Inferno II: Purgatorio - The Collector's Edition by Pellinor ___ DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and its characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox, and I torture them without permission but without thought of profit. SUMMARY: Three months on, and Mulder shows no signs of even attempting to come to terms with what happened to him in "Inferno," and Scully begins to feel the strain of having to constantly sacrifice her own needs to the needs of her desperately unhappy partner. Things come to a head on a murder case when Scully simply _can not_ accept Mulder's theory. Will their partnership survive? You could call this a relationship piece, but it is NOT a romance. It is the story of a relationship in crisis. It is also an X-File. RATING: PG-13 (some violence) CLASSIFICATION: X, A This is set some three months after my story "Inferno", but the main plot and the X-File are self-contained. Mulder and Scully's emotional states _are_ affected by the events in "Inferno", but everything you need to know about that story is covered here, mostly in the first scene. FEEDBACK: Please send any (polite) comments to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ********** Thursday 1 February 1996 Washington DC ____ "I must stay calm!" Scully's nails were digging into her palms, sharp stabs of pain shooting up her arms to her brain. But it was not enough - not enough to drown the turmoil of her thoughts. "I must stay calm!" She whispered it over and over like a prayer, frowning with concentration, desperately trying to soothe the emotions seething inside her, threatening any minute to boil over. More than anything she wanted to scream, to shout, to hurt, but she knew she mustn't. Terrible as the situation was, _that_ would only make things worse. She was in darkness now. When she'd heard the noise, she'd reached out and switched the television off, and her eyes hadn't yet adapted to the darkness. The after-images of its bright pictures still flickered across her retinas, although for hours she'd watched them without the images once reaching her brain. Was this how _he_ spent his nights, she wondered - long hours staring unseeingly at the television, his mind wandering down the dark pathways of memory and contemplation? "I must stay calm!" But her heart was pounding now, echoing in her head louder than the footsteps outside the door - footsteps which paced up and down, now close outside, now further away, coming and going, causing her to freeze with tension each time they paused on the threshold. It seemed like hours since the thud thud of steps had filled her world and still no-one had come in. She wondered if he knew she was waiting inside, her mind made up to face him whatever the cost. She knew he would be scared to face her, and that he would fight. And then the handle turned, and her hand unconsciously reached towards the gun on the table in front of her, filled with a sudden doubt. It might not be him after all. She could never forget all those times enemies and murderers had penetrated the privacy of their apartments. Eugene Tooms. Duane Barry. The unknown assassin who shot through his window. Best to be prepared, she thought, her shaking hand tightening on the gun. "I must stay calm!" Then he was inside, his shape dark against the light from the corridor and then invisible again as he shut the door behind him. He took two steps forward, and then stopped. She could hear his quick intake of breath as he realised that someone was there, but then there was nothing. Silence. Scully didn't dare speak, knowing that any word could make all the difference between.... between what? She hadn't liked to think about what would happen if she failed to get through to him, but the prospect filled her with a dread all the more terrible for being undefined. She knew she shouldn't think of it as a life and death situation, but the memories were still so recent. Mulder had wanted to die then, and, despite what he said, she had no real reason to believe he was over it. Time slowed down. It seemed like an age that they remained silent, staring blindly towards each other in the dark, although it was only a few seconds. Then a car went past outside, its lights moving across the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating her gun with a sudden bright reflection of light. He let out a long breath. A sigh, almost of relief. The car passed and the gun was enveloped in darkness again, but the spell was broken. Suddenly aware he might be thinking she was some assassin waiting for him in his apartment, she reached out quickly for the lamp, blinking as the sudden light assailed her eyes. "Scully." Mulder broke the silence first. It was probably her imagination but he looked almost disappointed. "Mulder." Silence. Still he didn't move, but stood frozen to the spot, just inside the door. Biting her lip, she stared at him, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. "I must keep calm!" Scully urged herself, silently. There was nothing she wanted more than to shout at him, demanding that he tell her where he'd been for so long, demanding that he talk to her rather than shut her out, ignoring her concerns as if she was of no importance. But that would be the worst possible thing to do. She still lay awake at night consumed with shame, remembering how impatient she'd been with him when his problems had started, urging him to pull himself together. And then she'd attacked him to anyone who'd listen, accusing him of selfishness for not being there for her when she'd needed him, when all the time he'd been in the hands of a criminal, tortured both physically and mentally. "So, where have you been the last.... since you left?" She tried to keep her voice casual, to avoid any sign of accusation. It was thirty-four hours, twenty-three minutes since he'd picked up his coat and left the office without a word, but she knew he mustn't know she'd been counting. Treat it casually. As if she could.... He still didn't look at her. "Oh.... I don't know.... Nowhere." Scully peered at his face, scanning it for the familiar signs of deception. The number of times he'd run off, overwhelmed with enthusiasm for some case, and then tried to hide it.... Well, she'd learned to recognise that look by now. Normally it made her mad, but now.... Now she'd give anything to be ditched on a case because Mulder found it so exciting he forgot to tell her about it. But recently he'd lost interest in X-Files as well. There was no sheepish enthusiasm, no endearing remorse in his look now. Instead there was.... nothing. "Mulder," she said, soothingly, standing up and making as if to cross the room to his side. There was no point making an issue of it. "Just as long as you're back okay, that's all that matters. I don't mind where you were....." "I was just driving around..... I went to a hotel. I just wanted to think.... to be alone. I'm sorry." Mulder looked at her for the first time, and at last there was emotion on his face. "I'm sorry you were worried...." "That's okay," Scully lied. She knew _he_ was lying too. He'd left his wallet on the desk in this office, so she knew he'd had no money, no car keys. "Come here!" she said, softly, reaching out a hand, trying to draw him towards the couch where they could sit down together and..... and talk? She had to keep hoping that was possible. Nearly three months now and still he hadn't talked, not really. She'd tried reasoned argument, appealing to his psychologist's training, pointing out the healing value of sharing a traumatic experience. She'd tried pleading with him. She'd tried ignoring it, acting as if nothing was wrong in the hope that he'd forget. She'd tried - God! - she'd tried shouting at him, expressing all the anger she felt at him even as she understood his pain. What was left? "Come here!" she repeated, quieter now. She wanted to get him sitting down where she could pull him towards her, comforting him like a child, making him feel safe. Maybe then he'd confide in her.... "No!" Mulder pulled away from her touch, and retreated away from her. He moved over to the window and stood, his back to her, gazing down at the wet streets below. Silence. "Mulder," Scully sighed, breaking the silence at last. Perhaps honesty would get through to him. "We can't go on like this." "Then go!" Mulder's voice was harsh. "You can get out of this whenever you want." Scully felt her rigid control snap. "Damn it, Mulder! That's not what I meant, and you know it!" "It should be," Mulder replied, his voice dull. "You should want to get out. You can get any position you want in the Bureau. It's not too late - not for you." Scully sighed, convulsively clenching and unclenching her fists in an attempt to keep the tension from her voice. "Look, Mulder, it's been nearly three months now, and you still won't talk about what happened." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Scully carried on regardless. She'd heard all his excuses before. "I know you say you're over it, that there's nothing to talk about, but it's just getting worse. Every day...." "I keep telling you!" Mulder turned round, his face dark with anger.... or fear. He was shouting, forcing Scully into silence. "I _am_ over it.... I mean, there was nothing to get over anyway. Nothing happened. Nothing real." Scully wanted to give up there and then, but knew she couldn't back off, not this time. The situation had to be dealt with, even if it meant forcing Mulder to confront some painful truths. "Mulder! You've _got_ to face up to it sometime. Just three months ago, not even that, you were...." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "You were.... suicidal." Mulder flinched, and Scully felt her voice crack at the memory. She still had nightmares about that terrible day when Mulder awoke in hospital. She'd been so relieved then, convinced that their troubles were over, and that the police were wrong when they'd told her he'd been trying to kill himself when they'd found him. But then he'd woken up and screamed with despair when he realised he was still alive, trying to attack the nurses and doctors who were treating him. She walked over and touched him gently on the shoulder in silent apology for having to remind him of what had happened. "You went through a terrible ordeal. If a victim in one of our cases went through even half as much as you went through, you'd urge them to seek counselling. But you.... You've refused to talk about it to anyone, even to me." Mulder said nothing, and Scully felt again the bitter feeling of frustration, even anger. "Can't you see what you're doing to yourself.... and to me?" she asked, sharply, although she regretted those last words even as she uttered them. "I've told you!" Mulder said, at last, his voice fast and frantic. "There's nothing to talk about. Everything that happened, everything I felt.... it wasn't true. It was Lewis. I keep telling you. He was telepathic. He made me think those thoughts. He told me I'd killed you. He made me want to die. Everything.... it was him. It.... it wasn't true. I know that now.... I know. It wasn't me. It was all him, and he's dead now." Scully's nails sought out the familiar deep indentations, red in her palms. "I must keep calm!" she repeated again, silently in her head. "Mulder!" she said, at last, her voice quivering with the effort to keep it calm. "Mulder, you...." "It wasn't true! None if it was true! He made it all up!" Mulder was almost shouting now, frowning with intensity. He wasn't looking at her. "Mulder." Scully carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "I know Lewis kidnapped you and hurt you." The scar on his forehead was still all-too-visible, and as she spoke his hand reached up and absently touched it. She wished he'd comb his hair so it was covered. His refusal to hide seemed almost symbolic - a refusal to forget what had happened. "I know he told you I was dead - that it was your fault I was killed," she continued. "I know he convinced you - _falsely_ - that he had telepathic powers and could see terrible things in your memory. I know he did all this. But...." She took a deep breath, hating what she had to say. But she had skated around the issues for too long. It was time to confront them, even though it would hurt him. As if he could be hurt more.... "But your problems started way before Lewis came onto the scene...." "I keep telling you!" Mulder repeated, fiercely. "That was him too! He was putting thoughts into my head for days - weeks - before he actually took me." Scully wanted to scream with frustration. In the past, while investigating cases, Mulder's insistence on paranormal explanations had been almost enjoyable. She knew he often came up with wild theories just to tease her, and she enjoyed the game they played as they argued their opposing explanations. But this time.... This time it was no joke. This insistence of his that all his problems came from a telepathic criminal was an obvious case of being in denial. It wasn't as if he even believed it himself. His every action over the past few months showed that he still had problems, that his mood was only a short step away from the terrible despair he'd shown when he'd been rescued. "Mulder." She forced herself to be calm, although she wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him - either that or pull him into her arms and rock him like a mother would a sad child. "Please..." "I want to be alone now, Scully." His voice was dull, his forehead pressed against the window, his eyes unfocused as they gazed unseeing at the street below. "Please leave me." "Mulder, I....." "There's nothing to talk about. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep." And _that_ was probably true, she reflected, remembering that he'd been out on the streets for a day and two nights. But still, she wasn't going to let him escape that easily. "Mulder, I'm not going till we talk about this," she said, firmly. "_I said_, there's nothing to talk about." He pushed away from the window, and strode across the room, reaching for the door handle. "If you won't leave, then I will." "No!" Scully ran over to the door. It was raining outside, and Mulder was already soaked through. As far as she knew, he'd been outside in the rain the whole time he'd been away. He'd certainly had no money for food. "Stay here. You need to get some rest." "I know. I just told you. But you wouldn't let me. You wanted to talk." His voice was harsh, but she could see through the feigned anger. He was scared - scared of having to break the habit of a lifetime and talk - really talk - about what was bothering him. But there was nothing she could do. He'd forced her into a position where she had to let him get his own way, or drive him out onto the streets again. And this time, there was no saying how long he'd be away before coming back. Scully bit her lip with indecision, wondering whether to try one last effort to get through to him, but Mulder forestalled her before she could say anything. "Look, I'll be at the office tomorrow. I'll get some sleep. Then we can talk about it...." His touched her arm gently, although he still didn't meet her eyes. And with that she had to be content, although she knew that he had no intention of "talking about it" the next day. "Good night, Mulder," she said, and left the room before he could see the tears which had started in her eyes. ********** end of part 1 Friday 2 February 1996 FBI Headquarters ____ "Is Agent Mulder there?" Scully caught her breath. As soon as she'd answered the phone, its ringing loud and startling in the empty office, she'd known Skinner would ask about him sooner or later, but she hadn't managed to think of a plausible reason to give for his absence. She'd had to cover for him so much these last few weeks that the excuses were wearing thin. "Er.... Not right now," she said, falteringly, knowing that her hesitation was obvious in her voice. When she had to, she could lie with the best of them, telling the disciplinary panel that Mulder certainly didn't have the digital tape, telling Skinner that Mulder couldn't have attacked Tooms because she'd been with him all night. But those times she'd known she was doing the right thing, that she was acting in Mulder's best interests. Right now, she had no such certainty. Perhaps it would be better to tell Skinner the whole truth, regardless of the consequences to Mulder's career. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that Mulder would consider this a betrayal, and she didn't like to contemplate the likely consequences of that. Right now, more than ever, he needed to know he could trust her. "Do you know when I _can_ talk to him?" Skinner asked, relentlessly. "I don't know. He just.... just went out for a minute, to check on something," Scully lied. "Can I take a message?" "It doesn't matter," Skinner said. "I only wanted to talk about the case you were on last week." His voice became grim. "I've just been talking to Agent Bowen." Scully picked up a pencil, anxiously turning it round and round in her left hand. She wasn't sure of she wanted to listen to what was coming. Skinner only ever called to follow up on a case when someone had complained - a new member of the sizeable club of people antagonised by Mulder in the course of their investigations. She couldn't remember him annoying Agent Bowen, but then she'd been so worried by the state of _his_ mind that she hadn't really been interested in anyone else's. "He was very pleased with your work, and had nothing but praise for Mulder," Skinner continued, after a short silence. She could hear the sudden smile in voice. "What?" she said, sharply, irritated at the way Skinner had broken the news. Couldn't he have told her straight away that there was good news? The situation was too serious to play games. "You sound surprised, Agent Scully," Skinner continued. "Hasn't anyone ever praised Mulder before?" He was almost chuckling. Skinner laughing? Just wait till Mulder hears about that one, she thought, momentarily forgetting that his state of mind was such that he probably wouldn't even find _that_ worthy of comment. She tried to collect herself. "No, sorry, sir. I was just thinking...." She found it hard to find the words. During that last case she'd been so worried about Mulder. True, he'd gone by the book, been a model of tact and had effectively solved a case in days that had had the local agents stumped for weeks. She knew all that. But his manner.... He'd been so different from normal. There'd been no enthusiasm in his eyes. It hadn't even been an X-File, not really, but he hadn't complained. Even the very fact of going by the book had been so unusual as to be worrying. She'd have given anything to have had the old Fox Mulder back - impulsive, infuriating, rushing off on unfounded leads, breaking the rules, leaving her to pick up the pieces and placate the enemies he left in his wake. To her, it had been so obvious that something was terribly wrong. It had never occurred to her that to outsiders, people who didn't know Mulder, there was nothing worrying in his behaviour. To them, he must look more "normal" now than when he was being his usual self. "Are you okay, Agent Scully?" Skinner's voice recalled her to the present. "Sorry, sir. I was just.... thinking. Sorry." She supposed that even Skinner hadn't noticed anything wrong. She could hardly ask him to force Mulder to take leave on the grounds that his emotional state was affecting his work if for the first time ever Skinner was receiving enthusiastic reports about him. 'Please, sir, Mulder's doing his job too well. Can he have some time off so he can remember how to break the rules, irritate everyone and waste Bureau money on cases most people think shouldn't be investigated.' Yeah, right. "Is _Mulder_ okay?" Skinner continued. Scully stiffened. Maybe Skinner wasn't as unobservant as he'd seemed, all those times over the last few weeks when he'd appeared to accept her feeble excuses for Mulder's absences. "Ye-es," she said, slowly. "As well as can be expected." Which was more or less true. After what he'd been through, no-one could be expected to bounce back immediately. It was just that her own expectations had been rather higher than they could have been. "Good," Skinner replied, with feeling. He'd come out to see Mulder shortly after they'd found him, and Scully had been deeply touched by the gesture. Thankfully, Mulder had been past the worst of his psychosis by then, but Skinner had still emerged from the room with deep grim lines etched in his brow and round his mouth, and had pronounced that Mulder could have all the leave he needed. Although Mulder, being Mulder, had insisted on returning to work sooner than anyone thought he should. Normally when he did that his eyes were alight with enthusiasm at escaping the boredom of convalescence. This time, although he'd insisted on returning to work, there had been no sign of enthusiasm in his eyes. He almost seemed to be punishing himself, pushing himself harder than he should, harder than he wanted. "Sir, about Mulder....," Scully began, but then checked herself. She really didn't know what to say. She knew they couldn't carry on the way they had for the last few weeks, but at the same time she was reluctant to ask Skinner to force the issue. "Yes?" Skinner asked "Er.... Nothing," Scully said, reluctantly. "Just...." She started as the door opened, dropping the pencil she'd been twisting in her left hand. It was Mulder, grim-faced, eyes rimmed with grey. As if he'd ever looked any different these last months. He didn't look at her. She hadn't heard his footsteps in the corridor and suddenly wondered if he'd been listening at the door, hearing her conversation with Skinner. She didn't think she'd said anything he'd consider a betrayal, but you could never tell with Mulder, not in his present mood. He could take one innocent word and turn it into vast waves of guilt and reproach. "Scully?" Skinner's voice was anxious. She wondered how long he'd been speaking to her, prompting her to continue. "Sorry, sir. Something's just come up. Will that be all, sir?" She hastily said her good-byes and put the phone down. "Mulder?" she said, tentatively. She found her heart was beating faster, and cursed herself for her inability to keep calm on this issue. Mulder was the one with problems, so why was _she_ finding it so difficult? "That was Skinner," she said, at last. Mulder spoke at last. "Were you telling him what you told me last night?" He still didn't face her. "That you can't work with me any more. That you think I'm suicidal. Did you ask for a transfer? Or did you just ask him to retire me on grounds of mental instability?" Despite his words, there was little anger in his voice. Scully tried to keep calm. "No," she said, resisting the urge to go over to him. "He was congratulating us on that case last week - the one in Boston. Apparently, Agent Bowen's given an enthusiastic report on your work." "So, he's checking up on me, is he? Asking Bowen to report on my behaviour, because _he_ expects me to go crazy, just like you do?" "Damn it, Mulder. You're not being fair to him. He didn't need to tell us. He just wanted us to know that Bowen liked your work. He probably hoped it would make you happy." _She'd_ even dared hope the news would make him happy. It was months since he'd been able to see any good in anything. Mulder didn't reply. He was ripping open the mail on his desk, skimming through the letters with no real sign of interest. She often wondered if _anything_ interested him now. Certainly not work. It was past eleven now, but even so this was the earliest he'd arrived at work since he'd returned from leave, apart from when they'd been on a case. They'd done two since he'd returned, both carefully chosen by Scully to avoid any potentially disturbing material. "Mulder, please can we talk?" she said, at last, aware of the desperation in her voice. "Look at this, Scully." Mulder laughed suddenly, completely ignoring her request. There was no real amusement in his voice, and she knew he was once again trying to change the subject, terrified of having to talk about what had happened, of having to face up to the fact that he _did_ have problems. She knew he couldn't run away for ever. Sooner or later he'd have to face the fact that he couldn't blame his problems on some fictional telepathic criminal. "Mulder!" Scully didn't take the proffered letter. "This woman killed her husband. Says she was framed by aliens! Have you ever heard something so ridiculous?" He put the letter down in front of her. "Read this. I'm just going.... going...." He shrugged, as if giving up on finding a plausible explanation for his absence. "I won't be long." "Mulder!" Scully called, but her only reply was the thump of a closing door. Slowly, she let her head sink into her hands, blinking back the tears that she didn't want to let fall. If she let herself start, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. She hadn't cried once since that terrible evening they'd found Mulder, nearly dead, inside the burning building, and there were three months' of tears waiting for an outlet. She knew she mustn't shed them. She had to be strong. Mulder needed her to be strong. But it was _so_ difficult. "Stop it!" she chided herself, aware that her thoughts were sliding into dangerous territory again, areas she shouldn't dwell too much on unless she wanted them to overwhelm her. Not that she'd thought of much else these last few months.... But still, she had to be the strong one. She had to keep her focus. She at least had to escape the past so she could help Mulder escape it too. In an attempt to distract herself, she found herself skimming the letter that Mulder had put on the desk. She read it idly first, then sat up and read it again, a plan forming in her head. "Why not?" she thought. "Why not?" She'd tried begging Mulder to talk about his problems, and he'd just run away. She'd tried to distract him from his problems in the hope that they'd go away if he had something else to occupy his mind, but the cases she'd chosen had been by necessity boring - cases which obviously had no paranormal or disturbing element - and he'd solved them but shown no real enthusiasm. But this one..... It probably wouldn't work, but it had potential. Alleged alien involvement, so he might find it interesting. No abducted or murdered little girls, so he wouldn't find it disturbing. A personal request for help from some woman who knew his name through a UFO organisation, so he'd have some personal motive to get him interested but not enough to get him obsessed. Yes, it could certainly work. At least it was _something_. Something to think about. Something to hope for. "And now to get Skinner's permission," she thought, as she reached to the phone, resolving to tell him everything she needed to in order to be allowed to investigate this case. She was almost smiling as she dialled his number. She'd forgotten what it was like to feel hope, but this..... Well, it was hardly grounds for wild optimism, but it was at least promising. She chose not to listen to the part of her mind that was sure it wouldn't work. ********** Saturday 3 February 1996 Southampton, Massachusetts ____ A clash of metal on metal, rattle of keys, dull thuds of footsteps echoing in the dark corridor, resonant with hopelessness. A weak beam of silver glancing through the bars, making the motes of dust sparkle briefly before they floated away into the darkness. A bed, cold and hard. Grey blankets, scratchy wool rustling with the woman's every movement. The guard's eyes, outside, cold and blue, staring with impassive contempt. A prison cell. Cold.... cold and empty, devoid of colour, of life.... of hope. Yet at the same time strangely comforting. The door had clanged shut, the keys turned in the lock, the world kept at bay by the bolts and the bars. Cold.... cold and empty, yes. But at the same time it was somehow.... safe. There was no need _here_ to make decisions - little innocent decisions which could have terrible repercussions on other people's lives. You didn't even need to make decisions on what to have for dinner, what to wear. There was nothing.... But then he caught his breath suddenly, shaken by the thought. There _was_ nothing. Nothing to do but think. And _he_ knew better than anyone the results of too much thinking. Lewis had told him all about that. Long dark hours in prison, nothing to fill the mind but brooding on the terrible past and the more terrible future, thoughts full of recrimination and accusation. But at least Lewis had known that someone else was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. Someone else. Not himself. What would it be like to face long years in prison, knowing that you had only yourself to blame for your predicament? No-one could escape responsibility for their own actions - he'd learnt that the hard way. But, sometimes, accepting responsibility was the worst thing of all. "....and this is Special Agent Fox Mulder." Scully's voice recalled him to the present and he managed a half-nod at the woman who was sitting on the prison bed. Realising from Scully's expression that she expected more from him he cleared his throat, shifting his position slightly, the floor screaming hideously as the wooden chair scraped against the stone, but couldn't think of anything to say. "You contacted my partner?" Scully prompted, turning away from Mulder with a sharp look. She glanced down at her lap, eyes skimming over the pages of notes she'd gathered in preparation for this interview. "You say you have no memory of the night your husband was..... killed?" Hilary Carpenter didn't answer Scully but turned an earnest face towards Mulder. "I never dared hope you'd come. I have contacts..... no, friends..... in various UFO groups and one of them suggested I contact you. He said you were the only person in law enforcement who'd be any help." She turned away, her voice cracking. "But I didn't think even you would believe me. I thought you'd be busy with other things. I know the authorities aren't interested in what happens to ordinary people like me." Mulder leant forward, desperately trying to find the right words, knowing how difficult it would be. "I.... I...." He tailed off, aware of Scully's concerned glance, and tried another tack. "We _do_ care what happens to ordinary people." He was suddenly inspired, thinking of all the ordinary people who'd suffered, been let down. "I.... _we_ .... just want to help people, want to set things right - the past...." He spoke with feeling, relieved to find the words flowing after all, but Scully interrupted him sharply. "Mrs Carpenter, we haven't got much time. Can you tell us what you remember of the night in question?" "I can't remember _anything_!" she snapped, turning fiercely towards Scully. "I went to bed as normal, about midnight. My husband wasn't home - probably off with one of his women." Scully nodded knowingly at the woman's bitter tone, and Hilary noticed. "Oh, I know what they say. Everyone knows we weren't happily married. He was going to leave me - everyone knew. I know I had a motive to kill him.... But I didn't! You've got to believe me! It was them!" "Them?" Scully prompted, her face giving nothing away. "Them! The aliens! They've been taking me for years. Taking me away, keeping me for days on end, doing their tests. Everything that's gone wrong in my life is due to them. Of course _this_ was their doing too. When they take me, I can't remember what happens to me. I can't remember what happened to me that night. So obviously they'd taken me then too." There were tears pouring down her face now, although her voice was strangely calm, remorselessly logical. "You.... you can't remember?" Scully asked. There was a strange intonation in her voice, one that Mulder couldn't quite pin down. Hilary leant forward, looking Scully in the eye, and carried on speaking, but Mulder deliberately let him mind wander, reluctant to listen to her ramblings. He leant back, resting his head on the bare wall, feeling the cold seep into his skull, calming his thoughts. The chair scraped again as he moved, a hideous noise in the bare cell, but Scully didn't look up. Mulder could feel his heart beating fast. He was disgusted with himself - disgusted that at one time he might have believed the nonsense this woman was spouting - disgusted that he'd spent his whole life doing exactly what she was doing now. Of course there was no alien involvement, he knew that. The woman had killed her husband because he'd been about to leave her. Everyone said so. She'd been found the next morning, asleep in bed, and had claimed complete ignorance of her husband's murder, but there'd been no sign of any break-in, and her fingerprints had been on the handle of the knife that killed him. No-one - _no-one_ - could doubt her guilt. "You've no idea what it's like not to remember!" The woman had been speaking for.... minutes? He hadn't bothered to listen, knowing it would be painful to hear to her feeble excuses, so like his own. Scully would fill him in later, if necessary - as if she'd say anything important! But she was shouting now, her voice cracking, difficult to ignore. "And then to return to this.... nightmare." Her voice grew quieter, though still shaking with sobs. "But it wasn't me. I didn't do it. I must have been in my bed all night, I know. I had a terrible nightmare. I wouldn't kill him. It was them again, it must have been. But I just.... can't..... remember." Why couldn't she just admit it, taking the responsibility for her own actions, rather than trying to blame aliens for her own crimes? It was the right thing to do, he'd learnt that now, although at times it seemed easier to hide your mistakes in a cloak of forgetfulness. But that was the wrong thing to do. The right thing was the hardest thing. Accept that the blame lies with yourself, rather than spend your life seeking others to blame. Shadowy men in spaceships, stealing her away from their room. Shadowy men in black suits, calmly blowing smoke in his face when he confronted them. Seeking blame in the shadows, always elsewhere, when he should have known the answer all along. "They've ruined everything! They've taken weeks of my life! Now they've taken my freedom!" The woman's voice again, cutting though his thoughts. Her face was only inches away from Scully's now, the two of them frozen in a rigid tableau in the faint light from the small barred window. Two women, sharing confidences. No place for him. Scully's face was cut in stone, firm and impassive, her eyes staring intently into the woman's eyes. Why did she listen? Couldn't she see what so obvious to him - that the woman was just trying to shift her own overwhelming guilt onto someone else? Burdening Scully with her outpourings of feigned pain. And he knew more than anyone just how much pain Scully had been forced to bear these past few years. Of course he knew. He'd caused it, although here too he'd fought against the responsibility, trying to blame others. Waiting in the dark with a gun for the men who'd nearly killed her. Recalled to life by her sister, putting him on the right course, though it wasn't until a year later, three months ago now, that someone else helped him the whole way, made him see the whole truth. "We'll do what we can, Mrs Carpenter. But I'm sure you know that they have a good case against you." Scully again, a voice of reason. Of course she hadn't believed the woman - how could he have thought it of her? Scully - always sensible, seeing the human motivations through his own fanciful interpretations. But now, of course, he knew she'd always been right. Why look for explanations out of this world when the human spirit is capable of such.... evil? It was the same thing again - evading responsibility, seeking paranormal answers because the ordinary answers were too horrible. "We've checked into a motel. We'll be here as long as it takes to get at the truth." Scully's voice was sincere, her hand touching the woman's arm with a strangely tender gesture. He wondered again why there were here, what Scully saw in this case that he'd missed. Even before - before he learnt the truth - he doubted he'd have seen anything worthy of investigation in a crime so obvious, but if, for some reason, he had decided to investigate he could imagine Scully's objections. "Come on, Mulder!" she'd urge. "Not even _you_ can believe that story!" But there would be no malice in her stress on the word "you". Scully, God alone knew why, never mocked him along with the others, full of amused contempt for the crazy ideas of "Spooky" Mulder. In fact, God help anyone who laughed like that in her presence. He doubted if Tom Colton's career had ever recovered. And, no, he wouldn't have believed it, even then. Now, of course, he knew that the X-Files had always been a misguided attempt to shift the blame from himself. Devote his life to searching for his sister, branch out into related areas, convince himself he was doing some good, but all the time getting further and further from the true answer which lay in his own heart. Of course he didn't believe it now. Oh, he'd carry on working with the X-Files, put his mind to the cases he was offered. He shouldn't really do it, now he knew how futile it was, but he knew of no other life. He wasn't ready, not yet, to give it up. And, besides, anything was better than the overwhelming emptiness of his own apartment, a cell where he was imprisoned with only the past for company. No, he'd work properly on the cases Scully chose for them, pursuing them to the best of his ability. But this one..... This one was strange. Why had Scully chosen such a..... _non_-case? He'd thought, as he'd boarded the plane next to her, forcing himself to talk about a movie he pretended he'd watched the previous night, that she was just doing it to distract him from the truth. He knew that _she_ hadn't come to terms with what had happened yet. She couldn't bring herself to accept that everything that had happened had been orchestrated by Lewis. She still thought he was crazy, suicidal even. He couldn't get her to understand that he _was_ recovered. He understood now that Lewis had controlled his behaviour. He knew Lewis had lied to him about Scully's death. But he also knew Lewis had taken memories - real memories - buried deep in his mind and had reminded him of them, teaching him the truth about his life. He knew all that, but Scully didn't. She still hoped she could talk to him, turn him into the man he had been, before it had all happened - a misguided man who didn't know the