Old Farmstead 
Outside San Diego
1996



Methane is - quite literally  - a natural 
gas. It is the waste product of the 
digestive process, a major component of the 
greenhouse effect and the reason you 
absolutely do not want an open flame behind 
a cow when it farts. One kilogram of organic 
material can theoretically produce 800 - 
1200 liters of the gas when decomposed in an 
anaerobic or low oxygen environment and , 
most recently, is the reason that landfills 
generally  ban the uncontrolled dumping of 
organic waste. Because at a five to fifteen 
percent mixture of fuel to air, it doesn't 
just burn.

It explodes.

A schizophrenic phenomena of many faces, it 
has belched in the murky depths of a rotting 
bog, stolen the breath from coal blackened 
miners and sealed the fate of many of those 
same men with flashfire heat and concussion. 
It's gassy rumblings have masqueraded as the 
discontented turning of the restless dead 
while  angry flames have torn through the 
heart of a landfill with just a single 
spark.

Colorless. Odorless.

Deadly.

Given its druthers, it will spend itself 
into the atmosphere, rising out of the earth 
on the path of least resistance. Thwarted, 
trapped beneath the surface by heavy layers 
of impermeable soil, it will gather, forming 
a pocket, a reservoir of uneasy potential. 
Twisting, turning, thrusting tiny fingers of 
itself into the surrounding soil, it will 
move laterally as far as the earth will 
allow. 

It knows nothing of time or patience, 
although the speed of its passage is guided 
by the temperature of the seasons. Given the 
warmth of the summer, it will race through 
the looser soil, eagerly searching a route 
to the sun. Winter, with its heavy damp and 
frozen demeanor  forces it to check its 
pace, taking on a form of elemental 
hibernation. It has no innate malevolence, 
no desire for transformation. It follows no 
inbred mandate that demands its fiery 
conversion.

But it can kill just the same.

Creeping silently through the cracks in 
ancient concrete, the uninvited houseguest 
seeps through floorboards, rising through 
the walls and curling into pockets of wood 
and plaster. Unaware of trespass, it glides 
past dusty wiring until it reaches the 
attic…and stops. Unable to go further, as 
trapped by wood and glass as it was by clay 
and stone it swirls in ever deeper 
concentrations until the day someone all 
unknowing, opens the wrong door.

And creates a spark.

On a cheery April morning, the fuel to air 
mixture was just above threshold. It would 
burn, but it wouldn't explode. Not until 
Deborah Sullivan opened the front door and 
ushered in a family of clients she hoped 
would finally buy this old white elephant 
and take it off the county's hands. The 
change in pressure was hardly enough to 
notice. But it was just enough. And then the 
smoker in the family lit a match.

Death was almost instantaneous.

Almost.

In a searing blast of heat and light, a 
shockwave exploded outward from Fred Dunn 
and his wife, leaving behind seared corpses 
and lungs empty of oxygen. For all it's 
speed relative to human perception however, 
this was a deflagration, not a detonation . 
The shockwave, moving far below the speed of 
sound, raced away from the blast epicenter 
picking up speed as the unburned gas ahead 
of the flame front heated. But, despite the 
fact that in absolute terms a deflagration 
is less damaging than a detonation, human 
flesh and ancient wood is poorly protected. 

Deborah Sullivan, nine year old Kathleen 
Dunn and her  younger brother Toby heard the 
explosion a bare instant before they felt 
the flames. There was no time to run. 
Deborah and Kathleen were smashed against 
the wall of the old house, lungs ruptured by 
the concussive change in pressure, bodies 
seared by the steadily increasing 
temperature of the flames just behind. Toby, 
being lighter, was physically lifted off his 
feet and thrown into the window. Assaulted 
by the pressure wave as well as the weight 
of a six year old boy, the glass shattered.

A detonation is a high speed concussive 
blast that shatters through the supersonic 
speed of the shockwave and turns rubble into 
deadly secondary missiles. Not so with a 
deflagration. The slower, subsonic shockwave 
allows for shifting, cracking, and venting. 
The amount of damage done is directly 
related to the amount of reactive material , 
the proportions of fuel to air and the 
number of obstacles placed in the path of 
the blast. In this particular case, while 
they heaved and groaned and buckled in 
places, the walls of the old house held.

Once through the window, Toby fell below the 
path of the blast, protected by the shell of 
the house  and escaping the hungry flames 
chasing after him. He was burned in places 
where parts of his body fell a bit more 
slowly than others, but it wasn't enough to 
kill him. The driver of a passing car had 
seen the smoke and the flames  and was 
already using his cell phone to dial 911. 
Despite the damage to the boy's lungs, the 
fire department could have him on high flow 
oxygen within ten minutes and at the 
hospital in another  fifteen.

But he was only 45lbs of soft tissue and 
immature bone.

In the arms of a shell-shocked insurance 
salesman, Toby bled to death from a severed 
abdominal artery two minutes before the fire 
truck pulled in the driveway. He could not 
tell them what had happened. The complete 
story of his death was closed to the first 
responders and emergency personnel pouring 
onto the scene. It would take an autopsy and 
a medical doctor to fully understand his 
injuries…and by then it was far too late.

Because the reservoir still waited.  

The firefighters did not know it existed, 
because they did not yet know what had 
caused the explosion. Nor would they have 
realized that at one time there had been a 
tunnel connecting the house to the source of 
the gas. A tunnel that stretched almost 200 
feet, had a diameter of  just under four 
feet and was filled with an explosively lean 
mixture of air and methane. The tunnel had 
been the primary route of conveyance for the 
methane, an underground highway linking 
reservoir and structure. But while the route 
itself was unblocked,  it was tightly sealed 
by doors at both ends and the entrance into 
the basement of the old farmhouse was 
concealed behind a movable shelf covered in 
empty mason jars. 

It had taken years for such a destructive 
quantity of methane to seep into the house. 
Enough years for the landlord to have 
replaced the main floor door to the basement 
with a tight-fitting weather stripped one. 
Ostensibly it was to keep cold drafts from 
forcing their way through the cracks. In 
reality, it was used to block the slight 
odor of rotten eggs that the landlord 
assumed resulted from a seepage of ground 
water into the basement.

Methane is odorless, but it isn't the only 
gas created by rotting flesh …just the 
primary one.

By this time, the fire chief had pulled up 
in his car along with three patrol cars, a 
second ambulance and a small blue pinto 
belonging to the local newspaper reporter. A 
dozen cars had stopped along the curb, 
families out for a Sunday drive joining the 
growing crowd of locals drawn by the 
commotion they could see from their front 
windows. Figuring that it made as good an 
artificial boundary as anything, the 
patrolmen blocked off the driveway, clearly 
announcing that on-lookers were to go no 
closer than the roadside shoulder. The only 
thought that many of them had that morning 
was the fact that the 600 feet between them 
and the house meant that they could not get 
a good look at the destruction.

Had they known what the firefighters did 
not, they would have tripled that distance.

They did not know that the door which had 
prevented the smell from rising into the 
house, had also prevented the methane below 
from igniting. Nor did they know that the 
doors concealing the tunnel were old and 
heavily damaged by dry rot. Which is why, 
while ambulance attendants were dealing with 
a hysterical salesman, and three men and one 
woman were unrolling hose and setting up 
control lines,  two firefighters with Scott 
air-packs and axes forced the basement door 
of a burning house hoping that someone may 
have survived the blaze.

The secondary explosion killed them both.

It also shattered the hidden door and, far 
worse, ignited the gas in the tunnel.

Despite the angry cries of blame that later 
fell on uniformed shoulders, there was no 
way that the patrolmen could have known. No 
way for them to realize that they were 
facing a worst case scenario better suited 
to an oil refinery than the sleepy backyard 
of a quiet rural road. As far as they knew, 
this was just another fire. They were not to 
blame. It was not their fault.

But ignorance does not protect the innocent.

The ignition and secondary blast collapsed 
the tunnel entrance and sealed it with 
several tons of debris. Closed at both ends, 
there was still more than enough oxygen to 
support combustion and in less than a 
second, the fire had raced from one end of 
the tunnel to the other, eagerly consuming 
methane and oxygen in a chemical combination 
of fiery birth and rebirth. Partway down the 
tunnel the forward speed of the advancing 
flame front slowed almost to a stop even as 
the combustion turbulence increased wildly, 
not because of lack of fuel, but because of 
the incredible increase in pressure building 
up as the heating and expansion of gases 
raced away from the head of the blast…and 
were left with no place  to go.

No one will ever completely reconstruct what 
happened next.

It is remotely possible that the 
firefighters standing near the ruins had a 
split second to recognize the rumbling 
vibrations beneath their feet as something 
odd. It is physically impossible for them to 
have heard the muffled whomp that would have 
signaled the catastrophic transition of 
explosion from deflagration to detonation. 
They could not have heard it for the simple 
fact that by the time the sonic waves 
traveled far enough through earth and rock 
for their ears to have heard them, the 
supersonic detonation wave had already 
killed them.

Engineers will point to steel pipes with 
great rounded bulges as evidence of the 
unbelievable strength of detonation 
potential. Only here, there was no steel to 
bent, to shatter, or resist. Explosive 
potential comparable to that released by TNT 
or military C4 explosive disintegrated the 
door on the far end of the tunnel and 
slammed into the cement room just behind. 
Only there was no exit, no place for the 
blast to vent to and the room was already 
overpressurized with a huge reservoir of  
pure methane. 

The roof exploded.

Driven by the titanic fury of a concussive 
blast wave, the non-reinforced concrete 
ceiling, degraded and rotted over the years 
by exposure to groundwater, literally tore 
itself apart in an agonizing rending of 
concrete, earth and sod, Even as the earth 
ripped apart with the wet sound of ripping 
silk, over one million liters of high 
pressure methane spewed through the gaping 
wound, forced outward by the reservoir's own 
massive overpressure and the conflagration  
howling along behind. Then the flames from 
the first underground detonation reached the 
trailing edge of the vapor cloud now fully 
formed over the vent in the earth...

...and it detonated too.

In an eerily silent explosion of light,  
onlookers saw the flash first. Reflected 
light travelling at over 186,000 m/s to 
reach their eyes long before the super sonic 
blast wave swept over them, exploding lungs, 
rupturing eardrums and hurling bodies into 
cars.  It shattered every window within 200 
meters and rattled others almost a half a 
kilometer away.  

Then the flames took the survivors.  

Bleeding from the eyes and ears, firefighter 
Graham Wilson crawled out from behind the 
twisted wreckage of the fire truck which had 
taken the brunt of the blast and sheltered 
him in it's shadow. Lungs burning, eyes 
swollen, he tried to climb to his feet, only 
to collapse as the leg beneath him twisted 
and failed. He gasped and stared in numb 
horror at the gleam of bone protruding from 
his thigh...then he started vomiting 
uncontrollably when he realized that the 
bone was not his.

Later, he would recall that he remembered 
thinking how eerily silent it was. How he 
should have been hearing the screams of 
people over the flames that he could see 
only as bright orange glare reflecting off a 
scene that could have been cast from a 
vision of Hell. Something landed near his 
feet. It took a moment before he could make 
out what the object was. A skull.

A human skull.

Sitting in the middle of a debris field 
covered in the decayed and burning remnants 
of a charnel house of bodies which had 
hidden beneath the earth for almost two 
decades, Graham Wilson watched as fire 
consumed the brittle hair and remaining 
flesh. The jawbone chattered, moving in a 
silent semblance of speech as the heat 
caused the decomposing jaw muscles to split 
and snap.

Three days later, drugged to the eyeballs, 
Wilson's screaming finally stopped.

His nightmares never did.


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


The guard at the front door must have been 
new...he never even blinked. 

He was the only one who did not.

By the time they got to the elevator, her 
headache was coming back. Mulder had crowded 
even closer than usual although she was not 
sure whether it was due to his own unease or 
because he sensed hers. His hand had settled 
into the small of her back a half dozen 
times before fluttering away like a startled 
bird. The fact that he was so unusually 
self-conscious about touching her was 
disturbing both for the level of agitation 
that blank face was hiding and for a far 
more personal reason.

She missed him.

It was crazy. She had spent fifty percent of 
her waking hours and all of her sleeping 
ones for the last six months with her 
partner.  But somewhere between collecting 
their cars, reopening their bank accounts, 
buying groceries for empty cupboards and 
retrieving his fish, Mulder had gone away.  

She wanted him back.

As soon as the elevator doors closed she did 
something she had never done before. Not in 
the elevator of the Hoover building. She 
allowed herself to lean against her partner 
and wrapped her arms around his waist for a 
brief hug. She felt him stiffen in shock. Of 
all things, she knew he had not thought that 
she would allow herself this. And when other 
people were present she probably would not. 
But here, at this moment, she needed him. He 
needed to know that. He still had not 
decided how to respond when the elevator 
slowed to a halt and her arms fell away.

But the hand that he had been second-
guessing crept back to where it belonged.

If she wanted to get technical about it, she 
supposed she could blame Skinner. It had 
just never occurred to them that they had 
changed all that much. As far as she could 
tell, Mulder was still Mulder. And now, back 
among the familiar, she was actually having 
trouble remembering that the missing months 
had been more than an unusually vivid dream. 
Everything had seemed so bright, so real 
,not seven days ago. The circumstances of 
survival had seemed so immediate that she 
would have thought they would have been 
engraved on her memory forever. 

Or at least have made their return to DC a 
bit more awkward. 

But nothing had changed. Not their 
apartments, not her mother...not even 
Mulder's fish. Nothing outward at least. 
Whatever internal changes she may have had 
regarding the way she was viewing her 
partner and his role in her life was not 
something that should be visible. The 
familiar reached out and wrapped them in 
their old lives, resurrecting old habits 
with frightening ease. 

Yet something must have changed. Something 
they could not see. Because every once in a 
while Skinner would pause, a startled look 
appearing in his eyes. Instantly he would 
wipe all expression from his face, hiding  
thoughts and conclusions beneath the bland 
professionalism of an FBI bureaucrat. But 
they had both started rethinking every 
action they made. Was this how they would 
have done it before? Was this normal? For 
her, it was easy. She had rarely touched her 
partner unless he was injured. Therefore 
every gesture, every touch, was new. It 
physically hurt to suppress the instinct to 
reach out, but it was easy to see the edge 
where old rules and new habits collided. 

Only Mulder had never followed the rules. He 
had simply stopped wherever she drew the 
line.

And she had lost her certainties on that 
issue.

The basement hallway was silent. She was not 
even sure why they were here. Their keys had 
been lost along with everything else that 
Corman had dumped. None of their personal 
belongings had ever been recovered. Skinner 
had hesitated when Mulder had asked him 
about the X-Files, said something about 
getting them reassigned after they were 
cleared by the counselors to go back to 
work, then changed the subject. Both agents 
had exchanged uneasy glances, but let it go. 

Now, Scully wondered if she should have 
pressed a little harder. 

As it turned out, they did not have to worry 
about the state of their office.

They no longer had one.

Scully gazed blankly at a row of frosted 
glass wall wearing big black letters that 
spelled out "X-Files Division" while Mulder 
made a sound that her nightmares recalled 
from the day that she had shot him. The 
lights were off, but the door was open. 
Soundlessly both agents stepped into the 
room. Scully had to fight down a hysterical 
laugh. Proof indeed that the world had gone 
on without them. Mulder just looked dazed. 

The door they had entered used to be the 
entrance to the conference and training room 
located next to their office. Light seeping 
through the glass wall revealed a command 
center layout that Mulder remembered 
intimately from the VCU. Whiteboard and 
corkboard covered the left wall. The back of 
the room supported some sort of basic lab 
set-up in the right corner while the left 
held a dedicated computer system with all 
the peripherals and more whiteboard on the 
wall behind and beside it.  The logo blazing 
on the monitor said VICAP.   The horseshoe 
table arrangement in the center of the room 
surrounded the slide projector which was 
aimed at the right-hand wall connecting the 
conference room to their old office. A row 
of gleaming new filing cabinets sat three 
drawers high and ran the length of the glass 
wall.

Stripped of files, projector and 
coffeemaker, their old room now hosted five 
desks and a sectioned off corner that was 
probably an office. The old door was gone, 
plastered over to give the room more wall 
space. The only thing that remained familiar 
was a blue and white poster stating "I want 
to Believe" placed prominently on the far 
wall where anyone walking into the office 
area could not help but notice it. 

At least they had left the poster.

A faint noise behind them had both agents 
spinning  defensively. Hands reached 
reflexively for weapons that were no longer 
there, but they were not in danger. The 
agent that stood gaping at them, paper cup 
of coffee in his hand seemed to have enough 
trouble breathing let alone offering a 
threat. His mouth gaped like a fish trying 
to breath air. Once. Twice. Scully glanced 
once at her equally bemused partner then 
made the mistake of moving toward the 
shocked agent.

His mouth open again.

Then he  screamed.

Before either of the older agents could do 
more than reach reassuring hands toward the 
terrified young man, his coffee fell from 
nerveless fingers and Agent Harris, newly 
graduated agent of the FBI and current 
member of the new and improved X-Files 
Division, keeled over in a dead faint. Both 
Mulder and Scully were seconds too slow in 
leaping to catch him and when Agent Vickery 
and Agent Lewis barreled through the door, 
all they saw were two dark forms bending 
over the body of their fellow agent.

Vickery tackled Scully just as the agent was 
rising to her feet. Instinctively, Scully 
grabbed the younger woman's arm, twisted and 
yanked as she finished standing. 
Unfortunately she failed to consider the 
natural result of six months of hard labor 
and she watched in horror as Vickery flew 
through the air and slammed into the far 
wall. As the woman sagged to floor, taking 
photos, papers and case reports with her, 
Lewis reached Mulder. 

Despite his longer limbs, Mulder was facing 
a woman who had been on the receiving end of 
three months of brutal self defense training 
which included bouts against physically 
larger and stronger male opponents. 
Considering that he was still mentally off 
balance over the attack while she was in 
full defense mode, it should have been easy.

But Mulder had spent over six years working, 
fighting and training with a physically 
shorter partner. He knew her center of 
gravity almost as well as he knew his own. 
And he never underestimated an opponent 
because she was a woman. Lewis made the 
mistake of underestimating him. He let her 
throw him...and then he took her down with 
him. Three seconds later she was face down 
on the floor and he was looking for 
handcuffs.

Then the calvary arrived.

Maybe if Mulder and Scully had been wearing 
suits, sanity would have prevailed. Maybe if 
they were not already accustomed to being 
attacked without warning. Maybe if the five 
new agents had not spent the last four weeks 
riding the thin edge of madness as they went 
bungie-jumping in the Abyss. Maybe...

But maybe was not to be.
 
AD Skinner had planned to introduce everyone 
together at the meeting this morning. 
Accordingly he had rounded up all the 
current X-Files agents except for Agent 
Harris who was already on his way to the 
basement. Harris's terrified scream had 
echoed down the hall just as the elevator 
doors had opened. Vickery and Lewis exploded 
into the hallway, but Skinner reflexively 
grabbed Landers in an attempt to explain. 
Her leg swung out to counter the pull and 
Mike tripped  taking all three of them down 
together. By the time they had sorted 
themselves out, Vickery and Lewis were gone, 
Landers and Mathews were right behind them 
and Skinner was still trying to remind his 
lungs how to breathe...a side effect of 
Landers' 135 pounds landing square on his 
ribcage.

In the space of the seconds that it took him 
to make his way to the door, the X-Files 
office had turned into a free-for-all. 
Skinner stopped dead in shock as bodies 
hurled through the air, slammed into desks, 
and ricocheted off walls. He drew a deep 
breath and was about to bellow out an ear-
cracking order to cease and desist when it 
occurred to him that Mulder and Scully were 
winning.

The ex-marine hesitated.

They were outnumbered and several years 
older than at least two of their opponents, 
but they had something the other agents did 
not. Both of them had an almost 
preternatural sense of where the other was 
at any given time. Twice , Skinner winced as 
one of the new agents whirled and clocked 
his own side. Nor did Mulder and Scully seem 
to be limited to just one dimension. Desks 
and tables that represented obstacles to 
their opponents became safety zones and 
jumping off points for new attacks as both 
agents leapt easily from floor to desk top 
like demented mountain goats. They also 
seemed to be less bothered by the dark. 
Skinner was not sure whether they were 
actually seeing in the dark, but the chairs 
and edges that seemed to hurtle out of the 
shadows to attack their opponents never 
seemed to bother them.

The FBI agent wanted to be horrified. The 
bureaucrat was seeing paperwork and lawsuits 
if one of these idiots broke somebody. The 
soldier was thinking about wolf packs and 
pissing contests. Then the choice was taken 
from him. 

Landers remembered that she was armed.

Mulder must have seen her go for the gun out 
of the corner of his eye. Landers was 
focused on Scully and Skinner was not sure 
if she considered her the greater 
threat...or if she just did not see Mulder. 
Skinner barely had time to curse as he saw 
the train heading for the busted tracks. 
Mulder had no idea what he was doing. The 
agent leapt in Landers' direction and 
Skinner cringed. During practice, Mathews 
always did the same damn thing. What was it 
about tall men that made them want to close 
and grab when their opponents were women? 
How many times had he seen Mike go down with 
just that move? Landers' head turned, her 
arm reached...

And Mulder threw a perfect right cross that 
took her square across the cheekbone.

He had her gun in his hand before she hit 
the floor. Then Scully tossed Mathews into 
his line of sight and Skinner had just 
enough time to draw breath and yell.

"Enough!"

Everybody froze. Everyone except Harris. In 
the sudden silence, the moan of the agent 
who had started all of this echoed loudly 
and his eyes opened to fix wildly on his AD. 
Then they slid past him to widen even 
further in mortal terror.

"G..g..gh...ghosts!"

Then his eyes rolled back into his head and 
he passed out again.

Skinner looked over at his two wayward 
agents and started to shake as he finally 
realized what Harris had seen. After a 
moment, he identified the emotion as 
laughter. Both of the astonished agents were 
wearing the black sweaters  and blue jeans 
they had purchased last week to replace 
their leather. It was doubtful that Agent 
Harris had actually gone home last night. 
The current case had hit him particularly 
hard. Nerves stretched by too much caffeine 
and mind blurred by not enough sleep, all 
the exhausted agent had seen were the 
disembodied heads of two dead agents 
emerging from the shadows.

I want to believe, indeed.

Landers had figured it out. So had Mathews. 
Still, a formal introduction was only 
proper. Skinner took another long look at 
the destruction surrounding them and 
considered it an appropriate homecoming.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. Say hello to 
the rest of your team."

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

Washington, DC
Day 1
Monday, 9:05 am 


Seven FBI agents limped after their AD like 
a line of chastened ducklings. Open-mouthed 
bystanders silently took in bloody noses, 
blackening eyes and torn clothing. At least 
half of them had the presence of mind to 
check for weapons. The other half were too 
busy aiming incredulous disbelief at Agents 
Lazarus and Lazarette.

Tripping over the water cooler during a 
double take, however, was a bit much.

Landers restricted herself to a restrained 
sneer as Agent Chambers extricated himself 
from the wreckage. Skinner did not even 
glance at the hapless agent as he stepped 
around him. Mathews glared, Lewis twitched, 
Vickery had her gaze fixed so far forward 
she could have been one of the guards of 
Buckingham Palace, and Harris was going to 
trip over someone if he did not take his 
eyes off his shoes. 

Spooky Mulder and Doc Ice, on the other 
hand,  were just plain creepy.

Contemplating matching black outfits, she 
had been trying to decide if they were going 
for couple cute or specwar chic. Then Agent 
Scully had turned her head and Landers had 
been unable to control the instinctive 
flinch as she recalled the last time she had 
seen eyes like that. Oh man, not cute.

Definitely not cute.

She had heard the rumors. Seen the reports. 
But she had to wonder if maybe there was 
something no one was being told. Her eyes 
shifted back to the broad shoulders of her 
AD and narrowed thoughtfully. There had been 
plenty of rumors involving him as well.

He was sleeping with Agent Scully. He was 
sleeping with Agent Mulder. He was sleeping 
with Agent Scully and Agent Mulder. He was 
in bed with somebody who had the power to 
disappear agents and evidence with equal 
ease and certain agents were beginning to 
wonder just whose side he was on. 

Maybe Corman never got to the agents. 

Maybe Skinner knew who did.

Landers had filed those rumors scrupulously 
and kept her eyes open. There was absolutely 
no doubt in her mind that Skinner was up to 
his bald head in something ... unofficial. 
Scully's cold, blue gaze had contained more 
lethal evaluation than any FBI agent should 
ever understand. Maybe the rumors had not 
gone far enough.  She had NEVER seen FBI 
agents move like that. Come to think of it, 
she had never seen plane crash survivors 
move like that. She had never even seen 
street cops,  Navy SEALs, or Marine Force 
Recon moved like that. 

So where in the hell had these two agents 
really been for the last six months?

And would Agent Scully please just pick a 
spot and stay the hell put? One minute 
behind Mulder, the next two steps ahead. 
Left. Right. She was ranging around her 
partner like Uncle Fred's blue-tick hound, 
Buster. Left. Right. Landers was getting a 
headache.

What the hell was the matter with her?

The really weird thing about it was that 
Agent Mulder did not seem to mind. Nor was 
he caught off guard when she suddenly 
stopped dead in the hallway and fixed her 
eyes on something or someone off to her 
right. His hop step to the left was 
gracefully controlled and he waited 
patiently, leaving the rest of them bottled 
up in the hallway behind them until she was 
through. Then they were off again.

Very weird.

AD Skinner's office was a hell of a lot 
smaller than she remembered it, especially 
once Kimberly closed the door behind them. 
Mike started to sit in one of the two chairs 
before the desk only to freeze as the AD 
paused to stare at him blankly during his 
own mid-sit. Mike glanced once at Agents 
Mulder and Scully, then straightened 
awkwardly while everyone else tried to 
memorize wall paneling.

To give them credit, neither Mulder nor 
Scully looked particularly triumphant; 
Landers was not the only one uncomfortable 
with the sudden change in group dynamics. 
Vickery's lips were pinched into a narrow 
line while Harris and Lewis just looked like 
they wished they could be anywhere but where 
they were. Everyone in the room knew that 
the X-Files used to belong to Mulder and 
Scully. 

But it was a new division now. 

And Mike was their team leader, damn it.

"Mulder, Scully, I want you to bring 
yourself up to speed on the Methane Bomber. 
Agent Mathews will introduce you to your 
team. They are assisting with the ISU 
investigation  at the moment. As soon as you 
are cleared for duty I want your team to 
start looking at
other possible angles."

Landers blinked. Mike looked shocked. 
Forgetting about the fact that the AD had 
just overlooked a multi-agent brawl in the 
basement, these agents had either spent six 
months at the mercy of a Wyoming winter or 
six months undercover. There was a good 
chance they did not own many more clothes 
than the ones on their backs and it was 
doubtful that Accounting even knew they were 
alive again. Any way it added up, these 
people needed some debrief and downtime. Was 
the AD insane? 

Neither Agent Mulder nor Scully seemed 
surprised. And what was all that nonsense 
about other  angles? They were doing very 
well with the angles they were already 
investigating thank-you very much. Yet, even 
as Agent Landers, FBI railed at the AD's 
decision, Elizabeth Landers, ex-marine, knew 
exactly what he was doing. 

He was giving back the X-Files.

Now that they were back, he was making 
absolutely clear who was in charge. The X-
Files division might have been working with 
the ISU as a team, but not as a department 
in charge of their own investigatory track.  
The ISU investigation had left Mike as the 
co-ordinator, the go-between, but not really 
in charge. It was a subtle difference--but a 
very real one.

AD Skinner may not have handed over their 
weapons or badges, but he had just publicly 
given them everything else. Including the 
five other agents sitting in this room. Some 
signal must have passed between the AD and 
the two agents in front of him because both 
suddenly stood and headed for the door. With 
hesitant looks at Mike, Vickery, Lewis and 
Harris trailed after them. Mike tried twice 
to speak despite the closed expression on 
the AD's face. Landers just kept praying 
that whatever it was, he would think it 
through before saying it. Finally, with one 
last betrayed look at his boss, Mike wheeled 
and strode from the room.

She was very impressed that he managed not 
to slam the door. 

The AD gestured briefly, keeping her from 
following. With a sinking heart, Landers had 
a feeling that she knew what came next. She 
prayed she was wrong.

"You and I both know what's going to happen 
over the next few weeks."

Landers kept her mouth shut. He had no right 
to do this to her. None at all. She let her 
eyes declare both her anger at what he was 
about to do and her clear opinion that he 
had fubared this situation but good. Maybe 
he had no choice about how he handled things 
once it all went to hell, but Mike at least 
should have known before he came in to work 
this morning. That is why they invented cell 
phones, damn it.

He blinked once, a familiar shadow of regret 
passing over his face, and then it was gone. 
Five generations of military breeding told 
her that that was the only apology she was 
ever going to get. 

"Agent Landers, you are probably the only 
person in the unit who has seen this before. 
"

New officers brought into old units. A-
fucking-firmative, Sir. She had seen it 
before. So had he. Probably right before the 
old unit fragged the shiny new twooy-louie 
with a hand grenade. Skinner's eyes were 
flat behind his glasses. 

"Make sure it doesn't become a problem."

She fixed her eyes on the wall behind 
Skinner's left shoulder, "Agent Mathews has 
a background as a police officer, Sir. He is 
just as aware as I am about any potential 
for --difficulties." 

Skinner did not bother to reply. They both 
knew that Mike was going to be the largest 
part of the problem. But he at least 
deserved the chance to try without 
subversion in the ranks. This order  
stunk...and the AD knew it. Looking at him, 
she also knew that no matter how unpalatable 
a position he had just put her in,  he was 
not going to rescind his order.  In that 
moment, she reconsidered  all the 
conclusions she had previously drawn about 
his loyalties. Green eyes met inflexible 
brown and discovered  three harsh truths.

Agents Mulder and Scully were back to stay.

As far as this man was concerned, they had 
never left.

Everyone else was expendable.

A lifetime of practice allowed her to twist 
her lips with just the right emphasis to 
acknowledge that understanding. AD Skinner's 
eyes darkened,  but he did not flinch.  His 
face said it all. Suck it up marine. Do not 
ask...just ask how high.

"Hoo-ya, Sir." she said bitterly.

******************************************
Washington, DC
Day 1
Monday, 9:27 am 

Mulder was thankful that his partner did not 
try to ask him how he was feeling. He 
honestly had no idea. Stunned? Stunned was a 
good place to start. Or maybe betrayed. Why 
had Skinner not warned them? Maybe if he had 
had some idea this was coming...

Christ.

Five more agents. How the hell...?

As soon as they passed through the doorway 
into the X-Files command center, Scully 
wrapped her hand around his wrist and he 
turned to stare at her helplessly. His 
emotions teetered on the edge of control. He 
tried to explain. To answer the concern in 
her eyes.

"What are we...? I can't...."

Jesus, this was one of his worst nightmares 
come to life. Defensive anger sparked and he 
glared at his partner.

"We were supposed to be *safe* down here, 
Scully."

<*I* was supposed to be safe down here.>

She did not even blink, just tightened her 
grip. Safe. Anyone else would think he was 
crazy. How had the X-Files ever been safe? 

"We'll figure it out, Mulder."

"I can't do it again, Scully."

These were not people he could piss off with 
impunity. People he could mentally thumb his 
nose at while he solved their case and then 
rode off into the sunset. He could not leave 
these ones behind. These people were 
permanent. He would be expected to care what 
they thought. He would have to accept their 
presence into *his* territory. Hell, it was 
not even his territory anymore. He would 
have to watch them watching him as they 
waited for him to  pull another last minute 
rabbit out of the god damn hat. Watch as 
that little niggle of doubt eyed him from 
the corners of their eyes as they wondered 
just how far into the Abyss he had fallen 
today.

Watching. Always watching.

He suddenly realized that he was shaking.

" My mother was pissed at me for spending my 
first night back with you."

Huh? 

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. First 
night back? He frowned as he remembered that 
she had arrived sometime after eight. After 
having dinner with her mother. They had 
fallen asleep on the couch. His words were 
slow, almost slurred as he struggled to 
switch gears, to understand what she was 
saying. "We watched movies."

There had been no one waiting at the airport 
for Fox Mulder when they had stepped off the 
plane. He had sent his partner off with her 
brother and her mother and then allowed 
Skinner to drive him home. He had stood in 
his darkened apartment and fought a nagging 
feeling that surely he was supposed to call 
someone. Tell someone. Realizing that there 
was no one to call.

He remembered thinking that you were 
supposed to have someone to call.

He had told himself that he had people who 
cared about him. Skinner. Frohike, Byers and 
Langly. Scully. People he could actually 
call on if he got into trouble. People who 
cared whether he lived or died. More people 
than many had, and better friends than most.
As he left a message on the Gunmen's 
answering machine and listened to the echoes 
of his empty apartment, he had tried 
convincing himself again that he was not 
alone.

It just felt like it.

He wondered if she had any idea what he had 
felt when he had opened that door and seen 
her standing there. For a moment, he had 
almost been afraid to let her in. Afraid 
that she would see too much. Then he had 
been afraid that she would see too little. 
That she might think he was glad to see her 
simply because there was no one else. So he 
asked her now what he had been too afraid to 
ask her then.

"Why did you come over?"

She hesitated, her eyes sliding to study the 
mess of papers still scattered on the floor. 
"I told myself it was because I didn't want 
you to be alone our first night back. "

He knew that. Had known that. But her 
expression was suggesting that his 
understanding of the whole was only one half 
of the truth. 

"But?"

She swallowed sharply and for a split second 
he was frightened by what she might say. 

"We're in this together, Mulder, because the 
truth is that the only time I'm not alone 
anymore is when I'm with you." Her smile was 
sad. " I used to look at them and see all 
the things I could never tell them. We would 
be in the same room--but we were not living 
in the same world. This time--this time it 
was their reality that held the dark 
things."

Mulder watched as she started picking up 
papers and trying to flatten them back into 
some semblance of order.  

For six months this world had gone on 
without them. They had briefly lived a 
divergent reality, their view of the future 
rooted in the moment they had stepped  out 
of time.  Yet they could not pick up where 
they left off; those places no longer 
existed. Instead, they were left trying to 
create a place for themselves within a world 
which had spent six months weaving a whole 
and seamless tapestry with colors that did 
not include their own. 

How do you add back threads that the weaver 
has already cut and replaced?

Carefully.

For a long moment Scully said nothing 
further, her face revealing an inner 
struggle. Finally she looked up, eyes 
containing a mix of disappointment and 
bitterness. 

"I resent feeling like I'm supposed to owe 
them something for their pain."

Before he could answer, there were footsteps 
in the hall and the lights were suddenly 
flaring to life. Blinking owlishly, Mulder 
looked to see three of the five agents--
interlopers, his mind wanted to whisper-- 
huddled near the door and staring across the 
room cautiously. One of them threw her head 
back defiantly and stepped forward, her body 
language declaring that she had every right 
to be here. 

Her body language might be confident, Mulder 
thought, but the pale blue eyes glaring at 
him held a strange mixture of anger and 
fear. He made a mental note to check her 
file for the reasons she had volunteered for 
the X-Files Division. Maybe Scully would 
have some ideas. His mind had so completely 
lumped all of the agents into a single 
entity called "them" that he it took him a 
minute to notice individual characteristics. 

The sudden realization that she was nearly 
as tall as he was almost had him stepping 
backwards as he took a closer look. High 
cheekbones, cafe au lait skin and naturally 
wavy black hair combined with those eerie 
violet eyes to create a beauty that was as 
exotic as it was hard to define. He found 
himself wondering if her accent would say 
New Orleans. He was so busy studying the 
threat in front of him that he almost did 
not see the other two closing in like 
velociraptors from the sides. It was not 
until Scully turned and gave him an amused 
grin that he realized that he had shifted 
sideways until he was standing almost back 
to back with his partner.

Jesus. Freud lives.

He had  started to smile back sheepishly 
when a fourth hazard walked in the door. 
Instantly his eyes went to the bruise 
blazing across her cheekbone.  Christ. His 
eyes snapped to his partner. At the time he 
had simply reacted to the weapon but...

The voodoo priestess in front of him faded 
back as the military advanced. Mulder had 
absolutely no doubts that this woman was ex-
military. She had the look. She was also 
perceptive enough to come to an abrupt halt 
when Scully shifted her weight slightly. 
Mulder was surprised. Most missed the 
implied threat.  The two agents studied each 
other for a long moment, then the other 
woman unexpectedly smiled.

"Your partner has a hell of a right cross.  
"

Scully relaxed  and the other agent smiled 
ruefully as she met Mulder's eyes, "I got 
sloppy. Expected you to hesitate. My ex-
drill instructor would have done much worse, 
believe me." She stepped forward and offered 
her hand. "Agent Landers."

That forced the others to furnish their own 
introductions. When he finally had names to 
put to faces, Mulder was startled to see all 
four of them looking at him expectantly. For 
an insane minute he had an urge to panic, 
then realized they were waiting for 
directions. 

Scully shrugged when he looked at her. "We 
have four hours until our first session with 
the psyche evaluators. I want to read the 
case file before I start going over the 
pathology reports. "

Mulder eyed his partner, then glanced at 
Agent Landers, "Has the entire team been 
assigned full-time to the ISU?"

"For the duration of the current 
investigation was what we were told."

So there were no other open cases to worry 
about. Well, the arson investigation it was. 
They could get caught up on the X-Files 
later. He chewed at his lip thoughtfully. 
Arson. He knew the basics. He also knew that 
a lot more investigation had been done on 
the subject since his time with VICAP. Looks 
like he would have some homework to do.

He came back to find the others in the 
process of cleaning up around him. Scully 
was cheerfully chatting with Agent Landers 
and both older women seemed content to 
ignore him. Agent Lewis, Agent Vickery, and 
Agent Harris on the other hand were eyeing 
him uncertainly beneath half lowered 
eyelids. Mulder flinched as memory 
obligingly reminded him where those looks 
inevitably led. Reflex and old defenses took 
over as he looked at all three agents in 
bitter challenge. That's right, boys and 
girls.

Spooky Mulder.

Get used to it.

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

Washington, DC
Day 1
Monday, 5:35pm


The day passed in a blur of office smells, 
warm perfume and the lingering odors of 
hamburgers and Tzatiki sauce. After enduring 
a general assault of too loud and too 
bright, Scully caught Mulder's eye at five 
and they both escaped with a feeling of 
heartfelt relief. The nip in the evening air 
left the concourse around the Reflecting 
Pool fairly deserted and both agents munched 
on warm pretzels as they walked.

"So what do you think, Scully? Is it the 
same guy?"

Scully bit back a smile and eyed her partner 
as she resisted the urge to fling her arms 
around him and hug him simply for being 
himself. After eight hours of sidelong 
glances, wary looks and two separate 
psychiatrists who clearly thought she was 
lying about her state of mind, Mulder being 
Mulder was a wondrous relief. Thank god that 
Skinner had no problems with their working 
on the case even though it would probably be 
weeks before they were officially back on 
the job. She would go nuts otherwise.

There was nothing wrong with them. Hell, 
they had just spent five weeks doing nothing 
but walking, eating and sleeping. Physically 
demanding, sure. But it was boring as hell. 
She was happy to get back to work. Ecstatic.  
Thanks to the cleaning company her apartment 
was spotless, her briefcase was empty and it 
would be another several days before her 
cable was reconnected. No distractions. No 
work. No email.

No Mulder.

The strength of her own sense of relief when 
she had seen her partner this morning had 
been unnerving.She was her own person damn 
it. She was comfortable with herself and her 
own company. She did not need Mulder to feel 
like a real person. 

So why was she suddenly feeling like the 
rest of her life could now continue?

Ignoring Mulder's wistful look, she finished 
her pretzel and headed home. She lasted all 
of three hours before she surrendered and 
showed up at her partner's apartment bearing 
pizza and videos. He just grinned at her 
grumpy greeting and ignored the pissed 
expression on her face as she plopped down 
onto his couch. She had known it was going 
to be difficult. The one thing she truly 
missed about living with someone was the 
ability to curl up in the arms of another 
person while sleeping. That, she had valued. 
It was only natural that she would miss what 
she had had six months to get used to.

So she had thought a clean break would be 
best. A nice swift amputation and rapid 
cauterization to keep the wound from 
infecting. The day after they got back to 
Washington, she went shopping. The day after 
that, she did her banking. On Saturday she 
took her mother out to lunch and they spent 
the day touring DC. She called her partner. 
She talked to him for several hours before 
going to bed on a mattress that seemed too 
soft, too cold and far too empty. But she 
refused to go over to his apartment.

A large part of her was scared that she 
would not want to leave.

For the first time in almost eight years, 
she felt lonely. 

There had been times, during her cancer, 
when she had felt utterly alone. But death 
is a solitary journey, so she really did not 
count those moments. She would have been 
alone no matter who she was with. The other 
times...

...the moment she thought Mulder dead 
beneath a desert sun...hiding in the closet 
of a madman...looking into her partner's 
eyes after a pyre of fire and finding the 
gates to his mind closed...

But lonely is not alone. Alone is a physical 
moment in time. Lonely is a chronic 
condition of the soul. A lack of a 
connection. A something that was missing.

What she was missing, was the ability to 
touch her partner.

It had always been enough, before. How could 
she be lonely, when the sense of him never 
left her? She could have full-blown 
arguments with him when he was not even 
there. That sense of his presence, that 
knowledge that she had of who he was, lived 
always at the back of her mind. What did it 
matter if he was not physically present? She 
did not need him to be.

Dana Scully had spent hours or days with her 
partner and then happily went home alone to 
her own place, her own space. It was a 
relief sometimes, truth be told. Especially 
in the early times. A way to escape from the 
physical realities of the job, the quest. 
The need to be somebody specific. An escape 
even from the physical intensity of her 
partner.

When had she begun to realize that the walls 
of her home had ceased to be made of wood 
and had slowly become the skin she lived 
within? Had mortar and plaster simply come 
to mean less or had she rejected them? 
Consciously devalued that which she knew 
could  be lost or broken. The photos? The 
memories lived inside her head. Her 
furniture, her belongings? A single match 
could destroy everything. So maybe she *had* 
given up what could be too easily taken 
away. 

Or maybe the realization of those potential 
losses had driven home just how little  
value these things really had.

Regardless, Dana Scully had ceased to define 
any part of herself by that which she owned 
long before Corman crashed into their lives. 
The last six months had simply intensified 
the process. Things were tools. Some more 
essential than others. The tools that you 
needed to survive were important. Everything 
else was not.  Things were just things. They 
were not home. They did not define home. 
Home was not her things.

Home was a dark, snow-covered burrow, a 
smoky lean-to, an unexpected birdsong or 
fall of morning light, and a winter trail 
hundreds of miles from anywhere and to which 
she would never return. Home was the split 
second between punchline and the laughter in 
her partner's eyes. A busy airport. A 
crowded street. Home was a sly smile as 
Mulder dared her to dance on the edge of the 
Abyss and she could feel her walls settle 
every time she stretched out kinked muscles 
and turned back to another report.

Home was wherever and whatever Dana Scully 
wanted it to be.

For six months, that home had been shared by 
another. Had included his physical presence. 
She had been unable to maintain the 
artificial walls that said office, home, and 
Mulder. She had abandoned the rule that said 
when she went home, she left Mulder behind. 
He could visit, could leave bits and pieces 
of himself scattered around as a reminder 
that he had a place in her life, but he 
could not move in and live there.

She was so screwed.

For six months Mulder had lived where she 
defined home. He had crept in and become a 
part of her walls. His smile became a glint 
of sunlight on the window,  his intensity a 
table and chairs, his irreverent humor that 
end table over there in the corner. Quirk 
and foible, he had merged with mental brick 
and stone and bathroom tile until she lost 
sight of where her home ended and he began.

For six months Mulder had lived where she 
defined home. Now she very much feared that 
home was wherever Mulder lived.

She looked up to find her partner's curious 
eyes studying her over half a piece of 
pizza. The words popped out of her mouth 
before she could stop them.

"What do you miss most about being married, 
Mulder?"

From serial killers to marriage...the psyche 
evaluators would have a great time with that 
one. Scully almost panicked as she saw the 
blank look on her partner's face turn 
thoughtful. Shit. He was really going to 
tell her. 

Note to self...do not ask what you do not 
want to know.

Except that she did want to know. She 
suddenly wanted to know what Fox Mulder 
valued enough about living with another 
person to miss when it was gone. She was 
also surprised to find that she truly hoped 
that there was something. Not because of any 
possibilities for the future, but because 
she desperately hoped that he had found 
happiness at some point, with someone. Jack 
Willis had been a mistake. They had both 
realized it eventually and had parted 
friends. But while it had lasted she had 
thought she was happy.

How odd that she could be glad Diana was no 
longer in his life, but she could not 
forgive her for leaving him. 

God, she was so screwed.

Mulder was looking at her face with a tiny 
smile of genuine amusement. Bastard. She 
could feel her own panic face freezing her 
facial muscles into a painful mask.  Mulder 
coughed. Then he coughed again. But when she 
started to stalk away, he called after her.

"Turn about is fair play, Scully. I'll show 
you mine if you show me yours."

Exasperated she turned to rip him a new one 
for teasing when she was serious--only to 
find that Mulder was not teasing. Oh he had 
a smile on his face, but something was off 
with his body language. Scully frowned as 
she looked closer. That was not laughter in 
his eyes. What? Scully was surprised. Anger? 
She would have thought the question the 
reason except for the edge of bitterness 
that had tinged his last comment. Did he 
think she would not?

He knew her better than that. As if she 
would ask something like that and then not 
reciprocate. She may not have meant to ask 
the question, but if he answered, it was 
only fair. Surely he knew...

He did know her better than that. 

Puzzled she let her instinctive anger fall 
away and studied her partner curiously. He 
was watching her. What was he looking for? 
For a long moment he did not say anything, 
then his shoulders drooped infinitesimally 
and something faded from his eyes that she 
belatedly recognized as hope. Its loss left 
them dark and bleak for the split second 
before he closed them. Then it was gone and 
it was just Mulder looking back at her. 
Mulder, who terrified her with his ability 
to throw himself into the fire. To offer up 
a part of his heart on the off chance it was 
something she might want. Mulder who was 
about to deliver up a slice of his soul 
simply because she had asked and who would 
guard with his life whatever she told him in 
return.

Which she would offer because it was quid 
pro quo.

Scully felt the last of the spring warmth 
leave the day. She held up her hand to keep 
him from speaking, then closed her eyes and 
sought memory. Gods. Had she ever, even 
once, been the one to go first? Yes. No. Did 
Florida really count? Even then she had not 
really been offering a gift, had she? She 
had been leaping at life. The life she had 
been so sure she would never have a chance 
to share with him. 

But she had never actually come out and told 
him that, did she?

She was not even sure why, now. It had 
occurred to her to wonder if she had 
subconsciously been giving herself an out in 
case she changed her mind afterwards. Oops 
sorry, Mulder. Just the excitement of being 
alive and all that. You understand. The 
thought had sickened her as much then as it 
did now, but she could not say for sure one 
way or another. She truly did not know. She 
had thought that she had thought it through. 
But maybe...

Ah hell.

So much for the nice spring day.

"You know that Jack was the one that started 
calling me Doc Ice, don't you?"

She opened her eyes to find him standing a 
foot away and frowning down at her. She 
fixed her gaze on his shoulder and absently 
studied the pattern of the fabric. Gods this 
was going to be hard. Anyone else and she 
could just laugh it off as a quirk. As one 
of those things. But this one said so much 
about her. And Mulder, damn his profiler's 
soul, would see it in an instant.

"It was meant as a joke. It was...it was 
something between the two of us." Scully 
glanced up at Mulder to find his eyes fixed 
on hers and that he was barely breathing. " 
I could never get warm, you see. The path 
labs are so cold..." Her eyes went distant 
for a moment. "...so cold." The words came 
out in a whisper.

Cold labs. Cold steel. 

Cold flesh. 

"I would come home and Jack would wrap 
himself around me and tease that he was the 
only one who could melt the ice."

She had fallen asleep curled up in his arms, 
letting his life chase away the chill of 
death. 

" I miss that."

Jack had known. He had just never 
understood. The ice he was melting was only 
surface rime. A physical manifestation of 
the real cold she had been trying to 
balance. The arctic rage that pooled like 
the liquefied black heart of space at the 
center of her soul. But he had not been able 
to meet or match. The first time he had 
truly glimpsed that part of her essential 
being, it scared the shit out of him.

That was the last time she had felt warm at 
his touch.

Scully made a painful attempt at a smile. 
"By the time he moved out, it had been 
months since I could bear to let him touch 
me. I could...never get warm."

Mulder was standing perfectly still. His 
hand twitched spasmodically, but he did not 
reach for her. In that moment, she was glad 
that he did not. She was not absolutely sure 
what she would do if he did.

There were so many things she had never told 
him. But there was one thing she could.

"It was never just quid pro quo, Mulder."

 She knew he would believe her. She just 
hoped he understood.

********************************************
Washington, DC
Day 1
Monday, 9:57pm



The basement hallway was silent.

Leyla Harrison carefully stuck her head 
through the stairwell door and listened for 
any sign that she was not alone. Hearing 
nothing she slid into the basement and 
caught the door and eased it shut.

No point in taking unnecessary chances.

Creeping forward, breath frozen in her 
lungs, she wanted to laugh at herself. 
Wannabe Harrison, FBI. Too scared to just 
walk in there and hand the damn things over. 
But oh, god. She knew if she met them...she 
just knew she would say something stupid. 
She would start babbling about their last 
case and have to watch as their eyes glazed 
over.

She put a finger up to her mouth to scrape 
at her front teeth, anyway. 

Just in case.

The office was reassuringly dark and she was 
halfway across the room when a voice came 
out of the dark right beside her. 

"Excuse me?"

Leyla shrieked, papers exploding in all 
directions as her body whirled in defensive 
terror. She was almost as shocked by her 
success as by her reflex when her fist met 
flesh with a satisfying "thunk" and she 
heard the sound of another body falling to 
the floor. She was half up on tip toe, 
caught between the champagne fizz of elation 
<It worked! It actually worked!> and the 
mortal humiliation of realizing that she had 
just clobbered one of the seven people she 
envied and admired most in the world.

Oh God.

Please don't let it be Mulder. Scully would 
kill her. Oh God. Oh God. Oh...wait. Mulder 
was too tall. 

The groan at her feet had her racing for the 
lights. The flickering of the fluorescents 
revealed a shock of brown hair flopping over 
one eye and a hand cupped protectively over 
an abused nose. Wounded brown eyes looked up 
at her, bruised and reproachful.

Ahhhh shit.

She just kicked a puppy.

"Agent Harris?"

He squinted at her cautiously and levered 
himself into a more stable sitting position. 
"Don't tell me...you thought I was a ghost."

Uncertain whether the dry tone was directed 
at her personally or because of the 
situation, Leyla inched forward and offered 
him her hand. The agent sighed and let her 
pull him to his feet. She flushed mortified 
shades of red when he immediately started to 
help gather the scattered papers.

He caught her taking sideways peeks at his 
face and surprised her by grinning. "Don't 
worry. It'll blend."

She gazed at him blankly.

"With the others."

He stopped and stared, exasperated at her 
incomprehension. "From this morning?"

Leyla just shook her head in ignorance.

"You didn't hear about our little 
departmental dust-up? " 

Leyla perked up, "Did you really have to go 
rescue Mulder and Scully? Everyone was 
wondering about that. I thought maybe that 
they had not really been missing but that 
maybe they had just been undercover...you 
know like when they went to Arcadia Falls 
and that tulpa tried to kill them. Of 
course, I guess you can't tell me since 
that's not the official story, still, I hope 
you told Mrs. Scully. I know she didn't have 
a funeral which might suggest that she knew, 
but she looked pretty broken up at the 
memorial service. But then, Scully did the 
same thing when she had to pretend Mulder 
was dead and..."

Agent Harris was gaping at her. 

Shit. She did it again. God, and look who 
she was telling it too. Biting back a sudden 
urge to cry she did a quick check to see if 
she had found all the documents and then 
shoved everything into the surprised agent's 
hands.

"Here. These are for Agents Mulder and 
Scully. I've...I've got to go. Good night. 
Sorry about your nose."

Then before she could humiliate herself 
further, she ran for the door.

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

Special Agent Bradley Harris stared after 
the blond whirlwind and absorbed two facts. 
The first was that contrary to his 
expectations he had not become the laughing 
stock of the Hoover Building. 

The second was that he did not know her 
name. 

He flipped through the documents looking in 
vain for a signature until the nature of the 
paperwork struck him. He reordered the 
sheets of paper and leafed through them more 
carefully. What in the hell?

It looked like every form the federal 
government had ever invented and then some. 
Changes of status, restoration of pay, 
explanation of cessation of pay, application 
for--good lord. And they were all complete. 
Every single one. Every single piece of 
paperwork the government and accounting 
deemed necessary when confronted with agents 
lost in the field, presumed dead, then 
returned to duty if not active agent status.

It must have taken her days to fill all of 
this in. An appendix showed references to 
preliminary reports filled by Agents Mulder 
and Scully from the Wyoming field office. 
Harris checked the dates. Wednesday. Even 
assuming that Accounting got the file 
Thursday morning, there were an unbelievable 
number of forms. The checking, rechecking 
and cross-referencing alone made his head 
spin. 

His mystery lady must have spent her entire 
week-end filling out forms so that Mulder 
and Scully would not have to.  No doubt she 
was 100 times faster at it than the agents 
would have been, still...

Harris fingered the laboriously placed 
sticky tabs that indicated a place and need 
for a signature and stared thoughtfully at 
the empty doorway .

*******************************************
Washington, DC
Day 2
Tuesday, 8:05 am


"What is it?"

Scully turned away from the passenger side 
mirror with a frown. "I don't...have you 
been getting the feeling that we're being 
followed?"

Mulder's eyebrows shot up, then he carefully 
surveyed the traffic behind them. After a 
long moment he met her eyes and shrugged 
ignorance. "How long?"

Scully chewed on her lip thoughtfully. 
"Since last night, I think."

After she had gone home. 

After they had finished watching the last of 
the movies. After Mulder had several times 
started to say something, and then stopped. 
After he had watched her from under half 
closed eyelids as she shifted on her end of 
the couch and tried to get comfortable . 
Finally he had  reached out and grabbed her 
by the shoulders and dragged her up the 
length of his body. She had stiffened in 
shock but he had simply twisted until his 
back was against the couch , shifted until 
they could both see the television easily 
and wrapped his arms around her.

Then he had grinned.

She had glared at him mutinously, indignant 
that he would take advantage of her 
confession. On the other hand, she reasoned, 
he had known for six months that she had a 
penchant for using his body as a hot water 
bottle. Now he just knew why. Which sort of 
took the wind out of her morally outraged 
sails. 

She grumbled as she settled herself more 
comfortably, and Mulder wisely refrained 
from making lewd comments. They finished 
watching the movie in amicable silence and 
by the time the credits rolled, Scully could 
almost pretend they were back in their 
burrow. Back to where she was free to hold 
and touch without worrying about the 
potential consequences. In the end though, 
reality intruded itself and it was too 
awkward for her to stay. Sleeping together 
in the field had been necessary. Sleeping 
together in his apartment had...other 
implications.

Implications which she was not ready to deal 
with while her emotions were so scrambled.

So she had driven home and found herself 
battling the nagging feeling that someone 
was watching. Her mind had flashed on a 
vivid memory almost three months old. She 
had been tracking deer through semi-dense 
forest. She did not know how long she had 
been standing there, waiting for the deer to 
move, but suddenly she had known--absolutely 
positively known that she was under 
observation. Unerringly her head had turned-
--and she had found herself staring into 
suspicious yellow eyes.

The wolf had been cautious. Curious. Nervous 
about her potential danger to his family. It 
had been the oddest feeling staring into 
those eyes. The animal was completely 
prepared to attack--and yet, somehow she had 
known that he would not. Not if she did not 
challenge him. Not today. Her eyes had 
dropped submissively, and when she raised 
them again, the wolf was gone. 

She had that same feeling of being watched 
creeping down her spine. But nothing about 
this sensation felt harmless. However, on 
looking around, she saw nothing. No one. And 
she had written it off as an overactive 
imagination.

Now she was beginning to wonder if she 
should have trusted her instincts.

Twenty minutes later, there was no sign of 
any obvious pursuit and by the time Mulder 
eased to a stop at the tail end of a twelve 
block gridlock she had decided that if they 
were being followed it was by someone good 
enough that she was not going to be able to 
spot them. Meanwhile, Mulder had been 
drumming his fingers nervously against the 
steering wheel since they had come to a 
halt.

Suddenly all motion on his side of the car 
stopped so completely her head snapped to 
the left to see if he had been shot. She 
found him staring fixedly at the taillights 
on the car in front of them. His voice 
startled her.

"The ring."

"What?"

His head turned  and she found herself 
looking into eyes so guarded they appeared 
devoid of emotion. "The ring." He repeated 
himself, each word enunciated clearly." 
That's what I miss."

The ring? Scully just regarded him blankly. 
What the hell did that mean?

Mulder fidgeted for another moment, then 
sighed. He would not look at her which 
probably meant that he was afraid that his 
explanation would sound pathetic. Scully's 
mind jumped from possibility to possibility. 
This was Mulder. What would a ring mean to 
him? It was not the religious significance 
that was for sure. Mulder took the oaths he 
made to himself a hell of a lot more 
seriously than he would to a god he did not 
believe in.

<Til death do us part>

The promise to never leave him. Was it as 
simple as that? Scully considered that 
thought dubiously. She would have thought 
Mulder to be faintly cynical about public 
avowals of forever. Public avowals... 

" Did the girls in your school wear their 
boyfriend's jackets or class rings, Scully?"

His faintly wistful tone pulled her away 
from her current chain of thought. She 
answered cautiously, "I suppose. As long as 
their parents knew they were dating."

Mulder nodded, eyes still on the car in 
front . His voice was soft," Do you remember 
what it was like the first time you fell in 
love? "

She really did not want to hear this. She 
did not want to hear how another faithless 
Phoebe or Diana had torn out his heart out 
and stomped on it. How he had fallen in love 
and she had left him. "How old were you, 
Mulder?"

The side of his mouth quirked upwards, 
"Seventeen."

Scully tried to imagine what he must have 
been like. Mulder intensity with all the 
headlong passion of untried youth. Scully 
could see her now. She had been blonde of 
course. No reminders of Samantha. A 
cheerleader? Had he accidentally seen her 
staring at him from the sidelines as he 
caught the ball and drove in the perfect 
lay-up. Had he stumbled perhaps. Tripped on 
oversized feet still waiting for the rest of 
his body to catch up with them?

"She wasn't from the Vineyard. I met her 
while I was in the city library. It was pure 
luck that we met at all. At the time I 
thought it was destiny. " His smile was wry. 
" Of course, the fact that I overheard her 
tell the librarian that she needed a copy of 
John Donne for a book report had something 
to do with it." 

Scully narrowed her eyes, "You didn't."

Mulder grinned, "Every damn copy. I shoved 
the last one behind Milton five minutes 
before she got to the aisle."

"Offered to show her your etchings, huh?"

Mulder's eyes twinkled at his partner's dry 
tone," Well, my copy of John Donne, anyway."

Scully had to smile back. "So what 
happened?"

"I got busted. Had one of them tucked in the 
waistband of my jeans. It slipped."   

Scully could not stop the spurt of laughter 
as she imagined the horrified expression 
that would have graced his face as both 
teens watched the book do a slow slide down 
the inside of his pantleg. Mulder, of course 
would have cracked a self-deprecating but 
bitingly clever remark.  The girl would have 
been charmed.

"The librarian thought I was stealing the 
book. Heather was mortified. We were the 
center of attention and to makes matters 
worse, I was sporting the biggest boner in 
my life. I think it was three days before I 
could speak in complete sentences."

 "But you got the girl."

"Six weeks, forty-eight roses, twelve 
sonnets, two haikus and a box of chocolates 
later. It was a mercy date. She was trying 
to put me out of her misery."

