Blasphemers.

Arrogant pretenders to knowledge, so certain 
they had discovered glory.

He watched in simmering fury as they strung 
lights, brushed away the encrusted dust of 
millennia, tearing through protective 
shrouds and shadows to expose that which 
they did not have the souls to comprehend. 
Greatness was laid out before their avarice 
and their triumphant cackles abraded his 
skin even as their ignorance offended his 
soul.

They talked of myth and legend. They 
translated sacred texts and profaned the 
Truth with their blindness. But he could 
see. On his knees before the history of his 
people he finally understood the Truth he 
had been searching for him.

The Goddess had come for him.

His shaking fingers traced the one picture 
which had made it all clear. He did not need 
the unfinished translation to understand 
what he needed to do. Tonight. Their screams 
would awaken the beast slumbering within his 
blood and bone. The red river of their lives 
would reshape his outer being until it 
matched the secret core. Tonight the full 
moon would rise and he would make sacrifice 
of the unbelievers and begin the path which 
would bring a true son of the Moon into his 
own. 

Into the hands of Artemis.

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

July 23,  2001
AD Skinner's Office
Hoover Building, Washington DC


Skinner contemplated the hellish mess he had 
somehow created and wondered if the X-Files 
Division should be investigating itself as 
an unnatural phenomenon. It was a black hole 
all on its own. Careers went in and did not 
come out. Worse, the gravitational pull of 
the beast warped the mindsets of those 
involved to the point where they actively 
participated in their own insanity.

He should know.

What the hell had he been thinking? Oh sure, 
he remembered what he had meant to do. Sort 
of. Spike the Consortium's guns. Damn the 
torpedoes, full speed ahead. Once more into 
the breach, let's go save the world. 

He had been pissed as hell that Mulder and 
Scully had gotten themselves killed. If he 
had one, his therapist would have said that 
he had been overcompensating in his guilt 
and grief.

In retrospect, he may have set off without 
saddle and musket. Actually, he had probably 
forgotten the whole damn horse. Just what he 
had thought he was going to do with them 
between conspiracies, he did not know. Lock 
them in a closet?

So he had pushed and threatened and 
inveigled. If he was being absolutely 
excruciatingly honest, blackmail had also 
been involved. He had used the circumstances 
surrounding Mulder and Scully's deaths to 
get what he wanted. The ex-marine winced as 
the pain in his head intensified as he 
gingerly examined the folder on his desk.

Be careful what you wish for.

It may kill you.

What the hell was it about Mulder and 
Scully, anyway? The five agents had been 
coming together nicely. A little too solidly 
rooted in the rational, but hey, Mathews was 
not Mulder. Frankly, the fact that they had 
been easier to control had been a bonus. He 
had all the skills he needed in one nice 
neat package, waiting for the day he needed 
them. They had even had a decent solve rate.

Then Mulder and Scully returned from the 
dead and decided to throw a party.

X-Files style.

Despite his headache, Skinner could not stop 
the rueful grin spreading across his face. 
He really should know better by now. Just 
when you thought you had them pegged, 
trapped at the plate, they calmly announced 
that the game had been called due to rain 
and you were standing on the wrong field, on 
the wrong day, in the wrong state.

By all accounts, the team was so messed up 
it should barely be functional. The leaders 
of the group, rather than cementing their 
positions of authority evidenced little 
desire to reach out to the rest of the team 
and, in fact, ditched them at the first, 
second and third opportunity. The former 
head of the newly formed department was then 
forced to lead his merry little band across 
the country to hand back control he did not 
want to give up in the first place. Worse, 
he was giving it to a man who he had every 
reason to distrust.

Why had he chosen another profiler to head 
the new group?

Mathews and Mulder were not only on a direct 
collision course over control of the pack, 
they had adversarial histories when it came 
to profiling and the ISU. Lovely. He wish he 
had known about that sooner. And speaking of 
profiling, how the hell had Harris ended up 
the next protege? He was supposed to be a 
lab tech for God's sake. 

They were all dark horses of one coat or 
another.

Vickery, whose sheer brilliance with 
computer crimes was matched only by the 
aggressiveness of her personality. She 
should have been the first challenger to 
their authority. Instead, she deferred to 
Scully and actually took orders from Mulder 
without choking on them. A miracle in and of 
itself.

Landers, a wolf trying to be a lap-dog. A 
soldier without a unit to call home. Not 
exactly what the FBI usually needed, but 
which was working rather well for the X-
Files Division.

Finally, Lewis. Lewis was looking for 
something. He had initially thought it was 
revenge. Now he was not so sure. There had 
been something in her eyes in San Diego when 
they had thought that Scully was dead. As if 
the very possibility betrayed something she 
had just found the courage to believe in. 

Skinner had been impressed that they had 
followed Mulder and Scully to San Diego. He 
had been surprised and pleased when he saw 
what they had accomplished down in Bill 
Scully's basement. He had been proud of the 
way they had handled themselves through the 
press and the confusion during Mulder and 
Scully's little improv performance.

He had never been scared of them.

Not of them, and not for them. 

Until today.

Five agents who should have been fracturing 
around the edges were looking for the other 
two members of their team and he did not 
know why. Five agents who did not even know 
who they were to each other were taking a 
stand for two people they should not have 
cared less about. He knew there were other 
reasons to care about Mulder and Scully. But 
what did they see?

The implications of what he had done were 
beginning to dawn on him.

There was nothing controllable about that 
group in his office. Not now. Maybe not 
since the moment they chose to follow their 
wayward leaders to San Diego. Mulder and 
Scully were the fucking catalysts from hell.  
And now Frankenstein's children wanted 
assault training. Mathews suggested it, 
Landers agreed with it and Skinner was 
supposed to make it happen.

Oh...and could he rescue Mulder and Scully, 
pretty please and thank-you very much.

Before we do it for you.

The thought of Vickery with an assault rifle 
was enough to send chills through his blood. 
Of all of them, the limits of what she would 
do to accomplish her mission were very 
broadly defined. She had just never had the 
scope to cause this much physical damage 
before. Looking into those eerie eyes he had 
abruptly, for no reason he could define, 
sensed that the oaths she had sworn to the 
FBI paled in significance next to the value 
she placed on the lives of Mulder and 
Scully.

He still did not know why.

Too late. Too late to save any of them now. 
He had thought there would be more time. 
Time for them to learn who and what they 
were. Time for them to learn who Mulder and 
Scully were. Time before they did something 
like this and inevitably drew themselves to 
the attention of the Consortium. Before the 
shadows made the first forays against their 
strength and tested the fabric of their 
commitment. No time and only one prayer left 
to him.

Don't let them break.

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

She was getting bored counting the dots in 
the ceiling.

"So you waited until your partner distracted 
Wilson and slipped into the basement."

Distracted. Yes. Distracted was a good word. 
Mulder had allowed a madman to throw him 
down a flight of stairs and then he had 
somehow managed to keep from reacting long 
enough to allow Scully to get into position. 
In memory Scully could still hear the crack 
of Wilson's hand across Mulder's cheekbone. 
She could still taste the blood from her own 
bitten lip as she forced herself not to give 
into the rage that had erupted as electronic 
ears made poor substitute for being where 
she wanted to be. 

Most of all she remembered the fear.

The stink had still lingered in the van when 
they had returned the equipment to the 
Gunmen. Their fear. Hers. The fear that she 
would be too late. That she would let him 
down. That she would move too fast and damn 
herself...or move too slow and damn them 
all. Timing...god. The timing had had to be 
perfect.

"That is correct."

There was a pause as the therapist waited 
for her to elaborate, but she did not. She 
had learned her lessons well in the days 
after their return to civilization. Honesty 
did not always pay. Not when the sheep were 
oblivious to their condition. When they 
thought themselves fine and mighty predators 
- or at least dog to the wolf. Tell them 
what they want to hear.

Just do not tell them the truth.

"According to the reports, you got into the 
basement just as Wilson pointed a gun at 
your partner, intending to kill him."

She lowered her head, not prepared to let 
him see her eyes. She had practiced her 
expressions in the mirror for almost three 
hours last night but her eyes still gave her 
away. The fear was too raw and the anger 
was...problematic.

Mulder had warned her that this might 
happen. That by immersing herself in the 
profile that part of her which was strongest 
would come to the surface. As if in defiance 
of that which it despised it would seek to 
reestablish its dominance, forcing her to 
struggle with parts of her soul she had 
blissfully kept hidden beneath rules and 
reflex and conditioning. She had believed 
him.

She had just not understood.

"That must have been difficult for you."

Icy rage shot through her and it was only 
barely that she kept her hands from smashing 
the smug expression she could hear in his 
voice from his face. He thought he had her 
pegged. Laid out and exposed, neatly 
categorized and cross-referenced in an index 
based on the world according to the DSM-IV. 

He had no idea how difficult it had been. 

Slipping into the house had been easy. 
Bypassing Wilson's security system had been 
even easier. But then she had had to wait. 
She had needed to stand silent and 
motionless as her partner taunted a madman 
into deadly response. Even that difficulty 
paled with the realization of exactly what 
they had done. 

There was no guilt in her for their actions.

Grief was another story.

When had they crossed the line from law 
enforcement to soldier? Or had they? Maybe 
they had simply crossed the line.  Had she 
pushed Mulder into that course of action? 
Had she used his grief and his guilt over 
what had happened at the Snow Goose to 
manipulate him into taking a path not 
naturally his? Pfaster. Corman. Wilson. All 
dead by her hand.

Who had Mulder killed lately?

Well...besides fish.

The side of her mouth quirked slightly, then 
the smile faded as she turned over the 
memories of what they had done at that 
hotel. Crossed a line…yes. Created a play 
with themselves as actors; the script 
written in the mind of a madman. 

It had been so...seductive. That 
interweaving of loss and control. The 
further she had gone, the further he had 
taken her. Yet...she had never once been 
afraid for her safety. Even when she looked 
into his eyes and seen a stranger staring 
back, she had known- right down to her bone 
- that it was still her partner. As if some 
part of her soul had recognized his and 
refused to be afraid. 

He had trusted her with that. Trusted her to 
tell him if he went too far. Trusted her to 
tell him if he started to scare her. He 
trusted in her trust of him. 

He had hated every minute of it.

He had not wanted to do the profile and she 
had not had to search far to find the reason 
why. He knew he would not hurt her. But he 
had been terrified that she would not know. 
Would look into his  eyes at some crucial 
moment and fail to see the structure of his 
soul.

That was one truth to which Mulder would 
have willingly blinded himself so as not to 
see.

Fifty ways to leave a lover.

Sometimes you do not even need to leave the 
room.

With all that fear and that odd sense of 
connection that had still existed when she 
had understood the truth of what he was 
showing her, had she betrayed him on that 
basest of levels? When she had shuddered 
back nausea at the sick touch of the monster 
to whom she had willingly opened her mind 
and known with crystal clarity that she 
could not live with herself as long as he 
walked the earth, had her rage driven more 
than her own actions? Was Mulder as 
vulnerable to his own backlash as she was 
too hers?

Victim.

Killer.

If she was cursed with rage, what was 
Mulder's cross to bear? Guilt? A sense of 
responsibility? A need to atone? With all 
that moving through his heart, with his 
reflexes still tied up in hers, did his 
trust in her now leave him vulnerable to 
manipulation?

Or was that the wrong question to ask?

They had always been vulnerable to each 
other. She had always known that there were 
things she could have asked and they would 
have been done. That was why she never did. 
The point to that power was that it was 
never used. Maybe the problem was not that 
Mulder would say yes.

She no longer trusted herself to say no.

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

Mulder was waiting for her in the hallway.

She watched as her partner's eyes went 
briefly over her shoulder, then swung back 
to her own like a lodestone to true North. 
She could read his fear in the number of 
empty sunflower seed shells he hurriedly 
dumped in one pocket and she disregarded the 
hesitation in the echo of steps behind her 
as Mulder rose to his feet. 

He ignored the trailing therapist until the 
man came up beside her and stopped. 
Startled, and more than a little annoyed at 
the unexpected feeling of confrontation, 
Scully took a measured step forward and 
turned until she could see them both. The 
move placed her a tiny bit closer to her 
partner than the therapist and she watched 
Mulder absorb that fact even as the 
therapist missed it entirely.

That man was beginning to seriously piss her 
off.

There was no mistaking the quality of the 
consideration he was bending toward her 
partner. She had seen hints of it in the 
more circumspect of his questions. He had 
asked about Mulder's temper, about her 
feelings toward what had happened at the 
Snow Goose. She should have realized that he 
had not believed her that most of the damage 
had been done by the agents themselves. That 
it had been a deliberate attempt to convince 
the media and the uninformed that Mulder had 
indeed gone screaming over the edge of the 
Abyss.

They all wanted to ask.

She could see it in the way they looked at 
her. At the morbid curiosity when they 
looked at Mulder. The hesitant tone as they 
tried to balance compassion with ghoulish 
prurience. They wanted to know just how far 
her partner had gone. 

They never asked if she let him.

The world was too damn arrogant in its 
conviction that women were victims. This, 
despite the fact that the Forensics team's 
own lab reports would have shown nothing on 
those sheets except blood. Her newly 
discovered anger wanted to scream in 
frustrated rage. Look at me, it wanted to 
howl. See me. Why must I be the victim? What 
makes him a rapist or killer?

She wanted to tip back her head and howl for 
the sheer pleasure of seeing the shock 
spread across self-righteous features. How 
dare they. How dare any of them judge her 
partner with such smug conceit. Jesus. 
Mulder would be more likely to bite his own 
hand off before he raised that same hand to 
her. Wrong damn agent boys. Look at me. I'm 
right here.

Blind-eyed fool.

With an impatient gesture she shifted her 
weight to one foot and pivoted smoothly 
until she came to a stop directly in front 
of Mulder. She heard him take one quick 
breath, then let it out evenly. She almost 
smiled as she felt him tense at her back.

She let the fool in front of them see her 
eyes.

How easily the rage came to her. It bounded 
eagerly towards her and wrapped itself 
around her like a long-lost lover. This man 
thought he understood the serial killer 
because he had seen a tape with two actors 
playing a part. Because he had read a 
monologue or two that Mulder himself had 
probably written.

Had he ever been in the same room with one?

Wilson's smile flickered across her lips. 
Corman's hate glared from her eyes. And 
Pfaster? Pfaster's cold hunger echoed in her 
soul. Look at me, she urged him. Look at me. 
Look at the man behind me and tell me what 
you see. Do you understand yet? Do you see 
the gentleness your assumptions mock? Do you 
see that which you casually allowed at your 
back, assuming safety? She let her smile 
widen as the fool faltered and took an 
uneasy step back.

If you would think the thought, learn to 
walk the walk.

In the split second before she would have 
let the rage take her too far,  Mulder's 
hands came up and closed over her shoulders. 
She felt the rage recognize him, move aside 
to let him in and she had a shocking impulse 
to curl around and rub herself against him 
like a cat. Marking him. Claiming him. 

Protecting him from false assumptions.

Even as part of herself was appalled at the 
violent impulses shrieking through her 
blood, another part was howling in glee. 
Free, finally. Free. I chose. I chose. I 
chose. Part of herself kept chanting that 
phrase over and over. How dare this armchair 
adventurer attempt to trivialize that 
choice. How dare a man whose most dangerous 
moment was stepping into the shower presume 
to see only a victim. 

Sheep, learn thy name and nature.

Seek not to presume to know mine.

"Scully?"

"Just dancing on the edge of the Abyss, 
Mulder."

"Don't fall."

She smiled slightly, then reached up and 
dragged one hand forward. Placing her own 
palm to palm with his she studied the 
differences in shape and size for a long 
moment. Marveled at the different shades of 
strength in each. She interlaced their 
fingers, feeling every muscle in his hand 
flex as his fingers tightened around hers. 
Then she met the shocked gaze of the 
therapist standing alone in the too white 
hallway of a San Diego hospital.

"Never."

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

He was insane.

That was the only explanation.

He had lost his fucking mind.

Why else was he seriously considering this 
as an option. Oh wait. Now he remembered. 
Because his goddamn agents had just scared 
the spit out of another FBI approved 
therapist. It occurred to him that if Scully 
would stop waving her dick around, his might 
stop getting stepped on. 

Then he might have a chance at convincing 
upper administration that the two agents had 
been scared of warning the unknown serial 
killer and turning him into a runner. Or a 
rather dramatic suicide. That they had 
chosen what had seemed like the best course 
of action in unknown territory with 
uncertain support. The fact that Mulder had 
tried to contact him had been their only 
saving grace. Without that, not even the ISU 
could have saved them.

Not for a price they would have been willing 
to pay.

If the VCU had lusted after Mulder before 
and drooled over the possibility of scooping 
up his partner, this new evolution had them 
going out of their freaking minds. If Scully 
did not stop scaring the therapists, she was 
going to hand them a weapon they would not 
hesitate to use.

The problem was that he did not know just 
how serious this problem was. Scully was 
nothing if not controlled. He was worried 
that they had been thrown back into the 
flames too soon. He should never have 
allowed them to hunt serial killers that 
soon after Corman. But he had taken them at 
their word, damn it. They had seemed fine. 
Hell, they had seemed relaxed. A little 
primal, but that had always lurked beneath 
the surface between those two.

Hadn't it?

They were rapidly burning their bridges. The 
FBI therapists had no clue what these two 
were about. They did not understand them. 
They could not help them. If they scared off 
too many more, they would sink them.

Not that they were doing all of it on 
purpose. Except for that disastrous group 
therapy session and this latest attempt by 
the FBI to get the two agents fit for duty, 
both agents had made concerted efforts to be 
cooperative. He should know. He had seen the 
tapes.

The therapists were generally just trying to 
do their jobs, but they were out of their 
depth. Mulder and Scully had the worst of 
several worlds. Combat soldiers, law 
enforcement officers and resistance 
fighters. Considering the lives they had 
led, Skinner personally thought they were 
amazingly well adjusted. Paranoid, 
suspicious and damned over-protective. But 
well-adjusted. 

The therapists did not agree.

Of course, that was partly because they did 
not believe them. Nor did they have the 
experience to know what it was they were 
seeing. He needed someone who had counseled 
enough of the right kind of patients to know 
what was normal under the circumstances and 
what was not.

He was thinking that he had found just the 
right person in just the right place.

Skinner felt his face crease in an evil grin 
as he considered the fact that he had just 
killed two birds with one stone. Heck, he 
might get the whole flock if this went well. 
Mulder and Scully needed to talk to someone 
who could help them, Skinner needed to get 
the team working as a team and the team 
wanted a bonding session.

Maybe they would get a miracle for Christmas 
after all.

***********************************
He stared in disbelief at the blood coating 
his hands. Could feel the thick coppery 
aftertaste that was all that remained of the 
blood he had swallowed. His eyes raised in 
desperate grief as they followed the path of 
the moon as it hovered, the disapproving eye 
of the Goddess fixed on her errant son. Then 
She turned away and the moon vanished below 
the horizon.

He wanted to scream.

Tried to howl.

Was left whimpering in pain and confusion.

What had he done wrong? He studied the alter 
with a despairing heart as he tried to 
think. Had he place the amulet in the wrong 
place. No. No he was certain. This was how 
it was supposed to be. He could feel it. He 
had done everything right.

So why was he still standing here, unable to 
hunt to Her glory? Unable to run at Her 
feet. Surely he had passed the test. Proven 
his worth when he had seen the clues She had 
left within the sacred texts. Was She angry 
that he had failed to wait until all Her 
words were revealed? Should he have  waited 
until the unbelievers had finished with the 
translation?

Were there further secrets still to be 
brought into the light of day?

He brooded on this as the dead flesh cooled 
before him. Perhaps he had acted too 
precipitously. Had allowed his joy that his 
dearest wish was to finally be granted blind 
him  to Her whispers. Or maybe...

He had been too greedy. He had forgotten 
that She would need more than one warrior to 
protect Her. To hunt for Her. If he went 
before the rest of them in his new aspect, 
they would have to believe. But it would be 
a false honor, built on what the eyes could 
see, not the true faith of the heart. Yes. 
This felt right.

His heart lifted as he considered this 
lesson. If he revealed this secret 
carefully, the true believers, those who 
felt the Truth in their hearts would come. 
They would come and they would be 
transformed together, Brothers and Sisters 
all, children of Artemis as they were meant 
to be.

But he would need to be cautious.

He must reveal the Truth carefully.

There was not much time left.

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

"If you lift your leg and pee on my shoe, 
I'm taking you home."

Scully's head whipped around, blue eyes 
widening incredulously. Mulder had a split 
second of relief before one of the Marines 
across from them shifted uncomfortably. 
Unfortunately, that brought his hand down 
near his weapon and Scully caught that fact 
from the corner of her eye.

"Jesus, Scully." He hissed a bit 
desperately. "Stop scaring the nice commando 
and move your hand a little further to the 
right."

"Mulder, what the hell are you babbling 
about?"

He just stared down at his diminutive 
partner in disbelief. She had to be joking. 
If these had been DC cops they would have 
shot her by now. Luckily most of the Marines 
seemed inclined to be amused. He supposed it 
was rather like seeing a German Shepherd 
being guarded by a kitten. He wondered how 
amused they would be if they knew that this 
baby cat was wearing a second primary weapon 
and two-count'em-two knives. One of which 
was illegal as hell and had been owned by a 
former serial killer.

Hell of a trophy, partner.

It was not the majority of the Marines he 
was worried about anyway. The ones he was 
worried about were the ones his partner had 
singled out for special attention. The fact 
that she had spotted them seemed to be 
confirmation enough for them of her 
potential to be a threat. The fact that 
Scully herself could  not explain why she 
was reacting to them would not save her if 
someone sneezed at the wrong time.

Damn it, she was going to get his ass kicked 
if she did not tone it...

"You think she's that prickly in bed?"

<Excuse me?>

Mulder twisted his head to the left and 
found the arrogant son of a bitch who had 
failed to keep his whisper low enough. 
Either that or he had meant for her to hear 
him. The smug grin on the bastard's face 
suggested the latter.  The neighbor he had 
spoken to had a nervous flicker for a smile. 
Yeah, that's right buddy. You obviously got 
more brains than your friend there. 

Mulder felt the expression leech from his 
face as he contemplated whether the soldier 
was just an asshole or had the potential to 
be something worse. Possibilities slid 
through his mind. Ugly ones. He sifted 
further into the shadows as he stared at the 
Marine now staring back at him insolently. 
His buddy's eyes had gone silver-dollar wide 
and Mulder knew from experience that his own 
had gone flat as he tumbled through the 
personalities, looking for one that fit.  
That one? No... that one there.

Reptilian hunger flared as hunter and hunted 
became one.

Mulder smiled.

Dead silence reigned across the width of the 
cargo plane slash troop transport and the 
whisper of fabric across pale skin was loud, 
even above the engines as Scully casually 
touched a hand to his forearm and tightened 
her grip. Mulder closed his eyes and let the 
possibilities slither back into the shadows. 
When he opened them again it was to the 
sight of blue eyes and two of the soldiers 
she had been most concerned with, studying 
him over her shoulder as if he had just done 
something very interesting.  

Their gazes flicked back to Scully, and this 
time they did not miss the second weapon.

Mulder did not  have a clue where they were 
going. Sitting hipbone to hipbone with 
lethally armed soldiers in a cargo plane 
rigged for passengers, he was not sure if 
Alice was paying another visit or if he had 
died and gone to FedEx. Skinner had just 
smiled at them cheerfully as he tossed them 
on the plane.

"Next time, don't scare the civilians."

That had been that. Skinner had bent his 
fingers in a tiny mocking wave as they 
peered out at him through one tiny window 
and Scully had snorted inelegantly. She had 
muttered something about Skinner, the Lone 
Gunmen and the IRS. He had just hunkered 
down in one of the pathetically flimsy 
looking seats made of aluminum and canvas 
webbing. 

Half an hour later Scully's nerves had 
started jangling.

He had looked over to find her studying the 
surrounding Marines with frustration and a 
touch of confused defensiveness. Four hours 
later it had only gotten worse. Considering 
the way she was acting, the way the men she 
had singled out were reacting to her and the 
way the Marines were reacting to the men she 
had singled out, Mulder figured that she had 
somehow spotted the Force Recon members of 
the group.

That explained why she had all but planted a 
flag on Mulder Mountain, but that was not 
going to help them much if one of these 
armed individuals decided to join the 
pissing contest. It was not that she 
actually thought they were a threat to him, 
per se. At least, he did not think so.

This was the first time since Corman that 
she had been around  a large group of 
soldiers of any type. It was likely that she 
was relearning how to see them and the 
differences in lethal potential among them. 
At least, that was his theory. 

Hell if he knew what she was seeing.  

They all looked the same to him. 

Mulder decided to take the only out left to 
him. Ignoring her incredulous look, he 
stretched his legs out awkwardly and went to 
sleep. Two hours later ,the bump of the 
wheels on pavement slammed his cheekbone 
against the bony part of her shoulder and he  
was instantly aware of the reasons it was a 
bad idea for a tall man to fall asleep next 
to a much smaller woman. His neck muscles 
protested violently as he tried to 
straighten his cramped body.

Scully just glared at him so 
unsympathetically he surreptitiously checked 
her shoulder for damp patches of drool. The 
Marines moved off the plane when the ass end 
winched itself open with a mechanical whine 
and clang.  Beyond the assembling Marines he 
could see Scully's particular targets 
hesitate, then head for an older man in 
jeans who was watching the disembarking 
soldiers from the shadow of a military jeep.

Mulder hastily added up Skinner's cryptic 
good-bye, the body language of the casually 
dressed man in his 50's and the limp one of 
the soldiers could not hide. He sighed and 
stared down at his partner who was 
suspiciously studying the scene in front of 
them.

Hs lips quirked ruefully.

"Show time, Scully"

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

"God-damn it!"

Deputy Roberts ducked as the copy of his 
newly printed report went sailing across the 
desk, clipped the stapler and exploded in a 
flurry of white paper as it hit the floor.

"This is supposed to be over."

Roberts bent slowly, cautiously keeping an 
eye on his boss. The Sheriff's hands were 
white-knuckled as he gripped the edge of his 
desk and Roberts half expected to hear the 
wood crack beneath his fingers.

"Is there a body?"

Roberts shook his head, then sighed as he 
noticed the smear of mud coating the corners 
of his report.

"Then she's just missing."

Roberts froze,"Sir?"

Sheriff Ellis stared at his Deputy until he 
dropped his eyes submissively. Roberts 
studied the tiles on the floor stubbornly.

"Her father..."

Ellis cut him off with a sharp gesture, then 
turned away to face the window. Over his 
shoulder, Roberts could see the lengthening 
shadows heralding the end of the day. In 
another hour, it would be too dark to see 
anything. Not that there had been much to 
see. But there had been enough.

"Until we have a body, Deputy, she is just 
another camper who wandered too far from the 
marked paths and got lost."

"Sir..."

The Sheriff turned and shot him an evil 
look, but Roberts just swallowed and stood 
his ground.

"They'll find out eventually, Sir. What are 
we going to tell them then?"

The Sheriff smiled coldly, "Hopefully, we 
won't have to tell them anything."

The Deputy felt his heart speed up and soon 
he could hear his own breath escaping in 
shallow pants. It was the wrong answer. He 
knew it. Just as surely as he knew he could 
do nothing about it. The Dancer should be 
told. Before it was too late. Before the FBI 
had reason to send in two who would not be 
easily misled.

"Call the others."

It was the wrong answer. Ellis was wrong and 
Roberts was too young. They would never 
listen to him. He watched as Ellis turned 
back to the window, eyes on the horizon 
where the moon would rise in just a few 
hours.

Hunter's moon.

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

Gunnery Sergeant Cowan's Office
Quantico Base, VA
0900



If you want something done, do it yourself.

You want a miracle, talk to God.

Unless you are a marine. Then you talk to 
the Gunnery Sergeant. 

Special Agent Elizabeth Landers was an FBI 
agent with the blessings of the federal 
government, her boss, his boss, and a duly 
authorized transfer of funds invoice from 
the Department of Justice. The man sitting 
in front of her was not even an officer of 
the US Marine Corps.

In a pissing contest, he won.

Gunny Cowan glared from the papers in his 
hand back to her face, gray eyes hesitating 
slightly at a skirt hem exactly Marine 
regulation length. The papers hit his desk 
with a slap.

"Do you have any idea how many requests I 
have from actual honest-to-god Marines for 
those slots?"

"Yes Gunny, I do"

From the corner of her eye she caught the 
Lance Corporal's startled twitch and gray 
eyes slid thoughtfully back to her hemline. 
The Gunnery Sergeant leaned back in his 
chair slowly and studied her carefully. She 
waited patiently. The fact that she was an 
ex-Marine would carry some weight. It meant 
that she knew what she was asking. 

But she *was* an ex-Marine, after all.

His pencil tapped steadily against the 
papers in question. Papers, which by rights, 
would never see "approved" stamped across 
them anytime within the current millenium. 
She could almost see the speculation 
spinning around in his brain, and his shot 
in the dark confirmed it.

"What was your last posting, Landers?"

"Drill Instructor, Parris Island"

The pencil stuttered slightly, then resumed. 
Landers kept her smile to herself. The Gunny 
stared down at his pencil for a long moment, 
then met her eyes with a steady gaze.

"Give me one good reason why." 

Green eyes never wavered as she gave him the 
only reason that mattered.

"The unit needs it, and she's the best one 
for the job."

He never nodded. Never gave her any outward 
sign that he heard her at all. But the 
unsigned papers went onto the pile of 
paperwork he would be handing directly to 
the CO, himself. Landers took her leave and 
maintained a blank expression all the way to 
the car. Lewis looked up from the passenger 
seat, her face an odd combination of guarded 
defensiveness and unwilling hope.

Landers exploded into a full-fledged grin as 
she slipped into the driver's seat and 
looked at her astonished teammate.

"You're in."

You want a miracle...

...talk to a Marine.  

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

"So...what do you think of the new 
arrivals?"

Gunnery Sergeant Ian McIssac frowned 
slightly and Lt. Commander Dr. Paul Stevens 
realized that he let a bit more of his 
bitterness show through than he had 
intended. McIssac shifted closer to the 
window and stared out at the main parking 
lot for a long moment. Stevens was about to 
ask what he was looking at when he frowned 
again and looked up.

"I assume that you mean the Feds."

Stevens winced. He had definitely let his 
prejudices show. He was entitled, damn it. 
He did not have the time or the resources to 
waste on political bull-shit. He considered 
the open files of the four newest additions 
to the family.

Capt. Grant Halloran, Marine Force Recon, 
34. Due for promotion two weeks before the 
explosion which killed two of his squad 
members and ended his career in the field. 
The brass thought he would make a wonderful 
instructor once he moved out of denial and 
stopped trying to force his leg to do things 
it would never be capable of doing again.  
Which explained why a platoon of Marines 
were here to do tactical training exercises 
on his front lawn.

Check.

Master Sergeant Doug Marshall, US Army 
Special Forces, 31. Sudden onset of extreme 
claustrophobia. Not unusual in a man 
responsible for clearing buildings of 
terrorists and booby traps, except for the 
fact that there seemed to have been no 
trigger event. Just a mind-screaming 
nightmare he refused to talk about.

Check.

Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Stressed 
out yuppie civilians who had no business 
darkening his doorway and wasting his time.

Check. And check.

Unfortunately.

Stevens had no idea what strings had been 
pulled. The fact that the FBI had even been 
given his name was a sobering indication of 
connection on some level. With the right 
contacts, the Assistant Director could have 
found out rumors about the retreat- what he 
did was not classified. It was just not 
talked about due to the occupations of the 
men he treated. But it was not classified. 
However, his time was not for sale, either. 

Anyone who knew enough to give Walter 
Skinner his name and his private telephone 
number was someone in a position to both 
harm or hinder his work. 

His patients needed more time and care than 
most and the government had limited dollars 
to spend on broken soldiers. He and the 
military had compromised. Hospital supplies 
and brute force labor came in Army green and 
Navy blue. His retreat, officially a former 
training camp belonging to the US military 
was sold to him at book not fair market 
value and Uncle Sam carried the interest 
free mortgage. 

Gunnery Sergeant Ian McIssac had simply 
arrived six years ago and never left. 
Stevens had no intention of complaining. 
McIssac kept the soldiers in line, provided 
much needed feedback regarding certain 
things that may not have been included in 
the patient folders...and which had never 
appeared in any textbook.

He also quietly provided the information and 
declassified photos that were rocketing 
Stevens' military thrillers to the top of 
the bestseller lists. A true coup in terms 
of constructive revenue creation. Too many 
of his patients needed what that money could 
buy. Most of them had nowhere else to go.

Which made Assistant Director Walter 
Skinner's request impossible to refuse.

He had wanted to despise the agents for 
their tailored clothing and $15-a-pop 
manicures as he watched them stroll out onto 
the tarmac as if they had all the time in 
the world. Regrettably, his sense of 
fairness had forced him to admit that their 
appearance was probably a uniform as 
carefully designed as those of the Marines 
they had traveled with.

Regardless of how he might feel about the 
fact that someone had used his facility to 
buy favors from the FBI, professionalism 
alone meant that he needed to bury his 
anger. Federal agents, screwed up or not, 
would be smart enough to sense any outward 
hostility. If he was going to help them, he 
had to be someone they could trust.

Unfortunately.

Stevens sighed. He would talk with them. He 
would help them deal with whatever emotional 
problems were keeping the FBI from giving 
them back their guns and then he would wave 
cheerily as they showed him their Armani-
clad backsides. He did not expect it to take 
long. In spite of the resentment coloring 
his judgement, he still did not see why they 
had been sent to him. Everything seemed 
fairly straightforward.

He supposed someone had to track down all 
the beer soaked assertions of aliens landing 
on the front lawn.  

Their previous therapists had been inclined 
toward a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress 
for Agent Scully. Based on the quick glance 
he had taken of their casefile he did not 
anticipate a dramatically different 
diagnosis to emerge from his own notes.
Considering everything, he was surprised it 
had not manifested itself sooner.

For someone who chased weather balloons and 
figments of other people's imagination, the 
events of the previous nine months had 
probably been a rude awakening to the fact 
that even FBI agents were vulnerable to 
personal violence. Which unfortunately did 
nothing to explain why they were being 
tossed onto his doorstep. The FBI therapists 
should have been more than capable of 
handling this type of problem. His pencil 
drummed against the top of his desk as he 
reconsidered some of the woman's symptoms.

Increased aggressiveness. Over-protective of 
her partner. Increased anxiety when her 
partner was out of her sight. Mulder had 
been avoiding his partner. The more he 
avoided her, the worse her anxiety got.

The pencil halted abruptly and Stevens felt 
his eyes narrow in thought. Could everyone 
have missed that possibility? He ignored 
McIssac's curious look as he flipped through 
the case notes. He knew he had read...

There it was.

This would explain a lot. It would sure as 
hell explain why they were here. Torture and 
starvation were not the only crimes 
perpetuated on a POW. They just left the 
most visible scars.

Everyone had been watching the wrong agent.

"What are the chances that Corman raped 
Agent Mulder?"

Surprise turned thoughtful.

"It was part of his MO. I think everyone 
just assumed that it had not gotten to that 
point yet." McIssac's frown was pensive. 
"You think they missed it?"

"I think these two may have lied through 
their teeth about it."

If someone suspected that they had lied, 
that would explain why they were here. If 
someone knew about some of the research he 
was doing and had needed someone outside of 
the FBI loop these two might open up to...

This time the sigh was less bitter, more 
sympathetic.

"When does the rest of their team arrive?"

McIssac shook himself out of whatever 
thoughts he was contemplating, "Three weeks. 
According to AD Skinner, Agent Lewis is 
finishing some last minute training at 
Quantico. He wants to wait until he can send 
them all at once."

Assault training for FBI agents. Christ. 
Like that made any sense. Promoting group 
dynamics was a nice catchy phrase, but when 
the hell did their AD expect them to use 
these skills? It was a bloody big waste of 
his time and resources. 

He hope they realized that they were about 
to get their asses kicked.

************************************* 
 
Scully collapsed across the spare bed in 
Mulder's room, then lifted her hips and 
carefully removed the folder she had not 
managed to miss on her way down. Mulder 
grinned sheepishly as she raised an eyebrow 
and waved it in his direction. She glanced 
at the label and groaned.

"This is going to go over like a lead 
balloon, Mulder."

She laid it on the bed above her head. If he 
wanted to review the cases the team had done 
during their absence, she just knew he was 
going to find something. Something they 
would have no choice but to reinvestigate. 
Then all hell was going to break loose.

"When this comes back and bites us on the 
ass, *you* get to tell Mathews."

Mulder's next grin was a bit more strained.

She allowed silence to fall, then turned her 
head to see him staring quietly at the 
folder in his hands. She had tried not to 
think about it, only to have it come 
crashing down on her at the oddest moments. 
It was gone. His work. Their work. All of 
it. Gone. Skinner had done the best he 
could. Considering what could have happened, 
she should be on her knees kissing his feet. 
They still had jobs to come back too. But 
lately, when she actually took the time to 
think about it, it was all she could do not 
to cry.

There had been so much she had not realized 
that she had counted on. So many tomorrows 
for which she had not even realized that she 
had planned. She had thought she was taking 
each day as it came. Now she was left 
mourning that which would never be again.

Her voice was nearly inaudible.

"I hate this."

Mulder's head jerked. She tried to smile as 
she saw the startled surprise, but felt it 
wobble around the edges.

"It's not the X-Files anymore."

She hesitated as he watched her, his mouth 
tense, as if he wanted to protest her next 
words. Her voice dropped further as loss 
crept in. 

"It's not us, anymore."

It was not about the number of agents 
calling the basement home. It was about the 
things she had never realized that they had 
had. The people they had been. How odd to 
think that she could mourn something they 
would have given up willingly had they been 
asked. More agents? More resources? Of 
course they would have accepted it. The 
world changed. They would have willingly 
paid the price to change with it.

They had not been asked. 

She felt cheapened. Cheated. Robbed of at 
least the satisfaction of making the choice. 
As if the blood they had shed should have  
bought enough of Fate's grace to inflict the 
pain upon themselves rather than have it 
inflicted for them.  Mulder's eyes echoed 
the sadness in her own as he tried to shrug.

"I guess it had to change someday."

Just not today. 

Scully silently acknowledged everything else 
he left unsaid. That the battle had changed. 
That it was no longer enough to know the 
truth. That in retrospect, some of the 
battles they had paid so much to win were 
hollow, empty victories. She tried to tell 
herself that they had needed those battles 
to become who and what they had become. As 
if she even knew what that was anymore.

They had to find a way to win a war. 

How the hell were they supposed to do that?

Mulder's smile took a decidedly lopsided 
appearance. "We're absolutely insane to 
think we can make a difference, you know."

Scully carefully considered the water 
stained portion of the ceiling above her 
head. A tiny spider busily wove its tiny web 
in the far corner.

"I mean, it's like a bad movie. Stalking 
serial killers by day, plotting to save the 
world by night." Mulder paused," Feel free 
to jump in an disagree with me."

Gathering her courage, she rolled onto her 
side and tried to meet his gaze. She found 
herself staring instead at his shoulder. The 
blunt ends of his newly barbered hair. The 
pattern of light and shadow on the wall 
behind him. Anywhere but at earnest multi-
colored eyes that had yet to blame her for 
the mess she had created.

"Mulder?"