truth. He knew why she was doing it - because she was concerned - but he knew she was wrong. And so he'd assumed that this case was just another attempt, another misguided attempt, to make him "pull himself together." Get Mulder on a case, a nice easy one, not too traumatic but with the suggestion of aliens in it - he loves aliens - and he'll find it so exciting he'll forget about what happened and we'll be back to normal. Yeah, nice try, Scully. He almost smiled at the thought, although he knew he shouldn't. He knew Scully was only thinking like that because she was desperate. She shouldn't have to deal with all this. She'd had a tough time too. But now, looking at her face as she stood up to leave the prison cell, observing the intensity in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, he suddenly wondered if there was more to this than he'd realised. ********** end of part 2 He was following her, damn him! Following her, that look of concern on his face, leaning close towards her, trying to talk. Why couldn't he see she only wanted to be left alone? But she couldn't quite bring herself to slam the door in her face, not yet. Somehow, even through her turbulent thoughts, the anger bubbling inside her, she knew _that_ would be like slamming the door on their past, on what was left of their relationship. "Scully, what's wrong?" That question again; the voice anxious, concerned. "Nothing," she snapped as she sat down, making a space between the bags that were still piled on the bed. She hadn't unpacked before visiting the prison. Although she'd hoped, when she'd begged Skinner to let them investigate Hilary Carpenter's claims, that Mulder would show some interest in the case, deep down she'd known it wouldn't work, that they'd very likely be flying out almost as soon as they'd arrived. "Don't give me that, Scully. I _know_ something's wrong. The way you shouted at Sheriff Thomson back then. It was....." "Oh, so _you're_ the only one who's allowed to shout at Sheriffs, are you?" she interrupted, knowing she was being unfair, but unable to stop. "He deserved it, dismissing that woman's claims, refusing to investigate properly just because rumour has it that she had a motive to kill him. What I don't understand is why _you_ could stay so calm, so unbothered by his attitude." She could feel the anger inside her, threatening to explode. Three months' anger and frustration that she'd ruthlessly denied an outlet, easily triggered by the slightest provocation. But Sheriff Thomson _had_ deserved it, in her view. He'd come striding into the prison, arrogance evident in his look and whole bearing, intercepting them as they left. He'd been hostile, but there'd been more to it than the territorial resentment they often encountered whenever they investigated things local law enforcement could reasonably consider to belong within their jurisdiction. "I can't believe you even listened to that.... that murdering _bitch_!" he'd shouted. "Everyone knows what _she's_ like. The number of times she's disappeared for days, even weeks, at a time, not caring who she lets down - you know.... work, local events she was involved with, that sort of thing. Then when she comes back she says she's been abducted by aliens when more likely she's been off with some man she's picked up. That way she needn't deal with the responsibility...." "Sheriff Thomson," Scully had interrupted, feeling anger rising inside her. "Most people who claim alien abduction really believe it happened." She'd glanced anxiously at Mulder, seeing how he was taking all this, surprised he hadn't said anything himself, but his face was impassive, although she could tell he was listening. "Oh, I know!" The sheriff had laughed dismissively. "I know there are some crazy people who really believe this stuff. I know that." She'd glanced at Mulder again, but there was still no response. "But she's not crazy. She knows she's not been abducted. She's a calculating bitch, just pretending. Though why she bothers, I don't know. She can hardly expect people to believe her." "Anyway, Sheriff Thomson." Scully had still been in control of her anger at this point. "You're entitled to your view, but we intend to stick around for a few days, just to investigate a few things." "Sure, do whatever you like," the sheriff had replied, surprisingly. "After all, _I_ don't intend to waste any time investigating such an obvious matter, so you won't get in my way if you want to waste your own time on this." And that had been the point that Scully had finally lost her temper.... "Scully?" Mulder leant over her, his eyes full of anxiety, recalling her from the memory that still made her want to shout with anger. "What's the matter? Please talk about it." Please talk about it? Please _talk_ about it? Scully suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to laugh, hysterical laughter closer to panic than amusement. "Mulder! You're asking _me_ to talk!" she managed to get out through the laughter. "You! I thought that was _my_ line." And then she knew that if she allowed herself to carry on laughing the convulsions that shook her body would turn into great racking sobs and she'd never be able to stop. "I'm sorry," she said, slowly, forcing herself to calm down. Laugher, anger, tears - they all had to be suppressed or she'd find herself overwhelmed by emotions she couldn't control. "What's the matter?" Mulder asked, quietly. "What is it about this case that's bothering you?" He didn't say anything about her outburst of hysteria. She wasn't sure how this made her feel. Part of her was grateful he wasn't pushing her to talk about her emotions. But at the same time she was disappointed he didn't say anything about his _own_ failure to talk. "Don't you know?" she said, at last. "No," he said, simply, lowering his gaze. He looked ashamed of his ignorance. Scully said nothing for a while, staring towards the window, listening to the noise of the cars on the street below. The emotions were threatening to take her over again. Anger first - anger at Mulder for failing to see what had affected her about this case. She'd thought it was so obvious, but he'd clearly not been listening in the prison cell. Instead, he'd been following his own train of thoughts, leaving her to do all the work, knowing she'd tell him anything important that had been said. She knew that his own train of thought had probably been grim and full of self-reproach, but that did little to ease the anger. He almost seemed to be wallowing in it, refusing to talk, refusing anything that might make him better, and once again it had made him blind to the fact that sometimes _she_ needed help, sometimes _she_ found things difficult. Listening to her anger, she was almost tempted to stay silent. Why not give Mulder a taste of his own medicine? Let him see what it was like when someone you cared about was obviously in torment but refused all offers of help, even insisted that nothing was wrong. Why not? At best, it might shock him into talking about his own problems. If it did nothing else, at least it might make him realise what he was doing to her by his refusal to talk. But even as she pulled away from his touch, sighing angrily, she realised she was being petty. This wasn't the solution, not if she genuinely wanted things to get better between them. Best that one of them, at least, was honest about their feelings.... She clenched her fists, trying to calm the beating of her heart, knowing she was going to have to talk about a subject that affected her deeply. "It's just that....." she began, feeling tears start in her eyes. She blinked them back fiercely before continuing. "That woman..... Hilary. I don't believe her story, not for one minute. I don't believe she was framed by aliens." She tried to smile, desperate to lighten the atmosphere before she had to talk about..... what she had to talk about. "Don't worry! I'm still me. I don't believe." Mulder didn't smile. He was looking at her intently, eyes dark with anxiety. "I don't believe her story," Scully continued. "But, when she started talking with such feeling about what it's like not to remember.....I.... I...." She took a deep breath. "You know how I feel about.... about not remembering. She.... When I was.... away.... They could have done anything..... They could have returned me next to a dead body, smearing blood on my hands, and there would be nothing in my memory to tell me I hadn't done it." She tried to calm her shaking. "I.... don't think she was taken by Them, but what if she was? Or what if there's some other reason? She may have been drugged. Or sleepwalking. Or framed by her husband's mistress. Whatever. But _she_ can't remember. I don't want anyone else to go through life with gaps in their memory. I want to do everything I can to help her find out what happened." "Even if it turns out she _did_ kill him?" Mulder asked, quietly. "Yes," Scully said, firmly. "It's the not-knowing that's the worst. I know what happened to me that time was probably terrible, but I still want to know." Mulder looked away. "Sometimes forgetting is easiest. Sometimes the truth is.... more than you can take." His voice was quiet, and she could barely make out the words. "But I _want_ to know. _Hilary_ wants to know." She spoke firmly, only realising much later that Mulder might not have been talking about either of them. Mulder took a deep breath, pushing himself to his feet. "Well, let's get started, then." He turned towards the door. "I'll just get settled into my room, then we can go out and investigate." Then he paused, suddenly. "You _are_ all right with this, are you?" he asked, his voice full of concern. Scully nodded, although she was still feeling shaky. "I'll.... I just want a shower. I'll come to your room when I'm ready." She wanted to feel clean, purged of all the fierce emotions that made her chest ache. This was no time to let them out. "Okay. See you soon." Mulder shut the door behind him, leaving Scully sitting immobile on the bed, struggling to come to terms with what she'd just seen. Just before he'd left, she thought she'd seen a spark of interest in Mulder's expression. Just for a moment, she'd seen a glimpse of the old Fox Mulder, rushing off an a case, rushing through all obstacles with his boundless enthusiasm. She wondered if she dared let herself hope that this was the turning point - the start of the slow road back to normality. ********** Strange how heavy feet can feel, how hard it is to walk, when the spirit is dull with a sense of failure. It was only twenty yards, thirty at most, from the parking lot to their rooms, but it felt like miles - miles of dull asphalt, pale yellow in the slanting light cast from the windows, cutting through the night's gloom. His footsteps, dull thuds on the ground. Hers were higher, harsh clicks of her heels. Steps, footsteps, sounding out their failure, taking them closer to their rooms, to their respective nights lying awake in the dark, knowing that the day had yielded.... nothing. But they had no choice. What more could they do? How to investigate when all the evidence pointed to the woman's guilt, and the truth, if indeed there _was_ another truth, locked in her mind, no witnesses to help her unravel it? Oh, they'd tried. Of course they'd tried, braving the hostility of the local police, Scully's face white and closed, her eyes speaking of the strain she was under, though she hadn't spoken about it. They'd searched the crime scene, unguarded now for several days, but found nothing, or, at least, nothing that the police hadn't already found and noted - evidence that strongly suggested that Hilary Carpenter _had_ killed her husband. Then they'd returned to the prison and spoken to Hilary Carpenter herself, but she still insisted she knew nothing - nothing that could help them reconstruct the truth. No, she didn't take drugs. No, she hadn't seen any sign of anything suspicious that evening before she went to bed. No, she hadn't taken food or drink from anyone that evening, drinking bottled water - yes, bottled water, although she failed to see the relevance of the question - just as she always did. And, tempting as it was to agree that her husband's mistress might have been framing her, she couldn't believe _that_ was true. She was welcome to the cheating son-of-a-bitch, and Hilary had said as much to her, making it clear she wasn't going to stand in their way, as long as she got a fair financial settlement. All of which was circumstantial, of course, but they'd checked out the mistress's alibi, and it held. So, all in all, it had been a frustrating afternoon - and evening. It was past ten now, Scully's grim determination to uncover the truth ensuring that they hadn't stopped working until ready to drop with exhaustion. For his part, Mulder had felt almost as determined as she was. Although he suspected - no, _knew_- that the woman was guilty - that her loss of memory, if it was genuine, was her unconscious attempt to avoid the truth about herself - he could see how it affected Scully. It was important to _her_ that they work to find the truth. So, naturally, it became important to him, too. He knew why Scully found it so disturbing, knew it related to her own abduction experiences, but he knew that this too had been his fault. The least he could do was help ease the pain now, although he could never hope to atone properly for what he'd done to her life. "Mulder?" Scully's voice, sharp, close to his ear. He hadn't realised that he'd stopped walking, reluctant to hear the pulse of footsteps taking them ever further away from finding the truth, ever closer to the long night of regret and recrimination. "Sorry, Scully. I was just thinking. About..... er..... regression hypnosis." Not true, of course, although he _had_ thought about it earlier, _had_ mentioned it to the woman. She'd been reluctant to try it, preferring to prove her innocence by some method that _was_ admissible in court. Scully had tersely commented that vague allegations of alien involvement were hardly admissible in court either, then had flushed with shame, smiling her apologies to the woman in the cell. Mulder had chosen not to push the issue, appreciating her reluctance to find out the truth about herself. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, as they said. Perhaps always. "Come on, Mulder," Scully said, her voice sad, resigned. "There's nothing more we can do today. Perhaps it'll look different in the morning." And then she took a step back, pressing herself against the shadows of the wall, watching as a crowd of people, dressed as for a party, emerged from their cars. She clearly felt the same reluctance to enter her room as he did. "Saturday night," she observed, a wry smile on her lips. She shook her head, ruefully. "What's become of us, Mulder? We should be out there, like them, socialising, enjoying ourselves....." Mulder didn't answer. He knew the answer. _He_ was the reason she was here, no life, no hope, on a Saturday evening. After what he'd put her through, was there any wonder she felt incapable of peace, of relaxed enjoyment? She'd missed Thanksgiving, sitting with him in hospital. Nearly missed Christmas too, insisting on staying with him, looking after him in his empty apartment. She'd only agreed to spend a few days with her family when he'd pretended he was spending Christmas with his mother and then checked into a cheap motel for two nights. Hell, if he was going to watch television alone all day it may as well be in a damp motel room as in his own apartment. "Listen!" Scully turned to him, eyes alert, whispering urgently. "Something's wrong!" The other guests were talking in shocked voices, two car loads congregating in the darkness, just yards from where Mulder and Scully stood. Several of them were openly weeping. The others, men mostly, comforting arms around their crying partners, were white-faced with shock, crying inside even if they refused to cry openly. "It was horrible!" A female voice, racked with tears. "Why did he _do_ that? Just.... stabbing her like that? Why?" "I don't know." Another voice, obviously trying to soothe, but sounding hopeless more than anything else. "I guess we'll never know, now he's dead too." "I heard someone say he claimed he couldn't remember doing it, after they'd managed to get him under control. When they told him, that's when he killed himself." Mulder instinctively disliked this speaker, hearing the salacious desire for scandal even through the horror. "And on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary as well!" The first speaker again. "That makes it so much worse, somehow. They.... they always seemed so happy." Scully turned a horrified gaze towards him. "It's happened again!" Mulder was baffled, and let her know it by his look. "Another murder," Scully said, impatiently. "Another unexplained murder. Someone apparently killing their partner, but not remembering anything afterwards." She took a step forward, moving as if to talk to them. Mulder reached out a hand and grabbed her arm. "Scully!" he said, urgently. "You can't just push in there and ask them what happened. You _can't_." Though he knew all too well - Scully's look reminded him all too eloquently - that _he_ would have done just the same, just months ago. It was just that this one.... This one was different. He knew how important it was to Scully and would investigate with dedication for her sake, but at the same time he was certain that Hilary Carpenter had killed her husband pure and simple, no need for any other explanation. There was no way any other murder would be linked. Scully shook herself free. "Look, I know it's probably not linked. But it's happened. We're here. We're in a position to investigate. If there's the slightest chance that they _are_ linked, we should pursue it, at least until we have evidence to the contrary." She sighed, impatiently. "You _know_ this, Mulder. You're the one who taught me this in the first place. Why is this case so different?" He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without saying anything. He suspected she knew the answer anyway. It wasn't the case that was different - it was him. He was different now, and recognised his old conduct on such cases for what it was - futility. Risking lives - her life - to find truths that weren't out there at all. Deep down, she knew he could never be the same again, now Lewis had taught him the truth, but she was finding it difficult to accept. He was painfully aware he was hurting her with his behaviour, but he couldn't do what she wanted and act the same way he'd have acted..... _before_. He'd lived a lie too long. Now was the time for the truth. But, then, this case was important to her, so he owed it to her to pursue it with all the enthusiasm he'd once have reserved for some case that was close to his heart - that touched on the issues he'd once thought important. It was the least he could do. And so he said nothing, but merely followed her through the night, hand reaching into his pocket to display his ID, mentally preparing questions to ask. Long years of interrogating people's grief, offering false hopes of happy endings. Long years in the past, and now yet more.... He'd leave most of the talking to Scully. He wasn't quite ready to look into their eyes. Not yet. ********** end of part 3 The blood was everywhere, inside and outside the house. Sparkling puddles of red, flashing reflections full of all the life that used to flow in the veins of the people who now lay dead. Thick sheets of liquid, pulsing like a heart beat as the lights from the police cars flashed on and off, on and off, on and off....... She hadn't known there would be so much blood. Oh, she'd known it with some part of her mind, known she was going to see two violent deaths. The motel guests had told them everything, their horror still so great that they saw nothing intrusive about total strangers asking them what had happened, clinging instead to the hope that the two agents could find answers in the chaos that had engulfed their lives. They'd described what had happened, the horror in their eyes eloquently filling in the gaps when their words failed them. Now she saw it, she could fully understand that horror. "Scully? Are you okay?" Mulder was still at her side, his voice full of concern, his hand at her elbow. "Yes, I'm fine," she snapped, irritated at herself for her reaction. She'd seen so many deaths in the past few years and these were no worse than any others she'd dealt with. So why was she so shaken, now? "I'm fine," she said, more gently, suddenly aware of how sharp she'd sounded. "Let's take a look." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be all competent professionalism. She knew her reaction to the scene had more to do with her own state of mind than it did with the crime itself. Sometimes she felt that the events of the last three months had taken almost as big a toll on her as they had on Mulder, although she felt guilty even thinking that. Mulder needed her to be strong. How could _she_ ask for help when he'd gone through so much more himself? It would look so.... selfish. "What are you doing here?" Sheriff Thomson had noticed them at last and intercepted them before they could take more than two steps inside the house. "Who told you about this? They had no right." Scully tried to stay calm. "We have every right to be here, and you should have called us yourself. This....." "Why the hell should I have called you?" the sheriff interrupted, his face red with anger. "This has got nothing to do with that woman's case. _Nothing!_ I chose to put up with you poking around in _her_ case, although I knew you wouldn't find anything. But this one - this is a tragedy. It's nothing at all like what she did." "Why not?" Scully kept her voice level, icy cold. "Hell, I _knew_ these people!" he burst out. "That Hilary Carpenter - she's just a calculating bitch, killing her husband because he was leaving her. But Jim..... There's no way this ought to have happened. It can't have been him. Not unless he was under the influence of.... something." "Let me get this straight." Every word emphatic, distinct. "You're investigating these cases simply based on personal preference. You liked this guy, so he can't be guilty. You didn't like Hilary Carpenter, so she _is_." And then the hot anger burst through the cold, her voice suddenly loud and furious. "You're no better than the criminals you claim to protect people from. You.... You make me sick!" She was shaking now, tears of anger threatening to choke her, and quickly turned away, away from the warmth and light, quick angry steps taking her outside, to a place she could be alone. But she wasn't alone. Feet followed her, a hand reaching for her shoulder, a voice in her ear. "Scully? Are you.....?" "Don't say it!" she snapped, whirling to face him, suddenly furious at the look of concern in his eyes. Couldn't he see that _he_ was the reason for her reaction, that the stress she'd been under for months now made her over-react at the slightest provocation? "I know I was out of line. I know I shouldn't have said that! I know! Just..... Just don't tell me, right?" Mulder took a step back, his hand falling to his side. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, his face full of guilt and apology. "I wasn't going to say all that. I was.... worried about you. I'm sorry." "Damn it, Mulder! Stop apologising!" The words burst out of her before she could stop them. Silence. "Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I shouted at you. Sorry I shouted at the sheriff." She tried to keep her voice low and calm, tried to return to normality. Do what they always did - immerse themselves in work and ignore the fact that they were breaking inside. "Shall we go back? I.... I want to take a look at the crime scene - at the bodies - before they take them away." She knew they should talk more, but she _did_ want to examine the scene, and already the police were finishing what they had to do, and soon the bodies would be removed. "Do you really think this is linked?" His voice was so humble again, the question so uncharacteristic, that she almost wanted to laugh - or cry. "I don't know," Scully sighed. "Probably not. But it's quite a coincidence - two people apparently kill their partners and claim no memory of the event. In New York, perhaps, or some other big city. But here...... I checked the murder statistics earlier, Mulder. Before this week, the last murder was in 1994, and before that 1992." And everyone agreed that _this_ one, at least, was a mystery. Jim and Jenny Ferguson, models of middle-aged domesticity, had invited all their friends and family to a party to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary. She'd spent the previous night in Boston, staying with a friend, shopping for a suitable dress, and they'd returned together to find her husband behaving strangely - anxious and irritable. But, as he said he'd slept badly and had some terrible nightmares, they'd put it down to tiredness and made him go to bed again. He'd been asleep when the guests started arriving and she'd decided to give him a few more hours, explaining to guests that she'd wake him when everyone had arrived, but several hours went by before she could escape from the conversations that everyone wanted to involve her in. And that was when it all happened..... "I was talking to her just before..... before..... you know!" one of the women at the motel had said. "She said she was going upstairs to check on Jim. She laughed, and said..... said....." Deep breath. "She said he'd kill her if she let him miss his own party. And then....." Another guest had rescued her at that point, his voice calm and emotionless, although Scully had known it was just a front. "And then there was a scream - a terrible scream. There were thumps from upstairs and Jenny just appeared at the top of the stairs, blood everywhere. She tried to walk, but collapsed and fell downstairs. Someone checked. She was dead." Then he'd gulped, desperately trying to keep his mask intact. "I.... Several of us went upstairs to see..... We thought it was an intruder. But it was only.... Jim was there, sitting on the bed. He had a knife, and blood all over his hands, a vacant look of his face. We shook him, talked to him, and at last he seemed to see us. Someone - Jenny's brother, I think - grabbed him and asked him why he'd killed her, and he just looked at us, his face white. 'I can't.... I can't remember. What....? Is she dead? I.... I can't remember.' Something like that. And then he shook us off, screaming, and ran to the window and just jumped out. He was dead too....." Scully shook her head quickly, trying to shake off the memory of the grief and horror reflected in the guests' eyes, of the far- greater grief and horror that was related in their words. Later, alone in her room, was the time to think of these. For now, she had a job to do. ********** Sunday 4th February ____ Mulder decided to walk, in the end, suddenly desperate to feel the biting chill air of an early February morning, sharp and invigorating after a long night with too much memory and not enough sleep. Actually, he'd have preferred a run, his body feeling heavy and lethargic after too much inactivity, but he'd promised Scully he'd meet her in the morning. There'd been no answer when he'd knocked at her door so he assumed she was still at the morgue, having spent a hellish night surrounded by death. Once again, he reflected guiltily, she was the one who ended up with the worst job. An autopsy, maybe two, when she should be in bed, recovering from whatever it was that had been bothering her. He wished she could have been spared this, but the sheriff had been insistent that an autopsy be performed as soon as possible, desperate to discover if any reason could be found for his friend's murderous behaviour. However, because of the late hour, there had been some doubt about whether there would be any properly qualified staff available, so Scully, making a visible effort to overcome her dislike of the man, had offered her services and been accepted. And so they'd split up. She'd ridden to the hospital with the sheriff, leaving Mulder to take their hired car back to the motel. Of course he'd protested, insisting that he'd rather stay with her and support her through what was coming, aware of how much this case was affecting her. But then she'd turned on him, shouting that she was competent enough to perform an autopsy without him holding her hand, and claiming that _she_ wasn't the one with a problem. Seeing the anger in her eyes he'd suddenly felt unable to speak, or even to look at her, and had been left with no choice but to leave. He couldn't remember how he'd made it back to the motel. But now, this morning, he would see her again, and once again offer the support he knew she needed. She'd been so good to him three months ago when _he'd_ needed help, but not known how to ask for it. Now that he was recovered, he'd try to be as good to her as she'd been to him. She was outside when he arrived, sitting on a low wall to one side of the door, her face turned away. "Scully?" Mulder asked, quietly, touching her shoulder solicitously. She started violently, flinching away from his touch. "I.... didn't hear you coming," she said, at last. "There weren't any cars....." "I walked," Mulder explained. "I'm sorry...." Then, after a pause. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine. Just.... tired. It's been a long night." But her voice, her whole appearance, suggested she was far from okay. She was white, her eyes staring far away, full of some dark emotion he couldn't make out. She looked as if she could barely stand. Mulder searched for the right words, knowing how easily he could alienate her if he chose to make an issue of her obvious distress. "You look exhausted," he said, at last. "I'm sorry I left the car behind. I'll call a cab." The guilt was threatening to choke him again, reminding him how, once again, he'd put his own needs before Scully's, selfishly leaving the car behind without thinking that _she_ would have had a terrible night, that she was dependent on him for transport, that she couldn't be expected to walk two miles when ready to drop with exhaustion. "No!" Scully shouted, then sighed, continuing more quietly. "I'm sorry. I.... I don't want to go back, not just yet." "I'll walk back.... get the car." And then help her into the motel, cover her with blankets and watch over her as she slept, keeping her safe from everything that might hurt her. "Mulder! Just drop it, can't you? I don't mind about the car. It's just....." There was a long silence. Mulder desperately wanted to speak, but knew how she hated him to push. "Just what?" he said at last, scarcely above a whisper. "Nothing!" But her voice was doubtful now. Then she took a deep breath, as if making a difficult decision. "Mulder, I found something in Jim Ferguson, during the autopsy." "Something?" His mind was racing. "You mean, an..... implant?" It had to be. Nothing else could explain her reaction. Scully shook her head, fiercely. "Not an implant. A cut in the neck, in the same place as I.... as my implant was." "A cut?" Mulder asked, desperately racking his brains, searching for something he could say to make this better. "In the man's neck?" He grabbed her shoulders, looking intently into her face. "Scully, he'd fallen through a window. I saw him. There were cuts everywhere...." "This was different." Her voice was level, her jaw clenched with the effort of keeping it so. "This was done with a knife, _after_ he'd died. I'm sure of it." "But, Scully...." he began, then stopped himself. There was no point arguing with her on this, although he'd have done anything in his power for this not to be true. "When.....?" "Oh, any time." Her voice was bitter. "I had to wait several hours before I could start the autopsies. The body was unattended in the morgue. Any one could have come in." "Have you....?" "Of course I've asked!" she snapped, her eyes blazing. "Just because I'm upset by this doesn't mean I'm incompetent! Several people went in and out, but they all seemed genuine. No-one really bothered about them, or kept a record of who they were. It could have been anyone!" Mulder was still holding her shoulders, and could feel her shaking beneath his grip, but he didn't dare say any words of comfort, didn't dare take her in his arms and console her like a child. He knew he must _never_ do that. "Scully," he said, at last. "Do you think that you're.... Maybe you should drop this case. It's getting too close." He ignored her flashing eyes, resolving to get through what he wanted to say. "I can see how much it's upsetting you, and God knows you don't need any more upset, not now...." "Oh, so you want to send me home, like a weak woman who can't cope!" Scully pulled away as if his touch burnt her. "It's okay for _you_ to carry on working even though anyone with half a brain can see you're still on the verge of a breakdown, but me.... If I just show _half_ as much stress as you've shown every day for the last three months, then you think I can't take it, you try to send me home. Mulder, I don't need this. I don't need you to.... patronise me like this." "But, Scully.... I just want to take you away from what's obviously upsetting you..... I hate to see you so upset." "Well, maybe you should have thought about that when you refused to see a therapist about your problems. Can't you see that by refusing to make any effort to get better, you've landed everything on me? Damn it, Mulder.... _You're_ what's upsetting me." Mulder tried to speak but his throat felt blocked and no words would come. "I'm sorry," he mouthed at last, soundlessly, turning to go although his limbs felt like lead, his eyes refusing to focus on anything. And then a hand grabbed his arm. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it." Oh, you did, he thought. And it's true as well. "It's just this.... implant. It.... I still haven't dealt with it properly. It just brings everything back. I'm sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you." Mulder took a deep breath, fighting for control. Although he knew Scully had been right to blame him, he also knew there were other people out there who'd hurt Scully as well - the people who'd taken her and put the implant in her neck. He owed it to her to investigate this case, to do what he could to find these men. Wallowing in guilt wouldn't help her now. "It's okay, Scully. I know you didn't mean it," he lied. "But you've been up all night. Why don't you grab a few hours' sleep, when we can see what we can find out? Did you find anything else in the bodies - anything to explain what had happened." Scully shook her head. Her face was still white, but she was making a visible effort to focus on the case. "No. It looks as if Jim Ferguson _did_ kill his wife, but there was nothing - no drugs or anything - to explain his behaviour, or his confusion afterwards. Nothing.... except....." She trailed off into silence, as if she couldn't even say the word. "It could be a coincidence," Mulder offered, not really believing it. Scully laughed mirthlessly. "I thought that was _my_ line." Then she sobered, her eyes full of anxiety. "Two people kill their partners, and have no memory of the event, and both of them possibly ab.... I mean, they possibly experienced the same.... whatever I experienced." Mulder wondered why even after everything she still couldn't say the word "abductee." But, then, his own faith in alien abduction had been seriously shaken too. He still believed that it existed, but knew now that sometimes aliens were simply a convenient scapegoat for purely human failings. "I'm not going back to the motel," she said, suddenly, cutting into his thoughts. "I want to stay her for a while - go through the autopsy reports again." He suspected she'd already gone through them dozens of times already, in her desperation to prove that the man's behaviour had nothing to do with the implant. "Then I want to talk to Hilary Carpenter again." "I'll come..." "No!" she said, firmly. "Sorry.... Thanks for offering. But this is something I want to do by myself. I'll..... I'll call you." "What shall I do?" Scully frowned, the anger in her eyes again. "You don't need me to tell you what to do, Mulder. It's normally _you_ with all the plans, and me who has to follow you." "I'm sorry," he said, again. "I'll go..... I don't know. I'll think of something." And then, in an attempt to hide the emptiness that had suddenly descended on his mind, he took a step forward, reaching for Scully's hand. "You _will_ be okay?" he asked. Scully nodded, smiling weakly, but said nothing. ********** He'd been in the room for nearly half an hour before he noticed it - half an hour sitting slumped in the chair, head in his hands, images of Scully's tormented face dancing before his eyes. She was so disturbed by this case. Her every move, every word, showed it, even though she refused to talk about it, refused his offers of help. More than anything he wanted to help her, wanted to solve this case quickly and get her back to the relative safety of home, but at the same time he was scared to proceed. If the two murders _were_ related to the implants, could Scully bear the truth? He knew more than anyone that, while ignorance was torment, the truth was sometimes worse than any horrors that dwelt only in the imagination. And then, opening his eyes, staring wildly about the empty motel room as if _it_ could provide the answer, he saw it..... An envelope, plain and brown, under his door, half hidden by the thick doormat. Slowly, he stood up, every step sounding loud in his ears as he walked across to pick it up. There was no writing on its surface, not even his name, and for a moment he even doubted if it was meant for him. Once, he'd have felt no such hesitation, his heart racing with anticipation of the latest clue that would help him in his search for the truth. But recently..... Since his experience with Lewis his sources had remained silent, as if they knew, somehow, that he was no longer the naive Agent Mulder who believed that the truth was something external, rather than something inside himself. Taking a deep breath, he inserted his finger behind the flap, ripping the envelope open. It was only afterwards that it occurred to him that he should perhaps have left it alone, had it dusted for prints, but he didn't really think it mattered. _These_ men never left evidence. At first he thought there was nothing inside, but when he shook the envelope several small pieces of paper fell out, fluttering aerodynamically to the floor. He picked one at random, and saw it was a small article clipped from a newspaper, circled with red to leave him in no doubt about what he was supposed to read. "Police in Newport are investigating the disappearance of Mr George Jackson, who was last seen on January 27th," he read, remembering from the map that Newport was a small town some thirty miles away. "While they are not as yet treating his disappearance as suspicious, they are appealing for anyone with information to come forward." He reached for another. This was from a different newspaper, a different town, but the article was similar. Another disappearance at about the same time, although there was some doubt about exactly when the man had disappeared as he lived alone. Interested now, in spite of himself, he scooped up the other two pieces of paper. One of them was yet another similar article, while the fourth was a plain piece of paper with two more names typed on them, together with their addresses and dates of disappearance. He wasn't surprised to see that these had all disappeared at the same time, as well, although they were all from different towns in a forty mile radius of Southampton. Sighing, he sat down on the bed, the clippings held loosely in his hands. For a moment, just a moment, he considered investigating, assuming that someone was pointing him towards the answer to the mystery. That's what he _would_ have done, even quite recently. Five mysterious disappearances in the area, just days before two other people, possibly alien abductees, started acting unusually. There certainly _could_ be a link. The old Fox Mulder, the naive Fox Mulder, would have jumped at the clue, throwing himself into the investigation until he either proved or disproved the link. But then he remembered Scully's face as she'd spoken about the implant, as he suddenly realised in a flash what all this was about. For a while, earlier, desperately trying to find a solution as he sat in the motel room, he'd begun to doubt whether there really _had_ been an implant. He was still suspicious of Hilary Carpenter's story, reluctant to believe that _her_ actions, at least, had anything to do with anything other than her own free will. And if _she_ had acted of her own volition, why not Jim Ferguson? Oh, everyone said how happy they were, but he knew all too well that respectable facades could cloak the most tormented of families. Maybe he'd seen his wife with another guest at the party, getting too close, and, consumed with jealousy, had killed her. There was no reason to blame it on anything else. But at the same time he knew there were people out there, desperate to do anything they could to destroy the X-Files team. Anyone could have slipped in and made a cut on the man's neck and thus torment Scully with all sorts of painful emotions without even having to do _anything_ more themselves. But now he knew this wasn't the case. They _were_ onto something here. He didn't know what it was, but someone didn't want it to be discovered. Scully had gotten too close, discovering there'd been an implant, and they were scared to let her get any closer. And so they tried to distract him, collecting clippings about random disappearances, suggesting that they were linked. God, people disappeared every day, especially if you widened your net to include towns up to forty miles away. There was nothing suspicious there. It was just that someone out there wanted him to believe it was suspicious - wanted to divert them from the truth. Suddenly furious at whoever it was who was playing with them, he threw the clippings down on the floor, ripping the empty envelope to shreds. Then he reached for his cellphone to tell Scully. He'd nearly finished dialling her number when he suddenly stopped, cutting off the connection. There was no need to tell Scully. She was distressed enough by this case. If he told her what had happened, told her the danger he now knew she was in, she would only get more determined to uncover the truth, persisting with the investigation even when her body cried out for sleep, her mind for peace. It was better not to tell her, perhaps even try to convince her that the implants had nothing to do with it. Then perhaps she'd agree to talk about her problems - maybe even go home while he tried to find the men who had done this to her. The crumpled clippings lay on the floor, untouched. ********** end of part 4 Her eyes were shut, dark smudges of grey in the pallor of her face, but as the metal door swung open, hitting the wall with the loud crash, she sat up quickly, eyes open and full of hope. "Oh, it's you again," she said, blinking in the light. Or was she blinking back sudden tears? "Yes, I.... wanted to talk to you." Scully shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She'd had it all worked out, rehearsing it in the cab as she'd been driven to the prison, but Hilary's reaction had put her off her stride. Whom had the woman been expecting when she'd looked up so hopefully? "I'm sorry," Hilary said, a wan smile of apology scarcely perceptible on her lips. "You took me by surprise. What do you want to talk about?" She shook her head sadly. "I can see by your face it's not good news." "Not bad news, either," Scully hastened to assure her, trying to show an optimism she didn't feel. "Something's come up. It might prove.... relevant." She hesitated, knowing she couldn't say too much about Jim Ferguson's case, not to a prisoner - not to anybody. She hadn't thought to find out quite how much the public was being told about what had happened. "Why are _you_ here?" Hilary asked, suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. "I mean, I heard Agent Mulder was the one who believed. But yesterday.... He hardly listened to me. And when he _did_ notice me he looked at me with contempt." She took a deep breath, her voice shaky. "That really hurt. I'd come to believe he was my only hope. If _he_ can't believe me, who will?" "Agent Mulder has.... been through a difficult time lately," Scully said carefully, thinking hard about each word before she said it. She knew she mustn't say too much, but wanted to say enough to take away Hilary's hurt. "He's.... distracted. Don't take it personally." She forced a smile. "But _I_ listened to you. _I_ want to help." "How? I've got to face it. There's no hope." "No!" Scully crouched down, grabbing the woman's hands and staring into her face. "Don't think like that! Don't let them win!" "Them? So _you_ believe?" The words were a gasp through her tears. Scully bit her lip, searching for words. "I..... don't know," she said, at last. "Not in aliens. But I believe _someone_ takes people, people like you and....." Even now she couldn't finish the sentence, the word "me" the smallest of whispers in her mind. "And I think it's possible that what happened to you last week was somehow connected to.... to _that_" Silence. A tear trickled through Hilary's fingers, teetering on the back of her hand before plummeting to the stone floor, a darker patch on the grey. Then another.... and another. "I need to ask you something." Scully ripped her attention away from the shining drops on the floor. She coughed, aware that her words had been swallowed up in her throat, an unintelligible croak. "I need to ask you something," she repeated, as soon as she felt confident of her voice. Hilary took her hands from her face, but said nothing. "When people are.... taken," Scully began. "Sometimes they have implants in the back of their neck. I think you should be X- rayed to see if you have one too." So easy. Just two short sentences, but they were among the hardest things Scully had ever had to say. Hilary started to breath fast, a look of panic on her face. "It won't hurt you," Scully said, reaching for her hands again. "It's just to see... It might help explain what happened to you." "No!" Hilary ripped her hands away, shrinking to the wall. "No! I though you believed me! You said you believed me! But you don't! I know what your game is. You're going to X-ray me, say you found nothing, then dismiss the truth." "But...." "Don't deny it! I know what happens. Whenever someone has any memory of abduction they say they had implants put in their body. Then some doctor comes along, examines them, says they can't find any, and then dismisses the whole experience. I won't let you do that to me!" "But, I didn't mean that!" Scully was hurt by the force of Hilary's anger. Then, when Hilary continued to shout and the guard's anxious face appeared at the door, she leant forward, held the woman by her flailing arms and said the only think she could think of that would convince her of her sincerity. "Listen to me! I wouldn't do that. I had an implant too....." There was silence, expect for the sound of their breathing - Hilary's slow shuddering breaths, breaking on unvoiced sobs - Scully's fast and shallow as she tried to calm the rising panic which her admission stirred up inside her. "I think the implants might explain what's happening here," Scully said, at last, seeing that Hilary was about to speak. She couldn't let her ask about _her_ "abduction" experiences. She had already said more than she'd ever wanted. God, she'd told Hilary more than she'd even told her own mother! "I can't!" Hilary said, her voice still catching on sobs, although she was quieter now. "If you've been taken, then you know..... They do things.... tests. Probing our bodies. Examining..... I've never been able to face a doctor since then. Anyone doing things to my body..... I just can't cope with it." She shook her head, sadly. "I'm sorry, but I can't go through with this. It would be my worst nightmare." "But it wouldn't be the same. They wouldn't hurt you." Scully didn't want to push, but it was so hard to be so close to proof only to have it slipping away. The cut on Jim Ferguson's neck - it was suggestive, enough so to make her panic, but it wasn't proof. But if Hilary had an implant too.... "It might be the only thing that could free you...." Although even there she was doubtful. What jury would believe the story, if the evidence even made it to court? More likely, the evidence would "disappear" along the way and they'd be left with nothing. "You said you understood! If you truly understood, you'd understand how I feel and not force me." Hilary's voice was calm now - intense but not angry. "I can't go through with this. I'm sorry, Dana." "It's okay, Hilary," Scully said, the use of first names signifying the confidences they'd exchanged. But it wasn't. It wasn't okay at all. ********** "Agent Scully?" They both started as the key turned in the lock, even though this time the door opened with the merest of squeaks. Scully glanced at her watch. Mid-day. Only three hours since she'd left Mulder outside the hospital, an hour since she'd arrived at the prison, but she'd gone through enough emotion to fill a week. Drained by their conversation, she and Hilary had sat side by side in the little cell, talking sporadically but mostly letting the minutes pass in silent thought. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" It was Sheriff Thomson. Scully stiffened, bracing herself for a nasty confrontation. After what she'd said the previous night she'd expected some repercussions, but nothing had been said. Then she'd discovered the cut on Jim Ferguson's neck and an angry sheriff had been the least of her worries. "I'm sorry..." she started, as soon as they were outside the cell. She wasn't sorry at all, but knew the case was stressful enough without having to contend with hostility from the local police. The sheriff held up his hand, stopping her apology. "Look, I can't pretend it's easy saying this, but I'm an honest man, not one to shirk my duty." He took a step forward, standing closer to her than she was happy with. Not as close as Mulder usually stood, but she was used to his habitual invasion of her personal space. "I was wrong," he said, firmly. "What you said last night.... I deserved it. I _was_ judging the cases on personal prejudice, both Jim's and hers. A quick gesture over his shoulder towards Hilary's cell. "Sometimes it's hard not to," Scully said, wondering why she was trying to make this easy for him. Probably because she was painfully aware that _she_ was doing just the same, assuming Hilary's innocence just because she felt some fellow feeling for the woman. "But you made me think, last night." The sheriff continued as if she hadn't spoken. "If I'm ready to find another explanation for what Jim did, then I should be willing to consider one for what she did too." He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes, and Scully remembered for the first time that he'd lost two friends in the previous night's tragedy. "I don't know what that explanation is, but it seems to me that you and your partner have some ideas. So..... I guess what I want to say is that I don't mind if the two of you stay here and investigate what's happened. I give you my full support." "Thank you." Scully was genuinely touched by the apology, realising how difficult it must have been to say. "We're both busy following leads at the moment." She glanced back at the cell, wanting already to be back in there, finding it strangely comforting to pursue her own thoughts in the company of someone who understood. "I'm going to stay here for a bit, and I don't want to be disturbed if possible. If anything happens, call my partner first. Here's his number." She knew she was being selfish, landing the burden on Mulder, but it was enough she could do to cope with what had been discovered, quite apart from any horrors that the future might hold. If there were any new developments, she'd have to deal with them, of course, but for now she just needed a day to think, to come to terms with.... Oh, it wasn't just what she'd discovered during the autopsy, it was everything.... the last three months, the last three years, even her whole life? Her footsteps echoed hollowly in the corridor as she turned and walked back to the cell, willingly walking into the gloom inside. ********** As soon as he heard it, Mulder was across the room in one quick movement, picking up the phone before it could complete its second shrill ring. "Yes?" he said, eagerly, not bothering to say his name, sure it would be Scully. "Agent Mulder?" It was a man's voice, gruff and solemn. Not Scully. Oh God, not Scully. Was she okay? Why hadn't she called? Where was she? Scully, alone with the horrors of her mind. Scully.... *********** He'd called her once, just once all day, long hours ago now. She'd answered quickly, sounding.... not quite angry, but.... terse.... distracted? Even after so long together, it still disturbed him how little he could read her mood, sometimes. "I said I'd call you, Mulder," she'd said, somehow knowing it was him even though he hadn't said a word. Then, when he'd asked how she was, anxiety spilling from his voice, she'd sighed. "You don't have to protect me all the time, Mulder. I don't expect it, and I don't need it." And she'd sounded genuinely exasperated, as if she really hadn't realised the danger she could be in. He'd known how disturbed she was about the implant, and had assumed it was because she feared she was at risk from whatever it was that had caused Hilary Carpenter and Jim Ferguson to behave so devastatingly out of character. Oh, he knew her implant had been taken out, but who could tell what other things had been done to her body during her disappearance? Just because the implant was all that had been found, it was naive to assume there was nothing else there, better hidden and possibly even more dangerous. "Mulder? Are you there?" Her voice had been anxious, anxious and tired, but he'd been unable at first to manage more than a whispered "yes", his words swallowed up by the images which turned his heart to lead, his blood to ice. Images of Scully in prison facing the terrible consequences of committing murder. Somehow, the fact that very likely it would be _him_ that she killed didn't bother him at all, except in that it would make the situation that much worse for her, having to live with guilt as well as everything else. Although, of course, she'd have nothing she ought to feel guilty for, not having acted of her own volition, but he knew she'd not see it like that, cursing herself for not being stronger, not resisting more. "Mulder?" There had been an edge to her voice, nearing panic. "I'm sorry, Scully," he'd managed, enunciating every word clearly to get them past the lump in his throat. "I was just thinking about the case.... looking at notes....." Scully must have heard the desolation in his voice, for suddenly her voice had softened. "Look, Mulder. I know you meant well.... But, I just need some time alone with this...." And then her voice had tailed off, and Mulder had suddenly wondered if she _had_ realised the danger she was in and was keeping away deliberately, afraid that.... whatever it was.... would lead her to attack him if she was with him. Maybe she'd even felt the first stages of the process in the extreme emotions she was experiencing. Maybe _she_ was the one protecting him. "Please don't call me again. I'll come and see you later," she'd added. "I think I'll be ready..... We can talk about it this evening." No, she _hadn't_ been following the same train of thought. Unlike him, she was honest. She was disturbed by the reminders of her own experience, and needed time to come to terms with it. There was no more to it than that. He hoped. And so he'd put the phone down, and tried to put his mind on the case, although more than half of it was on Scully, desperately wondering if she was okay. He hadn't been idle, though. Second thoughts had gotten the better of him and he'd rescued the newspaper clippings from the floor, flattening out their creases until they were legible. Although part of his mind knew that by investigating the disappearances he was doing just what his enemies wanted him to do, he couldn't miss a chance - any chance - to prove that the implant business was just coincidence, that Jim and Hilary had acted of their own volition, and that there was another case more worthy of their investigation elsewhere. Anything to set Scully's mind at rest.... So he'd spent hours on the phone, calling police, family, friends, finding out all he could about the people who'd disappeared. Nothing he'd learnt had altered his initial assumption. The police weren't treating _any_ of the disappearances as suspicious. All the people who'd disappeared had histories of mental illness, and were given to a certain vagueness about their movements. Further, two of them had even disappeared before, but had always wandered back, alive and well, days, or even weeks, later. No, nothing he'd learnt had altered his initial conviction that the clippings were an attempt to distract them from the truth. Suddenly consumed with fury, he'd ripped them to shreds and tossed them across the room, cursing loudly that he'd wasted a day investigating nothing. Once again, he'd done just what his enemies wanted, wasting his day on irrelevancies while Scully wrestled with the truth. He could only hope that the truth wouldn't destroy her. ********** And now, after those long hours of futility and worry, the phone had at last answered his silent pleading and chirped into life, shattering the tense emptiness of the room, filling him with hope.... and dread. But it wasn't her.... "Agent Mulder?" the voice repeated, impatient now, although there had only been a few seconds of silence after his first words. "Yes?" Mulder tried vainly to keep the disappointment from his voice. "This is Sheriff Thomson. Agent Scully...." "What's happened? What's wrong with her?" He reached out a hand, seeking the support of something solid, feeling the room float before his eyes. "Nothing." The sheriff sounded genuinely bemused. "_She's_ okay. It's just that she said...." "Whatever she said...." Mulder interrupted, forcing his voice to remain level and tactful, even though he was sure it was shaking. His hands certainly were. He could hardly keep hold of the phone. "Whatever she said.... She's under a lot of stress. Please go easy on her." Oh God! This was all she needed - a complaint from local law enforcement about her attitude. But, judging from the sheriff's face when she'd shouted at him the previous night, it would be difficult to talk him out of it. "Agent Mulder," the sheriff said firmly. "I know I was hardly friendly to you or Agent Scully yesterday, and I can see what you're thinking. But you're wrong. Agent Scully and I had a talk earlier. We got things sorted out, and I agreed to give you my full support on your investigation....." There was a muffled noise in the background as someone said something out of earshot and the sheriff excused himself to deal with them. Mulder was grateful of the delay, taking deep breaths to calm himself down, trying to convince himself that things couldn't be that bad if Scully had been able to carry on a polite conversation with Sheriff Thomson, whom she'd appeared to hate. Maybe he'd been over-reacting when he'd been so worried about her. "Hello?" The sheriff returned to the phone, apologising for his absence. "Look, I've got to be quick. We've a situation here. That's why I called you. Agent Scully said I was to let you know if there were any developments, and I think there have been. I think we've got another one." "What happened?" Mulder was already standing up, reaching out for his shoes and coat. "It was a teacher, name of Martin MacDonald. Just walked out of the house, half-dressed, and attacked his neighbour with a pair of scissors. Stabbed him right through the chest." "Where?" Mulder asked, mentally bracing himself to see lots of blood, but grateful at the same time that Scully would at least be spared this crime scene. "Oh, the crime scene's under control. But MacDonald.... He resisted attempts to apprehend him at the scene and has run away into the woods to the north of town. We're pretty sure he's still there. We're getting a party out to look for him, but can always do with extra help." "I'm on my way," Mulder said, quickly, heading for the door. Then, after a short pause, "Have you told Scully?" "No. She said she had things to do and didn't want to be disturbed unless it was important. That's why she gave me your number. I _did_ think of calling her, but this might get.... difficult. It's a man's job, I think, chasing a fugitive." Mulder was _that_ close to objecting, but stopped himself just in time. Although he didn't agree with the sheriff's reasons, he was entirely in agreement about one thing - that Scully shouldn't be told. He had no desire to expose her to any more danger or pain. It was a resolution he'd made three months ago, and nothing since had made him change it. Lewis had shown him how much she'd suffered because of him. At that point he'd thought she was dead and the only thing he could do was feel guilty, allow himself to suffer, even to die, in atonement. But when he found out she was alive he knew he'd been given a second chance to make it up to her, and swore he would never again expose her to danger. He knew the fact that this case disturbed her so badly was a mark of his failure. His fault, again, as much as the fault of the shadowy men who'd put the implant in her neck. But the knowledge that it was partly _his_ fault only made him more determined to uncover the truth, hoping he could make some small amends for what he'd done to her. It was too late to change the past, but he could still change the future - her future. And so he headed out into the night, his mind full of Scully, but alone. ********** end of part 5 Her watch told her it was nearly seven o'clock, but as far as Scully was concerned it could well have been mid-day, or midnight, or tomorrow. Time hadn't mattered that day, as she'd sat in Hilary's cell and just..... thought. Some of that time had been spent talking to Hilary, trying to determine if she had _any_ memory of the night her husband was killed, but for the most part Hilary had seemed content to remain silent too, even falling asleep for several hours in the afternoon. Judging from the sour taste in her mouth, the stiffness of her joints, Scully had to conclude that _she_ had probably fallen asleep as well, although she had no memory of it. There was little difference between wandering down the dark pathways of conscious thoughts and the dark pathways of disturbed dreams. Mulder had called once, long hours ago, just as her thoughts had strayed onto the unbearable situation they'd been living with for the last three months. Still more than half immersed in her thoughts, she'd been terse with him, more terse than he deserved, forcing him into an obviously-distressed silence, and she still felt a pang of guilt when she thought about it, although not enough to make her call him. She'd done so much of that lately, calling him, looking for him, worrying over him, that for once, now she was the one who needed to be alone, she was determined to allow herself all the time she needed. She didn't think it was selfish, for how could she help Mulder when her own thoughts were in turmoil? But now she felt rested, somewhat calmer, more ready to face the grim discoveries that might lie outside the safety of the prison walls, even though she knew her thoughts hadn't led to any conclusions. In fact, if she was honest, it was the sleep that made the most difference, as she'd gone without sleep the previous night, expect for a few hours on a chair outside the morgue as the paperwork was done before the autopsies. She stood up, stretching, and opened her mouth to explain to Hilary that she was leaving. She never got the chance. Suddenly the door burst open and a man came in, his eyes dark with concern. "Hilary!" he exclaimed, his eyes never leaving her face, not appearing to notice Scully's presence. Hilary's eyes lit up, but her body remained rigid. She coughed, awkwardly, gesturing with her head towards Scully. "No," the man said, solemnly. "I know what you're trying to say, but I think it's time to tell the truth." Ignoring Hilary's cry of outrage, he turned towards Scully. "Who are you?" "Special Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI." Scully was surprised at how normal her voice could sound. "I'm investigating Mrs Carpenter's case." And then, glancing at Hilary, who wouldn't look at her, she added, warmly, "I'm also her friend." "Gary Beck," the man said, shaking her hand firmly. "I think we should go outside for a moment. There's something you should know." Scully glanced at Hilary, doubtfully. The woman had remained utterly silent after her one cry. She was white-faced, her arms wrapped round her knees, rocking to and fro on the bed. But she was silent, not even crying now. She seemed beyond horror. "What is it?" she asked, when she'd finally managed to drag herself from the room and the woman, her friend, who was so deep in grief. Gary Beck sighed. "Look, I don't know what she's told you, but I'm willing to believe she's told you something about aliens." Shaken, realising what was probably coming and not wanting to hear it, Scully could only nod. "I'm sure I needn't tell you there _were_ no aliens," the man continued, with a grim laugh. "I don't know what possessed her to think of _that_ as an excuse. Probably because she's got friends, people she knew at college, who are on to that stuff, and she wanted to be like them. Whatever. I suppose it sounded much more glamorous than the truth." "The truth?" Scully prompted, although she knew the answer. "We were having an affair, the two of us. We have been for years, on and off. Nothing heavy - just weekends every few months, sometimes evenings when her husband was out. I only found out a few months ago that she covered her absences by saying she'd been taken by aliens." "So it was all a lie," Scully said, bitterly. "No!" Beck said, surprisingly. "I mean, it _was_ a lie, but somehow she almost came to believe it. I don't know why. She's not crazy - at least, she doesn't seem to be, not in anything else she does. But with this - it seems she lied so much, made up so many details, that she came to believe it - not deep down, I don't think, but most of the time." "So that night her husband died....." "No! Not then! I don't know about that. I've been out of the country for two weeks. I came here as soon as I found out." He shook his head, sadly. "No, I can't give her an alibi for that night. God! I wish I could, but I can't. I just thought you should know that whatever happened, it had nothing to do with her disappearances over the last few years. I don't believe she'd ever kill someone, of course I don't. But I think you should look elsewhere for the answer, not to her past, or her supposed memories." But by now Scully was scarcely listening, choked by painful emotions. Without an other word, she turned sharply and stamped into the cell. "You lied to me!" she shouted, shutting her mind to Hilary's stricken face. She knew she'd feel bad about it later, but what the hell? For now, it certainly vented her frustrations. "I trusted you!" she continued, face close to Hilary's, finger to her chest. "I told you things I haven't even told my own mother because I thought you'd understand. I.... I..... As soon as you started talking about lack of memory yesterday, it.... it raised up all sorts of painful memories for me. You saw that, didn't you? So you carried on, went further, got me all involved so I'd help you." Hands were prying at her shoulders, strong fingers dragging her back. "I _told_ you!" A hiss in her ear. "She wasn't doing it deliberately." She whirled to face him. "Oh, you believe that, if you want to. I can tell you, it doesn't make any difference. I told her secrets, things I don't like even thinking about, just because of what she told me. And now to find out it was all a lie....." She could feel tears burning the back of her eyes. "Oh God! Don't cry! Don't cry! Don't cry!" she repeated to herself, over and over, knowing that if she started she'd never be able to stop. "I'm .... sorry." Little tiny words from the woman on the bed - not "Hilary" now, not a friend - muffled by sobs and the strong arms that held her. "And all that about tests...." Scully was remorseless, unable to look at the shaking woman in case she lost her anger. She _needed_ to feel anger. The alternative was the succumb to the grief of betrayal and memory. "All that about not wanting an X- ray. It was all calculated, wasn't it? To cover the fact that you haven't got an implant because you were never taken." And then she stopped. Overwhelmed by the sense of betrayal, almost of violation, she hadn't thought of the implications this discovery had on the case. The woman didn't have an implant. She didn't have an implant. The case was nothing to do with implants. Stunned, she sank down on the hard wooden chair, wrestling with her thoughts. At first all she could feel was stunned, but then other emotions started trickling through. The horror she always felt when she thought of implants came first. Then disappointment that they were back at square one, just for a tiny moment. But then, over-riding everything else, even her anger, came relief. Relief. It wasn't anything to do with the implants She drew a great shuddering breath, feeling her hands shake more now, now she knew she'd been worrying over nothing, than they'd shaken all day, when she'd really believed she was being engulfed in her worst nightmare. It wasn't anything to do with the implants It was only now that she realised she'd been scared - scared that _she_ was at risk from whatever had caused Hilary and Jim to commit murder - scared that, even thought the implant was gone, something remained. But Hilary hadn't been abducted. There was no need to be afraid. Whatever it was that had happened, if indeed there was any explanation other than never-to-be-understood family tragedies, posed no threat to her, needn't stir up any more dark memories. She even managed to convince herself that, blinded by sudden panic, she'd misinterpreted the cut on Jim Ferguson's neck. There had been cuts all over his body. When she'd seen the cut on his neck, she must have been seeing what she expected to see, misinterpreting the evidence to suit her beliefs. Just what Mulder always used to do, and she'd been the first to put him right then. "I think you'd better go." A hand at her elbow, Gary Beck's tense face looking down at her coldly. "I'm sorry," Scully said, sincerely, all anger gone, washed out by the relief. She took a step towards Hilary, a sobbing heap on the bed. "I'm sorry...." But Hilary gave no sign of hearing her. "I'm sorry...." Only the guard heard her parting whisper as she shakily walked towards the door and out into the echoing corridor. She felt bereft, suddenly, the thoughts that had filled her mind all day suddenly gone, leaving her with nothing but the wordless feeling of relief. She suddenly felt completely and utterly alone - alone with the exhausted emptiness inside her head. "Mulder!" she muttered, under her breath, earning an odd look from a guard as she passed. There was no need to be alone..... She reached into her coat and took out her phone. ********** Mulder liked to hunt alone. Even when Scully was with him, they usually split up, partly so they could cover more ground in the time available, but partly because Mulder preferred it that way. Alone, his hearing attuned to the silence, his every sense could focus on the surroundings, hearing every little sound, seeing every little movement that flickered on the edges of his peripheral vision, sometimes even sensing trouble even before he saw or heard it. And so he'd let the rest of the search party crash through the undergrowth away on either side of him, their every movement sounding as loud as a shout in the rustling calm of the wood at night, their torches cutting though the darkness like a beacon. But Mulder preferred to stay alone, responsible only for himself, knowing that, if he _did_ encounter any danger, no other lives would be risked if he made a mistake.. Over an hour now since they'd started searching, and they'd found nothing, although the woods were barely two miles across. Of course, their fugitive could have escaped, be even now safe in some building in the town, but they had the boundaries well patrolled as soon as he went in and he hadn't been spotted. No, it was more likely MacDonald was still in the woods, hiding down in the roots of a tree. Even with only four square miles of wood, that was a hell of a lot of trees to search, especially as the over-zealous members of the public who'd chased him to the woods in the first place had so trampled the ground that no clear tracks or scent could be made out. Besides, Mulder somehow felt that he was here, several times felt himself shiver as he stepped through the damp earth, the smallest hissing of mud the only sound he made. Someone was there, and he could almost feel their eyes on him, burning into his back. But always, when he whipped around, gun pointing, there was nothing but empty wood, bare tree trunks, mud showing the dull gleam imparted by the almost-black of the clouded night sky. He hadn't switched on his torch, preferring to let his eyes adapt to the night. That way he could see movements and shadows right across his field of vision, not just in a single beam ahead of him, the torch light turning the rest of the wood into an unfathomable hole of darkness which could hold all manner of horrors. It was strange how bright blackness could be, how much he could actually see in the dark. A fallen tree-trunk, a blacker lump in the all-over blackness of the wood. A bird stirring on a branch. Ghostly shadows as large branches swayed gently in the breeze. And something, there.... something.... just beyond his vision, but there all the same. His gun felt sticky in his hand, and he realised for the first time how tense he was, how sure that he was being followed. He tried to take deep breaths, to shake off the fear, telling himself he was imagining it. They were tracking a half-crazed fugitive who'd run half-naked into the wood, not a calculating criminal who could cover his tracks, hide successfully and stalk a prey. Unless.... The nagging doubt whispered at the back of his mind. Unless whatever it was that was controlling him planned two deaths today. He stopped stock still, listening intently to every sound. The wind moved the trees with a steady rushing, like the breathing a large animal, hot hungry breaths from behind the teeth. And even with his dark-adapted vision, the world around loomed like deep wells of blackness, threatening to swallow up living creatures in their depths. Miles and miles of open countryside, full of.... what? The breathing got louder, although he couldn't feel any increase in the wind.... And then there was a noise, a shrill noise that make his heart pound against his ribs and his hands to clench in sudden terror. A noise. What.....? It rang twice before his fear-dulled mind recognised it as his phone. "Mulder," he said, whispering, anxious not to betray his presence to.... whatever it was that was out there, although knowing it was probably futile. "Are you okay?" It was Scully, her voice slightly hoarse, but sounding calm, ordinary. "Scully!" Still shaking, he couldn't think of anything else to say. He knew he could never find the words to express the relief he felt at hearing her voice, at knowing his fears had been groundless. "Mulder." She said his name slowly and carefully, as if savouring the sound. Silence. "Are you okay?" he asked at last, still reeling from the strange tone of her voice. "Yes," she said, doubtfully, then again with more conviction. "I've done some thinking. I think things are sorted out now. I just needed to talk to you, to hear your voice, to know I can always talk to you when I'm ready." She sounded almost embarrassed by the admission. "I'll always be here when you need me, Scully. I know I haven't always in the past. But I'll try....." And then it all went wrong. Suddenly the undergrowth erupted as a small animal rushed out, squeaking with all the anguish of certain death, pursued by a larger animal, indistinct in the dark. The ensuing conflict was loud in the woods..... too loud.... "What's that?" Scully's voice was sharp. "And why are you whispering?" "I'm in the woods," he began, reluctantly, knowing she wouldn't let him escape without extracting the full details. He'd tell her, of course. He couldn't lie to her. He could neglect to tell the truth, but he couldn't lie to her, not