Scully snorted, "So...?"

Mulder smiled slyly, "I did cute and 
pathetic really well at seventeen, Scully."

"You have hidden depths, Mulder."

Her partner just grinned. Then Scully 
watched helplessly as his smile faded and 
she wondered  just how long Heather had 
strung Mulder along before she dumped him. 
Or maybe she was being unfair. God knows 
that Mulder's passionate focus and single-
minded commitment were as frightening as 
they were exhilarating. Scully doubted that 
he had changed much. Maybe it had simply 
been too much for a seventeen year old who 
suddenly found that love was not as the 
movies said it should be.

"So what happened?"

"She didn't want the ring."

Scully froze. What the hell did that mean? 
Surely he had not ... At seventeen? Well, 
okay--this was Mulder. Single-minded focus 
and all of that.  But he had asked about 
class rings and school jackets. Scully 
mulled that one over for a second. Diana had 
worn a ring. Had made the commitment. 
Scully's unthinking comment was out before 
she could decide whether she was trying to 
offer consolation or making a knee-jerk 
acidic observation about Diana.

"No ring can truly promise forever, Mulder."

He was silent for a moment, then he glanced 
at her with an oddly frustrated  look in his 
eyes," I never thought it did."

His lips quirked up in a self-depreciating 
smile.

" I was so proud of her, Scully. Everything 
about her--her intelligence, her sense of 
adventure, her humor, her beauty. And she 
had chosen me. The guy who may or may not 
have killed his sister and who was just too 
damn smart for his own good. I wanted the 
whole world to know that she was mine. Hell, 
billboard signs wouldn't have been over the 
top."

She had not even wanted to wear a class 
ring.

Had Mulder given Heather an ultimatum? Was 
that when she had left him? Scully picked 
her next words as carefully as if hammering 
steel nails in a hold full of gunpowder. "So 
what happened?"

His lips twisted. "I discovered that being 
loved in spite of myself instead of for 
myself is a very lonely place to be. "  His 
eyes slanted sideways then, expression dark 
with the knowledge of her assumptions.

"She wasn't the one to leave, Scully." 

A hint of challenge tinged his words.

" I was."

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

Ten minutes from the Hoover Building, four 
FBI fleet sedans suddenly pulled away from 
the curb and by the time Scully had shaken 
herself out of her silent contemplation of 
the disarranged inner landscape of her mind, 
the two agents  found themselves bracketed 
by the government vehicles. Mulder's 
knuckles whitened on the steering wheel and 
Scully was bracing for a kamikaze bid for 
freedom when her cell phone rang. She had 
just thumbed the talk button when the FBI 
building came into view.

All hell was breaking loose.

Skinner's voice echoed tinnily from her 
right hand and she hastily raised the phone 
to her ear.

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Where are you?"

Scully glanced out the window as Mulder was 
forced to a stop when the anonymous sedans 
surrounding them slowed to a halt.

"Agent Mulder and myself appear to be in 
protective custody about a block from the 
Hoover Building. Can we assume the other 
cars are friendly, Sir?"

Skinner snorted, "Friendly is not exactly 
the word I would use as this could be 
considered to be your fault. We have a 
problem."

Both Mulder and Scully had originally jumped 
to the conclusion that there had been a bomb 
threat or explosion. News crews thronged the 
streets while the DCPD appeared to be trying 
to bring some order to the chaos. Two 
ambulances and a fire truck were on the 
scene and a tow truck was vainly trying to 
get through a cordon of news vans that were 
being uncooperatively stationary. Scully 
turned her head to look as Mulder started 
swearing under his breath and the underlying 
pattern jumped out at her.

The press was laying siege to the FBI.

Two huge news vans blocked the entrance to 
the underground parkade  and the throng of 
vehicles surrounding them kept the tow truck 
from moving in to remove them. Camera crews 
and newscasters argued heatedly with police 
but even from where they were sitting Mulder 
and Scully could see that plausible 
deniability was in effect. No one was giving 
anybody an excuse to arrest anyone. As a 
result, it was one big convoluted mess of 
obfuscation and obstructionism.

And it was planted squarely between them and 
the door.

"Crap."

Skinner snorted again, obviously hearing 
Mulder's muttered commentary.

"What's all this about, Sir?"

As if the sinking feeling in the pit of her 
stomach was not sufficient warning.

"You and your partner are breaking news, 
Agent Scully. It seems that an anonymous 
source has notified the press that you and 
Mulder are being called in on the MethBomber 
case." 

Scully winced at both the nickname and the 
venom in Skinner's voice. The anonymous 
source had better hope he or she remained 
anonymous. 

"Add in the fact that you have just returned 
miraculously from the dead and you two are 
now the guest fish in a feeding frenzy. I 
expect that both of your apartments will be 
under siege within the hour. "

Scully frowned, "My mother, Sir?"

"I have a team of agents at her house and 
she is packing to fly to San Diego as we 
speak. The agents will make sure she gets on 
the plane safely."

Scully nodded reflexively, then pinched the 
bridge of her nose. They had expected a 
certain amount of publicity as a result of 
their return, but frankly, unless it was a 
slow news week they should have been a flash 
in the pan. A couple of feel good articles 
and on to the next kitten-up-a-tree story. 
The fact that their return had now been 
associated with a high profile case like the 
MethBomber was...unfortunate.

Mulder had leaned over far enough to catch 
most of Skinner's conversation and the 
expression on his face was grim. He, more 
than she, knew exactly how out of hand media 
coverage could get during a major serial 
murder case. Add the human interest factor, 
the drama of an apparent schism among the 
FBI  profilers and Mulder's history with the 
BSU and the blood was in the water. 

Mulder looked over at her as Skinner 
continued with instructions regarding their 
relocation to the Quantico base for the 
foreseeable future of the investigation. 
Then he smoothly turned the car in a 180 
degree turn and docilely followed the sedans 
as they accelerated in the general direction 
of the highway.

"Should I have them pick up my fish?"

Scully just sighed. 


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

San Diego Naval Base
Day 15  
1137 hours

Commander William Scully was having serious 
second thoughts about what he was about to 
do. Second thoughts. Third. Not the least of 
which was his lingering sense of disbelief 
that he was actually considering this as  a 
viable option. His mother...

...his mother would kill him when she found 
out.

For once, Charlie was of a like mind with 
his brother. Of course, his mother did not 
have access to the Top Secret file that 
Charlie had had delivered to Bill's office 
last week. He swallowed back nausea as he 
remembered high gloss photos of blackened 
bodies and heat twisted limbs. Then there 
was the hand written Post-It note stuck to 
the case summary.

<No suspects. No leads.>

In other words, the FBI did not have a clue.

Ten homes burned to the ground, families 
burned alive. The only link was the Navy. 
The photos flashed again in memory and Bill 
wondered if he was cursed to remember those 
pictures until the day he died.

God, he hoped not.

Because the sour feeling in the pit of his 
stomach told him there were going to be 
more.

He wondered if this was how the FBI felt, 
looking at the results of failure and 
knowing there was nothing you could do to 
stop the next one. Nothing you could find, 
no one you could question, no magic clue 
that would make everything right and stop 
one more set of glossy photos from joining 
the ones in the file.

Nothing that Bill could do.

But maybe not Mulder.

Details had been sketchy, but one fact had 
become perfectly clear. Despite their near 
brush with death, and despite the fact that 
they were no where near to being approved 
for active duty, Dana and her partner were 
working a case. An arson case. A case here 
in San Diego. He did not have to work for 
Naval Intelligence to figure out which case 
the FBI deemed more important than the 
sanity of two of their agents.  The 
MethBomber was getting an obscene amount of 
press ink.

His mother might be livid, but it had given 
her eldest child an idea.  

When Dana had first joined the FBI, he had 
used his contacts to check into both the X-
Files and Special Agent Fox Mulder. It had, 
he acknowledged now, been a superficial 
check at best. Mulder had apparently cracked 
up while working as a profiler and been 
shuffled off to the basement where he 
subsequently chased down little green men. 

That was all Bill had needed to know.

He had never bothered to look any further. 
Not until recently. Not until some Navy 
SEALs had made it fairly clear that maybe 
there were things hiding in the shadows that 
he had simply been too blind to see. Maybe. 
Maybe not. But he was open to the 
possibility that Mulder was not as cracked 
as he had originally thought. 

Not about werewolves, anyway. 

Bill considered a second folder lying 
accusingly in the center of his desk, it's 
very existence a testament to the fact that 
there were questions that someone did not 
want asked. What he had found had not 
changed his mind ...much.  He still thought 
his sister’s partner had ripped a gaping 
jagged hole in all their lives. He was still 
an insensitive, self-centered jerk who took 
advantage of her loyalty without returning 
one tenth of the commitment or self-
sacrifice he seemed to demand . 

But he had been one hell of a profiler.

Even if he did scare the shit out of 
everyone.

“Avoid this guy if you can possibly manage 
it, Billy Boy.” Jack had taken a quick swig 
of beer and dropped a moderately thick file 
folder on the table. Dropping his voice so 
that it couldn’t be heard by the other 
lunchtime customers, NCIS officer Jack 
McFadden had stared straight into Bill’s 
eyes, “You do not want to get involved in 
this shit.”

“He’s FBI, Jack. Not the bloody CIA ”

Jack tapped the folder for emphasis,” 
Classified, Bill. Almost all of the cases 
from this-what did you call it?”

“The X-Files” 

“Yeah, that. Almost all of them were 
classified. Not before - after the fact. 
This department gets caught up in some 
serious high-level shit. Need-to-know only. 
And what I could find that wasn't 
classified? Forget Project Blue Book and the 
Kennedy assassinations. He’s into 
everything. Witchcraft, voodoo, 
werewolves…you name it. Christ,  I don’t 
know if I’m more scared that the federal 
government would actually pay someone to 
investigate this shit, or the possibility 
that they are serious about paying someone 
to investigate this shit.”

Bill had hesitated  for a moment then asked 
the question,” What are the chances that all 
of this classified crap is just that? Crap. 
This guy…he breaks into military bases like 
it’s a week-end hobby. And he gets caught. 
But the worst that happens is a slap on the 
wrist. Only… I heard he used to be some 
wunderkind for the Violent Crimes section. A 
bona fide psycho sniffer. Could all 
this…could he be that good?”

”What? They let him run around doing his 
thing just so they have him available when 
they need him?”

"Put like that, it sounds pretty stupid.”

Jack  shuddered, then drained his beer and 
signaled the waitress for another. “No,” He 
said quietly,” It’s not stupid at all.”

Alcoholics made bad spies and Jack was a 
very very good spy. Intelligence agent. 
Whatever. So what would put him a bare three 
second delay away from legitimately being 
able to call himself a two-fisted drinker? 
What the hell had had him so scared? No. Not 
scared. Out of his mind terrified.

“Tell me.”

Jack's hoarse bark of  laughter reminded 
Bill of the seals off the coast of 
Newfoundland. ”You sure? ‘Cause I really 
didn’t need to know this. I really didn’t 
need to know the lengths my government will 
go to catch a killer. And you want to know 
what the worst part of it is?” 

Bill could only shake his head gently.

“The worst of it, is that I can’t say that 
they were wrong.” Jack’s bottle hit the 
tabletop with a quiet thunk.

“How much do you know about profiling?”

Again, Bill had shaken his head and Jack 
decided to start his story with a bit of 
history.

“It’s changed a lot. VICAP has done a lot 
with their interview database and there have 
been several studies done here and 
internationally to model criminal behavior 
and give it a mathematical basis in 
probabilities. It’s still as much an art as 
a science because we’re dealing with people-
severely fucked up people at that- but 
there’s more science to it now than there 
was ten or twenty years ago.

Profilers aren’t psychic, okay? They’re just  
observant and have a shitload of cross 
training in psychology , crime scene 
analysis and forensics. The profilers 
themselves don’t actually investigate the 
crimes. They go over the evidence, the 
details and the photos until they have a 
picture in their heads as to the killer’s 
motives, emotional state at the time of 
killing and all sorts of other shit that 
ties into who they are and why they do what 
they do.

So everything is relative right? I mean, 
just because a killer covers the victim’s 
face in one murder, doesn’t mean another 
killer doing the same thing is doing it for 
the same reason. So a lot of this stuff is 
subjective. The profiler has to make a 
guess. It’s an educated guess, but it’s 
still a guess. And some profilers are better 
at it than others.

This guy Mulder…well I’ve heard some people 
say that he’s a little too good at it.”

“I don’t understand.” Bill said slowly.

Jack had looked around the noisy restaurant 
and then leaned forward as if scared he 
would be  overheard. ” Some of the guys I 
was talking to, some of the reports I read … 
they all say the same thing. That the 
profilers have to get into these guy’s 
heads.  It’s hard on them, and the burn-out 
rate is astronomical. Most of these people, 
they wade through shit, but they are still 
relatively normal people.” Jack thought 
about it for a moment, ”Relatively.”

“But…?”

“But the rumors I heard about Mulder is that 
the reason he was so good, the reason he 
could climb so easily into the mind of these 
monsters is that most of him is already 
there.”

Bill snapped upright “That’s crazy, Jack.”

Jack had spread his hands wide, ”Just 
repeating what I was told.”

“He’s friggin’ FBI , Jack. They let him 
carry a gun.”

“Doing classified work, in a more or less 
classified department, with his own 
babysitter.”

“Dana is not a babysitter!” Bill said 
sharply.

“Huh? Look, Bill. I never said he was a 
total sociopath. Just that he might be a 
mostly one. From what I’ve heard - and this 
is from people who saw him on serial cases - 
the man is totally fucked up. No one will 
even tell me what happened on his last case. 
The file is completely sealed.”

“But he’s good?” 

“Fuck yeah, he’s good. But who can afford 
him?”

Bill Scully came back to the present and 
realized that his time was up. The admiral 
was expecting him. It was too late to back 
out now. He stood, then picked up both of 
the folders and slowly made his way to the 
door. If his sister's partner could 
investigate one arson case, he could 
investigate two.

The Navy needed Mulder.

They would worry about paying accounts 
later.

********************************************
Quantico Gymnasium
Day 19
2100


Mulder and Scully were two hours into a 
workout that had already sent Lewis, Harris 
and Mathews to the benches. Vickery was 
hanging in there, but Landers knew she would 
not last the full run. Amazingly, the 
abrasive woman had simply laughed as she 
collapsed each morning and taken it as a 
challenge to "get back in shape" as she 
called it. Landers had been almost afraid to 
ask just how in shape she had been that she 
currently considered herself less than 
optimum.

The entire team had spent the last seventeen 
days buried in the filth that was the 
reflection of the mind of a murderer. To 
this point, Mulder had done little more than 
immerse himself in the casefiles as well as 
the new literature on the nature of the 
serial arsonist. Scully had spent an equal 
amount of time going over the autopsy 
reports from the original case. 

They did not even know how many bodies had 
been buried the first time.

The ME and forensic team estimated that at 
least 250 bodies had lain buried in the old 
1950's Cold War bunker that Joseph Gamble, 
Senior had built for his family. But that 
was based on the number of intact skulls 
they were able to identify. Based on the 
amount of damage, on the distance the 
explosion had traveled, the amount of 
methane the average body could produce, the 
engineers claimed that it could have been as 
high as five hundred.

Five hundred.

It had not taken the first task force long 
to narrow down a suspect. Dental records 
confirmed that several of the victims had 
been reported missing in late 1973.  Joseph 
Gamble Sr. and his son had  lived on the 
property, eking a threadbare existence from 
exhausted soil and government pension 
checks.

Gamble, Sr had probably died in '73. Once 
the investigation began, it was only a few 
weeks before it ws discovered that someone 
had been signing the senior Gamble's pension 
checks for him. The man himself had been a 
misogynistic bastard who hated the world in 
general and spent as little time with other 
people as possible. Even so, there had been 
people who remembered when he stopped coming 
in to town. His son had just mentioned bad 
health and no one had cared enough to check 
further.

So the investigators figured that he died 
sometime in '73. Gamble Jr. was turned down 
for military service in the same year--
probably right after his father's death. 
Junior had applied for Vietnam and told the 
recruiter he wanted to join the special 
forces.  The recruiter had said little about 
Gamble except to report that he had given 
him the creeps. The army psychologist had 
been a bit more blunt. No way. No how. 
Psychopaths need not apply.

Application denied.

So they had a suspect who fit the profile of 
a serial killer. They had a trigger event. 
Hell, they had two. They had time and 
opportunity. They also had the fact that 
when the senior Gamble's pension checks 
suddenly stopped being cashed in 1977, the 
local PD investigation revealed that Junior 
had disappeared. Foul play was suspected in 
the case of both missing men, but no leads 
were ever discovered. The car never turned 
up, nor did Gamble. Ownership of the 
property passed to a distant cousin who had 
rented the property until his death without 
heirs in 1993.  The farmhouse had then 
become the property and headache of the 
township.

The forensics lab was tentatively placing 
the last known deaths in the late seventies. 
At least, none of the identified victims had 
been reported missing after 1977.  So it all 
fit. For the first explosion, in any case. 
No one absolutely sure whether these newest 
murders were committed by the original 
killer or a copycat. The FBI in general, 
including the members of the X-Files 
division were slowly driving themselves 
crazy trying to figure it out.

The original purpose of the group morning 
workouts had simply been to keep their 
bodies healthy while their minds were TDY in 
the Abyss. Landers had swiftly discovered 
that despite her own considerable endurance, 
Mulder and Scully could, and did, run her 
into the ground without even trying. In self 
defense she recommenced the martial arts 
lessons that the MethBomber case had 
interrupted. Both agents had had the 
obligatory FBI training, and Scully had 
obviously brushed up on her skills at some 
point in the last few years. Neither, 
however, were especially skilled with hand 
to hand and the fact that they had kicked 
butt that first morning said more about 
their agility, strength and honed instinct 
than any trained ability. 

By pairing them off against the other 
agents, she was able to forcibly develop 
their skills while leaving them pleasantly 
exhausted by the end of the workout. What 
she had not allowed them to do was spar with 
each other. When they had looked at her 
questioningly as she had forbidden it, she 
had simply said something about the fact 
that they knew each other too well and that 
she wanted them to learn to see the moves 
themselves, not just infer them from the 
other's body language. They were 
inexperienced enough that they had believed 
her.

Special Agent Elizabeth Landers knew exactly 
what was going to happen when they finally 
did step onto the mat together and she would 
be damned if she let them kill each other by 
accident. 

Both agents had picked up on the training 
with frightening ease. Within a week they 
had caught up to the rest of their 
department. A week after that they were 
pushing Landers harder than she would have 
expected this early into the program.  
Partly it was their reflexes. The delay 
between decision and implementation had 
shrunk to the point that they were reacting 
almost as fast as thought. Scully in 
particular seemed to absorb the katas and 
defensive blocks almost faster than she 
could be shown what they were. Her mind and 
body seemed to be operating at an abnormal 
pitch, and she had only to be shown the move 
once, to practice it once before her muscles 
seemed to absorb the knowledge into 
themselves. The workouts simply gave her a 
chance to categorize the varied ways in 
which the move could be used. 

Mulder was learning as fast as his mind 
would allow, Scully seemed to be forcing 
herself to learn as fast as her body could 
take. She had actually tried to bring it up 
with Mulder. She had honestly been worried 
that this was an indicator of something 
really wrong. The agent had looked startled 
for a moment, turned curious eyes on his 
partner and just grinned. Then he had made a 
sort of shrugging motion and muttered 
something about stalking modes and two 
legged deer. 

And that had been that.

Landers watched as Scully sent Vickery 
flying through the air and sighed. Those 
damn reflexes. Ordinarily she would have 
years of martial arts training behind her 
before she would be anywhere near to being 
able to pull that kind of automatic 
reaction. The average person had to fight to 
allow their mind to be overruled by their 
body. It was even worse for the average law 
enforcement officer. They were too used to 
having to consider consequence and 
collateral damage.

Somewhere along the line, both agents had 
lost an essential human innocence. They were 
not just willing to believe...they believed 
on a bone deep reflex level that the hand 
coming toward them could not be trusted. As 
a result, there was no hesitation on 
reaction. 
In and of itself, that would have been fine. 
Mulder himself seemed to be on sort of 
passive alert. He reacted fast enough, but 
that was all he did. He reacted. Scully on 
the other hand was actively engaged in some 
sort of aggressive counter attack mode. She 
was not just prepared for attack, she was 
actively searching for and anticipating it. 
Landers kept waiting to hear that some 
innocent mail clerk had tapped her on the 
shoulder and gotten clobbered.

She had lost track of the number of times 
Scully had reflexively misinterpreted an 
innocent gesture as the beginnings of attack 
and had started the openings of a counter-
attack. Half the time, she was not even 
aware of what she did. No one had gotten 
injured. Yet. But it was only a matter of 
time.

Her reflexes were just too damn fast. 

Landers let her eyes drift to the rubber-
neckers seated on the benches. From the 
miserable expression on Harris's face and 
the huddled posture Lewis displayed, she 
could guess the topic of conversation. The 
ISU had been less than impressed with the X-
Files Division. Landers felt the familiar 
burn of anger which had taken residence in 
her stomach over the last three weeks.

They had done good work before Mulder and 
Scully returned and they were doing good 
work now. To be fair, they had gotten their 
shares of sideways glances even before the 
dynamic duo returned but no one had been 
able to argue with their solve rate. 
Grudgingly, Landers had to admit that it was 
no where near the percentages that Mulder 
and Scully had pulled in. True, they had not 
found a single case of paranormal activity 
or evidence of any crimes that did not have 
a perfectly rational explanation...but then, 
they had not exactly been chasing the really 
weird cases. Most of the assignments had 
come down to them through back channels. 
Cold cases handed off to Mathews from the 
ISU. Even that werewolf case ...

Landers shook herself back to the present 
and narrowed her eyes at the laughing 
spectators. They were becoming an 
institutional joke and she had just about 
had enough. She could understand a couple of 
days of injured egos. The newspaper articles 
raving about Spooky Mulder and his eerie 
abilities had not endeared them to anybody. 
That he had genuinely scared the crap out of 
more than one or two profilers over the 
years had not helped. 

The fact that he had trashed a promising 
career with the ISU seemed to have bought 
him one of two reputations. First, that he 
had not been able to cut it and was simply 
riding the coattails of political backing. 
That reputation would be enough to earn him 
a serious level of disdain from agents who 
resented any form of political patronage. 
The second possibility was that he had truly 
lost it. The general opinion seemed to be 
that one day he was going to go into the 
Abyss and not come out. No one wanted to be 
around him when it happened. 

All of this, combined with half truths and 
partial rumors, leavened with a generous 
dollop of envy and the result was a sort of 
group reflex designed to turn them into the 
class joke. Partly it was the whole alien 
thing. But Landers had the sneaking 
suspicion that some of it was a knee-jerk 
reaction to uneasy belief. Many of these 
agents were inclined to believe. There had 
been too many stories not to believe some of 
it. So they covered up their feeling of fear 
or inadequacy with ill-natured humor. But 
some of them wanted to be proven wrong. 

They kept waiting for these two ordinary 
looking agents to pull off some miracle, to 
give them something tangible to hold. Some 
reason that they could hold up to other 
agents and say--"See, this is why I 
believe." Many of them had waited in vain, 
even as they sneered , for Spooky Mulder and 
Doc Ice to live up to their larger than life 
reputation. To find the Methbomber, to save 
the people of San Diego when everyone else 
could not.

Some of that anger was disappointment.

So...maybe it was time to give them 
something tangible to believe.

"Mulder. Scully. Strip it down and on the 
mat."

Both agents looked up in startled 
recognition of the command. This was not 
only the first time she had paired them off 
against each other, it was the first time 
she had let the spectators stay for this 
portion of the work-out. She could hear a 
low murmur of interest as Mulder and Scully 
stripped out of their loose warm up clothing 
and walked to the center of the combat zone. 

Except for the one on one training bouts, 
all of the agents wore t-shirts and loose 
sweatpants. However, Landers had her own 
personal feelings about clothing. First, she 
wanted them to get used to grabbing the 
actual limb, not just a convenient sleeve or 
pantleg. Second, she had started taping the 
bouts and it was easier for the trainees to 
see body position when it was not concealed 
by a layer of clothing. To that end, 
everyone wore a spandex body suit underneath 
their clothes. 

The catsuits gave the agents the flexibility 
they needed, with just enough fabric to 
protect the skin from contact burns. There 
were no easy grabs or holds and the fabric 
was just slippery enough to keep the hand 
from getting a good grip. No easy outs for 
these agents. They used full joint locks or 
nothing at all. The suits also had one other 
feature which Landers was actively using for 
the first time.

They looked dramatic as hell.

Too involved with the case to go shopping, 
too physically changed to fit into most of 
their old clothing, both agents had taken to 
wandering the Quantico campus in FBI sweats. 
She doubted they would have done it at the 
Hoover building, but here at Quantico they 
could have been any other agent trainee or 
off-duty instructor.  The loose fabric had 
hidden most of the physical changes and 
Landers had seen more than one agent 
studying the pair with a perplexed look on 
the face. Trying vainly to see some sort of 
manifestation of the ordeal they had been 
through.

Landers could have told them it was all in 
the eyes.

But they wanted flashy. So, tonight, she 
would give them something else to think 
about. Something to talk about. Something to 
take home and mull over as they wondered 
what other secrets the agents kept hidden. 
Tonight they would get flashy.

She just prayed no one would get killed.

Except for a few surprised looks as 
skintight spandex revealed an unanticipated 
amount of ridged muscle, the spectators were 
silent. Landers almost bared her teeth. They 
had no idea what was about to happen. What 
she thought would happen. What she almost 
feared would happen. They had no idea at 
all...but they would know it when they saw 
it. Perhaps they might not completely 
understand, but they would recognize it.

She would simply mourn...but that was her 
secret.

They started tentatively enough. Thrust and 
block. Attack and parry. It was a courtship 
in its simplest form. Offer and response. 
Advance and retreat. As they grew more 
confident, the blows became harder. As they 
suddenly recognized familiar patterns in new 
forms, their bodies shifted, 
flowed...adapted. She could see it building. 
Saw it in the unthinking block, the parry in 
motion before the attack was barely started. 
They had had weeks to watch each other, to 
learn each other's moves. 

They had had years to read each other.

The pace picked up. Mulder slammed Scully to 
the mat only to land on his back as she 
swept his feet out from under him. He 
attacked, she blocked. She attacked, he 
parried. Each absorbed the other's ability. 
Blows came more swiftly as they learned the 
limits of the other's reach and reflex. She 
saw it build. She saw it flower. She saw it 
happen.
She saw the very instant it ceased to be a 
practice bout...

...and became a dance.

Once, only once had she ever been where they 
were. When the goal became that of 
discovery. When you knew your partner so 
well that you could drop the last restraint, 
the last conscious control over your body 
and simply become. When the blows had no 
fall-back, no restraint. When you could risk 
it, only because you knew your partner would 
block it. When you would move...only because 
you knew where your partner would be. And 
the dance became an upward spiral as the 
blows became faster, as hands moved faster 
than thought, as the body literally reacted 
in a violent tango that had nothing of 
violence at it's heart.

It was truth.

It was trust.

It simply was.

And then they stopped. The tension came to 
an almost unbearable crest and everyone in 
the room was poised on the edge, praying to 
be taken over. They stopped. The fierce 
grins of joy that each had worn faded as 
eyes locked, sharing knowledge and awareness 
of self.  And then it was over.

Across the gymnasium, the watchers stirred 
awkwardly, uncomfortably. A few tried to 
make short conversation but the words 
petered out when the person they tried 
talking to failed to respond. Harris and 
Lewis were staring at the senior agents in 
open-mouthed awe. Mathews...Mathews looked 
like she felt. As if he had seen something 
he recognized. She watched the play of 
emotions chase themselves across his face. 
Stunned comprehension, desperate envy and a 
confused sense of loss.  Yes. He knew 
exactly what he had seen. But it was the 
look on Vickery's face which made her shift 
with unease. Hunger. Pure, undiluted hunger.

Secrets, she thought suddenly. She was not 
the only one with secrets.


********************************************
Washington, DC
Day 22
9:05 am



"I'm not getting anywhere with her, Sir."

The psychiatrist's tone was not defensive, 
but definite. Almost identical in both 
content and delivery to the conversation he 
had just had with Mulder's counselor. The 
fact that, according to both counselors, the 
agents were generally trying to cooperate 
left Skinner with a very large problem with 
no easy solution. Unfortunately, a personal 
call from the Director, relaying the wishes 
and desires of both upper administration and 
the US Navy had just made it imperative that 
he find one. Fast.

"Sir...maybe if you tried again with a 
counselor who has some law enforcement or 
military experience?"

They had  already tried with FBI counselors 
and again with a counselor from the NYPD and 
Skinner doubted it was going to do any good 
to recross covered ground. The civilians  
had been a long shot. Between them, they had 
years of experience treating the survivors 
of various life threatening 
situations...including SAR teams from 
earthquake and other natural disaster 
situations. His pencil tapped the top of his 
desk in a frustrated tattoo.

All three psychiatrists were worried about a 
mild but definitely progressive startle 
reflex that Agent Scully seemed to be 
experiencing. All agreed that it appeared to 
be a form of PTSD, but without more 
information from the agent they were unable 
to accurately gauge the root of the problem 
and likely prognosis. The agent herself 
repeatedly denied any feelings of anxiety 
regarding her experiences, actually getting 
annoyed to the point of belligerence when 
the issue was pushed. Until she trusted one 
of the counselors enough to be honest with 
herself, they were worried the symptoms 
would just get worse.

Mulder was even more problematic.

He was avoiding his partner.

It was subtle. So subtle that the first 
psychiatrist had missed it. Either that or 
it was progressive as well. He was tense in 
her presence and from what little the agents 
had said, neither were spending any off duty 
time together. Considering the close lives 
they had lived for the missing six months,  
the psychiatrists were more concerned about 
that that the startle reflex. For anyone, 
the reverse should have been true. For long 
term partners... it raised red flags that no 
one wanted to ignore. The agents were not 
even having lunch together...and from 
observation, it was Mulder finding other 
things to do.

According to Mulder, nothing was wrong.

According to Scully, nothing was wrong.

And Skinner was lost as to how to make 
things right. 


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

Defacto X-Files Office, Quantico
Day 29
9:30 am


"Mulder, why are you sending flowers to 
Accounting in DC?"

He was not that far into the profile; his 
partner's jangling nerves were interfering 
too badly for that. However, he was fairly 
disconnected from the world in general. It 
took a moment for her words and curious tone 
to drag him all the way back to the present. 

"Huh?"

Mathews was grumbling over several boxes 
containing copies of the casefile evidence 
and which had gotten mislabeled while Lewis 
and Vickery carefully attached crime scene 
photos to the walls. Landers and Harris were 
elbows deep in the paperwork that had 
followed them from DC and Mulder was more 
than happy to let Scully take over 
supervising that portion of the senior 
agent's duties. He was still trying to get 
into the head of their arsonist.

The damn thing was, that he could not do it.

Mulder had never had difficulty slipping 
into the minds of murders. Never. But for 
some reason, the crime scene photos just 
would not open up and let him in. He glared 
at the case evidence covering his desk in 
frustration. He had been bashing his head 
against this stuff for almost four weeks and 
the damn thing was as two dimensional today 
as it had been the day he cracked the file.

The photos of the bodies stared back 
accusingly.

"Mulder?"

Huh? What? Oh right.

"Flowers, Scully?"

Scully ignored his space cadet imitation and 
held up a piece of paper. He squinted at it 
and shrugged. He had taken out his contacts 
four hours ago and without his glasses the 
print was a blur. Scully sighed and walked 
over. Thankfully, her guard dog tension 
eased somewhat as she got closer and Mulder 
sighed with relief as his own nerves 
relaxed.

He eyed his partner with carefully concealed 
concern. She was not losing weight. If 
anything, the strenuous work-outs Landers 
was insisting upon were continuing to add to 
the muscle she had acquired in Wyoming. 
Physically she was as healthy as he had ever 
seen her. Mentally...

Mulder felt his lips flatten.

It had not seemed so bad a few weeks ago. 
She had been a bit more cautious, a bit more 
on edge. It was not exactly like she had 
been after Pfaster but it had been enough 
like it that he had allowed her to brush off 
his concerns. For once he had believed her 
"I'm fines". Partly because she had not used 
those particular words and partly because 
she had believed it.

He should have...damn it. He should never 
have listened to her. She had known her 
growing edginess was keeping him from 
concentrating the way he needed to. Had 
actively abetted his withdrawal from her 
presence so that he could work. Normally her 
presence was soothing, actually reassured 
him enough to allow him to relax the bonds 
of his conscious mind more confidently than 
without her. Except now, her nerves kept 
screaming at him that something was wrong, 
that someone was coming...and he kept 
looking for phantom enemies. Her body 
language screamed hyperawareness of danger 
and as long as he could feel that, nothing 
else could hold his attention. The further 
she was from him physically while still in 
his prescence, the worse it got.

She had sworn that she would tell him if it 
got too bad. He glared at the blue smudges 
under her eyes suspiciously. Was she getting 
any sleep at all? His hand grabbed her wrist 
as she placed the paper on his desk and he 
managed to keep his voice soft enough that 
his words went no further than her ears.

"Nightmares, Scully?"

Her eyes widened, startled. Then 
surprisingly she blushed. Her reply was 
little more than a mumble.

"No. Just a bit of trouble falling asleep."

Mulder watched fascinated as the tips of her 
ears flushed purple. That was an interesting 
reaction. He had figured out rather quickly 
that her anxiety level skyrocketed the 
minute he was out of her sight. He was 
fairly certain that most of it was a 
paranoid conviction that a piano was going 
to flatten him the minute she was no longer 
there to protect him. Hell, she was spending 
more time lately eyeing the people around 
them than the most security conscious Secret 
Service agent. 

But despite several hints and one blatantly 
direct suggestion, she had steadfastly 
refused to come over to his apartment. 
Scully saw only a clingy desire to attach 
herself like a barnacle and she was fighting 
herself with every inch of her considerable 
willpower. Not that he would have minded. In 
spite of her jangly nerves, as long as he 
was not profiling, Scully could be as 
barnacle-like as she wished. 

Then maybe she would stop stealing his 
clothes.

He could not help the sudden grin that 
quirked his lips. Self-preservation 
instincts kept his head ducked but the grin 
got wider. It really was cute. He was not 
certain, though,  just how long he could 
realistically pretend to be oblivious to the 
fact that his sweatshirts were accidentally 
making their way into her gymbag. Not that 
it bothered him. If it made her feel better 
she could take everything he owned and turn 
it into a life sized Mulder-bear. Of course, 
if she wanted the original model...

He yanked his attention back to his partner 
and found her staring down at him 
quizzically. Ah crap. She was standing too 
close for the thoughts winging through his 
head. On the upside, her nerves had stopped 
jangling. Now if only he could do something 
about his.

"Am I sending flowers to Accounting, 
Scully?"

She peered at his eyes carefully, then 
grinned fleetingly. She knew darn well he 
was only processing half of what she was 
saying. Luckily she was blaming it on the 
profile.

"According to our statements you ordered a 
bouquet of flowers-very nice red ones 
according to the price tag- about four weeks 
ago. The attached invoice says that they 
were delivered to one Leyla Harrison in 
Accounting. Here's the odd part. There's an 
attached money order along with a note that 
this was a personal purchase but that you 
would prefer to pay directly rather than 
have the amount deducted from your 
paycheck."

Mulder felt his eyebrows climbing into his 
hairline." I'd think I was being set up for 
something, but that seems a rather odd way 
to do it, don't you think?"

His muscles tensed but he was not completely 
sure if it was his own tension, or a 
reaction to hers. He had his hand reaching 
for the phone when he caught sight of 
Harris's dismayed expression. The young 
agent's eyes were fixed on the statement 
Mulder was now holding in his hand. The 
older agent's eyes narrowed.

"Agent Harris. Perhaps you can shed a little 
light on this situation."

Harris glanced once at the open door, then 
his shoulders slumped and he obediently 
responded to Mulder's crooked finger. He did 
not even bother to pretend he did not know 
what they were referring to.

"It was a clue. For Leyla. In case she 
wasn't able to figure out who the flowers 
were from on her own. Red flowers, Red Wind 
Flowershop--red hair, red fox."

Mulder had the brief thought that if his 
expression was as confused as his partner's, 
they were in trouble.

"You were so upset when you thought it was a 
computer program that I didn't know how you 
would react when you found out that she had 
gone after most of the data on her own. I 
mean, technically, she's not supposed to 
have access to some of it. And she didn't 
want you to know it was her-so if I told you 
and you said something to her she would have 
been so embarrassed but she deserved a 
thank-you. Do you have any idea how much 
time it must have taken her?"

Mulder was putting the words "computer 
program" and "accounting" together. He 
abruptly recalled Harris delivering a stack 
of forms for them to sign their second day 
back. They had been involved in an argument 
about something and he had redirected his 
anger about--what had he been angry about? 
Oh well. In any case, he had spent five 
minutes having a minor temper tantrum about 
how available their information was to 
anyone with a computer. Scully had gotten 
the reference to the Lone Gunmen, but Harris 
would not have known that. He glanced at 
Scully to find that she had pretty much come 
to the same conclusion he had.

"I think we owe her more than flowers, 
Mulder. "

Mulder was about to agree when his mind 
clicked in on the word "clue". He stared at 
Harris suspiciously, aware that the others 
in the room had ceased what they were doing 
and were watching with interest. He 
considered taking this into another room, 
but since he had the feeling he would not be 
taking a huge strip off the younger agent's 
hide he decided to let it go. He could 
discuss the appropriate uses of other 
people's credit cards at another time.

"I have a feeling that may have been taken 
care of. Agent Harris?"

The agent squirmed for a moment, then 
sighed. " I gave her an X-file to solve."

"What!"

Harris looked up at Scully's outburst, then 
realized what he had said, "No.No. Not a 
real one. I invented one. She's the one who 
handles our paperwork--and she takes a lot 
of crap over it too--so she knows a lot 
about vampires and werewolves and stuff. I 
left a clue with the flowershop and more 
around Washington."

Scully's expression faded into something 
that Mulder found suspiciously bland, "You 
sent her running all over DC looking for 
clues?"

Harris looked at her uncertainly, "Well, 
each clue had a small prize. Books, 
chocolates. Stuff like that." He brightened, 
"I found this really neat alien stuffed toy 
at Toy-R-Us. She liked that one. It's on her 
desk."

Mathews was staring at Harris with an odd 
look on his face that Mulder recognized 
immediately. Mulder himself was more 
interested in the reactions of the women in 
the room. He leaned back and studied Harris 
curiously. How long had it taken him to plan 
this?

"What made you decide on this Scavenger Hunt 
idea?"

Harris shrugged, "It wasn't hard. She's got 
it bad for you two. Well, all of us in 
general, but she really admires you and 
Scully. And her desk is in the back."

Mike sighed and Mulder closed his eyes 
briefly and counted to twenty slowly. 

"Her desk?"

Harris nodded enthusiastically, "You just 
know she gets overlooked half the time-
especially doing our paperwork. So I got a 
flower arrangement big enough to be seen 
from around the room, but she doesn't have 
to tell anyone who it's from if she doesn't 
want to. She can be as mysterious as she 
wants. And she gets to solve her own x-file 
and she gets to know that you appreciated 
all her hard work without actually having to 
meet you face to face."

Mike's voice casual," And you picked these 
prizes based on clues from her desk?"

Harris nodded.

Mulder kept his own voice casual, "Did she 
like them?"

Harris shrugged, "I think so. I saw her 
reading the book the other day and she 
seemed to like it. And she wore the scarf 
and I saw her transferring her keys to the 
silver bullet keychain last week."

Mike was mumbling under his breath then he 
turned his head and barked, "Landers. 
Feminine vote. Scale of 1 to 10."

Elizabeth looked startled, then narrowed her 
eyes on Harris contemplatively. She looked 
back at Mike and shrugged, "I'd do him."

Mike glanced around the room and three more 
female hands shot into the air. Mike snorted 
and looked at Mulder, "Should we be taking 
notes?"

Harris was staring around in wide-eyed 
horror, "That's not why I did it."

Mulder ignored the protest," You were turned 
down twice for agent training weren't you?"

Harris flushed, then looked away. Mulder 
winced as he recognized how that had come 
out, but his mind was busy focusing on 
another issue. He met Mathews frustrated 
gaze and shrugged, "Biscuits for brains."

Mathews smile was ironic. Then he leaned 
forward and hauled Harris out of the chair. 
"Come on, kid. I've got some work for you to 
do."

Harris resisted and looked back at Mulder 
with trepidation. "What...what happens now?"

Mulder suddenly realized that the younger 
agent was slowly tracing the shape of his ID 
through the fabric of his jacket. He almost 
sighed. As if they were going to let him go 
after this.

"No good deed goes unpunished, Harris." Then 
he bared his teeth at the kid in a feral 
grin. He watched as Agent Harris trailed 
along after Mathews, figurative tail 
dragging in the mud.

Turned down twice? Jesus. Morons. 

"Could you pick a book for me that I would 
enjoy just from the clues on my desk, 
Mulder?"

He looked up to find his partner staring 
after Mathews and Harris, a contemplative 
look on her face.

"Biscuits for brains, Scully. Biscuits for 
brains."

******************************************
Harris followed Mathews, sunk into a 
miserable contemplation of his sins. It was 
only when someone cursed as they nearly 
stepped on him that he looked up to discover 
that they had entered ISU territory. What?

He had been expecting anything from a trip 
to the SACs and a formal reprimand to being 
handed over to Security and escorted from 
the base. Damn it. He knew better than to 
use Agent Mulder's credit card number even 
if he did pay for the charge. But it had 
been the only way to point the finger back 
to Mulder and Scully if she could not solve 
the last clue. It had seemed harmless at the 
time. He was the one handling the paperwork 
after all. He had just been so caught up in 
his plan that he had not *thought*.

That not thinking could be enough to cost 
him his badge.

He was fingering the precious piece of 
leather and tin when Mathews suddenly 
grunted and thrust several heavy books into 
his hands. He juggled them briefly, then 
stared at the agent blankly. Mathews laid a 
restraining hand on the cover of the book on 
top. 

"Rule one: Have more than coffee in your 
stomach when you read these. It hurts less 
when it comes back up. Rule two: If you have 
a significant other, sleep on the sofa for 
the next few weeks. It'll be less painful 
for everyone. Rule three: No alcohol. None. 
Nada. Zip. Got it?

Harris found that he could barely breathe. 
Surely this was not what he thought it was. 
He glanced down to read the title of the top 
book. Introduction to Criminal Profiling. 
Shit. These were textbooks. He stared at the 
older agent in mute astonishment. Mathews 
just looked back grimly.

"There's one more."

Harris waited.

"Don't puke on the books."

********************************************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Day 31

The figures on the monitor were etched in 
shadows and highlights. The gray tones were 
surprisingly effective in capturing 
individual emotion. AD Skinner would not 
normally have been authorized to watch these 
sessions. Particularly not when two of his 
direct subordinates were participating. But 
the FBI was at a loss as to what to do about 
the two resurrected agents and this 
experimental program had been Skinner's 
idea.

Officially it was a multi-departmental 
resource. Skinner had been shocked when he 
went looking and found more than one 
government agency wrestling with similar 
problems. Agents, officers, and soldiers all 
suffering from some form of work related 
PTSD as a result of survival in atypical and 
borderline situations. All unable to find 
the treatment they needed from traditional 
sources-partly because the therapists found 
it difficult if not impossible to relate to 
the patients. 

All valued by employers willing to spend 
money to get them back on beam.

While the various agencies might not suspect 
the FBI of hidden agendas, however, AD 
Skinner and the senior management knew the 
truth. This program had one mandate and one 
mandate only--get Spooky Mulder and Doc Ice 
back in the saddle and do it right damn 
quick. 

The Navy was getting impatient.

The media were getting persnickety.

The people of San Diego were getting dead.

Unfortunately, what had seemed like a 
brilliant idea at the time looked like it 
was about to explode in everyone's faces. 
After three sessions of watching the agents 
sit in oddly synchronous silence, the other 
inmates were getting restless. If he had not 
been a witness to all the previous sessions, 
he might have assumed that the agents had 
worked their usual magic. However, in this 
case, all they had been was honest.

Or at least as honest as they were prepared 
to be.

Skinner had learned through painful 
experience that there was a fine line 
between what they believed and what they 
were willing to admit. He could also 
understand that there was no one in that 
room more convinced that everything they 
said could someday come back to haunt them. 
Skinner was even prepared to admit they were 
right. So he had been half expecting 
sideways answers to pointed questions 
regarding certain aspects of their personal 
lives. 

He snorted.

They had surprised him again. When the 
subject came up, they were brutally honest 
in regards to any aspect that impacted 
directly on how they had functioned in the 
field. Which was not to say that they had 
not made the therapist's life hell on earth. 
He had seemed like a good choice at the 
time. Experience up the wazoo. 
Unfortunately, he kept trying to couch his 
questions to the female participants so 
inoffensively that Skinner could almost see 
him trying to avoid harassment charges.

Maybe he was being too hard on the man. 

But pussyfooting around Mulder and Scully 
just pissed them off. Skinner could see the 
minute Mulder stopped playing nice. Scully 
sat through five minutes of psychiatric 
doublespeak and Mulder's baffled "I don't 
know what you mean" and " Could you be more 
explicit" before she finally cracked.

"Sex. Mulder. He wants to know about sex. 
Ours. As in our sex lives."

Skinner almost blew his coffee out his nose.

Hazel eyes widened in seeming astonishment, 
but Skinner almost groaned as he recognized 
that evil gleam. 

"Sex lives? We have sex lives?"

Blue eyes narrowed, "You don't?'

"You do?"

Two sets of FBI eyes gaped  at each other 
and then mouths rounded in a soft "Ohhh" of 
discovery.

Then they turned wide eyes back to the 
annoyed therapist.

Skinner just closed his eyes and counted to 
twenty. 

The SEAL sitting in the farthest corner of 
the room surprised everyone by snickering. 
Of all of them, Commander Todd Barrett was 
the most damaged. The physical harm was 
minimal, limited to the loss of the last two 
fingers of his left hand and several healing 
scars hidden under his clothes. But the 
shadows in his eyes tended to have people 
stepping lightly around him and he had so 
far failed to respond to much of anything or 
anyone around him. 

The rest of the group caught the humor if 
not the warning. Most of them chuckled, 
certain that this exchange gave them enough 
information to pigeon-hole the agents. 
Skinner could have warned them, but it was 
too late. Through some form of group osmosis 
the entire room seemed to have decided that 
the agents were ducking the issues the rest 
of them were trying to get past.

The police officer from the NYPD asked 
Scully how she felt about Samuel Corman. 
Skinner winced as he anticipated a biting 
reply along the lines of "no worse than my 
male partner." but apparently she considered 
it a legitimate question. Her shrug was easy 
and her "Nothing, really." held no hidden 
meanings. 

The group, led by the therapist persisted. 
Skinner found that years as her superior 
actually gave him the ability to translate 
the thoughts passing across her face with 
each question. Either that or Scully had 
stopped playing nice, too. 

"No nightmares?"

<For a pissant like Corman?>

"No."

"No regrets about killing him?"

<You're  joking, right?>

"None."

"How did the attack change the way you view 
the world around you?"

<I'm an FBI agent you moron. What world are 
you living in?>

"It didn't."

"What about what you did to the body?"

<?>

"I don't understand the question."

" You said you sliced him open and left him 
for bait."

<?>

"I still don't understand the question."

"Do you feel badly about that?"

<No.>

"No."

"You're sure?"

<I just said so , you idiot.>

Mulder piped up from the sideline, "It was 
that or eat him."

This time, Commander Barrett laughed as half 
the room turned various shades of green. 
Then he shrugged at the agents as if to say, 
"They asked." 

Mulder smiled a particularly profiler kind 
of smile.

The questioners regrouped and tried a 
flanking maneuver. 

"How do you feel about the kidnapping 
itself?

"We're alive. He's not. Mulder didn't get 
hospitalized. "

"Gee, thanks Scully."

<smirk>

Skinner watched the whole show with a 
growing sense of puzzlement. The answers 
were glib, easy and tinged with dark humor. 
In short, they were everything he expected 
from them under normal circumstances.  Was 
it possible that the psychiatrists were 
reading too much into the situation? Seeing 
problems that would clear up if they were 
left alone? These two agents had been forced 
to rely on each other far more than the 
average field agent. Realistically, how 
dangerous did they consider a jaunt in the 
woods when compared to mutants and killer 
bugs? Skinner was just about to follow that 
line of reasoning further when the tone of 
the entire session changed. 

Susan Carver was Search and Rescue. Natural 
disaster specialist. Or at least, she used 
to be. Before a lunatic with a gun held her 
and her team hostage for three days digging 
his dead family out of a shattered building 
in a broken city somewhere south of the 
equator. The aftershocks eventually brought 
the building down and when the rescue teams 
finally reached them, she and the kidnapper 
were the only survivors.

She was defensive, she was belligerent...and 
she was glaring angrily at Scully.

"Why the hell are you here? "she suddenly 
demanded." I don't mean what 
reason...obviously you're as fucked up as 
the rest of us if you're in this group. I 
want to know why you personally even bother 
to show up if you can't even give the rest 
of us enough respect to answer honestly."

Hazel eyes darkened, but Mulder simply 
tightened his jaw and waited for his 
partner's response. Scully glanced at him 
once, then studied the bellicose woman 
across the room. Her voice, when she finally 
answered was quiet.

"What is it that you want to hear? That I 
wake up screaming with Corman's face in my 
mind? I don't. That I regret killing him? I 
don't. That the last few months have been a 
nightmare? I can't tell you that either. We 
were not actually in that much danger 
relatively speaking. I'm a field agent, 
Susan. None of this was...unusual for us. We 
had our guns and we had each other. That's 
every other day for us. I've had my 
nightmares over the years...just not about 
this."

Susan sneered, "Well aren't you special."

The therapist stirred uneasily, "Susan..."

She turned on him, "No!" she whirled back to 
the two silent agents, "I know about you. 
Out saving the world from ghosts and 
phantasms. Well, Ms. Field Agent, while you 
were out chasing imaginary problems, the 
rest of us were risking our lives trying to 
accomplish some real work. How dare you sit 
there and pretend to be better then us. How 
dare you!" 

She glared at them, the rest of the room 
frozen in morbid fascination and some 
measure of agreement. Skinner saw the exact 
moment both agents wrote the group off and 
he cursed the therapist. He should be 
yanking that thumb out of his ass and doing 
something. Even if they were dodging issues, 
this kind of personal attack was hardly 
likely to encourage sharing. Neither Mulder 
nor Scully made any effort to defend 
themselves. Skinner suspected that Scully's 
last comments had primarily been an attempt 
to reach Susan and reassure her that she 
should not be comparing herself and judging 
herself inadequate. 

Susan did not want to hear that. She just 
wanted everyone around her to be as screwed 
up as she was.  Skinner would have forgiven 
the woman a lot of things because of who she 
had been. But not this attempt to take his 
agents down with her. The saddest thing was 
that she probably believed the motives she 
was using to justify her anger. Worse, the 
others in the room believed her. 

Envy, he thought suddenly, wore an ugly 
face. 

Susan jumped back in the fray, "I guess I 
shouldn't be surprised. You can't even be 
honest with yourselves and each other so why 
should you be any different with us. You 
know...you keep saying that you are not 
lovers. Well guess what? I believe you. And 
how fucked up is that? We heard all about 
your little jaunt to Antarctica. It's a 
favorite topic of conversation around here, 
did you know that? Apparently, everyone in 
the friggin FBI figured out years ago what 
you two can't even admit to each other.  
Well...I guess a trip to the end of the 
world sort of makes a statement don't you?"

Both of his agents had gone completely still 
as the woman's tirade continued. 
Unfortunately, she was taking their lack of 
response as lack of defense. Christ, she 
actually thought she was scoring points. 
Skinner took another look at Mulder and 
sucked in his breath. There had always been 
a certain amount of pain in Mulder's eyes 
whenever the subject came up. And it always 
did. 

The water cooler crowd thought it was 
romantic.

But Scully never mentioned it and Skinner 
had always assumed that the lingering pain 
in Mulder's eyes was guilt. The emotion he 
was seeing now was a complex mixture of 
frustration and sad denial. And pain. 
Skinner hissed softly as he gained an 
inkling of the truth for the first time. 
Everyone assumed that he had done it for 
love. 

It looked like they were wrong.

Was that what had Mulder so tied up in 
knots? Was the constant joking, the constant 
assumption of motive just a brutal reminder 
of something that he was incapable of 
giving? Or was it a reminder of something 
she did not want? Of a choice she had 
already rejected.

Then Mulder did the worst thing he could 
have done at that point.

He flinched.  

Skinner barely saw her move as, in one lithe 
rush, she was on her feet. The rest of the 
group regarded the two FBI agents with 
various degrees of condescension toward  two 
blind idiots who of course had no clue what 
was so obvious to everyone else. Commander 
Barrett was suddenly sitting very very 
still. 

How very repulsive that arrogant assumption 
of another's inner feelings was revealed to 
be when seen in stark black and white. Ugly. 
Cruel. A flock of schoolyard bullies 
stabbing and scraping with bloody-edged 
seashells as they sought to reveal what his 
agents might have good reason to hide. 
Skinner's fists clenched helplessly. Damn 
it. He had done this. Put them in this 
situation. Left them vulnerable to attack. 
How many blows had they taken over the 
years? By colleagues? By friends and family? 
All desperate to stuff the square pair back 
into a nice recognizable round hole.

How much did their partnership really cost 
them?

On the screen, Scully's arm deliberately 
swept out and Skinner heard the sound of 
glass shattering as one of the water glasses 
exploded high against the far wall, 
showering the group into stunned silence. 
Her voice was edged with liquid ice and she 
put more rage into that controlled contempt 
than Skinner had ever seen  in someone 
legally carrying a loaded weapon.

"I am so *sick* and *tired* of this petty 
need to break down something you don't 
understand into something you can forgive."

Skinner flinched as the rage flared higher. 
Oh Jesus. He abruptly recalled her nickname 
and  had the wildly inappropriately desire 
to laugh. The Ice Queen. Jesus. They thought 
they were being cute. Mocking her control. 
But god, had anyone thought to remember 
avalanches and the titanic sheets of ice 
that had chiseled and gouged the face of god 
damn planet?

Inexorable.

Unstoppable.

Aspects of winter in all her elemental and 
untamed power. 

Skinner felt his balls trying to crawl back 
inside his body in a purely instinctive 
reaction to unadulterated feminine rage. He 
wondered vaguely about Mulder's reaction as 
Scully whirled to face him. Then he wondered 
if this was something new or if this was how 
she treated any enemy she was not obliged to 
present with a professional front. 

"Don't you dare listen to them, Mulder. None 
of *them*..." her backhanded gesture was 
eloquent in it's contempt,"...would have 
gone. Not on a maybe. Not on a possibility. 
Not in a million years. But love makes their 
cowardice something that they can forgive 
themselves. Love gives them an excuse. Love 
makes weak men strong, heroes of the meek 
and demands the impossible. " her voice, 
which had held nothing but bitter mockery 
for the last senetence abruptly changed in 
pitch to conviction. " You would have gone 
for anyone. Not only for me.  Anyone. Just 
because it was there. 

I would  have gone for you -- you went 
because you believe in the impossible."

For one tiny moment, Skinner thought it was 
an accusation. Then her smile shifted 
momentarily into a brilliance that held 
equal measures of respect and admiration and 
exasperation and angry pride.  

"You don't need love to make you a hero, 
Mulder. I  will NOT let them take that away 
from you."

Time seemed to split, pause and then bloom 
with understanding. It was suddenly there, 
just out of his reach. He could almost see 
it. Just beyond his grasp. The "how" of  the 
way these two defined the word partner. The 
definitions of themselves as they drew 
themselves within that role. There was a 
sudden aching sense of shame---and then 
loss-- for the fact that he had truly not 
comprehended how they could be so close and 
yet had taken so long to cross that line. 
Assuming that they even had. He could have 
wept for the fact that he had never 
understood for the simple reason that he had 
found one love, but never the other. Not 
even in the jungles of Vietnam. He abruptly 
realized just how badly he wanted it; what 
they had. How much he would  sacrifice to 
get it.

Why Mulder had almost put a gun to his head 
when he lost it.

The therapist gaped unattractively as he 
tried to find the words and the voice to 
regain control of the situation. Of the 
shell-shocked group, the SEAL stared at 
Scully with a hunger that had nothing to do 
with gender and every to do with the loss 
and darkness that held his mind trapped half 
a world away. And Mulder...Mulder probably 
could not have moved if his life depended on 
it.

Except that the minute she turned to leave, 
he was right beside her.

Commander Barrett just started to laugh as 
the group shook itself into offended 
coherence and instantly tried to rewrite 
their understanding of what had just 
occurred.   Happy ignorance chosen over 
painful truth. What they could never have, 
they would deny.

"Idiots." was all he said. 

Skinner had no doubts who he meant.

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

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Day 36

Mulder considered the very likely 
possibility that it was about to start 
snowing in Hell. Barometer falling and 
definitely getting breezy. That was the only 
logical and rational theory he could come up 
with. Even Scully would have to admit to 
this one.

There was a brief click on the line as the 
switchboard put the call through. He took a 
quick breath and wondered if he was jumping 
to conclusions. Scully had two brothers. The 
only problem with that theory, was that 
there was no for Charlie to be calling him 
either.

His voice was calm as he answered the line. 
Professional. Polite. Absolutely nothing to 
indicate that he thought that this was in 
any way unusual. No point in being the one 
to fire the first shot, he thought morbidly. 
He was the one within chomping distance of 
the person least likely to be amused by 
territorial displays.

“Mulder."

The hesitation on the other end was brief. 
“Mr. Mulder. It’s Bill Scully.”

So far, so good. ."Good afternoon, Commander 
Scully. What can I do for you? "

From the corner of his eye, Mulder saw 
Harris's head jerk as he recognized the 
surname. Because Mulder and Scully had 
needed to be back in DC for the group 
therapy sessions, Skinner had reluctantly 
let them back into the Hoover Building and 
the X-Files team had spent the morning 
moving the MethBomber casefiles back into 
the basement.  He ignored the covertly 
listening agent. The pause on the other end 
of the phone was noticeable and Mulder had a 
sudden brief vision of both of them 
carefully weighing words and tones for 
hidden messages and verbal mine fields. 

“I was hoping I could speak with Dana.”

Mulder looked blankly at the phone and 
blinked. The operator had clearly indicated 
that Scully’s brother had requested to speak 
to him after being told his sister was 
unavailable.  Did Bill think Mulder was 
hiding her under his desk?

“She’s in the middle of an autopsy right 
now."

She was overseeing the autopsy of one of the 
MethBomber's latest victims as a matter of 
fact. 

"Can I take a message?”

“No, no. That’s okay.”

Mulder sat through another awkward pause. He 
was just about to ask again if there was 
something he could do when Bill sighed 
explosively, then continued in an even tone. 

“About three weeks ago I was appointed as a 
Navy liaison to the Joint Task Force.” He 
did not bother to say which one. It was 
possible that Bill did not know that there 
was more than one. On the other hand, anyone 
in the VCU would have known what he was 
talking about. 

Fire, Mulder thought belligerently. What the 
hell was it about fire? He and Scully are 
not back a week and they are tossed into one 
serial arson investigation. Mulder had a 
sneaky suspicion they were about to become 
involved with two.

Fully involved.

The play on words was not even vaguely 
funny. 

Mulder wondered if Scully knew that her 
brother was working an FBI investigation. 
Violent Crimes no less. That thought led to 
another and he had to bite back a curse as 
he recalled several searching looks and 
obscure references to San Diego made by a 
certain AD over the past few days. Mulder 
had assumed he was referring to the current 
case. In  light of this phone call, he was 
rapidly reassessing that conclusion. 

"I'm the one who suggested that you be 
brought into the case."

