INTRODUCTION: 
What begins as a typical ritual murder case with supernatural 
overtones for Mulder and Scully in Baltimore becomes something 
else as the two are forced to interact with some of the unique 
personalities on Charm City’s murder squad.  Ultimately, Scully’s 
developing connection with a Baltimore homicide detective has 
far-reaching consequences in the evolution of her relationship 
with Mulder.


Homicidal Tendencies

by Swikstr

swikstr@bigfoot.com

“In Baltimore and Washington DC -- all roads lead to the truth.”

Disclaimer:  The characters Mulder and Scully do not belong to 
me.  They belong to Chris Carter, Tenthirteen productions and the 
Fox Network.  No infringement is intended. Additionally, Tim 
Bayliss, Frank Pembleton, Al Giardello, and the rest of the 
'Homicide: Life on the Street' squad belong to Tom Fontana, 
Barry Levinson, Baltimore Pictures, and NBC.  Again, no 
infringement is intended.

Rating:  NC-17 for explicit sexual situations, violence and 
language

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  This story exists as a crossover with NBC's 
Homicide:  Life on the Street.  However, I'm not sure it fits the 
textbook perception of a "crossover," which one would assume to 
be out of canon just by its very nature.  "Homicidal Tendencies" is 
very much based on the original canon set by CC and Vince 
Gilligan from "Unusual Suspects" (Homicide is uniquely suited 
for an XF cross, just for that very reason) and more than anything 
else, I have chosen to use the exceptional characters from 
Homicide to provoke and encourage change and depth in Mulder 
and Scully's world, rather than to create my own for that purpose. 

You don’t need to watch Homicide to understand or even enjoy 
this story.  
And it is my sincere wish that you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve 
enjoyed writing it.
 -- swikstr.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Part I -- Scarabaeus

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

>Baltimore, MD
>West Side
>1:15 AM

The two men walked briskly across the crunching gravel of the 
empty lot on Etting, raincoats flapping lightly in the icy wind.  
They matched each other's gait step for step, with a familiarity that 
came from years of working together.

Neither took notice of the obscenely twisted patterns of graffiti 
on the vacant rowhouses that walled both sides of the lot, nor the 
trash and debris blowing across the ground, swirling around their 
feet.

For their objective was within view -- a large area, cordoned off 
with yellow tape and surrounded by police uniforms, emergency 
vehicles and the white van from the coroner's office.  That, plus 
about twenty or so gaping bystanders from the neighborhood, 
come to watch the desperate tableau of violent crime investigation 
spread out before them.

They were homicide detectives.

And murder was in the air tonight.

"So, you think we'll get an early snow this year, Frank?" asked 
Detective Tim Bayliss, gearing up mentally for the crime scene by 
distracting himself with small talk.  After six years, he was still 
unable to shake the jitters he always felt when confronted by the 
tortured visage of wrongful death.  

"It's cold for November,” he continued.  “Feels like it's fucking 
winter already, the way the temperature's been lately."

Detective Frank Pembleton stopped in his tracks.  

"Every year," he said.

"What?"

"Every year, you do this, Bayliss," said Pembleton, annoyed.  
"Every year, you complain in winter and it’s never gonna change.  
You don’t like the cold?  Move to Florida.  I hear they’re looking 
for a few good vice cops in Miami."

"Very funny, Frank."

"And who gives a good goddamn about the weather anyway?" 
Pembleton replied.  "All I know is, this is our third murder in as 
many days and Mary's beginning to wonder if I still live at home."

"Yeah, the city's going to hell again," Bayliss nodded at his partner, 
eyes glinting behind the lenses of his glasses.  "Well, you're the 
primary on this one."

"How's that?"

"Because I took the calls on the other two, and you could stand to 
have some red underneath your name."

Pembleton pursed his lips at the other man, shooting him a look.

"Don't even begin to presume I'm gonna let you get away with that 
shit, Bayliss.  And don't think I don't know exactly what it is you're 
trying to do here."

"Oh?" Tim asked, forming an innocent look on his boyish features.  
"What's that?"

"You're thinking murder, black male, late teens, and a vacant lot on 
Etting.  You're thinking about those corner boys over there, 
eyefucking us up and down and all through the middle.  And then 
you're thinking controlled substances, reluctant witnesses, and a 
near total lack of evidence.  You're thinking stone whodunit.  And 
you don't want to have nothing to do with being the primary on this 
case."

Bayliss listened to Frank's rant with an amused detachment, 
noticing how his partner's face seemed to blend into the darkness 
surrounding them.  The detective’s eyes skewered him like twin 
laser beams of irritation.

"That may all be true, Frank.  But the fact still remains:  *you* 
took the call."  He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate the 
inevitability of what he was saying.  "You take the call -- you're the 
primary."

Frank shook his head in disgust and turned back in the direction of 
the lights.

"It's a good thing, too," Bayliss mumbled, following him.  "I've got 
a bad feeling about this one."

"Shit, Bayliss.  You get a bad feeling about every one that doesn't 
have a perp standing over the body with a smoking gun." 

Pembleton waved his hand back at the other man derisively as they 
pushed their way through the crowd of uniformed officers and 
onlookers.

Together, they bent to cross beneath the yellow tape, making their 
way towards the body sprawled on the ground.

Even from ten feet away, they could see it was a young black male, 
stripped down to a worn pair of jeans and nothing else.  Not even 
shoes.  

"Son of a bitch," Bayliss heard his partner mutter as both came to 
the near-immediate conclusion that Pembleton couldn't have been 
further off the mark with his previous assessment of the crime.

It did not appear to be just another street assassination of a corner 
drug slinger.

The two men stopped, a few feet away from the body, staring in 
mute disbelief.

The manner in which the corpse was displayed could only be 
described as hideous.  Shocking.  And both detectives knew that 
whatever the young man had been responsible for in life, he 
certainly hadn't deserved this treatment in death.

A crude drawing had been made on the soil in what appeared to be 
a kind of red chalk.  It was about three foot in height, like a cross, 
only with a loop at the top, and the body was lying directly in the 
middle of it. 

The victim's hands and ankles were bound from behind, strung 
together tightly, causing the corpse to be contorted in some 
grotesque parody of a tautly-strung bow.

Rope had also been drawn through the victim's mouth, pulling the 
head back to a gruesome angle, all the better to show off an 
obvious slash to the throat deep enough to expose neck vertebrae.  

Glistening in the lights around the crime scene, the raw, gaping 
wound mocked them, as if daring them to feel repulsed by its 
savage quality.  

But there was more.

The mutilation of the body was capped off by a cavernous wound 
in the center of the chest.  Right where the heart should have been, 
but wasn't.

Jesus, Bayliss thought.  There was a virtual sea of blood.  Rivers 
of it.  Pooling, running in rivulets along the dry, caked ground, 
mixing in with the chalk of the underlying drawing.  The air was 
fairly weighted with the repulsive, metallic scent of the stuff.  And 
beneath it all, he could smell the lingering odor of desperation.

And fear.

He looked over at Pembleton, meeting his gaze and knowing that 
Frank was becoming almost as uneasy with the scene before them 
as he was.

"We're fucked, Frank," Bayliss murmured, speaking the other 
man's thoughts aloud.  "Gee's going to go ape-shit."

Pembleton nodded briefly.

Their shift commander *was* going to be pissed.

A killing like this was virtually guaranteed, simply by the bizarre 
nature of its presentation, not to be a singular act.  Murderers 
went to this type of trouble only when they enjoyed doing it.  
Which almost assuredly promised that the killer would be a 
repeater.

Perhaps he already was.

Either way, both detectives knew it wouldn't take too long to find 
out.

Bayliss shivered again, despite his earlier resolution to remain 
untouched by the carnage.  

It was the cold temperature, he told himself.  The air enveloping 
the lot felt heavy, cloying -- pressing downward. Reaching into 
him...

And suddenly he realized the wind had stopped.

But it was more than that.

Normally, the atmosphere surrounding violent death was charged, 
frenetic.   This was different.  Tim had a sudden vision of the 
victim on the ground, alive, kneeling -- begging for his life as 
some awful, evil presence reached in and snatched it away.

Cold.  Determined.  Without mercy.

Bayliss stood there, a few feet from the body, and looked at the 
victim's face -- contorted with the rictus of violent death -- wide 
eyes staring at a vision too horrible to name.

Revolted, he stepped back slightly, looking up and around, as if 
trying to pin a feeling on the dark and desolate haze permeating 
the crime scene.

"Well, Bayliss, I have to hand it to you," he heard Frank say 
quietly, startling him.  "You hit the mark on this one."

"It's fucking spooky," Bayliss agreed, shaking himself, and forcing 
his attention away from the details of the scene.  As an 
afterthought, he added, "You can almost feel something in the air."

"Let's not get carried away.  Hey Cox!" Pembleton called to a tall, 
thin, dark-haired woman squatting next to the still form on the 
ground.

She looked up at them, squinting against the glare of emergency 
lights.

"Hey, Pembleton.  Bayliss."  

Cox's voice was light.  Clinical even.  As Baltimore's Chief 
Medical Examiner, crime scene gore rarely touched her -- a fact 
that often inspired a backhanded admiration from the detectives 
she assisted.

But there was an underlying tremor tonight and Pembleton looked 
at her sharply as he pulled out a notebook and pen.  

"What've we got here?" 

"Black male, late teens.  Wallet says his name's Vincent 
Bondurant."

Cox stood and stepped gingerly around the chalk drawing, 
stopping before the two detectives as she continued:

"From the wounds, it's a little hard to tell what the *exact* cause 
of death was.  But I'm going to go out on a limb and say it was 
probably due to the fact that his heart was cut out."

"Wait," Pembleton interrupted, looking up from his hasty 
scribbling.  "You mean you think this guy was *alive* when the 
killer did that??  What about having his throat slit?"

"No," said Cox.  "The wound to the throat appears to be 
postmortem."

She paused, gesturing toward the corpse's upper body.  "I know 
you can't see it, but there's evidence of a heavy blow to the back of 
the head.  Not enough to kill, but powerful enough to subdue.  
That's probably how your killer managed to remove the heart with 
a minimum of fuss.  *Then* he went ahead and did the slashing.  
Of course, I'll know more, obviously, when we get him on the 
table, but it looks like some type of sharp cutting instrument."

"A knife?" Pembleton asked.

"Maybe.  Probably.  Like I said, I don't know for sure yet."

"Why would he cut the victim's throat after he was already dead?" 
Bayliss asked with some confusion.

"The only reason I can think of is that your killer may be obsessed 
with blood-letting," Cox said with a shrug.  "Even though the flow 
would be substantially lessened without the heart beating..." she 
trailed off for a moment, thinking.  

"It would still pretty much increase the volume of blood released 
from the body," Pembleton finished for her.

"Right."

The three made their way back to stand over the body and Bayliss 
hunkered down to get a closer look as he snapped on a pair of 
latex gloves.

"We're bagging the hands, but they look clean," Cox said.

Frank began writing again.  "So he didn't put up a struggle?"

"Doesn't look like it.  Nothing in the way of defense wounds 
either.  I can't say for sure, right now, when the blow to the head 
happened.  But it's obvious that the actual killing occurred right 
here."

"Uh-huh," he said absently, looking back toward the body.  "Any 
guess as to what the marking is underneath him?"

"Well...that's not really my area of expertise.  But it appears to be 
a drawing of a cross or something, doesn't it?" she said, gaze 
roaming over the ground until it came back to rest upon Bayliss.

He had remained silent throughout their exchange and now leaned 
in close to the victim's face, peering intently at the man's slightly 
parted lips, almost as though he were searching for something.

Frowning, Bayliss pulled out a pen, probing into the victim's 
mouth.

"It doesn't appear to be your run-of-the-mill murder because of 
the staging of the body and the thing with the heart," Cox went on 
quietly.  "Which *is* missing, by the way.  There's no sign of it 
anywhere here at the scene."

They were interrupted then, by the sound of Tim's voice.

"We've got something in the mouth, Frank," he said somberly, 
looking up at the other two.

Pembleton bent down to see as Tim gestured to Cox for a small 
set of forceps.

She handed them over quickly, standing over the two detectives as 
they extracted what looked like a small stone from the victim's 
tongue.

"What the hell is that?" Bayliss asked, confusion creasing his 
features as he held the thing up, examining it.

The object was about the size of a nickel, elliptical in shape, and 
made of some black, shiny material.  It winked at them, glinting in 
the harsh lights. 

"Looks like an insect or something," Cox ventured.

Pembleton gripped Bayliss's hand on the forceps, turning it slowly 
and looking at the stone.

"It's a scarab," he said finally.

"A what??"

"A scarab.  Or Scarabaeus.  A talisman.  Egyptian.  Signifying the 
soul." 

Pembleton's words were short, clipped.  "And it just dawned on me 
what the body is lying on."

"You going to enlighten us, Frank?" Cox asked when he didn't 
continue.

"It's an ankh.  That's a prominent marking in ancient Egyptian 
symbolism.  It means 'life.'" 

"Interesting."  Cox stared thoughtfully.

"Well," Bayliss said, "Not for this guy."  

His voice sounded weary, carefully tempered by countless crime 
scenes and violent deaths.  But there was something else.

As detached as he had become after five and a half years working 
homicide, Bayliss was deeply troubled by the odd, ritualistic 
display of this victim, which was frankly alien to what they were 
used to dealing with in the drug-infested sewers of West 
Baltimore.

Not to mention the inexplicable feeling of evil in the air.

And then there was his prior vision of the boy's desperate appeal 
for his life.

Tim backed off, along with the other two, all three feeling a 
distinct sense of uneasiness.

"There's something not right here, boys," said Cox, voicing what 
all of them were thinking.

As if anything could be *right* about the taking of a human life, 
Bayliss mused.  But this was different.  It was...

Disturbing.

The two detectives merely stared at Cox in silence as her 
comment faded into the night around them.

She gave herself a shake and turned to the two waiting morgue 
attendants.  "Let's get him packed up and in the van," she said.  "I 
mean, as long as the detectives are all through."  Cox gave 
Pembleton a questioning stare.

He nodded briefly, watching as the men began to move the body.

Finally, Frank looked at his partner.  "Bayliss, why don't you check 
with the uniform that took the call and find out if they know who 
reported this -- see if we've got any witnesses to question.  We're 
gonna need to get going on this one as quickly as we can."

"Yeah, sure, Frank."

Bayliss turned in the direction of the crowd beyond the taped off 
area.  He gave his partner one last glance over his shoulder, 
meeting the other detective's eyes with a look that spoke volumes.  
"What do you think?" he asked, voice heavy with apprehension.

Pembleton, as usual, refused to succumb to his partner's fanciful 
imaginings.  

The scene before them was unpleasant, but homicide was first and 
foremost a study of tangible facts.  And Bayliss knew as well as 
Frank that they had to get at least the bare minimum nailed down 
before he started letting his thoughts run away with him. 

A life had been wrongfully taken.  That was all that mattered.  

For now.

"Bayliss, just go talk to the uniforms, ok?"

Tim nodded, and turned away, taking a deep breath.  In spite of his 
partner's practical, no-nonsense attitude, he couldn't help but 
whisper to himself:

"A *real* bad feeling about this one." 

*********

>Baltimore Police Headquarters
>1701 Thames St.
>Baltimore, MD 
>Three days later

The two FBI agents walked quickly up the main staircase of the 
brick edifice housing the Central District of the Baltimore City 
Police and headed for the squad room where they'd been directed.

Fox Mulder paused just before a door bearing the legend 
'HOMICIDE' across the top and looked down at his partner.

"We need to be ready before we go in and talk to these guys.  They 
aren't likely to welcome us with open arms."

"Tell me something I *don't* know."

So saying, Dana Scully pushed open the swinging door and entered 
the room as Mulder let his hand slide supportively against her 
back, following her.

They both stopped, just inside the doorway, carefully observing 
their surroundings.

The large cavernous space was a veritable beehive of activity -- 
phones ringing, voices droning, and people moving about at a 
frantic pace.

Mulder immediately sensed the familiar aura of tense urgency that 
drifted around the homicide unit of every big metro police 
department they'd ever been to.

His probing glance swept over the room, noting the long glass 
window to their left that looked into a sterile observation area, a 
jumble of battered metal desks, and the large white dry-erase 
board that sat across from them, divided into columns of names 
written in red and black ink.

Scully, for her part, stared in bemusement at the organized 
confusion, intrigued by the controlled, yet still frenetic tempo 
that characterized the place.

"So how do we find Giardello?" she murmured at his shoulder, 
looking up questioningly.

"Let our fingers do the walking, I guess." 

Mulder stepped towards a cadaverous-looking detective with a 
mop of salt-and-pepper hair who was reading a newspaper at his 
desk, apparently oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.

He tapped the man on the shoulder and was rewarded with a look 
of near-total annoyance as the detective slapped down the paper 
and raised his eyebrows through the dark spectacles he was 
wearing.

"Can I help you?" he asked, in a voice that made it clear he didn't 
appreciate the interruption.

Oh fuck.

Mulder immediately placed the face.  

It was John Munch.  

The cynical, acerbic bastard was still in homicide after all this 
time.  It had been eight years since their last close encounter, 
when Mulder had been assigned to the Modeski investigation.  He 
hadn't known it then, but that case had been his first step in the 
never-ending journey along a road that would hopefully one day 
lead to the truth for him.

With a sudden flash of intuition, Mulder wondered if Munch's 
appearance would presage a turning point in his life again.  

He watched as the other man's eyes narrowed, hoping the 
detective wouldn't remember who he was.  The last thing he had 
time for were meaningful reminisces.

"Yes, I'm Special Agent Mulder with the FBI.  This is Special 
Agent Scully."  Mulder flipped forth his ID.  "We're looking for 
the shift commander, Lieutenant Al Giardello."

"Right through there."   The detective pointed off to their right, 
peering at him intently.

Mulder ignored the other man's stare, quickly drawing Scully 
forward until they stopped before the entrance to the shift 
commander's office.  He knocked on the door sharply, prompting 
an immediate response from within.

"Enter!"

Obeying the command, the agents stepped into a small, cluttered 
room whose walls were lined with a myriad of assorted police 
memorabilia and photos.  

Scully wrinkled her nose at the smell of stale coffee and dusty air, 
which was only partially offset by the cool scent of what must 
have been the squad commander's aftershave.  

The lieutenant, a large-shouldered black man, was sitting behind a 
worn, wooden desk, scribbling his signature on something.  He 
looked up through his reading glasses as they paused before him.  

"Let me guess," he began, in a sonorous voice, "Agents Mulder and 
Scully with the FBI?"

Leaning back, the shift commander pulled off his glasses and 
smiled as Mulder looked at him in surprise.

"Your Assistant Director, Walter Skinner, called me already this 
morning to tell me you'd be on your way up here.  

"It's been a long time since we've spoken, but he and I served 
together in Vietnam," Giardello explained.  "A good man.  It's been 
far too long.  But I digress."  

He waved a hand in the air.  

"Apparently, he called to notify us that you were coming to take a 
look at the Bondurant slaying from the other night.  I have to 
admit, I'm surprised that the Bureau would take an interest so early 
on in these murders."

Scully heard the words and glanced quickly at her partner as he 
replied: 

"*Murders*, sir?  As in plural?"

"Yes," Giardello replied.  "We had a second one last night.  Please, 
sit down."  He pointed to the two chairs before his desk. 

"Exactly the same as the first?" Mulder lowered himself slowly, 
voice thrumming with a barely-suppressed tension that Scully had 
become intimately familiar with over the years.

"Yes," the lieutenant repeated himself.  "Stanley Gresham.  
Another teenage boy.  And I don't have to tell you that the idea of a 
repeat killer loose in this city is enough to disturb my otherwise 
restful sleep.  The only reason it hasn't become an issue for the 
department so far is because the victims were part of the well-
oiled free-enterprise system of narcotics dealing in West 
Baltimore.  That's why I still don't understand why you two are 
down here.  The killings are unusual, but hardly sensationalistic.  
Yet."

"I take it A.D. Skinner didn't make you aware of all the details in 
this situation, sir," Mulder said quietly.

"No," Giardello replied, still looking at him gravely.  "I'm counting 
on you to do that, Agent Mulder."

Scully had watched the exchange between the shift commander 
and her partner in silence up until then, and now she finally leaned 
forward to speak:

"You may not be aware of this Lieutenant, but the ritual killing 
your people reported from the other night was not an isolated 
incident.  Obviously this second murder is further evidence of that 
fact, but Agent Mulder and I are currently investigating another 
case with an identical M.O. in DC"

Actually, as an older X File, Mulder had been keeping track of it 
on his own, she thought.  At least until this morning, when he'd 
brought her on board with a briefing.

She waited as Giardello grasped the information, a dark look 
clouding his features as he digested the implications of what she 
was saying.  

He appeared to be an intelligent, if subtle man, and Scully 
suspected that those sharp eyes had taken in every last detail of 
the their appearance and conduct so far for the purpose of 
evaluating them.

It was unnerving in some ways to be on the other side of the 
microscope, but this was his unit, his city, and she supposed he 
was entitled.  Local authorities in these situations often harbored 
a great deal of resentment toward any FBI involvement in what 
they considered to be *their* cases.

But she sensed they wouldn't get that type of treatment here as 
long as they appeared to know their business.  Giardello didn't 
look like the type to enjoy having his time wasted.

He evidently made up his mind about the two of them then, for he 
stood quickly and moved to the door, opening it.

"Munch!" he bellowed, in the general direction of the detective 
that Mulder had originally spoken with.  "Where the hell are 
Pembleton and Bayliss?"

For a split second, the noise of the squad room seemed to hush at 
the sound of his voice, resuming almost immediately as Munch 
responded.

"On the way in, Gee.  They were down at central booking, 
processing a suspect in the Wheeler slaying."

"Well, tell them to get there asses in here as soon as they show 
up."

Giardello slammed the door without waiting for a reply and sat 
back down behind his desk.

"The two detectives working the case should be here any minute.  
They can fill you in on all the minutiae.  I don't know too much 
beyond the bizarre manner in which each of the victims was 
found." 

"What exactly *can* you tell us about the slayings, Lieutenant?" 
Mulder asked.

"Probably not much more than what you got in the fax.  It'd be 
better if you talk directly to the men investigating these crimes.  I 
do know it's not something we're used to seeing up here.  All I 
understand right now is that the bodies were mutilated.  And there 
was some symbolic material exhibited at each scene.  No 
witnesses, and very little forensic evidence to go on, so far." 

The door opened just as he was finishing up, and Scully looked 
over her shoulder at the two men who swept into the office.

They walked around her and Mulder to stand at one side of 
Giardello's desk.  Both had obviously just come in from outside, 
for neither had taken the time to remove their coats.

The first was a black detective, compactly built, with a set of 
intense, dark eyes glowering at them beneath the brim of an 
elegant fedora.  He seemed pissed off about something as he 
looked down at the two seated agents.

But it was really the other man who caught her attention:  a tall 
drink of water, with tousled, dark sandy hair, and an unruly 
forelock hanging over his brow.  His face was reddened from the 
cold and a pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses accented the sparkle 
in his light brown eyes, making him look scholarly in an intense, 
attractive sort of way.  His easy smile seemed to widen 
appreciatively as he met her gaze, taking in her appearance.

Unaccountably, Scully felt her cheeks warm with color under his 
appraising look, and she stood with Mulder, holding out her hand 
as Giardello introduced them to the detectives.

"Frank Pembleton, Tim Bayliss, these are Special Agents Mulder 
and Scully of the FBI.  They're here about the ritual slayings."

"I know," Pembleton said abruptly as he shook hands first with 
Scully and then Mulder.  She read the reluctance in his gesture and 
knew immediately that he was annoyed by their presence, though 
his partner didn't seem to mind.

Then, Bayliss grasped her fingers and Scully drew in her breath 
sharply, feeling the electric current of the contact arc up her arm 
like a physical thing.  Her normally cool reserve melted almost 
instantly beneath the amiable, penetrating heat of his glance.

He smiled again at her startled reaction and she noticed he was 
still holding her hand with a firm grip.  

Something about his lanky, easy stance reminded her of Mulder.  

Or was it the eyes?  

She didn't know.

But one thing Scully was sure of, Tim Bayliss was very attractive.  
And he seemed to be just as intrigued by *her*.  

She wondered if he was married and looked quickly at his left 
hand, noting the absence of a ring.

Raising her eyes, she saw that he recognized the gesture.  

He winked in response to her discreet inquiry as she felt herself 
blushing all over again. 

Then, at the edges of her concentration, Scully realized her 
partner was already charging ahead with the others on an 
explanation of their presence on the case.  He seemed oblivious 
to the interaction between her and the detective.

"Basically we're here for the same task that you are," Mulder was 
saying.  "To find out who committed these murders and why."

"You think it's a repeater?" Pembleton demanded.

"The nature of the M.O. would suggest that," Mulder answered 
patiently.  "And I think it's obvious now that you've had a second 
killing." 

"You still haven't answered me as to why you two came up here, 
instead of somebody from the local bureau.  Or Quantico," 
Giardello interrupted.

"Scully and I are assigned to a different area.  We investigate X 
Files -- cases that have been designated unsolvable," Mulder said.  
"The reason this investigation was given over to us is because of 
the other killing we mentioned.  It's a file from twenty years ago 
that bears a striking similarity to these slayings."

With that, Bayliss finally drew his eyes from Scully to look over 
at Mulder.  

"Twenty years ago?" he asked.  "What happened?"

"There was a murder in DC with similar defining aspects to what 
you reported from the other night.  In that case, the local police 
had a suspect and he was taken into custody.  But they were never 
able to determine his identity.  Apparently, a witness to the crime 
scene recognized him and tipped off the police, turning him in."  

Mulder paused for a moment, as if wondering exactly how much 
more to reveal to them.  Finally, he seemed to make up his mind, 
saying, "Actually, the man claimed to be the manifestation of a 
centuries-old Egyptian deity -- their version of the god of the 
dead.  Of course, no one put any credence in his claim for obvious 
reasons.  The FBI was called in when the police hit a snag in the 
case."

"What do you mean, a *snag*?" Pembleton asked.

"The DC cops took a break at one point and left the room.  When 
they came back to question him further, they discovered he had 
disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Frank's voice was disbelieving.  "While in 
custody?"

"Yes," Mulder replied.  "From a locked, interior room with no 
windows.  And with two men outside guarding the door.  He was 
never found."

Pembleton looked over at his lieutenant with a slightly 
contemptuous sneer.  

"Is this for real, Gee?"

"You know about as much as I do, Pembleton," Giardello replied 
giving his detective a warning look.  "I don't know about what 
happened twenty years ago, but the bottom line is that according 
to the agent, this was another brutal murder with a  similar M.O.  
And the details of our two cases would suggest that we need to 
close the door on this matter as soon as possible.  Before we have 
another one.  Now I expect you to work with these two agents, 
Frank.  You'll give them all the cooperation they deserve.  Am I 
making myself clear?"

Scully listened to the exchanges in silence, admiring the no-
bullshit tone in the shift-commander's voice and thankful that he, 
at least, was on their side.  Then she heard Mulder say softly:

"I assure you, Detective Pembleton, Agent Scully and I are quite 
serious.  We have a lot of experience in dealing with these types 
of cases.  And your own lieutenant admits this is a rather unusual 
type of situation for you around here."  He stared at the detective, 
ignoring the accusatory look that Pembleton shot at his 
commander. 

Scully took the opportunity to sneak another covert glance in 
Bayliss's direction and she watched as a look of understanding and 
recognition slowly dawned on his face.

"Wait a minute," Bayliss began, looking at Mulder and then over to 
Scully, eyes lingering on her face.  "Agent Scully, are you the ones 
who got Eugene Victor Tooms over in that mall on Exeter?"

Scully nodded, smiling faintly, absurdly pleased that he somehow 
had knowledge of that file.  It seemed like another lifetime to her.  
She and Mulder had only been partners for a couple of months 
then...

The detective snapped his fingers, nodding.  "That's right.  I 
remember now.  You know, I followed that case pretty closely 
when it broke.  It seemed pretty fantastic at the time."

"Excuse me," Pembleton broke in, watching his partner carefully 
and taking in the subtle interaction between him and Scully.  "What 
the hell are you talking about, Tim?"

"Oh, it was a guy.  A serial killer who mutilated his victims.  
Something about ripping out the livers.  Am I right?" he asked.

She nodded again, finally finding her voice.  

"Actually, it was Agent Mulder who caught up with him in the 
mall."

Scully glanced over her shoulder at her partner, wondering if he 
noticed the almost total lack of credit Bayliss was assigning to 
him in the Tooms case.  But Mulder was too busy trying to make 
sure that Pembleton understood what they were there for.

"Getting to my point, Detective Pembleton," Mulder forged on, "I 
think you'll find that Agent Scully and I can assist you a great deal 
with this investigation.  Of course, we don't need your permission 
to pursue this on our own, but it might be helpful if we can work 
together.  The nature of these crimes is savage, to say the least, 
and I'm sure you'd like to prevent any further violence of this 
nature."

"Pembleton?" Giardello asked, raising his eyebrows.  There was an 
underlying note of persuasiveness tempered with steel in his 
voice.

The detective looked at his partner and Scully one last time, then 
over at Mulder, and finally back to the shift commander.

"What ever you say, Gee," he said, throwing up his hands in 
surrender.  "Come on Bayliss, snap out of your daydream.  We 
have work to do."

Pembleton threw open the door to the office, stalking out.

Bayliss gestured for Scully to precede him, quickly stepping in 
behind, between her and Mulder.  She could feel his eyes boring 
into the back of her head and she turned, meeting his bold look 
with a frank gaze of her own.

The four of them gathered in  a loose, uneasy circle next to 
Pembleton's desk.

"So what do you think would be the best way to go about this?" 
Mulder began, staring at the detective.

Good job, Mulder, Scully thought, impressed with his approach.  
He had evidently come to the same conclusion as she had -- 
namely, that it would be better to try and create an alliance with 
Detective Frank Pembleton than to start a war.

She watched as Pembleton gave Mulder a quick glance, realizing 
the detective was equally cognizant of the concession.

He seemed to think a minute before saying, "Tim and I were 
planning to do a canvass of the neighborhood where last night's 
victim was found.  And there's also the autopsy to be checked on 
at the M.E.'s office."

"Well, I'd like to take a look at the crime scene," Mulder said.

Frank turned his back at the words, grabbing a set of keys and a 
small notebook from his desk.  

"Nobody's gonna stand in your way, bunk," he said dismissively, 
clearly indicating that the agents were free to do whatever they 
pleased, so long as it didn't interfere with his investigation.

"Wait a minute," Mulder replied, obviously sensing his already-
limited control over the situation slipping away.  "According to 
the file you sent over, the murder occurred some time around 
midnight?"

"Give or take a few hours, yes."

"The second one, too?"

Frank nodded.

"Then it doesn't do me any good to look at the scene in daylight.  
I'll need to go there after dark."

Pembleton waited, letting a weighty silence swell between all of 
them as he and Mulder engaged in a stare-down.  They were like 
two evenly-matched gladiators, mentally testing each other's 
mettle, each seeing how the other measured up.

Scully finally couldn't stand it.  What she would have liked to have 
done was come to her partner's aid by calling the detective on his 
insufferable attitude with a few well-placed barbs.  But then she 
remembered the shift commander's reference to Skinner.  Their 
boss would be keeping his ear closely to the ground about their 
conduct.  And then there were Giardello's earlier efforts at 
cooperation to consider, as well.

"Detective Pembleton, isn't it possible for Agent Mulder and I to 
assist you in what you have planned for today?"  

Some of the tension subsided at her words, and she heard Tim's 
soft exhalation of relief behind her at the same time as she caught 
Mulder's quick look of thanks.

"Perhaps we can visit the coroner for you.  I do happen to be a 
practicing forensic pathologist."

"Really?" Scully heard Bayliss say and she looked up at his curious 
glance, smiling.

"No, that's ok," Pembleton said as the visual interplay between the 
FBI agent and his partner caught his attention again.  He gave a 
slight, calculating smile, saying,  "Tell you what, I'll take Agent 
Mulder down to Druid Hill, and he can help me knock on doors.  
Bayliss, you take Agent Scully down to see the coroner and we'll 
meet you up at the Waterfront afterward."

Scully figured the offer had less to do with Pembleton trying to 
facilitate all of their working together than with his wanting to 
keep every aspect of the investigation under his control.  At least 
with him and Bayliss separated, he could do that.  Plus keep an eye 
on Mulder.  

It never occurred to her that he might also be trying to 
accommodate his partner somehow.

At that point, Mulder nodded curtly, not saying another word.  
Instead, he turned and headed directly for the door of the squad 
room, before he could see the exchange of looks between 
Pembleton and Bayliss.

"You owe me," Pembleton mouthed to the other detective, over 
Scully's head, as she watched her partner's rapid departure.

Bayliss nodded back, a look of understanding and gratitude on his 
face as Frank turned to follow in Mulder's wake.

He gestured Scully forward, to the side entrance of the squad 
room.

"Agent Scully, if you please?" he said in a teasing voice that 
seemed to reach in and warm her insides.

Scully began walking with him, a smile lighting on her features 
once again.

"So tell me," he went on.  "You know an agent by the name of Steve 
Van Brandt?"

"Maybe," she replied, forehead creasing with concentration.  "I 
think he's taught classes before up at Quantico.  I may have run 
across him there."

"Yeah, he helped us with a thrill killer up here a couple of years 
ago..."

And for a moment, as they walked down to the garage, Scully 
marveled at the ease with which they'd already slipped into a 
comfortable, conversational mode.

Maybe this case wasn't going to be so bad, after all.

*********

Mulder stepped up to the white Cavalier in the growing darkness, 
opening the door and folding his tall, lean frame into the cramped 
front seat.  He blew out his breath softly in weary frustration as 
Pembleton slid into the driver's side next to him.

It had been a fucking waste of an afternoon, he mused darkly.  
Nothing but an endless parade of beat-up rowhouse doors that 
either were never opened, or when they were, revealed a long 
stream of individuals characterized by hostility, stupidity, or 
varying degrees drugged-out lethargy.

He started slightly when Frank turned the key in the ignition, 
bringing the Cavalier's engine purring to life.  

The detective put the car into gear and headed out into the street, 
maintaining a steady silence.

Frowning, Mulder reflected on the fact that the man hadn't said 
more than ten words to him since they left the station house.  
They'd started canvassing together and he'd quickly developed a 
healthy respect for the detective's subtle, disarming approach to 
the neighborhood locals.  But once they left each successive 
dwelling, Pembleton had treated him to a blunt reticence.  
Eventually, he'd volunteered to go knock on doors by himself on 
the pretext of increasing the number of houses they could cover 
between them.  Really, Mulder just wanted to get the hell away 
from the man.  

Now that they were back in the car, Pembleton seemed intent on 
picking up where they'd left off.

Mulder decided it was time to break the silence.  

"Get anything?"  he asked, looking over at the other man's stony 
profile.

"Mmm hmm," Frank replied, keeping his eyes on the road before 
him.

"Good," Mulder forged on.  "Because I didn't get shit.  I think it 
was hard enough for these people to just get over the shock of 
seeing a white man in a suit standing on their front porch."

At that, Pembleton gave a reluctant snort of laughter.  He looked 
over at Mulder with a wry grin on his face, and something that 
looked suspiciously like admiration in his eyes.  

"Don't worry man.  It wasn't too much different for me once they 
saw my badge."

Mulder's lips curved up in response and he turned to look out the 
window at the passing venues.

"I have to admit," Frank went on, "I'm impressed with the fact that 
you were willing to do this at all.  Most white detectives on the 
force wouldn't be goin' door to door by themselves in this 
neighborhood.  Or any detective, for that matter."

"Yeah, well, I've gone up against a lot worse."

Pembleton didn't reply and the uneasy quiet resumed.

"So what did you find out?" Mulder asked after a while, watching 
as the other man glanced into the rear view mirror, apparently 
completely re-absorbed with the task of driving.

"Not much really," the detective said absently.  "A murder like that, 
nobody wants to say much of anything.  If it was just a matter of a 
street shooting of dealer, it might be a different story, but I'm 
inclined to doubt that, too.  Nobody's got nothin' to say to anyone 
in that locale.  Besides, the details of the crime scenes have 
leaked out now.  I'd guess it's got people more...scared...than 
usual."

"Yeah," Mulder interrupted.  "But you said you got something."

"I did.  A name." 

Could he possibly be any more difficult? Mulder asked himself 
when no further elaboration seemed to be forthcoming.  

He cursed inwardly at Pembleton's perversity in making him have 
to work so hard.  The man may have been a competent detective, 
but so far he was turning out to be a six-ply bastard.  For a second, 
he wondered how Scully was coming along with the other guy.  If 
she was having any similar problems.

"And?"  Mulder asked finally, clenching his jaw in a fit of 
impatient anger when, instead of responding, the detective slowly 
pulled the car to the side of the street.

Pembleton yanked the keys from the ignition and turned to the 
FBI agent.  Reading Mulder's frustrated look, he seemed to relent: 

"I found out who his lieutenant was.  A man by the name of Russell 
White.  That won't mean diddly to you.  Vincent Bondurant and 
Stanley Gresham were both corner slingers -- street dealers.  I'm 
not sure if that's the reason why they were killed, but this guy who 
was running them ought to be able to give us some information.  
He may even be the one who ordered the hits.  I have no idea right 
now.  When we pick him up, we'll get more info."

Mulder nodded perfunctorily, an attitude of disagreement growing 
by leaps and bounds with this enterprise.  He had read the file.  
These killings didn't have anything to do with drugs in his 
assessment, but an argument with this opinionated asshole wasn't 
going to get him anywhere.

"Why are we stopping?"

"You wanted to see the crime scene.  In the dark."

Mulder looked over again, surprised that Pembleton would even 
admit to remembering his earlier request.

"There's the lot," the detective jerked his head in the direction of 
the window.  "And it's dark out," he finished, making a show of 
looking up at the sky through the windshield.

"It's barely dark," Mulder muttered.

"Yeah, but the moon was almost full the last couple nights, so our 
killer would have had some light to work with.  Look, do you want 
to get out or not?"

Pembleton's voice was short, clipped, indicating that his capacity 
for accommodation was dwindling by leaps and bounds.

"Fine." 

Mulder pulled open the door and stepped out into the frigid air.  It 
seemed colder than before and he realized the effect was largely 
due to the way the wind swept unfettered through the empty space 
before him.

And it *was* dark, Mulder thought, pulling at the edges of his coat 
and turning to look at the detective, who was standing inside the 
open driver's side door, leaning against the car.

"Flashlight?" Mulder asked.

Frank nodded curtly as he closed the door and moved back to the 
trunk, opening it.

"Jesus," said Mulder, looking in.  "You've got a whole CSU kit in 
there or what?"

"Almost," Frank said, digging around the miscellaneous odds and 
ends of equipment.  Finding a flashlight, he drew it out and slapped 
it into Mulder's waiting hand.

"Any luminol?" Mulder asked, referring to a chemical used to 
detect blood.

"Uh-huh," said Frank, giving him a swift glance.  "Why?"

"Humor me.  Take that UV light, too."

The detective grabbed the things he'd requested and slammed the 
trunk closed, rounding the car and stepping onto the sandy loam of 
the vacant area.

A subtle but defined role reversal had just taken place and Mulder 
sensed the other man knew it.

Pembleton may have been in control when they were standing out 
on porches, knocking on doors, but this eerie, desolate crime 
scene was *his* domain.  

Here, among the chalk lines and spatters of blood...standing in the 
whispering wind amid the shadows and the ghosts...feeling the 
echoes of brutal, wanton violence...

Mulder was the Master of the Universe.

He gave Frank a covert glance, watching the spasmodic tic in the 
man's upper lip and noticing how he clenched and unclenched his 
hand nervously.  

An ex-smoker, he thought, smiling to himself a little.  And only 
recently too, otherwise the man would be puffing away right now 
to offset the tension.  Something about this place apparently 
unnerved the otherwise cool-as-ice detective.

The small change in Pembleton's demeanor would not have been 
evident to the average observer.  But Mulder's uncanny sensitivity 
was on maximum overdrive, fueled by the anticipation of finally 
seeing the remnants of extreme behavior waiting for them.

Turning back to the crime scene, he wondered if working with the 
detective might just be easier than expected, now that he was 
beginning to get a handle on the guy.

Together, they approached the flapping yellow tape still spanning 
the area, crouching to walk beneath it, over to a heavy plastic sheet 
the CSU had anchored down to protect the integrity of the scene.

Mulder flicked on the flashlight and bent to help Pembleton pull 
back the tarp.

He took in the marking on the soil and the hardened splotches 
with a dispassionate gaze. 

There was a lot of blood.  

Turning to the detective, he asked,  "Is this the same way you guys 
found it?"

"Uh-huh," Pembleton replied quietly, staring down at the ground 
with an expressionless cast.

"Does the chalk line around the body look correct?  Was he on his 
side like that?"

"Yes.  The corpse was pulled back in an arc, so that the head was in 
a kind of profile."

Mulder was silent.  

Slowly, he circled the area where the killing was staged, eyes 
taking in every single minute detail.

"What was it like?"

The sharp question sounded like a report in the darkness.

"What was what like?"  Pembleton was clearly caught off-guard.

"The scene.  The body.  What were your impressions?"

"It looked to me like the guy was a fucking pez dispenser, the way 
his throat was cut," Pembleton said with some irritation.  He 
paused then, reflecting for a moment.  

"Actually, my first thought was that whoever did it went to a whole 
lot of trouble just to kill a street dealer."

"Not if the act itself had meaning," Mulder said softly, shooting 
the detective a look.  "And it must have, for this level of overkill.  
The scene last night was the same?"

Pembleton nodded.

Mulder stepped over to the outline of the body suddenly, startling 
Frank as he pressed the flashlight against his chest.  "Hold this."

The detective grasped the light, shining it over the FBI agent as he 
lowered himself to the ground, lying on his side, approximately 
where the victim had been found.

"What did you feel when you saw him?  Bondurant, I mean?"

Mulder's face pressed into the cold, pebbly surface of the earth, 
and when Pembleton spoke, he could hear a faint, almost 
imperceptible roughness in the detective's voice.  

"Man, what the fuck are you doing down there?"

"Just...answer the question."

"It felt like about a dozen other murders that I've investigated over 
the last six months."

No it didn't, Mulder thought.

"Bayliss was the one who had the creeps.  I had a hard enough time 
keeping him in line."

"Did he say what was bothering him?"

Frank blew out his breath in exasperation.  "He said it was 
something in the air."  He made a movement as if to turn away, but 
paused, fascinated with the FBI agent's behavior in spite of 
himself.

"Who found the scarab in Bondurant's mouth?"

"It was Bayliss," Frank admitted, stepping back a fraction, letting 
the flashlight bob.

"Move over and stand right there," Mulder pointed at place just 
across from his feet.

Pembleton did as he asked, shaking his head and watching with a 
wary expression.

Mulder closed his eyes, picturing in his mind what the scene 
would have looked like.  

The victim had not been conscious.  At least not right away.  But 
he had the sudden unshakable feeling that the killer had made 
absolutely certain that Vincent Bondurant knew exactly what was 
going on when his heart was cut out.

Blinking, Mulder looked along the path of the ground, directly 
along the line of sight that the corpse would have had.

At the wall of the derelict rowhouse.  Covered with an 
incomprehensible pattern of graffiti.  

Or was it?

Mulder suddenly shifted and stood as Pembleton quickly moved 
back, almost dropping the flashlight.

Striding over to the wall, Mulder motioned for the other man to 
follow.  He paused before the markings, reaching out a hand to 
sweep it over the patterns that marked the bricks.

"Give me the light."

Frank handed it over, watching as the agent moved his face almost 
against the wall, searching.

"What is it?" the detective asked.

Mulder frowned with deliberation, ignoring the question as he 
stepped back.

"The luminol."

He took the bottle that Pembleton held out, squeezing some of the 
liquid onto a swab and rubbing it against the wall, watching as the 
chemical reacted, changing color.

"I'll be a motherfucker," the detective said in a low voice, 
recognizing the indicator.

"There's something else on the wall," Mulder looked at him, 
gnawing on his lower lip and thinking.  "Apparently written in 
blood."

"Fucking CSU must have missed it.  Son of a bitch."

"Well, it'd be easy to," Mulder said, unexpectedly having no desire 
to beat the man up over it.  There were other, more urgent matters 
to attend to.  Like trying to determine exactly what all of these 
disparate details at the scene actually meant.  

"The paint and other markings make it almost impossible to see," 
he continued.  "And there's no secondary indicators along the 
ground, either.  No spattering; no sign of blood anywhere."

"Son of a bitch," Frank repeated darkly.  "We should have caught 
this.  Somebody's head is gonna roll."

"Wait a minute," Mulder held up a hand.  "We don't know that this 
has anything to do with the murder."

"Bullshit.  I can see clearly that you think it does.  And so do I."  
Pembleton caught Mulder's eye, holding his intent stare.

"Where's that UV lamp?" Mulder asked then, stepping backward to 
get a better view of the entire wall.

The detective strode back to the tarp and chalk drawing, picking up 
what looked like a lantern with a long slim fluorescent-type bulb.  
He fumbled on the switch as he approached Mulder again, 
stopping slightly behind him and shining the eerie blue ultra-violet 
beam against the wall.

Both men gasped as the blood pattern was illuminated, standing 
out against the other spray-painted scrawls.

It was an eye -- about three feet wide, shining out against the wall 
like a beacon.  In the wavering, limited beam of the UV, the image 
seemed to wink at them malevolently.

Mulder closed his eyes, realizing that this was probably the last 
thing that young Vincent Bondurant had ever seen, and feeling the 
youth's desperation spread through him like poison.

"More fucking show and tell," he heard Pembleton say under his 
breath. 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean more symbols," the detective grated.  "And none of them 
make any fucking sense."

He gestured toward the ankh on the ground.

"He killed a boy -- a child.  Ripped his fucking heart out *while he 
was still alive* and then laid him out on top of the symbol for 
life?  What the fuck is that supposed to mean?  And that eye.  I've 
seen it before."

"Where?"

Pembleton didn't answer and Mulder decided he was too tired at 
this point to continue playing games.

Shrugging, he let the sensations in his head and his body bleed 
back into the night air, focusing back on the scene.  

Then, he eyed the detective thoughtfully.  "You knew what that 
was," he said, pointing to the ground.

"Don't sound so surprised, Agent Mulder," Pembleton said 
witheringly.  "Chalk it up to the benefits of a classical education."  
He stood still for another minute, as if making up his mind about 
something.  "I'm going back to the car and get some swabs so we 
can have the lab take a look at that blood.  Then I'm getting on the 
radio and call the CSU and tell them to get their damn selves down 
here."

The detective walked off, still cursing quietly to himself and 
Mulder stared after him for a moment.  Then, he reached down to 
grab the flashlight from the ground and swept it in an arc along the 
area beneath the wall.

Debris lined the seam where the earth met the bricks and Mulder 
let his eyes skip over the broken glass and scattered weeds until 
they came to rest on a flash of white about five feet away.  He 
stepped over to it quickly, squatting down to take a closer look. 

It was a piece of paper.  A fragment of some kind.  The only thing 
keeping it from being swept away was the fact that it had been 
stepped on, part of it being ground beneath a rock.

He heard Pembleton's noisy approach and looked up, over his 
shoulder.  "Got an extra glove, detective?" he asked.

"Now what?" Pembleton said as he bent down, handing one over.

Mulder snapped on the latex glove and reached out, grasping the 
piece of paper to hold it in the beam of the flashlight.

"It looks like a part of a pawn shop receipt.  I can't see what it's 
for, but there's an address..." his voice trailed off.

"713 Fayette," Frank said out loud for him.  "Could mean anything.  
Or nothing for that matter."

Mulder nodded, feeling an odd sensation at the back of his neck, a 
twitching at the edges of his consciousness.  It *could* mean 
anything, he thought, but he had a strong impression the he, or 
somebody else had been meant to find it.

Pembleton handed him a clear plastic bag and Mulder placed the 
paper inside, sliding it into his pocket.

"Look, it's getting late," the detective began, glancing at his watch.  
"We should get on over to the Waterfront and meet up with your 
partner and Bayliss.  Right now, I want to find out what they got 
from the Medical Examiner and then get myself home to my wife 
and family for a few hours before we pick this thing up again."

Mulder nodded slightly.  Now that he had seen what the crime 
scene had to offer, there was plenty of work to do in other, less 
conventional, areas of investigation.  He collected up the 
flashlight and other equipment and followed Pembleton back to 
the street.

Reaching the car, Mulder paused and looked back in the direction 
of the taped off area, wincing as a profusion of disturbing thoughts 
collected into his mind.

Vincent Bondurant had been the victim of something.  Something 
intent on speaking to them through the extreme manner of the 
killing and the esoteric symbols left behind.

He knew they had better figure out what it all meant before the 
next one.  Because there would be another.  Mulder was certain of 
it.  He thought about the X File on the twenty-year old mystery 
killer who had somehow disappeared; of who and what that man 
had claimed himself to be.  And what might now be responsible 
for this latest slaughter.

The God of the Dead.  It had come in judgment, granting eternal 
life with the placing of the Scarabaeus on the body.

Why it chose to manifest itself now, Mulder had no idea, but he 
was sure of one thing:

The spirit was hungry.

He could feel it.

*********

They pulled up before the imposing structure of headquarters, 
driving into the garage that spanned the lower level of the building.  
The journey back had been spent in complete silence as both men 
pondered the implications of what they had found.

And Mulder also took a few minutes to wonder what Scully had 
been up to; what they had found out at the Medical Examiner's.  He 
was used to them splitting up on investigations, but it wasn't often 
that they paired up with other individuals.  For her sake, he hoped 
she'd had an easier time working with Pembleton's partner than 
he'd had with Pembleton.

Frank parked the car as Mulder looked over at him inquiringly.  
"Where did you say we were meeting them?"

"At the Waterfront.  That's Bayliss's bar."

"He *owns* it?"

"Yeah.  Him and two other guys on the squad -- John Munch and 
Meldrick Lewis."

Oh no, Mulder groaned inwardly as they got out of the car and 
exited the garage with quick, determined strides.  Not Munch 
again.  Blowing out his breath in frustration, he followed 
Pembleton across the street, pausing before the entrance to a 
crowded bar.  Loud, rowdy sounds seeped out into the night air, 
surrounding them.

"Shift got off at six o'clock, and Neal's squad came on for a 
double, so the boys'll be partying it up tonight," Pembleton 
remarked, opening the door.

They entered the hot, smoky room, pushing their way past a crowd 
of laughing, drinking detectives to the brass-railinged bar that 
lined the right side.  Noise crashed down from the tin ceiling, 
composed of various shouts, loud music and the steady drone of 
voices from the multitude of people filling the establishment.

Mulder spied Munch behind the bar, dressed all in black, and 
seemingly engrossed in conversation with a female customer until 
he looked up and caught Frank's eye.  

At that moment, there was a burst of clapping and cheering from 
the rear of the room and Mulder stretched his neck, looking to see 
what was going on.  Unfortunately, with the mass of humanity 
standing back there, he couldn't make out a thing.

"Hey Frank.  Agent Mulder," he heard Munch say, as he turned his 
attention back to the bar.  "They're over by the pool tables."

Pembleton obviously knew what Munch was talking about, for he 
didn't reply, just began making his way through the mob to the 
rear.

"By the way,  Agent Mulder," Munch's voice took on a sly, 
conniving tone as he flipped his eyebrows up.  "Bayliss and your 
partner seem to be getting along rather...well."  And he cocked his 
head over in the direction where Pembleton was headed.

Mulder stared at Munch for a split second, trying to make sense 
of  what the man was saying, and then he finally pulled back to 
follow the other detective.

There was another rumble from the crowd ahead and Mulder 
suddenly found himself at the base of a few steps.  He quickly 
moved up to stand next to Pembleton.

Somebody was playing nine-ball, he thought distractedly, spying 
two black detectives, a man and woman, holding cues and leaning 
against one of the walls.  The man had his arm around the woman's 
shoulders and their attention seemed to be focused on another 
couple at the opposite side of the pool table.

"Yo Timmy!  Your turn, huh?"  the man shouted in a light baritone 
voice.

"Sure Meldrick.  Dana and I'll take you two."

Dana?? Mulder thought with a confused sense of surprise as he 
peered over Frank's shoulder to spy Bayliss standing next to 
Scully.  She was perched on a high stool with her legs crossed and 
a bigger smile on her face than he'd seen in a long time.  A *very* 
long time.

Mulder watched as the man named Meldrick racked the cue balls 
into the customary diamond pattern, and then he shifted his eyes 
back over to Bayliss and his partner.

Tim was sliding his hand along her elbow, helping her off the stool 
and handing her the cue.  As they walked to the edge of the table, 
he leaned over, speaking into her ear.

Scully cocked her head to one side, listening intently.  

"Hey, hey, hey, Bayliss," Mulder heard Meldrick holler.  "No givin' 
up trade secrets!"

Bayliss looked over at the other detective with a twist of his lips.  
"Just you wait and see, huh, Lewis?"

Scully took that as her signal to bend over the pool table, resting 
the cue lightly in her hands and squinting speculatively at the 
multi-colored balls before her.

Then, Bayliss moved in behind her, placing his hands on her hips, 
moving her position slightly.  He leaned over her, in a smooth 
invasion of her space, one arm resting over hers on the cue and 
whispering in her ear again.

Fuck.

Mulder drew in his breath sharply as Scully glanced over her 
shoulder at the detective with a mischievous, inviting glance and a 
coy smile on her face.  He couldn't ever recall seeing *that* look 
on her face before, either.  Now he understood what Munch had 
meant when they walked in the bar.

"Go get 'em, Dana!" Bayliss said loudly, clapping his hands 
together.  "Remember what I said -- on the break," he winked at 
Scully.

Somebody jostled Mulder then, and he glanced to one side, seeing 
Pembleton watching him speculatively. 

The sudden **crack** of cue balls hitting each other rang out and 
Mulder looked back to the pool table just in time to see the 
yellow-striped nine ball roll into a side pocket.  Scully had 
knocked it on the break.

She let out a loud whoop and spun, falling into Bayliss's embrace, 
laughing and pulling him close, now that they'd won the game 
before it had ever really begun.

"I told you," Bayliss laughed, amid groans from Lewis and the 
others.

Fuck, Mulder thought again.

Anger tightened at his temples and an icy cold feeling began to 
pool in his gut.  Nice fucking display, Scully.  We're supposed to 
be on a fucking case here.  He closed his eyes for a brief second.  

That's right, Mulder, he told himself.  Just keep reminding 
yourself that this is all about the *case*.  Not the fact that this 
slick homicide detective just had his fucking hands all over your 
partner.  The thought hit him from nowhere, and he ruthlessly 
pushed it aside.  He didn't have time for this fucking nonsense.  
And neither did Scully.  Not that she seemed to notice...

Mulder snapped his eyes open, watching her step back with Tim's 
arm still draped casually across her shoulders.  And then, through 
the black mist that clouded his gaze, he saw her turn in his 
direction to meet his eyes.

Scully's wide smile disappeared in a heartbeat when she spotted 
him and she sobered immediately, moving away from Bayliss and 
handing the cue off to somebody else.

The other man noted her sudden change in attitude and followed 
her glance until he too noticed her partner with Frank.

The two of them abruptly made their farewells to Meldrick and the 
others, and began easing their way over to where Pembleton and 
Mulder waited.

*********

Scully turned, laughing, and saw Mulder standing at the top of the 
stairs.  He was watching her with a cool expression but she 
couldn't mistake the dark glitter of anger sparking in his eyes.

Damn it.

She dropped her gaze for an instant, smile fading.  

He was pissed.  She could tell.  And for what?  Because she'd been 
having a good time?  No.  Because they were on a case and she 
wasn't giving it 100 percent attention, all the time.  Like it 
would've been better for her and Tim to camp out at the front 
doorstep, waiting for him to show up with Pembleton.

The four of them made their way over to a table tucked in one of 
the back corners where it was quieter.   Scully sat down, giving 
Mulder a sidelong glance as he cut Tim off to settle into the seat 
next to her.

The other two men lowered themselves into the remaining chairs 
as Mulder asked abruptly, "So what did you find out at the Medical 
Examiner?"  

"Not very much, actually," Scully said, trying to think of a way to 
tone down the uneasy tension once again thickening the air around 
them.  "Tim has the report."

Mulder looked across at the other man as he flipped a folder on 
the table, sliding it across to Scully.

She could feel her partner's growing agitation next to her, like 
white noise in her ears.  It distracted her, causing her words to 
spill out in a uneasy rush.

"Dr. Cox's preliminary finding was right.  Death *was* caused by 
the removal of the heart.  There was an antemortem wound that 
consisted of a blow to the back of the head by a blunt object, like a 
piece of pipe, and a postmortem slash to the throat.  Other than 
that, the body showed remarkably little other signs of violence.  
Considering the level of brutality in this killing, I find that a little 
bit strange.  What's also interesting is the choice of murder 
weapon."

"Well, what was it?" asked Mulder.

"It appears to have been a very large, sharp instrument.  Probably 
some type of hunting knife -- at least a foot in length with a 
curving edge.  Very sharp, but the cuts were ragged, indicating a 
serrated blade."

Pembleton broke in then, saying, "Anything come up in the tox 
screen?" 

Scully pursed her lips in reply.  "Not really.  Some trace amounts 
of cocaine and marijuana.  I'm afraid there just isn't that much to 
go on.  And judging from what I can see of the rest of the file, 
there was very little forensic evidence either.  No hair or fiber.  
No prints.  No murder weapon.  The powder used to etch the 
diagram of the ankh on the ground was nothing more than dried 
tempera paint.  The same stuff kids use in a school craft class.  It 
can be bought in any art supply store.  As to the ritualistic nature 
of the staging, I'd have to guess that the killer is obsessed 
somehow with early Heliopolan mythology."

"I'm beginning to wonder if all the symbolism and mutilation were 
used for nothing more than to throw us off the real motive for this 
murder," Bayliss interjected quietly.  "It almost seems excessive 
to me."

Scully gave Tim a thoughtful glance, followed by a brief nod of 
consideration.  Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced over at 
Mulder to see his reaction.  Not surprisingly, he was regarding the 
detective with a look of barely-concealed disagreement.  Then he 
shook his head and glanced away dismissively, obviously at odds 
with the analysis.

Unaccountably, she felt her anger ignite.  Whatever Mulder's 
problem was, he ought to snap out of it.  They were here to work 
*with* these men and she had done just that, all day.  He ought to 
be putting forth a similar effort, instead of lapsing into the aloof, 
Special Agent-mode. 

"What about you two?" she asked, in a subtle effort to downplay 
Mulder's rudeness.  Looking across at Pembleton, she remarked, 
"It certainly took you long enough to get back.  Did you find out 
anything?"

"Yeah," the detective replied.  "A name.  Russell White."

"Wait," Bayliss interrupted, looking at his partner in surprise.  
"You mean one of Mahoney's old lieutenants?"

"Yep."

"Christ," Bayliss said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as the 
implications dawned on him.  Seeing Scully's confused look, he 
explained, "Luther Mahoney was a big-time heroin dealer who was 
killed in a police-involved shooting last year.  His death left a 
pretty substantial void in the hierarchy of organized drug-
trafficking in the city.  We've been dealing with the fallout and the 
turf wars ever since."

"Anyway," Pembleton continued, "It seems that Stanley Gresham 
was working for White.  And probably Bondurant was, too.  We're 
going to have to get down to Narcotics and talk to one of their 
detectives for this one.  I haven't been keeping up to speed on 
who's doing what to who on the corners of West Baltimore lately."

"So do you think White has thoughts of ascending to the Mahoney 
throne?" Bayliss said.

"Not at all.  He's strictly small-time.  A follower, not a leader.  
According to the witness I talked to, White is working for 
somebody else.  Somebody who's trying to consolidate his own 
empire on Luther's old turf.  And apparently they're using some 
new type of heroin to do it.  From what I was told, it's all the rage 
on the street.  All of this started after we put Georgia Rae away 
the last time."

Bayliss looked over at Scully again, saying, "Luther's sister."

"You want to know what's really interesting in all this?"  Frank 
asked.

Bayliss inclined his head, waiting.

"Remember Luther's old trademark?"

"Yeah.  The double-star packages."

"Well, they've been replaced by these," Frank said, holding out a 
small, glassine bag, similar to the type used by street dealers in 
the heroin trade.

It had a small stylized eye etched on it in gold.

"Fuck," Bayliss muttered.  "So you think this is a narco-killing."

At that, Scully heard Mulder exhale with a tense, aggravated 
gesture, ready to break his silence.  

"We can't be sure about that."
 
Pembleton turned to him impatiently.  "Listen, Agent Mulder, you 
may be a smart son of a bitch, and I respect your willingness to get 
down to the nitty gritty in this investigation.  But pardon me for 
saying that our current information makes it seem more 
reasonable that this is some type of squabble brought on by the 
mundane world of narcotics trafficking, rather than a 
manifestation of a centuries-old Egyptian spirit."

"Maybe so, detective.  But how else do you account for the 
symbolic nature of the crime and the marking we found on the 
wall at the scene?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bayliss interrupted.  "You guys went to the 
crime scene?"

"Yes," said Mulder.  "And we found a drawing on the wall.  In 
blood.  An eye -- just like the one on that bag."

"Another symbol.  Like the ankh and the scarab," Scully remarked 
thoughtfully.

"Look, all of this is just smoke," Pembleton broke in.  "I say we 
find Russell White tomorrow and bring him in for questioning.  
We obviously don't have enough at this point for a charge, let 
alone an arrest, but maybe he'll have something to say once we get 
him in the box."

The four of them lapsed into silence, each looking at the other 
thoughtfully.

Finally, Mulder said, "All right, detective.  What time would you 
like Agent Scully and I to meet you?"

"Eight o'clock.  In the squad room."

"Ok," Mulder said, rising and sliding a hand beneath Scully's elbow 
as she followed him.  "We'll see you in the morning."

The agents turned and began making their way through the crowd, 
heading for the exit.

"Goodnight, Agent Scully," she heard Bayliss call over the noise 
surrounding them.  

Turning, Scully met the glint in his eyes and smiled, giving a brief 
bob of her head.  Then, sighing, she followed after Mulder's 
determined exit.

*********

They were sitting in the Bureau-issue sedan just outside the doors 
to their rooms at the local Baltimore Stay and Save.

"So how *was* your day, Mulder?" Scully began as he turned off 
the engine, pocketing the keys.

"I've had worse, I guess," he replied wearily, looking at her.  
Mulder hated to admit it, but it made him feel better somehow that 
she cared enough to ask.  The incident in the bar had disturbed him 
more than he cared to think about.  But she seemed to be her old 
self, now that they were alone with each other, discussing the 
case, back on familiar territory.  Rubbing his temple distractedly, 
he continued speaking.

"Pembleton's a difficult man to work with, but he seems to know 
the job.  I just think they're wrong with the direction they want to 
pursue with this thing.  These murders don't have anything to do 
with drugs."

"You going to tell me what you think it is?"

"I'm not sure yet.  There's some reading I need to do and I'll 
probably have to spend some time tomorrow with research.  That 
scarabaeus is the key.   And so is the way each of these boys was 
murdered."

Scully stared at his tired, wan profile for a few moments.  As 
always, she seemed to understand that the violence and brutality 
were having a worse effect on him than they were for her.  It was 
Mulder's nature to get caught up in these cases; to push himself 
relentlessly until the truth was revealed.

"Promise me you'll try to get *some* sleep tonight?"

He smiled at her concerned expression and nodded.  "Whatever 
you say, Doctor Scully.  Oh, by the way," he went on offhandedly 
as she opened the car door.  "How did your day go with Detective 
Bayliss?"

Scully paused and he knew at once that she wasn't fooled in the 
least by his deliberately casual demeanor.  

"It was good," she said.  "I get the impression he's a lot more laid-
back than his partner.  A fun guy to work with.  Knowledgeable.  
He knew all the right questions to ask at the coroner's."  

She watched Mulder's face as she spoke, and he struggled to 
ensure his expression didn't change one bit throughout her 
monologue.  

"You sure shut down his theory at the bar.  What's your problem 
with him on this case, anyway, Mulder?"  

"Chemistry," he said tersely.  Then, without another word, Mulder 
exited the car, heading for the door to his room.

"Good night, Mulder," she called, waiting till he glanced over his 
shoulder, meeting her eyes and giving her an expression of 
acknowledgment.  Then he entered the waiting darkness, closing 
the door softly behind him.

*********

>The next day
>7:30AM   

"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" 

The tone in Scully's voice was accusatory as the two agents walked 
toward their car, on their way to meet the two homicide 
detectives.

"Actually, I *did* get a couple of hours," Mulder said, his breath 
misting lightly in the brisk morning air.  "But I spent most of the 
night reading this."  He held out a hardbound text that he'd brought 
up from D.C., pressing it into her chilled fingers.  "The Book of 
the Dead," he explained when she shot him a questioning glance.  
"Fascinating stuff.  I won't tell you how it ends up."

"You were reading *this* all night long?" Scully repeated 
doubtfully, flipping through the pages as they got into the car.

"Yep.  Look at the chapter I marked on page 308.  The one that 
refers to Anubis -- the Egyptian version of the god of the dead."

She stared at him briefly as he started the car, then opened the 
book and began reciting from the marked passages:

"It is the duty of Anubis to test the tongue of the great balance, 
ensuring that the beam is exactly horizontal between the heart of 
the deceased and the feather of truth.  Anubis also produces the 
heart of the deceased for judgment and guides the souls of the 
dead throughout the underworld."  

Scully stopped and looked out the window, digesting the 
implications of what he had found.  It seemed they now had a 
possible explanation as to why the victims' hearts had been carved 
out.  Glancing back at the book, she indicated one of the 
illustrations and said, "I don't think I'd be bringing this guy home to 
mom."

Mulder laughed quietly as he saw what she was pointing at.  It was 
a drawing of Anubis.  The god was pictured as having a hulking 
male physique -- one hand clasping a staff, the other an ankh.  It's 
figure was set off with the snarling head of a jackal placed 
squarely on its shoulders.  "What's the matter Scully?  The fact 
that he has a such a 'hangdog' expression on his face turns you off?  
I never dreamed you would be so superficial."

"Seriously, Mulder," she replied, lips curving slightly at his glib 
remark.  "You don't really think these murders are the result of 
this spirit somehow returning to the physical world to wreak 
havoc on unsuspecting drug dealers...do you?"

Mulder looked at her for a second before returning his eyes to the 
road, a somber expression back on his features.  "Possession 
comes in many forms, Scully.  You and I have seen it in past cases.  
Who's to say it's not responsible for what's going on here in 
Baltimore?"

"Oh come on, Mulder," Scully said sharply.  "It's never been 
definitive in any of the files we've worked on.  And don't you think 
a simpler explanation might be in the profession these boys had?  I 
mean, drug dealing isn't exactly known for it's safety record on the 
job."

He sighed in exasperation at her words, knowing what she said 
made sense to a degree.  It always did.  To a degree.  But Scully 
was also fully aware that her explanation still didn't address the 
more bizarre elements of the crime. 

And Mulder knew it as well.

"Why would somebody go to all the trouble of staging those 
homicides so carefully if it were just a matter of a falling out in 
somebody's narcotics operation?  Why is there a near total lack of 
forensic evidence?  And why was the heart specifically removed?"

She frowned, not having an answer to his probing questions.

"More importantly," he continued when she didn't respond, "how 
do we account for that suspect's disappearance twenty years ago 
after he supposedly committed exactly the same type of crime?"

By now, they had reached the brick structure of police 
headquarters and Mulder pulled into a space, turning to look at 
her.

"Look, if you want to believe in this theory about the two boys 
being victims of some drug-related disagreement, that's fine.  But 
I think there's a strong indication of something else here."

Scully stared at him, thinking of all the other times he'd had that 
type of suspicion and it led them straight to the dark side of the 
moon.  "Mulder, I understand what you're saying, but this is 
homicide's case.  I think, if nothing else, we need to give them the 
benefit of the doubt and follow their lead on this one."

Mulder digested her words carefully, pondering for a moment.  
"Tell you what," he began.  "You go ahead and assist the detectives 
today with their plan.  Talk to this Russell White.  See what he has 
to say.  I'm going to do some research on this material and track 
down somebody I know who may be able to answer a few 
questions as to why these specific symbols were displayed so 
prominently.  When I have something, I'll meet up with you here, 
ok?"

"Are you sure that's how you want to handle this?" she asked, 
wrinkling her brow and holding his gaze until he gave her a slight 
nod.  

"Well, ok, I guess," she said, handing him the book back and 
touching his hand lightly.  "I'll see you later." 

Scully exited the car, closing the door and waiting at the curb as 
he pulled away.

Then, with a steadfast air, she turned and headed up the steps into 
the waiting entrance before her.

*********

Russell White was a study in plausible deniability.

Scully crossed her arms and leaned lightly against the wall of the 
observation room, staring through the one-way glass at the drama 
unfolding before her.

They had been at it for over five hours.  Frank and Tim and Russell 
White -- drug-dealing middleman extraordinaire.  It had actually 
taken them some time to pick the little bastard up, she mused, 
thinking back to her scenic tour of the drug dens and various 
hideouts buried in the depths of West Baltimore.  In the end, 
they'd found him in the most obvious place -- the one that they'd 
considered the least likely.  

His home.

Exhaling softly, Scully thought of the expression on his wife's 
face when the woman had opened the door to confront the flash of 
Pembleton's badge and the fierce, angry glitter in his eyes.  And 
then there was sight of the children, a boy and a girl, as the three 
of them, Scully and the two detectives, had crowded into the 
unassuming living room to confront their quarry.

White had agreed to accompany them downtown with a minimum 
of protest.  In return, they'd escorted him with a modicum of 
consideration.  

Once they'd reached the unit back at headquarters, the two 
detectives had led him to a small interview room in the back 
corner.  In homicide parlance, the place was known simply as "the 
box." 

Soundproof, with walls composed of drab, yellow cinderblocks, it 
contained nothing more than some beat-up metal chairs and a 
couple of tables.  A tired, desperate aura permeated the air, 
echoing off the unadorned walls and one large pane of one-way 
mirrored glass lining the back confines of the enclosed space. 

Scully squinted through that glass from the other side now, 
watching the calm, cool, collected presence of the suspect.  He 
sat facing her, about twenty feet away, while Detectives Bayliss 
and Pembleton paced endlessly around the room, peppering him 
with questions.

And he didn't know nothing.

Nothing about drugs, nothing about turf wars.  Nothing about 
either of the two boys on his crew carved up to shreds in the 
middle of West Baltimore on a desolate winter night.

Pembleton and Bayliss had done their ruthless best throughout the 
interview:  alternately standing and sitting before him.  Moving 
about the box in a flurry of speed, and pausing abruptly to stand 
still.  Speaking to him from ten feet away, and then leaning over to 
whisper in his ear.  

Appealing to his sense of vanity, his sense of fear, his sense of 
criminal stupidity.  

Each time they'd gotten nowhere.

He didn't know nothing.

Did he deal in heroin?

Well...he conducted...transactions, Russell had said.  Something to 
the effect of his being an independent businessman.  

Should they throw his ass over to narcotics to be charged?

They couldn't prove anything, he'd declared.  He knew that.  White 
was smart enough never to get his hands dirty. At least, not in a 
manner that would bring him to the attention of the cops.  That was 
something Luther Mahoney had taught him.  Business was 
business -- to be conducted in a quiet, unassuming way.  Turn a 
profit and don't make waves.  After all, Russell had a wife and 
family to think about.

Was he bothered by the fact that two of the crew had been put 
down?  

Not really.  There were plenty more entrepreneurs where they 
came from.  Slingers were a dime a dozen, and those two were 
easily replaceable.  Besides, Russell didn't know from anything 
about these murders, so why should he let himself be bothered?

At that, Scully had ached to storm through the wall, into the box 
and slap some sense into the guy herself.  Some respect.  It was a 
tough thing to be reminded of, she knew, but the value of human 
lives outside their own narrow spheres of interest meant very 
little to people like Russell White.

Unfortunately that didn't make him guilty.  At least not of the 
murders of Bondurant and Gresham.  But somebody was.  And she, 
like the detectives, suspected White knew more than he was 
saying.

Then the tone of the interview changed slightly as Frank and Tim 
attempted to build on their suspect's indifference to Bondurant's 
and Gresham's deaths.

Was he happy to see them go?  Had they been cheating the 
organization?  Keeping too much of the product or the money for 
themselves?  

Those were motives the detectives believed were really behind 
these killings.  

Just the same old story on a different day.  At least a dozen other 
homicides occurred every year in the city for exactly the same 
reasons.

Russell said no.  Gresham and Bondurant were as straight on the 
deal as any lieutenant could reasonably expect.  He'd had no 
problems with them.  No complaints.  Shit, the way the new stuff 
was selling, the dealers could have spat in the face of every buyer 
that approached them and they'd still come away from the 
transaction with an expression of gratitude.

With that, Pembleton and Bayliss changed tactics again, trying to 
get White to elaborate on the new heroin source and the man 
behind the enterprise.  But on that score, the dealer refused to say 
anything at all.  

It was to be expected.  Junkyard dogs learned quickly not to bite 
the hand that fed them, even when they were downtown getting 
sweated by a couple of cops on a double-murder charge.

So here they were, five hours and a lot of worthless conversation 
later.  And the detectives still had nothing more than when they'd 
started.

Scully had alternately paced the adjoining room and stood still, 
observing.  The shift commander, Lieutenant Giardello, had kept 
her company occasionally, whenever he'd found the time to make 
his way back for an update.  

He was with her now, standing silently, dark eyes boring through 
the glass, as though he were willing White to say something, 
anything useful.  

"It's getting on time to wrap this charade up," Giardello finally 
rasped, looking over at Scully as she pinched the bridge of her 
nose and pressed her lips together in a frustrated pout.  "Five 
hours and nothing.  If we haven't gotten it by now, we aren't going 
to.  Not without at least enough to arrest the son of a bitch."

"I hate to admit it, but I agree, Lieutenant," she said quietly, 
looking up at him with an angry expression.  "They just can't seem 
to find a way to break the guy open.  Maybe he really is telling the 
truth."

Giardello snorted at that last comment, meeting her tired blue 
gaze.  "I don't believe that for a second, Agent Scully.  And neither 
do you.  He may not have ordered the murders, but he probably 
knows who did, or why.  Secrets like that don't last very long out 
on the street."  

Scully nodded, letting her mind wander back to Mulder and what 
he was doing.  Probably sitting at some library table.  Surrounded 
by musty texts, crumpled papers and fast asleep with his head 
resting on his forearms.  Smiling to herself, she savored the image 
for a few precious seconds.

Then, as if cued by her thoughts, the door behind them suddenly 
banged open.

Warmth flooded through her at the sight of her disheveled partner 
sweeping into the room.  

"Hey, Mulder.  Long time, no see," she said.

He nodded slightly, glancing first at her, then at the lieutenant as 
he quickly moved forward to stare with them into the brightly lit 
interrogation room.

"Find anything out?" she asked, watching the familiar, intricate 
process of Mulder mentally absorbing all the details of the 
scenario before him.

"A lot, actually," he remarked absently.  "How long have they been 
at it?"

"Over five hours now.  It took us the better part of the morning 
just to track this guy down and bring him in.  A lot of work for 
nothing, it would seem.  He's refused to tell us anything beyond 
the basic details of his relationship with the victims, and we 
already knew about that."  Scully paused, giving a brief nod in 
Giardello's direction.  "The lieutenant was just getting ready to cut 
him loose,"

"Is that right, sir?" Mulder asked, turning his attention to the other 
man.

"Yes."  Giardello stared at him.

"Well, why don't you give me a few minutes in there?  I'd like to 
see what I can find out."

The shift commander's gaze turned speculative, a smile of wry 
amusement playing across his tense features. 

"By all means, Agent Mulder, see what you can do.  We certainly 
have nothing to lose at this point."

Scully smiled to herself as Mulder gathered up a stack of photos 
he'd brought with him into the room and moved purposefully out 
the door.

For Russell White, she knew it was only just beginning...

*********

He stepped into the box, listening as Frank did his best to 
browbeat White into admitting some knowledge of the manner in 
which the murdered boys had been found.  Silently, Mulder 
crossed to the table standing against the wall opposite the door 
and set down the photos before pulling a chair over.  Then, he sat 
down with a casual sprawl, looking at the dealer though hooded 
eyes.

Pembleton ignored his entrance, continuing to talk loudly in 
White's ears, even as the suspect's attention became focused on 
the movements of the FBI agent across the room.

Suddenly, the detective stopped speaking in mid-sentence, 
straightening and walking over to stand next to Bayliss, who was 
seated on the other side of the table, opposite White.  A weighty 
silence grew, as all three men seemed to ponder the possibilities 
of this new, unknown player.

"Let's take it from the top, Russell," Pembleton began again, after 
a few minutes.  "You didn't order the hit on these boys, you don't 
know why anyone would, and you don't really know anything about 
them at all, other than that they were card-carrying members of 
your crew, is that right?"

White nodded, still looking across the room at Mulder.

"In fact," Pembleton said, derision inserting itself in his words, 
"You don't know *anything*, do you, Russell?"

The dealer finally turned away from Mulder's stare and looked up 
at the detective defiantly.  

"I told you everything I *know*.  I ain't got nothin' else to say."

With that, Bayliss stood, obviously disgusted with the whole 
process.  

"I'm going out to get some air," he announced, moving back toward 
the doorway.

"Man, I'm about ready to go with you," White rejoined.  "Are you 
people goin' to charge me here, or what?"  

For an uneasy second, his eyes skipped back over Mulder's silent 
form, still seated across the room from him, motionless as a 
stone monolith.

Without another word, Bayliss left the room, closing the door 
behind him just as Frank moved to sit down slowly in the vacant 
seat across from White.

"Well?" the dealer asked, raising his eyebrows at the detective.

Mulder stood then, without warning, placing his hands on his hips 
and stepping forward slightly as he began to speak:

"We'll let you go in just a minute, Russell," he said in a 
deceptively soft voice, "But first I'd like you to tell me a few 
things."

"Such as?"

"Such as...what do you know about judgment?"  

Confusion rippled over the dealer's expression.  

"What the fuck you talkin' about, *judgment*?"

"I mean," Mulder said, turning back to scoop up the pile of photos, 
"exactly what I just said.  Judgment."  

He wandered towards the table where Russell sat with Frank, 
keeping his voice low and even; pinning the man with a relentless 
stare.  

"You know?  Consideration of a person's worth. What a boy's 
done.  What he's going to do.  What he *deserves* based on his 
past actions."

Mulder paused directly behind Pembleton, sliding the photos into 
the other man's hands as he kept his gaze locked on the suspect's 
face.

It was like a dance.  And Pembleton would know the steps.

"Why would a man in your profession...or a boy, like Bondurant or 
Gresham, need to be judged?" asked Mulder.

"I...don't know what you mean," said White, bravado beginning to 
falter beneath the calculated assault.

Pembleton chose that moment to ease the photos from the two 
crime scenes across the table.  "*This* is what we mean," he said 
quietly as White glanced down, shuddering slightly.

Even in black and white, the images of the torn, mutilated corpses 
were brutal.  Disturbing.  A few of them were close-up shots of 
the boys faces -- twisted with the horrors of their final vision, 
eyes empty and staring, mouths obscenely distorted.

The detective stood, moving back towards the door and leaning 
against the wall as if guarding it.  

Mulder recognized the small, subtle gesture -- meant to quell any 
subconscious thoughts Russell might have about a possible escape 
from his predicament.

And then he himself stepped around the table, next to the dealer, 
placing one hand down on the littered surface and the other on the 
man's shoulder.

"That's what all this is about, isn't it?" he said softly into White's 
ear.  "Judgment?"

The dealer didn't respond.  And Mulder knew that to the watchers 
on both sides of the glass -- Scully, Giardello, Pembleton and 
Bayliss -- it was just as obvious that somehow, some way, he had 
managed to breach the street-cool armor of Russell White.

"Isn't that why the killer took those boys' hearts?" he asked.  "So 
that they might be judged?  I wonder...why would somebody 
deserve something like that?"

Mulder leaned up, arching his back slightly and peering down at 
the suspect who refused to meet his eyes.

"Go ahead, Russell," he heard Pembleton's low voice from across 
the room.  "You can tell us."

"Man, I told you, I don't have *nothin'* to say.  Not now.  Not 
ever."  

The dealer's voice seemed higher now, strained.  And Mulder 
smiled, letting himself absorb the tension -- the look of unease 
flaring in their suspect's eyes.

"Well, ok, Russell."  He backed off, moving to stand in the center 
of the room.  "If you don't want to help us with this, that's fine.  
But if we don't find the real killer...find out why he's doing 
this...we'll have to lay the blame at somebody else's door."  

The threat was subtle, smooth and all the more powerful for the 
absolute certainty with which it was delivered.

White seemed to collapse in on himself then, exhaustion 
streaking its way across his face for the first time throughout the 
protracted length of the interrogation.

"Look," he began, a minuscule note of sincerity finally entering 
his voice as he glanced up at Mulder and Pembleton, "Vincent was 
ok as far as I was concerned.  So was Stanley for that matter.  But 
they're gone now.  It's something I don't have no control over.  
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't help you."

"Why not?" Frank's voice was abrupt -- utterly questioning of the 
validity of White's statement.

"Because I got myself to think about.  And my family."

"What are you so afraid of, Russell?" Mulder asked, pulling out the 
chair and lowering himself to sit opposite the man and trapping 
him again in the cold brass glitter of his gaze.  "We can protect 
you if you cooperate."

With that, the dealer threw himself back, giving a short hysterical 
bark of laughter.  "Man, you can't protect me from what did that," 
he pointed to the photos.

Mulder held his stare, a variety of thoughts building structures in 
his brain.  Mostly they were connected with what he learned that 
day, buried in the bowels of the Baltimore Public Library.  He was 
almost certain now of what they were dealing with in these 
murders.  But whether it was a straight manifestation or a 
possession, he had no idea.  And he suspected that the man across 
from him had information that might lead to a conclusion.

With a slight rustle of movement, Mulder reached into his pocket 
and pulled forth the evidence bag containing the pawnshop receipt 
he'd found at the crime scene with Pembleton.

"Tell me something, Russell," he said, sliding the bag over the 
mosaic of gruesome images scattered across the table and 
pointing to the address on the slip.  "What's at 713 Fayette?"

The response was immediate and completely unexpected.

White bolted to his feet at the seemingly innocuous question, 
knocking his chair back with enough force to send it into the wall 
with a loud clatter.  He glanced around the room wildly, first at 
Mulder, then Pembleton, and finally to the faces behind the 
mirrored window at the back of the room.  Faces he couldn't see 
but that he knew were there.

The palpable fear in his expression was obvious to them all, 
darkening his eyes as his jaw clenched convulsively.

"Where did you get that?" he asked tightly, voice cracking as he 
ground out the words.

Mulder ignored the question, keeping his voice low and 
commanding as he went on inexorably:  "Tell me, Russell.  Why 
don't you tell us all what's there?"

"Fuck you, man!" White said, shouting.  "Fuck all of you!  You 
don't give a goddamn about me.  About any of this!  I *can't* tell 
you what you want to know!"

"Yes.  You can, Russell."

"Bullshit!" the dealer spat, twisting his head from side to side.  
"I've had enough of this already.  I played your game -- by your 
rules.  Now you either charge me and let me make a phone call to 
my attorney, or you let my black ass outta here.  Either way, I ain't 
telling you *nothin'* else!"  

With that, he crossed his arms over his chest and retreated into 
the corner, turning his back to the two men and leaning into the 
wall.

Mulder stood after a few moments of silence and stepped towards 
the door, which Pembleton opened.  

The two men left, walking into the observation room where Gee, 
Bayliss and Scully waited.

"Looks like you finally got something, Mulder" Scully said, 
catching his eye as they entered.  "Too bad we just don't know what 
it is."

"He's obviously afraid," Mulder agreed.  "But I think it's pretty 
clear we've taken this interview about as far as it's going to go."

"I agree," said Giardello as he held up a warning hand to quell 
Pembleton's immediate, vocal protest.  "Frank.  Don't even get 
started.  You've had him for close to six hours now, and all we've 
got to show for it is information we already knew.  That, plus the 
fact the address Agent Mulder found seems to mean something to 
him."

"Gee, he knows who did those murders," Pembleton's voice was 
stretched.  "You know he does."

"Maybe so, but he's not going to tell us.  And we don't have enough 
to arrest him.  It's time to cut him loose and have narcotics keep 
an eye on him."

"Fine," said Pembleton, angrily stalking toward the door before 
spinning around to face his lieutenant.  "But you're making a 
mistake."

"Frank, let it go," Giardello repeated in a hard voice, pointing at his 
detective for emphasis.  "Now, I want you and Agent Mulder to go 
down to Fayette and check out that address.  Bayliss, take Agent 
Scully down to narcotics and find out what's behind this new 
organization that seems to have all the dope fiends up-in-arms.  
>From what I can see, it's going to take a lot more information than 
what you have now before we get a break in this investigation.  
And I don't want to watch another name going up on that board in 
red that even remotely resembles these other two killings."

With that, the shift commander gave them all a final angry glance 
as he strode to the door, yanking it open, and blowing through it in 
sharp silence.  And Pembleton's departure was only slightly less 
emphatic as he headed toward the box, preparing to release their 
suspect.

Scully looked at Mulder and then at Bayliss with a bemused look 
on her features, apparently struck by the forceful nature of 
Pembleton and Giardello's confrontation.

Bayliss touched her elbow in response, saying, "Don't worry about 
Gee.  He's just like that."

Neither noticed Mulder's swift frown.  Nor the way he quickly 
stepped over to his partner's side, just as Bayliss finished 
remarking:

"His bible is the riot act.  He reads it all the time."

Scully smiled for a brief instant, suddenly noticing that Mulder 
was crowding her.  Casting a look between him and Bayliss, she 
pressed her lips together and moved to the doorway.

The two men followed her out, just as Pembleton was returning.

"Are you ready, Agent Mulder?" he snapped, pulling on his coat 
and donning his hat.

"Whenever you say, Detective," said Mulder.  He shot Scully a 
look laden with sub-arctic temperatures as he grabbed his own 
coat off one of the file cabinets and shrugged into it.

"Let's go then."

"Be careful, Mulder."  Scully reached out and touched his arm, 
firmly meeting his guarded expression. 

"You too, Scully," he said, casting a glance over her head at 
Bayliss, who was staring at him.  Whirling, he followed after 
Pembleton, muttering softly under his breath:

"You too."

********* 

>713 Fayette St.
>9:00PM

Pembleton pulled the Cavalier along the curb slowly, peering 
through the gloom and trying to make out the addresses on the 
vacant, dilapidated rowhouses along the deserted block.  Finally, 
he stopped where number 713 should have been, turning off the 
ignition and dousing the lights.  Neither he nor Mulder were really 
interested in trumpeting their presence to whatever untamed 
element might be lurking around the shadows of this ghost town.

Both men exited the car slowly, gazes roaming over the derelict 
structure.  In the darkness, it seemed to loom over them, pressing 
downward, hindering their movements.

Mulder craned his neck slightly, stretching the stiff muscles as he 
reached up to rub his forehead.  It had been over forty-eight hours 
since he'd had any thing like real sleep and the fatigue was 
beginning to take its toll.  

Shit.

Well, he thought, all he needed to do was check out this lead with 
the detective and then he could get going with Scully back to their 
lodgings and finally get some decent fucking rest.  

And he would this time, damn it.

Pembleton had pulled two flashlights from the trunk of the car and 
he approached now, holding one out.  

Mulder grasped it, looking back up toward the foreboding visage 
of the abandoned building.  

Just another fucking useless dead end.

Like their suspect, Russell White.  And the image on the wall of 
the lot on Etting.

The eye *had* been written in blood according to Pembleton.  But 
it wasn't human.  Some type of animal according to the lab.  A dog, 
most likely.  

Now here they were, checking out an address that appeared to be a 
hoax -- and not a very creative one at that.  

It was obvious they weren't likely to discover anything in a place 
left for dead long ago, but Mulder couldn't shake the relentless 
suspicion suddenly crawling up the length of his spine and 
tightening at the base of his skull.

This was the place.

It was here.

Pembleton led the way up to the cracked marble stoop, stepping 
cautiously as he scanned the ground with his flashlight.  There was 
little other illumination, save the hazy vapor of a street lamp two 
doors down.  

They reached the top of the stairs and paused before the doorway, 
staring at each other in the shadows.

"I don't think we'll be finding much here," said the detective, 
breaking the restless silence.  "Even the ghosts have moved on."

"Maybe," said Mulder.  "Are all these buildings unoccupied?"

"Looks like it.  Probably condemned, most of them."  

The detective's gaze swept along the street for a moment before 
he turned his attention back to Mulder.  

"Odds are, whoever gave that address on your slip was running a 
scam."

"Could be.  But then why did the suspect react so strongly?"

Pembleton shrugged diffidently and gestured to the door.  "Let's 
do it."

Mulder reached forward, grasping the handle and turning it -- just 
as he felt a vicious, icy-hot pain surge into his palm.

"Ahhhhh!  Son of a bitch!!" 

He pulled his arm back sharply, cradling it to his chest and raising 
the flashlight with his good hand.

Biting back another groan, Mulder studied the injury in the watery 
beam, gaze tightening with the growing throb and ache.

"What happened?"  asked Pembleton, tension coloring his voice as 
he peered over his shoulder.

Mulder hissed incoherently as he inspected the severe, gaping 
slash marring the stretched skin of his palm.  It was a deep cut, 
about two-inches long. 

And it burned like a motherfucker.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the lancing pain.

The detective eyed Mulder's injury for a moment before 
hunkering down in front of the door.  "Looks like somebody stuck 
a razor blade in the handle," he said quietly.  

Mulder didn't respond, concentrating only on taking deep breaths; 
sucking the air into his lungs as the cut stung and tingled.  Christ, 
he'd been shot before and it felt better than this.

Then, he felt a warm wetness coursing along his wrist, soaking 
into the cuff of his shirt beneath his coat.

For an instant, Mulder felt light-headed, woozy almost, as though 
he were experiencing some type of oxygen deprivation.  Blinking 
rapidly, he lifted his hand, suddenly mesmerized by the bright 
viscid sheen of blood seeping out smoothly, glistening in the flare 
of the flashlight beam.

The loud snap of latex abruptly distracted him as Pembleton 
pulled on a glove and reached forward to extract the slick, red-
soaked blade, sliding it into an evidence bag.

"Why didn't they just put up a sign that said 'No Solicitors?'" 
Mulder asked between clenched teeth, a rueful grin wrinkling his 
features.

"Kids playing a prank, most likely," said Pembleton.  "You all 
right?"

"Uh-huh," Mulder rasped, wincing as the pain in his hand 
redoubled, spreading up his arm.  "It's bleeding like hell, though."

"Here," Pembleton proffered him a handkerchief, grimacing at the 
sticky ooze coating Mulder's palm and fingers.  "Maybe we should 
drive over to Hopkins' ER and get you a shot of something 
salutary.  That looks pretty bad."

"No, no, I'm all right," he insisted, swabbing the blood as best he 
could and wrapping the piece of cloth tightly around his palm.  
"Let's just check the building and then we can stop on the way back 
in.  It shouldn't take too long."

Mulder caught Pembleton's appraising look and knew the other 
man was trying to make certain he was really ok.  Obviously, the 
detective didn't relish the idea of prowling about a deserted 
building by himself, or with a distracted back-up.  

Finally though, Pembleton relented, pushing the door open and 
entering cautiously while he followed.

The beam of the flashlight spread out across the empty space, 
illuminating a variety of trash and debris scattered about the floor 
of the main room.  There were a multitude of glass vials, some of 
them crushed.  A number of broken syringes.  Discarded crack 
pipes.  Spent candles.  

A haze of graffiti covered the walls -- multi-colored designs 
seeming to writhe around them in the dancing flicker of their 
lights.  

The interior was as chilly as outside, and there was a faint, fetid 
odor coming from someplace within the house.  The stench 
caused both men to wrinkle their noses.

Pembleton moved the flashlight to his left hand, unholstering his 
gun as he moved deeper into the interior.
"Looks like even the smokehounds gave up on this place," he 
remarked absently.

By now, Mulder had drawn his weapon as well, and he made a 
small sound of agreement at Frank's words.

They came to a staircase and the detective shone the light into his 
face, gesturing upward as if to ask, "You?  Or me?"

"I'll go up, you keep looking down here," Mulder said softly, his 
breath fogging in the glow of the light.   

Pembleton nodded, moving away into the darkness.

Mulder turned toward the steps and began making his way up 
slowly.

The empty space seemed to converge on itself with the gloom and 
he paused on the stairs for a moment, trying to regain a sense of 
equilibrium.  

Something was wrong.

His throat felt constricted and Mulder coughed lightly, drawing in 
lungfuls of the rank air.  A light sheen of perspiration bathed his 
face despite the cool temperature and he blinked a few times in an 
attempt to clear his vision.

What the fuck? 

The pain in his wounded hand reasserted itself suddenly, making 
him feel ill -- as though his insides were shifting.  

And then the ache began.  Low.  Throbbing.  Building at the base of 
his spine.

Shaking himself, Mulder continued up the stairs, chalking the 
feeling up to fatigue and the vague sense of unease bothering him 
ever since they'd pulled up before this place.  After all, prowling 
around a deserted building one of the city's worst neighborhoods 
and looking for a centuries-old spirit was an iffy proposition, at 
best.

Inhaling, Mulder realized the offensive stink they'd noticed 
downstairs was getting stronger.  Gingerly, he picked his way 
along the dark hallway before him, playing the light beam around 
three of the smaller enclosures that must have functioned as 
bedrooms at some time in the distant past.

Nothing here.  Just a lot of garbage and empty space.  Perhaps 
even the spirits of the long-departed occupants of this hellhole.  
Derelicts.  Crackheads.  

And something else...

The eerie feeling continued to expand in the recesses of his mind, 
manifesting itself in the form of a pounding headache, centering 
in his temples.  Mulder was keenly aware of the rush of his own 
pulse echoing in his ears -- a soft roaring sound that distracted 
him, keeping him off balance.

His hand felt wet and he looked down, discovering that the blood 
had soaked through the fabric of the handkerchief and was 
dripping in a steady trail along the floor.  

Not that anyone would notice here, he thought, holstering his gun 
and dragging the belt off of his raincoat.  But as a guest, he 
wouldn't want to make a bad impression.

The insistent throb of the wound seemed to intensify again as he 
re-bound his hand with the belt over the sodden cloth, hoping the 
added pressure would at least stop the bleeding.

Finally, he moved forward, reaching the end of the hallway where 
a narrow doorway waited, the brass knob winking impishly at him 
in the soft glare shining from the flashlight.

Taking a deep breath, Mulder pushed the door open with his foot, 
having learned his lesson once already from the experience 
downstairs.  

A wave of heavy, rancid air wafted out and he raised his bound 
hand to his mouth, gasping and coughing.  Evidently, he had found 
the source of the foul odor.

Mulder drew his weapon again, the hard metal of the gun pressing 
into his injured palm.  He stepped carefully into the small space 
before him, playing the flashlight beam around the walls.

Gasping, his eyes widened at the revolting vista surrounding him.

It had been the bathroom.  Once.  Now it was an abattoir.  

Blood was everywhere, spattering the walls over the bathtub, 
puddling in a dried mess along the baseboards and leaving thick, 
black stains upon the floor.  

The fetid, rotting air assaulted his nostrils now, bringing with it an 
almost irrepressible wave of nausea.

"Jesus," he said to himself in a muffled voice, gun hand now 
clamped over nose and mouth in an attempt to ward off the smell.

He shone the light along the wall behind the bathtub to a large 
hook in the ceiling where a loop of wire hung.  Reaching up, 
Mulder could see that the thing was coated with a dried, reddish 
crust and bits of fur.  

The source of the blood on the wall at the crime scene.  

It had to be.  

For the very same designs covered the confines of this chamber -- 
a parade of hieroglyphs, the writing of the ancient Egyptians, 
painted along every available space.  Some of the phrases he 
recognized from the Book of the Dead.  Passages referring to the 
shadow-world of the deceased.  Others were incomprehensible to 
him.

What a fucking creep show.  His eyes skated around the closed 
confines of the room, taking in every sight, every detail.  The 
headache seemed to worsen as Mulder confronted the visual 
chaos encircling him; the persistent pain in his hand echoing with 
a dull pang of discomfort.

Coughing again softly, Mulder felt a swelling constriction in his 
throat, choking off the airflow into his lungs.

He stumbled to the sink, laying down the flashlight and grasping at 
the tap.   A trickle of cold water flowed out into the filthy basin 
and he managed a small sigh of relief.  Setting his gun down on the 
edge of the cracked porcelain, Mulder reached his good hand 
under the flow and splashed the icy water over his skin.

Then, he stiffened slightly at the sound of a faint rustling behind 
him.

Slowly, he reached for his gun, struggling to take deep breaths as 
he straightened to glance into the broken mirror hanging over the 
sink.

It was right-fucking-there.

Mulder stared with sudden mix of horror and fascination, jaw 
dropping in a kind of crazed surprise.

<fuck-fuck-fuck>

Panic unexpectedly washed through him like a dark tide.  

He stood there, frozen, as a series of involuntary shudders worked 
their way along his spine until a soft whimper of fear managed to 
escape his lips.

Behind him, over his shoulder.  He could see it.

Darkness shifted as a figure moved forward -- into the steady, 
fixed beam of the flashlight.

Muscles bunched beneath its glowing golden skin, marred by 
obscene spatters of reddish-brown blood.  It was the body of a 
powerfully built man, bare but for a torn sheath of ragged white 
fabric wrapped around its waist.

His breath left him in soft, shallow pants as Mulder eyed the large, 
serrated blade it clutched in one hand, coated with blood and bits 
of matter.  

Trembling almost uncontrollably now, he lifted his head slightly, 
letting his eyes drift up to the head of the thing as he flinched in 
fear and wonder.

The black, pointed ears of the jackal quivered slightly, almost 
imperceptibly, as if making the effort to listen to every last one of 
Mulder's labored gasps.  Its otherworldly green eyes sparked 
emerald fire at him, glittering with virulent evil and bloodlust.

He heard a soft snuffling sound as its nose twitched, mouth 
opening up in a soundless snarl to reveal a long jagged edge of 
sharp, razor-like teeth.  They were covered with slime and gore, 
creating a lacework of bloodied saliva hanging from the canine 
jaw, scattering to the ground as it moved closer toward him...

<NO NO NO NO>

Mulder couldn't tell if the desperate plea existed only in his mind 
or if he'd said it out loud.  

<help>

He need to call out to Frank to get up here, to help him, but 
somehow he couldn't.  It was as though his body were locked in 
place by the stunning, insane vision before him.

Moaning softly, Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, grasping the cold 
metal of his gun and whirling suddenly to confront the horrific 
apparition waiting there for him.

It wanted his heart.  

It wanted his soul.  

It would take them to weigh in judgment...

Snapping his eyes open and raising the gun, Mulder prepared 
himself to fir--

<what?>

He was alone.  

There was nothing else there.  

A brooding, oppressive stillness closed in as he looked about 
wildly, noticing that the only sounds punctuating the air were the 
labored rasps of his own breathing.

"Christ," he muttered, willing his heart to slow down as he played 
the beam around the dancing patterns on the walls, shining it into 
every corner, every cranny.

It was gone.  As if it had never even been there.

Mulder choked with relief, steadying himself and closing his eyes 
again before turning toward the door.  He needed to get the fuck 
out of there now.  Out into clear air, where he could breath deeply 
and cleanse the rot from his lungs; the acrid, bitter taste of decay 
from his mouth.

His head, his hand...hell, every muscle and joint in his body now 
ached as he reached for the door, intent only on escaping this 
scene.

And then he felt it.

Like a whispering sigh over the cold stone of a tomb, he 
experienced the brush of chilling air caressing his nape, followed 
by a vise-like grip on his shoulder.

Oh shit.

Mulder felt himself being forced to his knees.

They hadn't known what the hell they were dealing with.  *He* 
hadn't known.  Like a fool, he had ventured into this place -- this 
bloodied, grotesque chamber of death, expecting to find, what?  
The truth?

Well, now he would know.  The truth would kill him -- taking his 
heart, slashing his throat, and spilling the vital fluid of his life to 
join with the rest of the blood covering the walls of this 
slaughterhouse.  

<fuck>

The images raced through his consciousness with blinding speed 
as he heard the hoarse, growling snarl of the jackal in his mind, 
felt the clamp of its hand on his neck, inhaled the repellent odor 
of its breath -- a smell reminiscent of putrefaction and death.

Keening softly, Mulder sank down to the floor, just as the humid 
warmth of the thing's mouth closed over his ear, the cool metal of 
the knife skipping along his throat....

"NOOOOOO!!!"  he screamed aloud, this time, curling himself 
into a ball, sobbing, shuddering uncontrollably.  

"Scully!  Scully!" he shouted in panic, over and over again.  

Where was she?

"Scully, please.  Please.  Help me--" the words drifted into a 
broken whisper as the door suddenly flew open and Pembleton 
burst into the room.

"Son of a bitch," he heard the detective murmur, feeling the man 
drop down to his side, pulling his head up to shine the beam of a 
flashlight into his eyes.  

"Agent Mulder, can you hear me?"  

The harried tones of the detective's voice blew through his brain 
like a gale wind, helping to clear the black mist out of his head.  

"Can you hear me?"  Pembleton repeated urgently.

"Yes," Mulder groaned, squinting against the glare of the light.  
"Fuck."

"What the hell happened?" asked Pembleton, fear and loathing 
joining the concern in his voice as he looked around at the horrors 
surrounding them.  "Jesus."

The detective stood, pulling Mulder to his feet.  Clamping a hand 
beneath his jaw, Pembleton turned his head from side to side.  

"Christ, you're white as a sheet.  Come on, let's get you some air."  

Mulder let himself be dragged forward, only dimly aware of what 
was happening.

Through the door.  Down the hallway.  To the stairs.  Out onto the 
porch.

Into the night.

He leaned back against the front wall of the structure, body still 
shuddering -- wracked with sobs at the apparition he'd just 
witnessed.

Then, stumbling, Mulder made his way down the front stoop to the 
sidewalk and the waiting Cavalier, leaning over the hood and 
pressing his face against the freezing metal.  

He felt Pembleton come up next to him, grateful that the man 
didn't speak, didn't ask questions, just let him gulp air into his 
lungs.  Twisting, he gazed sightlessly up into the starry sky above 
them.

And then suddenly Mulder reared up, bending to the ground and 
retching uncontrollably.  Dry heaves convulsed him until he was 
balanced precariously on his hands and knees, staring at the 
ground beneath him. 

Finally, the detective laid a hand on his shoulders, causing him to 
start with a burst of terrified surprise.

"Come on, Mulder.  I think it might be a good idea to take that trip 
down to the ER, now."

"No, no.  It's ok," Mulder gasped, rising slightly to rest back on his 
heels, rubbing a hand over his sopping face and brushing the hair 
back from his temples.

Pembleton peered down into the agent's dirt-streaked features, 
seeing the haunted look in the man's eyes and the quiver still 
playing about his mouth.

"Well, let's at least get the hell out of this horror show and back to 
the world.  But I gotta tell you, man, you don't look so good.  
Maybe you should reconsider going down to the hospital."

"No, no," Mulder repeated as the detective helped him to his feet, 
supporting him as his strength faltered.  "Scully...I need Scully.  
She'll know...what to do."

Exhaling in exasperation, Pembleton managed to get the passenger 
door open and bundle Mulder inside, throwing in the flashlight and 
trotting over to the other side to enter the car himself.

"It's there," Mulder mumbled incoherently.  "Scully, it's *in* 
there."

Pembleton gave him a wary glance, reaching out to touch the 
humid warmth of his skin as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

To the detective, the situation felt all wrong.  Mulder was clearly 
out of it.  And common sense told him that he should be headed 
for the hospital.  

Instead, he felt along the agent's neck until he found the steady 
beat of a pulse and then Pembleton decided to just honor the other 
man's request.  Agent Scully had said she was a doctor.  Maybe she 
could reason with her partner.

With a gun of the engine and a squeal of tires, he headed off into 
the night, leaving the dark, twisted nightmare visions of 713 
Fayette behind them.

*********

>Baltimore Police Headquarters
>1701 Thames St.
>Baltimore, MD 
>11:00 PM

Mulder winced as he felt the car jerk to a halt, the thrum of the 
engine abruptly ceasing.  

Groaning, he tried to take a deep breath only to begin coughing 
uncontrollably, the ache in his forehead temporarily blinding him.

"Agent Mulder?" he heard Pembleton's voice ringing hollowly in 
his brain.  "We're here.  Back at headquarters.  Do you think you 
can make it inside?"

"Yes," he whispered, turning his head to meet the worry in the 
other man's eyes.  "Just give me a hand getting out."

The detective left the car quickly and made his way around to the 
other side, pulling Mulder's door open and helping to draw him 
out and onto his feet.

Supporting him, Pembleton led Mulder out onto the familiar path 
into the building and up to the squad room where Agent Scully 
hopefully waited with his partner.

Not a word had been spoken on the whole drive back.  Obviously, 
Mulder had seen something that scared him witless.  But for one 
of the few times in his life, Pembleton couldn't find the words to 
ask what happened.  All he did was sit back and drive, glancing in 
the agent's direction occasionally to make certain he was still 
breathing and listening to the low anguished drone of his voice as 
he repeated, "It's there.  Scully, it's there.  I've seen it's face," over 
and over again.

Mulder, for his part, was grateful in a peripheral way that the 
detective hadn't interrupted his insensate ramblings.  He knew his 
mind had closed into a self-contained, defensive loop, insulating 
itself from the nightmare he'd seen.

The bright lights and loud sounds of headquarters rocketed 
through his skull, disorienting him as he and the detective made 
their way rapidly up to the second floor squad area.  

Turning the corner into the coffee room, Mulder could hear the 
buzz of voices, including the blessed, oh-so-familiar sound of 
Scully's.

She and Bayliss were sitting at one of the Formica tables, drinking 
coffee and chatting absently when the two men swept into the 
room.

Scully took one look at Mulder's face, drawn and pale.  At the dirt 
marring his cheekbones and the blood streaking down the front of 
his coat.  And at the feverish, burning light in his eyes.  

She rose quickly, tipping her chair to the floor.

"My god!  Mulder?!" 

She moved forward to support him as leaned precariously in her 
direction.  "What the hell happened?"

"Scully," he sighed, watching Bayliss stare at him in alarm before 
turning toward Pembleton with a shocked, questioning glance.

"Are you ok?  What happened?  Are you hurt?  Where does it 
hurt?"

Mulder couldn't answer -- only listen to the clear, insistent tones 
of her voice.

"Detective?  What the hell happened to you two out there?" she 
demanded, looking up at Pembleton.

"Scully," he moaned again, reaching out to touch the smooth, 
beautiful planes of her face, twisted now with worry and fear for 
him.  "I saw him," was all he could manage to get out, watching the 
pain and confusion splashing over her features.

"Anubis."

Then, he crumpled to the floor in a heap at her feet.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Part II -- The God of the Dead

"Go back to the corner and get the blast.  And then do it again.  
Because the next one, or the next one after, will be the true dose, 
the one to justify all faith."
-- David Simon, excerpt from 'The Corner:  A Year in the Life of 
an Inner City Neighborhood'

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

>Baltimore Police Headquarters
>1701 Thames St.
>Baltimore, MD
>9:00 PM -- Two hours earlier

"They're calling it 'Pharaoh.'"

Dana Scully and Tim Bayliss stared down into the detective's 
ironic expression as he carefully stated the four words to them.

They  were standing in the cramped, worn-looking area that served 
as the squad room for the Baltimore Police Department's 
narcotics division.  Sitting across from them was a wan, sleepy-
eyed man whom Tim had introduced as DeSilva.  

Scully was there with the two men at the behest of homicide's 
shift commander, Al Giardello, in an attempt to glean details 
leading to a motive for two unsolved ritual murders in Baltimore.  
Her partner, Fox Mulder, and Bayliss's other half, Frank 
Pembleton, had likewise been sent out to an address in West 
Baltimore to follow up on a different lead. 

She couldn't help but notice the cynical features of the narcotics 
detective had taken on a tired, resigned cast when Bayliss 
explained their reason for coming down -- their need for 
information about the recent emergence of a new heroin on the 
streets of Baltimore.  

Frowning, the detective blew out his breath in frustration as he 
told them the street name of the drug. 

"Pharaoh?" Bayliss repeated now, sounding confused.

"Uh-huh.  You two had better pull up a seat."

DeSilva pulled open one of his drawers and removed a small 
package of a white, powder-like substance.

"Is this what you're talking about?" he asked, sliding the bag across 
the desk to Bayliss.

Tim grasped the packet, rubbing his thumb over the now-familiar 
embossed golden eye before showing it to Scully.

She looked at DeSilva and nodded.  

"I don't know how much about homicide's current cases you're 
aware of," said Scully, "but we're looking for the killer of two 
street dealers who may have a connection with the organization 
that's distributing these bags."

DeSilva leaned back in his chair and cocked his head at her for a 
moment.  "Well, I heard that two of our repeat offenders, Vincent 
Bondurant and Stanley Gresham, went to an early meeting with 
their maker recently.  Actually, I'm surprised you guys weren't 
down here earlier, considering their profession."   

"Yeah, well, it's been hectic," Bayliss responded with a harried 
sigh.  "Frank and I ended up having to liaise with Agent Scully and 
her partner, which we weren't expecting.  Not that that's been a 
problem."  He shot her an apologetic look before continuing, 
"Then the killings happened one right on top of the other.  You 
may also have heard that we pulled in a small-time lieutenant 
today.  A guy by the name of Russell White."

"Ah, yes.  Russell.  A real family man." DeSilva's voice was openly 
sarcastic.  "I knew the guy better when he was with the Mahoney 
crew, but there's really nobody left from those days.  I haven't 
heard anything on him since he joined with his current supplier.  
The lack of information seems to be par for the course with this 
new organization."

"How much can you tell us, Detective?" Scully asked, leaning 
forward and hoping that the man could give them something, 
anything that might lead to a break. 

After 48 hours, the sense of urgency was building to a fever-pitch 
in the investigation.  They needed to determine a motive for these 
killings.  Already, chances for a solution had already dropped by 
more than half.  

Unless the killer struck again.  

And the shift commander had made it clear earlier that such a 
scenario was unacceptable.  Right now, this narcotics detective 
was probably their best bet at uncovering new information -- 
something leading to the murderer.  Scully just hoped that it 
wasn't already too late.

"Well, Russell is basically just your average underling,"  said 
DeSilva, letting his chair tip back down with a bang.  "He's been 
married for eight years and has two children.  Pretty serious about 
it, too, from what I know.  Luther Mahoney was fond of that kind 
of stability in the people he kept close to him.  Probably one of 
the reasons why Russell advanced so far into the organization.  
He'd made it as far as Luther's highly selective inner circle.  Of 
course, all that changed after the shooting, when Russell found 
himself suddenly, tragically unemployed."

