimately with a man that . . . vital.

Especially when he was doing all within his power to pretend
she wasn't even there.

While she seemingly couldn't move without running into him,
breathe without inhaling his scent.

Damn him.

In the beginning, it had been easier to overlook her partner's 
disregard, as she had still been spending most of the day in 
bed.  Before long, however, Scully had opted to make her way 
into the living room, bored with all the shut-eye, yearning 
instead for some sort of distraction.

And the biggest one of all had been sprawled on the sagging
plaid couch, leafing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.
Mulder looked good, she had realized with a start.  No bandages
or bruises.  Not anymore.  He had still seemed a trifle thin in his 
sweats and T-shirt.  But that would be easy enough to correct 
once they got home. . . .

If they got home.

"Should you be out of bed?" he had murmured, clearly 
questioning the wisdom of her decision, his eyes sweeping 
over her as if searching for evidence to substantiate his 
misgivings.

"I don't see why not," she had responded, determined to
try and keep the conversation friendly.  "I think I've gotten 
enough sleep the past few weeks."

Mulder had gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a time
before querying, "So exactly how much sleep does it take to 
heal a bullet wound?"

She had stiffened at his surly tone.  "Sleep doesn't heal a 
bullet wound, Mulder.  Time does."

"Well, we've both got plenty of that," he had retorted before
returning his attention to an article on college football.

Okay.  So, he was right.  

But did he have to be such a bastard about it?

Mulder must have felt it too, must have realized he had been
unnecessarily harsh.  Because before he had done much more
than glance at the current Big Ten standings, he had sighed 
and impatiently tossed the periodical aside.  Lifting his gaze
once more to hers, he had muttered, "Oh for God's sake, 
Scully.  Sit down before you fall down."
 
Then, pressing swiftly to his feet, he had taken hold of her
arms and guided her gently onto the sofa.

"Here," he had said once she was seated and he had handed
her the remote.  "Why don't you watch some TV or something?
I think I'm going to go in and lie down for awhile."

"This place isn't all that big, Mulder," she had told him as he
had turned to walk away, her words clipped, her feelings hurt.  
"You're not going to be able to hide from me forever."

"I'm not hiding," he had replied, stopping to look back at her,
his face wiped clean of all expression.

"Bullshit," she had countered, not quite as successful in 
masking her emotion.

Mulder had held her gaze for a moment more before giving 
her a quick little nod and mumbling, "Yeah.  I know the 
feeling."

With that, he had surrendered the use of the living room to her
for the rest of the evening.  Yet, as Scully had huddled on the 
couch, indifferently channel-surfing, her victory had felt more 
like annihilation.  She had known Mulder was angry with her, 
had realized he no doubt felt betrayed by her lies, but she had 
clearly underestimated the depth of his resentment.  She had 
thought perhaps as time had passed and they had each healed 
their various physical and emotional wounds, matters between 
them would somehow work themselves out.

Ha.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

Not with anything involving Mulder and her.

That night, as she had stared blindly at the television, she had 
tried to come up with a solution to her dilemma, had attempted
to form some sort of plan for winning back Mulder's trust.  Yet,
even as she had sat there, gloomily considering her options, she 
had felt daunted by her task. 

Depressingly so.

To Mulder, trust was everything.  He valued it as some men 
did their reputation, hoarding it like gold, dispensing it with 
the generosity of a miser.  Scully could count on one hand the 
number of people with whom her partner shared this most 
precious commodity.

Once, her name would have topped the list.

Now, she couldn't be sure where she stood.

She wished those doubts didn't devastate her as much they 
did, that all the unanswered questions didn't so thoroughly 
undermine her confidence, make her second-guess whether 
Mulder and she ought to even try to find their way back to
each other.

Because if she was surprised by how well Mulder had been 
managing to avoid her while they had been housed under 
one roof, she felt certain his skill would utterly dazzle her
when they were released back into the world.

And it looked as if perhaps that day might not be that far
off, she acknowledged to herself as she wiped down the 
counter and put away the last of the silverware.

Skinner had contacted them to say he would be stopping
by later that afternoon.

He had something he wanted to discuss.

Although she hadn't any proof upon which to base her
assumption, Scully had a feeling she knew what that 
*something* might be.

The Assistant Director wanted to talk about their futures.
She would bet her life on it.

Suspecting what she did, she knew just as strongly that she 
couldn't allow Mulder to shut her out any longer, she couldn't 
be patient and hope her proximity alone might be enough to 
wear him down.

She would have to force the issue.

She would have to confront him.

Almost as if a silent bell had gone off, signaling the start 
of a match, Mulder chose that moment to enter the kitchen,
stepping onto the checkerboard linoleum the same way he
might into a ring.  Clad in his standard gray sweats and 
a white T-shirt, his color was high from his exercise, his 
cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.  Glancing in her direction, 
he crossed to the refrigerator. 

"Hey," he murmured in hello.

Scully leaned back against the cupboards, her arms folded
across her breast, and watched Mulder duck his head to peer 
inside the Amana, admiring the way the seat of his pants 
clung to his back side.

While, at the same time, she tried to muster enough courage 
to throw the first punch.

"Skinner said he'd be by," she said softly at last.  "Said he'd
leave the office early and be here before nightfall."

Mulder straightened, a bottle of sports drink in his hand, 
and pushed the door shut after him.  "You don't suppose I 
could call and ask him to pick up some ribs, do you?  I'm 
having cravings."

"Do you have any idea why he's coming out here?" she asked, 
ignoring his query.

"He missed my sparkling personality?" Mulder quipped as he 
reached up to grab a tumbler from the cabinet above, his eyes 
pointedly avoiding hers. 

"I think he wants to talk about how we can get our lives back,"
she murmured, willing him to look at her.

As if responding to her mute plea, Mulder set down both the
glass and the bottle, and directed his gaze her way.  Less than
a foot of space separated them.

"Do you want it back?" he asked, his expression guarded, his
voice pitched low.  "Your life, I mean."

"The way it was before?" she queried, turning to regard him 
more fully, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other 
planted on her hip.  "No."

He studied her for a moment, his brow furrowed, his lips
pursed, before ruefully shaking his head and again facing
the counter.  His attention now focused on twisting open 
the container before him and filling his glass, he mumbled, 
"I'm not surprised."

"You shouldn't be," she agreed, taking a step towards him,
her stocking feet padding lightly against the tile.  "Why 
should I want things the way they were when they can be 
so much better?"

Backing away as he replaced the cap on the bottle, Mulder 
all but sneered at her in disbelief.  "'Better'?  You call this 
'better', Scully?"

"I guess that depends on what you compare it to," she calmly 
replied, taking still another step in his direction, not about to 
let him retreat.  "At least since we've been here I haven't had 
to worry about waking up in the morning and finding you 
dead."

"Except maybe from boredom," he muttered petulantly.

"I'm sorry I haven't been more entertaining, Mulder," Scully
muttered back, her patience fast waning.  

"No more sorry than I," he grimly assured her, turning away. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he said before guzzling the acid yellow beverage
he had poured, then depositing the now empty glass in the 
sink.  Picking up the bottle, he crossed to the refrigerator to 
put it away.  "Forget about it.  I'm going to take a shower."

"I can't!" she insisted, deliberately stepping into his path, her
hand outstretched to avert a collision.  It was a near thing.  Her 
fingertips just barely grazed his chest.  "I can't 'forget about it'.  
Ever since that night at the cabin, I have been trying to 'forget' 
every snub, every silence, every time you leave a room simply 
because I'm there too.  Well, I'm sorry, Mulder, but I can't do 
it.  I won't do it.  Not anymore.  Like it or not, you are going 
to have to deal with me."

"Deal with you?" he echoed warily. 

"Yes," Scully said.

Shoulders drooping, Mulder sadly shook his head.  "Scully,
I don't think I know how to anymore."

It was the sorrow in his voice that undid her, the sorrow and
the resignation that went along with it.

Apparently, she had been mistaken.

Mulder wasn't angry with her.  Not just then.

He had simply given up.

The notion terrified her.

"It's not that hard," she said with a self-conscious little shrug,
her arms spread wide, her fear conspiring to make the limbs 
tremble just a bit.  "We're the same people we've always been.  
Just talk to me.  Stop running away."

Lips pressed flat, Mulder pushed his fingers distractedly 
through his hair.  "What do you want me say?"

"I don't know," she admitted quietly.  "I don't know what I 
want you to say.  I mean . . . it's not like I have this scripted.  
It's just . . . I'm just so tired of you acting as if I don't exist, 
Mulder."

He didn't deny her claims, didn't interrupt to try and defend
himself.  Heartened, Scully continued, her voice gaining 
strength the longer she spoke.

"I'm sure it must difficult for you to understand the decisions
I made," she said, her gaze aimed at his collarbone, her hands 
hanging at her sides.  "I know I've hurt you, that because of 
my actions you were put in danger and other people's lives 
were lost."

With great difficulty, she lifted her eyes to his, trying to ignore
the moisture she could feel gathering beneath her lashes.  Her 
partner stared back at her, his own eyes the color of leaves at 
dusk.  "I want you to know, Mulder, how sorry I am, how much 
I wish I could take back all the pain I've caused you."

Scully could feel the back of her throat beginning to seal with 
tears, knew that if she didn't finish her apology soon, she 
wouldn't be finishing it at all.  But she wanted to do this right.  
She didn't know if she would get the opportunity again, didn't 
trust she would have Mulder all to herself again anytime soon.  
So, she didn't rush, didn't edit.

Scully said it all.

And she told the truth.

"I realize my mistakes and I would undo them if I could," 
she said, her words measured and firm, only the edges damp.
"But the bottom line is that . . . despite everything . . . you're 
alive.  That's all that really matters to me.  And if the price 
for that is losing you . . . then I'm prepared to pay it."

They looked at each other for what felt to Scully like the 
better part of forever, bodies close, gazes locked.  Finally,
Mulder pulled away and wandered past her towards the
living room, his palm scrubbing over the bottom half of
his face as he walked.  Her tears at last overflowing down 
her pale cheeks, she turned to watch him, absently swiping 
at the drops with the back of her hand.

"You think that's what all this is about?"

At first she didn't realize the question had come from
Mulder, that it had, in fact, been spoken aloud.  She was 
so wrapped up in her own misery it took a minute for her 
to make sense of his query, the process feeling to her 
muddled mind much like actual translation.

"What?" she asked dumbly as she sought to regain her 
footing.

He rounded to face her, his expression incredulous.  "You 
think I'm angry because someone bounced a bullet off my 
head?"

Surprised both by Mulder's countenance and his turn of 
phrase, Scully shrugged.  "That has been known to piss 
people off."

"Yeah?  Well, I got news for you," Mulder said as he crossed 
back towards her, his stride militant.  "What I'm pissed about 
has nothing to do with what happened to me."