Mulder was beginning to feel like he should 
be looking around for a little white rabbit. 
Bill obviously did not know that they had 
not been told about the case yet. But that 
explained the looks. Heck, it explained why 
Bill was now part of the Task Force. Nothing 
like family connections to get yourself 
volunteered for duty.

Shit. 

"The thing is...I think I may have a 
problem."

Mulder froze.

"Do...how often do the killers come after 
the investigators?"

Oh…crap.

Bill’s words had been soft. Reluctant. 
Mulder would have spent more time 
appreciating that fact if he had not felt 
like he had just been broadsided by a bus. 
Harris gave him a curious look and he 
realized that his breathing had taken on a 
shallow rasping quality. That, and his mind 
was starting to jabber at him in absolute 
hysterical panic. 

A sharp pain drew Mulder’s eyes to his hand 
and he noted absently that that he was 
dripping blood across the folders on his 
desk. He loosened his fingers and watched as 
the two halves of his pencil fell from his 
grasp. 

“Mr. Mulder?”

“What?” 

He flinched at the stark sound of his own 
voice. Polite. He meant to be polite. Scully 
would kill him if he screwed this up just 
because he had not been expecting that 
question. Melodramatic. She told him that 
once. Mulder had a tendency towards 
melodrama. Just because Bill wanted some 
information did not mean anything.

He just had not been prepared for the 
question. He was jumping to conclusions. 

That was all.

Except, his mind informed him ruthlessly, 
Bill Scully does not engage in chit chat 
with you.

Ah hell. Please just let this be idle 
curiosity. Let it be nothing more than 
ghoulish interest. He could satisfy ghoulish 
interest. Not normally. Not unless he was 
really really pissed at someone. But he 
would make an exception. Hell, he would send 
him pictures. Just let this be nothing more 
than a search for information.

“You've dealt with this shit before. When 
you were with Violent Crimes, right?” The 
voice was persistent. Not that Mulder had 
any doubts that Bill had stubborn down pat. 
Go Navy. 

“VICAP. Yes. A long time ago.” 

Bill was silent of the other end of the 
line. 

“I... I...” Bill coughed slightly, his voice 
trailing off. Every instinct in Mulder’s 
body told him to say something to make this 
easier for him. Every Scully trained reflex 
said to keep his mouth shut. 

Mulder accessed the airline reservations 
system from his computer. Yes, just as he 
thought.  If he broke every land speed 
record between here and the airport after 
picking Scully up after her autopsy he could 
just get them to the gate on time to get the 
last flight of the day. They could be in San 
Diego by 10pm tonight. 

Bill finally managed to get the words 
squeezed out past clenched teeth. Mulder was 
surprised that he was not choking on them. 
Asking for help from Public Enemy Number 
One. Bill may have made a small breakthrough 
regarding the X-Files, but he still had a 
long way to go. Especially when it came to 
putting that knowledge into active practice. 

It probably did not help that up until six 
weeks ago, he had thought his sister was 
dead. 

“ I think that there’s been someone in the 
house.”

He recognized that tone. Scully used it 
every time she was voicing a hunch she darn 
well knew she did not have the scientific 
fact to back up. Angry embarrassment mixed 
with pugnacious obstinacy. Usually she could 
not decide if she wanted to stick out her 
jaw and dare him to take his best shot or 
glare his shoes into submission. 

He mentally thumbed through possible 
explanations. Theft by kids. Forgetfulness. 
A stalker. They would know more when they 
got there. They would be going. Scully would 
never forgive herself if she ignored her 
brother when he was actually asking for help 
from her in her FBI capacity and something 
horrible happened. So they were going. 

They would not even have to go AWOL this 
time.

“Some of our things have…gone missing. 
Personal things.”

“Lingerie?” 

Their overnight bags were already in the 
car. Ditto for their vests and Scully’s jump 
kit. What else? Extra weapons? No. Yes. 
Maybe one or two. They could pick up more 
from the San Diego armory if they needed 
them. 

“No…nothing like that.” Bill gave a short 
laugh that held an edge of hysteria,” You 
know what the real stupid thing is? I’d feel 
better if it was. It’s just stupid things. 
Some of them not even that personal…and I’d 
feel better if some nut was taking my wife’s 
underwear. Real sick huh?”

Mulder doubted the Scully family had a 
hysterical bone in their collective body; 
however, they had really good instincts. 

He should know.

“We’ll be on the plane tonight.”

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

Agent Harris sat for a long moment 
considering what he had overheard and what 
Mulder had not said. The agent had left a 
hurried message for his partner saying 
something about stopping at the gunmen's(?) 
, that he would pick her up after her 
autopsy and that they were going straight to 
the airport. Then he had hastily filled out 
a form that the younger agent had not been 
able to identify, shut down his computer, 
and rushed from the office.

He sat for nearly five minutes, weighing the 
possible repercussions of what he was about 
to do. Considered the possible reactions of 
his fellow agents. Landers was easy. She 
treated Mulder like the Commander of a Navy 
ship with Scully his nominal XO. She would 
do whatever she deemed necessary for the 
good of the unit. 

Lewis had been excrutiatingly quiet these 
last few weeks. She liked Mike and had been 
truly upset at the way everything had been 
handled. She had also taken some of the 
nastier comments directed their way over the 
past few weeks particularly hard. But Harris 
had seen her watching Scully when the older 
agent's attention was otherwise engaged. He 
rather suspected Lewis would take this 
desertion as a personal challenge to her 
competence and ability. In other words, she 
was going to want to prove herself useful 
and ram it down the agent's throat. 

Of all his fellow agents, he found Vickery 
the hardest to read. There was a layer of 
ever present anger just under her skin that 
scared the crap out of him. Not the fact of 
the anger itself, but the sense that what he 
could see was being fed by something deeper, 
darker. That the easy anger was nothing more 
than a safety valve for a solid core of rage 
he could just sense from the corners of his 
eyes. He sometimes thought it was his 
imagination - Mike did not seem to notice 
anything unusual. The profiler simply 
thought she was highly aggressive and 
extremely touchy. Still...

Oddly enough, considering her history, she 
seemed to have no problems taking orders 
from Mulder. Even more curious, of all the 
X-Files agents, she seemed the most 
completely at ease with treating both Mulder 
and Scully as one decision making unit. Even 
Landers was thrown occasionally by the way 
the two seemed to shift dynamics between 
them. Not only did Vickery not find this 
confusing, she seemed personally comfortable 
with both agents in a way that Harris had 
been unable to define. In a total 
contradiction to her normally aggressive 
behavior with other agents, particularly 
women, she deferred to both Scully and 
Mulder on some subtle level he had yet to 
identify. Partly it was body language. She 
tended to crowd people, constantly testing 
the personal limits of their defined spaces 
depending on her mood and purpose. Harris 
had watched mesmerized one afternoon as she 
had gotten totally involved in an ongoing 
argument and had unconsciously crowded into 
Mulder's space in an attempt to press her 
point.

It was nothing he had not seen her do a 
hundred times in the months he had worked 
with her. What fascinated him was what 
happened after Scully, halfway across the 
room , had stiffened slightly and half 
turned in instinctive reaction. Harris was 
fairly certain the red-haired agent was not 
even aware of the number of times she 
twitched to possible threat like this on a 
daily basis.  The first person who seriously 
threatened her partner when Scully was in 
the same room was going to get an extremely 
unpleasant surprise. 

The minute Scully tensed, however, Vickery 
backed off. Without question. Instantly. 
Without even pausing in her argument she had 
immediately increased her distance from 
Mulder until the other woman relaxed. Harris 
was positive that if asked, none of the 
three would have had a clue what he was 
talking about. He figured there was a chance 
Agent Vickery would feel so betrayed by the 
agents' abandonment that she would just tell 
him to go to hell. On the other hand, past 
history suggested that she would want to 
pass that opinion along. Personally.

Which just left Mike.

Harris mulled that one over for several 
minutes. He had the definite impression that 
Mike had issues about Mulder. Maybe it was 
just something left over from Mulder's time 
with the VCU. He had not been able to learn 
anything concrete. Just a few overheard 
comments by other profilers. A certain tone 
of voice when they called him "Spooky".  

Something in their eyes. 

Whatever the history, Harris was fairly 
certain that Mike was becoming more and more 
uncomfortable with the attitude directed 
towards their own investigation. Harris 
himself found he was constantly biting back 
urges to leapt to either Mulder's or the 
division's defense. Hell, Mulder had not 
said much of anything at the daily meetings 
and they were still pissed at him. Harris 
had felt as though he were careening with 
terrifying speed toward an inevitable 
confrontation and he wondered about Mike's 
silence at the last ISU briefing.

Maybe he was not the only one feeling like 
sides were about to be chosen.

It did not really matter. Agent Bradley 
Harris had already made his decision. He had 
made it the day AD Skinner offered him a 
choice between respect and a lab or truth 
and a badge. This just made it official. 
With a firm nod, Harris picked up the phone 
as he started to call up his web browser. 
The phone on the other end was picked up on 
the second ring and he coughed once to clear 
his throat.

"Uh...hello, Leyla? Agent Harris from the X-
Files. Remember me? I was wondering if you 
could help me out..."

*******************************************
FBI Headquarters
Day 37
0800

Skinner was feeling decidedly off balance by 
the time he made it to his office. The looks 
of curiosity that started with the security 
guard in the parking garage had graduated to 
hopeful anticipation in the hallways 
controlled by the VCU and morphed into sheer 
terror by the time he passed Accounting. 

"Kimberly, would you have any idea why 
Accounting looks like I'm about to declare a 
building wide audit and three department 
heads asked me whether we're conducting in-
house field readiness exercises?"

"That would be Agent Mulder, sir."

Ahhh.  

"I'm going to need coffee for this one 
aren't I?"

"Probably, Sir. Agent Mulder came flying in 
here, said something about going TDY with 
the Navy and left. Oh, he left some forms on 
your desk, Sir."

Well, hell.

Mulder had managed to ditch the team. 
Officially and on the Navy's dime no less. 
Shit. He waited for Kimberly to finished the 
story, but surprisingly she just handed him 
a security videotape.

The first few minutes were fairly 
straightforward. Not badly edited either. 
Someone had a secret yearning for Hollywood. 
The story was actually pretty tame. See Fox 
Mulder race into his AD's office carrying 
papers. See Mulder race back out. See Agent 
Mulder leap into his Bureau car. See Agent 
Scully leap into the Bureau car. See Agents 
Mulder and Scully tear out of the parking 
garage with Mulder at the wheel and Scully 
talking rapid fire into her cell phone. Fade 
to black.

So Mulder *and* Scully had managed to ditch 
the team.

Not exactly what he had been prepared to 
see. No guns, no explosions. No mutants or 
one-armed assassins. So what the hell was 
the problem? He was about to click off the 
tape when the screen suddenly flared back to 
life. Skinner frowned in confusion at the 
sight of his own empty office. He watched as 
the door opened surreptitiously and Skinner 
was floored to see Agent Harris sneaking 
inside followed by a blond woman the AD did 
not recognize. For a split second he was 
left wondering if this was some Consortium 
plot as both Harris and the unidentified 
female quickly searched Skinner's desk. 

He had his finger on the button to call 
Security and have the little shit arrested 
when the woman suddenly motioned success. 
Instantly she pulled a small tree's worth of 
paperwork from inside her jacket and Skinner 
watched perplexed as the two spies quickly 
transferred information from one paper to 
the next. Then the woman hastily signed her 
name in a double dozen places and the two 
neatly stacked everything in Skinner's In 
box.

His eyes went to the box. Still there.

Confused, he let his hand fall away from the 
phone and watched as the camera cut to 
Harris walking down the hallway, cell phone 
attached to his ear. At this point, whoever 
edited the footage had gotten creative. 
There was no sound, but it really was not 
necessary. The screen split, suddenly 
showing Agent Mathews answering his cell. 
Skinner was able to follow the progression 
of events in cell phones answered and split 
screens flaring to life. Harris called 
Mathews, Mathews called Landers. Landers 
called Vickery and Lewis. Then the action 
exploded in a series of rapid images. 

Vickery raced into the armory and slammed 
her ID down. Lewis staggered up from the 
basement carrying five overnight bags. 
Mathews hurriedly dumped the entire X-Files 
command center for the MethBomber case back 
into travel boxes while Harris slapped on 
FedEx labels. The unknown woman from the 
Office Caper appeared to be entering the 
label numbers into a laptop while 
simultaneously talking on her cell phone. 

Skinner had a sudden image of a thousand FBI 
worker ants exploding into action.

The screen cut back to Vickery stuffing five 
black duffel bags with vests, weapons, ammo 
and -- sleeping bags? What the hell...? 
Lewis was filling out paperwork under the 
eagle eye of the Officer of the Day while 
two agents Skinner did not recognize loaded 
overnight bags into a Bureau car. Vickery 
thundered into the parking garage pushing a 
wheeled cart containing all five duffels and 
while the helpful agents hastily loaded 
these too into the car, Vickery grabbed the 
keys. She waited just long enough for Lewis 
to snap airline tags onto the duffels, slam 
the trunk closed, and then her car was 
leaving tire tracks on the parking garage 
floor.

Mathews and Harris careened into the garage 
just as Landers dashed in carrying several 
large bags he recognized from the cafeteria. 
The X-Files Division then leapt into two 
cars the unknown agents had idling nearby. 
Skinner could only assume the agents had 
been co-opted as drivers and to bring the 
cars back. The last image on the screen 
froze and Skinner was interested to note 
that, according to the time stamps, their 
entire team had been off and away hours 
before Mulder and Scully even got out of the 
building. 

So...

Skinner leaned back in his chair and 
contemplated possibilities. If Mathews was 
smart, Mulder and Scully would have no idea 
who else would be joining them until they 
landed in San Diego. He started to grin. Too 
bad he had a meeting he could not miss here 
in DC. 

He would have given much to be that fly on 
the wall.

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

San Diego Airport
Arrivals Lounge
Day 36
2230 hours

San Diego was used to sailors. Despite a 
decade long shift in the economy that 
favored high tech and financial small to 
medium businesses, there was no getting 
around the fact that the city had been built 
by and for the military. Indeed, defense and 
space manufacturing remained one of the top 
four industries driving the economic growth 
of the region. A designated megaport, San 
Diego was the naval in-land management 
headquarters for the entire Southwest 
region, an area that hosted over 376,000 
active and retired naval military personal 
and family members. Nor was the Navy the 
only branch of the armed forces the city 
played home to. Over the years, the city had 
held 50 separate army, navy and airforce 
bases. It would, in fact, be difficult to 
locate any portion of the city that had not 
at one time been-or still was-under military 
jurisdiction.

It was a city used to seeing uniforms.

What it may not have known, was that 
Commander William (Bill) Scully was out of 
uniform, by being in uniform. He was, in 
fact, in direct violation of the General 
Uniform Regulations , article 1301.5 (d) for 
the simple reason that he had forgotten - 
actually honest to god forgotten - that he 
was wearing his uniform rather than civvies 
when he rushed out from the base to pick his 
sister up from the airport. Standing in the 
crowded commercial airport and staring at 
his reflection in the full length panes of 
glass separating the waiting area from the 
concourse he contemplated the state of mind 
that could blithely overturn the habits of a 
Naval family upbringing and twenty odd years 
of ingrained adherence and obedience to, 
Naval regulations.

If anyone saw him, he was screwed.

Well, no maybe not totally. It was possible 
that his obvious rank might simply cause 
anyone who saw him-anyone who knew enough to 
know that he should have been wearing 
civvies- to assume that he was here on 
official business. It was still 
inappropriate circumstance, but well…don't 
ask, don't tell and no one would know.

Except himself.

And Dana, he sighed.

The passengers were starting to stream 
through the gates and he was beginning to 
hope that he was going to be able to go home 
and forget that this had ever happened when 
he caught a glimpse of Service Dress Blues. 
Stepping temporarily into the shadow of a 
vending machine, he grimly considered the 
fact that if Dana didn’t show up soon, he 
was busted. 

There were way too many stripes on that 
uniform for his comfort.

A flash of red on black snagged his 
attention and he almost sighed with relief. 
There she was. It wasn’t until heads started 
turning that he realized that their black 
tailored suits and federal haircuts were as 
eye-catching as any military uniform. Their 
grim expressions and co-ordinated strides 
showed up in startling contrast to the 
chaotic family reunions and politely intense 
business greetings. With a sense of near 
inevitability, he could see what was going 
to happen even as he knew it was too late to 
do anything about it. 

Well, he thought fatalistically, no sense 
lurking along the wall like he had something 
to hide. Stepping into the stream of 
pedestrian traffic, he saw the exact moment 
Dana caught sight of him. A brief flash of 
delight, then concern, finally fading into 
confusion and worry as she absorbed his 
attire. He plastered a resigned expression 
on his face even as he shifted his gaze 
slightly and watched as the man who was 
about to catch him “in flagrante delecto” so 
to speak turned his head to look at Dana and 
her partner only to jerk upright as he 
caught sight of Commander Scully in all his 
uniformed glory.

It was a minor violation of regs, he told 
himself, even as another part of him 
screamed that it was these minor regulations 
which could determine whether or not he ever 
captained a nuclear class warship of the US 
Navy. There were after all, only so many 
boats to go around, and plenty of officers 
of the line bucking for the slots. What was 
that saying?

The devil was in the details.

He looked back to see that Dana had seen the 
same rank insignia he had, not to mention 
the curious frown and move in her brother’s 
direction. A brief flash of …something 
crossed her face, then the next thing he 
knew she was striding forcefully in his 
direction, wearing a grimly impersonal 
expression that he had never seen before. 
Surprised, he halted his hand halfway up to 
her shoulder and was even more surprised to 
feel her grasp it in a firm handshake even 
as she flashed official FBI credentials in 
his face.

“Commander? Thank-you so much for meeting us 
at the last minute like this. We have 
several things which we need to go over.”

Bill stared blankly at his sister, then 
turned his gaze towards her partner. Mulder 
was holding his own credentials up for 
approval, his face absolutely 
expressionless.

“My partner has the file.” 

If they weren’t almost the same height and 
if he hadn’t still been staring at Mulder as 
the man returned his ID to his pocket he 
would have missed the bewildered expression. 
It swept briefly over his eyes just before 
his face took on that patented federal non-
expression. Mulder reached into his 
briefcase and pulled out an official FBI 
stamped folder and handed it over. 

“Commander.” 

Mulder’s voice was dry as he gestured for 
Bill to follow his sister. She was halfway 
to the baggage claim before their longer 
legs caught up with her. Fully aware that 
she had probably just hauled his eggs out of 
the fire, Bill dutifully flipped through the 
file folder he had been given. He was so 
busy checking out of the corner of his eye 
to see if her ploy had worked, that it was 
several minutes before the gruesome nature 
of the file contents sunk in.

His eyes snapped up in shock and he was 
vaguely surprised to see Mulder watching 
him, an apology sitting on his face. “It was 
the only folder I had. ” he said sotto 
voice. , “Sorry” Then he turned away and 
moved next to Dana. It was, Bill realized, 
the very picture of two federal agents 
giving a military contact some private time 
to skim an incident file that was too time 
sensitive to wait until they got back to the 
office.

Both agents suddenly bent forward, each 
grabbing an overnight bag and a lumpy black 
duffel. He was reaching automatically for 
the heavier looking of Dana’s bags when she 
shot him a warning look. Unsure if it was 
part of the act or a genuine Dana reaction 
he hurriedly pulled his hand back and 
gestured for them to follow him to the car.

As they made their way through the crowds, 
Bill was annoyed to realize that he didn’t 
have a clue how to handle this. Despite his 
personal feelings toward his sister’s 
partner, he had forced himself to swallow 
both anger and pride to make that call. His 
mind flashed on the terror on Tara’s face 
when they had discovered this morning that 
one of Matthew’s favorite books was missing. 
A book that Tara swore up and down that she 
had read to him no more than three days ago 
and which always-ALWAYS- made its way back 
to the same place on the shelf. The only 
reason he hadn’t put his mother, his wife 
and his son on a plane for his brother-in-
law’s was the fact that he didn’t know if 
they would be any safer there.

He was beginning to fear that there was no 
place safe anymore.

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

If he did not know better, he would have 
assumed that his partner had just gone stark 
raving bonkers. Of course, he had seen more 
extreme versions of that phenomena, so maybe 
he should amend that. She had gone slightly 
off her nut. That was cool. He could handle 
that. But he kinda wanted to know why they 
were trooping through the San Diego airport 
looking like something out of a Tom Clancy 
novel. Between their SWAT black duffels and 
military escort, he could only assume that 
they were putting on a good show. Not to 
mention the fact that people seemed to 
notice when he and Scully went anywhere 
together. 

He had noticed it starting about four years 
ago. Well, actually it had started sooner 
than that, but four years ago was the first 
time he had clued in that sometimes it was 
not just the secretarial pool checking out 
his ass or the men in blue checking out his 
partner. It annoyed the hell out of the 
profiler in him. For the life of him, he 
could not figure out what it was that they 
were doing that was setting off warning 
bells. These were not the usual sideways “oh 
look, they are invading each other’s body 
space, are they lovers?” kind of looks.

He knew those looks. 

There were also the puppy dog looks of 
worship that Scully never seemed to see. She 
usually turned around just in time to catch 
the “brass-balls-man-hating Fed, is-she-a- 
lesbian?” look. Then there were the narrowed 
eyed looks of appraisal occasionally sent 
his way by the men in the crowd. Those were 
usually two pronged assessments that checked 
first for a wedding ring on Scully’s hand 
and secondly attempted to determine Mulder’s 
potential to be an obstacle. Said objective 
was usually to get the out-of-town Fed into 
bed. Scully generally missed those looks 
too. Not that she was not more than capable 
of shooting any of them down on her own, but 
he made a good obstacle.

Scully would do serious damage if she ever 
found out. She thought her abysmal social 
life was based on her tired eyes , the war-
zone her life had become and that fact that 
she carried a gun. Mulder flashed on an 
inner vision of a haunted Scully wearing 
black jeans, black turtleneck and a shoulder 
holster and almost sighed. Women had no clue 
about the male psyche sometimes. She would 
be more correct if she assumed it was 
because she was FBI. That had something to 
do with it. If the schmucks simply ignored 
the suit and pretended the agents were 
street cops, they might get further. 
Instead, they could not seem to see past the 
armor to the fact that these were actual 
front line cops they were facing and treat 
them accordingly. Respect for time in grade 
aside, they always seemed to forget that 
Mulder was her partner. 

So they acted like the fact that she let him 
stand too close and invade her personal 
space was solely a male competition issue. 
The real nail in her social coffin of 
course, was the way that she reacted to him. 
And he would let them rip his fingernails 
out before he ever told her what she was 
doing. 

Because then she might stop. 

Scully watched him. With a tiny furor 
between her eyes she watched him as he paced 
back and forth trying to wrap her head 
around wherever his mind was going. Then she 
touched him. His no-nonsense “keep your 
hands to yourself or I’ll break body parts” 
partner would seemingly reach out for no 
reason and touch him. Arm, shoulder, back or 
leg, it was not really important. It was 
just a reaction to emotional distress on his 
part-and all it meant was “It’s okay, I’m 
here”. But they were not watching him, they 
were watching her. All they thought to see 
was a woman who could not keep her hands off 
her partner.

Most cops were sensitive to body language so 
the eye contact should not have been as 
damaging as it appeared to be. It had 
finally started to sink in that something 
about the way they did it must twitch some 
nerve, because even veteran cops with long-
time partners kept looking at them like they 
were doing something odd.

An up close and personal look at a training 
session for the K-9 corps had given him part 
of the answer. The animals were totally 
focused on their handlers. No matter what 
they were doing, no matter who they were 
chasing, some part of their brain was 
constantly watching, constantly listening 
for any reaction from their handlers. Any 
shift in stance, any change in the pitch of 
voice caused a split second look to see if 
anything new had occurred.

They watched their handlers the same way 
Mulder watched Scully, and she watched him.

That was when it had clicked. These animals 
still had all the functioning instincts of 
their wild ancestors. Not that most 
domesticated animals did not retain some 
version thereof, but these animals had their 
situational awareness abilities trained to a 
fine edge and focused almost entirely on 
their partners-or in this cases, their 
handlers. They existed in a state of 
constant awareness of and communication with 
their counterparts. Even when they weren’t 
saying anything, they were saying something. 
They were saying ”all is well, I don’t see 
any danger.”. 

Applied to his partnership with Scully, it 
had been a disturbing thought on a very 
primitive level. A natural outgrowth of 
their experiences if one took the time to 
sit down and think about it. Nothing more 
than trained reflex. Animal awareness and 
pack instinct unexpectedly revised and 
revisited in a modern society that had 
generally abandoned those reflexes for other 
skills.

Understandable.

Inevitable.

Irrevocable.

This was the reason he could sleep through 
the night in her presence. Not just because 
he trusted her to keep him safe - although 
he did- but because he could trust himself 
to know if she sensed anything out of the 
ordinary. He was not leaving himself 
vulnerable or blind. He was simply letting 
go of his awareness of anything except her - 
and trusting her enough to see anything 
dangerous.

In a way, that scared the hell out of him.

He had always known that she was aware of 
him. That he was aware of her. In his more 
fanciful moments he had toyed with the 
thought that it was almost a psychic bond of 
some kind. If he had thought about it, he 
would have realized that it was exactly what 
it was, but he had not. Not really. The 
reality was more staggering than the 
fantasy.

And it was not love. 

When he had finally understood that fact, he 
had truly comprehended that the tiny world 
in which he had envisioned himself to be 
living was nothing more than a construct. A 
hollow lie he had used to comfort himself 
whenever he had drifted too close to the 
edge. Always , there had been the relatively 
secure hope that someday they might take 
this odd relationship of theirs to the next 
level. 

That someday, they might be normal.

In truth, for most of the last few years, he 
had thought it was just a matter of time.

Then he discovered that they existed in a 
universe where there were no defined levels 
and he was left with no way of judging if 
what they had was all that she wanted. 
Ultimately, the rules and the levels were 
all artificially created and ordained by 
society and they had already abandoned those 
traditional roles to create ones drawn 
loosely along lines from ages past. Roles 
and relationships forged in blood and 
dependence, in comradeship and battle. A 
form of love if one chose to look at it that 
way. But love as defined by older standards. 
Standards that modern society had forgotten 
how to measure and primitive society had 
never used when referring to male and 
female. Rule breakers and outsiders, he had 
thought ruefully, even in this. 

No wonder he was confused.

So they watched each other. Some part of 
each of their brains constantly on the alert 
for sight, smell, touch. Constantly taking 
subconscious sideways glances to evaluate 
body language and position. Constantly 
sending feedback in the form of a subtle 
“all is well” or “something’s not right”. 
Constantly...

No wonder, he sometimes felt like half of 
him was missing.

Sometimes, half of him was.

Half his hearing, half his sight, half his 
instinct. The damnable thing was, this did 
not totally explain the looks they kept 
getting. Oh, it explained part of it. Part 
of their physical communication was 
triggering some awareness on an unconscious 
level with those who saw them. But surely 
that was not all of it. They did not even 
have to be moving to trigger whatever it was 
they kept triggering.

So what in the hell were they doing?

It was a puzzle that had been driving him 
crazy for the better part of four years and 
he doubted he was going to get an answer 
today. Finally, giving up for the moment he 
refocused on his partner and dropped his 
head closer to her ear. 

“So when does SEAL Team 6 arrive?” 

Her eyes sparked with a cheerful mix of 
mischievous taunting and thanks. Her silent 
laughter invited him to share the joke. He 
allowed himself a small quirk of the lips 
that only Scully would notice and interpret 
correctly. To everyone else he was the 
consummate grim-faced government agent. That 
was part of the joke too. Studying her face 
he came to two conclusions. He had done good 
and she would tell him all about it later.

He could wait.

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

Scully was beginning to wish they had rented 
a car of their own. Bill had mumbled an 
awkward thanks (for which she still owed an 
explanation to Mulder), muttered something 
she did not quite catch about meeting the 
others at the house, and unlocked the back 
door of the mini-van so they could toss 
their luggage in the back. Without a word, 
Mulder climbed into the first row of back 
seats, leaving the front passenger seat 
beside her brother for her. Bill had paused, 
key in the ignition, and given her an odd 
look.

"Ready?"

A quick check to see if all was right with 
Mulder and she had nodded. Bill had 
hesitated, eyes puzzled, then started the 
van and pulled away from the airport. 
Fifteen minutes and several annoying 
sideways glances later she was about to 
demand that he tell her what the problem was 
when his low-voiced question caught her off 
guard.

"Are we being followed?"

"Huh?"

"Are we being followed?"

Confused, she saw her brother's eyes flick 
to the left as he turned his head toward 
her. She opened her mouth to reassure him 
that she hadn't seen anyone yet when it 
dawned on her exactly what it was he was 
looking at. The passenger sun-visor. 
Momentarily disconcerted, she stared at it.

"No, it's okay. I was just..."

<Just looking at Mulder>

She could imagine how well that would go 
over.

Uneasily she stared at the offending visor 
as she realized that she had unthinkingly 
dropped it down and angled it so that she 
was able to see her partner's face reflected 
in the vanity mirror. She almost reached out 
to touch it, to verify it was real when she 
reconsidered how that would look to her 
brother.

Okay. So she looked at her partner. She knew 
that. It had been pointed out to them 
before, sometimes politely, sometimes not. 
There was a rational explanation. They 
depended on each other. It was just habit. 
She doubted that any agents outside of the 
HRT drew their weapons as often as they did. 
Maybe not even them. How many times had 
Mulder been the only one she could count on? 

They were partners. That was not something 
you could just turn off.

So why was she suddenly feeling exposed and 
uncomfortable? Was it really that obvious to 
everyone else? As if suddenly seeing her own 
actions through new eyes, it struck her how 
unusual and...pervasive...this habit 
actually was. For God's sake. Mulder was 
sitting right in the back seat. Was she 
really so jumpy, so needy that she had to 
physically see him even in such an 
unthreatening situation? 

She had never really noticed before. They 
spent so much of their time together 
surrounded by the world of law enforcement. 
A world where this sort of thing rarely 
rated a second glance...and then mostly as a 
source of water cooler gossip. But if it was 
normal even in their world, then people 
would not need to talk about it, would they? 
No, it was not normal. But it was abnormal 
in a good way. A necessary way. That was 
what she had told herself. But it was also 
more evidence of her alienation from the 
world her brother lived in. The reality that 
she had slowly been losing bit by bit, year 
by year.

A world that her partner had lost over two 
decades before.

In the mirror, she could see Mulder staring 
at his hands. He knew she was watching. He 
had instinctively known what the mirror was 
for the minute she dropped it down. She had 
caught his own reflected glances at her 
face. She had thought nothing of it. Just a 
comfortable aspect of a familiar 
habit...despite the fact that that they 
almost never rode separated like this, and 
police cars were not equipped with vanity 
mirrors.

She reached out a hand to put the visor back 
in place, then froze in shock as Mulder's 
eyes snapped up to meet hers in the mirror. 
She had thought he was avoiding her gaze to 
spare her embarrassment. Had they been 
caught out by a couple of police officers, 
they would have shared a wry glance and then 
continued on. But this was her brother. This 
was…different, somehow. She had thought that 
Mulder would understand…

Whatever she had thought, she was wrong.

The bleakness in his eyes shocked her. 
Christ. What was going through that bizarre 
brain of his? Resentment stirred, fed by too 
many sleepless nights and her confusion of 
the last few weeks. Did he have to do this? 
Did everything have to become this great big 
symbol weighted with emotional minefields? 
It was just a goddamn mirror.

Wasn't it?

Honesty stirred. Bill had no idea about what 
she had done or why. Only the two of them 
knew the truth behind her actions. She 
paused as she turned that thought over in 
her mind. Only the two of them knew. She 
recalled her earlier thought about what her 
reaction would have been if she had done 
this in front of law enforcement personnel. 
She would have shrugged it off, even enjoyed 
the in-joke with her partner.

So what did it say that she would try to 
erase the evidence now? 

Surely not that Mulder, that her partnership 
had no place here with her brother, with the 
part of her life that she still called real 
life. Is that what she was doing? Is that 
what she had already done? She had 
sacrificed so much of her life to her job, 
to the quest, to her partnership. She had 
thought she had done it willingly. That her 
commitment to her partner was absolute. 
After all, she trusted him with her life.

Did she trust him with the last few bits of 
normal?

As carefully as ever she had separated skin 
from skin and tissue from bone, she drew 
that thought out and examined it. Had she 
drawn a box around her partnership, around 
her partner and refused to let him out? 
Refused to let him encroach on the last 
remaining part of her life that was not 
absorbed by their work. Maybe. 

There was so little left in her life that 
the X-Files had not claimed. 

But this was not about the X-Files. Not 
totally. Not, she suddenly realized, not 
anymore. This was Mulder. Was she 
embarrassed by Mulder? Embarrassed by the 
things he believed, by the things he said? 
Before today, she would have answered a 
resounding no. But maybe...she looked down 
at the hand that had moved to erase the 
outward evidence of the partnership.

No. Damn it. 

She was not Heather. She was not a seventeen 
year old embarrassed by the person she 
claimed to love. She was not embarrassed by 
the choices she had made and she was not 
embarrassed by the X-Files. She *was* proud 
of Mulder damn it. She was, by God, proud of 
herself and all that they had struggled to 
accomplish. She may not enjoy the looks and 
glances her partner acquired for them, but 
they had never truly bothered her. Not after 
the first few cases anyway, she admitted 
honestly. 

So why should the evidence of their 
partnership bother her now?

It should not. But...

Keeping her eyes locked with Mulder's, she 
slowly lowered her hand, pointedly leaving 
the mirror the way it was. For a split 
second, something intense flashed across his 
face and then the familiar humor erased it 
as his wry grin invited her to laugh with 
him at the absurdity that was their lives. 
She almost joined him. Almost fell into the 
familiar with a sense of relief...until she 
realized what she was doing. 

What was she doing?

What was she letting him do?

Mulder's smile was starting to fade...not to 
fear or pain, but a sort of searching 
hesitancy that caused something deep in her 
chest to twist and catch. Before she could 
react, she was jolted against her seatbelt 
as Bill braked suddenly for a small black 
shadow that turned out to be a midnight 
prowling cat. Red eyes flashed briefly in 
the darkness, then they were pulling into 
the driveway and it was too late and the 
wrong time and Tara was opening the front 
door and staring at the occupants of the 
mini-van with a mixture of apprehension and 
relief.

With a sigh, Scully let herself out of the 
vehicle. She tensed briefly as Mulder 
stepped out beside her, then relaxed as, 
without thinking he touched his hand to the 
small of her back as she preceded him up the 
drive. Time. She needed time. She needed the 
sense of stillness, of balance that she 
found when the two of them were working. The 
rest would follow.

She threw herself back into the familiar.

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

Bill Scully Residence, San Diego
Day 36
15 minutes to Zulu


They had seen two FBI fleet sedans sitting 
in the driveway. Scully had thought nothing 
of it. In the back of her mind she had 
simply assumed that they belonged to members 
of the Joint Task Force. The others that 
Bill had mentioned at the airport? She was 
too used to late night strategy sessions to 
think much about it. Until, that was, 
Mulder's hand clenched on the back of her 
jacket and he came to a dead halt three 
steps into the house.

Her hand was reaching for her weapon even as 
her eyes swept the room tracking warm bodies 
and hand positions. Her mind was not even 
registering identities until her partner's 
sardonic tones hit her ears.

"Oh look honey, the kids are here."

Mathews was coming slowly to his feet, 
joined by the other four agents currently 
being served tea and cookies by a haggard 
looking Tara Scully. Obviously offended by 
the words and unaware of the storm warnings 
in the tone, Lewis frowned angrily and her 
lips started to part. Behind her, Vickery's 
eyes widened in panic and her left hand was 
abruptly clamped over the startled woman's 
mouth while her right reached around to grab 
Landers and yanked her into the line of 
fire. While Vickery's eyes fixed themselves 
firmly on the floor, Landers looked 
startled, then steadied herself at semi-
attention, gaze on the wall, shoulders 
blocking Lewis's astonished face.  Harris 
squared his shoulders bravely, but still 
managed to inch his body partly behind 
Mathews.

Scully grinned mirthlessly as she viewed the 
five agents coldly, "Did you forget to pay 
the baby-sitter again, Mulder?"

Anger flashed in Mathews eyes, but he 
remained silent. Scully could only praise 
his self-restraint and survival instincts. 
It took a lot to get Mulder enraged. Oh he 
burned hot as a roman candle over perceived 
injustice and he was quick to anger. But 
rage was another matter. Mulder's hot temper 
resembled the indignant temper tantrums of a 
child when compared to the molten core that 
he kept buried beneath seemingly random and 
uncontrolled outbursts. Like the sporadic 
flares that acted to release pressure from 
an active volcano, Mulder's tantrums were a 
symptom, not the ultimate result of the 
passions that drove him.

But his tantrums were generally harmless. At 
least to anyone other than himself. They 
allowed him to express his emotions in a 
relatively controlled fashion. He could 
rant, he could rave, and he could blow off 
steam that would otherwise crack the dome of 
crusted lava and release a devastating wave 
of bone charring heat and catastrophic 
concussion. Even in his more fitful moods, 
he generally remembered to direct his anger 
at those who could defend themselves.

Had Skinner ever realized that Mulder had 
used him that day? Had taken out his 
frustrations on the one man he knew he could 
trust to take him down before he hurt him. 
Even drugged, Mulder had never expected to 
win. He had been asking for help. 

The profiler had known the cost of releasing 
the rage was too high.

So it took a lot to enrage her partner. A 
hell of a lot. Feeling that he was being 
manipulated and forced into a corner was one 
of those things. Not just being forced to do 
something he did not want to do. Mulder 
accepted that as an FBI agent his choices 
were not always his own. But they had lost 
so much in the past few weeks. This was 
something that was theirs. This was family 
and it belonged to them.

How dare they interfere.

They were not wanted. They were not needed. 
How could they be sure that the five silent 
agents could even be trusted. Did they think 
they could just walk in and take over their 
lives without even asking? How dare they...

"Scully."

Her head snapped to the left and she met her 
partner's infuriated gaze. For a split 
second, ice fed fire, meltwater cracking 
into component atoms, hydrogen and oxygen 
feeding the flames. Then slowly, sanity 
prevailed. She was not alone. He was not 
alone. Defensive anger hesitated, then 
retreated slowly as ice water cooled the 
edges of the flames long enough for Mulder 
to regain his mental footing. Secure in her 
support, no matter what he choose to do, he 
paused to think of consequences. Secure in 
his backing, she paused to consider battle 
plans.  To take another look at options.

She allowed herself to consider the 
possibility that the five agents standing in 
her brother's living room were on their 
side.

At the very least they would make good 
cannon fodder.

Mulder drew in a deep breath , held it for a 
moment, then let it out with a sigh. 
His lip quirked slightly. Scully glared at 
the group suspiciously, wondering if she was 
about to bring a Consortium agent into her 
family's home. Mulder just leaned in close 
and whispered softly.

"We'll take the cost of any cigarettes out 
of their allowance."

Scully let herself relax as she found the 
reassurance she needed in her partner's 
eyes. The eyes she would need in the back of 
her head. The eyes that she could trust 
would be watching intently for anything that 
would harm her family.  She scowled at him 
briefly, then considered the potential 
benefits to adding five armed FBI agents to 
the household.

They needed a place to run the MethBomber 
case. She and Mulder had intended to have 
the five tag-alongs continue the 
investigation in DC while they kept in 
contact via telephone and FedEx. The local 
field office would be caught up in the ISU 
investigation of the MethBomber  as well as 
hosting the investigation into the Navy 
killings. It was unlikely they would welcome 
or even have the resources to make room for 
a second investigation of a case they 
probably felt they were covering adequately.

So, they needed space. She turned her 
attention back to her confused brother who 
had edged his way past the two agents 
blocking the front door and were eyeing them 
with a mixture of exasperation and 
confusion. They needed space and Bill and 
his family needed protection. 

Mulder blinked at the evil edge that crept 
into her smile. She bared her teeth at the 
interlopers who had challenged them.

"They can sleep in the basement."

***********************************
Duffel bags and overnight cases made their 
way down the basement steps after thirty 
minutes of heated argument between brother 
and sister. While they were launching into 
the second round,  Tara showed the five 
agents the stairs and by the time Bill had 
come to fuming acceptance of invasion, 
everything in the sedans had been 
transferred  downstairs. Tara even donated a 
coffee maker as the first official 
contribution to the set-up of the MethBomber 
Command Center, X-Files Division. 

Then it was time for details. Despite the 
hour, no one was sleepy and there was enough 
adrenaline coursing through their veins to 
launch a missile into orbit.  The FBI agents 
were wired on coffee and jet-lag. Bill was 
simply running on nerves.  So Tara made 
sandwiches and everyone settled into the 
living room for a situation report. 
  
Two hours later, they were mostly up to 
speed and yawning behind discrete hands.  

Scully, however, found herself dealing with 
a brutally efficient if painfully unexpected 
blow to her heart. She had thought she was 
prepared for anything. If it had not hurt so 
much, she might have laughed when she 
realized just how wrong that assumption had 
been.

She had totally misjudged the nature of the 
enemy.

She had been prepared to take the lead in 
the investigation. Mulder had just assumed 
that she would, and had given her a list of 
things he wanted  asked. Questions that Bill 
might not give complete answers to if they 
came from Mulder. She had amused herself by 
noting that she had correctly anticipated 
all but three. Surprisingly, as soon as Tara 
checked on  Mathew  and Maggie Scully had 
awoken and settled herself onto the sofa 
next to her son and daughter-in-law, Bill 
had turned to her partner.

Commander Scully had answered every question 
frankly, if reluctantly. Special Agent 
Mulder had been polite, compassionate , 
thorough, - in a word, the same professional 
FBI agent he always was when dealing with 
the families of victims or the victims 
themselves. If his gaze had flickered in 
momentary surprise at the beginning, he had 
quickly shrugged it off in favor of finding 
the answers. Scully was not even completely 
sure that he saw what she saw.

He was too used to being the star of the 
show.

He was too used to being the lead 
investigator in a serial murder 
investigation. Bill's begrudging deferral to 
his expertise would not seem out of the 
ordinary. So she was not completely sure he 
noticed that Bill answered his sister's 
questions with only a brief glance in her 
direction before quickly sliding his eyes 
back to Mulder. Her partner. The one he 
hated.

The profiler.

Scully told herself it was just the public 
fascination with the famed mindhunters. Told 
herself that Bill would have no way to know 
that this was just an ordinary investigation 
at this point, that there was nothing here 
yet that demanded profiling expertise. Told 
herself that she was just being over-
sensitive, that she was just reacting to old 
issues...until she asked a seemingly 
unrelated question and her brother glanced 
at Mulder for confirmation of interest 
before answering.

For a brief, endless second, Scully found 
that she felt nothing at all. No pain. No 
anger. No betrayal. Then something she did 
not even know she had kept alive, gave one 
tiny wail of anguish...and died.

It was, she thought numbly, extremely 
ironic. Through everything, she had somehow 
nursed the hope that she could show the 
brother she loved how to see the man her 
partner really was. The inner person. The 
man she admired, respected, and believed in 
with every fiber of her soul. And now, here 
Bill was, actually finding something worthy 
to respect about Mulder, not because he 
respected her own vision, her own opinion, 
but because, like everyone else, he needed 
him. He needed Mulder's talents to fight the 
monsters.

How... disappointing.

Mulder had figured out that something was 
wrong. He was still asking questions, still 
processing answers, but some part of his 
brain was focusing on her. Probably 
wondering what in the hell was wrong with 
her and why she had abandoned him finish the 
interview on his own. Mathews just kept 
taking notes and the others listened in 
silence. She tried to bring her attention 
back to where it belonged. On the case.. She 
had to act professional. She refused to 
justify her brother's opinion by allowing 
personal feelings to interfere with the  
case at hand.

She would deal with the pain later.

Much later.

Hell. Maybe never.

It was not like this was a new problem. Had 
she not secretly wanted something like this 
to happen? She was not so selfish that she 
could wish pain on anyone to serve her own 
agenda. But there been a tiny wish that 
something would happen. Something that would 
force her brother to look at her and see 
that the past eight years of her life had 
not been wasted. To realize that those years 
had value, damn it. 

She had known that he had no respect for the 
X-Files. She had been angry that the fact 
that this was obviously her life's chosen 
work was not enough. That her opinion was 
not enough. Bill should have respected 
Mulder for the simple fact that she 
respected Mulder.

How odd to suddenly realize that he did not 
respect *her*.

Bill had been proud of her while she was in 
medical school. She could still remember 
what that had felt like. They all had been 
proud. Dana Scully, MD. Upstanding citizen. 
On a recognizable track to socially 
acceptable success. The fact that her 
transfer to forensics had been such an 
unpleasant shock should probably have been a 
clue. All that talk about how she could be 
saving lives or discovering the cure for 
cancer and she had just thought that they 
misunderstood the nature of her job . That 
they had simply not understood that 
forensics was not about the macabre and 
death, it was about justice.

They had been embarrassed.

God. That had hurt. For the first time in 
years she allowed herself to pry the lid off 
the seething mass of shocked pain and 
confusion she had stuffed deep into the 
furthest corners of her heart.  They had 
never understood. Had never tried to 
understand. Bill and her father had simply 
avoided telling anyone that she was majoring 
in forensic science. Even her mother had 
seemed uncertain about how she felt about 
her daughter's field of study. As though 
taking care of pregnant women and old men 
with gall stones was acceptable, but cutting 
up dead bodies was somehow tainted. 
Unpleasant.

Obscene.

She had tried to explain. Had told them that 
forensic pathology was about saving lives. 
The shattered lives of the survivors. They 
had not wanted to understand. It was not 
appropriate. And she had had no choice but 
to turn her back on their un-belief. She was 
not  a care-giver. She was a voice for the 
violated souls of the dead. Medical doctors 
saw Death as the ultimate enemy. Her foe was 
the criminal who preyed upon the living  
with a twisted desire to bring pain and fear 
and suffering.

Death terrified her because of what it could 
take from her, but it did not offend her.

Death was just the other face of life.

The men who would seek to pervert Death, 
they offended her. With every knife slash 
and bullet wound they offended her. With 
every rape, every bruise, every brutalized 
and broken body, they offended her. And in 
the heart of offense was born rage. Bone 
deep and ice cold, it sat in judgement on 
the monsters who wore the faces of men and 
breathed one word deep in the depths of her 
soul.

No.

No. She would not let this continue. No. She 
would not close her eyes and walk away. No. 
She would not let them win. Not now. Not 
ever. Not even if it cost her pain, her 
life, her soul.

No.

Dana Scully did not become an FBI agent, a 
hunter of human monsters because of a badge. 
She was who she was. The badge was a 
formality. They should have known that.
But that was not what they wanted to hear.  
It was not what they wanted to know.

Special Agent Dana Scully had only three 
words to say in return. Finally.

Too fucking bad.

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

Mulder almost jumped when his partner 
suddenly came to her feet in a smooth motion 
marred only slightly by exhaustion. 
According to their internal alarm clocks it 
was not only four hours later than local 
time, it was time to be getting up. They had 
both been awake for 24 hours, and Scully had 
been on her feet yesterday with two back to 
back autopsies. Ordinarily they would have 
tried to get some sleep on the plane, but 
for obvious reasons, that had been 
impossible. The flight had been an exercise 
in enervation and physical discomfort. 

All in all, sleep sounded like a good idea.

Speaking of which...

"Bill, do you have someplace that Mulder can 
store his things or should I just put them 
in my room?"

Mulder blinked.

Maggie looked startled while Bill frowned at 
his sister,  too caught off guard by the 
unusual phrasing of the question to get 
upset about it. Yet. Mulder could see the 
suspicion in his eyes as he turned the 
question over, looking for meaning. 

"You and Mom have the guest rooms. Mulder 
has Mathew's room. We moved Mattie into our 
room as soon as this all started so it's not 
a problem."

Mulder was only mildly surprised when Scully 
looked at her brother coolly and stated 
calmly, "Mulder will be sleeping on the 
couch for the duration.  He'll be 
responsible for security on the first floor, 
while I'll be up on the second floor with 
Mom, you, Tara and Mathew. We'll also need 
to sweep your room and Mathew's room for 
prints, although it is likely that if we do 
have a stalker that he's organized enough to 
wear gloves. We'll need a timeline from each 
of you regarding daily and weekly activities 
and locations, as well as ..."

And so on and so on. 

Mulder felt his eyes narrowing  as he 
watched his partner rapping out orders in 
the same manner as she might have given them 
to the local PD. She pulled no punches and 
she spelled out several issues that they 
probably would have ordinarily not bothered 
to mention.

Like that bit about the couch.

Putting Mulder on the couch would put him 
between the doors  and the stairs. It also 
made perfect sense for it to be him. Not 
only would he have normally ended up in the 
living room anyway, but his late-night 
forays into refrigerator and out for a run 
would be less disrupting this way.

It was logical. But it was also something 
that they would have done automatically, 
without talking about it. Landers probably 
already had a rotation schedule worked out 
in her head. Scully, however,  had just made 
damn sure that her brother knew exactly what 
they were doing and why. And those reasons 
had little to do with his predilection for 
late night television and everything to do 
with the best defensive distribution of 
weaponry. 

What was up with the attitude?

He had had very little time to see Scully 
interact with her family, but what he had 
seen was a far cry from this. He had, in 
fact, never seen more than a hint of her FBI 
personae leak out when she was with family. 
He had followed her lead and toned down his 
own  G-man attitude. It had not been 
difficult. There had been very few times he 
had seen any of her family in circumstances 
that called for the professional mask and 
some where he had simply been a basket case. 
So the Scullys had never really seen the FBI 
agents at work. 

He had assumed it was just circumstance.

Now here she was pulling out all the stops. 
No soft approach. No watered down version 
for family consumption.  This was someone  
who was  every inch the  FBI agent. Diamond-
edged, professional, take-no-prisoners, 
shoot-em-if-you-have-to Special Agent Dr. 
Dana Scully. This was not even Dana Scully 
for other FBI agents. This was Agent Dana 
Scully when she dealt with field-tested, 
hard-nosed police investigators  with twenty 
years experience, a bug up their ass, and 
who respected battle scars, not degrees.

Her medical degree did tend to impress the 
hell out of them, though, once they had seen 
and recognized the cop.

The whisper at the base of his skull grew 
louder as he watched her brother react first 
with astonishment, then with irritation. Did 
he think this was a game? That they were 
overreacting, going over the top? Bill was 
the one worried enough to call them out 
here. Mulder would have thought that he  
would be grateful that they were taking him 
seriously.

The question he should have asked was 
whether of not Bill took his sister 
seriously.

He was totally unprepared for Bill to turn 
to him and ask  bluntly, "Is all of this 
necessary."

Mulder sucked in a sharp breath and froze.

Mathews mouthed a soft curse while Vickery 
just grabbed Lewis and Harris and tossed 
them through the basement doorway. She and 
Landers hastily followed while Mathews shot 
up from his chair and then hesitated. He 
glanced uncertainly at Mulder who shook his 
head slightly. The other agent nodded 
infinitesimally and dragged Tara into the 
kitchen with a question about coffee and 
bedtime snacks.

Scully's blue eyes glazed over with icy rime 
and  her voice could have been used to slice 
the edge off a laser.  "Why don't you ask me 
that, Bill?"

Bill's shoulders twitched as he turned back 
to his sister, "Christ, Dana. It's nothing 
personal. But isn't he the..."

"What? " 

Mulder's heart wanted to run over and wrap 
his arms around his partner. That, or 
flatten her brother with extreme prejudice. 
Anything to defend against the ocean of hurt 
he could hear in that voice. His mind, on 
the other hand,  was trying to calculate 
detonation radii and fallout rates.

His body was just screaming hysterically to 
run for cover.

Bill gritted out the words through clenched 
teeth, "He's the damn profiler isn't he. 
Isn't that what you're always telling me? "

Scully tipped her head with a mildly curious 
expression on her face. In that moment, 
Mulder knew, without a doubt, that her 
brother had absolutely no idea what he had 
just done. The suspicion was also growing, 
that maybe his tendency to blame himself for 
Scully's ostracism from her brother had been 
a tad narcissistic. Oh, he had been part of 
the problem, no matter what she might say. 
The fact was, that Scully had had occasions 
to make choices...and she had chosen him.  
But he was beginning to think that he had 
been catalyst, not cause. Unfortunately, it 
did not make him feel any better. Nothing 
that caused his partner that much pain would 
ever make him feel better.  

Scully raised her jaw and spoke the next 
words so calmly that the uninformed would 
never have known the edges were bleeding.

"What exactly is my role in all of this 
Bill? To sit with Tara? Help baby-sit 
Mathew? "

Bill growled,  “This isn’t about you.”

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

<This isn’t about you>

He knew that his own anger was being fed by 
the emotional nightmare of the past few 
days. He knew that he was stressed out and 
every navy trained command reflex told him 
not to have this conversation. But Christ. 
Did she have to do this now? He had bit the 
words out and only barely managed to keep 
from yelling them at the top of his lungs.

Instead of matching anger, however, he was 
startled by an expression of weariness and 
exhaustion sweeping over her face. Mulder’s 
left hand twitched and for a second, Dana 
met  her partner’s eyes. For once, Bill did 
not find it annoying so much as confusing. 
Neither moved until Dana turned her head 
back to him, blue eyes filled with 
inexplicable pain.

“That’s where you are wrong. If you want us 
to have a hope in hell of keeping everyone 
safe, I can't have you fighting me on 
everything just because you don't trust what 
I say. However, I'm too tired to deal with 
this right now. We'll talk after I get some 
sleep.”

Instinctively he tried to reach out, to hold 
her back as she turned away and headed for 
the patio doors. This was not how he had 
meant for this evening to end. Even with 
everything else, he  had wanted....This was 
not a reaction he recognized or knew how to 
deal with. Tara, or even the Dana he 
remembered, would have been chewing his ass 
nine ways from Sunday...or crying so hard he 
could not make out the swear words she was 
using. 

“Dana...”

“Goodnight Bill.”

The finality in her tone reawakened his 
earlier frustration.

“This is Tara’s life damn it. Mathew’s life. 
You’re a goddamn doctor, Dana. You think a 
14 week training program and the fact they 
let you carry a gun is going to change that 
fact?  ”

He knew as soon as he said it that he had 
gone too far. Shit. It was the truth, but he 
had never ever meant to say it. But damn it. 
He was getting tired of the prima donna act. 
It was not like he had not seen it before. 
Career officers purposely vague about 
assignments and orders. Any good officer got 
a feel early on for who was legit and who 
was trying to avoid admitting that his 
career was on a one-way track to nowhere. To 
be fair he knew that it could not have been 
easy competing with two brothers who had 
Naval careers but it was her own fault. He 
still remembered the embarrassing smirks and 
amused contempt that he had encountered when 
he had first started asking about the X-
Files. And then the reactions when people 
had recognized his sister's last name. Those 
looks had been even worse. 

She chose her job over her family, and every 
time they wanted to protest, to act as 
though they missed her, you would think she 
was sacrificing herself for the greater good 
of mankind. How many times had his mother 
heard the words “this is something I’ve got 
to do” or “ I can’t right now” or-and this 
was his personal favorite-“something’s come 
up”. 

They chased aliens and figments of the 
imagination. How often could something come 
up?

He ignored the tiny whisper at the back of 
his skull that asked dubiously if werewolves 
kept 9 to 5 timetables. Dana was a doctor 
damn it. What the hell was she doing chasing 
werewolves anyway. There were other people 
who could do that. People who were trained 
for that sort of thing.  Christ, she was 
hired to teach at Quantico for God’s sake.  
Should he apologize for wanting someone with 
the right experience? Mulder, at least, was 
a profiler. And a damn good one he had been 
told, even if he was a few pounds light of 
full ballast. 

The right man for the job.

How often had they heard that growing up? 
The next time he had a cut he needed 
bandaged, he would call his sister. But 
right now he needed something else.

Someone who could go head to head with a 
monster.

He would dance with the devil himself if it 
would help keep his family safe. If he could 
swallow his anger and his pride to work with 
a man he despised, then Dana's hurt feelings 
were a small price to pay in comparison.

He would apologize when it was over.


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

Mulder almost did not go after her. 

He considered the possibility that he might 
be the last person she  wanted to see right 
now. He considered the fact that a Scully in 
pain was generally a Scully that wanted 
privacy.  Then he considered the fact that 
she was hurting...

The rest ceased to be considerations.

The night outside was blacker than Cancer 
Man’s soul and twice as dark. Even so, he 
could sense her standing silent off to his 
left. Her breathing, her perfume...he was 
not even sure which sense he was using,  but 
he could have walked to her blindfolded. The 
sympathetic pain he was feeling was 
illusionary, based on nothing more than the 
shuttered look on her face before she had 
turned her back on her brother and walked 
away.

“Ahab used to say,  no matter how lost I 
got, the stars would always lead me home.”

Mulder tipped his head toward the clouded, 
starless sky and tried to recall the last 
time he had looked into the night and felt 
hope instead of dread. Then he tried to 
recall the last time he had sat and looked 
at the stars. He sighed.

“I realize that this is where I’m supposed 
to come up with a pithy one-liner, but I’m 
too busy resisting the urge to tear off his 
arm and beat him over the head with it.”

“You think it would help?”

He winced at the bitterness and anger in her 
voice. He had been expecting hurt. He 
reconsidered his next words in light of the 
fact that he was not absolutely certain that 
she would not bite first, regret later. 

Oh well, what were partners for?

“Probably not. He’s a Scully after all.” He 
forced a note of  light irony into his 
voice. Jeez, he deserved an Academy award 
for that one. His urge to growl put just  
the right edge on his voice.

“Just what does that mean?” 

If he got out of this alive, he would have 
to remember to check his nuts for freezer 
burn.

“Just that you all need proof positive 
before believing in extreme possibilities.”

Scully's weary tone was beyond bitter.

“What? The extreme possibility that I might 
actually be a field agent?” 

There was the hurt. Mulder clenched his 
teeth and considered the fact that Scully 
would NOT appreciate it if he went caveman 
on her brother. Repeat after me, Agent 
Mulder. She can take care of herself.  She 
can take care of herself.

Yeah, his inner voice answered, but no one 
dodges a knife in the back.

So watch her back. 

Mulder promised himself grimly that Bill 
would not surprise him again. His attitude 
had been an unpleasant and unexpected shock. 
He had expected a certain amount of disdain 
for their work on the X-Files, but surely 
her own brother knew her better than to 
think that Scully could ever be an 
ineffectual anything. He had acted like he 
did not have a clue what she did for a 
living. He must realize that they were not 
exactly chasing check bouncers. 

Hell, their medical histories alone would 
have told him that. 

“I’m reasonably certain that the Navy would 
consider it an extreme possibility that the 
FBI could be remotely useful upon occasion.”

The long pause had him sweating. Please, let 
him not have messed up. Please...

There was an almost soundless chuckle to his 
left. “Nice try Mulder”. 

The laughter died as she sucked in a quick 
hard breath and he just knew that she was 
fighting back tears.

”You want to know the crazy part? Our 
enemies have never, NEVER, tried to 
invalidate my worth as an agent as casually 
as he just did.”

“Interoffice email addressed to Mr. and Mrs. 
Spooky is validating your worth as an 
agent?” 

“In a weird sort of way. Mostly it’s just 
...shit. The underlying assumption being 
that I could do better if I wasn't on 
someone's shit list, wasn’t sleeping with 
you, wasn't crazy, or all of the above.”

Mulder didn’t bother to muffle his snort.

“You do realize that the only time the 
Consortium itself ever underestimated me was 
when they shut down the X-Files and 
transferred me back to Quantico. Even then 
what they really underestimated was us, our 
partnership.”

“They tried to separate us after Dallas, 
Scully.”