She cringed at the whisper. The least she 
could do was offer him an apology with some 
teeth behind it. She licked her lips as she 
searched for the right words and 
accidentally met his eyes as she did so. The 
sudden fear and tension she saw coiling 
there had the words spilling out faster than 
she could censor them. Jesus, she had not 
meant to scare...

"God, Mulder. I'm so sorry. It's all my 
fault we're here. You warned me about my 
temper and I thought I could handle it. But 
they are driving me insane. Picking at our 
stories, looking for what isn't there. How 
many times can I say the same thing? I'm 
beginning to think I should just lie , 
pretend I actually care that I killed 
Corman, cry a few crocodile tears and let 
them think they cured me." she paused, then 
added one last thought.

"Is it too late to admit to cannibalism?"

Mulder bit his lip as her confession mutated 
into an exasperated diatribe distinctly 
lacking in regret. As she glared into his 
dancing eyes, Scully felt her own mouth 
tremble with unwilling amusement as the 
forcefulness behind her disgruntled tone 
registered. She grabbed a pillow and threw 
it at him.

"Shut-up Mulder. I'm trying to apologize."

The snicker escaped before he could stop it. 
Then a hiccup.

"I could feel the contrition from here, 
Scully "

A wry smile was starting to break when a 
muffled sound in the hallway had both agents 
launching themselves off the beds in 
startled defense. Scully bolted for the door 
as Mulder landed on all fours between the 
two beds. If the uniformed Corporal with his 
hand raised to knock was surprised to find 
Scully wrenching open the door to Mulder's 
room, he was too occupied with the gun in 
her hand to show it. Wide eyes widened 
further when he saw the weapon's mate in 
Mulder's hand.

"I...I..."

Scully growled as the kid stammered over his 
explanation, his mother tongue lost 
somewhere between shock and fright.  If she 
was feeling more charitable, she might have 
felt sorry for him. As it was she just 
looked at the uniform in disgust. He was a 
soldier for god's sake. Weapons were a fact 
of his life. 

Mulder winced as his partner glared at the 
unlucky Marine. The young man looked 
pathetically grateful to see the agent 
holstering his weapon as he ambled over to 
the door. Mulder found it no end of amusing 
that for once, he was considered the sane 
and stable one of the family. 

He kept his voice steady, "Don't worry 
Corporal. If she hasn't killed you in the 
first three minutes, she's usually willing 
to let you live." He carefully refrained 
from looking at Scully for her reaction.

The Corporal swallowed, "I'm here to show 
you the way to Dr. Stevens' office." The 
words squeaked out in proper order, then 
stopped.

The Marine waited; for orders, most likely.

Mulder and Scully waited for some indication 
of how to proceed.

Mulder got to a count of three before 
Scully's patience snapped.

" Well?"  

He decided that her eyebrows must speak 
Marine because the kid snapped to attention.

"Yes, Sir!"

Mulder hastily whipped his head around to 
stare at the door jamb over Scully's 
shoulder and his teeth nearly drew blood as 
he bit down on the inside of his mouth. 
Mortification spread a tide of crimson 
across the soldier's face and Scully's face 
was priceless in peripheral vision. Not a 
twitch. 

The Marine stammered, "I mean Ma'am. Yes 
Ma'am! If you would follow me...?"

He about-faced so sharply Mulder half feared 
the lower leg bones of his right leg would 
twist fracture. The agent let him get a few 
steps out of whisper range before leaning 
down.

"Shame on you, Agent Scully."

Blue eyes glinted as she muttered back, 
"Jesus, Mulder. Do you think he's old enough 
to shave?"

"Since you scared him out of two year's 
growth, it probably won't be a problem."

Mulder was caught off guard by the pensive 
look that abruptly crept into her eyes. He 
watched, surprised, as she stared at the 
ramrod-stiff shoulders of the adolescent 
leading the way. 

"The army of the future." 

Her voice was soft enough he thought perhaps 
that she had not meant for him to hear her. 
His breath caught at the implications of 
that statement and his own words to her 
brother came back to him.

*What she believes, what she can prove and 
what she is willing to admit to are three 
very different things. Remember that. It 
might make your life easier.*

He should be taking his own advice. 

***************************************
Quantico Base
Sniper Training Program
1527 hrs


Lewis bit back a cry of pain as the stun-
load smashed into her shoulder and 
catapulted her from the tree. She crashed 
through the branches, the earth hurtling up 
to meet her in a too fast rush of brown and 
green. Frustrated rage and pain exploded as 
her head slammed off the inside of her 
helmet and she dazedly wondered if the 
liquid running into her eyes was sweat or 
blood.
 
For a split second she wanted to kill them 
all. 

She wanted to see the expressions of dull 
surprise on their features as her bullets 
shattered each and every one of those smug, 
contemptuous faces. Then she wanted to curl 
up in a ball and cry. Have someone hold her 
as she sobbed out her self-hatred and 
anguish and fear. Then she remembered why 
there was no one left to hold her and she 
wanted to throw up. 

Right after she blew the reason for that 
emptiness halfway into the next oblivion.

What the fuck was she doing? She was not a 
soldier. Hell, she was wearing fatigues that 
had to be duct-taped to her boots because 
the ones they had brought in for her were 
still too long in the leg. Her rifle rubbed 
open sores on her hands and she hurt in 
places it should not be possible to hurt. 
Jesus, she hurt. All because she had thought 
this was a good strategic decision.

She reached up a hand long enough to release 
the helmet straps and let it fall away from 
her head. The afternoon breeze tugged at the 
sweaty locks of her hair and she shivered at 
the sudden chill. Stupid. So stupid. Trying 
to keep up with men twice her size and three 
times the training. What the hell had 
Landers been thinking?

Brown eyes went flat and a  mirthless laugh  
forced itself painfully from her throat. The 
ex-Marine had been trying to make Lewis more 
valuable to the squad.  She needed to 
remember that. The people who had wanted her 
for herself were all dead. All she had left 
were her talents. And those were apparently 
not enough these days.

She had offered them her life, the FBI 
bastards. Everything she had. Everything she 
was. Everything she could ever have hoped to 
become. And it was not enough. It had no 
value to those who knew where to find her 
mother's killers. None. She had offered them 
everything. Had freely given them the right 
to demand anything from her. All she had 
asked was a chance to keep it from happening 
again. A chance to make the purchase worth 
the price of the lives spent to buy it.

They had looked at her offering, smiled 
politely and handed it back.

In that moment she had looked back at them 
and seen only the vulnerabilities her 
talents could exploit. The things her 
nightmares could create and unleash.  Did 
they have any concept the horrors she could 
birth in a ten by twenty basement with 
equipment ordered off the internet? Those 
were the weapons-grade horrors. What if she 
left off grace and skill in favor of simply 
pissed off? 

Did they even understand what her mother had 
died for?

Then Assistant Director Skinner offered her 
salvation. She had almost laughed at the 
careful way he set his trap. One viral bread 
crumb after another. She could have told him 
that the courtship was unnecessary. She was 
a cheap date and more than ready to commit 
to the evening. It had been all she could do 
to appear appropriately oblivious to the  
darker motives lurking in the shadows. She 
had seen far more than he had realized.

Rage spiraled into a familiar maelstrom and 
her fingers curved around the barrel of her 
rifle and pressed the cool metal into her 
cheek. Her mother and the rest of the team 
had fought so hard, sacrificed so much. All 
to prevent the horror of an unstoppable 
plague. The holocaust of a disease with no 
cure. But at least it had been a naturally 
occurring menace. Now, somewhere,  men 
bartered the souls of the unborn for the 
power to control access to a vaccine that 
could stop a beast her mother would have 
walked into Hell to stop. 

Their obscene bargain sneered at the worth 
of that offering. All the time, the pain, 
the lost hours of their lives. Those men did 
not just look away. They did not just 
withhold the solution. They beggared the 
world in an attempt to control it. How many 
could have been vaccinated by now if they 
dealt in good faith? She did not need to 
consider that there may have been good 
reasons to keep to the shadows.

There would have been volunteers.

There would have been more than enough 
people like her mother willing to give 
everything to keep the coming Apocalypse 
from sweeping away all she held dear. These 
men rendered those sacrifices worthless even 
as they spit upon the honor that prompted 
them. Lewis pushed herself into a painful 
sitting position and licked blood-encrusted 
lips. 

No more.

Mulder and Scully would point the way. She 
would follow long enough for them to 
identify the enemy...and then she would kill 
it.

A sudden rustle to her left turned her head 
and she found herself staring deep into the 
eyes of the Marine trainer who had knocked 
her out of the tree. His face was 
expressionless beneath green camouflage 
paint and she found herself wondering 
emotionlessly what he saw when he looked at 
her. At the one who always came in last on 
the obstacle course. At the woman who had 
gotten into the Sniper program only because 
someone had pulled some strings. At the 
shit-hot geneticist whose skills meant 
nothing on this battlefield.

Yet.

She looked back up at the hole her fall had 
torn through the leaves of the tree. Her own 
fault. He had caught her off-balance and 
unprepared. Just doing his job. If the 
instructors and other students were quick to 
point out the errors she made, maybe it was 
time to stop making so many.  If her life 
was not an acceptable offering,  her skills 
would have to suffice. 

This skill would buy her time.

Then God forgive the guilty...because she 
would not.

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

The young Marine had recovered himself by 
the time they arrived at what was obviously 
Dr. Steven's office. His crisp knock at the 
open door brought a friendly invitation to 
enter. As the Marine spun to give them room 
to pass, Mulder found himself cynically 
wondering just what mood the good doctor was 
trying to set. Casual intimacy with an 
underlying core of military respect, he 
finally decided.

The desk was a nice touch.

Initially seated behind it, Dr. Stevens was 
immediately imbued with an air of authority. 
Not necessarily a bad thing when dealing 
with soldiers, Mulder conceded. The way he 
instantly stood and moved to greet them gave 
one the feeling that they were being taken 
seriously. That important matters were being 
put on hold to see to their health and well 
being. 

It gave a rather warm and fuzzy feeling, all 
in all.

Wryly, Mulder wondered just how many other 
people had felt that instant moment of 
validation. The immediate desire to do 
whatever and say whatever it would take to 
keep that feeling of respect flowing freely. 
That was the wonderful thing about 
psychology, he thought sardonically. You 
knew you were being played and you bought 
into it anyway. Every serial killer who had 
ever confessed knew that the cop saying 
admiring things just wanted a confession. 
They kept on talking. 

They wanted to believe.

He would not have had a problem with it if 
he honestly thought this one was going to be 
any different. For himself, he did not care. 
There were things he and Scully needed to 
talk about-things that would get said one 
way or the other. Here was as good a place 
as any. Not to mention the fact that he 
suspected they were coming to the end of the 
line as far as shrinks were concerned.

It was, he thought grimly, absolute irony, 
that the psychologists who should be able to 
help Scully through what was going to be one 
bitch of an adjustment period, were also the 
ones in a position to do the most harm. If 
they misunderstood what they were seeing. If 
Scully believed what she saw in their 
eyes...

Be damned if this asshole would do to her 
what Patterson had done to him.

Unfortunately, it was already moving out of 
his hands. He should have known it would be 
the uniforms that would do it. The civilians 
and the others she could dismiss. These 
men...their opinions would carry weight even 
if she did not want it too. And she was 
hardly resisting. He could feel her relax as 
she responded unconsciously to the familiar 
surroundings. 

No doubt her father's den had felt much like 
this one. The obligatory photos and 
bookshelves filled with books on weapons, 
tactics and military history. Comfortable 
chairs with just enough depth that a 
uniformed leg would not lose its crease.
A few unidentifiable bits and pieces of what 
could be weapons or parts of a helicopter 
for all he knew. He would bet that every 
single one had a story. A hook.

Scully was taking the bait, sinker and all.

His mouth tightened reflectively as old 
memories resurfaced briefly. Steven's hand 
abruptly changed direction, becoming a broad 
gesture towards the seating instead of the 
handshake he had obviously originally 
intended. Mulder realized that some of his 
thoughts were showing in his eyes and that 
his expression had been misinterpreted. 
Instantly he felt his face assume a 
practiced calm. He was tempted, so very 
tempted to see how Stevens would react to 
the truth. The man worked with soldiers 
everyday and his resume had to be something 
extraordinary for Skinner to have gone to 
the lengths he had.

Maybe ...

His thoughts paused when he realized McIssac 
was studying him covertly from his perch on 
the corner of Steven's desk. Well, well. 
This was different. At this point in the 
conversation, most of them had all watched 
Scully. Usually with a poorly disguised 
mixture of disbelief and horrified 
fascination. 

Scully had made more than one sour comment 
about damned spots and bad Shakespeare.

McIssac raised one surprised eyebrow when 
Mulder leaned back in his seat, stretched 
out his legs and openly returned the 
appraisal. Scully hesitated briefly and he 
caught her fleeting twitch in his direction 
before she returned her attention to 
Stevens. Mulder ignored the conversation. It 
was mostly pleasantry, designed to put them 
at ease. No real important information 
beyond the location of the cafeteria and the 
swimming pool.  The heavy stuff would come 
later.

The two soldiers sitting unobtrusively by 
the window had to be bodyguards. He had not 
needed Scully's initial tense reaction to 
know that these men did more than provide 
directions. He had seen too many eyes like 
that in just that color uniform, usually 
just before they slammed him into a wall, 
tied him in restraints or injected him with 
god knows what. Mulder shifted 
uncomfortably, then shrugged as Scully 
glanced at him curiously.

Too much damn camouflage in the room.

He was wondering what he could push McIssac 
into revealing when a soft knock at the door 
drew everyone's attention sideways. Stevens 
smiled broadly as a young soldier stepped 
into the room carrying a tray of cookies and 
coffee. Stevens missed Scully's startled 
jerk as the newcomer smiled. Her eyes were 
wide and Mulder frowned as her hands twisted 
restlessly.

"What is it?" He leaned in slightly, keeping 
his voice low.

She just shook her head.

Mulder turned back to study the soldier 
thoughtfully. At second glance, the man was 
not as young as Mulder had first thought. 
Late twenties, maybe early thirties. The boy 
next door. The one who went on to become an 
accountant...not the one who stashed body 
parts in the freezer.

"He reminds me of someone."

Mulder looked again, then 
shrugged,"Pendrell?"

Scully looked startled, then met his eyes, 
her own astonished, "You."

Mulder looked dubiously from his partner to 
the soldier. "Scully, I hate to break this 
to you, but the only way we could look any 
less alike would be if you dyed one of us 
blue."

"Not alike. Movement. The way he moves...no. 
Not moves. Thinks. Masks. His face is a 
mask."

Mulder felt a shiver pass through him as the 
soldier suddenly turned his head and met 
Scully's eyes. Her voice was a hoarse 
whisper.

"He's pretending."

Stevens was still smiling at the soldier 
heartily. McIssac stepped slowly toward the 
desk, hand reaching for the coffee pot. 
Neither of them seemed to notice pale blue 
eyes fixed across the room. The clock on the 
opposite wall ticked another minute past.

"Pretending to be what, Scully?" 

He felt her shudder to his bones.

"Human."

For one split second he forgot about the 
soldier. Forgot about the threat. Forgot 
about everything except stunned disbelief.  
He almost asked her to repeat herself, 
except that he knew he had heard her 
correctly. He just sat there in mute shock, 
waiting for the pain to hit.

"Mulder?"

He tried to answer. He tried. He even 
managed to open his mouth, but nothing came 
out. Dazedly he wondered if this was how the 
sacrifice had felt. If the obsidian knife 
ripped fast enough that shock overwhelmed 
the pain and the last second of life was 
spent staring numbly at a still beating 
heart raised high to blood-thirsty gods.  
His eyes dropped to her hands. Screw Lady 
MacBeth.

Scully's hands were soaked to the elbows.

Then she was snarling in fury and he had a 
quick glimpse of a knife as she flung 
herself up and over the back of the sofa. 
Her foot caught him squarely on the back of 
the shoulder and he was simultaneously flung 
forward even as she used his back for a 
launching pad. Reflexively he pulled his 
weapon as he came out of his forward roll. 
Stevens and the others froze in shock as 
they stared at the Glock 30 held in a rock 
steady hand.

Even monsters belonged to somebody.

"Scully?"

There was the sound of more scuffling and 
then he heard a familiar growl. He twisted 
slightly, trying to bring her into 
peripheral vision, only to have one of the 
bodyguards try to shift into his blind spot. 
Mulder realigned the muzzle of the automatic 
and held it dead center on Stevens' chest. 
The motion was overly melodramatic, but it 
made the point. The soldier stopped moving.

"Scully!"

There was dead silence behind him, then he 
heard a head slam off the hardwood followed 
by the sound of her voice.

"Who the hell do you work for?"

Another long silence, then her voice came 
back even deadlier than before.

" Who was it you bastard? Cancerman? You 
doing his dirty work? "

McIssac's voice seemed almost too calm, 
considering the circumstances, "Agent 
Scully, Danny is one of the patients here. 
He isn't working for anybody."

The bodyguards obediently moved closer to 
Stevens as Mulder twitched the barrel of his 
gun. He was able to shift just far enough to 
get her in sight without putting his back to 
the door.  Danny lay sprawled on his back, 
Scully's knife pressed into the skin of his 
throat. Her nose was bloody and Danny had a 
suspicious red patch on his jawbone that 
would probably turn black and blue in 
another hour.

She answered McIssac, but she kept her eyes 
on the man on the floor. They had learned 
that much over the years. The bitterness 
coating her words should have curdled the 
blood in his veins.

"You just happened to place an assassin at 
my partner's back? He just happened to have 
an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch 
someone?"

Mulder found one more thing to regret. He 
had not seen either move. McIssac hesitated, 
then eyed both agents with a curious 
expression on his face. 

"Danny is what he is. He would not hurt 
either of you. Agent Scully, he doesn't even 
see you."

Scully's laugh was mirthless. "Oh he sees me 
alright. And I see him. If he ever tries 
that again, I'll put this knife straight 
through his heart. Do you understand me, 
Danny? Leave Mulder alone."

The sound of Stevens clearing his throat was 
very loud in the silence. "Agent Scully, 
Your partner is fine. He is safe. You are 
safe. But you need to let Danny go and back 
away slowly. Please. Very slowly. "

Blue eyes flickered, but did not move from 
their cold appraisal of the form beneath 
her. Stevens tried again, his voice edged 
with a strange desperation.

"Agent Scully, please. Danny doesn't 
like..."

"No." The quiet word was almost as colorless 
as the pale eyes fixed on her face. Danny 
ignored the blade at his throat so 
completely that Mulder almost looked at it 
to make sure it was still in her hand. 

"It's okay. She's alive."

Surprise flashed across McIssac's face and 
Mulder felt a twinge of worry as the Gunnery 
Sergeant started to frown uneasily. Danny's 
eyes moved up to study Scully's with 
fascination.

"You do see me, don't you?"

His gaze moved from her eyes to her face.

"What color is your hair?"

For a moment, no one moved. It was Mulder's 
voice which broke the guarded silence.

"It's red."

Ice-pale irises focused briefly on Mulder 
and McIssac sucked in a sharp breath as a 
brilliant smile broke over Danny's face. It 
was look of a man who had seen the Holy 
Grail, Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene all in 
the same moment.

"It is, isn't it?"

The joyous smile faded slightly as Danny 
stared at Mulder for a long contemplative 
moment. Every nerve in the profiler's body 
screamed in warning but the man's next words 
caught him off guard. 

"Touch her."

Mulder frowned slightly. Danny turned his 
eyes back to Scully and his expression 
turned pleading, "Please?"

For a long moment Scully never moved, then 
she met Mulder's flat gaze briefly and 
blinked  permission. Danny smiled slightly 
at this exchange and he watched in 
anticipation as Mulder paced carefully over 
to his partner and reached out toward her 
shoulder. Another joyous smile crested and 
broke as long fingers closed over fabric. No 
one moved as a tear slid from Danny's eye 
and his gaze worshiped Mulder's face.

"You're alive, too."

As abruptly as he had smiled, Danny's mood 
shifted and he frowned in disapproval at the 
knife in Scully's hand. 

"You really shouldn't have done that."

In a heartbeat, Mulder's hand was touching 
empty air and Scully was sprawled on her 
back. Her knife was in Danny's hand as he 
stared down at her, eyes unreadable. 

"You're too slow. "

One of the soldiers across the room cursed 
and through the pounding of his own pulse, 
Mulder could hear McIssac and the others 
breaking for better lines of sight. The 
possible threat they had presented was 
suddenly lost in the very real threat 
crouched far too close to his partner.

It took conscious and painful effort not to 
level his weapon at Danny's head. That was 
the only target he could take that would 
guarantee the fastest death. He glared down 
at the target not a foot and a half a way. 
So close. So close he could reach out and 
touch the man.

Too close to be sure.

He might not be fast enough. Not with the 
knife that close. If he aimed the weapon, he 
would have to take the shot. No waiting. No 
warning. Just an elimination of threat. He 
would have no choice. This close to the 
body, who knew where the bullet would end up 
on ricochet.

He waited.

For a long moment Danny and Scully simply 
stared at one another. Something cold 
flashed in Scully's eyes, a hint of darkness 
slipping the leash she normally held. Mulder 
was not the only one close enough to see it, 
but he thought he was the only one to 
recognize it. 

Danny sighed, for all the world sounding 
like an exasperated parent. "Clumsy. Come 
see me when you're ready to learn how to use 
this toy for real."

The knife flipped over almost lazily, the 
hilt smacking into her upraised palm. Scully 
looked at it as if astonished to find it 
there. Mulder blinked and Danny was gone. It 
was the speculative look in Scully's eyes 
that caught his horrified attention.

"No."

She ignored him. He protested again, voice 
rising with burgeoning panic.

"No way, Scully."

Her eyebrow arched in mocking query. A not 
so innocent "whatever do you mean?"

"You can't be serious."

He wanted to scream in frustration as she 
lowered her eyelids, momentarily veiling her 
eyes. She studied the edge of her knife with 
interest. Movement snagged his attention 
from the corner of his eye. In lieu of  
picking his partner up and shaking her until 
her teeth rattled, he whirled and leveled 
his weapon with deadly intent.

"Give me one good reason not to track him 
down and blow his head off."

Annoyingly enough, McIssac seemed to relax. 
His voice was actually amused as he grinned 
at the disgruntled agent," Besides the fact 
that it's illegal?"

Mulder narrowed his eyes and wondered just 
what the hell he had to do to start getting 
taken seriously. How did Scully manage it? 
He catches a couple of serial killers and 
everyone starts reaching for the Thorazine. 
Scully waves around a knife almost longer 
than her forearm and she gets lessons from a 
deranged assassin.

"I'm getting really pissed off over here." 

He talked too much. That had to be the 
problem, he thought grimly as the other two 
soldiers also grinned. Stevens was looking 
gratifyingly worried, but his face was 
taking on a nauseatingly soothing look that 
held more pity than fear. Really, he must 
talk to much.  Next time he was just going 
to start putting holes in people. 

"Agent Mulder, shooting Danny won't solve 
anything. He can't hurt you. We wouldn't let 
him. Please put the gun down and we can talk 
about it. We can talk about whatever you 
want. "

Mulder was going to start with Stevens.

His voice was almost conversational as 
Scully climbed to her feet and stepped up 
beside him. 

"Do you think it would help if I started 
wearing heels? It always seems to impress 
the hell out of everyone that you can run in 
those ankle-breakers. "

She eyed him warily.

As sudden as that he was shaking. His body 
trembled with a blistering fury that was as 
scorching as it was unexpected. He was so 
damn tired of it all. The tests. Every 
single one designed to tell him just how 
ineffectual he really was. How foolish his 
hope was. Every damn time they took him off 
guard, caught him in a blind spot and he 
never saw it coming. The lies. The truth. 
Two steps forward and three steps back. 
Every single time...

...he never saw it coming.

He was so damned tired. Tired of the 
laughter. Tired of the jokes. The bloody 
futility of it. Spooky Mulder, criminal 
profiler. So damn good at what he did he 
could not even tell when he was being jerked 
around by his own hopes and fears. Worse, he 
knew better. He knew he was letting them use 
him. He had always thought there would be a 
reward at the end.

Some fucking reward.

His sister was dead. The men who had started 
it all were beyond his reach forever. And 
Scully...

His eyes slid to his partner who was staring 
at him in confusion and a touch of narrow-
eyed speculation. He could not find it in 
himself to attempt a smile. Hope was a 
painful process when it refused to die. 
Maybe he was wrong about the timing. Maybe 
if he gave Stevens a hint...

He was bleeding inside and it was too damn 
exhausting trying to hide it.

"You know what?" 

The sound of the ejected clip was 
unexpectedly loud as it fell to the hardwood 
floor. The gun made a satisfying crash as he 
hurled it with all his strength against the 
far wall. It left a mark. Not much of one. 
Not nearly the damage he wanted to inflict, 
but at least it was proof he existed. 
Sometimes he wondered. He really did.

"Save the planet yourselves. I don't care 
anymore."

Avoiding Scully's eyes, uncertain how he 
would react to whatever  he would find 
there, Mulder walked out of the suddenly 
silent room without a backward glance.

**********************************
Manipulative son-of-a-bitch.

She tapped the knife against her thigh 
absently as she contemplated the two men 
staring at her in shock. Mulder's bodyguard 
cursed, then launched himself after his 
vanished charge. It occurred to her 
belatedly that she should probably stop him, 
warn him. The door slammed on the sound of 
retreating combat boots and she shrugged to 
herself. Oh well. He would find out soon 
enough. Her mind veered back to Mulder.

God damn it.

Stevens frowned slowly as he studied the 
weapon lying abandoned on the floor. Her 
knife slowed. One tap. Two taps. 

Three.

Stevens bent and scooped the Glock into his 
hand. Scully waited as he weighed the lethal 
combination of steel and plastic with 
careful interest. She saw a glimmer of 
professional consideration as his eyes swept 
over her body.

The knife halted.

"You going to follow him?"

The beast pacing back and forth in her brain 
paused as it considered both Mulder and the 
intent of the question. It snarled softly. 
Claws flexed and drew themselves across her 
spine with aggrieved insult. The ever-
present anger shimmered slightly as the 
adrenaline produced by the scuffle with 
Danny abandoned her. Mental lips curled as 
she contemplated mind games and 
manipulation.  

"Eventually."

McIssac twitched with sudden caution, 
straightened and studied her warily. She 
considered wrapping herself in her normal 
armor of cool competency and FBI composure. 
Considered it, then rejected it. The beast 
chuckled softly in her inner ear as Stevens 
looked up with suitably concerned and 
supportive  body language only to find 
himself being evaluated by predatory eyes.

He froze.

Scully almost reconsidered her attitude as 
she sauntered forward, but maybe Mulder was 
right. They were out of time. Deep beneath 
her anger coiled a pressure that was 
beginning to terrify her. It was not rage. 
It was not even passion. It was nothing so 
easy as emotion and nothing she could 
control. It was the icy recognition of the 
inevitability of change. 

It surged beneath the paws of the beast and 
made it shift with animalistic unease. Shot 
through with all the instinct and awareness 
of danger that the X-Files had honed, it 
whispered of forces racing toward each 
other. Of competing agendas both within and 
without. Then the howling started. Her own 
darkest fears and desires coming to claim 
her. 

The X-Files and Mulder had changed Dana 
Scully forever. While those changes evolved 
slowly, she had been able to ignore them and 
suppress them. Hide them. Pretend that she 
could remain in the sunlit world her family 
called reality by sheer force of will. As 
the shadows had hidden the enemy, they had 
seduced her into fooling herself. 

She had fallen willingly.

She cringed now, at the fragility of a world 
that needed to define itself by what was not 
rather than what could be. Red eyes laughed 
at her from the Abyss as they taunted her 
with an ugly truth. Her science and her 
rationalism had never been wrong, but 
sometimes she had wielded a weapon instead 
of a tool.

Sometimes, she had wielded it for the wrong 
reasons.

"Never again."

"Excuse me?"

Scully started as she met Stevens' confused 
gaze, then shook her head. "Just something 
someone said, several lifetimes ago." She 
looked at the gun for a long moment. 
Mulder's opening gambit. She looked at 
Stevens and wondered what her partner had 
seen. She hesitated, then made a decision.  

"He carries a back-up weapon, you know."

There was a pause.

"I see."

"No...you don't. That's the point. " She 
allowed herself a calculated smile, " It's 
like eating a cricket."

He knew she was playing with him. He gave it 
to her anyway. 

"I don't understand."

"The hand is quicker than the eye, Dr. 
Stevens, because you have successfully 
fooled the mind. "

"Illusion."

"Misdirection."

Scully reached out and reclaimed her 
partner's weapon.

"Sometimes...you actually eat the cricket."

She could have left it at that. For once, 
she could not resist. Her mouth twisted with 
a evil grin she had stolen from Mulder.

"Of course, with the X-Files, sometimes the 
cricket eats you."

*******************************************
The package seemed harmless.

Langly ran it through three separate tests 
for fingerprints, explosives and biological 
contaminants. Frohike checked it for bugs. 
Byers just wanted to know if it was a bill 
before Langly could use it to jot down the 
latest late night programming inspiration. 

He had not been impressed the last time the 
power got cut off.

When Langly finally declared that the 
envelope seemed safe enough to open, they 
studied the photos that fell out of the 
envelope with dismay. Not for one minute did 
they think these were faked. Oh, they would 
check, but they were a bit too familiar with 
the subjects to doubt the content. The 
intent was another matter entirely. Frohike 
grimly noted that there were no signatures 
and no clues as to the identity of their 
helpful informant.  

"We're being set up, aren't we?"

Byers frowned at Langly's trenchant 
observation, but did not disagree. Jimmy 
looked worried, but nobody moved to 
interfere when Frohike braced his shoulders 
and reached for the phone.

No one said anything about the way his 
fingers were shaking.

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

Scully found him in the showers.

Her guard just looked startled as she kicked 
open the doors of the men's shower room 
without hesitation. Her partner's bodyguard 
was collapsed across a far bench and Scully 
looked at his boot-clad feet. Maybe she 
should have warned him after all.

A conniving Mulder was a running Mulder.

"Mulder!"

There was a startled silence, then the sound 
of water shutting off. Mulder stepped around 
a corner, wrapping a towel around his waist. 
He slicked his hair back to get the water 
out of his eyes and frowned at her. She 
relaxed the reins on her anger.

"What the hell was that?"

Mulder hesitated, his eyes flicking to the 
two security guards. Scully turned and 
glared.

"Out."

The two guards exchanged glances. The anger 
which she had been keeping in check since 
Mulder had pulled his little stunt flared. 
Both men flinched as she began pacing back 
and forth, her heels drumming an angry 
rhythm that deepened the uneasy expressions 
on their faces. Mulder shook his head and 
gestured for them to leave.

Mulder's guard came to a limping halt just 
inside the door and waved his hand 
awkwardly, his face a question. His 
shoulders slumped slightly as he read the 
agent's answer in his eyes.

"We'll be just outside."

Mulder smiled tightly, then waited for the 
door to close gently behind them. He stood 
with his head down for a long moment, his 
back to his partner.

He quietly locked the door.

Scully paused as the soft snick echoed in 
the large cement room. Mulder moved slowly 
back into the center of the locker room, 
halting as she made a sharp motion toward 
him. She veered away at the last minute, 
before she could come close enough to 
actually touch him. Before she could find 
out just how badly the anger simmering 
through her veins wanted to hurt him.

Mulder stayed where he was, moving only his 
head as he tracked her restless pacing. 
Traced her movements as she prowled along 
the wall. 

"How did Stevens react?"

She came to an abrupt halt and peered up at 
him through a hank of hair that had fallen 
forward to obscure her eyes. 

"He ignored the saving the world crap, if 
that's what you mean."

Mulder's smile tightened, "Yeah. It seems to 
be a habit with me."

The beast yawned. Scully bared her teeth. 
"Get over yourself, Mulder." 

He opened his mouth reflexively, then bit 
back his first angry response. Silently he 
reached for his clean clothes. Scully tapped 
her fingers uncharacteristically, then 
allowed her irritation to flare as he pulled 
on his jeans.

"What the hell was that all about?"

He gave her a sidelong look that for a 
fleeting moment felt disturbingly 
calculating. He shrugged.

"I lost my temper."

The beast snarled in annoyance. "Not that 
what. The other what."

He actually pretended ignorance. "What 
what?"

"The what the hell were you doing taking a 
side trip to Mars while an assassin walked 
behind you what." The sarcasm dripped 
temptingly, waving the reddest flag she 
could muster. 

Mulder  set his jaw mutinously and glared 
back. Long fingers yanked the zipper up with 
a swift motion. Scully refused to flinch as 
he stepped forward and leaned in to hiss 
furiously, "I was distracted. Is that human 
enough for you? I wasn't the one doing the 
fucking flying squirrel over my partner's 
head. "

The beast reared back in shock, leaving her 
off-balance. That had actually sounded...

"Mulder?"

He jerked upright and looked away. For a 
moment, she thought she saw something she 
should have recognized. She floundered as 
the muscle in his jaw clenched 
spasmodically, caught between her anger and 
her sudden unease. She waited long enough to 
realize that he was not going to answer and 
when she finally spoke her voice was 
artificially composed and professional.

"What do you mean?"

Her view of his jawline did not offer any 
answers. 

"Mulder?"

"Forget about it, okay Scully? Just..."

She still could not see his eyes. The beast 
whined softly in confusion. In her mind's 
eye, a tentative paw reached out, a mirror 
image of her own hand reaching reflexively 
toward him. What did he mean? Mulder 
flinched when she touched him and for one 
brief instant she saw his eyes.

The beast screamed in terror as the floor in 
her mind tilted violently and, claws 
scrabbling, it was unexpectedly sent howling 
into the Abyss. Scully flung herself away 
from Mulder with a panicked gasp. Adrenaline 
surged, but her body could not decide if it 
wanted to fight or take flight. Mulder's 
eyes widened in shock and instantly his face 
smoothed out and his shoulders dropped as 
his hands fell to dangle loosely at his 
side.

She almost fell for it. Almost. As her body 
accepted the vulnerable posture, the 
unthreatening demeanor, some part of her 
mind was narrowing her eyes slowly. Grimly 
she catalogued the carefully open palms, the 
head tilted slightly to the side-emphasizing 
the unguarded line of throat and jaw. Almost 
it was enough. It would have been enough for 
Stevens. It would have been enough for 
Skinner. It should have been enough for her. 
Except for one thing. She had seen his eyes.

Mulder was hunting.

Crawling painfully over the ledge of the 
Abyss to lay on its belly, the beast growled 
suspiciously as a wounded bird fluttered and 
limped its way along the edge of the chasm. 
Instinct demanded action. Reflex nearly sent 
her into the chase. But she was only partly 
the beast. Ice-rimmed pupils studied the 
bird carefully, noting the high-pitched 
familiarity of its hysterical shrieks. Oh 
yes. She had heard it before. 

Illusion.

Misdirection.

Truth inside a lie, masking truth.

She slowly became aware that she had glided 
closer to her partner, so close that all she 
could see were his eyes as she tilted her 
head up to meet them. Mulder never flinched, 
never blinked, never moved. The hazel depths 
met hers with deceptive openness. There was 
no falsehood here. No treachery in meaning. 
The pain was real. The anger was real.

Mulder was hunting.

The intention was the lie.

"Why?"

She meant it to be an accusation. A demand 
for the truth. An answer to why he was 
suddenly turning the convoluted depths of 
his mind against her. The beast wanted 
blood. She wanted blood. The pain in her 
cracked whisper was an unpleasant shock. The 
plaintive agony was intolerable. Furiously 
she took a step back as he took a startled 
step forward.

"Scully?"

She stepped back again and tried to find the 
anger that had been plaguing her as the 
bastard kept on following. She almost lifted 
her hands to stop him, but could not bear to 
see if they were shaking. Was it because of 
this? What she was becoming? What they were 
becoming together? Was that it?

She lifted her head and searched his eyes 
with new intent.

Was he terrified that she would lose herself 
like the others? She tried to tell herself 
that he was just being cautious. That it was 
his job to evaluate her mental stability, 
the same way it was her job to evaluate his. 
She tried to convince herself...but the 
beast that had watched the wounded bird 
using itself as bait did not believe. 
Mulder's hand froze when she flung her own 
hand out and instinctively voiced a 
rejection.

She walked away before she could discover if 
the thing that he was hunting was her. 

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

The hallway outside the meeting room was 
silent. Somewhere in the building, Landers 
could hear the faint sound of raised voices, 
the cadence unmistakably military. The 
distant crack of gunfire was made more 
surreal by the sense of utter stillness 
emanating from the woman across the room.

Uneasily, Landers wondered if she had made a 
mistake, getting Lewis into the program. She 
forced herself not to fidget and waited 
silently as image after image was examined 
carefully, then moved to the bottom. The 
camera did nothing to reduce the impact of 
the numbers of armed Marines in the 
background-nor did they soften the grim 
expressions of the two FBI agents who were 
the subjects of the photos. Lewis came to 
the end of the stack and looked up.

"I'll be ready in ten minutes."

Landers hesitated, torn between need and a 
sudden feeling of shame. Beneath half-
lowered lids she studied the younger woman's 
unsmiling features and fierce eyes. Lewis 
wore the look of a woman who had pushed 
herself past limits she might have been 
better off respecting. A dearly earned 
knowledge which deserved a better reward 
than what the ex-Marine's silent presence 
demanded.

" You don't have to go with us. You'll miss 
graduating with your class..."

Landers flushed slightly as Lewis tipped an 
eyebrow in silent comment. For the first 
time, she found herself embarrassed by the 
sacrifice that duty was demanding. Perhaps 
because this time it was her doing the 
asking. The raw awareness that Landers had 
indeed come hoping to find a volunteer 
twisted in newly minted, painfully retrained 
eyes.

"I'll be ready in ten minutes."

Lewis handed backed the photos and turned to 
leave. As she reached the door she turned to 
find Landers looking after her, indecision 
and regret clear on the ex-Marine's face. 

Lewis managed an awkward smile. "Don't worry 
about it, Beth. It's just the final 
exercise." Her eyes grew cold as they turned 
inward." I've learned what I needed to 
know."

*************************************
Stevens leaned back in his chair and studied 
the man calmly eating a second helping of 
cafeteria lasagna.

So now he knew.

The coffee was bitter across his tongue as 
he slowly sipped the hot liquid, searching 
for inspiration in the heat and the bite. 
Nothing offered itself on the alter of 
understanding. He wondered briefly if anyone 
had any rules to go with this one. He 
recalled the hesitations in the explanations 
he had just received and smiled grimly. 

Probably not.

Spooky Mulder. The director of the FBI 
division responsible for profiling serial 
killers and human monsters had seemed 
strangely ambivalent about how the FBI felt 
about Agent Mulder. There had been a painful 
awkwardness about that half laughing, half 
apprehensive nickname. As if he both wanted 
to hear what the soldier had to say, and yet 
feared the story. What the hell had he 
thought Stevens was going to tell him? He 
might have thought professional rivalry, yet 
the profiler had never met Mulder. But he 
had heard about him.

It seems every profiler at one time had 
heard about him.

He never even noticed the cold edge to the 
coffee as he sipped it absently. They may 
have heard about him, but none of them had 
been prepared to put a label to what he was. 
Beyond spooky, that was. Spooky, eerie, 
uncanny...crazy. Stevens would have thought 
that just par for the course, but apparently 
not. And if Mulder was not profiling as the 
FBI defined it, what the hell was he doing?