She frowned at that.  "What has it got to do with then?"

"You," he said succinctly, reaching out to wrap his fingers
tightly around her upper arms.  Drawing her near, he glared 
down into her upturned face.

"For some reason, you've decided that being with me is
worth dying for."

"What--?" she began, as lost as an abandoned mitten.

"And I'm here to tell you, Scully--nobody is that good in bed."

**************************************************

"I don't understand.  What are you talking about?" murmured
the petite red-haired woman in his grasp.

What am I talking about? Fox Mulder repeated inside his head,
his hands locked like manacles around Dana Scully's arms. 

What the fuck =am= I talking about?

He wasn't even sure himself sometimes.  Not anymore.  Not 
when everything he knew, everything in which he placed 
confidence seemed to be twisted and tangled, knotted like a 
willful telephone cord.

First he had trusted, without question or doubt, in Scully's 
love.

Then she had left him.

Only, soon after, he had discovered she had been blackmailed 
into her abandonment.

So everything would have been all right, except . . .

She had been shot.

And when she had laid there, wounded, blood all but gushing 
from the hole in her side, she had taken it into her head to 
apologize for what she had done.  To assure him she would 
never have succumbed to The Smoker's demands if it hadn't 
been that his attack had caught her unawares. 

"I never thought he'd go after you, Mulder," she had whispered,
lying small and still upon the cold ground, her eyes as dark and 
as wide as the inky sky above.  "You see . . . I always thought 
I'd be the one to die."

Shit.

"I am talking about what you said to me that night at the
cabin," Mulder answered at last, growling the words into 
Scully's face, noting with dismay the tear tracks marking 
her cheeks, but refusing to allow himself to be swayed by 
them.  "I'm talking about a certain inclination you seem to 
have towards martyrdom."

She scowled at that, at his harsh judgment upon her character.
Yet despite his explanation, her confusion seemingly remained.  
"You have me at a disadvantage, Mulder.  You appear to be
a whole lot clearer on what was said that night than I am."

"Are you telling me you didn't mean what you said?"

"I'm telling you I don't remember."

Flattening his mouth into a hard, narrow line, Mulder released 
his hold on his partner and backed away.  Turning from her, 
he started pacing, his fingers digging furrows in his hair.

"All right then, Scully, let me remind you."

Treading restlessly across the thin, gray carpet, he stole a
look at the woman he loved, glanced in her direction to see
how she was taking his ill-tempered little rant.

Well, one thing was for certain.

She wasn't particularly impressed.

Her arms folded across her chest, Scully stood watching him, 
freckles dusting her nose and cheeks like cinnamon, her eyes, 
banked blue flames.  The clothes Skinner had found for her 
from God-only-knew-where swam on her, swallowing her 
tiny frame in their excess.  Her posture was such that Mulder 
thought she might still be favoring her left side.  No surprise 
there.  Not to him.  Not with the damage that son-of-a-bitch 
had done . . .

Oh God.

He had never been so scared in his entire life.

When he had knelt beside her, helpless, with nothing but his 
bare hands with which to try and fend off her death.

"That night," he began, swallowing hard against the memories, 
"when we were waiting for help, you said something to me.  
Something I'd never thought I'd hear you say."

"What?" she asked quietly, her brow wrinkled with a frown.

Mulder stopped his aimless crisscrossing to pin her with a 
stare.  "You told me that when you'd decided to act upon
what you'd learned from Riggs, . . . when you came to my 
apartment that night, you did so fully expecting that a
relationship with me would get you killed."

At first, Scully said nothing.  Her eyes grew large, her mouth
opened, then shut once more.  Finally, she shook her head
and murmured slowly, "I can't . . . Mulder, I don't remember
saying that."

"Do you deny it?" he demanded.  "Do you deny saying it?"

"No," she calmly replied.  "I believe you."

"Then it was the truth," he said, his hands on his hips, his
stance wide.  "You meant what you said."

"I think it's a question of interpretation--"

"Don't try and turn this into a discussion of semantics, Scully!" 
he roared as he barreled back towards her.  "We're talking 
about your life here, not some dry, intellectual debate."

"That's right," she said when he lurched to a stop not a foot
from where she stood.  "=My= life.  My choice.  My decision."

Scully looked up at him, the fire in her eyes crackling to life,
his own temper its tinder.  "I've told you before, Mulder.  I 
knew the risk I was taking entering into a relationship with 
you."

"And you found the idea of impending death a turn-on?"
he muttered, his voice as ugly as his question.

"No," she insisted angrily.  "No, of course not.  Despite
what you apparently believe me capable of, I have never
had any intention of allowing myself to become a victim
of this relationship."

Hearing her passionate disavowal, it took everything Mulder 
had to keep from wincing in guilt.  Atta boy.  The woman 
takes a bullet trying to save your sorry ass, and you belittle 
her for it.

Oh yeah.  He was really something.

"But I won't pretend I wasn't aware there might be danger 
involved," Scully admitted, continuing on ignorant of 
his musings.  "You knew that.  We talked about it."

"We talked about the danger to =both= of us," he said, 
gesturing first to himself, then to her.  "Not just you."

"Mulder . . . ," she murmured tiredly, her eyes dipping away.

"My God, Scully--don't you realize how =twisted= that is?"
 he exclaimed, ducking his head to try and reclaim her gaze.  
"How wrong it is for you to consider me worth a bullet or a 
bomb.  How am I supposed to feel good about something like 
that?  How am I supposed to be with you, knowing you yourself 
view me as a likely cause of your death?  Christ.  I can't live
with that.  I don't even know what to say to you anymore."

Her lips pursed, Scully looked up at him through her lashes.
"This is what you've been so upset about?"

Mulder chuckled mirthlessly.  "Can you blame me?"

For a time, Scully remained mute.  Then, after tucking a piece 
of hair behind her ear, she shook her head.  "No.  I guess not."

Mulder nodded, then dropped his eyes, wishing he felt better 
about his partner's easy acquiescence.

"But I don't think you can blame me either."  

The words were spoken quietly, with little apology.

"What?" he queried, his gaze drawn upwards to light on hers.  
Scully stood, watching him, her expression grave.  Somehow, 
some way, they had moved still closer together.  If he were to 
open his arms, he could easily enfold her in his embrace.

"You can't blame me for telling you the truth," she said, 
so near now her hair rustled beneath his chin, stirred with
every breath he took.  "I've apologized for lying, Mulder, but 
I won't apologize for that."

"I'm not asking you to," he mumbled, confused by the turn
their conversation had taken, distracted by the blueness of 
her eyes, the lush fullness of her mouth.

When had he last kissed her?

Jesus.

He couldn't remember that far back.

"We both know that in the eyes of our enemies, I've never
been much more than an afterthought," she murmured, 
unknowing of his preoccupation.  "A sidekick.  Nothing 
more."

"Not to me," Mulder told her.

"I know," Scully said softly.  "I know that.  And that's why 
it was okay."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"Besides, it's not like I especially want their attention," she 
said, her brow arching with a kind of wry humor.  "Ego
notwithstanding, I've been quite happy existing outside of 
that particular limelight."

Mulder smiled.  She had a point.  There was something to
be said for living in comfortable obscurity.

Scully looked at him for a beat or two, thoughtfully studying 
his expression before glancing away, her hand rubbing wearily
over the back of her neck.

"But being 'unimportant' can also be thought of as being
'expendable'," she said with a small shrug, her voice, matter-
of-fact.  "I think we're both aware of that too.  And although I
can't be sure, I imagine that's what prompted me to say what 
I did to you at the cabin.  Even with all that's happened, I am 
still only valuable to The Smoker and his associates in how I 
relate to you."

Mulder bowed his head once more, pretending fascination 
with his newly acquired cross-trainers.

Yet, in reality, unable at that moment to meet Dana Scully's
eyes.

"But you know something, Mulder?  Seems to me your price 
on the open market has plummeted over the past few weeks 
as well."

Again bringing his gaze level, Mulder was surprised to see
Scully smiling at him, a degree of mischief contained in the
gentle curving of her lips.

"What was that?" he mumbled, only just managing to keep 
from reaching out and tracing the shape of those lips with his 
fingertip.

"While I'll be the first to admit The Smoker is not to be 
trusted, I believe he was honest in one thing," Scully 
murmured ruefully.  "I think he was telling me the truth 
when he said you've become too great an obstacle, that it's
gotten to the point where he can no longer ignore your work 
and its impact on his." 

"=Our= work," Mulder corrected quietly.

"Our work," she echoed just as softly, her smile ratcheting 
up a notch in brilliance.

He just basked in the glow.

"And because of that, Agent Mulder, it would appear you've 
become expendable too."

"How do you mean?"

"Near as I can figure, The Smoker's original plan was to
kill me and pin the murder on you," she said, her tone
betraying no emotion.  "He wanted us out of the way and
the X-Files closed for good."

"You think he wanted to make it look as if I'd snapped when 
you left?"

"It makes sense.  Just killing us wouldn't have been enough; 
other agents would have taken our places.  But if he had 
managed to discredit us--to make the X-Files seem like 
nothing more than the vanity project of a madman and his 
lover, chances are he would have succeeded in having the 
division shut down entirely."

"And his bugging your apartment . . . ?"

"Proof, as he so succinctly put it.  Of our relationship, and
my bringing it to an end."

His stomach souring at the idea, Mulder reluctantly nodded.   
"So you think my place is bugged too?  And the office?"

"I'd count on it," she said.  "The Smoker wouldn't have
wanted to miss anything."

"Like the conversation we had when you turned in your
resignation?" he dryly queried.

"Lots of material there," Scully concurred, her eyes avoiding
his.

"Don't remind me," Mulder muttered darkly.

That coaxed another smile out of her, this one considerably
less dazzling than the one preceding it.

"But the bottom line is this," Scully continued, her gaze still 
trained away, "when The Smoker's original plan failed and it 
seemed as if it were no longer feasible for you to be framed 
for my death, his would-be assassin had no hesitation about 
deviating from his orders." 

Mulder wished to God Scully would stop talking so casually 
about her near death.  It was giving him the willies. 

"Had things worked out to his satisfaction, you and I would
both have lost our lives in the fire," she murmured, bringing
her argument to a close.

Tired suddenly, exhausted in a way that pointed towards
emotional exertion rather than physical, Mulder turned and
began drifting towards the couch, its plaid bulk all at once 
inviting.

"So, what's it all mean, Scully?" he queried as he circled
around the sofa and plopped himself down on its bowed
middle.   "Where do we go from here?"

"I think that's up to you."

Mulder craned his neck to look at his partner, twisted in his 
seat to catch a glimpse of her face.  Scully looked back at him, 
her expression composed, her eyes intent, the muscle at the 
corner of her jaw clenching and unclenching.  