to a direct question. She listened to the rest of his reluctant confession in an unforgiving silence. He could almost see her expression, cold and set, her eyes flinty with reproach. He knew his every word was making it worse, but he couldn't stop until he'd told her everything. "So, you're out there, chasing a murderer, by yourself, and you weren't going to tell me." Her voice was like steel, each word carefully enunciated, full of suppressed fury. He nodded, miserably, forgetting she couldn't see. "I'm coming right over," she said, firmly, before terminating the call. He stood still, listening to the silence, his mind full of Scully's anger. It had just been the tip of the iceberg, what he'd just heard. There would be more, much more, when they were back at the motel when she could vent her anger without jeopardising their search. There was a dark blot in the darkness a few yards away, the blood and guts of the poor dead animal whose life had been taken as he'd stood and watched and done nothing. He took a step forward, then another, the mud making a rich squelch as he moved his foot, sunk deep by so long standing still. Then, heedless of the mud which would ruin his clothes, he knelt down, rubbing the sticky blood between his fingers, wondering what sort of animal it was who lay so horribly dead, wondering how many killers were at large that night. Minutes passed. Blood on his fingers, Scully's anger in his mind, the dark all around him and inside him.... Then suddenly he felt the menace again, the feeling that someone was watching him. He stood up slowly, hearing his breathing sound loud in his head, the breathing he'd taken for the wind in the trees. Silence, except for the sounds that ought to be there.... Breathing, wind in the trees, rustling..... And a voice. Indistinct, words filtered out by the wind, but a voice. Tightening his grip on his gun, he whirled to face the noise, peering into the darkness to pick out any movement, any lump of darkness blacker than the rest of the night. Nothing. There was nothing there - nothing that he could see. He took a step forward, frowning with the effort of looking. He was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to switch on his torch, but knew he mustn't alert whatever it was to his position. Although it probably knew all too well.... The voice sounded again, nearer now, and he took another step forward, peering into the distance, not focusing on his feet. He saw it just in time. A shape, a man, threw itself from the undergrowth just on the fringes of his vision, hurtling towards him with outstretched hands reaching for his throat. Just as the body was about to crash into him, knocking him to the ground, Mulder took a sudden step to the side, raising his gun. But then everything whirled and he lost track of what was happening, unaware until he hit the ground that he'd tripped over a tree root and fallen heavily onto his front. Dark mud filled his vision, dark mud little different from dark trees, dark sky. Quick as thought, he reached out with his hands, pushing himself to his knees, reaching for his gun. He turned his head quickly to see where his attacker was. Not in front. Not left. Not right. That meant..... Strong hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him onto his back in the mud, a lumpy tree root digging into his spine. And then the dark sky was wiped out by a deeper darkness as the man leant over him, hands closing on his throat. Everything slowed down. Nothing existed but himself, the attacker, and the death that was in his hands. Death.... And then he saw an image of Scully's face, twisted with grief and reproach. She'd be tormented with guilt if the last words they ever exchanged were in anger, and he knew he'd do everything in his power to save her from that. And so he fought, hands, arms, knees, hitting out, trying to dislodge his attacker's grip on his throat, feeling some of his blows land and knowing he'd done damage. But he was running short of air. Already he was feeling the dizziness on him, feeling his thoughts cloud over. There was so little time..... ********** end of part 6 "Let me through!" Scully put all the anger she could muster into the order, aware even as she did so that the tall man probably found her fury ridiculous, even amusing. "I'm sorry, ma'am. There's a dangerous fugitive in there. My orders are to keep everyone out of the wood until he's found." Especially a weak woman like you, his eyes seemed to be saying, as he looked down at her, speaking as to a child. It was only then that Scully realised that she hadn't shown her ID. Consumed with anxiety about Mulder she'd leapt from the cab, thrusting too much money into the hands of the driver, and had run for the main path into the woods. It was so obvious to herself what she was doing that it hadn't crossed her mind that it wasn't obvious to everyone else. "I'm a federal agent," she said, forcing herself to speak at normal pitch. "Now, will you let me in?" Angry and worried as she was, Scully was still able to feel immense satisfaction at the look on the police officer's face as he stepped back, allowing her past. She rushed forward, staying on the broad dirt track, surprised at how quickly the noise and light from the road faded into nothingness. For a while she was blind, her steps faltering until she stood quite still, trying to get her bearings. The woods had seemed silent, like a great slumbering beast, silent but alive, but as her senses adapted she realised it was full of its own sounds, small sounds inaudible except to someone ready to listen. Slowly, she pulled out her gun, startling herself with the noise the almost-silent action made. It was only now, now it was too late, that she realised how stupid she had been. Angry at Mulder for going alone into a dangerous situation she'd done exactly the same herself. Overwhelmed by the image of Mulder attacked in the wood, alone, hurt, even dying, she'd known she had to do everything she could to prevent it coming true. With her rational mind, she knew she was over-reacting, but at the same time she knew she _had_ to over-react. She never again wanted to go through the grief and guilt she'd felt three months ago when she'd thought Mulder was dead, dying alone and despairing because she hadn't noticed he'd needed help until it was too late. Savagely, she shook her head to clear the terrible memory, to wipe the flames of that burning house from her mind, forcing herself to concentrate on the darkness, and the future that could still be changed. Her eyes had adapted to the darkness now, and she found she could see quite well, as long as she stayed on the path. She took a step forward, faltering at first, then another, more confident. When she neither stumbled not slipped she started walking at a normal pace, eyes on the ground, ears attuned to picking up any noise, any human noise that would help her find where Mulder was. It startled her, when it came. A feathery whisper as a sudden gust of wind awoke the branches from their silence. And with it, carried on the wind, the noise of human voices.... Her heart suddenly pounding in her head, she looked up, looking wildly around left, right, ahead, peering into the dark, trying to track down the direction of the elusive noise carried this way and that by the treacherous wind. And then the shadows started to dance, dark trees writhing like something from a nightmare. Shadows.... But to get shadows you needed.... Light. An eerie yellowish light, pulsing through the trees. The sort of light made by people with torches, their light swaying as they ran, winking out as they passed behind trees. Light. People. Someone was coming.... She didn't need a sudden gust of wind to hear the next sound. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. A sound that held her frozen in a horror that wouldn't let her breathe. A gunshot. ********** Scully. Oh God! Scully. He couldn't die, not like this, not with Scully's guilt- tormented face so clear in his mind that he could almost believe she was here, real, her face the only thing he could see properly through the clouds that obscured everything else. There were tears brimming in her eyes, a single drop of grief spilling out and gouging a path down her cheek like the path of devastation he'd driven through her life. "No!" he cried in his mind, making a last great effort to escape the hands holding his life in their grip. Flailing, hitting, kicking, forcing every tired muscle to move, knowing it was the only way to stop Scully's tears. And then suddenly, distantly, he was aware that somewhere a blow had landed hard, knee against something soft. Almost instantly, the grip on his throat was loosened with a groan of agony. There was no time to think. Fist crashing into face, blood dripping down onto his own face, chilling and warm. Hand to the hand at his throat, prising at the fingers, slackened by pain. Gasping breaths of air, dark and biting, but alive, restoring his blood, driving away the shadows. Fists, feet, hands, fighting together now, a blow here, a blow there, both drawing blood, splattering in the dark mud. Then a blow landed on his cheek and the world exploded into light. Light that made the blood sparkle red, the mud shine rich and black. Light that showed the beads of sweat on the other man's face, his grimace of pain as blood coursed from his mouth. Light that didn't go away when he shook his head violently, desperate to clear it. Light. He didn't know where the light had come from. And noise too. Something..... Someone? Saying something? Somehow, it didn't seem to matter. Nothing existed outside the narrow focus of fists and fighting and hurting and winning. But then the light and noise came together, suddenly, terrifyingly. An explosion of light and sound that seemed to slow down time - life moving painful frame by painful frame, agonisingly slow. The fist paused, hanging frozen in the air mid-swing. The bleeding mouth dropped open, a wordless cry that no-one would hear. The eyes opened wide, boring into his own soul, full of hatred and agony and menace, speaking threats that could never be carried out. Then slowly, slowly the blood started to flow. ********** Blood. He had blood all over him, although he was alive, alive and talking, kneeling in the mud, bending earnestly over someone who lay still. "Mul-der?" Scully's breathlessness forced her to break his name into two distinct syllables, her voice squeezed out weakly through great gasps for air. As soon as she'd heard the gunshot she'd run as fast as she could towards the lights, heedless of the tree roots that reached out long fingers across her path. His lips moved, talking again to the person in front of him, but he showed no sign of having heard her. "Mulder?" Her breathing was easier now, though she could still feel her heart pounding in her head. She edged forwards into the circle of light cast by the torches, hearing the abrupt commands shouted between the other people at the scene but not listening to them, not bothering to sort the sounds into words. He still didn't look at her. He was bent over a man, holding him by the shoulders, face close to his face. "I.... don't.... remember." The man's voice was the faintest breath of anguish, scarcely distinguishable from the wind in the trees. "I.... I was dreaming..... Then...." "Stay with me!" Mulder leant closer, tightening his grip on the man's shoulders. "You mustn't go to sleep. What happened?" The man's face twisted in concentration. His broken lips twitched, trying to shape themselves to make a sound, wincing when he failed to speak. Mulder shifted position suddenly, moving around and away from Scully, closer to the man's face. He leant forward, his ear only inches from the man's mouth. As he moved his head, a drop of blood fell from his cheek onto the man's lips, a tiny drop in the welling red of his face. "Mulder!" Scully shook her head quickly, forcing life into her voice, her limbs. Mesmerised by their frozen tableaux, the quiet voices, she'd neglected to notice the obvious. "What are you doing? This man needs medical attention now. Get away from him." Her hands reached for the man's unbuttoned shirt, the only clothes he appeared to be wearing apart from underwear, pulling it open to find a gaping bullet wound high up on his side, under his arm. "Has someone called an ambulance!" she shouted, without looking round. "Yes. I called as soon as..... it happened." A young voice at her elbow. Turning quickly she saw a police officer, face taut with stress. "I tried to.... I didn't know what to do." "I'm a doctor," she told him, watching his face relax as he realised he could hand over care of the wounded man to someone who knew what they were doing. She only wished she could share his confidence. To tell the truth, there was little she could do for him but wait, and hope. "Shh!" She jumped at the sound of Mulder's voice, an urgent hiss. "He said something. I couldn't hear." Then he slapped the man's face. "You've got to stay awake!" he urged. "Talk to me!" It hadn't been a hard slap, but it echoed through Scully's mind like a gunshot. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she was furious. "Mulder!" She grabbed his arm, pulling harshly to drag him from the man. "I can't believe what you just did! This man is badly hurt, and you slap him! I don't know what you want him to tell you, but he said he doesn't know anything. Stop bullying him." "No, Scully!" He pulled from her grip. "You don't understand! You didn't see what happened just after he was shot. I've _got_ to talk to him, now, before he's properly himself again." His eyes were fiery dark in his blood-stained face. "He might know, Scully! He might have the answers to the case." "Mulder." Scully tried not to shout, aware of the terrified eyes of the wounded man, half-closed now with pain. "Are the answers worth.... torturing.... this man for?" "But I want the answers for you!" Mulder turned away, his voice suddenly quiet. "I'm doing this for you. It's.... it's the least I can do." "Oh, so you nearly got yourself killed for _me_? You lied to me, for _me_?" Scully's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "You're doing this for _me_, even though I keep telling you I don't want you to? Damn it, Mulder. Who are you to tell me what's best for me?" She kept her voice quiet, aware of the other people on the scene, but suddenly his actions ripped a shout from her. "Mulder! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mulder was trying to roll the man over onto his side, reaching for the back of his neck. He was talking all the time, low words of comfort to the wounded man, assuring him he wouldn't hurt him, that he just wanted to find answers that were for his own good. "Where was it, Scully?" Mulder asked suddenly. He showed no signs of having heard what she'd said. "What?" Even amid her anger, Scully was genuinely baffled. But then, suddenly, the terrible realisation dawned. The implant. He meant the implant. "Oh no, Mulder. Not that!" God! Was he intending to cut the man's neck even as he was alive and conscious? "It's the only way, Scully." Mulder didn't look her in the eyes. "I hate doing it, but we've got to know, now, before anyone can get there first like they did with Jim Ferguson." "Mulder!" Scully didn't care who heard her now, she was so furious. "You get off that man right now or I'll.... I'll....." Unable to think of the right threat, she reached for him bodily, pulling at his shoulders with all her strength. "It's not about implants, Mulder! Can't you see? It's not about them!" He pulled away from her grip, turning to face her. His face, even through the bruises and blood, expressed.... almost pity? "I know it's hard for you to accept, Scully." His voice was quiet, caring, full of guilty sorrow. She'd never been so tempted just to hit him as she was at that moment. It was either that, or to cry with grief for him.... and her. She knew she'd been unreasonable, shouting at him for not knowing she had proof it wasn't about implants when she'd never told him anyway, and he just took it as if he deserved it. His whole attitude was infuriating, patronising, but also heart- breaking. Sirens sounded in the distance, eerie in the night, alerting Scully to reality. Intent on arguing with Mulder, she'd forgotten where she was, forgotten there was a wounded man in her care. Pulling away from Mulder's gaze, she leant down, reached for the man, and.... "My God, Mulder! You've killed him!" Horror made her relentless in her anger. Mulder shut his eyes, bowing his head for interminable seconds, his brow furrowed with guilt. Then suddenly he raised his head, eyes still shining with unshed tears but now suddenly filled with purpose. "Why did you shoot him?" he turned savagely on the young police officer she'd spoken to earlier. "It wasn't necessary. I had the situation under control." "I thought..... I _did_ shout, first. I saw the blood. I thought he was about to kill you. I.... I didn't mean it to be fatal. I was aiming for his arm but he moved. I.... I'm sorry." The officer was stammering, overwhelmed by Mulder's anger. "You _killed_ him," Mulder repeated, relentless. "Now we'll never know what happened." Scully stepped firmly between them, hands covered with blood. "Mulder!" she hissed, seeing that the young man was almost on the point of tears. "Stop doing this. Just looking at you I can see why he thought you were in trouble." She'd seen the bruises before, of course, the deep marks of hands on Mulder's throat, but had tried to ignore them. Right now, she didn't want to lose her anger. Later would be the time to lie awake in horror at the fact that once again he'd nearly died. "But, Scully. We were nearly there. We could have solved this, then you could go home. I know you've got problems on this case." Mulder's voice was barely above a whisper but was laden with intensity. "And now he's dead.... We still don't know." "Oh, just shut up, Mulder!" Scully snapped suddenly. "I can't take any more of this. Just.... just go away." "Scully...." His hands reached for her shoulders, his eyes full of concern. "Mulder!" Her voice was steel. "I don't want to talk to you any more. I don't want to say something I'll regret later." Though she knew she already had, knew that every word she'd said would come back to haunt her in the sleepless hours of early morning, and she would see again and again Mulder's guilty expression as he took her attacks as if he deserved them. The paramedics crashed through the undergrowth, carrying a stretcher that came too late. No need to hurry, now. Just another dead body for the morgue, another human tragedy to be a minute on the news, then forgotten. Mulder turned away silently and was swallowed up in the dark of the woods. ********** end of part 7 Monday 5th February "Scully." It was a barely perceptible whisper, a tiny thread of sound forced past his bruised throat. A cough. A rattle of keys across the parking lot. The low drone of a plane a lifetime away. An engine humming on some distant road. Noises.... Unimportant noises. There was no sound from Scully's room. "Scully." A louder whisper this time, though he thought her name with the intensity of a shout. He _needed_ to see her, to speak to her, but he knew he mustn't wake her if she'd managed to find some escape from the long sleepless nights of worry. Silence still. But her light was on, a yellow slit snaking under her door.... He swallowed, pain squeezing his throat like bruising fingers, his breath loud in his ears. "Scully," he said, again, no longer a whisper, as he gently knocked on the door. No answer. She was asleep, exhausted after the trauma of the day and the previous night. After the horrors of the past few years, was it any wonder if she felt the need to sleep with the light on? After all, she knew more than anyone how doors and windows offer little protection from the terrors that dwell in the dark. So, the light was on, but she was asleep. She needed sleep. He shouldn't wake her. But what if she wasn't.....? The door handle was slippery to his shaking touch, darting cold on his palm and fingers. Tongue between his teeth, concentrating on silence, he turned it, slowly.... slowly.... barely at all..... And it opened. Scully's door was unlocked. Dread swept through him, freezing his breath, turning his limbs to lead. He needed to know.... but he couldn't bear knowing. He shut his eyes. Blood on the table, on his fingers, in the ruins of her apartment. Blood on a smashed coffee table, illuminated by a bare bulb in his shaking hand. Blood... Oh God! Had she been taken again, for getting too close to the truth? Or was her body still here, her life soaking into the sheets, her eyes cold? Oh God! After one o'clock. If only he'd come back hours ago..... Step - eyes still closed, hand clinging to the door handle behind him. Step - arm pulling taut, blood pounding in his ears. Step - fingers slipping from the door handle, hand unable to find any support. Step.... "What....?" Scully's voice.... Scully's voice! "Where....?" Mulder opened his eyes, forcing the room to stop swaying so he could focus. Scully was lying on the bed, fully clothed, still with her shoes on. She'd pulled herself half onto her elbow, blinking in the light with confused eyes. "Mulder?" Still a half-sleeping mumble. "What are you doing here?" "I.... The door was unlocked." His voice was hoarse and tears of relief stung the backs of his eyes. "Un.... unlocked?" Scully rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "I.... I don't remember...." She glanced down at her clothes, blinking in confusion. "I fell asleep....I was dreaming....." There was something about her tone, about her words.... He'd heard it before, somewhere. But he was still weak with emotion, unable to spare any thought to pin down the memory. "What were you dreaming?" He touched her gently on the arm, a silent apology for waking her. Scully shook her head abruptly. "Oh, I can't remember." She stood up, arm slipping away from his touch. "It doesn't mat....ter." This last word was almost drowned out by an enormous yawn. "I'm sorry." Mulder took a step back quickly. "You're tired. I'll go. I'm sorry I woke you...." "No!" Scully grabbed his wrist, fingers digging into his flesh. "Don't go. I've got.... There's something I want to say." There was no trace of sleep in her voice now. Mulder froze. He knew what she was going to say, and knew he deserved it. He'd seen the anger in her eyes earlier, in the woods, and knew _that_ conversation was still unfinished. But Scully's words came as a total surprise. "I'm sorry," she said, though her voice was taut with suppressed emotion. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I was angry, yes, but I let it blind me to.... fairness." She gave a grim laugh, a quick harsh sound. "I didn't even ask you how you were, and you know what I'm normally like when you get hurt." "I'm...." Surprise made him speechless. "I'm okay.... _It's_ okay...." He heard her words, but couldn't understand why _Scully_ felt the need to apologise. "No." Scully held up a hand to stop him. She took a deep breath and he could hear the quaver as she exhaled. "I guess I knew at the time I was wrong but I couldn't stop myself. Just shouting.... It made me feel better, I suppose, just for a while. I've kept things bottled up so long...." "It's okay." He stepped forward, gentle hands on her shoulders. "Don't apologise. I deserved it...." Scully sighed, a loud sigh that was almost a shout, and pulled away from his hands as if they burned her. Mulder let his hands fall bereft to his side. He didn't know what to say, what to do. He'd upset her again, but didn't know how. "I owe you an explanation." Scully's muscles were visibly tense with the control it took to keep her voice level. "When I shouted at you back then for looking for the.... implant." She said the word as if it choked her. "I hadn't told you what happened today. That Hilary Carpenter.... I thought she understood. I told her things..... things about what happened to me. But then I found out she was never abducted by anyone. Her whole abduction story was made up to cover the fact she was having an affair." Her voice was bitter, though her face looked empty and lost. "Her lover told me all about it." "I'm sorry...." Mulder started to raise his hands to touch her, but let them fall again. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer comfort, but couldn't find the right words. "Oh, _you_ weren't taken in, were you? Is that what you want to say?" Scully's eyes were shining, her voice sharp. "No!" It came out as a tiny whisper, swallowed up in his throat. He didn't think he'd been thinking like that, but he _had_ doubted Hilary's story from the start, believing it was only an excuse for her own misdemeanours. Scully shut her eyes, breathing deep, then opened them again. A sheen of moisture lined her lower lids. "I guess I was so angry with you because of _her_." Her fists were white with tension, but her voice was quiet and level. "I trusted her, then... I just felt so betrayed. And then when I found out _you_ didn't trust me...." "I do!" Despite his sore throat he managed a shout. "I _do_ trust you. I trust you with.... everything." His throat swallowed the last word until it was almost a sob. "Then why didn't you tell me where you were going?" The words were fired out like bullets. "I didn't want...." He couldn't complete the sentence. He hadn't wanted her to get hurt, that was the truth. But she _hated_ him to protect her. She couldn't seem to realise it was only right for him to try to prevent her suffering any more after all that had happened. "I didn't...." Then he had a sudden inspiration. "You told me not to disturb you. You said I mustn't call you.... That you'd call me." Scully was pacing up and down like a panther about to pounce, but his words caused the tension to pour out of her. "Yes.... I suppose I did. I forgot." Her voice was small and apologetic. Silence. Feet shifting awkwardly on the carpet. Hands clenching and unclenching at his side. Doubts seething in his mind. "Scully...." Her head snapped up. He hadn't known he'd spoken his thought aloud. "Nothing...." He took a step backwards, edging towards the door. "Mulder!" Her voice was rising with tension again. "What is it? Tell me." "I.... I'm sorry..... But I've got to ask....." He dug his fingers into his palms, speaking quick and fast to get it over with. "Are you _sure_ you can believe Hilary wasn't abducted?" He couldn't look at her, but heard her sharp intake of breath. "That lover of hers.... He could have been paid by _them_ to lie.... put us off the scent. Or just because _some_ of her absences are explainable it doesn't mean...." "Damn it, Mulder! Are you _trying_ to make this hard for me?" Scully's voice sparked with anger. "No..." "Well it sure as hell looks like it. You didn't believe Hilary's story earlier, when all I wanted was to get you interested on this case. Now _I_ believe she's lying, you suddenly want to cast doubt on it, when you know how much it upsets me to deal with these.... implants." "I know.... I'm.... I'm sorry...." "Why - are - you - _doing_ - this - Mulder!" A hiss through clenched teeth, her hands gripping her forehead. "I'm..... sorry." His bruised throat seemed to swell, strangling the words. "No, Mulder." Scully lowered her hands, her voice hard with determination. "I want to know. What has happened to make you change your mind on this case?" Mulder shook his head. He couldn't speak. "Tell - me - Mulder!" Her eyes bored into his, her words as sharp as knives. "Even if it might upset me, I want to know what has happened. I can take it. I'm not weak." Mulder never thought she was weak. But the things she'd gone through - the things _he'd_ put her through - in the last three years would try the very strongest. "Mulder! I can _see_ you're hiding something. I can see it in your eyes. _Please_ don't do this. I _need_ to know. Can't you see? I need to know the truth." "I....." He coughed, forcing his voice above a whisper. "I got sent some clippings from newspapers this... yesterday morning. They were about people - five people - disappearing last weekend, all within fifty miles." He couldn't look at her as he spoke, but he could feel the anger radiating from her body. "I checked them out and there was nothing suspicious about any of them. They were just attempts to divert us from.... from whatever it is we're onto here. They were put under my door just after you saw through their attempt to remove Jim Ferguson's implant, so....." "So you assumed the implants are the key to the case," Scully finished for him, voice quiet and deadly. "But you didn't intend to tell me, did you?" "I.... didn't think it was important." "Oh yes you did. You thought it proved we were onto something big - something _they_ want covered up, and you didn't tell me!" Her voice was loud with incredulity. "I didn't want you to be upset!" The words spilled out of him before he could stop them. "Can't you see, Mulder?" She grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye. "If this case _was_ linked to.... whatever happened to me, _I_ could have been at risk. I could have been like Hilary, or Jim Ferguson, or Martin MacDonald. Of _course_ that upset me.... But that's all the more reason why I should have been told _everything_ so I could have been prepared." There were unshed tears choking her anger, but even so Mulder felt a sudden hope. "You're using the past tense. You don't think...." "No, Mulder." She spoke as to a child. "It _isn't_ about implants. I checked MacDonald - no implant." She counted the names off emphatically on her fingers as she spoke. "Hilary - no implant - no unexplained absences. Jim Ferguson - oh, I don't know.... Maybe he really had one, by coincidence. Maybe your clippings are the real answer and someone was trying to put us off the scent by implying he had an implant. Most likely it was just a cut from the glass and I over-reacted... saw what I feared to see. I don't know...." "Or maybe...." Mulder broke in suddenly, remembering he still hadn't told her what had happened after MacDonald had been shot, but Scully held up her hand. "Look, Mulder. I don't want to think about the case right now. I'm tired." "I'm sorry." Mulder was immediately remorseful. "You go to sleep. I'll think..." "Don't talk to me like that!" Scully snapped. "You're trying to protect me again - tuck me up in bed while you investigate." "I wasn't...." Mulder stammered, but then she moved into the light and he saw her shadowed eyes, her taut face and he couldn't stop himself from touching her gently on the cheek. "It's just.... This case is hurting you so much.... You've been hurt so much.... I'm sorry." "Damn it, Mulder!" Scully grabbed his wrist, throwing his hand away violently. "It's _not_ your fault. Stop apologising with every breath!" "But, Scully...." A choked whisper again, emotion swallowing up all other words. He couldn't understand why she still denied the truth. "Mulder, can't you see? You're treating me like.... oh, I don't know..... like I can't make my own choices. You're not responsible for me. It's demeaning to me that you blame yourself for everything that happens to me. It implies I'm too weak to look after myself." Her fingers squeezed into his wrists. "_I_ decided to stick with the X-Files, even after I knew the risks. _Me_. _My_ decision. You didn't force me. You didn't charm me or seduce me, so I went along with you like some weak woman against her will. I'm big enough to act on my own judgement. You're not responsible for anything that happens to me." Mulder bit his lip, trying to force back the tears that swam in his eyes. How could she still be so blind? He _knew_ she'd made her own decision to stay with him, but couldn't she see that without him she'd never have had to make that decision in the first place? It had been _his_ quest, his futile quest, that had started it all, and she'd stayed only out of some misguided loyalty to him, even though from the start she hadn't believed. "Look." Scully's voice vibrated with forced self-control. "I know why you're acting like this. I know it's because you're still not recovered from....." She let the sentence tail into silence, eyes moist with memory. "I know you're not doing it deliberately to hurt me. But right now, I'm not in a mood to be understanding. Please just go, before I say something I'll regret tomorrow." Neither of them moved. He could feel the muscles in his hand quiver as he resisted the urge to reach out and hold her while she let out the tears that were swimming in her eyes. "Just go, Mulder." Scully's face was closed against him. Silence. He could see her muscles, tense on the back of her neck and shoulders. "Get - out - of - my - room!" Her tone sent shivers of dread down his spine. He had no choice but to obey. ********** end of part 8 He was there, of course, his face drawn with worry, his eyes far away, his hands gripping the rail outside her door as if he depended on it to stay upright. Scully swore softly under her breath, watching him from a distance. The anger was threatening to take over again. Hadn't he _listened_ last night when she told to stay away, not to hover protectively over her every move? Before eight in the morning, and already he was there, her self-appointed and unwanted guard dog. He moved suddenly, glancing at his watch, chewing his lip with anxiety. Even from this distance she could see the blackening bruises on his cheek and throat. Perhaps she _should_ have left a note. Her rational mind strove to smother the anger. After all, if the situations were reversed, _she_ would have worried too. If she was honest, she had to admit that she'd behaved very uncharacteristically the previous night, surprising even herself with the force of her anger. And then, after that, to disappear early in the morning without a note.... _Anyone_ would worry. He wasn't being over- protective. He was just being human. "Mulder!" She walked quickly across towards him, calling out softly. "I'm here!" His head snapped up, relief washing over his features. "Scully...." His voice was still hoarse. "I thought..... " He took a deep breath. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine, Mulder. I'm sorry I didn't leave a note." Mulder put a hand on her shoulder. "That's okay. I'm just glad you're....." And then he checked himself with a gasp. "I'm sorry...." Scully wanted to scream with frustration. _Why_ wasn't he angry with her? _She_ was always angry with _him_ if he disappeared without telling anywhere. But he just apologised for worrying about her. God! What had she done to him, that he was scared of her anger with every word he said? Since when had their every conversation been a mine-field? "I just went to the morgue, to check on the autopsy findings. You had to car keys, so I walked" Scully tried to keep her voice calm, although inside she was seething. "After what you said last night, it made me doubt. I just wanted to make sure...." "I'm sorry." Scully dug her nails into her palms, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Apologising _again_! If she shot him in cold-blood he'd probably _still_ insist it was his fault. But still he insisted he didn't have problems! The heart-breaking thing was that he genuinely believed it. Heart-breaking, but utterly utterly infuriating. "Anyway," she said, at last. "It's not implants." Something in Mulder's expression made her pause. A barely perceptible movement of the mouth and muscles round his eyes. A small catch in his breathing. Almost nothing. But _something_ was there. Almost..... disappointment? She reached for her keys, shaking her head to banish that thought. Probably her imagination. "I thought we could start with checking out those newspaper clippings, just in case they're linked to our case" she said, forcing herself to sound calm and professional. "Even if they're not, they might still be important as a separate case." Her hands shook as they fumbled with the lock, listening to Mulder's silence. She hoped, even prayed, that he'd accept her suggestion. Now the emotive issue of implants was removed from the case, a day working together, side by side, was their best hope. She couldn't ignore their problems, of course, but she knew that if they talked about them now she'd end up shouting, or in tears. Better to work together as if nothing had happened, to restore their relationship slowly, then discuss what needed to be discussed later, when they were calmer. "Mulder?" she said, at last, when the silence had become unbearable. There was a sharp edge to her voice that she hadn't intended. Snapping again. What was wrong with her? No answer. He hadn't moved, still standing outside, a look of dread on his face. "Mulder?" Oh God! It was happening again. What now? What _else_ hadn't he told her? "What is it?" "Last night," Mulder began, not looking at her. "I didn't tell you what happened after MacDonald was shot." "Another secret, Mulder," Scully snapped. "How many more.....?" She stopped herself just in time, a faint memory struggling through the anger. He'd _tried_ to tell her something last night, but she'd stopped him, even thrown him out. "He was trying to kill me." Mulder made no attempt to defend himself from Scully's unjust accusation. "He'd been trailing me in the woods, carefully and rationally, toying with my fears as if he enjoyed it. Then he was shot. I looked into his face as it happened. For a while, just a few seconds, he looked at me and his eyes were cold, evil, full of menace. It was if he was telling me that he _would_ kill me." He was still standing on the threshold, not meeting her gaze. Scully suddenly realised he wouldn't come in uninvited, not after she'd thrown him out last time. Her anger calmed by the reminder of how close she'd come to losing him again, she raised an arm to beckon him close to her, but he wasn't looking. "But then it all changed," Mulder continued, before she could say anything. "Suddenly his eyes just.... blanked out. There was nothing for a second, then he blinked as if he'd just woken up. That's when he started asking where he was. I asked him, and he couldn't remember anything. He came home from work, had a shower, got half-dressed again, then lay down on the bed, and then..... That's all he could remember. The only thing he knew was that he'd had a disturbing dream, but couldn't remember what it was about." "So?" Scully's voice was harsher than she intended, but she had a sudden memory of Mulder bullying the dying man, trying to get the information he was now telling her. "I've been thinking about it all night," Mulder continued. Scully tried to tell herself that this was a good sign. Mulder up all night on a case.... that was a normal thing - a thing she'd almost given up hope of seeing again. But his face told her it was too early to hope yet. The results of his all-night thinking had not been good. "I think that someone - or something - is controlling these people. It's more than mind control. It's more as if they're completely getting into their bodies. These people are literally not themselves. The person who attacked me _wasn't_ Martin MacDonald." "You mean possession?" Scully said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "Something like that. I don't know how it works. It seems to be connected with sleep. Everyone who's been..... "possessed", if you like, has been asleep just before. I think that.... whatever it is can't take control of someone when they're conscious." "But, Mulder...." Scully tried to object but her heart wasn't in it. If she was honest with herself, she no longer really cared what the answer was. Now she knew it wasn't to do with implants, all that mattered was that things between them would be as they were. "It's not that different from what you were thinking, Scully," Mulder continued. "When you thought it was something to do with the implants, weren't you thinking that _they_ were somehow sending messages through the implants - messages that acted on their minds, making them act out of character?" "I don't know, Mulder!" Scully found herself shouting. "I don't know what I thought. I just.... panicked. But that's over now. It's nothing to do with them." "No, it's not." Mulder shook his head slowly, and that look was in his eyes again. There was a long silence. "Damn it, Mulder! What _is_ it?" Scully snapped first, unable to take it any more. He'd explained his theory. Why then did he look at her as if she'd break? "I think..... I think you should go home." It was a barely- audible mumble. "What?" "I.... There's nothing here for y..... I mean, you've been so upset these last few days. You need to get away from m.... from it." He was edging back, little steps away from her blazing anger. "Are you saying I'm unfit to do my job?" Her voice was high with incredulity. "Are you saying I need time off on grounds of instability?" Yes, a little voice whimpered inside her. I _do_ time off. I _do_ need to talk to someone. I can't take this any more. I should have talked to someone months ago. Just because Mulder's problems were worse than mine doesn't mean I'm not allowed to find it hard too. "Damn it, Mulder!" She ignored the little voice, surrendering to the anger. "If anyone's unfit to work it's you. If anyone's unstable, it's you. Just before Lewis took you, I was on the point of asking Skinner to make you take psychiatric leave. God! How I wish I _had_. " She'd thought it so often, when his behaviour became more than she could bear. But why why why was she saying it - shouting it - now, to him? Mulder's eyes were swimming, but he took a step forward, coming into the room at last, his face full of.... pity? "Why are you looking at me like that?" she snapped. "I don't know how.... I....." He took a deep breath. "I think you should sit down." "Damn it, Mulder!" Scully ignored him, listening only to the anger. "Why don't you fight back? Why don't you defend yourself? Why are you doing this to me?" "Because it's not you." He held her shoulders, his eyes sincere and sad. "It's not.....?" And then realisation dawned. "God, Mulder! You can't mean.... No!" "I think it's taken you over now." Mulder held her wrists now, stopping them from lashing out at his face, too close to hers. "Last night, perhaps, when it left MacDonald. It couldn't get a proper grip until you were asleep...." "So where's the dead body? Where's the murder weapon? Why are _you_ still alive?" Scully heard her own voice, cruel with sarcasm. "I think.... circumstances weren't right last night. Like the first night it took over Jim Ferguson. His wife said he'd slept badly the previous night, and was anxious and irritable all day." His fingers dug into her flesh as she tried to pull away from his grip. "I think it only has full control when someone's asleep, but it leaves its mark at other times too, making the..... victim prey to wild emotions they don't have full control of." "How did you work out I was affected." Scully hissed the words out between her teeth, still tingeing them with heavy sarcasm. "Last night, when I came..... Your door was open, but you couldn't remember opening it. You spoke about a dream, just like MacDonald did - just like Hilary and Jim Ferguson did. And then you were....." Scully wrenched her hands free at last. "Right. My door's unlocked, and from that you deduce I've been possessed?" She sighed with exasperation. "Mulder! Hasn't it occurred to you that I forgot to lock the door because I fell asleep accidentally? And that I shouted at you because.... because you deserved it? Just because I get angry with you doesn't mean I'm possessed." "But you...." "No, Mulder. You listen to me. I will _not_ take any more of this. I should have stopped it long ago. As soon as you started denying your own problems by saying they were put in your head by a telepath, I should have made you go into therapy. It's partly my fault, I suppose." But her voice held no remorse, only anger. "But I will _not_ let you do it again. If I'm angry, it's because I'm genuinely angry, not because some.... thing is possessing me." "But, Scully...." "Mulder!" The anger made the words flow, even as she knew she shouldn't say them. "I know things have been difficult lately. But it's _you_ with problems. If I'm stressed, it's because of you - of your refusal to deal with what's happened. The only thing that will cure it is for _you_ to go into therapy - for _you_ to deal with your own problems and stop landing them all on me." "I will.... I'm sorry." Mulder's voice choked on the words. "I.... didn't think how much it affected you. I'm sorry. I'll see a counsellor if it will help you." "Mulder! You're _still_ doing it!" Scully almost hated herself for shouting at him when he was so upset, but the words were ripped from her, a cry of exasperation. "You'll do it to help me? Why can't you do it for yourself? Why can't you see _you're_ the one with a problem?" "I'm sorry." Mulder was so deep in reproach he showed no signs of hearing her. "I made you stressed. That probably made it easier for it to take control...." Never in her life had Scully needed to use as much control as she did at that moment. "You said I should go home," she said, when she was able to open her mouth without screaming. "Right. I'm going home." Mulder looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. "It's the right thing to do." He spoke so quietly it was as if he was talking to himself. "I'll.... I'll take some samples from the bodies to the lab at Quantico," she stammered, suddenly desperate not to leave him without some reason, however implausible, for her departure. She couldn't tell him the truth - not yet. Carried away by anger, she'd said for too much already. "They might find some other explanation for what has happened." Oh God, oh God. Please let them find something..... A well- concealed drug..... Something..... Anything.... Anything to finish the nightmare. Anything. "I'll be back tomorrow." Why did he look so bereft? He'd told her to go, begged her to go. But he needed her... She couldn't be needed all the time. Sometimes she had to think of herself..... "Please go now, Mulder." How could she live with herself if she left him? Oh God, how would she live if she stayed with him? Oh God! I can't go on like this. _We_ can't go on like this. Help us, please.... ********** end of part 9 The print was swimming before his eyes again, letters, words, sentences blurring together until they were unreadable. Scully.... Come back to me, Scully. You're all I've got.... Fiercely, Mulder dashed his hand over his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the papers in front of him. He had to solve the case - _had_ to. Even if all he wanted to do was curl up in a darkened room and wait for her to come back, soft and caring like she used to be. Like she was before he pulled all the happiness from her life. Selfish, that's what you are. Selfish. His conscience, stern and unforgiving. How can you expect her to stay when you've made her life miserable? She's pulling away - escaping. Another day with you and she'd have cracked. You don't deserve her. The papers blurred again and the focused, the letters forced together by a supreme act of will. Words. Names. Names of the people who'd disappeared. Names of people who knew them, of places they'd been. Pages and pages copied down from phone calls, printed out by computers, sent over faxes. Words, words..... But no leads yet. No clues. Nothing. Oh Scully, I'm sorry. I'm trying. I'll try harder. I'll try and solve it for you, then you can be safe. Safe from whatever it is that's feeding on your stress, making you angry, making you shout at me when I can see the guilt in your eyes as soon as you utter the words. I deserve the words, but it hurts you to say them. I can't bear it when you're hurt. But _I_ hurt you most of all..... But if you want to be safe from me too, safe forever, what then....? "No!" He didn't know he'd spoken aloud until someone coughed. A police officer glancing anxiously at him, taking in the bruised face, the brimming eyes. He chewed his lip, trying to pretend he was deep in some work- related thought prompted by the papers before him. He should have gone back to the motel, but the records were so much easier to access from the police station. Besides, there were people here - distractions. Back in his room he'd just have given in to his loneliness and Scully would come back and find the case no further advanced than when she'd left. But here, he _had_ to force his emotions down or people would see. It made his chest quiver, his throat ache, his eyes sting, but it was best for the case - best for _her_. Words, Mulder. Think of the words. Focus. Find out what's done this to Scully. Find out, and stop it. Make her safe. Focus. But _I've_ done this to Scully! No!.... Yes. Yes, you have. But something else, too. Find it, and stop it. Focus. Stop it hurting her. Two o'clock striking on the old-fashioned clock. She'd be home now. Had she really gone to the lab? Or was she seeking safety in her mother's arms, safe from him? Two o'clock, and nothing, yet. Nothing on the case - _their_ case. Nothing on the disappearances to link them, either to each other or to the murders. Nothing. Just words, names, words. I can't solve it without you, Scully. I must, but I can't. Three years working with you, and I can't think without you. You never believed, but you let me bounce my ideas off you, putting me on track, making me question. We can only function _together_. Without you, I'm nothing. Whenever I ran off and left you, I went astray, I got hurt. I worked alone before you came along and see where that got me? Scully, I _need_ you. But you don't need me. You can only be happy without me. Words. Names. A name! Suddenly, clear through the swimming blur of the pages. Dr Kim Bradshaw. He'd seen that name before, on a previous page. He was suddenly alert, leafing through the pages like a man possessed. There it was again, a few sheets on. Then again, later still. The papers shook in his hand. Here, at last, after hours of futile searching, was _something_. All the people who'd disappeared had visited the same psychiatrist. He stood up, chair grating against the floor, jacket brushing the papers so they fluttered to the floor, a careless cascade of white. There was no time to pick them up. ********** "Thank you for seeing me at such short notice." The voice was little, insecure - the voice of a stranger. Walter Skinner pushed his sleeve back, a slow and considered movement. "I've got a meeting at four thirty," he said, his eyes still on his watch. Five past four. He knew it already, of course, having checked the time barely a minute earlier, but looking at his watch provided a distraction - a cover for the awkwardness he suddenly felt upon seeing her. He was amazed at the devastation a few days could wreak. Three days ago, when she'd begged him to authorise their current investigation, he'd seen the stress underneath her controlled exterior, but it had been nothing like this. Now, pale, small and tense, she sat as if there was a bomb underneath her chair. He cleared his throat. "Is there a problem, Agent Scully?" His voice was gruffer than he'd have liked, but he knew Scully neither expected nor wanted special treatment. Say what he wanted to say and he'd appear patronising, treating her as less than professional. "No!" An instinctive shout, more of defensiveness than truthfulness, for then she shook her head, sadly. "I mean, yes...." Scully fidgeted, her knuckles white on the arm of the chair. He'd never seen her at a loss for words before. Stress always seemed to inspire in her a steely determination. He'd never forget her anger in those terrible days when she'd returned from New Mexico. "Agent Mulder is dead!" she'd stated, her face a mask of contempt even as she was crying inside. He'd been one of the enemy then, in her eyes, and on the receiving end of her anger. But now, he hoped, she knew he'd always be fair even if he couldn't be friendly. "What is it, Agent Scully?" Skinner deliberately kept his voice hard. He hated the way he sounded, but he couldn't act any other way. "I thought you were on a case. Why have you come back?" "I'm sorry, sir." Scully straightened her shoulders, wiping all emotion from her face. As he'd hoped, his tone helped her pull herself together. "I came back to do some work in the lab." A monotone, as if she was reading a prepared speech. "While I was here, I thought I'd come and ask...." She stopped, biting her lip, losing the script. "It's Mulder, isn't it?" Skinner spoke quietly, coming to her rescue. No need to make this any harder than it had to be. "It's you and him, as partners? You want me to do something." Just for a second, hope blossomed in Scully's face. She leant forward slightly, looking at him as if he'd given her the key to a dungeon. But then she sank back, the brief light fading in her eyes. "What could you do? I shouldn't have come. Until Mulder accepts that he needs help....." It pained him to see the defeat in her eyes. Three months ago she'd been full of fierce determination. "We _will_ get through this!" she'd almost shouted, seeing the shock he'd felt upon leaving Mulder's hospital room. "However long it takes, however difficult he finds it, I'll support him through it. He _will_ recover." Her eyes had flashed fire, furious at anyone who dared suggest otherwise, furious at the doubt she'd seen in his eyes. He softened at the memory. God! She'd been so strong for three months, fighting an impossible fight all alone. Who could blame her if she couldn't take it any more? He shook his head, sadly. "Maybe I can't help Mulder, but I can help you. You've been through as much as Mulder has. Maybe more, as you've had to stay strong for him, put his needs before yours." A quick glance at the side door of his office. He knew there'd be trouble if he said it, but what the hell? "I can transfer you away from the X-Files." He held a hand up, stopping her outburst. "It needn't be permanent, just a few months. You could still see Mulder out of work hours, of course, but wouldn't have the stress of coping with him all the time." Scully's eyes blazed ice. He was strangely comforted to see it, reminded of her old determination. "Is that what would go on my record? Transferred because I couldn't cope with a little stress?" Skinner shook his head emphatically, but Scully didn't give him the chance to speak. "But that's what people would think, and it's not fair. _I'm_ not the one with a problem here. It's Mulder. If anyone should be transferred....." She broke off suddenly, shaking her head. "No," she continued, more quietly. "If _I_ leave, he'll just get worse. It won't solve anything. But if I stay....." These last words faded into a nothingness of choked throat and welling eyes. "If you stay," he said grimly, "you'll soon be in no state to help Mulder, or yourself. Better for both of you if you get out before it goes too far." "No. I can't leave him." It was almost a sob. "That's not the answer." "So, what _do_ you want me to do?" A firm voice again, to recall her from her nightmare. Scully sighed, her body tight with control. "I want you to force Mulder to take some time off and to talk to a counsellor." She spoke quickly and quietly, as if she scarcely dared to be audible. "On what grounds?" Skinner asked, gruffly. Of course he knew the answer. He'd seen with his own eyes that Mulder had scarcely even begun to get over what Lewis had done to him. But that didn't alter anything. His superiors expected him to follow procedure, and he couldn't make exceptions. "Is his behaviour affecting his work?" Slowly, oh so slowly, Scully shook her head. "I got a good report on his work after your last case," he reminded her, knowing that he was trampling on her last hope. He leant forward, unable to keep the regret from his voice. "You know I can't do what you ask unless his work is affected." "But it _is_!" Scully burst out. "Can't you see how different he is?" "Agent Scully." Skinner made his voice stern. "If he's different it's because at last he seems to be following orders, showing no inclination to pursue lines of investigation that are strictly forbidden. Much as it might sadden me personally to see him lose his drive, in my position as his superior I must officially welcome the change, not discipline him for it." Scully turned her face away. "Agent Scully." The words hung in the air like a threat until finally she turned to face him. "I'm sorry." Quick, urgent words full of unspoken meaning. "I can't do this for you. It's not fair to put this on Mulder's record when he's done nothing wrong. Especially as _you_ were the one antagonising local law enforcement this time, or so I'm told." He glanced sharply at that door again, hoping she'd catch the warning, remembering the smug satisfaction with which that particular fact had been reported. Nothing Mulder and Scully were doing right now went unnoticed. He only wished he could be wrong about the reason for this sudden intense interest in their activities. "So you're saying _I'm_ the one with a problem?" Scully snapped, showing no signs of understanding his warning. "Just because Mulder isn't causing trouble, you shut your eyes to the fact that he's got serious problems. As long as he can drag himself through the working day, you won't accept there's a problem, and if I try to get you to accept there _is_ a problem then I'm obviously over-reacting and getting stressed." He should have spoken sternly to her for her outburst, but he hadn't the heart to do that to her. How could he, when she was completely right in everything she said? The terrible thing was that _his_ stance was right too. "No-one can blame you for finding it difficult," he said, at last, leaning across the desk towards her. "I'm not ignoring Mulder's problems. But...." A deep breath, anticipating her anger. "But I think _you're_ ignoring your _own_ problems. If the situation's affecting your work...." Scully pushed the chair back and stood up. "What will it take to make you listen?" she cried. "I'm not the one who needs help. It's Mulder. Can't you see what he's doing to himself?" Skinner moved quickly to her side. "Agent Scully." He kept his voice low, eyes on the door. "I _can_ see it, believe me, but I can also see what he's doing to you. You're being just as blind as he is - as you accuse me of being." Scully's eyes shone with emotion, but she turned towards the door without a word. "My offer's still open, if you change your mind," he reminded her softly, thinking again how a temporary transfer could well be their only hope for survival. His only answer was the slam of a door, the faint sound of receding footsteps. Skinner sighed, leaning back against his desk, shutting his eyes briefly against the after-image of Scully's anger. His eyes shut, he didn't see the other door open, but he heard the slow creak, smelt the smoke. "You got what you wanted." Skinner made no attempt to hide his distaste. "She didn't accept." A lung-full of smoke was blown in his face. "Ah, but you shouldn't have offered. You were told not to." There was no menace in the voice. There was no need for it. _They_ were winning. Skinner still hadn't looked at him. He wished he didn't have to speak to him, but he had to ask the question, even though he knew the other man would see it as a sign of weakness. "How's Mulder taking her absence?" he asked, trying to sound casual and knowing he'd failed. There was more than Mulder's happiness riding on the answer. If Mulder wasn't coping, Scully would never agree to leave him. "Why do you think I know that?" God! He hated that voice, answering questions with questions. "Damn you!" He whirled on the other man, hands clenched into angry fists, remembering too late his resolution not to acknowledge his presence with a look. "Can't you leave them alone?" "We have a right to defend our interests." A bored monotone, wheeling out the tired old excuses. "But they're not....." Not a threat, not to anyone but themselves. But what was the point of saying it? Why betray Mulder and Scully by discussing their problems with the enemy? "No." A satisfied smile, a slow twist of the cigarette in the ashtray. The other man had read his unspoken thought. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" He'd suspected it already, of course, but had desperately tried not to believe it. "It's not this case they're on?" He fervently hoped it was. He understood how this man's associates genuinely believed there were secrets that should be kept at all costs. Although he disliked their methods, he could at least understand their motivations, and knew that Mulder had taken them on with his eyes open, accepting the risks. If this sudden interest in observing his agents came from something they'd uncovered on this case, then he could tolerate it - not like it, but tolerate it. But if it wasn't..... The alternative was even more cruel than he'd expected, even for them. "What do _you_ think?" The other man, his hands empty now, curled his mouth in a thin smile. Skinner turned his back, collecting his papers with exaggerated gestures, making a show of preparing to leave for his meeting. "You should be pleased." The smoke-edged voice was relentless. "_You_ reopened the X-Files. You've fought for them to stay together. Now that's what we want too." Skinner tried not to rise to the provocation, but it was too much. "Damn you! You want them to stay together just long enough to destroy themselves. That's not defending "national security", or whatever you call it. It's cruelty." "Defending our interests, as I said." There was a spark as he lit another cigarette. "Prevention is better than cure, as they say. You saw the.... unfortunate consequences last spring when Mulder acquired that tape. This way, we make sure there won't be a repetition. It's better for everyone." "Not for them." "But we're not _doing_ anything to them. That's what's so.... convenient. They're doing it to themselves. Self-destruction, while we just have to wait and watch. Much more effective than anything we've done to them." "Was Lewis....?" Oh God! He'd never considered _that_. A grim laugh. "No. We had nothing to do with that. But he did our work for us. Now we reap the consequences." Skinner turned away in disgust. What sort of a man could laugh while two people tore themselves apart? "Get out!" he suddenly shouted, turning around in fury. ********** end of part 10 He wasn't at home, either. The windows were sightless holes in the night, the walls radiating a sense of emptiness. Mulder sighed, resting his elbow on the mailbox as he scanned the house. It hardly seemed worth walking up the path. Dr Bradshaw was clearly out, and from the pile of newspapers at the door it looked as if he'd been away for more than a few days. Another dead end, just like the hours spent at the university twenty miles away where the doctor had worked. His office locked, with no-one to give him the key. His colleagues singularly uninformed about his research. The doctor himself absent on leave for over a month, getting some rest after months of almost ceaseless work. He pushed himself away from the mailbox, stepping forward onto the path even as his mind was telling him all the reasons why there would be no point. He wondered why he'd paused. Of course he was going to investigate. Any chance, however small, of solving a case that was hurting Scully just _had_ to be taken. And it wasn't as if he had anything else to do. There was no contest. A long lonely night following leads that came to nothing, or a long lonely night in a motel room thinking of the way Scully's eyes had burned with torment. No. No contest. Anything was better than _that_. He paused at the door, the slanting shadow of a neighbour's tree flickering on the chipped red paint, the scuffle of newspapers at his feet. Kicking them aside, he knocked at the door, listening dutifully for sounds he never expected to hear. Silence, but for a small sound as his foot touched a newspaper, scraping it softly on the stone step. Suddenly he stiffened, realisation washing the lethargy from his mind. A week's supply of newspapers. But he was sure the mailbox had been empty.... His hand sought the cold security of his gun. Already the house seemed darker, the noises he'd dismissed as whispering trees suddenly sounding like human menace. Walking silently to the window, he peered in, not surprised to see fallen furniture, books scattered on the floor, eerie shadows in the almost-dark room. It could have been a burglar, of course, attracted by the blatant advertisement provided by the pile of newspapers. But deep down he knew it hadn't been. This was something else. He was hardly surprised, after all this, to find that the door handle turned easily, allowing him to explore the extent of the damage. He walked slowly through the ruined rooms, the torch beam falling on scenes of devastation. A mound of papers. A smashed plate. Books everywhere. A familiar sight, now, from so many dreams of sitting in the ruins of his apartment waiting for the call to say that Scully had died, seeing her unconscious face on every trampled page. Oh, Scully..... He caught his breath at the memory, sinking down into the grey couch, comfortless but strangely familiar. He started as his fingers met something hard, but it was only the remote, slipped down behind a cushion. Suddenly desperate to hear another human voice, he pressed the on button, but nothing happened. They'd taken the television, trying to disguise it as a simple burglary. But of course it wasn't. He'd seen the result of their work before, seen the particular sort of damage done when searching for something. He leant back and shut his eyes, feeling the coldness of the house penetrate his spirits. A cold house, not a home. No ornaments, bare furniture, hundreds of videos for the long lonely nights, takeaway numbers by the phone. And the papers.... Everywhere in the house were books, papers, files, and all of them about work. This was a man who lived for his work, because he had nothing else to live for. God! He'd disappeared for over a week, and no-one had noticed. Was this his _own_ future? Was this his own _present_? No-one to care where he was, except Scully, and now he'd driven her away too? The silence pressed down on him like a leaden blanket, making him want to shout. Hours now since he'd heard a human voice. Days - weeks, even - since he'd received a smile. It had been different once, he was sure. Scully with her torch, creeping through the house, making her own observations. She'd be upstairs now, her footsteps faint on the worn carpet, a look of mock-scolding on her face when she came down and found he'd sat down next to the doctor's video collection. Then they'd share opinions, sometimes with a joke or a smile, sometimes deadly earnest, but always together. Had it _ever_ been like that, or was that just as idealised memory of what should have been? He knew now - Lewis had taught him - how memory could play tricks, fooling you into believing the past was other than what it had been. The summers of childhood always sunny, the first love never surpassed, the past tinged with the rosy lies of nostalgia. He stood up, suddenly, letting the remote fall to the floor with a crash. What was wrong with him? There was no time to wallow in self-pity. Scully was in danger, and he had to help her. The past couldn't be changed, but the future could - Scully's future. For her sake, he had to fight the clutching tendrils of memory and focus on the case. But it was so hard.... He picked up a file from the floor, leafing through the contents, knowing he wouldn't find anything important. _They_ were thorough. They'd have removed anything that looked remotely important, leaving behind nothing worth a second glance. They never did. Sure, they left little clues sometimes, toying with him, leading him to small painful truths, but the bulk of their activity was always secret and always would be. What was the point in looking at all? To help Scully. To find out what was possessing her, threatening her sanity and life.... Yeah, right. With a sound close to a sob he threw the file back with the others - a useless pile fit only for garbage. Whom was he kidding? Scully wasn't possessed. She was just - just! - cracking under the strain of dealing with him. It was all _his_ fault - she'd told him as much. He thought he'd leant to face the truth, but once again he'd run away from his own guilt, trying to hide behind some non-existent paranormal explanation. What was the point of carrying on? He switched off the torch, letting the darkness enclose him, although he could still feel the devastation. Faceless men emptying drawers, piling up papers, eyes dispassionate as they tore someone's life to shreds. He could feel their presence still, like the lingering after-image of a lightning flash. Had they found what they were looking for? Perhaps not. _Someone_ had come back, emptying the mailbox. They could be out there at that very moment, watching him, monitoring him, even taking aim at his head through the uncovered windows. Not that it mattered. If they were watching they'd see him turn towards the door, feeling his way through the wreckage with his hands. No point in staying. Three years into the struggle, and he'd only just leant that now. Deep Throat, Mr X, Skinner.... He'd ignored them all, stumbling into situations way above him head, learning little but losing much - making others lose more. Never again. All the truths in the world were not worth risking Scully's life for. This time, he'd back off before she got hurt. But.... His fingers clutched at the door handle at the sudden memory of her tormented eyes in the night. But what if she _was_ affected by.... whatever it was? He couldn't just walk away without finding out..... Oh God! Scully. I need you here, Scully. I don't know what to do. Help me. But if she _was_ here, would he tell her? Of course not. It affected her, so he wouldn't tell her, wouldn't put her through any more pain. He'd seen how close she'd come to breaking down entirely when he as much as suggested she might be possessed. Might be possessed. _Might_ be..... He slid down the wall, crouching on the carpet, head leaning back on the cold plaster. He just didn't know what to believe any more. He squeezed his eyes shut, imagining Scully's presence, hearing her cool tones echo in his head. _She'd_ know what to do. A quick tap of her heels as she explored the house, a glance outside to see they weren't being watched, a realistic assessment of whether they should carry on with the case. He could almost hear her now. A creak from the kitchen. Light footsteps in the hall, muffled by carpet. Scully.... Strange how realistic imagination could be. Shaking his head to clear the memory, he rose to his feet, hearing the silence of the house. No sound but his own breathing. A step forward. A sudden noise made him start but it was only the crackle of paper under his feet. Another step. There was a small click as he switched his torch on, directing the beam onto the floor, trying not to look at the detritus of the doctor's life. Then a sudden noise behind him made him turn, spinning the torch around in a disorientating whirl of light. A pair of eyes, blinking in the sudden glare. And then a flash of dazzling silver as the knife held in the man's hands began its descent. ********** His mouth moved, though no sounds came out, and his eyes spoke with an eloquence that was more than words. Their faces were only inches apart, dark eyes locking with light. She only came up to his shoulder, and her head leant back, resting on the arm he'd placed around her neck, turning her lips up towards his. Murmuring silently, his lips began to move slowly towards hers.... "God!" Scully reached for the pause button and froze the lovers into an eternity of not quite touching. She'd already turned the sound off, finding that the swelling violin score made her eyes prick and her chest convulse with inexplicable sobs, but had found the human presence strangely comforting, even if they were only actors on a screen, probably long dead now. It was just some old movie. She couldn't remember the title, couldn't be bothered to check the video case to find out. She'd grabbed it at random on the way home, hoping she could escape into the world of fiction. As if she could forget.... She stood up, picking up the cold pizza from the coffee table. She'd eaten half a slice, forcing lumps of chewy cheese down her throat as if they would choke her, but the rest sat there, cold and repulsive. An evening in with a movie and pizza. What could be more normal than that? And what could be more blind and stupid? She wondered what she'd hoped to prove. That she was okay? As long as she could pass an evening doing normal things, then everything was normal and she needn't worry? God, she thought again, tipping the pizza into a plastic storage box, although she knew she'd never touch it again. What's wrong with me? She glanced at the television again, suddenly seeing a hint of Mulder in the hero's eyes, shining with silent intensity. "Damn you!" she shouted, surprising herself with her anger. Mulder again. He was always intruding - calling her, slipping into her thoughts, disturbing her peace. "Leave me alone!" She switched the television off, wishing she could wipe Mulder from her life so easily. She sighed, guilty at the thought. Of course she didn't mean it.... Yes, I do. The little voice of her anger, relentless in her mind. I don't want anything else. The Mulder who makes me furious, heart-broken, and sleepless.... the Mulder who's driven me away from this case by his behaviour..... the Mulder I worry about all my waking hours, leaving no time for myself.... I don't want anything more than to be rid of him. "No!" She spoke aloud, desperate to silence _that_ train of thought. That's not the real Mulder. He's being difficult now, but he needs me to stay with him, however hard it is for me. I'll help him, then he'll get better. He'll be himself again. But what if he doesn't.....? "Stop it!" she shouted, sinking down on the couch, her head in her hands. She couldn't let herself think like that. She had to find some other to get through to him, to make him realise he needed help. Whatever she did, she couldn't leave him, not even for a few months, as Skinner had suggested. However difficult, she _had_ to stick it out. He needed her. She bit her lip against the despairing howl that was threatening to burst out. When she was young, fourteen and never been in love, an older girl had told her smugly about her boyfriend. "He'll never leave me," she'd said, a satisfied smile on her lips. "He's unhappy away from me. He needs me." She'd been so jealous then, wondering if she'd ever meet someone who needed her like that. How could she have been so blind? Being needed was like being in prison. Just leaving him for one night could destroy.... She glanced at the phone. She ought to call him. He'd be feeling hurt, lonely and anxious, scared to call her in case she shouted at him. She ought to call him - reassure him she was coming back. And if he sounded okay, then perhaps he _could_ survive without her and she could.... "No!" She shook away that thought, reaching for her cellphone. She ought to call him. Ought to. But the very thought of hearing his voice made her want to scream She dropped the phone, listening to the loneliness of her apartment. God! She'd come home to get away from Mulder, to try and restore some sort of sanity in her life, and what was she doing? Sitting there in silence thinking about him. Like a poison in her bloodstream, he invaded every aspect of her life, leaving her with nothing she could call her own. "Damn you, Mulder!" she shouted, and on sudden impulse picked up her car keys and headed for the door. ********** end of part 11 "Stop the car!" A quavering order close to his ear. Mulder had no choice but to obey, aware of the gun - his gun - still aimed at his forehead, although the man was now using his left hand to support the shaking right. "Are you going to kill me?" He hadn't the heart for the black humour he normally used in situations such as these. What was the point? If he was going to die, then he was going to die. "Keep you hands on the wheel where I can see them." The gun pressed closer to him temple, cold against his skin. God, but he'd been stupid. Letting the man creep up on him like that, getting himself pressed against the wall by the knife at the throat while the man's other hand reached to pull his own gun from the holster. Then, threatened by knife and gun, he'd been marched to the car and ordered to drive, until at last they'd arrived at the end of a dark lane, apparently in the middle of nowhere. It would be days before they found his body. "What were you doing in the house?" the man asked, cutting into his memory. "I could ask you the same question." "But I'm the one with the gun." There was a painful circle pressed into his forehead now, little stabs of pain coming whenever the gun shook. "This time, _I_ want the answers." Mulder turned to face him, pushing against the gun, suddenly knowing that the trigger wouldn't be