"This is all very helpful," said Scully, making a quick gesture with 
her hand and smiling apologetically.  "But I think we're less 
interested in White than we are the person, or people, he's 
working for."

"Exactly," Bayliss added, looking down into the inner pocket of his 
suit jacket as he pulled out a notebook and pen.

DeSilva tilted his head back again, regarding the two of them 
beneath knit brows.  

"I don't know how much I can help you with that," he said, finally.  
"This is a new, unknown supplier we're dealing with.  From what 
I've been able to dig up, they moved in from the DC area.  And it's 
a different kind of organization.  Mahoney was a very public 
figure.  Liked to be in the community spotlight.  But the man 
running this new crew is practically invisible.  On the street, they 
call him the Pharaoh -- same as his product.  But frankly, we know 
almost nothing about him."

Scully bit back a disappointed sigh of frustration as the detective 
paused for a moment.

"What we *do* know," DeSilva went on, ignoring her response as 
he leaned forward to light a cigarette, "is that he inspires a great 
deal of loyalty."  

He exhaled deeply, blowing smoke toward the ceiling while the 
other two waited.  

"The kids slinging on his crew will stop at nothing to preserve the 
closed order of the organization.  It used to be that we had no 
trouble getting informants to sing with a little inducement.  But 
the boys he's got distributing those bags," and DeSilva pointed to 
the package Scully still held, "won't say 'nothin' 'bout nothin'.'  It's 
almost like a secret society.  And if that weren't strange enough, 
we have the sinister nature of their product to worry about."

"Sinister?" said Bayliss.

"Sinister, yes," the narc said, through a haze of smoke.  "The type 
of dope they're selling has become inordinately popular with the 
addicts in this city, whether it's your Federal Hill recreational user 
or your out-and-out fiend from Franklin Square.  Wharf rats and 
city goats...it doesn't seem to matter.  They can't wait to fire the 
shit."  

DeSilva's voice became almost ominous as he added, "It's 
beginning to kill them."

"Kill whom?" Tim asked.  "You mean there's been trouble with the 
other gangs?"

"Nope," the narcotics detective gave a brief, emphatic shake of his 
head and took a final drag on the cigarette.  

"There are no turf wars.  It's not an issue of territory.  What 
matters is name recognition.  And they all know the Pharaoh now.  
Buyers go to *his* suppliers, no matter what obstacles stand in 
their way.  Those slingers never had it so easy.  The shit moves as 
fast as they can provide it."

DeSilva flicked the butt into an already overflowing ashtray on the 
edge of his desk and dragged a hand through his hair wearily 
before going on.  

"No, the ones who are dying are the *users*."

"Has this been happening all along?" Scully asked quietly.

"Only in the last two weeks.  And I'd say the dope's been on the 
street for, oh...about three months now.  The first lucky individual 
to blow himself up was an eighteen-year old boy by the name of 
Terrance Brown -- Taz.  There've been about a dozen more since."

"And that's more than usual?"

"A *lot* more.  For us, it's a fucking epidemic.  Look, Agent 
Scully, the common perception of the public such as yourself is 
that these people kill themselves every day.  But that isn't the case.  
Frankly, many of them are happy enough to go their own way, 
exist peaceably within the community and shoot their shit with a 
minimum of fuss.  Only now, they're dying for it.  Literally."  

There was no hiding the stress and irritation in DeSilva's voice.  
He looked at Bayliss angrily for a moment.  "Whenever there's a 
high profile killing, or some councilman's dog gets kidnapped, the 
full resources of this department go on the red-ball express.  But 
nobody gives a damn when fiends start dropping like flies from 
dangerous stuff.  Why is that?"

"I guess it's all a question of priorities, mmm?" Bayliss replied 
softly, looking up at the other man through the glint of his glasses. 

"Yeah, and it's us that have to unwind the mess in the hospital 
*and* the morgue when a bad package hits the street.  I was the 
one to tell Taz's *mother* what happened, before asking her to 
come down and ID her son's body at the ME's office."

All three fell quiet at the detective's words and Scully pondered 
the implications of what he was saying.

"Is that what's really going on?  This...'Pharaoh' is pushing bad 
dope?" she heard Tim ask.

"Not exactly," said DeSilva, waving his hand tiredly before running 
it over his chin.  

The stormy anger seemed to depart him as quickly as it had come.

Scully observed his reactions and wondered for a moment which 
was the more demanding life:  chasing down bizarre individuals 
and conspiracies within the X files, or spending day after day 
fighting the violent, everyday demons that these detectives 
encountered.  And then before she could decide, DeSilva was 
saying:

"The thing is, they seem to be cutting the heroin with a mixture of 
something that makes the high more intense.  That's the reason 
why fiends are flocking out to Lexington and Fulton to buy the 
stuff."

Scully looked down, flipping the package absently through her 
fingers and inspecting it again as her medical instincts went on 
full alert.  

"So, what's the secret ingredient?" she asked.  "And how is it 
killing them?"

"We don't know," said DeSilva, his eyes narrowing.  "The lab has 
isolated the substance down to a mixture of scopolamine and 
something else they say can't be identified.  'Scope is a common 
additive to street heroin, but the other thing is what's scary."

"How so?"

"It might be better if you talked to the doctor down at Johns 
Hopkins who's been working these cases.  He knows more about 
the details than I do, but from what I understand, it appears to be a 
type of nerve agent or something."

"A *nerve* agent?" Scully repeated, eyebrows flipping up in 
surprise.

"Yeah.  Something heightening the effect of the other drugs.  I 
guessed it might be strychnine at first, but that was too easy.  
We're still not sure what it is, but as far as the fiends are 
concerned, it's the bomb.  The best I can figure from what the doc 
has told me is that the substance exists in small doses, so it 
doesn't overwhelm the user.  At least not right away.  But it doesn't 
readily leave the body.  Instead, it builds up -- accumulates."

"Creating a better, stronger high, each time the addict shoots up," 
Scully guessed, with a sudden flash of understanding.

"Exactly," DeSilva nodded.  "That's why the shit's so fucking 
irresistible.  They're all looking for the bomb out there -- the 
perfect blast.  And Pharaoh is the exact opposite of regular street 
dope.  More bang for your buck with each successive use."

"Until it kills you," Bayliss remarked softly, looking up from his 
notebook.

"And you say that neither your techs, nor the lab at Hopkins have 
had any luck in finding out what this is?" said Scully after a lengthy 
pause.

"Nope."

She held up the bag of heroin.  "Do you mind if I send this down to 
our Elemental Analysis Unit at Quantico to see if they come up 
with anything?"

"Fuck," DeSilva said, tipping his chair back again.  "I'd have you 
send it up to the orbiting Russians on Mir if I thought it would 
help."

"Thanks," said Scully, glancing at Bayliss as she rose, bringing the 
discussion to a close.

"Thank *you*," said DeSilva, looking up at her.  "I hope you have 
more luck than we've had."

She nodded silently and began to head with Bayliss back in the 
direction of the homicide unit when the other man called out:

"Hey, Tim..."

"Yeah?" Bayliss replied, turning back for a moment. 

"Be careful.  If these murders are as weird as they say, I wouldn't 
put it past this crew to be responsible.  They're more organized.  
Loyalty is all-important to them.  And I hear they like to make 
examples."

"Sure thing," said Tim, reaching out to guide Scully through the 
door.

"One more thing."

They paused again, looking back at DeSilva's tense expression.  

"Watch yourselves in this investigation.  What little I know leads 
me to believe these guys aren't past pulling the occasional bullshit 
trick to protect their own.  They could give a flying fuck about law 
enforcement authority.  This is a more ruthless, educated 
adversary than what we're used to dealing with around here."

Bayliss nodded, pressing his lips together thoughtfully.

"And keep me informed this time," DeSilva finished, turning to his 
paperwork with a weary air. 

Scully and the homicide detective turned and headed down the 
hallway of the Criminal Investigation Division, pushing through 
the door adjacent to homicide's squad room.

"What do you think?" she asked with a worried glance.

"I think we're getting closer to a  potential motive," he responded, 
giving her a quick, piercing look in return.  "I'm wondering if 
Bondurant and Gresham were selling out and this was the crew's 
way of sending a message."

"I thought of that too," said Scully, wrinkling her brow.  "But then 
why wouldn't Russell just say that when you guys had him in the 
box?  It would have been a lot easier on him if he had."

"Who knows?" Bayliss shrugged.  "Maybe he's involved, trying to 
protect his own ass.  And you heard what DeSilva said about the 
crew and secrecy."

Scully frowned as she considered his words.  "I'm not so sure 
about that.  Something just doesn't feel right.  There's a lot about 
this case that doesn't make sense."

"I know what you mean," he said, nodding.  "I feel like I want to 
pursue this as a drug-related homicide, but it just doesn't jibe with 
the crime scene evidence."

"Exactly," Scully agreed.  "The highly ritualistic nature of the 
murders indicates we have somebody killing from a personal 
motivation known only to them.  But I'm reluctant to dismiss the 
relationship between the victims as coincidence."

"Well, what does your partner think?" Bayliss asked her suddenly.  
"Didn't you say he used to be a top criminal profiler?"

Scully gave him a wary glance before responding.  

"Mulder thinks we may be dealing with something supernatural 
here."

"Supernatural, how?"

"A manifestation or possession by an ancient spirit."  

She held Tim's eyes as she spoke, carefully maintaining a neutral 
expression.

He chuckled tentatively for a moment, as though trying to see if 
she really meant what she'd just said.

But Scully only nodded silently, waiting for the usual skeptical, 
derisive air to emerge on his features.  

Instead, he became solemn, apparently considering the possibility.

"Look," said Bayliss abruptly, touching her elbow and once again 
drawing her forward.  "Let's just hope Frank and your partner turn 
up something at the address they went to.  Maybe it'll tie in with 
what we just found out."

Tipping her head to one side, Scully pursed her lips and raised her 
eyebrows in a familiar expression of reluctant capitulation.  

Regardless of what Bayliss was hoping for, she was not so easily 
convinced.  But the warmth of his hand on her arm was 
compelling, and she found herself giving him a wide smile in spite 
of her reservations.

His answering grin was spontaneous and immediate, and it 
suddenly struck Scully once again just how good-looking this guy 
really was.

"Let's get some coffee while we're waiting," he suggested, heading 
into the long, narrow space that formed the shift's lounge area.  

Bulletin boards crammed with a confusing, multi-colored jumble 
of notices hung along one wall, over a few well-worn tables and an 
assortment of chairs.  On the opposite side, a row of filmy 
windows looked over some battered vending machines and a long 
counter with the usual assortment of coffee accoutrements.  

Scully was more than a little amused to see the fridge at the end of 
the room had an ancient television set perched upon it, along with 
an absurd-looking Godzilla action figure.  Whatever was up with 
that, she was sure she didn't even want to know.

Seating herself, she propped her chin in one hand and waited as 
Tim poured them each a cup of the squad's signature sludge.  

"Let me guess," he said, looking over his shoulder.  "Milk, no 
sugar."

"Exactly," said Scully, looking at him quizzically, surprised by the 
accuracy of his guess.

"A little-known talent of mine," he joked, handing her the brown 
and white printed cup and lowering himself into a chair across 
from her as she blew on the steaming concoction.

"So tell me," said Bayliss, resting an elbow on the table and 
leaning towards her.  "How long have you and Mulder been 
working together?"

Scully blinked for a moment, immediately guessing at the 
motivation behind the seemingly innocent question.  He was 
testing the waters.  

Obviously, Bayliss had been attracted to her from the moment 
they'd first met.  He'd made absolutely no secret of that fact.  
Frankly, the experience was almost as provocative as it was 
unfamiliar.  

So why *had* bright, eligible, worthwhile males been so few and 
far between throughout her recent past?

Since taking on the monumental assignment of the X files, she'd 
managed to catch only the notice of a variety of psychos and one 
starry-eyed, green agent at the Bureau.

Then there was Mulder.

The relationship with her partner was probably more intense than 
any she'd ever had in her entire life, but their bonding had nothing 
to do with the type of desire that blazed from Bayliss's 
expression.  At least, Scully didn't think so.  In many ways, she and 
Mulder didn't even *like* each other.  

And yet at times it seemed as though there was definitely 
*something* there.  She'd catch that glint in his eyes as he made 
some playful, suggestive comment, or just watch the agitated way 
his hands moved over the steering wheel when he drove...

"Dana?" she heard Tim's voice say.  "That ticket you're flying?  Is it 
round-trip?"

"Sorry," she replied sheepishly, feeling caught somehow.  
Returning her full attention to him, she finally answered the 
question.

"It's been almost five years now."

"Mmm.  Frank and I have been together for close to six."  He 
paused for a moment, holding her gaze.  "You two seem pretty 
close."

Scully smiled again and looked down and the cup of coffee framed 
within her narrow fingers.  "We are very close," she said, glancing 
up suddenly.  "Mulder and I have been through a lot.  You wouldn't 
even believe me if I told you."

Watching a sense of discomfiture dawn in his eyes, she decided to 
let him off the hook.  

"But we rarely see each other outside of a professional setting.  
To Mulder, the job is everything."

"And you?"

"Well, it's complicated.  There've been things that have happened 
throughout our work on the X files.  To him.  To me.  My family.  
The people close to us."

Her eyes took on an unfocused look.  She was traveling back 
through a vortex of memory -- of times and places best left 
forgotten.  And it seemed that Bayliss could sense that, because 
he reached out and clasped one of her hands in the dry, comforting 
warmth of his own.

"Mulder's journey has become an inseparable part of my 
existence.  His quest is my quest.  And it can be hard sometimes."  

Suddenly, she raised her eyes to his, the penetrating blue of her 
gaze clashing with the earnest brown shade of his of his own.  

"I don't have much of a life outside the work.  But I've accepted 
that it's just the way things are meant to be for us."

She shook her head in a self-depreciatory gesture and glanced 
down at his hand over hers.  "I'm not sure why I'm telling you all 
this.  We barely know each other."

Pulling back slightly, Tim waited until she raised her eyes again.  
"It's ok," he said, squeezing her hand softly.  "I know how it goes 
with partners.  Frank and I are the same in many ways.  Good 
alliances are harder to maintain than personal relationships, I 
think.  And good partners know it.  Hell, some pairings around 
here last longer than marriages."

She frowned slightly at the comparison, waiting for him to 
explain.

"Lots of the detectives on the squad are divorced.  Kellerman.  
Falsone.  Munch."  

With a smile, he added, "Three times, no less.  Lewis will probably 
be the next one, I suppose."

Scully glanced down, noticing her fingers still ensconced within 
his grip.  The feeling was comfortable, familiar even.  And not 
unlike the sensation she had whenever Mulder stood in her space 
or slid his hand into the small of her back.   

She allowed herself to savor the warm rush of feeling when Tim 
met her eyes again.  He was an attractive, intelligent, 
straightforward kind of guy.  Someone who understood the job to 
a degree -- a life spent in pursuit of justice and the truth.  A person 
who could quite possibly meet her on a similar plane of existence.  

And he was interested in her.  

*Very* interested.

"Why is that, I wonder?" she asked, in response to his 
commentary.

"Probably because divorce and homicide detectives are like blood 
and vampires.  This job demands a lot, and it's hard to get past that 
for some people.  Hard not to be selfish."

"And what about you?" said Scully, letting her gaze drift from the 
unreadable expression in his eyes down to curves of his mouth.  
The heat firing her insides was seeping lower now -- to a more 
defined spot between her legs.  

God, what was happening here?

It wasn't like her to be so forward with another person.  Even 
Mulder.  And *especially* not in the midst of an investigation.  It 
was amazing the way her usually predominant reserve seemed to 
melt so easily in this detective's amiable company.

"I guess you could say I'm waiting for the right person to come 
around.  I've had a couple of relationships with...people recently, 
but the only thing I've ever really been married to is The 
Waterfront.  Running a bar with one's co-workers can be a one-
way ticket to insanity, but I love it there.  The people..."

He trailed off, smiling again -- a wide, unassuming flash of teeth 
that just begged for a similar response from her.  Without even 
thinking about it, Scully felt her cheeks flush, the cool air of the 
squad room brushing against her skin in a smooth counterpoint to 
its sudden warmth.

"Sounds like fun," she said.

"You have no idea.  Sometimes when things get too intense here, I 
just head across the street.  It's peaceful.  Reminds me of why I 
still love this city, no matter how dark and depressing it gets."

Bayliss looked away suddenly and she could see he was 
embarrassed.

"God, that sounds like a beer ad or something, doesn't it?"

Scully stared at him for a moment before saying quietly, "No.  
Actually it doesn't.  I envy you your resources.  It must be nice to 
have a means of escape."

He pulled her hand closer, turning it up as he drew her into the 
dark mystery of his gaze.  

"Maybe you'll come there with me again...sometime?"  

Though his expression was solemn, the question itself was subtle, 
lightly humorous -- so that she could laugh it off if she wanted to.

"I'd like that," said Scully, delighted inside when he rewarded her 
with that easy smile again, his eyes sparkling at her behind the 
glint of his glasses.  

"It's a date," he said, rubbing a fingertip gently over her palm.  
"You're a fascinating woman, Dana Scully.  Something I don't 
often find in this line of work."

Overwhelmed, she dropped her eyes once more at his words.  

Damn it.  

She just wasn't used to such forthright communication.  Much of 
her interplay with Mulder was wordless when it came to personal 
matters.  Bayliss's willingness to say such things out loud went a 
long way to breaking down the barriers she so readily surrounded 
herself with.

It was almost like...foreplay.

Just then, Detective Munch strode into the room, startling them 
both.  He poured a cup of coffee and turned, as if just suddenly 
noticing her there with Tim.  

"Am I...interrupting something?" he drawled, raising a mocking 
eyebrow over the dusky lenses of his glasses.

"Not at all, Munch," Bayliss said, releasing Scully's hand and 
leaning back in his chair a bit.  "Dana and I are just killing time 
until Frank and her partner get back."

"No kidding," said the other man, leaning against the counter and 
settling himself in for an extended conversation.  "So, Agent 
Scully, I understand that you and your partner investigate cases 
that the FBI designates as unsolvable."

"That's right."

"Must be a lot of those," said Munch, giving her a thin smile.

"No, not as many as you might think," Scully said evenly, refusing 
to respond to the bait.

"Oh sure, sure," the detective agreed slowly, as if to mollify her.  
"You know, it's a weird thing, but I can't quite shake the impression 
that I've seen Agent Mulder somewhere before."

"Funny you should say that," Bayliss broke in, snapping his fingers 
and looking first at her, and then Munch.  "I've had the same 
feeling."

Scully glanced between the two men, wondering under what 
possible circumstances they could have met her partner.

"Well, Mulder and I have had cases in Baltimore prior to this," she 
said, giving a little shrug.  "But I don't recall us ever having worked 
as closely with your unit before."

"Ah, never mind."  Munch shook his head and waved it off with his 
free hand.  "It'll come to me sooner or later."  

His eyes narrowed and he gave her another impertinent look, 
smiling again as he appeared to think about something.

"You know," he said, changing the subject abruptly as he set down 
the coffee.  "I was reading today about an Irish greyhound that 
finished dead last on some dogtrack in Poole, England.  It seems 
the dog didn't give up at the end of the race because she ran 
straight off the premises and onto the local turnpike."

Scully watched with growing confusion as Munch paused for a 
breath and crossed his arms.  What the hell was this guy talking 
about?

"Can you imagine?" he asked.  "A racing dog, tooling around on the 
highway, and she still had on her yellow striped vest with the 
number '7.'  One motorist actually called the police to report that 
he'd been overtaken by a speeding greyhound on a road five miles 
away."  

Munch made a small gesture of amazement, as though he couldn't 
even believe his own story.  

"They should give a special kind of bonus payoff to the lucky 
gamblers who bet on that dog, don't you think, Agent Scully?"

"I...," Scully trailed off helplessly as words failed her.

"Bayliss?" Munch asked the other man, sounding utterly serious, 
though the slight twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

"Don't listen to him when he gets like this, mmm?" Bayliss leaned 
forward, tapping Scully's wrist.  "Munch is just our resident font 
of meaningless wisdom.  Every good squad has one."

"Timmy, I see you're up to your usual level of wit and audacity," 
said Munch, obviously tiring of the game.  

He tossed down the rest of his coffee and began heading back to 
the other room.  "Now, if you two will excuse me, I hear the 
commanding summons of further details from my Sun paper..."  

Giving Scully a final, impudent wink, he disappeared around the 
corner.

Bayliss looked down at his watch once the other man was gone.  

"It's getting late," he said.  "I wonder how Frank and Mulder are 
faring.  I'd have thought they'd be back by now."

No sooner had the words left his mouth when Scully felt a slight 
rush of movement behind her.  As if on cue, she noticed Bayliss 
look up with an expression of recognition that quickly became 
one of shock and surprise.   Quickly, she turned to face the vision 
of her partner and Pembleton sweeping into the room.

Scully took one look at Mulder's face, drawn and pale.  At the dirt 
marring his cheekbones and the blood streaking down the front of 
his coat.  And at the feverish, burning light in his eyes.  Then, she 
rose quickly, tipping her chair to the floor.

"My god!  Mulder?!"  She moved forward to support him as leaned 
precariously in her direction.  "What the hell happened?"

"Scully," he sighed.

Bayliss was standing now, staring at the other man in alarm as he 
turned to Pembleton with a shocked, questioning glance.

"Are you ok?  What happened?  Are you hurt?  Where does it 
hurt?" said Scully rapidly.

She saw his mouth working, as though he couldn't answer -- only 
listen to the clear, insistent tones of her voice.

"Detective?  What the hell happened to you two out there?" she 
demanded, looking up at Pembleton.

"Scully," Mulder moaned again, reaching out to touch the smooth, 
beautiful planes of her face, twisted now with worry and fear for 
him.  "I saw him," was all he could manage to get out.

"Anubis."

Then, he crumpled to the floor in a heap at her feet.

Scully was down at his side instantly, laying her hand over the 
fiery heat of his forehead.  His breathing was shallow and he did 
not respond to her repeated attempts to rouse him.

"Mulder, can you hear me?" she asked, in a calm, controlled voice 
that belied the fear growing in the pit of her stomach.  God, he was 
white as a ghost.  And his skin felt like a burning ember.  Reaching 
down to grip his wrist, searching for a pulse, she noticed his hand 
was bound with a piece of dirty, blood-soaked cloth.

"Detective Pembleton," Scully repeated, staring at him and 
gesturing toward Mulder's wound.  "For god's sake, tell me what 
happened!"

Before the other man could speak, Munch rounded the corner 
again and nearly ran into her over Mulder's inert form.  By now, 
they had attracted the attention of others in the squad room and a 
crowd was beginning to gather.

"You want me to call for an ambulance?"  Munch asked, 
immediately guessing the severity of the situation.

"Yes.  Now," she replied sharply.

The detective dashed back into the squad room and Pembleton 
stepped forward as Bayliss began herding people back from Scully 
and her partner.

"Ok, people, let's give the guy some air and Agent Scully some 
room to work with."

"Pembleton?" Scully's voice was becoming tighter by the minute.

"I'm not sure what happened," the black detective finally spoke, 
looking at Mulder with an expression of reserved dismay.

"Well, what about his hand?"

Pembleton hunkered down next to her so she would be able to 
hear him better.  "There was a razor blade stuck in the doorknob of 
the place.  He cut himself when we tried to go inside.  I asked him 
then did he want to go to the hospital, but he insisted that he was 
fine."

Scully nodded against the intensity in his black eyes, knowing it 
was exactly how Mulder would have responded.  

"And?" she asked.

"And nothing," he replied, raising his eyebrows.  "It was an 
abandoned rowhouse and we split up to search.  I came upstairs 
after him when I heard him call out.  He was in a bathroom that 
looked more like a slaughterhouse, but he was alone.  He didn't 
appear to be...himself, so I got him the hell out of there.  That's all 
I know."

"Yes, but what did he say?  Didn't he say anything?"

"He kept calling your name."  Pembleton looked around 
uncomfortably.  "He wouldn't let me take him to the hospital.  But 
he kept saying that 'he'd seen it.'"

"What?  He'd seen *what*?"

"I'm damned if I know.  Far as I could tell, it was just the two of us 
there."

Munch came running back and Scully got to her feet, hovering 
protectively over her partner as he told her:  

"The paramedics are on their way up.  I'm assuming you'll want to 
ride with them?"

"Yes."

"And Gee is coming down from a meeting with the brass upstairs," 
Munch went on in a rush.  "We'll probably follow you over to the 
hospital."

Scully looked at him in surprise, then over to Bayliss.

"Just go," said Tim, his expression holding her, steadying her with 
it's reassurance.  "Frank and I will compare notes and follow up 
here.  Then I'll come meet you, let you know what's going on."

"Fine," she said, looking back at Pembleton as a nagging suspicion 
pushed its way to the front of her brain.  "Let me see that razor 
blade."

He pulled the evidence bag from his pocket and handed it to her.

Scully held the sliver of metal up to the light, examining it for a 
moment.  It was shiny, new, without a trace of rust, though it still 
bore a thick smear of the ooze from Mulder's palm.  She could 
tell just by the blade's appearance that it was unlikely his reaction 
was due to blood poisoning.

Anxiously sucking on her lower lip, Scully pondered her best 
course of action.  Going with the paramedics was her first 
priority, but she also needed to determine the source of Mulder's 
perplexing condition.

"Tim," she called suddenly, reaching out to him as he stared down 
at her.  "Give me your notebook and pen."

He handed both over, watching, puzzled, as she bent over a table 
and began scribbling furiously.

"Here."  

She finished writing, searching through the pockets of her suit as 
he took back the notebook.

Just then the paramedics burst into the room, followed by the 
homicide shift commander, Lieutenant Giardello.

Shouting hasty questions to Scully, they rapidly loaded Mulder 
onto a stretcher, preparing to take him down to the waiting 
ambulance.

"Agent Scully, we need to go," Giardello said, gripping her arm and 
escorting her after the EMT's.

"Wait," she said, pulling back and taking out the packet of heroin 
that DeSilva had given them.  Quickly, she stepped up to Bayliss.  
"Send both of these to the address I just gave you for the EAU at 
Quantico."  She handed him both the drug and the bag containing 
the razor blade.  "Send it by courier, the Bureau will cover the 
expense.  And tell them to pay special attention to that blade.  
There may be more to it than meets the eye."

"I'll take care of it," he promised.  "Now get going."

Without another word, Scully flew from the room as Giardello 
and Munch followed in her troubled wake.

*********

>Johns Hopkins Hospital, Critical Care Unit
>48 hours later

A multitude of sounds and scents assaulted her senses as Scully 
struggled to open her eyes and straighten her slumping form in the 
uncomfortable chair.  She squinted slightly, trying to regain her 
bearings as awareness returned.

She was in the hospital.

With Mulder.

"Oh shit," she groaned, extending her arms forward with a bone-
popping stretch.

In answer to the expletive, Scully heard a deep, low chuckle from 
the other side of the room.  Looking over Mulder's motionless 
form, she realized that Giardello was still there with her.  He was 
reading a well-thumbed copy of the previous day's Baltimore Sun, 
but had lowered the paper to gaze at her with a concerned, 
penetrating stare.

Smiling slightly in reassurance, Scully reflected on her situation.  
Mulder had been laid up in the critical care unit for close to 48 
hours with a 104 degree temperature.  And according to the 
hospital's doctor, his secondary symptoms bore a striking 
similarity to the Pharaoh fatalities plaguing the hospital of late.

Dr. Eli Devilbliss had administered both tetanus and hepatitis 
boosters because of the cut on his hand, but neither treatment 
seemed to have any effect on his condition.  Mulder's temperature 
remained dangerously high and he vacillated between moments of 
unconsciousness and periods where he woke up glassy-eyed -- 
screaming and struggling -- seemingly in the grip of powerful 
hallucinations.

Scully knew the trace amounts of scopolamine they'd found in his 
blood would not ordinarily provoke this type of response.  But the 
presence of an unknown substance seemed to be altering its 
effects.

Devilbliss, a young, harried-looking man, with a thin face, longish 
brown hair and deep, soulful eyes, had explained that he felt their 
best course of action was to sit tight and wait.  They knew so little 
about the agent flowing through Mulder's system.  He was 
therefore hesitant to try anything as long as the agent's condition 
remained stable.

For now, they were simply trying to fight the fever and keep him 
as comfortable as possible.

Scully sighed at the thought, scrubbing the heels of her hands over 
her face in frustration.

How many times had she sat by Mulder's bedside like this?

Not knowing what would happen; what to expect.  Hoping, praying, 
that he would return to her in some semblance of his original self 
before whatever crisis had begun.

But this was the first time she'd ever had company throughout the 
entire vigil.  Giardello had remained with her the full 48 hours, 
stoically lending her moral support with nothing more than his 
simple presence.  

Scully knew he was there out of a sense of responsibility.  
Skinner's call had effectively placed her and Mulder under his 
watch.  In a way, they'd become members of the family here in 
Baltimore.  And she sensed he was the type to stand by his people 
no matter what.

She stood, noticing from the corner of her eye that the shift 
commander had returned to his paper.  

Which was another thing.  Ordinarily, she would find the company 
of another person stifling under the circumstances.  But Giardello 
seemed to have an uncanny sense for when she needed the 
reassurance of his voice and when she preferred silence.  At 
times, it was as though he weren't even there.  Yet his sound 
proximity guaranteed she was never alone.

Scully was more grateful for it than she would have expected.  
Already, she'd had to shrug off powerful feelings of guilt about 
Mulder's predicament.  He was her partner.  It was her duty to 
watch his back.  And while she'd been shooting the breeze with 
Tim back at the station house, he'd been falling victim to an 
unknown attacker, alone and in the dark.

In a way, the shift commander's  willingness to stand by her at 
Mulder's side went a long way towards helping her shrug off the 
irrational sense of culpability.  They had been assigned to work 
*with* Baltimore homicide.  That's what she and Mulder had been 
doing.  Unfortunately, her partner had been the one unlucky 
enough to encounter harm in the investigation.  And he hadn't 
really been alone out there, she reminded herself.  Pembleton had 
done the best he could to counteract a potentially life-threatening 
situation.

So here they were, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder.  De facto 
members of the lieutenant's extended clan.

And Giardello wasn't the only one who seemed to feel that way.  
Munch had remained at the hospital for quite a while.  Then Tim 
had stopped by to let her know that he, Pembleton and some 
members of narcotics were busy at work.  Rousting members of 
the Pharaoh crew.  Trying to obtain new leads in the murder 
investigations.  Looking for information on the substance 
currently holding Mulder in thrall.

The Crime Scene Unit had also torn the Fayette rowhouse apart.

Unfortunately, they'd found little more than what Frank reported 
from that first night there.  The blood on the walls of the room 
where Mulder had been discovered was canine -- not human.  And 
there were so many different fingerprints and other pieces of 
trace evidence that it would take weeks to sort through it all.

Which left them exactly nowhere.  Unless they could get a 
member of the crew to talk.

Or, unless Mulder could provide them with something.

But Scully suspected what he would say; what had happened to 
him.  What he *thought* had happened to him.  She had already 
put it all together from both his bizarre ramblings and the medical 
facts surrounding his condition.

God, if only he would just wake up...

And then, as if he could read her thoughts, she sensed him stirring 
on the bed.

In a flash, Scully was at his side, hearing the crackle of the paper 
once again as Giardello sat up to watch her.

"Mulder?" she asked softly, watching his eyelids flutter and 
listening to the raw sound of his efforts to draw a deep breath.

"Mulder, can you hear me?"  

Scully prayed he wouldn't begin to rave and struggle again.  She 
didn't think she could take much more of that.

"Of course, Scully.  Your voice carries," said Mulder weakly.

A smile of absolute relief dawned on her features.

His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the familiar, troubled 
expression on her face.  

"Damn it, Mulder."  Her voice wavered for the briefest of seconds.  
"You had us worried for a while."

He swallowed awkwardly, turning his head to one side and letting 
his entire body relax at the sound of the words.

She was here.  It was going to be all right.

*********

Mulder felt her reach out to grasp his hand.  He flinched, trying to 
block out he pain cutting through his head like a molten blade; 
slashing across every nerve ending of his spine.  Her clear, steady 
voice was like a tonic for the chaos threatening to overwhelm his 
reason.  

God help him, but he could still hear the snarling of the apparition 
hovering over him in the rowhouse bathroom.  Could still see the 
glow of it's greenish gaze.  Feel the rough, relentless pressure of 
the blade pressed to his throat.

Fuck.  

This would never do.  He needed to get control somehow.   

Mulder had seen a lot of mysterious shit in his travels with the X 
files.  Weirder even than a manifestation of an ancient Egyptian 
deity intent on revenge.  But something unknown was working in 
his mind, weakening his defenses, making him feel more 
vulnerable.  Thank god Scully was with him.  With her by his side, 
he could at least convince himself that sanity would eventually 
prevail in his head.

The pain in his temples intensified and Mulder tried to raise a 
hand to his face, only to find his wrists confined.  Panic rose 
inside him for a second, until he felt the cool, soothing touch of 
her fingers on his forearms, unbuckling the restraints smoothly 
and freeing him.

"I'm sorry but we had to do that, Mulder," she explained.  "For your 
own safety as well as the hospital staff's.  You were pretty far out 
of control at some points."

"How long have I been wasted?" he rasped, looking up into the 
steady comfort of her gaze.

"You've been in and out for the last 48 hours.  Although, this 
seems to be your first period of lucidity since they admitted you.  
How do you feel?"

"Pretty goddamn bad," said Mulder, reaching up to touch his 
forehead gingerly.  "Like my entire body has been crushed in a 
vise.  Every little movement is a major effort."

Scully nodded.  "That razor blade that you cut yourself on?  It was 
covered with a type of an exotic drug compound.  Scopolamine 
and some other, unidentified agent.  That's likely what's causing 
the discomfort."

Discomfort?  Scully was certainly up to her usual level of 
understatement.  

In spite of the pain, he managed to smile slightly.

Just then, he noticed a small movement at the foot of the bed.  
Looking away from his partner, Mulder saw Giardello standing, 
looking down at him.

"Lieutenant," he said quietly.

"Agent Mulder," the shift commander replied, watching him 
gravely.  "It's good to see you back in possession of your senses."

Mulder snorted softly.

"I think my presence here is redundant, now.  I'll be waiting in the 
hall if you need me," said Giardello, directing the words to Scully.

Watching her stand and accompany him to the door, Mulder heard 
her say, "Thank you," as the lieutenant turned and left the room.

Then, she returned to his side, placing her fingers over his.  "He 
stayed with me here the whole time.  I think he felt obligated, even 
though I told him it wasn't necessary."  

Scully pressed her lips together tightly for a moment as she 
squeezed his hand.  Then she reached back and pulled the chair 
forward, lowering herself into it.

"Mulder, before I go and get Dr. Devilbliss, I need you to tell me 
what happened in that shooting gallery the other night."

He frowned suddenly, wincing at the resurgent flare of disturbing 
images elicited by her question.

"That is, if you think you can talk about it," she said. 

Mulder nodded briefly, gazing down at his hands.  

"I found a room, upstairs," he began slowly, allowing the 
impressions to wash over him again, even as they seemed to 
amplify the pain in his head.  "There was blood everywhere.  Old, 
dried, in the bathtub, on the floors, painted in patterns on the 
walls."

"What kind of patterns?"

"Hieroglyphs.  Some phrases from the Book of the Dead.  Others I 
didn't recognize."

"They were about fealty," Scully said without thinking.

"What?" he gave her a fierce, probing look.

"The CSU was there," she said quickly.  "They took a lot of 
pictures and Bayliss had one of the curators at the museum look 
over them."

"Fealty," Mulder repeated, retreating back into himself as he 
pondered the concept.  With an effort, he began to pull random 
facts of the case back out of his subconscious, trying to fit this 
new piece somewhere into the puzzle.

"Forget that, for now," Scully pressed him, worrying about his 
obvious state of exhaustion.  "What else happened?  What did you 
see?  You certainly threw the unflappable Frank Pembleton for a 
loop."

Mulder gave a sort of sick smile before continuing.  

"I saw him Scully.  Or *it* if you prefer."

He paused, but she said nothing, apparently waiting for him to go 
on.

"I saw Anubis.  The God of the Dead.  He was there -- in the room 
with me.  At first I thought I was imagining it, but when I tried to 
get out of there, it stopped me.  I thought...I was sure..." he trailed 
off, letting his eyes close.

Scully gripped his hand again.  "Tell me, Mulder."

"I thought he meant to kill me.  To cut out my heart and judge my 
soul."  He glanced up at her hesitantly, meeting her steady gaze.  
"It scared me more than I thought.  I must have lost control.  And 
then Pembleton was there and somehow we were alone."

He could tell from her guarded expression that Scully didn't 
believe his claim about the manifestation being real, but she didn't 
argue.  His condition must be more serious than he thought for 
her to exercise such restraint.

Scully stood suddenly, making a decision.  

"Ok, Mulder.  I'm going to get the attending and let him know your 
status.  Why don't you try to get some rest?"  

She picked up his chart and made a show of looking at it, though 
he guessed she already knew the details by heart.  

"Your fever's still high," she went on, before looking back at him.  
"And I can see the pain is beginning to get to you."

"What the hell *is* this shit?"

Knitting her brows together, Scully hung the chart back at the foot 
of his bed and shook her head.

"The EAU has a sample down at Quantico.  They're working as fast 
as they can.  The same stuff is being used to cut the new heroin 
and it's causing an outbreak of fatal overdoses.  Bayliss and I 
discovered that from narcotics while you and Pembleton were 
gone.  I'm hoping to get some word from the lab in the next 24 
hours."

"Okay," he said weakly, clenching his teeth against the 
excruciating ache now resonating throughout his body.  "Just hold 
off on signing us up for those dance lessons.  I don't think I could 
manage it right now."

She rewarded him with another smile and he closed his eyes, 
willing himself back into the warm, healing well of sleep.

*********

"So?"  Giardello stood as she closed the door gently behind her.

Turning to the lieutenant in the harsh, bright lights of the hospital 
corridor, Scully shrugged her shoulders as the two of them drifted 
down the length of the hall.

"He claims he saw the God of the Dead in the rowhouse.  He didn't 
say it, but I suspect he thinks that's who's responsible for the 
murders."

The shift commander halted, looking away as he raised a hand to 
stroke at his chin thoughtfully.  

"Well, that doesn't help us much," he grated.

"No," she agreed.  "I suspect the drugs in his system combined 
with the near-total level of mental immersion in the research 
material he had that day to create some pretty scary visions.  
Especially after what I've heard about that scene on Fayette."

Giardello nodded reluctantly, just as the attending physician 
walked up to them.

"Dr. Scully?" he asked.

Turning to face him, she recognized the now-familiar, battle-
weary countenance of Eli Devilbliss.  They had already spent a lot 
of time in consultation together over Mulder's condition and 
Scully had developed a healthy dose of respect for the man.  He 
took his job very seriously and the recent flood of overdoses 
seemed to be taking an unusually high toll on his reserve.  

Addicts were piling up in the ER in ever-increasing numbers.  The 
fact that Mulder was pulling through seemed to inspire his hope 
for a solution to the ongoing crisis.

"Agent Mulder has regained consciousness."  Scully crossed her 
arms and headed back in the direction of Mulder's room with the 
doctor as Giardello followed.  "I removed the restraints.  He's still 
in a lot of pain."

"But he was coherent, though?" Devilbliss asked hopefully.  "That's 
what you're saying, right?"

"Yes."

"Then I think it's time to try something,"  he said, leaning against 
the wall next to Mulder's door and looking thoughtful.

"What?"

"I'd like to start him on a regimen of Demerol," said Devilbliss, 
staring at her gravely.  "Before you ask, let me tell you that I think 
Agent Mulder's symptoms are more pronounced than the addicts' 
because he didn't have the benefit of an opiate to take the edge off 
this stuff."

"Yes," Scully interrupted.  "But the addicts are dead now."

Devilbliss frowned.  "I'm not proposing we give him a similar 
dosage of narcotics.  In my opinion, it was exposure to the opiate 
in the nervous system's weakened condition that ultimately caused 
their deaths.  But a small, controlled amount of Demerol 
combined with ibuprofen should ease his discomfort and bring the 
temperature down.  Beyond that, I don't think there's much more 
we can do besides continue to wait and let this stuff work its way 
through his system.  Meanwhile, he's struggling with a 
considerable amount of pain."

Scully turned and walked away for a few steps, raising a hand to 
her forehead and struggling to think beyond the exhaustion 
relentlessly dogging her.  She took a deep breath and fought the 
irrational impulse to cry.  Mulder *was* suffering.  She could tell 
by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice, though he had 
tried valiantly to hide it from her.  Devilbliss's suggestion seemed 
sound, she just wished they knew a little more about what they 
were dealing with. 

"Ok," she said finally, returning to her place beside the shift 
commander and facing the doctor.  "But I want somebody in there 
at all times, monitoring his condition.  At least until he begins 
showing some signs of improvement."

The doctor nodded briefly and entered Mulder's room.
 
Before Scully could follow, the sharp trill of her cell phone 
interrupted and she pulled it out, answering:  

"Scully."

"Dana, it's Tim.  Is Gee there with you?" 

His voice thrummed with subtle, restrained tension and she knew 
immediately that something must have happened.  Looking up at 
the shift commander, she told him, "Yes.  He's standing right 
here."

"Put him on, would you, please?"

Scully handed the phone over reluctantly, wishing that Bayliss 
would have said more.  Perhaps they'd gotten an answer on the 
stuff affecting Mulder.

No, she quickly concluded.  If that were the case, he surely would 
have told her.  It must be something else.  

Scully watched Giardello as he listened intently to the voice on 
the other end of the phone.  He broke in once with a few soft-
spoken inquiries as Tim talked.

"When?  How? and Where are you headed?" were all she could 
make out.

Just then, Devilbliss stuck his head out of Mulder's door, 
beckoning towards her.

"Agent Scully?  He's asking for you."

She caught the lieutenant's eye and he nodded quickly, making a 
gesture towards the room.

Scully gave him a final glance and then headed through the 
doorway.

*********

"Mulder?" he heard her say softly as he opened his eyes.

Scully was standing next to the other doctor.  

God, but it was hard to concentrate

"I take it you've spoken with Dr. Devilbliss," she said, her voice an 
echo in his mind.  "He's going to give you something for the pain.  
But until we find out what we're dealing with here, you need to 
stay strong -- to keep fighting this thing."

Blinking, Mulder lifted his chin weakly in response.  What she 
was saying made sense, but god, he was so fucking tired.

There was a grip along his wrist, followed by a nudge of the IV 
shunt in his hand as the doctor applied the needle.

Mulder gasped as Demerol flowed like warm, liquid gold 
throughout his veins.  With a sigh of relief, he relaxed as the 
throbbing pain in his joints and spine diminished, the headache 
finally beginning to ease.

"Better?" Scully asked, the cool sound of her voice continuing to 
seep into his head as he turned, looking over at her.

"Yes."  

The word hissed out in a long, drawn-out whisper and Mulder 
smiled faintly as the narcotic effect of the painkiller drew him 
into an irresistible reserve of soothing comfort.  At times like 
this, it wasn't hard to understand why people didn't just say no.  But 
that wasn't what he needed to tell her right now.

When she'd left him before, in the room, he realized he wasn't 
alone.  The presence was there, lurking in the dark corners, 
watching.  

Waiting...

He had struggled to keep from crying out as the fear crawled up 
his spine to clutch at the base of his skull.  Blinking furiously, 
Mulder had expected to see the jackal-headed god appearing in 
front of him at any minute.  

It wanted something.  It needed something.  He could sense its 
desire as surely as his own breathing.

They had to find the key -- to understand why the spirit was 
manifesting itself now.  If they didn't, it would simply keep 
judging to satisfy the hunger.  Judging...and killing.
 
"Scully, listen to me," he said, struggling to keep his thoughts 
coherent enough to explain

"Mulder, you need to try and rest now," she said, her voice 
carrying a faint tone of impatience and concern.  

He knew she was worried about his condition.  But this was 
important.

"Wait..."  

Mulder felt the brush of her hand against his forehead and he 
looked up directly into the blue steel of her gaze.  "You...need to 
track down Russell White.  Find out what he knows.  Persuade him 
to tell you somehow."

Scully frowned at the words and shook her head in confusion.

"There's going to be more killings.  I'm sure of it.  White knows 
something about what I saw in that rowhouse.  You need to get to 
him before somebody else dies.  The spirit is out there, still 
looking for souls." 

He trailed off, giving in to the fatigue overwhelming his senses.  

"Scully, don't argue...no time..."

The door opened before she could answer and he heard the low, 
hoarse rasp of the shift commander say:

"There's been another murder."

Mulder nodded as Scully gave him a shocked stare.

"I told you,"  he said softly, surrendering to the beckoning tide of 
unconsciousness.

"I can feel it..."

*********

Scully and the lieutenant moved back into the hallway.

"When?" she asked tensely.  And then, "Is it like the others?"

"I don't have many details," Giardello said, his expression forming 
into a cold mask of anger as he answered her.  "The victim was a 
twelve-year-old girl.  Found in an alley off Lexington.  Apparently 
there are some similarities.  A uniform familiar with the other two 
murders got a hold of Pembleton and they're rolling right now.  
Frank's headed to the crime scene and  Bayliss is on his way over 
here."

Scully looked quickly at the door to Mulder's room, then back to 
the lieutenant.  A jumble of conflicting thoughts and impulses 
raced through her brain.  

The shift commander was instantly aware of her indecision and he 
put a hand on her arm.

"I'd like you to go with Bayliss when he gets here."  

Gee's dark eyes caught hers.  "You know more about the other two 
cases and your experience in forensics will be more helpful than 
me standing over them.  I'll stay here with Agent Mulder."

Silently, she considered his words.  

He was trying to make it easy on her.  To all intents and purposes, 
Giardello was her superior on this investigation and he was 
providing with direction she desperately needed right now. 

"You have the number?" she asked finally as he pressed the phone 
back into her hand.

"Yes."

No sooner did he reply, then she saw Bayliss striding down the 
corridor towards them.

His normally easy-going features were tense, stretched, and his 
eyes looked oddly blank behind the glint of his glasses.  Scully did 
a quick double-take as she noticed the unfamiliar expression, 
wondering for an instant just what exactly he knew about this 
latest murder that they didn't.

"Ready, Gee?" said Bayliss, giving her a quick glance.  

She stared back at him, furrowing her brow questioningly.

"I'm sorry Dana, how's your partner?"  

The words came out in a rush, as though he were ashamed of 
forgetting to ask up-front, but still wanting to get the formality of 
it over with as quickly as possible.

"Better," she said, keeping her reply to a minimum.  "He's sleeping 
at least."

"Agent Scully is going with you, Bayliss," Giardello broke in.  "I'll 
be here if you need to reach me.  And I want to know what the hell 
is going on just as soon as you and Frank have some solid details."

He was barely restraining his anger.  And she knew Bayliss could 
see it too.

This latest murder was not only offensive to Giardello personally, 
it was also likely to cause problems for him upstairs.  Heretofore 
unseen forces would begin to take notice as the death count rose 
and they would be demanding answers.  

"Yes, sir," Bayliss said, obviously used to the routine by now.  

He reached out and drew Scully along, leading her back in the 
direction of the stairs and leaving the lieutenant's ominous 
presence behind.

"Frank should be there by now," he said, staring straight ahead.  
"He'll be waiting for us."

His normally expressive voice was flat and emotionless and she 
wondered if he was always this way when responding to a fresh 
homicide.  It didn't seem in character.  But then, Scully had only 
known him for a short time.

Her mind was working overtime as they reached the waiting 
Cavalier and drove off, trying to analyze Bayliss's behavior.

Finally, she could take it no longer.  

"Tim, what aren't you telling us about this one?"

He gave her a swift look, negotiating the narrow streets and 
beginning the brief trek into the heart of West Baltimore.

"The victim is a child, found with her throat cut.  According to the 
uniform that called us in, there were no indications of the 
complex staging we saw in the Bondurant and Gresham slayings."

"Then what's the connection?" 

Her voice was calm, business-like as she forced herself to 
concentrate only on the details of this latest incident.  That the 
victim was a child made the crime all the more heinous.  But 
getting emotional wouldn't help here.  Instead, it was becoming 
more and more essential to get to the bottom of this infuriatingly 
cryptic investigation.

Tim seemed to share her intensity, his mouth forming into a thin 
line as he glanced up into the rear view mirror.  The reflection of a 
car's headlights cast an eerie bar of light over his strained features 
as he finally answered her question:

"She's been tentatively identified as Kemetha White."

At the sound of the name, Scully's brain flashed back to the 
cramped living room that she, Bayliss and Pembleton had stood in 
just days ago.  Russell White's home.  If she wasn't mistaken, that 
was the name his wife had used when referring to...

"Oh my god," she said suddenly, a horrible understanding dawning 
in her eyes.

"Uh-huh," he replied tightly.

The rest of the drive passed in silence as they finally made it to 
the scene.  

It was yet another of the ubiquitous West Baltimore thoroughfares 
-- lined with repetitive, well-weathered rowhouse structures and 
lit with the harsh chalky glare of street lamps.  Only this time, 
there were disordered patterns of blue and red light from 
emergency vehicles to break up the monotony.

Tim fairly leapt from car in his haste to get out and Scully found 
herself moving at a light jog to catch up with his long strides.

Together, they ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape, 
heading for the crowd surrounding this latest victim.  Uniforms 
were working to keep the neighborhood locals back and Scully 
could see the slim figure of Julianna Cox bent over the body on 
the ground.  Pembleton was hovering, taking copious notes as her 
voice droned on in a dull monologue of medical facts and 
descriptions.

Bayliss made a small sound next to her and Scully glanced up, 
shocked to see the bleak rage and distress painting its way over his 
features.  

He was staring at the small figure laid out on the ground, sprawled 
in a haphazard pile of lifeless limbs.  

At the white flannel nightgown, pulled up roughly, exposing a 
length of thin brown leg.  At the arms, outstretched, as if in 
supplication, ready to embrace a never-to-arrive messiah.  At the 
child's face, mouth slightly agape and glazed eyes staring 
sightlessly up into the night sky.  At the small gold earrings in her 
ears...fingernails coated with chipped pink polish...dark hair pulled 
into a multitude of tiny braids.  

At the slim, vulnerable throat split wide -- raw, red and gaping 
from the cruel slash of some sharp killing instrument.

Blood pooled relentlessly beneath her, soaking the ground and 
weighting the air with its signature copper stink.  Yet apart from 
that lone detail, there was nothing to connect this crime scene to 
the ones they had previously encountered.  No markings on the 
ground, no mutilation of the body -- nothing other than the 
obvious evidence of violent death.

Scully recognized his murmur of barely restrained fury for what it 
was, watching as Pembleton glanced up at the sound.

He stepped forward firmly as Bayliss advanced on the scene, 
holding up his hands and shaking his head.

"No, no, no, Tim."

Pembleton's low cadence was commanding as he intercepted his 
partner.  

"What, Frank?" said Bayliss, thrusting his chin out belligerently.

Scully was hanging back now, crossing her arms and waiting to see 
how the confrontation between the two partners would play out.

"Come on," Tim said, trying to push his way past the other man.

But Pembleton held him off, glaring from beneath knit brows at 
Bayliss's tormented visage.

"Are you telling me to stay away from the scene?  I have a right to 
be here.  I'm a part of this investigation, aren't I?  Just because 
you're the primary, you think you can tell me what to do?"

The various uniforms and crime scene personnel were starting to 
take notice of the two men's dispute.  Scully noticed the individual 
members of the crowd beginning to shuffle about, casting uneasy 
looks in the direction of the homicide detectives.  

There was more going on than met the eye here.  Something about 
this latest slaying was bothering Tim very deeply, and she didn't 
think it was just the mere fact that the victim was somebody they'd 
met before.  

Now, even Cox was looking up towards them, pausing in her 
examination to observe what was happening.

"Go back to the car, Tim," Pembleton was saying slowly, giving the 
other man a slight, but compelling shove.  "Go back and get a hold 
of yourself.  I know what's going on in your head, bunk, but this 
investigation has just taken a rather ungodly turn and I need you 
with all your wits about you."

Before Bayliss could reply, there was a sudden shout from behind 
them on the street.  Sounds of a scuffle followed immediately as 
several uniformed officers attempted to hold back the wild, 
violently raging figure whom Scully instantly recognized as 
Russell White.

"No, motherfucker, NO!" he screamed.

"I'll kill the motherfuckers for this!!  I'll kill them all!  I *told* 
them I didn't say nothin' to nobody and they put this on me?!  My 
baby?!  Fuck!!" he shouted, pushing forward to stand over the 
broken form of his daughter lying prone over the cold ground.

"My baby?!" he repeated in disbelief, voice crackling like broken 
glass along the concrete pavement as he tried to reach out to the 
motionless form of his child.

Scully watched as Cox looked around now in confusion, evidently 
trying to find the best way to regain control of the situation.  The 
ME's eyes lit on Frank and she gestured expressively, raising her 
hands in surrender.  The detective paused, seemingly unsure of 
whom he should be holding off -- White or his partner.

Finally, Frank appeared to make up his mind, giving Bayliss 
another push in the direction of the street as he quickly gestured 
the uniforms forward to help him deal with White.

"Bayliss, you heard what I said," Frank's voice rose over the sound 
of the tussle as he and Scully both stood frozen, helplessly 
watching the solemn tableaux unfolding before them. 

White collapsed into Pembleton's grasp, loud, wracking sobs and 
screams of denial shattering the air around the crime scene as two 
other cops struggled to pull him to a standing position.

"Russell," Scully listened to Frank's cold, controlled voice, cutting 
through the other man's anguished, incoherent pleas.  "Russell, 
listen to me.  I want to know what's happening, you hear me?  
We're going to go downtown and have a talk about this.  I strongly 
urge you to cooperate if you want to help me find whoever killed 
your little girl.  These men will escort you--"

The rest of the words were lost as she felt Bayliss suddenly spin 
and brush past her, moving rapidly in the direction of the street 
and the car.

Watching the bizarre drama with the dealer for another quick 
second, Scully looked over her shoulder at Tim before making up 
her mind and following him.

She found Bayliss seated in the Cavalier, slumped over, forehead 
resting heavily on the steering wheel as he drew in deep, steady 
breaths.

Scully opened the door and slid in next to him, reaching out to 
touch his shoulder gently.

"Tim?" she asked softly, fingers pressing into the taut muscles of 
his upper arm.

Bayliss made a small, incoherent whimper of helplessness that cut 
her to the bone, a fierce tremor ripping through his body.

"Fucking animals," he said bleakly, turning his head slightly.

"Killing fucking children."

"I know," Scully said quickly, watching as his lower lip quivered 
slightly with the strength of his emotions. Without thinking, she 
reached up to lay her palm along the side of his face.

She wondered at the forcefulness of his reaction.  As a homicide 
detective in one of the country's most violent urban centers, he 
surely must have run across cases involving slain children 
countless times.  She would have expected his reaction to be more 
like his partner's -- cold, calm, and utterly detached.

But, as the scene outside had just demonstrated, that didn't seem 
to be the case.  And Scully could literally feel his desperation and 
misery snapping in the closed space of the car like the angry 
stroke of a whip.

Tim reached up suddenly, grasping her wrist and clutching her 
hand to his face, turning his head to brush his mouth across her 
palm lightly.

She gasped at the sensation, eyes widening at the look of absolute 
need blazing in his expression.

Without warning, Bayliss released her wrist and slid a hand along 
the back of her head, pulling her towards him.

Scully drew a deep breath when he paused ever-so-slightly in his 
movements.  

Then, he touched his forehead lightly to hers and nuzzled her 
cheek with the tip of his nose, his mouth a mere fraction away 
from a union with her own.  She could feel the soft, moist warmth 
of his breath and hear a faint sigh of longing escaping his throat.

Without even thinking, she took the next step -- covering the 
infinitesimal distance stretching between them to press her lips 
against his.

The kiss quickly became fierce -- utterly compelling, and Scully 
found herself struggling for control as she unwittingly responded 
to the urgency bleeding from his very soul.

Her eyes drifted shut as the sights and sounds from the drama of 
violent death seemed to fade away.   For a while, it was as though 
she and Bayliss were closed off, completely centered on each 
other.

Slowly, Tim decreased the pressure of his grip and softened the 
movement of his mouth against hers.  She sensed the tension in 
his limbs easing even as his hand gradually drifted into the curve 
of her neck, thumb stroking delicately into the sensitive hollow 
beneath her jaw.

With a soft sound vibrating in her throat, Scully felt him tease her 
lower lip, seeking entry.  She opened her mouth, inviting him 
inside.

His tongue glided smoothly against hers, stroking between her 
teeth with a gentle, restrained movement.

Scully's heightened senses registered the lingering scent of 
English Leather on his skin coupled with his own subdued, 
uniquely male essence.  His taste was dark, a harsh bouquet of 
desperation and need.  She drew on his mouth like an epicure 
savoring the bitter vintage of his distress.

Desire exploded inside her.  Intense.  Tracing pathways in her 
blood that were so long dormant, Scully had almost forgotten they 
existed.  A soothing, languorous feeling invaded her limbs, 
spreading in concert with the insidious warmth between her legs.  
She was so tempted to yield; to give in to the stormy sea of hunger 
assaulting her senses.

Inevitably, his blatant despair overwhelmed her, driving her back 
into self-awareness.  She responded to the shift by opening her 
eyes, suddenly realizing just exactly what was happening and 
where they were. 

Scully stiffened slightly and Tim released her, immediately 
sensing the budding resistance in her demeanor.

With a broken sigh, he lifted a shaking hand to his mouth, turning 
away from her to face the window with utter hopelessness.

Meanwhile, she struggled for composure, willing her heart rate to 
return to normal and struggling to restore her breathing to a steady 
pace.  

And then the recriminations came.

Scully glanced down at her hands lying limply in her lap, shame 
firing her cheeks as she tried to reason with herself about what 
had just happened.  Professional, cool detachment was her 
hallmark -- she wore it like a shield, but somehow when Tim had 
looked at her with such absolute grief, something inside her 
couldn't help responding...

Which was a good goddamn rationalization.  

But what would a bystander have thought?  Or one of the police 
personnel drifting about outside?

Or Mulder?

The last question shattered into her consciousness and Scully 
blanched.  The image of her partner lying helpless in the hospital 
brought with it a renewed flood of guilt.  She instantly made a 
commitment to herself that no matter what else happened, Mulder 
*wouldn't* find out what just happened.

"I'm sorry," Bayliss's low voice cut through her ruminations, 
recalling her attention to the drab interior of the unmarked 
Cavalier and the situation now confronting them.

Life really was a goddamned TV drama.  

The minutes stretched as Scully observed him discreetly, letting 
her sense of clinical detachment regain supremacy over her 
attitude.  He was staring at the frantic activity of the crime scene 
through the window, one hand absently gripping the steering wheel 
in front of him.

"You want to tell me what just happened here, Bayliss?" she asked 
quietly. 

He turned abruptly, responding to her inquiry with a slightly 
abashed look and reaching out to grasp her hand.  Then, he seemed 
to think better of it and pulled away, leaning his head back against 
the seat.

"Her name was Adena Watson," he said, so softly that Scully had 
to strain to hear him properly.

The comment confused her.  The body outside was Russell 
White's daughter, Kemetha.  There could be no doubt, in light of 
the man's response at the crime scene.  So what the hell was Tim 
talking about?

Before she could ask, he said:

"It was my first investigation as a primary after I transferred to 
homicide five years ago.  Adena Watson.  She was twelve years 
old.  Raped, murdered and mutilated.  The case was never closed."

Scully saw him tip his head down in defeat, swallowing 
convulsively, trying to restrain the overwhelming flood of 
emotion.  He drew a shaking breath, looking up again into her 
eyes, pleading with her for understanding.  

"Ever since then, I sometimes have...difficulty with cases like this.  
Frank knows.  I guess he was right to send me off to my room 
without supper tonight..." 

Trailing off with a self-mocking tone, Bayliss shook his head and 
closed his eyes as Scully continued to regard him thoughtfully.

"In any case, that doesn't excuse my behavior here," he said after a 
while.  "I can only apologize and promise that I won't do anything 
more to jeopardize our professional relationship in this 
investigation."

Scully drew a short breath, mulling over what he had just told her 
and trying to suppress the resurgent image of the two of them in 
an intimate embrace.  

At least he had an excuse.  It was more than what she could 
console herself with.

"I think I understand," she said, shoving her own confused feelings 
aside and  reaching out to cover his hand with her own, letting him 
know that things were ok.  Unfortunately, she was going to have a 
much more difficult time forgiving *herself* for the momentary 
lapse of reason.

Silence descended on them, weighty and oppressive, and Scully 
felt a sudden, desperate need to get back to the crime scene; to 
immerse herself in the ordered execution of processing the 
evidence.  At least that way she wouldn't have to feel so damn 
confused. 

Just as she was ready to assert herself, Tim began speaking in a 
voice that more closely resembled the resolute tone she was 
familiar with.

"So, it seems the Pharaoh was intent on making an example 
tonight."

"It appears that way," she said, relieved that they seemed to be back 
on safe ground.  "And Russell certainly got the message."

"Uh-huh."

The two of them glanced toward the street in unison, watching as 
three uniforms hustled a still-struggling Russell White away from 
the scene and into a waiting squad car.  

"Looks like they're taking him in." Bayliss remarked absently.  
"It'll be interesting to see what he has to say this time."

"I can imagine," said Scully, thinking back to Mulder's words at the 
hospital.  That White's knowledge was the key.

Mulder.

Shit.

She forced herself to block out the image of him at the mercy of 
an unknown trauma and thought only about his warning.

"Mulder told me at the hospital that he thought we should talk with 
White again.  He said Russell could tell us what we need to know 
about these murders.  Of course, we had no idea then what was 
going down here tonight."

Or *had* he? 

Scully cursed inwardly, remembering the spooky tone in his voice 
when he'd told her, "I can feel it."

"Well," said Bayliss, "we should really get out there and give Frank 
a hand.  I guarantee the pressure to solve this case is going to go 
through the roof if we find out this latest killing has anything to do 
with the others."

"There's got to be a connection," Scully commented absently, 
trying to reconcile the idea with facts they'd already uncovered.

The girl's throat had been cut, just like the other two victims.  She 
was intimately related to one of the principal suspects.  And her 
body had been found in the same general vicinity as the other 
homicides.

The elaborate staging missing in her case was deeply disturbing 
simply because it constituted a break in the pattern.  

Still, it was possible that there was a legitimate explanation.  

Perhaps something had interrupted the killer.

Right.

Unfortunately, Scully suspected that the differences *were* more 
significant than anyone gave them credit for.  

Their work in closing this series of murders was surely far from 
over with.

Bayliss seemed to share her silent conclusions, for he met her 
eyes and gestured in the direction of the emergency personnel.

Without another word, they exited the car, heading back into the 
controlled chaos waiting for them.

*********

"Remember when I used to play for
      all of the loneliness that nobody
      notices now
I'm begging slow I'm coming here
Only waiting I wanted to stay
I wanted to play
      I wanted to love you

I'm only this far
And only tomorrow leads my way"
-- Dave Matthews Band, '#41'

*********

He looked so peaceful when he was sleeping.
 
All that intergalactic fusion of intellectual energy and creativity 
settled to a serene, tranquil halt.

For a little while.

Scully watched Mulder's quiet form in the now-familiar confines 
of the critical care unit, eyeing the steady rise and fall of his chest 
beneath the blanket.  She had stopped back at the hospital after 
spending the last three hours at the Lexington crime scene with 
Frank and Tim.

On her arrival, Dr. Devilbliss had reported that Mulder's condition 
appeared to be improving by the hour.  Evidently, he'd reached 
some critical point upon regaining consciousness, because the 
mysterious bio-agent was now steadily receding from his system.

The doctor had assured her the fever was down and Mulder was 
finally resting comfortably with the aid of painkillers.  He seemed 
hopeful that it wouldn't be long until her partner was back to his 
old self.

Of course, they still needed to determine what had caused the 
crisis in the first place.  Though Mulder was better, ever-
increasing numbers of overdosing Pharaoh addicts continued to 
trouble the ER.  And there was no way to determine whether there 
would be any *long-term* effects on his system from exposure to 
the unknown substance.

Scully knew that the EAU was working as quickly as they could to 
find an answer for her, but as of now, she had no further 
information.

And so, leaving the attending physician to his other patients, 
Scully decided to look in on her partner.

Mulder seemed content, lying asleep in the bed, even though he 
continued to wear a heart monitor and a collection of sundry IV's.  
His color had returned, and while she could see dark smudges 
beneath his eyes, his breathing at least appeared normal.

Sinking into the opposite chair slowly, Scully stole a few 
moments to study the fascinating planes and shadows of her 
partner's face, her own expression unfathomable.

In a heartbeat, she was back in the car with Tim at the crime scene, 
quivering with the flood of emotion let loose within his embrace.

On the way to the hospital, Scully had attempted to come to terms 
with her actions.  Tim had needed solace, and she had provided it.  
In a roundabout way, it wasn't *that* much different from what she 
did for Mulder under similar stressful situations.  Bayliss's Adena 
Watson wasn't too far removed from Mulder's Lucy Householder 
or Addie Sparks.  

A clasp of the hand, a faint hug, a ruffle of the hair.   

A kiss.

Would she extend a similar comfort if Mulder had ever indicated 
that he needed it?

What a question.  

And one that would never need to be answered.  Not the way their 
partnership worked.  Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe not.

In any case, she determined to put the incident from her mind, 
knowing that Bayliss would do the same.  Her experience with him 
and Frank at the crime scene had effectively quashed any lingering 
doubt she'd had about his ability to function professionally in the 
investigation.

Under Pembleton's discreet direction, Bayliss had calmly and 
coolly interviewed witnesses, working to coordinate the efforts of 
the patrolmen and assisting the CSU when needed.

Never mind the occasional glance at Scully that let her know he 
was aware of her presence every step of the way.  Bayliss was 
back on the job and so was she.  There was a killer to be caught 
and precious little time to do it.

Eventually, he and Frank departed the scene, heading downtown to 
confront the bundle of shock and grief that was Russell White.  
Scully, on the other hand, had chosen to decamp for the hospital.  
Somehow, she *needed* to see Mulder; to know that he was all 
right, that he was still himself.  

And that she was still *herself*. 

Now, here he was, resting, on the road to recovery and soon to be 
back in action at her side.  Part of her felt inordinately relieved at 
the thought, while another simply struggled with the confusion 
inside her head.

Goddamn exhausting was what it was.

Exhaling softly, she stood and gathered her things, pausing one 
last time to reach out and slide her fingers gently through his hair. 

Still mired in sleep, he smiled and sighed her name softly.

Scully's brow furrowed at the sound and she held herself 
motionless, hand resting lightly along the warmth of his upper 
arm.

Then, pressing her lips together with determination, she 
straightened and headed quietly from the room.

*********

>Johns Hopkins Hospital
>48 Hours Later

Mulder sat propped up, clad in a loose-fitting blue scrub shirt, 
ignoring the muted drone of the Knicks game rumbling steadily 
from the corner TV.  Blowing out his breath in a long hiss, he 
raked his fingers over the unruly strands of his hair.  

A flurry of individual reports and folders were scattered atop his 
lap and along every available space on the bed.  The disheveled 
mass of paperwork was interspersed with several crime scene 
photographs and a few battered texts thrown in for good measure.

In his hands, he held the thick transcript from the latest interview 
with Russell White -- the one conducted after the police found his 
daughter brutally murdered.  The soft fluorescent glare of the 
overhead light glinted off his glasses as he flipped through the 
pages.

Ever since regaining consciousness two days ago, his condition 
had been steadily improving.  Dr. Devilbliss's recommended 
Demerol regimen had done a great deal to ease his transition back 
to normal feeling and they were now in the process of weaning 
him completely off the drugs.  And the last blood work-up 
indicated that the unknown, destructive agent had nearly dissipated 
from his system.  

Apart from an occasional bad dream, Mulder was no longer 
bothered by mind-blowing nightmare visions.

But they still didn't know the reason for his malaise -- a factor that 
caused Devilbliss no small distress.  Because the overdoses were 
still ongoing and there seemed to be no end in sight for the 
hospital.

Or the fiends on the street -- unable to resist the call of Pharaoh.

Mulder stared off into space for a moment, pulling absently at the 
IV snaking from the back of his hand.  

He wanted to get the hell out of this hospital.  It was time.  He was 
practically useless in the ongoing investigation and he certainly 
*felt* able to get back on his feet.  The forced downtime was 
making him antsy as hell and he wished his partner were there to 
help offset his restless impulses.

Idly, he mused over Scully's continued absence.  She'd been there 
but a few times since he'd come out of his delirium, dutifully 
bringing him reports and other materials he'd requested as part of 
his work on the case.

But each time she'd appeared, their interaction seemed awkward, 
as though there'd been something on her mind.  He'd assumed it 
had to do with her anxiety over his being in the hospital, but now 
that it had gone on for two whole days, he wasn't so sure.

Could it be...was it possible she was *avoiding* him?

Mulder wracked his brain, unable to pin down a single reason why 
she would do that.

In any case, it wasn't as though he'd been abandoned at the hospital.  
Lieutenant Giardello had spent a great deal of time keeping him 
company, and today, even Munch had made an appearance.

Mulder grimaced at the thought of the salt-and-pepper-haired 
detective.  It seemed Munch had finally remembered their 
previous encounter, eight years before, when they'd found him 
insensible -- naked and raving -- with Langly, Frohicke and Byers 
in that god-forsaken warehouse on the east side.

Unable to restrain his amusement, Munch had recounted his 
version of the incident, detail by detail, with absolutely no 
compassion whatsoever for Mulder's obvious discomfiture.

Embarrassed or no, Mulder *did* have to admit that the man was 
damned funny at telling a story.  He had caught himself laughing 
several times at the memories, in spite of the somewhat lurid 
circumstances.

Nonetheless, it was a relief when one of the better looking nurses 
had come in to draw blood an hour ago, inspiring Munch to 
manufacture some lame excuse for following her when she left 
the room.

Now, he was finally alone; free to go over the latest details of the 
investigation.  

By himself.

Goddamn it.

Where was Scully and why was she doing this?

He didn't really have the time to waste puzzling over her strange 
conduct.  There was a brutal repeat killer out there somewhere, 
needing to be apprehended.  And with what he suspected, the more 
time it took to resolve this series of murders, the more deaths 
were likely to accumulate. 

Mulder frowned, taking a deep breath and trying to control his 
frustration.

To be fair, Scully was working the case very closely with the 
homicide squad and keeping him meticulously informed of their 
progress -- acting as the conduit between him and the detectives.  
And he was grateful for it.  Further deliberation over her recent 
behavior was as useless to the case as it was mysterious, and 
Mulder made up his mind to ignore it.  

Instead, he stared once again at the typed report of White's 
interview -- a veritable font of information that managed both to 
clarify and confuse the existing facts of the investigation.  

It seemed the dealer had been willing to give up everything he 
knew about the Pharaoh organization in a fit of rage and grief over 
his daughter's death.  In exchange, the Baltimore P.D. had 
committed to protecting him and his family from further acts of 
retribution.

At first glance, it looked as though White's affidavit supported the 
police's theory that the murders were the result of internal 
discipline on the part of the Pharaoh crew.  

At least in the case of his daughter, Kemetha.

It was a sociologist's wet dream, Mulder thought dryly, scanning 
and processing all the details surrounding the organization.

The man in charge apparently had set out to bring order to the 
chaotic, uncivilized aspects of dope slinging in West Baltimore.  
He was one Ibrahaim Omar, known on the street only as Pharaoh.  

A player from the harder, more established world of DC 
trafficking, he demanded utter loyalty from the underlings on his 
crew.  The pattern was to engage in secret initiation rites and 
bizarre ceremonies in an attempt to convince his personnel of the 
serious nature of the organization -- to draw them into an 
immutable commitment.  

He and Pembleton had stumbled upon those remnants in the 
abandoned Fayette shooting gallery.  The room with the blood and 
hieroglyphs was evidently where the crew conducted its rites of 
passage.

And if those rituals weren't enough to instill loyalty, it seemed a 
few well-placed killings here and there were.  

The crew's signature method wasn't the typical street assassination 
by firearm.  Apparently, that was too mundane for their purposes.  
Instead, they cut their victims' throats. 

How clever, Mulder thought sarcastically, continuing to read the 
report with a kind of morbid fascination.

According to White, the crew had deemed the Fayette location to 
be untouchable by outsiders or any other type of authority.  And 
Mulder's presence, along with Pembleton, was what had provoked 
the attack on his family.  

Kemetha's murder, White claimed, was nothing more than an act 
of retribution for his supposed betrayal of the organization to the 
law.

In the transcript, he said he'd been unable to convince his 
superiors with the crew that he'd given no information to the 
police.  And then knowing he was in deep trouble, White had made 
his way home in an attempt to protect his wife and children.

By then it was too late -- Kemetha was gone.

Mulder stopped reading for a moment, reflecting on the details of 
White's narrative.  

Until now, there'd been so much the Baltimore narcotics squad 
couldn't confirm about the Pharaoh crew.  But now, this dealer's 
testimony looked solid enough to finally lay the groundwork for 
conspiracy and murder charges.

Which would close the case on Kemetha's death but led them 
exactly nowhere in trying to determine the motivation behind the 
slayings of Bondurant and Gresham. 

The single most compelling aspect of White's affidavit was that he 
steadfastly refused to lay the blame for the murders of the two 
slingers at Pharaoh's door.

In reading the report, Mulder strongly suspected the police had 
put great pressure on White to do so.  But the dealer had refused, 
saying only that the word on the street was that somebody, or 
some*thing*, else was responsible.  

The God of the Dead. 

Not the organization.  Not disgruntled customers.  Not competing 
slingers.  

Just...the God of the Dead.

Mulder was convinced now more than ever that Scully and the two 
homicide detectives were following the wrong path in the 
investigation.

The Pharaoh crew was not behind these killings.  

Unquestionably, they were responsible for the ongoing deaths of 
dozens of addicts.  For that reason alone, the organization needed 
to be jacked up and brought before the law.

But the overdoses weren't his concern.  The ritual slayings 
*were*.  As was the open case from twenty years ago.  

And Mulder believed every word of the growing legend on the 
street about Anubis.  

The God of the Dead.  

He had seen the spirit himself, in that abandoned rowhouse.  

The connection to the drug ring was incidental.  Or perhaps they'd 
called forth something in that blood-soaked chamber that they 
couldn't understand, much less control.

Either way, it had to be stopped.

Frowning, he reached for one of the battered books near the foot 
of the bed just as the door opened.

Mulder smiled as he spied the welcome sight of his partner 
slipping into the room, instantly forgetting his earlier annoyance 
over her absence.

She met his eyes, moving into the light and returning his smile 
with a softly spoken, "Hi."

"Scully," he said, setting the transcript down letting himself relax 
into the pillows propped behind him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, settling into her usual spot next 
to his bed.

"Ok, actually.  Ready to get the hell out of this place."

Scully nodded sympathetically, reaching over to pick up his chart.

"From what the doctor says, it shouldn't be too much longer."  

"Yeah, well I've already gotten all the nurses' phone numbers, so 
there really isn't that much point in me sticking around."

He had intended the words as a joke, but Scully flushed at the 
statement and looked away, her eyes hazing over into a vacant 
stare.

What the hell? 

Mulder felt uneasiness begin to creep up as he studied her remote 
expression.

"Scully?"

She twisted her head back in his direction, shooting him a 
momentary troubled look before returning to the chart in her lap.

"Sorry, Mulder.  I was just thinking about something."

Obviously.

An ugly memory surfaced suddenly from his subconscious:

He was back at the Waterfront Bar with Pembleton, watching 
Bayliss resting his hands on Scully's hips, leaning over to whisper 
in her ear...

Was that what was going on?  The cause of her distraction?  She 
and the detective were working together fairly closely on this 
investigation.

The acrid taste of anger and something less clearly defined rose 
bitterly in Mulder's throat -- as stinging as it was irrational.  

A brooding, oppressive silence swelled between the two partners, 
which Scully tried to offset by flipping the pages on his hospital 
chart.

"Don't bother," Mulder snapped, hurt and resentment beginning to 
show in spite of his attempts to maintain an indifferent attitude.  
"Dr. Devilbliss has been kind enough to check in periodically and 
tell me everything I need to know about my condition."

The implication that Scully had failed to do so herself was crystal 
clear and she let the chart fall with a clatter to the floor, stung by 
the tone and his words.

Her gaze clashed with his as the minutes stretched on, both 
refusing to give any quarter in the unspoken disagreement.

Then, Scully blinked first, breaking the heavy silence by asking, 
"Just what the hell is that supposed to mean, Mulder?"

In a flash, his anger suddenly dispersed, leaving him drained.  All 
that remained was a sort of disquieted feeling, coupled with a 
more nebulous sense of apprehension.

"Look, we don't have time for this," Mulder finally said, pulling off 
his glasses and rubbing at his eyes wearily.

He knew there was no excuse for his caustic treatment of her.  But 
Scully, ever the dutiful partner, was ready to make allowances 
where his conduct was concerned.

"I see you've been resting," she commented dryly, indicating the 
piles of reports covering the bed.

Mulder felt a surge of relief at her words, recognizing the 
comment for what it was -- a peace offering.

"Yeah, well, you know me.  I haven't sat still for this long since the 
Star Wars Trilogy was re-released."

She smiled, and for the first time he noticed that she held a thick 
file in her hands.  Before he could inquire as to the contents, she 
said:

"So, any new theories about the ongoing investigation?"

"You mean besides the one about you guys being wrong for 
pursuing these as narcotics-related murders?"

Scully blinked for a moment, as if trying to decide how to 
respond.

"Mulder, how can you say that after you've seen for yourself the 
evidence we've acquired?"  Her exasperation was obvious.  "I 
mean, you read the transcript of Russell White's interview.  Hell, 
*you* suggested he knew more than he was telling in the first 
place.  Yes, he refused to implicate the crew in the murders of 
Bondurant and Gresham, but the impetus is clear."

"Just how is it clear, Scully?"  he said, feigning confusion as he 
held her resolute stare with a steely glance of his own.  "Russell 
didn't provide you with anything resembling motive or 
opportunity."

Scully responded with an annoyed sigh.  "Look, you read about the 
crew's code of silence and their obsession with loyalty.  Those 
two dealers probably said or did something to violate their..." she 
struggled for the word.

"Oath," he supplied for her quietly.

"Right.  Oath.  Or whatever."

"And yet you have absolutely no proof or even a whisper of 
culpability from your witnesses to support that theory."  Mulder's 
voice was utterly determined, now.  "The very idea is nothing more 
than supposition on your part and that of the police."

"Well, go ahead and tell me what you think it is then."

He turned away from her growing irritation for a moment before 
drawing a deep breath.  "I already told you.  I think we're seeing a 
manifestation of the supernatural here."

"Mulder--" she began, before he cut her off abruptly.

"I know what I saw, Scully."

"Mulder," she said again, re-capturing his gaze and holding it with a 
firm look.  "There's something I think you should know about that.  
It's one of the reasons why I'm here."

He raised his eyebrows, saying nothing.

"I got the report back from the EAU today.  They've determined 
exactly what it is in the sample we sent them.  I think it goes a 
long way to explaining just exactly what you saw in that 
rowhouse."  

Scully paused, allowing her words to settle.

"And?"

"The substance on that razor blade and in the heroin is a synthetic 
neurotoxin.  A derivative of cobra venom.  It has a direct, 
immediate effect on the central nervous system.  I'm sure you're 
familiar with the symptoms -- labored breathing, rapid heart rate, 
headache, deep muscle pain." 

When he didn't answer, she continued, "It also increases the brain's 
susceptibility to the effects of other external agents."

Mulder began to shake his head, ignoring her explanation.

It didn't matter what she was saying.  He knew what he saw.

"Mulder, it doesn't just have to be something invasive, like a drug.  
The brain may react more strongly to other outside stimuli under 
the influence of this substance -- such as intense study of a visual 
or written medium."

Bullshit.

He opened his mouth to speak:

"So what you're saying is that this toxic agent -- combined with the 
scopolamine and a day's work in the library studying Egyptian 
mythology -- combined to make me delusional."

She nodded, staring at him.

"And you want me to believe that I wasn't assaulted in that 
bathroom?  That this was all some bizarre fucking fantasy??"

"It's the most scientific explanation," she said.

"And these ritual slayings -- the elaborate preparation and 
symbolism -- that's just a rogue narcotics distributor trying to 
teach a lesson?"

"Yes," Scully replied, some of the confidence beginning to 
dissipate from her tone.

And Mulder found himself royally pissed at the assertion -- 
feeling compelled to state the obvious:

"Never mind that we have no testimony to support that, even from 
a witness who had every reason to provide it.  And forget the fact 
that the staging of both homicides doesn't fit the description of 
these traffickers' usual modus operandi."

"Their throats were cut," she interrupted, clearly on the defensive.

"But that's *all*, Scully," Mulder said witheringly.  "You read the 
report on the White slaying.  According to the coroner, the 
murder weapon was a straight razor -- nothing like the instrument 
that's suspected in the ritual murders."

Scully frowned, the spark of her own anger becoming obvious as a 
result of the discrepancies he so blithely called to her attention.  

"And your point is?"

"I'm saying the most *obvious* explanation for the differences in 
the third slaying is that we have a *different* killer."

Christ, but he despised it when she narrowed her own perspective 
to support a weak theory.  

God *damn* it -- couldn't she see??

"I think Russell is telling the truth and his daughter was the victim 
of a campaign against him," he went on.  "But the killings of the 
other two victims are the result of another, totally different thing."

"Even if you're right, Mulder, that still doesn't support the theory 
that there's something otherworldly involved here!"  

Scully stopped, as though shocked at the sudden loudness of her 
own voice.

And Mulder didn't reply, fighting a similar response to her 
resistance.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again.  

"Mulder, even if we are dealing with different perpetrators here, I 
think you need to at least consider one thing.  Your speculation 
about this being a supernatural manifestation is based solely on 
perceptions that you had while under the influence of drugs and 
what we now know to be a very potent bio-toxin.  That fact alone 
should cause you to re-examine your beliefs as to who or what is 
really responsible for those boys' deaths."

The minutes slipped past in total silence as Mulder's expression 
lost its intensity -- as what she'd just said finally began to 
penetrate.  Then, he leaned forward slightly, beginning to stack 
together the paperwork and reports on the bed.

Scully seemed to recognize the rare, split-second look of defeat 
marring his features, because she reached out, touching his hand. 

"Look, Mulder, I need to track down Dr. Devilbliss and explain 
this analysis."  

She hesitated, indicating the file of reports from the EAU sitting 
in her lap.

"Uh-huh," he said, refusing to look up at her and continuing with 
his task.

"This information might be helpful in his treatment of the 
overdoses," Scully said slowly, as though searching for some way 
to ease the tension, to make it easier for him.

"Right."

Mulder felt the word like a lit charcoal searing the roof of his 
mouth.  A consolation prize from Scully was the last thing he 
needed right now.

In fact, it would be better all around if she would just leave him 
the fuck alone to figure out this piece-of-shit case.

"I'll talk to him about a possible discharge and look in on you 
later?" she offered finally, still uncertain.

"Great, thanks," he said, meeting her eyes with a remote attitude 
that smacked of dismissal.

Scully read his closed expression like the open book it was.  
Without another word, she stood and gathered up her things.  

For a moment, she stepped toward the bed -- toward him.  

Then, obviously changing her mind, she headed for the door 
instead.

"I'll catch up with you in a little while,"  she said, keeping her voice 
carefully neutral.

"Whatever."

And then, giving him a final, long look of regret, Scully turned and 
left without another word.

*********

"Fuck."

Mulder spoke the word aloud, savoring the harsh taste of the 
abrupt syllable on his tongue.

He leaned back, amid the neatly stacked piles of evidence reports, 
photos and research materials and quickly took stock of the 
situation.

Trust Scully to fuck up a perfectly good extreme hypothesis.

He stared at the closed door -- the only evidence of her sudden 
departure.

"Fuck."  

He just *hated* when this happened.

Much as he wanted to stick to his original theory, Mulder was no 
fool.  Scully made him work hard, but he couldn't deny the logic 
of her reasoning.  

Of course, he had derived a perverse pleasure by highlighting all 
the inconsistencies in her suppositions.  But he was also aware 
that there was precious little solid proof to support his own idea -- 
especially in light of the EAU's discovery at Quantico.

Leave it up to an imaginative narcotics entrepreneur to begin 
feeding cobra venom to dope fiends on the inner city streets.  The 
fact the it might be lethal was incidental as long as a fresh crop of 
addicts continued to line up at the corners, desperate for a new fix 
of the stuff.

Mulder exhaled softly, leaning back and staring vacantly up at the 
overhead light fixture.  Though he might prefer to concentrate 
solely on the ritual slayings, he couldn't help being revolted by the 
entire concept of Pharaoh -- the crew and its product.

People were *dying*.

And having fallen victim to a version of the same shit himself, 
Mulder knew it wasn't an easy or pleasant way to kick off.  Hell, 
he'd been lucky to survive the encounter with his sanity intact.

He hoped the Baltimore P.D. would find a way to put the bastard 
out of business.  This investigation would be worth it for that, if 
nothing else.  A lot of lives depended on it.

But were Vincent Bondurant and Stanley Gresham murdered for 
the organization's benefit?  

No.  

It simply didn't fit in with the known facts about the crew and its 
methods.

Well, the fucking party was over with now.  He could no longer 
depend on his own perceptions of the scene in the Fayette 
rowhouse.  

It was time to dig though the sea of evidence and try to discern 
other possible motives and suspects in the deaths of the two 
dealers.

Mulder reached forward for a stack of reports, beginning with the 
old X file and those of the two most recent murders.  

Time to get back to basics.

Looking to the door apprehensively, he reached for his glasses.  
There was a great deal of work ahead and he fully expected to see 
Dr. Devilbliss come swooping in like some bizarre sending of 
Florence Nightingale, demanding to know why he wasn't getting 
any rest.

It was a confrontation he'd just as soon avoid, since the recent 
scene with Scully had been more than enough to wipe him out.

Mulder flipped through the old X file, willing himself to shut out 
the distractions and  forcing his brain into hyperdrive as he picked 
out the facts from the former investigation.

A single murder -- very much like the two Baltimore slayings, but 
with significant differences.  No scarab had been found on the 
body, though the heart had been cut out.  And the victim had been a 
white male, slashed and trussed like Bondurant and Gresham, but 
not laid out on any type of chalk drawing.  There was no mention 
of an eye or any symbol appearing at the scene in blood or 
otherwise, and actually, Mulder doubted it had been there.  

In fact, he suspected the Pharaoh crew was responsible for the eye 
on the wall at the Bondurant crime scene.  Probably as a means for 
marking territory in their penchant for rampant symbolism.  Still, 
he doubted it was a coincidence that the body had been found 
beneath it.

He glanced quickly at a snapshot of Bondurant's mutilated corpse 
and felt a ripple of awareness drift along the length of his spine.

The answer was in the original file.  It *had* to be.

In the DC murder, the alleged perpetrator was a black male, early 
thirties, with no identification.  And he'd supposedly disappeared 
without a trace from police custody.

But details of the interrogation were scarce and Mulder tossed the 
sheaf of papers aside in annoyance.  From what he could tell, the 
DC cops couldn't wait to pass it off to the FBI as an F&F -- File 
and Forget.

He picked up the Bondurant case reports instead, studying the 
crime scene photos again and giving careful consideration to a 
picture of the scarabaeus found on the victim's tongue.

The ghostly flicker of the TV cast weird patterns across the lenses 
of his glasses as he closed his eyes, concentrating intently on 
what he'd learned in the way of research the day he'd taken ill.  

Mulder had told Scully once before that the scarab was the key 
somehow.  In ancient belief, it was thought to grant eternal life 
and he felt certain the killer had attached a similar significance 
when he'd placed one in each of the victim's mouths.

Which was why he resisted the temptation to blame narco-
traffickers for the deaths of the boys.  Mulder was certain there 
was no way a drug distributor or assassin would have any interest 
in preserving those kids' souls for the afterlife.

Whoever had killed them had been making a judgment.  That's why 
he had removed the hearts.

And Anubis was charged with *weighing* the heart to determine 
the salvation of the soul.  

This killer had evidently deemed them worthy somehow in death.  
Hence the careful placement of the scarab on the body.

The perpetrator could be either a manifestation of the deity or 
perhaps even an individual possessed by the spirit.  

And yet...  

Perhaps the killer only *imagined* himself to be possessed.  

The dual images of John Mostow and Bill Patterson impinged on 
Mulder's consciousness.  Fitting examples if there ever were any.  

Head spinning with possibilities now, he took off his glasses and 
rubbed a hand over his face in frustration.  He *knew* the answers 
were there, somewhere, in the information before him.  But 
Mulder suspected the real solution was so complex, he would 
need some kind of key to unlock the entire mess.

Why pass judgment on these two souls?  he wondered absently, 
setting the glasses aside and sinking back into the softness of the 
bed.  

A hazy, distant look overcame him as he considered the 
possibilities.

Because they were drug slingers?  Half the populace of West 
Baltimore would likely be dead by now, if that were the only 
explanation.

Or was it because they were slingers for *Pharaoh*?  

Now, there was a more solid rationale.  

But the crew had a lot of individuals working to put its product on 
the street.  Why those particular two?  Surely they weren't the 
only ones responsible for the evils of heroin use.  Besides which, 
the fiends were making a conscious choice of their own by 
stepping up to score the dope.  

Weren't they?  

Mulder paused for a second, considering the thought.

Did the drugs, once taken, offer an option to anyone?

It was a difficult question.  

A thorough understanding of the inner-city drug culture was 
somewhat beyond his normal area of expertise.  But he *had* 
been under the influence of the stuff.  And he'd also felt the 
euphoric rush of the Demerol flowing in his veins while the 
neurotoxin pulsed in his system.  Perhaps the addicts really 
*didn't* have any choice left once they'd felt that siren call.

And now they were dying.

It hit him then, like a freight train slamming full-force up against 
the vast boundary of his intellect.  

The key.

So obvious...so illuminating...Mulder felt blinded for a moment.  

Then, he closed his eyes with relief.  There *was* an answer to 
this conundrum.  Now, he simply needed to find the proof.

Reaching forward, he pushed aside the carefully organized 
paperwork.

Where the fuck was it?

After a few moments, he found what he was seeking -- the pile of 
reports on the individual overdoses.  A detective named DeSilva 
had complied them.

Pulling his glasses on again, Mulder began to rapidly search 
through each separate file, seeking any scrap of detail that might 
support the growing suspicion in his head.

An hour passed as he paged though fifteen distinct incidents.  And 
then another  -- until at last he sat back with a single case report 
clutched tightly in one hand.

It was the first documented Pharaoh overdose, reported over two 
weeks ago on one Terrance Brown, aka Taz.

Eighteen years old and a minor lookout with the Pharaoh crew, the 
boy had a history of shooting his own product.  Eventually it had 
killed him.  The only surviving family members mentioned in the 
file were the boy's single mother and a twenty-two-year-old 
brother named David, recently discharged from the Navy.

Mulder scanned DeSilva's report, quickly absorbing the facts on 
the mother:

Name -- Zofia Brown.  Age -- 38.  Maiden Name -- Bausin. 

Address -- Saratoga street, the same neighborhood where the 
murders had taken place.

She worked for a cleaning service based in downtown Baltimore 
and DeSilva had determined that she wasn't connected with either 
narcotics use or trafficking in the community.  However, the long 
hours she'd been forced to work raising the two boys made strong 
parental supervision impossible.  The older son had obviously 
overcome the inherent handicap of his environment and moved on 
to something better by obtaining his GED and enlisting in the 
service.  The younger boy hadn't been as lucky.

According to DeSilva's notes on the case, Terrance's death had 
deeply distressed Zofia.  The detective had been forced to calm 
her just for an accurate identification of the body.  But the report 
made no mention of the older brother or what his reaction had 
been, nor where he was now.

Something in the entire sordid story struck a chord in Mulder's 
psyche.  He forced himself to read the details contained within the 
report over and over again, until his head ached with sheer force 
of concentration.

Looking up briefly, Mulder hit the remote, turning off the TV and 
silencing the distraction.  

The room was dark; early morning hours creeping up on him like a 
drifting ocean tide.  

And then, just as exhaustion was beginning to overpower his logic, 
he saw it.

A tiny, subtle detail.  A possibility so remote as to be almost 
invisible to the average intellect, but there it was.

Mulder reached for a pen on the bedside table and began to 
scribble heavily on the blank interior portion of the file.

A few minutes passed, the silence of the room broken only by the 
soft, whispering screek of the felt-tip.  

Then, suddenly, he had it -- a ray of light glinting through the 
murky, obfuscating waters of the investigation.

Staring at his hasty scrawl, Mulder set the report down and let go a 
sigh of fatigued satisfaction.

For the first time, he actually felt secure with the details of this 
case.  

Now, all he had to do was get the hell out of this hospital and 
convince the Baltimore P.D.

And Scully.

Piece of cake, he thought derisively, shutting down his brain, 
turning off the light and staring out intently at the darkness.

*********

>Bruce Street, West Baltimore
>24 hours later

Bayliss and Pembleton stood in the dark alleyway, awash in the 
lights of the CSU as their shadows crossed over the still-cooling 
form of one Gayle Purnell.

Expressionless, they gazed down at the now-familiar sight of the 
body -- tied tightly,  arched backwards, eyes staring.  A trickle of 
blood seeped from the wide, gaping wound in her throat, soaking 
the red chalk beneath the mutilated corpse.

"This is going to taste like shit, Frank," Bayliss muttered, breath 
misting faintly as he tore his eyes away from the carnage to peer 
around the faces of a growing crowd of neighborhood locals.

"Bayliss," the other detective sighed in exasperation, shaking his 
head.  "Were you *born* with this talent for stating the obvious?  
Or do you spend your every waking hour calculating just how to 
irritate me as effectively as possible?"

"Mmmm," Bayliss gave the question careful thought.  "A little bit 
of both, I guess."  He shot his partner a quirky smile which quickly 
faded when he stared back at the slowly congealing corpse.  "In 
any case, it looks like our killer's been at it again.  What a fucking 
nightmare."

"Yeah, and to think I let you talk me into being the primary," 
Pembleton responded bitterly, eyes searching the crowd for a 
glimpse of the medical examiner.  

Bayliss knew they better get this production moving as quickly as 
possible.  Accountability was already waiting for them back at the 
station house in the form of his not-so-benevolent shift 
commander.  He could feel it even here, in this hollow niche of 
West Baltimore.

"Seriously, Frank...what are we going to do about this?" he asked.

"Fuck if I know.  But we had better not plan to go back to HQ and 
Giardello unless we have this case solved.  I can't say I'm in any 
kind of mood for an ass-ripping."

"Like we have a choice, Frank."  

This time, Bayliss's voice carried a tone of spent resignation.  
Their lieutenant had warned them once already.  Gee was going to 
be pissed beyond recognition at this latest murder.  And he and 
Pembleton were sure to be on the receiving end of his wrath.

Homicide is our business, and business is good, he thought wryly.  
Too bad Giardello could never appreciate the dark humor and 
inherent irony in that statement.  Unfortunately, neither could he.

"And where are those fucking Feebs tonight, I'd like to know?" 
Pembleton spat, making an abrupt gesture in the direction of the 
body.  "Shouldn't they be here to take their share of the blame?  Or 
are we only to be graced with their presence when there's glory to 
be had?"

Bayliss held up a hand in response, shaking his head.  "I told you 
that Mulder was being released from the hospital today.  I'm sure 
Dana has her hands full keeping him in check now that he's out of 
there.  Remember, the guy went down pretty hard when he was out 
with *you*, Frank, as I recall."

"And what's that supposed to mean, Bayliss?  I'm going to lose my 
baby-sitters' badge?"

"No, no," he said hastily, trying to mollify his irate partner.  "I'm 
just saying that this," and he pointed to the scene, "isn't their fault."

"Right," Pembleton grated sarcastically.  "But I'm still up to my ass 
in this mess."

Just then, one of the uniforms working the scene stepped up with 
the medical examiner, Dr. Cox.

"Anything on the victim?" Bayliss said to the patrolman as the 
coroner gave the detectives a wordless glance, bending over the 
corpse to begin her examination.

"Yeah," the cop replied, waiting while the detectives both pulled 
out their ever-present notebooks.

"Gayle Purnell, age twenty-six.  Neighborhood local and regular 
dope fiend.  A tout on and off for the various crews.  Lately, 
Pharaoh's boys."

At the mention of the name, Bayliss glanced meaningfully at his 
partner.  Frank returned the look with a stony expression before 
directing his attention back to the cop.

"She's a pain in the ass for the slingers, though," the uniform was 
saying.  "They can't let her hold a stash because most of it would 
disappear.  I doubt she was doing much for them anymore."

"Can you think of any reason why the crew would want her put 
down?"

"Nope.  Unless maybe she burned the wrong somebody."

Pembleton frowned tightly.

"It's like I said, she's a fiend," the patrolman explained.  "And 
Pharaoh's got enough volunteers these days that they don't waste 
their time anymore using known schemers.  I don't think I've seen 
her around any of the crew for the last week or so.  They cut her 
loose right around then, and she's been depending on small-time 
capers ever since to score her shit.  Now it looks like she's just 
another casualty in Bawlmer's unending war on drugs." 

"Detective Pembleton?" Cox's low voice suddenly intruded on the 
men's conversation.

"Yes?"

"You might want to take a look at this.  I'd say it's the same weapon 
as the other two.  And it appears you have an object in the mouth 
similar to what we found in the previous homicides."

"Must be your lucky day, Frank," Bayliss muttered, before the 
other man could answer.

Ignoring his partner's black look, Tim stepped over to the M.E.  
He reached out to accept the evidence bag she proffered, 
containing the familiar polished glint of a coal-black scarabaeus.

"Well, Bayliss, I'll stay here with Dr. Cox.  You go ahead and see 
what you can get from the locals."

"This crowd?" Tim queried, giving his partner a derisive look as 
they both listened to the angry mutters rising from behind the 
taped-off area.

It seemed this third murder was finally beginning to ignite some 
fear and resentment on the part of the of the neighborhood 
residents.  Several of the Western District patrol officers already 
had their hands full in holding off the mob.

"What can I say?  I'll do my best, Frank."

*********

They had been hard at work at processing the scene for over an 
hour when Bayliss heard a car door slam.  He glanced towards the 
street, surprised to see the rapidly approaching form of FBI Agent 
Fox Mulder with Dana Scully trailing a few feet behind.

Even from twenty feet away, Tim could read the worry and 
irritation in her expression.  She was clearly upset by the notion 
of her partner, newly released from the hospital, delving into a 
frigid crime scene in the early hours of the morning.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, Mulder blew past 
Bayliss, moving to stand next to Pembleton over the bloodied 
form of the victim.  Cox was just preparing to leave at that point 
and two members of the M.E.'s staff were already busy moving in 
position to transport the body.

"Dana," Bayliss called softly, intercepting her as she headed in the 
direction of her partner.

"Oh, god, Tim," she stammered, obviously startled by his abrupt 
appearance.  She looked over his shoulder at the scene where 
Mulder now stood, pressing her lips together in agitation.

"How'd you guys end up here?" he asked, searching her face in the 
shadows.

Scully didn't answer for a few moments, continuing to watch her 
partner and Pembleton.   The two were deeply engrossed in 
conversation, Mulder making the occasional hand gesture for 
emphasis with whatever he was saying.  The detective looked 
belligerent, plainly irritated with the other man.

"Dana?"

She shook her head slightly, finally giving the homicide detective 
her full attention.  "I'm sorry, Tim.  What did you just ask?"

"I said, how did you find out about this?"

"Your lieutenant called," she replied, stepping back and crossing 
her arms in front of her as she bestowed a thin smile upon him.  "It 
took me a while to decide whether or not to wake Mulder.  Now, 
I'm not sure it was the right thing to do."  

The smile faded as Scully gestured in the general direction of her 
partner, eyeing his distinctly tired, pale visage.  "He insisted on 
coming out.  There was nothing I could do to change his mind."

"Well, I hope he's able to make some sense of this."  Bayliss 
stepped closer to her and slid a reassuring hand beneath her elbow.  
"There's going to be hell to pay once we get back downtown."

"Tell me about it," she said, looking up and giving him a small 
grimace of understanding.  "Remember, I *talked* to Giardello 
before coming out here tonight."

Bayliss nodded sourly and drew her toward the waiting scene, just 
in time to see the coroner's people seal the plastic bag over the 
body and lift it onto a gurney.

Mulder stopped speaking long enough to acknowledge the 
presence of his partner, and then returned to his heated debate 
with Pembleton.

"Detective, if you'd just listen to what I'm saying--"

"Agent Mulder, I *am* listening.  You're just not hearing *my* 
point.  We've got a series of three murders here, and a fourth that's 
directly connected.  By the grace of God, we took a suspect into 
custody on the child's slaying within twenty-four hours.  
Otherwise, I could expect the full fury of Baltimore's news media 
here, making our lives a living hell.  I don't know how much longer 
that respite is going to last.  And the greater the attention these 
slayings get, the more heat we're going to have on us to solve this 
damn case.  Now, I don't have time to waste debating theories.  We 
need to focus on the facts."

"You about ready, Frank?" Bayliss interrupted, as Mulder looked 
over.  His eyes narrowed, taking in the sight of Tim's hand on 
Scully's arm. 

The detective caught the gesture and immediately released her, 
stepping back slightly, as though he'd been caught doing 
something wrong.

Pembleton looked from his partner, to Scully, and then to Mulder, 
impatiently watching the interaction unfolding before him.

"Look, Agent Mulder," he said abruptly.  "The show's over here.  
Now I'm sorry, but it's damn late and the shift starts at 6 a.m.  
That's four hours away.  I'd like to get home and get some rest so 
that I'm completely fortified for the shitstorm that's going to hit 
tomorrow when I walk into the squad room."

Mulder clamped his mouth shut and looked at the detective with a 
frown.  Then drawing a deep breath, he said quietly, "What will you 
tell your lieutenant?"

Refusing to break away from the agent's intent gaze, Pembleton 
tipped his chin up stubbornly and shrugged.  "I'm going to tell him 
that we appear to have a rogue narcotics organization intent on 
doing away with the hired help."

Mulder tried to interrupt, but the detective cut him off.

"Listen to me.  The reason doesn't matter any more, Agent Mulder.  
While you've been in the hospital, we've spent *days* canvassing, 
talking to the neighborhood regulars, and I can assure you they 
aren't going to tell us a damn thing beyond misinformation and 
fairy tales."

He took note of Mulder's intractable expression before 
continuing, "Yeah -- I know about the so-called 'God of the Dead.'  
Remember, I was in that rowhouse with you, too.  I know what *I* 
saw.  There was nothing there but the remnants of a shooting 
gallery and somebody's sick take-off on the Mickey Mouse Club.  
Now, if you'll excuse my skepticism, I'm ready to get the son-of-
a-bitch running this whole operation.  We've already picked up one 
of his underlings on a warrant for the Kemetha White slaying and 
till now he's been uncooperative, but the State's Attorney is 
confident he's ready to make a deal."

"And if he isn't?" Mulder asked softly.

"Then I'll find some other way to get the bastard.  Starting with 
depraved indifference in the deaths of over a dozen heroin addicts 
that I reckon he's responsible for.  If we pick up enough of his 
lieutenants, I'm sure we'll get one or two willing to roll over on a 
charge and testify to the fact that their boss is aware he's been 
distributing fucking *poison* to the good citizens of Baltimore."  

Pembleton's head jerked emphatically with every word, and he 
finished by thrusting his chin out at Mulder, daring the other man 
to respond.

Bayliss and Scully continued to hang back as Mulder bore the full 
brunt of the detective's ongoing tirade.  Tim was already well-
versed with his partner's forceful temperament, and Scully, for her 
part, had become familiar with the man's abrasive attitude over the 
past few days.  But that didn't stop her from coming to Mulder's 
defense.

"Detective Pembleton," she began sharply, waiting until he turned 
the full force of his angry countenance on her.  "If you'd stop and 
consider this calmly for a second, I'm sure you'd realize that 
Agent Mulder and I should be able to obtain a federal warrant to 
pick up the man in DC and bring him up to Baltimore.  We aren't 
bound by the same jurisdictional impediments that you are."

"If that's your intended course of action, then go ahead," 
Pembleton snapped back.  "I'm sure the Baltimore Police 
Department would welcome any assistance in that direction from 
the FBI.  If not," and he paused, giving Mulder a final, pissed-off 
glance, "then get the hell out of my way on this investigation."

With that, the detective turned on his heel and shouldered past 
them, heading toward the street.  

"Let's go, Bayliss," he called, without looking back.

Tim took a few steps backward, looking from one agent to the 
other. 

"Well...goodnight, I guess," he finally said, eyes coming to rest on 
Scully's face.

"I said *let's go*, Bayliss!"

"Agent Scully, I'll see you tomorrow morning at 5:30?"  he asked 
hastily.

"Same time, same place?"  A slight smile tipped up the corners of 
her mouth.

"You got it -- The Daily Grind."

Bayliss didn't wait for an answer as he loped back towards the 
waiting Cavalier.

Scully paused a few moments before looking up at Mulder, 
forcing herself not to wilt beneath the pressure of his gaze.  She 
could fairly feel the tension rolling off him in waves.  He never 
said a word, though.

He didn't have to.

"I've been meeting Tim in the mornings before the shift starts at 
the coffeehouse across the street from headquarters," she 
explained, looking away with feigned indifference.  "I hope you 
don't mind joining us."

"Sure, Scully," he said, expressionless, though his blazing eyes 
belied the steady drift of his words.  "I always love a good 
threesome."

With that, Mulder turned in the direction of the street, leaving 
Scully standing with her mouth hanging open.  For a split second, 
she searched fruitlessly for some type of effective rejoinder to 
the barb.  Unfortunately, her imagination failed her.  Giving in, she 
traced the steps back to the waiting Taurus.

And the quietly seething form of her partner.

*********

>Baltimore Police Headquarters
>The following day

"Detective DeSilva?"  Mulder spoke quietly, trying not to startle 
the other man as he came up behind him.

The narcotics detective turned at the sound of his name.  A freshly 
lit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as he surveyed 
Mulder's drawn, stretched-out figure moving around the bench to 
settle down next to him.

They were sitting on the waterfront promenade along Baltimore's 
harbor, with the harsh morning sunlight reflecting off the water, 
nearly blinding them in its intensity.  The strident sounds of 
seagulls wheeling overhead punctuated the air, while a cold breeze 
drifted across the water towards them.  It ruffled their hair, 
bringing with it the moist smell of the water.

"Special Agent Fox--"

"Mulder," DeSilva finished for him, with an ironic twist of his 
mouth.  "With the FBI.  Your reputation precedes you."

Mulder gave him a wry glance, reaching up nervously to run a hand 
through his hair.

"Actually, it's not your reputation," the detective went on, looking 
back out toward the harbor and blowing out a mouthful of smoke.  
"Just that we can usually hear the homicide shift commander's 
voice all the way down the hall in narcotics."

Chuckling softly, Mulder glanced down at the pile of cigarette 
butts littering the ground near the other man's feet.

"That's quite a habit you've got there," he remarked, meeting 
DeSilva's eyes.

"Yeah, well, some men watch pornography for stress relief.  I 
smoke."

This time, Mulder laughed aloud at the irony, leaving the detective 
to look at him with puzzled amusement.

"I guess that's true.  But that's not what I came down here to talk to 
you about."

"Kinda figured that," DeSilva replied, taking a last drag on his 
cigarette before dropping it to join the others.  "Pharaoh, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I already talked to your partner and Bayliss.  At length.  
Told them what I knew.  I take it you've seen the transcript of 
Russell White's sworn statement?"

Mulder nodded.

"I'm afraid there's not much more I can add to that.  Even now after 
all that's happened," DeSilva paused.  "Or that's *happening*.  I've 
been running with Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss for the last 
few days.  Helped bring in Samuel Greenway.  Slash.  He's the 
punk who murdered that little girl.  May the sun set on its last day 
and find that asshole still in prison.  But that's not what you're 
asking, is it?"

Leaning forward, Mulder rested his elbows along his knees, 
rubbing his hands together in agitation, before he turned his head 
back in the direction of the other man.

"Actually, I was wondering what you could tell me about Terrance 
Brown."

"Taz?" DeSilva asked, a note of surprise entering his voice.

"Uh-huh."

"The eighteen-year-old who OD'd?"

"That's the one."

"Well, uh..." the detective trailed off thoughtfully.  "I guess...what 
do you need to know?"

"Was he known to consort with the Pharaoh crew?" said Mulder, 
though he already knew the answer.

"Sure.  That was in my report, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I was hoping you could give me some specifics."

DeSilva took a moment to reach into his overcoat pocket, pulling 
out a lighter and cupping his hands as he fired up yet another 
cigarette.  Then, clicking the lighter closed, he inhaled deeply and 
studied Mulder.

"Taz started out as runner for them.  You know, the kind of kid that 
carries the shit from a stash to consumers?"

Mulder didn’t, but he made a sound of agreement, wanting to keep 
the other man talking.

"After a while, that didn't work out for them," DeSilva said, 
continuing to draw on the cigarette every once and a while as he 
went on with the narrative.  "Taz was a dope fiend.  After coming 
up short one too many times, he finally ended up as a lookout on 
the corner -- keeping his eyes peeled for rollers, or stickup crews, 
or whatever.  Then, one day he rode that fatal blast up the stairway 
to heaven."

"Can you recall if there was any connection between him and the 
two boys that were killed?  Bondurant and Gresham?"

The detective peered up at the cold, cloudless sky for a moment, 
squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun.  

"Now that you mention it, Taz did man the same corner as those 
other two boys -- Lexington and Fulton."

"And Gayle Purnell?"

"I didn't know her," said DeSilva, shaking his head.  "Maybe one of 
the Western District rollers would.  It's possible.  You think their 
deaths are related to the overdose?"

"You tell me."

"Well, it fits.  Taz Brown likely bought the lethal dose that killed 
him from one of those two slingers.  But who would go after that 
kind of revenge?"

"I read your report on the family," the quiet implication was 
clearly evident in Mulder's words.  "I wondered if there might be 
something there."

"Oh, wow," the other man said, leaning back and rubbing a hand 
over his eyes.  "I don't think so, man.  I mean, his mother was 
distraught; going on and on about how somebody needed to pay.  
But Zofia has lived in that neighborhood for years.  The older son, 
too.  They know the way things are.  It's a sad situation, really."

"Tell me."

"Zofia was originally born in DC.  Her family emigrated from 
somewhere, I don't remember.  In this job, people tend to tell you 
their whole life story.  You learn to tune out a lot of the details so 
as not to lose your mind, you know what I'm saying?"

Mulder nodded.

"Anyway, she moved up here to Baltimore and met the boys' 
father.  From what I could make out, they were only married for a 
short time before he gave in to the lure of the neighborhood."  