As if she were trying to physically curb the desire to say more.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked cautiously.

She lifted her brows, then glanced down and away, first at 
the floor, then at her hands.  They peeked out from beneath
her rolled up cuffs, as pale and seemingly delicate as porcelain.
"You know that talk we had in the office, Mulder?  The day I 
was packing up?"

He licked his lips and cleared his throat.  "Yeah?"

"I said a lot of things I didn't mean.  A lot of things to hurt
you, to drive you away."

He nodded, wanting to encourage her.

If not this particular topic of conversation.

"Yet, at the heart of it all was one fundamental truth."

Mulder felt his own heart plummet in his chest, ripping free
from the network of veins anchoring it, to drop inside him
like a stone.

"As long as we're working on the X-Files, we're going to be
at risk.  That's nothing new, and it's certainly not profound.
But it's also something we can't avoid."

True enough.   They had definitely been over that ground
before.

"I don't think either of us is crazy about the situation," Scully
said as she began crossing towards him, her stocking feet
mute against the carpet.  "I know I'm not.  But, like you, my 
choices are rather limited.  If I want you, I have to accept that 
our enemies might try and harm you because of it."

"Or you," he muttered stubbornly, looking up at her when 
she came to stand before him.

Scully smiled down at him sadly.  "The other is harder. 
I found that out pretty quickly.  It's one thing to take 
responsibility for myself and my own well-being.  But the 
thought that you might be made to suffer because of me or 
something I've done . . . "

She trailed off then, and pressed her lips together as if to
once more hold back unwanted sentiment.  Reaching out,
she skimmed her fingers through his hair, gently combing 
the unruly strands from his forehead.

"It was awful.  The fear, the guilt.  The sense I had that it 
might as well have been me who had hurt you, who had put 
you in that hospital bed.

Sighing, Scully's hand stilled upon his head.  "But then, you
knew that, didn't you, Mulder?  You knew what that felt like,
what a burden it could be."

Mulder closed his eyes for an instant, choosing to concentrate
only on the warm weight of her palm pressing against his
scalp, and not on the emotions her simple query evoked.  
"Yes."

"So now I guess the question remains, 'Is it worth it?'  To you,
I mean."

Lifting his lashes, Mulder looked up at her.  "Is what worth it?"

Scully's hand slid away to hang heavy at her side, her sleeves
covering all but the very tips of her fingers.  "Me."

His eyes grew wide with dismay.  "You think I don't want you?"

She shrugged with what appeared to him to be studied 
nonchalance.  "I'm not so worried about me as I am the 
baggage I bring with me."

Confused, he shook his head.  "What baggage?"

"The stuff you told me just a little while ago you can't live with."

Brows raised, Mulder cocked his head.  "I want to make sure I'm
following you here, Scully.  So why don't you spell it out for me.  
Exactly what stuff would that be?"

She sighed again, her eyes focused somewhere around his knees.  
"Just the usual, Mulder.  Nothing too exotic."

Scully looked up then, stared him right in the eye.  Conviction
shone in her gaze, an almost fierce resolution.  But a kind of 
trepidation flickered there as well, a fear Mulder couldn't ever 
remember seeing before.  Not in her.

"I love you," she told him quietly.  "More than anything.  More
than my life."

Like some dreadful line of Hallmark verse, his heart seemed to 
have suddenly solved the mystery of flight.  Rushing upwards
from the pit of his stomach, it soared until it could go no further,
lodging uncomfortably in his throat.

"Scully--," he tried, surprised to find he could speak around the 
obstruction.

"I want to be with you," she said, cutting him off, her words 
husky with emotion.  "To work beside you.  To share your bed."

Oh Christ.  His eyes were watering.  If he didn't watch it, he'd
soon be blubbering like a baby.

"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen,"  
Scully continued, reaching out to trail her fingertips lightly 
across his brow.  It felt wonderful, cool and soothing.  Again, 
Mulder murmured inside his head.  Again, please.  "And if 
anyone--The Smoker, Skinner, or some still unknown someone
--threatens you or what we have, I will oppose them."

I know that, Scully, he silently assured her, losing himself in 
the calm, smooth cadence of her voice, in the liquid midnight 
of her eyes.  I do.

You've always been my champion.

"To get to you, they will have to go through me," she said,
almost as if she were echoing his musings, her hand skating
down the side of his face until she cradled the corner of his
jaw in her palm.  Stroking his cheek with her thumb, the
motion slow and tender, she leaned down to query softly,
"Can you honestly tell me it's any different for you?"

Mulder swallowed hard.  Once, then again, trying to force 
his heart back where it belonged.

So he could speak.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, the single word all he could 
muster.

Scully smiled at him, her expression wistful, his face still
nestled in her hand.  "So what do we do, Mulder?  It's up to
you.  The best assurance I can offer you is that The Smoker
now seems just as likely to try and kill you as he does me.

She seemed to find this humorous, and arched her brow in 
bemusement even as her smile faded.  "I know that's not 
much, but it's something."

Leave it to Scully to find hope in both their lives being
jeopardized, Mulder thought with rueful admiration.

"So what do you want to do?"

Saying nothing at first, Mulder took her hand from his 
cheek and pressed his lips to its center, his eyes shut
tight.  Then, changing his grip, he grabbed hold of her
wrist and tugged gently on her arm.

"Come here."

Lowering herself carefully, Scully sat beside him, one leg 
tucked beneath the other.  The minute she was settled, he 
reached for her.  Weaving his fingers through her hair like 
ribbons, Mulder pulled her to him, carefully not to move too 
quickly or too far, mindful of her injury.  Bringing her face 
to his, his hands bracketed on either side, he kissed her, 
softly, his mouth lingering.  Her lips met his and clung, 
warm and welcoming, as sumptuous as velvet, as heady as
champagne.

After all too short a time, he reluctantly eased away to 
look at her.  Scully's cheeks were flushed, her mouth damp, 
her eyes closed.  For just a second longer, her lashes remained 
lowered.  Then, slowly, lazily, they drifted open, revealing a 
decidedly slumberous gaze.

Bedroom eyes.

"That was nice," she murmured, her throaty alto feeling to
Mulder as if it were reverberating against his very groin.

"Yeah . . . well, you asked me what I wanted to do," he
mumbled in reply, his fingers clenching in her hair, the 
cool strands sifting between them like watered silk.

"So, was that supposed to be a fairy-tale kind of kiss?" 
Scully queried, her hands closing over his wrists as if to 
hold him to her.

"You mean of the princess and frog variety?" he queried
back.

She smiled.  "Well, I don't know about that.  I'm not exactly 
what you'd call princess material, and green has never been 
your color."

Note to self:  ditch any and all leftover St. Patrick's Day garb.

"No," she said quietly, her thumb tracing a leisurely path 
across his knuckles.  "What I mean is, . . . you know how 
at the end of most children's stories, the hero and heroine 
kiss and everything is suddenly back the way it should be--the 
kingdom is restored, the villain is carted off to the dungeon . . . "

"And they all live happily ever after?" Mulder murmured, 
gently releasing her face from his grasp.

Scully shrugged almost sheepishly, her brows lifting in 
tandem.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure how best to respond.
Finally, he covered her hands with his, curled his fingers
round hers and held on tight. 

"I can't promise you 'ever after', Scully," he said, shaking
his head in remorse.  "I can't even promise you tomorrow.
Not anymore.  All I have to give you is right here, right 
now." 

She sat, watching him, her eyes luminous and large.

"But I can tell you this--regardless of how much time we
have together, how many more days and nights . . . this
is it for me," he told her solemnly.  "This . . . you and I . . . 
this is for life."

Scully looked at him for a moment or two more, her gaze
searching, her breath shallow and quick.  Then, as if coming
to some sort of conclusion, she nodded, her study of his 
features continuing still. 

"For life," she softly pledged.

And saying nothing else, she stretched up to kiss him, one
hand hooking around the back of his head to draw him close, 
the other grabbing hold of his T-shirt as if for balance.  Mouth
open, hot and yearning, Scully pressed her lips to his.  Sliding
and releasing.  Angling, first one way, then another.  Moving 
over his.  Soft, so soft.  And sweet, like the most sinfully rich
dessert imaginably.  Caramel and fudge and dollop upon 
dollop of freshly whipped cream.

Falling back against the sofa cushions, Mulder pulled his
partner with him, his hands on her shoulders, in her hair, 
towing her along until she somehow knelt over him, her 
arms twined around his neck, her breasts brushing unfettered 
against his chest.

"No more shutting me out, Mulder," Scully muttered against
his mouth, pulling away only just far enough to voice the 
words.

"No," he agreed before capturing her lower lip between both 
of his and tugging on it gently.  "No more."

"I thought you were mad at me," she whispered between 
kisses, stringing them like pearls along his jaw line.  "Angry 
at what I had done."

"I was angry," he admitted breathlessly, nuzzling the side of
her face with his nose.

Angry at the risks you took, the danger you courted.

"And now?"

"Now I'm getting over it," he mumbled, sealing her lips
with his and plunging his tongue inside.

Greeting him in a similar fashion, Scully softly moaned,
the sound echoing oddly through them both.  Her hand
cupping his cheek, she pressed and pulled at his lips with
hers, varying the angle and force, her tongue sliding along 
his, flicking and stroking hotly.  Reveling in her response, 
Mulder slowly mapped the interior of her mouth, exploring 
its shape and depth, carefully and thoroughly, as if he thought 
never to leave.

His breath harsh, his pulse quickening, he ran his hands
down the graceful slope of her back, cupped her bottom in 
his palms.  Squeezed, released.  

And repeated.

Several times.

Apparently approving of his actions, Scully's kiss grew wilder, 
more aggressive.  She nipped at his lips, sucked on them, 
on his tongue, all the while making small frantic noises in 
the back of her throat, the low, faint cries sending shivers 
down his spine.

His groin growing heavy and hard, needy with desire, Mulder 
stole a hand beneath her shirt.  For a moment, he merely
stroked her heated skin, petted the downy valley at her waist.  
But before long, such innocent caresses weren't enough.  
Following her body's natural curve, he slid his hand upwards
towards her breast.  Soon finding what he sought, he held it
in his grasp, fingers relaxed, his thumb circling round and 
round the tender peak, coaxing its center to harden.

Bemused, he felt Scully become distracted by his touch, 
mesmerized by it.  Almost as if against her will, her kisses 
slowed, her hand fell away from his face to land heavily on
his chest, fingers lax.  Encouraged by her reaction, Mulder 
decided to take matters a step further.  Grasping her now 
taut nipple between his forefinger and thumb, he rolled
it, twisting gently, then tugged on the nubbin, stretching
the sensitive bit of flesh with care.