For the first time in twenty years, Stevens 
found his palms sweating and his stomach 
churning as he faced a pain he did not 
understand and the terror that came from 
knowing that there was no one else. Ensign 
Paul Stevens had been three weeks out of 
university when he was tossed off the plane 
and into the jungles of Vietnam. His first 
patient was an eighteen year old  private 
who had just seen half his squad blown to 
bloody bits by a nine year old girl with 
three grenades tied to her tiny body. He had 
thrown up while the private cried.

The waters were closing over his head once 
more and he did not like it. He did not like 
it all. But he was beginning to understand 
why these two ticking bombs were counting 
down the seconds on his time.  

Everyone else got out of the way.

Three profilers. He had talked to three 
separate profilers and he still did not 
think he had talked with enough of them. The 
odd thing about the whole situation was 
that, crazy as they thought Mulder was, they 
wanted him back. Three cautious queries 
about his mental health. Three mumbled 
commentaries about open cases. Three 
sneering comments about little green men 
sharing the same breath as an oh so casual 
question about when he was coming back.

Guns. These idiots all carried guns. 

Shit. 

Mulder carried two.

They were all fucking insane.

McIssac was staring blandly into his egg 
salad sandwich and Stevens wondered if he 
had found any inspiration there. It had been 
the Gunnery Sergeant who had finally 
unearthed the real reason for Skinner's 
concern about Scully. Ironically, the fact 
that no one was talking was what had let 
them read between the lines.

Stevens had been a soldier long enough to 
know when things were being left out of the 
official reports, however, neither of them 
had seen a hint of that one. Not until 
later. It had been the uneasy pause from the 
profilers when they had mentioned San Diego 
that had tilted reality and sent McIssac 
searching for the things the report had not 
said.

Things that an elite team of SEALs refused 
to expand upon beyond what they had already 
written in their report.

Rumors should have bred like rabbits. There 
should have been innuendo, shaded meanings 
and implied condemnation. Tacit support. 
Hell, two FBI agents had been taken hostage 
by a madman. Their fellow profilers should 
have at least had an opinion. Not an arid 
desert empty even of whispers. No jokes. No 
variations of "if it had been me..". Not 
even a sanctimonious sneer. Nothing except a 
reiteration of fact so dusty it could only 
mean that battlefield justice had been 
assumed, a water-cooler court convened, and 
peer judgement rendered. An unspoken verdict 
passed by a jury of field agents in the 
hallways and back rooms of the FBI.

They still wanted Mulder back.

The sudden silence that descended on the 
room focussed his attention and he watched 
as Scully ignored both covert analysis and 
overt appraisal as she stepped into 
cafeteria. McIssac paused, his egg salad 
suspended in mid-air as he took in the 
blatantly lethal challenge screaming across 
the room. Stevens would have spent more time 
wondering at the easy way she located her 
partner if he had not been narrowly studying 
her outfit. A black spec-ops sweater topped 
black cargo pants and black hiking boots. 
Her knife was sheathed at her waist, a Glock 
30 rode her shoulder in a black shoulder rig 
and a tell-tale bulge at her ankle strongly 
suggested she was wearing a back-up weapon. 

"Jesus, she looks like a cat burglar from 
Kosovo."

Stevens wondered what she was trying to tell 
them.

Scully claimed the empty chair across from 
Mulder, her face expressionless as her 
partner pushed his salad across to her.  
Perfectly normal body positioning for a 
number of their guests.  Even the fact that 
she kept her eyes on the door at his back 
was perfectly normal. 

Really.

Stevens stood, inadvertently drawing 
Mulder's eye. The agent studied him for a 
long silent moment, then looked away as his 
partner said something to grab his 
attention. The psychiatrist remained 
standing, reconsidering the cool appraisal 
he had seen in Mulder's gaze. It was nothing 
he had not seen before. Hell, every man here 
was a wounded predator that the military did 
not trust with the civilians. 

<Tell me why I should trust you.>

That was the thing he saw in all of their 
eyes. It did not matter if they were SEAL, 
Marine Force Recon or CIA.  Every single one 
oozed a combination of wounded soul and 
lethal defensiveness. He recognized both the 
challenge and the threat. He had just not 
expected to see it in Mulder. Or Scully.

Now he knew why they were here. 

Ka-boom.

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

The younger hunters stood outside the center 
circle. Their voices were loud in the silent 
hour and several of the Elders shifted 
uneasily as the younger muttered and milled 
in futile circles. Their frustration was a 
combination of anger, shame and fear, but 
their youth gave it a recklessness those in 
the center eyed with apprehension. 

"This is madness."

Several of the Elders snarled at the 
temerity of the young hunter.

"There are too many chances someone knows 
she was here. If we hide this, we will only 
give them reason to look for something 
more."

Roberts ducked his head reflexively at the 
direct looks that searched first for 
challenge and only then for truth. He nearly 
stepped back, then noticed two of the 
younger females eyeing him consideringly. 
They did not seem inclined to discount what 
he said. His head raised slightly at the 
interest twisting in the eyes of two who had 
never shown interest before.

He held his ground.

"Her father's sister is a senator. You know 
who will come."

"What makes you think they will see more 
than before?"

He almost shied, then realized that her 
voice was more curious than challenging. He 
kept his gaze respectful as the Elder 
stepped from the circle.

"Grandmother."

"What scent do you follow?"

He swallowed and spoke carefully, "Their 
pack is complete."

Growls surrounded him. Shocked exclamations 
filled the night air and several of the 
hunters and most of the Elders hissed at the 
spoken sacrilege.
 
Ellis stepped from the circle, his white 
hair showing silver in the moonlight. He 
glared at Roberts, then turned to face his 
fellow Elders.

"They are only human."

For one moment, the night was silent. Then 
the Circle exploded in yells and violent 
exclamation. Roberts just stared at Ellis 
numbly, unable to believe that even he, in 
his contempt, would take things so far. The 
Sheriff was describing vulnerability, not 
species. In that moment, the moonlight 
stripped away the shadows and revealed the 
ugly truth gathered under the eye of the 
Goddess.

Fear.

"This is madness."

For one horrified moment, Roberts thought 
that he had voiced that angry declaration 
again. He almost sagged in relief as a tall 
female pushed her way to the center of the 
circle. Her dark hair flowed down her back 
in defiance of both custom and common sense. 
Still, only a fool would Challenge her. 

Her hand slashed through the air.

"Are you all moon-crazed? This is 
blasphemy." 

Sera glared around the Circle. Eyes dropped, 
but body language warned that it was not 
submission. She snarled angrily.

"The Dancer dreamed..."

An older female snapped her head up and met 
the other's eyes steadily.

"The Dancer has abandoned the Way."

Sera's lips curled derisively," She has left 
her Clan, not the Way. She follows the 
Dreaming."

Maia tilted her head, calculation gleaming 
in her eyes. 

"Do you claim them?"

Roberts froze, then flinched as the younger 
bared her teeth.

"The Goddess claims them."

Her opponent took an angry step forward as 
the muttering began anew. She halted when 
the Elder who had spoken earlier to Roberts 
addressed her softly in warning.

"Maia."

Maia stood, her breath coming sharply. Then 
she twisted her head, searching the crowd 
around her. Her eyes fell on a lone male and 
she signaled him to come forward. He glided 
to her with an impossible grace that Roberts 
could only envy. Around him, the others fell 
back nervously.

The Goddess-Called were not always 
predictable...or safe.

"Have you Dreamed of this?" 

The Dancer focused first on Maia as was 
proper, then broke protocol as he shifted 
his gaze sideways to study the dark-haired 
female glaring at him. Roberts shuddered as 
a sly expression darted across the Dancer's 
face and he prayed that Sera would be able 
to hold onto her temper.

She was not always reasonable when crossed.

And Piero was not always wise.

"No."

Rage tightened Sera's body. "You let your 
ambition cloud your Dreaming...as always."

Outraged, Piero stood to face her," I am 
First Dancer!"

"By default." Her voice was ice-edged with 
contempt. "I will not follow false 
Dreamers."

Maia's eyes widened, astonishment at her 
easy victory holding her motionless for a 
few moments. Her smile was malicious as she 
turned triumphantly to face Sera. "Do you 
Challenge?"

Roberts waited for Sera to back down. Shock 
and consternation rippled through the 
watching crowd when she took a deliberate 
step toward Maia.

"If you endanger the Clans with your fear, I 
will."

In the utter silence, Roberts could almost 
hear the held breaths as the Clans waited. 
Maia was caught in the Clan's disbelief and 
her own defeat. It defied all expectation 
that Sera might challenge her. Not when 
Maia's own Dancer held First and Sera had 
neither Dancer nor mate. Both were lost to 
the events of the past. Her mate lost to the 
Hunt and her Dancer to the path the Goddess 
gave her.

That was when he realized that he believed 
the Dancer followed the True Dreaming.

Which meant that Piero was not First.

May the Goddess have mercy on them all.

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

She paced.

Gone were the watchful Mulder and the 
friendly Scully from the initial interview. 
She paced back and forth between wall and 
window, never letting anything get between 
her and the door. Hazel eyes followed her 
path silently, dark with some inner 
contemplation. His thoughts were not 
reflected in his voice as he methodically 
detailed a bland summary of strange cases 
and government conspiracies. 

Every so often, Scully would stop her pacing 
and throw him a sardonic look. Mulder would 
grin and offer the other half of the story 
in brief six word summary, "Agent Scully had 
a different opinion."

Agent Scully would then snort and resume her 
pacing.

Truthfully, it was the weirdest interview he 
had ever had.  Normally his patients had to 
trust him before they opened themselves up 
to ridicule. Mulder did not care. Which said 
interesting things about where he placed his 
standards of trust. Stevens mulled over the 
implications of a man who honestly did not 
place any value on the opinions of others.

He hesitated as that thought rang too harsh 
in his mind. Mulder cared. He obviously 
cared what his partner thought. He just did 
not seem to care if others thought him 
crazy. Pride? Habit? Stevens' pencil tapped 
thoughtfully. Resignation? The psychiatrist 
watched as the agent glibly danced through 
some sort of tale involving zombies and 
Haitian voodoo. 

Mulder's every comment, even those 
ostensibly directed toward Stevens, were 
clearly directed to his partner. His eyes 
watched her face. He drew on their shared 
history to make her smile. He was talking to 
Stevens, but every word was chosen for 
Scully. If Stevens could just get his brain 
thinking in the right direction, he was 
certain there was a neon road map to the 
situation blazing right there in front of 
him.

Hell if he could see it.

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

"What do you think about when people ask you 
about Corman?"

Scully shrugged, "We got lucky."

An interesting way to describe six months in 
the Wyoming wilderness.

She expanded on her statement at his 
questioning look.

"He had an ugly MO."

Mulder just grunted agreement and Stevens 
folded away the working theory he had been 
harboring about Corman, Mulder and Scully's 
over-protectiveness. He should have known.

So much for easy.  

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

"Do you worry that they'll try to separate 
you again?"

He expected unease, disquiet...maybe flat 
out fear.

He got a grim laugh and a bitter smile.

"It's what they'll try next that matters."

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

"Use one word to describe your partner."

"Yes."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes."

She smiled slightly at the look on his face, 
but the smile seemed to be more for herself 
than Stevens. The psychiatrist wondered if 
he should have made this a duel session so 
that Mulder could translate.

"Have you ever dislocated a shoulder, Dr 
Stevens?"

He nodded cautiously.

"You remember the pain? The excruciating 
enormity of it as you tried to breathe? How 
every muscle and bone shrieked the wrongness 
and your entire world shrank to nothing but 
pain?"

His shoulder throbbed in remembered 
sympathy, then she looked at him with eyes 
unveiled and honest.

"Do you remember the nausea as you heard the 
ones grate against one another? When the 
only word you can think of is 'no'. Not 
because of the pain, but because of the 
offense. For the wrongness in your world. 
Then, the moment it snaps back into place. 
Where everything is back where it belongs 
and the absence of most of the pain is such 
a relief the rest actually feels good. Your 
brain knows the pain is still waiting, that 
the muscles are torn, that tomorrow will be 
even worse. But for one instant, the 
universe is complete. Everything is where it 
was meant to be. And there's only one word 
running through your mind."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

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

"What about family? Do regret what you have 
lost?"

The sudden stillness across the room would 
have worried him if he had not been aiming 
for an emotional explosion. He was getting 
more and more frustrated by his inability to 
discover the reason their Assistant Director 
had sent them here. Recent events showed 
nothing out of the ordinary. He smirked 
inwardly at that assessment. Nothing out of 
the ordinary for these two, anyway. So there 
had to be something. Something he was 
missing. Something perhaps that was more 
personal and less work related.

So, hand grenades with loss for gunpowder.

Both agents remained seated, eyes wide and 
unblinking. He looked at Scully.

"What about a husband? Family? " he 
hesitated, the continued softly, "Children?"

He had expected it would be Mulder who moved 
to the offense. It was a surprise when 
Scully slowly rose to her feet. Stevens 
froze when she shifted slightly, her body 
unconsciously moving to partially block her 
partner from Steven's line of sight. Who was 
she protecting? 

Mulder did not look at her. His eyes 
remained dark and surprisingly unfocused. 
Time stretched dangerously as the 
anticipated explosion did not occur and the 
surreal image persisted as she spoke.

"Mulder, tell Dr. Stevens the likely 
consequences of my getting pregnant."

Considering the odds against that happening, 
it seemed an odd sort of defense. Stevens 
almost frowned at the distant, almost 
disinterested tone in the agent's voice as 
Mulder queried her.

"The father?"

There was a long pause - or at least it 
seemed that way to the man beginning to 
think he had opened a nest expecting snakes 
and found dragons instead. Her voice held 
nothing, but Mulder was not in a position to 
see the deliberation and awareness in her 
eyes as she watched Stevens while she chose 
her answer. 

"Chris."

Nobody moved, then Mulder eyes refocused 
with unsettling intent.

"Agent Kelsing?"

His voice was flat. 

"He's nice."

"Are you going to apologize to him or should 
I?"

"He'd be fine."

"He'd be dead. Assuming it wasn't a set-up 
from the start."

That prompted a reaction. She whirled and 
planted her hands on her hips.

"Not every man I sleep with is going to be a 
homicidal maniac or Consortium spy."

"You get pregnant and we have to consider 
the possibility."

The two agents were standing toe to toe and 
shouting. Stevens watched warily as Mulder 
threw up his hands and stalked to the 
window. This was not the reaction he had 
been looking for. Both agents stood silent 
for a long moment, Mulder staring out at the 
compound, Scully watching Mulder.

He finally sighed and turned around.

"We'd have three years at the most."

The sunlight threw his face into shadow.

"They can get access to blood and tissue at 
any time. The child won't be at risk until 
she's old enough to talk. To test properly. 
They'll want a well-adjusted subject not 
some sociopath. It costs nothing to leave 
her with you until that time. Besides…she 
would be the perfect weapon. Every day, 
Scully. Every day would be the threat that 
this is the day they take her. They'd have 
us by the balls."

Scully flinched at the controlled fury in 
his voice, then tilted her head.

"So?"

Mulder's hands tightened. "Three years, 
tops."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Where?"

"Jesus, Scully. I don't know. Too many 
people know our faces in the US, especially 
after San Diego. Canada maybe. Someplace we 
wouldn't stand out but where we could get 
back to DC by car if we needed to. If I sold 
Dad's house and summer home we'd have enough 
to outfit a small lab. We'd have to take the 
books and toys with us though. Home 
schooling. Martial arts. Guns."

Mulder watched her as she reseated herself 
on the sofa. Her teeth were bared as she 
pretended to smile at Stevens.
 
He guessed that was an answer.

But to which question?

Several hours later, he was still trying to 
come to a conclusion. Their voices echoed 
softly in the darkness as he replayed the 
session recording one more time. Dim light 
from the single lamp on his desk cast 
strange shadows on the wall as he listened 
to two supposedly sane FBI agents describing 
a conspiracy of creation for the purpose of 
rendering a flesh and blood pawn in a larger 
game. A hostage to fortune.

Insanity.

A car bomb. A serial killer. Random 
shootings at Burger Boy. These were the 
evils a police officer could anticipate. Not 
a paranoid phantasmic world where two FBI 
agents could expect to be spied on, 
manipulated and victimized by a dark cabal 
hidden in the heart of the government. 

Even so, he was still missing something.

Something about the way she had looked at 
him as she demanded her partner articulate 
the price of procreation. Something that 
kept him listening to her taped voice over 
and over again. Something beyond the 
obvious.

Something she had been trying to tell him.

She had chosen that example deliberately. 
The fact of her barrenness did not obviate 
the cost or the regret. It had been the cost 
he had been asking about. He was certain 
there was an answer built into the question. 
Something she had intended to show him. 
Stevens hesitated, then rewound the tape. 

Mulder's solution.

What had she wanted him to see?

He listened again as Mulder dispassionately 
asked the name of the proposed child's 
father. If the two were sexually involved, 
the agent would not have asked. This was 
hardly the place he would seek reassurance 
of his place in her life if he did not 
already know the answer. 

If the answer had not mattered, she would 
not have given one. 

<Are you going to apologize to him or should 
I?>    

As if the proposed father, was still the 
outsider.

<They'd have us by the balls.>

Held hostage by a child not his own.

<Where?>

The fact that they would leave together not 
even a question.

He nearly banged his head against the desk 
as the obvious hit him. They were not 
soldiers. Not SEALs who might go to ground 
for weeks and never think anything of it. 
Not soldiers...but not really FBI agents 
either. Not anymore. FBI agents who were 
calmly discussing giving up everything they 
were in order to protect an infant who did 
not exist. 

Mulder had not even hesitated.

For a child not his own.

Stevens had understood that they were 
partners. He had not considered how they 
might have been required to redefine what 
that word meant to them. Given their 
knowledge. Given their history and their 
shared situation. She had known what her 
partner would say before he said it. Had not 
had a single moment of doubt in his 
commitment to her despite a set-up that 
included the possibility of another man and 
another man's child. 

He felt a bone deep stab of pity for the 
hypothetically involved Agent Kelsing. He 
felt even more for the two agents caught 
'twix and 'twain. Between the people they 
were and the roles that society sanctioned. 

Stevens had asked if she regretted not 
having a husband.

The poor bastard would never be able to 
compete.

********************************************
 "Use one word to describe your partner."

Silence.

"Agent Mulder?"

Hazel eyes blinked lazily.

"Mine."

*****************************************
Five FBI agents gathered in the headquarters 
of The Lone Gunmen. The eight people in the 
room studied the table sized map of the 
compound where Mulder and Scully were being 
held.

Frohike grimaced as he finished handing out 
copies of the material the three had 
painstakingly gathered.

"It was almost impossible to get any 
information on this place, so we can't 
attest to the accuracy with any certainty."

Langly nodded, "It's heavy shit, dudes. Far 
as we can tell, no one knows what really 
goes on in there."

"There appears to be a certain amount of 
legitimate counseling going on, but we 
suspect that this may be a cover for a more 
sinister purpose." Byers flipped to one of 
the middle pages of the report." The fact 
that we were sent these photos in the first 
place, and some of the rumors that a female 
associate of ours was able to obtain, makes 
us think that there may be some sort of 
conditioning program going on beneath the 
surface."

Mathews looked skeptical, "Conditioning?"

Langly stabbed the map with a finger, 
"Political assassins, man. Government 
patsies. Sleepers."

"Lone Gunmen?" Landers asked wryly.

Frohike nodded, "You said it, sister. It’s a 
mental institution for the mad, bad, and 
dangerous to know. Our surveillance has 
picked up SEALs, Marine Force Recon, CIA 
operatives and people who don't officially 
exist."

Harris glanced around the room uncertainly, 
then looked at Mike. "What did the AD say?"

Mathews shifted uncomfortably.

The Gunmen snorted.

Mathews glanced at the rest of the team and 
sighed as he found only determination 
looking back. He studied the map one more 
time." How the hell are we supposed to get 
in?"

Landers stood," We put someone on the 
inside."  

****************************************
 
"Scully?"

"I see him, Mulder."

"You think maybe Skinner had another reason 
to send us here?"

"Place is definitely getting crowded."

Scully leaned back just far enough to make 
casually interested eye contact with one of 
the new patients eyeing his neighbors with 
hooded eyes and defensive body language. His 
expression never altered, and he indicated 
neither prior acquaintance nor interest as 
he took his tray and found a seat.

"He saw me, Mulder."

Her partner responded by letting his eyes 
pass over the man , then walking by without 
a second glance. Commander Todd Barrett 
looked up in time to give the Scully the 
typically reflexive once-over of a man 
noticing the only woman in the room, then he 
went back to eating. She sat down across 
from her partner, and wondered what the hell 
they had missed.

Government testing? Illegal arms shipments? 
Had Skinner expected an informant to contact 
them? They would have to wait until tonight 
and see if Barrett contacted them. Her mind 
flipped swiftly through the possibilities as 
she absently scanned the crowd at Mulder's 
back for unknown threat. She reached for the 
other half of Mulder's french fries and 
discovered he had already dumped salt and 
vinegar on them for her. She almost grinned 
as she wondered what Stevens would make of 
her cravings for french fries while trying 
to solve a puzzle. Mulder's french fries no 
less. Her partner just thought they were 
brain food and was perfectly willing to 
share.

She munched thoughtfully as Mulder hummed 
and buzzed across from her. It never ceased 
to amaze her how most people could mistake 
the man for being half asleep. She felt the 
thoughts racing through his mind like 
electricity across her skin. He had just 
about reached the "need more sugar in my 
coffee" point when she realized they were 
under observation. She had pushed the sugar 
bowl within reach of Mulder's hand, 
anticipating the moment he would want it,  
when she found the two SEALs sitting at the 
table next to them watching intently.

For one split second she wondered if they 
had alerted the men to the emerging 
situation. She relaxed as she realized that 
the men were probably just reacting to the 
silence. She and Mulder generally chatted 
and argued through dinner like normal people 
- if you could call off-color jokes, 
Flukemen and alien conspiracies normal, she 
thought wryly. Mulder had been waxing 
nostalgic lately - probably a reaction to 
the changes in their lives.  She had found 
herself laughing at things she never would 
have thought she would ever find funny.

Maybe he was not the only one waxing 
nostalgic.

Despite the odd invitation to a pick-up game 
of basketball, most of the soldiers kept a 
polite distance from him. The fact that she 
had yet to see any of the soldiers come 
closer than six feet should have disturbed 
her more than it did. As it was, it bothered 
her for Mulder's sake, but she had to admit 
that for the first time since San Diego, she 
was feeling less claustrophobic. 

Too many tall men with guns in her world.

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

It was after midnight when the phone rang.

Not the facility line - his own personal 
cellular phone. 

His feet were already lacing themselves into 
his boots as he answered the call. He did 
not need intuition to know this was bad. The 
fact that someone had this number and was 
calling so late said it for him. He hit the 
on-call button for the guard by reflex.

"Stevens."

"Dr. Stevens? Assistant Director Skinner."

For one blazingly furious minute, he thought 
the man had called because he was curious. 
Then his brain caught up with his common 
sense and he replayed the reluctant tone in 
that gruff voice. Whatever else he was 
doing, this was a man who did not want to be 
making this phone call.

"I'm sorry to be calling you so late, but we 
may have a situation developing."

Stevens loved military understatement. 

"What sort of situation?"

There was an embarrassed hesitation on the 
other end of the line. Stevens frowned as he 
realized the nightwatch guard had not 
responded and hit the button a second time. 

"Several of my agents have recently come to 
the conclusion that Mulder and Scully are 
being held against their will."

That was nice. 

"I may have inadvertently contributed to 
that impression."

For the love of...

"Fine. Get one of them on the phone and I'll 
have someone go wake your agents. Will that 
solve this problem?"

Just as he was about to smack the on-call 
button again, he heard the faint sound of 
running combat boots in the hallway. About 
friggin' time. He turned his attention back 
to the phone to hear Skinner's apologetic 
tones.

"Unfortunately, that may not be possible. I 
would have called earlier but I just found 
out..."

The sudden blare of the compound alarm 
nearly caused him to drop the phone. On the 
other end he heard Skinner take a deep 
breath and groan.

"I am so sorry about this, Dr. Stevens."

Well, no shit.

Stevens cocked his head as a familiar sound 
penetrated the sound of the alarm. 
Helicopter? How the hell had they gotten a 
helicopter this close to the base? He must 
have said part of that out loud because when 
he lifted the phone Skinner was muttering to 
himself.

"...swear to God, if they break it, it's 
coming out of their paychecks..."

Several muted pops signified the night 
flares going off. Nice to know someone was 
awake. He waved absently as McIssac kicked 
his door open and launched himself inside, 
weapon ready.

"So, FBI-when's your flight?" he asked 
politely. 

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

"The next time we get captured by a serial 
killer...let him kill me, okay Mulder?"

Her partner let out an exhausted grunt and 
gave her an unhappy glance as he squirmed to 
get a slightly better view of the mock 
command center in the meadow below. Mud 
oozed around the edges of his body and she 
could feel cold water slither through the 
heavy cotton of her army fatigues adding 
another five pounds to her mud-slimed body.

The dull green of the trees around them ...

...exploded across the night sky as flares 
turned the darkness into a screaming 
confusion of alarms and green tinted 
shadows. Barrett  paused as he turned, eyes 
widening as he read the panic on both 
agents' faces. Then he saw their guns. Both 
had worn their back-ups instead of their 
primaries, expecting to be climbing through 
windows and sneaking through locked doors. 
They had followed the SEAL into the night 
without question. They had not realized 
until that minute that the SEAL had not 
known that they were armed and that the 
reason he had tapped on Mulder's door was 
not exactly why they had been waiting for 
him.

"What the hell is going on?" Mulder's yell 
was lost in the howl of the air-raid sirens.

The Commander just closed his eyes as three 
Marines in full combat gear rounded the 
corner, glanced at- then ignored - Mulder 
and Scully and focused their attention  
above them. Scully had just enough time to 
hear the ex-SEAL say, "Oh shit." before 
canisters of smoke were falling from the 
sky. Two familiar armed figures  dashed 
toward them from the shadows only to flinch 
and fall as Barrett whirled and aimed his 
weapon.  Scully coldly catalogued the 
pneumatic double tap of a trank gun and then 
the bodies were on the ground.

Barrett was yelling something about staying 
to the edge of the smoke and then the 
soldiers were diving and Barrett had knocked 
both FBI agents flat. They were rolling, 
rolling as the helicopter emerged from the 
green-lit smoke like a black-clad ghost, the 
downwash whipping hair into eyes and roaring 
through to the end of the world.

Scully remembered staring up at the belly of 
the beast and wondering where in the hell 
the tail rotor was...

  
Their Marines were dead, combat vests 
covered in enemy orange paint.  Landers and 
Mathews were tagged as critically injured 
and Lewis was MIA. Harris and Vickery were 
somewhere on the opposite ridge waiting for 
the signal. Waiting for a signal that would 
never come. Scully stared at the paint-
soaked carnage below and felt hot anger curl 
through her body as the afternoon wind 
whipped the  lone flag in the center of the 
field. A flag that was the wrong color and 
did not even pretend to be modest in its 
arrogant triumph. She could almost hear the 
laughter as Mulder's shoulders sagged in 
early defeat. Special Agent Scully stared at 
the flag and hated.

...the smoke was reduced to a few dying 
trickles that curled nearly invisibly 
beneath the harsh, bright white glare of the 
compound lights. The helicopter hunkered 
forlornly beneath drooping rotor blades, the 
defeat in its image echoed in the eyes of 
the FBI agents huddled on the ground. Their 
weapons had been confiscated by angry SEALs 
wearing little more than underwear. Vickery 
and Harris were passing in and out of 
drugged unconsciousness, their bodies 
propped up against the underside of the 
cowed chopper. Landers flinched as raucous 
laughter from the Marines echoed in the 
night air. Mathews glared at a spot 
somewhere between Mulder and Scully refusing 
to meet anybody's eyes. Scully was watching 
the tick in his jaw carefully.

The Marines had been careful not to include 
Mulder and Scully in their overzealous 
search and weapons seizure. The suggestion 
of special treatment created an 
uncomfortable barrier between the agents on 
the ground and the agents on their feet. 
Harris was white and shaking, and even 
Vickery's arrogant confidence had taken a 
beating. Caught with their pants down and 
locked in their own dormitory by a handful 
of FBI civilians, the Marines were 
enthusiastically taking their revenge. 
Defiantly, Mulder and Scully glared down the 
loudest of the offenders.

The trio sitting morosely in the helicopter 
had surprised Scully the most. Protected by 
Mathews, the three had managed to hack into 
the base computers and turn most of the 
security against itself. Four SEALs had 
stormed the tiny command post just as 
Barrett had informed Mathews that they had 
misread the situation and not to shoot 
anybody. He had surrendered before getting 
himself killed, but not before the three 
hackers had done an impressive amount of 
damage to the computer network. They 
bristled now with all the pugnacious 
aggressiveness of terriers confronting 
Dobermans, nursing bruises like badges of 
honor. Beneath the bravado, however, they 
flinched as the FBI agents withdrew into 
humiliated silence, leaving them alone on an 
abandoned field. 

Danny stepped out of the darkness, a gagged 
and bound Lewis casually thrown over one 
shoulder. He dropped her on the ground at 
Scully's feet and ignored everyone as he 
held out his arm to the red-headed agent.  
His face was bland  as the blood dripped 
onto the ground and Scully reached for a 
first aid kit.

"I think her teeth are real." the assassin 
said thoughtfully.


To give them credit, most of the SEALs and 
one or two of the Marines had looked 
disgusted as the final scores went up on the 
whiteboard. There had been no doubt in any 
of their minds that the FBI team would lose. 
They did not have the training or the 
experience to win. That had been the point 
of the exercise. They should, however, have 
been able to pull a better score than this. 
It had not been a slaughter.

It had been a fiasco.

Both McIssac and Stevens had expected that 
the one-half of the Marine complement 
assigned to the X-Files team would be 
unpleasant and confrontational.  The FBI had 
made fools of them - in their own eyes and 
in the eyes of the SpecOps patients. It had 
been the patients who had mobilized for 
defense - the Marines had found themselves 
locked down in their own barracks by three 
hackers and some canisters of knock-out gas.   

Stevens and Skinner had mutually decided to 
continue the wargames and tactical training 
as planned. Orders to the Marines to support 
the outsiders during the subsequent 
exercises had not gone over well. 

The unlucky Marines assigned to the agents 
followed their orders to the letter. Exactly 
to the letter and not a mark beyond. They 
offered no suggestions, made no effort 
outside of subtle treachery. They knew they 
were dead. They just smirked and made sure 
that they became laughably easy targets. As 
much as they could have taught the agents by 
example, they withheld that aid and forced 
their own side into positions they could not 
defend, battle plans that could not be 
trusted, and strategy doomed to a greater 
failure than the minds behind it deserved.

Stevens almost sent the lot of them packing 
but McIssac had been the one to point out 
that if he sent the Marines home-they still 
won. A bitter, tasteless victory, but the 
scars they would have inflicted would have 
been real. 

So he waited.

He held his tongue as McIssac emotionlessly 
assigned the same Marines to each team once 
more, feeling physically ill as the two 
teams lined up on either side of the 
cafeteria. Ugly triumph gleamed in carefully 
respectful eyes as the Marines used eyes 
front to pointedly ignore the expressionless 
FBI agent standing in front of them, chin 
high and eyes dark. 

The agent made an achingly lonely picture, 
isolated, his own people beaten down and 
resentful on the fringes, his partner 
invisible somewhere behind their own line of 
army green. Stevens found himself praying 
that somehow the profiler would find the 
words that he could not.

He had forgotten about the possibility of 
action.

And he had forgotten that contempt and 
rejection go both ways.

Proud as they were of their assault rifles 
and long-range accuracy, without the day to 
day practice and emphasis on control, the 
pistols the Marines carried were little 
better than toys. They did not use them. 
They did not respect them. Every Marine 
knew, bone deep and to his soul, that the 
only reason God created sidearms was for the 
moment when the entire war went to hell. As 
far as the soldiers knew, the need for that 
weapon meant the enemy was far too close and 
the angels were losing.

Mulder, however, was FBI.

Twenty-one feet… 

…or less. 

That is how close federal agents get to 
their targets. Interview distance. Wearing 
suits and pleasant smiles, they get up close 
and personal with the innocent until proven 
guilty. A Glock 30 made better sense than an 
assault rifle. 

Not to mention safer for civilian 
bystanders.

The soldiers had no idea just how fast a 
trained agent could draw his weapon and aim 
it with precision. The Marine Sergeant 
belonging to the X-Files team blinked 
stunned eyes at the spreading stain of X-
Files blue splattering the front of his 
chest. Nor did any of the Marines behind him 
move fast enough to stop what happened next. 
Trained instincts told them that the first 
shot would be precise, that recoil would 
throw off the second , put the third in the 
wall and the fourth in the ceiling.

Instinct was wrong.

Under the right circumstances, a handgun is 
anything but a last chance weapon. 

Before Stevens could even come to his feet, 
two shots rang out as one. Two Marines, one 
at each end of the line, cried out and spun 
as close range paint pellets struck with 
bone bruising force. Two more shots echoed 
before anyone could do more than try to 
decide where to look. Six more had fired by 
the time hands fumbled awkwardly for weapons 
and the rest were dead before Mulder's empty 
clip hit the floor.

Scully's final bullet covered his reload.

The metallic scrape of his second magazine 
sliding home grated against shocked nerves. 
None of the SEALs had moved and as Mulder 
turned his back to the dead and faced the 
enemy without drawing down, Stevens saw 
sudden knowledge dawn on startled faces. By 
tradition, the teams had one hour to scatter 
before commencing hostilities, but it was  
custom only. Mulder could as easily have 
fired on the opposing team. Stevens saw 
expressions in all shades of thoughtful as 
they reconsidered his choice of target…and 
understood why.

Scully's boot-heels rang on the hardwood 
floor as she stepped up to Mulder's side. 
Her face, as she glanced at blue-splattered 
corpses, was porcelain cold in contempt. 
Stevens would lay hard money on the fact 
that she had not known ahead of time what 
her partner was going to do. Nonetheless, 
she had shot her targets without warning and 
without mercy. They had looked at Mulder and 
seen the threat.  

They never saw the bullets that took half of 
them from behind.

In the corner of the room, Danny looked up 
and smiled.

Stevens watched as the FBI members of the X-
Files team abruptly surged to their feet and 
gathered by the door in proper defensive 
formation. In disbelief he saw fierce 
determination light each face as they 
prepared to do battle with their screening 
force eliminated before they started. With 
their most vulnerable flank eliminated, he 
thought slowly. They were not acting like 
they knew they were outnumbered. They were 
acting like they suddenly had a chance. 
Mulder saluted the opposing team casually 
and then the whole team was out the door. 
The blue-splattered corpses looked at each 
other uncertainly.

One of the SEALs snorted. 

"Friendly fire."

Rejection and contempt go both ways.

Friendly fire, indeed.
****************************************

The X-Files team kept going down hard. 

No surprise. 

But they were taking an unexpected number of 
the enemy with them. The day they killed 
their Marines (quietly being referred to by 
some as The Execution), the team had gone 
out in a blaze of glory. They had been three 
hours into the exercise before Stevens 
realized that they were treating it like 
exactly what it was. A suicide mission.

They succeeded.

The mission had been simple. Eliminate the 
leader of fanatical terrorist organization 
about to trigger a series of assassinations 
and attacks on schools, hospitals and 
government buildings across the country. 
Said terrorist group had a stockpile of 
weapons and enough explosives to put a hole 
in the moon. It was only after the SEALs had 
killed Mathews, Landers and Harris, they 
realized that the dead agents had simply 
been a diversion. They had not been 
attacking the room where the leader was 
sequestered nor had they been protecting the 
escape corridor. Mulder and Scully had never 
expected to need one.

Lewis sacrificed herself to take out the 
guards on the weapons cache. Mulder was busy 
with one of the terrorist bombs while Scully 
covered the entrance. When the SEALs smashed 
through the door, Scully took out one, but 
was unable to get the second or the man 
behind him. But she could take the bullets 
meant for her partner.

With complete knowledge of what she was 
doing, she stepped between the SEALs and 
Mulder. Across the eternity of a split 
second in time, she met the eyes of the man 
holding the gun. In that moment, he reacted 
to the intent in her eyes and the commitment 
on her face. His reflexes pulled the 
trigger. 

Stevens found him shaking at a corner table 
three hours later.

"I swear to God, for one moment I thought I 
had shot her."

Stevens hesitated, then sat down cautiously.

"You did."

The SEAL looked up, startled,  then laughed 
without humor. 

"I mean, I thought I shot her for real. " he 
tossed back more bitter coffee," So did 
she." The SEAL eyed Stevens for a silent 
minute, clearly debating with himself. Then 
he shrugged. " You don't get that kind of 
flashback from a classroom, Doc. FBI agents 
shouldn't...it's not...she knew exactly what 
she was doing when she walked into that 
bullet." He paused for a second, before 
adding softly, "So did he."

Stevens was caught off guard by the 
unexpected shiver that worked its way up 
from the base of his spine. Three lurid 
orange paint bullets at close range had 
knocked the female agent off her feet. 
Mulder had looked up just as his partner's 
body had hit the floor and stared directly 
into the SEAL's eyes. 

Then he had triggered the bomb.

The thing the soldier recalled later was 
that in the split second between the 
earsplitting squeal of the timing device and 
the concussive sound standing in for a 
catastrophic blast large enough to turn two 
hundred terrorists into plasma, Mulder had 
met his dying partner's eyes.

And smiled.
  
The next day, The X-Files Division failed to 
show. The SEALs and the Force Recon members 
of the crowd looked around with narrow-eyed 
suspicion. The FBI team had already proven 
that they were willing to do the unexpected. 
There was not much they could do about the 
rules however. For this exercise, both teams 
had to be in the cafeteria at the beginning 
of hostilities. Just as a puzzled McIssac 
was about to call forfeit, one of the SEALs 
tilted his head back and stared at the 
ceiling. 

"Ah, shit." the soldier sighed.

Bodies rained down upon them. Bodies and 
bullets. It was a close run thing, but 
trained reflexes carried the day. Still, the 
maneuver got them brownie points for effort. 
Considering that they must have spent the 
night in the ceiling structure, Stevens had 
to agree. Curious, he changed the wording on 
the parameters of the next mission just to 
see what would happen.

The next morning, all the Marines gathered 
to find themselves abandoned by both sides 
of the war.

The distant sound of sporadic gunfire had 
them twitching unhappily as they turned 
useless weapons over and over in their hands 
for most of the day. As the X-Files team 
dragged their bruised, battered and 
exhausted asses into the cafeteria, Stevens 
wondered if this qualified as tough love. 
The Marines eyed the team uneasily as the 
small squad ignored them and collapsed at 
one of the tables. Landers rolled her head 
sideways and groaned as four members of  the 
spec-ops team that had just chased their 
federal butts across three hundred acres 
sauntered in tiredly, but with a jaunty 
spring in their step. They grinned down at 
her. Lewis had her left cheekbone plastered 
to the table and stared longingly at the 
food counter not thirty feet away. 

One of the SEALs leaned over to follow her 
line of sight and signaled for one of the 
Marines to toss him a sandwich. He snatched 
the chicken salad out of the air, spun one 
of the chairs around ,straddled it as he met 
her hungry gaze, and took an enthusiastic 
bite.

"I hate you." she told him seriously.

The SEAL grinned.

Harris groaned as he listed dangerously in 
his chair. "Kill him tomorrow." the former 
lab tech mumbled.   