Seeing Mulder's confusion, DeSilva explained, "The guy 
developed a heroin addiction that was hard to stay ahead of.  
Seriously.  She put up with it for years.  Eventually, he and another 
guy started sticking people up to support the habit and made the 
poor choice of blowing away a Korean storekeeper in front of 
three witnesses.  That stunt earned him 30 years in a deal with the 
State's Attorney, which he's now serving up in Jessup.  Of course, 
Zofia'd been on her own already for a long time before that 
happened, so I guess his going away didn't matter all that much.  
She's always been on the straight and narrow, though.  Did the best 
she could with those boys.  Until this happened."

"What about the brother?"

DeSilva made a soft noise and shook his head slightly.  "Let me 
tell you, in this job you learn to never say never.  He's discharged 
from the service.  That's all I know.  I never met him working the 
case.  But maybe *you* should talk to the lady.  She's at the 
address in the file.  I don't think anything's there, but then again, I 
haven't had to much luck at finding a way to stop this epidemic of 
overdoses either.  Maybe you'll see something I didn't."

The detective stood then, absently brushing the cigarette ashes off 
the front of his coat as he turned to face Mulder, who remained 
seated on the bench.

"If you do find a connection, don't be in any hurry to tell me.  I'd 
just as soon preserve my faith in the human spirit as long as 
possible.  Zofia Brown worked hard to support her family.  She 
deserved better than what she got.  They all do."

With that he stepped carefully away from the promenade and 
began the short walk back to the front steps of headquarters.

Mulder watched him leave, a flurry of information swirling around 
in his head as he pondered the implications of DeSilva's narrative.  

Give me a mutant shape-changer any day, he thought to himself.  
That was almost easier than dealing with the faceless demons 
tormenting modern society.

Taking a deep breath, he rose, giving the water a final glance 
before he followed in the direction of the detective, in search of 
his partner and, he hoped, the truth in this investigation.

*********

Mulder made his way through the usual disorder of the homicide 
squad room, glancing apprehensively at the closed door to the 
shift commander's office as he headed towards the box.  He had 
thought Walter Skinner could come on like Judgment Day, but 
even at his worst, the Assistant Director had nothing on Lieutenant 
Al Giardello.

Amazingly, the man had never once raised his voice throughout 
the entire early-morning meeting he'd had with the FBI agents and 
the two detectives assigned to the case.

Had hadn't needed to.

Time was running short.  Heat was coming down from upstairs.  
Community leaders were demanding a conference with the 
department brass, wanting to know what the police were doing to 
halt the infectious spread of overdoses on the street.

Of course, Giardello conceded, that was narcotics' headache.  But 
now it was moving into their province as well.  If they could 
somehow prove that the Pharaoh crew's top people were aware of 
their product's lethal nature, it might be possible to prosecute 
them for homicide.

And the ritual murders only made matters worse.  The same 
community leaders who were all up in arms over the drug 
epidemic had also not failed to notice the alarming word on the 
street about the slayings.

The shift commander had included Mulder and Scully in his steely 
gaze as he demanded to know what leads they were pursuing in the 
investigation.

Scully had spoken up about her idea for obtaining a federal 
warrant, and that seemed to defuse the charged tension in the 
room slightly. Giardello had given the plan his approval and 
indicated he also felt this might be the best course of action.

Then, he'd stared hard at Mulder for few moments, almost as 
though he sensed the agent's disagreement with their proposed 
course of action.  His eyes had dared the other man to speak up -- 
to present any alternative theories.

But Mulder wouldn't take that gamble.  Not when he knew there 
was precious little solid evidence to support his theory about who 
was responsible for the deaths of the three dope-peddlers.  And 
the connection to the original X file was, for now, nonexistent.  
He knew he would have to work carefully behind the scenes with 
Scully and the detectives to pursue his suspicions.  Securing their 
cooperation was another matter, however, and Mulder expected 
that for the most part, he would be on his own.

Hence his solitary talk with DeSilva.  And now, he was headed 
back to the box.  

Scully, Pembleton and Bayliss had set up a small working area 
there, trying to consolidate all of the disparate details in this 
frustratingly complex investigation.

Pausing before the window in the door of the room, Mulder could 
see Pembleton standing before an old wooden chalk board.  
Several of the crime scene photos had been taped upon it, along 
with a list of scrawled notes about the crime scenes.

The detective was gesturing forcefully, evidently arguing with 
Scully and Bayliss, who were seated across from one another at 
the battered metal table.

Pembleton arguing.  What a fucking surprise.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered the 
small area.

"Scully, can I have a word?"

All three looked up in surprise at his appearance, and then she 
rose, moving toward him.

Once outside the box, Scully turned with a look of barely 
concealed irritation.

"Mulder, where the hell have you been?"

He glanced to the ceiling quickly, buying himself a moment in 
order to refrain from snarling at her in return.  He needed her 
backing, now more than ever.  It wouldn't help the investigation at 
all for them to continue with this unsettling conflict.

"I was looking for Detective DeSilva," he said.

"And you couldn't have told us that before you took off?"

"I wasn't aware I needed anyone's permission," Mulder replied 
softly.

"And I'm not implying that you do," Scully shot back.  "But it would 
be nice, just once, if I wasn't forced to make explanations for your 
little disappearances.  God, Mulder, you do this to me all the 
time!"

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, meaning it.  "It's just that..."

"What?" she asked sharply as he trailed off.

"I...I guess I don't feel I have your support on this investigation."

Scully turned her head aside and sighed angrily.  Then, she glanced 
back up at him with a sober expression.

"You always have my support, Mulder.  But forgive me for 
pointing out that you haven't so much as clued me in on what your 
*current* theory is, let alone telling me how it's going to lead to a 
successful resolution to this case."

Before he could answer, the door opened and Pembleton stepped 
out.  

"Excuse me," he said, obviously aware that he'd interrupted their 
conversation.  "Agent Mulder," he continued, acknowledging the 
other man's presence in an unexpected show of courtesy.  Without 
another word, he headed in the direction of the coffee room.

"I think he regrets his treatment of you last night," Scully 
remarked.

"Well, if that's the case, it's as close to an apology as I'm going to 
get," said Mulder with a wry twist of his lips.

In spite of herself, Scully's expression softened.  

"Look, why don't you tell me exactly what it is you think is going 
on here, so we can get on with this investigation."

Opening the door to the box, she drew him inside to where Bayliss 
was still standing, staring at crime scene photos.

The two men nodded to each other warily, but said nothing.

"Mulder?" Scully prompted, clearly indicating that he should 
continue their conversation.

"Sit down," he told her quietly.

She did as he asked, conscious now that Bayliss was observing the 
two of them closely.

"Well?"  Scully raised her brows.

He leaned against the yellow cinderblock wall and took a deep 
breath.

"I have reason to believe that our suspect, the person who 
committed these murders, isn't the guy you're after in DC."

"And you base this on what?"

"On the fact that the particulars of the crime don't fit the regular 
MO for this organization.  And that the symbolism and ritualistic 
nature of the slayings would seem to indicate that the killer is 
intent on some form of retribution."

"I don't understand.  I thought we were basing our assumptions 
about the crew's motivation on exactly those things," Scully 
replied.

"Maybe.  But I question your interpretation."

She merely cocked her head to the side, inviting him to go on.

"Look, I'm going to be relying pretty heavily on certain facts about 
ancient Egyptian mythology, so please, just bear with me," he said, 
settling himself across the table from her.

Mulder felt a whisper of movement as Bayliss sat down in the 
chair behind him, but he kept his eyes locked on his partner.  As 
far as he was concerned, she was the one he needed to convince.

"I believe the removal of the victims' hearts has a direct, symbolic 
correlation to the mythological purpose of Anubis -- the Egyptian 
God of the Dead."

"Mulder, we've already gone over this--"

"Just...wait a second," he held up a hand, causing her to halt in mid-
sentence.  "What's even more significant, in my opinion, is the 
placing of a talisman on the body -- a scarabaeus."

Mulder now reached into his pocket and pulled out a cylindrical, 
clear plastic container marked with the red and white tag for 
evidence storage.  The small, onyx carving of a beetle made a 
rattling sound inside as he slapped the receptacle on the table.

Scully studied it for a moment before reaching out and opening 
the lid, sliding the scarab into her palm.  In the severe white light 
of the box, the stone seemed to twinkle, mocking her study.

"The scarab was put there to ensure the preservation of the soul 
for the afterlife," Mulder said quietly.  "At least, according to the 
mythos.  And I think it's clear from the number of symbols 
appearing at the scenes that this killer is trying to tell us 
something -- something we can interpret through use of his 
mythology.  The perpetrator is judging the souls of these small-
time dope peddlers, and in their deaths, he or she has somehow 
decided that no matter what their sins are, they still deserve a shot 
at immortality.  Now, I don't know about you," and Mulder glanced 
toward Bayliss for an instant, seeing that the detective was 
listening closely,  "but that doesn't seem to be in character with 
what we know about this narcotics organization.  The last thing 
they'd want to do is send that kind of message to their people."

"So where does this leave us, Mulder?"  Scully asked, eyes 
searching his as she set the scarab back on the scratched surface 
of the table, inches away from his fingers.

"Well, I think we need to ask ourselves a question.  Who would be 
motivated to exact this type of retribution, while taking care to 
speak to us about the possibility of redemption?"

"And?"

"And I went back to the cases of individual overdoses.  Our murder 
victims were likely responsible, in part, for some of those deaths.  
Specifically that of the first boy -- Taz Brown.  I found out from 
Detective DeSilva this morning that he worked part-time for the 
Pharaoh organization and was often in direct contact with 
Bondurant and Gresham, and probably Purnell, as well."

"Do you have proof of the connection with the Brown boy?"

"Not yet.  All I have right now is supposition, but my next course 
of action is to get the surviving parent -- his mother -- to sign a 
release so we can get the body exhumed."

"What for?" Scully said, puzzled.  "We already know the 
circumstances of his death.  An autopsy was performed and the 
Pharaoh heroin was pretty clearly determined to be the cause."

"Because he thinks we'll find another scarabaeus in Taz Brown's 
mouth," Bayliss spoke for the first time, causing her to look up at 
him over Mulder's shoulder in surprise.

"Don't you?" the detective went on, quietly directing the question 
towards her partner.

Mulder nodded almost imperceptibly, turning and staring at 
Bayliss with a mixture of cool certainty and reluctant admiration.

"So you're concluding that our perpetrator is...?" Bayliss trailed 
off.

"His mother."

Scully's head snapped back to Mulder as a look of skepticism 
instantly bloomed in her expression.

"Wait a minute, Mulder.  Don't you think that's quite a leap?  I 
mean, a woman really doesn't fit the profile for this type of crime.  
And what about the X file?"

"I don't know about that yet," said Mulder.  "And she may not fit the 
profile, but then again, there's still the possibility she could be 
acting under the influence of something supernatural."

"You aren't still suggesting that we're experiencing a sending of 
this ancient god, this...Anubis?  Or are you?"

"Could be.  I won't know until I actually talk to the woman."

"Mulder, I thought we'd been over this," Scully said, getting 
frustrated again.  "I know you read the report about what happened 
to you in that rowhouse.  You've seen the medical facts."

"This has nothing to do with me," he told her coolly.  "Although I'm 
not entirely convinced what I saw was really a delusion."

"Then what exactly are we going on here?"

"This."  

And Mulder pulled out the report on Brown's death, sliding it 
across the table.

"Ok, what am I looking for?"

"The information on his mother.  Specifically her name."

Scully pulled the report from the file.

"Zofia Brown?"

"No," Mulder replied patiently.  "Her maiden name."

"Bausin?"

He didn't reply.  Instead he merely pulled a pencil forward and 
began writing slowly along the bottom portion of the folder.

When Mulder finished, Scully looked down at the carefully 
spaced letters:

B-A-U-S-I-N = A-N-U-B-I-S

By now, Bayliss had moved over to her, peering at the file before 
stepping back to cross his arms and frown thoughtfully.

"It could be a coincidence."

"Scully."  

Mulder's voice mocked her for the assertion.

She sensed Tim watching the two of them again as he returned to 
his chair and sat down.

The quiet minutes ticked by before Scully finally relented.

"Listen to me Mulder," she began.  "It really doesn't matter 
whether I believe all this or not.  The bottom line right now is that 
the suspect in DC still represents our best chance at solving this 
case."

"The overdoses, yes," Mulder agreed stubbornly.  "But not the 
murders."

"Are you willing to walk back to Giardello's office right now and 
try to convince him of that theory?" 

Her eyes snapped, already knowing what the answer would be.  "Or 
Pembleton, for that matter?"

"Frank's mind is already made up," Bayliss interjected smoothly, 
behind them.  "I don't think you'd have any luck in either direction 
without some harder evidence."

"Tell you what," Mulder began, rising and reaching out to collect 
the scarab.  "Go ahead and get the warrant.  The guy probably needs 
to be brought in on the drug-related murder charges and the White 
slaying, anyway.  Why don't you accompany the detectives down 
to DC and serve the arrest order and I'll stay up here and pursue 
this lead."

"Is that what you want me to do?" she said, looking up him.

"I think it's the best thing, right now, yes."

"What will you do if Brown's mother refuses to sign the 
exhumation order?" she asked then, and Mulder felt a sense of 
relief wash over him. Scully may have believed part or even none 
of his hypothesis, but either way, he knew he could now pursue his 
own suspicions with her support, or at least, without her 
resistance.

And he suspected the same was true of Bayliss.

"What else?" he said.  "I'll get a court order and do whatever it 
takes."

"I guess I'll call you when we get to Washington then," Scully said, 
as he waited before the door.  "What do you want me to tell 
Skinner?"

"Tell him exactly what we've decided here.  That I'm pursuing other 
possible leads in this investigation," he replied, looking first at her 
and then more suspiciously at the detective. 

Actually, he realized, this result was somewhat less than ideal for 
him.  It would be far preferable to have Scully at his side, rather 
than send her down to DC in the company of a man who inspired 
such an unwelcome feeling of anxiety within him.

But the case was paramount, Mulder reminded himself.  If it 
meant discovering the truth or a chance at bringing the real killer 
to justice, then that was a burden he was willing to carry.  For now, 
anyway.  After all, Scully had worked in a professional capacity 
with countless other men over the duration of their partnership.  
Why should this be any different?

He stared at Scully, understanding that it *was* different, but at a 
loss to explain the reasons why.

"By the time you get back to Baltimore, it should all be over with," 
he said, recognizing the protective mechanism of his own 
arrogance and not caring.

Then, without another word, he left the box, closing the door 
softly behind him.

*********

The car was tucked into the dark shadows of Saratoga street, on 
the north edge of West Baltimore.

Mulder sat in the front seat, watching the brisk commerce taking 
place on the corner a block away -- waiting for Zofia Brown to 
return home from the nightly bus ride that brought her back from 
her day job.

Sighing, he tore his gaze away from the open-air narcotics traffic 
taking place a mere stone's throw from him and thought about the 
task at hand.  

How would he confront her?

He slumped down and pressed his face against the icy glass of the 
window, allowing his mind drift back to those nightmare places 
kept so carefully restrained in the shackles of his memory.

The bathroom in the shooting gallery on Fayette.  

Mulder had driven past the block of abandoned rowhouses on the 
way over, finding himself still unable to suppress a shudder at the 
sight of the derelict building.

Closing his eyes, he let himself relive the impressions from that 
night.

The rotting, bloody stench of the room.  The insane visage of the 
jackal-headed god in the opaque mirror.  The unnatural sheen of 
its viridescent eyes.  The feel of the icy cold hand clamped on his 
neck and the kiss of the serrated blade against his throat.  All 
accompanied by jarring physical symptoms from the effect of the 
neurotoxin in his system.

Had it really been a dream?  A drug-induced fantasy?

The logical segment of his brain said it was so, but Mulder didn't 
believe it.  Not entirely.  His gut told him that at least part of the 
impression had been grounded in a very real experience.  And it 
wasn't just the misfortune of nicking his palm on a venomous 
razor at the door.  He had *felt* the presence of the god there 
with him -- something that Scully's dry reasoning simply couldn't 
explain.  

Would he encounter the same sensations when he came into 
contact with Zofia Brown?  

Part of him was frightened at the possibility.  On the other hand, if 
he did, it would go a long way to answering many questions about 
this case.

Leaning his head back and opening his eyes, Mulder suddenly 
spied the tired, thin figure of his quarry moving slowly towards 
him, up the street.

The moment of truth was at hand.

She saw him immediately, parked as he was -- a white man in this 
year's Ford Taurus, sitting benignly on the mean streets of West 
Baltimore.  Pausing at the marble steps to the rowhouse where she 
lived, Zofia Brown gazed intently into Mulder's eyes, waiting for 
him to come to her.

And he did, exiting the car with practiced ease.  He stepped 
towards her, maintaining a casual demeanor -- one calculated to 
appear as unthreatening as possible.

"Zofia Brown?"

"Yes," she answered quietly, reaching up with a gloved hand to 
brush back a few wayward strands of dark hair, drifting slowly in 
the frigid night breeze.

"My name is Fox Mulder.  I'm an agent with the FBI."

She didn't answer, even as he presented his identification.

"I was wondering if I could speak with you a few moments about 
the death of your son, Terrance."

At the mention of the boy's name, Mulder saw her face suffuse 
with an expression of grief so powerful, it nearly took his breath 
away.  But then it disappeared, replaced by wariness and 
something very close to fright.  And in that instant, he knew his 
suspicions had been wrong.

This was not the sensation he'd experienced in the rowhouse 
bathroom.  

No anger.  No lust for vengeance.  No cunning satisfaction.  

His instincts were sound and Mulder trusted them to lead him to 
the truth.  

And the truth was that Zofia Brown was not his killer.

But she might know who was.

He heard her draw an uneven breath and for an instant, Mulder felt 
ashamed that he'd come there and burdened this woman with a 
reminder of her loss.  Then, softly, she spoke:

"Please, come inside."

Her English was carefully measured and pronounced, educated 
even.  But Mulder was quick to notice an almost imperceptible 
singsong cadence, like that of a person well-versed in speaking 
another language.

Zofia's features were delicate, with high, wide cheekbones and a 
pointed chin.  Her large, dark eyes seemed as old as time and their 
slight tilt gave her face an exotic cast.  In an earlier age, she would 
certainly have been described as stunning.  But the passage of a 
life filled with difficulty and pain had cast a brittle pall over her 
countenance.  With a shock, he realized they were about the same 
age and yet she appeared at least ten years older.

Life in this neighborhood, on these streets, surely took its toll, 
and Mulder wondered how much of her current condition was due 
to the recent tragedy of her son's death.

Brooding, he trailed after her to the rowhouse steps and into a 
cramped vestibule where she struggled to unlock the deadbolt on a 
narrow door.

Mulder followed her into a spare, neat apartment, pausing in the 
center of the room.

"Please, sit down," she said, turning on a small lamp and gesturing 
toward a threadbare couch.  "I'll be right with you."

She withdrew into what he assumed was the bedroom and Mulder 
sat, eyes drifting about the enclosed space.

The furnishings were minimal.  The couch, a few chairs, a low 
coffee table.  There was an ancient television set in the corner and 
a small bookcase filled with an odd jumble of books and a dog-
eared collection of the National Geographic.  A musty pine smell 
permeated the air and Mulder noted that the room's only 
ornamentation was a framed photo of two boys sitting on top of 
the TV.  

Her sons, he guessed.

"How may I help you, Mr. Mulder?"

The sudden sound of her voice in the quiet space startled him 
slightly as Mulder turned to face her.  She had changed into an old 
pair of jeans and a dark vee-neck sweater, her long hair pulled 
back in a tight, wide headband.

"I came here to speak with you about your son," he said, omitting 
the name intentionally and watching her face as she considered his 
words.  A new suspicion was evolving from the ordered chaos of 
his intellect --warning him to conduct this interview very 
carefully.

Though Zofia was not the murderer he sought, Mulder still felt 
convinced that the truth was here, in this house.  Somewhere.

His painstaking deductions all led to this place and now might be 
his only chance to find some answers. 

The woman seemed tense, nervous, and though sorrow was evident 
in her eyes, it wasn't the soul-shattering grief he'd observed at the 
mention of Terrance's name.  There was something very guarded 
about the way she carried herself once he'd mentioned the words, 
"your son."

"I do not know what I can tell you," she said, moving toward a 
small armchair opposite the couch and lowering herself into it.  
"Weeks have passed, and I told the police all that I could at the 
time.  They seemed to be remarkably uninterested in what I had to 
say."  

She bent forward slightly, and Mulder saw the glint of a silver 
chain around her neck.  Gazing downward, he caught sight of a 
large, round pendant dangling between her breasts.

And the wink of an onyx scarabaeus imbedded upon it.

Eyes widening, he inhaled sharply, staring at the talisman.

"Mr. Mulder?" Zofia asked, abruptly drawing his attention.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered, meeting her narrow expression.  "I 
was just noticing your jewelry there."  

Mulder tipped his chin forward, gesturing in the direction of her 
necklace.

She reached down, grasping the amulet.

"It is Egyptian," she said, fingers drifting over the black stone.  
"From my mother.  My parents emigrated to this country from 
North Africa, years ago."

Drawing a deep breath, she glanced away, still clutching the 
pendant.  

"The stone is called a scarabaeus.  In ancient Egyptian belief, it 
was said to be a repository of the soul."

"And you believe that?" Mulder asked quietly.

"Of course."  She looked back at him with a slight smile.  "But only 
out of honor to my mother.  She spent many a night telling the old 
tales of the gods and goddesses and the spirit world to my brother 
and me.  Of Isis and the death of her husband Osiris.  Of her quest 
for his resurrection.  And of the birth of their son Horus -- the sky 
god."

"And Anubis?" 

"Ahhhh.  I see you are familiar with the mythology."

"Slightly."

"It is unusual to meet somebody with this knowledge," she said 
coolly, waiting for an explanation.

"I've studied all types of ancient mythologies in my work with the 
FBI," Mulder shrugged -- as if it were of no consequence.  

He didn't want to alert this woman.

"I see," Zofia remarked after an uncomfortable silence.  She 
leaned back and released the amulet, folding her hands softly in 
her lap.  

"Usually, I can speak only of these things with my children.  I 
shared the legends with them as well.  They were meaningful to 
my family.  A tie to the old lands -- to our culture."

Of course they were, Mulder thought.  Why else would her father 
have taken a name that was an anagram of an ancient Egyptian 
spirit?

<and why else would her son David choose the ritual symbols of 
Anubis when he exacted retribution for the death of his brother??>

Focus, Mulder, he warned himself silently.  It would be dangerous 
to tip Zofia off to his suspicions.  For now, anyway.  One essential 
piece of understanding was still a mystery -- whether or not David 
had acted alone, or with the assistance of...something.

<the God of the Dead>

 "Agent Mulder," Zofia's voice interrupted his uneasy reverie.  "I 
don't understand what this has to do with the death of my son.  Or, 
why you are here now." 

"Actually, I came here this evening to ask your assistance," Mulder 
said after a slight pause, pulling out the envelope with the folded 
exhumation order.  "With your permission, we'd like to re-
examine your son's body."

Zofia regarded the piece of paper thoughtfully.  

"And what purpose would this serve?  We buried him weeks ago."

"I know that," said Mulder.  "But I'm sure you're aware of the 
murders plaguing this neighborhood lately."

*Carefully*, he drilled himself.  *Very* carefully.

Blinking, she bought herself a few moments to consider his 
words.  Then, to Mulder's surprise, she laughed softly, before 
saying:

"You know, when the police came here to tell me of my son's 
death, I was not surprised.  I knew about this poison on the streets.  
I knew what he was doing.  In a way, it was better that it happened 
sooner -- so that I did not need to watch him killing himself, day 
after day.  Year after year.  But it didn't salve the knowledge that 
he was murdered.  Murdered by those who would conspire to put 
the drugs in his veins.  And for what?  *Money*."

She spat out the last word derisively and Mulder flinched at the 
harsh sound.

"I told the police these things," Zofia continued, ignoring his 
reaction.  "Detective DeSilva.  He told me an overdose could not 
be prosecuted as wrongful death."

She shifted slightly in her seat, restless with the memory.

"Wrongful death," she said the words slowly, heavy with obvious 
irony.  "And now, here you are, asking my assistance for the 
murders of these others..."

Mulder said nothing as she trailed off, gazing into the distance.

"I cannot help you, Mr. Mulder," Zofia said finally, making a 
slight, dismissive gesture.  "Like my son, those people made a 
choice.  Retribution was inevitable."

"But not justice?" Mulder asked softly.

Zofia leaned back in the chair, a weary, resigned smile crossing 
her features once again.

"Let me tell you a story," she began, "about my family."

"My parents came to this country years ago because they believed 
it was a land of opportunity.  That was before the ideal became the 
cliche it is today.  They settled in your great capital city, found 
jobs, and began the painstaking process of raising a family -- 
myself, and my older brother."

Bending forward, Zofia settled her arms along her legs, clasping 
her hands together as the pendent around her neck swung 
unfettered, reflecting the light softly.

"One day, my mother was attacked on the way home from the 
metro.  Beaten senseless.  Her wallet stolen.  Unfortunately, she 
was unable to survive her injuries, and she died within twenty-four 
hours from severe trauma to her head and neck."

She closed her eyes and Mulder realized that the memory must be 
incredibly painful, even after the passage of many years.  Still, she 
went on relentlessly:

"My father was heartbroken.  Especially when the system he had 
put so much faith in failed to bring him justice."

"Her attacker was never caught?" Mulder asked, searching her 
shadowed face.

"Not by the police."

The air in the room seemed to close in, darkening with her 
implication.

"You see, my father swore vengeance upon her killer.  And he left 
us one night for that purpose.  Shortly thereafter, a man was found 
dead in the neighborhood amongst the symbols of judgment.  
There was talk that he was the one who had assaulted my mother.  
But neither I, nor my brother, ever saw my father again."

With an abrupt sense of wonderment, Mulder realized she was 
describing his X file.  

Concentrating, he processed her words with quick efficiency.  A 
pattern was falling into place.  The connection to the ancient 
mythos was clearly quite powerful in her family.  Her father 
believed.  Her mother believed.  Zofia believed enough to impart 
the legacy to her children.  And reading between the lines, Mulder 
was able to decipher what she was saying with relative ease -- that 
her father had depended on his own collective faith in ancient lore 
to avenge her mother.  

It had likely cost him his life.  

Now, another man was availing himself to that same spiritual 
gestalt.  And for the same cause -- retribution. 

"You don't know what happened to your father?" he broke in 
tensely, wondering if she would go far enough to elucidate his 
suspicions.

"No," she said, and he felt a stab of disappointment.  

"It was a time of great hardship for us.  And sorrow at our loss.  
But our parents had taught us to be survivors.  When my father 
disappeared, my brother and I fled.  We made the decision to 
come up to Baltimore where an older cousin of my mother's lived.  
In this city, my brother would have a better chance at finding 
employment, and I could finish my schooling."

Zofia frowned before continuing, "I won't subject you to the 
details of our struggle.  Suffice it to say that we moved into this 
very apartment, and for a while, it seemed as though he and I 
would be able to overcome the tragedy."

Then, without warning, she stood, smoothing a hand over her brow 
slightly and moving to the window.

"But it was only a matter of time before my brother gave into the 
temptations of the street.  He is out there now, living from day to 
day in a shooting gallery two blocks from here.  Stricken with 
AIDS.  A shadow of his former self.  And then there was my 
husband..."

Zofia trailed off again and Mulder wondered just how many times 
a similar drama had played itself out among the denizens of this 
neighborhood.  

How many other stories of desperation were there out there, just 
like this one?

This was a land without fate.  Without hope.

But while Zofia may have suffered from the absence of a future, 
she was certainly in possession of a past.  As she herself had 
previously stated:  "A tie to the old lands -- to our culture." 

Now, that tie had reared its bloodied head in the present.  Mulder 
could feel it; knowing he was but a step away from resolving this 
brutal series of killings.

"I had my boys," she said, speaking with her back towards him.  "I 
did the best I could to raise them with love and understanding.  To 
teach them the true path of righteousness.  David, my oldest, made 
it out of here -- this life.  He only returned to see Terrance buried 
-- his last chance to say good-bye."

Zofia turn then, looking towards the photograph that Mulder had 
noticed earlier.  "They were very close," she sighed, almost to 
herself.  "Growing up together, with the rest of the boys and girls 
of the community.  I suppose they never really had a chance.  
None of them did in this life..."  Her voice broke slightly as she 
finished, closing her eyes in pain.

Mulder pressed his lips together as he stared down at his hands, 
understanding that the truth, the answer, was finally there for him. 

"Do *you* think the murders here in the neighborhood represent a 
sending of the God of the Dead?" he asked quietly, looking up at 
her with a deliberate expression.

Her head snapped towards him and Mulder read the pensive, 
calculating look on her face immediately.  Confirmation was 
there.  

So was fear.

Then she twisted again, toward the window, gesturing in the 
direction of the street.  "You want to see the God of the Dead, Mr. 
Mulder?" 

Her words were low, meaningful.  "Take a walk down to the 
corner.  He is there.  Every day.  Every night.  In every package 
they sell on the street."

"You know," she went on after a moment, looking back at him 
bitterly.  "My son's overdose didn't even deter any of them, those 
people who are dying.  They just assumed he couldn't handle it.  It 
made them crave what he took all the more, so that even in death, 
his life had no meaning."

She quieted, shrinking in on herself as though utterly weary of it 
all.

And Mulder stood up in the weighty silence, realizing that the 
interview was finished.  There was nothing left to say.  

With a final gesture, he stepped over to the photograph and drew it 
close for inspection.

Two sons -- David and Terrance.  The older boy had his arms 
around the other in a loose embrace.  His intense, sensitive 
expression brought to mind the sober image of his mother, but the 
look seemed to be one of genuine happiness and affinity as he 
gazed at the camera with his brother.  

David, Mulder thought, his sharp glance taking in every aspect of 
the boy's appearance.  

His eyes were green.

Mulder heard Zofia's sharp intake of breath as he turned to face 
her, comprehension clearly written across his features.  

Their eyes met, and he knew she sensed his awareness.  

Without a word, he set down the photo, moving to the entrance of 
the apartment and bending to pick up the folded exhumation order 
along the way.

Pausing before the door, Mulder looked down into her tired, 
troubled features.

"Unless he comes in, whether he's responsible on his own or not, I 
can't help him."

Her lips trembled with emotion.

"You don't understand yet, do you, Mr. Mulder?  The street took 
my family.  My mother.  My father.  My brother.  My 
husband...my son..." and her voice finally broke under the litany.  

He nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes darkening with regret.  

"I can't help you destroy what little I have remaining."  Zofia lifted 
her chin, squaring her jaw as he continued to stare at her.  "I won't." 

Mulder pulled open the door, even as she reached out to him.

"Intervention and retribution come in many forms, Mr. Mulder.  
So does justice."  

He looked down at the soft touch of her hand on his arm as she 
continued, "Like his brother, he grew up with those boys.  And 
Gayle.  He understood just how little choice this world offered 
them."

"David?" Mulder asked, willing her to say it.  "Or the God of the 
Dead?"

"One may not be distinguished from the other, Mr. Mulder.  And 
really, it matters very little.  You will never find him."

With that, she gave him a slight nudge onto the waiting marble 
steps and shook her head for emphasis as he turned to face her 
one last time.

Then, Zofia Brown closed the door firmly on his tense visage.  

She thought he had no further recourse, Mulder knew.  She didn't 
realize what he had seen; where he had been.

But he knew where to go.  And what he had to do.

It was time to relive the nightmare.

Fear gripped him at the understanding.  

Stark.  Intense.  Like an icy hand sifting through the twisted 
material of his viscera.

Fayette street.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Mulder climbed into the waiting 
Taurus.

*********

He stood before the door, fingers drifting slowly over the pitted, 
peeling exterior like a lover's reverent caress along the sweep of 
his partner's back.

The awe and dread coursing through his veins were more potent 
than any narcotic and Mulder closed his eyes, drawing in lungfuls 
of damp, icy air.  He touched his forehead to the cool wood, still 
sightless, as he pressed the length of his body along the unyielding 
surface.  

Sighing lightly, he let the sensations resonate through him -- this 
time, unfettered by the crippling effects of drugs.

It was here.

Stepping back, Mulder forced the door open with his foot, 
refusing to even consider touching the doorknob.  It eased back, 
revealing a dark, featureless portal.  

The flashlight beam speared the inky blackness before him and 
Mulder drew his gun, holding it out in readiness as the healing cut 
in his palm stung and tingled, awakening to something he was too 
afraid to name.

Picking his way through the scattered debris, he inhaled the foul 
stench still tainting the air.  

A wave of nausea tickled his throat as the stink coated the insides 
of his lungs with a lingering feeling of decay.

Fuck.

Mulder stood before the stairway now, breathing deeply, willing 
himself to stay calm.  Then, he took his first step back up the path 
to eternity.

The upstairs hallway was exactly as he remembered:  four 
enclosures lining the walls, ending with the doorway to the 
bathroom.

But the door itself was gone now, probably removed by the CSU 
when they'd executed their meticulous assault on this place.

Even from ten feet away, Mulder could see the blood spatters still 
decorating the walls; the hieroglyphic phrases extolling the virtues 
of fidelity and warning away transgressions with the promise of 
death.

He stepped forward, utterly intent on the scene before him, until 
he stood just before the entrance.

Would it manifest itself the second he stepped inside? 

He was clutching the automatic so tightly his fingers were numb.  

Would it wait, hoping he would hesitate?  Be distracted?

Blinking and holding his breath, Mulder prepared to enter the 
chamber.

Then, without warning, he felt a rush of movement -- the sudden, 
abrupt disturbance of air molecules evincing the presence of 
another, imposing figure rearing up behind him.

Before he could think, before he could even react, Mulder felt an 
arm come around his neck, crushing against his windpipe and 
forcing the air from his lungs.  And with a quick, unavailing 
insight, he knew he was fucked -- caught by one of the oldest 
tricks in the book.

The keen, whispery edge of the blade pressed into his throat and 
he wondered if he would feel the warm, liquid rush of blood down 
his front before he blacked out or if it would happen too quickly 
for him to notice.

And then, incomprehensibly, he heard a voice in his ear:

"Drop the shit.  Now."

Mulder immediately let go the flashlight and his gun at the 
command.  

Raising his hands slowly in surrender, he forced himself to move 
as little as possible with the jagged surface of the knife still 
teasing against the fear-sensitized skin of his neck.

The arms around him loosened, pulling away.  But Mulder felt the 
tip of the blade reassert itself, pressing into his back, just next to 
his spine, resting in the gap of his rib cage.

"Get on your knees,"  the voice said as he hastily complied.

The man behind him hunkered down as he knelt, reaching forward 
and around Mulder's body for the gun lying on the floor.

Still holding the knife to Mulder's back, the voice ordered, "Up 
again.  Keep your hands where I can see them."

He obeyed, twisting his head slightly and trying to catch a glimpse 
of the figure behind him.

"Straight ahead, or I guarantee you'll be fucking dead before the 
blood hits the wall."

Mulder's head snapped back, peering forward, staring at the 
decrepit surface of the hallway's graffiti-littered sheetrock.  
Blinking in the darkness, he let his mind go blank, willing himself 
back under control.  Then he felt the knife leave his back and a 
hand clutch his elbow with a vise-like grip.

"This way."  

He allowed himself to be led, without resistance, into one of the 
abandoned bedrooms.

Once inside, Mulder was thrust against the wall, losing his 
balance.

"Sit down, please."

As if he had a choice, Mulder thought dryly, trying to regain his 
equilibrium as he stumbled to the floor.  Settling quickly, he 
leaned back against the wall, drawing his legs up slightly.

"Keep your hands flat on the floor."

He did as he was told, watching as the man finally moved into the 
room, crossing to stand before him.

His attacker was about six-foot-one, broad-shouldered, and 
compactly built, Mulder noticed, struggling to see better in the 
inky blackness.  

The vapid sheen of a streetlamp glowed faintly through the 
window, making it possible to discern a few details.  He could see 
a pair of black, thick-soled boots, dark jeans, and a gray tee-shirt 
mottled with a variety of dark splotches.  

With a sudden, horrible feeling he realized that the streaks had to 
be dried blood.  

Raising his eyes to the man's shadowed face, Mulder sensed, 
rather than saw the sparkle of his eyes.

Green eyes.  Filmy -- like licked stones.

"Hello, David," he said softly, breaking the heavy, oppressive 
silence.

"Who the fuck are you?" 

"My name is Fox Mulder.  I'm an FBI agent assigned to help the 
police with the ritual homicides here in Baltimore."  

He paused, watching the other man carefully.  

"I just came from speaking with your mother."  

Mulder heard the sharp intake of breath and waited for the man's 
next move.

David Brown glanced down at his feet for a moment, clutching 
Mulder's gun in one hand and raising the wicked-looking blade 
with the other.  Then, he cast the knife aside with a practiced 
gesture.  

It made a sharp clatter, skidding into the debris lining one side of 
the room.

Exhaling slowly, David sank down against the wall opposite 
Mulder, sitting on his heels and leaning his head back wearily.

"Do we know each other?"

"I think so.  We've met before.  In this very structure.  Only I 
wasn't quite myself at the time."

David's only response was a slightly malevolent, devious smile.

"I can help you, if you'll let me," Mulder went on, remaining 
perfectly still.

"You'd best be thinking about how to help yourself, now."

"Why?  Hasn't there been enough bloodshed already?"

David ignored the question, raising the pistol up instead, fingers 
stroking lightly along the hammered metal.

Mulder listened to the silence, feeling the dark, rank air currents 
of the room converge, swirling between the two of them like a 
flux tube of charged gravitons.  His scalp tightened, the thin hairs 
on the back of his neck rising in agitation as he suddenly felt a 
familiar supernatural presence reassert itself.

"It's here, isn't it?" he asked, obsessive curiosity kindling.  

The earlier disquiet affecting him seemed to have dissipated 
entirely.  Perhaps it was the intimacy of the sensations.  Whatever 
the case, he welcomed the return of his composure, knowing he 
would need a cool head for what was to come.

"What would you know about it?" David asked tensely.  

He leaned forward, poised, almost like a serpent ready to strike.

"I know you cared about your brother enough to seek retribution 
for his death.  And yet you were understanding enough of those 
responsible to preserve their chance at an afterlife."

David continued to stare at him, completely still, eyes unblinking.

"But what I can't be certain of, is whether or not you acted alone.  
Your mother wouldn't give me a straight answer, but I suspect I 
know the truth.  You had some...otherworldly guidance.  Didn't 
you?"  

Mulder paused, raising a hand to gesture expressively through the 
ambient air.  "Isn't that what's here?  What would it take to make it 
show itself?"

"You must be fucking crazy, you know that?" David finally said, 
shaking his head.  "You have no idea."

Mulder forced a tight smile, choosing not to respond.

"It doesn't matter anyway.  You aren't going to get out of here alive 
this time."

"I don't think so, David," Mulder said in a low voice.  "You don't 
realize it, but your work is over with.  There's no need to go on 
anymore.  See, you don't know what I know."

"And that is?"

"That my partner, with the aid of Baltimore homicide, is right now 
on her way to DC to arrest the fucking heartless bastard that's 
behind all the new heroin distribution.  Behind Pharaoh.  He'll be 
prosecuted for depraved indifference in the senseless deaths of 
over a dozen people, including your brother.  And in less than a 
month, his shit will all be just a vague memory on the street.  The 
fiends will move on to the new flavor of the month, chasing a new 
blast,  living their lives the best way they know how.  And without 
that toxin on the streets, they'll buy themselves a few more days, 
weeks, years.  Whatever it takes."

David Brown didn't reply, but Mulder felt the air in the room shift 
and he couldn't resist the feeling that some other, unseen party 
was listening very intently to what he had to say.

"You accomplished what you set out to do," he said slowly, trying 
to deconstruct the aura surrounding them.  To understand who or 
what it was, and what it wanted.

"By interpreting the messages you left behind, we were able to 
discern the real criminals in this case.  Now, it's time for you to 
come in.  Let this be over with."

The other man made a slightly derisive sound before speaking:

"The problem on the street may be resolved, but I won't be coming 
in.  There are some things *you* don't know."

"Your mother can handle it, David," Mulder broke in persuasively, 
still trying to reason.  "I think she'll be happy enough just to know 
that you're alive -- that you'll make it, even if it's in prison.  And 
I'm sure the State's Attorney will consider the extenuating 
circumstances."

David to reared back in a kind of shocked surprise.  

"What are you, some kind of fucking mind-reader?"

"No," Mulder told him wryly.  "Although I've been accused of a lot 
worse."

Making a slight grimace, the other man lapsed into silence again 
as he rested his head back against the wall.

But something was wrong, Mulder thought.  

Instead of defusing, the tension in the room seemed to intensify, 
unsettling him again as he stared at the look of resignation and 
acceptance emerging on David's face.  A steady roar was building 
in his head as he struggled to make sense of what was happening.

If possible, the room became darker, colder; the stench more 
pronounced.  And Mulder felt a myriad of powerful emotions 
surge through him suddenly.  Desire, vengeance, and oddly, a 
pronounced sense of expectation.

David Brown stood, looking down at Mulder with a knowing, 
fatalistic cast.

"What you say may be true, Mr. Mulder.  If my purpose here is 
over with, then it was fate that we should meet, one last time."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't.  They killed my brother.  *And* they 
perverted the very beliefs we held to do it."  

David's voice rose for a moment with virulent anger before 
subsiding back into its curiously flat tone.  

"They didn't know that, unfortunately.  But it only made the end 
result more fitting.  Poetic, almost.  Just as mine will be; here in 
this place."

"No," Mulder whispered, suddenly watching the final piece of the 
puzzle fit itself into place.  He wouldn't let this happen.  Not this 
way.  Not after all he had seen.  

The bodies of the slain victims.  ER patients in the throes of 
violent overdose.  The commerce on the corners.  The sad, weary 
expression on Zofia Brown's face as she told her story.  And the 
resolute, determined countenance of her son, now.

"No," he said again, stronger this time, trying to rise.  And then, 
without warning, he felt himself assaulted by the same malaise as 
the last time -- heart accelerating, throat constricting, breath 
rasping harshly from his lips.  

Mulder's vision titled askew for a moment as he suddenly saw a 
dark, hazy shape coalesce around the still figure of the man before 
him.

Understanding continued to seep through him relentlessly though 
his mind tried to fight it -- to deny what was happening.

"The price of retribution is answerability, Agent Mulder," he heard 
David's voice say hollowly.  "I knew that, just as surely as my 
grandfather did twenty years ago.  To stand and judge another, one 
must be prepared for the inevitable self-immolation.  I made the 
choice.  I took their lives.  Now, I must account for it.  Only that 
way can this progression be stopped -- the balance restored."

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye while he spoke, as 
though he saw his life spreading out before him like a ghastly, 
limitless panorama.  Torn.  Shattered.  Irrevocable.

Mulder knew there was only one thing left to happen, and he was 
powerless to prevent it as David held the automatic up for 
inspection.

Without another moment's pause, he slid the barrel into his 
mouth, closing his eyes.  

The sooty aura wrapped around him relentlessly, obscuring 
Mulder's sight and making the very air vibrate with a triple 
sensation of hunger, relief and satisfaction.  

With a muffled curse, Mulder leapt to his feet, lunging toward the 
other man with arms outstretched, brain rocked by hopelessness 
and denial of the inevitable cataclysm unfolding before him.  He 
sucked in a desperate breath, pulse sounding like thunder in his 
head...

And then David Brown pulled the trigger.


*********

>Baltimore Police Headquarters
>48 Hours Later

"Well, I guess you got your answer, Mulder."

Scully stood before him, freshly scrubbed and dressed from her 
examination of the corpse of David Brown down at the Baltimore 
city morgue.  In her hand was an evidence collection container 
identical to the one he had shown her two days ago in the box.  

The telltale flash of a scarabaeus glinted within.

"I found it in his stomach.  He must have swallowed it."

Mulder looked up at her with a thousand yard stare, the bright 
overhead lights of the homicide squad room illuminating every 
detail of his haggard features.  He sat at Pembleton's empty desk, 
facing the columns of names in red and black delineating the 
shift's "Board."

When he didn't reply, Scully reached out, understanding the toll 
this case had taken on him -- the incredible mental and physical 
effort he had expended in arriving at a conclusion.

Clasping his hand, she crouched down before his seated figure, 
until she was gazing earnestly up into his face.

"You were right, Mulder.  But it's over with.  We've done all we 
can here, now.  I think it's time to go home."

They heard the door of the box slam shut at the other end of the 
room and Scully looked over her shoulder at the approaching form 
of Detective Tim Bayliss.

He hesitated briefly at the sight of her comforting Mulder.  Then, 
continuing slowly, he reached the water cooler next to the board, 
stopping and leaning against it.

Scully straightened and slid to the side of Mulder's chair, 
balancing herself on the edge of the desk.

"Was he the one?" Bayliss asked, looking at Scully.

"Yes," she replied, nodding.  "At least, that's how the report will 
read.  We found physical evidence on the body and his clothes that 
connects him to all three slayings.  The knife we recovered is a 
match to the suspected weapon.  And Brown's prints were the only 
ones on it."

Bayliss made a low sound of acceptance and looked over at 
Mulder briefly.  "I spoke with Gee and he agreed that we're going 
to close the case as a suicide.  It doesn't look like anything could 
have been done differently at the scene to prevent what happened."

Mulder let out a ragged sigh, propping his head in both hands for a 
moment before he stood, rubbing the back of his neck lightly.

"She said we wouldn't find him," he remarked to no one in 
particular.  "I wonder if she intentionally forgot to add 'alive' into 
that statement."

Bayliss tipped himself forward and slid his hands into his pockets 
as he regarded the other man with a soulful expression.  "Yeah, 
well at least it looks as though those three names will finally be 
going up in black."  He angled his head in the direction of the 
board.  "And hopefully, that'll be the end of it."

"It won't really be over until the last of that heroin is off the 
streets," Scully declared quietly.

"Narcotics is working on that right now.  And Frank," said Bayliss 
as he turned in the direction of the box.

The door had opened and Pembleton was leading out their accused 
from DC.  Giardello, Assistant State's Attorney Ed Danvers and 
the high-priced defense lawyer engaged by the leader of the 
Pharaoh crew all followed.

"He made a deal," Bayliss told the two of them as the bizarre 
procession approached.  "There'll be some jail time.  Not enough 
to my mind, but at least we'll clean up the shit."

"Two weeks and two dozen addicts later."  Scully's voice was bitter 
now.

Pembleton brushed past them, silently acknowledging the two FBI 
agents as he led the handcuffed, sharply dressed suspect down the 
hallway in the direction of Central Booking.  The two attorneys 
trailed after, but Giardello paused, preparing to enter his office.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully," he grated.  "On behalf of the 
Baltimore Police Department, I'd like to extend our gratitude for 
your help on this case.  I'll be sure to speak with Assistant 
Director Skinner and tell him what a pleasure it was working with 
you two."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said, rising next to Mulder to shake the 
man's hand.  

"Agent Mulder, if I could trouble you for your signature on the 
last of the reports," the lieutenant said, gesturing towards his door.

Mulder followed him into the office, and Scully looked at Bayliss, 
hanging back with a slight, nervous smile. 

Undeterred by her hesitant attitude, the detective stepped forward, 
light glinting softly off his glasses as he leaned toward her, 
reaching out to grasp her hand.

"Thank you," was all he whispered softly, his warm breath tickling 
her ear and once again sending warmth firing through her body.

Then, he planted a light kiss on her cheek, leaning back to catch 
her in the sparkle of his wide, boyish grin.

Scully opened her mouth slightly, ready to respond, when she 
caught sight of her partner in the shift commander's doorway, 
watching her silently.

Without another word, she bit her lower lip and nodded quickly at 
Bayliss, reaching out to grasp her coat off the rack and preparing 
to leave the squad room.  Then, shrugging it on, she turned and 
walked in the direction of the hallway.

Mulder stepped forward, mimicking her actions as he pulled on 
his own overcoat.  He fixed Bayliss with a wordless stare, finally 
turning to follow his partner.

At the door, he heard Munch's snide voice call out:

"Oh, Agent Mulder..."

Pausing ruefully, Mulder turned and met the other man's amused, 
cynical smirk.  

"Stay warm.  And make sure you always wear clean socks.  You 
never know when somebody's going to catch you in flagrante 
delicto."

Mulder said nothing, merely grimacing with a forced smile and 
giving the man a sarcastic nod of thanks.

With a final, lengthy look, he took in the unending, uninterrupted 
activity of the squad room.  His gaze finally came to rest once 
again on the board as he watched the secretary erasing the three 
red names beneath Pembleton's and replacing them in black.

He would never know exactly what it was he had encountered in 
the Fayette rowhouse.  The God of the Dead.  David Brown.  
Perhaps even an aftershock of the drugs that had briefly become 
such a part of his existence.

Maybe it was all of those things.

Mulder listened to the phone ring and watched as the detective 
named Lewis tossed a football to his partner and answered it, 
preparing himself for another run at the street.  For another 
homicide.  

Death, as life, surely went on.

Then he walked out the door, ready for the long drive back to 
Washington; to the bizarre, yet familiar perils of the X files.

And the removal of any further disruptions in his partnership with 
Scully.

*********

>FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building
>Washington DC
>Two weeks later

It was Monday morning, and Mulder sat watching the closed door 
to the basement office with single-minded intensity.  His feet 
were planted on the edge of his desk, chair tilted back 
precariously as he gnawed on the end of a pencil.

The call had come in the previous Tuesday; his phone ringing with 
a seemingly innocent forewarning.  Picking it up, Mulder had 
recognized the smooth, earnest tones of Detective Tim Bayliss's 
voice immediately.

He had asked for Scully.

For a split second, Mulder had felt the irrepressible urge to lie 
and claim ignorance of her whereabouts, but by then, Scully was 
already on to him, glancing in his direction curiously.

"It's for you," he'd said, ignoring her questioning look and keeping 
his face carefully expressionless as he turned back to the 
mountain of paperwork still remaining from their latest 
investigation.

Try as he might, Mulder found it impossible to block out the one-
sided conversation entirely, and what he heard unsettled him even 
more.

When she finally returned the handset to its cradle on his desk, 
Scully continued to stand there, gazing silently over his bent head.

Unable to stand it any longer, Mulder looked up and met her 
hesitant stare.

"Well," she began quietly, forcing a slight smile, "it looks as 
though I'm headed up to Baltimore for the weekend."

Mulder had figured that out already, but he willed himself to stay 
cool, holding her eyes unwaveringly.

"Bayliss?"

She nodded her head slightly.

"Have a good time," was all he'd said, turning back to the mess on 
his desk with a dismissive attitude.

The rest of the week had passed by quickly, an undercurrent of 
tension now coloring their every move with one another.

And here it was finally.  Monday morning.  

Mulder had made it to the office earlier than his usual 7 A.M. 
appearance.  He had tried his damndest, but was unable to suppress 
the overwhelming feelings of uneasiness and resentment.

He heard the touch of her hand against the knob and quickly 
pushed himself back.  Righting his chair, he reached out for his 
glasses and flicked open a file lying on the desk before him.

The door swung open and Mulder couldn't prevent himself from 
glancing up at the familiar figure of his partner, standing in the 
doorway.

One look at the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, and 
he knew.

Dana Katherine Scully, virgo emeritus, had gotten laid.  Or worse, 
she was in love.

Tearing his eyes away, Mulder bit down on his lip sharply, until he 
tasted the salty tang of his own blood.  And he realized with a 
sudden, unrelenting insight that his nightmare was just beginning.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Part III -- Tomorrow We Die

"We were above
You were standing underneath us
We were not yet lovers
Dragons were smoked
Bumblebees were stinging us
I was soon to be crazy

Eat drink and be merry
For tomorrow we die..."
--Dave Matthews Band, 'Tripping Billies'

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

>Annapolis -- Dana Scully's apartment
>4:30 A.M. -- 5 days earlier

She bolted upright in bed, a soundless scream choking in her 
throat.

Panting, trying to draw a desperate breath, Dana Scully clawed at 
her neck, hands sliding over the fine slick of perspiration coating 
her skin.

Oh, Jesus, she thought, blinking rapidly in the dark and willing her 
heart to slow to a more even rhythm.  It had been a bad one.  
Worse than usual.  She was no stranger to nightmares, but this had 
been a head-banger.

Disturbing, formless images bled back into her subconscious and 
she breathed a sigh of relief at their departure.  Unlike most of her 
dreams, she was more than willing to let this one go whence it 
came.  Thankfully, she couldn't seem to remember what it was 
about.  Danger?  Perhaps.  But to whom?  Herself?  Her mother?

Mulder.

No, she had left him at the office last night, and everything 
seemed fine.  They were currently taking a breather between 
cases, ever since the confrontation with Linda Modell.  As a 
result, each had been spending days catching up on paperwork and 
analysis of the case.

And waiting for the next albatross to beat its wings in the search 
for the truth.

Frowning, she began to slide out of bed and winced at the shooting 
pain that welled from her temples into her eyes.

Damn it.  Another headache.  Brought on by the nightmare most 
likely.

Too bad she couldn't use that excuse to explain away *all* of the 
recurring migraines plaguing her since the cancer went into 
remission.  Funny thing -- headaches rarely troubled her when the 
disease was taking its course.  But now that things were supposed 
to be improving...

Scully gingerly made her way to the bathroom and turned on the 
light, wincing at her reflection in the mirror.  Her face still looked 
damned thin, and there were dark purple smudges beneath the 
bruised blue of her eyes.  Sighing, she opened the medicine chest, 
fingers hesitating over the bottle of Imitrex prescribed by the 
doctor.

No, she thought.  It wasn't nearly bad enough for that.  Yet.  
Instead, she grabbed the ibuprofen and shook two tablets into her 
hand, chasing them with a full glass of water.  Reaching under the 
tap, she scooped up some cold water, the icy sensation tingling 
against her flushed skin with much-needed relief.

Padding silently into the kitchen, Scully busied herself making 
coffee.  There was no way she'd be able to get back to sleep now, 
and the caffeine ought to help offset the pain that spiked in her 
skull.

Pausing for a moment, she thought of her last visit to the doctor.  

Scully had made the appointment after the second migraine, for 
she no longer screwed around when it came to these things.  The 
experience of  the past year had taught her to be cautious with her 
health.  Very cautious.

The doctor had run a small battery of tests, but found nothing 
physiologically wrong.  Instead, he took the opportunity to talk 
with her about other, more intangible realities.

<"Dana, I really do think you need to evaluate your lifestyle, your 
job, and the effect it's having on you," he'd begun carefully.  "You 
may need to re-think the way you're pushing yourself.  Take it 
easy.  Find a way to carve out some of the stress.  It's a lot for one 
person to carry around by herself.">

Yeah right, Scully thought wryly.  As if there were any way 
possible to take it easy while investigating the X-files.  While 
running down the object of her partner's lifelong quest.  While 
working side by side with him, every day, trying to keep from 
bending under the weight of his intensity.

It had become worse, over time.  Especially in recent months.  
First there had been the shock and apprehension of her cancer.  
And then the abrupt about-face of her remission.  Add to that the 
trauma of Emily's death and the disclosure of her infertility, and 
what you had were two individuals, totally mind-fucked by a 
calculated, uncontrollable series of events.  

She and Mulder, Scully thought bitterly, partners till the end.

And then, there were their recent cases.  

First, the Baltimore ritual slayings and the inner turmoil brought 
on by her association with the homicide detective, Tim Bayliss.  
That investigation and the intimate rapport she'd established with 
the other man had caused a myriad of subtle stress cracks in her 
relationship with Mulder, though neither would admit to it aloud.

Then, there was the re-emergence of the Pusher case and the 
ordeal with Linda Modell, exacerbating the pressure on the two of 
them to an overwhelming degree.  Mulder hadn't treated her the 
same way since.

Scully knew it would take time for him to forget the image of her 
lying dead on the warehouse floor -- the sticky-bright sheen of 
blood seeping from her head into the concrete below.  

Christ, it was going to take time for *her* to forget the sight of 
him standing there, staring, paralyzed by hopeless grief.

But she couldn't help feeling that it was no excuse for Mulder to 
be shutting her out this way.

In times of uncertainty such as these, she was beginning to 
understand that she needed more in her life than just his steadfast, 
aloof presence.  She needed *him*.

Unfortunately, Scully knew she wasn't likely to find such relief 
any time soon.  It wasn't the nature of their relationship to 
confront or even talk about these types of issues.

Instead, they would continue plodding along her aptly designated 
'endless line.'  Together, but separated.  And they would behave as 
though nothing were wrong, until some other bizarre case forced a 
catharsis.

Meanwhile, her headaches would continue.

Scully leaned over the counter, settling her head into her hands 
and listening to the steady drip-drip of the coffee into the pot as 
she continued to reflect.

Lately, ever since the cancer had gone into remission, she had 
begun to question her own hopes and desires -- to weigh what she 
had against what she wanted.

What she wanted.

Scully laughed softly at the concept.  Very little of her life over 
past five years could be attributed to 'what she wanted.'

Actually, that wasn't true, she reprimanded herself silently.  There 
had been opportunities to break away -- to leave the X files.  

Instead, she had opted to remain with Mulder; to attempt to find 
meaning in the work and the experiences they shared.  His sister's 
disappearance.  Her abduction and violation.  His father's death.  
Her sister, Melissa's.  The cancer.  And the myriad of victims 
they'd run across in their investigations.  Victims of a truth that 
was hidden and therefore unaccountable.

But accepting responsibility for where she was in her life at this 
particular point didn't take away from the fact that there were gaps 
in her personal sense of fulfillment.

There was no disputing that she cared for Mulder deeply and was 
committed to their partnership.  

But what disturbed Scully now was that she didn't think their 
relationship's subtly deep, unspoken bond was enough to sustain 
her anymore.

She thought back to that moment in the car with Tim Bayliss, when 
he'd kissed her and she had responded to his overwhelming need 
with a display of her own shockingly repressed passion.

Tipping her head back for an instant, Scully ran her fingertips 
lightly over the taut skin of her neck, retracing the path of Tim's 
hand in the car that night.  A soft murmur purred in her throat as 
she brushed a knuckle over her lips, reliving the feel, the charged 
intensity of that encounter.

In the rational light of the present, Scully knew just how fine a line 
she'd actually toed that night.  Had her sanity not reasserted itself, 
she may have actually climbed into his lap and begged the man to 
take her right there, at the very edges of a busy crime scene.

Shuddering almost imperceptibly, she forced her eyes open, 
staring at her reflection in the glass of the cabinets.  Her eyes 
seemed brighter now; cheeks flushed with the heat of the memory.  
And Scully saw Bayliss's quirky, handsome features superimposed 
over hers.  The desire glinting in his eyes.  The long, lingering 
smile that gave his face such a boyish cast.

Then, she thought about the subsequent time in the hospital.  How 
she'd sat at Mulder's bedside and contemplated her feelings 
toward him in the context of what had happened between her and 
the detective.  How she'd wondered if Mulder would ever reach 
out to her that way.

Would it ever be possible to take things to the next step?  Did she 
even *want* that?

God, what a dangerous question.

And why the hell did she always have to wait for *him* to be the 
catalyst?

Because she feared rejection?  Because it would compromise the 
ties they already shared?

Ruthlessly, she suppressed her thoughts.  They were a waste of 
time. Mulder had made his reluctance to explore such things 
abundantly clear while working the Ad Noctum case in Florida.  
What she wanted had obviously mattered very little to him there.  
And once back in DC with the file closed and back on familiar 
ground,  she had simply felt too tired to put forth the effort.  
Besides, if he had felt that way then, why should now be any 
different?

But the pressure was still there.  The need for something, 
somebody, in her life.  The experience with Bayliss had only given 
the craving that much more clarity.  

Her ordeal with Ed Jerse had been born out of a similar unrest.  
But that was different.  Ed had been...troubled.  Her association 
with him more of a whim -- an attempt to capture the moment.

The detective was a completely different animal.  

Scully remembered what she had thought in Baltimore -- that he 
was an attractive, intelligent, straightforward kind of guy.  
Someone who understood the job to a degree; a life spent in 
pursuit of justice and the truth.  A person who could quite possibly 
meet her on similar ground.  And he was interested in her.

How refreshing.

<Quit.>

The quick mental suggestion lured Scully without warning. 

Find a life, find a love, find yourself. 

Simple.  Solution found.  Subject closed.

Only it wasn't.  It would never be that easy.  Working with Mulder 
was no longer a job so much as a life journey.  One that she had a 
very personal stake in.  The unbreakable bands of time and 
experience bound them together more tightly than she cared to 
admit.

Blowing out her breath softly, Scully carried a cup of coffee into 
the bathroom and began to make preparations for another cycle of 
routine work at the office.  With Mulder.

Just another ordinary day in the life for Dana Scully, she thought, 
trying to dampen the ache in her head by sheer force of will.

As always, it was nothing she couldn't handle.

*********

>The Waterfront Bar and Restaurant -- Fells Point
>Baltimore, MD
>Three Days Later

Her phone preparations for the weekend stay had been routine; the 
drive uneventful.

Scully wished she could say the same for the buzz of excitement 
and anxiety spinning tumultuously in her brain, now that she was 
here.

His phone call had been completely unexpected and utterly 
uncanny in its timing, she reflected.  And here she was, mere days 
later, up in Baltimore, getting ready for her first real date in years.

The slick cobblestoned pavement of Fells Point rumbled up to 
meet her as she drove slowly down Thames Street in the light icy 
rain.  To her right rose the imposing edifice of Central District 
Headquarters, a building that she'd become intimately familiar 
with during her investigation here in Baltimore with Mulder.

Mulder.

Scully thought about him again, wincing internally.  

Damn.

No amount of strength or resolve could have hidden that look in 
his eyes when he'd handed her the phone three days ago.  Nor the 
infinitesimal tremor in his voice when he'd asked, "Bayliss?"  

The sound had provoked a corresponding rush of sensations, 
pooling in her mind like a black tide of discontent.  Cold.  
Disturbing.  Relentless.

God, she knew him far too well to even indulge in denial for her 
own sake anymore.  In times of clarity such as these, Mulder was 
an open book to her.

There was fear there in his expression, Scully knew.  And a rare 
moment of indecisiveness.  Still, he'd held onto his composure 
and coolly wished her a good time.  

What a tough guy.

Consequently, she'd reasoned to herself, there was absolutely no 
cause to feel guilty at all about what she was embarking on.

Right.

Scully resolutely shelved her thoughts of Mulder right next to the 
feelings that were beginning to feel suspiciously close to 
something like betrayal.  Instead, she frowned, craning her neck 
slightly as she searched for a place to park.  

This wasn't about her partnership with Mulder.  It was *her* night.  
She'd be damned if she wasn't going to enjoy it.

The bar was across the street.  Bayliss had asked her to meet him 
there when he'd called.  At the time, he'd explained apologetically 
that their regular bartender was on vacation, forcing him and his 
partners to fill in for her.

No problem, she'd told him.  The Waterfront was fine.  She'd been 
there with him during the case and found the atmosphere to be 
relatively comfortable in the midst of its characteristic law-
enforcement presence.  

Scully finally parked and stepped slowly from the car, flinching at 
the dank, wintry breeze sweeping in from the harbor.  The smell of 
brine tickled her nose and she exhaled softly, pulling the lapels of 
her coat more snugly over her chest and stepping over to the door 
of the bar.

The usual muffled drone of voices and music drifted from within 
and Scully took another moment to consider her situation.

It was her first date in a long time.  And with a regular human 
being, at that.  She inspected her casual appearance in the front 
window critically, wondering why it always took so damn long to 
look this understated.

Scully was clad in form-fitting jeans and a pair of low-heeled 
penny loafers sans socks.  Her white cotton oxford was 
unbuttoned a tad at the neck, exposing a pale length of throat set 
off only by the gold cross she habitually wore.  A casual black 
leather winter coat encased her thin frame, belt cinched tightly at 
the waist.

The bright strands of her hair were waving loosely from the 
moisture in the air and her blue eyes glittered like the sheen of 
sunlight on wet turquoise.  The minimal make-up she wore 
accented the full swell of her slightly parted lips and the delicate 
flush along her cheekbones.

It may have taken two hours to look this way, Scully thought with 
some satisfaction, but the effect had been worth it.  She was ready.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door and stepped inside 
the unassuming portal to another universe.

The abrupt change from the cold dampness outside to the warm 
dryness within made her gasp and she gripped the small purse she 
carried tightly, fighting to retain her bearings.  Smoke tainted the 
air, along with the stale 80-proof aroma that so often seemed to 
characterize old taverns.  Not that she was familiar with such 
things.  It just seemed...right, somehow.

Craning her neck a bit, Scully noticed that the bar was almost 
completely full, with most of the tables taken and the usual crowd 
in back by the pool tables.  The patrons all had the same faint, 
confident demeanor -- characteristic of packing loaded firearms.  
Cops, cops and more cops.  Detectives, patrolmen, and mid-level 
management alike all seemed at ease in this little haven of sanity 
so close to the borders of chaos lying across the street.

Her eyes drifted along the few empty seats at the bar to the sight 
of Bayliss standing down at the far end.  He seemed deeply 
engrossed in conversation with two men.  One of them was stocky 
and athletic-looking; a baseball cap covering his short, dark hair.  
The other was a tall, graceful wraith of a man, clad all in black -- 
from the soles of his shoes to the lenses of his glasses.  She 
recognized them as Tim's partners -- fellow homicide detectives 
Meldrick Lewis and John Munch.

Scully pressed her lips together lightly, ignoring the muted drone 
of the various conversations wrapping around her and focusing 
instead on the jazzy upbeat tempo of the rock and roll music on 
the jukebox.  Taking a deep breath, she removed her rain-slicked 
coat and hung it on a rack near the door.  Then, making her way 
toward the bar, she settled herself on an empty stool.

The woman next to her appeared to be alone, lost in thought as she 
contemplated life's mysteries at the bottom of a half-empty glass 
of pale beer.  She looked to be about the same height and weight 
as Scully and oddly enough, had the same color hair.  It was much 
longer though, and less contained, floating in a fiery cloud around 
the thin, angular planes of her face.  

A lit cigarette rested in an ashtray before her, which the woman 
picked up and drew on as she turned and met Scully's stare.

She nodded slightly, her dark brown gaze twinkling in wry 
acknowledgment as she set the cigarette down and blew smoke 
through the corner of her mouth.  After a moment of mutual eye 
contact, her distant expression changed to one of recognition.

"FBI Special Agent Dana Scully, right?" she asked, in a 
surprisingly low contralto voice made husky with the combination 
of nicotine and malt hops.

The surprise Scully felt at the mention of her name must have 
been evident, for the other woman gave a lopsided half-smile and 
extended her hand.

"Lieutenant Kay Howard, fugitive squad, Baltimore PD," she said, 
gesturing with her head in the vague direction of the police 
headquarters building.  "Bayliss told me he was expecting you.  
Asked me to keep an eye out."

Her dry grasp was warm and firm, the expression of welcome on 
her face sincere, and Scully swept aside her usual reserve to 
return the cop's friendly grin, saying:

"I saw him over there when I came in.  He seems pretty 
preoccupied."

"Yeah," Howard said, making a small, amused sound.  "Some 
customer complained to Munch about missing the Wizards game 
and now he's pissed.  So, they're having their usual debate over the 
TV issue.  Munch is holding firm -- still doesn't want one in here.  
The other two aren't so sure."  She shook her head sourly.  "This 
has been going on between the three of them for years.  You'd 
think they'd find a new way to harass each other.  Kind of unusual 
tonight, though.  Most times, things run pretty smoothly when 
Tim's behind the stick."  

She paused, letting go another mouthful of smoke before 
continuing, "He's probably the best of the three for the job.  
Munch focuses too much on debating obscure theory with solitary 
barhounds and Lewis is just all over the place.  Tim runs on a more 
even keel.  Pays attention to everyone.  Keeps the bullshit running 
and the beer flowing, which is the name of the game when you're 
tending bar."  With another small smile, Kay stubbed out the 
cigarette and lapsed into silence.

Scully rested an elbow along the brass rail, propping her chin in 
one hand as she regarded the other woman thoughtfully.  "Do you 
work with them, then?  I don't recall meeting you when my partner 
and I were up here on a case."

"Used to," Howard replied curtly, staring straight ahead as she 
searched around in her hip pocket, pulling out a handful of change.  
"If you'll excuse me," she finished abruptly, sliding off the stool 
and heading toward the now-quiet jukebox.

Scully turned, looking back at the three partners at the end of the 
bar and catching Bayliss's eyes on her.  His wide, easy grin was 
instantaneous and she flushed warmly for a moment when he stuck 
his tongue out at her.  Gesturing towards the other two men,  he 
indicated that he'd be a few more minutes.

Then, she saw the detective named Lewis look up over Munch's 
shoulder and heard his deep voice ring out in the direction of the 
lieutenant who'd just been seated next to her.

"Awwww, come on, Howard!  Lay off that Dave Matthews shit 
finally, wouldja?"

"Shut up, Lewis," Kay called back over her shoulder with an 
attitude one of weary familiarity.   "It's my goddamn quarter, huh?"  

A very obvious, 'fuck-you' expression accompanied the words as 
she slipped some coins into the jukebox.  Deliberately pressing 
several selections, she finally turned and made her way back to the 
bar.

"Eat, drink and be merry," she muttered beneath her breath, once 
again meeting Scully's amused gaze.  "He's a real hard-on, isn't 
he?"  Howard pulled out another cigarette, glancing in Lewis's 
direction.  "Men."  She shook her head.  "Can't live with 'em, can't 
kill 'em."

Scully laughed out loud then, deciding that she liked Lieutenant 
Kay Howard.  It wasn't often that she met such a thoroughly 
confident, self-assured female in her profession.  And one that 
appeared to have no problem holding her own with overbearing 
male colleagues.  The evening was turning out to be even more 
interesting than she'd expected.

"Cigarette?" Kay offered then, holding the pack in her direction.

Scully hesitated for the briefest of moments before sliding out 
one of the unfiltered Camels.  Leaning forward, she let Howard 
hold a match to the end, inhaling deeply and steeling herself for 
the long-forgotten nicotine rush.  It had been a few years since her 
last one, and she closed her eyes with pleasure at the still-familiar 
burning caress of smoke in her throat.

Opening them finally, Scully was surprised to see Tim's face 
floating before her through the haze and she smiled in 
recognition.

"Dana?" he asked, confusion crinkling his brow as he regarded her 
steadily.  "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," she replied impudently, sitting back and boldly drinking 
in the visual symphony of his presence.  

Bayliss looked just as she remembered -- tall, thin, and drop-dead 
attractive in an elusive, disarming sort of way.  He wore a black 
cotton Henley with the sleeves pulled up midway along his 
forearms.  The dark material was tucked snugly into the slim waist 
of his low-slung jeans.  Slowly, he moved his hands from where 
they rested along each hip to the edge of the bar, his fingers 
splaying close to her own on the glassy surface.  Scully watched, 
mesmerized, as he leaned forward until their faces were mere 
inches apart.

"It's good to see you back," he said in a faint voice, forcing her to 
move closer to hear him over the din of the bar.  "I missed you."  
Bayliss's fingers drew a lazy circle over the skin on the back of 
her hand and his voice tickled the sensitive flesh of her ear.  
Scully felt a sudden heat fire her cheeks again as she backed up 
quickly in response.

His eyes sparked at her behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, letting 
her know that he was aware of her reaction and understood the 
reason for it perfectly.  And for the briefest instant, that cocky, 
self-assured look reminded her, so utterly, of Mul--

"Can I get you two ladies something?"

The words jolted inside her and Scully abruptly lost the train of 
thought, focusing back on Bayliss.

"Another 'Bo," Kay was saying, pushing her empty glass forward as 
Tim looked to Scully.

"Surprise me," she said, hastily picking up the half-smoked Camel 
and slipping it between her lips.

Bayliss worked quickly to pour the two drinks for them and Scully 
sat in a companionable silence with Howard, noting that the other 
woman seemed to be observing her and the other man closely.

"Look, Dana, I'm sorry about having to work tonight," he said, 
setting a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid down before her.  
Pausing, he slid a hand beneath the bar and came up with a roll of 
mints, peeling one off and dropping it into her glass.  "But Munch 
is in some kind of fugue," he went on, "and Lewis already had plans 
to meet people here, so I kinda got stuck, mmm?"

Scully nodded, drawing the drink up to her lips and feeling the icy 
liquid cut down her throat like a sword.  Gin, she thought, 
recognizing its distinctive bite; only marginally blunted by the 
sweet, minty taste of the candy.  Smiling to herself, she decided 
that the mixture was rather pleasing.

"I'll get off, eventually.  Lewis promised to get away and take over 
later.  In the meantime, do you mind hanging here?  I swear, I'll 
stick close."

The look in his eyes was pure innuendo -- almost hypnotic in its 
intensity.  Scully felt suddenly breathless, heat prickling against 
her skin as a powerful current seemed to snap between the two of 
them.

"Sure, I don't care," the words tumbled from her mouth as she 
looked briefly at Howard.  The other woman was still watching her 
with a wry, appraising stare.

"Great," Bayliss said, leaning forward again and abruptly pressing a 
kiss to the side of her mouth.

For a brief moment, Scully felt the tickle of his tongue at the 
corner of her lips and she shuddered lightly, closing her eyes and 
unconsciously turning her head into the glide of his mouth.  But 
Bayliss backed off, winking and giving her another suggestive 
look.  His fingers grazed hers lightly again before he walked back 
down to the other end of the bar.

Scully looked down at the shrinking mint in the tumbler before 
her, fighting a flood of embarrassment at the arousal singing 
through her veins.  Jesus, she thought.  This guy was worse than a 
pheromone-spewing, shape-shifting pseudo-alien.

"So," Kay Howard's low voice suddenly intruded on her 
consciousness, drawing Scully back to their surroundings, "you 
and Timmy met on a case?"

"Uh-huh," she replied distractedly, turning to face the other 
woman.  "My partner and I came up here for those ritual slayings 
last month."

"Yeah, I remember hearing about 'em.  You got the guy, too, huh?"

Scully nodded in response, taking another long pull on her drink as 
she stubbed out the remains of her cigarette.

"Congratulations.  Need a replacement for that?" Howard gestured 
to the ashtray.

"No thanks.  More than one and I'll probably throw up.  I'm not 
really a smoker."

Kay laughed softly as she regarded the half-empty pack in front of 
her.  "I wasn't for a while, either.  To tell you the truth, Tim and I 
quit together years ago, when I was still in homicide.  But 
somehow, in fugitive, I ended up getting back to it.  Wish I didn't, 
but sometimes that's just how things go.  In a way, it kinda turned 
out to be a tribute to an old friend."

Her voice took on a sad, soulful note and Scully looked away, not 
knowing how to respond.

"So, been with the FBI long?" Howard quickly changed the subject 
as she swept the pack of cigarettes into her blazer's front pocket.

"For a while, yes.  I've been working with another agent in the 
unsolved cases division for the last five years or so."

"Really?  Five years is a long time.  Male or female?"

Scully took another long pull on her drink and savored the cutting 
warmth of the gin as it began to permeate her insides.  

"Oh, Mulder is most definitely male," she answered emphatically, 
not thinking about how it would sound.

Howard laughed softly and sipped at her beer, shaking her head.  
"It's like that, huh?  So where is he tonight?"

"Wait," Scully said, running a hand nervously through her hair as 
she realized her gaffe.  "No.  If it were like that, what the hell 
would I be doing up here in Baltimore on a Friday night?"

Kay merely angled her head to one side, choosing not to respond 
to the rhetorical question.

"Mulder and I are close.  He's a good partner.  But we're not...we're 
not..."

"Involved?" Kay finished for her.

"Right."

"I see."

"No, I mean it," Scully asserted, trying to think of the best way to 
correct the misimpression she'd inadvertently created.  "Right 
now, Mulder's probably closeted in his apartment watching some 
X-rated video fantasy and thinking wildly impure thoughts."

"You speak from your own knowledge, of course," Howard 
murmured tonelessly, giving Scully a frank stare.

"No, goddamn it," Scully spluttered, shaking her head and 
wondering if there was ever going to be a way out of this 
uncomfortable topic of conversation.  "It's not like that at all."

She paused in consternation, looking at the measured expression 
on Kay's features and suddenly realizing that the other woman was 
playing her.

"Oh for god's sake," Scully said, collapsing into a fit of relieved 
laughter.  

Howard's face finally cracked into a wide grin and she joined in 
the spate of merriment.

"I had you," she declared, in between gasps of mirth.

"You did not," Scully said, calming as she dropped her forehead 
into one hand.  Drawing a deep breath, she wiped the tears from 
her eyes.

"Oh yes I did.  I had you cold."

Suddenly, a dark shape glided in front of her and Scully looked up 
once again into Tim's earnest expression.

"Everything ok?"

"Everything's fine Tim," Scully reassured him, swallowing a last, 
silly giggle.  "It's just that your former colleague is a real pain in 
the...ass."

The profane comment sent Howard into another frenzy of hilarity, 
and Scully figured she should be having another drink if she were 
going to continue matching wits with this woman.

"Keep them coming, Tim," she requested, gesturing to the empty 
glasses and shaking her head ruefully at Howard's infectious 
laughter.

"I can see it's going to be a long night," Bayliss replied, smiling to 
himself as he eased a glass under the tap and reached behind him 
for the bottle of Tanqueray.

"You have no idea."

*********

They huddled together, chatting for what seemed like hours, 
finding that they had much in common.

Kay spoke of growing up in her hometown of Rocky Point with 
her father, sister, and two brothers.  How she'd left that safe haven 
against her dad's wishes to take on the job of being a cop in the big 
city.

Scully smiled in understanding at the tale and shared the details of 
her own decision to give up a career in medicine for the FBI.

And then the discussion shifted to their work.

About Mulder and the X files.  About Kay's removal from 
homicide and her subsequent promotion.  About the risks and 
thrills of functioning as a successful woman in the boys' club of 
law enforcement they were both a part of.  About the foibles and 
vulnerabilities of their partners and the scarcity of quality 
relationships in their personal lives.  And again about partners.

"Beau always thought he was hard-boiled," Kay laughed, 
remembering.  "But I told him it was more like half-baked.   You 
want to hear something funny?"

Scully nodded silently.

"He told me once that I had trouble relating to other women.  
Now, here we are, you and I, going on and on for what seems like 
forever -- and really, we just met."  Howard blew out her breath 
softly, looking distant as she lifted her glass, making a pattern of 
wet rings along the surface of the bar.  "Felton may not have been 
the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was a good partner.  And a 
good friend."

She gazed down at her hands, becoming quiet.

"What happened?" Scully asked softly.

"He was found murdered last year.  Part of a covert, internal 
police investigation into racketeering and corruption.  But we 
hadn't seen each other for a while before that.  Beau had some 
personal problems that he let affect him on the job, and it put 
distance between us.  We never really spoke after he left 
homicide."

Scully clearly detected the sense of loss coloring the woman's 
voice and she couldn't help suddenly thinking about Mulder again.  
What was he doing right now, alone?  And what was she doing 
here, tonight?

"You have regrets?" she asked finally, swallowing over the guilt 
that once again tightened in her throat.

"Of course," Howard replied, giving her an obvious stare.  "But it 
wasn't something I could control, huh?  Beau had to live his own 
life; make his own choices.  He'd say the same about me, I think, 
and that's what I did.  I'm not sorry about it.  I just wish I'd had the 
chance to say good-bye."

Frowning, Scully absorbed the other woman's words carefully.  
There was a lesson to be had in there, she realized.  Somewhere.  
Taking care of Mulder had become something of a second nature 
to her, and he watched her back as well.  Still, did that mean they 
were responsible for each others' happiness?  Scully didn't think 
so, and she doubted he did either.  But maybe she *wanted* to be 
responsible...

"Is something wrong?"

Kay's voice broke into her reverie and Scully shook her head 
faintly.  "Not really.  I was just thinking about my own partner.  
Where he's at and what he's doing.  By himself."

Howard watched her for a long moment and then she turned back 
towards the bar, pulling out another cigarette.  "You didn't ask, but 
if I were you, I'd spend more time thinking about myself tonight 
and where the evening's headed."

"Uh-huh," Scully said softly, as they both looked over in Bayliss's 
direction.  He was lounging casually against the bar, about ten feet 
away, laughing with Lewis and the ME, Julianna Cox.  At the sight 
of the other man, Scully's thoughts of Mulder seemed to suddenly 
drift away.

"All you need with him is a spoon and a straw, huh?"  Kay asked, 
her eyes flickering with an expression that was part humor and 
part reluctant sincerity. 

Scully couldn't fail to notice the suggestion in Howard's voice and 
she tore her gaze away from Bayliss to look the other woman in 
the eye wordlessly.

"Not that I would know, of course,"  Kay seemed to be trying to 
reassure her.  "But I've always suspected that Timmy burns pretty 
brightly at the core.  Got a rep in some circles of being a sort of 
bad boy.  I'll say this for him -- he's definitely driven."

"Adena Watson?" Scully asked, glancing once again in the other 
man's direction.

"You know about that, huh?  I was in the squad room with him the 
night he took that call.  Not everyone can say they've been present 
to witness an irrevocable change in another person's life.  Seems 
so long ago, now."  Kay paused to light the cigarette she'd been 
holding, narrowing her eyes and looking at Scully as if trying to 
decide how much to say.

"It's not just that case, though.  There've been others.  And Tim's 
known to play with fire in his personal life as well.  Rumor has it 
he once held up a convenience store clerk over eleven cents after 
getting the broom from some self-serving woman."

Scully's eyes widened and she gave a nervous chuckle, trying to 
decide if Howard was screwing with her again or not.

"No, I'm serious.  At least, that's the way I heard it.  Probably only 
Pembleton knows for sure, but he's not talking."  Kay shrugged at 
the mention of the other detective.  "Then there was all the talk 
about Tim's last relationship..."

Howard trailed off, as though thinking better of what she was 
saying.  Lifting the cigarette, she made a show of smoking, 
ignoring the querying look on the other woman's face.

"Well?" Scully asked, finally, prompting her.

"Ahhh, nothing," Howard said quickly, tossing the butt into an 
ashtray.  "It's over with -- that's all that's important.  I hate fucking 
gossip anyway.  Never did me any damn good, huh?  Just forget 
what I said about his reputation."

Scully shrugged, still holding the other woman with her intent 
gaze.

"That doesn't bother me, actually," she said quietly, thinking of 
Jerse.  "Bad boys are what I seem to do best."

Kay rolled her eyes, finishing the last remnants of her beer as she 
patted the other woman on the back.

"We all make mistakes."

"Do we?" Scully asked.  "What about you?"

"Sometimes."

Then, she mentioned, somewhat bitterly, her desire to come back 
to homicide, to continue to do her part at getting to the some of 
the basest truths of human existence.  The brass was against her 
though, Kay claimed.  Too put off by the idea of a woman on the 
squad with a one hundred percent success rate and a non-
conciliatory attitude in dealing with her peers.

"Take no shit, make no excuses," Howard told her solemnly.  
"That's my motto to this day.  And the assholes won't let me back, 
no matter what.  They're busy importing perky out-of-state 
transfers that are all style and no substance."

Scully nodded, figuring that in the other woman's current state, 
she'd better agree no matter what.  As Mulder was fond of saying, 
"Never argue with a drunk, a nut, an armed guy or a woman."  And 
Kay was at least three out of the four right now.

She herself had stopped drinking an hour ago, sensing wisely that 
it would be best to keep her wits about her.  Lord knew, she didn't 
want to miss a single thing in this strange and wonderfully new 
experience tonight.

"Hey," Howard said suddenly, reaching out to touch Scully's arm.  
"Did I hear right from Tim that you're staying for the weekend?"

"Yes."

"Oh.  Got a place to crash?"

"Well, I made a reservation at the local S&S," Scully remarked, 
leaning forward and crossing her arms atop the bar as she absently 
gripped a damp drink napkin.

"Yeah?"  Howard laughed, looking between Scully and Tim, whose 
eyes happened to be upon them.  "Something tells me by the looks 
of things that you won't be needing it tonight."

Again, Scully glanced away in embarrassment and Howard tapped 
her on the wrist gently.

"Listen, if I were you, I'd go for it.  Life's too short not to.  And if 
it doesn't work out, here's my address in Canton."  Howard pulled a 
pen out of her pocket and scribbled furiously on a napkin.  "Phone 
number's there too.  Don't be afraid to call me sometime."

Scully accepted the proffered information, tucking it into her 
purse as she smiled at Kay.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Howard went on, sliding smoothly off 
her stool, and balancing herself carefully.  "It's way past the 
witching hour for me and I need to get home before I drown here."

"Thanks, Kay," Scully reached out to shake her hand.  "I really 
enjoyed this."

"No problem, hon.  I did too."  She looked up, over Scully's 
shoulder and gave a brief bob of her head.  "Don't look now, but 
somebody's trying to get your attention."

Scully turned and saw Tim staring at her, motioning her in the 
direction of the opposite end of the bar.

"The night may still be young for some of us," Kay commented, 
flipping her eyebrows up with a dry glance.  She didn't wait for a 
reply, choosing instead to just head for the door.  Pausing briefly 
at the entrance, she turned and gave Scully a last, small wave 
before embarking into the damp, early morning hours of the night.

Rising, Scully stretched a bit, easing the stiff muscles in her back 
as she drew a deep breath and stepped carefully over to where 
Bayliss was waiting for her.

The room was mostly empty now, with a handful of the die-hard 
regulars still playing pool in the back and sitting along the brass 
rail of the bar.  The tables were deserted and the air finally 
clearing of the redolent aroma of nicotine and stale beer, while a 
muted blues riff rumbled from the jukebox, complementing the 
subdued aura perfectly.  

With a shock, Scully glanced down at her watch, realizing it was 
after one-thirty in the morning.

Tim waited for her in the dusky recess between the bar and the 
now-darkened kitchen, his lean frame propped up against the back 
wall.  He crossed his arms lightly at her approach, letting his eyes 
roam from her feet, over the curves of her upper body to the 
flushed warmth of her face.

Her limbs felt heavy, wooden under his gaze and Scully longed to 
bolt for the bathroom to inspect her appearance.  After all, she 
just spent close to four hours sitting, drinking and smoking at the 
bar with the lieutenant.  

Biting her lower lip sharply, she resisted the urge, gauging clearly 
from the expression on Bayliss's face that he liked what he saw.  
She dropped her eyes suddenly, giving into the absolute total 
desire she saw blazing there, relishing the emotion coursing 
through her slight frame.

The rush was intense -- like tipping over that first towering hill of 
a roller coaster, sitting in the front car and watching the ground 
surge up at you with an unstoppable, thrilling speed.  Hunger 
pooled within her like molten steel, spreading heat throughout her 
body, forcing the air from her lungs, numbing her appendages and 
making the sound of her pulse quake in her ears. 

God, she was going to have fun with this...

"I've been waiting for you," she heard his voice say huskily, as he 
grasped her hand and drew her against the warmth of his body in 
the enclosed space.  "You were talking to Kay for a long time.  I 
thought maybe you forgot all about me."

His eyes shone with a teasing glint, offsetting the tiny rebuke in 
his words.

"She gives good advice," Scully said, fingers twitching in his 
unconsciously.  He slid another hand along the curve of her waist, 
easing her closer, molding every inch of her lower body against 
his.

"Does she?"  Tim let go her hand and reached up to tuck back a 
wayward strand of bright hair.  Then, his fingertips grazed the 
sensitive skin behind her ear forcing a faint quiver at the startling 
intimacy of the contact.

"Uh-huh," she responded in a low voice, staring at him in the 
cloak-like murkiness surrounding them.  "She told me life's too 
short not to take chances.  Then she gave me her address and 
phone number, just in case."  

Tim gave a rueful grimace at the last comment and the corners of 
Scully's mouth quirked up in amusement.

"That sounds like Kay," he said, returning her grin.  "Listen Dana, I 
know we really didn't talk about this beforehand, but--"

Scully lifted her hand quickly, pressing her fingers against his 
mouth and shaking her head at him.

"I know why you asked me to come up here this weekend, Tim."

He responded by gripping her wrist, holding it up near his face as 
he slipped her thumb into the moist warmth of his mouth.

Her breath escaped with a long, slow hiss at his velvet caress and 
Scully closed her eyes with the sheer pleasure of the sensation.  It 
made her feel weak, uninhibited -- intoxicated with more than just 
the mere remnants of alcohol and nicotine.  Then, he brushed her 
hand along the raspy heat of his cheek, around his neck, to the 
back of his head as he began to lean over her with aching 
slowness.

Scully blinked, letting herself be drawn further into the tempest of 
desire she saw building in his expression, feeling the whispery 
touch of his lips against hers.  She rose up to meet him, and Tim 
responded by nipping gently at her upper lip, suckling it gently and 
letting his tongue dance over the slick boundary of her teeth.

Sighing lightly, Scully opened her mouth, pulling at his tongue 
with her own, begging him to enter.

And then he did, with a fervor and passion that left her gasping for 
breath.  He reached deeply into her mouth, as though trying to 
imprint the taste of her indelibly on his thoughts.

The kiss went on and on, seeming to last forever.  Scully's brain 
only faintly registered the fact that they were still here in a public 
place, necking like horny teenagers for all the bar's patrons to see.

Shockingly, she didn't care.  Her last remaining restraint seemed 
to have evaporated the second Bayliss had slid her fingers into his 
mouth.  She wanted this man with an urgency that set her senses 
on fire, making her blood sing with anticipation.  And she would 
have him -- of that much, Scully was certain.

He reached between them, grasping her fingers and intertwining 
them with his own for a moment as his lips left hers to track a 
moist trail up to her temple and across her forehead.  Then, 
drawing her hand down, he pressed it against the tight firmness at 
his groin.

Before she could think, or even draw a breath, he was kissing her 
again, and Scully clasped her fingers around him, sliding down the 
length of his erection.  The low moan vibrating in his throat sent 
another burst of arousal zinging through her, reaffirming the moist 
flutter between her legs.

"I want you Dana," she heard him whisper unsteadily as he dragged 
his mouth away, pressing his forehead against hers in the darkness 
and closing his eyes tightly.  "I want to be inside you.  I want to 
feel you all around me."

Scully gasped as she felt his hand drift down the curve of her hip, 
settling between her legs, rubbing against her maddeningly 
through the rough fabric of her jeans.  She responded by pulling 
his head back to hers, renewing their kiss with a willful abandon.  

The warmth in the enclosed space was stifling, overwhelming, and 
Scully gave herself over to it.  Any need for reason and logic 
seemed long gone.  She could no longer think -- only feel, giving 
into the delicious sensations surrounding them, pulling them 
closer, urging a consummation that was very nearly frightening in 
its intensity...

"Hey Bayl--whoops!"

Tim and Scully both stumbled back from each other as the shock 
of Meldrick Lewis's voice cascaded over them like the veritable 
bucket of ice water.  He had stuck his head around the corner, 
gazing at the two of them in wide-eyed amazement.

"Um.  Sorry."

"No, no, Meldrick," Tim replied quickly, giving an abrupt twist of 
his head as though trying to forcibly restore his mental 
equilibrium.  "What is it?" he went on, stepping out into the light 
to see what the other man wanted.

Scully melted back into the darkness until she met the hard 
surface of the wall.  The interruption was confusing, disorienting, 
akin to being woken suddenly out of a sound sleep.  

And a wonderfully erotic, incredible dream...

Not knowing what to do with her hands, Scully finally reached up 
and  hugged her arms across her chest, willing her breathing to 
return to normal.  As if from very far away, she heard the familiar 
sounds of the bar accompanied by the low, spoken voices of Tim 
and Meldrick as they carried out a conversation just a few feet 
from where she stood.

She raised a shaking hand to the burning warmth of her cheeks, 
pressing her fingers against the swollen achiness of her lips.  With 
a minute sigh, she closed her eyes, fighting to bridge the gap back 
into the real world.

"Dana?"  Tim's voice was startling as he returned to her in the 
small space.  Blinking silently, she fixed him with a penetrating 
gaze.

"You ok?"

She bobbed her head slightly, still not speaking.

He reached forward, settling his hand into the hollow where neck 
met shoulder, letting his thumb drift over the hammer-beat of her 
pulse.

"Let's get out of here."

Tim leaned in, lips brushing gently over her forehead.  Then 
withdrawing a step, he met her heavy-lidded gaze.  A lingering 
question hovered in his eyes and she answered without hesitation.

"Yes."

With a quick, burning look he stepped back, pulling her along with 
him gently as they made their way to the front.

"G'night, Lewis," he said, nodding towards the other man and 
giving a little wave.

The detective leered and winked at them as he continued his 
preparations to close the bar down for the night.

Scully heard his deep voice bellow, "Hey, hey, hey, fellas.  Drop 
your cocks and grab your socks -- it's time for last call!" as she 
and Tim paused just beside the entrance.  

Wordlessly, he held out her purse and settled the coat over her 
shoulders, pulling on his own jacket while she adjusted the belt.

Then, sliding an arm around her waist, he opened the door and the 
two of them headed onto the dimly lit streets of Fells Point.

*********

They stepped into the quiet darkness of his apartment, Bayliss 
moving forward immediately to click on a solitary table lamp.

Though the walk had been brief, it felt like miles to Scully, 
simmering with an explosive sexual tension that sent her mind 
reeling and rattled her senses.  It seemed all she could focus on 
was getting indoors -- to seclusion, where she could finally 
explore the arousing, blistering, spine-tingling territory of this 
strange, newfound communion.  The autopilot was set to warp 
drive but she didn't give a good goddamn.  As Kay Howard had 
pointed out -- life was too short.  And in light of all the 
introspection of the previous weeks, Scully was ready to take full 
advantage of whatever perks fate was lobbing her way tonight.

This was real.  She wanted it.  It was time.

Smiling faintly to herself, Scully let her gaze roam around the 
room, finding its haphazard jumble of conflicting styles and 
character oddly comforting in a familiar sort of way.

Then it hit her.  It reminded her of Mulder's apartment, only 
without the clutter.  But Scully suspected with her usual 
perception that the image before her was something fairly altered 
from its normal reality.

Tim had done some picking up in expectation of this outcome 
tonight, she guessed.  Or perhaps he'd merely made preparations 
for her weekend visit.  In any case, his attention to detail touched 
her somehow, along with the idea that her good opinion mattered 
to him.

Her gaze finally came to rest upon his tense frame, seeing that he 
was looking at her expectantly and a trifle uncertainly.

Reaching up to brush her hair back, Scully angled her head, 
smiling at him.  

"So?" she asked provocatively, planting her hands on her hips with 
a swaying motion and taking a small step in his direction.

"So, what?" he returned.  The intimate, suggestive glimmer was 
dancing in his eyes again as he crossed his arms lazily, lying in 
wait for her.

"I'm just wondering if you're prepared to finish what you started at 
the Waterfront."

"Of course, Agent Scully," he replied in a low voice, reaching out 
to grasp the belt of her coat and pull her closer.  Brushing a light 
kiss over her lips, Tim drew back with a sound of amusement as 
she followed unerringly, like a mule after the proverbial carrot.

"Give me just a minute, would you?" he drawled, moving toward 
the stairs to head for what she presumed was the bedroom. "I'll be 
right back."

He disappeared from sight, but the smooth breakers of his voice 
still echoed down the hallway:

"Do you want a drink or something?"

<only if it's you.>

"N-no, thanks," she stammered, overwhelmed by the unexpected 
brazenness of her own reactions.  Giving herself a mental shake, 
Scully put a damper on her thoughts and began prowling restlessly 
about the room.

With a small sigh, she stopped before the shelves against the far 
wall, running her hand over the stereo and bending down to inspect 
his music.  

Jesus, Scully thought.  He still had LP's. 

There was a large collection of the blues, from Robert Cray to 
Koko Taylor, with everyone in between.  Some artists she 
recognized.  B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy.  Others, 
like Son Seals, Willie Dixon, and Elmore James, she didn't.

Furrowing her brow, she let her eyes drift up to a row of CD's, 
balanced like so many dominoes along the shelf above.

A smattering of jazz, one Sinatra, and a pretty hefty section of 
vintage rock and roll.  Little to no classical, Scully noted wryly, 
but then, it was as much as she would expect from Kay's so-called 
'bad boy.'

She picked up an empty CD case from on top of the stereo as her 
finger lingered on the power switch, recognizing Zeppelin's 
landmark, 'Houses of the Holy.'  

With a smile at remembrances of misspent youth, she hit the 
button.  The carousel whirred.  He'd obviously preset the thing, 
listening to it earlier, and she waited for a familiar melody to 
emerge.

Then, all of a sudden, Scully felt a slight frisson of movement 
break through her concentration as he came up from behind, arms 
gliding smoothly around her waist.

The subdued chords of a guitar emerged upon the still air as Tim 
released the knot in her belt, drawing off the coat and tossing it 
aside on one of the wine-colored armchairs.

Scully felt his hands drift up the ridges of her spine, coming to 
rest at the base of her neck before his fingers grazed carelessly 
through the bright strands of her hair.

Still, he said nothing.

Inhaling slowly, she turned to face him, tongue darting out to 
moisten her lip as she reached up to draw off his glasses.

Tim's hands eased around to grip her backside, shaping her 
carefully along the aroused firmness of his lower body as he 
swayed with her to the beat of the music.  

His subtle warmth was penetrating, blanketing her with a rare 
feeling of breathless euphoria.  With a hooded gaze, Scully leaned 
into him, glorying in the fact that she seemed to fit against him 
perfectly.  Almost as if she belonged there.

"Over the Hills and Far Away," he quoted to her, tipping her face 
up with a fingertip and holding her in the hazelnut snare of his 
eyes.  "Will you go there with me tonight, Dana?"

Her eyelids fluttered and finally closed as Scully yielded to a 
sweet sense of anticipation rising from the pit of her stomach.  
"Yessss..." the word escaped her in a long slow whisper as he 
framed her face with both hands, holding his lips just inches from 
her own.

He pulled away abruptly, leaving her once again seeking futilely 
after his mouth.  

Scully's eyes snapped open in confusion as he led them between 
the couch and a small dining area, towards the stairs he'd vanished 
up earlier.  

A small sigh of yearning inadvertently escaped her lips.  Lord, 
how she wanted, needed, to go back to that place he'd taken her in 
the dark niche at the bar.  Sinking, drowning, being consumed -- in 
a well of sensation where there was only the two of them and the 
things they could do to each other.

Frustrated with his teasing, Scully dug in her heels and jerked 
backward, noticing with some satisfaction the look of surprise on 
his face.

Her low voice was commanding as she drew him towards her with 
an unexpected strength:

"No, Tim.  Right here, right now."   

Rising up on her toes, she clutched at the back of his head, pulling 
him into a kiss, into her mouth.

Into her.

God, he tasted like paradise.

His lips moved over hers fiercely then, tongue stroking between 
her teeth with a rhythm that was blatantly carnal, leaving little to 
the imagination about where they were going with this.  Scully 
whimpered almost imperceptibly as his now-familiar scent 
flooded her senses, forcing a delicious lassitude through her 
limbs.  Head spinning wildly, she gave into an overwhelming 
sensual fervor as he plundered the softness of her mouth with a 
raw, searing neediness that seemed to flow from his very soul.

Then, Tim drew back, drawing a deep breath before raining frantic 
kisses, hot and wet, along her jawline to her ear, and finally to the 
soft, vulnerable sweep of her neck.

Scully sighed, letting her hands roam over the tight, supple 
muscles of his back, down to his waist and around to the firm heat 
of his erection.  His low, answering groan reverberated against her 
throat, firing her nerve endings and sending a wave of moist, 
glowing heat between her legs.  

He curved a palm beneath the swell of one breast, fingers 
kneading gently at the tight bud as Scully eased her other hand up 
to cover his, increasing the pressure and writhing against him.

Suddenly, Tim was urging them backward, forcing her to move 
with him as he pushed her up to the hard, unyielding barrier of the 
table.

Feeling herself falling, Scully braced her hands behind her until 
she found herself half sitting, half lying on top of the flat surface.  
Arching her back with feline pleasure, she savored the whispery 
drag of his fingertips along the tightly drawn skin of her breast as 
he thumbed open the buttons of her shirt.

Uncertainty and embarrassment plagued her as he drew back, 
taking in every detail of her bared flesh until his eyes rose to meet 
her unexpectedly demure gaze.

"Christ, you're beautiful," he said in a sincere, throaty voice that 
seemed to waver unsteadily between reverence and desperation.

His words provoked a stunning hunger in her -- curling inside with 
an insistence that demanded release.  And Scully responded by 
biting down on her lip sharply; forcing herself to action.  Reaching 
out, she grasped at the black cotton of his shirt, pulling it from the 
waist of his jeans and sliding it over his head.

Tim's mouth hovered over hers again, breath tickling against her 
lips as he skimmed his hands lightly over the curves of her 
breasts.  Eye boring into hers, he let his fingers trail down across 
the taut, quivering muscles of her stomach and over the swell of 
her hips to her backside.  

Pausing, he boosted Scully up, settling her more firmly on top of 
the table.  

A light, inadvertent hum fled her throat as she wound her legs 
tightly around his waist, drawing him to her and basking in the 
ionized contact of his bare flesh against hers.

Scully let herself go for a moment, sacrificing all rational thought 
and giving into the siren call of desire lapping at each and every 
one of her senses.  In a daze, she noticed that his hand was sliding 
beneath the waistband of her jeans, skating along the supple 
concave hollow that spanned her hips with tantalizing slowness.  
She watched, thrilling with excitement as he unfastened the button 
and eased down her zipper.

Finally, finally, he was going to soothe the searing heat between 
her legs, the ache that throbbed in her pelvis with an urgency 
bordering on madness.

She kicked off her shoes, fighting for coherence as she assisted 
him in blithely removing the rest of her attire until she was 
completely exposed to his attentions.

Mission accomplished, Tim propped his arms along either side of 
her shoulders, pressing against her and holding her immobile.  His 
head moved downward, tongue sliding lightly over the salty, sleek 
texture of her neck and still lower along her chest, finding, at last, 
the reward he was seeking.

Scully squeezed her eyes shut as his lips fastened over the 
hardened peak of her breast, tongue flicking out to taste, to 
tantalize, to torment.  Her fingers and toes clenched with raw 
sensation as his mouth wandered from one to the other.  With 
another ragged sigh of pleasure, she ran her instep along the 
length of his leg, realizing suddenly that he was still far more 
dressed than she was.

Frowning, she struggled upwards, ignoring his muted smile of 
indulgent satisfaction as she worked intently at his waist.  

At last, she managed to pull both jeans and briefs over his slim 
hips, fingers trembling with the force of her need.

To hold him.

To feel him inside her.

Scully heard him heave a low, animal whimper as she grasped the 
throbbing, feverish length of him and reaching up, she drew his 
head back down to hers.

"Come here," she murmured, in a voice frayed from the heady 
sensation of literally holding him in the palm of her hand.

Then, he was kissing her hungrily again, as though he would die 
from the mind-blowing need and want raging throughout his veins.

"Please," she whispered against his lips, flicking her eyes open to 
clash with his own wild, unfocused gaze.

Tim shook himself gently at her soft entreaty, taking a deep breath 
as he reached down into the tangle of fabric at his feet to produce 
a condom.  He slipped it on quickly and discreetly, almost before 
she even realized what he was doing.  

His hands slid around her, lifting her hips as he entered her 
slowly, inch by agonizing inch.  

And Scully watched him with rapt attention, fascinated by the play 
of emotions across his expressive features.

A weighty expectation wound within her, building with each stroke 
as she began to move against him at her own pace.  She fell back 
upon her elbows, head lolling to one side, fingers searching 
fruitlessly for some purchase along the smooth, polished wood on 
either side of her.

Tim lunged forward then, pulling her back towards him by the 
shoulders and nipping delicately at her lips, nose, chin.  With a 
firm, sweeping stroke, his hand blazed a trail of fire along her 
front, settling finally against the slippery heat between her legs, 
sliding delicately in time with her own movements.

His gaze locked with hers, the desperate storm in his eyes letting 
her know just how close he to the edge himself -- to losing 
control and hurling over the brink without another moment's 
thought.  He seemed to plead with her for relief and Scully felt the 
tight spring within her uncoil expansively.  

Hot, dizzying, intoxicating.

Still, Tim waited, ensuring they made the  journey together as he 
bent her over backwards, trapping her between the shockingly cool 
surface of the table and balmy heat of his own body.   With a soft, 
tender movement, he nuzzled her cheek faintly as their low gasps 
rose in tandem towards a fulfillment that was unbelievable, 
undeniable and seemed to be unending.

Together, they reached the climax; first one, then the other.  
Tightness.  Warmth.  A wellspring of incredible sensation.

When it was finally over, Scully shifted slowly, wrapping her arms 
around him, their slick limbs winding over each other as smoothly 
as oiled satin.  

With a gratified shudder, Tim feathered kiss after kiss along the 
damp planes of her face, murmuring incoherent words against her 
skin and giving a long sigh of exhilarated release.

Feeling thoroughly consumed, Scully closed her eyes and tucked 
her head into the hollow of his neck.  She drifted for a long 
moment, sailing on a boundless sea, the breath of his loving 
whispers the wind in her sails.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Dana Katherine Scully 
savored the wonderfully mindless luxury of utter, total 
contentment.

*********

A sharp, bitter smell awakened her, and Scully blinked rapidly 
against an incandescent wall of golden sunlight.

Groaning softly, she turned over onto her stomach, listening to 
the faint, crisp rustle of the sheets as she buried her face into the 
pillow.

"Good morning."

A warm hand eased over the smooth strata of her spine, kneading 
gently, as Scully wondered if that low timbre had been expressly 
*made* for the bedroom, or if it was just her overworked 
imagination.

Smiling at her own folly, she glanced up, meeting his eyes through 
the ragged curtain of her tousled hair.

The bed dipped slightly as Tim sat down next to her, turning for a 
second to reach behind him, coming up with the telltale mug of 
coffee that she'd scented.

"How are you feeling?"

His voice thrummed with a warm, solicitous quality.  Gentle.  
Caring.   A welcome sound so early in the morning.

Early??  What the hell time was it, she suddenly wondered, 
glancing at the clock on his nightstand.

10:42.  

Jesus.

A light chuckle drifted through the air as Tim picked up on her 
sense of self-outrage.

"Yep.  It's late," he confirmed, nodding matter-of-factly.

"Late isn't the word," Scully shot back, propping herself up on one 
arm and reaching forward for the steaming beverage he proffered.  
Taking a sip, she rubbed a hand over her forehead and regarded 
him thoughtfully.  "I don't think I've slept in like this since my first 
year in college."

"Now, why do I believe that?" he asked, quirking up a brow and 
letting his gaze drift over her mussed features and down to the 
blurred curves of her mouth.  "It's actually perfectly 
understandable.  You certainly needed the rest after last night, 
mmm?"

"Yes," she licked her lips faintly, flushing beneath his provocative 
gaze.  "I guess I did."

Tim lifted a finger to brush gently against the taut skin of her jaw.  
"You didn't answer my question, though.  How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Scully sighed, angling her head slowly, stretching.  
"Content.  Satiated.  Sore."

Moving her legs a fraction, she twisted beneath the confining 
layers of flannel and down.

"And naked," she finished teasingly, meeting his eyes over the rim 
of the mug as she took another sip, running the tip of her tongue 
over the rim.

He laughed out loud at her mischievous behavior, falling back next 
to her and tucking his hands behind his head.

"I guess there's something to be said for that, anyway," he 
commented, turning his head briefly to look at her from the 
corner of his eye.  "Any thoughts on what you'd like to do today?"

"Not really."

She sat up, setting the cup down next to the clock and tucking the 
sheet over her chest and beneath her arms as she stared down at 
him.

He'd put his glasses on and the sleep-disheveled strands of his 
brown hair brushed rakishly along the top of the gold rims.  The 
bronze metallic depths of his eyes sparkled through the lenses, 
warming her insides more effectively than any coffee ever could.

"Well, here's what I thought we'd do," Tim offered, reaching out 
grasp her hand and playing with her little finger.  "I'd like to head 
up to the range and go shoot this afternoon.  I'm sorely in need of 
the practice and I assume you brought your firearm up here with 
you."

Scully nodded at him mutely, waiting.

"Good.  Then we can go through some drills together.  And after 
that, since it's so nice out, we could take a walk along the inner 
harbor and look around," he went on, raising her fingers to his lips 
and kissing each one in turn.  "I'll make a reservation for dinner at 
Obrycki's around seven, and then afterwards we can catch a late 
movie or check in at the Waterfront, or...whatever."

The last word spread through the air like an evocative haze and 
Scully closed her eyes as the silky heat of his tongue lapped over 
the surface of her palm.  The wet, lazy circles he traced were 
suggestive of the moist warmth she felt expanding relentlessly 
between her legs.

Oh god, she thought, as the molten excitement began its slow, 
insidious spread through her limbs.  It was happening again.

"You know," Scully began breathlessly, sliding back down to 
stretch her length along his as he turned his body, pressing against 
hers.

Their eyes met, and Tim instantly recognized the feverish light 
burning in her expression as she finished:

"I think I'd prefer...whatever."

*********

>2630 Hegal Place, #42
>Alexandria, VA
>One Month Later

<snick>

The salty hull cracked easily between his teeth and Mulder flicked 
his tongue inside, winnowing out the nutty pulp of the sunflower 
seed as he reached up and extracted the now-moist shell from his 
mouth.

It was 11 o'clock and the apartment was dark, lit only by the 
ghostly glow of the TV set and the sodium vapor sheen of the 
outside street lamp.  The cool, dry air currents of the room shifted 
over him, prickling slightly against the his skin and soothing its 
customary, feverish warmth. 

He lay, draped along the couch, one arm tucked behind his head 
while the other clutched the remote.  A half-empty bag of 
sunflower seeds rested precariously atop his chest, rising and 
falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

Mulder's eyes were heavy lidded; gaze intent on the images 
unfolding before him as he slowly worked his way through the 
seeds with a robot-like concentration.

By his current count, this was viewing number twenty-three of the 
Damiano classic, "Deep Throat" -- an audio visual flight of fancy 
that never seemed to grow old with the telling.

<snick>

Another shell made its way down to the steadily growing pile on 
the floor as he lifted the remote, finger hovering over the rewind 
button.

The kaleidoscope of skipping images cast abstract patterns of 
flickering light over Mulder's face as he smiled faintly, laughing 
to himself.  That part where Linda's boyfriend called the doctor in 
confusion over his penis size cracked him up every time.

But while he may have found the scene humorous, it also marked 
the imminent conclusion of the movie.  Frustrated, he sat back, 
letting his mind wander while the remainder of the cheap drama 
came to a close.

11 o'clock on Friday night, and he was all dressed up with no place 
to go.  

Actually, Mulder mused, 'all dressed up' was a misnomer since he 
was clad in a washed out pair of worn jeans with a faded 
Georgetown tee shirt.  But the 'nowhere to go' part was certainly 
true, and he sat up slowly, clicking off the TV and scrubbing a hand 
roughly through his hair.