“That was panic, Mulder. Not lack of 
respect. If anything, it was another 
validation. “

He tried to think of a comeback and failed. 
The Consortium had primarily been concerned 
about her effect on him, but they had never 
doubted her potential to be a threat. It was 
the reason  they had tried to kill her after 
his supposed death in the desert. The 
fallout from her murder, even right on the 
heels of his own suspicious death had been 
deemed less potentially dangerous than 
leaving her alive and free to pursue her 
revenge.

One hell of an endorsement, if you chose to 
look at it that way.

“We really are a bit left of center, 
Scully.”

Soft laughter greeted his sigh. In it, he 
heard wry acknowledgement of the oddity that 
was their lives and the skewed perspectives 
by which they gauged their successes.  

“Yeah Mulder, I guess we are.”  

There was more that he wanted to say. More 
that he wanted to ask her. Like whether or 
not she ever doubted her own worth as an 
agent. But he was not sure how to phrase the 
question. 

"I…envy you sometimes, Mulder. Your time 
with the BSU."

He  blurted out the first thing that came to 
mind, "Good God, why?"

Her sigh was - resigned. He found himself 
holding his breath as he realized that she 
was trying to find the words. Trying to- 
what? His stomach muscles tensed as if 
waiting for the blow. Had it finally 
happened? Had they finally offered too much 
to turn down?

"Because when all is said and done, Spooky 
Mulder exists outside the X-Files. No matter 
how crazy people think you are, they still 
respect the fact that you are one hell of a 
profiler. That will always belong to you, 
Mulder. But everything I've done as a field 
agent has been with the X-Files...nothing 
ever just belonged to just me. I don't mind 
being known as your partner. But...sometimes 
I wish that I existed as someone other than 
just your partner."

Mulder dropped heavily into the deck chair 
beside him, at an absolute loss as to how to 
deal with this unexpected turn of events. 
She could not be serious. How could she 
possibly think...?

"I said it wasn't about you, Mulder. But in 
a way it was. It was all about debunking 
your work,  your quest, becoming your 
Achilles heel. So many people seeing me in 
no other terms other than in how I affected 
you."
 
"You were never just an appendage, Scully."

"Not to you maybe. And not to me...now."

Mulder sucked in a quick breath, debating 
whether or not he wanted a truthful answer 
to his next question. But she was being 
honest. More honest than she had dared to be 
in a long time. He could not throw that back 
in her face. Truthfully, he wanted to know 
the answers.

"Philadelphia?"

Despite the fact that he kept his voice low 
and non-accusatory, he could almost feel the 
flinch.

"Partly. I'm good at what I do Mulder. 
Anywhere else, in any other department, that 
would count for something. But with the X-
Files...no one seems to notice anything but 
the fact that I'm defending you. Mostly 
that's the nature of what we do, but back 
then…I felt overlooked, underappreciated. 
I'm a lot more secure about how I see myself 
now - partly because of how you see me. 
That's made more difference than you will 
ever know regarding how I see myself. I 
don't have the same need for official 
recognition now that I once did. But it hurt 
back then...and sometimes it still does."

His mind was a swirling mass of mixed 
emotions and he was at a loss as to which 
emotions they were exactly. He had a 
confused desire to yell at her for the 
defeated tone in her voice. He wanted to 
grab a hold of her shoulders and shake her 
for her blindness. Is that truly how she 
thought she was seen? Then he reconsidered 
her brother's attitude in another light. 
Reconsidered what it might mean to grow up 
female in a Navy family. He had assumed that 
a large part of her father's disapproval of 
the FBI as a career choice had stemmed from 
justifiable shock at the blithe abandonment 
of seven years of post-secondary education. 
He had known she was a tomboy...had gotten 
the impression that her father had known and 
supported that role. 

But it was Margaret Scully who had raised 
her children while her husband was away at 
sea.

Two sons in naval careers, one daughter 
choosing the most non-feminine roles she can 
think of and another choosing the most non-
traditional. Four children all searching for 
attention and approval from a larger than 
life, heroic father who represented the 
government in all its paternal and 
institutional glory. 

Bloody, fucking hell.

His mind obediently flipped over memory 
after memory drawn from the last eight 
years. He had known she resented his 
cavalier attitude toward 
authority...especially when it splashed back 
on her. He had valued the loyalty and 
unbending resolve she had shown every time 
she chose him over official regard. If he 
was honest with himself he had enjoyed it. 
Had reveled in the fact that despite his 
crazy reputation, despite his wacky theories 
and despite the darkness that haunted him, 
Spooky Mulder had the public support of his 
amazing partner.

Take that and suck on it, assholes.

The fact that it was blatantly obvious that 
Scully was compromising some of her own 
principles to back him had only made it 
sweeter. It had never even entered his mind 
that she might not see what everyone else 
was seeing. Worse, this conclusion 
felt...right. Like an oddly shaped piece of 
the puzzle that he finally figured out how 
to flip to make it fit. And the picture that 
was coming into focus was beginning to 
reveal a cost to his partner that he had 
never suspected.

"Scully? Why do you think you were assigned 
to the X-Files?"

He knew she could hear the odd note in his 
voice. Knew she was probably blaming herself 
for hurting him. Probably envisioning him 
beating himself over the head with guilt and 
self-hatred. On another night she might have 
been right. But he had just seen her brother 
completely disregard years of  field history 
that made HRT look placid by comparison. He 
was beginning to think she thought the FBI 
agreed with him.
  
"To debunk the X-Files, Mulder." He nodded 
at that expected response. Her tone was  
rote, as if she never even thought about 
what that meant anymore.

"Yes Scully, but why you?"

"Because of my scientific background." 

"Do you have any idea how many new agents 
graduated from the Academy that year with 
scientific backgrounds?"

He heard her mouth open to reply, then close 
with a snap. Despite the seriousness of the 
point he was trying to make, he grinned in 
the dark. "You were going to say?". 

"The combination of my physics and forensics 
training gave me a unique perspective in 
evaluating cases which covered a broad range 
of characteristics."

Mulder's grin widened. "And...?"

He waited. Finally she huffed in annoyance. 
"What do you want me to say Mulder?"

"Just the truth Scully. Admit to me that you 
thought they picked you because you were the 
brilliant young forensic trainee teaching at 
Quantico-right out of the Academy I might 
add-and it did your ego good to think that 
they needed your brains to straighten out 
the cracked genius in the basement."

Her voice was dry, "Just whose ego are we 
stroking here, Mulder?"

"Mine definitely. I had the agent before you 
so intimidated that he wouldn't have 
contradicted me if I said the sky was purple 
and the moon was made of green cheese."

"You mean it isn't?"

"The fact they needed someone with your 
brains to shoot me down felt like quite a 
compliment at the time. Only I'm beginning 
to think my brilliant partner wasn't quite 
so brilliant after all."

"You're trying to piss me off, right?"

"I'm trying to figure out how you could have 
spent two years at Quantico and not had a 
clue about why you were there. Well, maybe 
not then, but surely by now. They had you 
teaching right out of the Academy, Scully. 
Do you have any idea how unusual that is? If 
they wanted you as a teacher they could have 
brought you in as support personnel. 
Instead, they trained you as an agent. You 
had no field experience and they bent over 
backwards to co-ordinate your pathology 
training with your teaching schedule. Not to 
mention how many strings they must have had 
to pull to get you board certified as a 
pathologist."

"I was damn well more than qualified, 
Mulder! I told you I never delivered a baby.  
I did two pathology rotations-one of them in 
forensics. And I worked nights for two years 
as the assistant to one of the best forensic 
pathologists in Maryland while I was in 
school. I continued to work under his 
supervision while I was at Quantico. "

"A pathologist who just happened to be a 
part-time instructor at Quantico. Jesus 
Scully, did you really think no one would 
notice?"

She was silent for a long moment, then came 
back flatly, "I don't know what you mean."

"Everyone was quite impressed. After they 
got over thinking you were the killer of 
course."

"Excuse me?"

"Your college roommate's sister. The one 
that was murdered by Gary Whistler. The FBI 
missed that one. VCU knew they had a serial 
killer, but didn't know she was one of his 
victims. Once the investigators linked the 
murders, the evolution in MO became obvious 
and several more victims came to light. 
That's what eventually broke the case."

"Jesus Mulder, I didn't...how did you 
know...?"

"What? That you spent three months trying to 
tell the police it wasn't the boyfriend? 
That you talked your way into that 
assistant's job so that you could get access 
to the autopsy data? That you used your 
instructor's lecture schedule to get close 
to the investigators and pump them for 
information? You really shouldn't 
interrogate someone when there are profilers 
in the same room ,Scully. We tend to notice 
that sort of thing. The way I heard it, 
three of them were sitting behind you when 
you were in the cafeteria charming the goods 
out of Detective Bascom. "

"Oh shit."

Mulder could not stop the grin and he knew 
she could hear it in his voice." The 
profilers were especially impressed by that 
trick with your room key - placing it off to 
the side when it "accidentally" fell out of 
your purse. Mitchell said Bascom spent so 
much time trying not to stare at it he 
didn't know what he was saying. "

"Mulder!" her voice was a horrified wail. 
"You knew? They knew? Everyone knew?"

"Yep. Course they thought you were the 
killer at first. Derringer was convinced he 
was actually going to be able to bring in 
the BSU's first official female serial 
killer. You really broke his heart when he 
found out what your connection to the victim 
was."

"Please tell me you're making this up. Jesus 
Mulder if this is a joke I am going to kill 
you."

"You want to know what they were calling you 
down in the dungeon?"

"Scalpels, Mulder. Big-assed needles and no 
anesthetic."

"Mata Hari."

"You never said anything!"

"I thought you knew I knew. I mean everyone 
knew." He amended his statement as she 
choked, "Everyone with connections to the 
VCS anyway. Christ Scully, physics and 
forensics are a prime VCS combination. Add 
in the fact that they could get you board 
certified as a pathologist-with a bit of 
effort- and the fact that you obviously had 
the instincts of an investigator, and they 
wanted you bad. "

"And the courses I was teaching?" Scully's 
voice was small and Mulder paused as he 
considered that maybe this was not something 
she wanted to hear.

"Textbook long-term recruitment. You could 
take your pathology training at the Army 
College and they could slowly indoctrinate 
you into the world of the serial killer. You 
were always slated for at least two years of  
field work  in one of the larger cities as 
soon as you took your boards. Preferably a 
district with an on-going serial case or 
two. God Scully, you weren't on the X-Files 
three months and they started the 
courtship."

Scully battled confusion as she thought 
back, then her eyes widened in reflex," 
Tooms?" Her voice cracked  in disbelief. 

Mulder felt his lips twist, "Think of him as 
a box of chocolates."

Scully's mouth gaped a little and there was 
a long silence as his partner tried to fit 
everything she was hearing into a radically 
readjusting worldview.

"But why...I mean...the X-Files?"

Mulder shrugged even though he knew she 
could not see him." BSU wasn't the only one 
with an agenda. Besides, it wasn't as crazy 
as you might think. Patterson was still in 
good odor and he was still chasing me. 
Trying to get me hooked back in. The 
situation suited everybody's needs. VCU 
probably figured that at worst you'd get a 
solid one-on-one profiling internship and 
some field work before you blew me out of 
the water. Do you have any idea how many 
profiling consults they tried to get us to 
take after Tooms?"

"You turned them down?"

The almost casual question caught him off 
guard and he cursed the fact that he had 
been so intent on reassuring her that people 
had valued her for herself that he had 
forgotten about some of those earlier 
decisions. Decisions which had affected her. 
The VCS profiling assignments had been 
voluntary, totally at his discretion and 
well within his rights as supervisory agent 
to accept or reject. He just was not sure 
she would see it that way since in 
retrospect, there was no getting around the 
fact that her career might have taken a 
different path if he had accepted even some 
of them. Other than the ones he had been 
forced to....

"Yes." He said finally.

"I see."

He tried to read her voice, and wished 
suddenly that there was enough light to see 
her expression. If he could just see her 
face.

"In...in the beginning I just didn't want to 
risk getting roped back in  and losing the 
X-Files. I knew that was why you were there 
and frankly, I wasn't inclined to put myself 
through that hell just to help you send my 
department on its way. And then,later, we 
worked so well. I guess I kind of hoped I 
could get you interested enough in the work 
to stick around. I thought if I could 
convince you - if you were willing to stay 
for a few years,  the VCS might let me keep 
you."

"Jesus Mulder, you make me sound like a 
stray pet."

"Yeah, well, You know that transfers are 
voluntary until you've been with the same 
division for four years. If they offered you 
something really big, I didn't know what I 
could offer to get you to stay. I was 
terrified that we'd get a shit hot serial 
case and solve the damn thing and you'd be 
hooked. I also knew what Patterson would be 
thinking after that mess with Colton and I 
knew that at best I might only have another 
year or two to decide. I guess I...I was 
hoping that you might chose the X-Files over 
the VCS if I could convince you we were 
making a difference. "

"What do you mean-you knew what they would 
be thinking after Colton?"

Mulder froze. Shit. Had he really said that? 

"You impressed them during that case. "

Which was perfectly true. Not the whole 
truth, but true nonetheless. Unfortunately, 
the slow way she picked through the next 
sentence told him that she was picking up on 
the fact he was hiding something. 

Sometimes it sucked to have an intelligent 
partner.

"What aren't you telling me Mulder?"

Shit. He would be hyperventilating in 
another minute. It was not like it made any 
difference now. 

"Nothing that makes any difference Scully."

"Fine. We'll come back to that. Why transfer 
me back to Quantico after they closed the X-
Files? Why not give me another field 
assignment"

" I think someone told them to back off. Our 
supporters wanted you at Quantico so you 
were available when we got the department 
reopened- the VCS probably figured it was 
better than risking having you trapped 
somewhere in some bumfuck field office. They 
also knew we were working together outside 
of official channels and that suited 
Patterson-I mean... "

"But then I was abducted."

"Never made a difference in the VCS 
timetable Scully. But then Melissa was 
killed and you..." he hesitated.

She sighed. "...made it absolutely clear I 
wasn't leaving the X-Files short of massive 
amounts of C4 explosive." 

"Pretty much. Yeah. I assumed--I thought you 
knew. I figured you chose to stay."

"I did chose Mulder. Even if I had known 
about the VCS I doubt - no. I  KNOW that my 
decision would have been the same. At least 
then."

But what about now?

Mulder shifted uneasily.

She hesitated for a moment, "Salt Lake 
City?"

" The SAC in the Salt Lake field office is 
ex-BSU. You'd have been consulting within 
three months and then recommended to NCAVC 
within six."

Mulder found himself chuckling softly. 
"Someone shit bricks when you quit on them."

Scully mumbled something caustic.

"What was that?"

"I said, they were just pissed they lost 
their best chance to get at you through me."

"You've been listening to water cooler 
gossip again, haven't you?"

"Mulder...you know what I'm talking about!"

"God Scully, I wanted to tell Patterson to 
go to hell, I swear I did." 

Mulder reran his sentence as soon as it was 
out of his mouth and realized he had spilled 
the beans.  Shit. 

"Mulder?"

You could freeze water with that tongue. You 
really could. 

"Why do I think this has something to do 
with what you wouldn't tell me before?"

Because you are not stupid. Unlike your big-
mouthed partner. Ah hell. No choice for it 
now.

"You really aren't going to like it."

"Tell me something I don't know, Mulder."

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. Damn it. It 
was Patterson's  stupid idea. " Patterson 
wanted-after the rumors started-about us I 
mean-he figured..."

"He figured you might come back if you had 
the right incentive?"

If only it was that easy.

Mulder sighed," Any other department it 
would be tantamount to suggesting you hire 
someone because of who they are sleeping 
with-Jesus, I know how it sounds. But you've 
got to understand what it was like back 
then. The type of profiling Patterson had us 
doing-it was so damn effective, but we were 
dropping like flies. Patterson was convinced 
that the right sexual dynamic between two 
profilers would be enough to keep a pair 
grounded enough to stay sane. Especially if 
both agents were diametrically opposed in 
terms of viewpoint and profiling style. 
Patterson thought he saw something he could 
use.  It was...a very messed up situation. "
 
When she did not say anything, he licked 
suddenly dry lips and then closed his eyes ,

"I used to think...if we could only get 
Patterson and old Smokey in the same room, 
they could mind-fuck each other to death. I 
knew Patterson would let you stay long 
enough for us to - get attached- and then 
he'd make this great offer and you'd be 
gone. Christ, I knew you were ambitious and 
I needed more time,so,after Tooms,I...I  
made a deal with Patterson. He agreed to 
keep CIRG from approaching you directly with 
any big offers for two years as long as we 
took a couple of  cases - to get your feet 
wet. "

He waited anxiously for her to react. 
Scream, yell...slug him. He knew how she 
felt about making her own decisions and what 
he had done had affected  more than just a 
job offer from the NCAVC. If they had 
offered, if she had transferred, she would 
not have been with him when they had gotten 
that damned digital tape and her sister 
would still be alive.

"So this all happened when? Three or four 
months after I was assigned? And you got 
...what exactly? Just over a year and a half  
to convince me  to stay with the X-Files?"

Mulder shrugged again automatically, trying 
to analyze the emotions hidden in her even 
tone. He could not do it. He had never 
realized how much he depended on her face 
for decoding the emotions she kept locked 
behind her eyes. " Convince you, convince 
me. We had a good start Scully but I didn't 
know where we would be in two years. Maybe 
the X-Files would be shut down, or maybe you 
would have asked for a transfer - the VCS 
had the right to get involved if that 
happened. Hell, maybe we would have decided 
that we hated each other. But if our 
partnership worked out, I was going to have 
to make a choice. I knew it even then."

He fell silent, reluctant to say any more. 
He should have known better. 

"What choice, Mulder?" she said the words 
carefully, almost as though she feared the 
edges would cut like glass. Almost like she 
did not want to know.

"Whether to follow you back to the VCS if 
you went." He said simply.

A sharp hiss of indrawn breath. "Jesus 
Mulder, are you trying to tell me you were 
considering giving up the X-Files?"

Her voice was shocked. Beyond shocked. 
Disbelieving. He sighed. How the hell do you 
explain something like this without sounding 
crazy? Obsessive.

"Not then. Of course not. But Scully, we 
clicked so damn fast. It scared the hell out 
of me. What were we going to be like after 
two years?  I kept telling myself I was 
letting them all set me up. That if I had 
any survival instincts at all I should push 
you away before it got any worse. Before 
they got what they wanted. But god, the work 
we were doing together. It was beyond 
seductive, Scully. You have no idea how good 
it felt to hand in a report that couldn't be 
ignored just because it was written by 
Spooky Mulder. Hell, they never believed 
half of my reports even when I was working 
Violent Crimes. There was this unbelievable 
sense of freedom. I'd always had to pull 
back, try to keep myself grounded. Suddenly 
I didn't have to do that any more. I could 
leap as high as I wanted...and I knew you'd 
be there to keep me from going over the edge 
if I fell. For the first time I really truly 
honestly believed I might be able to find 
Samantha. I couldn't let Patterson take that 
away before I had a chance to see where it 
would go, Scully. I just couldn't."

He knew his tone had softened, lowered until 
he was almost pleading with her to 
understand. He had not taken anything away 
from her. He'd just been trying to save 
himself. Buy himself some more time. His 
motives may have been selfish, but they also 
kept her options open. Patterson...Patterson 
had been so GOOD at pushing buttons. She had 
been so naive back then.  Despite his three 
years with VICAP, they both had. Patterson 
would have used her and then thrown her away 
when she ceased to be of value to him.

"I knew if we made it through two years 
together,  that I wouldn't be able to let 
Patterson fuck with your head. Not alone. 
Not if you needed me. Maybe someone else, 
but not him. Bastard knew it too. So he had 
me by the balls. I just used it to my 
advantage. As long as he left us alone for 
two years, I agreed to take on at least one 
profiling case- profiling the way Patterson 
meant it, not the FBI. I was to introduce 
you to the science of monster-hunting. The 
human variety. And I...agreed not to try and 
talk you out of going to the VCU when they 
made their offer."

He could almost hear the humming in her head 
as she tried to work it through. He wondered 
if she would piece together the fact that 
Donnie Pfaster had been that first case. 
That there had been a reason that he had 
wanted her to go home. To decide that 
hunting in the Abyss was not for her. 
Finally he could hear fabric whisper as she 
reflexively threw her hands out in 
frustration. He waited, then waited some 
more and finally cursed softly as he 
launched himself out of the deck chair. He 
heard her call after him softly but he was 
too busy fumbling for the light switch. He 
had to see her face. He had to know how 
badly he had screwed up.

Soft white patio light suddenly glowed from 
a dozen black and white patio lanterns. He 
saw Scully blink dark adapted eyes rapidly. 
He could only pray that the sheen was from 
the sudden light and not because he had hurt 
her. Taking a deep breath he carefully 
considered the offer he had been prepared 
for over three years to make...if CIRG came 
knocking, if she wanted to go.  He forced 
himself to keep his voice even and strong. 
Kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face. She 
had to know he was serious about this.

"If it's what you want...if the X-Files are 
not where you want to be, the offer is still 
open."

He took a step closer to her and found that 
she was gazing at him contemplatively, 
turning the idea over in her mind.

"You're serious about this."

He nodded," You won't have a problem. 
They'll do handflips. You do realize that 
New York was another attempt to recruit you 
don't you? They won't be so crazy about me, 
but it should be okay if I promise to play 
nice. Our biggest problem will be getting 
assigned together... the NCAVC doesn't 
really have a partnership structure 
but...what?"

Scully was suddenly glaring at him. A 
complex mix of anger and annoyance crossed 
her face, then faded into weary acceptance. 
"That won't be a problem Mulder."

"I've pissed a lot people off over there, 
Scully. We can't be sure..."

A fresh spark of annoyance flit across her 
features, " Yes, Mulder. We damn well can. 
You want to know why we can?"

Fresh anger spilled into her eyes and voice. 
Mulder just froze at this unexpected  
attack.

" We can be absolutely positive that they 
will bend over backwards to get the great 
Fox Mulder back on board because they've 
already told me as much."  

She stepped close, blue eyes intent. But 
below the passion, he could see hurt. Jesus. 
What had they said to her?

"Do you know how many times they have 
approached me about you? How many times that 
they've told me that your talents would be 
appreciated in the BAU or back with VICAP? "

She was serious. Mulder closed his eyes, 
thinking. It did not make sense. Oh, he had 
no doubt if he promised to be good they 
would take him back. He had all the 
requisite training and skills. But that 
would have absolutely nothing to do with  
his reputation. Did Scully have any idea how 
experimental Patterson's profiling process 
had been? How many profilers had distrusted 
the results and resented the fact that the 
voodoo image of it all had masked the 
underlying behavioral science that they had 
been trying so hard to get into general 
acceptance back then. Williams might be 
willing to use Mulder's results, but the SAC 
had no desire to have one of Patterson's 
proteges rekindle that particular flame. 

Patterson had been a god. But only because 
he got results. Those results had also 
earned them enemies. When all was said and 
done, their version of profiling should only 
have been used when there  were no other 
leads, when the chance of being wrong could 
not cost someone their life.

But case solution was the lifeblood of 
political careers. 

Mulder knew there were times they should 
never have been where they had been and 
doing what they had been doing. Too soon. 
Not enough background. Too many legitimate 
investigative leads and investigators shoved 
aside by management in the hopes that 
Patterson's children of the night could pull 
off a miracle. And they did. One rabbit out 
of the hat after another. But the cost...

Mulder had left before the whole thing self-
destructed. Before Patterson blotted one too 
many copy books. Because the day was coming 
when they were going to crash and burn  in 
the public spotlight. Because Patterson had 
offended too many people to have any real 
support when it all fell apart. And when he  
went, all his profilers were going to go 
with him. Mulder may not have been the most 
astute political animal in the woods...but 
he had seen that incipient forest fire five 
by five.  So he had gotten out while he 
still had his reputation, most of his mind 
and some part of his soul. 

So, what Scully was saying really did not 
make any sense. SAC Williams was one of 
those who had truly distrusted Patterson's 
methods and reckless reputation. So, he 
would be probably be happy to accept Mulder 
if Mulder came to him, but he would not have 
gone out of his way unless...

Unless Scully had misread the approach and 
seen threat instead of offer. 

Scully might have taken any vague hints 
about transferring to the VCS as an attempt 
to separate her from her partner and 
undermine the X-Files. Especially since she 
seemed to have missed the point that they 
had been trying to recruit her all along. He 
could just imagine the icy politeness in her 
refusal. Must have confused the hell out of 
them. 

Assuming that Williams wanted Scully enough 
to put up with Special Agent Fox Mulder, the 
SAC had no way of knowing the number of 
times that they had been used against each 
other. But he was not blind. Both agents 
were less than subtle about their dedication 
to each other. So he and his staff might 
have made the rather prosaic assumption that 
partners were lovers and that Scully was not 
willing to leave him. In any sense of the 
word. So the next offer would have been 
meant to assure her that...

He came out of his thoughts to find Scully 
only a hands-breath away and glaring up at 
him.

"The SAC visited me in the hospital in New 
York and by the end of an extremely painful 
interview it was more or less clear that if 
I could see a way to convince you to come 
back, there would be a place for me if I 
wanted it. He also stated-extremely bluntly 
I might add - that he didn't care who you 
did, or where you did it as long as the 
cases got solved and no naked pictures 
showed up on the front page of the 
newspaper."

She was not quite shouting and the only 
thing running through his mind at that 
moment-besides shocked fascination with his 
partner's loss of control-was the thought 
that there was no way Bill and Tara could be 
missing this little argument. Hell, no one 
would be missing this argument. Scully was 
going to be pissed as hell when she realized 
that.

" Scully, the neighbors..." 

"You know what, Mulder? I don't give a damn. 
I don't care if the whole fucking block 
hears me. You want to know why? Because 
after all we've been through, after all the 
cases we've solved, those bastards reduced 
me to nothing more than a god damn sex toy!"

He could not help it. He knew she was armed. 
He knew she was pissed.  But-oh hell, she 
had no fucking clue. He collapsed back into 
the deck chair and howled with laughter.

"Oh shit Scully, that's priceless."

"Mulder, I'm warning you..."

"Scully, Scully, Scully. My little female 
chauvinist piglet. You must have confused 
and frustrated the hell out of Williams. He 
was only trying to give you what he thought 
you wanted."

She was staring at him through slitted eyes, 
but at least she was not storming back into 
the house. He would have to chase after her 
and he was having trouble breathing. The 
look on her face sent him over the edge. The 
worry over the last six months, the changes 
to the X-Files, trying to regain their old 
lives...it was all washing away as a sour-
faced Scully pursed her lips and listened to 
her crazy partner imitate an asthmatic 
hyena.

"Shit Scully, don't you get it? You weren't 
the sex toy in question."

She froze and Mulder started to hiccup. The 
neighbors were probably standing ears glued 
to their bedroom windows and Bill Scully was 
more than likely searching for a shot-gun.

"Mulder..."

"They  want you, Scully. And if you won't 
move without your partner then they are more 
than willing to deliver up one Special Agent 
Mulder, lock, stock and handcuffs."

"You're...that's crazy."

"You were willing to believe they'd do it 
for me. Why is this any different?"

Scully just stared at him, bewilderment and 
confusion...and maybe a little anger, on her 
face.

"Because I'm not..."

Mulder sat up abruptly, amusement fleeing. 
"What? Good enough? That's bullshit Scully."

"I'm not you, Mulder."

He stared at his partner in astonishment. "I 
wasn't aware we were competing."

"That's not what I...I can't get into their 
heads the way you do Mulder."

He stared at her for a long moment, non-
plussed... He thought again about the fact 
that she had never really done any field 
work prior to partnering with him. Thought 
about the differences between standard 
profiling and the stuff that she had seen 
him do. Thought again about the few times 
they had worked apart-her frustration over 
small mistakes and the couple of times she 
had admitted to wishing he had been with 
her. 

At the time, he had only heard the 
resentment.

Now, he thought about the heady exhilaration 
he always felt when they worked together. 
The way his mind seemed to work faster, the 
way clues just seemed to leap out him. He 
knew how rare what they had really was...but 
he had something to compare it to.

"Scully?" he chose his words slowly, 
carefully, "Do you have any idea how good an 
investigator you are?"

She made a depreciating noise deep back in 
her throat, "I know our solve rate as well 
as you Mulder."

She didn't know. She really didn't know. Oh 
she knew she was good, but she did not know 
just how good. How in the hell...? In that 
instant, he would have traded anything for 
her to have had even six months in any other 
department before coming to work for the X-
Files. He hauled himself back out of the 
deck chair again, conscious of his partner's 
curious gaze as he paced back and forth 
across her brother's deck. He knew he should 
be upset on her behalf. But all he could 
feel was a growing sense of betrayal and 
anger.

'Damn it Scully! Not us. You!"

His outburst caught her by surprise and she 
flinched reflexively, then watched him with 
equal parts wariness and confusion.

"How can you not know how good we are 
together?"

"I know we're good, Mulder"

"But you don't know how good. How can you 
understand if you don't know how good you 
are without me? Shit. You think I don't know 
what it feels like? To feel like your brain 
is half asleep. To make stupid mistakes 
because there's no one there to catch you? 
To be terrified and off-balance because now 
you are trying to do two jobs...and one of 
them isn't yours? To want to take out your 
gun and shoot the person next to you because 
as good as they are ...they just aren't good 
enough. That they aren't you. That's the 
price  we pay for being so damn good 
together. But it doesn't mean we aren't 
still hell on wheels alone, Scully. It just 
feels like it." 

He almost kept on ranting but with a sudden 
shock he saw  silver tracks gleaming on her 
cheeks as silent tears suddenly slipped down 
her face. Without thinking he crossed the 
deck and wrapped his arms around her. For a 
long moment, she did nothing but shake 
against his chest, and then he heard her 
whispering in a broken voice that carried 
painfully on the night air.

"Jesus Mulder. I thought it was me. I 
thought there was something wrong with me. I 
kept thinking that it should have been you 
there instead of me. I kept thinking that 
you would have had it all figured out. I 
finally got a chance to prove to myself that 
I could do it without you. That I could keep 
up with you...and I got fucking shot. On a 
god damn X-File. Trying to be you."

Mulder spoke into her hair. "You did a good 
job, Scully."

She gave a watery laugh. "Then why doesn't 
it feel that way?  It didn't feel like I 
thought it would. It didn't feel right. I 
wanted it to be you there with me so badly, 
Mulder. I didn't want to be there without 
you. How is that supposed to make me feel? 
Damn it! I'm supposed to be able to do this 
with anyone. But I just wanted it to be you. 
"

He found himself smiling into the top of her 
head, anger draining away in a rush of 
relief. He waited for her to process what 
she had just said then jerked his chin out 
of the way just in time to avoid getting 
smacked when she stiffened and pushed back 
suddenly. Her eyes were wide and startled in 
the dim light.

He tightened his arms briefly, then let her 
go.

"Now you understand."

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


"You can't keep doing this."

His mother's voice was an unwelcome addition 
to the shadows. Bill fought a childish urge 
to pretend that he did not understand what 
she was talking about. Pushing away from the 
open bedroom window he turned to face the 
bedroom door.

"You will lose her if you keep this up."

Did she honestly think he did not know that? 
"What makes you think I haven't already?" 
The bitter words were out before he could 
stop them.

Her sigh was full of more sympathetic regret 
than he would have expected. Startled, he 
studied her expression curiously. His mother 
had stood firm in her defense of both Fox 
Mulder and his presence in Dana's life. In 
fact, her refusal to argue with him about it 
had been one of the things that frustrated 
him so badly. She could see how damaging 
this all was for Dana. So why was she not 
willing to do anything about it?

"Why?" He demanded. "Why do you support him? 
How can you like him after all that he has 
brought down upon us?"

His mother's face shifted into surprise," 
Like? It has nothing to do with like, Bill."

She moved forward into the room and stared 
up at him with something like astonishment. 
"How can you still not understand after all 
these years?"

He felt his mouth tighten stubbornly in 
mulish self-defense. It would help a hell of 
a lot more if people would just tell him 
what they thought he did not understand 
instead of  bashing him over the head with 
his incomprehension. His mother's eyes 
narrowed thoughtfully, then she gestured 
helplessly, as if trying to find the right 
combination of words.

"I don't know him well enough to like him or 
not, Bill. I'm not sure I can even separate 
who he is from who he is to me long enough 
to decide. It's just not that important. 
It's who he is to Dana that's important. 
That's what it's always been."

Bill just looked at his mother blankly. Her 
sigh was sad.

"Did you ever see that movie 'A Few Good 
Men' ?" At his confused nod she smiled a 
painful smile he had never seen before. "Do 
you remember what Demi Moore said when she 
was asked why she defended her client? She 
said it was because he stood on a wall. That 
regardless of whoever else he was, he had 
taken it on himself to place himself between 
the rest of us and the things on the other 
side."

Bill was frozen in place as his mother 
brushed a soft hand across his cheek sadly, 
"That's where they stand, Bill. On a line. 
Protecting us from monsters we can't see."

Bill was not even aware that he had begun to 
shake his head in reflexive rejection.  This 
was crazy. This was Dana they were talking 
about.

"It's not always someone else's family, 
Bill. You have to stop seeing her as a 
little girl playing at soldiers. She is a 
soldier. And she needs him. If you can't 
respect that...you will lose her. She *will* 
sacrifice you if that is the price of  
walking the line. Would you expect anything 
less from a Scully?"

That was when he saw the tears. He just 
stood mute. He had only confusion to offer. 
No answers. He had never had them.

"Ask yourself something, Bill. You believed 
the SEALs. You started to accept that maybe 
the monsters under the bed were real because 
they believed."

Bill flinched at the pity that suddenly 
flashed in his mother's eyes.

"But Bill, why wasn't it enough that Dana 
believed?"

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

Scully watched her partner jog down the 
driveway with mixed feelings. There was more 
she wanted to say to him, more that she 
wanted to ask him, but she needed time to 
process everything that had already been 
said. Her mind still felt dazed from some of 
the things he had told her and she…she badly 
needed to rethink several of the assumptions 
she had taken for granted over the years.

In typical Mulder fashion her partner had 
seen the confusion and taken himself off 
into the night. Although perhaps he had 
things to think about as well. There had 
been something in his eyes, there at the 
end…

Scully stepped into the house and pulled the 
door closed. 

"Is it always like that between you two?"

Scully yelped and had her gun halfway out of 
its holster before her brain identified the 
voice as non-hostile. The sudden locking of 
her shoulder muscles as her brain 
countermanded the reflex threw her off 
balance and she stumbled. Tara's gaze seemed 
unusually perceptive as she stood in the 
shadows and for the first time, Scully had 
the eerie feeling her sister-in-law was 
finally seeing an armed FBI agent instead of 
her husband's sister. 

It was an odd sensation, coming as it did 
when her own perceptions about herself had 
been blown out of the water.

Tara moved forward and Scully was surprised 
and touched to see that she was holding out 
a large mug filled with steaming liquid. The 
tag hanging down the side identified it as 
her favorite brand of non-caffeinated tea 
and she inhaled the aroma gratefully as she 
accepted the offering. She briefly 
considered the fact that Tara did not drink 
this particular brand and wondered if the 
bags were left over from her last visit or 
if her sister-in-law actually kept a box on 
hand. 

"Are you okay?"

Scully wanted to laugh, but knew that she 
would never be able to explain herself. Not 
without getting into a whole lot of history 
she had trouble understanding herself 
sometimes. Okay? Bits and pieces of the 
day's events tumbled through her head. Had 
it really only been twenty-four hours?

She did not know how she felt.

On the one hand, Mulder's revelations had 
put her whole history with the Bureau in a 
new light. Not necessarily an unwanted or 
unpleasant light, but it definitely revealed 
more than she had wanted to know about 
herself. The assumptions she had made...said 
a lot about her. About how she had viewed 
herself. About how maybe she still did. Did 
she?
Had she been fighting the wrong war? 

God. Was she still trying to prove herself 
to her father?

And what about Mulder? What false 
assumptions had she been making there? As 
much as she had needed to know that she was 
not the only one who had lost singularity 
through their partnership, she was terrified 
that she had just lost something she valued 
more.

She had never realized how many of her 
recent assumptions about Mulder, about their 
partnership, she had based on that 
conversation in his hallway. Oh, she had 
taken it with a grain of salt. Despite the 
aborted kiss, she had realized several 
things later which had caused her to take a 
long hard look at what had really happened.

He had been desperate to convince her not to 
leave. She had been too terrified of her own 
emotions to point out that she was leaving 
the FBI, not him. What was she supposed to 
accomplish in Salt Lake City? Without her 
partner. Without the X-Files. How was that 
to have been any help to him at all? 

All he had seen was that she was leaving the 
FBI.  She still did not know how to point 
out that her resignation had been an active 
choice between the quest and the FBI. And 
the FBI lost. Didn't he remember what it had 
been like the first time? God, she had been 
in Quantico and he had been doing wire taps 
and they still managed to chase X-Files. Had 
he honestly thought that with four more 
years and all that history behind them that 
it would be any different?

Although if he was right about the VCS and 
how quickly she would have found herself 
transferred...maybe it hadn't been the 
totally panicked response she had thought it 
was. Would he have followed her to Violent 
Crimes? Had he been planning even then how 
to get them back together?

She had assumed at the time that the kiss 
had mostly been a matter of heightened 
emotions. Wasn't that part of the problem? 
She had always known that she was important 
enough for him to try and give her whatever 
he thought that she wanted...even if it 
wasn't what he would have chosen. Even if he 
mistook need for love.

So she had never really been sure.

But she had hoped.

Nursed a tiny flame and fed it with 
innuendo, close contact and the odd drugged 
confession. The war-zone that was their 
lives just made things worse. They needed 
each other, but in so many ways, they knew 
nothing about each other. She knew the dark 
side of his nightmares, but she did not know 
his favorite color. She knew what music he 
liked, but she did not know where he saw 
himself in five years, in ten years. She did 
not even know if he bothered planning for 
the future. But she suddenly realized that 
these were things she wanted to discover.

<It will happen on a holiday>

In many ways, she had stopped planning for 
the future.

Now, with this new understanding of his 
comments she was wondering if she had nursed 
a flame born of false hopes. Because the 
words she had spoken had echoed those spoken 
in that hallway and had had everything to do 
with their partnership...and nothing to do 
about love.

Ironically, the loss of the latter she could 
live with.

Because love alone was not enough.

When had she first realized this? Mulder 
worried so much that his quest had stolen a 
part of her life. Had looked so devastated 
the first time she had told him that the X-
Files was her life. She wondered sometimes 
if he ever realized that his loneliness had 
more to do with regret for things he had 
never had, than things he had given up in 
pursuit of the truth. Yes, the X-Files had 
been the catalyst to many of the losses in 
her life.

But they were things she would have lost 
anyway.

Would have knowingly thrown away.

Especially if Mulder was telling the truth 
about the VCU.

When had she first realized that dinners and 
movies and Sunday morning interludes in bed 
were nice...but they were not what was 
important. At least, not what was most 
important. Not for her. Oh she wanted them, 
and there were days when loneliness and 
emptiness caught her off guard and she would 
go to work on Monday wondering if she had 
made the right choices. 

Then she would catch that excited gleam in 
Mulder's eye right before he sent them 
jetting off to god knows where to catch god 
knows what. She would be hands deep in an 
autopsy or she would be in the middle of a 
conference room with gory photos tacked to 
the walls, twenty-four cell phones ringing 
continuously and someone having a nervous 
breakdown in the bathroom and she would 
suddenly look around and realize with 
painful intensity that this was where she 
was meant to be. That this was what 
satisfied the rage and demand for justice in 
her soul. 

That this was what she had been born to do.

Most people had a family that was the center 
of their lives and a job that paid the 
bills. Some jobs offered a bit more. 
Prestige. Money. Fame. And some jobs 
demanded your soul. But how do you explain 
to someone who only sees a cost they aren't 
willing to pay that you hand it over gladly. 
Because of duty. Because of honor. 

Because to be denied that opportunity would 
crush something deep inside that was never 
meant to be broken. 

Her partner was not the cause of all the 
pain in her life. 

He was the reward.

Without the emotional support they derived 
from their partnership, she strongly 
suspected they would have burned out long 
ago. Oh they had gotten tired, there were 
times they had gotten discouraged. But they 
were no where near burned out. Where some 
people were able to rely on family, they 
were able to rely on each other. It was a 
good thing too, because she knew her own 
nature. A marriage would never have survived 
her job. She was too insular, too 
emotionally guarded and too driven. 

Mulder managed to get behind her walls 
partly because she had to let him in. She 
could not do the job if she did not let him 
in. She was still driven,  but they were 
both driving in the same direction. And 
Mulder needed her in order to do his job. 
Needed her enough that she was forced  to 
throw herself through her own barriers and 
smack into his. His need was not selfish, 
was not something she could regretfully 
sacrifice to the needs of the job. Because 
his needs were part of the job.

So they fed on each other. 

They purposely threw themselves again and 
again into the battle. Walked knowingly into 
situations that were going to cause them 
pain. And their partnership became both 
blessing and curse. Cause and cure. Because 
the damage that their partnership allowed 
them to heal from, engendered a 
responsibility to go places that others 
could not. No matter the cost. Because they 
knew they could and survive. 

They met each others needs. No matter how it 
might look from the outside looking in, the 
partnership was necessary and essential to 
both of them on so many levels she doubted 
any one could ever untangle them all. But if 
they weren't doing what they needed to do 
and giving each other what they needed to 
give..

...they would never have survived eight 
years together.

As complicated and as simple as that.

An exasperated sigh cut through her musings 
and she came back to find Tara  studying her 
with one part aggravation and four parts 
perplexity. Judging by the temperature of 
the mug in her hand, she had been spaced out 
for at least ten minutes, maybe longer. 

"Personally, I like a hot bath with candles 
when I'm upset."

Scully knew her face must have reflected 
some of her inner thoughts because Tara 
paused and peered over the mug for a long 
moment. Then her mouth tightened and she 
started to get up, her movements jerky. It 
took Scully a moment to grasp that somehow 
she had hurt her sister-in-law's feelings. 
She reached out a hand and touched her arm 
before she got out of reach. Tara read the 
confusion on her face and blinked furiously.

"I know we don't have anything in common. 
Okay? I get that. But I was just...I was 
just..."

Tara collapsed into the chair as she lost 
control of her tears and started to cry. 
Scully barely had time to grab the mug out 
of her hands before it hit the coffee table. 
The next thing she knew, Tara was sobbing 
her heart out as Scully helplessly patted 
her shoulder. She tried to hug her once, but 
Tara's spine stiffened and she hastily 
dropped her arm and restricted herself to 
rubbing small circles on Tara's shoulder.

"Tara? Do you want me to get Bill?"

Tara frantically shook her head and Scully 
prayed Mulder would evidence his 
occasionally exquisite timing by not walking 
in on them anytime in the next fifteen 
minutes. Tara started babbling and between 
the tears and the choking attempts to 
breathe, all she got for the first few 
minutes was something about "Mathew" and 
"scared" and "trying to be strong".

Scully found herself unexpectedly targeted 
by tear-drenched eyes.

"I tried so hard."

Scully kept mumbling "I know" and "It's 
okay" as Tara's voice steadied and her words 
became clear. Inwardly, Scully was beginning 
to wonder if there was something in the 
water. Was there anyone left who had not 
indulged in some form of emotional break-out 
or breakdown?

"Everyone says that your mother is so 
strong. And she is. I admire her so much. 
And Bill admires her. I get so scared when 
he's away at sea. That something is going to 
happen to him. Or to Mathew and he won't be 
here. But I try. And now this. I can't do 
this. You could do this. Couldn't you? "

The appeal caught her totally by surprise. 

"Bill says you're just stubborn. But I know. 
You're a Scully born and bred. That's what 
he says. And I try so hard. But you know 
don't you? I'm nothing like you. I don't 
like being scared. I don't like guns. And I 
like...I like candles and hot baths..."

Her voice wobbled and disintegrated into a 
tiny wail on the last part, but Scully was 
beginning to think she had got at least part 
of the picture.

"Tara? Tara, can I tell you something?"

Her sister-in-law sniffed, "What?"

Scully leaned in, as if revealing some 
desperate secret, but she kept her voice 
level, wanted Tara to hear every word.

"I'm afraid to take a bath."

Tara blinked at her. Scully nodded in 
confirmation.

"It's true."

Tara's lower lip trembled as she fought to 
regain enough control to work out this new 
conundrum.

"I was captured several years back by one of 
the suspects in our case. He had this thing 
about baths and candles." 

Right before he killed his victims, but 
Scully was not about to mention that part of 
things. Tara was already wired enough about 
the current situation, no sense in adding 
more faces to the nightmare. 

"It's okay to be scared. I cried all over 
Mulder when he found me. Ask him. Dana 
Scully, FBI agent crying on her partner's 
shoulder right there in front of God and a 
dozen of the local PD. But guess what... "

Tara blinked big eyes at her.

"It was okay. It really was."

Movement off to her left had her head 
turning, eyes tracking even as Tara 
collapsed against her shoulder. Peripheral 
vision identified her brother and Scully 
eased the gun she had drawn back into its 
holster. Luckily Tara had her eyes closed 
and Bill's view was blocked by his wife's 
body.  His face was tight with frustrated 
anger and Scully could see his hands clench 
and reclench as he fought the impulse to 
grab and hold on.

Scully nudged her sister-in-law. Tara's 
tears slowed slightly as she saw Bill and 
she tried futilely to wipe the evidence from 
her face. A wordless protest from him had 
her checking her hands. Then, after a long 
excruciating moment, she was flying across 
the room. Bill tucked her head under his 
chin as he wrapped his arms around her and 
his gaze as he looked over at his sister was 
enigmatic. Then he nodded slightly and led 
Tara back up the stairs to their bedroom.

Scully heard the door close, and then the 
house was abruptly plunged into silence. In 
the sudden hush, she found herself 
straining, listening for something. Slowly 
she became aware of the tock tock of the 
clock on the mantle, abnormally loud in its 
isolation. Other sounds intruded. The 
scratch of tree limbs against a window, a 
creaking floorboard upstairs and the bang of 
the ductwork as something flexed and 
expanded. Then  the fridge shuddered to life 
and she listened to its low hum with a 
rather mindless melancholy. She was not used 
to silence. 

In DC, there was a constant low grade hum of 
people, of motion, even at night. Cars,  
trucks, the distant wail of sirens and 
footsteps in the hall. Her apartment was 
never really silent. Her motel rooms were 
never really silent. If the couple on her 
left were not knocking down plaster, then it 
was Mulder and his TV on the right. Except 
that the TV never bothered her. Not anymore. 

It filled the silence.

Finally, she considered that if she did not 
move, she would be falling asleep on 
Mulder's bed. Since Mulder's version of 
carrying her upstairs would likely involve a 
shoulder in the stomach - assuming he did 
not just steal her room- she groaned softly 
and forced herself to her feet. She really 
did not want to make two trips, but there 
were weapons in both their duffel bags so 
she lugged most of the luggage upstairs to 
her room leaving the bag with Mulder's 
clothes on the floor near the sofa. He could 
move it into Mathew's room later. Her 
partner knew where the bathroom was, but she 
left the light on in the kitchen to let him 
know it was okay to forage if he wanted. 

She had just finished in the bathroom and 
was crawling in under the covers when she 
heard the front door open. Her muscles 
instinctively tensed until she recognized 
Mulder's footsteps. By the time he had taken 
a brief shower she was almost asleep. 
Almost. It  was not until he made his way 
back downstairs that she realized what she 
was waiting for. A slight smile touched her 
lips as she heard the TV come to life and 
she passed into dreamless unconsciousness.

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

Mulder let the hot water of the shower pound 
down over his shoulders, erasing the 
evidence of his run. He had mostly meant to 
give his partner some space, but had found 
the confusion in his own mind demanding an 
outlet. 

He had not been lying, that day in the 
hallway. The day he  had told her that he 
did not know if he could do the work alone. 
And not just for the reasons that she might 
have thought. Not just because together they 
were a better investigative team and not 
just because her rationalism allowed him to 
go further without falling of the edge of 
reality. Not even because she was the one 
person in his adult life who had had no 
personal agenda, who had never seen "Spooky" 
Mulder and his freakish abilities as a one 
way ticket up the ladder of ambition. 

He almost smiled as he remembered the first 
dressing down he had gotten for taking off 
without her. He could not recall now if he 
had cracked any stupid jokes. Probably. More 
than likely, if only to cover his ass about 
the goofy grin that kept trying to escape. 
Because in one angry - and man, had she been 
angry - tirade she ignored the fact of his 
success, gave no quarter for the insight 
that had acquired it and demanded nothing 
less than complete respect from him as a 
partner. No sidelong looks or sighs about 
the price one paid to work with a genius 
even as avarice gleamed in flat, dead eyes.  
She took hobnailed combat boots and tromped 
merrily all over the brilliance that had 
been his curse and his "get out of jail 
free" card all his life. The success , her 
actions implied, was not nearly enough.

She wanted him.

She wanted a partner. No excuses accepted. 
The implicit statement being that his 
presence in her life, his gun at her back, 
his back to guard, was infinitely more 
important than a "closed" on the cover of 
the  casefile. Any leeway she granted him in 
later years came only as a right he earned 
by being her partner. And by redefining his 
definition of partner, she gave him the 
freedom to redefine himself as other things. 
Potential things. Things he had stopped 
hoping that he could be.    

He doubted that she would ever know how 
important that had been.

Because two are only stronger together, if 
they each are whole in and of themselves.  

Now that the whole had become so much 
greater for being made of two, however, one 
was no longer sufficient. Had she even 
understood what he was trying to tell her 
that day? He did not become a whole person 
because she healed him, or because she 
completed some  broken construct of a man. 
He became a whole person because he had 
healed himself. Because of her. For her. For 
himself. 

She made him whole because he was no longer 
he of him, but he of them. And though he 
could survive as he not them, the loss of 
what they were capable of when they were 
them just might be enough to kill him. Not 
right away. Not immediately. But someday, 
somewhere - when he was tired, or hurting or 
too depressed to really care anymore - he 
would turn, expecting to see her, expecting 
her eyes to tell him what she saw…and the 
lack of her would hold him frozen for one 
infinite second too long.

And he would die. 

Not that it would really be him. The he that 
lived within the potential of them would 
already have ceased to exist. He supposed 
that he would still work with others in the 
simple things. Enjoy it even. But those 
situations where everything came down to 
trust and reflex.... When she was not beside 
him, he still knew she was somewhere, ready 
to come charging to the rescue, waiting for 
him to come back. His shadowy enemies had 
understood too late that originally, all he 
had been fighting for was Samantha. After 
they gave her to him, he had had a reason to 
start fighting for himself.

The thought that this might someday cease to 
be true was the root of his worst 
nightmares.

He supposed he could try to fill any hole 
she left with a wife, with a family. Maybe. 
Then he would spend every day praying to a 
God he did not believe in that since sex was 
the one area they had managed to keep 
separate for themselves that it would not be 
tainted by her absence. Yet how could he 
ever explain to a woman who thought her 
husband was supposed to be her best friend 
as well as her lover, that somehow, for him, 
it was no longer enough. That love and 
friendship had merged with comradeship and 
oath-bound duty to form a new creation that 
- for lack of a better word - he called 
partner?

Sex was just biology.

He had thought he had the answer to what 
they were, once. He had looked at the agents 
and officers who managed two significant 
relationships, two parallel marriages, one 
of love and one of dependence and thought 
that he had simply found someone who was 
capable of filling both roles. That they 
were merely confused as to where the lines 
were drawn. Maybe that was part of where 
they had started. But they had taken bits of 
each and created a third reality that still 
refused to encompass the sexuality of one- 
yet filled all the emotional demands of 
both.

A relationship subject to the terrors, fears 
and vulnerabilities of both. They seemed to 
work outside the rules so often, that Scully 
had become the only constant in his life. 
They so lost themselves - in the them that 
they became - that he had begun to think 
that in self-defense, they had created an 
arbitrary role they called lover and used it 
to signify all the lines they were not yet 
ready to cross. 

Or were too terrified to consider.

Because the they that was them was a hungry 
beast that could demand everything in the 
name of evolution and there were still 
things that needed to belong only to he or 
she. Once those things were relinquished, 
there was no going back. There might be no 
way to preserve the they from the he and the 
she that could tear it apart in suicidal 
anger and resentment if they moved too fast 
or too far or to places the individual was 
not absolutely ready to go. He valued what 
they had too highly to risk it carelessly. 
Despite the potential of the they that they 
could become, he would do anything to  
protect the they that they already were 
against any threat - anything or anyone.

Even the he that was him.

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

Bill Scully Residence
Day 37
0725 hrs


The sound of arguing woke her, but it was 
the smell of fresh brewed coffee that got 
her out of bed. Padding down the stairs she 
nearly tripped over half a truckload of gear 
spread across the living room floor. The 
front door was open and she could see Harris 
and Lewis off-loading more gear from Bill's 
minivan.  She also could swear that she 
recognized the male voices coming from the 
kitchen.

She paused in the doorway to absorb the 
bizarre scene before her. Tara was standing 
by the stove flipping pancakes onto a stack 
large enough to feed a fleet. Mulder's 
cellular was glued to his ear while he used 
his free hand to pour glasses of orange 
juice. By the stack of plates in the sink, 
the other five members of their little FBI 
army had already eaten.  Bill, obviously co-
opted by his wife, was mixing a large bowl 
of pancake batter while staring suspiciously 
at Langly as the Lone Gunman alternated 
between  forking in a mouthful of pancakes 
and rescuing his hair from Mathew's 
fascinated grasp. In between mouthfuls 
Langly added his own high volume opinion to 
the debate raging between Frohike and Byers-
both of whom were also working their way 
through stacks that would have done a 
lumberjack proud. The debate seemed to 
center around fiber optic cable 
vs...something.

 Byers caught sight of her and his eyes 
widened and he choked slightly. Frohike 
swiveled his head and grinned. 

"Fetching ensemble, Agent Scully."

She groaned mentally. She should have known 
better than to come downstairs wearing only 
shirt and boxers. Truthfully, the barnacles 
in the basement had slipped her mind. She 
was just considering smacking Frohike for 
the way his eyes hesitated at breast level 
when she noticed that both Bill and Mulder 
were looking in the same place. What the 
hell?

She looked down and froze.  Oh shit. She had 
forgotten.  How had she gotten this one? 
Damn Mulder's memory anyway. Oh wait...blue, 
blue...yes! She was in the clear on this 
one. She bared her teeth at her partner who 
was eyeing her with an oddly unreadable 
expression on his face.

Langly looked up. "Hey! How come she's 
wearing your Knicks jersey."

He yelped suddenly and from the trajectory 
Scully assumed that Byers was the one who 
kicked him. She tried to look kick-ass 
stern, she really did. But the look on 
Langly's face did her in. She started to 
laugh. 

"Because he bled all over my blue silk 
blouse, that's why." 

Three identical expressions said it all. 
What the hell was she doing wearing silk in 
the field? She almost sighed. Given Mulder's 
proclivity for bleeding over everything she 
owned as well as various trips through bush, 
sewers and gravesites, she was beginning to 
wonder about that herself. Tara had the 
right idea. Something less expensive and 
more disposable. Maybe she could find out 
where she had gotten those tank tops....

Mulder abruptly grinned at her, "I wondered 
where that one went."

Scully picked through his words for hidden 
subtext. Did he know? 

Frohike grunted, "Looks better on her than 
it ever did on you."

Scully met her sister-in-law's laughing 
glance and  they both turned  to study 
Mulder consideringly. Her partner suddenly 
looked uncomfortable and Scully gave into 
impulse and bent close enough to whisper in 
Frohike's ear, "That's a matter of opinion." 
She grinned as the Gunman started to choke.

Grabbing the seat next to Byers she  took 
the plate and juice that Mulder handed 
across to her and beat out Langly for the 
last three pancakes on the table. He looked 
mournfully over at Tara who just shook her 
head in amazement and grabbed the bowl from 
Bill's hands. Scully wondered if she should 
warn her just how much Mulder and the Three 
Musketeers could eat. Oh well, she would 
figure it out soon enough. 

She glanced over at Frohike and cocked an 
eyebrow.  He gestured toward the equipment 
in Byers hands. From the looks of it, it was 
the same equipment they used to check  for 
bugs.

"Friend of a friend is a sales rep for a 
company which sells Lear jets. He was flying 
a plane down to a customer last night and 
offered to give us a lift."

Byers and Langly were nodding. Then Langly 
piped up.

"Yeah, like when Mulder said you needed 
someone good and we found out it was your 
family, we wanted to make sure it was done 
right. There are some okay people here, 
but..." 

He shrugged and Scully bit back a smile as 
she met amused hazel eyes over the top of 
Langly's head. Mulder slapped him on the 
back as she intoned solemnly, "Your kung-fu 
is the best."

Langly grinned around a mouthful of pancake 
and triumphantly smacked palms with Frohike. 
Byers leaned in and cautiously touched her 
hand, "You can count on us. We brought 
everything we could think of. Just tell us 
what you need."

Langly and Frohike both nodded earnestly and 
Scully had to fight back a sudden urge to 
cry. She settled for a smile and a soft 
"Thanks guys". 

They understood.

She looked up to find her brother studying 
the trio with a mixture of  confusion and 
disbelief and she found herself tensing with 
a surprising degree of protective 
defensiveness. The Gunmen were paranoid, 
geeky , more than a little strange...and 
they were some of the best friends she had 
ever had. She did not play Doom, she was not 
a member of the Hackers Club and they did 
not spend week-ends together. She was not 
quite sure how she would classify their 
relationship. But it occurred to her, that 
outside of Mulder, they were the people she 
could count on if she got into a jam.

How very strange to suddenly realize that 
their loyalty extended past Mulder to her. 
But that was why they were here. For her. No 
questions asked. Ready to break laws, take 
names and risk getting their asses kicked. 

If Bill said one word to hurt their feelings 
he was shark bait.

She cleared her throat, "Bill, in case 
Mulder has not had time to make 
introductions, I'd like you to meet arguably 
three of the best hackers in the country, if 
not on the planet. Better yet, they know 
more about surveillance equipment and 
security systems than the entire FBI 
Computer Division put together. They've 
assisted us on more than one critical case 
and excepting Mulder there's no one I'd 
trust more with my personal safety or that 
of my family."

There it was. She might not believe that 
they had much chance against the bad guys 
when it came to the physical stuff. There 
was no doubt that their enthusiasm could 
lead them to be as headstrong and naive as 
Mulder upon occasion. But their hearts were 
in the right place. Where it counted, she 
trusted them. She really did.

The Gunmen had straightened shoulders self-
consciously and all three started to smile 
in surprised pride as her unexpected words 
of praise reached them. She locked eyes with 
her brother, smile fixed, eyes grim. She 
would take his shit toward her, and she 
would take his attitude toward Mulder. But 
she would be damned if she would let him 
hurt people who had come all this way just 
to help and whose feelings could be trampled 
a hell of a lot more easily. 

The Gunmen were oblivious to the 
undercurrents, but Mulder had shifted his 
stance slightly, wordlessly backing his 
partner. Since he was the one Bill had 
wanted to get down here in the first place,  
Scully assumed that his opinion counted for 
once. Bill's face went curiously blank as he 
absorbed both Mulder's and his sister's 
attitude. Neither agent was able to read 
anything of the thoughts raging behind that 
expressionless mask, but  he finally stepped 
forward and offered his hand , letting the 
guys introduce themselves.  Mulder relaxed 
and Scully smiled.

Message received and understood.

The next two hours were spent mapping out a 
basic plan of attack. Ignoring the 
incredulous look on Bill's face when he 
heard her ask the guys to do a baseline 
security sweep for bugs and surveillance 
equipment, Scully discussed equipment 
options with the trio while Mulder got on 
the phone.

None of the missing items were valuable, but 
all had a position of some importance in the 
Scully household. A favorite book that was 
read to Mathew every night, a mug that Tara 
used for her morning tea, Bill's diary. All 
items that could have simply been 
misplaced...but which they were sure had not 
been. The very blankness of her partner's 
expression told Scully that the nature of 
the items disturbed him. Hell, they 
disturbed her. If this was a stalker, this 
was something directed at the entire family 
and the choices suggested an intimate 
familiarity with the routine of the 
household. 