pulled. "You're not one of them." It wasn't a question. Now he could see the man properly for the first time it was obvious. He was dishevelled, unshaven, his face radiating anxiety. "Don't look at me!" The man raised his hand quickly, then brought it down, letting the hard metal of the gun crash into Mulder's forehead, although there was little force in the blow. "You know I'm not." But his voice was less sure now, shaking with doubt. "Put the gun down," Mulder urged. "It's loaded. It might go off accidentally." The man lowered the gun, though he still kept his finger on the trigger, still stared warily at Mulder. "Who are you?" he asked, at last. "My name's Fox Mulder. I'm with the FBI. My ID's in my pocket, if you want to check." He paused long enough for the man to reach and take it, looking straight at him to allow him to compare him with the photograph. "I'm investigating the disappearance of Dr Kim Bradshaw and five of his patients," he lied, hoping this was the right answer. The man leant back against the passenger seat, gun forgotten. "Only five? So they got most of them after all. He hoped...." Then he gasped, stopping himself abruptly, raising the gun a little. "Are you trying to trick me?" Mulder nodded towards his hands, palm up on the steering wheel. "You're the one with the gun, Mr....." The man didn't provide his name. "If I was with them, do you think I'd go all alone to that house and let myself get caught?" "If you were really with the FBI, would you really go all alone to that house and let yourself get caught?" the man responded, but there was a wan smile on his lips. "No, I shouldn't believe you, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He glanced over his shoulder, staring into the night. "If this _is_ a trap and your friends are out there, then I don't think I really care. In a way, it will be a relief to get this over with." Mulder raised his hand to his aching forehead, massaging it gently. "No. My friends aren't out there. I'm alone." He tried to keep the tremor from his voice, but knew he wasn't entirely successful. Damn it, Mulder, he reminded himself. This is no time for wallowing in self-pity. Concentrate! There was an awkward silence. Mulder broke it first, needing a sound to distract himself from his thoughts. "So, what's all this about then?" A good open- ended question. Prompt the man into a long explanation, so he needn't think enough to come up with probing questions and comments. He didn't feel quite focused enough for that. "Why are you _really_ here?" The voice was sharp and suspicious, although the gun was now untouched on the man's lap. "I know you're not here because of Kim's disappearance because I know no-one's reported it." He smiled, almost apologetically. "But I _did_ hear that the FBI were here poking their noses - sorry, my... informant's words, not mine - in some murder case." Mulder decided to trust the man, though for all he knew he was playing a double game. _He_ could have been the one who had sent the clippings, for some agenda of his own. "Yes I - _we_- were investigating several murders, but the case got.... complicated. I was given reason to believe they might be linked to Dr Bradshaw...." "Kim would never kill anyone!" A hot protestation of outrage. "No," Mulder hastened to assure him. "No-one thinks he did. But the murders were apparently committed by people who were.... not quite in control of their minds." He chose his words carefully. "And Dr Bradshaw was doing research...." He let the sentence tail off suggestively, although he had no idea what Dr Bradshaw was doing research on. But he had a strong feeling that the other man _did_ know, and that the best way to get at the truth was to bluff. The man let his breath out in a horrified rush. "Murders?" he stammered. "_Five_ patients disappeared? Oh God! It's just what he was afraid of." "Perhaps we can stop them, if you tell me what you know." Mulder spoke softly, not wanting to push too hard and arouse the man's suspicions. The man sighed shakily. "Yes. I...." Then he collected himself. "But it's not my secret to tell. I can't...." "Look." Mulder leant forward, taking the man by the shoulders. "I can't prove to you that I'm not one of them, but you just have to trust me." The man's finger tightened on the trigger. "And I still have the gun, just in case." There was no threat in his voice, only doubt. "What's your name?" "You mean, you don't know already?" The man's eyes were still distrustful, but then he shrugged. "Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But I guess I've no choice but to trust you. My name's Mark Coates." "And what's your connection to Dr Bradshaw?" God, but the man was making this difficult. Would he have to fight like this for every scrap of information? "Kim was my friend." Coates shook his head sadly. "I hope I mean _is_, but I'm not sure any more." Mulder paused while the man collected himself, feeling the man's grief even though he didn't express it openly. "We shared a room at College," Coates continued at last. "We ended up living in the same state so managed to keep in touch after we left, although recently we only met every six months or so. I knew he was busy on his project so kept away, though I made him promise to come and stay for a week when it was all over." He managed a wan smile. "Ironic, huh?" "You mentioned his project?" Mulder suspected this was the heart of the matter, but tried to keep his voice neutral. Coates smiled, sadly. "Oh, his project. God! I sometimes used to hate that project, back at College. He used to keep me up till all hours of the night, telling me all about his theory, and how he'd devote his life to putting it into practice. I humoured him, but... well, everyone has dreams when they're young. How many people ever fulfil them?" He laughed bitterly. "I was going to be more famous than Freud, of course. And now I just teach psychology to High School kids who aren't interested in it." Mulder felt some reply was expected. "I was going to be an astronaut," he managed to say, although his mind was on that other dream - the real childhood dream - that he still hadn't achieved. Maybe that's all it had ever been - a youthful dream as unrealistic as flying into space, and, like other youthful dreams, best forgotten. "I never thought he'd be successful," Coates continued after a pause. "I thought he was throwing his life away on a fantasy, sacrificing everything for something that was essentially unattainable." Mulder knew the words weren't meant for him, but found he couldn't meet the man's eyes. He swallowed quickly and looked away into the dark countryside, struggling to keep his mind on the explanation. "But then he called me a few months ago and said he thought he was successful!" Coates was speaking fast now, fortunately not needed prompting. "He said he was taking all the leave he had owing from the university to test it at home on his patients." Mulder had already found out that Dr Bradshaw, as well as carrying out research at the university, kept one of his rooms at home as a consulting room and saw a small number of patients. "What.... what was the project?" Mulder managed to ask at last, turning back to the light. "Astral projection, he called it. He had this theory that most of the illnesses of both mind or body could be cured if you could find a way to separate the two. He thought most illnesses were essentially psychosomatic, and presence of the mind just slowed down the recovery of the body by distracting thoughts of fear and pain. It was his great dream - unite the disciplines of psychology and medicine. He as a psychologist would do the research, and then medical doctors would use it to help people." Mulder was silent, waiting for more, but Coates misinterpreted his expression. "You don't believe it's possible, do you." It was not a question. "I can't blame you. I was always sceptical. But it's not a new idea, he always told me. All he wanted to do was find a way of doing it that was acceptable to modern science, but lots of cultures have done it for centuries - or believe they have. He used to spend months down with the Navajo, talking to their medicine men." Mulder turned away, looking into the darkness, seeing again the field of stars and the men who'd come and talked to him while his body was in the hogan. If he hadn't listened to them then - if he'd stayed in the stars and not come back - what then? Would Scully be any happier? "....a few weeks later." Coates' words cut into his memories. "He said only six of them were able to do it, even with the drug, but they were getting better and better at it every time they did it. He thought they'd soon be able to do it without the drug, just with the self-hypnosis." "Did you ever....?" Mulder stopped, unsure of quite how much he'd missed. "No. I didn't come and watch, or even ask how it was done. He was going to tell me when he'd finished the trials." He sighed. "But that was before...." "Before what?" Coates's tone had been grim. Coates took a deep breath, as if plucking up the courage to relate something he didn't like to think about. "About three weeks ago he called me. It was late - after midnight. He sounded as if he'd been drinking, although he seldom drank. He said it was all going wrong. Or rather, it was going _too_ well. He said he'd started getting all the six together at regular sessions where they could practice their skills in a group. And it was only then that he found out...." Mulder squeezed the steering wheel, listening to the words hang in the silence. "He found out that they could return to the _wrong_ body." Coates laughed, mirthlessly. "Two of them did it as a joke, that's how he found out. Of course he was horrified. Effectively he'd created people capable of taking over other people's bodies, making them do..... whatever. It was like a horror movie come true." "So he stopped?" "Oh, how I wish he had." It was a cry of anguish. "He knew he should. He was terrified of what he'd created. But he couldn't just walk away. He needed to find out more, even though he knew he shouldn't. He was like a drug-addict, unable to stop even though he knew he had to." "So he experimented on those people, even though he knew it was dangerous." Mulder couldn't keep the contempt from his voice, his mind full of memories of the hideous medical experiments done in the name of science - Operation Paper Clip, Dr Ridley, the Eves.... "Don't you judge him!" Coates's eyes blazed with sudden fury, his shaking hand raising the gun. "He _had_ to carry on, even though he knew the consequences. It was twenty years of his life. Can't you understand?" Of course he understood. He'd have done the same - he _had_ done the same. But that didn't make it any more forgivable. "Anyway." Coates's voice was softer now. "They were all willing volunteers. That's what worried him most - that they'd do it themselves, outside his supervision. Either that, or...." "What?" But he knew the answer, knew what _they_ could do with such an ability. Coates blinked several times, his eyes shining. "He called me again, last weekend, for the last time. He said that some men had come to see him - men in expensive dark suits, claiming to be doctors working for the government. They said they'd heard about his research and it sounded promising - too promising for him to do by himself. They offered him unlimited funding if he'd come and work for them, saying that was the fruits of his research could be available to the whole country much faster." "And he refused." "Yes. He told them he'd think about it and they said they'd come back later, but he wasn't stupid. He saw the menace through their smiles. So he did all he could. He burnt all his patients's records, even the ones not in the group, and then he packaged up his research and he...." The words stopped as if they'd been cut with a knife. "What....?" Though the rest of the sentence was obvious. Why else was the man on the run? Coates shook his head, a quick guilty start. "I don't know." He changed the subject quickly. "He called me and told me all this, so if he disappeared I'd know the truth, maybe be able to do something about it." He sighed. "I think he knew nothing could be done, though." "But they found the patients anyway." The five missing people from the clippings. "I suppose so. I don't know how. But one got away....." "Our murderer." There was short silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts. God! What about....? He grabbed the man, firing questions at him. "What sort of people can he take over?" He tried to keep his voice level, but knew he wasn't succeeding. "Do they have to be unconscious themselves? How long can he stay in their bodies?" "I don't know!" the man shouted. "I've told you all I know. It's all in the research notes..... I guess." "You haven't read them?" Mulder was incredulous. "I don't want to know! I daren't look at them. If I don't know the details then maybe they'll let me go!" Coates cried out with sudden panic, tears running down his cheeks. "Why don't you give them to me?" Mulder suggested, gently. "Then you'll be out of danger." And I'll know if Scully's at risk, he added, silently. The gun fell to the floor with a clatter as the man covered his face with his hands. "I shouldn't," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I don't know if I can trust you, but..... " A shuddering sigh. "I can't live like this any more." "You don't have to." You're playing right into their hands, a little voice at the back of his mind told him. Who do you think sent the clippings? They're waiting for you to lead them to the truth, while they only need to watch. If you take the research you're as good as giving it to them, and risking your own life at the same time. No! The little voice of reason couldn't compete with the shout from the rest of his mind. What's a little risk? I _need_ to know the truth, for Scully's sake. If this person _is_ possessing her, this might be the only chance to stop him. But Scully would be at risk too. The voice wouldn't give up. Think of what happened when you took that digital tape, thinking only of yourself, not of her. "I'll keep it safe for you." His mind was made up. Scully wasn't here - wouldn't be till tomorrow. She was safe from their retaliation if they tried to gain the research. He was only risking himself, and what did that matter? ********** end of part 12 "I got another letter too - from Mrs Harper. You remember her, don't you, love?" Silence, but for the slurp of cold coffee swilled in the half- full mug. "You went to kindergarten with her son Patrick." Still no answer. "You kicked him in the face when he tried to look up your skirt. Then you cried because they took him off to hospital to stitch up his lip, and you wanted to do it yourself." She forced a laugh. "I guess that's when we knew you were going to be a doctor." The coffee swilled round and round, creeping ever closer to spilling over the rim. "Dana?" Margaret Scully touched her daughter gently on the arm. "Oh, I'm sorry." Dana gave a wan smile. "That's.... interesting." "She asked about you." "She?" Dana stammered, looking bemused. Then she shook her head, sudden understanding on her face. "Oh, yes. Of course. Tell her I'm... okay." Her voice wavered on that last word. Margaret Scully felt tears gathering in her throat. "Oh Dana, why can't you just tell....?" "So how _are_ they?" Her daughter's voice was desperate, even scared. "Who?" "The boys, of course!" Her voice was almost angry. Where had _that_ come from? "You were going to tell me their news." "_They're_ okay." She'd talked about her sons some five minutes ago, but let it pass. "Good." Dana's eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Dana." Margaret tried to take the mug but her daughter's hands tightening around it protectively, her knuckles white. "Do you want to talk about it?" "I keep meaning to call them." Dana ignored the question, speaking fast and loud. "I keep forgetting. I've been.... busy recently." Her voice cracked again. "Dana. It's Fox, isn't it - I mean, Mulder?" She corrected herself with a small laugh, hoping to provoke a smile from her daughter at the old teasing argument they always carried on. Dana wouldn't meet her concerned gaze. "That's a new picture, isn't it?" She spoke with a heart-breaking forced lightness, eyes focused above her mother's head. Margaret Scully made up her mind. It was one thing not to push, but this was too much. She was her _mother_. She put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "I know how difficult it's been for you lately, but you can't bear all this alone." "I can't turn my back on him, however much...." Dana cut herself off short, eyes blazing with sudden anger. "Don't _you_ suggest that too!" "I wasn't saying you should." Margaret kept her voice soft. She wondered who else had suggested that as a solution. Her boss, perhaps. Or maybe just part of her mind she was trying to ignore. "But maybe you could be more help to Fox if you think of yourself more. You can't help him if you're too stressed yourself." She chose her words carefully, knowing her daughter's fierce loyalty to her partner. The best way to get through to her was to appeal to this loyalty - convince her that by helping herself she'd be helping him. "It's always him!" Dana pulled away, knocking the mug over, splashing cold coffee on her knees. "Skinner.... Now you.... Think about the effect you're having on _him_. You can't be stressed - you've got to be strong to look after _him_. Pull yourself together so you can go back to him and let him to this all over again." She voice was harsh and bitter, twisting other people's words. "Dana, that's not...." "What about me?" It was a cry of anguish. "It's not selfish to want to be happy!" "Of course it isn't." Margaret held her daughter's hands, quickly rethinking her approach. "I _am_ thinking of you - and of Fox. Neither of you can carry on like this." "We've come through bad times before." A little voice, oh so doubtful. "Oh, Dana..." She reached out her arms for a hug, but her daughter pulled away, wrapping her arms tightly around her own body. She couldn't find any words of comfort. Yes, they _had_ survived the bad times before, but at what cost? Dana crying in her arms when she returned from New Mexico. Fox in his apartment on the brink of darkness, recalled only by Melissa. Melissa herself. Could that really be called "getting through"? "Yes," she said, at last, trying not to show her doubt. "But this is worse, isn't it? The cumulation of all those other bad times, all getting on top of you." And the direct result, perhaps, of the two of you failing to deal with all those other bad times, she thought, going back to work each time as if nothing had happened. Just like you're doing now, storing up even worse trouble for the future. "It's not me. It's Mulder," Dana said, defensively. "_I_ can deal with things. I don't need help. At least," she admitted, "not like he does." Margaret nodded, even as she wanted to disagree. Fox _did_ need help. She'd only seen him a few times in the last few months, but what she'd seen had shaken her deeply. But why couldn't Dana see that _she_ had problems too. Just because her problems derived from his didn't make them any less real, or deserving of attention. "Dana. I'm your mother. Please talk to me." She tried to sound strong, like a child's fantasy of a mother, godlike and solving all problems, but she couldn't keep the shake from her voice. "It will only get worse if you don't talk." She grabbed her hands. "Listen, Dana. You told me yourself that you wished _Fox_ would talk about his problems. Can't you see you're doing the same?" Dana pulled away, looking at her watch. "It's late. I must go. I've got to go back to.... Mulder tomorrow morning." Her voice only shook a little. Still her independent little girl, trying ever so hard to be brave. "I'm not crying!" she'd whimper, through gritted teeth, when she fell over trying to keep up with the boys. "Crying's for little girls." "Why don't you stay here?" Margaret asked, suddenly. "Oh Mom, I couldn't." She was trying to sound so confident, but her eyes betrayed her. "I want you to, dear. We don't see each other much, and it's good to have company. We can do whatever you want. Watch a video.... talk....." She said a silent prayer. Please let her talk. She needs to talk about this before it overwhelms her. Dana sat down, not putting up a fight, although Margaret had twenty other reasons prepared to persuade her stubborn and independent-minded daughter to stay. "I'd rather just talk." Margaret sighed deeply with relief. "No!" Dana shook her head, reading her mother's mind. "I want to talk about.... things. The family. What you've been doing. Normal things." "Dana...." "Mom! Please!" Dana's voice was desperate. "It helps, it really does. Can't you see I want to forget things, just for one night. I want to be normal." "I'll go make some coffee." Margaret turned away to hide her disappointment, knowing there was no point in arguing. ********** "I've never handled a gun before." Coates's voice was shaking, his fingers drumming relentlessly on the window. "You'd better take it." Mulder glanced out of the window, blinking to focus his eyes, weary after several hours of night driving. There was no sign of any watchers, but he knew that didn't mean anything. Invisible eyes could be watching them from the dark buildings, their presence unknown until a bullet ripped away a life. "You hid it in a school?" he said, at last, when he took in their surroundings. Coates bridled at his tone. "It's very secure. It would take weeks to go through all the paperwork in there." Then his face crumpled, his pretended confidence washing away. "It's all I could think of. When I got the package.... There was a note in it. Kim told me to hide it somewhere safe. I didn't know.... Of course I've got no experience in this sort of thing. I'd have thought it was a joke, except....." He took a shaky breath. "He regretted sending it to me as soon as he'd done it. He called me, telling me he'd put me in danger. He said I was to destroy all his research without opening it." "Why didn't you?" Mulder reached to the floor of the car and picked up the gun. "It was twenty years of his life!" Coates exclaimed, as if the answer was obvious. "I couldn't do that!" He shook his head regretfully. "I guess I should have, though," he continued, more quietly. "I didn't realise then how serious it was. I thought he'd just misunderstood the situation - that we'd laugh about it later. I was just humouring him by hiding it." Mulder clenched and unclenched his hand on the gun. "Do they know about this place?" Coates shook his head. "I don't know. If they know I've got the research then I guess they do, but I don't know. When I found out Kim had disappeared I just panicked and ran. I haven't been home since then, though I called a neighbour who says there's been some men in car outside my house for days." There was a short silence. Both men were breathing too quickly. "Let's go in," Mulder said at last. Coates heaved a shuddering sigh, picking up the knife from his lap. "Yes," he said, shakily. Mulder tried to shut the car door quietly, but the noise seemed to reverberate through the night until he was sure that some hidden enemy would emerge, but all was still. No sound except their own footsteps, sounding louder than was natural. No movement but the wind-driven clouds, dark grey against the black sky, their movement reflecting on the staring windows of the building. He couldn't stop a sudden gasp when a noise, harsh and jangling, shattered the silence, but it was only Coates, digging into his pocket for a bunch of keys. "This one opens the main door," Coates whispered, his eyes bright with tension. "Then we have thirty seconds to unlock the office on the right and punch in the combination. If we're too slow, the alarm goes off." He stooped as the keys slipped from his nervous fingers. "The trouble is, the alarm is connected to all the internal doors as well. I've got to leave it off while I'm inside." He glanced over his shoulder, peering into the enveloping darkness. Mulder gripped the gun tighter. "I'll stay here and guard the door. You go as fast as you can and get the package." He reached into his pocket, handing over his torch. "Okay." Coates nodded, his voice quaking. He still hadn't put the key in the lock. "I'm sorry." He gestured to his shaking hands. "I'm not used to this sort of thing." Mulder tried to smile encouragement but knew it was probably more of a grimace. "It'll be okay," he managed, sounding more confident than he felt. Coates took several shuddering breaths, then turned the key in the lock and was gone. Mulder stood still, all his senses alert, holding his gun with both hands. Every little noise made him tense into an instant watchfulness, his finger tightening on the trigger, but each time it was nothing. A distant car. A dog barking somewhere. The drone of a plane far overhead. Nothing. He glanced at his watch. A minute gone now, though it seemed like much more, each second dragging out in an agony of impatience. He took his left hand from the gun, flexing the fingers to relieve the aching muscles, then passed it quickly over his face, feeling the tense dampness on his brow. Then he took a step backwards, edging towards the open door though his eyes were still probing the dark emptiness outside. Two minutes. He was counting the seconds silently in his head. God! Where was he? He didn't _think_ he'd missed any sound, but they could act instantly and silently if they had too. What if....? A crash of broken glass broke off that thought with the sudden cruelty of a gunshot. Breaking glass! And it was coming from inside the school. Quick as thought, Mulder ran into the building, following the sound down a corridor to his left. His footsteps echoed like drums off the deserted walls, but the noise didn't matter any more. Speed was what counted - what could make the difference between life and death. Suddenly the sound of his footsteps changed. A crunch from one step. A screech, shivering painfully down his spine, as the next step made something sharp scrape against the floor. The sound of broken glass, crushed beneath his feet. Mulder stopped, swinging around quickly with his gun pointed at the shadows, his finger poised and ready to shoot. Left - no- one. Right - no-one. Oh God! What about....? He whirled back, heart pounding, but there was no-one behind him, even though he could almost feel the menace in the twisted shadows. Silence. There was no-one there. Then who....? Then everything fell into place. Mulder took another step forward, only for his foot to come up sharp against an object in the middle of the floor, in the heart of the scattered glass. "Damn!" he cried, silently, furious with himself for falling for the trap. A brick through the window to distract him while.... He was already running when he heard the noise. A muffled shout. Scuffling footsteps. A door opening and shutting. As fast as he could in the almost-darkness, Mulder ran back the way he'd come, following the noises, trying to ignore the rising wave of reproach which was building up inside his mind. How could he have been so stupid? He paused when he came to a row of lockers, strangely illuminated from below, casting tall shadows on the wall. It was his torch, still rolling gently to and fro with a soft scraping noise against the tiles. He stooped to pick it up, wincing when his fingers told him that the glass was broken. He didn't switch it off. What was the point? They knew he was here anyway, and he could find them all the faster if he could see where he was going. One locker door was wide open, and he didn't need to shine the torch inside to know that it was empty. He slammed the door shut in sudden fury, heedless of the resounding crash that echoed through the building. Crash.... echo.... echo.... and then..... The muffled shout again, still somewhere in the building. Perhaps he could redeem himself after all. "Hey!" he called, giving up all attempt at surprise as he ran towards the noise. Feet pounding down the corridor. A swinging double door. Another corridor branching into several doors. Which one.... He turned suddenly, feeling a breath of cold air on his cheek. Just to his left was short flight of steps, seven or eight, leading to an external door. An open external door. And through the door was the sound of a car door shutting, and engine being started. "Stop!" he shouted, throwing himself down the steps two at a time, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. "St..." A fist swung from the darkness, driving him back against the wall, forcing the air from his lungs. "No!" he croaked, trying to find the energy to close his fingers tightly round his gun, to train the weapon on his attacker, but another blow made him stagger and lose his balance, felling him heavily to the ground. He shook his head urgently, trying to recover control, but another blow, a kick this time, landed in his ribs, driving all coherent thought from his mind as he struggled to breathe. Then there was a click, and suddenly everything was clear again. A gun. There was a gun trained on his head, held by a cruel-faced man with eyes of deadly ice. As Mulder watched, every second seeming like an eternity, the finger tensed on the trigger. "I'm going to die," Mulder thought, and was surprised to find that this time he felt no real emotion at the realisation. Scully would be sad, of course, but it would probably be..... There was a shout from the car - a name, perhaps. The man swore, lowering the gun with a look of hatred. Slowly he took a step back, his eyes full of reluctance. He swore again. Another shout, more urgent this time. Quickly now, the man stepped forward. "_I'd_ just kill you, Agent Mulder," he hissed, but before Mulder had a chance to wonder what he meant, a foot landed in his ribs, exactly the same place that was still throbbing from the last blow, and everything was wiped out in a red haze of pain. With gritted teeth, Mulder dimly saw the feet slowly walk away to the car, dimly heard the screech as the car sped away, taking his hopes away with it. "Oh God!" he muttered, pulling himself with difficulty to his feet, clutching to the door for support. "I'm sorry." Sorry to Scully for losing the answers to the case. Sorry to Coates for letting him down. "I'm sorry." He could feel tears cold on his cheeks, forced out by the pain of the kicks. He was still leaning against the door with his eyes shut when the night was shattered by the wail of police sirens and flashing lights shone through his closed lids. He sighed with resignation, but didn't open his eyes. ********** Tuesday 6th February The soft padding of footsteps in the night penetrated Margaret Scully's dreams. Her breathing changed pace as she half-wakened and rolled over, but her eyes remained shut, her mind still wandering in the pathways of sleep. Then there was another noise - a creak, sharp and loud. With a gasp, she sat up in bed, jolted into an instant wakefulness. She knew that noise, although she'd seldom heard it for several years. The family, out of long years of habit, avoided that particular squeaky floorboard without having to think. Feeling her heart pound, she glanced wildly around the room, looking for something - anything - that could be used against an intruder. Nothing. She sighed with resignation. She supposed, after what had happened to Melissa and Dana, that she should have taken more precautions. Dana was always urging her to get some protection. She always said it was just a general precaution everyone should take, but her eyes were full of more fear than her words could express. The house enclosed her in silence. She sighed, leaning back on the pillow, trying to convince herself it had been her imagination, or some unidentifiable sound of the house cooling down at night. She'd almost convinced herself when the sounds started again. Pad pad of soft footsteps getting closer and closer. Hesitant footsteps. Little bare footsteps like a child.... "Dana!" She whispered it aloud, relief flooding through her body, relaxing muscles she hadn't known she'd tensed. In the confusion of being woken from sleep, she'd forgotten Dana was staying in the house. She shook her head briskly, driving out the last vestiges of sleep. If Dana wanted to talk - and she most fervently prayed that she did - she'd need all her wits about her. "Dana!" she called, louder this time, as she heard the door handle turn slowly, painfully slowly. She reached for the bedside light but then withdrew her hand from the switch, reluctant to subject either hers or Dana's night-adapted eyes to the sudden glare of its harsh light. The door opened and the footsteps padded hesitantly across the carpet, but there were no other sounds. No words. Not even the sound of crying. "Dana? Are you okay?" She reached into the darkness but couldn't reach the darker shadow that was her daughter. No answer. "It's okay. You didn't wake me. Come and sit down." She kept her light, noisily patting the edge of the bed to guide her daughter through the darkness. There was no response, not even the faintest of movements. "Shut your eyes, dear. I'm putting the light on," she said at last, unable to stand the silence any more. Light flooded the room, making her blink and shade her eyes with one hand. Frowning against the glare, she peered up to see her daughter, eyes shut against the light, her expression unreadable. Margaret threw the covers of the bed and stood up, moving to her daughter's side. "Dana?" she asked, in concern, touching her daughter's arm. Dana started violently, but didn't move away. "Mom?" she stammered. "I'm sorry. I.... I.... I couldn't sleep. I was.... thinking.... But I must have slept because I dreamt...." She broke off, her eyes shining with tears. "Tell me about it," Margaret murmured, leading her to the bed like a child. Dana leant into her mother's shoulder. "I was in prison. It was.... horrible. I _had_ to get out or they'd kill me. The man in the next cell was going to help me escape but then he wouldn't." She was reciting it in a tense monotone, as if only that could keep her from breaking down. "I was desperate. When the guard came with my food, I attacked him. I took his gun and shot him. Then another came at me and I shot him too. And another. And another. There was blood everywhere....." Her voice cracked at last, as tears soaked into her mother's night dress. "It was only a dream, honey," Margaret crooned, stroking her hair. She was anxious to ease her daughter's distress, but at the same time relieved to see that she was crying. She'd kept too many emotions bottled up inside these last few months. "You don't understand!" Dana's voice was fierce, even though broken with sobs. "The guards I killed - I looked at their faces when they were dead, and they were... they were all Mulder." "Shh!" Margaret wrapped her arms around her daughter, rocking her gently. "It was only a dream." But she was fighting tears herself, recognising the truth behind the dream's images. Dana pulled away from the embrace, visibly fighting for control. "Is that what will happen?" "I don't know." Margaret couldn't offer the complete reassurance her daughter needed. "But if you talk about it, maybe you'll be able to cope with it better, and then you won't feel you need to escape." "I.... I...." Dana struggled with words for a while but the sobs proved too much for her. "Oh, Mom!" she whimpered, seeking her mother's arms again. ********** end of part 13 The knock on the door was hesitant, barely there at all. She'd have missed it if she hadn't been expecting it, sitting rigid on the bed, her heart already speeding up in anticipation of what might happen. "Come in!" Her voice came out as a little croak, and she coughed several times, partly to clear her throat, partly to cover her confusion and.... dread? There was a short silence, full of so much tension that she almost wanted to scream. Just as the silence was threatening to drag into minutes, they both spoke at once - inarticulate sounds hastily cut off when they realised the other was talking too. Silence. "Mulder...." Scully said at last, desperately. "You came back." He spoke in a monotone, a simple statement of fact. He was half turned away so she couldn't see his face. "Yes." "I thought...." Mulder began, but then trailed off into silence. "What?" Her voice had a sharp edge she hadn't intended, but she knew what he'd been going to say and was angry that he had so little trust in her as to think she'd just leave like that and never come back. "Nothing." Mulder waved a hand to dismiss that train of thought. "Did you find anything?" he continued, quickly. "Er...." What was he talking about? "No....?" Mulder shook his head sadly, his shoulders slumping. "I didn't think you were...." "Oh!" Scully exclaimed in sudden realisation. She'd told him she was going to examine the samples in the lab. "I'm sorry. I took them there. They haven't found anything yet, but will contact me when they finish the tests." It was all true, although she'd completely forgotten about it. Mulder sighed, absently brushing a bit of carpet too and fro with his foot. She knew he didn't believe her, and thought she'd just gone to get away from him. "Mulder..." she began angrily, then bit back the words, realising that it was true. But now Skinner had turned down her request, she _had_ to restrain the anger and try to salvage their relationship. Neither of them spoke for a while. Scully found herself tensing up in irritation at the scraping sound of Mulder's shoe against the rough carpet, but dug her fingers into her palms and said nothing. "Where were you?" she asked at last, trying to make it sound like an idle enquiry. The foot froze, leaving a darker patch of carpet brushed the wrong way. "I was just.... out. Working on the case." "You were out all night." "You called?" Mulder looked up at last, his voice rising with anticipation of her reply. "No." It was only when Mulder sighed that she realised how much he'd been hoping that she _had_, but it was too late to undo the damage. "When I got back this morning, the receptionist said someone had been looking for you last night." "Someone?" Mulder frowned. "I was out last night too." "Mulder, he says this man came somewhere around eleven, and was still waiting for you at three, maybe later, for all he knows." "What sort of man was it?" Mulder's voice was desperate, although he must have known she wouldn't let him get away that easily. "Look, you can't hide things from me, Mulder." Scully stood up, forcing him to meet her gaze. "What happened last night that you don't want to tell me?" Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to recognise it was futile. "I was arrested," he muttered, looking at the floor. "Arrested!" Scully's instant reaction was anger, but she soon realised the potential of the situation. Not affecting his work, she muttered, silently. Well, let's see what Skinner has to say about _this_. "It's okay," Mulder added quickly, dashing her hopes. "I explained things to the police and it's all sorted out. I had to stay for a few hours to sort out the details, and the town was several hours away, so I couldn't get back until now." Scully tapped her foot. "I'm waiting," she said, folding her arms. Mulder walked across to the window, leaning with both hands on the sill. He seemed to be walking more carefully than normal, bent over slightly to one side. "Are you okay?" Scully took a step forward, concern stopping the angry response she'd been about to make to his silence. "I'm fine, Scully. Someone kicked me, that's all." Mulder kept his back to her. Scully pulled on his shoulder to turn him around. "Let me look." She led him to the bed and gestured to him to sit down. "It's nothing," Mulder smiled in an obviously forced attempt at lightness, although he drew his breath in sharply when she pulled up his shirt and gently touched the large bruise on his ribs. "The guy was pointing a gun at my head. Believe me, this is nothing." "Someone pointed a gun at you?" Scully started in sudden shock, her fingers moving sharply against Mulder's skin, making him cry out softly. "What happened?" she asked, when she could trust her voice to stay level. She wasn't sure if she was more frightened about the fact he could have died, or angry that he'd put himself in such a situation again. Mulder stood up, pushing her hands away and tucking his shirt in again. She didn't argue. The bruise, although obviously painful, wasn't serious. He walked across to the window again, his back to her. Scully took several deep breaths, her fists clenched into tight balls. "Mulder, just start from the beginning and tell me," she hissed, through clenched teeth. God! How she wished for the days when he'd talk for hours on his latest theory, even if she showed no signs of interest. It had sometimes driven her crazy, but now she'd have given anything to be back with _that_ Mulder. Getting _anything_ out of him right now was like getting blood out of a stone. "Okay." Mulder sighed, still staring out of the window. "I found out some of the answers to our case." He spoke slowly, as if thinking carefully about every word. "It was a psychiatrist called Kim Bradshaw. He was doing research in.... hypnosis, using some of his patients. The research was so successful that the patients could effectively.... hypnotise someone in an instant, causing them to do things they'd never do otherwise." Scully felt the anger rising up again. It was obvious he believed there was more to this than hypnosis, but once again he was patronising her with half-truths. "Mulder," she said, sharply, cutting off his explanation. Mulder made no reply. He was drumming his fingers on the windowsill, the noise nagging in her skull, insistent and irritating. "Nothing," she said, at last, remembering again the need to avoid a confrontation. If they had to work together, then they _had_ to repair their relationship. Perhaps Mulder had the right idea. Maybe avoiding controversial issues was the best solution, even if that meant lying. Neither of them were ready to talk about what really mattered, not yet. "Anyway, _they_ found out about it," Mulder continued, his voice strained. "I suppose they thought it would be a good weapon. They took Bradshaw, and his patients - they're the people in the clippings. But somehow one of them got away. He's probably out there, causing the murders." "You still haven't explained how you nearly got yourself killed." Scully refrained from commenting on the rest of his explanation. "Bradshaw sent his research to a friend. This friend.... came to me and offered to hand it over. We went to get it and.... they were there. They took him and the research, and were gone before the police came...." "So why didn't they kill you?" Scully cut in, sharply. She felt shaky inside, thinking of how easily he could have been murdered, miles away from her, without anyone knowing where he'd gone. "God, Mulder! Why weren't you more careful?" "I'm sorry." Mulder leant forward, resting his head on the glass. "I should have... I was guarding him. They took him. They distracted me and I fell for it. I was so stupid." Quick harsh words of self-reproach. "Mulder..." Scully raised a hand to touch his arm, but drew back. What was the point? She'd spent so many hours arguing with his guilt, all to no avail. He never listened, never even seemed to hear her. She couldn't face that rejection again, not right now. "I wanted to...." It was a quiet murmur, barely audible. "What?" Scully asked, firmly. Mulder shook his head, shrugging as if to say "nothing." Silence. Scully supposed she should ask more questions, but she really couldn't face one of Mulder's theories. She was terrified that, if she pushed, he'd suggest again that _she_ was acting under the control of this fugitive patient. He _seemed_ to have dropped that idea, but he was obviously not telling her the whole truth. "So, we're going home," she said, breaking the silence at last. Mulder's head jerked up. "What?" "Well, _if_ what you say is true, then they already have the answers. There's nothing left." She murmured a silent prayer. Both of them needed to be away from the pressure of a case before they could hope to salvage the future. "But there's someone out there, making ordinary people kill - people like y.... ordinary people like.... Hilary Carpenter and the others. We've got to stop that." He was speaking with something resembling his old determination. "Mulder!" Scully almost shouted, furious at what he'd been about to say. He'd stopped himself before completing the word, but she knew what he'd meant. "It's too dangerous. You've already let one person get...." "Killed." Mulder completed her sentence, his voice full of pain. "Think about it, Mulder," Scully urged. There was no time to deal with his guilt right now. "They probably gave you those clippings. They knew this man would never deal with them, but he might trust you. They used you to lead them to him. Why do you think they didn't kill you last night? Because you can still be useful to them. If you carry on with this case, you're doing their work for them." The words came out in a rush. She believed them, too, although the main reason she wanted to go home was personal - so they could talk about their problems in a less pressured environment. "But there's still someone out there, Scully." His voice was low and intense. "_They've_ got what they want now. He's no use to them. But we.... Scully, that person's killing people, hurting people. If we can stop it...." He turned round, his eyes shining with emotion. "He's hurting people. I know how he's doing it. I've _got_ to do all I can to stop him. I owe it to..... I've got to." Scully sighed, sitting down heavily on the bed. She'd thought she'd have been overjoyed to see him so determined, but there was something about his intensity she found worrying. It was something personal - and painful. She leant her head back, massaging the back of her neck with her hands. "Okay," she said, reluctantly. Mulder let out a great breath. "I'll just go have a shower," he said. "Don't go anywhere." "Mulder, _I'm_ not the one who...." Scully exclaimed in indignation, then stopped, shaking her head. "Forget it. Just.... go, Mulder. We'll talk about it later." As soon as the door shut, she threw herself face down onto the bed, grasping great handfuls of bedclothes in her fists, squeezing them until the knuckles stood out white. God! How much more of this could she bear? She'd thought she felt calmer after finally crying at her mother's, but as soon as she saw him, it was all starting again. How much longer could they go on? Slowly, she relaxed her muscles, forcing herself to take deep calming breaths. Think positive, she told herself. He doesn't seem to think I'm possessed. He's actually interested in a case. He showed some tact in not telling me his whole theory until we're calm enough to take it. It could be a good sign. Could be....? "You just go on telling yourself that," she said, out loud. "Because the alternative....." She wouldn't let herself complete that thought. *********** The blood was still there, still moist, staining darker patches in the trampled mud. Although the ground had dried out a little over the last two days, it still shifted underfoot, yielding with a rich slurp, making twisted semi-solid sculptures of red- tinged mud. When he found the right spot, Mulder crouched down, letting his eyes and his mind explore the scene. Neglected yellow tape flapped limply from the trees, marking this as a crime scene, but there was no-one else in sight - no-one else interested in the loss of a stranger's life. No-one.... Suddenly, he caught his breath, holding every muscle tense, apprehension tightening on his stomach like a clenched fist. Something had moved, somewhere on the fringes of his peripheral vision. Slowly, casually, he stood up and turned towards the movement. Nothing. Not even the smallest quiver of the undergrowth, the smallest breath of sound. Nothing. He took a step forward, then another, starting violently when a twig cracked under his foot, shattering the woodland stillness like a gunshot. And he wasn't the only one startled into sudden movement. There was a sudden flurry of noise, undergrowth violently shaking, as some animal fled away from the imagined threat. It wasn't quite where he though he'd seen the earlier movement, but it was close. Close enough. He took a shaky breath, feeling the relief flood through him. An animal. God! What was wrong with him, that he tensed up with fear at an animal, out here in the woods where there were probably thousands of the things? He wondered what he'd _expected_ it to be. Someone following him? Hardly likely. _He_ wasn't the one in danger, and Scully.... Scully was safe in the town, surrounded by other people, working in an office. No, there was no danger yet. He walked back to the spot where MacDonald had died, resting his hand on the trunk of a tree for support as he closed his eyes and played back the scene. Hands on his throat, squeezing the life from his lungs. Scully's face floating before his eyes, tormented with guilt because he'd died after she'd shouted at him, no matter that he'd deserved everything she'd said. And the man's eyes, so full of hate, threatening vengeance, before they suddenly changed, wiped out by blood, blinking with confusion. A different man. One man had done the crime, and the other had paid for it with his life. "No!" he muttered, fiercely, his mind suddenly full of Scully's face, painfully tense with barely-controlled anger. He _mustn't_ let her suffer the same fate. He didn't know if he _really_ thought she was possessed by the fugitive patient, but if she was.... He shuddered, his fingers digging into the soft bark. God! If there was just the slightest chance that she _was_ possessed, then he had to do all he could to stop it. But how? He opened his eyes, surveying the crime scene sadly. What had he hoped to discover by coming here, by visiting the sites of the other murders? To find some evidence that the murderer returned to the scene of the crime, to survey the aftermath of his actions? He supposed he'd hoped that the murderer, after being forced to leave MacDonald's body, had found some way of returning, to view the rest of the tragedy. But if he had, there was no way of knowing. The place was so churned up with footsteps that nothing could be learnt. Nothing. It was all he could do not to cry aloud with frustration. Scully needed help, and he didn't know how to give it. Maybe she was possessed - maybe. Maybe he was just clinging to that idea because the alternative was far worse - that she was having some sort of breakdown, with no third party to blame for it. But what could he do? Whenever he came close, expressed some concern, she pushed him away, fire blazing in her eyes and telling him it was all his fault. Oh Scully, I'm sorry.... I'm trying, he whispered in his mind. I want to help you but I don't know what to do. I don't know anything any more. I'm trying. Help me.... There was a movement again, somewhere behind him, but he didn't bother turning to face it, although he felt the apprehension rising inside him again. What was the point? It was either an animal, or..... The barrel of a gun. Sunlight glinting on a knife. The shattering weight of brick. Choking fingers. Eyes full of hatred and vengeance. A voice hissing "I'd just kill you" as a foot slammed into his stomach. Pain. Darkness and pain. Scully's face closed against him, stabbing him with her words. "Get out of my room." "Go away." "Can't you see what you're doing to me?" Scully, small and frightened after finding that implant. Scully erupting into painful emotions whenever she saw him. Last time it was only the thought of _her_ that had him fight, but maybe it _would_ be for the best, best for her.... He rested his head against the moist bark and closed his eyes, listening to the silence, feeling hundreds of eyes upon him, their gaze pressing on his closed lids. Imagination, probably, but maybe..... ********** end of part 14 It was quieter now, phones jangling less often, the hum of office conversation dimming as people began to go home. Some voices remained, the threads of their conversations weaving in an out of Scully's mind without engaging her attention. Half past six, dull inside and dark without. Scully leant forward, burying her face in her hands, her fingers rubbing her weary eyes. Half past six. Five hours of work, poring over page after page of notes, until the words seemed to reach out and attack her, making her eyes and head throb with the strain. Five hours of work, and all for nothing. She exhaled, long and deep, picking up the next sheet and preparing to read it, knowing even as she did so that it would yield nothing, feeling at the same time a stab of guilt at her attitude. On a case, you couldn't afford to be defeatist. You had to follow every trail, even through days and days of dead- ends, still hoping that somewhere there would be a breakthrough. But sometimes it was just _so_ difficult. The words danced before her eyes, refusing to settle, so she focused on the distance a while, trying to rest her eyes. The window. Darkness outside. Outside.... Where _was_ he? Suddenly desperate for something to squeeze, she picked up a pen, holding it between her fingers until the plastic gave little cracking sounds, threatening to break. "Stay calm. Stay calm." She mouthed the words silently, willing herself to fight the anger that was threatening to rise again. She'd kept it in bay all afternoon, settling down to go through the doctor's papers, knowing that Mulder was elsewhere following leads of his own. It had been his idea that she take the papers to the police station, requesting their support in the investigation, and she hadn't argued, finding that the presence of other people - normal people who spoke freely without having to think about every word - calming. Playing back their conversation at the motel again and again, she'd even managed to convince herself that there _was_ hope - that he _was_ beginning to get back to normal - that they _would_ get through this after all. But where was he? Five hours, and no word. She'd decided against calling him, scared that every conversation would easily degenerate into an argument. She'd known she'd have to face him sooner or later, of course, but every passing minute was making her calmer, more ready to talk to him without exploding into anger. Better later than sooner, she'd decided, trying to convince herself she wasn't just acting out of cowardice. But now the anger was threatening to return. Where was he? She shut her eyes again, resting her forehead on her hand. Half an hour. She'd give him half an hour, then call him. Footsteps came and went. The door opened and shut. Soft voices entwined in the distance. Footsteps, padding towards her. Footsteps. The rustle of paper. A hand.... She jumped violently. A hand on her shoulder.... "Scully?" Mulder's voice, close to her ear. "Mulder." She tried to calm her breathing, but knowing she could never breathe easily while he was around, not right now. "Where...." She stopped, knowing that if she said more it would come out like an accusation. Silence. She was suddenly acutely conscious of the other people in the room, feeling their eyes boring into her back, their ears hearing every nuance of their conversation. "Are you okay?" Mulder's hand hovered uncertainly above the back of her own hand, then withdrew. Scully sighed, passing her hand across her eyes. "Yes. I.... I'm just tired. There's nothing here." "No." Mulder's eyes were focused above her head, his voice barely audible. "What?" She jerked her head up, speaking sharply "What do you mean? Did you _know_ there was nothing here?" Mulder shrugged. "Er.... no. No, I didn't. But.... I told you earlier, Scully. They took lots of his papers. We both knew they were unlikely to have left anything important, but we couldn't afford to assume that without double checking." He still didn't meet her eyes. Scully nodded quickly, conceding the point, but then returned to the offensive. "You're hiding something, Mulder. I can tell. What have you been doing?" "Nothing!" It was quick and defensive. "I just went back to the crime scenes to see if we'd missed something.... but...." His tone completed the sentence. Footsteps passed close by and they both froze, words drying up until the person had passed. It was as if they both realised the knife-edge they were walking in their relationship, and didn't want witnesses. Scully ran her hand wearily across her face. "So..... What now?" Mulder was silent, his brows knitted in some enveloping thought. "We could check at the university - see if there's anything there to say who his patients were," Scully offered, desperately. "No." Mulder shook his head absently, still half lost in thought. "He destroyed....." "What?" A chair scraped across the room, as someone half rose, alarmed by her shout. "What?" she asked again, as quietly as her anger allowed. "Nothing." Mulder's eyes were dark with deceit, and.... fear? "Mulder!" Scully stood up, gripping him by the upper arm. "What were you saying? Do you mean to say that you let me slave here for five hours - five hours, Mulder - when you _knew_ I'd not find anything because he destroyed it all himself?" Mulder chewed on his lip, his eyes darting left, right, left - anywhere but look at her. "Do - you?" She fired her words at him like little darts of ice. Silence. "Damn you, Mulder!" She kept her voice low and deadly. "Why did you lie to me? Was it...." She dug her fingers into her palms, trying to keep from shouting. "Was it because you were doing something dangerous this afternoon and wanted me safe?" She tried to keep the bitter sarcasm from her voice, genuinely anxious to know his reasons, but wasn't able. "Or was it...." She threw her hands up in frustration. "Oh God, Mulder. I really don't understand you." "I couldn't!" Mulder spoke quick and fast, sounding like a fugitive cornered in a dead end. "I couldn't risk...." "Risk what, Mulder?" Hands on hips, voice hard as stone. "He might _know_, somehow...." "He?" Then she understood, and wished she didn't. "Oh God, Mulder, not _that_!" Mulder began to speak, the words pouring out like turbulent water, scarcely intelligible. "I don't know if I believe it, Scully. I really don't. But maybe.... Scully, we can't take the risk. What if he _is_ somehow in your mind? It's more than hypnosis, Scully. He really gets into people's minds. What if he _is_ in yours? We can't take the risk of ignoring it. He might know everything you think - everything you know. I had to get you somewhere safe - somewhere researching something that was no threat to him...." Scully squeezed his wrist, using pain to break his flow of words. "So you tricked me into doing a useless job so I don't pass on useful information to some killer inside my own head?" She could feel a bubble of hysterical laughter rising deep within her, even through the icy fire of her anger. "I.... I...." Mulder made no attempt to escape from her grip, although his fingers were turning dark from the pressure on his wrist. "I'm sorry. I just don't want you to get hurt...." Scully laughed then, a harsh and angry sound. "I don't understand you, Mulder, I really don't." She was aware of other people in the room shifting uneasily but was beyond caring. She was sick of having to control her feelings. "You've such a.... warped view of reality. When I try to get you to address your problems you shake me off, saying there's no need, saying Lewis was telepathic and made everything up - even though you _obviously_ still believe everything he told you." She was shouting now, no control left. "And now _I_ finally react to the strain, you say I'm possessed. God, Mulder!" She grabbed his other wrist, holding them both with all the anger she felt. "You take the blame for everything that _isn't_ your fault. Why can't you accept the blame for something that really _is_ your fault?" Mulder's eyes were shut, his face white. He opened his mouth several times, trying to speak, then cleared his throat, ran his tongue over his lips. "Scully...." he said at last. It was not much more than a croak. "I'm...." "I don't want to hear it, Mulder," she snapped. She felt dizzy suddenly - claustrophobic. "I.... I want to go back to the motel." Her voice was hoarse from the shouting. "Scully...." His eyes were shining, his throat working convulsively. She couldn't speak. Deep down, she knew she'd said too much already, but right now couldn't feel sorry, couldn't hear his remorse. Silently, she walked past the staring eyes of the other people and collected her coat, her heels sounding unbearably loud in the hush of the office. "Scully...." He reached out a hand and tried to grab her sleeve. "Get off me, Mulder!" she snapped, and Mulder's hand dropped as if it had been shot. Scully took several deep breaths, feeling the anger quieten. "Look, Mulder," she said, more quietly. "I.... Perhaps I shouldn't have said all that.... But right now.... " She sighed again. "I don't know. Perhaps you _needed_ to hear that. Perhaps it will make you think about what you're doing to me.... to us. Perhaps...." "I'm sorry...." "Mulder!" She'd shouted again before she could stop herself. "Look, right now I just need some time alone with this, okay?" As she opened the door to leave she was surprised to find tears evaporating cold on her cheeks. ********** There were voices in the night. A giggle from a young couple, struggling to take their hands off each other long enough to turn the key to their room. A quick burst of rapid conversation escaping through a briefly opened door. Distorted music blaring from the road, changing pitch as the car roared past with a screech of tyres. And Scully.... "Get off me Mulder!" Her voice twisted with anger and pain, pounding in his head. "Why can't you accept the blame for something that _is_ your fault?" For her grief and stress. For the suffering shown by her white knuckles, red-rimmed eyes. _His_ fault. Scully, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.... He didn't know why he was here, not any more. Sitting close to her door, withdrawn into the shadows, keeping guard. He didn't really think she was possessed, not now, though the danger still lingered in the back of his mind. If she _was_, and came from her door, her heart full of murder, then he'd be there for her, there and waiting to stop her. But if not.... He sighed, accepting the truth at last. If not, then she was right. He'd driven her to this. It was his fault. But even so he'd be there for her still, watching her door, knowing he wanted to be with her, knowing he'd never get the courage to knock on her door and hurt her with his presence. Maybe later. Not now. Not yet. "Why can't you accept the blame....?" God! He'd been so blind, so sure he'd accepted the truth about everything he'd done, when all the time he was too cowardly to realise what it was doing to Scully. Nothing had changed. Still running away from his responsibilities, still trying to blame the results of his actions on something other - something paranormal. But not any more. Now was the time to face the truth. Now was the time to.... Oh Scully, you were right. I can't cope with all this alone. I thought I was in control of it, but I _do_ need help, more than you can cope with. If - when, I mean when - we get back, I'll talk to someone. I'll get help. I will, I promise. And there was more, too. More words. "You take the blame for everything that _isn't_ your fault...." She'd said that, too. Maybe, just maybe.... Oh, she'd said it before, of course, her voice soft with concern and sadness, trying to tell him that he wasn't to blame for everything that had happened to her, but he'd never even tried to believe her, not recently. She was lying, of course, trying to make him feel better, knowing the truth always hurt. How could her words have half the weight of those vivid pictures Lewis had shown him - pictures unearthed from the suppressed depths of his memory - pictures that showed the truth? Or so he'd believed, even after he'd found out Lewis had lied about other things, never questioning what he'd been shown. But now....? "You take the blame for everything that _isn't_ your fault...." This time he'd spoken out of anger, not afraid to hurt him with her words, but _still_ she'd insisted that not everything was his fault. Why should she say it if it wasn't....? Scully, I'm sorry. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he _did_ lie to me. Maybe he _did_ make up memories. Maybe.... Maybe I've run away from the truth even as I thought I'd accepted it. Maybe you're right. Maybe.... Maybe I _haven't_ ruined your life, at least not before today. Maybe _that's_ why you've stuck with me, even though you've broken under the stress. Maybe.... He shook his head, fiercely. It was too soon. He'd believed one thing for three months and it was too much to overturn that in an instant. But maybe, just maybe, when they got back, he'd think more about it. Maybe.... Probably. ********** Skinner had been right, she saw that now. Right, and she'd stormed from the room, not realising the escape he was offering, slamming the door on his solution. She looked at the phone, for the twentieth time in the last few minutes, wishing it was daytime, wishing she could call him and say she'd changed her mind. But there were long hours of painfully crawling seconds to be endured first, and another night to get through. Oh God, let it not be too late! Her words echoed in her head like hammer-blows of guilt. "It's your fault, Mulder." She'd as good as said that to him, knowing as she said it that it would hurt but not even caring. "Leave me alone." The hurt look on his face, the tears welling in his eyes. I'm sorry, Mulder. I couldn't help it. I've kept things bottled up so long, I _had_ to say it. I'm sorry. He wasn't there to hear her explanation, of course. She wondered if he'd ever be there again, if they'd ever be close again. Not if she stayed with him, that was for sure. The anger was still there, hot inside her. Skinner was right. If she stayed, she'd say worse to him tomorrow, even worse the next day, killing him with her words. But if she left.... Oh, it wouldn't be permanent - of course not. They'd shared too much to throw it away without a fight. But if she was away from him during the day, working somewhere without stress, then she'd be able to call him in the evening, visit him at weekends, offer support and help with a clear mind untroubled with the overwhelming anger she'd been feeling. It would be best for him. She chewed on her lip, shaken by a sudden sob. Best for me, too, she cried silently. I need this, too. I need it desperately. It's not selfish to think of my own needs too, is it? If only she'd accepted it when Skinner offered, a whole stressful day away. Before the despair at her mother's. Before that horrible argument. It would have been so much easier then. The longer she delayed, then more likely she was to say something to Mulder that was so hurtful that nothing could save their relationship. It's not too late now, is it? It's _not_ too late, it's _not_ too late. She stamped her foot, trying to set her doubts at rest. It wasn't too late. Nearly, but not quite. She hoped. It was best for both of them. Temporarily break their partnership in order to preserve it. Best for her. Best for him. She sat down heavily on the bed, feeling a small glimmer of hope, the first she'd had for days. It would all turn out for the best. But how could she tell Mulder? ********** end of part 15 He kept his eyes shut, his head leaning back wearily on the wall. It wasn't Scully, and that was all that mattered. Soft- soled shoes coming from the road. A low masculine cough. A hand on his shoulder. Not Scully. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder opened his eyes slowly, not wanting to be dragged from the dark of memory. He nodded slightly but didn't say anything. "I came yesterday, but you weren't here." The man moistened his lips, nervously, shifting a little so the light fell on his face. "It's you." Mulder turned away, remembering how this man's over- zealous use of his gun had killed Martin MacDonald, depriving them of the chance of getting at the truth. He hadn't found out his name then, and wasn't interested now. "I.... just wanted to apologise," the man stammered. "You were so angry, and it made me think.... I _killed_ someone. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." Mulder said nothing. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts, not burdened with someone else's guilt. The man sat down next to him, twisting his hands. What did he expect - sympathy? Silence. The man broke it first. "I saw you earlier - at the station." His voice was nervous, though his face seemed strangely calm. "You were talking to your partner. I.... overheard.... I'm sorry, but she seemed stressed.... Is it something to do with what happened to MacDonald?" Mulder ran a hand over his eyes, trying to rub them to alertness. He didn't want to talk to this man, but his words demanded his attention. What had he seen in Scully that made him make that connection? "Do you think it's some sort of mind control or possession?" the man asked, quietly. "I... " Mulder made a decision. There was a whole night ahead to think, but for now he'd talk. "What's your name?" "Andrew Christopher," the man replied. He reached a hand into his coat as if to get his ID but Mulder shook his head and the hand didn't emerge. "What makes you think it's.... mind control, or....?" He tried to sound casual, though his heart was beating fast. Had Christopher seen something he'd missed? Christopher frowned. "I thought you said.... I mean, I saw how MacDonald changed after.... I'd shot him. And then I saw the same sort of confusion in your partner's eyes. I just thought...." "You think Scully's.... affected?" Mulder leant forward, grabbing the man's arm. he could feel the sweat beading on his brow. And just after he'd decided she _wasn't_.... "I thought.... I heard you say...." Christopher stammered to a halt. "I'm sorry. Forget it." "No!" Mulder almost shouted. "Why did you think that?" God! _Scully_ seldom accepted his theories, and she'd been with him for years. Why should this stranger so readily agree, unless.... "Do you know something you're not telling me?" Christopher was silent for a while. "I suppose you're out here to protect her, in case he takes over _her_ mind tonight." His voice was low, casual. Mulder had glanced away at his words, reassuring himself that the light still snaked beneath Scully's door, but something in the man's tone of voice made him look up suddenly, in time to catch the faintest of movements about the man's mouth. A movement like.... a smile? Slowly, with forced calm, he felt for his gun. "He?" he asked, as if it was of no import. It was a smile this time, no doubt about it. "Ironic, huh?" Christopher said, no hesitation in his voice now. "That you should be out here alone, thinking to protect her...." He didn't finish the sentence, striking quick as thought with the knife concealed within his coat, slashing for Mulder's throat. But he was not fast enough. The knife flashed through the air, landing with a clatter too far away to reach. "It's you," Mulder hissed, one hand at the man's collar, the other on his gun, pushing it into his face. "If you've hurt her..." He squeezed tighter, savouring the man's grimace of pain. "I.... I...." The man's face was red with the effort of talking through the constriction at his throat. Mulder relaxed the pressure just a little. "Let go, and I'll talk. I'll tell you everything. Just.... don't hurt me." "Why not?" Mulder was not in a mood to be forgiving. "You've hurt..." "And so have you." The man's eyes stabbed like daggers. "I know what Agent Scully thinks about that." Mulder relaxed his grip, struggling to keep the gun steady. He knew. That meant.... God! He _had_ been right after all, and so had Scully. His fault, but Christopher's too. But there was no time to think of that now. Remorse couldn't save her, but answers could. "So, talk!" He kept the gun pressing into the man's head, made his voice as hard as stone. "I _need_ to do it," the man muttered, until a jab in the head made him speak louder. "I need to. Do you know what it's like, stuck...?" He bit his lip, blinking, leaving the sentence hanging. "I need to live a bit." "By other people's deaths?" "Oh, don't get moralistic on me." The man's voice dripped with contempt. "Just think about it. This way I can experience the power over taking someone's life, the fun of trying to outwit you in the woods, the thrill of planning a crime, but without any of the repercussions. Anyone would do the same if they could." Mulder shook his head, though the gun started to shake. "You understand, don't you." Christopher read beyond the shaking of the head. "All that deters most people from crime is the fear of being found out. Give anyone the chance to do what I do and they _would_. It's the ultimate way of doing what you want without having to face the consequences. No need to face up to your responsibilities. _You'd_ do it, wouldn't you? I know you have.... problems with addressing your responsibilities. Scully told me." "Shut up!" Guilt made him harsh. He didn't like to think about what the man had just said. If _he_ had to chance to kill Cancer Man, or Krycek, without any repercussions, would he do it? He'd hope not, but who could say? He tried to keep his hand steady. "I don't want your excuses," he said at last, when he could speak clearly. "Just tell me the answers." "To what?" Christopher's voice was calm. "Do you want to know what I plan to do with her?" "If you hurt her, I'll kill you," Mulder hissed. Christopher carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "Or do you want to know how I can do this? I'll answer that one first, I think." He paused, smiling at Mulder's discomfiture. "You know about Dr Bradshaw already, although you didn't tell her all you know, did you? God! That really upset her, you know, worse than anything I've done." Mulder swallowed hard, swapping the gun into his left hand to cover his emotion, but knowing he'd failed. Christopher was playing with him, and knew he was winning. "I suppose you want to know how I escaped," the man continued, smiling, knowing Mulder didn't really care. "It was luck, really. We all used to meet at his house every Saturday morning. I was early that day, and took a walk round the block to kill time. That's when I saw it." He paused for effect, knowing he had Mulder's attention. "An unmarked van pulling up, and several men getting out and going into the doctor's house. They looked like cops or something worse. Well, I didn't want to get into trouble with the cops so I hid and watched. Soon the others started arriving and knocking on the door. They were let in, as normal, but I could see it wasn't the doctor who was at the door." He shook his head. "I didn't know what to believe. I nearly went to the door myself, but then I saw.... shadows against the window. Someone being beaten to the floor." Mulder was silent. Something in this explanation didn't seem quite right, but he was too anxious about Scully to bother pursuing it. What did it matter how he escaped? All that mattered was that Scully could be saved. "I was terrified, of course," Christopher continued. "I just turned and ran. I was sure they were after me, but I don't think they were, because no-one came after I was...." He stopped, momentary confusion on his face, but then he recovered himself. "I was so scared later, that I started using the.... power. The doctor was right. It _does_ make you feel good. He used a drug at first, but after so much practice I could do it without a drug. At first I just did it to feel good, to enjoy things I couldn't do myself, but soon I realised the real potential of the situation." "Can you only take people over when they're asleep?" Mulder had to ask. From the light, it looked as if Scully was still awake. He needed to know that this meant she was safe. "Asleep, unconscious, something like that. Then I can slip into their bodies and stay there until their mind begins to wake up. It's impossible with a light sleeper, but with a deep sleeper I can stay in for hours, until their mind stirs the next morning. I've managed six hours today. Poor fool fell asleep at work. Must be a really deep sleeper." Christopher laughed, a chilling sound. "But it's as if the body retains some memory of what's happened. The next day they have some memory of what I've done, though they see it as a dream, and some vague feelings of stress and anxiety. Just like your partner." "But you have some link with them afterwards? Or you have access to their memories when you take them over?" Of course he had. How else could he know Scully's thoughts? "Oh.... er.... yes. Yes I do. Something like that." Christopher shrugged. There was a short silence while Mulder played back what had been said, feeling more strongly now that something wasn't quite right. "Why did you come