Lewis smiled dreamily," 'kay.", then closed 
her eyes.

One of the Marines snorted and leaned in to 
speak to his buddy in a voice they could all 
overhear,"She's gotta stop shooting at 
ghosts, first."

The SEALs lost their smiles. None of them 
said a word, but the second half of the 
chicken salad suddenly appeared next to 
Lewis' nose. Several of the Marines muttered 
under their breath, and a loud smack was 
followed by a grunt and an angry protest. 
The SEALs ignored them. 

Lewis groaned as she bit into the sandwich, 
then handed the remainder to Harris. The 
agent did not even look to see what it was. 
He just tore off a section and passed the 
rest to Landers who had to nudge Mathews 
awake long enough for him to eat his share. 
The SEALs studied the path the sandwich was 
taking with thoughtful interest. Landers 
laboriously wrapped the last piece in the 
plastic wrap it had come in.

Surreptitious glances turned into outright 
stares as Vickery and Commander Barrett 
staggered through the door. Both looked like 
they had been dropped from a helicopter 
without benefit of parachute and dragged 
through the brambles backwards. Despite her 
exhaustion, a fierce grin split Vickery's 
face as she scanned the tables and found 
Mulder and Scully still missing. Commander 
Barrett slid along the wall and sank into an 
exhausted crouch behind Mathews and Landers. 
He looked startled, then his face went 
expressionless, as Vickery handed him half 
of the last bite of sandwich Landers handed 
her.

Stevens contemplated the motives of the 
former SEAL. The man could barely look at 
any of his former colleagues. When he did, 
the pain in his eyes was heartbreaking. Yet, 
he had found something with the X-Files 
team. Whether it was something he recognized 
or it was something he felt the need to 
protect, Stevens had yet to discern. The 
hostility shown the team had had a mutual 
spillover effect and when Barrett could pull 
himself out of his memories, he trailed 
after the team like a shadow. 

How the Commander had ended up in Mulder and 
Scully's therapy group was either the most 
fortuitous piece of bad luck Stevens had 
ever seen, or someone had fucked up big 
time. He had seen the darkness in the 
Commander's eyes before. He should never had 
been in a room with civilians who had no 
understanding of the fact that the fingers 
of his left hand were the least of the 
Commander's losses. Barrett's team had been 
one of the best. Not just good. Fucking 
unbelievable. 

Technically, he was the only survivor.

The man the SEAL had been had died in that 
explosion. He had lost far more than a unit, 
a family. He had lost the man he was when he 
was with the others. A man whose actions and 
honor were bound forever into the image he 
had built for himself of the future. A piece 
that belonged so totally, without question, 
that it still did not understand how four 
parts of it could be dead, yet it still 
remained alone among the living.

Stevens wondered again, this time uneasily, 
what Barrett truly saw within the team. What 
it was that he had found that he could not 
find within the others of his kind gathered 
in this room. Surely he did not think...

Stevens chewed his lip thoughtfully, a 
worried frown drawing his eyebrows together. 
He looked again at the team claiming 
ownership of a corner table and of each 
other. Stevens began remembering other 
things as the Commander's head snapped up 
when the door opened. Steven's stared at the 
battered pair limping through the door and 
the puzzle pieces began to tremble. One by 
one they moved into place.

Scully laughing at something Mulder had said 
while Barrett ducked his head to hide a 
hungry gaze Stevens had thought meant 
something else entirely. Vickery snarling at 
one of the Marines, Barrett watching 
carefully from the sidelines. Harris 
swearing at a stubborn bolt that refused to 
slide until Barrett leaned over and smacked 
it in just the right place. Then the bitter-
sweet shadow on his face as he watched the 
kid walk away.

Shit.

The former SEAL had lied to himself. He had 
not come here to help rescue Mulder and 
Scully. He had come here to find something 
lost in a form he thought he could live 
with. Jesus.

What the hell was going to happen when he 
discovered that he was wrong?

Stevens tried to let his preconceptions go 
as he watched two bedraggled FBI agents 
study their small band, shoulders sagging 
and weary defeat in their eyes. Scully 
turned her head to look at her partner, 
futile anger simmering in her eyes. Mulder 
hesitated, then his eyes darkened and his 
shoulders straightened. Scully met his gaze 
as he stared down at her, neither agent 
moving. 

"We're profilers, Scully."

The suddenly brilliant smile that spread 
across her face held the Furies' intent. 
Stevens was not sure how to describe 
Mulder's.

"It's time to change the game."

Jesus Christ.

What if Barrett was right?


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

He was trying to bribe her with reheated 
Chinese food.

It was going to work too, damn it.

Scully leaned a bit closer as the 
tantalizing aromas wafted past her nose as 
he stepped into her room. He grinned and 
held it just out of reach as he dropped a 
box of files into her arms. She grumbled as 
she kicked the door shut behind him.

"Attempting to corrupt an FBI agent is a 
federal offense."

"I could leave."

"I could handcuff you to the bed and let you 
explain to all those macho soldiers why 
you're still wearing all your clothes in the 
morning."

Mulder appeared to stumble, but her 
attention was already shifting to the box in 
her arms. Ignoring the look on her partner's 
face, she tilted it until she could read the 
label. She grimaced when she made out the 
casefile number on the shipping label, then 
dropped the box on her bed.

"How bad is it?"

He flicked her a grim look."Bad."

Crap. She knew it. She had known he would 
find something. 

"We won't know for sure until they find more 
bodies, but this is going to get ugly, 
Scully."

No, shit.

"How many?"

He started dishing out the food."Twenty-
three."

She stared at him, appalled. "Twenty-three? 
They ignored twenty-three missing persons 
reports?"

"They didn't even look."

She started to answer, then took the plate 
he handed her. "How the hell did they 
justify that?"

Mulder's snort was dryly contemptuous, "It's 
a hell of a lot of work. "

"You're not serious."

"I am. They had a confession for six 
murders. They had six bodies. Case closed."

"And the self-confessed killer committed 
suicide."

"Damn convenient wouldn't you say, Agent 
Scully?"

"Mulder..."

He flipped open the box and handed her the 
top folder. Juggling food and plate with the 
ease of long practice, she flipped through 
the file. The extremely thin file.

"Where's the autopsy on Meffler?"

"They didn't do one." 

Crap.

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

"This is getting ugly."

Stevens stared down at the remains of the 
butchered deer and swallowed sharply.

Getting?

He had underestimated them. Or maybe he had 
simply underestimated the level of pain 
these people considered normal. He had grown 
SEALs who had refused to talk to him crying 
in his office. He had hard-eyed Marines 
starting at shadows and shooting bushes. He 
had feral-eyed profilers using every 
psychological warfare tactic the CIA had 
ever invented using his facility as a 
playground. 

Oh, and let's not forget the FBI 
sharpshooter who had declared war on one 
seriously disturbed ex-CIA assassin.

Luckily the assassin was amused.

At least, Stevens thought he was amused. 
Lewis was still alive. That boded well for 
amusement. Shaking his head, Stevens 
wondered where exactly that woman had been 
when they passed out survival instincts. He 
had actually pointed out that the fact Danny 
had carted her over his shoulder through a 
herd of laughing Marines had had nothing to 
do with her competence or the fact that she 
was a woman. 

A comment that might have made more of an 
impression if Danny had not knocked her out 
of a tree three hours later.

And if she had not landed on three very 
surprised Marines.

The X-team spent the next week ripping the 
emotional guts out of his patients. Military 
records and data gathered by their own 
little intelligence department were 
transformed into horrifically accurate 
profiles.  But if the profiles were scary, 
the commitment behind them was terrifying. 
The exercise had long ceased to be a game.

He was at a loss as to how to tally the 
points being made.

Or who was making them.

The walking wounded snarled back, bandaged 
up their souls and rebounded with everything 
they had. It could actually be considered a 
compliment in a horrifying sort of way. The 
SEALs used every field skill, every erg of 
patience, every ice-cold nerve and every 
ounce of strength and endurance in their 
damaged bodies and injured minds to drive 
their profiling opponents to the ragged edge 
of their physical ability. There was no 
mercy asked, and no quarter given. The 
nightmares they earned in return were just 
the price of victory.

Except there was no longer any certainty who 
the victors would be.

The X-Team had lost their food supply to a 
rather spectacular explosion Captain 
Halloran had orchestrated two days ago. This 
was their reply. They had not just killed 
and eaten any deer. They had killed the 
crippled one.  The one with the twisted 
foreleg.   

Things were not getting ugly.

They were ugly.

Unfortunately, the truth often was.

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

The silent office seemed darker than normal 
as Ellis quietly unlocked the door. The 
woman on the other side slipped into the 
room and moved away from the windows. He 
secured the door again, noting with vague 
pride that his hands were steady despite 
what he knew she was here to ask him.

Maia let the hood of her jacket fall to her 
shoulders and captured his gaze with her 
own. He resisted the urge to drop his eyes 
to the floor. In this endeavor they were 
partners. He smiled coldly.

She hesitated only momentarily before 
setting her mouth in a firm line. "Your plan 
is reckless."

Ellis strode to his desk and leaned against 
it, bringing his eyes level with hers. He 
shrugged. "Perhaps."

He picked up a file and held it up for her 
inspection.

"There are three separate requests in here 
sent via the local field office for more 
information. His instincts are good."

A tiny frown creased her brow as she studied 
the folder in question with angry 
frustration. Ellis carefully laid the file 
back on his desk.

"Once they find out about the girl, they 
will reopen the case."

Her lips curled."I will not have that 
Abomination brought back to where it can do 
further damage."

Ellis eyed her shrewdly. She was truly 
outraged - with good reason. His own stomach 
churned as he considered what the Dancer had 
done. He refused to believe any of her 
actions were Goddess-led. In this, Maia had 
his complete support.

Her own motives, however, were more selfish.

No matter. Her agenda suited his-and gave 
him the authority to order others to fulfill 
his will. He clenched his fists again as he 
thought about the rumors and questions 
circulating among the Clans. That there were 
some even giving enough credence to 
speculate offended him. They were blind.

He would not let their blindness destroy 
everything.

"Don't worry," He told her softly," They are 
ready. All you have to do is say yes."

Maia bared her teeth,"Yes."


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

Perception really was all.

The annoying thing about it, was that he had 
had all the pieces. Worse, this was his 
specialty. Not just in terms of general 
career, but in his chosen subfield. His lips 
quirked wryly as he found an unobtrusive 
seat in the gymnasium. The SEALs had 
recognized it, probably because it had fit a 
pattern they understood instinctively.

He had seen too many other possibilities and 
overlooked the reality.

On the other hand, it was enlightening to 
discover how misleading the truth could be. 
Irritating. But enlightening. They had never 
lied. Had actually been excruciatingly 
honest, in retrospect. At least with him. He 
was not sure whether he was  more 
embarrassed, amazed, or terrified.

Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

Sometimes it’s a figment of the imagination.

McIssac caught the large manila envelope as 
Stevens sent it sliding across the table and 
opened it cautiously. As he scanned the 
documents inside, Stevens watched first 
shock, then confusion flit across his 
features, only to be followed by puzzlement 
and finally chagrined amusement. As one, 
they both turned their heads to seek out the 
two agents who were at the center of 
something with more snapping heads than a 
hydra.

"This complicates things." 

"Does it?"

McIssac looked surprised that he would even 
ask, but Stevens was watching Mulder. The 
bastard knew. He knew exactly what he was 
doing. The presence of their adaptive 
behaviors had been a surprise, but he had 
recognized them. The sideways glances. The 
instinctive shifts to keep the other within 
peripheral vision. It was normally a 
seamless, albeit unusually focused, almost 
unnoticeable dance. 

Mulder had consciously broken that pattern.

He drifted just outside vision's edge. 
Nothing more, nothing less; leaving his 
partner subconsciously looking for someone 
who should have been there and was not. 
Stevens watched as her attention drifted 
once more from Danny as she turned her head. 
Each time she found him, her body would 
freeze and a fleeting expression of annoyed 
confusion would cross her face before she 
turned back to the task at hand. 

The psychiatrist found it almost more 
telling that the assassin had not used those 
moments of inattention to drop her flat on 
her ass. By rights he should have. 
Considering the progressively choppy motion 
of her knife hand and the data in that 
envelope, he wondered if perhaps Danny was 
not fully aware of the nerves that Agent 
Mulder was deliberately rubbing raw.

Manipulative son-of-a-bitch.

Her pique with her own fractured 
concentration ended the training session 
with Danny early. Despite that, she was 
sweating profusely. As she stalked over to 
the benches where Mulder and part of the 
team had retired to watch the last of the 
session, her partner helpfully threw her the 
towel slung around his neck. 

Mulder said something to Danny that caused 
the assassin to shrug and then the agent 
turned to speak with Landers. Harris, Lewis 
and Mathews were still halfway up the 
climbing wall at one end of the gym while 
Vickery lounged a couple of benches above 
and behind Mulder. Her eyes were half closed 
as she idly watched the two agents in front 
of her, a tiny smile twisting her lips every 
now and then.

Unexpectedly, Scully's hand slowed as she 
mopped her face. Her expression shifted into 
sudden suspicion as she stared at her 
partner.  

"Busted."

Stevens glanced at McIssac, then shook his 
head." She knows he's up to something. I 
don't think she knows what."

"You've got to be joking."

Stevens studied at the profiler, his own 
eyes dark with shadows. "Intriguing, isn't 
it?"

McIssac's eyes slid to the envelope on the 
table. 

"That would be the obvious conclusion." 
Stevens answered the unasked question 
slowly, eyes drifting to the small group of 
SEALs and Marine Force Recon patients 
engaged in a semi-friendly cut-throat game 
of basketball down at the other end of the 
gym. Then he looked back in time to see the 
wall climbers stagger back to the bench. 
Harris leaned past Mulder and  grabbed 
several clean towels.

"Guess it's time to go find out."

********************************
  
If Stevens gave her one more guarded look, 
she was going to shoot him.

No. On second thought, she was going to 
shoot Mulder.

Her partner gave her a bland  glance as she 
growled and pushed past him into the 
psychiatrist's office. Damn annoying décor. 
She could not remember now why she had found 
it soothing before. Right at this moment she 
wanted to burn the desk, tear holes in the 
inoffensively innocuous carpet and paint the 
walls in carnelian red.

Failing that, she wanted to shoot Mulder.

If he did not put some daylight between his 
body and hers, she was going to do it right 
now.

Swiveling on one heel she gave him a deadly 
glare and pointed her finger at the sofa.

Mulder gave her a hooded look but, for once, 
did as he was told. His upper arm brushed 
hers and she suddenly found her cheekbone 
skimming across his chest as he shouldered 
past. The kiss of fabric released a teasing 
hint of warm skin and clean t-shirt. Her 
teeth ground together as her stomach muscles 
clenched in an inappropriately familiar 
response.

Great.

Just fucking wonderful.

She was turning into Sally the Slut. Or 
maybe Susan the Sociopath. Sandra the 
Sociopathic Slut? This was getting 
ridiculous. Her emotions ping-ponged between 
anger and lust, but seemed completely 
disconnected from the tempest that roiled 
somewhere inside the caverns of her inner 
mind. Those stronger drives eeled their way 
through the shadowy depths,  locked away 
beyond her reach. Reaching for them, her 
hand disturbed the reflective surface that 
anger and lust seemed to be skimming across 
and everything was lost.

She wanted to feel something.

She had lived with the weight of her 
emotions for so long, their loss was leaving 
her spinning frantically across the thin ice 
crusting the covering waters reaching for 
something tangible and solid. Rootless anger 
and purely physical lust bodyslammed her at 
random intervals and sent her hither and yon 
across the increasingly barren landscape. 
She had lost them all. The deeper emotions 
and the paler but more complex. The colors 
were bleeding together into violent splashes 
of fiery red and burning orange. The glare 
of that light had thrown back the shadows 
and with that, she had also lost the 
tapestry of muted feelings and less vibrant 
emotions whose threads were bleached and 
washed away by the heat of the flames and 
the bright of the light. 

She had begun to worry they were lost 
forever.

Sudden ponderous motion below had the beast 
snarling in desperate fury. A blizzard of 
knife-edged shards of white flew as claws 
and teeth gouged and chewed with frantic 
energy as it attacked the ice at her feet. 
Blood ran from slashed gums and paws, as it 
battled with a familiar cold anger she 
wished she could feel again. Grimly she 
urged it on.She was running out of time. The 
dark shadows beneath the ice curved with the 
heavy patience of the predator. 

They could afford to wait. 

She could not. 

If they would not come to her, would not 
break the ice of their own accord, she would 
smash through it. Then she would see if her 
claws were strong enough to go fishing. 
Almost, almost the beast was successful. 
Then it howled in rage as the shapes slid 
gracefully back into the deeps. She lost 
sight of everything as the beast tore off 
across the landscape in futile chase. She 
wanted to grab her head and howl in 
sympathy.

She was beginning to wonder if those rumors 
about Mulder during his time with the BSU 
were more than rumors after all. She had 
thought it was simply the fact that he was 
male. Young and male. Good-looking, young, 
and male. But maybe not. If she ever lost 
the angry side of angry frustration, Sally 
the Slut would be living down to her name.

She reached to run her hands through her 
hair and froze. She sniffed at her palms. 
Her mind flashed back to a mildly sweaty 
towel she had not given a second thought. 
Crap. She smelled like her partner. No 
wonder the SEALs were avoiding her. She was 
probably covered in a layer of male 
pheromones half a foot thick.

Her first impulse was not to grab him and 
drag him back to her room. 

Resisting the urge to drop-kick her partner 
and his oozing glands halfway into next 
week, the beast in her mind paced back and 
forth. Frustrated tension rippled down its 
back, across powerful shoulders and into 
lean flanks. The wounded bird had 
metamorphasized into a battle-scarred wolf  
that eyed her with lazy green-eyed amusement 
from the other side of the Abyss. He 
sauntered with a teasing grace just out of 
her reach, pausing in surprise when she 
headed purposefully for the Chasm in her 
mind. She studied the gaping canyon and 
listened to the wind howling out of its 
depths. Green shifted to yellow and the 
canine beast on the other side grinned at 
her arrogantly, clearly expecting her to 
leap the narrow Abyss.

Her paw flashed out and whacked him upside 
the head.  

Mulder's legs were stretched out comfortably 
and despite the way he was eyeing her, and 
the tension evidenced by one bouncing knee, 
he looked like he was planning to stay. 
About damn time. At least she would know 
where the bastard was located. All morning 
he had been a hair's breadth from flying the 
coop and she would be damned if he was going 
to do something stupid without her.  

Oddly enough, he seemed perfectly content to 
let her glare at him. Her eyes narrowed.  
She must have overlooked something. Mulder 
was never this cooperative. Not unless he 
had another agenda. She knew that. He knew 
she knew that. He knew she knew that he knew 
she knew…

Her dentist thought her headaches were 
caused by the grinding of her teeth.

Obviously, he had never met Mulder.

The sound of a throat clearing behind her 
had her spinning in reflex defense. She 
blinked at the knife that appeared in her 
hand as Stevens tapped an envelope against 
his left palm. How…? Mulder should have seen 
them. She should have seen Mulder see them. 

Shit.

She tried to tell herself that they were 
just tired. She used her fingertips to scrub 
the bone between her eyes with painful 
harshness. Hard enough to hold back the 
traitorous tears that abruptly burned and 
itched at the bridge of her nose. Too many 
flashes of unexpected and nearly 
uncontrollable anger. Too many nights 
staring at the ceiling. Too many sidelong 
looks that had come far too close to pushing 
her into unwise action.

Too many maybes. 

Maybe she was going crazy. Maybe she was 
getting old. Maybe she had gone too far to 
ever again see the same world her mother and 
brother saw. Maybe she wanted something that 
did not exist. Maybe there were not even 
words to define it.

Maybe she needed to get her shit together 
before somebody got killed.

"Scully…don't"

His body was abruptly blocking her path of 
retreat. Long fingers closed over her 
shoulders tightly, keeping her from - what? 
Attack? Retreat? For lack of any alternative 
action she glared at him. 

"It's not your fault."

His eyes were tense as he begged her to 
believe him. For that reason only, she kept 
her voice even when all she wanted to do was 
scream. 

And shoot Fate square between the eyes.

"Who's fault is it going to be, Mulder? The 
next time?"

 When the cost was too high. 

"You don't have eyes in the back of your 
head."

She studied his face for a long moment. "No, 
I don't." she said finally,"But I'm supposed 
to have two in the front."

She could see the protest leap to his lips. 
He bit it back because he knew she would not 
believe him. And maybe, because in some 
small part of him, he agreed. She was 
expecting frustration follow. What she got 
was uncertainty and an unexpected flash of 
apprehension. Then he pulled back into 
himself so far she lost sight of him. Scully 
felt her lips half-form his name in 
surprise. He stared at her pensively, 
unreadable deliberations scurrying behind 
shaded eyes and an indrawn lower lip.

Mulder having second thoughts.

Maybe.

Something lifted its head from the other 
side of the Abyss and regarded her with ice-
blue calculation.

Maybe not.

She was moving forward, eyes locked to his 
when movement from the corner of her eye 
distracted her. Frustrated rage flashed 
across Mulder's face and his head snapped 
toward the offending motion, a short feral 
snarl escaping. Shock held her immobile just 
until his body followed his head and his 
shoulders blocked her view. Her earlier 
irritation flared. 

"Jesus Mulder, tell your testosterone to sit 
down and shut-up."

"Unfortunately, Agent Scully, it's not his 
testosterone that is currently creating 
problems." Stevens sighed.

She stepped around her partner's shoulders 
and stared at the psychiatrist with 
impatience.

"It's yours."

She had just enough time to see Mulder's 
expression shift from moderately homicidal 
to puzzled before Stevens held out the 
envelope. Unease twisted her nerves as hot 
anger surged restlessly. When the string  
securing the contents snagged, she ripped 
the offending barrier open with her nails 
and scanned the top pages rapidly.

"Scully?"

She handed the package to her partner and 
studied Stevens with cold intent. His body 
language shifted uncertainly and two sets of 
eyes widened with surprise as Mulder moved 
in tight behind her. Eyes that blinked 
momentarily with confusion when she did not 
pull away. 

Fools. 

Stevens sat down on the edge of his desk 
cautiously. McIssac kept his hands carefully 
visible and flat on his thighs. 

" I can explain what's driving your mood 
swings. The rage. Why your attention span is 
so unfocused lately."

Her smile did not even pretend to reach for 
her eyes.  She watched with dispassionate 
interest as his gaze darted towards Mulder 
and an expression of speculative calculation 
crossed his face.

"I suspect your partner knows exactly what 
that data means."

Maybe she was giving Stevens too much 
credit. 

"Where did this come from?"

She felt Mulder glance at her as he 
registered the level tone of her voice. 
Stevens paused before replying. He finally 
shrugged, his body language conveying 
confusion laced with the barest touch of 
unease.

"I sent for your complete medical records 
two days ago. This arrived by courier this 
morning. The return address is fake."

The beast snarled softly. 

"Scully?"

"Nanograms per deciliter of blood, Mulder." 
her reply was carefully emotionless. "Ours."

Mulder's head shot up and his eyes chilled.

"Nanograms of what, exactly?"

"Testosterone."

Plots within plots. Why this data? Why 
Stevens? Why help at all?

Assuming the intent was benign.

"There are two sets of data, Scully. The 
first looks like it coincides with hospital 
stays." Mulder hesitated, "There's nothing 
for the three months you were missing."

Of course not. That would give away too much 
of the game. Now they were left to wonder if 
the omission was deliberate, if they had 
withheld that data for a purpose or because 
they did not have access to it. 

"The second set of data?"

When he did not answer, she turned to look 
at him. His eyes met hers with a strange 
sort of anxiety. 

"Mulder?"

"Scully, I swear I did not know."

His hand captured her wrist when she reached 
for the pages. She examined it for a long 
moment, wondering briefly what new horror 
the shadows had cooked up to test them. Or 
maybe it was not a test. Mulder obviously 
thought this information would have 
consequences. Maybe somebody else did as 
well.
She reached for the papers with her other 
hand.

It took her a moment to separate the two 
data sets from the jumble of numbers. For an 
instant, the pattern eluded her. Then the 
dates registered. Numbly, she flipped 
through the pages, her mind in that place 
she used when everything around her was 
going to hell. When the bullets were flying, 
the car sliding, and everything was out of 
control. It was the place that allowed her 
to react. To act instead of feel. The only 
problem was that that place existed on the 
cusp of adrenaline-and it was a short slip 
over the side. She gently placed the papers 
in her partner's hands.

He flinched.

"What was he looking for, Mulder?"

He mutely shook his head.

She was not angry. She knew that. Her 
breathing was even, her hands steady. There 
was no nausea, no tightening in her chest. 
No heat. No sense of being out of control. 
No sense of being in control either. No 
sense, now that she thought about it, of 
anything at all. Was this acceptance? Had 
she finally been pushed so far that nothing 
they could do could surprise her? 

That made sense.

"This data starts six weeks before I entered 
the Academy." She told him flatly, "He had 
to be looking for something."

Why was he looking at her like that? 

"Scully…"

"We'll need to run some tests. "

"Scully…"

"If Patterson's technique has a biological 
explanation, maybe we can…"

The papers exploded in all directions as 
they hit the back of the sofa. She watched 
as they drifted to the floor, orphaned 
leaves without a tree. She was mildly 
surprised when his hands suddenly wrapped 
her shoulders tightly and he forcefully 
wrenched her around until she faced him. As 
she spun, she saw McIssac wince and then he 
was gone as hazel eyes dominated her vision.

She felt her forehead crease slightly as she 
stared at him, puzzled. Which Mulder was 
this? It did not look like Abandoned-Plan 
Mulder, or Caught-With-His-Hand-in-the-
Cookiejar Mulder. Nor was manhandling his 
partner something that any of his 
personalities were prone to do. She tried to 
recall any other time he had physically held 
her back. He was generally smart enough not 
to try.

So who the hell was this?

"Scully, I swear I didn't know. Patterson 
never told us. We knew symptoms, but he 
never told us there might be a biological 
cause. I swear, I didn't know."  

Whoever he was, he seemed sincere. Mulder 
generally got his way by forcing her to 
follow or get left behind. Scully narrowed 
her eyes suspiciously. Had she missed her 
cue?  Just to be on the safe side she 
touched one of the white-knuckled hands 
currently leaving bruises on her shoulders.

"I believe you, Mulder."

Considering how often he heard those words, 
the last reaction she expected was 
desperation.

"Agent Mulder, based on those test results, 
this may not be the best time to push her on 
this issue."

Mulder's head snapped up and he glared at 
the psychiatrist. 

"She's still Scully."

"She's also still here." her voice was 
clipped.

Both men ignored her. Maybe she should just 
shoot everybody. Unfortunately, she would 
regret shooting Mulder when she became sane 
again. As she turned her head to consider 
her annoying new appendage, her libido chose 
that moment to notice how close her partner 
was standing. As she shifted uncomfortably, 
he obviously mistook her motion as an intent 
to run because his grip tightened. Stevens 
seemed oblivious to the tension as he 
talked.

"Despite its image as the quintessential 
symbol of masculinity, we know very little 
about how testosterone works. We are only 
now beginning to have some idea about the 
effects on the male brain and body. We know 
almost nothing about its effect on the 
female."

As Mulder's fingers flexed and the heat from 
his palms burned through the thin fabric of 
her  t-shirt, her traitorous mind abruptly 
flashed on a completely different image of 
those same hands anchoring her shoulders for 
an utterly different purpose. 

"After several disastrous experiments with 
injected testosterone, the military began a 
long-term study to see if and how 
testosterone levels affected the sorts of 
positions for which our soldiers were best 
suited. The results were...surprising."

The distance between their bodies was 
maddening. Not enough to ignore and just 
close enough to feel. The heat from his body 
burned down her spine and raced across the 
backs of her arms and legs. Despite his 
uncanny ability to read her mind, Mulder was 
ignoring her mental shouts to let go. She 
almost groaned aloud as he misread the 
tension in her shoulders and began to 
massage her shoulder blades gently with his 
thumbs. He probably thought it was soothing. 
Her fists clenched and she was not precisely 
certain which impulse she was strangling.

"We discovered that very few highly 
testosteroned individuals made it out of the 
lower ranks. Obviously there is still a lot 
more research to be completed-not the least 
of which is the question of whether their 
testosterone levels were a result of nature 
or environment. If environment, it could 
very well be that other adaptive habits 
contributed to the personality issues that 
kept them from advancing. 

In general, we found that in addition to 
different base levels of testosterone, we 
were dealing with the fact that these levels 
were highly reactive to environment. Not 
only could environment affect the actual 
testosterone level itself in a short-term 
manner, but the base levels which the day to 
day highs and lows moved around could be 
affected in the long term. Worse, we found 
that reactivity speeds differed from 
individual to individual. Some levels-either 
basal or short-term- reacted quickly to 
environmental or emotional stimulus, while 
others took much longer or much greater 
amounts of stimulus to affect.

Your patterns are almost identical."

Mulder's thumbs halted. What...?

"That's impossible." she said flatly.

Stevens eyed her considerly, "Except for the 
obvious gender differences in the amount of 
testosterone in your system, your reaction 
patterns are almost identical. Your basal 
levels are naturally mid-range, moderately 
reactive and extremely stable. Your short-
term reactivity is high and stable. Not 
especially surprising in successful law 
enforcement officers. You do, in fact, share 
many common characteristics with our special 
forces commanders. Your systems generate 
short-term spikes as needed without 
affecting your basal levels unless there is 
a long-term outside influence. In general, 
it means you handle the physical stresses of 
your situations without the biological 
stressors unduly affecting your emotional 
stability."

Above her head, Scully heard Mulder draw in 
a sharp breath.

"But?" His tone was distant, almost 
disinterested; however, every muscle in the 
body standing behind her was locked. Instant 
fight-or-flight Mulder. She almost snorted 
with a graveyard impulse toward laughter.  
Highly reactive short term responses indeed.

Stevens hesitated. He appeared almost 
apprehensive for a moment. Whether it was 
because he was uncertain of his facts or 
because he was uncertain about the cause of 
those facts, would have to be determined.

"But?" 

Stevens' voice was reluctant. "But when you 
profile, whatever it is that you do 
completely destabilizes your short-term 
levels."

Bingo.

"Whether it's cause or effect, your levels 
are rocketing around like they are playing a 
game of arcade pinball. For several possible 
reasons which you can probably guess at, 
Agent Scully is experiencing the most 
extreme reactions."

There was a reason for the insanity.

Oddly enough she found herself relaxing as 
she latched onto the lifeline. There was a 
reason. A rationale. A biological answer to 
the question of her sanity. Alleluia and all 
the saints be praised , Sally was a hormone-
induced aberration. Thank-god. 

She twisted around to face her partner.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" she 
asked him quietly.

Then she walked out the door.

******************************
Ten minutes after the first time the hidden 
phone vibrated, a dark figure slipped into 
the shadows behind the gymnasium. Certain 
that he was alone, the man waited patiently.

The cellular phone in his hand was a pre-
paid phone purchased in another state and 
registered to a false name. The phone 
company was a large national chain with cell 
towers across the country. The man was not 
concerned with the actual cost of the call. 
The phone would be thrown away prior to the 
mission. He would make sure that it was far 
from the compound before he made any move 
that could be traced if the phone was 
located during a search. Any money left on 
the card would expire unused.

The call, when it came, had the number 
blocked, but he knew the caller was not the 
originator of the one word message he heard 
when he answered. That single word, spoken 
into a remotely located payphone, carried 
the full weight of command.

Go.

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

Scully scowled as she fought her way through 
the deserted obstacle course and tried to 
recall everything she had ever tried to 
forget about male hormones. Except when 
every hormone she owned had gotten out of 
whack during her cancer treatments, it was 
not something it had ever occurred to her to 
consider. Mulder was hardly your average 
over-sexed, overly aggressive, steroid 
abusing idiot. On the other hand, she had 
never considered him effeminate either.  
They were both well within normal 
tolerances. That was all she had ever needed 
to know.

Apparently she had been mistaken.

Testosterone was first isolated in 1935 and 
is a close chemical cousin to cholesterol. 
In males, it is produced in the testicles 
and a small portion of it is subsequently 
converted to the female hormone estradol. In 
females, testosterone is produced in the 
ovaries and by the adrenal glands. Like 
their male counterparts who have receptors 
for the female hormone, females have 
receptors for the largely male hormone, 
testosterone.

Unfortunately, no one knew what the hell 
that really meant.

Anger was an immediate reaction to a peak in 
testosterone. There was also a marked 
increase in sex drive, restless energy, 
confidence and impulsive behavior. Of 
course, that was offset by a decreased 
attention span, difficulty planning beyond 
the moment, and suppression of the immune 
system. It was also a fact that the men with 
the highest testosterone levels tended to be 
lowest on the socio-economic scale for all 
of those reasons. Considering how socialized 
human beings were as a species, however, it 
was difficult to establish exactly what 
portion of any action was biologically 
driven and what was filtered through 
cultural adaptations.

Given the gender politics, it was no wonder 
that no really long-term and public studies 
were under way. What feminist wanted to risk 
a report that might suggest that men were 
biologically more inclined to do well in 
business, politics and the military? Worse, 
what man wanted to know that he had less of 
it than the next guy? Still, biological 
inclination was one thing, the actual result 
was more complex. As a man, Mulder had at 
least 10 times the amount of testosterone 
running through his system as she ever would 
- and yet he was one of the most gentle 
people she had ever met.

Although maybe she now knew what to blame 
for his lack of impulse control.

Scully could not help the brief grin that 
crested as she considered how offended 
Mulder would be at the thought that it was 
anything other than his personality that was 
to blame for his faults and flaws. Who was 
to say he would be wrong? She was a bloody 
good FBI agent and a hell of a lot more 
ruthless than her partner would ever be. 

Maybe that was just a female advantage. 

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

"You do realize that given her much lower 
general levels, that even the smallest 
elevation in her testosterone levels creates 
a much greater relative change than a 
corresponding change would in you -
especially since you've had experience with 
the reaction."

"That's interesting, but not relevant."

Stevens' jaw dropped."Not relevant. Agent 
Mulder..."

Mulder whirled and Stevens took an 
instinctive step back at the look in his 
eyes. For the first time, he realized just 
how badly he might have miscalculated. This 
was not the pleasantly self-deprecating 
agent who had been so cooperative over the 
past few weeks. This man had his own agenda. 
Perhaps, Steven's realized , he always had.

"Stay out of my way."

At the flat command, anger sparked in the 
psychiatrist's eyes. McIssac shifted in 
warning and Mulder considered him coolly 
before turning back to the doctor.

"Scully is one of the most self-controlled 
people I've ever met,but you just handed her 
the perfect excuse. Not the one I was aiming 
for. I was going for pissed as hell,but 
it'll do. Tell me Stevens, who do you think 
she'll pick if she doesn't pick me?"

McIssac's teeth slammed together with a  
snap and Stevens stared at the agent as if 
suddenly seeing sprouting horns. "This woman 
is your partner. She trusts you."

"Who do you think she'll pick, Doctor?"

McIssac's voice was quiet,"Danny."

Mulder's lips twisted in sudden 
disgust."Jesus. You don't know her at all. 
That would be akin to child abuse."

"Danny's not a child, Agent Mulder."

"Scully wouldn't take advantage of anyone 
she had that much power over."

"Unlike you?"

"She's angry and frustrated, not damaged."

"She's still vulnerable."

"Yes, she is."

Stevens started to throw hands up in 
disbelief, then studied the other man 
carefully. "You're risking everything."

Mulder paused, eyes turned toward some 
inward pattern. His smile was tight.

"Blame it on my testosterone."

**********************************
Danny found her hopping on one ankle and 
insanely smashing a thick oak club to 
splinters against the low hurdle which had 
tried to kill her. Finally a loud crack 
echoed sharply. She lost her balance as the 
top half of the club exploded and she was 
sent sprawling into the pine needles. 

"Feel better?"

She flipped over and glared at the assassin 
as she sat up. 

"No."

Danny crouched down comfortably and regarded 
her thoughtfully. 

"What do you want to do?"

Scully considered the angry restlessness 
shrieking through her bloodstream and 
grimaced. "Kill something."

He cocked his head for a moment, then held 
out his hand and hauled her to her feet as 
he straightened. 

"Ok." the assassin said simply.

Caught off-guard by his easy agreement, she 
reacted by reflex and started to snort. It 
was only as she found herself staring into 
ice blue instead of hazel that she realized 
that he was serious. Her body stilled and 
she slowly removed her hand from his.

"I'm not really in the mood to hunt deer 
right now, Danny." she said carefully.

He smiled.

In one fractured moment, hidden 
possibilities emerged from darkness and 
swirled through her.Unconsidered avenues 
unfurled with dark temptation and spread 
themselves at her feet. The rage checked, 
then spiraled into a holding pattern. She 
could. Now. She could really do it.  

What would it feel like to take the war to 
the shadows? 

Recast the players. Reject the mantle of 
pawn. Rage hesitated as she considered new 
potentials in the light of malignant 
feasibility. What was stopping her? 
Certainly not her badge. She had already 
placed a price tag on that, and that price 
had been Mulder. Her family? They had walked 
away years ago. The moment that she had made 
choices that they did not understand. 

The moment that they had lost control. 
  
Sharp anger spiked unexpectedly. She was so 
tired of the blame. Of the uncertainty. Of 
the lies. Of all the pretty little ponies 
decked in pink and white trappings. She 
swayed slightly as a feeling of dizziness 
swept over her and she glared at the pale 
blue eyes so close to her own.

"I don't love him, you know." 

Did it even matter if he understood? It was 
enough that for once she was going to 
articulate what she was feeling and hear the 
words spoken out loud.  

"Love is expendable."

She should know. 

She had been disappointment's price often 
enough.

Danny began to frown. Of all people, he 
should have been one to understand. None of 
them understood. Well why the hell should 
they? She could hardly explain it to herself 
half the time. She simply knew what she 
knew. Duty and honor and Mulder. She had 
thrown away honor with Daniel and in her 
attempts to regain that lost item, she has 
sacrificed duty for Mulder. That only left 
one thing. One thing she could not 
compromise. Not now. Not ever.

There were times she had come very close to 
hating him for that fact. She could walk 
away from Daniel. She could walk away from 
Jack. Hurting. Angry. Determined never to 
make the same mistake again. She could 
always walk away. After she fell from grace.

After she became expendable. 

She could not walk away from Mulder. Her 
vision wavered oddly and she felt herself 
sinking down beside a nearby tree. Leaning 
her head back, she located her dark shadow. 
She stared at him unsmiling. She hope he was 
shadow. The thought that he might be a 
mirror...

"I can be Scully. He needs Scully."

Needed her. Wanted her. 

Rejected any semblance of action that would 
take her beyond that role.

His Sergeant. His comrade-in-arms. Sergeant 
Scully to his Lt. Colonel Biddle. The photo 
had been quite clear about his rank. The 
fact that it had been taken in 1862 
suggested something else. That he had joined 
the army early-long before he would have had 
to be drafted from last minute volunteers. 
Had it been passion driving his actions...or 
circumstance? She wondered if he had died 
for a cause in which he believed. 

She wondered if she had. 

She needed Scully, too. She needed to be 
Scully. The partner who could do a damn good 
imitation of the duty and honor he still 
possessed. But she was hollow sometimes, 
down where those virtues lived. Empty except 
for the cold and the rage. She pulled her 
knees to her chest and pressed her face to 
damp fabric as she rocked slowly. 