The bastard had not just been in the house, 
he had been watching it.

Closely.

Mathews and Harris had headed off to the 
local field office to collect the MethBomber 
casefiles that FedEx had delivered from 
Washington. It was determined that the 
easiest way to run the two investigations 
simultaneously was to set up the MethBomber 
command center here at the house and use the 
field office Command Center already set up 
for that purpose for the Navy case. Scully 
left Landers and the Gunmen busily measuring 
rooms and lines of sight and tracked her 
partner down. Bill had tagged along behind 
the Gunmen until he realized that they were 
seriously discussing the chances of Them 
intercepting the feed if they used remote 
camera equipment. When he had asked who They 
were , the Gunmen had just mumbled something 
about the government and left it at that.

Scully did not try to explain.

Bill had given her one disbelieving look, 
but mindful of her earlier warning had 
chosen to take Tara and Mathew to the base 
for the day. Vickery and Lewis volunteered 
for escort duty and Scully made him promise 
not to go anywhere without one of the agents 
as back-up. He was gearing up to protest 
when Mulder looked over and explained that 
if they did have a serial stalker on their 
hands, the change in routine might act as a 
stressor. Which meant that they had no way 
to know how he would react. Their presence 
could actually be the thing that triggered 
him. 

Bill had taken one look at his wife's 
terrified face and acquiesced.

So she was alone when she was finally able 
to corner Mulder in the unfinished basement. 
Several tables and chairs took up almost 
half of the room and formed a rudimentary 
command center. Several large pieces of 
whiteboard and corkboard were already 
affixed to the cement walls and several 
taped together extension cords were strung 
across nails hastily driven into exposed 
joists. Bill had mentioned that the phone 
company was coming by latter today to 
installed cables and jacks for the computers 
which the Navy would deliver this evening 
along with half a dozen military cots and 
army blankets. 

She stepped around a pile of rolled up 
sleeping bags and settled onto a nearby 
packing crate-probably left over from the 
last move- and watched him as he prowled 
around the perimeter of the room. She did 
not get the feeling that he was actually 
looking for anything in particular, more 
that he too wrapped up in his thoughts to 
sit still. Mulder claimed that motion helped 
him think. He finally stopped dead and after 
staring into space for another couple of 
minutes, turned his head towards her.

"Those last three items, Scully"

Scully tilted her head as she thought about 
it. "Because they were taken so close 
together?"

As far as Tara knew, things had been going 
missing for weeks. She could not even swear 
to which ones were actually missing and 
which ones were just misplaced. But the last 
three items both she and Bill would swear 
to. 

Mulder was shaking his head, "Because they 
are more personal."

Scully frowned, "More personal than the 
missing clothes? The photos?"

Mulder waved his hand in a general 
discarding motion," Think about it ,Scully. 
None of the earlier items embodied any risk, 
any knowledge of the family. They were 
general items found in the first few rooms 
he would have come to if he entered by 
either of the first floor doors. The living 
room, the laundry room. Basic snatch and 
run. But the others...he not only had to go 
further into the house, he knew those items 
had personal significance in the household 
routine."

Dread shot down her spine. She believed him. 
He was too good at this for her not to 
believe him and it echoed what her own 
instincts were telling her. But she needed 
more than gut instinct. She had to consider 
the possibility of other options.

"Tara claims that she never left the mug 
out, but if she used it every morning then 
it was probably in the first row of the most 
convenient shelf. He might have simply 
grabbed the first one he saw...that does not 
mean he saw her drink out of it."

Mulder's eyes turned inward as he considered 
how this theory might affect the emerging 
profile in his head. Scully continued.

"Tara read this book to Mathew every night. 
Maybe she placed it somewhere other than the 
bookshelf, or in a different manner than all 
the rest."

"Drawing attention to it?"

She nodded. "And Bill's diary would have 
been in his bedside table. According to him, 
there wasn't much else there."

Mulder stood silent for a few seconds, then 
shook his head sadly, "It still fits." he 
told her softly. " The mug is a possible, 
but the book and the diary were actually in 
the bedrooms. Combined with the other two , 
he's watching them Scully. And he's getting 
closer. Further into the house. More risk of 
getting caught. Even considering the fact 
that we don't know for sure which items went 
missing when-there may even be items gone 
that we do not know about- these last three 
items vanished within the last two weeks."

Mulder paused, then looked again at the 
image in his head, "He's escalating, 
Scully."

She closed her eyes briefly. "How long?"

He just shook his head and shrugged.

While the Gunmen laid cable and installed 
cameras with Agent Landers,  Mulder and 
Scully brushed off personal protection 
skills and  moved furniture to eliminate 
blind spots and places where an intruder 
could lurk to catch someone off guard. 

Bill had previously taken several security 
steps of his own. Hedges and bushes were 
already trimmed away from windows and 
walkways. Motion-activated  lights had been 
installed and the basement and bathroom 
windows replaced with glass block. While 
none of this had deterred the intruder, it 
at least meant that they were able to 
restrict their activities relatively 
unobtrusively to the indoors. Well, as 
unobtrusive as they could get all else 
considered. 

Bill's mini-van, Tara's Volvo, two 
government fleet sedans, a semi-permanent 
Pizza Pizza delivery car and the sudden 
addition of ten adults to the household were 
not exactly low profile. The senior Navy 
plumber blinked as he watched Scully duck 
and vault through an obstacle course of 
wiring and computer parts while his 
assistant stared open-mouthed at the 
shoulder rigs and weapons all of the agents 
present were displaying openly.

The carpenters just kept their heads down as 
they dodged Mathews, Harris and fifty FedEx 
boxes, and lugged in more building 
materials. The Navy ratings delivering the 
cots and computers from the base found it 
more disturbing that no one seemed to be 
paying any attention to the male shrieks and 
screams coming from the basement. Mulder 
cocked his head thoughtfully. "Think the 
plumber shorted out one of the computers, 
Scully?"

His partner just grinned. 

By late afternoon, Langly had installed a 
small satellite dish on the roof of the 
house. The fact that it gave a 360 degree 
view of the surrounding yard and street was 
something only the inhabitants of the house 
knew. Smaller cameras covered the blind 
spots missed by the "dish" and  all of it, 
outdoor and indoor surveillance was 
connected to a bank of computer monitors set 
up in the basement.  

Once they were sure that the house was as 
secure as they could make it, Mulder went 
jogging - and not incidentally checking out 
surrounding streets and homes - while the 
Gunmen set up a surveillance post. After 
three hours, they were as certain as they 
could be that the no one was watching the 
house-assuming the UNSUB did not live in one 
of the surrounding houses. 

Bill and Tara came home just in time to see 
Scully lower herself over the edge of the 
roof, pop out the gable vent, and slither 
into the attic. Ignoring Vickery and Lewis, 
Bill charged into the house only to slam to 
a halt as he saw five people clustered 
around a monitor sitting on the coffee table 
in front of the couch. Bill had no way to 
know that the computer gave Mulder access to 
the same feeds playing down in the basement 
only in a more discrete and password 
protectable fashion. There was another one 
just like it in Scully's room.

"What the Hell is going on here?!" 

Langly turned to him and frowned as he 
muttered something about motion sensors and 
time delays. Byers , Frohike and Landers 
ignored him while Mulder just grinned and 
waved a five dollar bill in the air. "Your 
sister is about to go down in flames."

Bill's face reddened dangerously, "My sister 
just about broke her neck climbing off the 
roof!"

All five snapped to attention satisfactorily 
and Bill almost felt vindicated by their 
dismayed expressions until Langly toggled 
the screen to another feed and squawked 
indignantly, "No way. No friggin' way, man. 
How the hell did she do that?"

Bill's jaw dropped as Byers whistled softly 
in admiration while his sister's idiot 
partner wavered between looking chagrined 
and looking ridiculously proud as Frohike 
turned an astonished face towards him.

"How the heck did she get on the roof 
without us seeing her?"

"Back that up."

"Shit, we didn't catch that blind spot. See 
there? She must have walked along the fence 
to avoid the motion sensors and gone up the 
chimney.  Shit. "

"Looks like you owe your partner dinner, 
Mulder."

Bill became aware of the fact that his wife 
was still standing in the doorway holding 
his son. He turned to find her staring at 
the wall. A wall which used to have a 
painting hanging on it but which now sported 
an ugly old-fashioned mirror that had been 
banished to the basement. It had been a gift 
from Tara's great-aunt so they had never 
been able to throw it out. The last time it 
had seen the light of day was the 
Thanksgiving two years ago when she had 
stayed for the week-end. It was then that 
other changes started making themselves 
known. The sofa, the chair. And where the 
hell had the desk been moved too?

What the Hell was going on here?

It wasn't until everyone stopped and stared 
that he realized that he had bellowed that 
at the top of his Navy trained lungs. 
Christ, they had probably heard him in South 
Dakota. In the silence, the sound of Mulder 
cracking open one of those goddamn sunflower 
seeds scraped along his nerves like nails on 
a blackboard. 

Reflected motion in the mirror grabbed at 
his peripheral vision and he turned his head 
to see his sister calmly descending the 
stairs. Angles suddenly meshed and came 
together in his head and he realized that 
not only did she have a perfect reflected 
view of the living room, but that anyone 
sitting on the sofa had a good view of the 
top of the stairs. 

Lord Jesus God, this was really happening. 
They were taking this seriously. This was 
really happening. Even as part of his mind 
wanted to sneer at them for playing James 
Bond, another part was starting to gibber in 
panic. This was not what he had expected. 
Was it? He had expected them to come down 
and baby-sit. That was all. Be an armed 
presence to reassure Tara. And maybe...maybe 
Mulder would even laugh at him. 

The profiler amused by the Navy man crying 
wolf.

He had had no illusions that the FBI agent 
would be under any compulsion to be polite 
about his derision. Bill had expected to 
lose this round in the pissing contest. He 
had thought he was prepared for that. He had 
been willing to sacrifice his pride for 
Tara's peace of mind.

Only Mulder was not laughing. His sister was 
playing Batgirl, five more FBI agents had 
taken over his basement and three men he had 
never met had flown thousands of dollars 
worth of equipment  across the country 
simply because they had heard that his 
sister's family might be in danger. God, did 
he even know anyone who would drop 
everything to help him on a maybe? Someone 
who would fly thousands of miles not even to 
help him directly, but help a member of his 
family they had never met? 

Someone, he thought almost guilty, besides 
the people already in this room?

He had people who owed him favors. People to 
whom he owed favors. But those were just the 
standard military trade-offs and sleight of 
hand that were the bread and butter of a 
career officer. Little things. Things that 
bent the Navy rules, but usually did not 
break them. Things that were easy. 

Tara, his mother, Dana...and now, it would 
appear, Mulder. Anyone else? It struck him 
suddenly that he was not absolutely sure 
that Tara's family or Charlie's brother-in-
law could be called upon for any sort of no-
questions-asked help. Yet he had never 
doubted that Mulder would show up. 

Well of course not. The bastard owed the 
Scully family and he knew it. But as much as 
he tried to make himself believe that that 
was the only reason the man had showed,  
part of his mind, the same part that 
underlay the foundations of his honor and 
belief in himself, ruthlessly forced him to 
admit the truth.

He had never told Dana that he had overheard 
her conversation with her partner that 
Christmas. No need to specify which one. 
THAT Christmas said it all. She had never 
doubted once that Mulder would come. That 
had pissed him off almost as much as it had 
hurt. She never asked her family for a damn 
thing...not even when she was dying. But she 
would actually ask from him what she would 
not accept from her family. And the truth 
was something Bill had been avoiding for 
several years. She had not even been asking 
so much as granting permission. And both of 
them had known it. 

Mulder had belonged, her family did not. 

They did not know the secret passwords.

Bill had hated him for that.

When had Dana stopped being proud of him? 
When had a little sister's defiance turned 
to a woman's contempt? She did not hate 
him...but god,sometimes he thought she 
wanted to. She had stood outside the family 
circle and watched with that blank 
expression on her face. As if she had no 
idea who they were or why she was even 
there. He had wanted to grab her and shake 
her until she looked at him with some god 
damn emotion in her eyes and became his 
little sister again. The little girl who had 
loved her older brother, the teen-ager who 
had spoken with such passion and conviction 
about medicine. He even wanted the FBI agent 
with the defiant smile, that ridiculously 
shiny new gun and a tin badge so fresh the 
leather wallet creaked.

A fresh wave of resentment tainted by guilt 
swept over him as he contemplated the man 
who had taken his sister. Had taken both of 
them. What the hell was it about him that 
kept his sister tied to his side? He could 
understand now that maybe the X-Files had 
some validity. That maybe there really were 
things that went bump in the night. By why 
was it so important to her to stay?

Was she that unable to admit that she had 
made a mistake?  Was it just that she had to 
make the losses in her life mean something? 
Or maybe it was something more unhealthy. 

Mulder's father had been an alcoholic.  He 
remembered his mother saying something to 
that effect. Children of alcoholics were 
supposed to have the same symptoms as their 
parents even if they never took a drink in 
their lives. Was that it?   Was she so 
caught up in the cycle of giving and need 
that she could no longer see the abuse? He 
could see how it could have happened. 
Artificially tied together by the FBI, 
confused by the words duty and honor, maybe 
she was trapped in some emotionally 
dysfunctional cycle she did not know how to 
recognize. To escape.

How do you help someone who won't help 
themselves?

Confused, resentful and hurt, Bill sunk into 
a sullen silence that left him mostly 
ignored by the US Marshal wannabes. Tara had 
taken Mathew up for his nap and never 
returned. If he went upstairs, he would 
probably find her stretched out on the bed 
next to their son's crib. She had gotten to 
the point where she found it difficult to 
let Mathew out of her sight for even a few 
minutes.   

Wanting suddenly to be a part of something. 
To know that he was somewhere where he was 
welcomed and belonged, Bill joined her.

*******************************************
MethBomber Command Center - Bill Scully's 
Basement
Day 38
1035 hours

"It's official. Possibles 'F', 'K', 'LL', 
and 'MZ' have been accounted for. The ISU 
will be faxing over confirmation this 
afternoon."

A slightly resigned sigh swept the room and 
the dry leaf rustling of paper echoed as 
pages were flipped and four more names were 
crossed out. Four more names that the local 
PD had confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt 
did not represent the man they were trying 
to find. Three years. Three years of lists, 
of cross checking, of having the local PD 
physically confirm with at least one 
relative or close friend that the dead man  
or prison inmate was indeed the man his ID 
claimed him to be. Three years of exhuming 
John Does killed in car crashes, plane 
crashes, bar brawls and alleyway drug 
overdoses to drill his teeth and check the 
resulting DNA strands against the known 
profile of one  Joseph Craig Gamble. 

Three years out of the lives of countless 
police officers and federal agents as well 
as various medical and other support 
personnel. 

Searching, not for Gamble's whereabouts, but 
for confirmation of his death. A 
confirmation they might never get, but which 
they had to make every effort to obtain. 
Confirmation which could narrow their search 
dramatically, telling them whether they were 
searching for one madman or two.

Mulder rubbed at his throbbing temples and 
wished heartily that his partner did not 
have ESP when it came to Tylenol overdoses. 
If he did not have a migraine-sized headache 
at the time, he would by the time she was 
done with him. Even if he was willing to put 
up with the lectures and the stomach pains - 
not to mention the potential side effects - 
she had hidden the damn bottle. He gave the 
tiny container of  Lavender-Peppermint 
Temple Balm sitting on the table top an evil 
glare, then growled, grabbed it and sniffed 
it cautiously. 

Vickery's nostrils flared at the unexpected 
scent but all five agents had their eyes 
glued with satisfactory diligence on the 
papers in front of them when he scowled 
around the table. Damn fool idea. What the 
hell was this supposed to do that six Extra-
Strength Tylenol could not do better? 
Ignoring Mike's stifled grin he absently 
rubbed the lotion into his temples and above 
his eyebrows as he studied the uncooperative 
casefiles in front of him.

The tough thing about it was that he could 
see why they thought these new murders were 
being committed by the same guy. ISU was not 
ignoring the possibility that there was a 
copy cat, but all of the evidence appeared 
to support the theory that the person 
responsible for the new murders was the same 
man whose extracurricular activities had 
killed 23 people and injured dozens more 
when his Poe's graveyard blew a farmhouse to 
bits three years before. 

It looked like the same guy. 

Random victims snatched from the street, the 
parking lot and the shoulder of the highway 
across four years and at least fourteen 
states. Raped repeatedly. Chained in a 
sealed, sound-proofed basement until the 
victims starved  or died of internal 
injuries created by fist, foot and blunt 
force trauma.

It smelled like him.

Bodies left to rot. The living dying amid 
the corpses of the already dead. Human 
carcasses stacked like cordwood in a sealed 
chamber where the putrefaction process broke 
dead flesh into chemical components. The 
stacking and banking of dirt meticulously 
designed to enhance and speed the anaerobic 
production of methane. The cautious addition 
of purchased methane in careful amounts. 
Amounts precisely calculated to leave the 
fuel to air concentrations just below 
explosive threshold. Waiting for rotting 
flesh to add just enough to the mixture and 
push it into the red zone. 

In the end, the already dead killed the last 
of the living.

It looked right. It smelled right. It even 
sounded right.

But it did not feel right.

Silently he damned the years that had 
separated the first crime scene from the 
explosion. There had been too much time, too 
much damage. Too little forensic evidence. 
Most of the bones were shattered, breakage 
patterns due to body blows lost amidst the 
tiny slivers that was all that was left 
after the detonation. There just was not 
enough to be sure. 

All  three of the recent sites contained 
between 35 and 60 bodies. Gamble's bunker 
had contained between 250 and 500. If the 
farmhouse explosion had triggered the recent 
spate of murderous explosions, the latest 
Methbomber was too impatient to wait for 
nature to take its course as it had the 
first time. He wanted his explosion and he 
wanted it now. The patterns of the murders 
were the same, but the addition of purchased 
methane was new. The methane produced by the 
rotting victims simply pushed the levels 
into the threshhold were it would explode. A 
form of trigger, more than anything. 

Mulder considered the facts of the intial 
explosion one more time.

Five hundred bodies.

The FBI agent wanted to be shocked. The 
profiler just wondered  how many more like 
him hid among the statistics of the missing.  
Five hundred. Too many zeros to give human 
faces to the victims and not enough to earn 
the title of atrocity.  Too many of the 
victims remaining faceless, voiceless, lost 
in the mists of time. Nameless forever.  
Overwhelmed instincts screamed that this 
should be seen as worse , much worse than 
the murder of four innocents. Eight. Twelve. 
Yet what defined worse? The mind balked at 
granting one madman the same status as that 
of Hitler and Himmler. But what lies between 
the ten of the serial killer and the ten 
million of the Third Reich?

Bosnia. 200,000.

East Timor. 200,000.

Somolia. 500,000.

Brazilian Indian Populations. Extinct. 


There was a difference between the evil of a 
madman and the collective madness of a 
nation.  

Economies of scale.

And the fact that one FBI agent with a gun 
could take care of the madman. Self-defense, 
Your Honor. Quid pro quo.  

Mulder rested his head lightly against high 
gloss photos that recalled the aftermath of 
Auswich more than the bucolic backyard of 
the American Dream. What was the real face 
of evil? The madness of the predator that 
cannot help his own actions, or the madness 
of the many, that could ... and did not.

He was not hunting the real monsters.

Just the ones he could find.

Slender fingers uncapped the bottle of 
lotion and Mulder sighed as gentle hands 
pulled his head back and slowly rubbed the 
minty lotion into his temples. He kept his 
eyes closed and concentrated on the easy 
rise and fall of her breathing as the back 
of his head was pulled against her body.

"Are we fighting the wrong war, Scully?" The 
murmured words were soft, but he knew she 
heard them. She did not answer.

"I should hate him. Five hundred dead, my 
god. I should hate him. Eight years ago, I 
would have." He opened his eyes and tipped 
his head back to see her staring down at him 
solemnly.

"We've seen worse."

Blue eyes closed briefly, then flicked to 
the photos on the table. For a long moment, 
she did nothing. Then she nodded sadly.

They had seen worse.

Maybe not in terms of bodies. Although god 
knows how high the Consortium body count was 
by now. But in terms of selfhood denied and 
indignities delivered upon the unwitting and 
the unwilling. In terms of choice. The 
serial killer had no choice. He was what he 
was. They could fear him. They would  kill 
him, given the opportunity. 

But it was not worth the time or the energy 
to hate him.

Not anymore.

He was not even worth meditation. He had 
nothing to teach about the human condition. 
There was nothing there to learn.  He did 
not represent the dark desires that lurked 
in the hearts of men. He was just broken. 
Could not be fixed. He was not that 
important. Simply a rabid dog too dangerous 
to be allowed to live.

A bargain basement monster.

They had seen worse.

"So what do you think?"

Scully frowned, then shrugged, "He is or he 
isn't."

Lewis strangled a giggle when Mulder growled 
softly. 

"I was hoping for something a bit more 
useful, Agent Scully." 

"Ah." Scully's lips pursed thoughtfully," 
How's this then?" She winked at Landers who 
was watching with surprise and Vickery who 
abruptly sat forward, poised in eager 
anticipation of the punchline. Scully leaned 
to place her mouth next to his ear and said 
huskily.

"It's not him."

For a split second, Mulder's brain 
disconnected from his body as his neurons 
fired in a reflex reaction to her tone while 
independent brain synapses closed with a 
snap around her words. Fighting two mutually 
contradictory responses, Mulder just froze, 
mouth open, then he exploded out of his 
chair. Scully grinned as he clutched her 
shoulders.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Mulder caught the slight emphasis on the 
pronoun and Scully waited patiently as his 
eyes glazed over and he reexamined the 
patterns coming together in his head.

"Shit." He came to with a snap and dashed 
toward the whiteboard and started erasing. 

" Will it stand up?"

Scully sighed, then indicated an unknown," 
It feels wrong, Mulder. But there's so few 
bones left. If he had used a knife I'd have 
scoring marks and there's not enough flesh 
left to make a good case either way. But now 
that I've seen the bodies...It's not him, 
Mulder. Gamble...he hated these people, 
Mulder."

And their newest boy did not. He was 
methodical, meticulous and cold. The ISU 
profile was leaning toward a visionary 
killer. Someone who was doing what he had to 
do, punishing the transgressors of society. 
Oddly enough, there was no semen. Not in or 
on the bodies. It was one of things that had 
bothered Mulder. He was either getting off 
on pictures and fetishes, or he was that 
controlled. 

Only now it looked like they had a copycat. 
One who had followed the script precisely. 
Which meant a whole new book of needs and 
twisted desires. This guy was not writing 
himself into the script. His ego was not 
hanging out for all to see. So what was he 
getting off on?

"Fuck."

Scully just sighed again and nodded. The 
asshole had details. Really good details. 
Unfortunately, there had been so many people 
involved with this case that it was going to 
be hard to know for sure if the security 
measures had held. That was not even 
considering the possibility that Gamble may 
have had an accomplice--possibly a lover-- 
who was just now taking up the torch. Hell, 
they had not even totally ruled out the 
possibility that this had started as some 
sort of twisted Manson-type group situation. 
For the first murders anyway. The latest 
murders were definitely done flying solo.

One of a defunct cult triggering twenty 
years after the fact?

Mulder rocked back and forth on his heels as 
he sucked his bottom lip in between his 
teeth. "So there's something we haven't seen 
yet."

Scully hesitated, "Maybe. Probably."

Translated, she had not seen a large 
variance in the way the first of the new 
victims was murdered to the method and 
beating patterns of the last. The bastard 
knew what he was doing. He was either a 
serial copycat or he had been practicing.

Either way, it was going to be a bitch to 
sell. The killer's obvious comfort level 
with his craft had been a strong selling 
point for the idea that it was the same guy. 
ISU was strongly leaning toward the theory 
that Joseph Gamble, Jr., who had disappeared 
almost twenty years ago, was either the 
killer or had had a close relationship with 
the killer. Two hundred and fifty victims 
took time to collect. Even if he gathered 
more than one at a time--and in the mid-
seventies that would not have been hard--he 
still needed time and privacy. 

The twenty year time gap and the sudden 
cessation of activity had strongly suggested 
that if the newest murders were being 
committed by Gamble, that he had probably 
been incarcerated for the last two decades. 
Serial killers just did not wake up one 
morning and decide to stop. He had possibly 
been carrying the ID of one of his male 
victims; another reason for the identity 
confirmations. If they could prove that 
Gamble had ceased his murders because he 
himself had been killed or incarcerated, 
they might know for sure one way of the 
other about a potential copycat. 

Particularly if he was dead.

But what if it was not Gamble, himself? 
Mulder had absolutely no problems with 
following Scully's gut on this one. If she 
said that they had a different killer this 
time around, then they had a different 
killer. And now they would need to look more 
closely at the alternate possibilities that 
the ISU and the primary investigative task 
force had only touched on. 

Mulder toyed briefly with the possibilities. 
A lover or a group member suddenly going off 
the rails. Possibly due to some sort of 
anniversary.  If Gamble had indeed been 
incarcerated under another name, possibly he 
had died. Personally, Mulder felt it much 
more likely that the explosion itself was 
the triggering event.  Which led right into 
the possibility that the copycat was someone 
involved with the investigation in some 
capacity. Someone who had access to forensic 
reports and autopsy data. 

The FBI did not exactly leave that lying 
around. 

It was possible that someone, at some level 
was just the pipeline. A friend of a friend, 
a lover or other peripheral party may have 
stolen the information for whatever reasons 
and made it available to someone else. 
Journalists. Supposed journalists. 
Producers, directors, writers, curiosity 
seekers. Shit. They could be bleeding the 
damn information from a hundred places. It 
would be a nightmare just trying to track 
down who had official access to what data. 
Unofficial access was even worse.

But they had to try.

Mathews had squawked as half the contents of 
the whiteboard vanished with four swipes of 
an exuberant hand. Now, watching the two 
agents draft a plan of attack, he narrowed 
his eyes as they fell into an abbreviated 
shorthand he recognized from the ISU but had 
not really expected to see here. A twinge of 
envy flared.

Mike was a good profiler. He knew that. But 
he was a profiler in the truest sense of the 
word. He did character profiles. He did not 
...he did not...well whatever the hell it 
was that Patterson and his Ghouls did and 
had done, Mike did not. Is that what it 
took? He was unaware that his expression, as 
he studied the two lost in their own little 
world, had turned wistful.

A whisper of fabric at his elbow had his 
head turning to see, if he had but known it, 
a mirror of his own envy and regret. He 
reached out a cautious hand and touched her 
forearm lightly.

"They've paid for it in blood, you know." 
His voice was gritty with rough sympathy.

Agent Landers smiled slightly, eyes dark, 
"I'd pay."

Mike shivered slightly, then turned away.  
So would I,  he thought softly. So would I.

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

He had been patient.

He had waited for them to get some sleep. He 
had waited through Saturday as they set up 
their Command Center. Now, he had waited 
through today as they did whatever it was 
they had to do to get organized down in 
their Command Center. He never said a word. 
He bit back desire to demand that Mulder 
finally get off his ass and DO something on 
his case.

That was the reason he had been brought down 
here in the first place.

Not that Bill Scully doubted the importance 
of the other case. Not at all. But the 
MethBomber case was already being 
investigated. Hell it was being investigated 
inside-out and upside-down. He could only 
envy the number of people they had available 
on that investigation. Hell, the ISU itself 
was running the investigation for that 
killer. They probably had profiles coming 
out the ass.

But he had requested Mulder.

He had very deliberately gone out on a limb 
with the Navy brass in order to get his 
sister's partner assigned to the case. And 
Mulder appeared to be sawing it off. Damn 
it. He had been patient. He had every right 
to march in their and at least ASK the man 
whether he was planning to do any work at 
all on the case. The man did know enough to 
realize that the Navy was not going to pick 
up the food bill for their little Command 
Post downstairs and want nothing in return, 
did he?

So why was he hesitating?

He had been standing in the upper hallway 
for almost forty-five minutes as the house 
grew silent. Now, with all the lights out 
and only the flicker of the TV screen from 
the living room telling him that Mulder was 
awake, he was still hesitating. The sour 
fact of the matter was that he had leaned 
heavily on his sister's relationship with 
her partner in order to get them here.  
Neither of them had been under any 
obligation to come. The FBI might ask, but 
there was no damn way they would have 
ordered anybody anywhere while they were 
still on medical leave. No matter how much 
the Navy pleaded.

There it was in a nutshell.

The Navy pleaded. They were the beggars in 
this play. 

They were the ones dying.

That thought was finally enough to get his 
feet moving. Reflexively moving past squeaky 
boards, Bill made his way on silent feet to 
the living room.

"Jesus Christ!"

The words were pulled from him involuntarily 
and he stared in appalled horror at a 
cascade of black and white images flickering 
across the screen.  Mulder never twitched. 
Never even acknowledged his presence, just 
sat there, eyes fixed on a nightmare panoply 
that spoke only of the darkness of which the 
sane mind is capable.

Auswich.

Buchenwald.

Dachau.


The names changed, the images did not. 
Hulking steel furnaces and gas chambers that 
had been designed with only one purpose. The 
mass slaughter of millions of human beings. 
Mass burial pits containing thousands of 
skeletal laborers worked in forced labor 
camps until they dropped in their tracks or 
were shot for their captors amusement. And 
the medical experiments. Body parts frozen 
and then re-thawed to track the advancement 
of gangrene. People forced to high altitudes 
until they died of air embolism so that 
their brains could be dissected and 
examined. 

Bodies stacked like cordwood.

"Human garbage. Tossed on the rubbish heap 
with no more consideration that yesterday's 
coffee grinds."

Bill's horror transferred itself to the man 
sitting motionless on the sofa. How could 
anyone speak so calmly? So distantly. He 
wanted to reach out, turn the ghoulish 
images off and run upstairs and wrap his 
arms around his wife and pretend that he had 
never watched with sick fascination as 
American bulldozers pushed thousands of 
bodies into mass graves, continuing what the 
Nazis did not finish. He knew, in the back 
of his mind he knew that they would have had 
no choice. Cholera. Rats. Contamination of 
the water supply. All of the perils of a 
large amount of rotting flesh left lying 
above ground. It was the same with any 
natural disaster. But this was not natural. 
And it felt like the final indignity.

Was it simply guilt? A horrified and 
frustrated desire to reach out and *do* 
something. Even if nothing would ever make 
things better. At least they could do 
*something*. Unfortunately, he knew his own 
history too well. He remembered what they 
had done. Riots. Protests. All saying the 
same thing.

Send them back.

He closed his eyes as he remembered further 
footage of men and women demanding that the 
refugees be sent back. That they were not 
wanted. That they would take jobs, take 
...what? What could they have ever taken 
that would ever compare to what had been 
taken from them? All they had wanted was a 
home. And they had been greeted by those 
whose hatred had said only, "Send them 
back."

"If it were not for my family, I'd say let 
your little green men take us all."

It was when Mulder turned his head to look 
at him with pity and a touch of distaste 
that he realized what he had said. If it 
were not for my family...

Shit. 

That was the cause. An inability to look 
past the immediate ties and feel empathy for 
the unrelated. The human desire to draw 
tribal lines that said my family, my 
tribe...me. That defines everyone else as 
outsiders and not worth as much 
consideration. The inability to stand up and 
say one simple word.

Us.

He managed to make it to the bathroom before 
he threw up.

When he returned, Mulder had turned his 
attention back to the screen. Why was he 
watching this? What was he seeing? 

"Is that what you think he was doing?"

Mulder looked blank for a moment and Bill 
could physically see him pull himself away 
from wherever it was he had gone. He tried 
again.

"He hates them that much?"

Mulder just continued to look blank. 
"Hatred?"

Then he seemed to shake himself awake.

"That's not hatred. It's not that personal."

A small movement that seemed explosive after 
his lack of motion startled Bill enough that 
he involuntarily flinched. Then he stared 
blankly at the file folder Mulder was 
holding out to him.

"I've gone over the profile your people have 
already worked up. There are a couple of 
early fires, before the murders that I'm not 
totally sure were done by the same guy, but 
it's hard to be sure. I've already faxed the 
investigative team. That's your copy."

Bill held the slender folder in his hand, 
caught out of step by this preemptory move. 
When had he done this? The file folder fell 
open and he scanned the three pages inside 
with growing disbelief. 

"This is it?"

"Hmmm?"

Suddenly furious, Bill grabbed the remote 
and turned the TV off. He waved the folder 
under the agent's nose. He ignored the 
curious look crossing Mulder's face as the 
agent reared back reflexively.

"This is it? This is why we brought you down 
here? To say that we have an arsonist. God 
damn it, Mulder."

Blue-green eyes widened slightly in the 
light of the single table lamp and Bill 
fumed as he was forced to wait when the 
agent muttered a choked apology, took a 
hurried gulp from a nearby glass and went 
into a coughing fit. Bill shook the folder 
angrily.

"People are dying. My people are dying and 
this is the best you can do? An arsonist? We 
already know he's a goddamn arsonist. Tell 
me where to find the bastard!"

A suspicious dampness was still pooling in 
the corners of  Mulder's eyes, but he seemed 
to have gotten himself under control. 

"It's not that easy Bill. I don't know what 
you expected, but I can't just wave a magic 
wand and give you this guy's home address 
and telephone number. But I can say that he 
is primarily an arsonist. Not a serial 
killer."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"That the first profile is wrong."

Bill started to protest, then the absolute 
certainty in Mulder's voice told him to 
pause. To think. This was crazy. How could 
the agent have the balls to throw away the 
conclusions of three separate profilers and 
tell him that that did not have a killer on 
their hands.

"These people were burned alive." His voice 
was tight.

Mulder sighed and pinched the bridge of his 
nose. "Take another look at the progression. 
The staging. He set every single one of 
those fires up with meticulous care. The 
deaths were planned with excruciating 
consideration given to blocking every exit, 
to making sure everything went as planned. 
Every single death...except the first one. 
That death was an accident Bill. It was not 
intended. And look at the time gap. It 
startled him. He did not expect that to 
happen so he took some time to stop and 
think about it. To reflect on what it meant 
to his art."

Mulder's lips twisted on the last word.

"The profilers said something about 
escalating."

"They said that in the first profile. When 
they only had three fires to judge by. But 
look at the rest of the pattern. This guy is 
not escalating. Not the way they meant it, 
anyway. There's no evidence of it. So the 
time gap means something else. The Navy 
connection, the rest of it...that's all 
window dressing as far as this guy is 
concerned. "

"But...but ...the boy..."

Mulder sighed again and Bill wished that he 
had not brought it up. But the child had 
been the exception to the rule that all of 
the people had been burned to death. The 
child had escaped the flames only to find 
death at the hands of the killer.

"That's significant. Extremely so. But not 
the way you think. First, that means that 
this guy was there. Why? It increases his 
risk of being caught a thousand fold. He's 
too meticulous to make a dumb mistake and 
while he's probably feeling pretty 
invulnerable, he's not taking stupid 
chances. So that's a need, Bill. He had to 
be there. He had to watch it all unfold. And 
the child ruined his careful set-up. He 
smashed that child's head open with a rock. 
Do you have any idea how many times he hit 
him?"

Bill was thankful that he had already been 
sick. 

"Twenty-seven times. With a weapon of 
opportunity. This guy does not *do* 
opportunity, Bill. He plans every detail 
down to the last match. So what set him off? 
Probably the fact that by escaping the boy 
ruined his perfect little set-up. That boy, 
just by escaping, threatened to take 
something from the killer. So the killer 
took it back. He was out of control. 
absolutely enraged. "

"Maybe he was upset that the whole family 
did not die as planned. Couldn't he have 
been upset that the murders did not go as 
planned? Why does it have to be the fire and 
not the murders."

"Because that's what feels right."

Bill opened his mouth to protest this 
asinine statement and then snapped it shut 
with a click. This was why they called him 
Spooky. This was why he wanted him on the 
case. God damn it all to hell.

"So what does this mean?", he finally 
managed.

"It means we start compiling suspect lists 
that fit the profile of a thrill-seeking 
arsonist instead of an organized serial 
killer. Believe it or not, it makes our job 
easier."

Bill scowled, "Fine. But guess what."

"What?"

"You get to explain it to the task force 
tomorrow."

Mulder groaned and then sighed, "Whatever."

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

Mulder waited until Bill Scully had tromped 
back upstairs to bed before turning his head 
to the shadows by the patio door.

"It's safe to come out now."

His partner inhaled sharply, then he heard 
an annoyed huff as she coalesced out of the 
darkness. Mulder studied her consideringly.

"Perimeter check all clear?" He asked 
mildly.

Scully glared at him grumpily but did not 
bother to try and avoid the issue. Her 
edginess was getting worse. Every hour on 
the hour she found herself double checking 
windows, double checking doors. She had 
hoped it would get better once they were 
away from DC, but it was worse.

"I'm not going crazy, Mulder. We're being 
followed. I haven't been able to find them 
yet, but they're out there. Everybody looks 
so damn loud. Damn it...can't you feel it?"

Mulder just looked at his partner, caught 
off guard by the sudden tirade and wonder 
uneasily if maybe she was going a 
little...no. This was Scully. If she said 
there was something out there, then there 
was something out there. He finally 
shrugged.

"No. But you know what I'm like when I'm 
profiling."

Scully looked at him uncertainly for a 
moment, probably wondering if he really was 
convinced or if he was just humoring her. 
Mulder could sympathize with the feeling and 
had a momentary and extremely uncharitable 
urge to ask her how it felt. Then he took 
another look at the blue smudges under her 
exhausted eyes.

He patted the empty space beside him. 
"Nightmares?"

She sank tiredly into place and unthinkingly 
leaned against him. She let out a contented 
sigh as he reached up and dug his fingers 
into the knotted muscles of her shoulders. 
"Yeah. They have been getting worse. I don't 
know. Maybe I'm just too tired today. While 
I was going over the autopsy data today, I 
kept seeing...It wouldn't stop, Mulder. What 
he did to them. They had no chance..none. So 
helpless...and he did not care. Just tied 
them up and went about his business..."

Mulder almost froze as her voice went 
distant. Oh shit. His hands moved 
automatically as he listened in dread as her 
soft voice continued it's litany of horrors.

"Watch him...they must have watched him. 
Jesus, he left the eyes for last. Looking 
over and seeing the dead. It wouldn't 
help...no escape...Jesus and his eyes. He 
doesn't care. It's not hate. Why doesn't he 
hate? Nothing there. No hope...no escape."

Mulder felt his breath shorten. Damn it all 
to hell. Patterson had been right, after 
all. 

She was profiling the victims.

"He doesn't hate?" He kept his voice soft, 
almost soundless.

Scully just shook her head." He doesn't 
care." her voice became an injured wail. "He 
doesn't care. How can he do this and not 
care? Just a thing. Making me a thing. 
Making us all things..."

Mulder sucked in a painful breath and then 
tightened his grip and said sharply, 
"Scully!"

When she did not respond immediately he 
shook her. Once. Twice. Her head bobbed 
loosely on her shoulders and then he let out 
a relieved breath as her eyes cleared and 
she was looking back at him with confusion.

"You're too tired to do this right now, 
Scully." he tried to keep his voice gentle. 
Christ. She had no idea what she had been 
about to do. Shit. Maybe it was a good thing 
her tension was keeping him from going too 
deep this time. She was going to need him if 
this kept up. Jesus. The one thing he had 
prayed that Patterson had been wrong about. 
That Scully would have no aptitude for this 
type of profiling. Because he profiled the 
killer.

And she became the victim.

He could almost laugh. It was almost funny. 
Both of them drawn to become the thing they 
despised the most because it was the 
absolute opposite of their personalities. 
That he could even become the killer and 
emerge sane was because he actually had 
little of the killer's ruthlessness in his 
soul. He resonated with the victims too much 
to ever truly merge with the thing he was 
profiling. 

How would she feel when she realized the 
truth behind Patterson's secret? 

Mulder gazed down at the one person in his 
life who had the ability to destroy him 
completely. He should have walked away. The 
minute he had realized what Patterson had 
hoped for, had searched for...he should have 
hauled ass and run as fast as his legs would 
carry him. God. Too late now. Years and love 
and hate, too late. Because he loved her 
more than he feared the hidden parts of her 
soul. 

But this was the final thing that could 
destroy them.

He was not sure what terrified him the most.

The thought that she would look at him 
through a victim's eyes and see a predator.

Or the day she looked at him with a killer's 
rage ... and did not.

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

“Mulder!”

Trapped in the never never land that existed 
between terror and wakefulness, Scully tried 
to remember how she had come to be in her 
bed. But the images in her head crowded out 
all else and her body was controlled by her 
mind's imperative. She launched herself into 
the hallway, gun drawn before the echoes of 
her own scream had time to die away. Driven 
only by horror, needing to know nothing more 
than that the images in her head were simply 
nightmares, she yelled again for her 
partner. She swept her gun across the 
hallway, searching the shadows for enemies.

“Mulder!”

He did not answer.

The sudden appearance of her brother as he 
barreled into the hallway, baseball bat 
ready, barely registered as she banged her 
hand on the door to her partner’s room. 
“Mulder!” Ignoring the very real danger of 
getting herself shot if he was trapped in 
his own nightmares, she slammed the door 
inward, waited a brief second that was an 
eternity too long and went in, gun at the 
ready.

He was not there.

Her breath kept coming in short pants and 
she was vaguely aware of her own mind 
screaming at her to think. To calm down. But 
she could not. Her mind felt as if she were 
trying to run through syrup and all she 
could hear was a single phrase ringing bell-
like over and over and over again. It was 
too late. She was going to be too late. A 
sob tried to strangle her and her chest 
seized as if being crushed by a giant hand. 
Her doctor’s training told her that she was 
doing it to herself. That her intercostal 
rib muscles were clamping down, spasming due 
to lack of oxygen and emotional overload.  
She had to slow down. She had to calm 
herself before she passed out from sheer 
panic and failed her partner. She had to 
find the FBI agent trapped beneath the fear.

She could not.

Not this time. It was too late. He was gone. 
Oh God, and what they had done to him. Why? 
What had she done  wrong? A wail of despair 
tried to break free and out of reflex, she 
tried to hold it back. Then she forgot about 
it as it slipped free and she realized that 
it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any 
more.. She  was  too late.

The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting 
for her give in, give up, give him over.

Fury and terror ignited.

Be damned if she would.

She slammed past her brother seeing nothing 
more than an obstacle as she threw herself 
down the stairs and headed for the door. She 
had to find him. She had to find him before 
it was too late.

Something grabbed at her, held her back. 
Vaguely she became aware that these things 
were hands. Hands were attached to people. 
Annoyed she glared at the offending body 
that wasn’t the one that she wanted. She 
ordered the hands to let her go.

They refused. 

Some portion of her brain told her that the 
body was just trying to help. That this was 
someone she cared about. For that reason she 
gave it a second chance. She told it that 
she had to find her partner. Why did it not 
understand? It babbled something at her and 
she shook her head as the words “shoes”, 
“clothes” and “police” were thrown at her. 
She growled with anger.

She was going to be too late. She shouted 
the words. Stubborn, stupid hands. She had 
to save her partner. Did they know what was 
happening to him? Patience gone she pulled 
away. The hands grabbed her.

Arctic rage exploded and  she flung the body 
attached to the hands out of her way. It 
fell to the floor and stayed there. She 
stared in icy hatred at the hands which had 
slowed her down. Made her waste time. Time 
that slipped away from her as her partner 
was dying. As she was dying.

She gave it a final warning.

Then she turned away.

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

Mulder was in pain. The muscles along the 
backs of his legs, his spine, his shoulders 
burned with the screaming cry of tissue 
being pushed just past normal limits. His 
knees ached. His feet ached. The ribs 
encasing his lungs ached. 

But his mind was clear.

It felt good.

Dropping back to a walk, he felt the sweat 
gather along his spine, the t-shirt 
plastered to his body too soaked to do any 
more good. He could feel the easy stretch of 
his muscles as they lengthened and loosened 
beneath the skin. He felt pleasantly tired.

He glanced at his watch. Just past 3am. He 
was considering the possibility of a couple 
hours of sleep when he heard the sound of a 
front door slam. Instinct had him sprinting 
the last few feet to the end of the Scully 
driveway only to rivet him motionless as his 
brain rapidly processed the unexpected sight 
his eyes were seeing. 

His partner, dressed only in silk pajamas 
stormed down the porch stairs, hair and eyes 
equally wild. She was barefoot and carrying 
her gun. Even from where he was standing, 
the garish light from the street lamp picked 
out the tearstains on her cheeks, the torn 
sleeve of her favorite blue silk pajamas and 
the terror-driven desperation on her face.

 She slammed to a halt when she saw him.

Horror-stricken, he could only stare at her 
as he waited for her to tell him. Explain to 
him that something had gone horribly wrong. 
That her brother and his family were dead 
because he had taken half an hour to go for 
a run. Half an hour he would, in that 
moment, have sold his soul to get back.

She said nothing.

The sound of the front door opening caught 
his attention and he drew a long shaky 
breath as Bill Scully stepped out onto the 
porch. Tara clutched Mathew and stood just 
behind him and Mulder could hear more voices 
raised in query coming from the open door. 
Scully still had not moved, seemingly 
content to do nothing more than study him 
with wide, fathomless eyes. Mulder frowned 
as he walked slowly toward her. Over her 
shoulder, Bill stood motionless in the 
doorway , his face a chaotic mixture of 
anger, terror and annoyance as he stared 
first at his sister and then at Mulder.

It was when he got close enough to see the 
glassy expression and the way she seemed 
unable to do anything more than visually 
examine every inch of his body as if she 
were committing it to memory that Mulder 
began to suspect what had happened. Ah damn. 
This was his fault. He had known she was on 
the edge.  He knew just how vulnerable she 
was. But he had just never...he had not 
really expected this. Not this soon. Shit. 
He should have said to hell with her 
brother's sensibilities and climbed into bed 
with her. 

Ignoring the gun at her side and the sudden 
stab of sorrow at this unexpected turn of 
events, he used his left hand on her right 
shoulder to gently turn her back toward the 
house, then placed his right hand in place 
at her back and moved towards the porch. 
Abandoned by conscious decision, her body 
fell into familiar reflex and in perfect 
sync they made their way into the house. 

He was guiding her toward the sofa, 
distantly aware that Bill had followed them 
back into the foyer and was in the process 
of closing the door when sirens heralded the 
arrival of an SDPD black and white. The 
stricken look on Tara’s face told him who 
had dialed 911.

Scully did not resist as he gently removed 
the gun from her grasp and dropped it into 
the first drawer he saw. She refused to let 
him push her down onto the sofa, however and 
she was firmly planted by his side when two 
San Diego police officers knocked on the 
partially open door.

Mulder let Bill take the lead, explaining 
that it had all been a misunderstanding. 
Mulder found himself impressed by the quick 
thinking and plausible way that Bill stated 
that they had been having problems with 
recurring missing items and when they had 
heard Dana scream, they had instantly feared 
that someone was in the house. Tara must 
have said something about a gun when she 
called 911 because both officers demanded to 
see the weapon which then meant that Mulder 
had to locate and show them their Bureau 
identification. Luckily, Tara had carefully 
hung both their suit jackets from the hall 
coat tree when they had thrown them off 
earlier in the evening. Neither officer 
thought it odd that Agent Landers was the 
one to root through the pockets since she 
was closest.

That would have been the end of it if Scully 
had not snarled.

Mulder suspected that her silence was being 
taken for acute embarrassment at having been 
the cause of all this confusion. Both cops 
had reacted by allowing Mulder to answer any 
questions not specifically being answered by 
Bill and he had breathed a sigh of relief 
that neither officer seemed inclined to use 
the incident to score points against the 
feds. Unfortunately, the younger officer 
made the mistake of approaching Mulder for 
his signature at the worst possible moment. 
Mulder had turned his head to follow the 
older officer as he finished his 
conversation with Tara and the younger 
officer stepped into his blind spot.

Instantly Scully’s head whipped around, eyes 
narrowed and a low-voiced growl rumbled at 
the back of her throat. The officer froze in 
shock,  Tara’s eyes widened in horror and 
Bill looked like he wanted to shoot his 
sister and drop straight through the floor. 
Preferably at the same time. Mathews was 
staring at Scully with an expression of grim 
recognition on his face. Landers and the 
others faded into the kitchen either to give 
them privacy or to keep the cops from 
feeling too out-numbered by the federally 
armed and dangerous.

Mulder could feel the tension level in the 
room rising as the officer backed toward his 
partner with even steps. Both men had the 
closed facial expressions reserved for 
potentially hostile situations and things 
were rapidly reaching the point where they 
could easily spin totally out of control. He 
debated briefly with himself about the best 
way to get out of this situation with 
minimal damage.

The last thing he needed was for the PD to 
start rumors that the FBI had lunatics on 
the payroll. Well, more rumors anyway. That, 
or the suspicion that their agents were in 
the habit of taking drugs. Scully’s medical 
background worked against her in this case. 
Not only did she have knowledge and motive, 
she had opportunity. He was about to give 
them a watered down version of the truth 
when the older officer frowned suddenly as 
he looked again at the ID in his hand and 
pinned Mulder with an unexpectedly intent 
stare.

“You’re here with the MethBomber team, 
aren’t you?” 

Mulder hesitated, then nodded. Both officers 
looked at each other, eyes dark with the 
details of a case that was horrific even by 
ISU standards.. A case that had already 
claimed the minds of two investigators. God 
knows what the nightmares on the PD side of 
the team were like. The conflict was easy to 
read. The reflexive instinct to pull 
together, to shield another officer from 
prying eyes, weighed against duty and  the 
responsibility to an unknowing public 
vulnerable to one of the good guys lost to 
the abyss. He tried to keep his reassurance 
simple.

”She's okay. She’s just not quite awake.”

The older officer studied Scully 
consideringly, ran his eyes over Mulder’s 
running gear, evidence of recent and 
prolonged exertion , then finally Scully’s 
dirty bare feet and protective stance.

“She came looking for you?”

Mulder studied him just as carefully, then 
nodded cautiously.

“Hell of thing, those kind of nightmares.” 
the officer's voice was non-committal.

Staring back into eyes too old for his face, 
Mulder suspected this man had an intimate 
acquaintance with the type of nightmare that 
would send you out into the night with 
nothing but your gun. The kind that could 
have you calling your partner at three in 
the morning just to hear her voice, to know 
that she was safe, that the nightmare was 
dream not prophecy. A split second of 
darkness shadowed the older man’s eyes and 
Mulder had the feeling that for this man, 
one of his nightmares had come true. 

The officer looked at his partner and 
shrugged lightly, deliberately casual. 
“Profilers.”

The tone was dismissive, slightly derisive 
with a faint hint of interdepartmental 
disgust. It said that they were crazy, but 
then, weren’t they all? An in-joke. An out. 
It pulled both agents in under the blanket 
of law enforcement normality and tucked them 
safely behind a solid line of blue. 

Let it be.

The younger officer met his partner’s eyes, 
then nodded slightly. He was not totally 
convinced and Mulder knew that at least one 
member of the SDPD would be keeping a close 
eye on any further weirdness coming from the 
Scully residence. Considering the reason 
they had originally come to San Diego, that 
was probably a good thing.

The door was shut and the officers pulling 
out of the driveway before Bill finally 
found his voice.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Mulder ignored him as Scully’s hands started 
to shake. Not completely sure how she would 
react, he reached a hand slowly out toward 
her. Her eyes dropped to it, some measure of 
reality returning. Her body shuddered as she 
drew in a long sharp breath before she 
grabbed his hand in a painful grip. At his 
involuntary grunt, her grip gentled and she 
twisted and flexed the bones and muscles of 
his hand, her fingers telling her what she 
no longer trusted her eyes to do.

That he was safe.

Whole.

Unbroken.

In an unintentional imitation of a mother 
with her new-born she touched fingertips to 
his palms, stretched and counted fingers, 
traced tendons and muscle. Mulder kept his 
breathing shallow and even as he stared down 
at the woman intent on denying imaginary 
injuries. It was sensual without a hint of 
sexuality. Erotic only in the suggestion of 
potential. 

But it was one of the most intensely 
intimate things he had ever experienced.

Her hands smoothed the skin of his arms as 
they skimmed upward, delighting in the 
simple textures of warm skin over hard bone. 
His T-shirt frustrated her as she tried to 
examine his collarbone and he stood 
unresisting as she tugged it over his head 
and dropped it at her feet. Later, it would 
occur to him that her brother was standing 
in shocked silence not twenty feet away. For 
right now, all he saw was the catalogue of 
horrors swimming in his partner’s eyes. 

She had seen him die.

Horribly.

As her hands swept across the unbroken skin 
of his stomach she suddenly lifted her head 
and met his eyes. Finally…finally she was 
able to find tears. One hand reached out 
blindly and he caught it, placing her palm 
gently against his face.

“I was too late.”

Her whisper was broken. His own was hoarse 
and low.

“I know.”

She cried then because he had not tried to 
tell her that it was just a dream. That it 
had not been real. That it was just 
imagination. 

He understood too well.

The Abyss was a construct of imagination. 
Born of terrible reality, created in 
nightmares, a tool of prediction and 
divination, the abyss was a reality of the 
imagination. In it, she had seen him die. As 
she brushed her fingers lightly over his 
eyebrows, tracing the shape of his eyes he 
let his own tears fall. For her pain. For 
his. Because now she knew. 

And neither of them could ever go back.

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

He was not sure how long he had watched her 
sleep. When her sobbing had finally quieted, 
the two agents had stood wrapped around each 
other until the soft even sound of her 
breathing had clued him in to the fact that 
his partner had fallen asleep against him.

Standing up.

Grinning momentarily at the thought of 
Skinner's reaction were he to see this, 
Mulder had stepped cautiously towards the 
sofa. Sleepily, chasing his retreating 
warmth, Scully's body had mirrored his own. 
Five minutes after he had settled them on 
the couch, she had dropped into a deep 
exhausted sleep that might have worried him 
if he had not expected it.

A quick glance at his watch told him that it 
was nearly 6am. As if on cue,  a soft 
footfall on the stairwell alerted him to 
Bill Scully's imminent arrival. The man's 
haggard appearance was also expected. Mulder 
had heard the sounds of argument and crying 
for almost an hour after Scully had passed 
out. It was one of the reasons he had been 
unable to concentrate on the files spread 
across the coffee table. He could guess at 
the context.

Mulder eyed the blackening bruise marring 
her brother's jaw and decided it did not 
look swollen enough for the contact to have 
come from the side of Scully's gun. Still, 
she had probably put him on his ass with the 
blow. He wondered how much of a surprise 
that had been. Something told him that Bill 
Scully was not used to thinking of himself 
as vulnerable where women were concerned.

As Bill settled himself cautiously into the 
chair across the table, Mulder was surprised 
at the depth of pain and sadness filling his 
eyes. Finally, Bill met his eyes squarely, " 
Whatever she needs - drugs, therapy- 
anything the Bureau doesn't cover, I'll pay 
for."

Mulder was unable to keep the contempt from 
his voice. " Wouldn't it be better to ask 
what happened first before you start 
prescribing electroshock?"

The reply was biting. " I know what 
happened. She had a fucking nightmare and 
she lost it. She's a danger to herself and 
to others." His voice faltered " It's not 
anybody's fault she couldn't take it. But 
she needs help."

It was not anything he had not heard before. 
Hell, usually it was directed at him. As 
comments go, this one was even supportive in 
a civilian sort of way. He tried telling 
himself that the man was a Commander in the 
US Navy-that he was used to seeing people 
snap under the pressure of long days at sea. 
He tried…and he failed.

It did not take a genius to realize that 
Scully had scared the hell out of her 
brother last night. Nor did he doubt that 
the Commander had come a lot closer to 
serious injury than was healthy. It had been 
a mistake. Mostly on the part of an idiot 
who had obviously tried to restrain an armed 
and agitated federal officer. An almost 
tragic mistake. But Bill did not even want 
to look beyond the symptom to the cause.  

Did he honestly think they could fling 
themselves into the abyss and escape without 
injury? That they could solve the case like 
normal people, have normal lives while it 
was going on and then have quiet breakdowns 
after it was all over. What the hell did he 
think the minds and lives of the 
investigators looked like during the weeks 
and months of an active investigation?

He wanted his nice safe house, and his nice 
safe family, but God forbid he should ever 
have to recognize the cost of that safety. 
Mulder's voice was a low snarl and he saw 
Bill recoil in shock as he let the man see 
the sliver of darkness he usually tried to 
hide from prying eyes. 

"You want to catch the monsters…this is the 
price."

Bill swallowed, but refused to back down," 
She pulled a gun on me, Agent Mulder." His 
voice deepened as he put more heat into the 
words, as if he could pound understanding 
home by volume alone. " My own sister 
pointed a gun at me. Tell me she wouldn't 
have pulled the trigger. Tell me that she 
wouldn't have killed me, or Tara or anyone 
else who got in her way." Hurt and fear and 
anger almost made his voice unrecognizable. 

"I can't."

Bill shrunk down into his seat and Mulder 
realized that he had wanted the agent to 
protest. Convince him that he was wrong. He 
could not do that, but maybe the truth would 
do almost as well. 

"Dreams have their own reality. When we 
profile, we essentially create a waking 
dream. An imaginary world which we accept as 
a version of reality and people with 
imaginary actors consisting of the victims 
and the killers. And we do it over and over 
again. Do you understand? We train our minds 
to fantasy and imagination and hone our 
ability to add detail and depth and color to 
that vision."

Bill's voice was pained. Resigned." You lose 
the ability to distinguish dreams and 
reality?"

Mulder grabbed at the air in a gesture of 
aborted explosive frustration." No. We're 
sane. But  the sleeping mind doesn't 
distinguish dream from reality. As far as 
your mind is concerned, the dream is the 
reality. Normally it doesn't matter. Our 
dreams are ordinarily so removed from 
tangible reality that you have no trouble 
convincing your conscious mind that it was a 
dream  It's easy to see the edges. But when 
we do what we do, our dreams echo the 
intangible world of horrific reality that 
we've trained our waking minds to create. 
Our sleeping minds conjure nightmares using 
the details and very real fears of our 
waking reality. There are no edges anymore  
because the dreams are plausible, detailed 
and do nothing to contradict reality."

Bill was trying. If it was possible to 
listen with your body, every cell in his was 
focused on what Mulder was saying. But he 
could not make the connection. It was too 
far from his own reality. 

"It's like False Memory Syndrome. " 

A quick flash of something almost like 
understanding lit Bill's eyes.

" The reason those memories are so hard to 
disprove is because they are essentially 
real to the subconscious mind. A dream 
without any means to tell the brain that 
this isn't a real memory. The mind becomes 
an active participant in the deception by 
filling in the details that convince the 
brain of the memory's reality and as far as 
the mind is concerned, that memory happened. 
Complete with emotional context and all."

Now for the tricky part. Mulder drew a deep 
breath.

" She had just seen one of her own worst 
nightmares come to life. Understand me. She. 
Saw. It. Happen. If I'd been there when she 
first woke up, it probably would have been 
enough to snap her out of it because it 
would have shown her the edges. But I wasn't 
and that was the basis of the nightmare.  In 
that moment, she thought her dream was real. 
She thought the killer had me and was doing 
everything that she had seen done to me in 
her dream. It was real, it was immediate and 
she reacted accordingly"

Bill was silent as he absorbed Mulder's 
words. "You're telling me that  she would be 
willing to kill anyone who got in her way. 
To rescue you. You don't think that's 
crazy?"

Mulder gave a short laugh, "Welcome to our 
world, Commander Scully. You have to 
understand that there are mitigating 
circumstances. She's been having trouble 
sleeping, the mind is already susceptible to 
disassociative behavior under those 
conditions. Shock, sleep deprivation, a mind 
trained to view fantasy as vividly as 
reality…and your bad luck in trying to 
restrain a trained FBI agent who perceived 
her partner in danger. You are lucky that 
all she did was hit you. "

Bill swallowed sharply and a confused 
expression crossed his face as he studied 
the sleeping form of his sister. Was he 
trying to see her as a killer? Somehow, 
Mulder got the impression he would have 
preferred to see her as mentally 
incompetent.