Fuck.

He tossed the bag of seeds carelessly aside into the clutter on the 
floor and examined the upraised palms of his hands for a moment 
before resting his chin upon them.

Evenings like this sucked.

Rare was the time when Mulder found himself with nothing to 
keep him occupied, but this was turning out to be one of those 
singularly annoying moments.

The X files had been quiet all week long, keeping him either 
stranded with Scully in the office or alone in his apartment.  Now 
it was fucking Friday night.  The Knicks didn't have a game, and he 
couldn't get the Rangers on DC cable.  He'd already spent as much 
time as humanly possible swimming laps in the FBI complex 
earlier this evening, until his muscles fairly screamed with the 
exertion.  And for once, Mulder didn't even have the diversion of 
one of Skinner's little extra credit assignments lying around.  The 
supplement to the last ISU profile entrusted to him was signed, 
sealed and delivered as of forty-eight hours ago.  The AD had yet 
to give him another.  Things must have been slow up at Quantico.

So here he was, stuck at home again with a crippling ennui 
threatening to overwhelm his reason. 

Blowing his breath out in frustration, Mulder reflected that it was 
usually nights such as these that prompted him to make a late night 
call to Scully.  He could almost always count on her to be there, at 
home, alone in her apartment just as he was.  Willing to ruminate 
about cases or projects or whatever other scant, lame FBI gossip 
had managed to wend its way down to the basement.  Simple, 
pointless conversation.

And so comforting.

Until now, Mulder had drawn more consolation than he cared to 
admit from the fact that his partner was just as isolated outside 
their work as he was.  It connected them in a sort of unspoken 
camaraderie -- creating an erroneous kind of companionship 
between the two of them.  Essentially, they were together in each 
other's solitude.

Strictly speaking, he even had an excuse to call.  There *was* a 
new X file sitting, waiting on his desk.  Something he would have 
enjoyed getting a jump start on.  He'd warned her just before she 
left the office that they'd been booked on a flight for Detroit 
Metro airport early Monday morning.  

Scully didn't know anything about the Coats Grove case, and 
Mulder would have welcomed going over a few of the details, just 
to blunt the sharp edges of her skepticism in advance.  That way, 
he wouldn't have to deal with it all at once on the plane.

But she was inaccessible to him this evening.  Mulder knew this 
without even having to pick up the phone.  Scully was in 
Baltimore.  Just like last weekend and the weekend before that and 
the weekend before that...

In Baltimore, probably having the time of her life with 
DickfuckingTracy homicide detective Tim Bayliss and his merry 
crew of fellow squad members at that Fells Point dive they 
laughingly called home.

Fuck.

He'd had plenty of time to reflect on the sudden, subtle changes 
occurring in his partner's personality over the last few weeks.  
Mulder had even concluded that it wasn't the idea of the other guy 
that so unsettled him.  Instead, it was something else far less 
defined but infinitely more dangerous.

The simple answer lay in what he saw happening to Scully herself.  

These days, he was having to contend with a type of 'new and 
improved' Scully, one who ever so slightly rocked the delicate 
symmetry of his world.  The experience wasn't far removed from 
trying to enjoy a quiet lunch at a rickety table in the corner 
greasy-spoon.  Somehow, no matter what direction you shifted, it 
was impossible to find a balance.

God, he thought.  How fucking unbelievable that a single chance 
encounter could have the power to alter the firmly established 
familiarity of their mutual domain, but there it was.  Without 
warning.  Unexpected and unnerving.

In the five years that Mulder had worked with her, Scully had never 
formed any lasting attachment with the outside world that he was 
aware of. 

And her family didn't count, for she had each and every member 
firmly pigeonholed into the proper slots of that organizational 
method she referred to as a life.

This was different.  The relationship with this detective was 
intense -- extreme even.  Mulder could no more ignore that fact 
than his own breathing.  Her attitude, her demeanor, hell, even her 
speech patterns were changing daily, almost imperceptibly, 
making him feel like an inept stranger in a partnership he'd come 
to depend on for its utter stability.  Now, he finally understood 
how betrayed spouses felt when their partners embarked on affairs 
after years of marriage

He recognized fully that this comparison probably wasn't fair to 
Scully, especially in light of the well-defined parameters of their 
association.  But he couldn't help feeling, somewhat unreasonably 
he admitted, that it wasn't fair what she was doing either.  That she 
could go out, after all this time and simply evolve into another 
person.

Which was exactly what was happening.

Of course, the change would never be obvious to any detached 
observer.  She wore the same clothes, the same make-up.  Still 
combed her hair the same way.  Her scientific arguments 
remained as sharp and close to the surface as ever.  But she was 
*different*.

Different in manner that forced him to stand up and take notice, 
whether he wanted to or not.  Different in a manner that stirred 
very definite memories in him -- remembrances he would have 
preferred to keep buried within the dark spaces of the black hole 
passing for his brain.

Mulder closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch cushions 
with a muffled groan.  This kind of deliberation wasn't productive.  
As a psychologist, he firmly believed some kinds of self-analysis 
were better left unexplored and this was definitely one such 
example.  Unfortunately, he seemed unable to block the flood of 
deductive reasoning that had been building ever since he'd been 
waylaid at the Baltimore hospital during the murder case they'd 
worked there.

With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and surrendered 
finally, allowing the deafening noise in his mind to spring forth.

Throughout the five years he'd worked with Scully, Mulder had 
often breathed a sigh of relief over the professional detachment 
each had maintained when it came to the rather intense bond they 
shared.  The myriad of struggles and trials they had encountered in 
their work on the X files had forged a connection of trust that was 
unparalleled in Mulder's experience.  Both for himself and the 
people he'd associated with over the course of his life.  But it 
never went farther than that.  And he'd told himself for a long time 
that it shouldn't.  Couldn't.  It was as though each had pledged a 
vow of chastity toward one another in an effort to maintain the 
purity of their quest.  Not to mention professionalism.  He was 
well aware that any 'personal' involvement would surely get them 
into a world of hurt with the powers at the FBI.

And it didn't matter how much gossip about their relationship 
flooded the bullpen hallways or the classrooms at Quantico.  Each 
was secure in knowing nothing existed between the two of them 
that could potentially disrupt the holiness of their calling.

That Scully often seemed as solitary as the proverbial lone wolf 
only made matters easier for him.

For the one thing that had the potential to bring on disaster for 
Fox William Mulder was a woman well-versed with the delicate 
art of her own sexuality.

He'd learned that lesson the hard way with the only other female 
besides Scully that he'd ever allowed any serious footing into his 
life.

Phoebe Greene.

The name still inspired nightmares of conflicting degrees to this 
very day.  And it wasn't as though he hadn't learned to deal with 
that particular debacle after all this time.  In fact, Mulder 
suspected that people who knew the details about the affair would 
probably be surprised to know he still corresponded with the 
woman sporadically.

Of course, it was nothing more in-depth than the occasional email.  
He'd written her once, a couple of years ago, after hearing about 
her move from Scotland Yard to Interpol.  She'd responded to his 
brief congratulatory message with a short thank-you, and they'd 
traded small notes here and there ever since.

Why he even bothered was something of a mystery, even to 
Mulder.  The only explanation being his personal need to remind 
himself at regular intervals that that which didn't destroy you, 
made you stronger.  Nietzsche may have been one crazy 
motherfucker, but when he got it right, he *really* got it right.

Even so, when ancient history reared its ugly head, the memory of 
her still had the power to fire his psyche out of orbit; dumping it 
into the frozen wasteland somewhere between Neptune and Pluto.

Phoebe had treated Oxford as her own private rumpus room, 
blazing a trail through the hallowed halls of the university.  Her 
potent brand of carnality had set Mulder and host of others 
sniffing after her in a haze of testosterone and lust.

And he had won the prize.  She had chosen him and him alone.  Or 
so he had thought.

In retrospect, it would have been better had he realized her 
faithless ways at the onset.  But even if he had, Mulder wasn't sure 
if it would have been enough to avert the inevitable outcome. 

She had placed his life into a state of utter anarchy -- keeping him 
on the razor's edge of sexual tension, forcing him to jump varying 
degrees and making him feel awkward and foolish like a child.  
Mulder had hated the way he catered to her, but he was as lost as a 
drowning man.  Phoebe's personality was a potent mixture:  
dynamic, supercilious, intelligent, self-confident and well spoken, 
her throbbing sexuality a badge she wore shamelessly.  He had 
loved and hated her in equal measure, his very own bitch goddess.  
Being with her was like flying a small airplane into a hurricane's 
eye without the benefit of radar:  ultimately deadly, but what a trip. 

When they'd ended, they'd ended badly.

It had taken Mulder exactly one year, three months, and twelve 
days to realize that no matter how fiercely she seemed to blaze at 
the surface, her core was pure, blistering ice.

Phoebe's crowning achievement had come on their final night 
together, when she'd thanked him for the diversion of their love 
affair.  Her word -- 'diversion.'  Fucking bitch.  Then, she'd 
decamped for greener pastures -- the kind populated with dukes, 
viscounts and the occasional corporate heir.

Mulder had been left completely alone, thoughts of ending his life 
chipping away at his sanity with a regular intensity.  Only a 
complete, total fascination with his studies and his work had saved 
him.  That, plus the nauseating, inescapable sense of self-
awareness that recognized the relationship for what it was -- an 
exercise in pandering to the profound self-destructive streak that 
had been with him since childhood.  At the time, he had just barely 
begun to understand the phenomenon, much less learn how to 
control it.

But his liaison with Phoebe had been the first building block in the 
consuming process that finally taught him how to harness those 
impulses and put them to some productive use.

In a twisted way, Mulder was almost grateful to her for schooling 
him.  He wasn't sure if he could have made it through the hell of 
profiling and the ISU if it weren't for that first, invaluable lesson.  
What it felt like to be used and abused.  The sheer efficacy of core 
human desires and emotions.  And how very seductive the pull of 
insanity could really be.  How it could make you do things and 
think things you never thought possible.

His contemporaries at the Bureau often spoke of him as though he 
himself were the head case.  They couldn't have been further from 
the truth.  The ability lay in *understanding* insane motivations -- 
not in being insane.  It was a fine distinction that was surely lost 
on lesser intellects.

In any case, the Oxford experience, while not entirely without 
benefit, had surely left him gun-shy and reluctant to engage in 
anything even smacking of the possibility of real intimacy.  He 
had laid himself bare to the one woman whom he believed to exist 
on a similar plane as he and where had it gotten him?

On the road to new insights into himself and the mass of humanity 
surrounding him, but not without a price exacted in a terrible 
melange of desolation and pain.  Surely being alone could never 
hurt that damn bad. 

Mulder had endured his self-imposed isolation with the kind of 
arrogance and aloofness that only a successful, blindingly brilliant 
personality could.  He had racked up the commendations and 
awards with an ease that set his colleagues' teeth on edge until his 
battered psyche finally reached the breaking point.  

Because when you looked long into the abyss, the abyss also 
looked into you.  

For that reason alone, he'd left the ISU, going on to violent crimes 
until, with the help of a friend, he'd found the X files.  Regression 
hypnosis followed, setting him on the search for Samantha and the 
larger, more convoluted quest for the truth -- a concept that 
nobody besides him ever seemed to have any use for.

He had thought his fate was sealed.

Until a fresh-faced Dana Katherine Scully had walked into his life 
with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.  She had put her 
faith in him.  In return, Mulder had taken a chance and rewarded 
her with his trust.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Only now it wasn't.

With a low murmur of frustration, Mulder jumped to his feet and 
began pacing the apartment restlessly.

The scarifying reality was that in the past few weeks, he was 
beginning to recognize the faint outlines of a behavior in his 
partner that, god help him, reminded him exactly of Phoebe 
Greene.  

It was definitely more elusive in Scully, though.

Phoebe's fervid sexuality had been shallow -- hovering completely 
along the surface for all to see.  At her deepest center, the woman 
was as lifeless as liquid nitrogen -- icy and shattering.

Scully, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.  Beneath 
that composed, chilly exterior burned a woman of surprising 
depth, fire and spirit.

Mulder had suspected this from the moment they'd met and he'd 
seen it manifest on several occasions throughout their work on 
the X files.  At Ellens Air Force Base in southern Idaho.  In the 
dense, humid jungle of Arecibo.  In a New Mexico motel room.  
At Clyde Bruckman's bedside in St. Paul, Minnesota.

But never, in all those cases, had her passion featured any type of 
overt sexual overtones.

Well, maybe once, he amended to himself.  Just once.  On the 
morning when she walked into his office after the incident he'd 
privately labeled, "The Philadelphia Expurgation."

That single, solitary time, Scully had sat before him with a look in 
her eyes that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  
And her voice had sent a chill of provocative awareness down his 
spine when its seductive, implacable tones had spelled out the 
words: "This isn't about you, Mulder..."

Then, the news about the cancer had struck, and it was back to 
business as usual between the two of them.  The carefully ordered 
boundaries remained in place, bearing up under the weight of the 
calamity then facing them.

But that period of adversity had passed, leaving both of them 
miraculously unscathed.  

Then again, maybe it hadn't.  Mulder had suspected from the very 
beginning that such a traumatic ordeal was bound to have profound 
effects on Scully and by extension, himself.

Only he hadn't expected this.  He never would have guessed in a 
million years that Scully would become deeply, intimately, 
involved with another man.  Or that the results would overflow and 
upset his own delicate sense of self-possession.

Not that Scully hadn't challenged him before.  Hell, it was the 
fundamental axiom of their partnership.

Mulder *loved* that, loved the sparks, the tension of matching 
wits with someone so skillfully intelligent and secure in her own 
beliefs.  She was the only person whose conviction was powerful 
enough to render him speechless; to bring those relentlessly 
grinding gears in his brain to a halt and force him to re-examine 
his thinking.

And it was so very safe.  Safe because Scully kept it that way.  
Calm, cool, orderly and logical.

So what if that often led him to fuck with the rules of the game; to 
indulge in thinly veiled innuendo -- going out of his way to 
unsettle her, to throw her off balance.

Only now, she was giving it back in full measure.  Even initiating it 
sometimes.  And not just with him.

Scully had always carried herself with supreme self-assurance, but 
now, there was a new element.  Something incendiary.  A guileless 
sexuality that was impossible to ignore.

God help him, the attraction was as potent as the pipe for a crack 
addict.

These days, it was Scully who moved in closer to him, violating 
his personal space.  It was she who initiated physical contact, 
laying her hand along his when making a point, or gripping his 
shoulder smoothly when she bent over his desk.

It was she who indulged in brief quips and provocative 
commentary.  Christ, she'd made a comment about one of her 
weekend adventures to AD Skinner that had managed to bring forth 
genuine laughter from the man.  And the son of a bitch had never 
so much as smiled up until that moment.  For five fucking years.  
Hell, Mulder often wondered if he even *had* teeth.

Then, there were the pensive, smoldering looks confronting him 
whenever Scully hung up the cell from a call to Bayliss.  And the 
stirring, sensual undertones that marked her every move, 
beginning with a Monday morning self-satisfied expression and 
building to a subtle, shimmering hunger at weeks' end, when she 
would depart for her fix.

Mulder knew, in his heart, that if this kept up he was fucked.  He 
was already struggling to suppress his own visceral reactions to 
her all-consuming proximity. 

And it got worse.  

The effects of her metamorphosis were dangerous in the extreme.  
But it was nothing compared to the other, more nebulous 
apprehension now plaguing him with increasing regularity.

If the tenor of her relationship with the other man was really as 
serious as it seemed, it could mean the unthinkable:

That she might eventually leave him.

It was a prospect Mulder didn't even dare think about.  

There was so much left to do.  To expose.  To discover.

The vagaries of an abusive government working its wiles against an 
unsuspecting populace.  The so-called evidence about the 
existence of extraterrestrial life on Earth.  Her abduction.  The 
unanswered-for deaths of some of those closest to them.

The truth. 

And beyond the quest, there was also the knowledge that there was 
somebody out there for him.  Somebody who cared enough to 
watch his back, to listen to his wild-assed theories, and to keep 
returning for more in spite of the sometimes all-consuming need 
that led him to abandon her.

If he admitted it, she lent validation to his very existence.

Scully.

Cursing softly, Mulder headed for the foyer, finding his boots and 
rapidly pulling them on, the laces cutting sharply into his fingers.

He couldn't sit alone tormenting himself at the bottom of this 
rabbit hole any longer.

Yanking open the door, he grabbed his leather jacket off the coat 
rack and swept out into the hallway.

There was at least one place he could go at this hour and hope to 
lose himself in something other than this damn dilemma.  
Besides, he needed some information from Byers anyhow.

With a low sigh, Mulder locked his door and strode down the 
lonely corridor in the direction of the elevator.

*********

>Lair of the Lone Gunmen
>1 AM

His footsteps echoed sharply in the enclosed space as Mulder 
made his way down a set of concrete stairs to the Gunmen's 
hangout.

Pulling up short before the dark, featureless door, he rapped 
sharply: the agreed number of knocks in the juvenile clubhouse 
code they had all agreed upon a few years and another lifetime 
ago.

"Come on, Langly.  For Christ's fucking sake," he murmured under 
his breath, shifting from foot to foot in the damp, bone-chilling 
cold.  The old injury in his shoulder ached, aggravated by the heavy 
winter air, and he took a deep breath, trying to clear his head.  A 
cloying scent tickled his nose, presaging the imminent arrival of 
snow, and Mulder swore softly, banging away again at the door. 

It opened suddenly, and he stepped back in surprise, catching 
Langly's beady-eyed gaze peering at him in suspicion through the 
minuscule crack.

"It's me," Mulder said tersely, waiting as the other man fumbled 
with the bolt and chain, opening the door just wide enough to 
permit entry and gesturing him inside.

"Jeez, Mulder, it's kinda late to be dropping by, isn't it?"

Mulder shot the man a look of utter impatience as he pulled off 
his coat and headed for the main room.

"Blow me, Langly.  You act like this is the first time I've paid you 
guys an early morning visit."

"Yeah, but that's usually only when something's wrong," the other 
man replied, following him into the dark, cramped confines of 
their basement space.  He paused for a moment, considering his 
words as Mulder tossed an inquiring look over his shoulder.

"Nothing *is* wrong, right?"

"Nope."  

Mulder halted beneath the solitary light bulb and let his gaze drift 
around the familiar disarray.  In the eight years since he'd known 
them, this murky, cluttered room had become something of a 
haven -- a place where he didn't have to worry about appearances 
or tact or anything.  They never gave a shit about any of that and 
Mulder was often grateful for the reprieve.

As usual, time seemed to be having little to no influence on the 
three men, for various tasks absorbed them, in spite of the 
ungodly hour.  Except for Langly, of course, who'd been the one 
to open the door for him.

Peering into the gloom, he noticed Byers hunched over a drafting 
table in the corner, scribbling fiercely with a pencil on what 
appeared to be a detailed geological survey map.  Frohike was 
glued to an elaborate workstation about five feet away, wincing 
and grinning slightly at whatever images were unfolding on the 
large-screen monitor before him.

Both men looked up at Mulder's entrance, giving brief nods of 
greeting.

"Hey, Mulder.  What brings you out here so late?"  Byers asked, 
his brow creased with concern.

"I couldn't sleep."

Mulder picked his way carefully over to Frohike, stopping behind 
him to squint at the computer.  He studiously ignored the look of 
speculation that passed between Langly and Byers, concentrating 
instead on the multimedia graphics images appearing on the 
monitor.

"Hi, Mulder," Frohike greeted absently, eyes fixed back on the 
screen.

"Jesus, what the hell is that?"  Mulder queried, straightening to 
look at the other two with a combination of surprise and 
admiration.

"Tomb Raider II," Langly bit out, shaking his head, clearly ticked 
off.  "Dickwad's been at it for four fucking hours.  You'd think he'd 
give someone else a try by now."

Mulder smiled at the other man's peevish tone before noting:

"I see Lara's naked."

"No, really?"  Langly's eyes widened in mock amazement.  "Why'n 
the hell do you think I want to get at it so bad?"

"When did this happen?"

"Tonight," Frohike cut in, a smug smile flitting across his face.  
"We copied the software and made a few...programming changes 
here and there."

"Yeah?"  Mulder bent over again for a better look.  "You left her 
boots and socks on, though.  Nice touch."

"I thought so," Frohike agreed, freezing the game finally and rising 
slowly to stare up at Mulder.  With a low groan, he shifted his 
eyeglasses and arched his back in a joint-popping stretch.

Mulder stepped back into the light, noticing that Byers was 
standing now as well, still eyeing him curiously as he opened his 
mouth to speak:

"Come on, Mulder.  This is late.  Even for you."  He rubbed his 
beard absently before sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit 
pants.  "What's going on?"

All three men were now looking at him expectantly and Mulder 
crossed his arms, beginning to wonder if this had been such a 
good idea after all.

"I just came by to see if you can get me this week's set of NSC 
replacement codes.  It never hurts to be prepared."

Byers cocked an eyebrow, making a tiny movement with his head, 
obviously surprised by the simple request.  He looked over at his 
two partners again, a silent question passing among the three of 
them.

"Well?" Mulder asked, beginning to get pissed off with their 
nervous behavior and letting it show.  "Can you do it, or not?"

"Yes, yes," Byers said, nodding rapidly, as if to mollify him.  He 
turned and made his way over to another PC, this one situated 
between a laserjet printer and high-speed paper shredder.  "You 
want the keys, too?"

"Yeah."

The tension in the room ebbed slowly as Byers hastened to carry 
out the request, and Mulder let himself relax a bit, leaning against 
a counter along the far wall.  

"So, what are you guys working on these days?"

"Well, since you asked," Langly piped up, moving next to Frohike 
to face Mulder, "a really juicy tip came over the wire earlier 
today."  Smirking, he made a quick, assertive gesture with his hand 
as he went on: 

"We got a report from some environmental watchdog group about 
the Army running some secret bases down in Antarctica.  That's 
what Byers was looking at over there on the map."  He wagged a 
thumb briefly in the direction of the drafting table.  "So far, no 
confirmation has been forthcoming, but we weren't really 
expecting one anyway.  It'll be the lead article in the next issue of 
TLG."

"Antarctica?"  Mulder asked, raising his eyebrows skeptically.  
"Don't you guys think if the military is running clandestine 
operations they'd do it some place a little more hospitable?  Like 
Tahiti?"

"Mock if you will," Byers's voice rose as he followed the 
conversation from across the room, "but we think it's a definite 
possibility.  After all, who's down there to police them?  The 
continent's neutral status is the perfect breeding ground for that 
type of activity." 

"Sure.  That and surfing."

Frohike laughed, shaking his head ruefully at Mulder's wit as he 
turned to glance longingly back at the waiting game on the PC.  

"Thanks," Byers replied witheringly as he hit a final key at the 
computer and returned to where they were standing.  "I'll 
remember that when you show up here looking for satellite photos 
of the Ross Ice Shelf one day."

Mulder shot him a scornful, conceding look, refusing to respond.

"So what's Agent Scully up to these days?" Frohike finally asked, 
catching Mulder's eye again and smirking mischievously.  "You 
haven't brought her around in a while."

Mulder swallowed, feeling a sinking sensation surface in the pit of 
his stomach at the question.  Frankly, he should have expected 
this.  Frohike's fascination with his partner was unending, the only 
real mystery being why the man had waited so long to make the 
inquiry.  Silently, he berated himself for foolishly believing he 
could escape the mention of her here.

Part of him yearned to sidestep the question; to lie and concoct 
some lame explanation as to where Scully was and what she was 
doing.  But, Mulder suddenly realized, if he were going to start 
doing that, the battle was already lost.  The truth was the truth.  He 
would be better off just explaining and moving on as quickly as 
possible.

Frowning, he gave the other men a quick glance before saying:

"Scully's out of town.  She's seeing somebody.  A homicide 
detective.  In Baltimore.  We met him up there on a case.  She's 
been spending every weekend with him for the last month."

At the words, a quick look of surprise seemed to pass between the 
Gunmen, spurring an uneasy silence broken only by the sound of 
Langly fidgeting lightly against the desk.

Mulder watched the silent communication unfold between them 
again, a sense of irritation dawning at the way they seemed to 
relay huge chunks of information without ever having to utter a 
spoken word.  He and Scully had sometimes shared the same 
ability.

But not lately.

Upset now, he finally broke the stillness, snapping, "What?"

All three men reacted differently -- Langly holding out his hands, 
Byers continuing to stare at him penetratingly and Frohike 
clearing his throat before saying:

"Nothing, Mulder.  Nothing.  It's just that..."  he trailed off.

"Just that what?"

Taking a deep breath, Frohike made a small grimace.

"It's just that we kinda always thought that you and Agent Scully 
were, you know...involved."

He looked desperately to the other two men for help, but they said 
nothing, simply observing Mulder's troubled behavior.

"We are involved.  We're partners." 

His anger had to have been glaringly evident, but Frohike stumbled 
gamely on:

"I guess...I mean...We always thought it was a little bit deeper than 
that."

Mulder's eyes closed, his tense form sagging against the counter 
as the hostility fled him with the swiftness of a deflating 
parachute.  There was no call to be pissed at these guys.  If truth be 
told, they were the closest thing he had to friends besides Scully 
and he should have been grateful for their concern, rather than 
irritated.  They'd been with him before, through thick and thin, 
whenever a crisis hit.  During Scully's abduction.  The night he had 
gone in for a possible identification of her body at the morgue.  
Searching for a possible cure for the cancer.

Only an idiot would have failed to recognize the raw, emotionally 
charged tension trapped within him at those moments.  Mulder 
couldn't blame them for drawing certain conclusions.  But they 
were still wrong.

With a tired sigh, he raked a hand through his hair and began 
speaking:

"It's not what you think.  We have a very serious, solid 
*professional* relationship.  That's all.  Christ, Frohike.  You've 
been to her apartment.  You've seen mine.  Look at us.  We come 
from two different worlds -- separate and utterly distinct, except 
for a single cataclysmic epicenter where they happen to collide.  
The X files.  If it weren't for the FBI, I highly doubt that Scully and 
I would give each other the time of day."

The words spewed forth in a slurry of angst and self-pity -- the 
very feelings he'd been fighting so hard to repress all evening 
long.  He couldn't stop.  The spate of invective continued to spill 
from his lips, like a fundamentalist speaking in tongues.  And his 
astonished congregation -- Langly, Frohike, and Byers -- simply 
stared at him, stunned into silence by the almost savage intensity 
of his words.

"Fuck.  You know I don't even know what her fucking favorite 
movie is.  What kind of music she keeps in her CD collection.  
The name of the guy who kissed her the first time.  Whether she 
prefers plain or peanut M&M's.  If she ever had goldfish as a kid.  
Shit."

Mulder clamped his mouth shut, sucking in his lower lip as he 
broke eye contact with them, staring down at the floor.  He was 
shocked at his own response, a feeling of ineffable despair 
washing over him as he clenched his fists tightly, holding his 
breath.

Then, letting it out at last with a long, slow hiss, he looked up 
again at the three of them.

"Scully deserves better than that.  She needs someone who cares 
enough to figure all that meaningless stuff.  Not somebody who's 
completely wrapped up in himself and his own obsessions -- who's 
willing to drag her into his own destruction.  Now do you 
understand?"

The heavy silence resumed, weighting the air with oppressiveness 
as he paused, waiting for them to say something.

"How could we?" Byers answered finally, in a curiously subdued, 
sarcastic voice.  "You're breaking our hearts."

Mulder's eyes narrowed.  "Fuck you, Byers.  What's that supposed 
to mean?"
 
The other man didn't reply, simply staring at Mulder in his odd, 
calculating way.  Then, he turned slowly and made his way back 
over to the PC, wordlessly collecting a stack of paper from the 
printer.

Frohike coughed uncomfortably into his hand, while Langly 
busied himself studying the poor paint job on the wall behind 
Mulder.  Neither would meet his gaze.

"Look," Mulder began, breaking up the quiet.  "I'm sorry.  Can we 
just...not talk about this anymore?"

Byers said nothing, walking back up to the drafting table and 
carefully laying out the printed codes over the map he'd been 
using.  After a moment, he turned to Mulder with an expression 
that looked like something dangerously close to pity.

"Sure, Mulder.  Whatever you want."  He made a small beckoning 
motion with his fingers.  "Here's the list you asked for.  It looks 
like a simple geometrical series.  All you need is the key letter 
listed next to each cipher."

Mulder let go an almost inaudible sigh of relief as Byers rambled 
on, grateful to somehow be back on familiar ground with them 
again.

"Great.  Thanks."

Then, turning to Frohike and Langly with a shadow of his old, 
familiar smart-ass grin, he deftly changed the subject, taking them 
back into safer territory.

"So, have you found a way to get the gun belt back on Lara?  'Cause 
believe me, there's no better come-on than an armed woman bare-
assed naked."

The two men smiled luridly in response, their anxiety forgotten as 
they turned towards the game.  Byers, for his part, stared at 
Mulder for one last, long moment before going quietly back to his 
cartography.

"Trust me," Mulder continued, clearing his head and taking a step 
forward to join Langly and Frohike at the PC.  

"I've seen enough video to know..."

*********

>Westbound I-96
>Somewhere between Lansing and Coats Grove, Michigan
>Monday morning

Mulder drove in silence, his hands moving in their usual agitated 
way over the steering wheel as the miles sped beneath them, 
falling away minute by minute on the long, flat stretch of 
interstate.

Outside, the stark, spindly landscape of central Michigan's 
orchards and vineyards flew by, looking somewhat desolate 
against the backdrop of a gray, overcast sky.

He and Scully had landed at Detroit Metro airport barely two 
hours earlier.  They'd paused only to pick up the rental car, 
beginning the long trek through the hazy smog of the Motor City 
and across the state to the vicinity of their latest X file.

With an hour's drive still to go, Mulder stirred uncomfortably in 
the driver's seat, rotating his head back and forth restlessly as he 
tried to ease the stiffness in his neck.

"Tired?" he heard Scully ask quietly as she shifted the paperwork 
on her lap, peering at him through her glasses.

"Yes...no...not really."

The corners of her mouth twitched up in a smile as she regarded 
him thoughtfully.

"Well, Mulder, which one is it, exactly?"

"All three, I guess."

Her smile faded at the oblique reply and she shook her head at 
him.  "Thanks for clarifying."

"No problem."

Without another word, Scully turned back to the police report in 
the case file, allowing the silence to resume.

Mulder glanced at her from the corner of his eye, grateful that 
she'd let her line of inquiry drop.  He didn't exactly feel like 
explaining that he'd spent most of the day before brooding in his 
apartment.  Brooding and trying to reach some sort of 
understanding with himself about the emotions he'd been dealing 
with ever since she'd begun her affair with Bayliss.  Sometime in 
the early morning hours, he'd simply given in to the knowledge 
that there was no other choice but to accept the relationship for 
what it was -- Scully's business.  He certainly had no right or 
reason to question how she conducted her private life.  It hadn't 
affected her performance on the job, so who was he to take issue 
with anything she did?  If he had any extenuating issues, they were 
his problem to deal with, and deal with them he would.  In the 
meantime, Mulder resolved to focus on maintaining the 
professional, calm detachment of their partnership and giving her 
his blessing.  She certainly was entitled to happiness.  If this was 
what it took, he wasn't going to let petty insecurity or selfishness 
stand in the way.

It had all made perfect sense in the solitude of his apartment.  
Then, she'd walked into the basement that morning with a now-
familiar luminous look in her eyes and he cursed inwardly, feeling 
all his willpower fly out the fucking window.

The dark look on his features had instantly blighted Scully's smile 
and she'd greeted him warily, a pensive look flitting across her 
suddenly tense features.  

Mulder didn't blame her, guessing she didn't need much 
speculation to figure out he'd been wrestling with the devil.  
Thankfully, she hadn't bothered to inquire as to the source of his 
black mood.  Instead, she simply listened to his brief rundown on 
this latest case and followed him out the door on their way to the 
airport.

The kicker had come walking down to the parking garage, when 
Scully told him that she and Bayliss were making plans to head up 
to Maine for a couple of days.  She'd asked if he were aware of 
any conflicts in their schedule and Mulder had said no, stifling the 
impulse to fabricate one just to keep her from going.  

Feeling disgusted by his own weakness, he forced himself to get a 
grip on his thoughts.  

The case.  The murder.  Phil Rich.  Bobby Rich.  Michigan mud.  
Forget what a weekend retreat might mean in the continuing 
development of Scully's relationship with the detective.

Thankfully, the blast of ill will in his head receded slowly as they 
reviewed the X file on the trip out. 

Scully had reacted to the details of Rich's death with typical 
reticence; asking Mulder for his theory in her customary 
objective manner.  That usually presaged an almost-certain pitfall 
into the well-ordered minefield of her logic.  He'd refused to take 
the bait, responding only by shrugging his shoulders and telling 
her he'd know better after they got there and she examined the 
body.

With that, the discussion had ended, and the flight plus the drive 
had so far been mostly quiet.  Her quick, "Tired?" seemed to be a 
disguised attempt at trying to get him to elucidate his thoughts, 
only Mulder wasn't playing.  

Silence between the two of them on long trips typically got on his 
nerves, but it was certainly preferable to baring his soul.  The 
weekend's traumatic insights had already been hard enough for 
him to accept, let alone attempt to explain.

Chewing at his lower lip, Mulder gave her another quick glance 
out of the corner of his eye.  If he had the balls, he'd ask how her 
weekend went in a cunning show of indifference.  Except then she 
might go ahead and tell him, which was the last thing he wanted.  
Frankly, he half-expected to catch her in some sort of romantic 
reverie each time he looked over.  But no, she was still deeply 
engrossed in the X file, studiously ingesting every detail and 
probably filing it away for a future argument.

Still feeling ill at ease, he reached forward to turn on the radio, 
tuning it into some local classic rock station out of Battle Creek 
as he watched the dull ribbon of road continue to unwind before 
him.

Mulder knew that music pissed Scully off when she was reading 
but at this point, he didn't care.  A perverse part of him wanted her 
to be as rankled as he was, and he took his hand off the wheel 
again to tip up the volume louder, glancing covertly in her 
direction.

Cocking her head to one side for a moment, Scully looked up, 
listening intently to the unusual sounds emerging from the car's 
speakers.  Piano chords.  A bass guitar.  The bleating of sheep.  
Then, she turned impassively back to the file, fingers flipping 
nimbly through the reports for about the twentieth time.

Disappointed, Mulder pressed a finger lightly over his mouth in a 
show of repressed agitation.  This was too fucking boring.  
Concentrating again on the highway, he flinched in surprise when 
he heard her voice say suddenly:

"I prefer 'Pigs on the Wing,' myself." 

Mulder turned to her in amazement.  She was still poking through 
the investigative reports, a sly, mischievous grin beginning to play 
over her face.  

"Why Agent Scully, I *am* impressed," he said, voice dripping 
with mock admiration.  "Don't tell me you're a secret admirer of 
Pink Floyd?"

"No," she replied abruptly, giving him a provocative look from 
beneath her eyelashes.  Then, her attitude suddenly closed off 
again.  "But I'll bet real money that you are."

Mulder shifted his eyes back to the road, flipping on his turn 
signal at the last minute as he passed a slow-moving truck in the 
right lane. 

"Yeah, I followed them rather closely back in my Oxford days.  I 
even went to a live performance of The Wall when we were in 
London.  Rock's premier space-age, moon-trip group.  *I'll* bet 
you didn't know the FBI was single-handedly responsible for 
saving their first really big US tour way back in '70's."

Scully didn't reply, seemingly lost in thought and Mulder found 
himself aching to know what exactly was going on behind that 
inscrutable mask.

Before he could stop himself, a question tumbled forth.

"What's your excuse?" 

She shrugged at the inquiry, making an elaborate show of 
gathering up the reports and closing the file.  Then, as though 
making up her mind about something, she finally spoke: 

"A guy I once dated was a real fan.  I always thought I'd be lucky 
enough not to hear it any more."

"Dated?" Mulder joked, shifting his gaze between her and the road.  
If truth be told, the unexpected revelation had caught him off 
guard and he struggled to regain his bearings within the protective 
context of humor.  

"I didn't think you dated before Bayliss came along.  I mean, 
except for that one guy, Rob-something-or-other.  What was 
that...like four years ago??"  He kept his tone light, purposely 
omitting the mention of Jerse.  Mulder knew full well if he went 
there, the conversation was likely to halt with the violently cutting 
force of a guillotine on Bastille Day.

"It was five and you know it, Mulder."

Scully was staring at him now, a faintly challenging look in her 
expression.  He suddenly felt a tightening at the base of his skull -
- the clamor of psychic Doppler that told him something 
significant was about to happen.  Her entire demeanor was one of 
complete seriousness.  She clearly wasn't kidding around and 
Mulder told himself he had to do whatever it took just to keep her 
talking about this.

"So I take it you aren't talking about him?" he asked, judiciously 
now.

"No," Scully replied in a level voice, keeping her eyes fixed on his 
profile as he drove.  

"I actually had a fairly serious relationship with somebody back in 
my first year at Berkeley.  His name was Mark Bondi.  A couple 
of years older than me.  Psych major."

Unbelievable.

"I almost married him."

Christ.    

Mulder closed his eyes for a second, thinking that he couldn't have 
been more surprised if a Reticulan itself had suddenly appeared 
before him, offering the secrets to interstellar travel and a cure 
for the common cold.

Blinking sharply, he looked back at the interstate, making sure 
they were still traveling in the right direction and that he hadn't 
somehow blundered into the Land of Oz.

<I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto.>

Then, he took a deep breath and met her eyes again, noting that she 
was quite obviously aware of his confusion.  Probably enjoying it, 
too.

But there was something else there.  A subtle flicker of pain and 
uncertainty, as though the memories still held a powerful 
bittersweet edge for her.

"A psych major, huh?" Mulder said smoothly, wanting to ease 
some of the tension.  "If I'd known you then, I could have warned 
you."

Scully relaxed slightly, blowing out her breath and giving a rueful 
smile.

"I don't think a warning would have saved me from my...youthful 
folly."

With an almost inaudible sigh, she shifted in her seat, gazing out 
the window sightlessly as she continued:

"Mark was one of a kind.  Tall and blonde, with SoCal surfer looks 
plastered not-so-delicately over the wit and wisdom of Iris 
Murdoch.  Quite a combination.  My father disliked him 
immediately.  So did Mom, but she was wise enough not to say 
anything.  We met about a month into the first semester of my 
freshman year.  He was the TA in one of my classes...philosophy, I 
think."

"Anyway, it became a point of departure.  There I was, Dana 
Scully, tomboy playing at deep thinker, and here was this 
incredible guy -- brilliant, well-spoken and attractive -- and all he 
wanted was to spend time with me."

Pressing her lips together, Scully stared down at her hands, 
pausing as though trying to remember every single, precise detail, 
whether it was painful to her or not.

"You'll probably find this funny, Mulder, but we used to stay out 
till all hours at night, drinking coffee and debating different 
abstract scientific philosophies and tenets of analytical 
psychology."

"Let me guess," he broke in, a slightly harsh tone slipping into his 
voice as he asked, "Jung, right?"

"How did you know?"

"Because there's no better chick magnet than dreamy theories 
about synchronicity, introversion and the collective unconscious."

"You speak from experience, of course."

There was no mistaking the slight note of irony in her voice and 
Mulder tried to inject as much sincerity into his next words as 
possible.

"Maybe I do, Scully.  Of course, you know that Jung was who I 
studied primarily at Oxford.  I hold his various ideologies near and 
dear to my heart to this day, but that doesn't mean I wasn't above 
talking the talk when it suited my purposes." 

"Well," she replied, a bit diffidently, "Mark certainly talked the 
talk back then.  And I listened.  I was fascinated.  It was like I tried 
to absorb everything he ever had to say -- taking his opinions and 
principles and making them my own.  God, I wanted to please him 
so badly."

She stopped again, clenching her jaw tightly.

"It took a while before I realized that 'Dana Scully' had been lost 
somewhere along the way.  I think my parents knew and that's what 
made them so disapproving.  I mean, I left for school a fairly 
level-headed, cautious and conservative young girl, and the next 
thing they knew, I was out demonstrating against US excesses in 
El Salvador."

Mulder couldn't help the shocked bark of laughter that flew from 
his mouth.

"Jesus, Scully.  That had to have given you some trouble on the 
background check." 

"I know."  She gave him a rather dry look.  "But what can I say?  I 
was young.  I thought I was in love, but really I was just in thrall.  
And there was a physical element in there, of course.  Like 
nothing I'd ever known before.  Somehow, that made it worse.  By 
the time I realized how far I'd traveled away from myself, it was 
too late."

Scully pursed her lips, staring at him for a brief instant before 
leaning back and closing her eyes.

And Mulder welcomed the reprieve, finding himself as confused 
as he'd ever been in all the time they'd known each other.  Because 
her story shocked him to the core -- making him suddenly 
question a few of the preconceived notions he'd always held about 
her.

The Scully he knew always held true to her steadfast, logical, 
scientific convictions with the force of a tigress locked onto the 
throat of her prey.  That another human being could affect her so, 
sweeping her away, was like an epiphany for him; a divine 
revelation that illuminated her character beyond anything he'd 
discovered so far.

"What happened?" 

She didn't answer right away, and Mulder sensed she was reliving 
the experience for herself, drawing on the memories and trying 
catalogue them into some safe semblance of order before 
replying.  Then, she said softly:

"It ended.  Fairly quickly.  One day I began questioning a few of his 
assertions, and the next it was as though I didn't exist."

Scully looked into him, her eyes dark with sadness and regret.

"The truth was, I *didn't* exist.  Not to him.  Not who I really was 
anyway.  I foolishly believed he loved me, but Mark could never 
really be capable of loving anybody other than himself.  As long as 
I was a willful participant in his own world of ego and self-
admiration the relationship worked.  And rather intensely, at that.  
But I've always felt I was too strong to stay caught in that trap 
forever."

"I must have been right, too, because here I am with you.  Believe 
it or not, that sordid experience was one of the reasons why I left 
Berkeley after my first year."

Catching his flash of disbelief, she asked, "Does that surprise 
you?"

"Well, frankly...yes."

And it did.  Packing up and leaving a place you'd made your home 
for over a year because of the demise of an intimate personal 
relationship was the kind of impulsive, heart-on-your-sleeve 
gesture that Mulder himself would be guilty of.  It certainly wasn't 
what he would have ever expected out of her.

Reading his thoughts, Scully replied, "It was a cataclysmic kind of 
hurt, Mulder.  Like death, maybe.  I don't know how else to explain 
it.  My father's being transferred out to Maryland was like some 
sort of escape clause for me at the time.  So, I took it.  And I 
promised myself I'd never become lost like that again.  Logic, 
rationality, and control were what once defined me.  I let them go 
when I met Mark.  But the funny thing was, they were still there 
when I needed them again.  Kind of like Everyman and Good 
Deeds, you know?  And they've been with me ever since."

Her words had scarcely dissipated when Mulder saw a sign up 
ahead indicating that Coats Grove was five miles away.  

Fitting, it seemed, since the interlude and Scully's True 
Confession appeared to be finished.

But somehow, he couldn't let it go at that.  Catching her eye again, 
Mulder asked somewhat wistfully:

"Why didn't you ever tell me about this before, Scully?"

The guarded look reappeared on her face and she waited a brief 
moment before replying:

"I guess because I was never prepared to expose those kind of 
feelings to your mordant wit.  This was a turning point in my life, 
Mulder.  Serious stuff.  Maybe I needed to wait until I thought you 
could handle it for what it was."

The words, though spoken casually, still cut a him a little, and he 
bit back a retort, saying only:

"And it took this long, huh?"

The slightly stinging note in his voice was unmistakable and Scully 
crossed her arms suddenly, giving him a narrow look.

"Look, Mulder, I'm not the only one who's got a dark affair hidden 
in their past."

His eyes flicked over to hers for an instant, seeing that she was 
gazing pointedly at the fingers of his left hand.

Fuck.

"Care to talk about *that*?"

The simple question spoke volumes, letting him know that while 
Scully was indeed curious, she respected his feelings and their 
relationship enough not to pry.

He knew she was right.  Discussing profound, past personal 
accounts had never been their strong suit.  They were simply too 
busy *creating* a history of shared melodrama for themselves.

Still, this was one of those rare moments when Mulder felt closer 
to her than ever before.  And he relished the sensation, knowing it 
was due entirely to the gift of her unexpected disclosure.  

So he thanked her for it the only way he knew how -- by letting it 
go.

"You know, you're right, Scully.  It's lucky for me that it didn't 
work out.  Otherwise, I'd be forced to take on the hazelnut 
orchards of Coats Grove by myself today.  And then where would I 
be?"

She answered his faint grin with a wide smile of her own -- a rare 
stroke of unassuming beauty that never failed to put him at ease, 
taking his breath away.

"Probably stuck somewhere up in a tree, Mulder.  Calling the fire 
department to get yourself down."  

Then she hesitated a moment, searching his face, before finishing 
softly:

"And Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for listening. "

*********

>Annapolis -- Dana Scully's apartment
>12:00 A.M.
>Three weeks later

Snow was falling gently and steadily from the moonlit gray 
blanket spreading across the sky.

Mulder sat in his car, hands resting lightly along his jean-clad legs 
as he watched the silent play of ice crystals drift over her softly lit 
windows.

God, it was late.  She was probably going to be pissed.  But at least 
she was home.

The very red ball that had prevented Bayliss from joining her at the 
retreat in Maine the previous week had gone on for days, making a 
trip up to Baltimore impossible.  And the timing was impeccable, 
Mulder reflected, for he desperately needed some help to cap off 
the furious wellspring of activity lately engulfing his senses.

How had it come to this? he wondered.  Sitting out here in the 
dark.  Tormenting himself in front of her apartment.  Unable to 
decide whether or not to take the endless walk up the steps and 
into the building or to simply drive away, leaving her in peace. 

No.

The single word twisted like an icepick behind his eyes and 
Mulder flinched softly, reacting.

He couldn't go back home.  Not by himself.  Not after what had 
been happening.  That fucking AI had reached deep into his skull 
forty-eight hours ago and nothing had been the same since.

Never mind that he and Scully were back at odds with one another.  
The brief respite of understanding that had existed between them 
during the case in Michigan hadn't lasted long.  In retrospect, he 
had been a fool to think it would, for the ongoing stress of her 
outside relationship simply refused to go away.  Instead, it 
continually eroded his composure with a subtle, steady force, 
driving him to behavior that before this, would have been 
unthinkable.

Sighing to himself, Mulder reclined in the driver's seat, shifting 
his long legs and tipping his head back against the headrest.  The 
cold of the car's interior insinuated itself through the layers of his 
clothing, settling beneath his skin with an uncomfortable intensity.  
With the car turned off, there was no heater and he could see the 
faint outlines of his breath slowly fogging the chilled glass of the 
windows.

Damn it.  He needed to make a decision before some local cops 
rolled by and caught him in the spotlight, wondering if he were 
some kind of crazed degenerate or worse.

With a muffled curse, Mulder struggled to get a grip on his 
chaotic thoughts.  He was afraid, in turmoil, and he couldn't stand 
to be alone tonight.

Scully would understand.

Grimacing, he rubbed his neck absently, noting that the terminal 
ache in the base of his skull was still with him.  It had hit with the 
force of a blow, the second that Scully had reached up and pulled 
off the sensory deprivation equipment, interrupting the nightmare 
that Gelman's artificial intelligence had crafted especially for 
him.

It was his own fault, Mulder decided.  They had been warned of the 
AI's cleverness, but he'd completely underestimated it.

A near-fatal miscalculation.  And now he was paying the price with 
the ransom of his sanity.

Looking back, the AI's sense of humor had been clearly evident in 
the superficial images it culled from the surface of his 
subconscious to use as fodder for a series of bizarre illusions. 

Thankfully, Scully had arrived at the trailer, forcibly removing the 
VR mask and getting him the hell out of there and back into the 
real world before it could find something *really* damaging.

If only it had ended there.

Mulder looked back up at the windows to her apartment, fighting 
with himself again about whether or not he should go up and 
intrude upon the quiet of her life.

Ordinarily, he was no stranger to nightmares.  They had plagued 
him since childhood; even before Samantha's disappearance.  He 
recognized them as a sort of pressure valve.  A necessary release 
for a morbid imagination, one so powerful it would likely spin out 
of control were it not for the tight rein of authority he kept over 
himself.  Normally, he just accepted them, trying to salvage 
whatever signals his subconscious was sending and then discarding 
them like so much refuse.

But these were different.  The nightmares felt real now, virtual, 
just as the AI's fantasy had.  And there were more of them -- a 
jigsaw of frightening variety that was as bad as anything he'd ever 
experienced.

The AI may not have dug deep enough to draw on his most virulent 
fears.  But the mere act of stirring up the murky bottom of his 
tortured id was enough to stimulate a lethal witch's brew of 
powerful night terrors.

Nightmares about Samantha's disappearance.  Nightmares about 
his father's death.  Nightmares about being in thrall to the black 
cancer.  Nightmares about being trapped in the mind of a killer.  
Nightmares that were far less specific, but that still contained 
nebulous images of writhing insects or all-consuming fires.

Nightmares in which Scully left him.

Cursing lowly, Mulder realized there really was no decision to be 
made.  He needed to see her.

Opening the car door, he stepped onto the icy pavement, footfalls 
making hardly a sound as he walked quickly up the sidewalk to the 
entrance, taking the steps two at a time.

If nothing else tonight, he could at least assure himself that Scully 
really *was* there.

And that the normal rules of reality still applied.

*********

The unnaturally harsh sound of his knuckles against the wood 
sounded foreign in the quiet atmosphere of the hallway.  

Leaning one arm against the wall next to Scully's door, Mulder 
fought down a rising sense of doubt and anxiety as he tried to 
think of what he would say to her.

<Hi, Scully.  I couldn't sleep tonight because that psychotic AI 
pulled a real mind-fuck on me, so I thought I'd come over and keep 
you awake too...>

The door opened suddenly, startling him, and Mulder stared down 
into his partner's stunned expression.

"Mulder??  What's wrong?"

No.

He recoiled slightly, realizing he'd just made one of the more 
grievous errors of his life. 

Scully was clad in a tightly belted silk robe with apparently 
nothing underneath.  But it was her breathless appearance and the 
fervent cast to her facial features that told the real story.

Wispy tendrils of hair clung to her damp brow, darkened slightly 
from their typical fiery hue.  Her eyes were wide and slightly 
unfocused -- limpid crystal pools of pure sapphire that drew him 
in, causing an uncomfortable flutter in the base of his stomach.  
And her mouth looked smudged, lips parted and faintly swollen, as 
she stood there, waiting for some kind of response from him.

Oh, no.

"You'd better come in."

Her abrupt comment snapped him back to the cold actuality of the 
quiet hallway and with a sudden rush, Mulder let go the breath he 
hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

He felt the firm grip of her fingers along the length of his arm, 
suffering himself to be pulled in the door.  The hasp clicked 
faintly as she closed it behind him and locked the bolt.

Mulder looked up then, gaze roaming around the room and 
stopping short as he suddenly beheld the reason for her apparent 
arousal. 

She wasn't alone.

There, standing in her bedroom doorway, lounging idly against the 
dark wood frame with the subtle tension of a coiled spring, was 
Detective Tim Bayliss.  Barefoot and shirtless, the top button of 
his jeans undone, he hooked the fingers of both hands into his 
pockets and stared at Mulder calculatingly.  

The red ball must have been over with.

"Ahhhh, Jesus," Mulder said softly, backing up and nearly running 
Scully over as she came up behind him.

He whirled, one hand going up to rake through the disheveled 
strands of his hair, giving her a haunted look as he made his way 
unsteadily back towards the door.

"Look, I'm sorry.  I'll go.  I just...I didn't mean to--"

"Shut up, Mulder," her terse words cut him off firmly but gently as 
she reached out again, gripping his arm and restraining him.

The now-cool steel of her eyes clashed with his and she held him, 
mesmerized, like a cobra's prey, with the sheer force of her gaze.

"Go.  Sit down over there."  Scully gestured towards the living 
room and the couch.  "I'll be right back."

He didn't answer right away and she asked warningly, 

"Mulder?"

He nodded faintly in response this time, tearing his eyes away 
from her and taking a step away, unable to even look at the other 
man.

"Leave and I swear I'll shoot you," she threatened, hand sliding 
down his forearm to grip his fingers tightly for emphasis.

Mulder nodded more firmly this time, watching as she headed for 
the empty doorway to the bedroom.  Bayliss had evidently sought 
shelter there already, willing to let the scene play out between 
them without any outside interference.

Making a small, inaudible sigh of frustration, Mulder moved to the 
front of the couch, lowering himself cautiously as the muffled 
conversation from the other room bled out, intruding upon his 
hearing.

"Dana, it's ok, I understand.  Believe me," Bayliss was saying.

Mulder heard the low tones of her reply, though he couldn't 
actually make out the words.

Then, from Bayliss:

"No, it's better that I just leave.  He's your partner.  And I need the 
rest anyway after this case.  You can call me first thing 
tomorrow."

Again, Scully replied and Mulder strained to hear what she was 
saying, wishing for all the world that he could be privy to what 
exactly was going on inside her head.

A sudden silence ensued and his brain went into overdrive, 
instantly projecting images in his head as to the reason.

Standing suddenly, he began pacing impatiently about the room.

He should leave.  Just...leave.  The embarrassment of coming here 
so late at night was bad enough.  Now he had to contend with the 
knowledge that he was disrupting her sex life as well.

But if he left, she would make him pay for it.  Mulder was sure of 
it.  Scully didn't make threats lightly and if she'd insisted that he 
stay, he knew deep down it must have been what she really wanted.

Reaching up to rub at the side of his face, he forced himself to 
stop thinking about it, absently taking in the details of Scully's 
living room.

The coffee table had been pushed to one side, clearing a large 
open space on the floor between the fireplace and the couch.  Two 
empty glass tumblers sat on the flat surface and Mulder lifted one 
to his nose, scenting the sharp metallic barb of gin tempered with 
wintergreen.  Setting it back down, he noticed a stack of worn 
records littering the floor before her stereo, which was powered 
on, but silent now.

Mulder paused in his distracted exploration, standing over the 
LP's and recognizing a bunch of old Elvis Costello recordings.  
My Aim Is True.  Imperial Bedroom.  Trust.  

Huh.

His brain quickly reconciled all the disparate details, suddenly 
realizing that they must have been *dancing* here tonight.

Closing his eyes briefly, Mulder tipped his head back with a 
frown.

The thought of her whirling and twisting in the other man's arms 
with that wide, easy smile was vaguely depressing for some 
reason.

Without warning, a lyric spun though his head, the sharp quirky 
tones of Costello's voice mixing discordantly with the raw sound 
of his guitar:

Romeo was restless, he was ready to kill
He jumped out the window 'cause he couldn't sit still
Juliet was waiting with a safety net
He said, "Don't bury me, 'cause I'm not dead yet

How apropos, Mulder told himself, shaking his head derisively.  
Why the fuck was he still here, anyway??

A sudden rush of movement behind him disrupted his thoughts and 
he glanced over his shoulder to see Bayliss, fully clothed, heading 
for the doorway to the apartment.

The detective paused, shrugging on a leather motorcycle jacket 
and adjusting it over the holstered sidearm and silvery badge at his 
waist.  He looked at Mulder, jamming a baseball cap on his head, 
brim backward.

The two men's eyes met with a crackle of barely suppressed 
antipathy and defiance.  

Mulder tensed, imagining that he could fairly smell the scent of 
ozone suffusing the air from the lightning strike of pure 
testosterone.

They were like ancient gunslingers, standing opposite, motionless, 
mentally appraising each other with expert understanding.

And then Bayliss drew first, giving a small, mocking smile as he 
let go a sound of amusement.

"Mulder," he said, acknowledging the other man with a disturbingly 
knowing gaze.  Without waiting for a reply, he unbolted the door 
and stepped from the apartment, closing it softly behind him.

Mulder exhaled long and hard, letting some of the stress seep 
from his rigid frame and settling himself once again on the edge 
of Scully's couch.

And then, suddenly, with the merest whisper of sound, she was 
there, standing before him, clad now in an old, faded button-down 
shirt, leggings and a pair of thick white socks.

Mulder looked down at his hands, suddenly reminded of the 
reason for his drop-in visit in the first place.  In a heartbeat, the 
detective was gone, forgotten, and it was only the two of them.

He needed her.  And now she was here for him.

God, Scully.

"Mulder?" she asked quietly, reaching down, stroking his shoulder 
gently, and then tipping his chin up till his eyes met hers.  Worry 
was evident in her features, and a lingering reserve that warned 
him she was struggling to keep deeper feelings in check.

Scully had to be dealing with some confusion here, Mulder 
guessed, and it wasn't just because he'd interrupted something that 
had probably seemed like a foregone conclusion.  The mere fact 
he'd shown up at all had to be screwing with her normally ordered 
thought process.  

He'd gone out of his way to ensure that they'd hardly talked about a 
thing besides work for the past week, and now here he was, 
insinuating himself into her personal life.

For a split second, he thought of all the men who had invaded this 
apartment before him.  Eugene Victor Tooms.  John Barnett.  
Duane Barry.  Eddie Van Blundht.

And now Fox Mulder.

God, he really was a selfish bastard, Mulder told himself.

Reaching up to grip her wrist lightly, he pulled her down next to 
him on the couch.  

"I'm sorry, Scully."

Sorry for screwing up your evening.  Sorry for ruining your life.  
Sorry I can't love you.  Sorry it was Bayliss and not me you were 
dancing with tonight.

Sorry you're going to leave me...

"Mulder, why are you here?"

Her soft, implacable voice flowed through his mind, penetrating 
the wall of heartache and bringing with it a soothing elixir of 
warmth and comfort.

He stared at her, mouth slightly open, realizing he couldn't find 
the words to speak.

"It's the AI, isn't it?" she guessed, cool fingers brushing up to the 
feverish skin and smoothing the stray locks of hair of hair along 
his forehead.  "I don't understand why you wouldn't talk about it 
before.  What exactly did you see, Mulder?"

"It's more than just the virtual reality thing, Scully," he said in a 
tortured whisper, closing his eyes and letting her soothe him.  "It's 
Samantha.  My father.  You."

His eyelids fluttered, catching her in the clear depths of his green-
gold gaze.

"I'm afraid."

With a long, low sigh of understanding, Scully drew him into her 
arms, the sultry weight of his head resting against her shoulder as 
she held him tightly.

Sighing, Mulder curled himself into the shelter of her sympathy 
and compassion, realizing that for the first time in days his 
headache was finally dwindling; the storm in his psyche receding 
back to the dark places that he normally kept so easily at bay.  
How wonderful it was to have somebody sharing the burden.

Her heat infused him, even through the barrier of their clothing, 
and Mulder closed his eyes, feeling a fierce tremble ripple 
throughout his body, along with a sudden, not-unpleasant 
throbbing in his groin.

"Mulder, I want you to stay here tonight," her voice broke into his 
head.  "I think you need to get some serious, solid rest.  A good 
night's sleep is definitely in order"

It was the doctor in her speaking and while Mulder welcomed the 
comfortable familiarity, he was also shocked to discover his own 
desire for something else.

Pulling away slightly, he looked at her in confusion, opening his 
mouth to refuse.

But something in Scully's expression warned him off, and Mulder 
realized that he had better take her up on the offer.  No matter 
what the transition he was going through, the truth of their 
situation remained unchanged.  He'd shown up here, without 
warning, and potentially disrupted a relationship that she obviously 
valued.  If he left, it would all have been for nothing and he 
suspected she wouldn't easily forgive that.

"Mulder.  Trust me, it's going to be ok."

Scully eased his head back down to her shoulder again, pausing to 
press a light kiss against his forehead and then once more to his 
temple.

Christ.

He held his breath, tipping his chin up just a fraction, until their 
lips were barely an inch apart.

Mulder heard her almost inaudible sound of surprise, feeling the 
whisper of her breath against the sensitive skin of his mouth.  
Closing his eyes, he inhaled, tasting her scent in the warm, humid 
air flowing across his tongue like water.  Salty skin, mints and the 
lingering essence of Beautiful.  He imagined the feel of his lips 
pressing against hers, the lazy drift of his tongue caressing her 
teeth, seeking entry, and the savory taste of wintergreen 
overwhelming his senses as she finally let him inside...

God, this was a dangerous game to be playing with himself.

And then Scully let go of him abruptly, standing and moving 
purposefully towards the bathroom and her linen closet.

"I'll get you some sheets and a blanket, Mulder.  You can sleep on 
the couch."

Dropping his head into his hands, he remained silent, afraid that if 
he spoke, she would hear the weakness resonating unmistakably in 
the wavering tones of his voice.

Then, she was standing before him, waiting, and he looked up into 
her face, almost afraid of what he would see there.

Please God, don't let it be pity.

And it wasn't.  Though Scully appeared calm and controlled, a faint 
flush in her cheeks and a slight tremble in her lower lip were clear 
indicators of something else.  He watched her carefully as she 
shifted uncomfortably before him.  Bewilderment was evident in 
her eyes, indecision almost, along with...

Could it be regret?

Mulder rose and she stiffened, stepping back and putting literal, as 
well as figurative distance between them.

He had told her he was afraid.  Evidently she was, as well.  But of 
what, he couldn't even fathom.

"Mulder, listen," she said suddenly, as he turned away, removing 
his jacket.

"There's something I need to tell you."

Oh shit, he thought.  This was it.

"I just..." she trailed off, looking away, as though searching for 
something.  

"I just think it would be better if you called next time this happens.  
I mean...before you come up here."

It wasn't what he had expected her to say, but the words still 
pierced him nonetheless.  She was essentially telling him that he 
no longer had carte blanche to intrude upon her private life.

And Mulder could do nothing but accede to her request.

"Yeah, sure, Scully.  And thank you."

Giving him a final, long look, she surprised him by reaching out, 
pulling him close and tucking herself into the cradle of his 
embrace, almost as though she wanted to reassure him of 
something.

Or reassure herself.

He drew a ragged breath, holding her tightly for the briefest of 
moments before finally backing away himself this time.  

Reaching down, Scully came up with a pillow, handing it to him 
with a small, tentative smile.

And then, without another word,  she turned, heading for the 
sanctuary of her own room.

*********

Mulder stood in the bedroom doorway, fully dressed, as he 
regarded her sleeping form enveloped within a tangle of sheets 
and blankets.  Scully's breathing was slow and steady, the pale 
length of one leg thrown over the bedding as she rested 
motionlessly along her side.

He watched, entranced, as her fingers twitched ever so faintly 
against the pillow, hair fanning softly over her cheeks in a cascade 
of fiery copper strands.

It was 6 A.M. Saturday morning.  Tomorrow.  And time for him to 
be on his way.

Biting his lip, Mulder leaned against the doorframe.  His head 
rested along the cool wood as one hand absently traced the 
phantom curves of her leg, hip and waist along the lightly textured 
surface of the wall.

He felt confused, unsettled even, by the powerful feelings 
coursing through him.  

Because Mulder didn't willfully fantasize about his partner.  
Well...rarely, anyway.  The anonymous, solitary escape of 
pornography was a far preferable means of slaking his physical 
desires.  And yet, his vastly creative intellect wouldn't always let 
him off the hook that easily, so he made sure to confine his 
deepest erotic visions of Scully to a single brief, yet intricately 
detailed scenario.

In it, she was coolly, methodically taking apart one of his 
carefully thought-out theories, challenging him, daring him to 
disagree.  Cheeks flushed, eyes flashing and voice thrumming with 
a thinly subdued tension, his DreamScully was the unfettered 
embodiment of pure provocation.  And then suddenly, he pulled 
her towards him.  With one hand tangled in her hair, and the other 
gripping her backside,  Mulder would grind his hips and mouth 
against hers in a display of barely restrained passion and pent-up 
frustration until he had stripped away every last vestige of her 
vaunted control.  And for once, just once, the whirlwind noise of 
her voice in his head would be blessedly, seductively silent...

Which was about as far as it went before he lost it.  No deeper.  
Not ever. 

But this morning, here in her apartment, after all that had been 
happening, he was watching her in peaceful repose and indulging 
in something completely different.  Something far more extreme.

Closing his eyes, Mulder gripped the wall, imagining himself 
lying there with her on the bed, molded against her tingling heat as 
she slept.  It was a striking image -- the lithe, sinewy contours of 
his swimmer's flesh and bone contrasting with the right angles and 
sharp edges of her thin frame.

For the first time in his life, he wondered what it would actually 
feel like to really, truly consume her, to absorb the comfort of her 
heady warmth into his body -- or even better, to be taken into hers.  
To lose himself.  To feel the hard knot of isolation and pain 
shatter and dissolve in the heat of their union.

Of course, the clinical part of him stood apart from such fancy, 
knowing full well that his subconscious was flying on afterburn 
these days.  Not only from the AI's interference, but because of 
the profound changes taking place between the two of them as 
well.  Who knew where it would all lead?

And then Mulder heard her voice again, from the previous evening.  
The clear, steady, implacable tones telling him he needed to call 
next time.  That he couldn't just show up anymore.

He knew it was the first step.

There was no telling just exactly how long and tortuous the road 
might eventually turn out to be, but the destination was assured.

She was going to leave him.

And here, in the harsh, unforgiving glare of daylight -- despite his 
fantasies, his wishes, his hopes, his dreams -- that ultimate reality 
was all that mattered.

Mulder felt the irrevocable darkness in his spirit well up again, 
swallowing him whole.

Sighing brokenly, he tore his gaze away from Scully and stepped 
quietly toward the front door, not wanting to wake her as he 
unlocked it quietly and eased into the hallway.

Then, without a backward glance, Mulder departed, leaving the 
safe haven of her home, of her, and heading back into the lonely, 
narrow drama of his own existence.

 XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

"The truth is always something that is told, not something that is 
known.  If there were no speaking or writing, there would be no 
truth about anything.  There would only be what is."
--Susan Sontag

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

>Annapolis -- Dana Scully's apartment
>5:00 P.M.

Scully arched her back against the chair with a low groan, 
stretching her arms up above her head in a joint-cracking stretch 
as she stood slowly before her desk.

Sighing, she pulled her glasses off, letting them fall to the 
cluttered surface while rubbing absently at her eyes with one hand.

Late afternoon sunshine drifted lazily through the windows of her 
apartment, casting rows of warm golden light about the main room 
and chasing away a slight chill that had begun to mark the air.

She had just spent over an hour before the glowing screen of her 
PC, working at the mundane, irritating, but necessary task of 
balancing her checkbook and reviewing her budget.  

Now, it was time for a break.

What a waste of free time, she reflected, bending over and 
clicking her half-finished spreadsheet closed with the mouse.

A weekend by herself.  

She'd had no idea it was going to be this difficult.

Straitening again, she stepped slowly into the center of he living 
room, listening distractedly to the light, uplifting strains of 
classical music filling the air around her.

For the first time in months, she was neither in Baltimore with 
Tim, nor was he here with her.  A respite of sorts.  Maybe even a 
vacation.  For he'd made plans to be elsewhere.  Plans he'd wanted 
to include her in, though she'd politely refused.  There were things 
she needed to take care of here, she'd told him.  Now, Scully 
couldn't help feeling that it may have been a mistake.  

Boredom had set in shortly after she'd arrived home last night 
from work.  The empty Friday evening had stretched before her 
like an endless ribbon of highway before a distant horizon.  She'd 
spent no less than an hour just trying to plan out what she was 
going to do with herself.

Her backlogged routine hadn't taken much more than half a day to 
complete and now it was finished.  She'd tidied her apartment, 
done the shopping and reconciled her finances.  Now, there was 
nothing left to do.  She didn't feel like reading.  Bureau work was 
out of the question.  And calling her mother and being forced to 
make explanations as to why she was on her own this weekend 
wasn't a very appealing option either.

Frowning, she paced about the room in agitation, immune to the 
tranquil melody of the symphony still drifting from her stereo.

At least that was one advantage to being without Tim, Scully told 
herself.  She got the chance to immerse herself in the collection 
of CD's on her shelf that had become clogged with dust over the 
last few months.

Tim detested classical music, preferring the wailing, soul-
thrumming chords of the blues, or the relaxing, comfortable tones 
of rock and roll.  Unfortunately, while Scully was willing to defer 
to his tastes, it still irritated her to no end when he refused submit 
to her occasional desire for something a bit more complex.  It was 
one of the deeper character disagreements they shared.  That and 
the fact he insisted upon wearing his socks to bed.

In any case, with him gone this weekend, she had treated herself to 
a surfeit of her favorite pieces, beginning with the concertos -- 
Bach's Third Brandenburg, Beethoven's Emperor, Rachmaninoff's 
Second -- and finally making her way into the symphonies.

Beethoven's Sixth, Dvorak's "New World," and now, Mahler's First 
-- "Titan."

Forcing herself to relax, Scully settled on the edge of her couch, 
picking up her cable TV guide and absently leafing through it.  
Unable to focus, she finally leaned back, resting her head along 
one of the cushions and surrendering to the intricate tones of the 
music.

She couldn't ever listen to Mahler without thinking about Mulder.  
Especially not his First Symphony.  Everything about the work was 
a metaphor for her partner.

Hell, Mulder practically *was* Mahler.

Lauded for his stunning ability as a conductor to interpret other 
people's works, he had also been widely scorned and ridiculed for 
his own compositions.  Mahler's contemporaries were seldom 
able to see beyond his disturbing refusal to restrict himself to 
conventional musical forms.  As a result, they missed the 
profound and unique vision that lay behind his music.

But Scully was able comprehend it, just as she was able to 
understand the quixotic, brilliant and often tortured spirit of her 
partner.  It was the only thing that kept her working side by side 
with him during the early days, in spite of the sometimes 
overwhelming frustrations of his obsessive personality.  Because 
he challenged her with his intellect and creativity.  *His* vision.

And after a while, his symphony had become her own.

How many times had she sat in the dark of this very room after the 
cancer and later, after Emily's death, listening to this singular 
piece of music and dreaming about Mulder?  About the bond they 
shared?  

The comfort of that communion became a sort of extreme unction 
-- a way to somehow ease the desperately painful void in her soul.

Only then, unlike now, Scully hadn't grasped the concept that 
Mulder and their relationship didn't really *fill* any of the gaps.  
They were merely a distraction from holes that already existed, 
ultimately creating new spaces of their own. 

Never had that been more evident than in the past few months.

The hallmarks of Mulder's character these days were an abject 
bitterness and refusal to accept theories and evidence he had once 
passionately believed in.  

Scully knew that her illness, as well as the confrontation with the 
woman he now believed to be Samantha were largely to blame for 
this.  Along with a piercing tale of deceit spun by the mysterious, 
disillusioned Defense Department bureaucrat, Michael 
Kritschgau.

But were those really the only reasons? she wondered.  After all, 
*they'd* tried to mislead Mulder before.  To inveigle him with 
disinformation, giving him glimpses of Samantha that were 
nothing more than ephemeral, and sometimes treacherous, 
visions.  

Or were the events in *her* personal life spilling over into their 
partnership and affecting him as well?

A frightening possibility, but one she couldn't help considering.  
For the one constant in the ever-shifting, insane world that was his 
existence had been their relationship.  Now that was in question as 
well.  She knew her love affair with Bayliss had thrown Mulder off 
balance.  His disorientation and frustration had been evident to her 
from the word go.  If she'd had any doubts, the scene in her 
apartment a month ago had been more than enough to assuage 
them.

Closing her eyes, Scully let her memory drift back over each and 
every detail of that night.

Mulder had shown up while Bayliss was there, needing her with an 
urgency that had been crystal clear in its simplicity.  At the time, 
she had felt his desperation as strongly as her own heartbeat.  And 
Tim, ever the sensitive one, had seen it as well, she knew.  It was 
why he had been so willing to depart and let the two of them work 
things out without interruption.

The disturbing thing about the whole situation was that for the first 
time in five years, Scully had become cognizant of Mulder's 
shocking desire for something unspeakable from her.  Something 
more than just the caretaking comfort she was so skilled at giving.  

Understanding just how close she had come that evening to 
initiating that "something" with him still unsettled her.  How 
unbelievably effortless it would have been to irrevocably alter the 
course of their relationship without a thought to the 
consequences.

She had held Mulder in his pain, soothing him with the sensory 
narcotic of tactile reassurance.  And then he had reacted.  Scully 
had seen the pure, undiluted desire in the depths of his eyes as he 
looked at her with a mind-numbing gaze that could've melted 
concrete.

God help her, she had felt the instantaneous response of her body, 
knowing undeniably that she wanted him just as badly.

At that precise moment, Scully had sent up a fervent prayer for the 
return of her self-control.  And God must have been on her side, 
for it had reasserted itself, helping her to pull back and reclaim 
some authority over the situation.  

She had promised herself once, years ago, that if the time ever 
came for her to take that irreversible step with her partner, it 
wouldn't be out of charity or pity.

Even so, the respect and concern she felt for him continued to lap 
at her senses, and Scully turned to words to rescue her -- by 
telling him he needed to call next time.  Setting a limit.  Drawing a 
line and daring him to cross it.

But he hadn't.  Mulder agreed to her wishes -- not exactly what 
she'd been expecting and that threw her off even more. 

So she'd reached out to him, fighting an immeasurable feeling of 
regret and enfolding herself in his embrace.  A fierce quiver had 
ripped through his body and at that moment, Scully knew that no 
matter what the risks, she would refuse him nothing.  If he gave 
but a single indicator, she would have willingly led him along the 
path into her room.  Into her.

Instead, he'd saved them both by pulling away and releasing her.

He'd let her go.

In the morning, there'd been nothing left to mark even a trace of 
his presence except for a small bag with a few straggling 
sunflower seeds.  Scully had spent an hour with her head in her 
hands, running every detail through her mind just to convince 
herself it really all happened.  That it hadn't been just some type of 
queer subconscious litmus test of her own self-awareness.

For when she'd next seen him at work Monday morning, he was as 
distant as a quasar at the far reaches of known space.  And over the 
next few weeks, she'd come to realize that Mulder really *was* 
letting her go, figuratively as well as literally -- a process that 
truly frightened her beyond anything she'd ever known.

Character and personality continued to decay inexorably beneath 
the burden of mutating needs and perceptions.  Realistically, 
Scully knew they'd reached some sort of benchmark, like the half-
life of an atom, and she worried about the results.

Really, she just worried about Mulder.  Her own emotional house 
was in order.  Or so she managed to convince herself.  

Which failed to explain why she was now sitting alone in her 
apartment with nothing but the closing strains of the fourth 
movement of a somewhat obscure piece of music to keep her 
company.

An imposing silence pervaded the apartment as the symphony 
finally ended, not unlike the serene stillness of an empty 
cathedral.  And slowly, gently, the everyday clamor of real life 
began to trickle back in.  The sound of her neighbor's footsteps on 
the floor above her.  The squeal of tires on a speeding car passing 
by out in the street.  The steady tick-tick of the clock on her 
mantelpiece.

Enough already, she commanded silently, giving herself a slight 
shake.  She'd wasted enough time with overthinking.

Once again, she clutched the cable guide, leafing through it with 
more purpose this time.  Concentrating, Scully scanned through 
the list of Saturday programming until she found what she was 
seeking.  

TBS was showing "Jaws" at 10 o'clock.  Perfect.

However, she'd be damned if she was going to spend the next few 
hours continuing to mope around this place.  If she left now, she'd 
have enough time to make it to Georgetown Mall for at least an 
hour of wandering, then dinner, and still be home in time to catch 
the movie.

Pressing her lips together firmly, Scully stood and brushed her 
hands absently over the front of her jeans.  With a sigh of relief at 
finally having at least some sort of game plan, she quickly went in 
search of her car keys and a jacket.

*********

The night was young.

A damp, icy breeze touched Scully's cheeks and she shivered, 
hugging her arms together defensively and rubbing her gloved 
fingers together for warmth as she picked her way over a sidewalk 
slick with dirty, mottled slush.

Looking down at her watch, she saw that it was barely eight-thirty.  
Dinner had taken less than an hour.  So why did it always seem 
twice that when one was eating alone? 

Shrugging lightly, she bent herself into the wind and headed for 
her car.  With luck she would be home just in time for the movie 
to start.

By herself.

Goddamn it, she cursed inwardly.  Going out to prowl the mall and 
eat amongst strangers had failed to ease the feelings of loneliness 
still creeping mercilessly into her spirit.  Frowning, she 
remembered with some nostalgia a time when such impressions 
were so familiar, she didn't even take notice of them.

Scully had reached the Cavalier now, grasping the slick metal of 
the door handle, inserting her key and twisting it forcefully.

It wasn't fair.  Why should Bayliss's being away for the weekend 
continue to have such a negative effect on her?  

Putting the car into gear, she pulled out into traffic.

The answer was obvious -- she had partaken of the wellspring of 
human companionship and intimacy over the last few months.  And 
once roused, it seemed her thirst was difficult to slake.  

A vague feeling of resentment reared itself at the wry self-
analysis, but Scully repressed the sensation.

She was *not* going slink off and be miserable.  Period.

A haunting Peter Gabriel melody eased its way from the radio and 
she listened briefly to the moody lyrics, trying work her way out 
of something dangerously close to depression. 

Then, with a shock, she realized the unfolding panorama through 
the car's windows was not that of her familiar route back to 
Annapolis.  Instead, she saw Alexandria's tired, empty venues.  A 
well-known, well-versed street in particular...

This was Mulder's place.

What the hell was she doing here? she wondered, parking the car 
and leaning back to stare at the ceiling's unblemished surface as 
she drew a hand listlessly though her hair.  This felt like some 
type of bizarre, waking dream.  And she seemed to have cast 
herself center-stage, following a carefully choreographed script 
that made no allowance whatsoever for conscious thought.

The next thing Scully knew, the interior light was on, and she 
realized the door had opened.  No, *she* had opened the door.  
And now, her feet were in the process of carrying her up the walk 
to Mulder's apartment.

Surely he was home, she told herself, stepping into the over-
heated, battered elevator and stabbing at the button for his floor.  

The real question was, would he want to see her? 

Well, she was going to find out.

In less than a second, it seemed, Scully was standing before his 
door, the tarnished number 42 winking lasciviously at her in the 
dim light of the hallway.

What the hell, she told herself, raising her hand to knock.  Perhaps 
he was just as starved for company as she was.  So what if they'd 
said their good-byes with finality yesterday afternoon.  That was 
work.  

This...this was something else.

Flinching at the loud sound of her knuckles against the wood, 
Scully stepped back and waited pensively for him to answer the 
door.

*********

Mulder heard the sharp rapping as if from a long way away and he 
shifted positions on the couch, groaning slightly.

Blinking and rubbing a hand over the lean contours of his face, he 
craned his neck in the direction of the doorway.

He waited a few moments before fiddling with the remote, 
dampening the blare of the TV's crowd noise and wondering if his 
imagination wasn't playing tricks on him.  He certainly wasn't 
expecting anyone to show up here tonight.  

Just as he was certain he'd been mistaken, Mulder heard the 
knocking again.

Fucking Jehovah's Witnesses probably.  Even at this hour.  Sorry 
guys, got my copy of The Watchtower in the bathroom already.  

Rolling off the couch with a graceful, springy movement, he stood 
up, tossing the remote aside and cursing lowly as his shin 
connected with the corner of the coffee table.  Frowning now in 
puzzlement, he padded over to the foyer.

Mulder unlocked the door, opening it impatiently and practically 
stumbling back in surprise when he saw her standing there.  

Scully.

In a flash, his eyes took in every detail of her appearance -- the 
dark leather jacket belted carelessly around her slim waist, the 
peek of a white cotton turtleneck with her gold cross dangling 
from the collar, and her legs, encased snugly in black denim.

Her face was in shadow as she stared at him in silence, the damp, 
wavy strands of her hair falling into her face with a disarray she 
never would have allowed during working hours.  Her eyes glowed 
in the murky light of the hallway, challenging him slightly.

What the fuck was she doing here?

"Hey, Mulder," she began in her scalpel-sharp way as the seconds 
ticked by.  "Are you going to let me in, or would you feel better 
leaving me stand out here for the viewing pleasure of the 
neighbors?"

"No, no," he said hastily, stepping back and bidding her enter with a 
quick beckoning flutter of his fingertips.  "I just wasn't expecting 
anyone.  Least of all, you."

Scully blinked at his honesty, taking in his own relaxed appearance 
as he closed the door.  Following her lead, he looked down, 
eyeing his washed-out, sleeveless tee-shirt, jeans, and white 
cotton socks -- a uniform almost as commonplace as the 
understated suits and stylishly loud ties he always wore.  

"Is something wrong?" he asked, a slight note of concern abruptly 
tempering his voice as he glanced up again, meeting her eyes.

"Nope," she said, crossing her arms and angling her head at him 
slightly.  "It's just that TBS is showing 'Jaws' tonight, and I took a 
chance dropping by, thinking maybe you'd care to join me in 
watching a '70's pop-culture classic."

Her voice was light, apprehensive almost, and Mulder's eyes 
narrowed slightly as she spoke.  It wasn't like Scully to be this 
creative and go to such trouble for a practical joke.  But 
something inside him could hardly credit that she was speaking 
seriously either.  Certainly, things had taken a welcome turn for 
the better ever since the Strickland case in Texas when they'd 
pooled their resources in that bogus tap dancing act for Skinner.  
Nothing like being sued for millions to bring estranged partners 
together, he thought cynically.

But showing up at his apartment with a bizarre offer like this was a 
bit much.  Besides which, he knew she was still pursuing her 
blissful communion with Bayliss, boy-wonder detective.  She had 
spoken with the other man on the cell phone just yesterday 
afternoon.  He'd expected her to be safely ensconced in Baltimore 
for the weekend by now.

"Where's Bayliss?" he asked, the abrupt question puncturing the air 
more harshly than he'd intended.

"He's visiting his sister in Jersey for the next couple days."

"Uh-huh," Mulder responded flatly.  "And you weren't invited?"

"No -- I was..."  She pursed her lips and gave a slight shake of her 
head.  "I mean, he asked, but I told him it was still too soon for 
that."

"I see," he said, sarcasm and derision inserting itself into his tone.  
"So you thought you'd fall back on your faithful Spooky partner, 
huh?"

"That's not it at all," Scully quickly snapped, making a sharp 
gesture with her hand.  Impatience and aggravation flitted across 
her features and he reflected for a moment just how expressive 
her face had become over the last few months.  Yet another 
ongoing reminder of the singular changes she was experiencing.  
Like Forrest's box of chocolates, Mulder still never knew exactly 
what he was going to get these days.

"Look, I didn't want to spend the night alone in my apartment, ok?" 
she went on, with a candor that struck him speechless.  "If my 
being here offends you somehow, I can leave."

"Wait," he said, reaching out to grasp her arm as Scully turned in 
the direction of the door.  "I'm sorry.  I-I didn't mean that the way 
it sounded." 

Mulder was rewarded with the glint of Scully's rare, wide smile 
and he took a deep breath, fighting an almost instantaneous feeling 
of lightheadedness.

Without another word, she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on 
the rack next to the door, turning to him and saying, "So?  Wanna 
watch, or what?"

"Ummm..." he struggled for balance, fighting past the delirium 
invading his senses as he raised his hands in surrender.  This 
evening had suddenly turned into the Twilight Zone somehow and 
Mulder fully expected to hear the deep, sonorous overtones of 
Rod Sterling's voice echoing through his apartment at any 
moment.  

He noticed that Scully was regarding him with raised eyebrows, 
clearly wondering if he had lost his mind.

"Well, sure, I-I guess," he stammered quickly, turning his back and 
taking a step in the direction of his living room.  "I was just 
watching the end of the Capitals game."

Back on familiar ground, Mulder felt the soothing return of his 
composure.  He could handle this.  Hell, he worked next to her 
every other goddamned day.  Why should this be any different?

"Gosh, Mulder," he realized Scully was talking again, following 
him.  "I would have figured you for the Knicks tonight."

"They're not playing.  So it's hockey or nothing.  Besides, it looks 
like the Caps might have a chance at their first Stanley Cup this 
year."  

"I really don't see why everyone's so shocked about that."  Scully 
said matter-of-factly.  "Bondra's been the top goal scorer in the 
NHL for the last four years.  But I think that it all depends on how 
well Kolzig can handle the net-minding duties.  He seems to be 
pretty capable, so far."

Mulder's mouth dropped open as his eyes widened with 
amazement.  Turning slowly, he met the expression of laughter in 
her calm, blue gaze.

"What?" she challenged, mouth curving up again, in a half-smile.

"You've got to be kidding me." 

She stared at him steadily for a few more moments, before finally 
sucking at her lower lip in amusement and taking pity on his 
discomfiture.

"No, I don't follow professional hockey," she confirmed, shaking 
her head slightly.  "But I do make it a point to read the entire 
weekend edition of the Washington Post on Sunday mornings 
from start to finish.  That includes the sports section."

Mulder paused at the tiny revelation, carefully filing this latest 
snippet of information under the "Mysterious Facts and Unknown 
Practices of Dana Scully, Recently Revealed" section of his 
memory.  That mental file was growing by leaps and bounds these 
days.  Sometimes monumentally, as with their conversation on the 
way towards the "Schizogeny" X file.  But occasionally, he also 
got the gift of a minuscule disclosure such as this -- something 
that once exposed, seemed to make perfect sense within the 
context of his existing knowledge about her.  

The image of Scully, sitting in the tranquil, organized trappings of 
her apartment and pouring through pages and pages of the 
newspaper with a carefully ordered precision rose in his mind 
with very little effort.  Her revelation added up so flawlessly, 
Mulder wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.

For a brief instant, it seemed as though a great burden had been 
lifted from his soul as he stood there, still staring down into her 
face.  A boyish exuberance flooded through him unexpectedly, 
bringing with it an almost irrepressible wave of spontaneous 
mirth.

Christ, she was amazing sometimes.

He managed to restrain himself, teeth clamping down on the 
inside of his mouth with enough force to offset the urge to laugh.

"Iced tea?" he offered suddenly, taking her elbow and leading her 
towards the cluttered closeness of the living room.

"You read my mind."

Mulder headed for the kitchen quickly, finding a couple of clean 
glasses and busying himself getting it together

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Scully had followed him.  
She was standing, propped against the doorway, perfectly content 
to admire his rapid, efficient movements.

"I take it this flick is a favorite of yours."

Scully smiled again, tongue darting out to moisten her lips as she 
nodded briefly.

"Ever since Missy and I went to an afternoon matinee on the base 
and I let an entire Hershey Bar melt in my hand without even 
realizing what was happening."

He stepped from the kitchen, looming over her slight figure and 
smoothly insinuating himself into her space.  Part of him almost 
exulted at the opportunity.  It had been weeks since they'd been 
this close.

Awareness prickled along his skin like fine-grained sandpaper as 
Mulder pressed the cold glass into her fingers.  He watched as she 
raised it to her lips, eyeing him over the rim and taking a long 
drink.

Meeting her frank stare with a bold look of his own, he felt an 
almost infinitesimal tension flare between them, crackling with 
the light energy of static electricity.  Mulder swallowed 
convulsively at the provocative sensation, reaching out to grasp 
the warmth of her arm and drawing her back into the living room.

She waited, shifting distractedly, while he found the remote in the 
darkness.  Clicking through channels, he managed to locate the 
movie.

Mulder lowered himself into one corner of his couch then, 
looking towards her and indicating the opposite end with a nod of 
his head.  

Blanketed by shadow, Scully's figure seemed cut by the quick 
slashes of light from the TV's images.  He could not read her 
expression.

Then, the familiar, eerie instrumental score of "Jaws" began to 
seep into the surrounding air.

"Uh-oh," he intoned in a teasing, ominous voice, as Scully stepped 
closer to the couch, looking contemplative now.

His voice trailed off as he watched her clutch the iced tea glass 
tightly and stare at him as if trying to decide something.

"You realize," Mulder tried again, wondering why she was behaving 
so oddly.  "This is really nothing more than a full ninety minutes 
of an oceanographic and marine biological fallacy."

Scully remained silent, quirking an eyebrow at him questioningly. 

"Yep.  *Carcharodon Carcharias* mostly spends its time 
swimming behind freighters and other ships eating garbage."

This time, she laughed aloud at his words, tipping her head back 
and exposing the pale underside of her throat.

The action made him catch his breath and he stirred restlessly as 
she spoke:

"Come on, Mulder.  Don't be such a spoilsport."

Her chin bobbed back down and Scully met his eyes once again, 
the teal incandescence of her gaze reaching deep inside him to sift 
through the fluttering depths of his viscera.

"Think I don't know that great whites are reportedly responsible 
for over thirty-two attacks, including thirteen deaths since the 
early 1900's?  You're just trying to ruin the film for me."

Scully winked then, the heady twinkle in her expression sending 
chills racing along his nerve endings and bringing an 
uncomfortable flush to his face.

How she loved to argue.

"Shut up and watch the movie, Scully," he said quickly, a wry grin 
blunting the sting of his words.  "And sit down already, would you?  
You're making me nervous."

Dialogue had now begun to issue from the flickering TV and 
Mulder glanced up at her, a questioning look on his face.

Finally, as though reaching some unknown decision, Scully eased 
forward again, setting the glass on the coffee table and moving 
around it to seat herself on the couch.

An irrepressible feeling of shock overcame him suddenly as she 
stretched out full-length along her side in a single, smooth 
movement.  Without another word, she settled herself against his 
firm warmth, pillowing her head atop his chest.

<Breathe, Mulder.>

With an explosive sigh, he exhaled long and hard, realizing 
somewhat disjointedly that his arms had moved to encircle her of 
their own accord.

Scully ignored his surprised reaction, making a soft sound of 
contentment, seemingly engrossed in the drama playing out 
before them.

By now, the solitary woman on the screen was in the process of 
screaming hysterically and being battered by the shark while her 
boyfriend lay oblivious -- passed out on the beach.

Mulder knew exactly how the guy felt at the moment.

Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on something, anything, 
besides Scully's light, vibrant form nestled so closely against his 
body.  Wisps of her hair tickled the sensitive flesh beneath his 
chin, while one hand clutched faintly at the underside of his ribs.  
She fit with him perfectly, like an interlocking puzzle piece, 
almost as though their disparate forms had been designed with this 
type of closeness in mind.

In a typical male fashion, his body responded and Mulder tensed 
briefly, frustrated with the obvious lapse of his self-control.

And she *had* to have noticed, he told himself, even as he 
concentrated on keeping himself perfectly still, trying to force his 
attention back upon the movie.

Because this wasn't about sex.

Not a single iota of her behavior tonight suggested any kind of 
proposition or advance.  Even a covert one.  Mulder strongly 
believed her appearance here in his apartment was due exactly to 
the reasons she'd explained earlier.  Scully was lonely and didn't 
want to be by herself.  She probably assumed (rightly) that he was 
enduring a similar circumstance and so why not just face it 
together?  They were partners, after all.

The fact that she seemed to feel no qualms about initiating close 
physical contact was a testament to the incredible bonds of trust 
and respect still cycling between them.  Never mind that he felt 
certain she would never have considered such a thing between the 
two of them a few months ago.

Again, he reminded himself silently, this was a different Scully.  
The heartbreak of the ongoing adjustment process between the 
two of them was undeniable.  But sometimes, it seemed, there 
would be rewards.  Tonight *had* to be proof of that.

Yet he still realized that this level of familiarity frightened him 
more than if she had hit him with an obvious sexual overture. 

For Mulder didn't need to be told that fucking her would be a 
mistake.  No matter how often he had begun to fantasize and 
dream of that very occurrence, his sense of self-preservation 
would not let it happen.

No, this was something entirely different.  Infinitely more 
beguiling.  Sex was easy to deal with.  Hell, he certainly had the 
video and print media collection to prove it.

What was happening right here, right now, in this apartment, was 
something far more dangerous than mere physical attraction.

It was intimacy.  Plain and simple.  A feeling that held far more 
risky consequences simply because it appeared so benign.  
Intimacy was something he'd fought against his entire life.

Mulder had learned many times, the cold, hard way, that emotional 
closeness usually caused far more complications than it was 
worth.  He'd cut his teeth on those very lessons, first with his 
family, and later with the few personal relationships he'd managed 
to develop over the course of his adult existence.

Which was probably why he had avoided this kind of innocuous 
scenario for so long with Scully. 

But now, here she was, nestled in the warm circle of his arms, 
apparently wanting nothing more than his companionship and the 
sheltering feel of him close against her.  How could he deny 
himself that?

Mulder fought the raging battle with himself for a few more 
moments.

He should get up.  Find a chair to sit in.  Refill her glass.  Make a 
phone call.  Do something.

Anything.

Tipping his chin down, he savored the warmth and presence of her, 
and noticed for the first time that she appeared to be...

Oh god, she was *asleep*.

And suddenly, the knowledge that Scully evidently felt secure 
enough with him to drift off this way abruptly terminated any 
further debate in his mind.

With a low, ragged sigh, he relaxed, clutching her against him 
tightly and listening to the slow, steady drift of her breathing.

Running his instep slowly along the denim-clad length of one of 
her calves, Mulder took advantage of her oblivious state and 
breathed deeply of her scent.  Blinking against a sudden flow of 
profound emotion, he reached up absently to draw back a few silky 
strands of her hair where they threatened to tangle in her mouth.

Then, finally settling himself firmly between her body and the 
cushions below him, he lowered the sound on the TV slightly and 
concentrated on the spectacle of the marine biological fallacy 
unfolding before him.

And the blissful feel of Scully sleeping contentedly in his arms.

*********

>The Block -- East Baltimore Street
>9:45 PM
>One week later

God, he hated fucking homicide.

Tim Bayliss leaned back against the icy metal of the coroner's van 
and watched as Dana Scully stood some twenty feet away, 
speaking to the Medical Examiner, Julianna Cox.

They were positioned just off a dingy, garbage-strewn alleyway 
next to the Jewel Box, illuminated in the harsh glare of Brodie's 
video camera and spattered by the crimson strobe of emergency 
vehicles.

He inhaled slowly, catching the marine stink of the harbor as it 
drifted on the chilly early-spring breeze.  A not-so-subtle bouquet 
reminiscent of dead fish and polluted water -- appropriate in light 
of this scene tonight, Bayliss thought bitterly.
  
Between him and the two women he was observing lay the still-
cooling corpses of two of the Block's 'working girls.'  They were 
hookers who earned their trade by selling themselves to whatever 
desperate, depraved individuals dared venture onto this garish 
spectacle of a venue.  The Block -- Baltimore's red light district.  

The two dead girls couldn't have been more than fourteen or 
fifteen years old.  Young lives made ancient with a wealth of 
experience on the street, now snuffed out by careless 
circumstance and an indifferent society.

Fucking children.  Christ, didn't this shit *ever* end? he wondered 
furiously to himself.

Scully finished her conversation with the other woman abruptly, 
meeting his eyes for brief instant as Cox left to lower herself 
beside one of the victims.  He heard the familiar snapping sound 
of latex as the ME began her usual examination.

"Yo, Timmy!"

The joking voice of Meldrick Lewis at his ear distracted Bayliss's 
wrathful musing and he shook himself for a moment, turning to 
look wordlessly at the other detective.  

"So, whataya think we ought to call this one?  Murder one or self-
defense?"  

Lewis crossed his arms, notebook and pen clutched carefully in 
one hand as he surveyed the milieu with a jaundiced eye.  Jaw 
working rapidly at an hours-old piece of Juicy Fruit, the stocky 
black detective finally slid a free hand up along his forehead, 
rubbing absently beneath the brim of his leather fedora.  He 
popped the gum quietly, looking back in Bayliss's direction before 
finishing:

"Either way it's a slam dunk, so you and your lady friend ought to 
be gettin' home early tonight."

"Yeah, well I hope so, Meldrick,"  Bayliss responded shortly, 
meeting the other man's dark, ironic expression.  "I'm only out 
here as a favor to you, mmm?  With Frank on vacation, I should've 
been home hours ago.  Instead, here I am freezing my fucking ass 
off and sucking on the smell of dissolution.  And with Dana, no 
less.  Not exactly good fodder for foreplay, you know?"

"You got that right, bunk."

Lewis shook his head, continuing the light-hearted prattle in his 
customary benign manner.  Somehow (and this was something 
Bayliss still failed to understand, even after all these years) the 
other man managed to remain oblivious to the crude reality of two 
girls barely out of puberty lying dead at his feet.  A bright carmine 
slick of gore coated the filthy pavement and vapor rose slowly 
from their slashed bodies, hazing the nippy air with the rare, 
singular stench of murder.

Turning off the other man's voice, Bayliss went back to watching 
the red-headed woman where she stood at the end of the alley, 
carefully maintaining her distance. 

She was supposed to meet him at his apartment tonight, a regular 
encounter that had become something of a Friday ritual for them.  
Scully making the drive up from DC.  Tim waiting patiently for her 
to come through the door.  And then when she did, him stripping 
off her clothing piece by piece, playing the delicate instrument of 
her body limb by limb, until the raw sound of her climax tilted his 
universe and shattered his senses.

But a call had come in just as Bayliss's shift was letting go and 
Meldrick had picked up the phone, despite the exhortations of his 
fellow squad members to leave it for Neal's men.

Feeling sorry for the other detective, Tim had agreed to roll as the 
secondary, calling Scully on his cell and asking her if she'd mind 
meeting them at the Waterfront.  Instead, she'd asked for the 
location of the crime scene, and without even thinking about it, 
he'd told her.

That was before he realized just exactly what he and Lewis were 
getting into.

As cases went, this sordid tangle was rather less complicated than 
most, hence Meldrick labeling it as a 'slam-dunk.'

Two prostitutes, regulars on the Block, had apparently been 
embroiled in some sort of vendetta and commenced resolving the 
dispute by cutting each other up with broken bottles.

The altercation had taken place before at least a dozen witness.  
The spectators, other pro's themselves, were now enthusiastically 
describing a tale of screaming invective and ferocious violence to 
the three or four uniforms assisting the detectives at the scene.

Once the smoke had cleared, the two girls lay near death on the 
sidewalk, carved up like tattered, windblown banners.  Now, only a 
faint resonance of messy, wanton fury remained to mark their 
departure from the world of the living.

Tim winced, wrinkling his nose yet again at the graphic crime 
scene.  Not the worst he'd ever caught, but it was damned close.

Blood was everywhere.  Spreading and congealing along the 
sidewalk, pooling in the gutters and weighting the air with its 
archetypal smell.  A finger lay off to one side on the pavement.  
An eye.  Along with ripped, slashed fabric and the remaining 
debris from shattered glass bottles that had so blithely become 
instruments of a mutual destruction.

By the time he and Lewis had arrived, both females had bled out, 
expiring with nary a whimper beneath the disparately cheery glow 
of an apathetic, uncaring street.  The EMT's on the scene had 
informed them that they could do nothing, pronouncing the 
women immediately and packing up their equipment to make way 
for the coroner's people.

Tim and the other detective had taken it all in with a weary 
familiarity and then begun the process of organizing the crime 
scene.  They'd rounded up the uniforms, getting them to assist the 
CSU in taping off the area and beginning the arduous process of 
questioning witnesses.

It was a pretty cut and dried scene, Bayliss thought, excusing his 
own mental pun.  And all the personnel involved eventually fell 
into their set patterns, working together to get the shit resolved.

The usual banter and commentary flowed between everyone.  
Cynical jokes.  Seinfeld  'catfight' cracks.  Dispassionate 
observations about the once-shapely figures of the dead girls.  
Crime scene-talk.  All cloaked within a well-hardened air of 
desperation.  And relief at the seemingly uncomplicated nature of 
the case.

Stack 'em, pack 'em and rack 'em.  Clear the area for the next 
handful of women to claim the turf -- turning tricks and taking 
care not to let those spike heels slip on any remnants of the two 
lost souls who had died there before them.  Rock on to their own 
well-worn tunes of self-destruction.

Rage boiled up inside Tim for a moment, burning the inner depths 
of his heart like battery acid as he considered the situation.  A 
fucking pointless waste, was what it was. 

And then he'd paused to look around the crowd with a caustic 
glance, catching sight of Scully as she stood off to the side, 
viewing the spectacle with a scrupulously blank expression.

Jesus, how did she *do* that?

"Dana?" he'd asked, stepping over to her quickly and reaching for 
her hand as she looked up into his face. 

She blinked for a moment, as if barely recognizing him. 

"You ok?"

"Sure, I'm fine, Tim," she'd responded.  Scully looked tired 
somehow as she reached up a free hand to brush back a strand of 
her copper hair, dulled to brown beneath the sodium vapor of the 
street lights.  With a short bark of something not quite mirth, she 
went on:

"Just another day at the office for you, huh?" she indicated the 
savage brutality spread out before them. 

"Come on, Dana," Tim had replied softly.  He closed his eyes, 
letting her see the pain -- the fucking sincere vulnerability for a 
moment.  "Don't remind me.  I don't even want to be here doing 
this at all.  You *know* that, mmm?  But it's my job.  Somebody 
has to clean this mess up."

He looked away, exhaling slowly in frustration and feeling the 
sudden tightening of her hand on his arm.  Like a conduit, she 
drew off some of the unbearable tension writhing in his spirit, 
reminding him of their connection -- that he didn't have to face 
this alone.  God, but she'd been blessed with the power to heal.  
Bayliss wondered sometimes if she understood how significant a 
gift that really was.

"Actually, this one isn't as bad as some," he said in a calmer voice 
now.  "Compared to what you and Mulder do, it's amateur night."

"Not like this," she disagreed, looking up earnestly into his face 
and squeezing his forearm again for emphasis.  "Not this kind of 
meaningless slaughter.  Jesus, what a waste."

Unconsciously, she'd mimicked his earlier thoughts.  But before 
Bayliss could reply, Scully turned her head aside and walked away, 
back to the edges of the crowd where she'd caught up with Cox.  
He let her go, knowing she was leaving him alone to finish the job.  
As always, she understood his need to overcome the demons by 
himself.

He closed his eyes, drawing a desperate breath and then letting it 
go as he tried to find his center -- the well of deep tranquillity 
inside him that he'd constructed with a great deal of time, effort 
and experience.  He needed it now.  He worked so hard to focus 
the wrath; to control it.  For an instant, it slipped through his 
fingers -- the murders, the job, all of it decaying around him.  He 
felt the familiar dank chill assault him.  The echoes -- the call of 
the dead.  Darkness consumed him, beckoning.  Part of him 
wanted very badly to go; to see where it would lead him.

It was impossible, though.  Bayliss knew that.

His job was his life.  To live his life, he had to do his job.  And to 
do his job, it became necessary to alter normal levels of 
sensitivity.  Otherwise, they'd be taking him away in a 
straightjacket one day.

The high drama of wrongful death had a hardening effect over 
time, forcing him to come to these scenes and play the impassive 
observer.  Passion was the enemy of precision, and if ever a job 
demanded a certain level of exactitude, it was that of the homicide 
detective.

Bayliss knew he *had* become somewhat removed from all of 
these microscopic tragedies.  Maybe even more than he cared to 
admit.  Still, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Feeling the staunch return of his own control, he'd moved forward 
to check on the patrolmen from the Central District who remained 
occupied with the complicated task of taking statements.  Finding 
everything under control, he went back to the idling coroner's van, 
still watching Dana where Cox had left her off in the distance, 
waiting for him to finish up this evening.

At least tonight he would have someone to ease these tormented 
passages, Tim reminded himself.  To provide distraction, intimacy 
and physical closeness.

He did not delude himself into believing that what they had was 
love. 

Bayliss had been burned too many times to jump headfirst into 
anything without a lot of careful deliberation.  And he knew Scully 
maintained her own carefully honed sense of detachment, though 
probably not for the same reasons.

There was Mulder, for one thing.  

Her partner was like some bizarre, unseen angel with a flaming 
sword standing between them.  And if Tim were honest with 
himself, there was somebody else as well.

He thought of Chris for a fleeting moment and experienced the 
customary sting of regret.

The sense of safe haven, of grace that he had with Dana was very 
similar to the what he'd experienced with the other man.  At least, 
Bayliss reflected cynically, what he would have been able to 
experience had the issues surrounding their incipient relationship 
been less overwhelming.  Unfortunately, time had shown he wasn't 
that strong.  Not yet.

And it didn't matter right now anyway, Tim told himself, shifting 
his back against the van slightly.

Putting the thoughts of both men out of his head abruptly, he 
focused back on Dana.  

Her warmth.  Her understanding.  Her ironclad control.

She was a virtual Chinese puzzle and that fascinated him.  How 
often had he sat spellbound while she relayed the latest bizarre and 
fantastic tales of her investigations on the X files with Mulder?  
Or the extreme circumstances she'd experienced throughout her 
work?  

A mysterious abduction.  The loss of her sister.  Mulder's 
supposed "deaths."  Her cancer and her cure.

Scully's willingness to come here, to immerse herself in his 
mundane, depressing world and pick him up when he needed it 
made Tim feel special somehow.  Like the recipient of some 
beneficent award.

More and more these days, he found himself desperately seeking 
some way to reciprocate her role in his life -- to be the same for 
her as she was to him.  

It wasn't easy.

Frankly, if he were honest, it frustrated him sometimes that she 
wasn't the type to accede to anyone else's custodial impulses.  
Except when it came to the bedroom.

To this day, it never failed to blow his mind that a smart, funny and 
attractive woman like Dana Scully had closed herself off so 
decisively when it came to matters of carnal knowledge.  

For Bayliss, it was transparent proof of the fucking torch she 
carried for her partner.

He gave a soft, ironic huff of laughter at the thought.  Dana would 
*never* admit to such a thing, he knew.  Maybe she wasn't even 
aware of it.

In any case, he felt gratified at finding at least one opportunity to 
expand her horizons.  Bayliss had known from the moment he'd 
first laid eyes on her in Gee's office that beneath her cool exterior 
burned a red-hot passion and intensity.  It had amused him for a 
while to tease it to the surface -- a process both fascinating and 
fulfilling.  Now, he was willing to sit back and reap the benefits of 
one of the most satisfying sexual relationships he'd ever had.  

Though Tim was self-aware enough to know it may not have been 
love, he still felt strongly that they could build on it.  

Did they want to, though?  That was real question on his mind 
these days.

"Hey, Meldrick," he said suddenly, glancing at the other man out 
of the corner of his eye as the coroner's staff began the messy, 
cumbersome task of loading the bodies for transport down to the 
morgue.  "You still need me here?"

"Nah, Timmy, you go on ahead," Lewis folded up his notebook and 
scratched at his neatly-trimmed goatee.  "I'll have you to sign off 
on the reports tomorrow.  This one pretty much defines the 
terminology 'open and shut.'  Now, if I could just get home and get 
some damn sleep.  You?"

"Yeah, Meldrick," Tim said with evident sarcasm as he caught 
Scully's eyes, waiting until she gave a nod of understanding.  He 
watched her turn and walk away in the direction of the street, 
admiring her movements for a moment before pushing away from 
the van and trailing after her.  With a  final look over his shoulder 
at the other detective he quipped, "Sleep...right."

Lewis grinned knowingly and gave a little salute as he settled in 
for the last remaining hour, waiting for the CSU to finish 
processing the scene.

The party was finally winding down for the night. 

Bayliss quickened his steps till he was almost running, heading 
after Scully's rapidly retreating form.  He finally caught up to her 
as she made it to her car, parked on one of the darker, more quiet 
connecting streets.

"Dana, wait up," he gasped, coming up from behind and laying a 
hand on one of her shoulders.

She paused at the sound of his voice, not turning to face him.

Silent now, Tim reached his arms out, enfolding her into his 
warmth.  He felt her relax against him and closed his eyes, 
savoring the pliant feel of her body against his.

Tenderly, he bent his head, reaching up to brush the hair off her 
slender nape and leaning over to whisper in her ear.

"Did I forget to mention back there how happy I was to see you 
tonight?"

His lips fluttered against the sensitive skin at the edge of her jaw 
as he spoke and she shuddered faintly.

"Yes," she murmured, a dawning smile evident in her tone.  "But 
it's ok.  I know you had a lot on your mind."

He continued to caress her neck with his mouth, roaming up to nip 
gently at her ear, letting his warm breath fan over the icy planes of 
her face.  His hand drifted up, over her stomach and through the 
gaping lapels of her navy wool coat.  Scully let go an unconscious 
sigh of longing as his fingertips brushed over the silky, slippery 
fabric of her blouse to close over the hardened peak of one breast.

"You want to talk about it?"  Her question, while sincere, sounded 
breathless in his ears and Tim welcomed his answering surge of 
excitement.  It was time to leave.  Time to go far, far away from 
this cold, dark place and into the welcoming heat of her body.

"We can have a drink at the Waterfront," she suggested softly, 
reaching up to lay her chilled fingers along his where they rested 
inside her coat.

"I don't think so," he replied, sliding his free hand up beneath her 
chin and tilting her head back until the smooth skin of her cheek 
made contact with his.  "I'm not sure I'm up for all that 
camaraderie tonight."

Her light chuckle was all the accord Bayliss needed.

"Let me take you home with me," he murmured, spanning her 
narrow waist with both hands and molding her against the aroused 
firmness of his lower body.  "Let me make love to you all night 
long and we'll get away from all of this together."

"Yes."

The response was a soft, breathy moan as his fingertips slipped 
over the juncture of her legs.  She responded instantly by grinding 
her backside against the aching length of his desire.  For a 
moment, Tim was actually afraid he might lose it right there in the 
street. 

But then Scully twisted in his arms, turning her face up to his in 
the darkness and opening her mouth for the slide of his tongue 
between her teeth.  The kiss was long, slow, hard and wet, Bayliss 
making it last while the muted sounds of the distant crime scene 
and the scattered noises of the Block's corrupt sensuality lingered 
in his ears.

Without another word, he broke the contact, slipping the keys 
from her hand and ushering her gently into the waiting haven of 
the car.

*********

They stood motionlessly, shoulder to shoulder, beneath the bright, 
spreading crimson-orange petals of an immense red poppy.  

Its image flared in bold relief against the featureless surface of an 
eggshell white wall as calm, climate-controlled currents of air 
shifted over the couple faintly.  Muted voices permeated the quiet 
atmosphere, almost distracting in their hushed intensity.

"So, you're a big O'Keeffe fan, huh?" Scully heard Bayliss remark 
quietly as they continued to stare together at the evocative canvas. 

It was now Saturday afternoon, and the two of them were taking a 
much-needed break from homicides and X files, wandering the 
serene halls of Baltimore's popular Walters Art Gallery.

Scully sighed for a moment in perfect contentment.  She found 
herself happy just to let the glorious visual spectacle of modern 
art wrap around her alluringly while basking in the simple, 
intimate company of a close confidant and lover.

"Yes, I do like her work," Scully replied finally, making a small, 
sweeping gesture with her hand in the direction of the painting.  
"There's something very liberating there.  Very free.  Like she 
took images and...recreated them as *she* saw them.  Not the way 
that other people thought they were supposed to be."

"Interesting."  

Tim seemed to take in her analysis thoughtfully as he continued to 
stare up at the canvas.  Drawing a deep breath, he ventured:

"It seems to me there's almost a hidden type of eroticism in her 
paintings.  Especially the flowers, mmm?"

Scully choked back a short laugh at his words and he stared down 
at her quickly, frowning in consternation.