here tonight?" he asked at last, to cover his train of thought. "Do you need to be close to her before you can take her over?" "Oh.... No. Distance doesn't matter, at least not if it's within a few miles." Christopher sighed, looking dispirited. The gun still pressed into his head. "No. I came here to kill you." "Me?" Thinking only of the threat to Scully, he hadn't considered that _he_ might be at risk. "Of course. I started doing this so I could have the fun of crime without the consequences. That night in the wood, you hurt me before I could get free, you and him. I wanted you to die for that." His voice was a hiss of hate, although his eyes were still dispirited, accepting defeat. "So why not use Scully?" _That_ would have been so easy. If Scully had attacked him, he could never have defended himself, never have risked hurting her. "I.... er....Because it's so much more.... satisfying this way. I can't really feel the joy of it if I did it through her." There was a shake in his voice, as if he was searching for words. "I can deal with her.... afterwards." Mulder held the gun with both hands, moving swiftly. "That's enough!" he snapped. "That's enough of your lies. I know." His finger tightened on the trigger. "And that's why I'll win." The words were tossed out casually, though the eyes were burning. Mulder tensed his trigger finger. "I'll kill you rather than let you hurt her." "You won't." Christopher yawned, a fake and exaggerated movement. "Because, as you say, you know. And because you know you won't pull that trigger." "Won't I?" Mulder tried to keep the fear from his voice, but he knew it was true. "No." The words were an icy whisper, but suddenly Christopher swung his arms up, one arm pushing Mulder to the floor, the other knocking the gun from his grip so it flew into the darkness, landing with a clatter a dozen yards away. Mulder tried to reach for the discarded knife, but Christopher was too quick for him. "But I, on the other hand, have no such problems about killing you," he hissed, raising the knife high above his head. Then there was a crack and a flash and the knife froze high in the air, Christopher's face twisting in agony. With a little sigh whispering from his cold lips, he rolled slowly to one side, a spreading red stain covering his heart. "Mulder!" Scully's voice. Scully's feet rushing to his side, Scully's hands helping him to his feet. "Are you okay?" She returned her gun to its holster. "I.... Scully!" Mulder couldn't take his eyes off the blood. "You killed him! You shouldn't have killed him, Scully." Scully let go of him as if she'd been burnt. "Damn it, Mulder! I just saved your life!" Her voice was high with anger, although she was shuddering, her eyes looking close to tears. "You could have been killed, without us...." She bit her lip to stop her words, turning away with a sigh. "But it wasn't him!" he urged. He _had_ to get her to understand, or how could they fight the danger within her? "It was someone else, taking him over. It wasn't him. It could just as easily have been you!" Scully opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She turned her back and walked back towards to her room, her shoulders heaving. "Scully!" He rushed after her, touching her shoulder. "I know you don't like to hear this. I know most of this _is_ my fault - that I've put you through unbearable stress lately. I accept that, but there's something more." She stopped walking, but still wouldn't look at him, and tapped her foot impatiently. He didn't know if she was listening, but it was too important not to carry on. "That man - he looked like Officer Christopher, but he spoke about the cops as "they", and spoke about having been inside someone else's body for six hours. It wasn't him." Scully sighed, her voice tight with control. "Okay, Mulder. Maybe someone is capable of using hypnosis or something to make people act out of character, but that doesn't mean _I'm_ affected. I thought we'd been through that." "I know, Scully. I thought I'd accepted your explanation, but you didn't hear him. He knew what you'd been thinking earlier. He could even quote things we were saying this evening. How could he do that if he wasn't...." "Because he was there," Scully cut in. "That man was there at the police station all afternoon. I remember him clearly. He fell asleep at his desk, but it was after his shift had ended so people let him stay. Then he woke up just before you came back. He was there, and.... God, Mulder! Everyone in that room could overhear what we were saying. Of course he knew what I felt about you." "But Scully...." There was more. Somewhere between the lines was the answer. But how could he work it out without Scully to talk it over with. "Let go of me, Mulder," Scully hissed. "I don't want to argue. I've got.... I think I know the answer to our problems and don't want to argue and make them worse. But right now.... Just let me call the police." "But Scully...." He tried to touch her again, but she flinched at his touch. "Just leave it, Mulder, please." Her eyes were full of fear. "I don't want to.... There's so much anger. I want to..... I want this to work." He didn't ask what she meant. He wondered if _anything_ could work, now. ********** end of part 16 Scully didn't bother knocking at the door but strode straight in, her chest tight with anger that she knew now, more than ever, that she mustn't let out. "So, you were here all along." Her voice was cold. Mulder gestured to her to wait, listening attentively to some voice at the other end of the phone. Then he said his goodbyes, put the phone down and turned towards her, his voice full of urgency. "I think we've found him...." "Mulder!" Scully cut into his explanation. "I've just been out there for an hour trying to explain to the sheriff how I killed one of his own men. It's been.... difficult. I needed you, Mulder. I needed some back-up." Mulder frowned, his face full of remorse, but then he spoiled it all. "But, Scully. It was important...." "Damn it, Mulder! I shot him to save _your_ life. The least you can do is to give me some support!" "But there's no time...." "I don't care." Scully folded her arms firmly, turning half-away from him. "They want to talk to you." "But it wasn't him, Scully." He seemed genuinely distressed at opposing her. "I can't tell them...." "Damn it, Mulder!" She could feel her voice rising with anger and took a deep breath, trying to exert control. She _couldn't_ shout at him now, or everything would be ruined. "I don't care. That man.... okay, that body, if you insist.... That _body_ was attacking you, right?" Mulder nodded, reluctantly. "So I shot him. I had to. Or.... _it_.... would have killed you. Right?" She spoke as to a particularly slow child. Mulder nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Scully silenced him with a glare. "So go tell them that. Now!" She pointed at the door as she shouted the last peremptory order, but then she softened suddenly, remembering what she had to do. "Please?" she said, at last, her voice quiet. "We should do this together." And then she had to bite the inside of her mouth to stop the tears welling up in her eyes. Together. She'd said "together". Their last time.... Mulder's face reflected her mood. "Okay," he whispered. He took a step forward, touching her gently on the arm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you." He looked at her earnestly. Somehow, she knew he wasn't just talking about the last hour, but more.... much more. She looked away from his gaze. How could she meet his eyes when she was planning to leave him? Even though it was with the best of intentions, the news would hit him so hard. "Mulder, I...." She coughed to clear the lump in her throat. "We need to talk. There's something I want to...." She turned to the window, staring at the pulsing red lights through the curtains, thinking of the crime scene just yards away. "Soon.... Not yet. After this is sorted out. After the police have gone." Mulder's hand slipped off her arm, falling limply to his side. "Yes. I understand. I'm.... I'm sorry." She wondered if.... did she dare hope that he really did? Scully tried to smile, though inside she was near to tears. It would be for the best, she knew that, but it would be so difficult to tell him the right way, so easy to let it slip out in anger and ruin everything. "Not yet, Mulder," she said, shakily. "You talk to the police first." Mulder started, seeming to recollect himself. "No!" It was almost a shout. "I'm sorry," he continued more quietly. "I will, but not yet. There's something else I've got to do first." "What?" she shouted. Why was he doing this? Did he _want_ to make it all go wrong? "I've got to go to the hospital." His eyes were intense even though his voice was suddenly strangely hesitant. "What?" she repeated, louder this time, seeing all her hopes crumble before her. If this went on, would there _ever_ be a right time to tell him? "The hospital," he mumbled. The doubtful look was in his eyes again. She didn't want to hear this, but knew it was better than not knowing. "Why don't you want to tell me?" she asked, suddenly weary, unable to muster any real interest in the reason. God! He'd pushed her away so long that just one more instance mattered less.... less than the fact that soon, very soon, she'd be able to walk away from it all, at least for a while. "Because _he_...." Mulder's voice trailed away into silence, but she knew what he'd been going to say. He _still_ thought she might be possessed. For all his talk of understanding, of apologising, he'd still failed to face up to the truth. Just an hour or two ago this would have made her furious. But now.... Now she just felt and immense sadness, but also a flicker of relief. Nothing had changed. She _had_ made the right decision. There was no hope otherwise. "Mulder...." she began, knowing she had to tell him. Even though the police were outside, waiting. Even though it was going on for midnight. There would never be a right time. But at least now they weren't shouting at each other; at least now she might not say something she'd regret; at least now he might, just might, be able to understand that it was a decision made with the best of intentions not hot-blooded out of anger. "The killer's at the hospital, Scully!" Mulder spoke firmly, interrupting her. He'd obviously been fighting an internal battle but had decided to trust her. "We've got to find him!" Scully sighed, feeling shaky. It half terrified her, the thought of telling him, and he'd snatched the chance away from her just as she gathered up all her courage. Part of her hated him for it, but part of her felt an immense relief at even a few minute's escape. "What?" she stammered, aware that he was looking at her with concern. "You mean he works there?" She dimly remembered him saying something about hypnosis, although she'd thought he was lying, thought it was obvious he believed it was some sort of soul transfer. "No! He's a patient," Mulder continued, warming to his theme. "A man called Ewan Cameron. He's been in a coma for ten days." He spoke rapidly, not giving her time to object. "It was something he said just now, Scully. Nothing he said made any sense, but the clues were there, between the lines. He spoke of being stuck somewhere where he couldn't experience life properly. And he spoke of running away from _them_ until something happened - he didn't say what. So I checked, and I found this Cameron was hit by a car that morning, near Bradshaw's house, and is still in a coma, although the doctors say his injuries are nearly healed by now. They say.... Scully, listen to this.... They say he _shouldn't_ have so little brain wave activity as he has. They can't understand it. And they _definitely_ don't understand why sometimes his mind seems to wake up for a few minutes, only to disappear again." Scully had been opening her mouth, trying to interrupt, and she finally found a way in. "Okay, Mulder. I hear what you're saying, but this man isn't going anywhere. If he's in a coma, he'll still be there in a few hours. Long enough for you to talk to the police first." "But, Scully!" Mulder grabbed her arms with the force of his urgency. "You haven't been listening. His body is still there, but his mind can take over other people. I don't want him there a minute longer than he has to be, able to jump into.... people." She was sure he'd been about to say "you", but let it pass, for now. "You'll be going to sleep after the police have gone." He seemed close to tears, although she couldn't understand what was so terrifying to him about that prospect. She _needed_ sleep. Her eyes and mind cried out for sleep. What was wrong with that? "After the police have gone...." She made a last effort to rescue the situation. "After they've gone, we can _both_ go to the hospital, but first.... " She gestured towards the door. She even tried a smile. "They'll go faster if you talk to them." "Afterwards." Mulder released his grip on her upper arms. His voice cracked with apology. "I'm sorry, Scully, but I can't.... Not yet. This is more important." And then the anger came back, full force. "Damn it, Mulder! How can you say that? _This_ is important. I shot a police officer, for Christ's sake! How do you think it will look for me if you refuse to confirm that I was protecting you? Do you _want_ me to get an official reprimand for this? Because I can tell you they don't look too happy with the truth right now." Mulder's eyes shone with tears. His lips moved, mouthing what looked like "I'm sorry," although no words came out. Silently, he turned towards the door. "Thank God!" Scully whispered, hearing him open the door, feeling the breath of cold night air on the back of her neck. She found she was shaking. It had been so close. Another few minutes like that and.... She shuddered. _That_ wasn't something she wanted to envisage. But there was no need to. He'd done what she'd asked. The crisis had been averted, and now she could plan how to tell him the right way. The right way.... She wondered if she was being blind, thinking there _was_ a right way, for him. God! She hoped there was. But.... But then she heard the sound of a car starting close by, and she knew suddenly that it _wasn't_ going to be all right, after all. ********** Where had he gone? Damn him! Why didn't he come back? Mulder paced up and down the small office, his fists clenched with frustration. So close. He was so close now, but.... Where _was_ he? The answer was just yards away now. The answer. Not just to the case, but more.... much more. Scully.... Mulder sank down into a chair, letting his head sink into his hands. Scully. He really didn't know what to believe. Maybe Christopher - Cameron - had been lying when he'd implied he'd taken over her body. Maybe.... Probably. As Scully had said, everything he'd said about her could have been learnt by overhearing their fight at the police station. But.... Always there was a "but", niggling in the back of his mind. A "but" that reminded him that there was always doubt. A "but" that made it imperative that he find Cameron and put a stop to what he was doing. A "but" that had made him drive out on Scully, although he could hardly see the road for his tears, knowing how he'd betrayed her yet again by doing so. He couldn't leave her, but he _had_ to. Had to. And then everything would be all right. He'd been so wrong, he could see that now. He'd believed everything Lewis had shown him about the past. He still wasn't quite ready to question _those_ truths yet, but at last he realised that they weren't all that important. It was all in the past. The past. Not forgotten - never forgotten - but the past. No amount of guilt could change the past. But the present.... the future? I'm sorry, Scully. You were right. I was wrong. He almost spoke aloud, with the intensity of his wish for her presence. She'd be here, he'd talk to her, explain everything, apologise. And she.... Was if too much to hope she'd forgive him? He'd hurt her so much. He'd known that all along. But what he'd only just realised was how much his remorse had hurt her. Lost in his guilt about a past that couldn't be changed, he'd hurt her again, ignoring her stress at having to deal with his guilt, ignoring her own problems. I'm sorry, Scully. I was blind. As soon as this is over, as soon as I've stopped Cameron, as soon as I can be sure you're _really_ you, I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll talk to someone about.... things. I'll make an effort to act like I used to - no, to act better than I used to. I.... I'll try, Scully. I'll try. Then it will all be all right..... But first.... Fifteen minutes gone now. Where _was_ he? God! He'd spoken to the man on the phone, finding him friendly enough, ready to help with an FBI investigation. But then when he'd arrived at the hospital, barely twenty minutes later, the doctor had been reticent, even hostile, directing him to his office. Something very important had just come up, he'd said, but he'd be back in a few minutes and talk about the patient. His fingers had dug into Mulder's arm, a steely insistence that he didn't seek out the patient without permission. Mulder got up, pacing the small room like a caged animal. So close, but the truth just slipping from his fingers at the last minute. Damn it! He would _not_ let that happen. Suddenly furious, he tried the door handle, resolving to get out, whatever the doctor said. What could they do? They couldn't physically throw him out. He had the gun, after all. And if there were repercussions..... Well, that would be tomorrow. After the case was over. After the terrible fears about Scully had been put to rest. The door was locked. Locked. It _could_ have been an oversight, the doctor locking his office out of habit whenever he left it. _Could_ have been. But it was too much of a coincidence for Mulder to accept. _They_ had stepped in an stolen Bradshaw's research from him right at the end, too. But not this time. Not if he could stop it. Putting his shoulder to the door he pushed abruptly, feeling the flimsy lock break against the pressure. And then, his hand on his gun, he ran along the corridor, retracing his earlier route. He'd been so close to Cameron's room then when the doctor's hand had descended on his shoulder, pulling him away with his story of medical complications necessitating no visitors. But this time there was no-one to stop him. No-one in the corridors. No-one outside the room. No-one.... There was no-one _in_ the room. The bed was empty. "Where did they take him?" Footsteps sounded at last, reticent on the soft flooring, and he shouted at the newcomer without turning round. "Who were they?" "He was.... " An awkward cough. "...transferred." It was the doctor again. "To another hospital, where they can deal with his.... condition. Better than.... we can." Mulder didn't believe this for a moment "You let _them_ take him?" He whirled on the man, eyes blazing with anger. He _had_ to feel the anger, otherwise he'd just break down completely. Everything - everything he sought for - seemed to slip away at the last minute. The doctor looked away awkwardly, and Mulder realised he was wrong to direct his anger at him. They'd no doubt threatened him, blackmailed him. Who would have done differently, with the sort of hold _they_ could have over people, the terrible things they could threaten? If they threatened Scully, he knew _he'd_ do anything. Who was he to judge this man? "How long ago?" he asked, quieter now, knowing they'd be miles away by now. The doctor looked round anxiously, but surprised Mulder with his answer. "You only just missed them," he said. Then, forcing his shoulders back and speaking with sudden defiance, he pointed along the corridor. "They took the elevator to the back exit, but those stairs lead there as well." Mulder nodded quickly in thanks and then was off, running along the corridor, hurtling down the stairs until his breath seemed to rip apart his bruised ribs. One flight of stairs, pivoting on the railing to the next one. Another flight, his feet echoing in the hollow stairwell. Another, hearing the sound of an elevator door opening just below, hearing footsteps and the sound of wheels on the hard stone floor. And then he was there, bursting through a still-open door, emerging outside in a dark parking lot, a dark expanse of empty parking spaces. But the parking lot was far from empty. There was a van, white and unmarked, glowing pale in the light from the windows overhead. Its engine was running, a low rumble of readiness, and Mulder could see the driver's fingers drumming on the window with impatience as the white-coated men struggled with the gurney they held between them. Mulder aimed his gun, knowing even as he did so that he had no hope of stopping them. Beneath their white-coats the men were no doubt armed, trained fighters ready to leap into action at any threat. But even if there was no hope, he _had_ to try. He'd always had to try, had never been able to walk away, letting them win without a fight. "Stop!" he shouted. "Federal agents!" There was a hope, just a tiny hope, that they would think there was more than one of him, although they'd probably heard his feet on the stairs. One of the men stopped at his shout, looking around. His eyes met Mulder's across the dark yards that separated them, and he looked steadily into the barrel of Mulder's gun. Slowly, slowly, his mouth moved, his lips turned up, and then he laughed, a harsh and mocking sound. Tightening his finger on the trigger, Mulder took a step forward, stepping out of the rectangle of light cast from the open door, knowing he was silhouetted against the light but not caring. But still the man laughed. "Stop!" he called again, his hand beginning to shake. For all his anger, he knew he couldn't kill a man in cold blood, not unless it was absolutely necessary to save a life. He still had nightmares about killing John Barnett, about the struggle that he'd fought before pulling the trigger. And then the patch of light was blacked out as a figure stepped between him and the door. Looking down, he saw the shadow loom larger, then raise an arm, then.... Mulder collapsed to the ground and a fiery pain crashed through his head, blinking against the blood which ran into his eye, wincing again as a foot stamped on his right hand, causing him to lose his grip on his gun. Blinking against the conflicting dark and light that warred within his skull, Mulder was dimly aware of footsteps passing him, thudding like his heartbeat in his head, and striding towards the group at the van. And then all hell broke lose. With a sudden cry, the man on the gurney sat up, ripping at the leads and monitors that were attached to him, throwing himself bodily at the nearest white-coated man. "No!" The cry rang through the night, though Mulder, struggling to focus, had no idea who had said it. His hands felt heavy, but he raised one slowly, wiping the blood from his eye, trying to understand what was happening. "No!" The cry again, a cry among many. Shouts, orders, footsteps pounding, agonised groaning. And rushing - rushing in his ears as the light pulsed behind his eyes, making the scene confused and unclear. What was happening? Footsteps pounding. A cry. And then an explosion - a gunshot.... With a supreme effort, Mulder pulled himself to a sitting position, blinking into the darkness until he was able to make some sense of the confusion. There was only one man next to the van now, and he was unconscious, his head lolling to one side, half-covered by the fallen and neglected gurney. The other men were a few paces away, bent over Cameron who was lying in a pool of blood. Another man, dark in the shadows, tucked a gun into his waist, a look of regret on his face. "He's dead." The words were distorted by the pounding in his head, by the cold yards of darkness. "Too bad." Another voice, harsh and grating. "He wasn't really important. There can be others." It was over. There was no need to struggle any more. They had won. The last thing Mulder was aware of, before the darkness folded over him completely, was the unconscious man slowly sitting up and smiling. ********** end of part 17 There was blood on his face. Oh God! Not him. Not now. Not ever! Normally she'd have run to him then, peering into his face anxiously, helping him painfully to his feet. But this time it was different. This time, she hardly dared walk the few steps from the door to the spot where Mulder was lying in the deserted parking lot. This was the end. Whatever happened, this was the end. Whether he'd been killed by them, leaving her with a lifetime of regret, or whether he'd been spared, this was the end. There was so much anger inside her now, after the stunt he'd pulled back at the motel, that she knew she could hurt him with her words far more than _they_ had hurt him. Oh, she'd try not to, but.... And then he moved, a small groan escaping from his lips, and slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, still unaware of the figure which stood and watched. "Mulder!" A few sharp steps took her to his side. "What the hell were you playing at?" Anger wrestled briefly with concern and won. He was all right, she could see that. No point in fussing over him, not after everything he'd done. "They got him, Scully." He still looked dazed, not quite aware of her. "I - don't - _care_, Mulder!" she shouted, stamping her foot. "You...." "They got here first." He turned round painfully, staring out into the darkness. "They must have.... God, Scully! They must have bugged our rooms. How else could they have found out so quickly he was here?" "I don't...." And then she paused, shocked even through the dense fire of her anger. "They were listening?" God! Had they been listening to all their fights, to everything she'd shouted at him? How they must have loved hearing them tear themselves apart. "They shot him. They killed him!" Mulder continued, still oblivious to her reaction. "Or rather they killed his body. One of them was unconscious. I think he jumped into _his_ body, right at the end. I think he's still...." "Stop it!" It was almost a scream. "I don't want to hear any more of this!" Oh God, oh God. He was _still_ going on about this possession idea, even though the man he suspected was dead. Would he ever let it drop? "But...." "Mulder! I don't care right now. Right now, all I care about is that you went off again, after promising you'd talk to the police." She was shouting, even though there were tears in her eyes. "Damn it, Mulder. I thought.... I thought you were finally trying. When you left the room, I thought.... I thought it would be okay." "I'm sorry, Scully." Finally he seemed to be listening to her. "When we get back, I'll..." His voice was slightly slurred, dazed from the after-effects of the blow on the head. "I'm sorry, Scully. It won't happen again, but I _had_ to...." It was that "but" that finally pushed her right over the edge. "You're damn right it won't happen again," she hissed, her voice deadly. "I've had enough. I can't put up with you any longer. I'm leaving." Mulder went white, the blood on his forehead a cruel contrast, dark against his pallor. He was utterly silent. "I've already talked to Skinner," she continued, cruel and relentless. "I'm getting a transfer." He didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe. Oh my God! What am I saying? I can't do this. Not like this. Not now. A voice was screaming in anguish inside her head, knowing it was too late. But why didn't he argue, or say something to call her back? She didn't know if she'd change her mind, but still.... "It's just temporary." Why did her voice sound so unconvincing? Silence. A long, long silence. "I'll still be there for you outside work hours." It sounded so weak, a little apologetic voice lost in the gaping void of the night. He pulled himself to his feet, breathing now in great shuddering gasps, staring unseeingly into the distance. She didn't think he was listening to her at all. "Mulder...." She raised her hand to touch him, but he flinched at her touch. Why had it all gone wrong? This wasn't how she'd planned to tell him. It would have difficult anyway, but now.... Could they _ever_ recover from this? "Mulder....!" Desperate this time, fighting tears. The anger had gone now and she felt only an aching sadness. "It's for the best. Please believe me. We'll get through this and we'll be stronger than ever. We will!" She didn't know who she was trying to convince. She certainly didn't feel the conviction she was trying to put into her voice. His footsteps sounded forlornly away into the darkness. "Mulder! It's for the best." Her voice was shaky, calling after him. Whatever happened, she couldn't let him go away without knowing that. And then Mulder paused, turning round, a patch of light from a high-up window falling on his face. He cleared his throat, struggled to speak, but then just nodded, slowly, painfully. She thought he was trying to smile, but it was closer to a grimace, his eyes lost in deep shadow. "Mulder!" Footsteps disappearing into the night. A window opening above her. A siren from the front of the hospital. Silence. She was alone. "Mulder.....!" ********** Thursday 8th February "Why are you smiling?" Skinner hadn't meant to speak out loud, but the man was annoying him, that satisfied half-smile on his lips, partly obscured by the wreaths of smoke that hung over him like a pall. "She's accepted. That wasn't what you wanted." The other man was silent, inhaling deeply, speaking volumes with his eyes. Skinner felt sudden doubt heavy in his mind. He'd signed her transfer request with alacrity, relieved that she'd seen sense at last and halted their path towards self-destruction before it was too late. But maybe he'd been premature. "She says she definitely wants to return," he said, defiantly, knowing he was betraying no secrets. The other man had as good as admitted that he'd watched and heard their every movement this last week. "It wasn't too late for them." The man raised an eyebrow quizzically, but said nothing. "You can't keep them apart." How he hated this man. How much more he hated the fact that he couldn't risk an outright defiance of his kind, not too often. "They've been through too much together for this to separate them." He thought of Scully, pale and but defiant, sitting across the desk a few hours ago. "I didn't tell him quite right," she'd admitted. "But I'll explain it to him. It's for the best. I'll make him understand that. And then, together, we'll get through it. We _will_!" And her eyes had shone with the desperate determination he'd seen three months earlier in a North Carolina hospital, speaking the same words she'd spoken then. Terrifying as the break was to her, he knew she drew strength from the fact that at last she had actually made a decision, taken positive action, and that the success of her decision depended on her own determination. It was so much better than the lost Scully of a few days ago, floundering in the dark, unable to discover which course of action was the best. "They _will_ get back together," he said again, glaring at the man. "She stopped it in time." The other man stubbed out his cigarette. "Did she?" Skinner paused. He'd known Scully hadn't told him the whole truth when he'd asked her how she'd told Mulder. Was it possible this man knew more than he did? "It was so much more.... interesting this way," the man continued. "So much better than if she'd accepted a day earlier, when you first offered. That's all we wanted." "But it _is_ temporary." A few weeks, a few months at most. That's what Scully had insisted, also stressing that she needed to work set hours so she could be free in the evenings and weekends, if Mulder needed her then. "Perhaps." The other man shrugged. "The situation has.... potential." Skinner tried to suppress a shudder. He could guess what the man meant. Another treacherous partner for Mulder. A death made to look like suicide - and who would question it if his partner had just left him on grounds of his emotional problems? Or - God! - a _real_ suicide. No, not that! Surely not that! Scully would never have left him if she'd remotely feared _that_ would be result. "Damn you!" Skinner swore suddenly, standing up quickly enough to send a pile of files crashing to the floor. "These are _people_. They're not things to be played with, to smile at their pain." "Ah, but _we_ didn't do anything." The other man leant back in his chair, lighting another cigarette. "Nothing, except one little cut in a man's neck, just to plant a few suggestions. Everything else they did themselves. We just.... let them. So much more convincing, don't you think? We could have killed Mulder the other night, but that would have been so much cruder. How much better to let him do it himself, as it were?" "Get out!" Skinner shouted, unable to bear him any longer. The man rose slowly, making it clear that he left because he'd finished, not because of Skinner's command. As he reached the door he turned. "Don't bother finding a new partner for Mulder. I don't think it will be.... necessary." And then, leaving Skinner wondering just what meaning he was supposed to read into _that_. ********** There was _still_ no answer. Scully paced up and down her apartment, clutching the phone in her moist hand, hearing but not listening to the television that she had on for company. Where was he? She'd not been able to talk to him, not properly, since telling him she was leaving. She'd been so relieved when he'd shown up at the motel a few hours after walking away from the hospital, but he'd cut her off completely, refusing to listen to her explanations. His eyes had been red-rimmed, but he'd held himself with rigid control, telling her in a monotone how he'd been talking to the police as she'd asked him to, but was now tired and wanted to go to bed, having stayed up all the previous night. The next morning he'd been gone, bags cleared out, not a trace of him at all, except a note. She'd hardly dared open it, imagining all sorts of terrible things, though hardly daring to voice the thought "suicide." But the note had been impersonal, detached, saying he'd returned to check out a new case, seeing no need to wait for her as she was no longer part of the X-Files. But I _am_, Mulder, she'd whispered, crying over his note. I _am_ part of the X-Files. I'm part of everything you do. I can't help it. I can't separate my life from yours, not now. I just want a little space, a little time for recovery, before launching into it again. But I haven't left you, not really. I'm still there for you. And with that realisation had come a steely determination, all the anger of the last week vanishing as suddenly as it had come. The decision had been made. Now it was up to her to make sure it worked. But how could she get through to Mulder? She'd rung and rung him, getting no answer for the most part, or else hearing his voice, trying so hard not to shake, telling her it was better if she didn't talk to him, that he was coping okay without her. Coping okay! God! He wasn't coping okay, anyone could tell that. But he could. If only he'd let her explain, let her convince him she'd _not_ left him - that she had no intention of leaving him - that it was better for both of them to get a little space. Better far to have a few good hours together than whole days of fighting and stress. She clenched the phone with white knuckles, eyes blazing with determination. She _would_ get through to him. She _would_ make him understand. She _would_. With aching fingers, she dialled his number again, hearing the ringing tone shrill in her ears. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.... No answer. ********** The light was on in her apartment, her shadow dark against the window, pacing too and fro. Scully. She was there, so close, though out of reach for ever, now. So close. But above all, safe. Mulder rested his head on the steering wheel, feeling the plastic warm against his skin. He'd sat there in the car for so long now that his fingers and toes were numb in the cold February night. He hadn't thought of putting on the heater. Scully. He wondered how many hours he'd sat there, just looking at her window, his mind wandering down dark pathways of regret. Two hours. Maybe three. Scully. It was for the best, he knew that. Away from him she'd be safe. No more abductions. No more bullets. No more serial killers. No more.... no more _him_. Instead, she'd get a safe job at Quantico, one that would bring her respect from her peers. No more rushing away on cases at weekends and nights, ruining her social life. She'd see friends, family.... even find a man and settle down with him. A normal life. The sort of life she could never have if she stayed with him. Yes, it was for the best. Best for _her_, undoubtedly. So why did it feel like this? His eyes swollen and puffy, unable to cry any more. His voice hoarse. His whole life.... empty. Selfish, that's what it was. Selfish. What did his feelings matter? It was better for _her_ if she left. _That_ was what mattered. If he _really_ cared about her, he would be happy for her. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Still feeling guilt for ruining her past, but still wanting to ruin her future instead. Selfish. But _she_ must never know. That's why he'd returned to Washington, seeking a case, any case, to work on. That's why he'd refused to talk to her, knowing it was too soon to do so without breaking down in tears, but knowing he mustn't ever do that. That's why he was here, watching her shadow, drawing strength from the knowledge that she was near, that she was safe. He would carry on. Of course he would. What else could he do? Quit the X-Files, and she'd blame herself, even feel blackmailed into returning against her will. And the other way out was even worse. _That_ would just land her with a burden of guilt that she'd carry for a lifetime, a permanent cloud on her happiness. No, for _her_ sake, he'd carry on as normal. Go about the motions of life, following cases, fighting _them_, looking for his sister. And then maybe, just maybe, as the weeks and months went by and he heard from others how happy she was without him, then he'd learn to be happy to, content that she at least had escaped his influence. And then, only then, would he have finally learnt the lesson that had begun three months previously when a man called Lewis had dug deep within his memory and told him where he'd gone wrong. It would be difficult, but he'd get there.... He'd get there. ********** End of part 18 End of Purgatorio.