Shuddering atop him, Scully gasped at the unexpected pull,
and turned, one shoulder in front of the other, as if hoping 
to somehow heighten the sensations assailing her.  However, 
the instant she moved past a certain point, she grimaced and 
froze, sucking in a quick, painful breath.

"What?" Mulder mumbled worriedly, instantly slipping his
hand free from her clothes.  "What's wrong?  What happened?"

"Nothing," she murmured with a measure of chagrin, wrinkling
her nose as she gingerly worked out the kinks.  "I just twisted 
funny.  It pulled on the wound.  That's all."

Feeling like the worst kind of masher, Mulder smoothed his
hands over her hair in apology, sweeping the rumpled strands
away from her face.  

"That's *all*?" he echoed dryly.  "I'd say that's enough."

Scully eyed him speculatively, her cheeks blushed pink with 
arousal, her lips swollen and red.  Keeping him fixed with 
her gaze, she reached down between them.  Her aim unerring, 
her palm landed heavily on his thickened shaft.  Unthinkingly,
his hips lifted to push against the soft weight, to seek greater
pressure, greater heat.  Scully only smiled.

"Really, Mulder?" she queried huskily, her brow doing its 
signature bend and stretch.  "Enough, you say?"

"Scully . . . just give me a minute, okay?" Mulder entreated,
vaguely embarrassed by the situation, by his lack of control
in more ways than one.  "Give me a minute to get myself
together here, and then we can take a step back, take it slower
 . . . cuddle or something."

"Cuddle?" Scully parroted back in disbelief.

"Or something," he mumbled stubbornly.

"Gee, Mulder.  And maybe after that we can maybe go to 
the soda shop for a malted," she muttered from his lap.

"You're mocking me," he muttered back, glowering at her.

"Yes," she agreed, her expression utterly deadpan.  "Yes, 
I am."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said reasonably, cutting
to the heart of her discontent.

"You won't," she assured him.

Unconvinced, he shook his head.

Taking up the challenge, Scully slipped carefully from the 
sofa to stand before him, bracing herself as necessary against 
his knees.

"As long as I don't make an sudden movements from side
to side, I'm fine," she told him, her fingers finding the tiny
buttons on her checkered shirt and slipping them free one 
by one until the garment hung open from her shoulders, 
exposing a swath of pale, smooth skin.  And the corner of
her bandage.

"That's not going to work," Mulder told her, his arms folded
disapprovingly across his chest, the low, rough quality of his 
voice belying his words.

Scully cocked her head as if in consideration.  "You sure?  
What about . . . ?"

Hooking her thumbs inside the waistband of her pants, she
pushed them and the panties beneath, past her hips to the
floor.  The baggy slacks dropped easily away.  Keeping her 
eyes locked on his, she stepped free of them, garbed now
only in loosely flowing flannel and her floppy rag socks.  
Mulder could see her slim, strong legs, the twin inner curves 
of her breasts, her navel's shadowed dimple, the nest of auburn 
curls shielding her sex . . .

Oh God.

He could smell her, like an animal scenting its mate half a
forest away.

"What about this, Mulder?" she queried guilelessly after he
had stared at her slack-jawed for a century or two. 

"That just might do it," he admitted as he shifted restlessly
in his seat.

Smiling softly at his discomfiture, Scully stepped closer to 
him, her shirt playing peek-a-boo as she neared.

"I'll be careful, Mulder," she told him as she bent down to 
try and help him with his sweats.  Shooing her away, he
acknowledged defeat, and quickly toed off his sneakers, 
then shucked his socks and pants, littering the floor with 
his clothes.  "As long as we take it easy, I'll be fine."

His rigid length seemed to pulse in his lap as he waited, 
heavy with blood and want.

Take it easy.

Just take it easy, damn it.

Holding out his hands in invitation, he guided her down 
over him.  Scully knelt above his lap, her legs framing his.  
Reaching down, she slid her hand slowly along his hot, silky 
shaft.  Mulder grimaced in pleasure, a moan vibrating softly,
deeply in his throat.

"It's been a long time, Mulder," she said, watching him and
his reaction as she stroked him, petted him hard and long.  
"Weeks."

"Months," he corrected quietly, his hips languidly following
the rhythm set by her caress.

"A long time," she murmured again.

And, at last, lifting him in her palm, she centered herself 
over him.  Slowly, slowly, she sunk down.

Her eyes sliding shut as he filled her, Scully tipped her 
head, arched her neck so her hair dangled midway down 
her back.  Her teeth snagged on her lower lip, she sighed, 
her breath escaping in a long, seemingly endless hiss, her 
posture almost painfully erotic.

Determined to keep his eyes open and on her, Mulder 
groaned brokenly as they joined, all but overcome by the 
sensation of Scully closing around him, taking him in.  
Hot and wet and tight and softsoftsoft.

God.  It had been a long time.

Forever.

Fucking forever.

Finally, he was buried in her, deeply, to his hilt.  With her
hands on his shoulders, Scully bent her head to kiss him.

"See?" she whispered, smiling, bathing his lips with the word.  
"Piece of cake."

Answering her smile with one of his own, Mulder tenderly
smoothed the back of his index finger along the slope of her 
cheek, yet said nothing in reply.

Scully didn't seem to mind his silence.  She pushed against 
him with her hands, against the couch with her legs.  

Lifted.

And lowered over him once more.

Her rate deliberate.

Leisurely.

Lazy as summer's hottest afternoon.

Scully swayed above him, her full, round breasts bobbing 
before him, swinging as temptingly as Eve's apple did from 
Eden's tree.  Sliding his hands beneath her shirt, up her back 
and around, Mulder stilled their gentle motion, balanced them 
on his palms and lifted them to his lips.  There, he suckled and 
pulled, nursing on the tender tips, nipping at them, then soothing 
them with teasing little licks, with sweet, honeyed kisses.  Scully 
mewled in his hold, yet refrained from hurry, continuing on 
instead at her same steady pace.

It was killing him.

Christ.  Mulder wanted nothing more than to simply drop 
them both to the floor, roll Scully beneath him, and drive into 
her.  He yearned to piston and pound into her strong, soft body, 
to rut mindlessly between her legs until his own form exploded 
in pleasure.  His need was so great, his arousal so fierce, that 
this slow slip and slide just wasn't enough.  The friction wasn't 
hard enough, fast enough.  He wanted more . . .

More . . .

"More," he moaned softly, helplessly, his head resting against 
the back of the sofa, his hands skimming urgently up and 
down Scully's arms.  Sweat beaded on his brow, his lips felt
swollen, sensitive, raw from their kisses.  "More."

"Are you close?" Scully whispered, her hair an auburn tempest, 
her eyes the deepest, dearest sapphire, a faint tremor shimmering
through her slender frame as she strained to increase her speed.

"Yeah," Mulder panted, squeezing her shoulders for emphasis,
his hips pumping beneath her as aggressively as he dared.  
"Yeah . . . close."

Swiping her mouth with her tongue, Scully nodded.  Then, 
sighing, closed her eyes and began to rise and fall more swiftly 
than before.

Yet, although the added intensity was welcomed by Mulder, 
at the same time, he feared the toll being exacted on his partner.  
He saw the sweat gleaming on her skin, recognized the 
fierceness with which she gripped his shoulders, felt the harsh, 
hurried flow of her breath as it bounced against his cheek.

Tired, he thought.  Scully had to be tired.  She was still only 
weeks from a hospital bed.  Weeks from a bullet and a beating.  
She had to be exhausted.

"Easy, Scully," he murmured, wanting to do the right thing, 
the noble thing, trying to wrap his arms around her and pull 
her flush against him, thinking to still or at least slow her 
motion.  Even if it killed him.  "Remember we said we'd take 
it easy?"

But rather than melting against him in gratitude, drained
and shivering with fatigue, Scully fought his efforts.

"I want to finish, Mulder," she muttered into his face, the 
hair edging her face damp and dark, her eyes dilated with 
passion.  "Let me finish."

"Scully--"

"Lie down. . . . just lie down."

Securing her atop him, Mulder did as he was told.  Swiveling 
on the sofa, he propped his head against its arm and throw
pillow, and stretched his legs out along its cushions.  As soon 
as they had shifted positions, Scully adjusted too.  Keeping him
secreted within her, she balanced above him on her hands and 
knees, her palms planted high on his chest, her legs on either 
side of his hips, her shirt draped over them both.

Almost instantly, she began to move.

"Scully--," Mulder groaned as their bodies met, then fell away, 
closing his eyes in mindless pleasure and pressing his chin 
towards the ceiling, baring his throat in surrender.

God, it was fabulous.  Scully was moving more swiftly than
she had before, with more authority, and apparently more
ease.

"Leverage," she muttered, her head hanging between her
arms, her hair obscuring her face from view.  "I needed 
leverage."

Mulder didn't need anything.  Not right at that moment in
time.  Not when the woman he loved was gliding over his
exquisitely sensitive cock with such power, such care.

"Are you . . . ?" he queried weakly, his hands coasting over 
her, stopping every once and awhile to clutch and knead.

"Oh yeah," she assured him hoarsely, the curls at her core
mixing with those at his, tangling with every slap of their
heated flesh.  "Yeah."

Good.  Because he didn't think he was going to be able to
hang on much longer.  His hips were rolling beneath her,
almost of their own accord, faster and higher, his fervor 
increasing by the second.  Dragging his hands from where 
they rested almost chastely on her thighs, he slid them 
towards her middle.  Spreading his fingers wide, like a 
girdle, he positioned his thumbs where their bodies joined.  
Capturing a bit of the moisture he found there, slicking 
their way, he lifted his hands just a wee bit more, searching 
for the plump little bud that would set Dana Scully free.

"=Mulder=!"

Ah.  There it is.

Circling lightly over her, above and below, swirling and sliding, 
both his hands moving in concert, Mulder felt Scully begin to 
shudder above him, her breath coming now in tortured-sounding 
gasps, her head lolling feebly from side to side.

"Come on," he coaxed, his eyes pinched shut, his lips pulled
tight, his jaw set, his thumbs spinning.  "Come on . . . come 
on."

Please.

Oh, please.

At last, she stiffened above him.

"God. . ." she moaned.  

Her arms finally giving out, Scully collapsed her upper body 
onto his, her cheek pressed against his breast, driving the 
breath from his lungs.  Her hands creeping upwards to burrow 
in his hair, she began to clench around him, fast and fluttery, 
her groin yet spanking his.

As soon as Scully's contractions began, Mulder let go.  Twining
his arms around her slender back, holding her close, he thrust 
upwards once, then again, bucking beneath her, all restraint 
forgotten as his body pumped wetly into hers.  Electric sparks
seemingly crackled behind his eyes, danced on the ends of his 
hair, surged down his arms and legs, make the hair dusting 
the limbs stand on end.