If he walked away, he would take Scully with 
him.

If she walked away, she would leave her 
behind.

"Hey, Scully."

It was too much effort to lift her head. She 
pried open her eyes and stared muzzily in 
his direction. Mulder faded in and out of 
her field of vision and she frowned as she 
tried to bring him into focus. What the hell 
was the matter with her?

"I think you're crashing, Scully."

Oh.

"Can you walk?"

She curled her lip in disdain. Of course she 
could walk. Scully could always walk. Scully 
was the good little trooper. Soldiers go to 
war. Civilians get left behind. 

No civilians here. 

"If you try a fireman's carry Mulder, I'll 
throw up on you."

She almost laughed as he smiled. He should 
know better. She was not joking. 

Luckily for him, she passed out before she 
could prove it to him. As Mulder hauled her 
to her feet, the world spun in a sickening 
mass of green and gray. As darkness closed 
in around her, she held to the brief hope 
that he could move the tree out of the way.

Then everything went black.

****************************************
Between one breath and the next she awakened 
to find herself immersed in a nightmare of 
strawberry scented bubbles. Huge mounds of 
pink froth were disintegrating slowly and 
from the look of the fabric covered legs 
hemming her in, Mulder had climbed into the 
tub, t-shirt, jeans and all. The arms 
wrapped tightly around her waist kept her 
head above water and Mulder had either 
fallen asleep or was doing a very good 
imitation.

She listened to him breathe.

The water was still warm enough to be 
comfortable although the amount of water 
condensed on the walls suggested that it had 
once been considerably hotter. It was also 
considerably cleaner than she would have 
expected which probably meant that this was 
at least the second time Mulder had filled 
the tub. Her hair smelled faintly of shampoo 
and the left side of her face stung . An 
underlying ache suggested a growing bruise. 
She wondered whether she had hit the tree 
first, or just the ground. 

Sighing, she eased herself out of Mulder's 
hold without disturbing him. 

There was no sign of her clothes. Making a 
mental note to see if they were salvageable, 
she grabbed the unfamiliar bathrobe hanging 
on the back of the door and slipped it on. 
During the time it took for her to brush her 
teeth, examine the ugly bruise spreading 
across her cheekbone and made her way back 
to the side of the tub, Mulder remained 
motionless. As she knelt down and regarded 
him quietly, she wondered just how out of it 
she must have been that she had missed being 
undressed, shampooed, and at least one 
change of the bathwater. Somewhere in there,  
he had also cleaned the mud, tree sap and 
blood from the floor tiles and disposed of 
her clothes.

She folded her arms on the side of the tub 
and rested her chin as she contemplated the 
steady rise and fall of his chest. For some 
reason, over the past few weeks, Mulder had 
allowed his hair to get shaggy. One 
unrepentant lock had fallen over his left 
eye and it was only as she reached to move 
it with one careful finger that she spotted 
the silver hair hiding among the brown. It 
was not that unexpected considering their 
ages and the life they had lived foe the 
greater part of the last decade, but the 
shock of it exploded inside her ribcage, a 
hollow pressure that tightened itself around 
her lungs.

When had that happened?

Had she really not noticed? Blankly she 
stared at the silver that seemed to scream 
at her for her lack of care. It was possible 
that she had not noticed for the simple fact 
that Mulder had not let her see. Her partner 
was just vain enough to color away the early 
signs of aging. Lord knows, her hair color 
owed much of its brilliance to a bottle. But 
it was also possible that she had not seen 
because she had not looked. When was the 
last time she had truly looked at her 
partner?

When was the last time that she had had the 
time?

There was always another case to solve. 
Another plane to catch. Another piece of 
evidence to chase halfway across the world. 
It seemed sometimes that they had spent half 
their lives running after things they could 
never catch. Least of all, lost time. 
Personally, she had stopped thinking about 
it. Their youth had slipped away somewhere 
between lost innocence and shattered 
illusions. Had she truly stopped seeing the 
passing years, or had she feared to look too 
closely?

She had felt those years passing rapidly 
back in the early days. Back when she had 
actually planned for the future. Back before 
Mulder had made them responsible for the 
future of the planet. The sheer arrogance of 
that thought still took her breath away. Or 
would if she actually dared to think about 
it. The tragedy was the fact that it was 
true. 

Enough people had died to make it true.

Reality really did not matter anymore, did 
it?

More tragic still was the reason it was 
true. The fate of a planet spun on threads 
of lives bound by love and hate and family 
ties of blood and betrayal. By a biological 
fact of paternity. Nothing more cosmic than 
the same play and players that strutted 
across a digital stage for the likes of 
Jerry Springer and Oprah.

It was ironic that the priests of her faith 
had less faith in the demons of their 
religion than she, a lost daughter, 
possessed even now. Yet...was that not part 
of the problem? The reason she had 
ultimately failed in her return to the 
church. It was not that she did not believe. 
She had seen enough to understand that the 
chances of a war between heaven and hell 
were likely very real. Therein lay other 
truths.

The demons were not the real monsters.

The angels were not necessarily the good 
guys.

The race of man could very well be cannon 
fodder.

Unlucky bystanders in a war that had been 
going on for millennia and would likely 
continue for millennia more. Maybe it was 
not even a war...maybe it was simply 
survival of the fittest. A battle for 
existence that intersected the world of man 
at awkward and deadly angles. 

They were what they were.

You accepted their nature. Your lack of 
importance in their lives. 

Then you killed them or got out of the way.

In their ignorance, the priests of her 
religion had come closer to the truth than 
she with darker knowledge. The war that she 
and Mulder were fighting was ultimately more 
important than a pissing contest between 
Heaven and Hell - and it had nothing to do 
with aliens. It was about the tragedy of man 
himself. The evil of the man who listened 
not to the imaginary prompting of some imp 
of hell, but to the greed or fear or hatred 
in his heart. 

The evil of men who would beggar a planet 
for power.

The tragedy of men who possessed the ability 
to say no, to chose another path.

And did not.

A slow cold churned slowly, far beneath the 
temporary quiet of her mind. Not yet 
something she could truly feel. Not yet 
something she could touch. It was a familiar 
aspect of her personality that she had kept 
hidden - at times - even from herself.  An 
unforgiving, ice-eyed rage that alternately 
mortified and appalled with its relentless 
need for justice. 

No. 

Not justice. 

Judgement.

Trapped within Darwinian logic, demons, 
flukeworms and mothmen followed a mandate 
for survival wrought by their biology. They 
were what they were. In the shadow of that 
knowledge, she had uncovered bitter truth. 
Where instinct met decision she had 
discovered a world of monsters. A world 
inhabited by the tragic and the desperate 
and the misguided. Where needs were 
satisfied at the expense of others for no 
other reason than greed or power or 
convenience. 

A world where the only weapons were duty and 
honor.

Without conscious volition her fingertips 
moved lightly to trace the lines etched into 
his face. She could still see the brash 
arrogance of that first year. Cocky, 
flirtatious and oh so very much the 
profiler. He had surprised her. He had 
surprised her with his willingness to treat 
her like...well, one of the guys. She had 
surprised herself when it had felt good. 
Stranger still, it had felt right. Familiar. 
Like a skill she had forgotten that she knew 
that she knew. Like this was something meant 
to be.

As her fingertips tested the raspy texture 
of his jawline she wondered again at his 
uncharacteristic manipulations of the past 
few weeks. So many times she had thought she 
understood his motivations. Then out of 
nowhere a raw vulnerability or unexpected 
attitude shifted her world 180 degrees on 
its axis. She still remembered the shock and 
pain that had slammed into her the day she 
had shaken her head at him. She had been 
amazed, and angry and admiring...and she 
made that admiration known.

She had thought he would shrug it off.

Instead, he had looked at her with hesitant 
uncertainty tinged with hope. <Is that 
really what you think of me?> As if she had 
surprised him. As if the world was not 
already at his feet. As if his name was not 
one of the first the VCU placed on a 
casefile wishlist. As if every single one of 
those bastards who used his talents coveted 
the results without admiring the man. As if 
the very qualities that gave birth to those 
insights were somehow separate and less 
worthy.

As if the company of Fox Mulder was a price 
one paid to catch a killer.

She had scared herself with the depths of 
her anger. Sheer blinding rage that swept in 
out of nowhere. If her hands had started 
shaking, he had put it down to her anger 
with the FBI. He had been right-but he had 
thought it was because of Melissa. In that, 
he had been wrong. 

She had suddenly been unable to stop seeing 
the man beneath the badge.

Mulder may have flirted out of male habit 
and territorial instinct, but what he had 
wanted was a partner. He had needed a 
partner. Someone he could count on without 
the uncertainty that romance brings. 

She had discovered that she needed to be 
that partner with a drive and a violent 
possessiveness that had terrified her for 
its sheer lack of reason or rationale. It 
had only been partly a need to recreate 
herself. It had been something she had never 
been able to satisfactorily justify to 
herself. But she had never thought to wonder 
- not about her level of commitment - or 
his. Not until the day she heard him  
describing bunkers she had never seen and a 
battle she had never witnessed.

She had dreamed of both after Antarctica.

Of blood and bullets.

She had dreamed she moved too slow and with 
dying eyes saw him fall. Saw him choking on 
blood with wide eyes and anguish in his 
soul. Not for himself, but for Sarah. For 
the lives he had died to protect. For the 
life that should never have been on that 
battlefield where it left them no choice but 
to hold a line protecting the entrance to a 
set of bunkers that should never have had to 
shelter human lives. Defending a line they 
should never have drawn. Except for Sarah 
and the others that she had rallied into 
repeating her folly. They had assumed the 
use of a foxhole the army had been prepared 
to surrender.

You cannot detonate a weapon's cache with 
doctors and nurses inside.

So they died. Trapped on an indefensible 
line with a post they could not abandon. She 
dreamt the smell of  fresh blood, burnt 
flesh, and cordite as she dragged herself to 
where her body would hide the telltale signs 
of a hidden trapdoor. She dreamt she saw a 
beautiful smile when he saw what she had 
done.

Then she dreamt the light faded from his 
eyes forever.

She dreamed his death and woke screaming.

With a breath both last and waking, she 
damned Sarah Kavanaugh to Hell.

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

Scully could always surprise him.

The mind behind those blue eyes was 
relentlessly logical, voraciously 
intelligent and ruthlessly passionate about 
her beliefs. Those beliefs were sunk so deep 
into her bones he was not sure even she 
realized just how strongly they controlled 
her. His beliefs were filtered through his 
perception of the facts. Her facts were 
perceived through the filter of her beliefs. 
And yet...

And yet.

She was a walking contradiction. Rigid 
without being inflexible. Brittle yet not 
breakable. Her entire belief system had been 
shattered so many times he could only stand 
in awe at the resilience of a spirit that 
could find the strength to reevaluate and 
rebuild itself so many times, yet still 
retain the essential core of who she was. In 
a way, he had been lucky. He had grown up 
knowing the world around him was not as it 
seemed. If that had contributed to a sense 
of loneliness, it had never threatened his 
inner perception of himself. His illusions 
had been stripped away long before he had 
ever realized that he had had any.

He had always believed in monsters.

Scully? She had been told that adults did 
not believe in the shadows under the bed. 
She had been taught that responsible adults 
left those fancies and fears behind. She had 
been taught that nightmares were not real. 
She had been given the keys to the 
kingdom...as long as she never tried to 
leave.

She had had everything.

Including a rulebook.

Scully had possessed an open-ended ticket to 
success and happiness. Every show guaranteed 
to offer twists and turns, predictable 
surprises and a day to day script that never 
left you wondering if you had missed your 
cue. Signposts would be helpfully stationed 
alongside every birthday cake and if you 
forgot your lines or accidentally landed on 
the wrong page, self-appointed wardens 
cheerfully disguised as friends and family 
would lovingly guide you back onto the path 
of certitude.

And if you ever questioned the cage walls 
surrounding you, well…

…there was always that cherry red sports 
car.

He could only wonder at the magnitude of the 
blow her worldview had taken for her to 
throw herself into his arms that night. For 
the several desperate minutes it had taken 
her to run to his room, she had believed. 
Not in his truth, but in the possibility. 
The walls of her world coming tumbling 
down.She had fought her way through medical 
school. She had blazed through the academy 
and she had taken aim at the gathered forces 
of parental disapproval and familial 
disbelief.  Twenty-four hours on the X-Files 
and she had thrown herself into his arms 
like a Victorian maiden set upon by the 
ravening hordes.
 
He had not thought she would last the week.

That was the second time she had surprised 
him.

A little bit thicker, a little bit higher, 
the walls of her world were stronger for 
being rebuilt with bricks of Scully instead 
of bricks handed to her by the rest of the 
world. Each time she shattered it took 
longer for the mortar to set and she started 
building windows. But she still built on 
that same flawed foundation. A foundation 
that was wearing thin as sappers tunneled 
underneath. He wondered what would happen 
the day she admitted her footings were 
built, not on solid granite, but on nothing 
more substantial than sand.

He wondered if he truly wanted to know.

She knew they were flawed. The very nature 
of their partnership had allowed her to 
avoid looking too closely at her illusions. 
That was his job. Her job was to guard the 
gate. But she knew. Somewhere, she knew. 
When she had to, she effortlessly blew the 
walls herself. 

She protested too much.

A woman who would willingly shatter her own 
self-built illusions when need demanded, yet 
willfully lie to herself when it was over. 
When it was safe to drop the lance, scurry 
back into the castle and pretend she had 
never seen dragons. 

When he opened his eyes, he had expected to 
be alone.

Maybe she was just worried he would drown.

He had broken the rules. He had ignored the 
unspoken rule that said they were allowed to 
drift into this thing between them. They 
were allowed to dance around the edges, 
tentatively testing the water in ways that 
could be denied. That could be blamed on 
loneliness, or convenience, or lack of 
alternatives. He had gotten tired of waiting 
for her to realize that he was not like her 
father, her family or her former lovers. He 
was not going to leave her behind when she 
became inconvenient, or messy, or something 
other than what the rules said that she was 
supposed to be. Instead, he had gone 
charging full speed ahead risking everything 
on one roll of the dice.

No more pretending.

No more hiding.

No more illusions.

He had expected her to be angry. Hell, he 
had counted on it. He was taking one last 
desperate chance and damn the consequences. 
He could show her. He could prove it to her. 
He could convince her that even if it was 
not what she wanted, that it could be 
enough. 

He was not afraid she would leave the agent.

He wanted to give her reasons to stay with 
the man.

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

Damn Mulder anyway.

Damn his green eyes, good looks and quirky 
sense of humor.

Damn his soldier's heart, profiler's brain 
and poet's soul.

But most of all...

...damn the wonder in his eyes as he looked 
at her.

She could be his partner. She could watch 
his back. That was easy. There were times 
when she thought that was all she had been 
born to do. As if that had been all she had 
ever been born to do. All she had ever died 
doing.

She could not be the woman he saw, looking 
at her like that.

Why could he not see that?

Or maybe he did, and just refused to believe 
it.

"I'll let you down, Mulder."

The words slipped out before she could stop 
them. Before she thought about what it would 
mean to have to explain them. A split second 
of confusion was followed by a disquieting 
level of narrow-eyed calculation. Mulder was 
not reconsidering his plan, he was 
reconsidering his plan of attack. The fond 
exasperation she was feeling was familiar, 
the edge of panic was new. This was Mulder 
at his do-or-die worst. 

What the hell had set him off like this?

This was more than Mulder being a pain in 
the ass in order to offer her a safe target. 
Well, okay. Some of it was. He had to have 
known just what she was feeling - and she 
believed him. Mulder had not known why she 
was reacting like she was.But he had known 
what one of the likely results might be.

He had not told her.

She left Mulder climbing out of the rapidly 
cooling water and wandered out into his room 
as she thought about that fact.She supposed 
it was possible to argue that he had simply 
been trying to protect her. Sparking her 
anger to keep her attention focused on 
someone who knew what to expect...and who 
could deflect it. He knew her well enough to 
know that a one-night stand with one of the 
SEALs would buy her more guilt than she 
wanted to deal with right now.

That was the point.

He knew her too well.

If she had known, Mulder would not have been 
the one she would have chosen. If she had 
broken, Mulder would have been the last one 
she would have chosen. If she was going to 
use anyone, consciously and with intent, it 
would not have been him. So...maybe Mulder 
made the choice for her. By not telling her, 
it became a loss of control. An act of 
impulse rather than cold intent. No guilt, 
just embarrassment. And by not telling her, 
by focussing her attention on him, he edged 
out the competition.

Just not the way they might have defined it.

Mulder was as wary of any threat to her 
attention as she was to threats to his. Any 
relationship she developed was a potential 
threat to their partnership, to their lives 
and to him. In a warped sort of male logic, 
it even made sense. As she had already 
noted, they had been headed tentatively in 
this direction anyway. The theory made 
sense. It was rational. It was logical. It 
was a neat and tidy answer. 

Too bad it was incorrect. 

Mulder had not just tried to edge out the 
competition...he had mined their boats with 
C4 and blown them out of the water. He had 
not just made himself the focus of her 
attention, he had courted it. He could have 
been content with anger. He could have 
simply been there if she lost control. 
Anger. Lust. It did not matter which one. As 
long as she was focussed on her partner, he 
could have dealt with the fallout.

He had gone far more than one step further.

He had set out to seduce her.

With intent.

Every touch, every in-joke, every time he 
leaned in close enough for her to catch a 
hint of warm skin and military soap, he had 
been courting her senses. Pushing her 
libido. Actively using every weapon he had, 
everything he knew about her  - including 
her weaknesses- to draw her closer to a 
knock-down drag-out fight that would lead in 
only one direction. He had ruthlessly cut 
off all other alternatives. She had thought 
the SEALs were avoiding her because of 
Mulder.

She should have remembered that it was 
female's choice.

They had avoided her because whenever her 
partner was in the room, the rest of them 
had ceased to exist as anything other than 
threats. Female's choice. She had chosen 
Mulder.

For one instant she wanted to laugh at the 
sheer brilliance of the plan. Then she 
wanted to cry for the desperation driving 
it. Mostly she wanted to scream because she 
still did not know why. He was risking her 
anger, the fallout, the potential pain...and 
for what? Something they had been moving 
towards already?

Or was that the problem?

Her hands slid up to clutch at each elbow as 
she reconsidered just what her partner 
thought that he wanted. She had thought that 
he was in agreement about where they were 
going. That they needed to find a way to add 
this physical attraction they had to each 
other into a context that would still allow 
them to continue as they had been doing. 
That he had been willing to explore the 
physical possibilities without making it 
into something they might not survive.

She kept forgetting about that poet's soul.

Doomed to want the one thing the man who 
believed everything was conditioned to 
believe was impossible to believe in. It had 
a Shakespearean edge of tragedy that 
probably appealed to the Oxford-trained 
parts of his soul. Mulder's Holy Grail. The 
thing he wanted most in the world...and the 
thing he fought hardest never to attain.

"Scully?"

Ignoring him would not make the problem go 
away - but she could pretend for a couple 
more minutes. Turning her head she noticed 
her laptop open on his desk. Shifting the 
mouse enough to remove the screensaver she 
discovered that Mulder had been researching 
the effects of injected testosterone on the 
human system. Scanning the parts he had 
highlighted she noted that it did not appear 
to differ much from what she remembered. 
Increased aggressiveness, confidence, 
irritability and sex drive. Decreased 
impulse control, attention span, and auto-
immune response.

She was about to turn away when she scrolled 
past a part he had highlighted in red 
instead of yellow. It was a short 
description of factors which appeared to 
create testosterone response. The part he 
had highlighted detailed the fact that 
permanent increased in basal levels had been 
noted in both soldiers and civilians living 
in long-term combat situations. Similar 
responses had been seen in people living in 
perceived dangerous situations such as 
highly dangerous neighborhoods or dangerous 
professions.

That was when she realized that the papers 
beside the laptop tracked the increases in 
their basal levels. She was not surprised to 
find that both their levels had increased 
steadily over the years. Hers more than 
Mulder's, and he had circled the data from 
the dates they had been in San Diego.From 
his notes, he was trying to determine if the 
profiling was a result of the testosterone 
shifts or if it was the other way around.
He seemed to be leaning toward a theory that 
they were inducing the shifts themselves - 
but only after their basal levels reached a 
certain trigger level.

It was a rather intriguing theory actually.

She was about to close the folder when she 
noticed a worn piece of paper tucked in 
between the pages. Nothing more than a 
photocopy of a poem she would have ignored 
it if it had not been for the sudden tension 
in the man standing behind her. Startled she 
glanced at the author.

Lovelace. 

Of course. Profiler at work. Again. It was a 
good thing that his mind was one of the 
things that she loved about him or this 
would really get annoying. She found the 
words still as meaningful as when she first 
discovered them back in her teens. Of 
course, they painted a different portrait 
for her now. 




Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee (Dear) so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more. 




The sins of the father delivered unto the 
sons...and the daughters. A soul in service 
to choices made in other lifetimes. 

Her mother must hate this poem.

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

He was losing.

His one chance to wrest some sort of reward 
out of the mess his life had become was 
watching him with calm eyes, not a temper 
tantrum in sight. The ever present panic 
butterflies started beating themselves 
against the inside walls of his chest and he 
prayed that he was not about to make the 
biggest mistake of his life.

An excuse.

He had to give her an excuse. Something she 
could pretend would allow her to back away 
from an irrevocable decision. She did not 
want to hurt him - but she was still a 
doctor at heart. Sometimes you had to make 
the pain worse to make it better. All he 
needed was one chance. She did not want his 
love. He needed a chance to show her that 
there were still things she could accept, 
things that he could give her, things he 
could be.

Maybe it would even be enough.

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

"I won't leave you, Scully."

She turned to find him watching her with 
painful intensity. Leave her? Of course he 
would. In small ways that she had learned to 
live with. It would not even be a betrayal. 
It would be simple self-defense.It would be 
Mulder being Mulder with Scully following 
faithfully along behind. Mulder following 
where his honor led.

She surprised herself with the hot spurt of 
anger that lanced through her.Blind. He 
could be so blind at times. He followed the 
truth. She generally followed the truth by 
following him. 

A subtle distinction he had chosen never to 
see.

"There's nothing you could ever do that 
would make me leave."

"Liar."

Shit.

She had not meant to say that aloud. 

She knew he was firing blind and looking for 
a reaction. What did he really hope to gain 
from this? The removal of a point of 
vulnerability in their partnership? An end 
to the loneliness? The worst part was that 
she would never have to worry about his 
commitment. She owned his soul on far too 
many levels for him to walk away from the 
partner. 

Unless she made a choice that betrayed that 
role.

She had been lucky so far. All her choices 
had been made within the shadow of a shadow 
war. They could forgive each other much 
because they needed each other too badly. He 
would forgive the partner what he would 
never forgive a lover. 

The partner could never leave him. 

He would sabotage love's forgiveness to keep 
from risking discovering if the lover would.

She turned to find him watching her with 
hooded eyes. Watching. Evaluating. 
Calculating. He was not going to let this 
go. Somewhere in the labyrinth he called a 
mind he had decided he was fighting for 
something. Anger sparked again. 

"Liar." she told him again softly. 

Distinctly.

An answering spark of anger reflected back 
to her. Good. 

"The truth, Mulder, is that you want to 
trust everyone. Then you sit back and wait 
to be betrayed. You're not surprised when it 
happens. You expect it. You even expect it 
from me."

"Scully..."

She cut his sharp protest off with a warning 
hand.

"Tell me you did not feel betrayed. I went 
off on my own. Scully stepped away from her 
appointed role and did something you have 
done a thousand times before. Tell me you 
were not angry. Tell me I imagined all those 
tense moments and short conversations. Tell 
me I imagined the weeks it took you to 
forgive me."

She laughed bitterly as his expression 
closed suddenly. 

"That was business Mulder. What happens the 
day it's personal?"

He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it 
and eyed her cautiously. Whatever he had had 
expected her to say...this was not it. Nice 
to know she could still confuse the 
profiler. Not hard. She confused herself. 
There were days her motives seemed so 
convoluted that they all ran together into 
this single ball of fear. But she knew two 
things.

"You will forgive honor what you would never 
forgive love."

<And love is expendable.>

She hesitated, wondering if she could afford 
to say the second thought aloud. Her first 
statement played on events that had already 
happened. But if he took the next as a 
challenge, as a dare, she would have no 
choice but to reveal just how far she was 
willing to go to protect him. From 
everyone...including himself.

In doing so, she might just destroy 
something else.

That was the problem.

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

He should have known this would come back to 
haunt him.

She had scared him.

He had been certain that it was another game 
and that all that he would get back was her 
body. But the ugly truth of his terror was 
the fact that she had gone off on her own. 
He had woken up and his world had changed. 
The rules had changed. Scully was not who 
she had always been before.

In her changing, he had somehow been certain 
that she was leaving him behind.

Just when he had admitted to himself how 
much he wanted with her. Just when it seemed 
like everything was going to turn out right. 
Just when he had thought he was about to 
win, damn it. 

It did not matter now, what he had hoped. He 
could settle for reality. The truth was that 
they were increasingly alone in this world 
and if he was tired of sleeping alone then 
she was equally as isolated. Maybe he could 
not give her back the children she had lost, 
or the white wedding she had dreamed of as a 
child. He could not even openly give her his 
love. Scully would never accept so valuable 
a gift when she could not return it in equal 
measure. She would hurt for him. Then she 
would walk away to protect him from himself.

He could offer her the nights.

They were friends. There was a general 
physical attraction that he could build on. 
He could give her back that basic human 
contact. Reclaim it for himself. Maybe in 
another lifetime it would not have been 
enough for either of them. In this one, it 
was too dangerous for them to reach out to 
anyone else. If somewhere in her mind there 
was a sunshine picture of an unknown 
faceless man standing by a barbecue, 
offering her Sunday smiles and laughter, 
well...she had to know that it was never 
going to happen. Not anymore. 

Another price paid. Another battle lost.

He would take his victories now, where he 
could.

He squared his shoulders and met her gaze 
head on. For a split second he could see 
other words tumbling around inside her head, 
but she kept silent. He took a deep breath 
and dealt the last card.

"Prove it."

**********************************
"What?"

"You heard me. Prove it."

She took a step back as he advanced. 
Frantically she reran the last few minutes, 
trying to see where he was going. Damn it. 
Damn it. Damn it. This was not what she had 
wanted to do.

"You don't know me as well as you think you 
do, Scully. You never have. There is nothing 
you could do, short of telling me that my 
staying would cost you your life, that would 
get me to leave. You don't have it in you to 
betray me. So I refuse to accept it. You're 
the scientist, Scully. You tell me how it 
would happen. Make me believe you."

He crossed his arms and eyed her 
challengingly, as if this was just another 
day at the office.

"Prove it."

As if he had flicked a switch, the fear went 
away. Everything went away. She stared at 
him through a long barren tunnel and 
realized that he would never accept her 
words. Would have an argument for every 
problem. He seemed completely oblivious to 
the fact that she had never wielded these 
weapons before, because she had never had 
the chance.

"Love is expendable, Mulder"

She tried once more to warn him.

"Not to me."

He wanted a test. Jesus. How 
absolutely...male. She resisted the urge to 
snarl. As if they were not already trapped 
in a perpetual test of his own devising. One 
she could never win. The beast lifted its 
head and peered through her eyes coldly. 
Feral intelligence weighed the commitment in 
his stance and a mixed combination of fears 
made her reckless. What if...?

She shook her head and moved forward slowly. 
Enough was enough. They had trapped 
themselves in this twilight world of 
possibilities neither of them were truly 
prepared to let happen. It was time to kill 
faint hope and false dreams. Maybe then, 
they could get on with their lives. 

Maybe. 

But she did not believe it.

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

He had three seconds to regret his poor 
choice of words, before she reached him.

Shit.

Now he was in for it.

His breath checked as she ran her fingers 
lightly from his shoulder to his wrist, then 
back again.

If she was trying to hurt him, she had a 
rather odd way of showing it. When she 
pushed on his shoulder, he obligingly fell 
back a pace, only to halt when his legs hit 
the bed. He held completely still, not 
daring to assume anything. She placed her 
palms flat on his chest and pressed down 
gently.

That he could do.

He managed to keep from wrapping his arms 
around her waist and hauling her down with 
him. This was her show. Despite the fact 
that he knew she had something unpleasant 
planned, he was determined to enjoy the 
ride.

And win. 

He was determined to win.

When she reached over his head, he was too 
distracted by the way her bathrobe gaped at 
the neck to realize what she was reaching 
for. Then he heard the clink of metal on 
metal. 

Ah crap.

Dropping his eyes to the handcuffs in her 
left hand he watched as she mutely held out 
her right. It was that whole trust thing, 
wasn't it? He searched her eyes for clues, 
but simply found flashes of desire mixed 
with sadness. Double crap. She did not think 
he would do it.

Or did she?

It was all about trust. The fact that she 
could hurt him. Well, hell. Like that was a 
news flash. But this was Scully. She would 
never take it too far. He trusted her that 
much. He did. Didn't he?

He watched her face as he mutely held out 
his hands.

She paused for a second, then a flicker of 
pain crossed her face and was gone. The 
cuffs snapped securely around his wrists and 
then she was using a second pair to secure 
the chain of the first to the bed frame. He 
blinked at the second set of cuffs. Where 
the hell had they come from? He twisted his 
head left and realized that Danny must have 
dumped both sets of cuffs and weapons on the 
night table after helping him get her into 
the bathroom. How helpful.

He hoped the assassin had thought to lock 
the front door.

Her fingers drifted lightly down the side of 
his face and he jerked his attention back to 
his partner.

"All you have to do is say no, Mulder."

Like hell he would.

How bad could it get? He strongly doubted 
that she was into pain. So this was a test. 
Of what? His ability to hand over control? 
Whether he trusted her enough to do this? He 
thought again about the Lovelace poem.

What would he do if she walked away?

Well, she was not going to have much time to 
work with if that was her intent. He was so 
turned on right now that dead cats raining 
from the ceiling would only make the problem 
worse. Still, if that was her plan, he could 
live with that. A few seconds with his right 
hand and the build-up would have been better 
than any video. 

No permanent damage done.

"Bring it on, Scully."

He half expected her to laugh at him. He was 
not quite sure why. She was hardly in a 
joking mood. He was riding some weird crest 
of adrenaline that had him grinning at her 
with ridiculous good cheer. Hell...maybe he 
was insane afterall. Still, if this was 
going to end badly, be damned if he was not 
going to enjoy the beginning.

Speaking of which…

"These jeans are beginning to chafe, 
Scully."

Shooting him a sour look, she casually 
reached out and undid the snap. He tensed 
for a slow tease, but was vaguely 
disappointed when all she did was peel the 
wet fabric from his body. She tossed them 
aside, then casually grabbed her knife from 
the nightstand and sliced the t-shirt down 
the front and across the arms. One sharp tug 
and the mutilated fabric joined the jeans on 
the floor.

Well, that was a bit too clinical for his 
tastes. He looked at her reproachfully.

"I liked that t-shirt, Scully."

She paused, then snorted once and tossed the 
knife back on the table. He watched as she 
stood there, apparently lost in thought. 
Considering that he was lying there without 
a stitch on, he was feeling vaguely 
insulted. Then she lost the bathrobe. 
Unbelted it and dropped it at her feet 
without a second thought.

If she walked away, he just might have to 
kill himself.

He kept his eyes fixed on her face as she 
knelt carefully on the bed, but she would 
not meet his eyes. Her breasts swayed gently 
and without thinking he reached out to touch 
her. His breath hissed between clenched 
teeth as his wrists slammed against the 
cuffs and jerked to a painful halt. She 
frowned as she reached out to run a finger 
along the reddened flesh and he dug his 
hands into the sheets above his head in a 
silent promise to be good.   

He hissed again, this time for a slightly 
different kind of pain as she started to 
explore. Her hands trailed softly along his 
skin and he gritted his teeth as he tried to 
remind himself that this was a test. There 
was still something he would have to do. 
Some answer he would have to get right.

As the physical pleasure increased the 
tension building in his body, he found 
himself more and more desperate for a 
glimpse of her eyes. Several times he nearly 
broke his own wrist trying to reach for her 
and each time she stopped until he had 
himself under control. Each time, she just 
said the same thing in a low voice.

"Say no, Mulder."

Each time, he mutely shook his head and 
knotted his fingers into the sheets. They 
were both covered in a thin layer of sweat 
and he losing what was left of his mind. But 
he managed to hold himself back. Any desire 
to laugh had fled and he was grimly 
determined to last long enough to figure out 
what she wanted from him. What he needed to 
say.

It was not until she straddled his thighs, 
her back to him, that he realized that she 
was not going to stop. Half his mind was 
screaming that this was Scully, that she 
would not do this to them. The other half 
was sinkingly aware that she had set out 
with something to prove. Before she could do 
anything irrevocable he managed to form 
enough words to make one coherent plea.

"Jesus Scully, not like this."

Not with his hands bound so that he could 
not touch her. Not with only the line of her 
back. Not with three feet of distance that 
might as well have been miles for all the 
closeness he felt. 

Not like this.  

She froze, her head down. 

"What's the right answer, Scully?"

He thought he heard a soft catch in her 
voice. Not quite a sob, but nothing steady. 

"There isn't one."

Then she took their choices away. His cry of 
protest got tangled with a strangled shout 
as she closed around him and he shook his 
head mutely even as his body took over. He 
got his feet under him and tried to meet her 
thrusts squarely but it was obvious that the 
angle was wrong for her. His hands clenched 
as he mutely protested the lost 
possibilities of the position. He could not 
help her and she refused to help herself.

He broke first.

Twisting violently he caught her off balance 
and she fell awkwardly. She managed to catch 
herself with her arms and he did not feel 
any pain so he supposed that he had not done 
himself any permanent damage. Frankly, at 
this point he did not care. His voice came 
out hard and low as he forced the words past 
a rising ache in his throat and a desperate 
sense of panic.

"Let me go Scully."

Wordlessly she hauled herself off the bed 
and unlocked the cuffs. He ignored her as he 
bolted past,slammed into the bathroom and 
threw himself into the shower. Icy water 
pelted his back and the cold numbed his face 
until he could fool himself into thinking it 
was only water running down his face.

She had proven her point.

She had tried to warn him. It was not about 
him or her father or her brother. It was 
about her. He thought he finally understood. 
If she thought she was right, she would use 
every weapon he gave her. Lovesick fool that 
he was, he would not stop her. Hell, he 
would help her put the cuffs on himself. He 
had trusted her. He had handed her his 
heart, certain that even if she did not want 
it, she would at least value it enough not 
to step on it. 

Jesus, what had he done?

What was he going to do now?

He fumbled for the tap and turned the water 
off. He rested his forehead against cold 
tile as he tried to figure out what to do 
next. There was a answer somewhere. He just 
had to find it. When he finally opened the 
door she was standing against the wall 
waiting for him. Despite the chill in the 
room, she had not reclaimed the bathrobe. He 
was not sure if it was a gesture or simply 
the fact that she did not care. He stood and 
looked at her, ignoring the way his hands 
were shaking and an unwelcome curl of 
emotion that he refused to recognize as 
fear. 

She knew him better than he had thought she 
did. 

She knew him well enough to reach down into 
his hopes and dreams and with ruthless 
accuracy pull out the one bright bauble he 
had polished over the years. Then she had 
stomped on it. Smashed the hopeful 
anticipation and shy desire into so many 
bloody pieces on the floor. The one dream he 
had clung to. The one fantasy he had allowed 
himself. A betrayal born of knowledge 
instead of flawed action.

When her eyes finally rose to meet his, her 
face was the coldest mask he had ever seen. 
Flat blue eyes stared back into his without 
apology. Without feeling and without any 
real regret. Nothing of the partner he 
thought he knew lived in those eyes. Nothing 
he recognized and nothing he could call 
home.

The wind out of the Abyss screamed at his 
back.

There were so many ways he had pictured 
this. Soft candlelight and silk sheets and 
eyes wide open. Blood and pain and desperate 
heat calling out to life. He had even 
considered what he would do if all she had 
needed was someone to help her drive back 
the darkness. Just for a little while. Just 
for the night. No matter what the scenario, 
it had always been a gift. Always he had 
come to her with something to offer. 
Something to give. 

The demons howled with laughter.

The tears he thought he had mastered 
splashed across the cold porcelain of her 
upturned cheek. One tiny salty droplet clung 
precariously to the end of her eyelash and 
he foolishly waited for it to fall. Then she 
blinked and it was gone. 

She could have his dreams. Every reckless 
hope, every rainbow colored fancy he had 
ever wanted to lay at her feet. But if she 
was going to rip them to pieces, these 
secret hungers he had carefully hidden, 
carefully tended and furtively stroked when 
no one was looking, she could damn well show 
a bit of remorse.

She could show some regret for what she had 
just thrown away.

He leaned forward with deliberation and 
planted both palms flat against the wall 
next to her head. She did not react, not his 
Scully. She simply watched with empty eyes 
as she waited.

"Is that the best you can do?"

Something flickered beyond momentary 
surprise. Confusion as she tried to decipher 
his meaning. Anger at the mockery she could 
hear in his tone. Just as she started to 
react, he bent his arms enough to bring his 
face nearly level with hers. She still 
refused to move to protect herself and he 
wondered if it was Scully challenge or 
apology. He decided it did not matter.  He 
ducked his head in close to her ear, as 
though imparting a secret.

"Didn't work, Scully."

She blinked. 

"I'm not leaving."

Neither of them moved. Then her eyes 
searched his and all he could see was fear. 
All these years, and she still did not trust 
him. 

Not really.

All these years and it was still not enough. 
Maybe nothing ever would. He closed his eyes 
as she began to frown. He knew it was not 
because she had caught the flash of hurt he 
had not been able to hide. She already knew 
she had hurt him. 

With the excuse of angry retribution, that 
had been her intent.

He wondered distantly why the songs all 
spoke of hearts breaking. They did not 
break. They just died. Then they took the 
colors with them. He had known. He had known 
that this could be the price he would pay. 
He had chosen to take the chance. There was 
still a chance. There had to be. Somewhere. 
He just had to find it. If he just had a 
little more time...

He opened his eyes to find blue eyes 
studying him with a wary combination of some 
unreadable emotion and reluctant desire. He 
almost laughed. Would have if he had not 
been afraid he would laugh until he cried. 
He could not afford to shed anymore blood 
today.

When he reached down and lifted her up 
against the wall, her arms went around his 
neck in reflex. She did not resist as he 
used his weight to pin her in place, but she 
did not initially participate either. 
Instead, she watched him carefully as he did 
what she had refused to allow him earlier. 
He touched her. Ran his fingers down her 
body and learned what made her squirm 
frantically in reaction. He relearned the 
scent of her body as he kissed  the exposed 
line of her neck., then paused to nip gently 
at the hollow of her throat. When she gasped 
softly, he tried to lay claim to her mouth. 

He froze as she flinched. 

Bitter regret twisted painfully when she 
jerked her head back. Emotion flashed in her 
eyes and something in him panicked when a 
brief second of terror shot across her face 
before something reckless mixed itself with 
determination and she opened her mouth to 
speak. 

The strange fluttering panic crested. Too 
much. He had shown her too much. That had to 
be it. He ignored the fact that she was not 
trying to escape and suddenly found himself 
convinced that she was about apologize. She 
would apologize for hurting him, then she 
would send him on his way. 

He kissed her.