"I'm sorry," she sputtered, shaking her head slightly and biting 
down on her lower lip until she was able to compose herself once 
again.

"What?  What did I say?"

"Bayliss, *every* man says that about O'Keeffe's flowers.  She 
spent the better part of her life trying to deny that aspect of her 
work.  It must be a kind of Freudian connection, or something.  
You know?  Sex and verdant blossoms?  A male attempt to 
reconcile psychosexual conflict."

He smiled in spite of himself, laughing with her at his own folly 
and reaching down to grasp her hand.

"Mulder would probably know," she continued, staring off into 
space suddenly as his fingers twitched unconsciously in her own.

"I take it he's an art buff or something." 

"Oh sure," Scully agreed with quick sarcasm, bobbing her head 
slightly.  "The art of 'Women of the Big Ten.'  Or whatever it is 
they're showing in this month's issue of 'Playboy.'"

"Actually, that's in this month's 'Penthouse,'" Tim joked, raising a 
hand laughingly to ward off her scathing glance.  "Not that I would 
know, of course."

"Oh, of course."  Shrugging her shoulders dismissively, Scully 
turned to move on to the next painting.

Tim followed silently, brushing lightly around a few other 
distracted wanderers before reaching her side once again.

"So tell me, Tim.  Whom do you fancy in this wonderful world of 
modern art?"

It was a blatant attempt to change the subject, but Scully didn't 
care.  The last thing she needed was to get carried away talking 
about Mulder.  His ever-present image bothered her enough when 
she was together with Tim that talking about him made it seem that 
much worse.  This was supposed to be her time to get *away* 
from the headache-causing complexities of her partner and she 
was determined to do everything in her power to take full 
advantage of it.

"Oh, I like just about anything as long as I can recognize it." 

She glanced over at Tim fleetingly and saw that he was studying 
the small gallery guide they'd gotten at the door.  With a sigh, he 
tipped his head back, letting his attention wander away from the 
map to the other people drifting about the room.  

"Edward Hopper's stuff is rather appealing, in a lonely, disjointed 
sort of way," he continued, sounding distracted.  "Something I can 
relate to, I guess..."

Tim's voice trailed off suddenly, and Scully noticed his eyes 
widen behind the reflective shine of his glasses as he appeared to 
recognize somebody or something on the other side of the room.

"Oh shit," she heard him murmur softly, almost as though he didn't 
even realize what he was saying.

Scully turned quickly, following his gaze and seeing nothing to 
warrant to such a reaction.  There were several people in the 
gallery, to be sure.  But nobody seemed to be paying them any 
particular attention.  Except maybe for the lean, good-looking man 
with a swatch of raven hair who caught her eye briefly.

Stepping away from Bayliss, she stared up at him again, trying to 
get a handle on exactly what was happening.  The look on his face 
was utterly alien, composed of equal parts confusion, dread, 
uncertainty and something else less-defined but still instantly 
recognizable.

God help her, it was the same expression of wanton hunger he 
always had when she walked in his door on Friday night.

Who could be the object of such a response she wondered 
immediately, sweeping the room again with a calculating look.  An 
old girlfriend?

Once again, her gaze lit on the same person who'd caught her 
attention before.  Except now he was moving their way with a 
firm, balanced stride, his eyes locked unerringly on the man 
beside her.

What the hell?

Scully gave Tim her full attention, noting that his facial cast very 
much resembled that of imminent road kill caught in the 
headlights of a speeding vehicle.  And there was something else.  
Reaching out to grasp his forearm, she felt the radiant crackle of 
sensual energy coming off him in waves, making the very hair 
along her skin stand on edge.

"Tim?" Scully asked, pushing aside her body's own immediate 
reaction to the nuclear heat of his sexuality and focusing instead 
on her concern for him.  "Tim, what's the matter?"

Her words finally seemed to penetrate the hard shell surrounding 
him and he shook himself slightly.  Looking down, Bayliss met 
her eyes for the briefest instant before suddenly snapping his head 
back in the direction of the approaching stranger.

"It's nothing," he told her, pulling his arm away from her grasp as 
he inhaled sharply.

"Hello, Chris."

"Tim," the black-haired man replied, stopping a few feet away 
while Scully stared at him soberly, taking in every detail of his 
appearance.

Tall and slim, he was blessed with the dark, mysterious good looks 
of a matinee idol.  His attire, tasteful and somewhat nondescript, 
consisted of a black button-down shirt and jeans, with a casual 
dun-colored blazer and a pair of thick-soled Kenneth Cole shoes.  
He shifted slightly beneath Scully's interested appraisal and she 
saw that he moved with an almost cat-like elegance and intensity.  
Quite honestly, the guy was incredibly attractive.  

An almost irrepressible curiosity welled up within her as she 
wondered just who the hell he was and what he meant to the man 
standing next to her.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly, angling his head and orienting the 
rather potent power of his magnetic gaze upon her.  

Scully found herself flushing unaccountably.

"Uh....Dana," she heard Tim say, catching the almost imperceptible 
tremor in his normally steady voice.  "I'd like you to meet Chris 
Rawls.  He helped Frank and I out with a case a couple of months 
ago."

The explanation was innocuous.  And frankly unbelievable in light 
of Tim's reaction to the man's presence.  She knew him pretty well 
by now and had never seen this depth of feeling directed at 
anything other than the job and maybe herself.

Still, remembering her manners, Scully reached out a hand and let 
the other man take it into his dry, warm clasp.  He pumped it once 
firmly before letting go.

Her steely, protective gaze locked with the smoky, enigmatic 
depths of Chris's eyes and she heard Bayliss continue:

"Chris, this is Dana Scully.  She's staying with me here in 
Baltimore this weekend."

Scully detected a flash of something on Chris's face at the choice 
of words. 

He stood carefully apart from Tim, not shaking hands or engaging 
in anything that might be construed as a friendly gesture.  In fact, 
the two men looked distinctly uncomfortable and Scully had the 
definite impression that neither was truly aware of anything other 
than each other. 

Son of a bitch, she told herself, as realization finally dawned upon 
her.  They've been to bed together.

Everything rapidly clicked in to place as she recollected Tim's 
curious unwillingness to discuss any details of his prior romantic 
past.  Besides which, there was Kay Howard's vague commentary 
at the Waterfront once concerning his last 'relationship.'

Scully cleared her throat softly, looking away and reaching a hand 
up to hide a smile.  In all her life, she had never, ever been 
confronted with a situation such as this and it was hard to know 
just how to behave.

Then, Rawls came to the rescue, addressing her quietly:

"So, Ms. Scully, are you enjoying your visit to our fair city?"

"Yes," she replied, meeting his eyes again and giving him a wide, 
unassuming smile.  "I always do."

He hesitated a fraction before returning her friendly gesture, 
crossing his arms and dividing his attention now between her and 
Tim.

"You certainly picked the right person to show you around."

She felt Bayliss stiffen at the comment and couldn't help feeling a 
bit of sympathy for his predicament.  On some level, Scully knew 
he just had to be in an absolute panic over this unexpected 
meeting.  Part of her wanted to reassure him somehow that she 
grasped the unspoken currents passing between the three of them, 
but she didn't know quite how to do it.

Tim looked down at her then, and she knew he instantly 
recognized her awareness.

"Actually," Bayliss began, turning and speaking again to Rawls, 
"Dana and I were just on our way out of here."

The obvious ploy clearly did not fool the other man, and yet she 
sensed he wasn't entirely insensitive to Tim's acute discomfort.  
With a lopsided grin, he nodded, letting all three of them off the 
hook as he took a step back, saying:

"Well, it was nice to have met you, Dana."

He reached out to shake her hand again before looking back at 
Bayliss.

"Good seeing you again, Tim."

The comment was softly-spoken.  Almost a verbal caress.   And 
this time, Rawls took Bayliss's hand in his own, squeezing it 
lightly.

Scully watched the tension in Tim's jaw soften as he looked to his 
feet for a moment.

"Right," was his mumbled reply.  

Then, she felt the unsteady grasp of his fingers at her elbow and 
suffered herself to be led towards the wide entryway at the other 
end of the room.

Scully sensed the heat of the other man's gaze boring into her back 
as they left, but she refused to acknowledge it.  Instead, she 
focused on the tightly-wound bundle of nerves that was Tim 
Bayliss walking next to her, realizing that their placid, 
uncomplicated afternoon had just come to an immediate and 
rather decisive end.

*********

Sunlight glinted off the gently undulating surface of Baltimore's 
inner harbor as Scully and Bayliss watched the tugs drift to and fro 
across the water with a steady, implacable resolve.  They were 
seated on a bench along the wide, open promenade, isolated 
somehow from the steady flux of tourists and residents who were 
drifting about, trying to enjoy one of the first really good spring 
days of the year.  Hoots and chirps of distant marine activity 
echoed in the air as the two maintained a steady silence, each 
waiting for the other to say something.

Scully observed the passing people for a while, thinking about 
what had just transpired back in the gallery.  She doubted she 
could have come up with a more bizarre scenario if someone had 
paid her.  

The revelation that Tim had had an affair with another man didn't 
trouble Scully.  Not exactly.  Certainly, he wasn't experiencing any 
confusion over his sexuality when it came to *their* relationship.  
Unless he was the greatest goddamn actor who ever lived, and she 
was pretty sure that wasn't the case.

No, she told herself.  It wasn't discomfort that she was feeling 
right now.  Rather, it was curiosity and an insatiable need to 
understand the obscure, puzzling anomalies of the remarkable man 
sitting next to her.

With a sigh, Scully pulled her feet up on top of the bench, tucking 
her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs.  The 
breeze ruffled her hair slightly as she spoke:

"Tell me about it, Tim."

He gave her a quick, piercing look, shifting his elbow along the 
backrest so he could rest his chin on one hand.

"There's not much to say, really," he began, frowning reflectively.  
"Like I mentioned at the gallery, I met him on a case with Frank.  
We were investigating the murder of a homosexual man.  It 
appeared to be a hate crime.  Chris knew the victim and tried to 
give us a helping hand.  When we caught the killer, he came over 
to the squad to thank me.  One thing led to another and he ended 
up inviting me to the club he owns for a drink.  I accepted.  End of 
story."

Making a quick, cutting gesture with his hand, Bayliss turned his 
head back towards the water, letting the heavy silence resume.

Scully was perceptive enough to know he'd just left quite a bit 
unsaid with that brief explanation.  And for once in her life, she 
wasn't satisfied to just let the matter drop.

"Come on, Tim.  The story looked alive and kicking to me back 
there to me when you made the introductions.  What the hell 
happened?"

Bayliss didn't answer for a long moment and she let the seconds 
tick by, watching the tense play of emotions over his soulful 
features.  Finally, he took a deep breath and looked back at her 
with an expression of near-total vulnerability and weariness.

"I've had a lot of relationships in my life, Dana.  And I'm afraid 
quite a few of them might be classified by normal people as 
'unconventional.'"  

He blinked for a moment as his eyes glittered with a dreamy, 
unfocused cast, remembering.

"There was Tanya Adams, who managed the S&M novelty shop that 
Frank and I visited as part of an investigation into a sexual 
asphyxiation.  And then Emma Zoole, who liked to do the wild 
thing in a custom-built coffin for two.  She was the one who 
precipitated my brief trespass into the world of armed robbery.  I 
know Kay already told you about that."

Scully bit back a smile in response. 

"After a couple more failed attempts at finding 'Ms. Right,' I got to 
thinking about some of the things Frank had told me over the years 
about sexuality.  And confusion.  I began to wonder if I 
was...looking in the wrong places."

He leaned his head back and she traced the taut column of his neck 
with her eyes, catching the bob in his throat as he swallowed.  

"So, to add yet another wrinkle to this dilemma, I spent the better 
part of my free time last summer mixing it up on the gay scene 
down in your backyard -- DC.  I wasn't much of a participant, of 
course.  Believe me, any latent feelings I had in that regard were 
more than offset by a rather potent sense of conscious 
homophobia.  But it was an opening.  And then along came Chris 
just as I was breaking off a rather meaningless relationship with 
Julianna Cox.  The rest as they say, is history."

He kept his eyes on her the entire time until he finished, as though 
desperately wanting her to understand.

Nodding gently in response to his unspoken query, she reached 
forward to touch his hand.  Tim's fingertips felt icy in hers, 
probably due more to his fear in telling her about these things than 
just the chilly spring air. 

"Were you in love with him?"

Bayliss thought for a while before answering.

"I don't know, Dana.  That's a pretty tough question."  He shook his 
head slightly, searching for words.

"In some ways, from the moment we first met, I felt like I'd found 
a soulmate.  Someone who was able to accept me and my 
confusion unconditionally.   He knew who I was.  Tim Bayliss.  
And there was always something undefinable about Chris 
that...spoke to me in a profoundly deep, visceral way -- unlike any 
of the other love affairs I've ever had before."

"So what was the problem?"

"The problem was that there were hopes, dreams, things I wanted 
out of life.  And as hard as I tried, I couldn't reconcile those needs 
with the concept of a relationship with another man."

He made a small self-deprecatory gesture and grimaced wryly, 
finishing:

"Married with two-point-four kids doesn't quite cut it when your 
SO shares the same jock size as you do."

Scully couldn't help herself.  She laughed aloud at the words, 
amazed as always at Tim's incredible resilience and refusal to take 
certain things about himself too seriously.

But then he sobered unexpectedly, a dark look settling on his 
features.

"There were other reasons, too," he said grimly.  "I wouldn't be 
honest if I said I wasn't afraid of my family's reaction.  Frank 
knew, but he wasn't very happy about it.  Then there was the squad.  
It didn't take long for my association with Rawls to leak out into 
the workplace.  I suspect I don't have to tell you that cops can be 
brutal when it comes to this sort of thing.  Most of them were too 
chickenshit to say anything to my face.  They know I'm good 
murder police, which counts for something.  But Frank ended up 
taking a lot of crap on my behalf.  And in the end, I guess I didn't 
think that was very fair to him."

Not fair to Frank?  Scully repeated to herself silently, 
incredulous.  God, but Tim was sometimes *too* good at 
disregarding his own feelings.  Couldn't he see that the issue 
wasn't his partner, but rather himself?

The drift of her own reasoning suddenly cut through her heart with 
the finely-honed severity of cold steel and Scully inhaled sharply 
as she grasped the implications.

At that instant, she knew there was nothing she could say to him; 
no way to counsel him on the error of his thinking.

Because Scully realized she already suffered from the exact same 
weakness.

Bayliss seemed to read her thoughts, shaking his head silently as 
he held up a hand, preventing her from speaking.

"Dana, the bottom line is that I ended it.  The individual reasons 
didn't really matter in the end, there were so many.  Chris was 
hurt, but I think he understood.  He's not a fool and I'm sure he was 
aware of the insurmountable odds we faced.  Maybe if I were 
anything other than a cop..."

He shrugged, voice trailing off wistfully as Scully was once again 
reminded of herself in a similar situation.

"Tim," she began softly, grasping his arm and pulling herself up 
against him on the bench as she locked her gaze with his.  "You 
may not believe this.  Or maybe you will, I'm not sure.  But either 
way, I want you to see that I understand what you're going through.  
I *know* what it feels like to...have very deep feelings 
for...somebody.  And somehow, it just seems...bound by destiny to 
be impossible."

Scully leaned back suddenly, sighing heavily and sweeping the 
water with a frustrated glance as she finished:

"Maybe that's why we're here now.  Together."

Reaching a hand up, Tim trailed it through the windswept strands 
of her hair, tucking them behind her ear as he drew her head 
beneath his chin into the warm, welcoming cradle of his neck.

Scully sniffled, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin and 
reaching her arms around his upper body, hugging him tightly. 

"You could be right about that, Dana.  But there's something else I 
want *you* to know.  This isn't about confusion any more.  I guess 
after all that's happened, I've stopped thinking about myself as 
strictly straight, or strictly otherwise.  The truth is, I just want to 
be happy.  And I'm willing to explore any and all avenues that may 
lead to a real, genuine sense of satisfaction in my life.  God 
knows, I *need* that with this nightmare of a vocation."

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he added:

"Right here, right now, I'd like to explore that possibility with 
you."

Sliding a hand beneath her chin, he kissed her, lips dancing over 
her mouth with the faintest, most gentle of caresses.

Scully responded, her fingertips drifting lightly over the firmness 
of his jaw as she let a slight murmur of agreement vibrate in her 
throat.  She believed every word he'd said and was tremendously 
grateful for both his honesty and integrity.  Only one other person 
she knew was committed to truth that way.

But even so, Scully couldn't help feeling that the solution wouldn't 
be this simple.  No matter what Tim said, the meeting with Chris 
Rawls today was clear evidence of the unresolved issues still 
simmering between the two men.  

And she would be a liar if she said there wasn't a similar history 
between her and Mulder as well.

Besides which, there were other, more vague currents of 
uneasiness swirling through her consciousness of late.  Nebulous 
impressions of discontent and turmoil sometimes echoing in her 
mind like a voice only she could hear.

Scully had no idea what it all meant.  There was a sense of 
circumstance, of fate, rushing towards her with unstoppable speed.  
She had a feeling, deep within her soul, that immense changes 
were on the horizon.

Leaning in to Tim that afternoon on the edges of the harbor, she 
suddenly saw the two of them, curled up against each other for 
shelter at the edges of a vast, empty space.

And it was spreading.  

Grasping the warmth of his arm with one hand and the cross 
around her neck with the other, Scully sent forth a fervent prayer 
that that they, all of them, would be able to emerge on the other 
side of the darkness unscathed.

*********

>Washington DC Memorial Hospital
>Four days later

Special Agent Jeffrey Spender personified the term asshole.  

He may have been distraught and upset by the bizarre 
circumstances surrounding the disappearance of his mother 
Cassandra, but he was an asshole, nonetheless.

The man in question was now striding away angrily, brushing past 
several startled nurses and medical support people in a veritable 
cloud of self-righteous indignation.  

Frowning, Fox Mulder stood completely still, letting the remnants 
of the other agent's furious passage buffet him freely.  Spender's 
invective lingered in the hallway like a bad acoustical echo, along 
with the sharp aseptic stink of alcohol and a more muted melange 
of hospital sounds.  

Animosity and resentment swelled within him as the minutes 
ticked by, stoked relentlessly by the unnatural and unexplained 
events of the last twenty-four hours.

Under normal circumstances, he might have been tempted to cut 
the guy some slack.

But after enduring Spender's unwarranted tirade on the heels of 
Scully's desperate, waking confusion, Mulder was in no mood be 
making allowances for anyone's sensitivities.

It was late.  He was tired.  And by the looks of things, his partner 
wasn't going to be able to clear up the riddle surrounding her 
unexplained, mystical jaunt to that hellhole in Pennsylvania any 
time soon.

In fact, he mused wrathfully, it seemed as though the bastards had 
gotten away clean.  Again.  Only this time, there were a lot more 
dead bodies to account for.

Blowing out his breath, Mulder found one of the uncomfortable 
metal chairs scattered along the hall and finally settled himself in 
for a long night of waiting.

Cassandra Spender was gone.  They had a mass murder to 
investigate.  And Scully had almost...

He clenched his teeth tightly, listening to the jarring squeak of 
enamel upon enamel and shuddering with the force of holding his 
feelings in check.  Then, he dropped his head into one hand, 
grasping at his temples.

Sons of bitches.

That they could have this power, this motherfucking *control* 
over the lives of people, of those close to him, made Mulder feel 
utterly and completely helpless; sick to his stomach, his heart, his 
soul.

When was this shit ever going to be over?

The siren call of mindless fury and frustration lapped seductively 
at his reason and Mulder surrendered for a moment to the feelings 
of impotence and rage that had become his constant companions 
of late.  

Soul-shattering memories rushed though his brain with the 
immutable force of a runaway train, even as he strove not to think 
about Scully lying incapacitated on the other side of the wall.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Mulder concentrated on blocking out 
her image.

Impossible.

A renewed nightmare vision suddenly swept over him.  The 
feelings this time were different, but no less affecting as he saw a 
woman with a patch of flame hair, blistered and defiled, lying on a 
cold steel bridge over a damn in Pennsylvania.

Not Scully.  

Deep within his most secret heart of hearts, Mulder almost 
wished that it had been.  For if she were dead, he would finally be 
unleashed -- free at last to let himself loose on fucking predatory 
revenge spree against the men he knew to be responsible.

Afterwards, whether an insanity defense held up or not, at least he 
would have the comfort of knowing that he'd made the bastards 
pay.  Irrevocably.

But Scully was still alive.  And so his fantasies of mad and wanton 
destruction would have to remain on hold for now.

Until the next time.

With a low, drawn-out groan, Mulder relaxed and tipped his head 
back against the wall.  Blinking against the bright fluorescent light 
of the hallway, he wondered if he should call her mother.  It had 
become something of a responsibility for him to do the honors 
where Scully was concerned.  

The idea of calling Margaret Scully to the hospital yet again on 
behalf of her daughter was not an appealing one.  He wasn't sure he 
could face that veiled accusing look in the woman's eyes any 
longer.  

To be sure, Scully's mother always treated him in a scrupulously 
supportive manner throughout these situations, but he was 
beginning to suspect her patience level was at its limits.

And why wouldn't it be, he asked himself, as his brow began to 
throb with the onrushing tide of a ball-breaking headache.  He was 
responsible, wasn't he?  If not for him, Scully wouldn't even be in 
these predicaments.

Fuck it, he thought, shaking his head and looking down at his 
hands.  Feeling sorry for himself was an exercise in futility.  
Mulder scrubbed at his eyes, forcing the maudlin self-pity from 
his brain as he roused himself back into action.

The least he could do was call her mother.  Scully would want that.  
And in the end, it was the only motivation that mattered.

Without warning, Mulder heard an unfamiliar electronic peal just 
as he was reaching into his suit coat to grab the phone.

Searching his pockets, he remembered suddenly that he'd taken 
Scully's cell from the room while she'd been unconscious in case 
any of her family tried to contact her.  It seemed Mrs. Scully had 
beaten him to the punch.

"Mulder."

A few seconds of heavy silence were his only greeting.  And then, 
the voice of another man startled him.

"Hello, Agent Mulder.  This is Detective Tim Bayliss, Baltimore 
Homicide.  Don't tell me I have the wrong number."

It was a statement, not a question, and Mulder cursed himself 
silently as an irrepressible wave of ill-will cascaded over him.  He 
should have anticipated a call from the detective, but the trauma 
surrounding Scully's situation was evidently preventing him from 
thinking clearly.  Now he would have to focus on staying calm and 
reassuring the other man.  Fucking wonderful.  Christ, he 
*deserved* this.

"Agent Mulder?"

Bayliss's voice jarred him away from his embittered thoughts and 
Mulder found himself responding abruptly:

"No, you have Dana's phone, it's just that she's not available right 
now."

"I see."

Mulder could tell by the shortness of the reply that he had Bayliss 
thinking, and for a moment, he was actually half-tempted to let the 
man sweat a little bit.

But his conscience refused to let him fuck around.  He could hear 
the subtle unease in the detective's voice, and considering where 
Scully was at the moment, it wasn't time to let petty concerns or 
vindictiveness dictate his actions.

"Scully's in the hospital here in DC."

"What is it?  It's not the cancer again, is it?"

Bayliss's words tumbled out in a rush of worried confusion and 
Mulder flinched at the question, shocked that the other man knew 
enough to ask about that.

Jesus Christ, exactly how much had she told him?  Everything?

Clutching the phone so hard his knuckles were white, Mulder's 
teeth sliced into the cushion of his lower lip until he tasted blood.  

Motherfucker.

This wasn't what he needed right now -- this sort of confusion and 
torment on top of what had happened in the last forty-eight hours.  
No, it was imperative he remain focused.  And talking to Scully's 
lover while sitting outside her hospital room certainly wasn't 
going to help him in that regard.

"No, Bayliss.  It's not the cancer," he answered quietly, drawing in 
a deep, cleansing breath and trying to let the tension ease off a bit.  
"Actually, it's nothing too serious.  She was on a case with the 
Bureau down in Pennsylvania.  Maybe you've seen the news?  We 
were investigating a cult suicide down there as part of an X file."

It wasn't the most honest explanation that Mulder had ever given, 
but for right now, he didn't care.  All he wanted was to get off this 
fucking phone and back into a more stable pattern of self-
insulating thought -- one that might just help him get through this 
crisis.

"Well, is she ok?  Were you there with her?"

Mulder hesitated only a fraction before answering:

"Yes.  She sustained some minor burns and they're holding her for 
observation, but she's going to be fine.  Unfortunately, a lot of 
other people weren't so lucky."

The hollow feeling must have penetrated his voice, because 
Bayliss gave a slight murmur of understanding.  

"Ok.  Right.  Well, I take it she's not up to talking on the phone?  
Never mind," he cut in, just as Mulder was about to reply.  "I'm 
sure you wouldn't be answering for her otherwise."

The door to Scully's room opened suddenly, and Mulder glanced 
up in surprise.  

Telling the other man to hold abruptly, he covered the 
mouthpiece, giving the nurse an inquiring look as she stepped into 
the hall.

"You can go back in now, Agent Mulder," she told him, laying a 
hand on his shoulder, "but remember that Miss Scully needs to 
conserve her strength as much as possible.  She's not out of the 
woods just yet."

Without waiting for a reply, the nurse left him, striding 
purposefully off in the direction of her station.  Mulder watched 
her for a second before bringing the phone back to his ear.

"Listen, Bayliss.  I'm afraid I don't have all that much time to sit 
around and chat."

"No, I understand.  Just please tell Dana I called.  Ask her to get in 
touch with me as soon as she's able.  And Mulder?"

"What?"

"Take good care of her, mmm?"

He closed his eyes at the sound of Bayliss's request, tasting the 
stale tang of blood along his tongue and almost welcoming its 
grisly intensity.  The detective meant a lot more than he was 
saying and both men damn well knew it.

"I'll do that," Mulder replied, not waiting for a reply as he hit the 
end-button and terminated the call.

Then he stood, staring down at the phone in his hand for a long 
moment as he waited just before Scully's room.  Bayliss's voice 
still reverberated in his head, bringing with it a virtual tempest of 
desperate confusion and hesitation.

He should go in there and relay the message to her.

Slowly, Mulder turned the cell off, slipping it into his pocket as 
he stared sightlessly at the lightly-grained wood of the door.

With an unfathomable expression, he suddenly turned on his heel 
and walked away.

There were other, more pressing details for him to run down, 
Mulder told himself, repeating the litany over and over inside his 
head until he almost believed it.

He needed to see the Gunmen.  They had vital information about 
the chip in Scully's neck.  And he needed it.  Now.  It couldn't wait.

Bayliss would keep for another twelve hours.  So what if he were 
only prolonging the inevitable?  

Denial was such an intoxicating form of refuge.  While it lasted.

With a determined stride, Mulder picked up the pace, forcing 
himself not to look back as the entryway to his partner's world 
dwindled into the emptiness surrounding him.

*********

>Office of the Assistant Director
>FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building
>Two days later

He sat in Skinner's office, listening impatiently as the other man 
engaged in a recitation of the discrepancies and unresolved issues 
surrounding the Spender investigation.  As if Mulder weren't 
already aware that the situation was fucked up beyond all 
recognition.

And there was Scully, next to him, indecision and distress 
rumbling off her in silent tremors to blend with the A.D.'s 
exasperation.

The tension in the room was thick -- palpable in its intensity.  
Mulder found himself reacting almost unconsciously to what was 
beginning to feel like some sort of thinly-veiled attack on his 
integrity.

Jesus Christ.  He'd spent the last four and a half years filing 
reports on his findings about the existence of extraterrestrial 
events and their impact on the human condition.  And Skinner had 
done nothing each time but look at him without expression, 
clearly indicating his disbelief *and* his displeasure.  

Scully had done the same, taking every opportunity to highlight 
inconsistencies and idiocies in a multitude of his theories.  Why 
she worked so hard to defend him against his detractors was one 
of life's grand mysteries, for it was an accommodation she seldom 
afforded Mulder himself. 

So here he was, finally acknowledging the military's complicity 
and responsibility for all they'd ever been able to uncover.  And as 
a reward for his trouble, both the A.D. and his partner seemed 
intent on making him out to be some kind of narrow-minded fool.

Skinner was now busy referring to the so-called 'power' of 
Mulder's beliefs.  He mimicked the A.D.'s words to himself 
silently.  It was the same thing Scully had said back at the hospital, 
too.

The *power* of his beliefs hadn't accomplished diddly-squat to 
this point.  He didn't have Samantha.  He didn't know what had 
happened to Scully.  His father was dead and his mother might 
well be one of these days.  A conflagration of frustrated dreams 
and desires ruled his life.  And now he had to put up with this 
contradictory bullshit on top of it all.

Well, fuck both of them.  Fuck Skinner and fuck Scully, too.  He 
was tired of all this.  If he couldn't win for losing, then he might as 
well go ahead and be a monumental prick about it.

Mulder reached that egregious conclusion just as Skinner was 
saying:

"Extraterrestrial phenomena, is frankly the more plausible 
explanation." 

"Then I suggest you put that in your report," he snapped.

Holding himself still for a split-second, Mulder let the harsh 
resonance of the words echo throughout the genteel atmosphere 
before rising to his feet.

Scully's rigid anxiety hit him with a stroke of high-voltage 
electricity, thrumming like a live wire connected to his soul.  The 
pain was almost physical, it was so intense.  Mulder wanted to 
stop himself, to speak up, answering somehow to Skinner's 
piercing commentary.

It wasn't much different from the way he had felt back in Werber's 
office.  She had looked at him with such blatant appeal in her eyes 
then, wanting, needing him to understand her confusion and 
distress.

But then, as now, something held him back.  Controlling.  
Merciless.  Like a vise around his heart.

Mulder couldn't, wouldn't open himself to the possibilities that 
Scully and Skinner were now proposing.  The potential for 
extended heartbreak was simply too great.

Without another word, he turned and headed for the door, not 
waiting to see if she would follow.  The soft click of the hasp 
behind him echoed like a thunderclap in his brain.

Sliding to an abrupt halt in the hallway, he realized that Scully had 
apparently chosen to stay put.

He was alone.  He had been alone for a long, long time.  So why 
then did it suddenly feel so damn bad?

Making his way rapidly down to the basement, Mulder almost 
didn't hear her until she was upon him.

"Mulder, wait," Scully's voice was commanding as she reached out 
to grip his arm, preventing him from opening the door to his 
office.

Letting his hand slide from the knob, he spun to face her in the 
dim hallway.

"What?"

Despite the muted light and vague shadows, the defiance in her 
eyes was unmistakable as she faced him in full, knock-down, 
confrontational mode.  For a moment, they stared at each other in 
silence, furious energy screaming between them with the steadily 
building winds of a developing tornado.

Mulder squared his jaw and refused to let the rage-darkened glitter 
of her gaze force him into any sort of reply.

There was nothing he could say right now that she would want to 
hear.

The warning signals in his expression had to have been glaringly 
evident, but Scully charged ahead in her customary persistent 
manner, making a sharp, decisive gesture with her hand.

"My god, look at yourself, Mulder," she said lowly, the force of 
her restraint slashing through him with unrelenting ease at every 
word.  "What have you become?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Oh, bullshit," she bit out, the profane word sounding unnatural in 
the normally controlled tones of her voice.  "I've just about had it 
with the disinterested bystander crap."

The tense set to her features and the vehement power in her 
expression reminded him instantly of her sister, Melissa.  Mulder 
closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the memory.

"Christ, Mulder," Scully went on, jabbing a fingertip into his chest 
to get his attention.  "What *was* that little performance up in 
Skinner's office?  Huh?  I swear to god, I don't think I know who 
you are anymore.  I don't think *you* know who you are."

"No, Scully," he contradicted sharply, reaching up to catch her 
wrist in a grip so tight, she gasped unexpectedly in pain.  "I know 
*exactly* who I am and what I'm doing these days.  I wish I could 
say the same about you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He took a deep breath, forcing the anger back down within 
manageable limits as he let her wrist go abruptly.

"Nothing," Mulder replied shortly, shaking his head.  
"Just...nothing.  Look, Scully, I don't have time for this."

Surprisingly, she didn't back down, reaching out herself this time 
to take his upper arm in a bruising hold.

"You better make time, Mulder.  Because I'm not going to work 
like this for another second."

"Please, spare me, Scully.  Like what?"

"Like you don't believe a goddamned word I'm saying.  Like you 
don't want to see what's really happening here.  Christ, you've got a 
damned FBI *Assistant Director* advocating extraterrestrial 
involvement in these mass slayings and all you can do is stand 
back with contempt and make us all feel like morons.  Haven't you 
*heard* a single thing that I've been saying for the last ten days??  
I know what *I've* been feeling, and yet you refuse to lend that 
any credibility whatsoever.  Your actions and your behavior 
throughout this entire incident have been stubborn, intolerant and 
frankly hurtful at times."

She was breathing harshly now, chest rising and falling noticeably 
with emotion and Mulder inhaled sharply, squaring his shoulders 
and thrusting out his chin aggressively as he prepared to take her 
on.

"How does it feel, Scully?"

"What?" her voice was incredulous now.

"I said," he replied icily, giving her his best, most formidable look 
of disdain, "How-Does-It-Feel?"

Mulder spoke in the manner of a rational adult forced to reason 
with a slow-witted relative, crossing his arms and letting his back 
rest against the hard surface of the door.  His eyes swept the 
length of her body with an insolent glance.

"I-I..." Scully stammered, looking up at him in confusion now, 
some of the righteous ire bleeding from her expression.

He found her sudden lack of assurance almost gratifying in a way.

"Scully, all I've asked you for in the last week is for some kind of 
proof.  *Scientific* provenance.  A theory that makes sense 
outside the realm of the paranormal and the extreme.  Or even 
some sort of empirical evidence to support your abduction-
scenario theories.  I've done it politely and in a courteous, non-
threatening manner.  It is *nothing* more than what you've 
demanded of me in the past.  *Nothing*," he finished, punctuating 
a finger into the air for emphasis as he pushed forward to lean 
over her once more.

Anger reared its ugly head again unexpectedly as the 
recriminations skipped through his brain, driving him forward 
insistently.  Without warning, Mulder felt the pent-up frustration 
of years begin to overflow, shattering like a cloudburst of spiteful 
ire and resentment.

"And now you come down here and get in *my* face, full of self-
righteous fury and indignation, and for what?  Just who the hell do 
you think you *are*?"

Scully mouth dropped open with a soft round 'o' of surprise, her 
deafening silence resounding in his ears.  It was an exceptional 
moment -- Scully speechless.

Mulder watched her lips, feeling himself thrill with an exquisite 
tingle.  It began at the base of his skull and stroked all the way 
down his spine to linger in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his 
groin.  A part of him actually relished the experience with an 
awareness that was blatantly sexual.

And then the words came.

"Why don't *you* cut the bullshit here, Scully.  How many times 
in the past have I had to endure the words: 'That's crazy, Mulder.'  
'That's stupid.'  'You aren't *seriously* suggesting...'" he trailed 
off, having mimicked the supercilious tone and inflection of her 
voice almost perfectly.

"You're down here accusing *me* of something?  Making it sound 
like *I'm* the bad guy?  How am I supposed to feel about that, 
huh?  When we're one on one, you don't hesitate to cut through my 
ass like fucking *toilet paper*.  Well, now you can see what it's 
like.  Welcome to my world."

Her eyes narrowed at his words, mouth clamping shut into a thin 
line as he continued:

"I can't believe you have the unrepentant gall to come down here 
and lecture me about *your* hurt feelings.  *Your* confusion.  
Christ.  That's fucking *hypocrisy*."

Mulder turned away from the retaliatory flare that was beginning 
to amplify in her expression, shocked suddenly at the loudness of 
his own voice.  Losing control with Scully was not a good thing.  
Not in light of the tenuous circumstances surrounding their 
partnership.  And certainly *not* in light of the raging arousal now 
careening through his veins.   

Running his fingers over his hair, he stepped away, pacing tensely 
down the cramped hall, like some sort of caged puma.  He took 
several deep breaths, calming himself and trying to let logic and 
rationality regain the upper hand as he returned to stand before 
her.

"What you won't admit -- what Skinner won't admit -- is that the 
government we work for is in the process of perpetrating 
unspeakable atrocities upon the very people it's sworn to serve.  
You, yourself once argued that point to me.  Apology is policy?  
Or is that locked up somewhere now in the inner well of denial 
you've become so good at nurturing?"

They were close, oh so close, standing there in each other's space 
and Mulder could feel the angry, furnace-like heat burning 
between them, building with explosive force.

Scully winced at his accusation, a faint sheen of emotion welling 
up within her tense blue gaze and he felt an unrestrained surge of 
compassion swell within him.

"Don't you remember?" he asked slowly, in a softer, more 
moderate tone.

"Yes," she replied, her voice evenly controlled, and Mulder knew 
in a heartbeat that while he might have knocked her down for a 
moment, she wasn't out for the count.  Not yet anyway.  

He backed off suddenly, preparing to beat a hasty retreat if 
necessary.

"Yes, I remember, Mulder." 

Scully's words were like a heap of dry ice, burning with a chilling, 
barely restrained fury and wrapping around him in a smoky, 
relentless vapor.

"I remember the five years of my life I've spent dedicated to you 
*and* your quest," she went on.  "If this is your world, I don't want 
to be here anymore."

Mulder closed his eyes against the virulent agony her statement 
inspired, feeling hopelessness spread through him like pure 
poison.  And then the animosity followed.  He didn't need her.  
Hell, she was probably better off without him.  If she really felt 
this way, then maybe it was just as well.

"That's your choice, of course, Scully." 

"You're damned right it is, Mulder.  But you're a fool if you think 
I'm just going to stand back and let you drive me away."

It wasn't what he'd expected her to say and Mulder withdrew 
another step, shifting defensively and moving away from the 
feverish light he saw burning in her eyes.

"Regardless of what you may think, I've always respected you and 
your dedication to the truth.  But I wonder if you even know what 
the truth is any more."

Her voice quivered slightly as she turned her back to him, 
reaching out to grasp the knob of the door.  She held her head 
high, spine completely rigid.  Then, Scully looked over her 
shoulder with a firm, questioning glance.

The message was clear.  He could follow her back into the safe 
comfort and haven of the office or leave, going it alone.

There was only one possible choice for Mulder.  Blood had just 
been spilled, marking them both equally with its inimical passage.  
Regardless of who was responsible, it was there now, lying 
between them, inescapable.  How could they ignore that?

Without another word, he bent his head, making his way over to 
the stairwell and beginning the long arduous process of climbing 
the steps one by one.

He didn't look back and so missed the look of bitter 
disappointment and concern crossing her features.

The last thing Mulder heard was the sound of Scully opening the 
door and the faint, resentful whine of Agent Jeffrey Spender's 
voice.

Maybe it hadn't been a total loss, after all.

*********

Scully followed Mulder from the room where the OPR was 
meeting and closed the door softly behind her.

She could still hear the flat, droning questions of the panel 
members.  And then the equally emotionless responses the two of 
them had given concerning the events taking place at Wiekamp Air 
Force Base thirty-six hours earlier.

Even now, Scully still wasn't sure what happened.  Mulder had 
been reluctant to talk about it afterwards and her only real clues 
had come from his testimony at the hearing.  His story, while not 
unusual in her experience with him, had failed to convince the 
review board.  And so, yet another black mark against them would 
be entered in the record with Skinner burying it, like so many 
before.

She wondered if it even mattered any longer.

Scully's eyes remained on the ground as she strode quietly along 
the near-silent hallway, until her body abruptly made contact with 
her partner's lean form.  Surprised, she let out a small gasp in 
response.

Mulder had stopped, turning to face her.  Now, he reached his 
arms out, steadying her as he looked down with an expression 
made up of equal parts consideration and apprehension.

"So, Agent Scully," he began softly, letting the corner of his mouth 
drift up in a half-smile.  "How was *your* day?"

Blinking, Scully swallowed past the hard knot of resentment and 
frustration, returning his gesture with a wry look of her own.

A lot had happened over the last seventy-two hours.  Frankly, 
Mulder seemed different now.  More like himself.  And while she 
could still feel the aftereffects of their confrontation creeping up 
on her, Scully also believed there was no point in dredging up the 
past.

Besides, much of what he had said the other day was irrefutable.  
And though the manner in which he'd said it left something to be 
desired, Scully imagined he was entitled on some level. 

"Well, let me tell you," she replied, angling her head slightly and 
flipping her brows up.  "It was exciting.  I shouldn't be allowed to 
have that much fun with my clothes on."

Mulder's smile widened at her answering volley and without 
thinking, he reached out to touch her elbow.

"Ooooh, Scully.  A joke, even.  What...are you trying to humor me 
or something?"

She gave a slight huff of laughter, flashing him a provocative 
glance from beneath her lashes.

"Or something, Mulder.  Look," she went on, pulling a wayward 
strand of hair from her face, "I've really had it today.  I need to get 
home to my bathtub where I can finally enjoy some peace and--"

"Actually," he cut her off, "I was wondering if you'd let me buy you 
dinner tonight."

Scully stared at him, trying to repress her quick incredulity at his 
offer.  After his blistering diatribe down in the basement, she had 
thought it quite clear that he didn't relish the thought of her 
company.  Anywhere.  Least of all on his off-time.  The fact that 
he was asking her to do something outside the realm of the 
professional arena obviously meant he had something pretty heavy 
on his mind.

With a sigh, Scully decided she had better find out what it was.

"Sure, Mulder.  That'd be fine.  Let me just swing down to the 
basement and get my coat."

Nodding, he turned with her in the direction of the elevator, 
pressing his fingers firmly into the hollow of her back, a gesture 
he hadn't made in a long, long time.

Once she'd collected herself, Mulder conveyed them to a small 
Georgetown bistro.  The same place where she suspected he often 
fled for lunch whenever he felt the need to get out and away from 
the Hoover building and the pressures of the files.  And her.

It was quiet, the hazy atmosphere muted with a combination of 
dim light and the low hum of conversation from a few softly-
spoken diners.

They'd seated themselves at a table for two, giving their drink 
order to a slight, unassuming waiter who was as efficient as he was 
reserved.  

Scully found herself struggling with a vague sense of restlessness 
and hesitation -- an almost burning inquisitiveness as to what 
exactly Mulder had been thinking by bringing them here.  She 
could count along one hand the number of times they'd dined out 
together while off the job.

When the waiter finally reappeared with a matching pair of iced 
teas, they gave their orders, leaning back in unison as the man slid 
the menus from their table and disappeared into the shadowed 
warrens at the back of the room.

Mulder was quiet for a long moment, staring at her with a pensive 
expression on his face as Scully met his gaze unflinchingly.  The 
mood was tense, strained.  

Unable to stand it any longer, she finally prompted:

"So?"

Taking a deep breath, Mulder bit his lower lip and leaned forward, 
resting his forearm along the table as he shrugged faintly.

"It's been a long week, Scully.  I know you're wondering why we're 
here."

Having no answer for the essentially rhetorical comment, she 
merely sipped at the cool blandness of her tea, waiting to see 
where he was going with this.

"I feel like I owe you an explanation after that little scene the 
other day outside the office."

Making a cutting gesture with her hand, Scully shook her head, 
interrupting:

"You don't owe me anything, Mulder.  You were very obviously 
only saying what you feel."

"No," he contradicted, shaking his head and giving her a 
determined look.  "That's not really the case.  It was never my 
intention to hurt your feelings that way."

"Actually, I think that *was* your intention, Mulder.  At the time 
anyway."

She saw him roll his eyes and lean back again in exasperation.  But 
there was also a reluctant look of agreement on his face and 
Scully knew what she'd just said was the truth.  At least he didn't 
have to waste time explaining it or rationalizing it.  She knew him 
too well for that.

"It's ok," she said, breaking the silence and reaching out to touch 
his fingers before she thought better of it, pulling her carefully-
folded napkin apart instead.  "Shit happens, Mulder.  We've been 
together so long I'm surprised it took till now.  Don't worry, I 
won't hold it against you."

Mulder gave a long, weary sigh, meeting her eyes again.

"In any case, Scully, I wanted to say I was sorry.  And you're wrong 
about one thing.  I *do* owe you an explanation for what's been 
going on over the last few months."

"Mulder, you don't."

"Scully," he raised a hand warningly.  "God, for once in your life 
just be still and let me speak."

She clamped her mouth shut in reply, taking a deep breath and 
twisting the square of linen in her lap, waiting for him to go on.

"So many things have happened since you brought Kritschgau to 
my apartment.  Seeing my sister and living through the series of 
events that led to your remission not the least of things.  And 
Emily..."

Mulder trailed off, watching her blanch inadvertently at the 
mention of the child's name. 

"I've had a lot of time to think about these things and I've come to 
realize how much has changed since you walked into that 
basement five years ago."

Now, he fiddled with his own napkin, as if unsure just how to 
proceed.

"Scully, you've often said and shown me through your behavior 
that you believe an obsession for the truth about Samantha rules 
my every waking thought and action."

Chewing on his lip slightly, Mulder finally tipped his chin up, 
looking deeply into her eyes.  "I don't think that's the case any 
more."

"No, wait," he went on, raising a hand as she made as if to cut in.  "I 
need to finish this first."

Resuming her silent posture, Scully held still, locked in the 
earnest grip of his stare.

"You told me not too long ago that your fight against the cancer 
was a struggle to find meaning.  And that effort alone was what 
mattered most to you in all this.  I never said anything, but over 
time, those words took on a pretty hefty significance for me."

"The quest isn't so much for Samantha anymore.  Honestly, it 
hasn't been wholly that for some time.  Seeing her in that cafe in 
DC -- letting her go that night -- merely cemented my 
understanding."

He looked down suddenly as a faint tremor inserted itself into his 
voice.  

"I know that it may not really have *been* my sister, but when all 
is said and done..."

Trailing off, Mulder let an expression of near-distress wash over 
his features before he looked up at her again resolutely.  

"What I'm saying is that it doesn't matter.  The Samantha I knew is 
gone.  She's not ever coming back."

Scully inhaled deeply and swallowed, shocked almost senseless by 
what he was saying.  By what he was admitting to.

"The funny thing is, the search for the truth as it stands, is almost 
more difficult and perplexing.  And all of it goes back to what you 
told me that night out in the wilderness of the Florida forest."

He was gaining momentum now, more sure of himself with each 
and every word and Scully had no doubt that he believed 
profoundly in what he was telling her.

"I told you once that it was about fate.  But it's more than that.  
Like you said, it's about significance.  I still have to know where 
my sister is; to be sure she's really all right.  But what I really need 
more than anything is to find meaning in what has *happened* to 
Samantha.  Even if the real thing were delivered to my doorstep 
tomorrow, I think I'd *still* need that.  And there's so much more 
requiring a similar validation.  The things I've experienced.  My 
father.  My whole family.  Even the countless people who've been 
touched by the conspiracy we've worked so hard to expose."

Mulder's voice abruptly took on a deeper tone then as he leaned 
towards her, making a small gesture with his hand for emphasis.

"Most importantly, Scully, there's you.  What I want more than 
anything else now is to understand why the things that have 
happened to you and your family have happened.  And I think you 
need that, too.  It's why you're still sticking around after all this 
time."

Scully looked down at her hands, resting on the pale pink 
tablecloth.  She didn't really know how to respond beyond just 
letting Mulder run his course, taking them where he would with 
these words.  In a way, she reflected, that was a good way of 
explaining her entire relationship with him.  And while she didn't 
blame him for what had happened over the course of their 
association, she knew he blamed himself enough for both of them.  
Nothing she could ever say or do would change that.

"You know, Scully, you're like the backup quarterback who comes 
in after the half to try and spark a rebound for the team that's 
behind in the game.  And as the coach, I get to sit back and watch 
as you stage a couple of really brilliant rallies in spite of the 
opponent's brutal defense mauling you left and right.  In the end, I 
have to stand there helpless as they carry your broken and spent 
body off the field on one of those nifty little emergency medic 
carts.  It's not a good feeling."

Scully gave a short, inadvertent chuckle at his ever-creative 
example, striving to lighten up some of the intensity she saw 
burning in his gaze.

"Mulder, why is that men can translate just about anything into an 
allegory for professional sports?"

He laughed in reply, recognizing her attempt at irony for what it 
was and letting himself relax slightly.  "Collective unconscious, 
maybe?"

Scully ignored his Ph.D. flippancy, giving him a brisk look.

"I have to admit you've caught me by surprise tonight, Mulder.  
Not so much because of what you've said, but that you've chosen 
to say it at all.  Still, I think you're wrong about one thing," she 
went on, falling back into the comfortable metaphor he'd so 
skillfully set up.

"You're not the coach.  You're kidding yourself if you think you 
are.  Neither of us has ever had any real control in this game.  And 
if I'm the quarterback, then you're the tailback who ruthlessly 
grinds through impossible odds, looking for any and every 
opening that will get him just a few more yards on the carry.  
Unstoppable.  Indefatigable.  The cornerstone of the offense.  And 
you never lose sight of that glittering end zone, no matter how far 
away it seems."

Mulder's answering smile flickered with a rare glint of 
embarrassment before he caught himself, giving her a teasing 
look.  

"Why Agent Scully, I knew there was more to you than met the 
eye.  What a penetrating play-by-play analysis you have."

"Yeah, well don't get used to it.  I hate football."

He gave a small sound of understanding, quieting as his sober 
expression reasserted itself.  Capturing her gaze again, Mulder 
reached up, prying a hand away from where Scully held them 
clasped together and clutching it in the warm embrace of his 
fingers.

"I've let myself become a very small person over the last few 
months.  The kind of narrow-minded, self absorbed prick I've 
fought against being my entire life.  And while I'm not exactly 
willing now to believe in the same things as before, I'd like to 
think I've re-opened myself to some fresh possibilities."

Scully felt a stirring begin in the pit of her stomach as he brushed 
a fingertip lightly along the sensitive surface of her palm and then 
onward down to her wrist.

"As for tonight...I just...wanted you to understand these things, I 
guess.  That's very important to me."

Then, Mulder turned her hand palm-up and raised it to his lips.  
Pressing the moist heat of his mouth to her flesh, he held her the 
entire time in the surreal amber-green landscape of his eyes.

Keeping herself perfectly still, she let him draw out the caress, 
holding her breath as she felt the tip of his tongue graze her skin.  
The seconds stretched away, on and on, and she found herself 
praying the moment would never end.

Eventually, he lowered her hand a fraction to ask softly:

"Scully, do you ever wonder if there'll be a life for us outside of 
the X files?"

Her heartbeat was pounding ceaselessly in her ears, mirroring the 
rush of thought and sentiment that were currently swamping her 
brain.  Struggling for coherence, Scully opened her mouth to 
speak...

Just as the waiter arrived with their dinner.

The brief span of intimacy passed in the blink of an eye and Scully 
felt frustrated emotion well up as Mulder let go of her hand.

Their server solemnly set down her grilled sole and Mulder's veal 
piccata, never realizing what he might have interrupted as he 
politely inquired if there was anything else.

They refused, and he left them alone again.

But the fleeting sorcery of their momentary union was gone.  
Almost as though it had never happened.

Scully told herself that it was probably just as well.  Mulder 
couldn't have meant anything more beyond a simple, debonair 
inquiry.  After all, she was still seeing Bayliss.  And he was just as 
irrevocably committed to his quest, no matter how significantly 
the parameters had changed.

"Well, Mulder," she began, as he looked over at her, in the process 
of lifting his iced tea glass.  "I have to thank you for this tonight.  
It almost makes that temper tantrum down in the basement 
worthwhile."

He smiled ruefully, not saying anything to contradict her frank, 
though lighthearted, interpretation.

"And as to whether or not the twisting, convoluted, all-
encompassing world of the X files will ever let us free to engage 
in new discoveries, I just have one thing to say..."

Scully watched him tense as she picked up her fork and knife, 
waiting as she finished:

"Let's eat."

*********

>FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building
>Two weeks later

Mulder sat at his desk, feet on the edge and knees pulled up to his 
chest, trying to concentrate on the sheaf of lab reports before 
him.  The black and white precision of simple words on paper 
seemed meaningless somehow as page after page slid by, lost in a 
sea of his own preoccupation.

Shifting slightly in the chair, Mulder cocked his head and tried to 
shut out the relentless white-noise hum of the overhead light.  
Somehow, it only added to his distracted thoughts, making it 
nearly impossible to focus.  He realized he'd just read the same 
damn paragraph three times and still didn't know what it contained. 

This was fucking ridiculous, he told himself.  Reaching up, he 
pulled off his glasses, looking out of the corner of his eye at the 
woman sitting several feet away, typing with rapid precision at a 
small laptop computer.

And why was he having so much trouble focusing on work, he 
asked himself wryly?  Surely not because of her unconventional 
appearance today.

The fact that the Knicks were limping weakly towards a doomed 
post-season was a far more reasonable explanation. That plus the 
lack of anything really substantial coming over his desk for the 
last ten days.  Hell, even Skinner had detailed them over to 
stakeout duty with the VICAP boys last week because of their 
inactivity.  

The Spender investigation was at a halt.  The Gunmen had gotten 
nowhere with his request for more detailed information on the 
chip in Scully's neck.  And the few referrals coming their way 
from both federal and state authorities were nothing like X file 
material.

Goddamn it, Mulder cursed inwardly.  He needed a *case* to get 
his mind far, far away from the seditious thoughts creeping up on 
his psyche with ever-increasing intensity.

Such as the fact that Scully was wearing a fucking dress today.  

A wave of irritation began to expand slowly in his brain -- 
annoyance with the lack of self-restraint and loss of his ability to 
concentrate.

Still, he could rationalize a little distraction as a justifiable thing.  
It *was* the first time in known memory that she had shown up 
for work in something other than Ann Taylor or Jones New York.

For Christ's sake, it was no big deal, Mulder reprimanded himself 
silently.  With the way his mind was running rampant, you'd think 
she'd pulled a raid on Sporty Spice's closet.

But really, it didn't have to be that extreme.  Just a dress -- navy 
blue silk with large, matte buttons spaced evenly down the front.  

The neckline was split sharply, narrowing just over the hollow 
between her breasts and the slim vee of exposed skin stood out 
with alluring clarity, set off only by her simple gold cross.

Tailored sleeves fit close along her arms without being tight, each 
cuff sliding over the delicate turn of her wrists.  And the hem line 
was modest, ending just above her knees. 

Christ, he could quit the Bureau and get a job as a runway buyer at 
the Paris fall collections with all this goddamn provocative 
fashion analysis, Mulder thought to himself.  He really should 
seek out ECT at once.  A few well-placed electrodes at his 
temples and none of this would be an issue any more.

Scully stopped typing suddenly, oblivious to his ruminating as she 
stood and made her way over to one of the work tables at the back 
of the office.  Her retreat gave him the perfect opportunity to 
trace the thin seams of her dark, shimmery stockings down along 
the backs of her legs to where they ended just at the heel of each 
navy suede pump.  

A lingering cloud of Lauder's Pleasures seemed to be following 
her everywhere and Mulder wondered idly if it had been a gift 
from the homicide detective, Bayliss.

After all, that's what this exceptional regalia was about today.

It was Friday and Scully was headed up to a formal dinner 
presentation in the wild, untamed warrens of Charm City.  Bayliss 
and his partner were slated to receive commendations for a big 
narcotics bust or some such nonsense.   How two homicide 
detectives had managed to strike a major victory in the war on 
drugs was a fucking mystery worthy of Conan Doyle himself.  Or 
maybe just Conan O'Brien, he thought nastily.

Scrupulously glancing her way again, he saw that Scully was 
writing now, signing some paperwork with quick efficiency and 
giving each page a final once-over.  Unconsciously, his eyes 
followed each sway of the hem up and down the backs of her legs 
as she shifted slightly in small, subtle movements.

Then, Mulder heard the clatter of the pen as it accidentally fell to 
the floor and he held his breath as she bent over slowly to retrieve 
it.

Fuck.

There was no denying it.  She looked simply exquisite today.

With sigh he reached up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where 
his glasses had been resting for the last eight hours.

An excruciatingly lengthy morning had somehow become a 
protracted, drawn-out afternoon and Mulder found himself 
silently wishing for five o'clock.  Frankly, he couldn't wait to get 
the hell out of the office, away from this latest Scully incarnation, 
and even further removed from the conceptual meltdown of her in 
that damned detective's arms tonight.

God had it in for him.  That explained everything.  Always be sure 
to credit the Almighty with the blame when life sucked -- the 
principle truism of the human condition.

For he and Scully had finally reached a mutual understanding in 
the last few weeks after their impromptu dining experience.  
Things were now almost back to normal.  Their customary light-
hearted banter and teasing had reasserted itself, along with the 
more subtle, intimate rewards of touching her, standing close to 
her.  

And then there was the whimsical provocation in her manner -- 
something Mulder had been cognizant of ever since she'd been 
dating the other man, but that he hadn't availed himself of until 
now.  They sparred constantly, on the ragged edge of sexual 
innuendo, and he sensed she was enjoying the contests as much as 
he did.

Every day, when they parted, he found himself still seeing her face 
and hearing her voice; acutely missing her presence in the solitude 
of his lonely apartment.  

The psychologist in him recognized the presumptive evidence of a 
strong emotional attachment, perhaps even a sexual obsession and 
god forbid anything else.  It was right there before his very eyes.  
Which was disturbing, not only because he wasn't ready for it, but 
also because he had no idea of how Scully really felt about all this.  
Her blithe comment at the restaurant a few weeks ago had done 
nothing to alleviate his uncertainty.

She was his partner.  And while she still appeared to be deeply 
involved with another man, Mulder suspected more and more that 
she also sensed the growing attraction between them.

Or maybe she always had and he just never realized it.

In either case, it didn't matter, he reminded himself firmly.  
Sleeping with her was still out of the question.

If he could just keep telling himself that...

Taking a deep breath, Mulder forced the concept down into the 
Recycle Bin of the microprocessor he called a brain, noting that it 
was beginning to get crowded in there lately.

At least he wasn't still plagued by the constant fear of her packing 
up her life and leaving him.  Scully seemed happy enough these 
days to combine the somewhat long-distance love affair with her 
work at the Bureau on the X files.

The stress continued for him, of course, as Mulder remained 
uncomfortable with the idea of sharing her with anybody else.  As 
long as she continued to see the other man, there would be 
uncertainty -- a lingering element of doubt and insecurity.

But right now, he was working hard to convince himself that a 
comfort level was attainable by letting this status quo go on 
forever.  His persistent sexual awareness was merely an extra 
added bonus in their relationship.  It kept his creative intellect 
occupied with a myriad of abstract possibilities in the dark, empty 
hours of the night.

Unless...

Unless something happened to disrupt this newfound level of 
equanimity.  

Sighing, Mulder gathered up his paperwork distractedly, laying it 
carefully inside the file folder and tossing it onto the cluttered 
surface.  He'd wasted enough time trying to pay attention to this 
crap already.

Looking up then, he was almost startled out of his wits to see 
Scully standing nearly on top of him.

"Something on your mind, Mulder?" she asked mischievously, 
grinning at his surprised reaction.

"Jesus, Scully.  What the hell's the matter with you, sneaking up on 
me like that?"

A flip of her eyebrows accompanied her response as she held out 
a piece of paper:

"I need you to initial my range qualification sheet."

"That time again, huh?" he responded, reaching out to take it.  
Mulder refused to look up at her, afraid if he did, his eyes would 
drift along the delicate gold chain at her neck, down to the cross 
that rested there and thence onward into the valley of the damned.

Leaning over the blotter, he scrawled his name hastily at the 
bottom while she moved to the edge of the desk, perching a hip 
along the side and gnawing on the edge of her pen.

"Long day," she mused reflectively, looking towards him out of 
the corner of her eye.  "I never thought I'd find myself pining for 
one of your screwier cases to come along, but I'd even settle for 
that Mexican goat-sucker right now."

"Chupacabra," he corrected absently, in a timeworn routine that 
had become as familiar between the two of them as breathing.

With a slight frown creasing his features, Mulder braved a glance 
at her, seeing that she was staring off into space.  No doubt 
thinking about the illustrious evening ahead, he mused darkly.

Abruptly, Scully shifted her attention back down to his brooding 
countenance and an uncomfortable stirring began in his lap as she 
ran her tongue lightly over her upper lip.

"So, isn't it about time for *your* regular firearms test?"

"Yep.  Next month." He tipped his chair back and tried to relax.  "In 
fact, I think I'd better get some practice, the way your numbers 
look.  I don't want my 'reputation' to go down in flames by coming 
across as the weak sister in this partnership."

He caught the flash of her widening smile as she slid the 
paperwork from his desk.

"I wouldn't worry about that, Mulder.  I've sat through your drills 
before," Scully replied in a tone laced heavily with grudging 
admiration.  "But I have to tell you, I've never seen anybody on the 
range like Bayliss.  The man practically defines the term 'crack 
shot.'  I must have lost over twenty bucks in spare change to him 
over the last few months."

Mulder couldn't help himself.  His curiosity was piqued.  
Normally he confined his comments on Scully's relationship to 
one-word responses designed to end the brief conversational 
trend as quickly as possible.  But this was interesting.

"What are you talking about?"

She settled herself more firmly along the side of the desk so that 
she was sitting now, her backside just a few inches away from 
where his hand rested.

Without thinking, Mulder recoiled, knocking the chair back with 
more force than he'd intended and causing her to start in surprise.

Son of a bitch.

He stood, shifting nervously and trying to come up with 
something to do with his hands until he finally gave up, letting 
them rest along his hips.

Giving him a funny look, Scully gripped the edges of the desk and 
crossed her legs, swinging them gently as they dangled over the 
edge.

"You ok, Mulder?"

"Yeah, sure.  Fine.  You were saying?" he prompted, running a hand 
over the back of his neck and giving her a small nod.

"Well, Tim and I go shoot a lot when I'm in Baltimore.  If either of 
us gets pattern of three shots close enough to fit beneath a 
quarter, we have to ante up.  I admit I'm no slouch when it comes 
to marksmanship.  But he still wins more than I do."

"I see."

Still standing, Mulder waited as a heavy silence settled between 
them.  An unpredictable strain suddenly imbued the atmosphere 
and he blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Scully seemed to feel it too, for she plowed forward abruptly, 
evidently feeling compelled to fill the awkward hush:

"Anyway, tonight should be interesting.  This whole 
commendation sort of came about by accident from what Tim 
tells me.  Did I mention they're going to be in uniform?  I've been 
wondering what he'll look like in his formal blues.  I've never seen 
any of the detectives in anything besides a suit."

Clenching his jaw tightly, Mulder felt the first stirrings of nausea 
in his stomach.  Listening to platonic stories about the way they 
passed their free time was one thing.  Hearing her speak longingly 
and admiringly about the other man's physique when he knew she 
was going to get laid was something else again.  

His well-developed tendency towards provocation rose suddenly 
and Mulder carefully picked his way around the desk until he 
stood facing her.  Leaning over, he caught the dawning look of 
chagrin on her face as she recognized the error of her spur-of-the-
moment commentary.

"If he's as good a *shot* as you say, Scully, why should it matter 
what he wears?" he commented, striving to hide his discomfort 
beneath the insulating veneer of snide humor.

"I suppose it doesn't.  He does have very good hands, Mulder.  
Kind of like you."

The implication hit Mulder hard, with enough force to make him 
catch his breath.  A perverse inner voice suddenly began 
prompting a slew of reckless challenges, wanting very much to 
see just how far she would go with this.

"Think so?" he taunted, catching her eye and absorbing the 
luminous blue fire of her gaze.

She was close.  Too close.  Close enough that he could feel the 
light drift of her breath against his throat and the radiant heat of 
her body.

It crept along his nerves like a wild thing, and Mulder felt his heart 
begin to beat a little bit harder.

Oh shit, he thought, as an invisible hand seemed to push him 
forward.  And then the tense muscles of his legs brushed up 
against her knees.

Please, he begged silently, to a seemingly inattentive deity whom 
he wasn't even sure existed.

<do it>

In a flash, Mulder heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the agitated 
shift of her legs as she parted them, and he knew with a sudden, 
razor-sharp clarity exactly what was going to happen.  

Scully wasn't answering the question.  She wasn't saying 
*anything*.  And she wasn't pulling away from his all-consuming 
proximity either.  The look in her eyes was utterly inscrutable.

Mulder's thoughts raced with lighting-quick speed over the events 
surrounding their little parley:

The arduous, interminable day.  The sight of her body outlined in 
whispers of navy silk.  The pervasive, utterly feminine scent 
stirring his insides.  

He thought of everything that had happened over the past few 
months...

And suddenly, he didn't give a damn.

This was fate.  Destiny.  Karma.  He believed in that stuff, didn't 
he?  

Circumstances beyond their control seemed to coalesce, drawing 
them into a kind of incorporeal union.

<now>

With a low, imperceptible murmur, Mulder leaned in and touched 
his mouth to hers...

His very first taste of Dana Scully was paradoxical, contradictory 
and difficult to quantify.

Bittersweet, he finally decided.  Just as he'd always guessed it 
would be.  

Almost against his will, he nipped softly at her lips, wanting to 
explore the extraordinary mystery of her mouth even further.

Scully was leaning forward now, too, hands clenching convulsively 
at the polished wooden surface beneath her in a show of 
precipitous restraint.

Watching her beneath drifting lashes, Mulder let his tongue dart 
out to sweep the length of her lower lip, testing the smooth 
barrier of her teeth.

She gasped softly in amazement as his fingers slid up her knees to 
where the silk of her dress had ridden up, pressing gently into the 
sensitive flesh.

Closing his eyes, he continued his lazy explorations, equating her 
in his mind with the sinfully gratifying, dark chocolate taste of a 
sticky-rich ice-cream bar.

A soft, animal moan resonated in her throat and he felt a soul-
stirring tremor of profound arousal rip through him harshly.

Scully sounds.  How amazing.

Mulder devoured the novelty of her mouth like a greedy child, 
letting his tongue plunge deeply into her, retreating slowly in a 
measured cadence that was primal and unmistakable, blatantly 
carnal.

All at once, their arms were around each other -- Scully's firm 
fingers kneading gently into the tense ridges of his spine and over 
the straining muscles of his shoulders.   Mulder broke away for an 
instant, gasping for breath and losing himself in the tempest fury 
of her eyes.  With a sigh, he let his hands drift up around her neck 
to the back of her head where he pulled her forward again, holding 
her to him tightly.

She rose within his embrace, preserving the kiss, answering him 
with a willful craving of her own.

Scully, he thought as she melted against him, effortlessly easing 
herself into the dark, empty hollows pitting his soul.  

His Scully.  

God, but she was all fire and heat and extraordinary female spirit.

Rational thought was beginning to dissolve as Mulder found 
himself sinking -- immersed in a sea filled with five years worth 
of manifold sensations and impressions...

The glint of her formidable gaze.  The touch of her cool hand in 
his.  The supple feel of her spine moving beneath his fingertips as 
they matched their steps, side by side.  

Stakeouts.  Review hearings.  Late-night reports in cramped motel 
rooms.  Passionate debates over cheeseburgers in greasy spoons 
located in whatever deadbeat towns their investigations led them.  

Commentary on Melville and comparisons between Flintstones 
characters.  The fury and passion of intense concentration within a 
multitude of interrogation rooms.  And the muted noise of 
desperate, mingled breathing in pursuit of countless suspects.

Oh god, it was incredible.

And frightening.  

More terrifying than anything he'd ever known.  Because he was 
overwhelmed -- conducting himself in a manner that exceeded the 
bounds of all rational behavior and professional decorum.  They 
were in his fucking *office*, for Christ's sake.

With a sudden, inescapable feeling of earth-shattering panic, 
Mulder pulled back, trying desperately to preserve his composure 
as she raised her heavy-lidded gaze to meet his.

No, he thought, trembling fiercely with the ache of desire and the 
consequences that desire could bring.

No.

Mulder saw bewilderment glint in the untamed depths of her eyes 
as they widened slightly in response to his expression.

Cursing himself silently, he began rifling through his brain for the 
arduous NASA-type checklist necessary to bring himself back 
under control.  He couldn't, wouldn't allow her see what he was 
feeling.

This had been a mistake.  And a fucking monumental one, at that.  
Better that he should play it off as something insignificant -- far, 
far removed from what it actually was.

"Pretty mind-blowing, huh?" he asked lightly, striving to get back 
some of their safe, humorous detachment and hoping beyond hope 
she would be willing to play the game with him.  The abrupt words 
felt like broken glass shattering along his tongue, but he ignored 
the sensation, focusing on trying to salvage his sensibilities.

Reaching out, Mulder helped her slide off the desk smoothly, 
steadying her.  Then, he took a few steps back, crossing his arms 
and cracking a smile in his customary aloof, detached manner as 
he finally felt the gradual, comforting return of his self-discipline.

Surely she could see that this had been some sort of blunder.  A 
bizarre aberration that needed to be swept away as quickly and as 
cleanly as possible.  Scully was nothing if not diligently 
professional.

Wasn't she?

"Mulder, what are we doing here?" he heard her ask softly, her 
eyes suddenly narrowing with mindful restraint.  

"Satisfying our curiosity?" he quipped, striving to ignore the 
compelling need to reach out and pull her into his arms.

Scully stiffened noticeably at the dry irony in his response, a 
cataclysmic hurt blooming across her face for an instant before a 
steel wall dropped over her expression.

"That's it?  That's all you have to say?"

"Yes."

He felt the ensuing separation like a physical thing, realizing with 
unmistakable awareness that she wasn't conforming to the role 
he'd just mistakenly cast her in.

Spinning on her heel, she brushed past him roughly, heading for 
the far corner of the office where she kept her things. 

Mulder watched her grab her coat in silence, incapable of finding 
any additional words and knowing that anything else he said would 
probably just fuck things up even more.

Scully had her purse now, along with her firearm.  Thank god it 
was still in its holster, he noted.  

Clutching them together with the coat, she nearly stumbled in her 
haste to get to the door.

Unconsciously, he reached out to help her, flinching as though 
slapped when she met his stunned features with a venomous 
expression.

"Go to hell, Mulder."

Then, she was through the door and out of his life as Mulder stood 
there helplessly, tossed about in her angry wake and convinced 
beyond a doubt that he'd been right all along.

About everything.

*********

>Fells Point -- Baltimore, MD
>Later that evening

Bayliss unlocked the door slowly, opening it and sliding his arm 
out to usher her into the welcoming nighttime sanctuary inside.

She eased forward, advancing into the familiar confines of his 
darkened living room and hearing him secure the bolt behind 
them.  

Pausing, Scully waited for him to turn on the light.  When he 
didn't, she glanced around in the murkiness questioningly.

Stillness blanketed her as the seconds ticked by.  

Then, she heard him move towards the kitchen, carelessly tossing 
aside the peaked police cap and white dress gloves on the table.

Scully took a deep breath, letting the darkness penetrate, cloaking 
her in a silvery-black sheath of moonlit washed shadows.

Shifting slightly from one foot to the other, she eased off her 
coat, draping it carefully over the edge of the couch as a rising 
sense of unrest began to swell.  

For the first time, Scully actually felt uncomfortable here, in his 
home -- his private, personal place of refuge.  Because this time, 
she wasn't alone; she'd brought company along.  

Mulder was with her.

Not physically, of course.  That wasn't necessary.  Instead, his 
image -- the revenant presence of his compelling personality -- 
had been haunting her all evening.  Possessing her.  Heat, strength 
-- the shimmering ecstasy of that goddamned kiss.

How had she let it happen?  *Why* had she let it happen?  

*That* was stupid question, she reflected.  It implied that her 
inner self had made an allowance for some type of conscious 
choice.  

No way.

When Mulder had leaned over her, Scully knew what she'd felt was 
not affront, nor even denial.  She'd nearly sighed in *relief*, 
welcoming her deliverance as she watched the precious control 
slip blithely though her fingertips.

She ought to have known better; should have fought harder to 
maintain her composure.  Her goddamn common sense.  

Only there was one problem.

If it really was a mistake, why couldn't she let it go?

She *had* to let it go.

For this was Tim's night.  His award.  His recognition.  His 
commendation.  No matter how absurd she knew the real 
circumstances to be, it was still for him.  And she cared deeply for 
the man, regardless of the confused mess unfolding between her 
and Mulder.  It wasn't fair to bring that distraction into her 
relationship with Bayliss.  Not fair at all.

Life was unfair.

Scully heard a slight rustle of movement and looked up, seeing 
Tim himself, leaning casually against the bookcase, facing her.  

Watching...and waiting.  

She noticed he'd unfastened the brass buttons down the front of 
his uniform; the bleached cast of a white cotton tee-shirt 
underneath contrasting sharply against the navy fabric.  He almost 
seemed to melt into the inky blackness surrounding them.

God, he looked gorgeous -- the sharp, authoritative crease of his 
clothing blended perfectly somehow with the casual fall of his 
hair across his brow and the provocative, hungry look on his face.

Trust a navy brat to have a true appreciation for a man in dress 
blues sporting a hard-on.

Scully's eyes traveled up the contours of his upper body, to the 
smooth column of his throat and finally to the glitter in his dark 
eyes.  He'd deep-sixed the glasses too, and she felt herself drawn 
into the profound mystery of his expression.

She knew he had to be aware of her intense state of distraction 
this evening.  Not the cause for it, certainly.  But Bayliss was an 
incredibly perceptive man, his empathic resonance second only to 
Mulder's in her estimation, and he made a habit of letting her 
occasional moments of preoccupation slide past without inquiry.  
It was one of the things she liked best about him.  His refusal to 
impose, to pry, to attempt to dominate her somehow by 
demanding answers to questions that were better left alone.

Still, this wasn't fair to him.  Scully knew that as surely as she 
understood her own confusion.  Perhaps she should leave.  

But in her heart, she knew that would expose the situation, baring 
her dilemma to him and worse, to herself.  It was a move she 
couldn't, wouldn't make yet.

Besides, Tim was looking at her with that mystical, spellbinding 
gaze.  The one hinting at the occult nature of his sexuality. 

"Do you trust me, Dana?"

The question startled her, coming as it did into the provocative 
silence spanning the distance between them.

She said nothing, merely inclining her head a fraction and letting 
her cool acceptance serve as all the encouragement he needed.

Nodding faintly in reply, Bayliss righted himself.  Then, he 
reached out to grasp her hand, rubbing the dry, feverish warmth of 
his fingertips over the tingling skin of her palm and pulling her 
towards the staircase.

Scully followed him up the steps, in the dark, to his bedroom.  She 
paused in the doorway, watching as he played around with his 
radio.  Easing up the volume, he let the evocative, pornographic 
melody of Morphine emerge into the sooty, seductive air 
surrounding them.

He turned then, fiddling at his waist as Scully studied the 
beautifully serene shape of his profile.  The stark clarity of black 
and white sharpened his silhouette, created by a fusion of ambient 
light with the enfolding gloom.  

Dimly, she became aware of the clatter of his gun being tossed 
aside, and then he pulled her towards him, fingers biting into the 
tender flesh of her upper arms.

Scully murmured in surprise, sucking in her breath as he slowly, 
achingly, unfastened the buttons of her dress one by one.  She was 
close enough to sense the charcoal heat rolling off his body in 
waves.  

Closing her eyes, she felt the drift of his soft exhalation against 
her mouth, the tickle of his hair against her forehead.  Smiling 
slightly, she waited for the moist caress of his lips against hers.

But he didn't kiss her.

Instead, Scully tensed as his hands slid the dress from her 
shoulders, letting it drift over her skin with a slight hiss of 
movement, pooling like silken oil in a puddle at her feet.

Blinking, she put a hand out to brush at the coat of his uniform, 
intending to mimic his actions.

He reached up, lightening-quick, and took her wrist in a grip that 
prevented any resistance.

Scully's eyes widened with surprise as she regarded his enigmatic 
expression, trying to fathom the significance of his actions, to 
understand the patterns of thought dancing beneath his hooded 
gaze.

"Do you trust me?" he repeated insistently as he continued to hold 
her.

She nodded outright this time, letting confusion crease her 
features and tilting her head slightly.

Tim ignored the unspoken question and released her, holding her 
in the labyrinth of his eyes as he lowered himself to his knees 
before her, sliding one hand along the quivering surface of her 
legs.  

Up, down and back up again.  Slow and easy, almost lazy in his 
motions, until he finally flattened his palm against her belly and 
gave a slight push toppling her backward upon the bed.

With a ragged sigh, Scully settled herself, sitting with her hands 
clasped modestly in her lap, waiting while he removed first one 
shoe and then the other from her slim feet.

Still completely absorbed in the task of undressing her, he 
leisurely rolled off each of her stockings, letting his fingers knead 
gently along her thighs, the back of her knees, her calves, her 
ankles...

His touch was heady, sensual with a languid pace.  Scully gazed 
down into his face, watching him watch her as she arched her back 
slightly in response to the spine tingling pressure of his hands on 
her body.

The night in his eyes spread out like a seductive haze, pooling, 
combining with the penumbra of the room and finding a perfect 
harmony with the music in her ears.  Beat of drum, thrum of base 
and lash of saxophone, all set off by the smoky purr of the singer's 
voice:

Let's take a trip together 
headlong into the irresistible orbit,
breathing the cold black space 
with the glistening edges...

Oh, yes, she thought, closing her eyes again as she felt the skim of 
his hands up along the curves of her legs, over her hips, along the 
arc of her waist.  Lightly, oh so faintly, like the whisper of mink 
along satin, sending her imagination reeling and her senses on 
fire.

His fingertips slid along her sides, beneath her lifeless limbs, 
grazing the flesh of her breasts where it met the sensitive skin of 
her underarms and testing, teasing until she let out a low sigh of 
longing.  

Smiling guilefully, Tim raised her arms up above her head, 
bending them at the elbow and pinning her wrists behind her neck.

It was then that he kissed her, pressing his body against hers, the 
starched heavy material of his coat rasping roughly against the 
slippery fabric of her bra.

His tongue stroked firmly against the roof of her mouth, along her 
teeth and down towards the cavern of her throat.  Nuzzling and 
sucking, he pulled at her lips determinedly until she was light-
headed and gasping for air.

With her senses whirling, Scully was only barely aware of the 
shift of movement as he slipped one hand away from her to grope 
around at his waist.

Then, suddenly, almost shockingly, she felt the chilling stroke of 
metal along her rigidly strained arm, the sharp clamp against her 
wrist.

And heard the metallic-sounding snap of the bracelet.

Her eyes met his in momentary wonder, registering the heavy 
weight of the handcuff along with the subtle, tense question in his 
expression.

Scully knew in an instant that if she protested, he would desist.  
But an intoxicating sense of excitement was building from the 
depths of her insides, starkly commanding, forcing her to 
succumb to the visceral sensation of desire that flooded through 
her with astonishing ease.

In a flash, she made the commitment, knowing Tim realized it 
almost as immediately as she did.  Solemnly, he hooked his hands 
beneath her arms and lifted her up along the bed.  Pressing her 
downward, he trapped her beneath his solid warmth, pulling her 
arms tightly above her head until her fingertips grazed the spindles 
of his headboard.

He quickly threaded the cuffs around the wood and fastened the 
remaining empty one to her other wrist.

Immobilized now, Scully stared at him with almost child-like 
curiosity, waiting to see what he would do next.

With a graceful motion, Bayliss slid off her to stand at the side of 
the bed, surveying her body with an invasive, almost dispassionate 
gaze.

She quivered imperceptibly; feeling utterly exposed and 
deliciously vulnerable.  A tiny flutter of dread mingled with a 
rising excitement to throb in her veins, augmenting her hunger.

What was he going to do to her?

As if in answer to her scattered thoughts, Tim stripped down to a 
dark pair of cotton boxers, watching Scully with a disturbingly 
knowing look the entire time.  It was almost as if he recognized 
her feelings of defenselessness and relished the knowledge that 
he'd been the one to put them there. 

Then, he lowered himself to sit on the soft surface beside her, 
hands trailing over her skin again.  With a wandering caress, he 
finally hooked a finger into the black silk of her underwear, 
tugging it down gently and sliding it away.

"It's a funny thing, you know," he said quietly, so faintly that she 
almost missed the words beneath the erotic musical cadence still 
brushing along her auditory nerves.

"Control."

Tim moved to kneel between her legs, bending over to slip his 
hands under her body, into the small of her back and up the ridges 
of her spine until he found the clasp of her bra.

"We nurture it.  Cultivate it.  Allow it to flourish.  It becomes our 
friend.  Our companion.  Our lover.  Our keeper.  Until it seems 
we can't even breathe without it anymore, mmm?"

Slowly, he slid the gauzy scrap of lace and satin up along her arms, 
over her elbows and then tucked it beneath the metal bindings of 
the cuffs.  His bare, feverish skin teased the taut peaks of her 
breasts and Scully caught her breath, trying to focus on the 
hypnotic tones of his voice.  His words.  Words that painted 
pictures and mesmerized her, drawing her further and further away 
from herself.

Tim's fingers threaded through her hair, massaging her scalp 
delicately as he moved to straddle her hips, pinning her lower 
body to the soft surface of the mattress beneath her.

Once again, his fiery gaze captured hers, glimmering in the 
moonlight.  She found herself consumed by the chaos in his 
expression, clutching at the metal and wood beneath her hands and 
gasping as she began to hyperventilate softly.

"But the thing about control is that you don't really understand 
what it does for you until it's gone," he went on huskily.  He let a 
finger stroke behind her ear, tickling the lobe and moving along 
the soft underside of her jaw to her collarbone.  And then finally, 
for the briefest of moments, across the hardened bud of one 
nipple.

"Like right now for instance."

Scully gave a soft whimper of longing, arching up, fighting the 
bonds as best she could and pleading with Tim wordlessly.  Christ 
she wanted him to touch her, to smooth his hands over her body.  
Down, down, down.  Finally easing himself between her legs to 
satisfy the need that pulsed there with a wet, compelling heat.

But then he rose again, with the efficiency of movement she'd 
come to expect of him in the bedroom.  Suddenly, she felt cold.  
Abandoned.  Bereft.

Please, oh god, please, her heart begged.

Come back.

Just please, come back...

"You see, Dana," Tim murmured, gaze roving over the flushed 
contours of her body as she writhed gently against the soft, 
soothing flannel of his sheets, "you don't truly realize how free 
this makes you.  To give this to me.  But I do."  He paused, and she 
heard his sharp intake of breath.

"I'm going to take you to a place that'll blow your mind."

She flinched then, as the words assaulted her thoughts with the 
memory of another, not-so-distant exchange:

<"Pretty mind-blowing, huh?">

<"Mulder, what are we doing here?">  

<Her eyes wide, questioning warily.>

<"Just satisfying our curiosity.">  

<Quirk of brow, smug look of amusement.>

<"Go to hell, Mulder.">

Scully swallowed convulsively, stretching, testing her 
confinement once again.

Go to hell, Mulder.

Drawing a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes closed and forced 
her mind to go blank.  For a moment, she was successful. 

Tim was bent over his nightstand now, rooting through the clutter 
in the top drawer until he came up with the flash of a condom 
wrapper and what appeared to be a yellow and green tube of 
something.

Belly fluttering with both inquisitiveness and impatience, Scully's 
eyes tracked his movements as he eased his hands beneath the taut 
bow of her spine again.  He tucked a pillow into the hollow just 
above her backside, easing the pressure slightly on her 
outstretched arms.

He wanted her immobile, but not uncomfortable.

Then, the bed dipped as Tim sat cross-legged at the end, drawing 
her bare feet into his lap.

She darted her tongue out, moistening her lips as he caught her 
eyes again and smiled faintly.

With a quick motion, he twisted the cap off the tube in his hands 
and squeezed a copious amount of lotion into his palm.

Tossing it aside, he dragged a fingertip along her instep, chuckling 
slightly as she reacted, trying to pull her foot away. 

But he was too fast for her, quickly grasping her lower leg in a 
tight grip, slathering the cool substance over her toes and down 
until he finally reached the curve of her heel.

The scent of mint balm and lemons drifted up to her nose, a 
mixture both heavenly and exhilarating as it overwhelmed her 
olfactory senses.

With a passing flash of amusement, Scully reflected that Tim was 
quite possibly the only man she knew who'd have the guts to go in 
and buy a tube of foot lotion on his own at the local drugstore.

Well, maybe not the *only* one...

That train of thought disappeared beneath the incredibly 
erogenous feeling of his strong, thin fingers kneading the icy, 
tingling substance into the sensitized contours of her feet.  

Over heels, along her soles, slipping between each toe, across her 
instep and finally around her ankles.

God, where had he learned to *do* this??

Moaning softly, Scully tried to ignore the harsh abrasion of 
unyielding metal against her wrists as she squirmed blissfully 
beneath his ministrations.  Her eyelids felt heavy, drugged, as she 
strained to lift her head.  Looking down, she could see pleasure 
blooming starkly in his features as he absorbed her reactions -- 
the slick sheen of his lip and the brilliant flash of his eyes.

Then, keeping his gaze locked on hers the entire time, he raised a 
foot gently and eased one of her toes into the satin heat of his 
mouth.  

Scully shuddered forcefully as thought and control burned away, 
leaving nothing but feeling so extreme, she could barely breathe.

For the first time, she realized why men became so fixated on the 
singularly hedonistic pleasure of oral sex.  Why Hugh Grant had 
paid.  Why the goddamned President of the United States had--

A slew of low cries bled from her lips, disrupting her reasoning as 
she slipped further into a warm well of irresistible carnality.  It 
seemed she was unable to concentrate on anything other than the 
attention Bayliss lavished on her with his mouth.  

Lap of tongue, slash of teeth, tug of lips -- he kissed and suckled 
each of her toes in turn, finally letting his mouth travel along the 
top of her foot to swirl around the knob of her ankle.

She forced herself to lie motionless, wanting to stay there 
forever, letting him feast upon her body with utter, total abandon.  

When Tim's eyes narrowed at her placidity, she knew it was 
because he recognized the stubborn remnants of her enduring 
control.

Determined now, he eased a hand down to the juncture of her 
thighs, probing softly into the slick heat of her arousal until he 
found the sensitive core buried within.  

The touch of his finger merged with the warm, damp pull of his 
mouth along her feet and Scully gasped, urgency snapping inside 
her like the stroke of a whip.  

An explosive tremor surged between her legs, and she whimpered 
in frustration, tugging at manacles that prohibited her from 
reaching down and forcibly pulling him up to where she wanted 
him most.  But the slight discomfort of cloth and metal against 
her wrists was as nothing compared to the onslaught of pent-up 
desire that now rocked through her with the immutable force of an 
earthquake.

She squeezed her eyes shut with surrender, racing far beyond the 
boundaries of her own discipline and onward to a different place -
- an almost transcendental state consisting of nothing more than 
pure ecstasy and arousal.  The feelings of euphoria were almost 
painful, they were so intense. 

Her free heel dug into the mattress and Scully tossed her head 
from side to side.  She didn't even recognize the sound of her own 
hoarse sigh as Tim slid next to her, wrapping her up in the firm 
heat of his own body.

At some point, he'd removed the last of his clothing but Scully 
was evidently too far gone to notice.         

His hands, warm and soothing, fluttered over her skin, like a 
butterfly exploring a flower.  He felt her breasts, teased her 
nipples, made her cry out with desperate, incoherent pleas.

Scully swallowed convulsively, struggling to surface from the 
seductive eddy drowning her, consuming her.  Her skin prickled as 
sweat broke out along its flushed surface; heat contrasting sharply 
with the cool air currents of the room.

And then the most bizarre thing happened:

She opened her eyes, wholly lost, trying to comprehend exactly 
where she was at that moment, and saw...

Mulder.

Oh shit.

Scully fought the vision, the microsecond pulses of her struggle 
feeling like hours as she tried to regain some semblance of sanity.  
But it was too late.  That power had long departed, her psyche now 
swimming unfettered within the darkest, Daliesque realms of 
subconscious cravings.

He reared up over her then, propping his hands on either side of 
her outstretched arms and lowering his mouth to hers.  The kiss 
began gently but quickly escalated into a searing caress that 
marked her very soul.

Just as it had in the office.

Matching his fervor with her own lips and tongue, Scully took a 
breath and imagined the alluring scent of his aftershave combined 
with a musky, nutty essence that had become intimately familiar 
over the years.

At his desk in the basement.  In the car, driving towards a case.  
Seated next to her in Skinner's office.

Oh god.

Oh Mulder.

The glowing ardor of his wheat-field gaze clashed with hers as he 
nudged her thighs open, kneeling between her legs and entering 
her with one quick, forceful thrust.

Scully moaned in satisfaction, easing her hips up to meet his as 
she found herself speeding toward the brink of orgasm with heart-
stopping swiftness.

She tried to reach out to him, fighting the cuffs with a ferocity 
that sent pain lancing down her arms to her shoulders.  Her 
fingertips spread wide, grasping at something, finding nothing, as 
she tried desperately to clutch at his fevered skin.

Her head began to reel, and she felt the onset of a shimmering 
black mist enveloping her senses, clouding her vision.  Straining, 
Scully tried to focus on the smooth, angular planes of Mulder's 
face, the swell of his lower lip, and the shadow of his jawline.

He was so beautiful.

And then without any warning, he withdrew from her, just as she 
was on the verge, ignoring her anguished cry of denial.

Before she could elucidate any words of protest, he slid 
downward.  With his mouth working along the tautness of her 
inner thighs, he sought and found the hub of desire between her 
legs, making love to her in a totally different, but no less 
satisfying way.

She wanted to bury her fingers into his hair, to touch him as he 
caressed her, but that wasn't possible.  Instead, gulping in a 
desperate breath, she grasped the wood of the headboard and held 
on for dear life.

This was unreal.  It couldn't be happening.  In her entire existence, 
she'd seldom experienced anything quite like this -- such 
overwhelming passion that her body fairly sang from the sheer joy 
of it.  

Suddenly blessed with a fleeting moment of lucidity, Scully 
smiled to herself.  She had known he would be good at this.  It was 
his secret skill -- cultivated daily by nipping at an endless supply 
of seeds, a leg of his glasses, or the end of a pencil.

And then he was inside her again, devouring her with a rush of 
liquid heat and firmness.

Pull.  Thrust.  Stroke.  Fill.

He wouldn't stop. 

Oh god, she was insane with the merciless rhythm...

Now.  

It was here.  She could feel it.

<muldermuldermulder>

With a wild, ragged sigh, she arched her back, shaking, pulling her 
arms taut once again and pressing her head into the softness of the 
pillow...

And then she came...with a heart-stopping climax that was so 
intense it shattered along her nerves like some kind of sensory C-
4.  Exploding, splintering in a burst of multi-colored sparkles 
beneath her closed eyes and setting off an intensely pleasurable 
buzz in her ears.

Panting, she drew one desperate breath after another, carefully 
riding out the shockwave, wanting to preserve every single second 
of the experience.  Vaguely, she registered the low sounds of his 
own ascendancy until he finally eased himself on top of her, 
fingers still trailing gently along the aching sinews of her arms.

Turning her head slightly, Scully pressed her lips against the tangy 
sheen of his forehead, smiling gently as he raised his face to hers.

Oh, Mulder.

Shit.

Guilt twisted in her heart for a moment as the dark, moody umber 
of Tim's eyes met hers and she realized just exactly what had 
transpired in the windmills of her mind.

Almost immediately, Scully wondered if he knew.  Had she 
revealed herself somehow?

Subtly, carefully, she searched his expression.

And then he smiled with that wry, unpretentious flash of teeth that 
she knew so well.  Slightly abashed, as though he were mocking 
himself.  Or her.  His gaze sparked at her and Scully could detect 
nothing certain in his expression that said he was aware.  No 
anger.  No resentment.  Only deeply-seated indicators of fatigue 
and gratification.

He moved away from her abruptly, slipping over to his discarded 
clothes at the end of the bed.

Returning with the keys to the handcuffs, he released the bonds 
and kneaded the skin of her wrists and arms gently until she 
gasped with the sharp pang of returning circulation.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly.  "I should have taken care of 
those sooner."

"No," Scully whispered into the quiet, realizing that the music 
must have ended sometime during her desperate flight from 
reality.  "It's ok.  Really."

Nodding, Tim rose and headed for the door to the bathroom.

"I'll be right back."

Scully stared after him for a moment, finally easing herself off 
the bed and balancing herself against the wall until the trembling 
in her legs subsided.  Her wrists ached dully and the chilled air of 
the room felt suddenly uncomfortable, now that she was alone.

Shivering, she realized that the discomfort was due as much to her 
own uncertainty as to the temperature.

How would she proceed after all that happened in the last twenty-
four hours?  How *could* she proceed?

Questions flared suddenly in her mind, relentlessly burning off 
any leftover tranquillity from the aftermath of their lovemaking.

Sighing softly, Scully admitted that she was simply too damned 
exhausted to find the answers tonight.

She made her way over to Tim's dresser, opening a drawer and 
searching for something to put on against the cold.  Settling on 
one of his worn Oriole's tee-shirts, she curled back up in bed and 
waited for him to return.

After a while he did, pausing only to pull on his boxers before 
settling on the bed against her.

With a sigh, she eased herself against his warmth, feeling the drift 
of his breath against her hair as she began to yield to an 
overwhelming sense of weariness.

"Tim?" Scully whispered, face searching his again in the darkness.

"Uh-huh."

"I...," she trailed off, at a loss, still needing something.  She wanted 
to tell him she loved him.  Wasn't that normally appropriate at 
times such as these?  But it was simply impossible.  After what 
had just happened, her heart would not let her say the words.

He gave a soft huff of laughter in reply and planted a gentle kiss 
on the top of her head.

"It's ok, Dana."  The quiet measure of his voice told her clearly that 
he understood.  That he had been there before himself.  

And that he recognized this place of confusion.

Smiling faintly, Scully drifted off, his husky timbre still echoing 
in her head.

She was asleep before her laggard senses could register the fact 
that he hadn't said the words either.

*********

>Annapolis -- Dana Scully's apartment
>A few weeks later

She couldn't remember how she got home from the church -- only 
that she had somehow managed to turn the key in the lock, 
stumbling in the doorway of her apartment.  Pain cleaved through 
her head like the weighty fall of an ax, rending her skull and 
imbedding itself into the soft brain tissue below.

An uneven chorus of whimpering cries bled from her lips as she 
made her way through the twisting, convoluted darkness and into 
the cool, beckoning warrens of the bathroom.

The migraine was intense, pain flashing behind her eyes like the 
ghostly, electric-blue arc of a shattering transformer and Scully 
knew beyond certainty that she was going to be sick.  Roiling 
waves of nausea rocked her slight body as she collapsed on the 
dank, chilly tile floor before the toilet.  Tucking herself into a 
hard, tight knot, she sent up prayer after prayer for the agony to 
end.

Please.

A gaggle of voices reverberated between her ears with a 
relentless, dizzying cadence, combining with the throbbing ache in 
the crown of her head and twisting like sharpened high-carbon 
steel behind her eyes.

The priest: <believe...life after this?>

Her own: <accept my loss  accept my loss>

And then, Mulder: <step away step away step away step away>

With a low, desperate moan, she reached up, frantically clawing at 
the seat, shoving it upwards and clutching the icy porcelain with a 
grip like death.  She retched uncontrollably, horribly lost 
somewhere in the explosive, low-pressure, cyclonic winds of 
emotion buffeting about inside her.

The spasms were incredibly powerful and they seemed to be 
unending -- ringing mercilessly in her skull like a cacophony of 
tripping fire alarms until Scully was tempted to find her gun and 
put a bullet in her temple just to escape the torment.

Eventually it was over, the gastrointestinal trauma sluggishly 
residing, and she leaned back on her haunches, a slick sheen of 
perspiration coating her ashen features.  

<emily>

Scully sobbed suddenly, tears streaming down her face as she 
reached up her hands to clutch at her forehead.

<step away, Scully>

Oh God, oh sweet Jesus, please deliver me from this distress, she 
entreated, sinking back to the floor and staring sightlessly as the 
world tilted crazily around the edges of her delirium.

<fuckyoumulder...allyourfuckingfault...youheartlessbastard...ihate
you>

The moments ticked by in the stillness of the bathroom, stretching 
on interminably, and Scully knew it was imperative she get to the 
prescription in her medicine chest before she passed out.  But she 
couldn't for the life of her figure out how to find the strength and 
coordination to do so.

Sucking in a series of desperate breaths, she eased herself onto 
her hands and knees, crawling over to the sink and pulling herself 
up with agonizing slowness.

Fumbling at the vanity, she spied the bottle of Imitrex, dragging it 
off the tempered glass shelf and ripping the top open.  Tablets 
cascaded down into the sink, each impact sounding like a tiny 
firecracker going off in her brain as Scully reached down with 
violently trembling fingers to draw a dose into her mouth.

She swallowed them dry, clinging to the sink for dear life and 
determined not to fall down again.

Clenching her eyes shut, she somehow managed to divest herself 
of her clothing, leaving the soiled fabric in a heap on the floor and 
lurching toward the bedroom.

Clad now only in the thin, silken shift of a full-length slip and her 
panties, Scully collapsed into the cool reservoir of cotton sheets 
on her bed.  Pain went off again between her eyes like a snowy 
light bulb exploding, obliterating all conscious thought.

The tears felt like burning, corrosive acid coursing down her 
cheeks, into her hair and onto the pillow beneath her.

<emily...mulder..oh, god, please>

With a final, weak cry of misery, she curled into a tight ball and 
gave herself over to the malaise, slipping senselessly into a 
jagged, desperate state of unconsciousness....

***

Her eyes snapped open when she woke suddenly, six hours later.

Shifting in disorientation along the soft, rumpled plateau of her 
bed, Scully focused only on taking deep, gradual, steady breaths.  
She raised her head slightly, testing, testing...to see if the 
nightmare of pain and agony was finally over with.

And the migraine *had* subsided, retreating into the dark corners 
of her brain and shrewdly biding its time for the next viable 
assault.

Scully could still feel the faded echoes of pain dancing along the 
backs of her eyes, but nothing like the way it had violated her 
before.

Sitting up slowly, she glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it 
was three forty-five in the morning.

Her nasal passages felt swollen; eyes sticky and sore.  There was a 
god-awful taste lingering in her mouth and the back of her throat, 
reminiscent of the earlier, caustic spate of vomiting.

Scully rubbed a hand over her forehead and slid off the bed, 
retracing her steps to the bathroom and turning on the light.

Deliberately ignoring the stale mound of clothing laying off to 
one side, she stepped up to the mirror over the sink, wincing at her 
ghastly appearance.  A new personal best from the looks of it, she 
thought bitterly.

Dulled orange strands of hair spiked up haphazardly around her 
head, like some bizarre representation of an angel's halo.  

Maybe a fallen angel, she told herself, blinking in dismay at the 
sooty smudged make-up around her eyes, trailing in charcoal 
tracks down each cheek.

Hell, even her lips were a pale, thin line, blending into the corpse-
like hue of her face.

She looked like a King's Road punk who'd hit the wall after a 
turbulent blowout on too much methedrine and Sid Vicious.

Sniffling faintly, Scully rubbed a hand over her exhausted features 
and went off in search of soap and a washcloth, determined to 
square herself away.

That task finally complete, she was minimally pleased to see the 
scalding water had at least brought some color back into her skin 
and some warmth into the wasteland of her battered spirit.

Having cleaned up and disposed of the Imitrex, she popped two 
Ibuprofen to take care of the mildly threatening headache still 
rippling stubbornly through her brain and turned to survey the rest 
of the bathroom.

Gathering up her ruined dress and sweater, Scully carried them 
into the bedroom and tossed them into a bag for the dry cleaners.  
Not wanting to bother with the hassle of her pajamas, she simply 
stripped off the slip, pulling on a tee shirt and fresh underwear.  
Easing her way back to bed, she relaxed beneath the paper-thin 
shroud of her sheets and willed herself back to sleep.

And then she the dream came...the same nightmare she'd been 
having with regular intensity for the last few weeks.

It always began exactly the same way:  

She was opening the door to the office in the basement, belly 
fluttering with an eclectic mixture of excitement and dread at 
seeing him there now, after so many things had changed.

Mulder had kissed her in this very place not forty-eight hours 
before.  A little thing perhaps.  But not for them.  And now 
everything felt slightly out of focus, like the blurred perception of 
a newly recovered memory.

The door looked different.  The desk looked different.  The poster 
looked different.

<I Want To Believe.>

Did she look different?  Mulder looked the same.

Scully had left Tim and Baltimore early on Saturday after a quick 
breakfast and a hasty spate of good-byes. The memories of her 
experiences with both men had left her confused.  Tormented, 
actually.  And she knew she needed more than a little time to 
process all the disparate details.  

Tim had let her go, accepting the blithe pretext of needing to take 
care of some things for her mother without question.  He'd sent 
her on her way with a fervent hug and a kiss on the cheek.  Scully 
could sense a certain level of awareness on his part, although 
whatever it was, he kept his own counsel.

Throughout the entire drive home and the remainder of the 
weekend, Scully had mulled over the impasse, listing her options 
mentally over and over.  Finally, she decided there was no other 
choice but to force Mulder into an accounting for his behavior.

She already had a pretty good grasp of her own motivations.  His 
were a cipher.  And they needed to reach some sort kind of 
common ground -- a mutual understanding of sorts.

If Mulder didn't address what had happened the Friday before, then 
she was going to.  No way could she let things lie unspoken this 
way between them.  It wasn't fair to the partnership and it wasn't 
fair to each of them, either.

And so Scully walked in the door with a slightly wary expression, 
anticipating some sort of traumatic, complicated showdown.  One 
that would require an exhausting amount of concentration on her 
part, just so she could keep up with Mulder's skillful intellectual 
tap-dancing around the issues at hand.

She had seen him do it in plenty of interviews before.  With 
suspects and with FBI brass.  Either way, he was truly a master of 
obfuscation.  But Scully was determined to find a resolution to 
this quandary.  Right here.  Right now.

Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite the way she expected.

Initially, her fears seemed to be unfounded as Mulder met her 
opening move with a wide, disarming smile, full of intimacy and 
promise.  Scully had the inescapable feeling that he must have 
spent the weekend wrestling with the same demons as she had.

Well...some of the same ones.

It was apparent that he'd reached some kind of conclusion, for he 
looked steadfast.  Resolute.  And frankly, the glint in his eyes set 
her heart to pounding and her stomach a-flutter with the 
implications. 

That it hadn't been a mistake.

That it was a beginning of sorts for them.

God, this was one riddle surrounding Fox Mulder whose 
mysteries she couldn't wait to unfold.

Scully met his insidious grin with a responsive flash of her own, 
sharing the secret and reveling in the concept of their shared 
knowledge.

Then, she'd stepped up to his desk, setting her briefcase along the 
top, completely clueless to her impending doom as the cuff of her 
suit rode up slightly, exposing her wrist.

But Mulder noticed, tipping her off as his eyes widened in shock 
and a kind of horrified wonder.

Confused, Scully had followed his gaze, glancing down and seeing 
the telltale bruised and discolored marks of the contusions along 
her bared flesh.

Oh shit, she'd thought, recognizing the remnants of her dizzying, 
hallucinatory night of passion.  The one in which Mulder himself 
had been an unwitting participant, though he couldn't know that.

And now he never would.

Tensing slightly, Scully had looked down into his face, seeing for 
herself the catastrophic maelstrom of emotion whirling in his 
eyes.  Hurt.  Confusion.  An abrupt sense of hopelessness.

In a twinkling, it was gone, as though she'd only imagined it, 
replaced by a scathing look of derision and biting amusement.

Reaching out, Mulder gripped her hand slightly, brushing a 
fingertip over the tender, affected area and remarking:

"Next time consider silk, Scully."

He'd flipped up the riotously patterned tie around his neck in 
mocking illustration, cutting at her with a lunge of his jaw, voice 
fairly oozing with sarcasm and contempt.

"It's easier on the capillaries..."

Without another word, Mulder had stood, grabbing his suit jacket 
and breezing smoothly out the door.  Only the tense set to his 
shoulders and the proud tilt to his chin gave her a clue as to the 
crushing sense of disappointment gripping him.

It wasn't until days later that she'd discovered he'd gone out on a 
case by himself, leaving her alone.

Alone.

On that note, Scully woke up, flinching against the harsh brush of 
sunlight streaming through the window as the ugly residue of the 
memory continued to slide over her relentlessly.

With a sigh, she propped herself up against the pillow and peered 
once again at the clock.

8:04.

What day was it?

Friday.  Damn it.  She'd overslept.

Without even thinking, Scully made a split-second decision for 
herself -- one couched in equal parts frustration and self-pity.  
Reaching for the bedside telephone, she placed a call to Skinner's 
secretary.

Short, sweet and to the point, Scully informed the woman that she 
wouldn't be coming into work today for reasons of health.  Could 
she please let the Assistant Director know?

On that austere note ended her own personal, long-standing 
legitimate attendance streak.

Frankly, she didn't give a shit.

Fluffing the pillow with a few sharp blows, Scully turned over and 
dragged the blanket over her head, blocking out the cheerfully 
bothersome light of day and falling down into the irresistible 
abyss of deep, unfeeling slumber....

***

She roused again at 10:30 -- fully awake this time, ill-tempered 
and ravenously hungry.

All lingering traces of the migraine had melted away, and Scully 
sent up a brief, impromptu prayer of thanks for small favors.

With a mask of dull indifference, she swung her legs over the side 
of the bed, padding to the bathroom and going through the 
mechanical, mindless process of taking a shower.  

Icy water sluiced over her body with a biting precision, and yet she 
felt nothing.  It was as though her senses had overloaded 
themselves to the breaking point somehow the day before, leaving 
her bereft, without the capacity to experience anything.

Scully pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt, pausing before her bedroom 
mirror to run a comb ruthlessly through the tangled strands of her 
hair.  The sharp, ripping pain made her gasp inadvertently a few 
times, but she ignored it, desperately needing to feel the 
discomfort of each strand being torn from her scalp.

It angered her, this dazed sense of being out of control.  And it 
was frightening as well, calling up ominous reminders of the piece 
of metal mind manipulation still residing so innocuously in her 
neck.  

Scully quickly banished those unpleasant associations into the 
deepest recesses of her mind and focused instead on curing her 
debilitating apathy.  She knew she was better, more capable, than 
this.

Sustenance was what she needed to restore herself back to some 
level of normalcy and she decided to take care of that very thing 
next.

Moving through the apartment with only slightly more resolve, 
Scully found her coat and ventured out into the balmy spring air 
outside.  

Birds chirped, newly unfolded leaves rustled and schoolchildren 
shouted on the their way home for lunch.  The scent of budding 
flowers carried on the breeze and Scully took a  deep breath, 
eyeing the spectacle of rebirth surrounding her before setting off 
at a brisk pace.

At the corner deli, she bought a triple-decker BLT to go and the 
biggest order of greasy, salty fries they could give her.  With an 
extra-large root beer to round out her meticulous culinary 
arrangement, she was on her way.  

Once back at the apartment, Scully proceeded to polish off the 
entire repast with a single-minded intensity that left her body 
physically slaked and her hunger satisfied.

Sadly, she reflected, the same couldn't be said for her heart or her 
spirit as the relentless tide of emotion came seeping back with a 
willful intensity.

Emily was gone.  Just...gone.

In her heart, Scully knew she had made the right decision.  But that 
didn't make things any easier.  There were simply too many gaps in 
her soul right now to overcome the devastating sense of loss.

Leaving the refuse of her meal on the table, she grabbed a throw 
from its neatly-folded perch on the end of the couch and curled up 
before the TV with her remote.  

Scully flipped through the channels rapidly, intent on finding the 
most raunchy, offensive talk shows possible.  A crass, idiotic 
marathon of audio-visual absurdity could surely help her leave this 
distressing mental imbalance behind.

Time passed sluggishly as she drifted without direction through 
Maury, Sally, Oprah, Montell...

After a protracted struggle with trying to pay attention to the 
gratuitous spectacle before her, she found her mind wandering 
back to the previous day's conversation with her parish priest.

Scully knew he had tried to help her come to grips with the very 
significant lesson contained in her experience with the Kernofs.  
Really, it was an understanding that she'd already come to on her 
own.  Hearing the words in the confessional merely served to 
sanctify her turbulent feelings.

As difficult and traumatic decision as it had been to let Emily go, 
Scully realized it was time to reconsider her feelings about some 
other things, as well -- beginning the long process of acceptance 
and moving forward without looking back.

Taking a deep breath, Scully ignored the pain that twisted in her 
heart with the accompanying thought.

Mulder.

Over the past few weeks, since the incident in the basement, 
everything had changed between them.  

It wasn't like Mulder hadn't withdrawn from her before.  Hell, even 
she had done some pulling back from their partnership at times.  
But this was different.

He wasn't just letting her go this time.  He was *pushing* her 
away.

Until now, Mulder had simply gone out of his way at times to 
delineate a separation between the two of them outside their 
actual casework.  That included both leisure and sometimes even 
their individual Bureau obligations.

Now it seemed, he didn't want to work with her *at all*.

Every facet of his behavior these days was calculated to send a 
clear message that he no longer had the need nor the desire for a 
connection with her anymore.

In the various X files they'd handled since the onset of the ill-
feelings, Mulder had consistently found reasons and ways for 
them to do the work apart from one another.  

Questioning suspects and witnesses on his own.  Sending her to 
crime scenes while he stayed behind to research other 
information.  Encouraging her to return to headquarters at the 
Bureau in DC and stay there, regardless of whether her presence 
was really needed for evidence processing or not.

On the Kernof case, he'd gone so far as to openly scorn her gut 
instinct and religious convictions, choosing instead to focus on an 
entirely incorrect path in the investigation.  

And then, when she'd opened up to him about the visions of Emily 
and the impact the case was having on her, the only thing Mulder 
could think to recommend was that she step away from the 
inquiry.  

Like he was one to be tossing around that kind of instruction, 
Scully thought disgustedly.  Agent Fox Mulder of the Ruby 
Morris/Lucy Householder/Marty Glenn school of detrimental 
suspect empathy and emotional identification.

And the real kicker came at the conclusion of the case when 
Mulder had said absolutely nothing, either about the four dead 
girls or Emily.  Instead, he'd left her to face the emotional turmoil 
and fallout from the harrowing events on her own.

The self-absorbed prick hadn't even called today to see why she 
was at home.

Scully bit her lip at the harsh thought, realizing she was being 
slightly unfair.  He wasn't the only one responsible for this morass 
of conflicting emotions and motivations.  But somehow, this time, 
she just didn't have the heart or the will to go through the motions 
of making things right again.

Trust only went so far in maintaining a relationship.  The 
accompanying bonds of respect and friendship they'd once had 
were now blighted, perhaps beyond repair.  What remained wasn't 
even worth saving, in her estimation.

A solitary tear slipped down Scully's cheek at the unreserved 
analysis.

No matter how unshakable her beliefs were in this regard, she still 
couldn't ignore the painful, overwhelming sense of loss spilling 
into her heart.

The phone rang suddenly, startling her, and Scully hit the mute 
button, silencing the TV as she reached over to pick up the 
receiver.

"Hello?"

"Dana?  It's Tim.  I called over to the FBI and they told me you 
weren't in today.  You, ok?"