Oh boy.

Afterwards, as he murmured soft nonsense words of love, 
Mulder ran his hands up and down Scully's limp form, soothing 
her and him, while they floated blissfully on what had suddenly 
become the world's most comfortable couch.

"Okay, now I'm tired," Scully confessed after a time, speaking
the words into his chest.

"Me too," he mumbled against her hair.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"I missed that."

"Definitely."

Silence.

"Missed you too."

Jesus.  If you only knew. . . 

"I was always here."

Drawing Scully more securely against him still, Mulder
pressed a kiss to the top of her head.  "I was just a little 
hard to find.  That's all."

"No more hide and seek," she whispered, nuzzling her
brow just beneath his chin, her fingertips toying with the
hair at his temple.

"No," he promised quietly.  "No more hide and seek."

Not from you, Scully, he thought to himself.  

Even as he wondered if perhaps a version of that children's 
game might be what the two of them had to look forward to
if they were to stay together.

And alive.

***************************************************

It was almost exactly half past ten on a blustery November 
morning when Walter Skinner stood at the foot of the Lincoln 
Memorial, craning his neck as he searched for the one who 
had summoned him not twenty minutes before.

There he was, leaning against that far wall, his gray trench coat 
flapping around his legs like a flock of petulant ducks.  The 
Smoker.  Catching sight of the Assistant Director, the older 
man grimaced, almost as if he would have preferred to have 
avoided their upcoming conversation rather than have initiated it.  
Skinner stifled the urge to smile at the other man's sour expression.  
Averting his gaze, he quickly climbed the steps, eager to have it 
out between them, once and for all.

"You wanted to see me?" the A.D. drawled when he reached the 
top, scanning the crowd around them to see if the nicotine fiend 
had brought anyone along with him for support.  No one immediately 
stood out from the throng as suspicious.  It appeared it was just the 
two of them.

The Smoker squinted against the gunmetal sky, the lines around his 
eyes deep and long.  "I need to talk to you, to discuss the little show 
your agents are putting on as we speak."

Skinner feigned surprise.  "You mean the press conference?"

"Yes.  The press conference."

"If you're so concerned about it, why aren't you there instead 
of here?"  

"I don't need to be there," The Smoker replied as he rustled 
around in his vest pocket and dug out a battered pack of Morleys.  
"I have a representative in attendance."

"I've got a metal detector at the entrance to the auditorium and 
guards posted at every door, if your 'representative' tries anything, 
anything at all--," Skinner gritted out as he took a step towards his 
nemesis.

The Smoker showed no fear.  Instead, he regarded the other man 
mildly, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, his lighter in his 
hand.  "No need for alarm, Assistant Director Skinner.  I assure 
you, the last thing I want is to call undue attention to Fox Mulder 
or his partner."

"That's what I'm counting on," Skinner muttered, striving to get his
heart rate under control.

The Smoker took a moment to process that bit of information, filling
the time by lighting his cigarette and taking a leisurely drag.  "Oh, 
is that what this is about?" He scoffed at last.  "Is that the reason 
why you've decided to make Mulder and Scully's 'situation' public?"

"What if it was?" Skinner asked, his posture tense, his hands balled
tight inside his coat pockets.

The Smoker puffed thoughtfully on his Morley.  "Interesting tactic.  
To try and hide the two of them in plain sight."

"I'm not 'hiding them'," Skinner said.  "I'm making them too 
famous for you to kill."

"Famous?" The Smoker parroted mockingly.  "Is that your 
sole defense?  You know what Warhol said about the fickle 
nature of fame, Mr. Skinner.  It will happen to all of us.  And 
it will last no more than fifteen minutes."

"Warhol might have been right," Skinner admitted with a small 
shrug.  "When it comes to most people.  But you know as well 
as I do that Mulder and Scully have always fallen just a little 
outside the norm."

In more ways than one, the Assistant Director ruefully mused.  
Few people would have gotten themselves into such a predicament 
to begin with; fewer still would have had the guts to go along with 
his scheme to set it all right.

"Precisely why this ploy of yours won't work," The Smoker 
responded tartly.  "Mulder has no credibility, neither with the 
public nor with the Bureau.  Anything he says, any story he tells, 
is suspect."

"Under normal circumstances, I 'd agree with you," Skinner said.  
"Mulder's reputation typically precedes him.  But this time, he isn't 
trying to bring to light a global conspiracy or prove to the American 
public the existence of extraterrestrials."

"No?" The Smoker sneered before sucking on his cigarette.  "Then 
what is Chicken Little shouting about now?"

Skinner came to within an inch of slapping the Morley from 
the smug son-of-a-bitch's mouth.  "Agent Mulder is telling the 
reporters assembled about a blackmail plot designed to destroy 
the careers of both Agent Scully and himself.  He is telling the 
press everything--about the relationship he and his partner share, 
the threats made against them.  Everything the two of them have 
been through over the past few months will soon be splashed 
across the front page of every newspaper from here to the Pacific."

The Smoker said nothing, choosing instead to draw yet again on 
his fast dwindling stick of tobacco.

"He has no names to give, of course," Skinner continued.  "We 
were unable to identify the bodies we recovered of the two men 
responsible for the agents' injuries."

"Pity," The Smoker murmured, pulling the cigarette butt from 
between his lips, dropping it to the ground, and grinding it 
beneath his Oxford-shod foot.

"Yes," Skinner agreed.  "It is."

"And that's all you have to base this circus on?" The Smoker 
queried after a beat.  "Two nameless bodies and the ravings of 
a man his own colleagues view as unstable.  I'm surprised your 
superiors allowed you to proceed."

"Allowed me?" Skinner echoed sardonically.  "My 'superiors' 
view this as a PR wet dream."

The Smoker just looked at him.

"Recruitment is down," Skinner explained, warming to his topic.  
"Especially among women.  The Bureau has been looking for a 
way to lure qualified candidates to its ranks.  Mulder and Scully 
are young, attractive, intelligent; both possess advanced degrees.  
And say what you like about Mulder's often unorthodox methods--
but their solve rate is in the upper 3% of departments Bureau-wide.  
Throw in a near-tragic love story, and they're practically custom-
made for this sort of thing, poster children for the new FBI."

"'New FBI'," The Smoker sputtered with derision.  "Don't be 
absurd.  Do you honestly expect me to believe that Mulder has 
suddenly gone from being the outcast in the basement to the 
Bureau's wunderkind?"

"Why not?" Skinner replied, hard won satisfaction coloring his 
words, lifting the corners of his mouth.  "It's not that far a leap.  
After all, Agent Scully's record is nearly spotless and it wasn't 
so long ago that Mulder himself was on the fast track.  Besides, 
they now have the Department of Justice's spin-doctors behind 
them, working their magic.  You'd be surprised what you can 
do for a person's image when you position the facts just right."

For a time, The Smoker was silent.  Turning away from the 
Assistant Director, he surveyed instead the Mall, his eyes narrowed 
as before, his expression overall difficult to read.  He remained 
mute just long enough for the first stirrings of worry to churn 
thickly in the pit of Skinner's stomach.  

Shit.

What if their gamble backfired?

What if the man contemplating the Reflecting Pool below decided 
to eliminate Mulder and Scully despite their efforts to prevent just 
such a calamity? 

What if, after all was said and done, he wound up failing his
two charges?  Again.

When at last he spoke, The Smoker gave no indication as to what 
his intentions were.  He merely shifted to once more regard the 
former Marine, his gaze measuring.  "I really must applaud your 
efforts, Assistant Director Skinner.  It sounds to me as if a great 
deal of work went into coordinating today's revelations.  You 
must have called in a good many markers."

"I collected on some favors," Skinner said, his tone matter-of-fact.

As before, The Smoker said nothing at first, opting instead to study 
the man standing before him, his mouth pressed thin.  Finally, he 
asked,  "Why?"

Skinner hesitated himself, considering whether he should 
indeed indulge both The Smoker and his own pride.  Turning 
the matter over inside his head, he glanced away, his eyes 
lighting on the Washington Monument, standing tall and 
strong at the other end of the Mall.  He thought about the 
history the obelisk was meant to invoke, the values embodied 
by its namesake and by the man whose statue loomed opposite,
towering over their clandestine meeting, solemn and serene.  
He remembered how, when he was young, he had hoped to follow 
in the tradition of these two great leaders, to serve his country 
and its citizens, defending its interests and upholding its laws.  He 
recalled too how quickly those ideals had been tainted.  By Vietnam 
and its aftermath.  By the machinations of the man now waiting for 
his reply.

"I did it because it's the right thing to do," he said at last, the 
wind whipping off the Potomac stinging his cheeks, wetting his 
eyes.  "Because I am sick and tired of you toying with my agents, 
treating them like chess pieces instead of human beings."

The Smoker uttered nothing in his defense.  He stood by stoically, 
letting Skinner have his say.

"I did it because for the first time in a long time I thought I had a 
battle I could win," Skinner admitted.  "Scully said your assassin had 
told her your goal in all this was to shut down the X-Files.  Publicizing 
the department rather than burying it should make that harder for you 
to do."

"Do you really believe your 'spin-doctors' can make Mulder's 
crusade seem like the vocation of a reasonable man?" The Smoker 
queried.

"Do I believe the country as a whole will embrace the X-Files 
and the work Mulder and Scully have done?" Skinner queried 
back.  "No, of course not.  I'm not naive.  I know most people 
will roll their eyes at the stories they'll hear."

The Smoker's lips quirked at that, as if he himself was disinclined 
to take the matter seriously.

"But at least their case will have been heard," Skinner said, 
vaguely surprised by the urgency he could feel contained within 
his words, the fervor with which he spoke.  "Finally.  The seed 
will have been planted."

"So when the world realizes how it has been betrayed by you and 
the men you work with, when the day comes and your deal with the 
devil is finally revealed, people will remember my agents and their 
sacrifices," he continued, his voice low and firm.

"And they will understand."

The Smoker looked at him for a second or two longer, seemingly 
reflecting on what had just been said.  "You consider Mulder
and Scully heroes," he murmured at last.

"I do," Skinner confirmed.

The Smoker slowly nodded, his gaze speculative.  "You know,
Assistant Director Skinner, . . . it's a funny thing about heroes.  
It seems the ones who live longest in our memory are the men 
and women who come to the worst ends."

Bastard.

Skinner recognized the threat, heard the sinister note threading
through The Smoker's words.

But was the menace real or merely a bluff?

He couldn't judge.

And, in the end, it wouldn't matter anyway, Skinner admitted to 
himself.  He had known going into this that he wouldn't be able to 
protect Mulder and Scully if the man standing opposite him chose 
to strike.  Not forever.  Not with the weapons The Smoker had at 
his disposal.  That was why he had formulated this particular 
plan to begin with.  