"Scully's pretty good about eating and 
sleeping. This is the first time she's gone 
this deep. 
She'll be able recognize it in the future 
now that it's happened. The rest of us now 
know that it can happen, so we'll be 
watching for it as well. Ordinarily we would 
have been staying with other people who know 
what not to do." 

"And what would you have done if it had 
happened there instead of here?"

Mulder smiled grimly," Bandaged up the 
wounded and send her to bed for a good eight 
hours sleep."

Bill was silent. Horrified at the casual 
callousness of it perhaps. Or the reality of 
their lives. But maybe he was finally 
figuring out that his sister inhabited a 
world where normal had long since packed up 
and relocated. 

Either way, his world would never be the 
same again.

None of their worlds would.

***************************************
Bill Scully's Residence 
Day 39
6:20 am



They cornered him in the kitchen.

He had managed to avoid explanations the 
night before. Harris and Lewis had been 
rattled enough not to push,  Landers was 
willing to wait a few hours before going on 
the offensive and Vickery...who the hell 
knew with Vickery? She had been doing a good 
imitation of a corpse by the time he had 
gotten downstairs. He had been tempted to 
put a mirror up to her nose just to make 
sure she was still breathing.

He glared back at the four sets of eyes 
cutting off his escape back into the Command 
Center. 

"I don't know, okay? I just don't. Patterson 
and his ..."

He caught himself just before he could say 
the word "ghouls". 

"...profilers pushed the envelope. That's 
all I know. "

He shifted from foot to foot as they stared 
at him. Landers and Vickery did not even 
pretend that they believed him. Damn it, 
this shit was supposed to be dead. Locked 
away with Patterson. What the hell did he 
know about it anyway? He had met some of 
them. Seen them in the halls. Been booted to 
the rear of the bus on a few cases  when 
Patterson and company swept in with their 
white horses, nervous twitches and haunted 
eyes.

But he had never been one of them.

Mike sighed as he turned to stare blindly 
out the kitchen window. In the living room 
he could hear Mulder's voice  edged in 
bitter anger as he defended his partner to 
her brother. Defended actions that would 
have gotten any other agent sidelined 
instantly. On the couch, hand over your 
weapon, do not pass "Go".  

His coffee cup hit the table top a bit 
harder than he meant it to as he sank into 
the nearest chair. Harris and Lewis 
nervously followed suit only after Landers 
did the same. Vickery just narrowed those 
eerie eyes and propped herself up against 
the wall near the entrance to the living 
room. Mathews struggled to find the right 
words. 

"There were rumors." He said finally. " We 
all knew that Mulder was Patterson's golden 
child. The one he had the highest hopes for.  
The things Mulder could pull out of that 
mind..."

Mike 's voice trailed off as his memories 
were thrown back years and investigations. 
Then he shook his head.

" About a year after Mulder joined the ISU, 
Patterson tried to team him up with several 
profilers. Most of us thought he was trying 
to keep him grounded. Whatever he might have 
wanted, they all psyche-evaled out within 
weeks. Mulder looked like death warmed over 
and no one ...I mean no one was talking. But 
Mulder pulled some seriously spooky shit 
they couldn't completely hide. He was so far 
into the killer the cops were scared to come 
to the hotel."

Mike noticed Lewis staring at his hand and 
looked down to find the surface of his 
coffee quivering as his hand shook. He 
placed the cup back on the table. 

"Patterson stopped trying to team him up and 
things settled back to just weird for about 
a year. Then he tried again. It...got bad. " 

Mike swallowed several mouthfuls of coffee 
too fast and started to cough. Vickery had a 
thoughtful look on her face he could not 
interpret as she drifted over to the table 
and claimed a chair.

Lewis just handed him a glass of water.

Despite the wide eyes, he found the 
expressions facing him to be more pensive 
than terrified. He almost resented it. 
Badly. Mulder had scared bad-ass profilers. 
Agents who spent their time locked in a 
bunker in windowless rooms and hunted 
monsters for a living. And they had been 
spooked by the one they kept on a leash. 

He had been terrified.

And this felt like an accusation. 

"He ran to the X-Files after that." 

Harris flinched and Mathews realized his 
tone had come out strident and bitter. He 
drew in a harsh breath and held it, then 
released it slowly. Gently. Softly. They 
needed to understand.

And maybe, so did he.

" Six months after Mulder left, Patterson 
sent us a character profile for people he 
wanted us to look for. Possible recruits. We 
... thought he was joking at first. And he 
had one absolutely non-negotiable point. The 
person had to be female."

He waited for their reaction. 

Then waited some more.

Finally Landers glanced at the others around 
the table and then looked back. "And...?"

He barked a brief frustrated burst of 
laughter. 

"Don't you get it? Scully wasn't an 
accident. She was the end result of two 
disastrous experiments and almost three 
years of searching. Mulder's former partners 
weren't the runners...they were the rejects.  
And now it's happening again." 

They still were not getting it. But maybe 
that was because they had not seen the 
profile Patterson had created. Mathews 
looked around the table, mouth drawn in a 
grim line.

"This is Bill Patterson's legacy. This is 
what he wanted all along."

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

Mulder's cellular woke his partner. He was 
focusing on her eyes even as he hit the 
button to connect the call and he saw the 
instant she remembered what had happened. 
Her eyes closed and when he reached for her 
hand she gripped it tightly. 

His attention was only half on the call as 
he barked his name but whatever reflexes she 
was running on were unimpaired by the events 
of the night before. Her eyes popped back 
open almost before his muscles locked. 

She knew.

Even before he ended the call and let his 
hands dangle limply, she knew. Her brother 
nearly leaped out of his skin when she 
abruptly rolled to her feet and ran for the 
stairs. Bill was still standing slowly, 
forehead creased in confusion and worry when 
the pipes shuddered and the second floor 
shower came on full blast. Mulder was 
already at the kitchen door.

Five sets of eyes looked up in surprise and 
some oddly shaded curiosity he did not have 
the time to think about. His gaze gathered 
them together.

"Grab your gear."

Blank incomprehension followed by bleak 
resignation swept across Mathews' face. 
Landers looked over at him for a moment, 
then back to Mulder.

"Which one?" she asked quietly.

Mulder felt his face clear itself of 
expression as he heard footsteps behind him. 
He turned his shoulders slightly so that 
Bill Scully was at least part of the 
conversation rather than overhearing it. It 
was all he could offer. Disconcertingly 
familiar blue eyes filled with pain as they 
read his answer.

"The Navy." 

*******************************************
San Diego Suburb
Day 39
7:05 am

Early morning fog softened the harsh glare 
of the emergency lights, giving the scene a 
pulsating, surreal glow. Blackened timbers 
poked twisted fingers through the enveloping 
shroud,  the fuzzy edges and muted sounds 
giving an eerie feeling that the world 
stopped just past the curb and anyone 
foolish enough to venture past the lines of 
dirty canvas hose risked stepping through a 
doorway into unreality.

The acrid stench of dead ash lay heavy and 
bitter in the nose and throat, carried by 
the humid warmth still radiating outward and 
upward from the scorched wood, melted metal 
and singed concrete. Mulder shivered 
slightly as he looked back towards the 
onlookers gathered just past the ring of 
emergency vehicles and FBI fleet sedans and 
found them vanished. Swallowed up by a 
blanket of gray.

Artistically, the arsonist had done one hell 
of a  job. 

Dramatic.

Spine-chilling.

The video would look great on CNN.

Mulder stared at the videocameras and 
newspaper photographers and felt an 
atavistic prickle creep past his shoulders 
and down his spine. This was no visionary. 
This guy was in it for the glory. The 
attention. He had purposely broken his own 
pattern and taken a hell of a chance in 
order to set this fire close enough to dawn 
to get exactly the effect he was getting. 
Damn it.

They were giving the bastard exactly what he 
wanted.

And there was not a damn thing an FBI agent 
could do.

Mulder cursed under his breath as the 
nearest reporter suddenly stared hard at 
Scully, an expression of dawning surprise 
and recognition lighting up his face. Before 
the reporter could do more than lick his 
figurative chops, Mulder grabbed his partner 
and dragged her deeper into the blighted 
ruins and out of the line of sight. Scully 
just gave him one quick, confused look 
before turning back to the task at hand. 

There really was not all that much for them 
to do. Not here. The Forensic Evidence team 
knew what they were doing. Scully would be 
responsible for going over and interpreting 
the autopsy data, but someone else would bag 
and tag the bodies. Lewis, Harris and 
Landers were assisting the local PD with the 
witness statements. Not something they would 
normally do, but this was hardly a normal 
investigation, and it might help with the 
follow-up interviews. Mike was introducing 
himself to several members of the task force 
they had not yet had time to meet. Vickery 
had spent almost twenty minutes staring dry-
eyed at the burned and brutalized corpse of 
a five year old girl before stalking off to 
intimidate witnesses with the rest of the 
gang.

Anyone looking at either Mulder or Scully 
would probably have seen no more than 
aimless wandering.  

Profilers rarely visit crime scenes. 
Definitely not ones this fresh. But the X-
Files had always existed in that nebulous 
position created by having a trained 
profiler in a standard investigatory 
capacity. Mulder would worry about reading 
the witness statements and studying crime 
scene photos later. For now, he wanted to 
see what the killer wanted him to see. To 
feel the ephemeral effect he had risked 
capture to achieve. 

His partner stepped through the remains of 
broken dishes and melted toys, her detached 
absorption signifying the reconstruction of 
the last few minutes of the lives of the 
dead.

Two hours later, the bodies had been removed 
and the morning sun had burned away the last 
of the fog. Surreal and otherworldly gave 
way to blunt ugliness. Wet cardboard, soppy 
clothes, and half-burned rubble were 
stripped of emotional hugeness in the glare 
of day and reduced to a pile of splintered 
wood and  garbage.

For the agents there was nothing left to 
see.

The ME's department was more than adequate 
to the autopsies, so Scully decided to 
accompany Mulder to the Naval base to start 
a round of preliminary interviews with 
friends and co-workers of the victims. She 
left a message for her brother that they 
would meet him after lunch on the base so 
that they could go over any information he 
would be required to go through channels to 
acquire. Mathews and the others headed back 
to assist the rest of the task force with 
compiling the witness statements and 
initiating standard background research into 
the history of the house, the family and the 
neighborhood.


They did not expect to find anything, This 
had all been done eleven times before with 
no success.

But it was all they had. 


********************************************
Naval Cafeteria -  San Diego Base
Day 39
1235 hours


Bill would never have noticed except for the 
fact that he recognized the faces. Nominally 
they were CRT. God knows what they really 
did for the government. His boats had 
transported more than one SEAL team, and 
these guys had stood out. Elite soldiers or 
not, SEALs were just as likely as the next 
guys to be assholes. Not Bravo Team.. The 
same five soldiers, they mingled easily with 
the crew , but superficially, never taking 
it too far, but never being obvious about 
being exclusive. 

Generally it just seemed rude to push into 
their midst.

They never got into fights with the crew 
members and as a matter of principle they 
left their female shipmates alone. In fact,  
Bill had never seen any of them exhibit 
anything less than total respect for women - 
either military or civilian. Which is why 
their attitude toward Dana sent alarm bells 
ringing.

Had it been anyone other than his sister, he 
probably would never have noticed. If it had 
been anyone other than Bravo Team, he would 
have ignored it. But unobtrusive 
observation, whispered comments and the 
resulting smirks that accompanied the banter 
just was not this team’s style. Three of 
them had a table to themselves in the 
cafeteria and all of them were, as far as he 
could tell, focused on  Dana. 

Bill frowned. Not that he did not think Dana 
was not pretty or anything, but her 
hairstyle looked like it had been approved 
by J.Edgar himself, her clothes were rigidly 
businesslike and she looked...well to be 
honest she looked exhausted and fairly 
lackluster. Without even trying he could 
spot three females, two military, one 
civilian, who beat her hands down in the 
looks department. The room was filled with 
intelligent, competent, athletic women.

So what did these three SEALs find so 
fascinating about his sister?

He drifted up behind them just in time to 
hear their commander’s latest comment to his 
companions, “...kind of like to know whether 
or not she’s a terrorist before she starts 
blowing things up.”

“Especially boats we happen to be standing 
on, huh?”

“Oh especially…” the voice broke off as Bill 
abruptly made an impulse decision, pulled 
out a chair at their table and sat down.  He 
forced himself to take a nonchalant bite of 
buttered green beans before allowing his 
gaze to deliberately drift to the 
Commander’s, then across the room to Dana 
and back to the men at the table. 

While none of the men had ever been less 
than polite, he had never garnered more than 
a disinterested nod. He had also seen the 
odd soldier entranced enough, brave enough 
or stupid enough to pull the same trick he 
just had.  Bravo Team generally reacted 
politely, but fairly obviously freezing the 
interloper out of their midst. 

Not this time.

He glanced back over to see if Dana was 
still in line and then looked back at the 
intensely silent SEALs. He intercepted a 
strangely familiar three-way exchange of 
glances that tickled the back of his mind 
like a memory .Before he could try to 
analyze the feeling, the Commander’s eyes 
narrowed slightly, glanced for a thoughtful 
moment at his rank insignia and then 
directed a question at him.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

A tip of the head indicated Dana, but it was 
the inscrutable expression on the soldier’s 
face that told him that he was being asked a 
very different question. His thoughts raced 
as he kept his face blank. He shrugged 
casually and, hoping to keep the 
conversation going,  framed his answer 
carefully.

“Pretty packaging is a dime a dozen. It’s 
what lurks beneath the surface of calm 
waters that will sink the boat.”

He was proud of himself for managing a nice 
ominous sounding nautical metaphor while 
staying comfortingly vague. Their intensity 
had his primitive brain screaming in 
hysteria that maybe he had stepped into 
something he did not understand, and please 
God, please don’t let these men think he was 
threatening them. The unexpectedly cheerful 
grin that broke across the face of the baby-
faced  SEAL furthest from him left him with 
his mouth half open and his fork hanging in 
the air two seconds longer than it should 
have.

The man slapped the man next to him on the 
back, ”I told you she was one of ours, Doc. 
You ever see a red-headed Israeli 
terrorist?”

Bill choked on his squash.. The SEAL 
commander groaned, then shot Bill a wry 
smile.” You’d think he’d at least consider 
the IRA.” 

Doc protested,” Well look at the way she 
moves, Cap. Most of the IRA are nothing more 
than well-armed thugs. Who else trains their 
women in spec-ops?”

“The Canadians.”

“Huh?” Both Cap and Doc looked at the smug 
youngster at the end of the row . 

“The Canadians. Counter-terrorism. ”

Cap looked thoughtful. “JTF2? ”

Doc munched on his own dinner as he 
contemplated ,”I never thought about them... 
Maybe if they went through training 
together.”

“Dive buddies?”

Doc shrugged,” Maybe. Especially if they’re 
also sleeping together. We’ve never seen 
that dynamic before. How the hell would we 
know what it would look like?”

Cap mulled that over, then looked at Bill 
consideringly, “Do you have an opinion, 
Sir?”

Bill decided that his food was out to get 
him. It had certainly tried to choke him 
often enough this meal. 

Opinion?

Not one he wanted to share. Dive buddies? 
Spec ops? Canadian Special Forces? Where the 
hell were they getting this stuff? It was 
just Dana. Locating his sister he tried to 
see whatever it was that these soldiers 
thought they were seeing. They were just two 
people getting lunch. Mulder was holding the 
open glass door for the top shelf of the 
salad cooler.

Bastard. 

He could have gotten the salad for her too. 
Instead,  he let her stretch up and reach 
for it herself. The fact that it forced her 
to brush against him and gave him a straight 
look down the line of her throat was just 
too high school for  words.
 
Bill almost grunted aloud when Dana nailed 
her partner  with a sardonic tilt of her 
eyebrow. Yeah, that’s right buddy. Busted. 
Now what are you going to do?

Obviously, all he was going to do was give 
her a smart-ass grin. Bill watched in 
satisfaction as Dana said something to him 
that caused the grin to flicker nervously. 
Now what? Mulder hesitantly reached out and 
opened the top door for her again. Bill 
found himself holding his breath, waiting to 
see what she would do  Stretched out as he 
was, Mulder was wide open for just about 
anything she cared to inflict on him. Dana 
sauntered over and repeated her earlier 
salad grab, only this time she casually 
leaned back as she slowly – extremely slowly 
- returned to her feet. As far as he could 
tell, she did not touch her partner, but she 
was so close he had to be feeling the heat 
coming off her skin. Not to mention the 
agony of suspense. 

Bill felt the air in his lungs leave with a 
whoosh. He did not know if he should be 
outraged on his sister’s behalf, marvel at 
her ingenuity or be pissed that she had just 
tortured and seduced a man in the middle of 
the goddamn naval cafeteria.        

These were people an honest to God bunch of 
elite soldiers suspected of being some 
foreign type of SEAL?  Mulder would be lucky 
if he could spell his own name right about 
now. Not to mention the fact that neither of 
them were paying any attention to anything 
else around them.   

The guns? 

But these SEALs would have seen CIA or other 
federal agents before. So what the hell  was 
it? He found that he could not force himself 
to ask. Not just yet.  He wanted to see. He 
wanted to know. No...

He needed to know. 

He was not blind. He had seen his sister 
slipping away from him. The awkward visits. 
The abrupt pauses in conversation. The 
cancelled holidays. Little by little, year 
by year, Dana was slipping away as 
completely by her own design as by the 
cancer which had  almost stolen her life.    

He needed to see what it was they were 
seeing. He managed a more or less good-
natured smirk.

” Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.”

The SEAL gave him a long look then winked 
and put his hand to his ear. Bill had seen 
the discreet ear-piece and tiny mike, he 
just had not realized there was anyone on 
the other end.. “Yo, Devon. You wanna go 
rattle his cage for us?”

The SEAL listened for a moment, ” A little 
bit dangerous I think. Let ‘em see who you 
are.”

Doc threw a wry glance at his commander.” 
You sure that’s wise?”

Cap widened his eyes with mock surprise,” 
You think we’ll get a reaction?”

Doc sighed.

Cap glanced past him to the third SEAL at 
the table,” Badger?”

Expecting another grin, Bill was brought up 
short by the analytical expression that 
settled into the young man’s eyes. Staring 
into that cool gaze he was abruptly reminded 
that this was a blooded CRT specialist and 
not some eighteen year old middie shipping 
his first open water.

Badger cocked his head slightly,” Hard to 
tell. Depends on whether they’re sleeping 
together.”

“You’re joking, right?” The words were out 
before Bill could stop them.

 “Why?”

Bill could not help his glance over at the 
line-up.

”You mean that peek-a-boo stunt at the lunch 
counter? They’ve been doing shit like that 
all morning. There’s never any follow-
through. I can’t decide if they keep 
dropping out of character or whether it’s 
just the normal shit with a twist because 
she’s female. They are way beyond just about 
anything I’ve ever seen, in or out of the 
field-but they seem to be focused pretty 
damn tightly on each other.  I don’t think 
they’re part of a larger team, but...I just 
don’t know.”

These SEALs had spent the whole morning 
chasing after Dana and her partner? God. For 
all he knew, this was their day off and they 
were spending it making sure that the Navy 
ships had a home port to come home to. He 
drew in a deep breath, considered his 
options, then tried to give in gracefully.

“She’s an FBI agent. That’s her partner.”

Three pairs of eyes slammed into him. 

Badger started to grin,” HRT? No shit? I 
guess that explains it.” He looked at the 
man next to him who was still frowning and 
nudged him.

Doc started, then met Cap’s eyes,” It could 
be possible. ”

”But?”

”We know better than anyone that who you are 
isn’t always what you are.”

HRT. Bill frowned. Hostage Response Team. 
All-purpose fast-response teams under 
federal jurisdiction if he remembered his 
memos correctly. Quasi-military, generally 
bad-ass Special Agents with a license to 
kick butt, take names and otherwise shoot to 
kill. The image of Dana as one of their 
number was both hilarious and terrifying. At 
least, the thought of tiny Dana in SWAT 
black surrounded by similarly dressed agents 
twice her size should have been funny.  But 
none of these men were laughing...and that 
was scaring the hell out of him.

They were acting not only as if it were 
possible, but that it was actually an answer 
that made some sort of sense to them. That 
thought was more than scary, it was flat out 
horrifying. Because if that was true...

He had made a terrible mistake.

“They’re not HRT. She’s a doctor.”

He might as well have been speaking ancient 
Mongolian. It was not that they did not 
believe him. They believed that he believed. 
They just thought he was wrong. Really 
wrong. As in “you just fucked up and sank 
your battleship” wrong.

“What else?” Cap’s voice was unexpectedly 
hard and flat.

Navy trained reflexes nearly had him calling 
the SEAL out for his tone of voice before 
common sense caught up with it. That and the 
fact that he probably did not outrank the 
SEAL. Annoyance held him silent long enough 
to get a really good look at the man's eyes, 
then his hind brain went into polite, Navy 
authorized hysterics. Despite where they 
were, who they were, shit...who he was, he 
suddenly had a gut deep feeling that he had 
just said something...ill advised.  

"Who are they?" Cap's voice was soft and 
excruciatingly polite.

Bill tried to pull back, preparing to stand 
up. His mind screamed for him to run. To 
escape. Badger’s hand was suddenly wrapped 
around his wrist, fingers and expression 
equally hard. Bill stared at the hand 
dumbly, then up at the face of a child with 
the eyes of a killer. He had not even seen 
him move. Cap leaned forward.

“Take a good look at those two, Commander 
Scully. You see how she turned her head when 
he came up behind her with the coffee. There 
are over one hundred people in this room and 
she knew it was him from ten feet away. You 
see those unnecessary glances at each other? 
The ones where the other isn’t looking back? 
Do you see how they check out everyone 
approaching the other’s back? None of these 
are standard issue FBI  reflexes, Sir.”

He tried. He honest to god tried. But all he 
saw was his sister. Helplessly he looked 
back at the SEAL, unaware that his 
frustration and confusion were writing 
themselves clearly across his face. 

“I’m beginning to get a very bad feeling 
about this. So I’ll ask one more time. Who 
are they?” 

Bill closed his eyes, suddenly tired of it 
all. Tired of the melodrama, the heightened 
sense of personal drama that everyone seemed 
to be playing with these days. He was just 
damn tired. He wanted his wife, he wanted 
his son and he wanted his life back. Because 
he did not know the rules to this one...and 
he very much thought he was losing.

“They’re nobody special. Believe me. He’s a 
burnt out profiler who was shuffled off to 
his own little department in the basement 
where he chases little green men.”

The grip on his wrist tightened and Cap’s 
face closed over.

“Say again.”

“He’s a fuck-up. He chases mutants and 
monsters and ET . He sees shadowy 
conspiracies, talks about confidential 
government informants like he’s chasing an 
extraterrestrial Watergate and drags my 
sister around the country because the Bureau 
needs someone to sit on him if he gets too 
nuts. You guys think they’re so great? Take 
a look at their medical records. Someone 
should have taught them how to duck.”

 “Your sister.” If anything, Cap's voice 
flattened further.

Bill winced as Badger’s hand tightened 
again. He could feel a tell tale tingling in 
his fingertips and he expected that they 
were probably turning blue.

“She’s not a threat. She’s just a doctor.”

Doc rolled his eyes, ” You are a fucking 
moron, you know that?”

Cap was cursing under his breath as he 
fumbled with his ear-piece,”  Shit. I knew I 
should have waited until we had an ID before 
trying this stunt. Doc, remind yourself to 
shoot me next time I get bored. Damn it!” He 
abandoned stealth and openly adjusted the 
tiny mike. “Devon, this is Cap. Abort. I say 
again, abort. His head shot around as he 
tried to locate his missing soldier. He 
spoke into the mike again.

“CJ? Do you see Devon?  Can you intercept 
him before he makes contact?”

Bill stared at the three SEALs who were 
suddenly acting like this was a live-fire 
test exercise. “What the hell’s the problem? 
She’s not going to shoot him”

Cap flinched as he got something that looked 
like bad news from the other end of the 
headset. “Shit. Okay this is what... 
negative. Whatever you do, do not under any 
circumstances approach the targets. I mean 
it CJ. I don’t care what goes down. 
Confirmed target ID as Agents Mulder and 
Scully of the FBI. Copy?”

Bill froze. Mulder? Sudden chills that had 
nothing to do with the air conditioning 
wrapped icy fingers around the base of his 
spine. How the hell did the SEAL know that 
name. His name and not his face? What the 
hell had he stumbled into?

This was beyond cloak and dagger. This was 
insane.

”Look, I don’t know where you guys get your 
melodrama medication, but these are two FBI 
agents. FBI, get it? They’re not going to 
shoot anyone or blow anything up, so what is 
the problem? ”

Cap bit each word off slowly, as if trying 
to explain the obvious to an especially 
annoying and not-too-bright child. “ I'm not 
worried about them. I...shit...will you sit 
still? You're going to start drawing 
attention soon. Jeez. That's the problem. We 
have no legitimate reason to be talking to 
those two and if the people watching them 
get the idea that we're hooking up with 
them...for any reason at all, they are going 
to start asking questions. Those are 
questions we can't afford to have asked 
right now. "

Bill just gaped. ” You expect me to believe 
this bullshit? Why the hell wouldn't you 
have thought of this sooner?”

Cap snarled at him,” Because they are 
supposed to be in DC and believe me when I 
tell you they do not look like the photos I 
have in my...shit...heads up.” 

All three men snapped their attention back 
to center stage. Catching a glimpse of a 
face he recognized, Cap’s reasoning became 
crystal clear – and so did his concerns 
about the potential for an eye-catching 
scene..

Devon was the one member of Bravo Team who 
tended to play least in sight. He was good 
at effacing himself, but when he was not 
paying attention to how his personality 
overflowed or when he had it purposely 
turned on, he was one of the most 
aggressively magnetic men Bill had ever met. 
He was the sort of man you instinctively 
tried not to introduce to your happily 
married wife let alone your unmarried 
sister. Reflexively he reached up and 
fingered the thinning spot on the top of his 
head until he noticed Badger’s quick grin.

Shit.

Mulder was likely to shoot the man just on 
general principal. Devon was a Hollywood  
director’s wet-dream. The stereotypical 
special forces soldier. Tall, lean, well-
muscled, the man had the grace of some large 
jungle cat, the eyes of a wolf and the 
dangerous edge of a man who walked the 
shadows for truth, justice and the dark side 
of honor. The fact that he really was all 
those things just made it worse.

Dana did not have a chance.
 
Mulder spotted him first. He studied him for 
a long moment before doing one of the most 
unbelievably stupid things Bill had ever 
seen a straight male do. He nudged her 
shoulder to get her attention and directed 
her gaze across the room. Glancing at three 
dumbstruck soldiers he concluded that he was 
not the only one who thought Mulder was an 
idiot.

Maybe he really was gay.

The minute Devon saw that he had Dana’s 
attention he began a slow stalk forward. 
Bill saw his sister’s eyes widen in shock at 
the slow heated prowl. Mulder’s eyes bounced 
twice between his partner and the man making 
his way across the room  before he stood 
abruptly and grabbed his coffee cup. His 
sudden move startled Dana into taking a 
quick glance at her partner’s face. 
Amazingly, the man gave her a wry grin, 
tapped his finger against his teeth for some 
reason before holding up his coffee cup in 
enquiry. Bill could see the back of her head 
shake a negative answer and then she turned 
her attention back towards Devon.

For one brief second, Mulder’s face altered 
as he stared down at his partner. The cast 
of his features told them 
absolutely...nothing. All expression had 
slipped away and Bill shuddered slightly as 
he found himself remembering  comments about 
Mulder being only “mostly sociopathic”. The 
three SEALs stiffened as Mulder turned 
slightly to meet Devon’s gaze head on and 
Bill’s jaw nearly hit the table when the 
agent’s jacket accidentally fell open as he 
turned away from the table. Devon got a good 
solid glimpse of his weapon. Then Mulder 
completed the turn and walked away.

Jesus Christ, the idiot had just threatened 
a SEAL. 

Fuck. Should he be giving Mulder points for 
guts or deducting them from his IQ? 

“CJ? You still got Mulder? Keep an eye on 
him…we can’t see him from this angle.”

He relayed CJ's answer to the others,” He’s 
about eight tables back. Direct line of 
sight.”

Cap looked at Bill, "Once everyone is nice 
and relaxed and we've established the fact 
that this is just another attempted pick-up, 
would you be willing to play big brother and 
tell Devon to scram?"

Bill studied his sister, then nodded.  The 
thought of this little set-up was beginning 
to make him sick to his stomach. As soon as 
he had seen Devon, he had expected a little 
flirting, a lot of macho posturing – he had 
not expected his sister’s jerk of a partner 
to run off and leave her unprotected. He 
hoped to God that Devon knew how to tone 
things down when he was not serious. He 
would be damned if he was going to stand by 
and let his sister get hurt. 

Devon visibly turned on the charm. Dana 
initially looked startled and a little 
uncomfortable. Whatever he was saying, 
however,  was obviously working. If he asked 
her for a date, Bill thought grimly, he 
would have the shore patrol arrest him. He 
was in the middle of a nice fantasy sequence 
involving broken bilge pumps and a sealed 
room filling with water when Cap abruptly 
contacted CJ, asking him how Mulder was 
reacting. Whatever answer he got obviously 
worried him because his next look pinned 
Badger. 

“Well?”

Badger raised his palms in confusion, ”I 
don’t know. He had her for the first ten 
minutes.” 

He glanced at Doc to confirm this 
interpretation. Doc nodded agreement. 

“Devon notice?”

“I think so. I don’t think he knows what he 
did wrong though.”

“Well shit. Did he move in too fast, move 
too close?”

Badger just shrugged,” He didn’t do 
anything. I don’t...what was that?”

 ”What?”

“She just...there, she did it again. See 
it?”

The earpiece squawked. Cap snarled. 

Doc’s voice was flat, ”Let me guess. 
Mulder’s on the move.”

Bill decided to pick on Badger seeing as how 
the kid was still attached to his wrist. He 
poked the SEAL on the back of the hand until 
he dragged his attention aft. “What’s going 
on?”

Badger glared, then gave in when Bill glared 
back. “ We’re about to get that reaction 
that we wanted.”

“I got that part. What happened?”

“She made him. Now she’s signaling her 
partner.”

Jesus, it was like pulling teeth.

“How?” 

Badger jerked his jaw in Dana’s direction. 
“Check out her left hand. Also, when she 
turned to bring her right arm into Mulder’s 
field of vision, she deliberately opened his 
line of sight for a kill shot. ”

Bill mulled that over. “Does Devon know 
that?”

Badger rolled his eyes. 

Obviously a dumb question.

It took a minute for him to find the signal 
the SEALs had spotted. Then he had to wonder 
if they were just being paranoid. Her left 
arm was draped comfortably across her chest 
as she casually leaned back in her chair and 
she was absently moving her fingers in a 
lazy circular motion on the side of her 
right upper arm. Otherwise, she appeared 
relaxed and attentively listening to the man 
flirting with her. 

A hazy memory drifted up from the recesses 
of his brain. Circular motion. What was it 
about circular motion. A circle? A wheel? A 
wheel turning...Bill’s mind stuttered to a 
halt and he quickly reevaluated his earlier 
assessment of his sister’s likely actions. 
He coughed lightly.

“Cap?”

The SEAL ignored him. 

“Commander.” He laced his voice with all the 
command steel he could muster. Cap’s head 
snapped around even as his eyes flashed 
angrily. Bill swallowed.” She thinks he’s a 
serial killer.”

Two more heads snapped around and Bill had 
the ungodliest urge to laugh at the 
flummoxed expressions on all three faces. 
Jeez, where to start?

“Several years ago Dana was in  Philadelphia 
on assignment and got picked up by this guy. 
She ended up getting a tattoo at the same 
place this guy had just had one done.”  He 
was losing them, but this time they needed 
to know what he was seeing. “ This guy...he 
turned out to be a psychotic. Claimed his 
tattoo talked to him...told him to kill 
women. He almost killed Dana.” Funny, but he 
had thought they would look more shocked. 
They were definitely waiting for a punch-
line,” His tattoo was on his right bicep and 
hers is an oraborous.”

Badger blinked, “A what?”

“A snake eating it’s tail. A circle. And the 
reason they’re here in San Diego is because 
we think there is someone stalking my 
family. “

The penny dropped. 

“Mulder said something about some types of 
serial killers liking to make contact with 
the investigators, insert themselves into 
the investigation. I think she thinks this 
is it...him.”

 Cap drew in a sharp breath, “Okay. This is 
moving from insane to a fucking goatscrew. 
We’ll have...”

“Too late, Cap.”

Bill was astonished that  no one had 
intervened yet. Surely Cap was not that 
worried about some government spy connecting 
the whole team to Dana and her partner.

Was he?

Mulder, meanwhile, had bludgeoned his way 
into the soon to be crime scene with all the 
finesse of a sledgehammer. Slamming two cups 
of coffee down on the table he smiled and 
shrugged as if in apology for forgetting to 
get a third. Devon reared back, then came 
slowly to his feet. Even from where he was 
standing, Bill could almost taste the 
testosterone rising. If the sudden male 
posturing on Mulder’s part was a surprise, 
the fact that Dana had not cut him off at 
the knees was a bigger one. He supposed she 
had to wait until after they caught their 
suspect, but Christ, if this was how Mulder 
acted in the field, he was astonished they 
were still partners. His jaw ached in 
phantom memory of the one time he had pushed 
Dana out of the way in order to confront a 
neighborhood bully. 

At least she had dropped the bully first 
before she had nailed him.

Cap looked over at Doc and raised an 
eyebrow, “I’d be impressed if I wasn’t too 
busy being appalled.”

“You think we could convince BuPers to 
overlook that pesky double x chromosome and 
let us adopt them?”

Badger smiled, eyes oddly remote. “ The 
Assassin and the Dog. ” 

Doc looked amused. "I take it he's the  
yapping mutt?"

Well, okay. Bill could agree with that. From 
his body language the agent was being 
condescending, arrogant and pompous as hell. 
Dana seemed to be trying to play peacemaker 
and apologize for her partner at the same 
time. Meanwhile, the two men were becoming 
more and more intently focused on each other 
and both appeared to have forgotten about 
Dana completely. 

“But while you’re kicking him from the 
front...”

Just as Devon moved around the table, Mulder 
stepped forward as though he were about to 
wade into the waiting SEAL. Devon stiffened, 
then surged to meet him.

“She’s cutting your throat from behind.”

Devon’s second step placed him squarely 
between the two partners. Without 
hesitation, Dana stepped right into his back 
and shoved her automatic into his lower 
spine. Bill had not even seen her draw the 
gun. Neither, he realized, had anyone else.

<Mulder knew> 

He ignored that uncomfortably accurate 
observation and continued to survey the 
other cafeteria patrons. There were a few 
curious glances, but no one was pointing, or 
running or screaming. 

Now what?

“Commander Scully?”

Cap’s tone was light, almost conversational, 
but Bill’s spine stiffened automatically at 
the note underlying the words.

“Commander?”

“Would you be so kind as to go rescue my 
SEAL from your sister?”

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

The trip to the SDPD headquarters passed in 
strained silence. At least this time, it was 
not him that Scully was pissed at. 
Unfortunately, the one she was frothing over 
was steadily digging himself deeper. It was 
just a matter of time before the hole got 
big enough to start sucking in innocent 
bystanders. Mulder contemplated whether or 
not warning big brothers of imminent 
catastrophic meltdown by a younger sister 
fell into FBI jurisdiction under its Weapons 
of Mass Destruction mandate.

If only the idiot would quit looking at her. 
Mulder himself could clearly see his face in 
the rearview mirror every time he turned his 
head. Unfortunately, Scully could not. Of 
course, in the mood she was in, the fact 
that Bill seemed more confused than over-
protective probably would not save him.

After unexpectedly crashing their impromptu 
collar, Bill had slapped their prisoner on 
the back like they were old friends and made 
a point of reintroducing Scully as his 
sister. She had not missed the emphasis or 
the sudden switch from Devon, Stud on the 
Prowl to gender-neutral Friend of the 
Family. Mulder would have thought that it 
was just some Navy tradition about not 
scoring on your shipmate’s sister if he had 
not seen the sudden flash of shock in the 
man’s eyes and Bill’s awkward glances across 
the room. Devon had taken polite leave of 
Scully, then - making some throwaway comment 
about having a drink later -  left the 
cafeteria. 

Mulder noticed that he had left from the 
door opposite whoever it was that Bill had 
glanced at. 

Whether they had simply been an object of 
curiosity, the subject of a bet or something 
more sinister, it would have to wait. Three 
more victims had been found in the ashes of 
this morning's fire and everyone connected 
to the investigation had been called in to 
sort through the data. 

The command center was a madhouse with boxes 
of crime scene reports, photos, background 
checks of the victims, their friends, co-
workers and immediate family. Added to that 
were all the copious other bits of paperwork 
that were part and parcel of  an active 
murder investigation. Mulder and Scully 
merged into the ebb and flow of the bodies 
swarming the halls of the field office. Bill 
had a bit more trouble as he dodged boxes, 
elbows and feet.

Just as he was reaching his personal boiling 
point, he felt a painfully tight grip just 
below his left bicep. His lips curled in 
rage. He was getting damned tired of people 
leaving bruises on his arms today. He 
whirled toward the unfortunate transgressor, 
almost glad to have an excuse to let lose 
some of his pent up frustration and came 
face to face with the grim features of his 
sister's partner.

"Don't."

Mulder's command was soft, but Bill shivered 
anyway. The tone was enough like Cap's had 
been the moment he realized who the FBI 
agents were that the similarity shocked the 
Navy commander away from the edge of his 
anger. His lips tightened and he glared with 
hostility at the former profiler, breathing 
harsh as he pulled air in through his nose. 
Mulder just shook his head, eyes dark with 
warning.

"You are in THEIR way, Commander Scully. And 
their nightmares would give your nightmares, 
nightmares. So...don't."

Then he walked away and was swallowed easily 
by the chaos. Bill just stared after him, 
unexpectedly fighting the shocking urge to 
sit down on the floor and cry. He did not 
understand this shit. He did not understand, 
and he did not belong. And more people were 
going to die.

The noise level in the hallway seemed to 
double, then double again and the people 
dashing to and fro disintegrated into a 
confusing mass of colors and unfamiliar 
faces. They jabbered. They ran. They dashed 
past him in a flurry of business he did not 
know how to comprehend. He could command a 
battleship through raging waters, red lights 
and alarms blaring, men racing to and fro, 
but he understood that world. He knew those 
patterns to his bones, they welcomed him, 
they supported him, they told him what to 
do. The chaos was only chaos to the 
outsider.

Bill shivered as he suddenly wondered if 
this was what it felt like to be alone.

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

He finally managed to track his sister down 
in one of the conference rooms. Some 
familiar faces dotted the crowd of FBI 
agents, police officers, arson investigators 
and the other specialists who made up the 
investigatory task force. Dana and Mulder 
were a tiny island in a sea of people, oddly 
isolated by the sideways glances and openly 
assessing looks they were receiving by the 
rest of the team.

Some of the looks were curious, the owners 
obviously unfamiliar with either the agents 
or their reputations but sensitive to the 
undercurrents around them. Others were 
calculating, narrowed eyed appraisals that 
searched for something Bill could not begin 
to guess at.  A few people looked dismayed, 
others affronted. One or two just looked on 
in contempt. 

It was the fact that almost everyone in the 
room had an opinion that shocked him. Most 
of these people should not even have known 
who Dana and her partner were.  And those 
that did know, most should not have cared. 
Not this directly. Not this personally. But 
they did. Uneasily, Bill tried to wrap 
personal experience around the fact that his 
sister and her partner meant enough to these 
people for them to have opinions.

He tried to tell himself it was just the 
case.

Murmured comments drifted around the agents 
and Bill's head shot up as a trick of 
acoustics suddenly thrust several pieces of 
overlapping conversations his way. 

"...heard about him...absolutely crazy..."

"...not much better than a killer 
himself..."

"..attacked an AD? You're kidding..."

Bill watched warily as his sister's 
shoulders twitched and tightened with each 
muttered comment. He noticed the rest of the 
X-Files team throwing concerned glances 
toward the pair and Vickery was glaring 
furiously around her causing several of the 
task force members nearest her to take 
cautious albeit confused steps away from 
her. Harris looked frustrated, Lewis had her 
head down and although Mathews seemed 
oblivious standing next to the lead arson 
investigator, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

 Finally one comment surged up out of the 
roiling masses.

"...goddamn sociopath needs to be kept on a 
leash..."

Dana's head shot up and her head whipped 
around. Bill was tensed for an explosion and 
started pushing his way through the crowd 
toward her just as he heard Mulder's amused 
voice.

"The grapevine seems to be slipping, Scully. 
They forgot that I'm supposed to be 
Patterson's *domesticated* sociopath."

Dana's head swiveled slowly as she peeled 
her lips back from her teeth.

“Gee Mulder, did he manage to paper-train 
you too?”

Her voice was hard-edged and mocking and  
Bill sucked in a quick breath. Jesus. He 
stared at her in shock. He did not think he 
liked Mulder anymore than these cops seemed 
too, but he had thought…he would have had to 
be blind not to realize that on some level 
the man cared about her. He never would have 
thought she could be so carelessly, 
deliberately cruel. His eyes slid toward her 
partner. Surprisingly, no hurt showed on 
that emotionless face. Bill was mentally 
congratulating the agent for his sang-froid 
when something heated flashed in Mulder’s 
eyes and he leaned in slightly.

”I suddenly had the oddest vision of you 
whacking me over the head with a newspaper 
while I peed on your living room floor. “

“You better have missed the carpet, Mulder. 
I just finished getting the blood out.”

Bill almost stumbled as he forgot to watch 
where he was going.

“So what do you think it means , Agent 
Scully?” Mulder’s voice was low and 
provocative

“It means you will resist any urge to start 
marking territory unless you want to get 
stuck with the dry-cleaning bill.” her voice 
was dry, but the look in her eyes...

What the hell was going on here? That was 
not what it looked like. Well, maybe in 
part. He had finally picked up on the fact 
that half their jokes were edged with some 
serious sexual innuendo...and they seemed to 
do it just for fun. He was beginning to 
think they did it just to mess with heads of 
those around them. But that look. He did not 
think he had ever seen that look before. She 
was…what? Daring him? Warning him?

About to go screaming down the warpath 
tearing steaming chunks from beating hearts 
with bared teeth and bloody hands?

Just exactly who was holding who back?

The eyes clouding over with angry darkness 
were not Mulder’s.Christ. This was not Dana. 
This was not the sister he knew. This woman, 
he realized slowly, scared the shit out of 
him. Bill glanced around quickly to see if 
any of the cops were reacting to this-odd- 
exchange by the pair of FBI agents in their 
midst. He was floored to see that no one 
else had noticed. What the fuck was wrong 
with these people?

Didn’t they see?

He suddenly realized that only her first 
comment and none of his had been uttered 
loud enough for the rest of the room to 
hear. And looking at them, he had a 
disorientating vision of what the rest of 
the room was seeing. They saw a tiny woman 
with a mocking smile and a hard angry look 
in her eyes staring down an expressionless 
man leaning in just close enough to 
intimidate with his closeness, his height 
and his eyes. These cops thought they were 
taking shots at each other. And Jesus, they 
thought Dana was the victim.

They did not have a clue.

He flat out surprised the hell out of 
himself when he started laughing. It was too 
bloody ridiculous. His sister. Her partner. 
The melodrama. The astonished looks on both 
their faces just made it worse.

Finally he looked his sister in the eye and 
managed to gasp,” They’re idiots, but they 
don’t deserve to die.”

The confused look on Dana’s face set him off 
again, but the thing that kicked him in the 
gut was the absolute blinding grin that 
swept over Mulder’s face as he stared down 
at his irritated partner, then glanced over 
at Bill, sharing his appreciation of the 
dark humor in the situation. Jesus, the man 
had emotions after all. It was also, Bill 
suddenly realized, a grin that no one else 
in the room could see.  

Jesus.

After eight years, he finally got the joke. 
It was not on him, and it was not funny. Not 
in a million years.  Like a whisper he heard 
the echo from another conversation. A 
conversation he was finally beginning to 
understand.

*While you’re kicking him from the front, 
she’s cutting your throat from behind.*

The Assassin and her Dog.

May God have mercy on them all.

*******************************************
The meeting ran about three hours. The X-
Files team was introduced to the rest of the 
task force. There was a bit of an uproar 
when Mulder presented the updated profile, 
but Bill was surprised to find that after 
the yelling died down, everyone more or less 
started to discuss how the new profile 
impacted the already gathered evidence. Dana 
headed off to review the preliminary autopsy 
data while Mulder and the others headed off 
to do whatever it was that they did.

He was left standing holding a copy of his 
handouts from the meeting and nothing to do.

He supposed that he should head back to the 
base. If the agents needed him for anything, 
they would let him know. Mostly his job was 
simply to co-ordinate any resource requests 
the task force might have for the Navy. But 
when it came right down to it, the FBI did 
not really need their help. 

He tried to leave. He really did. But 
curiosity and a desperate need to be part of 
the solution had him studying crime photos 
and looking over shoulders. Somehow, he 
found himself quietly bringing coffee and 
sandwiches to the exhausted investigators. 
The assistants being run off their feet as 
they organized the papers spewing from fax 
machines and photocopiers just looked at him 
gratefully as he plucked  boxes of food from 
their hands and headed around the room.

He was about to gather up a load of donuts 
when the assistant suddenly grabbed two 
plates and hurriedly searched for two 
specific donuts before sending him off. He 
assumed the donuts were reserved for her 
boss, so he was astonished when the woman 
quietly slid them onto the table beside 
Mulder. The agent was so absorbed with what 
he was doing that he never even looked up as 
crumpled napkins and empty bottles were 
replaced with fresh ones. 

Bill just stood rooted to the floor as the 
woman headed off to the rest of her job, not 
seeming a whit put out by the fact that she 
had not even received a thank-you. Bill 
watched as Dana suddenly appeared next to 
her partner, face buried in an autopsy 
report. Sitting beside Mulder she absently 
grabbed one of the donuts - her favorite, 
Bill suddenly realized- and started relaying 
some incomprehensible data from the report 
that probably made perfect sense to her 
partner. Mulder did not even appear to be 
listening, but when Dana picked up the 
second donut and held it out, he took it.

For one brief instant, he had the terrifying 
urge to run over and dash the sweets from 
their hands and pour the iced tea down the 
nearest sink. Was the woman's gesture a 
kindness or a plot? The fact that she cared 
about two agents out of hundreds was 
something he would think about later. It was 
his newly minted paranoid impulses that 
shocked him. Almost as much as they 
terrified him.

Was this how they lived? 

For the next three hours Bill wandered 
through the center, helping where he could 
and learning with grim sobriety just how 
much work went into a murder investigation. 
It all looked so easy from the outside. As 
he watched one agent after another 
painstakingly sift through pages of data, 
lists and witness statements he was suddenly 
struck, not by their failures, but by their 
success. 

How in the hell did they ever manage to fit 
all the pieces together. How did hundreds of 
people ever manage to communicate all those 
tiny pieces of seemingly unrelated 
information across departments? How did 
anyone know what was relevant to the person 
sitting beside him?

But they did it. And that, he realized, was 
an amazing feat all in itself.

He had been unconsciously looking for Mulder 
for almost an hour when he found him by 
himself in the lunch room. A couch and chair 
arrangement had been placed in the corner 
near a TV and he supposed that this was to 
provide the agents with a place to relax and 
talk. 

He was surprised to find that Mulder sat 
with his head tipped back, throat 
vulnerable, eyes closed. The 
uncharacteristic defenselessness caught him 
off guard until the glint of reflected light 
warned him that Mulder was watching him 
through lowered lashes. He’s letting me see 
him like this. Bill thought abruptly. 

Why?

Without a word, Bill moved to the opposite 
chair and sat carefully, never taking his 
eyes off the motionless agent.

Why did this man do anything? He remembered 
Melissa commenting once that Mulder had the 
talent and training to mindfuck a man five 
ways from Sunday. That was the word she had 
used. He had been so shocked at the 
unexpected obscenity he had forgotten to ask 
her what she meant.

Now he wondered.

That his pose was deliberate, he did not 
doubt. But again, why? In his confusion, he 
found himself reverting to training. When in 
doubt, attack.

“ You attracted the attention of some of our 
SEALs today.”

The agent frowned without opening his eyes,
”We noticed.”

Comeback? Defense? Bill dropped the second 
can of root beer on the table close enough 
for Mulder to grab. 

“They had a rather colorful way of 
describing you two.”

Sighing theatrically, Mulder opened his eyes 
and leaned forward just long enough to snag 
the soda. Popping the top he took a swig and 
gestured broadly for Bill to bring it on. 
Bill considered the half sneer on his face 
and realized that the agent was waiting for 
something stereotypically obscene.

“The Assassin and her Dog.”

For a split second Mulder looked genuinely 
startled. The sneer faded and for a long 
moment his face lost expression as his gaze 
turned inward. Bill resisted the temptation 
to pat himself on the back for recognizing 
that fact. He wanted to know why.

“Why what?”

He must have said that aloud. 

“Why did they call you that?”

Mulder took a swig of soda and eyed Bill for 
a long thoughtful moment before swallowing,” 
Because it’s a surprisingly accurate 
description all things considered.”

Anger and fear churned in conflicting 
directions, but he managed to keep his voice 
level as he glared hard at the man who his 
sister seemed to think knew her better than 
anyone else in the world," My sister is not 
an assassin.”

Mulder stared at him and for a second, Bill 
was afraid that he was going to disagree 
with him. Then Mulder sighed, “No, she’s 
not.” Considering that he had not believed 
it, Bill was surprised at the level of 
relief he was feeling.

“She’s not a cold blooded killer for hire 
any more than I’m some love sick puppy 
trailing along in her wake.”   

 Mulder seemed genuinely amused by Bill’s 
wide-eyed silence, and his voice was gently 
mocking,” What? You didn’t think I’d admit 
it?” He eyed Bill with a sudden keen-eyed 
gaze that abruptly reminded him that this 
was a fully trained, extremely intelligent 
federal agent. “or you didn’t think I knew 
the rumors?”

Bill wondered if they were talking about the 
same thing.  His throat was dry as he forced 
the question,” Then how is that statement 
accurate?”

Mulder was quiet for so long that Bill was 
beginning to think he was refusing to 
answer. Then he realized that the agent was 
just trying to decide if he really wanted to 
know. And then it was too late.

The Assassin and her Dog. 

What was a dog anyway? A loyal friend. A 
faithful guardian. A loud-mouthed early 
warning system. Bill frowned as he tried to 
correlate these definitions with his already 
constructed impression of Mulder as a self-
indulgent self-centered obsessive loser 
ready to run off half-cocked at the earliest 
opportunity. 

They did not fit.

Absurdly, his mind conjured the image of a 
grinning canine as it joyfully threw itself 
single-mindedly into the hunt for nothing 
more than the sheer joy of the chase. It was 
not bloodlust, and when necessary, the most 
deadly of the K-9 canines could be brought 
back to the job at hand with the lightest of 
restraints. Nothing more than a command from 
their handlers. They even came willingly. 
For love. 

That is what they were made to do. 

To hunt. 

And under control, their abilities focused 
to a deadly degree.

He recalled a German Shepherd he had known 
as a child. The dog had let himself be 
mauled by childish hands with no more than a  
slight growl if the games became too 
painful. Yet that same animal would have 
instantly torn the throat from anyone stupid 
enough to threaten what was under his 
protection. Passionately, in sheer rage. 
Nothing cold about it. 

Intelligent, passionate, protective...and at 
his best when one half of a working whole.

So far from the sad-eyed hound dog mooning 
about that Mulder’s earlier words had 
conjured that he wanted to laugh. Because 
the man was right. That was the first image 
that had come to mind. The pathetic image of 
a man trailing along behind the object of 
his desires, desperate for any crumbs of 
affection she might throw his way. 

“That really isn’t why you work with her.” 
The words were wondering, spoken before he 
could censure them. A statement , not a 
question.

Mulder just tilted his head in mute enquiry.

“You don’t...you don’t expect her to save 
you.”

"Every day, in every way."

The words were quiet, accepting. They held 
none of the  self-pity, embarrassment or 
desperate need he would have expected. 
Meeting the agent's calm gaze, he realized 
that for Mulder, they were nothing more than 
a statement of fact. A grim acceptance of 
very real dangers. Seeing none of the 
emotional histrionics he had expected, Bill 
felt a chill as he finally admitted - if 
only to himself -  that maybe it was a two 
way commitment.

All this time he had had some twisted image 
in his head that Mulder was this battered 
and broken velveteen rabbit waiting for the 
love of a child to make him whole. To make 
him real. And somewhere in the depths of his 
heart he had truly believed that no matter 
how much Dana insisted that this man loved 
her-as a partner, as a friend - that it 
really could not be a valid form of love. 
That it had to be a twisted form of lust or 
obsession and need, but nothing more.

So what if he was willing to die for her. 
That was the easy part.

He found himself in a position of trying to 
define an emotion that he was not absolutely 
certain he understood. You loved or you were 
in love. And each form of love came with 
certain responsibilities. Certain 
obligations. What kind of love was this?

Did he truly want to understand?

And if Mulder was the Dog, was Dana the 
Assassin?

He was ashamed to realize that he no longer 
knew the answer. Could not begin to guess. 
He could guess more about the man in front 
of him simply from his confirmation of a 
nickname than he could guess about the 
sister he had known all his life. His next 
words were an angry challenge.

“How cold does she get when she kills?”

If Mulder was startled by the question, he 
did not show it. His eyes were sad, but Bill 
had a sneaking suspicion that the sadness 
was for Bill himself. For his ignorance. And 
maybe, for the fact that Mulder knew the 
answer to the question.

“What makes you think he has any idea?”

Bill choked and dropped his root beer. How 
long had she been standing there? His eyes 
narrowed as he studied the lanky body 
sprawled out on the sofa across from him. 
And how long had he known she was there? He 
watched as Mulder stretched his arms out 
along the back of the sofa and lengthened 
his body. If anything, the move had the duel 
effect of increasing his apparent 
vulnerability and strengthening a certain 
canine resemblance. 

Bill watched open-mouthed as, ignoring her 
brother completely, Dana paced into the  
room and stopped when her knees hit her 
partner’s outstretched legs. Bill had just 
enough of an angle to see most of her face 
in three-quarter profile.

“The Assassin?” 

Her tone was dry and Bill searched carefully 
for any sign of hurt. Mulder just grinned up 
at her.

“Woof.”

Dana collapsed onto the sofa beside him and 
snagged the soda can in his hand. When his 
hand went with it, her right hand darted out 
and danced fingernails across his stomach. 
Hissing like an offended cat, Mulder jerked 
forward, arms and knees retracting in 
instinctive protection. Dana ducked as his 
left arm swept forward and came to her feet 
clutching his root beer triumphantly.

Mulder glared at her narrow-eyed,” Cold, 
Agent Scully. Very cold.”

Dana downed the last of the soda, then 
smiled provocatively ” I  thought dogs liked 
to have their bellies scratched.” 

“Well actually that wasn’t the itch I 
would...”

She mock-fired a pistol at him with thumb 
and forefinger. He smiled up at her lazily.  

Open-mouthed, Bill could only watch as the 
stranger inhabiting his sister's body smiled 
back.

Christ.

No wonder people thought that they were 
sleeping together.

And suddenly he realized what they had done. 
In one fell swoop they had taken a 
potentially hurtful topic and turned it into 
a joke. A private joke. One that excluded 
everyone else in the room. Even the sexual 
overtones were an aggressive slap in the 
face. A blatant narrowing of the universe to 
a world of two and a rejection of everyone 
else. It was an obvious exception to normal 
conduct, an exception that they granted to 
each other and no one else.

He wondered if they even realized that they 
did it.

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

Scully was exhausted. Her eyes hurt. Her 
feet hurt. Hell, her hair hurt. And Vickery 
was missing. Her watch  had stopped , but 
she vaguely recalled eating something she 
thought was supposed to be supper. The sky 
was black outside the windows so all she 
knew was that it was late. 

Mulder and Mathews were working on one of 
the earlier profiles. Mathews still had some 
reservations about the new profile and the 
argument had ceased to interest her two 
hours ago. Deciding that if she was ever 
going to see her bed before sunrise that she 
would have to get the wagon trains rolling, 
she headed out to gather up the rest of the 
team. Landers was the first she found and 
the two women sent Lewis off to find Harris. 
Vickery was harder to locate. 

It was the music that finally led them to 
her.

They found her in the gymnasium, lights off, 
the floor lit by the light of the full moon 
shining through the windows. The eerie music 
throbbing through the floor was a haunting, 
aching wound to the soul. In the cries of 
the woodwinds Scully could hear the screams 
of children and the groans of the brass laid 
bare the agony of a parent's worst fears.

Scully thought at first that the dancer 
danced naked. Then she realized that the 
cast of the body suit so precisely matched 
the hue of her skin that she might as well 
have worn nothing at all. Bare feet pounded 
across polished floorboards as muscled limbs 
twisted and swayed, contorting with the 
music in a partnership that seemed to drive 
the dancer to the heights of sanity...and 
then pushed her over the edge.

Landers was silent at Scully's back and when 
Lewis trotted up with Harris in tow, the 
male agent took one look at the dancer and 
paled. Then he rapidly beat a hasty retreat, 
wanting nothing to do with the rage 
pulsating in that room. But Scully could not 
look away and Landers and Lewis both fell 
into step behind her as she slipped out of 
the hallway and into the shadows.

The music seemed to wrap itself around them. 
Not in welcome, but in screams of outrage 
demanding to be heard. They stood in silence 
even after the dancer folded in on herself 
and the last strains faded into the 
moonlight. Her panting breaths were harsh 
with emotion and when she finally raised her 
head, a silver web of tears glowed on her 
face.

Whatever the nature of this dance, this 
ritual, it was private. Defensive anger 
momentarily twisted the dancer's face as she 
registered the intrusion. She looked away 
briefly, then rose and walked toward them.  
By the time she reached them, Agent Vickery 
was in control and the dancer was gone.

Something flared in the agent's eyes as she 
met Scully's searching gaze, but she offered 
no explanation, no piece of herself until 
Scully's soft, "Satinka?" reached her ears.
She flinched. For herself, Scully was unsure 
why she was pushing the issue. Nor was she 
sure why she had used the agent's first 
name. But something about the lost dancer 
seemed to demand it.

Vickery drew a sharp breath, then let it out 
slowly. Her voice was low, reluctant, but 
she actually answered the implied question. 
"It is an old...ritual. A dance of mourning. 
Of grief."

Of anger.

Satinka flexed her hands and her face was 
suddenly alive with the same rage Scully had 
seen this morning as the agent had viewed 
the heat blackened remains of a five year 
old child. The dancer abruptly turned fierce 
eyes towards them, "I dance so that I do not 
forget."

Scully understood the distinction. Not to 
remember...but so that she did not forget. 

The red haired agent studied violet eyes 
which slipped away from the three women 
facing her. Fellow agents, Scully realized, 
that she did not expect to understand or 
appreciate what they were being shown. In a 
world of her own, even when in a crowded 
room. Was it as simple as that? Scully 
hesitated for just a moment, then remembered 
how she had felt when she had fled to her 
partner's apartment the night they had 
returned. A world of their own, but at least 
a world they shared together.

Her words responded to the need, the hunger 
she saw lurking in the dancer's eyes. Such a 
simple gift to give. It did not take from 
that which she shared with Mulder. It grew 
from it.  For the first time she felt as if 
she had finally come home. This was truth. 
They could do more than simply survive, she 
and Mulder. Their partnership had more to 
offer their world than strength and 
protection for two agents alone. Their 
partnership engendered a responsibility they 
had yet to claim. That knowledge coiled in 
her eyes and threaded steel through her 
voice as she held out her hand.