She reached up, absently brushing away the salty dampness from 
her eyes as warmth flooded through her from the concerned, 
reassuring tones of Bayliss's voice.  He at least cared about her.  
Enough to call anyway, which was far, far more than what she had 
come to expect from Mulder and his recent behavior.

"No, Tim," Scully responded, feeling some of the pressing 
heaviness begin to lift suddenly from her spirit.  "I'm fine, really.  
Just taking a mental health day."

"Sounds pretty serious," he commented.

"What do you mean?"

"Dana, forgive me for saying this, but you haven't ever struck me 
as the type to call in sick to work for that sort of thing."

Tim's familiar sardonic expressiveness carried through over the 
phone line, and Scully found herself smiling ruefully at his 
perception.

"I'm not, usually, except for the time with the cancer."

"Right.  Well I can see why cancer would make you do something 
like that.  But this is a little different.  And it makes me wonder 
what's going on inside your head."

Taking deep, shuddering breath, Scully allowed the adversity of 
the last few days to resurface, deciding it was finally time to 
reveal a few personal details she'd kept hidden from him till now.

"Tim, there's some...stuff I haven't ever mentioned about myself 
that's came up over the last week or so.  Things that, to put it 
lightly, have been tremendously difficult to deal with and resolve."

"Such as?" 

His voice was wary, but firm.  And Scully knew beyond a doubt 
that he wasn't really hesitant or afraid.  Tim *wanted* her to go on, 
to continue to share herself with him.  He always seemed to feel 
that way, which made things difficult at times.  

So often in their relationship, she was the one to play the 
caretaker.  And Scully sensed Tim's frustration quite clearly when 
she wouldn't allow him to reciprocate in kind.  But he was 
sufficiently tormented enough on his own to accept whatever 
solace she offered without question, almost like a heroin addict 
seeking the next fix.

Tim's pent-up custodial impulse was the one hurdle they 
consistently faced in their relationship.  He was so different from 
Mulder in that regard.  

Scully knew in her heart that she would never be able to truly 
accept that kind of sheltering concern from anyone else.  Not for 
long, anyway.  But tonight, after all that had happened, she found 
herself suddenly grateful for it.

"I had a daughter, Tim.  I don't think I ever mentioned that."

"No, Dana," his voice was dry, and maybe even a little hurt.  "I think 
I would have remembered."

"Well, the situation was very...personal.  Her name was Emily.  I 
didn't even know she existed until some months ago, and...she's 
gone now..." 

Scully's voice trailed off unsteadily as she fought the hard wave of 
emotion welling up inside her throat.

"Tell me."

Bayliss sounded firm, steadying her with his strength, and Scully 
discovered a wonderful sense of ease in his resolve -- enough to 
relay the entire tragic story from start to finish.  

Though she left out some of the more bizarre and unproven 
details, it was still a heartbreaking scenario.  The custody hearing.  
Her infertility.  Emily's death.  And finally the bizarre case 
involving Dara Kernof, her family and the connection Scully had 
found there with her own life.

When it was over with, Scully cried briefly, letting Bayliss soothe 
her but also immediately rejecting his offer to come down to DC 
to be with her.

"Really," she insisted, clutching the phone tightly and shaking her 
head, "I'm better off here by myself.  I'm afraid I wouldn't be fit 
company for anyone tonight."

"Scully," he said, and she knew he must be really exasperated now.  
He *never* called her that.  

"Who gives a flying fuck what kind of *company* you are right 
now?  I mean, that's not entirely the point, is it?"

"No," she agreed quietly.

"Does Mulder know about this?"

The question was sharp, almost accusing.

"Yes."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"Well, where the hell is he?  I thought you two were supposed to 
be partners."  

This time, there was no mistaking the indictment in Tim's tone.  
And for once, Scully was fresh out of excuses for the other man.

"It doesn't work that way, Tim.  Not between Mulder and me."

Without thinking, she added, "Not anymore."

Scully heard his long, weary sigh at the other end of the line, and 
then a protracted silence swelled for a few minutes between them 
as each tried to collect their scattered thoughts.

"Dana...I actually called you for a...slightly more specific reason 
today, above and beyond just seeing how you were doing," Tim 
finally said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  I wanted you to come up this weekend because I needed to 
discuss something with you.  I didn't want to do it on the phone," 
he paused, taking a long breath, "but now I think I will anyway."

"Go ahead."

"You remember Julianna Cox, the Chief Medical Examiner here?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, there was something of a falling out between her and the 
ME's office and she got fired."

Oh my god, Scully thought, eyes widening as she suddenly 
guessed what he was about to say.

"Look, Dana...somebody with your qualifications...the job would 
be theirs for the taking.  Especially with the pressure the state has 
been under to demonstrate equal opportunity hiring practices.  
Honestly, I don't have a clue as to how you'd feel about working up 
here, mmm?  It's probably a lot different than what you're used to 
with the Bureau.  But you'd have the freedom to run your own 
little ship, even if you'd have to put up with more political bullshit 
than usual.  And then there's something else..."

Scully waited, holding her breath, but he didn't continue.  Finally 
she couldn't wait any longer.

"Tim, what exactly are you saying to me?"

He took a deep breath and then went on in rush, words toppling 
one right over the other:

"I thought maybe if this opportunity appealed to you and you went 
for it, you might consider moving in with me."

"Tim--"

"No, wait," he interrupted, still speaking with rapid precision.  She 
could almost see him, sitting there in his austere apartment, 
holding the phone to his ear and wearing the endearingly 
vulnerable expression that so often touched her heart.

"Dana, I'd like to think what we have together has built itself into 
something pretty solid.  I know we've never discussed abstract 
concepts like love and commitment before, but the truth is, I care 
very deeply for you.  And I think, correct me if I'm wrong, that you 
feel the same way."

"You aren't wrong, Tim," she said quietly, still trying to sort out 
the whirl of concepts and suggestions spinning in her brain. 

"Well, I think we can build on that, Dana.  But not separated like 
this.  If you come up here and make a fresh start, we'd have a real 
chance to do that.  To have a normal life the way people are 
supposed to.  And in time, both of us might be ready to take a 
bigger step.  Call it a commitment to making a commitment, 
mmm?"

Scully waited a beat, carefully collecting her thoughts before 
responding.

"Tim, what about the things I just told you?  About my inability to 
have children?  I've heard you speak about your hopes and dreams 
in that regard a whole hell of a lot.  I can't imagine you'd take it so 
lightly now."

"I accepted the possibility once before that fatherhood might not 
be in my particular destiny -- that I could live with it as long as I 
had the right person to share my life with.  That shouldn't come as 
any surprise.  Besides, Dana, there are always other ways," he 
continued, with unassailable logic.  "That's the kind of thing that 
people should be able to work out together."

Scully blinked as a tear once again tracked slowly from the corner 
of her eye.  Silently, she pondered the options he had laid out so 
seductively for her:  

Leave the Bureau.  Leave DC.  Go to Baltimore and take a position 
in a field where she could make a difference and start all over with 
a person she cared for.

Jesus, he had no idea just how tempting a proposition this really 
was for her right now.  

And then Scully found her reasoning suddenly derailed by the one 
concept Tim had conspicuously avoided so far.

Mulder.

His name etched itself across her brain with electrifying clarity.  
Out of all the factors she had to consider with Tim's offer, her 
partner and his crusade were the single, most compelling 
obstacles.

Scully couldn't help herself, she said it aloud:

"Mulder."

Bayliss exhaled softly at the sound of the other man's name.

"It isn't my place to tell you what to do and not to do when it 
comes to your partner.  I've left Frank before.  It wasn't easy.  And 
inevitably, we ended up together again.  But from the way you've 
talked over the last couple of weeks, Dana, I think the answer may 
already be waiting there for you."

Scully swallowed convulsively, not saying anything.  She told 
herself Tim was right; that he was merely echoing what she'd 
already discovered for herself.  But it was so goddamn hard to let 
go.  To know whether or not it was the right thing to do.  

Without any warning, understanding cascaded over her, spreading 
through her mind with startling clarity.  

Mulder had made his choice -- he didn't want to be with her any 
more.

Now it was time for her to make a decision without weighing the 
burden of her concern for his well-being against the path of her 
own life.

Yes, Scully repeated to herself more firmly, maybe it was finally 
time.

"Tim?" she began softly, feeling an almost reluctant smile of 
acceptance beginning to curl at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes?"

"I can't tell you how much it means to me that you care enough to 
even make this kind of proposal."

She heard him inhale sharply.  

"But it wouldn't be fair to either of us if I didn't take it seriously 
enough to weigh what I need and want against what's best for me.  
Do you understand?"

"Absolutely."

Now he sounded relieved, gratified beyond measure that she hadn't 
refused him outright.  It was a beginning of sorts and they both 
knew it.

"Ok.  I need time to work some things out here in DC.  Please 
don't be hurt or offended by what I'm about to say, but I think it 
would be better if you wait to hear from me first, Tim."

"I understand," he replied quickly, a wide smile evident in his tone.  
"Dana, I want you to know that no matter what you decide, I'll still 
continue to care just as much for you.  That's one thing I hope will 
never change between us."

"I hope so too, Tim," she whispered softly, squeezing the phone 
lightly.

"Take care."

And then he was gone.

Scully hung up the handset and sat for a moment in the silence of 
her living room as the evening shadows lengthened over the 
familiar landmarks of her life.

An inexorable twilight settled over her as she sat for over an hour, 
thinking about all the sundry conflicts and relationships that had 
helped to define the course of her existence.  

With Emily, no matter how brief the connection had been.  Her 
mother.  Her father.  Melissa.  Walter Skinner.  The Gunmen.  
Contemporaries at the Bureau.  Tim Bayliss.  Even Kay Howard.

And finally, there was Fox Mulder.

For so long, she had committed herself to the challenges and 
hazards of his dark, mysterious journey.  Together, they had found 
meaning where none had been before and forced themselves into 
making new explorations and discoveries.

Scully knew if she left now, some loose ends would inevitably 
remain unresolved for her.  

The significance of her sister's death.  Of Emily's.  Her cancer.  
And the myriad of lost souls who had struggled and died before 
her in the name of an unspeakable drama perpetrated by unseen 
forces.

But wasn't that what life was really about?  The struggle?  Was it 
really her responsibility to determine solutions to all of those 
unanswered dilemmas?

Scully pondered those essential questions until her head ached.  
Not with the destructive force of the previous day's migraine, but 
in a solid, reassuring, almost comforting way.  

Slowly and methodically, she whittled away at the facts and 
information surrounding her decision.  She could survive without 
the Bureau.  The Bureau, in fact, was becoming increasingly 
superfluous for her.  Taking on the CME job in Baltimore, helping 
the detectives in homicide at getting to the truth, would be a 
chance for her to *do* something -- to make a difference.  And 
spending more time with Tim was that much greater an advantage.

Finally, only one pivotal point remained:

Her relationship with Mulder.  

Very little was left there.  Scully knew that for certain.  

They'd reached a critical point, of sorts.  A wall.  She could go 
around it by herself, or scale it with Mulder's help.  

But he wasn't offering to go over with her.  And if there was no 
place else to go, perhaps it really was time to consider the other 
option.  Mulder was still willfully invested in his own quest, but 
she still had alternatives.

If she was strong enough to let Emily go, then surely the rest 
could necessarily follow.

Scully stood purposefully, stretching slightly as she turned off the 
flickering idiocy of the TV.  Folding the throw carefully, she 
placed it back where she'd found it, intent on exorcising all the 
lingering thoughts of Mulder from her psyche.

Then, stepping over to her PC, she booted it up and prepared to 
access the Maryland Chief Medical Examiner's Office home page 
on the world-wide web.  She would need to review their list of 
qualifications and the application procedure before getting 
together her resume.  And file for reinstatement of her medical 
license...

With a final, long, drawn-out sigh, Scully put on her glasses, sat 
down before the computer, cleared her head and began to work.

*********

Mulder was stretched out on his stomach along the length of the 
couch, head pressed tightly against the bony cushion of his 
forearms.

He closed his eyes, laying there in the dark and listening to the 
shadowed, melancholy sounds of Pink Floyd's dramatically 
moving tribute album, "Wish You Were Here."

Apart from Elvis, this piece of rock and roll imagery was probably 
the most significant lyrical influence in his meager collection.  

He rarely had time for music.

Mulder only listened to this when his despair was at it darkest 
depths.  Roger Waters's competing themes of spiritual torment, 
creative vision and inevitable madness always seemed to strike a 
responsive chord within his soul.  They reminded him of a past 
that was better left undisturbed and a future colored with 
unequivocal rack and ruin.  These were the inescapable 
components of his character.

Angst-filled days of teenage youth when he had only the vaguest 
clue as to the depths of his family's dysfunction.  The dreaminess 
and corresponding upheaval of his Oxford years.  The ISU and 
Patterson's CASKU -- the hidden monsters they'd made him do 
battle with on a consistent basis.

The X files.  And now, after all this time -- Scully.

Maybe he should have guessed at this outcome the second he'd 
seen her willingness to work apart from him in the last couple of 
weeks.  

Never mind that he'd initiated the lion's share of their separation.  
Scully hadn't voiced a single word of opposition and he'd assumed 
it was because she welcomed the division as well.  It had not 
occurred to him until today that she could so easily make it a 
permanent arrangement.

Maybe he was overreacting.

Scully had phoned that afternoon from her mother's house to ask 
if he would agree to see her tonight.  An innocent request.  
Nothing to provoke any kind of unusual response.  But something 
in her voice had warned him. 

Maybe he should have refused to see her outside of work entirely.  

Here in his apartment, alone, he might be safe from the impending 
siege.  But then Mulder remembered she had a key.

Fuck.

Scully would be here at nine o'clock.

Maybe he should have forced her to say what was on her mind 
when she called, rather than waiting for her alone in the dark to 
come here and say it to his face.

With a low groan, Mulder slid off the couch, padding over to his 
desk and opening the bottom drawer.  Pawing through the mess, he 
finally found what he was looking for, holding the bottle up briefly 
so that it caught the shimmery light from outside.  A telltale glint 
reflected impishly off the nearly full fifth of Jose Cuervo as he 
shifted it slowly back and forth in a kind of unconscious 
fascination.

Maybe if he drank enough, it wouldn't matter what she had to say.

Wading through the cramped living room, he headed for the 
kitchen, finding a clean glass and hesitating for just a moment 
before the refrigerator.  So what if he hadn't eaten all night long?  
With food in his stomach, he'd probably have gotten sick by now 
from the roiling emotions cruelly sorting their way through his 
innards.  The tequila ought to be enough to sustain him all by 
itself.

Fuck the salt and fuck the lime -- he was on a diet.

With those rancorous thoughts, Mulder went back to the couch 
and sank down into the well-worn leather, pouring a double shot 
and draining it in one smooth, efficient motion.

The shit burned like a mother going down and Mulder groaned 
softly to himself, pressing the cold glass against the feverish heat 
of his cheek.  He suspected he wouldn't have to worry about the 
discomfort of drinking strong spirits much longer.  Alcohol had a 
funny way of dulling the senses, notably the taste buds.

Maybe if he was senseless when she arrived, Scully would leave in 
disgust.  Leave him alone.

He exhaled slowly, listening to the tones of the music against the 
subtle, more familiar sounds of his apartment.

It was raining, and Mulder imagined he could hear the whispery 
drift of every single droplet against the patina of his windows.

Scully, Scully, go away.  Come again another day.

Fat, fucking chance.

She was finally going to leave, Mulder reflected miserably.  
Probably to head up to Charm City and the greener pastures of a 
real life with Bayliss -- far, far away from the chaos and 
frustrations of associating with the mad, mad, mad, mad world of 
Fox Mulder and his merry band of little green men.

After the way he'd been dogging their partnership over the past 
weeks, he probably deserved this, Mulder told himself, pouring 
out another hefty measure of the Cuervo.

The second dose of the tawny elixir went down easier and he took 
a moment to savor the effervescent warmth pooling deliberately 
in the depths of his stomach and spreading with a tingling 
sensation into his extremities.

Maybe this was just the logical conclusion to the insanity of the 
last few months.

Once again, Mulder thought about his crisis of faith and the 
incredible details of Scully's metamorphosis.  The resultant spate 
of revelations and discoveries surrounding her had been both 
fascinating and frightening in the extreme.  He'd thought once that 
he had her completely figured out.  No fucking way.

Maybe it would have been better all around had she never met the 
other guy.

But then Mulder winced slightly, remembering the newfound 
intimacies they'd shared.  The understandings they'd reached.  The 
unspoken commitments he'd thought they'd made.

The stirring taste of her mouth along his tongue.

Christ.

Maybe he would have been better off just taking her right there 
that day, on his desk, regardless of the gross dereliction of their 
professional responsibilities.  At least then he would have known.  
He would have had that secret, infinite knowledge of all that was 
Dana Scully, even as they journeyed unstoppably towards this 
soul-severing destination that fate had somehow hand-picked for 
him.

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut at the thought, finding himself 
sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of wretchedness and 
self-destruction.

How could she do this?  Just...leave after all this time?  With so 
many unanswered questions?

Maybe she didn't care anymore.

Fuck, he thought with a sudden ill-mannered, immovable 
reasoning.  Was getting laid really all that important to her that 
she would throw it all away?  Could he really reduce the 
relationship with Bayliss down to something that basic?  Was that 
fair?

After all, what had he extended to Scully in return?

Maybe he should have offered her something besides the 
trademark Fox Mulder indifference and bitter humor.

The level of tequila in the bottle before him was dropping at an 
incredible rate and Mulder stared at it bemusedly, finding his 
thoughts racing off in all kinds of different, bizarre directions 
now.

Must be evaporation.  DC was known for its very high rate of 
evaporation when it came to alcohol.  Especially for people like 
him upon whom the sky was falling with irreversible, inevitable 
ruin.

Tipping his head back, Mulder savored the sharp, acerbic taste of 
the tequila in the back of his throat and wondered for a dangerous 
moment just what it would take to get Scully to stay.

Tim Bayliss seemed to have found the key to unlocking her 
complex mystery.  Maybe he could do the same.

Did he want that?

In his the most secret depths of his soul, Mulder knew the answer 
was a ringing, unequivocal 'yes.'

He wanted her on a primal level.  With a drive and intensity that 
set his head to swimming crazily with images, illusions and ideas 
culled partly from memory and also from a set of vivid, 
uncompromising night visions.  

Scully.  All of her.  Mine.

With his typical inescapable self-awareness, Mulder knew this 
line of thinking had nothing to do with the alcohol.  

No, it had begun months ago.  That morning when she walked into 
the office after her first weekend in Baltimore with an expression 
he'd never seen before.

Consequences, consequences, he reminded himself sharply, in a 
mantra born out of the depths of misguided self-preservation.  He 
used it repeatedly these days, but for some reason, its steely 
influence seemed diminished just now.

Leaning forward, Mulder peered down into the open neck of the 
bottle as though it were a high-resolution telescope, revealing the 
secrets of the universe.  Reacting, he set the glass down with a 
loud crack on the table, flinching slightly at the sound as it echoed 
over the music.

What did the consequences matter now? he asked himself 
fatalistically.  Not a single thing that he could say or do at this 
point would make the situation worse than it already was.

Maybe what he really needed to know was exactly what Scully 
wanted.  From him.  From life.  From their partnership.

He already knew what he wanted from her.

Deep down, Mulder suspected her needs weren't as far off from 
his as he liked to believe.  She'd hung around all this time for 
some reason hadn't she?  In spite of all of his cerebral 
contentiousness.  His blatant disregard for her solicitude and 
sometimes her well-being.  His obsession. 

What was it Oscar Wilde had once said?

<Women love us for our defects.  If we have enough of them, they 
will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.>

A fucking genius was what Wilde was.

Christ, he was afraid of this line of thinking.  But perhaps she was 
as well.  Afraid of temptation and the results of that temptation.  
But Mulder also knew he was strong.  And so was Scully.

Maybe he could be strong enough to let her make a more 
comprehensive decision.

Blinking rapidly against the fog beginning to infiltrate his vision, 
Mulder reached for his glass again, tipping his head to one side as 
he struggled to maintain coherent thought.  

Dreaming about resolve was one thing.  Finding the will to 
actually do it was something else again.

Still, he couldn't escape the reality of passing events any longer.  
If anything, he rationalized, Scully was forcing his hand.

This time, the tequila slid down his throat like water.

Finally, tired of thinking about it all, Mulder reached over and 
flipped on the TV and his VCR.

Muting the sound, he reached behind him, cranking up the volume 
on "Welcome to the Machine" just a tad louder and lying back on 
the couch.  With the glass cradled on top of his chest, he watched 
the ceiling and blatantly ignored the lurid images unfolding before 
him.

Maybe he could do this.  Let it be up to her.  

If she really wanted to leave the quest behind, the search for 
meaning in all of their shared experiences, then so be it.  At least 
he would know for certain.  

If she really wanted to leave *him* for another life in Baltimore...

Maybe he could let her go and wish her the very best of things to 
come.

Raising his arm slightly, Mulder considered that last possibility as 
he glanced at the blurring features of the luminous dial on his 
watch.

It was two minutes to nine.

Maybe.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Part IV -- The Law of Motion

"Do you really think...that it is weakness that yields to temptation?  
I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires 
strength, strength and courage, to yield to."  
     -- Oscar Wilde

"She blew my nose
      and then she blew my mind..."
-- The Rolling Stones, "Honky Tonk Women"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

>2630 Hegal Place, #42
>Alexandria, VA

It was two minutes to nine.

Scully sat in the car outside his apartment building, hunched over 
the steering wheel and absently watching the raindrops slide down 
the window in the dark.

Spring rain.

Nothing else like it to cleanse the rot left over from the winter 
and breathe new life into dead and dormant surroundings.

She loved the rain this time of year.  

But not this evening.

Driving here tonight, against the depressing hammer-beat of U2 
blaring from the radio, Scully had allowed a dozen random 
scenarios and a hundred different words to blaze a trail through 
her thoughts.

Finally, she admitted to herself that no amount of planning could 
possibly prepare her for what lay ahead.  She would have to allow 
the events to unfold whatever way they would and hopefully make 
necessary adjustments along the way.

So many unbelievable twists and turns had filled the last six 
months:  A miracle cure.  A tiny, insidious piece of metal in her 
neck.  A child -- gone before she had ever even truly existed.  A 
close encounter.  A life-changing relationship with a virtual 
mirror of her partner.

If someone had told her before it all began that she would one day 
be here, in this place, Scully would have laughed and 
recommended investment in a small parcel of central Florida 
swampland. 

She smiled derisively for a moment at the sheer magnitude of her 
own folly.

The joke, it seemed, was on her now.

So much had changed.  Her job.  Her partnership with Mulder.  
The carefully ordered parameters of her life -- mutated beyond 
recognition.

And it had been hard on him as well.  

Maybe the reasons weren't the same, but Scully couldn't fail to 
understand the connection.

Mulder, for his part, had never once indicated he had difficulty 
with such things.

How could he?

Their relationship was secure.  It always had been.  The bond 
between the two of them had been one-of-a-kind.  Unique.  
Profound.  Safe.  And they hadn't ever really been compelled to 
tempt fate by introducing any deeper elements.

Until she'd met Tim.  

Ironically, Scully never understood how much she could thrive on 
the emotional refuge of a physical connection until she finally had 
it.  Until she had actually leapt headlong into this...experience with 
Bayliss.

He had shocked her ordered world.  Made her want things she'd 
never thought she desired.  Inspired dreams and visions that kept 
her up nights with longing.  And not necessarily always for him, 
either.  But for something.  

Somebody.

After a brief six months, they were closer than she'd ever been 
with another human being -- save her family...

And Mulder.

At least the way she used to be with Mulder.  Her growing 
relationship with the other man had led to a severe test of their 
affinity.  Up and down.  Back and forth.  Whenever Scully thought 
it had reached the breaking point, somehow, some means of 
catharsis became available and they were able to make it work 
again.

Not so with this last incident.

The one time they had reached out to each other, to try and 
experience a new level of intimacy, the end result was a 
catastrophe on the emotional scale of an earthquake in an 
overpopulated third world nation.  And she'd refused to open 
herself to Mulder's rejection again.

But now, it seemed, the moment of truth was finally at hand. 

Just the day before, Tim had told her that the Baltimore Chief 
Medical Examiner, Julianna Cox, was moving on and the state 
needed a new pathologist to take her place.

Then, he'd offered her the opportunity to take a step forward their 
relationship by asking her to come up to Baltimore and be with 
him.  To move in together -- with an eye towards a future 
commitment.

Scully knew immediately that with her qualifications and Quantico 
experience, her chances at landing the job were pretty damn good.  

Besides which, there was Tim...

Satisfaction, fulfillment and security were right there, within her 
grasp.  She'd be a fool not to see that. 

Frowning slightly, Scully reminded herself that "foolishness" 
occasionally had a disturbing way of sneaking up and biting her 
squarely on the ass. 

Still...

She gave a brief sigh.  There was no denying the facts of her 
current situation.

Her work here in DC seemed to have become increasingly 
irrelevant over the last few months.  Hell, it was even longer than 
that, if she admitted it.  Perhaps it really was as Tim had said.  
Time to build; time to start living; time to make a measurable 
difference.  To finally realize the hopes and dreams she'd once 
held, before walking into that enigmatic portal to another 
universe...

A basement office in the depths of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  

Scully squeezed her eyes shut against the watery moonlight, 
letting herself focus on the delicately balanced equation of her 
partnership with Mulder for a moment.  

Or what was left of it.

After four long years and six short months, she and Mulder were 
polite, professional and oh-so-separate from each other now.

And she'd based her choice tonight on that -- solely on her own 
awareness and understanding of their individual wants, needs and 
desires.

It was the appropriate, practical decision.  

Her resume was prepped.  She had a bag packed.  The necessary 
call and request for time off had been made to A.D. Skinner. 

Now it was time to tell Mulder.

Scully was convinced she could do it in person.  She had the guts 
and the determination to take on everything he could hit her with, 
if he even gave her any resistance at all.  After all this time, there 
wouldn't be very many surprises left in his bag of tricks.

A somewhat absurd image of him as Felix the Cat suddenly 
encroached upon her thoughts and she quickly shied away from 
the metaphor; denying herself the all-too-accurate vision of 
Mulder's profound emotional acumen in the form of a magic sack.

Would he try to talk her out of it?

Christ, what the hell was her problem?  Was that what she was 
really doing here tonight??

Clenching her jaw tightly, she drew a deep breath and ruthlessly 
incarcerated those unwanted thoughts back in the prison of her 
psyche with unparalleled skill and precision.

Don't even think about it.

She was good at that.

Scully opened the door abruptly and stepped out of the car, 
wincing against the copper stink of acid rain crackling over wet 
asphalt.  

There was no sense putting it off any more.  She was late already.  

And yes, Mulder, with his damned uncanny empathic instinct, 
would surely pick up on her uncertainty if she let even an ounce of 
it show.

Settling a resolute look on her features, Scully rounded to the 
trunk, opening it and hefting a wide, nearly flat, brown-wrapped 
parcel into her arms.  

She turned and held still for a moment, sticking her tongue out at 
the starkly indifferent facade of Mulder's apartment.

Cold brick.  Pale concrete.  Blank windows.

Would she find what she was looking for inside those empty 
spaces??  

Shaking her head at the uncharacteristic spate of imagination, 
Scully pressed her lips together and began the brief walk towards 
the front door.

*********

The elevator doors hissed open with an eerie screak and she 
flinched at the soft, metallic thunk as they halted, spread wide, 
beckoning her forward.

Scully could hear the noise blaring from his apartment the second 
she stepped into the hallway.  

The neighbors must *really* be loving this hellish serenade, 
Mulder.
   
Pausing before the door, Scully set the cumbersome package 
down and rapped on the wood as hard as she could, to be heard 
over the music inside.  

Welcome to the Machine.

This was not a good sign.  Goddamn Pink Floyd, angst-ridden rock 
and roll crap.  She hated this shit.  And Mulder knew it. 

There was no response to her repeated knocking, and Scully 
debated the wisdom of using her key, recognizing this as only the 
first move in whatever screwed-up game he was ready to play 
tonight.  Better to just get the ordeal over with.  Hell, the 
foreboding was worse than the action itself.   
   
That's right, Dana, she told herself.  Just keep reminding yourself 
of that.   
   
The key twisted in the lock and she slipped through the death row 
patterns of darkness inside the apartment.   
   
Setting the package aside, Scully hung up her coat before plunging 
beyond the gloom of the foyer and into the living  room.  

She knew he would be waiting.

And Mulder was -- stretched out full-length on the couch -- 
watching one of his full-blown Technicolor fantasies with the 
sound off.

On the TV anyway, she mused darkly, averting her eyes from the 
bizarre, writhing glow of pornographic imagery.  Because the 
psychotic strains of Dave Gilmour's vintage guitar and Roger 
Water's desolate lyrics were loud enough to be heard at 1600 
Pennsylvania Avenue right now. 

Her eyes shifted over to him, taking in everything, from the day-
old stubble on his chin, to the open bottle of tequila resting on the 
edge of the table.     
   
And the empty glass in his hand.   
   
Oh shit.

Scully felt her mouth drop open even as she stared at him with a 
kind of unexpected awe.  Mulder *never* drank.   
   
His expression cut across her strung-out levels of sensitivity like 
the stroke of a whip and she took a step backwards defensively, 
almost without even realizing what she was doing.

Jesus, Mulder was *seething*.  

Even in her distracted state, Scully could tell that he was 
thoroughly, unquestionably, emphatically pissed off.

At her.

And there was something else adding to the elemental fervor she 
saw glowing in his eyes. 

Not tequila.

No, she'd witnessed this before.  Once.  For the briefest of 
seconds in the hospital just after her ordeal with Ed Jerse.

Something...

Territorial. 
   
With a bold, sweeping gaze, Mulder raked her from head to toe, 
devouring her, making her feel completely naked, standing there 
before him.  

Her body's reaction to his brazen appraisal was immediate and 
irrefutable and Scully swallowed quickly past the lump suddenly 
forming in her throat.

She had come here tonight to walk away.  Because she was certain 
that she and Mulder were journeying along separate paths.  
Because there was no place left to go in the shadow realms of 
their investigations without him.  Because she had become like 
some bizarre, earthly incarnation of a dark and ancient goddess; a 
conjurer of ghosts, hopeless, haunting the crossroads, waiting for 
some direction to present itself.

Because he didn't want their partnership any more.

Now, the blaze of primitive heat spreading against the water-
stained copper of his eyes told her a different story.

Oh god, could she really have been that far wrong? 
   
"Well," he sneered, "isn't it nice to suddenly be so highly 
regarded?  I'm surprised you can still find your way here, Scully."   
   
The scathing insult harkened back to an earlier age...a previous 
meeting.  

Another world.  

A virtual lifetime ago.

<So who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully??>

The bittersweet memories washed over her like a benediction and 
a curse, fueling a conflicting swell of both pleasure and pain that 
Scully had difficulty reconciling.  God, and it hadn't even begun 
yet.  This was going to be much harder than she'd thought.   
   
"Mulder, could you please turn the music down??"  Her thin, rapier 
voice skittered across the smooth flow of music, disrupting it, 
demanding his attention.   
   
"What??  I can't hear you, Scully."   
   
Prick.

Blood-red tones of anger and provocation added themselves to the 
melange of emotion rising from her very depths as she felt the 
once-solid hold on her temper begin to swiftly unravel.  

You want to play, Mulder?  

Fine.

Let's play.
   
Abruptly, she strode over to the stereo and flipped down the 
volume, marching next around the coffee table with quick 
efficiency to turn off the vulgar boy's club crap he was watching 
on TV. 

"Jesus Christ, Scully.  Make yourself at home, why don't you."  
   
With her back to him she ignored the taunt, asking carefully, "How 
much have you had to drink, Mulder?"   
   
His low, cunning chuckle slid up her spine, making her pulse 
quicken, doing strange things to her breathing.   
   
"I quit keeping track after three."   
   
"Well hell, Mulder.  You knew I was coming over here.  The least 
you could do is act civilized."   
   
"Look at me, Scully.  Don't I appear to be the very picture of 
consideration?" 

Scully turned to face him, working now solely from pure strength 
of will; forcing her resentment of his behavior back within the 
jurisdiction of her cool, logical mind.  Shaping it.  Controlling it.  
Wanting to maintain her authority over this situation.  Most times, 
she was more than capable of that with Mulder.

Most times.
   
Rarely did he face off against her with such blatant animosity 
though.  And now, words failed her.  A softly muttered "right" was 
all she could think to say.  

Pressing her lips together in a thin line, Scully smoothed back a 
strand of flame hair and tried again to ignore the dangerously 
unstable electromagnetic current screaming full-force between 
the two of them. 
   
"Care for a drink?"   
   
Her eyes narrowed.  

Goddamn it.  He was only making the offer so that she would have 
to refuse.   

Screw you, Mulder.
   
"Yes."   
   
He bit back a retort, staring silently for a moment before pouring 
out a stiff measure of the tequila.  Then, standing, he stepped 
towards her, shaping her hand deliberately around the cool glass 
still bearing ghostly traces of his own fingerprints.   
   
Keeping her formidable gaze locked with his, Scully met his 
unspoken challenge and quickly swallowed the entire contents.  
Tears came to her eyes, but she managed to ignore the burning, 
medicinal taste of the alcohol as it torched its way through her 
insides.   
   
Her ire rose once again when his mouth quirked up into a sudden, 
contemptuous half-smile at her reaction.   
   
He was close.  Oh so close.  There, invading her personal space.  
She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have him so near.  How 
he generated heat like a nuclear reactor, and how she so delighted 
in the feel of that -- of his spooky presence enveloping her.  
Wrapping around her.   
   
Penetrating her.  
   
Her eyes drifted closed with the compelling vision... 
   
Wait.

What in god's name was she doing?  

She needed to tell Mulder her news and then get the hell out.  He 
was toying with her right now and she was falling for it -- hook, 
line, and sinker.  Letting him get to her, making it impossible to 
do what she had come here to do.   

He didn't want her to stay.  He couldn't.  Why else would he have 
behaved the way he did over the last few weeks?

This was just a diversion for him.  Like fucking Parker Bros.  And 
Scully was sick to death of it all.
   
How many times had she watched him do this when interrogating a 
suspect?  Slowly circling around like some seductive bird of prey.   
Watching, waiting.  Poised and ready for just a tiny rip.  An 
opening.  A place where he could go in and eviscerate his victim, 
ensuring a complete, total lack of escape.   
   
It wasn't fair.  

Actually, it sucked -- the ease with which it came to him.

Some people were touched by God and wrote symphonies.  

Mulder was the Mozart of fucking with people's heads.

And why?  Just what *was* his ultimate objective?

Could it be that he didn't actually want her to leave?

She didn't want to leave.

Oh, fuck.
   
Alarmed now at the dawning drift of her own understanding, Scully 
stepped back again and forced herself to look him in the eye. 

"Mulder, I came here to tell you something." 

The words oozed between her teeth like some kind of foul-tasting 
epoxy, effectively preventing her from going any further.  

"So?  Speak to me, Scully." 

Her eyes narrowed at the silky tension vibrating in his command 
and she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin rebelliously.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Baltimore," she blurted, 
hearing the unconscious tremor in her own voice and loathing 
herself for it.  

"I'm not sure when I'll be back." 

 
*********

<no>

Mulder felt a cold sweat break out along his forehead with the 
high-caliber impact of her pronouncement, wanting to scream the 
word aloud even as it echoed through the tortured vistas of his 
mind.

Sitting here in the calm of his apartment, waiting for her to arrive, 
he had convinced himself he was ready for this.  Ready to take 
whatever she had come to say with an open mind and the most 
noble of intentions.  But somehow, the second he'd seen her 
emerge into the darkness of the living room, conviction and 
tenacity splashed across her icy-slick features, his resolve to be 
good had simply bolted through the fucking window.

Something inside him had to know why she was doing this.  What 
she wanted.  What she needed.  And he had to find out in such a 
way that it wouldn't compromise his own self-esteem.  For some 
reason, where Scully was concerned, Mulder felt compelled to 
preserve at least some semblance of self-dignity.  So he handled 
the situation the only way he knew how -- by taking the offensive.  
Challenging her.  Analyzing her reactions; daring her to take risks.   
And then pressing her for a conclusion.

It was like profiling, only easier.  

Gather the facts.  Ascertain the motivation.  Dismantle your 
suspect.  

Take the appropriate steps -- exact a resolution.

And now that she had said the words, Mulder could only reply with 
his customary cool indifference.
   
"Well, you have my sympathy."   
   
She impaled him with a scathing glance.  "What's that supposed to 
mean?"   
   
"Nothing at all.  Is that what you came here to tell me?"   
   
She nodded slightly.   
   
"I guess that means you can go now."  

He was rewarded with the sickening snap of Scully's teeth grinding 
together as she grasped at the very last shreds of her shattered 
restraint.
   
"Mulder, after all we've been through, I really thought you would at 
least be understanding about this.  You know?  Be happy for me, or 
something?"   

"So I should be 'happy' that you're on the run?  Throwing away the 
journey, the need to find the truth, after all this time in some kind 
of quixotic quest for validation and fulfillment??"

The immediacy of his response was shocking -- a kind of verbal 
contradiction born of the anomalous fears, desires and unknowns 
that were his most cherished companions. 
      
Mulder heard his own voice, laden with bitter sarcasm, slicing 
effortlessly through flesh and blood and sinew -- cutting directly 
to the bone. 

God help him, he just couldn't seem to stop himself.

"Tell me, Scully -- are you in love?  Or is this just about ending 
your lifelong sexual deprivation experiment?"   
   
He saw her face contort for an instant with a look of pure, 
crystalline fury -- right before she hauled off and slapped him 
across the face.  

Hard.  

The violent response was so completely atypical of the Scully he 
knew that Mulder felt his world slip off its axis for a moment as 
his head jerked to the side with the force of her blow. 

Motherfucker.  
   
She backed off suddenly, breathing in harsh pants with the effort 
to restrain her outrage and eyeing him warily. 
   
Mulder eased his head back slowly, until he was facing her again, 
taking note of the bright flush in her cheeks and the fierce glitter 
in her eyes.  Scully's mouth was quivering with sheer strength of 
feeling and he let his gaze drop down to her breasts, heaving with 
the exertion of her struggle to keep her temper in check.   
   
She was magnificent when she was angry.  Vehement, passionate, 
uncontrolled. 

Irresistible.   
   
A corresponding flush of yearning and discontent rocked him 
suddenly.  Severely.  Unleashing the latent arousal that had 
become so much a part of their interaction over time.   The 
extreme amplification was like a lethal virus gestating in his blood 
-- a situation more volatile than a plague let loose upon an 
unsuspecting control group.  Mulder could almost *see* it 
beginning to escalate beyond his capacity to control it.   

He wanted her.  Now.  Here.  Tonight.  On a level more basic than 
anything he'd ever known.

But the question was...

What did she want?

*Why was she here?*

"You really are one selfish son of a bitch, Mulder."   
   
He moved towards her, pausing only when mere centimeters 
separated them and smiling dangerously as he felt the raw, 
physical thrill of emergent pyrotechnics flaring over them.     
   
"You haven't seen anything yet."   
   
Reaching a hand out, Mulder saw the tremor rip through her slight 
form as he braced himself against the wall.  Slowly, he leaned 
over, letting himself descend into the abyss of shifting uncertainty 
and understanding swirling inside her gaze.
   
He took a long, steady breath, waiting for her next move.
   
Flicking an eyebrow up provocatively, she inclined her head a 
fraction.  

"Haven't I?"   

Clearly, his close proximity did not intimidate her.  If anything, 
Scully was casting caution to the wind, daring him to make good 
on his unspoken threat.  

In a typical trademark explosion of perceptual clarity, Mulder 
realized she had just stepped over her own personal line of 
demarcation where he was concerned -- hurling a silent challenge 
to his feet.  Either she would show him up for a coward, walking 
out of his life as blithely as she had once come into it.  Or, he 
could rise to her summons, taking the next step with her.

Fuck it.  

He had the courage and the will to make this happen.

Because there was nothing to lose anymore.  

His quest for the truth was at a dead standstill.  Their work was 
lying in ruins all around them.  And she had come to his apartment 
tonight to tell him she was leaving, right?  So what could he 
possibly do to compromise their relationship any further than it 
already was?     
   
After six extensive months of frustrating upheaval and exhausting 
denial, Mulder was *tired* of it all.  Fighting it.  Trying to escape.  
He couldn't let her leave.  Perhaps he needed to give her a reason 
to stay.      
   
Scully sensed his thoughts.  

He knew she could, just by the confident set to her chin.  She 
understood he wasn't going to stop this time.  He wasn't kidding.  
This wasn't harmless innuendo.  And she was ready for him.

What he saw in her eyes was pure, unadulterated desire.  Stark, 
vigilant, utterly sexual.   
   
Unbelievable.   
   
The response in his heart could not be mistaken.  Mulder quickly 
grasped at the last remaining threads of his reason as they began to 
disintegrate beneath the combined weight of Scully's fierce gaze 
and the live-wire heat of her body against his.
   
All his life, he had sought to find answers in one form or another.  
About the mysteries of human thought and behavior.  About 
Samantha.  About the very system he operated within through his 
work at the Bureau.  About extreme possibilities.

And here, now, tonight -- he would discover the truth about Dana 
Katherine Scully. 

Mulder tensed as a fleeting sense of anxiety washed over him.   

It wouldn't be easy.

His voluntary hiatus from the arcane responses of female form 
and function had promoted a kind of crippling inertia over time.

But he was confident that some things could never be forgotten.  
And though he admittedly had very little intimate understanding of 
her body and its responses, Mulder recognized fully that fate was 
giving him the opportunity discover them tonight. 

He took a deep breath, falling back on the dark necromancy of his 
creative intellect and eidetic memory.

Reaching up, he stroked a fingertip along the smooth, tight planes 
of her face, observing her response as she let her eyes drift closed 
against the tumult in his expression.

Then, Mulder bent his head, finding her mouth with his and 
thrilling to the warmth of her welcoming hunger.  Almost 
immediately, he was calling up the images from that first kiss in 
the office, all those weeks ago.
   
He felt her hand snake around to the back of his neck, fingers 
sifting through the glossy strands of his hair as she pulled him 
close with an enough strength to make their teeth collide.  And 
then he lost it, kissing her with a willful abandon, moving his lips 
and tongue over hers in a feverish glide that left them both 
breathless and incoherent.

God, but it was just like the last time...wonderfully intense...a kind 
of sensory oxidation...

Spontaneous combustion.  

Low whimpers in her throat licking over his nerves like the 
kerosene trailers of an arsonist's skillfully crafted incendiary 
device. 

A conflagration of heat settling directly in his groin, throbbing 
with a soul-arresting intensity that was irresistible.

Her mouth was sliding insistently beneath his, coaxing, drawing, 
enticing, offering bliss and promising a boundless escape.  With 
an unfailing sense of awareness, Mulder realized he was going to 
have to work very, very hard to keep a rein on his self-control.  
Their circumstance was already narrowing down to the 
incandescent moment when a flood of endorphins would convulse 
in his brain, inciting a culmination and rendering him powerless. 

Time, he told himself desperately.  Christ, how he needed time.  
Time to secure the broad scope of his direction over the situation.

There were so many things he wanted for her...

Scully needed to see the sky.  The burning rain.  A lightning waltz 
of sound and fury.

He needed her to die and live again tonight -- an experience she 
would carry with her for the rest of her life.

The reasons *why* he needed this were unimportant.  Mulder 
wasn't even sure he understood them completely himself.

Perhaps it was an instinctual male impulse.  A stirring 
psychosexual display of Jung's collective unconscious.
   
She moved against him then and he abandoned the fleeting 
psychoanalysis, pinning her up against the hard, unyielding surface 
of the wall.  

Fuck the metaphysics.

He had to *feel* every inch of her quivering length against his.  

Fastening his teeth along her lower lip, Mulder pulled back gently 
and suckled on the swollen flesh, finally letting go just in time to 
watch her lashes drift open.  And then a low, desperate sound 
seized in his throat as the glimmer of her crystal meth gaze 
abruptly slammed him into a train-wreck of the senses. 

Her eyes.  Always her eyes.  They were Scully's most expressive 
feature, often speaking their own language, from her heart and 
soul.

Love, grief, hate, innocence and resolve.  How many different 
shadings had he counted over the course of their association?

The icy teal of the autopsy bay.  The stormy indigo when she 
matched wits with him.  The steely blue of an interrogation.  The 
earnest sapphire when she made a report to the Assistant Director.

What color would they be tonight, when she gave herself over to 
the relentless tide of her climax?
   
Mulder groaned aloud at the thought, racing with supersonic flight 
through the slippery, surreal chasms of his boundless imagination.  
Rocking his hips slightly, he let the taut sensitivity of his arousal 
ease up against the sharp curves of her pelvis and the tremulous 
hollow between her legs.

Quickly returning his mouth to hers, he drew the breath from her 
throat until she was dizzy and gasping for air. 

And Scully returned the fervent kiss measure for measure, 
fighting him for control as her hands continued to sweep the 
length of his body, beneath his tee-shirt, along the snug waistline 
of his jeans, up the rough, denim-clad contours of his inner thighs.  

He burned where she touched him -- and she seemed to touch him 
everywhere.  

Calculating slowly, he slipped his fingers underneath the loose 
sweater she was wearing, skimming along the length of her spine 
and moving around to front of her bra, unsnapping the clasp with 
blissful proficiency.   
   
In one quick motion, he whisked the offending garments over her 
head, baring her flesh to his hands and the silky, heated caress of 
his mouth.     

Exploring the smooth, hard planes and ridges of her body, Mulder 
marveled, not for the first time, at the subtle, hidden strength 
there, wondering at his own response to her fever-brushed skin.  
He couldn't get enough of her, wanted to press into her and feel 
that power and heat against his length, absorbing it into himself 
totally. 
   
The low, animal moans seeping from her lips nearly drove him to 
distraction and he felt her falter slightly as she clutched at the wall 
with both hands to keep from falling to the floor.   
   
He let himself slide down, mouth leaving a trail of liquid flame 
along Scully's jaw, down her neck, over her breasts and finally to 
the sweeping curve beneath her ribs.   
   
Her skin had a numbing, hot-cinnamon tang that put him in mind of 
the Atomic Fireballs he'd so loved as a kid -- a mouth-watering 
flavor he couldn't get enough of.  Then or now.  And a groan rose 
again in his throat as his tongue skimmed her navel, sliding 
downward to feather a string of light, wet kisses along the edge of 
her velvet leggings.

Dimly,  Mulder sensed her kicking off her shoes, running the arch 
of one foot over the side of his leg as her body fairly thrummed 
with the excitement of his caresses.   
   
Then, easing his hands around to grip her backside, Mulder drew 
her close and let the humid warmth of his breath join with the 
sticky incandescence building between her legs.
   
She stiffened suddenly at the sensation, pulling away and throwing 
him completely off balance.
   
Looking up into her face, he found shock and a kind of rough, 
crazed awareness hovering in her eyes as she searched his 
features.   
   
Oh, Christ.  Here it was.  His worst fucking nightmare.  

She was going to stop him.

Mulder heard her draw a breath to speak; waiting for the rejection 
to cut into him with the ragged edge of a corroded razor blade.  

And then he heard her ask: 
   
"Why, Mulder?" 
   
The words were soft, breathless -- her voice turning his name into 
a kind of desperate plea for comprehension.   

"Why now, after all this time?  Why are you doing this?"   

Somehow, some way, he found the strength to respond 
coherently:
   
"Why are you letting me?"

But Mulder already knew the answer even as he watched it flit 
across her features with a whisper of seamless understanding.  
   
She wanted this just as he did.  No matter what the consequences.  
It was that simple, he reflected, quickly sensing any last lingering 
traces of restraint drifting away.    
   
The growing distance they'd been forced to endure over the last 
six months had been desperately painful in some ways.  This 
would be the cure.  They *needed* to have that connection again.  
To keep the darkness at bay.  No matter what extreme measures it 
might take.
   
Her hands returned to the thick hair at the back of his head, pulling 
him forward into the warm cradle of her lower belly.  Closing his 
eyes for a fraction of a second, he wrapped his arms around her 
legs and hugged her to him fiercely as he savored the profound 
emotion coursing through him like a physical thing.  It heightened 
his responses and fueled his need, making this more than just a 
manifestation of corporeal volition and desire.  He would have 
seen it as dangerous thinking, if he'd bothered to think about it at 
all.

The moment passed, and he hooked his fingers into the band of 
her leggings, sliding them over her hips and down the rest of her 
length with agonizing slowness.
   
Scully was completely bared to his attentions now and he was 
kneeling before her, mouth wandering in wet, lazy spirals along 
the inner curves of her legs.   
   
Almost imperceptibly, she shifted against him, her incoherent 
sounds echoing with an eager anticipation of pleasure.  The 
remainder of her breath seemed to vaporize in her lungs as he 
eased steadily higher.
   
"Mulder... "  

She swallowed unsteadily.

"...please..."   
   
For an instant, his body vibrated with the thrill of having her beg.   
   
Then, leaning forward, Mulder let his tongue glide into her humid 
warmth, working in slow, skillful strokes over and around her 
center even as he stifled an inadvertent murmur of his own.

Christ, he'd forgotten what this did for him; losing himself in a 
vortex of pure blessed feminine heat and desire.

The rich, primordial taste of Scully's very essence was enough to 
blot out even his most resolute intentions and Mulder fought the 
almost instinctive urge to ease the heel of one hand along his own 
throbbing length -- an all-too-familiar maneuver that would spell 
certain doom for him right now.
   
He concentrated instead on the sound of her sharp, staccato pants.  
Blossoming into the air around him as his Floyd CD finally drew 
to a close.  Letting her voice create a different type of 
psychedelic music in his ears -- one that was infinitely more 
compelling.   
   
Glancing up, Mulder watched her chin quiver and her eyes clench 
shut as his relentless explorations finally unraveled the tight knot 
of authority she so diligently maintained over herself.  

Amazing.  

Carefully, he focused on the timing of her reactions, fighting his 
own body's mutinous response as he drove her closer and closer 
to the brink, stopping again and again, just as she was ready to hit 
the wall.   
   
And then he would start all over, cautiously urging her ever 
farther, his sinfully smooth caresses pushing the limits of her 
reason.   
   
The process was extremely risky -- akin to balancing a graphite-
slick ball bearing on the tip of his finger to keep it from falling 
through a plate-glass window.

She sighed his name aloud again and the sound turned his blood to 
molten steel, sliding over his bones, making his skin flush with an 
extravagant combination of heat and sweat.   
   
She was so close...

It was time.   
   
Mulder drew back abruptly, withdrawing even as he heard her 
whimper in desperation at his sudden, complete abandonment.   
   
He hesitated only briefly before hooking an arm behind her knees, 
forcing her to lose her balance, sprawling with a jumble of errant 
limbs directly into his lap.

And then she was scrambling upright, before he could react.  
Settling herself firmly on the hard floor.  Sliding an arm around 
his neck and drawing his head back down to hers.  

Scully trembled slightly beneath him and he knew she could taste 
the stirring remnants of her own desire still lingering in the dark, 
lush depths of his mouth.   
   
But that didn't keep her from pulling at his tee-shirt; working it off 
him before her hands snaked downward to grip the firm warmth of 
his erection through his jeans.  

The balance of power was shifting suddenly.  Uncontrollably.

His whole body went rigid at her touch as Scully unfastened the 
button with lightning-quick speed, pulling the zipper down in a 
silvery hiss, reaching inside and clasping him in the dry heat of her 
palm.   
   
A gasp ripped through his mouth as Mulder's control instantly 
fractured at the touch of her small fingers confidently stroking the 
hard, aching proof of his own desire.

He was going to lose it -- 

right, fucking here -- 

right, fucking now -- 

if she didn't stop.  

God...he didn't want her to stop...

Tumbling her back along the floor, Mulder pushed her hand aside 
and squeezed his eyes shut as he forced himself to respect and 
acknowledge his body's limits.
   
"Scully."  His voice was a soft, keening sigh -- almost 
unrecognizable to his own ears.   
   
"Mmm hmmm." 

Her fingernails grazed lightly along the sensitive curve at the base 
of his spine and he felt the corresponding jolt in his groin.

"I-I need you.  I need...something."   

He was stumbling unconsciously into the familiar low tone of 
vulnerability that he ordinarily despised.  

But somehow it didn't seem to matter any more as Scully reached 
out, drawing him down over her while he fumbled off the rest of 
his clothes, their bare flesh meeting with a fiery cohesion.  
Mulder hesitated for the briefest of moments, holding himself 
tensely between her legs and her eyes flicked up, sensing his 
sudden uncertainty.

"It's..."

"It's been a long time for me," he admitted, turning his head to 
look away.

Scully grasped his chin quickly, preventing his escape and forcing 
him to meet her gaze once again.

"No, Mulder.  It's the first time.  It's our first time."
   
The heartfelt affirmation in her words shook him to the core, 
banishing all traces of anxiety as he pushed into her abruptly, with 
such force it took her breath away.   
   
She came almost immediately.

Tightness.  Heat.  The slick grip of her body closing around him 
like a fist.

<no no no>

He couldn't, wouldn't, give in yet.  It was too soon.  Instead, 
Mulder listened to the interstellar sound of her voice crying out, 
watching with an almost fierce concentration as her face suffused 
with ecstasy...

<he had to see it>

<now>

<it was happening *now*>

Her orgasm seared its way though the depths of her eyes like the 
soundless arc of a solar flare.  Hues and tones of blue, shades of 
blue, impossible variations on the theme of blue, all of them at 
once, scintillating, trembling, *alive*.  And then the greens came, 
wistful and luminous, elusive and magnificent.  The clarity of her 
vision disappeared in a kind of teal-blue turmoil -- a translucent 
sea where emerald lights glimmered restlessly on turquoise 
currents.

The inexplicable forces shaping his character so rarely unleashed 
this side.  The blissful soul of a poet -- utterly capable of abstract 
musings such as these.  And Mulder stole a desperate moment to 
revel in his own fancy. 

God but he wanted to preserve the cobalt passion of this discovery 
for all eternity.

Slowing his movements a fraction, he let Scully ride out the 
climax until she relaxed slightly against him. 
   
Then, still one with her, Mulder paused, propping himself up 
slightly and nuzzling gently at the throbbing pulse in her neck.  He 
slipped one hand down the length of her arm, pausing to twine 
their fingers together as he began to move again inside her, the 
pressure of her tight, varnished heat causing his pulse to race 
anew.  

A slick sheen of perspiration gilded her body and his in the soft 
light as he focused on the exquisite feel of every inch of her 
enfolding him...her subtle, female scent mingled with his own...the 
rhythmic cadence of their harsh breathing.   
   
Sliding one hand along her leg, he pulled it up to wrap around him, 
increasing the angle of his penetration and burying himself in her 
over and over and over again as the delicious incoherence of his 
actions finally plunged him deep into a state of otherworldly 
insanity.   
   
"Please, Mulder..."   
   
She was breathing in soft, mewling cries, watching him with a 
heavy-lidded gaze, almost as though she needed to see him snap 
with the same kind of release as her own.  Then, she would follow 
him.   
   
He tensed, on the verge of completion, blinking and meeting her 
taut, awaiting gaze.  She thrust upward unexpectedly and the 
feeling was enough to pull him closer...closer...closer...

<please>

And his senses exploded  -- filled beyond capacity with a 
profusion of intense, glittering energy.  Like a brilliant supernova, 
Mulder collapsed in upon himself with the speed of light before 
finally quivering uncontrollably as the tremors swept outward 
again in a rush of liquid heat, forcing her name over his lips in a 
soft, wet sigh of passionate satisfaction.

Beyond words, beyond reason even, he watched Scully close her 
eyes.  Heard her suck in a deep, groaning breath as she came again.  
Twisting, pressing her head against the firm surface of the floor 
and accompanying him into the firestorm of turbulent emotion.   
   
Inevitably, the swell of euphoria began to subside, easing its way 
back into the dark, hidden well that comprised both of their souls.  
And he relaxed, stretching out on top of Scully, face sinking into 
the soft, damp hollow of her neck as she stroked her fingers 
through his hair until their breathing returned to normal.   
   
She was rapidly drifting into the nebulous state between awareness 
and slumber; lying draped across the floor.  And Mulder forced 
himself to pull away from her; slowly making his way on shaking 
legs in the general direction of the bathroom.   
   
He returned with a towel, mopping her up gently as she watched 
him dazedly, motionless and silent.  Then, he drew her upwards, 
ignoring the muffled protest she voiced at having to move.   
   
"Come on, Scully," he said in a persuasive voice, still shivering 
faintly with emotion.  "This floor is hard as hell.  You'll be 
thanking me in the morning."   
   
Christ only knew if *that* would be true, Mulder thought, as the 
words left his mouth.  Here, now, in the sooty, seductive refuge of 
night, they could afford to savor the transitory remnants of this 
experience.  But daylight would surely bring its own cruel 
reckoning.

Reality.

Shit.   
   
Then, ignoring his budding sense of apprehension, Mulder let the 
two of them settle onto the couch in each other's arms, pulling a 
blanket over their cooling bodies and surrendering to sleep.
   

*********   

"Mulder."

The low, insistent tones sounded familiar somehow, echoing in 
the fluid recesses of his brain...

Disturbingly familiar.

He turned his head to one side, blinking languidly against the 
night.

A haunting sense of bewilderment plagued his senses and Mulder 
drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to remember who he was 
and where he was going.

Actually, he wasn't going anywhere, he realized.  Which seemed to 
make a lot of fucking sense because he was flat on his back, lying 
on the couch, staring at the dim relics of furniture and other 
assorted ruins scattered about the archeological dig of his living 
room.

It was dark, so it must be late.  But the faint, ambient light from 
outside still managed to prowl in through the window, lending its 
devious caress to the details of his suddenly familiar 
surroundings.  

Fuck.

He wasn't used to sleeping this heavily.  Or waking up this 
disoriented.

That must be why he couldn't move; why his upper body felt 
constricted by an unfamiliar pressure that, while strange, didn't 
feel entirely unpleasant.  However, it *was* accompanied by the 
eerie sense of being stared at.   
   
What the hell??   
   
He twisted his head back roughly to see Scully watching him, chin 
resting on both hands stacked atop his chest.   
   
Liquid crystal awareness exploded in the blank void of his 
memory, clearing the last remnants of sleep-induced fog as his 
mind's eye confronted a profusion of fantastic imagery:

The white satin feel of her limbs winding around his body.  The 
sweeping caress of her breath against his neck.  The wild 
harmonics of his name thrumming like taut piano wire in the 
chords of her throat.

Christ.

After all the insanity he'd experienced with her over the years-- 
murderers and mutants, conspiracies and hidden agendas, 
abductions and near-death experiences -- they had finally engaged 
in the one mad act that had previously been unthinkable.

Mulder drew in a sharp breath as apprehension rippled assiduously 
along his spine.   

What was she thinking?  Now -- after it was all over with?
   
His eyes were just barely able to discern Scully's blurred features 
through the inky-blue mantle of darkness and he searched for a 
breach; some sort of clue or direction in her expression.

"Scully?"

But she was silent, her steady breathing the only response in the 
tightly drawn air.   
   
Forcing himself to keep still, Mulder probed the depths of her 
gaze, not knowing what to expect and almost afraid to find out.  

God, but he felt vulnerable.  

Exposed.

As uncertain now as he had been confident before.  

A mild sense of  irritation began to flicker along the edges of his 
consciousness, joining the discomfort as he silently willed her to 
fucking say *something*.

This "enigmatic" bullshit really got tired after a while.   
   
Scully must have deciphered the convergence of frustrated 
emotion on his face because she smiled suddenly, guilefully -- 
with a knowing, feline expression.  Almost the way a wild animal 
might consider its captured prey before devouring it.  

His uneasiness began to expand proportionately with a kind of 
geometric progression.

Mulder reached up through the gloom to touch her face, cringing 
and blinking in confusion when her hand snaked out, forestalling 
him with a grip so tight it was almost painful.

"Scully, I--" 

He watched in amazement as her other hand came up to cover his 
mouth, halting his speech in mid-remark.   

Oh shit.
   
Her index finger pressed against the sensitive flesh until she was 
secure in his silence.  Releasing him,  Scully ran the smooth edge 
of her nail across the fullness of his lower lip and teased the 
polished barrier of his teeth lightly.  He caught his breath as the 
mystery in her expression seemed to fan out and wrap itself 
around him, stirring up the delicate emotional balance in his 
psyche even further.    

She shifted slightly, her body a heated whisper against his, and 
Mulder became uncomfortably aware that neither of them had 
stopped to put anything on prior to falling asleep.  

The feel of her warm, bare skin was enough to send a renewed 
surge of arousal tripping through him and he gasped sharply 
through the loose net of her fingers, waiting pensively for the next 
step.  

Scully angled her head, a faint smile still curving her lips as she 
pulled back a curtain of coppery hair.  Running her tongue lightly 
over her upper lip, she began to lower her mouth toward his with a 
sensual languor that had the compelling feel of slow-motion 
pornography.  

And he'd seen enough of it to know. 

A subtle sense of turmoil continued to prickle along his nerves as 
Mulder fought the almost violent impulse to squirm beneath her.  
Until finally, their lips grazed with the most gentle of caresses; so 
different from the seething intensity of before.   

The brush of her mouth disassembled him -- simultaneously 
breaking down both his will and his restraint.  Where before, he 
had been the one to skillfully manipulate her passion and desire, 
Mulder found himself beginning to be swept away -- unable to 
form a logical thought or do anything besides succumb to the 
heady intrigue of her expert manipulations.
   
By then, Scully's fingers were moving downward, skating 
smoothly along the sleek line of torso and hips, searching with 
subtle precision, finding his secret places and lingering in each 
one with a leisurely fascination.

Not for the first time, he wondered at the incredible contrast 
between the sensation of his own hands and those of a lover along 
his body.  

Scully's caress was thrilling...exotic...deliciously unpredictable.  

The internal controls in his head were rapidly breaking down 
beneath her ministrations -- tripping like so many circuit breakers 
in the early ominous stages of an incipient thunderstorm.

He wanted to touch her.  To force her along the same path.  See 
her shatter again with that breath-taking flare of luminous 
exhilaration.  But somehow he knew that if he made a single move 
in that direction she would stop, putting an abrupt end to the 
sweet, sweet torture rocking his world and tilting his senses.

Mulder clenched his eyes shut, forcing his trembling hands to rest 
along the cool surface of the couch and telling himself this had to 
be a dream.

A dream?

Christ, it was like a fucking Lennon and McCartney fantasy, 
complete with newspaper taxis, cellophane flowers and Scully in 
the Sky with Diamonds.  He was lying here, in the dark, writhing 
and panting incoherently beneath LSD visions in her kaleidoscope 
eyes.

He was lost...cast adrift...trying to get a handle on his own 
existence as he felt her hands sweep back upward to cradle his 
face.  

This was no illusion.  It couldn't be.  The sensations were too 
graphically unthinkable to be anything but real.
   
"Scully--" he tried a second time, stopping as she frowned at him 
warningly.   
   
He clamped his mouth shut, praying she would wipe that mildly 
punitive look off her face and just kiss him again.  That was what 
he needed more than anything, Mulder realized, completely 
helpless in the face of his desire for her.     
   
Leaning down, Scully tucked her head to the side of his, the veiled 
currents of her breath touching his cheek insidiously. 
   
"Mulder--"  

Her tongue flicked over the sensitive whorl of his ear...tactile 
sensitivity joining the aural narcotic of her voice inside his head.

"The time for talking--"  

A string of light, moist kisses sparkled along the length of his 
jaw...sheer essence of primal feeling coating his nerves like a 
white-hot enamel.

"--is over with."   
   
Bending over then, she let her mouth cut a swath along his body, 
working downward steadily.  And Mulder's teeth sank into his 
lower lip as he swallowed once, twice, convulsively -- focusing 
every remaining ounce of his decimated concentration on what 
she was doing.   
   
Scully paused just before her ultimate objective, tongue flicking 
lightly over the ridge of his hipbone where it jutted up against his 
flesh.  Turning her head into the hollow of his hips, she let the 
cool skin of her cheek rest against the feverish, straining heat of 
his arousal.   
   
Oh Christ, he thought, guessing exactly what was coming next -- 
praying for it -- and yet finding himself absolutely powerless to 
make it happen.

"Mulder?"

He lifted his head, meeting the cunning expectancy in her gaze and 
struggling for coherence, trying to respond to the tacit question in 
her tone.  

Failing, he let himself fall back lamely as she went on:

"You knew I would never let you have the last word, didn't you?"
   
And then, before he could formulate a suitable retort, she took 
him into the silken heat of her mouth.   
   
"Oh...Scully..."

The tortured groan was wrung out of him as his capacity for 
reason vanished completely beneath a towering swell of 
incredible sensation -- the insistent pull of her lips, the flick of 
her tongue, the grip of her hand, the delicate scrape of her teeth.    
   
Blindly, almost instinctively, Mulder slid his fingers into her hair, 
tucking the burnished strands behind her ear and easing his palm 
over the flushed contours of her face.  He was desperately trying 
to grasp at the short-lived illusion that was his self-discipline; to 
let this feeling last for as long as humanly possible.   
   
But the pressure was building toward ascendancy; rolling over him 
with immutable force, before he could even begin to process what 
was happening...

The orgasm bolted up his spine like a microburst of violent, 
furious energy -- gale winds of elation buffeting him unstoppably.  

Uncontrollably.

Oh god.  

His brain was the Boeing 737 going down 200 feet short of the 
runway at Dallas-Fort Worth.

Fire, light.  Sound, fury.  Ecstasy, fulfillment.

A long, broken sigh of wonder shook him at his very foundations 
as Mulder arched his back, pressing up into her.  She pulled back a 
bit, throat constricting around him, absorbing the very essence of 
his climax in one long, slow swill of wry amusement and 
satisfaction.

He was aware of the passage of minutes even as he came back into 
himself slowly, layer by layer, consciousness rebuilding itself 
cautiously from the ashes of its previous destruction.

Christ.  This was going to be night for the fucking record books.  
He could just tell.

Formless impressions drifted over him.

Sounds.

Movement.

Scully was gone, he realized, as a ripple of helpless, idiotic 
laughter burbled up in his throat.  

How the hell had this happened??

Draping a hand over his eyes and the sweat-soaked sheen of his 
brow, Mulder tried to slow himself down -- to synthesize the 
bizarre details of this situation into some semblance of 
understanding, or even coherence.

A night of passionate, oblivious, intoxicating sex with his partner.

With Scully.

God help him, but it was going to take *years* of therapy to 
unfuck his head after this one.

And then he suddenly realized that she was back, striding 
purposefully through the darkness and crouching down to poke 
through the remnants of their clothing where it lay scattered on 
the floor.

He watched her stand up quickly, pulling his gray tee-shirt over 
her head as she faced him, hands on her hips.

"It's as quiet as a damn morgue in here."

Whatever Mulder had expected her to say, it wasn't that, and he 
watched her curiously as she padded back over to his stereo, 
tossing a pair of discarded shorts in his general direction.

A jangle of sound and incoherent static rattled the previously still 
air until Scully settled on the rough, well-worn sound of some 
classic English rock' n' roll-blues riff.  The Rolling Stones, 
maybe.

I met a gin-soaked barroom queen in Memphis
She tried to take me upstairs for a ride
She had to heave me right across her shoulder
'Cause I just can't seem to drink you off my mind...

Christ, this was fucking *perfect*.

"Dance with me."

Startled, Mulder glanced up again, seeing that she was standing 
over him, wearing a familiar, imperious expression.  And there 
was something else there as well.  A wild, slightly untamed look.  
As though she had somehow made the decision to cast caution and 
reserve to the four winds, determined to make the most out of this 
solitary night as humanly possible.

Right.

"Scully, tell me you're kidding," he groaned, even as a telltale thrill 
of excitement began to surge in the pit of his stomach.

Stepping back, she crossed her arms and gave him a withering 
stare.

"Don't give me that macho, post-coital paralysis crap, Mulder.  
Get your ass over here now, before I hurt you."

He was sorely tempted to call her bluff, to see what she would do 
to him, but the challenge in her tone overrode his inner perversity, 
renewing his strength.  

With a quick, cat-like shift he was up off the couch, slipping on 
the pair of boxers and crossing over to her side before she could 
even blink an eye.

Smiling faintly, Mulder pulled her forcefully against him, savoring 
her abrupt gasp of amazement as he began to groove his hips 
against hers with the throb of the music.

It took but a second for Scully to find and match his rhythm.  And 
then they were easing their way along the length of the living 
room and into the empty space of the foyer where there was less 
to obstruct their swaying movements.

Mulder held on tight and bent into the song, dancing in an 
exaggerated fashion, almost as if he were on stage.  Gazing down 
into the glittering refuge of her eyes, he watched as she met his 
expression with a self-satisfied look, bobbing her head slightly in 
time with the song.

Rocking in close, Mulder forced her back into a dip, her legs 
going on either side of his.  He shoved at the base of her spine, 
jamming her against him, letting her feel the resurgent strength of 
his arousal pushing against her pelvis.  Scully was paralyzed with 
surprise for a second as he tipped his head back and simply stared 
into her, not saying a word.

He pulled her up out of the dip and danced close again, bumping 
against her slowly, in perfect concert with the beat until she 
resumed her reciprocal motions.

It wasn't smooth.  It wasn't subtle.  It had none of the heart-
warming, comic book drama he'd so often envisioned.

But it was real.

It was Scully -- dancing with him in the midnight club of his 
apartment, clad only in a scrap of his own clothing and the 
mystical aura of whatever this was evolving between them.

Darkness pressed against him then and Mulder let his existence 
shut down to nothing more than the exquisite feel of her warm 
body against his and the blunt-edged, energetic sound of Mick 
Jagger's voice belting out raw notes of lyrical defiance:

It's the Honky Tonk Women,
Gimme, Gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues...
   
And as the very last shreds of sensibility left him, Mulder knew 
that whatever else happened this night, whatever else happened 
between the two of them, he was never going to be the same again.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"In this world there are two tragedies.  One is not getting what one 
wants, and the other is getting it.
  The last is much the worst."
     -- Oscar Wilde
  

"Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's gone..."
     -- The Beatles, "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Scully cracked an eye open and drew a ragged sigh as sleep 
evaporated.   
   
Draped over Mulder's prone form, she lay stretched out along the 
length of his couch, covered only by a light blanket.   
   
The quiet sound of his breathing whispered in her ears and she 
lifted her head, blowing softly along the fine hairs of his nape 
before pressing her lips to the dry warmth of his skin.

He murmured incoherently, fingers twitching along the surface of 
the couch where his right hand rested gently near his face.

Dreaming, Scully realized with a small smile.  

About her? 

Maybe.  
   
She stole a few minutes more to lie atop him, tracing her 
fingertips along the curve of his back and savoring the supple, 
springy texture of flesh and bone, quivering slightly beneath her 
caress.

But he didn't wake, and she supposed the lofty juxtaposition of 
physical and emotional fulfillment tonight had worn him out.

It was just as well.

The suspension of Mulder's consciousness was something of a 
relief at this point -- an opportunity for her to come back into 
herself.  To be Dana Scully.

With a careful movement, she pushed herself up off him, sliding 
to the floor with a soft thump and a vague, inarticulate groan.
   
Her forehead creased with concentration as she held her face up 
into the silvery veil of the street lamp hazing through Mulder's 
window.

It should be morning.

The sky outside was still dark though, and Scully groped around 
the cluttered surface of the coffee table for her discarded watch, 
trying to regain her bearings somehow.   
   
Seven minutes after three, according to the luminous dial.  Pretty 
goddamned late.

But she was wide awake, unlikely to fall back to sleep easily.   
   
And anyway, she felt uncomfortable.  The air currents in the room 
were chilling, stealing over her bare skin like a sneak thief now 
that she had robbed herself of Mulder's heat.   
   
Besides which, there was a stinging, brackish aftertaste lingering 
in her mouth.
   
Standing quickly and quietly, Scully tiptoed over to the pile of 
clothes, looking for the t-shirt she'd filched before and finding it 
lying off to one side.   
   
Silently, she pulled it over her head before padding into the 
kitchen, flicking on the dim light above his sink, locating a glass 
and downing several mouthfuls of water.

Her subtle, distinctive efficiency of movement was almost 
automatic and she tried to relax with the mindlessness of it all.

Satisfying the immediate discomfort of her thirst, Scully set the 
glass down, letting her body rest against the counter as her fingers 
absently played over the droplets of water dotting the slick 
surface.
   
A virtual flotilla of furious emotion began sailing into the 
erstwhile calm of her self-awareness and she closed her eyes, 
leaning her head into the cool wood of one of his cabinets. 

Shit.

Here, drifting in the darkness, she could almost feel safe.  
Indemnified against what was quite possibly one of the biggest 
mistakes she'd ever made in her entire life.

Fucking her partner.

Christ.

Scully made a small, derisive sound at the somewhat ignorant 
thought.

'Fucking' was way too innocuous a term.

Soul-fusion was more like it.

Shaking her head slightly, she stilled her restive movements and 
stared blindly at her hands, fighting the sudden, irrepressible urge 
to cry.

What a god-awful mess this would turn out to be.

Hopeless.  Impossible.

And so damn predictable.

This sort of reckless endangerment was something the clandestine 
thrill-seeker in her just couldn't give up when it came to Fox 
Mulder.

God, how she let his passion move her.  

And make no mistake, it was 'passion' in every sense of the word.

No one, ever, in her entire life, challenged her the way that 
Mulder did.  With her career.  Her motivation.  Her beliefs.  Hell, 
the very foundations of her existence.  

Why should tonight be any different?

After all, it was what she wanted, wasn't it?

So, why the hell shouldn't she let herself be carried away?

A rash of subconscious memories surfaced with the simple 
question and Scully allowed herself the brief respite of wistful 
nostalgia for a few moments...

Simple, carefree times when she and her sister and brothers used 
to spend weekends with her parents out on the sun-licked beaches 
of the Silver Strand in San Diego.  Surfing the waves; surrendering 
to the vast unpredictability of the ocean as it propelled them on 
irrepressible currents beneath the seamless mantle of a cloudless 
sky.

A seductive sense of powerlessness had gripped her back then as 
she succumbed to the fascination, the lure of the sea -- letting it 
take her where it would.

Little had she known that a similar experience would claim her 
years later, right here, on the dry, sensibly Federal terrain of 
Washington DC.

Actually, it wasn't *quite* the same.

Not really.

The benign, almost playful coast of Coronado Island had been one 
thing.  If she stuck to using the Pacific surf as a metaphor, Mulder 
was far more like the icy, 30-foot swells at Half-Moon Bay in 
Northern California where she'd gone to school for a time.  
Terrifying waves that could drop tons of water down on a 
swimmer, holding them under for upwards of a minute or more.  

Deadly?  Quite possibly.  But for the big-wave surfers with their 
well-ensconced death wishes it was quite the incredible rip.

Tonight wasn't the first time that Scully had found herself 
perilously close to drowning beneath the force of Mulder's fire 
and intensity.

But it was the *only* time that a physical culmination had 
somehow spawned itself from the convoluted mix of their 
intertwined souls.

The experience had been indescribable.  A literal epiphany.

And Scully was afraid.

Because as much as she wanted this, deep within her heart of 
hearts, she despaired of her ability to control it. 

So much in her life was already out of her control.

Too much.

Anger crackled over raw nerves suddenly, disrupting her already 
tattered emotional symmetry as Scully clenched her teeth against 
its force.

Damn it.

Each day, she devoted hours of her life to working inside a system 
rank with hypocrisy, trying to divine the truth and expose a very 
real, virulent corruption affecting the lives of countless innocent 
people.  Including her own.

Every morning, she woke, worrying about the tiny, techno-Trojan 
Horse resting so benignly beneath the soft skin of her neck.  
Trying to overcome nightmares in which it led her, along with so 
many other rodents, into dark, chillingly fatal waters like the Pied 
Piper of Hamelin.  Waters that that stank of sanitary hospital 
corridors and the acrid odor of her own decaying flesh.

And then there were the ghosts...  

Her sister.  Mulder's father.  Emily.

A cast of thousands.

Gone.  Discarded as so much refuse -- like the ova taken from her 
once in a what amounted to nothing more than a sterile adaptation 
of laboratory gang-banging.

Helpless.

<she-was-helpless>

Biting down on her lip sharply, Scully swiped at the bitter tears 
now threatening in the corners of her eyes.

Bastards.

Fuck all of them.  

Maybe they could control what she did, but they couldn't control 
what she thought.  Or how she felt.

Sleeping with her partner might damn well be wrong, but oh god, it 
felt so unbelievably, impossibly *right*.

And tonight -- this experience -- she could control this.

She could have Mulder.

Because he knew.  He had endured the violation -- the abduction 
of the spirit.

He understood the darkness.  It kept her by his side.

Scully took a deep, wavering breath and rubbed at her forehead, 
shoving an unruly tangle of hair back from her face.

Unfortunately, real life couldn't be reduced to something quite so 
simple.

After all, there was still Tim to consider.

Wincing against the resurgent vision of the other man, Scully 
realized that no matter what had happened in her life, or even in 
this apartment tonight, Tim Bayliss didn't deserve this kind of 
betrayal, from her or anyone.

Somehow, some way, she would have to find a way to make things 
right.  

For all of them.

One thing was certain, anyway.  She wouldn't be making the drive 
up to Baltimore today as previously planned.  There was no way on 
earth she could face the other man without him knowing precisely 
what had happened.   

But she *would* have to leave.  Leave Tim.  Leave Mulder.

Only one person could find the answers to the labyrinthine puzzle 
of her ongoing existence, and that was her.  

Dana Scully.

<alone>

<by myself>

<safe>

She could go right now.  

She *should* go right now.

And yet...

Something inside her, a tiny, implacable voice, whispered a 
defiant chorus of tempting suggestions -- exhorting her to remain.

Just for a little while.

Stay here -- sheltered within the windbreak of sensory 
gratification that was Mulder.  

No matter what unpredictable changes the harsh reality of daylight 
might bring, she would have the rest of this night with him.

The renewed sense of clarity spread like a soothing mental 
anesthesia over the fractured surfaces of her battered psyche and 
Scully straightened, suddenly realizing that she was hungry.  
Famished.  

It was the middle of the night and she hadn't eaten all damned day.
   
Pushing back from the counter abruptly, she crossed over to 
Mulder's fridge, mind racing over any number of extreme 
possibilities as to the contents therein.   
   
Scully took a deep breath before opening the door, scouting the 
contents warily.  

A leftover pizza box probably dating from the Year One.  An 
ominous-looking container of orange juice.  A half-open carton of 
milk.   
   
Jesus, Mulder.   

Ready to concede, she took a crack a the milk, just in case, 
cautiously sniffing at it and noting that the expiration date seemed 
to be ok.

Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

A quick glance through his cabinets indicated that Mulder stocked 
them with about the same frequency as the refrigerator.  He *did* 
have what looked to be about two dozen cans of soup piled up in 
one not too far from the stove, forming a positively eye-catching 
jigsaw puzzle of red and white labels.  

Right next to a box of frosted wheat cereal.

Thank heavens for small favors.
   
Scully quickly found a bowl and a spoon, filled the glass again 
with water and boosted herself up to settle on the smooth, chilled 
tile of the counter-top.   
   
Absently, she spooned cereal and milk into her mouth, staring off 
into the distance and refusing to think about anything beyond the 
immediate pleasure of the cool, crisp sweetness sliding down her 
throat.   
   
God, it was quiet.  Peaceful.  

An illusion to be sure.  But a potent one nonetheless. 
   
Then, without warning, the overhead light flicked on, and she 
started in guilty surprise.   
   
Mulder was in the open doorway, clad only in his thin cotton 
shorts and standing in what she wryly referred to herself as the 
'bad-ass, FBI Special Agent pose' -- feet braced evenly apart, back 
ramrod straight, hands resting lightly on his narrow hips.   
   
"Hi," he said softly, meeting her eyes.   
   
She gave a brief nod, swallowing the last bit of a mouthful and 
dropping the spoon back into the bowl.   
   
His smoldering gaze commenced a leisurely stroll along the 
pathways of her body and Scully looked down, realizing she must 
have made quite a picture -- perched half-naked on his kitchen 
counter, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen, and eyes 
lambent with emotion.   
   
Probably the spitting image of one of his wanton sexual fantasies, 
she thought dryly, waiting as he tentatively advanced.  

As always, she admired the purity of motion in his graceful form, 
even if he was looking a bit rough around the edges just now.  

Mulder's hair was tousled and his eyes held a sleepy, contented 
look, though she could still detect a lingering trace of 
cautiousness.

Good.

He should be afraid of her.   

Because her will was becoming more and more focused with 
every passing second.  She was desperate to relish every single 
aspect of this experience with him.

And desperate people have nothing to lose...
   
Mulder paused before her, letting the steady warmth of his hands 
rest lightly on her bare knees.   
   
"Raiding my stash, I see," he said, looking down at the bowl of 
cereal next to her.   
   
"Yeah."  She gave him a wry glance, nodding vaguely in the 
direction of the adjacent cabinet.  "I guess I should consider 
buying some stock in Campbell's, huh Mulder?"  

He shrugged dismissively.  

"What can I say?  It's easy and it's fast.  And most nights, I really 
could give a fuck."

"So I noticed."

She scooped up another mouthful of shredded wheat, ignoring 
Mulder's sardonic expression and watching instead as his eyes 
continued to track her motions.   
   
Sucking casually at the spoon, Scully ran her tongue over the 
curve of her upper lip and stifled a self-satisfied grin as she heard 
his breath catch at her not-so-innocent behavior.   
   
"Want some?" she asked, holding out a portion of the dun-white 
cereal before he could answer.   

Mulder met her eyes for a fraction before gripping her wrist 
gently and holding the spoon to his mouth.  He flicked out his 
tongue, easing the frosted nugget between his teeth and biting 
down with a deliberately provocative gesture.

It was beginning to look as if two could play this game.
   
Still, Scully couldn't help giving a sigh of pure, erotic pleasure as 
he let her feed him for a moment.  

His hands swept suddenly along her legs, parting them, stepping in 
close, and she hastily bit back a small exclamation of surprise.   
   
Sitting on top of the counter, she was at eye-level with him for a 
change, needing only to tilt her head slightly and close her eyes, 
waiting for the fiery touch of his mouth against hers. 

He didn't kiss her though, and she blinked rather hazily in 
confusion when Mulder merely drew her against him instead.  
Tucking his chin into the hollow of her neck, he breathed lightly 
across her skin as his fingertips danced in complicated patterns 
over the small of her back.

The intimacy of the moment spread into the very depths of her 
soul like an oil spill slicking over the peaceful waters of a coastal 
sound.  Scully found herself desperately fighting her own peculiar 
instinct to disrupt the delicate balance by firing questions at him -
- asking him what all of this meant here tonight.

Because that would complicate things.

And right now, all that really mattered was that he was in her arms
   
Mulder stirred then and she felt the moist drag of his tongue along 
the arc of her neck, up into the delicate notch just beneath her jaw 
and then onward finally to the tremulous surfaces of her mouth.

The spoon clattered to the countertop, forgotten, as Scully slid 
her hands down the ropy length of his spine.  Her feet hooked 
around his backside, holding him to her as a thick, liquid heat 
pooled between her legs, flowing outward, making her limbs heavy 
and fueling the tempo of her rapid heartbeat.    
   
She savored the sweet, lingering flavor of frosted wheat and milk 
on his tongue as he let the kiss evolve into the most intimate of 
expeditions, plunging into the lavish depths between her teeth and 
stunning her with its utter, carnal intensity.  

But there was something else.

Scully could taste the need -- his and her own.  She could feel it, 
wanting to give into it and wipe out all else from her mind.  She 
didn't want thought or reason or logic.  

She wanted Mulder.

His hands slipped beneath her t-shirt, easing the soft cotton over 
her head, sliding the fabric back, across her shoulders.     
   
Gasping, Scully flinched at the touch of his hands on her breasts, 
the rough rasp of his thumbs against the tight sensitivity of her 
nipples.  Reaching down, she desperately sought the evidence of 
his own desire.   
   
"Don't," he said abruptly, snagging her wrist.  "You're gonna put me 
in the hospital, Scully."   
   
Mulder pulled back a fraction, reading the confusion in her gaze 
and smiling reassuringly.   
   
"Let me do this for you," he whispered, reaching up to brush a 
shock of hair back from her face as she nodded slowly, dark 
anticipation building a virtual tempest in her expression.   
   
Nipping gently at the swollen, feverish heat of her mouth, he 
finally settled his lips over hers with a reckless, sloppy abandon -- 
a long, slow, soft, wet kiss that seemed to go on forever.  The 
insistent longing in the pit of her belly was amplifying steadily, 
and Scully whimpered, urging him forward.   
   
He slid his hands over her breasts, to the fluttering muscles of her 
stomach, finally pausing just above the juncture of her thighs.   
   
She closed her eyes.

And then his fingertips slicked easily over the core of her 
feminity, circling and manipulating her desire with expert 
intensity in the slow, wicked dance of withdrawal and persuasion 
that he'd used on her before.

Scully gnawed at her lip, enduring the nearly agonizing sensation 
of alternating current for what seemed like an eternity until she 
finally found the strength to whisper hoarsely:

"Sometimes it gets very near to pain, Mulder."

He stared as her lashes drifted open, the green-gold waves of his 
eyes afire with a paradoxical mix of fervent pleasure and blazing 
self-discipline.  

"That's the trick," he said softly.  "Not going over the line."

"You come so close..." 

She caught her breath swiftly when he resumed his ministrations, 
focusing on the sheer efficacy of raw physical sensation.  A 
ribbon of light expanded in her mind and she reached out to grasp 
it, letting the furnace-like heat of an impending climax start to 
rush up over her suddenly until --

He withdrew again, leaving her writhing slightly in heart-stopping 
frustration.

"No.  Not yet, Scully..."
   
His throaty command managed to rearrange her reason somehow, 
pulling her back from the edge even as he eased two fingers deep 
between her legs, insidiously, delicately penetrating.

Oh god.

Scully felt him slide up, up, up -- past the point where tactile 
sensation ended inside her, contrasting sweetly with the the drift 
of his thumb over the silky contour of her inner thigh.

And then unexpectedly, there was something else...a delicate 
pressure...his fingers...grazing a spot deep within that she never 
knew existed.  A place that no one, even Bayliss, had ever managed 
to find before.

Her eyes widened in shock and amazement at the surge of 
overwhelming pleasure.  She tried to pull back, tensing, almost 
fearful of the magnificent emotion building explosively at the 
base of her spine.

"Mulder...what are you--"

She gasped, mouth working, blinking rapidly; trying to clear her 
blurring vision.

"What are you...doing?"  

"Shhhhh, Scully," he whispered soothingly, pulling her forward and 
nuzzling gently at the corner of her mouth.  "Do you want me to 
stop?"

She swallowed, willing herself to relent and letting her lids drift 
closed again.  "No."

Sweet Jesus, the raw need in her voice was striking, even to her 
own ears and Scully stifled an involuntary moan as Mulder 
returned assiduously to his labors.
   
"Look at me," she heard him demand softly, as her eyes snapped 
open to clash with his luminous gaze.  "That place where you're 
going...I need to see what you see.  To know what you're feeling 
there.  Please, Scully..."   

His ardent entreaty was so utterly compelling.

She couldn't refuse.  Couldn't think.

Only feel... 

Her climax was violent this time, flinging itself across her vision 
like the jeweled wonder of the Aurora Borealis and slamming her 
head backward until it met the hard barrier of the cabinetry with 
enough force to make her eyes water.

With one hand, she gripped the tense strength of his forearm 
where it rested upon her shoulder, the other flailing upward, trying 
to gain some purchase along the smooth wood of the cupboard 
next to her.

Instead, her fingers caught the edge of the door, unwittingly 
sliding into the opening and catching the cool, circular edge of--

A huge, reverberating crash shook the boundaries of the kitchen as 
all twenty-something cans of soup suddenly cascaded forth in a 
dull, metallic cacophony of ringing noise, bouncing off the 
counter top and falling to the floor.

Scully groaned at the sound, collapsing forward, against him.  
With her head resting in the curve of his neck, she regarded the 
scattered mess of red and white cylindrical objects with a faint 
sense of astonishment.

"Oh man.  That married couple downstairs is going to be 
*pissed*," Mulder remarked, shaking his head as he pulled away, 
mouth twitching with barely repressed amusement.   
   
Scully bit back a wide smile, struggling for coherence and  trying 
to contain her own laughter.  Tipping her chin up, she watched 
over his shoulder as the last few cans slowly rolled away into the 
dark corners of the room.

"Andy Warhol would be proud, Mulder," she managed to splutter, 
as her body began to quake uncontrollably with a reckless 
abandon.

He pulled her shirt back down to ward off the chill, fingers 
drifting down the ridges of her spine and then around, tickling her 
ribs and fueling the chaos building in the pit of her stomach.

Then, somehow, Mulder managed to look her in the eye and keep a 
straight face as he deadpanned:

"You know, Scully, in the future, we're all going to be abducted by 
aliens for fifteen minutes..."

Stepping back, he let her slide from her perch along the counter as 
laughter finally exploded from both of their throats, rocking them 
so hard, they had to clutch at one another for relief.

He was incorrigible, Scully told herself, bending over to ease the 
pressure of the spasms in her midsection and staring up at his 
expression of utter, total hilarity.

Oh god, this was too much.  

It was after four o'clock in the morning and here they were, the 
two of them, half-naked, laughing like a couple of idiots in the 
brightly lit confusion of his kitchen.  

Scully righted herself impatiently, pulling her slim, lively form up 
against Mulder's, their bodies still thrumming with an unstoppable, 
effervescent mirth.

Gasping quietly, she shoved him up against the edge of the 
counter, rocking her hips against his and letting fingers knead 
firmly into the hollow of his spine and over the curves of his 
backside.

She found herself dizzy with the sudden craving to have him inside 
her -- toppling them both into that wonderful arena of blissful 
satisfaction and fusing the dark, disquieted reservoirs of their very 
souls.

Mulder was biting down on his lower lip.  Hard.  Evidently trying 
unsuccessfully to contain his crazy, lopsided grin, and then losing 
it again completely when she made a face at him.

The extraordinarily rare cadence of his husky, unrestrained 
laughter sang in her veins like an exotic drug cocktail of cocaine 
and heroin -- a speedball for the senses.  Scully felt for a moment 
as if she might actually be losing her grip on reality.

And it didn't matter.  

None of it.  

If this was all life could be reduced to -- this moment of 
uncomplicated happiness and carefree stupidity, then so be it.

She was trashed.  Stoned.  Strung out with the sparkling 
intermixture of post-orgasmic euphoria and the metaphysical 
magnetism of Fox Mulder.  Right now, at this moment, there was 
nothing in life that she needed or wanted more than his hands, his 
mouth, on her body.  The feel of him inside her, filling her, 
penetrating her until there was little but the two of them and the 
secret journeys that were theirs alone in a tiny microcosm of 
shared, newly discovered rapture.

Then they were moving, stumbling through the kitchen, back into 
the living room and stopping again -- poised just above the 
beckoning cushions of his couch.

All at once, Mulder was kissing her, fast and furious, cutting off 
her laughter with light, quick movements of his teeth against her 
lower lip, her nose, her ears.  The delicate sensation of his tongue 
along her ticklish lobe sent a renewed burst of paroxysms soaring 
through her.  She tilted her head back, letting her eyes widen as 
the room seemed to tilt and whirl crazily around them -- the 
surroundings all blending into one another, vanishing into the 
ether.

"Agent Scully."

His bedroom tones resonated in her ears, the sound spreading 
through the web of her mind, heightening her already tightly 
strung senses.  She could smell the salty tang of their skin as 
perspiration painted its way over their bodies; feel the velvet 
abrasion of his stubbled chin against her cheeks and the tip of her 
nose; taste the lingering pull of desire tightening in her throat.  
The animal-wild sheen of lust was wonderfully evident in his 
beautiful eyes.

"I'm truly shocked...consorting with your partner till all hours of 
the morning and disrupting the sleep of the peaceful citizens of 
Alexandria.  You should know better.  What would Skinner say?"

"Fuck Skinner."  She gasped at the harsh obscenity as it slipped 
from her mouth, staring at him in slack-jawed wonder as the sound 
of the unfamiliar word lingered in the air. 

So much for self-restraint.

But Mulder just laughed again, reaching up to slip his thumb into 
her mouth, shuddering as she bit down and sucked greedily, eyes 
holding his in a dance of erotically mysterious intrigue.

"No," he said smoothly, command implicit in the velvet tones.   
"Fuck me."

The words sent arousal zinging through her like lightning as his 
long, graceful fingers commenced roaming over her body in a 
complex pattern of tantalizing pressure and pliable sensation.

He sank to the couch, wrapping his hands around her backside and 
drawing her down to sit astride his slim hips

The taut muscles of her lower abdomen quivered at the touch of 
Mulder's fingertips dragging along her waist and sliding up to 
tease her navel with an electric spark of pure sensation.  Ionized 
current began to build between her legs; need, passion and lust 
crackling inside her like a live wire caught in the full fury of a 
thunderstorm.

Eyes wide and focused with a single-minded purpose, Scully 
shifted, settling herself atop his hard, aching length and thrilling to 
the labored sounds of her own breathing as he took her with long, 
slow, fluid thrusts that were nothing less than pure, hedonistic 
fantasy.

With a heavy-lidded gaze, she slid her fingers into his hair...tilting 
his head up to face her...watching as his expression transformed 
into a thing of such transcendent beauty, it nearly took her breath 
away.

She lost herself in the moment -- conscious only of the feel of 
Mulder buried deep within her, moving her, stretching the limits 
of her reason and her sensibility.

He was everywhere.  In her.  Over her.  Around her.

Arching his back, he let her ride him, finding and matching the 
growing urgency of her movements with a willful intensity of his 
own.

Scully braced herself against the back of the couch, reaching down 
to slide a hand between her legs and letting her passion-slicked 
fingers drag against him as he drove into her over and over again.

Smiling indulgently, she watched as Mulder's eyes widened at the 
sensation, thrilling at his evident pleasure.  And then, barely 
conscious of her own volition, she tightened her grip as suddenly, 
suddenly...

She came with a rush of liquid fire and need, conscious only of 
the critical mass of their release, hers first and then his -- the two 
of them melting down in the fission-like heat of absolute union.

Tipping her head back, Scully closed her eyes and kissed the sky 
as it shattered; showering her nerves with a cloudburst of 
sparkling ecstasy.

Mulder clung to her like a drowning man, his grip so tight that 
Scully feared she would break in half, knowing there would be 
bruises to mark her tender curves in the morning.

Murmuring lightly, she folded herself against him, letting his 
strength support her as they gasped in concert, drawing frantic 
breaths and listening to the roar of rushing blood pounding in their 
ears.

The room quieted after a while, the stillness of early morning 
reasserting itself eventually as he twisted, drawing her with him.  
With a last sigh, Mulder stretched out along the length of the 
couch, shifting her slightly in the circle of his arms.

Scully slid to his side, wedging herself between his body and the 
back of the couch and watching as he turned to face her in the 
shadows.   
   
"Tired?" she asked quietly, waiting until he nodded marginally in 
response.   
     
She knew the feeling.

Mulder stared at her for a long moment, mesmerized by the 
mystery of her shadowed expression as he reached up to run his 
thumb lightly along the edge of her jaw.  She could see the fervid 
questions hovering like a tropical storm warning in his eyes.

He wanted to talk, but Scully had no desire to listen.

It was too late.

Like a ruthless, self-seeking pair of mercenaries, they had cut into 
the darkness over and over again -- wounding it mortally.  Night 
was hemorrhaging all around them now; the thick, sooty shadows 
of its very lifeblood wrapping around them in a final, desperate 
embrace.

For dawn was already building in the eastern sky.  And its minions 
-- fear, doubt, insecurity -- were all fortifying themselves in the 
lonely corners of Mulder's apartment.

Biding their time...

Honing their strength...

Scully could feel them now, creeping into her soul with 
unstoppable force, reminding her of the inevitable...

She and Mulder had carried each other to this place; facing down 
insurmountable odds with the courage of their convictions.  But 
the path was split now.  Well-defined boundaries were settling 
back into place, dividing them once again.

Making a soft, soughing sound, Scully let her lips drift slightly 
over the damp, humid skin of his neck, closing her eyes against 
the brutal reality of her musings and giving into the relentless 
lassitude stroking along her limbs.

She fell asleep at last against the disconnected rhythm of their 
mutual heartbeats, beating separate and lonely into the solitary 
remnants of this unearthly, yet still finite experience...   

   
*********   

Epilogue

The telltale click of the lock and hasp surfaced inside the tunnels 
of his mind as if from very far away.  

But the familiar noise was unmistakable.

The door.

Closing.   
   
Mulder groaned aloud, trying to deny his own awareness as he 
pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he waited in the stillness.

A second passed.

A minute.

And then he heard it -- the grate of the Cavalier's engine turning 
over outside.  

A quick whoosh of noise as she pumped the accelerator and the 
slight, jarring screak of tires on barren pavement pulling away 
from the curb, speeding along the endless path of unspoken good-
byes.   
   
Only then did Mulder chance a look at his surroundings, squinting 
against the bright sunlight streaming in through the window.  The 
warmth it offered was as nothing compared to the icy winds 
echoing with desolate conviction in his soul.
   
It was morning.     
   
He was alone.   
   
That last fact was now inescapable and he sat up, an inadvertent 
moan escaping his lips.   
   
He felt utterly exhausted, every single joint, muscle, and tendon in 
his body aching softly.   
   
But it was that rare, special kind of feeling.  The kind you only got 
after hours of intensely physical, mind-shattering sex.   
   
And now she was gone.   
   
In his heart, Mulder had known she would be.  Her leaving was as 
inevitable as everything else in his life.  

The only question was:  How permanent would her departure be?  

If he went to her apartment tonight, would she be there?  Or had 
she decamped for Baltimore, leaving him with only the 
bittersweet memories of their singular merging of souls?   
   
Pulling on his boxers, Mulder stood, stepping carefully in the 
direction of the kitchen and guessing by the scent of it that she'd 
at least left him coffee.     
   
Always the conscientious one, his Scully.   
   
Mulder paused just inside the foyer as something by the front 
door caught his attention.   
   
He recognized the large, flat parcel that she'd dragged in with her 
last night.   
   
It was still wrapped in its brown paper shell, tied with string and 
propped against the wall where he would be certain to see it.   
   
With a flash of understanding, Mulder knew she'd intended it as a 
farewell gift.  But in what capacity, he could not fathom.   
   
Curiosity got the better of him and he headed back to rummage 
across his desk, emerging after a few tedious moments with a 
scissors and going to work on the string.   
   
That taken care of, he ripped at the paper, exposing a large color 
print, three-foot by three-foot, matted and framed in black 
lacquer.   
   
It was the NRAO's Very Large Array in New Mexico -- a grouping 
of twenty-seven gigantic antennas used by SETI in the search for 
signals from non-terrestrial sources.   
   
Of course, he thought.  She wouldn't choose Arecibo.  The 
memories were too painful there.  But this was beautiful.   
   
The photographer had taken the shot standing beneath one of the 
immense radio telescopes, catching the burst of the sun as it rose 
over the bowl.   
   
The angle of the lens was such that the dish itself was colored 
black from shadow -- like an immense ebon horn, curving to 
pierce the clear, azure sky of the Plains of San Agustin, letting the 
exultant flare of solar radiance emerge.   
   
The photo was a stunning tour de force, and Mulder understood 
immediately that she had chosen it as a visual metaphor for his 
quest.   
   
The revelation of truth.   
   
It was perfect.     
   
He hefted the picture, appreciating its weight and carried it over to 
the living room, propping it up on one of the chairs opposite the 
couch.   
   
Sinking down across from it, he reached forward for his glass and 
the half-empty fifth of Cuervo from last evening.   
   
The hell with coffee.

Tequila was a far more potent eye-opener.

And quite an effective pain-killer, as well.

Exhaling slowly, Mulder leaned back, running his fingers through 
his hair and keeping his eyes open the merest fraction, 
contemplating the message before him.   
   
Truth.

As bitter as the lingering taste of alcohol on his tongue.  
   
Scully.

And now she was gone.   
   
So long.  Farewell.  Hasta la vista, baby.   
   
Life goes on.   
   
Fuck, he thought, closing his eyes, pressing the cold glass against 
his forehead, and willing himself to think about nothing at all. 


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Part V -- Coronado

"I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and 
diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a 
prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth
 lay all undiscovered before me."
     --Sir Isaac Newton

"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the 
sea.  Except I am, I think, it's because, in addition to the fact that 
the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's 
because we all came from the sea.  And it is an interesting 
biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same 
percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and 
therefore we have salt in our blood, our sweat, in our tears; we are 
tied to the ocean, and when we go back to the sea, whether it is to 
sail or to watch it, we are going back from whence we came."
     --John F. Kennedy, speech given at Newport, Rhode Island on 
September 14, 1962

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 


>Coronado Island
>San Diego, CA

Scully stood and stared out over the beach, watching the ocean 
waves thrashing fiercely against the sand. 

A thick, damp mantle of marine layer smothered the surface of the 
sky, blocking any ambient sunlight and merging with the horizon 
until the water was indistinguishable from the sky.

Like a wall, she told herself.  A seamless prison rampart stretched 
across the boundaries of her vision.  It was the perfect setting in 
which to contemplate the cauldron of emotion seething in her 
spirit.

The strident call of several seagulls drew her attention and she 
watched their flight, scattered across the clouds like tears falling 
across an empty space.  Until she remembered the tall man 
standing next to her, supporting her with the steadfast warmth of 
his presence.

God, but she was grateful for his strength.  His confidence.

And his love for her.

They shared no physical contact.  Instead, each was content just to 
stand close, immersed in the familiar comfort of each other's 
presence.

Judging solely by appearances, you wouldn't guess they were 
related.

Distinctions abounded.  Bill Scully towered above his sister, his 
stocky frame contrasting sharply with her slightness.  Her skin 
was fair and without flaw; his lightly tanned from random 
exposure to the California sun.  And the copper cast to her hair 
was like a flame flickering in the wind -- so unlike the dark, neatly 
trimmed ruffle of his own.

But if you looked closely enough, you could see the similarities.  
Spines held straight with a subtle, military bearing.  Proud aquiline 
features that still managed to soften easily with a rare, wide flash 
of teeth.  And blue, blue eyes crackling with the inner combustion 
of cold fusion -- speaking to their profound, yet fiercely private 
natures.

Scully inhaled the piercing scent of the Pacific and looked up at 
her brother.

"Thanks for bringing me down, Bill.  It wasn't necessary.  I think 
I've disrupted your household enough just by showing up here." 

"Don't be silly," he said, voice rippling easily over the ocean noise 
surrounding them.  "I just wanted to make sure you got settled in."

"After all these years, I still know the way.  It wouldn't have been a 
problem."  

She looked back towards the water when he didn't reply, closing 
her eyes for a moment and savoring the wind as it stroked her face 
with restless energy.  

"I'm here.  I'm okay.  It's going to be fine, Bill."

"Uh-huh," he said, rocking back slightly and staring down at her 
with a pensive expression.  Her careful display of poise and 
assurance was obviously not fooling him. 

"I guess I should get back, then.  Tara will be waiting."

She gave him another glance from the corner of her eye, 
recognizing the rare look of hesitation on his face as he searched 
for a way to counter her unwavering restraint.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked, at last.

"No, Bill," she said.  "You've done enough already this week and I 
appreciate it.  Taking me in on such short notice.  You know I love 
spending time with your family."  

Scully smiled, grasping at the diversion.  "Your son is getting so 
big."

A minute passed as Bill let the comment slide.

"I need some time for myself," she finally said.  "That's why I came 
down.  The ocean, this place...somehow it makes me feel safe."

"The ocean?  Or is it just because this feels like home to you?"

Home.  Your old home, my home, Emily's home.  

Bill never spoke the words aloud.  He didn't need to.

"A little bit of both, I guess," she said.

The silence resumed, but Scully knew he was only waiting to say 
more. 

They had never communicated very well in words, even as 
children.  She and Bill were too much like each other in an 
alarming variety of ways.  And contentiousness frequently ensued 
between them.  

Many of the things they disliked about themselves became 
impossible to ignore within the context of an all-too-familiar 
conflicting will and personality.  

And yet, they were still fundamentally connected somehow -- in a 
manner neither had really shared with the other two siblings.  Or 
their parents.

Scully and her older brother shared an unspoken language.  An 
obscure dialect of sorts -- one based on devout respect and 
concern for the other.  Bill would walk through fire for her, if 
necessary.  She knew that as surely as her own breathing.

Which was why he still lingered at her side, despite the dank 
discomfort of the weather and the call of his responsibilities at 
home.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" he asked, after a while.  
"What this is all about?"

Scully swallowed past a sudden flood of dangerous feeling.

Earlier in the week, during the time spent in his home, she'd been 
able to block it out -- the predicament leading her to this place.  
But Bill's question forced all her pent-up emotion to the surface 
with sickening ease.

Because this wasn't a vacation.

It was a goddamn quest for fire.  For answers.  For the key to her 
soul.

She could not tell him that.

"It's Mulder, isn't it?"

The accusation caught her by surprise and she cringed without 
thinking.

He reached down to touch her hand.  "It's okay if it is."

Scully looked up at him, trying to decide just how to respond.

Finally, he released her fingers and she shook her head slightly.

"No, Bill," she said, almost whispering as he leaned over to catch 
the words before they dissolved into the wind.  "It's about me."

Her brother didn't reply and Scully absorbed the wordless rebuke 
as he inhaled slowly instead, letting the breath go a moment later 
with a loud, obvious sigh.

"Well," he said, after a few moments, "I guess you're entitled to a 
break every now and then.  I know it's been a very difficult year for 
you."

A small wave of comfort washed over her as their eyes met -- the 
contact between the two of them saying more than words ever 
could.

"I just..." he trailed off, looking up at the sky self-consciously.

"What?"

"I just...wanted to tell you that it means a lot to me...your visit, 
Dana.  That you came here to be with me, with my family, when 
you needed it most.  I can't..."  He hesitated again before finishing, 
"I can't tell you how good that makes me feel."

Smiling slightly, Scully leaned into him.

"I know."

He held her close, with a crushing squeeze that nearly took her 
breath away.

Her family was such a paradox, a blessing and a curse, fraught with 
all kinds of ambiguity and fulfillment.

So often, she held them at arm's length, guarding her personal 
sense of identity with a forcefulness bordering on the extreme.  
Scully didn't kid herself.  She knew just how easy it would be to 
lose herself within the deep pathos of her family dynamic.

Still, the fiercely protective sentiment of the Scully clan was not 
without benefit.  And at times like this, when she needed their 
unconditional support and love, it was all worth it.

Bill pulled away from their temporary embrace and took a step 
back, tilting his head slightly and jamming his hands into his 
pockets.

"You're going to be all right?"

"Yes."  The lie came easier than expected and Scully made a small 
gesture with her hand, implying that he should be on his way.  
"Everything's going to be fine."

"Okay," he said, beginning to turn in the direction from which 
they'd come.  "You'll remember to call me before you leave town, 
won't you?"

"Of course,"  she said, keeping her voice even.

Actually, the idea of his leaving terrified her.  Alone, by herself, 
Scully would have no choice but to confront the issues nipping so 
closely since she'd fled Mulder's apartment that Saturday morning 
a week and another lifetime ago.

Even the regular phone call she made to Tim every night wouldn't 
be enough now to alleviate the dark fears in her rising sense of 
accountability.

"Tell Tara again I said thank-you," she forced herself to say, giving 
him a tight nod.

"I will," he said.  "Good-bye, Dana."

"Good-bye."

Without another word, Bill turned and walked away, struggling 
slightly against the shifting sand beneath his feet.

Scully watched him leave, framed against the red and white 
Victorian landscape of the Hotel Del Coronado.  It would be her 
new home for the next nine days or so.  Maybe even longer.

She was determined to take as much time as necessary.  Or at least 
as much time as the Assistant Director had given her.

Three weeks and four days.  Plenty of time to chart the entire 
course of your remaining life.

A solitary tear slipped down her cheek, and Scully gnawed at her 
lip in frustration.

There was no escape now.  She had come to San Diego, to the 
comfort and familiarity of the ocean shore to get away.  To 
contemplate her future, figure out her head.  There were no more 
distractions.  No more restraints.  No excuses.  Just her.

Dana Scully.

And all the twisting patterns of her existence slamming full-force 
up against two of the people who meant the most to her.

Mulder.  Bayliss.

God, what a mess it all was.  Even one of Mulder's vaunted 
conspiracies would be hard-pressed to screw her up so 
effectively.

Which almost made it worse, because the situation had come 
about entirely through her own actions.  There was no denying her 
culpability.  She'd gone ahead and made decisions based on who 
she was and what she thought she wanted.

Now, she was facing the most difficult choice of all.

Walking forward slowly, Scully picked her way through the sand 
until she reached the edge of the rock barrier separating the beach 
from the angry spume below.

The staccato rhythm of splashing footfalls from a single diehard 
jogger distracted her for a moment and she watched the runner's 
solitary figure pass, heading south along the moist stretch of the 
strand.

Like her, he was purely alone in the moment.  Moving through life 
with a determined resolve, no matter how gloomy or oppressive 
the surroundings.

Almost immediately, Scully was reminded of all those times in 
the past when she'd come to the edge of this vast boundary of 
water, hoping to drown her sorrows within the swells of its 
faceless majesty.

That was before her sorrows learned to swim.

She sat before the angry surf and reflected on the waves of her 
own misery and seeming inability to act.

There was a goal to be reached.  Scully was sure of it, even as she 
watched the runner's now-distant shape slow and head up toward 
the condos at the far end of the shore.

The man, a stranger, had reached his destination.

Would she ever be able to find her own?

A chill from the wind infused her skin, echoing the icy social and 
personal constraints binding her so tightly.

Her integrity.  Her career.  Her calling.  Her life.

Scully sent up a silent prayer to God to help show her the way.  
Then, taking a deep breath, she stared back at the water.

And thought about Bayliss.

*********

>2630 Hegal Place, #42
>Alexandria, VA
>Sunday -- seven days earlier

The first twenty-four hours were the worst.

Mulder lay on the couch, listening to the distant sounds of her 
departure and forcing himself not to get up and observe it through 
the hazy barrier of his window.

Shakespeare had already done enough tragedy to last the human 
race a lifetime.  There was no use adding his own sob story to the 
list by acting the part of some fucking forlorn, star-crossed lover.

Still, the compulsion to make sense of the past evening's 
experience was relentless.  It hammered at his temples with a 
summons only slightly less stinging than the hangover he should 
have but didn't.

Frustrated, Mulder finally gave up and reached for the leftover 
tequila, pouring himself a drink in a futile effort to dull the ache in 
his soul.

He stared at the low level of amber fluid with a rancorous eye, 
remembering his brush with inebriation from the night before.

Sometimes drinking too much wasn't enough.

Heedless of the fact that he'd had nothing to eat for at least the 
last twelve hours, he lifted the shot and swallowed it with a flick 
of his wrist...