All he could really do was convince the tobacco junkie it would be 
in his best interests to spare the two agents' lives.

Best not to overplay his hand.

"Well, if that's the case, then it seems I made the right decision,"
he murmured finally.

The Smoker frowned, seemingly surprised by Skinner's reaction.  
"What do mean?"

Skinner shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.  "I 
want Mulder and Scully alive.  You want them and the work 
they do out of the public's eye."

The Smoker pursed his lips as if not entirely agreeing with
Skinner's take on things.  Yet, he held his tongue.

"So all you have to do is leave them alone," Skinner said
reasonably.  "And we both wind up happy."

"Happy?" The Smoker repeated with disdain.

"It's the little things that mean so much," Skinner replied, his
tone similar.

The Smoker glanced away again, his eyes trained now on the
crowded horizon.  "One man and one woman," he murmured 
almost dreamily.  "When weighed against the whole of civilization, 
the matter of their survival seems small indeed, does it not?"

"Small enough to overlook," Skinner said, the last word
spoken with particular emphasis.

The Smoker turned to regard him once more, his face giving
away nothing.

"After all," Skinner said persuasively, "surely you must have more
important things requiring your attention."

The tiniest measure of amusement flickered across The 
Smoker's countenance.

"You have no idea, Assistant Director Skinner.  No idea at
all."

****************************************************

"Well, that may have been the most humiliating hour of my life."

"More humiliating than that time we were walking out of Skinner's 
office after the strategy session on the Pepito kidnappings, and your 
heel caught on the rug and you--"

"Yes, Mulder.  As hard as it may be to believe, more humiliating
than that."

Sighing with exasperation, Dana Scully maneuvered past her partner 
and into their basement office, her path lit only by the single bulb
aglow in Mulder's desk lamp.  Dumping her briefcase on her own 
desk, she lowered herself into the chair behind it, the entire sequence 
accomplished with little of her usual grace.

"I don't know, Scully," Mulder said as he flipped on the overhead 
fluorescent, then ambled over to peer expectantly into his in-box.  
"I didn't think it was all that bad."

"All that bad?" she echoed in disbelief.  "Mulder, those reporters
were getting so personal with their questioning I kept expecting
one of them to ask my bra size."

"34B."

She glared up at him.

"34C?"

"How can this not bother you?" she asked, leaning forward in her
chair, her elbows braced against the blotter, her query both a question 
and a demand.

"Do you think this =doesn't= bother me?" he retorted as he crossed to 
stand before her.  "Do you think I *like* the idea of you and I being 
tabloid flavor of the month?" 

All at once ashamed of herself for being so peevish, Scully dropped 
her eyes and shook her head, her lips pursed in a tight, little moue.

"Scully," Mulder began as he took a step closer and pressed his hands 
flat against the desktop.  Looming over her in that way, his face hovered 
just inches above hers.  "The last thing I want is to share you, share 
what we have, with Jerry Springer's studio audience.  But I thought 
we had agreed that, given our limited options, this was the best way 
to go."

She sighed again, this time exasperated only with herself.  Yes, they 
had agreed.  And, yes, given the choice of either living as a kind of 
guiltless fugitive for the rest of her life or admitting to a roomful of 
scandal-hungry reporters that she had been sleeping with her partner, 
she preferred the latter.

It was just that it had all seemed so much more manageable when 
Skinner had first pitched the solution to them weeks earlier.

"Mulder, I'm sorry," she quietly apologized.  "But you know how 
I am about my privacy.  Ever since the night The Smoker was 
waiting for me with that damned tape, I've felt as if I can never 
be certain where the next microphone might turn up."

Nodding as if in silent encouragement, Mulder settled himself 
on the corner of her desk.  Scully continued. 

"It's been as if my life is no longer my own.  For months now 
I've known I was being listened to, watched.  That we both were.  
I've had to be careful what I said, what I did.  One word out of 
place . . ."

"And I eat poisoned pizza," Mulder mumbled, not without a 
touch of wry humor.

"Exactly," she glumly concurred.

"Okay," he said after a second or two, his voice determinedly 
upbeat.  "But that was then and this is now.  Look on the bright
side--after this morning, there won't be any need to edit yourself.
Everyone will know about us.  It'll all out in the open."

"=Way= out in the open," she murmured, her funk proving 
resistant to his optimism.

"There are pluses to that though, Scully," he insisted, bending 
down to try and recapture her gaze.  "Think of all the things we 
can do now without having to worry about the consequences.  
Hell--we'll save a fortune on vacation airfare alone."

That brought a smile to her lips.  A small smile, but a smile 
nonetheless.

Seemingly heartened by her reaction, Mulder took Scully's hand 
in his and pressed his advantage.  "I think this is gonna work.  I 
honestly do.  Going public not only offers us protection, but it 
finally lets us be who we really are."

Scully wearily shook her head, her eyes dipping to study their 
tangled fingers.  "'Who we really are'," she repeated in a hushed 
voice, her brow furrowed.  "You know, Mulder, I think that's the 
problem."

"What do you mean?" he asked, rubbing his thumb soothingly 
across her knuckles.

"I mean that for months now I've been watching everything I 
say, everything I do, altering my behavior for some unseen 
audience.  Nothing has been 'normal'.  You know?  I've been 
living everywhere but home.  We haven't worked on a case in 
I don't know how long . . ."

She paused then, struggling to order her thoughts.  She hadn't 
planned on all this coming out, hadn't even known half of it 
had existed.  The anxiety that had plagued her since the crisis 
had begun had always been an amorphous thing, shapeless and 
cloudy, its scope difficult to measure.  Only now, when she was 
trying to articulate for Mulder her feelings was she beginning 
to come to terms with just how deeply The Smoker's manipulation 
had wounded her.

"What's happened these past several months has changed a lot of 
things for me," she said, able to hold his gaze only intermittently.   
"Changed the way I look at things, the way I look at myself."

"How do you look at yourself, Scully?"

"Do you mean in the past or now?"

"Either.  Both.  I don't care.  Just help me understand."

Mulder was sitting close to her, his hip resting alongside her arm,
their hands yet joined.  The jovial mood he had been maintaining 
for her benefit had vanished in the wake of her disclosures, 
replaced by what looked to her troubled eyes to be confusion 
and concern.  Feeling vaguely guilty for having spoiled his fun, 
Scully at last lifted her chin and met him stare for stare.  Raising 
his fingers to her lips, she kissed them softly, then held them for 
a moment to her cheek before lowering them once more.

"I guess the easiest way to explain it would be to make a 
confession," she began. 

"Am I going to be expected to come up with some sort of 
penance?" Mulder teased.

Yet despite her partner's effort to lighten the mood, Scully 
refused to play along.  Instead she at long last said aloud the 
words that had been ringing inside her head for weeks.  "I'm 
truly disappointed in myself for the way I handled this whole 
thing, Mulder.  Disappointed in the decisions I made, in the 
way I let my fear get the best of me."

He shook his head in dismissal and disgust.  "Oh for God's sake, 
Scully.  We've been through this already.  What happened was 
not your fault--"

"I don't think you understand how unsettling this experience has 
been for me," she insisted, ruthlessly slicing his argument in two.  
"How disturbed I am by the way I reacted."

When he continued to shake his head in disagreement, she 
pressed to her feet, and circled around the desk to stand before 
him, all the while keeping hold of his hand.  "Mulder, if you had 
asked me six months ago what I would do if The Smoker went 
on the offensive, I'm certain I would have outlined for you a very 
detailed, very logical plan designed to circumvent any measures 
he might decide to take against us.  I would have been calm and 
self-assured.  And as we both now know, the entire performance 
would have been a colossal sham."

"Scully, you are being way too hard on yourself," Mulder muttered, 
his fingers tightening on hers, the pressure feeling to her half 
supportive, half punishing.

"This isn't about that," she countered, pulling free from his grasp.  
"This isn't about my beating up on myself or mistakenly trying to 
assume blame for something I didn't do."

"What is it about then?"  

"It's about identity," she said with a helpless sort of shrug, at a 
loss for any other way to phrase her concern.  "It's about my not 
knowing myself quite as well as I thought I did."

This news seemed to surprise Mulder.  Unlike before, he didn't 
argue with her.  Instead he simply sat, his eyes locked on hers, 
and waited for her to say more.

"All we've talked about lately is change," she said.  "About how 
our going public is going to reshape our world."

Mulder nodded, both agreeing and encouraging.

"But what about the changes that have been happening all along, 
ever since we met?  Not with the world or how its inhabitants 
perceive us, but with ourselves."

"What about it?  People change, Scully.  You know that."

"Yes.  Yes, I do.  And I'm not suggesting I should be exempt 
from the process.  I just didn't realize that with such change I 
could become someone who was very nearly unrecognizable 
to me."

Again her words gave Mulder pause.  Brow wrinkled in 
bewilderment, he asked, "In what way do you consider this 
supposed new you 'unrecognizable'?"

"In my actions--my keeping secrets, acting on impulse, taking 
foolish risks.  That's not like me, Mulder.  Not like me at all.  
Where would behavior like that come from?"

She could almost see the light bulb go off above his head.  
Chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before speaking, he 
murmured, "From me?"

Scully could only stare.  The thought had never occurred to her.

Faced with her silence, Mulder's expression turned sheepish.  
"Don't say I never gave you anything."

Unwilling to let him shoulder the blame, she shook her head.  
"I don't know, Mulder.  It's sweet of you to offer, but I don't 
think I can pin this on you."

"Sure you can," he said with a lift of his brows.  "I'm not saying 
you're easily influenced, Scully, or that you have no will of your 
own.  But given all the time we've spent together, the hours on 
and off the job, a few of our tendencies, our personality traits, 
are bound to have 'crossed over'.  It's inevitable."

Reluctantly, she nodded, still not entirely convinced.

"I don't think it's such a bad thing," Mulder continued, his tone 
conversational.  "Of course . . . you may want to refrain from 
picking up some of my less appealing habits--getting beaten 
up by guys twice my size, dropping my weapon at inopportune 
moments. . . ."

"Stay away from oversized thugs and hang on to my gun," she 
mumbled dutifully, the corners of her lips lifting slightly.  "Got 
it."

Mulder nodded as if approving her quick study.  "Who knows--
you may even find some of your more 'Mulderesque' leanings . . . 
not all that hard to live with."

She chuckled at that, her frame of mind improving almost in 
spite of herself.  Mulder grinned right back, apparently pleased 
to have provoked such a response.

"I'll grant you, it takes some getting used to," he said after a 
moment or two spent simply smiling at her.  Stretching out his 
hand, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, his voice 
soothing and low.  "It's scary sometimes when you realize how 
much power another person can have over you."