For one moment, she resisted. Muffled words 
were trapped in her throat as he tried to 
show her that she did not have to love him. 
He resisted the urge to whisper to her. To 
tell her that he forgave her, even as a 
small voice now wondered uneasily just how 
far he could trust her, not with his life, 
but with his heart. It did not matter. He 
was still hers. Would always be hers. Even 
if she did not want forever.

She shook her head free and he froze 
momentarily as she used one hand to force 
his head far enough back for her to capture 
his eyes. It almost felt as if she were 
searching his soul, and he ignored the 
niggling sensation that he was missing 
something. His instincts were shrieking at 
him to hide what he was feeling. The same 
instincts that had saved his life more times 
that he could remember. The same instincts 
he had no choice but to trust.

He kissed her again.

This time, he left out the honesty and 
showed her only the hunger. It would have to 
be enough. Even if it was only half the 
truth and one part lie. At least it was 
something she could accept. His victory was 
bittersweet as she abruptly threaded one 
hand into his hair and returned the hunger. 

If he could not be what she wanted, he could 
be what she needed. 

At least until she walked away.

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

Five sleeping agents hurled themselves out 
of bed as the door smashed against the wall 
with a heart-attack inducing bang. Harris 
groaned as he extricated himself from the 
female agent who had just knocked him 
sprawling. 

"Aren't you tired of falling on people yet?"

Lewis snarled back at him half-heartedly, 
then shifted her gaze to the man glaring at 
them from the doorway. Her fingers flexed 
uneasily around the grip of her weapon and 
Harris surreptitiously slipped his hand 
under his bed, looking for his. From 
peripheral vision he watched Vickery 
cautiously pull herself out of her crouch 
and swivel her head to follow Mulder as he 
stalked into the barracks.

Feral energy rolled off the agent and his 
eyes were dark as he studied them each in 
turn. Harris thought his stomach was going 
to turn itself inside out as hostile eyes 
convicted them all in one contemptuous 
glance. Mike flinched when those eyes 
targeted him one extra second longer than 
necessary. Mulder turned away with a sneer.

Nervous anticipation and reflex guilt 
shattered into incomprehension when the 
agent finally spoke.

"Which one of you assholes fucked up the 
werewolf investigation?"

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

Two-thirty in the friggin am.

Why was it always the wee hours of the 
godforsaken morning?

McIssac turned as he heard the door open and 
Stevens saw a split second flash of relief 
cross his features. The psychiatrist tipped 
his head toward the end of the hallway.

"Is he going to have a team left by the end 
of this?"

McIssac shrugged.

Shit.

"Did you find Agent Scully?"

The Gunnery Sergeant nodded."They're 
bringing her in now."

In. Where the hell did she go?

"Do you want them to bring her here?"

"Jesus fuck, no."

The guards at McIssac's back exchanged 
glances, then donned practiced non-
expressions as they returned their attention 
to the hallway. Stevens waved them back as 
he headed for the lighted conference room 
alone. Despite the fact that McIssac had 
forewarned him what to expect, the scene 
still came as an ugly shock. Bodies leapt 
out at him from the walls. Full-color 8 by 
12 glossies screamed at him with blood and 
destruction.

Every wall was covered with death. 

Bodies in all stages of decomposition lay 
brutally exposed. Eviscerated. Tortured. 
Clouded eyes floated in faces with half the 
flesh torn away. He was not sure if that was 
a result of the murder or simple predation. 
In the midst of all this, five broken agents 
huddled helplessly before their accuser and 
the accusing dead. Harris looked like 
someone had hit him upside the head with a 
baseball bat. Lewis was curled in on 
herself, arms wrapped around her waist, 
while Landers just stared at Mulder with the 
wide-eyed fatalism of a hypnotized snake 
facing a mongoose. Almost, it looked like 
Mike had separated himself from the 
proceedings, until Stevens got close enough 
to see the shattered expression and dead 
eyes.Vickery had simply fallen forward until 
her face was hidden in her arms, the bare 
skin of her neck uncomfortably vulnerable in 
the harsh florescent light.

But it was Mulder who scared him.

The agent had had these photos before 
tonight. Had had his suspicions about this 
investigation from the start. McIssac had 
mentioned that the agent had been sending 
out requests for further information on this 
case almost from day one. The mailroom had 
had strict orders not to open any of the 
incoming envelopes marked FBI. From what he 
remembered, they had peeked once and 
promptly lost their lunch.

All subsequent envelopes had made it to 
Mulder unmolested. 

Stevens did not doubt the agent's outrage or 
his anger.

He doubted his motivation.

"Have you ever seen a ritual killing, 
Stevens?"

Mulder was not looking for an answer. He 
just wanted an audience. Considering the 
damage he seemed prepared to do to the rest 
of his team otherwise, Stevens cautiously 
decided to give it to him. He shook his head 
slowly.

"This one was fairly typical. Textbook even. 
Textbook cover-up too."

The Marines at the door tensed as Mathews' 
chair hit the floor spinning. Before they 
could do more than look at McIssac for 
instruction, Mulder was in the other 
profiler's face.

"What was it Mike? Looking for the easy 
score? Or were you just too damn lazy to 
look for real answers?"

The profiler's mouth worked, and for a split 
second Stevens thought he was going to take 
a swing at that taunting face too close to 
his own. Luckily-or unluckily for Mulder's 
agenda - Mathews got himself under control. 
Harris silently righted the older man's 
chair, keeping his eyes solidly fixed on the 
floor. As Mathews took his seat, Mulder 
sneered at the group, eyes finally coming to 
rest on the too silent Vickery.

Before he could kick out a few more teeth, 
Stevens stepped forward.

"Agent Mulder…Assistant Director Skinner is 
on the phone. He wants to know what you want 
to do. The plane will be here in…"

He turned his head to McIssac in mute 
demand. The Marine hesitated for a moment 
before answering.

"Six hours."

Stevens eyed his metaphoric right hand 
curiously. Mulder seemed to find nothing 
strange in that answer. He was not happy 
about it,but apparently he was not informed 
enough to realize that answer was about four 
hours too many. What the hell was wrong with 
the plane?

Stevens turned back to find Mulder studying 
him. His eyes shifted to the Marines 
standing waiting. For one tense moment 
Stevens wondered if the agent actually cared 
about the excuse he was using to tear his 
own world apart. One minute passed. Then 
two. Whether excuse or self-image, luckily 
the agent cared enough to back down. McIssac 
let out a slow breath only Stevens and the 
two Marines could see when Mulder swept the 
room once more with a dark glance, then 
exited under military escort. 

From the sardonic look he gave the men 
accompanying him, he did not miss the point.

Steven's turned his head and glared at 
McIssac.

"Where the hell is Agent Scully?"

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

Considering that she had just been escorted 
to his office under the equivalent of 
military guard, she was remarkably composed.

For some reason, that fact alone pissed him 
off.

"You two have the most functional 
dysfunctional relationship it has ever been 
my misfortune to have to figure out. What 
the fuck do you two think you are doing to 
each other?"

Her formerly mobile features remained 
guarded, but she did not respond. It 
occurred to him that any of the standard 
interrogation techniques he might use would 
likely be of little use. Not only could they 
backfire badly… he had a sneaky suspicion 
she was probably better at the game than he 
was. 

He went for blood instead.

"Your partner just spend two hours trying to 
get one of your team to put him out of his 
misery. Frankly, I don't think he cares at 
this point whether they use a fist or a 
bullet."

Her eyes closed briefly. When she finally 
responded, her voice was quiet. "He was fine 
when I left him."

His mouth gaped as he groped for a 
professional response. Left him? How had she 
left him? He was so busy trying to absorb 
the possible implications of her response 
that it took him a minute to realize that it 
was actually a question. 

She wanted more information.

Danny was not the only ex-CIA agent he had 
treated. Sideways answers to pointed 
questions. Any question she asked would give 
him too much information if he knew less 
than he thought he did. He should have 
recognized the technique. Answers designed 
to ask a question without giving away how 
much of the answer that the asker did not 
know. It was one thing however, to know the 
technique.

It was another to be practiced at it.

Was the habit so ingrained that she could 
not retreat from it even when there was 
nothing to hide? Obviously she had not gone 
storming from Mulder's room after 
threatening to shoot him. Nor did her answer 
imply that she had thought there was any 
overriding reason for alarm at the time. 
So...

...what? 

They had had a nice chat over coffee? 

Stevens almost snorted as his eyes took in a 
red patch on her cheek that could only be 
whiskerburn and a small bruise just visible 
beneath the edge of her t-shirt collar.

Not bloody likely.

"Agent Scully..."

She tipped an eyebrow at him as he trailed 
off awkwardly. 

"Is there any reason that Mulder might have 
had reason to suspect that anything which 
happened might have been non-consensual?"

Something flickered in her eyes but he was 
at a loss to read it.

"No."

"But he woke up alone."

She did not bother to deny it. He mulled 
that one over as he considered just how 
someone with Mulder's personal issues might 
interpret that action. 

Good enough to fuck but not good enough to 
sleep with.

But his subsequent actions did not fit the 
profile. The agent should have withdrawn 
into himself, convinced himself that what he 
wanted was out of reach and set himself to 
live with the consequences. He was startled 
out of his musings when Scully suddenly 
sighed.

"You're just going to give yourself a 
headache."

Her eyes held something far darker than 
laughter...and it did not look like defeat. 
Bravado maybe. Outright terror. Or the look 
of a soldier about to march into the final 
battle of a war he could not afford to lose.

"You keep asking the wrong questions, Dr. 
Stevens."

She wandered over to the desk and ran her 
fingers lightly across the antique sextant 
one of his former patients had given him. 
"It seems like everyone knows a little 
something about the symptoms of growing up 
Navy. You love it, you hate it…or you 
survive it. But just because it's not always 
pretty, doesn't mean we can pretend it is 
not true."

She turned her head to look at him, blue 
eyes bottomless in the dim light.

"I believe in those things. In many ways, I 
am those things. Maybe not the way my father 
meant them. Maybe not the way he could even 
understand. But they are a part of me…a part 
that you would be a fool to think that 
Mulder does not completely comprehend."

She picked up the ancient metal and the 
symbolism was not lost on him. The Navy 
daughter trying to find her way home. 

Or through uncharted waters.

"It's ironic really. I've always been able 
to leave when I could not be who they wanted 
me to be. When I needed to be more than they 
would allow me to be."

"Your father?"

She shrugged,"And Daniel, and Jack...and the 
FBI."

There was almost a mockery in her tone, less 
the hurt he would have expected and more a 
judgement on the failures of others. It 
surprised him. Then he wondered why it 
should.

"What do you want to be?"

She flashed a bittersweet smile and put down 
the mariner's map to the stars. 

"The real question is: What will Mulder 
allow me to be?"

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

He wanted to go running.

McIssac watched him warily from the other 
side of the conference room as he paced. 
Back and forth. Back and forth. Every second 
trip he paused to stare longingly at the 
green line of trees teasing him from the far 
edge of the football field. Taunting. 
Luring. Promising hours of punishing 
oblivion.

Nine more bodies.

The killer must have been using the cave as 
a dump site. From the photos taken by the 
local field office, it was likely that the 
murders had taken place elsewhere. Lucky for 
the college kids who had discovered the cave 
while hiking.

Lucky for him that the kids had called the 
FBI.

Rage coiled and uncoiled, squirming in a 
writhing mass of tension as he fought the 
urge to go back and pound Mathews into the 
pavement. Nine bodies. Nine bodies out of a 
potential twenty-three. Maybe more. 

He turned and glared at McIssac. The Marine 
shifted unsubtly to block the door as Mulder 
abruptly strode toward it. The agent stopped 
and met the Marine's gaze with a dark one of 
his own.

"I'm going running."

He was going running or he was going to kill 
someone.

The Marine got out of the way.

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

Stevens stared at Scully in dismay. How in 
the hell had these two gotten so messed up?

"This has more to do with what you will 
allow him to be. What he desperately wants 
to be to you. I don't think you understand 
just how self-destructive he is right now. 
Your partner..."

"...is upstairs making an ass of himself. 
Yes, I got that part. But if this was about 
being self-destructive, he'd be out throwing 
rocks at Danny."

That dark something shifted itself again.

"This is about me trotting up there like a 
good little partner and whacking him upside 
the head. If I do that, then everything 
returns to normal. That's my job you see. 
I'm the guardian of the gate. This is not 
about care, Dr. Stevens."

She smiled grimly.

"It's about control."

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

He was being followed. 

The sensation had been increasing steadily 
for the last two hours. The morning mist had 
turned to a steady drizzling rain that 
dripped into his eyes and turned the footing 
beneath his boots treacherous. He hoped his 
shadow was just one of the Marines making 
sure he really was outrunning demons and not 
about to put a bullet in his own head. He 
also hoped the unlucky follower had a radio, 
because he was running late. The plane would 
be ready to take off twenty minutes before 
he got back to the compound. 

Scully was going to be pissed.

He thought about that for a second. 
Scully,the FBI agent trying to keep them in 
good odor with the rest of the world would 
be pissed. Scully, the friend, would be 
worried until she knew he was safe. 

Then she would be pissed.

He had just turned to check his progress 
when a sudden burning pain tore along his 
cheekbone. His involuntary gasp sucked in 
rainwater with a copper tang. Mulder 
disbelievingly raised his hand to his cheek 
even as instinct sent his body to the forest 
floor. Blood. He dragged his hand forward 
and stared at it long enough to confirm he 
was not dreaming. This was not some misery 
induced nightmare. Shit.

Someone had a rifle with a sound suppressor.

Before thought could be completed he was up 
and running through the underbrush.  
Instinct and embryonic training kept him low 
and to the shadows. The slippery footing 
kept him away from the rocks. Shit. He was 
leaving a trail even Colton could follow. 
His mind kept telling him that this was just 
part of the training. Some twisted mind-fuck 
of a Marine's idea of right of passage. That 
was probably just a sharpshooter aiming to 
miss.

Except if he had not turned when he had, 
that bullet might have gone through his 
skull.

<Scully>

He had to warn her. His mind screamed as he 
prayed that somehow she could hear him…would 
know to go to ground. Get the fuck out of 
sight and then waste this asshole. Agony 
exploded deep in his chest and sense memory 
shrieked at him that he had been shot. 
Kinetic energy slammed against his spinal 
column and Mulder had a spinning impression 
of trees and rocks before his feet went out 
from under him and everything went black.

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

Scully paced restlessly. 

The others of the team were packed and 
huddled out of the rain, waiting impatiently 
for Mulder to check in.She ignored them. The 
runway was suspiciously empty of personnel 
and she could not help a brief sense of hurt 
that not even Barrett had come out to say 
good luck. She shook it off and tried to 
sort out what she was feeling.

Mulder was not the only one who had gone 
running.

She had known as soon as she woke, that she 
could not back away. Sheer blinding terror 
had driven her from his bed, not in an 
attempt to end the transition, but in a 
desperate attempt to understand what they 
had been hiding from themselves all along.

He had been waiting for her.

It had not been completely altruistic. There 
had been things he had needed to learn-about 
himself, about the night his sister 
disappeared and the effect it had had on his 
life. Waiting for her had given him time to 
discover these things. But there was enough 
truth in the fact to make it true regardless 
of secondary considerations.

He had not left her behind.

They had flirted through those first two 
years, dancing with a sexual attraction that 
was one part proximity and three parts 
cerebral. It had been intoxicating, the 
challenge, the work. But there was no way in 
hell that Mulder had fit her ideal of a 
mate. Something in her had screamed protest 
at the very thought. It had taken months and 
a chance meeting with Jack Willis to 
understand what that thing was.

She wanted a partner.

Everything that drew her to men like Jack 
and Daniel-their passion, their drive, their 
intellect- were the very things that 
destroyed the romantic relationship when she 
could not follow. Worse, in all those 
relationships, she had allowed herself to be 
dominated, to be led. It was a part of her 
personality that had been thrown into relief 
when she had realized that that was not what 
she had wanted from Mulder.

She had needed a partner.

How many times in that first year had he 
almost tripped over his own feet trying to 
be the first one around the corner? His own 
impulse to protect had meshed badly with her 
growing need to stand on her own two feet as 
an equal. Ironically, once she had that, it 
was too valuable to risk.  

Still, they had come close. 

In spite of her fear of being dominated by 
his obsession, in spite of her sister's 
death, in spite of the anger. God, the 
anger. She had not even known where it came 
from half the time, just that she wanted to 
be angry. Not for any particular thing, just 
because. And Mulder made a perfectly 
proximate target. In spite of it all, they 
had come close.

Then came Diana Fowley.

And Gibson Praise.

And the anger.

She had finally reached that point where she 
had realized that there was not going to be 
anything else. No normal life, no Assistant 
Director's chair, no children. None of it. 
Nothing of what she had planned. She was 
trapped, not because of circumstance, but by 
choices she could not make. She could not 
leave Mulder.

But maybe he could leave her.

Diana had represented everything Scully 
could not be. All the things she had 
honestly thought she could never believe in. 
Diana was also everything she suddenly 
realized that her relationship with Mulder 
was not. That was when she realized that 
that for all their proven commitment to each 
other in the face of adversity, that that 
commitment and knowledge was rooted solely 
in their roles as FBI partners and co-
opposition to the Consortium.

She had not even known that he had been 
married.

To his former partner.

That last fact had raised all sorts of 
speculation about his motives that had been 
flattering to neither of them. It had been 
speculation of that sort which had led to 
her doubts about his motives in the hallway. 
Still, she had taken the chance. He had been 
so openly affectionate during her cancer and 
she had missed that. So she had taken a 
chance in Florida...and watched him run.  

They kept on running for almost two years.

Now she knew why.

There was so much that they could have been 
doing. Making contacts. Stockpiling weapons. 
Gathering blood samples. Things that they 
would have been doing if they accepted the 
threat as real. Things that would not allow 
halfway measures or partial commitment.

Things that would forever separate her from 
the world her family called reality.

Things that would inevitably lead away from 
the FBI.

How ironic. She had wanted an equal 
partnership and it had been waiting for her 
all along. Subconsciously, they must have 
known it would come to this. If Mulder 
committed before she was ready, only the 
lover would have reason to follow him-and he 
had a bad track record where lovers were 
concerned. So he waited.

She had feared the inevitable changes. Who 
wouldn't? But she had feared even more, the 
loss of normal. It had taken a meeting with 
Daniel to realize she had already taken most 
of those steps without even realizing it. 
They had compromised. Mulder had waited.

Now all she had to do, was believe.

So where the hell was Mulder?

Impatiently, she looked toward the treeline 
as she waited for her partner to appear. She 
wanted to talk to him. It was as she stood 
there staring into the greenery that she 
realized that the nagging insistence in the 
back of her mind was not completely due to 
her thoughts about last night. She shifted 
uneasily.

She had been fighting a rising sense of 
urgency all morning. She had thought it was 
just an echo of her inner agitation, but as 
a sudden sense of panic swept in out of 
nowhere, she realized it was something more.

Something was wrong.

Tension coiled tighter and she suddenly 
found herself straining forward, staring out 
into the wooded acres.  The fact that she 
was not moving occurred to her and she 
looked down to see Vickery's hand wrapped 
around her wrist, holding her back. The 
other woman studied her intensely for a long 
moment. 

Something flickered in her eyes. 

The agent's grip opened and Scully hand 
slipped through her fingers.

Ignoring the cries of the other agents and 
the cursing of the startled pilot behind 
her, Scully began to walk. Not fast. Not 
even certain. She simply knew she had to 
move. Her hand snagged a pack from the pile 
of equipment waiting to be loaded and when a 
Marine guard moved to assist her, she took 
his rifle. Rustles and curses sounded as the 
rest of the team stumbled out into the rain 
after her. In her peripheral vision she was 
suddenly aware of Barrett moving like a 
silent shadow into a flanking position 
opposite Vickery.

She turned her head once to look at him, but 
he was watching the trees around them. 
Scully would have smiled in sheer relief if 
she had been able to bring herself to think 
about what she was doing. With his eyes, he 
asked no questions she could not answer. The 
phantom beat merged with her footfalls, 
quickening her pace as she lengthened her 
strides and pulled away from the line of 
confused agents trailing in her wake.

The forest swallowed them whole.

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

"She did what?"

Stephens looked up at McIssac's incredulous 
outburst. The soldier listened for a long 
moment, his face getting more and more 
disbelieving as whoever was on the other end 
of the line finished their report. Then he 
pulled off his headset, worked his mouth a 
few times , and finally just shock his head 
with incredulity. 

"The FBI just lost it."

Stephens put down the file he was reading.

"Mulder never made it back to the compound. 
Scully just went after him. On foot." The 
Marine's explanation was succinct. 

Stephens gaped. "On foot?"

McIssac scrubbed his hands over his face as 
if trying to wake himself up. " She's not 
even going in the right direction. Mulder's 
last known direction of travel puts him 
miles to the east. We've got two choppers 
out looking for him now. Another is trying 
to stay with Scully but she's moving through 
some pretty dense brush. The good news is 
that she seems to be moving in a relatively 
straight line."

Stephens processed that, then looked at 
McIssac, exasperated, "On foot?"

The gunny chuckled wearily," You think she 
forgot we have ATVs?" He sighed. "I'll send 
two teams out to get her. Vickery and 
Barrett are with her. She lost the others in 
the first half mile." The Sergeant shook his 
head slowly," She's moving too fast to 
maintain that pace for long. " He looked 
regretful for second, then looked at 
Stephens and shrugged.

" I expected better."


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

The phantom beat lead her on.

It set the pace. Moved her feet. 

Distantly, Scully felt her body hurtle along 
rocky ridges and slide down slick hillsides. 
Her eyes could make nothing of the world 
beyond the rain. Just shades of gray. 
Without volition, her body twisted and 
skimmed past a fallen tree and up another 
faint rocky trail. Her feet knew the path 
her eyes could not see.

One thud. Two thud.

Three.

If she allowed herself to think she would 
stop. If she allowed herself to reason, he 
would die. She did not know from where that 
conviction came. All she knew was that the 
price of disbelief was too high. She denied 
pain. She denied rationalism. She denied 
thought.

She let her pack fall from her shoulders. 
Felt the trees reach out and take it from 
her. But they were kind. They did not resist 
her when she kept her rifle. They let it 
slide into place across her back, drifting 
curious fingers across the barrel and down 
her shoulder in friendly greeting. They 
whispered softly to themselves and parted 
gently, leaving gaps and holes for her to 
slide through. Then they told her to hurry.

She ran.

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

"Christ, she's going to kill herself."

The muttered commentary of the pilot was 
echoed by the concerned expressions on the 
faces of the agents peering through the open 
door of the helicopter. McIssac and Stephens 
had picked up the bedraggled agents as they 
stumbled wearily back to the LZ. Now, 
strapped in with safety harness, the agents 
watched tight lipped as Scully pushed a pace 
through the woods that was suicidal reckless 
and frankly unbelievable.

The co-pilot just shook his head as a woman 
at least a foot shorter than her two 
followers left a long legged FBI agent and a 
former Navy SEAL falling further and further 
behind.
It was not just a matter of determination , 
physical stamina and sheer dogged 
cussedness.

She was literally running herself to death.

McIssac was not even sure that she was 
feeling pain at this point. There was only 
one way she could be maintaining this pace. 
He doubted she was feeling much of anything. 
He shook his head as she took another 
potentially suicidal leap from one rocky 
outcropping to another. Then he nodded to 
the sharpshooter waiting quietly in the 
corner of the helicopter and motioned for 
the helicopter to drop down as much as 
possible in front of the runaway agent.

Lewis cried out sharply as the  sniper swung 
into position. Stevens had a split second of 
warning before the sniper disappeared under 
four FBI bodies and his rifle went spinning 
off into the darkness. McIssac shouted 
angrily.

"It's just a tranquilizer, you morons. Do 
you want her to kill herself?"

Landers snarled as she wrapped herself more 
tightly around her part of the prudently 
quiescent prisoner. Rotor downwash whipped 
the hair back from Lewis' determined 
features. The young agent looked Stevens 
right in the eye as she snapped back.

"Her choice."

His sniper looked more annoyed than damaged 
- and most of that was probably for his lost 
weapon. Stephens was staring at the group 
with fascination in his eyes and the pilot 
was roundly cursing all of them for nearly 
tipping the helicopter over with their 
sudden weight shifts. McIssac looked down at 
the woman he could no longer save.

His face was tight-lipped and unforgiving as 
he looked each and every one of them in the 
eye. 

"This is yours."

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

Thud. Thud. Beat.

Thud. Thud. Beat.


Scully's feet pounded on.

Thud. Thud. Beat.

Thud. Thud. Beat.

She was about to launch herself over the 
next edge when the phantom heartbeat that 
had been her only guide into this madness 
paused...

...and faltered.

"Mulder!'

Scully's agonized cry cut through the 
shadows and two heads jerked in recognition. 
Vickery and Barrett forced agonized limbs 
ten minutes further. Two more repetitions of 
his name that sounded as if they were ripped 
from the bottom of her soul had them 
bursting into a small clearing just as 
Scully disappeared. They both cursed as the 
after image of her outstretched body burned 
itself into their brains. She hurtled into 
the air, an eagle folding its wings as it 
dove from the sky. They staggered forward 
even as the helicopter above circled once 
and came straight down behind them in a 
full-power combat landing.

It was Vickery who stopped Barrett from 
going over the edge of the ravine. 

Scully had not fallen. She had jumped. Signs 
of a body under motion traced itself in the 
muddy hillside and the agent and former SEAL 
were left staring over an edge they were 
still too sane to be too quick to follow.

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

She found him in a small cave. 

Dragging herself into the tiny hollow her 
entire attention was focused on only one 
thing. Collapsing next to his body, she 
placed a shaky hand against his throat. 
Alive. The slow thud of his heart echoed the 
beat she could still seem to hear in her 
mind. It was several seconds before she 
realized that her hand was brushing against 
torn fabric.

She stared at the rough bandage for a long 
minute before her sluggish thoughts pulled 
themselves together enough for her to 
understand what she was seeing. Bandage. 
Dried blood. Something inside let go and the 
colors around her grew fuzzy as she realized 
that there was nothing to do except wait. 
She had done her part. 

She had found him.

She curled herself into his uninjured side 
and rested her head against his shoulder. 
She let the sound of his heartbeat wash 
through her body until every cell seemed to 
vibrate in tandem. As she sank into the 
feeling of completeness, she was finally 
whole in a way she was not sure she could 
ever explain.

She was home.

"Scully?"

She did not move.

She did not have to.

"I'm sorry Scully. You...did what you 
thought you had to do. No...no 
apologies...right?"

His raspy whisper was labored and broken. 

"...know you dream in sunlight, Scully."

What did he know about her dreams?

"...wish I could give that to you...wish 
that man was me..."

She shifted in annoyance. Talk. All he did 
was talk. She needed to hear his heart beat. 
She stretched her body out alongside his, 
maximizing the contact. Even her feet seemed 
to echo with the thrum of his life and she 
was conscious only of a need to feel it. To 
hold it.

To hang on.

"It's dark, Scully."

No it wasn't.

"What if I get lost?"

<I'll find you.>

She forced several thoughts to march in 
coherent order. 

"Wait for me, Mulder." 

She managed to mumble the command into his 
shoulder. Shadow wars and buildings burning 
bright.

It would not take long to find him.

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

This nightmare was different from the rest.


"...his pressure is dropping."
"Get me another 10mg of...shit wait...what 
the hell?"
"She's dropping."
"There's nothing wrong with her!"


She could feel his heart beating. 


"Give her the Demerol."
"Doctor?"
"I said, give her..."
"She's convulsing!"
"Give her the God damn Demerol!"


Normally he was so far away. They always 
took him away.


"Jesus, what kind of brainwave patterns are 
those?"
"Is it broken?"
"No."
"Then what the fuck are we looking at?"
"Hell if I know."


She had never been able to see his injuries 
so clearly before. She frowned as she 
studied the damage. She watched in horror as 
cells blackened in what could only be 
cellular decay. Clutching him closer, she 
felt the rage build itself higher as it 
seethed through her veins. Fire licked along 
her nerve endings and she tried to scream. 
No air. 

No air.

More cells blackened and broke away. Dams 
formed as the dying cells choked narrow 
pathways and she felt her own heart spasm as 
Mulder's faltered. Not again. Her dream. 
This was her dream. The beast howled and she 
screamed as razor sharp claws sliced through 
bone and muscle until blood soaked paws 
could curl ivory claws around failing tissue 
and squeeze.


"Jesus fucking Christ."


This nightmare was different.

It hurt.


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

"Agent Scully? Agent Scully...Dana...I need 
you to listen carefully. We are moving your 
partner to another bed, but he's not going 
anywhere. He's going to be right here by 
your side. Do you hear me, Agent Scully? 
Agent Mulder is going to be right here 
beside you."

The beast lifted its head cautiously and 
twitched her ears.

"We're moving your arm now, but he's not 
going anywhere. Do you hear me, Agent 
Scully? We are not taking your partner 
away."

Shaking her head in annoyance at the 
persistent drone invading her sleep, the 
beast eyed the wolf beside her. Lean flanks 
rose and fell with reassuring regularity. He 
whined softly as she licked the wounds her 
claws had made above his heart, but did not 
awaken. Finally satisfied that everything 
was healing appropriately, the beast ignored 
the droning voice and lowered her head back 
to his shoulder to sleep.

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

"Dana? Can you hear me, Dana? It's Mom."

Lupine ears sprang to attention at the sound 
of the familiar voice. Forgetting infirmity, 
the scarred wolf made as if to leap to his 
feet only to drop his ears contritely as the 
female curled next to him growled.

"Dana, honey. Can you hear me? Can you open 
your eyes for me?"

The damaged wolf whimpered softly at the 
pain in that voice and his haunches tensed 
as he started once more to stand on all four 
paws. He wobbled precariously but his face 
broke out in a lupine grin when he managed 
to stay upright. He was about to take a step 
in the direction of that sad voice, when 
another growl stopped him.

Eyes slid to the female climbing gracefully 
to her own feet and he wagged his tail 
hopefully. His brush sagged when she glared 
at him angrily. Avoiding her eyes, he howled 
mournfully as the sad voice continued. He 
had promised. He knew he had promised. 

But the voice was so sad.

He took one tentative step toward the voice 
only to cry out in agony as pain lanced from 
the base of his skull to his tailbones. 
Instantly she was shoulder to shoulder with 
him, supporting him as he collapsed. He 
couldn't control the convulsive shivers as 
his mind almost short-circuited from the 
pain.

As the world receded around him, he was 
conscious only of her voice as the great cat 
pushed her nose into the fur behind his ear 
and purred reassuringly. The sound soothed 
his fears and followed him into the 
darkness.

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

 "...there's nothing more that we can do 
here."

Despair. Anger.

"Sir...don't listen to him. He doesn't 
understand."

Fear. So much fear. Black. Black. Blacker.

"Agent Vickery, I would appreciate it if you 
would give me a little privacy. This is Mrs. 
Scully's decision and you are not helping 
matters."

Annoyance. Petty sparks of sallow green. 
Pink edges.

"It's not her decision."

Hard edges. Brittle glass and embarrassed 
silence.

"Agent..."

"Tell him, Sir."

A sigh. A sigh. A rustle of clothing. Male 
frustration and feminine fear. Familiar 
fear. Maternal. Mother. Fear.

"Due to the unusual nature of their medical 
histories, Agents Mulder and Scully felt it 
would be ...prudent...if I held their 
medical Power of Attorneys."

Pain. Humiliation. Anger.

Don't cry.

"I see."

Male anger. Clipped. Orange. Orange and 
yellow.

"They are getting better, Sir. You can't 
separate them. You will kill them both."

Despair. Loss. Fury.

"Agent...Satinka. If this can save 
Scully..."

No.

"...if they are right and Mulder is dying...

No.

"They.Are.Not.Dying. Ask him. Ask him if 
there are dangerous levels of toxins 
building up in their systems. Ask him if 
there is any evidence of cellular 
breakdown."

Fury.

"Agents. Both of these people are in deep 
comas. Their metabolic rates are 
progressively deteriorating. In my medical 
opinion, not only is Mulder not getting 
better-he is getting worse. And somehow, he 
is taking an essentially uninjured woman 
with him."

"Satinka..."

"I've seen this before."

Determination. Brown. Brown. Furtive. 
Secret. Hide.

Secrets.

"What?"

Suspicion. Hope.

"Among my...people. It's rare. The patient 
had to be able to trust the healer enough to 
turn everything over. Do you understand? 
Everything. Or it doesn't work."

Shame. Secrets.

Pain.

"What are you talking about?"

"What she knows, he knows. He's able to heal 
himself once she shows him what's wrong. But 
it takes total concentration. He has 
nothing...absolutely nothing left over for 
anything else. Nothing. Not even enough to 
keep his heart beating or his lungs 
breathing. She's doing it for him."

"Do you even realize how that sounds?"

"You've seen something similar. With the 
mushroom case. Why is this any different?"

"Because that made sense. Sort of. "

"So does this. As far as I can tell, it was 
the same thing in theory. Think of a 
magnetic field. All the commands from your 
brain to your body are electromagnetic, and 
all are reflected in that field. Now imagine 
you can mesh the two systems so closely that 
you can override the command functions of 
one system with the other. Two bodies taking 
their cues from one mind. One mind accepting 
and filtering input from two sources.One..."

"...brain breathing for two 
people.But...how?"

Secrets.

"Does it matter?"

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

The room was extremely white.


Squinting her eyes against the glare, Scully 
turned her head until she could see the 
other person in the room. 

"What happened to your arm?"

Vickery's head shot up at the raspy question 
and a fierce grin broke over her face. She 
glanced down at her bandage wrapped arm and 
shrugged lightly.

"You took exception when the doctors first 
tried to separate you and Mulder. My arm got 
in the way of your teeth."

Scully stared at her, appalled. "I did 
that?"

Vickery smiled proudly,"Needed 15 stitches. 
Definitely convinced the doctors you were 
serious."

Jesus.

Before she could decide how to react, the 
door swung open and a tired looking nurse in 
pink scrubs and heavy white shoes strode 
into the room. Vickery was already on her 
feet cautiously, but the nurse had stopped 
dead in the middle of the room as soon as 
she spotted Scully.

Her mouth opened once. Gaped a second time. 
Finally a tiny squeak emerged and she was 
darting back out the door. Vickery's lip 
curled.

"I told them you weren't dying." 

Scully smiled briefly at the other agent's 
disgruntled tones. Then her eyes sharpened 
and Vickery stiffened as she caught the 
changing body language.

"Who shot him?"

Vickery flinched.

"There's...some question about that."

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


The shadows were soothing.


Abused senses welcomed the darkness and the loss of color. The bitter
smell of antiseptic still clung to every surface, but the aching assault
of bright white had faded. As the door closed behind her, the voices in
the hallway were muffled. Not completely.


Enough.


Out of habit she picked up his chart, but she did not need to read it to
know what it said. The doctors had been astonishingly open about the
details of his condition. Somewhere deep within her she had known that
they had been telling the truth. Until this minute, however, until the
moment that she could hear him breathing, she had been terrified that it
was all a dream.


Or a lie.


Setting the chart down she slipped into the chair someone had left
beside the bed and studied his motionless form. The doctors had
originally been concerned with the fact that she had only awoken this
morning, but had finally chosen to put it down to exhaustion. Mulder had
been moved into his own room after regaining consciousness two days ago
and they were still leery of allowing him to move too much. He was under
mild sedation to keep all motion down to a minimum until they were
certain that the damage to his chest was as miraculously healed as all
the x-rays were indicating.


The unnatural stillness was disturbing.


Until Mulder, she had never sat at the bedside of anyone she cared
about. Had never had to consider what one did to fill the hours. Holding
hands might look romantic in the movies, but she had found it awkward at
best. Half the time the bed was too high or the chair was too low and
angled wrong. The metal edges bit uncomfortably into the underside of
her arm and the palms of unconscious people still grew damp and sweaty.
Clammy. After twenty minutes she generally felt uncomfortable and foolish.


Or worse.


Mulder was not built for stillness. Even in sleep he moved and reacted.
Unconscious, his hands were lifeless and too much like the hands in her
nightmares. The ones that refused to respond when she held them. The
ones that were incapable of responding ever again. Cold and lifeless.


It was better to hear him breath.


If she closed her eyes, she could ignore the hospital smells and the
bitter edge of illness and it was just another stakeout. Curling her
hands in her lap, she could pretend it was just another night in the
car. Another late night pouring over casefile notes in a seedy hotel
room and falling asleep to the sound of his pen and the many sounds of
Mulder. The sigh as he connected with the victim. The pause and shuffle
as he pulled out a photograph and stopped to imagine what life had been
like for that person.


The burp as the chili-cheese dog she warned him about came back to haunt
him.


Hiccups from drinking his soda too fast.


The flatulent legacy of three nights of pepperoni pizza.


The groan as he pried leather shoes from aching feet on his way to the
bathroom, and promptly tripped over the high heeled ones she forgot she
had left at the foot of the spare bed.


She wondered who else knew that somewhere after midnight he would rub
his face as his beard began to itch. Five minutes after his fingernails
started rasping across his jaw, he would stretch. He would not bother to
get up. He would simply reach his arms back over his head until the
vertebrae starting cracking and she could hear his shoulder joints
popping back into place. Invariably he would lean too far back and nine
times out of ten he would overbalance, cracking his knees against the
underside of the table as he caught himself.


He always apologized for waking her.


She might have told him that she was not truly asleep at those times.
She knew the profiler would understand that she found those sounds more
intimate than all the grunts and gasps and basic biology of sex. The
profiler would understand, but she sometimes wondered if Mulder would.


Then again, they had invested so little of themselves that night,
intimacy had not been an issue.


Fear had ruled without mercy, and with very little hope.


Sighing, she shifted to get a bit more comfortable only to freeze in
surprise. Despite the motionlessness of his body, hazel eyes were open
and watching her. The delighted grin that jumped to her lips paused and
faded as the expression on his face registered. She watched, alarmed,as
with an ease that betrayed a shocking amount of practice he abruptly
folded the raw emotion away.


For a long moment, both agents stared at each other across the rails of
the hospital bed and Scully felt a yawning abyss shatter the distance
between them. Shame flared as his eyes dropped and she glanced away
before he would be forced to respond to the regret in her own. As it
was, she had no idea how to respond to the anger and baffled pain hidden
in his.


How did she apologize for something she would do again?


The sound of the door sent her spinning, reaching for her weapon out of
reflex. Skinner glanced at the gun in her hand and grinned past her to
the man on the bed.


"Barely conscious and already watching your back"


There was a tiny pause, then Mulder's trademark humor laced his voice as
he replied,"Doesn't she always?"


Scully flinched.


Mulder stilled, his expression turned inward. Skinner, ignoring or
missing the tension between the two agents, grinned again and waved a
sheaf of papers at the man in the bed.


"You, my friend, are either the luckiest bastard on the face of this
planet or your guardian angels are in therapy."


Mulder cocked an eyebrow while Scully snatched the papers from the AD's
hand. She flipped through them rapidly as Skinner continued cheerfully.


" The damage to your right lung seems to be healed completely with no
sign of secondary infection. You won't be running any marathons next
week but the doctors say the scarring is so minimal that you'll have
full capacity back in no time."


Mulder shifted his gaze to his partner.


She shrugged. "The arrhythmia caused by the pulmonary edema has cleared
up, the ribs will be sore for a while, but they appear to have knitted
solidly and even the bruising is subsiding. All in all, a miraculous
recovery, Mulder." She managed a small smile and handed the release
papers back to Skinner.