" Must you dance alone?"

Shock. Fear. Then tentative hope. Violet 
eyes searching for the acceptance that she 
did not expect to find. The hope that she 
did not have to face the demons all on her 
own. Finding some measure of the security 
Scully had always found in Mulder's eyes by 
knowing that he saw her, who she was, and 
the world that she lived within. 

She was not alone.

Satinka took the smaller agent's hand and 
led her to a space on the floor brightly lit 
by the moon. Her smile was cautious as she 
turned to look at the other two agents. 
Without hesitation, Landers stepped forward, 
Lewis close behind. The three agents waited 
patiently, time suspended in the moonlight 
as Satinka considered several CD's in her 
collection, then slowly dropped one into the 
player.

Her voice was a smoky promise tinged with 
ritual, a feral-edged prophecy that recalled 
primordial instincts as it came out of the 
darkness.

"First we mourn...then we hunt."

The first few steps were awkward, without 
understanding and they giggled as they 
tripped over their own feet and stumbled 
through the primitive dance. Satinka laughed 
easily and showed them again. It was on the 
third way through that something clicked and 
the four women found themselves falling into 
the moves more naturally. Whirling 
reflections of each other, each shadow 
dancer was both leader and follower as they 
circled an imaginary point on the floor.

Yet even as she danced, Scully could feel 
something missing. Frustrated, she 
concentrated on the moves, falling into the 
rhythm with more surety as her body learned 
the patterns. It was as she drifted into a 
lazy turn that memory suddenly assaulted 
her. A flash. A shadow moving in the corner 
of her eye that recalled other shadows 
stretching across snow as Mulder threw arms 
wide in a physical depiction of story. 

Was that...?

The center point was no longer imagination 
but a fire. Living flames chasing back the 
night and the dancers became storytellers. 
Cave painters. Hunters. Unconsciously she 
turned her face into the remembered warmth 
and her hair was suddenly flying back, not 
from exertion but carried on heat and smoke 
and flame. Scully fell into the dance as 
understanding finally bloomed and her body 
acquired a new confidence as it found 
recently learned patterns that it 
understood.

A turn. A reach. Was that a deer? Wait. 
Wait. Now lift your head, find your prey and 
go. Scully met violet eyes across imaginary 
flame and Satinka grinned in wild delight as 
she mirrored the hunt. The music grew 
faster, more demanding and the two dancers 
unconsciously tightened their circle to pick 
up the speed. Blue eyes and violet flashed 
feral understanding and the other two 
dancers were pulled along in their wake.

And yet...

There was something else in the music. 
Something that lurked just inside the 
shadows of the notes and tones. Something 
that whispered to her. Talked to her. 
Reminded her...

Something that called to the dark side of 
her soul. 

Prey?

Who was prey?

Reflex denial roared into being. The dancers 
were not prey. But oh yeeessss...

The prey was human.

As she stared into violet eyes she saw them 
widen, saw recognition and surprised 
satisfaction. Saw that this was what Satinka 
had been waiting for. With a triumphant 
laugh, the dancer flashed stark white teeth 
in the darkness and released the reins of 
the dance.

For a split second, Scully almost stumbled. 
Time froze as rhythm faltered. Then 
knowledge exploded into being and she 
reached for the pattern...

...and made it her own.

As if a catalyst, dark rage, hidden, denied, 
born of callous offense and offended honor 
spilled over into the fire. The pattern took 
it in ,swallowed it and was reborn. Scully 
pulled the other dancers into the pattern 
with her. Gave them new identity. They were 
the mothers of the murdered children, 
sisters to the slain and the daughters of 
deadly Artemis. 

They were not prey.

She danced conviction.

Not victim. Not sacrifice. 
  
The throb of the drums defined them. 
Hunters. The screams of the wind carried 
them.  Chased demons into the darkness. 
Angry bare feet stamped defiance. Muscles 
flexed, bodies whirled, heads snapped.  They 
danced Life. They danced Death. They danced 
the endless patience of the predator. They 
would find. They would follow. 

And then they would feast on the hearts of 
their enemies.

In the shadows of twilight, four FBI agents 
danced blood to a Hunter's moon.

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

Bill Scully's Residence 
Day 42
6:15 am


It was barely dawn. 

One more new day. More possibilities. More 
answers.

One more day lost to the sands she could 
feel slipping through her fingers.

"What are you doing?"

Tara's soft voice barely registered and 
Scully wrapped her hands more tightly around 
her mug, letting the warmth soak through her 
palms. She shivered with reflex as the heat 
failed to move past her wrists. It was 
almost, she thought idly, as if the cold 
radiated from the bones themselves. Six 
months of winter that the past few weeks had 
failed to erase. 

Except Mother Nature could not be blamed for 
this aspect of ice.

Scully's voice was contemplative as she 
answered her sister-in-law.

"Just remembering."

Remembering Tom Colton's excited look of 
pride as he presented his prize to his 
masters. Why had she never realized that his 
attitude had held all the enthusiastic tail 
wagging of a puppy who had just been a very 
good boy. She had laid her profile before 
agents twenty years her senior and had never 
thought to wonder why they were so pleased. 
Or why, frankly, they had even cared. But 
they had followed her advice. Nurtured her 
fragile, emerging agent's ego. 

Older agents might waste a minor murder case 
on the training of a young agent. They might 
even use it to give a boost to a rising 
young star. It said something that she had 
never realized that the star they were 
polishing had not been Colton's...it had 
been hers. 

It had felt like a test. Hell, she had known 
it was a test. And she had  passed with 
flying colors. She had been excited at the 
possibility that she had brought herself to 
their attention. And Tooms had not been a 
minor.

Ego, thy name is Scully.

Gibson had been right, and so wrong. So very 
wrong. She did care what other people 
thought. She simply did not allow their 
opinions to sway her from her course.  From 
what she felt was right. For so many 
reasons, the X-Files had been right. But 
there had always been that pride. That angry 
thrust of defiance born the day she looked 
into her father's eyes and seen doubt. 
Disbelief.

How could she allow herself to believe that 
those crude and graceless men in the 
concrete bunker could ever exceed her 
father. Ever reach beyond him in their 
confidence in her. In a woman in a man's 
world. Mulder was not the only child of his 
father's expectations.

Maybe she had just lived down to hers.

If she had dared to believe in their belief 
in her, would she have spent less time 
blaming ...who? The X-Files? The shadow men? 
Herself?

Mulder.

Would she have spent more time training this 
curse that Mulder thought she had? She had 
thought that she had had to prove herself to 
the good old boys of the FBI. She had 
resented every choice that forced her to 
appear as less than competent to authority. 
She had resented the part of herself that 
seemed unable to separate itself from Mulder 
even as she resented the steps that forced 
her to take. She had resented the early 
female conditioning she blamed for her 
inability to abandon the male in her care. 

She had resented Mulder.

Now, she just resented all that wasted time.

And the deaths that she might have 
prevented.

Mulder had said nothing about what she had 
done that night. He had held her, accepted 
her...and asked no questions she could not 
force herself to answer. But she had seen 
his eyes. The shock. The fear.

The resignation.

He should have been concerned.  He should 
have been demanding that she step away, take 
some time. Get some help. Instead, he had 
simply looked at her like he wanted to cry. 
As if something terrible had happened right 
in front of his eyes. Something that could 
never be undone.  

Something, that ultimately, did not surprise 
him at all.

"I'm glad that you are all here."

Momentarily reminded that she was not alone; 
surprised that she should have needed 
reminding, Scully turned a bland face to her 
brother's wife. Tara was looking at her 
steadily.

"No matter how upset I may seem 
sometimes...I really am glad that you are 
here. All of you." Tara hesitated, then 
smiled slightly, " It makes me feel safe."

Reflex started to answer, "Tara..."

Then she paused. She told herself to let it 
go. That this was not something that needed 
to be said. Not now. Maybe not ever. Except 
that Tara's trust was bought with the wrong 
coin...and Scully had learned several 
painful lessons that even allies could be 
enemies under the right circumstances. 
Circumstances that changed on Fate's fickle 
whim. She leaned forward and carefully took 
Tara's hand in her own. Tara froze at the 
unexpected contact, eyes wary as she reacted 
to the seriousness in the agent's eyes.

"Don't trust them, Tara. Not yet. Maybe not 
ever. Just use them. Let them keep you safe. 
Let them keep Mathew safe. But do not ever 
mistake their willingness to do the job for 
trustworthiness. We do not know what shape 
their commitment takes."

Tara's hands grew cold and Scully wondered 
if ice and snow were contagious. If the cold 
had seeped across the barrier of her own 
flesh and blood even as her words battered 
at the walls of Tara's ordinary world. But 
Tara did not pull away. Instead she met 
Scully's eyes, her own wide and frightened.

" I don't understand." Tara's voice was 
barely a whisper.

Scully's hands tightened further. " There 
are other games being played, Tara. Games 
where there are no rules about civilian 
casualties and collateral damage. Right 
now...on this stage...we can use them. We 
are in no danger because we are no threat. 
Not in this. But that may change. And if 
someday I tell you to take Mathew and run. 
Do it. Don't stop because you think you know 
them. Don't stop because once upon a time 
they sat at your table and ate your food."

Tara's eyes grew bright as the walls came 
tumbling down. Scully squeezed her fingers 
just to the point where she was almost 
causing pain, one last point to make.

"And if I hand you a gun...pull the goddamn 
trigger."

Scully watched as the tears slid down Tara's 
face and felt both devastating sorrow and 
unutterable relief. Sorrow for the 
collapsing sense of safety she had caused. 
For a moment, an ugly moment, she was almost 
glad. Anger she had not even realized she 
harbored for her brother and his wife's 
willful ignorance in the face of her own 
personal sacrifices flared and was 
vindicated. But only for a moment. The 
devastation in her sister-in-law's eyes was 
too familiar to be anything other than 
painful.

Because she saw belief.

"Why?"  

Tara's soft cry held all the raw anguish 
that Scully had never been able to share. By 
the time she had reached the point where she 
could share her agony with Mulder, fury had 
worn away the edges. But she remembered. Oh 
yes, she remembered. And she would not 
forget.

"Because if you make a mistake, someone 
dies."

She held Tara's eyes, the brutal truth held 
open on her face and in her eyes. "Melissa 
died because I made a mistake. Mulder almost 
died because I made a mistake."

She stared into Tara's eyes and saw almost 
understanding. Almost. But not quite.

" I stood by and let Mulder turn his back on 
a killer and I was careless. I knew ...I 
knew for a fact that one of them was a 
killer. And Mulder turned his back on them 
because he trusted in me. He trusted me. And 
I failed him. "

Scully felt her eyes go distant and she let 
Tara see the commitment she had made that 
day in Nome, Alaska. On the ice. In the 
cold.

"Never again."

Mulder would have understood the promise. 
Never again.  It was enough that Tara 
understood the threat. 

"Harris. Lewis. Maybe even Vickery and 
Mathews. They don't understand ...they 
haven't made their mistake yet. "

Blue eyes held shadows the early light could 
not touch and Tara shuddered at the things 
that voice hinted it would be willing to do. 
At things she had thought were limited to 
Hollywood.

"That mistake will NOT be Mulder."

For a split second Tara did not react. Then 
startled eyes looked into blue. Searching. 
Looking for the names she had forgotten to 
speak. Looking for the names Scully's 
presence in her home implied. And the agent 
saw her finally understand that it was not 
about love or family. It was about choices.

You can only take one bullet.

Scully had chosen hers.

Tara lowered her head and contemplated the 
floor instead of the stark reality being 
revealed by the shadows of the morning. Her 
words were a denial. A last gasp attempt to 
deny that the agent's reality was also her 
own. With no time to chose...with no time to 
decide...

Whose bullet would she take?

And what would happen if she ducked?

"We have normal lives, Dana. We are not 
police officers. Bill is not a police 
officer. I am not a police officer. 
Dana....your mother is not a police 
officer."

Scully just studied her, wondering how Tara 
could have missed the larger implications of 
all that Scully had told her family over the 
years. 

"No." The agent agreed.

Bill understood. Not consciously perhaps. 
But down where instinct ruled, he knew this 
truth.

"You're hostages."

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

Tara had fled the room and Scully had closed 
her eyes and wondered if she had really 
needed to be quite that honest. It was not 
like the remains of the Consortium were 
going to drag Bill or Mathew off into the 
night for no reason. 

They knew better. 
  
Shadow wars were hard to keep to the shadows 
when buildings started burning down. The 
Consortium had been nothing if not 
circumspect. In fact, Scully had begun to 
suspect that their numbers were actually 
quite low, relatively speaking. They were 
powerful because of their access to 
information, the types of the pawns they 
controlled and the utter ruthlessness with 
which they were willing to react. 

She was not totally certain why Mulder and 
she were still alive. 

Was it simply that, having given up his 
family, his enemies were all he had left? 
Nostalgia? A frightened attempt to hold onto 
the last remaining pieces of a diminishing 
power  base? Their value to him seemed to 
shift with the winds. 

And by the plans the shadow men were no 
longer around to make.

"Are you happy now?"

Scully turned wearily to face the angry 
expression stamped on her brother's face.

"You just couldn't leave it alone, could 
you? It's not enough that you've ruined your 
own life with this paranoid bullshit. Now 
you have to go after Tara. Who's next, Dana? 
Mathew? "

His anger should have sparked an answering 
temper. She would have welcomed it. But the 
feelings that roiled through her stomach 
were a twisting mass of heavy gray and ice 
cold. Fear wrapped formless fingers around 
her heart and the emotion that shifted 
within her was far too terrifying to ever be 
called rage. It hungered, but not hotly. It 
desired, but not cleanly. It held every 
alarm, every night terror that woke her 
screaming in the darkness. All compressed 
into a hard , seething mass of dread and 
desperation.

It forced a truth she had not planned to 
speak.

"We're almost out of time, Bill. You have to 
be ready. In case...in case they come for 
you."

Her voice was tight as she heard herself 
force words past numb lips. They clawed 
their way past the rocks in her throat, and 
she struggled to avoid the inevitable as it 
crashed towards her. Out of control, without 
a rope, she could not even duck her head and 
pray that the boulders would bounce 
harmlessly off her shoulders. Instead, she 
stared into the face of his disbelief and 
could only wait for it to tear her loose 
from her moorings and carry her screaming 
into the abyss waiting behind her.

"Do you even listen to yourself anymore? Do 
you hear what you are saying?"

Bill's anger boiled over , the heat of it 
slamming harmlessly off the practiced 
thickness of her icy walls. She stared at 
him, her own control beginning to shatter. 
They had come here to find a killer. But all 
she had found was a sense of disintegrating 
foundations and handfuls of sands trickling 
through the hourglass. She laughed wildly, 
not even pausing at the brief flash of 
uncertainty and fear that slid into the blue 
depths of her brother's eyes.

"Don't you get it? That's the whole point. 
The fact that I can say it. They are all 
dead, Bill. Consortium flambé. There is no 
one left running the train from hell and 
it's headed for it's final destination."

Bill just stood there with his mouth open, 
anger rapidly being swallowed by fear and 
she could see the pulse beating wildly in 
his neck.

"The old rules are over, Bill. Our enemies 
are coming out of the shadows and we don't 
know their faces anymore. Six months? Twelve 
months? Two years? We are running out of 
time. "

Scully turned back to the window with a 
bitter laugh that should have sliced her 
tongue bloody. "Mulder and I are going to 
have to take a stand. Someday, somewhere. 
We've already chosen sides. And someday soon 
they may come for you. You have to 
understand that. I can't quit and you can't 
live in ignorance. "

She thought she had finally reached him. He 
swallowed sharply. Once . Twice. Then he 
shattered her hope of understanding with his 
next words.

"Jesus Christ, you're as crazy as he is." 
The whispered words were weighted with 
horror and disbelief.

She stared at him soberly. "Melissa is dead. 
How much more proof do you need?"

"The police said it was a break-in."

He had the grace to flinch when she barked a 
painful laugh. His face twisted with his 
fear. His own desperation.

"You can't keep doing this, Dana. Leave. The 
X-Files. Mulder. The FBI. Leave before he 
destroys you."

Scully stared into earnest blue eyes and 
wondered how he could look at her, at 
everything that had been done to her...and 
not see the truth written across her face. 
Suddenly more exhausted than angry, she bit 
back a hundred things she could scream at 
him. A hundred monsters, a hundred tiny 
betrayals. Because he would not see them. 
Would never see them. Not until he had no 
choice. Until maybe it was too late. 

Funny how the whole morning seemed to be 
colored in shades of gray. 

"I can't."

Denial. Of her words. Of what she had 
become. She watched as he tried to fit her 
answer into something familiar. 

"Is it Mulder? Is that it? What hold does he 
have over you? Are you in love with him? Is 
that it? "

Anyone else and she would tell them to go to 
hell. Anyone else, but she owed Bill 
something. For the fact that her choices 
endangered them all. Made them potential 
pawns in a game they had not chosen to play. 
Maybe she did not owe him this, but it was 
all she had to offer.

And maybe if he could be made to understand 
this truth, he might start looking for the 
others.

"It's ...the wrong question Bill."

Her brother growled with frustration and his 
hand swept out in a gesture of rejection.

"Either you do or you don't."

Scully reached her hand up to press firmly 
on the bone at the bridge of her nose. How 
could she explain something that had taken 
eight years to evolve and as long for her to 
accept let alone define? She could simply 
say yes. Give him something he understood. 
Something that made sense in the context of 
his life, his values, his limits. But that 
devalued the reality of what she shared with 
her partner.

And that was something she refused to do.

"I'm committed to Mulder on so many levels I 
cannot even begin to explain them to you. Do 
you think I would stay with him simply 
because of a hearts and flowers emotion? 
That's disrespectful to him and it's 
insulting to me. I stay with him because 
what we are doing is right."

She recalled something her partner had said 
earlier and almost smiled.

"And together, we are hell on wheels."

Bill just looked at her, lost even as to the 
reasons she would try to laugh. She tried 
again, attempting to put things simply 
accepted into the context of words.

"As our society defines that emotion, as you 
define that emotion, the answer is no. I am 
not in love with Mulder. It's the wrong 
question, Bill."

Her brother turned away from the truth he 
did not understand. From the truth she was 
finally letting him see on her face.

"Then what's the right one?"

His voice was a whisper and she gave him a 
truth he could accept.

"Ask me what would happen if I had to 
choose. Daniel...then. Jack...then. Or 
Mulder."

"You'd chose Mulder."

It was not a question.

Her expression was a deadly promise. "In a 
heartbeat."

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

The guards might have stopped him if he was 
armed. Then again, no one seemed 
particularly disturbed by one angry male 
storming through the corridors of an FBI 
field office. His hands were on the lapels 
of Mulder's jacket and the lighter man was 
slammed up against the wall before anyone 
did more than glance at him curiously.

Yells and startled cries were so much 
background static as he glared into hazel 
eyes that flared initially with shocked 
outrage, then shifted into a flat gaze that 
held nothing more than watchful 
consideration. Bill growled at this 
unsatisfactory reaction and knocked Mulder 
against the wall once more.

"Just tell me why."

Frustration snapped and snarled and it was 
all he could do to spit the words into the 
other man's face instead of smacking him 
into the wall again. His grip tightened as 
the agent's eyes slid to something behind 
him and then Mulder shook his head slightly. 
Bill did not even bother to look for whoever 
the agent had warned off. The FBI could kiss 
his ass. He wanted answers and he was going 
to get them.

"No more vague hints. No more. You tell me. 
You tell me why she stays with you."

Empty eyes stared back at him with nothing. 
Like ever other answer he had gotten from 
them.  

"Ask your sister."

Bill snarled and leaned in with every ounce 
of intimidation he had ever learned during 
twenty years with the Navy. He let Mulder 
see the truth. That he was willing to take 
him apart right here. Right now. Fuck his 
career. Fuck the eagle...they could have it. 
Mulder was going to tell him what they were 
into that could threaten his wife and his 
son. The bastard wanted to believe.

He could start with this.

"I'm asking you."

Primitive impulses he had never realized he 
possessed roared through his body. Never had 
he wanted to cause the damage to another 
person that he wanted to do right now. A 
part of his mind knew he was letting his 
rage create something he might not be able 
to control. He could feel it. And part of 
his mind was gibbering in horror. But it was 
drowning in the screams of terror that wore 
Tara's face. The base of his spine was 
tingling and he was barely keeping his 
fingers from tightening around Mulder's 
throat.

Bill leaned in carefully, ignoring the 
instinct that was calling for caution as 
something flashed in the agent's eyes.

"She's not in love with you. She's admitted 
that."

The demon howling through his blood gnashed 
its teeth when the other man simply froze 
and stared at him with blank eyes. 
Disappointed with the lack of reaction, the 
creature prodded once more at what it had 
thought would be a telling wound. 

"She flat out told me that she was not in 
love with you Agent Mulder. So you tell 
me...you tell me what keeps her with you. 
What keeps dragging her under. And what is 
it that threatens my family."

The last words were hissed, hatred and red 
fury burning with every word.

It was only when the other man reached up to 
tear his hands from his stranglehold that 
Bill realized Mulder's hands had fallen to 
his sides. The agent opened his mouth to say 
something and despite his anger and his need 
to know, something in Bill cringed in  
anticipation of his answer.  Mulder blinked, 
something rising briefly, then sliding 
silently beneath a blue-green surface that 
reflected nothing. 

Then the agent turned away.

Bill did not even recognize the howl that 
was torn from his throat as he reached for 
the object of all his most recent daytime 
nightmares. But it was not the rage which 
short-circuited his later attempts to 
reconstruct  memory. It was simply that he 
had no idea what happened. One minute his 
hands were closing on Mulder's shoulder and 
the next, he was flying. He had the dim 
thought that the landing was going to hurt 
when he smacked into the floor. He was 
right.

It hurt.

Gasping for air, he had a vague impression 
of motion and was trying raise his hands to 
protect his face when his vision cleared 
enough for him to see Mulder staring down at 
him. Despite the fact that he knew the other 
man's eyes were shades of blue, in that 
moment they looked black. Bill struggled to 
meet them, his rage wailing in despair when 
it recognized the fact that he could not 
force an answer. 

He closed his eyes and swallowed. Then he 
swallowed again. His voice, when he found 
it, was a whisper. "Please. For Tara. For 
Mathew. Just tell me."

He stared up hopelessly.

"I can't protect them if I don't know what 
I'm looking for."

Mulder flinched at the sound of that broken 
plea. But his voice held none of the 
sympathy his face momentarily displayed.

"You already have the answers. You just 
refuse to believe them."

"Aliens." the word was bitter mockery.

Mulder bared his teeth in a tight smile. 
"See. Told you."

Another long look, then Mulder turned to go. 
Bill rolled painfully to his knees and 
called after him.

"Dana does not believe in aliens."

Mulder just snorted. "What she believes, 
what she's willing to consider and what she 
can prove are three very different things. 
Remember that. It might make your life 
easier."

He was partway to his feet and another fight 
when Mulder chirped. Bill stared blankly, 
then flushed as he connected the next chirp 
to the hand reaching into the inner pocket 
of a suit jacket. Bill finished regaining 
his feet only to pause cautiously when 
Mulder started to laugh. The sound held all 
the edges of broken glass and he almost took 
a step back when Mulder pinned him with an 
oddly shaded glance as he returned his cell 
phone to his jacket pocket..

"Where did you leave your car?"

Bill looked at the agent warily.

"Why?"

For a split second Bill thought he saw pity 
in the other man's eyes.

"Scully caught an intruder."


***************************************
Washington, DC
Day 42
2:30 am 

The man disembarking from a red-eye non-stop 
from Denver did not even look surprised to 
see an assistant director meeting him at 
2:30 in the DC morning. He looked, Skinner 
thought consideringly, like a healthy man 
who had just spent the last two days downing 
half a case of Pepto Bismol.

Raccoon rimmed eyes stared blearily around 
the nearly empty waiting room while 
shoulders tensed and flinched as weary 
business travelers shifted and flowed around 
the abruptly motionless agent. Skinner 
realized that he had been spotted and a sour 
feeling started to spiral its way into the 
pit of the AD's own stomach. Jesus. What the 
hell had Patterson done all those years ago?

Special Agent Gary Thatcher studied the man 
who had shattered the peaceful contentment 
of his rigidly ordinary existence with a 
single phone call. Haunted eyes testified to 
the fact that there were memories this man 
would never have willingly faced. Choices he 
would never have willingly made. 

But then, he had not been given an 
opportunity to volunteer.
 
After a disturbing fifteen minute long 
distance conversation instigated by Agent 
Mathews, Walter Skinner had started making 
phone calls and putting pieces together. An 
even more disturbing picture of Patterson's 
creative madness had begun to emerge and 
Skinner had wondered sickly just how many 
agents like Thatcher were out there. He knew 
of at least five...

And three more were dead.

Nothing official had ever been said. No one 
had ever claimed it was suicide. But Skinner 
had worked in the VCU long enough to 
interpret some of the sideways glances and 
bitter smiles. Patterson's rejects had all 
evidenced a recklessness and angry 
explosiveness that had almost certainly been 
the ultimate factor in their failure to 
survive.  Which brought him back to his 
original question.

What had Patterson done to these agents?

He watched silently as Thatcher took a long 
careful breath , shifted his carry-on more 
securely and started walking toward the man 
who, despite serious misgivings, was going 
to rip open the putrefying depths of a 
cancer that had never healed. It had simply 
crusted over. Nerves had deadened enough 
that the patient had been able to fool 
himself long enough to shove the wound deep 
enough that he could pretend it gone. 
Skinner wondered just how pervasive this 
particular psychic poison had proven to be.

One look at anguished eyes told him more 
than he wanted to know.

If there had been another choice. Any other 
choice. But there was none. Patterson had 
been a jealous monarch. Power, control and 
reasons had all been hoarded. All of his 
agents had been test subjects. Lab rats. 
Patterson had been the only one with the 
parameters of his horrifying of little 
nightmare and Skinner was left trying to 
deduce his intent from rumors, half-
remembered profiles and the broken wreckage 
he had left behind.

Three agents clinging to sanity. 

One lost to any form of law enforcement. 

Three agents dead. 

And one man shouting to the heavens and 
pissing in the wind.



Scully made nine.

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

San Diego Highway
Day 42
0954 am


"You taught your sister how to drive, didn't 
you?"

Mulder winced as they screeched through 
another yellow light. Bill just scowled at 
him in a very familiar fashion.

"Just what the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. Turn left."

"What?"

"Left."

"Why?'

"It's a ...shit. Never mind."

The engine roared as Bill downshifted for a 
hill.

"I know how to get to my own damn house."

Mulder shrugged, "Whatever."
 
There was a long uncomfortable pause, then 
Bill scowled.

"The intersection on Elmsdale is a 
nightmare."

Mulder kept his eyes on the road ahead. 
"Yep."

"Then why  the fuck did you want me to turn 
left."

"Shift change at the BCT plant."

"That's all the way over on Broadbent. What 
the hell does that have to do with 
Elmsdale?"

Mulder twisted his head to stare out at the 
passing cars, hand tapping his knee 
restlessly. 

"The traffic from the plant blocks the 
second offramp access from the thoroughfare 
for about twenty minutes. That offramp is 
the primary feeder for Exeter Rd which 
routes into Rossi Ave. That's the main 
reason for the problem on Elmsdale. And that 
gap would have cleared the intersection 
right about..."

The agent glanced again at his watch just as 
Bill slammed on the brakes and glared over 
white-knuckled fingers at the traffic jam in 
front of them.

"...now."

Bill's harsh breathing sounded overloud in 
the conspicuously silent car interior.

"Patterns, Commander Scully."

Mulder's voice was quiet, mostly tired.

"Just patterns."

***********************************
Bill Scully Residence
Day 42
10:35 am


Bill pulled onto his street and strained his 
eyes for police cars and ambulances. His 
uneasiness grew as he got closer to his 
house and the only extra vehicle was a cable 
van parked in his driveway. One of the FBI 
fleet sedans assigned to the X-Files team 
was parked behind it, forcing Bill to park 
on the road.

The rest of the street was conspicuously 
normal. 

It was only when Mulder tuned to look at him 
curiously that he realized he was staring 
down the road like he had never seen it 
before. Had it always been so ...quiet? 
Where were the witnesses? The help. The ones 
with the cell phones who could call 911. 
Bill turned once in a searching circle 
trying to pinpoint inhabited households. 
Tara was not the only stay at home mom on 
this street for God's sake. Cindy was just 
down...except she was taking part-time 
classes now that the youngest was in pre-
school. Beverly was out of sight around the 
block and Shannon was working part-time 
these days. The others all had older 
children and both spouses worked.

Was it luck, or had the bastard known just 
when to strike?

He was half-running by the time he burst 
through the front doors. The panic racing 
through his bloodstream took several seconds 
to realize that everyone seated in the 
living room were turning startled eyes in 
his direction. Even Tara, quietly handing 
around servings of hot coffee and cookies 
looked surprised.

The first thing he truly saw after his wife 
was the blood on his sister's face. 
Horrified he could only stand there frozen 
as Mulder paced forward and placed a 
forefinger under her jaw and tipped her face 
into the light. The blood came from a split 
lower lip. A light blue bruise was darkening 
along one side of her jaw and the sleeve of 
her blouse was torn away from her body. 

Rage soared when Bill saw the ugly scrapes 
that bloodied her shoulder.

"Feel better?"

Bill stopped, shocked by the humor in 
Mulder's voice. Then the lunacy continued 
when, careful of her torn lip, Dana grinned 
back at him. Mathews just looked up from his 
position on the sofa and snorted. Lewis 
giggled and Vickery gave a barking laugh 
that bared mostly teeth. Only Tara  seemed 
more shocked than amused.

Was everyone insane?

Then he turned around.

"Holy shit."

They had killed somebody.

That was his first thought. Then eyes opened 
and glared at him and  Bill silently 
catalogued black eye, battle-bruising, 
broken nose and busted lips. Then he noted 
the hands handcuffed to the front and the 
careful way the man was holding his arms 
close to his ribs on the right side. Broken? 

Jesus.

How many of them had held him down?

Uneasily he transferred his gaze back to the 
smiling face of his sister. Acid twisted a 
slow painful coil in his gut and he turned 
back to look at the man on the sofa. He 
wanted so badly to pick up one of their guns 
and put a bullet in that man's head. If he 
was the killer. But this...

He was thinking about MP's taking that sense 
of power too far and swallowing back nausea 
at the thought of what his sister might have 
become when he saw the second man. Where the 
first man looked like he could not be more 
than 28 and wore his attitude like cheap 
cologne, this man was a quiet mystery. Late 
thirties, early 40's, there was not a mark 
on him. His handcuffed hands rested calmly 
in his lap and his dark eyes studied the FBI 
agents around him without a trace of the 
arrogance displayed by the younger man.

What...?

The door behind him opened suddenly and 
several hands flew to holstered weapons only 
to relax when Langly sauntered in. Byers and 
Frohike were arguing about a piece of 
equipment Byers was turning over in his 
hands. Langly grinned at Mulder and the 
poster child for a police brutality evidence 
trial lost his smug smile.

"Hey Mulder. Did your partner get a chance 
to tell you what she hooked this morning?"

The agent's lip quirked," Surveillance 
equipment?"

Frohike rubbed his hands together gleefully, 
"Enough hardware to take pictures of alien 
babes on Mars."

Bill could only describe the look his sister 
shot her partner as sly.

"Told you." she said.

Byers was holding a piece of yellow paper in 
his hand and Bill watched his own hand grab 
for it before his brain consciously decided 
that he wanted to see what it said. He had 
to read it twice before it made any sense. 
Then he groaned.

"You idiots just beat up the cable guy. Look 
it's a mistake. They just screwed up the 
numbers on the invoice. They were supposed 
to ..."

He looked up to find everyone in the room 
staring at him in astonishment...including 
the aforesaid cable guys. Then the younger 
one snickered around gasps of pain and Bill 
found the older man staring at him with a 
faintly puzzled air. Then he did something 
that rocked Bill Scully to the foundations 
of his world.

He exchanged glances with Dana.

Such a small gesture. Just one of a hundred 
glances. But this one held something she 
could read...and something he could not. In 
that fraction of a second, Bill Scully truly 
understood the meaning of alienation. He 
stood on the edge of his world and looked 
through soundproofed glass at a twisted 
alternate reality where his baby sister 
stood next to the bad guys...

And belonged.

Bill was not even aware that he had moved 
until he found himself sighting down the 
barrel of Lewis's stolen weapon and 
wondering desperately if he remembered 
enough basic training to fire an automatic 
pistol. He was faintly aware that the others 
were yelling at him. He could sense  Mathews 
and Vickery pulling their own weapons, but 
all he could see was the face of the enemy.

And then Dana was there, her hand on his 
arm.

"They were just doing their jobs, Bill."

An insane urge to howl with laughter almost 
overcame him. But he could not, would not 
give in to it. Because he would never stop. 
Did she think that statement made things 
better? Did she even understand why he 
wanted this man dead?

Did she understand that it had nothing to do 
with the marks on her face?

It was about the marks on her soul.

He wanted to take back that glance. He 
wanted to take back what this man had stolen 
from him. And if he could not do that...then 
he wanted him dead.   

"I don't understand." 

Was that his voice, so thick with tears?

"I know."

No. She did not. He studied her face. Stared 
at the bruises of which neither she nor her 
partner seemed to take note.

"Who are you?"

Was that finally the right question?

Her eyes stared back at him, clear and 
absolutely certain.

"Special Agent Dana Scully."

Yes.

He let her take the gun.

But who was that?

********************************************
*******
Her nerves had stopped jangling.

His partner looked up at him as he studied 
her with frustrated curiosity and pulled a 
wry face before going back to the papers she 
was studying. Agent Scully knew damn well 
why he was staring but thankfully did not 
seem disposed to hold it against him. He 
lasted another hour before giving up.

"That's it? That's all it took?"

Scully looked up in surprise, then grinned 
at him. Actually grinned. Her body language 
was so relaxed she almost looked stoned in 
comparison to her earlier tension. And there 
was no way all of that was because one 
arrogant surveillance guy thought he could 
take her in a bare knuckles fight. 

" I told you someone was following us."

Yes, she had. And much to his dismay he was 
discovering that perhaps he had not 
completely believed her. How ironic. Now, 
watching her relaxed posture...no, not 
relaxed. Normal. Slightly more alert 
perhaps, than before. Her eyes still tracked 
across the room in that same scanning motion 
she had acquired in the wilderness.

Mulder's mind paused, then took a leap.

As law enforcement they were already 
predisposed towards details and body 
language. But there was no denying the fact 
that they seemed to have a hell of a lot of 
people watching them that they never 
noticed. Was it really that high tech, or 
was it more simple than that? Had they 
simply not known what to look for, what to 
see?

There was no doubt that Scully was more 
sensitive to body language than she had been 
before Corman's little enforced vacation. 
Was it possible she had been seeing 
something afterall? He suddenly remembered 
her telling him how loud the people around 
them were being. Was it possible that she 
had been temporarily blinded and confused by 
the increased visual volume? Was today the 
day she simply recognized what she was 
already seeing?

Had she continued to catalogue her 
surroundings with the same attention to 
detail she had used to learn how to stalk 
deer...and finally learned  to stalk the 
stalkers? 

Mulder turned that thought over again in his 
mind.

That had some interesting implications.

He watched as his partner's eyes flicked 
momentarily to someone he heard moving 
around behind him before returning to the 
papers in her hands. Then those same eyes 
swung back to his face, caught but the feral 
smile spreading across his features.

"So...Scully. Tell me again how you caught 
the bad guys."


********************************************
*******
They let them go.

Bill was not even certain that what they had 
done was legal. They spent an hour making 
sure that their prisoners were not connected 
to the murders and then they simply let them 
go. Just like that. The older man had looked 
up in surprise when Mulder unlocked the 
handcuffs. The agent had just shrugged.

"So maybe I don't have time for the bullshit 
today. You still owe us one."

The younger man had sneered, but the older 
one had studied Mulder thoughtfully.

"You would never have made the arrest 
stick."

Mulder looked back with dark eyes. "And you 
might not have made it to the courtroom."

The man stared at the agent, and even Bill, 
sunk deep into a depressed funk could sense 
that he was searching for something. Scully 
stepped up beside her partner and the man 
transferred his searching gaze to her as she 
spoke.

"We're...making choices."

Something flashed in the man's eyes. "You 
would not even have seen us last year."

Dana returned his look with an unreadable 
one of her own. "We're both seeing alot of 
things differently."

The man's eyes drifted to his partner and 
Bill turned his head slightly, expecting to 
see more of the same arrogance. Instead, he 
was shocked to see something that looked 
like fear. And briefly...

Hope?

"You could not have taken him down last 
year."

Her teeth bared themselves in something that 
resembled a smile. "Remember that."

And then they let them go.

They let the bad guys go.

And went back to work as if nothing had 
happened.

Except it all seemed to be falling apart. 
Mulder grew increasingly snappish as the day 
wore on and Mathews took to studying him 
cautiously. Lewis and Harris were assigned 
to take Tara, Maggie and Mathew out to the 
movies and Vickery was downstairs watching 
the security monitors. He had no idea where 
Landers had gotten to.

Mulder did not even  notice they were gone. 
Instead, he stared at his partner. Uneasily, 
Bill remembered what he had thrown in 
Mulder's face when he had confronted him 
that morning. Dana seemed oblivious to her 
partner's increasingly dark looks and in a 
complete reversal of her earlier attempts to 
avoid him, now seemed determined to spend 
every minute glued to his side.

He snapped, she snarled and both worked 
themselves into a frenzy of investigation 
that led absolutely nowhere. By the time 
Maggie, Tara and their bodyguards returned 
for supper, dark anger seethed around the 
agent thick enough to touch. Bill was almost 
at the point of wishing something would 
break, when something finally did.

Vickery had volunteered to do something or 
other at the field office and Mulder's 
computer experts had taken one look at 
Mulder and said something about eating out. 
Even so, it was a tight fit around the table 
even with the extensions added. Tara and 
Maggie tried gamely to keep a conversation 
going, but it was a doomed attempt. Mathews 
was watching Lewis and Harris, the younger 
agents were watching Mulder and Mulder was 
watching Dana.

Bill abruptly looked up and found Mulder's 
dark eyes fixed on five year old Mathew. The 
hair on the back of his neck prickled and 
Bill found himself absolutely certain that 
he never wanted to see that look in another 
man's eyes while looking at his son. Then 
Mathew looked up and grinned and Mulder 
pushed back from the table so hard his chair 
smashed against the wall. 

Everybody froze and the sounds of someone 
getting sick came clearly from the bathroom. 
Then feet were pounding across hardwood 
floor and the front door slammed. Agent 
Mathews looked at Dana who had her gaze 
fixed on the uneaten portion of her plate. 
When she finally looked up, Bill was shocked 
to see silent tears running down her face. 
Bill would have grabbed her when she rose 
from her chair, except that Mathews suddenly 
had a hold of his wrist.

Ignoring the unspoken warning Bill yanked 
his wrist free and followed his sister.

He stepped out onto the porch just in time 
to see Dana reach her partner. He half 
expected Mulder to turn on her when she 
reached out and touched his shoulder. He did 
not expect Mulder to double over and fall to 
his knees, arms clutching his stomach and a 
half-strangled groan tearing itself from his 
throat. Bill had thought himself beyond 
shock after the events of the morning but 
found himself held spellbound as Dana 
collapsed beside her partner and wrapped her 
arms around him. Mulder's arms pulled her 
tight to his body and both agents seemed 
oblivious as they buried their faces against 
the other.  Mulder held her head tight to 
his chest even as he hid his tears against 
her hair.

A locked tableau, Bill stood on the porch 
and watched helplessly. No one else followed 
them out into the night. He had no idea of 
how long he stood there. All he knew was 
that one minute he was thinking that his 
feet were cold and the next a SDPD squad car 
was pulling up to the curb.

Blankly, Bill watched as SAC Larson and a 
uniformed driver climbed out of the car and 
ignored the agents on the ground as they 
stepped up to the porch. Then the SAC was 
stepping into the house and the expressions 
on the faces of the FBI agents staring at 
the door told him that they already knew 
what the SAC had come to say. They all knew.

How come it was a surprise to him?

The SAC looked at Mike. "We need you at the 
field office. Officer Thomlinson will watch 
the house. Can you go over the security 
features with him?"

Mathews just nodded . 

Tara was clutching Mathew and Maggie stood 
grim faced beside her. And that was when 
Bill finally understood. It had happened 
again. Another one for the Navy. While they 
had all been eating dinner and Mulder had 
stared at Mathew with darkness in his eyes, 
another family was being butchered.

And there had not been a damn thing they 
could do about it.

Well, now he knew why Mulder had thrown up.

Mathews and the others quietly headed for 
their car and Bill trailed after the SAC as 
he slipped back out onto the porch and sat 
down in one of the chairs. His eyes were 
fixed on the two agents still wrapped around 
each other. He turned his head suddenly and 
Bill found himself looking into sympathetic 
eyes.

"We had hoped the last murder would be 
enough to break the pattern. It was 
completely out of sequence. Guess the killer 
was just having a bad day."

Bill stared for a long moment, then asked 
flatly, "You knew this would happen today? 
You all knew?"

The SAC looked startled, "So did you. It's 
all in the profile."

Bill looked back at his sister who had her 
arms clenched around her partner so tightly 
they would probably have to break her 
fingers to get her to let go.

"I read it. I didn't know."

The SAC swore softly. Then Bill caught the 
man looking at him looking at the fallen 
agents.

"They'll be okay."

Bill did not have enough energy left to 
protest. He was finally beginning to realize 
that he was talking to people with a warped 
definition of okay. They were using the same 
words, but they sure as hell were not 
speaking the same language.

“They go too deep, both of them. He needs 
someone who can call him back from the abyss 
and she needs someone who can call her back 
to the living. And they both need someone 
they can trust to break down after it 
happens. " 

Bill just laughed bitterly, "And that makes 
it okay? You think this is healthy?"

The SAC was silent for a long moment. Then 
he answered quietly,“ We do what we have to, 
to survive, to get the job done. No one ever 
said it was healthy.”

Bill just shook his head. "It was never just 
about the X-Files was it? I thought it was 
just Mulder. But it's all the rest of you 
too. When does it stop? When there's nothing 
left of her soul?"

When the SAC finally answered, his voice was 
clipped, “Your sister is a forensic 
pathologist. Just where do you think she 
would have ended up if she hadn’t been 
assigned to Mulder? Bank fraud? She’d have 
ended up in Violent Crimes one way or 
another. She is too good not to have come to 
someone’s attention somewhere, somehow."

Bill looked away.

“Do you honestly think that someone could 
have handed your sister a photo of a dead 
child , asked for her help and had her turn 
them down?

There was no answer to that question. Not 
the one he wanted to give anyway. 

Larson started to speak once more, 
hesitated, then lifted his head and met 
Bill's eyes in the darkness.

"The better you are, the more it hurts. The 
fact that their partnership allows them to 
go further and survive more, just pushes 
them to go places most of us can’t or won’t 
follow. The cost of that is one hell of a 
lot of pain, Commander Scully. I admire them 
more than I can say. I envy what they have…I 
envy what they can accomplish together…But I 
pray to God I’m never offered a similar 
partnership. Because I’ll take it. I won’t 
be able to stop myself. None of us would. 
I’ll grab it with both hands and I’ll kill 
anyone who tries to take it away from me. 

Do you understand the irony? I would kill to 
have what they have.

And every night, I pray to God it never 
happens.”

He turned his head back to study the two 
agents on the ground before continuing. He 
spoke the next words as if they burned.

"They are a living example of what we could 
be. Do you have any idea what it's like to 
be so scared of something, yet envy it so 
much it literally makes you sick? They scare 
the hell out of us, Commander Scully. But 
we'll use them...and  let them use us 
because that's what it takes to get the job 
done."

"And is it worth it?"

Larson reached into his pocket and tossed a 
photograph into Bill's lap. A gap-toothed 
boy of about twelve grinned up from the worn 
paper. Bill felt something begin to hurt 
deep in his chest as he stared back at a 
child who would never laugh again. Who had 
died because he was in the right place at 
the wrong time and a killer was having a bad 
day.

"You tell me."

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

Flight 387, DC to San Diego
Day 42
1836 hours

"So what happened?"

Skinner had tried to be patient. he had let 
the man get settled into his seat. He had 
let the stewardess serve drinks and dinner. 
He had even given Thatcher a full hour to 
peruse Scully's Bureau file. 

Now he wanted answers.

"With us or with her?"

Skinner paused as he considered the fact 
that the two answers might not be the same.

"In order."

Thatcher gave a soundless laugh, then 
signaled the stewardess for another drink. 
Considering that the man had not had a drink 
since the year his marriage fell apart, 
Skinner had to wonder at the wisdom of 
allowing him too many now. He needed him 
sober.

Or at least coherent.

"Patterson used to joke about Mulder being 
his domesticated sociopath. It was his 
little joke. We knew the truth of course."

Skinner swallowed sharply at the grief and 
rage that suddenly etched themselves on 
Thatcher's face.

"It wasn't hard. We were all goddamn 
profilers after all." Thatcher eyed Skinner 
from beneath fallen bangs.

" You want to know why we hated Mulder?"

Thatcher grinned painfully.

"It wasn't because he was reflecting the 
serial killer in his soul. It was because 
every time we looked into those goddamn eyes 
we were seeing the serial killer hidden in 
ours."

Just like that. No preliminaries. No 
prevarication. Just a stark statement of 
fact and for a moment Skinner's heart bled 
for an impressionable young man who had gone 
hunting monsters only to find that the 
monster was himself. And Mulder. Jesus. What 
had it been like for him? Hated and reviled 
by those closest to the source of the 
problem. By those who should have 
understood.  

No wonder he made a religion of the truth.

He had already been sacrificed on its alter 
by those without the strength to face its 
light.

"It was supposed to be like acting. We were 
supposed to stay in control. Mulder hated 
that he could get into their heads...but 
God. Those heads were ours. The hatred was 
real And it just sucked us all under. We'd 
look at him and know he knew. Knew what 
lurked beneath all the pretty phrases and 
civilized behaviors. After a while, it just 
didn't work anymore. "

Skinner thought seriously about ordering a 
drink for himself. Then he considered 
walking off the plane when he got back to DC 
and putting a bullet in Patterson's head. 
All of these people who just wanted to do 
what was right.

"Ashton and Henley?"

Thatcher stared down at the hands wrapped 
tightly around his sweating hi-ball. Then he 
turned haunted eyes toward a man who had 
thought he had seen the worst of hell when 
he was nineteen.

He had not even come close.

"Ashton got in touch with the dark side of 
the Force and never came back."

It was moment before Skinner realized that 
was all that Thatcher was going to say on 
that subject. He hated himself for what he 
was doing, but he needed to know. He had to 
know how much of a danger this posed to his 
agents. 

How much danger they posed to themselves.

"Henley?"

"Henley." The voice was a bare hiss of 
tortured sound. " Patterson really had 
Mulder's number, you know. Knew exactly what 
he was doing when he brought her into the 
project. He knew Mulder would fascinate her 
and Mulder's reaction...well, that was a 
foregone conclusion."

Skinner winced, "He fell in love with her?"

The comment was enough to startle Thatcher 
out of self-absorbed misery and his sudden 
laughter sounded almost obscene. "Christ no. 
But they were going at it like rabbits by 
the end of the second day. Patterson was 
delighted. "

Skinner did not want to know the details. He 
really did not.

"What happened?"

"Too much victim, not enough steel."

Skinner must have looked as confused as he 
felt because Thatcher twisted his lips 
bitterly." She triggered Mulder alright. 
Except it went too far. He didn't know she 
wasn't acting and she sent him right over 
the edge."

There was a long pause as Thatcher revisited 
memories that left his hands shaking. He 
gulped the last of his drink. Then he made 
one last comment before signaling for 
another.

"I still think he would have killed her if 
we hadn't stopped him."

Then he sank into his seat and the only 
communication he engaged in further was the 
conversation he was holding with his memory 
and the liquid destruction in his hands.

Skinner just closed his eyes and prayed for 
tailwinds.

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

FBI San Diego Field Office
Day 43
3:24 am


Despite his anger, despite his pain, Bill 
had not been able to stay at home. Not when 
there was a chance he could help. So he 
carried donuts. He made coffee. He ferried 
boxes of folders and he wondered if the 
entire field office was going insane.

Or if he was just beginning to see the faces 
they normally hid from the outside world.

Doors slammed. Arguments broke out over 
nothing. Bill thought one man was going to 
have to be restrained from knocking his 
partner unconscious. Five minutes later he 
walked into the men's room and found the 
same man watching his partner take a 
baseball bat to the mirrors. The man had 
pinned Bill with a level stare until the 
Navy Commander backed quietly out into the 
hall.

The inmates were running the asylum.

What was beginning to worry him was the fact 
they did not seem to realize that he was not 
one of them. Previously polite investigators 
snarled at him when he got in their way and 
moved out of his if he snarled back. His 
Navy rank was forgotten as a haggard 
secretary sent him dashing two flights into 
the basement for toner and a goddamn 
security guard called him by name.

Bill ducked as a plastic garbage pail took 
flight and sailed over his head, launched by 
an angry foot. Reflex sent a command glare 
winging on its way and the chastened agent 
was picking up scattered debris when 
Assistant Director Walter Skinner stepped 
into the room. 

The man's flat gaze traveled around the room 
and came to rest on the extremely quiet 
agent picking papers up from the floor. The 
other agents were studiously reading files 
and Bill stepped instinctively into the 
space between the AD and the agent. He 
recognized the instinct. It was something he 
did countless times when he needed to cover 
his sailors with the brass. The protective 
instinct was well developed and familiar.

He just did not want to dwell on why he was 
feeling it now.

The non-committal expression on the AD's 
face faded into confusion as he continued to 
look around the room. 

"Where's Mulder and Agent Scully?"

Bill wondered if the security guard had 
gotten confused with the last names. He 
turned to the agent behind him to find the 
man shaking his head in ignorance. Skinner's 
face went blank for a second before he 
reached into his jacket for his cell phone. 
It was when he turned to speak into the 
phone that Bill noticed the man standing 
hidden in the shadows of the AD's shoulders.

The agent was staring at the walls with an 
obsessive fascination that sent shivers 
straight through Bill's spine. There was 
something lost and terrified and...hungry, 
about that look. Five uncomfortable minutes 
later, the room was getting crowded.  The 
other agents had ceased to even pretend they 
weren't listening to the AD question first 
Mathews, then Vickery and the rest of the X-
Files team.

That was when Bill realized that neither 
Mulder nor his sister were answering their 
cell phones. He was halfway to panic when 
Harris admitted to seeing them arguing in 
the hall almost six hours ago. Scully had 
stalked off leaving Mulder staring after 
her.

No one had seen them since.

Skinner was turning to call security and 
send out search parties when Lewis stepped 
forward.

"Wait."

Her voice was quiet and her face flushed a 
bright red that highlighted her miserable 
expression. Skinner's voice was equally 
quiet but it was shot through with a note of 
command the young agent could not help but 
hear. She twisted her fingers painfully and 
then she answered so softly that Bill, 
standing right next to her, had to strain to 
understand her.

"They left right after the argument. At 
least I think they did." she glanced at 
Landers and Vickery for a long silent 
moment, obviously feeling like she was 
betraying the two missing agents.

Skinner opened his mouth  and Bill 
recognized the need to take the young agent 
and shake her until the answers fell out. He 
also recognized the control he exercised 
when all that came out was a short, "Agent 
Lewis?"

The young woman finally sighed and closed 
her eyes in defeat.

"I overheard Mulder making reservations at 
the Snow Goose Lodge."

For a long moment  Bill was frozen along 
with everyone else, then he flushed as 
someone in the back of the room snickered. 
The Snow Goose was notorious for two things. 
Cabins that promised the illusion if not the 
reality of privacy. And a well established 
reputation of looking the other way. 

"Did he use his Bureau credit card?"

Bill just stared blankly at the twitchy 
bastard. What the hell did that have to do 
with anything? Then he wrinkled his nose as 
the  fumes hit him as the man walked closer. 
Christ, nobody light a match. He started to 
turn away only to see Skinner staring back 
at the man somberly, then he glanced at 
Lewis.

She nodded hesitantly.

The agent closed his eyes and Skinner had to 
reach out a hand to keep him from falling 
over when the man swayed dangerously. For a 
long moment no one spoke. No one moved. Then 
the man opened his eyes and Bill flinched at 
the bleakness living there.

"Find them."

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

The manager swore he did not have another 
key so they simply kicked the door down.

Armed agents spilled into the squalid little 
cabin only to come back out shaking their 
heads. Bill almost decked three of them as 
they chuckled lewdly, then he let it go as 
he tried to sneak into the room. He knew 
they were supposed to limit the number of 
people tromping through the cabin until the 
forensics unit finished going over the room. 
But he had to know. He had to see.

Skinner gave him one hard stare and then 
guilt moved over his features and he 
gestured for Bill to move three feet to the 
left and stay put. Not about to do anything 
that would get him evicted, Bill did as he 
was told.

Then he looked around in terrified 
anticipation of what he would discover.

The room looked as if the Allies had stormed 
it on V-Day. Cheaply made night tables were 
overturned and smashed to pieces. A broken 
lamp lay on the floor and god knows what had 
slammed into the wall hard enough to bring 
down that large a piece of paint and 
plaster. Bill knew his face was turning 
white. But even as he catalogued the 
horrors, he could not look away.

Fresh scoring marks on the wrought iron 
headboard drew his eye and Skinner pinched 
his lips tightly before muttering 
"Handcuffs". As if that answered his 
question. Finally, his inspection complete, 
he turned his head to stare at the two techs 
carefully extracting a videotape from a mess 
of plastic and metal that used to be a 
camcorder attached to a tripod.

Bill was praying that the equipment came 
standard with the room when he recognized 
the sticker on one of the pieces at the same 
time one of the techs looked over at Skinner 
and stated calmly, "Bureau issue."

As if it was something he saw everyday.

Then Bill realized that he probably did.

That was when he smelled the presence of the 
twitchy man Skinner had introduced as Agent 
Thatcher. Thatcher was staring at the camera 
in horrified fascination. The man looked 
dazed as he spoke. "He really did it. The 
stupid bastard actually did it."

Which sounded as if it should make sense, 
only Bill had no time to press the agent for 
answers. A muted shout from one of the 
agents searching the room drew all eyes to 
the fabric he was carefully lifting with 
latex covered hands from the garbage can in 
the bathroom. 

The shirt was Dana's. He recognized it. 
Skinner read the answer off his face and 
both men sucked in their breath as the agent 
shook it out and held it up.

The blouse looked like it had been cut from 
her body with a knife.

And it was covered in blood.


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

San Diego Field Office - Gymnasium
Day 43
5:23 am 

The silence was acutely painful.

Over one hundred FBI, SDPD and BATF officers 
and agents sat  in fixed attentiveness and 
waited to hear whether or not one of their 
own had lost her life at the hands of her 
partner. He had no idea what to tell them. 
He had watched the tape. 

He still did not know.

"For those of you coming to us from the 
MethBomber investigation, the Navy Arsonist 
has been responsible for 15 house fires all 
occurring in the San Diego area over the 
last eighteen months. Because the first 
three fires resulted in no fatalities, the 
FBI was originally unaware that these fires 
were related and the first profile was 
written from the point of view that we were 
looking for a serial killer potentially 
using the fires as either weapon or a method 
to try and remove forensic evidence from the 
scene of the crime. As the ritualistic 
nature of the setting of the fires became 
apparent, the profiles were amended to 
consider the possibility that the fire was 
an intrinsic part of the UNSUB's signature 
and not just MO."

Rumors had bred faster than rabbits.

Mulder had killed Scully. Scully had killed 
Mulder.  The two agents had been off 
engaging in some kinky stress relief when 
the killer got them. Considering the gossip 
that normally followed them, Skinner was 
surprised to find uneasy opinion coming down 
on the side of a messy profiling technique 
gone bad.

"Agent Mulder's recent profile suggested 
that we were primarily searching for an 
escalating arsonist either of the thrill-
seeking or the revenge-motivated variety. If 
the latter, the UNSUB potentially has a 
grievance against the government or the 
Navy. As a result of this profile, earlier 
fires were investigated and the initial 
three fires without fatalities were linked 
to the Navy Arsonist. Whether the UNSUB 
killed the first family accidentally has yet 
to be determined. It was Agent Mulder's 
preliminary contention that the cooling off 
period between the first fire involving 
fatalities and the second showed surprise on 
the part of the killer. However, Mulder was 
also of the opinion that the subsequent 
detail and unswerving dedication to method 
evidenced by the later fires suggests that 
the killer may have been heading in this 
direction by design and it was only the 
timing which threw him off."

He supposed it was a compliment of sorts.  
Most of their colleagues thought that paying 
for the motel using Mulder's Bureau credit 
card and taping themselves using Bureau 
equipment during an active investigation was 
too unprofessional even for a couple of 
agents with a reputation for oddity. It was 
also a fact that many of the agents were 
taking their cues from the rest of the X-
Files team.

He had been unprepared for the full effect 
of the monster he had created.

While they were far from drawing lines in 
blood with the ferocity of Mulder and 
Scully, there was no doubt they were bonding 
successfully. SAC Larson had taken one look 
at the five of them sprawled in black clad 
insouciance at a back table together and 
just snorted and shaken his head. That had 
prompted Skinner to take a second, more 
careful look and he had to admit they were 
doing a good job appearing self-contained 
and mysterious.

It was not the instinctive and unthinking 
loyalty of Mulder and Scully, but it was the 
embryonic beginnings of something cohesive. 
Perhaps it was only the initial scorn that 
had caused them to draw together. Maybe it 
was the natural result of breathing the same 
air for the past several weeks. Maybe it was 
that something that Mulder and Scully gave 
off just by virtue of being their passionate 
and committed selves. Whatever it was, 
wherever it was going...it was a start. Much 
more of it and he might start hearing rumors 
that the X-Files was some sort of top-
secret, elite department engaged in 
activities not normally considered to fall 
within the bailiwick of the FBI.

Oh wait. 

That part was true.

"Our UNSUB is cold, methodical and a true 
blue psychopath as opposed to a sociopath. 
His victim preference is two-parent naval 
families with at least one child. In all 
cases, the husband was a naval officer. 
Although some of the wives were employed by 
the DOD, none of them were commissioned 
officers. This has led to some speculation 
that the UNSUB is striking back at his 
father who is or was likely a Naval officer. 
Our UNSUB is a white male between the ages 
of 35 and 55 with a history of fire-setting 
in adolescence. He is functional, employed 
and may even be a member of the military 
himself. He is not married but he is 
socially adept and has no noticeable 
problems interacting with women. He may have 
a girlfriend, but she will not live with him 
or have a key to his apartment. "

They stole the damn tape.

Oh, he had a nice and official chain of 
evidence tag with their names on it, but the 
fact remained that they stole it and they 
had considered not giving it back. Skinner 
had just scowled at the equally disgruntled 
police detective who had remarked that "hand 
it over or we'll hurt you." was not exactly 
conducive to interagency warm and fuzzies.

He spent two hours soothing ruffled feathers 
as Harris and Vickery went off on a midnight 
equipment raid through the Forensics lab, 
while Lewis and Mathews insulted the entire 
Evidence Team by insisting on taking their 
own samples.

Then Landers disappeared with the goddamn 
tape. Vickery had  snarled something about 
preventing bullpen copies. It was all 
bullshit.

The Sabine part, not the copies.

"Agents Mulder and Scully were last seen 
checking into the Snow Goose Motel at 11:30 
pm yesterday night. They were subsequently 
found to be missing and the room appears to 
document an extremely violent and physical 
altercation. "

Skinner had debated the wisdom of letting 
Thatcher talk to the X-Files team members. 
In the end, however, he had decided that 
there had been too much secrecy about 
Patterson's work already. There was no need 
for the information to become common 
knowledge, but maybe if there had been a bit 
less rumor and a bit more fact, Mulder would 
not have felt it necessary to do whatever it 
was he had done in secret. 