"You sound as if you're speaking from experience," she said, her 
voice sounding to her ears unexpectedly rough around the edges.

"I am," he admitted, his fingers skating now along the curve of 
her cheek, a bread crumb trail of sparks following in their wake.  
"You don't think I'm the same man today that I was the day we 
met, do you?"

She considered that, considered Mulder-Then vs. Mulder-Now.  
Fondly, she recalled the confident, caustic young agent who 
had been waiting for her when she had knocked on his basement 
door, and measured him against the somewhat more weathered 
version sitting before her now.   

"I guess not," she finally conceded, reaching out to take hold of 
his lapel, the urge to touch him growing exponentially the longer 
his hands remained on her.  "I suppose it's been the same for you 
as it's been for me."

"What's good for the goose . . . ," he mumbled, his head bowed 
as, with apparent fascination, he watched her lightly finger his 
jacket.

Edging closer, she kept her gaze lowered as well, her forehead 
knit.  "It's just . . . much as I wish I could say otherwise, Mulder
. . . I prefer the new you to the new me."

Now it was his turn to chuckle.  "Of course you do.  I've become
more like you."

"More like me?"

"We're practically twins.  Any day now my hair is going to turn 
red and you're no longer going to have to stand on a box to look 
me in the eye."

Growling with mock indignation, Scully brought her other hand 
up alongside the first, filled her fists with Armani's finest wool, 
and gave her partner a good, hard shake.  Laughing, Mulder ended 
her assault by wrapping his arms around her and hauling her nearer 
still.  His bear hug trapped her now between his legs so that her 
upper body rested flush against his. 

"Scully, you've already admitted that I've changed since you 
first met me," he said, his breath warm and soft against her face.  
Even with the heat he was giving off, she fought the urge to shiver.  
"But haven't you ever stopped to notice exactly what those changes 
are?"

Standing so close, she could smell his after shave's faint woodsy 
undertones, the starch on his shirt, the clean yet earthy scent of 
his skin. 

You wonder if I've noticed you? she longed to ask.  Oh, Mulder.
If you only knew.

"I'm more careful than I was," he continued, blessedly unaware 
of her musings.  "More methodical in my work.  I do my 
damnedest to scrounge up some kind of evidence now before 
I run with an idea; I check my facts and try not to trust the first 
mysterious informant that comes along."

Reaching up to cradle the back of her head in his hands, Mulder 
stretched forward and pressed a kiss to her lips.  "I do those 
things because of you," he murmured afterwards, his eyes turning 
tender, his voice scraping the bottom of his register.  "I'm telling 
you, Scully--I'm a changed man."

"I wouldn't go shopping for a halo just yet," she said, her fingers 
creeping up the back of his neck to thread through his hair.  "While 
I will accept you've made great strides in that area, I still see plenty 
of room for improvement in the 'look-before-you-leap' department."

Mulder shrugged slightly, clearly not at all offended by her take 
on the situation.  "Well, as with most things, it's an ongoing 
process."

"That is not what I wanted to hear."

"What?  You don't think I should continue to strive for perfect 
Scullyhood?"

"Strive all you like," she told him, a faint smile softening the 
edges of her mouth.  "In this particular instance, I'm more 
worried about me."

Mulder frowned.  "What's got you worried?"

"What if it's not only an ongoing process for you, but for me 
as well?" she asked, her tone playful even though her question
wasn't without its serious side.  "What if I'm only in the early 
stages of assimilating some of your more outrageous qualities?  
What if matters only escalate from here?  Think about it, Mulder.
The situation could get . . . dangerous."

"Have I ever told you you're sexy when you're dangerous?" he 
queried with a mock leer.

"Mulder."

"You are," he insisted before leaning in for a quick, noisy kiss.  
"As for the rest of it . . . I say don't worry about it."

"You do?" she challenged, her eyebrow shooting towards the 
stratosphere.

"I do," he confirmed, his hands gently kneading her shoulders.

She chuckled at his utter certainty.  "And why is that?"

"Because--just like always, Scully--I've got your back."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that regardless of what happens, what choices you 
make, what turns the road we're on might take, we'll adjust.  
=I'll= adjust," Mulder promised as he continued his massage.  
"If you want to be the wacky one in this relationship, I can work 
on being practical.  Hell, it won't even be like work.  It'll come 
naturally.  You'll see.  You and me, Scully--we're like yin and 
yang."

"Yin and yang?"

"Yin and yang.  Peanut butter and jelly.  Batman and Robin."

"Batman and Robin?" she queried.

"I know.  Not an obvious choice," he admitted with counterfeit
chagrin.  "But I have this reoccurring fantasy involving you, a 
pair of tights, thigh high boots, and a cape." 

"Mulder," Scully chided again, bemused despite her better 
judgment.  "May I say again--not what I wanted to hear."

"Give me another shot," he murmured, his hands at last stilling 
on her shoulders.  "And I'll see if I can do better."

Good humor lingering, she nodded, silently granting him 
permission.

But rather than immediately firing out another quip, Mulder 
hesitated a moment before continuing.  When he did finally 
speak, his tone was different than before.  Huskier, more 
intimate.  His pace was measured, as if he were choosing his 
words with care.  "You say you find this change in you disturbing, 
Scully.  That you worry you're turning into someone unrecognizable."

Puzzled by the direction their conversation had taken, Scully 
quietly agreed.  "Yes.  That's right."

Taking hold of her upper arms, Mulder put some space between 
them and looked her over, top to toe.  His head cocked, his eyes 
intent, he let his gaze slip slowly down her slender frame as if he 
were somehow searching for structural defects.  Fidgeting under 
his scrutiny, Scully was just about to tell him to 'take a picture' 
when he suddenly drew her back into his embrace.  

"I recognize you," he whispered an instant before once more 
lowering his mouth to hers.  This kiss wasn't like the others, 
swift and chaste.  This time Mulder lingered, took his time, 
allowing her to truly savor the contact.  His lips were warm 
and firm and, much to her delight, tasted vaguely of peppermint.  
Scully felt her own mouth heat as they kissed, melt like sun-
touched wax, shaping itself to his.  Pressing and clinging.  Sliding.  
Slow and seductive.  Sighing with pleasure, she twined her arms 
around his neck and let her body relax against his.  Secure in 
Mulder's hold, she felt as if she were floating, his lips the only 
thing anchoring her to earth.  It was sinful the way he could so 
effortlessly do this to her, she thought as his tongue stroked 
along hers, coaxing it to play.

Positively sinful.

"I'd know you anywhere, Scully" he told her moments later 
when they came up for air, the words spoken softly against her 
cheek.  "Anywhere.  Anytime.  This life or the next.  No amount 
of change will ever make you a stranger to me."

Throat tightening, eyes stinging with unshed tears, Scully nuzzled 
the side of his face with her own.  "I'm not afraid, you know.  Of 
what's ahead of us.  I'm not."

"I know."

"I just want this to work."

"It will.  We'll make it work."

Yes.  They would make it work, she vowed as she kissed a path 
back to Mulder's mouth.

They would.

They had to.

The two of them continued for awhile in this way, their lips 
meeting and retreating, their hands caressing whatever they 
could reach.  Their basement sanctuary was all but silent save 
for the rustle of clothes and the faint, breathless sound of their 
need.

In the end, it was Mulder who broke the spell, his nose buried 
beneath her hair.  "Hey, Scully--you know what I've always 
wanted to do?"

Please, Mulder.  No Twenty Questions, she yearned to shout.  
Not when you're doing such lovely, lovely things to my neck.  
"What?"

"Well . . . to be honest, it's what I always want to do," he 
muttered, his hand on her breast, lifting and squeezing, his 
mouth poised just below her ear.  "With you, that is."

"What?" she asked again, having trouble following the 
discussion.  She had her reasons, of course.  Mulder's thumb 
was now spiraling around her nipple, turning like a top in a 
series of tight yet lazy loops as he patiently urged the tiny tip 
to harden for him. 

Something like that was bound to distract anyone, she reasoned 
in a vain attempt to salvage her pride.

"I want to do this," he whispered, his breath shallow and hot 
against her ear, his hand trembling as, having achieved its goal, 
it relinquished her breast in favor of her behind.  "This, only 
more so.  I want to be inside you."  

"Yes," Scully agreed, reaching down to cup him through his 
trousers.  Grunting his approval, Mulder thrust forward with his 
hips, nearly scooting off the desktop in an effort to press against 
her palm.  "Come on.  Let's get out of here."

"No."

"No?"

"I want to do it here."

"Do what here?"

"This," he rasped, grabbing hold of her derriere and yanking her 
against him, belly to belly.

"Here?" she squeaked, pulling back to get a better look at his 
face.

"Right here, in this room," Mulder repeated, his eyes boring 
into hers, bright and nearly feverish.  "Preferably on this desk."

"You can't be serious."

"I can."

"That's crazy," she flatly told him.

"Quite possibly," he replied.

"Mulder, we're probably being listened to--"

"We're not.  I had the guys come in and sweep the place this
morning."

"Someone could walk in--"

"Not if we lock the door."

Scully sighed with a kind of double-edged frustration and 
folded her arms across her chest.  "Mulder, we have an 
agreement about this kind of thing.  You know that."

"Yes, I know that.  Our agreement has always been to keep 
the personal side of our relationship separate from the 
professional," he said as if reciting from rote.  "But that's all 
changed now, Scully.  After this morning, it's all one and the 
same."

True enough.  It was certainly no longer a secret just how 
complete their partnership was.

"It's like we're starting fresh, you and I," he said, his voice 
silky and persuasive, his thumbs stroking back and forth along 
the swell of her ass.  "And what better way to celebrate our new 
beginning than with a. . ."

"=Bang=?" she queried dryly, her eyebrow arched.

"You said it," Mulder retorted, clearly delighted that she had.  
"I didn't."

Yes, she had.  She had, indeed.  Yet more evidence of Mulder's
influence, she supposed with a sigh.

"You know . . . two years ago, I would never even have
considered something like this," she murmured, looking up 
at him through her lashes.

"I =know=," Mulder assured her happily, punctuating the 
statement with a vigorous nod. 

"If anyone were to find out about this, Mulder, we could 
be in a hell of a lot of trouble," Scully warned, tapping her 
finger against his swollen lower lip for a little emphasis 
of her own.

"I'll cancel the second press conference," he promised before
capturing her finger in his mouth and sliding his lips tightly all 
the way to its base and back again.

Helpless against the hot, wet suction, Scully shivered, the
almost violent tremor traveling quickly down the length of 
her spine.

Mulder's eyes turned slumberous as he watched her, dark and a 
trifle unfocused.

"Let me make love to you here, Scully," he murmured as he 
pulled her to him for another kiss then leaned his forehead
against hers, his hands still framing her face.  "God knows I've 
imagined it enough times.  Let me make it real.  After all, how 
many opportunities does a person have to do that with a dream?"