He barely glanced at her as she turned away and he waved them again.


"You're a free man, Mulder."


The agent was silent as he watched as Scully let the door swing shut
behind her. A slight frown furrowed his brow as Mulder contemplated the
limp barely discernible in her steady pace. Finally he looked back at
Skinner and smiled tightly.


"You figure?"


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

The hospital had been kind enough to find office space for Dr. Stevens
and his records. Looking at the mish mash of computer equipment that all
hummed together smoothly, he rather though the good doctor had had a
little help. Skinner shook his head. He had never met the three men
currently under the watchful eye of the X-Team's band of military
supporters. Mulder had alluded to their help on more than a few
occasions, but had been deliberately vague about their identities and
vital statistics.


He was not going to find out anything today either.


The SEALs were treating the three (at least, he thought there were
three) as if they were an offshoot of military intelligence and were
deliberately keeping them out of sight and out of reach. Skinner could
only pray that that was only a result of a general SpecOps paranoia and
not indicative of anything anyone in this building had planned.


"Can I help you?"


Skinner spun too quickly and had to reach to keep a stack of folders
from tumbling. He opened his mouth to make a comment about the lax
security and found himself turning to discover two human guard dogs
standing politely behind a man Skinner recognized only from a personnel
jacket photograph. The quiet lethalness emanating from the men hovering
behind the doctor simultaneously worried and reassured him. He assumed
that his FBI identification had allowed him this far into the building.
From their expressions, they had known he was coming and had waited for
him.


It was his relationship to Mulder and Scully that was on trial.


He smiled, teeth slightly clenched. He was not about to justify his
choices to anyone at gunpoint. Not at another's choice. Not to someone
he had no reason to trust and most definitely not to two men who were
one step away from dereliction of duty as far as he could see.


Even if they did seem to be working on the side of the angels.


Doctor Stevens allowed the silence to stretch long enough to become
uncomfortable, then waved the soldiers away. They hesitated just long
enough to inform Skinner that they were leaving because Stevens told
them to, not because they were convinced that he lacked threat potential.


"Thank you for sending up their medical files."


Skinner eyed the doctor consideringly, finding equal suspicion looking
backing back. He wondered if the doctor was as willing to cut through
the bullshit as he was. " The FBI psychiatrists are not convinced my
agents will ever work in the field again."


"They might be right."


That was not what he wanted to hear.


"At least, not for the FBI."


Skinner eyed the doctor with surprise. " I'm not sure I understand."


A brief flash of contempt faded to something more like disgust. "Your
FBI psychiatrists keep looking for something that isn't there and
completely miss what is."


"You're saying that they were wrong to be worried?"


"Good Lord, hardly. But they were completely honest with you and with
them. You just did not believe what they told you."


Another pile of folders waiting to be filed was threatened as Skinner
flung out a frustrated hand."What didn't we listen too?"


"They were never lost."


Skinner stared at the Doctor is disbelief,"That's it? That your answer?"
he stalked to the other side of the room, nearly a year's worth of
frustration and fury threatening to boil over in one explosive second,"
They weren't lost?" He stalked back to the other side of the room,"They
weren't lost?" He stopped.


"What the hell does that mean?"


Stevens flinched at the sheer volume of the bellow and the room dropped
to an excruciating level of silence and both men turned to watch the
door. When it neither flung itself open or was propelled open by a
protective foot, Doctor Stevens pushed out a frustrated sigh and ran
both hand through his hair.


"Look. Most of the time, people come back from these little adventures
completely disconnected. We create our lives out of the world around us.
The people, our jobs, the things that we expect to have in our lives
tomorrow. All though bits and pieces are woven into unconscious
projections of what we expect our lives to be like tomorrow, next month,
next year."


Skinner sank into a nearby chair as the Doctor paused to consider his
next words carefully.


"Most of us never really have to examine our daily choices. Not
consciously-certainly not as often as your agents have been forced to
do. Is this where I want to be? Do I stay because want to or because I
need to? Do I really need to, or am I too afraid to look for other
alternatives?"


The doctor's voice softened.


"Events like what happened to Agents Mulder and Scully usually
precipitate problems because they force drastic reevaluations of the
choices made. Add in the fact that when they get home, all of the
support structures those choice were originally based on have changed
and you have people who are reevaluating their goals, their identities
and they've often lost the people and things they've depended upon. The
ones left behind are angry at being abandoned-at what they themselves
have lost- yet often have nothing concrete to be angry at. Are you
supposed to be angry with someone for surviving?"


Skinner looked at the doctor for a long moment."Mulder and Scully were
never lost."


Stevens looked him straight in the eye."They were never lost."


The folders on the desk were uncooperatively silent as Skinner finally
tried to wrestle some meaning from the words. Finally, he just shook his
head.


Stevens slowly unlocked his desk drawer and extracted a stack of
folders. "Agents Mulder and Scully have no questions about who they are
and why they do what they do. They left behind any issues of motivation
a long time ago. They use the FBI and they let the FBI use them. The day
to day confusion is just?emotional static. Anger, frustration, pain.
It's something to get through, not something strong enough to alter the
course of the paths they have chosen."


His fingertips traced the files folders delicately, almost fearfully.


" They have woven the entire future of themselves around each other.
Their quest grows out of who they are and what they believe in. Neither
of those things got misplaced. So everything else?is just details."


Skinner resisted the urge to pound his fist against the desk."Then what
the hell are we seeing? What's wrong with them? And don't tell me nothing."


Stevens smiled crookedly,"Hardly." He hesitated several more seconds,
then put the folders back in his drawer. " Who they are?who they are to
each other has been evolving. It's a relationship after all, the changes
have just been more rapid and drastic than most. Many of the rules and
guidelines we use to judge relationships just don't apply to what they
are because they are too many things too each other. We would never call
that healthy?but we don't live in their world."


Skinner twitched reflexively.


" I think what they went through in Wyoming just gave them time to think
about those changes rather than just reacting to them. It's possible
that the event may even have speeded up the process-but make no mistake,
it did not create anything that was not already there. Then when they
got back, San Diego pushed evolution over the edge.

They just cannot hide it anymore."


How the hell was he supposed to sell this to the FBI. At least, without
revealing things the FBI really really did not want to know. They had
managed to make good use of their loose cannons all the while pretending
that the cannons were completely under control.

It was easier to blame their problems on circumstance, than to look too
closely at the possible circumstances that would create the types of
problems they were seeing.


Mulder had Scully.


Scully had Mulder.


They were never lost.


Jesus Christ.


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

She was sitting in darkness, back resting against the headboard, the
light on the dresser beside the bed turned off. The shadows hid her
eyes, but not the tension that had been increasing all afternoon. Mulder
wrinkled his nose as the unexpected smell of whisky assaulted him from
halfway across the room. The liquid rattle of ice against glass preceded
a decidedly aggressive thud of glass against wood.


"Go away."


For a moment he wondered if Stevens had made a mistake. Could have
believed it if he had not seen the test results with his own eyes. Due
to the recent stress on their bodies, their testosterone levels had
fallen to near normal levels. Actually, less than normal for them.
Normal enough for him to be certain that the emotions driving her were
not artificially induced.


"Isn't it time to stop running?"


His challenge unfolded itself blatantly, blunt and graceless. She
studied him for a moment, then her mouth tipped up at one end with an
odd, angry smile. She let out a single, "Ah." still smiling that odd
smile. She lifted the glass to her lips and stared at him over the rim
of the glass, eyes dark. This time, when the base of the tumbler hit the
dresser, her hand released it.


Weapons system targeting.


"As if that isn't the cosmic joke of the universe."


The pain and bitterness in her voice lacked the anger he was expecting
and slid past his defenses without resistance.


"I don't have the luxury of running."


He had expected fear. He had expected anger?fury even. Scully did not
like to be pushed and he was cutting off all her escape routes. He had
thought that he had anticipated all of her possible responses-everything
from disappointment to regret to defensive passion. Not this. Not a
weary resignation that spoke of defeat and loss and a hurt too deep to
result from the recent games he had been playing.


"I've never had the luxury of running."


Helplessly, he watched as she slipped off the bed and walked toward him.
When she reached out to grasp his right hand carefully, he was not
surprised to find that it was shaking. He watched as she delicately
laced her fingers with his and he watched as she studied their joined
hands sadly.


"Was this what you wanted this morning, Mulder?"


Her eyes were fey in the splintered light seeping in through the dust
covered windows of the motel. Anger swirled in blue depths, but the
sparks were tired, more habit than emotion. Her other hand came up and
he shivered as her fingertips traced light patterns across his knuckles.


"Would this have been enough?"


His scattered thoughts flashed back to the look on her face when she had
caught him in a moment of weakness. So he had hoped. So he had wished
for one second that he could have had this. Was that so bad? That for
one moment he could open his eyes and have what everyone else seemed to
find it so easy to acquire. To have had some hope that something had
changed.


That maybe she cared more than a friend.


"More than a friend..."


Her low voiced murmur repeated the phrase he had spoken inadvertently.
When her head tilted back he grew cold at the anger and despair that
flashed in her eyes.


It would seem he wanted too much.


"On the contrary, Mulder. You don't want enough. "


The bitterness in her low-voiced comment released him and she moved away
until she could meet his gaze without straining her neck. She turned her
head to stare at a pile of file folders strewn haphazardly across the
tiny breakfast table and when she glanced back, her eyes were distant,
unreadable.


He opened his mouth to argue; closed it in confusion when he realized
that he did not know what he was defending. This was not what he had
intended. He took refuge in temporary misdirection. He nodded at the
whiskey bottle standing open on the dresser.


" New hobby?"


She studied the bottle, lips pinched tight. Then she shrugged."Just
taking the edge off. This place reeks and the colors are enough to make
your eyes bleed."


Mulder considered the bland carpet and matching wall-paper and said nothing.


"Why are you here, Mulder?"


He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Opened his mouth
and shifted his weight back again as he reconsidered his question.
Something that almost looked like surrender flashed across her face
before vanishing into the shadows. He searched her face.


"Was it that bad, Scully?"


She flinched and he wished he could take back the wistful edge to the
question.


"No",she said finally. Softly. "It wasn't bad."


Pushing his luck, he eased closer and reached to cup her cheek with his
palm. She turned her face into the caress. They stood like that for a
moment until she opened her eyes and her gaze was somber.


"You give too much, too easily, Mulder."


He hesitated, uncertain if she meant the comment as a complaint or a
warning. He held her eyes, then shrugged it away as unimportant.


"Nothing I don't want to give."


He ignored the sad look that swept across her face and drew her close
enough to wrap his arms around her. She tucked her cheek into his
shoulder and he rested his jaw against the top of her head. In the end,
he supposed the truth would have to do.


"I know it wasn't what you were looking for."


The unspoken hope that maybe it could be enough hung heavy in the night
air. Her body went unnaturally still and for a moment he feared she
would pull away. He did not even realize she was crying until he felt
the dampness through the fabric of his shirt.


He snapped his head back.


"Scully??"


Unconsciously, she pressed one fisted hand against her chest. Her eyes
grew distant with an aching sense of loss he did not know how to comfort
and her other hand reached up to touch his face gently. " So much the
same. I should have seen it. I should have known." A flash of anger."You
should have known. But it's easier to believe in possibilities, than the
implications of that belief, isn't it Mulder?" The challenge in her
voice was more bitter than angry. Resigned instead of attack. Tired.


"What should you have seen, Scully?"


She smiled sadly. "Daniel. Jack, Elliot?I was looking for you." A
whisper of a sigh."So much for choices."


He just looked at her, trying to see what she was seeing. Trying to make
sense of what she had just said. He caught sight of a file folder tucked
under her pillow. Not hidden, simply as though the pillow had fallen
over on it when she had placed it on the bed. Before he could connect
what he was doing to what she was saying, he had dropped his hands and
moved past her until he was close enough to read the words on the open page.


A weird sense of foreboding told him not to read it. With everything
that was in him, he wanted to turn away. Close the file and pretend that
he did not want to know what reading material Scully chose to go with
her liquor. Pretend that he was not seeing connections. His hand reached
out and pulled the file closer.


He did not know what he expected. Medical records maybe. A copy of her
Bureau file. An X-File where she had played a starring role. It was a
full sixty seconds before his brain made the connection between what his
eyes were seeing and what the words meant.


He sank onto the bed, fingers curiously numb.


Patterson's handwriting. He would have to be dead to forget that
handwriting. Every slashing backslant. Every aggressive mark of
punctuation. Every word saturated with the certainties he had brought to
his experiment. Ruthless. Arrogant.


Insane.


Mulder watched his hand shake as he carefully flipped to the beginning
of the file. Where had she gotten this? He glanced around for an answer
and came up with an envelope with no return address. He recognized the
handwriting on the label though.


Stevens.


He gathered the file close to his chest and was leaning towards the lamp
on the other side of the bed when he remembered the other files. He
knew. Somehow he knew before he stepped past her and reached the table.
He knew what he would find. He was right.


Daniel Waterston.


Jack Willis.


Fox Mulder.


There were others. People who had impacted the Patterson Project by
impacting the principals, but these were the files that mattered. Bill
had been thorough in his analysis of her reasoning and her choices.


Their failures.


Patterson had been particularly intrigued with her deep-seated fear of
being abandoned by those who claimed to love her. He had wondered how
that edge would translate when she profiled. In his own words, her
lovers had freaked when presented with a glimpse of the darker aspects
of her personality. The profiler in Mulder was unwillingly drawn deeper
into the portrait being painted. Deeper into the mind of his partner as
Patterson speculated that Scully herself had sabotaged the relationships.


The part of his brain that never turned off, never let him ignore the
truths he saw buried beneath the lies people told to themselves,
considered that analysis calmly.


It was possible.


Probable even.


Patterson had amended his conclusions on her motivations after Willis.
He painted a picture, not just of a young woman testing her lovers'
resolve, he documented a pattern of anger aimed squarely at the men
themselves. Scully had not just been testing them?she had been driving
them away. Deliberately. In a calculated effort to end a relationship
she found too constraining.


Dana Scully, it would seem, actively resented the authority she
apparently craved.


In his notes, Patterson indicated a strong desire for Scully to be
assigned to Mulder before she had a chance to become so confident in her
experience that she would write him off as a lunatic. Her inexperience
would provide the illusion of authority long enough for the relationship
to become established, but Mulder lacked the strict authoritarian
personality that the other men had possessed. Patterson had hoped that
this would prevent her from sabotaging the relationship, but was worried
that she might come to see only weakness. This, and the X-Files were
Patterson's prime areas of concern.


A broken profiler who chased little green men lacked a certain credibility.


Patterson had been concerned that Mulder's beliefs might trigger a
failure of respect so great it would overwhelm the sexual attraction he
needed for the dynamic he was trying to create. A little was okay. The
killer was supposed to despise the victim. Patterson was convinced,
however, that they would need a strong sexual bond to overcome that
mutual loathing. The fact that the other would harbor a piece of what
they abhorred most was bad enough. The fact that both would be fully
capable of knowing and recognizing what they hated and why was something
else again. Patterson had looked forward to seeing the results in person.


Mulder wondered if it was too late to start believing in Hell.


He had someone he wanted to send there.


He was shocked when his own voice spoke, echoed coldly. He had not
thought that he meant to say anything at all. "Score one for Patterson.
Guess we now know why he thought you'd have a thing for profilers."


She just looked at him and he wanted to kick himself for the anger he
felt when she said nothing He had spent the first four years of their
partnership terrified that Patterson had been right. He had spent the
next two thankful the bastard had been wrong and most of the two after
that deciding he could live with it. Then the last few months had seen
him ruthlessly plotting how to use Patterson's insanity against her.


A wave of bitter anger threatened to open his mouth and push forth
something stupid. Like asking her if Patterson had been right. As if he
had not always known. Young, hungry for the approval she obviously had
not gotten from her family, cursed with an unforgiving sense of duty and
honor and a soul-deep hatred of what the monsters could do?oh yeah, he
had always known why a profiler would have done it for her.


Her opinions and conclusions were the straw from which they spun their
devil's web.

They worked from forensic data. Relied on it. Throw in the fact that
Willis was intelligent, dynamic and not likely to loose his cookies if
the shop talk slipped and Patterson had prime bait for his hook. He did
not even have to work for it.


Too bad the stupid asshole blew it.


He still remembered the irony in her voice when she had described Willis
and the inevitable conclusions he had drawn about what had broken them
up. He also had not missed the pointed amusement in her eyes as she
described her ex-lover. She had left one obsessive profiler only to end
up working with another. He had not been blind to the traits he shared
with Willis-or the fact that she was fully aware of them.


At the time, he had only seen Patterson's hand in the whole set-up.


He still did.


<Someone like you> The words echoed hollowly. <Someone like you>


Echoes of the past.


The present was always constructed with the echoes of the past.


He abruptly realized that she was holding herself unnaturally still and
that neither of them seemed to be moving. Was he supposed to be happy
about this? Happy that his personality reflected Waterston's passion for
his work, Willis's obsessive need to know, to hunt and capture. As for
Elliot. What did he reflect of Elliot? He reached for happy.


A reflection.


A reflection of the men she had wanted, strong enough in places and
shadowed by the realities of the choices she could not make. Realities
forced upon them by the lives they led?and the ones they could no longer
chose. Would a reflection be enough to keep her from regretting what she
could not have? Or was it just enough to make acceptable, the only
choice that she could?


<Someone like you>


She did not look happy at all.


Could he live with just being a reflection?


"What do you want, Scully?"


For a long moment, she did absolutely nothing. Her eyes were shadowed
and her features hidden by the darkness. He would not have been
surprised, regardless of her earlier statement - if she turned and
walked away. He almost flinched when she abruptly started to pick her
way carefully across the room. When she finally stopped a bare
handbreadth from touching distance and looked down as he sat, frozen, he
realized that he did not want to know the answer.


How odd.


Her eyes were still shadowed, and her voice held no discernable emotion,
only commitment as she answered. "I want to you to believe."


For a split second, he almost thought she was joking.


"I want you to believe that there is absolutely nothing you can do to
make me stay."


He tried to stand only to find her hands slamming down on his shoulders,
forcing him to stay.


"I want you to believe that there is nothing you can offer me. You can't
give me what I want. You can't protect me from what I fear. You can't
make up for the lost children or the lost years or the lost chances. You
can't bring me the Consortium as a consolation prize and
nothing?absolutely nothing you can do will ever make up for Melissa and
Emily."


"Scully?don't."


"Do you believe me?"


Yes.


"Scully?please."


Don't make me say it. He heard the words in his head, but this was the
only thing she had ever asked of him.


"Tell me you believe me."


I believe you. PleasedontPleasedontPleasedont?


"Say it."


Her hands tightened painfully and for one brief second, he hated her.
Hated her for the fact that there was nothing in her eyes he wanted to
see, and nothing he could do to put it there. Nothing he could do. Not
now. Not ever. He stood up, brushing her hands from his shoulders with
the sharp movement.


She refused to step back.


He dredged up a painful, bitter smile and looked her straight in the eye.


"I believe you."


She nodded slowly, then added one more statement in a cracked
whisper,"Now tell me that you believe me that there is nothing you can
do to make me leave."


He stared at her blankly. Hurt and anger raged together, swirling around
in frustrated dance of confusion. Was this a joke?


"You can't make one too many mistakes, you can't forget one too many
birthdays. You can't leave me with too much paperwork, get me shot one
too many times or embarrass me one time too many. You can't drag me
anywhere I don't want to go, you can't back me into too many corners and
you can't do anything I don't already know perfectly well you are
capable of. You can't piss me off too many times, and you can't scare me
away."


""What kind of game are you playing, Scully?"


"The game you started." Her eyes flashed briefly,"But I'm changing the
rules. Now tell me you believe me."


He smiled bitterly. "Fine. You want it? You got it. It's not about me. I
can't make you stay. I can't make you go. I can't do a god-damn thing.
Are you happy now? Can I go?"

Ignoring anything she might have said, he stalked past her and grabbed
the whiskey bottle. He stared at the amber liquid balefully. Fuck it. He
did not want to be sober when she got to where she was going.


"I said that you can't do anything to affect my decision to stay or go,
Mulder. I never said it had nothing to do with you."


He turned on his heel and glared at her. Defiantly he tipped the bottle
back and let the whiskey burn down his throat. "Make up your mind."


"It took me 130 years to find you. Do you honestly believe I'm suddenly
going to decide that you're not worth it?"


The room seemed to hang in the silence. He watched her with unreadable
eyes, saying nothing.


"Implications, Mulder. If you believe your own theories, then I was
always meant to find you. I've spent my life looking for you. Hell,
we've spent lifetimes together. I doubt this lifetime would be the first
time your choices could get us killed. Or mine could. But I'm a hell of
lot less afraid of dying with you than living without you."


He licked his lips, then raised the bottle a second time. She stood
silent as he watched her. Finally he laughed. A harsh bark that held no
amusement. "You have no idea how ironic this is." He hesitated, then
bared his teeth,"I wanted it you know. For it to be true. I ached for it
to be true. I thought I'd finally found the one person in the world who
would love me no matter what. Had been born to love me." He stared into
the bottle, then twisted the cap back on and threw the bottle on the
bed. " And she killed herself. I found her and it wasn't enough." He
left the obvious unspoken.


That Fox Mulder was not enough.


" The one consolation in the whole mess was that I was wrong. Wonderful
theory, revealed oodles about my inner psyche, but just a little shy of
the facts. Like the fact that Old Smokey is too old in this life to have
been a Gestapo in the last one. And now you tell me that you believe it?
That we are destined to be nothing but friends? That my soulmate killed
herself. That's just fucking wonderful."


Scully's eyes flashed dangerously, and her voice had a dark bite. "I
never said she was your damn soulmate." Her body echoed the snap in her
words," And just because some of what you saw might have been real,
doesn't mean all of it was. Did you ever consider the possibility of
alternate timelines? "


Mulder collapsed onto the bed for a second time and stared at his
simmering partner. His hand snagged the whiskey bottle again. For one
brief second, shock overrode everything else and all he could do was
echo her incredulously,"Alternate timelines?"


A startled look crossed her face as he grinned involuntarily. She
frowned,"A little focus here please, Mulder."


"Alternate timelines? Really?"


She glared and he dropped his gaze to his hands. His fingers discovered
a corner that had started to curl, and his hands worried at the label.


"Mulder?"


He carefully pulled the edge back.


"Mulder!"


He dropped the bottle and met her eyes, his own dead serious,"Don't."
The words were a warning."Don't ask me to believe this, Scully, because
if I do, you leave me with nothing."


Her face paled.


He turned his hands over and studied both palms, as if waiting for the
future to speak. Finally he looked up, eyes lost,"I could hear you, you
know. Both of you. For all her flaws and her lack of loyalty, Diana
really did love me. " He hesitated when she twitched, then continued
softly,"I know you care for me. I know you respect me. But Scully?you
are not in love with me. So don't tell me that who I am is enough. It
obviously isn't. Not for you. Not enough for Diana to stay. Certainly
not for anyone else. All I can offer is what I can offer." His smile
betrayed him. Revealed a cynical outlook he generally hid well, " I can
live with that. If that's all you want, I can live with that. But if I'm
supposed to believe that the universe itself has decreed that all we'll
ever be is friends, then that means I have to give up what I feel. That
everything inside is a lie. It means I have to give up hoping that
someday, if I get it just right, someday you'll feel something more. I
can't do that. Don't ask me to. Because I ..can't?"


He looked away.


She breathed with him in the silence for long enough that he wondered if
she was going to respond. If she could respond. What the hell did you
say to an unwanted confession of unrequited love? Thanks but no thanks?


"You're a fool."


Ooookkaayy.


" Do you know what being in love is? It's passionate and powerful and
ultimately blind. It has expectations and promises and needs trust to
survive. It's a beautiful dream Mulder that lives on faith and lasts
only as long as faith and trust are not broken?or if the passion behind
it can turn it into something more enduring.It accepts limits imposed
from the outside." She met his eyes and bared her teeth, " I accept none."


She stepped closer and stared down at him, blue eyes cold," Ask yourself
why Cancerman never made me part of the deal. He offered you everything
else; the truth, your sister. You would have accepted, in the end. You
know it. I know it. You can be damn sure that he knows it. " Her smile
was a shark's toothed grin."Ask yourself why he gave me up for free."


She shrugged," As for faith and trust. You can hurt me Mulder. Frustrate
me and anger me beyond belief. You can break faith and trust and have.
We both have. What you can't do is betray me. The only way to do that is
to betray yourself. I know you. I know your heart and I know the depths
of your commitment. The only thing I need is for you to continue to be
you."


" It's not light, it's not the answer to everything and it sure as hell
is not blind. It's dark, it's angry and it needs so badly I think
sometimes I'm going to drown. We are too many people for it to be
anything other than possessive and hungry and its all I can do to keep
from taking more than you would chose to give. Do you want me to promise
I'll never leave?I can't do that. Who we are means I can't do that. But
I'll never leave because of something you did?and the only reason I stay
is because of who you are. Who we are together."


She straightened, leaving her partner staring at her in stunned silence.
She smiled at him, the edges dark and bitter. "Do you want to know the
worst thing you ever said to me?"


She waited, but he could not answer.


Her smile tightened. "You said,' You owe me nothing' ".


She straightened carefully, less sober, he suddenly realized, than he
had thought.


" You can't betray me because I know you?"


"?can you say the same?"


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


Someone was going to get shot.


Accidentally. Accidentally on purpose. It did not really matter. What
would matter was the fact that when the media started taking photos of
the bloodshed, someone in the FBI was going to be asking Walter Skinner
why he let it happen. A reasonable question since the soldiers were
standing on soil currently under FBI jurisdiction. Unfortunately, no
matter what the official reason being given to cover their AWOL asses,
none of these soldiers gave a rat's behind what it said on his badge and ID.


They were here to protect Mulder and Scully.


Skinner studied the chaos surrounding the hospital with grim foreboding.
It had been bad enough when they had simply been rogue agents too smart
and too committed for their own good. He was not sure it was possible to
calculate their destructive potential now that they seemed to have
hijacked an army.


The Navy sure seemed to be agreeable lately.


From the front seat of a borrowed army jeep, Dr. Stevens watched three
soldiers corner and apprehend what looked like a photojournalist
desperate for an inside peek at the tent city and barbed wired command
post that had sprung up in the parking lot next to the Serenity Falls
hospital. His driver, a man who had been briefly introduced to Skinner
as a Gunnery Sergeant, downshifted, but let the engine idle.


Apparently, they were not expecting to stay long.


When he had walked out here an hour ago, the AD had simply been trying
to clear his head. To get a handle on what his problem children had done
now. None of the answers were doing anything to calm the acid in his
stomach or the trembling in his fingers that had started the moment he
had realized that his agents had just taken over a small town.

Dr. Stevens contemplated the disappearing photojournalist and then
turned his head to look at Skinner.


"Was there a reason to transfer them to this facility?"


The AD almost laughed. Reasons? How about five FBI agents, several
fucked up SEALs , a platoon of Marines, a serial murder investigation
and a partridge in a peartree. Skinner glanced at the only psychiatrist
he had found who was convinced that Mulder and Scully were completely
sane. Mad, bad and dangerous to know?but essentially sane.


"The doctor originally treating their condition felt that he had done
all that he could medically and advised moving them to a location where
the security precautions would be less disruptive and easier to maintain."


That, and the fact that Vickery had promised to kill him if he ever set
foot in Scully's room again.


Sanity, the AD reminded himself, was a measure of shared reality. Mulder
and Scully simply lived a different reality. Skinner hesitated as
something about that statement struck a sour note. It was not, he
thought finally, that they shared a different reality. Considering the
fact that they generally only got called to a crime scene after someone
got eaten, everyone shared the same dangers. It was just that most of
the people were oblivious to what lurked in the dark.


In some cases it was ignorance. Inexperience in others. Others still
because the people had been told that monsters did not exist and it was
easier to believe. Someone who believed in God was considered religious
and someone who believed in aliens was a certified nut.


Yet?


Neither had an autographed picture. Both had historical documents
claiming providence.

Both had people who had claimed to have seen. According to Mulder, the
possibility even existed that the aliens were God. That they had created
Man. Of course, that then begged the question of who or what had created
the aliens.


The difference between the two beliefs lay solely in the court of public
opinion.


Skinner grimaced and stepped into the jeep. The driver glanced at the
front passenger before spinning the wheel and heading towards the
gauntlet laying siege to the Emergency entrance of the hospital. The AD
considered the thin tissue of legitimacy the doctor had used to protect
the men holding the guns. He realized that he recognized it. He had used
it often enough himself, ultimately for the same people.


"A training exercise, Doctor?"


The driver's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.


This was not supposed to happen. Marine platoons did not go AWOL. Navy
Seals did not steal military transport planes and rogue FBI departments
did not take over small towns. Things like that did not happen. Except
that they obviously did.


They had.


Fourteen Navy Seals and other assorted SpecOps flavors had decided that
they wanted to help the FBI. Well?maybe they were bored.They were also
technically on medical leave, and were voluntarily spending that time
with Dr. Stevens. They were free to leave at anytime. Not normally all
at once, mind, but it was not illegal.


The pilot swore the gas was paid for.


Somehow, the Marines found out and somehow, someone got confused. They
had been assigned to do wargames exercises with the SEALs and the SEALs
were leaving. Which sort of, somehow, explained why a glassy-eyed
Gunnery Sergeant came aboard a transport plane and found the entire
platoon bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and rigged for war.


Someone even remembered to pack the paint pellets.


Well why not? They had tents and weapons and radios that worked over
long distances. They managed to acquire the loan of a helicopter and
Skinner really did not want to know where they had scraped up all that
field-designed lab equipment. Nor the generators, the lights, the barbed
wire or the Jet B helicopter fuel.


If he asked, he might get billed for it.


Dr. Stevens spoke again, his voice deliberately non-confrontational, but
determined."I still think this is a bad idea."


Skinner eyed the activity inside the barbed wire. CSI teams wearily
disembarked from mud-splattered jeeps and uniformed volunteers eagerly
grabbed boxes of evidence. Under the eagle eye of Agent Elizabeth
Landers, the evidence was hauled into a series of large canvas tents to
be catalogued and cross-referenced.


"Duly noted"


There was a long pause, then a sigh. "At least show the tape to them in
private first."


By all rights, he should. Everything in his manager's experience
screamed at him not to do this to them cold and with witnesses. But?


But.


He could not take the chance. The rest of the team had to know what they
were dealing with. They had to know what the results of certain
circumstances were likely to be, and they had to know the risks. That
was a given. They also had to see more than the cool control she would
show them after she was finished crying on her partner's shoulder.


The jeep stopped obediently as blank-faced Marines clothed in weapons
and attitude gestured for it to halt. None of the passengers protested
the indignity of having their finger pricked and the subsequent blood
spot examined. The faces obscured by gas masks and the assault rifles in
their hands were an eloquent reminder that this situation was being
taken seriously.


It was?an odd feeling.


For too long, Mulder had Scully had chased monsters by day and dodged
the Consortium by night. It was disconcerting to see the two combined,
like a dream that would not quite come into focus but where everything
was so out of whack, it was obviously a dream. Except that he could not
seem to wake up and the soldiers were trying to keep his agents from
being shot instead of being the ones doing the shooting.


There was no way in hell he could hide this one.


Ironically, it was the situation he could not hide, that just might let
him hide one that could have been even more damaging. Not from his
superiors of course, but they were the same people listening to the same
special interests that they had always obeyed. However, even they could
only do so much if the stories got too scary and there was enough blood
in the headlines. Skinner considered the tape in his hand as he and Dr.
Stevens headed for the hospital elevator.


Scary did not even come close.


Very few people knew. Vickery and Landers. The three SEALs who saw the
event, the guard watching the tape, Dr. Stevens and a handful of medical
professionals. Landers had acted fast enough to throw a security net and
media black-out around the event and she had had enough pissed off
military personnel to make her orders stick. Nobody in, nobody out and
relocation to Serenity Falls as quickly as possible.


The relocation had made sense in light of the fact that the X-Files team
was continuing the serial murder investigation that Mulder had reopened.
Both agents would want to assist as soon as they regained enough
strength to read the casefiles. It made sense in recognizing that their
team would want to keep them close, somewhere they could see the
security arrangements and somewhere where they were close enough to
assist if needed. It made sense, but these people were not doing this to
make sense.


They were establishing lines of trust.


Opening negotiations.


Declaring alliance on the field of battle.


The elevator came to a halt and two Marine guards confirmed the identity
of the three men before allowing them to make their way to the
conference room. Behind him, the crackle of a handheld radio betrayed
the fact that Mulder and Scully were already present in the room as the
guards informed Landers of their arrival. Skinner paused to absorb the
fact that the door was closed before knocking gently.


It was FBI only behind closed doors.


Landers and Vickery were the only ones who knew what was on the tape and
he had ordered them not to say anything. Mulder and Scully knew it had
something to do with them, the others just knew it was important. Given
a preference, Skinner would never have sprung this on them this quickly.
Scully had been out of her coma for barely more than 24 hours - and part
of that had been spent sleeping. Skinner paused mentally as he
considered his agent as she sat with careful precision with her back to
the windows.


It was hard to tell, but her face appeared paler than normal and he had
the fleeting thought that she looked poised to shatter at the lightest
touch. She was uncharacteristically wearing a pair of dark sunglasses,
but he recalled that her doctor had reported that she was experiencing
an oversensitivity to sound and light. Still, the immobility of her
features and the fact that he could not see her eyes left him with
little way to judge her state of mind.


Maybe?


Mulder was of little help. Usually Skinner could get a good read on her
state of mind by watching how her partner watched her. Unfortunately, he
did not recognize this particular attitude.Mulder had the same general
air of distracted intensity that Skinner recognized from the BSU. In and
of itself, that would not have surprised him. Mulder tended to regard
near death experiences as minor inconveniences that merely got in his
way. There was an undertone to the intensity, however, something the AD
did not recognize. An oddly focused sense of observation in the agent's
eyes that - if Skinner did not know better - gave the impression that he
was profiling his partner.


Skinner sighed and dove into the issue at hand without preamble.


"You all know that the reason Agents Mulder and Scully were relocated to
this facility was due to a second assassination attempt made within
seven days of the first. That second attempt took place within the
confines of a heavily guarded hospital and was very nearly successful."


Everyone except Landers and Vickery sat extremely still, their attention
completely focused on Skinner's words. They were not stupid. They knew
they were about to get the gory details. It was unfortunate that they
did not know how gory it was about to get.


" The doctor originally responsible for Agents Mulder and Scully became
increasingly concerned that Mulder would not survive and that Scully
would eventually reach the point where she would not be capable of
surviving his death on her own."


That was a polite way of wording the fact that the doctor had been
increasingly determined to sacrifice Mulder in an effort to save Scully.
Skinner had not realized the depths of that conviction - and the doctor
had found Skinner's willingness to risk both for the sake of one to be
unacceptable.


"He was approached by three individuals who convinced him that what he
was seeing was a side-effect of military research and that all previous
experiments had resulted in the deaths of both parties. The doctor was
also told that Agent Mulder was shot while the agents were attempting to
escape from the research facility."


It was a testament to the lives they had led that neither Mulder nor
Scully looked particularly surprised at this revelation. The others were
shocked, but the wheels were turning. He would not be too surprised if
it occurred to them to wonder if maybe their original worry that Mulder
and Scully were being held against their will might not be the correct one.


" In what he considered to be an effort to save Agent Scully's life, the
doctor forcibly attempted to remove Agent Scully from the hospital."

The doctor's basic premise had been that if contact and proximity were
dragging Scully into Mulder's deteriorating bio-patterns, that distance
might break the connection. He had trusted that Scully's generally
healthy condition-the stress fractures in her legbones not
withstanding-would allow him to bring her back from wherever she had gone.


No showy fanfare. No Mexican stand-off with the SEALs. The doctor
arranged security passes for his four cohorts. They slipped into the
room shared by the two agents at a quiet hour in the middle of the day
and hit her with a mild sedative. They then used the confusion generated
by Mulder's spontaneous cardiac arrest to cover the fact that Scully was
being wheeled out the front door. The next thing Skinner knew a frantic
Marine was calling him on his cell phone to tell him that all hell had
broken loose.


Skinner popped the tape in the VCR and hit play.


The flat colors of the tape added a gritty realism that captured the
carnage in brutal detail. The camera had been unable to capture a good
likeness of three men pushing her bed. The lens had only seen the first
reaching to tighten the strap securing her shoulders as her body began
to convulse.


Her teeth took the little finger clean off his hand.


Blood splattered the walls and floor and the other two turned as the
first screamed. They slipped on slick tile as she began to thrash,
throwing the bed backwards and forwards across the hall. One of the legs
buckled when the bed crashed into the wall. Later, everyone would assume
that the fall broke the ties, but Skinner had watched the tape. He had
watched it until the image of her teeth severing bone was burned into
the back of his eyelids.


The ties had been secure all the way to the floor.


The second man grabbed her as she hauled herself clear of the busted
metal and torn nylon. That was his first mistake. He never had the
chance to make a second. The heel of her hand slammed his broken nose
bone into his skull. The autopsy records not only verified that he had
been dead before he contacted the floor, the force of the blow shattered
his cheekbone and popped one eye from its socket. The optic nerve bundle
tore as the body fell, releasing the eyeball to bounce across the floor
until a running Marine squished it underfoot.


The leg he broke as he fell probably saved his life.


There had been nothing of Dana Scully in the wild-eyed animal that had
screamed and attacked the last of the men who had tried to restrain her.
She should not have been conscious. She should not even have been able
to walk, but like the trapped wolf that chews its own paw off to escape
the trap, Scully's body had somehow turned on itself. Fatty tissue and
muscle was ruthlessly consumed in a flashfire of desperation, her
metabolism revving high enough to temporarily negate some of the
sedative effect. In a ten minute rampage she lost fifteen percent of her
body mass and almost triggered a cardiac arrest similar to the one that
killed her partner.


She had known.


In her mindless panic, somehow she had known. Vickery had staggered out
of the stairwell, blood streaming from a head wound she never did
explain. Skinner had matched blood to the broken wrist of the doctor and
decided he really did not need to know.


The taller woman snapped the neck of the last man as he pulled a knife
on the deranged agent, then cleared Scully's path as she ran by the
simple expedient of tossing people out of the way. Barrett and several
of the Marines appeared and quickly followed suit. Subsequent damage was
limited to breakage and bruising resulting from uncontrolled impacts
with architectural elements.


Watching the video for the umpteenth time, he thought he finally
understood. Threaten an animal and it will attack. Threaten that
animal's family and it will attack. Threaten an FBI agent's partner and
the result was a forgone conclusion.


This went beyond.


Beyond loyalty. Beyond anger. Beyond self-preservation.


There are always subconscious motivations built into any conscious
action. Conditioned reflex that mimics instinct. Learned behavior that
betrays childhood training. Learned standards of conduct or codes of
honor that push the human organism to react beyond instinct, beyond
self-preservation. To bend to civilized rules of law or fears of reprisal.


Dana Scully was not conscious. Her decisions were not driven by logic or
reason, compassion or conditioning. Her instincts were primitive, her
compulsions ruthless and absolute.


A cloth, a towel. It was hard to tell what it had been. From the shade
of black on the monochrome security tape it was as blood-soaked as the
walls two floors below. Whatever it was, it was enough to send her
crashing into the side of Mulder's bed, scattering the panicked cardiac
team. When she lifted her head and caught sight of the too still body
beside her, one hand stretched out.