...and winced as the alcohol went on a slow burn through the pit of 
his stomach.  The feeling of nausea was so severe there was little 
he could do except let the glass slip through his fingers and curl 
himself into a tight ball of misery on the couch. 

Smart move, Spooky, he thought, feeling the familiar chalkboard-
scuff screaming along his spine with his use of the hated 
nickname.  

Fucking Oxford-educated brilliant.  Now excuse me while I hold 
off the urge to vomit.

Reaching up, Mulder pulled the worn throw over himself and tried 
to ignore the crushing onset of an almost suicidal despair.  For 
Christ's sake, he was even to the point of talking to himself now.

Well, as one of his former psych profs was fond of commenting, 
the wonderful thing about schizophrenia was that you didn't have 
to face it alone.

But he *was* alone.

And ultimately, that truth was enough to blow the last remaining 
dregs of bitter humor outside the realm of further consideration.

By late afternoon, he roused himself enough to take a shower, 
hoping the shock of icy-cold water might break the paralysis 
inside his head.

It hadn't worked.

Nor had his feeble attempts to restore order to the kitchen -- the 
same amphitheater of intimacy that had found him laughing with 
her at four in the morning.  He'd led them back to the couch where 
she'd wrapped herself all around him.  And together, they had 
embarked on yet another liquid-hued journey of the senses, caught 
inside a feverish binge of pure, unadulterated physical graffiti....

Oh shit, was he ever in deep, fucking trouble, Mulder realized as 
his spirit began a steady free-fall into the heartbreak of total 
recall.

And it was only the beginning.

Darkness found him pacing about the apartment, pitching a 
basketball from hand to hand in a show of barely restrained 
agitation.

Around the coffee table.  Past the bedroom door.  Into the foyer.  
Towards the kitchen.  Double back and head for the living room to 
start all over again.

Walk, bounce the ball, stop, blink, breathe. 

The shifting patterns of light from his aquarium were like a cage 
as his thoughts returned again and again to the broken memories 
she'd left behind.  He wondered what the fuck this joke he called a 
life was really all about.

Was it just about him?  His quest?

God help him -- had it become about some kind of all-consuming 
need to keep her at his side?

Pausing, Mulder tossed the ball aside and ignored the resultant 
crash as it landed on the cluttered surface of his desk.  He inhaled 
slowly, holding himself completely still within the stale air 
currents of the living room -- the place where they had both 
descended into an unbelievably carnal, mind-blowing damnation 
the night before.

No.

It *wasn't* just about Scully, he realized, struggling to decipher 
the rattling tavern puzzle of thought inside his brain.  She didn't 
want that and he didn't either.

Because it was about both of them.  It had been for a long time.

Mulder ground his teeth together and wondered just when fate had 
deemed it impossible for one to make a choice without it 
affecting the life of the other.

Scully had made her choice when she walked out the door this 
morning.

The realization sent fear crawling along his veins, corroding like 
acid over muscle and bone.  A throbbing pain began behind his 
eyes -- so intense he had no choice but to clench his fists and wait 
for the telltale surge of agony to subside.

With a low groan, Mulder sank down and stretched out along the 
same expanse of floor where he'd sought to bind himself to her 
just twenty-four hours earlier.

The throw rug felt like wet sandpaper against his cheek and he 
shivered at the hypersensitivity of sensation.  Twisting 
desperately, he rolled onto his stomach, fingers grasping at the 
flat stretch of carpet beneath him as though trying to absorb all the 
residual impressions from the encounter.  Maybe that way, he 
could keep it burning brightly inside his heart.

The ache in his head redoubled as bitter tears slipped down his 
cheeks.

Crying over lost dreams in the dark of his apartment appeared to 
be developing into a regular routine.  The trick was to find the key 
necessary to breaking the cycle.

Acrimony and cynicism hadn't gotten him very far.  They were like 
synthetic laboratory toxins, bioengineered for maximum killing 
efficiency.  Filling his spirit to capacity, they spilled over to 
poison whatever meaningful connections he had left with the 
world.

Mulder was cognizant enough to realize that last evening's move 
towards a sexual denouement had been an extension of that 
process.  His efforts had been born of utter selfishness and anger.  

And blind fear.  

Fear of her leaving.

Yet he was also convinced of his own self-control, knowing that it 
would have inevitably pulled him back from the abyss.  
Circumstances would never have led to what they did if Scully 
hadn't reacted with a challenge of her own -- a clear-cut indication 
of her need to know him in this strange, new way.  Obviously, she 
had wanted to dismantle the substance of their partnership, 
reducing it to its most basic level.  

At her core, Scully was still a scientist.

The method dictated she test her hypothesis -- whatever theory 
she had formulated to support the extreme phenomena emerging 
between them over the past five years and six months.  The cold 
light of day would have demanded a conclusion -- one that he was 
evidently not meant to know or understand.

Scully kept her own counsel about so many things.  Especially 
when it came to matters of the heart.  For all the time he'd known 
her, she was still the fucking New York Times crossword of 
human emotion.  He knew she was capable of showing real 
feeling.  But in the wake of such demonstrations, it often seemed 
like he could see her standing all alone within the deliberate 
spaces of her own isolation.

Outsiders were definitely not allowed to play.

Frequently, Mulder suffered himself to be held off, following the 
rules of the game and respecting her wishes because it was easier 
that way.  Even when he could see past the surface reflection of 
her stubborn will to the more obscure depths of her need for real 
comfort and maybe even love.  

Last night was no exception.  

Towards the end of their final encounter he had felt the impulse to 
speak -- to put the whole process of revealing their desperate need 
for each other into words.  Validating it, making it real.  For 
himself and for her.

But something in the void of Scully's expression had warned him 
off.  And the growing sense of doubt he felt about their 
circumstances convinced him to wait.

Now, she had left, leaving him to face the consequences all alone. 

Goddamn it.  Was this how she felt all those times he'd abandoned 
her to follow the relentless call of his own obsessions?

An explosive surge of anger rocketed through him suddenly with 
the idea that she would try to prove something by turning the 
tables on him.  Whether he deserved it or not.

No.  She would never do that.  That type of subtle manipulation 
was simply not Scully's way.

His fury subsided as quickly as it had come, depositing him back 
within the dark recesses of the greatest sadness of his life.

With a shuddering breath, Mulder sat up, drawing his legs to his 
chest and resting the smoldering heat of his cheek against his 
knees.

His brief flare of animosity was nothing compared to the belief 
that Scully might be gone to him forever.

No more rare wit.  No more stubborn logic.  No more genuine 
understanding.

Scully's devout convictions were dynamic, thrilling even.  Enough 
to render him speechless.  To break down even his most 
passionate beliefs, forcing him to re-examine his conclusions.

As frustrating as it had been, her goddamn strict rationalization 
and science had saved him a thousand times over.  She kept him 
honest. 

Her faith in him was endless; her trust without limit.

He owed her everything.

And now she was gone.  

Just...gone.

Christ, where would he find the strength to go on?

Dimly, he was conscious of time passing.  The dawning light of 
another day, Monday, after an endless stretch of hours in which he 
was truly alone for the first time in a long, long while.

Groaning softly, Mulder rose from the floor and set off to get 
ready for work.

Thanks to the mandate of the mighty United States Justice 
Department, wallowing in a fog of self-pity was no longer an 
option for him.  Not for the next ten hours anyway.  Besides 
which, there was still a chance he might encounter her in the 
warrens of the Hoover building, if indeed she had not left for 
Baltimore as he suspected.

Right.

His arrival at their office dashed whatever hopes Mulder might 
have had regarding that possibility.

Entering slowly, he took in every detail with his usual perception.

It *looked* the same, but with a few subtle, distinctive 
differences.

No briefcase.  No stack of pathology reports.  No steaming cup of 
pale brown coffee.  No laptop humming quietly in the back on the 
table.

In short, no Scully.

Without a sound or even a change of expression, Mulder stepped 
inside and took off his jacket, closing the door gently behind him.  
Then, he sat down in the chair behind his desk and went to work.

On some level, he managed to convince himself that if he didn't 
acknowledge her absence, she wasn't *really* gone.  The delusion 
was comforting.  But he also found himself praying that a call 
from the Assistant Director's office summoning him upstairs for a 
conference concerning her resignation would never come.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of extreme concentration.

Much to his dismay, Mulder discovered that performing even the 
most reflexive tasks -- writing summations, filing reports, booting 
up his PC -- all required his energies be directed into a framework 
of severe indifference:

Don't think about her.

Oh god.

Please.  Don't think about her now. 

He moved about the basement in a spaced-out reality, brain 
shifting among various provocative memories, moments of 
intense self-blame and instants when he simply thought about 
nothing at all.

Morning became afternoon became evening as Mulder finally 
turned to his computer and began the tedious process of looking 
over his daily correspondence.  During slow periods between 
cases, he usually touched base with a wide variety of contacts and 
informants -- people with whom he regularly traded information 
about X file-related material.  

Today, his list of pending email was the regular mixed-bag of 
legitimate messages, a few out-and-out cranks and the weekly 
update from the Gunmen.  

And one odd, encrypted communique from a third party claiming 
to have caught his anti-government speech the previous month at 
the Massachusetts Institute.  The sender made vague references to 
a group of interested individuals.  People mobilizing in an attempt 
to take a more aggressive approach in combating the oppression 
of the Establishment.  It went on to suggest that he might entertain 
an offer to learn more about this.  The message was signed simply, 
"Philippides."  

That was a weird one and needed to be checked. 

Mulder was not familiar with the IP address, though there was still 
a strong possibility the letter was nothing more than a waste of 
time.  Just another attempt to draw his attention to somebody's 
paranoid fantasies.

Something about the tone of the message convinced him though.  
He knew that Philippides was the mythic courier sent out to Sparta 
to seek help for Athens in its war against the Persians.  If nothing 
else, the sender was at least learned enough to engage in a clever 
form of arcane symbolism.

Mulder set to work, grateful to have something substantive to take 
his mind off the reality of day's end and his need to return to the 
empty spaces of his life.

By Tuesday, he quit going home at night, preferring the 
anonymous solace of his office at the Bureau to the alternative -- 
an apartment where he couldn't sleep and spent his time staring at 
the poignant reminders of his final meeting there with Scully.

At least in the basement, he could chip away at his enduring 
wakefulness by counting paperclips and throwing pencils into the 
ceiling tiles till the early morning hours.  Then, he would slink 
home to his own bathroom for a quick shower and a change of 
suits so as not to cause comment among his contemporaries at the 
Bureau.

Unfortunately, the lack of sleep was telling in its own way, 
causing loss of appetite, headaches and a prevailing clumsiness 
that was impossible to ignore.

Late Thursday, Mulder broke down and fished out his well-worn 
copy of "Femalien" from its hiding place in one of the file 
cabinets, sliding it into the VCR.  

Feet propped up on the desk, he tipped his chair back and closed 
his eyes, forcing himself to relax.  By this time, the faint, 
distinctive sounds of porn were as soothing and pleasantly 
comfortable as an old lullaby, and he drifted off at last into a 
dreamless repose. 

But the respite was only a temporary one, pitiful in its own way 
and a harbinger of worse to come.

Through the insulation of despair, Mulder could feel the onset of 
spiritual entropy -- a destructive pattern of behavior evolving 
relentlessly.  Like cancer out of control, he was powerless to 
prevent it.

Then, on Friday afternoon, Walter Skinner finally did it for him by 
breaking protocol and paying him a little visit.  Just after five 
o'clock, the A.D. shouldered his way in through the half-open door 
without knocking, gazing briefly around the cluttered space.  As 
usual, his crisp, authoritative mien managed to make the office 
feel more second-rate than it already was.

"Go home, Mulder," he said without preamble.  "The cleaning staff 
has been complaining for days.  It's the weekend.  Get yourself 
some rest."

Mulder had the grace to look slightly abashed as he struggled 
upright to stand behind his desk and look his boss in the eye.

Skinner knew, he realized.  He *knew* what was going on.  Scully 
had left and now he was as beaten and desperate as a dying man.

For whatever reason, the A.D. had chosen not to say anything, 
perhaps to spare him the pain and humiliation of having to explain 
himself.

Still, he knew nothing could mask the loss dulling his normally 
punk-cool demeanor.  Shit.  Skinner was probably astute enough to 
guess that he'd yet to take a razor to the three-day-old stubble on 
his chin because of the growing fear he might accidentally cut his 
throat.  At this point, Mulder didn't even have strength enough to 
care.

Without a word, he dropped his eyes, gathering up his suit coat 
and heading for the door until Skinner's voice brought him up 
short.

"You know, Agent Mulder...perhaps *you* should consider taking 
some time off while Agent Scully is on leave."

Mulder stared somewhat stupidly at the A.D.'s words, trying to 
comprehend as the other man crossed his arms and gave him a 
meaningful glance.

"Leave?" he finally asked, struggling to break away from the 
crippling sense of bewilderment.

"Yes," Skinner said, tipping his head back and making a small cut 
with his jaw for emphasis.  "You know.  Agent Scully's requested 
leave of absence?"

"Oh."  Mulder nodded slowly, as if he'd understood all along.  
"Right."

The look Skinner gave him was inscrutable.

"Just think about it, Mulder," he said again, stepping aside to let 
the agent pass him on his way out the door.  "Even if you wait a 
few days before taking off, you'll still have plenty of time.  It'll be 
a few more weeks before Agent Scully is due to report back."

Mulder paused for a moment, absorbing the hidden meaning in the 
other man's terse delivery.  All at once, he recognized Skinner's 
commentary for what it was -- an attempt to relay the facts 
concerning Scully's status as unobtrusively as possible.

It was a rare display for the Assistant Director.  Such a subtle 
approach did not come easily for him, and Mulder took a deep 
breath, noting the line Skinner was obviously toeing with 
considerable restraint.  Acknowledging it would lend a 
significance to the conversation that he sensed the other man was 
trying to avoid.

And so he left, catching the A.D.'s thinly veiled gaze of 
compassion and letting silence voice his thanks for him.

Mulder made his way out of the building, the sharp cadence of his 
footsteps reflecting a building sense of urgency as he pondered 
the import of Skinner's words.

He quit his rapid retreat in the parking garage, finding his Taurus 
and sliding into the front seat.  With a sigh, he ran a hand through 
his hair and thought for a moment.

She had taken a leave of absence.  

In spite of his obvious anxiety at the news, part of him was 
actually *happy* -- relieved that Skinner hadn't told him she'd 
resigned, which was what he'd really expected.

Mulder reached into the glove compartment, searching for his 
ever-present stash of sunflower seeds.  But the familiar bite of the 
salty hulls soothed only slightly as he turned the key in the 
ignition and began the long drive home. 

Where was she?  What was she doing?  Was she in Baltimore?

Possible, he thought.  More possible than he'd like to consider.  

There was, of course, one way to tell for sure.  He'd found 
Bayliss's number on his first day back at work, tucked in the top 
drawer of his desk and written in Scully's neat, precise 
handwriting.  A leftover from one of her trips up to Charm City in 
case he couldn't reach her on the cell. But Mulder had never been 
desperate enough to venture down that road.

Until now.

Christ, he wondered.  If he did call, what kind of tired bullshit 
could he come up with to say to her?

<scully, it's me and I really think you need to tell me what 
happened between us last time...because if you don't, I'm going to 
start climbing the fucking walls...>

No way.

A million different verbal combinations criss-crossed their way 
through the cosmic switching station of his intellect before 
Mulder accepted the simple fact that he just wasn't ready yet.  

He wondered for a moment just what it would take to compel such 
a last-ditch effort.

The answer to that question came only after several hours of 
stubborn apathy on his part throughout the rest of Friday night and 
the remainder of the weekend.

By Sunday afternoon, Mulder was lying on the couch in front of 
the TV, oblivious to the monotony of a baseball game between the 
Orioles and the Cleveland Indians.  Watching had become a 
pointless exercise almost before he'd turned it on.  Instead, he 
drifted in and out of an isolated state, hands jammed between his 
legs and knees pulled up towards his chest, hoping for a respite 
that never came. 

Warm rays of late afternoon sunshine angled their way through the 
half-drawn blinds, skipping across the walls and the furniture and 
bathing the open spaces with their characteristic golden glow.  
Without thinking, his eyes were drawn to the living room's 
entryway and the multitude of shimmering dust motes drifting in 
the surrounding air.  

Something strange was happening to the particles -- a calculated 
pattern of movement, but not like any he'd ever seen before.  

Mulder watched, blinking in awe as they seemed to coalesce into a 
more substantial construct, still indefinable, but obviously human.  
He was suddenly conscious of a kind of crazed recognition as the 
figure expanded and began to move towards him smoothly, taking 
on a shape that was achingly familiar.

Oh god, he thought.  It was her.

It was Scully.

Without a sound, she came through the foyer and into the room, 
calmly retracing her steps from a week ago as though nothing 
were out of the ordinary.

Dressed all in black -- jeans, vee-necked t-shirt, blazer, shoes -- 
Scully stared at him as she came forward, stopping just a few feet 
away.

"Hello, Mulder," she said softly.

Her voice hummed gently inside his head and he immediately sat 
up, shifting to face this vision rising from his own determination.

"Oh god," she groaned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as though 
he'd voiced that theory aloud.

He hadn't.  But, Mulder reminded himself, she was probably 
capable of reading his thoughts.  Because the phantom Scully was 
nothing more than a *construct* of his thoughts.  Even now, the 
rational part of his brain was busily informing him of that fact.  
And yet he was too far lost within the blissful possibilities to give 
a rat's ass anymore about what was real and what wasn't.

"Mulder," she was still saying, "you aren't seriously suggesting that 
an individual can manipulate the laws of physics by somehow 
*controlling* the random movement of microscopic particles?  
To *will* the manifestation of a person through sheer force of 
concentration and a little Brownian movement?  Please.  Why 
don't you have Scotty beam you up while you're at it?" 

He laughed out loud at her playful words, knowing his subliminal 
reconstruction of her personality was absolutely flawless.  Only 
he could come up with such a realistic amalgam of wit and 
wisdom that was Scully.  Closing his eyes, Mulder tipped his head 
back and smiled with delight at what he had accomplished.

So what if he'd finally cracked up -- what the hell difference did it 
make now?

Sobering abruptly, he blinked, gazing back at her as a familiar 
question reasserted itself.  One that had been on his mind ever 
since he'd woken alone that fateful morning.  He stood, leaning 
over her in the growing darkness.

"Scully," he whispered, the rasp of his voice sounding unnatural in 
the previously unbroken quiet of the room.  "Why did you leave 
me?"

The image wavered for an instant and Mulder held his breath, 
waiting until she seemed to steady herself.

"Are you telling me I had a reason to stay?"

He shrugged.  "Wasn't it obvious?"

She stared at him for a moment with an acutely unsettling look 
before simply saying:

"Show me, Mulder."

Taking a deep breath, he considered her words, wondering how 
much of this really was his subconscious fucking with him or...

...or if it was really due to some uncanny insight into her 
character.   

<show me>

Mulder held out his hand.

She reached out and grasped it, moving into the circle of his arms 
and pulling his head down with an ease and familiarity that made 
his heart ache.

Oh, Scully, he pleaded with himself as a virtual medley of 
impressions cascaded over him. 

The brush of her hands as she drew them over the heated surface 
of his skin.  The taste of her teeth, her tongue, against his, like a 
cool drink of water.  The light, clean essence of her scent -- soap, 
lingering traces of Beautiful and the undeniable smell of woman.

He took a quick breath, hearing the roar of blood rush in his ears.  

Closing his eyes again, he saw hers.  The velvety black of her 
widened pupils, rimmed with a thin halo of blue fire.  He could 
feel the flutter of her breath against his neck as if she were really 
there, in his arms, the softness of her breasts pressed firmly 
against his chest, her pelvis grinding over the aching length of his 
arousal.

The sensations were tangible they were so real, skipping across 
his nerve endings with an ever-increasing velocity, one right after 
the other.  

The soft, moist rasp of her tongue against his fingertips.  The 
bittersweet taste of her skin.

Of her desire.  

And the vibration of her voice as she soared, as he pushed her ever 
higher, to ecstasy, release, fulfillment. 

The pure pleasure and pain of it left him breathless and desperate 
for a relief he could not name.  

He felt the heat of her body, rising to meet him as she climaxed.  
Blanketing him.  Surrounding him.  Welcoming him home--

A low, pathetic whimper bled from his lips as his head snapped up 
suddenly from the arm of the couch.  Blinking quickly in the 
darkness, Mulder realized by the lengthening shadows across the 
floor that he'd been out of it for some time.

Fuck.

It was nothing more than a flight from reality.  A fantasy.  An 
illusion.  And yet....

Somehow, he could still sense the echo of her low, velvet tones, 
like a wisp of fine incense lingering in the night air.

<show me> 

In a desperate haze, Mulder bolted to his feet, grabbed at the 
small, crumpled piece of paper on his desk and simultaneously 
reached for the phone.

He didn't stop for a second to think about what he was doing, only 
knowing that he had to make the call.  Even if she spurned him, at 
least he would have a chance to know the truth.

The phone rang one, twice, then three times as he clamped down 
on his resolve, ignoring the insidious whispers from his psyche 
urging him to abandon this mad escapade before it was too late.

But it was already too late as he heard the phone picked up on the 
fourth ring, the familiar, somewhat breathless voice of Detective 
Tim Bayliss saying:

"Hello?"

"Bayliss, this is Fox Mulder.  Dana Scully's partner at the FBI."

The corresponding silence was brutally thick and Mulder slowly 
counted the seconds elapsing with time-ordered precision in his 
head.

Finally, Bayliss spoke, the timbre of his voice carefully measured 
-- almost cautionary in its restraint.

"Yes?"

Mulder swallowed, sinking to the floor until he was resting against 
the solid prop of his desk, a handle from one of the drawers 
digging cruelly into his spine.

"I need to speak with Scully," he finally said.

Bayliss's ensuing hesitation was palpable and Mulder felt the first 
rushes of panic, envy, and regret threading their way through his 
heart as the other man eventually replied:

"I see.  Well, she's not here to come to the phone right now.  But I 
can have her call you."

Motherfucker.

She was there.  The bastard was willing to give her a *message*.  

Mulder cursed himself in a frightful litany of fury and discontent, 
despising the weakness that had led him to this humiliation.  

For Christ's sake, he should have *known* better than to subject 
himself to this kind of bullshit.

Clenching his jaw, he staved off the urge to throw the phone at the 
wall, gripping the handset so tightly his fingers ached from the 
exertion.

"Never mind, Bayliss.  Sorry to bother you," he grated, hearing the 
tremor in his voice as he got ready to hang up without waiting for 
a reply.

There was a faint exhalation from the other end and Mulder had a 
sudden picture of Tim Bayliss framed within the eidetic lens of 
his memory -- the other man biting his lip as a flash of empathy 
exploded in his eyes.

"Mulder...wait."

He waited.

"Look," said Bayliss after a moment.  "Dana isn't here.  I 
mean...she isn't here in Baltimore."

Christ.

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, finally letting go the tortured 
breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

She wasn't there.  

He'd said she wasn't there.

A numbing sense of relief smoothed over his senses for a moment 
as he listened to the distant sounds of Bayliss's voice saying:

"I can tell her you're trying to get in touch with her.  But don't ask 
me to elaborate.  That's all I can do for you at this point, okay?"

It wasn't okay, but Mulder knew he'd asked for too much already.

Bayliss was offering him something that he had no right to expect.  
Assurance, help...maybe even understanding.  It was more than he 
might have done under similar circumstances.

But one question still remained --

If she wasn't in Baltimore, then where exactly *had* she gone?

It seemed his attempt to find the truth about their situation was far 
from over.  And this call, like so many of his other crusades, was 
largely pointless.

"Thanks anyway, Bayliss," he said, suddenly bitter.  "I don't think 
it'll be necessary."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah."  Mulder let his head bang backward into the hard surface 
of the desk before going on.  "Sometimes in life you make 
mistakes worth paying for.  This wasn't one of them.  Better to 
quit now while I'm still behind."

"Uh-huh.  Well, whatever you say," Bayliss replied, making no 
effort to mask the icy reproach in his voice.  "I need to get going.   
Take care of yourself."  

And then he was gone, leaving Mulder sitting on the floor with 
only the buzz of the fish tank and the distant sound of his 
neighbors' television below for company.  He stayed that way for a 
long time, picking apart every minuscule detail of the already 
brief conversation as his eyes traced over the familiar, lonely 
shapes of his apartment.

He thought about the nightmare of a week he'd just gone through.  
About the stunning physical culmination he'd been a part of just a 
handful of days before.

About the vision he'd confronted that very evening.  Her final 
words to him.  His final words to himself.  

<show me, mulder>

Fuck it, he thought.  Standing abruptly, Mulder leaned over his 
desk and drew his rolodex forward to flip through the tabs until his 
finger caught on the letter "S."

After one last moment of hesitation, he reached out to grasp the 
handset and began to dial.

*********

>Coronado Island
>San Diego, CA

The vision was like a wisp of moonlight smoothing its way in 
patterns across her skin and ruffling through the tangle of her hair.

A mild breeze blew in through the open window and Scully could 
hear the distant wash of the sea, even through the protective 
barrier of sleep. 

Growing up near the ocean made its sounds almost like a narcotic 
for her -- enveloping her spirit, possessing her thoughts, leading 
her through various stages of examination and discovery.

As with some of her dreams, the experience was unnerving.  Her 
dream felt real, tied to the outside stimuli of scent, sound and 
sensation.  But another part of her stood aside, a witness to the 
intricate fantasies of her heart and soul.  

This one was about Bayliss.  

The dream came wrapped in a package of touching familiarity, 
soothing away the accumulation of doubt and insecurity directing 
so much of her conscious thought lately.

She was with Tim, sitting across from him at Jimmy's.  

The Baltimore P.D. often frequented the local Fells Point diner 
because of its tasty fare and even more reasonable prices.  Loud 
and friendly, the place had become a favorite of hers over time.  
And Bayliss had no problem accommodating that preference on 
almost every one of her weekend visits.

On this particular night, they were laughing....

A sloppy, half-finished plate of french fries and gravy sat on the 
table between them, along with a heavy glass mug of chocolate 
egg cream.  Two straws pointed at opposite ends, tickling their 
lips as they sat hunched over the red and white checked tablecloth.  

Scully sighed in her sleep, smiling faintly as she tried to 
remember just what it was Tim had told her back then to set off 
their amusement.

Something about Pembleton using a poorly made milkshake as a 
metaphor for the overall decline of Western Civilization.

For whatever reason, she had found the notion absurd and yet so 
totally in character for the other man as to be completely 
believable.

And funnier than hell.

She could see Bayliss, staring wide-eyed at her laughter with a 
familiar smitten look on his face.  The wink of desire in his eyes 
created a provocative mix of temptation and longing for her.  Sort 
of like the decadent summons of a piece of Black Forest cake and 
a glass of ice-cold milk in the kitchen at midnight.

With a tiny flick of her mind's eye, she fast-forwarded through the 
action, stopping once their meal was finished, waiting until they 
were outside, trekking at a relatively brisk pace along the street 
past the station house.

The spring night was cool and their coats flapped in the wind, 
creating a jaunty duet with the sound of their footsteps.

Scully could smell the watery scent of the harbor (or was it the 
ocean?) and with a deep breath, she settled more firmly into the 
soft sheets, watching their dream-progress as they headed for 
Tim's jeep.

He was dragging her along by the hand, faster and faster...joking 
all the while, ignoring the looks of curious passers-by, laughing 
and throwing an occasional glance back in her direction.  Scully 
couldn't make out his exact words, but she was perceptive enough 
to know that the source of his elation had little to do with their 
earlier merriment.  No, he was cranked up on the idea of them 
together in his apartment, melting away into the white-hot fusion 
of their mutual attraction. 

Scully smiled, still asleep, remembering when it all was really as 
simple as that. 

Back in the dream, Tim was guiding her along the waterfront path 
next to Baltimore's Central District Headquarters, determination 
splashed across his face.  She let him have control, her 
imagination running wild with all sorts of erotic possibilities and 
promises of fulfillment....

Would her climax be long and slow and delicious?  Or short, 
shattering and immediately exhausting?  Would she kiss him as he 
came, or draw his head into the curve of her neck to feel the 
breathtaking sound of his gratification humming against her 
throat?  Would she match him glance for glance?  Blue on brown?  
Eyes locked in a dance of sensual intrigue and mysticism, utterly 
aware of each other?  Or would she shield her gaze and allow 
herself something else?

<somebody else>

With that last thought, the free and easy atmosphere of the dream 
suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces.  And the jagged, 
despairing tone shocked the very foundations of her soul.  

She couldn't escape the impact of her last meeting with Mulder.  
Not even in dreams.  

And yet, despite her increasing distress, or maybe even because of 
it, the vision continued relentlessly inside her head.

Bayliss was pulling her away from the more public sidewalk and 
into the shadowy doorway of a deserted storefront.  The unlit 
alcove was a perfect sanctuary for two lovers seeking shelter in 
each other's arms.

But for Scully, the thrill was gone, and so was the diversion.  Truth 
had tarnished the picture just enough that she could no longer take 
refuge in illusion.

Jesus, she wanted to wake up now.  She *needed* to wake up now.

<just>

<wake>

<up>

<now>

<please>

But she couldn't.

And Scully was frightened -- desperately afraid of her own guilty 
knowledge.  A nightmare was forming with the breathtaking speed 
of a runaway train even as Bayliss pressed against her in the 
closed space.

She caught her breath as he dipped his head towards her shoulder, 
letting a hand travel the length of her arm and capturing her fingers 
in a tight embrace.

"Shhhh, Dana," he whispered, breath tickling her ear as he 
squeezed her hand.  "It's going to be all right."

Bayliss pulled back slightly, tipping her head up until she had no 
choice but to confront the truth in his expression.  Her anxiety 
intensified as she saw the stark understanding brimming in his 
eyes.

He knew.

She could feel his awareness almost as clearly as her own fear.

"It's okay," Tim said reassuringly, as though sensing her quiet 
distress.  Reaching out with a fingertip, he brushed away a tear 
forming at the corner of her eye before finishing, "You'll see."

He kissed her then, a light, almost-chaste caress that left her heart 
pounding.  And yet there was no trace of animosity in his 
deliberate behavior.  Tucking his head down again, he nipped 
gently at the curve where her neck met her shoulder, murmuring:

"It won't be much longer..."

The cryptic promise fluttered away as the image of the two of 
them immediately dissolved, replaced by a void of oppressive 
silence.

What the hell?

She was still inside herself.  Of that much, Scully was certain.  
Except she wasn't awake yet.

And it was very dark.

A thick gloss of ebony spread over her, pooling and drifting like 
the changing tides outside her window. 

She was in a new place and it was no longer a blank slate.  In fact, 
her surroundings were achingly familiar.

Scully's soul echoed with relief as she reached up and touched her 
face, looking down at her body and recognizing herself emerging 
through the blackness.  She moved forth with confidence now, 
smiling at this well-known place of bizarre happenstance and 
emotional pandemonium.

His apartment. 

He was here.

She could see him, curled up on his side, resting perilously close 
to the edge of the couch.  His eyes were shut, face composed.  
But it was obvious to her that he was strung out with an uneasy 
tension even in sleep.

Her heart broke at the dark smudges beneath his eyes.  At the lines 
of stress scoring his lean features.  At the way his breath came 
rapidly between slightly parted lips.

<oh, mulder>

His lips twitched faintly and Scully stood still and stared, rocked 
with the irresistible urge to lie down and shape herself against 
him.  She wanted to extract the ache from his soul, placing her 
mouth against his and drawing off all the pain with a simple kiss.

And yet, a touch of restraint held her back.  

Because it wasn't that easy.  Try as she might, Scully could not be 
certain of the real source of his discontent, nor of her capacity for 
healing it.

Was it about her?  About them?

Their last meeting had been such an explosion of physical 
alchemy.  A collision of secret hopes, wants, dreams, all of them 
leading to...what?

She didn't know.  Scully could no longer trust her own judgment 
concerning his motivations.  There were some things only he 
could explain -- needs and desires only he could show her.

And then Mulder woke up, disrupting her careful reasoning as 
their gazes collided.

Oddly enough, he showed no surprise at her impromptu 
appearance -- as though her being there was the most normal thing 
in the world.

As though he expected it.

Dialogue unfolded between them, but just as with Bayliss, the 
actual content of the conversation didn't seem to matter.  
Whatever it was, Mulder appeared distinctly amused because he 
leaned his head back and laughed out loud.

Scully found she didn't care if his humor was at her expense or 
not.  It was worth it just to hear the rare sounds.

And then he was serious, a mercurial shift so typical of him when 
dealing with a crisis or confusion.  Indeed, Mulder's expression 
actually appeared troubled as he moved towards her through the 
varying patterns of light and darkness.

Looking down, he said almost plaintively:

"Why did you leave me?"

The question was clear this time, and an answer fell from her lips 
before she could even conceive of the words. 

"Are you telling me I had a reason to stay?"

He shrugged.  "Wasn't it obvious?"

No, Mulder, she immediately thought.  It never is with you.

His gaze stripped away her stubborn endurance layer by 
painstaking layer, until Scully decided the only thing left was to 
swallow her pride and ask for what she needed.

An affirmation.

"Show me, Mulder."

He paused briefly before offering his hand. 

Without a second thought, she took it, letting him draw her near.

Scully closed the distance to his mouth, touching her lips to his as 
he held her close.  His tongue danced along her teeth until she 
opened up to him, shivering at the easy way he took possession of 
her senses.

God, she was finally where she needed to be.  In Mulder's arms...in 
his heart...sifting through the buried treasure of his very soul.

For a few minutes, she gave into the fierce rush of desire, 
focusing only on the taste of his mouth, the delicate stroke of his 
tongue, the lingering scent of his skin.

Falling into Mulder was like tracing steps into a vast cathedral of 
sensation...her emotions echoing the hushed voices of a multitude 
of suppliants...worshipping at the altar of corporeal 
enlightenment.

She had only one night of experience, but it was enough.  

The feeling was exhilarating, awe-inspiring, breathtaking.  

It was...miraculous.

And it was everywhere.  His warmth, the brush of his fingertips 
over her flesh, the sound of his excited, indrawn breath.

Losing control, Scully sucked greedily at his lower lip, hands 
sweeping down his front to grasp the evidence of his arousal 
through the rough denim of his jeans.

His low, answering moan effervesced along her nerve-endings, 
tearing her farther and farther away from reality.  She was tripping 
out on the blissful feel of his hands stroking over the surfaces of 
her body, the fervent glimmer of emotion in his eyes, his warmth 
penetrating her.

At that very moment, nothing else existed for her save the fire 
deep within her heart, the burning hunger between her legs.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as Scully climaxed against him, a 
sob catching in throat.  She turned her face away from his...

...and into the soft, bleached cotton of the bedding beneath her.

Shocking awareness swept over her as she sat up, blinking against 
a veil of moonlit shadows.

Christ.  

She drew her knees to her chest and rocked herself, gazing 
towards the ceiling.  This would never do.  It was the third damn 
night in a row for this dream.  And she was tired of waking to a 
pillow wet with sorrow and sheets redolent with the distinctive 
tang of her own sex.

Scully closed her eyes and stretched, unfolding her taut limbs and 
willing herself to relax.  After a few moments, she rose, moving 
purposefully for the bathroom.

The overhead light seemed harsh against her sleep-worn vision.  
Frowning against the glare, she inspected the front of her 
nightshirt with a critical eye before turning away to strip off the 
damp satin of her panties.  Then, she moistened the edge of a 
washcloth, cleaning herself up quickly. 

The water from the tap was ice-cold, but Scully only clenched her 
teeth and finished the task as quickly as possible.  Tossing the 
cloth aside, she stared at herself in the mirror, wetting her hands 
and stroking them through her hair.

Somewhat mollified by the result, she left the bathroom, 
extinguishing the lights and slipping back into the dim quiet of the 
main room.

Her eyes readjusted to the darkness as she made her way over to 
the bedside table, pulling on a clean pair of underwear and 
grabbing a book of matches.

Light flared as she bent down, touching a flame to a small 
pineapple-shaped candle on her night table.  With a deep breath, 
she inhaled the lush pina colada-like scent, relieved at the way it 
diluted the stale residue of carnality surrounding her.

Then, sighing, she straightened, letting her lashes flutter closed as 
she thought about the dream. 

It was different tonight.  This was the first time the vision of 
Bayliss had ever tried to communicate with her directly.

Which was a ridiculous way of looking at it, Scully thought, eyes 
snapping open in protest.  Tim couldn't possibly make an 
appearance inside her head.  This wasn't the Psychic Hotline.  And 
it wasn't an X file either.

No, it could only be her subconscious trying to communicate 
somehow.

But what was it trying to say?  And what did the final moments of 
her encounter with Mulder mean?

Moistening her lips with a sweep of her tongue, Scully drifted 
through the candlelight toward the open window.  Leaning against 
the edge, she stared down at the glittering sand of the beach 
below.  

She had spoken with Tim for real that evening before going to bed.  
And short of an odd, pensive note in his voice, nothing else had 
seemed out of the ordinary.  As always, he'd ended the 
conversation without asking when she was coming back.

He never pushed, for which she was grateful.  Because she didn't 
know yet.

Pulling a chair forward, Scully sat down and propped her feet up 
on the sill, wishing for the comfort of her old Three Dog Night 
albums.  Usually, there was enough joy in their world to make her 
problems seem a little less daunting.

Unfortunately, they were back at home in D.C.

Her home was in D.C.

Biting her lip, she ignored that last thought, focusing instead on 
the sound of the ocean and considering her situation.

The San Diego weather had cleared up after that first day with Bill, 
but it didn't really matter.  Her isolation remained firmly in place.  
Each day, tourists and residents of the island surrounded her -- 
children playing in the sand and couples walking along the water.  
It felt good to be around people, even if they were strangers.  And 
yet their presence seemed to make her remote status feel that 
much more acute.

In the end, the solitude only deepened her introspection.

About Tim, about Mulder.

About herself.

Until her head ached with the strain of trying to find the right way. 

So far, she'd been unsuccessful.

Time only added to the burden.  Her leave was for a month and 
each day was like another click on the Doomsday Clock of her 
existence.

<tick, tick, scully>

She could feel the delicate pressure of Mulder's voice as though 
he were standing there, whispering in her ear.

Just as she heard Tim's voice every night, on the phone.

God, how was she ever going to resolve this situation?  No matter 
which way she looked, there was so much to lose.

How could she let them go?  Either of them?  

Tim -- with his easy smile and forthright manner.  A man not 
ashamed to show his feelings whenever he talked about his work, 
especially his ordeal with the Adena Watson case.  A man who 
offered up his feelings, thoughts and dreams to her without 
question.  A man who asked about *her*, listening with genuine 
curiosity and awe at discovering who she really was.  A man who 
had set her free in the wonderland of her own sexuality, helping 
her find a fulfillment she'd given up on a long time ago.

He didn't love her, and that made her feel safe.

Scully didn't harbor any romantic delusions where other people 
were concerned.  Even a lover.  And while Tim certainly felt very 
deeply for her, she'd recognized his limitations after he'd asked 
her to leave D.C. and come to Baltimore permanently.  

It was the way he'd talked about love as an "abstract concept."  And 
his insistence that they could "build on" what they already had, as 
though he were uncertain of what it really was.

If he were truly in love, he wouldn't be able to discuss such 
feelings with the clinical detachment of a news anchor reciting the 
death toll from a filovirus in the Congo.

There would be absolutely no doubt in his mind of what they had 
together.  She understood that instinctively even if he didn't.

Ironically, it only made Scully feel more secure.  Their 
relationship was something she could handle -- something to 
organize, categorize and put into its proper perspective.

Hell, she *lived* for that shit, personally as well as 
professionally.  So why not just take Tim up on his offer and live 
happily ever after in the safety and security of her own control?

<because>

A soft, implacable murmur of emotion tugged at her, stirring up 
her insides and forcing her to confront truths beyond the 
boundaries of her rationale.

Because going to Baltimore would mean leaving Mulder.  
Permanently.  The break would need to be a clean one.  There 
could be no going back.

And Scully wasn't sure she was prepared to do that.  Not after all 
she'd seen and done.

She tilted her head back for a moment and thought about Mulder.  
About what it felt like the first morning she'd confronted him in a 
basement office full of ideological conflict and resistance of will.

<tell me, agent scully -- do *you* believe in the existence of 
extraterrestrials...?>

Oh god.

It had been like stepping into a tangle of high voltage wiring -- a 
rippling awareness that never stopped, even in sleep, for almost 
six years of her life.

Mulder was the real deal.  Cool.  Born to subtlety and enigma the 
way that some people were born to play basketball or demystify 
quantum physics.  Possessed of a cutting wit and singular 
intelligence, his deft remarks carried her through virtually every 
obstacle imaginable.  His gestures, though clumsy at times, also 
spoke of a hidden grace that just begged for leisurely observation. 

He was not so much handsome as he was *present*.  Not arrogant, 
but indefinable.  

Spooky.

He inspired her in a way that no one else could.  Sparking a 
rampant curiosity and an overwhelming desire to understand.  To 
somehow take control of all that creative mystery and bend it to 
her will.  Just for a little while.  And then she could set it free to 
lead her on all manner of ridiculous quests and quixotic 
adventures.

But there was a price to pay for all of that.

She risked losing herself.  Hell, she might be in danger of that 
already.

Mulder was focused on a calling -- a higher purpose -- something 
far beyond the mundane goals a normal person might claim for her 
personal destiny.  

Though he had recently begun to imply that his quest was 
becoming more and more about her, he'd also stopped well short 
of actually saying the words --

That she was an integral part of the struggle, rather than just a 
victim of it.  

That he needed her backing, her assistance and the passion of her 
commitment.

No, he never did speak about those kinds of things.  

And her pride was too restrictive to ask for them.

Because Scully had no doubt at all that Mulder could succeed 
without her.  And if she believed that, then certainly he must feel 
the same way. 

Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back, reminding herself not 
to get carried away.  Making assumptions about the belief systems 
of another person was never a good idea.  Especially someone as 
unfathomable as Mulder.

Really, there was only one person she could be absolutely sure of.

Herself.

Deep down, Scully had no choice but to rely on her own self-
awareness and understanding.  No matter how much she tried to 
deny it, some things weren't worth the price you paid for them.  
Her work on the X files had taught her that, time and again.

Trying to pick up the pieces of her partnership with Mulder, now 
that their relationship had been irrevocably altered might be more 
than she was willing to handle.  More than she *could* handle.  
Logic dictated that it was madness to think things could work now, 
after all that had happened.  

The cancer, the disillusionment, the uncertainty and the despair.

Giving in and leaving for Baltimore would be so much easier.  

New job, new life, new hopes, new vision.

Mulder *would* make it on his own if he had no other choice.  
Scully was sure of it.

Her job was to hold him back.  To rein him in, shut him down.  
Hell, hadn't she already told him that it was no longer possible to 
follow with the blind faith she'd always demonstrated as part of 
their alliance?

And yet....

And yet there was one tiny flaw in her reasoning.  

What about Mulder?  Did he *want* to make it on his own?  
Hadn't he made some sort of reckless attempt at salvation that 
final night in his apartment?  

Maybe so, Scully told herself, but it wasn't enough.  And the 
uncertainty had been eating away at her self-possession more and 
more every day since she'd left.

Which was the only explanation for the dreams.  And why she 
always heard herself say the same goddamn thing to him, over and 
over again.

<show me>

Glancing down at her hands, she made a soft sound of derision.

Because it didn't really matter now.

The imaginary command and his response were nothing more than 
a kind of ersatz drama, valid only within the context of her own 
illusions.

They could never be fulfilled.

Accepting the inevitable, Scully rose, blowing out the candle and 
slipping back into the cold, anonymous shroud of hotel linens on 
the bed.  

Already, it was late, and fatigue would get her nowhere in the 
never-ending effort to determine answers for herself.

Clutching the stiff corner of the pillow slightly, she closed her 
eyes, giving in at last to the tug of sleep....

And dreaming about Mulder.

*********

>The Waterfront
>Fells Point
>Baltimore, MD

Happy Hour.

Tim Bayliss surveyed the usual randy crowd of Tuesday night 
regulars and wondered what genius had ever come up with such a 
fucking contradiction in terms.

If folks were really happy during Happy Hour, they'd be doing 
something far more fulfilling than sitting at a bar, playing mind 
games with one another and drinking themselves into a moronic 
stupor.   

He'd always been sensitive enough to see through the carefree 
facade of this bizarre social phenomenon.  Usually, it only hid a 
darker, more potent mix of pain and denial.   
 
And the sad part was that he was no different from any of these 
people.  To judge would only be hypocrisy.

"So, how many days has it been now?"

Frank Pembleton's voice rumbled over a sea of small talk as 
Bayliss put the finishing touches on a wine glass he was polishing.

Tim glanced at his partner, clutching the cold, damp rag and trying 
to sort out an appropriate response.

Frank rarely probed with such intimate questions, preferring the 
safety of a strictly professional relationship between them.  
Actually, he rarely ever came into the bar just to shoot the breeze 
either.  Not with a wife and two kids at home and little time to 
break away from the job of redressing Baltimore's more 
murderous impulses.

Yet here he was tonight, hunched over the brass rail with a half-
full bottle of Heineken, oblivious to the raucous crowd 
surrounding them.

Apparently, Pembleton was ready to talk.  And with a sick little 
feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bayliss realized he had a pretty 
good idea of just what was on his mind.

The subject at hand was a very personal one -- difficult and full of 
the potential for heartbreak.  He'd hoped to avoid it by 
volunteering to close the bar tonight.  But with Pembleton here in 
front of him now, it was going to be impossible.

Tim set the glass down.  "How many days since what?" 

"How many days since whatever happened, happened," his partner 
replied, pulling his beer forward and raising it to his lips.

"I don't know what you mean, Frank." 

"You don't know what I mean?  Fine."  The other man gestured with 
the bottle.  "I'm talking about these looong, protracted silences 
that you've been playing at lately."

Pembleton took a long draw on the beer before continuing.

"It must be something personal, Tim, because none of our cases in  
the last few weeks has been anything out of the ordinary.  Two 
suicides.  That domestic stabbing on Pratt the other day.  But I'm 
beginning to wonder if my partner's been replaced by some fucked 
up version of Joe Friday.  With autism."  He rolled his eyes.  "I 
don't think you've used any more than the minimum basic skills 
necessary for communication in the last ten days.  Here I am on a 
Tuesday night after the shift change, which is about as rare an 
occurrence as a virgin birth, and you haven't had but a dozen words 
to say since I walked in."

Bayliss swore softly, struggling for a reply.  

While he respected his partner's need to understand the change in 
his attitude, it wasn't going to make talking about the situation any 
easier.

And clearly, there was no avoiding it now.

"I'm sorry, Frank," he said after a while, setting the rag aside and 
leaning against the counter behind him.  "I've just...had a lot on my 
mind lately."

"Does this have something to do with a certain red-haired FBI 
Agent?" 

"Yes."

"Well, what the hell happened?  I thought you two had the greatest 
thing going on since Hitler and Eva Braun."

"Nice analogy, Frank." Bayliss chuckled with some bitterness.

"So?" Pembleton shot back, raising his eyebrows.  "What the hell 
gives?  Or do I have to beat it out of you?  Come on, Bayliss.  Talk 
to me."

"It's nothing," said Tim.  

"You went ahead and asked her to come on up here permanently, 
didn't you?"

Bayliss met his partner's knowing gaze and cursed his uncanny 
perception.  

"How did you know?"

"Tim, two weeks ago, you were just full of questions about what it 
was like when I first met Mary.  Whose idea it was to move in with 
who.  How long were we seeing each other.  When did I know I 
was ready to get married.  Etcetera.  Etcetera.  Remember?  For 
god's sake, sometimes you're so transparent it's pathetic.  I didn't 
say anything at the time because..."

"Because what?"

Frank pressed his lips together and looked away, smoothing a hand 
over the crown of his head.

"No, Frank, come on.  Because what?"

Pembleton stared at him.

"Because I didn't think it was such a good idea for you to 
proposition somebody who's already committed."  

Hurt welled up inside him like a slow seepage of toxic waste, and 
Tim steeled himself, knowing Frank was right about the 
transparency thing if nothing else. 

"See?" said Pembleton.  "This is why I didn't say anything."

"Oh, come on, Frank..." Bayliss trailed off, rubbing at one eye 
beneath his glasses as he tried to ignore the roiling emotion in his 
gut.

"Well hell, Tim.  What do you want me to do?  Lie?"  Pembleton 
waited impatiently when he didn't answer.  "At least tell me what 
happened." 

"Okay.  Here's the way it went, Frank," said Tim.  "I called and told 
her that Cox left and the C.M.E. job was open."  He took a deep 
breath.  "Then I asked her to move in with me." 

"So what did she say?" Frank asked.

"Well, she started off positive the first night.  Then, she called two 
days later to say she needed some time away by herself.  I'm not 
sure what happened in the interim to change her mind."  He 
hesitated again.  "I mean, I'm not *exactly* sure.  All I know right 
now is that she's down in San Diego visiting her brother and his 
family."

"No, I think you know precisely what happened, Tim," Pembleton 
remarked quietly.

"What?" said Bayliss.  "You mean Mulder?  Yeah, I thought about 
that."

His partner shook his head as if to say 'I told you so.'

"Hey, wait a minute, Frank.  If it *is* Mulder, then what can I do 
about it, mmm?  He was there first.  And make no mistake, I knew 
*exactly* what I was getting into with that situation."

"Hold on," Pembleton interrupted.  "I thought you told me the two 
of them never..."

"They didn't, according to her.  But sex was never the issue," Tim 
said.  "The two of them were, *are*, very close.  They're bound 
together by things, experiences, that I won't even begin to try and 
explain to you.  You probably wouldn't believe me if I did."

"Yeah?" Frank snapped, instinctively rising to his partner's 
defense.  "Well, you could have fooled me, watching the way she 
was with *you* over the last six months."

"I know," Tim said.  "And the fact that Mulder is a self-absorbed 
bastard doesn't make a damn bit of difference.  What matters is 
that Dana cares about him -- as much, if not more, than she does 
me.  Christ, they've been together for over five years.  If she told 
him she was thinking about leaving, it was bound to start 
something."

"I thought she didn't care about him *that* way?"

"Yeah, well what she says and the way it actually is are two 
different things.  Even if she won't acknowledge it.  Dana is the 
world's fucking foremost authority when it comes to denial."

"Did you ask her?"

"No.  I was too afraid of the answer."

Rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, Bayliss looked at him.

"You won't believe what happened next, either."

"What?"

"Mulder called my place last night looking for her."

Frank snorted.  "I *know* you're lying, Tim."

"Nope.  You should have heard him.  Arrogant fuck.  She obviously 
didn't tell him where she was going.  And get this -- when I told 
him I'd relay a message, he got all cool on me."  

Bayliss was clearly annoyed.  "He forgets who he's talking to, 
mmm?  Like I don't already waste enough time with bullshit 
pretense during our little sojourns in the box."

Pembleton waited, eyes narrow with curiosity as he tilted his head 
to one side, listening.

"And I heard him out, too," Tim went on.  "Because I know where 
he is with this.  It's just that I happen to have an advantage he 
doesn't."

Or maybe not, he thought darkly.  Who knew what the hell had 
happened between the two of them before she left?  He had a 
pretty good goddamn idea.  And if Mulder had been fucked up 
enough to actually *make* that call, things certainly weren't going 
the way he'd hoped.

Based on his limited experience and Dana's tight-lipped 
observations, Tim saw Mulder as about aloof as they came, with a 
major league case of discontent.  The man was driven, centered, 
selfish -- but not overwhelmingly so.  He wouldn't be inclined to 
force a personal issue involving Scully.  Not unless she herself 
had somehow sanctioned it.  

And that made him uneasy because it didn't track with the way 
Mulder had been on the phone.  

For Christ's sake, Tim thought, he'd sounded almost....

On the verge of something.

"Just tell me one thing, Bayliss."  

Frank's voice reached him through a growing layer of distraction 
as Tim shook himself, trying to focus.  

Something weird was happening.  A vague flutter stretched in the 
pit of his stomach for a moment before crawling along the length 
of his spine.  It wasn't physical...exactly.  But it was there.  

Tim swallowed hard, trying to shake off the frightening sense of 
unease.

And then the ripple touched the base of his skull, confusing him 
even more as he finally managed to squeeze out a one-word 
response to Frank's question:

"What?"

"Do you love this woman?" Pembleton asked, sounding like he was 
speaking from the bottom of a pool.

"I don't know."  The volume of his reply dropped a notch as Bayliss 
reached up to grip his forehead.

An aura of faint light in the bar was reflecting all around him, 
brightening.  He closed his eyes against the glare, struggling for 
breath as his composure shifted beneath the queerness of the 
assault.  Suddenly, he was outside himself, watching Frank and 
sensing the other man's frustration with his unwillingness to fight.

But fight for what?  Tim couldn't remember.

He was still in the bar.  But the sounds were muted, distant, almost 
impossible to make out.  Instead, he could smell the briny scent of 
the ocean somewhere -- a richer bouquet than that of Baltimore's 
inner harbor and therefore more disruptive to his senses.

A slew of kaleidoscopic impressions swept over him, overlapping 
in muddled patterns of thought and sensation --

Himself with Dana on the dark streets of Fells Point, pressed 
against the vivid flare of her body and hearing her breath quicken 
with the thrill of arousal.  Watching her across the squad room, 
soothing Mulder after their murder suspect had blown his face off 
at point blank range in front of him.  Listening to the stoic resolve 
in her voice each night on the phone.

Hers...and Mulder's.

He could *feel* the drain of Mulder's anxiety echoing inside his 
head again, could sense Scully's discontent from a place far off 
and yet somehow so close it was as though he were there himself.

<you'll see>

The words cut into the soft tissue of his brain like the icy-hot 
incision of a coroner's scalpel and Tim groaned softly, as if in 
pain. 

<won't be much longer>

And then he heard Pembleton's voice ringing in his ears, packaged 
in the familiar garish sounds of the Waterfront's racket.   

The noise -- it was pulling him back.  He was in motion, retracing 
his steps along some strange trajectory that thankfully led him 
straight back into sanity and coherence. 
 
"You'll see," Tim repeated the thought out loud, almost against his 
will, but knowing the words needed to be said. 

"It won't be much longer...."

His eyes opened, catching the worried look on Frank's face.  The 
other man was speaking with some urgency now.  

"Bayliss?  Are you all right?  What the hell are you talking about?  
What won't be much longer?" 

"I don't know," said Tim, repeating the same words he'd used 
before the peculiar incident of delirium had taken hold.  "I don't 
know." 

"What don't you know?"  

Pembleton was staring at him warily.  "Bayliss, what the fuck is 
happening with you?  One minute we're having a normal 
conversation and the next you look like something straight out of 
the Exorcist."

"I don't know," Tim repeated, harsher this time as he shook off the 
remnants of his unease and blinked against the glare.  "What 
exactly was it you were saying?"

Pembleton eyed him for a split second more.  "I was saying that if 
you really have feelings for this woman, you should go to 
California."

"I'm not so sure that's the right thing to do."

"Bayliss," his partner said, shaking his head, "you should get your 
ass down there and be with her.  If that's what you want."

<if that's what you want>

Tim thought for a moment, weighing Scully's possible adverse 
reaction against the slightly more compelling blaze of his feelings 
about their relationship.

Feelings?

Hell, he couldn't be certain just what those were any more.

"I don't know, Frank," he said, one last time, watching as the other 
man threw up his hands in disgust.  

"Whatever."

An uncomfortable silence passed between the two of them until 
Pembleton changed the subject abruptly. 

"I should get going.  Mary will wonder."  

Frank paused, a rare moment of uncertainty etching across his 
face before he remarked almost too casually:

"By the way...I forgot to mention that she and I ran into Rawls over 
at the Broadway Market this past weekend."

Tim's eyes widened at the mention of his former lover, shock 
buffeting him with the emotional equivalent of a thermonuclear 
blast.  In mere seconds, he was falling into something close to 
full-blown panic.  The attack welled up with force, clogging his 
normally steady reasoning.

Chris Rawls.

Fuck.

He resisted to the urge to double over against the unexpected pain 
stabbing at his midsection.

And Pembleton knew it.  He *had* to be aware of how easily the 
brief reference would dredge up the residue of one of the most 
high-octane relationships in his life -- and one of the most 
devastating disappointments.  

For a time, the affair had provided a fulfillment that Tim had never 
experienced with any other human being.  Except, possibly, for 
Dana Scully.

But it hadn't lasted -- and for reasons he could never, ever explain 
to his partner.

His lingering association with Rawls had actually disturbed 
Pembleton.  But, issues of homophobia aside, it would piss the 
man off beyond measure if he ever discovered the role Tim 
attributed to him in the relationship's collapse.

Bayliss had told Dana once that he'd ended it to protect his partner 
from their adversaries' intolerance inside the department.  
Unfortunately, he also knew that Frank would need exactly three 
seconds to disassemble that into the self-serving explanation it 
really was, exposing the more nebulous fears Tim disguised so 
effectively beneath a mask of rationalization.

Some things he just wasn't able to admit.  Even to himself.

Which was why he *never* raised the subject.  And that seemed to 
be just fine with his partner.  Until now.  Because here was Frank, 
mentioning a chance encounter with Rawls as though it were 
nothing more unusual than discussing the weather.

And maybe it wasn't.  Maybe he was making entirely too much out 
of a routine disclosure on Frank's part.

Or maybe the truth was that *nothing* involving Chris Rawls 
would ever be routine for him.

Taking a deep breath, he gripped the edge of the countertop behind 
him before asking:

"Did you say hello?"

Frank was clearly offended by the question.  

"Of course I said hello.  What do you think I am, totally ignorant 
when it comes to common fucking courtesy?"

"No."  Bayliss backed down.  "I don't think that."

"The hell."  Pembleton glowered at him.  "For your information, 
Bayliss -- I *returned* his greeting.  Then, I *introduced* him to 
my wife.  Which was when he asked after you."

"And?"

"And nothing.  I said you were doing okay and that seemed to 
satisfy him.  We shook hands and then went our separate ways.  
The whole conversation lasted all of three minutes."

"Did Mary ask who he was?"

"Yeah."  Frank's eyes went blank, though his voice still crackled 
with irritation.  "I told her."

"What did she say?"

"She said you had good taste in men."

Bayliss coughed into his hand at the ballsy nature of the remark, 
hiding a smile and choking back laughter as he fought for 
composure.

He'd always suspected that Mary Whalen-Pembleton would accept 
his relationship with Rawls, applauding it even, no matter how 
uncomfortable it made her husband.  Now he knew for sure.

Too bad it was past the point of making a difference.

Pembleton seemed to sense that as well as he slid off his perch, 
reaching for his wallet to extract some money.

"Closing tonight?" he asked, shrugging into his raincoat and 
flipping the collar up around his neck.

"Yeah," Bayliss replied, reaching out for the cash and sweeping the 
empty glass down onto the ledge beneath the bar.  "What else 
would I be doing under the circumstances?"

Pembleton grimaced with understanding.  "Well, take care.  
Remember we start late tomorrow.  Twelve o'clock."

"Sure, Frank.  Thanks again for stopping by."

The other man snorted softly, stepping closer.

"I'm not sure how much good it did.  You know, Tim...for as long 
as I've known you, you've been trying to rescue just about anyone 
you can find.  Adena Watson.  Her family.  That Zoole woman.  
People involved with your cases.  Your cousin.  Me.  Even this 
lady FBI agent.

"One of these days you're going to have to learn how to save 
yourself first.  Otherwise, you may never find any real peace."

And with that, he left, turning on his heel and easing through the 
rambunctious crowd without so much as a backward glance.

Tim watched him leave, struggling with the impact of his final 
pronouncement.  Because there was one person whom Pembleton 
failed to mention on that list of disenfranchised souls.

And not surprisingly, that was Rawls.

The truth was, Chris Rawls had never needed any kind of saving.  
He was completely secure with who he was and what he was doing.  
Maybe that was what bound them together so closely.

Tim pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes again.  There were 
enough demons rattling the cage of his personal life already.  He 
never guessed he'd have to take on his relationship with Rawls 
tonight as well.  

The rest of the evening passed swiftly as he tried to ignore his 
conversation with Pembleton and apply himself to the demands of 
the bar.  But a running mental slide show of bitter memories 
continued to plague him.

About Dana.  About Mulder.

About Chris Rawls. 

God damn Frank for making it worse.   

Tim welcomed last call with a kind of ill-tempered satisfaction 
and had no qualms about standing over the last few stragglers till 
they got the message and made their way out the door.

Once alone, he breathed a sigh of relief.  Fucking 2:35 in the 
morning and he finally had some peace and quiet.

About a half-hour later, he realized he'd forgotten one very 
important detail.

He was crouched behind the bar with clipboard in hand, checking 
off the nightly inventory when he heard the unmistakable sound of 
the front door opening.

Motherfucker.

Bayliss swore silently as all possible manner of inconvenience 
occurred inside his head.  And the cop in him couldn't help being 
uneasy about his current level of exposure.  The station house was 
just a few hundred feet away -- an obvious deterrent.  But your 
garden variety predator with a snootful of shit was rarely capable 
of that kind of logic.

And it was late.

And the street was largely deserted.

And really, it only took a few seconds to commit a crime against 
property.  

Or worse.

"We're closed," he shouted from behind the bar, voice ringing 
sharply with authority.

There was no reply and he tensed as the adrenaline whipped over 
him like a lash.  Slowly, he lowered the clipboard to the floor, 
careful not to make a sound.

The door slammed shut, startling him, but Tim's finely honed 
instincts refused to stand down.  Quickly, he looked over the 
contents of the shelves, counting the seconds wasting away like a 
handful of melting ice cubes in the hot, heavy air.

Somebody else was in there with him.  He could feel it.

His eyes finally settled on the fully loaded 10mm automatic pistol 
they kept handy for these kind of close encounters.  Moving 
forward cautiously, he grasped the cool metal of the gun and 
listened to the soft noise of gentle footfalls moving in his 
direction.

<fuck-fuck-fuck>

The slow, measured steps ceased abruptly just on the other side of 
the bar from where he was.  Tim took a deep breath, concentrating, 
waiting for the familiar signal from his gut to trigger his next 
move....

<now>

He came up from behind the bar fast, eyes wide.  The taste of fear 
was like copper in his mouth as his heartbeat clashed with the 
sound of harsh breathing in his ears.  Right arm extended, Bayliss 
held out the gun, finger stroking at the trigger as he stared directly 
into the charcoal gaze of none other than--

Chris Rawls.

To his credit, the other man didn't even flinch -- as though it were 
perfectly normal for him to be confronted in the middle of the 
night with a fistful of firepower.

"Is that a gun in your hand, Tim?  Or are you just happy to see me?" 

The husky tones sliced through Bayliss with sickening ease, just 
the way they always had.  Head to heart and straight on down to the 
base of his groin -- leaving him utterly speechless with their raw 
intensity.  

Rawls was waiting, regarding him with a frighteningly astute look 
until Tim somehow managed to recover his senses enough to 
respond.

"What's the hell is wrong with you, Chris?"  He lowered the gun, 
staring at it for a moment before stowing it beneath the bar.  

Fuck.

His hands were shaking.

"You should know better than to sneak up on me that way," he said, 
words reflecting a calm that didn't exist.  "That's the way fucking 
accidents happen, mmm?"

Quirking his lips with a shadow of a smile, Chris flipped up a brow 
and wisely decided not to respond to the accusation.

He'd let his hair grow out, just a little.  And now the dark, 
windblown strands drifted over the curve of his forehead slightly.  
A jacket of dark chocolate-colored leather hung loosely over his 
shoulders, the front shifting open to reveal a plain white tee-shirt 
and a pair of black jeans underneath.

A toothpick rested between Chris's teeth and he moved it 
restlessly with his tongue -- the only obvious response to 
Bayliss's continuing scrutiny.  Finally, after a few long seconds, 
he reached up and drew it from his mouth, flipping it between his 
fingers.

Rawls had never been good at keeping still -- a quality that kept 
Tim fascinated more than any other when they were seeing each 
other.  

Fascinated...and so unsettled by the lure of the other man's 
charismatic personality.  

Their fiercely independent natures had kept the relationship on a 
very thin edge -- ready to break down at any second beneath some 
escalating dispute or difference of opinion.

Chris was strong.  Stronger inside than Tim ever hoped he could 
be himself.  

But Rawls had believed in him too -- even when he'd lost his own 
faith.  And that made Tim able to withstand almost all the adversity 
inherent in their relationship.  The kind that came so easily from 
those who were narrow-minded and hateful.  Or, from people such 
as Pembleton, who simply didn't understand enough know any 
better.

Chris had supported him and stuck by him, even through fights 
reflecting the fire of Tim's changing attitudes and sensibilities.

When they reconciled, it was always incredible. 

The sweet summons of arousal washed through his veins like 
heroin as he recognized the telltale attraction between them.  In 
less than a second, Bayliss accepted the inevitable and just rode 
the blast into psychic oblivion.

Falling--

back

down

into

--that remarkable realm of the other man's sexuality. 

He could remember the slick feel of their limbs gliding together 
as they strove for release.  The raw, earthy taste of Chris's climax 
in his throat.  The indescribable sense of being fucked straight out 
of his head and into total oblivion.
   
And in the end, holding Chris...pulling his spent form close as all 
that delicious energy came at last to a groaning halt.  

Bayliss bit back a low moan, teeth cleaving into the soft flesh of 
his inner lip as he forced the erotic images from his mind.

He *could not* let himself go this way.  Not tonight.  Not unless 
he was ready to climb over the bar and throw himself on Chris's 
mercy -- something that would spell certain doom for them both 
right now.

Tim slid a hand over his mouth and then around to the back of his 
neck as he tried to get a grip on the situation.

Rawls was here.  He didn't know how and he didn't know why.  But 
he was going to have to deal with it, one way or another.

"To what do I owe the honor tonight, Chris?" he tried cautiously.

Rawls tossed the toothpick away.  

"I closed the restaurant," he replied in a flat voice.  "It was late.  I 
had no place to go but home and nobody to take with me besides 
myself, so...I went for a walk."  

Bayliss waited.

"I guess I ended up at your front door somehow."

The awkward silence resumed.  Chris's expression was nearly 
unreadable in the dim light of the bar, leaving Tim completely 
unprepared for what was coming next.

"I have to admit, Tim, I didn't expect to find you here this late all 
by yourself.  What happened?  Your little redhead leave you high 
and dry for the weekend?"

"That's none of your fucking business," Bayliss snapped, ire 
kindling immediately at the other man's assault.

"Oh.  Ouch.  What have we here, a little disenchantment?" Chris 
drawled, feigning surprise.  "You two seemed cozy enough when 
we all ran into each another last time at the Walters gallery.  What 
was her name again?  Laura?"

"Dana," Tim corrected as his jaw clenched.  Crossing his arms, he 
gave the other man a tight stare.  Two were better than one at this 
game, and he was certainly no stranger to the painstaking process 
of screwing around with other people's heads.  If Rawls wanted to 
run roughshod over his sensibilities, then so be it.  Maybe he was 
even entitled.  But not with Scully as his unwitting tool.

"What the fuck, Chris?  I don't get it.  It's not like you to be 
this...bitchy."

But Rawls was already two steps ahead of him.  

"No -- fuck you, Tim," he said, with a hollow laugh.  "Truth is, 
that's *exactly* the way I've been since you walked out on me."

"I see," Bayliss said, stung more than he cared to admit by the 
admission.  His resentment began to disintegrate beneath a 
corresponding swell of guilt.  "Is that why you came in here 
tonight?  To piss all over me?"

"No," said Rawls, shifting slightly.  "I think you could call it a 
pathetic attempt to rescue myself from the depths of unresolved 
passion."

Bayliss found himself unable to respond to the hurt shimmering in 
the pewter-hard depths of the other man's eyes. 

Fuck.  

What a mess this was.

Shaking his head, he tried to relax, wanting to handle the fallout 
between them with as much sensitivity as possible.  There was a 
time when he'd believed himself tied to Chris irrevocably.  For 
that reason alone, the relationship deserved a certain level of 
respect.

More than either of them were paying it just now.

And his own sense of self-awareness virtually assured that if he let 
this continue, blood would be spilled across the delicate balance 
of logic and emotion in his soul.  Blood only Chris was capable of 
extracting.

"Sit down," said Bayliss as he adopted a less aggressive stance.  
"Can I get you a drink?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Rawls asked him sharply.  
"Won't your asshole buddies across the street see us shacking up 
in here and draw the inappropriate conclusion that we're 
*involved*?"

Tim looked away, flinching slightly.

"Don't try to handle me like I'm one of your suspects in the box," 
Chris said.  "Because there's no point in continuing if that's all 
you're good for tonight."

"Christ."  The word exploded from Bayliss's mouth as his control 
finally snapped.  "Feel better now?" he asked, pain vibrating in his 
voice.  "This isn't fucking fair.  I *never* made you any promises, 
Chris.  Far from it.  You knew that from the start."

Rawls shook his head.  "True enough, Tim.  I took a chance when 
we first met.  I thought I made the right decision. But you 
certainly fooled me.  I guess I should have known better."

He turned to leave, tipping his chin up and heading for the door.

"Wait."

Bayliss's voice startled them both. 

"I...I never meant to hurt you, Chris," he said.  "You know that, 
don't you?"

The other man turned slightly, staring from the corner of his eye.

"I think I know it a little *too* well," he replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know you better than you think." 

Panic assailed Tim as Rawls slid up to the bar swiftly, with all the 
hypnotic intensity of a shark about to decimate a school full of 
unsuspecting fish. 

"You said it was because of the job...because you owed 
Pembleton, but I didn't believe it.  I still don't.  I think you just 
wanted to hurt yourself."

Rawls ignored the look of shocked surprise swerving across 
Bayliss's face, continuing:

"It had everything to do with you.  With who you are.  You just 
couldn't let go in the way you deserve.  I remember the night you 
told me about the abuse from when you were a kid." 

Tim shuddered at the quick rush of debilitating memories.  His 
uncle...the bathroom...the dehumanizing shame of it all...

"You know what?" Chris was still speaking.  "You weren't making 
an admission.  It was a fucking *confession*.  And I found myself 
hating a man I'd never seen before because he was willing to place 
such a hideous burden on a child -- and on the person you've 
become.  Somebody who's dedicated his *life* to looking out for 
other people." 

The other man glanced away, cursing softly.  "The truth is, you 
broke off our relationship because you were afraid it was some 
kind bizarre anomaly born out of the abuse.  But seeing me didn't 
make you corrupt or deviant or depraved in any way.  It only made 
you human.  More human than half the men I've been with since I 
accepted who I was and what I wanted at the painfully young age of 
seventeen.  And I wanted you more than anything in my entire 
life."

Chris's lower lip quivered as he stopped speaking, and Tim blinked 
against the sight.  Against the deluge of emotion now threatening 
to overwhelm him.

Not this.

Not Chris breaking down.  

He didn't want that.  God, he'd never wanted that kind of power 
over another human being.

Never mind that what Chris just said was probably the truth....

It was more than Bayliss was willing to deal with right now.

Jesus, he'd had feelings for this man.  Serious feelings.  But he 
felt for Dana as well.  And Frank, and the job, and the rest of his 
miserable life, and shit he was just so fucking confused....

A tear slipped down his cheek and Tim swiped at it angrily, pissed 
at the inadvertent breach in his self-control.

He opened his eyes to see Rawls regarding him with something 
horribly close to pity.  Pity, and was it....

Forgiveness?

Christ.

He didn't think he deserved that.

With a shuddering breath, Tim watched as Rawls began to reach 
out towards him before apparently thinking better of it and 
stepping away instead.

In the end, Bayliss felt relieved that he had.  Because the solution 
wasn't as simple as letting himself be touched and told that 
everything was going to be okay.

It wasn't going to be okay.  Chris knew it as much as he did.

"I'm sorry, Tim," he heard the other man say, regret hovering like a 
prayer in the hushed tones of his voice.

Bayliss swallowed hard, cramming down his emotions and forcing 
himself to get a grip as he watched Rawls settle on the empty 
stool in front of him.

"I guess I will take that drink now," he said.

Without a word, Tim reached under the bar, coming up with a 
bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses.  Silence stretched as he 
poured them each a hefty shot of the amber fluid.

He had no doubt Chris could handle it.  And frankly, he needed it. 

The two men sipped at the harsh liquor for a few minutes, fully 
aware of the unresolved issues still hovering between them.

After a while, Rawls shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the 
stool next to him.

"You know," he began quietly, tracing idle patterns on the surface 
of the bar, "you never did answer my earlier question."

"Which was?"

"Whether or not the very beautiful and equally considerate Ms. 
Scully left you alone here this weekend.  And if so, why?"

Bayliss stared for a minute before setting down his drink and 
taking off his glasses.  He could detect nothing besides sincere 
concern in Rawls's attitude now.

"You got a few minutes to listen to the sad story of my life, 
Chris?" he asked, gazing past him at the desolate streets stretching 
beyond the darkness of the front window.  

He and Rawls...they were like the embodiment of Edward 
Hopper's famous Nighthawks.  Immersed in a lonely artist's near-
perfect world of fundamental isolation. 

And yet, somehow, they were still...together.

"All the time you need, Tim," he heard Chris say, eyes shining with 
the communion of shared vulnerability.  "No strings attached."

"There never were any, Chris," said Bayliss.

And then he felt the warmth of the other man's fingers finally 
closing around his own.

*********

>Coronado Island
>San Diego, CA

The sun was a fading blaze of energy, moving towards the line 
where the Pacific met the sky.  Across the water, the blunt finger 
of Point Loma broke the edge of the western horizon, sheltering 
Coronado's coast from the ravages of the open sea.   

If she looked closely enough, Scully could make out the tiny 
smudge of wrought iron and whitewashed stone marking the 
antique lighthouse atop Loma's distant crags.

Daytime shadows stretched over her surroundings with an 
inaudible sigh of regret as she picked her way towards the rocky 
barrier of the shoreline.  The cool sand rose up like a cushion 
beneath her when she finally stopped, settling down to watch the 
dying sun cast teasing patterns over the water. 

Soft waves seemed to loll and whisper in a language only she 
could understand, muffled against the scattered sounds of people 
drifting along the beach.

Yes.

A casual observer might gaze upon the landscape and tell you that 
Coronado's sunset was always the same. 

Limitless perfection.  Clear, uncomplicated, a natural wonder to 
behold.

So different from the tangled mess she'd been struggling with for 
what seemed like an eternity. 

But today....

Today, it was different.

A loud drone from the Naval-Air station suddenly rent the air and 
she looked up, shielding her eyes as a C-130 transport plane 
lumbered in for a landing, temporarily upending the comfortable 
symmetry of her surroundings.

And then, just like that, it was gone -- another fleeting detail 
quickly fading away to insignificance.

So unlike the dilemma that had originally led her to this place.

She thought about that for a moment.

Uncertainty, insecurity, hesitation -- such un-Scullylike 
phenomenon.

Failure was something she could deal with because it was 
essential to the human condition.  But this indecision had been 
something else, sapping her strength and making her feel 
inadequate.  

Scully hated that.  The few times when she'd actually doubted her 
purpose in her life had left her feeling lost and alone.  And afraid.

Back then, there had always been somebody else willing to share 
the burden.  Her mother, Melissa, the long-forgotten mentor in 
the University of Maryland's etiology department.

This time, there was no one.

And the deadlock endured, like a persistent rumor of political 
corruption, haunting her days and keeping her up nights.  Even in 
sleep, the visions were never far away.

But today...it was different.

Because she was different.

Waking that morning, Scully finally understood that she'd wasted a 
great deal of time trying to answer the wrong question.

She didn't know if it was divine intervention or just the conclusion 
to a long line of intense reasoning.  And she didn't care either.  
Solving the problem was all that mattered.  Getting some damned 
closure.

The truth was simpler than she'd ever imagined.  Or perhaps she 
had known once and just forgotten.

Because it wasn't about two men in her life.  It wasn't even about 
one man.

No, just as she'd remarked to Bill back on her first day here....

It was about her.  It always had been.

How could she have been so blind? 

A flock of irate seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead, 
distracting her again.  A few of them landed, chasing, pausing on 
the sand to shoot baleful looks in her direction.  

To them, she was nothing more than a nuisance.  A casual 
interloper clad in a clinging blouse of thin white cotton and a 
short navy skirt.  

Feet bare, her toes dug into the fine-textured sand as a few loose 
strands of hair fluttered about her face.

Needless to say, the birds were not impressed.  She and the others 
were merely bit players, appearing and then vanishing all too 
briefly from the permanent stage of their world.

Soon, *she* would have to leave.  There was nothing left to do 
here.

Sighing, Scully turned away from the gulls and watched the ocean 
with unseeing eyes.

Once she'd accepted that the decision was really about her, it 
wasn't much more of a leap to frame the question in rational 
terms.

Two things--

Go to Baltimore.  Seize the opportunity and run with it.  A 
meaningful career.  An intimate relationship with a man she was 
deeply attracted to.  There, she could help find answers to some of 
the most troubling crimes of human existence and discover the 
long-sought-after reward of measurable achievement in her work 
at last.

Alternatively, she could return to D.C. and re-immerse herself in a 
web of intrigue, frustration and potential disaster. 

Not much of a decision to be made once you knew what you were 
dealing with.

Scully felt the familiar tide of destructive emotion suddenly well 
up behind her eyes...so damn dangerous because it threatened her 
objectivity.

All the tears in the world didn't matter now.

For as long as she could remember, she had spurned the path of 
least resistance, always choosing the route that promised the 
greatest risks.  And the greatest rewards.

Dropping out of medical school to 'find' herself.  Choosing 
forensic pathology over family practice when she returned.  
Penetrating the cultural ranks of a male-dominated world at the 
FBI.  Refusing any and all opportunities to escape her exile on the 
metaphysical frontier of the X files.

Where had it gotten her?

Serving as a kind of investigative reactionary in the paranormal 
realm of Mulder's work?  Waging war on virtually all their 
discoveries with science as her weapon and legitimacy as her 
shield?  Sacrificing her life to some abstract quest for truth?  
Embracing loneliness and forcing down some of her more natural 
human impulses?

Bullshit. 

The X files provided a chance to see and hear and touch and 
experience things the average person would never, *could* never, 
imagine.  As bleak as the journey had been at times, there were 
corresponding levels of spiritual and intellectual growth for her as 
well.  Scully may have been younger when she'd committed to the 
all-consuming intrigue of Mulder's obsessions.  But now, she was 
undeniably stronger.

And while her life was repeatedly driven by circumstances beyond 
her control, she had accepted that.  What she *wanted* was rarely 
an issue. 

But not this time. 

She'd already made her decision hours before in the early morning 
warmth of a Coronado sunrise.

<time to go>

Scully swallowed hard and ran a hand through her hair, determined 
not to cry.

This wasn't supposed to be like the climax to some awful 
melodrama.  

It was a beginning.  The start of the way things were supposed to 
be.  Scully was sure of it.  And hard as it might be for him, he 
would have to accept it and move forward.

Actually, she'd spent the better part of the afternoon wondering 
exactly how he might respond.  Would he agree to the terms she 
was about to set for their relationship with each another?

<maybe>

There was no way to be certain.  And so, while part of Scully 
basked in the comfort of finding her resolve, the other sat back 
and prayed for a miracle.  Whatever stroke of coincidence was 
necessary to unlock the enigma of his character. 

A goddamned waste of time was what that was, she thought wryly.  
Only his presence could provide that opportunity.  And even she 
acknowledged that was as unlikely as a blizzard in July.  He would 
never take such liberty with her independence.  Unless....

Unless there was a more profound motivation involved.

Almost immediately, she rejected the troubling thought, tipping 
her head back and savoring the twilit warmth of the sun instead.  

For whatever reason, her senses seemed so much more alive today 
-- as though the clarity in her mind had somehow spilled over into 
other areas, sharpening her perceptions. 

And instead of a compulsion to leave the island, Scully was seized 
with the overwhelming desire to just...

<stay>

...even if there seemed to be little point left in doing so.

All day long, she'd been unable to shake a growing feeling of 
anticipation.  It reminded her of the old Catholic Sunday School 
myth about catching a glimpse of one's guardian angel.  Subtle, but 
still there...a vague impression lurking on the periphery of her 
vision.  That is....

If you believed.  

And Scully wanted desperately to believe.

She stood then, shaking off the weird hypersensitivity and thinking 
briefly about dinner.  Her lashes fluttered as she brushed at the 
grit clinging stubbornly to the fabric of her skirt.  Sneaking a 
quick glance back in the direction of the hotel, Scully let her gaze 
skip over the last few people remaining within her vision.

Nothing.

Goddamn it.  

<wait>

A solitary figure drew her attention, standing motionless, about a 
hundred feet away.

Oh god.  

He was right there. 

Recognition ripped through her with blinding speed -- shifting, 
changing, amplifying -- splitting her soul with a lightning strike of 
pure panic and sexual awareness.

This couldn't be happening.  After all this time, her imagination 
had finally come undone -- blurring like a ruined watercolor left 
outside in the rain.  

Reality would surely wash all traces of him away in a matter of 
seconds.

<one thousand one, one thousand two...>

He was still there.  Real.

An inadvertent sigh escaped her as she caught the agitated 
movement of his hands, and she flushed with the memory of them 
on her skin -- all silky heat and changing textures and masterful 
manipulation....

He smiled faintly and Scully closed her eyes, remembering the 
icy-hot brand of his mouth along her throat...the length of his 
lower lip between her teeth...the taste of his tongue sliding against 
hers, intensifying her own arousal.

He hadn't said a word, throughout her entire examination, and she 
knew he wouldn't.  Not until she did.  Or at least until she gave 
some indication of what was going on inside her head.

The wind gusted off the ocean, ruffling his hair above the dark 
lenses of his sunglasses.  Wholly seduced now by his mystery, she 
stepped forth, closing the distance between them.

He reached out...

...and Scully quivered at the touch of his hand around her neck, up 
along her jaw and over her ear.  His fingers sifted through her hair, 
catching softly on the tangled strands as she turned her head, 
savoring the brush of his thumb against her cheek.

He pulled her close, shaping her body against his, hands sliding 
over her hips to the small of her back and then to the hollow 
between her shoulders.  She stole a quick breath as he lowered his 
mouth at last.

The kiss was brutal -- hard and fierce and utterly demanding.  
Scully answered it involuntarily, all her senses alive with the 
remembered power of his touch.  She felt his tongue tease the 
corner of her mouth, drifting over the fullness of her lower lip, 
demanding she relent to him.

Without a thought, Scully tilted her head back, reaching up to 
twine her arms around his neck and opening her mouth beneath 
his.  Her body arched against him of its own volition, as though 
wanting to become a part of him forever. 

He was trailing kisses along her cheeks now, up to her eyes, 
across her forehead, down to her jaw and the velvety hollow 
beneath her chin.  The rim of his sunglasses scraped at her face 
and Scully reached around to drag them off, hearing the faint 
clatter as they hit the sand below.

Her blood was singing in exaltation, a blaze of emotion stroking 
along her senses and curling like smoke the base of her spine.  
And then lower...building inexorably between her legs.

The effect was overwhelming -- nearly frightening it was so 
intense.  Unconsciously, she withdrew, beginning to pull away 
slightly.

He made a small, inarticulate sound of denial, fracturing the 
protective barrier around her heart with astonishing ease.  And 
Scully did not resist as he drew her arms around his waist, settling 
her head into the curve of his throat and hugging her tightly to 
him.

Thank god, she thought, succumbing at last to the quick, steady 
beat of his heart beneath her cheek.  

Thank god he had finally come to her. 

Dimly, she sensed the surrounding shapes of people walking, 
giving them a wide berth and shooting surreptitious, understanding 
glances among themselves.

Was is that obvious? 

Could complete strangers really understand the significance of 
this moment?

Of course they could.  They were human, weren't they?  And some 
types of communication were purely universal.

Still, they were making a spectacle of themselves, something he 
never seemed to mind but that Scully found acutely disturbing.  
Besides which, she was desperate for privacy so they could shift 
this encounter to the next level.

"Come on," she urged suddenly, grasping his fingers and pulling 
him in the direction of the hotel.

He bent quickly, scooping up his shades with his free hand and 
allowing himself to be led towards the waiting oasis of red roofs, 
white painted woodwork and deep green lawns spread out before 
them.

In just a few moments, he would be with her, in the room, bending 
her back in his arms.  Reminding her of what it felt like to be lost 
inside the labyrinth of their attraction to each other....

And then they were inside, moving fast, traveling through a hazy 
assortment of details and impressions: 

The scent of polished oak and antique brass pervading the lobby's 
stately surroundings.  The shadowy meld of music and polite 
conversation flowing from the piano bar.  The soft light of the 
elegant hallway leading to her room.

Once there, Scully fumbled with her key, trying to ignore the 
sudden nervous tremor in her fingers.  She dropped it, flinching 
slightly at the silvery whisper of metal hitting the floor.

He moved against her before she could react, pushing her back up 
against the unyielding surface of the door.  The entire length of 
his body was formed to hers as he boosted her up to his level.

He clung to her like paint, passion spreading in a thick layer over 
the flushed contours of her skin and bleeding into her soul.  Scully 
cried out and the sound was muffled as his mouth slid over hers 
yet again.  

Suddenly, the public nature of their surroundings didn't seem so 
important anymore. 

"Wait," she gasped, when his fingers slid upward, underneath her 
breasts, grazing over the tight sensitivity of her nipples.

"For?" he asked.

"For me to get the damn key off the floor and into the lock," she 
said, forcing an arm between them and sinking down to get it.

Rising, she stared at him in consternation as he slipped the key 
from her hand, inserting it easily into the latch and turning the 
knob.  

Twining his fingers with hers, he jerked her inside and slammed 
the door shut with enough force to make the walls rattle and send 
one of the hotel's tasteful Winslow Homer etchings crashing to 
the floor.

Free at last, they pushed their way through the room with frantic 
energy, desperate to explore the exquisite territory of each other's 
bodies.  He was easing her down to the floor, onto her knees, 
hands moving over her limbs with delectable persuasion.    

So amazing.  All of her vaunted logic and restraint dissolved 
completely as he smoothed a fingertip up along the quivering 
surface of her inner thigh, stopping just short of the place where 
she needed it most.  

A groan of frustration trickled from her lips.

"Say it," he demanded, the words echoing harshly in the quiet.

His voice was soaked with the soft-core pornographic tone she 
had come to identify as his most aroused, and Scully searched his 
gaze in the gloom, trying to understand exactly what he needed.     

"Tell me you want this," he said, squeezing her upper arm tightly 
and answering the question for her.

The tremor of desperation in his voice thrilled Scully for some 
odd reason and her body stretched, responding, offering itself to 
his touch.  She could not seem to catch her breath; her panting was 
harsh in her own ears.

And yet, some inner knot of perversity would not let her say the 
words.

He ignored her refusal, bending her back over one arm, beginning 
to move his hips against hers.  

Rocking, he coerced her into answering his rhythm until she was 
matching him thrust for thrust.  And then his mouth was on hers 
yet again, cutting off her breath abruptly and smothering her with 
the thick, provocative heat of his embrace.  

It was happening so fast, Scully felt the last of her concentration 
dwindle and finally slip away.  Sensation was all that remained as 
his hands drifted beneath the tails of her paper-thin blouse and slid 
up the smooth, supple skin of her back, settling at last into the 
hollow at the base of her spine.  Her head reeled.  She whimpered 
-- a succession of low, breathy moans shuddering in her throat, 
much like the steady wash of ocean waves breaking outside her 
window.

He was kissing her almost into madness, molding her so tightly to 
the damp, heated curves of his body that she could barely tell 
where his flesh ended and her own began.

Hazily, Scully registered his uncoordinated movements as he 
loosened his belt and struggled with his jeans.  Reaching out, her 
fingers skipped along the silver buttons with the adeptness of a 
surgeon, sliding inside to caress him through the fine silk of his 
boxers and savoring the feel of his desire beneath the oily smooth 
texture of the fabric.  

He groaned, grasping her hand when she wrapped it around him, 
holding her still. 

"Say it," he begged, a new, wilder tension hovering in the words.  
"Please."

He was losing it.  She could almost *feel* his control scattering 
like a handful chess pieces across an empty space.

Scully had seen him before, on the brink like this.  Sometimes 
during interrogations, when tempers snapped beneath the pressure 
of frustration.  Or the occasional late night at the bar when the 
irresistible force of his arguments met the immovable object of 
her reasoning.  Or even in the act of absorbing some passing shot 
from an arrogant colleague.

But this was the first time she'd ever witnessed a lapse in his 
discipline from nothing more than simple, basic hunger.  Hunger 
for the pleasures of her body.

A lesser person would have reveled in such dominion over 
another.

But not her.  Never her.

No.  Right now, Scully wanted only to let the dark tide of his 
passion pull her under the surface of perfunctory logic and down 
into the deeper, more dangerous depths of covert emotion beneath 
it.

She could do this.  Damnit, she *would* do this.

Tracing her fingertips along his shaft, she found the spot that made 
his breath catch with a savage twist of arousal.  His hand curved 
over hers as she stroked him, and Scully smiled to herself when a 
vibration seemed to cut its way through his entire body.  

He pulled away abruptly, just long enough to slide his legs from 
the confining denim, kicking it away, along with his shoes and 
socks into the shadowy boundaries of the room.

And then she was guiding his head back to hers, tensing as his lips 
parted, hovering less than an inch away from the tender curves of 
her own.

The mellow warmth of his breath fanned over her face and she 
inhaled, drinking in his distinctive taste -- the erotically distilled 
flavor crackling over her senses like the 100-proof spark of a 
Long Island Iced Tea. 

He did not kiss her.

Instead, he took hold of her fingers once again, drawing them up, 
over the quivering muscles of her abdomen, easing them beneath 
the lacy satin of her bra and over the hardened peak of one breast.  

His message was clear and Scully obeyed without thinking, 
circling, catching, pulling at her own flesh beneath the pressure of 
his hand, groaning as tingle after tingle of excitement rocked 
along her shattered nerves.  The sense of violating some unspoken 
taboo only served to heighten her excitement.  She was breathing 
in soft sobs now, pleading uncontrollably.

With a low, answering sigh, he eased his fingers up inside her, 
stroking delicately, drawing wet, slippery patterns over the heated 
flesh between her legs.

And then he was pulling away again, ignoring her anguished cry of 
denial as he tipped her chin up, staring fiercely into her eyes.  God 
help her, she could smell the heady perfume of her own desire 
still lingering on his fingertips....

"You have to say it," she heard him say one last time, teeth grazing 
her ear lobe.  "Now.  Before I lose my fucking mind."

Scully gasped, shifting helplessly as she drifted at last into the 
beckoning countercurrents of temptation and longing.  Once 
there, she realized that no amount of pride or ego or self-
satisfaction could be worth denying herself this gratification.

All he asked for was the truth.  She could tell it to him without 
risking her dignity or even her self-respect.   

And the truth was, right now, she wanted him with an urgency 
greater than anything she'd ever known.

"I..."  She swallowed hard, trying to stay focused.  

He slid a hand beneath the short hem of her skirt, kneading the 
firm curves of her ass and teasing between her legs with the 
promise of further reward.

"I want this," she finally breathed.

Without another word, he pushed her backwards, onto her side, 
laying her out along the floor, over the luxuriant surface of indigo 
pile spread out beneath them.

"I want you," she moaned softly, closing her eyes, willing to give 
him still more.  More of herself and more than he would ever dare 
ask for.

"...please..."

His fingers threaded through her hair, caressing her scalp as he 
tugged her against him, kissing her once more with nearly violent 
intensity. 

Oh god, she thought.  He was gone...spinning out of control in a 
furious storm of want and fear and need inside his head.  Pulling 
her down with him into a psychic undertow of raw, unfettered 
sexuality.

How she needed this.

It was bright and rough and powerful and breathtaking and 
soulbreaking all at once.  For once, just once, she was free to 
experience all of its impact -- animalistic impulse and climactic 
abandon stripping away the very last shreds of her iron-clad 
restraint.

Eyes tight and narrow with an instinct as old as time, he moved, 
smoothing his way over her until she was completely consumed -- 
trapped along one side by the maze of their entangled limbs and 
the other against the floor.  She felt him kneel against her, legs 
pressing up against the supple swell of her backside where the 
skirt hitched up and moved, exposing her sensitized flesh.  He 
shifted the two of them together slightly until the peak of his 
erection hovered just against the slick, satiny fabric shielding her 
opening. 

Beyond thought now, he didn't bother with subtlety.  Sliding the 
skirt up over her hips, he hooked a finger into the leg of her 
panties, stripping them away with quick, impatient skill.

And then he sank into her, deeply.  Penetrating the lush, 
welcoming depths of her body with such possessiveness it made 
her vision blur.  She heard a low hiss of ecstasy escape his mouth 
as he moved in a steady pattern of forceful thrusts -- dominating 
her -- driving a slurry of soft, whimpering cries from her lips.

Her lashes fluttered as she clutched at the carpet, turning to face 
him as he braced himself on one arm, the other curving beneath 
her jaw to grasp her chin roughly.  Holding her head in position, 
he kissed her again, tongue twining with hers and tasting her 
growing excitement.  His eyes trapped her mind in a vortex of 
extreme sensation, reeling against the obscure backdrop of night 
surrounding them.  

And there was something else.

Desperation sparked in his gaze, creating a bizarre kind of 
symmetry with her own restless spirit.

Because this moment was one-of-a-kind.  Without parallel.  
Conceivable only within the tightly drawn limits of their 
connection to each other.  They could search the world a thousand 
times over and never hope to discover this feeling with another 
human being.

He knew it.  And so did she.

The sudden insight was earth-shattering, hitting her hard and 
terrifying her like nothing else.  Not even the tiny techno-
biological nightmare sleeping quietly at the base of her neck.

Almost instinctively, Scully discarded her flicker of self-
awareness, concentrating instead on the extraordinary feel of him, 
buried deep inside her.

It was enough.  It *had* to be enough.

Because he was taking them to a place that couldn't be described 
in words...each thrust touching a spot within her that no one else 
had ever managed to find.

Pressing her face into the soft expanse of rug, Scully wanted to 
join with him completely, to take him harder, faster...though the 
intricacies of her position prevented that.  She could only lie 
along her side and drift into the primal ebb and flow of their 
joining, letting him control the tempo, wrapping her up in a 
molten web of flesh and desire.

His fingertips snaked along the length of her arm and she gasped 
when he caught her hand, squeezing so tightly it hurt.  

He couldn't hold out much longer.  Scully seized on the evidence 
of his impending release -- the sight of their fingers intertwined, 
his grasping with an erotic cadence along the thick pile of the 
carpet.

She heard him take a deep breath, trying to draw his hand away, 
lunging against her with a growing urgency.  

But she wouldn't let go.  Because he was close to the edge...so 
close...and something inside her needed to experience the full 
depth of his climax without any distraction.

As though sensing her resolve, he surrendered with a low groan -- 
arching against her, pulling her head into the hot, damp hollow of 
his neck and sobbing her name.  The quiet rush of emotion seemed 
almost absurd against the brutal intensity of the orgasm breaking 
over him.

The tumult threatened to engulf Scully and she closed her eyes, 
holding tightly to the anchor of his hand as the sound of his 
release became lost in the carnal thunder of blood and breath 
surging wildly in her ears.

"Let go."

The rich tones of his voice swept back inside her head without any 
warning.

"Scully," she heard him say.  "Let go."

She released his hand, eyes brimming with a mixture of 
anticipation and longing as she looked at him again, catching the 
shadowed sweep of his jaw and the dreamlike reflection of his 
gaze in the moonlight.

His fingers, now free, danced the length of her body.  Along the 
curve of her waist, over the swell of her hip, across the rise of her 
belly...gliding effortlessly between her legs at last to stroke her in 
time with his waning thrusts.

Once.  Twice.

And she was dying.  In awe of the perfection of it all.  Her climax 
was a work of art...a whorl of primitive sensation that spun along 
her nerves with all the eerie radiance of a Van Gogh starry night.

Scully's head swam with a dark, effervescent beauty...fingertips 
tingling, a spill of blessed euphoria washing over her senses as his 
low, exultant chuckle soothed like raw silk along her spine.

The moment stretched on and on, dashing up against her and 
through her like a breaking wave, and he was there and it was 
through him and they were in it together....

For a few weightless seconds, Scully concentrated on nothing 
more besides breathing, listening to her sounds mixed with his in 
the sudden calm of the room.

He moved away from her, up, heading for the bathroom where she 
could hear the distant sound of water running.

The noise ceased abruptly as he returned to her side, cradling her 
in his arms and sliding a cool glass against her still-throbbing lips. 

Without thinking, she swallowed, reaching up to take the water for 
herself as it cut down the fiery surface of her throat like a blade.  
Surprisingly, it soothed while also managing to draw her further 
back into the beckoning arms of lucidity and comprehension.  

He had undressed her, she noticed, spying her clothes in a 
haphazard pile on the floor mixed up with his own. 

The glass slipped to the floor as he pulled them both up to 
standing, staggering through the now-chilly air currents towards 
the beckoning mound of pillows and blankets on top of the bed.

A few seconds passed as she lay down, shivering, until he slid to 
her side.  Spooning her into the familiar shape of his lean frame, 
he tucked them both up inside the soft linens.

After a while, he drew away slightly, running a fingertip along the 
length of her spine and then rubbing the tense muscles of her 
lower back.

"What took you so long?" she asked, relaxing against him as the 
sound of her voice curled languorously into the gloom.

"Why, Agent Scully," he replied with mock sincerity, reaching up 
to tease her nose with a rough fingertip.  "I thought you were 
impressed with my staying power."

Scully chuckled, unable to help herself.

"You know what I mean," she said, flipping onto her back and 
poking at the tender flesh along his side.

"Scully!" he flinched, laughing.  "Fine." 

Sitting up, he drew her with him so that they were facing, legs 
draped over each other's.

His expression turned solemn.  "I wasn't sure you wanted me 
here."

Scully smiled at him, eyes half-closed with a mischievous glint as 
an idea suddenly occurred to her.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I knew you were 
coming?" she asked quietly.

"How?"

"Intuition," Scully whispered, reaching up to brush her fingers 
through the ruffle his hair.  

Drawing him closer, she feathered light kisses over his face and 
neck, punctuating each with softly spoken words:  

"Extrasensory perception, sixth sense, psychic ability, divination, 
prognostication--"

He reached out swiftly, pressing his thumb against her lips, cutting 
her words short.

"No -- fucking -- way."  

"Okay," she relented, leaning towards him.  "The truth is, I had a 
dream."

He frowned.  "A dream?"

Scully nodded.

"About what?"

"You," she said simply.

"Oh god," he groaned, closing his eyes briefly before flicking 
them open again to search hers in the watery moonlight.  "A 
dream.  Is that what this is?" 

Scully met the fierce neediness in his stare head-on, absorbing it, 
drawing on it, finally pulling his head towards her until their lips 
brushed gently.  Desire surged through her once more as he 
whimpered submissively against her mouth.  

"Kiss me again, Mulder..." she whispered. 

"...we'll find out."

*********

It was finally over.  

Another minute.  Another hour.  Another day slipping away into 
the limitless spaces of the past.

Mulder was alone -- locked inside the breezy confines of Scully's 
room and wrapped in a thick coating of darkness.  Taking a deep 
breath, he turned his cheek into the cool cotton of the pillow as a 
wave of music crept like a thief through the open window.

The hotel was hosting some kind of corporate shindig outside, a 
party beneath the stars, forcing him to endure the seductive 
sounds of an orchestra playing in full-swing for the past two 
hours.  

The lone singer's voice was like magic, touched with the classic 
quality of a more bygone era and reminiscent of a Bobby Darin or 
a Frank Sinatra.  That, plus the incoherent noise of a couple 
hundred party-goers and the muted melody of the ocean had 
imbued the whole affair with a sort of bizarre, dreamlike quality 
for him.

Frankly, Mulder found it unsettling.  The experience had a 
hauntingly nostalgic feel but he couldn't put his finger on the exact 
reasons why.  Turning in the gloom, he struggled to coax forth the 
vague impressions lurking inside his head.

But it wasn't working, no matter how hard he tried.  The vision, 
like so many others, lay just beyond his grasp, teasing him with 
the promise of enlightenment if he could only just...find the key 
somehow.

After a while, he gave up, gut twisting with the familiar sting of 
failure.  The memory slid away and he focused instead on the 
circumstances leading to his current isolation.

The first thirty-six hours with Scully had been absolutely 
breathtaking.  Day and night had blended together into one as 
they'd spent hour upon hour in a slow, sensual dance of physical 
intrigue, broken only by sleep, a call or two to room service and 
the occasional side trip to the bathroom.

Thinking didn't matter, and neither did conversation.  There was no 
set course...no planning.  The only thing to do was sit back and 
experience the journey with the subtle direction of pure instinct.

And yet, he couldn't seem to shake the growing feelings of 
emptiness and isolation in their situation.  Sleeping with her 
resolved nothing, really.  It only made the stain of denial spread 
faster, making future conflict between them all but inevitable. 

As it turned out, he hadn't had long to wait. 

That very morning had found them waking together in a spell of 
shared restlessness, ready at last to escape the narrow confines of 
the room and venture forth upon the real world.

Whether or not his growing anxiety had provided the motivation, 
Mulder didn't know and didn't care.  He was happy enough to take 
Scully out into the light and discover the pleasure of acting like 
something besides a professional colleague for a change. 

As with so much of the process thus far, he hadn't known what to 
expect.  Their relationship always pushed him to the outer limits 
of fascination with the way it managed to shift through such 
evolutionary leaps and bounds.  

Adversaries to partners and then to friends.  Lovers.  And now, this 
next step....

Mulder could not help recognizing certain signs.  Signs of 
something he was trying very hard not to put a name to, but that 
he'd already known on a subliminal level for a long time.  In all the 
previous incarnations of their relationship, they had been in it 
together -- aware of the deepening level of commitment within 
themselves.  But Scully's fear of love was even greater than her 
fear of death.  And this latest phase, if it were really what he 
suspected...he knew he would be on his own. 

And so, they'd spent the day not working, not making love and not 
talking much, either.

He closed his eyes, sighing softly and reliving the experience....

They had been sitting on a bench in Balboa Park, in front of a 
sparkling cascade of water.  The tempo of her body's rhythms 
thrummed steadily beneath his arm and he'd tipped his head back, 
relishing the warmth of a buttery sun.  A light wind ruffled his 
hair, carrying its signature SoCal ocean-salt scent along with the 
hollow, unearthly tones of an Andean flute player.  Without a 
word, he'd let his hand slip under the firm curve of her jaw, tipping 
her face up and fitting his mouth against hers with a soft, wet kiss 
that went on for what seemed like eternity...in front of God and 
the tourists and a medley of fluttering birds...amid the screams 
and shouts of children sporting obliviously all around them. 

Late afternoon saw them cruising the streets of downtown 
Coronado, blending in, relaxing in the warm shelter of complete 
anonymity.  They'd stopped to eat, and Mulder found himself in 
the uncomfortable position of watching with growing arousal as 
Scully sucked the gooey residue of a slamburger from the Palm 
Bar and Grill from her fingers.  Her eyes had gleamed at him with 
a predatory gusto so blatantly sexual it took his breath away.

But their brief idyll was not meant to last.  It couldn't, really.

Dissension had risen with the cunning of a lethal predator as he 
traced steps behind her, across the beach at the end of day.  They 
paused just around the barrier of rocks and sand away from the 
hotel -- the place where she stood every night to watch the sunset.  

Mulder had already sensed a certain level of discontent from her 
over his impulsive flight to her side.  It was potent, simmering 
barely beneath the surface, and until then, she had kept it mostly 
under control.  

Ironic sometimes, how the one thing you wished for most could 
also bear with it the greatest torment.  Scully never said that out 
loud, but he had enough experience of his own to identify the 
phenomenon.

The thinking part of him cautioned that it would be better to just 
let her go off alone to ponder whatever secrets still roamed about 
inside her head.  Like a fool, he'd chosen to ignore the internal 
warning, hoping to find a way to help ease the progression for her.

Hell, he wasn't even sure what the fucking progression was 
anymore.  And after all this time, he guessed he probably should 
have known better.

The fight had been cold and utterly controlled, beginning as these 
things often do, as part of a completely unrelated scenario. 

He had stood next to her, silently watching the dusky light warm 
her features with the heat of a lover's caress.  Copious amounts of 
sunblock and a little bit of restraint had helped her pick up a 
healthy-looking glow from being outdoors, and Mulder was 
frankly admiring of the result.

After a while, he'd turned away, eyeing the humanity peppering the 
sands all around them.  Studying the random behavior of people in 
an environment that had nothing to do with his work was a rare 
indulgence and he lost himself in the activity, never stopping to 
consider that Scully might do the same.

His wandering gaze had seized on the sight of a small, blond-
haired boy, not much older than two or three years old, following 
his father and mother as they gathered stones washing up with the 
gently turning tide.  Every so often, the woman would pause and 
call to her child, holding out a rock or brightly colored shell.  The 
boy would gleefully accept, hurling it with lopsided enthusiasm 
into the breaking water.

The sparkle of the child's laughter carried easily over the sounds 
of the beach and Mulder found himself completely spellbound.  
He couldn't help sharing the look of amusement etched upon the 
mother's face as she watched the boy's merry antics, smiling over 
her shoulder at the husband.  The picture of easy intimacy and 
affection between all of them was impossible to ignore, 
remarkable in its own way.

He'd turned and looked down at Scully, prepared to point out the 
threesome until he realized her attention was already riveted on 
the scene.

The look of bleak despair on her face knocked him cold.  
Overcome for a moment, Mulder held himself completely still, 
caught in the same trap of pain and anguish he knew she must be 
feeling already.

Scully caught his stare, correctly interpreting the guilty 
compassion in his stance as her eyes narrowed in warning. 

Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself as the words tumbled from 
his mouth:

"I'm sorry, Scully."

"What?"

The single word shattered the air around them like the report of a 
pistol.  

"What did you just say?" she asked again, tense.

"Nothing," he said hastily, knowing exactly what was going to 
happen and finding himself absolutely powerless to prevent it.

"Don't say 'nothing,' Mulder," she fired back, voice toxic with the 
force of accusation.

He flinched as though slapped.

"I wonder if you'd like to share with me exactly what it is *you* 
have to be *sorry* for."

A frightening array of thought raced through his brain at the 
question -- the familiar chorus of blame and accountability that 
had become such an integral part of him over time.  These days, it 
was impossible to distinguish where his own burden ended and 
hers began.

The abduction.  The tests.  The missing time.  The loss of her 
sister.  The loss of Emily.  The career distortion caused by her 
low-altitude orbit around him and his work on the edge of a 
professional black hole.  The implications for her health -- and for 
her future.  All of it, added to the immeasurable weight of his own 
afflictions.

Mulder opened his mouth to speak, knowing full well that to say it 
out loud would only make things worse -- would make her even 
more explosively pissed than she was already.

Scully's chin was raised and he could see she had gone white 
beneath the golden glow of her skin.  Her jaw clenched and 
unclenched with the strain of holding her emotions in check.

Pressing his lips closed, Mulder shook his head slightly, refusing 
to rise to the bait.

"Go to hell," she said, quietly execrating him for all the things he 
left unspoken but that she knew he believed.  "And god damn you 
for being arrogant enough to think you can take the responsibility 
away from me and carry it around like some sort of twisted tribute 
to your own sacrifices.  Where I am, I got to on my own -- by my 
own choice and my own free will.  If things haven't always turned 
out the way I wanted, it's *me* who has to live with that -- not 
you."

She whirled abruptly, grabbing up her sandals and pulling them on 
with quick, furious movements.  Pausing, she looked up, impaling 
him with her gaze.

"Don't you ever, *ever*, apologize to me for that again," she said 
coldly.  

Without waiting for a response, Scully turned and left, her small 
strides pounding away angrily along the moist stretch of sand and 
surf.

Mulder closed his eyes and willed the rapid tempo of his heartbeat 
to slow, a calming exercise as ingrained for him as breathing when 
it came to her particular brand of cruelty.  Part of him was almost 
immediately compelled to follow her.  To force her around and 
somehow make her understand that he felt the way he did, not 
because he thought she was a victim, but rather out of a profound 
respect for her overwhelming perseverance and strength.  

The rare blend of courage and will and integrity in her heart was 
something he shamelessly availed himself to every moment they 
were together.  Any sorrow he nursed about the state of her affairs 
was really nothing more than a kind of homage to those qualities.

But his more rational side held him back.  She didn't want his pity.  
Hell, she didn't even want his understanding if it came to that.  
Scully was so fucking focused on proving her self-sufficiency, 
she sometimes forgot that part of being strong was accepting your 
vulnerability.  Accepting it -- and using it as a tool to discover 
other people's salvation, as well as your own.  

Her hostile response had been out-of-line and frankly hurtful.  But 
Mulder accepted it because he accepted her.  And he recognized 
the depths of her loss whether she wanted him to or not.

He knew she thought he was weak sometimes.  The look on her 
face said so every time his emotions got the best of him and he let 
his soul get sucked into whatever insane reality they happened to 
be working with at the moment. 

But he wasn't weak.

If only she could understand that....

Blinking against the last gleaming rays of the sun, he realized 
there was little point in lingering on the beach any longer.  The 
family he'd been observing before was long gone...and so was 
Scully.

Mulder ignored the growing sense of dread clawing through his 
insides as he fought the urge to rush back to the hotel on the off-
chance she might be up in the room waiting for him.

Really, he knew he was just kidding himself.

He had already journeyed across an entire continent to find her.  
Whatever conclusions she'd drawn from his actions would have to 
be enough to guide her now.

If she left, she left.  There was nothing he could do at this point to 
stop her.

The temperature was plummeting as darkness crept across the 
twilight sky and Mulder finally packed it in, heading to whatever 
emotional debris might be left for him in their room.

Once there, he discovered that Scully had indeed returned.  Her 
shorts were folded neatly atop her things, but her jacket and pants 
were gone -- the only clue to her shifting presence.  The room 
itself was empty.  She had evidently decided to deprive him of her 
company for just a little while longer.

At least he could comfort himself with the knowledge that she 
couldn't leave without her belongings.  That meant if he stuck 
close, she would have to deal with him sooner or later.

Wonderful.

Mulder settled himself in for the proverbially long night ahead.

Which was how he found himself lying there on the bed all alone, 
clad in nothing more than a pair of jeans and welcoming a wisp of 
ocean air as it ruffled over his skin.

The orchestra had just finished Harry Belafonte's "Banana Boat 
Song" to a loud ovation from the crowd.  Now, the singer was 
back, launching into a succession of old Sinatra tunes.  

Somehow, they managed to work their way back into his 
subconscious like a prickly irritant, teasing forth the odd 
assortment of past details once again.

The memory was there.  Mulder could almost taste it, it was so 
close.

Fuck.

The damn thing kept slipping stubbornly out beyond his reach and 
he clenched his teeth, concentrating.  Something about the big-
band swing of the music...the salty perfume of the sea air...the 
star-strewn magic of the night sky....