Well, when he put it that way . . .

And like that, all her remaining reservations disappeared.

"All right," she whispered.

He nodded, then pressed his lips to hers again, softly, reverently.  
"Thank you."

Setting her away from him a step, Mulder unfolded his body
from its perch atop the desk and crossed to the door.  There,
he threw the dead bolt, then reached over and hit the light
switch, plunging the room into instant twilight.

Scully lifted a brow in query.

"Mood lighting," he explained with the smallest of shrugs.

"I see," she said with a gentle smile.

He smiled back, his expression faintly sheepish, and returned
to her side.

"First things first," he mumbled as, hesitating just a instant,
he stretched out his arm and swept the desktop free of its 
accessories.

The crash was deafening within the chamber's limited confines.

"Was that really necessary?" Scully queried breathlessly, her 
heartbeat racing now for more reasons than one.

"Absolutely," Mulder said, grinning like a madman amidst 
the rubble, his gaze now glittering with excitement.  "This is 
supposed to be the realization of a fantasy, Scully.  Remember?   
A dream come true.  Surely something as momentous as that 
deserves a *little* drama to spice things up."

She shook her head in amusement.  "First 'mood lighting', now
adding a touch of  'drama ' to the proceedings.  What are you 
doing here, Mulder, setting the stage?"

"The stage is set," he said, reaching for her.  "Now it's on to
Costumes."

Pulling her squarely in front of him, Mulder held her in place
with one hand while nimbly popping loose the first three 
buttons on her blouse with the other.  Allowing him to lead, 
Scully watched as he then reached beneath the parted fabric 
and slipped first one, then the other breast free from her bra.
Balanced atop their underwire shelf, the pale, soft mounds 
quivered as she breathed.

"Do you want . . . ?" she asked, gesturing rather weakly to 
the suit jacket she still wore.

"No," he murmured hoarsely, staring unabashedly at her 
exposed chest.  "Leave it on.  Just leave it on."

"Part of the costume?"

"Yeah."

"You really have given this some thought, haven't you?"

His gaze meeting hers at last, Mulder took his finger and
lightly stroked it around the center of her left breast.  Scully
could feel the skin there tightening in response, crinkle and
flush in arousal.

"Only every day since we met."

With that, he bent his head to her and took her nipple between
his lips.  Tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, he at the
same time worked its twin with his thumb and forefinger, gently 
pinching and rolling it to make it harder still.  Just when Scully 
thought she couldn't stand it any more, when she was certain her 
knees were going to give out completely and drag them both to 
the floor, Mulder released the tiny nubbin.

Only to repeat his wet caress on the other side.

Her hands clenched in his tousled hair, she held him to her,
struggling not to moan when Mulder began to suckle sweetly
at her breast.  Before she could make a sound, however, he
straightened once more and pressed a series of kisses along
her hairline.

"Come here, Scully," he mumbled against her temple, his 
hands beneath her clothes as he guided her backwards.  "Come 
here with me."

Following blindly, she let him maneuver her over to the desk.
With Mulder's help, she soon found herself seated atop it, her
legs dangling over the side, her skirt bunched high on her
thighs.

"I don't suppose you're wearing stockings today, are you?" he 
muttered, his cheek against her hair, his palms skimming along 
her curves.

"Sorry, Mulder," she murmured, grabbing hold of his behind.
"I dressed for a press conference, not for sex."

"Guess we'll have to improvise then," he said, and sliding his
hand beneath her hem, curled his fingers in the crotch of her
pantyhose and pulled.  The flimsy fabric gave at once, tearing
open at her core.

"I would have taken them off if you'd let me," Scully said
before giving his ear a nip.

"If I'd wanted them off, I'd have taken them off myself," he 
retorted before slipping his fingers through the ruined nylon
and underneath her panties.

"Mulder!" she moaned, arching in his grasp, her hands 
clutching at his arms in an effort to remain upright.  As if 
in answer, he traced along the slick, warm opening to her 
body, its entrance now nearly distended with need, his
range of motion limited by the clothes she still wore.

"This is all part of it, Scully," he explained as he gently 
lowered her to the desktop, his fingers busy still beneath
her garments, spreading the moisture they found there and
teasing her with hints of what was to come.  "You, here, 
like this.  It's all part of the fantasy."

Mulder looked down at her from where he stood, tie askew, 
hair wild.  Stepping in closer, so that her thighs were held 
open by his, he unzipped his fly and took himself in hand.  
Breathing fast and hard as he leaned over her, he slowly 
stroked the rigid shaft with his palm, his gaze pinning her 
immobile with its intensity.

"You're my dream come true," he told her, the tender words
seemingly at odds with the almost feral light in his eyes.

"Show me how the dream ends, Mulder," she begged from 
where she lay, panting and flushed, and yearning.  Painfully
yearning.  "Show me how it ends."

Nodding, he obliged her.  Holding the crotch of her panties
aside, he entered her in one quick, strong jab of his hips, 
joining their bodies together.

"Oh God!" she softly cried, her chin pushing towards the 
ceiling, her eyes squeezing shut.

Hooking her legs over his arms, he immediately began to move.  
All Scully could do was hang on, her fingers grasping for 
purchase on the desktop's edge as Mulder pumped inside her, 
his pace measured, his thrust powerful enough to rattle the 
drawers beneath her like dice in a cup.  Lashes lowered, she 
wondered what she must look like to him, lying there, breasts 
bouncing, glistening from the tonguing they had received, her 
hair tangled, her lips parted and puffy from his kisses.  She 
questioned what it was about this particular scenario that excited 
Mulder so, what made it the subject of fantasies long treasured, 
yet subsumed.  Was it the forbidden aspect alone, the idea of 
their having an intimate encounter in the very bowels of the FBI, 
that turned him on, or did it go deeper than that?

Then, she opened her eyes and looked at him, studied the man
above her, his arms braced like Sisyphus against the rock, his
face screwed tight in a grimace of bliss.

Yes, he was beautiful.  And yes, he felt so damned good
driving into her the way he was.  The friction, the heat, the
fullness.  The sense that as his body pounded its way to 
ecstasy inside hers, he wasn't only sharing with her sexual 
release, but a kind of physical one as well.  Here, in this 
primitive fashion, the two of them were celebrating their return 
to their lives, their work.  Without speaking a word, they were 
saying to hell with protocol and fear.  They were taking back this 
place, this awful, wonderful, claustrophobic place.  Their office.  
Rescuing it and them from the more painful memories contained 
within its walls.  They were demonstrating to all the shadow 
conspirators, to that sneaky bastard with the nicotine stained 
fingers and a marked lack of morals just how badly his plot had 
gone awry.  The Smoker hadn't destroyed what Mulder and she 
had.  He had only made it, them, stronger.  They might not have 
any power over his future plans, they might even be at risk right 
now with scant hope of tomorrow.

But at least they had this moment.  Together, united.  At least
they had each other.

New and improved, or otherwise.

"I love you," Scully told him, the words coming out breathy 
and hushed as she writhed beneath him, straining to meet him 
stroke for stroke.  "I love you, Mulder."

Her declaration seemed to affect his rhythm.  Head bowed, 
he faltered for an instant, hesitated, then sawed wildly, his 
movement choppy and short, sweat trickling now from his 
hairline to wet his cheeks.  Whimpering, he sucked in a deep, 
ragged breath and, with a visible act of will, reined in his 
motion.  Slowed it, evened it out.   Jaw set, he struggled to 
remain in control.

Scully was having none of it.  "Don't hold back," she urged, 
letting go of the desk and stretching up in a failed attempt to  
touch him, to direct his eyes towards hers.  "Don't hold back 
for me."

"I want . . ." he rasped, looking up, his hair hanging down 
over his brow, nearly obscuring the gaze she sought to meet.

"I'm there . . . I'm there," she assured him, grasping at his
jacket sleeve, the delicious tension indeed coiling tighter 
inside her by the second.  "I'm right behind you."

"You sure?" he queried, leaning in closer, his legs thudding 
against the beleaguered piece of furniture with every forward 
thrust.

At long last able to reach him, she cradled his head in her 
hands.  "Yes," she breathed, kissing him once, then again.  
"I am.  Let go, Mulder.  Let go.  Come in my arms."

Moaning his surrender, Mulder nestled his face against her 
neck and did as Scully asked.  Giving himself over to his need, 
he jerked and jumped in her embrace, all finesse abandoned
and, crying out her name, emptied his body into hers.  True 
to her word, Scully tumbled right after him.  One final stroke 
and her world suddenly whirled like a wind-tortured pinwheel, 
dizzying and fast.  Color and motion and the sensation of flight 
on a sun-drenched summer afternoon.

Afterwards, when they lay exhausted, her slender frame
graciously cushioning his lankier, more muscular form, 
Scully spoke, her voice dreamy with satisfaction.  "We were
wrong, Mulder."

"'bout what?" he murmured somewhere beneath her hair.

"That wasn't the end of the dream."

"No?"

"Uh-uh.  It was only the beginning."

In reply, his arms tightened around her.  Scully smiled.

Dreams are like stories our psyches tell us, she thought, her
fingers lightly sifting through Mulder's hair.  Well . . . she might 
not know the way this particular story ended.

But she certainly intended to follow it through to its conclusion.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END

Endnotes:  These notes alone could fill volumes.  Given the length
of this story, however, I will do my best to stifle certain impulses.
As many of you know, it's been a rather trying year for me.  With
some of the stuff going on in my life, it seemed at times that my
online activities were fated to become a thing of the past.  Thankfully,
that wound up not to be the case.  I would like to thank Connie for
her friendship and unbelievable generosity.  I don't deserve either,
Con.  But I thank you for them just the same.  Thanks to Missy, who
not only was kind enough to go to the trouble of hunting down 
missing stories, jpgs, etc. for me, but who also checked in from 
time to time at my work addy to make certain I was still alive 
and kicking.  Word of warning, folks--this woman has a touch 
of the private eye in her.  Don't try and hide.  She will track you 
down.  ;-)  To Danielle who was a valuable beta for this story, 
but whom I lost track of when my computer hit the road.  Thanks,
sweetie!  I hope you don't find too many errors in these final 
chapters.  To Nic and MD and Jen and Jill and all the rest of my 
online friends.  I've been up and running internet-wise now for a 
week.  I wanted to concentrate on finishing this silly story first,
before tackling my in-box.   Seeing as the danged thing has sat 
for months and months.  I shudder to think what spam awaits me.  
<g>  I will, however, get back to it and you.  I've missed you 
guys.  That goes for all of you.  Thanks for taking the time to read 
not only this story, but these notes.  I hope it was worth the hours 
spent.

Karen