No hesitation.


No uncertainty.


Special Agent Fox Mulder had been clinically dead for two minutes and
twenty-seven seconds when her hand grasped his and she steadfastly
followed him into the darkness.


The room was silent.


In the sudden stillness, Skinner heard his watch count off the seconds
with all the gaining accusation of Poe's Tell-Tale Heart. Despite the
fact that he had planned this, he realized that he was not prepared. He
did not want to see what this was going to do to her.

Mathews leaned forward, the abrupt motion almost causing Skinner to jump.


"Are those earrings identical?"


Skinner stared at the ex-profiler blankly. Mathews dug a pencil out of
his pocket and tossed it toward Landers. She caught it neatly and
accepted the pad that Harris silently proffered. Mathews fumbled for the
remote and rewound the tape to the point where Scully had sunk her teeth
in the first man's hand and paused.


"See?right there."


Skinner stared at the frozen image of a man as he threw his head back in
agony. Highlighted in monochrome silver was an ornate earring, a
medallion at the lobe with several small beads hung below. He stared as
Lewis leaned forward to study the image appearing beneath sure strokes
of the pencil while Mathews slowly advanced the tape, looking for a
clear shot of the other two men. He stared as Dr. Stevens and his
Sergeant glanced at Vickery with narrow-eyed consideration, but no real
surprise as the audible crack of snapping vertebrae echoed once more.


He shivered.


Scully sat motionless, her eyes hidden by the shadows cast by the
windows and the sunglasses. Mulder sat as if stunned, eyes glued to the
television screen. His face held a remote cast and she moved before he
did. She did not even look at him, simply stood calmly and walked toward
the door. The other agents glanced at her, then studied Mulder covertly
for reaction as the door closed behind her.


One one thousand. Two one thousand.


Skinner had reached a count of seven before Mulder shook himself awake
and exploded out of his seat after her. Harris glanced at Mathews.
Mathews and Landers glanced at each other while Vickery watched the
door. Skinner shivered again when he realized that Lewis had narrowed
her eyes on him and was watching with feral calculation.


"Yep?those are all the same earrings. Look at that."


What had he done?


Dear God.


What the hell had he done?


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


Such a strange word.

Lost.

The woman in charge of the Search and Rescue team beating the bushes
during that fiasco in Florida had spent more than a few minutes on the
phone trying to explain it to him. Skinner watched the sun creep closer
to the horizon. The room behind him had long since emptied, the agents
heading off to do whatever it was they were doing.

A verb. It could be a verb.

They were never coming back. He knew that now.

No one had bothered to try and define the word in Wyoming. The agents
had been taken, not lost. Skinner supposed that it had been the rest of
them who had lost their bearings. Lost the mapping points the two
created and the lighthouse beacon they had become. There had been no
more attempts at definition. Looking back, there had been no closure
either. They had simply been...gone. Not dead. Not beaten. Just missing.
Then they came back, and he realized that he did not know where they
belonged anymore.

They were more dangerous than he had thought they could be. That
potential must have always lurked beneath the surface, but it had never
been forced to give birth to itself in screaming pain and announcement.
He had seen fingers of it though, creeping through their eyes. Lost
hopes. Lost dreams. Lost years.

/Lost causes./

God he hoped not.

There was a small scuff of a booted foot behind him. For a moment, the
AD wondered if he could ignore him, if the other man would take the hint
and go away. Finally, he sighed and waved a hand towards an empty chair.
"If everyone else is crazy, does that make me paranoid or delusional?"

"I think it makes you sane." came the trenchant reply.

Skinner snorted.

"No really. In this crowd, it makes you sane."

"He's a survey mapper, Stevens."

The psychiatrist paused, absorbed the words, then responded
cautiously,"Most men are."

It made sense, from a survival point of view. Hunters would not always
know the territory they found themselves crossing. Landmarks would be
useless, and anyone depending on them would soon be hopelessly lost.
Instead, what was needed was an ability to see the big picture, to be
comfortable with knowing that the prey was "thataway" and that
eventually one would arrive. The hunter was not lost, he knew where he
was going...he just did not know how or when he was going to get there.

"You've been doing your homework."

Survey mappers and route mappers.

Nature and nurture aside, it made sense for a woman to be trained to
think in terms of landmarks. A healthy, uninjured hunter could afford to
keep wandering for a day or two, living off the land. A pregnant woman
needed to know she had a mate to count on when she was vulnerable and
slow. That the food would be there to feed the children. "Thataway" and
"someday" just did not cut it. So...landmarks. A to B to C.Each one
sequencial and heaven help the person who missed one because route
mappers did not do "thataway" all that well. Finding each landmark was
the only way they knew how to get to the next one. Which explained the
modern rituals of dating. The boasting and the lies. The car, the job,
the money and the power to protect and provide. A courtship of evidence
that her mate possessed the traits she was looking for and proof that he
could be trusted.

Route mappers.

Skinner sighed. "You said they weren't lost."

"They weren't. Being lost is not really a state of being, it's a state
of mind."

The psychiatrist shifted, settled himself more comfortably. Gathered his
thoughts. When he looked up, his eyes were serious. " We have a
biological need, an absolute imperative to know where we are. It's an
inbred survival trait and as a species, we are inherently geared towards
developing whatever physical and mental skills we need to define our
location. We are also infinitely adaptable. South Sea islanders use
minute shifts in ocean current, Inuit use the subtle indicators of wind
direction cut into the snow pack or blowing aginst the fur of their
parkas. Urban dwellers use street signs. We don't have to think about
it, we just develop the habits that best assist us with keeping track of
where we are in our current environment. Anything that threatens our
sense of location is also instantly categorized as a danger. We know,
right down to our DNA, that to be lost is to court disaster and we react
accordingly. Panic is the first response. It is instinctive,
overwhelming, and uncontrollable. The larger the sense of dislocation,
the greater the reaction. Did you know, lost people have actually run
across roads, right past rescuers, and straight off cliffs?"

Skinner frowned," Our agents are trained..."

"No, they're not."

Annoyance flared. "You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say that they are trained not to panic."

Brown eyes narrowed.

Stevens smiled grimly,"What they are given, is a standard set of
directions or landmarks. For a survey mapper, that might be as vague as
"he's that way, go get him and don't get shot doing it.". A route mapper
will see a series of landmarks. Call back-up. Secure the doorways. Check
for obstacles. Locate partner. Advance on the subject. Take subject
down. Read subject their rights. Landmarks. All that training simply
gives them a framework for either direction or landmark. If you put them
in a situation with no familiar referents, they will get angry and they
will panic. Not unless they they can substitute the old referents for
new ones."

Shit.

Not just Wyoming.

"We need to know where we are. In many ways, we define who we are with
where we are. Physically, mentally, spiritually. The three big fears.
Death. Delirium. Damnation. The hows of how we define that state of
being lost is as varied as the cultures that have feared it. If we are
lucky, we have enough referents built into our lives, that we can take
damage to one or two without anything more destructive than a nightmare
or silly argument."

What about two agents who had lost or cut themselves off from almost all
normal support structures? Mulder was fine unless the goal got lost or
he began to question his direction. Then, with so little else in his
life outside of his work, he had no short-term goals or directions to
carry him until he could find his long-term footing again. Now that the
AD thought about it, Mulder probably relied on his partner's short-term
landmarks to tell him where he was, then used them as a launch pad. Not
to mention the fact that her landmarks kept the brass and the
accountants moderately happy.

What about Scully?

Route mappers needed landmarks. For someone who had been forced to
number her successes in lives saved and cases closed rather than the
normal trappings of family and social success, he suddenly had a much
clearer picture of just how important all those dotted i's and crossed
t's must be. They weren't just empty habits or obedience to the staus
quo. They were her only guideposts. The only things telling her how to
get from point A to point Z. Then the X-file would up and bite them on
the ass and she would have to abandon the only markers she had and take
a fucking blind leap into the dark after her partner.

Mulder had once told him that she was the bravest person he had ever known.

Profiler.

Skinner had forgotten that.

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

They caught him just after dark. Four Hunters; two male, two female. He
snarled at them in futile rage as they stripped his backpack from him
and located the files he had stolen from office. The real files. The
ones that Ellis had failed to give to the FBI the first time they had
come sniffing through the trash heaps of Serenity Falls. The two females
watched with calculating expressions as the two males growled at him to
stop fighting. They took him to his knees when he failed to obey.

Nothing. It had all been for nothing.

Worse, now Ellis and Maia would know.

"It's past your bedtime, puppy."

Roberts sucked in a shocked breath and sagged as he fixated on the
ghostly shape materializing out of the darkness. He looked again at the
unfamiliar Hunters. They were hers? His eyes narrowed in thought as he
realized that none of the hunters were wearing any identifying markers,
not even their birthright medallions.So...hers by allegiance ties. He
swallowed sharply at the thought of what that might mean for the Clans.
Before he could rethink what he was about to do, he tipped his head back
and averted his eyes.

If he had been hoping to generate a distraction, he succeeded.

The Hunter on his left hissed in startlement, but Sera simply studied
his face shrewdly. In peripherial vision he noticed her gaze settle on
the earring dangling prominently from his left ear. His birthright
medallion would mean nothing to her-other than the fact that his
sept-Clan bent their necks to Maia's Call. That was a known fact and one
his Alphas made no secret. Still, there was one fact so well known that
no one seemed to remember it. A small black bead proudly displayed above
his birthright for all to see since his eighteenth year. Enforcers were,
by duty, blooded to none of the Six.

They swore allegiance, blood and bone to the Seventh.

He would only back down the once.

"You have a flair for the dramatic, puppy"

He met her eyes squarely.

"Puppy-not"she acknowledged quietly.

The Hunters released him. When he would have reached for his backpack,
she raised one hand to stop him. Reflex tightened his jaw and he eyed
her warily. Technically, she could deny him. Technically, she could try.
As he straightened carefully, it hit him that this was no longer fact.
Or it was only quasi-fact. Guardianship should have ended the moment the
Dancer made her choice clear. Was Sera more like Maia than he had
thought? Even as he considered that, he discarded it. His life was not
in danger because of what that backpack held. It was something else.
Something he had never truly realized...a responsibility he had never
had to exercise before. Her actions were his to judge.

Enforcers did not bend to the Six.

Painfully aware of the silence of the others, he met her eyes calmly and
held out his hand. The males tensed, the females were coldly watchful
and Sera surprised him with a tiny smile of approval. She gestured
slowly and a lithe shape detached itself from the shadows. As she got
closer, Roberts recognized the young protege rumored to be the next in
line for Beta when Shiala retired. The female stopped a handsbreadth off
her Alpha's shoulder and returned his gaze calmly.

"Bretta will see that your package gets to where it needs to go."

Before he could recover from the duel shock of being given a ranking
female's birth name and that same female's appraising glance, Sera
dropped a small package into his hand that nearly stopped his heart. He
watched his fingers clench protectively and his hand came to his chest
to cradle the weight. He did not have to ask. He knew what it was, and
his throat closed tightly as the realization of generations of waiting
swept through him.

It was real.

"You have another duty, Enforcer."

Exhilaration swirled and as he met her glittering eyes, she threw back
her head and howled wildly.

A bare second later, Bretta and the others took up the Call.

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

A sewer. Mulder had finally managed to track her down, and they were in
a sewer.

How unspeakably appropriate.

At least it was a pretty sewer.

Solar aquatic sewage systems made perfect environmental sense. Run the
raw material through a series of processing tanks where biological
elements and growing plantlife broke it down into a harmless, sanitary
by-product that could be used on the gardens growing outside the housing
structure. No monstrous toxic lagoons. No dumping straight into the
local lake or ocean. No smell. The water usage was minimal because it
could be recycled if the capacity was built into the system and the
electrical load was low because the process itself was organic and
almost completely self sustaining. The air-scrubbing nature of the
plants themselves could even be tied into the air filtration system of
the host building. The physical plant for a small town was not much more
than the size of a convienience store. One running along the dimensions
of a Wal-mart could service the largest campus in the country.

This one was built to service the hospital.

It was also a research project. Local university researchers were
studying the effects of dumping contagious biomatter into the semi-open
system. Considering that you could not control who used your bathroom,
it would not do to end up growing hepetitus or ebola in the basement. As
a result, the housing structure was far more elaborate than it needed to
be for general usage. Three completely contained greenhouses ran the
length of the south wall of the hospital, the first two being the
staging areas for levels of testing and biohazard protocols USAMRID
would be pleased to own. The greenhouse she was in contained the final
stage of the process and the effluent here was probably cleaner than the
water that came out of her taps in DC.

It was still a sewer.

If he had been hoping to hide his arrival, he mistimed it. She heard the
click as someone unlocked the door for him, felt the slight whoosh and
the tiniest change in air pressure against her inner ear as he pushed
open the door. One and a half minutes later, a compressor kicked in and
the greenhouse was filled with the hissing slide and rattle of several
million tiny heat-reflective balls of insulating material as they were
sucked into the vacumn between the doubled glazed panes of glass that
were the front wall and ceiling of the greenhouse structure. The
compressor whined for a few more moments and the beads shifted sullenly,
compressing and compacting themselves. Then it was silence.

The security guard had warned her that the lighting was minimal after
the doors locked. She had assumed that he was exaggerating, but Mulder's
cautious pace and hesitant step seemed to indicate a more shadowy
darkness than she was seeing. Improved night vision would be the only
benefit to the screamingly painful and wildly erractic light sensitivity
she was experiencing. Light sensitivity. Sound sensitivity. Hell, her
body was one giant nerve. As if someone had taken sandpaper and scraped
back a layer of epidermis, her skin was convinced it could feel the air
currents created by the movement of the people halfway across a room.
Light and sound levels peaked and dropped with excrutiating intensity.
She was seeing colors that did not exist and catching echoes of
conversations she should not be able to hear. Medically, she knew it was
possible that her mind was simpy focusing more intently on the sensory
input. That she was simply aware of things her mind normally filtered.
But how did that explain the conversations in the hallways?
Hallucinations.It had to be. She was finally going mad.

Even better, it was getting worse.

Every muscle in her body ached. Her skin ached. Her bones ached. Not
painfully. More like the remembered ghost of a toothache. The not quite
right sensation of something being wrong. Like an itch she could not
scratch because she could not quite decide where it was. As if her brain
could not quite remember where it had left the edges of her body. As if
her skin was not quite real, feeling too much and not enough.As if she
were losing cohesion, the molecules of her body threatening to spin off
into the ether, leaving nothing behind. She had spent the past hours,
grimly searching for Scully. In the quiet of the greenhouse, the clamor
of other people muted and distant, she had fought for a sense of self.

She had found her hands.

She remembered how they felt. She knew how they felt. The way the palms
were constructed, the way the bones and skin flexed and pulled as she
wrapped her fingers around a scalpel, or a pen, or a gun.

She had found her feet.

Standing in heels. Running after a suspect. Stuffed into hiking books,
snow boots or rubber boots that were always too new from being purchased
at the last minute or too big from being borrowed from the local
Sherrif's closet or FBI field office.

She had found her legs.

Always toned and too short for elegance, they now possessed a strength
and athletisism that pleased her. Her heels were an attempt to keep from
looking like a child next to her giraffe of a partner, not from any
leftover vanity. That had burnt itself out over the years. She regretted
the fact that she could not run with Mulder. She regretted the fact that
the autopsy tables never seemed to be of the elevating variety and so
were a bit too high for comfort. She regretted the fact that he did not
seem to realize that the heels meant that she did not have to step away
from him in order to reduce the crick in her neck. That when he bent his
head his lips brushed the top of her ear instead of the top of her head.

She had found her arms.

She had realized that there was not a lot that she liked about her arms.
Empty arms, holding onto...what? They did not seem to be good for much
more than attaching her hands to her shoulders. No matter how many times
she reached out, no matter how far she stretched, she could never seem
to bridge the gap between where she was and where she wanted to be.

Bit by bit, she catalogued every muscle, bone and piece of her that nine
years of field work had battered, bruised, shaken and torn.Her awareness
before the X-Files had been limited to pain/not in pain and the
occasional bout of pleasure. Nine years had taught her to catalogue the
minutia that described simply being alive. She knew herself. To the bone
she knew exactly what she was. Sometimes, she did not always know where
she was or who she was, but she always knew what she was made of.

/Sugar and spice and everything nice.../

She snorted.

Twenty feet away, Mulder froze. He peered into the shadows cautiously.
She held her breath for a long moment, spinal reflex making one last
effort to get her to sprint past him and disappear into the darkness.
She was so tired of being afraid. She was tired of not knowing why she
was afraid. She was tired of trying to justify her actions. She was
tired of running. She was tired of hurting him, and she was tired of
hurting herself.

She was tired of being tired.

It had been so easy in the beginning. There had been much that she had
admired about him. His passion, his committment, and his intellect. All
the things that had attracted her to Jack and Daniel. But liking someone
was not the same as being in love with someone. At least, that was was
she told herself. Daniel had admired her, Jack had cossetted her. Both
men had made her feel cared for and admired. Protected and adored.

Mulder exasperated her.

The few times she had haltingly tried to define why she did not consider
him husband material, she had started out with the fact he was her
partner, the fact he was obsessed with his work, the fact she was
determined not to repeat past mistakes and ended up with the
semi-guilty, truly uncomfortable realization that her subconscious just
did not see him as overwhelmingly...male. Every feminist cell in her
body had cringed in horror and she despised the fact it was true long
before she realized why it was true.

Jack and Daniel had been capable, responsible and respected men, who had
respected and admired her. Despite the fact she would never allow
herself to do so, some part of her had found comfort in the belief that
if she ever weakened enough to lay her monsters at their feet, both men
were more than capable of making them go away. Of making her world safe.
Intellectually, she knew it was not true, but it had been several months
and too many monsters before she realized that she had been equating
authority with masculinity and seen weakness in the possibility of defeat.

She had been defining Jack and Daniel as Men.

Mulder had simply been human.

Seeing Jack again had been a shock. She had not missed the resemblance
with his height, his intensity, his obsessiveness and the VCS. She had
thought at the time that Fate had a nasty sense of humor. But no matter
how she compared them, Mulder had come up short. As an agent, and as a
man. Less responsible, less effective, less mature. Somewhere along the
line, her subconcious had drawn the conclusion that the reason she
worried about Mulder more was the fact that she could not trust him not
to get into trouble. That Jack was more than capable of taking care of
himself. It had not been until Jack had taken a shotgun blast to the
chest that she realized it was because Mulder mattered more.

She had cared. Of course she had cared. She was losing a friend. But if
the shooter had dropped Mulder, the third shot of that triple tap would
have been to his head. She had also discovered that losing a friend was
nothing compared to losing part of her world, and it was a shock to
realize that she had known the difference. She had also learned
something else she had not known. Jack had respected her as a woman. He
had respected her as a friend. But when the chips were down and she
called him on his actions in the field, despite the fact that he called
her "agent", he had been accepting the warning from a friend and the
woman he used to sleep with. She knew she was not wrong, because she had
heard the difference later, when he had addressed her as an agent and
meant it. That was when she realized she preferred the partner to the
Man. That her partner gave her something, that a lover could not.

God, she had been so young.

How long had it taken for her to realize that her definition of Man had
started to change? It had been so easy, slipping into the role of
partner, friend, and comrade in arms. Familiar. Comforting. Comfortable.
That in itself should have been an X-file. Despite the fact it had never
happened before, she rationalized it as part of having brothers. If
their partnership was all she ever had from him, it would have been
enough. More than enough. It was more than she had shared with Daniel or
Jack and she had loved them. It was enough that the thought of risking
it had quickly become unthinkable. Because of what they shared. Because
of what they would be risking. Because as good as it was, it had room to
grow and she wanted to see it get there. Because she needed time to
herself. Because the X-Files was quickly taking over her future. Because
she still could not see Mulder as a lifemate although the thought of him
in her bed had started to disturb her with alarming frequency, intensity
and incredibly vivid images.

The fantasy had begun to scare her.

There was no way it could be that intense. That satisfying. That good.
Could it? Ellen had accused her of living a fantasy that no man could
live up to. In a way, she had been right. When had she come to the
realization that she had become her father? That her family would by
necessity come second to her duty, not because she loved them less, but
because she could not fail the standards that she set herself and still
be herself. That was who she was and who she wanted to be. What she did
would keep them safe and there were other people, who loved their
families just as much, who needed her to keep them safe.

Ultimately, she loved honor more.

A husband, a family, would own only part of her. In the normal course of
events, given a normal partnership, it might have been a big part. Her
husband could have become a confident or a safe harbor. He could have
been the person she told everything, or the one place she kept pretty
and clean and separate from the horrors of her job. She often thought it
ironic that a Navy husband would have been ideal. A ship's captain or
Navy SEAL, maybe. They could love each other long distance, experiencing
physical intimacy in small but intense doses and she would never need to
feel guilty about long nights, last minute trips and late night calls.
Career Navy would understand duty and a SEAL might even understand about
Mulder.

Until her daughter screamed and she kicked the door in, gun drawn,
looking for the monster under the bed.

Until she missed one too many BBQs and her husband drew a line in the sand.

Until she lined up one too many hostages to fortune and someone started
shooting.

Until...

Until...

Until the day she knew that if she had to chose between living with her
husband or dying with her partner, the bullet would probably win.

The mythical husband deserved more. That was the day she folded that
particular dream away. Just one more loss of a shadow woman to the
shadow war. Mulder never knew. Or maybe he did. He had made the same
decision himself although she doubted he had seen it that way. Mulder
had held fast to an image of a golden someday. The day when he could
have everything he was supposed to have and life would be the way it was
supposed to be. His life had stopped the day his sister disappeared and
it had never really started again.If she had died, he could have
mourned. Missing never ended. There was no ceremony for missing.

She, Scully thought sadly, had been safe to love.

Poor Mulder. His early flirting had been so casual that she had been
completely oblivious when he started to get serious. Dangling Bambi like
bait, trying to get his partner's attention. Trying to prove to her that
some people would consider him a viable male member of the species. Then
Bambi walked away with an older man in a wheelchair. In front of Scully.
Hell of a testament to his masculinity. Of course, the fact that Bambi
had been looking for more than a pretty face in her bed should have
clued him in to the fact that that was all that he had offered her. On
the other hand, Mulder had not really been courting Bambi.

Of all the things she wished she could take back...-

She wished she could have taken back the crack about the aliens and the
uber-children. She...she had just been trying to tell him that she was
on his side. She had thought he was mildly upset about losing Bambi. For
God's sake, he was on the phone with her while lying his pretty face off
to the gorgeous scientist, how emotionally involved could he be? Until
he snapped at her, not with his usual wit or skill, but with the awkward
anger of a bruised 12-year old boy who knows he's not allowed to hit girls.

Of all the things she wished she could take back...

She had not known. Of course, their very next case would involve a
bleached blonde with legs to her chin and the case from hell. They had
had such a good time. She accused him of misusing Bureau resources to
get laid and he had run like a rabbit the minute the blonde got frisky.
If she had known that then, she might have figured out about Bambi, but
she had simply seen that her partner was looking everywhere but right
beside him. At tall women. At beautiful women. She had also begun to see
that he was lonely. That he wanted someone to come home to. There was a
missing piece in his life and he wanted to find it.

She had not known how desperately he wanted someone to love him, until
Apison.

She had thought the obvious at first. Mulder saw her in a supporting and
supportive role. A father. A loyal Sergeant. Not a lover. Never a lover.
Later, after that disaster in Philedelphia, she had begun to wonder if
maybe that was how he saw her opininon of him. That she loved him, that
she cared for him, but that she did not see him as a mate. Guiltily, she
realized that at one point, he would have been right. The thought had
bothered her, niggled at the back of her mind like a slightly loosened
tooth. Was it possible that Mulder had accepted her rejection of him on
so deep a level that even his subconscious acknowledged it? Then why did
he keep trying?

The truth broke her heart.

People who loved Mulder left him. His sister because he could not pull
the trigger, his parents because no matter how good he was, he could not
replace what was lost. Phoebe left when his skills as a lover obviously
weren't enough and everyone else used him just long enough to get what
they wanted. Then they left too. All those collegues and friends jumped
ship the minute he blueflamed into the basement and despite the fact he
had everything a woman was supposed to want, none of them stuck around
long enough to say 'I do' and mean it. People stopped loving Mulder when
he did something wrong.

He was trying to figure out what she wanted him to do right.

She had stared out at the moon, tears cold on her cheeks and said
good-bye to a dream that could not be. Might never be. They could not be
partners and survive this. They could never function if he was spending
every minute as a partner, trying not to offend his lover. Trying not to
do something wrong. She could not be his partner and be honest, because
he would never believe she wasn't rejecting him. She could not be both.
She would get them killed trying. She had stared up at the moon and
silently promised him that she would be the person he never had to worry
about.

Fate cackled as she learned that was a promise she would not be able to
keep.

She had learned to hate God then.

Her fury and anger should have burned down the world. Then Mulder had
come over with wine and she had thought that at least she could give him
this. That she could take it for herself. And it was all a lie. She had
hurt Mulder on some level so far down that her own heart hurt. He
wondered why she had not known it was him. All she could do was think
blankly, that it was because he had brought wine. All the working
dinners where he had brough beer or pizza or popcorn and this time he
had brought wine.

He just saw that he had obviously been doing something wrong.

He said nothing, did nothing, risked nothing and he refused to admit
they were running out of time. As if denial could make the truth a lie.
The irony had not been lost on her. Then she was alive again and with a
new lease on life, and her fears had seemed like just that, fears. But
she discovered another thing she had not known. Mulder would talk the
talk, but he was not prepared to walk the walk. He was more terrified of
actually getting what he wanted, than he was of sleeping alone. They
were trapped. Trapped in a nightmare of a paradox, where if he actually
went so far as to put her in the position of lover, in his mind, he
forced her to betray him. That, after all, was what lovers did. They
left. Ironically, she even proved the rule. She had left Daniel. She had
left Jack. Every time she chose Mulder over another life, she chose the
partner and left the lovers behind. Love left. Always. Love changed.
Always. Love could not be trusted.

Ever.

Six months after Antarctica, the dreams started. She dreamed of fire.
That was all she remembered. Until she started dreaming about a battle
she had never seen, in a field she had wished she had never found.
Mulder would have been proud. She actually started writing the details
down. She never told him. Despite his beliefs, she had never gotten the
impression he truly believed in Sullivan Biddle. Oh, he had wanted to.
He had wanted to, with a desperation she could taste. But in the end,
she never felt that he did. And in the end, she never felt that he had
truly grasped the implications of all such a past implied.

Mulder...missed things.

He focussed on a single goal and all the things that stood between were
just standing in his way. He did not always see the logical steps, the
logical conclusions. He definately did not always consider the
consequences to other people if he was wrong. She sometimes wondered if
that was the only way that he could do the things he did. But that did
not help anything when he missed the whole point of what he had just
said. He had asked if it would change the way they looked at each other,
if they had known. She had thought she had answered the question. She
had certainly answered the question he had really asked. But after the
dreams started, she had realized there were other questions. Questions
that started with "what if..."

What if he was right?

What if they had been friends, compatriots and partners in other lives,
other wars?

What if Mulder was not a reflection of Daniel or Jack? What if they were
a reflection of him? Had she spent her whole life looking for him? How
many lives would they have had to have led for the emotions to bleed
through that strongly? There were those who felt that reincarnated souls
returned to learn something. There were those who felt only those who
had a task to complete, something to do or to teach, returned. Still
others felt that everyone returned, brought back again and again to
those who they loved or hated. What if they were all right?

What if soulmates were created, not born.

Life after life, touching some, abandoning others. The details changing,
but the essence, the soul staying the same. In love, she thought, being
in love relied on memory. On shared history and the currency of
expectation. But what did you call a love of the soul? What name did you
give to something that involved nothing of the body? Not memory. Not
pleasure. That was created not because of something the other could
give, but embodied nothing more than pure joy in the other's existence?
You could fall out of love. People could change.

People could change, but the soul would not.

What if two souls could shape themselves around each other, lifetime
after lifetime. Chipping away at rough edges, smoothing and buffing
until one day, only the other half made the whole complete. Lifetime
after lifetime, friends but never lovers, because the quest, the duty
remained the same. Because the fabric of their souls was knit from a
warp and weft spun of obligation and honor. His father? She would trade
five years as his lover if it meant she would have thirty to love and
watch over him. In a lifetime of lifetimes, what was one?

They had never been lovers.

Not in any of her half-remembered dreams. She rather thought it would
have meant a much different thing, coming together in the youth of their
creation, than now, in the final stages. They might not have been lovers
before, but after, she suspected they would not be able to be anything
else. If memory played fast and loose, if she hurt him beyond what he
expected, how many lifetimes would they suffer? Worse, if they died
before doing what they were meant to do, how many lifetimes would they
have left?

Would humans reincarnate as aliens?

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

Now that he had cornered her, he did not have a fucking clue what to say.

Or do.

That about covered it.

Her shadow moved a bit to the left. Spinal reflex jerked his body to the
right and cut her off . His forebrain was congratulating his hindbrain
for its monumental stupidity when she sighed and took another half step
to the left. Her face came into view as the move pushed her into a dim
pool of light. His forebrain took one look at her bland expression and
grabbed the hind by the scruff of the neck before it could slink back
into its cave. Both brains eyed her warily.

"Have you ever profiled me Mulder?"

What kind of question was that? He was a profiler, of course he had
profiled her. Subconsciously. Consciously. Accidentally and with
unethical intent. Female, early thirties, personality formed around...

"...not like that."

Not like...?

Oh.

A frission of fear sliced through the effervescent panic and
anticipation that had been bubbling through his system since he had seen
that tape. With brutal efficiency, the shock yanked his mind out of the
hopeful fuzziness it had been trapped in and he found himself
uncomfortably focussed on his partner to a disturbing degree. He edged
away from the awareness with practiced care. She took a half step
closer, and despite the danger, he found that the allure she had always
held for him had increased geometrically with what he know knew. The
depths of her eyes beckoned, and he could feel his control slip as
leashed hunger began to hiss and growl as it struggled and lunged toward
her.

He took a measured step back.

"You tried to seduce me, Mulder."

There was no anger in her tone, just thoughtful calm. "You used
everything you knew about me against me."

"Not to hurt you. Never..." his instinctive protest was cracked and dry.
He swallowed painfully as she just looked at him.

"Why?"

Oh shit.

Scully was hunting.

Bitterly, he wondered what she would do if he sat down and started
laughing until he cried. What was he supposed to tell her? That it was
easier to lie to himself? Easier to pretend that settling for what he
could get was better than nothing. That the only reason he kept hoping,
that he kept trying for a little piece of what he wanted, was the fact
that he had always known that she did not love him. Was not in love with
him. Whatever.

What a mess.

Not that he had been thinking all that clearly himself lately. All he
had known was that what they had been heading for had terrified him.
Combining their disappearing physical boundaries with what had happened
in San Diego, he had panicked.Bill Scully's little bombshell had
relieved him almost as much as it had hurt. Because if she did not love
him, she had other reasons to stay with him. If she did not love him,
she would not leave him. If she did not love him...

...she would not look deeply enough inside him to trigger the darkness.

And he would not be tempted to try.

"What do you really want, Mulder?"

Want? He wanted her to fall in love with him. That was all a part of him
truly wanted. He wanted her to smile at him in the morning and argue
with him over coffee and cry because she thought he had forgotten her
birthday. He wanted her to live with all the little quirks and foibles
that pissed her off and still chose to go to bed with him at night. He
wanted all the things that would make it worth the pain when she finally
left. He wanted her to look at him and see something worthy of loving
and he wanted to love her for the gift of her innocence as much as he
would hate her for not loving him enough to see the truth.

How is that for fucked up Scully?

Hating her for not seeing what he did not want her to see in the first
place.

Scully was the one person who should have seen it. Diana never did. He
at least had that comfort. He had managed to drive her away simply by
being himself. She had never been a profiler, had never had the training
to see what Cheryl had seen. She might have loved him, but she had never
trusted him enough to let him in far enough to be a danger to either him
or herself. Ironically, Scully knew more about him than either Cheryl or
Diana ever had-and she never saw it. Which meant that maybe she chose
not to see it, the way he chose the shallower of two paths. And if she
chose not to see it...

It was bad.

Really bad.

Nausea twisted and he took another instinctive step back when she made a
move toward him.She met his eyes and all he could do was stare in mute
horror as a familiar openness flared in her gaze.

"Scully..."

The hunger surged upward, a painful combination of conflicted yearnings.
He wanted to let her in. Fall at her feet and surrender. He wanted to
fall so far into her mind he would never find his way out. He wanted...

"DON'T!"

Her head snapped back and shock warred with hurt. Anger took over.

"Is that it? God damn it Mulder, do you still think I don't know who you
are?"

He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. Shit fucking damn, he was
screwed. She was a danger because she knew too much. She was a danger
because she knew too little.

"...I'm not leaving!"

No, he was.

He managed to stumble three feet towards the door before her hand hit
him in the chest. He had not even seen her move. Had not heard her.

"Where the fuck do you think you are going? You started this."

He was ending it.

"I don't have to be your lover to hurt you, Mulder."

No. She had already proved that.

Now there was nowhere that was safe.

He watched as she read the truth from his face. Waited for confusion and
hurt and anger. Watched as ice settled into her eyes and wondered
distantly when the pain would hit. He waited for the disgust and maybe
even hatred. When she did not move, he realized she was going to make
him take it all the way. He was going to know exactly who left this time.

Except she seemed to have forgotten her lines.

When he moved to step carefully around her, her hand closed over his
wrist and would not left go. Tension thickened as she lifted his hand
slowly and raised it to her lips. He swallowed painfully as she
deliberately ran the tip of her tongue from the edge of his wrist to the
tip of his little finger. He shuddered as his finger disappeared into
the wet heat of her mouth and his knees nearly buckled as she sucked
lightly, her teeth scraping lightly over the knuckle.

"Skinner thought you'd be horrified."

The sides of her teeth rubbed against the side of his hand as she
brought it to rest against her cheek. Her whisper and her eyes were dark.

"Were you horrified Mulder? I don't think you were horrified. I
think...you were turned on. I think you liked seeing what I would do.
That you liked the fact that they all saw what I would do. I think..."

Her lips gently kissed the inside of his wrist, right above the pulse
point. She turned her head until he could see the knowledge in her eyes.

"...you liked watching me claim you as mine."

He could not stop her and it was worse than he had ever thought. She had
no idea what she was doing.

"Scully...don't"

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl. "What? Don't tell the
truth? Or don't do this?"

Her eyes gleamed as she threw herself recklessly into the profile. He
scrambled frantically, trying to keep from being dragged into it with
her. He dug mental fingers into the fragile earth at the top of the
Abyss and ignored the instincts screaming at him to let go. To grab her
with both hands and throw them both into the deep. To pull her so far
inside she would become a part of him. Until identity erased itself in a
blinding fire of need and desire and he would own her forever. Until she
started screaming.

He remembered the screaming.

They had all been screaming. Cheryl, long before he had backhanded her
across the room. The other agents as they tried to pull his hands from
her neck.He remembered Thatcher hitting him with a right cross and he
remembered Cheryl grabbing his arm as he let her go. Her grip desperate
as she tried to reestablish the link. Her cry as he hit her, his mind on
fire and frantic to get away. Only the fact her nails had driven far
enough into his lower back to draw blood had saved him from a rape charge.

Scully pushed him down onto a nearby bench and he tried to warn her.

He had danced too close to the fire.

Somewhere during the profile, sexual desire and knowledge had triggered
a loosening of boundaries. He had just kept falling, she had just kept
pulling him in. When the hunger changed to something less angry and more
absolute, she never felt it change. He had panicked, but when he looked
into her eyes, all he had seen was a desire for surrender. He had not
known. It was a flaw she knew nothing about.

Too much victim. Not enough steel.

They had gone too far. Out of nowhere, a dormant hunger awoke. An aching
emptiness that bled a cold lonlieness a thousand suns could die to feed.
Cheryl had screamed in terror, the gaping hole inside him finally
exposed to both their horrified gazes. Most of her had turned to flee,
and desperate need had grabbed for her. Dragged her down into the wound
as his psyche tried to fill the emptiness. Parts of her fit, and her
body had convulsed beneath his, their minds oblivious to the cameras,
the other agents. Oblivious to everything except a desire for completion.

Most of her burned.

He had screamed in agony as the parts that did not fit scraped along
sensitive nerves and his entire being had recoiled. He had tried to
thrust her away, but she would not go. The parts of her that fit dug in
hooks and talons, oblivious to the damage she was causing. He'd battered
at her, forcing her to weaken her hold. Fury swept in when she tried to
push herself where she did not belong. In a final act of
self-destructive agony, he had wrenched every part of himself away from
her, tearing her mind from his, leaving them both screaming as raw edges
tore. She had grabbed for him one last time, and only his collapse on
the floor after he hit her kept the other agents from putting him there.

Lying on the cold tile, the bottomless emptiness he could see clearly in
his mind surged and sucked at everything good in him. Even through the
pain, he remembered enough to remember the truth. Before she had hurt
him, before he tried to push her away, it had been his hunger that had
trapped the two off them. It had been his darkness that had sucked them
under. According to the video tape that Patterson later burned, he never
made a sound. Mulder clearly remembered screaming. He spent the next two
days in the psyche ward, sedated into a coma and the nurses said that he
never stopped crying.

Patterson simply patted him on the back and told him he needed a more
compatible partner.

He landed back in the present and discovered Scully straddling his lap,
her arms tight around his waist and her face buried in the side of his
neck. He must have been babbling his fool head off because she just kept
saying "you won't hurt me" over and over again. He flinched when she sat
up and he could not meet her eyes. He did not want to see the pity or
the fear he he knew was coming. She cupped his face with her hands and
although he allowed her to tilt his head forward, he kept his eyes closed.

"Mulder, look at me."

Not in this lifetime. Not so he could watch as she very seriously told
him that he needed help. Probably therapy.

"Mulder..."

The amusement in her voice annoyed him. He cracked his eyes open to
glare at her.

She smiled,despite the evidence of tears. "It won't hurt. "

He blinked.

Her smile faded and she stared into his eyes, her own dark. " Almost two
thousand years to get to this point...she didn't belong there Mulder.
She wasn't me."

Before he could protest, or even ask her what the hell she thought she
was doing, he saw every defense she possessed fall down. Shock jolted
his system and he tried to come to his feet. He had a single impression
of startled blue eyes as she landed on concrete, then the hunger roared
into being and leapt toward her. He flailed desperately for control, but
it was too late and he was too cold and she was so close. A maelstrom of
repressed need and desire swirled around him and he felt the
terrifyingly familiar sensation of the thinning of his personal
boundaries. Only this time, there was no profile to provide artificial
edges. Nothing to prevent him from falling completely into the Abyss. He
fell to his knees and when she started to move, he tried to warn her.
Tried to tell her run.

She came to her knees and her hands were tearing at his belt buckle as
she whispered into his mouth,"Not this time."

He wrapped his arms around her as they started to fall. When her back
hit the concrete, he barely got his hands out in time, because as far as
he could tell, they were still falling. That was when he realized that
he wasn't alone. Beneath her kiss was a loneliness and hunger that
matched his own. Not quite certain he was still sane, all he could do
was hold on and drag it close, closer. The edges slammed together,
hungry and desperate. They meshed and something clicked with a force
that almost hurt.Hurt the way a sunset hurts, with colors too beautiful
to hold. As he slid inside, her eyes opened, and as he stared at her in
wonder, she smiled.

"Found you."

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