And a sensation of wistful longing weighing down like an anchor 
in his heart.

There was a rattle at the lock and he sat up quickly, peering 
through the gloom as the door opened.  

Scully's silhouette was framed perfectly within a rectangle of light 
from the hall.  

The liquid shimmer of her gaze touched him, even through the 
surrounding glare.  Mulder stood, hands falling to his sides as she 
closed the door quietly, plunging them back into the security of 
darkness.

Moving slowly, she met him in the center of the room, stopping 
about a foot away as he waited with a blank expression.

Her mouth worked for a second or two until she looked up and 
away, hesitation fusing its way across the hot anxiety in her 
stance.

And then suddenly, she was in his arms, her slight form wracked 
with a flood of emotion so strong, he wondered if she might 
actually break this once beneath the strain of it.

"Oh god, Mulder..." he heard her say as she held him close, 
clinging to the firm support of his body.

He ran his hands gently up and down the length of her spine.

"I'm so sorry," Scully whispered and he hushed her softly, pulling 
away and tipping her chin up until their eyes came together again 
in the darkness.

Hers glittered with the rich luster of unshed tears and she blinked, 
biting down on her lip and letting him see it all -- the pain, her 
remorse, everything.

Without a word, Mulder drew her close, tucking her against him.  
He breathed deeply of her icy-cool scent, touched now with the 
salty tang of the outdoors and the tropical balm of her after-sun 
emollient.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but he found himself rocking her 
slowly in time with the music outside.  They were moving along to 
the strains of Frank Sinatra's "Summer Wind," he realized.  An 
ageless tribute to the passage of time and the wistful 
reminiscence that accompanied it.

For a split second, he closed his eyes....

As the world divided all around him.

Almost reflexively, he braced himself.  For the vision that had 
been taunting him all night long emerged upon his conscious 
memory like a flash of light suddenly reflected -- so powerful it 
literally took his breath away.  

It felt like falling through the same thunderous vortex of illusion 
he'd experienced from the ketamine and cerebral trauma at the 
hands of that quack psychiatrist back in Warwick a few years 
before.  Only there was a crucial difference this time.  This 
memory came complete with the knowledge, the bone-hard 
instinct, that what he was reliving was the truth.  The 
accompanying surge of elation from his soul assured him it was 
so.

It was the summer of 1972 and he was ten years old.  

Christ, it had been the last *good* summer.  The one before all 
the shouting and the pain -- before the turbulent months that 
eventually culminated in the devastating loss of his sister.

Those were exciting times.  Unpredictable times.  Times filled 
with a series of explosive events that would be forever etched 
upon the world's consciousness.

The U.S. was finally pulling back from the conflict in Southeast 
Asia.  Words like 'detente' and 'Watergate' were beginning to 
infiltrate people's everyday conversation.  And most important as 
far as Mulder was concerned, the nation was stuck, waiting 
somewhat indifferently in the lull between Apollo launches for 
Cernan, Evans and Schmitt to take up the final mission with 
Seventeen.

Against the backdrop of such overwhelming historical 
dimensions, life in the Mulder household went on.  

They were at the Quonochontaug cabin.  It was late August and his 
parents had been entertaining.  Yet another barbecue with the same 
old tired collection of guests he'd only bothered to know well 
enough to address by the right name when they noticed him or 
Samantha.

Mulder and his sister had gone to bed under duress at ten o'clock, 
just as the party on the back lawn was hitting its full swing.  

God, he could still remember the commingled scents of dying 
charcoal, cigarettes, whisky sours and the oily-sweet zest of 
kerosene torches against the salt water smell of the Atlantic.

They had lain awake, listening to inarticulate sounds of laughter 
and conversation in the yard, easily picking out the distinctive 
tones of their mother and father the way kids so often could.  
Eventually, a low drift of music joined the fray, which was when 
they realized his father had set up the old record player outside 
again.  

He and Samantha were already accustomed to the boring 
predictability of these gatherings.  Weekend after weekend, the 
adults always followed the exact same pattern.  Drinks, dinner, 
more drinks and then dancing.  You'd think they'd get tired of it 
after a while and play Twister or something for a change.

And yet, for some reason, this particular evening, the usually 
tedious impressions touched him and his sister in a way they never 
had before.

A succession of old torch songs had scratched their way into the 
warm and humid summer night -- Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis, 
Dean Martin and finally, Sinatra himself.

Samantha had risen, poking him in the ribs and persuading him to 
creep downstairs with her where they could more easily spy on 
the festivities for themselves.  She was only six then -- still 
childish enough to be enraptured by the thought of secret grown-
up behavior.  And the younger version of himself had been willing 
to indulge her this one time.

Protected by cover of darkness, Mulder had crouched next to her 
on the couch in the parlor, peering through the open French doors.  
About a half dozen couples were dancing, lit in the multi-hued 
glow of cheap, plastic party lanterns as they moved smoothly in 
time to the rich melodies on the grass.

He was fascinated, in spite of himself.  Because his parents were 
out there, just like the rest, dancing together cheek-to-cheek -- 
the very picture of connubial bliss.

God, but they had been so fucking *golden* in those days.  
Transformed by what Mulder now supposed was their 
commitment to a higher purpose.  The belief that they were part of 
a divine mission to rescue humanity from a destiny most people 
couldn't even imagine, much less understand.

Part of him envied such profound devotion -- the sense of 
belonging to something so much more significant.  To be utterly 
convinced of the legitimacy of your actions.  Never finding it 
necessary to stop and question the consequences inherent to the 
outcome.

Until it was too late. 

His parents had built their security on a dangerously brittle 
foundation of pride and arrogance, no matter how innocent or 
noble the original motivations involved.  And that very arrogance 
for certain basic, human truths would ultimately lead not only to 
the destruction of their happiness, but literally *everything* they 
held dear.

Of course, such comprehension had been far beyond the grasp of 
the ten-year-old who'd sat back with his sister that evening and 
watched.  All he'd been capable of seeing was the visible 
manifestation of his parents' contentment as they flowed together 
in random patterns across the lawn.

Moved by the overall display before them, he and Samantha had 
eventually found themselves dancing with each other in the dark 
confines of the sitting room.  Attempting to copy the steps of the 
adults outside, they couldn't manage much more beyond tripping 
over the remnants of the evening's earlier distractions.  A 
discarded checkerboard.  A few battered copies of his Fantastic 
Four comic books.  Her messy collection of construction paper, 
paste and colored pencils.

What a ridiculous picture they must have made, Mulder thought.  
He in a worn Mickey Mantle tee-shirt and shorts, she in a shift of 
pale blue cotton.  At four years older, he towered over her, their 
movements awkward as they tried to match the tempo of the song 
without touching each other any more than was absolutely 
necessary.  Neither would have been caught dead in this kind of 
activity with each other in daylight.

But the night itself was possessed of a rare and potent 
enchantment.  Mulder could still remember the feel of his sister's 
slight form in his arms -- that tremendous bundle of pert defiance 
and strength wrapped up in a deceptively small package of thin 
limbs, skinned knees and dark braids. 

The pre-adolescent musings of his mind had raced with 
uncommon maturity then.  He'd even lowered himself to actually 
imagine what it would be like to one day hold a woman in his arms 
like that for *real*.  Somebody he could love in a way so different 
from the brotherly affection he felt towards Samantha...and who 
would look at him in the exact same way as his mother gazed at his 
father that evening.

Two days afterward, his sister would fall from the tree in their 
backyard, fracturing her collarbone.  And just over a year later, she 
would be gone to him forever....

Mulder swallowed hard, past the cataclysmic feeling of loss still 
searing his insides as though it had happened only yesterday.  
Fighting the urge to break down, he held on to Scully for all he 
was worth and closed his eyes, letting his soul mingle with hers on 
the edge of another ocean, so far away from the whispers of his 
occluded past. 

With a perception that could no longer be denied, he saw that the 
dreams of the boy had finally come true.  That over a span of 
endless hours, days, months and years he had fallen desperately in 
love with this woman.  

Scully, along with Samantha, had become an inseparable 
component of his life and his commitment to the truth.

And the dreadful irony was that knowing it didn't change anything.  

Because now, here, beneath the burden of his own understanding, 
Mulder found he was completely without options.  There was no 
way to know if Scully was willing to meet him on the same plane 
of passionate devotion he felt for her without revealing himself 
first. 

And he couldn't do it.  He wouldn't.  Christ, he didn't even know if 
she still planned to go to Baltimore or stay with him in D.C. after 
this was all over.  

Pride was all he had left to offset the potential heartbreak lurking 
in this situation.  And Mulder wouldn't sacrifice his dignity or his 
self-respect for anyone.  Not even her.

Still, he could no more deny his feelings than he could prevent the 
government from dumping any number of useless assignments on 
him when he returned to work. 

The truth was, loving her represented the opportunity of a 
lifetime.  The kind of thing that happened maybe two or three 
times during the entire course of one's existence.

Or once.

And Mulder knew in his heart that when offered the possibility of 
doing something you've dreamed about -- no matter what it was -- 
you did it.

Being with Scully, whether as partners or friends or even lovers, 
was a chance to be a part of something so much bigger than 
anything he could ever be by himself.  Just like his parents with 
their ill-conceived role in struggle to preserve human civilization, 
he realized with a shock.

But unlike the sinister covenant his father and mother had once 
made for themselves, Mulder knew his trust and commitment to 
this woman would not turn on him.  It would never, ever become 
something so corrupt and so exacting as to ensure the same brand 
of destruction imposed upon his family.

He was trembling now -- and it had nothing to do with the chill 
wind coming through the open window.

Scully seemed to sense that something was up.  Something 
unrelated to their earlier disagreement or even the jarring 
emotions implicit in her return.

Her hands eased over the tense muscles of his arms and Mulder 
felt her press a lingering kiss to his shoulder. 

Arousal stirred immediately within him -- his body responding to 
her touch as if they'd been lovers for months instead of just a few 
days.

And in a way, he supposed, they had.

Mulder's breath hissed between his teeth as she backed away 
slightly, fingertips skimming along the edge of his jeans, over the 
bare skin of his stomach.  They traveled upward, across his chest 
and finally to his neck as she pulled him down to meet her.

He felt the cool touch of her forehead against his as her eyes 
flashed at him questioningly in the darkness.

"What is it?" she asked, the sound of her voice touching him inside 
and smoothing out the roiling emotions left in the wake of his 
flashback.

It hurt that he could not share the memory and its consequent 
revelation with her.  But if he told her how he felt, she would not 
respond in kind.  Certainly not now, with all that had happened.  It 
was too much...and Mulder knew it.  

The arrogance of his understanding was a bitter pill and he hated 
himself for it, wishing his elementary brilliance and preternatural 
perception of human behavior would just this once allow for a 
release from the burden of knowing.

Instead, Mulder reached inside himself, seeking out deeply buried 
reserves of preservation and strength.  Forcing down his more 
vulnerable emotions, he nuzzled her cheek, letting the warmth of 
his breath flutter across her lips.

"Don't say anything," he whispered, moving to distract her with a 
kiss.

She groaned softly, easing forward against the tense contours of 
his body.  Her head lolled back as the rigid length of his desire 
made subtle contact with the rise of her belly and Mulder 
responded by skimming his lips and teeth delicately along the 
silken curvature of her neck.

Tears pricked in his eyes at the necessary betrayal of his own 
feelings, even as the now-familiar heat of passion flared between 
them.  At least the force of his physical hunger helped to deaden 
the sense of privation creeping with killing slowness into his 
heart.

God help him, he wanted nothing more than to be able to make 
love to her without reservation.  To lose himself in the tangible 
expression of his own feelings, giving in to the breathtaking magic 
of the moment as he pushed her to climax and then found his own.

Even as he scooped her slight form into his arms and laid her on 
the bed, Mulder was convinced that his only chance was to give 
her something so essential in terms of himself that she could not 
live without it -- without him.

And if she noticed a particular air of desperation in his approach 
that night, Scully said not a word.  She accepted his supplication as 
her due and responded with an enthusiasm he was helpless to 
resist.

When she moved to take the lead, Mulder fell back against the 
sheets, relinquishing his control without a second thought.  She 
rose up and straddled him, guiding him inside her, leaving him 
gasping at the sheer strength of her authority over him.

For a slow, soft, slick span of time, Scully catered to his need, 
rocking, coaxing him deeper into her body and tightening all 
around him with a steady, driving rhythm.  Back arched, her 
fingers dug into the tender flesh of his wrists, grasping at his 
hands where they rested along her hips.  

Surging, receding, meeting every one of his thrusts, she consumed 
him, over and over again.  Until....

"Mulder, open your eyes."

The words exploded inside his mind as if from very far away -- a 
demand he couldn't possibly ignore even if he wanted to.  His gaze 
felt heavy and half-blind with need as he stared up at her through 
the black water of night.

Scully's face was awash with a mixture of concern and barely-
leashed desire and something so close to love he thought it could 
serve as an excellent counterfeit.  And there was more -- a 
certainty in her expression that carried its own kind of validation 
for them both.

Mulder's breath caught in his throat as the sense of urgency that 
had gripped him eased, dissolving into a dark storm of sensual 
oblivion when she found her release.

The substance of his psyche ruptured and fragmented somehow in 
the molten heat of her passage, a breakdown he was intimately 
familiar with on a number of levels.  But never quite like this....

He was Fox Mulder.  The heir to the twisted legacy of the 
wretched Mulder family clan.  The forlorn, discarded sibling in 
search of the Holy Grail of his missing sister.  The fatally flawed 
boy wonder of CASKU and the ISU at Quantico.  The rock n' roll 
field agent sent out to resolve all the lost hopes and mythical 
questions of human existence.  The trusted confidant, partner, 
friend and lover of Dana Katherine Scully.

And in this most liberating of acts with the woman he desired 
more than anything for her unbelievable strength, spirit, 
dedication and resolve....

He was finally made whole.

In the end, Mulder fought the growing tide of blackness 
threatening to devour him, knowing somehow that if he 
succumbed, it would end.  All of it.  That this time, the brief 
reward of perfect intimacy would slip away just like any other 
illusion into the wasteland of daylight.

But he couldn't hold out forever.  Scully was holding him in her 
arms, his head tucked against her shoulder as she stroked her 
fingers through his hair.  And Mulder felt himself gliding into 
unconsciousness with the intoxicating feel of her body shaped 
against his.... 

When the morning light eventually reached in to touch the drawn 
outlines of his face, he was alone, waking in a tangle of discarded 
sheets and even more abandoned dreams.

Rising, he ran a hand through his hair, moving unsteadily in the 
direction of the polished oak dresser that stood across from the 
bed.  Once there, his gaze flipped over the contents of the room.  

Her suitcase and her satchel were missing, along with her phone, 
her badge, her gun and all remaining traces of her presence.

Except for one.  

She'd left a note for him.  Taped directly in the center of the 
mirror where it would be impossible to overlook.

Breath catching in his throat, Mulder's eyes drifted up, scanning 
the words with a morbid combination of curiosity and fear.

Then, shaking his head slightly, he turned to his own things and 
began to pack.

 
*********

She was headed for Baltimore.

The miles sped away beneath the tread of the Cavalier's tires as the 
broken lines separating her lane from the next blurred together 
like an endless white ribbon stretched out along the pavement.  
The late spring air was warm, even now in the darkness, and her 
hair whipped around her face from the drag of the open window.  
Reality seemed to press in upon her as she sped along the 
interstate with only the psychedelic revelry of The Doors' "L.A. 
Woman" on the radio to accompany her.

Forty-eight hours had passed since she'd returned to the safe 
haven of her apartment in D.C.

Forty-eight hours since she'd come back, drifting in on the 
welcome tide of habit and convention like a wistful shadow of her 
former poised self.  

Once home, unpacked and settled in, Scully discovered a relief 
greater than anything she had ever known as she managed to draw 
strength from the familiar shapes and sounds of her cherished 
solitude.  

The memories of her time on the Pacific with Mulder were 
something she would treasure for the rest of her life.  But the 
transition from the present to the past was something she could 
not feel sorry about.

Against all odds and expectations, he had come all the way there, 
into her life, for reasons still known only to himself.

And she had allowed the intrusion, embracing it, never stopping to 
weigh the potential impact his behavior might ultimately have on 
all of their lives.

In truth, Scully couldn't have helped herself even if she'd tried.  
There had already been so much upheaval and destruction.  Of 
dreams, of friends, of family, of promise.  As difficult as it was to 
admit, she had needed him there -- needed to grasp at something 
in their union that she had never found with any other human 
being.

And now, it was done.  She had come back into herself.  There 
were other concerns to be dealt with.  Other people, other 
relationships.

It was time to finally pick up the scattered pieces of her situation 
and get on with the business of living.

The die was cast, the decision made.  Just as she'd done so many 
times in the past, Scully would trust her instincts -- following her 
heart in whatever crazy direction it wanted to lead.
 
Disappointment, concern, regret -- they were all a part of her now, 
echoing in her spirit like some malevolent presence in need of 
exorcism.  And God help her, the rite would take place almost 
immediately when she reached her destination.  

A well-known exit off I-95 loomed up before her suddenly like 
some Dantesque portal of hell, set against the fiery, vapor-like 
brilliance of streetlights along the interstate. 

<Abandon all hope, you who enter here...>

For a brief instant, a more reckless part of her psyche actually 
entertained the idea of continuing on the highway, driving forever 
north until she reached the perimeter of the arctic circle itself. 

And why not?

She could stop and pick up a case of Coke for all the polar bears 
while she was at it.

With a mournful glance into the rearview mirror, Scully discarded 
the ridiculous notion, tipping the steering wheel to the right and 
heading towards the off-ramp.  

She was headed for Baltimore tonight to break the heart of a 
friend.

And she prayed with all her soul for enough strength to see it 
through.

Title: Homicidal Tendencies -- Book 3, Part VI (Conclusion)

Summary: Mulder and Scully surf the detours on the road less traveled.  Pathways 
diverge, new relationships form, things are seldom what they seem.  The 
conclusion to Homicidal Tendencies -- a series of stories based on the fifth 
season of the "X Files."

Note: This is the end, folks.  At last.

And just a short note here to acknowlege Kelley Walters's contribution as an 
editor to this series of stories.  I would not have finished 'Tendencies' 
without her persistent, subtle enthusiasm and encouragement.  Kelley would 
probably tell me I'm being far too kind, but there's a little piece of her in 
almost every paragraph of new writing I've done on this fic for the past two 
years.


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


From the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language:

differential calculus -- noun -- Mathematics.
1.  The mathematics of the variation of a function with respect to changes in 
independent variables.


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



He should have known better.

The timeworn phrase played like a sick comedy routine inside his head every time 

Bayliss thought about the disastrous results of that day.

Oddly, the potential for such ruin had been the last thing on his mind when 
Chris Rawls showed up at his door with a six-pack of Wicked Ale under one arm 
and a stack of Martin Scorsese flicks under the other.  

"Feel like company?" Chris had asked, holding up the beer.  

Tim merely blinked in reply and thought hard about his next move.  

Fuck it, he told himself, before giving in.  Dana was gone.  He'd already spent 
twenty-four days and nights with his emotions lying raw and exposed like an open 

wound.  Maybe now it was time for a break. 

So he'd held open the door and bid Rawls back into his life; a transition as 
seamless as breathing.  

Tim had almost forgotten what it felt like -- the dark energy that flowed 
between them.  Their surprise encounter at the Waterfront the other night was 
all it had taken to remind him.

Since then, he'd been speaking to Rawls on and off.  Nearly every day as it 
happened.  Nothing serious.  

They never mentioned Dana.  

Truth was, ignoring that subject was somehow easier than Tim expected.  

He'd already guessed that she might be with Mulder.  She'd always been with 
Mulder.  So what harm could there be in him spending a few hours with a close 
friend?

But he should have known better.

He should have known when they took a break from one of Robert DeNiro's more 
incendiary monologues to put their heads together and find a place to order a 
pizza.

Fuck, he should have known when he made the call.  Because it was turning out to 

be all too easy. 

When the doorbell rang, Bayliss had headed upstairs to his bedroom, looking for 
his wallet, heedless of the taut silence he heard when Chris opened the front 
door.

God, he really should have known, he thought.  He should have known that a day 
like this, filled with such simple, quiet pleasure, could never work its way out 

to a happy ending for him.

Coming down the steps two at a time, he skidded to a halt and looked over 
Chris's shoulder.  Shocked, he caught the familiar flash of Scully's hair and 
the hammered cobalt of her gaze.  

After all this time, Bayliss didn't need much more than a single look from her 
to know he had blown it.

Rawls stepped out of their way, backing towards the staircase slowly.

Tim cursed his sudden inability to act, knowing he should have said something, 
done something, felt something.  Anything.  He should have tried to explain, 
even as her eyes narrowed for countless seconds before she turned and walked 
down the hallway without a word.

Goddamn it.

He should have seen this coming, he told himself, feeling miserable, as he felt 
Chris's hand on his elbow, urging him toward the doorway.

He should have seen it coming.

But he hadn't.


*********


By the time he made it down to the street, she was already inside her car.  

Bayliss quickened his pace, almost running to the curb in an attempt to stop 
her.  It took him a minute to realize that she had yet to turn the key in the 
ignition.  He opened the door, sliding into the passenger seat next to her.

Scully was tense, looking away from him.  Her fingers drummed along the steering 

wheel.

"I'm sorry," he began quietly.  "That wasn't what it looked like."

With a shrug, she gave the wheel a last tap before staring through the 
windshield.  "It doesn't matter," she told him.  "I'm afraid I'm the last person 

to be throwing stones in that department right now."

Bayliss went completely still, trying to see past a surge of anger as his worst 
expectations were confirmed.

She *had* come to Baltimore to break their silence.  By cutting him loose it 
seemed.  There was no use denying it any more.  Scully was primed and ready to 
blow off a relationship in which he'd invested himself and the better part of 
the last six months of his life.  Christ, he'd been a fool to think it meant 
something to her as well.

"So, that's that," he said.  "I should have known when I didn't hear from you.  
Jesus.  I should have known when Mulder called me, trying to figure out where 
you were."

He felt her eyes rest on him, briefly.

"Mulder called you?" 

"Yep," he bit out.  "Although, I didn't tell him where you went.  I just said 
I'd relay a message when we next spoke.  But I never really got a chance to do 
that, now did I?"

Pressure was building at his temples.  Bayliss leaned back in his seat and 
closed his eyes as the emotions lined up inside his head like a firing squad.  
Part of him wanted nothing more than to tell her to go fuck herself.  But it 
seemed she'd already gotten a better offer in that area from somebody else.

Fucking Mulder.  Fuck.

He said, "So what you came up here for...what you're telling me...is that it's 
over with, mmm?"

"Yes."

"Son of a bitch."  He turned away, rocked by the unexpected force of her 
rejection.  Pulling off his glasses, he stared out the window. 

"I'm sorry, Tim," Scully said after a while.  "I never meant to hurt you." 

That's exactly what he would have said under the circumstances.  And it was the 
best and only thing she could say.  In fact, he *had* said exactly those words 
to Chris barely a week ago when confronted by the other man's heartbreak.

The metal hinge of his glasses bit into his palm.  Tim welcomed the sudden, 
stinging pain.  

"Tell me why you're doing this, Dana," he heard himself say in the darkness.  
"Tell me that it's worth something -- that I'm sitting here feeling all this 
shit for a reason.  Some greater cause, mmm?  Some nobler purpose.  Please, just 

tell me that.  Tell me it's for love."

"I..."  She hesitated.  "I can't say what you want to hear, just because you 
want to hear it, Tim.  All I can do is tell you the truth."

He gave a bitter laugh.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," she tried again, sounding firmer this 

time.  "But now that it has, I wanted to be honest with you.  To let things go 
on the way they have wouldn't be fair -- to me or to Mulder, but most of all to 
you."

"Oh, fuck that," he snapped.  "I want to know what this is about.  Are you in 
love with him or not?"

Her brow furrowed as she stared into the night, silent.  The pain of her denial 
spread hollowly in his chest even before the answer came.  

"Mulder and I..."  She faltered for the briefest second.  "I think you could say 

that we...accept each other unconditionally."

Tim threw up his hands.  "You're kidding yourself."

"Maybe I am," Scully shot back, some of her old fire returning at last.  "And if 

it makes you feel better to talk to me like this, then fine.  I can't stop you.  

Unfortunately, it's the only decision I *could* make.  Don't think for a second 
that this has been easy -- or that I wanted things to end this way."

From the corner of his eye, Bayliss watched her expression.  Emotion slowly 
drifted away until her profile became as remote as the Pacific.

Scully was so cold, so controlled.  A total pro.  One of the most self-contained 

individuals he had ever met.  And yet...

She had kissed him once, that first time, stepping over the line that separated 
empathy from her duty as an investigator.  In a car very much like this one, it 
was a moment when his need for her had been damn near uncontrollable.

There was more.  He'd seen her put an evening of much needed rest on hold to be 
with Mulder, propping him up, seeing him through the remnants of one of their 
mad cases.

And he remembered a time when she'd shown up on the edges of a homicide where he 

was working.  They'd gone back to his apartment where he'd made passionate love 
to her all night long and into the sunrise.  The heat of their union had burnt 
away nearly all the despair with its fiery passage.

Tim wanted desperately to reconcile those memories with the woman sitting next 
to him now.  For a moment, he wondered if anyone would ever actually touch the 
elusive inner core of Dana Scully. 

Bad luck, he thought.  That's what Frank would say.  He'd picked the wrong one 
yet again.

Tim turned to her once more, seeing that she had braced herself, pressing a 
finger to her lips.  He sucked in a breath when she began to cry softly, 
steadily, in the seat next to him.

No, he thought.  Please.

The response in his heart was swift.  More powerful than he could have imagined; 

aroused by the deep, mysterious feelings he'd harbored for her all along.

Bayliss reached out, drawing her into his arms.

Her body was warm in the cramped confines of the car -- a rich, liquid heat that 

left him aching.  

Tim barely knew what was happening as his hand came up behind her head.  He 
heard the sharp hitch of her breath, the clatter of his glasses as they fell to 
the floor.  

Threading his fingers through her hair, he tilted Scully's face up to meet his.  


The kiss was rough, searing -- one that should have frightened them both with 
its lack of control.  He was overcome by the warm, slick textures of her 
mouth...the sharp scent of her perfume...the purr of need in her throat. 

He felt the cool glide of her fingertips along his cheek.  Her other hand 
clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer.  Desire, hot and hard, tightened in 
his groin with the sudden pressure of her teeth as she leaned into the kiss.  

It became less frantic -- long and slow and wonderfully intense.  The passion of 

two people familiar with each other's most intimate responses.  Scully trembled, 

head falling back as his mouth left hers and moved to her jaw and then the curve 

of her neck.  He skimmed over her gold cross to the small vee of flesh left 
exposed by her shirt and coat. 

"Tim," she whispered suddenly, shaking.  "Wait."

The sound of her voice was like clarity.  A refuge from the sudden, spiritual 
chaos that gripped them both.  Bayliss pulled away, studying her intently.

Her eyes were wide, lit with the brilliant blue fire of some nameless emotion.  
Remarkably, while the need to touch her still burned inside him, there was 
something else:

An image of another man, his friend.  And, if he admitted it, his lover still.  
Waiting, wondering -- upstairs in his apartment.

Fuck.  Rawls was still there.  Still his most seductive obsession, lingering 
like a shadow in his heart and in his soul. 

What had just happened between them was wrong, he knew.  Wrong for her.  Almost 
certainly wrong for Mulder.  And, most importantly, wrong for himself.

It was finished, finally.  

"I'm sorry, Tim," she said, voice melting over him in the darkness.  "It could 
have been you.  There were times when I prayed that it would be you.  Once, when 

I was younger, what you offered me was all I ever wanted."

Regret touched him at her admission -- gentle, plaintive, almost achingly sweet. 
 
Because the words were vintage Dana.  Simple, sincere and straightforward to the 

last. 

Bayliss drew her close once more, knowing it could be for the last time.

"God, you are so beautiful," he told her.  "I'm going to miss you, Dana."

Scully looked up, staring at him, a fierce sadness walking in her eyes.

"Be my friend?" he offered, smiling wistfully.

Her gaze softened in response.

"I'll always be your friend, Tim."

Just then, a small, battered pickup whizzed past on the street, double parking 
in front of them.  The driver got out and bounded up the steps to his building, 
delivering the pizza that he and Chris had ordered what seemed like a lifetime 
ago.

Bayliss bent down to retrieve his glasses.  "So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."  Scully shook herself slightly.  "I'll be driving back to 
Georgetown, I guess."

"At this hour?"

She shrugged.

"Don't do that," he said.  "Chris is sitting upstairs right now in my apartment, 

probably wondering what's going on and debating with himself whether or not he 
should leave.  And I'd rather he didn't, under these circumstances."

He stared at her for a moment.

"Come on up and have dinner with us."

Her eyes widened slightly.

"You'd be doing me a favor," he said, when she opened her mouth to refuse.  "I 
know it's awkward as hell, but it's also the best solution I can come up with 
right now, mmm?"

"I don't know, Tim."

"It'll be fine," he insisted.  "I know Chris.  He won't stick around after we 
eat.  And then you can just crash with me.  I think A&E has a 'Law and Order' 
marathon on tonight.  You can drive home whenever you want tomorrow."  

A moment passed.  And then another.  Finally, Scully relented.  

"Okay," she said, with a trace of a smile.  "But after all this, how much can 
you take of watching the legal system grind its way to a perfect dramatic 
conclusion?"

"Enough," he said.  "If you fall asleep before the end, I'll tuck you in 
upstairs -- with visions of Mike Logan dancing in your head."

She considered a moment.  "I'll take you up on that offer with one condition."

He arched his brows.

"That I don't end up putting you out of your own bed tonight, Tim.  I'll be more 

than happy to take the couch."

"Does that mean I get Logan?" he quipped.

"Hell no."

Bayliss tried unsuccessfully to hold back a grin as they got out of the car.  

"Thanks," he said when she came up to him.  "Scully."

Their eyes met as he tripped over the name slightly, in spite of himself.  

"I mean it," he told her.   

"I know," she murmured, turning away. 

And then, setting aside the heartache for another time, Tim followed her back up 

the steps and to his apartment.


*********


Mulder rode slowly through night streets made hazy with shadows and fog, near 
the end of a long-ass drive from Delaware to Alexandria.

He clutched the steering wheel with his right hand, tighter than usual.  His 
left was cradled protectively against his body.  He'd already learned the hard 
way not to jar his wounded finger any more than necessary.

Twenty-four hours ago, he'd taken the Bureau pool sedan out to the Aaron Burr 
Motor Court in Angola, uncertain of his future and idly wondering why the Norman 

Bates behind the counter had named his motel after one of the nation's most 
notorious traitors.  

Now, with life's usual sick irony, it all seemed to make sense.  Certainly, he'd 

been ill-prepared for the brutal test of loyalty the Spartans had in store for 
him.

Fuck.  

He was getting too old for this shit.

Mulder parked the car at his building and slipped the keys in his pocket.  He 
leaned back against the headrest.  

By the time Haley's thugs dropped him back at the motel, it had been morning.  
He'd barely had the strength to get through the door and pass out on the bed in 
his room.  

Seven hours later, here he was -- aching and nauseous from the pain slithering 
up and down his arm like low-voltage current.  

Terrorists, he thought.  What a fucking assignment.  And Scully... 

Scully suspected.  

Hell, it was worse than suspecting.  She thought she *knew* he was dirty somehow 

with all this.

How could she think that?  In all this time, how could she really think that?

Mulder grimaced with disbelief.

After California...

He shivered.  There was so much he didn't know.

And they had not spoken of it.

He headed for his apartment.

At the door, Mulder paused.  Closing his eyes, he slid down, back to the wall.  
Uncertainty lapped at him -- a dark tide, threatening to pull him under.  

So much had changed since his long ago days as a rookie at Quantico.  He'd been 
like a pedigreed bloodhound back then.  Lean and strong, instincts like 
quicksilver.  

Tonight, he was older.  Almost certainly wiser.  But also worn out.  Tired, 
frustrated.  Beyond the validation that deeply held beliefs once held for him.

There was something else he needed.  Somebody else he wanted.  Someone who could 

act as a panacea for the disillusionment that coursed like a deadly disease in 
his veins.  He wanted her with him tonight -- a brief moment of respite before 
another day of rage and madness.  

Mulder got to his feet slowly, wincing.

Haley's men were animals, but they knew their business.  He had a dozen new 
bruises that hurt like stab wounds every time he took a breath.

He entered the apartment and felt a familiar awareness sweep through him.  His 
pulse quickened with the pleasure of it. 

"Don't be alarmed," she said.

But he'd already known she was there and why.  

Mulder wondered just how she'd managed to extort the truth from Skinner and his 
minders from the Justice Department.  Perhaps she'd threatened to shoot them.  
Skinner, at least, knew she was capable of it.

It didn't matter, he thought.  Scully was here.  She would protect him from the 
monsters.

Finally, he was home.


*********


In the end, it was she who set his finger, using tape from a first-aid kit he 
kept on hand.  Mulder stubbornly refused to take anything for the pain.

He was probably right about that, Scully surmised.  It was a dangerous game he 
played with the Spartans.  Maybe too dangerous.

She watched him with a clear gaze.

Mulder's head lolled back against the couch cushions.  She could not read his 
thoughts.  Then, he spoke softly:

"Thanks for coming here tonight.  For checking up on me."  

It came back to her in a rush.  Why she was there.  What she needed to do.  She 
felt herself tense in the silence.

"We haven't spoken about...things...since I got back from Baltimore."

Mulder's eyes widened at her unexpected candor.  He looked away towards the 
moonlit window.  After a while, he took a deep breath and turned back to her.

"I figured you had nothing to say.  What happened in California feels like a 
dream now.  I just thought when you came back that it hadn't changed anything 
here."

Scully pressed her lips together.  The gap between them felt like it spanned 
miles, rather than just a few feet of empty space.  

"Mulder," she finally said, "everything has changed."

He opened his mouth to speak.  "Don't say it hasn't," she broke in.  "We both 
knew this would happen."

"We can still go back, Scully."

She laughed shortly.  "Please.  After all we've been through, it's obvious we 
can never go back."

He tried to speak but she stopped him again with a quick gesture.

"Think about it, Mulder.  Don't you ever get tired of just...going back?  Always 

leaving it alone?"

She shifted in the muted light.  He caught his breath when she drew near.  The 
look in his eyes was inscrutable.

"I do," Scully said, standing over him.  Her legs brushed up against his.  "You 
feel me, don't you, Mulder?  When you're there, by yourself, in that place you 
call a soul." 

"Yes."  His voice was like a whisper of wind in a winter forest.  

She saw him tremble, powerless beneath her gaze.  Then, Mulder tensed his jaw in 

a gesture she knew almost too well.

"What is it you want, Scully?"

She thought a moment.

"I want you, Mulder.  I want the things we can do for each other."

"I wish it were that simple."

"No.  You don't.  Because then it would only be about sex."

"What is it then?" he asked, suddenly still.  "If it's not just about sex?"

Scully shrugged.  "It is what it is."  

She caught the drift of his scent; flesh and blood and cotton and soap, with 
just a trace of Hugo Boss.  A familiar hunger spread in the pit of her stomach.

"We both need time to explore extreme possibilities," she said softly.

"And what if the 'possibilities' damage our fight for the truth?  The job?  What 

we already have together?"

"This isn't about our job, Mulder.  It has nothing to do with that."

"But--"

"But, nothing.  It's about attraction.  And will.  We've already gone back to 
work and kept it out of what happens there.  This is something that's *ours*.  
Not the FBI's and not anyone else's.  You can either accept that or you can say 
no."

She took a deep breath.  "So, what *do* you want, Mulder?"

"What I want might not be the best thing.  Not here.  Not now."

He needed more from her, she realized.  Scully wasn't sure she had it to give.  
This thing between them was too new, too undefined.  But God help her, she 
didn't want it to end.  And he was going off tomorrow into an uncertain 
future... 

"Do you want me to leave?"  It was the best she could offer.

Seconds passed as Mulder stared at her; into her.  Then, he reached up to take 
her hand.  His fingers twitched in the dry strength of her grip.

"No."

His eyes were wide, dilated -- like subterranean jewels in the darkness.  

He stood...and Scully drew his head down to hers.

The kiss was tentative at first; burning hotter fast; becoming something much 
more intense.  She coaxed his mouth open, sliding her tongue against his, 
exploring. 

Mulder yielded with a soft sigh.  She trembled at the sound.  His fingers traced 

sparks over the cool skin of her face, into her hair, holding her close.

With a muffled groan, Scully shrugged out of her suit coat.  She helped him drag 

off his tee-shirt.

Clothing fluttered to the floor in a rustle of cotton, linen and silk.  Their 
breathing echoed harshly in the still air.  Naked, they paused; bodies lacquered 

in the silvery light from outside.

Mulder touched her shoulder almost reverently.  His fingers slipped down the 
length of her arm to wind in with her own.  Then, he led her into the one place 
she'd never set foot before in this apartment.

His bedroom.

The air inside smelled dusty, unused.  Scully caught a fleeting glimpse of 
packed clutter and bare walls.  A few sticks of simple, light oak furniture.  

She was absurdly pleased, as though she'd become party to a secret he kept only 
for himself.

Until now.

When he hesitated, Scully stretched out on the bed.  He followed swiftly.  The 
heat of his skin was searing.  She held her breath, letting the madness take 
her.  

All that mattered now was Mulder.  Not the FBI...not the limits of their 
professional duty...not the consequences of her deepening obsession with him...

Scully's hands snaked out, brushing through the hair on his chest to tease his 
nipples.  Her fingers skimmed along the taut muscles of his belly.

She heard him gasp in wonder and perhaps even pain as she reached the tender 
span between his hips.  Searching, Scully lingered here and there, skipping over 

a few areas of newly bruised flesh and resisting the doctor's urge to probe and 
examine.

That wasn't the kind of healing he needed from her right now.

She slid her palm along his rigid length and Mulder moaned her name softly, 
thrusting against her.

He reached for her then, easing her back.  Scully arched her neck, staring at 
the blank sweep of ceiling with wide eyes as she felt the last of her restraint 
melt away. 

His mouth was everywhere -- the tip of her nose, the hollow of her throat, the 
curve of her breasts, the prickly goose-flesh of her stomach.  

She was close...oh, so close.  Already.

The fear for his safety was to blame in part.  It held her like a drug -- 
rolling open the synapses of her brain until even the tiniest impressions echoed 

with a rush of mind-altering euphoria. 

Her knees trembled when Mulder dipped his head between her legs; his breath like 

hot silk against her.  She made a soft sound as his tongue traced the slick 
edges of her flesh, teasing, before finally settling over her clit.  Time seized 

as his fingers slid up inside her.

God, but he was good at this.

Pressure built, heavy and fluid in her limbs.  The steady stroke of him...over 
and over...until she couldn't stand it...

Dimly, she heard herself sobbing his name as she sank in a flood of shimmering 
ecstasy.  

Awareness returned slowly.  She felt him watching her.  Scully could tell by the 

tight, stretched movements of his body that the hunger was on him as well.

She needed that.  She needed him with her, inside her.  Now.

"For God's sake, Mulder," she whispered.

He ignored her plea, rolling her onto her belly.  His palm traced patterns along 

the sweep of her back, kneading with sure, precise strokes until her body fairly 

thrummed with feline gratification.

Scully ground her teeth together.  "I swear I'll get you for this."

"Promises, promises," Mulder taunted softly as he slid his hands over her hips, 
reaching beneath her, pulling her up to her knees...   

He came into her from behind -- a hard, seemingly endless thrust.  Her breath 
caught.  She dropped her head.  

Scully grabbed for the headboard but there was no handhold on the polished 
surface.  She gave up, burrowing into the down softness of the pillow, the 
fabric dry and bitter between her teeth.

Mulder took his time, driving into her smoothly.  His fingers played in the 
slick curls where her legs met.  Again, he pushed her to the brink with 
merciless ease.

Scully arched her back, taking him deep, each stroke undoing her further.  She 
groaned, a helpless sound.  He did not stop.  

Just once more, she begged, lost inside herself.  Oh God, just once more...

Her vision blanked; limbs turning numb.  She reached for the bright peak, 
clutching at soft folds of the blanket beneath her.  Her body held his.  Tight, 
hot.  More than he could stand.  Mulder froze, breathing her name as he tumbled 
over into bliss with her.  The intensity of his climax drifted in the quiet, 
almost gentle, sounds.

Finally, he moved, rolling them both onto their sides.  She was formed against 
him, limbs fused with heat and sweat, fluids sliding over their tangled legs to 
the soft sheets beneath them.

Mulder shifted, touching his lips to her nape, rousing her from the light, 
velvet blanket of fulfillment.

"Hey, Scully.  You want the bad news or the good news?"  

"The bad news."

His fingers brushed the dip of her navel.

"I have to meet Skinner and that other twit Leamus, in about four hours."

"So what's the good news?"

"That I don't have to meet Skinner and that other twit Leamus for another four 
hours."

The fear was back; an icy hand sifting through her insides.  Scully pulled away 
from him.  "Jesus, Mulder.  What exactly *is* going to happen with all this?"

"I'm not sure," he shrugged.  "I won't know until tomorrow."

"Mulder," she shook her head.  "Believe me, if you saw what I saw in that movie 
theater today, you'd pray tomorrow never came."

"It wouldn't be the first time," he said, turning onto his back and staring up 
at the darkness.  "I can't ignore what this group is capable of, Scully.  That's 

why I agreed to this assignment in the first place.  I hope you can see that." 

In the wake of what had just happened, that sounded suspiciously like an 
apology.  Her eyes narrowed.  "What are you implying?"

He met the steel in her gaze.  

"Exactly what I said -- the assignment.  Agreeing to Skinner's stipulation that 
I not tell you anything about the real nature of this case."

Suddenly, he seemed to sense what she was feeling.

"Hold on.  This has *nothing* to do with anything personal.  You're my partner, 
for Christ's sake.  Skinner should know better."

His hand tightened on her hip.

"And so should you."

Scully flushed at the mild reproach in his voice, knowing he was right.  Her 
silence was tantamount to agreement.

Mulder tilted his head up, attuned as always to the peculiar patterns of their 
understanding.  He hooked his chin into the curve of her neck.

"Forget it," he said, pressing a lingering kiss to her throat.  "Now, if you 
don't mind, I need to get at least a couple hours of sleep.  Thing One and Thing 

Two will be waiting for me at the Bureau."

Her lips quirked at his choice of words, despite her growing concern.

"Thing One and Thing Two?"

"Doctor Seuss," he replied drowsily. "'The Cat in the Hat.'  I'll read it to you 

someday in a bedtime story."

Scully took a deep breath, thinking about the underlying premise of that 
statement.  That he would be there after tomorrow to do what he promised.

And he *would* she thought, blinking back the sting of tears.

Mulder drifted off to sleep and Scully gripped his hand, listening to the 
measured sound of his breathing.  

After a few tense moments, she turned away from him, staring blankly at the 
wall.

Lying here, surrounded by the heat of his body in the bed and bedroom she'd 
never even known he had, was almost too close.  Too familiar.  She could not 
shake the feeling of anxiety, no matter how hard she tried.

He wouldn't want her to leave, but she had to go.  She was afraid of what 
staying might mean.

Rising, Scully dressed, getting her things together silently.  

Tomorrow would be a difficult day.  She needed her foremost capabilities as a 
partner, investigator, and doctor for what was to about to happen.

And so did Mulder.

At the door, she paused one last time.  The pull of his apartment was like a 
physical thing.

Then, resolutely, she turned away and headed back into the darkness.


*********


The dream was like a runaway train, shattering sleep and laying waste to the 
peaceful nighttime landscape.

"No...please..."

Mulder woke instantly at the sound of her low groan.  He held himself completely 

still, senses painfully alert in the darkness.  The air was thick with an uneasy 

silence.  

He turned to Scully, heart pounding, sliding his hand into the curve of her 
waist.  

Her flesh was cold and damp beneath his fingertips.

Damn it, he thought.  Now what?

Neither of them was a stranger to nightmares.  Hell, this last case -- the 
subjugation of the New Spartans and their bioterrorist agenda -- had added a few 

more monsters to the already crowded closet.

But he had thought they were over that.

Or not.

For even now, his sleep-dulled intellect was capable of recognizing the attempt 
by her subconscious to resolve the emotional conflicts in her head.  

Natural as he knew that process to be, Mulder wanted to wake her.  He wanted to 
touch her and draw her in for comfort.  He wanted to make slow, sensual love to 
her -- to make her forget, just for a little while... 

Would she want that for herself?

He didn't think so.

Attending to her weakness was the last thing she would ever ask.

Scully was quiet now, next to him, falling into a deeper sleep at last.  His 
fingers glided over the tight muscles of her neck and shoulders.

She looked peaceful, he thought.  A rarity.  But perhaps a normal response to a 
moment of communion with another human being.

If only.

Fully awake now, Mulder settled back.  He became more conscious of their 
surroundings.  The blinds were open and the light of a full moon cast eerie 
patterns on the walls.  An early-summer breeze swept in through the window.  He 
breathed deeply as the air touched his skin.  

The red, luminous numbers of the bedside clock on the other side of Scully read 
3:42.  She was still.  And with a sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread, he knew 

that something, somewhere, was horribly wrong. 

Shocked, Mulder realized his fingers were touching the tiny scar at the base of 
her neck.  He snatched his hand away quickly, staring at it with wide eyes--

As a jarring, electronic shriek rent the air, startling him out of his wits.  

Scully woke with a jerk.  He raised his head, searching for the noise in the 
darkness.

"Yours or mine?" she asked, her voice still hoarse from slumber.

"Yours.  I think."  

She stumbled out of bed towards the sound.  The black satin of her panties 
contrasted sharply with the pale gleam of her bare skin.  

She answered the cell phone.

"No, it's not a problem," he heard her say.  "Just tell me what's going on." 

Mulder waited as the silence pressed inward.

"Oh, Jesus."  She bent forward, clutching her forehead with one hand.

Anxiety knifed in his gut.  Her mother? he thought.  Her family.  Something.  
She was asking about surgery.  Wanting to be kept informed.  "Baltimore," he 
heard her say.

Baltimore.

"Right.  Okay.  Hang on a second...I just have to think..."

A phone call, this late at night...it could only be Bayliss.

She had told him it was over.  For weeks now, it had been over. 

The dark emotion, the cruel, almost primitive response, was as difficult as 
anything he'd ever had to deal with.  Almost before he knew what was happening, 
she had ended the call and was rising again.

"I have to leave, Mulder," she said shortly, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Coldness.  Always the sudden coldness.  Her eyes were shrouded in the gloom, her 

face blank -- hiding secrets he would just as soon wring from her by force if he 

could.

Something in his gaze must have told her.  Without a word, Scully gathered up 
her clothing and left him.  

He stared after her, speechless.  

The red heat of fury burst behind his eyes.  In a heartbeat, Mulder was out of 
bed, dragging his boxers on hastily.  

She was in the bathroom.  He could see the ribbon of light cutting into the 
hallway from where the door was ajar.  Pushing it open, he came to a halt just 
inside the small space.

She was already dressed.  

Unbelievable, he thought, as the crisp smell of toothpaste hit him.  

Mulder took a deep breath, and then another, reminding himself that it was damn 
near four o'clock in the morning.  An outburst would serve absolutely no purpose 

at this hour.

His eyes came to rest upon the small shelf to the right of his medicine chest.  
The one with a scatter of personal items that had no earthly business in a 
single man's bathroom.  A bar of Estee Lauder soap.  A lilac-colored toothbrush. 
 
A small glass jar filled with the soft cotton gauze she purloined from the 
morgue to remove her make-up. 

Simple things.  Ordinary, really.  And so comforting.

He saw her staring at him warily in the mirror.  She had frozen in the task of 
scrubbing away the black residue around her lashes.  Mulder shook his head 
slightly, moving around her to sit on top of the closed toilet seat.

He picked absently at the tape on his still-injured finger as she went back to 
cleaning herself up.  

"You going to tell me what this is about?" he asked finally.  "Or do I have to 
figure it out all by myself?"

She was troubled.  Mulder could tell by the tense set to her jaw and the way her 

hands shook when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

When she finally spoke, it was unexpected.

"Bayliss was shot tonight serving an arrest warrant with the squad."  Scully 
flashed him a quick glance, drying her hands on a towel.

"Jesus," he said, shocked.

"That was Mary Pembleton on the phone -- Frank's wife."  She set the towel 
aside.  Her knuckles were white as she gripped the sink tightly, staring 
straight ahead at her reflection.  

Mulder was suddenly ashamed of his earlier ill will.

"Do they..." he asked, peering up at her.  "Is it bad?"

"Bad enough, I would think," she said, "if Mary is actually calling me at this 
hour."

"Well, did she give you a status?" 

"No.  Only that he's been in surgery for the past few hours at Maryland Shock 
Trauma."  Scully exhaled shakily and bent her head, still refusing to meet his 
eyes.

"She asked me to come down right away.  She said they needed me there, but she 
didn't say why.  That concerns me a little."

A little, he thought to himself wryly.  A little concerned.  Hell, an ordinary 
person would have been frantic at this point.  

But Scully had been out of the ordinary for as long as he'd known her.  

Mulder rose suddenly.  He stepped behind her and drew her close.  Her gaze slid 
against his in the mirror.

He blinked a few times, willing support into his eyes -- desperate for her to 
need him as much as he needed her.

With a low, broken sigh, Scully leaned back, letting him hold her.  He pressed 
his chin to the top of her head.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

"It's okay, Scully," he murmured.  "I'm sure it's going to be okay."

Her eyes snapped open.  "Mulder, please."  She frowned.  "Let's not pretend 
something bad won't happen, because it already has."

Stung, he let go of her. 

She left him again, heading for the living room.  Mulder followed, wondering as 
he always did if caring for her was worth the damage to his sanity.

He walked the few steps back to her.

"What about your nightmare?" he said in a low voice.

Scully pulled on her coat.  "What about it?"

"I don't know.  It almost seems as though you knew what was happening somehow.  
And I felt..."

He trailed off.  She was staring at him.

"You felt what?"

I felt it too, he thought.  You knew about it before the call came, and I felt 
it through the chip.

The storm rising in her eyes warned him not to go any further.

After a moment, she gestured dismissively.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.  I can't do this 

right now."

Scully ducked past him, heading for the foyer.

He couldn't let her go that way.

"Hey," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

The pain was evident in her clear, blue gaze, but so was the determination.

God help him, he loved her for both.

"Be careful?" he asked, coming closer, into her space.

He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I will," Scully said, pulling away.  Then, she was gone.  

And Mulder knew in his heart that he'd needed that last contact more than she 
did.


*********


It was raining in Baltimore.

The drizzle followed Scully all the way up the interstate, leaving a chill that 
clung to her face and neck like a shroud.  

She blinked against the harsh lights of the critical care unit.  Her firm steps 
echoed over the surrounding noise.  Instinctively, she took in every single 
detail.

How many times had she been through this scene?  Tens?  Hundreds?  

Too many.  And for what?

Scully wondered if this was the way people had felt when they'd been manning the 

watch for her.

And now it was Tim's turn.

She took a deep breath.  

He had sat in her car just a few short weeks ago.  He had smiled at her, warm 
and wistful.  He had told her she was beautiful.

Full of emotion, she thought.  So full of life...

He wasn't going to look like that when she saw him next.

Scully reached a T-junction with another hallway and turned left.  She brushed 
past an orderly in salmon-colored scrubs, refusing to think about the trail of 
blood he was mopping from the floor.

Instead, she focused on something else.  Mulder.

He had struggled, she knew, to let her walk out that way.  It wasn't right, the 
way she had left him -- without reassurance, without anything.

She would trust Mulder with her life, but she couldn't trust herself to need 
him.

Scully paused.  The realization was like a flash of light, suddenly reflected.  
Her throat ached with the weight of understanding.

She had given herself to Tim, let herself be vulnerable, and now look where she 
was.  

Not with Mulder.

The waiting room opened wide in front of her at last.  Thought collided with 
reality, leaving her momentarily reeling.

They were there.  Nearly all of them -- the detectives from the squad.  Each one 

sporting their own unique blend of fatigue and anxiety.

Frank and Mary Pembleton were by themselves in one corner.  A tangible 
separation existed between them and the rest of the room.  Mary's arms were 
crossed tightly; her lips set in a thin line.  Frank sat next to her, staring 
the length of ten football fields through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Scully did a double take.  

Tim said Frank had given it up after the stroke.  But now, here he was.  
Smoking.

Mary saw her as Scully came toward them.

"He's out of surgery," she said in a rush, before they could even greet each 
other.  "They have him in intensive care.  He's stable, but on a respirator.  
The doctor says it's only because he's too weak right now to breathe for 
himself."

Comfort as always came with the detailing of familiar medical procedures.   

"How long was he in surgery?" Scully asked.

"A little more than four hours."

She frowned.

"Now, we're waiting," Mary went on.  "His mother is in there with him.  They 
won't let more than one person in at a time.  Since he's unconscious, it's 
probably for the best."

"He may not be responsive," Scully said, "but he may know who's there.  I'd like 

to talk to the surgeon."

"He was here a little while ago."  Mary glanced past her, eyes scanning the 
occupants of the room.  "But I think he's tied up.  They just had a multiple 
stabbing come in."

She looked troubled, staring at her husband.

Again, Scully sensed the strained atmosphere surrounding them.  It seemed to go 
beyond the tension that one normally found in a trauma ward.  

"You say he was shot in the middle of making an arrest?" she ventured as Mary's 
gaze flew back to her.

"Yes."  Mary looked unhappy now.  "There was an incident in the squad room 
yesterday.  A suspect got loose and wounded a couple of the detectives.  Tim, 
Frank and some of the others were trying to re-apprehend the man when he opened 
fire on them.  Tim was the only one who got hit."

"What about the shooter?"

Frank's voice intruded, loudly.  "The shooter's dead." 

Both women stared, but he had turned away.  He took a long drag on his 
cigarette.

Mary touched her sleeve.  "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

Scully followed her away from the others.

"I'm afraid things are a little rough in there," Mary explained.  She had to 
speak over the bustle and noise in the hall.  "While all this was going down, 
Frank and Tim were asked by Lieutenant Giardello to investigate a police-
involved shooting from last year."

Mary took a deep breath.  "To make a long story short, Frank concluded that the 
detective involved...acted improperly.  When Gee refused to charge him with 
murder, Frank turned in his badge."

Scully's jaw dropped.

"Exactly," said Mary.  "And all this happened right here in the hallway, in 
front of the entire squad."

"Oh my God."

Mary shrugged fatalistically.  "I think his decision was hasty, but it's too 
late to argue.  Frank blames himself for what happened.  Bayliss got shot on his 

watch.  Nothing I or anyone can say will change that.  Factor in his perceived 
betrayal by Giardello, and this outcome seems to have been inevitable."

Scully's heart sank as Mary's words settled fully.  "But, Tim--"

"I know," Mary broke in.  "If he pulls through this, I don't even want to think 
about how he'll react.  Frank's stroke was bad enough.  This is something 
completely different.  Which is why I asked you to come up.  I need your help."

"Of course," she said.  "Anything."

Mary Pembleton looked uncomfortable.  "It's about Chris Rawls."

Scully flushed at the mention of Tim's lover.

"I don't know how much you and Tim have spoken..." 

"Enough," she said.  "Enough to guess what you're going to say."

"Good," said Mary.  "Because they've been seeing each other.  A lot."  She 
paused.  "In fact, they're practically living together, on and off, at each 
other's apartments."

Scully wasn't really surprised.  In light of the last meeting between all three 
of them, it would have been idiotic to assume otherwise.

"I called Chris at Zodiac," Mary went on, referring to the restaurant Rawls 
owned, "and told him what happened.  He was upset, but he refused to come down." 
 
Her brow creased with frustration.  "I think he believes that his being here 
will hurt Tim somehow."

"Will it?" Scully asked her bluntly.

Mary rolled her eyes.  "Some people won't like it, but what could they say at 
this point?  'Don't ask, don't tell?'  Please.  Tim might be dying."

"Did you explain that?"

"Of course, but he wouldn't listen.  I was hoping you'd be willing to find him 
and convince him, face to face."

Scully knew she owed Tim more than she could repay already.  She swallowed past 
the discomfort and nodded.

Mary handed her Tim's keys.  "I thought you might want to stay at his apartment. 
 
One of the uniforms brought his Jeep over from the station house.  It's parked 
on the lower level of the garage."

"I have my car, but that's fine," said Scully.  "I'll run over and drop off my 
things.  Maybe they'll let me in to see him before I go."

Mary closed her eyes wearily.  "Thank you, Dana."

Scully nodded again.  She was suddenly grateful that the other woman's problems 
were not her own.  

"Take care," she said, touching Mary on the shoulder.  Then, she headed off in 
search of getting in to see Bayliss. 

They let her in briefly before she left.  His mother was there, and that only 
made it worse.  With Tim lying so pitifully unresponsive, it was hard not to 
think she was paying her respects somehow.    

She left quickly afterwards, unable to bear the grief in the older woman's eyes.

On her way out, she had stopped in the chapel in the hopes of finding her 
resolve.  

She was there for a long time.

In the end, Scully took Tim's Jeep home -- thinking vaguely that the excuse of 
needing to retrieve her own car would provide extra ammunition with Rawls later 
on.

The rain, at least, trailed off on the way.  But there was little chance of 
warmth or sunlight.  The day remained harsh and depressing.
 
Scully rubbed her forehead, feeling haggard.  She should eat, she knew.  And she 

still needed to find a way to get Chris to the hospital. 

First though, she needed to orient herself.  Get cleaned up, get something in 
her stomach, get back out on the street and finish this.  Her defenses were 
down; her emotions laid bare.  The sooner she was back on familiar turf, back in 

control, the better.

She shook out Tim's key and unlocked the door.  Stepping inside, Scully paused.  


The darkness within threw her off briefly.  Every blind in the place had been 
drawn tightly closed.  

She dropped her satchel to the floor.

Awareness.  A sudden chill streaking along her spine.  The door clicked shut 
behind her.  Scully instinctively went for her weapon.

She was not alone here.

Leading with her automatic, Scully eased further into the apartment.  Her eyes 
adjusted to the gloom.  There was just enough ambient light for her to pick out 
the objects in Tim's living room.  

And the familiar shape of a man sitting across from where she stood.

Her grip on the gun firmed.  "Rawls?"

He leaned forward.  "Yeah, it's me, Agent Scully.  You can put your weapon 
down."  Chris laughed softly; the sound humming with suppressed tension.  

"You law enforcement people," he remarked.  "Always sooo serious."

Scully stared at him as she reached behind and tucked the automatic back into 
its holster.  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"No," he replied shortly.  "You wouldn't."

She waited, silent.

"That's the second time I've had a gun pointed at me this month," Chris told her 

after a moment.  He looked away.

He wasn't making any sense, but Scully let it go.  She didn't waste time with 
formalities. 

"I just came from the hospital."

His gaze snapped back to her.  "And?"

"And Tim made it through the surgery."  She watched him closely.  "He's stable, 
but in the ICU.  He hasn't regained consciousness."

Chris didn't respond immediately.  Scully wondered for a second if he'd heard 
her all right.  

And then it hit her forcefully as he buried his face in his hands.  

"God," he groaned.

In a flash, Scully was down at his side.  She gripped his hand tightly as he 
began to shake.  His agony engulfed her in a blood-dark rush of emotion she was 
powerless to resist.

"It's okay," she murmured, repeating the familiar words over again.      

For a split second, Scully thought about herself in the early morning hours.  
The way she'd refused to accept this same comfort from somebody who cared enough 

not to argue about it. 

Again, she felt trapped.  Torn between the need to protect herself and the urge 
to yield to her own awareness.  The sudden crack in her facade shocked her 
beyond all reason. 

Ruthlessly, she quashed the feeling.  

What mattered was now: Tim and Chris -- and her ability to bring them together.

She pulled the other man close, taking the first step. 

"I'm sure it's going to be okay," Scully said one last time, softly. 

Mulder's voice.  Inside in her head, keeping her afloat.  

It had to be.

She closed her eyes.

They would make it so.


*********


Scully made coffee for the two of them as she waited for Rawls to return from 
the bathroom.  

His breakdown had been more draining than she would have expected.  Her hands 
were trembling.  She took a deep breath, lowering them to her sides.

Even in the short time she'd known him, Chris had struck her as having a very 
clear sense of self-control.  Now, for some reason, he had chosen her to witness 

his collapse.  The idea was slightly overwhelming.

She was too close to this.  She needed to get away.  But where?  Back to Mulder? 
 
To something even more unsettling to her peace of mind?

Her life was rapidly spinning beyond its carefully set limits.

There was movement in the living room, and Scully got it together quickly.

Chris was sitting on the couch with his head tipped back when she came in.  His 
eyes flicked open at her approach.

Scully offered the coffee and he smiled gratefully.  She sat next to him, a few 
feet away, on the edge of the cushions, staring at her own mug.

"I'm sorry," he remarked at length.

She met his eyes.  "Don't apologize.  I know how hard this kind of thing can 
be."

"Yes," he nodded.  "I guess you would."

Silence resumed, broken only by the dull ticking of an antique clock on top of 
Tim's television.  

"There's something I've been wondering about, Chris," she said, struggling with 
the difficult question.  "I know you and Tim have become very...close...again."

He stared at her.

"It's just, when Mary asked me...to come over here, to find you...I don't 
know..." she trailed off.

With a deep breath, Scully set her coffee mug on the table.  "I guess I don't 
understand why you wouldn't just say the hell with it and go to the hospital to 
see him.  I mean, why put yourself through the agony of not knowing?"

His smile was rueful.  "It's not that simple."

"Why not?  Your lover is lying near death in an intensive care ward -- why would 

you give a damn what other people think?"

Chris set his mug aside.  He gave her a long look.  "First of all, I *don't* 
care what other people think about me.  Or my sexuality."

She'd pissed him off, which was fine.  If appealing to baser emotions would help 

move him in the direction she needed, Scully had no qualms.  Five years of 
grilling suspects at the right hand of Mulder had left her skills honed sharp as 

a blade.

But Chris knew what she was doing.  She could see it in his eyes.  He was well 
prepared for this battle of wills, and worst of all, not afraid to show it.  

"Do you?" he asked her softly. 
 
She was confused.  "Do I what?"

"Do *you* care what people think about you or the choices you make in your 
life?"

"Not really, no."

"Uh-huh."

"I don't," she insisted.

"Okay.  Does anybody know you're sleeping with your partner?"

For a moment, Scully didn't know what to say.  Then, she told him simply, "No." 

He arched a brow.

"Look, Mulder...I...we..."  She gave up trying.  "It's not the same."

"Of course it isn't," Chris said, cynicism fairly dripping from the words.  He 
turned away, as though dismissing the subject.  And her.

She suppressed a burst of resentment.  He missed his calling, she thought.  He 
should have been a cop.

"Wait a second--"

"Just forget it," he cut her off.  "From what Tim told me about you and your 
partner, I had assumed..."

"What?"

"Well...I thought it was pretty serious."

"It is."  She drew back, defensively.

"Then why doesn't everyone know about it?"

"Because--"  

Scully frowned, realizing his point was made.  She was suddenly forced to 
consider, really consider, the meaning of what he was saying.  

"Because there are some...difficulties," she finished, lamely.

"Right."  The bitter look in his eyes softened. 

Difficulties, she thought.  What was so difficult?  If Mulder were ever in a 
life-or-death situation, there'd be nothing overt to keep her from his side.

So why then was she always so desperate to leave him?

Chris touched her hand, drawing her back to the moment.  

"Hey," he said, with a sad smile.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to give you a hard 

time.  It's just--"  He broke off, swallowing.

Empathy abruptly took the edge off her resistance.  At least her problems with 
Mulder were her own.  But for these two men, it was different.  Much as she'd 
like to believe in an enlightened society, that couldn't be denied.  

"If it's any consolation," she said, "I think you and Tim are two of the bravest 

people I've ever known."

He looked down at his hands.  "You make it sound like there's a choice." 

"Isn't there?"

Rawls shook his head.  "No."

She wasn't sure how to respond.

"You know," he said, shifting the conversation again.  "About two weeks after 
Tim and I first got together, we were sitting at the bar at Zodiac.  It was a 
Friday, and we were busy.  But Tim was off for the next forty-eight hours and I 
decided to cool it for a change. 

"Now, by this time," he went on, "we had both done our best to finish the better 

part of two bottles of a really nice Merlot."

She laughed softly and he nodded.  "Right.  You can just imagine the atmosphere. 
 
Tim was more relaxed that night than I had ever seen him.  At some point, he 
made a smart-ass remark to my bartender -- some joke about four-star generals 
and sensitivity training -- and I couldn't stop laughing."

He closed his eyes, remembering.  "Of course, we all ended up losing it.  But 
Tim...for a second...he just looked at me..."

Rawls blinked, staring straight ahead. 

"It was like he was a little kid at his first Christmas.  You know?  Staring at 
something magical.  All bright and shiny.  God."

He bent, clutching his forehead with one hand.  

"I don't know how else to explain it," he finally said.  "It was like somebody 
seeing me for the first time.  All my life...as though nobody had ever done 
that.  That's when I knew he wasn't going to be like any of the others."

Chris turned his head, looking her right in the eye.  Shocked, Scully found that 

she knew exactly what he was talking about.

He said, "You ask me why I can't put things aside and go see him at the 
hospital?  It's because I know, in my heart, that doing that would hurt him."

She tried to protest and he cut her off quickly.  "Maybe not now," he said.  "Or 

even right away.  But it would.  Eventually.  Those cops have long memories."

Scully held her tongue as the grim truth settled all around them.

"I'm sorry," she said at last.

"Don't be."  There was steel in his gaze.  "Love costs, Dana.  There's a certain 

finality to it.  Like death.  And that's just the way it is.  When he was with 
you, it was one of the darkest fucking times of my life.  Because it wasn't 
going to get better.  Ever.  Which is why now that I have him again, I won't let 

go.  I don't care what I have to sacrifice."

"But--"

"No."  He gestured sharply.  "Tim gives up a little bit of himself every day 
we're together and he has to walk into that squad room.  That's his choice.  I 
can't do any less.  I won't.  If I have to lose a part of who I am to be what we 

are, then so be it."

Her calm faded as the words sank in.

"You think what you're doing now is the right thing?" she asked, finally.

"Yes," he said.

"I'm not sure I agree."

"It's not your decision to make," he countered.

"That's fine, Chris," she said, bracing herself.  "But you talk like tomorrow is 

a given.  It isn't.  Especially for Tim.  He's stable now, but there's too much 
that can change -- not the least of which is his will to pull through this."

Chris's jaw tensed, but Scully forged ahead.

"You think it doesn't matter if he knows he has something worth coming back to?  

I'm here to tell you that it does."  She pointed at him.  "The future is 
uncertain.  You make plans, you live your life.  All of it is bullshit."

He tried to interrupt and she waved him off.  "Don't try to tell me I'm wrong.  
Believe me, I know.  You can forget absolutes.  There's too much that we don't 
understand -- that we *can't* understand."

Scully paused, taking a deep breath.  "Which leaves us with today.  And today, I 

promise you, Tim needs you there with him."

"I'll think about it."

"You do that." 

She sensed his indecision and knew he still wasn't ready.  Not yet.  

But it was too soon to call.  Under the circumstances, she reasoned, she had 
done her best.  Either he would come with her or he wouldn't.  Regardless, it 
was time for her to move on.

Scully rose and went for the stairs, leaving him alone.

Inside Tim's bedroom, she closed the door and locked it.  The familiar sights 
and scents of her former lover were nearly overwhelming.

She took a deep breath and stripped off yesterday's clothes, heading for the 
bathroom.

Damn it, she thought.  Rawls would come around.  He was too intelligent *not* 
to.

The warm sting of the shower finally lent her some release.  Scully closed her 
eyes and let her mind go, tossed like a rowboat by an unruly sea.

Christ, but she was tired.  Tired and confused.  What was going on here in 
Baltimore was bad enough.  But she couldn't shake the feeling that what waited 
for her back in D.C. was even worse.

The affair with Mulder seemed to have taken on a life all its own.  Nothing she 
could say or do would slow it anymore.  

Life before had been so different.  And now...

She felt as though if she stopped fighting, she might lose some vital part of 
herself -- something for which there was no balance. 

What frightened her more than anything was that Chris Rawls -- almost a stranger 

to her -- had just come perilously close to putting that whole concept into 
words.  That he made the notion seem possible, even desirable, was more than she 

could accept.

Scully finished cleaning up quickly, getting ready to head back into the fire.

To her surprise, she found Rawls pacing the living room, waiting for her 
already.  She eyed the shoes on his feet and the leather jacket he was wearing.

"Fuck it," he announced.  "Let's go to the hospital."

She allowed herself a small smile.  "Sure you don't want to at least pretend to 
give it some more thought?"

Rawls shook his head.  "Subtlety is overrated, Agent Scully."  His eyes threw 
sparks at her.  "But you seem to know that very well already."

Success buoyed her at his sure tones.  For a moment, Scully felt as though the 
storm inside her head was finally breaking.  Maybe she'd even stick around for a 

few extra days to make sure everything would be all right.

She headed for the door with Chris right behind her.

"Oh, by the way..."  He came to a halt, snapping his fingers.  "I hope I didn't 
overstep my bounds, but your partner called your cell while you were upstairs."

For a second, her head spun.  Scully felt her newfound confidence falter.  
Badly.

"He said you're both to be in Skinner's office tomorrow morning by 9:15 for a 
briefing."

So much for the respite, she thought sourly.  It was fun while it lasted.

"You don't want to call him back?" Rawls asked.  He gave her an odd look as she 
unbolted the door.

Scully laughed, but it was a brittle sound.  What she wanted had ceased to be an 

issue long ago.  She wasn't even sure what that was any more.

"Not right now," she replied, in a tone that brooked no further questions.

And with that, the two of them headed for the hospital.


*********


Mulder walked through the hallway of Scully's building with his hands jammed in 
his pockets and his temper firmly in check.  

Warm sunlight painted the walls; the atmosphere was cheery.  All around him, he 
could hear the muffled sounds of people going about their ordinary lives.

Home, he thought.  Her home.  If only he felt more welcome in this place.

Strangely enough, things were a bit less subdued at Scully's door.  Mulder was 
surprised to hear the fierce strains of an old U2 hit.  And there seemed to be 
an even louder set of tunes coming from the apartment across the hall. 

Early Police, he thought, else he was no judge of his Oxford-era rock and roll.  


Wonderful.  If he closed his eyes and turned back the clock, he was right back 
in the hallowed passages of St. Catherine's, gearing up for a night of pub-
crawling on the west end.  

Again, he tried to shake off the persistent sense that he didn't belong there.

It wasn't like he had a standing invitation.  She kept her place off-limits now. 
 
And after this latest case, with her little 'folie a deux' quip, they had nearly 

come to blows.  In the end, Scully had made it quite clear that they'd be taking 

the weekend off.  From work, and from each other.

Mulder snorted softly, remembering.  His partner was just as good at hearing "I" 

instead of "we" when it suited her own needs.  Once, there was a time when he 
hadn't noticed or even cared.  But things were different now.

He tapped the knocker on her door firmly, determined to handle this little 
meeting as calmly and rationally as possible.

Naturally, there was no answer.  

The glut of sound continued to crash through the hallway.  Mulder began pounding 

with the flat of his hand; his forehead pressed to the cool, unresponsive wood.

"Scully!"  His voice rose.  "Goddamn it, I know you can hear me in there!"

Behind him, a door opened.  Mulder swore softly, glancing over his shoulder. 

A dark-haired man who must have been Scully's neighbor was staring at him, hands 

on his hips.  He was wearing shorts and a gray tee-shirt with the letters 
"D.E.A." stenciled across the front.

Son of a bitch.  

Suspicion cut through him like a blade.  Tall, dark and law enforcement.  Just 
the way she liked them.  And right across the hall.  Could this nightmare 
possibly get any worse? 

"Can I help you?" 

The words were mild, but the tone was pure Glock-tempered steel.  

Mulder smiled thinly.  "I don't know.  Did I knock on your door by mistake?"

Something flickered in the other man's eyes.  Still, he didn't move. 

Then, a faint grin touched the corners of his mouth.  He pointed at him, 
recognition dawning.  

"Wait.  You're her partner, aren't you?  It's Mulder, right?"

Nice, Mulder thought, with some acrimony.  He had no idea who this person was, 
yet the guy had no problem picking his own name out of thin air.  In a way, it 
made perfect sense. 

"Dope must be attracting a brighter class of cop these days," he remarked, 
covering.

"Yeah," the guy laughed, plainly immune.  "We just send our rejects over to the 
FBI."

Mulder leaned back against the wall.  He was surprised when the man smiled with 
a warmth that seemed sincere.

"I've heard about you.  Scully talks about you a lot."

"She does, does she?" said Mulder, doubting it.  He didn't want to think about 
her having any conversation with this cupcake at all.  

Be cool, he thought.  Any minute now Scully was going to open the fucking door.

Any minute.

He cursed her stubbornness silently.

Scully's neighbor crossed his arms, refusing to take the hint.  "Sorry about the 

music," he remarked.  "We go through this every couple of weeks or so.  Blowing 
off steam.  It's kind of a routine around here."

Mulder couldn't help but catch the choice of personal pronouns.  "We?" he asked.

Just then, a small, good-looking blond stuck her head out next to the guy.

"What the hell's going on, Ron?"  She sounded breathless, sparing a quick glance 

for Mulder.  "You've got that on so loud I can barely hear myself think."

"There seems to be a lot of it going around," Mulder put in sarcastically.

"Hey, Claud."  The other man thrust his chin at him, obviously enjoying himself. 
 
"This is Agent Mulder."

"Really."  

A statement, he thought.  Not a question.  The look in her eyes was just a bit 
too knowing for Mulder's peace of mind.  

Jesus, who the hell were these people?

"Well hi," she said briskly.

Mulder stared, unable to find the right words.

The blond ignored his lapse and looked up at the other man.  "Listen," she said. 
 
"I told you I have to get files ready for an 8:30 court call tomorrow and you 
have your fucking firearm spread out all over the dining room table."

She shot another glance at Mulder.  "Sorry."  

Without waiting for a reply, she ducked back inside the apartment. 

"Duty calls."  The man called Ron shot him a sly grin.  "Good luck with that," 
he added, before closing the door.  

He seemed to know exactly what Mulder was in for. 

Scully picked that moment to open *her* door behind him.  He righted himself 
quickly, turning to face her.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mulder?"  

He recognized the tone -- one that had sounded a retreat on scores of lesser 
men.  Despite his best intentions, anger boiled up inside him.

"I need to talk to you." 

"So talk."

"Not here in the hallway," he snapped.

"Fine."  She pulled him inside.

Scully looked uncharacteristically disheveled, even for a weekend.  He had 
obviously interrupted her at something.  Her hair was mussed and there was a 
line of dust smudged along one cheek.

"What were you doing?" he asked, raising his voice over the noise. 

"Don't worry about it."

"Tell me."

She glared.  "I'm switching over my closet, now what exactly do you need?"

"I said I need to talk to you."  Mulder looked pointedly at her stereo.

Scully didn't even pretend at diplomacy.  "It's my goddamn music.  Just like 
it's my goddamn Sunday here in my goddamn apartment and I'll play it goddamn 
loud if I want to."

He winced as she made a cutting gesture with her hand.  "I told you before, 
we're *off*, Mulder."  

All restraint crumbled at her quick dismissal.  His fingers burned with the urge 

to throttle her.  She was a fool to think he'd just walk away at her command.

"I want to know exactly what it was you told Skinner in his office," he 
demanded, grabbing her by the elbow.  "And don't even try that same textbook 
bullshit you pulled in the elevator on Friday."

The second he touched her, he knew it was a mistake.  Her eyes were like 
lightning.  His heart seized in his throat.

Mulder looked around furtively for something to brace himself with in case 
things got physical.  He didn't think that would happen, but damn it, he 
couldn't be sure.

She raked him with a predatory gaze.  Calculating, he thought.  Hungry.

Jesus. 

The atmosphere in her apartment was suddenly too close, too airless.  He was 
finding it difficult to breathe.  A horribly seductive mix of fear and 
excitement coiled expansively in his gut.

"Is this is what you came here for, Mulder?" she asked, deadly calm.  "For me to 

answer all your questions?  To answer to you?"

"Yes," he said simply.

And then it happened...so fast that looking back on it later, Mulder realized 
he'd never had a chance to react.

She launched herself across the space between them, her small, tense frame 
surging into his arms.  He held on to her automatically as she grabbed fistfuls 
of his thick hair, yanking his head back.  

"You want an answer?"  Scully's teeth skimmed his ear.  Her mouth was hot 
against his skin.  

He had to swallow a groan.  

"Here it is."  She wrapped her legs around him with surprising force, squeezing 
flesh into bone and grinding herself against him.  

Her momentum had him staggering.  She was like a wild thing.  Mulder let go of 
her, spreading his arms wide.  He tried to keep his balance from faltering 
beneath her attack.

"Scully, look out--"

He went down with a loud crash.  The shock of his fall was cushioned only 
slightly by a throw rug.  Mulder swallowed, stunned.  He flinched as he felt the 

full impact of her weight land squarely on his chest.

Fuck.

The world shifted.  He lay still, trying to process who he was and how he'd 
gotten here.  Who invented liquid soap and maybe Kant was wrong about the 
Categorical Imperative and had NASA really gone to the trouble of faking the 
Apollo moon landings all those years ago?

Reality snapped back on him all at once.  The haunting wail of U2 rolled eerily 
along his spine.  Mulder blinked, fingers twitching as he tested the feeling in 
his extremities.  He wondered for a second if anything was broken.

It wasn't, but his brief mental check-out had already allowed Scully to divest 
him of his jacket and shirt.

He breathed deeply as she rose over him.  She quickly shed her tank top, shorts, 

and the scrap of cotton briefs she'd been wearing.

Christ, but she was exquisite.

His head pounded.  Blood rushed in his ears with a heat that seemed to flow 
directly to his groin.  She worked the belt buckle at his waist, unfastening his 

jeans.

A thrill of anticipation streaked along his spine.  

"You want this, don't you, Mulder?"  She drew his fingers to the slick heat 
between her thighs.

"No," he goaded, as the pain in his head gave way to the ache of arousal.

"Liar."  Her fingers led his to his own throbbing length, molding his hand 
around it, squeezing firmly.

He sucked in a ragged breath.

Scully whispered to him, taunting, "You're hard."

No shit.

"And you're wet," he murmured.  He watched her through heavy lids, thrusting his 

jaw forward in a gesture that never failed to provoke her.

"Mulder..."  Her grip tightened.  Payback sparked deliriously in her gaze.  "I 
hate you so much...sometimes."  

She moved over him; skin gliding across his body like silk.

"Arrogant," she muttered, staring at him.  "Condescending, egotistical..."

"You forgot borderline delusional."

Mulder's breath left him in a quick hiss as she retaliated the best way possible 

-- taking him into her body with one swift, smooth stroke.  He arched his back; 
head lolling to one side.

Scully fell forward.  Her fingers raked back into his hair.  She kissed him, 
brutally sweet.  He quivered as her teeth grazed the small split that still 
lingered from their last ill-fated assignment.

She moaned softly, thrusting down on him with a fierce rhythm -- completely 
disregarding of the slow, languorous pace he so usually favored.

Mulder felt his focus skew; needing to let go, to give in.  His hips 
instinctively thrust upward, seeking to match her movements.  Then, Scully 
tightened around him, drawing him deeper.

"Fuck," he groaned.

"Yes."  She smiled for the first time.

Mulder pulled her back to him.  He kissed her quick and hard twice before 
delving deeper, demanding more...losing himself in the warm, heady spaces of her 

mouth.

Senses beckoned; textures lured.  Scully began to move her lips against his more 

gently.  Coaxing him along, she soothed the cut with her tongue just a little 
bit. 

His hands skimmed lightly along the ridges of her spine. 

Scully lifted herself upright one last time and stared down at him.  Her eyes 
dilated as she sensed his submission.  

She reached a hand between her legs.  Fingers brushed against him where he slid 
thick and hot inside her.  He tensed with feeling, so close to completion he 
could almost taste it--

"Damn it, Mulder..."

"What?"  He looked at her, dazed.

"I can't...I don't..."  Her breath hitched.  "You do this every time.  You 
always get what you want."

She gripped his shoulders, trembling with the effort of holding back her 
release. 

"So?" he said, keeping still, watching her. "What I want is exactly what you 
need." 

Shadows drifted in her gaze.  Her lower lip quivered.  Seconds passed.

Then, she closed her eyes.

Her surrender thrilled him.  

Mulder sat up swiftly, pulling her close.  He drove into her -- fierce, tender, 
beyond control.  In the blink of an eye, she was ready.  He could feel it. 

Scully clung to him, tucking his face into the curve of her throat.  The warm, 
damp scent of her skin consumed him.  

With a deep breath, she came and came and came.

"Don't stop," he begged, gasping, as her body turned to liquid fire all around 
him.  "Please...oh please, Scully...don't stop..."

The force of her climax sent him over the edge.  For precious seconds, Mulder 
forgot -- who he was, what he wanted -- in the agonizing pleasure of their 
joining.  He was drowning in her -- breathless with desire, mindless with need.  

The pressure welled in his throat, sending tears of ecstasy spilling from his 
eyes. 

She was his obsession, his passion.  His overwhelming power and most seductive 
pain.  Her actions this day had come close to causing him real bodily harm, and 
still he was begging her for more.  

Awareness returned as her lips brushed his jaw.  He could hear the rasp of their 

breathing in the quiet of the room.  The music was spent and so apparently was 
Scully.  

She lay curled against him.  He looked down into her eyes.  

Something quickened there between them.  A feeling, heart familiar, touching him 

inside.  He felt his soul stir -- drawn like the proverbial moth to a flame.

Good lord.

Mulder stared at her in shock, almost afraid to breathe.

She felt it too, he thought.  She felt the same thing he did. 

And then the moment passed in the blink of an eye.  

Scully pulled away from him.  A familiar mask slipped over her face.  She 
bounded to her feet and headed for the bathroom without a word.

He arched his back and groaned, easing himself into a sitting position.  He 
could guess how ridiculous he looked -- face flushed, hair standing on end, 
naked to the waist with his jeans and shorts twisted around his ankles.

She hadn't even bothered to untie his shoes.

His head still swam from the crack against the floor.  Mulder pulled his jeans 
back up, ignoring the sticky remnants of their climax.  Drawing his legs in 
towards his chest, he rested his forehead on his knees.

Surely she wasn't just expecting him to leave?

With a start, he looked up to see Scully padding to a halt before him.  

She was fully clothed again.  He smelled soap and the subtle scent of their 
commingled sex.  Her hair was neatly combed and her skin bore only the faintest 
glow from their previous exertion. 

In fact, she looked perfectly prepared to plunge headlong back into her 
household chores -- like nothing had ever happened to distract her in the first 
place.

Christ, he thought.  Scully could have taught Gregory Pincus a thing or two 
about hiding in the light that that monster probably never imagined.

He cursed her silently.

Sometimes she made it too easy for him to hate her.  Or love her.  He wasn't 
sure which was worse.

"You really believe all that stuff you said before?" Mulder asked, looking up 
with a just a tiny bit of a scowl.  He didn't want to push his luck too far, too 

fast.

She shrugged.  "You pissed me off."  

Scully held out a hand to him.  Her expression was neutral.

"Yes," Mulder admitted, ignoring her offer.  She had yet to offer him even a 
shred of reassurance.  

He massaged the sore spot at the back of his skull.

She crouched down, looking him in the eye.  "I suppose this means I'm stuck with 

you for the rest of the evening."  Her voice, while resigned, bore none of the 
displeasure she'd evinced so spectacularly when he'd arrived.

"I guess you are."  He ran a fingertip along the line of her jaw.

For an instant, her breath caught.  Then, with some impatience, she stood 
upright.

"Come on."  Scully gestured him towards the bedroom.  "You can clean yourself 
up."

So much for apologies, Mulder thought, rising.

But as long as she wasn't throwing him out yet, there might still be a chance to 

get what he needed.


*********


What exactly was it that he needed?

Scully pondered the question as she rearranged her suits for the third time in a 

row, brushing away dust and pulling at phantom specks of lint.  With a deep 
breath, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back.  

She would *not* look into the bedroom again.  What was the point?  She already 
knew what she'd see.

Mulder, sprawled across the end of her bed as if he belonged there.

Knowing what to expect didn't make it any easier.  Sooner or later she was going 

to have to deal with this.

He'd come for a reason.  And Scully was fresh out of distractions.

"You never told me if Skinner had anything in the pipeline for us on Friday," 
she called out.  Her fingers twisted in the cool plastic of a dry cleaning bag 
as she stared unseeing at the back of her closet.

"That's because you didn't stick around long enough to find out," he replied, 
tersely.

Clearly, his mood had not improved.  And it had been two hours since they'd 
moved in here.  She'd already made at least a dozen attempts at small talk, only 

to have him thwart her at every turn.

He was right to mock her.  She was a coward.

Too afraid of her own feelings.  Too afraid to take what she wanted.  Too afraid 

to admit that her growing turmoil had spilled over into this last case, damaging 

their professional rapport together. 

Of that, Scully was ashamed.  Her stubborn refusal to believe any of Mulder's 
assertions was at least part of the reason he'd ended up in that hospital.

Yes, she had saved him from Gregory Pincus.  But in the end, there would be no 
one to save him from herself.

"Hey."  He stuck his head in the door suddenly.  She jerked around in surprise.

"You scared me, Mulder."

"I can't imagine how."  He looked around coolly.  "This *is* your closet, isn't 
it?  I was starting to wonder if you'd moved in permanently."

Scully pushed past him, ignoring the sarcasm.  Christ, every bone in her body 
already ached with the strain of holding her emotions in check.  A few more 
well-placed barbs from him and she would be screaming.

Perhaps *that* was what he really wanted.

Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on familiar objects in the soft light.  
Outside, the darkness pressed -- a clear reminder of the day's retreat.

Scully gathered her wits.  

"Just how long were you planning to stick around?" she inquired, trying to keep 
it civil.

"As long as it takes."

His presumption grated, though a part of her actually welcomed it.  Frustration 
could be always be channeled into something much more useful -- like anger.  

But they'd been down that road already today.

"This is ridiculous, Mulder," Scully said at last.  "If you've got something to 
say, say it."

He flipped up a brow, gloves coming off just as quickly.  "You know, I kinda 
thought that's what I *was* doing when I got here.  Right up until the point you 

decided to fuck my brains out."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You didn't look like you minded."

"And your point is?"

"I don't know, Mulder.  Maybe I don't have a point.  Or maybe the point is that 
you might be happier someplace else right now."

"Oh, I doubt it," he replied.  "Where else could I get this much entertainment 
for free?"

"Try your porn collection."

"Been there, done that."  He went so far as to leer.  "Unless you're offering to 

keep me company."

"That's it," she glared at him, pointing at the door.  "Get out."

"Don't get mad, Scully."

"Don't give me, 'don't get mad!'"

"All right then."  Mulder settled himself back on the end of her bed.  "If you 
really want to rewind and start this conversation at the beginning, then that's 
what we'll do."

Actually, she didn't want anything of the sort.  But it was too late to back 
down now.

"You never answered my question earlier," he went on, staring her dead in the 
eye.  "How exactly did you leave it with Skinner about the Vinyl-Rite case?" 

Scully drew a long breath, rocking back on her heels slightly.  

"Mulder, I thought we were past that."

"Maybe *you* are." 

"Fine. You want to know what I told him?  I told him it was dark."

He pressed his lips together tightly as she went on: 

"I told him there was no way for me to identify what it was.  And there was 
certainly no way for me to analyze what it meant.  Not in any kind of rational 
or scientific manner.  From my perspective, the facts of the case remain 
unexplained." 

"So, wait a second," he said, sitting up straight.  "You're actually sticking 
with the theory that it was some kind of...codependent delusion?"

"No," she admitted grudgingly.  "I didn't say that -- because I'm not convinced 
that's what really happened," 

"Then tell me something, Scully.  What exactly *do* you think you saw in my 
hospital room that night?"

She gave him a hard stare.  "What I needed to see.  That your life was in 
danger.  That there was a threat to you, and I did what was necessary to 
neutralize that threat.  For purposes of the investigation, I really don't see 
why it has to go any further.  Pincus is gone.  Vinyl-Rite is a dead end.  The 
file is better left on hold, like the rest, until we hear otherwise.  If we ever 

hear otherwise."

"I don't *believe* this."

"Don't believe what?" she fired back, voice rising slightly.  "Mulder, what is 
with you?  You and I have had hundreds of conversations like this.  I don't see 
why this one should come as a surprise.  Or a disappointment.  Would it make you 

feel better if I lied?"

"If you lied?"  The expression on his face swung abruptly to something else.  
Something darker, more dangerous.  Something Scully wasn't sure she understood.  


"No, I wouldn't want you to lie," he said, softly.  "But maybe you could 
just...not tell me." 

What the hell? 

"Mulder, if this is about me not calling you back when I was in Baltimore--"

"It isn't," he cut her off.  "You've explained that more than adequately.  I 
only wish I could say the same about everything else." 

"Okay.  I seem to be missing something here, Mulder."

"You're not missing anything," he said, still in that maddening, elliptical way. 
 
"But I am."

She stared at him, confused.

"You want to bullshit me about the case, that's fine," he said.  "You're right.  

I'm used to it.  So let's talk about something else.  Maybe like, why, in all 
the time we typically spend together, you've never once mentioned your neighbor 
across the hall."

The unexpected switch caught her completely off guard.  Scully continued to gape 

at him, speechless.

"You know who I mean?" he prompted.  "Tall.  Dark.  DEA.  Looks like he's got 
the Right Stuff?"  

Suddenly, it hit her; what Mulder was actually talking about.

He was being territorial.  Jealous, even.  For Christ's sake, he was actually 
*suspicious*.  

How very odd.  If the situation weren't so ridiculous, she might be amused.  

"He seems to understand your leisure habits quite well," Mulder was saying.

Scully fought for control.  Asshole charm aside, Ron Hopkins was one of the 
least likely men in America for her to be playing around with on the side.

"Go ahead, Scully.  Clear up that little mystery for me."

"I am not and never have been fucking my neighbor, Mulder."  She was angry 
enough now to let it show.  "Even if I wanted to, it wouldn't be possible." 

"Why?" he demanded.
    
"Because his wife is an attorney and very perceptive."

For once, he shut up, but Scully felt little triumph at the disclosure.

"Satisfied?" she jeered, unable to resist.  "Now why don't you explain to me how 

this is *any* of your goddamn business." 

Mulder struggled to his feet, hurt welling like spilled ink in his eyes.  
Immediately, Scully cursed herself for losing it.  

"For Christ's sake, Mulder, how can you ask me this?" she said, feeling sick.  
"Particularly after all we've been through lately?"

"How *can* I?"  He stabbed a finger at her.  "Scully, every Friday night, you 
come into my bed, fulfill my wildest fucking dreams--"  Mulder took a deep 
breath.  "And then you leave me without a word.  Without *anything*!"

His desperation tore at her defenses.  Scully glanced around frantically, 
knowing there could be no escape for her this time.

"How is that possible?" he went on, voice sounding raw.  "Because I'd really 
like to know.  Can you at least tell me that?"

"I don't owe you any explanations!" she finally shouted, tears burning the backs 

of her eyes.

She might as well have slapped him.

He stared at her.  A terrible tension vibrated in the air between them.

"I should get going," he said abruptly.  Without another word, he shouldered his 

way past her and into the living room.

Scully stood stock still, her back to the doorway as she counted to ten.  

She should let him just walk out.  That was probably what he wanted.  Then, she 
could wait until he was ready pick up the threads of their complex relationship 
once more.

Safe, she thought.  Perfect.

And something hit her then that was completely unexpected: 

She saw herself with Chris Rawls -- remembered the look in his eyes, the sound 
of his voice.  Heard him talk about giving up a piece of himself in order to 
have what he had with Tim.

"Oh my God."

Almost before she knew what was happening, Scully was on the move.  She made it 
to the front door just as Mulder was opening it to leave.  

Her hand hit the wood with enough force to slam it closed.  

The sound was unexpectedly loud in the quiet.  He turned to face her, stunned.

Her heartbeat quickened with fear of what she was about to do.

"Don't," Scully said.  "Don't go, Mulder.  Please." 

She stared up at him with wide eyes, arm still stinging from the impact.  

"Time's up, Scully."  His voice was tight.  "Elvis has pretty much left the 
building."

He didn't get it.  Yet.  Scully wondered just how much of herself she would have 

to give up to make him see.

"Look, this is pointless," she hedged.  "We are not going to do this.  We are 
not going to play games for the next hour, the next day, or the next week.  
Because we'll just end up right back here with the same problems." 

Mulder jammed his hands into his pockets.  Turning his head, he stared past her 
deliberately.

Scully reached up to touch his cheek, drawing him back.  "Mulder," she said 
softly.  "Don't you see?" 

His gaze flicked over her, lit with uncertainty at the unexpected overture.  

"Damn it, we're *still* partners."   

She took hold of his hand.  

"As long as we're together, I won't ever betray you.  I won't abandon you.  
Partners, friends, lovers -- it's all part of the same me."

Something changed suddenly; a consciousness she couldn't define.  But it was 
there -- powerful and thrilling all at once.  Mulder seemed closer somehow, 
though she didn't recall him moving.  The look on his face was smoldering. 

"Are we friends, Scully?"

He was tense, holding her fast with his beautiful eyes.

"Are we lovers?" he asked.

Scully couldn't answer past the dryness in her throat.  She blinked, mesmerized 
by his sudden shift.    

Silence loomed.  Then, Mulder tugged on her hand.  He leaned over, fitting his 
larger frame to hers.  Their lips brushed.  

The kiss was gentle, almost fragile -- more tender than anything she'd felt from 

him, ever.

Her lips parted; an open invitation.  He ignored it.  Instead, he grazed the 
corner of her mouth, drawing her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently.  
She quivered at the drift of his fingers on her throat. 

For a warm, soft, slow span of time, he kissed her.  Scully yielded to his 
claiming, her need growing with each passing second.

After a while, he pulled back.  His thumb smoothed over the slick span of her 
mouth.

I love you.

God help her, she could almost hear the words, the distinctive purr of his 
voice...but Scully knew they existed only in her head.

And for the first time, she admitted that part of her was actually desperate to 
have him say it: that he needed her, that he wanted her.

That he was in love with her.

He never would, she knew.  Not the way things were between them.  She was in 
absolutely no position to expect anything.

Still, the need was there.  Unforeseen, unprecedented, and strangely, not 
unwanted.

"Mulder--"

He hushed her with another kiss, pressing his hand into the small of her back, 
molding her to the firm heat of his lower body.  

Scully gasped when he twisted around swiftly, bringing her with him, so that her 

back was up against the door.  Effortlessly, he lifted her, the pressure of his 
hips holding her in place.  He cupped her chin with one hand, tilting her mouth 
to the angle he liked best.  

She wound her legs around him slowly, fingers sifting through his hair.  The 
overwhelming hunger flared between them anew.

It was an irresistible tide of emotion and sensation.  The undertow dragged her 
down until she was lost -- drowning alone in a need so profound it couldn't be 
explained.

But wait.  

She wasn't alone.  Not anymore.  Mulder was right there with her.  He looked 
into her eyes, driving them to the surface, seeking and finding the tiny scrap 
of awareness that moved this experience beyond the mere physical.

Scully wanted to believe, but it was effort enough to simply exist; to savor 
each and every sensual movement of his body against hers.

Mulder was kissing her deeply now, tongue tangling with hers.  He closed his 
eyes.  A hot rush of pleasure slid over them both.  His hands drifted along her 
thighs and around her waist, beneath her shirt to stroke the bare skin of her 
midriff.  Scully arched her back, drawing closer still, loving the feel of his 
lean strength trapped between her legs.

How long they stayed there -- bound together, plundering each other's mouths, 
pausing only to draw desperate breath -- she would never remember.  Only that 
each kiss was warm and slick and wonderfully thorough -- a union of flesh and 
heart and souls.

And for now, at least, it would have to be enough.


**********


Emergency lights flickered through the hazy air, sweeping over his partner as 
she picked her way around the ruined office.  Her boots made a soft sloshing 
sound with every step.  

First, she had held him in her arms.  Now, she would not even look at him.  

Mulder had been close to the brink before, but he'd never guessed the edge would 

be this dark or the abyss quite so deep.

He grimaced at the thought and tried to breathe through his mouth.  The smell 
was unbearable.  The stench of defeat.  They'd be washing it off their skin for 
days to come. 

Scully stopped at his desk and struggled with the bottom drawer, trying to get 
it open.  The twisted metal held out.  She gave it a fierce yank.  The look on 
her face held such fury that it shocked him back into action.

The drawer gave just as he made it to her -- too late to halt her backward 
momentum.  

She landed on her ass in a lake of filthy water.  Tears streaked down her soot-
smudged cheeks.  She stared up at him, sniffling faintly.

Save me, the look in her eyes seemed to say.  This is not happening.

Mulder swiped a hand beneath his own runny nose.  

There was no saving left in him for anyone.

He helped her to her feet without a word, glancing at the open drawer.  Nearly 
everything inside had been charred black from the intense heat of the fire.

Scully bent and fished out a picture of the two of them with Sheriff Hamilton 
the Dog-Faced Boy.  At the trailer park in Gibsonton, Florida.

So many years, Mulder thought.  And now here they were in this place.

The edges of the photo curled as it fluttered to the floor and sank.

"Come on."  He touched her elbow.  "It's time to go."  

She stared at him blankly.  

He said, "There's nothing left for us to do here."

Emergency personnel pushed past them as they left, methodically gathering up 
their gear.  Skinner was gone.  No doubt he was already on call for the next 
chapter in their disgrace.

On the way back to his apartment, Scully fell asleep.  He let her be, losing 
himself in the mindless task of navigating through near-empty streets.  

Gilded hues of rose and violet melted across the pre-dawn sky.  The ripe, 
untouched scent of a summer morning drifted through his open window.  He rubbed 
a hand absently across the two-day stubble on his chin.

At his building, Mulder finally looked at her.  She woke, and the sharp blue 
crackle of her eyes flared.  Looking into him.  Breathing life into every part 
that mattered.

Mulder felt his own eyes sting.

The files were gone.  She was in those files, and they were gone.  And he...

He *was* those files.

The end, he thought.  This is the end...

He took a deep breath.  

"You feeling all right, Scully?"

"Yes," she said absently.  Then, she shook her head.  "I mean no...I don't 
know..."

Her voice broke as she sagged against him.  His arm came up around her 
shoulders.

"I keep trying to find some sort of context, Mulder.  Some way to make sense of 
all this.  We're alive.  We're not hurt."

She paused, staring down at her hands.  "I mean, look at what happened to Tim.  
Is this really any worse?"

Yes, Mulder thought to himself silently.  Because despite the threat to life and 

limb, Bayliss had made it.  He had recovered consciousness and would live to 
save another day in Baltimore.  Eventually.

The trail of evidence that he and Scully had painstakingly built for the past 
five years would not.

Out loud, he said, "I don't think there is a context for this one, Scully.  All 
you can do is try to get through it."

He held on tight to her then.  Her cheek pressed warmly against his heart.

She pulled away after a while, looking up at him.  "Come over to my place when 
you get cleaned up?"

The casual invitation to invade her space was so unexpected that Mulder thought 
he'd misheard her at first.  But no, the look in her weary eyes was sincere.

"Sure," he said quietly.  "I've been meaning to give you something anyway."

"A fire extinguisher?"

"That's good," he said, without missing a beat.  "I'll remember that one."

She waited, silently.

"Actually," he went on, "this is something I've been holding onto.  Something 
I've wanted you to have for a long time."

"Okay."  Her eyes probed him, but she didn't push it.  "Get some sleep, Mulder.  

I'll see you tonight."

He watched her leave before heading inside, where he collapsed on the couch.  
Surprisingly, he slept like the dead.  Eight hours later, Mulder woke to the 
shrill of the phone and the brutal awareness that yes, it had all happened the 
way he remembered.

By the time he got it all together and headed to her place, it was dark outside. 
 
He saw Scully's neighbors sitting out in front of her building, soaking up the 
summer air.  

Mulder approached them slowly, shifting the small, flat package he held to his 
side. 

Ron sat a step higher than his wife.  She reclined between his legs, her elbows 
resting on his knees.  They'd lit a candle against the night.  An open bottle of 

wine with a glass was next to them on the other side.

Judging by the hazy look in Claudia's normally sharp eyes, it hadn't been their 
first.

For a split second, he hesitated.  Though he knew them now by name, Mulder had 
no idea what might be necessary in terms of social obligations.  Hell, he might 
even be intruding.

Hopkins saved him from having to decide.

"Long day today?" he asked.  He picked up the wineglass and took a sip.

Mulder halted on the first step.  "You talked to Scully?"

"Nope," Ron said.  "She didn't say a word."  He stared at Mulder.  "She didn't 
need to.  I haven't seen anybody look that bad since the World Trade Center in 
'93."

The bombing, Mulder thought with some surprise.  "You were there?"

Hopkins shrugged.  "I was with the BATF in New York at the time, yeah.  Before I 

moved over to the DEA."  

He didn't say any more, yet Mulder read the sudden bleakness in his expression 
as clearly as if he were looking into a mirror.

Claudia remained silent, staring straight ahead with her eyes half-closed.  But 
he saw her hand tighten reassuringly on the bare skin of her husband's thigh.

"Then I guess you would know," Mulder said slowly.

Hopkins didn't reply.

Mulder slapped the package against his leg absently.  "At least we finally got 
them," he remarked.

Hopkins took another sip of the wine.  "Contrary to what some people might want 
you to believe," he said in a low voice, "what we got was lucky."

His gray gaze bored into Mulder's.  "It won't be that way the next time."

Mulder blinked as the import of the other man's words settled. 

Sooner or later, he seemed to be saying, the house always wins. 

Maybe Hopkins was right.  Even if that cigarette smoking bastard fucked up this 
time and got nailed, there would be no guarantees.  Mulder knew they would keep 
on coming.

He could accept that or he could quit.

Faced with a similar choice, it was obvious which path Hopkins had taken.  And 
with people like Diana Fowley in charge of counter-terrorism, he thought, it was 

no wonder.

But he still had Scully.

For now.

Mulder's gaze lingered on the other couple.  He gave them a small smile.  "Have 
a good night."

Hopkins rested his chin against Claudia's hair, drawing on her strength.

Simple pleasures, Mulder thought.  He wished it could be that easy.  

And maybe it was.

He headed for Scully's apartment.

There was no answer at her door.  After a long pause, Mulder simply let himself 
in.

"Scully!" he called, closing the door behind him.

"I'll be right out."  Her disembodied voice carried from the bedroom.  He caught 

the cool citrus scent of her soap with a hint of steam in the air.

She was probably getting dressed.

The idea of surprising her came to him swiftly.  Mindless escape held a definite 

appeal at this point.  He blew out a breath and considered, glancing around her 
space.

It was still hard for him to believe that she'd stood there just a short week 
ago and reaffirmed her commitment to him.  

He'd made love to her then, right against the door.  Slowly, fervently...winding 

her so tight for so long that she'd literally pleaded with him for release.  
When she finally came apart in his arms, it was one of the most gratifying 
moments of his life.  

His passion, he thought.  His intensity.  They had been her reward.

Tonight, her invitation was his.

Mulder crossed to the dining table just outside her kitchen.  He set his package 

down next to a box of expensive chocolates she'd left open.

He made a small sound of satisfaction.  In some respects, Scully was a true 
voluptuary.  And if any occasion ever called for extravagant comfort food, this 
was it.

Then, she was there, behind him.  He turned.  Scully was watching him, just 
outside the doorway to her room.  She was dressed in a loose pair of black silk 
trousers and a white cotton shirt that fit her like a second skin.  Her hair, 
brushed back from her face, was still damp from the shower.

"Ron and Claudia are sitting outside on your front stoop," he informed her.  
"They're both blitzed."

Her lips curved a little bit, as though this did not surprise her.  "Want to 
join them?"

Mulder shook his head.  "Maybe some other time."

A minute passed.

"I spoke to Skinner before I came over," he told her then, figuring he might as 
well get it over with.

Her head came up swiftly.  "And?"

"They're putting us over to domestic terrorism.  Under Darius Michaud."

"Oh."  She looked thoughtful.

"Do you know him?"

"A little."  Scully frowned.  "Not personally, of course."

He shot her a questioning look.

"Only what I've heard, really," she admitted.

"And that would be...?"

"That he's a twenty-two year veteran of the Bureau.  That he's a tough son of a 
bitch.  That they hauled him up in front of OPR a half dozen times for minor 
procedural violations but nothing serious ever stuck."
 
"Why not?"

"Because, issues of protocol aside, he worked his ass off and got the job done.  

He had great instincts.  And his clearance record was unheard of.  That is 
until..."

She trailed off.

"Until there was a fuck-up on a task force he was running.  A standoff with the 
Arizona Minutemen," Mulder supplied for her.  "An agent was killed.  At the 
time, nobody could figure out how he beat it without being asked to resign."

He paused, sliding his hands into his pockets.  "Since then, he's been quiet.  
Thorough, capable, but no more than that.  And strictly by the book."

Scully nodded, swallowing.  "Word is," she took a deep breath.  "The word is, he 

was set up.  And now he's tainted.  But nobody knows how -- or by whom."

That could mean only one thing.

"Motherfucker."

"Uh-huh."  Scully glanced down.  

"At least..." she murmured.  "At least they're assigning us together."

Something frightened him in the way she said the words.  He looked at her 
sharply, but she had turned away already.

He should tell her, Mulder thought suddenly.  He should tell her how much he 
needed her.  Why he needed her.  Especially now.

Instead, he grabbed the package off the table and went after her.

Scully was standing in the dim light by the dresser in her bedroom.  Her head 
was bowed, but her shoulders remained straight -- vulnerability etched with 
resolve.  Her fingers brushed lightly over a stack of pathology journals...a 
bottle of perfume...her gun.

It was as evocative a portrait as he had ever seen.  A side she would likely 
reveal to no one.  Yet here he was.  This intimacy, the pleasure of it, was one 
that he had not thought to know.  Until now.

"Scully...?"

Her reverie broke.  She rubbed her hands over her hips and looked up at him.

"I wanted you to have this."  He held out the package.

She took it from him, hefting it slightly.  It weighed very little for what was 
inside.

She peeled open a flap and slid a book into her hand.  Seconds passed as she 
studied the battered copy of 'The Cat in the Hat.'

"I don't get it, Mulder," she said, frowning.  "What is this?  A first edition 
Dr. Seuss?"

"It belonged to my sister," he told her quietly.

She drew a sharp breath and stared at him, stunned.

"That book was one of her favorites.  My father would read it to her most nights 

before we went to sleep."  He shrugged.  "After she was...gone, my parents 
didn't keep much around to remind them.  This was one of the few things I was 
able to save.  To remind me."

"Mulder..."  Her voice shook.  "I-I can't accept this."  She thrust it at him.

"No," he said firmly, backing away.  "I want you to have it."

Scully hesitated, looking back at the book.  The colors were faded; the binding 
cracked and frayed.  And yet somehow it had managed to hold up this long.  The 
story was a classic.

Her lower lip trembled.  She cleared her throat awkwardly.

"I think about our time together," she said.  "All the stupid things I've said.  

The petty arguments about theory and approach.  Usually, it wasn't even about 
the science."  She swiped a hand at her eyes.  "It seems like such a waste now."

"Hey," he said.  "Hey, Scully."  He reached out to brush the hair back from her 
face.  His fingertip lingered on her cheek.  "Don't go getting soft on me now.  
How else would I have finished the crossword puzzle all these years?"  

She laughed and Mulder felt his tension ease.  "Today was a setback, sure.  But 
this--"  His fingers closed over hers on the book.  "This is still something 
that's real.  We're in this together.  We always were."

She stayed silent, holding the book tightly to her chest. 

"Scully," he said again, softly.

She glanced up at him.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

Mulder slid his fingers into her hair and drew her close.  

"For this."

She tilted her head up; her lips a whisper against his.  Her eyes drifted 
closed.  He nipped at her chin, sliding his mouth along the smooth skin of her 
jaw.

A low moan hummed in Scully's throat and he shivered at the sound.  His fingers 
tightened in her hair.  His lips brushed her cheek.

"Mulder..." she said.

He kissed her then, stealing her breath away.  She tasted dark, sweet -- a 
familiar bouquet that curled low in his belly.  Her body was warm and pliant 
against him; her mouth as slick and erotic as a dream.  Chills raced over his 
skin as her fingers stroked the length of his spine.

Mulder pulled away, gasping; cool air burning in his lungs.  Their eyes met and 
he went back to kissing her.  Searching, seizing -- savoring the fierce heat of 
her response.  Needing it.  Desperately.  When next he withdrew, they were both 
breathless.  Not so much with desire, but rather...a kind of relief.  The 
comfort of knowing they could still feel. 

He should tell her that, Mulder thought suddenly.  He should tell her exactly 
what she meant to him.  That she made him a whole person.

He *should* tell her.  

But the timing was wrong.  She hurt almost as badly as he did right now.

Better to wait.  When the moment was right, he would know.  And then he would 
tell her everything.

Scully was watching him closely, waiting to see what he would do next.

He slid his hand beneath her elbow.

"Come on," he nodded in the direction of her bed.  "I'll read you a bedtime 
story."

He sat, propped against the headboard.  She curled up next to him without 
protest.  Mulder opened to the first page.

"The sun did not shine," he recited.

"It was too wet to play.
 So we sat in the house
 All that cold, cold, wet day."

Her head was nestled in the crook of his arm; one hand clutching faintly at the 
underside of his ribs.  The mellow rasp of his voice settled over them like a 
warm blanket.

"I sat there with Scully--"

He felt the ripple of her amusement and kept on reading.  

"We sat there, we two.
 
 And I said, 'How I wish
 We had something to do!'

 Too wet to go out
 And too cold to play ball.
 So we sat in the house.
 We did nothing at all."

Which was perfect, thought Mulder.  The two of them, huddled together like this 
in the soft glow of her bedroom.  God, he could almost believe they were safe 
from the dark forces gathering outside.

Carefully, Mulder turned the pages, even after her breathing slowed to a steady 
rhythm and he knew she was asleep.

The words came by rote.  They were embedded in his memory.  When he came to the 
end, he closed the book and set it aside gently.  With a deep sigh, he leaned 
his head back and let go.

He thought about his partner; her doubts, her fears.  He thought about their 
work, smoldering in ruins.  

In spite of it all, she was still there, lying warm and trusting against him.  

And Mulder knew, deep inside, that whatever their adversaries believed, this was 

far from over with.

He curled himself around her, drawing on her strength.  His doubts, his 
fears...for one brief, shining moment, all seemed to slip away.

Mulder thought about the future.  The fate of something so much bigger than 
themselves.  

They would fight it together.  

He was sure of it.


-fin



We need new dreams tonight...
    --U2


The truth will always be out there.