If Mulder and Scully were going to use these 
techniques, their team needed to know what 
to expect. Hell, someone needed to know what 
was going on. Unfortunately, that idiot 
Thatcher had scared the crap out of them. By 
the time they listened to his drunken 
descriptions of self-induced madness and 
damned annoying cryptic warnings, they had 
probably thought they were going to see a 
reenactment of the rape of the Sabine women 
in digital Technicolor.  

Did everyone actually think Mulder could 
hurt her?

Skinner would be the first to say that 
Mulder could push the envelope. And damned 
if he could say for sure what the hell it 
was that Patterson had actually done to the 
agent. Given Mulder's empathy, IQ and 
memory, Skinner could see how a reenactment 
could get out of hand. Mulder was nothing if 
not single-minded. But to physically hurt 
his partner did not just run contrary to 
everything the Bureau knew about the agent, 
it ran contrary to everything Skinner knew 
about Mulder. 

"Circumstance and the contents of a video 
tape found at the scene suggest that Agents 
Mulder and Scully were attempting a 
controversial and experimental profiling 
technique in order to gain insight into the 
mind of the Navy Arsonist."

There was no ignoring the fact that 
Patterson had done something that had 
resulted in the mental deterioration of 
several agents. Had that been a result of 
the things that Patterson had done? Or a 
result of the type of people that he had 
chosen to do them. The man had been just 
arrogant enough to assume that he could have 
taken a damaged vessel and remake it into 
his desired image.

Mulder...Mulder was a lot of things. 
Headstrong and more than occasionally 
bullheaded and obsessive in his blind 
passion for truth, justice and care for the 
victim. But damaged? It had always seemed 
that any damage was caused by the self-
destructive bashing of his wings against the 
walls of ignorance he saw reining him in, 
holding him back. As if the disbelief he 
knew was coming just drove him further into 
frustrated and noisy opposition.

Some of that desperation had faded over the 
years. Skinner was certain that having 
Scully at his side was part of it. No doubt, 
after all they had seen, all they had done, 
Mulder was just too tired to keep fighting 
that battle. Especially when a larger 
battlefield was looming on the horizon. 

But after all he had experienced, after all 
he had done - after all that had been done 
to him - Mulder still cared. It was 
something Skinner admired both as an FBI 
agent and as a man. In many ways Mulder was 
much more empathetic than his partner. 
Scully wanted to punish the bad guys, Mulder 
wanted to fix what was broken. 

Empathy...not weakness.

Skinner drummed his fingers softly against 
his leg as he considered whether or not that 
empathy, when used as a tool to overwhelm 
the agent's own personality, could trap him 
in the mind of a killer. Up until yesterday 
Skinner would have said no. Absolutely not. 
Definitely not when it came to Scully. 
Mulder had to be pissed as hell to even 
threaten someone and he just was not that 
physical about it. 

Well, not unless Scully was involved.

But Thatcher was so certain. Hell, he was 
pissing in his pants scared of his memories. 
Everyone had hidden resentments and things 
best left out of the light of day. Was it 
possible that this technique of Patterson's 
set free the demons and left them free of 
the constraints normally imposed by the 
conscious mind? What if...

"Undocumented hearsay testimony has stated 
that the purpose of the technique was to 
temporarily submerge the profiler's 
personality under controlled conditions 
allowing a recreation of the killer's 
psyche. There is some evidence that this 
technique may leave the profiler vulnerable 
to acting out darker desires and fantasies  
under the guise of this artificial 
personality. "

He did not want to show them this tape. He 
did not want his agents exposed to the sort 
of speculation this was going to cause. 
Hell, he did not want Mulder getting shot by 
accident. But they needed to know. They 
needed to understand that the people they 
were dealing with may not actually be the 
people belonging to the faces their bodies 
were wearing.

He had to consider the very real fact that 
by making this tape in the first place, 
Mulder and Scully had been making it to 
leave behind. Assistant Director Skinner 
kept his face blank as a tape he had already 
seen several times played again for a room 
of grim-faced cops and FBI investigators.
 
Two hours earlier he had also waited as the 
door to the conference room opened and he 
had watched as Landers dragged in a TV and 
VCR combination. The other senior Task Force 
members - SAC Larson, SDPD Detective Burt 
Fielding, BATF Investigator Graham Wilson, 
Commander Bill Scully as well as Skinner 
himself, Wilson's hearing interpreter, 
Thatcher, Mathews and Vickery watched with 
undisguised impatience as she turned the 
equipment on and popped in the tape. Harris 
and Lewis were heads together at the back of 
the room but they looked up expectantly when 
the sound came on.

Thatcher had cursed aloud as Scully's 
battered face came into view. Skinner had 
almost joined him until he realized that the 
entire room was split right down the middle 
in their reactions to the opening scene. 
Larson, Wilson, Thatcher, Fielding all had 
various expressions of horror and worry on 
their faces - the X-Files team to an agent 
was still waiting.  Skinner felt his facial 
muscles pulling into a frown as he abruptly 
realized that Bill Scully was also tense and 
waiting.

Tense, but not surprised.

The assistant director had taken firm hold 
of his instinctive reactions and taken a 
closer look at the scene before him. The 
agent huddled on the floor,  against the 
wall of the cabin room, next to the bed. Her 
knees were drawn up protectively, and it was 
obvious that her hands were tied behind her 
back. Skinner's eyes were drawn again to the 
livid bruise spread across her jaw and then 
his breath sucked in sharply as realization 
struck him.

That bruise looked to be almost a day old.

It had to be. Yet only the X-Files team and 
her brother were aware of what had caused 
it. So...recent enough that she had been 
able to hide it with make-up and old enough 
to have darkened dramatically in the last 
few hours. Skinner had considered the fact 
that he and the team were going to be having 
a little chat in the near future.

The agent, meanwhile had been working to 
free her hands. Distant sounds from the tape 
suggested that someone else was in the room, 
but whoever it was had stayed out of range 
of the camera lens until Scully reached up 
and tore the gag from her mouth. Skinner had 
a quick sense of the sheer terror in her 
eyes as she looked up, then Mulder was 
stepping into the picture.

Scully launched herself screaming into 
flight, her shoulder catching her partner in 
the stomach. Then they were both going down 
and she was frantically trying to scramble 
free of his body in order to race for the 
door.  Mulder, his face eerily calm and 
expressionless, grappled with  the 
struggling woman  taking several weak hits 
against his chest and shoulders before his 
grip shifted and she managed to tear herself 
away.

Fielding had been cursing softly, Larson was 
just wide-eyed with shock and Thatcher had 
rocked back and forth in his chair, arms 
wrapped around himself. Bill Scully had worn 
a weird combination of anger and confusion 
on his face while the team...

Skinner flinched as he was yanked back to 
the present and he watched as over one 
hundred law enforcement officers watched a 
thirty foot projection screen showing a 
woman who was not Scully scream again in 
mortal terror and make a desperate break for 
life and freedom. She almost made it. Then 
Mulder wrapped one long arm around her waist 
and launched her toward the bed. 

Everyone in the room tensed as Mulder 
followed her down. Their bodies slammed the 
bed up against the wall with enough force 
that the camera shook. Instead of his 
earlier disbelief and discomfort,  Skinner 
found himself distantly considering the fact 
that it was good thing that the Snow Goose 
had log walls. 

Her right hand connected with the lamp and 
it shattered as it smashed against the wall. 
Mulder grabbed her left hand and efficiently 
handcuffed it to the headboard. Skinner 
paused as he realized for the first time 
that those were not standard handcuffs that 
Mulder was using. The hugely magnified image 
gave him access to details he had missed the 
first time around. His eyes widened as he 
realized that the cuffs appeared to be 
slightly wider than normal and the inside 
was coated in some sort of black protective 
layer. Neoprene? Rubber? 
 
Where the hell...no, scratch that.

The on-screen Mulder was in the process of 
cuffing her other hand when his entire body 
suddenly stilled. Scully continued to 
struggle ineffectively, but Mulder did not 
move. Skinner found himself wishing that 
there had been a second camera in the room. 
He wanted to see the agent's face. Was this 
who they were looking for? Were there clues 
here?

Mulder's head tipped as though he was 
holding an internal conversation with 
himself. Then he shocked everyone in the 
room when he twisted his head awkwardly and 
very precisely sank his teeth into his 
partner's exposed throat, marking her flesh 
without breaking the skin. She threw her 
head back and screamed.

This was not an act of love they were 
witnessing.

Then it was over. 

One minute Mulder had his teeth in the flesh 
of Scully's throat and the next he was 
flying backwards until his shoulders blocked 
the camera's view and the screen went black. 
In the split second before the end, Scully's 
legs bent at seeming impossible angles, one 
foot under her partner's hip and the other 
under his shoulder. Mulder did not even have 
time to unlock his jaws before her hips 
bucked with a tremendous upward surge of 
power and her knees straightened.

But what he had not seen before, what he 
thought he was seeing now, was the split 
second widening of her eyes as they focused 
on something above Mulder's  head.

It was an infinitesimal difference. If he 
had not been looking so closely, if the 
screen had been smaller, if he had not spent 
eight years trying to read the slight 
changes of expression on their faces, he 
might have missed it. Hell, maybe he was not 
seeing it now.

In the background he could hear SAC Larson 
informing the room that the lab had 
confirmed that the blood found at the scene 
belonged to Agent Scully. An APB had been 
issued for both agents, but local officers 
had been instructed not to approach the 
pair. Instead, every officer would be given 
a contact within the group gathered in this 
room and would contact that person. Officers 
would be given strict instructions not to 
interfere unless it appeared that someone's 
life was endangered. As soon as the 
contacted investigator arrived on-site and 
confirmed the identity of either of the 
agents, they were to be taken into custody.

Larson reminded the investigators that while 
Scully might appear to be a victim, that it 
was uncertain how she would react to a 
threat to her partner. If the agents were 
located together, both were to be considered 
equally armed and dangerous.  The agents 
were to be taken into custody as non-
violently as possible, but they WERE to be 
taken into custody.  As soon as either of 
the agents had been positively identified, 
AD Skinner was to be notified immediately.     

Twenty-four hours later Mulder was spotted 
on foot and led the SDPD on a merry chase 
through the streets of San Diego. He was 
finally surrounded in a tiny city park 
amidst the ducks and the startled joggers 
and ten minutes later an FBI helicopter 
dropped Assistant Director Skinner into a 
nearby parking lot. The cornered agent, 
wearing torn jeans and a grass-stained and 
sweat-soaked t-shirt, had settled into an 
uneasy back and forth pacing that tested the 
limits of the circle created by the ring of 
unhappy police officers who had caught up 
with him.

Mulder froze, eyes dark and fixed  intently 
on the AD when he moved into view. 

"Agent Mulder, where is Scully?"

The agent's mouth worked slowly, without 
sound.

"Where is your partner, Agent Mulder?"

Skinner flinched when the agent started to 
laugh hysterically. Surprisingly he did not 
resist, just kept his eyes fixed on 
Skinner's, as four police officers took him 
to his knees and cuffed his hands behind his 
back.  The officers were so rattled that 
several hands shook and one crossed himself 
as tears slipped down the agent's face.

Then Mulder threw back his head and 
screamed.

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

San Diego Hospital
Day 43
5:23 pm 


Bill Scully nodded to the agents guarding 
Mulder's hospital room, then looked down at 
the package clutched in his hands. He did 
not want to go into that room. He waited 
patiently as one of the agents took the 
package from him and checked it for weapons. 
Considering what they suspected Mulder of 
doing to his sister he supposed it was 
probably a good idea.

Still...

Words can lie.

That was the message scrawled on the inside 
of the photo album an extremely unhappy 
Badger had delivered to his office early 
this morning. The SEAL had grimly handed 
over the box an unidentified someone had 
handed him. Bill was still not sure why the 
mysterious contact had chosen to use the 
SEALs as a courier. There had been no note, 
no explanation. Just a verbal message Badger 
had dutifully passed along.

<We'll be watching.>

The implications of the fact that the 
contact had connected the  SEAL team to 
Mulder and Dana was still sinking in. Hell, 
the fact that someone out there thought he 
needed a kick in the ass  was something he 
did not even want to think about. Thoughts 
like those were not supposed to apply to 
people like him. Like Dana. And thinking 
those kinds of thoughts led to other 
thoughts.

Thoughts that got people killed.

Bill had simply sat there as the SEAL made 
his way out of the office. It had taken him 
almost fifteen minutes to screw up the 
courage to open the album and it was only 
after he did so that he realized that he 
probably should have had it x-rayed for 
explosives. Or something. The message, 
scrawled in black felt tip on the inside 
cover had immediately caught his eye.

Words can lie.

He had not known if it was warning or 
threat. His first reaction to the photos had 
been shock. The second had been outrage. The 
third had been fear. That was when he had 
settled on threat. He had raced through the 
album, terrified what he would see. Mulder. 
Dana. Mulder and Dana. Mulder and Dana. 
Mulder and Dana. He was halfway to calling 
out the MPs to stake out his house when he 
reached the last page and a second message 
scrawled on the inside back cover. A 
question.
 
<What does your heart say?>

Awfully poetic for a threat.

So he had taken hold of his fear and forced 
himself to look at the pictures. Really look 
at them. Some were in color. Many were in 
black and white. Most were obviously taken 
from hidden security cameras. Some were 
stills from video tape. From front cover to 
back it was an eight year record of covert 
intrusion and violation of privacy. He had 
wanted to shoot someone over  the obvious 
locations of some of those cameras.

And he had almost missed the point.

So here he was trying to follow the cryptic 
advice of men who were possibly assassins, 
shadows with an unknown agenda and with no 
idea whether he was beneficiary or tool. It 
was too bloody ironic. Not to mention 
annoying as hell.

Two shadow men had listened as he had asked 
who his sister was. 

Maybe this was the answer.

Retrieving his album before the FBI guard 
could look too closely at the pictures, he 
ignored their curious looks and stepped into 
Mulder's room, closing the door behind him. 
He knew it was an illusion of privacy at 
best. A security camera blinked at him from 
the far corner of the room. One violent move 
on his part and he would be knee-deep in 
agents. He was not concerned about the 
picture he made.

It was the words he had to hide.

Mulder lay in the darkness, apparently 
oblivious to the world around him. A 
psychotic break was how one doctor had put 
it. Complete disassociation. After 
collapsing in the park, Mulder had retreated 
somewhere in his mind and stayed there. He 
responded docily to direct commands but no 
further outbursts or verbal communication 
could be elicited on any subject. To all 
intents and purposes it appeared as if 
Mulder had gone right over the edge.

 But had he taken Dana with him?

Grief and terror threatened his composure 
for a split second and he found himself 
clutching the photo album like a talisman 
against the dark. His eyes grew accustomed 
to the shadows, but Mulder never moved. 
Never acknowledged that he even knew Bill 
was standing there. The improbability of his 
own suspicions struck him anew, but Bill 
found that he had discovered irony. When all 
the reasonable theories led to a conclusion 
too horrible to contemplate, belief in the 
unreasonable becomes the only sane response 
in an insane world. Mulder would believe in 
messages from the Almighty. His partner 
would believe in shapeshifters and things 
that go bump in the night.

And her brother would try to believe in a 
partnership he did not understand. 

"Everyone believes Dana is dead, you know."

He stepped closer to the bed, trying to see 
the agent's face clearly amid the shadows.

"Tara, Mom...they don't want to believe it. 
But it's easier than believing that a killer 
has her. Again. Hell of a choice, huh? "

No reaction. Bill reached the bed and 
carefully laid the photo album on Mulder's 
stomach and held it up and open so the agent 
had no choice but to look at the pictures. 
Assuming that those dark eyes saw anything 
at all.

"Someone gave this to me today. I thought at 
first it was a taunt. You'll see why when 
you get a look at some of the pictures. Then 
I realized that I was looking at it all 
wrong. Whoever sent this to me was trying to 
get me to see something. Is this the way 
they really see you? Or is it just what they 
want me to see?"

Bill slowly turned the pages. It was hard, 
looking at the agent's face and 
simultaneously looking for a reaction he was 
not sure he would recognize when he saw it.

"Come on, Mulder. You're the shit-hot 
profiler. You tell me what they wanted me to 
see. Tell me I'm seeing it correctly."

The first shots clearly had Mulder as the 
center of interest. Bill had been shocked at 
how young the agent had looked in those 
early photos. And Dana. He could have cried 
when he saw the sister he remembered 
captured forever by some distant watcher's 
lens. He saw passion and interest. 
Dedication. And then he saw them grow 
closer.

Literally.

They argued face to face, Dana toe-to -toe 
with her lanky partner, her head tipped back 
awkwardly despite the fact that it would 
have been easier to take a step backwards. 
He saw various expressions ranging from 
amusement to disdain on the faces of the 
cops watching, always watching. Always 
circling on the outside of the center that 
they created. 

And he saw his sister stepping into the 
dark.

Sometimes she was at her partner's heels, 
sometimes he was at hers. Sometimes there 
were monsters.  It had taken three trips 
through the album before Bill realized that 
he was never shown the moment the monster 
attacked - only the defeat. Mulder and 
Scully and the monster. He saw Dana crouched 
over the fallen body of her partner, gun out 
and a cold expression forever frozen on her 
face. Then there were the hospital shots. 
Dana arguing at the top of her lungs as she 
tried to push past two security guards twice 
her size. Dana asleep in a chair, her head 
next to Mulder's hand.  Dana smiling a high 
wattage smile he had never seen in his life. 
The closest he could come to it was the look 
on Tara's face the morning they handed her 
Mathew.

Then he saw a shot he did not think he would 
ever forget. 

Mulder sat in the darkness of a grainy black 
and white photograph that only emphasized 
the metallic shine of the gun in his hand as 
he held it to his own head. Bill was not 
even surprised when he realized that the 
date on the photo matched the day they had 
been told Dana's cancer had metastasized. 
The fact that the bastard had even thought 
about leaving her  to face those final days 
alone had made Bill see three kinds of red. 
Then he had swallowed sickly as he thought 
about the fact that Mulder had surely known 
about the surveillance. 

Had it been an offer?

Mulder's life for hers.

"I don't know what's going on, Mulder. I 
don't understand it, and I sure as hell 
don't like it. But I've got to believe that 
if you hurt her, you would not be here. And 
if the killer got her, somehow I think you'd 
be beside her. So here's the deal."

Bill sat down in the chair and leaned in 
carefully," I've got three SEAL teams on 
stand-by. This is unofficial. No one knows 
about it and there is no paperwork. Weapons, 
launches, helicopters, a jailbreak...you 
want it, you got it. At least one of the 
orderlies on this floor will be a SEAL. 
Leave a note under your pillow and we'll get 
it. Yell and there will be someone in this 
room in under a minute."

He stared hard at the agent and refused to 
be disappointed that there was no reaction. 
He had already been through this, had he 
not? If there was a further purpose to this, 
then this was a game the agents had chosen 
to play without him. All he could do was 
stay out of the way. 

He was halfway to the door ,  the 
incriminating photo album under his arm, 
when he thought of something else to say.

"I'm not sure what my heart has to say about 
you Mulder, so I'm going to try listening to 
hers."

Because hers was the only one that held any 
hope at all.

********************************************
**
San Diego Field Office
Day 43
8:55 pm


"There. See that."

"Yeah. So?"

"So...what the hell was she looking at?"

Skinner paused as the intent voices reached 
him. He recognized at least one of those 
voices.

"Maybe she wasn't looking at anything. Maybe 
she was just reacting to Mulder's teeth 
sinking into her throat."

"But..."

"Look, Thatcher said..."

"Thatcher is an idiot."

Skinner grinned at the acid in that voice. 
Trust Landers to cut right to the point.

"Agreed. But he was part of the program."

"Yeah...and he sees everything through the 
haze of his failure. You trust him?"

"No."

"Then rerun the tape."

Skinner edged up to the door and peered in 
to see all five of the sane and accounted 
for X-Files team members. They were huddled 
around a TV and VCR. Mathews had the remote 
and Lewis was taking notes.

Vickery grunted as the image of Scully 
sailed through the air and landed on the 
bed. She glared at the rest of her 
teammates. "That just isn't her. She fights 
better than that."

Mathews snorted, "My grandmother fights 
better than that. But she's supposed to be 
profiling. Maybe it's not her."

"That kick off the bed sure looked like 
her."

Mathews opened his mouth, then shut it and 
looked thoughtful.

Harris cleared his throat, "We found plaster 
dust mixed with the blood on the bed. Maybe 
that chunk of the wall hit her on the way 
down."

Landers tapped her lip slowly," So...what? 
They loosened it when the bed hit the wall 
and she saw it about to go?"

"And kicked Mulder out of the way before it 
hit him on the back of the head." Vickery 
added.

The ex-marine nodded," I like it."

So did the ex-marine standing in the hall. 
But that did  not explain the rest of the 
broken furniture.

"What about the rest of the furniture?"

That came from Lewis.

Mathews sighed and put a hand to his 
forehead, "That's a problem."

"Not if there was a third person in the room 
with them."

All five flinched and Skinner saw more than 
one hand move for a weapon. Despite the 
nightmare the rest of the day was turning 
out to be, he almost smiled. They were 
learning.

Now if they would only learn not to keep 
their backs to open doors.

As one they all turned back to the TV screen 
and Vickery's lips twisted unhappily.

"Unfortunately, that works too."

********************************************
**
Unknown Location
Day 43
Sometime after dark 


The last time he had heard someone puking so 
painfully, they had been three hours into a 
hurricane that had taken an unexpected right 
turn and had near black water sheeting over 
the bow. He had not expected to survive that 
time either. 

So where the hell was he and why was he 
still alive?

Stupid. So stupid. Give lip service to the 
possibility that Mulder and Dana had a 
reason for what they were doing and then let 
a killer into the god damn car. Speaking of 
cars, was Officer Wright with him? He hoped 
the kid was not dead. Somehow he doubted 
that the young officer had been any more 
prepared than he had been.

Next time he was assigned a police escort he 
was asking for a slightly older version.

He sucked in a deep breath before he thought 
better and nearly joined whoever was puking 
his guts out and moaning on the other side 
of the room. Lord Jesus God, what the hell 
was that. Panting through his mouth he tried 
to swallow past the nauseating taste shoving 
itself down his throat. 

“What the hell is that smell?”

His voice was raspy and he was not sure he 
wanted an answer. Dear god, please don’t let 
that be what he thought it was. He was about 
to lift his head when a voice came out of 
the darkness.

“Turn your head toward me before you open 
your eyes.”

Bill froze. He tried to place the voice. A 
little shiver of panic began to worm its way 
into his gut and he started to pant. He 
swallowed again.

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

Trust me. He had never really considered the 
cost of those words before. How could he 
trust this person he did not know and did 
not recognize. Suddenly fear clutched at his 
heart and he felt tears pricking at his 
closed eyelids. Oh God, please let it not be 
Dana. Not Dana. Please.

“Dana?”

“No, not her.  Keep your voice down and turn 
your head toward me. There’s enough light…” 
The voice trailed off suddenly, then coughed 
and returned a little more raspy. “You’ll be 
able to see.”

But would he want to?

Was this it? The thing that would drive him 
out of his mind. The thing that would keep 
him from going home to Tara? He had if 
anything could do it, that it would be 
losing Mathew. He had thought that that 
would be the only thing that could keep him 
away. But now, with that smell in his 
nostrils, the smell that was sinking so far 
into his skin he did not think he would ever 
be able to wash it clean, now he was not so 
sure.

What if he took whatever it was home with 
him?

Then his mind whispered back. What if you 
are never offered the chance?

Finally, turning his head toward the voice, 
he opened his eyes. Weak light from a single 
dusty light bulb revealed what appeared to 
be an old stone cellar. He had barely 
started to focus on his surroundings when 
someone moved in his field of vision. He 
blinked and the features of Cap emerged as 
his eyes adjusted to the low level of light. 
What the hell…?

He heard the SEAL make a low-voiced protest 
but it was too late. He had already turned 
to look.

“Oh my Jesus God.”

There were bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. 
Numbly he wondered why he was not screaming 
and then realized that it was really very 
simple.

If the MethBomber heard him, he might come 
back.

Officer Wright had stopped heaving and was 
panting shallowly. Bill really could  not 
blame him. He was lying right next to one of 
the older bodies. He had probably woken up 
staring at the thing. Bill felt his gorge 
rise and swallowed carefully. If he threw up 
now, he would be dry heaving until he 
coughed up blood.

He realized he was shaking when his teeth 
started chattering. About the same time, his 
mind actually had the audacity to tell him 
that the ground he was lying on was damp and 
cold and seeping through the thin cotton of 
his shirt. It struck him as almost 
blasphemous to feel cold when there were so 
many here who would never feel anything 
again. 

He did not want to know how they had died.

Badger and Wright were lying back to back 
and appeared to be handcuffed together. 
Devon also had his wrists handcuffed 
together although his arms were raised above 
his head and the cuffs appeared to be hooked 
through a metal ring set into the stone 
wall. He was conscious and seemed to be 
studying the layout of the ceiling.

Or listening for footsteps.

“Knock out drugs.”

Bill blinked, then squinted over at Devon.” 
What?”

“The reason we're in here with you. He said 
it was some kind of back up system to knock 
everybody out in the event someone got into 
the house.” The SEAL grimaced, ”I guess he 
didn’t want anyone calling for help.”

Bill stared at him in dawning horror. ”They 
were kept alive down here?”

”Until they starved to death.”

Bill closed his eyes. He did not know what 
to say. Prayers seem a little…inadequate. 

“So what? You set it off getting into the 
basement?”

Devon coughed and Cap sighed. Finally Wright 
answered, voice scratchy,” I did.”

Cap looked over at Bill and shrugged, “We 
were following you. We slipped into the 
basement to check for survivors and set up 
an ambush. Wright didn't see us. We think he 
tripped over a hidden wire. Or else your 
killer triggered it himself after he threw 
you down the stairs.”

Bill vaguely remembered that part. 

"If you are here, who's watching Mulder?"

"Charlie."

For a split second Bill actually thought 
they meant his brother. Then his brain 
caught up with his ears and provided an 
answer. Phonetic alphabet. Alpha, bravo, 
charlie. Delta. Dana. Bill, Charlie, Dana. 
Shit. Melissa should have been named 
Annabelle. He almost giggled before he 
considered the drifting feeling he 
remembered from the day he had broken his 
arm falling out of a tree. 

Shock. That was it.

Was this how Mulder felt? Drifting away in a 
disassociative haze. 

As if thought conjured reality the door 
above suddenly rattled and Mulder was 
tumbling down the stairs to land in an 
untidy bundle of senseless limbs at the 
bottom. Bill stared with a mixture of shock 
and lost hope as he searched those empty 
eyes for any sign of self-awareness. An 
eternity later he had to admit the bitter 
truth. Nobody home.

His throat tightened with a painful clench 
as he thought what that probably meant for 
his sister. Devon, Badger and Cap were all 
staring at Mulder with surprise. Then Devon 
sighed.

"Well...shit." 

Yeah. 

What he said.

********************************************
***
Motel 6
Day 43
11:00 pm


"Would you hurry the hell up before we get 
caught."

"You think you can do better?"

"My grandmother could do better"

"Well my grandmother could - shii..ugar."

Mike and Lewis both looked up in alarm as 
Landers bit out the curse and glared at the 
door knob in disgust. She twisted her head 
and hissed at the woman crouching by her 
knees. Without a word, Vickery pulled out 
her laptop and started booting up several 
programs. Landers began pulling wires and 
leads from her pocket. Harris just craned 
his head back over his shoulder to look at 
them nervously before turning his attention 
back to the silent motel parking lot.

"Jesus. And I thought Mulder and Scully were 
paranoid. What the hell are they 
protecting?"

Vickery snorted, "Their sense of 
importance."

Mathews  gestured for them to hurry. Vickery 
just lifted the side of her lip 
contemptuously and continued her staccato 
keytapping as Landers kept a steady hand 
with the wires as she rerouted and bypassed. 
With a sudden motion Vickery pushed the door 
open and the other four agents froze. No 
alarms, no bullets. 

Landers peered around the edge of the door 
cautiously.

Mathews crowded up behind her as she let 
loose a low whistle and Vickery's eyes just 
glittered oddly as the dumbfounded agents 
contemplated the chaos inside. Computers 
littered every flat surface while wires and 
cables were strung in every direction. It 
took a minute and all five agents crowding 
into the room before part of the reason for 
the claustrophobic feeling emerged out of 
the confusion.

Harris peered around the shoulders blocking 
his view, "You think the Navy is missing 
some of its computers?"

The agents absorbed the details of the 
astonishingly complex lair the three 
computer gurus had created for themselves. 
Lack of room at the Scully residence and the 
Gunmen's instinctive wish to avoid official 
observation had led to the rental of  nearby 
hotel rooms on the Navy's dime. Bill had 
just shrugged as he signed off on the 
request. After everything else, who the hell 
was going to notice? Besides, the Navy had 
expected to pay for hotel rooms for Mulder 
and Scully in the first place.   

In all honesty, the agents had forgotten 
about them. After the initial security set-
up, the trio had more or less vanished, 
contacting Mulder and Scully as needed and 
pretty much ignoring the others. No one had 
even thought to call them until Skinner had 
quietly asked if the Gunmen had heard 
anything. Looking around them, the five 
agents considered that this might have been 
a costly mistake.

The furniture had been shoved away from the 
walls forming a narrow walkway running the 
circumference of the room. Two parallel 
lines of horizontal masking tape about two 
feet apart  trisected the wall into three 
rows, the center of the middle row placing 
about four feet from the floor. Vertical 
lines of tape were spaced about a foot apart 
and ran from floor to ceiling. Almost every 
center square held newspaper articles, 
copies of memos and email communiqués to the 
two investigatory teams.

Lewis just stared at the wall, her face 
blank, "What the hell is this?"

"A timeline."

Mike's voice was distant and he moved down 
the wall slowly. As the rest of the agents 
trailed after him, a pattern emerged. Each 
column corresponded to a day. The center 
square held articles about the investigation 
printed that day. It did not take long to 
see that a disturbing number of the articles 
were about Agents Mulder and Scully. The top 
row held the a case file summary  and photos 
from the Navy Arsonist fires started on that 
day. The lower row held only three files but 
the photos and police reports for the 
MethBomber's victims were posted in the 
square corresponding to the day each victim 
disappeared.  

Lewis gravitated toward the stack of medical 
reports resting on a side table tucked in 
next to a sofa shoved up against a desk 
hidden beneath three computers and a 
printer. Vickery took up position near a 
computer humming quietly to itself and 
Landers eyed the room for booby traps. 
Mathews and Harris drifted apart as they 
each moved along the walls looking for the 
patterns beneath the paper. Then they all 
looked at each other, each hesitant to be 
the first one to disturb the clues lying in 
the clutter.

Mulder had done this for a purpose.

The Lone Gunmen may have helped him put it 
together, may have provided the space, but 
the driving force was pure profiler. Harris 
absently picked up a file folder left 
carelessly atop a stack of newspaper. He 
scanned it briefly, then almost dropped it 
when he realized what he held. Mathews 
turned at  his shocked intake of air and 
Harris held the file out, eyes wide. Mathews 
hesitated, then took it, flipping the folder 
open almost fearfully.

In the heavy silence the sound of turning 
pages rasped against too tight nerves and 
four pairs of eyes never moved from the 
profiler's face. Grooves etched themselves 
into Mike's forehead and his mouth tightened 
grimly. Harris jumped when Mathews shifted 
his gaze from paper to agent.

"Get the tape."

Harris did not  bother to ask which one. 
Silently he went to the duffel at Vickery's 
feet and dug it out. As everyone waited 
impatiently he popped it in a nearby VCR and 
turned everything on. Mathews gestured for a 
hold on the playback, carefully removed a 
page from the profile and handed the file to 
Landers. She just looked the question.

"It's an updated profile." His voice was 
grim. 

According to the date on the file and the 
dates on most of the printed material he 
could see, this had all been done after 
Mulder had done whatever he had done to 
Scully. Had he come here still in profiling 
mode? From what little he knew of Scully, 
the one thing that she would have asked her 
partner was that her death not be wasted. 
Had Mulder finished his profile as one last 
effort at apology before releasing his mind 
to the Abyss?

Expression shadowed, Landers read silently, 
handing off pages as she finished. Mathews 
and Harris waited silently , then Mathews 
nodded to Harris. The familiar scene was 
reexamined with the facts of the profile 
held closely in mind. They saw nothing they 
did not expect to see. They saw the Navy 
Arsonist. A killer carefully controlling the 
kill. They saw someone who reacted to 
resistance without anger. Mathews saw the 
minute they realized that Mulder had not 
only carefully considered just exactly where 
to sink his teeth - he needed to twist his 
head awkwardly to get exactly the effect he 
wanted. It was precise. It was scripted.

It was staged.

Their killer was not after the kill for its 
own sake. He was after the media, the 
attention, the glory. Everything he did was 
designed to titillate, to shock. To get 
attention. Mathews saw understanding and 
agreement crossing all of their faces. His 
own lips twisted without humor. If they 
liked this, they were going to love the 
punchline. They might not have a clue how 
Mulder had put it all together, but they 
were agreeing with his conclusions. The man 
in the profile and the man on the tape were 
the same person.

Just one problem.

Mathews held up the sheet he had taken from 
the folder and held it up. He saw their 
faces go blank as they absorbed the 
information printed on the sheet. Then he 
saw their eyes go to the back wall where the 
MethBomber cases shared space with those of 
the Navy Arsonist.

Wrong damn profile.

****************************************
San Diego Suburb - Basement
Day 44
1:35 am


He had thought it would be more climactic, 
somehow.

The moment he learned the name of the 
killer. Saw the face of the monster. 
Discovered the identity of the man who had 
held Bill and his family hostage to fear for 
weeks. He had thought that it would mean 
something, answer some questions.

At least tell him why.

He had never thought it would be the face of 
a friend.

As the killer stepped heavily down the same 
stairs he had just thrown Mulder, Bill 
Scully felt the same sense of surprised 
indignation he had felt the moment he 
realized that the man he had trusted, the 
man he had willingly allowed into his car 
and whom he had blindly followed into a 
modestly priced rural home on the outskirts 
of San Diego, was the bad guy. This was not 
the way it was supposed to happen.

The killer was supposed to be some demented 
monster capable of fiendishly horrible acts. 
A red-eyed, drooling madman frothing at the 
mouth. He was not supposed to be a fellow 
investigator. A man who had sympathized with 
Bill over the nightmares, who had brought 
him late night cups of coffee. Who had, Bill 
remembered sickly, sat at his own kitchen 
table and smiled at Mathew.

BATF investigator Graham Wilson stared down 
at his prisoners, face empty of rage, 
sorrow...regret. Then he smiled politely, 
"Surprised?" 

As the killer stepped carelessly over 
Mulder's collapsed and motionless body, Bill 
willed the agent to do something. Grab the 
man's ankles. Pounce on him from behind. 
When the only thing that happened was the 
killer arriving safely on the ground, Bill 
reminded himself bitterly that even in 
Hollywood the calvary arrived late. Mulder 
was mad, Dana was dead and Bill would never 
go home again.

"Epiphanies usually are. Surprising that is. 
Mine almost killed me." 

Wilson reached a hand up to touch one ear 
delicately and Bill considered sourly that 
at least Hollywood got this part right. The 
bad guys liked to brag. Must be hell knowing 
all the answers and not being able to tell 
any of the people quietly going mad around 
you.

"That was the day I saw the true work of a 
master and knew myself for the dabbler I had 
been. I had seen the face of greatness and 
it looked back at me. It learned my name 
that day and it chose to spare me."

"It took your hearing."

Wilson read Bill's response from his lips. 
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then 
shrugged.

"All great art demands a price."

Involuntarily Bill's eyes went to Mulder and 
he immediately regretted it. Wilson's face 
lost its eerie calm and friendly expression 
as rage boiled up from nowhere. The lack of 
warning and the sheer speed of the 
transformation was terrifying. As Wilson 
turned to grab the back of Mulder's jacket 
and hauled him one-handed to his feet, Bill 
realized that this was the true face of the 
monster. A man who looked rational...and was 
not.

Considering that Mulder would docilely 
follow direct orders, it was nothing more 
than gratuitous cruelty that had Wilson 
kicking him as the agent stumbled  over one 
of the corpses and was sent sprawling across 
the blood-soaked dirt floor. Cap and Devon 
dragged their feet out of the way and Mulder 
finally ended up on his knees under the 
filthy lightbulb. Wilson backhanded him 
savagely, dragged him back to his knees , 
then sank fingers into his hair and wrenched 
the agent's head back until his face was 
clearly visible in the poor lighting.

For a long moment Wilson stared down into 
Mulder's blank face, his own reluctantly 
fascinated. Then he murmured faintly, "What 
do you see?"

The odd tone in Wilson's voice confused him 
for a moment, until he identified it. Then 
he wanted to be sick. Arousal. The bastard 
was aroused at the thought that someone had 
a direct line into his head. Or maybe he was 
aroused at the thought that Mulder had a 
direct line into his head. 

He thought he had managed to stay quiet. 
Motionless. But something must have 
attracted Wilson's attention. Without 
warning, Bill suddenly found himself staring 
into the angry eyes of a madman. And that 
anger was directly fixated on him. Sheer 
terror shot through him and he found himself 
helpless to look away as Wilson slowly drew 
away from Mulder and stepped towards him. 

"This is your fault."

****************************************
Motel 6
Day 43
11:57 pm


"How the hell is this possible?"

Harris flinched as Landers stormed across 
the room. The words were a variation on a 
theme and she had been saying the same 
things for the past twenty minutes. It was 
not possible. It had to be wrong. It was 
just a fucking coincidence. Then they 
watched the tape three more times and Lewis 
started pulling autopsy reports.

"Because we were looking at the MO and not 
the signature."

"What fucking signature!"

Mathews grabbed onto the reins of his 
temper. He knew they were having trouble 
making the pieces fit. And if he was having 
this much trouble convincing his own team, 
how the hell was he going to convince 
everyone else on the strength of a tape made 
by an agent of questionable sanity. It was 
not hard to imagine the pitying expressions 
as the SACs and senior investigators started 
mumbling things like "profiling 
contamination" and "lack of substantiated 
data". 

"Look. Mulder said it himself. This guy is 
an arsonist. He's a freaking thrill seeking 
fire bug. He just happens to be a psychopath 
to boot."

Lewis chewed the inside of her cheek " 
So...what? Arsonist plus psychopath equals 
...?"

Harris sighed, "One fucked-up 
investigation."

 Mathews paced back and forth as he talked. " 
We kept asking why these people? Why here? 
Why now? What does his victim choice say 
about him? What do his kill methods say 
about him?"

Mathews stopped abruptly and met four sets 
of appalled eyes.

"We were asking the wrong damn questions."

Landers drifted over to lean one hip against 
the sofa.

His words came a bit more slowly, as if he 
were sorting through the reasons himself. 
"On the surface it looks similar. A psycho 
is a psycho after all. They both see their 
victims as a means to an end. But here's the 
big difference. Almost every serial killer 
roots his fantasies in psycho-sexual 
motivations. Someway, somehow, sex is 
involved. The kill is arousing. So much so 
that it gets to the point where nothing 
beats it."

Vickery looked up, "Sex is a primal human 
need. "

Mathews nodded," So the kill becomes 
necessary. But the arsonist aroused by fire 
is mostly Hollywood invention. He exists, 
but a true sexually motivated arsonist is 
rare. Sometimes it's greed, sometimes it's 
revenge-hell, half the time it's just 
covering up another crime. But a thrill-
seeker is the most dangerous of the pack. He 
does it for the rush. The excitement. The 
thrill of getting away with it. A lot of 
thrill-seekers volunteer as firefighters. 
They need the recognition. The accolades. 
Being treated as a hero. And when it's over,  
they set another fire to get it back again."

All five agents had drifted to the stand 
before the wall. Lewis reached out an 
touched a photograph. She started the ball 
rolling.

"The first explosion. Major case. Lots and 
lots of press and national headlines. Our 
hero finds himself caught up in the middle 
of the biggest case of his career. 
Investigator? Doctor? Firefighter?"

Harris drags his hand along the wall to 
where the first of the Methbomber's victims 
were taken." Months later and the case is 
off the front page. No more interviews. No 
more free drinks. No one remembers his name. 
So he brings the case back into the 
limelight." His finger taps the first of the 
recent MethBomber explosions. "Kaboom."

Mathews nods," Back on the front page. He's 
giving interviews. He's the guy in the know. 
Maybe it's not even the media. It's the 
attention of fellow investigators, the 
admiration for his tireless and thankless 
work trying to catch a monster."

Vickery grimaced as Mathews handed the ball 
to her, "So...what? He starts setting house 
fires. What for? The Navy piss in his 
Cornflakes? "

Harris chewed his lip, "To take the edge 
off?"

Mathews shrugged, "Maybe. Based on Mulder's 
profile I'd be inclined to think he was 
doing research. "

"And someone died."

Mathews sighed, "And someone died."

Lewis slide her hand down the wall, 
fingertips rustling clipped out newspaper 
articles. "Our boy discovers he's back in 
the game with something that doesn't take as 
much work even though it doesn't give as big 
a payoff as the MethBomber explosions. It 
satisfies the urge while he waits for the 
next house to fill with enough methane to 
explode. But he has to make sure no one 
suspects. So he manufactures a serial 
killer. Gives him a fake MO then sits back 
and watches the rest of us chase our tails. 
Jesus. He doesn't need to taunt us. As an 
investigator he's right in the goddamn thick 
of things getting exactly what he needs."

Vickery bared her teeth, "Until Bill called 
in Mulder and Scully."

Mathews stepped closer to a bunch of 
clippings circled in red. "Mulder and Scully 
start getting the press ink. He starts 
escalating quietly but we don't notice 
because it's split between the two cases. 
There's no gap any more between burning the 
Navy homes and going hunting for more 
victims for the MethBomber. All that work 
..."

Landers steps up as he places a finger 
square on a photo of Bill Scully, his sister 
and her partner.

"...and someone else gets the spotlight."

Harris stared at the photo, expression 
thoughtful. "That's gotta be one pissed off 
arsonist."

"It gets worse."

All four agents turned at the quiet horror 
in Vickery's voice and frowned. She looked 
at them for a moment then threw out her 
hands, "Who the hell do we tell?"

Federal features all went blank and Vickery 
laughed a touch hysterically," This guy has 
to be one of us. There's a hell of a lot of 
people in a position to get the attention 
this guy needs and every single one is 
higher on the local food chain than we are. 
You think we can start pulling files on 
these people without someone somewhere 
asking questions?  And if we tip him 
off...we threaten his position...what the 
hell do you think he's going to do?"

Besides go out with a very big bang.

********************************************
San Diego Field Office
Day 44
12:10 am


"Thank goodness. I've got some messages for 
you, Sir."

Skinner looked at his phone blankly, 
"Kimberly?" 

His attention was momentarily dragged off of 
the three newspapers he held in his hand. 
The lurid headlines blazed out speculations 
about a profiler who had gone over the edge 
and killed his partner. Skinner could have 
sighed. For a man who generally tried to 
avoid the media, Mulder had a way of showing 
up on the front pages a lot of the time. 
This was insane. He could not have gotten 
more media attention if he had planned for 
it.

"Yes Sir. Sorry Sir. I just discovered that 
your cell phone has been forwarding half 
your incoming calls to voicemail, Sir. You 
keep bouncing off an old analog tower so you 
may not have gotten an indicator. You have a 
ton of messages...ummm...including one from 
Agent Mulder, Sir."

His voice reflected none of the tension that 
whitened the tightening fingers threatening 
to turn his cell into so much shattered 
plastic and copper wiring.  "When?"

"About half an hour before they checked into 
the Snow Goose, Sir."

Before. Shit. He had been hoping for a 
coherent message that might explain what 
happened after. Crap. He wrote the number 
Kimberly read back to him on the back of one 
of his business cards, but he already 
recognized it. It was one of the phone lines 
he had authorized for Mulder's "computer 
consultants".  He had already tried to get 
them earlier. Still...

He almost dropped the phone when a female 
voice answered.

"Agent Scully?" He was too shocked to be 
embarrassed at the way his voice shot up a 
few registers.

"Er...may I ask who is calling?"

Shit.

"Sorry, Agent Lewis. I did not recognize 
your voice at first. "

There was a long pause.

"It's Assistant Director Skinner, Agent 
Lewis."

"Yes, Sir. Just a moment, Sir."

Skinner frowned slightly as several muffled 
voices argued briefly in the background. 
Then a male voice came on the line.

"Sir? Would it be possible for you to get 
over here? It's important."

Skinner's eyes went to the spectacle 
crowding itself into the hallway outside 
Mulder's empty hospital room. Between the 
FBI, the police and one very embarrassed 
SEAL team whose members had been extremely 
close-mouthed about what they were doing 
there in the first place, the place was a 
zoo. No one knew anything, no one saw 
anything and the video caught nothing out of 
the ordinary. But they were missing one 
zoned out profiler and no one seemed to be 
getting anything accomplished beyond adding 
to the confusion.

"What is it Agent Mathews?"

"We've got something you need to see."

********************************************
*
San Diego Suburb - Basement
Day 44
1:45 am


As he watched a killer walk toward him, for 
one awful moment Bill was certain he was 
going to piss himself. Twenty years of 
hurricanes, military alerts and raging seas 
and he was going to die in a filthy basement 
surrounded by rotting corpses. 
Almost...almost he begged the man not to go 
after Tara or Mathew. But at the last minute 
he was not certain whether or not it would 
be better to keep from mentioning their 
names.

"I heard what you said that day. How you 
told them all about Mulder and what he could 
do. You're the one responsible for this."

In that moment, Bill knew that Mulder and 
Dana had been right. That the killer had 
been stalking him. Not, as they had thought, 
because he fit the profile, but for simple 
revenge. Then a horrible thought struck him. 
The last house. The one that was out of 
sequence. Bill stared back at Wilson, fear 
momentarily held at bay by epiphany and 
understanding. He had no idea how he 
knew...and he would never have been able to 
prove it. But he knew. That last house was 
revenge. Because Mulder and Scully had moved 
in with an army and the killer had not been 
able to touch him.

In an odd sort of way, the horror displaced 
the fear. 

Bill just stared at Wilson and wondered if 
there was any way he could take him with 
him. Maybe his suicidal thought were written 
across his face because Wilson stopped 
several feet away and turned his attention 
to the SEALs.

"You were carrying a lot of equipment for 
FBI agents. "

Cap, Devon and Badger just stared back, 
silent. It struck Bill that the quality of 
their silence held more of the captured 
predator and nothing of the victim. Was it 
training? Experience? Or had they simply 
made their peace with the thought of death? 
Wilson wandered closer, but not, Bill 
noticed, too close.

"Not FBI agents, then. Military? " Wilson's 
eyes slide dangerously back toward Bill. 
"Navy?"

Cap's voice was calm when he answered," Navy 
SEALs."

He was co-operating? Was he insane? Did he 
have any idea what this lunatic might do to 
them now that he knew what they were? Just 
to prove that he could. Then he met Badger's 
eyes. Old eyes in a too-young face and he 
realized they knew exactly what would 
probably happen. And no one set themselves 
up for torture without a damn good reason.

Wilson's voice was extremely polite, "Who 
sent you?"

Bill was seeing the last five minutes of his 
life written in that answer when the SEAL 
shocked the hell out of him. Cap's eyes 
rested lightly on Bill's face for a moment 
and he saw real regret in the man's gaze. 
Then Cap looked back at Wilson.

"Mulder."

Bill's whole body stiffened. 

"He asked us to watch out for his partner's 
family."

His eyes burned as he accepted the nature of 
that request. He did not need to hear the 
SEAL's next words confirming that Mulder had 
called them after whatever had happened at 
the Snow Goose. Dana was dead. His sister 
was dead and her partner had asked the SEALs 
to do what he had known would have been her 
last request. Tears broke free and slipped 
unchecked down his face. In them he felt 
grief and anger and loss. But amazingly he 
also felt hope. Because CJ and Doc were 
missing...and that meant they were watching 
Tara, his mother and Mathew.

His family was safe.

No matter what happened from here on out, 
the last of his family was safe. Mulder had 
managed to do that much. As much as he 
wanted to hate the man for what he had done, 
he could almost forgive him for that fact 
alone. Now, in the darkness, his own death 
assured, he somehow thought that Agent 
Scully had known the risk she was taking. 
Bill looked at the rotting bodies stacked 
like forgotten dolls along the walls of a 
house about to become a charnel house.

He could not even say the price was not 
worth it.

The look on Cap's face said he thought Bill 
was about to make a mistake. The SEAL had 
not given up Mulder in cooperation, but as a 
tactical sacrifice. Whatever else he might 
not know, Bill had no doubts that Mulder's 
life was over. Career and partner gone in 
one insane moment. What did he have left? 
Directing Wilson's anger back to the lost 
agent was simple strategy. But Bill was 
tired of being protected.

Wilson was about to step three feet too 
close.    

He almost howled in angry frustration when 
Mulder suddenly moved.

Every living head turned as the agent 
climbed to his feet and swayed slightly. 
Back and forth. Back and forth. A living 
metronome in counterpoint to the shadows 
created by the lightbulb the brush of a 
careless hand put into motion. Wilson was 
armed, but he seemed mesmerized by the 
darkness emanating from the agent. A 
darkness more dangerous than Wilson could 
ever hope to be.

But that was, Bill suddenly realized, 
exactly who Wilson thought he was seeing.

Wilson was a man you could pass on the 
street and never remember you had met him. 
Even now, Bill could barely see the monster. 
Surrounded by corpses his mind still wanted 
to see an ordinary man with an affable 
smile. On Mulder's features, Wilson's smile 
was edged with anger. The agent's eyes were 
dark pits filled with nightmares and the joy 
on his face as he looked at his handiwork 
felt like exultation. The SEALs shifted 
uneasily as Mulder moved among the shadows 
with a predatory grace Wilson lacked. Hands, 
limbs and feet mimicked Wilson's mannerisms, 
transforming on Mulder's frame to a dark 
nightmare that inspired an instinctive fear 
reaction that Wilson did not command. Menace 
and rage cloaked the agent like black smoke 
and for a moment Bill could almost imagine 
he smelled the sulphurous stench that would 
accompany the demons from the lower rings of 
Hell.

Wilson was fixated. His entire universe 
narrowed to this vision of himself that 
Mulder was portraying. Wilson as he imagined 
himself to be. A demon among lambs. His gun 
stayed at his side as he visibly bathed in 
the ecstasy of this truth of himself Wilson 
had always believed to be true.

Then Mulder took it away.

Motion lost its grace. Movement turned jerky 
and haphazard. Menace became fear. 

Wilson jerked as if he had been slapped. 
"No." His voice was a angry command.

Mulder seemed to shrink. He became a gawky, 
skinny man with frightened eyes and a high-
pitched nervous laugh. Neither vision 
reflected  the full truth, but Wilson 
believed.

"Stop it."

The command was weak.

Tears ran from eyes that contained only the 
fires of pathetic insanity.

"Stop it!"

Wilson's voice was a scream of anger and 
loss. Rage and hatred.

Mulder froze, eyes suddenly distant. He sank 
back to his knees. Wilson's angry pants were 
the only sounds audible and no one moved. 
Every eye was fixed on the gun Wilson was 
pointing directly at Mulder's heart. The 
agent did nothing for a long moment. Then 
his head raised slowly and Bill found 
himself holding his breath as awareness 
flooded vacant eyes and white teeth flashed 
in a feral grin.

"Woof, asshole."

Then the shadows grew substance and Wilson's 
astonished face was falling, falling 
forward, and Bill was staring into cold blue 
eyes twin to his own. The SEALs were equally 
frozen and everyone waited for Wilson to get 
back up. Scully absently wiped the blood 
from her knife and looked over at her 
partner. Mulder winced as he climbed to his 
feet. 

"He threw me down the stairs, Scully."

She looked at the disgusting substances 
decorating her partner's clothing.

"Don't even think of asking me to kiss it 
better." she warned.

Then both agents winced and raised hands to 
their left ears. 

Mulder rolled his eyes,"Sounds like the 
calvary arrived. Late as usual."

Scully sighed, "Skinner sounds pissed."

"Guess we better go rescue the guys."

Mulder leaned down and calmly unlocked the 
handcuffs holding the SEALs. Bill was not 
sure what they were feeling. Hell, he had no 
idea what he was feeling. He had just 
accepted the reality of his sister's death 
and  as hard as that had been, it was 
something he understood. The dead man at her 
feet was something he was not even sure he 
could accept.

She met his eyes and he suddenly realized 
that this was the first time she had looked 
at him since that first glance. His 
attention went to the long ugly scratch 
along her forehead and he realized that 
Harris had probably been right after all. 
Just a  piece of plaster. Her eyes held 
nothing. He looked for something he 
recognized and whatever she was searching 
for in his, he did not think she found it 
before she turned away. 

He did not move to hold her back.

Running footsteps were suddenly thundering 
above and everyone flinched as the door 
above opened and powerful flashlights 
blinded them. The first man down the stairs 
was Agent Mathews,  Landers close on his 
heels. Assistant Director Skinner followed 
and the rest of the X-Files team blockaded 
the door. Bill could see hurt and reproach  
rapidly replace concern on five faces. Then 
Skinner was striding across the floor.

Bill was not sure what he expected. The 
burly AD let his eyes study the room 
carefully but hesitated no more than a 
second on the body lying on the ground. His 
features were hard as they looked at Mulder.

"Agent Mulder, I would like an explanation 
as to just why you and your hacker friends 
interfered with a protective detail and 
aided a killer with removing you from the 
hospital."

Which was really a dumb question. They did 
it to flush out the killer and locate the 
next ticking time bomb. Even Bill knew the 
answer to that one. A muscle twitched in 
Skinner's jaw.

"What the hell did you think you were 
doing?"

Mulder glanced at his partner and whatever 
answer he found there was one he chose not 
to share. Agent Scully turned blue eyes on 
her boss and answered calmly.

"Hunting."


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

excerpt Diary - Dana Katherine Scully


I like the way things are. What does that 
say about me?

No more lies. No more prevarication. The 
time for that is over. I’ve made choices. 
I’ve had choices made for me. Every one 
brought me closer to this point. Finally 
brought me here.

To you.

I’m okay with that.

There are those who would say that we have 
made sacrifices for what we have. Chosen 
paths that have cost us dearly even as we 
fight to find the truth beneath the lies. 
Made ourselves into images outside the norm. 
You choosing to exist outside the rules 
because you are too damaged to exist within 
them, me because duty and loyalty have 
pulled me too far under to escape.

They are blind and will not see.

We have always made our own rules. That is 
the point. We’ve made choices outside the 
accepted paths, and in doing so, we have 
uncovered truth. The rules are illusions 
that have power only because we accept them.  

Belief can be a terrible thing.

We try not to lie to ourselves. The only 
conviction without doubts is that of 
madness. And neither of us is mad. Yet, how 
is the vision of ourselves reflected back to 
us by the eyes around us any less distorted? 
If our visions are warped by our fears, then 
theirs are twisted by their preconceptions. 

They do however, have the strength of 
numbers. A lone voice shouting into the 
wind, unsupported, no matter how committed, 
must eventually tire and give in. After all, 
that many people cannot all be wrong. Thus 
is society shaped and controlled. Thus are 
prophets born or destroyed.

And we are not prophets.

Would you have had the strength to start 
this journey without Samantha to lead you, 
to guide you … to blame? Was she a 
talisman…or an excuse?  Did you need the 
camouflage of obsession to find the strength 
to continue a search for the truths that 
most people don’t really want to find? Was 
she the reward, the goal you never really 
thought you would achieve, a substitute for 
the gratitude that no one else would offer?

Did you follow her, the way I followed you?

You always saw me first. Did I ever thank 
you for that? You looked at me and saw the 
person I wanted to be…and the person it was 
so hard to believe that I was. You saw 
strength, so for you I was strong. 

Do you know how weak that made me feel?

Yet if I saved you, truly made you a whole 
person, then you have done the same for me.  
Countless times, in a dozen ways, simply by 
being you. Do you have any idea how 
beautiful your courage is? For someone with 
as many doubts as you about the state of 
your soul, I have never seen you falter when 
it comes to your convictions. Without rules, 
without a net, you hurl your conclusions 
into the winds of disbelief and dare them to 
break themselves against the truth you raise 
like battlements around you.

If my science freed you to explore the 
limits of your beliefs without toppling over 
the edge of rationality, then you have freed 
me to take the chances I could never take 
alone.  I was as trapped in my world as you 
were in yours. Yet, I would never have known 
that, because I would never have ventured 
beyond the walls. 

Worse, I would never have known that those 
walls were there.

We crossed a line today. You and I. Perhaps 
it was inevitable that we reach this point. 
We chase the things that cannot be held, 
cannot be brought to justice. The same 
things which prey upon those whom we have 
sworn to protect. In the service of our 
duty, we are now forced to break the very 
oaths which bind us to it.

We can say the pretty words. Self-defense. 
But you know as well as I that that was not 
what we did. We played him as easily as you 
said that we would. We brought him to that 
point, to a place where we could do what 
needed to be done and still give it a veneer 
of legitimacy. But the spirit was not within 
the letter of the law.

I am okay with that, too.

There is no guilt in me today. No shame. 
only, perhaps, a kernel of fear. It was 
sobering how easy it was to mislead the 
people who should have known us. Who should 
have known better. It is ironic that the 
cruelty of his choices gave Bill the ability 
to believe where love could not. Because 
here is part of his truth. 

I have never stayed because of love.  

It is not enough.

Love can choose to trust. To throw caution 
to the winds and gamble that faith will be 
rewarded. And sometimes...sometimes it is 
worth the roll of the dice. But here is 
painful reality. Lacking knowledge, lacking 
precedent, love can choose disbelief and be 
forgiven.

We cannot.

Do you think I did not see the look in your 
eyes? The day the gargoyles failed to scare 
away the demons and I pointed a gun at you 
thinking it was my responsibility to protect 
the others from what I thought you had 
become. The day I truly began to understand 
that I was no longer free. 

You forgave me...but you made me pay for it. 
The sideways looks, the thoughtful glances. 
The ones that echoed the fear growing in my 
own soul. The ones with only one thing to 
say.

Is this the day I betray you for your own 
good?
 
It did not matter that you were not the 
killer. It did not matter that in any other 
capacity I would have been right to doubt 
you. Was it a test? Or was that simply the 
point you were making? Friendship, love, 
both are free to act on their doubts. Both 
have that right and that obligation. But I 
am your partner. I do not have that luxury.

My job is to watch your back.

I have to believe in you, even when I do not 
believe you. I have to act as though every 
possibility could become true, even when I 
do not believe it myself. Because it could 
be. Because there is literally no one else 
to catch you if I fumble the ball.

And the cost of being wrong is too high. 

There have been times I have faltered. Lost 
the partner within the shadow of the agent 
or the friend. It is a delicate balance. 
There have been times when I have declared 
my emancipation on the wings of common sense 
and logic. When a flaring sense of 
claustrophobia and resentment took aim with 
dogmatic pragmatism and stubborn 
rationalism. And you? How did you bruise 
yourself on the walls our partnership 
creates?  

So much power. So much loss of control. So 
many choices taken away in return for the 
strengths we have gained. And yet...

...I am not afraid anymore.

I have mapped the edges of the many that I 
am now.

You asked me if I was okay and I said yes. 

I meant it.

You used me as a weapon and I let you.  Who 
we are demanded it of you.  You looked into 
my eyes after it was over, saw the dark 
things living in my soul and did not look 
away. This is the truth we were always 
headed towards. 

We cannot take it back. 

We will not walk away.

One more step upon the soldier's road. A 
road that for every step forward, leaves 
something behind. But we'll take that step. 
A step in the direction of the inevitable. 
Toward the enemies we have been fighting all 
along. But maybe...maybe we are one step 
closer to who we need to be in order to win. 
And we are taking those steps as they need 
to be taken.

Together.